what we take with us

i was sitting here last night feeling lonely and wanting a snack. i
rummaged through the cabinets and fridge but didn't find anything i
thought would satisfy me. gave each a second look and found a pint of
my favorite ice cream.

it's funny the things you take from your parents. i'm not talking
about the big things like personality traits or mannerisms. my brother
and i share a lot of the same mannerisms with my father. they joke
about how much i act like my mother. i'm talking little things here.

my mom's favorite color was green. that's my brother's favorite color.
her favorite ice cream was pralines and cream. it's my favorite flavor
as well.

a chilly winter evening and i was eating half a pint of pralines and
cream. but i felt less lonely remembering time spent with my mom.

ghost

clock maker

sometimes i feel like a clock maker. i feel like i spend so much time taking myself apart, inspecting the gears, the ideas, the thoughts, the mechanism of me, working to correct any damage i find, then putting myself back together again.  it feels like a daily process. always considering, always rethinking, always reviewing. 

for so long, it seemed a healing mechanism. i felt like i was peeling back layers, uncovering the foundations, finding dry rot and neglect and working to repair it.  i felt like i was learning, growing, despite whatever pain the search provided. 

i do not feel i'm growing anymore, though. i don't feel like the constant analyzing isn't providing any insight. everything just seems so pointless right now.  

and i don't know what to make of that. 

 

ghost

home coming

have you ever been so far away from it for so long that you catch
yourself listening for a whisper in the wind that tells you you're
home?

i'm not talking about home in a physical sense, where i am, where i
kick my shoes off, sit back, and put my feet up. i'm talking about a
sense of self, of being comfortable in my own skin, of understanding
my place, the part i am to play. i tell myself i know my place, that
i understand my reason for being. that is to be the best father to my
children that i can possibly, and i throw everything i have at being
that man. still, i constantly struggle within myself, to be more, to
be a better man, to be thinner, to be kinder, to be more.

i battle constantly, not just myself, but outside forces trying to
push a life onto me that i do not want, situations i want no part of.
i battle to the point of begging for a little peace. other people seem
to have found peace in their lives. why not me? i do not know the
answer to that. i begin to suspect, though, that perhaps men like me
never find peace.

i have never found that magic spot. i've never found that place within
myself i could call home. everywhere is strange and hostile, and i am
always a stranger walking through the shadows of a mysterious and
foreign landscape.

i am still searching though. i still put my ear to the gentle wind and
listen for the whisper the wind carries. i think it would help if i
knew what i was looking for. it is beyond my ability to express just
what i feel i'm lacking. some things are like that, that you can't say
what you're minus simply because you don't have it. the vocabulary is
not there when the thing you're trying to describe is absent from your
every sense.

i wonder, too, if perhaps i am waiting for home to come to me while
home is waiting for me to come to it. perhaps it's only a mindset, a
way of thinking, of looking at life that keeps me from finding the
peace i desire. i wonder if maybe home is that special place in your
heart you reserve for the familiar things in your life, the things you
love and cherish above all others. if that is the case, then i have
more than i need in my children and their laughter. if that is the
case, then i am merely being greedy.

ghost

home sick

as in, i'm home being sick.

i dislike being sick. i dislike it the same way i dislike snow and
ice. it disrupts my routines, my plans, my work. it throws a wrench
in the gears of my machine.

anyway, hopefully i'll be back tomorrow with something good for you to
consider. right now, i'm going to get cozy under a blanket and try to
sleep my way through the rest of this nonsense.

ghost

shenry's Christmas swap numero 8

so it's that time of year again where our merry little band comes
together from across the great spaces between us and exchange mixed
cds. this year's theme was barrel of monkeys provided by our fearless
leader. the idea is that you pick a song, and then the next song in
your mix has to start with the last letter of the previous song title.
bonus points if you can create a circular chain where the last letter
of the last song title in your mix is the first letter in your first
song title.

so, without further ado, i'll get into why i picked each song, other
than the aforementioned letter thing.

1. running from the cops by phantogram -there's a point where all the
other music kinda fades and a sharp staccato beat takes over just for
a handful of beats. it gets my blood up.

2. somewhere a clock is ticking by snow patrol -last spring, hip
hopkins and i were talking about possible themes for this years swap
and i mentally started putting a list of songs together for it. this
song was on that list, and i'm happy to say it made the final cut.
something about the beginning of this song, a small amount of harmony
perhaps, really says, "pay attention to me."

3. gives you hell by all american rejects -this song was also on my
original spring list. i've been thinking a lot about all the things i
should have said to certain people in my life but never did because
i'm just such a damn nice guy.

4. la water by helmet -helmet have long been one of my favorite bands.
they've matured from their heavy grinding beginnings, but i can steel
taste some of that angst in their newer work.

5. rickets by deftones -it's the deftones. i don't really know what
this song is about. i don't think i've ever listened to the lyrics.
but, the music touches something way back in my head, something primal
and angry.

6. somewhat damaged by nine inch nails -another from the spring list.
trent rezner always says exactly what's on my mind. it's like he's in
my head, man.

7. down with me by filter -anytime i think of nin i think of filter.
the lead singer used to be in nine inch nails, but he and trent had a
falling out and filter, another of my favorite bands, was born.

8. explosive corrosive joseph by john schroeder -this summer i watched
ocean's 11, 12, and 13 in order on usa one day and realized what i
loved most about those movies really is their soundtracks.

9. hurt by johnny cash -it's johnny cash. there's no need for an explanation.

10. hurt by nine inch nails -i'm always a little put out by my
students who think johnny wrote this song. while i love the cash
version, i prefer the original by a d*mn site.

11. two hookers and an eightball by mindless self-indulgence -i just
really love the maniacal nature of msi. they are to music what the
joker is to gotham city. agents of chaos.

12. low by cracker -i think this might be the only song i ever heard
by cracker, but it's one of those that gets stuck in my head, and i
catch myself humming it in quiet moments.

13. wretches and kings by linkin park -i really like that each linkin
park album sounds different from the last, but i also appreciate that
they give the occasional nod back to their roots.

14. star of bethlehem by angels and airwaves -Jesus is the reason for
the season after all.

15. monkey by low -heard this song on an episode of some show i was
watching a few weeks ago and shazzammed it. i haven't been able to
stop listening to the album since.

16. your winter by sister hazel -i can't put a finger on why i like
this song, but it's been a staple on my ipod since i bought the thing
back in 2003.

17. revenge of the spectral tiger by brandon boyd -i didn't realize
the lead singer of incubus had put out a solo effort until this summer
when i ran across it in a fortunate happenstance. i was pleased to
find his magic is still in full e.f.f.e.c.t.

anyway, i put your copies in the mail today, so you should receive
them in the next few days. merry Christmas, my friends.

ghost

a conversation with Pops and The Golden Boy leads to introspection.

what would you give up to follow a dream? how much could you let go?
would you go as far as to give up everything for a hopeless cause?
very few people, especially these days, would, i think. and those that
have, we call them saint or hero.

what is the mathematics of sacrifice? i mean, how do we decide what is
worth it to give up by what you expect in return? how would you
calculate that threshold? sometimes they are very rough numbers,
figured in a rush lest the opportunity evaporate while we deliberate.
much of our experience is like that. hurried decisions that lead to
life changing events. we've all built on such choices in our past.

i think no one knows himself well enough to really be sure what we'd
give up for a dream. we don't know what we'll decide in the moment of
truth until we actually get to that moment, when fate breathes down
our neck at a crossroad that will alter us inexorably. i don't even
think we can prepare for such a moment either. i think the best we can
do is hope and pray. i hope Fate will be kind, but i have no control
of that. all i can do, in the mathematics of sacrifice, is listen to
the numbers played by my heart.

and i think sometimes, just sometimes, i will play the hands i've been
dealt to their full potential and make good on this life.

ghost

i wonder if the fallen ever regret their decisions

my third job

had a student ask me today, "Tip, are you a trained assassin?"

"why do you ask?" i asked.

"you're a badass painter, you write books. i figure you must be a
highly trained killer too," he said.

"oh, well, no," i said. "i'm self taught."

ghost

you're asking for a big time out, mister

in a perfectly quiet room, no one is talking. one boy suddenly blurts
out, "you know, the popcorn button on a microwave makes life so much
easier."-d.l.

"i heard he had a boil on his butt."-j.s.
"yeah, i heard he calls it susan."-jeran
"look, tip's laughing so hard he's got tears."-j.s.

"i still can't believe your sister is pregnant."-b.h.
"i still can't believe it's not butter."-n.g.

"my mom always wanted a potbellied pig."-ghost
"i want a penguin."-t.b.
"do you know how much you'd get laid if you had a penguin?"-d.j.
"dude. i'm not screwing my penguin."-t.b.

"what is that, griffin?"-ghost
"i didn't want to draw anything trashy, so i did this."-the asian
"you didn't want to draw anything trashy, so you drew a gorilla
sitting on a toilet?"-ghost
"well, when you say it out loud..."-the asian

"why can't frogs have ears? they are so boring."-a.b.

i walked into the hall between classes and the first thing i heard
was, "no, i do not want to suck your toe."

