just write the damn thing
don’t over think it:
mention the food and drinks
and naps and records and puzzles
and movies and how you find joy in sadness
and how sadness brings you joy
and mention gratitude and the easy
contentment lurking just beneath the surface,
within reach: so close you can almost touch it
and feel its warmth as it tucks you into bed
with a good book and the promise of another
day of rest and a week after that and then a whole
new year to get better at being better and finding
that elusive meaning that might help you fit into your skin
and look in the mirror and make it all make sense.
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sadness. Show all posts
December 25, 2021
359/365
December 12, 2021
346/365
woke up sunday morning
clenching an image i couldn’t shake:
a tiny rusted metal heart
wrapped in barbwire
embedded in my chest
like a brier or mechanical barnacle.
its ventricle clogged with dust and grease
unable to pump or move at all
frozen shut by time.
mechanical stasis.
a clapped-out clout.
but it wasn’t a heart at all
and there were more than one
a batch of jagged ballbearings
let loose in my body: obstructing
the flow of blood and air.
throughout the day:
talking to my mom about
the joy plants can bring
and her poem about her friend’s dead son;
devouring a rosewater and pistachio donut;
time at the bookstore; a grilled cheese sandwich
with grilled onions and a flat coke; afternoon reading
smudged into an aggressive nap; my daughter and i
on her porch lodged between a playlist and some journals
waiting for the rain and small conversations fifteen years
in the making; a call with an old friend unloading
the shame that comes from stigmas we’re told to ignore.
it’s late now.
the metal
parasites
are gone.
i doubt they were ejected or expelled.
my body has absorbed them again
grinding them into dust to season this flesh.
just another mill.
doing what mills do.
May 18, 2021
138/365
all his heroes
are suicides.
turn out the lights
and set yourself on fire
the song says.
chris. kurt.
hunter. elliott.
how can there be so many
words for sorrow
and not one comes close
to the tangible truth
he’s known since
those first memories:
the uncle on fire
behind the waves.
the frail ankle
caught in the spokes.
the creeping hands
in the darkness.
the just getting by.
the arguing.
the solitude.
the crashes.
the hospitals.
the split.
the plunge.
the lessons learned
(embrace the sadness)
because their candles
burn too bright,
we almost forgot
it is twilight.
all his heroes
are suicides,
and so, in this house
we long to be
room by room
patiently,
we’ll wait there
like a stone
to make the
insoluble night
more pliant, the pain
more peaceful—
a collective step
toward a palpable truth.
February 20, 2020
a song in text
the thing about emptiness:
it’s insatiable.
no amount of e minor chords
or old fashions
will fill the void.
this famished parasite
gnawing itself inside-out
ends in oblivion.
nostalgia
promises and vows
making a difference
knowing more than the narrator
the first time you heard bright eyes
and neutral milk hotel
with mike on that pontoon
on that lake in that jungle in malaysia.
hope and fate
faith and choice
the shy girl
and her way with words
we wrote a song
in texts
we will never sing
never good enough
not enough time
always wanting
never being
the dead sun flower
from the upper east side
still a symbol
whose meaning
escapes us now
how long are we excepted
to keep missing
before we forget
i love you
is never
enough
all my idols are suicides
but don’t you worry
i’ve got these sad song
to feed the beast
it’s insatiable.
no amount of e minor chords
or old fashions
will fill the void.
this famished parasite
gnawing itself inside-out
ends in oblivion.
nostalgia
promises and vows
making a difference
knowing more than the narrator
the first time you heard bright eyes
and neutral milk hotel
with mike on that pontoon
on that lake in that jungle in malaysia.
hope and fate
faith and choice
the shy girl
and her way with words
we wrote a song
in texts
we will never sing
never good enough
not enough time
always wanting
never being
the dead sun flower
from the upper east side
still a symbol
whose meaning
escapes us now
how long are we excepted
to keep missing
before we forget
i love you
is never
enough
all my idols are suicides
but don’t you worry
i’ve got these sad song
to feed the beast
November 12, 2016
Scabs and Brusies
Listening to Leonard Cohen’s The Stranger Song from the Isle of Wright show in 1970, missing my guitar, nearing midnight in a hotel room in Jakarta, thankful for each word that soothes the gaping wounds, the blood drying up and clotting into convenient scabs, hiding the bruises caused by this collective anger; the tears have dried up leaving empty pockets of sarcasm and mean comments about things I don’t understand over wine and cocktail parties.
The simple rippling strings of his guitar and that monk-like voice the only thing that makes sense in this tired loneliness. His poetry like comfortable prayers reminding me not to worry so much.
I’ve always been this melodramatic, so please don’t say that I’ve changed. It’s all theatrics these words and these moods:
Please understand, I never had a secret chart
to get me to the heart of this
or any other matter
When he talks like this
you don't know what he's after…
I gave a talk today. People said they liked it. That’s always nice. It felt repetitive and incoherent to me, but what I do know- I only saw it from the inside out. We talked about the necessity of non-fiction and critical thinking for a healthy democracy, which all felt pretty timely.
"I really like reading your writing."
The only words I have ever wanted to hear.
I met new people I respected. I drank wine. We ate pizza. I am grateful for my blessings and now I will sleep.
The simple rippling strings of his guitar and that monk-like voice the only thing that makes sense in this tired loneliness. His poetry like comfortable prayers reminding me not to worry so much.
I’ve always been this melodramatic, so please don’t say that I’ve changed. It’s all theatrics these words and these moods:
Please understand, I never had a secret chart
to get me to the heart of this
or any other matter
When he talks like this
you don't know what he's after…
I gave a talk today. People said they liked it. That’s always nice. It felt repetitive and incoherent to me, but what I do know- I only saw it from the inside out. We talked about the necessity of non-fiction and critical thinking for a healthy democracy, which all felt pretty timely.
"I really like reading your writing."
The only words I have ever wanted to hear.
I met new people I respected. I drank wine. We ate pizza. I am grateful for my blessings and now I will sleep.
November 10, 2016
It Was Hard Not To Cry, So I Did
It was hard to get out of bed today and live with the reality of what has happened. I skimmed a few articles and tweets and Facebook updates and tried to be present for my kids, but they can see that my mind is elsewhere and that my heart beats weakly.
I played guitar at breakfast, almost broke down in tears playing Give A Man A Home by Ben Harper...
have you ever worn thin
have you ever never known where to begin
have you ever lost your belief
watching your faith turn to grief
...so I put the sad songs away and donned a fake smile. We ate in silence. Got ready for the day. I lingered in the shower, watching the cold water swirl down the drain and disappear, my thoughts scattered and unapproachable.
At school, I covered a mentor class and we decided to take a break and do something fun. Let off some steam, so we did a #mannequinchallenge and after we decided to vent our feelings about the election.
The kids needed to talk and be heard and give voice to their anger and confusion. One boy came from a Clinton Trump family and said things are weird at his house, while another girl felt genuine dread for woman around the world. I didn’t say much. I just let them say whatever it was they were feeling or hearing.
Next, I had a lot of busy things to do: Discuss students of concern, send emails, write parent newsletters, plan lessons- necessary tasks and welcome distractions. I tried to stay of twitter, not read the articles. Let my brain rest and focus on the work.
At lunch we had a Daraja Academy meeting, and this venue felt right to talk about gender, rights, justice and peace. The kids in this group seemed shell shocked and upset. We had a lot of work to do, but I spoke about the power of activism and the resilience that we earn from set backs and how the work we do is endless and reward-less, but for the sake of peace, love and justice we get up and keep working. It was hard not to cry, so I did. We assigned committees and selected leadership roles. We carried on the work toward gender equality.
I taught two classes about latitude lines and climate zones. We spoke about globes and seasons. We laughed a lot. I put on a show, the grade sixes ate it up. The classroom is my stage and I like having fun. We left the election outside, didn’t feel necessary.
After school we had our lit magazine meeting. These kids looked like they needed to talk, so I spoke about the power of writing as a healing agent and as an activist tool. I showed them the Michael Franti video and told them to be strong and fight for what they believe in. To use the power of words to heal and mend and educate.
They wrote some short piece and poems. We shared them and their innocence was something spectacular and raw. It was hard not to cry, so I did. We got to work to publishing our next issue.
They worked hard and laughed and ate candy. I wrote this. I know it’s garbage:
Dear Trump Voter,
I am really trying to understand you right now. I should probably wait until my anger and disbelief die now, it is never good to write with such a heavy sense of sadness and rage. There are times throughout the day when I feel nauseous, just thinking about where we are headed as nation, as a planet. I wonder if you would have felt the same had Hillary been elected President.
