Red Balloons Head West

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

Puzzles

So I lay awake at three in the morning, questioning life in a particular way. I look at the women that I’ve known over the past few years and my attempts at that dreaded word known as commitment. My friend Tracie always questions my ethics, in here high pitched tone asking, “why do you go back and then run away again?” That’s the exact thing that got me to start writing the next piece I put together, puzzles. I can’t answer directly what is in my heart or mind when I find myself perched on the barstool, drinking away the sorrows of another lost love affair. Instead I just take that drink and try not to think too much about what I gave up.


Relationships are like puzzles. You begin with scattered pieces and broken images you hope to put together. Starting with the corners you build a base and start filling everything in with rapid success. At first the pieces come easy and before you know it they snap together completing the frame. Then, intrigued on one corner, they continue to find their way in your hands; almost standing out alone. There shapes have minor contours that are simple to match by briefly rummaging thru the pile. You quickly moved forward and get a glimpse of a part of the picture; half the puzzle is laid out in front of you, showing what you so hoped for.

For a while you leave the puzzle as it is. Although not finished you enjoy what has become. while leaving the other pieces in a pile on the outskirts of the border. Then one day you realize you have not finished what you started and are no longer fulfilled with just that portion of the picture. There is the need to find out what the rest displays. So you begin attempting to build further.

This time, however, the puzzle pieces are different. Sharp edges, deep pockets and complicated shapes confuse you. There doesn’t seem to be any pieces that fit together right, no matter how many times you move things around, nothing now falls into place. Mental exhaustion and defeat befall you as the pieces are swept of the table and put back in the box. The picture you once enjoyed, pulled apart, framework collapses as you put the lid on the box and put away on the top shelf of your closet; feeling it was just to hard to finish.

A little while goes by and you come across that box again, dusting it off it’s decided that you miss that picture that you once created. Quickly, the pieces you completed before fall back into place, surprisingly effortless. After that picture has been re-established you realize those other pieces still sitting unsettled. For a while, again, you put those pieces out of sight and just enjoy the half completed puzzle.

Yet as time goes by those pieces find themselves being turned in your hands with scrutiny. Placed down this time, however, you just want the puzzle completed so begin making pieces fit together; pushing them together, with room left between, cutting edges to make things work. The puzzle is finally complete.


Yet, when you look on what you created it’s not the image that you had hoped for. Part of the picture lies clear before you, yet the other half looks like abstract art created from a demented painter. You’re eyes no longer focus on the part you enjoyed when by itself, instead focusing on the mess that was created thru hasty decisions and lack of reprucussions. The puzzle is again swept away into the box and placed back on that top shelf; while hoping someday, someone will know how to complete that puzzle, but it won’t be you.

Suffocation

The young boy sits in the hospital bed, mattress held firm against his back, slightly risen so he could watch cartoons. The iv itches as it digs into the vein in his wrist, held in place by the translucent tape. Everytime he shifts his arm he could feel the needle move inside of him. His other hand is occupied holding a breathing treatment to his mouth, methodically taking breathes to release his lungs from the pressure that will not subside. It just won't subside.

A nurse comes in and checks on his the amount of medicine left in the breathing aparatus. It makes a gurgling sound as it turns the liquid solution into air. He bits on the mouthpiece so to give his hand a rest. The nurse looks at him impatiently. "If you let that drop again, we have to do this all over." The boy rolls his eyes and returns his hand.

He knows the drill. For the past few years he felt the poke of the needle and the throb of his hand holding that damn machine. He was ten years old now and they kept telling him that it would get better; soon he would be able to run with the other kids while playing football, not need a note for p.e. while sitting on the bleachers while the other kids made faces as they rapidly ran laps. Yet that night, just as with many other nights, he awoke with nothing in his lungs but a grasp for breath. At first, hoping to just go back to sleep. At least in his dreams he could run. Yet sleep he could not, he felt like he would vomit and had to get up. And in those situations, as he slowly opened his bedroom door, feeling the guilt of having to bother his mother again, she was already there. "Another one," she would ask, but not of impatience for herself, but of impatience for what she knew he felt; the pain that fullfilled her childs lungs.


