Somewhere South of 14th Avenue

It's questionable where it really started. I suppose it may have been in that vacant lot where the flowers of May came winding up through the green-green grass of new life. It was that one moment when I wanted to hear what Denise had to say. Or was it Anna? And the president was munching jellybeans. No, it was Denise, it had to have been.

It was a perfect day, high dry fluffy clouds, warm sun, the memory of winter gone, the dead heat of summer far away. Tall trees awaited leaves and everything else, the remainders of a long gone flower garden blooming in yellows and reds in no real order. In short, beautiful.

Denise? Beautiful too. But more than that, interesting, sexy, awaiting life here in this vacant lot with me, teenagers learning about love.

When I sit down to write, or as the case right now, standing, I feel like I'm in that beautiful vacant lot south of 14th and I'm with Denise.

But when I write, I so want it to be like that perfect day. However, it is anything but. It's the darkness of night, missiles falling, cold wars waging, and those dead trees are only a small part of it.

Yet, I write incredibly soft and slow stories. I write about the missed connections and miscommunications that I see so much in life and so much in the characters in my stories.

In many, many ways, I write the miscommunication that I experienced one day in a vacant lot somewhere south of 14th Ave. I love the very lost words. I love vacant lots.