To sit
To admire
To yearn
To pray
To bridge the gap that tethers the difference
Born is the insurmountable task at hand
It taunts
It feeds
It seduces
It empowers
Doors are opened and you may now enter
The risk is yours; the reward a mystery
Call on the power, for the gap 'an illusion
Stand strong the passion; for the illusion the reward
The peace lay in the truth you've feared
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Man, It's a Long Way Down
Hello Hello Hello? Echo Echo Echo???
There I stand, toes on the ledge, teetering at the canyon Uncertainty. I'm shivering with raw emotion while reaching out to opportunities still a blur.
I take in it's vastness. And with a breath of determination, as old in spirit as the winds themselves, I can taste it. I exhale it back, for serenity is tart on the sweetened bud, only to choke on it's returning gust.
I call to excitement as I am nervous; for at thirty nine I'm allowed to be. I'm also scared; scared as the father of two should be. And I'm ashamed; ashamed as only a husband can be.
I want to jump. What lay beneath the shallow cloud?
There I stand, toes on the ledge, teetering at the canyon Uncertainty. I'm shivering with raw emotion while reaching out to opportunities still a blur.
I take in it's vastness. And with a breath of determination, as old in spirit as the winds themselves, I can taste it. I exhale it back, for serenity is tart on the sweetened bud, only to choke on it's returning gust.
I call to excitement as I am nervous; for at thirty nine I'm allowed to be. I'm also scared; scared as the father of two should be. And I'm ashamed; ashamed as only a husband can be.
I want to jump. What lay beneath the shallow cloud?
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Sunny and Seventy Five
As I opened the door and stepped outside a warmth I had not felt all day, let alone all winter, washed over me. With the excitement of a seasonal gift leading the way I stood there for a few seconds.
I closed my eyes and I was twelve. I was throwing a ball to my father. The pool we were next to beckoned with a thousand sparkles, miniature explosions of light that danced on the surface.
I opened my eyes and I was thirty nine. I was tired, scared and beaten from a days work, yet somehow, driven. Could it be, was it warm enough? I knew it was.
And With a deep breath I shelved my memory and headed for the car. Now with an extra pep in my step and anticipation billowing, I giggled. After all, the first one of the year was only a few feet away!
I picked up the pace and in the time it took to cross the parking lot and grab for my keys, the day's woes were forgotten.
I quickly got in and shut the door. I then threw my arm load onto the passenger seat, laid my head back, inhaled the heated fabric and allowed it to happen.
The pressure on my face was welcomed and before long.... they arrived. They started on my neck, just as they always do and they waisted no time spilling over my shoulders. They ran down my upper arms like a gentle breeze causing my hair to stand up and they didn't stop until they reached the tops of my hands.
The second wave started with an exhale release as they spread down along my spine. With the touch of finger nails moving along my skin they caused my muscles to flinch. From there they fanned out to my sides and around towards my stomach, igniting a shiver burst that shook me from neck to waist. And with one last explosion they spread out past my shoulder blades and just like that, the chills were gone.
A sigh of relief then punctured my lips as I melted into the seat. A smile eased it's way onto my face and I knew; Mother nature's hot car massage had done it again.
I closed my eyes and I was twelve. I was throwing a ball to my father. The pool we were next to beckoned with a thousand sparkles, miniature explosions of light that danced on the surface.
I opened my eyes and I was thirty nine. I was tired, scared and beaten from a days work, yet somehow, driven. Could it be, was it warm enough? I knew it was.
And With a deep breath I shelved my memory and headed for the car. Now with an extra pep in my step and anticipation billowing, I giggled. After all, the first one of the year was only a few feet away!
I picked up the pace and in the time it took to cross the parking lot and grab for my keys, the day's woes were forgotten.
I quickly got in and shut the door. I then threw my arm load onto the passenger seat, laid my head back, inhaled the heated fabric and allowed it to happen.
The pressure on my face was welcomed and before long.... they arrived. They started on my neck, just as they always do and they waisted no time spilling over my shoulders. They ran down my upper arms like a gentle breeze causing my hair to stand up and they didn't stop until they reached the tops of my hands.
The second wave started with an exhale release as they spread down along my spine. With the touch of finger nails moving along my skin they caused my muscles to flinch. From there they fanned out to my sides and around towards my stomach, igniting a shiver burst that shook me from neck to waist. And with one last explosion they spread out past my shoulder blades and just like that, the chills were gone.
A sigh of relief then punctured my lips as I melted into the seat. A smile eased it's way onto my face and I knew; Mother nature's hot car massage had done it again.
Monday, February 28, 2011
I'm Sorry, Were You Talking to Me?
I think I have issues......
I'm being serious here, damn it! Over the past year and a half I've asked myself many questions and to find the answers I've had to take many long looks into the mirror. For the most part I'm welcoming of any and all images/answers I find, but one question has me perplexed:
Am I dumb like a fox or unaware that I'm nuts?
Hold that thought.
Let's start simple. I want to take a look into my persistent writer's block. For the past six months I've struggled with what to write about. Every time I try to put thought to keystroke I'm getting punched in the gut with "It just doesn't feel right", or "It's forced" or "So and so might get offended" or "They've read this before". It's gotten so bad that I'm now deleting essays before they even have a chance to mature.
Because of this I have days when I think maybe I'm tapped out -that's all there is, and believe me, it doesn't take long for that to morph into the feeling that this writing thing is just another dead end path.
(Can YOU hear those violins???)....
Wow! Far be it from me to just enjoy something, rather I make it the be all end all, the antidote for my woes, personal and professional.
All in all it seems as though I'm starting to question myself and worse yet, censor myself. I know enough to know that that's dangerous.
