From my window I see you. I watch you. I know you. From my window, we play games. And we go places. And we fall to the ground together. From my window, you tell me secrets. And you tell me the truth. And you understand meaning. From my window, we live a life as one. We live a life under the sun. We live to be together forever. From my window, you know everything about me. And I tell you my deepest fears. And I tell me stories about where I've been to. And the things I've done. From my window, I give you my heart. And I give you my soul. And I pledge my life to you. From my window, we share ourselves. And we build a family. And we have hopes and dreams. From my window, we laugh and sing songs. And we dance and hold each other long. And we kiss when we want to, all the time. From my window, there is no pain. And there is no hurt. And there is no wrong. Everything's right. From my window, I dream of you. And you dream of me. And our dreams will carry us 'til our dying breaths. From my window, I call your name. From my window, I take the blame. From my window, there is no one outside. From my window, I think I lied. From my window, you are gone. From my window, I have died.
She's looks like a real bitch. Sitting there, latte in hand, reading the Wall Street Journal for everyone to see. Dressed to the business nines. Plate of half-finished escargots in front of her, Nova lox brioche to the side. High-end fashionable handbag on the table for everyone to see. Oh, sure, glance my way. I'll smile back. Looked away just as fast as you could, didn't you? Like I'm some kind of social dirtbag. Keep reading you're damn paper. Like I even dared to look at you. I swear I can see behind those goddamn expensive sunglasses. Eyes filled with obnoxious self-importance. The whole world watches you. The world world moves for you. Because you happen to have won the hi-cheekbone, long-limbed body lottery. Big friggin' deal. Chicks like you are a dime a dozen. Nothing special. I'll keep smiling. No big deal. Costs me nothing. Bet you wish you could be rid of the peons sitting at the other cafe tables, so close to you they get to breathe your same air. How intrusive on your personal space. Don't glance at me again. Don't! You're not special. Oh, sure, get up and leave. Typical. Get up and pass by me like I'm just a piece of--
"Hello," she says. "I'm done with this, if you like to read it." She taps the newspaper.
I look down.
CALL ME is written. Followed by ten digits.
"I will." I sputter. "I will..."
Let's run together in the fields that stretch to the horizon. Let's dash through streams and jump through puddles, and dance our way toward the setting sun. Let's walk beside each other all day, until our legs grow weary, so we can sleep in the shade of a pleasant tree. Let's dream of what we'll do tomorrow, while we remember what we did yesterday, lying shoulder-to-shoulder right now. And we'll giggle. And laugh. And paint pictures in the clouds as they pass by. And we'll be free within our minds, free to move about, free to live as we want. Free to love, free to like, free to decide. And we'll live, expressing joy, expressing choice, expressing feelings. Let's run together on the grass lawn of the magnificent mansion we built together from our thoughts and our love. And let that mansion in our minds stand the test of time. And let us play as children when we want, and love like teenagers when we want, and live with like adults when we must, and die like elders when it's time. And let us always be together, even when time and distance separate us.
I watch you when you curl up beside me. I watch as you dream of chasing dreams, ageless and timeless. I watch your legs twitch and stretch, and whimper becomes a sudden howl. I see you strong and athletic, running with boudless energy. I see you standing beside me, as we walk towards the setting sun. But time moves more quickly for you than it does for me, and I soon much slow to help you keep up. Until you've become aged. And we slow together. And we comfort each other, watching the months pass quickly. Until your cradled in my arms. And the tears well up in my eyes. And my breaths are full and halted from tears, while yours are shallow, just whispers of breath. And your eyes are closed. And your legs don't twitch anymore. And they don't stretch anymore. And I hold my friend for the rest of time until the sun has disappeared. And I hold your head. And kiss you goodbye. And you give me one last nuzzle. And I hear the last of your breaths. And I cry. I wail. I burst open from pain and sadness. And I curse the shortness of your life, but thank the Lord that you lived that life with me. Beside me.
It's amazing how life can get in the way of writing. I hadn't been able to do my daily ten-minutes for almost a week now. Part of it was because I was feeling exhausted from a long season of helping coach wrestling at my alma mater, Millburn High school. Part of it was because I'd get home too bleary-eyed and mentally fried to even try to come up with something coherent. Work was very busy, too. And, of course, there are the little things that need to be done in order to be a functioning human being that take time, money and effort, and also take a priority over writing. But enough bitching and moaning, here I am, at my computer, typing onto screen what I'm feeling inside my head at the moment. And while it may not turn out to be very interesting, or usable for a short story I may decide to write, it's always nice to get inside my head and let thoughts pour out as quickly as I can type them. I expect to get back on the writing horse starting today and finish a short story I had been writing ten minutes at a time a few weeks ago. I think it will be interesting to see if I can make it as clever as I imagine it in my mind. Sometimes that is hard to do. I write by seeing a kind of movie in my head, then try to put it into words. Obviously, that doesn't always work, but when it does it makes me very satisfied. In the meantime, it is worthwhile to mention that I've spent a lot of time thinking about the sport of wrestling and the physical mechanics of wrestling's moves, and I think that process actually helps my writing. Not because I'm writing about wrestling, but because I am using a part of my brain that seems to help with words and language,, and my ability to create stories. 1:28 left. I'll leave you with this. I am working on the lyrics to one song in particular that a musician in the UK was able to put music to, and now we having a metal band singer in the US sing it. I find the entire process exciting. I love the music. I hope to love the vocals, as well.
