Emotions in Motion

(Emotion: A moving of the mind or soul; excitement of the feelings, whether pleasing or painful; disturbance or agitation of mind caused by a specific exciting cause and manifested by some sensible effect on the body. A mental state that arises spontaneously rather than through conscious effort and is often accompanied by physiological changes; a feeling: the emotions of joy, sorrow, fear, reverence, hate, and love.)

Sometimes I wonder why we are plagued with emotions and feelings. I know that they are part of the human element, just like a heartbeat or digestion. They are strange, overtaking the body at times, ruling the heart and mind without prejudice. On occasion, I just want to be like a robot from the sci-fi movies...no emotion, no feelings. That way, when any normal person is faced with something that triggers emotions, I would not be affected in the same way. Pretty boring, but I would be assured of not caring about a single damn thing and not letting my feelings take off like a train rushing down the track, heading for certain derailment.

For me, it can be something so simple that opens the floodgates of emotion. Just like this…A few days ago, my ex-wife asked me to look for her old resume on my hard drive. She asked me to find it because she is looking for a new job. Of course, I forgot to do it. She called yesterday to see if I found it. No, I said, but I would look for it. I cracked the whip and commanded my computer to search for it and the results came back…not there. I could have sworn that it was there, but it wasn’t. I then searched for the old 3.5” floppy disks (remember them?) that it could have been stored on. Not there either. I then remembered that I emailed it to her years ago to her computer at her old job. So I began looking back through emails I had sent to her. I found it. I found lots of other things too. I found emails that I had sent her and emails to me from her. I found emails about cabins in the mountains; sent pictures of our daughter with black Sharpie tattoos on her hands, face, and body; funny emails to make her laugh. Each and every one of them with terms of endearment embedded within. Terms like “Baby”, “I love you”, “With all my love”.

I don’t know why I read all of them. I know me. I knew what would happen. As I finished reading them, a great sense of loss crushed down on me that triggered a flood of emotions. Sorrow for what was gone, for what is missing in my life. Love for her that I can’t wash from my soul and even if I could, I don’t think I would want to cleanse myself of it. Fear of things I have done and of things unknown that are to come. Tears that I couldn’t stop came rushing out, blurring my vision, making the words on the screen indiscernible; like smudge marks on a pair of clean white shoes. I don’t like being this way. I don’t like it that I allow myself to let my feelings take over. I don’t get so much of the emotion of anger. It takes a lot to really get me mad…but sad…I can bring that up at the drop of a hat.

I could easily erase all those emails from my computer. Wipe it clean and erase all those memories that bring on the feelings of loneliness and despair. But just like all that stuff in the upstairs of my garage, all that stuff in the downstairs of my garage…I hold on to stuff. I’m a pack rat to the 27^th power. Cards and letters; photos and 8mm videos; emails and text messages…I can’t seem to get rid of them. Most of that stuff has been ceremoniously put into the box of memories I wrote about earlier. I can’t just simply remove my hard drive from my computer and place it in there as well. To satisfy my pack rat cravings, I could print those emails out and place them in there, then erase the old messages from my computer. That way, it would make it harder for me to find them. They wouldn’t be just a mouse click away. But I probably won’t. I will probably leave them on there to torture myself. I don’t have to click on them. But I most likely will, someday.

That box is still on my bedroom floor. Every now and then I find something that belongs in there. On my fridge, there was a magnet picture frame with a close up of us from long ago. I just noticed it the other day, took it down, and placed it in the box. While at the fridge, I also noticed an old Family Circus cartoon that I had laminated. It had the newly married couple getting on a carousel called the Marriage-Go-Round. The husband was asking for “Two, please” to the ticket seller. The next frame had the entire family riding with all the kids vying for mom and dad’s attention…one of them saying, “Whee! I’m staying on here forever!” The final frame had just the parents again with the kids flying off the ride, and the parents in a seat made for two. The husband is telling the wife, “The ride’s not over and there are just the two of us left.” She replies, “There were just the two of us when we got on.” I loved that strip the minute I saw it. After my ex had moved out, I couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. But I left it on the fridge; I only simply turned it over. But I knew what was on the other side. That strip has joined the rest of the memories in that box.

I can’t see what I’m writing. These damned emotions again. Why are my eyes wet? It’s raining outside right now, and the sound of the drops on the roof and the new leaves on the trees is so soothing. Maybe it is the rain. But I haven’t been outside to get wet. It can’t be the rain on my face. It can’t be.

A Little Bit of Nothing

No words of wisdom. No words of love. No thoughts on life. No pictures. Just an old poem and some new songs. The poem was written by this lovelorn fool many years ago. The songs were written by ALO. The first song says a lot, but not exactly how I feel. The second song just sounds like good advice…

Memory Lane

How many times has it happened before?
I can’t remember,
I’ve locked the door
and imprisoned the memories
that bring back the pain
which tortures my soul
again and again.

The key to the lock
is inside my heart,
and every time
its broken apart,
the key tumbles to the dusty floor
to be used by love
to open the door and let the memories
run free once more.

The love that opens the door is not real;
an imposter, a fake
its only there to steal
and to make me feel
like it had all been real
but in truth it was only a lie.

Each time the door is opened wide
the memories held captive inside
crawl out of their holes to once again
take from my mind what might have been
and changes it into one of them;
a nightmare of love, a malignant memory.

But this time I think the pain will subside
in less time than before; I feel it inside.
I’ve captured the escaped memories in no time at all
and returned them to their prison wall.
This time the key to open the cell
is thrown away, but you never can tell.
So I’ll change the lock and replace the key
and hope the memories will let me be.

