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I should have picked a different Monday for the re-opening of this site.  Boy home sick, customers to call, a dozen work errands begging for attention when there’s time for only one or two.  A pile of paperwork a foot thick to sift through.  Sounds just like the old days, doesn’t it?

I did manage to squeeze out a new entry over at scrinetunes, where I attempt to convince everyone that I know the exact moment when I started liking blues music.  I don’t remember what I had for breakfast this morning, but I can supposedly tell you in detail about the music from a road trip that took place nearly thirty years ago. 

All I can think of is that time must have moved slower back then, which made it much easier to remember.

I think there might be something to say, and I think I’ve changed my mind about where to say it.

Indecision.  The status quo.

At the age of 45, Peter lost momentum.

I write more, then delete it, then repeat the process over again, then again.  The backs of his dry hands.  The whine of bare tires on asphalt.  The crunch of gravel as the truck pulls to a stop.  The silence.  The hum of insects.  The smell of dust settling.  The distortion of the smudged windshield.  The tickle of sweat running down the back of his neck.  The unwillingness to even look up.  It is all there one minute then gone the next.

The truck’s silence is a protest.  It is the one thing Peter knows.  The truck could easily move on.  It is Peter who has lost momentum, not the truck.  It is the difference between stopped and stuck.  Peter knows this in the silence, knows it in the worn shine of the key still swinging in the ignition, knows it in the heat of the sun on his arm in the window.

Note: Originally posted on brandnewmonster.com

You’d be surprised the number of things I’ve written in my head that never made it out.

    No you wouldn’t.

You’d be shocked that I’m not the person you thought I was.

    No, of course you wouldn’t.  You knew all along.

You’d be scared to know I’m trapped somewhere between night and day.  You’d worry.

    No, that’s stupid.  We’re all trapped.  You have your own worries.

Well, maybe then you’d want to know that all I think about are my truths.  That I’ve sat here unmoving this many years because of that one single thing.  That my truths have me dead to rights, a blade against the ever-loosening skin of my aging neck.  Maybe you’d want to know that.  Maybe that’s the thing.

    But no, of course not.  Holding the blade, you already knew that, didn’t you?

Note: Originally posted on brandnewmonster.com