Death of kindness

When your hometown becomes a ghost town
Tell your brain to slow down to avoid the show down
between the adjective and the pronoun
Beautiful she knows what I mean
Isolate me in color
everyone looks the same in black and white
The sky is getting darker and duller
everything looks the same in black and white

Everyone confuses the introvert with shyness
and abuses the hurt in silence
The darkness seduces the self-righteous
Isolate me in black and white
I'll wait for blindness
and anticipate the death of kindness

keep that cigarette well lit
i can be the one you quit
just remember me in color

The skies are getting darker and duller
Envision me in color
Listen to me in color

everyone looks the same in black and white

everyone sounds the same in black and white

Stay was my only demand

Eight years before... I was driving home from work.   Stuck in traffic, air conditioning blowing on my face, shirt off, windows rolled up, and radio playing loudly in my little bubble.

All was perfect in my life at that moment:  great job and friends. 

It was a 40 minute commute and I just wanted to get home, see my dog and eat dinner.  Then, God willing, be with my friends.  And then, go to bed and repeat this routine the next day.

Man, I was in love with the world.  A girl.  Friends. My job.  Everyone.  Everything.

Ten minutes from home, some new song by Eric Clapton played on the radio.  Written after his son tragically died.  Would you know my name, if I saw you in heaven?  Okay, I admit, my inner girl comes out in emotional moments.  Be it; a song, a movie, a commercial, St Judes Hospital infomercial, mama duck guiding her baby ducks across the street.... whatever.  My eyes fill up at predictable times but always when no one is around to notice.

Eric Clapton, on this glorious day, made me cry.

It was an odd reaction considering life was perfect for me at that moment.   1994, god damn.

I got home and as usual, I was greeted by my overjoyed black lab puppy named Buddy.

Wanna go for a walk?  And then he pounced on me and knocked me to the floor. 

I stood up and sternly commanded, "Sit.  Stay".  And he did.   In a not so subtle attempt to hide his excitement for his evening walk, he wagged his tail violently against the tile of my entrance way. 


Fast forward.  God damn 2002.  Worst year. 

Monday.  Driving home from work.  The same company.  Stuck in traffic.  It was fucking hot.  Air conditioning blowing on my face.  Miserable day that began with a chain email.  It is with a heavy heart, we must report that our beloved son lost his life last night.

I didn't cry all day.  I didn't do anything, really.  Sat in my office and stared at my wall.  Numb, I guess.  Who knew I can cry at simple things but not at the news of my best friend's death?

It became a ME moment.  Why am I not crying?  Why didn't ME do more to stop his drinking?  Why ME?  

Radio on in my little dark world.  Skipping through music until I landed on any melancholy song.  Something to make me cry.  Something to make me feel.  Goddamn, where is Eric Clapton?

Finally, got home.  Weakened knees,  Sick stomach.  Trembling hands.  Lost voice.  No tears.  Empty.

That once overjoyed black lab puppy was now an older dog.  He still loved walks.  Life.  ME. 

As usual, he greeted me at the door.  I guess he sensed my despair.  He didn't pounce on me.  Or knock me down.  I'm not sure he cared if I gave him his evening walk.  He just welcomed me and licked my hand as I spoke nonsense to him. 

I laid in my bed and he joined me.  Motionless as his head rested on my stomach with occasional licks to make sure I was responsive, I guess.  Buddy was comforting me.

Hours passed and I whispered, "Wanna go for a walk?".

He jumped off my bed and ran to my front door.  He sat there patiently; wagging his tail softly.  Just loud enough so I wouldn't forget but not too loud to anger me during this difficult day.

Maybe, the only day or week, I never had to say, "Sit. Stay" to that overzealous friend.


Fast forward one year.

Cancer was killing Buddy.  Softball sized tumor in his neck.  He was lethargic.  Not eating.  The joy I always knew from him was gone.

As all dog owners know or eventually will know, that day comes when we must let them go.  With dignity.  To end their suffering.  Compassion feels cruel.  We ache unlike any ache we will ever know. 

Goddamn, 2003.  Buddy's life ended on a cold steel bed in the back room of a veterinarian's office.  Before he closed his eyes forever, he licked my hand one last time.  And left me, this world, with one final wag of his tail.  I was broken, I guess.

Oh, I cried.  Dogs, movies, songs, commercials, mama ducks but not best friends make me cry, I learned. 

It might be the only thing I know about ME. 

Maybe the emptiest feeling in the world is walking out of the vet's office alone with leash in hand; knowing there is no reason to ever come back.

 

That word "stay" resonates with me daily.  In so many ways.  Some things.  Most things, are out of our control. 

And I'm still trying, Ringo.   I'm trying really hard.

Stay.

Compassion always feels cruel.

A Story without an Ending (Volume 1)

It's been a long and difficult road.

