The Last Leaf

The Last Leaf will never fall.

I watched today as two leaves, the last two, fought to hang on to the tree that had brought them into the world. They flailed in the Chicago wind, gritting their teeth to put on a face for the other that strength and resolve were far from broken.

One of them would be the last to let go of the cord that had reared them, unsure of what the next step would hold, be it life or death. Would there be a whole new world to experience or would that world bring nothing more than dirt?

I looked on these two leaves that had grown up next door to each other and spent their lives together; when one eventually gives up the fight the other won’t be far behind.

If not the first to go, by God, be the last.

I wondered if the last leaf to fall thought the leaves that fell before him looked up on him and praised his strength. I wondered if he felt the call to join every single person he knew, as he stood there… alone. I wondered if he more strongly felt that he was in control of his destiny or if his destiny controlled him; would he make the decision to change or would change make the decision for him?

As the sun let the gray sky turn dark both leaves had lived another day.

Moving on...

This song has been in my head for two days. It comes back over and over again because it's made me think of all the people in my life who are in such similar places. Where is that place? Trying as hard as we fucking can to learn from our mistakes, perhaps pondering decisions we want to make in the future, wishing like hell we make better ones the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth time around. I learned from writing my novel that I have a tendency to do the same things repeatedly, expecting a different result, and we all know that definition. We all have a novel in us, but we express it in different ways. As long as we express it, I consider it written, it's through that expression that we learn about ourselves.

My mom said, "In order to find love, you have to know you. In order to know you, you must have the courage to experience and fail. So, in order to know love, you must have failed--hit a note with any of us? Yeah. Duh.

So, I come back to this song, and what this song says to me is that if ever there's a person who is right for me, then I want to feel this way about her, and her about me, because this song is about heart, that unmistakable hold that you happily, trustfully allow someone to have on you and that you have on them--two hearts together that can accomplish wonderfully amazing things that we could never do alone. I believe in this. And this song is about light, how when we shine, then we wouldn't trade each other for the most trustworthy source of light known to man, the sun, because we give each other the light we need to live. I've been writing about it and trying to find it for years, and I still believe in it, and I hope that never changes.

When you have 4 minutes at the end of your day, listen to the song in your ear buds and read along to the lyrics.



And I love her so
I wouldn't trade her for gold
Walking on moonbeams
I was born with a silver spoon

Hell I'm gonna be me
Gonna be free
Walking on moonbeams
And staring out to sea

And if a door be closed
Then a row of homes start building
And tear your curtains down
For sunlight is like gold

Hell you better be you
And do what you can do
When you're walking on moonbeams
And staring out to sea

'Cause if your skin was soil
How long do you think before they'd start digging?
And if your life was gold
How long do you think you'd stay living?

And I love her so
I wouldn't trade her for gold

Survive before you can feel alive

English: Bronze statue of Rocky Balboa at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, created by A. Thomas Schomberg, as commissioned by Sylvester Stallone. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Had a great conversation with a friend the other night about our hierarchy of needs. We may be fighting for our lives right now. Fighting to put on a smile each day and make it all work. Fighting not to kick someone's ass (in my case it's my own ass that could use some kicking). Fighting with so much effort to stay alive that romantic emotions simply aren't there. We can't force them to be there. When I look at all the women who cross my path each day, aside from those I'm truly honored to already have there, I rarely feel that tug. You know, that tug that makes me want to know her. What's her favorite color? Where does she want to go? Who does she want to be? When she needs it to be quiet, where does she find the place to do it? But every so often, the tug reminds me with a kick in the gut that I want to stop trying to live and get back to being alive, "OMG, I can feel that she's got a story worth listening to."

With hard work (and writing), I expect and look forward to the day when self-security leads back to passionate advance, because I'd much rather spend my time thinking about new ways to love than new ways to survive.

Trap, Trap, Trappings

You were trapped for days, yet you said nothing. Nothing that I could hear, at least. With your time, you silently meditated refusing to be frantic about your plight. And when i realized what I'd done, it was then that you simply took back to your flight. On a windy day it seemed your wings gave you no control, but after being trapped, I wonder, did it really matter what direction you went? Fly on, butterfly.