Are you excited? Are you celebrating? If so I really want to know why? What has you excited? I am not here to be antagonistic. This election has hollowed me out and left me exhausted and confused. I am teacher and a father and I think about the lesson I teach the children I see everyday. For me, the lessons worth remembering are the simple ones we learn as children.
Don’t be a bully. Be kind. Love your neighbour; I am pretty sure those lessons are written in a religious book somewhere. I think about my classroom and watching my own children playing on a playground. I would want them to treat everyone with respect, if not with outright love. I would hope that they would not force some kids off the playground, but rather invite everyone to come play. I would hope that any walls would be used for climbing and playing not for exclusion.
So what is it about this president, this party, this future that fills your heart with joy? What is that when you look your children in the eye fills you with hope. I hope to try and move away from the propaganda talking points, but based on his own words how are you explaining his attitude toward women to your daughters, your wives, you mothers, your sisters, and if you are a woman to yourself?
...
Back home, my kids were tired and sluggish. Kaia had homework, Skye played with her dolls. I wanted to do something with her, but I skimmed articles on my phone instead, wallowing in guilt and anger.
Dinner was quiet.
“Daddy, is it true that Donald Trump raped somebody?”
What do you say to a ten year old?
“He was accused of it, but the trial has been dropped.”
“How can someone who raped somebody be president?”
“Well it was never proven in a court, so we cannot assume he did it.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was twelve and there were others.
“Why would someone rape another person?”
Really? On this night?
“Hard to say. They could be mentally ill, they want to show their power, they hate women.”
She quietly scooped up a spoonful of peas. The idea that some men hate women had never occurred to her before.
We talked a bit more about how she heard that Trump gave a speech and that his okay and normal now.
We discussed his policies, his cabinet and how we cannot normalise the things he has said and the things he has championed and how it is the work of all us to keep him honest and push back against his actions when they are oppositional to what we value: peace, love, diversity, understanding.
They went to sleep. I did a bit of work for tomorrow. It all feels pretty incoherent.
Tomorrow I am off to Jakarta for a literacy exchange. I will see some friends. I am giving a short talk to kick things off. I am excited to tell some stories. I don’t intend them to be, but I am sure they will be tinged with anger and sadness, like most things these days.
I played guitar at breakfast, almost broke down in tears playing Give A Man A Home by Ben Harper...
have you ever worn thin
have you ever never known where to begin
have you ever lost your belief
watching your faith turn to grief
...so I put the sad songs away and donned a fake smile. We ate in silence. Got ready for the day. I lingered in the shower, watching the cold water swirl down the drain and disappear, my thoughts scattered and unapproachable.
At school, I covered a mentor class and we decided to take a break and do something fun. Let off some steam, so we did a #mannequinchallenge and after we decided to vent our feelings about the election.
The kids needed to talk and be heard and give voice to their anger and confusion. One boy came from a Clinton Trump family and said things are weird at his house, while another girl felt genuine dread for woman around the world. I didn’t say much. I just let them say whatever it was they were feeling or hearing.
Next, I had a lot of busy things to do: Discuss students of concern, send emails, write parent newsletters, plan lessons- necessary tasks and welcome distractions. I tried to stay of twitter, not read the articles. Let my brain rest and focus on the work.
At lunch we had a Daraja Academy meeting, and this venue felt right to talk about gender, rights, justice and peace. The kids in this group seemed shell shocked and upset. We had a lot of work to do, but I spoke about the power of activism and the resilience that we earn from set backs and how the work we do is endless and reward-less, but for the sake of peace, love and justice we get up and keep working. It was hard not to cry, so I did. We assigned committees and selected leadership roles. We carried on the work toward gender equality.
I taught two classes about latitude lines and climate zones. We spoke about globes and seasons. We laughed a lot. I put on a show, the grade sixes ate it up. The classroom is my stage and I like having fun. We left the election outside, didn’t feel necessary.
After school we had our lit magazine meeting. These kids looked like they needed to talk, so I spoke about the power of writing as a healing agent and as an activist tool. I showed them the Michael Franti video and told them to be strong and fight for what they believe in. To use the power of words to heal and mend and educate.
They wrote some short piece and poems. We shared them and their innocence was something spectacular and raw. It was hard not to cry, so I did. We got to work to publishing our next issue.
They worked hard and laughed and ate candy. I wrote this. I know it’s garbage:
Dear Trump Voter,
I am really trying to understand you right now. I should probably wait until my anger and disbelief die now, it is never good to write with such a heavy sense of sadness and rage. There are times throughout the day when I feel nauseous, just thinking about where we are headed as nation, as a planet. I wonder if you would have felt the same had Hillary been elected President.
Are you excited? Are you celebrating? If so I really want to know why? What has you excited? I am not here to be antagonistic. This election has hollowed me out and left me exhausted and confused. I am teacher and a father and I think about the lesson I teach the children I see everyday. For me, the lessons worth remembering are the simple ones we learn as children.
Don’t be a bully. Be kind. Love your neighbour; I am pretty sure those lessons are written in a religious book somewhere. I think about my classroom and watching my own children playing on a playground. I would want them to treat everyone with respect, if not with outright love. I would hope that they would not force some kids off the playground, but rather invite everyone to come play. I would hope that any walls would be used for climbing and playing not for exclusion.
So what is it about this president, this party, this future that fills your heart with joy? What is that when you look your children in the eye fills you with hope. I hope to try and move away from the propaganda talking points, but based on his own words how are you explaining his attitude toward women to your daughters, your wives, you mothers, your sisters, and if you are a woman to yourself?
...
Back home, my kids were tired and sluggish. Kaia had homework, Skye played with her dolls. I wanted to do something with her, but I skimmed articles on my phone instead, wallowing in guilt and anger.
Dinner was quiet.
“Daddy, is it true that Donald Trump raped somebody?”
What do you say to a ten year old?
“He was accused of it, but the trial has been dropped.”
“How can someone who raped somebody be president?”
“Well it was never proven in a court, so we cannot assume he did it.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her she was twelve and there were others.
“Why would someone rape another person?”
Really? On this night?
“Hard to say. They could be mentally ill, they want to show their power, they hate women.”
She quietly scooped up a spoonful of peas. The idea that some men hate women had never occurred to her before.
We talked a bit more about how she heard that Trump gave a speech and that his okay and normal now.
We discussed his policies, his cabinet and how we cannot normalise the things he has said and the things he has championed and how it is the work of all us to keep him honest and push back against his actions when they are oppositional to what we value: peace, love, diversity, understanding.
They went to sleep. I did a bit of work for tomorrow. It all feels pretty incoherent.
Tomorrow I am off to Jakarta for a literacy exchange. I will see some friends. I am giving a short talk to kick things off. I am excited to tell some stories. I don’t intend them to be, but I am sure they will be tinged with anger and sadness, like most things these days.
August 27, 2016
Life is Filled
We were walking home from dinner. It was getting dark and Kaia was holding my had as we strolled down the sidewalk. She had burned her hand earlier while making cupcakes all by herself, so she had warned me to be careful.
I wondered how many other times and in which cities in the future, I would hold her hand as we strolled the streets on the way home from dinner. I imagined her in her twenties and we would be somewhere in NYC or Paris or Bangkok.
“I am sad about Twinkle,” she said out of the blue.
“Me too.” Where was this going to go. I wasn’t sure I was ready for this talk. I gripped her hand harder. Squeezing it a little. She pulled away slightly. The blister from the burn.
“I still don’t understand why she needed to let go.”
“I think she was just tired sweetie. And scared and in a lot of pain.” I could feel the tears welling up.
Silence.
“I just wish there wasn’t such a thing as death.” I didn’t have the heart to go into any kind of explanation.
“Me too. I’m just glad you go tot meet her and have memories of her. She loved you and Skyelar very much. She told me every time I talked to her, what amazing, beautiful girls you two are.”
Silence.
“I’m gonna miss her. Even thought I didn’t know her very well.”
“Me too. Me too.”
"Be sure to hug Thomas for me when you go back home."
"I will sweetie. I will hug them all."
We walked the rest of the way home in silence. I thought about future nights and future meals and future walks in future cities. I thought about the future, because the past was just too heavy to carry home between the two of us.
…
We saw Captain Fantastic tonight and what a beautiful tender film. Well written, shot and directed. Great music and cast. It was really thought provoking. Some things it made me think about in no particular order of importance:
We should swear around our kids more and allow the use of “inappropriate language” when it is appropriate. Never liked the idea of “bad words.”
Never lie to kids and answer them as best you can- accurately and factually when they ask questions.
I miss my beard and not combing my hair all summer.