Empty Vessel (A Pledge of No Allegiance)
Lyrics by Dave Brogan of ALO

Feel like I’m trapped and I can’t get out
Heart full of pain, head full of doubt
And when I think about it, it just gets worse
The more it hurts the more I know
I’ve got to see her again

Stuck like a magnet to the freezer door
Face to the sun but my back gets so cold
And when I think about it, it just gets worse
The more it hurts the more I know
I’ve got to see her again

I’m an incomplete empty vessel
Waiting for the one to fill me up
Waiting for the day to hear you say “I Love You”
But you won’t so I’m gonna leave
I do believe I’ve had enough

Told myself it’s all in my mind
Told myself she’s not my kind
But when I think about her it just gets worse
The more it hurts the more I know
This heart of mine will never mend

What if she knocked upon my door?
I wonder if I would be strong enough to ignore
That everything about us comes out cursed
The more it hurts the more I know
I’ve got to see her again

I’m an incomplete empty vessel
Waiting for the one to fill me up
Waiting for the day to hear you say “I Love You”
But you won’t so I’m gonna leave
I do believe I’ve had enough

I feel the pressure comin’ on
To the left of right a line has been drawn
But when it comes to my lady, my lady comes first
It always hurts, I’m gonna leave
I do believe I’ve had enough

I’m gonna leave I do believe I’ve had enough
I’m gonna leave I do believe I’ve had enough

Try
Lyrics by Dan Lebowitz of ALO

Things she said been making them feel afraid
That they're gonna be let down
But if they knew what she were capable of
I know they'd want her around

That's why she gotta give it
A little bit of confidence
And just believe in
What she do

I appreciate her modesty
It's positive I know it's true
But when her modesty is talking negatively
Everybody feels negative too

That's why she gotta give it
A little bit of confidence
And just believe in
What she do

We got to try just a little bit harder
And let it shine just a little bit brighter
We got to walk just a little bit taller
‘Cause I can feel the sound and it's bringing me down

Ain't nobody want you preaching to them
So we probably shouldn't be talking this way
It’s so hard to communicate these things
I know these things are even harder to change

That's why she gotta give it
A little bit of confidence
And just believe in
What she do

We got to try just a little bit harder
And let it shine just a little bit brighter
We got to walk just a little bit taller
Cause I can feel the sound

We got to try just a little bit harder
And let it shine just a little bit brighter
We got to walk just a little bit taller
Cause I can feel the sound and it's bringing me down

So that’s it. I’ll have more to say after I think and think and think and finally get thunk.

(Un)Broken

Wasting time. That’s what I’m doing right now…wasting time. I should be folding up clothes from the dryer, folding up clothes from the hamper (they’re clean, I just put them in there to make room for more clothes in the dryer), putting those clothes away, and doing more laundry. It piles up. I hate it. But even though they sometimes sit for days on end in the dryer or hamper, I am glad that my washer and dryer work. I don’t have to load up clothes on a weekly or even bi-weekly basis and haul it down to some Laundromat and deal with people in the same situation. But, hey, isn’t that a great place to hook up with someone? Ahh…yeah, whatever.

There are dishes in the sink. Hand washing dishes sucks. For years, the only dishes washed in the sink were the pots and pans with the oh-so-delicate non-stick surfaces that shouldn’t go in a dishwasher. The handy, dandy dishwasher. The one that now doesn’t work. It hasn’t worked in months. I think I have figured out why it doesn’t work. A $50 pump has gone bad, I think. I’m not the dishwasher repairman, but that is my prognosis. What’s the holdup on getting it fixed already? $50 that I don’t have, that’s what. So, as an alternative to fixing the dishwasher right away, I opt to wash the dishes another way. In the sink, by hand, the way the pioneers used to do it. Not the preferred way, but the dishes get washed (eventually). I haven’t thrown the dishwasher away. I know it will work someday; I just have to take the time and the initiative, and then have the cash to get it to work.

There is grass to mow. Oh, it has been mowed this season. It’s not like the grass has gone to seed and has reached epic proportions of size. No, it’s just thicker than the last time I mowed and the time has come to mow again. I have a riding lawn mower. Guess what? It’s broken too. The deck of the mower has probably seen its last mowing season. The engine fires up just fine. It goes forward and backward when put into gear. The problem is that the blades that won’t turn when they are engaged. I think it is a seized pulley or mandrel (the thing the blade attaches to). I still get the yard mowed. I don’t say, “The rider is broken, so I can’t mow the yard.” No, as an alternative to riding a lawn mower, which is so much easier on the body, I opt to use my push mower. It is hard to start, vibrates like hell, and is missing its mandated safety cut-off switch, but it gets the job done. It works.

My VW camper is up on jack stands, engine pulled and awaiting a rebuild. It has been hovering like that for over a month now. What really sucks is that camping season is starting. In fact, just this past weekend, I had to work at my club’s VW show. To make it easier to get started in the morning, I, along with a majority of the club members, camp on the show site. Did I not camp this weekend because my camper is (ahem) broken? Do I give up because it won’t work? No. I just took my tent and hammock along with me and found a way to make it work. I didn’t have the comforts that I am used to with the camper, but it worked out anyway. I made it work.

I can’t think of all the things that are broken in my life right now. There sure are a lot of them. Heart, vehicle, head, mower, feelings, appliances, love…you name it, it is probably broken. I’m not an expert on repairing any of these things. I haven’t taken classes on cardiac maintenance, psychiatry, lawnmower repair, emotional first aid, dishwasher repair, auto mechanics, or lessons on how to love. I just delve into what’s broken, and determine a way to fix it. It may not be the proper way. It may not be the “learned” way. In the case of auto repair, I usually refer to a manual for help, but often times just get in there and start working. Most of the things are self explanatory. Fixing the lawnmower is not beyond my scope, but I have friends who know how to work on them and with their help, it can be done. The dishwasher…well, that might take an expert, but at least I think I know what is wrong with it. I’m not afraid to jump in and try to find a solution.

It should be the same way with the other things that are broken. My heart, my head, my feelings…my love. I want to solve the problems by myself, but I don’t know how to fix them. That doesn’t mean that I don’t try. I do so try. Self help is my main motto. Fix it. Solve that problem. Make it work. Too bad that always doesn’t do the trick. I can’t tell my heart to stop hurting. I can’t force the thoughts that sometimes plague my mind to go away. I can’t keep my emotions in check sometimes. I can’t force someone to love me any more than I can force myself to love someone else. All I can do is be myself.

