Gobbledy Gook

A dear friend in the ‘real world’ asked me how many friendships I have dumped because of Trump and I said one or two.

“That surprises me because you don’t hold back.”

“I have had others walk away because of what I said but that is on them. I didn’t say we couldn’t be friends but I did say I wasn’t going to pretend he is a good guy or that I don’t believe they got conned.”

“You know that is kind of rude to tell people that.”

“Don’t care. It is rude to support a man who is determined to line his pockets and stroke his own ego regardless of the consequences. I can’t and won’t ignore it.

So they can ignore what I write/say and avoid talking politics or they can walk. I still hope they wake up and that 30 years or more will lend weight to my words.

Truth is without those decades and experiences I probably would have walked myself, but I don’t let go of the people worth salvaging unless there are no options.

Friendship Trumped By A Fool

And the honest truth is one or two of them did things last year that define what it means to be a good friend.

When my dad was dying and some other exceptionally difficult things were going on they went out of their way to make sure I was ok and did things no one else offered.

I can’t ignore or forget that.

They kept me going when I had trouble standing and I am grateful.

But there are others who don’t have that and even though we have history they seem to think that they can get away with the same bullshit as Trump.

The thing is they can’t because they haven’t any leverage. I can’t kick Trump out of office, fire him or implement the 25th amendment on my own.

But I can point out their repetition of lies, ask them why his or their hypocrisy shouldn’t be called out and rub their noses in it if they get nasty.

And some of them have so I have returned the favor.

I don’t like it, but I won’t be bullied or let others think bullying is acceptable.

Enough is enough and some lines will always exist.

The man in the mirror looks familiar but he isn’t quite who I expect to see staring back at me.

Can’t say whether it is a good thing or a bad thing, it is just a thing. He is doing things differently than he once did and we are not sure how that is going to turn out.

Might be fine, might be somewhere between great and terrible, can’t say until more time has passed.

He is impatient that man in the mirror and he really doesn’t want to take on a different way of doing things but sometimes that is how it goes.

You might look at the picture below and think that it is representative of a garage in desperate need of cleaning. You might roll your eyes and wonder why it isn’t better organized or maybe you won’t think any of these things. In the end your thoughts about that garage aren’t as important as mine, because what I see is different.

What I see are pieces of many lives. There are more than a thousand forgotten treasures contained in that garage. Some of them are in boxes and some are on shelves. There are tools that are stained with the proverbial blood, sweat and tears of those who bent them to their will. There are toys that were once held by tiny fingers and placed in the baby R&D zone known as a the human mouth. If they could talk they might tell you about how for a while they were the favorite toy. They might tell you that something bright, shiny and sparkly made for hours of play.

There is a dresser on the left that has belonged to more than one boy who shares the same last name as I. I know only a few of their stories but mine, I know them all. When I was 3.5 I found a way to climb into the second drawer and then managed to close it. For a while I stayed safe in my new cocoon until I realized that I couldn’t get out. For a short while I called out for mom expecting that she would know immediately where to find me. After all moms are all knowing and it was incomprehensible that she wouldn’t find me…eventually.

That same dresser used to mock me. It was so tall and I was so very short. For years I couldn’t reach into the top two drawers. I marked time by measuring my growth against it. The nine year-old boy I once was was positively gleeful when he realized that he didn’t need a chair to reach into those drawers. The preteen was even more pleased when he could look down upon the top of it. It marked another place that he could secure his private things from the prying eyes of younger sisters who refused to listen to his commands not to go into his room.

Those pesky little girls would wait until he left and then sneak in so that they could see what it was that he was hiding. Somewhere that preteen smiles as he thinks about how he used to tape some things to the back of the dresser. Some items were left on top where it served as a decoy but the important stuff remained hidden. Tucked away from sight are the weights. They are stacked in front of some shelving near the dresser. If steel could speak they would tell stories of hopes and dreams. They would speak of countless hours of service in happiness, sadness and anger.

Clinkety clanking their way through the years they offer another connection from the past to the present. They watched a skinny boy turn himself into a hard body. In the silence I can still hear them speak to me, encouraging and or goading me to do another set. They are still used now but not with the same frequency as they once were. Life has gotten in the way of the daily regimen. Where hours were once available now there are brief moments. A body that is approaching middle age swings the bars back and forth, lifts them up and down. Dumbbells are pumped and sweat drips- the adrenalin high is the same as it ever was but it is harder to get the same results.

Somewhere in the back of the garage are old suits that ask why they no longer fit. Those weights made sure that the jacket looked good. Wide shoulders, tapered waist, a perfect V. And now the jackets point accusing fingers. From the chest up all looks the same, but the middle has filled out and the jackets ask why. The pants say don’t bother to try, you will only look like a stuffed sausage.

Old pictures attest to the truth of what once was and what no longer is. The high school senior smiles at the camera. It is almost summer and he is wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. The boy is tan and his muscles ripple when he moves. He has abs that are well defined, no need to flex to show them off because they stand out on their own. His hair is short but that is because he is a swimmer. If he were to let it grow it would cover all of the top of his head, not just part of it.

There are so many other stories that can be told. So many other forgotten treasures that beg to walk under sunny blue skies again. Bikes, trikes and toys cry out for attention. Garden tools ask to be used and old books throw flirtatious glances in my direction.

Some of the past has to go away now. Some of it will be given away. Some of it will be divided up. Some will stick around and sail off into the future where they will continue to bear witness to future adventures of life. All of it a reminder that you life never stops moving…