Stormy Cannon's Blog

Friday, June 4, 2010

He is cleaning my dirty wounds, so I can come back clean for you.

Little C (my kid brother) will become one of those impertinent, small nine year old boys next month and he is rising against the short seconds with a beguiled, beau-child upon his thin, dark arm. The two crazed cherubs telephone one another with the means of play dates and the acts of reciting their "I love yous,'" which seems like great normalcy to both. His mannerisms curve from closed-mouthed answers into the receiver to falling fooled over a man's youngest daughter. He knows no right nor wrong and is quite nonchalant over the matter.
"He reminds me of myself," is what I whispered into my mother's ear lobe, once Little C turned directions, his laugh lines growing tense as he narrowed his eyes towards my dainty voice. I chuckle,
"Did it make you sick - my acting as he does now?" I inquire of her mind. With her attention remaining else where, she simply says,
"No comment."

His non de plume was indeed Kristopher Alan Arnold and we were rather barely sucklings than ripe and of age. Albeit, we knew no better than Little C does now and thought our thoughts to be wiser than all folk round. Dark rooted filaments ran through his eye's frame, purposely tripping his own sense of perception, but nevertheless - he ever resembled beauty as it did so. A smile like the sun shown from his face, carrying millions of light rays to force a shock and awe with inside your heart's stomach. He wrote poetry, was an actor, and the single way his soprano left his throat to tickle and peck my ear drums was like breathing velvet.

And I am simply sick to my loins with jealousy.