There should be a little bit of nothingness in all our lives
I’m talking about the nothingness that my lazy ass cat shamelessly flaunts
She could care less about worries, victories or life goals
She’s at her best when doing absolutely nothing
She sleeps when she wants to sleep
She eats when she wants to eat
She yawns, stretches, then takes another nap in a sunbeam
What others may think of her, does not concern her
If you get on her nerves she’ll put her ass up in your face
To remind ya who’s the boss
She squints her eyes like Clint Eastwood, as if to say “kiss my ass”
Woman are like cats, fickle, complacent, impossible to figure out and even harder to please
A pissed off woman is a frightening thing
There’s “mean” and then there’s “woman mean”
They’re more interested in being right, than being happy
You’ll never out-talk or out-argue a woman
They’ll always get the “last word”
They’ll smirk, pout and then vindictively proclaim “I told ya so”
They find contentment in the nothingness that fills their nothing-less day
It’s all too much, causing a man to mutter, stammer and cus under their defeated breath——sheeeet!
But when a man needs a woman, he’ll act a fool
You’ll see him heel at her side like an obedient dog on a short leash
She’ll yank on that choker-chain every now and again to keep him in his place
Men will connive, lie and feign politeness in a futile attempt to get into a woman’s heart—or more importantly, their pants
So, ya buy them jewelry, take them out to dinner, comment on how beautiful their eyes are, how stunning their dress is
All the while, she'll absentmindedly stare into her compact mirror
Women's personalities are hidden, just like their women parts
Men don’t understand how a woman’s body works
Everything about it is a mystery
It looks like a gapping wound that sometimes bleeds
Nipples, breasts, legs
The softness of their ass
Where to start? What to do?
It’s all to much for a simple man to grasp
But grasp, they shall try—-and try, AND TRY!
Women don’t have time for a man’s bullshit
They have more important things to do
They construct purpose out of life’s nothing-less—ness
They fill every moment, of every hour, of each day with endless busyness
They fabricate grand schemes
Things they're determined to make men orchestrate
Life becomes one long laborious “To Do list”
To women, everything means something, especially the insignificant petty shit
Wipe your feet, take out the garbage, feed the cat, cut the lawn, bring me my tea, it’s too hot, it’s to cold—-did you hear me?
They somehow make babies out of their own flesh and blood
Their bellies swell up to accommodate a parasite living deep inside their womb——
Men only know about the fucking part of making babies
Men are happy in their nothingness
Men’s body parts, are like their personalities, right out there for the world to see, compare and giggle at
They grab at it to show dominance
They believe theirs is bigger and mightier than anyone else’s
They expect it to be worshiped and fawned over
In reality, it’s the goofiest looking thing you’ll ever see
And if they can’t find anyone to grab on it, they’ll jerk on it themselves
I guess this is the way god planned it
And what a sick sense of humor he must have
One of life's greatest mistakes
Expecting to be loved
Expect is a word best not attached to love
There’s many versions of love
Few are lasting, and even fewer are memorable
Some covet it as if it were property
Others wear it on their arm like a flashy bauble
Or, proudly tattoo it permanently upon their skin
Oftentimes vanishing before the ink dries
At times it’s confused with sex
You can have sex without love
And you can have love without sex
After all the gyrations and moaning
Even if she lets you put it where you want?
You’ll still need to find things to talk about at the end of a worn-out night
Humor is the best aphrodisiac
Honesty is the slipperiest of lubricants
It's naively offered up with open arms
Like a soon to be broken Vow
Vows are for love-struck suckers
It’s a fabled belief in security and sincerity
Sometimes, it's a broken record that skips and pops
All noise and no melody
Like a sympathy composed for the deaf
Most want love to be soft and tender
Like sappy verses from a smarmy poem
But it's none of those things
It's a prize fight, a spectacle of blood, rage and courage
It can suddenly switch from an endearing hug to an enraged choke hold
It begins with a polite first kiss, ending up in a dark room that reeks of raw savage sex--that is--if you get lucky
Yet, there are those rare flashes of something
Some may call it love, but that's an over-used euphemism
It stirs an ancient ache that resides deep inside us all
Where does it come from? Why does it go?
Who knows? It's a vexing enigma
It comes with no warranties, no guarantees
It’s fragile, so handle it with care
If ya break it, you'll have to pay for it
Once shattered, you’ll never be able to put it back together
No glue or counseling can dull its painful shards
Once the shelf-life has been reached
You’ll need to decide——should it be thrown out?
