My Own Worst Nightmare

A little, 'pēdal, creature swiftly ran into the scene;
then, somehow, latched on, piggyback, and sent me galloping.
The moment overtook me as we flew across the grass,
my heart aflutter, with her locks, both thrilling, yet, alas—
she’s not my own, and I, not hers: a truth, lost fleetingly;
for once we part my sullen heart yearns unexpectedly.

There once was a boy named Bobby...

My childhood is gone—
no, not in that sense.
In my daily life:
in the things I do,
the people I see,
the places I go,
the music I listen to,
the food I eat;
those remembrances that come in a flash:
gone.
Not all of them, of course,
but far too many.
Bits and pieces, here and there, come flitting into my mind,
like dropped Polaroids purloined by the wind,
of singular moments—
snapshots of things long past—
a spark, igniting incendiary grey matter,
quickening the image to action,
playing out what had played out.
But, that’s it.
Most things are just, gone.
Most of my life before school.
Most of my life during school.
Most birthdays.
Most holidays.
Most of the time with those now past.
Most things are hidden,
unless something extraordinary stirs them from their slumber.
I did those things!
I can remember doing those things,
but often can’t remember the things themselves,
more, the feeling of doing them.
There’s a vagueness to my history.
I know I had a life.
I know I’ve lived.
Where has it gone?
Why is it hidden?
Is there something within these things I don’t want to confront?
Or have they simply left me?
My mind can feel void,
and I don’t know why,
and it's disconcerting.
The child in my head does exist:
I’ve seen him in pictures,
heard about him in stories,
and he occasionally comes to me from within myself,
but he can seem more abstract than absolute.
I want to see him, freely, again.
I want him to show me what he’s done.
I want him to tell me what he’s seen.
I want him to introduce me to those he’s met, whom I can’t meet again—
those with nameless faces, or faceless names,
or those I’ve loved, but only now have a sense of.
I want so much, but have come to expect so little,
and I don’t disappoint.

Loveless

For someone I love.

No one loves me! this I know,
for the voices tell me so,
often in hormonal throe,
blinding me from loved ones, lo—

Surrounded by a caring lot,
my mind dissolves the love I’ve got
into an acrid slurry blot,
which smothers heart and causes rot.

Thus helpless here I lie in wait,
and pray, perchance, I find a date
who’s better still than one, once great,
to make my muddled heart elate.

Yet know I not that I can’t win
until I foster love within,
which cleanses stifled heart of sin,
and quiets mind’s destructive din.

I am loved! though cannot see
the love so many have for me,
but, someday soon, this shall not be—
for one day I shall set me free.

Something's Amiss...

Something happened to me on our trip to Puget Sound.

There doesn’t seem to be a particular moment I can pinpoint as the cause, but I’m definitely not the same, and Gina’s noticed it, too.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m still the same lovable smart-ass/jack-ass (and I use “lovable” loosely—”tolerable” my be more accurate for most people), but I seem to have developed a more outgoing/amiable air when dealing with new people (and, yes, it seems to be exclusively with people I’m meeting for the first time: waiters/waitresses, cashiers, business owners, etc.). I also don’t seem to care as much about how others might perceive me. Granted, I generally haven’t cared much about what people thought of me—as long as it was something I wanted known to the few people I know—but, for the majority of the population, I want people, “strangers,” to know, and to be able to glean as little information about me as possible (says Figbert McGilly).

For as long as I can remember I’ve tried to keep the details of my life under tight wraps, and it’s not strictly confined to the nobodies of the world. Llike most people, there are certain things about my life that my parents, siblings, or wife will never know; things that I’ve freely—and cautiously—shared with others in confidence. Before you jump to any conclusions, no, my life is really not as interesting or seedy as the previous statement might imply. My personal life’s been pretty mundane and inconsequential (sheesh...this sounds like the makings of a good old fashioned mid-life crisis...let’s hope not).

