Imagination Takes Control, Brain Explodes [or] What I Think, Walking


If it is any bit possible, could we have an actual winter?  Is that too much to ask?  Sarah and I would like to go snowshoeing and skiing sometime soon; all of the essential equipment, for my person, has been acquired.  I would like to shovel the driveway; instead of having two long driveways to work on this year, there is but one short driveway and a snow blower (a.k.a. the small and red indolence generating cheating machine) is now in the garage waiting to have at the heavier snowfalls.  The now retired lights never saw an opportunity to shine beneath Christmastime’s independent production of A Blanket of Fallen Snow.  Most importantly, I am still waiting to have a reason to appreciate the small time frame of warmer weather that we’ll have to enjoy hiking, camping, walking, and the several other late-spring to October activities.

Then again maybe we don’t need frigid temperatures and mounds of snow.  My Sherwood friends and I have accumulated hours of rainy day comp hours generated from infinite days of snow play.  Every second counted. These hours are specifically utilized for those days where your in a funk, sitting anxiously around the house and stirring up a crock of cabin fever, debating the uncertainty of what you want to do (i.e. movies or going to a cafe to simply get out of the house) and what has to be done (i.e. housework) and ignoring both vague options to stew in one’s own thoughts, all the while you’re pacing and moving from seat to seat–nothing is ever comfortable–and driving the others (animals included) around you crazy.

To channel that energy without giving the anxiety your are feeling away is definitely an acquired skill.  This is something I’m working on.  The anxiety is bottled up:  something they tell you not to do.  It is then walked off, literally, everyday for lunch.  It’s the best 45 minutes of alone time anyone could ask for.  As the stress reducing walk continues, the bottled up stress is poured out on the street, not like a mad bum relieving himself on the sidewalk, no, but it’s pushed out through the pores.  On a hot day, it’s evaporated; on a cold day, the stress is frozen and breaks off to shatter by your feet, stepped upon by those walking that same path, grinding the remnants down to grains to melt.

And, of course, you’ve got music. 

I need music.
To set me free.
To let me bleed.

That’s a little Cold for you.  Earlier in the song, Scooter sings, I will marry melody. All you need is love and all you need is melody.  They will bring that smile right across your face like a clothesline hanging the tear-soaked apparel that you’ve held onto throughout the day, week, months, or even years just waiting to dry so they can be worn again.  The dryer will only shrink those clothes. The beauty of a smile:  everyone thinks nothing is bothering you.  Better yet, the passing by wonder who you are listening to and what is going on in that head of yours.  That smile, generally speaking, could even bring you opportunity.

Everything’s gonna be alright.



No one embraces the colder weather.  Everyone is intimidated subconsciously.  People feel the winter can get too cold, and they don’t risk the potential of getting sick.  Icy sidewalks threaten injury and/or embarrassment.  Old Man Winter accompanies you wherever you roam, pinching your exposed skin, scratching at your hands, and his follys’ placing clothespins all over your ears until they’re red; the snowflakes float like ashes, landing upon exposed skin and sizzle with an icy burn.  However, all the maladies associated with the colder temperatures can be avoided when dressed appropriately. When the cold has the opportunity to get the best of you, the endearing pain is more exaggerated than the feeling a 16-year-old has after a first breakup. 

However, today was a day amidst a meltdown in more ways than one, and the lunch break walk was much needed.  The wind picked up and swirled around, flipping the collar of my coat into my face, annoying and ironically appropriate.  Instead of hitting the SHUFFLE option on Steve Jobs’ iCONIC creation, I needed a pick-me-up and played some 10,000 Maniacs’
(yeah, you didn’t see that one coming)                            
                                                                                       “These Are the Days,” but unplugged.  The second song, I opted for was

(wait for it…)

(waaaaaait for it…)

                                  “Afternoons and Coffeespoons” by the lost–but never forgotten–Canadian group, Crash Test Dummies.  I had a 90’s acoustic-driven, folk-under-toned craving and it had to be satisfied.  There is nothing like inspiring lyrics uttered by the unique voice of Natalie Merchant to kick off positive vibes, setting up for the second T.-S.-Eliot-inspired quirky folk pop song. 

Since things come best in 3’s:  “Halo” by Deep Blue Something.