"if you get paint on my teddy bear, i will rip your f*cking cheeks off."-b.h.

"i googled it. it said it can ruin your sex life."-jeran
"you have a tickling addiction?"-r.b.
"i think i do."-jeran

"i was so drunk i thought my finger was going to fall off. i woke up
with a bunch of band aids on my fingers and someone else's shirt
on."-b.h.

"that's sexier than socks on a rooster."-a.b.

"you're so f*cking cute i just wanna beat the sh!t out of you."-jeran

ghost

sunday night consideration

of course i remember the last time i was really smitten by a girl. it
was amy, eight years ago. and that smiting led to a true love, though
a true love you and i both now know was not reciprocated. what i don't
remember are the butterflies and the feelings of being smitten, of
falling in love. do you? remember the euphoria, the essence of
everything in your world humming in a sort of perfect harmony? there's
a sense of a sort of immortality that comes over you, if i recall.

i get impossible crushes on the fairer sex from time to time. i don't
pursue them because they are impossible, and i think perhaps that is
why i get them. they are safe. and if they were not impossible, i'd
lay money on them not giving me the time of day.

i had a crush on this one girl back in school. for the sake of this,
we'll call her jen. i fell for her in seventh grade, and those
feelings grew into a sort of love between then and now. i do still
Love her, and we are still great friends, but the love is no longer a
romantic longing. those days are long past. i never made a move, and
our lives are in much different places both in a physical geographic
and metaphysical sense. but then, i always did love her from a
distance.

there was another girl, a girl i knew as pixie, not to be confused
with my little Pixie the love of which i feel for her, no romantic
love could ever compete. pixie had purple hair and seemed to think i
was the man who hung the moon. we were really all wrong for one
another in hindsight, but when i kissed her for the first time back
when i was nineteen, it was like what S. Morgenstern described in The
Princess Bride. "since the invention of the kiss, there had been five
kisses that were rated the most passionate, the most pure. this one
left them all behind."

i hope i haven't grown out of it. those kinds of kisses, by their very
nature, don't happen every day. but let there be one, just one more.

sometimes i think i don't believe in love anymore. but then i realize,
i do. somewhere deep down inside me there is a hopeless romantic you
can't beat the idea of true love out of, no matter what you hit me
with.

ghost

what i've been up to

recent paintings. except the one with the kids. i did it years ago, but recently dug it out so i could donate it to an auction to benefit a sick friend. 

 

ghost

fisherman

in an old land, a salty sea churned beyond the shores. there was a man
who fished the waters of that sea. every day, he woke before dawn and
set out in the darkness, out into that broad expanse to cast his nets
again and again all day long. between the time he cast his nets and
drew them back in, he dreamed. he dreamed with his eyes wide open,
understanding they were only dreams and nothing more than the air of
his mind. he dreamed of never having to wake up before dawn to set out
on the ocean, never needing to cast his nets and pull them in, that he
lived far inland in a great mansion and that every need could be met
with a snap of his fingers. he dreamed this every day.

the man had a wife and a son, but he never talked to them of this
dream. time passed. he grew older, and his son grew old enough to join
him. when the boy joined him, the man had no time to dream. anytime he
started to drift off, the boy would ask him what he was thinking
about. embarrassed, the man would always answer that he was thinking
of the boy's mother. then he would change the subject, and he and the
boy would talk about this and that.

as the days and weeks passed, the man felt a change come over him. he
didn't mind waking up before dawn so much, did not mind going out to
fish, because he had his son with him, and whenever he was about to
drift off into dream, the boy would draw him back and they would talk
about this and that.

one night, he had a dream, but not the old one. the old dream had
faded away. instead, he dreamed he was out in the ocean with his son,
and they were fishing. when his eyes started to drift away, his son
asked him what he was thinking, and they talked about this and that.

and the man couldn't tell if he was dreaming or he was awake.

ghost

brain toaster

damn, simple existence has me brain fried right now. but it's a good
kind of fried, ya know? evenly cooked. no burned corners. light and
crispy. well balanced and still retaining flavor. warm to the touch,
but not too hot. just right for melting butter. and maybe syrup.

now, where's my brain-spice seasoning packet?

ghost

storm on the horizon?

trouble is brewing. i might be scarce for a little while i assess and
manuever my ship. forgive me, and if you're the praying sort, send a
few up for me. i need them.

ghost

an apparition, perhaps

silence is the loudest nothing you will ever hear.
silence is to walk where millions have traveled and left no footprints.
silence is time laid bare, when time is its most mysterious.

ghost

taking jokes too far

my friend, she's playing therapist. tells me no wonder i don't have
any friends after i make some off color remark.

"friends, what would i need those for?" i joke. "friends to bail when
i need them most? to tell me when i'm doing it wrong, to find the
cracks in my greatness? i do that to myself, why would i need someone
else around for that?"

"that's a bit snobby. and i never took you for a snob," she says.

fast forward twenty minutes and she hits something soft, something
unarmored, something undefended. a nerve perhaps.

"everyone leaves. they say, you won't be alone forever. or you deserve
so much better. or just give it time. who are they kidding? everyone leaves, and i am left to be lowest common denominator again."

the conversation expires, and we drift away from one another again.

ghost

two things from saturday

Tank eating chic fil a after his soccer game. he sticks a fork in a
nugget and dances it across the table. "fork riding chicken." then he
flips it over and says, "or chicken riding fork?"

and later tha evening, Pixie came and sat down by me on the couch
while Dimples and Tank played in the back room. she looks up at me and
asks, "who is your mom?" i explain to her that my mom died when i was
young, and i show her a picture of her. "she's so pretty. i love your
mom, daddy." "she would have loved you too, sweet pea. no doubt about
it," i replied. "i'll see her in heaven when i get bigger," she said,
and then jumped down from the couch and ran back to rejoin the others.

you know, so i'll remember.

ghost

*soul soup spill

i picked up another clue. now i'm walking on halos, tripping on
daisies, kissing angels, and stealing their clothes.

memories still occasionally dominate my view, but i'm lighter now,
smiling now, a new creature now, sleek and powerful and hungry. long
leaves of various shrubbery leaned by the wind blowing through its
courses seem to bow to me as i pass. i am looking for the perfect
purple flower. i want to honor my debts.

Hope, she has come back to me.

trace the outline of this soul and perhaps that's the whole thing, all
there is to see. maybe all i am is the outline of a person, after all,
a simple contour drawing. i still need to be filled in, details need
to be added, shading and shadows and the appearance of depth. which is
kinda sad, realizing how old i am. Desperado, you ain't gettin' no
younger.

i have cartoon dreams. strange things still happen. dream a little
dream of me. i'm the guy screaming, "cut!" before he gets the girl.

ghost

* five minute writing assignment/thought flow

orbit

i spin.

my wheels. the gears in my head. i am in constant orbit. always
working, thinking, considering, keeping tabs. like a satellite.

i have spent too much time, too many of my days in cities that never
wanted me. two years since she lied to me. this is two lies too many.
two is the number of the day, and i feel like the count on sesame
street. can you tell i spend all my free time with small children now?
i am no one's man anymore. i am no one's lover, bread winner, desire.
i am no one's confidante, no one's priest, preacher, or wiseman.

i am simply, daddy. i am defender, disciplinarian, authority. i am
cuddle buddy, meal maker, jungle gym.

and my children, steadily gaining steadier feet, new language
unfurling inside them like tree roots, they warm my heart. my babies
are stretching their arms, their legs, their voices, and i am, too. my
world is smaller now, but there are three of them, and it's all i
need.

ghost

detailed

i notice detail more these days. there are moments where i look at the
world and think i haven't ever really noticed so much here before. i
did not do this when i was young. i look at the same things i did when
i was, say, a teenager, and i see more than i used to. there's a lot
there in the everyday. have you ever really looked at a wood surface
and seen all the detail and pattern there? it's amazing.

of course, there's the down side. sometimes i catch myself staring at
the iron work of a lamp post and realize i've lost five minutes. i do
this in the shower sometimes too, so i don't worry about it too much.
there are times when i get lost looking at something, and notice
nothing of what's going on around me. i wonder how much i've missed in
my life, how much detail was never noticed in all that i've seen and
experienced.

i like that i seem to be missing less than i used to. i wonder if it's
a perspective born of age. maybe. maybe not. after all, i know plenty
of folk older than myself who seem oblivious to everything.

ghost

ordinary me

so there was an incident at wal-mart yesterday afternoon, that
stretched into the evening. what should have been a simple trip to get
groceries ended up being a few heartbeats of violence followed by a
great number of moments strung together speaking to police officers.
cleared of any wrong doing, i left, and spent the rest of the evening
reliving and considering the altercation.

and i started thinking that when i was younger i craved these sort of
deviations from the norm. i didn't necessarily want a fist fight, mind
you, but i wanted something to break up what i felt was an endless
monotony of passing days. after all, who wants to live an ordinary
life? who doesn't want the unusual? i imagined adulthood would prove
more eventful than my youth. somehow, i imagined the future a bright
place, like supernaturally bright. i don't know why, i had a good
childhood, but in my head, its swathed in dark colors, like blues and
greys and greens.

