Show Me Off on the Way to Town

Closing this journal, opening another, need a new beginning.

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Thank you all for being here for me.

Don't expect no favors, nothing in return
Tell all your cross-eyed neighbors that it's none of their concern
Open the shades, Melinda, let in the outside air
I'm deep in doubt, and I can't get out, and it must be dark in there.

I wanna walk with you in the morning mist, though I should be home by now
And there must be some way out of this -- I was thinking you'd know how
And my judgment may be shaky, and my shoes are soaking through
'cause the weeds are wet and I haven't yet made any sense of you.

All the midnight angels fold their wings by dawn
The same old wild-eyed strangers sit and watch 'em til they're gone
I let the night unravel, forget my vain pursuits
'cept to feel that gray-rock gravel on your road beneath my boots.

I wanna walk with you in the changing light
When the shadows twist and play
And the ghosts that kept me out all night - we can chase 'em all away
And the talk of those that wonder, and the talk of those that curse
Let 'em have their thrill, they'll need it, we'll be no more for the worse.

Shine your eyes upon me, whisper long and low
Mindful of the longing that we evermore may know.

Up the ridge on past you, looking down below
You can see the stacks of Danville when the clouds don't hang so low
Should you take a mind to, won't you join me there?
Open the shades, Melinda, let in the outside air.

Journal closed.

Relocating.

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The projector flickers on the black and white screen. The detective draws his pistol and takes aim. He fires, and the villain's body tenses for an instant. He falls dramatically down the hill, a dead heap. The man two rows down snores, his head resting back. He hasn't showered in a few days, I can smell him over the stale popcorn.

I close my eyes and pretend I'm asleep. Even with such light movements the nightmares come. I can feel the cool blade drag over my cheek. I can see his face again. I crumple the ticket in my hand, my upper lip pulls back in a snarl and I feel a growl rise in the back of my throat. I don't let it come out. I open my eyes.

The femme fatale stands in front of the Venetian blinds. Her form is beautiful, the black dress clinging to soft curves. My eyes half shut as I feel his hand in mine. He shifts my body, I rest my cheek on his chest and let him rub my hand. I shut my eyes. The gunfight blazes on screen.

The credits roll as a fight breaks out in the hallway. Wood splinters. Bloody knuckles and missing teeth. One will be hospitalized, he won't make it. I don't care. I yawn against worn fabric. I smell stale popcorn and feel sticky root beer stains under my converse soles. It's every movie I've ever been to. It's every Buster Keaton silent film and every film noir talkie. It's every cheesecake musical I've ever seen where people burst out in song and dance for no reason. Fred Astaire sways drunkenly, close to falling over with the bottle in his hand and it's the way the vodka burned my throat in Petersburg.

It's 2AM and he leads me out to the hallway. His fingers curl around my shoulder. The grip's too tight but I say nothing, I just rest my cheek against him, curl an arm around his waist. His jaw sets when the ticket taker casts a sidelong glance our way. He leads me down the street. The honky tonk lights gleam in the darkness. He kicks a gum wrapper for the sake of it, mutters under his breath. I don't respond.

He sits on a fencepost, I sit on the rail. I want a smoke, I say nothing. His fingers run through my hair and I wonder. The moon shines down, full and heavy. The night's not over. I don't know why. I keep to myself, his brow furrows, his jaw clenches further. He looks away. I look down. I strike a match and eat it, exhale the smoke from my nose. He knocks the box out of my hands. I'm ok with that.

Somewhere a wolf howls. My body tenses, his does as well. Pictures need to be taken. Words need to be written. It's Monday morning 5'15, train to New York city. It's Wednesday evening, 8'00, train to New Orleans. It's late nights on rain slick streets and a vague idea of what we're doing. It's turning the blade to make the blood spray. It's tension that won't leave my shoulders, pain low in my chest.


Write you a letter tomorrow
Tonight I can't hold a pen
Someone's got a stamp I can borrow
I promise not to blow the address again
Lights, they flash in the evening
Through a hole in the drape

Jesus rides beside me
Never buys any smokes
Well hurry up, hurry up - ain't you had enough of this stuff?
Ashtray floors, dirty clothes, filthy jokes
See you're high and lonesome
Try and try and try...

Lights they flash in the evening
Through a hole in the drapes
I'll be home when I'm sleeping
I can't hardly wait

( Henry )

There is a way to be good again.

K'un/The Receptive



Bear with things as the earth bears with us:
by yielding, by accepting, by nourishing.

K'un the Receptive is the complement to Ch'ien the Creative: the dark which is illuminated by light, the earth which receives the blessings of heaven, the vessel into which nourishment flows. This is a time to follow rather than lead, to assist rather than initiate, to listen rather than talk. Redevote yourself to the cultivation of modesty, receptivity, and gentleness now, and let go of concerns about the conduct of others or the progress of your worldly ambitions.

The wisdom of cultivating receptivity cannot be overstated; receptivity is the rich earth without which the Creative cannot take root in our lives. This fundamental hexagram serves as a strong encouragement to you to concentrate on your capacities to nourish, to support, to accept, to work without desiring recognition, to follow the guidance of the Sage.

You can benefit greatly in a period like this from time spent in solitude; in quietness we have an opportunity to focus on the purification of our hearts and minds. It is a good time to ask oneself, "Am I sincerely pursuing the good for its own sake, or do I have a hidden agenda?" If so, detach from it and return to the path of independence and balance. Through humility and openness we become receptive to the assistance of the Higher Power.

Cease resistance to the course of events. Avoid defensive or aggressive postures. The earlier one returns to quiet reliance on proper principles, the better.

The solution to every situation is always available. By remaining open, innocent, and moderate you allow the Creative to aid you. Do less, not more.

Vanity is an obstacle to the expression of our superior selves. Hold to inner truth without regard for popular opinion. Sincerity and humility open the way to a good fortune that cannot enter where arrogance flourishes.

True devotion to the good is unconcerned with what others may think or do. Concentrate not on having an influence but on doing the work of the Sage.

This time I'm gonna kill that bastard, this time I'm not gonna miss
This time there ain't no doubt about it, let me be quite clear on this.

Comment to be added.

-Wolf