traveler

i feel like a traveler, even though i've lived in the same city for
twelve years, and in the city before this one for twenty five. even
though i return to the same house almost every night, i still feel
like i'm constantly on the move. it's an emotional movement, not
necessarily a physical one. i go from destination to destination, and
i remember my days when i was not like i am now, back when my head was
far, far away from here. life is not all a journey, you know, not like
some would have you believe. there do exist way points along the way
where we meet with strangers, each on their own road. places where we
roast meat over the fire and talk about where we have been. places
where we connect. in these places, some stop and travel no more. in
some of these places, people find a home.

it's been so very long since i've felt settled in my head.

what do i carry with me as i go? there's much more that i carry within
myself than the material things i've accumulated. i routinely shed
material things. the truly substantial things, the things that matter
most to me, are paradoxically the things we can't touch. the essences,
the memories, of friends, the flavor of love, the triumphs, the
shames, the regrets. things like that are what matter most. these are
the elements of home, a home i haven't finished building.

and i begin to wonder along this line of thought, and i wonder if
maybe there's no real home for a mind, a soul like mine. perhaps there
are only camps along the way where i set up my tee pee to weather this
storm or that, places where my mind rests for a spell. we make new
friends, new ideas, new hopes. some stick. some don't. old friends
fade away. others resurface and we pick up right where we left off.
and i'll call some of the places i rest home for a little while. but
it's not. i have written before that i have wandered so far, that
every place i go now is home. it means i've forgotten what the word
means. my mind may never rest, and sometimes i think i'll prefer it
that way.

and when i'm gone, i only hope someone sees the footprints i have
left, think of me, and smile.

ghost

a man who ran

there was once a man who ran from everything that ever happened in his
life. whenever something went wrong, he wouldn't face it. he was
always running. he ran away from his parents when he was young, and he
moved from place to place, finding all manner of trouble. and then
he'd run again. he lived like this for many years, a drifter taking
odd jobs here and there simply to eat. he never made any real friends
because he didn't stay in any one place long enough to grow close to
anyone. he knew, though, in the back of his mind he always knew, he
couldn't run forever, that at the end of each of us is Death, and
there's no man that can run fast or far enough to escape this last
thing we all face.

he thought about Death often, and it made him want to run, but one day
he looked in the mirror, and stared and looked and realized. he
couldn't remember how long it had been since he had really looked at
himself. and it struck him that all the things he had run from, there
was really only one thing he was trying to escape. himself. and that
in running, he was letting Death win, that each time he was avoiding
letting a piece of himself commit to a moment, he was letting that
piece die. he looked in the mirror and did not recognize himself or
who he had become.

and that's all it took for the man. just one long, hard look at
himself, because after he understood this, he put his roots down and
never ran again.

ghost

the ballad of saint calderilla

so a few weeks ago i was driving to pick up Dimples on a friday
evening, when lo and behold i recieved a text.

"hey, tip, i need a painting. how much do you charge for those?"-him

"first, who is this? second, it depends on what you want."-me

after he identifies himself, we continue.

"we want a picture of our fraternity brother riding a siberian husky
up a field of bluebonnets holding a sword and a baby. there should be
a rainbow around him, and maybe a dragon somewhere in there."-him

at first, i didn't want any part of this, but the more i thought about
it, the more i giggled like a little girl, and the more i giggled, the
more i hoped he and his cronies would acept the price i had quoted,
because i found i really wanted to work on it.

anyway, after some haggling, they accepted, and here it is. i think i
nailed it.

ghost

house

i dreamed i had a big house, safe and secure and strong, with rooms
enough for all of my loved ones. and they were all there, all at
peace, all well and smiling and in love with life. i dreamed i had a
house that was my inner most mind's idea of perfection, with every
convenience i would find useful. not just every convenience, mind you,
just the ones i would enjoy. and the days among my people were easy
and full of light.

when i woke, i had a moment of clarity, the briefest flash of an
epiphany. i thought maybe i understood a little bit more about dreams
than i had before. even when a dream is exactly everything you could
imagine, perfect down to the last nuance, it's never enough to just
dream it. suddenly, you want a piece of that in real life, even a
broken fragment of that dream, you want a touch of that magic that
startles you just because it is.

i dreamed i had a big house, safe and secure and strong, and all my
loved ones were near me, but when i woke, i found only the somber
disappointment that the dream was over. i never had that dream again.
i guess i didn't need it again. once to dream that i had all i wanted
to have was enough.