i've grown accustomed to the dark colors. they are cool and
comforting, mostly. i still want to be extraordinary, but in a normal
way. i want to achieve something. i've always felt i was meant for
something, though i have no idea what. i do feel like i'm getting a
late start on whatever it is i'm supposed to do/be though, being in my
mid thirties.

i wonder sometimes if i have misspent my life so far. i look at my
kids and i don't believe that. i look at my bank account, though, and
sometimes it's hard not to.

anyway, the sun is out and it's a perfect day. i'm not going to think
about this anymore. i'm just going to breathe and live the day.

ghost

i'll be a hero in my own time

last night i saved the universe, reality, and every plane of existence.

i was in a very dark place that reminded me a lot of the scenes from
Return Of The Jedi when luke is fighting vader while the emperor looks
on from his throne. none of those characters were present though. it
was just me, alone in the darkness. i couldn't feel the floor with my
feet. i assumed i was floating, though every action felt like i was in
water, like the darkness itself was a dense fluid resisting my
movement.

as i floated, four fuses, like those used to detonate dynamite in old
westerns or bugs bunny cartoons, suddenly appeared before me and were
lit simultaneously. i knew there was no explosion at the end of these
fuses though. somehow i knew these were the strings upon which all
being relied, and a moment of panic threatened to overwhelm me,
because they were swiftly burning away and i didn't feel i had time to
think of a solution. worse, i felt the presence of another mind on the
other side of the fuses, contending with me, an evil trying to destroy
all that is. i willed myself to hold things together, concentrating
with no real notion as to what i should concentrate on.

then a space opened above me, and there was someone sitting there who
spoke to me in the same manner as those in an old kung fu movie would.
the soundtrack did not line up with the movement of his mouth, but i
could hear his words nonetheless.

"when contending with existence, keep to the soft things. for even the
hard things must rely on the soft."

i took his calm advice. i put my finger right above my solar plexus,
the center of my chest, right on the breast bone, but what i was
concentrating on was my skin, on the softness covering my skeleton.
the fire of the four fuses faded and blew out. tiny wisps of smoke
curled away from them, and i was hurtled away from them, back out of
the detail of what i found to be a weaving of some sort, pulled back
until i could not see the fuses, but only a multitude of black threads
crisscrossing like denim fabric magnified to the nth degree.

my heart was racing, but i had the sense that i had won. i remember
thinking that surely saving the universe couldn't be that easy, but it
was and i did.

anyway, you're welcome.

if you feel the need to shower me with gifts to show your
appreciation, make checks payable to me.

ghost

today

i've been considering going back to school for my masters degree. i
don't want to write a bunch of useless papers though, say for a
masters in education. i'm convinced the people who write the
curriculum for these classes have never spent any time in a classroom
full of students.

i would love to take art classes, to push me beyond the reaches to
which i push myself. i fear i don't have the time to take the classes
though. art classes are generally three hours in class and then two
to three hours of outside work. i don't mind the outside work. i
just don't have three hours to devote to being in class.

another option i'm really infatuated with is a masters in creative
writing. that feels right up my alley. again, i want to be pushed
further than i am able to push myself simply because i lack the
imagination to create different types of problems to solve.

during my research i ran across a form of korean poetry called the
Sijo. Sijo is three lines of 14-16 syllables each, with special
attention to lyrical quality in the rhythm, and the last line usually
has some sort of twist. for example, here is one i created:

the flickering of light and shadow enswathes me, dances
mystery folds my mind in two and breezes brush away the sand
night is ending, and love, i find, is nothing more than a heart.

anyway, this has been on my mind. we'll see how it goes.

i woke up with the feeling that something amazing was going to happen
today. let me know if it happens to you. i'll do the same.

ghost

boon

this life of mine has been teaching me lessons as of late. i am
stubborn and sometimes it takes me a while to work through things, but
give me time and i will learn.

i imagine sometimes i can get it right. i am learning that things are
often not as bad as i imagine they will be. i am bad about declaring
war before i know exactly who to fight. i'm over the top with walls
and i don't trust anyone. i assume everyone has ulterior motives.

insert clever political joke here.

but, i'm beginning to realize that sometimes the wind is to my back,
and there is nothing before me but open road. it's been a long time
since i've tasted any success. but, i think i've just been focused on
the negativity, on the loneliness, on the pain for so long, i've
forgotten how to look at the good. and i have to rethink that. i look
at my kids, i look at Dimples and Tiny Tank and Pixie and i see bright
happy eyes, healthy bodies, and sharp minds, and i know i have had the
biggest hand in that. that is success, my friends. despite everything,
i am doing it right. i am doing the absolute best i can for my
children. i am being the absolute best father i know how to be.

and, i'm dreaming again. they hang like hats along my wall, ready for
when i'll put them on and imagine something new. i will taste now, i
will enjoy now, and i will tuck these memories away. time is fickle
and does not stay, afterall.

Heart, where shall i go? i would take advantage of now so that later i
will not wish i had used this time as well as i could, that i savored
of it all i possibly might. what should i do?

i sense sometimes that i might feel sorry for those who take things
for granted. they have only sniffed the roses, but have never tasted
any dirt to compare them against. i will fold the rose of this hour
into my book of days. there might be enough dirt there for it to take
root and grow in secret.

ghost

am i lying to myself?

there was a three page post here, but it was rum infused and served
little purpose. so you get this instead.

i say i'm over, that i finally achieved over. that i finally reached over.

but, sometimes, in quiet times, what you did sweeps across my mind,
leaking from this elephantine memory of mine. sparks. flash. and i'm
on fire all over again, burning like lava, like rocket fuel, like the
molten core of the sun. like the blood of a frenzied mob.

and i growl.

there are a lot of things that i remember. i've been told by many
people, especially of late, that i'm no good at living, that i only
remember the bad things. but i can tell you, the bad ones are only
this bad because i never forget the good ones either.

ghost

you are what you eat

"it says here, Romo gets two injections."-t.b.
"of midol."-b.b.

"pop-tarts are disgusting."-b.h.
"and by disgusting, he means delicious."-ghost
"heck yeah, i make sweet love to pop-tarts every day."-s.m.

"what if i completely screw this up?"-h.h.
"that's always a possibility."-ghost
"this is like hell."-h.h.
"there have been many episodes of wailing and gnashing of teeth in here."-ghost
"i've always contended that you're the devil, tip."-a.d.

"just you wait, tip. i can be intimidating."-k.t.

"eyebrow or no eyebrow?"-boren
"when the question is eyebrow or no eyebrow, the answer is always
eyebrow."-ghost
"but it's a thingy and a shape and stuff, damn it."-boren
"let's hear it for imprecise nouns."-ghost

"i just had the greatest idea of my life."-s.m.
"i hate when i have those."-c.j.
"why?"-ghost
"because they always end up miserable failures."-c.j.

"you probably shouldn't listen to any life advice i might offer. i
can't even keep my own stuff together."-ghost
"do you know those little emo drawings, like the one that says, "i'll
just pretend to hug you til you get here," or "i made you a cookie but
i ate it"? that's what you remind me of. so sad but so cute."-h.b.

ghost

with ice bag on my neck

it feels a lot less like living and more like simple existence when
the kids are not here. i hate this place when they are gone. the
emptiness and the quiet too closely resemble my life. i need them here
to balance out the loneliness. i'm not whining. i'm not complaining.
this is fact.

i watch a bird dart up and up and up until i blink and lose it. i send
it a wish to deliver wherever it's going. a neighbor gives me a funny
look. i didn't know she was standing there.

"what did you say?" she asks.
"a message. a wish. a letter to God." i reply.
"do you believe in God?" she asks.
"i do." i answer.
"i never have," she says. "i can't believe He exists."
"if He does, at least all my bases are covered," i reply.

my nose bleeds for no reason, like it did when i was a kid, like
Pixie's does now from time to time. leaning over the sink, the crimson
drops splashing against the porcelain, it looks like someone has been
massacred in there. i worry for a moment that the sink will stain,
then i remember nothing is permanent.

and if anything is being massacred, it's just the old me.

ghost

aftermath

given a little time to consider the storm that blew through me last
night, i started thinking about something my old man taught me when i
was young and repeated often through all the years from then til now.
God, i think, only let's us in on things when we are ready for them.
He never gives us anything we can't handle. call it preparation, or
liken it to off season training. it is preparing us for the big game.
my question is, if He is preparing me, toughening me up for whatever
is next, just what is it He has in mind? because sometimes now i feel
like i'm going to break, and i wonder just how much more i am capable
of enduring. everyone has their breaking point, right?

phil plasma made the comment on last post that perhaps i am not
patient enough. perhaps if i just wait, if i hold out, hold on, endure
a little longer, it will be revealed to me, this whatever it is that
comes next. perhaps then i can look at all of this and find some peace
in the idea that i've gained some wisdom.

it is strange to me that something that has been so dibilitating can
lead to so much wisdom later. i'm ready to be wise. i'm ready to not
be in pain. i want to be a good father, desperately, more than
anything else. it is my prayer that despite everything else, let me
not lose sight of that.

i shall try not to jump to conclusions, as i have done many many many
times in my life, borrowing trouble where there is none. i will
prepare against the day of battle, but not go seeking war.

