May casts a quiet spell of desert sensibility.
Brief morning showers spawn feline revelry.
Lonely pomegranates hang ready to ripen.
Roses, hibiscus, and bougainvillea vie nearby.
Shiny lizards adorn loveseats and walkways.
Still waters wait for summer waves to come.
Reflecting and writing meld in my brain. They often occur — in a blur — before I touch my keyboard.
Yesterday, I witnessed a graduation celebration, one table over in an outdoor cafe in Tempe, Arizona.
Today, it has morphed and merged with a blurry family photo, a 1979 memory in Columbia, Missouri.
Graduation day is just the beginning, the departure leading to unknown learnings and destinations.
We can’t really know where we will land, who we will love, or what we will do, until we make our way.
It is less about what we do, more about how we do it and the contributions we make along our journey.
That’s what determines who we become, what we recount decades later miles from where we began.
I heard him tell the other one that this is his sixth anniversary of blogging … or something.
I don’t really know what “anniversary” or “blogging” means, but they seem nice enough.
I don’t really care about any of that, as long as they keep feeding me.
I heard him tell the other one–again–that he is going to blog … or something.
It must be important to him, even though he doesn’t know what to say.
Oh, well, I guess it’s time for me to leave now.
I don’t really know when I’ll be back, but I’ll be on my way.
Late April’s breezy interlude and May’s certain pre-heating oven conspire to scare and sweep them from one escaping path to another. As they scatter and vanish into familiar cumulus clouds, space and silence walk with those who remain and remember.
***
To enjoy more of my poetry, buy A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
9:10 a.m. yoga mantra:
“When in doubt,
exhale it out.”
Without our breath,
and our ability
to let go of the negativity
in the world,
we have nothing.
6:56 p.m. sunset capture:
“Inhale the magic,
exhale the tragic.”
Without our compass,
and our agility
to embrace the possibilities
on the horizon,
we have lost all hope.
To enjoy more of my poetry, buy A Path I Might Have Missed on Amazon.
Numbers–like true stories that capture a moment on a page–are meaningful.
They aren’t merely markers on the shore of life waiting to be washed away with the next high tide.
They measure our progress. They tell us how far we’ve gone; how much we’ve achieved; how many we’ve accumulated.
My dad loved numbers, especially twin digits. On his fifty-second birthday–December 4, 1965–he wrote a poem about their significance in his life as a twin.
I published Unity 66 and the Twin Digits in the context of my first book. It belongs there, embedded alongside and intertwined with the writings of my grandfather, mother, and me. In its purest form, From Fertile Ground is an immersion into our family’s writing DNA.
Despite Dad’s volatility, he could be an exuberant, charming man. He believed in celebrating life’s mundane and magnificent moments as they happened.
On the road of our family vacations in the late 1960s (from his position behind the wheel of our white, four-door, 1965 Chevy Biscayne sedan), he announced to my mother (in front) and my sister and I (in back) when the odometer of our car was about to reach a milestone.
“Hey kids … we’re about to reach 50,000 miles.”
That was our cue to sing with him like circus clowns dancing to a calliope from the backseat.
“Da da da da … da da da da … da da da, da da … da da … da da da!”
Earlier this week–on April 7, 2024, to be precise–I hit the five hundred books sold mark since February 2016 when I first became a published author.
(If you are one of those who have supported my creative writing pursuits, thank you! I’ll bet there are a five hundred more who’ve read my books free through libraries and Goodreads giveaways I’ve sponsored.)
How do I know? First, I keep track of all my book sales on a spreadsheet I update monthly. Second, my Amazon sales dashboard tells me that someone in the United States bought number 500, my book of poetry, that day.
Of course, these aren’t best-selling numbers. Not even close. I’d need to add a few more zeroes to play with the big leaguers. However, numbers–while important–aren’t necessarily equivalent to quality or creative impact. (If you’ve seen the movie American Fiction, you know what I mean.)
At any rate, for an independent writer operating with a paltry budget, my book sales numbers aren’t too shabby.
Somewhere, on the highway of life and in the universe of creative possibilities, I imagine my father smiling at me from the front seat through the rearview mirror with the wind buffeting his combed-back hair.
He’s gripping the wheel with his left hand, while waving an imaginary conductor’s wand with his right. He’s singing along with the crazy circus music from our 60s family vacations.
Like my husband Tom–last night sitting on the fold out couch in our cozy Arizona den–my father Walter–if he were still alive–would be telling me to keep writing about the things I enjoy.
Because writing, telling, and sharing serendipitous stories is what I was meant to do. No matter what the numbers say.
My title doesn’t quite have the ring, rhythm and dreamy sway of April in Paris (the 1932 song composed by Vernon Duke with lyrics by Yip Harburg).
But then the Sonoran Desert, which we in Scottsdale inhabit in the Valley of the Sun, is nothing like the iconic French city (or so I’ve heard).
Late March rains and chillier-than-normal temperatures have produced a green early April in central Arizona. Perhaps the greenest I can recall, since Tom and I moved here in 2017. We hope this is a trend and precursor to a cooler, wetter summer.
As snowbirds fly (or drive) east and north to return to their predominant nests, we full-time desert dwellers are left with more space to roam and the promise of new life that will sustain us.
