something new i'm working on

somewhere there is a factory. and in this factory are workers all in anonymous uniforms working their hands and fingers in a machined fashion that keeps this particular factory flowing like the rain does down the large windows that reminds the workers that there are places other than there. everywhere at all times there are these industries which work around the clock making every sort of something that makes life easier.

except this particular place prints a certain kind of paper. Rolls and rolls of it, flying out of a press like a water wheel, which is also an exceptional source of energy for a place such as this. In fact, that's exactly how the lights are lit and the machines are mechanized, by slow trickles of water through a dam of the river right outside.

and the workers in their toil, in their endless lever pulling and matching uniforms produce pink slips. Paper tirelessly perforated and inked and sealed and stamped and mailed and recieved and crumpled and cried over, reminding people that they aren't important anymore.

mark sheffield looked up through those large windows, saw a white dove flutter by. he blinked, smiled, tried to find it again before it passed to the last pane. "this place is a prison," he mumbled to bob parker, safety inspector, NO. 74, to his right, over his shoulder, marking off the celebrated and proper measurements of the pressured dials.

a steam whistle blew, an old sound signaling ancient time shift changes, the only relic left in a place that replaces parts more than it does men.

bob and mark sighed, waited for the next set of workers to pat them on their backs, give everything a once over and take over their shift. mark still gazed outside into the sky over the river into the clouds shadowing miserable tress, which tried their hardest to stretch their limbs besides smokestacks and concrete, the dove had flown away, gone forever in mark's mind, to somewhere where men aren't handed pink slips, beyond pastors of the apocalypse, passed places that use glass and steel to contain, to greener pastures.

that dove gave him peace. it gave him hope. he wanted that little white bird to have a palm frond in its beak, like those bible stories his ma told him about the flood. he wanted to be that dove right about now, floating and diving and flapping to some forever horizon like you see on a movie poster. he smiled, felt the pat on his back, and went home.

outside, the dove was just a broken white napkin the wind caught and put in a nearby tree.

a note clothespinned

I lived in blue sky, you on your stomach smiling at some far away thing. I can't remember the last time I relaxed at a park with someone so new, so fresh, so lovely. And how a smile is like the fall, wiping away every bad memory of a hot summer of a blistering thought. Caught in the moments, this beautiful way of saving me in the smallest and most innocent of ways. Always near the brink, feeling and fearing the rocks might give way at a moment's notice, yet just in the nick of time a bold move and a fire inside can turn it all around. And here I am standing on the brink of something else, something foreign and old, something I boxed away a very long time ago, something good I purposely buried to bring out when the time is right. And that comes so natural, like water gathering on the leaf of a lily.

Remember how I said my heart is a prodigal son, coming back, limping back, barely beating but alive somehow? Well, it seems to have mended itself up quite a bit, some nasty gashes here and there, but ones that muscles memory has fixed and repurposed, like an old dress with new owners.

There is an old brick that sits somewhere at my place to remind me of solid ground, to remind me of the past, to show me what hard work can produce and how sturdy it can be. To never give up on some things, even when they give up on you. And all in all at the end of time, I think that I would like to be like that brick.

I wrote a poem the other day. It's short, maybe even sweet, but it works in this instance quite well. I'll share it just because I can:

Whether the world

ends in a bang

or a sigh

I'll turn to you

and kiss you goodbye.

I suppose that's what everything everywhere is all about.

fracture

Our bodies move with such grace sometimes, like children swimming underwater, hair flowing slowly behind them. We have this instrument we have been given, this practical mass which allows us to connect and touch and see and hear and taste and experience. And throughout our lives we learn how to walk correctly, not bang into corners, watch where we are going, how to properly jump into a body of water, and most of the times the reverse has to happen so we know how to do it correctly.

Scars fading on our bodies, bruises constantly fading, small knicks and cuts on our hands and knees, this constant reminder of how mortal we are, how fragile we can be, and how fleeting everything really is. I often sit at my desk and think about all the cuts and bruises and every trauma my body has ever taken and how I work fairly well, considering. And what if all those closed up places, those repaired spaces suddenly opened back up, if every wound I have ever taken decided in an unanimous state to undo. I would surely die. I think we all would of the shock of seeing how much we have been hurt, of how much the crux of that pain could be. Writhing on the floor, screaming for mercy from the walls and the furniture and the ceiling, only to be offered no comfort. It's a good thing we have mothers to bandage our wounds, salve and ointments to facilitate healing.

Yet we do this all the time with our hearts, we let a wound stay open and open and fester and hurt and never heal. We, or at least I, have been guilty of letting an old wound become a wrecking force in my life because I was afraid of how it would heal, what if I changed, what if I was different, what if I got hurt again? But the freedom of wisdom lies in the failure you had to achieve to see what is the right way and what is the wrong way.

So, my bandaged and long lost heart returns like prodigal sons, beaten, worn down, disconnected from reality, but nonetheless back. And I think that's a good start.

something i read this morning. needed to read this morning.

It begins in most hearts with lamentation over past sin. I have broken God's just commandments, I have done evil against my God, I have destroyed my soul; my heart feels this, and bitterly mourns. It is one thing to say formally, "I am a miserable sinner;" it is a very different thing to be one. To say it may be gross hypocrisy, to feel it is a mark of grace. Oh that every one of us, if we have never felt mourning for sin may feel it at this hour. May we mourn to think that we have pierced the Savior, that we have transgressed against a God so good, and a Redeemer so generous. Those who mourn for the guilt of past sin, before long, reach a higher point. Mourners are not suffered long to tarry; grace takes their load of guilt away. Their transgressions are covered. Do they leave off mourning then? Oh, no, they mourn in another way. There is a sweet mourning concerning my past sin which I would never wish to lose. It is forgiven, every sin of mine is blotted out, and my soul, therefore, with a sweet bitterness, would mourn over it more and more. -c.w. spurgeon

everything really was beautiful and nothing really hurt

Vonnegut speaks in the simplest of terms sometimes. In this beautiful easy way to read and feel and see. And I've read that line (everything was beautiful and nothing hurt) about a dozen times but today I think I finally GET it. Maybe it was the setting in which I was reading that line again. Or just thinking about my past few years and how it is applicable to specific places and dates.

This past week. Dark Washington night, Pacific coast, no cell phone reception, hoodie and beanie on riding bikes withe one of my best friends through low lit streets. The cold air cutting us on a June night. The low roar of a nearby ocean just over the cliff. Weaving in and out of unfamiliar streets. Smiling. Nothing behind us or nothing ahead of us.

Another instance. Sitting on the beach years ago. Comfort food bought to ease some pain. Blanket. Sunrise dusted by clouds. low lapping of a gulf shore. Body weight rested on elbows. Nothing except that moment. No one existed but us.