Lord, give me strength that i might endure, and forgive me if i seem
ungrateful for this life at times.

if i am lucky, i might find that Love conquers all is a truth, and not some poet's dream.

omnia vincit Amor

ghost

how long

so, what i need to know is, just what i did to deserve this? and how
long will you make me suffer for whatever i did to offend you?

because i've had enough.

don't get me wrong. this isn't the sort of thing where i'm throwing
in the towel or giving up. this is me saying, ease up, back off, let
it go.

before i walk away.

what's that? sure, i made choices. ultimately it was my decision.
obviously, i was mistaken. but i've apologized. i've asked for
forgiveness. the ball is in your court now. how long do you intend to
let me languish, to hurt? how long do you expect me to hold on?
because you know me better than i know myself, but we both know i'm
not sticking around for much more of this.

this isn't an ultimatum. i don't do those. i'm just through with your
words, your sermons.

show me a miracle.

ghost

recollection

i wonder what it's like to live with no dreams.

i have had many dreams, though in hindsight, most of them were maybe
foolish and probably naive. but still, not to have any dreams at all
is probably different than having stupid ones. i look back at my life
and i remember having no dreams, when i was lost, when the inside of
me was naked and lost in the outside world with no anchor in the sea
of days. i still sometimes get glimpses of that world. it seems a
world away now, one of several i've visited. i never want to go back.

even before that though, when i was a lonely lost angry boy, i
remember praying. i remember praying to whatever was out there for
help. i prayed, then as i have more recently, in desperation.

strange.

i've never really thought anyone would answer.

ghost

i am the wind

she's an old tree,
her trunk wide,
branches high,
immovable against
me.

i frown and
push harder,
to no avail.
she's strong.
deeply rooted.

i pause a moment,
then gust,
following her
contours down
and tickle her foot.

i rise,
dispersing across
her rough skin,
expanding to mingle
among her branches.

rustling leaves,
exploiting weakness,
snapping twigs.
i brush against
sudden smoothness.

momentum carries me past
but i swirl,
spinning in delay,
take a moment
and realize some of
her magic.
her charm.

i smile as i flow on.
part of her magic,
carved in her trunk,
embedded in my mind,
an asymmetric heart.
two names.

she is the keeper of
fond memories,
of old love.
i sigh,
wondering if i will ever
leave such a mark
on this world.

ghost

binge

i've been on a binge lately. overdosing on story. i've found myself
empty and without inspiration, one of those occasional dry spells all
artists, writers, musicians, creative types wander into from time to
time. i'm sure you've noticed it in the content here. and the ideas
are starting to trickle and flow again, so hopefully there will be the
usual purge.

unfortunately, i'm also sick. i don't have time for it.

i am leaving here in about a half hour and heading home where i plan
to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head and get unconscious
for as long as i can.

i'll see you when i see you.

ghost

what do you want?

you've got the name right, but i'm not the man you're looking for.

 

ghost

for you

when you die
many people who
never knew you will
send flowers because
they thought they did.

the orchids
are from me.

ghost

first strike

"we could have been friends, but nope. now you're fat."-b.h.

"what do we draw?"-m.w.
"the set up on the table in front of you."-ghost
"oh, i was going to draw a picture of me and carry underwood getting
facials."-m.w.

"tip's written a few books. one of them is really cool. have you seen
cowboys and aliens? it's like that, only minus the aliens, and plus
ninjas."-j.h.

"do you think black people get offended by black markers?"-j.m.
"why would they?"-s.l.
"because it says negro underneath black."-j.m.

"what's the next project?"-k.a.
"a self portrait."-ghost
"of what?"-k.a.
"of yourself. a portrait of self."-ghost

"tip, i hate you. you ruined my day again."-m.b.

"your cookies got red dye all over my jacket. yeah, screw you and your
cookies."-e.k.

"i'm about to stab you in the fake boob."-j.h.

"you smell like coke. i love the smell of coke."-huggy bear
"the drink or the drug? because if you smell too much coke, that's an
addiction ladies and gentlemen."-ghost
"tip, you are the strangest little man."-e.k.

ghost

armor

back when i couldn't imagine a future for me, i asked this question again and again and railed at the sky because it seemed there was no answer. and perhaps i was a little afraid of the answer, though at the time i couldn't really put that into words.

"is there hope for me?"

i didn't have the courage to hear the answer, because what if the answer had been no?

i chose instead to hope on hope. and i climbed mountains and i endured physical and psychic pain like nothing i had ever known. i know i didn't seem like i had any hope for a while, but i don't think the idea that i would be ok ever really left me. 

show me a poor man with hope and compare him to a rich man without it. which would you rather be? and what greatness does any man have who does give others that sense that somehow things will be alright? what greatness compares to one who gives others hope? the poor man, though what little he has is taken away, hope will let him still smile at the world. the rich man, though he gain the whole world, despair will never let him rest.

alls i'm saying is keep your things. give me hope. 

 

 

ghost

forgotten

how much will be forgotten? in the grand scheme of the Great Wheel
arcing through the days of creation, i ask not what will be
remembered, but what will be lost to Oblivion's eye? in our world, we
sit at the dinner table and a crumb falls here, a scrap is tossed away
there. these are small things we do not even consider. i have imagined
the account books of the universe where all of those crumbs and scraps
are summed up, and the total is huge when gathered into one number.
and yet, we will never notice the total of this whole unthinkable
number. there are innumerable little things, i think, that will be as
if they never were.

still, another voice in my head says that nothing is wasted. how do i
reconcile these two conflicting feelings? is it a matter of causation?
everything, even the little things we lose, are linked in some way.
the scraps of actions we give no thought to, they cause another event,
build on another thing, negate a little of a third. they all lead to
something that perhaps we will remember. in that is our understanding.
we cannot see the grand accounts as i feel they should be seen. we do
not notice the infinite interconnections adding and subtracting from
one another.

in the end, i wonder if God will see the sum, nod, and think of it no more.

ghost

a thought

i like to watch birds drink from small pools of water. they drink
until they are satisfied. dipping their heads they give off little
shivers to shake off the chill.

i find it fascinating. i liken it to moments with my children.

satisfied, the birds fly away. i know i will never encounter them
again. they will probably remember nothing of the drink, not really. i
will. i will remember, i will hold it closer.

somewhere, i believe nothing is wasted. not even the smallest drinks
of water from the tiniest of birds.

ghost

gamesmanship

a friend of mine introduced me to a game called halo:reach last
november. he invited me over several times during the thanksgiving
break to play on his system, and i fell in love with the game. in
january, i bought my own system, an xbox 360, and purchased my own
copy of the game. in january i also blew out my knee again and hung up
my soccer shoes, so this game has given me an arena to work out my
need for competition while not doing my tortured knee any more damage.

often i play alone, though the team function is my favorite. i join up
with other players from all over the world and we, for the ten minutes
or so it takes to complete one match, are a team. there are also times
when i join up with my brother or my friend and we play as a team.
there are other times i play with a group of people whom i've never
met, but through games played together, we have become a sort of
online tribe. we chat while we play, and though i don't think we are
friends in the traditional sense, we do share a certain sense of
kinship.

last night i was playing with this online tribe of mine, and it
occurred to me that even here, in the make believe world of this game,
where i could say anything, be anyone, i still look for the same
characteristics in those i would call friend or team mate as i do of
those i would be friends with in the real world. loyalty, class,
honor, and a sense of duty to the team are important to me, it seems,
no matter what the platform or scenario. more than a few players have
been deleted or blocked because they did not meet my standards.
elitist? snob? possibly, but i believe even in this game, how you
behave speaks volumes as to who you are.

there's no reason for this. it was just something i thought was interesting.

ghost

me two

i was having a conversation with a buddy the other day, and as
conversations between guys sometimes do, the topic turned to women,
what we like, what we don't like in those we would like to become
romantically involved with. for the record, i do not currently have a
person with whom i'd like to become romantically involved, but that
doesn't stop me considering what i would like, should i ever meet
someone. one theme common to both of our lists of favorable
characteristics was honesty. we've both had our hearts ripped out,
stomped on, then lit on fire, so you can imagine it's pretty close to
the top of the list.

as i've been known to, i was thinking about the conversation long
after it ended and i started wondering about how honest people really
are. how many of us live two lives? one is the public mask, the
outward display we show the world. our best face, so to speak. then
there's the you that only you know about, all the secret thoughts,
ideas, things you will do your utmost to protect from prying eyes.
that's someone else. i lie to myself and think that the me that you
see is the me that you get, but i'm sure there are any number of
thoughts and the like i don't want anyone to ever know. i'm a gemini,
after all. two sided by nature.

my question is, does anyone out there live just the one life? is there
anyone out there with nothing to hide?

