Nothing was more exciting as a child then the 3rd grade class project to find a pin pal thru by the means of a balloon. We would write a letter with ill conceived grammer….much like my current writing style; introducing ourselves and asking a series of questions. I had images of my balloon being swept to a far off country and winding up in the hands of a kid around my age. They would go chasing the balloon as it was swept just above their heads, jumping over and over until their grasp finally reached the string. Then pulling the balloon down, would find the letter and with great excitement respond about what life is like in England, Mexico or some other country which at that time seemed to be of another planet.
After writing our letter and tying the string thru the whole punched index card, we would line up and march out onto the playground. I was sure my letter was going to go farther and reach someone much more interesting then anyone else in the class. The teacher would have us hold the balloons over our heads and wait until in unison we could release for the start of a new adventure in our lives. All at once we would let go of our strings, watching as it slipped from our grasp and rose into the air. My neck craned backwards to keep sight of my balloon as it lifted and danced into the wind. Quite a few balloons got wisped into the chain link fenced or trees that lined the field, adventures of those poor unfortunate bastards ended with a loud pop, letters to be picked up that afternoon and discarded by the janitor.
My balloon was different though; I saw it continue to rise, clear the trees and head out of sight. Just as quickly as the balloon disappeared, the excitement of finding a far off pen pall went with it over the horizon, as I became more excited to be the first in line for a quickly forming four square game. Yet, when a week or two went by and someone would get a letter from a few cities away, my curiosity would grow as to the final destination of my balloon. Yet, a return letter never came, and my thoughts grew further and further away from that dancing red balloon.
It seems as we get older this same routine follows our lives with our dreams and expectations of the future. We build up an idea of where and how we want our lives to be down the path. It appears grand in scale and perfect, yet since it’s the future we don’t have exact control over it; therefore we let it go and let the wind take it. Some of these dreams fly high and continue a clear path, reaching their destination. Other dreams don’t make it for a second before exploding in the clear sight of the dreamer. Yet most dreamers get distracted with other things and slowly forget all about where they thought there lives would lead, except for the occasional reminder.
Later I found out that they stopped this program of letting balloons loose due to them flying out into the Ocean and being lost. All these kids with their hopes and dreams of what could be, not knowing the whole time it was lost and would never happen. For me though, I’m still happy letting that balloon go as I watch it drift to the sky; even though I know it will head West and wind up lost in a the vast, blue Ocean.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Three Headed Monsters and Dung Beetles
Ryan felt the warmth of the fire radiating of his palms as he edged them to taste the licking of the flames. He stared past the fire, watching white streaks appear through the darkness as the waves broke in repetition off the point. They had driven for hours on a dirt road, checking surf spots as they appeared along the route. Finally they found what they were looking for. A point ran out into the water, the high cliff jutting over the oceans surface. It stretched in a j shape as the cliff gave way to crumbled rocks, then soft sand. The wave ran along the point, breaking smoothly over a rock reef. Each one mirroring the last; consistently challenging each other to become a better wave.
They had surfed until the sun faded into the ocean, leaving a brilliant orange haze that sunk slowly to the West. Each wave as though created by man, an amusement park for surfers. When Ryan could barely see the rollers coming in, he caught his last wave and set up camp.
The camp was simple, there green dome two man tent quickly stationed as a makeshift home. He found some rocks about the size of softballs and made a ring for the fire. He kept the hatch on his SUV opened and hung a Coleman lantern to help him spot scorpions making their way towards the warmth of the fire.
They heated a can of beans in the fire and smothered tortillas with cheese and salsa they picked up in a little market back in town. They only had goat cheese, which is the standard down in these parts, making for a bitter burrito. After they finished eating and throwing their paper plates in the fire, they rolled up a couple joints from their newly scored pot, sat back in their folding chairs, and smoked away.
Ryan had finished his joint and was enjoying the high; switching his gaze from searching for a breaking wave and watching the fire taunt him with brilliant flashes of orange, yellow and blue. He came out of his transfixed stare when an ember exploded in the fire, making a sharp cracking noise and sending sparks harrowingly close to his face.
“Holy shit,” he remarked and Jeff started laughing hysterically at the scene of his friend almost falling backward. After Ryan’s initial panic quickly dissipated he began to laugh as well. The boys shared a good laugh, tears rolling down their faces, after a while not even really remembering why they were even laughing.
After a while they settled back, Ryan switching glares from the water to the fire, yet this time keeping his face further away. Finally his gaze went upward and he started wondering how far away the stars were, each one having an illuminating light that traveled endlessly until it had reached his stare.
“Do you think there are aliens out there, man?” Ryan asked.
“For sure, think about it. Space is infinite, right? So, that means you can keep traveling, in any direction, forever. Can you possibly tell me that in this idea of forever, you wouldn’t run into a planet, similar to ours with some sort of species on it? Whether it be a three headed, yellow eyed, split tongue monster that knew how to solve math equations even our computers can’t solve or a bug more stupid then a dung beetle, roaming mindlessly; there has to be something, somewhere.”
“Well, what if that’s not the case,” Ryan debated. “What if it ends, a simple wall that we can see? Don’t you believe this was created by some higher being; like God?”
“No way man, that’s just a myth to keep people in line. If they never created this idea of God, there would be no fear of death. If there was no fear of death, there would be no need to worry of repercussions. In the present it’s tougher. If you break the law, then you go to jail; but back when the law couldn’t control the masses, they needed to create something grander then law. What’s grander then the idea that if you break these moral codes, you burn in a fire bound hell for eternity. With the ability to monitor the masses they have today, keep check on abiding laws and deterring behavior with fear of getting raped in the ass by some big honky inmate in jail; there is not so much a need to worry about a God. Instead you need to worry if big brother is watching you."
“What about when you die, then?” Ryan continued his argument, although not really knowing what he, himself, believed. “What happens to us then?”
