tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79798741184205949682024-02-07T11:51:17.930-08:00theplacethatilovetheplaceilovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14208271290680614177noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979874118420594968.post-7550786582682595972012-08-18T14:40:00.000-07:002012-08-18T14:40:48.478-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">If only I could climb into your eyelash
hammock, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">curl my back against the outside world & </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">run my fingers through
the ripples in your daydreams...</span></div>
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theplaceilovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14208271290680614177noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7979874118420594968.post-10725790725817043182012-07-03T06:39:00.000-07:002014-04-07T06:25:20.746-07:00<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="font-size: small;">Mark Sandman. </span><span style="font-size: small;">Cambridge, Mass</span><span style="font-size: small;">.</span></i></b></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #741b47; font-size: large;">A mystery belted in a trench coat</span><span style="color: #741b47;"> </span>(even though no rain was forecast), looking perpetually 1/4-asleep and perennially handsome, he tossed his pack of cigarettes (*slap*) on the well-worn spot on the bar top, cigarette lit, resting in his long, smooth fingers. He turned, nodding hello, & tilted his head up & to side, softly half-smiling like he did. The sultry beat of his 2-string slide bass & soothing seduction of a baritone sax, childhood tragedies, and international streetlamps of unusual alleyways, reclined in the corners of his lips, with tales yet to be told. Exhaling day-old stale perfume, his stories expired with his breath as he evaporated with the smoke & floated away, on his last ferry ride to a different sort of shore & a different sort of day. x</span><span style="background-color: #3d85c6; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: black;">I saw him at Bread & Circus a couple days before he left
for that Eu</span>ropean tour. After I'd checked out , making my way out the door, I
glanced down an aisle. He was in that same trench coat on a late June day, his
fluid frame, like existential ripples edging across Walden, gently bent
contemplating nut options on the shelving. In a rush to get somewhere (occupied
in my mind, from what I recall, with boyfriend troubles. stupid child.), I
didn't cross the floor to say hello; but I did hesitate, foot mid-air. in that
suspended moment, I had an inexplicable overwhelming urge to tell him what his
music & writing meant to me. To share the love that resounded in the soul of my cells. Not that he didn't already know, mind... but why did I feel so
powerfully to give it a voice and on <i style="color: #990000;"><b>that </b></i>particular day? I didn't go back.
& for whatever reason I was kicking myself the rest of the day, and subsequent
days, that I hadn't. My sister told me I could tell him when he came home. But
it was like on some level I knew...</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">that that aisle in the grocery would be the
last time I laid eyes on him. And 5 days later was the last time <span style="background-color: black;">anyone else
would.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background-color: black;"> </span></span><span style="color: #e06666;">"...I hope you're waiting for me across your carpet of stars..."</span></div>
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theplaceilovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14208271290680614177noreply@blogger.com0