We should have some time to sit and read as a family. Time when every member is reading their own book, but it is a collective family act like watching TV.
Death is the best time to celebrate some one’s life.
Life is filled with joy and boredom and struggle and confusion and wonder and music and compromise and confusion and and and ….life is filled.
Anyway, the movie tugs at your hearts strings, make you laugh and cry and all the things that film should do. If you have a chance check it out.
I wondered how many other times and in which cities in the future, I would hold her hand as we strolled the streets on the way home from dinner. I imagined her in her twenties and we would be somewhere in NYC or Paris or Bangkok.
“I am sad about Twinkle,” she said out of the blue.
“Me too.” Where was this going to go. I wasn’t sure I was ready for this talk. I gripped her hand harder. Squeezing it a little. She pulled away slightly. The blister from the burn.
“I still don’t understand why she needed to let go.”
“I think she was just tired sweetie. And scared and in a lot of pain.” I could feel the tears welling up.
Silence.
“I just wish there wasn’t such a thing as death.” I didn’t have the heart to go into any kind of explanation.
“Me too. I’m just glad you go tot meet her and have memories of her. She loved you and Skyelar very much. She told me every time I talked to her, what amazing, beautiful girls you two are.”
Silence.
“I’m gonna miss her. Even thought I didn’t know her very well.”
“Me too. Me too.”
"Be sure to hug Thomas for me when you go back home."
"I will sweetie. I will hug them all."
We walked the rest of the way home in silence. I thought about future nights and future meals and future walks in future cities. I thought about the future, because the past was just too heavy to carry home between the two of us.
…
We saw Captain Fantastic tonight and what a beautiful tender film. Well written, shot and directed. Great music and cast. It was really thought provoking. Some things it made me think about in no particular order of importance:
We should swear around our kids more and allow the use of “inappropriate language” when it is appropriate. Never liked the idea of “bad words.”
Never lie to kids and answer them as best you can- accurately and factually when they ask questions.
I miss my beard and not combing my hair all summer.
We should have some time to sit and read as a family. Time when every member is reading their own book, but it is a collective family act like watching TV.
Death is the best time to celebrate some one’s life.
Life is filled with joy and boredom and struggle and confusion and wonder and music and compromise and confusion and and and ….life is filled.
Anyway, the movie tugs at your hearts strings, make you laugh and cry and all the things that film should do. If you have a chance check it out.
August 14, 2016
What A Girl Is
Everyone says that learning from mistakes is the best way to learn, but it can be frustrating as hell, especially when you look back at the mistake and it feels idiotic and so obvious. I guess the key is not to repeat the mistake you learn from. Today was a pretty mellow day of putting out my first tiny fire, with success I might add, and making sure that our team is ready for tomorrow. There are only so many times you can check and double check the details and I am pretty sure we are good to go.
Whether as a kid or a teacher, I have always loved the first day of school. And now as a parent there is an added level of excitement. It is such a time of hope and positive energy. Seeing old friends, meeting new teachers, we all set such lofty goals. There is a buzz in the air throughout the day, and it is a buzz that fuels me.
…
Didn’t get up to much today. Took the girls to basketball and apparently after Skye lost control of the ball while dribbling in a scrimmage, some little boy made a comment about how she’s not strong enough to play basketball. What the hell right? Where does this masculinity come from that is so determined to put down girls?
Kaia and Skye fell in love with this show on the Disney channel called Liv and Maddie this summer. It is cute and funny and sends a pretty good message. The other day there was an episode about how boys rate girls at school and the main characters creates a song telling boys that girls aren’t a “number” and that they don’t need the boys’ unsolicited advice. So after today’s incident Skye was able to make the connection with what that boy said and the lyrics from What a Girl Is:
“On a scale from 1 to 10, I am perfect like I am.
I don't need your number, we don't need your number.
And the stupid magazines, want me to change my everything.
It don't even matter, they're not taking my power.
I'm so over all of these voices around,
They've said enough it's my turn let's get loud.
I'll show you what a girl is, 'cause all of me is perfect.”
We were putting together some Lego and listening to the song and she said, “Next time, I will just tell the boy that I don’t need your opinion, thank you. Please just leave me alone.” #thatsmygirl
In somewhat related news, I am reading Jon Krakauer’s late about rape culture on college campuses and Mairin and I decided that the girls need to go to an all girls' school. My god! What a world women need to navigate. Good thing Skye is starting early by taking control of her body.
…
After some work at school, basketball practice, and making Lego, we headed out to a quick dinner at Brewerkz and the girls were asleep by 7:30. Now it is time to relax a bit before the big day.
I was talking to my mom today about all the weird mojo in my universe right now and the pain and suffering so many people around me are experiencing and she said, “It can be hard to face, but this is it. This is life. No one says it is easy, but we live it and try to make our way as best we can. Have a good conversation with yourself and ground yourself so you can move on.”
Whether as a kid or a teacher, I have always loved the first day of school. And now as a parent there is an added level of excitement. It is such a time of hope and positive energy. Seeing old friends, meeting new teachers, we all set such lofty goals. There is a buzz in the air throughout the day, and it is a buzz that fuels me.
…
Didn’t get up to much today. Took the girls to basketball and apparently after Skye lost control of the ball while dribbling in a scrimmage, some little boy made a comment about how she’s not strong enough to play basketball. What the hell right? Where does this masculinity come from that is so determined to put down girls?
Kaia and Skye fell in love with this show on the Disney channel called Liv and Maddie this summer. It is cute and funny and sends a pretty good message. The other day there was an episode about how boys rate girls at school and the main characters creates a song telling boys that girls aren’t a “number” and that they don’t need the boys’ unsolicited advice. So after today’s incident Skye was able to make the connection with what that boy said and the lyrics from What a Girl Is:
“On a scale from 1 to 10, I am perfect like I am.
I don't need your number, we don't need your number.
And the stupid magazines, want me to change my everything.
It don't even matter, they're not taking my power.
I'm so over all of these voices around,
They've said enough it's my turn let's get loud.
I'll show you what a girl is, 'cause all of me is perfect.”
We were putting together some Lego and listening to the song and she said, “Next time, I will just tell the boy that I don’t need your opinion, thank you. Please just leave me alone.” #thatsmygirl
In somewhat related news, I am reading Jon Krakauer’s late about rape culture on college campuses and Mairin and I decided that the girls need to go to an all girls' school. My god! What a world women need to navigate. Good thing Skye is starting early by taking control of her body.
…
After some work at school, basketball practice, and making Lego, we headed out to a quick dinner at Brewerkz and the girls were asleep by 7:30. Now it is time to relax a bit before the big day.
I was talking to my mom today about all the weird mojo in my universe right now and the pain and suffering so many people around me are experiencing and she said, “It can be hard to face, but this is it. This is life. No one says it is easy, but we live it and try to make our way as best we can. Have a good conversation with yourself and ground yourself so you can move on.”
August 11, 2016
You Are Alive
The day was bookmarked by tears.
The tears weren’t necessarily shed in a bad way, although they were tears of grief and remembrance and bereavement. Tears of not yet, but almost. Tears of I remember and never want to forget. Tears of celebration and memory and love and peace and confusion and fear. Tears nonetheless. Tears after a text and another one and the next one. Tears of what I would do. Tears of advice. Tears of not knowing.
The dawn is dark and not yet arrived. You sit in your sleeping clothes, bleary eyed and barely awake. The glow of your phone the only light. Each letter a tear drop. Letting go feels so good. The gentle flow of a good cry, rolling into heavier sobs, and then the release of surrender. Head bent. Lungs heaving. Alone except for the premature grief.
You get up. Put the phone down. Get in the shower. Succumb to the bizarre ritual of routine. Brush the teeth. Deodorant. Wax the hair. Look in the mirror. Put on the mask. A professional. A human being. Ready for the world.
You go to work and attend the meetings. Learn about assessment. Pitch in. Contribute. Shut down parts of your being for a few hours. Eat food. Put out small fires. Learn your new role. Move. Shake. Work.
Back home, you make dinner for your kids. You should be hugging, loving and cherishing them, but the latent numbness makes it hard. They’re watching TV, so you go to your room. To your bed and sing sad songs. They feel obligatory. The words dripping from your lips like barely audible prayers. The tears waiting, but hesitant. You’re not ready for another full-on session.
You think of her. You remember smiles and laughter and jokes and thanksgiving and breakfasts and hospital rooms and so much more. You wait. The real grief is still to come, hidden just beneath the surface waiting to be unlocked. These days are just the light showers before the storm. You are not really sad. You have no words for these new emotions. You cry in the dark. You do your job. You smile and make small talk. You eat. You sing songs.
