Side story: I think this is working

Sometimes you have to write and write and write to get something out of your system. It's like lancing a wound. I keep coming back here only because it feels a lot more cathartic than Accumulate Man ever did. Whenever I've played there and talked about you I've felt like the eyes of the world were upon me. I had to keep a lower profile there with my writing. I am still jacked into my work 2.0 site and it feels like words or references or names or any of that could follow me home.

But more than that it felt as if Accumulate Man was just that. The accumulate sum and total of my life. I left tracks there that led everywhere and nowhere. It was a place to lay down, sip a bit of wine and chat awhile. Share the news. Talk about films and books and recipes and such. But I kept wandering down that path with "Jane", telling side stories about us, building temples, crashing plaster images, all that. It felt a bit too wide open and borderline reckless and all that to tell our stories there comfortably.

Not that it mattered much, I suppose. For most people it was a "Read this if you want, speculate what it means on your own time" kind of place. But here, here in this space I feel what I share with you matters alot. It's for the record. Sure, it's a mighty public record. But a good love always is. Public. "In your face" like we used to be. Yup, can't deny that. We weren't as wild as some, but we were a pair of shooting stars, you and me. Yeah, we were great, right along side Bogart and Bacall. Wallis Simpson and the future King of England. Mickey and Minnie. You and me, Minute Man and the Professora.

Here I don't mind telling our story. I feel that for years I've wanted to tell someone about us, M. Just to tell it. Just to make up for the crashed Calcopo files. With our names somewhat shrouded, of course, and no real details, either, well, not the salacious kind. Not that we really had any of those to share with the world anyway. Like the quote in Corelli's Mandolin, "we were lovers in the old fashioned sense".

No, it's just that damn bag by the side of my bed that begs me to tell you what's in it. But more than that it's the roadsigns I leave for you. And the photos and quotes and receipts and such I find as I go through old papers. All the stuff left that you behind that I still use. And then there's the stuff that I don't use or own and then there are thing that could never possibly belong to me. Seriously, how would I claim to the corner of Wheaton and Sylvan Way? How could I ever possibly declare ownership to that stretch of highway around Washington Pass? Would anybody else know about "The Lady with the Big Hat" at Kopachuck State Park? Or what about the restaurants in PO were considered "ours" and that you avoided going to for years?

None of that stuff matters much to anyone but me, and possibly you, M. I know that you dwell on those things to but keep them to yourself. Yeah, I know that those times of ours still run deep. I always know when I see you. It's your eyes. Words sometimes mean nothing when they spill from your lips, buddy, it's the eyes that give you away. That's where the pearls of those days lay. It's there that I gather truths.

So this place. It allows for leeching, for wounds to be opened up and cleaned out. I feel the healing already taking place, only days into this wild form of therapy. Frankly, I had to have this place to tell our story. My friends have grown tired of me asking about you, asking if they've seen you, heard from you. Frankly, it was a bit of a joke, a somewhat pathetic one, but love is funny that way. But it's my life, my heart, my craziness. Nobody else's but mine. Not that I care if anyone else understands. What would it matter if they did?

So know that the writing has helped me in an immeasurable way. It's here that I've grown stronger from leaving things behind. It's a bit like medication or meditation or working so hard that you sweat blood or leave tears like silver drops around your feet. I have gathered those tears I've shed and tossed them into the Sound and there they'll lay. Let the kingfishers gather them up and take them to you.

Yeah, M, read what's here and let those silver baubles of words splash about your feet. You, too can gather them up alongside your precious kingfishers in the Sound as well.

It's all about believing in things. Me, I don't waste my time on prayers to a God that doesn't listen to me. I only devote my time to writing words to a woman who won't ever read them, believing that somehow in the writing my words will find a mark, and hopefully, provide me with comfort and possibly an answer to all that has transpired between us. And, in the end, I believe that in the telling things will right themselves. Be cleared up. Made solid. Yes, in the telling the tale gets told and the story of those two beautiful intertwined lives moves along.

Yeah, someday, maybe, I can move along, too. All on my own.

Your WHMB