May 2019
Funny how foggy mornings stir you up.
Pancake batter lace memory.
Those thick ribbons, waves of thought.
Pleasant valley was somewhat a memorable kinda place, though. To me. My people. We laughed a whole lot. Drank. Whole lot. Smoked, a whole lot lot. Often late, late into the night. Rock n Roll. Look at me, ma! I’m a teenage Lou Reed. Man, we smoked a lot.
One by one we’d filter into the fireplace room, make our peace with the evenings debauchery and lapse carelessly into some thin form of rest.
I’d often be awake before the mice. Never could sleep well outside my home. Even the ******* dog would stare at me as I sauntered toward the toilet. Man, my hair was cool then. Even after sleeping on a floor, and it smelled like wood fire and eternity. Pull a King book off the shelf in the garage, *** a spirit from the half eaten pack on the kitchen counter and get in some porch time and wait for my people to wake up, one by one to come and greet me, to come and say “hey, crazy night dude. How long have you been awake?” That’s not verbatim, but it’s the best I can do to remember what they have said.
I’m awake now, this morning years later. Somehow I’m mostly still the same. No smoking. Pleasant valley a ghost upon my eyes. And my people I gathered with, well, they are mostly the same too. No smoking. Not as lean, married with children or **** near close. And I suppose that’s fine, and we are living our best lives, as slowly as we can. I just wonder if you guys are ever gonna see this, I just wonder if foggy spring mornings remind you of pleasant valley. I hope they always do. Amen.
Pancake batter lace memory.
Those thick ribbons, waves of thought.
Pleasant valley was somewhat a memorable kinda place, though. To me. My people. We laughed a whole lot. Drank. Whole lot. Smoked, a whole lot lot. Often late, late into the night. Rock n Roll. Look at me, ma! I’m a teenage Lou Reed. Man, we smoked a lot.
One by one we’d filter into the fireplace room, make our peace with the evenings debauchery and lapse carelessly into some thin form of rest.
I’d often be awake before the mice. Never could sleep well outside my home. Even the ******* dog would stare at me as I sauntered toward the toilet. Man, my hair was cool then. Even after sleeping on a floor, and it smelled like wood fire and eternity. Pull a King book off the shelf in the garage, *** a spirit from the half eaten pack on the kitchen counter and get in some porch time and wait for my people to wake up, one by one to come and greet me, to come and say “hey, crazy night dude. How long have you been awake?” That’s not verbatim, but it’s the best I can do to remember what they have said.
I’m awake now, this morning years later. Somehow I’m mostly still the same. No smoking. Pleasant valley a ghost upon my eyes. And my people I gathered with, well, they are mostly the same too. No smoking. Not as lean, married with children or **** near close. And I suppose that’s fine, and we are living our best lives, as slowly as we can. I just wonder if you guys are ever gonna see this, I just wonder if foggy spring mornings remind you of pleasant valley. I hope they always do. Amen.