You are alive. You are alive. You are alive
The tears weren’t necessarily shed in a bad way, although they were tears of grief and remembrance and bereavement. Tears of not yet, but almost. Tears of I remember and never want to forget. Tears of celebration and memory and love and peace and confusion and fear. Tears nonetheless. Tears after a text and another one and the next one. Tears of what I would do. Tears of advice. Tears of not knowing.
The dawn is dark and not yet arrived. You sit in your sleeping clothes, bleary eyed and barely awake. The glow of your phone the only light. Each letter a tear drop. Letting go feels so good. The gentle flow of a good cry, rolling into heavier sobs, and then the release of surrender. Head bent. Lungs heaving. Alone except for the premature grief.
You get up. Put the phone down. Get in the shower. Succumb to the bizarre ritual of routine. Brush the teeth. Deodorant. Wax the hair. Look in the mirror. Put on the mask. A professional. A human being. Ready for the world.
You go to work and attend the meetings. Learn about assessment. Pitch in. Contribute. Shut down parts of your being for a few hours. Eat food. Put out small fires. Learn your new role. Move. Shake. Work.
Back home, you make dinner for your kids. You should be hugging, loving and cherishing them, but the latent numbness makes it hard. They’re watching TV, so you go to your room. To your bed and sing sad songs. They feel obligatory. The words dripping from your lips like barely audible prayers. The tears waiting, but hesitant. You’re not ready for another full-on session.
You think of her. You remember smiles and laughter and jokes and thanksgiving and breakfasts and hospital rooms and so much more. You wait. The real grief is still to come, hidden just beneath the surface waiting to be unlocked. These days are just the light showers before the storm. You are not really sad. You have no words for these new emotions. You cry in the dark. You do your job. You smile and make small talk. You eat. You sing songs.
You are alive. You are alive. You are alive
July 21, 2016
This Bad
Third night of watching the RNC and I don’t know how much more I can take. I watched Ted Cruz in full, Newt Gingrich, but then I became convinced that ISSIS was outside my door and I became sacred so I had to turn him off. Next I sat through Laura Ingram so I could watch her do the salute and make fun of tight jean wearing man-bun wearing hipsters. She is a scary women and I hope I never have to see or hear her again. I gave Mike Pence about five minutes until he started talking about cornfields and loving MLK. Immigrant family. Veterans. Fist to face. Fist to face. Fist to face.
It can never have been this bad. Bush, Cheney, Powell, Rice, Rumsfled!! Those monsters feel like sane public servants now. I couldn’t bring myself to watch the Trump kids, there is only so much bile one can swallow before you do some serious damage to your heath.
One more day of this convention is all I can take. A part of my soul has died and been replaced by vacant chanting U…….S…….A. silence.
…
In other news, I Skpyed into a class Ari is teaching about class libraries and Reader’s Workshop, I picked blueberries, ate lunch at another brewery, got the car washed, took a nap, went on a hike with my kids and in-laws, ate veggie corndogs and drank beer for dinner.
Tomorrow we are off to Seattle and looking forward to a nice day of cruising a city with which I am unfamiliar.
This is me right now.
It can never have been this bad. Bush, Cheney, Powell, Rice, Rumsfled!! Those monsters feel like sane public servants now. I couldn’t bring myself to watch the Trump kids, there is only so much bile one can swallow before you do some serious damage to your heath.
One more day of this convention is all I can take. A part of my soul has died and been replaced by vacant chanting U…….S…….A. silence.
…
In other news, I Skpyed into a class Ari is teaching about class libraries and Reader’s Workshop, I picked blueberries, ate lunch at another brewery, got the car washed, took a nap, went on a hike with my kids and in-laws, ate veggie corndogs and drank beer for dinner.
Tomorrow we are off to Seattle and looking forward to a nice day of cruising a city with which I am unfamiliar.
This is me right now.
The cup runneth empty, hoping for more tomorrow.
July 19, 2016
America and The Sadness
Emotions can be tricky. The way they blend into each other. The way they are malleable and fleeting; some leaving remnants that linger and fester and explode long after they have been felt.
For reasons that defy logic, I just spent the last hour on Youtube watching the speeches from the RNC convention in Cleveland- Scott Baio, The Duck Dynasty Dude, David Clarke, and Rudy Giuliani. The emotions I felt during these sixty minutes have left me nauseated and slightly ill. I have had a physical reaction to what I saw.
But after all the anger, shame, disgust, and at times somehow mirth, I am left with a heavy sense of sadness and pity for the American people. We deserve more than this carnival. Thousands of people did not die marching in the streets of our great cities so these charlatans can hijack our democracy and political legacy.
We did not birth James Baldwin and Hunter S. Thompson, Bob Dylan and Malcom X, Harvey Milk and bell hooks, so that Rudy Giuliani can bark at us from a red, white and blue stage while the zombie hordes chant USA, as if that simple chant and their thoughts and prayers are going to fix the problems of this country.
Arrogance, ignorance and fear have always made up the fabric of America, but this campaign has magnified these traits to the point of surreal absurdity. Again, the sadness I feel for where we might be headed is crushing me. And this was only the first day.
Scott Baio, The Duck Dynasty Dude, David Clarke, and Rudy Giuliani let that sink in. These are the experts, the showmen, the voices that this campaign chose to highlight under the lights of this farce. This is the reality of 2016. Nothing left but sadness.
…
I was out running earlier here at Whatcom Lake and was surprised by the number of Trump signs along this beautiful real estate. I tried to get into the heads of these people. What do they not know? How are they different than me? How are they the same? What books have they read? Which documentaries have they watched? How many stamps do they have in their passports?
House after million dollar house sat quiet and in the dark, each one littered with the occupants’ toys- trucks, boats, campers, and of course flags. The shocking thing was how many of these houses are empty and/or for sale. Their is a ridiculous about of wealth in this country and one thing that scares Americans more than anything, the one thing they hate more than anything else is poverty.
The idea of poverty is the antithesis of the American Dream. Once you have the house(s), the toys and the stability, anything that threatens you losing that become the enemy. The system is designed to reward the few and once you are the few, you will do anything not to lose it. You will chant USA, USA, USA, you will arm yourself to the teeth, you will cower behind #alllivesmatter and make sure that the thugs and terrorists know where you stand. And in the end, no matter how smart or kind or noble you might appear to be, you too will vote for Donald Trump. Because, the evil and the poor and the brown and the scary are coming for your toys and your empty houses.
The trick is, that these false boogey men are nowhere near Whatcom Lake or anywhere else where scared white Americans live; the people that Americans should be afraid of- the bankers, the hedge fund managers on Wall Street, and the lobbyists are orchestrating a night of live RNC and then The Bachelorette on ABC.
…
In other news, I searched for crabs in tide pools with my daughter and mother-in-law today. I drank a margarita at lunch and I am driving an SUV throughout my seven week vacation. Like I said I am a hypocrite and a fraud. A sad one nonetheless.
For reasons that defy logic, I just spent the last hour on Youtube watching the speeches from the RNC convention in Cleveland- Scott Baio, The Duck Dynasty Dude, David Clarke, and Rudy Giuliani. The emotions I felt during these sixty minutes have left me nauseated and slightly ill. I have had a physical reaction to what I saw.
But after all the anger, shame, disgust, and at times somehow mirth, I am left with a heavy sense of sadness and pity for the American people. We deserve more than this carnival. Thousands of people did not die marching in the streets of our great cities so these charlatans can hijack our democracy and political legacy.
We did not birth James Baldwin and Hunter S. Thompson, Bob Dylan and Malcom X, Harvey Milk and bell hooks, so that Rudy Giuliani can bark at us from a red, white and blue stage while the zombie hordes chant USA, as if that simple chant and their thoughts and prayers are going to fix the problems of this country.
Arrogance, ignorance and fear have always made up the fabric of America, but this campaign has magnified these traits to the point of surreal absurdity. Again, the sadness I feel for where we might be headed is crushing me. And this was only the first day.
Scott Baio, The Duck Dynasty Dude, David Clarke, and Rudy Giuliani let that sink in. These are the experts, the showmen, the voices that this campaign chose to highlight under the lights of this farce. This is the reality of 2016. Nothing left but sadness.
…
I was out running earlier here at Whatcom Lake and was surprised by the number of Trump signs along this beautiful real estate. I tried to get into the heads of these people. What do they not know? How are they different than me? How are they the same? What books have they read? Which documentaries have they watched? How many stamps do they have in their passports?
