Norah, interrupted.
Posted: Wed Jun 06, 2007 1:02 am
Norah, interrupted.
An old friend, who I adore and who apparently adores me as well; referred to me as being like St. Jude. The line was, "carries the weight of all the lost souls on his shoulders". I wish my shoulders were so broad, but once again I feel like half the man I used to be. I accept, gladly, the weight of some of them, but I ain't as strong as I once was. I tend to be more selective these days. I'm lying, I'll take every single one of them in, but if I lie long enough maybe I'll start to believe it and slow down a bit. I'll come back to this later, yeah it is going to be one of those "stories"; first I am going to talk about Norah Jones. I had set out to write an ode to Ms. Jones, but Norah got interrupted by a darker haired woman.
Eventually I will write something that garners a bit of recognition, maybe. I will end up on Letterman because he likes disasters like myself. He will ask me what this infatuation with Norah Jones is, the one he read about in this story.
One day I am going to figure out how to get by what ever evil is keeping Norah Jones from being mine. She obviously sings those songs to me. I am going to find out why she isn't naked and serenading me with her version of Heart of Mine, while I push her repeat button over, and over, and over….
I've said it before, but I am going to say it again; a description of her. Earth tone, makes me want to play in the dirt. Make mud pies and throw dirt clods at my cousins. Makes me want to plant seeds and grow them. I'm so subtle. She is a made of a multitude of brown shades. Hair, eyes, and skin. Caramel. Chewy, sticks to the roof of your mouth. Curly hair, straight hair, big eye brows, bigger brown eyes. Go fix me a cup of coffee and put too much cream in it; let me drink it down, not spill a drop, and ask for more.
I bet you a dollar she would sing to me before I fall asleep. I wonder if her speaking voice is as sweet as it is when she sings. Yeah, I've got a crush on Norah. I bet she don't need saving.
"If everyone was satisfied with themselves there would be no heroes"
~Mark Twain (non-gender specific paraphrasing added by me)
The world needs more of them, more of the every day kind. Less selfish folk, people who want to help other people, people who hold doors open for the old couple. People who by their nature want to protect the ones they know and love, as well as the ones they've never met. That is just my opinion. You don't have to be a doctor, or a policeman, or a soldier to be a hero. We need a few to wage against the less physically manifested threats as well.
I like my heroes to have their flaws, fatal or otherwise. That is why Doc will always be better than Wyatt, Batman trumps Superman, and Sisyphus was the noblest of all of them. The anti-hero, the tragic hero. The man with no name, Ishmael. Wicked but repentant, sensualist, driven by revenge. Never satisfied. I also like my heroes to be kind hearted, intellectual, short, mothers and fathers. The world needs balance.
I'll tell you about one of them. This one is alive and well. My hero, get your own. I am a selfish, selfish man. I love a lot of people, for a lot of different reasons. That's just the way I am made. It ain't going to change anytime soon. I remember those lessons on the Greeks and their three words for love, I believe a man I used to call Brother Charles taught us about it. I'm getting to the hero part, just hold on. I had a conversation today with an old friend, the one that said things about lost souls and St. Jude. I talked about four loves, one so crazy she can't see straight, one dead, one I worry about ending up that way, and one thank God I never have to worry about. Two are long gone, in the wind. Literally and figuratively. Two are fresh in my mind, one is a hero, and one I just wish I could save.
Now when a woman you love can write about another woman you love and do it in such a way to make you feel like a good man; you know you've met someone that the world usually swallows up and spits out. They don't make people that way anymore. The clarity, the understanding that I didn't give her credit for. The humility. Follow along as I show you what it means to be human.
"Today I had two conversations with two close friends that I truly adore. They have never met, and probably never will, but the conversations were very similar. One was with a man that carries the weight of the all the lost souls on his shoulders; much like St. Jude. The other was with a girl that knows what it feels like to see something very bad happen to a person who suffered so loud in silence that he couldn't find a way to let it out, and did something incomprehensible to most people. Both of those friends are hurting right now, but not for themselves. Its such an unselfish pain, that it can hurt in a way that makes you wish you could change places with them for just a moment, so that they might get a breath of the sweet air you have always been able to breathe."
I was outside, in the air before I could read any further. That was the first paragraph, and then at the bottom she writes a letter to someone she called "Melpomene". If you can use the context clues and get where this is going I applaud you. Google isn't but a few inches away.
"Dear Melpomene,
You do not know me, for we have never really met. I know you through a mutual friend. I wanted to let you know that I thought of you a lot today. I wondered if you were having a good day, or if you were missing someone. I wondered if you felt sad when you woke up or hopeless sometime there afterward. I wondered if anyone hugged you today, or if you've heard "I love you" in a while. I sure hope so. You deserve it. I am sure that someone wants to hug you, and that many, many people love you. I just hope they remember to tell you from time to time.