Jeff stared silently into the fire, eyes transfixed as if picturing the very moment he took his last breath. “It’s simply over.” He replied. “You ever go to bed, lie down after a long day and quickly fall asleep; then before you know it, you’re awake again. You don’t dream, there was nothing in between the time you went to sleep and the time your mind returned to the present world. You simply were gone. You ever have those nights?”
“Yeah, I mean, I dream most of the time; but once in awhile I don’t have any dreams at all.”
“That length of time, when there is just nothing there; that’s death. It’s simply over. You don’t go on to some parade in the sky, following the light. You don’t burn in hell, doing push up’s forever in dog shit, while the devil whips your back. You don’t play cards with Martin Luther King Jr. and King Tut. You simply are gone; it’s all simply just gone.”
“That doesn’t make you bummed? Don’t you want more?” Ryan asked somberly.
“No man; live life and enjoy it. Then when it’s done, sleep good.” Ryan stood up quickly after and began walking off. “I got to take a piss, wow man, we’re really stoned to be having this stupid ass conversation.” He said this and began laughing as he walked past the rays of dancing firelight.
Ryan sat there and contemplated the conversation. He was never raised to go to church and only been a few times to impress some girl he had been dating. He always felt as though he was attending an English course, all seeming to fictional. The stories never spoke of fact, just the idea of what someone held as truth. He couldn’t see falling blindly to such premonitions of someone that didn’t even know what text messaging was. Haven’t we proved so many things since the advent of religion to still follow it without any new discoveries to be made? Communism is a belief that is quickly faltering worldwide due to the holes in the theories; yet Religion has waged on. Yet, he felt so empty and scared to think there was nothing else out there, except maybe a three headed monster or a dung beetle.
They had surfed until the sun faded into the ocean, leaving a brilliant orange haze that sunk slowly to the West. Each wave as though created by man, an amusement park for surfers. When Ryan could barely see the rollers coming in, he caught his last wave and set up camp.
The camp was simple, there green dome two man tent quickly stationed as a makeshift home. He found some rocks about the size of softballs and made a ring for the fire. He kept the hatch on his SUV opened and hung a Coleman lantern to help him spot scorpions making their way towards the warmth of the fire.
They heated a can of beans in the fire and smothered tortillas with cheese and salsa they picked up in a little market back in town. They only had goat cheese, which is the standard down in these parts, making for a bitter burrito. After they finished eating and throwing their paper plates in the fire, they rolled up a couple joints from their newly scored pot, sat back in their folding chairs, and smoked away.
Ryan had finished his joint and was enjoying the high; switching his gaze from searching for a breaking wave and watching the fire taunt him with brilliant flashes of orange, yellow and blue. He came out of his transfixed stare when an ember exploded in the fire, making a sharp cracking noise and sending sparks harrowingly close to his face.
“Holy shit,” he remarked and Jeff started laughing hysterically at the scene of his friend almost falling backward. After Ryan’s initial panic quickly dissipated he began to laugh as well. The boys shared a good laugh, tears rolling down their faces, after a while not even really remembering why they were even laughing.
After a while they settled back, Ryan switching glares from the water to the fire, yet this time keeping his face further away. Finally his gaze went upward and he started wondering how far away the stars were, each one having an illuminating light that traveled endlessly until it had reached his stare.
“Do you think there are aliens out there, man?” Ryan asked.
“For sure, think about it. Space is infinite, right? So, that means you can keep traveling, in any direction, forever. Can you possibly tell me that in this idea of forever, you wouldn’t run into a planet, similar to ours with some sort of species on it? Whether it be a three headed, yellow eyed, split tongue monster that knew how to solve math equations even our computers can’t solve or a bug more stupid then a dung beetle, roaming mindlessly; there has to be something, somewhere.”
“Well, what if that’s not the case,” Ryan debated. “What if it ends, a simple wall that we can see? Don’t you believe this was created by some higher being; like God?”
“No way man, that’s just a myth to keep people in line. If they never created this idea of God, there would be no fear of death. If there was no fear of death, there would be no need to worry of repercussions. In the present it’s tougher. If you break the law, then you go to jail; but back when the law couldn’t control the masses, they needed to create something grander then law. What’s grander then the idea that if you break these moral codes, you burn in a fire bound hell for eternity. With the ability to monitor the masses they have today, keep check on abiding laws and deterring behavior with fear of getting raped in the ass by some big honky inmate in jail; there is not so much a need to worry about a God. Instead you need to worry if big brother is watching you."
“What about when you die, then?” Ryan continued his argument, although not really knowing what he, himself, believed. “What happens to us then?”
Jeff stared silently into the fire, eyes transfixed as if picturing the very moment he took his last breath. “It’s simply over.” He replied. “You ever go to bed, lie down after a long day and quickly fall asleep; then before you know it, you’re awake again. You don’t dream, there was nothing in between the time you went to sleep and the time your mind returned to the present world. You simply were gone. You ever have those nights?”
“Yeah, I mean, I dream most of the time; but once in awhile I don’t have any dreams at all.”
“That length of time, when there is just nothing there; that’s death. It’s simply over. You don’t go on to some parade in the sky, following the light. You don’t burn in hell, doing push up’s forever in dog shit, while the devil whips your back. You don’t play cards with Martin Luther King Jr. and King Tut. You simply are gone; it’s all simply just gone.”
“That doesn’t make you bummed? Don’t you want more?” Ryan asked somberly.
“No man; live life and enjoy it. Then when it’s done, sleep good.” Ryan stood up quickly after and began walking off. “I got to take a piss, wow man, we’re really stoned to be having this stupid ass conversation.” He said this and began laughing as he walked past the rays of dancing firelight.