My point being that for most of my life I have, until recently, done a fairly good job at closing myself off to most of the world, and, in doing so, have not only kept potentially wonderful out of my life, but often come across as curt and cold—or so I’ve been told. Yet since I’ve returned, I’ve noticed myself chatting it up, joking around, and being all-around more pleasant with people. And, since I’ve returned, I’ve also loosened up while out in public, because I’m not as concerned about what people think—yes, I am a dork and a fool, and not nearly as smart as some think me to be, and that’s okay (insert Stuart Smalley joke: here).

Yes, I’ve been told I need to loosen up for most of my life.

Yes, I know it is/was good advice.

Yes, I am/was listening.

Yes, it’s a lot easier said than done, especially for me. However, I seem to have unwittingly made a step in the right direction, and, after careful consideration, I think I know how this whole ordeal started:
IT WAS THOSE DAMNED ISLANDS!!!

Specifically Lopez and Salt Sprint islands. Those islanders were so freaking friendly, courteous, accommodating, and nonjudgmental that I think they actually wore a hole in the social shield I’d worked so long and hard fortifying. That’s when I can remember letting my guard down—and it just got worse and worse as the trip went on. I was powerless to resist; they did it so nonchalantly that I never even saw it coming, and, frankly, didn’t even notice it had been done...until it was too late.

So here I am, a changed man (man-child?), if ever so slightly, and I must confess: I like it. Part of me hopes it extends into my private life as well, but I haven’t noticed much change on that front. Maybe it’ll require another life-changing trip, which I’m all for—the sooner the better. But the best news about this entire situation is that you can “teach an old dog new tricks.” People can change, as stubborn as some can be, and that gives me hope. And, at least for me, that’s as good a thing anyone could ask for.

"SAMANTHA"

For Stacy and Andy

Swimming, once freely, in a shrinking abyss,
Acutely aware of a world—vibrant, veiled;
Many months awaiting first embrace and first kiss,
And when all life’s moments, save one, will be paled.
Not one of you grasping the breadth of your love,
Till meeting, at last, when cradled near heart;
Held ever-so softly, as one would a dove,
Aglow brightly with pride for your work of art.

Myself and I

orb of amber glowing bright
floating weightless in the night
brings to the void a gentle light
and casts a shadow of me slight

it never lets me stray from sight
clings desperately to my feet tight
when I step left, it follows right
we dance as one till I take flight
which rips us two apart at height
but join again once we alight
thus ends our momentary plight
until the clouds descend with spite
and chase my friend away in fright

I know someday we’ll reunite
to relive our nocturnal rite
till then, this memory shall delight
and bid to my dear friend—goodnight

Contemporary Cautionary Tale

Road Rage Roger
Roger ranted daily driving to and fro from work,
for all who drove beside him was an “idiot!” or “jerk!”
His blood would boil, teeth would grit, and throttled tight the wheel;
he’d loose his middle digit high, then take off with a squeal.
But one day, while he tore about from lane to sluggish lane,
he tread upon the final nerve that kept another sane.
When Roger heard the heavy-handed horn holler behind,
his finger sprang to action quick on outstretched limb in kind.
He’d teach this jerk a lesson well, and hinder him he did,
until the light before them changed and stopped them with a skid.
In rear view, Roger watched him twitch as silently he’d shout,
then filled with terror once he saw the maniac step out.
With fervent haste the man appeared, gun aimed at Roger’s head;
without a word, the trigger’s pulled, and shoots poor Roger dead.

The Tragic Tale of Timid Toby: Character Profiles

Sooo...I got a bug up my butt and wanted to write a short story...so I am. I'm sure it's rubbish, but I'm having fun with it, so I don't care how bad it is or will be (well, of course I care [anyone who knows me knows I care] but I'm choosing not let it bother me — basically setting myself up for failure, in that I won't be happy with the end result).

Just before I finished writing the first part of the story, I wanted a diversion from writing the story itself, but didn't want to leave it altogether, so I put together a few very short character sketches for each of the main characters, the last of which I've not actually written about yet.