I want you to know that even though I have never met you, I think you are a beautiful person. I am comforted by knowing what an incredible mother you are. I have heard a story or two. That motherhood thing, I hear, is a difficult task. It takes courage and strength, and you my friend, have both. You may not feel it or even know it, but you have it. You do what you have to do to get by, and you are amazing for that. It takes a lot of sacrifice to do the things you do for your child, I can only imagine. Just remember that little boy, and how he looks at you. Anytime you feel discouraged or lonesome, remember those little eyes. To him, you are the most spectacular woman in the world. To him you are invincible.
I just wanted to make sure that you know that there is a person out there that thinks of you almost daily. We say a little prayer for you every night.
Stay strong in times of doubt. Stay beautiful to yourself always. Stay gentle for that child of yours. Stay kind-hearted for that man so far away. He loves you dearly. Stay focused on the important things, and never dwell too long in the past. And lastly, stay still long enough to feel the hope that was sent your direction today. I'll think of you always. You remind me of two friends of mine. I'll love you all for the people that you are and the people you want to become.
From my lips to God's ears,
Misty
I doubt she'll ever get to read this, but she doesn't have to. I just hope she feels it."
We should all strive to find such center. Coltrane can help, but he can only take you so far. I am a lucky man, and I don't even believe in luck. Someone is chipping in on the tithe I have to pay.
There is a reason I always come back home. I find myself surrounded by people that have no need to be carried on my shoulders. My folks sure don't need it, my little brother doesn't either. That is three folks right there, three folks I take for granted far too often. Now I have another, four is a nice even number. One for each side. Keep the world out for awhile so I can rest up, a strong frame to lean against when the wind gets to blowing a little too strong. Legs stronger than mine to help me walk for a bit instead of run, shoulders far broader to help me with the load, lips that don't speak falsely to me, comfortable enough in their own skin to allow me the time to adjust mine again. They build things, they grow things, the pull weeds with a delicate nature. No hate or bigotry in their hearts to make mine ache, each with their own view on things that matches the myriad of ideas that run through my head like hyper active school children. Heroes, every single one. I have myself one for each side now, every front is manned, guards at every gate. Soon as the supplies get replenished I can walk back outside and continue with the tithing again. It is nice to have people that understand, even if you forget for a moment that they do.
I talked about three women I love tonite, each in a different way. Go brush up on your Greek.
KB
Life without love is like a tree
Without blossom and fruit.
~ by Khalil Gibran ~
An old friend, who I adore and who apparently adores me as well; referred to me as being like St. Jude. The line was, "carries the weight of all the lost souls on his shoulders". I wish my shoulders were so broad, but once again I feel like half the man I used to be. I accept, gladly, the weight of some of them, but I ain't as strong as I once was. I tend to be more selective these days. I'm lying, I'll take every single one of them in, but if I lie long enough maybe I'll start to believe it and slow down a bit. I'll come back to this later, yeah it is going to be one of those "stories"; first I am going to talk about Norah Jones. I had set out to write an ode to Ms. Jones, but Norah got interrupted by a darker haired woman.
Eventually I will write something that garners a bit of recognition, maybe. I will end up on Letterman because he likes disasters like myself. He will ask me what this infatuation with Norah Jones is, the one he read about in this story.
One day I am going to figure out how to get by what ever evil is keeping Norah Jones from being mine. She obviously sings those songs to me. I am going to find out why she isn't naked and serenading me with her version of Heart of Mine, while I push her repeat button over, and over, and over….
I've said it before, but I am going to say it again; a description of her. Earth tone, makes me want to play in the dirt. Make mud pies and throw dirt clods at my cousins. Makes me want to plant seeds and grow them. I'm so subtle. She is a made of a multitude of brown shades. Hair, eyes, and skin. Caramel. Chewy, sticks to the roof of your mouth. Curly hair, straight hair, big eye brows, bigger brown eyes. Go fix me a cup of coffee and put too much cream in it; let me drink it down, not spill a drop, and ask for more.
I bet you a dollar she would sing to me before I fall asleep. I wonder if her speaking voice is as sweet as it is when she sings. Yeah, I've got a crush on Norah. I bet she don't need saving.
"If everyone was satisfied with themselves there would be no heroes"
~Mark Twain (non-gender specific paraphrasing added by me)
The world needs more of them, more of the every day kind. Less selfish folk, people who want to help other people, people who hold doors open for the old couple. People who by their nature want to protect the ones they know and love, as well as the ones they've never met. That is just my opinion. You don't have to be a doctor, or a policeman, or a soldier to be a hero. We need a few to wage against the less physically manifested threats as well.
