Early morning entries and a database full of empty trees. Fall has fallen and the air is crisp. Leaves litter the pavement and the dog wanders around the yard hoping to find some hopping treat. There is no rest for the tired and weary, only another cup of coffee and a cold Adirondack chair. The hoods are up and the ankles uncovered. Darkness. Quiet. Morning.
02.19.16
Sunshine pouring through the cloudy, permanently weather stained windows. Hot, fresh coffee steaming in an old, dented cup resting on a table of worn wood and rusted nails. A book about a bike race that used to consume me sitting quietly under a stack of poorly drawn drawings. Soft, well crafted music fills the air. This is my morning. This is how I am starting my day. Four out seven are similar depending on the status of the giant ball of fire in the sky. I prefer it this way. The remaining three are begun in darkness, under the veil of night that has not yet broken. My schedule is peculiar and doesn't allow my body to set itself. The result is perpetual tiredness. A constant yawn. It's who I am. It's the bed I've made. I enjoy it, but I know it's rough. It's rough on me and it's rough on those around me. That said, it has allowed me to look at all of it as training for that massive endurance event that has yet to present itself. Everyday is training. Every day is suffering. Every day is a success.
09.05.17
I saw my own death last night. In a dream. In a way that only a dream could produce, I saw myself lying in a grave and standing above it at the same time. It was a funeral for me, but I was the only one there. No one to direct. No one to weep. No one to toss dirt onto the coffin that didn't exist. Just me. Two versions. One alive and grieving, and the other stone stiff at the bottom of a hole.
I didn't look for meaning when I awoke this morning. I didn't try and connect the dots that got me to that point. I didn't. There were no good feelings and no bad. Things just simply were exactly what they were. One human body standing above a hole looking into it, and one human body lying in the hole looking out. Perhaps there is some deeper lesson to be learned, but instead of analyzing it, I simply acknowledged it for what it was, a dream.
Our positions on this earth are temporary. Our purpose is for no one to decide but ourselves. If something is standing in the way of your happiness, step aside and continue. If something feels like it's "off", it probably is and you should do something about it...now. I am responsible for me. You are responsible for you. Anyone that knows me, knows that I bleed this philosophy. It is true today more than ever.
10.23.19
Tonight, along the side of an empty stretch of Highway in the flattest part of the middle of nowhere, I saw a woman standing over the body of her recently deceased husband. The scene itself wasn’t gruesome, but it certainly was tragic and heartbreaking. I passed the whole thing at sixty-five miles per hour so I didn’t get to take everything in as fully as I might have preferred considering the circumstances. At the moment, and in hindsight my heart breaks for her loss. The expression on her face was one of absolute abandon. In one moment, everything in her life is as normal as it’s been for as long as she cared to remember. In the next moment, everything in her life is in upheaval. Uncertainty. Sorrow. Pain. Agony. Heartbreak. All of these things just standing there in the tall grass beyond the rocky shoulder of an aging piece of America’s infrastructure.
10.11.18
I hold three cards in my hand. Not one of which is closer to my chest than the others. I will not reveal my secrets. I will not let go of my burdens. To my deathbed I shall carry these. I shall package them all up nice and neat in my hanging baskets of pomp and circumstance. I’ll get the dogs lined up on the carpet. Their hair freshly cleaned and combed. It’s all a facade. It’s all part of the show. It’s all part of this dream I’ve been having for years. A dream that’s plagued my hours awake. A dream in which I wander around on a mountain of metaphors looking for the setting sun. A dream where direction is useless. Is it a dream, though? Is it my subconscious? Where am I? How did I get here?
12.21.15
Wrenches and old, crinkled beer cans litter the top of an oil stained wooden work bench. Sawdust covers portions of the floor and hangs like forgotten Christmas lights from long abandoned spider webs. Slow, depressing tunes filter through the cigarette smoke that lingers in the motionless air. It's hot. It's summer. This is the place where the things get built. This is where the hand is king.
05.08.15
Numbers. They are our identity. They are everything to us. They are the tool by which we measure everything. How old we are. How young we are. How much we earn. How far we have come. How far we have to go. What time we need to wake up. What time we need to go to sleep. Even the title of this post, those that came before it and those that will come after it. Everything in our modern lives is surrounded by numbers. For what?