Another time: Sitting at the coffee house today, clouds so high strung up on the thinnest threads like cotton balls drifting. The trees blew slightly. A girl next to me smelled like someone I once knew. A special needs son and his older mother walking by. He blows on a hollow pen that makes a noise like I've heard on the World Cup. She holds his hand. He shuffles his feet. I wonder if everything is beautiful and nothing hurts for her. How she manages. What resolve and love she has. Their simplicity of love.

Is everything really beautiful and can nothing really hurt? I suppose so. I suppose there are times as I've mentioned above where everything seems in that instant and good. That that one moment is how eternity could be spent. The best place ever if even for just a second. And I have to remember those times when they aren't there anymore, like when a stewardess flips out over turbulence or low fuel in an airplane forces you to land. Or when I'm terrified. Or when anything can shake me. Even the strongest of us have our weak moments. And I suppose it's those moments that refine us. Either way I know I have these moments to pull from, to remember and focus on when the world is falling apart like puzzle pieces, one at a time. And the ends don't match up, don't ever seem to match up. And nothing makes sense anymore.

But those moments do. Like riding borrowed bicycles at night with a dear friend, under barely visible lamp light, riding towards the Pacific Ocean in a place a thousand miles away. And all you have is the air and the heat of a single beating heart and a smile that says everything is beautiful and nothing hurt.

freight train leaving town

I was looking through some photos of a friend of mine the other day, and in between pictures of flowers and little people smiling I saw a strange structure that did not make sense to me, some other world device that is not from here. And I still don't know what it is, don't wanna know. I like the mystery of something unexplained but useful for people I'll never meet, never know, never love, never hate. Just strangers on the other side.

Same person and I were talking later and I asked them what they saw over there that was beautiful that day, and they said they saw children in costumes pouring out of the door of their school because it was the last day of school. And the children ran with lunchpales and capes and papers in reckless abandon, running to parent's arms and bicycles and cars driven and parked on the wrong side of the road. And I asked:

"how does that make you feel?"

Response:

"like maybe we aren't so different after all."

I love that laughter everywhere sounds the same, same noises coming out of our bodies. This universal understanding of happy or funny. A smile is a smile. Body language or gestures are pretty constant everywhere. That gives me the oddest peace, that maybe I am not alone. That somewhere someone I can't understand or don't know can shrug their shoulders or laugh at something and at that moment we have bonded on a level deeper than language or culture. Some old balefire stirred up in us, deep inside, coals warmed by the thought of another stranger getting us.

I keep my distance, naturally. It's what we've been taught to do. Build the walls, fortify yourself and everything you hold dear. Close the curtains, turn off the lights, let the bandits pass you by. Live another day. But there's no use of living like that, alone and in the dark, shaky hands and pounding hearts. It's hard, no one ever said it would be easy. But to take that risk of letting someone in... I don't know how many more times I can do it before it breaks me. Too late now though, ain't ever been much of one to give up or quit. Suppose I shouldn't start now. You can't teach an old dog new trick, people don't change; well, they rarely change. Actually, maybe they do change, but not become better, just become comfortable with you and me and everyone else and get tired of acting.

That's why all those Hollywood folk get paid so much money. It's not easy being in makeup all morning and acting like someone you aren't all day.

But here, in the real world, when those supposed movie moments happen to us, big scenes, things slow down, we look around and people walk in time to the music you listen to, and its nothing but gorgeous dressed up people and everything feels like something important, no one yells "cut!" and we don't walk off the set and into our trailers and we don't live in mansions or fly in private jets or anything really. We just take another breath, a heart beats amazingly one more time, and every scene around us bleeds into each other.

I don't know why I wrote this. Maybe I am just reaching out to someone who won't be my friend anymore who I will see soon without a doubt. Maybe it's to cry out in the only way I know how. Maybe it's therapy. Maybe it's heaven. Maybe it's hell.

HERE IT IS!!!!!!!

The Cobbler and The Missing Peace by Sean Patrick Kirby | Make Your Own Book

the emotion of a polaroid

I have a dear dear friend of mine who keeps a shocking list of photographs to his person. they amass tons and tons of pictures of people from their past, loves and friends and places and times and dates. Almost like an encyclopedia or record of their movements. "Where was I on June 4th of 2007? oh that's right, here is the picture. That was nice. A good moment." He even keeps video of snippets of his life, snapshots of things. Moments of memory and feeling. And he gazes upon them with longing eyes, with the face of a time traveler who is trapped in "groundhog day". Like that place and those feelings can be revisited at a moment's notice. Scroll back with thumb up or down, press, play, reimagine the present as if those pasts could be futures. But it's not. Never will be. Only something that happened once.

I wish I could help him see how romanticized we make the past. How decadent it always will be after the fact, but when in the present it just is another second ticking by. Something rarely appreciated in the now, but relished in a different tense. But I love him to death. Like I said, he is a dear dear friend. Part of me wants to shake him, tell him to let go, but the other part wants to just hug him and say everything is going to be alright, which I don't know for a fact that it will be, but it makes us all feel better by saying it.

There is fellow in front of me, which I passed as I sat down outside my favorite coffee shop in Birmingham, who is reading a book about how to write. And I find that incredibly odd. Almost wrong. That a writer a) would teach a person to write their own style b) would propose such writing in a "how to" book c) that someone would think that's the best way to learn how to write d) that publishers would lessen literature with such works. Call it integrity or jealousy. That I would not sell my ideas for numbers or moving units. Or that I wish I could market a best seller based simply on the fact of how a sentence should be structured based on so and so genres. Who knows? I probably do. It's best described as a love/hate feeling.

First of all, the only way to learn how to write is to write. And to read books not about writing, but that are filled with writing. Dive knee deep into a classic novel, search the mind of the author, figure out the WHATS and WHYS, not necessarily the delivery device they employ. I love artists not schooled in the art they master. Melville, Kubrick, Vonnegut. People who just did what they felt made sense to them, their way of talking to all of us. The only way things made sense. I hope that my poor education and my poorer attempts at whatever you would call this could only be held in the slimmest light to theirs. Mostly, I'm grasping at straws for grasping's sake, but I won't stop until all the keyboards are destroyed, until my brain falls apart, until my fingers won't work, until all the paper and ink run out.

But, until that time, or until a time when my writing is worth a shit or a dime or nickel or something, I'll just bang away on this keyboard, this love/hate feeling, this capturing of a polaroid, of an idea or moment of the past, which makes me want to write about it and solidify it, making whatever I recall and say romantic and meaningful. But sometimes a car is just a car. And a building is just a building. And a kiss is just a kiss. And an old picture is just an old picture that you can recall in your old age and remember a time when your skin was tighter and your eyes were better and times were simpler and schools were better and you didn't have to deal with the mess of passing away.

