Sunday, March 7, 2010

I'm in love with your eyes.

I'm 38 years old and moving house. Always moving. It's been a good winter. Not rained and all the cheery blossoms are out.

I'm dragging out the last of my things. it's after 2 in the morning and I have to pick up the truck at nine. 62 hours on the mats this week and I feel like a little kid.

I don't want you to expect anything from me. You remember what happened last summer when I kind of fell off the end for a little bit. It could easy happen again. You know how it works.

I got friends. Don't worry. They been coming by and dropping off things. I'm paying back my dad and the guys at work bought me and the wife a night downtown. The other wives are going to sit with our boys.

We'll go out to dinner and to The Clyde for drinks. Maybe we'll both get a minute of silence. I don't know.
I wonder if my sons would like to row out on the river. We were talking about having fat bastard kids, or Lacrosse boys, or Crew boys. The loneliness of a long-distance runner boys.

I've been wild enough for all of us and look where we landed. I want them to know how to sharpen a knife, keep the fingernails clean, lap in a valve. Play push hands. Run a mile all ruddy and blonde.
Dance the way they do now without giving two shits what anybody thinks about it.

Some things don't have to exclude the others.


Gunnar Berg said...

You continue to amaze. If you crash, keep writing.

“Why do I write this? I think writing has a cleansing effect, and although it is easy enough to keep the body clean, the mind seems to grow clogged."

Be well. My best to the lads.

oldschooly said...

Soon enough we can trade moments of silence.

Personally I want my Girls to know how to sharpen a knife, stack wood.....and ride a bike really fast.

Gunnar Berg said...

I want my baby to be happy. I taught her everything I could. Now she's out on the road of life alone. The last note I saw on Facebook today has her in Vientianne, Laos. I wish she were closer to home.

reverend dick said...

How 'bout them shoes there, Fancy?