Slice of Life

In The Flow

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(This piece is intended to be read while listening to the attached song “Lessons in Love” by Level 42)

The doctor traipses through the door wearing a somber expression.  It’s the face he saves for moments such as these. He looks to be in his late sixties with gray thinning hair, wearing a white lab jacket over a dress shirt and blue Dockers. A pair of silver rimmed bifocals are resting towards the end of his nose. He thumbs through my medical report and shakes his head in confirmation of what he’s reading. Without looking up from the final page he sighs “I’m truly sorry, but, well—-there nothing more we can do—-”.  He’s a picture of detached professionalism, he might as well be telling me that my car transmission is shot.  I squirm on the crinkly sounding paper that covers the exam table “What do you mean, there’s nothing more you can do?” He puts his hand on my shoulder and wistfully responds “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid it’s terminal.”

A fight or flight response kicks in and I feel a jolt of adrenaline shoot through my veins. I instinctively jump to my feet escaping the examining table with its protective paper that clings to my sweat glazed skin.  “You’ve gotta be kidding me.  There’s gotta be other alternatives, other options—-experimental treatments—-.”  He offers me a weary nod that expresses a sense of futility.  “I’ll change my diet, join a gym—-become a vegan?    I’ll quit the beer.  I’ll fast.  I’ll drink vitamin shakes!”  I’m not schooled in all the stages of death and dying, but I was obviously in the bargaining phase.  “I’m still young, I feel better than ever.”  The Doc rubs his wrinkled forehead and then removes his glasses “This is very common, one day you’re running a marathon and making future plans and the next, well—-” his voice trails off as he grimly shrugs his rounded shoulders.

Feeling emotionally and physically exposed, I self-consciously fuss with my hospital gown in an attempt to better cover my backside. I mumble under my breath, “You’d think with all the advances in modern medicine they’d come up with a better way to cover your ass than one of these flimsy butt curtains.  I swear, you’ll see more ass in a hospital corridor than a strip-club.”

With all the melodrama carved from a climatic scene of a soap opera (sweeping organ arpeggio not included) I blurt out “How much time do I have left?”  The old Doc straightens his starched lab coat and takes a deep breath “When it comes to these sorts of things, well—it’s hard to say.  It could be today, or you might have another fifty years.”   “What?”  I stare at the report in his hand, “Well, what does that fucking report say?”  He nods with a sheepish smirk “Oh this, it says you’re perfectly fine.  I’m sorry if I’ve confused you, or frightened you.”  Folding my arms over my chest I respond “As a matter of fact I am confused, and more pissed than frightened. What the hell are you trying to tell me?  Am I well, or am I dying?  What the—-”  In a gesture of sympathy or perhaps pity, he puts his left arm around my shoulder. “There’s a little secret us doctors keep from our patience.”  My voice is becoming louder and more frustrated “Secret, what little secret?”  “Son, we’re all terminal.  We don’t like to spread this kind of medical diagnoses around.”  He squints his eyes displaying a painful grimace,  “It’s rather—how should I say—–well it’s—–it’s bad for our professional image—–and it’s really not good for business.”

My sense of anxiety is replaced with a feeling of shock “So I have a reprieve, I’m gonna live?”  He slips his hands in the pockets of his spotless lab coat “Why no silly, like I said, you might stroll out of here today and be hit by a Mac-Truck or have a massive aneurism.  Or, you could carry on healthy and strong for another fifty years. But make no mistake about it, you are terminal and your days are numbered.  And when that day does come, there’s no magic pill or fanciful medical treatment that will extend your life another year, another day or another second.”

He glances down at his watch “Times a wastin, I gotta get down to the commissary, the Women’s’ Auxiliary is having their annual cheese ball sale—Oh my God, they are to die for—-Oops, sorry for the poor choice of words.” He gives me a hand shake and a wink.  And with that, he turns and walks out whistling a lose arrangement of “American Pie” by Don McLean.

Later that night I fall asleep and have pastel colored surreal dreams.  I’m in a strange cosmic flow between reality and fantasy. I surrender—-I no longer fight against anything—-I desire nothing.  I feel no need to assert my will, The “I” in “I am” is gone.  There’s a sudden sharpness to the existence of nonexistence, awareness of unawareness, the un-conciseness of conciseness—-I’m at a place where all things intersect—-there’s a nothingness to all that is, and an everything-ness to all that it isn’t. That gibberish is hippy-talk for saying—I feel good,—all is as it should be,—–I’m in the flow—-

I wake up the next morning feeling refreshed and born again—-I finally understand that esoteric term “born again”.  I pick up the phone and call my office.  The operator connects me to my boss “Hey John, yeah its me, I’m not gonna be able to make it in today.  No—I’m fine, in-fact I’m feeling great.  I just feel too damn good to spoil it by coming to work.”  I snicker to myself  “I guess I’m calling in well.”

There’s a long pause “Did you win the lottery or are you drunk?”  I laugh “Yeah, I feel like I’ve won the lottery and I feel drunk too, drunk on life—baby.”  John’s voice becomes more curt “Now listen here, those quarterly reports are due next week and all those spreadsheets of yours need to be updated and posted.  Cut the crap and get your ass down here—-now!”  “No I’m sorry John, but like I said, I’m calling in well.  I just feel too damn alive to be holed up in a stuffy cubicle all day staring at a computer screen—-it would bum my stone man.”

