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I lie for a reason

A writer friend of mine recently told me about a Reader’s Digest writing prompt to write a story that begins with the phrase, “The difference is, I lie for a reason.” I found the idea inspiring, though I took some liberties with its execution. But below is my story based on that prompt.

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People tell a lot of lies.  Some lie to others; others lie to themselves.  Some tell white lies, while others spread the darkest gossip.  I’m not like any of them though.

The difference is, I lie for a reason.

I lie for a man, a father, on his deathbed.  I tell him, “I love you.”  He smiles – I’m not sure if he knows I’m lying.

I lie for a woman, her hair streaked with grey.  I tell her, “You were a good wife, a good mother.”  She says nothing – I know she knows I’m lying, but I lie anyway and hope that I can convince her otherwise.

I lie to a girl who lied to me.  Once upon a time, she told me she loved me.  She didn’t.  Now, she tells me her boyfriend doesn’t beat her.  He does.  But I lie to her, and tell her that I don’t remember the last time I saw him.  I do.

The last time I saw him, the whites of his eyes shone like two full moons right after I told him a truth that left the night hushed like the twin kisses of a double-barrel shotgun.  The last time I saw him, he looked like a Jackson Pollock painting of the Invasion of Normandy.  The last time I saw him, he ran out of lies to tell me as I threw one last shovelful of dirt on an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere.

“How could you do it?” you ask?  Maybe I’m just a stone-cold bastard.  Maybe not.  Anyway, that’s not the question you should be asking.

“Did you get the girl?”  No – but I keep an eye on her.  I listen to her lie to her acquaintances and say that she left him, and lie to her friends and say that he ran off with another woman.  Neither are true, and she knows that.  But she lies to them and to herself, out of habit or maybe just to make it through the day.  But that’s not the right question either.

“Do I think I’ll ever get caught?”  Of course not – most criminals don’t, not that I think I am one.  But for all the red this confession seems to paint on my hands, no one will ever find a body.  Even if the cops bring me into the station, they’ll never get the story out of me.  Nothing will come of it.  Anyway, that’s still not the right question.

“Why did you do it?”  Ah…now that’s a better question.  Maybe I did it for the girl; maybe I did it for myself.  Maybe I’m mad, or maybe I’m just the last righteous man in a world full of liars.  Maybe you’ll never know.

Because when I lie, I lie for a reason…

And what if I’m lying to you tonight?  That…that is the right question.  Because anything else…?  Well, how can you believe anything I’m saying?

After all, I am a liar.

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The Sun and The Moon

Do you know of Tarot?  These cards are often used for fortunetelling, and can be divided into two sets:  the Minor Arcana, which became our modern playing cards, and the Major Arcana, which are often used to depict Tarot in films and stories.  And while all the cards are rich with meaning, today I would like to talk about two in particular:  The Sun and The Moon from the Major Arcana.

The Sun is a masculine card.  It represents day, enlightenment, and intellectual advancement.  All the things we associate with academy and philosophy are attributed to The Sun.

The Moon is a feminine card.  Some descriptions of Tarot depict The Moon as a negative card: representing wildness and unrestrained instincts.  However, I see it as intuitive – representing a deeper understanding of the word.

While The Sun burns, The Moon is cool.  While The Sun radiates, The Moon is still.  While The Sun speaks, The Moon is silent.

Some pains are born of sound and fury.  They cannot be healed with more of the same.  You cannot treat a burn with more fire.

Some nights, there are two moons in the sky: one without, and one within.  And on those nights, there exists a pain that cannot be cured by words or deeds.  It must be borne in silence – but not necessarily in solitude.

So friends, will you join me?  Will you listen, and help to bear this pain?  Will you stay awhile in my company?

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With and without

His joints, not without aches,
Her back, not without pain,

His mind, not without fatigue,
Her faith, not without strain,

His days, not without hardships,
Her nights, not without regrets,

Their hearts, not without scars.
Their souls, not without glory,

Their eyes, not without sorrow,
not without joy.

Their lives with grace,
standing side by side.

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On finding yourself

The journey to find ourself is a persistent cultural trope.  And with good reason – with each generation that succeeds, there is another generation who follows them and needs to take their own journeys.  And while the goal is the same, people pursue it through many different means.

There are people who look for themselves by saying, “Yes.”  They say “yes” to everything that interests them, and pursue themselves through new experiences.  By learning what they like, and what they don’t like, they attempt to find themselves.

There are those who look for themselves by saying, “No.”  Some give so much of themselves that they lose their sense of self in the pursuit of helping others.  By saying “no,” they free themselves from the perception that they must help others, which gives them time for their own journeys of self-discovery.