Response comes natural to someone when rising to a Cloud 9.  There are multiple Cloud 9’s, of course, pertaining to personal existentialism.  There are Music Cloud 9’s, differentiated by genre; there are Food Cloud 9’s; there are Emotional Cloud 9’s and Religious Cloud 9’s and both categories intertwine at a personal and favorite commonality known as Mysticism.  Mario and Luigi have a Cloud 9 and they climb a vine up to it, riding a cloud gondola to collect coins.  The Dude soars at Cloud 9.  There is a bar in Shanghai, China called Cloud 9, but it’s on the 87th floor.  There are nine layers to Dante’s Hell and in essence, as bittersweet as it tastes when reality sets in, is a Cloud 9.  Hey, if you can’t rise any higher, you sure (as hell) can’t sink any lower.

The reigning music blocks out all the natural sounds, and suddenly a puff of air animates between your foot and the ground upon impact, creating a bounce.  The joy this creates, you don’t know if those around you are smiling because you are, or because of the air puffs. You’re just going with the flow.

As the minutes pass, hands have to be placed in pockets, but the walking and self-produced entertainment keeps on going.  Walking across cracked sidewalks at the foot of sustained architecture of churches and towers housing offices, eyes focus from the bottom up and into the sky, into the clouds, the puffy base of a crown looming atop a city with economic potential.  An unconscious action is that relying on the sky.  Fear something may fall?  Fear of vacancy?  Aside a building can be found a stationed Roy’s Pigeons birdhouse. It seem(s)ed empty to me.  Hard economic times:  the pigeons don’t even want to reside here.  Underneath it all, underneath the vacancy, the seems-to-me seems-to-be vacancy, sticks two posters, one black-and-white and one in vibrant Technicolor, begging LOVE ME.   The black-and-white, hand drawn, the Technicolor is modified with BIG and BOLD and RED letters, screaming LOVE ME in front of a silhouette gun range ammunition collecting target.  Love who?  Me?  You?  Nobody?  Consumerism?  Bull[censored-ship]? Syracuse?  Love?  Continuity?  Lamp? 

All we have a weathered streets, weathered time, weathered patience, weathered skin, weathered idealistic anticipation for something to pop(!), and then things fall into place like a displaced joint. Yet, we look back up to that sky.  But..


Ev’rybody’s gonna be happy
Which means me and you, my love


There are always Kinks.  Kinks may deter for the worse, or for the better, but this all depends on the situation.  It’s best to take life as it goes.  Kerouac seemed to, at least.  At age 26, I thought I was going to make headway and venture around our country.  However, that plan fell through.  Why?


I went to Italy instead.  I guess this was a better option when considering a challenge.  I couldn’t pull a Ryan and bike across the states; no, not at all.  I would pack my tent and eat out of diners; aside the thought of having more of a home-cooked meal, the people you could run into are more interesting for the better, or… well, for the better.

Plus, the majority of people speak English.

Hey, let’s cross the sea
And gain some culture
Red wine with every meal
And [grappa] after dinner 

So, I hung out with Adriano for nine days.  I met his family, my family, and our famiglia.  I met his friends. That’s all I could have asked for.  I could have ended any trip in Rome.

It was the mind-blowing experience that Kerouac is shaking his fist at me for.  Not really, he’s probably clapping wildly, waiting in Heaven to give me a pat on the back, but waiting patiently for me to give my proper respects to my deceased relatives first.  However, my time in Italy is a whole ‘nother story, but it will only be continued in the near future.


Hey, Sarah, Let’s cross the sea and gain some culture.  The next step is learning more of the I-talian language and the ability of expanding one’s stomach with expectations for a daily filling until full capacity. There will be red wine with every meal and [grappa] after dinner.  It’s not just a traditional thing if it’s daily.  There will be culture and there will be family and

Ev’rybody’s gonna be happy
Which means me and you, my love.

                                                                                          Kinks will be inevitable along the way, but that’s the way it is now. It’s just getting through that those parts that no one seems to enjoy.  Normally it’s called the bridge in music.  And then there would be dinner on the patio of a villa, zucchini risotto and a bottle of Riesling. An accordion or violinist plays in the background upon the weathered, cobbled street.  However, no one worries about the cracks, or looking up to the sky, because what they really need is right in front of them and around them. 

The thing about the cracks, however, as overlooked and designated distasteful, if you look at them close enough, lowering yourself to the ground and looking into the cracks or cobbled stones, feeling a puff of air circulating up and into your face, it’s the same puff of air which catalysts that bounce in your step,

(Ahh, can you feel it?)

                                                                                                                                               it’s history.

What isn’t grand about that?

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