A Friendship in Image and Prose
The twenty-thousand-dollar Partnership
A homage to our memories together. A path, a journey, a colorful roll of film laid out before us. Each frame, a day, a year, a page in our relationship.
Some meetings were colorful and others barely monochrome. But all were shared together and have tinted our lives in unforgettable ways.
I am your friend and have been for most of your life. At least, since an age when we were able to converse on an equal level. Our intelligence, or more aptly, wisdom, has blossomed, on par.
I have learnt from you. And I like to think, you have learned from me
We write and draw together more days than not. Even musical notation in score, has composed our joint musings. Image, word and staff beautifully scribed on the parchment of our existence.
Most of your family, friends and acquaintances know of our bond. They call me your wingman, but I am no Iceman. If you were Maverick, then I would be Goose. A wallet of reassurance in a posterior pocket.
I am behind you in every way
But what is our pen-friendship worth? If as I hope, we remain together for a century. What figure can be placed on our partnership?
A diurnal quarter for scratching, a quarter from scribbling and a few pennies in tips … 55 cents by 365 days … woah, that’s 200 bucks annually, for mere image and prose!
A century union of wordsmiths
In groups of A to Z’s
20 M’s from 200 C’s
An alliance worth 20 G’s
But who am I? My place in this Universe is still undecided, for me anyway. Hell, most days I can’t decide on a personal pronoun, or it changes with my mood. I am still learning who I am, while you give me time and words to help me tone my masterpiece.
I am becoming a reflection of you. My soul is a smeared, misty mirror of yours. Like a window on a frosty night, an opaque curtain to a darker side, until touched and opened, through a moist vale. A vision through tears of life’s blood.
I am a wormhole into your very soul
If each instance has no fixed duration and our combined lifetimes are but a brief instant in the passing of eternity. What is to become of me when you are gone? Will my stained, dark soul be of value, or even of any use, to future artists and artisans?
Each part of me is a year or page in our mutual existence. I have a connection with the tree of life, as timber is in my blood. But while my ethereal limbs bear many leaves, none of them shed green.
Look at my countless lines and smile, but every crease paints a bigger picture. Each cell an echo of life’s toil. I am your confidant and confessor, a doorway into your secrets and dirty laundry. I have rejoiced in your life, in word and sketch, and listened silently, patiently, to your triumphs and losses.
As you grow in wisdom so too do I
Wiser with age and experience. But all things come at a cost, to our values, or imagined immortality. It may be a heavy price or a minor expense. As each aging wrinkle, is born from either worry or smiles.
Experience marks us, and while my skin, my exterior, is tanned, aged leather and no longer supple. It is still soft, though faded from black to gray. Alas, beauty of appearance has jaded over the years, but …
My spine is still intact and my integrity unquestioned
If a year of my life is another leaf, each one a liturgy to our limited time together. What has the Universe install for me, when I reach my allotted one hundred? My lifeblood may cease to beat and course through my inanimate cells, but what of my fragile, paper-thin soul?
You are my life!
I can only hope that I have imparted some wisdom to my tutor, as you have to me. Do I have worth to you? Is it a valued friendship?
Oh, why does this tale circle back on me, continually returning to self-assessment! Is it insecurity or an issue with self-confidence? If your name was Van Gogh or Hemingway, my association with you would place me beyond reach … defining me priceless!
Much more than the twenty-thousand dollars I hoped for in the past
Yes, my appearance has faded, and my skin is starting to show signs of wear. But I will always be your wingman, companion, soulmate, and a comforting keepsake in a posterior pocket.
I am not just a part of you. I am you!
A chronicle of life and passions. Much more than just a dream journal or a receptacle of love and obsession.
You are my owner, and I am a time capsule, disguised as a notebook.
Your Little Black Book.
And to you …
Our partnership together truly is a brief interlude in the passing of eternity
Time moves in one direction and life leads inexorably towards its climax
If our final destination is a major part of a century away
I will last the journey; will you?