No Time My Lord. No Time,
I ran across a girl from way back... back when I was young. Conversations led to her plying through my journal; her comments on it got *me* reading back, and appreciating LJ's new (to me) ability to keep going and going (rather than that crappy calendar after 40 entries).
20 more entries and 20 more still kept digging back into my past. I found myself somewhere years ago, mending after a breakup, gliding gently through life, flitting from endless shift to endless shift on an ambulance.
This younger Brad complained his writing style had escaped him, but every so often the words just clicked and the stories came from the page. I grinned at the back stories only hinted at to protect the innocent and not such. And I lamented my lack of writing in the present.
A Memory:
"No Time, My Lord. No Time." The words are from a prayer on a religious t-shirt from a guy in front of me in Language Arts class in the 7th grade. He has long dirty-blond locks of hair... at least long for this concervative school... almost to his neck! (gasp!) I zone out of the teachers drone and try to make out the words on his shirt as he agitates around his chair, also bored.
The poem is about never finding time to do good... never helping the needy, nor the lame... never being decent because life moves just too fast. The speaker dies and stands before heaven at his end, and God says, "I was going to write you name in the book... but I never found the time."
The words stick. Details stick as well... about the room, the boy, the laminar colors of the desk and the bland decor of this little chunk of time, stolen by school. I realize I'll remember all this for a very long time...
20 more entries and 20 more still kept digging back into my past. I found myself somewhere years ago, mending after a breakup, gliding gently through life, flitting from endless shift to endless shift on an ambulance.
This younger Brad complained his writing style had escaped him, but every so often the words just clicked and the stories came from the page. I grinned at the back stories only hinted at to protect the innocent and not such. And I lamented my lack of writing in the present.
A Memory:
"No Time, My Lord. No Time." The words are from a prayer on a religious t-shirt from a guy in front of me in Language Arts class in the 7th grade. He has long dirty-blond locks of hair... at least long for this concervative school... almost to his neck! (gasp!) I zone out of the teachers drone and try to make out the words on his shirt as he agitates around his chair, also bored.
The poem is about never finding time to do good... never helping the needy, nor the lame... never being decent because life moves just too fast. The speaker dies and stands before heaven at his end, and God says, "I was going to write you name in the book... but I never found the time."
The words stick. Details stick as well... about the room, the boy, the laminar colors of the desk and the bland decor of this little chunk of time, stolen by school. I realize I'll remember all this for a very long time...