Posted: Mon Jan 26, 2009 12:41 PM CST
Random THoughts and Free Writing.....
Be a rock I can lean on.
a soft spot for me to land,
a ladder to help me climb,
a hand to hold,
a body to squeeze,
lips to kiss,
legs to run,
a mind to think,
and a soul to love.
Posted: Fri Jan 16, 2009 6:14 PM CST
So It Is Written......
What gives the Bible more veracity than other "religious" tales?
The Eddas- Norse
The Book of The Dead- Egyptians
The Koran- Islam
The Akilattirattu Ammanai - Ayyavachi
The Kitáb-i-Aqdas- Baha'i
The Kangyur and Tengyur- Bon
The The Principia Discordia and The Apocrypha Discordia- Discordanism
The Rasa'il al-hikmah- Druze
The Cippus Perusinus, Liber Linteus, Pyrgi Tablets, Tabula Cortonensis- Etruscan
The Hermetica, Emerald Tablet- Hermeticism
The Svetambara, Digambara, and Tattvartha Sutra - Jainism
And at least a Dozen others that I know about.
ALL of them were written by MAN, and some even claim to be "Inspired" by a diety.
How does one pick one over the other? Some say, "Jesus is my savior" and "The Bible is the Truth."
But as Richard Dawkins once said, "I suspect that if you had grown up in India, you would say the same thing about Vishnu. If you had grown up in Norway, You would say the same thing about Odin." <----paraphrased.....
The bottom line is NO ONE KNOWS, and eventually, NO ONE WILL CARE.
Christianity is young, and will eventually fade away. Other more ancient religions trump Christianity on the timeline (as to how long they were in power), but disolved or vanished when conquoured (sp?) and absorbed by Christianity.
So, who's next? Who or what will we be worshipping in a thousand years?
Posted: Mon Jan 12, 2009 8:36 PM CST
My 40th Birthday Gift
I have only written about my Dad in any sort of medium a couple of times. And it was difficult to say the least. But reading while cleaning, I stumbled upon an item that reminded me of something I had forgotten for years. Something I had packed away in the back of my closet both the one in my bedroom, and the closet in the deep recesses of my head.
A gift. From my Dad.
He died on June 9, 1980. 11 days before my 9th birthday. He was forty years old when he died.
So today during my breaks from the computer, I've been cleaning. I looked in the closet, and there it was. A bit dusty, but still wrapped by the hands of a man. Crooked folds, and dull creases. Tape too large for the purpose it was intended. No bow, no card.
But this present is from my dad.He bought it before he died, and wrapped it in obvious haste. I never opened it. I teared up when I found it. Choked up with emotions long since repressed by time.
I sit here in my living room. Typing this Blog occationally peering at the package. I am tempted to open it, but I won't. I'm waiting until my 40th birthday.
3 years.
It doesn't matter what's in it. It's my link to my long gone father. Something more than a fading picture or fading memories.
I can still hear his voice when it's quiet in here. And I know he's saying "Happy Birthday, Jim."
Posted: Mon Jan 12, 2009 8:31 PM CST
Broken Heart and Fragile Hands
My ship struck an iceburg and sank along with my heart when the doctors diagnosed him with a heart defect. Aeortic Stenosis. A leaky valve in his little heart. A heart that was probably no bigger than a Kiwi.
"Correctable with surgery." I was told. That offered little comfort considering my little boy was so innocent and hadn't lived long enough tocause any sort of trouble like his old man did back in the day. How could a child be born with something wrong with him? What did he do prenatal that was so bad that he deserved to be born "defective"? Questions that became more philosophical to me than ones I really wanted answers to.The problem with that is it often turns questions reflecting self guilt...
What did I do to that my son has to be punished like this? Was it my denouncing of God at such a young age that acted as a catalyst in this health crisis? Did I smoke a little bit too much weed back in college? Did I puff one too many cigarettes? Was my son's health problem the result ofmy "living too fast"?