--

Charaxes brutus natalensis. Pictured in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania Français : Charaxes brutus natalensis. Photo prise à Dar es Salaam, en Tanzanie. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I walked out of my office to close the windows after I'd opened a few of them last night. Cooler temperatures at night, you know. It was then that I discovered a butterfly that I'd trapped between a window and the screen--a window that I happened not to open last night--who knows how many days ago that occurred. I apologized to the butterfly, and when I opened the window, it didn't move, perhaps still unsure that it was again free. Perhaps, too weak to fly. Perhaps, too deeply entranced in a patient game. With a flick of my fingernail on the screen, I nudged it onward and it swiftly flew into the wind and was carried quickly across the street and out of sight, blending in with the background on a journey to somewhere, nowhere, anywhere, wherever.

So, I wondered. Sometimes we accidentally trap others, and other times we're mistakenly trapped. Sometimes we have to panic and other times realize, with no other choice, to accept introspection and be patient. Apologize when you've mistakenly closed the trap. Or, if trapped, when the door opens... spread your wings and fly.

The 9 Lives of Truth

Image by Fred Dawson via Flickr

It's easier to kill love than it is to kill the truth; truth has a way of coming back to life. The truth lives in emails, in others, in letters, in this little box inside of the mind with iron hinges that begins to rust as soon as the lock has clicked into place—it's only a matter of time. And, when the mind is stormy, mental rainfall washes the rust into the fresh water supply and poisons it. It's only a matter of time... before you must purge the poison and admit to the truth. The longer you wait, the more sickly and infectious you become.

10 Things Before You're 22

A friend asked me tonight, "What are 10 things you should do before you're 22?"

My answer:

• Vote
• Work a minimum wage job
• Learn manners
• Kiss
• Read 100 books
• Skinny dip
• Change a tire
• Volunteer
• Stay up all night
• Balance a checkbook
• Babysit

What would you add?

• Travel alone

The problem when you don't know love...

Had a long walk this morning and thought about a conversation I had the other day regarding the rationalization of irrational behavior. The longer I live the more I see irrational behavior that emanates from monogamy. Now, I'm not purporting that we strike monogamy from culture and enter a great sex fest. No, not at all, there are too many good reasons to not do that. I don't think we should live in such a "light switch" world, though. It's obvious that neither "on" nor "off" are working for most people. In this case, neither people are happy committed to each other or sleeping around on each other.

What's the point?

I read an Esquire article many years ago that described the perfect plan for infidelity; it must be with someone in your similar state of relationship (say, both married with kids), this someone must live out of town and you must meet at a neutral location (neither town you live in). The article might have also said something about only meeting once per year for a couple of days since it's hard to cover up much more than that.

I think we can apply the same thought process to our everyday relationships... minus the secrecy.

A big sliver of the happiness pie chart is trust. If one person doesn't trust the other to stay true to the "rules" of their relationship, then irrational behavior becomes the norm. You aren't trusted to go out on a bender with your friends, to meet the gals/guys in Las Vegas, to run into an ex accidentally, carry a conversation with her and act friendly even in the slightest way--men and women both do this--suddenly treating the other like a piece of property. "Hey bitch, that's my man," or, "I don't want you talking to that dickhead."

Damn, seriously? Grow up or get out of my life.

If you trust someone enough that you want to spend the rest of your life together, then you should trust them with these ultimately petty situations. Problem is you can't. You can't because you have no idea what love really is--you don't know yourself, what you want or where you're going--so you don't have any clue what kind of partner works for you. And, because you're in a mad rush to get married and/or have kids, your life equation looks like this:


W x F = P
W = Weddings
F = Frequency of Her/My Girlfriends Having Them
P = Pressure to Marry

You commit the act of accepting a life of unsuccessfully but constantly trying to hammer a round peg into a square hole--neither of you are right for each other, but you believe you can shape the other. Now, change and sacrifice are a healthy part of a good relationship, but the degree to which most of you want your "other" to change is irrational, but instead of the risk of not finding real love, you engage in the ultimate rationalization of a completely irrational act by getting all wedded up for a life of frustration, complaints, constantly picking on each other in public (yes, you pick on the one you like, on the playground in 3rd grade! If you're doing this constantly as an adult, you're not in love), hours in separate rooms watching separate television shows (by the way, if you already spend most every night doing nothing but watching TV and you're not married yet... you're not in love) and probably, some degree of "cheating" because flirting, winking, sexing or having a friend of the opposite sex gives oxygen to the smoldering embers of mistrust that have always been a massive slice of your relationship pie chart, whether you admit it or not.