There’s another long pause.  I hear a deep sigh come over the receiver “So, you’re calling in well. Now isn’t that some crazy shit—–.   Okay, I’ve gotta hand it to you—-you’ve got balls.  And I hate to say this, but at some crazy-ass, luny level, I’m gonna give you the benefit of the doubt. Why? I don’t know. But I’ll take your lame honesty any day over someone’s phony ass hoarse voice, whimpering to me that they’re sick.  I guess ya got to do what ya gotta do.”  I think to myself, damn—this honesty is some powerful shit!

I’m not sure if I want to take a shot of Jager or a shot of wheatgrass.  I put on my baggy shorts, tank top, flip flops and head off downtown.  I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the plate-glass store  window and damn, I look pretty freakin good. I’ve got my tunes blasting from the speakers in my backpack.  I’m diggin on the song “Lessons of Love” by Level 42—I never even use to like that song, damn—where the fuck did the 80’s go?  I’m walkin in rhythm, I’m shakin it down like Ellen Degeneres (now, that’s kinda creepy too)—-but who cares, cause baby I’m movin and groovin—I start clapping my hands and laughin out loud like some sort of crazed madman.

I taste the diesel in the air and I suck it in with a smile. I cruz past kids walking home from school and they fall in behind me smiling and dancing,.  Birds chirp, horns honk, an alley cat creeps by.  A stray dog sniffs the air and then prances in rhythm behind the kids.  I drop a dollar in a homeless guys cup—he falls under our spell and joins in, dancing and snapping his fingers at the end of our urban conga-line—.  As we pass a Starbucks, a throng of patrons empty out of the patio and find their place at the tail-end of our looney parade.  Out of the corner of my eye I see John my boss staring down from his corner office window, he shakes his head and gives me a half hearted thumbs up sign——-all of life is sweet and beautiful—-I’m in it—-we’re all in the flow.

“Because in the end, you won’t remember the time you spent working in the office or mowing your lawn. Climb that goddamn mountain.”
Jack Kerouac

“Happiness only real when shared.” Christopher McCandless Into the Wild

 

Long May You Run

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(This piece is intended to be read while listening to the attached song “Long May You Run).

All those late nights driving in my truck, driving to your place and feeling everything—-, never questioning what the journey might bring, or for that matter, where it may lead.  Strange but true, being young allowed me to make mistakes, cause there was plenty of time to make things right again. These days, I choose my mistakes more carefully. That old song kept playing on the tape deck, “I Believe In You”—Or maybe it was “Out On the Weekend” or “Long May You Run” I kinda forget, but it was something by Neil Young.   I can still hear that sad harmonica of his wobbling in and out of tune.  It rained that whole month of January, a cold dampness permeated my clothes, the cab of my truck and it eventually soaked the roof of my soul, causing it to cave in from the weight of it all.  I needed a friend, but I hadn’t yet learned the subtleties of making a friend.   I was awkward, odd and shy, skulking about my hometown—aimlessly—-in a state of waiting, not knowing what to make of this life I’d unexplainably been pushed into.

A world of strangers meandered by me, through me—and then back out the other-side—they kept moving somewhere beyond me—without me.

The pretty girls we’re a strange and confusing breed for me to grasp. I stood on the corner leering at them, fascinated yet unsure of what to do—or how to get with one of them?  They drew me in with their sweet scent—-my eyes trailed after them as their bodies gracefully and rhythmically moved through space.  They nonchalantly carried away little pieces of me—

Before this, my dog was my only friend.  He took me just the way I was—like only homeless mongrels and fellow outcast can do—it’s an off-handed world when you’re walking through it alone.

I hurried through the school quad trying to keep a safe distance from the jocks, preppies, motor-heads and the brainy-acts.  With my head held down, I glanced over to the senior walk and there you were stretched out on the lawn, tan Dickies, white T shirt with one pocket and your hair pulled pack in a pony tail.  You were just sitting there with your head tilted back soaking up the sun on your face.  You we’re totally out of place, a fucking dandelion on the fifty yard line at a Home Coming football game—-I somehow knew we were destined to be the best of friends.

I was drawn to your indifference to all the bullshit that coats high school with pretension and posturing.  It was totally out of my character but I walked up to you and mumbled, “Hey”. You squinted and tilted your head in the other direction and nodded at me.  I’d noticed that your pants had dirt or mud all over them.  “How come you’ve got mud all over your pants?”  “I’m a potter.”  “Ya mean a stoner?”  You shook your head and gave me a grin “No, I do ceramic’s, I make pots—-And well—-yeah, I get stoned too.”  I grinned back at ya—, the Gods had sent me a friend.

We’d cruise the avenues, boulevards and backroads of our hometown in his 1962 Ford Falcon wagon.  It was a faded olive green color with peeling paint that revealed an oxidized rusty orange color beneath—she was weathered and worn—she had character and suited us well.  We drank beer in dark deserted parks, made campfires down at the river-bottoms and practiced the art of hanging-out.  We carried on long involved conversations about Kerouac, Jesus and Star Trek—Oscar Peterson, Poe and Zap Comic’s—Chinese Food, Luis and Clark, and the yet uncharted territories of love.  We were committed to our dreams—carrying on our discussions until late in the night, planning extravagant adventures to foreign lands—-the mountains we’d ski, the rivers we’d raft and the challenges we’d conquer.  We we’re on fire for everything and for everybody, talking a million miles a minute—speaking with confidence as we bolstered one another’s courage, or maybe it was just youthful bravado —-no topics were off limits—-honesty and authenticity were the dues paid for membership in our exclusive club.  Our talks always led back-around to that same enigmatic topic—Girls, those illusive creatures that mesmerized, mystified and mortified us—-some things never change.

We fancied ourselves Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty from “On The Road” but by the reactions of the girls we tried to impress, we were perceived more as Beavis and Butt Head—-, to be mocked as Thelma and Louise would have been an improvement.

