Wednesday, May 20, 2015

The Last One Left


Transmission: Hel...hello?
Empty room with radio: Static
Transmission: Houston? This is Empire, Captain Steadway,  over?
Empty room with radio: Static
Transmission: Coming home Houston, over?
Empty room with radio: Static
Transmission: Please answer Houston, we haven't heard from you in 50 years. We are entering your atmosphere finally, with some help from spare parts from the space station over.
Empty room with radio: Static
Transmission: Not sure what's down here, but we're coming anyway. Got nothing else. I want to see my wife. I want to see my grandkids. We've been sending messages for decades. My only prayer is that they have gotten them, but can't respond. We are bound for a hard landing. Data gives us just more than 50% chance of surviving it. Either way Houston, I love you. I've wanted to be outside of this rock my whole life and you gave me a chance. I don't know what happened that lost our communications 45 years ago, but we would really like to hear from you right now in case we burn up in re-entry, over.
Empty room with radio: Static

Transmission: Static...Coming home Houston. Static.



...


Captain Aaron Steadway: "Channel 9- static. Channel 10- static, Channel 11- static... useless" He says into a rusted microphone.
Private Jones: "Sir, it's not too late to reverse course."
Cap Steadway: "Yes it is Private. We all knew what we bought in for. Neptune was going to be hopeless and in fact IS hopeless...gas." "The problem isn't what Neptune is, it's what and where we are right  now.
Private Shumway: "Sir...do we have enough O2 to retreat to the base?"
Cap Steadway: "Negative private. We have nothing."
Private Shumway: "Sir? Is this it?"
Cap Steadway: "Afraid it is kid."
Private Shumway: "It's been a pleasure ruling the universe with you Captain Steadway."
Cap Steadway: "You too kid."Sending final attempt at communication with Earth.

...transmitting...no signal...trying gain...Transmitting...no signal...trying again....
 ...transmitting...no signal...trying gain...Transmitting...no signal...trying again....
...transmitting...no signal...trying gain...Transmitting...no signal...trying again....

The heat burned away the outside edges of everything. The desire to see their children gave them tolerance of the fire for their kid's sake's. The room shook and "Private Page" started foaming at the mouth and seizing. A small cadet smothered him with compassion, but he would die on impact.

Selflessness.

...

Impact.

...

     Steadway's eyes flicker like butterfly wings before opening to face the sun warming everything. A wire hangs from above his head. A fire burns to his right and to his left. Smoke billows from almost everywhere. There are no sounds of life fading away...only machines flaring and fighting and losing. He looks to his left and sees a burning Private Shumway, eyes open and mouth agape. He looks right and sees Private Page impaled by a support beam. He reaches out before his hand falls limp. Steadway doesn't feel any pain anywhere. He only feels dazed. He has been here before. When he was 7, he climbed a large tree and became too afraid to come down. He started to panic and cry for his mother. She came rushing out to him but couldn't help him unless he trusted her. She told him to let go and fall into her arms. She would catch him. He held on to that brach like a new mother holds her baby. The wind couldn't shake him off and neither could she. Only he could make the decision to let go.

     Steadway reached for the floor and embraced it's stability to help himself up. In his memory, he sees himself letting go of that branch and feeling the wind move between the layers of clothing separating him from where he came from. He had to trust because he trusted no one but her. He reached his feet in that ship and surveyed the damage. Everyone was lost. Blood pooled and eyes seemed to look directly at him as he passed, but stayed fixed on the ceiling as he drew further. In the cabin was a familiar smell...the smell of blood. The sound of shrieking as every machine screamed out for help. His senses brought him back to the tree when he let go. He fell so far. He felt her arms wrap around his back and grip firmly, then falter. He remembered the very intimate moment when her fingers slipped beneath him and she shrieked. Just like the machine sounds.

