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Sunday In The House

Sometimes I swear I’m Huge Laurie from House. A simple twist in the night can send pain shooting through my lower back, down my left leg…pain that shoots straight through to the Vicodin bottle in the medicine cabinet that hangs askew in the remodeled bathroom that will most likely never be completed…an opiated, Winchester Mystery bathroom…belonging to the poor trash grandchild of a cabinet maker from Poland…looks to be a fog shrouded Sunday in more ways than one.

In the house – I’ll curl up with a Sunday paper, coffee, and wait for the warmth of the poppy to creep into to the corners of the pain, two part call and response, to an as of yet unwritten ballad…how fitting that the front page cover story in today’s,  “All the news that’s fit to print” has a perfectly centered, color photo of a field of poppies. Coincidence? Power of suggestion? Excuse to stay in bed?…most certainly all of the above, but there is no denying the sweet, seductive, electric pulses that start at my 5th vertebrae, travel up the spinal chord, then on to the cerebral cortex centered, neuromatrix, that is related to the sense of touch:

the call – I’m in pain only because my brain says so.

the response – me bee-lining to the the medicine cabinet.

It’s Sunday all right…and I’m in the house. Its cold and  foggy…Summer can’t be far away.  Carnaval drifting up the Mission valley, percussive rhythm followed by Portuguese sing song phrases echoing irregularly from building to building, backyard to backyard, through open windows, at once close by then fading, only to rebound louder and even more demanding as another Carnaval float rounds the corner of 24th street, turns right,  and heads north up  Mission…dancing is good for back pain. Samba the cure for those unnatural twists in the middle of the night. Those simple twists that send a message straight to the neuromatrix that tells me I’m in pain.

Call, response…music, dance…fog is lifting, sun will have its way…and the parade goes on. With or without me the parade will go on. Sentimental slumber enhanced by the cosmic nature of a simple, bright red flower…thoughts of the history of this City I love…celebration of a bridge known the world over…sepia photos with curled edges of faces once familiar if not long gone…truth mixed with stories passed on through word of mouth, one ear at a time…generation to generation, a never ending game of telephone…fountain pen inscribed details on the back of chemically coated paper – magic…Stow Lake, Russian River, Boyes Hot Springs, Fetters Hot Springs, Auntie Millie’s house, my Dad, bronzed, fit and shirtless…Burma…

All this, a simple twist in the night…recollections, free associations, history in the making…making up of history, fact checks fail in the poppy haze of the gray…day.  Sometimes I swear I am somebody, somebody…sometimes, I swear.

In the house, and it’s Sunday.

Luv you all…



About My Personal Mess

Musician Songwriter

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