Mind, body, and spirit—it’s not just a slogan on a t-shirt or a phrase tossed around in self-help books. It’s a lived, gritty process. It doesn’t happen in a straight line. It doesn’t always feel peaceful. It asks to be practiced daily, especially in the moments when we’re coming apart.
When my wife was dying, I was unraveling. There was no calm breath, no quiet meditation that could hold me. The pain was too loud, too sharp. I couldn’t go to the dojo—I knew I might hurt someone. So I turned to the only thing left that didn’t require restraint: writing.
That’s where Memoirs of Madness was born—not from ambition, but necessity. I wrote because if I didn’t, I was going to explode. Writing became my release valve. My attempt to find balance in a world that no longer made sense. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t composed. But it was honest. It was survival.
Healing doesn’t always look like light. Sometimes it’s just sitting with the darkness long enough to stop being afraid of it. Writing gave me a place to do that. Not to escape pain, but to face it with something steady under my hands—a pen, a page, a place to speak freely.
People like to talk about acceptance, about “new normals,” especially when you’re going through something irreversible. I’ve been told I may never return to the person I was before. And maybe that’s true. But I also know it’s not the whole truth. I know there’s more to me than what’s been broken.
Throughout my life, I’ve encountered teachings I didn’t ask for. Moments of awe, loss, surrender, and grace. I didn’t always understand why they came, but something in me knew not to reject them. Writing became the way I made sense of them. The way I honored them.
It’s not therapy, exactly. It’s more like a mirror. Each word reflects something back at me—something raw, something I need to see. Writing doesn’t heal like medicine. It heals like movement. Like breath after being underwater too long.
Writers tell the truths we were taught to keep quiet. We witness the small miracles—flowers bending to the breeze, the call of a bird we can’t see, the still gaze of an animal watching us. We notice the laughter of children that vibrates with something pure and untouchable. We let it all into our bones. But writing is how we let it back out. How we stay connected—not digitally, but spiritually, viscerally.
Every sentence I write is a thread that connects me to the person I’ve always been beneath the layers of grief, anger, and expectation. Not the old self. Not the broken self. But the essential one. The one that endures.
I once asked: Who’s smarter—the adult or the infant? Predictably, everyone said the adult. When I pressed them, they said the child doesn’t know anything. But I disagreed. I said the infant. They laughed, of course. All but one. That one asked me, “Why?”
“Because the infant sees everything,” I said. “They feel everything. They haven’t learned to numb themselves yet. They haven’t picked up the habit of pretending. They are unfiltered truth.”
That’s what writing brings me back to. That clarity. That honesty. That wholeness before the world taught us to break ourselves into pieces.
Healing through writing isn’t a return to what was. It’s a return to what’s real. And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
Author’s Note:
I sat looking at the challenge image, thinking about the beauty of that moment frozen in time. I found myself wondering how to capture something like that in words. Lately, I’ve been studying Buddhism—not because I want to become a Buddhist, but because I’m wise enough to know that truth can’t be found with a closed mind.
Next thing I knew, this piece came through me.
It’s not all I have to say on the subject, but it’s a beginning.
“Do as I say, not as I do,” the classic parental phrase, never touched my mother’s lips. However, “Because I said so,” not only repeated — it seemed like it should be on a plaque above the door. I even used it with my children, and they used it with theirs. However, this isn’t the most important lesson she gave me. What she demonstrated my entire life is how to be steady, even in the most challenging situations life has to offer.
She raised me by herself, so every bump, scrape, and broken bone — she was steady. Honestly, I don’t know how she did it. I remember being on the verge of losing it with my own kids, and I had a wife to back me up. To do it all alone? I don’t have the words.
That steadiness she showed me has served me well throughout my entire life. No matter what, I stay steady. I might be pissed off while I’m doing it — that trait definitely comes from my father. He had two modes: super cool or absolute death. Nothing in between. He kept people guessing because you never knew how he’d react. People say I do that too. I always swore I’d never be anything like him… well, oops.
