Archives for January 2016

Sometimes I shake my head and think, “Neruda, Neruda, it would have been nice to have known you so that I might have picked your brain.”

I look at your words and my mind is flooded with moments experienced, felt, believed and imagined.

Old Pablo catches me again, and again because I have walked the roads he writes about, sometimes in darkness and shadow and others in light.

Writers Must Paint A Picture

I am a simple man with simple needs and simple desires but I know one thing for certain, writers must paint a picture.

When we figure out how to use our words to draw giant murals inside the minds of our readers they won’t point and click their way other places.

It doesn’t always have to be bright splashes of color that make them think of the warm sun upon their back.

You can talk about the darker things, the black moments that slow our hearts and make us reach for things that will comfort us.

The in-between the shadows, the places where uncertainty lies provides endless opportunity to capture their minds too.

Paint that picture and you won’t worry about whether you have the best images or greatest layout for them to see and use.

But don’t ignore those either, make it too hard and some will walk away because not everyone will hold on when things get rough.

Some will move and some will stay.

And some won’t know whether to do either, so you have to help give them a shelter they can return to or an anchor they can hold on to.

Bloggers Should Write Like This…Too

Bloggers should figure out how to paint that picture because the only people who read their words are those who are online and that guarantees that they will have ample competition for the attention of the readers.

Some of them might be people like me who have teenagers who once kept their rooms spotless but have suddenly developed an inability to do so.

Teenage boys who have grown around 7 inches in a year, who have hair growing from everywhere, hands that are suddenly huge and voices that aren’t quite as deep as their fathers but well on their way.

And they, or you might relate to these tales and wonder how hormones could suddenly mess up a boy who thinks he is damn close to a man’s ability to maintain order in his room.

When I lay down the law and demand that this nonsense end…it ends.

The room is cleaned and order is restored, but it doesn’t take much for chaos to try to regain its role as top dog in the room.

So I take the teen’s hand in mine in spite of his complaints that he is not a baby and tell him to look into my eyes.

I no longer have to bend down as far, because his face grows ever closer to my own and I tell him to look into my eyes and listen.

The Ghosts Of Jerusalem Are Here

Something in his eyes reminds me of who I was when I was his age and I think about the 15 year-old who had big plans for moving from 1984 into 1985.

I would get my driver’s license and be free of my folks, granted it wouldn’t be until May but that was ok because I knew that I would have six weeks of driving before I left for Israel.

And I knew that even though there would be adults in Jerusalem there would be too many of us for them to pay close attention and that I would have an entire summer of freedom like I had never experienced.

I would be 10,000 miles from home and…free.

The time between that moment and when I actually left seemed far longer than it was, but looking back I can see how fast it went.

And I wonder if my parents had any real sense of what sort of plans I had, of the ideas that lay behind my eyes.

Were they as adept at reading me as I am at reading my own children?

Probably.

But they couldn’t know all that would happen or anticipate everything that I would do.

They couldn’t foresee their son standing in a pub in Jerusalem with a ton of other teens, drinking beer and singing along with the bands and artists at the Live-Aid concert playing on the television.

All they could do is hope they had taught me well and that I would be smart.

Thirty-one years later I can affirm that both were true and that I benefited from my own share of dumb luck.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.”
― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

I don’t ask or wonder if I have contributed a verse because I have contributed many.

I have lived and loved and will do much more of both praying that when I do them, I do them hard.

Not just because January of 2016 will be remembered by some as when music died because that is an exaggeration.

Neither Glen Frey nor David Bowie would utter such exaggerations nor would any other artist.

No, they would look at us and tell us to live hard because the threads we walk upon can fray ever so quickly and you can’t always grab a handful of another.

*****

In the midst of my thoughts, I am interrupted by a call and accidentally hit a link that takes me to a post called Grandpa Is Still Gone.

The funny thing about it is that my sister and her kids were just here and are gone again.

But this time they didn’t search for their great-grandfather because ten years has passed and time moves on.

That was the last time they’ll pass through the house. The last time we’ll all roam through it because the sale has been completed and packing has begun.

The house that holds so many memories will be taken over by another and those of us that still walk will take those memories with us.

Time to find new places to contribute those verses and new moments in which to create new memories.

Sometimes I forget that I am not blessed with the kind of rhythm that would allow me to dance in person the way I can dance in my dreams.

Sure, I can two-step and slow dance with well enough to make a woman be willing to share more than one dance with me and not because I won’t step on your feet.

But the ability to keep my size 12 EEE boots from flattening your toes isn’t really the kind of thing a man can hang his hat upon, no matter how badly he wants to get some credit for what he can do.