i suppose, despite my need for complete honesty in my next
relationship, some secrets shouldn't be shared. i don't know what this
world would be like if all people everywhere decided they'd share the
dark things about themselves with everyone they met. it might help me
tell when someone is lying when they tell me they love me, but i
imagine it would be a world where no one could look another person in
the eye, ever again.

ghost

little red wagon

i've mentioned before how the lives of my father and i have followed
eerily similar lines. when i think about the happenings in both, i am
at once both disturbed and hopeful.

when i was small i told my mom i wanted to play football. she wouldn't
ever commit to it and the discussion went on for a while. then, i got
it in my head that i wanted to be a boxer. i told her, and she signed
me up for soccer the next day. i had no idea what soccer was. i doubt
she did either. i showed up to my first practice in jeans and cowboy
boots. and a life long love affair was born.

somewhere in my first season, a ball junk punched me in my man
business and i layed on the ground rolling around in pre puber agony.
my mom was panicking on the sideline, yelling at me, asking if i was
alright. when i could talk again, i yelled out that yes, i was
alright, that i had just been hit in the nuts. which quieted my mom
and made her turn bright red.

fast forward 30+ years and i'm coaching my son's team. yesterday i was
on a knee surrounded by a team of small 4 year old boys trying to
explain to them that the ball could touch their feet, their heads,
their knees and their bellies, but not their hands. one of the boys
said, "if it hits you in the nu nu, you'll do this," then made a face
and bent over slightly. another boy giggled and said, "what's a nu
nu?" we are only yards away from the soccer moms chatting it up and i
am trying to suppress my own chuckles, when Tiny Tank blurts, "you
mean if you get hit in the nuts?"

soccer mom conversation ceased and whatever self control i had
maintained flew away like a plastic wal-mart bag in a west texas
breeze. practiced ended shortly thereafter. i was not embarrassed
like my mom had been so long ago, but i did laugh long and hard. i do
not know where he heard the term nuts. my guess would probably be a
cartoon though. have you watched any of them lately? ridiculous.

it seems my son's life may follow similar lines as my own. i believe
in that sort of thing. i pray that he will be spared the pain i've
endured though. protect my children, Lord. it's all i'm asking.

ghost

i won't apologize for the riot in my eyes

i feel.

i sense things. i usually know when the tide of something has turned,
when the wind of a thing has shifted without any visual, physical,
spiritual evidence of it having revealed itself. it's not always the
case. i have been blindsided from time to time.

things, occurrences, words, ideas, touch me in ways it doesn't touch
others. i don't consider myself special or unique. i think this depth
of feeling is true of almost all of the truly creative types in the
world. this is what gives us the ability to draw on emotion and
passion and pain to create, be it art or music or whatever. i think
this is what allows people like me to have such a good repoire with
our students, some of which every other teacher has given up on. i
think this is a source of my legendary stubborness. you can't convince
me of something i'm not feeling no matter the validity of your logic.
i am not easily led.

of course, it's also a curse. i have developed a thick skin where
most people are concerned. face it, i'm a high school teacher. you
have to have your armor on every day or you won't last a six weeks
with these kids. but people i love can hurt me with ease, and hurt me
in a way i will never forget. there's no defense for it. i don't know
how to shield myself from those i love. i am, to them, the proverbial
open book. and feelings are fallible. i might not always see it for
what it really is. it's a feeling, and there's no right or wrong as
far as those are concerned.

for so long, i have felt the need to justify my feelings. i've had to
explain why i feel a certain way, why i believe and behave a certain
way, only to have someone tell me i'm wrong and then try to convince
me to feel something different.

and i'm tired of it. i'm not apologizing anymore. i'm not cooperating
or compromising. this is how i feel. i'm f*cking angry, and i
guarantee you i'm not giving up another inch. it's my line in the
sand. keep trying to cross it, try to move it to suit your desires,
and i will f*ck up your world.

i am looking for something with whom i don't have to explain or
apologize for my feelings.

ghost

untitled

the world is a symphony of unfinished harmonies.
the cities bustle with walking shadows, our footsteps swallowed by noise.
this life is a fantasy folded in half and stapled shut.

ghost

i'm broken

i don't know when a woman is flirting with me anymore.

i think it's a confidence issue. logically, i know i'm a smart, capable, compassionate, and caring man, but in my heart of hearts, i believe if two women have thrown me away like garbage, then perhaps there is something wrong with me, something undesirable. besides my choice of women.

i'm balding. which is fine with me. hair takes time i don't care to give it any way. i'm not the hard body soccer player i used to be either. pushing carts up sam's hill for seven years saw to that. also, my affair with dr. pepper might have something to do with it. that was a tough one to call off, but i did about a year ago. as a friend described me not so long ago, "you're like a small gorilla."

last night, i took my three wee ones to olive garden because that's what they all wanted, and when i'm able to get all three to agree on something, i don't question, i just do it. our server's name was Gaby and she was cute. toward the end of the meal we were having a really good conversation and she started asking about the kids, which inevitably leads to their moms. i explained with some reluctance and she didn't seem to mind that i had three children from two different women. in fact, she still seemed genuinely interested. that was refreshing. too often i've seen the light of interest in someone's eyes go out immediately once they realize i've been divorced not once, but twice. it's like i can read their minds. twice? there must be something wrong with him.

the sad thing is, during our conversation, all i could think was 'is this genuine interest, or is she just a nice person angling for a tip?'

because i couldn't imagine what she could see in me.

most of the time, I feel like such a broken boy.

ghost

with my two hours last night

we are deep as the ocean
like raindrops in a dish
in tides of motion
riding a wish

your white sun dress
flows like rain
dancing slow
around your space

dreaming in sunlight
dancing on hue
from red to violet
and back to you

dreaming as you disappear
in a sad movie ending
knowing i’ll never be there
in pictures of you

 

 

ghost

of an end

a friend of mine and i were discussing her dread of her little ones growing up last night. while i don't share her dread, i do sense that i will miss my wee ones being so small once they've grown up a bit.  Pixie started school today.  Tiny Tank is returning for his second year. Dimples is in third grade. i dropped them off this morning, skipping my first period class to have the opportunity to send them off on their grand adventure. 

on the way to school afterwards, i had this small pang of longing that they would stay small. not forever, but for a while longer anyway. and that pang has been haunting me since.  it's not a mortal wound, but it is an irritation that keeps hitting me in quiet moments today. just like so many other small pains we suffer in our day to day. 

and i think maybe that's what eventually kills us all. death is not a single event, but a culmination of all the small pains and wounds we endure.

  

ghost

beet red

so the other day i sold three paintings to a very good friend of mine,
which, had it been anyone else, would have been a rather innocuous
occurance. this friend is matherly,though, and i believe shakespeare
must have had a friend like him, someone who inspired the character
puck. mischevious just doesn't quite cover it.

now, before we go on, i will take time to remind you all of the
incident at the bank wherein my three year old son commented on the
size of a taxidermied polar bear's "peeper" and compared it to mine
within earshot of pretty much everyone in the bank.

this is the bank into which i went to cash the check for the
paintings. as the teller is going about her work, i am waiting, not
even considering that embarrassing event i mentioned earlier, when she
stops and pulls her glasses from her face, looks at me, back to the
check, and then to me again.

"does this say what i think it says?"

i look. and on the description line at the bottom of the check,
matherly, my friend, has written, for beer and hookers. i feel my face
redden slightly, and the teller and i have a laugh. then she leans
over and shows the description to her neighbor teller, who also laughs
and then looks at me.

"wait," she says. "i know you. didn't your son make a rather
intriguing observation about you and that polar bear not too long
ago?"

that is the second time in as many years i have left that bank the
color of an apple. between my son and my friend, i don't think i can
frequent the lobby of that establishment anymore. my face has turned
red just recalling it.

ghost

lightscape

where i've wandered, the sun bleeds through every crevice.
my shadows have been swallowed by the dawn, i cannot forget them.
i am a stranger here, and in this place no one has a name.

ghost

breathe

don't let me keep you. i know you have a dozen places to be all at once. you move from page to page, quicker than a hummingbird. besides, there is nothing for you here, nothing you haven't already seen. just words.

what's that? tell you a story?  darlin', i don't even know where to start. well, of course at the beginning, but that's not the whole story. 

sometimes we forget ourselves. either by intent, or a slip of the mind. sometimes we are hectic and in need of a landing place. somewhere we can stop doing every thing but the one necessary.

breathe.

 

 

ghost

subconscious intellectual

i am so much smarter in my dreams than i seem to be in reality. it makes me believe that it is possible that the human mind is capable of much more than we've seen so far. i don't know if i'd go so far as telepathy, but then again, why not? we're just complicated electrical wiring anyway, aren't we?

 

ghost

look, just beyond your peripheral vison...