Why can't I just go with the flow? Why can't I just write for me? Why do I care so much what people think? Why does sugar free gum give me gas?
Do all aspiring writer's go through this?
Case in point -The other day I actually put together a list of phrases that was so random/bizarre it actually freaked me out, but at the same time it was different and therefore inspiring. So, I thought about if for a while.
When I finally came to I realized just how different it was, and therefore edgy. Then I thought; Why not go with it, it's new, it's exciting? Then?.. I deleted it. %#&@?!?!
What I did next is a true sign of where my head is, I opened up Facebook. Then, I checked weather.com. Then, I ate. Then, I started another essay. Then, I day dreamed of having hot chocolate with six of the brunette Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. Then, I got excited about what we might be having for dinner when I get home. Then, I ran across the street to Rite Aid and bought some Peanut Chews. Then, it hit me.....
A.D.D!!!???
OY, Is that what has me bottled up all the time? Is writer's block not block at all but just a bunch of unharnessed thoughts running free on the open plains of my brain? Say it isn't so for I do NOT look good in chaps.
Great, something new to stress about! As if my brain isn't busy enough now I have to try my hand at riding the backs of untamed, snorting, slobbering ideas.
Oh well, makes sense I guess. I mean I always knew I had some difficulties with focusing. I just never thought, that what I deemed as my source of creativity and humor, that it would masquerade itself in negativity. Let alone some deranged dude ranch.
Hmph... A.D.D!!!???
Maybe it's true. Come to think of it, my wife and I ARE always arguing about how when she has something important to tell me, that halfway through it she has to say, "You're not with me, are you?"
I would usually say back to her, "It's like I know you are trying to tell me something, I mean, I see your lips moving." Or I'll let her finish and then I'll say "Do you know I didn't get ONE word of what you just said?" Then we bust out laughing and she tells me to let her know when I'm ready. I know it sounds rude but after all these years I hope she gets me.
I've said it before and I'll say it probably three hundred and sixty eight more times; Putting my energy into writing has allowed me to see myself for who I am, from all angles. It's allowed me to get a clearer picture of me and some of the answers I've always wanted... or not.
So let me see if I've got this one right. I'm to understand that I am a blurred-visioned, imaginarian, underachieving, rogue thought-rancher; one who also runs a bed and breakfast for the impromptu mental images and may or may not look stunning in riding pants??? Hmmmm... Is that good or bad?
Hymph... Issues!!!???
Hey look, can I help it if my brain is just so full of stuff that I can't control it sometimes? Can I help it if when the time comes to discipline my five year old that I'm sometimes magically whisked away on a week long spree of linen shopping in the Congo?
And when planning a family gathering, can I help it if the question 'Should we have chicken or BBQ brisket for dinner' sometimes sends me hurling through space to a convenience store in south east Asia; a quaint little hole in the wall where I'm propositioned by two beautiful, blond, street merchants on flying carpets? Misguided as it may be, sometimes shit just pops in my head, ya know?!?!
It's like when I'm having a conversation with someone, periodically, I'll simply check out, shutting down all interpretation receptors. Look, no offense, I lose interest very easily. And from what I understand, that comes with the territory of my new self diagnosed illness.
For the most part it's harmless, you won't notice a thing; unless you're really looking deeply into my eyes. More often than not you'll simply get my glassy-eyed stare as I'm off on a day dreamy trip to a far away place; maybe the ill timed eye roll you noticed and that I now have to pose as an itch; or possibly even the laugh/sigh that masquerades itself as a throat clear. Tell me something relatively boring; you probably won't know I'm not there.
If you start to tell me something I have little interest in, in GREAT detail, you'll probably get something a little more noticeable, a little more telling, the zombie stare. It's there I'll envision leaping off the nearest cliff or maybe even removing my eardrums with dental tools. Nothing too serious though, again, just a little harmless day dreaming to get me through the conversation.
Now, should you tell me something that falls into the realm of 'hated subject' or 'COMPLETELY fucking boring', well then we're heading for another level.
Enter, what my sister and I like to call, turret thoughts. Not yet a clinical illness but most definitely an act of subconscious selfishness that's punctuated, not truly revealed though, with the circumstantial glass eyed stare. Up until now though, turret thoughts had no relevance, it was just an inexplicable random act of immaturity.
Allow me to give you a little insight into this painful affliction. Every now and then, while chatting with someone, I'll imagine what it would it be like if I halled off and THWACKED them, right in the middle of a sentence. No warning, no rhyme or reason. Then as soon as I'm able to sweep that image away, in struts; What if I SCREAMED at them, so close that our NOSES were touching?
Believe me I know it sounds strange and I often wonder just how many people think like this but I can't help it. And I never know when it's going to strike.
It doesn't seem to be age discriminatory either. Nor is it gender selective. It all seems to stem from the level of my mood and whether or not I'm interested in what's being told to me.
OY! A.D.D!!!???
So be warned; The next time you want to tell me about that soccer match, the one you had with all of the neighborhood chums, for the THIRD time, you just might get an imaginary open handed slap to your left cheek.
Want to tell me the epic tale of how little Jimmy got his braces, the long version? Better get prepared for your bottom lip to be stretched over your forehead.
Think I wanna hear about Grandma Lulu and her 100th birthday? Think again, I'm now planning to take a bat to the bottoms of your feet.
Please, whatever you do, don't enlighten me on an entire episode of the sitcom I said I didn't care to watch. I really don't want to drag you through the streets tied to my bumper.
And for God's sake, whatever you do, don't tell me about little Betty Lou cutting her eighth molar, I don't want to have to set you on fire.
Ya gotta grab me man! Tell me somethin' good. Tell me something worth hearing. Tell me something that peaks the interest.
I want to hear about Aunt Pearl and her bout with crabs. Tell me about Uncle Junior impaling himself with the antlers of his latest road kill find.
