Take a good long look at the footwear of America. We are not what we wear or what we do for work, but in so many ways we are. Crippled by prosperity and aged into disparity. Wheelchairs and diabetes. Anonymous alcoholics lined up at the liquor store. An a front. An aside. Tackled into self-doubt by our own want to get ahead. Vote for me they yell from the stone-paved pathways that lead to their second homes. I’ll write you a book. I’ll mail you an inspirational video. I’ll start a charity to employ my great-niece. I’ll scream down from my glass tower while I throw rocks and spray painted racial epithets on the walls of our universities and institutional learning facilities. Arrogance. Ignorance. Attitude. Platitudes. Lie to me and tell me I’m pretty. Gratuity. Income. Analysis. Paralysis. Ride the bus to the edge of town and get off at the last stop. Your graduated now. Good luck going forward.
10.01.24
Early morning on the eastern end of things.
Heading east to go north.
Death awaits and the angles of the awards are unknown.
Pass eleven and stumble down to seventeen.
A bank, a bulldog and a vacation home.
A coffee cup, a dead end parking lot and a lost cause carpet on an otherwise tiled floor.
The newsman said there is a one million dollar reward for the recovery of the body, but failed to give any other description. Cash wise casino trailer and a red minivan retro-fitted to carry the immobile. Large vans and manufactured wealth. Striped sweaters, coffee cups and a backpack made for traveling. Sorry. Checkers. Board games. One crumpled napkin, two beverages and a clock that winds down to twenty-four. You’ll never find your way out of here because you cannot remember how you got in. You failed. You’ll fail again.
Broken fingers hold rings at swollen knuckles. Finger nails clip themselves into this sinking feeling, this sinking ship of feelings tethered to the dock of manicured lives. Longshoremen wander aimlessly into the fog whose horn only ever blows for obstructed views. Black wheels. Silver wheels. Yellow buses. You are lost. We are lost. Forever.
09.30.24
I walked right up to the edge of your cliff and looked over. I walked right up to the end of your life and looked in. I saw your plane coming down the runway from the line to get through security, but I fainted when I had to raise my hands. Inspected. Rejected. Lost. Found. Bound. No cell service and winds blowing in from the West. It’ll be eight minutes for you and the remainder for the rest. I’ve struggled with you all of my life were the words from the wheelchair in that tiny little bar in that tiny little neighborhood long forgotten and moved on from. A volunteer and the leather-bound sleeve. It’s time to go. It’s time to go. It’s time to go.
09.29.24
I remember the Oldsmobile and the Lincoln. There must have been so much pride in acquiring them both, as they were certainly symbols of success. It’s unfortunate that time didn’t perpetuate that feeling and that success in modern times is no longer hinged to the possession of particular items. Rather, these days, success seems to attach itself to whether or not one can come to terms and make peace with the fact that most will always and forever be behind in their debt.
A paint marker and a concrete wall.
A walk by the river and a fistful of memories.
I can relate. Right here in the middle of my life.
Forty-six. Old and in the way.
Observe. Take notes.
Good begets good.
Bad begets bad.
09.28.24
It’ll be dark before it becomes obvious.
It’ll be light before it becomes a mystery.
Envious. Wonderous. Lost. Found.
You cannot see what you do not know.
08.02.24
A ride in the van that ends in sushi. A walk through the building that ends in the kitchen. You’ll do as you’re told. Pink over black. Sometimes. Sometimes never. Swallow a giraffe and get into the ring. There is no sign from heaven and the hardwood floors know it. A grocery store and a stick of gum. A trip out east with trains and planes and cars. Somehow, at forty-six, I feel lost and I suppose it’s normal, but without ever having been here before, it’s difficult to say. Onward. Forward. You never listened anyway, said the record to the record player. Tincture. Puncture. Structure. Relent. A dozen cars and more bikes and homemade waffles nearly every morning. Do as you’re told.
08.02.24
I smoked cigarettes on your bridge and carried burritos through your tunnel. The folks under your tent waved hello, but the wind in my face kept me from returning the favor. I wasn’t going to anyway. Not today. Not yesterday. Not a reflection on their effort, nor is it a reflection on my consideration. I just don’t feel like it.