There are those who look for themselves in solitude – with the quiet and the isolation allowing them to process what they think and feel.

There are those who look for themselves in others – and revel in immersing themselves in cultures and communities.

And there are those whose journeys are complex and multifaceted.  Some may immerse themselves in saying “Yes,” but make time for solitary moments of self-reflection.  Others may revel in their interactions with others, but maintain healthy boundaries by learning when to tell people, “No.”  Some may be immersive and explorative, while others may need boundaries and solitude.

There are many different kinds of people in the world, and many different paths we could take in search of finding who we are.  I don’t believe there is any “one true path” that we all must take, but many open for us to explore.  And while there are roads that lead to ruin, I believe that there are fewer of those than our fears and insecurities lead us to believe.

They say, “The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” and the journey in search of our self is perhaps as complex as any we’ll make in our lives.  But like the quote says, these journeys are long, but can be completed one step at a time.

So step.  Step with faith.  Step with confidence.  But step forward – your journey awaits.

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Life is meetings and partings

Life is meetings and partings.

It’s full of people we meet, and how they move us. Some people inspire us, some encourage us, and some love us. But others may scare us, doubt us, or break our hearts.

And these interactions are both good and evil, but beyond them. Though we may curse the one who broke our heart, that pain will help us to grow. Sometimes those who encourage us prevent us from fully letting go and moving on.

I’ve met a lot of people in my life.  Some became friends, some became enemies, and most faded into dull, gray obscurity.  But all who remained left some kind of mark on me, for better or worse, and helped me become the person I am today.

And that interaction reminds me of a poem I like by poet Shane Koyczan, titled “Tarot”, which is about The Fool, and ends with the line:

The Fool steps blindly, reminding us we cannot simply bear what is necessary, we must love it.

That feeling is sometimes bittersweet – loving the hard and heavy things in life like letting go, like saying goodbye, like getting our heart broken.

This weekend I spoke with three women I knew, and know.

The first was someone I pursued romantically for a summer – without success.  I still think highly of her, despite the rejection, and wish her all the happiness and joy life has to offer.  I expected to see her this weekend, and was happy to be able to spend a little time with her, though it was bittersweet.  But even those small pains are lovely, in their own way.

The second was someone I worked with previously, and also romantically approached.  I was unsuccessful with her as well.  When we both left that company, I never expected to see her again – yet I did this weekend, and I was happy to see her.  She seemed happier too, compared to how I remember her.  I’m glad.

The third was also someone I’d previously worked with, but not someone I’d ever asked out or pursued.  Ironically, I met her on the dating app Tinder.  We’ve been talking since then, and we’re planning on going out for coffee or something in a week.  Maybe it will turn into something, maybe not.  It’s too soon to tell, but I look forward to finding out.

Because life is meetings and partings, and the World spins on to reveal the next minute, the next hour, the next day.  And sometimes the best that we can do is greet the future with open arms and a smile, whatever it may hold.

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My summer Love

Oh, my summer Love…
It isn’t fair.

You are one of the most beautiful people
whom I have ever met,
yet the cruel words from your past
have convinced you that you
are still the ugly duckling.

You are not –
you have the strength of a survivor,
your beauty radiates
through and between your scars.

And while I rage against the world for those very scars,
I question what kind of woman you might have been
had the world not been so insecure
that it felt the need to attack you.

For even though you are hamstrung,
you have weathered storms –
I see it in the way you move:
ever forward, like a charging knight.

You are a modern-day Joan of Arc,
and the world wants to destroy you like it did her,
because it cannot bear to see a beauty rise
that does not owe it allegiance.

So to survive, you gave up your love for yourself.
And now, even though I tell you that you are beautiful,
even though I tell you, frequently,
“You are pretty; you are beautiful.
You are attractive, and hell, you are arousing,”
you do not believe a word of it.

Instead, you remember a laundry list of ex-boyfriends
who treated you like their backup plan.
You remember your father,
how he called you, “Thunder Thighs,”
and made you hate yourself.

And if killing them could save you, I would.
I would wade through an ocean of blood;
I would call in all the debts that you have forgiven,
but never, ever forgotten.

I would take them all to task,
and challenge them because there is no difference
between physical, verbal, and emotional violence.
And listening to you, I know
they were not kind to you.

But that will not save you.
I’m not sure what will, but
I know I want to try.
What I see in you calls to me
like a siren song through the dull-grey fog of this world.

So what I will do is this:
I will tell you that you are beautiful,
each and every moment I can,
and I will never lie to you,
so you know I’m not lying then either.

I will support you,
and throw the winds of my storm
under the wings of your dreams
so your heart can soar.

I will hold you like you are a treasure,
kiss you like you matter,
and, God-willing,
make love to you like you take my breath away.

