tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-111728602024-03-23T14:19:11.627-04:00The Great ElsewhereLife, Culture And Very Little Matherichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.comBlogger287125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-75180606529420429882022-08-10T00:43:00.000-04:002022-08-10T00:43:09.392-04:00The syrupy summer 2022<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRMgyVcnagVjLmoymxF9PrhXGcvIgPHfyhBUQob1O3kduVLhczkwRCedAlMs1wq7l49Ow6XNKOGzQrfvk2XTPnToV2UFGc-fbbuZDYxhiP8dsmKeM77qdp7W7G5TnuUacOaoJBCjuGBBTnNPro2nW-spzel_vY6w5o4YVxSX94TLorGVoC92s/s4032/IMG_2676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRMgyVcnagVjLmoymxF9PrhXGcvIgPHfyhBUQob1O3kduVLhczkwRCedAlMs1wq7l49Ow6XNKOGzQrfvk2XTPnToV2UFGc-fbbuZDYxhiP8dsmKeM77qdp7W7G5TnuUacOaoJBCjuGBBTnNPro2nW-spzel_vY6w5o4YVxSX94TLorGVoC92s/s320/IMG_2676.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>Syrupy because it was always going to be rich, but before it I'd thought in a Gin & Tonic kind of way and not a White Russian way. But it's here, after all these years, this manifestation exists and how fortunate to live to get to the feel it all. What's next? Not the moon presenting itself to meet our poetic needs at our moment, but instead just ... so ridiculous we expect it to or imagine that it did. It didn't mean to represent something, as it does every fullness of summer August. But every moon is the muse of a curious person. There are better poems than others for that. But this is how I feel about it all....</p>erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-9635426159675285192019-03-03T15:18:00.000-05:002019-04-09T15:21:52.298-04:00Ghosts of Sunday PastTwo - each physically present in the form of something left.<br />
<br />
One, wilted from the cold.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcQibgRhNNyaWekklOiRxoL8dHqsbieLzOpZeEWgxYMUf6miQuMw1dNusSHE7YP8eBZoZQOcgEajm-B3NsBzY7IC9lKtM0m_lh9DGtDwr7hVSAI41AwrFljyemrgkr8sPikxB-g/s1600/IMG_0559.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcQibgRhNNyaWekklOiRxoL8dHqsbieLzOpZeEWgxYMUf6miQuMw1dNusSHE7YP8eBZoZQOcgEajm-B3NsBzY7IC9lKtM0m_lh9DGtDwr7hVSAI41AwrFljyemrgkr8sPikxB-g/s320/IMG_0559.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
The other, still organic, and still warm - but a ghost.<br />
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erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-48601934712213344432016-10-13T19:16:00.000-04:002018-08-29T19:17:05.766-04:00I bought a beer for an alcoholic.<br />
<br />
"Hey, man. I just need 27 cents."<br />
<br />
"27 cents? Just pick out the beer you want."<br />
<br />
After the hurricane, I felt alive.<br />
<br />
So alive. No time for anything but truth and the moment.<br />
<br />erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-34383521819507253852016-09-12T23:59:00.000-04:002018-08-29T19:13:16.998-04:00Titusville, FloridaThe day that hurts the most for me isn't the day, a year ago, that my mother took to a treadmill as she tried to make her troubled life more full.<br />
<br />
It was 9/11, a Friday. I was at my work desk - doing nothing much of any value. Right before 1 p.m., I got the call from an uncle I haven't spoken to in years. He didn't like me, and she had made sure to let me know that.<br />
<br />
So many times, it would be someone from Florida to call that my Mom was in the hospital. She had passed out, had some medical issue. "You're her son. She's got no one else down here, except for this brother she says is abusive. What can we do?"<br />
<br />
I would tell them, "I've tried to help her. And I will, under certain circumstances. But she's got to do her part, too."<br />
<br />
There were so many other calls over the years, some more real than others.<br />
<br />
Just 13 days earlier, I had gotten a call from my aunt to tell me I should call my mother because she had had her surgery and would appreciate talking with me.<br />
<br />
But this call on 9/11 is the one she had fixated on it seems for the entirety of my life.<br />
<br />
My Mom was gone, at age 63.<br />
<br />
I had written <a href="http://greatelsewhere.blogspot.com/2015/05/sonhood.html" target="_blank">this</a> on Mother's Day earlier in the year:<br />
<br />
<i>***</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #999999; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 10.53px; letter-spacing: 0.2em; line-height: 1.4em; text-transform: uppercase;"><i>SUNDAY, MAY 10, 2015</i></span><br />
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<a href="http://greatelsewhere.blogspot.com/2015/05/sonhood.html" style="color: #804000; display: block; text-decoration: none;"><i>Sonhood</i></a></h3>
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<i>I see it all around me today.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Old photos and "thanks for making me who I am today."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I'm in a place neither here nor there, one of emptiness and guilt and mourning.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Mourning for someone who is still alive.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And I fear can only thank once she is no longer here.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Taken by this current, down, I can only see the dissolving glow of light above.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>How warmly it must shine.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="color: black; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><i>***</i></span></div>
