Imaginary
technology is strange. i feel like i'm talking to myself. which i'm perfectly comfortable doing in the comfort of my own home but not in front of all you people. i question why i'm posting. hmm. i'm not much of an extrovert, so this is a bit forced. perhaps I'll lurk some more. mayhaps i'll include a short story while my onlineness is new enough to attract reading. i'd enjoy feedback. I do so love the sound of a squealing guitar. here goes:
Bagley has a new love.
You can just make her out along the river not far from where he’s always sat on an empty plain, where he’s been known to gaze with longing in single direction. He’s had long time to long, warn and weather-beaten, the product of a dust bowl and the hard decades of a poor farmer. He’s got nothing left but to idle in the sun and feel the wrinkles set into scars and in the weather feel the skin sheering off by force of countless winters without anyone to give a damn with so much as a paint brush or kind word. Not that that goes far anyhow. He’s got a fallen shanty by the dull highway, the roar of the intermittent semi the only company, and that only a couple times a day. It’s a place only fit to sit and think about the past, a place without any foreseeable future, and as far as anyone in an 18 wheeler can tell from the highway, a place that’s got no one in it. But the place has a window and view from the roof, should you take the effort and risk a limb to clamber up there, and though the horizon's gone through the color wheel over the years and pretty much gone through all the possibilities of a sunrise and sunset at least there's one something to look at left. She’s nothing much to me, but then one man’s trash…
Her name's Dawson, lives down by the river. Sure, she’s got the fella’s name and looks pretty warn down, but Bagely can't complain about warn, and these days can't really expect much better. But those time-beaten scars across her face betray more than her age, more than the harsh life in this repetitive story we're all pretty familiar with around here. Through the supper hours, he does little but gaze at her turning golden in the fading sunlight. At night he'll still be seen lookin’, should you pass in your cab and catch him outside at such an hour. Sad to say there's only a single light illuminating her in the evening, and even that’s out about half the year long. Not a light on in a restaurant or kitchen. Half are all boarded up anyhow, and have been long as anyone can remember. But if you squint I guess you can make her out down there on the hill by the river. As long as he’s been watching her she’s probably burned onto his eyeballs. ‘Doesn’t need any light to see her, she’s always there, fading, into gold at times, but there, by the river.
All this talk of the winding Racoon and I don't know if Bagely's ever seen the banks. I’m sure he’s known a river of whiskey or two, probly an ocean given the bar’s long hours, but he hasn’t much moved around in his later years. It's a gorgeous hill her place is on. All winding roads and cow pasture coming on a wooly wooded strip I'm afraid to drive nights for all the deer. Not much difference between the two but for this nice little spot to watch a day or two roll by. Poor ol’ Bagley’s been spyin and sighin’ for years and he’s never even seen her good side.
I would guess they’ve both had their days, sowing wild oats and whatnot. But Bagely’s not thinking of some youthful fling with some philly down in Guthrie, sitting kissing at the fireworks with Panora on the fourth of July or warming a winters night with Linden. He’s looking through the snowflakes falling past the one barely lit beam out by the county road that shines out toward her. Watching the black of night turning white, freezing himself to death in a shack of a house by the road, still sitting up there, chattering, as the wind blows the truckers clear off the road. Me, I’d go for a long gone memory of hot cocoa and a warm fire with a sweet tasting kisser in Guthrie any day, but that’s me. Reheating a cold memory’s got no warmth for Bagley, who’s getting all his heat from that single lamp light down the road.
Yeah, Bagley’s got himself a new love. She’s been there for years, going unnoticed on top of that hill. It’s me she’s been looking out for up there. She’s moved down the tracks and its there she’s bound to stay, back turned to Bagley, whose still suffering the wind and a heart blowin out to Dawson. But her’s blew out a long time ago. Blizzards are pretty rough up where the days roll by.
later-cue
Bagley has a new love.
You can just make her out along the river not far from where he’s always sat on an empty plain, where he’s been known to gaze with longing in single direction. He’s had long time to long, warn and weather-beaten, the product of a dust bowl and the hard decades of a poor farmer. He’s got nothing left but to idle in the sun and feel the wrinkles set into scars and in the weather feel the skin sheering off by force of countless winters without anyone to give a damn with so much as a paint brush or kind word. Not that that goes far anyhow. He’s got a fallen shanty by the dull highway, the roar of the intermittent semi the only company, and that only a couple times a day. It’s a place only fit to sit and think about the past, a place without any foreseeable future, and as far as anyone in an 18 wheeler can tell from the highway, a place that’s got no one in it. But the place has a window and view from the roof, should you take the effort and risk a limb to clamber up there, and though the horizon's gone through the color wheel over the years and pretty much gone through all the possibilities of a sunrise and sunset at least there's one something to look at left. She’s nothing much to me, but then one man’s trash…
Her name's Dawson, lives down by the river. Sure, she’s got the fella’s name and looks pretty warn down, but Bagely can't complain about warn, and these days can't really expect much better. But those time-beaten scars across her face betray more than her age, more than the harsh life in this repetitive story we're all pretty familiar with around here. Through the supper hours, he does little but gaze at her turning golden in the fading sunlight. At night he'll still be seen lookin’, should you pass in your cab and catch him outside at such an hour. Sad to say there's only a single light illuminating her in the evening, and even that’s out about half the year long. Not a light on in a restaurant or kitchen. Half are all boarded up anyhow, and have been long as anyone can remember. But if you squint I guess you can make her out down there on the hill by the river. As long as he’s been watching her she’s probably burned onto his eyeballs. ‘Doesn’t need any light to see her, she’s always there, fading, into gold at times, but there, by the river.
All this talk of the winding Racoon and I don't know if Bagely's ever seen the banks. I’m sure he’s known a river of whiskey or two, probly an ocean given the bar’s long hours, but he hasn’t much moved around in his later years. It's a gorgeous hill her place is on. All winding roads and cow pasture coming on a wooly wooded strip I'm afraid to drive nights for all the deer. Not much difference between the two but for this nice little spot to watch a day or two roll by. Poor ol’ Bagley’s been spyin and sighin’ for years and he’s never even seen her good side.
I would guess they’ve both had their days, sowing wild oats and whatnot. But Bagely’s not thinking of some youthful fling with some philly down in Guthrie, sitting kissing at the fireworks with Panora on the fourth of July or warming a winters night with Linden. He’s looking through the snowflakes falling past the one barely lit beam out by the county road that shines out toward her. Watching the black of night turning white, freezing himself to death in a shack of a house by the road, still sitting up there, chattering, as the wind blows the truckers clear off the road. Me, I’d go for a long gone memory of hot cocoa and a warm fire with a sweet tasting kisser in Guthrie any day, but that’s me. Reheating a cold memory’s got no warmth for Bagley, who’s getting all his heat from that single lamp light down the road.
Yeah, Bagley’s got himself a new love. She’s been there for years, going unnoticed on top of that hill. It’s me she’s been looking out for up there. She’s moved down the tracks and its there she’s bound to stay, back turned to Bagley, whose still suffering the wind and a heart blowin out to Dawson. But her’s blew out a long time ago. Blizzards are pretty rough up where the days roll by.
later-cue