I don't think everyone gets it wrong. We all, hopefully, have examples of ideal couples in our lives--we want to be like them. In fact, we want to be like them enough that we believe we are without stepping back to look at why we get so frustrated with each other or partake in a jealous fit of rage or name calling when some trivial thing goes awry. Guess what? Just like a driver on the road might not have seen you in a blind spot, therefore didn't cut you off intentionally, a lot of people aren't in the business of intentionally being mean to each other. Just remember, it's one thing if it happens periodically in unique ways, it's another if it's normal behavior. The first is a mistake. The last is an asshole.

In this conversation that I was having the other day, repeated irrational behavior was rationalized by one person claiming to "understand" the reasons for the other person's behavior. A valid statement, but not rational, not enough to make it acceptable behavior. As adults, emotionally immature behavior is simply childish. So, why is it being rationalized? Guilt? Fear? Convenience? Yeah, it's probably a combination of not wanting to be alone, enjoying the convenience of the relationship and, perhaps, retribution for some offense that one person committed to the other. On this last point, you can't have trust if you aren't honest with each other. You'd think that would be obvious, but it's so obviously and frequently not.

Don't confuse guilt with love.
Don't confuse fear with love.
Don't confuse convenience with love.

[Words of advice should you ever date me: I don't intend to offend you. If I do then please consider it a learning opportunity for us both and teach me. And when teaching me, skip the part where you think I'm the biggest slime-ball asshole in the world and get right to why you were offended. Nothing aggravates me more than being told I'm loved to being told I'm a piece of crap. 'Cause if you really feel the latter then it's time for you to leave.]

So, if the traditional template of a relationship is broken for most, and the number of divorces pretty much points to this fact, why don't we change the template? 

We already do this with friends; we have one person that we spend most of our time and conversations with, but we've one or two others that fill-in or provide a completely different support function aside from the "best friend."

Can we do this with love, too?

Think about it.

Thought on a morning walk...

In the effort to get back in shape, I've been walking through errands in the morning and hitting the gym at night. Unfortunately, it's like walking through air soup here in Kansas City right now. At 8am it's already over 80 degrees Fahrenheit and the humidity is pourable. However, walking is always a great opportunity for me to think...

On today's walk, I realized that my inclination to "see all sides" reflects itself in my photography. Now, I feel rather silly even saying "photography" because I'm far from a photographer like my long-time friend PoppaZ. I suppose I'd much rather say that my pictures often reflect the reflections that my eye has a tendency to see in surfaces; as if we don't have the whole picture unless we see what's there and see what's in the mirror... or on the window... or on the granite.

I came back from this latest trip to Europe and noticed that I took several pictures that highlighted the reflections of what I saw. To me, there's something fascinating about this. If thinking about my book, I can see a similar tendency to look at all sides. There isn't simply the light and the dark, we're all some combination of them--all some blend of gray. In order to achieve our goals, we must understand the real world and the signals we get from the metaphysical world. With both, we accomplish our dreams... and our dreams.

I often use the light switch analogy, stating that I simply can't be with someone who is either on or off. The right partner for me is a dimmer, changing the light and dark based on the situation or the circumstance or the mode or the feeling. This was never more evident than with the young woman I dated from a nearby city who consumed everything at a rapid pace--she was either running full-speed or dead to the world--that I once asked her why she was always in such a hurry. Her response, she didn't want to miss anything wherever she was going. Now, I eat my meals quickly, for example, but I'm never in a hurry to get up from the table. I like to take in the moment, admire my environment, stroll through the park, consume a book in the shade and cool breeze off the lake.

Now that I think about it more, this concept of "dimming" was very apparent in my couple of weeks with a former lover turned friend in Sweden. We made a wonderful team making meals, cleaning, planning, taking it easy, talking, exercising... there was no rush, even when there was some demand to get out of the summer house, into some nice clothes and visit a restaurant. We both adjusted to levels of light that complemented one another. That was nice, I must say. Now, if my teammate wasn't 6000 miles away...

I have a few hours today that I will be able to use on my novel. After yesterday's shredding (a self-edited, disheartening endeavor), I feel more like my own harsh criticisms are today's words of progress as soon as I fix the wrongs that I discovered. But first, GO USA!

Are you there, Love?

When I've gotten enough sleep, I wake up. Sounds simple, doesn't it? However, there's a huge difference between waking up and actually getting up. I usually only need about 7 hours of sleep and then I'm rested and ready for action. If those 7 hours end around 3 or 4 in the morning, I seldom actually get up. And, when I go back to sleep those crazy dreams get to work.