The hospital was a drill, almost like something you see practiced when a women is near giving birth; suitcase in hand, action plan in place. They had their plan and without words carried it out until the young boy was in that hospital bed, with that hard mattress, trying not to lose feeling in his hand so the nurse wouldn't scould him.

Usually his mother would never leave his side, reading her book in the uncomfortable chair, barking orders at the new doctors who always wanted to try something new. "That doesn't work, we know what works, just do what I tell you." The doctor would roll their eyes as though her suggestion was wrong. Later they would fill out the prescription nonetheless, knowing the whole time she knew what was better for that child then they.


This time the boys mother was away getting him a treat from the cafeteria. He knew this weighed on her, he could see sometimes in her eyes the drain from dealing with him, but also knew that the love she felt was deeper then the drainage could reach. Much like a leaf blocked gutter on a stormy day not allowing the emotions to override the need to be strong. But he knew and hated waking her everytime, but it just wouldn't subside.


He was not an unhealthy looking boy, not sickly at all. Besides the whezzing noise that ecsaped his breath, one would think he would have been on the third base man for the local little league. However he wasn't, he was just trying to keep his hand from falling asleep. His blue eyes looked curiously around his room. Although all of the rooms looked the same; the cross on the wall, everything flitering thru white.

Why was there so much white in the hospitals? Is that why everyone thinks they see a bright light when dying, really just the translucent glow of the roof as they stare off losing grasp on reality? Or is it to make one feel pure, as though whatever has gone on before they entered that bed is forgotten. Who knows, he was just a kid, he just knew the room was way to bright for his likings.

The TV hoisted in the corner played a cartoon, however the antenna was bent causing the screen to flicker every 30 seconds or so, just enough to make you not want to stare. He already complained, and they told him that was the best that channel could work. It reminded him of himself. It looked like a normal tv, just couldn't work quite right.


The boy heard voices coming from the other side of the room, vision blocked by the blue curtain....only thing not really white, but of course it was a light blue. It sounded as though a Mother spoke to her son with a polite sincerity you only hear in a mothers voice when her child is sick. Soft, subtle, not wanting to arose any emotion in herself. "I'm just gonna go check for the doctor again, I'll be right back," she assured her son. Of course she would be right back, where else would a mother go, the young boy wondered.

"Alright, you're all done with your breathing treatment for now," the boy already knew this because the gurgling had come to an end. However if he told the nurse that she would tap sharply on the side, hurting his teeth and tell him there was a bit more. Better just let her do it when she feels it's done.

"Now try to get some rest and we'll give you another one in about an hour, then you should be alright to go home.:" The nurse said, dressed in white, and walked away.


The boy sat there for a moment only to realize as any young child would, he was bored. So he reached out with his right hand, causing the needle in the left to send bolts up his arm, and pulled back the curtain to see who needed to be re-assured their mother would return. A young black child lay on the best next to his. Looked to be about 10, like himself, yet skinner, weaker. The young boy stared over for a minute, trying to think of something to say, until the sicky black child turned his head and looked at him. His body might be weak, thought the boy, but his eyes were definitly not. "Hey there, what's your name," the black child asked.


"Shawn, what's yours?"


"Billy, what's wrong with you?" These are the formalites of hospital room guests.


"I had an asthma attack, what about you?" Shawn asked.


"I have leaukimia." Billy informed the inquirer. When he announced this his eyes returned to the roof.


"What's that?" Shawn had heard of many types of illnesses being in the hospital on so many occassions. Especially going thru the emergency rooms, people being carted in with blood soaked shirts, pale white and ghastly looking or clenching for their heart as loved ones scream behind them for someone to do something. But this word was a first.


"It just means I'm very sick." Billy said this without a softening of his voice, without so much of a winch in his nerves. The silence was erie, even for that in a hospital.


"Yeah, so am I," Shawn came back matter of factly. "I can't even play football without using my stupid asthma inhaler."


Billy kind of lauged at this notion, "I've never played football." The boy answered.


"You've never played football, man that sucks. Well, I can't play much anymore, anyways, none of the kids want to play with me. What sports can you play."


"I've never really played any, but I love watching baseball. Sometimes I dream I'm the pitcher, striking the guy out."