Hundreds of people gathered at this 125 acre public park to celebrate America's 211th birthday.   I was there for one reason.  It wasn't the fireworks.  Or a slice of Americana.  It wasn't about the volleyball, the ducks, the matching red, white and blue shirts by middle aged parents, or the traditional barbecuing.   

As I wandered this park with a purpose as Lee Greenwood's overplayed song loudly resonated in the background, I was determined to find her.  This was the summer of love and I would not be denied.

The beautiful thing about love at fifteen is everything.  It's intense.  Genuine.  Slightly myopic.  Moderately grandiose.  Extremely idealistic.   Fifteen is when romantics are born.  

Earlier that morning at church, she reassured me she would be there.  Sometimes, crushes are secrets.  This was the day to reveal it. 

God, I was nervous.  I was about to tell my future wife how I can't stop thinking about her.  I wrote a note to hand to her.  I talk a lot.  I talk fast.  I dominate conversations.  But I'm never quite good at saying what I mean to say.  I speak better on paper.  I'm less awkward on paper.  More honest.  Somewhere between corny and romantic.   That's okay.  I was fifteen.


Fourth grade, first kid who befriended me at my new school, Jason Knaup, died of leukemia.  They named the soccer field after him.  Jason field. 
I don't want to grow up and fall for the woman who only wants a man with a dick and a wallet.
Why don't I ever like upbeat, celebratory, happy music even when I'm in a good mood?
First two bucket items added:  Learn to skateboard and play the drums.

My mind wandered.  Tangents, to calm me.

As the sun began to set and she, nowhere to be found, I circled the lake repeatedly; getting lost in the sea of red, white and blue patriotic souls.  It wasn't meant to be, I guess.

We had a large blanket laid out on the slope of a grassy hill.  Everyone stared up at the fireworks and applauded.  I looked straight ahead.  Just hoping she would appear.

It was the best fourth of July of my life.
It was the worst fourth of July of my life.

That summer, I discovered who I am.  Thirty years later and I'm still that same kid.

As for her, she had a secret, too. 

At fifteen, secrets often go untold.  We learn to endure unrequited love and suffer in silence as insecurity mutes our lips. 

At fifteen, stories often don't have endings.


"You know, when you're little, you have more endurance than God is ever to grant you again. Children are man at his strongest. They abide."

Cake

Beautiful baker doesn't need me
well, she does knead me

I'm cake

All the signs and all the dreams mislead me
Misinterpreted by the needy
I don't blame you for this miscue
One misstep, Deja vu

I'm cake

It's a losing battle to fight alone
Takes two to believe
The chicken soup is cold
I'm cake for the soul

Beautiful baker doesn't understand me
Let's be friends, Mr. Plan B
And I'll wait with all the cake and candy

Beautiful baker wants more
Plan B, always found in the convenience store

Insufficient and inadequate
Inconsequential
Cake is inanimate

Ask me where it aches
It aches in the place you vacated
If love has an off switch
then my heart is antiquated

There's you and me
Beautiful baker with plan B
Dreams of cake and candy
When I'm gone, just maybe
you will understand me

I'm cake

1989

Just a few weeks ago, I stumbled onto my 1989 high school graduation video.  We can talk about all the ugliness and needlessness found on the internet.  Once in awhile, the internet does something right.  Occasionally, this alternate world connects us to things that matter.

This video is the closest I will ever come to a time machine.  I had no idea it existed. 

I'm one of those people... when my time is up, all that will remain are some words I post here and vague memories of those who know me or knew me.  My self-importance ends when I do.  I've always liked the idea of being defined by little things.   And big ideas.  Thoughts.

Watching my graduation was surreal.  For most of the two hour ceremony, the camera is fixated on me due to being seated front and center.  Two hours of me staring at me almost 30 years ago.  It was depressing, inspiring, bittersweet, glorious and astonishing.  Both positive and negative superlatives are fitting.


High school graduation is a monumental day in everyone's life.  The carefree days of summer, the intensity of perpetually falling in love with many, the neediness, and the wonder of what tomorrow may bring... it's over. Tomorrow is here.

As I watched awkward me fidget and neurotically believe all eyes were on me, I wanted to give myself some advice. 

I probably would just focus on wasting time.  God knows I've wasted a lot of time.  1989 me never worried about time.  2017 me knows better. 

Two students from that class of 30 students are gone.  Been gone for two decades.  Out of time.

Sometimes we become so introspective, maybe egocentric, perhaps self-absorbed; we miss the little things. 

So, I guess my advice to 1989 me would focus on time and the little things.  Two things that should be self-evident but rarely are...

My tiny Christian school of 120 students showed foresight and kindness by recording my graduation.  This was done without any knowledge that one day, the internet would be a tangible yet intangible place most reside.  And it came at a perfect time in my life.

A nice reminder of a boy, a young man who had dreams, aspired to be great within the realms of obscurity all the while pursuing the little things... because it is the little things that make an uneventful life great.