Image by Ramona.Forcella via Flickr

Take, for example, a morning last week. I rolled over after 7 hours of sleep and began to nod off. Suddenly, a female voice screamed inside of my head, "HERE!" Oddly, I knew it was inside of my head (there are times when I'm unsure whether it's inside of my head or in the real world). I immediately snapped fully alert and wondered, "Where?"

I got no answer.

You may or may not know that my book is about the convergence of the metaphysical world with the real world to meet the love of your dreams. That concept stayed with me as I pondered where "here" might really be... there was no other woman in the house, let alone my bed.

So love, if you're really here, shout at me again so I can start walking toward the sound of your voice this time.

I wonder...

I wonder…

Image via Wikipedia

The early years of life are spent focused on the future: learning manners, coddling dreams, gaining education and experience. We think often about what we want to become.

Then, we graduate.

We become less focused on who we want to be and more on who we are. Perhaps, being saddled with debt might prioritize the now, or gaining an understanding of our new reality. We’re practically adolescents again—wanting to hold tightly to our parties, but also wanting the new car smell of things we could never before afford—so we straddle this fence between children and adults.

Some friends take the leap by standing tall on the top fence post and leaping into the mirage of what’s to come only to realize that the mirage was a dense fog hiding the unknown. Life can no longer be fixed with a shot of Jagermeister. When they’ve beat themselves up over the mistake, they come crawling back to the fence, barely able to support the unexpected weight upon their shoulders. The future came calling well before they thought the check was due, and the bill broke the bank.

Others never come back to the fence. Instead, they sit on the hillside watching the reels of a life that they once had and wish they could have back. Some invisible tether keeps them chained to a rock on the backside of the hill. Their future has them locked in a lifelong, self-imposed cell.

And then there are those like me who’ve been balancing on the fence for so long that it’s difficult for us to leave. We’re so focused on the now that we’ve forgotten how to think about our futures. We chuckle when the thought of taking a class or changing careers for some opportunity that might present itself years down the road. Why bother when I’m free to change—right here, right now—every single day. There are no significant others, spouses, or kids to hold us down—a freedom that keeps many of us just as isolated from the future as the rest.

How does this manifest itself? For me, I too often think about the things that I would lose if I decided to pursue something that might actually give me what I really want. Thoughts are clouded in the now by the required sacrifice that accomplishment requires.

Yes, I wonder…

When angels go clackity-clack

The young women across from me on the train cried into her mobile phone. I didn’t know the reason, her language being far different from mine. With nowhere to hide her emotion, she peered into the dark window, night just beyond the glass, and used her own reflection to wipe the mascara from beneath her eyes.

Image by MichelKuik via Flickr

She reminded me of someone that I once knew briefly, but intimately. I couldn’t recall her name, only her face; enough that I was drawn to her despite the language, culture, and age differences between us.

When I could see that her call had ended, I asked, “Are you okay?”

She looked at me quizzically, translating my words into her own language, then answered, “Yes, yes,” shrugging off the question from a stranger, as we are all prone to do.

“I don’t have your answer, don’t even need to know about your struggle, sometimes just being asked if you’re okay is all you need,” I added.

Her guard receded and she admitted, “Yes, you’re right.”

I bowed my head to her as a sign that I had nothing more to say. As I returned to my book a thought occurred to me: often in my life an angel has appeared, ever so briefly, when I’m struggling. However, times had been much worse than this; I didn’t feel the need for relief or attention. I simply needed time to think about the course of my life over the past month.
And then it hit me: I’m her angel. Yes. Exactly. The edges of my mouth curled up secretly and I felt the flood of karmic warmth fill my soul. It felt good; a moment of warmth in what had become my own chilly departure.

Ten minutes later the train stopped and we went our separate ways only to take two different routes to the next train’s platform. As she lit up a cigarette I knew who she reminded me of: someone that once told me she never planned on living very long.

Just waitin' on a train...

Image via WikipediaThinking, always a good idea, and I took the time to do some this week. My life has been about a combination of searching and waiting; seems like when I find what I’m looking for I must still spend much time earning and waiting to actually have it. No qualms here, I’m thankful for where this patience has taken me.

This weekend, the most impatient person I’ve ever met is getting exactly what she wants and on the time line that she wants it. She’s lucky, very lucky… on one hand. On the other, her recklessness could once again prove to be an out-of-control locomotive hell bound for destruction.

Fortunately, I got out of the way; slipped to the side of the train as it roared past, hot air on my face, smell of smoke in the air that prompted me to squint and wince. I could still hear the bellowing whistle screaming into the air months later. I once asked the conductor, “Why are you always in such a hurry?” She replied, “Because I don’t want to miss anything at the next station.”

