Sometimes a Story is Just a Story

For those of you who have followed this blog for a while, you know that I occasionally saunter down another path with it. There are road trips, art shows, general rants, more than many pontifications, movie reviews and perhaps some character studies. There is no one to censor me but my own self.

This time, I offer you a story. Obviously, certain passages bear more than a passing resemblance to Queenie’s usual ramblings, but let us agree that this is merely a piece of fiction, possibly inspired by true events, just like they say in those made for TV movies. Any similarities to persons, living or dead, is surely a coincidence. As they also say in movies and government: Deny, deny, deny.

I am in the midst – beginning or middle or somewhere – of writing a book, the title of which is already secured and copyrighted, called Life Is Not A Chick Movie. This may be one of the contributions. It’s unclear at this time what form it will take when it finishes itself. I have no great talent for writing fiction of which I am aware, so let us say I write from what I know. Still, I warn you against placing too much stock in Holy Truth here.

And please, loyal girlfriends who may happen to stumble across this, do not organize an intervention. I assure you, it is NOT necessary, no matter what you may read into it. It is, merely and simply, a story. Sometimes, a story is just a story, and there it should be left to stand on its own, and just be.

And so, for your reading pleasure…….



Letter to a Ghost

A Short Story

“Dear ……”

It would unnerve her to put his name on a piece of paper, even though it is cyberpaper, and he will never see it. Nonetheless, it gives energy to him in some addressed form as if he were still in her life. And he is not, except that occasionally he is, still there in some essence, for whatever essence is worth. But especially, lately, in her dreams, he has been present. She says she cannot possibly control her dreams, but wonders about that. She knows herself to be fairly powerful in her thoughts and also in her manifesting, and she even has a car to prove it. She questions how powerful she really is, and what is she manifesting these days, really?

She’s been pondering on all the conscious thoughts she’s been having about him, and if she is indeed manifesting him into her dreams, but then she gets word of him showing up in her familiar haunting grounds – her haunts, her dirt, her sky – having made them her own after no longer sharing them. Danged if she hasn’t manifested up a for-real sighting of him, and there had been dialogue. Hmm. Imagine that. What can this possibly mean, and does she just let it go and say, “Isn’t that Curious?” Or does she do what she is usually wont to do and question all of it into a flattened landscape of old and new dreams and memories. Ties to the high desert, again, and now him making noises about going out there, making ripples in her waters. She finds herself irritated by the thought of it – his glomming on to her dream, but without her, of course. The vast expanse of that land is not big enough for the two of them. Not now.

Maybe he would go out there and get lost like that that far gone guy they knew before he went gone, and that hard scrabble cowboy guy she recently met, but then she thinks the latter is one of the most found people she’s ever come across, perfectly placed in his enlightenment. Then there was the old writer artist cowboy they’d met a few years before he died, having chosen to marry himself to the dirt and the dust and The Way, when he could’ve chosen a softer life. The experience with him found her having to leave the immediate area in which he held court and walk for a while, in tears, around the jacal, because she knew she was in the presence of a holy man, Full Moon rising, and it had been overwhelming. Soul stirring things happen out there in the Magic Lands. Sometimes that happens to those who choose to get lost, and then find themselves, out there in the FarAway.

Though the source is reliable, she wonders why the particulars were related to her at all. Was it a gossip thing, because everyone tends to know everyone else’s business out there and that’s the way of it, or because it was something the teller felt she needed to know? Some people’s Need to Knows are really just Dressed Up Gossip, all gussied up like a mystery woman or lonesome cowboy that you really want to trust, but past history hasn’t exactly proved that to be the best course. After enough head slamming incidents, you feel you should finally know better. But then life wouldn’t really be the Chick Movie she’d somehow always hoped for. For the ingenue eventually turns into the character actress, her face lined with canyons of experience, and perhaps adjustments should be made. Reality should be considered. Reality – that again.

Perhaps she would keep this written reverie on the short side, and recount but the pertinent points of the moment – the dreams, she supposes, because they trump the real him, since she really has not encountered the real him for years now except by rumor or report. And her dreams were her personal, for real, unreal experience.

The latest dream was just this morning, which had rapidly followed the one from the night before, and more from weeks before, and now it’s getting a little ridiculous. The earlier one has already faded but she remembers it to be some sort of grand reconciliation, but she can hardly describe it at all now, and all would possibly be fiction if she continues with those filament threads of dreamtime memory.

But this morning’s – it still breathes. Only the last part remains, but it is the most important. They had been though some sort of folderol, nothing new, and the last scene had the two of them seated across from each other on some ranchlike benches, looking at each other, long. Other people were around, and she had no idea who they were now. But the final lines went as such:


She: I tried.

