Reminiscent…
I sat on the back porch with my guitar, hanging out with my old friend 'Jimmy'... Buffett that is...
He wrote a little song called, "A Pirate looks at Forty". Catchy little tune, about how time just slips away - often leaving one wondering, just where did it all go?
I sat back reflecting on the past year's events, calculating the angle and speed of my travels... hoping to predict my new destination... yet, that still remains a mystery. Today I am in Utah, tomorrow the same... the next Virginia, then Georgia, then Alabama, then... who knows.
I have soaked up Texas sunsets and Utah snowfalls - Alabama breakfasts, and Georgia smiles. They all feed my roots, yet those roots have not found a good hold anywhere. I just keep blowing down the road. Soon to be twenty-four, I seem no closer to anything permanent. "My wheels just keep pouring out the miles."
I don't really know my intention any more. For writing this, or for my purpose in general... I guess I just felt like throwing out a line :)
"I am just a dreamer, but I gotta keep believing, that someday things will go my way... just running from the devil, I have one foot on the pedal, and the other one is just laid up in the grave... I am just an old dancehall dreamer, living my life in the past - I keep holding on to dreams and them slow moving trains, and I don't know how long I can last..."
-- Pat Green
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I wrote this around the time I arrived in Utah -- a place I predicted to be my saving grace. This place turned out to be as equally depressing as the predicament I had in Texas. I have since learned it is the lack of love, the lack of touch, the lack of all things familiar that can make such a beautiful place seem like a living hell. I have learned this because I was forced to face it - by one of my greatest friends (Lauren :)). I also had a little help from those friends here I often discount for their joking opinions. If I had posted this to myspace, you could call that last line an apology to those I so often seek to avoid. I complained, they presented a solution, and I shunned them. It's not easy to find love when you are always at work, or worried about being deployed for months on end. They are my coworkers, and I am starting to realize they actually cared ---
I am twenty-four now, and I still feel like a pirate. Maybe not a pirate, but at least something equally adventurous...
God knows what's next...
Saturday, December 9, 2006
Helicopter Seeds
When I was a kid...
I remember playgrounds and swingsets, and winter changing to spring. Everything in the world of grey and brown would turn green, and new life would emerge. I remember the "helicopters" - when the sky would be filled with one of God's most inventive creations. The oak trees around my house would release seeds that had make-shift propellers -- without which the seed would never survive. If the seed were left to the forces of nature, it would fall to the earth and take root in the shadow of its parent... depriving it of food, warmth, thus ending it's life in the nascent stage. Ironic - that the grand design makes the shelter of the parent suffocating...
However, with the propeller - the seed finds new ground, and takes root. It is free from the empty earth its parent drained years ago, it lies now in the direct light that is its lifeline...
----------------------------------------------------------------
I have found new ground, and new light -- it seems my new location is a constant instructor. I went flyfishing today, without my iPod or my cell phone, my laptop or my television set. Relaxing on a rock after a whole morning's empty catch, I began to notice the "helicopters" falling from some trees by the brook. They fell, some landing in the water -- others finding a precarious home along the cliff's edge. Meanwhile, some found secure ground in the narrow, empty field at the river's edge.
We all fall away from our beginning, and only then do we truly "begin". Our environment sculpts our lives, until we ourselves are unable to recognize what we have become. We look back on the past, and ask, "How did I get here?" ---
It must have been the wind...
------------------------------
This was a piece of divine inspiration... aside from the "Like a Stone" or "Where the Streets Have no Names" blogs, this is probably my favorite. I was fishing that day in Ogden Canyon, a beautiful mouthpiece to the High Uinta Mountains... The Ogden River flows amongst the rocks, unbeknownst to the trees crowding its banks. It was that time of year, that very day, where the 'helicopter seeds' made their maiden voyage of flight. I ate my lunch on a rock, after realizing hip-waders were a bad idea in a deep river - I was soaked, and cold. I watched them fall. It was like a seen in a movie, somewhere at a graveside where the director always includes some promise of new life. I pictured the withering parents, and their offspring, and drew the correlation you find here. Enjoy.
B
I remember playgrounds and swingsets, and winter changing to spring. Everything in the world of grey and brown would turn green, and new life would emerge. I remember the "helicopters" - when the sky would be filled with one of God's most inventive creations. The oak trees around my house would release seeds that had make-shift propellers -- without which the seed would never survive. If the seed were left to the forces of nature, it would fall to the earth and take root in the shadow of its parent... depriving it of food, warmth, thus ending it's life in the nascent stage. Ironic - that the grand design makes the shelter of the parent suffocating...
However, with the propeller - the seed finds new ground, and takes root. It is free from the empty earth its parent drained years ago, it lies now in the direct light that is its lifeline...
----------------------------------------------------------------
I have found new ground, and new light -- it seems my new location is a constant instructor. I went flyfishing today, without my iPod or my cell phone, my laptop or my television set. Relaxing on a rock after a whole morning's empty catch, I began to notice the "helicopters" falling from some trees by the brook. They fell, some landing in the water -- others finding a precarious home along the cliff's edge. Meanwhile, some found secure ground in the narrow, empty field at the river's edge.
We all fall away from our beginning, and only then do we truly "begin". Our environment sculpts our lives, until we ourselves are unable to recognize what we have become. We look back on the past, and ask, "How did I get here?" ---
It must have been the wind...
------------------------------
This was a piece of divine inspiration... aside from the "Like a Stone" or "Where the Streets Have no Names" blogs, this is probably my favorite. I was fishing that day in Ogden Canyon, a beautiful mouthpiece to the High Uinta Mountains... The Ogden River flows amongst the rocks, unbeknownst to the trees crowding its banks. It was that time of year, that very day, where the 'helicopter seeds' made their maiden voyage of flight. I ate my lunch on a rock, after realizing hip-waders were a bad idea in a deep river - I was soaked, and cold. I watched them fall. It was like a seen in a movie, somewhere at a graveside where the director always includes some promise of new life. I pictured the withering parents, and their offspring, and drew the correlation you find here. Enjoy.
B
A Tree bent down to the River-
Rippled waves fall quietly
Into one and another
Some taking the strength of others
Some lapping at an escape
Each depicting on the surface
What lies below…
A tree bent down to the River -
Kissing the rippled surface, softly -
As if to say -- I missed you
I sat upon it’s roots
Hoping to keep it from falling in -
For a lifetime it’s been but a leaf’s lips distance -
From drowning in the mouth of its deepest love…
--B
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I wrote these words the same day as the following blog, in the deepest moments of my young life -- there has always been something about rivers that has explained so much to me about life. You have a constant current, governed by it's surroundings, impacted by the lives it supports. I think it's why I love fishing so much. Not for the reward in the catch, but for the reward in just being there --- the water's strength governing my movement, the life surrounding, and the quiet kiss of a sun I hope to keep at my back. The mosquitos aren't welcome, but they prove the point that there is no pleasure without pain... :)
-- B
Into one and another
Some taking the strength of others
Some lapping at an escape
Each depicting on the surface
What lies below…
A tree bent down to the River -
Kissing the rippled surface, softly -
As if to say -- I missed you
I sat upon it’s roots
Hoping to keep it from falling in -
For a lifetime it’s been but a leaf’s lips distance -
From drowning in the mouth of its deepest love…
--B
---------------------------------------------------
I wrote these words the same day as the following blog, in the deepest moments of my young life -- there has always been something about rivers that has explained so much to me about life. You have a constant current, governed by it's surroundings, impacted by the lives it supports. I think it's why I love fishing so much. Not for the reward in the catch, but for the reward in just being there --- the water's strength governing my movement, the life surrounding, and the quiet kiss of a sun I hope to keep at my back. The mosquitos aren't welcome, but they prove the point that there is no pleasure without pain... :)
-- B
Walk on the water -
Sometimes you can’t see the way across…
Sometimes the current can curse your path…
But always remember…
The One who walked on the water
Is the wind in your sails…
When all I am has turned to dust -
The river will be there to wash it clean.
When the dreams I have built turn to rust -
The crashing waves will bury them in the sea.
And when the times will come…
When I feel I have done all I must…
The river will find another way… and I will follow - with all of me…
------------------------------------------------
I will probably look upon these words later like they were part of some Baptist sermon... but they meant a lot to me at the time I wrote them on the banks of the Concho River in San Angelo, Texas on my lunch break... trying to secure the strength to finish a hard day.
Looking on it now, I think the "Toad the Wet Sprocket" song 'Walk on the Water' gives a certain feeling to the words... calling on a memory, and hoping for help understanding it.
Sometimes the current can curse your path…
But always remember…
The One who walked on the water
Is the wind in your sails…
When all I am has turned to dust -
The river will be there to wash it clean.
When the dreams I have built turn to rust -
The crashing waves will bury them in the sea.
And when the times will come…
When I feel I have done all I must…
The river will find another way… and I will follow - with all of me…
------------------------------------------------
I will probably look upon these words later like they were part of some Baptist sermon... but they meant a lot to me at the time I wrote them on the banks of the Concho River in San Angelo, Texas on my lunch break... trying to secure the strength to finish a hard day.
Looking on it now, I think the "Toad the Wet Sprocket" song 'Walk on the Water' gives a certain feeling to the words... calling on a memory, and hoping for help understanding it.