Little did she know, when you’re always going you’re never arriving.

When with her, she said that within one year, she was going to marry a man and make a baby; that it was time for her to do such things. These words flew at me, regardless of who I was or whoever might be sitting across from her at the time when it was time. And that was not the train that I wanted to ride—one that never slows down long enough for me to enjoy the scenery or *gulp* actually get off without cracking my skull on the leap.

I-need-a-man-I-need-a-man-I-need-a-man.
WHOOOOOO! WHOOOOOO!

All I can say is that I hope a true railroad man is getting his ticket punched, one that doesn’t mind shoveling coal into the engine day and night to keep that boiler burning bright. Because as long as the train gets what the train wants… then the train is happy.

Me? I’ll chew on a piece of straw on a bench at the station until I spy someone pondering the arrivals and departures with few cares in the world and no rush to do anything but travel by my side.

WHOOOO! WHOOOO!

Do you want to love forever?

Dear friends and family: This is not me talking; it is for my novel. *asterisktattoo* Don't freak out.

"I never planned on living very long, anyway," she said. I tried to hide my surprise. My lungs had yet to catch up to the fevered session we'd recently completely, and I couldn't fathom not wanting to live long enough to destroy the sheets on my bed once again—to explore the presence and emotion of this woman.

--

Image by funadium via FlickrDays later, I sat in a bar, oatmeal stout by my side, pondering the meaning of life when you’ve decided not to make it last. Where do we go? Nobody knows. What if I decided that to not live much longer? I once heard my Dad say that he didn’t plan on old age—it didn’t strike me one way or the other, which has nothing to do with our relationship—because shit happens and you never know.

But, what of this conscious choice? Does it mean that I can indulge in alcohol, cocaine, fast food, and nicotine like they were just recently procured during one night with an orange pumpkin and a costume to hide my real age. Can I blow all of my money on high-end call girls who don’t care about condoms or STDs—invite all the chicks and dudes over for a month-long powder, weed, and champagne orgy on my dime? And, shit, thinking of money, why make any more, just blow all of it that’s sleeping in the bank—it’s not making much interest, so why not spend it interestingly?

Do it. Write about it.

Fuck, I’ll not take the higher ground here, maybe my weekly intake of Reduced Fat Cheez-It is the same damn thing. And, add on top of that the promise to name my first kids after the pizza and delivery drivers—oddly enough, they have the same name even though they’re not the same person, Chin—and the fact that I’ve given up on exercise because it cuts into the time I have to drink wine… well, I’m on the fast track to less life anyway.

Forget tomorrow, what if I died right now? What if an out-of-control car jumped the curb, smashed through the window of this pub, and the license plate kissed me harshly on my forehead? What if? What would I leave behind?

Would you cry over spilt stout?

Aside from family and friends—there are no girlfriends, wives, ex-wives, or kids—what mark would I have left on the world? The story that I’ve been writing for a couple of years is pieced together enough that someone could finish rewriting the tale—at least, the first book of the tale—and that might be enough to make people think about their lives. With hope, it may even cause a few to stop, to think about whom they are before they lunge into the societal and political morass of love. Riiight.

I haven’t accomplished all that I would like to accomplish in this life—not by a long shot—but I’ve definitely lived: red carpets, yachts, international travel, drinks with celebrities, love, sex on mahogany boardroom tables, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll, maaan. And, because I’ve lived, I’d like to believe that I don’t fear death. Of course, I’ve never been in a plane with an inevitable impact with the ground. I’ve never been strapped to a chair while a serial killer slowly removed parts of my body. Yeah, I think about that shit, who doesn’t? But, extreme scenarios aside, if asked to watch the movie of me, it’d be some entertaining shit. Yeah, I’ve lived.

So the question remains (unanswered), why plan on living longer? Burn out or fade away? Why did her brazen comment, laden with confidence, strike me the wrong way? Why would I care when her perfect, naked body, nipples still taut from her fingers pinching them as we climaxed, lay there exposed to me and whatever whims my creative mind could conjure?

Because you fall in love with the idea of love.

When I find love, I will want it to last. To what end? Up until now, I’d always defined “last” as “as long as we’re both alive.” But, why does that have to be a requirement? There is no love bible that says true love lasts forever. Shit. Nevermind. That whole “‘til death do us part” thing rather countermands the idea because there is a bible that dictates the longevity of love. Fuck that. Just because we fall in love doesn’t mean that we’ll be in love forever. I’m too much of a relativist to believe in that—circumstances change. Shit happens.