Ryan sat there and contemplated the conversation. He was never raised to go to church and only been a few times to impress some girl he had been dating. He always felt as though he was attending an English course, all seeming to fictional. The stories never spoke of fact, just the idea of what someone held as truth. He couldn’t see falling blindly to such premonitions of someone that didn’t even know what text messaging was. Haven’t we proved so many things since the advent of religion to still follow it without any new discoveries to be made? Communism is a belief that is quickly faltering worldwide due to the holes in the theories; yet Religion has waged on. Yet, he felt so empty and scared to think there was nothing else out there, except maybe a three headed monster or a dung beetle.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Peer Pressure
The words seem to float from the jurors mouth as she read the verdict. She stands before the court, uncomfortably balanced as though held by strings. Her gaze is fixed solely upon the piece of paper which held my fate. Although you could tell normally she would swipe her brown bangs from her dark eyes, which often fell down across her brow while reading, this time she lets them remain, almost as though hoping this helped her remain hidden.
Most of the other jurors stare at her as though awaiting the verdict unknowingly. It wasn’t their sole decision they would tell themselves later, it was a group decision. They would also comfort themselves by the feeling of a civic duty was thrust upon them and they did what was best for society. There will be many thoughts on lonely nights for some of these jurors as they lay in bed; staring at the ceiling, juggling this decision as though they were razor sharp knives performed in a circus act.
A few though look directly through me. They are proud they are better then me and feel a sense of accomplishment for being a part of this sanction of judicial relevancy. They will boost later at the bar, stiff cocktail in hand, how they played their role in the American Structure as they saw fit. That night, neatly pressed suit returned to the hanger in the closet, they will sleep well; never noticing the crack that runs like a spiderweb across their bedroom ceiling.
I hate neither these groups of individuals; neither the guilt ridden or guiltless. They did not cause me to be standing before them, the judge and God. I look down at my hands as these words drift towards me, feeling the sweat on my palm in a trickle. These hands could have gone on to do so much. They could have gained strength from days of hard work, each callous reminding me of accomplishment. They could have felt the soft arch of a woman’s back as I held her tight after a long day. They could have brought laughter to my child’s face as I brought them away from my eyes in a game of peek-a-boo. They could have done so many things.
Instead these hands took themselves away from me; as well as took away my mind, body and soul, when it fired a gun on that fateful night. How could it turn into what is now perceived as a cold hearted murder come from what I once remember myself as. Do any of these jurors know that I won my fifth grade spelling bee? Could they understand how I once wanted to be an astronaut, with dreams of floating in outer space? Or how I stopped Johnny Jenkins from throwing rocks at the school window; not for fear of being caught, but knowing it was a bad thing to be doing. How would they know, I no longer know that boy.
It all seemed to come so fast, as though the levees of my life broke free and water poured in from all sides. Nothing changed; my mother didn’t leave us, my father didn’t start beating me, I just changed. One day I was hoping the girl in the corner of home room would go to the Spring Fling with me, the next day I was ditching home room to smoke pot in the boys bathroom. A world that once seemed filled with brightness suddenly seemed a darker place. The feeling of a justified cause was only justified if it benefited me. I was angry for no reason, which just angered me more. The friends that I would play stick ball in the street were now enemies; judging me and not understanding who I really was. Yet they were the only ones that really tried to understand.
The new group I began hanging out with didn’t understand me, but they didn’t try to understand me. Instead they were in the same angst filled mental state. For some the world is their oyster; for us that oyster tasted disgusting, raw and hard to swallow. Defiance and being tough were better traits then smart and kindhearted. Things started simple, small acts of vandalism and some drugs to keep us entertained. This developed as we got bored with the smaller things and moved on to bigger. Vandalism turned to theft, pot turned to crack cocaine. I was in a haze driven by my own free will, without any control over that freedom.
My parents noticed and did the steps most parents do. They tried getting stricter, which I defied even stronger. They were now just as worthless as my old friends, not understanding, not knowing. They tried relating to me and looking towards ways to help me. I ignorantly laughed at this idea, how could they ever understand what I was going through. Everything just led to me being angrier; at them and at life. Anger is fast fueled when you really have no reason to be angry.
The words finally hit my ears. “We the people, find the defendant Guilty of first degree murder.”
For some, their eighteenth birthday is a day of maturity, independence and achievement. Mine just became a death sentence. Two weeks prior to the crime, yet changing the course of my life indefinitely.
This verdict was justified because it was unanimously decided upon my peers. Yet it was also my peers who unanimously decided to convince me that shooting Samuel “one sock” Johnson was justified. Life can be so ironic.
At this point I was living with my friend in a run down apartment, dropping out of high school to spend more time selling crack. The money was good enough to pay rent, buy a decent car and take out an assortment of women. I felt like I was on the fast track of life. My anger was clouded by my ecstasy of drugs and sex. My judgment clouded by my ecstasy. At eighteen, meager living conditions seem to be elevated when responsibility is knowing when to eat, shit and shave. We lived in the heart of the city, the heart of the action. I had the clothes, the gold and the attitude to show I was now a man.
The proving grounds were pushed further when I was told by my friends that one sock was dealing in our neighborhood. I knew action was needed, but felt tense about doing so. I had never really been in a fight. I’ve been there and backed my friends when they have been. I’ve gone toe to toes with plenty of guys trying to be harder then me. These just usually go back and forth with shit talking and how we could kick each other’s asses as we walk in separate directions. This would need more, this needed to be an example for others if I was to maintain my reputation.
Instead of maintaining my Reputation, I lost my future. What was supposed to be a scare tactic with my Glock pistol, turned into me shooting him. He just stared at me, and continued staring. My friends chanting, he’s disrespecting you, shoot him, shoot him. I can hear it over and over and see his eyes. Cold and hard as ice, yet would not melt. I stood there, arm extended, gun in hand. Praying he would turn and run. It felt like an eternity. I don’t remember squeezing the trigger, almost as though it just went off. He flew backwards and before his body hit the ground I began to run. Yet running can get you places, but will never set you free.