Or painfully watch it continue to curdle and sour
Salmonella is a bad way to go
The trouble with love—-is
It’s what happens between life’s otherwise mundane moments
It has no soul or conscience
No sense of right or wrong
It makes fools out of it’s gullible victims
One of life's greatest mistakes
Expecting to be loved
Expect is a word best not attached to love
There’s many versions of love
Few are lasting, and even fewer are memorable
Some covet it as if it were property
Others wear it on their arm like a flashy bauble
Or, proudly tattoo it permanently upon their skin
Oftentimes vanishing before the ink dries
At times it’s confused with sex
You can have sex without love
And you can have love without sex
After all the gyrations and moaning
Even if she lets you put it where you want?
You’ll still need to find things to talk about at the end of a worn-out night
Humor is the best aphrodisiac
Honesty is the slipperiest of lubricants
It's naively offered up with open arms
Like a soon to be broken Vow
Vows are for love-struck suckers
It’s a fabled belief in security and sincerity
Sometimes, it's a broken record that skips and pops
All noise and no melody
Like a sympathy composed for the deaf
Most want love to be soft and tender
Like sappy verses from a smarmy poem
But it's none of those things
It's a prize fight, a spectacle of blood, rage and courage
It can suddenly switch from an endearing hug to an enraged choke hold
It begins with a polite first kiss, ending up in a dark room that reeks of raw savage sex--that is--if you get lucky
Yet, there are those rare flashes of something
Some may call it love, but that's an over-used euphemism
It stirs an ancient ache that resides deep inside us all
Where does it come from? Why does it go?
Who knows? It's a vexing enigma
It comes with no warranties, no guarantees
It’s fragile, so handle it with care
If ya break it, you'll have to pay for it
Once shattered, you’ll never be able to put it back together
No glue or counseling can dull its painful shards
Once the shelf-life has been reached
You’ll need to decide——should it be thrown out?
Or painfully watch it continue to curdle and sour
Salmonella is a bad way to go
The trouble with love—-is
It’s what happens between life’s otherwise mundane moments
It has no soul or conscience
No sense of right or wrong
It makes fools out of it’s gullible victims
In spite of our long days and the swiftness of these passing years
We’ve reluctantly grown old
Old as in running out of time
The potholed street of aging leads to a cul de sac of convalescence
Age robs us of youths vanities
It rubs our hair off, dulls our eyesight and deafens our hearing
We slowly cave in on ourselves
We can no longer get by on our sexiness or youthful bravado
We’re left with a fading wit and the shreds of a once charmed personality
This leaves some bitter, while others are liberated
There’s nothing more attractive than someone who no longer gives a shit about what others think of them
Shriveled skin, brittle bones, hemorrhoids and varicose veins ain’t so bad
It’s the fading of memories and the onset of feeble mindedness that leaves us befuddled
There’s that moment of confusion when we enter a room and forget what we needed there, or what we were looking for, or even why we came there in the first place???
But, I’ll fight like hell to forever remember your face
The universe keeps trying to convince me that I’m mediocre, but I refuse to give in. All the greats have had to fight that urge to shrink and fit into normalcy.
Crazy is better than normalcy, going mad is better than normalcy. Do something, do anything to prove that you’re still alive—-that you’re a worthy opponent. Release your bullshit on the world like a tiger ripping into a fallen gazelle.
Kill or be killed—–most are already dead and feeding on table scraps. The true holy ones aren’t afraid to climb free solo—they know that no one is tethered to security.
Make fear your best-friend and nothing will ever scare you again.
The August sun traces the southern horizon as the silent tree’s cast long shadows over the lazy afternoon. There’s no hurry to go anywhere or do anything. It’s too goddamn hot to be ambitious. I pull my ball-cap off and let the cool breeze tousle though my sweaty hair.
I’m hiking through the Washoe Meadow. I imagine that the path I’m on is the same one that the Washoe Tribe followed on hunting expeditions. Their ways and traditions are no longer known. I’d give anything to know the things they knew, to see the things they saw. We’ve traded our place in nature for our love of power and progress——–Progress? Huh?
The trial turns and twists through Jeffery Pines. The sweet scent of Sage permeates my body. I take the fragrant air into my lungs and it becomes a part of me——maybe this is what they mean when they say “all things are connected”. I exhale my breath. It dissipates into the pine needles and becomes absorbed into the blueness of the out stretched skies. I feel bigger than my body.
