“The writer’s silent mind is a period of intermission before orchestrating a symphony of words.” ―
It seems at times that I’ve kept you waiting far too long. The seasons sail by and leave the hints of their passing and invariably disguise your patience in a kind of artful repose, a detritus of settled time.
My neurology, a hasty concoction of clusterfucked dendrites finds something sublime in your silence and I find myself staring off into space and only when I realize the object of my gaze is you do I realize how my failure to be productive has led to a mental sleepiness I can’t say that I abhor. Forgive me – my silence.
I’m reminded of a time when I was busy falling in love again – it was a long time ago. The object of my passions, a sweet child of 20 and I not much older, found ourselves doing that googly-eye thing at the local dance club in Ludwigsburg, Germany. You know how it is when you are young and your fantasies are still real enough to try. Of course, you know. We were on the dance floor and the music had stopped. The band was on an intermission. We were not.
How I worked all day, danced all night, and made love till noon the next day remains a mystery in the late fall of life. At first, I wondered if it was the German Beer and its natural ingredients, or the German Coffee, maybe both. More than likely it was her mysterious hazel eyes wrapped in dark shadow above dark red lips and her black hair; long, straight, thick, and shiny. Perhaps her white cotton bodice with barely constrained breasts in a red velvet corset over black leather pants and knee-high boots did me in, bled my heart like a daggered plum. I pictured her riding the bitch seat on my Harley Sportster, holding on so tight, her lacquered fingernails cut like a laser into my chest. She saw it differently. I came to love her point of view. She gave me so many of them.
What does all this have to do with intermissions and delayed posts, you ask? I only mean to say, I’m distracted by stories and memories gurgling like a teapot just before the whistle blows. Alexandra Dragana is spilling the beans faster than I can count them and so, Dear Reader, I’ll be away bean counting as it were. But don’t go away, I’ll be right back after a brief intermission.
It’s strange how much older we both are now but I’ll swear she can still rock my world in a pair of leathers. It’s pure hell getting her out of them, tho…
You know what I mean? Of course, you do.
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