House after million dollar house sat quiet and in the dark, each one littered with the occupants’ toys- trucks, boats, campers, and of course flags. The shocking thing was how many of these houses are empty and/or for sale. Their is a ridiculous about of wealth in this country and one thing that scares Americans more than anything, the one thing they hate more than anything else is poverty.
The idea of poverty is the antithesis of the American Dream. Once you have the house(s), the toys and the stability, anything that threatens you losing that become the enemy. The system is designed to reward the few and once you are the few, you will do anything not to lose it. You will chant USA, USA, USA, you will arm yourself to the teeth, you will cower behind #alllivesmatter and make sure that the thugs and terrorists know where you stand. And in the end, no matter how smart or kind or noble you might appear to be, you too will vote for Donald Trump. Because, the evil and the poor and the brown and the scary are coming for your toys and your empty houses.
The trick is, that these false boogey men are nowhere near Whatcom Lake or anywhere else where scared white Americans live; the people that Americans should be afraid of- the bankers, the hedge fund managers on Wall Street, and the lobbyists are orchestrating a night of live RNC and then The Bachelorette on ABC.
…
In other news, I searched for crabs in tide pools with my daughter and mother-in-law today. I drank a margarita at lunch and I am driving an SUV throughout my seven week vacation. Like I said I am a hypocrite and a fraud. A sad one nonetheless.
April 8, 2016
Some Day I Will Acquiesce
“I’m not what's missing from your life now
I could never be the puzzle pieces
They say that god makes problems just to see what you can stand
Before you do as the devil pleases
And give up the thing you love
But no one deserves it.”
Elliott Smith
Stories are heavy burdens to carry. I don’t mean our own personal stories. Because no matter how heavy, each one of us is capable of carrying the weight, no matter how cumbersome our own histories may be, we know where to grab and how to find a firm grasp. We know how to adjust to the weight and which shoulder to let them rest on as we take tiny steps forward.
What is difficult to carry are the bundle of webbed stories- the ones that are connected and interconnected to everyone else’s woes and joys and memories. We sit in the darkness with the dim light and the sad music and we try to make sense of all the pain and anger and rage. Although our own weight might be light and easy to bare, we know that the heavy stories are just beyond our reach. We’ve seen them in the mirror or in our dreams or in our memories. We have created them in fiction and film and literature and in song and no matter how unbearable they feel, we know it is our human duty to carry them and pass them along and admire their gravitas.
Why do we hurt each other so much? How are we able to endure and inflict so much pain? How do we continue to live such painful stories when all we seek is joy?
I love you might be the heaviest story we desperately try to decipher. We pretend that love is simple although we have repeatedly proven that it is the most complex word that we can’t define.
Maybe every story is the attempt to simplify the complexity of love. And maybe this equation was never meant to be solved. So we write and struggle and sing and marry and divorce to try and make sense of this complicated chemical reaction. Sometimes it blows up in our faces, singeing our eyebrows, and sometimes it smokes and bubbles and creates a diamond. Whatever the result, we bask in the awe of it all.
People will always resent your joy and discredit your pain. They see you as either faking it or over dramatising it. Which is weird, seeing that they are carrying the same weight in their webbed and cumbersome stories.
I just want to say that I value your joy and believe in your pain and can help you carry and decode and make sense of both whenever you need it. If you promise to do the same for me.
…
I just had a quick chat with my mom on Facebook and she said, “Your existence is the most wonderful gift of life for me. I'm grateful. good night.” So that feels pretty good. You know- knowing that someone loves you that much.
…
I did a front flip on a trampoline today. I recorded it and have watched it in slow motion several times. Why? Because I did a front flip on a trampoline today and this makes me feel young and vibrant and brave and alive. I started the day watching Eddie Vedder in his youth jumping into wild receiving crowds. I remembered those days. I valued those days. I loved those days. I lived those days. So today, when I had a chance to be alone on a trampoline, I looked at my creeping fear and said fuck you. I flipped.
I assume that some day I will acquiesce and give into the fear and choose not to do the flip, but on this day I said yes. And it felt great.
I could never be the puzzle pieces
They say that god makes problems just to see what you can stand
Before you do as the devil pleases
And give up the thing you love
But no one deserves it.”
Elliott Smith
Stories are heavy burdens to carry. I don’t mean our own personal stories. Because no matter how heavy, each one of us is capable of carrying the weight, no matter how cumbersome our own histories may be, we know where to grab and how to find a firm grasp. We know how to adjust to the weight and which shoulder to let them rest on as we take tiny steps forward.
What is difficult to carry are the bundle of webbed stories- the ones that are connected and interconnected to everyone else’s woes and joys and memories. We sit in the darkness with the dim light and the sad music and we try to make sense of all the pain and anger and rage. Although our own weight might be light and easy to bare, we know that the heavy stories are just beyond our reach. We’ve seen them in the mirror or in our dreams or in our memories. We have created them in fiction and film and literature and in song and no matter how unbearable they feel, we know it is our human duty to carry them and pass them along and admire their gravitas.
Why do we hurt each other so much? How are we able to endure and inflict so much pain? How do we continue to live such painful stories when all we seek is joy?
I love you might be the heaviest story we desperately try to decipher. We pretend that love is simple although we have repeatedly proven that it is the most complex word that we can’t define.
Maybe every story is the attempt to simplify the complexity of love. And maybe this equation was never meant to be solved. So we write and struggle and sing and marry and divorce to try and make sense of this complicated chemical reaction. Sometimes it blows up in our faces, singeing our eyebrows, and sometimes it smokes and bubbles and creates a diamond. Whatever the result, we bask in the awe of it all.
People will always resent your joy and discredit your pain. They see you as either faking it or over dramatising it. Which is weird, seeing that they are carrying the same weight in their webbed and cumbersome stories.
I just want to say that I value your joy and believe in your pain and can help you carry and decode and make sense of both whenever you need it. If you promise to do the same for me.
…
I just had a quick chat with my mom on Facebook and she said, “Your existence is the most wonderful gift of life for me. I'm grateful. good night.” So that feels pretty good. You know- knowing that someone loves you that much.
…
I did a front flip on a trampoline today. I recorded it and have watched it in slow motion several times. Why? Because I did a front flip on a trampoline today and this makes me feel young and vibrant and brave and alive. I started the day watching Eddie Vedder in his youth jumping into wild receiving crowds. I remembered those days. I valued those days. I loved those days. I lived those days. So today, when I had a chance to be alone on a trampoline, I looked at my creeping fear and said fuck you. I flipped.
I assume that some day I will acquiesce and give into the fear and choose not to do the flip, but on this day I said yes. And it felt great.
April 6, 2016
Dipped In Burning Tar
It must have been sometime in 1991. I was a junior in high school and it felt like music was changing everyday and new bands were popping up right and left. It would be another year before Pearl Jam and Soundgarden really hit my scene, but the Nirvana single was in everyone’s hands, and we were still riding the Appetite for Destruction train to the last stop; it would be another few months before Check Your Head would change our lives.
But I remember one Saturday night when I was up late in my room watching 120 Minutes, and I saw the video for the first time. There was this guy with long dirty almost dreaded hair in some kind of pig-pen. The guitar was heavy and dark and felt like it had been dipped in burning tar. The guy on the screen with the mane of matted hair and a tiny goatee was screaming about denying his maker and sewing his eyes shut. It didn’t take long- a few bars in and I was hooked.
The next day I was at The Warehouse slapping down my $15 for a copy of Facelift by Alice in Chains. A few months later the small batch of songs on Sap showed the vulnerability of the band and Lanye Staley in particular and a few months after came the release of Dirt and then Jar of Flies.
I’m sharing this little Alice In Chains history lesson, because it was on another April 5th several years ago that Staley was found dead. And to this day his voice and sadness and rage take me to all the right places. There were so many nights wading through the smokey darkness when the world had gone to sleep that I sat in stern solitude, alone with songs like Down In A Hole and Don’t Follow.
The Man in the Box opened the door for me to the cathedral that was Alice in Chains. I spent many nights in its splendor and on nights like this it feels comforting to reacquaint myself with those old, now classic songs. I am so grateful for being alive and young and broken and obsessed with the music that was being created in the 1990s.
I am sure every generation thinks that it was their music that shaped the world, but for those of us who were eighteen and free in 1992, everyone else agrees with us- musically it was a great time to be alive.
…
Two barbecues with friends in two days. Veggie food, swimming pools, wine, nice salads, pleasant conversation- a nice way to enjoy the early evening breezes and watch the days fade to black.
Spent today running some errands and at the trampoline park, where I learned a few new things and was doing flips. Felt good to take some risks and not break a hip.