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I hadn't seen my mother in five years. We had had a good conversation the last time we spoke, which was an accomplishment. She had made it through her knee surgery, which she was more pessimistic about than I was. She wanted to get moving after so many months of not being able to move without a walker, necessary because of her degenerative knee joints.<br />
<br />
We spoke about me becoming a writer and getting married and having two boys. We talked about how I wouldn't be a writer without her, because she is who all my empathy and communication ability and idealism comes from. I had just published a great collaborative project with a colleague that day. And I thanked her for being who she was to make me who I was. We also talked about the strong throwing arms her two grandsons have. She brought up her state records in high school in standing long jump and shot put. I believe she felt loved, felt like a contributor. And one day I saw taking care of her, but not yet. She had more she could and needed to do herself.<br />
<br />
But all along, I knew she lived in a bad place. A government-subsidized apartment complex. I remember what that was like as a child. But somehow I knew this was different. It was worse, more dangerous. I could say I grew up in a bad neighborhood, but she was still living it.<br />
<br />
She was supposed to call me when she checked into her rehab facility. She was having trouble adjusting to the pain medication - she had built up a tolerance, apparently.<br />
<br />
I didn't hear from her, but it also wasn't my first priority to try to track her down.<br />
<br />
She'd let me know. Meanwhile, I would live the life I created for myself.<br />
<br />
I didn't know that late, unassuming morning that she'd be getting on a treadmill, working herself back so that no one could barge through her front door and hit her and steal from her again as she sat defenseless.<br />
<br />
I'm told her heart simply stopped.<br />
<br />
I have no access to her medical records, because she didn't think I cared enough about her medical conditions - mostly involving mental illness - to want her to list me as an approved family member for doctors to communicate with.<br />
<br />
I tried. No one would tell me anything, except for the coroner and the knee surgeon who later called to express his sadness and tell me that the surgery had gone fine, except for some extra bleeding that caused her to stay in the hospital longer than originally planned.<br />
<br />
That was all I would know, short of any information she might have written down somewhere.<br />
<br />
I drove down to Florida the next day, knowing nothing of where I was going and little about what I would find.<br />
<br />
All throughout the morning yesterday, I would look at the clock and dread the notion that she was getting on that treadmill to improve her life and didn't realize that she had only some minutes left to live.<br />
<br />
It was like it was happening again, and that I had some way to communicate with her this time around - but, again, wouldn't.<br />
<br />
Instead, it was just the time of day on a day where the sun shines in the same coordinates in the sky, the day is exactly as long as it was the year before, the grass is beginning to brown and everyone in America is mourning a national tragedy.<br />
<br />
This hurts.<br />
<br />
But not as much as tonight.<br />
<br />
This night last year, I was in her apartment in Titusville, Florida - a depressing town along the central eastern coast of Florida, somehow tied to the success of the Kennedy Space Center, where space shuttles no longer launch.<br />
<br />
It's a place of a collective sense of missed opportunity.<br />
<br />
Driving up, the place was chaotic. People outside rolling dice with wads of cash in their hands. There were no gunshots that night, but it was something that would happen. A few months earlier, a person murdered another person in the cluster next to my Mom's place.<br />
<br />
There was a woman upstairs who had taken care of her - paid her bills, got her clothes when she needed them, encouraged her to stop drinking so much Diet Coke. My Mom depended on her, signed her modest life insurance policy over to her. But it was only me who would be able to see that she was cremated and buried in the historic Savannah cemetery where her dysfunctional family ravaged by alcohol and mental illness lost their fortune and was buried along the Wilmington River This woman was matter of fact about her situation. She didn't seem to have any plan to get out of this complex. She talked about how my Mom was fortunate that the bottom floor walls were made of concrete, to stop any bullets. Later that evening, the police in a half-dozen cars would arrive with lights flashing, then wait outside and talk with one another to ensure the unruly remained inside. This was a common occurrence on a weekend night, apparently.<br />
<br />
