I forgot how to write.
Three or is it four days have passed. On a JBL speaker, my best friend Kristen and I sat listening to the podcast “The Teddy Bear Tapes.” The show’s creator, with his pork chop loin sense with words, painted picture after delicious picture of past moments, of larger-than-life moments, moments he sliced up into meaningful, single servings.
Whether he knows it or not, his prose lured me out of a slump. He called me up, like a waiting-to-be-deployed soldier, or a Roomba. I imagined what I’d say if I met him. I’d need to get my awe in check, obviously. Do I stuff it down into my lapel like one of those fancy cloth napkins? Is that how it’s done? If so, I’d stuff, stuff, stuff, and then do some sort of calming exercise. To not only start a conversation with a stranger, but with a stranger you admire, is awkward.
“Um, so I like you. I mean, your work. Yeah, it’s good.”
Now, that’s bland. Like a porridge-eating, gastric-pained patient. He’s not coming back for seconds. His work spoke to me more significantly than mush. More like a top-tier hamburger joint way. One of those smash burgers, double cheese. Deluxe style. Perhaps a decent secret sauce or the like on it, too?
Anyway, I’d need to be more specific, something to reflect back better why and hit home. His metaphors, like the greasy sliced something or other or ham-hock forearms, or nailing verse on the complicated facets of being human, or when he revealed integrity in an interview with a victim…
The sheer amount of being impressed soaked me up, making me one waterlogged sponge by the show’s end. Well, not end end. It appears there are still yet-to-be-released episodes on the horizon.
Anyway, like I said before, the teetering razor’s edge of non action is over. My ears danced with my mind. They swooned and swayed. Sashayed.
Thank you, Brad Evans.
Love, Jaclynn
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