For 30 years without the savior who pried you from loss
Adopting a family that held thorns and roses in equal parts
Ignoring the tenets, skating on mores, and firing your own boss
It's impossible to tell someone what you meant in our hearts
Thank god it's over and that you have the break you deserved
I hope you find him there and that it all will now be clear
After a lifetime of letdown, hope for you was fully interred
Can't imagine seeing them all again and you not shedding a tear
We continue on, wondering why we failed and succeeded
The wall remains unbreeched, and we remain broken on it
The lies that protected us also forced us to be unbelieving
I sit and work through the years backwards, soaking in it
And yet, it still remains untenable.
Someday we'll sit beneath the shade, and you can tell me all.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
That Day
On the road. 7 am. Listening to one of my favorite CDs when the phone rings.
"Is your TV on," asks my boss, Director of Operations for our little international startup healthcare firm.
"No, why someone get shot," I laugh with the ignorant machismo of the uninitiated.
"The company's done." The line goes dead.
Switch the audio from disc to KROQ. My normal irritation with morning DJs as soon as the tone of Kevin's voice hits me. Somber. Shocked. Nigh-hysterical.
"It could be anybody, I just don't understand, I mean, who could do something like this. . ." his words are no longer in his typical coherent syntax, rather he seems to be trying to assimilate an unforgivable reality into a carefully structured world through the medium of the sound of his own voice. Car crash survivors are much the same. People babble when nervous systems are on overload as a means of reinforcing their own existence.
The car drives itself to Claire's. At the time, my closest friend, confidant, and Grand Marnier cohort. She opens the door, eyes brimming.
Hand in hand, we silently walk into the living room and watch the replays of the jets colliding with the buildings. Tears fall unabashedly until shirtfronts are soaked. Today is one day where recriminations will find no hold and all tongues are silenced.
'Dear god, those buildings won't last,' ran headlong from my subconscious until it exploded, unwittingly and unwillingly from my mouth. Claire looks at me. I walk to the liquor cabinet as television ground crews capture the sights and sounds of people leaping from 90+ stories to their deaths rather than burning. Hell of a choice to have to make.
The collapse starts, the implosion is improbable, impossible, inadmissable. People running, screaming, hiding, covered in the ash of their fellow human beings, striving to make sense of it all. Claire and I are clinging for dear life and dearer sanity to each other, sobbing, wanting to look away, to ignore, and to find some coward's exit from the hell of it. But, we can't. We drink to forget.
Hours later, or maybe minutes later, my family calls. No one go to downtown LA today. Who knows what these crazy bastards will do next? We commiserate over a cousin who was visiting Gotham with her husband, and whose itinerary called for a WTC visit that very morning. No word as of yet. Like all others this horrid day, we pray. No atheists in foxholes, no agnostics on this day.
Later, we hear the details, the truth comes out, the story is told, and blame is placed. Many of Middle Eastern lineage openly decry the attacks. Shame that they feel the need. Sikhs and East Indians in many places are treated as though they've had a hand. Shame that our country felt the need.
For a week, tears wait in the wings. The cousin is fine, decided to spend the morning in bed. Thanks be to a loving God. The death toll climbs. Workers sift. The horror slowly subsides.
The scar is there, but the pain still remains. Who knew we could ever hurt this way?
"Is your TV on," asks my boss, Director of Operations for our little international startup healthcare firm.
"No, why someone get shot," I laugh with the ignorant machismo of the uninitiated.
"The company's done." The line goes dead.
Switch the audio from disc to KROQ. My normal irritation with morning DJs as soon as the tone of Kevin's voice hits me. Somber. Shocked. Nigh-hysterical.
"It could be anybody, I just don't understand, I mean, who could do something like this. . ." his words are no longer in his typical coherent syntax, rather he seems to be trying to assimilate an unforgivable reality into a carefully structured world through the medium of the sound of his own voice. Car crash survivors are much the same. People babble when nervous systems are on overload as a means of reinforcing their own existence.
The car drives itself to Claire's. At the time, my closest friend, confidant, and Grand Marnier cohort. She opens the door, eyes brimming.
Hand in hand, we silently walk into the living room and watch the replays of the jets colliding with the buildings. Tears fall unabashedly until shirtfronts are soaked. Today is one day where recriminations will find no hold and all tongues are silenced.
'Dear god, those buildings won't last,' ran headlong from my subconscious until it exploded, unwittingly and unwillingly from my mouth. Claire looks at me. I walk to the liquor cabinet as television ground crews capture the sights and sounds of people leaping from 90+ stories to their deaths rather than burning. Hell of a choice to have to make.
The collapse starts, the implosion is improbable, impossible, inadmissable. People running, screaming, hiding, covered in the ash of their fellow human beings, striving to make sense of it all. Claire and I are clinging for dear life and dearer sanity to each other, sobbing, wanting to look away, to ignore, and to find some coward's exit from the hell of it. But, we can't. We drink to forget.
Hours later, or maybe minutes later, my family calls. No one go to downtown LA today. Who knows what these crazy bastards will do next? We commiserate over a cousin who was visiting Gotham with her husband, and whose itinerary called for a WTC visit that very morning. No word as of yet. Like all others this horrid day, we pray. No atheists in foxholes, no agnostics on this day.
Later, we hear the details, the truth comes out, the story is told, and blame is placed. Many of Middle Eastern lineage openly decry the attacks. Shame that they feel the need. Sikhs and East Indians in many places are treated as though they've had a hand. Shame that our country felt the need.
For a week, tears wait in the wings. The cousin is fine, decided to spend the morning in bed. Thanks be to a loving God. The death toll climbs. Workers sift. The horror slowly subsides.
The scar is there, but the pain still remains. Who knew we could ever hurt this way?
Meeting Alexandria
The crowd is fun, upbeat, and joyfully sad. While we hug, Lindsey tearfully tells me Alex is here. She points out Alex's husband, strong, smiling, with a heart rent asunder. There is her father, whose pain is only evident in his eyes. There is Joss, who's done more than can be imagined to create an intimate, melancholy, and spiritually fulfilling experience that will remind friends old of, and introduce friends new to Alex.
The band plays, feet tap, heads bob, and a vibe embraces the group. Then an acoustic guitar, Joss dancing a dance of life. A life vibrant, filled with amazing people, as only amazing people can themselves attract, and a life herein shortened unnaturally. Her tall, beautiful, blonde figure stretching, flowing, ebbing, and finding structures to hug, and ultimately cease against. It's hard to recognize the physical pulchritude, when the soul speaks so loudly.
At first, I'm an interloper. A crude voyeur into serenity only the intimacy of dear friends, an avatar of someone of value. Suddenly, the gears -click- and I am here. And am embraced. The slides begin, and a life runs before me. A father to a beautiful daughter myself, the tears flow. I am suddenly robbed.