My boy was 3 when he went in for surgery. He was getting an angioplasti through the thigh and some coil work. I was there when they put in his IV. I was there when they put the mask over his face. I held his fragile hand and we both counted backward. 99....98....97... "Smells like chocolate." He said with eyes getting heavier and heavier.
89..88...87...(Fighter like his dad. He should have been out by now.) I squeezed his hand and he went limp.
A tear landed on his forehead as I kissed him "good luck." But my fear was that I may actually be kissing him "good bye."
Rainbow Babies and Children's Hospital in Cleveland is known for one of the best Pediatric Cardiology departments in the world. However grand their credentials, things go wrong. People die. Innocent children die.
I was waiting the seemingly endless wait with my mom, sisters, aunts,uncles, nephews, and friends. Waiting for news with people Nick couldn'tyet fathom the importance of. He hadn't yet lived long enough to know. I paced like a 1950's expecting father. But I wasn't expecting the words,"It's a BOY!!" And no matter how many times the Dr. Sterba said it was aroutine procedure, I was expecting the words, "I'm sorry, we did all wecould do."
And they did just that....."All they could do."
----------------------------------------------------------------
And more. He is turning 14 in June. And he's a little trouble makerlike I was. Funny little son of a bitch, too! I'm proud!
He's restricted from playing some sports and lifting weights, but he knowsthat and it's cool with him.
Last year, and I hope it was from some sort of fatherly inspiration, he started writing stories. For a kid, he's pretty good at it. "Like father,like son." And mine is awesome.
Broken heart and all.
And I'll protect that heart until I am no longer able to do so.
Posted: Fri Jan 2, 2009 8:42 PM CST
Long Time No Blog...(Hello Blue)
So I was wandering through the halls of Blogland, looking for old friends and fellow writers.
BajanBlue especially. I always enjoyed her writings. Some drew tears out of this calloused heart, many were incredibly inspirational.
I was here under the pseudonym of j_goose, and later j_goose71. I had made it a point to catch each and every one of her blogs and poems. Commenting on them occationally, but ALWAYS reading, and thinking.
She inspired me and many others to write.
Like a crack addict, I'm back at it. I cherish writing like the starving do bread. I embrace my friends like a dying man, and search for love like a sad man.
I lie here confused with out answers. Climbing a tree with no top, grabbing for branches I can’t see, feeling for footholds I can’t find. Emotion weighs heavy on my, scarred, bitter back, and thought weighs twofold. I am lost in this tree.
Life slams into me like a wave. Crash. Recess. Crash. Kneeling in the ocean I can’t stand. I don’t know where I’m going, but whe I read blogs such as Blue's I can't help but feel a bit better about where I am.
And there are others. Ones I'm just getting to know through their writing. Those I haven't seen until recently. I appreciate good words, and it's the ones that really "grab me" that I think about most often.
So, if there's a particular writer out there not sure whether or not people are getting the message, though the comments are not found in the footnotes, surely some of us are reading, and we "get it."
Kudos to you all.
ANd thank you, Blue for all your inspiring words....
Posted: Wed Dec 24, 2008 10:27 PM CST
Who is the most Influential Person in My Life?
This is an old blog from a very long time ago when I was someone else. I think that this time of year, many of us feel lonely, ignored, and even a little afraid--but what we really want in life, and out of places like CS is a feeling of connection. On any level. Be it friendship, discussions, or flirting. It's a connection we all yearn for, and it's the connection with people that helps us make it to tomorrow.
Here it is, hope it helps....
Who Is The Most Influential Person In My Life?
I have lived a relatively short life. When I slowly turn my gaze to the path that has been, I am forced to squint at a hazy jumble of experiences and individuals long gone. I am conscious of these elemets that have made me. To a degree, I know I am a child of that soup left behind me. To try annd measure to what extent certain elements have defined me would be an irrelevant and impossible assessment. I am a cumilative product, and being such, separating influence from influence cannot be done. However, in that always growing, ever-present soup, I see someone who has played a vital role in shaping me.
This person is someone who my eyes only know by fading pictures hanging against fading wall paper of a fading house. I ave heard his voice only through the voices f others. Sincere, affectionate mediums, yet, they can never really become what they desire. I have never talked to this individual; I have only heard talk OF him. I have never known this individual; Ihave only known OF him. This individual, is a person I have never met.
