Mann sat on a huge granite boulder near the shoreline, anxiously perplexed as he pondered his future. Sure he had built great cities, helped them find sustainable means of nourishment and even saved entire civilizations from catastrophe at times. But just as there had come a point where he was starting to need something...more...is when she first appeared.
Having been consumed with various efforts of her own nearly halfway around the world, Hella had finally made it into Mann's eyesight one day when, once her own people were at peace she became curious what was beyond the horizon and started swimming. She is simply incredible, bronzed by the sun from years of hard toiling yet fair as ten thousand virgins. He knew right away that he would never look at life the same way again, for he daughters of mortals were simply too fragile. He would hurt them.
But Hella, her presence, how it threatened to change the game. They had exchanged yet a few awkward phrases, seeming to point out the obvious, yet they could hardly look each other in the eye. Oh how she made him ache.
Time passed and he saw her not, until one day the people cried out for help, and out of nowhere she appeared and lent a hand, just when all hope was about lost, their efforts multiplied way beyond what each could do alone.
As they walked by the shoreline sharing their amazement at this she took his hand and confessed, of her longings that kept her from resting. And so Mann and Hella became one, and the people rejoiced! After a time, they had a son.
They named him: Ache.
Sunday, May 6, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
love, beauty and sacrament
sunrise
over misty tree-covered hills
a lone slide guitar
played on the porch
stories and laughter
binding generations
last year’s shucked beans
taters and ham
horseshoes in the yard
home sweet home
nearer my god to thee
this land
is my land
Saturday, March 3, 2012
sadder day
there’s no sadder day
than a saturday
just don’t know what
i’m gonna do with myself
‘specially when i can’t get hold of you
traffic on these city streets
pounds though my veins
never lets me rest
even as i sleep
takes me to a place inside
myself i’ve never been
from drivin way too long without the lights on
Saturday, February 25, 2012
home
I've often said that I've been blessed beyond measure to be born late and still have both parents around for this long. As a newcomer into our family dynamic, with siblings in their teens, I was half a generation behind. It was the era of Nixon's Law and Order, where many Americans approaching their middle years felt out of touch with changing society. Before I started school my folks felt it best to move out into the country where it seems safer, more serene. I moved out at age 25 and then briefly again at 39 to get re-established in Ohio, but they are still there.
It's true, you can never (literally) go "back home" as it's a place that exists within. But for many years I could visit the surroundings and my folks, not perfect, just wonderful. At times I would have moments of acceptance as they age, that someday things would change, whatever that meant.
Just as I was returning from out of state things seemed to be happening rapidly. Dad seemed to be increasingly off-kilter in his decisions and behavior. Mom was understandably aggravated. For my part the anger hit first, and at one moment I actually shouted at him. We needed answers, so we took him to doctors over the winter and confirmed our suspicions. Alzheimer's.
This was a year ago, about the time I had a job offer at an office over an hour away. Mom said "you need to do this, we'll be just fine" and I knew she was right. Still, since then I don't think I've been able to spend more than 24 hours at a time in my hometown.
Last summer I finally had the means to digitize Dad's old home movies and videos. The former covered mainly the stuff I missed, the home I was born into but without really knowing first-hand. The latter began when I was in high school and continued for about ten years.
With the videos, it's easy at first to dismiss the seemingly endless footage of the yard, garden, flowers, and whatever else catches his eye, especially once he retired, since the stuff we tend to watch together are holidays and cookouts and such. But then, as I kept fumbling with the technology I noticed more of the "B" footage, and some of it, says more than I would have imagined.
Dad somehow captured the serenity, the essence, of what I knew as home. We were fortunate, the bills were paid, the pension was coming in and after retirement he got to spend his days doing "garage" projects in the winter and gardening in the warm months, things were so green and lush back then. When the fancy struck he would pick up the camcorder and wander about the yard, narrating at times, but not always. Sometimes you see a snow storm through the windows and can hear the goings on inside the house.
