Alone on the Isle

This week's phrase is “You are here”:“You are here,” she whispers into the pillow snuggling his ear. No truer words have been spoken. He is, in fact, here, with her, right now. He wants this to be his life, the one where he settles down, holds onto the happiness, and drifts off into a lifelong abyss.

You again...

2011-09-15T21:10:00.000-04:00

The ache in my head catches me at the moment I cannot fathom dealing with the cause.

Pieces

2011-09-01T00:11:00.001-04:00

You could not have known as much, but I gave you everything with my touch, it was the hardest decision I ever made; and when you left, you took me with you, and I can never get it back.

Sunday Scribblings (Pleasure)

2011-08-07T22:39:00.001-04:00

This week's word is “Pleasure":

I watched from across the room as your shoe hung from its living partner. In that moment, I wanted little more than to guide my hand from that appendage up across every inch of your epidermis. It was a dream, I knew as much, but needed something to get me through the boredom of my life. But days in, the imaginary you, the one that traced my body with her tongue and panted my name in the darkness, failed to complete my emptiness. I needed you, and the freedom that would bring.
. . . .
You were everything I ever thought one could be. Fun was has, time was spent, stories were swapped, and tentative plans were hatched. Life, as least as far as I could see it, was good. That is not to say that we did not struggle, flight, and swear each other off, but . . . . I had your love, and in that, I had everything.
. . . .
The skies, as they always do, turned. I failed to live up to expectation. I excel at that. You accepted my failure, and turned away. It is not, regardless of my response, what I wanted. If only you could see inside me, you would see a man who struggles without the only woman who ever brought him true pleasure.

Sunday Scribblings (Raw)

2011-03-06T21:00:00.001-04:00

This week's word is “Raw”:

Since reaching the age of maturity and freely expressing my own wants and desires, I knew one thing for certain; I am not a man afraid of taking the road less traveled, of hitting some rough patched along the way, and getting dirt in my teeth. Now I know the powers that be frown upon my course of action, stress the diseases, consequences and preach prophylactic measures, but it just is not the same. To follow that course means that I am destined to a life of decreased texture, connection, and the intimacy that comes with the natural feel, taste, and smell, the way our distant forefather did it. Right or wrong. I know the risks, sleep well at night, and enjoy the rush that comes with casting caution to the wind. Fuck the establishment, I say, it is my body, and I can do as I please.

So with my middle finger displayed proudly to the world, I say cut, clean, and cook that shit all you want; but me, I want my veggies right out of the ground, raw as a fresh wound.

Sunday Scribblings (Fire)

2011-02-27T22:08:00.001-04:00

This week's word is “Fire”:

The flames tore through the single story dwelling at an alarming speed, leaving no time for me to save myself, or those that I loved. I would slink under my bed and wait for the inevitable, terrified of the pain I was sure to endure. It always ended with me crying and calling out for my mother.

That dream haunted me from the age of seven well into my teens. It was brought on by a short lived obsession with matches, a story by a neighbor of a terrible blaze the consumed her household, killing all inside, and pictures of burn victims placed strategically throughout my bedroom. It was a tough love approach taken by desperate parents after I lit the before mentioned neighbors backyard ablaze on my brother second birthday. Thankfully for all involved, it put itself out before any real damage was done.

After said incident, and the subsequent parental reaction, I never looked at fire the same. I became obsessed with checking the fire-alarms (to my mothers dismay), carefully planned escape routes, and consumed any and all preparedness manual available to a small child. My youth, from that point forward, was devoid of anything remotely capable of making even a spark.

Now I am still fascinated by fire, and the power it holds, but now have an alarm in each room, and plan endlessly my escape if it is so needed.

A Thousand Years

2011-02-13T23:14:00.001-04:00

This week's phrase is “A Thousand Years”:

This week, the one containing the anniversary of your death, is tougher than all others. I know why, from a logical perspective, but it confuses me nonetheless. It is not as if I miss you more today than last Monday, but the pain is worse, the dreams more visceral, and the failures present. It is as if I am preparing for your funeral again, and I was not ready the first time. People appeared to show their respects, and their love; the band played; beautiful words were spoken; it was lost on me. I know I said something, what it was I do not recall, but words came from my lips. I knew they did not mean much to you, as they came too late for you to appreciate the love I had for you, and you were gone.

All I have to give now is the knowledge that I will never let the memory of you pass, nor will I let the generations that follow forget you. For a thousand years or more, your name will ring out with the legacy you left.

Good night my baby brother.

A little something...

2011-01-15T21:29:00.001-04:00

There was a little girl that liked to play with the baby bear she had found in the forrest. Everyday, rain or shine, she would wander out, find her fuzz ball of love, and pick and eat berries and other fruits with it until nothing more could possibly fit into her tiny stomach. She would then drag her over indulged self home and wait until tomorrow to do it all again.

There was a little bear cub who longed to eat the skinny child that would bother him in the forrest. In an effort to make it worth his time, he spent each day tirelessly working to fatten her up. He would then retire to his den, and pray that tomorrow would be the day she would be worth the energy it would take to eat her.

Waiting

2011-01-08T23:31:00.000-04:00

Every day I am reminded that I am waiting . . . for your voice, words, and, at times, touch. It is a reality that I count on to get me through the numbness of the days. I am slightly afraid to be at this place, but thankful that I have it, and you, to give me a purpose.

March on

2011-01-04T21:51:00.001-04:00

I was an athlete once, and if I can say this without my head swelling too much, a damn good one. I let that fade a bit this past year, and it took a toll on me. I forgot that physical activity, and more importantly, competing, keeps me sane, and focuses the rest of my life. Without pushing my body to the breaking point on a fairly regular basis I am a shell of a human. I get bogged down in the everyday minutia that drivers people insane. I was built to push—not human capacity, for there are many out there that can put me to shame, and I am never going to garner a sponsorship—my own limits. I heal at an alarming rate and have an incredible pain threshold. My goal this year is to channel that talent, and get back to the insanity that once defined me.

Randoms

2010-12-22T22:16:00.001-04:00

Here I am again, sitting before this computer, headphones on, cigarette dangling from my lips and beer at hand, but the words refuse to find the page.
****
I know a man who proudly served his country, and fought tirelessly to make it a better place.

I know a many who cared so deeply for his friends and family that he would give up anything for them.

I know a man whose life, along with five others, came to an abrupt end on a stormy night in December.

I know a mam whose memory will be carried on by all who met him, and many who did not, including this sad writer.
****
As the engines of the aircraft kicked in, for the first time in my life, I found myself saying a prayer to whoever would listen, and wondered if all in my life, including those that I rarely see, know how important they are to me.
****
Tooth pain is fucking debilitating.
****
I can feel her in my arms at the end of the day, even when she is sleeping in a distant bed. Her skin is on my fingertips, her aroma fills my nose, and my love longs for her. If only I could verbalize those feelings in the moments we are together.
****
It is not my home, and, the argument could be made that it never really was, but I feel alive in our nations capital.
****
I want to watch you sleep again; moments spent together in total silence, me, you, and my dreams of the life we could share.
****
The stress associated with December depresses me . . . where is my fat jolly man to make it all better?

Sunday Scribblings (Bright Idea)

2010-11-13T21:59:00.000-04:00

This week's word/phrase is Bright Idea:

You could feel the beat . . . thump, thump, thump; the glow sticks danced in sync with the chaos; she pumped in and out of sight. I concentrated, aided by the powders, pills and caffeine of a night off the grid. Shirt off, sweat dripping, teeth grinding, movement flowing, but focused. She was my prey, I was her gyrating predator. My frustration, sense of anticipation, and arousal heightened with each passing moment. But no matter how hard I tried, I could not get her to come into focus, to stop, to let me feast. I knew I would love her in the light of day, but day it was not. If only the sun would rise, I was convinced that she would see my chiseled body, drugged out smile, raging libido, know my desire, and match my rhythmic wiggle. In a moment of clarity, or insanity, I saddled up to the curtains, lit them ablaze with my cigarette, and waited for her to observe me in full light. A bright idea it may not have been, but it was an idea, and it brightened the room, mission accomplished.

Two pieces, one soul

2010-10-29T23:05:00.003-04:00

He promised himself, long ago, that he would only take the bare minimum of what he needed. He would not, could not, and deplored the idea of taking more than was necessary to survive. For the vast majority of his existence, he stood by this principle, leaching only enough from the few he cared to bleed so as to survive. It worked for all involved . . . he was whole, and they were, well, mostly the same. Then she came along and all control was lost.

At what point does the consumption of ones soul become disastrous? When is the breaking point crossed, with no hope of return? Is it the moment where you look in the mirror and see a reflection that you can no longer comprehend, understand, or look at? Is it then, where the you, the one you nourished, babied, and built from the ground up, in shambles, for good? Is that a negative, or the necessary evolution of a flawed species? Should I worry that I do not see myself absent her?

The Funeral

2010-10-22T23:15:00.004-04:00

I found this written on my phone; I wrote it while sitting on a plane a few months back:

As the world closes in around, and the nights grow increasingly grizzly, the beauty in the moment wrestled is not lost on his soul. For a brief flash, he enjoyed the freedom that he once thought would be his everyday

Vision

2010-10-22T23:15:00.001-04:00

I am a runner. I am blind without corrective measures. Why I would decide to do the former with out the latter is beyond me. I, however, being the brain dead moron I often am, decided it would be a fantastic idea to go for a jaunt with out my contacts or glasses. It did not go well.

I should have known the end result when I noticed that the lights in the distance looked like fireworks exploding in the night. I pushed on. I never saw the curb end, but I sure did feel it. I recovered from my stumble with only a few choice words and staggered on. I have no clue where the cement post came from, I have never seen it before, and am convinced that it was erected today. I thought of turning back, but I am Irish, so I refused to accept the obvious, and continued. The last straw came when I ran down a smallish woman who tried, in a moment of shocking realization, to dodge left. . . .that was my reaction as well.

I am a runner. I am blind without corrective measures. I know now that I cannot skip the latter while doing the former.

Silence

2010-10-11T21:50:00.000-04:00

I am afraid to write the Story because I do not know what emotions will be set free and what that will do to me.

Listening to The Cure, Disintegration and The Clash, The Clash (UK release).

Sunday Scribblings (Flashback)

2010-10-03T21:45:00.000-04:00

This week's word is Flashback:

I was drawn to her unpretentious, yet careful, attire, the smirk that shot across her face when she thought others were not paying attention, and the manner in which she held her beauty. She was the most inviting woman I had ever laid eyes on, and there had been many. This one, unlike those before, did not stir my sexual response as much as light my mind on fire. I longed to hear her story, and for her to hear mine. Her presence made me love both myself and the future.

