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Wild Cat

My favorite living musicians list has seriously dwindled in the past year’s time. Someone grab Jack and put him behind some glass with snacks and airholes or something. Dolores O’Riordan, my favorite female singer passed away as reported earlier in the year. I found love and nostalgic memories poured out for her all over the internets except in a place or two where a small group of filthy fools dared besmirch her, talking trash on the day she died. Don’t like her music? Stay silent. A hard swift chomp of the tongue should do it. Then spit. Thankfully, I then read tributes from some of the guys I hung out with back in The Cranberries’ prime, and their expressed love and kindness for her left me feeling heaps better. She passed on Charo’s birthday, no less- someone please place Charo alongside Jack.

In reflection, I realize just how many of O’Riordan’s songs accompanied me through a time in life when I had great hope. Hope to accomplish key portions of the “someday” list, and to meet that one person to partner and begin with, or continue with, rather. I keep lamenting, drivel here, drivel there, this last year or so. Think I’m mourning for the loss of time, the waste of my heart. There’s always going to be this gigantic void where giving and receiving love could’ve happened, but didn’t.

I’ve wanted a quantity of one to choose me, one that believes “Deborah’s the only one for me, she alone is enough, nobody else.”

That doesn’t exist. I don’t know how to reconcile it.

I remember standing there that night at the Puyallup Fair, now Western Washington Fair, while attending an event being held on the grounds last year. I felt gleeful inside, being so close to the ride, it was all mine. But it was dark, the lights were off, and there was no music, no energy. I smiled to myself despite the lifelessness before me, and took the photo.


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