Oil change. Mileage. Drive another hour into the future. Wander. Wonder. Wind it down. Twelve, seven, six, fourteen. I can’t see you and I don’t really want to.
10.18.23
I was going to write a book, but I couldn’t fit my pencil through the door.
I was going to give a shit, but I couldn’t fit it in my book.
No pencil. No book.
Insecurity. Fear. An umbrella of ego.
10.16.23
Process the feelings connected to your ego and exercise the muscles that can let them go. It’ll be your death if you keep walking down this road that leads to self-loathing. What is it about your discontent that keeps to tethered to your past?
— stop —
The lightning strike that killed my uncle was a bottle of gin and a carton of cigarettes. It may well have been the metal slide at the park with the sun beating down on it. Either way it burned the skin so bad that it demanded the helicopter ride that ended in watered down coffee and hospital food.
— stop —
You are a lost soul. You are a purposeless child. You’ll find your way to the back of the church and it’ll be your feet that end up getting washed. Break the bread. Take the money from the basket. Slip into to the confessional just off to the side and hope for the best. Bless us, oh lord. Bless us until our hands bleed and the leather seats in our new truck warm our backs in the cold morning air. This is where we meet our maker. This is where we find our purpose. This is where we come home.
10.15.23
There was a time when you were getting dressed, before the time you left as the sun was coming up, that I remember you saying something about missing the train. I don’t recall the events that led up to your statement, but I do recall you noting some very specific details about the train. Now, so we’re all clear on this, you had never expressed any kind of interest in trains prior to this and, as is noted in the history books, the trains had never been mentioned during any of our conversations, either positively or negatively. The whole thing left me baffled.
— stop —
A bookstore. A coffee shop. A ten dollar tip.
A bike ride. A cityscape. A forty dollar bag of groceries.
To whom do I owe this debt and to whom shall I pay my respects? An orange. An Apple. A piece of banana bread. These are the things that pile themselves up in my mind as I make my way from adult to child and back again.
— stop —
Forgive me, for I’ve lost my way. I got sidetracked in the scroll and I lost myself wondering about why it was that I had walked away. I saw the posts about the rocks and all the smiley folks circling their way from the start to the end. I read the reports about the happy family that has done so much and how everyone is living their best moment. I saw it and I lived it and so often I find myself walking right back into it.
It’ll catch you if you’re not careful. It’ll eat your brain and leave you for dead.
Meditate. Stop and breathe. Stop and focus. Repeat after me…
I’m sorry
Please forgive me
Thank you
I love you
10.14.23
What is it like when your ego fills the room faster than your fan club? What are the sociopathic qualities that inhabit the spaces just behind our eyeballs? What will it take to compel us to turn off the computer and put our cigarettes out on the desk. Why is it that we continue to outthink ourselves when we’re not careful and disciplined?
— stop —
I ran past your houselessness this morning and embraced your humanity. I did it silently and I wish I hadn’t. I don’t know what I would have said and I don’t need to. I saw you and you saw me and for a moment in that space we were equal in our heartbeats.
— stop —
I passed my own existence along the river and thought about the sadness and the selflessness. I saw several people downtown with spray cans and bright yellow vests. I saw the sidewalk cracks and the folks carrying sacks. I saw the river twice and all the brick buildings along its banks. The stairs went up. The gutters went down. The family with the three kids in red sweaters ran around.
Tackle.
Tackle.
Tackle.
10.12.23
I am an author. I am a reader. I am a rider. I am a worker. I found Jesus and I found Satan and I worshipped them both under the bleachers in high school. I smoked cigarettes and drank rum in Bloody Mary’s I mixed in the kitchen after work. I sold cd’s and I stole cd’s. I held keys and wrote orders and maintained schedules. I unloaded trucks and turned off alarms. I made drinks. I drank drinks. I got drunk and I made mistakes. I took side steps and made missteps. I drove and I walked and I rode. I called in late and showed up early. I did everything until I didn’t do anything and then I did it all again.
One. Seven. Six. I see you and your tricks. Surfing. Sailing. Seventeen. In, out and back again. Eleven in heaven and a dog bowl full of sand. Dump words together. Pile everything up. Be done.