     Steadway opens the hatch and introduces sunlight into the haul. The light pierces his eyes and sends him backwards until he could adjust. He had never seen the sun from Earth before. "It's beautiful," he thinks. "Almost painful in both beauty and terror." He goes back to the tree and feels the unforgiving gravel crush his spine, the his head. He hears the shriek again, then a gurgle, then a large gasp for air. The noises aren't coming from him...but his mother. She had been crushed. Silence filled the air. He heard nothing at all. Just like when the sun invaded his life. He walked out staggering into the sunlight and felt an uneven surface beneath him. He smelled what his ancestors would have called "grass clippings" 60 years before he were born.  He felt the wind on his face and the sway of the trees as he staggered.

     There was something so beautiful about the moment that he forgot he had once killed his mother. This was the first time he could remember not caring about her.

     On the ship, they had built these replica trees that served to remind them that home was somewhere out there. He liked to climb them. This one time in our history, he climbed the largest tree because he was afraid of an astroid storm that was coming. He climbed too high and she came to his side again...like always. He couldn't find it in him to look down, so he let go.

     Steadway gained his balance and looked upon the earth. Pieces of broken and dilapidated stone told him stories that he had only learned about in history books. He saw statues and buildings pierced with large stalks of weeds and trees separating them from what they once used to be. He stood for a moment and remembered the way the wind felt as it rocked him to sleep in those trees. You can hold on and not fall and nothing will happen, or you can let go and find out what life seeks to do to you. Captain Steadway takes another step, then another until he sees the entire world, empty of humans. Empty of death and suffering. Empty of the beauty of togetherness.

     He couldn't help but to think of his mother, who had died trying to catch him. She had been buried so long ago and no one but him has thought of her in all of the earth. This made him sad, so he moved on and found an old 7/11. One of the Slurpee machines was still churning sugar somehow. This was the first electricity he had seen. Before he left, solar power was rare. In the city he saw posters all over the walls of missing people. He saw abandoned cars and bones laying all over the road.

     Mostly he just felt the wind. This was a place foreign to him and the wind was the only thing he liked. He didn't much like the bones or the broken structures, so he left until he found another set of broken things, then left again. He eventually found a farm with working plows and a lot of trees to climb. No one was screaming at him...nothing beckoning him for justice or peace. He just felt the wind.

     He lived until he was no more and the earth lived on alone.







Sing.
Migrate.



Thanks for reading...Z

Monday, May 11, 2015

Memory


     There was this symbolic thing I picked up from the movie "With Honors" somewhere in the 90's. When something that means something happens, you pick up a rock from the ground below you...or the nearest rock to you. This will be a stone memory of the event. I liked it in the movie. I now have a collection of rocks in a shoe box. I remember every one of them.

     I grabbed a little green stone pendant from the Meijer grocery store vending machine when we bought the pregnancy test that confirmed that I was going to be a father for the first time. I picked up a rock the first time I stepped foot in the Scottish Highlands, the place I ultimately came from, and a place I had wanted to go my entire life. I picked up a pebble that was next to my shoe when I kissed my wife for the first time. I knew we would be married.

     I know why collectors collect things. These are things that mean something to them. Ebay is still in business because of our nostalgia. We want what we used to have and lost. Somewhere we or our parents threw those things away without us knowing how much they would meant to us. The collected is the last bridge to our youth. I have a house full of relics. You have a house full of relics. When grandma dies, you ask for that one piece of her belongings that equate you to her and you hold then tight to your heart.

     I have a clown that Will's mom gave to me that means more than most non-living things to me. It means so much to me because it not only connects me to Will, but because it connects me to her. I have sweaters and hats and photographs. They all mean the same thing. I have a connection to what is lost to me that I can still touch.

     I think a lot of art is made out of this feeling of connection to the past. It's sad really. We...I long for what I can't get back. I want to see my brothers again. I want to just watch us make all of those dreadful mistakes again. I want to build the world largest penis on a snowman the world has ever seen again. I want to fish in the night while all of you are sleeping again. I'll be sure to put our catch into the video store drop box again.

But I can't.

     It is because of the "can't" that we try so hard to relive or redeem the past. For some, the reason we do this is to remember. For others, it's to forever punish ourselves for letting go of such beautiful things. Both are true for me. I would never want to go back and stay there. I wasn't really happy then. I only see it as happy now that it's gone in some ways. This is an illusion...a trick our minds play on us. I would want to go back for a few hours and just watch because it would hurt me so badly to do so. Doing what makes it hurt worse makes it feel better, but eventually makes it worse. Really, the only truly happy moments I had then were spent with Will, Joe, Andy, and Jeff. Half of those people left my sight. So I cling to the last two. I cling to the past. Some of those times were beautiful and some were the heartache of being a foolish teenager.