But wait a minute. Maybe I can do these things. The heart, mind, emotion, love…all of these are interconnected. My mind will become clearer when the heart stops hurting…the heart will stop hurting once the mind clears itself of painful thoughts. Then, the emotions that I am so plagued with (I’m a Cancer and I don’t care!) might become more under control when the heart and mind are communicating like they should. All that is left is love. I know I can love. I have loved. I do love. I will love. Maybe this works in reverse…maybe love is the catalyst to fix the rest of the broken parts. When that part of the machine is fixed, the rest of the parts that rely on that one significant part finally can do their job. I am then whole. Fixed…not broken. But that can only happen if I am willing to work on it, and get my hands dirty. I’m not afraid to do it. I can do it. Self help at its finest. I have to want to work on what is broken, what is perceived to not work, to see if it will work. I do want it to work. And if it doesn’t work, hey, at least I put an effort in and had fun in the process.

All this makes me think of the great inventors. Edison giving up on the light bulb. Tesla throwing his hands up and walking away from alternating electrical current. The Sumerians and Babylonians tossing out those vats of fermented hops and wheat…otherwise known as beer. What if all these people had just given up because they thought it wouldn’t work? Would these things never have been invented? Maybe not, but I think they would have. If the ones who are attributed to inventing these things didn’t invent them, I truly believe that someone would have eventually. But what makes the most significance is that they did do it. They tried to make these things work and they succeeded. After how many failures? I don’t know. I just know that they did succeed and because of it, we have lights in our houses, alternating electricity to work the lamps that hold the light bulbs, and beer to drink in a house lit up with lights powered by electricity. All parts work together.

I want to fix it the things that are broken. I want them to work. I want the grand machine that is me to run harmoniously and trouble-free. Only thing…there is no manual to refer to…only the willingness to work at it, the tenacity to try and try again, and the knowledge gained by getting in there and making it work. Of course, mistakes will be made, and the more that are made, the more lessons that will be learned, and the better the end result will be.

Fixed. Whole. Unbroken.

Play to Win

I was playing a game with my kids the other day. It is a Disney-themed board game with dice to roll, cards to draw, and characters to move along the board, but with a fancy update of today…an interactive DVD that is part of the game. Depending upon the roll of the dice, you either drew a card or chose an option on the DVD. I like the way it adds another dimension to the game. It is pretty fun to play, and the fact that I know a lot about a bunch of Disney movies gives me the upper hand playing against a couple of kids. No child can beat me!

The object of the game (just like most all board games) is to be the first to reach the end of the marked trail and enter the winner’s circle. Once you get there, you only have to answer a series of questions to win. If you knew your Disney movie stuff, you move along rather quickly. But if you don’t have a clue about Disney trivia, your progress is, oh, so slow. But sometimes it is only the luck of the dice or the drawing of a card. You are moving ahead of the pack when you start rolling low numbers, you aren’t knowledgeable in the facts, or draw a card that makes you go back in the game. It’s not only this game that makes you go back some spaces. Chutes and Ladders. Many times I have been near the end, only to hit that longest slide that seems to take you all the way back to the beginning. Candy Land. I have drawn a card that does the same thing. I don’t wanna go back to Lord Licorice if I am already past Queen Frostine.

Going back in the game is not always a bad thing. It just depends upon where you are at the moment and where you land when you go back. You might be looking at some of the spaces right in front of you that scare the crap out of you, and then you go back to a space that actually helps you out. But usually it only puts you back further than where you were without any benefit, and the threat of the spaces ahead are still there. But even though they are ahead of you, you have to move ahead in order to win. That’s the point of the whole game; to win. Or at least to stay ahead of the other players. But if you keep drawing cards that make you go back two spaces, it gets frustrating. It seems like you will never get ahead.

Life is full of drawn cards and rolled dice, which either clash or complement your knowledge that keeps you ahead. Sometimes you are rolling the high numbers and getting ahead in the game. Every card you draw puts you further ahead, putting everything and all the scary spaces behind you. The winner’s circle looms in the distance. Then, it seems that you start rolling low numbers and drawing cards that make you go back. Go back and redo what you have already done. Go back and do it over because you didn’t get it right the first time. Go back and start over.

Is it a good thing to go back and relive or redo something you thought you were over and done with? I guess if you learn something new or learn how to do it right, it could be. Life is full of second chances. Going back might mean that this time you get it right. You won’t make the same mistakes this time around. But sometimes it feels as if life is just punishing you. Making you go back when you have just gotten ahead, just gotten over something in your life, making things stick around, making you feel as if you will never reach the winner’s circle…making you feel as if you just can’t get it right. Sometimes it feels as if you are taking one step forward and two steps back and in order to get ahead, you must turn around and go in the opposite direction.

I know that feeling. It happens to me all the time. One minute, I’m feeling on top of the world. I feel like things are going to get better and they seem to be. Then, with the roll of a dice or the drawing of a card, I go back to feeling the weight of the world crushing down on me. “One minute, I’m over it. Then the next minute, I feel the opposite.” That’s a line from an ALO song called “Spectrum”. It’s a good song. Hell, the entire “Fly Between Falls” album is fantastic…full of parallels with my life. I’m going to take each and every song and break them down one day and see how they fit with my life. Even the album title means something to me. On the front of the album, there is a picture of a fly. I had always thought the words “fly” and “falls” in the title were nouns. I was driving home from a friend’s house the other night and had something hit me…what if they are verbs? What if it means when things are great, you are soaring above the clouds, high up in the sky…in between the plummets to earth, the down times, the “reliving the past” times. When that realization hit me, I started laughing and tearing up at the same time. I want to fly up there, but I’m only up there between the near-impacts with the ground.

Here I am, once again
At the other end of the spectrum.
A tug-o-war, my head is sore
'Cause I adore and I fear you

Well I can disagree with myself 'cause sometimes I feel like me and sometimes I feel like somebody else

One minute, I'm over it
Then the next minute, I feel the opposite
Then the next minute, I feel the opposite
Of the opposite, of feeling over it

“Spectrum” by ALO

Back and forth it goes. I so know how that feels. I really do.