In a way, maybe it's a window into the soul of a man who's hard to read. But having been away a few years and realizing his strength was fading, it's hard to know what to think of that. These scenes are something I'll need to go back to for the rest of my life. It's a window to a special place, a place to which I never can return, but alas, I get to visit at times, precious times, the places, sounds and sights that made me and shaped me.
My earliest memories include weekend afternoon drives with Dad. I still love taking drives in the winter when daylight is scarce. Sometime during my kindergarten year I had a dream of one of those drives. We saw the gas fires at the refinery, maybe sit a few minutes watching planes at the airfield, places of wonder in a world that seemed enormous at the time. I would ask what things were and he would explain in a few words. There didn't need to be many words. Sometimes we'd go to the mall and Arby's. We explored the world around us. That was just right.
But in the dream, my minds eye floated out of the car and I was somehow watching it on a home movie screen, and suddenly an evening sunset cast shadows of our heads onto a colorless floor. Something within my tiny soul ached and I tried to reach for the shadows before they disappeared. But instead, I awoke.
Home is not a memory. It really is a place, more than just a zeitgeist, it lives as a coral reef, and life-enabling to the creatures that rely upon it.
So now, my concept of home is changing, younger generations taking on new roles, but with new rewards, let's not forget. We are an amazing group, full of vitality and laughter. But when we lose someone, or maybe just part of someone, honoring their life and contribution to yours and others is not a mental exercise, but it takes some realizations. Sometimes tough love, sometimes hard decisions, but other times...just looking for the love that's always been there.
Before I came back last month for Mom's birthday I got a call from Dad. He can't drive any more so he asked if I'd pick out a card saying such and such, so I did that on the way. The strength is gone but the things that matter most still are.
Honoring Dad comes down to living by his example. Do what you love, love what you do, help those who need it, and take time to rest, and wherever you are, enjoy the scenery.
This year will be replete with cookouts, laughs and times. But I just thought, it might be good to mix in an afternoon drive here and there, even, if there are only a few words.
It's true, you can never (literally) go "back home" as it's a place that exists within. But for many years I could visit the surroundings and my folks, not perfect, just wonderful. At times I would have moments of acceptance as they age, that someday things would change, whatever that meant.
Just as I was returning from out of state things seemed to be happening rapidly. Dad seemed to be increasingly off-kilter in his decisions and behavior. Mom was understandably aggravated. For my part the anger hit first, and at one moment I actually shouted at him. We needed answers, so we took him to doctors over the winter and confirmed our suspicions. Alzheimer's.
This was a year ago, about the time I had a job offer at an office over an hour away. Mom said "you need to do this, we'll be just fine" and I knew she was right. Still, since then I don't think I've been able to spend more than 24 hours at a time in my hometown.
Last summer I finally had the means to digitize Dad's old home movies and videos. The former covered mainly the stuff I missed, the home I was born into but without really knowing first-hand. The latter began when I was in high school and continued for about ten years.
With the videos, it's easy at first to dismiss the seemingly endless footage of the yard, garden, flowers, and whatever else catches his eye, especially once he retired, since the stuff we tend to watch together are holidays and cookouts and such. But then, as I kept fumbling with the technology I noticed more of the "B" footage, and some of it, says more than I would have imagined.
Dad somehow captured the serenity, the essence, of what I knew as home. We were fortunate, the bills were paid, the pension was coming in and after retirement he got to spend his days doing "garage" projects in the winter and gardening in the warm months, things were so green and lush back then. When the fancy struck he would pick up the camcorder and wander about the yard, narrating at times, but not always. Sometimes you see a snow storm through the windows and can hear the goings on inside the house.
In a way, maybe it's a window into the soul of a man who's hard to read. But having been away a few years and realizing his strength was fading, it's hard to know what to think of that. These scenes are something I'll need to go back to for the rest of my life. It's a window to a special place, a place to which I never can return, but alas, I get to visit at times, precious times, the places, sounds and sights that made me and shaped me.
My earliest memories include weekend afternoon drives with Dad. I still love taking drives in the winter when daylight is scarce. Sometime during my kindergarten year I had a dream of one of those drives. We saw the gas fires at the refinery, maybe sit a few minutes watching planes at the airfield, places of wonder in a world that seemed enormous at the time. I would ask what things were and he would explain in a few words. There didn't need to be many words. Sometimes we'd go to the mall and Arby's. We explored the world around us. That was just right.