Here is another moment. Take the picture, please.

world of infinities and eternities

my dreams as of late have been violent and sad, like a neverending forgotten war with mothers waiting at the doors for faceless soldiers that never will come home anymore. Waking up to an alarm clock that reads a time that i don't want to see, walking around on old hardwood floors, creaks and noises and shadows that look like things i am not supposed to see. and in my dreams i'm struck by lightning, loud booms and white hot supernovas, or ghosts whispering in my ear near my parents old shed in an old house that i don't live in anymore. and i wake up in cold sweats with an empty bed.

i had a nice thought the other day, which was a nice change from my normal thought process. i was sitting outside of a coffee shop i do not frequent and i saw cars and trucks and banks and stores and strip malls all around me, trying to figure out which animal the cloud rolling by overhead looked like. and i couldn't. i wish i could unbuild all the buildings in the nicest of ways and then maybe when we look at clouds we can see animals again. strip ourselves of our faith in modern steel, go back a bit further, a bit farther to something that we only recall in deep sleep.

and on the same day i asked myself how many butterflies have i seen fly by my window, yellow wings flapping against the wind as yellow caution lines streak by? how many days have i flown by, times i've looked in a mirror, had flippant conversations with people i don't keep in touch with anymore? lots of questions, few answers. such is life. maybe the mystery to this place is there is no mystery. or maybe there is. maybe infinity and eternity are supposed to be mind boggling and frustrating things to think of, to wrap your head around. i often try to sit around and think about what an eternity could be like. take my best day ever, or even the best day i've had lately and then multiply times forever. but that equation won't work, can't work because there is still the issue of time and space and place, and i know that won't compute in the world of infinities and eternities. void of time, outside of space, a place that does not include or need those things. so then my idea of eternity is automatically null and void.

and the dreams continue and my bed just stays empty, and the buildings remain built and upright and clouds pass by overhead not as turtles or anything childlike, just clouds of gas. and butterflies are just streaks on my windshield that i can't see through. but their pattern remains the same, and what i knew of them remains on that windshield like a fingerprint of their lives, of all i've ever known contained in some small splatter. and that is all that i will know of them or can. maybe life and eternity and everything is just like that. a small fingerprint on a piece of glass. and as much as we can fathom and understand is left for us. and there all these things that make up a man, but all we can understand is his fingerprint.

so i'll place my hand on a piece of nearby glass and hope that you want to know more.

loose change

I had someone ask me recently, "how do you know who is right?" and I said:

The one that makes your heart beat fast all the time, the one who makes you smile like you don't smile anymore.

Can simple truths like this be real? exist? The same person said that they want to be the great change in someone's life. And I get that. That makes total sense. I just hope for my own sake that that change is possible. That I haven't chipped and prodded and broken enough pieces of my heart off by the time I get to them to have something this is willing to change, willing to feel, willing to hear again. Like a blind man who forgot what colors look like. Or a deaf man who used to hear someone whisper something. Maybe there are more than five senses. And maybe one of them is love. And when that one goes, when it is buried in the ground or put out to sea, then there is no sense in having any other senses.

This same person told me that they were afraid they were going numb, like the callouses on the end of my fingers. I can't get over what a callous feels like, or doesn't feel like. I run my thumb and forefinger over things, the calloused ones, to feel, but its like have a piece of wood in between the object and me. I can feel the friction but not the texture. The heart is a complicated place, and it does not seem to get easier with age. Especially when you try to feel with callouses on your fingers.

There possibly might just be one piece of me left, that last little inch. Where life in its infinitely just way picks apart at you, testing the strong ones, breaking the rest of us. And that last little piece holds on to one branch on the side of a cliff, feet dangling, wind prickling the little hairs on its arms, as it awaits a reason to fall for the last time. And below, bodies lay twisted and mangled, damaged beyond repair it seems, old hopes and dreams and wishes and wants calling it with ghost-like echoes and voices beckoning that last little piece to join them. Every day in every way something to get lost in. Some voice that doesn't sound like mine ringing in my ears to go this way or that, to chase this wind or that cloud, with the same result every time. Scars teach lessons, sometimes. But love can make you stubborn and heartbreak can make you not feel, and somewhere in between the two all that is left is a blind man begging for loose change, or a kiss that makes his heart beat fast.

we all want fighters, but are we willing to fight? how many white flags have been waved? and still how many more are on our horizon waiting to be hoisted in surrender?

Somewhere there must be a wishing well where wishes actually do come true. Maybe I can take one of those pennies someone left me and I can wish for my life to be like a series of pictures drawn at the top of the page. And when you flip it backwards those broken parts magically fly back up to the top of the hill, and that last little dangling piece of me goes with them and they join hands and lock arms and I can become one again.

That's the change.

retreat and remorse

I suppose we all like to see our lives in rewind, re this and re that, do overs and makeovers and things we wish for and want for in the past that when told in normal time don't seem so important or meaningful anymore. Like a high school crush you see at your impending reunion, trying to pretend you used to be interested in someone that looks completely different, yet there is some part of you that still finds yourself attracted to the memory, to the image, to the mirage of the past. Waving lines off the sand and highways of life, flickering heat disguising what we thought we felt.

And those parts of your life are like puzzle pieces dumped onto an old carpeted floor, and trying to put together pieces of your life and make sense of them seem to be so easy when the corners match up and align, feeling your heart beat fast when looking at a particular picture, a particular feeling that doesn't seem too real anymore. Old faces and smells and certain scenery which whisks you away to a place that probably never existed, but it feels good to believe that it did. Not that this feeling is a regret of the past, but perhaps a regret of the present, how did I get here, and why do I feel like this? Like my heart is a million miles away in someone else's body, beating in another person's chest and all I can do is question how blood is flowing through my veins if I don't have a heart anymore. Just some empty echo chamber where the "I love you's" bounce off ribs and lungs, never ending or ceasing, yet somehow diminishing like the shine on new quarters a quarter century old.

This non-feeling feeling, does it have a name? Does it have an end, or just a bunch of almost beginnings? Will it pass like a fever if I starve it, or grow stronger and infect my whole body with pain and aches until I forget that it's there, a nagging sensation that becomes part of living? I used to want answers for everything, but settle now for a simple shrug and any way to forget that slowly but surely this blackness inside of me crawls through my veins. You saved me, you brought me back from my worst, and without you around it feels as if I could slip at any time. If you were only real, only here, holding my hand, whispering in my ear that everything is not okay, but that it is going to be okay. I need those double truths, to feel them, to know I can exist and not exist at the same time. I am just tired of half loves, but not double truths. Tell me that you will rescue me, and I will come rescue you. Hold me close when nothing else seems to hold on at all. My voice is hoarse from not talking at all, from almost saying what my throat and my insides always knew, but my teeth stopped the words from coming out, so the phrases are trapped inside until you can free them.