I don’t mind playing this game. The thrill of what lies ahead keeps me going on. I know what is behind me. I’ve lived it. I have that knowledge to apply to the future. I’m not anxious to have to go back and redo things, to start over, to do things right the next time. But in order to get ahead, I may just have to do so. Learn from going back. Land on spaces I’ve been on. Turn back to go ahead. It’s going to happen. I have to just keep on rolling the dice; keep on drawing cards from the top of the pile.

I just have to realize that I won’t always roll the low numbers…and that every card in the deck won’t make me go back two spaces.

Fence Repair

What is the purpose of a fence? Isn’t it meant to keep something that you don’t want out from getting out? Some may say that it is to keep something you don’t want in from getting in. Fences divide. Fences protect and defend. Fences beautify. If a hole develops in your fence, you had better take the time and initiative to repair the fence before the wolves come in and kill your chickens or your dog escapes to terrorize the neighborhood with ferocious licking...

Fences divide. They say fences make good neighbors. Sometimes people live next to others who always pry, always want to know what is up next door. A privacy fence keeps their little noses where they ought to be, in their own business. I haven’t had the pleasure of having totally nosy neighbors, but I hear it can be a pain. Sure, I’m inquisitive. If something is going on next door or a new car is parked in the driveway, I’m curious and take a look. But I also know that some things, things that are bigger and more important than a new car, these things are really none of my business. If the neighbor wants to erect an 18 ft. tall statue in honor of Elvis leaving in a spaceship in his front yard, so be it. It’s his yard. I wouldn’t put a statue of Elvis in my front yard. Charlie Brown maybe, but not Elvis.

Fences protect and defend. The painful looking razor wire that sits atop just about every prison fence I’ve ever seen protects the common citizen from the criminal trapped inside. If it weren’t for those fences, who knows how many bad guys (more than there already are) would be roaming the streets. Barbed wire fencing at the top of standard fencing aids in keeping intruders out too. Garden fencing keeps out the critters who love to munch on fresh shoots. In the old west, the age of free-ranging cowboys literally came to an end because of the development of the barbed wire fence. Farmers and cowboys came to duel over the barriers that were erected to keep cattle in check. But the farmers won, settling the early beginnings of property rights in this country. In war, barbed wire was used to slow down the enemy and in some cases, funnel them closer together to become better targets.

Fences beautify. There is a house on a road near here that has an enormous steel rail fence with red-brick “posts”. Every ten posts or so, there is a stone lion mounted on top. It’s not only a functional fence, it’s also pretty. The wooden “split rail” fencing in my front yard was originally put there for decorative purposes. I put a wire fence on it to slow down my kids from the dangers of the road, but it also serves as a barrier to keep my dog in the yard as well. When the kids are grown or the dog is gone, the wire will come off and the fence will only be ornamental.

Fences are multifunctional. They serve all these functions and more, I’m sure. I had talked before about fences…about putting one up around my heart. I also had a fence around certain friendships, namely the phantom one I had mentioned before. Over time, holes appeared in these fences, letting in all sorts of doubts, fears, and hard feelings. These holes also let solid feelings of trust, happiness, and love escape. I didn’t have a desire to mend the holes in my fences. Third party information swayed my mind, further developing my jealous streak, deepening the hurt, and making me complacent. I didn’t know when I would be ready to start the job of fence repair.

Yesterday, I felt I was ready. I had my gloves, my wire snips and new wire to begin the job. I had a moment where I felt I had finally “grown a set” and called him right then and there before they shrunk back down again. I had so many emotions going through me while on the phone…anger, sadness, fear, and jealousy. I think I hid those emotions in my voice while talking rather well, even though I just wanted to burst out, mainly in tears. But I didn’t. I could hear and feel a waver in my voice. I knew I was almost there.

He came over later and we cooked hamburgers and hotdogs. It was good. After the kids went to bed, we went to the garage and finally talked about things we hadn’t felt we could say to each other for quite a while. We talked about hurts, jealousies, awkwardness, how we felt. Not to go into much detail, but we worked out a lot of things; how I felt he had wanted my wife for a long time, how he felt weird even being around her, not wanting to hurt me, scared that I hated him. I never hated him. I let him know just how much I loved her and that I will never stop loving her. He assured me that he doesn’t care what anybody else thinks of him, but he does care what I think. That felt good. He let me know that he wasn’t “going after” my ex. I believe him to an extent. But I still hurt over it. I think it is because I just let things bother me to the point of putting up that fence around my heart. In the end, both our hearts felt lighter because of just finally talking about it.

It doesn’t take back the fact that my wonderful wife left me. It doesn’t change anything in that regard. It doesn’t mean that my friend and I are back to where we used to be. We have many holes to fix in our fence. It doesn’t heal any hurts any of us have; my ex, him, or me. But it does mend the biggest holes in our fence, the ones that let the biggest doubts, fears, and hurts through. It does take away the jealousy on my part; the awkward feeling on his part, the doubts and fears that I had. I can’t stop anything between them two. I don’t have the right to anyway. I can’t go back in time and change myself before the held-in feelings of neglect that my ex had built up reached the breaking point, before it was too late. I can’t go back and mend the fence. But I can keep a vigilant eye out for new holes and patch them before they get too big.

I can change myself. I can keep up maintenance on the fence. I can and I will.

Boxes

I boxed up a greater part of my life, love and heart yesterday. I collected things, saw memories in each one, and then piece by piece I gently laid them into the box. This box isn’t a special box; just a plain cardboard box from 3M. I saw this box at work and thought it would be perfect. It carries sanding belts via UPS to be used to sand tubes of titanium. I looked at it and thought that it would be big enough to hold my life and the trinkets that remind me of what was. When I’m done with it, it won’t be just a box; it will be a box full of memories.

I put a box in the box. This box contains cards and letters received from friends and family at my wedding. Why did we keep them? I don’t know. Maybe just to remind us of who gave what, who was there, who wasn’t, who loved us. I hardly see any of those people anymore. People come into and go out of your life like a leaf blown across your yard. It tumbles from one end to the other and then into your neighbor’s yard, then onto other places. More leaves come, but none of them are exactly like the one that got away. But they are all still what they are; leaves.