Run through the sea of reeds, the fields in my dreams. Circle back to find me again. Let me know that you're here with me, while I find our way. Your hourglass moves much quicker than mine. The sands drift away too soon. Still, I see you as you used to be. Filled with exuberance and light. And when it's time to call it a day, my eyes are filled with tears and the falling sun. Together we walk through the fields together. Together we face the setting sun. In the distance, a colored bridge appears. Eventually I stop on its earthly side. You sit still and raise your head. And you make your way, to cross the rainbow. Without me. Yes, you cross the bridge without me. Slowly at first. Age and time fade away. Until you're running as you once did. Young and fun, and calling out to me all the way. I go on without you, though you remain in my heart. I go on without you, you'll always fill my heart.
Today I'm doing a remote author appearance with the students of Portsmouth School for their All Day Audible with Authors event. I'm proud to say it is the second time the school has invited me to speak with the students. Today I hope to emphasize exactly what I am doing right now: my daily ten-minute writing sessions. I initiated this exercise nearly two months ago and I can't be more pleased with the results. Getting in ten minutes of writing every day, as short as that may seem, is sometimes a challenge given the rigors of work, taking care of my dog Gracie (who goes with me to work), and the simple daily obstacles that are inevitable but real, like not feeling well, family issues, etc. And while ten minutes may seem short and the output not particulalry significant, the writing on the page (or, in my case, screen) does add up. In fact, in a good ten minute session I can get, perhaps, 200 words written down. Not a big deal? Well, over the course of a work week that adds up to 1,000 words. One thousand words can make for a very good short story. In my case, a few weeks ago, I did write a 1,000 word short story and am now working on a longer piece. Each day, I pick up where I left off the day before and just write until the stop watch on my iPhone goes off. Then I am done for the day. Often I will re-visit my writing at night either to polish what I have written earlier, or work on another piece. But the idea to keep in mind is that by doing my best to stay true to the ten-minute session I know I will have written at least that much each day, regardless of whether those pesky life issues get in the way later in the day. So, thank you Portsmouth School for having me again, and I hope each of you will take this exercise to heart.
He put his hand on her shoulder. Just for a moment. She didn't pull away. It seemed she almost didn't notice.
"So how was your day?"
"Work is work," She said.
"Yeah, I feel that way often."
"Glad the week is over," she said.
"They're all long, aren't they?"
"That's why I was looking forward to tonight. A free Friday night. A chance to put the week behind me. Have a few glasses of wine."
"And then your Prince Charming shows up," he said, with a wink. "Aren't you lucky."
"Your my Prince Charming?"
"Okay," she said. "I'll go along with that. And what would that make me?"
"So I'm going to turn into an ogre at some point?"
"The pretty Fiona."
"You're skating on thin ice," she said, then punctuated it with a frown, "Prince Charming."
He sat down on the stool. "Love your hair."
She reacted not to his words, but to the sincerity in his eyes.
"I always liked a a hint of red."
"Just put it in yesterday."
She reached out and held the knot of his tie in her hands. Gently, she pulled it just tight enough, then gave it a second look. "There, straight."
He smoothed the tie down his light blue button down shirt. "Why, thank you, ma'am."
"Out of habit," she said.
He smiled. "Hungry?" he asked.
"Not at the moment," she said. "I'm enjoying this wine though."
"Never really liked wine."
"Frat boys usually don't."
"Frat boys grow up," he said. "But I'm not sure wine makes you grown up anyway."
"I grew up quickly anyway," he said. "My wife made sure of that."
"Sure," he said. "That and a few kids."
"Growing up..." she said almost as a mutter.
"Didn't mind, though."
"It was all worth it."
"That's nice to hear," she said. "It'd be nice to not be grown up for a day or so."
"Better be more than a day."
"A day would just be a taste. A taste of how good it might seem. You need like a week or two. By the end it would be boring and get very old. Then you'd appreciate being old-- older."
Alfred C. Martino
Updates from everyday life as seen by me