This person is my grandpa. He died when my mom was young. I never met him. I was born a decade or two too late. I really can't recall the day I noticed he was missing, he just kind of always was. I remember when I was very young, I told my mom that one night I talked to him. I can't remember what I said, or what he said. All I can remember is that I THOUGHT I talked with him. Who knows if I really did. I might have. I might not have. But regardless, I believed I talked with him.
I did not know it then, but on some level, I was trying to relate to him--whether he was present or not. Having a conversation with him, or at least perceiving such, allowed me to try and foster a connection with someone that I was physically unconnected with. Looking back on my conversation, I see myself as a child, desparately trying to connect with someone of utmost importance. I was trying to connect with someone who was a seemingly infinite distance away from me. I reached for a place so distant that connection seemed impossible. I was met with a gap so wide no bridge could cross it. I was shouting at a wall so thick, it seemed no voice can break through it. But despite all this, I still tried to connect.
And to a point, I did connect. My grandpa was transformed from a distant, abstract someTHING, to an immediate, real, someBODY. I was able to throw a tether across that vast crevasse filled with void. I tugged the teher-and someone might have tugged it back.
Who was tugging back-me or him-is completely irrelevent. The fact is that on some level there was a relationship. Whether it was a relationship existing within some transcendent world, or existing within my own mind, the fact remains the same, I had a relationship ith him. I was connected with him.
So what did my grandpa teach me? He taught me that the impenetrable walls that exist between two people are far from impenetrable. There is no greater wall that that which exists between life and death, and we were able to break through it. He taught me that between two people, the infinite void is not infinite. It is not a void. All one has to do is cast a tether into that illusionary nothingness, and it will undoubtedly find ground.
He taught me that in a disconnected world, we are all yearning to connect.
That's how my Grandpa influenced me.
And I love him for it.
Posted: Tue Dec 23, 2008 10:26 PM CST
No One's There
Who do you think you are? Descartes? GO to sleep...
The terrifying prospect of having nothing to say.
I like the way the ink bleeds out of my pen.
Class alienation and objectification.
How can two people exist in the same relationship and disagree on what is, and what should be in between them?
Listening, earnestly doing so can be the most genuine human activity of all. It can also be the most difficult.
Go to sleep man, this is getting old.
I roll over and I feel the warm breath of the girl lying next to me. Its soft and comforted and not worried about anything. I pull myself closer to her. Her heartfelt hand unconsciously finds its home on my wrist. Smooth nose brushes against mine. Soft breasts against firm chest.
Open my eyes to look at her.
No one’s there.
Posted: Tue Dec 23, 2008 9:57 PM CST
Shine on You CraZy Diamond
There are times in our lives that seem like everything is falling into place. Moments that seem to take over our hearts and our very souls. Strong emotions accompanied by uncontrollable fits of laughter, tears, and solice.
However grand the moment may seem, sometimes, through no fault of our own, it's just not the right time. Not the right time for a change in vocation. Not the right time for a change in location.
If I could pick up and move, I would, but my obligations are here--in Ohio. Too many obligations to leave behind. And it seems that sometimes, there isn't enough time in the day to complete even the simplest of tasks. But I have to be a father, protector and provider--a lover, a partner and a friend. No matter what or who comes and goes during my life's story.
Because that's the journey I'm on. A story. Entertaining, comical, and tear-filled all rolled up into one long rough draft. And I'm still writing it, waiting and hoping for a happy ending.
Pressures and stresses of real life responsibility overload our minds leaving us dizzy, confused, and often times scared out of our minds. These pressures and stresses we face from day to day also leave us with difficult choices to make.
But even through all these stress filled days, we CAN find really amazing people. Amazing and inspiring individuals that encourage us to shine. To release all the things we hid for so long. Locked up personalities clawing at the cellar door desparately trying to break through the darkness, but too afraid to sparkle in the light of the sun. Too fearful of it's blinding rays.