There is a fire burning inside my head and my belly, flames that can be the sort that pushes a man to be more than he his now and become a better person.

But they aren’t alone, because they’re matched by the sort of flames that love to be doused in gasoline and dipped in dynamite.

Is She Still A Bitch?

Children grow at a faster clip than most parents prefer and that includes the well behaved alongside the incorrigible.

Doesn’t matter what we do or say, they refuse to extend their time as youngsters so we find ourselves sometimes moving faster than we care to down both unmarked paths and well-blazed trails.

Sometimes I blame that speed for making me both a writer of silly stories and parental tales and testimony.

Whether that is true or not doesn’t particularly matter to me because what I enjoy best is having the opportunity to view snapshots of time such as that collected in I Told You She Is A Bitch.

“Dad, I want to tell you what really happened but I keep getting cut off.” I hate to admit this but I couldn’t help but interrupt then. “Monster, you were blessed in that department. The mohel only cut you once. One day you and your wife will thank me for that.”

“Ooh, I hate girls and I am not getting married.”

“I used to hate girls too and then something happened.”

“What happened. Did you get hit in the head.”

See, we are all comedians in this family.

“Nope, but I wish that I had. I could use an excuse. Anyway, speak quickly or your sister will step in and she speaks faster than both of us.”

I look at that particular segment and smile because it brings back that moment and it reminds me of the overall story and how a boy who was 11 but is now 15 hasn’t changed in some ways.

Conversations are more sophisticated as is his ability to understand the world around him but he still maintains that girls are both evil and annoying.

Now when these conversations rise they are different from how they once were because he’ll mention/ask about things his friends are saying and tell me he is not fond of watching them lose their minds over girls.

Sometimes it makes me laugh and I tell him it never really changes, girls and boys, men and women still lose their minds over each other.

He tells me he thinks some of it is ridiculous and I nod my head.

“Dad, have you ever lost your mind over a girl?”

“Yeah one or two have gotten under my skin.”

“What did they do? What did you do?”

Before I can answer he tells me about how many people he knows come from divorced families and says that might be enough of a reason to stay away from girls.

I laugh and tell him nature won’t let him ignore them the way he suggests and then he asks me if I have ever ignored a girl.

“Yeah, I have, sometimes I went dark, completely silent because I knew if I wanted her attention it was a way to get it.”

I can tell he wants to dig into it a bit deeper but he is not quite ready to admit that there might be more interest than he shares so I don’t press and the conversation goes elsewhere.

One Blogger Sails Away

A short while ago I discovered a place called Pixabay that provides free stock photos.

I have spent large chunks of time downloading photos from there because I want their help in telling the tales I share with you here.

I grab the photos not knowing whether I’ll use them but I figure those that call out to me will find their way into these posts and that is enough.

That shot of the ship on this post makes me smile and makes me dream of the adventures I have had and those yet to come.

There are are seas that call out to me and islands to be explored. It is part of why I have begun to work out harder and why I push myself to do an extra rep.

You never know when a landlubber like myself might need to find a way reach up into that crow’s nest so that they can help avoid the icebergs that are assuredly patrolling the depths in the dark.

They say Joshua won the battle of Jericho by tearing down the walls and part of me wonders what would happen if I chose to lay siege upon the walls of that castle.

What would happen if I sailed from parts unknown and landed upon those shores with the intent to take what isn’t mine.

If I chose to claim ownership upon it, what would happen.

It is direct contrast to what I have taught my children but in line with the do as I say, not as I do mantra we so often adopt as parents.

And if we were to go back to 2004 when I started writing my thoughts and ideas down you wouldn’t find that sort of conversation here because my infant daughter and preschool aged son couldn’t have that sort of conversation.

There was no nuance, it was good and bad.

Things Change

I didn’t watch the last two presidential debates because I chose not to.

Not because I don’t intend to vote because I have always and will always do so but for a different reason.

I needed to disconnect from some of the chaos.

I needed space from the 24-hour news cycle and from the preening and posturing. And I knew that my Facebook feed would be filled with finger pointing, finger waving and gnashing of teeth.

It is easier to read about what happened and what was said. Easier to read and not get caught up in the emotion, to see what plans are being shared and ideas floated about.

When there is a sole candidate on each side I will watch it all and do my best to determine who is qualified, competent and capable.

In the interim I am doing my best to stay away from the ranting I hear about how the other side is filled with idiots.

And I am talking with the children about making sure they educate themselves on the issues and question what they hear to see if it passes the possible and or probable tests.

But mostly I am thinking about what feeds my heart and fills my soul and thinking about how to set a course for those isles.

I was there.

I saw.

I knew.

I loved and I lived it.

Denial never blinded my eyes or prevented me from seeing and knowing. It was both a gift and a curse.