     It is very easy to idolize moments in your life and people because of your emotional attachment to them. We tend to put blinders on the things we idolize. I think the best me hasn't happened yet. I think we are constantly improving...even if that means we have to be purged from the ass of the devil to get there. My Creator isn't done with me yet. He isn't done with you either. Isn't ever great story of redemption built from the foulest manure? It's all about hope.



Sing.
Migrate.




Thanks for reading...Z

Thursday, May 7, 2015

Beth.- People at a Funeral Part 3

   
     Beth, the third birthright of Albert, stands in front of his grave ten years after she had helped the groundsmen put him there. This is the first time she has been here since. She lives in California, all the way across their world growing up. Growing up, they didn't have the money to travel, so the entire world became America, and the west coast was the end of existence. Albert was more than just her father, he was something of a hero to her. Beth had uncontrollable asthma. Everything seemed to aggravate her breathing. He was always right there with the right inhaler or would quickly find a source of steam. She had suspected that he had saved her life more than 1,000 times.

     When she got the call from Bill, her brother, she fell down. He continued to speak and yet she didn't hear anything but her own horrible shrieks of grief, then her quickened breathing and tight airway. She grabbed her inhaler and used it twice. The rescue inhaler helped to get the longer term medicine into the deeper areas of her lungs. She breathed, then sprayed, they tried to breathe again. She decided that the tightness in her chest wasn't her lungs...it was her heart.

     Most of her siblings didn't like Albert very much. Beth understood why. He hadn't been there for them. He worked all the time and didn't attend many of their activities, even if he was home that day. But he was always there with an inhaler. Always.

     "So why is this the first time I have visited his grave?" she asks. Because she wasn't angry with him. The rest of her siblings hated him for reasons that were not even his fault. Reasons like their teenage pregnancy or inability to keep a job. They projected these things to her, but she wasn't the one that got hurt...not by him. He was the only person she had ever counted on. He was the only one she knew would be there. Sarah, her mother, was always in a different place. She wasn't a real mother. So Sarah got the panic attacks. Albert was there with an inhaler.

     Right now Sarah stands at the wooden box that holds her wax father. Tim, a strange person that says he's her brother, wails in the front of the room. Sarah stands next to his bed and smiles as she hugs distant relatives. One right after another. Beth remains seated on the front row, waiting for the funeral to start so that it can end. She wants to go home and never see these people again. She didn't hate her family. She was just her daddy's girl.








Sing.
Migrate.


Thanks for reading...Z

Monday, May 4, 2015

The Art in Me

   
     I don't write very many beautiful things that don't involve the beauty of sorrow. Most of the digital flowers people give me are because of my grief ( I told Josh I would steal that one, so I just did). But tonight, the air is perfect and the wind is silently sleeping. I sit outside on the porch and look at the moon. It appears to be a full moon, but it's hard to tell because of the clouds. They float on, giving me only a partial view of this beautiful thing that I have always felt was watching over me somehow.

     The moon is a constant. At night, you can look up and expect to see at least evidence of it's presence. This is what I have always longed for. Maybe the only thing I have ever desired from life...a steady presence that isn't ever going to die or leave. It sits in the sky as if it were a constant eye watching over us. But it's not. It's a cosmic rock that lights up our sky just like the moons of other planets that guard their night.

     I have what I have always wanted. I wanted a wife that would share my experience of being human in this world and vice versa. I wanted children that truly thought I was Superman. I have known love of many types from genuine people. I wouldn't ask God for any friends different than the ones I have. I have beautiful people all around and my life is teeming with everything I could have ever asked for. But yet I am still sad. Still searching. Still looking for beauty in something.


     I don't know why. It may be because of the heartache of losing people you love so deeply. It may be because I never had what most people would call a "normal life." It may be because there is something profoundly wrong with me. But I don't believe any of those answers. They are a product of me.
   