As we all are.
The band plays, feet tap, heads bob, and a vibe embraces the group. Then an acoustic guitar, Joss dancing a dance of life. A life vibrant, filled with amazing people, as only amazing people can themselves attract, and a life herein shortened unnaturally. Her tall, beautiful, blonde figure stretching, flowing, ebbing, and finding structures to hug, and ultimately cease against. It's hard to recognize the physical pulchritude, when the soul speaks so loudly.
At first, I'm an interloper. A crude voyeur into serenity only the intimacy of dear friends, an avatar of someone of value. Suddenly, the gears -click- and I am here. And am embraced. The slides begin, and a life runs before me. A father to a beautiful daughter myself, the tears flow. I am suddenly robbed.
As we all are.
Stop the Society, I Wanna Get Off
Just when we get to a point where no more can possibly strike us as insane:
1. Britney Spears loses custody of her kids. AND IT'S ON THE NEWS. Why does our culture care about her? A good friend was partying with her the night before the Emmy's and declared, "Wow, she looks even worse in person. Her breasts have apparently been replaced by flapjacks."
2. OJ Simpson makes like the Cincinnati Bengals organization (http://sport.monstersandcritics.com/nfl/article_1183059.php/Cincinnati_Bengals_2006_Training_Camp_Preview all on his own. Unbelievable. I think the guy might go on a three state rape spree, start printing counterfeit money, and take up dog-fighting, just to complete his transformation to career criminal. Has anyone checked the man's VCR? He may be pirating videos in his spare time
3. James Spader (!) beats James Gandolfini for an Emmy. The only way this could have shocked me more is if he'd actually physically beaten Gandolfini for the Emmy. I'm not TV guy, but Jesus, I don't live in a closet, either.
What blows the mind is how all of these items are hot-point issues. I mean, the NFL is facing a scandal that is growing by leaps and bounds (http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=easterbrook/070918&sportCat=nfl&lpos=spotlight&lid=tab1pos1) which means women nationwide may have their husbands back on Sundays in just a few years, the former Fed chair who is widely regarded as the architect of the greatest economic surge in American history indicates a recession a 1 in 3 possibility http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/09/18/fed.interest.rates.ap/index.html?iref=newssearch, and AlQaeda now is targeting comedians http://www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/meast/09/15/qaeda.cartoon.ap/index.html, and all our media clowns focus on are the lifestyles of the inane?
I think we've jumped the shark as a society. Now excuse me while I go watch 14 hours of reality TV.
1. Britney Spears loses custody of her kids. AND IT'S ON THE NEWS. Why does our culture care about her? A good friend was partying with her the night before the Emmy's and declared, "Wow, she looks even worse in person. Her breasts have apparently been replaced by flapjacks."
2. OJ Simpson makes like the Cincinnati Bengals organization (http://sport.monstersandcritics.com/nfl/article_1183059.php/Cincinnati_Bengals_2006_Training_Camp_Preview all on his own. Unbelievable. I think the guy might go on a three state rape spree, start printing counterfeit money, and take up dog-fighting, just to complete his transformation to career criminal. Has anyone checked the man's VCR? He may be pirating videos in his spare time
3. James Spader (!) beats James Gandolfini for an Emmy. The only way this could have shocked me more is if he'd actually physically beaten Gandolfini for the Emmy. I'm not TV guy, but Jesus, I don't live in a closet, either.
What blows the mind is how all of these items are hot-point issues. I mean, the NFL is facing a scandal that is growing by leaps and bounds (http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=easterbrook/070918&sportCat=nfl&lpos=spotlight&lid=tab1pos1) which means women nationwide may have their husbands back on Sundays in just a few years, the former Fed chair who is widely regarded as the architect of the greatest economic surge in American history indicates a recession a 1 in 3 possibility http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/09/18/fed.interest.rates.ap/index.html?iref=newssearch, and AlQaeda now is targeting comedians http://www.cnn.com/2007/WORLD/meast/09/15/qaeda.cartoon.ap/index.html, and all our media clowns focus on are the lifestyles of the inane?
I think we've jumped the shark as a society. Now excuse me while I go watch 14 hours of reality TV.
The Quickening
When I came to, I was free-falling. Some portion of my besotted psyche somehow knew that while this wasn't a healthy state, it was a natural one for me. Being weightless is phenomenal, although the only way to achieve it is to plummet. L'Amour said that the space a man takes up in the world is equivalent to a finger in a pond, and that once it's withdrawn, the pond barely notices. Maybe I've been testing his theory.
The most difficult hurdle the vain can clear in the path of self-destruction is the hard cost of dying. It's tough to be a pretty corpse when it's self-inflicted. Plus, the struggle, O the struggle!, of balancing love for others with a good, strong apathy for self. Someone said that love for others is impossible when love for one's self is absent, but the truly gifted can pull it off. So, instead of packing up and leaving immediately, I chose this slow road that would lead to a life worth dying to avoid.
It's offensive now, this journey I'd undertaken. Waking up from somnambulence is akin to the morning after the fever breaks. Energy courses through the skin, power radiates from the eyes, and fire burns incessantly in the soul. (How great are my hackneyed phrases? And here I'd committed to stop being boring.) Each day is a gift from the universe, it seems. Music makes more sense, love seems more deeply mysterious, life appears more complex and simple.
A spirit broken can mend.
The most difficult hurdle the vain can clear in the path of self-destruction is the hard cost of dying. It's tough to be a pretty corpse when it's self-inflicted. Plus, the struggle, O the struggle!, of balancing love for others with a good, strong apathy for self. Someone said that love for others is impossible when love for one's self is absent, but the truly gifted can pull it off. So, instead of packing up and leaving immediately, I chose this slow road that would lead to a life worth dying to avoid.
It's offensive now, this journey I'd undertaken. Waking up from somnambulence is akin to the morning after the fever breaks. Energy courses through the skin, power radiates from the eyes, and fire burns incessantly in the soul. (How great are my hackneyed phrases? And here I'd committed to stop being boring.) Each day is a gift from the universe, it seems. Music makes more sense, love seems more deeply mysterious, life appears more complex and simple.
A spirit broken can mend.
Hollywood Hilarity and Total Trainwrecks
So, the roomie has an event entertainment business. It has to do with Clowns and being Around. (It’s possible there would be copyright infringement issues, or that libel could be pointed this way with this post, so let’s just say it’s some combination of the two words.) He asked what yrs truly was up to on Saturday last.
I shrugged. "Nada. Maybe some volleyball. You know, just get some exercise in, finish unpacking because I’m clearing my storage unit on Friday morning."
"Cool, want to do an event with me? I need someone to drive the train," he said with the air of one not sharing the whole story.