Inside my Mom's apartment, it was much as I remember my childhood. Neat but with small pieces of sentimentality placed throughout. Largely pictures of me and items from my childhood. There was a photo collage over her television with some pictures I had sent of my boys and me and my wife that earlier Christmas. She was so thankful for that.<br />
<br />
On the TV was an old key chain. Its anchor was made of wood, with the name "Eric" carved out of it. It was mine when I was a child. I must have left it behind when I left for college.<br />
<br />
All around were evidence of the cats who became her children. There were the memes of yesteryear spread throughout, things about having faith and Mr. Right coming along one day. There were medical bills. Written reminders of doctors appointments.<br />
<br />
She had stored away old pictures and items that reconstructed her life - one of abuse and neglect, misplaced affection and loyalty, and a glossed-over view of her history.<br />
<br />
It was a museum to the life she wanted and the notions that she so badly wanted to be true.<br />
<br />
I found journals. She would start them and leave many of the pages blank. Then start another. Each one marking a new declaration that she was starting a new life.<br />
<br />
In one, from several years ago, she talks about a one-eyed, stray cat that had been shot with a BB gun. Over time, the cat came to trust her. She wanted to take him to the vet and have him taken care of, vaccinated, put on his feet to have a better life. She wrestled with it over the course of a few days, then woke up to the conclusion that she would spend her disability check on the vet charges and that the two were in it together. It stops after that. I don't know what she did.<br />
<br />
In another entry, she talked about how my uncle was wrong about me. I would come and save her. I did care about her, and he was the one who hit her and demeaned her. She made her case.<br />
<br />
My wife found another journal. One she looked at and then held close to her. She wanted to hide it. I asked her about it, and she told me it didn't say much of anything. I insisted. She handed it to me and told me I needed to understand that my mother did love me, that my mother was mentally ill and that what was written wasn't the true way she felt about me.<br />
<br />
In this entry, she writes to me. In short, she tells me that I've abandoned her.<br />
<br />
There are many reasons why I didn't go down there before, why I carved a place in this life that placed her outside of it. I did, without exception, always answer her calls. I never knew what she would say. Whether she would attack me or lavish praise and appreciation that I was her son.<br />
<br />
But this isn't about that.<br />
<br />
This is about the night I visited the terrible apartment complex my mother lived in, well after the time I should have, after she was no longer there to show me herself the life she had created inside - in all its beauty and illusion.<br />
<br />
This night hurts the most.<br />
<br />erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-85615805049131889882016-07-01T14:29:00.000-04:002016-07-01T14:29:09.347-04:00Evolution<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">I saw a firefly flashing high above the tree canopy.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">This isn't the easiest place to continue your species. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">But perhaps this ambition</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"> evolves you, only you, for these next few weeks of life. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">Above the spiderwebs that entangle the love-struck.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">And before the tree has been chopped down.</span>erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-35552810660062845332015-06-09T15:58:00.001-04:002015-06-09T16:18:06.139-04:00Body Serf"I'm going to swim way out, past the waves. Come with me."<br />
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To where?<br />
<br />
To unimaginable expanse. To life. To uncertainty. And to desolation. <br />
<br />
To nowhere and everywhere.<br />
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Come with me. Ride a wave. Back to shore.<br />
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"No, there is too much to explore."<br />
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erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-45242204506462711062015-05-10T12:46:00.000-04:002015-05-10T12:48:07.191-04:00SonhoodI see it all around me today.<br />
<br />
Old photos and "thanks for making me who I am today."<br />
<br />
I'm in a place neither here nor there, one of emptiness and guilt and mourning.<br />
<br />
Mourning for someone who is still alive.<br />
<br />
And I fear can only thank once she is no longer here.<br />
<br />
Taken by this current, down, I can only see the dissolving glow of light above.<br />
<br />
How warmly it must shine.erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-4679639284729284432014-07-15T03:13:00.004-04:002014-07-15T03:13:58.752-04:00Binary <div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">The creator gave us two eyes and, by God, I can't bring myself to see nothing but two moons. The eyes do not agree with science. </span></div>
erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-75578434871573041062014-04-01T23:30:00.000-04:002014-04-02T00:36:29.376-04:00How The Trolls Get Trolled By The Trolls Who Get Trolled On<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
It's been 14 years now. Things are different. No more Thomas the Tank Engine toys. No more smeared cake on the face.</div>
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I can't think of a birthday more fitting for Asa than April Fool's Day.</div>
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He's a comedian. Practical jokes. Anything for a laugh and to make somebody smile.</div>
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It's wonderful how he's turned out. They talk about teenagers. This is fun.</div>
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So ... he had this coming.</div>
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Troll and get trolled.</div>
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When I was in the grocery store tonight to pick out a balloon, I debated between a simple "Happy Birthday" and the trifecta of Disney princesses.</div>
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But I know Asa.</div>
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He'd do it to me if given the opportunity.</div>
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As I walked out, a guy asked me, "So, you've got a big birthday party to plan tonight?"</div>
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I nodded my head.</div>
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He said, "Your daughter?"</div>
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This is where I could have just nodded again .. but I didn't.</div>
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In one of those times where you think your own joke is so funny that everybody's going to get it ... I explained.</div>
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"No, my son."</div>
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"Oh."</div>
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"Yeah, it's April Fool's and he likes to joke around, so ..."</div>
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"Oh, OK. How old?"</div>
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"Um, 14."</div>
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<smile></smile></div>
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"So, if you just knew him, hey, you'd know, this is funny."</div>
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"Cool."</div>
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<br /></div>
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"You asked."</div>
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"I know."</div>
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Yes, the joke ultimately was on me.</div>
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But it did get a laugh.</div>
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And that's all I'm looking for.</div>
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Like father, like son.</div>
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erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-3055503668722616392013-11-22T13:42:00.003-05:002013-11-22T13:42:37.517-05:00If Only I Had The Editing Skills<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What I wish I could see in this picture:</div>
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A French guy smoking a pipe and wearing a ridiculous beret is splayed across the wet floor, looking puzzled.</div>
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Meanwhile, three other guys stand to the side.</div>
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The American is in hunting camo attire and holding a Budweiser in his hand.</div>
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The German is wearing lederhosen, drinking from a beer boot.</div>
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The Mexican has a sombrero on his head and a Dos Equis.</div>
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And all three are pointing at the French guy and the sign on the floor, smirking.</div>
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<br />erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-9726919372671262262013-11-03T12:31:00.000-05:002013-11-03T12:32:31.350-05:00Wealth<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">This is a difficult lesson for me - because the pestilence is so insidious.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">I don't consider myself a man of material wealth.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">If I were, who knows how much more infected I would be.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">But the worship of wealth is far more than the word can describe.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">It's ego, judgment, instransigence.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">The worship of good as well as bad - as if you know.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Anyway ... I interpreted this this way today, with a little help, it being a Sunday and all:</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> In regards to material wealth, class warfare isn't the point. And self-persecution is a distraction.<br /> <br />
