thoughtfulmemories

OUT FROM THE
UNDERGROUND

I walked through the subway corridor
thinking the worst. Not once thinking
of any positive vibrations dealing with
loving friends, or the strength of great
memories which would lead me to the
glossy, urban environment of life, love
and personal achievement. Only the
stench of a an underground passage,
where the homeless kept shelter, and
the rats you didn’t see staring out
waiting for you to pass, so they could
dance joyously through the days
uneaten and dropped. I just wanted to
move on. Move on with life. Eradicate
the insolence of unpleasant
interactions not long ago. Tear away
the sensation of disappointment – no
Disappointments. Wondering where
my children were, and wishing I could
hear there little hearts beat as I hug
them. Seems like a long way to 8th
street – a long way from feeling the
solidity of the pavement, and the fresh
air of the city - My happy place.
As I walk, I think about those I have not
seen. My recovering sister, Jessie
Bell, My parents – oh I see them, but
do I see them enough. Is it too late? My
heart races – My pulse quickens, the
blood pumps…I think moot points.

I am close to losing someone whom is
truly dear to me, and I think of him
frequently and fondly. But I can’t help
but to think of that empty seat at the
Penns, how my kids idolized him, how
he adopted me as his own, wondering
just when I am going to get the
damned degree. Sitting around
listening to music, then regretting that
we never got to check any out. We
never made our planned visit to Ortleib’
s

I think about my Dad, whom I know
looks at me with disappointment these
days, but I see in his heart that he still
has hope. I see a man who worked
and work and never saw me run, but
he knew better than anyone that I had
the stuff. On the other hand, does he?

I walk the corridor and I think of the
fear I have of losing friends. The fear
that I may never eat appetizers at
restaurants I can’t afford to take you,
Missing games I can’ even think of
buying tickets to, missing a payment
or two – no not missing any payments
– support.
Missing the fight to link, the cultural
divide which has engulfed our people.
People who would rather settle than
seek enlightment. People who rather
think deal with the disposable, and the
basic, than to be adventurous,
eloquent, and arrogant, when it comes
to music, dance, and a break out party.
I need Jazz.

I get off the train. Camden is quieter
than I expected. The Police is
watching things and there are a
couple of cabbies sitting pretty. Along
with a couple of Cars waiting paying
customers – oh yes a few hacks. Yes,
I am thinking moot again. Thinking the
same thing over and over. That it can’t
be over, It’s much to soon, we have so
much to discuss. I want him to think of
me and be proud. Or am I just being
selfish. I stop to shed a tear as I sit
and wait.

She picks me up – and Camden’s still
the same. Fire blazing, youngboy shot
up – Ricans and coloreds pissed with
themselves and at each other. I find
out, it’s too late. He goes to bed, and I
sit disappointed. Once again, I neglect
to get to hang. I neglect to express my
plans for the future. My life path which
seems to be in perpetual do-over
repeatedly – over and over.

We stop in a Nice Little Bar. And I feel
blessed. I walk in – and I here “I’m
afraid the Masquerade is over!” And
so is love” – A favorite song of mine.
But not what I’m feeling. I am with a
loved one, and listening to what I love
so much - Jazz music. Cats I never
heard of playing beautifully, soulfully –
sometime out of melody – sometimes
grooving. With a dear friend whom I
know better than anyone and love
more than just about anyone in the
world. Dear friends. I think of them
often. That couple in Manhattan –
newly bound. The X. My brother whom
I give and live for. My God family whom
provides me with that third floor.
BlackLucy. Yes while that tenor blows
with power and sweetness, my
thoughts drive me to feel that there is
hope. That yes maybe I will crawl from
beneath the underground. From the
stench, that is hopelessness. This is
why I must return to Camden. This is
why I close my eyes during a stirring
solo. So I can think – so I can feel.
Therefore, I will not get to hang out
with my mentor, and father figure.

Maybe it is too late to wish for
reconnection. But isn’t it ironic, on a
night that I could not see Fred Pierce. I
end up hanging out, and listening to
some spectacular music, at a Nice
Little Bar – with his daughter. Thank
you so much. I love you. I love you all.

I walk home in epilogue. With new
resolve. New hope. I will try to make
his passing, my beginning. I am once
again hearing the music. And I’m
definitely going back to that nice lil bar.

Bruce Woods ©2005