Fast forward to Friday, unpacking the storage unit, and combining/condensing/consolidating 13 rubbermaid 64 gallon plastic containers and a ZGallerie (shameless plugs, send me my check) footlocker/chest/coffeetable, and then loading them all into a Jeep Cherokee took it a little bit out of me. Then, when I arrive back at the house and unload everything, the roommate has his trackless train in the front yard, sanding, painting, and re-fiberglassing.
He looked over as I carried 75 pound containers into the house. "Ready to get to work?"
I coulda and maybe shoulda smacked him then and there.
What followed was 7 hours of painting, loading a riding lawnmower into a truck, using Bondo for the first time (a truly disgusting substance used for patching holes in fiberglass), sanding, painting, and throwing heavy equipment around more. Note to readers: avoid fiberglass splinters. They f-king hurt.
Then, Friday night out with the boys. G-lamp, vodka, vodka, vodka, followed by Taco Bell beef and potato burritox4. Sleep at 2 am. Knocking on the door at 5:30 am. Pure pain.
The rest of Saturday morning was a blur of trying to put an innertube on a tubeless tire (note to readers: don’t do this. It’s stupid.), loading said riding lawnmower into truck bed, trolley cars into trailer, and discovering that the bounce house he owns is totally filthy. Caked with dried mud from recent rains, there was no way on God’s green Earth that the client for this little production number will accept it as is.
We’re late. Of course. The event coordinator only has my number. My phone is blowing up. We arrange for a bounce house to be delivered at 11:00. It’s 9:45 when we place the order. The warehouse for said rental is in Santa Fe Springs. The client is in Bel Air. You can do the travel time math.
We show up at the client’s location. The event coordinator, a pretty, mid-to-late 20’s brunette with a New Zealand accent is relieved, not happy, to see us. And we then scout the location.
Bad times. The riding lawnmower will have to through the doorway to the backyard, and the locomotive "body" that fits over the mower will have to go over the doorway, which includes hopping up onto a garage, carrying said body over the rooftop and then lowering it to waiting hands below. This baby is fiberglass and big, so it takes at least two men to move it.
But wait. It gets better.
After the doorway fiasco, there is a hedge with 28 inches of clearance through which we have to fit mower, the two train cars, our cotton candy cart, and ice cream cart. The locomotive body will not, repeat not, fit in this gap. As my buddy put it most succinctly, if crudely, "It’s like black d*ck and Asian p*ssy."
We eventually made it happen amidst copious amounts of sweating, straining, and cursing, and in so doing, got a round of applause from the production crew who were filming the whole thing, as we were bringing the train in to work an event for a celebrity kid’s birthday party, and mom and dad have a reality show that’s in its 3rd season.
The rental bounce didn’t show up until 2:00. The event coordinator was damn near tears. And my roommate did balloon animals for the kids while my buddy and I took turns driving a smoking, coughing, and sputtering lawnmower with a train body and cars following it around a backyard basketball court trussed up to look like a railway.
Overall, it was an okay day for me. Horrific for my roomie’s business. But okay for me. Aside from when the party was over. Then it was time to push the damn thing back through, up, and over the hedge, garage rooftop, and onto the trailer and truckbed. When the event coordinator approaches you and says, "Oh my God, I feel so sorry for you guys having to take that train back through there," it’s indicative of the herculean task before you. But, we did it.
Oh, and although we spent all day driving the damn train around without a hitch, when it came time to get the celeb’s kid on it for the money shot, the f-king thing broke down. Just awesome.
I shrugged. "Nada. Maybe some volleyball. You know, just get some exercise in, finish unpacking because I’m clearing my storage unit on Friday morning."
"Cool, want to do an event with me? I need someone to drive the train," he said with the air of one not sharing the whole story.
Fast forward to Friday, unpacking the storage unit, and combining/condensing/consolidating 13 rubbermaid 64 gallon plastic containers and a ZGallerie (shameless plugs, send me my check) footlocker/chest/coffeetable, and then loading them all into a Jeep Cherokee took it a little bit out of me. Then, when I arrive back at the house and unload everything, the roommate has his trackless train in the front yard, sanding, painting, and re-fiberglassing.
He looked over as I carried 75 pound containers into the house. "Ready to get to work?"
I coulda and maybe shoulda smacked him then and there.
What followed was 7 hours of painting, loading a riding lawnmower into a truck, using Bondo for the first time (a truly disgusting substance used for patching holes in fiberglass), sanding, painting, and throwing heavy equipment around more. Note to readers: avoid fiberglass splinters. They f-king hurt.
Then, Friday night out with the boys. G-lamp, vodka, vodka, vodka, followed by Taco Bell beef and potato burritox4. Sleep at 2 am. Knocking on the door at 5:30 am. Pure pain.
The rest of Saturday morning was a blur of trying to put an innertube on a tubeless tire (note to readers: don’t do this. It’s stupid.), loading said riding lawnmower into truck bed, trolley cars into trailer, and discovering that the bounce house he owns is totally filthy. Caked with dried mud from recent rains, there was no way on God’s green Earth that the client for this little production number will accept it as is.
We’re late. Of course. The event coordinator only has my number. My phone is blowing up. We arrange for a bounce house to be delivered at 11:00. It’s 9:45 when we place the order. The warehouse for said rental is in Santa Fe Springs. The client is in Bel Air. You can do the travel time math.
We show up at the client’s location. The event coordinator, a pretty, mid-to-late 20’s brunette with a New Zealand accent is relieved, not happy, to see us. And we then scout the location.
Bad times. The riding lawnmower will have to through the doorway to the backyard, and the locomotive "body" that fits over the mower will have to go over the doorway, which includes hopping up onto a garage, carrying said body over the rooftop and then lowering it to waiting hands below. This baby is fiberglass and big, so it takes at least two men to move it.
But wait. It gets better.
After the doorway fiasco, there is a hedge with 28 inches of clearance through which we have to fit mower, the two train cars, our cotton candy cart, and ice cream cart. The locomotive body will not, repeat not, fit in this gap. As my buddy put it most succinctly, if crudely, "It’s like black d*ck and Asian p*ssy."
We eventually made it happen amidst copious amounts of sweating, straining, and cursing, and in so doing, got a round of applause from the production crew who were filming the whole thing, as we were bringing the train in to work an event for a celebrity kid’s birthday party, and mom and dad have a reality show that’s in its 3rd season.
The rental bounce didn’t show up until 2:00. The event coordinator was damn near tears. And my roommate did balloon animals for the kids while my buddy and I took turns driving a smoking, coughing, and sputtering lawnmower with a train body and cars following it around a backyard basketball court trussed up to look like a railway.
Overall, it was an okay day for me. Horrific for my roomie’s business. But okay for me. Aside from when the party was over. Then it was time to push the damn thing back through, up, and over the hedge, garage rooftop, and onto the trailer and truckbed. When the event coordinator approaches you and says, "Oh my God, I feel so sorry for you guys having to take that train back through there," it’s indicative of the herculean task before you. But, we did it.
