WE LOVE WHAT WE LOVE
We love what we love,
the blondes, the boy with biceps, the riffs,
Blue Hawaii, the lover you could never own;
we ride the tide of the unexpected in the span of a lifetime
grasping onto threads of a dream-determined
there is purpose and meaning in all that we do
closing ours eyes in prayer, wondering the
why of the how, the how of the why-reaching
for that which is beyond our reaching, and oft
knowing it’s only in the reaching where
the connection of feeling is found, accepting
we love what we love
even when the why of how
and the how of why is only there in the reaching.
Tomas Delray, a character in my first novel, penned this song. I’ve not yet heard it sung, but I can see him or Dwight Yoakam singing it. I’m certain Tomas wouldn’t mind if Dwight were to sing his or any of the songs Bobby Delray—his son—wrote. No, he wouldn’t mind.
The writer in me sees Dwight shimming across the stage at the House of Blues in Hollywood. The Levis he is sporting look as if they’ve been spray painted on is body. He’s wearing Tony Lamas or something custom, and his Stetson is positioned low enough on his head to reveal the glimmer in his eyes. He’s an artist who continues to enjoy his calling.
The crowd is ramped after three body shaking songs. He senses they are ready to catch a breath, take a sip from the room temperature cocktail they ordered before he walked onto the stage. Me, I am sitting at the bar slurping my not so wonderful glass of house white. I might be drinking castor oil for all I care. This is a big night and I am too damn excited to care about the wine’s rating. I am mesmerized at his ability to work his audience. He finishes the song to a thunder of applauds and shrieks.
“WE LOVE YOU DWIGHT.”
I see something flying through the air and land at his feet. It looks like a woman’s G-string. A smile spreads across his face. Yep, it was a pair of knickers. I wonder if the woman remembered to write her cell number with a purple Sharpie on the satin.
“Thank you all for coming out to the House of Blues. I’m going to slow it down for a bit. I’ve got something new for you tonight….” It’s a packed house but as he starts introducing the next song the roar subsides. The only audible noise heard between the tattered walls of the dimly lit bar are the simultaneous inhales from the expectant crowd. It’s one of Bobby’s songs.
The scene fades to black leaving me alone at my desk in my room. I swear I can hear Dwight singing for a few seconds after I float back into my body. The wine I am drinking is better than house white. Not that I care as I am quivering with delight. It’s not because he’s singing one of my character’s songs. (Mr. Yoakam hasn’t a clue I’m alive or that I’ve written a book). As wonderful as it would be if this riff were a reality my delight is something only the writer can understand.
Each time I randomly flip open my novel and read a page, sparks of energy shoot up and down my spine. My breath traps behind a rib for a few seconds and a voice inside of my head shouts you wrote that… and I am amazed once again. How I managed to get from the first line to the end, to me, is something short of fantastical. What started out as a folly or something whispered in dark bars to strangers…
I want to write a book
…became a reality. It took more than love to push me from writing the first line to typing THE END. It took a hell of a lot of reaching outside of myself. None of it made sense at the time and honestly, I doubt I will truly understand what was going inside of me when I finally decided to pen the story.
Reading Tomas’s words tonight brought it all home for me. Life, the one you’re living is yours to define, not once, but again and again. A person isn’t locked into one story. Better still, if you decides to redefine your life it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but you. There is a difference between having a dream and living it. Dreaming is the first step to something concrete.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been leaving my body to drift into the ethereal viaduct of my imagination to dream my dreams. Once the idea of writing a book was housed in this magical realm, but after pushing and dragging my own good self out of my comfort zone, I made it a reality.
Maybe hearing Dwight sing one of my character’s song is only a dream today, but who’s to say the others I have floating up there in the stratosphere won’t crash through the barrier and come barreling down to the earth’s surface.
When you’re staring up night sky wondering the why of why, struggling to define your purpose in the world, and thinking you haven’t got a chance, do your remember that it’s yours for the taking?
You only have to reach for it.