"Well, you can play catch can't you. I mean, I can even do that."


"Not for a long time, I've just been too weak, but I love watching."


"Well, when you get out of here and feel better, you need to play some catch."


This Billy looked over at Shawn, "Sure, yeah, I will." He lied.

Shawn's Mom walked back in the room with an orange juice box in hand. "Here ya go, how about we get out of here soon?" She asked me, as though it were up to me.

"The nurse said I had to rest."

"Well, rest away, just let me know when you're ready. Oh yeah, got you some baseball cards."

The boy laid there for a moment, then looked over to his side. Realizing for the first time just how sick this boy was, not from what he said, but just the way he said things. Shawn knew then this boy wouldn't play catch, or football. Yet at this age, what does one do to offer solace to another.

After a few minutes, the nurse returned, "Ready to get out of here?" again asking the boy.

"Yeah, please." Shawn responded. The nurse took the iv from his hand. Shawn went into the restroom and dressed. As he walked out, Shawn thought for just a moment on what lay before him in life. Complications, yes, but complications to be overcame.

He started to walk out the door with his mother, then stopped and walked back to the sickly child that laid quietly staring at the roof. "Here you go," Shawn said, handing the boy his baseball cards.

"Thanks," was returned with true sincerity. Besides, what more can be done, when you're only ten.

Always wear clean underwear

It's been a little while since I wrote anything. I've tried to focus on my book, yet continue to be-little my own efforts as a lost cause of improper grammer and soft dialouge. I've also got caught up with the "real" world of fast decisions and long reprucusions. The decision to get my own apartment, with the stress of how I'm going to sustain my lifestyle of booze induced hazy adventures. The decision to create new projects at work, with the fallen satisfaction of overseeing the projects with little benefit to my own self worthiness. Everyday a new decision, most of which leads to the question we all ask after, was that the right decision.

Why do we feel the need to question our decisions so intently. Maybe I'm alone here, and for the reader with the perfect marriage, perfect job and perfect waistline, my writings not for you anyway; so let me loan you twenty bucks, go get a lap dance, ruin your marriage, become a drunk, lose your job and let your stomach start hanging of your tight beige Dockers. This is for the rest of us. The kids in high school who worried too much about that zit eyeing back at you in the mirror, laughing as it symetrically alligned itself on your nose, perfectly placed between your eyes. This is for the ones who worry they're not getting enough excercise, so to subdue the thoughts of insecurity, grab another beer to relax. This if for the ones who always seem to question things more then just accept the printed answers of life.

But then again, maybe thats just me.

Anyways, most of us spend so much time questioning things, the real world seems to swim by in a haze. I wish I could run a mathmatical equation as such - Time spent worrying, stressing or questioning things divided by total Life Span equals percentage wasted. Thats right, wasted. But wait, you might ask, some of the things I worry about our necessary for survival. If I don't worry about losing my job, then I might lose my job, then I might not be able to afford my mortage, then I might be collecting bottles in the dumpster behind those tattered blue apartments, then I lose everything. Possibly, but you might just keep your job.

When I was in college, I worried a lot about my future, as most college students do. "What do I want to be?" I would ask myself with delusional thoughts of what life would be like in each scenario. I graduate with a Business Degree, but no, then I would be a suit, working for corporate america as a pawn in its long drawn out game of chess. I could get my Communications Degree, wait, what the hell does that even mean. Am I going to be a sportswriter for the Daily Post, oh crap, I don't even like sports, thats not going to work. A continous attempt at different subjects in search for what best fits your personality and makes you happy, constantly causes you stress in those first days of independent thinking. And whats it all worth?

I finally relinquished the idea of becoming a Teacher in inner city schools. That's right everyone, I was going to "save the world". Help one economically challenged individual at a time. Self rewarding, not to mention when you're 21 years old, fifty grand sounds like great money! I launched myself into this idea of my future whole heartedly. Studying not only the subjects in which I would teach, but how to be a great teacher; kind, patient, understanding. After I completed everything and got my degree, I was ready to teach.