...madness is there.

sometimes it feels close enough to touch it. like when i follow an idea too far down it's winding path. i see it in brief glimpses, always just beyond my field of vision. i might reach for it too if i weren't worried about what sort of stain it might leave on my finger tips.

i'm constantly dodging and sparing with reality. i suspect i'll never get used to it all. maybe none of us do. maybe we lie to ourselves. we all have these imperfect pictures of what the world really is in our heads, and yet we manage. more or less. when you think you have the absolute market on what things are, you're pretty close to madness. when you don't believe in anything, when you think nothing is true, that's pretty close to madness too.

i supose that would mean that sanity is when you realize that everyone's model of what is out there is built on assumptions, and everyone has colored their picture of the world with the tints of their soul. sometimes you're right. sometimes you're wrong. we all get by on the little bit of truth that has weathered the days, and a little bit of faith that things are as they seem.

 

ghost

spark

i took the kids to the splash pad today for a last hurrah of the summer. i report back to school on monday and tank and pixie will both be starting the following week. We splashed and frolicked and stayed cool on yet another texas summer day. it was a perfect way to spend the last day.

i met a woman.

i noticed her immediately. what's more, i noticed her noticing me. the kids and i played for a bit and my eyes kept being drawn back to this woman. i caught her watching me several times. like high school kids at a dance, we circled and traded shy smiles for a while, but eventually the play paths of her children and mine brought us together. and we talked for quite a while, lamenting the end of summer and the number of unattended children making it difficult for our kids to enjoy the water without being shoved or run into by flailing arms.

fast forward a few hours and it's time to go. we're all sunburned and hungry and beyond tired. and i didn't get her number or her last name. i don't know why. i thought about asking her out, of asking for her number in the off chance she wasn't attached, but i ended up not doing either. i guess i'm not quite ready for that just yet. but i'll tell you. the rush was something i was afraid was gone forever. it felt good to be desired, if only for a little while. that's been something missing from my life for entirely too long.

 

ghost

this has been rattling around in my head for weeks

Suicide wrote a note of his own on a leftover napkin stained with horseradish from an arby's run, in big black block letters that bled through.

i can't understand why anyone would choose me. i do not deserve it.

maybe, just maybe, loneliness is lonely too. 

 

 

ghost

id e a s

ideas sometimes weigh too heavily
and drop through the floor of my mind
or they drift too lightly and flutter off.
sometimes they float right there, at eye level.
sometimes i catch a glimpse of some that
have fallen to the side or flown away
and i wonder why, once dreamed,
my heart lost sight of them.
sometimes they hover just above
the ground of my imagination
so they might take root and
carry me away if they should
ever take flight.

ghost

un der tow

un wanted
 un solicited

you

   step into
and out of my
life.

as regular as
     clockwork,
 a cliche,
or a stereo
             type,

more
   uncomfortable
     than a pair
              of
    n e   w
         shoes.

ghost

gimme

give me gut wrenching honesty.
give me answers.
give me secrets.
give me the thoughts of every single
person that's ever walked the earth.
give me the things everyone knows.
give me what we all take for granted.
give me abundance.
give me knowledge.
give me confession.
give me vulnerability.

i'll do you the same favor.

people are not dolls, doll.
they are labyrinths.

ghost

rune

last night the wind at my window spoke to me in a voice like snowflakes or waves and said, "i will tell you of your future." and so it did. as Stars and Moon laughed or cried forever far above, forever far away, i listened to the wind and lay in darkness and shadow, heavy with sadness and hope, but finding no peace. it's always the same. our lives are merely moments to the wind, which does not mark our passing.

so i'll ghost through this ethereal world like a shadow through a cloud, like the sound of a bell in fog, and perhaps in my own imperfect way i'll be remembered as one who was kind and honest, who was not too proud to go into the emptiness beyond without grand words or great works, and as one who was known to a few as a friend.

and i thought i heard the wind smile as i finally drifted away to sleep, but perhaps it was only the rain finally come to wash me away.

 

 

ghost

scribbles and bits

scribbles, dark spirals from prime meridians on scraps of paper. hand gestures and secrecy, so many people in this world and i'm so lonely, the destruction of weakness within the pattern.

my tongue is metallic, and you, i can feel your pulse throbbing in my chest. i try all of this to get away from you, yet, here you are, omniscient as ever.

the colors that run away like melting candle wax as my eyes seek light, the numb feeling right before drunk, the lies i insist on telling myself, that's what my world is reduced to these days. such as...

i'm not angry.

but i do hate you.

 

ghost

days go by

these sweltering days go past far too fast.

night retreats as the sun comes up over the horizon through my window. i miss the stars. i miss rain. a fight of nature and universal desire, my heart is growing rusty, non-existent. i feel like someone's college notes.

dusty and forgotten. but none the less useful, despite what you might think.

 

 

ghost

un poem

excite my pen in rhythmic phrase
exploit my poetry of days

i dream of life and life dreams me
and in my dreams my years set free

hello, i start, and stop again
ahem, that is, and then…and then?

many words and none will fit
where’s the clever? where’s the wit?

i think my poem circles ‘round
it stands and walks and won’t sit down
 
despite the fact i've naught to say
do it pretty, not blasé

 

 

ghost

rum and rambling

an email i received. "you say you want it, but do you know what love is?"

i wonder sometimes. but i think i do.  at least, i know what i perceive as love. if you think about it, you know what love is too. in fact, even if you don't think about it, you know what love is. the latter is better, i think. just don't think about it. just realize what you desire in love. it is that unspoken hope which keeps each one of us going day by day. it is a light we take with us through the tunnel. it is here, right here, right now. it is an unqualified yes. consider it for a moment. before any of that troublesome grey matter can interfere, your heart jumps at the answer.

until i find it again, pride and defiance, those invisible bones that keeps your back straight under the weight you carry will have to suffice. because i know some of you are watching, and i refuse to let you down.

ghost

 

 

to dream again

i want to dream again. i want to be able to let myself dream again. i want to dream again like i did before i became such a broken boy. i want hope in my life instead of this perpetual feeling that everything is going to be torn away from me again.

something has changed in me since amy left. for a long time i thought it was just the process of healing, that at some point i'd feel more like the me i remember being. i believe now that i never will. i'd like to say that this trial has made me stronger, but i don't know if i'm stronger or just hardened. this might be the only place i actually let people in. and here only because it's faceless and i don't have to look you in the eye.

i really want to have gained wisdom from this and not just scars that will never fade.

the damnable frustration of it is, i want love in my life, and yet i'm hesitant to pursue it, and skittish when the possibility of it presents itself. now, before you say, "hey, ghost, you're surrounded by love," let me just say, yes, my children love me. my family love me. i know they do. but it's not the same as having someone look at you with lover's eyes. i see my children growing and i know my efforts as a father are worth it. my family loves me because they have to. they're stuck with me. the rest of the time, i have a hard time justifying my existence.

i'm tired of feeling worthless.

 

 

ghost

some you win....

some nights i lose.

 

ghost

postcards

my life is a collection
of postcards i never sent.
or i should say letters.
because i've been known to
commit that deeply to a moment.
they are are all marked to the care of
the me i wanted to be.
i just don't have the address.

ghost

beauty full

it is not wrong to seek beauty. the circuits of our brain are tuned to the frequency of beauty. it is a part of us to seek it out and to love beauty simply because it is.

beauty, though, is sometimes hard to see. it is the treasure that lies in the field, the grass of which betrays nothing unusual. you cannot tell a hero from a coward just from the lines on his face, and you cannot measure someone's heart by looking into their eyes. we may get a feeling, but no other tangible evidence, and feelnings are prone to error. we are naturally suspicious of one another. things are sometimes not what they appear and we don't like being deceived. we want true beauty, not the cover up cream.

i'm not going to be the four millionth person to tell you that true beauty lies within. you've probably heard it so many times you can't tell it apart from the wax in your ears. what i am going to tell you is that true beauty is simple. for example, honesty is beautiful. simple truth. that would be the antithesis of that famous line, "oh what a tangled web we weave when we practice to deceive." lies are ugly. they complicate.

i think this is something i've learned. i find myself seeking simplicity in beauty. it doesn't matter if it's people or some piece of art. i look for the simplicity of the composition.

and i am finding that sometimes things are exactly as they seem. and that is beautiful.

 

 

ghost

veteran of the wars

considering the last two years. remembering how wounded i was this time two summers ago. it makes me ache to think of it, really.

there are places to go when you are broken by this life. you can disappear into a bottle. you can move on and seek out the mysteries of the next world. you can cower in a dream. you can crawl out from under and face the next day.

some turn to ghosts while still alive. some don't hang on long enough to see the sunshine again. some grit their teeth and endure it all.

me? i outlived Despair's killing blow.