The normal me would sit back, hope, and wait . . . if it was meant to be, it would. I was keenly aware, however, that if I did not act, and do so right then, she would drift in and out of my days many feet from me, with only a smile here and there to keep me going, until she was gone. That was not an option. Therefore, I attacked the situation, inserted myself into her path, and refused to be absent, for even a moment. I knew that failure would dent my delicate psyche, and an arrest for stalking would do the same to my career, but I was going to get her to notice me. I felt that with that much, I could do anything.

Once I got her ear—a much easier task than I had anticipated—I took full advantage, and told her every good thing about myself, with just enough bad sprinkled in to keep me honest. I talked a lot and made a complete fool of myself. But she laughed, assured me that I was fine, and disclosed her most intimate secrets. With some reluctance, a serious talk or two, persistence, and time, she accepted what I was offering. We embarked on a romance that proved to this lost soul that love is real, painful, and exhilarating.

A place I have never been

2010-09-29T21:51:00.001-04:00

There is a place in his my mind and he knows it well. It is where he goes when the day is burnt, body aching and thoughts out of control. It is, as best as he can describe, a mountain full of climbable faces, a lake replenished by snow fed waterfalls, and trees checkered atop the visible peaks. By day the sun's brilliance shimmies across the glass smooth water, the air warm, but dry; in the darkness, the stars and moon directly overhead shine with a heaven like glow, broken only by electric storms dancing in the distance. In this place, he needs none of the distractions that get him through his life, namely, the constant noise pumped in through headphones, the liquor, the cigarettes, and the occasional compliment. All that is required is a pair of climbing shoes, chalk, swim trunks, a partner in disappearance and something to lay his and her lazy head atop. In this place, life is everything he ever wanted.

It is in these moments, however, that he is saddest. For he knows where he longs to be, with whom he seeks to share it, what they would do when they got there, but cannot find it in the real world. As it is, in its truest sense, a place he has never been, will never be, and will die longing for.

You will never read this

2010-09-24T23:55:00.002-04:00

You were an important part of my life, but one that was centered wholly around my 9-5. During our time together, I never once thought about the life you lived away from your duties and obligations. I valued you for what you could bring to me, not for what you were, and I am sorry for that.

There is a family mourning your loss at this moment, and their grief is real, painful, and heartfelt. I do not know them, never will, but hurt for them nonetheless.

It was an honor to be in your presence, even if it was for just a moment. I found you to be engaging, honest, and hard working. . .I do not use those words lightly.

Goodbye, you will be missed, by many more than me.

Sunday Scribblings (Clean)

2010-09-19T22:18:00.002-04:00

This week's word is Clean:

As I sit alone on the patio, staring off into the rain-soaked semi-lit darkness, I think of all the things I should have said, should not have done, and the person that is part of me. We both wanted something pure, unending, and impossible. Accordingly, our time, and by that, you know of what I speak, included painful realities, tears and frustration. The words I have written and spoken throughout time have started to wear thin, I am sure, as they bother even me. So instead, I have written a song, or lyrics, or something. It may not read different than the others, as there is no background music, no instruments, and my band members are sadly absent, but it is, at least in my head, something revolutionary. The ballad, in all its failings, goes like this:

I want to tell you that you are the bridge between the person I am and the one I long to be
I wish I could have put my actions where my mouth is, and followed through on my dreams
But I did not, and nobody, not even you, knows the sleepless, destructive nights this caused
You are my muse, freedom, someone that keeps my struggling head above the waters edge

If offered the chance to give it up, snare all this world could offer, but lose the memories of you, I would pass
There is nothing, regardless of value, worth sacrificing all I have accumulated with you
The pain may be debilitating at times, and the tears often, but the life with you in it is worth it
When I was broken, dirty, and covered in shit, you were there for me, pulled me from my knees, cleaned me off, and gave me hope

I will love you till my dying day, regardless of what comes my way
You buried me with kindness, peppered me with beauty, and gave me the strength I needed to carry on
At all stops, through this time, I have turned to you for guidance, and you never flinched, even when the effort took a piece of your soul with it
I know the cost I have have extracted, and know I will never be able to repay, but hope this rhyme helps in some small way

If offered the chance to give it up, snare all this world could offer, but lose the memories of you, I would pass
There is nothing, regardless of value, worth sacrificing all I have accumulated with you
The pain may be debilitating at times, and the tears often, but the life with you in it is worth it
When I was broken, dirty, and covered in shit, you were there for me, pulled me from my knees, cleaned me off, and gave me hope
. . . .

It is not complete, I know as much. Hell, it doesn't even make sense. Honestly, I lack the talent to make this meaningful, the patience to fully express myself, and the absurdity to sing.

The Gift

2010-09-14T21:22:00.001-04:00

The approach, like every other, was the same. I slumped and staggered away from the broken and beaten SUV towards the door, depressed by the day that had unfolded in spite of myself. I could not help but dread the nightly walk the dogs were expecting, the meal that needed to be prepared and the wife that was waiting to ask, painfully, what had happened during the prior twelve hours. Energy was gone, food nonexistent and imaginary stories of a day spent in excitement running thin. But that was the world in which I lived and I accepted as much. One foot in front of the other, it would all be over soon enough.

Upon entering, I was greeted by two dogs full of exuberance, a bitter cat and a wife . . . with a perplexed look. “Were you expecting something?” “Hello to you, my day was fine if you must know.” My anger had broken the surface, and I had to breath to calm my nerves. “Sorry, not sure where that came from. No I am not expecting anything, why?” “You received a package today, and by the looks of it, you knew it was coming.” “I have no clue what you are talking about. I have no friends, stopped talking to my family years ago, and you know nobody ships to this godforsaken island.” She pointed at a box, adorned in GI Joe paper, sitting on the table. I stared, she stared, and the dogs fought. “What the fuck is this” I thought. I walked to it, excited by the thought of receiving a gift. The writing on the box was childish, but recognizable as . . . my own.

To: Bruce Pidd, 3242 Freidman Ave., Godforsaken Island, 34123
From: You know, just open it

I turned to the jury of one, opened my mouth to speak, but was at a loss. Innocence is not the default. “I. . . really. . . don't. . . know anything about this.” Nothing.

Knowing that this would not end until the contents of said package were in full display to explain away, I tore the paper away, opened the box and recoiled in disbelief. Inside lay six of my own possessions, five of which had a pastel post-it attached.

I took the picture out first, it was of my brother, when he was young, happy, and alive. The note read “What would he think of your existence?” My nerves were frayed, emotions uncontrollable and fear real.

The ratty stuffed buffalo, still missing its tail, was adorned with, “You were happy once, is it too late?” I cradled it to my chest, much as I did as a small child when the world seemed to be caving in.

I set it aside long enough to pick up the baseball that still had my signature with a dedication to my mother, circa 1989. “You were great once, it is not too late.” It fit so nicely between my fingers that I debated throwing it against the wall to see what I still had left.

The diary, full of words, emotions and my youth was next. “You had dreams, ambitions and goals once.” I trembled, let the tears fall and recalled a time when I had hope.

My diplomas, ripped and ragged were covering the remaining items. “These do not define you; never have and never will.” I crumbled them up, threw them aside and felt free.

I pulled out a photograph of myself with friends long since forgotten. “Have you forgotten how to love yourself, others and the world in which you live? If so, move on.” I had, did not want to be that person and said as much out loud, to my observers great surprise.

The loaded pistol sat alone. There was no note.

She looked confused, lost and angry. I ignored her, took my life's greatest possessions, minus the gun, sat on the floor and broke.

Time changes everything

2010-09-10T22:40:00.001-04:00

I started this thing three years ago today. I did so with no preconceived notion of what it would be, what it would become, or what it said about me. I did it, as I said at the start, because I had an abundance of free time, a computer and an internet connection. Over time, it became a way for me to explore the past, the deeper parts of my soul, the pain that cripples me and the stories/characters that were begging to be set free. During said time, I have moved twice, changed jobs once, run more miles than my body cares to admit and acquired friends and loved ones on my lonely island. It is fair to say that I am not close to the person I was when I started. While I still have the computer, albeit a different one and a new internet service provider, I no longer have the free time to do this. Nonetheless, I continue to return as often as possible, not because I have nothing better to do, but because it has become a way for me to express myself in a way I never found possible in my everyday. Things written in these posts are the most painful, happiest, and craziest things that cross my mind; things I do not feel free to express. Some are about real people, pain, love and loss; others are pure imagination, often inspired by things I see, hear or read about. Regardless of their source, the feelings in each of these posts is real, all-consuming and exhausting. I have not yet learned how to distance myself from this, that, and the stories they create. And, as I am sure the few readers that I have have noticed, I tend toward the dark, hateful and melancholy. Despite my best efforts, the happiness of this existence, which I am capable of expressing in the real world, does not translate well to this forum. I am, by and large, a happy person. I see the inherent good in people, strive to make those around me better, and will do almost anything to make someone laugh. And while I often write about the joy I receive in watching others fail, it is not me. I want all to succeed, to get all they ever desire, and to enjoy the beauty of the accomplishment. It inspires me to be better.

If you continue to read, which I do not blame you for stopping, I intend to turn this blog into something different. Instead of a collection of off the cuff pieces, which tend to meld into each other, I am going to try and craft short stories, inspired by the things I see in my world. They will most likely not be good, but it is structure, and I need that in my life. I would appreciate your comments, thoughts, and suggestions, for that is the only way I will grow. I understand completely that they will not be all that different, but I am trying, so stick with me.

I could not say it better, so . . .

2010-09-01T21:59:00.002-04:00

"It's not human to let go of love, even when it's dead." Rob Sheffield

"I grieve that grief can teach me nothing." Ralph Waldo Emerson

The unknown

2010-08-24T23:08:00.002-04:00

There are things said, just between us, that will never be known to the world. Now I understand that this is true for most everybody, but this is different somehow. When people see you, me, and the us that that entails, they see a truth that is anything but. For they do not know that as anchored as I appear, the dreams fluttering through my days are of you, this, and the happiness it brings.

Senior year

2010-08-24T23:08:00.001-04:00

Delani was a predator, a woman experienced in the ways of love, loss, and destruction; she consumed her kill and I was the prey. Rochanne lingered, fought, clawed, and hurt me at every opportunity; she was in love, I think, but with a me that was not a reality. Delaney was a teammates ex, and was too beautiful for her own good, and mine. The hands of gold, immense heart, and intense love belonged to Christina; the end was drawn-out for her, but immediate for me; I did not savor this conquest and feel bad about it to this day. My roommates older sister, whose name I can no longer recall, was clingy, cute, obnoxious, and refused to putout, and I respected her for that more than she knew, even if I did refuse to hold her hand in public. I thought I would marry Sarah . . . the good times were amazing, bad times nonexistent for so long and, honestly, I do not know where it went wrong, but know that I eventually wanted to smoother her with a pillow; it broke my heart.

When it comes

2010-08-13T23:54:00.003-04:00

There is going to be a last day, moment, and word, regardless of how much I don't want that to be so.

***

But it is not the end that I will remember.

***

I will panic, forget to breath, and get caught up in the sick cruelty of the situation.