So know it’s been set, my future, the boy who enjoyed ice cream sandwiches and the sound of video arcades. The boy who used to sleep better after his Mom tucked him in and said she loved him. The boy who knew nothing of what the world had to offer. That boy was now a Man that would never find out what the world would have to offer.
Most of the other jurors stare at her as though awaiting the verdict unknowingly. It wasn’t their sole decision they would tell themselves later, it was a group decision. They would also comfort themselves by the feeling of a civic duty was thrust upon them and they did what was best for society. There will be many thoughts on lonely nights for some of these jurors as they lay in bed; staring at the ceiling, juggling this decision as though they were razor sharp knives performed in a circus act.
A few though look directly through me. They are proud they are better then me and feel a sense of accomplishment for being a part of this sanction of judicial relevancy. They will boost later at the bar, stiff cocktail in hand, how they played their role in the American Structure as they saw fit. That night, neatly pressed suit returned to the hanger in the closet, they will sleep well; never noticing the crack that runs like a spiderweb across their bedroom ceiling.
I hate neither these groups of individuals; neither the guilt ridden or guiltless. They did not cause me to be standing before them, the judge and God. I look down at my hands as these words drift towards me, feeling the sweat on my palm in a trickle. These hands could have gone on to do so much. They could have gained strength from days of hard work, each callous reminding me of accomplishment. They could have felt the soft arch of a woman’s back as I held her tight after a long day. They could have brought laughter to my child’s face as I brought them away from my eyes in a game of peek-a-boo. They could have done so many things.
Instead these hands took themselves away from me; as well as took away my mind, body and soul, when it fired a gun on that fateful night. How could it turn into what is now perceived as a cold hearted murder come from what I once remember myself as. Do any of these jurors know that I won my fifth grade spelling bee? Could they understand how I once wanted to be an astronaut, with dreams of floating in outer space? Or how I stopped Johnny Jenkins from throwing rocks at the school window; not for fear of being caught, but knowing it was a bad thing to be doing. How would they know, I no longer know that boy.
It all seemed to come so fast, as though the levees of my life broke free and water poured in from all sides. Nothing changed; my mother didn’t leave us, my father didn’t start beating me, I just changed. One day I was hoping the girl in the corner of home room would go to the Spring Fling with me, the next day I was ditching home room to smoke pot in the boys bathroom. A world that once seemed filled with brightness suddenly seemed a darker place. The feeling of a justified cause was only justified if it benefited me. I was angry for no reason, which just angered me more. The friends that I would play stick ball in the street were now enemies; judging me and not understanding who I really was. Yet they were the only ones that really tried to understand.
The new group I began hanging out with didn’t understand me, but they didn’t try to understand me. Instead they were in the same angst filled mental state. For some the world is their oyster; for us that oyster tasted disgusting, raw and hard to swallow. Defiance and being tough were better traits then smart and kindhearted. Things started simple, small acts of vandalism and some drugs to keep us entertained. This developed as we got bored with the smaller things and moved on to bigger. Vandalism turned to theft, pot turned to crack cocaine. I was in a haze driven by my own free will, without any control over that freedom.
My parents noticed and did the steps most parents do. They tried getting stricter, which I defied even stronger. They were now just as worthless as my old friends, not understanding, not knowing. They tried relating to me and looking towards ways to help me. I ignorantly laughed at this idea, how could they ever understand what I was going through. Everything just led to me being angrier; at them and at life. Anger is fast fueled when you really have no reason to be angry.
The words finally hit my ears. “We the people, find the defendant Guilty of first degree murder.”
For some, their eighteenth birthday is a day of maturity, independence and achievement. Mine just became a death sentence. Two weeks prior to the crime, yet changing the course of my life indefinitely.
This verdict was justified because it was unanimously decided upon my peers. Yet it was also my peers who unanimously decided to convince me that shooting Samuel “one sock” Johnson was justified. Life can be so ironic.
At this point I was living with my friend in a run down apartment, dropping out of high school to spend more time selling crack. The money was good enough to pay rent, buy a decent car and take out an assortment of women. I felt like I was on the fast track of life. My anger was clouded by my ecstasy of drugs and sex. My judgment clouded by my ecstasy. At eighteen, meager living conditions seem to be elevated when responsibility is knowing when to eat, shit and shave. We lived in the heart of the city, the heart of the action. I had the clothes, the gold and the attitude to show I was now a man.
The proving grounds were pushed further when I was told by my friends that one sock was dealing in our neighborhood. I knew action was needed, but felt tense about doing so. I had never really been in a fight. I’ve been there and backed my friends when they have been. I’ve gone toe to toes with plenty of guys trying to be harder then me. These just usually go back and forth with shit talking and how we could kick each other’s asses as we walk in separate directions. This would need more, this needed to be an example for others if I was to maintain my reputation.
Instead of maintaining my Reputation, I lost my future. What was supposed to be a scare tactic with my Glock pistol, turned into me shooting him. He just stared at me, and continued staring. My friends chanting, he’s disrespecting you, shoot him, shoot him. I can hear it over and over and see his eyes. Cold and hard as ice, yet would not melt. I stood there, arm extended, gun in hand. Praying he would turn and run. It felt like an eternity. I don’t remember squeezing the trigger, almost as though it just went off. He flew backwards and before his body hit the ground I began to run. Yet running can get you places, but will never set you free.