So please come, and come quickly. Whoever you must be, made for me and me made for you.

constellations, stars, and rainbows

I watched the downtown lights wink and flicker from across the street, like Morse code from strangers 6 blocks away, small figures and profiles gliding across far away windows and lives and places, making dinner, watching TV, feeding their dogs. And these speckled buildings appeared as grounded constellations, forming twisted figures that no one had named. Maybe I'll do that one day. Write a book full of constellations based on how many lights are on in a tall building. I'll name it something fancy and smart, and people will buy it as a novelty. And I'll be a successful author who finds his identity in quirky prose and odd things, and when I die, someone else will have to write something clever on my grave, and maybe that will make them money, and the cycle will repeat itself, just with different players.

As those people across the way carry on, I sit here watching them, squinting to see if I can make out any details, and trying not to feel too awkward from watching a stranger's life. I have my dad's old Boy Scout X-large sweater. It envelopes me like a drab green sea. My house slippers are canvas with worn down soles and blown out heels. I've had them for three months. Coffee is steaming in the window, leaving a small patch of condensation like when you lean into your window at wintertime. Warm down my throat, Caffeine hits blood, pores and capillaries and eyes shoot open, slightly tweaked now. Not sure how many cups it has been. This old school desk and rolling desk chair bring me comfort from some old world with old people that don't exist anymore, just memories and stories told by other people, and on and on and on and on. Another cycle.

Close my eyes. See small points of light shooting off into infinity inside me. Shooting stars that never land, never go anywhere, like I'm staring into the absence of space, floating there, too. I focus on one shooting star, its a bright yellow, like the yellow I saw in the rainbow earlier today, too bright to even be considered natural, some sort of magic that I don't get. Can't remember the last time I saw a rainbow, really looked at it, arching across 8 lanes of traffic, seemed so real, that somewhere really was a pot of gold and everything you want to believe in, just inside the woods somewhere. Maybe someday. Rainbow memory falls by the wayside, see the streaking yellow star behind closed eyelids, I ride its wake, following it, brain racing, no visions forming, eyes flickering slightly. Heart is beating from the coffee, or the thought of someone watching me, or from the idea of curling up next to someone, skin touching skin, their chest warm from blood circulating, the arms and hands slightly colder. The beauty of another person, their eyes dancing in the dull and quiet light of a bedside lamp. Small smiles peaking out, biting lip slightly, asking me, "what are you looking at?" when it is clearly them that I am looking at. And that's what I would say, and in this dream that follows a flying yellow star she still smiles, and she runs her hand down to my fingers, to those callouses that haven't been touched in years, to those callouses that lead to other callouses that you can't see, and her fingernails trace the veins on the top of my hand, the small bump where I broke it long ago, the scars from the flood, from knives, from countless other injuries. And she holds my hand and she breaks my heart in the best way possible. That is a dream that is a dream that is a dream. Cycles.

What if all of our scars, our nicks and scrapes and cuts and bruises and burns, all reversed themselves at once? All of those sutured holes and self repaired places decided to undo those years of being so healthy? What a mess that would be. Yet, we do that so often, and validate it, and make it sound like it is okay and it is healthy. Some things should be left sutured up, and some things should be let out. But what do I know? I am just some poor kid wearing his dad's oversized sweater staring out my window at night.

Or am I?

ringing.

I walk a lot more nowadays, mostly because most of my favorite places are all within walking distance. it's nice to plug in some music, put on my worn out walking shoes and take a stroll. Someone asks me what I'm doing, and I say just walking. No intention, no destination, just a stroll. Like an urban version of a walkabout.

Nothing clever to say, or quote, or tweet, or update. Nothing fanciful or endearing, no insanely deep thought or the illusion of such. Just the idea of walking, breathing, stretching, clearing my mind. Like I'm at this precipice, looking over, and though I know that ground exists far below me, there still seems to be some disconnect with the reality of that fact. I feel like I am on the brink of something nuts, some crazy something that could change me, but it remains on the tip of my tongue, at the edge of that cliff as I idly kick small rocks and dust off the edge of it, hear them tumbling with smaller echoes.

I am a winter man, and it's nice to walk around in the winter, all bundled up, breath in plain view, but I am actually looking forward to spring, things in bloom and blossoming, birds chirping, even an allergy attack or two. To feel the warm sun on my pale skin, for friends to come out of hibernation, stretching their paws like small cubs as they yawn and see how wonderful it is out here in this big world.

I feel like Fievel. Somewhere out there. Some things always revert back to our childhood, maybe because our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.

Hold on.

on a bus ride a very long time ago

Framed up in my mind like some old picture, a field of planted pine tree sit there. There is a low fog hanging underneath their needles, held in some special and old way, a low country I never lived in. And you coming running up just to the right of my picture frame, out of focus, full sprint, a sobering white dress. and your mouth is the only thing I see, full lips, all natural, whispering something to me, but there is no sound in my dreams, only the white noise of oceans and waves. But I can read lips and you softly mouth, "I love you" over and over again. It's a face that looks familiar, but then again it could be anybody. Your shoulders are heaving and your body is trying to regain its breath from such a long sprint from the corners of my mind.

I shudder.

And I am awake. On some bus, in some seat, the winter leaves passing by these cold windows. I look around for faces I know, but it's just a bunch of heads and fading hair and pillows, and seat cushions, and far away I see the driver in a small reflection, he is fish eyed from his rear view mirror, watching his passengers. We are on a road to nowhere, going anywhere else but where we were. The bus air gives off a recycled stale smell, like being trapped in an old vacuum bag. I am stifled and uncomfortable, but there is no where to go, or escape, when you are in a moving vehicle. That dream haunts me, hanging at the edge of my eyes as I wipe it away. I don't know how many times we have stopped, how many faceless streets I have walked on, stretched my legs at countless bus stops, they all look the same, like we are going in circles. The smell of diesel makes me hallucinate, takes me to somewhere I am not sure I have ever been, maybe a lifetime ago when things made more sense, or I didn't know enough about the world to see so much gray in the air. A passenger in front of me opens up their air vent, I feel recycled air rushing over the top of their seat, leaves me a little colder and more isolated. I zip up my hoodie.

I check my bus ticket, but the ink is smeared and I can't tell my destination. Maybe it's better this way, to not know where you are going. The easy part of a trip is the drive back, how short it seems once you made your way there already. Afterwards it all just feels like a memory played in rewind, tires spinning backwards, odometer retreating, hair growing shorter, smiles turning into normal faces.

I found a reason to get on this ride. And I don't know where I am going or how long it will take to get there, but what's the point of living if you know all the stops along the way. Maps ruin the fun. Sometimes you need to get lost to be found. Tumble down the wishing well until your ankles break and there is only a pinprick of light from above, a lonely star and constellation guiding you home.

I get up and move around, shuffling my things to the side so I can walk backwards in a moving bus. Get to the bathroom, close the door, no lights, don't need to use the restroom, just get away to the back. Doesn't work, only feel more isolated, and the tires sound like they are going to come off. What if there is an accident? What if I don't make it?

Guess that's okay. Guess it's about the journey and sometimes not about the place you are going. Open the door, see strangers, maybe I'll talk to someone today and tell them something no one knows.