But a Teacher I did not become. Instead I answered a Monster.com ad, low and behold I now manage an operations center... who would have thought. So if I knew then, what I know now, would I have not wasted those hours stressing for the future and instead utilized them to enjoy the luxuries of college life; i.e. booze before hangovers. Does questioning and stress simply waste time in a life that is controlled by forces other then our own?

It has been confirmed by a scrawny, pasty looking guy in a white lab coat that for every action, there is a re-action. Well what if an action of another, causes a re-action that affects my action; therefore a different re-action then I had anticipated. Huh? What? No, I assure you that I have not been drinking.....yet. However, think about it, we are not truely in control of our re-actions.

Why didn't I become a Teacher. Well, someone in California Legislature felt that they needed to cut the budget, then advised someone to look for cuts...an action. That caused the re-action of another looking for cuts and finding the cost of education to be substantial and should be cut, they cut the number of increasing teachers by ending the "emergency credential" program; therefore all teachers needed to have the Teaching Credential before being allowed to teach... an action. I could not get a job teaching after graduating without going thru more school, a re-action; therefore I went on Monster.com to look for a different career path.... an action. Now the education system will be in crisis without my thorough abililites to make every student a better person. Alright, maybe that parts a farce, but the rest is true.

In todays world of economic crisis, the end result of most actions are decided by an outside party. I could stress every night about losing my job; however that won't change the fact that if the budget is tight, someone can make the decision to lay me off. All I can do is continue working to the best of my abilities, without fear of the future. Our ability to control our lives has been stripped by the fact we don't control our re-actions. There are to many factors involving other people for anything to truely be controlled by your own decisions.

Wait, says the smart ass in the front row, with their hand waving back and forth impatiently, "I control my own health by what I eat." So great, you might live to be an old fart wearing diapers depending...no pun intended, on some underpaid nurse to wipe your ass, trying to remember what it felt like to get laid. Good Luck with that. Or you might get struck by a bus tomorrow, so don't worry about if you should walk on the sidewalk or stay at home. You have no ability to control the drivers reactions...just make sure you wear clean underwear and whistle while you walk.

The Old Women

Sometimes when there is too much on my mind, I go for walks. There is no destination in mind, or no hidden agenda of shedding those extra holiday pounds that seem to lately pack on so easily. I just walk and think. I ponder everything; from a love life defeated, questionable ethics of the previous weekend or my unforseeable future and what lies ahead. I never find answers, for those are not spelled out upon the trail; however how nice would it be if you found a trail that led you thru life like an old pick a path novel. You come to a fork in the road, one leads to success and glory, the other leads to a moderate family life. Instead I find nothing on the walks but a little solace to ponder life.

As I strolled along with my eyes following a wind drifted twig, I came upon an old women sitting on a bench. She had tears welted in her eyes and did not look up as I slowed my pace and stood before her.

"What's wrong, mam?" I asked "Are you lost," for she appeared of age enough to have wondered away from one of the homes we created to ignore the pending realization of the death for our loved ones.

"No." She answered matter of factly. I waited for her to continue with a reason; however she seemed quite content with her answer.

"Are you hurt," again, searching for reason.

"No." again, providing none.

"Well is there anything I can do to help?"

"No." With this answer I decided to just walk on, forget about this old women and her angst against the world. I had bigger problems to think about on my own. Yet as I walked away, I felt a pull against my back, as though there was something there I needed to know, something that was not being told. So I turned around and decided to re-address the old women in a new manner.

"Women, what in God's name could be bothering you?" I Demanded to know.

With this she smiled and looked up, "Now you remind me of my husband. I will tell you whats bothering me, however first you must tell me what is bothering you."

So I offered a trade of miseries, self doubts and issues, but all that came out was, "Well, I don't know what the future holds for me or if I will find happiness." That summed it up. I knew I wasn't unhappy. I read the papers and watched the news to realize what lies out there that can truely bring unhappiness; famine, war, disease. However, I still knew I didn't know if I was happy or not.

"Happiness is what you make of being happy. Some people can't be happy unless they obtain a goal, some can't be happy if they are alone, some fear happiness and would rather rely on anger to push people away to avoid ever feeling sadness. Is it any of those reasons you have yet to find your happiness?" she questioned.

"No." I answered.

