I wish I might.

One wish I have this evening (and nothing too magical, at that) is that those I love and care for could be within the distance of a good, long hug or three. Just me. Just them. I can't say there's any one I'd value above the other, either. I'd just like that to happen is all. And, should the Universe allow for that before, say, my head hits the pillow, I won't tell a soul. It'll be our little secret. Well, mine, the Universe's and those unique, thoughtful, warm individuals I think about plenty often.

What she said.

69 Things I'm Thankful For.

It's that time of the season again. A wise, old man I knew once advised me to overuse the words "Thank You." I've tried to take that to heart, as much as I possibly can, living my life in such a way that I'm grateful for all I come across, is given to me or that I simply observe. I try to collect these things all year long (and have done so for a few years now), lest I forget them entirely. I wasn't able to stop at 50 things this time around, though, so 69's going to have to do. Think of it as 50 + 19 extra. Happy Thanksgiving, all!

1. Sweet basil.

2. A morning like this one, so quiet, I really can hear my thoughts.

3. Singing frogs outside a back patio, coupled with warm rain.

4. The pleasant distraction of a beautiful woman.

5. The peace that comes from living a TV-less existence.

6. Being directly responsible for making someone’s day.

7. Blessed avocados. Chunky, smooshy sandwich delights.

8. A creative deli owner who makes the best Soup of the Days in all of Lake Mary, FL (seriously … go to That Deli! and be transformed).

9. Living in a neighborhood so safe that I can confidently stash my keys in a bad hiding place before my evening run.

10. Earned exhaustion.

11. Picking an orange or two in an orchard … by moonlight.

12. Being recognized for the strengths I’ve developed and honed.

13. Cold filtered water that never runs out.

14. Feeling like, given the right pen or keyboard, I can write anything.

15. And, because of that, feeling like I can take on the world.

16. An anonymous somebody who left an orange blossom on my desk in the morning, allowing the entirety of my day to smell better.

17. Last minute treks to a warm beach.

18. A $45 motel room after 7 hours in a car.

19. Willie Nelson singing jazz standards (“All of Me,” specifically).

20. A nearby train whistle.

21. Wry old ladies.

22. Listening to my iPod right up until the battery runs out. It’s akin to wringing out a dishrag, really.

23. The White House Special at White House Subs in Atlantic City. And the fact it’s the size of my arm. This is not an exaggeration.

24. Unexpected tears.

25. My little brother.

26. Sweet blessed humidity, the kind disguising itself as a wall.

27. Believers.

28. Being able to both smell and feel the rain from nine stories up.

29. Silent lightning that stretches the length of my night sky.

30. The kindness of a stranger.

31. Matching memories with familiar photographs.

32. Creating new memories to go with just discovered photographs.

33. The good poetry.

34. Having a conversation with my excited two-year-old niece … even if she does come with subtitles (thanks, mom).

35. Fresh squeezed Florida orange juice. It tastes different, it does. And that difference is warm divinity.

36. One-time endings that become re-beginnings.

37. Beautifully crunchy 22-year-olds. Or, yeah, make that singular.

38. Colorado.

39. The quietest moments in my life being the 10 minutes before 5 a.m.

40. Accidentally making friends with and, in turn, being accepted by, a child.

41. The calm of the beach and how its ocean causes my spirit to absolutely soar.

42. Stevie Wonder.

43. The ability to, on occasion, recognize when a friend truly reveals he or she is genuine.

44. Earlyish morning phone calls that develop into fits of unexpected laughter.

45. The quiet holidays.

46. Happiness is a Leon Redbone song.

47. A one-man Farmer’s Market stand, an open truck and a friendly farmer who voluntarily cuts juicy chunks of watermelon, cantaloupe, grapefruit and more for his three wide-eyed customers, simply because he’s that proud of all he’s grown and cultivated and has on display. Show ‘n Tell becomes Taste ‘n Grin.

48. Ukelele music. As well as those who can pronounce the instrument correctly.

49. Raw and unfiltered orange blossom Florida honey. Yes, please, and every day.

50. Getting to spend a lot of good years with Max the Cat, a friend to all.

51. Manatees, those gentle giants.

52. Those I’m able to learn from, as well as those I enjoy and, on the rare occasion, having those qualities both reflected in the same person.

53. The rare ability I have to believe in myself. How it surprises.

54. Being able to run. Whether it’s two miles or a half marathon.

55. Mango salad, which consists of nothing but sweet, cut-up mangoes in a bowl, freshly cut from a big, beautiful, gift-giving tree. Thinking about it the next day, on the other hand, is almost heartbreaking.

56. A seventysomethinged Cuban couple who knows how to cook and likes nothing more than to share.

57. Ethiopian eats. For their flavors, for their smiles, for the communal experience of never using utensils during the course of a meal.