Some say we are all dying, some say we are all living. I suppose I'll take the political stance of agreeing with both at the same time. Maybe we are all right, and maybe we are all wrong.

Either way, I sit back down and I tear up my ticket. I'll figure out where I am going when I get there.

we all scream for something

we all grow old all at the same time.

and nothing will ever stay young forever, so why do we try?

when the world dances below you

10 feet below me, couples are dressed in their best, wearing black masks, and i suppose other masks as well, those masks we have when pictures are taken, smiles and makeup and poses, to look our best and pose, shed those pounds that reality doesn't hide. we wear all black to slim us down, make us look amazing and sleek, and drinks are passed to us and bartenders are tipped and words are whispered and smiles creep in. and the night is young and the night is old and everything is alive and everything is dead at the same time. and above i sit, listening to the jazz music quietly creep through gaps in my floor, reminding me that there is some music that doesn't age or get old, that there are some feelings and emotions which humanity holds as true. that sometimes there are moments, and sometimes that is all we have. maybe our lives are divided up into moments, broken pieces put together at the end where we remember the good parts, hopefully, and the bad ones just faded away, like old scars on knees where we fell when learning to walk.

i sat outside tonight beside this bar as one girl walked by, she was dressed up, her dress moving under her coat as she passed by, wearing a black mask like it was normal to wear that everywhere. she smiled, kept walking. never see her again and if i do we wont recognize each other, because i was wearing a mask, too.

i've read about a hundred things today about why this particular day is so good or so bad. and i don't know about any of it. it's just sunday to me. just another day. if you want to be romantic on a day when you are supposed to be, then go right ahead. it matters not to me. even the word romance bring such connotations to it, as every word does when applied in a certain sense. maybe we just shouldn't speak anymore. and let our actions speak for us. when you want someone, you hold them. when you want to kiss someone, just do it. when you want to be with someone, just be with them. no words. we could live in a world of mutes and be just as happy and say just as much with no words, no sounds. just head nods and smiles and small gestures of something.

or maybe i'm insane, or crazy, or both. probably. but that's okay. i just don't care anymore. call me what you will, say what you want. i'm tired. i like who i am, and i think you do, too. and we don't talk anymore, but that's okay when you live in a world full of mutes.

we still got music, quietly creeping through the floor, music that doesn't age.

fortune telling

"then what?"

simple questions, undefined answers. that's the tricky part of the future, of tomorrow, what it'll bring, what the end of the day will bring, the hurt, the healing, the love, the loss, everything. But sometimes the hardest thing to do at the moment, the parts that makes your guts scream and your bones ache, are the best things at the moment to make sure that tomorrow will be better for everyone. It's not an easy call, at all, it's actually frightening beyond belief, but if you care for something or someone and know that it's the best solution for the time being, then you do what you have to do. I suppose that's called love. I think so.

life is simple. or appears to be. simple things. marriage. family. kids. love. kisses. holding hands. enjoying people. friendships. but life is not always simple, and i hate that. things get messy, get mucked up, shift to gray, like the rain outside today, slowly falling mist, like a moving fog. it's cold here, colder than it feels, but that's okay, when you put ice to a wound it reduces swelling makes the pain go away, when you put heat on it, it heals. so everything in due time.

i could not imagine how happy i've been the past several months, and how crazy it all was, like magic, some old old magic not found anywhere anymore. hidden under rocks, or high atop trees we haven't climbed since we were kids, before we knew what scars were. it was simple, and it was good. life is about taking that chance, risking everything just because you know if you don't you will look back on your life and wonder the could have been's and what ifs. i told someone near and dear to me yesterday that there are multiverses, or, rather, a multiverse theory, where every possible scenario to life plays itself out in a million different universes. and that brings comfort to those of us who have been hurt, who are healing, who just wonder "what if?". and it is okay to wonder, and it is okay to be happy, and everything is okay always. because the point of life is to not have it all figured out; the point of life is living and trying your best to love. and if you are lucky, then maybe that love will find you, too.

but then again, i don't believe in luck. i believe it's coming, and it will take the oddest forms and will be something we could have never imagined. it will be like magic. it will be like it was before scars. it will be... simple. and yes there will be work involved, if we think anything good in life was easy, then what would make it good? but the risk is always worth the effort. and i'll always believe that.

i hope this letter finds you,

and finds you well.

we WILL talk sooner rather than later. i promise you that. you are in my thoughts, and my prayers, and in my heart. and things heal when you put heat to them. so why not utterly be changed to fire?

cliffs

Everyone everywhere has a cliff, a ledge, a long climb, and awaiting vertigo before them. They have different faces and names, each unique to each person. Call it what you want. Finances, relationships, the void of life in front of us, family issues, your own struggles, hurting, hurting others, the delicate balance of all things in life. They are the places we stand on the precipice of, the lines that are almost or not ever crossed. A place where we kick the rock off once we get to the top and watch it become small and disappear and bend our ears down to hear the faintest concussion of gravity doing its job.

For some of us, getting to the top of the cliff is the hardest part, starting on the trek, climbing gradually, feeling your heavy legs and heavy heart, lungs dying. And for some getting there, staring off at the ends of the world on all sides, just losing yourself in the moment is the conquest. And for others it's the fall, when we take that last step, that first step and we careen down the side.

Sometimes all it takes is the smallest limb, the tiniest root system for us to grab and catch and hold on to for dear life. Once we have reached the tipping point there is no going back. We dangle there, suspended, frozen. All it takes is the smallest word, and we will fall forever. I can feel myself almost always in every form of my life hanging there, contemplating the fall, how much it will hurt, am i willing to hurt that much again. For the longest time I have just sat halfway up the hill on most things, trying to fill that void in my heart with every bad thing I could find. And at the end of that small lonely journey I found myself wrecked and empty, more numb than asleep feet and hands. There comes a time when you grow weary of not feeling, and when feeling presents itself you jump at it, bc it feels so old and shadowy like your grandfather's echo over a small pond. And if I had to do most of my life over a thousand times I would do it just exactly how I have done it. As much as it has hurt or not hurt, or hurt later, it is exactly how it needs to play out. I am no fortune teller, no prophet, I am barely anything, barely hanging on.

But I'd rather be hanging on, than sitting on a stump somewhere wondering what the adventure was like. I think we all want some sort of adventure but guffaw at the idea that life itself is the story. We want big epic stories and great images in our mind, but literally everywhere all the time those things exist. I know when I traveled I have a million stories that I will tell over and over again, but the meat of my story, the big and best parts are the everyday things, the small smiles and little things that remind me of people. We all want life to be a movie, but the best part is is that it is better than a movie. It is real. Doesn't make things easier. I wrote a poem in my head the other day called "someday." but it is much to sad and narcissistic to show anyone. In fact, just talking about it is pretty narcissistic. lol. So it goes.

