Thursday, September 30, 2010

Dark out there. No hunter’s moon tonight.

Inside, just the piano of Pandora bringing me quiet: “Kiss me once, kiss me twice, kiss me once again. It’s been a long, long time.”

Yuk. I haven’t heard that one for a time. No vocal, just the piano. Enough to evoke the snatch of words. Enough to bring the mind around to “Memories of . .”

The strange part of yesterday was the effect it had on people. A period of it went like this:

Warm. Not cloudy, not clear. Temp perfect, no winds.

People acting strange. Walking out of homes and businesses, leaving doors open and machines humming to themselves. Folks not talking to one another, not seeking company, just walking up and down street, around the block. Nodding as they came across another rather than speaking, just walking with the strange look of complete satisfaction with life and no problems.

Weird.

But I stood near the alley behind the butcher’s shop without moving for not long, who knows how long, just stood there and then strolled around the block. Joining at least six others doing the same thing – not as a group, as singletons; no talking, just walking.

I don’t think any were thinking of much of anything. We were busy just being.

photoshare Hot in Chicago Chicago IL CecileWNC

Our individual celebration and a gift so rare. It may never come around again, which thought is sad; but it will never die, only the memories of it will surface, sometime down the road, unexpected. Maybe.I hope so. But I’m sure when the memories live again in another day, then I’ll not speak of it, just stand with the slightly goofy smile on my face and walk around the block in memory, not speaking, just nodding.

Being.

_____

From the reaches,

Ten Mile

About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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