1984
I read this book in the 8th grade - a time when I was most unaware of the world around me. I honestly hated it. The writing didn't flow, the words were somewhere beyond my understanding, and the setting was dull and depressing. Upon mature reflection, I realize the truth in the words - as addressed in my later blog, "A New Rome..." I have become somewhat sympathetic to the visionary - to the call for revolution. Something is broken, and we must fix it soon...
The correlations between the following passage and our present conflict are nothing less than disturbing... take it from a warfighter's persepective.
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“It is absolutely necessary to their structure that there be no contact with foreigners…the average citizen…never sets eyes on a citizen of Eurasia or East-Asia, and he is forbidden the knowledge of foreign languages. If he were allowed contact with foreigners he would discover that they are creatures similar to himself and that most of what he has been told about them is lies. The sealed world in which he lives would be broken, and the fear, hatred, and self-righteousness on which his morale depends might evaporate. It is therefore realized on all sides… that the main frontiers must never be crossed by anything except bombs.”
“Their lives are dedicated to world conquest, but they also know that it is necessary that the war should continue everlastingly and without victory…”
George Orwell, 1984, pg. 162
Sadly, a bright man was ridiculed for being twenty years short of truth…
The correlations between the following passage and our present conflict are nothing less than disturbing... take it from a warfighter's persepective.
---------------------------------------------------
“It is absolutely necessary to their structure that there be no contact with foreigners…the average citizen…never sets eyes on a citizen of Eurasia or East-Asia, and he is forbidden the knowledge of foreign languages. If he were allowed contact with foreigners he would discover that they are creatures similar to himself and that most of what he has been told about them is lies. The sealed world in which he lives would be broken, and the fear, hatred, and self-righteousness on which his morale depends might evaporate. It is therefore realized on all sides… that the main frontiers must never be crossed by anything except bombs.”
“Their lives are dedicated to world conquest, but they also know that it is necessary that the war should continue everlastingly and without victory…”
George Orwell, 1984, pg. 162
Sadly, a bright man was ridiculed for being twenty years short of truth…
Cold Fire...
Why must I keep a thousand coals burning-
Yet stand hundreds of miles from the fire?
Hoping to somehow keep this cold heart warm…
One day I think I’ll pull a chair up to the fire -
And watch as all the pretty ladies flicker to nothing -
One by one…
Until one will glow -
And my whole life will have finally begun.
------------------------------------------
I have old ghosts to keep me company when I question the hope of a wife - so many could fit the bill, but so many fall short. I wrote this in response to the girls from high school that read my resume before reading my heart, and seek to hold me down should I ever choose Alabaster, Alabama as a final resting place...
Yet stand hundreds of miles from the fire?
Hoping to somehow keep this cold heart warm…
One day I think I’ll pull a chair up to the fire -
And watch as all the pretty ladies flicker to nothing -
One by one…
Until one will glow -
And my whole life will have finally begun.
------------------------------------------
I have old ghosts to keep me company when I question the hope of a wife - so many could fit the bill, but so many fall short. I wrote this in response to the girls from high school that read my resume before reading my heart, and seek to hold me down should I ever choose Alabaster, Alabama as a final resting place...
Lift
Lift your head up, kid -
Don’t let anyone see
That something in and of this world
Got the best of you
Thank the stars
For your unconquerable soul
Thank God
For your unbroken spirit…
Laugh away the tears…
Drink away the sorrow…
These are just drops in a glass -
Broken glimpses of tomorrow.
------------------------------------
Read the poem 'Invictus' by William Earnest Henley... 'Invictus' is Latin for 'Unconquerable'... I call upon it in moments of direst need, and it was the inspiration for this poem.
Don’t let anyone see
That something in and of this world
Got the best of you
Thank the stars
For your unconquerable soul
Thank God
For your unbroken spirit…
Laugh away the tears…
Drink away the sorrow…
These are just drops in a glass -
Broken glimpses of tomorrow.
------------------------------------
Read the poem 'Invictus' by William Earnest Henley... 'Invictus' is Latin for 'Unconquerable'... I call upon it in moments of direst need, and it was the inspiration for this poem.
Passion
I watched you die
On a silver screen
I watched you fall way
Only to return in Act III
With IV and V to come,
You defy conventional resolution -
Stoned. Bruised. Whipped. Stabbed. Beaten.
There you made your stand.
In the blinded face of your father,
You shed your blood upon the land
That our sin be forgiven -
One conglomerate Evil -
Preyed upon by Hollywood,
An evil instituted by men,
An evil forgotten by a carpenter -
Who has laid a foundation
That no man may put asunder…
--------------------------------------------
I wrote this in response to a previous poem I had written that was lost to a computer virus. I saw the "Passion of the Christ", and walked away stunned. I loved, and hated the movie. Loved it for the true love it portrayed, and hated it for the man it betrayed. I played on a few words here, see if you catch them...
B
On a silver screen
I watched you fall way
Only to return in Act III
With IV and V to come,
You defy conventional resolution -
Stoned. Bruised. Whipped. Stabbed. Beaten.
There you made your stand.
In the blinded face of your father,
You shed your blood upon the land
That our sin be forgiven -
One conglomerate Evil -
Preyed upon by Hollywood,
An evil instituted by men,
An evil forgotten by a carpenter -
Who has laid a foundation
That no man may put asunder…
--------------------------------------------
I wrote this in response to a previous poem I had written that was lost to a computer virus. I saw the "Passion of the Christ", and walked away stunned. I loved, and hated the movie. Loved it for the true love it portrayed, and hated it for the man it betrayed. I played on a few words here, see if you catch them...
B
Hephaestus
Finding myself in between
The drunken composition
And sober explanation
Of the self I seek to find -
Spread out before the vastly, small expanse
Of the central Alabama Piedmont foothills
There was a tribute to Hephaestus -
The god of iron that cooled the city’s core
I was lost here once.
As a child, I stood at the foot of a statue
Looking for someone of authority;
To belay my bereavement…
They found me,
Here I am and there I was.
Lost on a small mountaintop,
In a place called Birmingham…
----------------------------------------
I wrote these poems awhile ago, in a state of war that greatly contributed to my tendencies of creation. When I was a kid, I remember my parents taking me to the Vulcan statue in Birmingham, Alabama. It overlooked the city, and that day was the first time I had seen life from such and incredible vantage point. I don't remember all that I felt that day so long ago, but I remember feeling awe-inspired at the massive monument, and the sprawling land before me.
My parents lost me that day in the crowd. And, when we seek to find ourselves at a much more mature age - we reflect upon the times we were lost before.
The drunken composition
And sober explanation
Of the self I seek to find -
Spread out before the vastly, small expanse
Of the central Alabama Piedmont foothills
There was a tribute to Hephaestus -
The god of iron that cooled the city’s core
I was lost here once.
As a child, I stood at the foot of a statue
Looking for someone of authority;
To belay my bereavement…
They found me,
Here I am and there I was.
Lost on a small mountaintop,
In a place called Birmingham…
----------------------------------------
I wrote these poems awhile ago, in a state of war that greatly contributed to my tendencies of creation. When I was a kid, I remember my parents taking me to the Vulcan statue in Birmingham, Alabama. It overlooked the city, and that day was the first time I had seen life from such and incredible vantage point. I don't remember all that I felt that day so long ago, but I remember feeling awe-inspired at the massive monument, and the sprawling land before me.
My parents lost me that day in the crowd. And, when we seek to find ourselves at a much more mature age - we reflect upon the times we were lost before.
Looking down to relate...
How you looked like the floor
When I wanted to tell you the way I felt -
I couldn’t see you leaving me this way
I always thought you would find something more
In something less --
That’s a lot to hope for in a world
Where I’m always second best…
I exchange these hours for days
Freedom in a moment
Only to lose my solidarity in tomorrow
By being your slave each and every day
But I, I stay awake
In the hope that tomorrow will find me free
Longing for no one, contented in ‘me’…
-----------------------------------------------
I don't even remember what moment this was written in response to... I wrote it long ago, to someone I believed forgot me --- I was right.
When I wanted to tell you the way I felt -
I couldn’t see you leaving me this way
I always thought you would find something more
In something less --
That’s a lot to hope for in a world
Where I’m always second best…
I exchange these hours for days
Freedom in a moment
Only to lose my solidarity in tomorrow
By being your slave each and every day
But I, I stay awake
In the hope that tomorrow will find me free
Longing for no one, contented in ‘me’…
-----------------------------------------------
I don't even remember what moment this was written in response to... I wrote it long ago, to someone I believed forgot me --- I was right.
One more...
One more before the lights go down
One more laugh at what I can never have
One more smile at what was and should never be
One more glimpse into the future
One more forgotten moment of the past
Tomorrow will be different
If today wills it
-------------------------------------
At the end of an evening, we are left questioning what we find fulfilling. Some open the door to their wives or husbands, children and other sources of warmth and comfort. Some of us open doors to the deepest loneliness, and are left asking for just one more...
-------------------------------------
Poetry for the weary and broken hearted...
One more laugh at what I can never have
One more smile at what was and should never be
One more glimpse into the future
One more forgotten moment of the past
Tomorrow will be different
If today wills it
-------------------------------------
At the end of an evening, we are left questioning what we find fulfilling. Some open the door to their wives or husbands, children and other sources of warmth and comfort. Some of us open doors to the deepest loneliness, and are left asking for just one more...