We had our deep philosophical talks but it was our humor that sustained us, we laughed at ourselves and the state of the world, we were immortal, all things were fixable—-time was on our side (A Rolling Stones reference)…

Some things change and some things stay the same.  In many ways I am still that awkward, odd and shy dude from years past—-a pariah to the mainstream. But these days I’m comfortable in my own skin,—beneath my chipped paint and fading color beats a youthful heart–an idealist to some, a fool to most—-but I like it that way—Juck-em—if they can’t take a foke—hahaha!

How are you my old friend, my potter and fellow romantic?  I remember it all fondly, as if it were just yesterday—and for a moment I’m ridding shotgun as you drive us down some dirt-road out in the boondocks, we’ve got a six pack of beer and much to discuss—-Neil’s voice sings his high pitched lonesome song in the background—-and once again, you bring a grin to my face.

Dedicated to my life long brother, Norman.

The Language of Love

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What’s success—What is a life well spent?  When does a dream become so laden by time that it’s easier to set it aside, to just quietly lay it down, to allow it to cease to exist—-to concede that it’s no longer a part of who you are.  Is this how we begin to lose our way, to forget who we are—or worse yet, give up on what we were meant to be—

I mostly remember her smile, her laugh, the way she walked next to me, excitedly talking as we made our way across the best part of the morning, moving together, stride for stride, word for word—-heart to heart—-afire with life, fueled by the strongest drug of all—that unexplainable euphoric feeling that comes with knowing you are understood.  Love is an elixir that combines understanding with compassion—where there is dharma, there is no separateness.

At night, we’d lay in our bed talking, staring up into the darkness, and when it got real late and the room was totally cloaked in blackness, it was here—yes, here is where the magic would take hold.  We weren’t speaking to one another, but instead, we were entering each others thoughts, inhabiting one another’s souls, sharing ideas and feeling telepathically, in a silent confessional—-the conversations were strung together more by the purity of emotion than the imperfection of words.  Just like a tightly written poem or a an austere prayer, the words cracked open, and from their insides oozed our soul goo.   I know this must sound funny, because it is strange—but oh so beautiful and rare—-all things of beauty are fragile and temporary—but we didn’t know this at the time, so we carried on until another jealous sun rose.

I’ve forgotten the words to that old song we use to sing—I’d find myself half humming and half singing it in a crippled attempt to get through to its end, or maybe it was in the hopes that I might resurrect something left behind within its faded melody—I’ve done my best to stay true to its tune , but the words have grown faint.

I’d call, but numbers change, email accounts close—-but mostly, I keep at a safe distance, because some memories are like impressionistic paintings—-where you can see what you choose, while overlooking all the tiny flaws and betrayed truths.

Sometimes I force myself to meditate on such things, and I will my thoughts out into a porous sky, focusing all my energy into a small shiny ball.  If ever you awake in the middle of a dark night and feel a power moving through your veins, crawling under your skin, breathing on your neck, don’t open your eyes—-don’t speak, don’t even move—-just be still, and in that moment feel yourself open up—

to the language of love—-

the teller of tales

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a crazed woman cut my heart out of my chest, she then carelessly disassembled it and put it back together all wrong, it was slippery with blood and hard to handle, so she shoved it back inside me where the organ for caring and giving a shit use to be…..these days I compulsively check my pulse in search of a rhythm, but all I feel is an occasional spastic fluttering within my chest, like a bird beating its wings against hurricane winds—and when it gets dark, it stops all together—

come close and put your ear against my chest—-now be still and listen as I tell you how it is for me, at night those blues come stalking me, they peer through my blinds like some nefarious wide-eyed peeping Tom, leaving foggy predatory breath on the window pane——–the bleakness of it all tramples across the nothingness of another specter ridden midnight—I can feel my heart go still, like an unworn love left hanging in someones dusty closet, an addiction traded against a corrupted souls collateral, broken people warehoused like damaged goods, young kids with no fire in their eyes, an old guy going in circles on the metro for an as-semblance of company, the scent of morning rain on dirty pavement, damp leaves smoldering in the drizzle, the stench of alley piss—time is blurring by like a whirl-wind whooshing past my car window on a Sunday drive to nowhere in-particular—-once again I’m tired of me and how I get things all twisted up, I’m left staring into the futility of a gray weather beaten morning, realizing I’m no longer running from something, nor running to something—-I’m slowly being crushed under the ache that comes with knowing that there’s got to be something better than this—-someplace—–somewhere—-cause this life is way to long to be miserable and far to short to be boring—it’s time I set that lil caged bird free—

say something, I’m giving up on you—-

there’s too much pain in the world to believe I’m immune to it, or can hide from it—–or selfishly fear that I’m the only one being consumed by it—that would be a righteous sadness, the kind of sadness that beckons the lugubrious to replay a heartbreak love-song over and over again.  Real sadness has no soundtrack, no words, no explanation—-it’s like tree sap that mysteriously shows up on your hands and can’t be washed off—-

people always ask me the same question “Was that story you told true or made-up?”   To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure anymore.  Most of the stuff I once thought was true, ends up being a lie or an illusion, and what I thought was fiction (made-up) is just an alternative version of truth or reality that I’ve failed to grasp.  I’ve come to believe that what’s true, and what’s made up, is a predilection reserved for the teller of tales.

but I do know this, one day that little bird trapped inside my chest will be set free—-

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Defying the Doldrums (Soundtrack “Are You Going With Me” Pat Metheny)

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When I was a kid we’d buy paper kites, they were relatively resilient but never intended to last—-their flimsy construction gave them the agility to fly but also made them vulnerable to a host of possible mishaps—they were as precious as they were mortal.  A poorly tied tether knot and all may be lost, or should an unexpected gust of wind blow her into branches, then she’s snared and marooned, left there forever dangling from the sky like a monument to someones carelessness.  I brought myself here, just like you did—-we’re all just holding on by a string, so I refuse to feel sorry for anybody—nobody!—except for maybe one of those kids with bald heads who haven’t been given much of a chance to survive the treatment, let alone the disease—I save my compassion for these cases.

