Tag Archives: hopeful

I can’t remember …

the sound of his voice.

Many nights, his stories of New York, Europe, anthropology, mathematics, design, engineering, and attending UNC at Chapel Hill, lulled me to sleep.

It didn’t matter, really, what he spoke of, only that he spoke.

His voice was so distinct.





But now, as I come upon the fifth anniversary of his death, I am totally discombulated and completely out of rhythm because I can’t remember it.

His voice.

I can’t remember it.

I’ve cried and prayed and prayed and cried.

To no avail.

I’ve never, before him, found anyone who could rationalize my irrational behavior and be cool and composed with tantrums and flying debris.

One would think that, after all he endured, I would, at the very least,  remember the sound of his voice.

I remember other voices.

Ones of those who found me, after him and feigned tolerance only to, in the end, find me intolerable.

He truly was the only perfect man and it was my privilege to know him.

He remains, to this day, the most intelligent person I’ve ever known.

I still wonder why he picked me.

But he did and although perplexing, I’m a much better person for it.

How tortuous to hear other, less substantial voices in my head when I can’t remember his.

I’m sorry, my dear one. 

I truly do miss you terribly.

Especially in Autumn; most especially in October.

If you look down tonight, you will see our moon. 

I wept when I saw it … I couldn’t help it.

I will love and miss you until time ceases.


For the first time in a long time …

I am not sure where I stand.  I have worried my family, called unashamedly upon my friends and have, in the end, doubted myself and my abilities.

None of which, mind you, is intentional.  It is all a part of the person I am, which is the same person I was yesterday, the day before and ten years ago.

I find myself in a place that is completely and irreverently foreign, while at the same time, alarmingly familiar to me.

I have been here before and, unfortunately, will be here again.

It is my nature.

It is my being.

It is, on occasion, my life.

I can find no pleasure in anything, most especially in the two things that usually, without fail, bring me immeasurable pleasure and boundless joy.

Photography and words.

I don’t want to take them; I don’t want to write them.

I don’t want to develop them once I have taken them and don’t want to read them once I’ve written them.

I don’t want to see them or immerse myself in them.

I am, truly and most inexplicably, at a loss.

Those are the things that, irregardless of professions and degrees, make me who I am.

Without them, everything else is irrelevant.

Photography and words are what sustain me while I am trying my level best to live from one day to the next.

They center me and keep me from teetering over a sometimes fine and fragile line.

And yet, for now anyway, the joy, beauty and perfection of image and verse escape me.

I am perplexed.

Maybe I am a figment of my own imagination.

Wouldn’t that be one for the books.  A figment of an imagination that never really existed in the first place.

An enigma wrapped in a riddle wrapped in a puzzle.

I usually reserve that description for others I know, respect and revere  … and yet, well, here I am.

I have become my own puzzle.  Odd and disconcerting and yet, this too shall pass and from it will emerge something beyond my dreams.

It always does.

Until that time, be well, my lovelies, be well.

a young man, lock of love, a pure soul.

a young man, locks of love, a pure soul.

I love the moon, the moon loves me ...

I love the moon, the moon loves me …

the epitome of summer ... such beauty my eyes behold

the epitome of summer … such beauty my eyes behold

He always manages to get where he's going ...

He always manages to get where he’s going …