I put some framed photos in the box. One is a picture of us posing for our engagement photo. We looked so young in that picture. Big hair, smaller frames, and love in our eyes. I can remember that photo shoot, although not vividly. The photographer we hired was a friend of mine. He also took the photos at our wedding. Because he was a friend, I know that we came out cheaper using him. He even gave us the proofs after we paid him for the shoot. The other photo is one from our wedding. It has to be the one I love the most. I am on one side of a small stream, she is on the other, and I am offering my hand in assistance. It reflected the way I felt, the way I feel…just take my hand and we’ll both be just fine. We’ll make it through to the other side.

I put our wedding album in the box. The front of the album cradles another one of my favorite pictures from our wedding. We have crossed that stream and are looking lovingly at each other. We made it through. It is hard to look at that album. I haven’t in a while. I did several months ago when I was at my worst. Looking at it just made me feel even more awful, yet reminiscently happy at the same time. These are photos of us when we felt so in love, at the apex of our happiness. There are photos of family and friends who were there. We all looked so young and happy.

I put our marriage license in the box. It was just a framed piece of paper, but a very important piece of paper. It said that in the eyes of man, we were husband and wife. Let no man tear asunder. I guess you need proof for man…you don’t need a piece of paper to prove it to God. Now that we are divorced, I am wondering…do you get a divorce license? If so, I haven’t gotten mine yet.

I put a notebook in the box. When I knew my marriage was in danger of falling apart, I started keeping a daily log of my feelings, things I wanted to say but couldn’t make my tongue spit out. I wrote how I felt, what I wanted to do to make things better, spilled my guts out on paper, my heart out in ink. I wrote it for myself, but asked her to read it so that she would know my inner feelings. Before I packed it away, I put one more entry in there…words of everlasting love, dates to forget (but have written down to remember them), and a final good-bye to that life; an adieu to that love.

Finally, I put a giant chunk of my heart in the box. I want to keep it in there to remind myself of that love that we shared. The piece of my heart that is packed away is full of memories and love for that former life. It will keep the symbols of that life company. But being the ever hopeful dreamer/lover, I didn’t put my whole heart in there. I want to keep some of it. I want to make sure there is enough to give away again when the time is right, when the person is right, when the love is right. I’m not going to hide the box away. I want to be able to find it to retrieve the piece of my heart I left in there whenever I need it.

I still haven’t closed that box yet. I have cards and letters of love to put in there, I have my wedding ring to box up and insert there. I haven’t put tape on the seams and packed it away. I’m not sure if I have found all that I want to put in the box. I will probably get it out of sight, but not seal it until I am sure that everything that I want to go in the box is in there.

I left another piece of my heart on the floor in the house of a wonderful woman. She doesn’t know it is there, because I haven’t told her that I left it there. It isn’t a broken piece by any means. No, it was carefully removed from the part I kept for myself. By now, it is probably being batted around like some morbid cat toy, leaving splatters of blood and tears wherever it lands. I hope that it is found, the dust bunnies and hair picked off of it, and put away into one of those beautiful boxes sitting on tables and on the numerous shelves that line the walls of the house. I hope it is kept safe because I might want to use it again. It will be kept safe, of that I am sure. I might want to put it back with the piece that I still have, make my heart almost whole again. I might want to put it together and keep it in a box right there, ready to use all over again.

But first, I am going to mend the part I have left, make sure the ends are sewn shut, so that it can grow…so it will be viable and ready for the reunion of the parts packed away in boxes.

Husky Jeans and Adolescent Dreams

Oh boy. Blast from my past, that picture is. I think I was already in my early years of college in that one. A few extra pounds all around.

I was thin once. Don’t believe me? It’s true. It was before I had entered the “Husky jeans” phase. You don’t see “husky” as a size on jeans anymore. Or at least I don’t. Was that just something from before the politically correct nose-in-your-business world of today? Would that be a label that some would find “offensive”? It’s not like the word “Fat” or “Lard-ass” is emblazoned upon the beltline of jeans, now is it? There was a stigma associated with the word “Husky”. It said, “You will never fit into size 32 jeans, fatty”.

I was a fat boy. I will admit it. I do have pictures of me as a child when I was thin, but those pictures are few and far in-between. Here’s one when I was 10. I was little, but already starting the expansion of the belly. Husky jeans, here I come.

(I’m the one who is not female and not wearing overalls)

Most of the pictures I have of me are the fat ones. Ones where I am wearing my Husky sized jeans. Those jeans and my “Bo-Bo” shoes. Most of the kids were wearing Adidas, Converse, or whatever else shoe was popular in the late ‘70s-early ‘80s. My shoes? They were the Dollar General specials. No name, no brand, no “swoop”, no star, no nothing. Just shoes with soles, tongues, and strings.

(Shorts, yellow shirt, tall socks, and green hat. Quite the styler and profiler)

But back to the jeans. My grandma would buy me those jeans, usually when I was with her. Embarrassed, I was, when she couldn’t find the right size and had to ask a clerk where the Husky size jeans were. She may as well been asking where the jeans for the fat boys were. From what I can remember, they didn’t fit all that well in the area where the “package” resides. Nor in the booty area. Not that I have a butt anyway, but baggy jeans over a baggy butt? Not at all sexy, even if you consider fat 15-year old boys sexy. I remember too, she tried to have me wear these pants that were striped; striped like the uniform of the standard train conductor. I refused to wear those pants. I think I made her mad, and maybe even hurt her feelings a bit (I remember telling her to “get me a conductor’s hat that matched and I could chug-a-chug my way to school!”), but I was not going to wear those things. But I was not a brand name snob. I wanted the brand names, but really, it didn’t matter what name was on the outside…just as long as I was comfortable.