So know it’s been set, my future, the boy who enjoyed ice cream sandwiches and the sound of video arcades. The boy who used to sleep better after his Mom tucked him in and said she loved him. The boy who knew nothing of what the world had to offer. That boy was now a Man that would never find out what the world would have to offer.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Golfing Lessons
My Grandfather Harry Marland was a wise man. He never proved any scientific theories or outwardly shown his brilliance in a defining manner. He just simply portrayed wisdom by his behaviors. His voice rarely rose above a powerful tone, even when I was caught doing something wrong as a child. Instead he would simply let me know what I was doing was wrong and why, and in that itself I felt bad for my misdeed.
One of the things I loved the most about my Grandfathers demeanor was the way he thought before he spoke. Whether answering a question, or starting a conversation; you could tell he chose carefully the words he would use. When most human beings speak, we go off emotion. Words formulate on our brain and we expel them like they are needed to be released from the mind or the mind will suffocate; as though those words are rising from the depths of the ocean to capture their first breath of oxygen. The result of these actions usually involves the meaning of what we are trying to say to be misconstrued. A simple tone misplaced can change the whole parameter of a statement. Constructive criticism can turn cynical, admiration turned to jealousy, teachings turn into directions. It’s easy for the listener to find a different meaning and place judgment quickly when the person standing before them is speaking emotionally.
I remember once my Grandfather taking me golfing. I was young, and at this age I was known for my temper. Things upset me easily and I would find myself throwing the glorified temper tantrum as though a scripted act when getting frustrated. I would feel the blood begin to boil and as though there were no control over my actions. I was pissed, and the world was going to know it. I would take this anger out on anything or anyone near me. Walls would be punched, which would end with a busted hand and dented wall; yet no resolution to what frustrated me. Cuss words would fall out my mouth and things thrown; anyone near me falling prey to these actions. I would go into my demented rage, saying things that I didn’t even truly mean, with no concern for consequence. Most just stayed out of my way while occurring, parents administering punishment after finished. My Grandfather; however, had a different action on the greens of the golf course one sunny summer afternoon.
He was attempting to teach me the fine game that had been a relationship builder for him and my brother early in the year. My brother, as with most things in our youth, picked the sport up quite easily. We stood there on the driving range, my Grandfather and I, overlooking the wide span of open space before us. I was quite enthusiastic because I rarely got to spend time with him by myself, and hoped to make him proud of me with a nice hit of the golf ball. How hard could this really be, thought I impatient to step to the tee, the ball isn’t even moving.
My Grandfather attempted to give some tips on how to hold my hands, which felt uncomfortable and forced to me, like my fingers were bending in ways that should be administered as a torture device. He assisted with my stance bluntly, “Stand here, keep the ball here, bend the knees, keep your eyes down,” the orders came as though sharp sounds of instruction. I stood there, feeling awkwardly situated before this small, white, dimpled golf ball. I brought the club back fast like getting ready to hack a weed out of the lawn, and swung it forward with a thump as it struck the ground a few inches before hitting the ball. The club head, bouncing up with force, hit the top of the ball. It rolled off the tee and went about two feet forward, in which I began complaining before the ball and finished its roll.
“Have patience, Shawn,” My grandfather attempted to calm my nerves. “Golf is not as easy as it looks.”
We continued this pattern for about ten more times before I finally threw the club on the ground and stormed off claiming how stupid golf was. My Grandfather picked up the club and waked over to me as I sulked on a bench. He patiently held the club outstretched towards me and waited for me to look up. Doing so, he gave another nod back at the range with a stern look. It wasn’t a question of asking me if I would like to try again, he was telling me.
We went back and continued again the pattern, but this time my Grandfather adding words of advice, “Swing back slower, bring the club further back, your looking up, I’ll see where the ball goes.” In my mind I mocked every direction with an insult, yet followed the advice. After a few more attempts, the club connected and the ball soared through the air. With excitement I looked back at my Grandfather expecting to see him jumping up and down, yet he stood there, with the same poker face, watching the ball fly over the grass.
I questioned his motives, why was he not as happy as I, why was he standing there as though I hacked another ball two feet. He just stood there, looking at me, waiting for me to try again. So I tee’d up, expecting to smack the ball even further. I stood the same place, held my hands the same way, brought the club up the same speed, and whack; the ball rolled two feet. My temper flared, I got frustrated again and had enough. At this point, my Grandfather was ready as well. We collected the clubs and headed to the car.
On the ride home, I sat there disappointed at myself. The car was filled with silence as he had the same solemn look on his face. “You know Shawn,” he calmly stated, “you get very mad when you make a mistake, and very happy when you do something right. It seems to me you have two extremes, and voice them quickly.” That was all he said. He dropped me off at my Mom’s house and that was the end of my golfing experience.
As I got older, my temper was something I always had to work at. Many times I wound up in fist fights, pissed off friends, or angry girlfriends from words and actions taken in a barrage of angst. On the other hand, being the life of the party when in a good mood; happy, cracking jokes like nothing can bother me. This often went back to the two extremes, the Gemini inside of me.
This year has seemed to be yet another where this action has dictated my life. Work, women and friends were constantly plagued by a multitude of personalities; controlled by reactions. I remembered, while sitting at home one night, alone with my sixth beer warming my thoughts, on that day and what my Grandfather had not only said, but how he acted. He didn’t get upset at me, for either doing bad or for getting upset. He didn’t get overly excited for me as I made connection with that ball. He just watched and reacted slightly. This, made perfect sense with his statement in the car. We often allow our emotions to dictate our actions. By not allowing our emotions to get to us, we can react in a more positive way.
This should be the development of our actions. When something is happening, think before you speak. Take that extra breath and formulate the words correctly, as to make sure the meaning is clear and precise; versus a spattering of thoughts. Before acting on a feeling, think of consequences at hand and how that although this is what one feels at that point in time, see how things change and develop. Before speaking, think of how your actions will be portrayed and the affect they might have.