Because you already do.

I would take the thighs which you find unlovable
and use my teeth and tongue to play a song upon them.
I would use every lesson I’ve ever learned
to coax a symphony of glory out of the body
you do not believe to be glorious.

I would be your shield and sword –
your staunchest defender,
your most charismatic rogue,
stealing back the truth
the world took from you.

I would have you be the last sight of my night
and the first view of each new day.
I would wake you with a kiss,
a cuddle,
and rise before you to get coffee.

I know you’re not a morning person.
But I am, and I would throw my strength into your corner,
and fill the gaps in your defenses.
I would be a man you can trust.

I would carve out a place in my life for you,
give you my first and my very best,
and offer you the vulnerable moment
of seeing my worst too.

I would have you be mine,
but I know that there is nothing I can do
to make that so.
Only you can make that claim.

Instead,
I can only tell you,
honestly and fervently,
that I am yours.

I am yours lady,
and as sure as the sun rises,
I would dote upon your whims,
champion your dreams,
and be the weapon of your vengeance.

I would love you for you,
serve you because I see the value you do not,
and chastise you if need be,
because I do not think you would respect a man
who merely rolled over for you.

I am yours lady,
and I wait upon the day
when I earn your favor
and the reward
that is the echo of my words.

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It’s hard to choose love over hate

This past Labor Day weekend, I was visiting a friend and she wanted to put on John Oliver’s show, Last Week Tonight.  We watched two episodes from…approximately March of this year.  One had March Madness as its topic of the night.  The other had an exposé on fees attached to parking and traffic tickets.

I watched these shows, and while the jokes were spot-on, and the humor flowethed o’er, I wasn’t really laughing.

I got angry instead.

The March Madness story discussed how a billion-dollar industry used athletes to generate that revenue, and paid those athletes nothing.  More than that – the industry penalized players who attempted to benefit financially from their collegiate sports career, all while some coaches racked in salaries in the multi-million dollar ranges.  And the underlying racial narrative of rich white men making money off of the physical activities of young African American men carries connotations that I do not have the tact to describe in any fairer light than this:

I think it’s fucking disgusting.

The exposé on parking and traffic fees showed how, if payments were not made on time, the fees on those tickets could balloon up to levels magnitudinally larger than the original ticket.  It showcased how some police departments were encouraged to give out as many tickets as they could manage, and how several municipalities drew a large portion of their budgets from the fees collected.  The predation of the poor and disenfranchised by those who should have cared for them is unforgivable – and it brings me to the topic of today’s blog post.

It’s hard to choose love over hate.

It’s hard to watch the evening news some nights and feel anything but rage.  It’s hard to fight the slow nurture of hatred at seeing what people do to one another.  It’s so very easy to hate the perpetrator – to let your outrage build like pressure in a kettle until you’re whistling at the seams.

Love, on the other hand, is much harder to cultivate.  Other feelings can easily be confused for love.  Love is not pity, not even for a victim.  Love is not keeping someone safe, not if it means building a cage around them.  Love is not something that exists in ignorance – we cannot turn away from all the horrible things in the world and say that we love it.

Hatred is grudges, and pain, and harshness.  So love, to counter that, must be forgiveness.  Love must be healing.  Love must be gentleness.  Hatred is the swiftness of a tempestuous storm.  Love is the long, slow waxing of the seasons.  Hatred is the seduction of instant gratification.  Love makes no promises – it speaks the simple honesty that any, and all, relationships take time and work to develop and maintain.

And so, it’s hard to choose love over hate.  It’s hard to let go of the moment and live for tomorrow.  It’s hard to set aside our anger and forgive.  It’s hard to let go of our prejudice and build.

But love is worth it, even if it is hard.

Destruction can only remove what exists, but creation can bring forth something that has never existed before.  Hatred can only destroy lives.  Love can save them, and create them.  But love must be nurtured, in arid soil during the bleakest of droughts.

However, the fruit of such endeavors is sweeter than that of hatred, and far more nourishing – for not only our souls, but also for the world.

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Song of Twilight

Sing to me a song of twilight.

Sing to me of dates in the dark,
of dinner and dancing,
flirting, romancing,
and stolen kisses.

Sing to me of late-night conversations,
of empty bottles of wine
and glasses so often filled
that they themselves feel tipsy.

Sing to me of sex
of the raw, primal soundtrack
that thunders through our blood
like a sweltering summer storm.

Sing to me of greeting the sunrise
with someone held in your arms,
softly like you’re still dreaming,
fiercely like you never want to wake up

Sing to me of the dusk,
of the vanishing of the light.
Sing to me of the dawn,
and the birth of a new day.