i don't need the imaginary perfect tense constantly playing in its
ornate dialog to accommodate the poetry i desire. i'm satisfied with
the reality imperfect tense that speaks gruffly the worlds i need to
listen to in tones that are harsh to my senses. there is little poetry
to my story, but i listen intently, and sometimes the voice of the
world speaks a familiar phrase to me, an expression flowing down from
the dream into the gravity of the world made hard like all that is
truth. those are rare times, like waking up when you're already awake.

ghost

p.s. for some reason posterous isn't showing your comments. be
assured i receive email updates of them. im not entirely sold on
posterous. i might be looking to change venues again.

wind

the wind brushes by me like
we have never met before.
my eyes are heavy with darkness,
the rain enshrouds me in motion.
i have wandered so, so far
that every place i go is home.

ghost

twice baked

"lucas, what are you doing?"-ghost
"trying to make a baked potato out of a water bottle."-l.h.
::pause::
"i know it sounds sketchy, but give it a minute. it could be legit."-l.h.

"train or dragon?"-ghost
"i'd rather do the train idea. it's more shapesy."-m.b.
"shapesy?"-ghost
"is that a white word?"-the asian

"it's freezing balls."-m.r.
"how would you know? clearly you don't have any."-t.b.
"it's freezing tits."-d.t.

"he's got issues, but he knows how to act. i don't treat him any
differently than i do anyone else."-ghost
"why are there so many retards here?"-d.d.
"dude, that's so wrong."-h.h.
"i mean, is this a special school and no one is telling me? am i retarded?"-d.d.

"are you giving blood at the blood drive tomorrow?"-c.a.
"i can't. i'm lactose intolerant."-b.h.

"i'm so excited to go to warp tour this summer. it's gonna be hot as
satan's balls though."-jeran

"it's because you're asian."-huggy bear
"i've had it up to here with your asian jokes. just because i'm asian
doesn't automatically mean i like anime. i only just watched mulan
last week so shove it."-e.k.

"you know what the greatest invention of all time is, tip?"-n.w.
"a cheeseburger."-ghost
"close. yoga pants."-n.w.

"my mom made me sit through eight hours of storm of the century on
t.v. with her because apparently that builds character."-j.t.

"i don't know. cheetahs are pretty fast. i tried to catch one once."-l.h.
"how'd that go?"-j.h.
"i lost by a landslide."-l.h.

"my eyes feel like they have a.i.d.s."-r.b.

ghost

a different direction, maybe

there is a hiss, and the oil rises to the top of the water and stops
bubbling. steam. the sound of cracking. the oil burner is fractured
because i stubbornly let everything burn away, dissipate into the
atmosphere, before i refill it.

nine of the clock and it's light outside and i feel like that bubbling
oil. hot with anger.

i'm chewing on a pen. some people look upon me in disdain. they can go
to h*ll. i'm fuzzy. like haven't shaved in a week fuzzy. all natural
this week. i wonder how long i can go without shaving. be a real live
man.

maybe i'm romanticizing a bit.

she apologized last night while i was dreaming about apologizing to
her. then i woke, and realized i didn't know her at all. i don't owe
her an apology. i don't owe anyone a d*mn thing.

ghost

on leave

i shall abandon battle, savor peace, and leave my weapons at the door
of my fortress. i will not violate my sacred ground.

i have, from time out of mind, dealt mercy to those who have none for
me, and avenged wrongs with swift justice, so much so that i find
myself weary and reeling from continuous assault.

i have walked past other soldiers in the streets, and heard their
cries run shameless as we gather for meals, for fellowship among
peers. i see the tired, shuffling resonance of their aching feet. and
in the morning's chilled and angry blast, i recognize the music of
their retreat as if i saw their ghosts before they are gone from this
place. yes, a furlough, a brief respite, a hope our blessings will
increase, and for a bit, for a little while, the dark symphony of our
small daily war will cease.

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

spring break is next week, my friends. and i'll be honest, i am in
need this year. i cannot say with any certainty either way if i will
post much next week. if not, i'll be back. though, i suppose given
how much my readership has dropped off, i should really consider
weather to keep at this. who am i kidding? of course i'll keep on. no
offense, it's never been about you anyway. but, perhaps it's time for
a change of direction. see you soon.

ghost

letting go

i am learning to let things go.

i know you might be thinking, it's about time, that it's a skill you
learned as a pre puber, and i admit, it's something i should have
picked up long ago. but i didn't. maybe i'm justifying it, but i think
it's a facet of the epic stubbornness i'm famous for. my brother has
always contended that i'm like a pitbull when i get something in my
teeth.

i've always been unable to let things go. i'm talking inconsequential
in the grand scheme of things things. i can't say why any one thing
grabs my attention where i look at a hundred other aspects, absorb
them, and move on. and if i can't let these little things go, can't
let these nagging questions just drift away unanswered, how can i
expect let go of bigger things? i think sometimes, if i have any
obsessive compulsive tendencies at all, and i assure you, even this is
a stretch, not being able to let go of these small things is the only
evidence.