Just remember, that no matter what, no matter where you are on your own cliffs, that I love you, and that I am there, too. Whether you are hanging there beside me, or not to the top, or staring over the edge, it's good that we are getting somewhere. Fight for your own lives. I always have this saying, when things are awful and the days are always dark, when nothing seems good and everything good seems so far away: 5 years from now, the things that made us cry will make us smile.

It is my mantra. I say it every morning in the mirror. Remind myself that when I do fall, it will hurt. But i'd rather hurt than never feel or fall. It is so human of us. And that is okay. There is hope for a tree cut down, and there is comfort in being human and being loved. Forgive yourselves. That's the hardest part.

Someday.

like a ship at bay

Driving through old parts of towns I once knew so well, seeing the water fall off on the horizon, setting sun, mile markers and speed signs buzzing by my tired eyes. That water looks so peaceful, so safe, small chopping at each other with invisible teeth, but I know the truth, that once you get in over your head it's dangerous business.

There is an old picture of me with my dad at the beach, first time in the water, super white kid in old clothes touching the tiniest film of the ocean on my little toes (how do our toes get so big?!) and I have this expression of utter joy. The first time feeling water like that, but not understanding the ocean in front of me. And for the longest time I'd only skimboard right at the beach, fearing the deeper waters, the dark blue, the inability to touch the ocean floor. It was a downright fear. But I thought being a kid born on a farm just being at the beach was something special. I made my own box, and it was tidy and easy and consisted of low waves and bodysurfing. When I got older I got into swimming, for real swimming, seeing how far I could stretch myself. I was at the beach and made it to the second jetty, and on my way back I saw fins, small fins, pointed at the ends, and I knew they were not dolphins. I was terrified, my breathing no longer at peace, every inch of me wanting to be on that shore, back to what I felt was normal and right and good. But in those terrifying second of catching the tide back, I felt this amazing fear and rush that meant that I was alive.

And I think that is a great thing to have, and to hold on to. If I never swim anywhere pass what I find is safe, then I would never have found that place inside of me. And everyone will always say if Columbus did not brave the idea that the world is not flat, then modern history would be all together different. So it's good to embrace those waves, embrace the chill of something new, of not going back. Of pushing forward, of knowing there might be something out there. We were made like ships at bay. And maybe we might all crash anyway, but maybe not. And that risk, that chance, that try, is all we should try.

So I think about this as we drive over calm seas, or calm as far as I can see. But out there somewhere a storm is raging, and the seas are swelling, and boats are rocking, and people are feeling alive. G-d it feels good to feel that way again. To throw off every normal thought and box I've had and just go for it. Logic is a great thing, and it can take you places, but it is no substitute for the heart and for hard work.

So here I am, in my swim trunks that are a tad bit too short, and the water is cold and looks lifeless with a blank stare at this little pale kid who wants to see what is out there. But this time there is no fear, there is no shore, there is no water. There is just me, standing, facing, and not quitting. There is everyone, we have the opportunity to really try. To not settle, to not fade away into something we don't wanna be. All it takes is the first step.

Baby steps.

mechanized

Dried paint scarred hands on the steering wheel, callouses growing every day. Finding it easier to breathe, and understanding that I can feel again. It's almost frightening feeling, but I have you to thank for that. G-d works in mysterious ways, and I've become resigned to that notion and okay with it, too. It's dark outside, long day of doing craftsman work, jobs meant for people with low IQs and no diplomas, but good work. Feels good feeling my muscles ache after working, old sweat crusted at the neck of my shirt. Window cracked, slight bit of air seeping in, faint smell of public transit in the air.

Car up ahead is stuck with its blinker on, wanting to get into the lane that I presently reside in. I tap my brakes, once twice, my car's haggard brake lights, 2/3 of what they should be, winks with two good eyes and one bad at the car behind me. I flash my brights at the idle car, who slowly gets in my lane. No clue who is in this toyota forerunner, but they get in front of me, and flash their emergency lights at me, just once, and it just made me smile, like mechanized smiles and nods. Something out of "Wall-E". Emotion and courtesy poured through rays of light. Just struck me as odd, and nice, and faint, and small, and unique, like this quiet little thing that happened between two cars and two drivers the rest of the world missed as they sped on by.

Life and love and everything summed up in ten seconds of two strangers obeying the law. And now they have gone off to wherever they go to. Home with family, out with friends, alone with dinner. Maybe they are alone, maybe they are not, but still feel like it, but in that brief encounter we interacted. We were humans, not cars.

One of my favorite things to do is to think about the lives of all the people in passing cars, how happy they are (without knowing me, hard to believe I know), what their lives are like, what they think, if they think, do they know love, everything. I am genuinely interested in complete strangers in the simplest of terms, and my overthinking mind gets wrapped up in the quick blurred smiles of children or the arguing on the cellphone mom, and I forget to look where I am going and constantly swim in my lane, slight swerves, gentle motions because of this breeze of lost in a world without me. And I know I am not the only one that does that, so if you see me as you drive by and we know each other, know that I am looking at you, too, and for a moment we are not machines being driven, or windows rolled up to keep everything out, but just two people catching glances and glimpsing into the lives of another person.

Roll the windows down.

Say hello.

G-d is in the rain

If He is, then how come I don't feel as wet as I once did? I can sit outside and watch the water soak through my clothes, feel the spray of rain on my face as I walk, splash through puddles but I can't feel it. What does that mean? Is he so far away now that I am unable to see it again?

If He is in the rain, then what about the oceans? or the ponds or lakes or water underground in caves? Could I just go down to the shore or dig deeper than 6 feet and find Him again? So many questions and somewhere there is a whisper, as it always is. Never a booming voice that I would want, or a mysterious floating hand writing on some wall. No, just a small whisper that sounds like the wind, maybe it is the wind, but it's the faintest thing that keeps me from walking into traffic.

I've got more problems than hairs on my head. I, like most everyone else, is some sort of walking catastrophe loosely bound with old thread and twine, keeping it together to save face, to look okay, to appear fine to passersby, but when alone in this quiet place with haunted wooden floors and tears that seem to have found their way out of my eyes again, I have no mask to wear, no person to impress. Just talking on this like I am someone important, that my words matter to anyone. But I am just lonely, wondering if and when that something special will happen. A friend once told me that G-d answers a prayer by saying "yes, wait, or I have something better". Maybe so. Hope so. Sometimes all you need is to do the hard work of trusting, of putting your faith into something that doesn't make scientific sense, but even that doesn't make much sense either. I am so impatient with my questions. Maybe it's our generation or maybe It's because I just hate waiting. I want answers and I want them now, but maybe it's best that I wait.

