69. an apology

Hey all,

Gosh, based on MySpace's blog counter, people are visiting this blog all the time. I feel bad since I haven't been posting much of anything lately. A lot of that has to do with being busy with my Band's recording (and fixing broken recording gear *argh*).

Stay tuned because there's a lot of stuff brewing in the brain stew.

"Come on, Randall, throw us a bone or something."

Okay, I've got 15mins left in my lunch break. How about a speedy story...hmm...okay, here's a line that I've been thinking about using for a while, let's see where it goes.

He's a tool and he knows it. Useful, handy for fixing things, but once the loosely fitting pieces are tied up he goes back up on the shelf, faithful and obedient as a Border Collie, patient as the red oaks of California, unseen as the white truffles of Italy.

He is a tool but what he wants to be is a piece or, in the best of all worlds, a part. To be a piece of her life, peripheral perhaps, but still near and by her side. But best of all to be a part, integral, integrated, and in her arms intwined.

But he's just a tool. And so he sits upon the shelf, waiting for her call, ready to spring up at a moment's notice, dropping every task at hand, serving her every mundane need, dutifully making himself unobtrusive when the job is done.

What can he do? He's in awe of her, in love with her, and he'll make himself useful with no hope of recompense so long as she has a need. On the shelf, off the clock, waiting, praying, loathing his place in line, hoping beyond reason that the next time she calls upon him that she will see beyond his utility and take him with her. Off the shelf, out of the garage, into the wide, rapturous world.