(Sporting my Bicentennial spirit)

Even then, I was self-conscious about my appearance. I always had the homemade haircut. Not the “bowl” cut, where a bowl is put on your head and the hair jutting out was cut, giving you the “Hey Moe!” look. But the haircut that everyone could tell that it wasn’t done by a barber; it was done by your mom. It wasn’t that bad, but as a kid, having your mom cut your hair was just not cool. Most of the other kids had name brand shoes, name brand jeans, PCH shirts, Super Cuts haircuts; all the things that said “we’re cool and our parents have money”. But even so, I was friends with them all…from the no-name brands to the Calvin Kleins and all things in between. Did I have girlfriends? Of course I did. Not in the sense of “true love forever and ever” type of girlfriend. They were my friends. I did have dreams of one day meeting a girl and starting a relationship. But I never thought that I ever would. Who would want a no-name wearing, homemade haircut, husky jeans sporting fat boy? No one, I thought. Well, I did think that all the way up till college, when I met the woman who shared 15 years of love and life with me, who gave me two beautiful children, who made me feel that me and my no-name brand was better than any other brand out there. Forget the Ralph Laurens and the Oleg Cassinis…I had Dollar General written all over my forehead and I suppose that was good enough. At least good enough to last a little while. Tastes change, I suppose.

(I’m the neon yellow shirt sporting fella. That shirt attracted more bugs than honey)

I think I still have some of that “no-name brand” mentality today. I haven’t bought new clothes in a long time. I buy decent used clothes from the thrift store. They may end up having a brand name on them, but that’s not what I am looking for. I am looking for something that fits; something that holds all the necessary parts where they should be held, ones that feel good against the skin, and ones that protect me from the elements. Never mind the name that is on them. Some food brands do matter, but canned peas from Save-A-Lot are the same to me as the Jolly Green Giant ones from Bi-Lo. Roundy-O’s are the same damn thing as Cheerios. Store brand orange juice tastes the same to me as Del Monte orange juice. A well thought out design and well known brand name on the label is what brings some people in; advertisers do it all the time. I don’t care. What is on the label means less to me than what is on the inside of the package. That doesn’t mean, for example, that I think the K-Mart knockoff of Birkenstocks makes them any better. They would never last as long as the true pair of “happiness and love for feet” that fit me so well. I am saying that sometimes, it just doesn’t matter. It all depends upon quality. Birkenstocks are made of quality materials…the K-mart brands aren’t. I guess is all boils down to taste and what makes me happy.

(Squeezing through an obstacle course)

I am not a thin man today. I have a “few extra pounds” on me. The clothes that I wear are ones that I have had for a long time. No Husky label, though. Well fitting and comfortable ones, either older brand new ones, or newer to me old ones. I don’t care. It’s what I like. It’s what makes me feel like me. I like me that way. I like my brand; the no-name brand. And in the end, that’s all that matters.

I like me.

Famous Last Words

(Here is the one I wasn’t ready to post. I think I am now and I still think it is relevant…)

I stumbled across a website the other day that forced to the surface of my brain thoughts hiding just under the lining that cushions my thinker from my thick skull. They were hiding in there, just deep enough for me to almost forget they were there, but not deep enough for me to not remember. The website I tripped over while running around the internet was a collection of last words of famous people. Some last words were profound, some incoherent, others just plain silly. Here are a few examples...

“I am about to -- or I am going to -- die: either expression is correct.”
~~ Dominique Bouhours, French grammarian, d. 1702

“Where is my clock?”
~~Salvador Dalí

“Goodbye, everybody!”
~~Hart Crane (Said when he committed suicide by jumping overboard during a steamship voyage.)

“Hey y'all, watch this.”
~~Bubba

OK, so I made that last one up, but it still is relevant...for these last utterances were words to remember them by. Quotes and sayings that will survive into perpetuity. You could say they are words that mainly sum up the person's life in a nut sack...er, I mean nut shell. I believe that whatever you say at your death, for the most part, is the picture of honesty at its zenith. What else do you have to lose? Your doom is eminent. I like the first quote above. This person spent their life correcting grammar and showed grammar knowledge at death. Their life's work was summed up and, to me; maybe even a little humor was shown in those words. The third quote reminds me of Dr. Nick from The Simpsons. He always says “Hello, everybody!” In the big screen movie, he dies and says, “Goodbye, everybody!”

Words. Again, with words. The thoughts that were just under the surface of my brain consisted of words. Not profound or famous last words, but words of doom just the same. I got to thinking about words that I had heard in the not-so-distant ago that carried that foul stench of doom and heart-wrenching pain. Words that I hadn't heard much in the past, and they are words that I don't really want to hear again…but I’m sure I will.

"I don't want to hurt you."

Doomsday words. Danger: Broken Heart Ahead. Achtung baby! I have only really heard this phrase a few times, but those occurrences have all happened in the past year. 38 years of not hearing these words together, then bang! I heard it several times within a few months.

The first time occurred near the end of my marriage. This time it had the most significance to me. It heralded in the beginning of the end. I don’t complain that we never fought over our 13 years of marriage. It made me think that all was well. Who wants to live with constant fighting? I don’t and I’m sure she didn’t want to either. I lived in my secure turtle shell, oblivious to what was really going on. But looking back, maybe a little bout every now and then would have brought feelings out into the light where no shadows lie, where we could have hashed out feelings of neglect, lost love, and even displayed our inhibitions. Little did I know that those words would mean to me what they mean to me now. “I don’t want to hurt you”. Words of doom to my ears. Who does want to be hurt? It hurts to be hurt. It feels as if your heart is torn, your body aches, and your eyes get wet. Again, in retrospect, I would rather have had small periods of pain than the great wound inflicted upon my heart. Did I hurt her? Apparently I did, whether known to me or not, whether I meant to or not. I know that I didn't mean to. And I still love…

I heard it again a short time later. Only this time the words “You are such a beautiful, sweet man” were thrown in as well. A beautiful man who no one wants to hurt, but the end result is that the hurt comes along anyway. I hold no ill will towards the speaker of these words. It may have been doomed from the beginning, I don’t know. I just had to find out “what if”. I had a wonderful time, my heart was uplifted, and I hope I made a new friend. But things did end, as all things do. No regrets, darling. But, those words again…harbingers of doom.

Once again, either after the second time or before, I’m not sure (probably both), but those words rang in my ears again. In fact, I can still hear the echo…but I can’t tell if it is different voices I hear bouncing around in my head, or just one. The result of hearing these words this time have not brought any ill luck as of yet, but I won’t count that out till the sun is shining on me and there are no clouds on the horizon. I am comfortable right now. I have happy warm fuzzy feelings abounding that are holding back the effects of the words of doom. But that doesn’t mean that doom is not waiting around the corner of the wall, in a dark trench coat, fedora cocked at an angle so as not to see facial features, leaned up against the wall, just standing there, ready to attack me when I round the corner.

