theiciclegardenblogs

I'm a 1957 Chevy, you know!  I was born in 1942, meaning that, I was 15 years old, like you; the only difference is the cohort that spawned us.         "Today" appears every day:  we dance to different music. When I was fifteen, you could find me in one of those "titty-bars" on Tremont St. -downtown Boston- in the 'combat-zone' where the girls were as sweet as the trumpeter's cheeks just blowing on that Horn.           You came onto the scene in 1989 - the same year that I entered the "Icicle Garden." In 2004, you too were searching for something sweet. Well, the thing is this, like hindsight,  how is this catch-22 phase working out -something sweet?            As for me, the train never leaves the station, "The Icicle Garden." That is where they stamp your passport: Land of-the-felon, society's untouchable.

Hair, which is dead, coming from your head is glorified and held aloft to be aspired to.  There is real life all around you, and this - to you - is inconsequential.  How do I look? Looking into the mirror focusing my eyes; "image" focusing back on me.  A candle's light flowing through the mirror's many interpretations by the mirror's observer. Interpretation shifting as the candle's light fades back into the mirror's perimeter. The only light to be reflected in the mirror is the light from the candle.  The rest of the room is all sealed off from outside light.  You're in the death cave and you are raising the dead images from your past reflection of yourself. The image is appearing like a slide show on your computer's screen.  The reflection of my body's image flashes across the memory of my mind from old to young.