Those mopey fuckers at the grocery stores asking me for spare change or the young dude with pleading eyes and his cardboard sign perched at the last stoplight before the climb to the freeway onramp, they piss me off—-they don’t seem to realize that we all have to make our own wind, running uphill like hell, never looking back until the string feels taunt, until god decides to lightly blow his breath on you, lifting your body above the ground into the void of space and torched stars, and below spins that beautiful blue ball of water and land—here in the ether, even the coldest of hearts will thaw.

I hand a crinkled dollar to a crumpled man, and for a solemn instance we are connected, we occupy the same moment, share the same world—-then without speaking I turn and walk away and return to my world—-as he returns to his—–

Kindest or cruelty—–which way will the wind blow

The older I get, the less I look into the mirror and the longer I stare at my hands

Plane Conversations and God Thoughts

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My lap top indicates I’m flying at 536 miles per hour at a hight of 39,239 feet.  This is over 6 miles above the earth.  Even though I’ve flown many times and the aerodynamics’ of flight has been explained to me in great detail on Wikipedia, I still find it hard to grasp the unrealness of it all.  Animal shaped clouds drift by offering me a grin and a wink, several aisles over a baby wails, experienced flyers snooze, everyone is somewhere between “here and there”—ain’t life funny that way.

To forget how to fly at this altitude, to lose ones faith in formulas and physics would send this metal contraption plummeting nose first towards the brown wrinkled rug looking mountains below.  I feel a sense of powerlessness as a wave of panic serge’s through my sweaty body.  Physics is only numbers, numbers can’t keep a plane from dropping out of the sky like a rock—at this moment, at least for me, it’s magic and faith holding this metal tube in a state of flight.  The fusel-lodge shutters as we pass through another set of turbulent winds and thermals.  The jet engines drone on in the background as I throw back my third ginger-ale and Jack.  I eat my stale pretzels and ask God to have mercy on my undeserving wicked soul—–the fear of impending doom brings out the dormant God in us all.

The air in the cabin is stale and smells and tastes as if it has been inhaled and exhaled by everyone on the plane five times over. I sit squeezed in my chair next to a middle aged guy who has commandeered control of our common armrest forcing me to tuck my elbow uncomfortably into my ribcage. Why am I always seated next to these infidel foreigners who have no appreciation or understanding of the American, Christian, democratic way of life.  I’d love to challenge him to recite the pledge of Allegiance or ask him to spout-off a few bible quotes by heart.  If he failed (which I know he would) I’d take great pleasure in confiscating his “forged” passport.   I’m growing more angry by the moment, his wheezing breath, his mere presence beside me is unbearably annoying. I stare at him out of the corner of my eye to size him up.  “Yeah, I think I could kick his scrawny imperialistic ass.” I fight back the urge to slam my left elbow into his right arm and rightfully claim dominion over my armrest.  Or—-better yet, I could open a magazine and in the process covertly “accidentally” yet firmly nudge his arm out of my territory.  As I consider my available tactics and strategies the stewardess comes by and leans into our hellish tangle of arms, legs, drop-down trays, newspapers and laptops to whisper something in my insurgents—I mean, neighbors ear.

The stewardess gives him a hug and I immediately seize the opportunity to claim the vacated space.  What a freaking idiot to be so easily distracted and in the process expose his vulnerability.  The stewardess isn’t even all that pretty, the poor fool probably never gets laid and is some kind of androgens eunuch. As for that bitch—I mean stewardess, she’s nothing but a glorified snack-bar attendant. I smugly settle back in my chair and relish my hard-won victory.

The alcohol has filled my bladder causing me extreme discomfort as I fight back the need to relive myself. I’m sure, that as soon as I vacate my seat I will lose the hard-won ground I’d so valiantly conquered.  I decide that the situation is not worth pissing my pants over, so I brashly force my way out to the center aisle (without excusing myself) and head for the lavatory at the tail of the plane.

As I exit the restroom I come face to face with the stewardess who solemnly asks, “Would you mind taking this heating pad and pillow to your neighbor?”  With a knee jerk reflex I respond in a voice of intolerance, “Can’t he get his own Goddamn pillow and hot pad.”  She takes a deep breath and in an even voice responds, “Your neighbor, John—he has a shunt in his right arm.  Once every week he flies to the Denver Medical Center to provide bone marrow treatments to his nine-year old son.  His right arm gets sore, so the heat and pillow is just a small courtesy to try and help him feel more comfortable.  It appears that its too much trouble for you, so just forget it.”  I look down at her name tag and respond, “Ah—oh”—well—–uh-um–Cathy, well of course not, it’s no trouble at all.  Now give me that pillow please.”  My forehead breaks out in beads of sweat, I apologize to her and then turn to make that long trek back to my seat.  The jet jumbles about and I stumble sideways.  I wish this piece of shit plane would fall out of the sky and crash so I wouldn’t have to face this stranger, this guy named John, the person to whom I’ve invested so much hate. . . A sense of shame pulses from my temples, traveling down my throat and settling at the pit of my twisting stomach.