Let me know what happened to Grandma Wilma's hammer toe. Is Grandpa Red still gnawing on it before dinner? That's the stuff I want to hear about!
Forget the mindless chit chat of Terry James, his new job, and how he loves his wife. Tell me about Robby's lobotomy and how every time the phone rings he sports a hard-on, hoots like an owl, and then soils himself. Woo Hoo, interesting stuff!
You want to keep my attention? Don't speak to me about the weather, the stock market, lawn mowers and cars. Tell me about how you want to hunt down and kill all remaining sperm whale.
Give me something original, will ya? I want you to tell me that your parents were just arrested for spear heading a movement that will allow geriatric prostitution to see a federal tax credit. Now THAT'S interesting.
Do ya see what I'm getting at? Let's drop the charade, people. For goodness sake I'm beginning to think I've developed Attention Deficit Disorder when all I really need is to hear something stimulating.
Ahh, who'my kidding? I probably need to distance myself from people all together. I think maybe I should get a job ringing some huge bell in some tower somewhere.
I know! Maybe I should turn to the books. Hey, as a matter of fact, you would've thought that with all this trouble in conversation that I would have become an avid reader, wouldn't you have? That's it! What better way is there to avoid imaginary aggravated assault charges than to pursue stimulation through written word?
Not a chance!
I tried reading once back in high school. The paragraphs always seemed to turn into shapes just like the clouds do. Shoot, sometimes paragraph three would yell out "Freedom" and wage all out war on paragraphs one and two.
That was a horrible time. Letters strewn across the pages laying in pools of their own ink. Limbless K's would scream for the medics as the inerts of many Q's fouled the air. Life would spill from topless T's and capitol R's, who'd lost their front hash, would tip forward as crippled P's. Na, reading wasn't for me and so it's a time I would rather forget.
Why do you think it takes me so long to put one of these essays together and then post it? I hate proof reading them, that's why. As a matter of fact, half way through this one I found myself riding bare back on a Shetland pony over the rolling hills of Dublin in search of good Cheddar cheese.
Really? A.D.D!!!???
Ok, so where do we go from here? I mean hey, so I've got some issues. Look, it can't be that serious, can it? I mean I get my work done, the kids are wonderful and the house is taken care of. Should I be stressing myself out like this?
I'm pretty high functioning, right? It's not like I get up in the morning, go downstairs to get ready for work, go out the front door and try to start up a game of beach volleyball. I mean I can function and I am with it, right?
What is that anyway, to be "with it"? My father used to use the phrase "Get with it" all the time, still does.
Is "With it" to conform, stripping yourself of all creativity and individuality? Is "With it" to mind your own business, keeping all thoughts to yourself? How about blending in to the background, is that being "With it"? Perhaps standing idly by and letting people fill the air with dangerous words of no substance, is being "With it".
You know what? Maybe I'll just stay "Without" it.
OK, so my imagination tends to take me on little journeys every now and then. So I might imaginarily attack the occasional innocent would be conversationalist. He's none the wiser or aggressed upon.
What is one to do about this? Do I just go with it or do I get with it?
Hmph... Did I type all of that outloud?
I'm being serious here, damn it! Over the past year and a half I've asked myself many questions and to find the answers I've had to take many long looks into the mirror. For the most part I'm welcoming of any and all images/answers I find, but one question has me perplexed:
Am I dumb like a fox or unaware that I'm nuts?
Hold that thought.
Let's start simple. I want to take a look into my persistent writer's block. For the past six months I've struggled with what to write about. Every time I try to put thought to keystroke I'm getting punched in the gut with "It just doesn't feel right", or "It's forced" or "So and so might get offended" or "They've read this before". It's gotten so bad that I'm now deleting essays before they even have a chance to mature.
Because of this I have days when I think maybe I'm tapped out -that's all there is, and believe me, it doesn't take long for that to morph into the feeling that this writing thing is just another dead end path.
(Can YOU hear those violins???)....
Wow! Far be it from me to just enjoy something, rather I make it the be all end all, the antidote for my woes, personal and professional.
All in all it seems as though I'm starting to question myself and worse yet, censor myself. I know enough to know that that's dangerous.
Why can't I just go with the flow? Why can't I just write for me? Why do I care so much what people think? Why does sugar free gum give me gas?
Do all aspiring writer's go through this?
Case in point -The other day I actually put together a list of phrases that was so random/bizarre it actually freaked me out, but at the same time it was different and therefore inspiring. So, I thought about if for a while.
When I finally came to I realized just how different it was, and therefore edgy. Then I thought; Why not go with it, it's new, it's exciting? Then?.. I deleted it. %#&@?!?!
What I did next is a true sign of where my head is, I opened up Facebook. Then, I checked weather.com. Then, I ate. Then, I started another essay. Then, I day dreamed of having hot chocolate with six of the brunette Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. Then, I got excited about what we might be having for dinner when I get home. Then, I ran across the street to Rite Aid and bought some Peanut Chews. Then, it hit me.....
A.D.D!!!???
OY, Is that what has me bottled up all the time? Is writer's block not block at all but just a bunch of unharnessed thoughts running free on the open plains of my brain? Say it isn't so for I do NOT look good in chaps.
Great, something new to stress about! As if my brain isn't busy enough now I have to try my hand at riding the backs of untamed, snorting, slobbering ideas.
Oh well, makes sense I guess. I mean I always knew I had some difficulties with focusing. I just never thought, that what I deemed as my source of creativity and humor, that it would masquerade itself in negativity. Let alone some deranged dude ranch.
Hmph... A.D.D!!!???
Maybe it's true. Come to think of it, my wife and I ARE always arguing about how when she has something important to tell me, that halfway through it she has to say, "You're not with me, are you?"