-------------------------------------
Poetry for the weary and broken hearted...
In media res
A term used in literature to denote a writing style with a beginning in the middle, a return to the beginning for some explanation, and a final note of closure. I love it, and wrote this poem in response...
IN MEDIA RES
To begin in the middle
So that I might rewrite the end
I have forgotten the beginning
Erased it in this message I’m trying to send
To anybody
And everyone
That might have a care for someone
A little like myself
Lost in the beating
Of the heart I share with someone else…
IN MEDIA RES
To begin in the middle
So that I might rewrite the end
I have forgotten the beginning
Erased it in this message I’m trying to send
To anybody
And everyone
That might have a care for someone
A little like myself
Lost in the beating
Of the heart I share with someone else…
Home
“Nature comes home to one most when he is at home; the stranger and traveler finds her a stranger and traveler also. “
- John Burroughs
I am beginning to find that home is a state of mind - a place I have always sought, and sometimes found. Yet, I fear it will always remain one step ahead of me… a level of comfort unattainable. It’s not a place, but rather an amalgam of sound and sense, of feeling and love. I feel it most when my father is on the drums, and I’m on my guitar - or when the smoke wanders over the trees and I rest my head beneath a canopy of pines, freezing - but warm inside. I feel it when the nitric fumes of gunpowder fill my nostrils and I look out at a blazing field as it absorbs the final rays of the sunset. When I shoulder my fishing pole, following the rocky bank home in the cool moonlight… then, I am truly home again.
My recent adventures have led me to lose myself, and find myself all over again… to have lost the warm embrace of my heavenly father, only to fall into those loving arms again… I wandered awhile down a rocky path, but now I’m on a new road - and I know this will be the road that takes me to home… and that’s right where I need to be… I often feared the condemning glances of friends and loved ones, but I have come to realize that those countenances were counterfeit, and half the battles a man must fight in this life are in his head - prayer is the only shelter against falsehood and deceit.
- John Burroughs
I am beginning to find that home is a state of mind - a place I have always sought, and sometimes found. Yet, I fear it will always remain one step ahead of me… a level of comfort unattainable. It’s not a place, but rather an amalgam of sound and sense, of feeling and love. I feel it most when my father is on the drums, and I’m on my guitar - or when the smoke wanders over the trees and I rest my head beneath a canopy of pines, freezing - but warm inside. I feel it when the nitric fumes of gunpowder fill my nostrils and I look out at a blazing field as it absorbs the final rays of the sunset. When I shoulder my fishing pole, following the rocky bank home in the cool moonlight… then, I am truly home again.
My recent adventures have led me to lose myself, and find myself all over again… to have lost the warm embrace of my heavenly father, only to fall into those loving arms again… I wandered awhile down a rocky path, but now I’m on a new road - and I know this will be the road that takes me to home… and that’s right where I need to be… I often feared the condemning glances of friends and loved ones, but I have come to realize that those countenances were counterfeit, and half the battles a man must fight in this life are in his head - prayer is the only shelter against falsehood and deceit.
Homeless
Nashville has a way
Of rendering life stolen
Lost dogs and ex-wives chase the starving minstrels down on Broadway Street-
Los Angeles has a way
Of calling home the destitute
And reminding them of all they will never be
Rolling down on Rodeo Drive
And Salt Lake has a way
Of waking up the lost
And calling them to reinvent themselves out on West Temple Street -
To redefine a moment, and a religion built on defiance…
I saw a man sleeping in Hardee’s there
I wanted to ask what brought him here
And what stole away his dignity
What made him bow down, and forget he had knees…
A broken cross lay down,
Fallen between two golden arches
The fat of the land ran down
The streets and alleys
Caressing the savior of the streets
With the stench of the McWhatever… (ambiguous)
Of rendering life stolen
Lost dogs and ex-wives chase the starving minstrels down on Broadway Street-
Los Angeles has a way
Of calling home the destitute
And reminding them of all they will never be
Rolling down on Rodeo Drive
And Salt Lake has a way
Of waking up the lost
And calling them to reinvent themselves out on West Temple Street -
To redefine a moment, and a religion built on defiance…
I saw a man sleeping in Hardee’s there
I wanted to ask what brought him here
And what stole away his dignity
What made him bow down, and forget he had knees…
A broken cross lay down,
Fallen between two golden arches
The fat of the land ran down
The streets and alleys
Caressing the savior of the streets
With the stench of the McWhatever… (ambiguous)
Enchanted Rock
It took two-thousand years to wash away the choking debris - what remained was a surface of cold stone, impermeable to the forces that stole its face.
I sensed a storm overhead - the clouds billowing in pain, shedding tears upon the cold red sands. I desired nothing more than a refuge, so I fled… I found a promising spot on the map, with a promising name -”Enchanted Rock”… it was the only State Park in a 4-hour drive I had yet to see. I read that the Native Americans worshipped the place for its mysterious presence in the moonlight… so I dialed the heading, and set sail.
I went there alone… but I was followed.
My gas was full - I was on empty. I saw the road dancing in my vision. The yellow lines blurred to the point I felt like breaking free… it took two lanes to restrain me. I arrived in the remnants of a German immigrant town, a European capital carved out in the center of West Texas. The town was called “Fredricksburg”, and there was no room at the inn…
I found the park, it wasn’t easy to miss… the bald granite boulder of silver rose from the plains, contrasting the red plateaus surrounding it. I inquired at the office for a campsite, preferably one with a parking spot. Sadly, there was no room at the inn. I had no food. No drink . I only had a bible and a tent, and the scrapes from a can of Skoal. The sun fell with a dying cough of crimson, and I knew my time was running out. Fortunate me - there was a backcountry site still open.
“$12.00 please…” - The Ranger spoke as if discontented with his chosen profession… The gears wound to a halt, cut off from the sustaining fumes that remained… I was alone. Or, so I thought.
----------------------------------
“Hey man, you headed over the mountain?”
“Yeah dude…”
“What brings you here, your plates said ‘Alabama‘”
“Brother, the Air Force brought me here --”
“Man, I got a race tomorrow - Me and ‘Rickles‘, my dog over there, were trying to get a free climb on an open rope -- Dude, you climb?”
“Naw, man - just looking for a night to think -”
“Where are you headed?”
“Over there”
“You been here before?”
“No…”
“Well, you will need some help…”
------------------------------------
The stranger, I believe his name was David, and his dog ‘Rickles’ escorted me over the pass - to a clearing by a lake where my campsite was.
It was a beautiful battleground, if ever a conqueror decided to take Texas… The rocks sheltered the wind, and gave the first to arrive the high ground - a perfect view of the valley, and a secure hold on all the necessary resources for a prolonged engagement…
I digress… we arrived at the campsite. A group of college kids were enjoying an illegal fire, a small fire -- glowing orange in their hands…
These were my neighbors.
Rickles was a huge Alaskan Husky. The dog didn’t belong in Texas - the heat would strangle him, bearing that thick coat. Yet, the creature moved with ease over the stones and sand, as if it were evolution’s intention for him to be a ’Wrangler’…
The soft,black nose rooted around for the serpent that had passed through only minutes before… it gave a final hiss, and retreated into the stones behind us…
I unwrapped the tangled cords of my hotel from my back, and pieced together my one night stand… with God Almighty…
David sat in the shade of a mesquite tree, smoking a hand rolled cigarette… He rolled the paper with the ease of experience… for some reason, this stood out in my memory - after all, most good angels would never smoke…
-----------------------------------
My fortress assembled, I leaned against the stones to pass a small dialogue with the interloper…
“What brings you here, man?” - I had explained myself, but the traverse over the hill piqued my interest as to why he was here in the first place… I mean, there was a town with beer, pillows, and blankets just minutes away… and it was growing late…
“I’m racing” He replied…
“Racing what?”
“Bicycles - they fascinate me” He spoke as if he had never seen one before…
“What will you do tonight?”
“I plan on asking one of those guys for a free rope…”, he motioned with his cigarette-hand to the ominous cliff face before us, covered with ant-like bodies in neon clothing.
“Dude, that’s awesome… you climb much?”
“Every chance I get… there is something about the coldness of the stone… and challenging life and death. Rickles likes it, too…”, He named his dog after some ‘70s show I had never seen.
“The dog can climb?”
“No, man… he can just feel my struggle - like a participating onlooker”
“Cool…” - I had no idea what he meant, I couldn’t percieve the depth of the words he said… ‘perception leads to understanding‘, I guess.
“You should climb.” He said…
“What? I have never done it before…”
“You are built for it…” Again, retrospect is an amazing thing, it allows time for true analysis…
--------------------------------------
“Man, I we have to go… are you safe?” Why would a stranger inquire of my security?
“Dude, I’m good - should be a nice night”
“Yeah, take care - we’ll be seeing you” --
“Sure man, enjoy the race” - I felt like following that statement with a, “Never going to see you again, have a nice night.”
----------------------------------------
I was a Cub Scout… not a full Boy Scout, so I never learned the whole, ‘Always be Prepared’ thing…
I had no pillow - my tent was pitched on a slope - there were a hundred stones stealing my dreams - and a slow rain fell into a downpour.
The spot was perfect… A war waged outside, and my only protection was “The Book” in my hand… I felt the pools of water gather below my tent, the lightning crashed above, the thunder shook my very soul…
And in the morning, I awoke.
