The Language We Share

Seems as though nearly every page I like has had something superb to offer of late… Ed’s back which is a very good thing, indeed. I have a selfish sense of ownership about him and his product. His manner of writing strikes a chord within and it feels as though it is a conversation, not a recitation – if that makes sense. He has been on the FaceBook but it was like an amuse bouche…tasty but insufficient.

I stumbled upon a Netflix offering – a documentary on Pancho Barnes and her Happy Bottom Riding Club…most of us are familiar with the brief snippets in The Right Stuff – but she had an amazing life. And a terribly unfair loss. She lived. Period.

I have seen nothing of the world though I know many who have and I live vicariously through them…

Which makes this bit by our mistress of all things snippy and bright so pointedly spot-on. It is hard to look in the mirror some days – never mind the closet – and see the hint of the face that brought so many low…I was amazing, even at 35. But the wheel turns and it is my turn to let the others don the finery and hold sparkling conversations. Still, I sometimes come across that old pair of shoes or silk skirt and think about how I strode across lives. (But I didn’t laugh half as much as I do now…)

Last night, this came to mind and it was so apt. Tired…

2 responses to “The Language We Share

  1. Ah. Believe it or not but I once tripped the light fantastic. I was totally happy to be able to shut the clubs down at 0'dark thirty with what ever was on my side then.

    A shallow, fleeting existence. Youth is wasted on the young.

    I am much more inclined now to be happy that I am able to shut a Cracker Barrel down.

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