I would usually say back to her, "It's like I know you are trying to tell me something, I mean, I see your lips moving." Or I'll let her finish and then I'll say "Do you know I didn't get ONE word of what you just said?" Then we bust out laughing and she tells me to let her know when I'm ready. I know it sounds rude but after all these years I hope she gets me.
I've said it before and I'll say it probably three hundred and sixty eight more times; Putting my energy into writing has allowed me to see myself for who I am, from all angles. It's allowed me to get a clearer picture of me and some of the answers I've always wanted... or not.
So let me see if I've got this one right. I'm to understand that I am a blurred-visioned, imaginarian, underachieving, rogue thought-rancher; one who also runs a bed and breakfast for the impromptu mental images and may or may not look stunning in riding pants??? Hmmmm... Is that good or bad?
Hymph... Issues!!!???
Hey look, can I help it if my brain is just so full of stuff that I can't control it sometimes? Can I help it if when the time comes to discipline my five year old that I'm sometimes magically whisked away on a week long spree of linen shopping in the Congo?
And when planning a family gathering, can I help it if the question 'Should we have chicken or BBQ brisket for dinner' sometimes sends me hurling through space to a convenience store in south east Asia; a quaint little hole in the wall where I'm propositioned by two beautiful, blond, street merchants on flying carpets? Misguided as it may be, sometimes shit just pops in my head, ya know?!?!
It's like when I'm having a conversation with someone, periodically, I'll simply check out, shutting down all interpretation receptors. Look, no offense, I lose interest very easily. And from what I understand, that comes with the territory of my new self diagnosed illness.
For the most part it's harmless, you won't notice a thing; unless you're really looking deeply into my eyes. More often than not you'll simply get my glassy-eyed stare as I'm off on a day dreamy trip to a far away place; maybe the ill timed eye roll you noticed and that I now have to pose as an itch; or possibly even the laugh/sigh that masquerades itself as a throat clear. Tell me something relatively boring; you probably won't know I'm not there.
If you start to tell me something I have little interest in, in GREAT detail, you'll probably get something a little more noticeable, a little more telling, the zombie stare. It's there I'll envision leaping off the nearest cliff or maybe even removing my eardrums with dental tools. Nothing too serious though, again, just a little harmless day dreaming to get me through the conversation.
Now, should you tell me something that falls into the realm of 'hated subject' or 'COMPLETELY fucking boring', well then we're heading for another level.
Enter, what my sister and I like to call, turret thoughts. Not yet a clinical illness but most definitely an act of subconscious selfishness that's punctuated, not truly revealed though, with the circumstantial glass eyed stare. Up until now though, turret thoughts had no relevance, it was just an inexplicable random act of immaturity.
Allow me to give you a little insight into this painful affliction. Every now and then, while chatting with someone, I'll imagine what it would it be like if I halled off and THWACKED them, right in the middle of a sentence. No warning, no rhyme or reason. Then as soon as I'm able to sweep that image away, in struts; What if I SCREAMED at them, so close that our NOSES were touching?
Believe me I know it sounds strange and I often wonder just how many people think like this but I can't help it. And I never know when it's going to strike.
It doesn't seem to be age discriminatory either. Nor is it gender selective. It all seems to stem from the level of my mood and whether or not I'm interested in what's being told to me.
OY! A.D.D!!!???
So be warned; The next time you want to tell me about that soccer match, the one you had with all of the neighborhood chums, for the THIRD time, you just might get an imaginary open handed slap to your left cheek.
Want to tell me the epic tale of how little Jimmy got his braces, the long version? Better get prepared for your bottom lip to be stretched over your forehead.
Think I wanna hear about Grandma Lulu and her 100th birthday? Think again, I'm now planning to take a bat to the bottoms of your feet.
Please, whatever you do, don't enlighten me on an entire episode of the sitcom I said I didn't care to watch. I really don't want to drag you through the streets tied to my bumper.
And for God's sake, whatever you do, don't tell me about little Betty Lou cutting her eighth molar, I don't want to have to set you on fire.
Ya gotta grab me man! Tell me somethin' good. Tell me something worth hearing. Tell me something that peaks the interest.
I want to hear about Aunt Pearl and her bout with crabs. Tell me about Uncle Junior impaling himself with the antlers of his latest road kill find.
Let me know what happened to Grandma Wilma's hammer toe. Is Grandpa Red still gnawing on it before dinner? That's the stuff I want to hear about!
Forget the mindless chit chat of Terry James, his new job, and how he loves his wife. Tell me about Robby's lobotomy and how every time the phone rings he sports a hard-on, hoots like an owl, and then soils himself. Woo Hoo, interesting stuff!
You want to keep my attention? Don't speak to me about the weather, the stock market, lawn mowers and cars. Tell me about how you want to hunt down and kill all remaining sperm whale.
Give me something original, will ya? I want you to tell me that your parents were just arrested for spear heading a movement that will allow geriatric prostitution to see a federal tax credit. Now THAT'S interesting.
Do ya see what I'm getting at? Let's drop the charade, people. For goodness sake I'm beginning to think I've developed Attention Deficit Disorder when all I really need is to hear something stimulating.
Ahh, who'my kidding? I probably need to distance myself from people all together. I think maybe I should get a job ringing some huge bell in some tower somewhere.
I know! Maybe I should turn to the books. Hey, as a matter of fact, you would've thought that with all this trouble in conversation that I would have become an avid reader, wouldn't you have? That's it! What better way is there to avoid imaginary aggravated assault charges than to pursue stimulation through written word?
Not a chance!
I tried reading once back in high school. The paragraphs always seemed to turn into shapes just like the clouds do. Shoot, sometimes paragraph three would yell out "Freedom" and wage all out war on paragraphs one and two.