Later in life, I picked up the club again and began to golf. When doing so, the first thoughts etched in my brain were the quick directions my Grandpa provided. I could hear each given as I set myself before the ball. As I slowly brought the club back, hands in the right position, feet spaced just right, I could still feel him behind me. Then, as I brought the club down, whack, the ball rolled forward about two feet. I couldn’t help but smile.
One of the things I loved the most about my Grandfathers demeanor was the way he thought before he spoke. Whether answering a question, or starting a conversation; you could tell he chose carefully the words he would use. When most human beings speak, we go off emotion. Words formulate on our brain and we expel them like they are needed to be released from the mind or the mind will suffocate; as though those words are rising from the depths of the ocean to capture their first breath of oxygen. The result of these actions usually involves the meaning of what we are trying to say to be misconstrued. A simple tone misplaced can change the whole parameter of a statement. Constructive criticism can turn cynical, admiration turned to jealousy, teachings turn into directions. It’s easy for the listener to find a different meaning and place judgment quickly when the person standing before them is speaking emotionally.
I remember once my Grandfather taking me golfing. I was young, and at this age I was known for my temper. Things upset me easily and I would find myself throwing the glorified temper tantrum as though a scripted act when getting frustrated. I would feel the blood begin to boil and as though there were no control over my actions. I was pissed, and the world was going to know it. I would take this anger out on anything or anyone near me. Walls would be punched, which would end with a busted hand and dented wall; yet no resolution to what frustrated me. Cuss words would fall out my mouth and things thrown; anyone near me falling prey to these actions. I would go into my demented rage, saying things that I didn’t even truly mean, with no concern for consequence. Most just stayed out of my way while occurring, parents administering punishment after finished. My Grandfather; however, had a different action on the greens of the golf course one sunny summer afternoon.
He was attempting to teach me the fine game that had been a relationship builder for him and my brother early in the year. My brother, as with most things in our youth, picked the sport up quite easily. We stood there on the driving range, my Grandfather and I, overlooking the wide span of open space before us. I was quite enthusiastic because I rarely got to spend time with him by myself, and hoped to make him proud of me with a nice hit of the golf ball. How hard could this really be, thought I impatient to step to the tee, the ball isn’t even moving.
My Grandfather attempted to give some tips on how to hold my hands, which felt uncomfortable and forced to me, like my fingers were bending in ways that should be administered as a torture device. He assisted with my stance bluntly, “Stand here, keep the ball here, bend the knees, keep your eyes down,” the orders came as though sharp sounds of instruction. I stood there, feeling awkwardly situated before this small, white, dimpled golf ball. I brought the club back fast like getting ready to hack a weed out of the lawn, and swung it forward with a thump as it struck the ground a few inches before hitting the ball. The club head, bouncing up with force, hit the top of the ball. It rolled off the tee and went about two feet forward, in which I began complaining before the ball and finished its roll.
“Have patience, Shawn,” My grandfather attempted to calm my nerves. “Golf is not as easy as it looks.”
We continued this pattern for about ten more times before I finally threw the club on the ground and stormed off claiming how stupid golf was. My Grandfather picked up the club and waked over to me as I sulked on a bench. He patiently held the club outstretched towards me and waited for me to look up. Doing so, he gave another nod back at the range with a stern look. It wasn’t a question of asking me if I would like to try again, he was telling me.
We went back and continued again the pattern, but this time my Grandfather adding words of advice, “Swing back slower, bring the club further back, your looking up, I’ll see where the ball goes.” In my mind I mocked every direction with an insult, yet followed the advice. After a few more attempts, the club connected and the ball soared through the air. With excitement I looked back at my Grandfather expecting to see him jumping up and down, yet he stood there, with the same poker face, watching the ball fly over the grass.
I questioned his motives, why was he not as happy as I, why was he standing there as though I hacked another ball two feet. He just stood there, looking at me, waiting for me to try again. So I tee’d up, expecting to smack the ball even further. I stood the same place, held my hands the same way, brought the club up the same speed, and whack; the ball rolled two feet. My temper flared, I got frustrated again and had enough. At this point, my Grandfather was ready as well. We collected the clubs and headed to the car.
On the ride home, I sat there disappointed at myself. The car was filled with silence as he had the same solemn look on his face. “You know Shawn,” he calmly stated, “you get very mad when you make a mistake, and very happy when you do something right. It seems to me you have two extremes, and voice them quickly.” That was all he said. He dropped me off at my Mom’s house and that was the end of my golfing experience.
As I got older, my temper was something I always had to work at. Many times I wound up in fist fights, pissed off friends, or angry girlfriends from words and actions taken in a barrage of angst. On the other hand, being the life of the party when in a good mood; happy, cracking jokes like nothing can bother me. This often went back to the two extremes, the Gemini inside of me.
This year has seemed to be yet another where this action has dictated my life. Work, women and friends were constantly plagued by a multitude of personalities; controlled by reactions. I remembered, while sitting at home one night, alone with my sixth beer warming my thoughts, on that day and what my Grandfather had not only said, but how he acted. He didn’t get upset at me, for either doing bad or for getting upset. He didn’t get overly excited for me as I made connection with that ball. He just watched and reacted slightly. This, made perfect sense with his statement in the car. We often allow our emotions to dictate our actions. By not allowing our emotions to get to us, we can react in a more positive way.
This should be the development of our actions. When something is happening, think before you speak. Take that extra breath and formulate the words correctly, as to make sure the meaning is clear and precise; versus a spattering of thoughts. Before acting on a feeling, think of consequences at hand and how that although this is what one feels at that point in time, see how things change and develop. Before speaking, think of how your actions will be portrayed and the affect they might have.