Oh, and although we spent all day driving the damn train around without a hitch, when it came time to get the celeb’s kid on it for the money shot, the f-king thing broke down. Just awesome.
12 Months and Counting
Thinking about Alexandria today. It's been 12 months since the plane went down and she moved on. In one of the ironic twists that makes life so unbearable sometimes, it had been a few weeks previous that I'd seen her pic on Linds' fridge, and asked, "Who's THAT?" in that tone that indicates a strong desire to be introduced as quickly as possible with the highest recommendations available.
She laughed at the time, told me it was her friend Alex, and that she was married. I'd meet her husband a few months later at Alex's life celebration, this intelligent, brawny, and just shredded shell of a happy man, struggling to deal with losing what must have felt like the winning ticket of the lottery of the Universe. Despite all of that, I envied him. Anyone who knows anything about Alex would envy him.
I was in San Diego, opening a restaurant, dealing with some mild depression issues of my own when I attended the memorial, and wrote the blog "Meeting Alex." Guess it could be said her timing was horrible and perfect. That night tore open a dam strong as papier mache. She lived a life that can't really be captured in photos, words, or MySpace pages. The strongest testament to who she is, is the love her friends still espouse, the inspiration she remains for them.
Seeing someone loved and celebrated like that just took my breath. It crushed me. SHE crushed me. From that moment on, I was somnambulistic. It was just a matter of time until something, somehow, happened. And it did. A few weeks later, I'd end an 85 hour workweek with the (underline-italicize-bold-all-caps) STUPID decision to go out with some of the boys before driving home. Which lead to falling asleep at 75 miles an hour, waking up at 45 miles an hour, airborne on the side of the road.
Which lead to the realization that something was seriously WRONG. Wrong line of work, wrong dreams, wrong lifestyle, wrong approach to love and life, wrong everything. Each month following was a new revelation, a new deconstruction in order to make way for something stronger and more permanent. No more restaurants, bars, lounges, pubs, or private party bartending. No more bartending, period.
It's unclear how much it all has to do with the events of 12 months ago. How much inspiration she was is unclear. Or how much of a stomach punch it was to realize how seriously screwed up my way of doing things was compared to hers is unclear. What is clear is that the night I met her and her friends, I admired and appreciated them all. And felt the leper amongst the whole, the unwashed amongst the clean, the dandelion in the tulips. How do we measure the effects of people in our lives? Is there some litmus test that can exactly determine the weight of love, support, and example?
12 months ago, Derek and I were sitting on a porch, sipping on 40s and smoking at 10 in the morning. Today the only chemical in the bloodstream is caffeine. 12 months ago, I ignored my true self, waiting for something to happen. Today the only waiting I do is for my clients' approval on my writing and creativity. 12 months ago, I had no idea how to reach. Today I can't stop.
She laughed at the time, told me it was her friend Alex, and that she was married. I'd meet her husband a few months later at Alex's life celebration, this intelligent, brawny, and just shredded shell of a happy man, struggling to deal with losing what must have felt like the winning ticket of the lottery of the Universe. Despite all of that, I envied him. Anyone who knows anything about Alex would envy him.
I was in San Diego, opening a restaurant, dealing with some mild depression issues of my own when I attended the memorial, and wrote the blog "Meeting Alex." Guess it could be said her timing was horrible and perfect. That night tore open a dam strong as papier mache. She lived a life that can't really be captured in photos, words, or MySpace pages. The strongest testament to who she is, is the love her friends still espouse, the inspiration she remains for them.
Seeing someone loved and celebrated like that just took my breath. It crushed me. SHE crushed me. From that moment on, I was somnambulistic. It was just a matter of time until something, somehow, happened. And it did. A few weeks later, I'd end an 85 hour workweek with the (underline-italicize-bold-all-caps) STUPID decision to go out with some of the boys before driving home. Which lead to falling asleep at 75 miles an hour, waking up at 45 miles an hour, airborne on the side of the road.
Which lead to the realization that something was seriously WRONG. Wrong line of work, wrong dreams, wrong lifestyle, wrong approach to love and life, wrong everything. Each month following was a new revelation, a new deconstruction in order to make way for something stronger and more permanent. No more restaurants, bars, lounges, pubs, or private party bartending. No more bartending, period.
It's unclear how much it all has to do with the events of 12 months ago. How much inspiration she was is unclear. Or how much of a stomach punch it was to realize how seriously screwed up my way of doing things was compared to hers is unclear. What is clear is that the night I met her and her friends, I admired and appreciated them all. And felt the leper amongst the whole, the unwashed amongst the clean, the dandelion in the tulips. How do we measure the effects of people in our lives? Is there some litmus test that can exactly determine the weight of love, support, and example?
12 months ago, Derek and I were sitting on a porch, sipping on 40s and smoking at 10 in the morning. Today the only chemical in the bloodstream is caffeine. 12 months ago, I ignored my true self, waiting for something to happen. Today the only waiting I do is for my clients' approval on my writing and creativity. 12 months ago, I had no idea how to reach. Today I can't stop.
A glorious morning, with the light breeze that is a constant for this house, resting on the southern ridge of the Laguna Canyon, clear blue skies, and temperatures that hover in the mid-70's belied the news awaiting me on opening this morning's Orange County Register.
It had been my pleasure and great amusement to meet Brad Dillahunty six months ago. At the time, I'd been struck by the idea that the kid had to be on some form of speed. His method of talking was fast, the ideas that flowed were always a combination of depth, humor, and succinct intellect. And always rapid fire, as if he were a reincarnation of an early 80's Robin Williams, only without the constant voice changes.
This fine, glorious morning, I opened the paper and saw a picture of Brad with his life dates as captions. Last week, after being part of a surf camp in San Diego, Brad lost his life in an car crash. He was a 24 year old passenger in a vehicle being driven by a 51 year old man, whom police suspect was under the influence. Of course, cosmic justice being skewed as it so often is in these instances, the older man survived the accident, and Bradley is lost to us.
Over time since our initial meeting, Brad's nature came to be more evident. He was a guy who was creative, musical, loving, and wickedly smart. What's more, he had an understanding that his flame burned too brightly. He admitted to me that he knew certain aspects of his life didn't lend themselves to longevity, yet he felt comfortable that like so many other artists, his lot was to make as great an impact in as short a time as possible.
He responded to Taoism, often asking about the nature of paradox, how good needed evil as much as darkness needed light. He was struck by the honesty of learning to do nothing and thereby leave nothing undone. Although quick to cling to the joys of this world, he always was striving to connect to the energy of the universe in deeper and broader ways. I looked forward to being his friend as he matured, and was anxious to see how he would continue to impact his world, and grow within his place in it.