58. Crossed paths, nearly 20 years later, that lead to friendship.

59. Two good knees. While the rest of me seems to age and sag and go white and gray, these allow me to keep on running.

60. Those who know more than I do, but don’t go about flaunting it. The humble are wise, kind sorts. I can’t help but adhere to them.

61. Friends who train with you for three months so you can run 13ish miles together.

62. Beyond that? A friend who flies a couple thousand miles to do so.

63. Planning one pretty elaborate surprise visit and imagining the surprise on the faces of those I love. Never ever underestimate the simple beauty of a good surprise.

64. Being able to hide my old man hair with do-it-yourself coloring kits from Walgreens. But only on the beard. That stuff around the temples is sexy.

65. Happening on a beach in the rain and being able to enjoy it, along with the birds.

66. Selling a condo, a whole decade later.

67. And, tied to that, paying off three credit cards. On the same day.

68. Bare feet and flipflops and blessed heat in the month of November.

69. Being able to work for a company allowing me to spend a day serving Thanksgiving meals to the homeless in my city.

And, in case you missed the lists from past years, you can sample the lot by going here, here and even here.

Lower Lights — "House of Gold"

I can't stop listening to this. I think they did ol' Hank proud with this one. And to think that his version prolly didn't have a sousaphone in it. Pity that.

Pilot me.

I wonder if, given a lot of time and inordinate amount of reflection, that I will see my condo's NOT yet closing (going on its being delayed four times now) as some kind of blessing in disguise. An exercise in patience. I wanted my quick-and-dirty trek to the Fall-colored Utah to be one filled with closing a bank account, paying off a loan and putting my face in a lot of tacos. All business and little pleasure. While I did get some of that done (especially the taco eating), I can't argue with how it played out.

Saw a handful of pleasantly familiar faces, surprising most every one of the lot. Shopped some at what is still my very favorite record store. Survived on drive-through carne asada tacos and some homemade pumpkin waffles. Finally got to see the Lower Lights create their 14-musicians-strong magic live, meeting some of the kind folks I've written with for a good number of weeks now (they were as great as I expected they'd be, yes). And, having secured four front row seats for my folks, sister and husband a month or so ago, I was able to surprise them by landing there. And, you know, if I could bottle the twin excitement of my mom and sister upon their discovering me in the theater, I'd be able to combat any and all sad days of my future. I really, really dig those kinds of surprises. There aren't enough of them, you know?

Oh, and that snowstorm? The one that threatened all Saturday long, making a picture-perfect winter wonderland out of the night and following morning? It was my first real glimpse of Christmas this year. I'm in a plane and currently retreating to my Land of No Socks, but I sure enjoyed that fluffy stuff for all the hours I was able to.

I still hope to close on my condo one day, but I'll stop holding my breath about it already. In the meantime, I'll be grateful for life's little curve balls, for the increasingly unique opportunities and experiences they afford me.

Iron & Wine do Florida right.

My words won't do it justice. Know that. Still, seeing Sam Beam and his band earlier this week at the historic Florida Theater in Jacksonville (historic as in Elvis played there in '56) was inspiring, front to back. I can't say that about a lot of concerts, either. But he casually and confidently made his way through his catalog, offering up your solo man-and-his-guitar favorites out in front (the reverse encore), slowly allowing band members to amble in a few at a time, then recreating the songs you already know (plus a few new ones), should you count yourself a fan. "Now, if you liked that, we'll get along just fine," he commented after deconstructing "Woman King" pretty beautifully, amplifying the percussion about 8 times. "We're going to have some fun up here tonight. If you wanted the songs to sound like they do on the record, well, you have that at home, don't you?" If only more bands believed how he believed, sang as he sang and did as he did. It was magnificent. Bearded magnificence. Totally worth driving a total of four hours that night and even briefly contemplating parking the car at a truck stop and dreaming for a few hours. Dreaming with an Iron & Wine soundtrack, no less. I remember it like I remember a good meal; let's hope there are days more of this kind of reflection, too.

Run through the jungle.

I am thankful for the sunny, breezy, slightly chilly and plenty shadowy weather that landed on us last Saturday. I am thankful for three friends besides myself who all decided to take on the half marathon challenge by the horns (two for the very first time). I am thankful for the smiles and excitement leading up to the event and for grizzled old lifetime marathoners who create three months' long training programs to allow for such. I am thankful for encouragement. I am thankful for sore ankles, tight calves and tender feet, only because that all goes away, and soon. I am thankful for lazy days that follow races, days filled with movies, naps, hot tubs and so, so much of that bad food, the stuff you earned by running so long and so far and so fast. I am thankful for the desire to do it again and again and maybe even another few times after that, but not marathons, never the marathons, and not this week. There will be no running this week. And there's not a single thing wrong with that. Not one.

Damien Jurado does "OHIO."

