“can you guffaw?” he asks
  quite seriously. “i mean really,
  what the hell is a guffaw?”

a hearty, boisterous burst of
  laughter, i answer.

“thank you webster, but
  like, who guffaws anymore?”
  he continues, a beer in
  one hand, a pretzel in
  the other, trying to sound
  intelligent despite his
  slurred speech.

i would, were this discussion
  any more ridiculous…

jackass, i reply.

“does anyone even say
  guffaw anymore?”

The Alchemist, written by Brazilian author Paulo Coelho, is a very simple tale with a profound meaning.  The writing is clear and effective.  The novel is as effective as the reader will allow it to be.

The story is of Santiago, an Andalusian shepherd boy, who follows his heart.  It was written some time ago, though has remained as timeless as The Little Prince.

I’ve not yet delved very deeply into the novel, though am already enjoying it greatly.

Write about what comes to mind when you view an old map.

The front porch is the perfect place to watch life reinvent itself, as is always the case with each passing season.  Children run for their school buses, while parents wave (sometimes weep) from a distance.

Scout (my 8 year old German Shepherd gem) and I observe, this nurturing part of our lives long over.  Without a (human) female presence in our home, we’ve become silent in our emotions.  We’ve become complacent in this knowledge, both she and I… though something occasionally stirs.

That tear shed quietly by a young father, loading his little girl onto the bus for her first day of kindergarden.  These moments capture an old soul, and remind it of its humanity.

How long can one fall into this descent?

The wind blows and rain
beats down upon my leaves.
There was a time, in my youth,
that I would have been afraid.

I fear no more.

I grew, turning my leaves
toward the sun and welcoming
the birds to nest in my arms.
The wind rustled their feathers
and I laughed with joy.

The joy of youth.

The squirrels came and ran
up and down my body.
They would jump and chatter
as they played.  Their laughter
filled my ears and brought a
smile to my face.

My arms soon reached to
the clouds. The wind whispers
through my leaves.

John came over last evening and we spoke for some time on the front porch.  The old wooden chairs creaked for hours as we rocked slowly and finished a bottle of Chianti.  Scout (my old German Shepherd) lay quietly at my feet, occasionally looking up.  She may have been curious about our conversation, though not enough to say anything.

John and I have known each other since primary school.  Having grown up and lived only several blocks apart our entire lives has created a kind of history which one cannot escape.  We know each other about as well as is humanly possible.  In fact, there are aspects of ourselves which we have never even shared with our spouses… but that we are able to speak of candidly with each other.

on the wall,
  by their table,
  hangs a gaudy
  portrait of a large,
  pinkish woman
  whose upper lips
  seems far too
  pronounced.

this leads them into
  conversation…
  not of this less than
  attractive lady,
  so much as the
  art of portraiture.

one argues about style…
  ageless traditions…
  lighting and the likes.
the other,
  a flamboyant sort,
  speaks of the
  essence of the
  subject’s being…
  of spontenaity…
  and of the convenience
  of a snapshop
  (much to the horror of
  his friend).

make faces while you poop…
  every single time.
in the breath of that moment…
  in the tiled solitude of
  your warshroom…
  contort your face into
  childlike expressions of
  wonder and awe.
grimace loudly, without
  making a sound…
  till the splash hits
  your bum.

then laugh… perhaps giggle…
  and pray no one is
  waiting by the door.