It might be worth examining the moments in any given day that aren't submerged in numbers? Numbers can't really be attached to the innate senses most of us share? We can't smell or taste or hear or touch or see anything's approximate distance from us. Yet we constantly attach numbers to everything. And why not? Is counting not one of the things we learn first as infants? Are numerical values not driven into us throughout our fundamental education? If we examine our lives under the largest microscope we can find, are we able to truly identify the things in any given day that are not connected to numbers? Do we quantify a hug from a loved one by attaching a number to it? Do we estimate the numerical value of a letter received in the mail from an old friend? Do we statistically analyze the effects of having a door held for us as we pass through it? No. Are our lives truly not defined by those few moments a day when we lose sight of the numbers and just embrace the present and all it has to offer? Do we not find more pleasure in experiencing the limitless world of our natural senses than by those that we create mentally?
Our minds are impressive tools capable of incredible things. If we muddy them up by constantly addressing the numbers we've created to identify things, we are missing the purpose of our lives.
Numbers are for measuring. Measuring is for comparison. Comparison is for judgement. Judgement is for ego. Ego is for death.
10.20.19
Cigarettes and some chamomile tea on a terra cotta tiled patio just steps away from the chaotic center of republican politics. Not a ton of hustle and bustle, but there are a handful of homeless folks sleeping a block away. It’s a different place and a different time and the looks of ignorance and a forgotten past linger like fog on a cold morning in the Mississippi River valley. Miles and miles to get here and be here in this moment, drinking this drink and thinking these thoughts. Alone in this loneliness wondering which words will capture the sentiment and worrying that anything that’s chosen will just end up being sediment, or cement or some other form of compressed rocks. Not dissimilar to that of an old abandoned pool in the backyard of some long forgotten home in some poor neighborhood in Phoenix. Or maybe they’ll be like the garbage and weed covered makeup of the Indian School spillway in Albuquerque that runs from the Sandia’s down to the fabricated river under Interstate 40. There’s no way to determine the outcome of ones choices, especially insofar as words are concerned. The best bet is to fire away from the tip of the fingers and just put it out there. Let it be digested and consumed by the reader. That is, after all, the purpose of art.
02.12.16
I slammed two dirty, crumpled twenty dollar bills on the counter and asked for a bottle of Old Grandad. The clerk, an unassuming man is his 50's, turned to the shelf behind him, extended his under-exercised arm above his head and pulled a dusty bottle off the shelf. Like a surgeon, he shoved it into a brown paper sack and silently stood it on the counter. It was obvious this stuff wasn't flying off the shelves, but neither was his approach to customer service. It was late and I'm certain he was tired and not in the mood to face whatever his reality was that had him working in a tiny, corner bodega selling cigarettes and liquor to underage kids and skid row bums. To credit myself, I am neither of those things.
I am middle aged, employed and relatively healthy. I have a small circle of friends and a reputation of being a pretty standup guy. On this night, however, I was willing to throw it all in the street and go for broke.
Six months ago I left my marriage. I left two kids at home. I left it all. I left a house and a comfortable life in pursuit of my happiness. In the time that has passed I have had moments of it. Mostly though, I struggle with the loneliness I've found. I struggle with the idea that my kids miss me as much as I miss them. I struggle with making ends meet and I struggle with knowing I put a financial strain on my kid’s mom. I struggle a lot and while I spend a lot of time trying to find the positive in everything, there are plenty of moments that are just plain shitty...so on this night, I was throwing in the towel. On this night, I just plain ran out of fucks to give.
The old man put a ten, a five, two singles and a handful of coins on the counter beside the bottle. He never said thank you. In fact, he never said hello. He never actually said anything. I'm not certain he can actually speak. It's irrelevant. His interaction with me was not important to the experience I was seeking. What I was looking for was 750ml of mind numbing liquor. I chose Old Grandad because somewhere in my melancholy mind I harbored some grand vision of an all seeing camera that recorded my every move. Some sort of lifelong recording that would playback at my poorly attended funeral. To appease this seemingly never ending montage, I thought it fitting to black out with some kind of tip of the cap to those that went before me. My family tree was blooming with drunks, so why not?