    My friend, mentor, and pastor took me to a concert last week. A concert of a musician I deeply respect, who sang songs that reflect my heart. He asked if I'm ok. I told him the truth. I am. He asked me how things are right now. I knew he didn't mean this in a small talk way, so I answered him like I knew his intent. "I'm working on it." He didn't judge me for that. He understood. A beautiful thing that people forget about is when another person who cares about you understands instead of projects their fears about you, to you.

     He said something to me that night that makes a difference and I'm not sure if that was intended or not. He described me as a person that grabs things from the air and portraits them as art. And that art is different from other art. This is a paraphrase, but I got it's intent. I'm not great or am any kind of pure artist. But I understood what he said. Sometimes, the entire world and the way it works is art to me.

     It occurs to me that I am picking the wrong things out of the air. I am only choosing to pick the things that reflect my heart right now and forgetting the things that reflect me as a whole. He chose to describe my sense of humor. I try to be funny. I mask things by being funny. I am a clown. In fact, when I had no hope at all, I painted clowns all over my bedroom walls. This is the way I deflect. But still....I love to make people laugh. I think that's because I love to hear people laugh. It helps me to cope. I feel better when other people are laughing.

     So I look at this moon that peeks around the corners of these clouds and it makes me so happy to be alive. I love my brothers, but I am glad to be here still. I'm gonna try and pick out the beautiful things from my existence instead of the sad ones. I watched this musician grieve and give up his spirit in front of thousands of people and I knew that this is real art. Art means sharing what no one else will allow others to see about their hearts. There is art and beauty in tragedy. There is also beauty and art in joy. I think I may have painted the wrong picture to people that don't know me. I think that if you just know me from this blog, you are only seeing the things I can't say in public.

     I am not that person. I am happy most of the time. I like to joke around. I am loud and say exactly what I feel sometimes. I don't have time for small talk ever, and I like to speak in either riddles or hypotheticals. I will ask you a "would-you-rather" question to try and figure out who I am talking to. I really do love people. I want to help people. My issue is that I'm tired of losing people. Right here, right now, as I stare up into the sky, I remember what I am here for. To make people laugh. To point people to their Creator. To help people forget that they have been hurt.





Sing.
Migrate.



Thanks for reading...Z

Wednesday, April 29, 2015

A.V.H

   
     I was unsure of myself at that age. I hadn't learned my worth or the value of real friendship from them. They (my future classmates) could never be Andy...my very best friend. I showed up in new clothes. A pair of Toughskins jeans with patches on the knees, because somehow they knew. I probably wore a vertically striped velour polo. My hair was probably combed to the side, just like it is now. It was my first day of school and I was nervous but so excited.

     I won't forget the moment I stepped through those doors. The smell of sawdust and graphite pencils. The way it sounded when a teacher's hosiery shredded together and alerted us to be quiet before she got to the door. Elementary school was the best time of any kid's life. We get to see our friends and make new ones everyday and the teachers rarely cared about what we are doing. In fact, one day I asked to use the bathroom. Mike asked 2 minutes later, then Jason. The three of us eventually ended up smoking weed for my first time in that bathroom. I felt nothing because I was too scared to inhale. I was in 4th grade and my mom had taught me that these drugs could and probably would kill me instantly. I wasn't going to take the chance, but I wanted to test it.

     I remember a few years later and a different school that had this talent show. At the show, some fifth graders did a California Raisins bit which brought the house down. During this bit, I would think of the greatest anti-drug commercial ever for only Nancy Reagan to see. The problem now is that I can't remember the jingle. I just remember it being perfect. It's so close to my tongue that I promise to update you when I think of it again.

     I moved forward until we moved again. We moved every couple of years, so I made a lot of friends but never knew them very well. I made a good friend (Mike) at this time, but lost connection to him when I moved again. For years, we would be inseparable. Somewhere that would fade and I wouldn't see him again, except for the one day I cut school and went to see him at home. He was a year older than me, so he had graduated high school. I went and played basketball with him in the street like we always used to. It was as if we had been playing for years. We played the game and I left...again not seeing him.