"Well, we did have an agreement," she almost mocked me with a smile on her wrinkled face. "I'm not sure whats left to be happy about. I have found my happiness, over and over; however feel now that it is all gone and whats left it just a reflection of the past."

"Do you not have children and grand-children that bring you happiness?"

"They have their own search, just as yourself, for their happiness. They are not here to bring me happiness. That is something one must find upon their own."

"What about your husband, didn't he bring you happiness?" I was confused, she seems to have people the love her, and that she loves; however has a selfish view of happiness.

"No, my husband did not bring me happiness, we were happy together. Happiness must be found on ones on term before you can ever have happiness with another. Otherwise you do nothing but rely on them for your happiness and when they fail to bring you constant happiness, you are unhappy."

"What made you happy?" I now sought the answer to lead me to my capturing my own conquest. "Did you find a good job?"

"No."

"Did you win a bunch of money?"

"No."

"Did you become famous?"

"No." she answered this last time with a sharpness to her voice, as though I was not getting something she was trying to say...yet all she said was no. I sat down next to her with a sigh. "What then will ever bring me happiness?" The question was no longer about her.

"I just appreciated things more one day. I stopped seeking answers and appreciated the answers that had befallen upon me. One day the sunrise looked more beautiful; from cloudy days to rip roaring colors fascading across the horizon. I listened to music more, and not just more bands and songs; however I listened to the way it made me feel and appreciated the emotions it created. I appreciated the taste of everything I tried, even if I didn't like the taste, I appreciated the tastes that were conveyed. One day I stopped looking for how my day should start, what music is the best and what my favorite food is.....and simply enjoyed everything around me. Thats when I knew I found happiness."

"Well, you needed to have means to sustain life, what did you do for a living when you discovered your new found glory?" I questioned apathetically, for this was not the lesson that would lead me to my own happiness.

"I was a seamstress in a factory during the Great War effort," she retorted.

"Well, that must have made you happy then, when we won the Great War." I knew there had to be a deeper meaning to her happiness.

"Don't get me wrong, young man, what we did together to stop true evil and tyranny did feel great, however I lost many friends and even my first love to the Great War."

"Then how could you have been happy, you should have been beguiled in self misery and despair."

"I was."

"Yet you say this is when you found happiness, is this just a game with me now." I stood up and began walking away; yet again the pull felt as I was trying to push my way thru ocean currents and out to sea. It felt cold and dangerous for no reason at all; so I returned to ask more questions.

"Okay, so you were sad about the friends you lost, then did that not ruin your new found appreciation towards life?"

"No, I grieved over those lost and cried for a long time; however I still reflected on who those people were and what they had meant to me. I appreciated having known them and the laughter we shared and the sadness we overcame. I was sad for their lose, but happy I had known them."

"So happiness is when you begin looking at life as a cup that is half full?" I finally got it.

"No."

"Damn." I actually smiled at my presumptious knowledge.

"Happiness is always a cup that is full. You allow the negativities to enter the cup, however there is no room for it to fill the cup. It simply enters the cup as though you are pouring water into a carafee that is already full, the water enter's and mixes; however water continues to pour out."

"How do you know it's not the old water left in the carafee that is pouring out as the new water settles to the bottom?" I asked judgingly.

"When you take a drink, the water still tastes fresh and pure after water has breached it's rim. If it were not the old water, the water that you discovered to fill your tastebuds with satisfaction, then that water would be bitter and stale."

"I think I finally understand." I began to stand to continue my walk with this new perspective on life.

"You are listening with your ear's and mind young man, seeking answers, therefore at this time you don't understand."

"Is there more to learn?"

"Yes." That was the first time she answered yes, and for that I knew there was a lot more to learn.

We sat there with a cool breeze blowing at our backs, just enough to make you button up your coat. I could hear the wind whistling thru the tree's as though attempting to calm my nerves. You could smell the must of a stagnant pond, where the geese and ducks were fighting over crumbs left by a small child. The hard bench rested harshly against my back, as though someone made the seat for a landmark and not for a place of reflection. I looked to my left at the old lady, yet she didn't seem uncomfortable. She rested comfortably as though she had just finished a long walk.