I like my heroes to have their flaws, fatal or otherwise. That is why Doc will always be better than Wyatt, Batman trumps Superman, and Sisyphus was the noblest of all of them. The anti-hero, the tragic hero. The man with no name, Ishmael. Wicked but repentant, sensualist, driven by revenge. Never satisfied. I also like my heroes to be kind hearted, intellectual, short, mothers and fathers. The world needs balance.
I'll tell you about one of them. This one is alive and well. My hero, get your own. I am a selfish, selfish man. I love a lot of people, for a lot of different reasons. That's just the way I am made. It ain't going to change anytime soon. I remember those lessons on the Greeks and their three words for love, I believe a man I used to call Brother Charles taught us about it. I'm getting to the hero part, just hold on. I had a conversation today with an old friend, the one that said things about lost souls and St. Jude. I talked about four loves, one so crazy she can't see straight, one dead, one I worry about ending up that way, and one thank God I never have to worry about. Two are long gone, in the wind. Literally and figuratively. Two are fresh in my mind, one is a hero, and one I just wish I could save.
Now when a woman you love can write about another woman you love and do it in such a way to make you feel like a good man; you know you've met someone that the world usually swallows up and spits out. They don't make people that way anymore. The clarity, the understanding that I didn't give her credit for. The humility. Follow along as I show you what it means to be human.
"Today I had two conversations with two close friends that I truly adore. They have never met, and probably never will, but the conversations were very similar. One was with a man that carries the weight of the all the lost souls on his shoulders; much like St. Jude. The other was with a girl that knows what it feels like to see something very bad happen to a person who suffered so loud in silence that he couldn't find a way to let it out, and did something incomprehensible to most people. Both of those friends are hurting right now, but not for themselves. Its such an unselfish pain, that it can hurt in a way that makes you wish you could change places with them for just a moment, so that they might get a breath of the sweet air you have always been able to breathe."
I was outside, in the air before I could read any further. That was the first paragraph, and then at the bottom she writes a letter to someone she called "Melpomene". If you can use the context clues and get where this is going I applaud you. Google isn't but a few inches away.
"Dear Melpomene,
You do not know me, for we have never really met. I know you through a mutual friend. I wanted to let you know that I thought of you a lot today. I wondered if you were having a good day, or if you were missing someone. I wondered if you felt sad when you woke up or hopeless sometime there afterward. I wondered if anyone hugged you today, or if you've heard "I love you" in a while. I sure hope so. You deserve it. I am sure that someone wants to hug you, and that many, many people love you. I just hope they remember to tell you from time to time.
I want you to know that even though I have never met you, I think you are a beautiful person. I am comforted by knowing what an incredible mother you are. I have heard a story or two. That motherhood thing, I hear, is a difficult task. It takes courage and strength, and you my friend, have both. You may not feel it or even know it, but you have it. You do what you have to do to get by, and you are amazing for that. It takes a lot of sacrifice to do the things you do for your child, I can only imagine. Just remember that little boy, and how he looks at you. Anytime you feel discouraged or lonesome, remember those little eyes. To him, you are the most spectacular woman in the world. To him you are invincible.
I just wanted to make sure that you know that there is a person out there that thinks of you almost daily. We say a little prayer for you every night.
Stay strong in times of doubt. Stay beautiful to yourself always. Stay gentle for that child of yours. Stay kind-hearted for that man so far away. He loves you dearly. Stay focused on the important things, and never dwell too long in the past. And lastly, stay still long enough to feel the hope that was sent your direction today. I'll think of you always. You remind me of two friends of mine. I'll love you all for the people that you are and the people you want to become.
From my lips to God's ears,
Misty
I doubt she'll ever get to read this, but she doesn't have to. I just hope she feels it."
We should all strive to find such center. Coltrane can help, but he can only take you so far. I am a lucky man, and I don't even believe in luck. Someone is chipping in on the tithe I have to pay.
There is a reason I always come back home. I find myself surrounded by people that have no need to be carried on my shoulders. My folks sure don't need it, my little brother doesn't either. That is three folks right there, three folks I take for granted far too often. Now I have another, four is a nice even number. One for each side. Keep the world out for awhile so I can rest up, a strong frame to lean against when the wind gets to blowing a little too strong. Legs stronger than mine to help me walk for a bit instead of run, shoulders far broader to help me with the load, lips that don't speak falsely to me, comfortable enough in their own skin to allow me the time to adjust mine again. They build things, they grow things, the pull weeds with a delicate nature. No hate or bigotry in their hearts to make mine ache, each with their own view on things that matches the myriad of ideas that run through my head like hyper active school children. Heroes, every single one. I have myself one for each side now, every front is manned, guards at every gate. Soon as the supplies get replenished I can walk back outside and continue with the tithing again. It is nice to have people that understand, even if you forget for a moment that they do.
I talked about three women I love tonite, each in a different way. Go brush up on your Greek.
KB
Life without love is like a tree
Without blossom and fruit.
~ by Khalil Gibran ~