Brad's gone now. Where his spirit has found sanctuary is not mine to guess. I thank all that is Holy that I met him, that I experienced his rich humor, his ancient soul, and his trust. And it warms my heart to know that even briefly we could connect, and that he counted me as a true friend.
Farewell, my brother. In time, we'll surf the skies.
It had been my pleasure and great amusement to meet Brad Dillahunty six months ago. At the time, I'd been struck by the idea that the kid had to be on some form of speed. His method of talking was fast, the ideas that flowed were always a combination of depth, humor, and succinct intellect. And always rapid fire, as if he were a reincarnation of an early 80's Robin Williams, only without the constant voice changes.
This fine, glorious morning, I opened the paper and saw a picture of Brad with his life dates as captions. Last week, after being part of a surf camp in San Diego, Brad lost his life in an car crash. He was a 24 year old passenger in a vehicle being driven by a 51 year old man, whom police suspect was under the influence. Of course, cosmic justice being skewed as it so often is in these instances, the older man survived the accident, and Bradley is lost to us.
Over time since our initial meeting, Brad's nature came to be more evident. He was a guy who was creative, musical, loving, and wickedly smart. What's more, he had an understanding that his flame burned too brightly. He admitted to me that he knew certain aspects of his life didn't lend themselves to longevity, yet he felt comfortable that like so many other artists, his lot was to make as great an impact in as short a time as possible.
He responded to Taoism, often asking about the nature of paradox, how good needed evil as much as darkness needed light. He was struck by the honesty of learning to do nothing and thereby leave nothing undone. Although quick to cling to the joys of this world, he always was striving to connect to the energy of the universe in deeper and broader ways. I looked forward to being his friend as he matured, and was anxious to see how he would continue to impact his world, and grow within his place in it.
Brad's gone now. Where his spirit has found sanctuary is not mine to guess. I thank all that is Holy that I met him, that I experienced his rich humor, his ancient soul, and his trust. And it warms my heart to know that even briefly we could connect, and that he counted me as a true friend.
Farewell, my brother. In time, we'll surf the skies.
Luck and the Shooter's Bounce
Ever know those people? You know, THOSE people. The ones who seem to get all the breaks, the people for whom Lady Luck seems to have a soft spot in her fickle heart? Seemingly, they waltz through life, carelessly exploring exciting professional opportunity after another, dating one incredibly beautiful, intelligent, and caring person after another, having amazing kids with few problems of any consequence, and connecting with outstanding people in all walks of life, left and right.
It got me to thinking, and thinking about basketball of all things. Considering those people, who get all the bounces, if you will, and how the effect of a 'shooter's bounce' works.
In basketball, if there are those unfamiliar with the sport, the idea is to throw (shoot) the ball through an iron ring from which a net is suspended (the hoop) in order to score points. This can be a modestly challenging endeavor, particularly when similarly or greater vertically-blessed individuals are striving to keep one from accomplishing the aforementioned goal. (Pedantic? Yes. Fun to write? Definitely.)
A shooter's bounce is what players refer to the ball bouncing around the rim, or taking what appears to be an unlikely bounce, only to softly fall in. Spectators and neophyte players often call such shots "lucky," but in truth they are the result of a player taking a shot that he or she has worked on, repeatedly in practice and battle tested in heated games, a shot in which the player has so much confidence, and such innate and acute awareness that he or she knows just how much pressure to apply to his or her fingertips so that even if they are slightly off the mark, the ball will still fall.
This same principle applies in life. The good things happen to the people who have the diligence to work on those things in which they believe passionately, the tools, skills and talents that kept them sane through their most brutal conflicts, and the confidence that they have "put in the work" and paid the necessary price to perform, even when all around them crumbles like pillars of sand in heavy tides.
And while no life goes unmarred, nor is devoid of toil and hardship, those people, the "Golden Children" in the family escape unscathed because of their faith in themselves and their efforts to be prepared, awake, aware, and alert.Mayhap luck is happenstance, but I believe it far more often earned.
It got me to thinking, and thinking about basketball of all things. Considering those people, who get all the bounces, if you will, and how the effect of a 'shooter's bounce' works.
In basketball, if there are those unfamiliar with the sport, the idea is to throw (shoot) the ball through an iron ring from which a net is suspended (the hoop) in order to score points. This can be a modestly challenging endeavor, particularly when similarly or greater vertically-blessed individuals are striving to keep one from accomplishing the aforementioned goal. (Pedantic? Yes. Fun to write? Definitely.)
A shooter's bounce is what players refer to the ball bouncing around the rim, or taking what appears to be an unlikely bounce, only to softly fall in. Spectators and neophyte players often call such shots "lucky," but in truth they are the result of a player taking a shot that he or she has worked on, repeatedly in practice and battle tested in heated games, a shot in which the player has so much confidence, and such innate and acute awareness that he or she knows just how much pressure to apply to his or her fingertips so that even if they are slightly off the mark, the ball will still fall.
This same principle applies in life. The good things happen to the people who have the diligence to work on those things in which they believe passionately, the tools, skills and talents that kept them sane through their most brutal conflicts, and the confidence that they have "put in the work" and paid the necessary price to perform, even when all around them crumbles like pillars of sand in heavy tides.
And while no life goes unmarred, nor is devoid of toil and hardship, those people, the "Golden Children" in the family escape unscathed because of their faith in themselves and their efforts to be prepared, awake, aware, and alert.Mayhap luck is happenstance, but I believe it far more often earned.
Being A Dad
Remember life before your driver's license? I mean, you know there was a time when you couldn't drive, and you may even be able to recall moments when you had to sit in the backseat or shotgun, which if you hadn't called, fisticuffs were likely between you and your siblings.
But odds are, you don't remember what it was like. Those feelings of those times, gone from the memory storage and retrieval bank, fog on a California summer morning, dissipated by midday.
So it is to be a parent. Well, an actively involved one, that is. I remember that there was a time when I didn't have my daughter, but good Lord, I can't remember what it was like. She's so much a part of my every day's decisions, whether in advance and smartly, or in retrospect and regretfully, she's always there.
What's more is that this love expands. Mothers probably don't experience it as strongly. After all, their love is the penultimate expression from Moment 1. And I doubt fathers who get to spend every day with their children get to feel this blossoming deep within the chest as their children grow.
Kennedi every day becomes an amazing person exponentially. As though somehow she can just double in her overwhelming awesomeness just by going to sleep and waking up the next day. There is no way to even begin to describe her, either. People ask and the only words to escape my mouth are, "She's just such a great person. I'm excited to see what she does in her life."
In the past 3 months, she's gone to Europe with the Young Ambassadors with a group of 40 kids and 4 adult leaders (none of which were named "Mom" or "Dad") and every time I talked to her over there, she was giggling with her roommates. Nothing, and I mean nothing in this world puts a more complete sense of peace in a man's being than hearing his child laugh uncontrollably with other kids her age.