----------------------------------------
I had enough… time to turn home.
I assembled my belongings, and turned to the morning sun… I traversed the bald face that was so intimidating the night before with ease. I made my way to the truck a mile away, and unloaded my humble home. A van was parked there in the shade, unattended and covered with dust - like it had been there for years.
I opened my door, and cranked up the iPod - the notes awoke the morning, and erased the fog of the preceding night in the flood… it also woke up the dog sleeping in the van next to me…
A dark-haired man approached on a road bike… undistinguishable from the crowd gathered in the parking lot. Apparently, there had been a race.
Helmet and glasses removed, I recognized the beard --
-----------------------------------------
“Dave, what’s up man!”
“Not much bro…”
“How did you do?”
“Man - I lost, but I won --”
I had no idea what he meant… so, I inquired further. Apparently, during the 26.2 miles from Fredericksburg, David gained the lead over 157 competitors… but something caused him to slow his speed, to relinquish the lead… he had no explanation - but he didn’t seem to care, he was just glad to have raced…
“You headed out?”
“Yeah man, I have to work tomorrow… in San Angelo, miles from here…”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“What?”
------------------------------------------
“Rickles, ready to ride?” He loaded his bike and was gone…
--------------------------------------
Had he won, he would have been gone long before I arrived…
--------------------------------------
I opened the truck door, searching for feathers…
I sensed a storm overhead - the clouds billowing in pain, shedding tears upon the cold red sands. I desired nothing more than a refuge, so I fled… I found a promising spot on the map, with a promising name -”Enchanted Rock”… it was the only State Park in a 4-hour drive I had yet to see. I read that the Native Americans worshipped the place for its mysterious presence in the moonlight… so I dialed the heading, and set sail.
I went there alone… but I was followed.
My gas was full - I was on empty. I saw the road dancing in my vision. The yellow lines blurred to the point I felt like breaking free… it took two lanes to restrain me. I arrived in the remnants of a German immigrant town, a European capital carved out in the center of West Texas. The town was called “Fredricksburg”, and there was no room at the inn…
I found the park, it wasn’t easy to miss… the bald granite boulder of silver rose from the plains, contrasting the red plateaus surrounding it. I inquired at the office for a campsite, preferably one with a parking spot. Sadly, there was no room at the inn. I had no food. No drink . I only had a bible and a tent, and the scrapes from a can of Skoal. The sun fell with a dying cough of crimson, and I knew my time was running out. Fortunate me - there was a backcountry site still open.
“$12.00 please…” - The Ranger spoke as if discontented with his chosen profession… The gears wound to a halt, cut off from the sustaining fumes that remained… I was alone. Or, so I thought.
----------------------------------
“Hey man, you headed over the mountain?”
“Yeah dude…”
“What brings you here, your plates said ‘Alabama‘”
“Brother, the Air Force brought me here --”
“Man, I got a race tomorrow - Me and ‘Rickles‘, my dog over there, were trying to get a free climb on an open rope -- Dude, you climb?”
“Naw, man - just looking for a night to think -”
“Where are you headed?”
“Over there”
“You been here before?”
“No…”
“Well, you will need some help…”
------------------------------------
The stranger, I believe his name was David, and his dog ‘Rickles’ escorted me over the pass - to a clearing by a lake where my campsite was.
It was a beautiful battleground, if ever a conqueror decided to take Texas… The rocks sheltered the wind, and gave the first to arrive the high ground - a perfect view of the valley, and a secure hold on all the necessary resources for a prolonged engagement…
I digress… we arrived at the campsite. A group of college kids were enjoying an illegal fire, a small fire -- glowing orange in their hands…
These were my neighbors.
Rickles was a huge Alaskan Husky. The dog didn’t belong in Texas - the heat would strangle him, bearing that thick coat. Yet, the creature moved with ease over the stones and sand, as if it were evolution’s intention for him to be a ’Wrangler’…
The soft,black nose rooted around for the serpent that had passed through only minutes before… it gave a final hiss, and retreated into the stones behind us…
I unwrapped the tangled cords of my hotel from my back, and pieced together my one night stand… with God Almighty…
David sat in the shade of a mesquite tree, smoking a hand rolled cigarette… He rolled the paper with the ease of experience… for some reason, this stood out in my memory - after all, most good angels would never smoke…
-----------------------------------
My fortress assembled, I leaned against the stones to pass a small dialogue with the interloper…
“What brings you here, man?” - I had explained myself, but the traverse over the hill piqued my interest as to why he was here in the first place… I mean, there was a town with beer, pillows, and blankets just minutes away… and it was growing late…
“I’m racing” He replied…
“Racing what?”
“Bicycles - they fascinate me” He spoke as if he had never seen one before…
“What will you do tonight?”
“I plan on asking one of those guys for a free rope…”, he motioned with his cigarette-hand to the ominous cliff face before us, covered with ant-like bodies in neon clothing.
“Dude, that’s awesome… you climb much?”
“Every chance I get… there is something about the coldness of the stone… and challenging life and death. Rickles likes it, too…”, He named his dog after some ‘70s show I had never seen.
“The dog can climb?”
“No, man… he can just feel my struggle - like a participating onlooker”
“Cool…” - I had no idea what he meant, I couldn’t percieve the depth of the words he said… ‘perception leads to understanding‘, I guess.
“You should climb.” He said…
“What? I have never done it before…”
“You are built for it…” Again, retrospect is an amazing thing, it allows time for true analysis…
--------------------------------------
“Man, I we have to go… are you safe?” Why would a stranger inquire of my security?
“Dude, I’m good - should be a nice night”
“Yeah, take care - we’ll be seeing you” --
“Sure man, enjoy the race” - I felt like following that statement with a, “Never going to see you again, have a nice night.”
----------------------------------------
I was a Cub Scout… not a full Boy Scout, so I never learned the whole, ‘Always be Prepared’ thing…
I had no pillow - my tent was pitched on a slope - there were a hundred stones stealing my dreams - and a slow rain fell into a downpour.
The spot was perfect… A war waged outside, and my only protection was “The Book” in my hand… I felt the pools of water gather below my tent, the lightning crashed above, the thunder shook my very soul…
And in the morning, I awoke.
----------------------------------------
I had enough… time to turn home.
I assembled my belongings, and turned to the morning sun… I traversed the bald face that was so intimidating the night before with ease. I made my way to the truck a mile away, and unloaded my humble home. A van was parked there in the shade, unattended and covered with dust - like it had been there for years.
I opened my door, and cranked up the iPod - the notes awoke the morning, and erased the fog of the preceding night in the flood… it also woke up the dog sleeping in the van next to me…
A dark-haired man approached on a road bike… undistinguishable from the crowd gathered in the parking lot. Apparently, there had been a race.
Helmet and glasses removed, I recognized the beard --
-----------------------------------------
“Dave, what’s up man!”
“Not much bro…”
“How did you do?”
“Man - I lost, but I won --”
I had no idea what he meant… so, I inquired further. Apparently, during the 26.2 miles from Fredericksburg, David gained the lead over 157 competitors… but something caused him to slow his speed, to relinquish the lead… he had no explanation - but he didn’t seem to care, he was just glad to have raced…
“You headed out?”
“Yeah man, I have to work tomorrow… in San Angelo, miles from here…”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“What?”
------------------------------------------
“Rickles, ready to ride?” He loaded his bike and was gone…
--------------------------------------
Had he won, he would have been gone long before I arrived…
--------------------------------------
I opened the truck door, searching for feathers…
What do you see from where you stand?
In my early years as an artist, one of my first lessons was the subject of "perspective" - how a viewpoint can change, all according to the point in space and time it is viewed from. The goal of understanding this idea was to gain some grasp on the imitation of reality -- how we as artists can betray the eyes with a trompe de oiel (I took Spanish, but I think the spelling is correct).
We each would like to be the central point from which everyone views the world, but this is not the grand design. We must occasionally view our worlds from the vantage point of another, and whether or not the two worlds combine is the whole point of perspective in the beginning... to know if two worlds can collide in the same spectrum, the same viewpoint, so that the tracks or highway leading to oblivion heads in the same direction.
Apparently, we don't always see the same as another - and interpersonal conflict emerges. I guess what we need is a 'change in perspective'...
An innocent bystander can see a vicious crime as murder, whereas the one attacked may see it as self-defense. A jealous lover may feel betrayed, when the loved never wanted the emotion to begin with...
We each would like to be the central point from which everyone views the world, but this is not the grand design. We must occasionally view our worlds from the vantage point of another, and whether or not the two worlds combine is the whole point of perspective in the beginning... to know if two worlds can collide in the same spectrum, the same viewpoint, so that the tracks or highway leading to oblivion heads in the same direction.
Apparently, we don't always see the same as another - and interpersonal conflict emerges. I guess what we need is a 'change in perspective'...
An innocent bystander can see a vicious crime as murder, whereas the one attacked may see it as self-defense. A jealous lover may feel betrayed, when the loved never wanted the emotion to begin with...
An Angry Sun...