It’s said that in life you have two families: the one you’re born into and the one you choose. My mother gave me the tools to build both. Her steadiness became my anchor, and whether I was dealing with work, parenting, or just the everyday chaos of life, I leaned on what she taught me — stay calm, handle your business, don’t fall apart.
And yeah, maybe I inherited some of my dad’s unpredictability too. But thanks to her, the foundation underneath is solid. That balance — between calm and chaos, between knowing when to hold it together and when to let it fly — that’s something I’ve carried into every relationship I’ve built, chosen or otherwise.
My chosen family has shown up for me in ways I never could’ve imagined. I’m truly blessed to have them in my life. Like all my family, they’ve been incredibly patient with me. I can be a lot sometimes — I know that. But they hang in there.
The challenges in life never really stop coming. But when you’ve got people who stick with you, who steady you, who love you even when you’re not at your best — you can get through anything.
In life, we have two families: the one we’re born into and the one we choose. I’m grateful for both.
One of my nephews stopped to visit. We talked about philosophy, music, and a bunch of other things. Almost like he knew I needed to get out of my own head for a moment and be reminded of something that’s always been soothing—music. After he had left, I plugged in the headphones and got to work.
Prince’s music has left a mark on humanity. However, the music I enjoyed the most was songs seldom played on the radio—the tracks only discussed quietly among the fans who kept searching for the ones that touched them deepest.
For me, “Sometimes It Snows in April” is one of those songs.
It’s not built for the charts. No booming drums or flashy guitar solos. Just a delicate piano, soft guitar, and Prince’s voice—fragile, almost whispering. It’s stripped down in a way that makes you sit still. Makes you feel.
The song was part of the Parade album in 1986, which doubled as the soundtrack to Under the Cherry Moon. Prince played Christopher Tracy in the film—a charming romantic who dies too soon. The song is what comes after: mourning, confusion, and the quiet heartbreak of losing someone who wasn’t supposed to be gone yet.
And Prince didn’t try to clean it up. He kept the raw demo. You can hear creaking chairs and fingers sliding on strings. Those imperfections? They’re what make it real.
The lyrics hit like a conversation you didn’t want to have but needed: “Sometimes it snows in April / Sometimes I feel so bad, so bad.” Simple words, but when Prince sings them, they carry weight. It’s not performance—it’s confession.
Then came April 21, 2016. Prince passed away. Suddenly, a song about losing someone too soon became eerily personal. It was recorded in April. He died in April. And just like that, it sounded like he’d written his own farewell without knowing it.
And here’s the part that always gets me—I often wonder why we don’t truly appreciate an artist until after their transition. Why do we wait? Why do the tributes flood in only once they’re gone? It’s a question that’s never been answered—at least not a good one.
Maybe it’s human nature. Maybe we think there’ll always be time. Maybe we don’t realize what someone gave us until we can’t get more of it.
With Prince, we had a genius in real-time. But songs like “Sometimes It Snows in April” remind us that his deepest gifts weren’t always the loudest. They were the quiet truths tucked in between the hits—the kind you don’t hear until you’re really listening.
“Sometimes It Snows in April” isn’t just about death. It’s about love, memory, and the strange ache of time. It’s about the moments we don’t talk about much—but feel the deepest.
And that’s why it still hurts. In the best kind of way.
“Duty is what we carry in silence, long after the reasons stop making sense.”
They said, Be all you can be, and we believed them. But we didn’t know at what cost.
There is a line—not drawn, but implied. A hush between steps, a rule never spoken aloud but lived as law. It was my job to hold the line. To guard it. Uphold it. Even on the days I couldn’t see it. Even when I wasn’t sure it was ever really there.
We lied to everyone that mattered. Spoke in half-truths, offered polished answers to unspoken questions. And over time, the lies started to sound like loyalty. We even convinced ourselves. Still—we held the line. We sacrificed everything for it. Time. Peace. Parts of ourselves no apology will ever retrieve. But we believed our sacrifices had meaning. And maybe they did. Maybe meaning isn’t always clean.
There were things we couldn’t say—not because we didn’t want to, but because the job required silence. Duty demanded presence, not explanation. We chose service over clarity. Responsibility over release. That’s what no one tells you: sometimes loyalty means carrying the truth quietly so others don’t have to.