"So how did you meet your husband?" I asked, trying to lighten the topic.

"He worked at the grocer on the corner from my apartment. I would stop by there for things after work, I couldn't afford much; however found myself stopping by even if just to buy an apple. To get the chance to see him always completed my day. No matter what he would ask if I needed help with my groceries, even if I only had a few items. I always said no, but thank you. This went on for a while, almost a game. It built that anticipation and gave me that excitement throughout the day. Then one day, he asked me if I needed help with my groceries and I said yes. He walked me home and that was that."

"If you liked him so much, why not talk to him sooner? It sounds as though you waited so long for something that could have came sooner," I questioned.

"Sometimes the thought of something, the suspense, can be just as rewarding as the actual completion of a goal. I looked foward each day to just seeing him and could tell each time as I walked thru that door that he was excited as well. If I talked to him right away, then I could have found out he was a dullard as he stammered on trying to figure out why I was making conversation. He could have laughed in my face at my boldness and giggled to his friends as I walked out the door. I perfered to just enjoy the simplicity of a possible blossuming love interest, versus force feeding something that might not be there."

"You had said you were happy before you met your husband, then why so concerned on being hurt or him creating sadness," I challenged.

"Just because one is happy in the soul, does not mean one can't be hurt or grief stricken. It wouldn't have crushed me, at this time I have began enjoying life on my own terms; however there defintly would have been a lot of chocholate ice cream that night if he would have scoffed at me." She had a smile on her face of endearment as though my questions were of pure amusement for her, as though she knew some great secret that I had yet to uncover.

"What made you finally decide to say yes?"

"He had asked 15 times, I planned from the first time he asked to say yes on the 16th time if he kept asking."

"You counted times, was this just a game to you?"

"My dear boy, everything in life is a game if you look at it the right way," she pointed out matter of factly. "For example, did you go to college?"

"Yes, I did mam, but I didn't play any sports or anything, was more of a book worm.

"What was your goal for going to college? What were you trying to acheive?"

"Get my degree so I could get a good job I guess?"

"Well that was the game to give you motivation. Each course was a stepping block on your progress, each passing grade a conquest fullfilled toward the end reward. You set yourself a game by setting yourself a goal. If you didn't have any interest in the game, then you would have never one, hence would have stopped going to college. You need to make things interesting for yourself to stay on a path. Otherwise, we would all get bored and stray away from that intended goal."

"Well now I'm stuck in a rut where I don't know what it is I want to do, I got my degree and am doing something I thought I would love; however find myself miserable each day. Your saying I need to make a game out of it to keep me intrigued?"

"No silly boy, you can't create a game out of something you have lost interest. If so, then we would have tic tac toe instead of the Superbowl. Tic tac toe can be fun when you are a child and learning fundamental steps in life; however the game becomes monotonous and boring. The end reward does not feel like it's worth the steps to get to that reward. May I ask what it is that brought you to this job, what was the end reward that you were searching for?" She asked dilligently.

"Money of course, I could make a lot money if I keep to the grindstone and work my way up."

"So we have now learned you need more then money to make you happy, this is a start for us. It's getting late and I must be on my way, it was nice talking to you." She got up to leave, slowly rising to her thick heeled shoes.

"Thats it? Of course there is more to life then money.... I've read that on hallmark cards. I have so many more questions."

"Well young man, I can't catch my death out here out here, but I do walk every Tuesday and Thursday around the same time. This bench is usually my half way point for my rest. You are welcome to join me whenever you would like." With that she became sauntering her way down the path.

Letter from a Madman

Dear Emma,

They're almost here.... I could feel them closing in as though flies on festering meat left to rot in the desert. I don't know how they found me, were you involved in giving up my location? If so, I can't blame you.... there is little left now that you can depend on and now you made a choice based on instincts rather then betrayel. Every footstep falling past door brings a shiver thru my spine. Although my gun is waiting for the instinctual reaction of my hand, staring at me from my desk while waiting, I still wonder if I will be fast enough. Or even worse if they know better and instead wait steadily for me a loft while I least expect it. Passively allowing my guard to drop as I take another sip of my whiskey at the bar downstairs....trying to calm the nerves that should not be becalmed.