I wrote this in response to an unforeseen breakup - one that could have been painless, had I explained myself before she had time to think her way into a woven web of past hate... Interesting girl, before slamming my door she said, "Go back to Alabama and find what it is you are looking for, because someone standing right in front of you actually cares". That hurt for a minute, I stood speechless. Then I realized she was after a particular response - my plea of forgiveness for wrongs undone. She left me a card at my door for Thanksgiving. She wasn't mad, never was - just wanted to test her level of control over an unbridled spirit. "I just wanted you to know you inspired me to change my life." I took that hard, feeling guilty for ignoring her - but I found peace a few nights later when she sent me a text message, asking me to walk her dog because she was too sick to move in the cold...
I grabbed the book she loaned me before, knocked on her door, returned it, grabbed the leash, and took 'Boozer' for a stroll in the bitter cold...
My legs shook, but my heart was emboldened. I did not crack to the whim of a misled teenager in her late twenties...
--------
"Accept the words of your fellow man as truth, until they prove otherwise"
If this isn't a verse, it should be...
--------
I returned the mutt, who didn't pee anyway... I still think it was a plea for conversation... I felt bad after the card, because I honestly thought my words made a difference. I don't say that in arrogance, I say it in sadness because there is nothing I can say to change that girl... and she is convinced I am most capable of doing just that. My only comfort is the adage that, "You can't help those unwilling to help themselves" -
Which brings me to the blog -- I let her create a thousand inconsistencies because I failed to respond to her in a timely manner (before the sun went down:)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friends,
I have often sought to save a day - to throw myself into the eyes of a dying sun, in some vain attempt of preventing its imminent demise into a sea of reflected pain...
Today, I heard a sermon that struck home -- it mentioned Paul's note from prison to the church of Ephesus, where he said, "Never let the sun go down on your anger..."
The pastor's words struck home -- as they always do. He began to entertain the emotion of anger, to dispel the rumours that this human emotion is the most vile and sinful...
It is a natural response to pain, entirely sinless... only when we choose sin to magnify the response does it become wretched and vile...
Anger often hides the shadows of emotions unspoken, of ideas unsaid... it is a mask -easier to put on than to take off...
I felt it today -- and I seek to erase it... but I must bear the result, for I let the sun die without a response... I let it fall from the clouds to be put out in a burning sea of resentment. I found that I had wronged someone with silence, the most bitter weapon -- a weapon I chose to employ. They had done nothing to wrong me.
In my action to avoid my feelings, I awoke the demons of another... and have taken the brunt response of my silent words...
My friends, I yield to you the wisdom of my past -- never let the sun go down on your anger, for you are hiding a hurt that will spring up to bring you down later if you choose to remain a coward...
Speak up, before the twilight comes.
B
I grabbed the book she loaned me before, knocked on her door, returned it, grabbed the leash, and took 'Boozer' for a stroll in the bitter cold...
My legs shook, but my heart was emboldened. I did not crack to the whim of a misled teenager in her late twenties...
--------
"Accept the words of your fellow man as truth, until they prove otherwise"
If this isn't a verse, it should be...
--------
I returned the mutt, who didn't pee anyway... I still think it was a plea for conversation... I felt bad after the card, because I honestly thought my words made a difference. I don't say that in arrogance, I say it in sadness because there is nothing I can say to change that girl... and she is convinced I am most capable of doing just that. My only comfort is the adage that, "You can't help those unwilling to help themselves" -
Which brings me to the blog -- I let her create a thousand inconsistencies because I failed to respond to her in a timely manner (before the sun went down:)
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friends,
I have often sought to save a day - to throw myself into the eyes of a dying sun, in some vain attempt of preventing its imminent demise into a sea of reflected pain...
Today, I heard a sermon that struck home -- it mentioned Paul's note from prison to the church of Ephesus, where he said, "Never let the sun go down on your anger..."
The pastor's words struck home -- as they always do. He began to entertain the emotion of anger, to dispel the rumours that this human emotion is the most vile and sinful...
It is a natural response to pain, entirely sinless... only when we choose sin to magnify the response does it become wretched and vile...
Anger often hides the shadows of emotions unspoken, of ideas unsaid... it is a mask -easier to put on than to take off...
I felt it today -- and I seek to erase it... but I must bear the result, for I let the sun die without a response... I let it fall from the clouds to be put out in a burning sea of resentment. I found that I had wronged someone with silence, the most bitter weapon -- a weapon I chose to employ. They had done nothing to wrong me.
In my action to avoid my feelings, I awoke the demons of another... and have taken the brunt response of my silent words...
My friends, I yield to you the wisdom of my past -- never let the sun go down on your anger, for you are hiding a hurt that will spring up to bring you down later if you choose to remain a coward...
Speak up, before the twilight comes.
B
Like a Stone -
“ Alone I read, until the day was done - and I sat in regret, of all the things I had done. Of all that I have blessed, and all that I have cursed; dreams until my death - I will wander on…”
- Audioslave, Like a Stone
Most evenings are quiet in my humble home - save the small roar of music that emanates from my iPod. Hit ’Play’, and the worries of the day seem to wash away. Feeling like a balladeer of long ago, I have collected thousands of songs. Each has it’s own meaning and importance, and mood…
Hearing the old riff I tried to imitate with my friends before a crowd of drunkards - I remembered how I felt the first time I heard it. I don’t really like the whole song, just the part when it fades to an acoustic guitar and Chris Cornell conjures up my memory.
I sat in my recliner this evening, resting my weary bones from a long day falling creatively down a mountain. After a cold beer and a nice warm dinner, I sat back to reflect. Of my three rooms in my one bedroom apartment, that spot is my favorite. I can look upon the mementos and memories I have collected from a ‘safe’ vantage point…
------------------------------------------------------------------------
That old chair looks like it came from a thrift store - it’s worn ragged with years of abuse. My dad used to read me stories in it, my grandfather would doze off after Thanksgiving dinner in it, my mother would sip her coffee by the fire in it, my sister and I wasted many Saturday mornings watching cartoons in it - back when we both fit. I even remember feeding her a bottle of warm milk. I don’t actually remember it, but a picture my mom showed me gave me the memory. So, you see, I can’t part with it… despite the antagonism it poses to my ’chic’ bachelor pad.
Beside the chair sits my guitar - resting most days in the warmth of a cold Utah sun from my picture window. It comes alive most nights, when I try and shake off the cold Utah winter. My dad bought that for me on Christmas Eve my senior year of high school. He played once, yet lost the love somewhere long ago. That next Christmas morning, after all the gifts were open, my greediness of a younger age made me feel short-changed. I had some clothes, and a few trinkets - but where was the ‘big’ present??? We were living in “the Shack on Highway 119” - a rental home I despised because all of my friends thought my dad lost his job or something. It was a nondescript white mobile home right beside the road to my high school. I parked behind the house - hoping I wouldn’t acquire any new antagonists to the dire straits I was in at the time. Times were hard then, but good all the same… we were waiting until our new home was completed. There was a definite strain on finances, but we were content… On that Christmas morning, when the floor lay littered with paper - and my dad could see through his camera lens I was discontented with my loot. My father pointed to the back door. I thought he bought me a new car -- the reward he held for me was much more rewarding… The maple face and spruce neck, the amplifier and bronze strings - he saw me drooling when I played my first song on it. He looked at me, and said, “Son, this will be your best friend - through hard times and good times, music will always get you through.”
His words rang true across the years. She’s gathered a few scratches and dents from parties and drunken serenades, a couple of stickers from across the country - a few tears, a few spilt drinks, a few laughs -- all are stored in the wood, splinters, and strings…
Next to the guitar is my most prized possession - my books. Since childhood, I have always had some strange obsession with collecting written words. Whether I ever read them or not, just possessing them gives me some comfort knowing each has a purpose for a given situation. The Bible??? I have five… it’s probably the most useful. MacLean’s, “A River Runs Through It” is my second favorite. Then comes Hemingway, and my art collections, and history books, and a Twain anthology. They each have their place upon a less then respectable bookshelf… but I got it for ten bucks from a Colonel from Singapore attending the Staff Officer’s school at Maxwell. He couldn’t bring his things from home, so he purchased whatever he could. I like it just because of the story, even if it’s falling apart from the plastic screws and prefab plywood. The lamp I read by came from him too…
Then there is my coffee table. It’s seen better days too, but it has a very special meaning to me. It has stray marks of green, purple, and red - ancient crayon marks from the days my parents first knew of my gifts… I drew submarines with windows, dinosaurs, and elegant castles replete with dragons and damsels in distress. It sits just high enough to rest my feet after a long day, and high enough for a four-year-old to dream…
Upon my mantle is a deer skull - part of my peculiar decorations, it is a piece in my collection of Texas… I found it hunting alone one afternoon. I called it ‘hunting’. Really, I was wandering aimlessly with a loaded shotgun strung over my shoulder trying to decipher the means and direction of my travels; and the meaning of this cyclic life and death. There are also stones from the Llano River - I camped there, alone, drunk by a fire playing guitar. I fished awhile, but I was in search of something that weekend. I remember laying on the smooth river stones beneath the moonlight, staring at an ivory plateau glowing from the light of the moon. The water rushed by, the air was cool, and I passed out. -- Oh yeah, and there’s a coffee mug I bought in a thrift store in Junction, Texas (town on Llano River). Opposite is my tribute to Alabama - a wooden elephant, and my old license plate that was bent in an accident… a reminder not to let your friends drive your truck…
Above the elephant and deer skull is something equally peculiar… it seems out of place, but it holds a beloved story as well. It’s a rattlesnake skin, nailed to plywood covered in felt with brass tacks… I think we did a good job, not being taxidermists and all… we were just kids at 23, roomates and compatriots. We had to find inventive ways to pass the time in San Angelo, Texas - so Jon and I decided to pick up hunting as a hobby. There is nothing more beautiful than gun smoke rising to meet a dying sun on the plains of West Texas. The smell of sulfur, the purples and reds, the shadows of mountains, the sounds of breaking twigs as the deer begin to feed. We usually returned home empty handed, the conversations on life usually distracted us from any quarry. The dove is an amazing creature -- a symbol of peace, loved by God himself. So, when the opportune shots came - we each pretended to miss, hoping the other didn’t notice. One afternoon on the return home, we spotted a rattler crossing the road. We passed him by, but a glance in the rearview made us both wonder - “Why not?”
