Will Your Soul Sing Your Story?

Been listening to Led Zeppelin all night long, letting the music from the past take me from the present into the future knowing full well that relatively few will read along and fewer yet will go the distance.

Sat through a day at half boil until the words spilled out of my mouth surrounding my anger with the silence of those who blind themselves to the reality of the day willfully or intentionally pretending that massacre bingo is acceptable.

The replies came as I knew they would about how stupid we are and how this will keep happening because laws don’t stop crazy or because crazy won’t take the initiative to try to stop the mindless hordes from taking what they consider to be their god given right.

Are we stupid?

That’s the rhetorical question some pose and the one I refuse to accept.

What I wonder is when we’ll collectively set aside the anger and work together to find a solution because it is out there. We may do stupid things and make act like morons but the collective we isn’t stupid.

Donald Trump Could Make Heads Explode

Imagine what would happen if Trump said as part of his candidacy he was going to work to find a solution to the gun problem and that because he is not beholden to any party or any group he was confident he could make it happen.

That would make some heads spin right off of the shoulders of the people that once wore them. As a certified troublemaker and muckraker it is the kind of thing I’d be interested in seeing.

But Trump won’t get my vote and it is not because of what he has said or not said but because I don’t think he has got the goods to get it done in D.C.

I don’t think he’ll last long enough to be the candidate for a host of reasons none of which really matter now because this post isn’t about politics.

It is about the journey of life and the funny stuff that comes along with it. It is about trying to tell the most honest story we can.

Sick Teenagers Remind Me Of Toddlers

Little Jack isn’t particularly little anymore, life, time and puberty have slammed into each other at the intersection of “I’m too old for that” and “sometimes you can treat me like a kid.”

He says he doesn’t want to be hugged by his parents but that is based upon some illogical and irrational teenage rules that only he can follow.

So sometimes he hugs us and sometimes he doesn’t. We do our best to respect his wishes but every now and then he’ll hear “it is time for a hug” and he’ll do so willingly.

Tonight the almost 15-year-old boy told me that his cold was killing him and asked if “daddy would carry him to bed.”

It took less than an instant for him to realize that his old man would scoop him up and carry him. He mustered enough energy to stand up and I looked at him and wondered again how much longer I have before he can look me in the eye.

He is not quite there yet, but every day it comes closer. It is actually pretty damn cool, a bit surreal, but cool.

The voice that belonged to the little boy has been replaced by something that is almost deep enough to fool people into thinking he is me.

It is both wonderful and frightening because it is a sign that the day when he won’t live with me is barreling down at break neck speed.

And if all goes as hoped he’ll prove his parents did their job by becoming a productive and self-sufficient member of society.

The war that is most interesting to me is the one I wage each day to tell a better story. The battle to create a tapestry of images inside your heads that is too compelling to put down never ends.

Maybe that means I have found the perfect match, because a true idiot like myself who is always willing to take another swing or to be swung at one more time is always willing to continue to engage.

Sometimes I read the work and or comments of the masters and nod my head because what they said resonates with me, because it matches my truth.

And sometimes I read their stuff and wonder why it is praised because what I see is so fucking stupid I want to slap the 298 English teachers who decided that Schlatter Ripper is a classic.

Really who decides that the story of a boy fighting his cousin’s ex-boyfriend is the kind of thing everyone has to read because once you do that the author of said story is suddenly seen as having expertise they haven’t earned.

Maybe that makes me sound bitter and jealous. Maybe it means I am just another blogger with blog envy, a writer who splashes cold water on other’s success and deems it luck.

But then again, maybe I am not.

Sometimes when I’m uncertain about what direction to go in I ask myself how I would advise my children. It is a good resource but so is saying ‘do as I say and not as I do.”

So I sit here at the intersection of science and superstition thinking about whether to share something that would add more depth to this.

Science and superstition prevent me from sharing those thoughts because sometimes your better served by sharing when you are certain and because sometimes whispering words aloud is jinxes your effort.

Will Your Soul Sing Your Story?

Mine is and I am doing my best to answer it. I am trying to write the truest and most honest sentences I know how.

When people ask are we stupid my children won’t say yes because they know better. Bad things happen when no one does anything and we aren’t that stupid.

• Saved: Children, Life