What happened next was pretty typical. I scooped the change into my hand and shoved it into my pocket. I grabbed the bagged bottled and stuck it under my right arm. I pulled my hood up over my head and leaned my left shoulder into the frosty-edged glass door that separated me and the old man from the frigid wind that howled outside. As I set out to make the several block journey home, I heard the old guy spin the metallic wheel on a lighter. I was gone before I could smell his cigarette smoke.
The walk home didn't take as long as it could have. I was mentally in a hurry and only focused on two things. One was getting home quickly to tap into this bottle that contained my long lost friend and the other was wallowing so deep in my own self-pity that the first one seemed like a good idea at all in the first place.
Inside my place I didn't even take off my coat or my shoes. Something I almost always did. Instead, I walked directly over to the couch, sat down, in the dark, pulled the rest of my night from its paper cocoon, cracked the thin metal cap to the left to detach it from its safety seal and tipped the bottle up to my lips. The first push of brown liquid burned it's way across my lips and tongue. It slid down my throat, torching everything it touched. Warmth poured over me and for a moment I was free. Free from the bondage I had prescribed myself. Free from the burden of trying to find balance in this new life. Free from myself. For a moment. It didn't last. The second swig was smoother than the first. The potency and romance of the whole idea wore off quickly. At this point the mission was confined to four simple tasks. Smoke as many cigarettes as possible. Get drunk. Black out. Pass out.
I don't recall too much of what happened next. I know there were subsequent swigs and pulls. I know, from the butt filled ashtray and the burn marks in the wooden coffee table I smoked at least a pack of cigarettes. I know, simply from a physiological standpoint, that the alcohol in the bottle prevailed in my bloodstream at some point. I know, in hindsight, that I passed out, as I woke up on the floor in my coat and my shoes. I know the bottle that was once full was now empty and across the room in a pile of broken glass. I know that at some point I threw said bottle because just above where I found it resting was a dent in the Sheetrock and several broken picture frames. I know I blacked out because I have no recollection of any of these events. I know I accomplished my mission, but failed at the same time. I know I had expectations for all of my negative, depression based feelings to disappear through all of this. I know that didn't happen. I know this morning the remorse is unbearable, the headache is loud and obnoxious and I am still the same, middle aged man when I look in the mirror. I know that I am still me and I will always be me. I know that this chaotic trip into intoxication is worthless and futile. I know this. All of it. Every single goddamn word of it. A waste. A waste of time. A waste of energy. A waste of me. A waste of my life.
It's been fifteen and a half years since I drank. I don't think about it often, but when I do it usually looks like the story above. I usually have grand visions of some romantic, dark saga where I am the only actor on a stage in a theater without an audience. In my mind and on paper it always sounds so amazing. I'm not certain how it plays out in real life...I hope I never find out.
10.16.19
There are a thousand questions an only seven answers as the answers are interchangeable to an infinite degree. The degrees of which are separated by time and place and a change of clothes. Inside. Outside. Scramble to find your footing in the scree. Tumble down the slope and burn your hands on the rope. Your gym class is a hiding spot for the failing academic. White lines and yellow lines and a gas station in the middle of the night. Slanted radio stations and a thunderous scent from underneath the hood. You find it if you looked and always wonder if you could, but you can’t so you won’t.
12.07.15
There is an intersection in life where two roads cross each other and neither leads to the destination you had planned. To get to this intersection, build something amazing. Give it away to everyone you meet. Hold it to its own light and marvel at its ability to bring people together. Build it up big and then set it aside. Pursue another avenue as your irreverence for the first project is fueled by someone you're trying to please. Pursue this new adventure with everything you have. Get up early. Stay up late. Abandon friendships. Abandon hobbies. Pursue this second object with every ounce. Climb ladders and stairs and hills. Climb. When you think you've hit the high mark, that is where the intersection is. This crossroads will appear when you've all but burned every bridge from the first and emptied every ounce into the second. This crossroads will appear when what you've chased in the second is snatched out from under you. This crossroads will only become real when all the doubts you've had are realized in a quick conversation with somebody that "thought you already knew". Find the crossroads. Choose your next line carefully. Go forward and never, ever look back.