We grabbed some beers and started cleaning the skin -- our neighbors in the apartment complex had their doubts, but thought the adventurous Air Force boys could pull it off…
We prepared everything perfectly, trying to do some justice for the life we mutually took - and regretted taking. We were just kids then, almost a year ago now… In the middle of my greatest battle, this became a symbol of something indescribable… defeating fear, and being proud to show it on my wall.
After the moments of reflection, it is time to retire - to renew my heart and spirit to take on another day. I lay my head upon the pillow, but never without a final glimpse at a tattered photograph on my nightstand… I found it a few years back, in a rare moment when I was proud of my mother’s role as a ‘packrat‘.
I was in college then, my mind on things greater than childhood. I would come home most weekends, only to find that the bedroom that was once mine was growing increasingly cluttered with my mother’s “collections”. Upon retrospection, I know she was trying to fill the void her son left behind when he set off to find his fame and fortune. I am still broke, and the room is still as empty as it ever was.
I was dying to sleep - after a Friday night with Bobby and the boys, my head still rang with a loud guitar and the pains of a well-deserved hangover. But, there’s no sleep for the weary - especially when your bed is strewn with old photographs. I tried to gather them neatly, and in some order - but there is no method to my mother’s madness.
One fell to the floor, a picture of a blonde-headed seven-year-old… knee-bent, eyes focused, trying his best to emulate “Rambo” with his plastic M-16 and survival knife.
He died a few years later, a night I will never forget. My cousin, my brother, my next-door neighbor, my companion, my friend. That plane fell from the sky, and shattered my heart forever. It hurts still to write about it now… to know that the lone survivor was not my cousin, but a kid that found himself in the justice system years later after a string of juvenile offenses. I forgive him, and I digress…
Scott love Alabama football, and jet-fighters… he even had a cheap guitar we both used to try and play, against his contraband “Guns and Roses” cassette tape my uncle gave us…
Did I choose this life unconsciously? Am I living for someone I tried so hard to forget???
That half-acre where we built a thousand fortresses seemed like the ‘Hundred-Acre Wood’ of the A.A. Milne tales of ‘Winnie the Pooh’ and Christopher Robin… it burned down, ignited by the fuel of a small Cessna bound for Bessemer Airport on a foggy Saturday night…
Before my eyes close a final time, I usually roll over once or twice -- trying to find that perfect spot where one can become comatose…
Before closing, they focus on a yellow stick of fiberglass with a cork-wood handle, and wire eyes… Hanging on hooks beneath a Monet print of the Red Boats of Argenteuil…My grandfather’s flyrod. He didn’t want it, it hid behind some aluminum siding against the walls of his old boathouse. I see where my mother acquired her packing instincts. Tools, two rusted boats, the smell of gasoline, fish scales, nets, rod’s and reels equipped for any fish under the sun, a couple of refrigerators, old newspapers, the sound of crickets, some forgotten birds’ nests, and a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor intended to house my crazy uncle… Even he was too sane to live there.
I had seen my buddy Al Babcock fly-fishing the summer I was an orientation counselor in Tuscaloosa. It looked like a pleasant dance that one undertook alone… I was hooked, quite literally. I have always been attracted to art of any kind. Music. Drawing. Painting. Fishing. I believe art is any form of activity one undertakes with the sole intention of pleasing our heavenly father with motions of the physical sense intended to spark the deepest emotional responses he himself created. The movement of line through the air in the crispest curve, the gentle display, the strike, and of course the frying pan.
PaPaw Jack was thrilled I took it home. He later told me my mother would take the same rod in her red canoe on Lay Lake to catch bass and bream… while she was 7-months pregnant with yours truly.
I hope he is still around when I shake off this uniform… At 74, I am sure he has a few fights left in him… I love that man. I spent two of my greatest summers with that yellow stick, taming the scaly beasts of the Little Cahaba River of Shelby County. My father was inspired by my inspiration, he too partook in this new ancient art - and was equally hooked. I still taste the warm beer and laughter we shared together there. I remember the emergency room trip we shared when I caught a 185-pound dum-bass - me. I even remember the last afternoon I spent with a close friend before his passing on a tragic fourth of July… he had never been fishing. I let him use my granddad’s pole. He laughed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I have nothing more to give that has not already been taken - save hope. And, that which remains is taped, tacked, or nailed to my walls. Walls that display yours truly - and, I judge my visitors by their response. I appreciate their compliments, and despise their critiques. This house is me, this house is mine. Alone, most evenings, I sit and read - until the day is done.
I wonder how I got here, but I am surrounded by reminders. Reminding me always that I am like a stone, forever rolling down the road, collecting more and more the farther it goes…
-B
- Audioslave, Like a Stone
Most evenings are quiet in my humble home - save the small roar of music that emanates from my iPod. Hit ’Play’, and the worries of the day seem to wash away. Feeling like a balladeer of long ago, I have collected thousands of songs. Each has it’s own meaning and importance, and mood…
Hearing the old riff I tried to imitate with my friends before a crowd of drunkards - I remembered how I felt the first time I heard it. I don’t really like the whole song, just the part when it fades to an acoustic guitar and Chris Cornell conjures up my memory.
I sat in my recliner this evening, resting my weary bones from a long day falling creatively down a mountain. After a cold beer and a nice warm dinner, I sat back to reflect. Of my three rooms in my one bedroom apartment, that spot is my favorite. I can look upon the mementos and memories I have collected from a ‘safe’ vantage point…
------------------------------------------------------------------------
That old chair looks like it came from a thrift store - it’s worn ragged with years of abuse. My dad used to read me stories in it, my grandfather would doze off after Thanksgiving dinner in it, my mother would sip her coffee by the fire in it, my sister and I wasted many Saturday mornings watching cartoons in it - back when we both fit. I even remember feeding her a bottle of warm milk. I don’t actually remember it, but a picture my mom showed me gave me the memory. So, you see, I can’t part with it… despite the antagonism it poses to my ’chic’ bachelor pad.
Beside the chair sits my guitar - resting most days in the warmth of a cold Utah sun from my picture window. It comes alive most nights, when I try and shake off the cold Utah winter. My dad bought that for me on Christmas Eve my senior year of high school. He played once, yet lost the love somewhere long ago. That next Christmas morning, after all the gifts were open, my greediness of a younger age made me feel short-changed. I had some clothes, and a few trinkets - but where was the ‘big’ present??? We were living in “the Shack on Highway 119” - a rental home I despised because all of my friends thought my dad lost his job or something. It was a nondescript white mobile home right beside the road to my high school. I parked behind the house - hoping I wouldn’t acquire any new antagonists to the dire straits I was in at the time. Times were hard then, but good all the same… we were waiting until our new home was completed. There was a definite strain on finances, but we were content… On that Christmas morning, when the floor lay littered with paper - and my dad could see through his camera lens I was discontented with my loot. My father pointed to the back door. I thought he bought me a new car -- the reward he held for me was much more rewarding… The maple face and spruce neck, the amplifier and bronze strings - he saw me drooling when I played my first song on it. He looked at me, and said, “Son, this will be your best friend - through hard times and good times, music will always get you through.”
