WRITER’S NOTE: Stories don’t just happen. Some are inspired. Some are just there, in the “dusty attic” of our memories. This is one I’d almost forgotten. And if this be my last story, I want it to be my best. (Kenneth).
Mankind is made up of master liars. We all have that easy-to-reach talent of telling an easy lie, to ourselves, for years, rather than face “those” hidden-truths, our loves and likes, that we know if shared, would send most of us into an early exile by those sadly, narrow-minded people who surround us, but seldom try to understand us.
What a staggering mystery. Being ridiculed, even labeled a deviant, for just telling our secret “loves,” and “dislikes.”
But I can see why people lie so fluidly to themselves. This is not a mystery. It’s easy. Much easier than simply confessing whatever qualities, memories, likes and loves that tell people “what we are all about.”
And if it’s one shining thing that I’ve learned in life, it’s that we can only lie to ourselves for so long. Then one day, our “emotional dam’s” burst and out come those dusty, sometimes-misunderstood lists of things that we love, like, hate and tolerate.
Then we have to deal with the hurt, depression and shame that surfaces from us keeping “ourselves” hidden from others.
I am no different than you. Except in one area. I have only “one” list.
And this is it, if you can believe it, my “only” list of “secret, and oh, so controversial loves,” that I have had with me since my teenage years.
With life being so unsure, I wanted to share this with you, my genuine friends, so when I face the after life, I won’t be tormented with something I was to finish, but didn’t.
This, my friends, simply put, is a “List of Things I Love . . .”
I love . . .to just sit still, silently, and listen to a pair of women’s high heels walking on concrete. I am here to tell you that this is, to me, a beautiful song that somehow has become overlooked in “the great scheme of things.” The sound of high heels on concrete is a sound, a rhythm that cannot be copied, but oh how poetic and lyrical it is to be blessed with a sense of hearing and be able to just hear those sweet sounds that mostly go unheard by the busy, self-absorbed masses.
I love . . .reading fictional-stories about girls named, “Barb.” And if the story is about a girl named, “Barb,” who works in a smoky bar in some isolated part of the “seedy” side of town, that’s even better. To me, there is just something about girls named, “Barb,” which is short for Barbara. I realized this when I met Barbara Abercrombie, (her real name), in 1967, my first year in junior high. From 1967 through 1969, I was severely-smitten with Barbara for she was “the” girl that all of the guys wanted, but she preferred older guys for her dates. And this is when we were in the ninth-grade. She had “that” look. Icy-blue eyes, short blond hair and a body that was fit “to kill for.” Barbara was not a loud person. In fact, she could scarcely be heard in class, or in the hallways of our high school. She her attributes speak for her. From the first moment I met Barbara until now, I’ve often felt huge waves of remorse for not telling her just how prettty she really was and just how much I appreciated those times that she only smiled at me.
I love . . .a fresh, hot cup of black coffee, by myself, on a crisp fall morning between 5:30 and 7 a.m. just when the morning is being born. When I take my first sip of this wonderful nectar, my life and its many insane events of the past, and sometimes present, make sense. Try it sometime.
I love . . .or would have loved, to sit and soak-in the “authentic,” blues guitarists in Greenville, Mississippi or Chicago when these blues legends were young. I wouldn’t have wanted to try and embarrass them or myself by “acting” like I knew what it was like to really suffer like these blues artists and their families because that would have been a direct-insult to them. Blues guitarists like “Howlin’ Wolf,” “Muddy Waters,” and “Blind” Arthur Blake. Those were “the” blues legends who “nailed the first piece of lumber” in the “house of blues,” which is not a house, but a true way of American life.
I love . . .old cars, trucks and bicycles. Don’t ask me why. I just have this unexplained “love” for these “memories with four wheels,” due to the fact that I wasn’t born early enough to own one. What would be “the” perfect dream for me? Owning a red ‘57 Chevy hard top, two-door, automatic with a 283 cubic inch engine and having Barbara Abercrombie along for a long summer night’s ride on any given Friday or Saturday night.
I love . . .starry nights. The masterpiece by the same name by Vincent van Gogh, and the utter magnificence of our universe when the stars are out. When I allow myself to be absorbed into a star-lit night, it reminds me of just how Mincopi “I” really am, and just how powerful and creative that God really is.
I love . . .taking time to listen to a lonely soul talk of their life and times they’ve had. Not that “I” am anymore the special for giving a lonesome soul a few passing minutes of my time, it’s just that each time I “actually” listen to a lonesome person, I snare some of their wisdom in their stories of “mountain top experiences,” and “deep, dark valleys” they have trodden. To me, there is no such thing as an accidental life. Each life, big, small, seen or unseen is vitally-important to a universe that we can only dream of from where we stand as humanity today.
I love . . .animals. Especially dogs and cats. I’ve never been stabbed in the heart, or back, by either. Or betrayed or lied to by any of the fine dogs or cats I’ve been honored to know as I’ve walked through my life. Many is the time I’ve prayed that my few human friends (I grew up with) were more like the dogs and cats that I knew then.
I love . . .to just gaze and appreciate a woman’s lips that has a bright red lipstick. Sure, I admit it. This does sound a bit perverted. Off-center, but I am being honest. I’d rather watch a woman’s red (lipstick) lips move as she gets seriously-involved in telling about a scary experience she has had in her day or just the way she holds her lips so attentive as I struggle to get out what few words that I mean for her to hear.
I love . . .a woman’s laugh. With such lilt and soft-toned pitches, a woman’s laugh can melt the coldest hearts and fortify the inadequate of minds with just a soft, silken laugh. Truly, when God, “the” Creator, was fashioning woman, He didn’t leave out anything. He installed all things special in “her.” It’s those of us who have discovered His secrets of workmanship, who are the most-content.
I love . . .a woman’s eyes. I mean, I simply cannot lie to “me” or you anymore. A woman’s eyes say a lot about what she is like inside. If she is generous, warm, kind or even arrogant. It doesn’t matter. Sometimes within minutes, an astute man can tell whether a woman is listening to him just by looking straight into her eyes. But this wonderful, blissful feeling of the heart also comes with a warning: Many a man’s heart has been broken simply by allowing himself to be hypnotized by a devious woman’s eyes. This can be summed up quite nicely with an old Israeli proverb, “beauty alone stands. But beauty with a hidden tongue leads to suffering.”
I love . . .amateur photographs and paintings of brides standing, or sitting in a meadow filled with various-colored flowers. And she is all alone. I suppose my love for metaphoric symbolism has, and continues to teach me that her open field can represent a lot of things, but one thing to her: the endless freedoms of a life she is surrendering to a man with two simple words, “I will.” And she will visit her “meadow” numerous times after she speaks this two-word covenant agreement.
I love . . .to just hold hands with my wife. Not having to talk and talk and say nothing of substance. But holding the person who agreed to become a part of me when she became my companion. Hands that touch. Hands that hold other hands sometimes speak stronger words than those penned in ink.
I love . . .”real” women. “Real” women are confident, sure of themselves and have no reason to hide behind traditions or heresies. She stands firm on her own two feet and attracts without working, the wounded souls, men, women, and children who have hungered for “the crumbs of a safe reality.”
Finally . . .
I love . . .getting to share my innermost thoughts with my cherished followers on HubPages. Do all of my hubs get responses? No. It’s those hubs that are brought from dusty memories that make me the happiest. Thank you.
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