That was a horrible time. Letters strewn across the pages laying in pools of their own ink. Limbless K's would scream for the medics as the inerts of many Q's fouled the air. Life would spill from topless T's and capitol R's, who'd lost their front hash, would tip forward as crippled P's. Na, reading wasn't for me and so it's a time I would rather forget.
Why do you think it takes me so long to put one of these essays together and then post it? I hate proof reading them, that's why. As a matter of fact, half way through this one I found myself riding bare back on a Shetland pony over the rolling hills of Dublin in search of good Cheddar cheese.
Really? A.D.D!!!???
Ok, so where do we go from here? I mean hey, so I've got some issues. Look, it can't be that serious, can it? I mean I get my work done, the kids are wonderful and the house is taken care of. Should I be stressing myself out like this?
I'm pretty high functioning, right? It's not like I get up in the morning, go downstairs to get ready for work, go out the front door and try to start up a game of beach volleyball. I mean I can function and I am with it, right?
What is that anyway, to be "with it"? My father used to use the phrase "Get with it" all the time, still does.
Is "With it" to conform, stripping yourself of all creativity and individuality? Is "With it" to mind your own business, keeping all thoughts to yourself? How about blending in to the background, is that being "With it"? Perhaps standing idly by and letting people fill the air with dangerous words of no substance, is being "With it".
You know what? Maybe I'll just stay "Without" it.
OK, so my imagination tends to take me on little journeys every now and then. So I might imaginarily attack the occasional innocent would be conversationalist. He's none the wiser or aggressed upon.
What is one to do about this? Do I just go with it or do I get with it?
Hmph... Did I type all of that outloud?
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Me & Eight Nutshells
I drink because I'm scared
I type for praise
I joke for peace
I laugh for ease
Giving is for taking
Taking is for me
Doorways are what I wish for
It's pathways I won't see
I type for praise
I joke for peace
I laugh for ease
Giving is for taking
Taking is for me
Doorways are what I wish for
It's pathways I won't see
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
I Am the Gift Bearer
Those which stand before me are not of this planet and they rock the space-time continuum. I'm inclined to believe the abominations are grown specifically, and in secret laboratories, beneath each location. There, these chromosomal rejects are grown, housed and released as fabricated war specimens. Launched onto society for one purpose.... to feed.
It's that time of year again, the time when a deep breath of clean crisp air invites visions of the holiday season.
It's the time when cloudless skies and bitter cold offer a strange little hug; an embrace that gives off just enough warmth to feed anticipation.
It's the time when days shortened give birth to breath taking sunsets. The horizon gets bathed in colors so well blended, it's as if mother nature has painted a blanket and is tucking us in for the night.
This is the time when bundling up for the parade is a treat and not the frigid experience it could be.
It's a time when grueling hours of overtime are punctuated by the dreams of a loved one smiling. And when handing over a hard earned dollar can trigger a smile, you know it just might be a time of joy.
But hear me when I say, make no mistake. Hear me when I tell you that these are also deceptive times, my friends. And if you're not careful, quite frankly, these are dangerous times.
For from the shadows comes a creature so deliberate, so dedicated to accomplishment it will stop at nothing.
It's persistence is legendary and it's temperament could only be described as explosive. It will aggressively defend it's own own and surely kill them just the same if it means securing the prize and standing triumphant.
I could only be talking of one thing. Sure enough, this is the time of the Walmart shopper.
This is the time when it ascends from the fiery depths. It has risen in haste, clawed to the surface, drawn to the black Friday war horn.
This be the time of calloused feet, hoofs of the damned, marching forward, foraging for supplies and provisions. There can be no mistaking, for staring them in the face is Christmas, the gateway to a harsh winter.
Beware this Walmart Shopper for it's times like these that battle cries can be heard from clearance racks and from toddler sections come sounds of ripping flesh.
This is the time when tribes will kill, not only for what they need but for what they crave. It's not uncommon in this time for the matriarch,of separate clans,to be seen tugging opposite ends of the all illusive forty-two inch flat panel that's in 1080p with four midi inputs. One can only imagine life, three months into a hard winter, without the bare necessities.
This is the time of sustenance overindulgence. From the in house feeding grounds comes the aroma of life. The chefs of death will slice as slave hands stir from the cauldrons, praying upon the shopper with the billows of sweet nectar. The Walmart masses are now hypnotized.... for they thirst.
This is the time of mother warriors, stuffed into battle fatigues (bright blue spandex) they drag their dirty ill-behaved offspring through the aisles searching for any and all wonder deals.
A days travel from the makeup section these creatures hunt in packs, usually four to six strong. Often times this beast will tote along her life partner just in case an "I was here first" encounter should occur.
A poor excuse for backup, let alone a role model, this scrawny, unshaven, dirty cap laden, flannel abomination is most times nothing more than the fifth child. Far be it from this up righted varmint to stand alone from his mate, for he is nothing more than scared shitless of his female counterpart.
This is also a time of scavenging. Nomadic souls move aimlessly about the wastelands in search of the unoccupied register. The herds have all but depleted the empty checkout station leaving in it's wake pockets of feeding frenzies rivaled only by that of the amazonian piranha.
Slave clerks are rotated in with tactical fortitude. This is done to stave off angry mob delirium, native to December and highly contagious.
And lastly, this is a time for pure athletic dexterity. For once clear of the evil inside you will be asked to navigate the parking lot. Now swarming with anger, the zombies blanket the asphalt in pursuit of the perfect space.
While weaving the undead demolition derby you lay down a law that will guide you for approximately three hundred and sixty four more days.
You say to yourself, "I will NEVER do this again!"
It's that time of year again, the time when a deep breath of clean crisp air invites visions of the holiday season.
