When the Book Takes Hold

They call to me one by one – “Pick me, pick me!”

There are so many books to read and so little time

To enjoy them.

I am like a starving fish and they are the bait.

Once they take hold, fight though I may, they have their hook in me

Until the deed is done.

 

I have always been a reality man, so when fiction waves the lure in my direction,

Rarely do I bite. How do I know what is real in the world of fiction?

Yet lately I am allowing it to take root,

To explore those vast universes poured forth from the mind and creativity

Of the lonely author.

When I doubt the creation, I mortally wound their sincerity and

Disregard their gift to the world.

 

So down the rabbit hole I go and as I careen through the narrow passages

On my way to the gripping finale, the sadness begins to set in.

The last few pages are like the downward slope of a rollercoaster, but more like a water slide

Where I will drown in its torrential conclusion,

Hopefully resolved but nonetheless concluded

No matter how I may wish it not to be so.

 

When the relationship is over, I want to bask in it,

Take in the moment and allow myself and the written word

To hum like two exhausted lovers in the silence.

Now the book has served its purpose; it was meant to be read and not shelved

To rot and clutter on my bookshelves.

 

Lately I try to rest for a while and soak in the meaning of the written word

That has run its course in my spirit; to do otherwise feels like a betrayal.

My hunger always returns, and I must feed it to sustain my life.

The only way to satiate this hunger is to choose another book and gird myself up –

For a new journey awaits.

Living with Ghosts

What do I see before me? Its shape reminds me of someone from my past, yet I cannot make out their face. Maybe it was a shadow of me or maybe it was someone I never really knew.

They say a river moves and changes every second; it is never the same river twice. So it is with humans. We try to become a new version of ourselves, but glitches from the old software keep gumming up the system.

So many images and vapors of my former life haunt me. Those I thought were my whole existence but moved on to eternal destinations too quickly. Those who started as small children but soon grew up to be adults who live with my scars and spend their entire lives trying to unlearn my mistakes.

But love lingers in beautiful ways. Its shadow is never far from my eyes. Its light and darkness both beg for my attention. Love is now something that I do not have to search for; it is always there keeping me warm and reminding me of my insecurities, my imperfections, and my humanity. Reminding me that it is a part of human nature to seek out love and cling to it for dear life.

I see a future that is blurry, but one that deserves my attention. I cannot live in the past, for it is but a vapor. A thick mist that obscures all I want to see. The ghosts that follow me are of my own doing. They do not haunt me for they are continually at my side. They do not scare me, for the ghosts are strangely familiar and uniquely comforting. They are an extension of my soul.

How can you not believe in something, but at the same time believe it is always with you? How can you remember these ghosts, but deep down know that you will likely never see them again? Maybe the ghosts are all that remains. All that we will ever possess. The only thing that makes sense to believe in.

How their spirit lingers. How it moves in every area of our lives. We owe the ancestors our very best. We owe them our hearts and the sacrifice of our lost lives. We owe them to never give up on our dreams. We must pass their love on to all who deserve it, and even to those who don’t.

I must believe in ghosts. For someday I may be a spirit that guides those of the flesh into the mist. Darkness awaits us all, but the ghosts will lead us where we were always meant to be.

This Order (or Dis Order)

Order in the Court!

We crave order and wish that all the answers we needed were laid out in front of us in neat little rows. But reality always paints a different picture.

What if there is not a silver lining, only the road in front of us? It’s like we are driving at night with no headlights. Every inch we move is important but the road ahead is obscured from view. Maybe we don’t need to see what’s around the next curve.

It would even be nice if I knew where this writing was going, or if there was a method to this madness. Maybe something here should rhyme, but maybe there is no rhyme nor reason.

Order! I demand order!

Everyone wants a savior for their souls. I just want one to save me from embarrassment. Save me from a million somethings I don’t want to do. Save me from destroying myself with worry that does no good in changing one minute of my future.

No one is coming to rescue us, and no one is planning our calendar – making us work or eat or strive for greatness (or even reach up for mediocrity). Maybe there is no muse; maybe we are our own savior and we are destined to build our own future one brick, and one trick, at a time.

I will take an order of anything that feeds my gnawing confusion. And a side of ketchup!