But I remember one Saturday night when I was up late in my room watching 120 Minutes, and I saw the video for the first time. There was this guy with long dirty almost dreaded hair in some kind of pig-pen. The guitar was heavy and dark and felt like it had been dipped in burning tar. The guy on the screen with the mane of matted hair and a tiny goatee was screaming about denying his maker and sewing his eyes shut. It didn’t take long- a few bars in and I was hooked.
The next day I was at The Warehouse slapping down my $15 for a copy of Facelift by Alice in Chains. A few months later the small batch of songs on Sap showed the vulnerability of the band and Lanye Staley in particular and a few months after came the release of Dirt and then Jar of Flies.
I’m sharing this little Alice In Chains history lesson, because it was on another April 5th several years ago that Staley was found dead. And to this day his voice and sadness and rage take me to all the right places. There were so many nights wading through the smokey darkness when the world had gone to sleep that I sat in stern solitude, alone with songs like Down In A Hole and Don’t Follow.
The Man in the Box opened the door for me to the cathedral that was Alice in Chains. I spent many nights in its splendor and on nights like this it feels comforting to reacquaint myself with those old, now classic songs. I am so grateful for being alive and young and broken and obsessed with the music that was being created in the 1990s.
I am sure every generation thinks that it was their music that shaped the world, but for those of us who were eighteen and free in 1992, everyone else agrees with us- musically it was a great time to be alive.
…
Two barbecues with friends in two days. Veggie food, swimming pools, wine, nice salads, pleasant conversation- a nice way to enjoy the early evening breezes and watch the days fade to black.
Spent today running some errands and at the trampoline park, where I learned a few new things and was doing flips. Felt good to take some risks and not break a hip.
March 3, 2016
Deranged Lunatics
Today was a long one. Got home from school around 9:00 pm. Started the day with a short planning meeting with Anne, taught a class, had an hour at Skyelar’s work share, grabbed a salad on the go for lunch as we had a Daraja meeting at lunch time, taught two classes, chilled out a bit after school, ran Skye over to grab a quick bite to eat and then Kaia Art’s Festival at six and home around nine.
There is some student work that needs reading and comments and feedback, but there is little that can be done when your brain is fried. My brain is fired.
We stopped at the gas station to grab some chips, a chocolate bar and a coke, hoping it might be some kind of salve.
Tomorrow is Friday and Mairin is off to Bangkok. I have a chilled out weekend planned with the girls, one that I am very much looking forward to.
There is some student work that needs reading and comments and feedback, but there is little that can be done when your brain is fried. My brain is fired.
We stopped at the gas station to grab some chips, a chocolate bar and a coke, hoping it might be some kind of salve.
Tomorrow is Friday and Mairin is off to Bangkok. I have a chilled out weekend planned with the girls, one that I am very much looking forward to.
…
I need a plan on how I will survive and stay sane throughout this election cycle. We are not even at the conventions yet and the latent feeling of anger and crippling dread is really cramping my style. I keep asking myself why I even care so much, and I have no clear answers. I ranted too much last night, and while it felt good at the time, I was plagued by a feeling of guilt all day.
I don’t mean those things about Americans. Hell, what do I even know about people like that? I know that most people wherever they live just want good simple happy lives. I mean even the ISIS guys like to sit on the couch and have some tea sometimes right?
We can’t all be deranged lunatics.
We are beyond the 24 hour news cycle. We are in the social media stage, where every time I open FB or Twitter, someone is posting something about the elections. Some of it funny, some it terrifying and some if it down right bizarre. I saw a photo of Ted Cruz and the Duck Dynasty dude that will give me nightmares tonight for sure.
My advice to myself is to take long deep breaths. Hang out with friends and tell jokes. Read books. Run. Spend quality time with my kids. Maybe write about something other than this stuff every night. Take it all with a grain of salt.
Because the 2016 US Elections might be too much for this political junkie to handle.
…
I had three light bulb moments in class today:
Talking to a kid about symbolism and Animal Farm. She said that she knew the windmill was a symbol for something, but couldn't name what it was. We went into the book and found some critical scenes, within seconds of reading the text, “It is a symbol of the revolution. The fact that they are forced to rebuild it means that it never worked in the first time and this time it will be even worse.” Boom……off you go.
Talking to a kid about symbolism and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. Back in the text. The first page, “I think the dog must be something right. Maybe the dog symbolises Christopher’s relationship with his dad and the pitchfork is how the relationship was severed so violently. Maybe the pitchfork could be the betrayal of the dad’s lies, or even the mom.” Boom…off you go.
There is something so satisfying about guiding a kid to the edge and watching them jump off and fly to the other side. Those moments are priceless and they are what keep me going. It’s like you can see the learning seep into the kid right in front of your eyes. They get excited and look you in the eyes. Your eyes say, “See? It’s worth it after the hard work isn’t it?” They smile and begin to write furiously.
On that note, I leave you with Juicy America. Laugh, Cry, Do what you need to do- I’m gonna chase some chocolate down with a coke.
I need a plan on how I will survive and stay sane throughout this election cycle. We are not even at the conventions yet and the latent feeling of anger and crippling dread is really cramping my style. I keep asking myself why I even care so much, and I have no clear answers. I ranted too much last night, and while it felt good at the time, I was plagued by a feeling of guilt all day.
I don’t mean those things about Americans. Hell, what do I even know about people like that? I know that most people wherever they live just want good simple happy lives. I mean even the ISIS guys like to sit on the couch and have some tea sometimes right?
We can’t all be deranged lunatics.
We are beyond the 24 hour news cycle. We are in the social media stage, where every time I open FB or Twitter, someone is posting something about the elections. Some of it funny, some it terrifying and some if it down right bizarre. I saw a photo of Ted Cruz and the Duck Dynasty dude that will give me nightmares tonight for sure.
My advice to myself is to take long deep breaths. Hang out with friends and tell jokes. Read books. Run. Spend quality time with my kids. Maybe write about something other than this stuff every night. Take it all with a grain of salt.
Because the 2016 US Elections might be too much for this political junkie to handle.
…
I had three light bulb moments in class today:
Talking to a kid about symbolism and Animal Farm. She said that she knew the windmill was a symbol for something, but couldn't name what it was. We went into the book and found some critical scenes, within seconds of reading the text, “It is a symbol of the revolution. The fact that they are forced to rebuild it means that it never worked in the first time and this time it will be even worse.” Boom……off you go.
Talking to a kid about symbolism and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime. Back in the text. The first page, “I think the dog must be something right. Maybe the dog symbolises Christopher’s relationship with his dad and the pitchfork is how the relationship was severed so violently. Maybe the pitchfork could be the betrayal of the dad’s lies, or even the mom.” Boom…off you go.
There is something so satisfying about guiding a kid to the edge and watching them jump off and fly to the other side. Those moments are priceless and they are what keep me going. It’s like you can see the learning seep into the kid right in front of your eyes. They get excited and look you in the eyes. Your eyes say, “See? It’s worth it after the hard work isn’t it?” They smile and begin to write furiously.
On that note, I leave you with Juicy America. Laugh, Cry, Do what you need to do- I’m gonna chase some chocolate down with a coke.
November 1, 2013
Rearview Mirror
Human emotions seldom function in isolation. I can't seem to find an apt analogy, but I see webs, ladders, perhaps colliding particles? Maybe somethings to do with tables and chemistry. I never seem to feel any one singular emotion at a time. There is always the blending from one emotion to the next. Sometimes they form bonds and move about us as compounds. Some light and airy, others heavy metals we can never seem to discharge.
I first began to notice the complex collision of emotions when I was eight years old. Must have been the weight of these compounds that caught me by surprise. It started with shame. Even on its own much too heavy an emotion for a child to deal with, but this shame activated guilt, which quickly ionized into pain and fear. Even as my young heart was trying to contain this immensely volatile compound, I realized that it was merely a catalyst to a much more combustible bond of emotions-- anger and pain.
I buried this unstable chemistry within myself for most of my adolescence. No matter how heavy and confusing and painful it became, I felt strong enough to absorb it on my own. Because even then I was beginning to feel that the pain could transform into strength and the anger into the foundation of my personality. I was creating a defiant independence that would help me become the man I am today.
Three important things happened when I was seventeen. I found friends I could love and trust. I found alcohol. And I was finally able to release some of my pain, anger, fear, guilt, and shame. I realized that I no longer had to carry it all by myself. On those endless drunken nights beneath the moonlight, I told the others what had happened:
When I was eight years old my parents separated. It was traumatic and confusing. I was too young to see it coming, and so had no idea of the cause. Like most children of divorce, I am sure I partially blamed myself. My dad moved into another apartment with his cousins. Two brothers who I knew as family friends. I can't remember if I was ever given a choice of who I would live with, but I stayed in our house, in my room with my mom. We would get a Spanish roommate named Pillar.