Another song, another story…sing on, Billy Joel…sing about Famous Last Words…

Sitting here in Avalon, looking at the pouring rain
Summertime has come and gone and everybody's home again
Closing down for the season, I found the last of the souvenirs
I can still taste the wedding cake and it's sweet after all these years

These are the last words I have to say
That's why this took so long to write
There will be other words some other day
But that's the story of my life

There's comfort in my coffee cup and apples in the early fall
They're pulling all the moorings up and gathering at the Legion Hall
They swept away all the streamers after the Labor Day parade
Nothing left for a dream now, only one final serenade

And these are the last words I have to say
Before another age goes by
With all those other songs I'll have to play
But that's the story of my life

And it's so clear standing here where I am
Ain't that what justice is for?
Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn anymore

Stack the chairs on the table tops
Hang the sheets on the chandeliers
It slows down but it never stops
Ain't it sweet after all these years

And these are the last words I have to say
It's always hard to say goodbye
But now it's time to put this book away
Ain't that the story of my life

I know things end. If it has a beginning, it has an end. You are born; you die. You enter the work force; you retire. You go to pre-school; you graduate from college. Alpha to Omega. Beginning to end. Lots of stuff happens to you in the middle of it all. Happiness, hurt, love, hatred, good times and bad…you just hope to make the most of what you got, what you love, and what you learn. Take the things thrown at you and make something new. Create a new beginning that takes you to a different end. Keep on chugging, love without ceasing, and hopefully, be loved in return.

And try to not get hurt in the process.

Sunny Beaches Revisited

3/30/08

Today was the day for doing something. Yesterday was a lazy day. Hanging around the house, walking on the beach, taking a short bike ride…all part of the lazy day plan. No sleeping in this morning. We had some stuff to do. Stuff, in this case, consisted of kayaking the bay around Cape San Blas, picnicking at a park, walking the sandy beaches, and maybe some biking. After a quick breakfast and the essential coffee, that is…

When we were all ready, we headed out. Cape San Blas was about 20 miles east of Mexico Beach, so we had a little driving to do. We found the kayak rental place (after deciding the first one wasn’t the one we wanted to use) and got out to set up the rental. The lady who greeted us seemed nice enough. You know how sometimes looks are deceiving? This was one of those instances. I don’t have anyone to compare her to. Just think of someone without tact, without a sense of humor, without patience, and with a touch of crazy thrown in. That was this woman. Kayaking, it seems, is so dangerous, you have to sign a waiver. C, one of the young ladies with us, was under 18, and without a parental unit present to give permission for the kayaking expedition. So, she calls her mother to get verbal permission for one of the “over 18” women to sign on her behalf. C no sooner than gets her mother on the phone, when the lady starts with, “Can I talk to her? Can I talk to her?” over and over again, all the while C is trying to explain to her mother the very reason why she is calling in the first place. B is old enough to sign for herself, so she sets her sandals down (on the counter, of all places, heaven forbid!) and without missing a bit on her speech about kayaking, the lady says “Shoes don’t go on the counter”. Not, “Please put your shoes on the floor” or “Please take your shoes off the counter”. I had already decided that she wasn’t the type of person that I would latch onto even before this, but I really tuned her out after that. I mean really, I know, the shoes shouldn’t have been on the counter and C should have just given the phone to the lady (without explanation to her mother?), but c’mon, patience and politeness go a long way in my book.

We get the low down on how to kayak and we set off into the bay. Never did the water get deeper than about 3 feet, but the wind was blowing really hard. This, in turn, made paddling the way you wanted to go all that much harder. While facing the beach at one point, we see the lady waving us to her. Way, way over there on the beach. We make our way there, and then she tells us that instead of trying to fight the winds to come back to the landing when we were done, we should keep heading with the wind and they would pick us up at another spot down the beach. She helped us out, but I still didn’t like her.

Parts of the bay were so shallow the paddling wasn’t an option, so we walked, pulling the kayak behind us. I hadn’t worn my water shoes in quite a while, and the rubbing of the ankle strap gave me blisters (waaah!). We stopped at an island where horseshoe crabs had somehow gotten inland and dried in the sun and crabs had dug hidey holes all over. I never saw the crabs, except for a quick movement down the holes. I found a sea urchin on the shore of the island and felt lucky. Those things are so brittle, you hardly ever find one intact.

It was fun, more fun than I had anticipated. But it was tiring, so we made our way to the landing where they were going to pick us up, worn out, but relaxed as well. After the drive back to the rental agency, we headed to a park for some delicious sandwich wraps, thanks to D, who made them with love for each and every one of us. We ate, and the ladies lay down to read and rest, and eventually, D and I walked along a path on the beach, taking pictures and remembering. D had her own memories of this beach, while it brought on memories for me of other sunny beaches, ones where good times were had, not with friends, but with family. Happy memories, but sad as well, for I knew that it would never be that way, or the same, again.

After our hike along the beach, D and I headed to another beach, one with all sorts of trunks of trees, with snakelike roots, lined up along the shore. They looked like aliens on the march, either back to the sea, or further inland, I couldn’t tell. Some of the trunks had pointy limbs where people had placed shells like a peace offering to some sea god. It was another place of memory for D, but only place of new memories for me. We left that beach, knowing that the day was almost over, the last full day of rest was nearly done, supper was to be made, and another visit to the beach across the street was in order. The vacation was about finished. So back to the house we went.

Supper of steaks and sausages. Music and good books. Sleep and dreams. The night wound down and morning came. Coffee, packing, and saying good-byes. I hated leaving that beautiful place. Our time there seemed to have been so short, but full of fun and sun to last a long time. Home was calling us, as well as responsibilities to others. “Northbound and down, loaded up and truckin’…” What only took just under 7 hours on the way down took us 10 hours on the way back home. Home is where we needed to be, but back to the beach is where we wanted to be.