It's the time when cloudless skies and bitter cold offer a strange little hug; an embrace that gives off just enough warmth to feed anticipation.
It's the time when days shortened give birth to breath taking sunsets. The horizon gets bathed in colors so well blended, it's as if mother nature has painted a blanket and is tucking us in for the night.
This is the time when bundling up for the parade is a treat and not the frigid experience it could be.
It's a time when grueling hours of overtime are punctuated by the dreams of a loved one smiling. And when handing over a hard earned dollar can trigger a smile, you know it just might be a time of joy.
But hear me when I say, make no mistake. Hear me when I tell you that these are also deceptive times, my friends. And if you're not careful, quite frankly, these are dangerous times.
For from the shadows comes a creature so deliberate, so dedicated to accomplishment it will stop at nothing.
It's persistence is legendary and it's temperament could only be described as explosive. It will aggressively defend it's own own and surely kill them just the same if it means securing the prize and standing triumphant.
I could only be talking of one thing. Sure enough, this is the time of the Walmart shopper.
This is the time when it ascends from the fiery depths. It has risen in haste, clawed to the surface, drawn to the black Friday war horn.
This be the time of calloused feet, hoofs of the damned, marching forward, foraging for supplies and provisions. There can be no mistaking, for staring them in the face is Christmas, the gateway to a harsh winter.
Beware this Walmart Shopper for it's times like these that battle cries can be heard from clearance racks and from toddler sections come sounds of ripping flesh.
This is the time when tribes will kill, not only for what they need but for what they crave. It's not uncommon in this time for the matriarch,of separate clans,to be seen tugging opposite ends of the all illusive forty-two inch flat panel that's in 1080p with four midi inputs. One can only imagine life, three months into a hard winter, without the bare necessities.
This is the time of sustenance overindulgence. From the in house feeding grounds comes the aroma of life. The chefs of death will slice as slave hands stir from the cauldrons, praying upon the shopper with the billows of sweet nectar. The Walmart masses are now hypnotized.... for they thirst.
This is the time of mother warriors, stuffed into battle fatigues (bright blue spandex) they drag their dirty ill-behaved offspring through the aisles searching for any and all wonder deals.
A days travel from the makeup section these creatures hunt in packs, usually four to six strong. Often times this beast will tote along her life partner just in case an "I was here first" encounter should occur.
A poor excuse for backup, let alone a role model, this scrawny, unshaven, dirty cap laden, flannel abomination is most times nothing more than the fifth child. Far be it from this up righted varmint to stand alone from his mate, for he is nothing more than scared shitless of his female counterpart.
This is also a time of scavenging. Nomadic souls move aimlessly about the wastelands in search of the unoccupied register. The herds have all but depleted the empty checkout station leaving in it's wake pockets of feeding frenzies rivaled only by that of the amazonian piranha.
Slave clerks are rotated in with tactical fortitude. This is done to stave off angry mob delirium, native to December and highly contagious.
And lastly, this is a time for pure athletic dexterity. For once clear of the evil inside you will be asked to navigate the parking lot. Now swarming with anger, the zombies blanket the asphalt in pursuit of the perfect space.
While weaving the undead demolition derby you lay down a law that will guide you for approximately three hundred and sixty four more days.
You say to yourself, "I will NEVER do this again!"
Friday, August 13, 2010
Listening for That Pin to Drop
Silence is coveted by many yet misunderstood by most. It has magic unrivaled and it can sooth as an evening snowfall. Yet when it's called upon to ride uncertainty, a resounding torture is what you'll have summonsed. There will be many answers lurking in the shadows here at the oasis of tranquility and chaos. Yet you may fear not for your safety, for it's merely hide and seek the answers play. You must however fear their deception. For its missteps here that will entice the demons, who also roam these wastelands of silence, disguised as questions.
Hi it's me, the narcissistic, overly flamboyant, bag of insecurities back from the dead.
Maybe you hadn't noticed but I've been on somewhat of a hiatus. It's nothing serious, I just was asked to take a little journey. I went on a tiny adventure that included some life altering, soul searching expeditions in a far away place. While there I was forced to search for answers to life's questions.
I must tell you that I am living proof of being careful what you wish for because clarity comes with a hefty price tag, let me tell ya.
What happened you ask? Where did I go? Well, I went to "Hell" I think or "Writer's Block", I'm not really sure. It was a little place tucked way back in the nether regions of a bigger place commonly known as "My Imagination". I'm now, for creative purposes, referring to this place as my "Silence".
I was forced to visit this place because I had lost my way. That's my literary way of saying I had lost my confidence. So I took a break. At first it wasn't by choice but after suffering through some miserable writing sessions, where I concluded I was either tapped out or having regular strokes, I decided it was time. So I went to a place that has not been kind in the past, I went to my thoughts. I went to my "Silence".
Now I'm sure everyone has their own version of "Silence" but I think it's safe to say that they all serve the same purpose. That is; to show us who or what we are becoming and to offer us choices in the form of pathways. It’s kind of like Monty Hall and Let's Make a Deal. Just be careful of the Bikini clad fat man sitting atop the Jackass behind door number two.
Obviously this is not the first time that I have visited my thoughts; I mean everyone hits the cranial eight-ball from time to time. Up until now though, I don't think I ever got it. I can't say I really get it now but I do believe I know why we go there. I believe it’s our job to make sure that we visit "Silence", form time to time, so as to not become complaisant. Chris Rock said it best; "If it ain't new, it's through"! Of course, he was referring to sex.
What's mine like, you ask? Well, if I had to describe it, I would say my "Silence" is more like Mordor than the Shire. There are hints of beauty and pleasant life but for the most part it's fiery and volcanic. It's choc full of flying demons, old ladies who crave young man-flesh, muscular men doing the electric slide, clowns, ventriloquists and of course... leprechauns. At the very least it's Middle Earth like.