I've found many such individuals, taught me a few things about myself. That I DO have much to offer. That I CAN be myself without fear of judgement. To let the Goose (muncher) come out from behind that locked cellar door and venture into the sunlight.
To SHINE.
And I am thankful to them for that.
I want to burst out of the darkness and into the sun. I want you to run with me through the grass in our bare feet. Lay with me and stare at the clouds and we can find the elephant or the turtle or the giraffe together.
I know my direction now. I'm here to expose my junk. To tell a story, and send a message. If you get it, then you'll "get" me. If you don't now, maybe someday you will.
Put on your sunglasses, it's gonna get pretty fvcking bright in here...........................
Posted: Tue Dec 23, 2008 9:46 PM CST
It's been a while....
I write because I want to be remembered. Not just as a son, a father and a friend. I want to be remembered as that guy who really knew what he was talking about when he wrote...
You don't even have to remember my name, just what I've written.
"It's the simple things that matter. Not the cars, the jobs, the money and the clothes.
What matters is sitting on the deck counting the stars with your kids.
What matters is trying to figure out whether or not a particular cloud looks like a Volkswagon Beetle or a vagina.
What matters is not BEING loved but being ABLE to love.
It's not important that we're all HUMAN BEINGS. It's important that we remember how to BE HUMAN."
And so I write. For me. For those who may be genuinly interested in knowing me. And I write for my Children and my Grandchildren. So they can learn more about me after I'm gone. Meet the man they knew but didn't know EVERYTHING about.
I can't talk at times, so I write. Maybe someday, my kids friends and loved ones will read what I've written so they do not forget the thoughts of the man who wrote them.
My legacy is my words.
Posted: Sun Nov 23, 2008 8:39 AM CST
Shift in Beliefs
June 9, 1980
We used to play this card game called "Spoons". If you're familiar with the game, cool. If not, it doesn't really matter you'll stil be able to follow this story. Any way, we used to play this game for HOURS.
Dad got up to go to the bathroom. We lived in a small 4 bedroom ranch. One of the bedrooms was my dad's office. The bathroom was off the hall which was off the kitchen where we were playing cards. Dad's usually short trip to the shitter would bring forth a chain of events that would change what I could have been and what I could have done with my life.
It's hard to say how long he was gone. Could have been 10 minutes, could have been an hour. Regardless, we didn't notice right away, we just kept playing cards. (I think this is why I always keep track of what and who is around me. I guess I figure if I don't something bad WILL happen--not really paranoia, more like observation)
We all seemed to notice he was gone a little too long at the same time. The search was on for the family bread winner. The father and the husband. Panic was thick. Mom found dad in the bathroom. Slumped over the toilet. Us kids couldn't see--the divider between the toilet and the door blocked the view.
"Nicky! Nicky!" my mom yelled repeatedly. No response. I think my sister called the ambulance. Now remember, this is all being recalled by a then 9 year old mind. But the accuracy isn't important. A neighbor lady came to stay with my sisters and I while my mom accompanied the medics to the hospital. They took him to Brentwood Ambulatory. A place that makes me shudder to this day every time I drive past it.
Dad had these cool "Cross pens" (I still have one) and I decided to make him a "get well" card with my oh so talented 9 year old hands. I found a piece of paper. Meticulously folded it in half scraping my finger nail along the bend to make it crisp, and made a grade school "Hallmark". I took special care as to not mispell any words. I signed it and waited for my dad to return. After all, everyone was telling me...
"It's going to be OK."
Mom came home. Alone. She sat us all down on my sister's bed. In a calm, but teary voice, she told us that our daddy was dead. That's the last thing I can remember clearly. I became a 9 year old kid filled with the rage of a scorned adult. I crumbled up my get well card and threw it at one of the crucifixs' hanging on the wall.
"I HATE YOU!" I screamed at the effigy of my so-called savior. I lost God that night. At nine years old I bacame an athiest..
Something I've carried with me all my life is the memory of me stealing a piece of gum from the local store. Dad found out, and I got the belt for it. That night, I wished he was dead.
Three days later we were playing "Spoons."