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.
When sitting at a extra long red light, do you ever wonder if perhaps you’re wasting your life
When standing in the chips isle, struggling to choose between Doritos and Barbecue Chips, have you ever found youself questioning if maybe you’re wasting your life
When lying in bed with the snooze alarm going off for the third time do you ever conceive of the notion that you’re probably wasting your life
Have you ever sat in a crowded bar watching everyone laugh, flirt and drink and come to the conclusion that you’re possibley wasting your life
When sitting in front of your big screen watching the same commercial for the third time, have you ever pondered why you’re wasting your life
Sitting silently in a cluttered break room, have you ever decided that you’re definitely not doing what you’d like with your life
Have you ever sat on a couch in the middle of some big party filled with laughter and loud music and despise the idea of wasting your life
Have you ever traded three hours of inebriation for a tomorrow that guarantee’s a headache, sour stomach, a worn outness and once again it leaves you questioning why you’re wasting your life
Has your life ever felt like a grainy B movie with no plot, or a corny country song about a broken hearted cowboy and you find yourself humming along to the soundtrack of his wasted life
Standing in a long line at DMV waiting to renew your vehicle registration, have you ever viewed yourself from above and watched as you wasted away
Sitting on a squeaky pew in an empty church, crumpled up and praying for faith only to find that my guarding angel is refusing to circle, Jesus is busy choosing the next big lottery winner and the fucking silence of it all grows ever more deafening
Have you ever found yourself watching the news, different day, different names, but the same old bullshit and ask yourself why does everyone seems to be wasting their life away
While waiting in a huge line at Starbucks to pay an exorbitant amount of money for a fancy coffee, I suddenly become shocked by the insanity of it all
Does anyone else suffer a similar craziness to it all?????
I pump gas, pay bills, feed the cat, do laundry, shop, cook and clean, only to find myself tearing another month off my calendar
Have you ever walked into another room and forgotten what you came there for, and this is what wasting my life feels like
Amongst all the nothingness of me, I see us flying kites on a windy day and the green field smells of freshly cut grass, the blue sky stretches out to the Sierra Nevada foothills—–and your dress blows up in the wind and it makes us laugh. We let our kites go and I kiss you and it feels like I’m cutting all my strings. And for that small moment, all the nothingness of you and me no longer matters to anyone or anything……
Today they would’ve called us geeks or nerds
But when I was a kid we were the misfits, the oddballs
The ones who ate lunch at the ketchup smeared cafeteria table
None of us had cars or the money to eat off campus
all we had was acne, braces and Walmart clothes
Individually we were vulnerable and easily bullied
but as a pack we were freaks of nature to behold, a beautiful mess
We were the ones that were too short, too tall, too fat, too skinny, too smart, too shy, glasses too thick, too this, too that, and all the things that come after “too”
The one gift of being “too” is that it allowed us the freedom to not give a shit
about what others thought or said
We carried our band instrument cases with pride
The weirder the case, the better, and I think the french horn was one of the more cryptic ones
The cello was the Yeti of all cases and sure to turn a few heads on the bus
You could hear the hushed voices saying “What the heck is in there?”
Making its way down the narrow bus isle, banging the case into the bullies heads
“pardon me” spoken with mock sympathy
We found the halls best sonically suited to practice the Messiah
And we sang with gusto as the football players, cheerleaders, skaters and preppies filtered by
Some would actually stop and listen, while wise asses would goof off by making fart noises from down the hall
We read fantasy and SIFI books, we were proud Trekkies
We were at home in our daydreams and fantasies
Yes, we were virtual kings and lords of the video games we conquered
We were kids doing kid shit, in no hurry to be cornered by grown up responsibilities
The girls in our clan didn’t fit into the strict rules of fashion and make up
They were smart and had a good sense of humor
They allowed guys like me to give them a ride on my handle bars
crashing into the tall weeds, an accident becoming the prelude to an innocent kiss—–maybe not an accident??? maybe not so innocent???
All the pretty girls were constrained and selling their souls to be popular
They seemed in a hurry to grow up fast and become dissatisfied adults
with Republican biases, expecting to be privileged, smiling smug, indifferent, clinging to their 401 K’s, mouthing simple answers to complex questions, marching like a minion to Fox News and its right wing christian hypocritical drumbeat, dismissing everything and everyone outside their protective bubble of good paying job, new SUV and nice house in the suburbs, with their gardener Jose, whom they never asked to verify his citizenship or green card along with Juanita their maid
for them being an adult was just an extension of high school, sacrificing ones self to fit in with the most current trends
Occasionally I pull out my old battered cello and squeak out a wobbly rendition of our school fight song
soundtrack “Master and a Hound” by Gregory Alan Osakoy
everything and everyone is stupid
This life is stupid, death is stupid
Everything that happens between birth and death is stupid
Politics is a lie
Spirituality is a lie
Sex is a lie
money is a lie
Love is over-rated
Blockbusters are over-rated
New and improved is over-rated
Guaranteed is over-rated
promises are meaningless
careers are meaningless
getting from here to there is meaningless
staying here is meaningless
trying to become something is boring
losing ones self in becoming something is boring
holding back is boring
getting pissed off is boring
newspapers, magazines, the nightly news is repetitive
Putting one foot in front of the other is repetitive
waking and sleeping is repetitive
Everything between waking and sleeping is repetitive
Starting over again is a waste
Believing it matters is a waste
Holding on to things is a waste
Trying to make a difference is a waste
Addiction is deceptive
bargaining with addiction is deceptive
not knowing is deceptive
knowing is deceptive
But you my love, are like my beer and my coffee
You never demand nor disappoint
You lead me on with your truth scraps
You bared yourself naked with authenticity
You said my poetry was like cotton candy
all sugar with no substance
and I said
I didn’t realize that poetry needed to be nutritious
your “out of the blue” honesty sealed my fate
our ending was now beginning
I don’t stand a ghost of a prayer
All my wishful thinking has lost its sparkle
I rub my chin, readjust my drooping pants
The many things left undone——-unsaid
linger like a fill in the blank quiz
I was never good at tests
Rants, Raves and Random Thoughts 