Even in the desert, April colors and possibilities burst forth from cacti, succulents, and containers. But most notably from the earth where newly planted trees such as our Red Push Pistache–those we’ve only just begun to know–prepare to dip the tips of their leaves in ink and write their own stories.
My friend Randy–baritone section leader for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus–surprised me at rehearsal on Tuesday night. He handed me this descriptive name plate, which–four years ago in the depths of Covid–felt unlikely and unreachable.
As background, this unforeseen opportunity in my writing journey emerged in 2022, when I wrote lyrics for a few original songs for the Phoenix Gay Men’s Chorus (PHXGMC).
Shortly after, PHXGMC’s artistic director Marc asked if I would have an interest in crafting a libretto for Born to Be Brave, the June 2023 performance.
Quickly, that led to libretto #2–Thanks for the Memories: A Gay Christmas Carol–performed in December 2023. Remarkably, what began as a novelty developed into a creative trend.
Over the past few months, I’ve been “noodling” and “angsting” over libretto #3. Marc, Scott (our choreographer) and I met a few times this winter to select the music and brainstorm creative approaches for Encore, our June 22-23 concert at Tempe Center for the Arts.
Randy knows I’ve been working on this behind the scenes. But what he doesn’t know (until he reads this) is I finished drafting libretto #3 on the same day he smiled and handed me his gift.
A beautiful arrangement of A Million Dreams from The Greatest Showman will open the show. That’s ironic, because–in my wildest dreams–I never imagined seeing the word “librettist” attached to my identity.
Son, student, graduate, husband, father, writer, gay man, friend, consultant, author, tenor, teacher, mentor, citizen, democrat, neighbor, dreamer, idealist, survivor, poet … yes. But lyricist and librettist? No.
I think this is one of life’s lessons. That the person you ultimately become at 65 or beyond may not reveal itself at 20, 30, 40 or 50.
But if you hang around long enough, and allow yourself to explore outside your comfort zone, you might discover you are capable of creating something meaningful you never dreamed of.
In late March of 2015, we visited the Painted Desert in northeast Arizona.
Tom and I weren’t yet full-time residents of the Grand Canyon State. We were Illinoisans, traveling on I-40, passing through the desolation and grandeur of the American southwest.
Fortunately, when we saw the sign for the Painted Desert, we had the gumption to exit the highway and soak up the scenery.
I don’t know what I was thinking at the moment Tom snapped this photo. But I imagine the experience of gazing out over the majestic landscape of this geological gem inspired me to keep writing, keep exploring.
I was nearing the midpoint of constructing my first book, From Fertile Ground, trying to maintain my creative momentum and find an ending to my grief-induced story of three writers talking to each other across the generations.
A September 2015 trip to North Carolina would provide the inspiration I needed to cross the finish line.
In 2016–on another momentous late March day–my book went live. I remember the giddy feeling of amazement … holding it in my hands when it arrived in our mail in Arizona.
Somehow, buried in the fog of my mother’s passing, I had unearthed my story, discovered an avenue for my artistic passions, and found my voice.
Since that time, the first half of each year–with March as the centerpiece–has become a catalyst for my creativity. I have published all five of my books (and launched my website) spread across the months of January through May.
This year, March has presented me with a new opportunity, a new wrinkle … and a new voice. Let me explain.
Up until recently, my books have been available in paperback and Kindle formats, but not as audiobooks.
A few friends and family members have encouraged me to pursue this additional option, but the cost and the time required to “give voice” to even one of my books felt prohibitive.
However, recently I learned of a viable option through Amazon, whereby I could select a computer-generated “virtual voice” to tell one of my stories.
I was skeptical at first. The concept felt mechanical and scary. How could a computer-generated voice capture the emotion, description, and intent of my words?
But after doing some research and listening to various options, I found a voice that resonated with me.
It captures the essence of An Unobstructed View, the personal (but strangely universal) story of Tom’s and my circuitous journey–physical and metaphorical–to carve out a new life in the Sonoran Desert of Arizona.
Thanks to computer technology, readers (or I shall I say listeners?) can now feel the sense of possibilities and uncertainties we experienced in 2017–remembering the seminal moments of our past Illinois life while forging ahead (on the other side of trauma) to create a home in Scottsdale.
I hope you’ll listen. Allow yourself to be transported through the theater of the mind. It’s a unique experience–possibly more powerful, like tuning in to someone else’s serendipitous story–to hear the words I composed spoken by a “virtual voice.”
https://www.amazon.com/Unobstructed-View-Personal-Journey-Illinois/dp/B0CY941CS5?ref_=ast_author_dp
At any rate, I know many people prefer to consume their books that way through their devices, through their ear buds, as they navigate the trail of life.
Now, one of mine is out there for you–and all the world–to hear.
Don’t ask who I am, where I’ve been, or where I’m going. You wouldn’t believe me anyway. All you need to know is that I hide here once in a while.
There is no rhythm to my scheme. Sometimes I sleep under the awning or lurk in the shadows. Or you may think you hear me caterwaul in the night.
Yesterday, I waited for a handout like a circus carnie–under the eaves, then out near the roof’s edge–ready to pounce on an unsuspecting pigeon.
I’ll be gone tomorrow. I just stopped by to remind you that we critters and survivors–often invisible as you go about your day–confound explanation.
Mark Johnson Stories 