Later in life, I picked up the club again and began to golf. When doing so, the first thoughts etched in my brain were the quick directions my Grandpa provided. I could hear each given as I set myself before the ball. As I slowly brought the club back, hands in the right position, feet spaced just right, I could still feel him behind me. Then, as I brought the club down, whack, the ball rolled forward about two feet. I couldn’t help but smile.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Don't Let the Morning Come
Don’t let the morning come
I can smell the dew on my windowsill
Don’t let the morning come
I just want her to remain laying still
Because when she wakes up
I know she'll remember what I’ve done before
Because when she wakes up
I know she won’t be coming around here no more
Don’t let the morning come
Let that sun just take a little longer
Don’t let the morning come
I know she can no longer be any stronger
Lord, I know I’ve done her wrong
And I don’t have any right to Pray
Lord, I know I’ve done her wrong
But just for one more minute let her stay
So Please, don’t let the morning come
Because we both know I’ll never change
Don’t let that morning come
Just let for one more minute she remain
I can smell the dew on my windowsill
Don’t let the morning come
I just want her to remain laying still
Because when she wakes up
I know she'll remember what I’ve done before
Because when she wakes up
I know she won’t be coming around here no more
Don’t let the morning come
Let that sun just take a little longer
Don’t let the morning come
I know she can no longer be any stronger
Lord, I know I’ve done her wrong
And I don’t have any right to Pray
Lord, I know I’ve done her wrong
But just for one more minute let her stay
So Please, don’t let the morning come
Because we both know I’ll never change
Don’t let that morning come
Just let for one more minute she remain
Friday, October 9, 2009
Sorry Me
My Mom used to tell me that my apologies meant nothing because I said I was sorry so much. It’s like the boy who called wolf, I would mess up constantly thinking that pouty eyes and the phrase “I’m Sorry” would give me exoneration from whatever devious act I was involved in. Rarely did I really feel sorry for what I had done. Most of the time if it meant I was in trouble, I enjoyed doing it; therefore the apology was just a way to ease the sentencing. Therefore, my Mom caught on and they had little impact on her verdict.
Well, I’m no longer getting in trouble by my Mother for coloring on the walls with blue crayons. It’s no longer the punishment I fear when she finds out that I’ve done something wrong. Instead, as we get older and our parents give way from disciplinarians to confidants, it’s the guilt of letting her down. It’s also the guilt for whoever my bad deed had caused pain. And the hardest part of all, is the guilt in letting yourself down.
Apologizing gets more complicated, just as the things we feel the need to apologize for do. Is sorry going to mend a broken heart as she throws things at your head? Is sorry going to persuade that cop to not ask you to blow in that breathalyzer? Is sorry going to get your job back if you screw up? Odds are, no.
Your Mom is also not going to punish you for these types of things. Instead, you’ll punish yourself thinking that you’ve disappointed her; something that wouldn’t have passed through a single synapse when a child. You’ll feel the need to tell her all about how you messed up, waiting for those judging eyes to tell you what you did was wrong. Instead though, without needing to even apologize, your Mom looks upon you with forgiving eyes and words of encouragement.
The worst apology that rarely is given is the apology to oneself. Very seldom do we look in the mirror and say I’m sorry for screwing up. It’s the one person, when being an adult, that you need to apologize the most to. Your behaviors of ill gotten acts have damaged nobody more then the consequences you face. Yet we rarely apologize. Even less do we forgive ourselves.
I found this to be one of my strongest flaws lately. I’ve done nothing truly wrong, haven’t drowned any kittens or gone on destructive act of vandalism, just the normal stuff we find ourselves waking with guilt from. Breaking a heart or being a drunken ass. Times when I know what I’ve done was wrong. I no longer need my Mother standing over me grilling me with those eyes. She did a great job of instilling values in me, but sometimes I push those values aside for selfish cravings of debauchery or lust. However, when looking upon what I’ve done, I feel guilty; worse then when I would break a house hold rule and my only concern was the punishment my parents were about to hand down.
So next time you screw up, and we all will screw up again, make sure to apologize to the one person that is taking the mistake the hardest, yourself. And even more important, forgive yourself for that mistake. Besides, we’re only human.
Well, I’m no longer getting in trouble by my Mother for coloring on the walls with blue crayons. It’s no longer the punishment I fear when she finds out that I’ve done something wrong. Instead, as we get older and our parents give way from disciplinarians to confidants, it’s the guilt of letting her down. It’s also the guilt for whoever my bad deed had caused pain. And the hardest part of all, is the guilt in letting yourself down.
Apologizing gets more complicated, just as the things we feel the need to apologize for do. Is sorry going to mend a broken heart as she throws things at your head? Is sorry going to persuade that cop to not ask you to blow in that breathalyzer? Is sorry going to get your job back if you screw up? Odds are, no.
Your Mom is also not going to punish you for these types of things. Instead, you’ll punish yourself thinking that you’ve disappointed her; something that wouldn’t have passed through a single synapse when a child. You’ll feel the need to tell her all about how you messed up, waiting for those judging eyes to tell you what you did was wrong. Instead though, without needing to even apologize, your Mom looks upon you with forgiving eyes and words of encouragement.
The worst apology that rarely is given is the apology to oneself. Very seldom do we look in the mirror and say I’m sorry for screwing up. It’s the one person, when being an adult, that you need to apologize the most to. Your behaviors of ill gotten acts have damaged nobody more then the consequences you face. Yet we rarely apologize. Even less do we forgive ourselves.
I found this to be one of my strongest flaws lately. I’ve done nothing truly wrong, haven’t drowned any kittens or gone on destructive act of vandalism, just the normal stuff we find ourselves waking with guilt from. Breaking a heart or being a drunken ass. Times when I know what I’ve done was wrong. I no longer need my Mother standing over me grilling me with those eyes. She did a great job of instilling values in me, but sometimes I push those values aside for selfish cravings of debauchery or lust. However, when looking upon what I’ve done, I feel guilty; worse then when I would break a house hold rule and my only concern was the punishment my parents were about to hand down.