The video ends with me strutting down the aisle with this goofy smile of relief that it was all over.

If I only knew then.

Out of time.

Tapestry of Commonality

As the impurities of our insecurities weigh us down, we prematurely sometimes obscurely wonder who would betray us now.  But I look at you, not how you look at me, and wonder who mistook your beauty as an invitation to cruelty.   

As this fixation gets to me,
I would not expect you to understand

The entirety of our anxiety goes unspoken but understood.  With analysis comes paralysis as I wonder why you would.  Because I look at you then look at me and cant figure out why you should. 

Every thought is sliced in half.  Every word becomes a paragraph.  Every sigh seems to multiply until all I can do is laugh.   Its how I look at you, not how you look at me, that turns my world to glass.  And I dare you to shatter me before my flattery turns us into ash.

What we call abstinence is merely a tapestry of events culminating to an exquisite, sublime plan.
Overkill and over-analysis seems to be in high demand
I would not expect you to understand.

The sum of all our parts glued together by two hearts.  As they beat as one, the adrenaline and the rush become the medicine for us.  And its exhilarating and contagious.  I look at me, not how I look at you, with disgust. 

From anticipation to that first thrust
Its the celebration of us
I would not expect you to understand.

The entirety of our anxiety goes unspoken but understood.  With analysis comes paralysis as I wonder why you would.  Because I look at you then look at me and cant figure out why you should. 

I do not expect you to understand.

Chris Cornell

He or she could sing the phone book...

It's one of those rare cliches that actually means something.  It's never used for the Britney Spears or Donny Osmond's or even the Paul McCartneys of the world.  It's reserved for the unique, the special, those whose talent is so remarkable that "talented" sounds insulting. 

The Adeles, the Whitneys, the Freddy Mercurys and yes, the Chris Cornells all merit that cliche.

Those who write; be it, lyrics or novels or simplistic pieces as I am doing now, all find a common thread in our self-described art... Inspiration: the intangible stimulant that gets our creative juices flowing. 

For some, it's heartbreak.  What better way to honestly emote the suffering you feel at a given moment than writing?  Joy; such as falling in love is another catalyst for artists.  When you experience moments of joy you want the world and the individual responsible for it to know and feel it. 

For me, yes, those are the two themes I consistently stick with when publicly and vulnerably throwing these into the outside world.  However, there is a third one:  Nostalgia.   What really is nostalgia?  It's when something tangible (i.e. a song on the radio, a scent, a simple name) reminds us of past intangibles like heartbreak or joy.

Two nights ago, the world lost Chris Cornell.  Like many from my generation, it left a hollow feeling of emptiness in me.  Was I one of his "biggest" fans?  Not really... but I am a fan of extraordinary talent. 

Talent is an aphrodisiac.  Rock stars, actors, athletes.. go ahead, pick a career that takes spectacular talent; you'll find the least attractive get the most attractive.  It's not the money or fame.  It's talent.  Those who shine the brightest...

Chris Cornell shone brightly in a perpetually overcast and dreary city called Seattle. 

Seattle is credited as the birthplace of grunge; the angst ridden music genre that transitioned us from the vapid hair bands of the 80s and was the precursor to the ridiculously choreographed boy bands of the mid to late 90s. 

Grunge meant something to us.  It was dirty.  Honest.  Joyless.  Hopeless.  Grunge was the genre of dysfunctional and often severely unhappy musicians talking TO young people and kids like me.  It was relate-able.  Seattle, its birthplace, makes perfect sense.  It's not happy sunny Hawaii.

It's no mystery why the great ones from that era are almost all gone.  Cobain, Scott Weilland, Layne Staley, Andrew Wood and now, Chris Cornell; either, from suicide or drug overdoses.

Joyless people or those wallowing in hopelessness not only sing about it, they live it.  And ultimately, die from it. 

I know a good dozen cliches for those who ponder suicide or want to taste faith and hope.  I know the 12 steps of recovery.  I could add a few paragraphs with some self-righteous inspiration to end this neatly with a bow so whomever reads this might possibly feel good.

I'm not going to do that.

Chris Cornell killed himself two nights ago.

The world is now darker without his talent.  And I find myself nostalgically longing for the days when I was younger shaking my head in agreement as Nirvana or Soundgarden and the other grunge bands lamented their hopelessness.

Chris Cornell could sing the phone book. 

Evolution of Us

Hypothetical lifetime with you.  Unforgettable and sublime from my point of view .  It's love, it's love, it's love.  Spring is here, everything's anew.



Anxiety killed the dinosaurs.  It will kill us, too.



Profound sadness fills the air.  Put your hands around my neck and choke away this despair.  Oh but, it's love, it's love, it's love.  I'm the second coming.  Deja vu.



Hypothetical kiss on the cheek.  Nicotine lips taste so sweet.  Keep your sticky fingers away from my heart, you speak.  Oh but it's love, it's love, it's love.   Antiquated ideas provide the missing link.