I can't downplay how cool it was to happen upon Damien Jurado, just outside the door of The Social, having a cigarette before he went on stage. I can't even act aloof and above the fact that I was able to talk with him for about 15 minutes (we covered weather, his new album, our similar names, etc). And, well, it was a quiet night for that place, so I was able to capture the video that follows below. Beautiful song, beautifully done. Damien's got me through the nights this weekend, as I've been playing and replaying his albums in an effort to create some peace in this city. What's more, doing so has worked wonders. I've slept remarkably well.

Everybody knows this is nowhere.

If pressed to answer, okay then, it comes down to just this: I could survive the rest of my days on a steady diet of Neil Young songs, Vietnamese spring rolls (with peanut sauce) and three-day work weeks. Happy 65th, Neil. I still aim to see you live one of these days. It's one of those goals I hope isn't so far off.

The greatest compliment I could ever pay you.

I was at the Wolf Parade show last night, fighting for a spot of floor where I wasn't constantly being run into, when this message came at me. And, because I like to multitask while I soak up the good music, I read it in the middle of my enjoying. It had the headline: THE GREATEST COMPLIMENT I COULD EVER PAY YOU. A friend of 15 years or more, one I'd talked with earlier in the day, proceeded to tell me that, "Nobody has influenced my musical taste more than you. It's true." And I shot back and wondered if her cousin, a guy who regularly dumps digital albums by the truckload on her, might have that real honor. Really? More than him? "Yes, even more than my dad. Even more than Tim Booth. Put that in your pipe. Smoke it."

I only share because it made me really happy. And she was right. It probably was the greatest compliment I could have received from, well, anyone. And my night only got better from that point on.

Wordless Wednesday.

Nightsong.

Oh, tonight. Tonight with your train smells and somber wails, with your poetry that needs to be read out loud and back again, offering the very best stanzas for your careful consideration. You are the chill that wakes these ached bones and urges another bowl full of that black-eye vegetable chili, the one with the aftertaste so well-suited for your mouth, you have no choice but to taste it later, and later still. The air conditioner is finally set to OFF and clothes are stretched out in dead animal yoga positions all across the wooded floor, lazing on backs of chairs and couch. This season is the changing one, the one you dress with a sweater and scarf, your best pair of striped socks. Give me the problems, the ones I can place upon my back, devour a bit at a time and offer up solutions for, ones nobody will hear or apply. Face me with your loud imperfections that I reward with a smirk, whether seen, whether not. Urge me gently into a Damien Jurado soundtrack once again, where the LIKE NEW price of $2.79 means nothing to most, and each quiet strain from his guitar and whispering is so gold and so golden, the stuff to shove deep into pockets, pull out to peek at, shove back inside. Deeper this time. More. There’s no use sharing magic with those who refuse to understand.

Just call me Elliott.

I never feel magic unless I am with you.

photo credit: Jonathan Canlas

If you need me tonight, I'll be having my mind quietly blown by one Damien Jurado over yonder at The Social. He'll be opening for Shearwater, which are pretty fantastic in their own right (check out the song "The Snow Leopard" or "Red Sea, Black Sea" for all the proof you likely need), but, at least at this point, I'm more excited to hear him do what he does. And I sort of don't want the kids downtown to know him all that well so that, once he starts in with his music, they'll all be floored or thrilled or mad they showed up late, all at once. His songs evoke such equal amounts of pain, beauty and painstaking seriousness ... I just wonder if he'll manage to crack a smile at all. And, as I suppose is wont to happen with those we really enjoy and quietly idolize, I can see some of myself in him and his music, whether I like it or not (and I do). Maybe it has to do with the fact he's from Seattle and, in some of my fondest memories and dreams, that's exactly where I place myself. It's a place I've never lived, yet one that has felt like home, every time I've been.

Fun fact: He's rumored to have recorded the entirety of Saint Bartlett in a single take. The whole album. That's 12 songs in a row. I can't even really fathom that one.

If you do come by and wanna come over after, I'm putting a black eyed pea chili on that ought to be ready by then. Bring some sour cream, though. I forgot to pick some up.

Blowing out the candles.

I wish I was sadder about my being a bachelor well into my 30s. I wish I didn’t like being alone as much as I do. I wish I liked you more than I do. I wish we didn’t just work on paper, because you dress well, play music, like poetry and taste like saltwater taffy. I wish I cared more about being the old dad than I do. I wish you saw me as less broken than I believe I am, simply because I’m not married and without five others who look sorta like me. I wish that being a single guy who adopted an Asian orphan seemed as commonplace as making an English Bulldog a part of my lifestyle. I wish falling in love with you, whoever you are and IF you are, was as easy as falling hard for the local straight-ahead jazz station on Big Band Wednesday mornings. I wish that those who saw me as a single sort who isn’t dating didn’t automatically tag me with that Perpetual Bachelor title. I wish I didn’t love the fact I’m more single and happy now than I’ve yet been. I wish I hated it enough to do something about it. I wish I’d stop thinking that way.