If we both fall in love, do we both want it to last? We could easily both say “fuck it,” burn the candle from both ends, and leave a note with a friend to bury us in the expensive compact sports car we bought so we could wrap it around an oaken hardwood while she sat on my lap with her bare feet up against the front windshield—fucking and driving too fast, all at the same time.

Goin’ down, in a blaze of glory.

Yeah, it’s possible. Satisfying? I don’t know; I’ve never thought about rushing to the finish line because I never thought of love as a race. Even “keeping score” is a fantastic way to drive a wedge between two lovers. Now, I’ve done it—meaning, I’ve been in a relationship that was hell-bent toward death, and it did nearly kill me. Picture a man who can’t get up from the floor—hasn’t eaten, hasn’t had anything to drink, hasn’t showered, hasn’t left the carpet for weeks except to crawl to the bathroom and piss, and even that had been days ago—the phone rings and, oddly, he decides to answer. The voice on the other end will forever have a home in his heart, because it was the voice that reached down into the dry, dark well and offered him a hand; it was the voice of her mother, “I know you love her—we all know—and we love her, too. She’s my daughter, but—this is hard to say because you’ve been better for her than any other man she’s ever been with—leave her before she kills you.” I cried. I cried until there was nothing left inside of me.

Don’t belittle the carnage of emotional over physical death. Looking down from the top of the slippery slope is close enough that the next step is the slippery slope. Gravity is a bitch. It took everything inside of me not to follow her face, her body, the challenge of helping her get right; this “everything” equal to a new understanding of my strengths and reserves. It took everything not to take the next step down the slope. It hurt—like a motherfucker—like no other hurt ever before and ever since. I didn’t taste the end, but I could see it. I didn’t like it, but I made a promise and I had to break it.

I believe—that said, I want to believe—that true love searches and or waits for me to find it. And, hypothetically, if true love lasts a minute, then it’s a minute forever etched on my heart. At least, I’ll know what it felt like. And, if it comes along again, I’ll recognize it.

“I never planned on living very long, anyway,” she said.

Do you want to love forever?

The Life of No

No. It's been around for centuries, though I can really only say much about its impact on my lifetime. So, let’s start there...

In my teenage years, No meant No. That was when I began to ponder this word that's short in stature, but quite omnipotent. Two letters. Stop the presses. Simply say "No" and that will suffice. I respected this word. I even used the word and expected action to cease. Perfectly pithy.

But then, like a curious four-year old, No became followed by why. No. Why? Now, let me say that I'm not opposed to the why, but it's not a post-requisite for the No, simply a means to better understand the No. The why is offered at the whim of the No. In reality, the why opens up the door to interpret the No, which is not always a good idea, especially when the recipient of the No disagrees with the No.

Therefore, to counteract the asking of why, No-givers have begun to not just say no, but to say, "No, and here’s why" in an attempt to cover every possible why that could ever be asked. And, the No often covers all temporal states of the No.

• The Past: You should have said so sooner.
• The Present: I’m not ready for this.
• The Future: I don’t know where I’ll be.

No more pith. No now enjoys maximum verbosity. No takes the stage, soaks up the lights and basks in soliloquy. No. No-no-no-no-no-no. Imperviously overabundant.

It has become a no-no. (shakes finger back and forth). It's time to say, "I heard you the first time, thanks," and move on. Let No return to one simple word with the unspoken why: it's just not right for me. The verbose No serves to undermine the credibility of the No itself; it invites criticism. "It's just not right for me," leaves nothing left to debate.

Now, as I grow older, I expect my No to resist the temptation to assert itself. Saying no just to say no will eventually become passé. Why? Because we’ll take the time to think about why we'd say no instead of simply reacting with the No because we don’t know. No fear.

I've come to believe that we're always ready for the Yes, when the Yes is what's right. And, we often have to think about the Yes before we know. Start from the Yes and seek reasons to say no. You know?

I’ll say no more. Will you?

Love's Investment Risk

There is a dollar bill somewhere in the world. I know where I left it, but I no longer know if it is there. On one side, a Sharpie marker blacked out all but what was left in the negative space (which I'll keep to myself). The artistry was done during a time when I once thought there was One Martha. In other words, at some point over the past six years when I visited this simple, small fisherman's bar somewhere along the Monterrey-Salinas highway I left behind a mark of my love--and bought myself more patience for the hope that my investment would someday pay off. The bar exists where you'd wonder how any bar like it could survive. And, much like my love, I thought it unique; that its return would come from its location.

