Friday, August 27th, we are thrilled to be back at The Wine House @ Midtowne Marketplace. This venue is the perfect blend of modern atmosphere with down-home friendly people and approachable customer service. They serve great food too, so don’t think you need to eat before you come over to enjoy the music! Come sample their wine-tasting-dujour, enjoy some fantastic food (either off their menu, or from the fantastic fish market next door, which they’ll let you bring in!) and check out the new songs we’ve added to our show! Hope to see you there!
The Wine House at Midtown Marketplace 1591 Willamette Street, EugeneFriday, August 27, 2010 6:00pm – 9:00pm (541) 344-WINE
I wrote this July 19, 1997 and just rediscovered it. Amazing what your soul can know before it exists. I believe we’re on the train.
“The Picture of the Man Whom I Can’t Describe”
Why can’t I describe him, you ask? Well, I could if I looked at the picture and told you of his ashen eyes, his polished hair, the Armani suit and Gucci watch with just the right amount of stubble to be fashionably unkempt. But you know, that is not what I think it is to describe a man. The man I want to describe doesn’t look a particular way. It’s not in his picture portrait photograph portfolio. It’s his mind, his spirit, I seek. Does he love himself, know himself, can he be free to love his children and dance naked in a lake of loveliness? Does he prattle on about Aristotle or does he invent fairy tales as the children climb on his lap and look at the stars? I want to know this man. The man of the children. He who knows his nature and is not frightened to be himself. He sings in harmony and laughs from his soul. He has time to think. He looks in my eyes and sees beyond the brown to the smile. He sees the tears and doesn’t rush to wipe them away, but sits looking at them, cherishing them, knowing each is a gift from God to wash away unclarity and so he says a tiny thank you for each one and is blessed with some of his own. His hand holds mine, but it is not patronizing nor protecting, just loving and supporting, saying, “I can’t do it for you, but I am here with you. You are never alone.” His smile is the brightest neon white and his heart smiles through to the world past his lips. I want them to kiss me, on the cheeks, on my forehead. We are a team. I am strong yet vulnerable and so is he. We do not frighten each other. Only love is real. I wonder if he is? He is materializing, I believe. Perhaps not complete in his final form yet, but then neither am I. As I grow so will he and we will recognize ourselves in each other. So, you’re the one I’ve been growing with. I wondered when I would find you. Perhaps you’ve already stood facing each other but the mirror was not complete yet. There remained work to be done, so you kissed your silent goodbyes until you meet again, hoping that next time you’ll be taking the same train and this time you can share the ride.
What makes me think I know this? Because, the heart knows all. You have been striving to build this your entire life, and the time of fruition is here.
First, don’t plan. Think, postulate, wonder and look in places you know the answer couldn’t possibly be. That is your foundation. The absence of control. For once you accept that no plan is ever executed perfectly, you realize how worthless a waste of time it is. Life is not meant for planning, it is meant for doing, being, living and feeling.
This is your next task. Love, live, feel, experience. Listen to the voices in the wind and the song of your heartbeat. Be still and hear the harmony in your head. It is the pied piper, leading you where only you should go.
Next, take that step. Go there. Be it by boat, train or hitch-hiking in a stinky 18-wheeler with a tobacco-stained hick behind the wheel. He’s harmless. You can tell by his toothless grin and the sparkle in his eye and the Three Musketeers bar he offered as you got in. He knows where you’re going, just sit back and take in the view.
He’ll drop you in a place you didn’t know existed. The back woods of Kansas where the air smells of cedar and occasionally you can almost taste Mrs. Olson’s apple pie. She left it on the windowsill hoping you’d follow the aroma right into her rocker and fill her heart with your song of the toothless trucker you laughed with as you realized you knew all the words to “Convoy”.
I met a muse; a wintry mix
of cherry blossoms and snow-shine
She said don’t worry about my season’s attire
it was on sale, and fits me perfectly
I asked about those timeless things
And she denied the weather as it rained
She’d promised something I don’t recall
I’m pretty sure with fingers crossed behind her back
I’ll let you in on a little known fact
the Autumn sun falls sideways, and
it does
fit her perfectly