I’ve been trying to become a better person, but so easily and so often, I forget how to do the right thing.  The briefness of being alive, the cruelty of nature, the unexplainable unfairness of life, the uncertainty of losing those closest to us, the inevitability of disease, calamity, misfortune and death, all this should teach us to be kinder to one another—to be accepting and forgiving, but it doesn’t.  We pull and push at each other, we slash and tear at one another—-I have so much to learn and such a long way to go, and so little time to get there.

I take my seat and hand over the pillow and heating pad.  “The stewardess Cathy, she wanted you to have this.”  He shakes his head, “I told her not to make a fuss. She’s ridiculous, but she’s such a great spirit.”  I ask about his arm but he skirts the issue and says its nothing.  I’m tempted to inquire about his son but I get the feeling that this is sacred territory reserved for those who know and understand such a heartache.  We fill our time with such mundane topics as the weather, smart phone apps and our musical tastes.  He pulls up pictures of his family on his laptop.  There is one of his son decked out in a blue and white little league uniform.  He’s on one knee smiling with a bat slung over his shoulder.  I’m a writer and pride myself in being observant and compassionate, but apparently I’m neither. It is only now that I detect the worrisome lines on his face and a sadness hiding deep his eyes.

The captain comes over the intercom telling us that the temperature in Denver is seventy-seven degrees and that the wind is blowing from the northwest at 15 mph.  With the muted enthusiasm of a fast food attendant, he announces that in approximately eighteen minutes we will be touching down in Denver.  To me, these words are proclaiming a miracle, we’re almost there.  We’ve flown one-third of the way across the country without stalling and succumbing to the effects of gravity.

I look out my window at a patch quilt of green parks, subdivisions with backyard pools, golden fields and a skyline on a hazy horizon.  With my finger against the window I trace along the path of a toy-sized road, its purpose and destination is a mystery to me.   Down there, life is forcing itself over roads, across rivers, filling up water-towers, absorbing countryside, suburbs and cities—occupying space, falling through time, desperately moving its way through, over and inside everyone and everything that stands in its way. Down there, thousands of people carry on with their lives, their purpose and destination is a mystery to me—-so many people I’ll never know, so many things I’ll never understand.  Where is god in all this?  God isn’t, knowing.  God isn’t, not knowing. God is in the wonder—ah yes, the enigmatic and elusive wonder of it all.

I want to say something inspirational or encouraging to John, but he doesn’t know that I’m aware of his dire predicament.  I have no words for the secret revelations surfacing in me—so I sit dumbfounded lost in the sorrow of this solemn moment.

The wheels thump down on the runway, everyone lurches forward and there is a loud skidding sound of brakes being applied as the engines make a roaring sound. We taxi our way towards the terminal. Suddenly everyone is on their feet pulling down their carry-on luggage.  John turns around, “Hey can you do me a favor?”  “Sure, anything.  What do ya need?”  He hands me an envelope, “If I try to give this to Cathy I know she’ll refuse it.  She’s a volunteer for the Wounded Warrior Program. They raise funds to help returning Vets.  Ya know, for things like housing, counseling and medical needs. Could ya please give her this card and envelope.”  He hesitates and then leans into me, “Her husbands a Vet.  He was hurt really bad over there and is now confined to a facility where he receives around the clock care.”  I nod to John and offer up a stern grimace to convey my empathy.   Yeah right—-I’m suddenly Mr. Empathetic.

When you come to understand that God uniquely, personally, unequivocally and eternally loves you, that’s when it becomes easier to be compassionate—-and it also becomes less threatening to forgive all and give yourself to others—conversely it becomes more difficult to be selfish and unkind—who wants to disappoint God—–not me. It’s required a huge leap of faith to get to this place, but these divine convictions are what allow planes to defy gravity and mere mortals to let Gods love flow through them—-and then to be passed on to all others.

It’s not important my point of departure or my final destination, it’s the things I do between “here and there” that define me.

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God, Sex and Love

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I’m sitting here alone in my room after dark, with only one standing lamp giving off a sunday evening glow.  If you were here and the night became still, I’d have you tell me stories about your childhood.  Your soft warm voice would put my worrisome mind at ease.  I want to know you better, and to have you trust me like old friends do.  Its so strange, I feel as if I’ve always known you, perhaps it was in a different time or place—or maybe a thousand lifetimes ago, your face is so familiar, like those in my dusty old photo-album that stare out at me from yellowed snapshots, leaving me with that sad aching feeling deep inside my chest, a mourning for days lost and moments that have placidly slipped by, unnoticed except for my thread-worn memories and aging keepsakes.  At times the past feels as if it just occurred yesterday and then at other times, it feels like all these random events belong to another person from a different lifetime, do you know what I mean?——Maybe we once wandered down dark rainy streets of some unremarkable small town in the midwest, surrounded by an ocean of corn fields—ducking into smokey old taverns with the jukebox playing the likes of Merle Haggard, pool-balls cracking and the local yahoos giving us that familiar glare that says, “What the fuck are you two outcasts doing in here?”—-do you think this is possible?  I do—but I’m a poet and a dreamer and such dubious notions occur to me all the time——-maybe you don’t know what I am trying to say and perhaps you never will—-but for now, we can share our stories and see where they leads us.