When she returned, her leaders told her mom and I that they were so impressed with her selflessness, maturity, and good natured spirit. And we were humbled that our little girl was someone much greater than ourselves.
One of my best friends recently revealed that he and his wife are pregnant. I almost teared up as I hugged him and told him, "Now, your life really starts."
Being a Dad is about the best damn thing a guy can be when he does it right.
But odds are, you don't remember what it was like. Those feelings of those times, gone from the memory storage and retrieval bank, fog on a California summer morning, dissipated by midday.
So it is to be a parent. Well, an actively involved one, that is. I remember that there was a time when I didn't have my daughter, but good Lord, I can't remember what it was like. She's so much a part of my every day's decisions, whether in advance and smartly, or in retrospect and regretfully, she's always there.
What's more is that this love expands. Mothers probably don't experience it as strongly. After all, their love is the penultimate expression from Moment 1. And I doubt fathers who get to spend every day with their children get to feel this blossoming deep within the chest as their children grow.
Kennedi every day becomes an amazing person exponentially. As though somehow she can just double in her overwhelming awesomeness just by going to sleep and waking up the next day. There is no way to even begin to describe her, either. People ask and the only words to escape my mouth are, "She's just such a great person. I'm excited to see what she does in her life."
In the past 3 months, she's gone to Europe with the Young Ambassadors with a group of 40 kids and 4 adult leaders (none of which were named "Mom" or "Dad") and every time I talked to her over there, she was giggling with her roommates. Nothing, and I mean nothing in this world puts a more complete sense of peace in a man's being than hearing his child laugh uncontrollably with other kids her age.
When she returned, her leaders told her mom and I that they were so impressed with her selflessness, maturity, and good natured spirit. And we were humbled that our little girl was someone much greater than ourselves.
One of my best friends recently revealed that he and his wife are pregnant. I almost teared up as I hugged him and told him, "Now, your life really starts."
Being a Dad is about the best damn thing a guy can be when he does it right.
LA NFL Team Name
Preparing for this weekend’s playoff football games, it occurred to me for approximately the 12,732nd time that the LA area really could use a football team. While one could argue that cold weather is almost a requisite to play professional football, the lack of inclement weather hasn’t kept San Diego, Arizona, Carolina, and Miami from fielding decent teams, and their fan bases are pretty darn passionate. The real challenge in having an LA area team is, of course, in the naming of said team.
The name of a team plays a significant role in a lot of things. Find a great name, people get excited to declare their allegiance. Find a crummy name, and people will take a long time to care. After all, the Houston Oilers pissed enough people off to get kicked out of town, out of the county, and even out of the state to Tennessee. Where they promptly took the name Titans. Alliteration alone has kept the locals there from running the team out on a rail.
A great name is one that speaks directly to the people of the area. Using the aforementioned Titans as an example of what not to do, the team is subtly indicating that Tennesseans either have a deep-seeded love for all things deep-fried and have grossly expansive waistlines as proof, or that people from Tennessee are actually the forebears to Greek gods and that they’ve been banished to Tennessee by Zeus where they are as far from Mount Olympus as possible. This latter explanation, however, is doubtful, as people from Tennessee don’t even speak Greek.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, there is the team from Pittsburgh, the Steelers. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, is a town that grew up out of the twin industries of mining and steel manufacturing. The emblem on the Steelers helmets actually typifies three elements in the manufacturing of steel. The yellow hypocycloid is coal, the orange is iron ore, and the blue is scrap steel. The team has long been known to play a rugged, hardnosed, and defensively-oriented type of football, all of which speaks to the blue-collar nature of the town and its inhabitants.
Where then, does that leave LA? 5 teams in the league are named after birds (Cardinals, Ravens, Seahawks, Eagles, Falcons) but the LA Seagulls doesn’t really strike fear in anyone’s heart, and to LA people, they’re akin to flying rats. 4 teams in the league are named after predatory big cats (Panthers, Jaguars, Lions, Bengals). It’s doubtful that there are or ever were any lions in Detroit or Bengal tigers in Cincinnati, but these names have worked these franchises for so long, people have stopped paying attention. LA Lemurs or Los Angeles Cheetahs just won’t put asses in the seats.
There are then those teams with names that are fairly self-evident. Broncos are wild horses that can be found littered through Colorado, so Denver had a shoo-in with that name. San Francisco is one of the best known gold rush boom towns, so 49ers is pretty easy. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Kansas City Chiefs, Dallas Cowboys, New England Patriots all fall into this category as well.
But really, where do we stand with Los Angeles? Miami has the Dolphins, and we could use the Sharks, but San Jose, another California professional sports organization, already has the name taken. Plus, the name is a little too negative an image for a surf-based culture such as ours. Sea lions are pretty mean, as anyone who’s had the displeasure of dealing with one knows, but they don’t really project intensity, toughness, or excitement. (We’ll ignore the Cleveland Browns in this argument.)
Around and around I’ve gone, trying to make sense of this. What in the world is just so LA and is at the same time a name that works for a football team? The Los Angeles Traffic? The Los Angeles Cougars sounds too college. The Los Angeles Mayans, Aztecs, or Incas would generate more hate mail and ACLU lawsuits than a video of hooded Klan member punching a kitten in the face.
So, if Sharks and Dolphins are out, how about Orcas? The Los Angeles Orcas has a nice sound to it, but their other name is Killer Whale. And frankly, in a town that loves to raise kids on gunplay, graffiti, and violence-as-entertainment, having a name that so inherently objectifies the ending of life, this may be a little too graphic. So, with that in mind, I did a little fiddling, stuck with the mammal of choice and came up with the right name:
The Los Angeles Cetaceans of Ill Intent.
The name of a team plays a significant role in a lot of things. Find a great name, people get excited to declare their allegiance. Find a crummy name, and people will take a long time to care. After all, the Houston Oilers pissed enough people off to get kicked out of town, out of the county, and even out of the state to Tennessee. Where they promptly took the name Titans. Alliteration alone has kept the locals there from running the team out on a rail.
A great name is one that speaks directly to the people of the area. Using the aforementioned Titans as an example of what not to do, the team is subtly indicating that Tennesseans either have a deep-seeded love for all things deep-fried and have grossly expansive waistlines as proof, or that people from Tennessee are actually the forebears to Greek gods and that they’ve been banished to Tennessee by Zeus where they are as far from Mount Olympus as possible. This latter explanation, however, is doubtful, as people from Tennessee don’t even speak Greek.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, there is the team from Pittsburgh, the Steelers. Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, is a town that grew up out of the twin industries of mining and steel manufacturing. The emblem on the Steelers helmets actually typifies three elements in the manufacturing of steel. The yellow hypocycloid is coal, the orange is iron ore, and the blue is scrap steel. The team has long been known to play a rugged, hardnosed, and defensively-oriented type of football, all of which speaks to the blue-collar nature of the town and its inhabitants.
