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.