Another evening of a flashing cursor giving me a blank look.

Names and faces flashing through my synapses.

Debra, Dana, Jenn, Denise, Effy, April, Marcie, the Thankful Girl, to name a few.

Janeil, of course.

Tick bites itching.

Another story itching to be told.

Asking myself where’s the Muse who stands there before me.

My dreams can’t, don’t, won’t wait.

I need a rocket propulsion specialist.
Or at least someone who thinks like one.

Someone who can solve the gravitational equation in ways not yet considered.

Not every sign is meant for me.

A bra on a table.

A ballroom showcase spectacular with a dark waltz, tango and stray cat strut.

An arts-and-crafts room full of wonderful ladies, young in thought and wise in years.

Tick bites itching.

Glenfiddich rumbling in my stomach.

The Rocket City Short Film Festival asking permission for my attention.

Claire Lynch and company up for bluegrass awards.

High school football under way.

NASCAR premiere series finishing up just before Danica drives fulltime.

Nine years without a steady mate, one says.

Giving up on laughter and fun because two youthful bodies no longer exist.

Dancers young enough to be my grandkids having fun on the dance floor, instead.

I’m in the wrong business.

I…there’s that label again.

I can’t always get what I want.

So I wait.

The generation gap is what it is, but I’m on the other side now.

Wisdom is the illusion I always thought it would be.

Experiences count.

My mother in-law’s hometown bridge partners are disappearing from the table, her young friend, nearly 85, almost blind.

I descended into madness – it was a temporary amusement park ride – another illusion.

Another tick on my body.  It must be these shorts I wore in the poison ivy patch yesterday.  Or the shoes.

Seed ticks, about the size of the dot at the end of this sentence.

With legs.

Itches are illusions, too, building like the contagion of sneezing or yawning.

More to be said, but time for bed.

I’ve seven billion lives to incorporate into my dream.

Illusory.

Alliterative.

Iterative.

Reiterative.

Zombies and aliens aren’t here to save you.

I am.

It’s what I do.

This average body in this day and age.

Composing the story of our lives, neither worse nor best in comparison to other times.

Vertical farming and alternative power sources providing marginal but much needed change to our macro system solutions.

And I’ll keep giving away my stuff – my life, my ideas, my stories – because a lifetime of accumulation has reached its stacked, stored and saturated point.

Would that I could provide shelter for a rocket propulsionist or other friendly face.

My days of funding Muses have passed me by.

Nowadays, I’m all about finishing a story I started when I was a kid.

Solo dancing most of the day.

I can hardly spare a dime.

The tale’s the motivation now.

All I can offer is a space for a character or two.

Free of charge.

Are you along for this ride on the edge of a gravitational trajectory?

What if we could overcome Earth’s gravitational pull together?

Where would we go if gravity waves inhabit the whole universe?

Can I tell your story in more detail?

If so, how?

Where?

A story to tell and then real life pulls you in, the event horizon of a black hole, no matter its illusion, waiting to rip you apart.

Am I able to rip my life apart again for the sake of a good story?

Knowing I’ll just go on to the next story.

And the next.

Until I die.

In the days when I traveled, I could create a working space for a good story away from real life.

Away from domestic life.

Toward someone like you.

It all depends on the adventure that wants, waits, to be told.

I want to tell an excellent story.

A keeper.

We’ll see.

Messages are read loudly, clearly and slowly.

The boldness of silence.

In the humid heat of a Huntsville summer at Lowe Mill in the Flying Monkey Theatre.