123 henry street

This morning, I awoke from the wispy tendrils of a dream, in which I was trying to tell my life story.  Maybe write my life story.  Wait, no, maybe it was a song I was singing.  Ok, I don't know, it all slipped away pretty quickly, but I held onto the idea of how I might manage to get this writing exercise here up to speed.  I could simply start with telling my story, maybe.  I'll probably ramble a bit, but you know, something like that.

My parents settled in Syracuse, NY, when I was a toddler.  Aside from a hazy image of sitting outside watching leaves dance in the wind, I don't remember anything before Syracuse.  I only remember that much, because the way I'd phrased the observation seemed to get my father all excited.  That was possibly the proudest he's ever been of me, so maybe its not surprising that I've spent so much of my life trying to get the hang of making language more interesting.

Ironically, I kinda hate it though.  English, anyhow.  It never seems to really cover what I'm trying to say.  No matter how well I try to articulate, I can't seem to get past the feeling that, for the most part, I might as well be making hand gestures for chimps.  Making them more elaborate doesn't exactly help.  Not that I'm any less of a chimp, myself.  but nevermind that, for now.

I keep trying though.  I might not be able to express much of what I really want to express, but if I could just manage to be entertaining anyhow, that would be something, right?