I'm sorry that my diary is sad. That I seem sad.

And it's not that I am depressed. Nope. Not depressed. Thank you for asking. Thank you for thinking. Thank you for writing. But thanks most of all, for caring.

I am searching right now. Searching for the light. A beacon. Finding my way by feeling ahead of me, around me, in the dusk, to reach the warmth. I'm not cold. No, that's not it. But there is a chill. And I would like to feel warmth in my bones.

I read her and I think she may be feeling the same way. I don't know.

I am a little bit lost. A little bit found. Does anyone understand? Do you know who I am? Do you know where I am?

I am not afraid. I am not short of breath. Fear, is not in my heart or staring at you from my eyes.

If anything, I feel extraordinarily brave.

I'm not sure how to explain this...but I feel the need to reassure you. I feel the need to explain that I have not gone over the edge. No. That I am not curled in the fetal position, rocking in the dark. This is not that. No.

I thought about it this morning. In the taxi. Staring out the window, as the sun rose over the East River. Its beauty and solitude struck me all at once and I could not speak to the driver...answer his questions...I could not pull my gaze away from the light reflecting off of the river...I could not blink and soon a tear rolled down my face...a tear. A tear from keeping my eyes open, unblinkingly and unthinkingly, staring Life in the face.

And I heard the soundtrack of life. Through my headphones...I heard...screaming...

"Beatnicks out to make it rich...must be the season the witch..."

The sharp realization of what I heard from Donovan made me sit back in the taxi and listen, to the words.

"When I look out my window...what do you think I see...and when I look in my window....so many different people to be..it's strange...sure is strange... you've got to pick up every stitch...oh NO, must be the season of the witch, yeah."

I heard him out. Pick up every stitch, yeah I got it, what the hell does that mean???

I searched for something calming. Gomez. Ahhhh, yes, Gomez. Rhythm and Blues Alibi.

"Let it go...let it go...there's nothing to it..anyone can...try anything twice...chasing after stories that have already been told..."

No, that can't be the answer. I already have tried everything twice, I thought to myself as I paced through the sleeping streets of NYC.

"You can take a trip through your juke joint smoke filled paradise...You can give it your all, cos you are walking a fine, fine line."

I walked slower and smoked faster. Waiting...for Gomez to share the answer.

And after he whispered it to me, in that throaty croon of his, I thought, ironically, if only life were as easy as finding the holder of my rhythm and blues alibi.

previous next