Wouldn't you agree, baby you and me

I need to be a good writer because I have to I tell at least one person the story. I can't un-promise you and it is far too late for childish things.

You shrugged when you read my stories. Sometimes you laughed. You never said I was good because you knew I wouldn't believe you. Because you didn't say it, I know you thought I was.

Kat, you said, "It's not really writing." It's rambling on paper. It's amateurish crap--off the subject and filled with nonsensical superlatives. Analogies to nowhere. Metaphor after metaphor of untranslatable junk. I will never be Faulkner or Steinbeck. Hemingway. These were writers and I'm not even close. I think I can sip double Springbanks neat and in the haze of artificial suave become someone who writes--you told me.

It wasn't coming from my soul.

When I'm feeling blue, all I have to do Is take a look at you, then I'm not so blue When you're close to me, I can feel your heartbeat I can hear you breathing near my ear

I'm sorry. I can't read past the wrinkles in the paper. I can't get past that somewhere it's a sunny day in a park. Somewhere white clouds waft overhead like swans on a glass-smooth pond. Somewhere children flip bright plastic frisbees. Joggers sweat. Somewhere the grass is cool and green.

I can hear your breathing near my ear

You said I had to get deeper, but it already hurt me so much I wasn't sure I could figure out where deeper was.

How do I give to you that whenever you spoke to me it was like God breathing life into my mud-built body for the first time? I heard the crackle of automobile tires rolling over hot pavement. Kestrel wings hissing on the wind. The wind ruffling against my ears like clothes-lined sheets aloft on puffs of sunlight. My first breath.

You made me see infinity through clear air.

Maybe I'll never be any good because I don't know how to make myself into something else.

My professional writer friends don't seem like writers to me. They tap out article after article in well constructed prose. They explain things clearly, with minimal dreck or diversion. You wrote like them: precise. Not a word out of place, all buttoned up like a toddler in his first snowstorm.

But you felt everything just like me.

When I'm in your arms, nothing seems to matter My whole world could shatter, I don't care

Five hundred words on the discovery of nematodes in Lake Bonney. A thousand words on frost heave in the Taylor Valley. Two thousand words on floating weightless over Houston. The fallacy of cold fusion.

I know it sounds like I'm feeling sorry for myself--a greater sin, apparently, than the deception or adultry I'll hang for. I got into this position by doing everything wrong. I turned my best friend into a lover and wrecked what had been important.

If they knew how I felt they'd never forgive me. If they knew how I feel they'd want me erased. I won't forget I loved you. You can never un-love somebody.

Now I know where deeper is. That's where I'm hurt now. I can only breathe in gasps. There isn't enough light anywhere. I can't get warm.

Wouldn't you agree, baby you and me...

But it was something, wasn't it?

"A Groovy Kind of Love" by The Mindbenders

The last episode is On the tracks, in the light The next episode is The tragic blindness of William Hoobler

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