Tuesday, February 28, 2017

First and Third

IT IS EITHER A PLATEAU OR THE BEGINNING of an end. February brought with it this year a strange introspection (yes, beyond my normal, solipsistic overthinking), one of a higher intensity or order of magnitude than in years prior. I literally feel like some astral projection of myself, having taken a step back from my life, turning my domestic routines into a boring third-person shooter. It creates both a numbness and a calm, a balance and a borderline Surreal disconnect from work, cleaning, driving, what have you. 

I was reminded of a never-finished short story I started years ago about a man going through this very thing.

"And yet at the same time his patience seemed to be deepening. Someone had pointed the nozzle of his hostility for the banalities around us straight down or in. Moments what, at one time would have resulted in a display of emotional fireworks, now were sent straight into the ground or, God forbid, directly back into the host...It could be likened to the effect of drunkenness. Left floating int he eddies of the room, the world seemed to speed by oblivious to his needs or wants. For him the stings of failure, adversity, and even disgust had lost their barb, provoking a slower reaction and one always keening toward mere disappointment." (from "The Third Person" ca. 2009)

And so life becomes art. 

It feels also like change, a pupa stage. Maybe I'll use it to do things I normally wouldn't. Take chances normally eschewed because of routine. Who knows? Maybe I will.

The Music

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Of Distance and Depth

Feeling my 49 years lately. It really does go by quickly. Writing a memoir requires you to cast your eye back behind. Climbing toward some unseen summit, they say don't look down. It is fascinating, sometimes sad, sometimes shattering.

I still remember the strange color of sunlight on adolescent grasses, the shape of that girl's face as she turned to smile on me. The pain of rejection and the shame of defeat without a fight. But, too, the feeling of lying in a woman's arms for the first time and feeling wave after wave lapping at my shore, returned in full.

You might call it time numb.

 I suppose that's what we think age can do for us. The hard times and the good test your heart and strengthen your spirit, toughening your leather with heat. Arrows don't seem to pierce the way they used to, at least that's what I've learned to say to myself. Love, however, seem to penetrate more easily than every before, so I wouldn't say numb. I love more deeply than ever before. Pain now has armies to oppose it. Maybe it is just perspective. That sounds better.

Lately, I feel like I have been floating above my life, looking down upon the black and red colonies as they scramble to finish life before nightfall. Floating higher still, organisms become electrical impulses of circuitous life, like thoughts jetting from one node to the next, synaptic train junctions of coming and going, myriad combinations propose and plan and permutations of spontaneous hope go awry. When I see things from this distant vantage, the earth grows this amazing exoskeleton of lightning and will and power. And, like some god, it must now deal with the consequence of its creation.

Good morning, friend.

Saturday, February 18, 2017


Working on the memoir again. Trying to tell my story right again. Keep digging. Find a vein. Mine it. Bleed it.

Realization today:

When I think of my parents, there is a deep sense of sadness, of unresolved shame or guilt. I imagine a movie, in which I am the star, leaving my parents in some German fairy tale scenario, only to have me, in the last moments of their lives, attempt a hail Mary comeback to rectify all the wrong I feel I did them by leaving.

Wednesday, February 8, 2017


Loving the sunshine today. Let it fill us with a lust for life, a hunger for sustenance, a will to not only move forward, but to thrive.

The Words


The Music

Friday, February 3, 2017

Deadlift Blues

At some point you stop fearing, if only because the fear has gotten too great. Like some tribal rhythm which ceases, due to its length and constancy, ceases to distinguish itself from everything else. At some point you stand up and begin to walk. The blows, once avoided, are merely shrugged off as part of the movement.

I know people who are doing just that. From under crushing weights, they find the strength to deadlift dread and begin to move forward. They have the help of people who love them. Advocacy. Hell, maybe even something like victory. I know others who are doing the helping. In so doing, their strength and purity intensifies, and I am even prouder to have them in my life. They are the ones doing the hard work, yet the ripples of the situations in which they are involved issue out, and mix with other negativity muddying the waters of our daily lives. The current political situation. The almost constant news of violence that solves nothing. All of this becomes more crushing weight that we must carry. It is heavy and it is frightening.

At some point you stop fearing, if only because the fear has gotten too great.

Move forward, always forward. I'm doing it, and you are much stronger than I. Move forward because amidst all of this, there is love and support all around. I feel it, and I attempt to share it. Take the hits and advance. Echo all the negative that comes your way with humility and love. That's ours. That shit only gets snuffed if we let it. That's what I'm trying to do, and it feels right.

Go. Be awesome.