I don't really know how to start telling this story. I'm not even sure if it should be told. There's an aching in me to do something, write something, get this out and not look back. Just sitting here at my computer none of the words are coming out. None of the things I want to say will come out. They're trapped in my heart. By their own design or the design of my heart, I couldn't tell you, but there they are stuck. So imagine my frustration every morning and well into the night when I sit down at my laptop and watch the cursor blinking back at me. It's taunting me, daring me to be creative and I can't. My mind gets caught up in a whirlwind of yesterdays, they all jumble into one big pile of history and I can only stare.
A log has fallen over the dirt road of my heart. I daren't walk around it and I can't climb over it. It's far too intimidating for me. So I sit and stare. I want to type; however, I hypnotize myself into thinking of all of these lies.
I miss you.
I'm here to write, that's why they've hired me. So I sit here in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada and stare.
Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs. Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs. Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs. And I will keep backing that damn box with five dozen liquor jugs until creativity springs forth and the words finally flow from my brain to my finger times. Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs. Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs. It's a funny thing how a totally ridiculous unassuming sentence can even make me think of you. Of you and all of these lies.
I miss you.
Pack my box with five liquor jugs, because that's what I'll need to wipe you from my mind right now. You and your long flowing ginger hair and those bright green eyes. They suck me in and I can hardly stand myself so I'll pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs and hope I can pull myself out of the current of memories I die to daily and all of these lies.
I miss you.
Marissa, my agent, said the publicist loved the story idea. She said she saw best seller all over it. Maybe even a movie deal. And I said I have to write it first. Truth be told I don't even think it's that good of an idea. If I were to really lay honesty out on the table I would have to say; this story scares the shit out of me. It's a thing that's been brewing in my heart for the better part of 6 years. It's gone though the ups and downs of stardom with me and it's seen my better days and the days I thought had left me for dead. This story fell in love with me and I fell in love with it and it watched me fall in love with you. And it watched my heart get broken time and again by you.
Pack my box with five liquor jugs; you don't even know what you've done. How could you? You've run off to your next victim like a vampire in the dark. There's nothing shiny about you. This is reality, cold-blooded, cruel live or die reality. I'm left in a heap on the floor; life force draining out of me and you're walking on to your next kill as if I never even mattered. Now I never cross your mind, and across my mind are all of these pains and all of these lies.
I miss you.
Pack my box with five liquor jugs. Pack my box with five liquor jugs. Pack my box with five liquor jugs. Pack my box with five liquor jugs. Pack my box with five-how am I ever going to make my deadline? I can't keep a single thought in my head. Not one, even the lies.
I miss you.
They come and they go like a wind. It starts with a thought but my body shuts down not wanting to remember anything about you, not your soft hands or your piercing eyes or your gentle kiss or the way you said forever. The way you said you'd be the one when I was ready. Lies, all of them.
I miss you.
Pack my box with five liquor jugs. My mind goes into hibernation mode long before the computer does. Boxes full of liquor jugs are the only thing keeping me in the here and now. How absurd is that? I'm not even a writer; I don't know why I'm doing this at all. I don't know why I even told Marissa about this story. I don't have the first iota.
Pack my box with five liquor jugs. Pack my box with five liquor jugs. I read some where that the best way to over come writers block is to just sit down at a computer and write, write, write, write, write. This is all well and good if the story wants to be written. But this story, my story, my six year treasure just won't be written. It won't come out, it's hiding from me. Maybe it's as afraid of me as I am of it.
How can I sit and write, write, write if nothing comes out of my fingers? Ah well you already know the answer. Pack my box with five liquor jugs. I read an article about some woman, whose name I forget now, who is a popular writer, whose work I forget now. That would sit down every day and write for hours upon hours. Her friend or husband or who ever it was (shows how much attention I paid to the article) thought something like "wow, she's a really dedicated passionate writer and she's got so much to say." (This is a paraphrase.) But it turns out she would just sit down and write, "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog", over and over and over for pages and pages and pages. And eventually the walls, like Jericho, came down. So, pack my box with five liquor jugs.
Walls come down. Fears fall. Words flow. Doorbell ring. Pack my box with five liquor jugs….Wait, did the doorbell just ring?
I welcome the distraction.
Peppy, my chocolate lab, sniffs around my feet and I nearly fall trying to get to the door. I can't help but laugh though; he's too cute to be upset with.
"Why don't you calm down and let me open the door?" I ask. He woofs his happy response. I imagine he's glad I'm out of my chair, not half as glad as I am to be, though.
I open the door to a rough and tumble blonde smiling up at me.