10.07.23
I saw a man standing in my shadow. I saw him take my time. I saw him build a fire in my absence with wood he reclaimed from the barn my father built.
I wondered why I left and couldn’t remember why I stayed because the angles I had angled for collapsed on themselves.
The sun came up. The sun went down. Seven sidewalks later there was only light and only darkness and the yelling and the slamming doors. Four beers and a dissertation on why it wasn’t ever going to work. Sleep on the floor. Hide under the couch. There’s a gap growing and it can’t be closed.
I see you. I saw you. The belt buckle in the box and the painting all cut up. Slip down the stairs. Check the mail. We’re done here.
10.04.23
I traveled all the way west to the space where the buttes meet the horizon. That space where the land rises up and exposes the sand and the rocks. Across the lake, if it’s even a lake, is that campground that I can never remember. Gravel roads. Endless hills. Oversized trucks and greasy baseball caps. Grocery carts overfilled and an entire store inhabited by middle-aged men. An anomaly. A mystery. A memory.
Alas, we move onward. We abandon our attempts to move inward. Instead, we explore the exterior. We eat and we fast. We drink and we abstain. We move and we stand still. We wander the empty streets after midnight. We play songs on repeat because it warms up some part of us that longs to feel comfort. This is what we do until we don’t.
This is it. It’s coming back.
10.02.23
One sweaty plastic Pepsi-Cola glass of ice water in front of me. A black straw wrapped in clear cellophane. A bar decorated for Halloween a full month early. A distracted bartender with swollen arms and a smattering of tattoos. A-1 bottles, beer taps and the trademark signal of fruit flies being abated with white paper cone hats covering the bottles of liquor up and down the rails. It’s Monday night here in Fargo and it’s warm outside. Too warm to comfortably run after being in the truck all day. Too warm to comfortably go for a ride so it was a treadmill warmup and a strength workout in a hotel fitness room down the hall from where I’ll sleep later. Here I am…trying to add value at every stop. Trying to make sure the rudder is oriented accordingly. Trying to make sure my best effort gets left every time. Trying. Drinking water, eating and trying.
09.27.23
In a back alley in a water town riddled with poverty and drug use I am sitting inside a surf shop that has been carefully curated to appeal to the tastes of the lower-end elite class. My tens of thousands of dollars adventure vehicle parked stoically outside my between a luxury wagon and a luxury wagon. A couple chats behind me in some kind of awkward courting manner that, as it proceeds, reveals that the two are not romantic, but somehow entangled in business. This is my morning. This is Wednesday. This is Duluth.
09.26.23
I ran across you on the trail this morning. Your heart was beating out of your chest. You weren’t sure if you should stand still or run away. For a moment our eyes locked and I urged you to calm down. You did, and then you stepped back.
— stop —
Fog and wind. Rain and it’s over the banks. Bike rides and a hand tattoo. Keep your word. There is no answer to questions that never get asked. There are no notes for books that never get read. A commercial. A bottle of water. A bank account. It’ll never be easy. Full stop.
09.25.23
Four hours and twenty five minutes. Fill the tank. Empty the tank. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. You will find Jesus behind bars or behind a steering wheel or behind a bar. You will abandon hope in the face of lottery winnings. You will repeat names for the remainder of your time on earth. Visit the bookstore. Run the errands. Eat breakfast. Skip lunch. Work late. Sports will make you feel at home. Politics will make you sick. Another book. Another note. Another notebook. You’re lost. You’re drunk. Call a cab from the curb and yell into the stairwell. Two way streets can’t be one ways.
09.24.23
He woke up in a house with empty cupboards and carpet that didn’t quite meet the wall. He was in his forties but had no real recollection of his thirties. His hair resembled the kind of matted grass that only happens when the yard floods and the water eventually runs off under the fence. He was scared and lonely and found solace in a bag of pretzels. “It was the crunch”, he told the reporters when the they came to ask questions. He never satisfied the answers for the question why. He never even entertained them.
09.23.23
Rain drops on the roof. Cars sloshing through the street through an open window. The dog barks and sparks the other dogs to join in song. Goodnight.