His words rang true across the years. She’s gathered a few scratches and dents from parties and drunken serenades, a couple of stickers from across the country - a few tears, a few spilt drinks, a few laughs -- all are stored in the wood, splinters, and strings…
Next to the guitar is my most prized possession - my books. Since childhood, I have always had some strange obsession with collecting written words. Whether I ever read them or not, just possessing them gives me some comfort knowing each has a purpose for a given situation. The Bible??? I have five… it’s probably the most useful. MacLean’s, “A River Runs Through It” is my second favorite. Then comes Hemingway, and my art collections, and history books, and a Twain anthology. They each have their place upon a less then respectable bookshelf… but I got it for ten bucks from a Colonel from Singapore attending the Staff Officer’s school at Maxwell. He couldn’t bring his things from home, so he purchased whatever he could. I like it just because of the story, even if it’s falling apart from the plastic screws and prefab plywood. The lamp I read by came from him too…
Then there is my coffee table. It’s seen better days too, but it has a very special meaning to me. It has stray marks of green, purple, and red - ancient crayon marks from the days my parents first knew of my gifts… I drew submarines with windows, dinosaurs, and elegant castles replete with dragons and damsels in distress. It sits just high enough to rest my feet after a long day, and high enough for a four-year-old to dream…
Upon my mantle is a deer skull - part of my peculiar decorations, it is a piece in my collection of Texas… I found it hunting alone one afternoon. I called it ‘hunting’. Really, I was wandering aimlessly with a loaded shotgun strung over my shoulder trying to decipher the means and direction of my travels; and the meaning of this cyclic life and death. There are also stones from the Llano River - I camped there, alone, drunk by a fire playing guitar. I fished awhile, but I was in search of something that weekend. I remember laying on the smooth river stones beneath the moonlight, staring at an ivory plateau glowing from the light of the moon. The water rushed by, the air was cool, and I passed out. -- Oh yeah, and there’s a coffee mug I bought in a thrift store in Junction, Texas (town on Llano River). Opposite is my tribute to Alabama - a wooden elephant, and my old license plate that was bent in an accident… a reminder not to let your friends drive your truck…
Above the elephant and deer skull is something equally peculiar… it seems out of place, but it holds a beloved story as well. It’s a rattlesnake skin, nailed to plywood covered in felt with brass tacks… I think we did a good job, not being taxidermists and all… we were just kids at 23, roomates and compatriots. We had to find inventive ways to pass the time in San Angelo, Texas - so Jon and I decided to pick up hunting as a hobby. There is nothing more beautiful than gun smoke rising to meet a dying sun on the plains of West Texas. The smell of sulfur, the purples and reds, the shadows of mountains, the sounds of breaking twigs as the deer begin to feed. We usually returned home empty handed, the conversations on life usually distracted us from any quarry. The dove is an amazing creature -- a symbol of peace, loved by God himself. So, when the opportune shots came - we each pretended to miss, hoping the other didn’t notice. One afternoon on the return home, we spotted a rattler crossing the road. We passed him by, but a glance in the rearview made us both wonder - “Why not?”
We grabbed some beers and started cleaning the skin -- our neighbors in the apartment complex had their doubts, but thought the adventurous Air Force boys could pull it off…
We prepared everything perfectly, trying to do some justice for the life we mutually took - and regretted taking. We were just kids then, almost a year ago now… In the middle of my greatest battle, this became a symbol of something indescribable… defeating fear, and being proud to show it on my wall.
After the moments of reflection, it is time to retire - to renew my heart and spirit to take on another day. I lay my head upon the pillow, but never without a final glimpse at a tattered photograph on my nightstand… I found it a few years back, in a rare moment when I was proud of my mother’s role as a ‘packrat‘.
I was in college then, my mind on things greater than childhood. I would come home most weekends, only to find that the bedroom that was once mine was growing increasingly cluttered with my mother’s “collections”. Upon retrospection, I know she was trying to fill the void her son left behind when he set off to find his fame and fortune. I am still broke, and the room is still as empty as it ever was.
I was dying to sleep - after a Friday night with Bobby and the boys, my head still rang with a loud guitar and the pains of a well-deserved hangover. But, there’s no sleep for the weary - especially when your bed is strewn with old photographs. I tried to gather them neatly, and in some order - but there is no method to my mother’s madness.
One fell to the floor, a picture of a blonde-headed seven-year-old… knee-bent, eyes focused, trying his best to emulate “Rambo” with his plastic M-16 and survival knife.
He died a few years later, a night I will never forget. My cousin, my brother, my next-door neighbor, my companion, my friend. That plane fell from the sky, and shattered my heart forever. It hurts still to write about it now… to know that the lone survivor was not my cousin, but a kid that found himself in the justice system years later after a string of juvenile offenses. I forgive him, and I digress…
Scott love Alabama football, and jet-fighters… he even had a cheap guitar we both used to try and play, against his contraband “Guns and Roses” cassette tape my uncle gave us…
Did I choose this life unconsciously? Am I living for someone I tried so hard to forget???
That half-acre where we built a thousand fortresses seemed like the ‘Hundred-Acre Wood’ of the A.A. Milne tales of ‘Winnie the Pooh’ and Christopher Robin… it burned down, ignited by the fuel of a small Cessna bound for Bessemer Airport on a foggy Saturday night…
Before my eyes close a final time, I usually roll over once or twice -- trying to find that perfect spot where one can become comatose…
Before closing, they focus on a yellow stick of fiberglass with a cork-wood handle, and wire eyes… Hanging on hooks beneath a Monet print of the Red Boats of Argenteuil…My grandfather’s flyrod. He didn’t want it, it hid behind some aluminum siding against the walls of his old boathouse. I see where my mother acquired her packing instincts. Tools, two rusted boats, the smell of gasoline, fish scales, nets, rod’s and reels equipped for any fish under the sun, a couple of refrigerators, old newspapers, the sound of crickets, some forgotten birds’ nests, and a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor intended to house my crazy uncle… Even he was too sane to live there.
I had seen my buddy Al Babcock fly-fishing the summer I was an orientation counselor in Tuscaloosa. It looked like a pleasant dance that one undertook alone… I was hooked, quite literally. I have always been attracted to art of any kind. Music. Drawing. Painting. Fishing. I believe art is any form of activity one undertakes with the sole intention of pleasing our heavenly father with motions of the physical sense intended to spark the deepest emotional responses he himself created. The movement of line through the air in the crispest curve, the gentle display, the strike, and of course the frying pan.
PaPaw Jack was thrilled I took it home. He later told me my mother would take the same rod in her red canoe on Lay Lake to catch bass and bream… while she was 7-months pregnant with yours truly.
I hope he is still around when I shake off this uniform… At 74, I am sure he has a few fights left in him… I love that man. I spent two of my greatest summers with that yellow stick, taming the scaly beasts of the Little Cahaba River of Shelby County. My father was inspired by my inspiration, he too partook in this new ancient art - and was equally hooked. I still taste the warm beer and laughter we shared together there. I remember the emergency room trip we shared when I caught a 185-pound dum-bass - me. I even remember the last afternoon I spent with a close friend before his passing on a tragic fourth of July… he had never been fishing. I let him use my granddad’s pole. He laughed.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
I have nothing more to give that has not already been taken - save hope. And, that which remains is taped, tacked, or nailed to my walls. Walls that display yours truly - and, I judge my visitors by their response. I appreciate their compliments, and despise their critiques. This house is me, this house is mine. Alone, most evenings, I sit and read - until the day is done.
I wonder how I got here, but I am surrounded by reminders. Reminding me always that I am like a stone, forever rolling down the road, collecting more and more the farther it goes…
-B
Thursday, December 7, 2006
"A New Rome meets the New Barbarians"
"The Media can't control what we think, but they can control what we think about..."
- Anonymous Truth
-----------------------------------------------------
'Big Brother' was a predilection by Mr. George Orwell in his book 1984, a predilection that fell just 20 years short. What can you expect, George was writing in Britain in the 1940s. The world was recovering from the ravaging spectre that was WWII. The people feared what he wrote, and he was scared of his own ideas. He picked up a pen, an instrument seldom thought of today - long before the 'Information Age' reached its climax; yes my friends, the present. Had he the touchscreen search engines of today, I believe his predictions would have been much more accurate... but, I digress.
-----------------------------------------------------
Did you watch CNN today? Did you feel the traumatic pain of a frozen family trapped in the snow of the Pacific Northwest??? Did you question Mr. Kim's decision to wander into a frozen wasteland to save his family??? Did you wonder what the world would have cared had he found the help he sought??? No, his body was found - frozen, a mile from his family, soon to be lost in memory to the 5 minute ADD persona that is America... CNN called him 'superhuman'. At least it's interesting for a few more days. Then, the family has to piece together their dignity after the tragedy of nationwide coverage... long after the shelf-life of American pity...
Did you question why the Russian Spy who died in England has been covered so heavily on the news??? Why a person dies, much like thousands of others everyday, but the uniqueness of his passing marks him more reportable than the rest??? What about the Darfur kid??? Well, he didn't die from radiation poisoning from the rare isotope of Polonium-120... no, he was a sad recipient of an AK-47 round, much like the rest of his family. Civil War - inconsequential, they might think... UN Secretary General Kofi Annan estimates some 200,000 have been lost in the Darfur region to date. We have yet to break 3,000 American lives lost in Iraq. But who's counting? Besides, according to our wartime philosophy - one life is equal to a thousand. 200 Thousand in this case. It's the Sudan - it's Africa. Not an easy sell.
What about the fact that Kim Chong Il and his North Korean Regime may have tested a nuclear weapon just weeks ago? Look at CNN.com and see if they even mention it today. A few weeks ago, you could find drawings of the Taepo Dong, and personality profiles on Kim Jong Il and his trusted associates. That's why I have begun to refer to it as CNNtel. We have been in a state of detente with Kim and his communist brethren for almost 60 years, a holdover from 'containment'. They were the only ones next to Fidel and the Cubans that made it. What's next??? Who cares, Kim's not as cute as Brittany Spears when she bares it all exiting Paris Hilton's car... Point? Nukes are bad for advertising. Why be concerned? CNN has it under control...
Or, how about the Chavez administration in Venezuela? He has just won re-election, and he is probably the greatest vocalist against western ideals. He has the vote, and silences the rest -- welcome to the "Southern" version of western democracy. But, we don't listen. Why? If CNN were to place focus in our hemisphere, we might get scared. Keep the war over there, it's safer.