Where then, does that leave LA? 5 teams in the league are named after birds (Cardinals, Ravens, Seahawks, Eagles, Falcons) but the LA Seagulls doesn’t really strike fear in anyone’s heart, and to LA people, they’re akin to flying rats. 4 teams in the league are named after predatory big cats (Panthers, Jaguars, Lions, Bengals). It’s doubtful that there are or ever were any lions in Detroit or Bengal tigers in Cincinnati, but these names have worked these franchises for so long, people have stopped paying attention. LA Lemurs or Los Angeles Cheetahs just won’t put asses in the seats.
There are then those teams with names that are fairly self-evident. Broncos are wild horses that can be found littered through Colorado, so Denver had a shoo-in with that name. San Francisco is one of the best known gold rush boom towns, so 49ers is pretty easy. The Tampa Bay Buccaneers, Kansas City Chiefs, Dallas Cowboys, New England Patriots all fall into this category as well.
But really, where do we stand with Los Angeles? Miami has the Dolphins, and we could use the Sharks, but San Jose, another California professional sports organization, already has the name taken. Plus, the name is a little too negative an image for a surf-based culture such as ours. Sea lions are pretty mean, as anyone who’s had the displeasure of dealing with one knows, but they don’t really project intensity, toughness, or excitement. (We’ll ignore the Cleveland Browns in this argument.)
Around and around I’ve gone, trying to make sense of this. What in the world is just so LA and is at the same time a name that works for a football team? The Los Angeles Traffic? The Los Angeles Cougars sounds too college. The Los Angeles Mayans, Aztecs, or Incas would generate more hate mail and ACLU lawsuits than a video of hooded Klan member punching a kitten in the face.
So, if Sharks and Dolphins are out, how about Orcas? The Los Angeles Orcas has a nice sound to it, but their other name is Killer Whale. And frankly, in a town that loves to raise kids on gunplay, graffiti, and violence-as-entertainment, having a name that so inherently objectifies the ending of life, this may be a little too graphic. So, with that in mind, I did a little fiddling, stuck with the mammal of choice and came up with the right name:
The Los Angeles Cetaceans of Ill Intent.
A Life Inventory
Not that I want to go. No, no, not at all. In fact, I'm finally learning how to really enjoy my time here, and it would be a damn shame to miss out on some cool stuff.
However, after reading this morning's ESPN special coverage on the kids of Willows, California, the idea of mortality and the chance to live life, to experience life, and to walk away from this beautiful orb of glowing passion with lessons learned, has been bouncing around my lower cranial cavity all day. You know when stuff does that? It's in the subdermal mental layer, getting digested into some form of spiritual energy, like a Snickers bar consumed on the chair lift midway through a day of snowboarding. ZING!
So, it occurred for me that it's already been a pretty noteworthy life. All the things the human animal requires to call it a 'life,' I've been blessed to enjoy. Holding a newborn as a parent, watching them develop and blossom, laughing with the depth of the heart, and making someone else laugh just as hard as they ever have, passionately loving, passionately losing, dancing until the feet hurt and the sweat stings the eyes, competing with every single charge of ATP in the molecule, crying with joy, crying with despair, protecting the weakest lives, flirting with Dionysus and having that fickle god thoroughly exact his heavy penance the next day, feeling adrenaline ignite every sense, giving and receiving the utmost pleasure, tuning into the higher power, learning to ignore the basest instinct and the joy of giving with earnest kindness.
Granted, there's much left to do. Walking my daughter down the aisle, watching my nephews play football, going on my last first date and discovering my life partner (if she truly exists), buying my firsts: boat, house, expensive watch, publishing my first novel, seeing my first screenplay on the screen, going to a Steelers game in Pittsburgh on a snowy day, holding my first grandchild, celebrating our 10 million dollar mark year, backpacking through Europe and Asia, and diving in the Barrier Reef. These are all things, though, and some of them, admittedly, are fairly shallow.
It's been a wonderful 36 years, with strife, struggle, love, laughter, pain, heartache, and joy. The universe has seen fit to provide me with so much, I hardly feel as if I deserve it. So, then, this is my accounting, the scales of balance as I see where they measure, my personal precis: It has been full.
I pray there's much more to come.
However, after reading this morning's ESPN special coverage on the kids of Willows, California, the idea of mortality and the chance to live life, to experience life, and to walk away from this beautiful orb of glowing passion with lessons learned, has been bouncing around my lower cranial cavity all day. You know when stuff does that? It's in the subdermal mental layer, getting digested into some form of spiritual energy, like a Snickers bar consumed on the chair lift midway through a day of snowboarding. ZING!
So, it occurred for me that it's already been a pretty noteworthy life. All the things the human animal requires to call it a 'life,' I've been blessed to enjoy. Holding a newborn as a parent, watching them develop and blossom, laughing with the depth of the heart, and making someone else laugh just as hard as they ever have, passionately loving, passionately losing, dancing until the feet hurt and the sweat stings the eyes, competing with every single charge of ATP in the molecule, crying with joy, crying with despair, protecting the weakest lives, flirting with Dionysus and having that fickle god thoroughly exact his heavy penance the next day, feeling adrenaline ignite every sense, giving and receiving the utmost pleasure, tuning into the higher power, learning to ignore the basest instinct and the joy of giving with earnest kindness.
Granted, there's much left to do. Walking my daughter down the aisle, watching my nephews play football, going on my last first date and discovering my life partner (if she truly exists), buying my firsts: boat, house, expensive watch, publishing my first novel, seeing my first screenplay on the screen, going to a Steelers game in Pittsburgh on a snowy day, holding my first grandchild, celebrating our 10 million dollar mark year, backpacking through Europe and Asia, and diving in the Barrier Reef. These are all things, though, and some of them, admittedly, are fairly shallow.
It's been a wonderful 36 years, with strife, struggle, love, laughter, pain, heartache, and joy. The universe has seen fit to provide me with so much, I hardly feel as if I deserve it. So, then, this is my accounting, the scales of balance as I see where they measure, my personal precis: It has been full.
I pray there's much more to come.
6 Years Later, 6 Years Wiser, 6 Years Happier
Walking along with you in the mall
Seeing you look at me during a dinner
Knowing what's on your mind
But not being able to address it because of your fear
My desire to have you forever
Your desire to be had forever
Not the old woman with hundreds of cats
You can have the love of a lifetime
If you'll just open up, open up
You open so much else,
Why not your heart and mouth
The beach, the warm sand, running with you
Looking at your body as we lay panting together
Admiring the curves, the blatant femininity of you
Loving the sex, loving the eyes, loving the face
Carved of granite in feature, wrapped in silk of texture
Being alone in order to be safe
To be safe and what? Alone?