And it's hard not to dig. Not for water, but for something, to try and find this or that that would validate how I am, how I feel, what is going on. And the problem with digging is that you are going to get dirty and you might not find the soil you want to find. But I don't know what else to do with all these shovels I have around, gathering dust. So many things seem in vain, chasing the wind, wanting, trying, failing, surviving, breathing, hurting, living, moving, keeping on, don't show your cards, do this, do that, play the game, find someone to date, be happy with yourself, watched pots never boil (yes they do). Am I even ready for anything? Is anyone? Is there a point to get to, or is the point the process? Will we ever be ready? I don't know. But I do know that we are all in the same boats, maybe at different places in the sea, holding on for dear life, and that G-d is in the rain and in the salt spray and in the water that is overtaking our boat. Maybe the best thing to do is drown. Just let go, feel your lungs fill with water. Gurgle, choke, close your eyes, sink to the bottom of the sea. Maybe that's being alive. By being dead, and vice versa.

So I'll let the cold sea swallow me with its indifferent indigo jaws. And I want you to come with me. Lose ourselves to find ourselves, everything is simple, everything is backward. Take a chance. This world feels like it's all crazy, it's all false, it's all a dream, but it's alright. As long as you have someone with you, people in the trenches fighting, you are not alone. And I am not either.

So maybe G-d is in the rain. Or maybe He is in the dirt. Or maybe He is in the trees, hiding behind the leaves and branches. Wherever He is, He is everywhere. I don't know why I feel so alone when that is the truth. Guess it just feels so far away, like 250 miles, or 17,000 miles. But all I have to do is look up, or look down, or look around me.

G-d is everywhere.

off the grid

i'll try to find something to write about. i need a road trip, something to get me out of the loft, which feels a lot bigger than it once did.

i haven't cried since i lived somewhere that had hardwood floors. funny thing, the hardwood floors are back. it's like i'm haunted by old dead forests. But I supposed I'd haunt someone too if they walked all over me all the time.

that's all i got right now.

flood

There is a small town outside of my hometown that was built near a river. A big river for a small town. And this town built a levee which breaks all too easily. The last time this happened I was 15 and I went to go help evacuate a friend of mine's aunt. She lived across the street from the levee that broke. I can remember national guard helicopters swirling overhead and men in camoflauge directing traffic. We were the last people down there before everything went to hell. I will never forget watching that first bit of water trickle around the back of the house as we packed up her things, like snakes crawling under leaves, slithering around. Slowly it grew. First it was around our shoes, then above our ankles then at our thighs. At this point we cranked up our battery truck and got out of there. I always thought floods were explosions of water bursting at the seams and destroying everything in its path. But when I experienced that, I saw it was more of this steam-train-nothing-is-going-to-stop-me-kind-of-thing.

Slow and steady wins the race. Slow and steady makes the flood. And when you experience that, it is unstoppable. Forces of nature are something to fear and to be in awe at. One of the things I love about this world we live in is how we can see that and parallel it to our own lives. Being consistent, being steady, being constant, never giving up, never quitting, always striving, never ceasing and before you know it, the world is a flood. All it takes is water trickling around like headless snakes under leaves, and before you know it, you have something that nothing can seemingly stop. Just like the path that is our tomorrow, our steps not yet taken, but taken somehow. Just like the ones we are to be with. It is like the future holds all these uncertainties we hate to admit, or are scared to think about, or worry too much on, but in reality it is really all going to be okay. There is this movie "Conspiracy Theory" *Julia Roberts and Mel Gibson* where Gibson's character tells Roberts' character that being in love is like jumping out of an airplane. And all you can say is "Geronimo". I love that. We just have to let go. Because our future is a force of nature.

It is coming whether we like it or not.

It is unstoppable.

And it is okay.

aging

The idea of hanging out with a child on the same night of getting news that your aunt's body is shutting down has this odd singe of life burned on its edges. Here in one place a boy with his whole life in front of him, playing human jungle gym on the ones watching him, asking questions, soaking in information faster than it can be given. And in another place, a woman's body has been overtaken by cells that it can no longer fight, and it concedes and slowly shuts down, one organ at a time. A life lived and a life not yet lived. Both of their presents defining their futures, and both will ultimately lead to the same destination just on quicker highways.

I wonder what it is about dying. I mean I know that most of it is the fear of the unknown pass this, pass what he see as reality. The other is the loss of a human being. I've seen dead people before, I've seen people die, slip into comas, hit by cars. I have seen horrific things that are burned into my brain. I think someone said one time that the things you want to remember you forget and things you want to forget never leave. How true. The only true form of time travel seems to be Alzheimer's, which is a tragedy in and of itself, and one I fear that I will have one day. I hope that whoever my wife is that she will have the patience to watch an old man go mad. Maybe I already there. You can't drive somewhere where you already live. My aunt at this very moment is in a coma, breathing controlled, everything mechanized to help her. I wonder what that feeling is like. Maybe that's another fear we have, what it feels like to die. G-d, I don't know, don't know if I want to know.

We only have the present. The past is behind us, never to be seen again, and the future awaits on the horizon. How impatient I am these days, and someone who is dear to me tells me this, which it isn't hard for me to take criticism; yet it is hard to hear that you are something that you didn't think you were. But it's a good thing to listen to people. To HEAR what they say about you. Kind of like at a funeral, what people say about you, what you hope someone might say, did you hurt someone, did you leave someone, did you do this, did you do that? The truth of the matter is is that we live in a hard and dark place and we will be hurt and hurt. We will never be quite what we want to be, but that's okay, as long as we continue to strive towards it. Living in the present, grasping our moments, things we will recall in our last days. I have certain memories that I hope I don't lose, places in my life where I'd like to travel back to, and be in that moment again, not change a word or anything, just be there again. To remember that feeling.

Maybe that is what happens. You get to time travel before you die, back to those moments that stick out. And you get to live in them again. So we are not really alone, just pilgrims once again. Have to remind myself that. I am not from here. I am not from here. I am not from here. If we say it enough, maybe we can go back to Kansas, maybe we can go back in time, maybe we can go home.

I hope to be old one day and have lots of grandkids and to sit on summer mornings on the front porch with you, and we will speak of old times, and make new ones every moment. And when we get to our death beds, whoever goes first, please prepare the next place for the other. Because it won't be the same without you if we are apart, no matter how long that may be.

Raise your glasses, and let's make a toast. To us. To you. To the children just now living, and to the ones about to leave. May we all find each other one day somewhere where we all can play, a place that we can call home.

so little we own

After moving, and successfully stealing some internet until my cable guy installs me, i am looking around, hearing my fingers echo down the hall of the place i live now. Vacant mostly, if you broke in here nothing really would seem valuable. Scattered books, small furniture, some art, meager amounts of food.

But i look at it what i "own" (if that term even really means anything) and i see history, stories, literature, journals, staples of my life. Things that remind me where I have been, where I am, and maybe where I am going. An old brick. Every journal with my constant metamorphosis, an old candle, my diploma, my dvds. Things that make me smile, other things that make me not want to. But all in all, my small history. My life, told in objects gathered.

