Three Random Pieces

Eleven pages after the previous post's journal entry I found this scribbled in red:

The casualties keep coming; on gurneys, in the arms of a woman, from the back of an old Studebaker. I'm the only healer for miles and miles and no matter how many I repair and bandage and suture, for every one twelve more arrive with pleading eyes. It's chaos and mayhem and I cannot escape. ~28 Feb 2009

Five more pages from that, also in red:

Beside the campground, off in a dune, half buried sits an old player piano. I sit at the edge of my blue tent and listen. I hear the crackle of the campfire, the katie-dids in the distance and Byron's banjo. He plays off key and pulls stupid faces which draws laughter from his audience. They're trippin' on mushrooms and dancing and singing "Uncle John's Band". They feel like all the world is in love and at peace.
I pull a long, slow drag from my orange cigarette and continue to stare at the keys. I am at ease and feel totally content as I try not to try to hold onto this feeling. I try to accept it as here and now and as a part of this now and as time forces this moment into the past, I cherish that it passed by me. That's all I can ever hope for; to have been a part of something real and magical. ~4 March 2009

And sixteen pages after that, this time in blue:

He told me that my eyes were the colour of broken dreams. I liked that he said that because it was comforting and real and familiar. Then I remembered 6 weeks later that it was familiar because it was a line from a book from the 70s. I no longer liked it, suddenly I felt cheated. Like he wasn't saying it to make me feel that he saw a part of me that no one else noticed. It became an itch on Jeff's casted leg and made me see him differently. He morphed into an audience and I the clown. ~Spring 2009