 

 

ghost

 

batman and robin

somebody was doing something she shouldn't have been. and someone else probably put her up to it.

ghost

the price this poet pays

only Silence hears my laughter.
in a dark place, i choke on pride.
Reflection renders my body to the years
that your silence has consumed.

at the breathing cluttered center
of it all is a terrible stillness.
Nothing stirs the dust.
my screams don't touch a feather.
tornadoes of my words hardly part the grass.
i stare, trying to wipe the slate clean.

now more than then, i feel the fallen world.
now more than then, i walk a rotted plank
between the road and the lost home.

i scrape charred ashes from my belly
and write a letter to Nobody.

i write in a language that
i cannot read.

ghost

thought drift

i lie in bed after a day alone, a day of work broken up by text conversations, but no real human contact.  i lie in bed and let my thoughts drift, really drift, not pulling the reigns even when the threads become twisted. drift. and think of a cloud i saw earlier in the day that looked a lot like my mother's face. i wonder what she would look like now. she's been gone so long. drift. and catch a snippet of a tune from long ago, a song lost to me now. it meant so much to me then.

these are nights i wrestle with my conscious, and his brothers sub and un. there's a certain freedom there, a freedom to let down my guard for more than five minutes, a freedom to not feel the need to perform perpetual psychic housekeeping, to let the floor of my imagination sprout weirdness after weirdness. it's a sort of awake dreaming.

the text notification rings and i'm brought out of my semi sleep. it takes me a moment to gather the parts of my mind scattered through the astral plane.

it's all madness, the text reads.

no, madness is a serious commitment, i reply.

 

ghost

pages

there are pages unwritten in my soul, turned daily.
what we scribble down just to remember is sometimes immortal.
we often stare at a blank page, frozen by its potential.

ghost

this is my idea of romantic

when i saw this, i couldn't help the big smile that crawled across my mug.

ghost

catalyst

the first work of graffiti i remember seeing, the one that struck a chord with me, and really, influenced me to venture into "street art" was some sign on a wall in an abandoned lot in midland, texas. it was bright and beautiful, and it shined a light into what was a young, angry, emo before there was such thing as emo mind. it read, "i just feel like something wonderful is about to happen." i'm remembering that now because that feeling just breezed through me. it wasn't huge, but it was like this ball of hope rolled through me. ever get those? it's odd that it happened as i was considering a project, a creative project. i don't know that the feeling will bring about anything wonderful. i don't know. maybe something wonderful will happen. maybe soon.

hope is one of those things you can never have too much of. even if it's stupid. unless of course, you're hoping someone dies. i think it's all about kindness, after all. i remember reading somewhere that simple kindness is the most noble of human aspirations. hope and kindness. if you put those two together, if you can aspire truly to these two ordinary ideals, if you can hope when times are hopeless, if you can show kindness when all around is cruelty, if you can do them to the utmost, these two things become extraordinary. i think they have a name for people like that. i think they call them saints.

i'm no saint. and you probably aren't either. are you? this is my own graffiti though, for those of you still reading this:

something amazing is happening to someone right now. you just might be next.

sometimes life is good, after all.

 

ghost

Day Number 13149

so, i'm 36 today.

over halfway to 70. i will live, on average, a little longer again as long as i have lived so far. but let's be honest, up until now has been a pretty long time.

am i getting old?

i'm closer to 40 than i am to 30. and 40 is an oddly scary number. i've never really cared about aging. i mean you only have two choices in the matter. either you do or you're dead.  but 40 is a little intimidating. maybe it wouldn't be if it weren't a...a...wait a minute...if it didn't go into...if 100 weren't so easily divided by...

i used to know the word for that, for what 36 is relative to 100. looks like the queue is full. i never used to forget words or names or faces.

maybe i am getting old.

 

ghost

what the...

so yesterday my little ones and i were spending the afternoon inside, doing our utmost to avoid the 109 degree heat that was cooking everything outside. hercules, the animated feature, not that terrible series from the 90s, was on and it caught my kids' attention as i flipped through the rubbish that is daytime television. with nothing better on or to do, we settled in with some popcorn and some rootbeer. 

at one point hercules is battling this really evil looking dragon monster. pixie was unsettled by this monster, which never happens. she spent the next few minutes with her head buried in my chest.  as i'm sitting there watching, the monster eats the hero. then, the hero cuts the monster's head off. from the inside. the beheaded neck crashes limply to the ground, the severed spine and raw meat on full display to the viewers. i was stunned.

are you kidding me?  this is a kids' cartoon? frightening monsters and severed heads? visually torn flesh? i think a lot of kids must have had nightmares after watching this movie.

and it wasn't finished.  the beheaded monster sprouted three new heads, which herucles also cut off. it sprouted dozens more. i'll tell you, that scene was a hundred times more scary than any of the nightmare on elm street movies.

so i wake up this morning, and guess what. guess who had a nightmare. a nightmare in which some shadowy figure on a school bus on a dallas overpass severed the driver's head with a lightsaber and terroroized my students before i wrestled the lightsaber away from him and cut his arm off at the shoulder, leaving a wound that looked exactly like the monster's severed head from hercules.

ridiculous.

 

ghost

morning greys

shadows shift as i wake.
what i dreamed leaks out of my grasp.
sunlight moves in, crowding out
the sleep from behind tired eyes.
to work, to beat the drum.
life is short, but the day is long.

ghost

home?

this house, this space in which i live is not my own.  looking around, i've found lately i'm not comfortable here anymore.  i've tried cleaning up, straightening up as much as three young children will allow. i've tried rearranging and stacking, but the fact of the matter is, while i've talked about painting the walls and other improvements that desperately need to be made, i have been less than motivated to make them. maybe i wasn't ready to make them.  maybe in the back of my head somewhere i wasn't through with it the way it is.  

but that's apparently changed.

i look around and none of it is mine, my choice, my idea, my style. all of it is ruins of the past. 

one of the problems is that i don't really have an eye for interior design. but some ideas have been churning lately.  that and the constant discomfort make me think it's probably time to do work.

time to funk stuff up.

 

ghost 

the road

my kids and i return from a playdate and card game at my buddy's house a bit ago.  i hadn't expected them to last the drive home, but they are wide awake and hungry, so i whip up a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches. as they finish their snack and i clean up the mess, Pixie crawls up in a chair and  tells me i am, "the best cooker," and then gives me a small kiss on the cheek.

fast forward and they are getting settled in for sleepy time and i am curled up at the foot of their bed, just a presence in the darkness to put their minds at ease and help them fall asleep.  i'm drifting when i feel a small hand pat my back. Tiny Tank gives me a hug and says, "you're a good daddy."

and it occurs to me that no matter what comes, no matter what sacrifices have to be made, no matter what i have to endure, it's all worth it, people.

 

ghost

hold onto your truth

sometimes it seems as if your truth won't stay, won't last. you have to hold it tight, weld it on. and even then your conviction wanes so easily. two arguments shake it loose. it's not that i think you weak, just easily defeated.

better that i speak plainly, not imbuing flavor to dust.

 

ghost

any given moment

believe it or not, someone somewhere is listening to imagine by john lennon. for example, i am. 

talk about odds. and dirty minds. ok let's say there are three hundred million people in the u.s. and canada. i'm sure there are more, but let's say three hundred million for a nice round number. for argument's sake let's say a third of them are really old and a third are really young. that leaves a hundred million. one hundred miillion. fifty million couples eligible to be engaged in highly personal situations at any given time.

if the average couple has sex eight times a month, that means there is a one in three and three fourths chance, we'll say one in four, that a particular couple is. so any given day, twelve and a half million couples are going to knock boots in the u.s. and canada. that means 520,833 couples per hour are initiating sex. that means 8,681 couples per minute. one hundred forty five couples per second. every second, 145 pairs of pants are unbuttoned or bras are unclasped.

so if every couple averages fifteen minutes per episode, and incidences of sex are spread evenly throughout the day, that means that as we speak, 130,215 couples are getting it on. in the u.s. and canada.

as to what the odds are that one of those couples is listening to imagine while they are having sex, i have no idea. i do know that i am not.

 

damn, i'm lonely.

 

ghost

cover tune

the other night i had this dream that i skipped three of my classes for about five straight weeks, and because it had been so long since i had attended, i was was kind of embarrassed to even show my face. i didn't want to deal with the disdain from the professors or try to catch up on five weeks of material before the finals for the classes. i just knew i was going to fail at least one of the classes and therefore wouldn't graduate.

the only problem with this dream is that i graduated eleven years ago.

it is not the first college dream i've had since i graduated either. and they've all been set at a place that looks almost, but not entirely like my college. in the dream it's a dark place with a somewhat gothic look rather than the sundrenched southwestern motif of the actual college. it makes me wonder where we get our dream sets. not only does my brain create this fictitious campus, but it reuses it. it's a familiar place, and i always know where to go. it's not like my brain doesn't know what the real campus looks like. so why doesn't my dream set approximate the real deal?

our dreams are like cover tunes. our brains take the original and reconfigures it with a slightly different flavor and markets it as not the original but maybe just as good. this new flavor is one we might not even know exists. but it does. it must.

i don't know about you, but i always seem like i'm much smarter in my dreams than i am in reality. it makes me believe that it is possible that the human brain is capable of more than we've seen so far. i don't know if i'd go as far as telepathy, but then why not?  we're just complicated electrical wiring, aren't we?