     I think the link between people comes when you experience things together. I think the day that me and Andy became brothers is when we were almost abducted together as little kids. Maybe that's dramatic and maybe not. We were at a video store and Andy's mom was renting us Wrestlemania I. A guy came to the passenger door and put his hand in to unlock it. I jumped across the seats and rolled up the power windows until he had to remove his hand an run away. For years after, I told Andy I was the one that defeated and killed Bruce Lee and that I had special powers. He believed me, probably because I rolled up that window. I was always the strong one until he saw me broken for the first time when Will died. I think this broke his heart. I was nothing but exaggeration and lies and that came to finality when I couldn't keep my knees from the floor.

     The great thing is that whenever I walk into my kid's schools, I still smell that graphite pencil smell and it reminds me that home is wherever you are. Home isn't a building or a house. Home is that feeling you get when everything halts your senses to remind you of a particular feeling. That feeling is home. Maybe home isn't where you live, but the feeling you have while living there.



Sing.
Migrate.






Thanks for reading...Z

Monday, April 27, 2015

Justice...

   
     It may just be that throwing up your hands and resigning to not know all of the answers is the correct answer. I may not seem very analytical to you in person. But really, I do think about things, maybe too much, and obsess about what things really mean. Sometimes, things don't mean anything at all. Sometimes things happen because of random chance and the fault doesn't belong to any particular person or incident. This is a hard concept to accept for me because I have always believed that there was a purpose to everything and that some things demand our attention.

     Man I'm tired of writing negative things and feeling negative feelings. I have this desire for justice and sometimes maybe justice isn't for me to judge or experience. Maybe character is built through injustice. Maybe this is my lesson to be learned and I can move on. I simply don't know and I'm tired of thinking about it. So maybe the answer to injustice is to throw up your hands and let what has happened remain in the past. The last bit of anger left inside me may be related to people not getting what they deserve. That's a bad place to be I think. I can't really fathom what I deserve, so I have a self righteous view of justice. That's a problem because I believe I am right, but I just may be wrong.

     It's exhausting. So I'm going to try and leave it behind and move toward the sun. I'm going to try and stop wishing bad things on people I consider bad people and stop thinking about them at all. Right now, I need to think about the way the sand feels between my toes and the sound of rain and thunder as I am laying down to sleep. I need to spend some really quality time with people that breathe positivity and light into the world. The Bible says that God's people are the light of the world. Maybe with all of this darkness, I am seeking the wrong sources of light. For once, I should let go of my own devices and throw up my hands and let the world be the world and let the sun shine on me and through me.

***

 I'm not me. I haven't been me for a long time now. I want to be me. So I have to try to be me again.



Sing.
Migrate.


Thanks for reading...Z

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Songs of a Little Sociopath


(Warning; This blog contains pseudo bad words partially censored with symbols and suggestive and sometimes blatant adult themes coming from the mind of a child. Please prepare yourself to be maybe offended.)


"I get laid, and my songs get played. Laying on a bit%$ my bed is made. I got songs. My comedy is at large..." Adam Coffman- 9 years old (First Deathstone song, and I can't remember the rest of the words.)

     I'm gonna come clean with some terrible things I did as a kid. Most were directly influencing my much more innocent little blood brother Andy, 6 or 7 years old at the time of the above band quote. Andy was my lead and only guitarist. In fact, my hair metal band had only one musician. Every day, Andy would bring over his little white guitar and a small amplifier that would clip to his Bugle Boy jeans. When it was time to rock, I would turn up the bill of my Vision Streetwear skater hat and Andy would hold his hand onto the heart of his Hypercolor t-shirt until the chemical reaction was complete. He would switch on his amp and Satanic and perverse things would come from my mouth. Things that would make anyone's mother slap me. (Unrelated, but once I was on vacation with a friend and his mother actually did slap me after commenting on her neglect of her bikini line when we were about to go swimming.)

     Andy and I would spend every weekend together when school was in session, and every day together during the summer. The summer was really when I blossomed as a psychopath. Below, I'm just going to list some things I did and get them out of the way for the sake of keeping a timeline for this blog and to prevent jumping around.