My guess is that if I liked making decisions about life a little more and I worried about things a little less, my "Silence" would be more of a pleasant place to visit. Shoot, if I wasn't the enemy of my own thoughts, I might even be able to find more of those all illusive answers we so desperately seek when going there. Instead, I just keep bumping into those nomadic questions; pale creatures that don tattered cloaks and walk in dirty sandals; never pleasant, they are hunchbacked and require walking sticks. You know what else?...questions never look you in the eye either.
Damn, I just realized something, I worry too much! (There's a news flash) Oh my God my wife says that to me all the time! I guess it's true, I mean just look at my "Silence". It's like a traveling sideshow form the medieval times with a splash of the 80's. There can be no question as to why I went into a deep block.
Well what do you know; it looks like I'm writing a revelation piece. I guess I'd better change my shoes, put on the cardigan and find a different mask.
OK here goes: I get really nervous really easy. There, I said it! And in case you hadn't noticed, I lack confidence and I also worry too damn much! Oh my............. this is extremely liberating...
Hey, you know what else? I'm heavily into preventative maintenance! So much so that I'm thoroughly convinced most people are sadistic! Oooh Damn, I feel cleansed... Let me shout some more!
I exfoliate!...... (Is this guy for real?) Wow, I could go all day! I also resist change! Woo Hoo!
While we're at it, I can see through most people, sniff out a rat, tell you how it's going to end and I fear that most everyone has a personal agenda! So shoot me!
Wow, it's all coming to me! This latest visit to my "Silence" has been like hanging out in a fluorescent lit bathroom with a thousand mirrors. I've been shown, from all sides, that I am a horrifically insecure underachieving worry wart who over reacts. Ouch! All of this because of writer's block? And how about that mirror angle from behind?....yuck! Is my ass really that high up on my back?
Loading the gun now....... and........ BOOM!
Can it be true, has my over reacting, due to excessive worrying, made me a negative person, even though it was beyond my control?
I understand some folks, namely my wife, try to see to it that I'm not over stressing myself and believe me when I say that I don't want to over stress them either. I just can't help it when stuff pops into my head and my brain starts creating a nurturing environment fit for worrying; a penthouse suite if you will; a luxury getaway built for panic, worthy of anxiety's royalty.
Is it so unhealthy for me to have suffered from full on, heart palpitating, gut wrenching and thunderous flatulence producing nervousness? I always thought I was fine unless it got to the point of violent convulsions, mild seizures and uncontrollable vomiting. That I could understand being dangerous to my health.
OK hang on, you don't have to call the psych ward just yet. I don't want you to get me ALL wrong. I'm not one of those goofs who has their children wearing helmets during hopscotch or while playing Wii. I'm just a bit of a worry wart; a little bit of an uptight soldier of ADD/OCD.
Hmm.... (Long pause for effect)
OK So I suffer from prehallucinogenic jitters from time to time. So I've got the nervous stomach. So I just might worry a little more than is deemed acceptable by the United States Food and Drug Administration. So the thought of attending my twenty year high school reunion has me on the verge of violent dry heaves. There, are you happy?
Is there something that can be done to alleviate these occasional blips on the worry radar? I mean other than fighting through fire, brimstone and soulless vagabonds in an imaginary place of mystical sorcery. Do I really need to visit my "Silence" every time I need a pick-me-up or to feel safe? It's hard locating peace in a place where my self image suffers lacerations from mythical creatures that seem to enjoy their free stay at the Ritz Carlton Gary.
Maybe there's a handout at the elementary school or a leaflet at the local library that provides directional relief? How about an energy drink? I'm quite certain there is one of those dedicated to this disorder. On second thought, I'm not sold on those cockamamie modern day fairy tale potions anyway.
How about web sites? Na, forget it! With my luck I'll type in "Nervousness" and be taken directly to a pair of huge breasts that belong to "Nervousness", the West Indian sex-cam queen.
There is medication you say? I'll be honest, that scares the hell out of me. See I've always told myself that I would never need chemical intervention because I know who I am and I'm very comfortable with my self diagnosis. I've even told myself that all of this clarity, the fog I've been squinting through for the past three years, is me on the path to a cure.
Hey, I'm suddenly reminded of an old cliché that I've never heard until I just googled "famous clichés". It's by Plato himself so I'm sure it's worth reading. It says: "An unexamined life is not worth living." I like it. I'm going to adopt it as my inspirational motto.
You know what, forget all of the remedies, if Plato said it, it must be worth sticking to. I think I'll just see about booking the occasional visit to "Silence". It really wasn't that bad you know, and if I'm being totally honest, I felt strangely at home there.
Hi it's me, the narcissistic, overly flamboyant, bag of insecurities back from the dead.
Maybe you hadn't noticed but I've been on somewhat of a hiatus. It's nothing serious, I just was asked to take a little journey. I went on a tiny adventure that included some life altering, soul searching expeditions in a far away place. While there I was forced to search for answers to life's questions.
I must tell you that I am living proof of being careful what you wish for because clarity comes with a hefty price tag, let me tell ya.
What happened you ask? Where did I go? Well, I went to "Hell" I think or "Writer's Block", I'm not really sure. It was a little place tucked way back in the nether regions of a bigger place commonly known as "My Imagination". I'm now, for creative purposes, referring to this place as my "Silence".
I was forced to visit this place because I had lost my way. That's my literary way of saying I had lost my confidence. So I took a break. At first it wasn't by choice but after suffering through some miserable writing sessions, where I concluded I was either tapped out or having regular strokes, I decided it was time. So I went to a place that has not been kind in the past, I went to my thoughts. I went to my "Silence".