That same year, while I was in third grader in Ms. Wonder's class, I would spend some weekends at my dad's new place. For some reason, inexplicable to me now, I slept on the couch. I remember many nights falling asleep to MTV, Here Comes The Rain by The Eurythmics a song that remains a memento of those nights.
On some nights, it happen more than once, but I cannot tell how many times, the cousin would come in the darkness and touch me. He would lay next to me. Kissing me and forcing me to touch him. It was in this darkness where I first learned shame. I guess it was the beatings made me wise. I couldn't breathe, holdin' me down. Hand on my face, pushed to the ground. Enmity gaged, united by fear. Forced to endure what I could not forgive. After sometime, I told my mom and it stopped. He disappeared. There was some court dates. I saw someone. I think. It was vague and scary. Then it was finished.
Some time later, my dad would accidentally drive our metallic green Volkswagon Bug off a cliff somewhere on Highway One. He would break his ribs, shoulder, neck and spend months in a hospital in Sebastopol. He came home to a new apartment and his parents wearing a halo.
He was not the only one who was broken. My childhood ended that year. I seem to look away. Wounds in the mirror waved. It wasn't my surface most defiled. I find it so strange to think that my daughter is only a year away from how old I was when all this happened. I cannot begin to think how she would handle any one of those traumas, let alone all three. I have done everything I can in my life to make sure she never has to feel the weight of my emotional chemistry.
But I felt it. For a long time. Even after I told my friends. I carried this secret with me everywhere I went. It wasn't just inside me anymore, it was me. A tumultuous battle between shame and anger. Soon I would begin to explore blame and for the longest time I assigned blame to everyone I could- my parents, the cousin, the world, and eventually myself. Why didn't I stop him? Say no. Stand up. I must have liked it I told myself, causing more shame. More guilt. This had to remain a secret. It had to be my fault it happened and so no one could ever know. My friends knew and that lightened the load, but no one else.
A few years later, I found a counselor. Someone who could voice these emotions. Who had been there. Felt the pain. Been abused. Been the victim. Had the scars, and had not only survived but was now telling me that the pain actually helped him. That the anger, the sadness, the shame all of it was not my fault and that if I could tap into it I could become a man.
I saw things, saw things, saw things, saw things: Clearer. Clearer. Clearer. Clearer. It was as if, there was finally a voice to the silence I carried with me for most of my life. I gather speed from you fucking with me. Once and for all I'm far away. I hardly believe, finally the shades, are raised. Saw things so much clearer. Once you, once you were in my rearviewmirror...
This was the voice of vindication. Of a rage so profound even though it was tempered and searing. It would bring the earlier emotions to a boil and break them down only to build them up again into something new. This music was proof that I would not only survive, but I would flourish and grow. I would shine. I would love. Myself. Once and for all I knew I would be okay.
It was this song, this music, this band that saved my life and allowed me to become who I am today. This is no hyperbole. To this day, I feel my core shake when I hear these songs. Go ahead. Take a break. Watch the video above.
It's funny to this day, beside my few close friends and my wife, I have never shared this story with anyone. There is still the taboo of talking openly about abuse. There is still the shame of exposing one's trauma to the world. A fear that someone, somehow might blame the brutal victimization of a child on the child himself.
But here is what I have learned: These emotions, shame, guilt, anger, pain, sadness were never meant to be carried alone. They are too dark and heavy, too dark to let fester beneath our skin. Abuse can create great artists- Bukowski, Cobain, Elliott Smith and many more, but the average person is not doing himself any favors carrying the burden alone. There is a sense of relief that comes from letting go.
People sometimes commend me on being honest in my writing. Which is funny, because I have always kept this back. Afraid. But I finally felt it was time. Not because I want your pity, but because I hope that this revelation, this release might help someone else gain strength.
I chose to make my way through the trauma on my own. I struggled through so much anger and pain and alcohol and whatever else to get to where I am now. I don't regret a thing, and I know everyone needs to find their own way, but perhaps someone out there reading this might not feel so alone. Someone might listen to Rearview Mirror and exercise their own demons. Someone might choose to write away their suffering and turn sadness into art.
Remember that art in general and writing in particular gains force by how it empowers both the producer and the viewer. The powerful part of writing and sharing is the connections created, the communication it fosters. This post has helped me lighten my load. I have been able to unburden myself and finally let go of my shame. It is an amazing feeling to watch into dissipate into the Internet.
So please, if this post has moved you, if it has empowered you, or helped you in anyway, please share some thoughts in the comments. We are not alone in our pain. Also, if you think there is someone in your life who might benefit from some of what I have shared, please feel free to pass this post along.
Life is beautiful because of the pain and the sadness in it, not despite it.
Last Note: I want to thank my parents. I know they are very sensitive with what I share online and I know that this might freak you both out a little bit, but I wanted you to know how much I love you both and I no longer blame you for anything. Although, I wrote about these traumas, I had an amazing time growing up and I love myself, the life I have created and the person I have become, and I could not have done it without you and all your love and support.
I first began to notice the complex collision of emotions when I was eight years old. Must have been the weight of these compounds that caught me by surprise. It started with shame. Even on its own much too heavy an emotion for a child to deal with, but this shame activated guilt, which quickly ionized into pain and fear. Even as my young heart was trying to contain this immensely volatile compound, I realized that it was merely a catalyst to a much more combustible bond of emotions-- anger and pain.
I buried this unstable chemistry within myself for most of my adolescence. No matter how heavy and confusing and painful it became, I felt strong enough to absorb it on my own. Because even then I was beginning to feel that the pain could transform into strength and the anger into the foundation of my personality. I was creating a defiant independence that would help me become the man I am today.
Three important things happened when I was seventeen. I found friends I could love and trust. I found alcohol. And I was finally able to release some of my pain, anger, fear, guilt, and shame. I realized that I no longer had to carry it all by myself. On those endless drunken nights beneath the moonlight, I told the others what had happened:
When I was eight years old my parents separated. It was traumatic and confusing. I was too young to see it coming, and so had no idea of the cause. Like most children of divorce, I am sure I partially blamed myself. My dad moved into another apartment with his cousins. Two brothers who I knew as family friends. I can't remember if I was ever given a choice of who I would live with, but I stayed in our house, in my room with my mom. We would get a Spanish roommate named Pillar.
That same year, while I was in third grader in Ms. Wonder's class, I would spend some weekends at my dad's new place. For some reason, inexplicable to me now, I slept on the couch. I remember many nights falling asleep to MTV, Here Comes The Rain by The Eurythmics a song that remains a memento of those nights.
On some nights, it happen more than once, but I cannot tell how many times, the cousin would come in the darkness and touch me. He would lay next to me. Kissing me and forcing me to touch him. It was in this darkness where I first learned shame. I guess it was the beatings made me wise. I couldn't breathe, holdin' me down. Hand on my face, pushed to the ground. Enmity gaged, united by fear. Forced to endure what I could not forgive. After sometime, I told my mom and it stopped. He disappeared. There was some court dates. I saw someone. I think. It was vague and scary. Then it was finished.
Some time later, my dad would accidentally drive our metallic green Volkswagon Bug off a cliff somewhere on Highway One. He would break his ribs, shoulder, neck and spend months in a hospital in Sebastopol. He came home to a new apartment and his parents wearing a halo.
But I felt it. For a long time. Even after I told my friends. I carried this secret with me everywhere I went. It wasn't just inside me anymore, it was me. A tumultuous battle between shame and anger. Soon I would begin to explore blame and for the longest time I assigned blame to everyone I could- my parents, the cousin, the world, and eventually myself. Why didn't I stop him? Say no. Stand up. I must have liked it I told myself, causing more shame. More guilt. This had to remain a secret. It had to be my fault it happened and so no one could ever know. My friends knew and that lightened the load, but no one else.
A few years later, I found a counselor. Someone who could voice these emotions. Who had been there. Felt the pain. Been abused. Been the victim. Had the scars, and had not only survived but was now telling me that the pain actually helped him. That the anger, the sadness, the shame all of it was not my fault and that if I could tap into it I could become a man.
I saw things, saw things, saw things, saw things: Clearer. Clearer. Clearer. Clearer. It was as if, there was finally a voice to the silence I carried with me for most of my life. I gather speed from you fucking with me. Once and for all I'm far away. I hardly believe, finally the shades, are raised. Saw things so much clearer. Once you, once you were in my rearviewmirror...