But in the dream, my minds eye floated out of the car and I was somehow watching it on a home movie screen, and suddenly an evening sunset cast shadows of our heads onto a colorless floor. Something within my tiny soul ached and I tried to reach for the shadows before they disappeared. But instead, I awoke.
Home is not a memory. It really is a place, more than just a zeitgeist, it lives as a coral reef, and life-enabling to the creatures that rely upon it.
So now, my concept of home is changing, younger generations taking on new roles, but with new rewards, let's not forget. We are an amazing group, full of vitality and laughter. But when we lose someone, or maybe just part of someone, honoring their life and contribution to yours and others is not a mental exercise, but it takes some realizations. Sometimes tough love, sometimes hard decisions, but other times...just looking for the love that's always been there.
Before I came back last month for Mom's birthday I got a call from Dad. He can't drive any more so he asked if I'd pick out a card saying such and such, so I did that on the way. The strength is gone but the things that matter most still are.
Honoring Dad comes down to living by his example. Do what you love, love what you do, help those who need it, and take time to rest, and wherever you are, enjoy the scenery.
This year will be replete with cookouts, laughs and times. But I just thought, it might be good to mix in an afternoon drive here and there, even, if there are only a few words.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
beans
The autumn of 2009 was warm and gradual in southtown Kansas City. I rented a small house in a nice neighbourhood and got to spend most evenings propped up with pillows with a laptop running Linux, trying to solve a problem no one asked me to. I was supporting a small online bookseller that relied upon custom-built software to generate prices, and so one day I realise it could work so much efficiently in Java.
So, I started porting it from VB to Java, each evening, on a laptop running Linux, next to a cracked-open window with a glass or beer or bourbon sitting on it. That was back before Facebook games became lame or addictive, depending upon who you ask, and around then it would be time for friends to work on each other's farms. Eventually that game went absolutely nowhere but it fit the moment, along with local TV showing Star Trek TNG each weeknight.
Thanks to some down-home roots there will always be soup beans and ham pumping through these veins, but for the single male, a quarter-can of boiled SPAM in some Van Kamp's Pork N Beans does just fine, no kidding. Fills a bowl and then the soul. Sometimes a dab of cottage cheese would chase it well.
I can't say how long this went on, it was more of a clonal moment, a series of evenings making strides with the code, step by step, closer to a solution, chatting with friends along the way. As it turns out my motivation for doing the Java project was never clear, it just needed to happen.
As with all moments, they are just that, and they must end. This one gave way to a confusing set of events, the company changed hands, and along came one of the harshest winters I'd ever known - literally and figuratively. The ground was covered for weeks in foot-thick frozen snow, the city's prize walking trail rendered useless and I was stuck in that house with not enough work to keep a cat alive.
A few months before, I had pitched the Java version to the company owner and he was probably interested if it could be proven superior, then I would ask for a fee. But then, I was realising my love for code there in that geeky bliss, and so the longer I kept it up the notion of a direct payoff grew less and less important.
As it turns out, just over a year later I got a real job that's soaked in code, not Java, but close enough.
So, I started porting it from VB to Java, each evening, on a laptop running Linux, next to a cracked-open window with a glass or beer or bourbon sitting on it. That was back before Facebook games became lame or addictive, depending upon who you ask, and around then it would be time for friends to work on each other's farms. Eventually that game went absolutely nowhere but it fit the moment, along with local TV showing Star Trek TNG each weeknight.
Thanks to some down-home roots there will always be soup beans and ham pumping through these veins, but for the single male, a quarter-can of boiled SPAM in some Van Kamp's Pork N Beans does just fine, no kidding. Fills a bowl and then the soul. Sometimes a dab of cottage cheese would chase it well.
I can't say how long this went on, it was more of a clonal moment, a series of evenings making strides with the code, step by step, closer to a solution, chatting with friends along the way. As it turns out my motivation for doing the Java project was never clear, it just needed to happen.