I want to be a person that others can look up to, but also one I can face every morning in the mirror. In 5 years I want to look up to the me of today, and in 10 years look back at all of my variations and personalities with pride. But it is so much easier to have backward hindsight than forward vision. So much easier to manage the chaos around me but ignore the storm within.

I warned you. There is no rhyme or reason to be found. But the discussion with myself continues into my nightly dreams and invades my thoughts in the morning even before my first drop of coffee hits the cup. Since a lobotomy seems a bit drastic, I will continue to struggle with the brain that I was gifted at birth.

But I really wish I could order a new one.

I would like to place an order for one new brain, please. Don’t forget the free shipping!

Sunset in the City

He had seen the waning, brilliant orb disappear many times before, but he was never really a country boy. Instead of crickets, he heard the roar of the planes taking off in the distance and the hum of motorcycle riders spinning down side streets on the way to rekindle their lost childhood.

He smelled the grass and remembered throwing the ball for his dogs, long gone but never forgotten; they made for so many smiles and filled the emptiness left by children and grandchildren who never called except on special occasions. They had their lives to live; he could not blame them for that.

His strength was fading away just like the sun moving under the distant trees. It would be his last sunset, never to see morning again.

He thought about regrets, whether they were worth the energy, and decided they were not. Only fragrant memories were allowed in. The orderly asked if he was ready to go back inside, and he held up his hand to say “Wait” but the words would not come out. Choking back tears, the man behind him sensed he needed more time and took his hands off the wheelchair.

The orderly loved his job, but the sadness of saying goodbye to the residents was almost too much to bear. He had raised three beautiful children and watched them turn into grown adults; buried his mother and father the previous year. He felt young at times, but also weary for the work he had to do. He was in the business of sunsets.

He had worked with so many beautiful souls and also taken hundreds for their last wheelchair ride to view the passing sun. The light show on this summer evening was quite spectacular. He almost felt the colors – pink and red hues that lingered for a few moments, then faded to grey as their source of light dwindled. The sky that night painted a priceless and mystical masterpiece.

They watched together for what seemed like hours. The man in the wheelchair turned and smiled, thanking the orderly for not having to spend this time alone. He knew night was coming, but he had no more concerns. Only beautiful and joyous memories of sunrises, poignant days of both sunshine and storms, and the pleasure and privilege of seeing the sinking sun one more time.

More than ever before he realized that, like the vivid colors of the sunset, life is gone in a flash. Such is the beauty and betrayal of man’s existence.

The orderly quietly pushed the man inside as the sliding doors closed, reflecting the last glimmers of the evening’s light.

 

The Time is At Hand/Tempus Est in Manu

I have spent my whole life trying figure out who I am.

I remember fast approaching my 40s and realizing the person I had built was a facade. A fake. For many years I played the role of the perfect father, trusting in alliances, institutions, and pledges that once seemed so firm and secure. Though the walls came crumbling down, the firm foundation has remained intact.

So I began the process of re-building this imperfect man. A robot from spare parts. Frankenstein’s monster. I have spent the last 15 years making that monster into something useful, necessary, and practical. I am no longer a work in progress. I am a work in its definitive stages.

The rebuilding was not easy; it was a laborious and painful period of growth. But what a joy it was to languish in the journey. Now the chrysalis is bursting, cracked and ready to let me out into the world. It is time to unfold my wings.  

The foundation for this new life was built long before my 40^th year. That person, though I say that I hated him, had many qualities that I have retained for these defining years. Now the time of my late-stage renaissance has arrived.

This finished production is not to be completed and hung in a museum or collect dust in a trophy case. It is ready to be revealed. It is time for the curtain to part and the show to begin.

The persona and performance is complete. I know what to do. The time for degrees and trophies and shiny awards is past. The time for imparting my experiences to the world is at hand. I must use the skills I have learned these past 15 years to gather the necessary elements to finish the sculpture. I cannot do it on brute force and wishes alone, but I must pull from the deep well of time, wisdom, and confidence that has propelled me into my coming future.

The lump of clay is nearing its completion. The details will continue to be carved and refined, and the rough places smoothed with precision. Then the refining fire will take me from the proposal to the creation to the promised land. 

The fire I am building may be extinguished or burn itself out. But it is my sincere hope that it will be a steadfast torch that lights the way for many and provides comfort in its warmth.

It is time to finish strong. There can be no other way.