Hypothetical devil speaking in my ears.  Skeptical of sentimental crocodile tears yet highly suggestible after all these years.  Oh but it's love, it's love, it's love.  Mystical or cynical, one must disappear.  Hypothetical angel swinging from our chandelier. 

Anxiety killed the dinosaurs and their fossils became souvenirs.

Profound anticipation fills the air.  Dig your nails into my spine so I know you care.  And if it's love, if it's love, if it's love; scream it everywhere.  I'm the second coming.  Aut neca aut necare.

Hypothetical until death should do us part.  An unbearable last breath and a broken heart.  It's love, it's love, it's love.  

Anxiety killed the dinosaurs; isolated and apart. 

Hypothetical lifetime with you.  Unregrettable and sublime from my point of view.   It is love, it is love, it is love.  Spring is here, everything's anew.

The F word

Finally felt like I found the future.
Possessed with a powerful faith, the ancients called fatum.
Figured you for destiny with forever being its finality
I was never being facetious or fallacious
It's never fair to project the familiar
while sabotaging the unfamiliar
Maybe, my sticky fingers held on too firmly
but I never claimed to not be flawed
I fail more often than I don't
and I never ask to be fixed
Only forgiven
Few can find a best friend
Freedom cannot co-exist with fear
I feared your resentment would resurface
My good intentions formed distrust
I take full responsibility and fault
It's never fair to find sadistic joy
while feigning to be a victim
If we are truly finished
and cannot fix what has been fractured
I will look back at you fondly
and favor you above the rest
I had hoped our foundation
was firm enough for this
It's never fair to confuse the literal
with the subjective figuratively
Your anger isn't foreign
Your forgiveness surely is
If we, of all people, could not make this function
Then this world is surely fucked.

Sodium Pentothal

I think we all reach a point in our lives where we wish it was how it used to be.  We begin to fondly look back at moments in our lives that we once couldn't wait to surpass.   When we're younger, we're always looking ahead.  When we're older, we are always looking backwards.

I remember the name of every girl who broke my heart.  I can describe each one from head to toe whom did not return the same level of interest as I had in her.  And those who loved me, excluding a few, remain in the forgotten ashes of my youth.  I suppose we tend to take those who love us, those who want us for granted; as if, they or someone like them will always be waiting...

When I was younger and less tame than I am now, I may have been fixated on fun, friends and living in the moment as most of us were but I always had one eye open on tomorrow.  I wanted to be a dad for the simple reason, I never had one.  I wanted a wife; the perfect wife.   Perfect for me... A woman that could deal with my neediness, laugh at all my jokes even if she didn't get my train of thought... A woman who could intellectually stimulate me while having that grace and beauty God blessed the woman with... I wanted what most men want.

I got older and began to realize I am more ordinary than I ever realized and more special than I ever gave myself credit for... It's this unhealthy blend of self-depreciation and arrogance.

I have these detailed dreams constantly.  If I take a nap for 10 minutes or an hour or the rare nights, I make it to three hours of sleep without waking up, it's the same thing... I wake up with this profound sadness that leaves a lump in my throat and an emptiness I cannot describe.  There is no joy in my dreams.   I don't even know if there ever was.

I am no different than anyone else whose mind is always racing, whom faces these profoundly dark and coded dreams.  Like them, I tend to think this alone makes me unique.  So, what do I do?  I look for someone to tell those dreams to; as if, anyone really wants to hear them and decipher them for me.  Truth is, maybe, it's just a simple way of letting someone know you need them and if they are willing to just listen and grace me with just enough empathy to allow the dream to fade from memory, I'll feel like someone does care about me.

It's a difficult admission to state or even write that you really don't know who cares about you.  At some point, we become so cynical, we just assume there's this small window in life to achieve love and being loved.  If we miss that window, it becomes our life's mission to just hope someone needs us. 

In the last decade, I've developed some anxiety.  Okay, I want to blame technology or just the normal aging process.  I tried to blame temporary bouts of loneliness.  Truth is, I've always had anxiety but I was never able nor willing to diagnose myself.  I can now.

I look back and start thinking of the names and faces of each person I have ever loved.  And do love.  I desperately try to find exactly what went wrong.  Where I went wrong.  Where I always go wrong.  Maybe, I've just been looking at the wrong things.  We should always demand the best from ourselves; the best versions of ourselves we can become BUT that doesn't mean our self-worth is based on failures or someone not accepting this version of ourselves.   I think true love exists only when two people seek to transform the other into the best version of themselves.  Together.


Twenty minutes ago, I had a dream.  I was standing in the kitchen with the mother of my dead best friend.  She's bringing in groceries.  She says, "there's a steak on the shelf for you".  I look around and every inch of that kitchen wall is covered in family portraits.  No matter where I look, the eyes of that once breathing and vibrant best friend are following me.

