It was the depth of his eyes that initially made me stop and take notice.  Not to glance as one would in public or at a social gathering, but to really Look at him.  There was something writhing below the surface, something old and intense.  Lunging forward and then retreating ... teasing ... luring ... asking for an introduction.  Something unlike anything I had ever encountered.  I had heard stories of such characteristics ... in fiction.  Kind of like a fairy-tale creature ... lovely notion that you hope to eventually see, but know that you won't ... maybe.

His manner of speaking was a complete betrayal of the pseudo-wisdom that peered from beneath the heavy dark lashes.  An overdone southern homeless drawl; its origin a toss-up across multiple state lines. I didn't even hear his words ... entirely. Something about stale cigarettes and coffee ... and my ass.  

Subconsciously, I adjusted my stance.  

The aged look of his face was a testament to a mis-spent youth that had been heavily anesthetized in a cloud of excessive drug and alcohol use.  I would later learn that his mid-life years were composed as a blur of recovery induced by a catalytic half-baked prostration in the gravel church parking lot up the hill. There is something about waking, disoriented in the shadow of a 30-foot cross ... "It'll save you or destroy you," he hissed. 

Bitterness frothed amidst his words as he spoke of a daughter long lost to the care of a psychotic ex who was nothing but a money-grubbing-bitch, but then aren't they all? A marriage that succumbed to the seductive invitation of another ... dissolved in accusations and arguments. And, yet, as he spoke there were gaping holes; his eyes twinkled mischievously as though his words were an intricate, demented allegory intended to be pieced together over time.  He wasn't speaking of domestic disruptions, failed relationships ... his meaning was much broader ... more complex.  He was testing the waters.  Trying to determine where I stood ...and how I may react to the Truth.

It was then that it dawned on me ... I had made a mistake.

It is odd how quickly we can become disillusioned.  Distracted.  And then be gently brought back to our original purpose, focus, and intent.

I have spent the past few weeks fighting battles on several fronts.  Not that anyone out there really cares, I know that I wouldn't be too interested ... but that aside, I have found it remarkable how some of the best-laid plans can be shunned aside in order to deal with mundane, aggravating, and sometimes downright crappy circumstances.  For the mere fact that they are just so annoying that they may no longer be ignored.  Something must be done.  I have chosen to re-channel the energy ... compartmentalize ... But on the flipside, there are always rays of light that shine through to help us along the way.  No worries, I am not going to get all spiritual or philosophical ... its out of my system ... moving on ...

My intention several days ago, well, exactly a week ago now, was to post another portion of the fiction I teased with in the previous entry.  

The mania has consumed much more than I had anticipated.  With the newfound freedom, the release of the albatross (so to speak) has unleashed a new fount of creativity, determination and exploration.  That being said, to some out there, no, I am not making excuses.  I find myself starting projects and inevitably a shiny something glimmers from just off the peripheral and I squeal, "Oooooooh!" and Away I go.

Now, since we have established that my attention span has shrunk to that which may be donned by a gnat ... here we go.

What was born to be a short work of fiction (essentially a short short -- 500 words or less) has grown to a short story, to a serial, to a novella.  And yet, even in its infancy, I anticipated more for the tale-o-noir.  I have struggled, beaten and cajoled with the words upon its pages ... er, glaring back from the screen ... and, yet, I fear that it is still unable to stand freely.  I have promised, promised and promised the beginnings of the tale to a dear friend ... promises upon which I will deliver this week, but I know that despite the story's "coming out" that it may yet again go under the knife.  Wait and see what type of reception it receives.

I am pleased to let those who read it know that the inspiration for the tale has yet to find rest.  It is kind of like dealing with a split personality that has an equally short attention span.  Just when you think that the song is over ... another verse screams from the dusty speaker.  Crackling in the background is the faint noise of days-gone-by ... its only purpose is to provide a context for the images peeping up from between the blurred lines of black ink. Occasional capital letters and penned markings disrupt the anticipated story that has waited patiently to be received.  Alas, here we are.

And as I write these lines, my phone continues to belt out the opening of Mr. Tambourine Man ... an anonymous caller on the other end ... or so he believes.  If given the opportunity, those who believe themselves to be so slick will eventually foul up ... and tell on themselves.  If you give them enough rope ... 

Sitting back enjoying coffee and conversation.  As I look into the distance I am amazed at the persistent nature of the distant, cold and prying eyes of a heavy heart.  An alarm for my consciousness ... You have this moment.  Make the most of it.  In the end, all our moments lessen ... I have reached a point where I become so consumed with such a sense of urgency that I want to scream lines of poetry ... brief, fictional glimpses ... at the top of my lungs. Yell for the world to hear that things are constantly changing ... Accommodating ... Morphing ... but into what?  And, yet, there never seems enough time ... words ... or attention.  After all.  People will only listen for so long, till something shiny comes along ... something bigger, better, darker ... something to reflect that nature, which they spend so long trying to shun ... 

It is still early in the evening. 

And as I start to sign off, I realize that my dear Musings still exhibits minor shudders of life ... Occasional gasps reassure me that it is still among the living, but barely.  I intend to change this. Somehow.  And I believe that the cure lies in purpose, persistence and understanding.  Maybe from this point forward I may be able to provide the cure that is needed.  Besides, sleep is a luxury ... 

"Are you ready for a journey?" he asked holding the glistening blade flat against my thigh.  His eyes flashed a mysterious knowing as he traced the seam of my jeans. The exhalation that escaped his crooked grin stank of a cocktail bred of stale cigarettes and the wan, aromatic vestige of whiskey greedily downed years before.  Mirroring a distorted image of the autumn stars that shone above, the bone-handled knife pressed my trust, incited my curiosity and blunted my reason.  Had I known then what I know now, I would have answered differently ...