My mother had a sevetny-three, three toned Ford Maverick. The colors were brown, tan and rust. Back then five dollars got me a quarter tank of gas and a little freedom. It was enough gas to get me to Saint Clair beach and to Saint Gregory's Church for choir practice. Faith unlimited is a travelling choir group and I was one of a few singers/guitar players. Practice always started with what we called a family circle. "My song is soft can you hear it" was a song we sang together before practice. There is a girl who caught my eye. Apparently she caught another guys eyes too. Me and this guy had something in common; we both wore same style of cap and we both set out sights on this one girl. She wore a hat too. In fact it seemed she always had a hat on, hiding her curly blonde hair. I found her strangely intriguing. We began to hang out. I'd meet her at church parking lot down the road from her house and even though I knew she was secretly seeing the guy who looked like...
It is early morning and like many early mornings, the reason why I can't sleep is that inspiration wants to speak. Softly tugging, until I start to stir and then finally to rise and walk over to my desk. I look out my office window, and the world is black at least that's the view. I wonder if Hemingway did the same. I have a picture of the view from his desk as a screen saver on my laptop. A view of Havana miles away. Two huge Prince palm trees frame the landscape, with miles of greenery eventually surrendering itself to the city beyond and below. I wonder if he could smell from the top of his oasis, the aroma of the salty sea, mixed with the ever-present stench of unrefined diesels. Did he, like me, stare out in the blackness hoping for light. Did the ink ever dry waiting for words. Like my fingers hovering just above the keys, wondering if the magic is going to happen. I am up before the sun and the birds this morning, so it seems. It will be a couple ho...