When the dust settled, we tried to find something to hold on to—something we could trust, something true, something pure. Not perfect. Just real. Something that wouldn’t dissolve when we stopped performing.
And yes—we sometimes lived in the dark. Operated in shadows. Did things we could never speak of. Things people will never know. But there was always a light. A flicker. A guide, buried deep, pulling us back. Even when we wandered, even when we hardened. Some of our paths were rockier than others, but still—there was hope. Always hope.
I traced the curve of the line out of habit, out of fear, out of love for something I couldn’t name anymore. The line is not a fence. It’s a suggestion, soft as a breath on glass, sharp as memory. You learn to shape yourself around it—to fold your hunger, to tailor your voice. To make small beautiful, and still wonder why it feels like vanishing.
Some days, it glows. Other days, it disappears, but you still feel it—in the pause before truth, in the way your shoulders remember how to shrink. Still, I held it. With both hands. Tired hands. Loyal hands.
And then one day, without rebellion, without even deciding, I stepped. Nothing broke. No thunder. No light. Just space. Quiet and wide. I waited for collapse. It didn’t come. The air was different here. Not sweeter, not easier—just honest. There was wind, and with it, direction.
I looked back. The line was still there, but fainter now, as if it never meant to stay. And I understood: it was never a barrier, only a shadow cast by belief. And belief, like shadow, can shift with the sun.
We did what we thought was right. We held the line, lived in the shadows, and told the stories people needed to hear. And through it all, we tried to provide hope—while quietly, desperately, trying to hold onto our own.
Remember when “unprecedented times” became everyone’s favorite phrase? A true statement for the memories of most of the world’s inhabitants, but it still got on my nerves. I held my breath, waiting for someone to throw in the word surreal and say something like, “It’s so surreal, these are unprecedented times.” I swear, I would’ve walked away screaming as someone gently muttered, “Poor fella, everyone’s so overwhelmed.”
So—real talk: How did you adapt to the chaos Covid-19 dropped into our lives? Did you start baking sourdough? Rethink your entire career? Form a codependent relationship with your couch? Go over your data plan because Netflix, RPGs, and Zoom somehow became a lifestyle? Grow a beard that now has its own personality? (How’s that going, by the way?) Man, that time produced some truly unfortunate facial hair. Mine looked like a depressed squirrel had taken up residence on my face for a solid month. Eventually, it evened out—but the trauma lingers.
For me, my home became my fortress of solitude—equal parts sanctuary, bunker, and blanket fort. I was lucky: my stepmother, who lived through WWII, told me to stock up on essentials before the lockdown. And I listened.
The provisions—dry goods, paper products, all the basics you don’t think about until they vanish—were stacked neatly and inventoried like I was prepping for the end times. All of it sat on those hideous, industrial metal shelves that belong in basements or crime scenes, not in the middle of a living room.
But they got the job done. Ugly, but reliable. Kind of like the year itself.
I still can’t believe I actually listened, but it made all the difference. It was like the world we knew vanished before our eyes. People became mean and rude for what seemed like no reason.
But looking back, I think it was fear. Everyone just wanted something—anything—they could control. A place that felt safe.
While the world panicked under a double pandemic—Covid, that beast right there in your face that you had no idea which way it would attack, and Hysteria, the silent rogue creeping in from the shadows—I stayed still, battling my own fears.
Even though I was stocked, prepared, trained—it only provided the illusion of calm. A false sense of control.
I knew it. But I leaned on it anyway.
Because sometimes pretending you’re okay is the only way to survive long enough to actually be okay.
But I’ve been here before—in a different kind of war.
In battle, I was surrounded by people who didn’t just know how to survive. We knew what it took to live—no matter how damn hard it got.
That kind of clarity doesn’t leave you. It changes how you move through silence, how you handle fear, how you hold yourself when no one else is watching.
And because of the kind of isolation that comes with PTSD, I didn’t mind being cut off from people. If anything, it gave me space to finally look at my life without distraction.
I realized medication couldn’t fix everything. I had to put in the work. I had to face the demons—even when it felt like I was the demon.
