storyteller.

i could tell you about all the jokes he told, the small triumphs of wit, the brilliant setups, and the hours he spent explaining intricacies of popular culture to a girl who couldn't remember a name for the life of her.

that wouldn't be the point of the effect, the pinache, the certain savoir-faire that infected a table at which he sat down, the shivers girls would get, and that way he had of smoking a cigarette ... like it was the only thing that mattered.

i could tell you about the worse times, the awful fights of ego, the self-deprecation, and the dwindling of reality that could last all night.

that couldn't possibly cover the smoothness of his voice, the tone and pitch of a story's crescendo, the intensity of his draw, and that certain moment when you knew that he had every eye, ear, and heart in the room to do with what he may.

slay me and yet let me survive, captured for hours ... i never wanted to be let out of an evening with him, because the mornings were the best times. our minds' sharpness had worn down, and light took its toll. we were always determined to continue, forge on, and find the ending buried beneath tensions and idioms long lost.

he was never without a word, a saying, a trite explanation of why things could be and how they were. he always had the time to unravel a riddle you'd be fondling for hours.

the storyteller's very soul is comprised of trivia, details, fiction filled-in, and all of it framed with a slight twist to catch you off guard when one day, you're part of the story too. the circle surrounding him, listening and entranced, is the exact circle that he is also a part of, making his surroundings and his life and his actions ... reactions ... interactions mere details in a story that he tells his entire life, beginning to end.

mirror on mirror, the stories he told me never make it into the books but the stories of the time he told me that story doesn't fail on its way to page.

the entire trick of storyteller, fool and trickster that he is, is not to fall in love with his performance or the tale he weaves. starry eyed and exhausted from passion, many listeners depart in awe.

i was the one sitting in the back, having heard it all before, excited and laughing ... just thrilled to have my boy back from his muse ... who got just as many evenings with him, such a delicate balance between us.