This was the voice of vindication. Of a rage so profound even though it was tempered and searing. It would bring the earlier emotions to a boil and break them down only to build them up again into something new. This music was proof that I would not only survive, but I would flourish and grow. I would shine. I would love. Myself. Once and for all I knew I would be okay.
It was this song, this music, this band that saved my life and allowed me to become who I am today. This is no hyperbole. To this day, I feel my core shake when I hear these songs. Go ahead. Take a break. Watch the video above.
It's funny to this day, beside my few close friends and my wife, I have never shared this story with anyone. There is still the taboo of talking openly about abuse. There is still the shame of exposing one's trauma to the world. A fear that someone, somehow might blame the brutal victimization of a child on the child himself.
But here is what I have learned: These emotions, shame, guilt, anger, pain, sadness were never meant to be carried alone. They are too dark and heavy, too dark to let fester beneath our skin. Abuse can create great artists- Bukowski, Cobain, Elliott Smith and many more, but the average person is not doing himself any favors carrying the burden alone. There is a sense of relief that comes from letting go.
People sometimes commend me on being honest in my writing. Which is funny, because I have always kept this back. Afraid. But I finally felt it was time. Not because I want your pity, but because I hope that this revelation, this release might help someone else gain strength.
I chose to make my way through the trauma on my own. I struggled through so much anger and pain and alcohol and whatever else to get to where I am now. I don't regret a thing, and I know everyone needs to find their own way, but perhaps someone out there reading this might not feel so alone. Someone might listen to Rearview Mirror and exercise their own demons. Someone might choose to write away their suffering and turn sadness into art.
original image by Paul Watson
Remember that art in general and writing in particular gains force by how it empowers both the producer and the viewer. The powerful part of writing and sharing is the connections created, the communication it fosters. This post has helped me lighten my load. I have been able to unburden myself and finally let go of my shame. It is an amazing feeling to watch into dissipate into the Internet.
So please, if this post has moved you, if it has empowered you, or helped you in anyway, please share some thoughts in the comments. We are not alone in our pain. Also, if you think there is someone in your life who might benefit from some of what I have shared, please feel free to pass this post along.
Life is beautiful because of the pain and the sadness in it, not despite it.
Last Note: I want to thank my parents. I know they are very sensitive with what I share online and I know that this might freak you both out a little bit, but I wanted you to know how much I love you both and I no longer blame you for anything. Although, I wrote about these traumas, I had an amazing time growing up and I love myself, the life I have created and the person I have become, and I could not have done it without you and all your love and support.
September 22, 2013
The Forever Empty
A few days ago I posted this Louis CK interview about smart phones and the infinite sadness on Facebook. A friend of mine mentioned that he didn't get it-- This Sadness. Later that night, we were talking and I was trying to explain what I felt CK met by the sadness, but I am not sure I did it justice, because birthday karaoke parties never feel right for contemplating, "That thing. That forever empty. It's all for nothing and you are alone," feeling.
"I guess I have never been that sad," he said. And for that moment, yup you guessed it, I felt so incredibly sad for him. How could he have never felt the forever empty? How could he have never, "stood in front of it and let it hit him like a truck?" Because I couldn't agree more that, "Sadness is poetic. You are lucky to live sad moments."
I mentioned that I have been learning to be alone in my quiet place of sadness since I was eight. "Did something happen then?" they asked. I grinned. Yeah. A few things. But this post isn't about poor victim me. It is not about divorce or car accidents or alcohol or abuse or suicide or pain. It is about sadness as the most powerful emotion in my life.
I have learned more from sadness and suffering and pain than I have ever learned from bliss. Without it I would not even know what happiness is. Without the emptiness I would have no understanding of gratitude. It is from the dukkha that I have grown.
Just, "because we don't want that little bit of sad, we push it away," or cover it up with booze or food or friends or social media, but once we understand that it is always there, it is meant to be there, that it anchors us, then we can begin to let it teach us.
Not sure if I was able to explain the sadness much better in this post then I did last night, but maybe this explains it better:
or maybe this:
"I guess I have never been that sad," he said. And for that moment, yup you guessed it, I felt so incredibly sad for him. How could he have never felt the forever empty? How could he have never, "stood in front of it and let it hit him like a truck?" Because I couldn't agree more that, "Sadness is poetic. You are lucky to live sad moments."
I mentioned that I have been learning to be alone in my quiet place of sadness since I was eight. "Did something happen then?" they asked. I grinned. Yeah. A few things. But this post isn't about poor victim me. It is not about divorce or car accidents or alcohol or abuse or suicide or pain. It is about sadness as the most powerful emotion in my life.
I have learned more from sadness and suffering and pain than I have ever learned from bliss. Without it I would not even know what happiness is. Without the emptiness I would have no understanding of gratitude. It is from the dukkha that I have grown.
"Suffering is a big word in Buddhist thought. It is a key term and it should be thoroughly understood. The Pali word is dukkha, and it does not just mean the agony of the body. It means that deep subtle sense of unsatisfactoriness which is a part of every mind moment and which results directly from the mental treadmill. The essence of life is suffering, said the Buddha. At first glance this seems exceedingly morbid and pessimistic. It even seems untrue. After all, there are plenty of times when we are happy. Aren't there. No, there are not. It just seems that way. Take any moment when you feel really fulfilled and examine it closely. Down under the joy, you will find that subtle, all-pervasive undercurrent of tension, that no matter how great this moment is, it is going to end. No matter how much you just gained, you are either going to lose some of it or spend the rest of your days guarding what you have got and scheming how to get more. And in the end, you are going to die. In the end, you lose everything. It is all transitory." Henepola Gunaratana, from 'Mindfulness in Plain English'.Don't get me wrong I have spent much of my life terrified of the emptiness that sadness and being alone can bring. Alone in dark rooms, the music loud, the bottles empty, trying to fill the void-- confusing the sadness with rage, only to learn that once we embrace the fact that no matter what we do, we will always been entirely alone, then and only then can we begin to truly understand happiness or better yet peace.
Just, "because we don't want that little bit of sad, we push it away," or cover it up with booze or food or friends or social media, but once we understand that it is always there, it is meant to be there, that it anchors us, then we can begin to let it teach us.
Not sure if I was able to explain the sadness much better in this post then I did last night, but maybe this explains it better:
or maybe this:
Or maybe you can help me. How do you understand The Sadness?
January 30, 2012
Quantify
tell me what kind of gauge
can quantify elation?
what kind of equation
could i possibly employ?
Ani Difranco
I get in these moods, left over from my angst filled drinking days I suppose- these bouts with an unnameable loneliness, an unpalatable malaise that can barely be assuaged by low hanging E minor chord or a thick bass line. Marinated in a blues yet to be discovered, I wallow in a state of morbid funk that oddly resembles joy. Knowing I am a wilting flower waiting again to bloom. I bow my head and patiently wait.
I burn with the desire to create, but opt out and allow apathy to man the jukebox. Long dirges fill my ears as I ignore the words I could be writing. This garden is sown with boredom and rarely blooms, but it is a field to which I have grown accustomed. I first laid roots at the age of eight and have tended and watered the muddy field ever since. It is home. Comfortable. Familiar.
I am not unhappy here. Not by any means. The sick part is that it is in this very depression that I often find the simplest mirth. I play my sad songs...gone is the wine, the air clear of smoke, a beautiful wife to my side, a growing family upstairs, and me and my state.
Words help. The strum of a guitar. Lost in a book. A few hours of sleep. In the end, I know that this is where I will always return.
can quantify elation?
what kind of equation
could i possibly employ?
Ani Difranco
I get in these moods, left over from my angst filled drinking days I suppose- these bouts with an unnameable loneliness, an unpalatable malaise that can barely be assuaged by low hanging E minor chord or a thick bass line. Marinated in a blues yet to be discovered, I wallow in a state of morbid funk that oddly resembles joy. Knowing I am a wilting flower waiting again to bloom. I bow my head and patiently wait.
I burn with the desire to create, but opt out and allow apathy to man the jukebox. Long dirges fill my ears as I ignore the words I could be writing. This garden is sown with boredom and rarely blooms, but it is a field to which I have grown accustomed. I first laid roots at the age of eight and have tended and watered the muddy field ever since. It is home. Comfortable. Familiar.
I am not unhappy here. Not by any means. The sick part is that it is in this very depression that I often find the simplest mirth. I play my sad songs...gone is the wine, the air clear of smoke, a beautiful wife to my side, a growing family upstairs, and me and my state.
Words help. The strum of a guitar. Lost in a book. A few hours of sleep. In the end, I know that this is where I will always return.
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