I have one favor to ask and one favor only, try to understand why I did what I did. It was not for selfish gain or an attempt of trickery and deciet; however was just an ends to a means. If my plan would have succeded we could have enjoyed a new life, one without the hardships we tried to face together as a daily routine. We could have burned the crops and let loose the livestock as we sipped on champagne, walking away from a wood warped den of hell enlocked in each others arms. Our only plans for the future could have been new sights and experiences entangled in passion and a new finding in each others hearts. I say new findings for they would have just added to the great discovery of our love we once sustained years ago.

There is a knock at the door and I fear I must answer it..... If this is all there is then please know I loved you.

Ok, that was just room service, it seems I'm on my wits end and forgot I ordered the salisbury steeak for dinner, however it might be poisoned. This is a chance I must take for the odd's of death by posioning I fear now is a lot less then being shot in the back as I walk to the corner deli.

How can things run so afoul when you plan so carefully? Life can sometimes feel like a straight line. I'm here and want to get there, therefore I need to do this, this and this. Follow the path of planning and the line will unfold in front of you like the edge of a plateau; you know where to go because if you stray off the path you will fall off the edge. However life is not like that, it's more of a rolling hill. Your at one point of the hill and know your destination is on the other side; however as you walk up the hill you are finding yourself confused on where the top of the hill is located, it feels more like you're rolling off to oneside and instead find yourself heading off of your path and into dangerous territory, one in which the wolves are waiting for your weary body to give into exhaustion and sink to the ground.

That is where I lay today, the wrong side of the hill. The fangs of the hunting wolves are replaced with the thin shiny blade of my unforseen enemies knives, their disease pussed dripping teeth replaced by the bullet that is sure to find the soft tissue of my brain. I wait propped behind a bush, hoping the shadows will evade my detering future, the slowly sinking sun will give me the opportunity to find solace. Yet they know where I am and toy with me by singing their deafening blood curdling howls, I can almost hear my name in their breath.

I miss the stinging sensation of the way your crisp blues eyes could look into my soul. For a while you made me the better man, one concentrated on making sure we had food on our table and passion in our souls. Your laugh would grip my heart as though a shockwave was sent thru me. I appreciated you for this, for you didn't even know you were doing anything. If only I could go back and realize the importance of simplicity as compared to the hardships of trying to achieve abundancy. We both know now that is too late.

Now I sit alone listening to the slow dripping of a leaky faucet in the small bathroom adjacent to my room. That dripping keeps me alert, for if I stop hearing it I know I've stopped paying attention to my surroundings and have left myself vulnerable. Drip, Drip, Drip. They won't catch me not listening. I'm listening so intently I can hear the sweat breaking the surface of my skin, yet all I hear are card players collecting their tips and the swish a fan as the madame waits for them to cash in. They won't trick me though, they won't be cashing in until I turn my back to their steel cold gaze.

I reveled in the feeling of glory when at first I mistakingly assumed my plan had work and we were now wealthy. How could they be such fools, I bewaringly questioned, as I snuck out of town at dusk. You would thing such dangerous men would be more aware of a plan as simplicite, yet intricate, as mine. Nope, they had too much confidence, to much self praise and doubt that anyone would be willing to initiate trickery and rob them of their most precious possession. However looking back, I think that is what they wanted, to give me false hope of ease and security, for this to them is just a game. They already have everything they need and now sit upon life with translucent boredom. They were waiting for me to attempt my struggle for absolute glory, for that is when their game truely began.

A fox is the symbol for cunning and craftiness; yet it is just a pawn in the game of hunters and hounds. At most times it is the confidence of that fox that will end him in the hunters cross hairs and the jaws of the hunters best friend. Speed and agility can only get you so far when you head thru the forest in circles, as you run they walk, as you hide they stalk. Just another Sunday away from the wife and whining kids for them; however for you the ulitimate sacrifice is capture. I've become that fox.

I would just give it back, a nice little package with a letter attached, "can't we let the game end here? You've had your fun and I've learned the importance of things of non-importance". They would laugh and jester at this and slow their search as though finding a bloody trail leading to their wounded victim. Instead I must continue the battle to find myself on the right side of this jaded hill.