  • I started an actual fight club in my backyard, using my mother's daycare kids as the warriors. every nap time would garner the blood of a small child or many children. 
  • We would make forts, then charge other kids hairs from their heads to come in. We saved all of those hairs in a container of broken dreams and hurt feelings.
  • We would go to Chucky Cheese and start fights in the ball pit. We would grab a kid and hold him under the balls until his mom would hear him shouting for help. Then we would run. 
  • I warned another 9 year old who was picking on Andy in his neighborhood to stop or I'd break his arm. He didn't stop, so I went over to Andy's that weekend, grabbed his arm, and twisted it until it snapped. I think the bullying stopped...at least on Andy.
  • I would go around with a tape recorder and tell little kids to say terribly violent swears and record them secretly. I would then show the tape to their moms, who would then chop off their tongues or whatever. 
  • With Will and Joe, I used to throw grilled hot dogs at the mentally handicapped kids living at the group home in the back yard. We once started their yard on fire with a huge "Crow" symbol just after that movie was released. 
  • I struck a middle schooler in the head with a baseball bat after he hurt my brother Jason with a skateboard. I was in elementary school at the time. I cut school, walked to the middle school, and hit the kid and ran. He lived. No harm, no foul.
  • I got a great idea to paint the bottoms of Andy's little sister and her friend's feet and faces red with model paint, then wake them up so they would get scared looking at each other. I did not foresee them running with red tracks all over the carpet or ruining the wall paper of their newly remodeled bathroom.
     I'm going to stop there to prevent my mother and my friend's mothers and your mother from having a heart attack. Whew, I feel better now that you know all of that. I wasn't really a bad kid. I just had a very intense way of getting revenge and dictating justice to all of those around me. For the most part, I've outgrown or been punished enough to take more intelligent and palatable methods of venting. Although, I do still get these knee jerk reactions to decimate my foes every so often. Once my mother made me go to a family reunion dinner at a fish and chips restaurant. I didn't want to go. I was 18 and didn't have much of a taste for some of the characters infamous in my family. I took revenge. As the entire family was at the table, I announced the future arrival of my first child, to be born just after I graduated. I literally saw the blood leave her face, only to return when she saw everyone looking at her. She said, "Are your serious?" "Yup," I said and sat down. In hindsight, that was probably a bit harsh of a penalty for making me eat cod with family. Nine months later Olivia was born. 

     I'll save the rest of my high school years for other times. It just occurred to me today that I was probably the most dangerous kid another kid could be around. 


     




Sing.
Migrate.



Thanks for reading...Z

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Feeling for a Way Out



Sing.
Migrate.


Sing about what? Migrate to where? I'm not going anywhere.


...



The above was a melodramatic post that I wrote but didn't publish months ago. I look past it whenever I post a new blog, but can't find it in me to delete it. Why? Because at the time, it was a real feeling that I was afraid to put into the world. It wasn't because I believed I would feel differently, but because of all of the people I have preached hope to. The hope exists, but at the time everything was blurry. It's still blurry, but I can drive.

When I was a kid, we would go to this church three or four nights a week and my mom would practice her songs or her skits with her friend. Me and Jason would occupy our world in whatever way made sense. We were and are very different people, but would find ourselves in the same building over and over. I'm not really sure what he did with his time...he was more of a loner. I would explore every dank, wooden crevice of that building. There is this certain smell of old Bibles and felt paper whenever you enter an old person's church.

This one night, I was in the basement searching for something interesting among all of these boring books when the lights went out. I was alone in the basement of an old wooden building as a 7 year old. I rushed to what I thought was the door and ran face first into something old, creaky, and wooden. I got something in my eye. I started to panic. I didn't know which way was out and I couldn't see anything beyond the blur that the tears were bringing. I shouted and got no answer. I shouted more and got only my own echo off of the wooden lecterns.

Life was doomed.

I used my hands and crawled my way to an opening which led to stairs, then out into ear shot of my mother who was talking to her friend. She got me in the car in hysterics and taught me this trick to getting things out of your eyes. She sat me on the passenger seat of our old duct taped conversion van and looked into my teary eyes. She taught me to pull your upper eye lid over your bottom. If it was just and eyelash, the problem would be solved. If it wasn't the tears would drive out the beast. It was an eyelash.

