Hiding Behind Poetry

When I started this, I told myself I would keep to the schedule of one story per week. The most interesting things that happened to me, repeated in story form. That was the idea. I recently realized that writer's block set in. It dawned slowly on me, and as all things in avoidance, I knew I was suffering, but did it anyway. Poetry. Knock one off. That will do. True, it is a form of story. A telling of the moment. A slice of my day. Once done, however, oft repeated. Put off an actual story with a dashed down line. It works.

I look at some of the stories that have come out of this project and I know why I hide. Many are heavy moments indeed. Only barely made easier by the literate form. I wanted a break from their weight. For instance, The Guy Fell In (pt. 1 &2), are stories of the recent death of a friend of mine, from not so random violence. Little Walla Walla, as ever, a hardcore place. Seriously kids, how could I, of all people, live here if it wasn't. I cut my teeth on hardcore. Not just eighties punk rock and metal, but also the Bay Area ghetto lifestyle and cowboys and indian hardcore in Wallowa County. Schools of violence and hard knocks. For real, no metaphors intended or used. Hard knocks to the head, to the body and to other parts as well.

So give me a break. I know poetry is cheating the short story. I digress. With rhyme and with rhythm. So this week is about the inspiration of freezing temps., combined with sunlight. Walla Walla has been gripped in the bite of an Alaskan cold spell. However, as opposed to many cold winters before, instead of grey foggy madness, we have had crystal clear, blue sunny days. One after the other, after the other, after the other. Yes. It has been good. Getting on my bike, all bundled in gear. Music in my ears. World rushing by. Dropping downtown like a boy on a rocket. That has been the day to day joy. It is also nice, at the end of the ride is coffee!

Sunlight in winter. That rare, special experience of light and motion. Keeping the cold in perspective we can move about doing the things we always do. On top of the train, where the wind rushes by. We are reminded of our humanity. I do not mean how we treat each other, rather simply the fact that we are human. We are not bigger than life. The rich and the famous alike. We, mostly, all have two arms, two legs, ten fingers and ten toes. These, unless taken care of, will get cold. Cry out against this, with all your might. You will find them talking back to you. Saying, "...thank God for shoes." Uh-oh, can you hear it? Poetry. Dirty little bugger, trying to steal my story. I better go and save it for another day.