Each year, or thereabouts, when bills have completely covered the walls, ceiling, and columns of this place, they pull them down one by one and donate them to a great cause. And since that time, my love has been pulled down from public view. It's worn for the cause, but still legal tender.

Like I said when I began, I don't know where my bill has gone, but I have faith that it has gone to a greater cause. It has done good in the world. I will choose to do the same. I will return to my intended purpose. I have a story to sell.

Melt Your Face Off

Image by justinhenry via Flickr

Drove back to Fayetteville from Kansas City yesterday afternoon with entirely too much to contemplate; of the many ways to respond, which would be the best for all involved? My mind and my body were mush from an insane work week and no opportunity to recuperate with family in town over the weekend. So, I drove autonomously. No thoughts. No music. Made one phone call. Vented.

Yet, even though I was doing 75 mph I didn't feel like I was getting anywhere.

So, I changed my environment. In the 85 degree weather, I rolled up the windows and flipped on the heater to max heat and max fan. For a half an hour I melted my face off. Felt the sweat rolling down my legs and the small of my back expunging the toxic thoughts into the air for them to diffuse into nothing. And, I actually felt better. Mobile sauna.

Towards the end of the half hour I was checking the time on my phone every few minutes; it was becoming a bit much to take. Then came relief--passive cooling--the breeze on wet skin like eating a Klondike bar (ok, not quite).

When you've been doing and saying the same thing over and over for years with no change in result, then you have to change something. I turned up the heat.

Did I get anywhere? In mind, not really. In body, I got home to my bed and slept for 12 hours.

Thoughts that didn't want to be poetic...

A close friend said to me a few weeks ago, "I'm still working on myself." I was struck by the obvious: of course you are. To me, it's the nature of life to be constantly learning, reading, thinking, working on one's self. I want to understand how to run a better brainstorming session. I want to read more about story-telling. I want to be a better writer. I want to improve upon the strength that my shoulder and my ear often lend to others struggling with life's decisions.

Image by nerovivo via Flickr

Yes, I think we should all be "working" on ourselves.

The problem arises when working on yourself gets in the way of decision-making. When working on yourself becomes an excuse for inaction. Now don't misunderstand me, I'm not saying that this particular friend is in that position... maybe, maybe not... but I recommend to all that a position of allowing decisions to make themselves is no strong position at all. In the circumstance of indecision--do I want to do this or do I want to do that--

Oh hell, just say it and stop being verbose...

If you can't decide what to do about a decision that demands complete commitment, then the decision has already made itself. And, once you've accepted that reality, then the whole world of opportunity--a world meant for your happiness--opens up to you. The world will cease to be so suffocating; color will return with breath.

Destiny: No House Calls

Image by Nahuel |Bossanostra| via Flickr

In my 12th book of the year, Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, I came across this quote that rang, for me, quite true. The character Fermin Romero de Torres says,

"Destiny is usually just around the corner. Like a thief, a hooker, or a lottery vendor: its three most common personifications. But what destiny does not do is home visits. You have to go for it."

Destiny, or this inevitable course of events, though often spun with positive yarn, simply just is--whatever will be, will be--however, I also believe that if you never turn that corner, you create your own destiny... of nothing. For some, that's fine. For me, never. Walking around the corner is what I do, sometimes for a feast and sometimes there's not a bread crumb left to barter with... but at least I find out. I took the time--and the chance--to know.

And, to me, knowing isn't half the battle; it's the whole thing. The action that accompanies the knowing comprises the full gamut of what it means to live.

King of the White Carpet

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I awoke to a ceremonial white carpet, rolled out solely for my presence--a fine welcome to a new world of opportunity and responsibility. The media advised my subjects to remain indoors, for the first footfalls on a fresh blanket must be reserved for none other than me, the day's King.

Stately first footfalls on fresh snow mar the surface, roughing the carpet, leaving a record of my accomplishments. For those who wished to follow, my path was evident, step where I step or stop to smell my abandoned thoughts.

Blades of grass, deep into their hibernation, poked up through the carpet, shimmering stalagmites unaware of their fate—the crushing whim of a despot that rules with iron feet.

“Walk upon me,” the carpet pleads. “You grace me with your presence and I will do my best to support you.” With each step there is a millisecond of support, as if the King, by right, can walk on this state of Water, yet the crust failed to hold my weight—not once did it succeed; Water and Earth fail as bedfellows.