He: I tried, too.


That’s all she has left. The meanings of each utterance, almost clairvoyantly transferred, were really unknown. She can only vouch for what she thinks her thoughts were……in that, she thinks, or imagines, (but it sounds too much like a chick movie), that her words would have meant:

“I tried, but I just could not stop loving you.” Or the good parts that I believed to be you. And the good parts that we had, honestly. Or, and, did, and all of the old retrodden attempts….but long story short: “I tried to stop loving you, but I cannot.”


And his, who knows? But their history tells her that he would’ve meant, in some fashion:

“I tried, too, but I just can’t love you – because…..,” inserting any or the rest of the reasons it can’t happen, and never could. That was the reality she remembered.


Of course the Chick Movie Version is something entirely different:

“I tried, too…. But I don’t want to do it without you. I tried to do without you, I but I don’t want to.”


Notice the words are not: I tried to do without you, but I can’t. That is Soap Opera dialogue, disallowing choice and circumstance. That Can’t Live Without You stuff is what gets everyone in trouble. We certainly CAN do without our various others, and sometimes we just HAVE TO. People die. People break up. People get blown up in buildings. People act like loons. People disappoint us. It all happens, from one end of the spectrum to the other – how we manage to separate ourselves, and the entirety of the planet – purposefully, accidentally, weak-mindedly, stupidly, or horribly unplanned. It’s what they write all the songs and poems and books and movies about – the stories of ourselves – and there are lots of different selves out there. And so much of it is the Can’t Live Without You stuff, and it sells. And there you are.

A well scripted dialogue would be written by a very savvy author and raised above the soap opera bar. The difference in our actions is the applied considerations of the Want Tos and the Can’ts, and the choices we make, with some Have Tos thrown in. It’s all about Choices. And Heart and Mind, ofttimes dueling. And our journeys made while we get along our way, making those choices, and experiencing what happens next.


After her dream movie, she’d pondered what did he really think in that moment, without the saying of it. Both their thoughts were put out there, were floating in the air, waiting for the rest of the action to play out, when, wouldn’t you know it, the dogs woke her up or the cat had walked across her face. Whatever, it was over and she was awake, and the wordthoughts hung in the ethers, still, no way to be deciphered or delivered. Maybe there will be another dream. They seem to keep coming, unless, she guesses, she quits asking for them – if indeed that is what she is doing, and capable of creating. She feels she has to draw the line at any actual out and out personal manifestation, for unless there were to be a Bona Fide Chick Movie Ending, and therefore Beginning, it wouldn’t be worth the emotion of it all. Perhaps she can be content with the writing of an imaginary letter, rather than the living of it. Perhaps it is just a short story. Or a long one – that started as a letter to the ghost in her dreams, never to be sent. After all, she’s already written the songs, and the poems sit in stacks, hidden away, much like her memories.

So there it is. A story. If she doesn’t quit thinking about this, it will turn from an isolated story into a chapter. Maybe that’s good, too. Maybe she will finally write the book and do something with it and make a living. That’s a Chick Movie, too, but why not a doable one. She is powerful, isn’t she?

Big ideas are rumbling around in her brain, and she can serve them, or she can let all those Chick Movie Chances just drift away into dissolution in those ethers. Doesn’t sound like anything but a no brainer. And ah, back to the Head vs. Heart thing. Isn’t that always the way? Hasn’t it always just about been, and why they keep writing about it? And singing. And bringing tears to our eyes and hope to our hearts. Fairy Tales strike again, until you close the book and put it down, and get back to your life. The real one, the one you manifest and create.

She calls the story done, and moves on, trying not to think about the next dream, lest the ghost appear again. Perhaps she is to have the best of him only in her dreams, just like that old song.



7 Responses to “Sometimes a Story is Just a Story”

  1. Says:

    Wow Alexa, this is great and it makes you want to read more! Kathleen Marie

  2. The she you write about is very much a kindred spirit of mine. The ghosts are quite palpable especially in the wee hours.They can be felt, but not quite understood.

  3. Queenie, that was an awesome story. One, I believe, we all can relate to, contribute to, “there’s a ghost in every man’s house.” I have a ghost just like yours, unrequited and undeserving of the energy it takes to conjure him. Intervention, I don’t think so. Exorcism, possibly.

    • Thanks. Exorcism, yes. A fine possibility. He was with me again this morning, only he said, “You have to find another partner.” Maybe even he tires of the game.

  4. This is great Alexa! Your “story” speaks both to, and for, so many of us! I know the ghost well. Thank you! ❤

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