I won't forget that moment because of the feeling of being completely alone and in the dark. I felt that again when I wrote the words above. What I wasn't thinking of was that I found my way out of that dark wooden basement and to the safety of my mother. I think I remember a lot of terrible moments and focus on them without focusing on the way out. I guess right now I'm feeling my way to safety. That's a comforting feeling because I know safety is within earshot.



Sing.
Migrate.








Tuesday, April 14, 2015

A Good Memory


I've seen my share of the insides of jail houses. Nothing crazy, just immature and kid stupidity. The first time was with Will. We liked to steal things that no one would realize were gone. There was a beauty in taking away things that people took for granted. We would steal (boost) silverware, plates, beer mugs, and those mats on the counter at McDonald's that told you the current value meals. I had a closet full of our accomplishments.

I've written about this day before. I'm not gonna rehash the details of our incarceration. But I did smile today thinking about my time sitting nervous in a cell next to my brother Will. When I get nervous I talk too much. When Will got nervous, he would go to sleep. I sat in that cell thinking the worst things and kept getting up to pace the floors. I was scared of everything in that moment. It's strange that I feared at all during this day, I didn't have much to lose really. No one really expected much from me and this would be par for the course.

As I sat there trying to find a way to blame someone else, Will's snoring stopped. I waited for a moment for words, but got nothing. I knew he was awake and he knew I was awake. Nothing happened.

Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a toilet paper roll race past my cell leaving part of itself behind as it traveled. This single moment in time will never leave my memory. It was a reminder that some things don't really matter that much. What really mattered was who I was and who was with me. I had some very beautiful people with me.

Will got bailed and I ate a terrible TV dinner in jail. Later that night, after my mother had taken a loan from a friend to get me out, we sat in front of our parents and told a story. We told a story of two kids crying for help, totally helpless in our need for attention that we robbed a chain grocery store. How they believed it I have no idea, but we left with them feeling bad. Was any of it true? I don't really know. Maybe? Probably not?

What I do know is that the first time I went to jail is one of the best memories of my brother I have. I don't regret it.

This is my good thought. This is my good thing for tonight.



Sing.
Migrate.




Thanks for reading...Z

Saturday, April 11, 2015

People at a Funeral- Part 2- Fish


He stands in front of a black hole in his living room, screaming into the abyss. He, Fisher; the eldest son of Sarah, shouts into his closet as if the entire reason for his anger lives in the darkness of his clothing. He screams like a child in the night, waiting for his mother to take him into her arms. He screams until his stomach wretches and he begins to gag.

...

People look over to him as he stands at the head of his father's casket. Albert had always been his first and most important hero. His father had never missed a baseball game or teacher conference. Albert had loved his only son the most of all of his children; at least the ones he knew about.

People swept through the room and across the front of his father's body at a steady pace throughout the day. He hugged so many people. He laughed and cried with them over shared memories. He will smile instead of weep for the sake of his family. He is and has always been the strong one.

Despite the attention he is getting as Albert's "Only son," he couldn't help but notice the attention Tim was getting from everyone. Tim (Albert's apparent new son), was the life of the party. He was the center of everyone's attention. He was laughing and crying and people were grabbing his head and putting it on their own.

Fisher shook off bad memories and focused on the one's he liked to remember.

Once, Albert took him fishing on the pier all night. Albert told him that he was named after this very moment in the past with his mother. He told him that his first date with Sarah was spent fishing. She was so amazed by his lack of dating prowess that she bought into what he was selling. In reality, Albert knew what he was doing. He was smarter than everybody...all of the time.

...

As a kid Fisher would fake seizures. He didn't quite know why we liked it so much, but he knew he liked the outcome. Sarah and Albert would rush to him and hold his mouth open. Later they would hold him so tight and pass him back and forth to even tighter arms. Sarah would weep over him and rock him to sleep, but for a few moments in time, he would remember his father's hard hands carry him to his crib from his mother's chest.

...

Right now, all Fish can hear is weeping from Tim. All he can see are loved ones wrapping their arms around him.





Sing.
Migrate.



Thanks for reading...Z