I imagine you cooking us supper, preparing it with those immaculate small hands of yours; hands connected to your arms and then to your body and finally to a heart beating deep inside of you.  And I can see you smiling as you go about adding this and that to your unwritten recipe. Evening closes in and the kitchen is filled with that comforting aroma of seasoned dishes simmering on the stove, it smells like home.  It’s no big deal to you, but as for me, I’m enjoying the tenderness that comes with being fussed over.  I don’t know how you do these things, mixing all those mysterious spices and ingredients together, but I believe that sharing food is an act of love—

I watch you move thru space with an effortless grace; with athleticism and agility—oppressive gravity is envious of your dancers finesse. Unlike me, I trip over my own untied shoelaces. I dance like I cook—horribly.  I lumber, I lurch, and then stumble——as I trample across the crumbling ground of my faltering days.  My refuge has always been found in the eloquence of words, even on those darkest of nights when sleep eludes me, I am able to blend them silently together inside my frenzied head like watercolors that beautifully bleed and melt into one another.  The sharing of words is also an act of love. It’s really all I’ve ever had to offer anyone.

I remember on a whim you and I headed up north on highway 1.   The road traced along the rocky coastline, and everything was as it should be, with you sitting in the passenger seat smiling as the radio played the song Hero. Across bridges and up hill and dale we carried on as the rain fell on our windshield making the world appear blurry and dreamlike.  Back then, we had no plans or outside distractions, we were sorting out this thing called life in real-time—-no past, no future, just you and I naïvely melding into one—and so it went—so on and so forth….forever and a day….and for the time being, that was good enough.

We holed up in a dumpy sea weathered motel and drank cheap wine, ate cheese with sour dough-bread and made love. Outside the world was dreary and gray with a damp fog blowing in off the sea.  We had nothing to do or nowhere to go, so we drank more wine and shared our secrets of God, sex and love.  We took walks on the windy beach until we were soaked and tired and then we went back to our musty old hotel room to talk.  I lit a candle and we stared at our shadows on the wall as the flame flickered, we shared our thoughts in hushed voices, quietly falling in love, with the divine surprise of stone being sculpted into art.

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Mongrel mutts, mixed blessings and a love story for people like you and me

I like marching bands, banjo’s and reggae.  You can’t have the blues and listen to any of those musical styles.  Give me a marching band any-day, all snap, shine and precision, with a thundering drum cadence rumbling and tickling against the walls of my belly.   At the head of it all stands the drum-major in his crisp white uniform with a red stripe running down the seam of each of his pant legs, he blows his whistle and all that sunshiny brass flips into playing position.  Everyone is wearing tall red hats with white feather plums—-black leather oxfords covered with white spats step out in unison.  It’s as if the lines of musicians are a single living entity moving as one.  The sidewalks are lined with little children sitting on their fathers shoulders as moms sit in lounge chairs smiling behind sunglasses. Teenagers stop their horsing around to stop and stare in amazement as the big tubas trail behind with their foghorn “um-pa’s”.  A parade ain’t nothin but a fancy walk put on display for common people like you and me.  I feel the sun on my face—I feel myself being drawn to you——–I wonder what you think of me—we should’ve known better—-

I ain’t waiting for life to happen to me, or for other people to be interesting, cause that can be one long fucking haul, too many people are emotional sloths.  I ain’t waiting for someone to love me either.  I’m gonna love as many people as I can, cause it’ll help me sort out the hungry raw ones from the heart numbed.  I’ll know when I find another to love, cause I won’t have to put up with all the extraneous bullshit that comes with loving most people—-most people don’t want love, they want someone that they can put in their little box and carry around with them so that they don’t feel so lonely.  Its the people who don’t know who they are or what to do with themselves that are the ones who are the most boring, self-absorbed and needy.  They exchange romance for stability and replace adventure with routine, but as far as I’m concerned, life without danger is like love without letting go of yourself and everything that goes along with that—–strange but true, ya gotta to give it all away to find what’s left behind in the ashes, cause that’s where the soul resides, and burns——

They’ll open that little box now and again to see that you’re still in there, never changing, always waiting to support them, when what they really need, is to be told that they stick in your heart like a weathered barbed wire fence post.

They’ll demand that you condone their little version of the world and they’ll expect you to inhabit their soap opera fantasies like a wind-up soldier in some smarmy Harlequin Romance plot—drama exaggerated, a lifetime fabricated out of strategic gamesmanship—-all played out in some empty, echoey theater—–as for me, I prefer silence to bullshit.

Ya see, I got my own world, a place you couldn’t even imagine, cause you never liked parades, reggae or banjo music.  If you haven’t already guessed it, I don’t believe in soul-mates.  As far as I’m concerned, if you can get a good ten year stretch out of a relationship without becoming the perpetrator or the victim of a homicide, then you’re doing pretty damn well.  I’m a realistic romantic (realomanitic) I know that love is real and that love is precious, I just don’t particularly believe it is eternal—-all beauty is evanescent—-fleeting—  Enjoy it when you find it—— and partake in it for as long as it lasts—–cause brother, once its gone, its dead and gone.

People spend way to much time doing things they don’t want to do with people they don’t like. They carry on saying a bunch of useless bullshit that doesn’t amount to anything and then carelessly let opportunities slip by without saying what they really feel. Lots of people are love stingy or too scared to reveal themselves to others, not me, I’m fucking odd-tistic, I always say what I feel, its a great filtering system, if I piss you off, great, I won’t waste my time on you in the future.

Most people want to be unique, but to be unique you have to be different, and to be different you have to be willing to appear stupid, strange or weird—being yourself, being authentic, this takes huge courage.  We’ll seek one another out, the ones who mumble nervous prayers, wringing out sweaty palms, the ones who have suffered and been dangled deep into the dark well of sorrow, hearing the echoes of life’s sad songs, to know such things, to understand such things—–these now, are the only ones for me, the artists, the poets—the fools—-

Much of the time we’re anonymous extra’s passing through in the background of someone else’s unspooling life.  But tonight, I’m out front and in your life, the spark behind that smile, and I love the way your eyes follow me, like they’re the lens to some old black and white cinematic love story.  And everything you say is interesting and connects with me.  I want it to always be this way, cause I’m weird and intense like that—–and only you know how I always go one step to far—-and I wonder—-are you willing, or more importantly, are you still capable of plumbing those mysteries beyond the far reaches?