Timid Toby
without a friend
and family far
he lives a life alone
a little boy
forever sad
leaves no part of him prone

for learned he young
and holds today
that people cause you ill
And so he drifts
morning to night
far further from them still

Celestial Samantha
a darling girl
with inky locks
and alabaster tone
sees beauty true
in all she's graced
as though it’s plainly shown

with gift so great
and heart so pure
she lights the darkest soul
yet one shall pass
into her light
and pay a hefty toll

Miss Sweete Intentions
with feather touch
and gentle grin
she molds her pupils fine
with iron fist
and piercing gaze
she makes them toe the line

while best intents
don’t always fruit
and some that do doth rot
fruition comes
first tasting sweet
ends bitterly for naught

Chiding Charlie
his biting words
do pierce and sting
with rancorous reproach
he’s quick to flit
his vile tongue
at those who dare encroach

though treading light
one often draws
the venom from this snake
for savors he
to cause and see
one’s gentle spirit break


Who knows...maybe this is all anybody sees of the story, I haven't decided whether or not this is one of those things I do that's just for me or if I'm willing to share. I suppose only time will tell.

Were I a...

Were I a toilet.

Were I a toilet, I’d like to be the filthiest, ricketiest Porta-Potty at a sweltering summertime multi-day outdoor music festival.  Triple-digit temperatures and high humidity would make for a thick, weighty, lingering stench that can be smelt long before one enters the malodorous synthetic sarcophagus I’ve become, and it seems to stick to the skin and roof of one’s mouth—and no amount of tonguing can temper the taste.  I’d be covered in, not only in urine and feces, but also in a colorful, pungent cocktail of alcohol and carnival food vomit—think stale-corn-dog-tini (my “eau du toilette”).  I would have a very slight, but acutely noticeable wobble as to literally scare the crap out of people inside who, for one terrifying moment, think I’m going to tip over and spill my putrid payload atop them.  My seat would be so loosely attached that it would slide around wildly when sat upon, as though the underside were slathered in butter, and would be permanently stained with a yellow, black, and brown tie-dye.  My “cargo” would nearly reach the brim, so splash-back is all but certain, with the occasional dude inadvertently dunking his junk in my spoils.  The only toilet paper I’d possess would be the thin film that resides, glued, onto the cardboard cylinder, and though there would be plenty of hand sanitiser, the dispenser would no longer function.  I’d be an attendees last resort, with some finding it preferable to do their duty (ha!...doodie) outside, having to wipe with the random used napkins flitting by in the occasional burning breeze.

This would be me, were I a toilet.

There Aren't Any Monsters

Child:
Mama, can I sleep in your room tonight?
The monsters in mine are a terrible fright.
They don’t let me sleep and they make scary sounds,
though I never have seen one, I KNOW they’re around.
Under bed, in closet, and in attic above,
scaring me nightly's the one thing they love.

Mother:
Sweet silly-goose, there is nothing to fear,
especially with mama and papa so near.
Now, listen intently, for I’ll make you see,
there's no reason that you shouldn’t sleep peacefully.

There aren't any monsters hiding under your bed,
the demons there only exist in your head.
Though monsters do sometimes come out in the night
to steal away children while tucked in bed tight.
They take them to taint them, then speed them to death,
and relish the moment they take their last breath.
But you’re safe as can be in your bedroom, alone:
as long as nobody breaks into our home.

There aren't any monsters in your closet, my sweet,
just the clothes that you wear and the shoes for your feet.
Though monsters do sometimes appear clutching books,
they scream as they judge and they throw dirty looks.
They hate to their core the once closeted people,
and pray for their end under sacrosanct steeple.
But worry not, darling, of those who spew hate:
they won't be a bother—you seem pretty straight.

There aren't any monsters in the attic, my dear,
the settling house is the noise that you hear.
Though monsters do sometimes descend from above,
destroying the people and places we love.
Whether winged from high up or sent from afar,
they rocket their malice to murder and mar.
But, as long as you stay in the U.S. of A.
and don't travel abroad, you should be okay.

So now that you see there aren’t monsters about,
I’ll tuck in you tightly and put the lights out.
Good night, my beloved—we’re right down the hall,
if somethings amiss, just give us a call.
We’ll fly to your aid, as swift as a bird,
assuming your screams through the pillow are heard.