***

I will laugh about the endless phone calls, and the fact that I despised that devise more than most.

***

The self-hatred for not remembering every word that left your lips will punish me.

***

Happiness for having known you will engulf me when the thought of dropping off the grid takes hold.

***

When asked what is on my mind, I will internally lash out that it is the emptiness.

***

People notice that I changed because of you--without being asked--and became a better person.

***

The things I did not say will loop repeatedly until the day I die.

***

You were the “beautiful girl”, the one by which all others will be measured.

***

For the briefest of moments you were my muse, and the written word will be lost without you.

***

The markers in my life will be before and after, to my detriment.

***

The laughs, fights, and silence were painful, but worth it.
***

There is going to be a last day, moment, and word . . . and this just is.

This is me

2010-08-10T23:22:00.002-04:00

I love politics, the game of it excites me, and makes me want to get involved in the fray.

If I could be anything, besides a baseball, basketball or any other player, or a rock climber, I would be a judge, because I think I am fair, and understand the failings of people.

The fear of dying doing something I love does not at all scare me, but the thought of being dead keeps me awake at night.

I hate the aftermath of drinking, but enjoy the buzz that comes with a few drinks at the end of the day.

I put words on a page because I am detached from them, and can be honest without immediate reprisal.

My ability to detach from a situation scares me.

I wish I was taller, because if I was, I would be making ten million dollars a year.

I have seen, heard and experienced more than a man of my age should, yet it makes me want to live, to see the good, more than anything.

When I pray, which is not often, I call on my brother for protection.

I feel other peoples pain, deep in my soul, and it breaks me at times.

I do not confront my own pain, it keeps me sane.

Without the support of my best friend, who knows who he is, but does not know the effect he has had on my life, I would have given up along time ago.

I could care less what each individual thinks of me, but am crippled by the fear of disappointing the masses, even if they do not know who I am.

A slightly disheveled woman turns me on.

I hate looking, appearing, or acting disheveled.

For all of my imperfections, there are things about me I would never change.

I hold those close to me to an almost impossible standard.

I find myself funny, even if those around me do not.

People often laugh at things I say, even though I am being dead serious.

If it were not for lists, I would accomplish nothing.

My Words

2010-08-07T22:40:00.001-04:00

I am a demanding individual, one who expects, commands, and desires nothing more than for every human being to tell me, to my face, exactly what they are thinking and feeling. Moreover, I want it to be set forth in a coherent and concise manner. When these specific requests are not met, I am hurt, befuddled, and beside myself. “Why can't you just tell me your exact thoughts in a way that I can comprehend,” I wonder, often to the complete destruction of those around me. I am a law man, so this is in my nature. The problem is that I do not, in my personal life, adhere to my own standards. In my work, I am a model of efficiency when it comes to the spoken word, often cutting people off at the knees with my complete honesty and frankness. I pride myself on this ability, and garner a great deal of respect for this approach. From nine to five, there is no place for coyness, misgivings or vagueness. It is my job, and I am a master. Moreover, my words written here are honesty defined. This is who I am, right or wrong. But to others, to those I love more than they know, I am muddled mess of confused words and emotion. I can never say what I want without sticking my foot, arm, or any other available appendage in my mouth. The problem stems from, as far as I can tell, my inability to face the fact that, above all else, I care more than I let on, and hate stronger than I care to admit. It hurts that I know what I want to convey, but immediately become a wall of silence or an ass, neither of which helps those around me. Either I lock myself off from any real emotion, or I reject anything put forth by those I hold dear. I have tried to correct these flaws, but fear that I am what I am, and will run those I hold dear off before I overcome my own failings. I am an ass, I know that, and want to be better . . . I promise.

. . . . .

2010-08-04T23:41:00.001-04:00

When you go, take all of me, I do not want a single piece of my soul to be left behind, an empty being is all that should remain, and I will be okay with that. In my own absence, I will stumble, stagger and fall, but as my once life filled body is drug through the mud, I will think wildly about the moment that we shared together. For eternity, your words, long ago spoken, will linger, allowing me to carry on and to know that this life, seemingly wasted, was worth something . . . once. Words for you will continue to appear on this page, or some variation thereof. As I have learned, love is being alone and longing for the one who is not yours, never was, and is happily out of yours arms. The crushing part is that I will not be by your side in old age when you fade into the night, and you will not be by my motionless body. Just one more time, I want to hold you, whisper into your ear and kiss you . . . . Sadly, if that occurred, it will not have been enough.

Sunday Scribblings (I'd Like to Thank)

2010-08-01T22:22:00.002-04:00

This week's phrase was I'd Like to Thank:

I'd like to thank my mother for, amongst other things, passing on her insane love of music. There are many things I remember from my childhood, some good, some horribly bad, and there are many things that I have blocked out, for better or worse. However, the memories that never faded, and are in the forefront of my thoughts, are the times I spent listening to music with my mother. In my house, there was never a silent moment, for it was always filled with the sounds of Anne Murray, Bread, Fleetwood Mac, Paul McCartney (post-Beatles), Kenny Rogers, The Carpenters, The Moody Blues, The Beach Boys, Boston, Chicago, Foreigner, Air Supply and many more. Now I understand that these are not the greatest artists to grace us with their presence, but they were my youth, and I loved them all (except for Michael Bolten and Barry Manilow, who had prominent places in our home). My mom and I did not have much in common, but in music, unlike all others in the house, we shared a passion. We had a 100 disc CD changer long before they became fashionable, and had thousands of 45's, vinyl and CD's. And while we did not have much money, my mother made it a point to make sure that I always had the newest and best music player, whether it be a boombox, CD player, or Walkman. The first album she ever purchased for me was Jerry Lee Lewis' greatest hits, and to this day I can sing Great Balls of Fire with the best of them. There were many others over the years, and they all came from my mother (Mazzy Star, Tone Loc, Pink Floyd, Meatloaf, Steve Miller, Robert Plant, and Tom Petty, to name a few) . And for that, I cannot thank her enough, for without her understanding, willingness to spend money we did not have, and desire to feed my obsession, I would have never turned into the music crazed person I am today. As I write this, I just finished listening to Pavement's Terror Twilight and am now listen to Sonic Youth's Goo; without the lyrics, songs and albums, I would be a shell of the human I am today.

Hello, my name is . , , ,

2010-07-19T21:21:00.000-04:00

She had the talent, brains, look, and degrees. She walked with a purpose, dressed to impress, and had a wiggle that made men stop, whistle, and wonder what the hell had gone wrong in their own lives. But tears that accompanied her to bed were real, painful, and endless. For all her possessions and ability, she wanted nothing more than to leave it all behind and to run into the nothingness with the man she thought she knew. . . .

He was marginal, talentless, forgettable, and restless. He walked with his head down, appeared disheveled, listen to music instead of dealing with the everyday, and attracted the attention of the fringe. He wanted to be happy, mingle with humans, but did not know how, and that frustrated him into suicidal thoughts. For all he lacked, he sought nothing more than to run into the madness and to be part of the normal with a woman he knew existed, but had not yet met. . . .

From me to you, whoever you are . . .

2010-07-15T23:19:00.000-04:00

I have too much to say at the moment, so, as is always the case, I cannot seem to say anything at all. As such, as I have done in the past, I have decided to let my music catalog dictate tonight's piece. As always, I put it on shuffle and wrote one line per song, using each as a springboard (I skipped all rap songs). Below is the result, and the songs relied on.

From me to you, whoever you are . . .

When I think of you, I am deafened by angels bellowing an unrecognizably beautiful melody. And I know now, even before we are through, I wish I had packed you away, and stolen you off to the place of my birth. In said place, we could have laid in an endless field, and forgotten the world. You know this, and have long since prepared, and practiced the lecture of why you have to leave, and will insist on me letting you go. In a brief moment of clarity, in an otherwise clouded existence, I will recognize that my only real talent is to disappoint, and, had you stayed, you would have ended up crying endlessly in total silence. Instead of longing, you will reconcile it all by blocking me from your memory, and existing as if I was never really there. In this, you will do what I will be incapable of, helping yourself. And if there is a chance encounter, the love in your eyes will be reserved for another. I tried to break away prior to this point, but your being convinced me that I wanted nothing more than to travel blindly in your shadow. The problem is, and will always be, that being with you is like being on ecstasy, the euphoria is overpowering. Just know that, no matter how far you wander, and you will wander, I will be here, waiting patiently for you to come back to me.

Harry Gregson-Williams, The End; Coconut Records, West Coast; Snow Patrol, Chasing Cars; The Postal Service, Nothing Better; The Weakerthans, Watermark; Young Coyotes, Momentary Drowning; Sad Brad Smith, Help Yourself; Bree Sharp, Not Your Girl; Leonard Cohen, Suzanne; The Magnetic Fields, Take Ecstasy With Me; John Legend, Where Did My Baby Go.

Opening lines

2010-06-24T22:07:00.002-04:00

The tickle of your words in my ear allows me forget about the endless clutter of my days. I know you . . . and you me. I relish the past that includes us. I hope you know . . . . You are as lost as I; it comforts me. I swore I would save you, but fear I am the cause of your demise. The next words on the page will not be easy to digest. It would have been epic, if only . . . . I changed for you and you consumed it, me, and my future. The curtain will be drawn, and my pain will be hidden behind. A savior I am not. Show me the way. I need you to be strong. The heart is incapable of surviving a passion this devastating. It is unbecoming to lose ones mind at this age. At what point did I become a thorn in your eye? You haunt my days, yet pleasure my nights. I could explain it all, but you would not understand. I am much worse than I appear.*

* When I write, I formulate a central sentence, then I build around it. This is not an exact science, and a lot of deleting takes place. Instead of scrapping the wasted many, I decided to forgo the actual story, and to put them together. The above was tonight's castoffs. Each sentence was intended to be a theme of its own.

Open arms

2010-06-22T22:05:00.001-04:00

I hope, beyond all else, that I never forget the generosity that those around this globe have shown me throughout my many travels. It would be easy for all of you, many much less fortunate than I, to write me off as a spoiled American traipsing through your country on a holiday without a care in the world. Instead, I have been welcomed in with open arms and treated as an open mind, desperate to learn all that you have to offer. There is no way to adequately thank you all, but please know that I, a privileged human, will do all I can to return the favor if and when the opportunity arises.

Inspiration

2010-06-06T23:03:00.002-04:00

There was girl, who inspired a boy, to want to be more than he was. He saw in her perfection, a life worth being close to, and a person he wanted to be present in his everyday. She radiated greatness, perseverance, and love. Could tackle a challenge at any given moment, and prevail with the success that many only dream of. Now this is not to say that she did not have her moments where she doubted her ability, lashed out at the world, and longed for the simple. But the boy admired this, for it was a sign that she was human, and did not think she was “better” than those around her, which of course, the boy thought she was. And while maddening, the boy appreciated that she would not always accept his praise, admiration, and fawning, for she too questioned her prowess. In her, a goddess he saw, and it made him want to be a god of equal proportion.

