How many of us grew up with similar literary soft, hard pillows:
"Mother's Younger Brother was in love with Evelyn Nesbit...He could no longer look at the silhouettes. He wanted to pack his heart with gunpowder and blow it up."
"I'm stuck by the gap between romance and reality, between my fantasy even now of how such a conversation "ought" to have happened (violins, lit candles revolving in the sky) and the sadness that accompanies the real thing."
Here's Conroy: "I was famous among my roomates for my mercurial mood-swings. But they excepted my melancholy as some distorted mirror image of my own overwrought flights of euphoria."
I'm pretty sure Silas House wrote for me when he says, through Anneth, "All my life I've been looking for magic in all the wrong places."
And, yes, I too have been afraid of putting air in a tire ever since that tire blew up and threw Newt Hardbine's father over the top of the Standard Oil sign.
Now, on the eve of the weekend of the 26th anniversary of my Own Special Protagonist, my central character, the author our our life together, I write:
To be inspired is to be alive.
To get each other is to challenge beliefs and hardships.
To love is to prepare for less than and tingle when it happens and sting when sometimes it doesn't.
To count the days is more important than counting the years or decades.
To not understand that any time with a lover, friend, lifemate is a daily joy is a mistake.
The most important thing is to breathe. One's own breathe.
My own breathe.
In concert with his and ready to change the cadence, because individuals are marching their own lives.
But the band is ours.
The leader is the heart.
Marching, side by side, sometime
And others, marching with a different music.
But the same beat.
The leader of the band oversees our every move.
And the breath. To breathe.
To be prepared to live the next parade.
To be inspired to be alive.
I love you, Tom.