As I am preparing this steak bought just for me, walks in the woman I find myself preoccupied with these days... She looks at me and says, "I'll cook it for you" and then she simply disappears.

So, I wake up with this gnawing feeling of loss... Not the loss of the once great friend or this woman I just wish returned the same level of interest I have in her BUT this loss of time.

I love where I am in life. 

I hate it, too.

Off She Goes

Found a solution for the two of us.   As the world burns
She don't know my ideas
Just my dreams
And there she goes looking everywhere
It seems we travel in extremes
and we get nowhere
I approached with caution
til the wind caught word
She don't know but I got ideas
Off she goes with the herd
Seems I'm late
She don't know how long I'd wait

And there she goes
holding the rear view mirror
We never say goodbye
She's been taking too much on
And there she goes with my ideas
And I hold my breath
I draw a picture of the two of us
And watch the colors fade
She don't know I'll just try again

And now the devil thinks he gets the last laugh
He don't know my ideas
Just my fears
And there he goes giving up on me

Found a place for the two of us
As the world burns
See, I've got ideas
buried in my dreams
And there she goes always one step ahead
She don't know my ideas
Just my mistakes
Off she goes and I hold on tight

And she don't see what I see
focused too much on uncertainty
And I hold my breath
And draw a picture of the two of us
Off she goes with her perfect smile
And I will wait
She don't know my ideas
Just my words

And there she goes with her own ideas
I don't know whats between us
And I close my eyes
til she returns
and is off again

The Hardest Thing

Everyone wants to see the happy ending.  To see all loose ends tied neatly together in the end.   It's the formula for all good movies or ones that do well at the box office.  Good is subjective, of course.

I get it.  Movies are supposed to be our escape.  A distraction.  A time to put away critical thinking and just accept that which we see on screen is not a reflection of life but moreso, a microcosm of how we wish life was. 

Life is messy.  Chaotic.  Dramatic.  Up.  Down. 
Happy endings run about 50/50.  Probably less.

I got stuck on some romance movie recently as I was flipping through the channels.  Can't even tell you the title because I showed up mid-movie.  It was the attractive crying actress that made me pause to watch.  Her friend leaned into her and started parroting the most annoying movie cliche ever used... Some variation of that If you love someone, let them go.  If they come back, they are yours.  I turned the channel that very second.  I knew the rest of the movie.  Boy comes back.  Redemption.  Girl happy.  Vindication.  Happily ever after. 

To call something a tired cliche is redundant.  I realize that... but this old movie line often used by the inexperienced at life crowd to cheer up a hurting friend is a tired cliche.  It's bullshit, really. 


I've probably had over 50 best friends in my life.  For as early as I can remember, I've always looked for someone in my life to slap that label on.  Once that current best friend slipped out of my life, I looked for a new one.  It was important to me to have a best friend.  Maybe, it's just a result of being one of those no dad, latchkey kids who constantly sought attention and acceptance.   Defining myself by whom accepts me.  Having a best friend makes us special to that one person.  Best means everyone else is a little less important. 

I think we all have a need to feel important.  To, at least, one person.  I, also, think it's important we go out of our way to fulfill that need in them.  Regardless, if it's reciprocated.


Most of my life lessons come from two places:  my failures and my old black lab, Buddy.  Self awareness doesn't take us too far if we aren't aware of those around us.  What better example of how a life should be lived than a dog? 

Man's best friend is a well deserved title.  It was for Buddy.

His natural curiosity and inbred need to be free often led him to ignore my demands to stay.  On a few occasions, I foolishly took him outside without a leash and of course, that led to him running away.  I've got a dozen stories about how I believed I had lost him forever.  If a dog chooses to disappear once you've given him the opportunity, we are at their mercy.

The beauty of dogs is they want to come back.  On their terms.  When they are ready.  And they will come back.  Always.

I can't say I believe this holds true of people.  We have self-created obstacles of pride, pettiness, stubbornness, and foolishness that dogs don't possess. 

We act like letting go is a choice.  Some badge of courage when we succeed.  That's bullshit, too.


If you love someone, you can never let them go, not even for a second, or they're gone forever. 
It's a cynical way to view life but it's safe. 

And well proven.

I used to think the hardest thing I've ever done is say goodbye.  Be it, the day I took Buddy to the vet to end his suffering as his cancer riddled body doomed him.  Or be it, the last night on earth for my best friend as he staggered away from my car like a wounded cowboy stumbling off into the sunset.  Or be it, those I loved but knew we were just not meant to be....

But I was wrong.

The hardest thing I've ever done involved silence. 
Those times where I wasn't afforded some closure.  
Those I simply chose to just walk away from without the kindness that goodbye allows us. 
And those moments where the universe had decided tomorrow simply wasn't in someone's cards.

Not saying goodbye is the hardest thing I've ever done.

If you love someone, don't let them go.

Anyone tells you differently, its bullshit.

Somebody told me

Somebody told me there'd be days like this.  Years like this.

