memories 'n smells

Had me a moment ta' other day. I was standin' around at work, tryin' to act as if I had somethin' to do when suddenly I was overcome by a memory.
I was ten years old, maybe eight or nine. In the basement of our house, the one my father designed, my mother grew things. Among the miniature forest of African violets, she grew an orange tree, a miniature orange tree.
Taste it.
We contain all that we have ever done, seen, felt, heard, touched, tasted. We are our own memories.
What if? What if we could all feel, see, touch 'n taste all that we've ever known in our lives?
Those oranges still make my mouth pucker, wanna' spit 'n taste some more, those fruits were never meant to be eaten'!
On a midwinter's day in Nebraska the sight, aroma, presence, of an orange grown in the basement was not to be overcome.
I taste again, pucker, spit, n' think of summer.
In the depths of winter, snow all about, I open a bale of hay and taste summer. I remember my mother seated upon a paint mare, somewhere in Colorado.
A photogaph. A picture. A memory.
Now I smell defeat. I push that smell away. Now I smell tomorrow 'n my promise not to be defeated.

(Before ya' go please visit "From The Horses Mouth" here on the blog, and thanks for droppin' in!)








A wealth of life awaits us in our cells.

This afternoon I was drivin' around a little bit, just enjoyin' the day, the sunshine 'n a break from the wind we been havin'.
I looked in my rearview mirror, a car was signallin' ta' pass me on a curvey two lane pot-holed bumpy road. They were passin' me 'cause they could tell by lookin' that I weren't in no hurry. As they passed my, with a full politeness so seldom seen these days, I looked in my own mirror and realized that they where passin' me cause I am who I am, 'n they could see it.
I drive an old pickup, an S10 Chevy from the late '80's, a beater. Mounted on the truck's, splotchy spray painted cab are two lights kinda' lookin' like Mickey Mouse ears, there's a rake welded to the hood. The truck-bed carries decayin' trash bags atop a layer of hay. My truck.
As I drove it dawned in me that I am who I am 'n who I wanna' be.
I wear my boots, my wide brimmed hat, my jeans. I got a dog as my passenger. I'm goin' home to feed my horses.
I reflect on jail cells.

There's a man in the parkin' lot where I now sit in the same truck a pirate, a wi-fi pirate. The man's in the parkin' lot 'cause he smokes. The man smokes 'n admires a car, a Porsche, his. He smokes, admires, goes back inside, content, I assume.
Frank Zappa's widow's on the radio now, so's Frank, I pause to listen.
Thanks much.