Don’t fool yourself, someday we’ll all be long gone with only the foggy memories of others tying us haphazardly together.  But if you remember me and I remember you, then we will be eternally bound together, living in that frozen abyss of yesterdays—

If I were to play an instrument in a marching band, I’d choose the trombone.   Its an unpretentious goofy looking instrument that doesn’t have a lot of buttons or holes that my fingers need to fiddle around with.  I’d march right down the middle of the street with the rest of my band members, sliding that long plunger looking thing back and forth until I find a note that fits just right.  I’m out of step with the rest of the band, blowing on that brass contraption as if it were hot carmel drizzled over those swollen lips of yours.  And if we were still in love, and if you were up to an afternoon of madness with me, I’d have you march right beside me playing a big bass drum.

Its a warm Sunday evening, a breeze carries the scent of corn dogs, cotton candy and all things deep fried and sugary.  Hand in hand, like awe struck children, we take that slow neoned stroll down the midway at the county fair.  At the end of the days festivities the streets are swept of its confetti and we sit together in a big deserted bar and sip on our beers, bragging about how we made such beautiful music. We drink Pabst Blue Ribbon all night long cause its the cheapest and I won’t have to stop ordering us beers because I’ve run out of money, and besides, I don’t want this night to never ever end, or at least not until you dream back into me.

“The only people I would care to be with now are artists and people who have suffered: those who know what beauty is, and those who know what sorrow is: nobody else interests me.”

— Oscar Wilde

“I’ve been the fool.

but still…

I was a good fool—–”

—–Mikel (Mckrazi) Diegel

Three Little Birds (Don’t worry about a thing)

Track 16 2163 birds My first Monday morning after college graduation I laid in bed staring up at the  ceiling—–there was a thundering silence inside my head that exploded and made its way out over the roof tops, across my hometown and then wayward into that great beyond.   For the first time in a long time, I had nowhere to go, no appointments to keep and nothing to do—-I felt myself thawing out.  I was filled with a strange comforting warmth that radiated from deep within my chest.   All those lost and anxious feelings from my past gave way to a giddy simplified sense of being alive.  And, I remember the sound of birds singing outside my window and there was nothing more, or nothing less to consider about this day or any of the others that were to follow.  I was happy for no particular reason.  I propped myself up on my pillows, wiggled my toes and smiled.  It’s funny how such a little thing is remembered and carried across a life time.

A couple of days earlier my folks had arranged a little graduation swaray in my honor.  All the relatives and family friends were there and everyone wanted to know what my plans for the future were to be.  I said I had some possible opportunities working for the government in the city and that I had several resumes accepted by some promising start-up companies——but that was a lie—-I didn’t have a clue as to what I was going to do.  I did my best to assemble an expression of steely confidence on my face.  I sipped my highball as the red-faced old men took turns patting my back or putting a firm hand on my shoulder as they dispensed tips about business, women and how to make the world spin on the tip of my finger.   The combined years of life experiences being offered by these old fella’s totaled over three centuries.  The oral tradition of passing on knowledge from the elders to the next generation filtered through my ears and echoed about in my cocktail drenched brain.  These poor old farts were out of touch with today’s world, hell they knew nothing of computers or today’s technology. I nodded back at them as I struggled to stave off a yawn of boredom.

As they spoke about their experiences and life lessons, their eyes seemed to peer inwardly as much as they did outwardly.  The sins and follies of youth follow us into old age with the vengeance of unappeased ghosts, “Never buy a car built on a Monday.”  “Get to work before your boss and stay until after he leaves.”  “Invest in your health, not the stock market.”  “Never drink at a company party.”  “Its legal if you don’t get caught.”  “Find something nice to say about your wife’s appearance at least once a day, and mean it”.  There amongst the wrinkled brows, age spots, gin blossomed cheeks and jiggling jowls was a road map of life’s detours and destinations.

The old women with their clown like rouged cheeks gathered around, engulfing me in a cloud of overpowering perfume.  They took turns hugging and kissing me.  They said I was smart and handsome and that I reminded them of my father when he was young.  There eyes twinkled as they schooled me in the matters of love, “Find a nice girl who’ll watch the ballgame with you.  Someone who’ll stand by you even when the home team is getting the hell beat out of them.”  “A woman that knows how to dance will make a good lover.”  “Learn to cook, women these days don’t know how cook.”  “Have children, they’ll keep you young.”  “Remember to make a life, not a living”.  My favorite aunt discreetly slipped my a twenty as we hugged and then gave me a wink “Go show some lucky girl a good time”.

I didn’t know it at that time, but this would be my last opportunity for the next twenty-five years to be off work for six months in a row—-I wish I knew then what I know now.  Life is funny that way,  you get so busy thinking about what you wanna do or what you’re gonna do that you forget about living in the present—-and this is where life exists, on the surface of each eclipsing moment.  That summer after graduation, I walked barefoot and shirtless through the midday deserted city streets, mindlessly whistling melodies to myself.

Everyone was in a hurry to get to work, to get off work, to get home—-to make it through another week—-to the oasis of the next weekend.  I moved in slow motion as the world spun around me.  I sat in the park during the morning rush hour watching the manic faced drivers whizz past me.  My dog and I would go down to the river and I’d spend the afternoon exploring trails, skipping rocks and swimming.  I had no goals, no ambitions, no thoughts about making a difference in the world.  I was a happy underachiever.

