Tuesday, December 2, 2014

You'll Be Glad You Did

Folded up into squares
with crisp corners
and a coffee stain,
you'll find the map
with little red lines
drawn every which way.

Under that folded map
is a journal I carried
in which I carefully recorded
all the crazy shit we did
and who we met
and how we conned
and which way we ran
when we'd get caught.

Stuffed 'tween the pages
are photographs
of people who seem
to have it all together.
But, those are just stills
from tumultuous times
of chaotic jesters.

You'll find all this
and maybe a little more
in that grey solander
on the tall bookshelf
there by the door.

When you're done,
give a little of yourself
close it all up inside
lock the door behind you
and hit the open road
for your own wild ride.

You'll be glad you did.

Tuesday, November 11, 2014

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Shut Up!

Written by my brother about twenty years ago, this is the first poem I ever read, and it was my inspiration to start writing poetry in my teenage years:


Shut up!

She wouldn’t shut up that first day I met her.
She wouldn’t shut up no matter how long and hard I pleaded.
She wouldn’t shut up even as my ears began to bleed in agony.
She wouldn’t shut up even after I fell asleep and when I woke up the next morning.
She would not shut up while I made breakfast and ate it.
She would not shut up as I ran from my house, never looking back.
But I tell you this, friends. She did shut up when I finally let her go.

- Sean



For twenty years, I foolishly read this poem thinking of myself as the "I" in the relationship. Like a damned fool, it took me two decades to identify with the "She."

Thank you, Sean, for inspiring me, even when I didn't really 'get' it. You were always a few steps ahead of me in some things. I appreciate the advice, even if I didn't take it.

Monday, October 27, 2014

If We All Pay a Little

I've been told I'm special. Fine. That's subjective. My hands still bleed when you cut them, and my heart still aches when you stomp on it.

I'm not different. I don't transcend a god-damned thing. I'm just a flesh and blood human being.

If there is one thing I've learned, it is that knowing I'm not special is a pretty special thing. I empathize with the loss of others. I understand when another has to reject me, or at least choose something or someone other than me. Why? Because I've faced similar choices with others.

Not being special shows me that I am just as capable of hurting another person as I am of being hurt by other people. When I don't always get my way, that humbly reminds me that others aren't getting their way in some fashion or another, too.

I'm not special. I don't get everything I want to have when I want to have it while others sacrifice and have to make choices, to give up or go without something they may really want.

The simple fact of the matter is that there is no way we can have all that we want. We have to take a hit now and again, and it would behoove me to remember what I want more than anything else, because a lot of that 'anything else' is going to have to be set down and moved on from. That's just the way the world turns.

Maybe it won't be a total severance. There will hopefully still be connections, and hopefully I can get what I can get. But, priorities are still necessary. Choices, sacrifices, and compromises will have to be made. My specialness, or lack thereof, will need to be consulted for a taste of empathy.

Is there a way we can all pay just a little, so that no one of us has to pay for the entire group?

I sure hope so.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Buy the Ticket. Take the Ride.

“No sympathy for the devil; keep that in mind. Buy the ticket, take the ride...and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well...maybe chalk it off to forced conscious expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.” - Hunter S. ThompsonFear and Loathing in Las Vegas

It's been almost six years since I tried my hand at publishing a newsletter of creative writing content. It was called the Ruckus Review, and it featured a few writers from my church's college group, including myself, and featured a few works from my brother, who was and still is an avid Hunter Thompson reader.

This was a quote my brother included as an epigraph in one of his articles:
"The last train out of any station will not be full of nice guys." - Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

At the end of the article in which he included this quote, my brother wrote:
"I love this country, and I love my freedom. I'm glad I have the ability to express myself when I am amazed or enraged, and the ability to receive criticism when people believe it needs to be heard. Between all the extremes of human perception, there lies a very simple and obvious truth. It is the responsibility of us all to understand the world around us, and make it the most amazing place imaginable for all of its inhabitants."

I can hardly believe that I published these words nearly six years ago, and am still learning the simple and obvious truths in my own life. They echo through time and circumstance. They boiled to the surface again last night as my wife and I discussed the future. 

We are both interested in understanding the world around us, and doing whatever we can to make it the most amazing place imaginable for all of its inhabitants.

We bought our tickets.
We are taking the ride.

Friday, October 10, 2014

Not the Most Beautiful

I was sitting in a barbershop on the military base in 2003, waiting to get my hair cut. I had been a sailor in the armed forces since the World Trade Center buildings fell a few years prior, and I was no stranger to the zeal with which my fellow sailors and soldiers spoke about war. Excitement was high as we invaded Bagdad in the name of fighting terrorism. The war made so many of us feel like our young lives mattered.

For some of us, though, I got the impression that the zeal went beyond narcissism. Some soldiers around me frothed at the mouth, salivating with excitement at the idea of destroying cities, maiming and killing their enemies, and bringing violence to the farthest reaches of the globe.

On the table next to me in the barbershop was a current newspaper showing a grizzly looking tank parked on top of a crushed civilian automobile on a war torn street in Bagdad. I ignored the photo, and looked elsewhere as I waited for my appointment.

An older man came in and sat beside me, grabbed the paper, stuck it in my face and asked, "Isn't that the most beautiful thing you have ever seen in your life?"

I've seen my own mother. I've seen other people's babies. I've looked into my wife's eyes while rubbing her feet. I've stood on the beach at sunset, watching the colors of the California sky while listening to the rhythmic crash of the waves.

