I love songs that tell stories. This one will take you back.
Brenda and Eddie were still going steady in the summer of ’75.
Time, it swallows everything.
From the mighty to the meager thing.
It’s as dark as it is comforting,
to play along.
— from the song What’s Been Going On, by Amos Lee
photographs by joseph e bird, copyright 2016
Ever notice my profile pic? Looks like I could break out in song on a moment’s notice, right? When I was still on Facebook, I had the same photo on my Facebook page. One day an old friend, a very accomplished musician, saw my picture, stopped by my office and invited me to join him and his friends for their jam sessions. Sounds cool. But just because I’m holding a guitar doesn’t mean I’m good enough to join in with real musicians.
I declined.
There’s a lesson in that little story.
There are lessons in all good stories, even stories that are completely made up. Fiction, in other words. In fiction, we meet people, get to know them, and learn from their mistakes. We feel their pain, rejoice in their victories. Kind of like life.
I’ve heard people say they only read stories that are real. They mean history, biographies, and reference and self-improvement books. All good and beneficial. But by skipping fiction altogether, they’re missing nourishment for the heart and soul.
Same with art. And music. And dance. And poetry. And other forms that engage the right side of the brain.
Relying on feelings too much can get is trouble. But we risk missing out on so much if we live only in logic and reason.
“We dance for laughter,
we dance for tears,
we dance for madness,
we dance for fears,
we dance for hopes,
we dance for screams,
we are the dancers,
we create the dreams.” — attributed to Albert Einstein
Poets like to write about rain.
And gloom.
And getting old.
And loss.
But today is beautiful.
The sun is shining.
It’s too nice for poetry.
Even if all I do is sit in the shade with a cup of coffee.
Recreation.
Relaxation.
That’s all I need
for motivation.
Observation.
Contemplation.
It’s my way
of restoration.
Calculation.
Conjugation.
Created for
communication.
Perspiration.
Inspiration.
What once was play
is avocation.
Acclamation.
Adoration.
Distorts the mind
and expectation.
Preparation.
Presentation.
Hoping for
more confirmation.
Indignation.
Resignation.
Subject the dream
to termination.
Devastation.
Isolation.
Kills the soul
with suffocation.
Then.
None of it matters.
Exhumation.
Restoration.
Education.
Innovation.
Fascination.
Elevation.
Vindication.
Liberation.
Conversation.
Tribulation.
It’s just for me,
my celebration.
copyright 2016, joseph e bird
A couple of items for your Sunday afternoon reading.
First, an article in the Sunday’s Charleston Gazette-Mail about The Mystery Hole, a crazy roadside attraction near Ansted, West Virginia. You don’t see these kinds of places very often anymore. If you’ve never been, it’s worth the trip, even if you have to spend the night. (And there are plenty of other things to do on a weekend visit. New River Gorge Bridge. Hawk’s Nest State Park. Babcock State Park. West Virginia – Wild and Wonderful!)
So read this first.
Then read this. It’s a story I wrote after my first trip to The Mystery Hole. My story is fiction and any resemblance to real events or characters is purely coincidental. The roadside attraction in my story is called The Enigma.
We interrupt this post to bring you a special news bulletin. Joseph Bird has never posted The Enigma story to which he refers. Or maybe he did, and for some reason, he deleted it. He can be that way sometimes and he can’t remember much of anything. For that error, he will make amends in the coming days. Until then, he offers the following poem, written as part of his novel Three Seconds. (To be read in the spirit of Nights in White Satin. If you have to ask, never mind.)
From the original post:
In Three Seconds, a roadside fun-house called The Enigma serves as a metaphor for the illusion of truth the characters in the novel must face. In The Enigma, the laws of gravity are not what they seem to be and visitors are left wondering about the reality of it all. At the end of every tour, Rembrandt Walker offers this cautionary reminder.
Breathe in,
my friends,
while you still can.
When shall we tarry,
it’s all in God’s plan.
Marvel and wonder
at gravity’s plight.
The day is dark
and evening bright.
Live now and love,
while the spirit is young.
In life’s quick passing,
our song will be sung.
Not all we see
can we comprehend.
Up becomes down,
beginning is end.
Worry not, my friends,
and judge with much grace,
Our fate will come quickly,
our day we will face.
Look beyond
what you see
and know what is true.
It’s out there somewhere.
It’s waiting for you.
copyright 2014, joseph e bird
“Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.”
—Nicole Krauss, The History of Love
Trevor Larson’s future looks bright. He’s a young and gifted singer-songwriter ready to chase the dream and make his mark in the world of music. But a devastating accident takes it all away, and leaves him physically and emotionally scarred.
As he rebuilds his life as an architect, he wrestles with his own self-worth. When he discovers new ways to express himself musically, his physical appearance gives rise to a new musical persona which propels him into a world for which he is not prepared. Ultimately, he must decide if his renewed dream of stardom is worth sacrificing his true identity as an artist and a person.
Set to an eclectic sound track as people come and go in Trevor’s life, A Prayer for Rain deals with the timeless themes: Respect. Contentment. Friendship. And of course, love. It delivers hope when all seems lost.
Was on a late spring evening,
the air was cool and light.
I left the window open,
heard the whispers of the night.
The words arose in quiet tones,
from the sidewalk down below.
The truth’s not there for all to see,
There’re some things you can’t know.
.
Sleep came soft and gentle,
and the hours slipped away.
Till screams of horror pierced the still.
What it was, I couldn’t say.
The veil of night hides many sins,
when darkness says hello.
The truth’s not there for all to see.
There’re some things you can’t know.
.
He asked me for a dollar,
or maybe it was two.
He had to find a way back home,
his daughter had the flu.
I knew that he was lying,
but I didn’t let it show.
The truth’s not there for all to see.
There’re some things you can’t know.
.
I’ll be with you along the way,
our steps go side by side.
Though storms may blow and thunder roll,
my comfort will abide.
But wait, here comes another one,
my friendship to bestow.
The truth’s not there for all to see.
There’re some things you can’t know.
.
Fears that come in sleepless nights,
make restless in the day.
Anxious for the times to come,
we’ve nothing but to pray.
For comfort and a quiet peace,
and mercy free to flow.
The truth is there for all to see,
There’re some things we can know.
copyright 2016, joseph e bird
Joseph E Bird 