Save those pictures, she said.  Someday, they will be all that's left of me.   

We were discussing this pathological fear of intimacy some have.  She, on the couch and me, across the room in a folded chair.   Lots of irony in that conversation.  Months later, we laughed about it as I was putting my pants on. 

Should have saved those pictures as the ones in my mind are slowly fading like an old polaroid. 

The spotlight always shines brightest on the socially anxious.  Only in their minds, of course.   Somebody warned me we would come to this.

Save those pictures, she said.

The written word will be a lost art.  Save my words, she said.  Save my letters, she added.

I started to hoard anything sentimental.  From anyone who loved me long enough to send something.  Or say something.  Texts, emails, pictures, cards, letters.  Save those things you cannot buy, she said.  Save those things that come from a place of love, she added.

Her hand was on my inner thigh and she leaned in.  I learned about butterflies that summer.   She looks old now.  Tired, I mean. 

Should have saved those pictures.  Youth escapes us quickly.

Somebody told me there'd be years like this.  Nights like this.   

Midnight is where the day begins.  She wore lemon.  
Save these lyrics, she said.  They will have meaning later, she added. 

I wrote a list of things to talk about just before calling.  That level of neurosis is normal at that age.  Eventually, we outgrow the discomfort.  So, I thought.  Save that innocence, she said.   Save that humility, she added.

Somebody told me we would have years like this.

We were discussing time.  Time heals all wounds.  Idle hands, devil's workshop.  Better late than never.   Time flies when having fun.  Back and forth, throwing cliches at each other.

Time is the enemy of the busy, she said.  And the lazy, I added. 

I have to go now, I told her mid-conversation.  Unforeseen irony.

Save those pictures, she said.  Someday, they will be all that's left of me, she added.

perfect world

Perfect world, all I wanted was a seamless transition.  Some hope and a little less ambition.  Do I listen to my intuition and ignore this premonition?  In a perfect world, there is no opposition. 

Who knew letting go is easier than the chase? 
Hope is either a slow death
or it disappears without a trace.
Its been one year since my fall from grace
It was the right thing to do
but something still leads me back to you.

In a perfect world, she'd love me.   Without borders or ambiguity.  With no one else above me. 

A perfect world without enemies like the gnawing notion of inadequacies and jealousies.  Where fantasies become destinies and futures never become histories.  Perfect world without all its scars and miseries.

from excitement to apprehension.  unreleased sexual tension and some lukewarm affection.  easier to walk in the other direction.
from apprehension to doubt.  easier to just get out.
from doubt to optimistic.  questioning what is realistic but in the end, we become monolithic.
from optmistic to desperate.  easier to just exit.
from desperate to pathetic.  easier to just forget it.

but something always leads me back to you.
something tells me that all of this, everything, every moment of our lives
was leading me to you.
Perfect world, tell me what I should do.

Hope is a slow death
or it disappears without a trace
Who knew letting go is easier than the chase?

Epiphany of the Unforgiven

I was fresh from a dream. 

There she was... this dark haired, quiet, almost too polite and proper, enigmatic girl.  Woman, I guess.  It always feels odd to say woman.  It's such an adult word.  Girl, well, that word just makes me sound like a dirty old man.  There she was; smiling at me, smiling at everyone, even the trees.  Her smile at me was no different than her smile at them.  So, completely disarmed with ego aside, I didn't overanalyze anything.

I think we're in vegas.  There's just a few of us.  It's me with girls.  Women, I guess.  Just friends.  All familiar faces from yesterday.  There's no sexual tension nor any hopes of fulfilling the vegas slogan of what happens here, stays here.   I think we're all song writers and poker players.  

I can't stop thinking of our host:  this mysterious dark haired woman. 

The dream moves at a fast pace.   We have breakfast in an old diner each morning.  We carry around notebooks.  That dark haired girl, woman, I guess, is always with us.  I can't stop obsessing over the little things.  Like her angelic skin.  Her eyes.  Her smile for everyone.  And my constant need to always know what everyone is thinking but especially her...  About me.

Each night is spent in her home.

The dream slows down.   The wheels in my subconscious mind come to a halt.  I'm forced to record every detail, from head to toe, of her.  And she looks familiar.  I've drempt of her before.  Many times.   I've loved her in every dream, each hypothetical scenario; good and bad.  It's always her.

At some point or a different dream, she became my religion.   It's an unfair cross for any woman to bear.   Each dream, I walk away.   And I tell myself I'm just afraid I'll nail her back up again.   A tiara made of thorns.   The imagery overwhelms me before I wake up.  Each time. 

But this dream was unlike the others.   I just listened and observed.  No agenda.  No demands.  No lavish or calculated words.

We're on our way back home.  I ask a familar face if that mysterious dark haired girl, woman, I guess, said anything about me.  The familiar face replies, "she just wanted you to tuck her in each night.  Talk to her.  And smile back."

"She forgives you.", the familiar face added.

