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 |   All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views |
| Title is a bit of a misdirect. Forgive me if I know a thing or two about drawing attention. At least I'm not Tabloid? Thin-worn Producing news for a Public Radio affiliate I received three state broadcasting awards one year. However, the university-based station took them to display, but had the honor of great acknowledgment. The graphics department was a haven down the hall from newsroom, were stories were swapped with kind, like-minded people to pass the days. They surprised me, producing beautifully crafted replicas, gold lettered, better than the originals. I miss those guys. Guess what's more important to me? When I left town and embarked on journeys to finally wind up with a permanent home and family, the documents had been relegated to a nameless manila folder in one of several file cabinets in our basement. Brightly illuminated are remembrances of a life lived, those stories covered and those with whom paths were crossed in pursuits that embolden. Work on one of those awarded pieces was aired on National Public Radio with help of their producers. "The Sinking of the "Mesquite" was developed for a weekend morning program. Now, a blur, just a memory shoulder-cradling a phone, running sound through a production control board, taking notes and the pace it took to meet their deadline. A degraded cassette recording might exist somewhere. Yet, nothing compares to people who steadied me as I navigated life alone, between two eye surgeries, to eventual collection of a worthless piece of paper, called diploma, with my name misspelled. My last friend that kept in contact said I could have had it replaced. I prefer not, and keep memories alive of everything that perfectly sets life just the way it is. Every document, testaments that stack in the back of my mind, as good as anything, but not better than friends to shoulder you along that frosty path of life. I don't negate the good, even amid all the ice and snow in that 'small-market' university town, preferring to stare at a barren wall, fondly imagine a new creation. When I get bothered, I can react negatively and get cranky. Is that an artist? I recall passion and joy and how it has served me since a child filled with notions of idealism, even after it disappointed and failed me. Even faux copies of judged accomplishments cannot take the place of a thin-worn tape reeling and illuminating projections in my mind. And lacking evidence of true sight without proper correction, I know what to value. I think my kids and some family are going to be surprised when they do sift through the rubble of my life and those file cabinets. I told my wife, do what you want. But, hire a good editor. I'll never put it together. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Offered on first draft plus one edit with possibly no future edit or better title, one of my weaknesses. I've offered more of myself to a strange cyber world than those who accept and kindle an ever-glowing warmth. Metaphor change: Open up the tap, this is what pours out to be draught. My choice to ferment where I've sat in a hollow barrel, however many hours a day, ignorantly diminishing remaining vision. 7.21.24 when I wrote: even after it disappointed and failed me, I blurted 'there ya go'. This could be an eventual recording for YouTube, possibly linked on how and where I settle on topics should that time ever come. Let's fire up the archives and get ready for the past. I might have Wingered this. Let me lay down while I laugh at my own joke. I have pride inside the humble, should you skewer to see what emanates. Wow, still flowing. More? Nah. Thanks for the bulletin board material, BTW. |
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