One breezy September night I got drunk and fell asleep in a tangle of woods and weeds by the river.  I abruptly awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of dry leaves rustling in the tree’s, crickets chirping, buzzing cicadas and croaking toads. A lone dog howled in the distance and the odor of damp river sediment hung in the air.  The voices of the old men from my past blended into a chorus of babbling nonsense until they reached a crashing crescendo——-and then an unsettling silence—–no bugs chirping or buzzing, no barking dogs, no rustling leaves,  just stillness.  For a moment I wasn’t sure what time it was or how I’d come to fall asleep here.  The chill of autumn wrapped itself around me, September 21st, fall equinox—-the change of season had spoken.

My days as a freeloader had reached a crossroads.  Dad had taken to providing me with a written list of daily chores to complete.  The longer I’d languished living there, the more demeaning the chores became.  I went from doing the basic duties of taking out the garbage and making my bed to more revolting tasks such as digging up the septic tank in the backyard and prying open its tomb like seal. Dad knew that words without action is like choices without consequences—-if you choose to walk in the rain don’t complain about getting wet.  If I was going to live out my fantasy of becoming a carefree Bohemian, I would either have to live under a bridge or find a rich girlfriend—Dad had taken my umbrella.

Success is a tough thing to measure.  Success is like wisdom.  Neither is based on modern technology or the trends of popular culture.   They are the byproducts of making mistakes and having a willingness to change course. They are the personal dividends earned from a life well lived.  I didn’t realize it when I was twenty, but this life goes by pretty damn fast. Every decade of my life has held its own challenges and rewards.  The things I thought were important at twenty changed when I reached my thirties and so it goes for all the following decades and phases of  my life.  Maybe this is why it’s so hard for old men to advise young men.  No one can live your life for you but yourself.

There would be numerous “me’s” that I would try on and play though out this unfolding life.  “To me, or not to me, that is the question.”  As ole Shakespeare the great teacher revealed to us, it is only through adversity that we come to know thy self….

Mistakes are never shy, dreams neglected fade, love can’t be borrowed and time plays no favorites, we’re consumed by the days and years—-it’s only within each fragile moment that we are alive and breathing————awake!

I thought I had life figured out at twenty, but I was a prisoner of youths swaggering bravado.  I was yet to learn that financial gain never triumphs integrity, that perseverance in the face of insurmountable odds is the norm when fighting to make dreams a reality, that personal sacrifice is where self discovery begins, to not allow difficult circumstances or the obstacles placed in my path dictate my faith in a higher power, to invest my energy in changing myself rather than trying to change the world, that there is a difference between being right and being honest, that compromising my aspirations is more important than compromising my principles, to respect my body and treat it as if my life depends on it (cause it does) and to surrender my ego in order to gain compassion. Through humility and servanthood, I learned that family, friends, health, empathy, faith, kindness and love are the greatest treasures in life——-and maybe this is what those old guys had to tried to convey to me all those years ago.

My first Monday morning after retirement and I lay in bed staring up at the  ceiling—–and there is a thundering silence inside my head that explodes and makes its way out over the roof tops, soaring above the mountain peaks as it makes its way to the Pacific ocean.  And right outside my window I can hear birds singing. Isn’t it funny, the little things you remember and take with you throughout a life time.

Things I Never Needed

13 Things I Never NeededIMG_2065Sometimes I drive myself out into the black and white Nevada desert, not lost, but feelin my way through that big ole emptiness. The tire rutted road wraps its way around the hills, scrub-brush and sage like Bonnie Raitt’s voice twistin and breakin across the melody of a sad blues song. There ain’t nothin but a whole lot of nothin out here, just the way I like it. I take a long hard look at my face in the rear view mirror, and once again its just me runnin to be runnin. I’ve always been good at bein alone, just the sound of my tires over gravel, under those gray desert skies. I like what Robin Williams says about being alone, “I used to think the worst thing in life was to end up alone. It’s not. The worst thing is to end up with people who make you feel all alone.” He’s absolutely right, these days I pick my company wisely—–that’s why I don’t mind bein alone.

I can’t imagine how things could have gotten so goddamn barren, I scan the landscape to find pieces of myself in the nothingness of it all. Out here on the edges is where I find my freedom——not homelessness—-my inspired solitude—–not orphan-hood.

I can be your brother, your lover, your friend on this race to nowhere. I could belong to you, I could—–if you’d only let me, for just a moment, right here under these purdy twinklin western stars. I’d be your outlaw cowboy and you’d be the only one hell bent enough to ride with me. And, between our sins and trite apologies, we’d just keep on runnin wild and we’d say, “fuck this world” and “fuck all them city folk livin for all those things we never needed”. You’d bed down here right next to me by our dying fire, and out there we’d fall asleep to the sweet sound of coyotes singin to us—-

They say there are more stars in the heavens then there are grains of sand on all of this worlds beaches—–we’re so small and our time so deceitfully brief—— insignificant to everything and everyone except one another—-which reminds me, sense you’ve moved on, I’m not so good at bein alone.

Most people don’t come way out here, cause there ain’t nothin here but what you bring along with ya, and if all ya bring is yourself, well that could blister a soul, leavin it dried up and earth cracked like an Arroyo filled with white sun bleached bones. Cause between here and that fallin horizon——-all ya gonna find is all the things you’ve done or didn’t do—– could’ve or should’ve done—-intend to do or never will do.

Yeepee-ki-yey, I’ll send ya-all a picture postcard from the edge.