Summer star
Tenacious
Awakened
Resourceful
Adventurer
Rewilding
Enthusiast,
Nature
Expert
Extraordinaire
All-in
Lady:
Thespian,
Laborer,
Artisan,
Nurturer –
Damn.
Page 14 of 66
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.
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.
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.
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.
The root of all Evil
People can be quick to place blame, saying someone is bad because of something someone has said or done. But what is bad, or evil? Anyone can point to a list of actions and say one or another is evil – sometimes without much argument. But what is Evil? What is it that makes us choose these reprehensible actions? What is its essence – its root – and why do we care?
In my opinion, I think the old adage is correct: “Pride is the root of all evil.” But why?
Because I think all evil comes from an idea – that we are special, so special in fact that the rules do not apply to us. But why is that evil? How does that create all the rest of what we collectively call, “Evil”?
The big examples are easy to describe. Murder? Whatever the motive, the murderer cares more for their motives than they do about the legality or morality of their own actions. The same can be said for any kind of sexual crime.
But what of lessor evils? Stealing? There are certainly times when theft is the lessor of two evils (so to speak), but anyone who makes their living off of stealing is frequently seen as a villain who doesn’t care whom they hurt with their actions. Lying? The same – there are exceptions, but serial liars care more for their reasons than anything else. Even white lies can be similarly criticized.
What about speeding? Can we really justify driving over the speed limit, or are we just making excuses for reckless and selfish behavior? I know we’re not saving much time – I worked out the math on how much time we save by speeding, and the results are sad. (Short version: it’s not worth it.)
Even bitterness and spiteful words – actions that are completely legal – still darken the world bit by bit. And what are our justifications? That it doesn’t matter? That everyone does it? It reminds me of lyrics from Radiohead’s song “Creep”:
Whatever makes you happy,
Whatever you want,
You’re so fucking special…
And that’s what Evil is, in my eyes.
Now you can be and feel special – that’s OK. But when you start treating people like you matter more than them… When you act like your ideas and ideologies matter more than the people who have to be sacrificed to support them… That is Evil. It is microscopic and titanic, widespread and pervasive. It’s…seductive.
Because it tells you that you’re special. It tries to make you feel good about doing things that you should question. And, unfortunately, sometimes it succeeds.
Cognac
She’s got a look in her eyes –
poured from the finest decanter
into glasses that shimmer and shake,
raging with the thunder of one whose
indomitable willpower leaves those around her
tipsy.
*This poem is a continuation of a project where I chose a color, and wrote a poem on the first three words that came to mind. In this case, they were eyes, a drink, and drunk*
The story of a man
Let me tell you the story of a man.
This man was strong.
He served in World War II,
lived to see 100,
and spent the last decade and a half of his life
living on a cattle ranch in Montana.
He took a kick to the chest by a cow
in his late eighties or early nineties
and walked it off.
He survived two divorces
in which every child but one
sided with their mothers against him.
This man remembered courtesies,
and once thanked someone
for the kind words they said at his father’s funeral
some twenty years prior.
This man was kind
and did not let the circumstances of his life
make him bitter.
Let me tell you about a boy
who idolized that man,
who loved him dearly
across distance and time.
This boy grew to adulthood,
and still looked up to that man
as though he hung the sun in the sky.
That man was his hero,
is his hero,
will always be his hero.
That boy was me,
and that man
was my grandfather.
And on the 27th of August
he died.
I wrote him two letters –
two important letters –
in the past year.
In those letters
I told him in no uncertain terms
that he was my hero
that I was proud of him
that I was proud of being part of his family
that if I only lived to be half as great as him,
I will still have been a great man
and lived an exemplary life.
I’m glad I got a chance to tell him that
before it was too late.
I’ve always planned to give
my grandfather’s name to my first son
as his middle name.
He never got the chance to meet that son,
but I still want to give him that name
because the heroes who live in our hearts
never die.
Goodbye Grandpa.
I will miss you
always
in fact, I already do
with tears streaming down my face as I write this.
I love you Grandpa,
and I’ll do you proud.
Just keep watching,
I’ll do you proud.
To the first of my heroes
and the greatest of them,
Solomon K. Meyer
December 22 1914 – August 27 2015
Revitalized
It’s important to take the time
to walk away from the pen, the paper, the rhyme,
to coax yourself out of your literary lament,
and just live in the moment.
There’s a world of people waiting for you,
beneath the lumens lazuli blue,
each with stories as complex
as those growing in your text.
And if you care to stay a while,
they’ll take you in with a charming smile
which will leave you feeling oh-so blest
that you’ll depart with brimming zest.
And now the writing you once despaired
runs with a passion which you’ve shared
with those who’ve become kith and kin,
who stand apart – yet dwell within.
The story of the sun
When I was younger, I found a sun for myself.
I don’t remember exactly when or where. Perhaps it was at a local faire, or passing by on the street somewhere that I found my sun.
I’d like to think it was amber and gold, but it probably wasn’t. It could have been copper, brass, or gilded. It could have been amber, or just colored glass. But it was my sun, and my sun was amber and gold.
There was a drop of amber in the center, with six or eight teardrop-shaped ambers surrounding it, and the whole piece was set in gold. I’m not sure though. I don’t remember anymore, because I no longer have my sun.
I gave my sun to the first woman who was ever my lover – five years after we broke up. I thought she needed strength, and I wanted to give her my best and brightest. I knew she’d have some long, hard years ahead of her, and she did. She does. But these days she seems happier, pursuing a new career path and telling me about her current relationship with such cheer that I can see the smile on her face even though we’re speaking over the telephone.
But there are those days when I need strength as well, and my world is dark in the absence of my sun. I miss its weight against my chest. I miss the strength I drew from it.
I remember the time in high school when I had an internship, and they had me clean out their basement for a month. I remember how dark it was down there, how lonesome. And how I realized that if I wanted light down there, I had to bring it with me.
So I sung, for hours every day, to bring the light with me. I stopped feeling lonesome. I let go of my fear. The light in my heart chased them away, and I shone like a beacon in the dark.
But some time after that, I lost my light. I don’t remember when or where. Now, I feel lonesome. I am afraid. My heart diminished from all the pieces I gave away to others. Most did not treat them kindly; few returned them when they were done. A few years ago I gave one of the best and brightest pieces of it to a friend who needed strength.
I hope I still have enough to get by. I hope I still have enough left to share with the people I meet who matter to me.
Because when I was younger, I found a sun. I don’t remember when or where. It was a drop of amber surrounded by six or eight teardrops set in gold. I don’t remember anymore, because it’s been years since I’ve seen my sun.
But I still remember the way it feels.
A (wise) man of two faces 