"No," I said honestly. "It isn't."

I am not a pacifist. I want to believe, even all these years later, that our efforts at that time served some good. I want to remember that the violence and the death toll resulted in something that we can be proud of in at least some small way. But, I do not have whatever that older guy had. I cannot look upon even the most necessary violence and see it as the most beautiful thing in the world. Even at the moment of taking another person's life instead of allowing him to take my own, I would wonder if there wasn't really some other way we could have handled this dispute. I would always wonder if that killing really had to happen that day.

Friday, October 3, 2014

Soul To Squeeze

"When I find my piece of mind, I'm gonna give you some of my good time."
- Red Hot Chili Peppers, Soul to Squeeze

I resent having developed a callus on my middle finger during grade school. I would hold my pens and pencils against that finger during the countless hours of writing, and the finger would swell and ache. I remembered picking at the irritated skin, complaining all the while. My teachers and my parents would explain that I was developing a callus, a resistance that would ultimately make me better equipped to hold the pen for the rest of my life without pain. Today, I resent having developed that callus because I can't remember the last time I held a pen. I wish I had spent those years learning to type instead.

My fingers are beginning to develop new calluses now that I am trying to learn how to play my bass guitar. Once again, I am faced with the pains of gaining resistances that would ultimately make me better equipped to face for the rest of my life with less pain. Once again, I am making myself uncomfortable in order to make the future better.

As my forming calluses ache, I ponder my philosophy about the role of pain in decision making. I believe that I should intentionally make choices that result in a balance of the most pleasure and the least pain. As my callusing fingers can attest, though, current pain for long-term pleasure is sometimes necessary and even the ideal.

I rub my middle finger where I had formed that callus back in grade school, and I ponder the concept of foresight. Sometimes, as my teachers and parents were, I will simply be wrong about the future. Foresight allows me to imagine how the future might go based on the evidence I have from past experiences. But, if you have ever done any investing at all, you know that past performance does not dictate future results. I am not able to accurately predict the future 100% of the time, and my mounting fears make it harder to be willing to invest at all.

The callus on my middle finger is useless today. The years I spent forming it didn't pay off the way they had predicted. In a way, I resent having been made to endure so much pain for such a useless reward. I sometimes wish I had just put a bandaid over that finger everyday to avoid the pain. In another way, though, I am glad I was made to form this useless callus.

The callus itself might not do anything today, but I did gain other benefits from the experience. Diligence, determination through difficulty, an ability to assess risk and reward, confidence in the face of challenges, and the audacity to face the frightening and sometimes painful ambiguity of the future, were just a few of the things reinforced by my experiences building this callus. I am thankful for the development of those lessons, as they do serve me well today, even if the callus does not.

Other examples of efforts that do not necessarily manifest themselves in predicted or hoped-for ways include high school athletes, musicians, actors, etc. In adulthood, they might find themselves working at a corporate cubicle and never using the talents they fostered in their youth. Nonetheless, their experiences from the past continue to influence and shape their current experiences and behaviors. Those investments did not pay off as expected, but they still paid off.

Developing the new calluses on the bass guitar, I play the Red Hot Chili Peppers' song, Soul To Squeeze. This song will always hold particularly personal significance to me because I learned it long before I ever heard the track. I first heard the chorus lyrics muttered by a shipmate in naval bootcamp. He would sing the tune to himself while he worked, and one day I asked him if he would teach the lyrics to me. So, only knowing what he taught me, I began to sing, "I got a bad disease. Up from my brain is where I bleed…"

Playing this song takes me back to bootcamp, where I had faced a new level of emotional pain, and had to form a few new calluses of sorts. I was so terrified in my first days. I would stand at attention and weep. My blood pressure was so high, my nose would just start bleeding at random times. Like a good little sailor, I maintained my military bearing while tears rolled down my cheeks and blood dripped off my upper lip.

A big black man, strong in body and chalked full of testicular fortitude, pulled me aside and patiently listened while I told him about my fears. He was a good man, and his encouragement helped me more than I ever knew how to articulate. However, as the weeks of bootcamp went on, I found my own strength to carry on, and I eventually became very arrogant and unfriendly. On one of our last days, I started a fight with that big black man. Why? Because I was an idiot. I have no other explanation. The fight was quick. He lifted me off my feet and flung me across the room. Then he stood over my crumpled frame and spat down at me, "Don't forget where your balls came from!"

As I play the bass tabs to Soul to Squeeze, I still remember where my balls came from. In some small way, I diligently form these calluses in his memory. I feel like I owe him that much.

Beyond the bass, I'm still forming physical, emotional and psychological calluses in my life. I am becoming stronger everyday. In an effort to give others some of this good time, I find myself parroting my grade school era teachers and parents, and that big black man who gave me my balls. When I relate with people who are covered in figurative bandaids or body armor they use to avoid the pain of learning, I try to help them understand the future value of the pain they face today. I invite them to peel off some of those bandaids, or remove some of that armor. Sure, it is going to hurt when they do, but I remind them why they were born with the ability to feel in the first place. I remind them that they will adapt if they stick with it. Calluses will form, and we can face the ambiguous future hoping together that they will not be decimated in the long term.

Some of these calluses won't pay off the way we hope or imagine. We will inevitably resent the forming of some of them. We will look back one day and wish that at least some of the choices we made had been different. However, we will also hopefully find ourselves stronger and braver than we had previously been. We will hopefully be able to see that even the most useless calluses remind us where our balls came from.