"Hi, I'm Spencer, I saw you just moved in and I wanted to bring you some pie."
"Hi, I'm Ashley. Um, thanks." I'm not entirely sure I want to let this girl in.
She's covered in at least a weeks worth of mud. I didn't even know it rained around here lately.
Peppy barks, tail waggling with excitement.
"Hey there fella," she says pushing the pie into my hands and bending down to pet him.
"Peppy, his name is Peppy."
"Well, Peppy, aren't you just so cute."
"Yeah, so cute," I say.
"You oughtta bring him over to the farm and let him run around with my dogs.
Who is this girl?
She looks up and smiles.
"Oh um, yeah, sure yeah we can come over some time. No problem." Wow, dork much?
She just smiles back at me. Wow, what a smile.
"So um, hope you enjoy the pie."
"You wanna come in and have some?" I blurt.
She thinks for a minutes then she smiles, "I'd love too," she says while walking in past me. I don't even notice the mud all over the clean floors.
"Well, you've sure done a lot with this old place. Garret left this place in a right shambles all the time."
"Great big slob," she said going back to my kitchen, "and the house always smelled like horses and beer."
"Oh," what's happening right now?
She pulls a few plates out of my cabinet and grabs a knife from the drawer. I'm a little scared.
Spencer says, "I'm not surprised you didn't rearrange where things are kept, this is really the most obvious way to put stuff away, If you'll just put the pie down there I'll cut us up a couple slices. We could do with a big cup of milk too."
What the hell? "Um, Okay…."I put the pie down, trip over Peppy and grab the milk. "So, Spencer….." I had no idea what to say.
"Hey so, there are a few new leaves on the trees in my backyard. Isn't that exciting? Spring is so close I can already taste the mountain apples."
"Great," I said less than enthusiastic.
"You're not from these parts huh?"
"What gave that away?"
"Mountain apples right at spring's dawn are like heaven's gift to us."
"Swell," I chastised.
"You don't have to be a jerk," she said.
"Sorry I didn't mean to be. It's just that apples aren't really my favorite fruit."
"That's too bad," she said setting the pies on the table, "I brought apple pie."
I choked a bit on my first bite, this girl was quick. She smiled back at me and I smiled back at her and Peppy barked sleepily lying down on my feet.
"It's good," I cleared my throat.
"You don't have to lie."
"You just said you don't like apples."
"I didn't say I don't like apple pie."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Neither do I."
She laughed and I smiled. I haven't done that in a long time. Smile at someone's laugh.
"I know you." She said. I'm surprised it took this long, "You're in that band aren't you?"
"Yeah, I'm Ashley Davies"
"Oh, oh, yeah! No, that's not the band I was thinking about but yeah that's how I know you."
Talk about a blow to the ego.
"What are you doing up here," she continued. "Aren't big important rock stars busy or something?"
"I'm up here writing."
"You have to come to the mountains to write music?"
"Oh no, I'm not writing music, I'm here cause I'm meant to be writing as book."
"Really? That is so cool. Is it a tell-all memoir?"
"No, actually, it's a novel."
"Really, my agent suggested I come up here for the peace and quiet so I could get the first draft going."
"Oh hey that's a great idea. There's lots of peace and quiet in these parts, especially at this time of year. Good thing you didn't come in the middle of summer, it gets really loud here then."
Then? I'm thinking, it's pretty loud right now. She's pretty cute though so I let it go for now. "So what do you do, Spencer?"
"I raise horses."
An awkward laugh leaves my lips, "that's…cool."
"You're not afraid of horses are you?"
"What, me, no, why would you, never, nope, not afraid of horses."
"You sure about that?" She questions, Peppy gives a "liar" woof.
"Traitor," I say to him, "it's not so much that I'm afraid of them as it is that I'm afraid of them."
"Awe, Ashley, there's nothing to be scared of. They're just big puppies."
Peppy gives a woof.
"Stop that," I tell him. "Thanks for the pie. It really is good."
"Why, thank you," she smiled. "When you're ready to face your fear of horses just come on over to The Ranch."
"I'm not that scared."
"Sure, sure," she smiles. "Well at any rate bring Peppy over to play with the other pups and we could have a cup of coffee."
"Right well thanks for the milk and enjoy that pie," and with that she showed herself out.
"Peppy," I ask, "did that just happen?"
He woofs, rolling over for pats.
"Hey, wait a minute," I say jumping over him and running to the door, "she didn't say where she lives." I throw open the door and call to her retreating truck.
How am I supposed to find her again?