Then I woke up.

And I lay still for a few minutes;  soaking in this fresh dream before all the details disappear as all dreams do by mid-morning.  I futilely attempt a few times to fall back asleep into that same dream.  I need more details.  Meaning.  An explanation. 

And I just stare at my ceiling, eyes wide open, and finish the dream myself.

And this self-defined "profound" epiphany overwhelms me... I tell myself that we do our best dreaming when our eyes are wide open.   Absent of truth, with an ending we choose, with the information controlled by the dreamer, guilt removed, and a false sense of closure.  And this so-called self-described moment of abstract thinking isn't shrewd or deep or profound.  And I begin to think that our dreams are more closer to reality than we care to admit.  That our minds contain the truths we fail to face when awake.

And as each theory floats around my head, before I get out of bed, I think of that dark haired girl.  Woman, I guess.

Forgiveness is always nice.  Even if its just in a dream.

Close Call

I never wanted this to become my diary.   Blogging is so ten years ago.  I just like classifying this as writing.  That's all it is... it's a stage for failed poets, it's the written version of selfies... it's a crayon drawing by a kindergartener...

This, what I do, always after midnight, is me talking.  I can't be interrupted here.  You can't start throwing cliches at me.  You can't stop me mid-sentence and start talking about you.  You can call this emotional manipulation because sometimes it is.   You can call this awkward because sometimes I am.

I'm sitting here biting my nails.  I stand up to pace back and forth.  Then, I decide to just write.  To kill time.  To be vague.  To be heard.   Because no one is around to listen.

I like to solve everyone's problem.  Except my own.   Sometimes, we can't fix things or people.  Right now, it's futile for me to try.  So, I wait.  I chew my nails.  I drink coffee.  I consider learning how to smoke.   I pray.

Every cliche I have ever used to comfort those I love who lost a mom or a father or a child, they sure feel empty now. 

I'm hesitant to call anything a close call.  An almost.   Glass half empty.  Glass half full.  Chicken or the egg.

It shouldn't take two minutes to tell the 911 operator, mom is having chest pains.   I'm not a crier.  Well, except at those god damned ASPCA commericals, the St. Jude commercials, corny tv shows and girl movies.  It took two minutes to compose myself and calmy state six words.

I had a lot of thoughts going through my head as the paramedics were putting her in the ambulance.  I really wish you were here.  God, I want to call you.   I wish I had more family than just her.   Self-awareness sets in as I realize all my thoughts are about me as she is clutching her chest and breathing heavily.

I forgot about the argument we had two hours prior about her showing up here uninvited today and then spent the day nagging at me.  I forgot about all the times I was angry at just the sound of her voice.   I forgot everything except that's the woman who gave birth to me and did her best raising me alone. 

She'll be fine.  It was a close call says the doctor.  Appointment with the cardiologist on monday.  New meds.  Less stress.  Eat better.   Lose weight. 

I'm still biting my nails.  My stomach still aches. I'm still struggling to complete a sentence.  Every cliche and word of comfort I've prescribed to others still feel empty. 

Mom says Alls well that ends well now that her chest pains have subsided.   And I start getting irritated again.  I don't even know what the fuck that means.  But I laugh and nod in agreement.

It's been a good day. 

For a close call.

Familiar Stories: Ramblings.

For so long, I just didn't get it.  I was young; too young to talk like I was old.   We cling to the past because it's familar. 

At some point, I stopped combing my hair.  It doesn't necessarily mean I stopped caring.  I like the look of chaos.  Well, chaos is all I've ever known.  I'm not comfortable with anyone or anything that presents a semblance of order.   Why do you love me?  she asks.  Because you're almost as big as a mess I am.

One day, my ass is sticking to the passenger seat of his truck.  I'm holding a cassette tape of Motley Crue.  Three hour road trip, here we go.   It doesn't get better than this.   I'm still singing that song because it's familar.  I don't want to hear new Motley Crue music.  God, but I would love to just hear one new sentence from him.

Never forget, that one day we can step out our front door and our whole life changes forever.   I hear that quote in the fatherly voice of Bob Saget preceded by the word Kids.

There are two memorable rainy days in my life.  If it rains tomorrow, I'll be swept back to those two days.  I wish cell phones existed on those days.  I'm shivering in this warm rain.   My heart breaks at the thought of what could have been.  Two rainy days, two lost loves.  I see them both now and they're both beautiful.  They became the beautiful women I knew they would be someday. 

I walked into work as I always do on Mondays; refreshed.   I always thought it was stupid that Garfield would complain that he hated mondays. You're a fucking cat.  You sleep all day.  Everyday.  My life changed on this specific day.  It was an email.   Noone wants to find out their best friend died via an electronic chain mail. 

Sitting in my cubicle, face staring at the wall in front of me as tears streamed down my face.   It wasn't shock, surprisingly.  It was the culimation of experiencing self fulfilled prophecy for the first time.  I never agreed with this notion we should celebrate one's life instead of grieving for its end.  Everything always ends too soon.

