Peter Bradley Adams lyrics

A Story In Song (Part 10—Peter Bradley Adams)

 

I have a story in my book Pieces Like Pottery—”The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery”—in which I experimented with a number of different literary devices. More and more readers have begun to notice one of the devices more regularly. 

In addition to breaking the story up into ten sections, each of which follows one of the themes from the fifth sorrowful mystery, each section in the story also has a song that is paired with it. Yes, you read that right. I paired a song with each section. Like a fine wine paired with a good meal, the song’s lyrics are intended not only to add another layer of meaning to the words, but can also be listened along with that section of the story.

While more and more readers have been picking up on this, it’s certainly not an easy task for the casual reader, especially not one reading the print version of the book. I’ve promised to do this for quite awhile, so here you go. In ten parts, here is “The Gravesite: The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery” paired with each song. Enjoy!

(For those of you that might be interested in how this section ties into the fifth sorrowful mystery, the fifth sorrowful mystery is The Crucifixion and the “spiritual fruit” is the Pardoning of Injuries. Part 10 reflects Jesus’ words to one of the criminals hanging on the cross next to him, “This day you will be with Me in paradise.”)

 

If you missed Part 1 through Part 9, go back start from the beginning! Enjoy!

 

The Gravesite 

The Fifth Sorrowful Mystery

Part 10


 

Things went on like that for two months. Mike kept thinking Lisa would return. He would arrive home from work every day expecting to see her on the front porch, but she would never be there. He would turn on the television for company and with every creak of the wind outside or slam of a car door down the street, Mike’s ears would perk up in anticipation. Lisa would never arrive, but the alcohol would. He was numb, and the alcohol allowed him to actually feel; at least that’s what he convinced himself.

In actuality, he was too scared to feel anything anymore, so he ran to the bottle to hide. It was a safe and comfortable place. Lisa sat across town in a similar fashion, not running to alcohol, but she hid in a host of other things. She continued to “investigate” her son’s death. She made slideshow montages of her son’s life. She drowned in her sorrows and lost touch with most everyone near and dear to her. She fell into a cloistered routine that alienated her from everyone she ever knew. No one could understand her pain and her sadness, so she stewed alone amidst sepia photographs. In the end, both Mike and Lisa were grasping for lifelines wherever they could find them.

They would speak occasionally over the phone, but as the days wore on Lisa became more distant and Mike began to give up hope that they could return to any normal life together. They met up for coffee once. It was clear to Mike that Lisa was simply checking up on him to make sure he still cared about Chris, and it was clear to Lisa that Mike was just wondering when she would move on and they would get back together. The conversation stagnated quickly as they just spoke about the weather and the latest news.

Not long after that, Mike cut back on his drinking, slowly at first until eventually he cut booze out completely. His had been a two-month bender on the train tracks of a functioning alcoholic. Mike missed drowning his sorrows at first, but soon he felt better. He found solace in cold winter walks and cups of tea by the fireside. Moving on from his son was never something he’d wanted, but it was something he was callously forced to face. In reality, he didn’t move on, he simply kept moving. He found he would sink into a desolate despair if he stopped, or he would lean heavily on alcohol, so he just kept moving. It wasn’t so much that he moved on from his son, as it was that he was just forced to continue. He was forced to face a similar reality in his marriage.

It was only a few days after cutting his drinking that he found Chris’ latest blog. Mike had stopped checking back to the blog on a daily basis. He found this one had been posted for three days already.

“If my savior comes, will you let him know I’ve gone away for to save my soul.”

December 15th

I watched a young woman the other day who was completely distraught over her lost keys. She was riffling through her purse and frantically checking her pockets. As I sat at a café across the street, I could hear her mumbling things to herself not so quietly. How can you be so stupid? What the hell is wrong with you? You ALWAYS do this? You’re going to be late; serves you right. I smirked as I watched her because I could see what she couldn’t.

The keys, the ones for which she had been frantically searching, were sitting right in front of her just on the other side of the curb. I quickly realized that as she was overwrought on the sidewalk, she was unable to see the keys, which were gently hidden wedged up against the curb. I walked across the street and handed her the keys.

Maybe this is how we all live our lives. Maybe what we need is right in front of us, if we’ll only take a moment to actually look. Like Peter Leavitt’s Rule of 48, maybe it’s not just scientists that are blind; maybe we’re all blind. What if the happiness we’ve always wanted, our own personal heaven in this cruel world, is actually all around us? What if our bliss, our utopia as a society, is in fact right here in front of us, pent up in the subtleties of life? Maybe we just have to peek over the edge of that curb.

Mike sat momentarily before grabbing his jacket and winter hat. He waded out into the cold winter air. He could see his breath before him. The night was peaceful with the thinnest layer of snow blanketing the earth. Soon the snow would accumulate into larger snow banks, and the cold nights would drag on well into the new year, but for now, on this night, there was only a thin cover of fresh snow.

Mike wandered the streets longer than normal for how cold it was. He found the temperature stimulating. It acted as a cardiac shock to remind him that despite the pain, he was still alive; he could still feel through the fog of sorrow. There wasn’t another soul out that night as Mike wandered the neighborhoods. The stillness seemed to call him in deeper as he walked. It was over an hour before Mike found himself back at his front door staring at the massive oak tree in their front yard, exhausted, quiet, and alone.

 

Check back soon for the next section of the story.

 

The Longer I Run (Lyrics)

Peter Bradley Adams

When my blood runs warm with the warm red wine
I miss the life that I left behind
But when I hear the sound of the blackbirds cry
I know I left in the nick of time

Well this road I’m on’s gonna turn to sand
And leave me lost in a far off land
So let me ride the wind til I don’t look back
Forget the life that I almost had

If I wander til I die
May I know who’s hand I’m in
If my home I’ll never find
And let me live again

The longer I run
Then the less that I find
Sellin my soul for a nickel and dime
Breakin my heart to keep singing these rhymes
And losin again

The longer I run
Then the less that I find
Sellin my soul for a nickel and dime
Breakin my heart to keep singing these rhymes
And losin again

Tell my brother please not to look for me
I ain’t the man that I used to be
But if my savior comes could you let him know
I’ve gone away for to save my soul

If I wander til I die
May I know who’s hand I’m in
If my home I’ll never find
And let me live again

The longer I run
Then the less that I find
Sellin my soul for a nickel and dime
Breakin my heart to keep singing these rhymes
And losin again

The longer I run
Then the less that I find
Sellin my soul for a nickel and dime
Breakin my heart to keep singing these rhymes
And losin again

Losing again

The longer I run
I’m losing again
Losing again

 

Find more writing and publishing tips at Nothing Any Good.

 

 

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