not Constantinople…

And away we go…

i’ll be a bit scarce in your comment boxes* over the next bit…

happy holidays. may you not strangle your loved ones, or strangers in shopping malls. may you enjoy the down time at the office, fucking off for pay. may you eat yourself into a sugar coma and gain no weight.

and may we avoid finding out the joys of a Turkish prison…

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*not a euphemism. probably. well… except for you. and you know who you are.

Singing

Everyone has a story.  Some are tragic, some are comic – most are some combination thereof.  As many stories as there are faces in a shopping mall, bodies in a bank queue, bellies up to a bar.

During my 10-day winter sojourn, i find myself among some delightful representatives of humanity.  First and foremost?  My hosts – inspirations to me on many levels.  Welcomed to their home, where i have been invited to partake of their hospitality, food, wine – and more importantly, friends.

Over a couple of bottles of Coors Light in a dive bar, buried in a valley in the heart of Mormon country, i spent some time with a woman that i’ve known for fifteen minutes, and simultaneously all of my life. 

She grew up in my neck of the woods, and we shared a frightening amount of common ground – despite being separated in age by a little more than a decade.  As we poked through beer and “Fry Sauce”, we talked about living life aggressively…

i mentioned my pending ‘motorcycle’ certification class, and she wandered through tales of her days with a bike.  And why she gave it up… And as the beer and conversation flowed freely, she mentioned a particularly harrowing journey across a large body of water on an open-grid bridge…

“Singing Bridge”. 

i haven’t heard this phrase for years, but with it came a flood of childhood memories.  Certain bridges were dubbed “singing” because the simple act of rolling an automobile across created audible vibrations – and the pitch could be varied via accelerator!

What sheer joy, when i was a little critter, to ride with the entire clan crammed into the Ford Falcon station wagon across a singing bridge!  Dad was masterful, playing the tones carefully, running scales, and certainly pissing off the guy behind him trying to get to the horse track before the windows closed…

A few more beers, and many laughs later, we called it a night.  It occurs to me that there can be artistry in the most mundane aspects of life.  Be it driving a car across a span of metal and cable, or taking the time to mine for the story of another human being…

Sing it, sister...