Sunday Scribblings

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"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Umbilical cord attached, eyes closed, and a whimper that failed to resemble a bark.
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The storm hit the Municipality with such immediate and instant force that a street-level flood was a foregone conclusion.
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The professional put her at between three and five days old.
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Without a mother to provide protection, an SUV tire diverting the onslaught of water was the only thing between her and death.
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209 grams of wiry muscle was her fighting weight.
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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.
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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.
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She arrived wrapped in a towel and housed in a dilapidated cardboard box.
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She would wiggle, cry and paw when disturbed, but loved the warmth of human flesh.
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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.
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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.
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She awoke three times that first night, eager to be held and eat her man-made formula through a .1 oz. dropper.
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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.
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Her cries, while distressing and sad, tickled the ears of those lucky enough to be in her presence.
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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.
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By day three she had been showered with a stuffed rabbit, pug scarf, ticking clock, heating pad and a knit sweater.
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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.
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Mouth open, tongue out, eyes closed, legs outstretched, and body motionless and rigid; the time for miracles had come and gone, with prayers unanswered.
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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.
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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

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

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

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!!

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

Her morning after

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

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....

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

Sunday Scribblings

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

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

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

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.