It’s wild, the stories we tell ourselves about what happened to us. Over time, they twist. They shape how we react, instead of letting us respond.
I saw people pretend they were fine—but you could see the cracks.
You offer to help, because you know that darkness. You’ve walked alone in it. And you don’t want anyone else to be there if they’re not ready.
But the rub?
Sometimes, ready or not, you have to walk it anyway.
We’ve made strides in breaking the stigma around mental health. But no one wants to admit they need help—because no one wants to feel different. Or maybe the better word is broken.
But here’s the truth:
It’s okay to be broken. Everyone is. Some more, some less—but broken just the same.
And so we cope. We sip something, cry in the car, buy stuff we don’t need, gamble what we shouldn’t, scroll endlessly, smile when it’s easier than explaining.
All of it—just trying to hold the pieces together.
The world is big. So vast. And we are connected in so many different ways.
So I have to ask—why do we live it so small?
Speak your truth. As Uncle Walt said: sound your barbaric yawp over the rooftops of the world.
You never know when your words will reach someone at just the right moment—when they need it most—to begin to heal.
When you’re five, everything feels big. The world, your dreams, your backpack.
But as you get older, you can’t always hold onto things without a little help.
That’s what happened when I found it— a flash of memory caught in an old photo, a school project that somehow survived. Battered, scarred, but solid. Like the dreams taped inside it.
I just wanted to fly. I couldn’t explain why, not then. I just did.
To see the world. The wonders from our primers, the postcard places that looked too perfect to be real.
Maybe I’d discover new lands, find cool toys, read comics in French. Were mummies scary? I needed to know.
Was riding a motorcycle as cool as it looked in the movies? Could I jump cars like Evel Knievel? Would I one day ride with a girl on the back, smiling like it was the best thing ever?
I knew I wasn’t old enough for that part. Maybe when I get big.
Would I be able to sing and dance? Be cool like Elvis? Tough like G.I. Joe? Stretch like Stretch Armstrong? Or maybe I’d just build the wild stuff I made with my Legos.
But mostly… Mostly, I wanted to make my mom proud.
And now— I did fly.
France, Italy, Spain, Japan—majestic in ways no book ever captured. There’s nothing like flying over treetops with the chopper doors open. Heart racing. Then pounding. Blood surging through my veins. I felt something I still can’t describe with words.
I never jumped cars, but I had that girl on the back. Her arms around me, her heartbeat against mine, that sharp little yelp when things got wild. Yeah, that was something.
I don’t sing, but boy, did I dance. And when I stopped… I got fat.
Some say I was tougher than G.I. Joe. And somehow, my influence stretched across the globe. But no one will ever know my name.
What I remember most— Mom’s smile as she talked about “the grands,” each one certain they were her favorite. Each one knowing they were loved.
When you’re young, you wander through life with a carefree attitude, convinced that nothing tragic will ever befall you. It’s not that you think you’re made of steel; it’s just that misfortune always seems to strike elsewhere, affecting other people. You know these people—your classmates who sit a few rows ahead in math, friends who share secrets during recess, rivals who challenge you in sports, and those vaguely familiar faces passing in the school hallway whose names always escape you. “Who is that?” You recognize them; they might live across the street or next door, but their names never stick. You catch wind of their troubles in hushed conversations over cafeteria trays or notice the signs—a bruise blooming under an eye or a sudden empty desk where someone used to sit. But you? You’re shielded by an invisible armor. Untouchable. Until one day, that armor cracks, and the reality that you’re just as vulnerable as everyone else comes crashing down.
As a guy growing up, you were conditioned to believe the worst thing you could be called was a wimp or a pussy. Those words stung like a slap to the face. But the worst of all was “pansy.” It technically meant the same thing, yet it carried a unique venom, like an elite-tier insult that could ignite a brawl. They were fighting words, as the old-timers would say. I often imagined a secret list of such words that, when uttered, left you with no choice but to unleash the rage pent up inside the beast within us all, a primal code of manhood handed down through the ages by our Neanderthal ancestors. The rationale behind it was nonexistent—nonsensical, absurd, or downright foolish didn’t even begin to cover it. I even went so far as to ask friends and acquaintances, hoping to uncover this mythical list’s existence, but they just gave me strange looks as if I was the odd one out. “Weirdo.” There’s another term I’m certain once ranked high on that clandestine list.