Sunday Scribblings (Mess)

2010-06-06T23:03:00.000-04:00

This week's word is Mess:

His suit is pressed, shirt ironed, tie perfectly in place and matching, shoes shined, and cufflinks polished. The eyes sparkle, smile radiant, laugh gentle and reassuring, and the walk is purposeful. His speech inspires confidence, his written words are admired, and he is held in high esteem by his peers. His athletic prowess, while weird, and seemingly insane, does nothing to hurt his reputation. In fact, a google search turns up a litany of accomplishments and no failures to speak of. Nonetheless, he lacks focus, desire, and the ability to see past tomorrow. He agonizes about the attire, stresses about his word choice, loses sleep over his inability to connect on a personal level with those around him, and fears that his body will break at any given moment. The faith that a person such as him should have in his ability is nonexistent, and the thought of failing, for that first time, is a weight he cannot shake. Instead of striking out, and possibly showing the world what he is potentially possible of, he will suffer with the mundane, avoiding any “real” challenge, out of a lifelong fear of being exposed as a nothing. He is a beautifully adorned book that has never been opened to reveal his true contents He is, at his core, a complete and utter mess.

A swift current

2010-05-27T22:29:00.002-04:00

In my dreams, you are so close, yet so far. I try desperately to reach you, to pull you close, and to comfort you, but I lack the strength to do any of it. Instead, I am forced to watch you drift away, into the arms of a more able protector. It never changes, and it breaks me, a little more everyday.

Silence is rarely golden

2010-05-27T22:29:00.001-04:00

I feel to the point of physical pain, but lack the ability to express those emotions in a vocal way. Looking back on my life, I see the littered remains of those that never knew how I felt for them; how much their existence made my life worth living. And it is not because I did not want them to know, because the truth is, I had “that conversation”, the one where I told them that my world revolved around their presence, approval and love; how I cried for them when they were in pain; celebrated when they achieved; and made excuses when they did not. The problem is, ever one of those conversations occurred with only one of the two essential party's.

On more than one occasion, usually centered around the death, or the permanent departure of a non-expendable, I promised that I would change, that the next time, things would be different. But, as is always the case, I was lying to myself. I am, unfortunately, a throwback to the male culture that vilified any sign of weakness; and somehow I convinced myself, at a young age, that any sign of emotion made me less of a man. The sad truth is, that my inability to express myself is my greatest failing. My fear is that when I die, the only way people will truly know how I felt about them will be to read the words I have written here, for complete strangers to read.

9-5

2010-05-27T22:28:00.000-04:00

I have been down this road before, the path that seems to lead to isolation, loneliness, and burnout; and it was not pleasant. Nonetheless, I am here, a living, breathing human being with friends, loved ones, and a future that will not end with me spending endless hours behind a fake mahogany desk. Now I value my career, and care deeply about performing my functions to the best of my ability, but I learned, the hard way, that the best of me will never surface if I am so deeply unhappy that the very act of rising from my nightly slumber is a moment of pure depression. The truth is, no matter how important, I, you, or anyone of us feels we are, short of a very select group of individuals, we are fungible. The second I accepted that reality, my life changed exponentially for the better. . . because, at the end of the day, work is nothing more than that, life is something completely different.

Sunday Scribblings (Courage Part II)

2010-05-09T22:25:00.001-04:00

Courage for him would be keeping his mouth shut long enough to allow her to move on with her life. Instead, in an act of cowardice, words that he knows will keep her close roll out of his mouth. He should fear destroying the careful balance she has created, but selfishness, a touch of desire, and greed, stops him. In a different place and time, the world he could provide, and he would, with reckless abandon, but that was never an option. From the start, pain was the reality . . . for him, for her, and for countless others. But because of her beauty, stunning intelligence, and the chemistry between them, his words are boundless, his charm unending, and his wit biting. The right thing would be walk . . . far . . . and long . . . out of her life. But courage has never been his strength, so he is here, longing, waiting, and counting down the hours until he whispers sweet nothings into her ear.

Sunday Scribblings (Courage)

2010-05-09T21:47:00.001-04:00

This week's word is Courage:

He never once backed down, cowered from a challenge, or tired from the futile nature of his task. He faced the worlds foes, stared at death on a near daily basis, and did so without once asking for fame, wealth or recognition. Instead, he kept his identity secret, worked a thankless nine to five, and toiled with the likes of the normal. At any time he could have demanded riches, pimping himself out to the highest bidder, but he did not. Not once was he provided with monetary riches, even thought they would have been provided. In him, the world saw its greatest, humblest, and most honest warrior. He did what was right, what he could do, for no other reason than that was his talent. He cared, and would stop at nothing to allow good to prevail. In him, there is a lesson to be learned. We ask, all too often, what is in this for me. He was a prince on his planet, but here, he was a man, a man who understood his strength, grasped the same, and made the planet a better place for us to live. Superman may be a joke, a story to be told to a child, a movie to watch on a quiet Friday night; but more than that, he is the epitome of courage, and someone who should be admired.

Pour me another.

2010-05-04T21:37:00.001-04:00

A spectacular darkness has taken hold, with no immediate signs of loosening its grips. This storm, like all others, will inevitably pass. My only hope is that it does so sooner rather than later, because I cannot handle this for too long.

In the meantime, the hope remains that a scotch and a cigarette will allow me to push it into the background long enough to sleep.

Cheers.

Women in my life part I

2010-05-01T22:26:00.002-04:00

This is inspired by an article in this months Esquire.

Freshman year.

Lori offered me every part of herself, in a way no woman before her had, but all I wanted was a friend; when I repeatedly refused to take her in a physical way, she cut me out of her life. Alicia, for one drunken hour, I was your attempt to make him jealous, it did not work . . . oh how I paid for that. Sarah was an amazing enabler, and looked like a grown version of a cupie doll; for reasons to be explained in a later post/year, we no longer talk. Joelynn was a holdover who willingly provided an outlet for many of my sexual desires; I made a complete mess of her; she was married with a child within a year. Melinda was five years my senior, and I did not love her, my only regret is that she found out at the least opportune moment. There was the nameless woman who boldly asked me to accompany her to her sorority dance; I left with another; the last time I saw her, she stared at the side of my head with an intensity that chills me to this day. Jenny took advantage of a drunken me, it required my first AIDS test, I will never forgive her for that. I never worked harder for any woman as I did for Rochanne; I loved, and pursued her in an unhealthy way . . . we destroyed each other for years.

A possible goodbye...

2010-04-21T23:44:00.001-04:00

I need to be unafraid of a world in which you do not exist, because, as we know, this will most likely not last. However, even knowing the reality of the situation—and I am not a forlorn fool—the fear of losing even one crumb of this thing we have built is enough to make my head ache. The thought of you, and where you are, and more specifically, where I am not, makes everything in my mind fly madly, and feel all mixed up. In fact, I want nothing more than for you to tell me that I, we, and this, will make it through the impending storm . . . but you will not . . . because, in your being, as much as you want to tell me to reach out my hand, you know there is no workable way. You will wash me away like dirt from a window. I will protest, arguing that there is a work around, and a way through this roadblock, but you will see something entirely ugly. The problem for me though is that I hold so few in my heart, that the pain is going to be real, palatable, and sickening. My blood will go to a quiet place, followed closely by my words. When you are gone, I will think of a million things I should have said to make you remember me as you ride off into the great bright sunset of your life. Just once before you disappear, I want to feel you hold me like you will never let go....

One day I will ask you to meet me, someplace we have been, talked, or dreamed about. It will be a place where we remember each other in the best of light. You may, or may not show, but I will be there, alone, with no regrets.

Inspired by a random mix of songs.

Sunday Scribblings (Wonder)

2010-04-18T22:45:00.000-04:00

This week's word is Wonder:

In the moments not filled with the tedium of the day, he can not help but dream about how his life would be different if she were in it. If it were so, the years of torment, ridicule and bullying would vanish in an instant, for he, armed with his lady love, would be a force to be reckoned with. If only the opportunity would present itself, he would wrap her up, provide her with the strength to stop the mascaraed, and allow her to live freely in a society that seems to only glorify her on October 31. In his moments of private freedom, he can picture her, adorned in red--him in a matching tuxedo--walking triumphantly into the latest caper, and saving the day. Fresh from their joined victory, they would retire to their mansion on the hill, and wait for the press clippings to roll in about the new “dynamic duo.” He can see them, in all their glory, “Wonder Woman and Husband save the day yet again.” It may not be much, but his love carries him through the everyday.

What it is. . .

2010-04-10T22:17:00.002-04:00

I have lost count of the times I have given up on you, on “us”, and this thing we have. I know it doesn't show, but I have played this out countless times, and regardless of the scenarios manufactured, I find myself sitting, waiting, and hoping that this, whatever it is, does not fade. I find myself looking around, wondering where you are, and why you are not here . . . with me . . . being with you. The fact is, I am different with you in the picture, and that brings a joy that I--unlike most things in this uber-complicated life--am able comprehend.

The first thirteen words are taken from Beautiful Wreck, by Shawn Mullins.

Part Two -- The Response

2010-04-07T22:35:00.000-04:00

Part two to http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2010/03/sunday-scribblings-book-that-changed.html

From: Bert.S.Slesser@optimum.com

To: Denise.D.Slesser@optimum.com

Subject: MY THOUGHTS

Apr. 7, 2010, 2:41am

Dear Denise,

While it it not leather-bound, did not take twenty-two years to craft, and is significantly shorter than the work you pieced together, here are “My Thoughts”:

Dedication: To all those who honored me with their presence.

Page 1:

I would not change a minute, we had a good run, and I love you all.

Bert.

Sudden storm

2010-03-18T22:34:00.001-04:00

The stream of urine from the heavens blanketed the islands inhabitants in a blur, myself included. On a normal day, getting caught in this rampage would have infuriated me, but an ordinary day this was not. Minutes previous, the files were put down, the blackberry left on the desk, computer wiped clean, identification card shredded and I vanished. The destination was unknown, but the past was left where it belonged. On my journey into the unknown, the upheaval was welcome. For the first time in years, the smells of the world, in particular, that of the wet dirt underfoot, sparked an indescribable excitement. I was free to enjoy that which I had been avoiding since birth. What that would entail I was unsure, but I appreciated nature providing me with a cover of darkness, a wall of water to mask my disappearing act, and an avenue to cleanse myself of all that kept me down.

Sunday Scribblings (The Book That Changed Everything)

2010-03-14T22:14:00.005-04:00

This week's prompt is The Book That Changed Everything:

The note and key to the office were next to the coffee maker.

Bert, it is done, thoughts?

– Your wife

I trembled as I approached the unknown. This was her lair. The walls were adorned with black and white photographs of her favorite authors, the shelves contained the life works of the same, the desk was a dark mahogany monstrosity sitting atop a blood red carpet, and the chair was a weathered hand-me-down from her father. It smelled of crushed daisies.

