April 27, 2016
A small outdoor table with four chairs sits on my brick
patio. All these many red-purple bricks are being overrun with grasses and
weeds. A metal fire pit sits off to the
side, quietly rusting. On my left at the far edge of my yard rests a vine
covered canoe that has not be used in years.
Closer in is a hammock with two comfy looking green pillows. Seeing the yard one would note it is a bit of
a disaster. Some purple border plant is
making like Sherman across the center of the greening grass like Sherman
heading for the sea. A Rubbermaid shed needs
reassembling a windstorm having laid it low.
Not tonight.
Last night when I was at a bookstore I saw for the price of
a mere $9.99 a book of writing prompts.
For a second I was tempted. I picked
it up, per the cover the bound volume contained over a thousand first lines
and/or suggestions like “It is you first night on the cruise. What is the most
surprising thing you have seen?” Didn’t float my boat. If there had been a sense of even the tiniest
bit of imagination in these opening lines I might have picked it up. Yes I hit road blocks when I write. Sometimes a simple prompt will get the worlds
flowing, sometimes not. There are simply days when I wonder if I haven’t used
up all my good stories. Still I find a
way back to the keyboard.
Sitting at this pale blue table I think I have created my
own writing prompt. I will try to answer
the question of who should fill one of the three empty chairs with me. I will try to do it in my favorite style, ala
one, two, fiver. In that style you start with one word, then two, then five,
then ten, then well you get the idea. What follows next is my self-initiated
writing prompt.
Who should take this seat next to me?
You. Of course.
Nobody else needs ask. Too long has
passed since you and I have talked, really talked. Tonight the evening is
filled with cool air and above lays a clouded sky. This night would be the
perfect time for the two of use to go one on one. As I think about my role as your host I am
sure I have a bottle or at least a few shots from a near empty bottle of your
favorite scotch tucked away. You know
the one, an aged whiskey with a smoky peaty taste but mellowed because this
liquor was aged a second time in rose soaked wine barrels.
We can sit here for the next hour or so wearing just light
jackets and sipping the scotch whiskey for warmth. Things forgotten can come to light, for
surely you will remind me of this and that like the day the old judge just
started bellowing about the idiocy of the attorney up before him. And I will
remind you of the talks and conversations we used to have about the Lemonheads
and G. Love and whoever the band de jour was. As we finish our first drams our talk may to
turn to those now gone for good or just gone from our worlds.
As the scotch settles into our systems barriers should drop
and the conversation will range far afield.
From the philosophy of what constitutes a real person or entity to those
political views what seemed to have recently gotten some tractions. Our era might be a time of xenophobia or
imperialism. Maybe we will eventually
get around to things like the nastiest personal sex stories we have. I always
win when I talk about that lass who horked up one very expensive steak dinner
on my rod when her gag reflex kicked in. Or maybe we will talk about the one
great love that was lost.
I well excuse myself to see if I can scrounge up a little
more of the good scotch. I think there
might be the remnant of another single malt and maybe two. Time has long passed since I drank
regularly. Time has long past since
company stopped over on a regular basis.
The fact that you are here has
cheered me, it means I am not forgotten.
Oh I know my family still depends on me but my social circle is very
small these days. On a rare Friday night
I will sneak out for a solitary beer with a friend or three. Half the time those outings turn into
situations where people are plumbing the depths of my knowledge for free
advice.
We talk some more about the choices we made. Did we really marry for love or did we marry
out of expectation. Have we achieved what we ought to have achieved. If I were twenty five years younger it would
be at this point I would light up a small bowl of hashish. But those days are so long ago. Funny I asked my cardiologist about whether a
toke off a joint would kill me. He didn’t
seem to think so. However he said it was
a bit of a mixed bag. The learned man
opined that t was an even odds chance that I would become the most relaxed
person in the world or the most paranoid. Methinks he is right, the odds at
50/50 are not something I am willing to roll the dice on these days.
The scotch is now gone and the sky has gone full black. There is some odd light from the city
reflecting down from the cloud cover but mostly this pace has gone black. We have talked and talked and talked and we
have been open and honest and there is a connection that remains real and
vibrant between us. Let us not let so
much time slip away before we meet again my old friend. Life is too short. Our hearts last only the length of a song. Understand I am not just talking about that
muscle in our chests and pushes blood to every vein and artery it can
reach. I am talking about our spiritual
hearts. Eventually we run out of tears and
laughter of lust and love of hatred and passion. I want to see you again before the darkness
really falls.
Yes you should be in the chair next to me right now. How is
that for a fucking writing prompt?