A stellar jay sits atop a Spruce Tree and loudly scolds me, a chicory scampers across my path and from a distance a coyote keeps a weary eye on me. The coyote is my spirit animal. He’s a trickster, a loner and a little bit scruffy—-but most of all he’s a willful survivor. Yeah, we are a part of one another. The trail opens up to a huge meadow displaying purple lupin and yellow scrub grasses. It’s a pretty place, a calming place. It would be nice to share this with someone, but I’ve always been my own best friend, so I’m in good company. I take my boots off and rub my toes in a patch of cool green grass. I feel the sun on my face causing me to involuntarily smile to myself. A breeze blows across the meadow, it blows across the sweat on my body, it cools me down.
Letter writing is a lost art. In the olden days receiving a letter was a momentous occasion. It may be the only link to a loved one who’s now many miles away. It might be a soldier who’s off to war, or a prospector who’s gone out west to a gold rush in search of his fortune, or maybe someone who’d left everything behind to seek freedom and opportunity in the new world, or maybe a letter from mom and dad after they’ve shipped you off to summer camp. To the homesick, a letter is like a life preserver tossed from home.
Somehow, written words are more intimate and heartfelt than texts, zooms, emails or face-timeing. There’s a formality of ink meeting paper, there’s something unique about thoughts laid out in black and white—–it’s like letting someone peer into the corners of your mind, to hear your voice, the timber, the rhythm and the flow of words being enunciated—-It’s like being given wings when standing on a collapsing bridge.
Written letters are saved in old shoeboxes or under well worn mattresses. It would be a foolish thing to throw away someones words and thoughts. Letters are snapshots of moments in time. They can be pulled out and reread and given life again. It’s like placing the needle of a phonograph on a favorite song. You can pick the letter up and smell its scent, imagining the hand that sealed the envelope. I once had a girlfriend who’d put on lipstick and then leave an imprint of her kiss on the letters she’d send me. She’d spray perfume on the stationary and leave “X’s” and “O’s” next to her name. It was a virtual hug and kiss.
I’d always carefully put my letters back in their envelopes and then place them in a box I dedicated to these precious communications. Most folks won’t let you into their world the way a letter can. A well written letter requires time and attention to create a composition that expresses what is laying dormant beneath ones tongue.
We’re all adrift on a vast ocean of loneliness and a letter is like a bright red flair against an ebony sky. It begs the questions—- Can you see me? Do you hear me?—Please don’t forget me?
Life, a misunderstood word. All there is, is life, and then no life. People carry that word around like it’s a vessel of guarantee’s and entitlements. All that ever will be is life, and all that will never be—— is one of the tragedies of this life too. Life isn’t always a “Once upon a time” or a “Happily ever after”. I once had a best friend, he was there and then one day gone——-Time absorbs everyone and everything sooner or later.
And nobody knows where everything and everyone goes. Words are attached to emotions and emotions are attached to words. If there were no words, would there be no emotions? If that were true, I’d take a big eraser and delete the words, depression, sadness, loneliness, hate and anger from everyones vocabulary. I’d write love, peace and kindness in large bold font and add them to everyones lexicon.
Life is carried around like a banner that says love is true, life is fair and everything and everyone is infinite. Trust me, time is not an illusion, the hands of our clocks caress away immortality——-I try to remember this.
To some, life is a crisp, clean white piece of paper that they wad up into a wrinkled ball and toss into a waste ben. And, to a few, that same piece of virgin paper is something they neatly fold into an origami of a bird, a dragon or a frog. —–Hands.—The same hand that can reach out to comfort others can also be a weapon to repel everything and everyone. When I look closely at my hands I realize how odd and strange they are. One hand fits into another persons hand so naturally, so easily——but then again, it can also just as easily be drawn into a tight angry fist.
Live your best life, not a fraudulent life, not a half life, not a life that is guarded and protected in the hopes of not ever making any mistakes or being hurt. Embrace your mistakes, own your fuck ups, admit your naive follies, cause they are the best teachers——Even when it’s all bullshit, even when you’re buried beneath an avalanche of hurt, reach out for another’s hand. Someday they’ll be a “no life” for you and me, and no one will care what we won or what we gave up on——-it will all be lost in the litter of time——-only you can save yourself. Take a good look at your hands. What might you do with them?
Allow yourself to be shot out of a circus cannon, dance on the tight wire, be the painted faced clown, be vulnerable, it’s the only way to know yourself, there are no short cuts. We all have nothing to lose. Without vulnerability it’s a lifetime of pretending to be something you’re not. A good friend will help you summit all those mountains of worry and sadness.
Life is full of “I told you so’s”, insincere apologies, deferred honesty and love waisted on watered-down people. I wonder if the sun dreads the days end, like I do. The moon makes no promises of what the night may bring.