So next time you screw up, and we all will screw up again, make sure to apologize to the one person that is taking the mistake the hardest, yourself. And even more important, forgive yourself for that mistake. Besides, we’re only human.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Happy Homless Man
So I'm driving to the coffee shop to escape my day at work today, I don't even need anymore caffiene to stir the tense anxiety of angst towards life from another annoying day of work. Here I am, teeth grinding, empty cup of coffee sitting in the cup holder, surrounded by spots from other cups of coffee designed to fuel me through the day. I dont' even know what I'm mad at, just have that heightened sense of my mind rushing through scenario after scenario.... Go Back to work, mind my yells at me, tell them to take this job and shove it up there asses.... Don't go back to work, simutaneously my mind yelling at me.... sell everything and run away from life to be a drunken pirate...not even sure what that part of my mind means, must be losing it a bit.... go back to work....the more rational part of mind, suck it up and work your ass of like you will day in and day out for the rest of your life.
As my mind is doing figure eights through my mind, like an angry high school kid taking his newly purhased bronco across a lawn at one in the morning, I notice a crazy black guy walking down the street. Crazy you ask, why would I presume, well unless he had the newest technology in cell phone hands he was laughing and talking out loud as jolly if telling a funny story to his friend walking next to him...but there was no friend. I tried to avoid a stare so the guilt of that poor unfortunate man wouldn't cause me a second of deep thought on our societies care for the mentally ill.... however instead found myself staring with quite interest.
I wanted to know, WHY WAS HE SO HAPPY. His sunken in checks and dangly arms told me was malnourished, probably had lost the memory of what a good steak dinner tasted like. Hung on his frame like a lampshade was a green stained shirt. His levi pants were almost faded to a white haze. He was alone, probably sleeping somewhere I wouldn't venture to in the middle of the day, with nobody in his life. Yet He was happy.
Yeah, could it be a mind of self madness, a distorted reality fueled by some snapped synapse in his brain, fueled by alcohol or drug. Most likely, yeah. but he was happy.
We all take a lot of pity on people suffering from mental handicaps, autistic, mental retardation, schezophrenia. Many of us see them and feel bad for them. However, a lot of the times they are smiling, laughing and jovial. It seeems to me a lot of handicaps out there seem to be self involved in another world not flawed by outside sources. Since there minds shelter themselves they don't find the problems people with a clear understanding of what's expected in society have.
Some of you reading might be saying....you cold hearted bastard. Some of you might be asking about that madman that is screaming obscenities. I'm not saying I don't feel individuals with mental handicaps have it "easy". I also am not saying all mental handicaps lead to a sense of euphoria. I'm just saying that some don't need sympathy and some do enjoy euphoaria..... and they are some lucky sons of bitches.
Imagine not having a rough day at work, the kind of days where you question what you are doing with your life, staring numbly into that tumbler of whiskey. Imagine not storming out the door after another fight with the person you are supposed to understand and cherish until death, yet instead find yourself wondering how you got yourself in this god forsaken mess with someone you truely never knew. Imagine not getting hot under the collar because you got cut off and that asshole in the audi didn't even glance back as your slammed on your breaks. Imagine not slamming on your keyboards as your computer freezes yet again with another virus, imagine not worrying about the state of the economy, war, famine and disease.
Instead you are just walking down the street, laughing at something we will never understand, nothing to your name and not a care in the world.
Doesn't sound to bad to me.
As my mind is doing figure eights through my mind, like an angry high school kid taking his newly purhased bronco across a lawn at one in the morning, I notice a crazy black guy walking down the street. Crazy you ask, why would I presume, well unless he had the newest technology in cell phone hands he was laughing and talking out loud as jolly if telling a funny story to his friend walking next to him...but there was no friend. I tried to avoid a stare so the guilt of that poor unfortunate man wouldn't cause me a second of deep thought on our societies care for the mentally ill.... however instead found myself staring with quite interest.
I wanted to know, WHY WAS HE SO HAPPY. His sunken in checks and dangly arms told me was malnourished, probably had lost the memory of what a good steak dinner tasted like. Hung on his frame like a lampshade was a green stained shirt. His levi pants were almost faded to a white haze. He was alone, probably sleeping somewhere I wouldn't venture to in the middle of the day, with nobody in his life. Yet He was happy.
Yeah, could it be a mind of self madness, a distorted reality fueled by some snapped synapse in his brain, fueled by alcohol or drug. Most likely, yeah. but he was happy.
We all take a lot of pity on people suffering from mental handicaps, autistic, mental retardation, schezophrenia. Many of us see them and feel bad for them. However, a lot of the times they are smiling, laughing and jovial. It seeems to me a lot of handicaps out there seem to be self involved in another world not flawed by outside sources. Since there minds shelter themselves they don't find the problems people with a clear understanding of what's expected in society have.
Some of you reading might be saying....you cold hearted bastard. Some of you might be asking about that madman that is screaming obscenities. I'm not saying I don't feel individuals with mental handicaps have it "easy". I also am not saying all mental handicaps lead to a sense of euphoria. I'm just saying that some don't need sympathy and some do enjoy euphoaria..... and they are some lucky sons of bitches.
Imagine not having a rough day at work, the kind of days where you question what you are doing with your life, staring numbly into that tumbler of whiskey. Imagine not storming out the door after another fight with the person you are supposed to understand and cherish until death, yet instead find yourself wondering how you got yourself in this god forsaken mess with someone you truely never knew. Imagine not getting hot under the collar because you got cut off and that asshole in the audi didn't even glance back as your slammed on your breaks. Imagine not slamming on your keyboards as your computer freezes yet again with another virus, imagine not worrying about the state of the economy, war, famine and disease.
Instead you are just walking down the street, laughing at something we will never understand, nothing to your name and not a care in the world.
Doesn't sound to bad to me.
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