but, i'm learning.

since amy bailed there have been any number of questions i've felt i
NEEDED answered. i've asked a few of them, but as is her way, she
avoided answering them or gave me some answers she thought would ease
my pain, though i knew were not the truth. my life, and the schedule
of events the kids are involved with, see to it that she and i see
each other multiple times a week. we often eat dinner with the kids
and while i don't know that we are friends, we make it as comfortable
an experience as we can for the kids and ourselves. last night, after
Tiny Tank's soccer practice, we took them to ihop for breakfast for
dinner adventure, and i noticed those questions that i've considered
so important all this time were no longer yearning to leap off my
tongue. that's not to say i don't still wonder why. i do. it's just
that the answer doesn't interest me like it used to.

ghost

decidedly unreflective

when i was a child, i remember the first time i had a jumburrito. in
fact, i had two, and was as full as i can ever remember being, but i
was convinced in that moment it was the best thing i'd ever tasted in
the entirety of all worlds. do you remember that? your food memory is
different than mine i'm sure. unless you lived in west texas. then,
and only then, could you know the divinity that is jumburrito. then
you would know the entire severity of the flavor that just takes over
your mouth, and the taste that is all there is in creation for a few
moments. i was one, savoring the flava. i swallowed it down and was
convinced that that was the one, only thing i wanted to eat for the
rest of my life. i couldn't imagine that i could get tired of the
taste. there were other things that were as magical as that first
jumburrito. i'm sure your favorite food memory is just as magical.

but then you eat it again, and maybe it's almost as good, say 99% as
good. but you can't stop there because it's just too delicious. you
have to have some more. so you eat more, and then more, and after a
while you get used to it. and then you grow up, suddenly you're not a
kid anymore, and you've had this stuff a thousand times. it's still
good, but you get the feeling you don't want it to be your only taste
for eternity. and you discover flavors down the road from there, and
that childlike sensation is gone.

i know that even if i ate the best thing in the entirety of my world
now, it wouldn't be the same as jumburrito was when i was a child so
long ago. i think i've gotten used to tasting in general. you grow up.
you put away all that stuff, the stuff, that as a child, you thought
would last forever.

yeah, you're right. i'm not really talking about food here.

ghost

3:04 a.m. on a friday

Candle, am i a dream?
by the waterfalls of heaven, does some
grand dreamer imagine my own, "i am,"
that i should take care lest any step
be the snap of the branch that cracks
open the dream, and i
be no more than a fantasy forgotten?

how can i tell i'm real, Candle?
my dreams once took to life too.
do you recall?
so how do i tell i am not a thing
that lives and breathes by the dictation
of a greater whim?
sometimes i feel as thin as air, after all.

as usual, you offer no answers.
i will live as if i matter somewhere,
even if i am only a dream.
some dreams have moved me, after all.
and i would mean something.
i, a simple dream,
can touch the dreamer too.

ghost

windchimes

i want to get up and go out with other people, make fun, make happy. i
can't though, i'm too concerned with wind chimes. i mean, f*ck wind
chimes, right? i'm awake and listening to cars speed down my street
and the wind chimes on one of my neighbors' patios. mostly its cars
moving too fast. i want to scream at them or throw paint filled water
balloons at them as they race past shouting about how there's so many
kids living here, even though its 2:45 in the morning, and really, who
let's their kids hang out on a neighborhood street this early in the
morning? but d*mn, the tinkling is really what's keeping me awake.

when i do doze off, i dream i drown. wake up wind chime doze. dream i
marry a serial killer who props up corpses in rocking chairs. wake
wind chime doze. dream about an ex girlfriend's schnauzer. because why
not, right? wake wind chime repeat. then my alarm goes off and i get
up and it's taxes and credit card bills and standardized testing and
people dying and sh!t.

and wind chimes.

i don't know what's wrong with me.

also f*ck cameron diaz.

"they" say someone will come along who you are absolutely meant to be
with. someone perfect for you. some girl down the road or, if you're
lucky, the person you're dating. i hope mine isn't a serial killer. i
imagine that would be quite the let down. even by my standards. i
wonder if i met her already. was i too absorbed in my own stuff to
notice her? will i meet her again? and when i do, chances are i'll
get it all wrong. again. i get a lot of it wrong. choices. free will
and sh!t. it'll f*ck you up. perhaps i should just choose lonely.
lonely and throwing rocks at walls.

i hate wind chimes. at least, tonight i do. wind chimes and cameron
f*cking diaz.

ghost