I stopped making all phone calls and sending out texts.  It wasn't for the sake of self-preservation.  I didn't just stop loving her.  Maybe, for the first time in my life, I was being unselfish.  I was an anchor.  I was holding her down; holding her back.  It rained the night we last spoke.  So, that is three memorable rainy nights in my life.  All of them involved three different women; all beautiful.

My ass kept sticking to that wooden chair in macro economics 103.   Everything was in slow motion.  A one hour economics class under the influence seems like forever.   I don't brag about any educational accomplishments because being able to memorize shit we are told to memorize does not equate to intelligence.  

Stupid smart people point to diplomas on their wall.   The great moments of life aren't necessarily the things we do.  They are the things that happen to us.   And I think about that piece of wisdom in the fatherly voice of Bob Saget. 

I was told way back then to cherish the moments.  I don't think we ever cherish anything until they're gone.  I saw a different future for me.   I arrived here; arrogance intact.  But that's about it. 

I think about pride.   It's so debilitating.  It paralyzes us.  If we claim that no one really knows the real us, blame pride.   That's your fault.  Our fault.  My fault.

For so long, I didn't get it. 

I do now.

Familiarity is comfortable. 

eraser

Once upon a time, I'd chase her.  Only to come up empty.  Someone hand me an eraser before my pride tries to tempt me. 
Take away these thoughts.  Kill the butterflies.  Erase everything.  The hellos and goodbyes. 
Self-awareness is vanity's evil twin.  The elephant in the room is the sin. 

That lemon sun above mom and dad.  Crayon kissed canvas is all I had.   Grab me an eraser, I've got something new to draw.  Something new to add.  That black rain cloud.  That lemon sun.  That crying child.  A loaded gun. 
Fear is pride's ugly cousin.  Dads like him are a dime a dozen.

Once upon a time, I'd race her.  Only to intentionally lose.  Someone hand me an eraser and someone else's shoes. 
Take away these regrets.  Kill the butterflies.  Erase everything.  The condescension and consolation prize.   Unrequited love is the martyr's albatross.  Cliches are the burden of its cross.

That lemon sun and the illusion of hope.  Crayon dreams drowning under a microscope.   Grab me an eraser and a time machine.   I've got somewhere new to go.   Somewhere unforeseen.  
Hindsight might be twenty twenty.  Eraser, bring a brand new dream.

Once upon a time, I'd face her.  Only to bow my head in shame.  Someone hand me an eraser before she forgets my name.  
Take away the nerves.  Kill the butterflies.   Erase everything.   The kindness wrapped in lies.  Charmed, im sure, by its disguise.

That lemon sun over the white picket fence.   Future colored in suspense.  Grab me an eraser, I promise to stay within the lines.  Innocent eyes know the lemon sun always shines. 

Once upon a time, I'd embrace her.  Only to be pushed away.   Someone hand me an eraser so I dont duplicate her disarray. 
Take away everything I was taught.   Erase all I've memorized.  Give me a clean slate.  Kill the butterflies.

The Information

Sun and the moon were once in love
now millions of miles apart
I'm controlling the information
You're controlling the information
Miles and miles apart
Night and Day but we're the same
We could survive anything
but your indepedence
my neediness
As well as I know you
I don't know you well
The sun and the moon can't exist without the other
I'm controlling the information
The reality
Don't want you to stop loving me
Like the sun and the moon

Building rise buildings fall
who knew
the information was on the bottom floor
And I fell deep into my own footsteps
as the ashes of what almost was rose above our heads
Smoke and fire
I control the information
to limit the damage

And I do love you
always will
when the sun sets
the moon shows his face
each hiding the information from the other

Day and night happening at once
And I just don't want to care anymore

people like you

For every made up memory to fill in the blanks of our history
For all the exaggerated energy wasted on trying to solve this mystery
In between your photographs of trickery
Behind that veil of secrecy
For everything, we did and did not go through
People like me don't let go of people like you

From promises of forever
to highly unlikely
Eventually to never
People like you usually never love people like me

It comes and it goes
I'm okay and no, I'm not
It's for the best, I suppose
Before I left, I was an afterthought
But I'm okay and I'm really not
depending on the variable

For every word, you clung to
Every laugh I forced out of you
Each tear I never knew about
In between, my lack of empathy
My demands of martyrdom cloaked in cruelty
For everything, I did and did not put you through
People like me don't deserve people like you

From wedding bells and babies
to possibilities and maybes
People like me shouldn't be loved by people like you

For everything, I will never again get to verbalize
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Birthday
Congratulations, I am proud of you
She has your smile and your eyes

In between, the bitterness of butterflies
Despite, the lack of compromise
And all the promises we failed to finalize
All the times, you were unfairly scrutinized
From my lips to God's ears above

People like you are easy to love.