Sweet dreams.

I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill!

By "Blueberry Hill," I mean regular old dirt hills, not far from home...hills in Long Beach...who knew!?

And by "thrill," I mean actual thrills from riding my beloved mountain bike furiously up and down said hills. Well, slowly and somewhat painstakingly up them, then from swiftly to crap-in-my-pants-fast down them.

It's been a very long time since I've rode on a trail, and I've missed it dearly: riding on the pavement is no bueno...it's a little too boring for me.

Granted, it's not much as far as mountain biking goes.  It sorta feels like one of those multi-"roomed" hamster homes, connected by a tube: I can go up and down in a few places, but I'm frequently riding in circles and experiencing my "thrill" on the same drops.  Still, it's far and away more enjoyable than peddling on a paved bike path.

As with most bike outings, Gina joined me, but she took her time safely ushering her bike up the hills...until she reached the summit, and there was nowhere to do but down.  Unfortunately for Gina, she wasn't very well acquainted with downhill biking and the speeds that accompany it, and we're talking about solid, paved ground.  Doing so in the dirt and loose sand and closely flanked by stickery, scratchy bushes was a bit too much for her at first...annnnd...by "at first," I mean the first 10 minutes.  She hemmed and she hawed, and she grimaced and she squirmed, but she eventually made her way down without harm.

The first hill was the toughest.  Though only about 7-8 feet tall and not terribly steep, it was still much more sheer a drop than anything else she's approached before, and the path didn't simply continue on into the horizon like the bike paths of yore...and by "yore," I mean the past week or two we've been riding.  Instead, it allowed for about 15 feet of travel before heading long into the dry, uninviting California brush.

The first strategy was simple enough: she agreed to follow me down as I went before her and only needed to guide her bike along the same path I led mine; this happened several times with me going it alone while she remained perched atop the hill.

Then we moved onto strategy number two, which involved her backed up to get a "running" start (she was afraid if she wasn't going fast enough by the time she started her decent she would lose control of the bike).  She attempted this several times only to stop just before the drop, then stared at me with sad puppy-dog eyes.

In the end it took me bracing her from behind (so she didn't roll down another much steeper hill, backwards) and literally propelling her toward the perilous precipice.  And wouldn't you know it, she made it down in one piece, just like I had been telling her the entire time.

"That was the hard part.  The rest is easy compared to that," I said without having actually ridden it.

As we started down the much less steep, but considerably longer hill that led to the bottom, I quickly realized that I'm going quite a bit faster than I had anticipated.  I gently apply the brake to slow my decent when I hear Gina coming up quickly behind me — both her words and inflection indicating she's going too fast for comfort and gaining speed, despite braking.  Releasing my breaks (trying to get the hell out of the way) I let gravity pull me ahead of her, and promptly stop once I reach the bottom, just off to the side of where I know she's heading.  As I turn around, I see her panicked but obviously relieved face wincing as she hits the final bumps in her path, until she too comes to a hault.  With quickened breath she tells me, "I think this is an acquired taste...I'm definitely a water person."  I laughed, gave her a kiss on the cheek, told her how amazingly well she had done and then started on our way back home.

I'm proud of my brave wifey...she done good.

Alluring Alliteration

"Indigo's Indelible Idiosyncrasies"
Slim loping legs lead her long and lightly, leaping lively to lush lawn laid with sun leering brightly.
With gait, great and wide, she gracefully glides, giant galloping paws thus do gently collide with grass and gray gravel as she gustily travels.
Snout sniffs the sweet soaring scents, swirling around, sweeping swiftly several centimeters over the ground.
Quiting, she quickly quells her quivering quads; chomping cool cubes of ice, crazily crushing them to calm her vice, then comes crashing a comfortable, contented canine.
My marvelous mutt must make me more merry than most mightily mirthy men.