"Shall I give you a ride, my King, my braving-these-elements King?" asked the Wind, obviously attune with my dissatisfaction. "With my gracious acceptance," came my reply, and the Wind lifted me on toward my destination. When dropped at the hearth of nourishment, the Wind waved goodbye, “’Til next time you’re King,” it said as it disappeared into the sky.

I warmed my feet and hands with Fire, as he told his lonely morning story. I was the first to sit next to him on a morning when he’d expected to crackle amidst a room bursting at its seams. And sadly, I announced, I must also be on my way, for my day as King was running past nigh.

Returning the way I’d come, I realized that my legacy was already beginning to fade; the carpet-layers never stopped to tell stories when required to work overtime, they judiciously cleaned the slate for others to be born, maintaining the chain of hereditary succession.

It was all I could take, being King for a day, and so I trudged forward, no desire to look at where I’d been, intent to recalibrate where I am going, a destination of feathers where I will fall to sleep, not to wake until it is well-past the coronation of the next morning’s King.

Revelation is Revolution

Image via Wikipedia

A husband and wife had been going through the motions for years. Having succumbed to the eternal inertia of we're supposed to--get married, have kids, forget about each others' lives, forgo their happiness because they were paying the price for not having listened to questions posed by intuitions--their routine had turned into one of annoyance avoidance.

And, with each passing day, an agreement to work on that happiness--which is a rarity, it seems, in this day, take it for the team, they say--their juvenile belief ten years ago that it would "all work itself out" turned into a soap opera of mistrust... because they couldn't figure out how to communicate, didn't even speak the same language. Compliments were taken as nice, but not enough, any request to converse unavoidably eroded into books slammed, stairs stomped, and bedtime silence. "Why are you doing this?" they each asked to themselves about the other, though not voicing the question in reality. "Because there must be another," one thought, while the other knew that she'd had enough of being invisible.

They're probably both right, whether one strayed in body or mind doesn't much matter, because it was the first decision that was wrong, not all of the decisions after. They chose a Path that was never meant for them to walk, but each armed with a machete, they try to find civilization, often without knowledge that the other has stopped to rest.

It's a classic case of how the man thinks against how the woman thinks, is it not? In her inherent inferiority, she must be cheating on me, and I know--just know--that she'll find a shoulder to cry on if we part. Let me just tell ya, women can be strong on their own, it's all around us, and a great case can be found in my Mom, who made her own clothes so that my sister and I could wear the cool stuff: Jordache, Nike, and Member's Only. He won't open up to me, won't show me who he is, so what is he hiding? Man's difficulty with discussing his emotions leads her to believe that there is a secret life that he's leading, must be, because he isn't sharing anything with me. Many men never learned how to talk about it, and few have realized they needed to learn.

And so, these camps continue to stare across the river at each other, unable to be complacent for fear that the other will launch a midnight sortie as a surprise attack on the other. The lack of sleep causes their state of health to deteriorate, physically and emotionally, when the truth is that they're both wasting away waiting for the other to surrender. The statement, "I've had enough," would be considered unfriendly, and because one said it, they'd the bad person--but one would have simply realized that it is only going to get worse from here, ironically, and that would be a shameful act upon the soldiers, who have little understanding of why they keep getting sent back and forth across the river, from one camp to the other and back again.

If there is regret to be had, it should not be over what they've done, it should be over what they are doing, and the future that it would create--if they ever want to love again, they must leave something left to love and a world to love in.

With spyglasses firmly locked on one another, every action is recorded and analyzed under a microscope. Military consultants are met, providing opinions based on study or experience, and when one General optimistically inquires as to the content of the other's consultation, the other is met with a two-word telegram in reply, "It's private," and hope that a truce may be near is instantly dashed... fingers slide unconsciously toward big red buttons, scouts report every little twitch for there are only minutes to respond to total annihilation. What's good for the goose is good for the gander. But honestly, if we're all dead, right and wrong no longer matter.

This revelation is the revolution, so stop preparing for a traumatic event in the future that actually occurred a decade ago. This isn't preparation for war, this is damage control. Disarm the nukes Old Mother Russia and Adolescent America, concede to honesty... and live. The river is not meant to divide, it is meant to enjoy, and all of us who play in its waters wonder why you both sit there on the verge of wrecking the environment... maybe you've forgotten how to enjoy the land, maybe you feel like you're doing "what's supposed to be done," or maybe you're simply afraid that you don't have the strength to be happy... you've forgotten, and maybe never knew, what it was like, and can no longer envision the comfort of a place called home.

Just my view from the flotilla.