If there was one thing certain to amplify male foolishness, it was the presence of a girl. You might assume it would be the confident ones with a smooth stride and an easy grin. But you’d be mistaken. It was simply the presence of any female. Something about her steady, evaluating gaze seemed to flick a switch in our lizard brains. Suddenly, we were all posturing like peacocks, vying for attention as if auditioning for the role of “Alpha Male #2” in a poorly scripted high school drama.
“Cut…cut, cut, cut…” the director’s voice echoed through the set, slicing through our bravado. He rose from his worn director’s chair with an exasperated sigh, his footsteps heavy as he approached. He muttered incoherently, his brows furrowing in frustration. Turning abruptly, he addressed a bewildered production assistant who appeared as if they had stumbled onto the wrong set altogether. “It’s missing… I don’t know,” he said, rubbing his temple as if the motion might conjure clarity from the chaos in his mind. The PA shrugged, their confusion mirroring his own.
“More, you know? More,” he declared, fixing his gaze on you with an intensity that suggested the simple word held the universe’s mysteries. It might, who knows? Because at that moment, you felt the weight of impending humiliation hanging over you like a storm cloud, threatening to unleash if you failed to decipher this cryptic instruction. So you reset, ready to reenact the scene with exaggerated bravado and clumsy confidence. A muscular guy, his shirt straining against bulging biceps, lunged forward to take a swing at a smaller guy. The smaller one stood his ground, fists clenched and eyes steely—not because he had faith in his victory, but because maintaining dignity in defeat was preferable to being labeled a pansy. Who needs self-preservation when fragile masculinity whispers its deceitful promises of status and respect in your ear?
The worst beating I ever took wasn’t even for something I did. And that, frankly, was offensive. I was the kind of kid who had done plenty to earn a few ass-kickings, but this one? This was charity work.
Susan Randle—radiant in a way that made heads turn in every hallway—sat beside me in the darkened movie theater. During what she half-jokingly called our “date” (really just two people sharing a row while an action film played), she eyed me with a mischievous smirk and accused me of being gay simply because I hesitated when she leaned over, voice low and daring, to ask if I wanted to “do it.” The dim light flickering over her face caught the earnest sparkle in her eyes before she suddenly closed the distance and pressed her lips against mine. In that charged moment, the unwritten, yet unanimously understood rule against “unsanctioned sugar”—the secret code dictating who could kiss whom—reared its head. No one ever seemed to grant an exception, whether you were a girl or a guy. And here I was, trapped between the dreaded labels: on one end lay the desperate horndog willing to prove his manhood at every twist, and on the other, the discredited possibility of being gay. I wasn’t interested in becoming just another name on her ever-growing list or dealing with the fallout of shattering her carefully constructed illusion of desirability. When a boy disrupted that illusion, the consequences were swift and ruthless.
That catalog wasn’t a myth—it was as real as the whispered rankings that circulated among us. It wasn’t enough to simply admire the “right” girl; if you dared to look away or, heaven forbid, question the unspoken challenges, your name was scrawled in the ledger of sins. Failed to laugh at the jokes delivered with just the right touch of irony, dress in conforming denim and sneakers, or walk with that practiced swagger? Sure enough, it was marked on the list.
My reluctance to follow these unwritten rules quickly made me a target. Over the following weeks, a series of meticulously scheduled beatings forced me to confront the cruel reality of teenage hierarchies. After school, I would find myself cornered in the deserted back lot behind the gym, where a group of boys awaited with grim determination. They’d shout derogatory names—“fairy boy” and a particular favorite, “pirate,” a crude truncation of “butt pirate”—words spat out with the casual cruelty of a rehearsed routine. Each blow landed with precision, and amid the sting and shock, I discovered a perverse sort of order; they made sure I wasn’t crippled for good. I clutched my prized 96 mph fastball as if it were a lifeline and leaned into my natural left-handed stance, determined to keep my place on the team even if I was labeled a “fairy boy” behind closed doors.
