until again

i sit beneath the rain again. it pages down, an unwritten book that so many have read since time forgotten.

on nights like this, it hollows crevices in my mind, and slowly fills them with melancholy, nostalgia, and stupidly even hope.

i am of that nature, possessed of the ability to dream, but not only to dream, to segment the dreams from the reformulated memories, the fears of what remains unknown, and the brief foreshadowing of insights i will later fail to recognize.

i don’t see everything, but what i do see, i see quite well.

which is not to say i always glean the right impression. especially when the rain comes, and then with it, the thunder and the lightning redefine every thought before i ever have a chance to set them down.

i breathe an air that is flavored with, colored by, comprised of this rain, and i remember all the things i wanted long ago, and none of them stand in my future. and no matter how deeply this rain saturates this moment and me, i come no closer to bringing them back to life.

and everyone else, having read these pages since time began, probably knows them for exactly what they are.

there was another reason for my wanting to hang out on the River Walk while the Spouse-Unit was down there. the vast majority of my adoptive mother’s watercolors is centered around the River Walk, and all of us used to accompany her to art shows and the like, many of which were hosted down on the River Walk as well. despite other issues, my return was a bit of homecoming in that regard, at least.

i said before that i shot the River Walk the most with the Lensbaby 3G because it does an effective job of how i probably actually saw things as a kid down there—focused upon whatever it was i was focused upon, and not much else. i saw a lot more on this trip than i shot, but i don’t think i saw enough.

(the double-entendres will be free today, by the way)

it took me the better part of fifteen years after i joined the Army to get full control over my creative expression again. i don’t blame anyone for that; it’s just the way things went, and my enlistment was entirely voluntary, albeit pressured. my adoptive mother always supported my musical endeavors, but never really encouraged any dabbling in the physical arts. in retrospect, i wish she had, but finding my own way into this was probably more appropriate in many regards.

if i could say anything to her, i would thank her for the artistic example, and even the inspiration, which she quietly and unobtrusively supplied. some of her old oil paintings are still in my head when i dream. and so very many of her works, as best as i can remember them, are what come to mind on those occasions when i slip and think of San Antonio as “home”.