So now I must say goodbye, for I feel their hearts beating on the opposite side of my door. I wish I could give you this gift for you to go on and find the glory of life you so much deserve; however they will surely take it and set it out for anyone to grab, tempting their next victim and pawn of their fruitless game. I wish you luck my dear, for my own ends here.

Sincerly yours forever........


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Bad Luck Boating

Nothing is worse then breaking down on the water when you have big plans for the day. Last week a 47’ Grand Banks went out for a day cruise from Tacoma to Seattle. They had their boat serviced earlier in the month and everything checked out. With no problems in the foreseeable future they set out for a nice time on the sound. Of course, that’s all of our expectations as we leave the dock.
The 47’ Grand Banks stopped off at the fuel dock to make sure they had plenty of gas to make their round trip. After fueling up, the Captain attempted to start the engine; however instead they heard the worst noise to hear at the beginning of your cruise… click, click, click. Their batteries were dead. After realizing they had left their jump pack in their garage, they contacted Vessel Assist for a jumpstart. The BoatU.S. dispatch center relayed the call to the Vessel Assist Tower out of Tacoma, who successfully was able to jumpstart the boat. The 47’ Grand Banks was back on the water and headed north.
After approximately an hour later, the BoatU.S. dispatcher that initially assisted the owner of the Grand Banks received another call from the mariner. With a huff and a puff, they requested assistance again. This time they ran across a floating dock rope in the water and fouled their prop. Thinking their day was ruined, they expected the slow tow back to Tacoma, arriving to port with their heads down and ego’s deflated. Luckily, the Vessel Assist Tower was able to do a dive to avoid the long tow back and un-foul the prop. The Grand Banks was once again underway!
After enjoying dinner in Seattle, they Captain and passengers decided after such a hectic day they better get back to Tacoma and set out again with expectations of a smooth journey. Shortly after these false hopes filled their hearts, they were once again dead in the water. Their boat was overheating with no sign or reason for the problem. Once again contacting Vessel Assist, they requested assistance. The Vessel Assist Tower got their boat under tow and tucked them away into their slip in Tacoma.
The dispatcher who assisted the boat and saw them thru their rough journey received a call from the BoatU.S. Member about a week later. They thanked her for the rapid assistance and her sympathetic tone. They stated they returned to their boat the next day to investigate the overheating problem; however the boat started fine. To test it, they ran it to Seattle and back and guess what….. not one problem. Sometimes you can blame nothing when it comes to boating except bad luck.

Sinking Ships

I'm sitting at the party, watching all these fools walk around.
Will they even notice if the world came crashing down?
Or are they more concerned with the spot on her new red dress.
Someone get some club soda to clean up this ugly mess.

They're on a sinking ship, watching the life rings float by
They're not worried anymore.
They'll be more content sitting on the ocean floor.

She's sitting on the back seat, back seat of the bus.
That's where they told her to sit and not to make a fuss.
She stands up tall and walks to the front seat.
Walking pass the others, she shows them not to accept defeat.

They're on a sinking ship, watching the life ring float by.
They're not worried anymore, someone will lead them back to shore.

He's sitting on his throne, looking down at the world.
His power has gotten too big and spiraled out of control.
Will the masses let him lead as they look to the floor.
Or will a new leader break down that locked door.

We're on a sinking ship, watching the life rings float by.
We don't need to worry anymore, someone will knock down that locked door
and show us how to get back to shore.

Introduction

I can't lie, I think too much. Some of us are blessed with the ability to clear our minds and empty the chasm we know as our self consciensce thought. I'm not one of those people. Instead my mind is constantly plagued by thought; some of the thoughts have substance, such as a project at work or tasks I need to complete for the day. Some are of transperancy, thoughts without substance. The thoughts that develop from the wary look of an old women on a park bench, the smell of hot dogs at 7-11 circling for hours roasting on sheer metal, the sad goodbye of a lost love that I've yet to meet. These thoughts are constant and empowering, ideas for random stories that plague my mind and tidbits of amusement that cause me to smile. I would like to share both with you; for one to try to free up some space in the old chrome dome to allow for more constructive thoughts and two, maybe it make you smile as well.