 

ghost

last day

shiny fake baubles adorn all of your fingers. a couple dozen or more silly bands lining each wrist like some sort of rainbow armor. smudged eyeliner. spike haired and just now growing the balls to use curse words in front of others. high school halls, a shrine of profanity.

and the first time you utter the word "f*ck", it's under your breath and directed toward me? i'll tell you a secret. i'm far from sugar-and-spice and everything nice, little girl.

i hate to see anyone crying, but don't push me. 

 

ghost

season finale

"it's all so stupid. just f*cking stupid. stupid."-m.k.
"do you work for the department of redundancy department?"-c.a.

"everyone always says i'm so soft."-d=rv
"you're like a baby's a$$."-a.d.

"hey this is a taco and burrito conversation. nachos."-c.m.

"tip, standing on the table like that, you look like a m!dget. a ninja m!dget."-c.a.

"i need something small and pointy to make a hole. can i borrow a pen?"-c.r.
"use your pen!s. i hear it's small and pointy."-k.c.

"die. in. a. hole."-k.t.

"tip, your on an undefinable wave length."-zack the red

"don't look now, but i think you're going to h*ll for blasphemy."-c.a.
"is that a fat joke?"-j.h.

"no, tip. i'm not doing that. please go die."-b.h.

"hey, i've got an idea. go shoot yourself."-j.p.

"we're talking about unicorns. you're not a f*cking unicorn scientist."-j.l.

 

ghost

wander ing

i have been where the stones
speak in tones to ancient to perceive,
where the wind blows in rhythm
to the beat of my heart,
where time circles back and meets itself
at the end that is the beginning.

i have been where the dream is
unfolding, still wondering itself
into being, still becoming the
tomorrow that will never be,
still shaking off the yesterday
that never was.

it has no where to it.
it is all here.
it was anywhere.

i still remember what the angel said,
what all angels say when you
first meet them.

"be not afraid."

 

ghost

Ashes In The Fall

Ashes In The Fall, the new novel by yours truly is out.  you can follow the link over there on the right under writing down the bones if you're interested. 

ghost

fallout

so the art show went off last night without a hitch, despite mother nature's best efforts to shut us down.?? but we don't fear inclimate weather around here.?? unless it's ice. that's kind of our bane.

??

i don't really have much to say.?? i'm tired, and ready for a little break from these young people.??i just don't have any ideas left in my head to give them.??

??

so hear ya go. this is the best of Ourspective 2011.

christmas eve

trapped within a rainbow of wet paint, the scent of hot glue and cardboard assault me from all sides. yes. there are few places i'd rather be.

the annual art show is tomorrow so i am playing maestro. like arthur the once and future king, i will return. hopefully bearing visual goodies for one and all.

 

ghost

time keeps on ticking into the future

time is ethereal
and the points often
blur together, formless.

some instants happen
forever though,
played over and over
and over again.

born yesterday,
tomorrow i die.

today is my whole life.

 

ghost

pedestrian crossing

i'm a little p!ssed off that i continue to get hate mail for the things i write here.

"nothing you say is valid."

"you're boring."

"stop whining."

"you don't write like bobby or dooce or cee-lo or my friend ally."

so what? ally is only eleven, and just because she thinks she's slept with too many men doesn't make her any more valid than me or my current quest through the lands of Lonely.

i've got a suggestion. consider this site in the same way i do when the radio station plays that d*mn celine dion titanic song. i can change the station. i can even turn my radio off. quite the innovation, that power button. you don't like what i'm saying, go somewhere else. if i'm really "such a waste," take a page out of my ex wives' playbooks. leave and don't come back.  

what validates or invalidates me is actually what i have to say. which is whatever i choose.

so step the f*ck off.

 

ghost 

dream e r

within the Dreaming
songs float by on the backs of
winged creatures,
time is an air too
light to be inhaled,
vision a fantasy of luminescent
eyes who reflect
a river of candles.

mind is a toy,
whose reason conjures
theories of desire, whose
want is a mystery never fully solved.

in the slow,
i awake in a rush,
wondering how one
might travel so far
and never leave one's self.

ghost

news from the front

i feel like a bundle of newspaper that i can't quite get a length of string around. you know, if you're the recycling type, they ask that you not put it in plastic trash sacks. maybe i'm not, despite my marital record, very good at tying knots. maybe i somehow let some slack into the knot at the last moment and the string is now all loose and incompetent, and i'm only being held together by benevolent weather.

i don't suppose a bundle of newspaper is what i'd consider a stable structure anyway. it's built up over a period of days and weeks one piece at a time. it spills across the garage if i'm not careful.  generally i leave it there longer than i should because i had none, or, more probable with the kids around, i could not find the string.

now it's time to take the pile, the pile i allowed to get too heavy, out for the garbagemen makingtheir rounds.  i've got to get that string around the pile before the truck gets here.  it's chilly and i'm not wearing any shoes and i just woke up so my fingers are clumsy and the kid safety scissors aren't as sharp as my tongue cursing in the morning breeze.

i lift the bundle and shuffle out to the curb. short little bursts of breeze catching up under the top paper, expanding and threatening to loosen my weak knot. i drop it at the curb with the unique sound of a hundred pages crunching at once.

i stand and watch the pile for a moment, focusing on that top paper still billowing in the breeze, willing the knot to hold. the knot is off center now. i should retie it, but i don't. instead i run back into the warm house. 

inside the house i hear the bursts of breeze grow to gusts of wind as i prepare for a day among the living. i look out the window and i know. i just know. the knot slides further off center and a big gust catches the top papers and sets them to sailing. another gust catches even more and before i can get my shoes on and rush outside to stop it, most of the papers are tumbling away toward the good neighbor's yard, an invasion force of paper soldiers.

the bad neighbor would, no doubt, as he has done on many occasions, not bother to pick it up. that's another post altogether. but the good neighbors don't deserve my mess invading their space, their tidy lawn, their tidy lives. so, this is me, out in the neighborhood collecting my wayward garbage and stuffing it in a black plastic sack. screw recycling.

anyway, i am this pile now, freely unraveling, the knot completely untied. yesterday's paper sits on top, light and awkwardly folded. the wind has died down, but i wish someone would come and tie me back up. i don't seem capable of doing it myself.

 

ghost

show stopper

i walked to my car in the rain this morning. it rained all night and i was feeling good about a rainy day. the clouds grew lighter as i made myself from my home to where i'll spend my day, though. and now someone has a frowny face.

i enjoy rainy days. real rainy days, though, not a drizzle stop drizzle stop drizzle fiasco. who's in charge here? can we get some real rain? actually, i'm being ungrateful. it's been raining here for days. i want it to be raining when i wake up and raining when i get home. i want to stand outside in the rain for a while.  

one of Life's treasures is standing out in the rain. i love working in the rain. unless it rains enough to soak you then gets brutally hot. that just sucks like a vietnamese hooker that wants to love you long time. only there's no feel good ending and all you're left with is an incurable std. ok, so maybe those two things are nothing alike at all.

rain is dramatic. rain makes you feel like your life is interesting. think about the movie Seven. the best rain in movie history, in my humble opinion. i think if i were to ever make a movie, i'd want it to rain the whole time like it did in Seven.

sometimes you want anything but rain, like if you're planning a picnic or going to be on the road all day. but if you're indifferent to the day, you could use a good rain. it would be something to watch for a while.

anyway, i could have used a rainy day. maybe tomorrow.

that is all.

 

ghost

subtle shades of silence

have you ever noticed all the shades of silence?

last night, after my tour with the young thugs, i was driving home and needed a little quiet, so i turned off the radio and just drove. and i noticed the silence. it was a dark indigo silence wrapped in the mystery of all that was beyond my head lights. 

this morning, the sun was already on its way into the big blue and i decided to leave the radio off as i made my way back to school. once again, i was stricken by the silence, but it was different from the indigo quiet of the night before.  this silence was soft pastels. pink. blue. yellow.

and then i thought of other silences.

silence is the soft glow of dawn with your baby girl sleeping in your arms.

silence is gold and shining in the afternoon as your little boy naps beside you on the couch.

silence is bright and bold when the day brings you the unexpected.

silence is full of life as She tells you about her day.

silence is muted and dusky when the house is empty.

silence is black when you sleep alone.

 

ghost

of ghost and kisses and kat dennings

ghosts graze my temple with memories of kisses that sink through quicksand of my sluggish morning into this graveyard i hide entirely too close to the surface. you do not understand, and i can't tell you i push you away to shield your heart from similar ruin. i can, however, say i have placed mine somewhere secret and soft that i can apparently only find in my dreams.

..........................................................................................................................

i've been dreaming lately. i mean, i always dream, but lately they have been one after another seemingly from the moment my eyes shut to the moment they pop open again. the last three nights have been filled with incredible ups and vicious lows as beautiful dreams were followed by something horrible.  this morning i had a dream of what i'll only politely refer to as a romantic interlude with Kat Dennings. i awoke from that with a smile.  when i drifted off again, i dreamed of something that made me wake with a sense of doom. it was almost suffocating and makes me wonder if i was right when i said when we dream we touch some other place. how else to explain how dreams can fill us with such elation and such despair?  i know some of you will give me science and reason. i prefer to believe in magic. 

 

ghost