------------------------------------------------------
Wake Up, America!!! The real battles of this world are being fought at home, and not in Tikrit, Amarra, Falluja, or Baghdad... not in Pyong Yang or Caracas, not in Havana or the Sudan... They are being fought in a general Civil War of 'commitment'... A commitment we have chosen as Americans through ballots cast years ago, choices we as a Nation have come to pay for. That war between the Democrats and the GOP on the battleground that is Capitol Hill. In this case, "Might Makes Right" - even in Realist terms, this holds most true for the world's greatest superpower.
------------------------------------------------------
For the real war coverage, look no further -
What about the new Democratic House of Representatives, who so cleverly drafted such a 'quick and efficient' response to the war in Iraq? Already seeking re-election in such junior terms, our new Democratic Representatives seem 'hellbent' on crucifying this administration. WE ALL HAVE OUR OPINIONS. And yes, you were elected by the voice of America... but you weren't elected by votes at home alone; the soldiers in the trenches of Iraq showed up to the polls in record numbers by absentee ballot. They did so because they have faith in your decision making ability - they have seen the change democracy can make through action, not words, on the sands and in the streets of Baghdad. They don't need some 'old representative' telling them that their 'plan failed'... they need a way home... and they have entrusted you, the American servant, with that charge by their blood-stained ballot. If you should fail them, you fail us all.
I believe you may have done that already...
-----------------------------------------------
I address you each and all, those who doubt the will of the American Warrior -
Sirs,
You have a charged scroll before you. You are condemning the decisions one man has made for the actions of you all. You are quick to point fingers in a war you do not want, the same war that got you elected when two buildings fell and a few thousand Americans lost their lives. Quit trying to improve your golf game, and drink only to the success of the souls you and you alone approved to die in Iraq by the War Powers Act. At present, we see your fiery debates on Capitol Hill in real-time: the questioning of morals, the doubt in the intent, the hope for an 'objective' withdrawal... the unanimous approval of a new SECDEF willing to admit at least partial defeat in Iraq, and the slow-stumble to Civil War...
We call for unity, even if 'Big Brother' CNN leads the charge...
To CNN, I thank you for this and this alone. You show the one truth in a hundred reports that Americans can still fight battles, and words are our greatest weapon. Our ability to express free ideals, even in contradiction of an overwhelming force -- this my readers is the America I fight for.
A post-note of sadness -
"I believe it's not America we fight for, I believe that we have already secured her chastity of truth. I believe we have struck our own eyes of hope in a vain desire to spread liberty to the unwanting, and the streaming blood has blinded our perfect vision of a society based of peace and equality to all."
B. Hawkins, an inconsequential servant :)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
- Anonymous Truth
-----------------------------------------------------
'Big Brother' was a predilection by Mr. George Orwell in his book 1984, a predilection that fell just 20 years short. What can you expect, George was writing in Britain in the 1940s. The world was recovering from the ravaging spectre that was WWII. The people feared what he wrote, and he was scared of his own ideas. He picked up a pen, an instrument seldom thought of today - long before the 'Information Age' reached its climax; yes my friends, the present. Had he the touchscreen search engines of today, I believe his predictions would have been much more accurate... but, I digress.
-----------------------------------------------------
Did you watch CNN today? Did you feel the traumatic pain of a frozen family trapped in the snow of the Pacific Northwest??? Did you question Mr. Kim's decision to wander into a frozen wasteland to save his family??? Did you wonder what the world would have cared had he found the help he sought??? No, his body was found - frozen, a mile from his family, soon to be lost in memory to the 5 minute ADD persona that is America... CNN called him 'superhuman'. At least it's interesting for a few more days. Then, the family has to piece together their dignity after the tragedy of nationwide coverage... long after the shelf-life of American pity...
Did you question why the Russian Spy who died in England has been covered so heavily on the news??? Why a person dies, much like thousands of others everyday, but the uniqueness of his passing marks him more reportable than the rest??? What about the Darfur kid??? Well, he didn't die from radiation poisoning from the rare isotope of Polonium-120... no, he was a sad recipient of an AK-47 round, much like the rest of his family. Civil War - inconsequential, they might think... UN Secretary General Kofi Annan estimates some 200,000 have been lost in the Darfur region to date. We have yet to break 3,000 American lives lost in Iraq. But who's counting? Besides, according to our wartime philosophy - one life is equal to a thousand. 200 Thousand in this case. It's the Sudan - it's Africa. Not an easy sell.
What about the fact that Kim Chong Il and his North Korean Regime may have tested a nuclear weapon just weeks ago? Look at CNN.com and see if they even mention it today. A few weeks ago, you could find drawings of the Taepo Dong, and personality profiles on Kim Jong Il and his trusted associates. That's why I have begun to refer to it as CNNtel. We have been in a state of detente with Kim and his communist brethren for almost 60 years, a holdover from 'containment'. They were the only ones next to Fidel and the Cubans that made it. What's next??? Who cares, Kim's not as cute as Brittany Spears when she bares it all exiting Paris Hilton's car... Point? Nukes are bad for advertising. Why be concerned? CNN has it under control...
Or, how about the Chavez administration in Venezuela? He has just won re-election, and he is probably the greatest vocalist against western ideals. He has the vote, and silences the rest -- welcome to the "Southern" version of western democracy. But, we don't listen. Why? If CNN were to place focus in our hemisphere, we might get scared. Keep the war over there, it's safer.
------------------------------------------------------
Wake Up, America!!! The real battles of this world are being fought at home, and not in Tikrit, Amarra, Falluja, or Baghdad... not in Pyong Yang or Caracas, not in Havana or the Sudan... They are being fought in a general Civil War of 'commitment'... A commitment we have chosen as Americans through ballots cast years ago, choices we as a Nation have come to pay for. That war between the Democrats and the GOP on the battleground that is Capitol Hill. In this case, "Might Makes Right" - even in Realist terms, this holds most true for the world's greatest superpower.
------------------------------------------------------
For the real war coverage, look no further -
What about the new Democratic House of Representatives, who so cleverly drafted such a 'quick and efficient' response to the war in Iraq? Already seeking re-election in such junior terms, our new Democratic Representatives seem 'hellbent' on crucifying this administration. WE ALL HAVE OUR OPINIONS. And yes, you were elected by the voice of America... but you weren't elected by votes at home alone; the soldiers in the trenches of Iraq showed up to the polls in record numbers by absentee ballot. They did so because they have faith in your decision making ability - they have seen the change democracy can make through action, not words, on the sands and in the streets of Baghdad. They don't need some 'old representative' telling them that their 'plan failed'... they need a way home... and they have entrusted you, the American servant, with that charge by their blood-stained ballot. If you should fail them, you fail us all.
I believe you may have done that already...
-----------------------------------------------
I address you each and all, those who doubt the will of the American Warrior -
Sirs,
You have a charged scroll before you. You are condemning the decisions one man has made for the actions of you all. You are quick to point fingers in a war you do not want, the same war that got you elected when two buildings fell and a few thousand Americans lost their lives. Quit trying to improve your golf game, and drink only to the success of the souls you and you alone approved to die in Iraq by the War Powers Act. At present, we see your fiery debates on Capitol Hill in real-time: the questioning of morals, the doubt in the intent, the hope for an 'objective' withdrawal... the unanimous approval of a new SECDEF willing to admit at least partial defeat in Iraq, and the slow-stumble to Civil War...
We call for unity, even if 'Big Brother' CNN leads the charge...
To CNN, I thank you for this and this alone. You show the one truth in a hundred reports that Americans can still fight battles, and words are our greatest weapon. Our ability to express free ideals, even in contradiction of an overwhelming force -- this my readers is the America I fight for.
A post-note of sadness -
"I believe it's not America we fight for, I believe that we have already secured her chastity of truth. I believe we have struck our own eyes of hope in a vain desire to spread liberty to the unwanting, and the streaming blood has blinded our perfect vision of a society based of peace and equality to all."
B. Hawkins, an inconsequential servant :)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Beginning
I had a band in college - a small step down a sidestreet that seemed so promising at the time...
I crave to feel those days of creation once again, the freedom of sharing open-ended ideas with friends who could close them, and allow the growth to ultimate fruition. The doubt left in the last sip of beer, we all share in it...
The Band's name was 'Blue Healer'... we only had two 'shows'... and we were pretty good...
I made the name, I was the lead on guitar, so I believe myself justified in calling this wall of attrition "Blue Healer 2"...
-B
P.S.: For those unaffiliated with the Spanish Language, the newspaper title 'Ya, Basta' literally means, 'enough already'... I couldn't throw blue healer up there... apparently I started a blog, and then started a new one - and have no access whatsoever to the first. So, 'ya, basta'!!! Welcome to Blue Healer Dos. :)
I crave to feel those days of creation once again, the freedom of sharing open-ended ideas with friends who could close them, and allow the growth to ultimate fruition. The doubt left in the last sip of beer, we all share in it...
The Band's name was 'Blue Healer'... we only had two 'shows'... and we were pretty good...
I made the name, I was the lead on guitar, so I believe myself justified in calling this wall of attrition "Blue Healer 2"...
-B
P.S.: For those unaffiliated with the Spanish Language, the newspaper title 'Ya, Basta' literally means, 'enough already'... I couldn't throw blue healer up there... apparently I started a blog, and then started a new one - and have no access whatsoever to the first. So, 'ya, basta'!!! Welcome to Blue Healer Dos. :)
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