And I suppose in the end, that's really all that stuff is. Our story, our likes and dislikes, notes to someone others may not know, and how we did things. Personally I am not one who likes to have a lot of stuff. I like simple, I like small. Either way doesn't matter. All the possessions in the world can't be taken with you, even though the ancient Egyptians tried. And what happened when those tombs of Pharoahs were opened? Dusty gold. Old parchments, and skeletons. That's life. That's the end.

I have always viewed life as a string. One that is finite and tied on both ends. And at some point that I do not know that string will be snipped and tumble down. I will be remembered in stories and in my children, my imperfections passed on to them, and maybe some good things, too (most will probably come from my wife). Either way, you can't bury me with all my earthly possessions, it'll cost too much money, and be too big of a hole to dig anyway.

I don't know what the point of this note is. Maybe it's to say it doesn't matter how much you own or have, you can't take it with you. But you already know that. Maybe it's to say that our stories will be passed on by what we have/had. Or maybe it's just too cold outside to do anything. I can't wait for you to be here.

The Problem with Pain

"God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is His megaphone to rouse a deaf world."

-C.S. Lewis

The book is called "The Problem of Pain" (italics added) but I decided to venture out on my own little jaunt here and change the preposition. Maybe because I forgot the correct title. Or maybe because I am incredibly enlightened... I am going to go with the first one. Either way, I do love this book and if you have a chance and have ever felt pain, maybe you will too. And it speaks to something that we all know as a very physical thing: pain.

We have all felt, in all facets of the word. It is an easy thing to describe, help others feel and hear and know, and I think more often than not easy to write about because it is much more concrete and common to nail down than harder emotions or things, such as love. It is just... very specific. I say pin prick at the hospital, you should cringe. I say tattoo on the top of the foot, you bite your lip (in a bad way). I say heartbreak and you know what I mean. I say lost loved one, and you associate that with one that you lost. Pain is concrete. Pain is simple. Pain hurts.

But is hurt bad? Is hurting bad? Hm. Sometimes. Maybe. I don't know. That's probably a bigger question than my young mind can answer. But from what I know it's sometimes one of the best things, and sometimes one of the worst things. The problem OF pain and the problem WITH pain are closely related. I think I want to group it together and say, "pain is bad, it's never good to see someone hurt." But on the other hand, pain is necessary. Pain from a wound sometimes means it's healing. Pain means that we feel. I always think about a friend of mine from high school, paralyzed from the neck down (at first). What hurt him was the lack of pain, the lack of feeling. So then pain, too, starts to become somewhat scatterbrained and happenstance. Ugh, it makes my head hurt sometimes- more pain!- just thinking about it.

But pain is not always bad. I like pain in a way. I am reminded of another Lewis quote: "Safe? Course he isn't safe. But he is good."

I am thankful for my scars in my life, for the skinned knees and the burn marks and old bruises that won't heal. I am thankful for the scars in my heart, though I might not be too happy about how they got there. No one ever got anywhere good without a scar or two. And I don't know about you, but I'd rather a thousand scars and some good stories and a passionate love and real life, than to play it "safe".

swingsets

I love playgrounds, even though when I mention that about me or say it outloud or even write it down somewhere, I feel weird saying it, like I'm some freak or something. But they represent a unique piece of life, a fleeting moment of childhood, a fantasy world that never exists again once you outgrow it. Think about it, close your eyes, see the bright paints of metal rings, the clinking of chains holding a swingset, the length of the slide when you read the top of the ladder, half sunken tractor tires, their rubbery smell, the small streaks of black that rub off on your fingers, jungle gyms, hanging by your hands, the wildflowers that grow around those places, the old woodbeams that make up some obstacle course. The fun that we had.

And now, those places and playgrounds are vacant lots to our minds, once played in, but abandoned. Weeds rise high around the bottoms of the poles, the dirt scuffed from your feet dragging under a swingset not muddy and cake dried. The slide doesn't seem so long anymore or so high. Those rubber sunken tires aren't magical getaways - my first kiss was inside one of them; no, they are just sad dried out tires. Everything smells like rust and flaking paint.

What happened to us? When did we forget? I try to remember. In fact some of my favorite memories of people and places and me are in playgrounds, even as a grownup. On tour up in New England, illegally swimming and bathing in a pond, running out of it through a playground as the lifeguard chased us. My first ever injury was in the same place my first kiss was. My first fight and foot race, too.

There is this one playground and park in Mobile, Alabama that holds some sort of supernatural sway over me. Takes me back to some far away place. It's large, it has a huge open field and pond and ducks and swings and it. I have some of the best memories there, and some of the worst. Dread, hope, smiles, almost tears, sunsets, and then sunsets (you know the difference).

And that last thought reminds me of that Thrice song "we move like swingsets". And that brings me back to how we sway and blow in the breeze, and how effortlessly we go here and there. We swing back and forth, and we are at our best when making someone smile and happy. Moving like a swingset.

dreamland

Before there were oceans, the world was all land, portioned and segmented into small civilizations with different lands. Then one day, pieces of the world separated and started drifting in the sky. dirt was falling from these floating pieces, staggered at different altitudes, moving slowly up. I was in the first city to go, it felt like New York City, tall buildings and elevators as we ascended. I was alone, there was no sound (never is) but I did see a sign that said "if you want to go up, you have to go down" and everyone was scared because we were floating, no one knew what to do. I took an escalator down underneath the building i was in, until i was at the bottom of this small floating world, and could see all the other worlds under us. i decided to jump, because i wanted to get back to stable ground, it felt like i fell a million feet, but for some reason i was not harmed.

the next world was more desolate, and i felt like i had grown stronger, bigger, as if each step was a step in something more. i found a giraffe, there were two of them there, the only thing there, and i rode on one and we jumped to the next world. freefalling on the back of the animal, i could feel the wind on my skin, its large neck and mane flickering in the fall. we landed and survived where on the next world i met a girl, and we were connected somehow. she had tattoos of things i'd never seen, she didn't talk but we linked up, and from world to world we went, the next place and then the next place, slowly making our way down to the real world.

we made it to the last patch floating, and people were asking where we were all going, and some said we would go into the sky, and become stars, twinkling, and that's how stars were made, and some people spoke in words i could not understand. and even their words were not spoken with their mouths, but communicated in another way. we looked below our last little floating place and saw that water had filled in where we had left.

this last place was more like a huge c-130 military cargo plane than it was a piece of dirt and patches of grass and buildings. there was a large hangar door that was opened. a man handed me one parachute, that's all they had. we didn't know how to use it, or why there was one even there, but i put it on, she held on to me, and we jumped.

geronimo.

when we landed, she ran away into the night. it was sad, and dark and i couldnt find her. i couldnt remember her name, so i had nothing to call out into the night. and she had no voice so i couldnt remember how she sounded. so there i was, alone in the dark, on earth again, as this woman who i feel is part of me disappears into the dark and pieces of our old world became stars.

(that is a dream i had last night. it feels bigger than something my brain could make.)