A better part of her waking hours were spent here. As long as I had known her, which was twenty-two years, I had never once been invited in. Truth be told, I had never seen another pass through that door. In my youth, I pestered, prodded and pled to know the going-ons. For nine years, she withstood my barrage and remained silent. She is tough that way. It is why I loved her. Then one day, to my delight, she stated, after asking for creamer, “I am writing my life's thoughts.” Nothing else was said. I accepted this nugget, imagined a monumental manuscript, and proudly announced to all that would listen that my bride was crafting the next great American novel. In her, I knew nothing less than perfection would find its way to the page.

On the desktop sat a leather-bound book wrapped in a carpet matching ribbon. I untied it with the greatest of care, and listened closely as the binding broke. Being the first to open such a magnificent piece was something I did not want to pass me by.

It was entitled My Thoughts. The dedication read “To all who have crossed my path.”

In anticipation of the read, I called out of work, retrieved my coffee, removed my shoes and sat back in the chair. To say I was overcome with pride would be an understatement. I dove in.

Page 1:

I was not put on this earth to settle for this.

Page 2:

I was not put on this earth to settle for this.

Page 3:

I was not put on this earth to settle for this.

Page 4:

I was not put on this earth to settle for this.

It never changed, six hundred and thirty-three pages of the same line, written over again.

I leaned back, aching heart in my chest, and cried.

Sunday Scribblings (Fluent)

2010-03-06T21:51:00.001-04:00

This week's word is Fluent:

A lifetime of study, hard work and understanding was summarily written off by society as shallow, easy and whorish. But unlike the labels, this was not short sightedness. To the contrary, this was an expertise gained by a relentless passion for knowledge. While others forgetfully floated through their formative years, she spent it studying the other side, trying desperately to grasp every gesture, move and spoken word. It started with her father, moved onto her brothers, and continued with the nameless many who relentlessly pursued. With the knowledge gained through years of tireless research came a power. A power the others did not possess, yet resented with ever ounce of their beings. Because of that, they had no choice but to critique, criticize and push upon her a false moral high ground. What they failed to grasp was that she had done what all should do: become fluent in that which allowed her to control and manipulate one half of the world's population, men.

Sunday Scribblings -- Big Dreams

2010-02-27T22:18:00.000-04:00

This week's word is Big Dreams.

Four foot nine, eighty six pounds, with the build of a seven year old school girl; attributes handed down by generations of diminutive men. The heart, desire and anger were of a larger man, but size—or lack thereof—was something he had long since accepted. At twenty seven, the hope that life would change, that a growth spurt would take hold and he would sprout to mirror his peers, was not a reality. Instead, he accepted the ribbing, buried the torment and drifted below the shoulders of those around him. Nonetheless, while the active mind accepted the existence he had been cursed with, his unconscious, which came to fruition in the silence and peace of the night, refused to acquiesce to his miniature stature. In those hours, his brain took over and did what nature denied, it plied him with, what he termed, Big dreams.

tic toc

2010-02-16T22:41:00.002-04:00

There was a boy, a girl, and moments. In their brief encounter, Time meant nothing, but was everything.

Less is more....

2010-01-10T00:06:00.002-04:00

There was no want, need, or desire, at least not until she appeared. Up to that point, life contained everything that one could want. There was the job that pleased him, good health that had followed him since birth, and looks that--while not perfect--caused a certain segment of society to stare. It changed with a chance encounter in a place far from “home”, at which time his life, as he previously knew it, ceased to exist. In her, he found what he did not know he was lacking, love. And with that came the overwhelming feeling that there had been a large portion of his life wasted, and he wanted nothing more than to regain the lost in her arms. It did not last. As quickly as she arrived, she vanished. In the wake, a broken, lost, and confused man emerged. There were no words, actions, or feeling that could resuscitate what was destroyed by her exit. The shell that remained trudged on and attempted to recapture the magic of self-fulfillment that once permeated his being; but there was no hope. Whoever said that it was better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all, was a sick bastard. Ignorance truly is bliss.

Happy Birthday!

2010-01-07T23:52:00.002-04:00

On this special day, I want you to know that you are one of the most incredible children I have ever met, and I was blessed to grow up with your uncle and mother, so I know a thing or two about amazing children. When I look at you, I see the future, a man who is going to take the family DNA, along with that of your father, and make it known to the world. In your intelligence, I see a man who will silently go about learning all that is necessary to carry himself in the way that is becoming of a scholar and a gentlemen. In your beauty, I see a man who will have women scurrying for favor. In your size and physical presence, I see a man who will excel at any athletic feat he deems worthy of his time. But above all, in you compassion, I see a man who will show that understanding and unbridled love, not ruthlessness and intolerance, is what is necessary to be successful in this world. There is nothing you cannot accomplish, and I know this because I know you. Happy birthday little one.

Rest in Peace

2009-12-30T00:28:00.000-04:00

There is a certain segment of society who relish the demise of a person such as yourself. I am not one of those individuals. While my profession may paint the opposite picture, I believe that the vast majority of humans, including yourself, have something to offer this world. And while I do not agree with the way you chose to live your life and would have done all in my power to curtail it, I wish you had survived long enough to prove to all the nonbeliever that each of us, regardless of the mistakes we have made, can change. More than being the miscreant you appeared, you were a son, possibly a brother, uncle, nephew, friend, etc., and your death undoubtedly impacted those who knew you (and even a few who did not). I hope you found peace in your final moments, and that someone learned something valuable from your passing.

Sunday Scribblings

2009-12-18T23:04:00.001-04:00

Last week's word was Brave, I am late, I know....

There is no brave in my existence. I follow the easy, the road well traveled, the simple. I am the definition of “do not rock the boat.” Confrontation and creating waves is my greatest fear. I relish in doing what is expected from me, whether good or bad. The comical part is that if you ask those who do not intimately know me, they would say the opposite. That I am the outlier, the one who refuses to fall into line. This is a carefully crafted image. One that I have spent years perfecting...truth be told, I am a coward, an individual who excels at inspiring others to step out of line, and to chase the unknown with reckless abandon; but refuses to do the same. I am the worst of the worst, an embarrassment to the idea of brave.

A full tank with nowhere to go

2009-11-15T22:10:00.000-04:00

The act of merely existing is my life's biggest disappointment. I am a firm believer that there is more to a day than consuming, driving and being. In my opinion, the life we are blessed with is a game, meant to be played to exhaustion at each and every turn. Anything less is an insult to our existence. It is a selfish life, and I understand that, for others find beauty in the act of nothingness; I am not that person. What I do need to learn, however, is that throwing adult sized tantrums in the face of not exerting myself to destruction is not a solution, but the precursor to a whole set of separate problems, which are probably others biggest disappointment. I need to take responsibility for my own existence, and quit relying on others to give me what I need to feel complete.

“Late afternoon, another day is nearly done. A darker grey is breaking through a lighter one . . . .” The Weakerthans, One Great City!

An invitation

2009-10-31T22:33:00.001-04:00

“What do you say when you realize you're not necessary, and your world starts caving in.” Mike Hail, Lives Like Mine.

I know that I have not written in a while, and that I probably do not have many (if any) readers left. . . but for those that have hung on, and check in periodically, what emotions/thoughts does this song lyric evoke? Every time I hear it, I find my internal self struggling to dig deeper. Is it a bad thing to no longer be “necessary – is it a requirement that we be so? I see it both ways. On one hand, it kills me a little when I am longer needed, wanted or useful. I have spent my life making myself an integral part of so few, that to lose even one is a major statistical blow. With everyone that drops off, I am one step closer to being an afterthought. On the other hand, the less people that rely, need or care, the fewer I have to tie me down, disappoint, and care for – it is a freedom I fear I may enjoy. I suspect that you out there will have better thoughts/feelings than I. So I invite you to post a comment, or send me an email, and let me know your thoughts, regardless of what they are. I think I have been “feeling” a lot lately, and I want to know that I am not alone on this ship.

no words

2009-08-30T22:25:00.001-04:00

There is a story within waiting to be written – it is filled with hope, love, friendship and good times... but I cannot seem to string the words together in a way that does it justice, so, like many other things in my life, it will go unfinished. The characters are complicated, the story simple, and the adventures real... this should not be hard, but it doesn't seem to want to be created; at least not by me at this moment. So I will go on dreaming about the individuals, formulating the sentences, and wishing I was better... at everything.

Just a number....

2009-08-24T23:27:00.002-04:00

This is Part VI to my Sunday Scribblings story. This week's word was Adult.

After being beat unmercifully for having allowed our gas and electricity to be shut off, I learned the importance of proper bill maintenance. The need to balance a checkbook was driven home by the back of a ring wearing hand after incurring “unnecessary” fees for bouncing a rent check. A nightly six pack was not a forbidden pleasure, but an obligation to be fulfilled in order to impress wastes he referred to as friends. And the ability to incur copious amounts of pain without a whimper or change in facial expression was as important to survival as the peanut butter an jelly that sustained us. It is generally accepted that to be an adult one must have attained full size and strength; fuck that, I believe my adulthood started the second I could make it in this world despite, regardless of the size of my muscles or my stature.

Goodbye

2009-08-16T21:42:00.002-04:00

I doubt I ever made it obvious, or expressed myself in a worthwhile way, but I enjoyed immensely our time together and will miss you all. For two years, you welcomed me into your worlds, dealt with my idiosyncrasies, and made me feel as whole as a person who left his life behind to move on without him could possibly feel. A few parting words are not enough, but they are all I have, so thank you all for being there for me, and supporting me in my craziness; it made my time here manageable.

Till death do us part (SS - V)

2009-08-02T22:22:00.001-04:00

This is Part V to my Sunday Scribblings story. This week's word is Anticipate.

Throughout the final three years of mandatory childhood education, I watched and planned. When not at home fighting with her controllers, she spent time with them, the ones who mocked, made fun and destroyed youthful confidence. I surely would have been an object of their ridicule had my existence been noticed. As much as I wanted her to pay for these associations, I forgave her because I knew that she was sweetness, acting out due to a lack of nurture.

Year one was spent cataloging her movements; year two memorizing her wardrobe and odors; the third and final year was for planning the life we were going to spend together. During those days, I came to know that she had a small and over-active balder; took a minimalist approach towards clothing; smelled primarily of crushed flowers and citrus; and that we would spend our living, and dying days, in seclusion.

In preparation for our departure, I crafted and dutifully practiced my introduction, rented a van, packed our rations, stole all of his cash, and procured chloral hydrate. Then I sat by the bathroom and waited for her 8:15 am soy chai latte to run its course. I had thought of every rational outcome, but had failed to anticipate her irrational flight response. Her days spent living and dying with me were far shorter than I had hoped.

An unhelping hand (SS - Part IV)

2009-07-27T22:52:00.000-04:00

This is Part IV to my Sunday Scribblings story. Again, if you have comments, whether about this piece, or about the story in general, please feel free to pass them along. This week's phrase is Where in the World.