As with all moments, they are just that, and they must end. This one gave way to a confusing set of events, the company changed hands, and along came one of the harshest winters I'd ever known - literally and figuratively. The ground was covered for weeks in foot-thick frozen snow, the city's prize walking trail rendered useless and I was stuck in that house with not enough work to keep a cat alive.
A few months before, I had pitched the Java version to the company owner and he was probably interested if it could be proven superior, then I would ask for a fee. But then, I was realising my love for code there in that geeky bliss, and so the longer I kept it up the notion of a direct payoff grew less and less important.
As it turns out, just over a year later I got a real job that's soaked in code, not Java, but close enough.
Monday, January 23, 2012
because somebody has to
Once again we relate the story of an everyday individual who strives to make a difference in this world.
He's a man not much different than you or I really, except he has a very unique function that sets him apart. His name is Uckfay, but if that weren't bad enough, he is the one who has to review television, books, and other media to determine which content is morally acceptable for you and I to consume. Evidently we are not capable of making those determinations for ourselves.
Uckfay wears a suit to work and reports to the Society of Blowhards, or SoB's for short. He has his share of challenges, mainly physical, such as borderline diabetes from only consuming soda, because beer is not permitted by the SoB doctrine despite being made of all-natural ingredients.
And he also suffers from a sore neck from walking on only the right side of the street.
He's a man not much different than you or I really, except he has a very unique function that sets him apart. His name is Uckfay, but if that weren't bad enough, he is the one who has to review television, books, and other media to determine which content is morally acceptable for you and I to consume. Evidently we are not capable of making those determinations for ourselves.
Uckfay wears a suit to work and reports to the Society of Blowhards, or SoB's for short. He has his share of challenges, mainly physical, such as borderline diabetes from only consuming soda, because beer is not permitted by the SoB doctrine despite being made of all-natural ingredients.
And he also suffers from a sore neck from walking on only the right side of the street.
say it
probably
said it before
long ago
far away
chopping firewood
letting off steam
because
certain idiots
here and there
found it necessary
to take
the low road
trying my hatred
because
sometimes
insecurity
and maybe
issues
of esteem
are hard
to swallow
say it?
can't say it
because
firewood
is better
to split
than
a sack
of shit.
and so
ages pass
find myself
of all places
theology school
driven by visions
as if
ranting
at the pulpit
that i grew up
facing
only to push back
at a generation
who
despite best intentions
could not break
their mold
talking
not listening
to young people
should be seen
not heard
their own
life story
often rehearsing
failures, regrets
sometimes
confusing them with
concern
say it?
can't say it
because
you just can't
reason
with a
barking dog.
and then
certain
baby boomers
facing
too many changes
got to clamp down
one last desperate
white knuckled
choke hold
break these
commie punks
even as
some of them
fall
on the same
sword
they had
warned us
to avoid
say it?
can't say it
because
silence can be
defening
and indifference
far more
chilling
than hatred
and so
time wounds
all heels
karma's
a bitch
bastards
will pay.
said it before
long ago
far away
chopping firewood
letting off steam
because
certain idiots
here and there
found it necessary
to take
the low road
trying my hatred
because
sometimes
insecurity
and maybe
issues
of esteem
are hard
to swallow
say it?
can't say it
because
firewood
is better
to split
than
a sack
of shit.
and so
ages pass
find myself
of all places
theology school
driven by visions
as if
ranting
at the pulpit
that i grew up
facing
only to push back
at a generation
who
despite best intentions
could not break
their mold
talking
not listening
to young people
should be seen
not heard
their own
life story
often rehearsing
failures, regrets
sometimes
confusing them with
concern
say it?
can't say it
because
you just can't
reason
with a
barking dog.
and then
certain
baby boomers
facing
too many changes
got to clamp down
one last desperate
white knuckled
choke hold
break these
commie punks
even as
some of them
fall
on the same
sword
they had
warned us
to avoid
say it?
can't say it
because
silence can be
defening
and indifference
far more
chilling
than hatred
and so
time wounds
all heels
karma's
a bitch
bastards
will pay.
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