07.24.17
The apples of my eye and dirt and rocks and sticks and water. Wading into the deepest drop off while a man and his wife adorn scuba gear in the middle of the great north woods. Five shirtless boys holler and run and jump while two of their mothers, carefully covered in their full coverage swimsuits, capture photographs on their phones. This is the summer that exceeds all other summers. This is the pinnacle of my fatherhood and an eye opener to the possibilities that lie therein. Matchless fires, hammocks and fully cooked bratwursts bookend random passersby as they gaze upon the wonders of a modern day mobile treehouse. Our little fort in the air. Orange in all of its glory, it has proved to be the gateway to our wild side. Fifteens and thirty-ones and hand made pegs post holes in the story that we’ll talk about down the road. It is July in the Midwest and there is nowhere I’d rather be.
01.29.18
Stifled speech stuffed deep down inside for decades. Fortresses constructed of fear and anxiety defend emotions that cannot be identified. A thousand forms of detachment liberate the soul from ever truly experiencing the pain attached to loving. The art of letting go submits to the art of war. This is my kingdom. These are my people. Peasants ruling the castle and the kings left out to die in the fields. Alone, the jesters walk the apple orchards hoping to find solace their quiet presence.
04.22.18
Two flat tires on a BMW and a bike ride through the poorest neighborhoods in Minneapolis. East to West and South to back again. So many silent sporters moving around in little herds of twos and threes and fives. The cabin’s fever has broken and it’s sweat pours down the faces of so many. Manicured lawns and patio furniture moving themselves out of winter storage. Spring has sprung in this metropolitan zoo and the animals have escaped their cages.
05.20.18
Take your pills. Take them all you wrinkled old man. Take all those pills and go lie down. When you wake up, don’t call out for me. Instead, just lie there in your bed and wait for the strength to do things all by yourself. For when you wake, I will be gone. Gone for good this time. It’s been a long an bending path and you’ve hung in there like a champ, but it’s time to move on. Now, take your pills and get on up to bed.
05.21.18
A dark box in an empty room. An evening inside the blackout curtains. Cold dinners washed down with stale crackers and cigarettes. Dogs that walk themselves through woods across the street from the old folks home. Here is your fate. Here is your one way bus ticket. Here is your aftermath. Find yourself in the stillness of the funeral parlor surrounded by the emptiness left by your abandon. Find yourself in the streetcar bound for nowhere with an empty grocery bag and a rent check that bounced. Look backward toward your future and realize your present self is a mirror of your youth. You are lost looking for a road map. You’re trying to find that gas station in the desert that you passed a couple days ago. You’re trying to find yourself. You and your suitcase. All dressed up for the big party. All dressed up with nowhere to be. Your are you. You are nobody.
10.19.19
I remember lying in the bed and the dog would lay there between us until one of us moved in some way that disrupted him and then he would freak out and climb off the bed to go sleep on the floor. I remember that apartment so well. The hardwood floors and the bathroom tiles. The little cubby holes above the hallway.The thick coats of white paint that covered everything. I remember building the tables and the shelf in the kitchen and making pancakes and eating cottage cheese with cut up pickles. I remember it all so well and they’re all just memories I’ve packed up in the back of my mind. They’re books I’ve stacked in the corner. I walk past them and recognize their spines, but I never open them because I can’t stomach the stories. All those stories. That apartment. That time. So wild. So intense. The laughing. The arguing. The fighting. The screaming. The silence. The sleeping on the floor against the couch as some attempt to find comfort in some small space where my feelings wouldn’t get smashed. The hours long walks alone in the dark. Up seventh to Broadway all the way to 102nd. Over to fifth and up to the park and back again. Walking alone in the rain to give you space and some time to cool off when I was the one who was cold and had to buy a jacket. I thought the space was helpful and loving and kind, but it only widened the gap. Hindsight is incredible. Letting go is the real key though. These books. These memories. They are a part of my experience and as such deserve their place on the shelf. They don’t need to be read again. They need to be acknowledged for what they are and that is the past. They ought to end up in some Tiny Free Library. They are not throw aways, but rather they are text books to be given away to those that need them. They are my notes and the professor has said that they will be allowed. They are the past. Not the present. Not now. Not tomorrow. It was a whirlwind. A tornado. A roller coaster. It was a lot of things. It was. It isn’t is. These books are a mirror. An opportunity to look at myself and see where I am hanging on and from what I should be letting go. These books offer a reflection that defines my features and my beauty and my strengths. These books and this mirror show me my shortcomings and like red ink on the rough draft of my final paper they show me the areas in which I can improve. These books.