I asked for help once. It occurred shortly before I was stripped of the semblance of normalcy that was my life. I was nine.

She was tall and sickeningly gaunt. And while she did not talk much, when she did, the words were always worth the effort it took to hear them. By the time I realized what was happening—that her days were not to be many—she was past the point of saving by human intervention. In a desperate and misguided attempt to give her will, I got on my knees, turned to the crumbling stucco ceiling, and promised, amongst other things, to be a better son, which meant that I would clean up after myself, as had been begged of me for years, to not play with my food, to stop having bad thoughts about the neighbor's daughter, and to grow up and be a man; all I asked in return was for her life.

I tripped onto her body the next morning.

During the ride to the hospital, I could not help but wonder where in the world was he when we needed him most, and why did he not care. I never relied on another again.

A drop in the bucket (SS- Part III)

2009-07-21T21:44:00.003-04:00

This is Part III to my Sunday Scribblings story (a couple of days late). This week's phrase was The Plan.

Light of day was the hardest, for it was during the brightness that I had to guard myself from his violent and oppressive ways. Hence, while I spent those moments wishing the the sun away, I reserved the blanket of nightly darkness for myself. I knew that if I made it through his waking hours, his downtime would set me free, albeit briefly. . . .

As one can imagine, I did not have ambitions, at least not in the traditional sense, as there was nothing for me to aspire to. Nonetheless, I was not without goals. For example, there was always the plan, carefully crafted and painstakingly mapped out. It was simple, beautifully sadistic, and involved nothing more than him having a night with the bottle, a vaulted ceiling with unencumbered crossbeams, a fifteen foot piece of rope, a razor blade, a two gallon bucket, and access to the posterior tibial artery. In all, if executed to perfection, I could be done, and so would he, in less time than it took to watch an episode of the Simpsons.

"Justice" for all (SS - Part II)

2009-07-12T22:27:00.002-04:00

I have decided to write a very short story over the next few weeks, changing it as it goes depending on the word of the week (I do not have an ultimate outcome in mind, but will play with it each week to see where it takes me). As such, this is a continuation of last week’s Sunday Scribblings (human). Let me know what you think and if you have suggestions along the way.

Indulgence

At this stage, it seems pointless to place blame, but if forced, it would fall in this order: the man who provided one-half of my genetic material, the courts for allowing it to happen, and to myself for not stopping the cycle.

I was a mistake, as I was able to perceive from an early age, and driven home by those in my life. He was drunk, she was (as decided by the jury) willing, and I became the choker chain of life dangling forever from his neck. “Justice”, being what it is, ensured that upon the expiration of the woman from whom I emerged, I was consigned to the signatory on the $137.36 court ordered bi-weekly support check. From the moment of my arrival, his favorite indulgence was forbidding every one of mine.

Sunday Scribblings

2009-07-05T20:30:00.001-04:00

This week's word is Human:

The inscription was direct and to the point: “If to err is human, then human he undoubtedly was.”

Sunday Scribblings

2009-06-21T20:17:00.006-04:00

This week's word is Vision:

As many of you know, I spend countless hours on the road each week training for various runs. Recently, I began taking pictures during these endless jaunts in order to distract myself from the pain. These are my "visions" from a few of my runs through different cities in the world.

Sunday Scribblings

2009-06-08T22:26:00.001-04:00

This week's word was Soul Mate:

Their virgin ears were overcome with the gospelesque melody. The smaller of the two had heard about this sort of thing once from an unknown, and had spent his life is search of the same. As they sat in this den of rhythmic worship on the outskirts of nowhere, the sense of art that had once dominated their thinking was made comical by the display before them. The “music” they had wasted their youth on was nothing like this. It was angry, violent, sad, happy and simple, but completely meaningless. It was pleasurable noise to drown out the boredom that had come to be their daily existence. But this was something different, something that would change them from this point forward. Noise it was not, but poetry mixed with a hypnotic beat that made them understand what it meant to “feel the music”. In their moment of clarity, the first, the discoverer of the oasis, turned to his cohort and exclaimed proudly, “now this is soul mate!”

A bucket, a towel, and one angry tenant

2009-06-03T21:46:00.003-04:00

What do you see in this picture? Does your mind jump to a particular afternoon spent cleaning your house/apartment? Maybe the aftermath of an insane party that ended with (insert the name of your most over indulgent friend here) throwing up his/her internal bodily fluids onto your floor. If I did not know better (having been the cameraman behind this horrendous piece of photography), my thoughts would catapult back to a hot summer California day from my childhood spent watching my mother clean our kitchen floor. (I have no clue why, but this seems to be my earliest memory (my mom listening to the Moody Blues and Journey, wearing a bandanna, overalls, and a smile)—funny, I love music, and count those bands as two of my all time favorites, but hate cleaning…if you ask my mother (or my wife), I chose to latch onto the wrong part of that memory, but I digress…) If you see those things, great, I hope you do, for I would like nothing more than for this picture to bring joy to your life, because what this poor photographer sees is blood… specifically, the blood of his landlord. For what I know is that this is a three gallon bucket filled with water that was sopped up from the floor of my apartment with a towel (this island does not believe in mops), and it is only the first of three. Seems the owner of this godforsaken apartment did not do as good of a job sealing the ceiling as he once led me to believe—cheap son of a bitch got me again, and I now have the documentary evidence to prove it.

Sunday Scribblings

2009-05-17T19:38:00.001-04:00

This week's word is Disconnected:

I was, and still am, an addict. I check my email upwards of seventy times a day, answer a nauseating number of phone calls, mindlessly troll the internet for news updates and am (regrettably) a member of a certain online social network. As I often feel (in order to justify my insanity), I have my finger on the pulse of everything (and nothing). I use to think (and sure I will again tomorrow when my jet lag fades) that the barrage of information made me happy, when in reality, nonstop “feeds”, like anything else, is an absurd excuse for true human interaction. In fact, I find myself being so little to so many that I have nothing left for the things and people I truly care about. This past two weeks I was abroad without any meaningful contact with the outside world, and while I had my moments of panic—what if (I am needed at work)(someone is injured)(the world in caving in around us)—I found that silence, and the free time I gained from not “checking in”, afforded me time I did not know (or refused to acknowledge) I was missing and allowed me to decompress, something I have not done in years. The long and the short of it is, I think we should all be disconnected from the existence we have created for ourselves, and go back to the days when we actually talked with people in person, got our news once a day from the paper, and never worried about what we could be missing simply by living a normal, non-roped life.

"Home"

2009-04-28T22:00:00.000-04:00

The nomadic nature, the youthful traveler and the constant voice inside begging to move on, to put the past behind and forge a life not yet discovered, has slowly died. The desire to run, leaving all semblance of normalcy, no longer has the draw it once did; in fact, the dream to get back to the place he once called home, where the majority of his friends reside, now constantly permeates his thoughts.

Sunday Scribblings

2009-04-26T21:06:00.001-04:00

This week’s work is Follow:

Her posture, back story, obvious intelligence and beauty told me that this was not a woman to be missed. In the haze of a lifetime not yet spent together, I saw pets, babies, homes, cars, smiles, tears, pain and the best life I had never known. A lesser impressed man would have chalked this instant insanity up to the copious amounts of beer already consumed on that as of yet unremarkable Thursday night, but not I. This was my moment, and no excuse was going to let me fuck this up. Instead, I waved goodbye to my previous self, and wished me all the best. She was going to be my alter, answer, and leader. Walking out of that bar, I knew my role, and that was to accompany her to the ends of the earth. Like any true believer, I have faltered, forgotten my path, and wandered unaccompanied during our days, but I always know where my salvation will come, and that is at your side. So with this, please know that I, your devote disciple, will follow you regardless of the cost, and still know that you are not to be missed . . . . ever.

Sunday Scribblings

2009-04-19T22:30:00.001-04:00

This week's word is Language.

Language, “a body of words and the systems for their use common to a people who are of the same community or nation, the same geographical area, or the same cultural tradition.” www.dictionary.reference.com/browse/language. The full meaning of this word was lost on me until I moved to an island where my words an system, my only form of communication, was not the accepted norm. I have traveled extensively, married a woman born outside of the place we both now call home, and studied (not hard enough) a language not my own. Still, until I thrust myself into a land where my preferred form of communication, and butchered pronunciation of the native tongue, immediately marked me as an outsider, that I fully realized the beauty of commonality associated with language. I could have gotten this from my time in California, where “outside” members of the non-English speaking population were treated as pariahs for their failure to grasp instantly one of the most complicated languages on the face of the earth, but I did not. Thankfully, I understand now why like speaking groups build communities around each other, and sometime shun the world they do not understand and cannot, regardless of how hard "we” try and force them, fully communicate with. For no matter how many words individuals will learn, and whether they can converse with the “natives”, by asking people to scrap their life-long dialect and adopt that of their current land, without regard to what they are giving up, is telling them to not only cast aside an alphabet, but also to leave much of their cultural tradition behind as well. To be clear, this is NOT why I have failed to grasp the tongue of the land in which I now reside, that is based purely upon my own laziness. In fact, people here go out of their way to accommodate my ineptness. I only wish I did not come from a land (and “we” are not the only one) where we demand (or make it incredibly difficult to function otherwise) uniformity of words, pronunciation, and dialect. For language is so much more than words spoken or thrown on a piece of paper, computer screen or street sign, it is a way of life that should be cherished, and understood, by all.

Words

2009-04-15T00:05:00.002-04:00

Words. I am of the opinion, and come from a world and an educational background where each and every one has a purpose, a meaning and an intended consequence. There are no mistakes when is comes to them. People say and write what they mean, whether thought out or off the cuff. Some are of the belief that statements made during moments of inebriation paint the truest picture of ones person. I both agree and disagree; for all words, regardless of when they are spoken or written, whether crafted in moments of comedy, sadness, anger, happiness or exhaustion, carry a meaning and are intended for a specific purpose. Human being are crafted in such a way, and with the cognizant ability, to make every comment pointed and meaningful. This, as I believe, is what separates us from other life forms. We know, and have felt the affects, of a timely placed criticism/comment. Too often people hide behind the “unintended” affect of said words, knowing all too well what result will grip the listening/reading party. To hide behind ignorance is cowardice. Maybe I am wrong, I hope I am; that I hold people to an unattainable standard. If so, there are past friendships I need to repair. If you have an opinion, please let me know because I am struggling with this.

Rainy days

2009-04-12T22:14:00.001-04:00

Is it raining where you are? Do you find it impossible to raise your weary head from the pillow as the light reflects off of the clouds in the early hours? I ask because in my story--the one where you can be found permanently in my mind--you are fighting a constant downpour and have been since you cast me from your everyday. I imagine your days gray, nights buried feet below the watery surface and sleep restless. Your memory is me, the good times and nothing else. Please tell me it is so. . . . Nevermind, I do not want to know, if you kill that image, my peace, then I have nothing left but reality, which is that you have transitioned seamlessly into a life that is happy, complete and better without my presence.