Better to be open, say what's there and risk
Life is risk
In the end, as you look at your assembled prodigy
Do you think you'll regret taking so many risks?
Will you regret losing me?
Will you regret losing us?
I already do.
I did long ago when I first realized you did not want me
Who was I to you?
Was I the answer?
Did I rock your world as much as you rocked mine?
Still selfish?
Still wanting only that which will help you?
I'm here.
Holding your hand walking through the scariest doors.
Leading you when you need to be the little girl
Waiting for you when you need to window shop.
Understanding all of you, waiting for you to do the same.
Love me as I love you.
Open up.
Forsake me your body if that means I can have more of your heart.
Give me you as I give you me.
What good is success and beauty without the right one to share it?
What good is life and happiness without the one who helped you seek?
Fine wine, drunk fools, hang on me girl
Slobbery, silly sex.
Take the day off and enjoy each other.
Chinese dragons, Asian Tigers.
Beef soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, Gatorade.
Loving the stretch marks, the sex of them
Hands over your hips, so powerfully deep the drive
Eyes on nipples, suckling them, watching you flinch
Bringing you again and again and again where only I can take you
Only me. Not even you. Not even you can take you there.
More than skill, purely love.
Mistakes on both sides of the ball.
Poor defense. Silly offense.
Mistakes each team can make up for with hard work.
Successful adults give up not at all.
We choose not whom we love.
We choose how we treat them and how much we forsake for them.
I would forsake all.
Would you?
Once you forsake all, you know there's nothing else.
Nothing in heaven, earth, hell or deep blue sea that compares.
Holding your hand, feeling pride.
Phone calls from you, just A T T E N T I O N from you
All I wanted, just your hands on my body
Make me feel what you won't tell me with your mouth
Through your hands
Woman needs so much from man.
What does a man need from a woman?
More.
More.
More.
Not,
More me.
More me.
More me.
My heart is yours, you can have it back.
Your heart is mine, but I can't take it back.
I wish I could.
Mistakes are here and now.
What is there tomorrow?
Shall we look together?
Shall we look while thinking of each other?
How do you let go of the love of your life?
How do you let go of the one you've dreamed of
Long before you met them?
How do you forget how perfect they were?
By focusing on how human they are?
I cannot.
Seeing you look at me during a dinner
Knowing what's on your mind
But not being able to address it because of your fear
My desire to have you forever
Your desire to be had forever
Not the old woman with hundreds of cats
You can have the love of a lifetime
If you'll just open up, open up
You open so much else,
Why not your heart and mouth
The beach, the warm sand, running with you
Looking at your body as we lay panting together
Admiring the curves, the blatant femininity of you
Loving the sex, loving the eyes, loving the face
Carved of granite in feature, wrapped in silk of texture
Being alone in order to be safe
To be safe and what? Alone?
Better to be open, say what's there and risk
Life is risk
In the end, as you look at your assembled prodigy
Do you think you'll regret taking so many risks?
Will you regret losing me?
Will you regret losing us?
I already do.
I did long ago when I first realized you did not want me
Who was I to you?
Was I the answer?
Did I rock your world as much as you rocked mine?
Still selfish?
Still wanting only that which will help you?
I'm here.
Holding your hand walking through the scariest doors.
Leading you when you need to be the little girl
Waiting for you when you need to window shop.
Understanding all of you, waiting for you to do the same.
Love me as I love you.
Open up.
Forsake me your body if that means I can have more of your heart.
Give me you as I give you me.
What good is success and beauty without the right one to share it?
What good is life and happiness without the one who helped you seek?
Fine wine, drunk fools, hang on me girl
Slobbery, silly sex.
Take the day off and enjoy each other.
Chinese dragons, Asian Tigers.
Beef soup, grilled cheese sandwiches, Gatorade.
Loving the stretch marks, the sex of them
Hands over your hips, so powerfully deep the drive
Eyes on nipples, suckling them, watching you flinch
Bringing you again and again and again where only I can take you
Only me. Not even you. Not even you can take you there.
More than skill, purely love.
Mistakes on both sides of the ball.
Poor defense. Silly offense.
Mistakes each team can make up for with hard work.
Successful adults give up not at all.
We choose not whom we love.
We choose how we treat them and how much we forsake for them.
I would forsake all.
Would you?
Once you forsake all, you know there's nothing else.
Nothing in heaven, earth, hell or deep blue sea that compares.
Holding your hand, feeling pride.
Phone calls from you, just A T T E N T I O N from you
All I wanted, just your hands on my body
Make me feel what you won't tell me with your mouth
Through your hands
Woman needs so much from man.
What does a man need from a woman?
More.
More.
More.
Not,
More me.
More me.
More me.
My heart is yours, you can have it back.
Your heart is mine, but I can't take it back.
I wish I could.
Mistakes are here and now.
What is there tomorrow?
Shall we look together?
Shall we look while thinking of each other?
How do you let go of the love of your life?
How do you let go of the one you've dreamed of
Long before you met them?
How do you forget how perfect they were?
By focusing on how human they are?
I cannot.
Casting My Own Shadow
Deciding to move in a direction away from what has been comfortable, if not profitable, is a little daunting. It's deciding that the person that one has bought into is no longer of value. Because, really, staying in one place and representing something for so long is a way of defining one's self.
In filing my own dba, starting my own business, and hanging my own shingle, I create a new way of being. It's lonely, fulfilling, and at times, scary. There is no manual or book of SOP to follow, no boss to ask, nor coworker to consult. Essentially, it's walking on the moon, only there's no NASA, and finding my way back to the landing craft is more than just following my footsteps.
It's been two weeks, and blogging might be my only way to get it all "out there." Into a place where someone can read these thoughts and impressions, and give me feedback, is where I go. And possibly (probably?), I'll be the one providing the feedback, acting the part of caring sounding board.
Right now, sitting in front of a client, and knowing the performance is all on me is liberation and manacles in equal measure. Only the manacles feel like the chains of love, and the liberation is from a weaker method of walking and finding my way. Which really means my stride is picking up.
In filing my own dba, starting my own business, and hanging my own shingle, I create a new way of being. It's lonely, fulfilling, and at times, scary. There is no manual or book of SOP to follow, no boss to ask, nor coworker to consult. Essentially, it's walking on the moon, only there's no NASA, and finding my way back to the landing craft is more than just following my footsteps.
It's been two weeks, and blogging might be my only way to get it all "out there." Into a place where someone can read these thoughts and impressions, and give me feedback, is where I go. And possibly (probably?), I'll be the one providing the feedback, acting the part of caring sounding board.
Right now, sitting in front of a client, and knowing the performance is all on me is liberation and manacles in equal measure. Only the manacles feel like the chains of love, and the liberation is from a weaker method of walking and finding my way. Which really means my stride is picking up.
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