Frank’s Log IV

48660024
Whisper on the dance floor. Shot on Kodak 400TX.

Alphabet soup. Tourniquet loop.
Flip-flopping summer troop with Albanian ethnic roots.

Did the word “diary” come from a mispronunciation of “diarrhea?”

The words don’t matter to illiterates, bro. They can’t read. Tell ’em on the mountain, or whatever.
If I were a spaceman, I’d be Spiff. I’d have lunch with Taylor Swift:
Finger sandwiches and big ass beers.

If I’m here now, how do I abstract?

from Latin ab-, ab “off, away from,”
from the Latin trahere, “to draw, pull.”

It doesn’t hurt. Not like pulling out a hair. Quite to the contrary. It feels like a bringing in. A recovery.
Welcome back, alphabet soup.

“I trust you with my life, but I don’t trust you with my soul.”

Annie pressed her lips together under sorrowfully arched eyebrows and turned cooly away. As I watched, I was stunned by the power of Annie’s simple statement, but I was essentially totally disgusted with how cooly she turned away. No one does anything cooly anymore. It’s old news, passé.

As Annie turned and strode away all passé-like, Derek could only look on in mild bewilderment, which really proved Annie’s point.

So I began to think about with whom I could trust my soul.
Not that I would give it to someone, as one gives a nice gift or cheery token, but when we use an expression like “share yourself,” there is certainly an element of literalness there. To share yourself is to bare your soul – to offer access to your essential self. Such information becomes an entity in your compadre’s mind. They now have you. You have given your soul.

If I were to name, categorically, a person with whom I could trust my soul, it would be someone that’s like… good.
You might say that’s unforgivably vague, but I’d say I cooly wrote a description.


What are your thoughts?