Subday Scribblings

2009-04-12T21:49:00.001-04:00

This week's word is Scary.

I am scared to do those things I long for because I am good at what I hate. There is something out there that I am here for, but . . . .

Sunday Scribblings

2009-04-08T00:06:00.001-04:00

This week's word was "celebrate"

The goal--my goal--is an intrinsically selfish form of self expression. It factors in nobody and cares little about the hopes and dreams of those around me. I spend hours of my life running to nowhere in particular, at the expense of spending free time with you out there, in the hopes of entering a few cherished (at least by me) “races” a year where I will move from point A to point B in a time many hours behind the “winner.” Throughout the months of training, pain and complaining, my “failure” is guaranteed. For I will never break a paper banner stretched excitedly across a finish line, nor will I grace the cover of a magazine or earn a single dollar for my effort. In fact, this obsession costs me, my family, and friends, thousands of actual dollars a year (it is impossible to factor in the value of the time they put into scratching my itch). Nonetheless, I am energized by this wasteful journey. I have not a clue where it will end, but I know, at least for now, it helps me face endless days wasted in front of a computer screen. This weekend, as they (at least she) have done so many times before, the family came together to cheer me on in my attempt to complete a run I was not prepared and/or physically healthy enough to complete. Despite this, they showered me with support and pushed me to finish my greatest challenge to date. Without their presence, I may not have toed the start line and finished in the bottom half of a beautiful run through the roads and hills of the western United States. While they were there to celebrate my “accomplishment” (or ability just to survive such a stupid and ill conceived endeavor), it is them who should be celebrated, for they did not knowingly sign up for this craziness when I entered each of their lives, but they have supported me nonetheless. To each of you who were their this weekend, supported me from afar, or just got stuck listening to my constant chatter about chaffing, blisters, shoes, spandex, lube, socks, technical t's, or the value of sodium intake, I love you all. I am eternally grateful to each of you for not only dealing with me, but also for helping me reach my goals by refusing to let me give up, no matter how hard I make my life seem. Even though I will never be greeted with a trophy. Finally, to my crew chief, how you have endured my ridiculousness for years, is beyond me, but know that you are a saint, and I owe you more than you will ever know.

And then she was gone

2009-03-29T22:13:00.001-04:00

Umbilical cord attached, eyes closed, and a whimper that failed to resemble a bark.
****
The storm hit the Municipality with such immediate and instant force that a street-level flood was a foregone conclusion.
****
The professional put her at between three and five days old.
****
Without a mother to provide protection, an SUV tire diverting the onslaught of water was the only thing between her and death.
****
209 grams of wiry muscle was her fighting weight.
****
The owner of the metal box, motor and electronics attached to the mass of protective rubber noticed the tiny morsel of a pup and carted her to safety.
****
The white boots worn on two paws and her underbelly was off-set perfectly by the jet black fur adorning the remainder of her miniature body.
****
She arrived wrapped in a towel and housed in a dilapidated cardboard box.
****
She would wiggle, cry and paw when disturbed, but loved the warmth of human flesh.
****
While it was settled that the office collective would raise her during the days, a tall, somewhat lonely, and dog loving member of the group---at his own suggestion---was tasked with caring for her throughout the night; after further consultation, a decision was made to make the same her adoptive father.
****
The meatier parts of the body provided her with the most comfort, but complete contentment was achieved when she was placed in the rolls of skin around the tall man's belly, or the breasts of the many women who flocked and jockeyed to cradle and comfort her.
****
She awoke three times that first night, eager to be held and eat her man-made formula through a .1 oz. dropper.
****
The office attitude shifted immediately, where the stress created by the recent intrusion of an unwanted outsider and months of constant driving towards a yet unreached goal melted into toothy grins and talk of an imagined future.
****
Her cries, while distressing and sad, tickled the ears of those lucky enough to be in her presence.
****
Notwithstanding the original agreement to keep her presence a secret from the surrounding populace, visitors came in droves, eager to take part in the bi-hourly feedings.
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Her fits of fight and struggle to burrow indicated a strength and will to live that allowed her admirers to forget the fragility of a being that small.
****
By day three she had been showered with a stuffed rabbit, pug scarf, ticking clock, heating pad and a knit sweater.
****
With the whimper, movement and will to eat gone, the office broke into a collective panic--the professional was consulted and an emergency visit was made and the news was devastating; she was brought back to her adoptive home in the hopes that antibiotics, love and a battle for life would bring our precious back from the brink.
****
Mouth open, tongue out, eyes closed, legs outstretched, and body motionless and rigid; the time for miracles had come and gone, with prayers unanswered.
****
The tears were real, pain plentiful, and questions unanswerable.
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In a last show of love, her once vibrant remains were buried amongst the bushes and trees adorning the grounds where she touched and changes the lives, at least momentarily, of so many strong minded and seeming impenetrable individuals.
****
Leila was between five and seven days old and died of fading puppy syndrome. Watching her pass was one of the hardest things this tall, sometimes lonely, dog loving man has ever experienced, and I have seen my fair share.

My love, my life, my beer

2009-03-17T18:00:00.002-04:00

A minor update of something I previously wrote:

If I were a better man, I would not taste it in the back of my throat, pain for its familiarity, or burn for its soothing properties. I would be happy with my situation, health, wife, employment, apartment, etc., but at this moment, I am not. For now, I am longing for something I simply cannot justify, nor attain, on a busy Tuesday afternoon—for that I hate her, here, this job, and of course, myself for giving in, as this is St. Patrick's day, and being Irish, this is my day to shine on this island—so please lord, quench my desire, my thirst, and if you could make it a chilled Guinness, I would be forever grateful. . . .

Sitting and waiting

2009-02-25T23:48:00.001-04:00

He came into my life at a time when I did not yet realize there was a void. I took his name before I understood the significance; and he became my father. Throughout my younger years, he never missed a baseball game, at least not that I can remember (and I played year around from the age of eleven until I was eighteen). He did not much care for basketball, but he was there, every game he could make, cheering me on, even during the years I was relegated to the end of the bench, without a chance in hell of seeing the floor. Girls were discussed, sex talks had, funny stories shared, and numerous days and nights spent fishing and camping. In fact, looking back on those years, I could not have asked for a better role model.

Throughout our family's many struggles, and my brother’s ever-present sickness, he never disappeared on me, choosing instead to make himself present at all possible times. My friends were his friends, my interests his interests, my goals his goals. Not once did he tell me I was not good enough, that I could not succeed, that the world was above me. He was a rock, a shoulder to laugh and cry on, and my closest friend. I know I did not say it enough, but I cherished ever minute I spent with him. I adored the way he made me feel loved, supported and protected, even when I was not getting the same from other members in the family. I always knew, regardless of what I had said, done, or failed to do, he would be there at the end to prop me up. It was because of this that I thought that if I turned out to be half the man he was, I would be something special. Then one day, my father was no longer half the man he had once been, at least not to me. I wish it happened gradually so that I had had time to come to grips with the rejection, but it did not. He woke up one day and the light of love that once burned so bright for me had been extinguished, and there was nothing I could do to change it.

I was finishing college at the time, heading off to further my studies, and while my outward appearance screamed grown man no longer in need of parental coddling, my internal-self was nowhere near that steady. I was lost, moving across the country to a place I had only previously visited, with not so much as a friend to converse with; I needed his love, support and guidance. I wanted him to tell me everything would be okay, that he would always be there when needed, but it never came. After my departure, the phone calls went largely unreturned and emails unanswered. As the years passed, the contact became less frequent, the conversations minimal and the visits near nonexistent. There was a begrudging, someone painful graduation venture, a few holiday trips out west, and my wedding, but for the most part, unless it was on my dime, time and initiative, there was nothing. I just kept asking myself, how could the man who dropped me off at college and shed only the second tear I had seen fall from his eye simply forget about my very existence? How could the man who re-set my mangled thumb and let me get back into the game just because he understood how goddamn important it was for me never to quit, simply walk away? I had, as far as I could tell, done nothing, but refused to be the only one willing to give . . . maybe that was my fault. Possibly, had I refused to give up, forced him to talk, sent more emails, or flooded him with letters, he would have come around and once again shown me the side of him I held so close to my heart.

I am now in my early thirties, married, gainfully employed, but still alone and in desperate need of my dad, the man who raised me, to tell me he loves me, to reach out and show that he cares, because without that, I have lost much of the hope that carried me through my childhood – for if someone once so great, and integral to my life is willing to drop me without so much as an explanation, then what hope do I have for the future?

Sunday Scribblings

2009-02-08T00:05:00.000-04:00

This week's word is Art:

Blood streamed from my body like a faucet, splattering haphazardly into puddles on the legal brief scattered beneath me. Her expression was a mismash of disgust, anguish and fear. As she clinched the bed frame for support, she struggled for words, but nothing cognizable emerged, instead came of stream of gasps, mutterings and deep breaths. I laughed curiously, confused by her failure to grasp the meaning behind my masterpiece. “Do you not see it,” I pleaded. . . . “It represents the cost we have paid for this godforsaken profession.” The tears convinced me that she did not. I had missed my audience, and again, I realized that this, art, was not for me.

She is going to blow!!

2009-02-05T23:10:00.001-04:00

It is big, it is bad, it is my ankle. . . . This is why adults should not play childish games.

Her morning after

2009-02-05T00:31:00.001-04:00

Not so much a follow-up, but a continuation—from the woman’s perspective/voice—of http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/09/into-black.html and http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/11/his-morning-after.html. As you can tell, I do not write a woman’s voice much, so I welcome any and all pointers and/or criticisms.

The months of lingering, of semi-intellectual chatter and of making myself ever-present, finally paid off, so why am I riddled with doubt? Why can’t I just revel in my victory, regardless of its ultimate outcome? The fact is that he chose me, not the forty-something’s jockeying relentlessly for his attention, not the other nymphish coeds lusting after his every move and not his wife, who neglects his very presence. He asked me to join him at the table, not the other way around. I think he cares for me, maybe; it wasn’t just my body he wanted to warm him on this winter night, was it? I am better than that, I have everything to offer him in this world, and I am not that kind of woman, I don’t do this; or at least I didn’t. . . . God, he has been awake forever, he is probably wishing that it were somebody else laying next him. Fuck that, I am going to feign sleep for as long as it takes for him to tip his hand—if he gets up in a silent attempt to slip out of this room and back into the life he was so desperately complaining about six hours ago, then I know what I am; but if he puts his head down for just a moment, then he is mine. Please, just rest your head on my shoulder, please. . . .

Sunday Scribblings

2009-01-25T23:30:00.001-04:00

This week’s words are “Phantoms & Shadows,” and we are supposed to write about things and people, times, places, events and how our memory has treated them. As you can see, I have not strictly complied, but this is what came to mind, so I went with it.