By the time the school year drew to a close, the beatings ceased as if a final judgment had been passed in some bizarre, secret rite of passage. One by one, the bullies patted me on the back with a mixture of grudging admiration and hollow platitudes, congratulating me on having “taken it like a man.” It was as if surviving their collective assault were the final exam in a twisted curriculum of manhood. They’d shrug and say, “It wasn’t personal. It was just something that needed doing.” To them, such senseless violence was nothing short of an honorable tradition—a sacred duty executed without a shred of genuine empathy.
That summer, I found brief refuge away from the tyranny of high school corridors with my father in Northern California. He was a truck driver, his bronzed, weathered hands as familiar with the hum of diesel engines as he was with the hard lines of a life lived outdoors, where emotions were as heavy as the cargo he hauled. My parents’ origins were a collage of chance encounters: they’d originally met at a sultry George Benson concert in the Midwest, where the guitar licks sultry under a neon haze had paved the way for something unexpected. Within nine months of that chance meeting, I came into the picture—a living reminder of their brief yet potent infatuation. They had the wisdom to avoid the charade of forced domesticity; soon after, my mom returned east while my dad continued chasing horizons out west. Mysterious fragments of half-truths and secrets that always belong to a larger narrative are as American as elitism and Chevrolets and need no full explanation.
I used the prompts listed below in this bit of flash fiction
Immersing myself in the musical offerings of my fellow melody enthusiasts has been an absolute delight. Each shared track opened new doors, introducing me to artists I’d never encountered and fresh interpretations of beloved classics. The experience was a powerful reminder of music’s eternal nature and remarkable ability to mend the soul. As I pondered my contribution to this musical exchange, I drew blanks beyond the familiar territory of standards. Rather than force a conventional choice, I ventured into uncharted waters. Taking a bold step away from my usual selections, I dove deep into my carefully curated blues collection – a genre I rarely explore in these challenges. What I discovered there was nothing short of magical – a hidden treasure patiently waiting for its moment to shine. Like a dusty gem catching the light for the first time, this blues piece emerged from the depths of my collection, ready to share its brilliance.
Let me share with you this incredible musical journey that starts with “Work with Me, Annie,” a deliciously cheeky rhythm and blues gem that burst onto the scene in 1954. Hank Ballard and The Midnighters crafted this irresistible tune with its playful winks and nudges, wrapped in an infectious melody that just makes you want to move. The song’s magic lies in its teasing nature – never crossing the line but dancing right up to it with a mischievous grin.
But here’s where my musical adventure takes an exciting turn. While exploring the blues rabbit hole, I stumbled upon Snooky Pryor’s take on this classic from his 1999 album “Shake My Hand.” Oh, what a discovery! Pryor takes this already spicy number and adds his own special sauce – that soul-stirring harmonica of his weaves through the melody like a river of pure blues feeling. He doesn’t just cover the song; he reimagines it, breathing new life into those suggestive lyrics with his raw, authentic blues voice while his harmonica tells stories of its own.
It’s like finding a cherished vintage photograph that’s been lovingly restored and enhanced, keeping all its original charm while adding new layers of depth and character. Pryor’s version is a beautiful testament to how great music can evolve while staying true to its roots, creating something that feels both wonderfully familiar and excitingly fresh.
Lyrics:
Song by Hank Ballard
(guitar intro)
(Oooh!) Work with me, Annie (a-um, a-um, a-um, a-um) Work with me, Annie Ooo-wee! Work with me, Annie Work with me, Annie
Work with me, Ann-ie-e Let’s get it while the gettin’ is good
(So good, so good, so good, so good)
Annie, please don’t cheat (va-oom, va-oom, va-oom, va-oom) Give me all my meat (ooo!) Ooo-hoo-wee So good to me
Work with me Ann-ie-e Now, let’s get it while the gettin’ is good
(So good, so good, so good, so good)
A-ooo, my-ooo My-ooo-ooo-wee Annie, oh how you thrill me Make my head go round and round And all my love come dow-ow-own (Ooo!)