Now I'm sure everyone has their own version of "Silence" but I think it's safe to say that they all serve the same purpose. That is; to show us who or what we are becoming and to offer us choices in the form of pathways. It’s kind of like Monty Hall and Let's Make a Deal. Just be careful of the Bikini clad fat man sitting atop the Jackass behind door number two.
Obviously this is not the first time that I have visited my thoughts; I mean everyone hits the cranial eight-ball from time to time. Up until now though, I don't think I ever got it. I can't say I really get it now but I do believe I know why we go there. I believe it’s our job to make sure that we visit "Silence", form time to time, so as to not become complaisant. Chris Rock said it best; "If it ain't new, it's through"! Of course, he was referring to sex.
What's mine like, you ask? Well, if I had to describe it, I would say my "Silence" is more like Mordor than the Shire. There are hints of beauty and pleasant life but for the most part it's fiery and volcanic. It's choc full of flying demons, old ladies who crave young man-flesh, muscular men doing the electric slide, clowns, ventriloquists and of course... leprechauns. At the very least it's Middle Earth like.
My guess is that if I liked making decisions about life a little more and I worried about things a little less, my "Silence" would be more of a pleasant place to visit. Shoot, if I wasn't the enemy of my own thoughts, I might even be able to find more of those all illusive answers we so desperately seek when going there. Instead, I just keep bumping into those nomadic questions; pale creatures that don tattered cloaks and walk in dirty sandals; never pleasant, they are hunchbacked and require walking sticks. You know what else?...questions never look you in the eye either.
Damn, I just realized something, I worry too much! (There's a news flash) Oh my God my wife says that to me all the time! I guess it's true, I mean just look at my "Silence". It's like a traveling sideshow form the medieval times with a splash of the 80's. There can be no question as to why I went into a deep block.
Well what do you know; it looks like I'm writing a revelation piece. I guess I'd better change my shoes, put on the cardigan and find a different mask.
OK here goes: I get really nervous really easy. There, I said it! And in case you hadn't noticed, I lack confidence and I also worry too damn much! Oh my............. this is extremely liberating...
Hey, you know what else? I'm heavily into preventative maintenance! So much so that I'm thoroughly convinced most people are sadistic! Oooh Damn, I feel cleansed... Let me shout some more!
I exfoliate!...... (Is this guy for real?) Wow, I could go all day! I also resist change! Woo Hoo!
While we're at it, I can see through most people, sniff out a rat, tell you how it's going to end and I fear that most everyone has a personal agenda! So shoot me!
Wow, it's all coming to me! This latest visit to my "Silence" has been like hanging out in a fluorescent lit bathroom with a thousand mirrors. I've been shown, from all sides, that I am a horrifically insecure underachieving worry wart who over reacts. Ouch! All of this because of writer's block? And how about that mirror angle from behind?....yuck! Is my ass really that high up on my back?
Loading the gun now....... and........ BOOM!
Can it be true, has my over reacting, due to excessive worrying, made me a negative person, even though it was beyond my control?
I understand some folks, namely my wife, try to see to it that I'm not over stressing myself and believe me when I say that I don't want to over stress them either. I just can't help it when stuff pops into my head and my brain starts creating a nurturing environment fit for worrying; a penthouse suite if you will; a luxury getaway built for panic, worthy of anxiety's royalty.
Is it so unhealthy for me to have suffered from full on, heart palpitating, gut wrenching and thunderous flatulence producing nervousness? I always thought I was fine unless it got to the point of violent convulsions, mild seizures and uncontrollable vomiting. That I could understand being dangerous to my health.
OK hang on, you don't have to call the psych ward just yet. I don't want you to get me ALL wrong. I'm not one of those goofs who has their children wearing helmets during hopscotch or while playing Wii. I'm just a bit of a worry wart; a little bit of an uptight soldier of ADD/OCD.
Hmm.... (Long pause for effect)
OK So I suffer from prehallucinogenic jitters from time to time. So I've got the nervous stomach. So I just might worry a little more than is deemed acceptable by the United States Food and Drug Administration. So the thought of attending my twenty year high school reunion has me on the verge of violent dry heaves. There, are you happy?
Is there something that can be done to alleviate these occasional blips on the worry radar? I mean other than fighting through fire, brimstone and soulless vagabonds in an imaginary place of mystical sorcery. Do I really need to visit my "Silence" every time I need a pick-me-up or to feel safe? It's hard locating peace in a place where my self image suffers lacerations from mythical creatures that seem to enjoy their free stay at the Ritz Carlton Gary.
Maybe there's a handout at the elementary school or a leaflet at the local library that provides directional relief? How about an energy drink? I'm quite certain there is one of those dedicated to this disorder. On second thought, I'm not sold on those cockamamie modern day fairy tale potions anyway.
How about web sites? Na, forget it! With my luck I'll type in "Nervousness" and be taken directly to a pair of huge breasts that belong to "Nervousness", the West Indian sex-cam queen.
There is medication you say? I'll be honest, that scares the hell out of me. See I've always told myself that I would never need chemical intervention because I know who I am and I'm very comfortable with my self diagnosis. I've even told myself that all of this clarity, the fog I've been squinting through for the past three years, is me on the path to a cure.
Hey, I'm suddenly reminded of an old cliché that I've never heard until I just googled "famous clichés". It's by Plato himself so I'm sure it's worth reading. It says: "An unexamined life is not worth living." I like it. I'm going to adopt it as my inspirational motto.
You know what, forget all of the remedies, if Plato said it, it must be worth sticking to. I think I'll just see about booking the occasional visit to "Silence". It really wasn't that bad you know, and if I'm being totally honest, I felt strangely at home there.
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