I would relive every day from April 1986 to February of 1998, the twelve years you spent with us on this planet. I would embrace every opportunity to hold you, talk with you, and cherish all that you had to offer. In this relived existence, no moment would pass without me conveying just how much your life meant to me. For more than ten years I have thought—on a daily basis—about the missed chances, and how my pride, anger and confusion stopped me from being the brother you deserved. I have been haunted by my failure to use kinder words, softer touches and gentler expressions. I have tried hard to overcome these failures and to correct the flaws that allowed me to fuck-up the chance I had to make you my world, but I struggle to overcome the emptiness that is ever present in my soul. I question my ability to love anyone if I could not love you the way you deserved, the single greatest person to ever cross my path. If presented with this, I would gladly forgo all that I have accomplished in this life – would pass on the travel, give up the degrees, walk away from the cushy life I have built for myself . . . . but, as we know, dreams and reality do not often coexist. So instead, I am destined to spend my life wondering what if, why, and how could I.

January 20, 2009....

2009-01-20T21:55:00.000-04:00

I have never been more proud to be an American than I am today.

Sunday Scribblings

2009-01-18T22:16:00.002-04:00

This week’s word is Pilgrimage

My pilgrimage is an ever evolving journey towards a meaningful existence. I have been blessed with the ability to communicate, learn, and grow, so I am hell-bent on taking out of this life, and giving back to others, all that is available. There are smiles to create, a world to discover, distances to run, rocks to climb, music to hear, books to read, people to meet, a family to have, and lessons to learn. The beauty of this march is that every day, regardless of its outcome, puts me one step closer to the end of the wander; my ashes floating on the tides of the open sea.

Next Problem

2009-01-07T21:51:00.011-04:00

As is turns out, my hands, arms and shoulders are good for more than pushing paper, hitting a keyboard, lifting a cold one to my lips, and the occasional bar scuffle. Much like my feet, knees, hamstrings, quads and shins have allowed me to trek long and far across the face of this earth, the former, coupled with the latter--and my desire not to fall absurd distances--allow me to go higher than I ever previously imagined. While the wounds are deep, soreness debilitating and exhaustion real, the joy I take from reaching new heights is indescribable.

Sunday Scribblings

2008-12-28T23:18:00.001-04:00

This week’s phrase is I Believe

It is not poetic, well said, or an original thought, but … above all else, I believe that our lives are a gift—regardless of who that gift is from—and that we have an obligation to ourselves, to those that have passed, and to future generations to make this world a better place to exist. If we each did one thing everyday, no matter how small, to benefit others out of pure selflessness, we may all find life a little more palatable.

Sunday Scribblings

2008-12-13T01:51:00.000-04:00

This week’s phrase was/is “I knew instantly;” a list seemed to be in order:

I knew instantly . . . that the words, my words, would be the escape from the world that I could not comprehend.

I knew instantly . . . that you would leave me a trampled shell of the person I was before walking into that class.

I knew instantly . . . that I could withstand more pain, suffering and agony than most boys of that age.

I knew instantly . . . that my departure was more than a step towards freedom.

I knew instantly . . . that something would get fucked up by my temporary assignment away from you.

I knew instantly . . . that being in your presence would lift the weight that had been crushing me since birth.

I knew instantly . . . that I was a nomad.

I knew instantly . . . that I would owe you my life.

I knew instantly . . . that I would eventually come to hate you, and you me.

I knew instantly . . . that I had made a horrible mistake by not going to medical school.

I knew instantly . . . that I was not as good a person as were you.

I knew instantly . . . that your death would haunt me into adulthood.

I knew instantly . . . that my performance would never match my credentials.

I knew instantly . . . that you would not be the one that got away, regardless of the cost.

What I did not know was that I would be a thirty something adult caught in the endless struggle to be happy.

Sunday (or more appropriately in this instance, Monday) Scribbling

2008-12-08T23:57:00.000-04:00

This week’s word is Tradition

Failure, deceit, broken promises, aloofness and physical ailments, the markings of an existence not yet complete. Since birth, he has experienced, known, digested, and accepted the same as his fate. There was a struggle once, a fight against the inevitable, but he is, if nothing else, the product of his upbringing. No amount of classes, lectures, broken hearts, devastation and false starts could break him free of the cycle of his lineage. They are, as much as anything, his birthright. The positive is that he is the embodiment of the tradition laid out prior to his conception.

His morning after

2008-11-29T00:42:00.002-04:00

A follow-up to http://aloneontheisle.blogspot.com/2008/09/into-black.html

The hangover is overwhelming, but the world is alive and I am gripped with panic. I want to remain silent, watch you sleep, and keep you in this bed—with me—for eternity. However, I know upon regaining consciousness, you will realize the gravity of your actions, recognize my age, my life’s plight, and my wedding ring. Better judgment will prevail, and run is what you will do. Excuses will fly wild, business meetings to attend, laundry to be completed, hair to be washed. I am a Wednesday night, a funny story to be told to your friends over too many cocktails, and a round of embarrassing admissions. This is my life’s highlight; an aberration from my daily pointless mess. I can’t recall your last name, but I want it to be mine, or at least the one I choose upon our escape from my hell. As you stir, I know not what your words will be, but I know they will not be enjoyed.

Sunday Scribblings

2008-11-16T00:36:00.002-04:00

This week’s word is Stranger

Door slightly ajar, lights off, internal voice of excitement deafening.

* * *

I had been trolling the darker side of the internet on a lonely Friday night.

* * *

The music permeating the room was upbeat, but wordless.

* * *

I had nothing, and everything, in mind; I may have posted my email address.

* * *

The scent was unmistakably vanilla.

* * *

It started with an anonymous email, “Midtown Hyatt, room 636, 9:30pm, come in silence.”

* * *

I fumbled my way out of my clothes and into the bedroom.

* * *

I had heard about things such as this, but refused to accept that they existed.

* * *

We grouped, poked, prodded and fucked, uncontrollably, in complete and utter silence.

* * *

I reemerged into the light, noise, and going ons of the normal world, a new man, transformed by the faceless, nameless, wordless sex of a complete stranger.

Goodbye

2008-11-14T23:35:00.001-04:00

He whispered thirty-two simple words into her ear before returning to the inevitable:

“While I have everything every other man would ever want, it is because of you, and the time we spent together, that I will no longer question my existence on this earth.”

(Inspired by the final scene in Lost In Translation)

Sunday Sribblings

2008-11-09T21:19:00.000-04:00

This week’s word is Change

The face staring back at him in the mirror is a tattered combination of exhaustion, abuse, self-loathing, loss, fear and hope. As another week comes to a slow and painful end, he is once again presented with a chance to start over. To put down the cigarettes, walk away from the bottle, leave behind the faceless sexual partners, and become the person he always dreams he will be in the moments of sobriety and solitude. Every Monday offers the chance to begin anew and start the maturation process internally promised, yet still unfulfilled. He knows, in this moment, that the fresh weeks before him are becoming less numerous than those of his past.

The problem lies in the fact that the life he seeks—one filled with completeness, pride, and restful nights—is one that he has neither known, nor understood. His existence to this point has been defined by the recklessness of his days; without them, he does not exist, at least not in his current form. Nonetheless, this is the week—he tells himself aloud—that the change will stick and that the embarrassment associated with his life will end.

It is about time!!

2008-11-05T02:06:00.003-04:00

After eight painful years, I feel like I can breath again. Great fucking day!

Rejection

2008-11-01T21:44:00.001-04:00

If I could respond to this week’s rejection, it would go something like this:

Dear Mr. Too Busy to Follow Through:

Thank you for taking the time—albeit a week after we had agreed, and only after I called to inquire about my pending application—to send me an informal form letter notifying me that, regrettably, you would not be able to offer me a position with your organization.

As you indicated, you interviewed “hundreds” of people for this opening, so I can only imagine that changing the name in the heading of the rejection, printing it, folding it so that it fit in the envelope, signing it, and plying it with postage, was an incredible inconvenience for you and your staff. I can sympathize with the interruption, as I faced a similar situation in flying up to interview with you, on less than five days notice, and to the tune of $1,500, on two separate occasions. Not often in this profession does one get a chance to meet an individual, face to face, who demands promptness and sacrifice from others, but fails to follow through with even the simplest of requests—they usually hide behind the alleged ineptness of others. For this, I am in your debt.

Finally, I want to commend you for reminding me why it is I loathe my career choice.

Very truly yours,

AOTI

Sunday Scribblings

2008-10-27T00:29:00.005-04:00

This week's theme is bragging.

I am a master of masking the truth of the situation. Pain is hidden
behind toothy smiles; failure, canned statements of positivity;
destruction, shoulder shrugs; embarrassment, self-ridicule; hatred,
baseless compliments; attraction, outward indifference; etc. The key
to my existence is to be the same thing to the same people everyday,
regardless of the cost and/or consequence. It saves me from having to
explain my daily ebbs and flows to those I would rather avoid. I am
the definition of even keeled.

Time marches on

2008-10-18T02:09:00.005-04:00

There is a back story; it is a long drawn out explanation of missed opportunities and nothingness. But an excuse it is not; we are adults, we should have known it would culminate in this—conversations riddled with pain, tears spilled on pillows not shared, and voids of human contact. For all its failings, it was a conscious decision made in a time long since passed. My response is withdrawal, yours is confusion; regret is a constant. Despite our best efforts, life continues, and, outside of the stated goal, we get carried away with ourselves. . . .

Future greatness

2008-10-17T00:42:00.001-04:00

I see very bright things in this little guys future (I am a proud, bragging father).

Disaster of miniscule proportions

2008-10-17T00:32:00.001-04:00

One trip each to Kmart, grocery store, and Wallgreens.

Four cans Hormel Premium Chunk White Turkey, one can Chef Boyardee Overstuffed Beef Ravioli, one can Chef Boyardee Mini-Bites, two cans Hormel Chili with Beans, one Dinty Moore Big Bowl Beef Stew, one box Original Club Crackers, half block of brie, one jar Goober Grape peanut butter and jelly mix, and one loaf white bread.

Six two liter bottles of water, one two liter bottle of Gatorade, ten beers, three bottles of wine, and a pack and a half of cigarettes.

Eight D batteries, six AA batteries, twelve AAA batteries, two 9 volt batteries, three flashlights, two headlamps, one camping light, one pack of candles, six boxes of matches, three lighters, propane grill BBQ with spare propane, three fully charged IPODS, and a computer to track the impending doom.

Half-day of work on Wednesday, and a “snow” day on Thursday.

Shutters closed, windows locked, drains cleared, mop ready.

Last supper of pizza and sangria with friends.

Then wait, and wait, and wait. . . .

Wake up to the bluest sky known to man, dry floors, and four messages informing me that “snow” day is canceled and my presence is required in the office.

Roll into work an hour and a half late with some explaining to do.

My first “hurricane”; fuck the weather people.