Me Time

Anyone who knows me knows I’m not really a people person.  Sure, I can interact with people in a fairly normal way, but if it’s with those I’m not familiar with (or comfortable with) it’s usually forced, slightly unnatural, and frequently uncomfortable.  Those of you I do feel more comfortable with get a more real me, but still a watered-down, more socially acceptable me.  And those of you I feel very comfortable with get the real, unfiltered and often extremely brash (as I was recently described) and annoying me.  Which leads to me why I’m writing this: I really enjoy “me time.”

By “me time” I mean time alone, even if not really alone, to do whatever the hell I want, preferably whenever the hell I want to.  I find that, even if I’m surrounded by people (especially people I don’t know), I can pretty easily tune them out and, if possible, will try to physically get away from them as soon as possible, so it becomes impossible for me to interact with them.  Because, when it comes down to it, sometimes it’s easier to get to happy when it’s just me, myself, and I.

When I’m with people I don’t know, I am very aware of how fake I feel, as if putting on an act to get through the usually forced (internally or externally) socialization, and for people I really couldn’t care less about, which seems like a lot of misplaced energy and effort on my part.  When I’m with others I’m more comfortable with, while more like myself, I’m still holding back and feel stifled, which also makes me uneasy and very aware of how I’m acting.  And, even when I’m with the few people this world I can really let loose and be myself around, I easily start to get on my own nerves, because I’m, again, very aware of how I’m acting, and not only aware of how others may be perceiving me, but how I’m actually seeing myself from their standpoint, and I don’t much like it.  So, it seems that no matter who I’m with, there’s a point at which I don’t care for how I’m acting, or feeling about how I’m acting, and it’s been like this too much of the time...which is why I prefer to just be on my own from time to time.

Yet, lately (actually, for quite some time now), “me time” has been an exceedingly difficult thing to come by, and I feel like it’s beginning to wear me down and get the better of me.  I like my friends (what few friends I keep), but all too often I don’t like how I am around them.  I love my family and, sometimes, there aren’t many things I enjoy more than spending time with them, but it comes back to me not liking how I am around them.  And there’s no one I love more than my wife and nothing I wouldn’t do for her, but I’ve noticed my fuse has been getting shorter and shorter when dealing with her and I occasionally find myself not wanting to do things for her as they seem to take away from the phony “me time” I’m trying to pull out of thin air wherever and whenever I can.  But I can’t ignore my wife, nor do I want to—this goes for my friends and family as well.

My patience for most everything is worn thin and I don’t like how I’m reacting to the world around me.  I don’t know if this can be fixed with the “me time” I’m missing or if this is a symptom of something else entirely.  Despite how it may look, I hate annoying people, let alone hurting those I care about, but sometimes I feel so damn fed up with everyone and everything that my frustration seems to erupt without me being able to contain it.  I really miss my me time, and am reminded of how much I truly do miss it on those rare occasions I get to enjoy it.  For everyone's sake, especially my ever-patient wife who has to deal with my crap the most, I hope that I can get more of it and pray it helps ease my aggravation.

I realise how completely selfish this all sounds, but for someone who’s never been keen on socializing to begin with and who has always had and relished time to myself, it’s been a very difficult and “painful” transition.  I’m not even sure how much sense I’ve made throughout this diatribe, but writing it out at 1:00 am, alone, with the wife asleep, has helped vent some of that unwanted anger.  Then again, it’s 1:00 am, and I’m tired, and I need to get up for work in the morning...not ideal “me time” here.

I’m not looking for pity or sympathy.  If anything, this is my crappy way of explaining to the people in my life why I’m as ornery as I am and that I’m sorry for it (especially my poor wife).  And who knows, maybe I’ve always been this hard to deal with regardless of how much “me time” I’ve had at my disposal; maybe I’m just a grumpy son-of-a-bitch (not a reference to my mother) who’s never completely happy with the way things are—I, for one, hope not.

(I can hear the faint sound of my wife calling me “Emo” already.)

"Screw You, Day!"

Good night, long day, who brought frustration,
so much so that I crave libation.
I go to sleep in hopes that I
can find the peace that you deny;
for morning brings the world anew
and rids my bones of all of you.
The sun will rise and birds will sing,
renewing hope for everything.
Farewell, dumb day, your end has come,
and at you I doth bite my thumb!