You know, my sea urchin made the trip in the kayak, the ride back to the house, the packing of stuff, and the ride back home. I was going to give it to my daughter as a souvenir. I got it off the dash when we pulled into D’s driveway that night. Somewhere, sometime, somehow…something happened. It was no longer in one piece. It was broken. It was not perfect. But it was still beautiful.

I can’t wait to get away again. I feel that I will need to soon. Go somewhere; search inwardly and outwardly at the same time. See the world afar and see my back yard. Just get out and go. Search, look, and see. Search for the beautiful things. Look for the unbroken shells. See what is out there yet to be seen.

It is good for the soul.

Sunny Beaches

03/29/08

I can’t believe I grew up in Florida and never once visited a beach on the panhandle. Gulf side of course…there are none on the Georgia side…duh. I’ve seen the bright white beaches of the Gulf many times. We used to vacation at North Redington Beach with it’s shell-encrusted tan sand that fades to a blinding white further from the water’s edge. The waves are smaller, the sand is “cleaner”, and the crowds are smaller. At least where I visit on the Gulf side, that is. Been to the Keys many years ago. Nice, but still a bit crowded. Forget Clearwater Beach…way too many people for my taste. The beach at our rental condo at North Redington Beach was much less crowded, but still, there were more people there than here. “Here” is Mexico Beach, somewhere with surf and sand at the end of the road from whence we came. Sand, surf, and sanity. It’s what I have been looking forward to for quite some time.

D, Mtn. D, and I left out of northeast Georgia just after midnight. We drove all night. Well, I should say they drove all night. I slept a lot. 6 hours and 45 minutes it took us. We arrived in the time of morning between the pitch black of night and the pinkish glow of full-blown sunrise (well, it would have been pink, if not for the fog). It was not as warm as I had anticipated. It was chilly, in fact. Made me glad I did bring a jacket after all. We took a blanket for below and sleeping bag for above and spread out on the sand in front of the pounding surf. We were tired from the trip, but the waves kept on coming, tirelessly moving forward and back in its continual advance and retreat act. No sleep for them. It was hypnotic. If it weren’t so cold and so bright, I probably would have fallen asleep there on the beach. D did. Mtn. D and I didn’t. She walked down the beach and I walked across the street and got us coffee instead. Mmm…coffee with Splenda and hazelnut creamer. Heaven. Warming,too.

After the morning beach visit, we found a café for a little breakfast, but not until after leaving the office of Pristine Properties, the rental agency for the little rental house on the beach. Got the keys, ate our omelettes, and then headed to our home away from it all. This house is something else. From the outside, it looks like an ordinary cinder-block house built in Florida. Maybe it needed a little bit of care on the exterior, a little paint, maybe a bit of wood replacement as well, but it looked welcoming...much more welcoming that a hotel would have been. But the interior was better than the pictures on the ‘net. Wood paneling (not the cheap thin paneling you find in a trailer, but this beautiful cedar wood) on every wall. I swear, if I ever had more money than I knew what to do with, I would build a house and make the interior walls look like this place. I love it. Three bedrooms, two baths, neat seaside décor, and homey feeling. Nice place to hang for a few days. And a nice place to crash too, as we found out when we finally wound down enough to lie down. Barbecue and beers made for an early evening. Slept like the dead, I did.

Woke up this morning to some brewed coffee and a mostly quiet house. Got my coffee fix and found myself wanting to walk the beach. I went looking for shells and whatever semblance of dead aquatic life the water was spitting up. There were seashells everywhere. I was looking for the beautiful ones; the ones you never seem to find whole and all there. The one-piece ones with spiral staircases and spinnerets. The ones that are outnumbered by the perfect bi-valved “scallop” or “hinged” ones. There are plenty of pretty ones, but they were all broken. I found plenty of pretty, un-damaged shells (the hinged kind), a sand dollar and some driftwood. A lady walking by showed me the sand dollars and starfish she had found. More death from the deep. I got to thinking about trying to find the “perfect ones”, which then prompted me to start thinking to myself, “Mmm…all the perfect ones are broken”. I may have said “pretty ones”, but anyway, it is something to write about later, I’m sure…

It is relaxing here. Got some playlist music playing from my MP3 player, being piped through stereo speakers. Right now, Bob Marley is telling me to “Lively Up Yourself”. I just got back from a bike ride by myself along the back alley streets that run parallel to the main road that sits between the house and the beach. You can go just about anywhere you want taking those back streets. They take you to the same places that the main road will take you. You just have a different view and less traffic, that’s all. D is lazing in the sun (under a beach umbrella), catching up on some much missed sleep. Mtn. D and the Other Three (G, B, and C) are now biking somewhere. I’m glad we brought the bikes. They are fun and they make me exercise as well.

Oh yeah. Got to see some poor sap fail his sobriety test, get handcuffed and put in the K-9 vehicle, get his van rifled through by Mexico Beach’s finest, and then watch his van get towed away. I knew he was going to fail when I saw him stumble on the “walk the line” test. Going to jail. He didn’t pass GO or collect his $200. All this happened on the road right in front of our little house. Quite entertaining, it was.

Tomorrow, we plan on going to Cape San Blas and bike some more, but first, take a 4 hour kayak tour of god-knows-what in the waters surrounding. Maybe get a round of “Row Your Boat” going…in a six part round. We will be rowing and all that. I think I might make my goal for my weight loss program. I am eating more than normal this weekend, but I’m also exercising more than normal too. I hope I make my goal. I think I might. 4 hours in a kayak in the ocean might make that happen. But, more than likely, my upper body muscles may bulk up and negate any weight loss.

I am glad I came. Even though it is just me as the lone male in a house full of women. I’m just wasting time. It isn’t a party-time weekend. It is a “get away from it” weekend. It feels good to do that for a change. Just take a little bit of time to get away from my troubles, away from my hurts and everyday tedium, away from my normal life. My cell phone is here, but nowhere in sight. The television is not trying to sell me “The Clapper”. The ocean is a mere 100 yards away. I can hear the surf. The sun will be setting in a few hours. I think I might go back and see what shells have been thrown up on the shore before that. I don’t think I will find the perfectly complete and whole one, but I’m going to look anyway.

I might just find one.