I don’t know when I began to understand it or when it first clicked, but it happened before I started writing about our own mortality.

It influenced what people see in my own eyes just as something influenced what others see in yours.

Someone asked me what sort of impact it had on my ability to deal with walls.

“I never worry about walls because I have never met one I couldn’t tear the fuck down. Never found one I couldn’t scale, dig under or build a door through.

But I have found a few that left me feeling befuddled and confused because I didn’t see what was obvious.”

 

“Jack, maybe you want to tone it down. Maybe you want to take a deep breath and not let it all hang out, some people just don’t understand you. Is it really smart to say ‘Fuck ’em.”

I smile and nod my head.

“I am who I am. Someone will love my crazy. Someone will love my sane. Someone will care about my heart or they won’t. Not going to change just because I might scare them. If they can’t stand with my ‘Fuck em’ than I don’t need them. They won’t help me and I won’t help them.”

A Smile Is Worth A Thousand

The boys and I are poolside in Texas talking about life and reminiscing.

“Jack, do you remember that wedding in Houston?”

“There were several, but I am guessing you are talking about the Casablanca one.”

They nod their heads and for a few moments we hit upon the highlights of a conversation between myself and an ex that supposedly resembled a scene from the movie.

Yvonne: Where were you last night?
Rick Blaine: That’s so long ago, I don’t remember.
Yvonne: Will I see you tonight?
Rick Blaine quote: I never make plans that far ahead.

The conversation wasn’t recorded so I’ll never know if I was Humphrey Bogart cool or a jerk but I know she wasn’t happy with me.

“You are not the only one whose heart was broken. Maybe if you learned to share your feelings and to show some compassion you might find someone to love you.”

I nod my head and smile but I say nothing.

There really aren’t any words for a moment like this, but I know a smile will say more than any words I might have.

“Jack, how do you manage to smile at people when you are really angry? I never understood that?”

I nod and smile at him.

“That is the one, how do you do it?”

“It is just practice. A long time ago I got tired of feeling like I didn’t think of a good comeback until three days after an argument so I just started to nod and smile at people. Don’t really know why, I just know it made some people uneasy and that made me feel like I won.

Kind of dumb really, but…”

Write For Everyone

The experts tell me that I ought to write posts that are easily skimmed and scanned.

Use subheads and make it easy for people to see what it is you are writing about.

I have two words for the experts and they start with F and end with M.

I am having too much fun writing as I wish to and though it might be helpful to write for everyone I am just not feeling it right now.

That might change. There might come a day when I see a need to focus upon building the traffic around here in a hurry.

There might come a time when I want to write a follow-up post to my friend Mitch Mitchell’s post about the influence of frequency on traffic but I am not sure.

Partly because I think I might have written about it, chances are pretty good that I did.

What is not good is not remembering if I did or not.

Why?

Because it suggests that post wasn’t very good and if a writer doesn’t like what they have written, well how is a reader supposed to.

Sometimes I think about writing a post that covers traffic and engagement in great detail, ya know, something that delves into what metrics are meaningful.

It is the kind of thing that could be very well received, it might not be writing for everyone, but bloggers would love it.

And it might actually generate a ton of engagement, build more links to the blog and give my Alexa profile a bump.

Mitch is right, numbers are soft in some of those areas, especially given how long I have been blogging for.

But if I did write that post, well I’d want it to be chock full of useful information.

I just don’t feel like writing a post that sounds like work without getting paid for it, at least not tonight.

The Death Of All Things

Dad called me to say the house sold and though they haven’t moved out yet it means that in a very short time my childhood home will no longer be part of the family in anything but memory.

 

My teenager tells me grandpa and grandma’s house shouldn’t be sold, “it is like the death of all the things that are important to me are coming to fruition.”

I nod and tell him I’ll miss it too.

“It is four walls & a roof. Save the memories and secure the moments. That is what we take with us.”

I don’t think of the Whitman quote until after our conversation so I don’t get to use it but I play around with talking about it later on with him.

Maybe one day I’ll mention how it applies to our entire lives and tell him how I see his unfolding at light speed and how easy it is for me to remember what it was like to be 15 and how in some ways I just don’t.

Peter Pan got old.

Though nothing, will keep us together
We could steal time, just for one day
We can be heroes, forever and ever
What’d you say?
Heroes- David Bowie

Don’t know if it is fate or coincidence, but the computer I am using to write this sounds like it is dying.

And so writing this has become more challenging because nothing is working the way it should be, but I carry on.

Because a man who says he has never been beaten by a wall must live up to his reputation and a father must teach his children how to overcome adversity.

Or something like that, it is the death of all things.