Work with me, Annie (a-um, a-um, a-um, a-um) Work with me, Annie Don’t be ‘shamed To work with me, Annie Call my name Work with me, Annie
A-work with me, Ann-ie-e Let’s get it while the gettin’ is good
(So good, so good, so good, so good)
So Good!
(guitar & instrumental)
Oh, our hot lips kissing (a-um, a-um, a-um, a-um) Girl, I’ll beg mercy Oh, hugging and more teasing Don’t want no freezing
A-work with me, Ann-ie-e Let’s get it while the gettin’ is good
(So good, so good, so good, so good)
Ooo-ooo Umm-mmm-mmm Ooo-ooo-ooo
FADES
Ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo.
While treasure hunting in my blues archive, something magical happened – you know how music just grabs you sometimes? There I was, ready to wrap things up, when the blues spirits themselves seemed to whisper, “Hold up now, we’ve got more stories to tell!” And just like that, this hypnotic groove reached out and caught me, channeling the spirit of the legendary John Lee Hooker himself. That unmistakable rhythm, that raw, pulsing energy – it was impossible to resist.
And I wasn’t the only one feeling it! There was Guppy, my faithful furry companion, already swaying to the beat. In a moment of pure joy, I reached for her paws, and we shared this impromptu dance party. Reality (and our respective ages) quickly reminded us to take a seat, but that groove? Oh, it wasn’t letting go! So there we were, two old souls – me in my trusty chair, Guppy on her favorite pillow – still caught up in the rhythm, still moving and grooving, still feeling that blues magic work its way through our bones.
You know those perfect little moments when music just takes over, and age becomes just a number? This was one of those precious times when the blues reached out and reminded us that you’re never too old to feel the rhythm, never too dignified to let loose and wiggle along with the beat. Guppy and I might not be spring chickens anymore, but in that moment, we were timeless dancers in our own little blues club.
Let me tell you about this absolute gem I uncovered – “Got to Have Money” by Luther “Guitar Junior” Johnson. Talk about finding the perfect blues treasure! This piece just oozes that authentic Chicago blues spirit, the kind that grabs you by the soul and doesn’t let go. Johnson doesn’t just play the blues; he lives and breathes it through every note, every guitar lick, every word that flows from his lips.
You know those songs that just tell it like it is? This is one of those honest-to-goodness truth-tellers. Johnson wraps his gritty, soulful voice around a story we all know too well – that endless dance with the almighty dollar. But it’s not just about the message; it’s how he delivers it. Those guitar riffs? Pure magic! They weave through the song like a conversation, sometimes whispering, sometimes crying out, but always speaking straight to the heart.
And that groove! Oh my goodness, that groove! It’s the kind that gets under your skin and makes your feet move whether you want them to or not. Johnson has this incredible way of taking something as universal as money troubles and turning it into this beautiful, moving piece of art that makes you feel less alone in your struggles. It’s like he’s sitting right there with you, nodding his head and saying, “Yeah, I’ve been there too, friend.”
This is exactly why I love diving into these blues archives – you never know when you’ll surface with a piece that speaks such raw truth while making your spirit dance at the same time.
Lyrics:
Yes, a little drive by upon the hill And this is where It begin to start Mama told Papa, said “Pack up son!” “We gonna leave this sow land again”
I was just a little bitty boy ′Bout the age of five Too much work Not enough money This what it’s all about
Got to have money Got to have some money, y′all Got to have money Got to have some money, y’all
Muddy Waters got money Lightnin’ Hopkins got it too Tyrone got money Want me some money too
Got to have money Can′t get along without it Got to have some money Can′t get along without it
I used to have you water 15 bottles For 15 cents a day Shame a boy my age Worked so hard everyday
But now I’m grown I′m on my own And this I want you to know If you want me to work for you, baby You got to give me big dough
‘Cause I got to have money Got to have money, y′all Can’t get along without it Got to have money, y′all
They say money is a sign for sympathy The root of all evil If this is what money really is Call the Doctor ’cause I got a fever
I got to have money Got to have money, y’all Can′t get along without it Got to have money, y′all
Got to have some money Got to have some money I got to have some money
Writer(s): John T Williams
Here is the link to the challenge. Thanks Jim for hosting I had blast with one.
“Fade In, Fade Out” by Nothing More is a deeply emotional and introspective song that explores the universal themes of time, legacy, and the cyclical nature of life. Released as part of their album “The Stories We Tell Ourselves” (2017), the song delves into the relationship between generations, specifically focusing on the bond between a parent and child. Through its poignant lyrics, “Fade In, Fade Out” reflects on the inevitable passage of time, the experience of watching one’s parents age, and the desire to make the most of the moments shared with loved ones.
The song begins with a perspective that captures the essence of watching one’s child grow up, imparting wisdom, and hoping they find their way in life without losing themselves. As it progresses, the narrative shifts to express the child’s perspective—acknowledging the sacrifices made by the parents, the realization of their mortality, and the deep wish to carry forward their legacy. With its haunting refrain, the chorus emphasizes the transient nature of life, urging listeners to cherish their time with loved ones before it’s too late.
Musically, “Fade In, Fade Out” is marked by its dynamic shifts, moving from softer, reflective verses to powerful, emotionally charged choruses, mirroring the emotional depth and complexity of the subject matter. The song is a testament to Nothing More’s ability to weave intricate narratives through their music, offering listeners not just a song, but a profound emotional experience that resonates with the universal human condition of love, loss, and the hope of legacy. To hear this song preformed live adds another layer to it.
LYRICS:
Just the other day I looked at my father It was the first time I saw he’d grown old Canyons through his skin and the rivers that made them Carve the stories I was told
He said “Son, I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out When the grip leaves my hand I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way Leave me in your wake Always push through the pain And don’t run away from change Never settle Make your mark Hold your head up Follow your heart Follow your heart”
Just the other day I stared at the ocean With every new wave another must go One day you’ll remember us laughing One day you’ll remember my passion One day you’ll have one of your own
And I say “Son, I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out When the grip leaves my hand I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way Leave me in your wake Always push through the pain And don’t run away from change Never settle Make your Mark Hold your head up Follow your heart Follow your heart, follow your heart, follow your heart”
We all get lost sometimes Trying to find what we’re looking for We all get lost sometimes Trying to find what we’re looking for I have watched you fade in You will watch me fade out When the grip leaves my hand I know you won’t let me down
Go and find your way Leave me in your wake Always push through the pain And don’t run away from change Never settle Make your Mark Hold your head up Follow your heart Follow your heart, follow your heart”
When the morning comes and takes me I promise I have taught you everything that you need In the night you’ll dream of so many things But find the ones that bring you life and you’ll find me
Thanks to Jim Adams for hosting and another excellent suggestion by Nancy, aka The Sicilian Storyteller
Slumber releases me as the glow of the serene sun caresses my face. Let us lay back for a while longer before we have to move. Gently, I stroke your hair, listening to the city’s awakening commotion Your head on my chest, your breathing lures me to the edge of slumber
I’m careful not to move, not to wake you
Your head falls to your favorite spot; the space between my chest and stomach as you pull the blanket tight. Your breathing shallows; Your sleep deepens I exhale this one of those moments you see in film.
Truth be told, it was never about going to some show. It was about seeing your gorgeous smile and feeling those arms wrapped around me. It’s been a long couple of weeks, and they feel so good. I want to scream in the anguish of missing them, missing you, but these lips will never utter a word.
In that moment, I will let my guard down and allow the warmth of you to soothe me.
In that moment, I forget about being cool and allow myself to enjoy the feeling of holding a beautiful woman in my arms. I will be cognizant of the fact that she is allowing herself to be held.
Forgive me for being mushy, but I thought we were past the greasy kid’s stuff, and we were somewhere in the middle of something. I’m not sure where something is, not this, seriously?
Perhaps, we should do what grown folks do?
Grown folks sit down and have a conversation about the things that matter to one another. Whether or not we want to hear what is being said. We sit there and allow each other to voice our concerns until all that remains are long looks and easy smiles.
Memoirs of Madness 