It's that if your wealth determines your worth - as it imperceptively can do - you won't find the peace you're looking for.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> I don't know that this solves any problems for me. For all I know it creates more. But ...<br /> </span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Luke 6:20-31<br /> <br /> "Jesus looked up at his disciples and said:<br /> <span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> "Blessed are you who are poor,<br /> for yours is the kingdom of God. <br /> "Blessed are you who are hungry now,<br /> for you will be filled. <br /> "Blessed are you who weep now,<br /> for you will laugh. <br />
"Blessed are you when people hate you, and when they exclude you,
revile you, and defame you on account of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that
day and leap for joy, for surely your reward is great in heaven; for
that is what their ancestors did to the prophets.<br /> "But woe to you who are rich,<br /> for you have received your consolation. <br /> "Woe to you who are full now,<br /> for you will be hungry. <br /> "Woe to you who are laughing now,<br /> for you will mourn and weep. <br /> "Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.<br /> <br />
"But I say to you that listen, Love your enemies, do good to those who
hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. If
anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone
who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to
everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not
ask for them again. Do to others as you would have them do to you."</span></span>erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-27360716772310799392013-10-29T11:24:00.000-04:002013-11-03T12:23:56.844-05:00Will And RegretFor every measure of regret, I'd like to think she matched it - and more - with an implacable will.<br />
<br />
The will, then, would be strong.<br />
<br />
A family and its dog.<br />
<br />
This wasn't an easy 14 years.<br />
<br />
She was defiant. Yet so perpetually afraid.<br />
<br />
She was like a wild animal. The purple tongue. Abandoned and picked from the pound by pity and not breed.<br />
<br />
She snapped at the kids, but never hurt them.<br />
<br />
We feared her occasional escape.<br />
<br />
Frustrating. Middling. Jealous.<br />
<br />
But cared for. And pitied.<br />
<br />
I didn't always handle my frustration well. <br />
<br />
I had never owned a dog before. I had always thought of this unconditional joy, a symbiotic relationship.<br />
<br />
Sure, she was happy to see us, but we just could never connect.<br />
<br />
I'd think of going outside to pet her, but instead I'd go days without touching her.<br />
<br />
*** <br />
<br />
I should have known how the end would come.<br />
<br />
Difficult. Unyielding.<br />
<br />
A spirit of survival determined to navigate a mortal body broken by time.<br />
<br />
People thought we should have done it sooner - but we knew her.<br />
<br />
She wanted to live, and her life had been one of making life more difficult than it needed to be.<br />
<br />
We gave her medicine. And she carried on with what seemed to be happiness. And I believe it was, as much as she knew of such a thing.<br />
<br />
When she could no longer walk on hardwood floors or tile, it meant she could no longer move inside.<br />
<br />
I had to wrap her in a blanket and ferry her to the door, where outside she could find traction.<br />
<br />
This was tenable when it was warm outside. Outside ... where she liked to be.<br />
<br />
Our modern conveniences separate us from the cycle of life.<br />
<br />
The cold comes. It is indiscriminate.<br />
<br />
Even toward the end, I would get frustrated that she laid at the door, looking for just another piece of food for no reason other than there was nothing else she seemed to care about.<br />
<br />
If you petted her, she would be sniffing for food. If you didn't do it at the right time, she might bite you.<br />
<br />
She had been deathly afraid of thunder. One night, she laid in the rain. I grabbed her to get her inside, her teeth planted into my forearm. <br />
<br />
A dog that can't walk in the cold. That you can't touch.<br />
<br />
I pitied her. But deep compassion that I feel for other things was either suppressed, absent or drawn into a dark void.<br />
<br />
All that kept her alive was her will to live ... and my regret.<br />
<br />
*** <br />
<br />
The thought: What a burden could be lifted?<br />
<br />
Perhaps.<br />
<br />
But not my regret.<br />
<br />
There wouldn't be enough time to balance against the accumulation.<br />
<br />
I tried in recent days. Her response was the same, but the knowledge that it soon wouldn't matter anymore was enough to find some purpose in it.<br />
<br />
I looked out the window into the backyard. She had to brace her legs to use the bathroom. And she was determined to walk out there to do it.<br />
<br />
The cold was setting in. It just couldn't carry on.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
The end was not peaceful, as they often portray.<br />
<br />
I should have known the fierceness of her will to survive, even in the face of such a tragic resignation. And the fear that didn't cripple her, but rather kept a crippled body in motion.<br />
<br />
No one was prepared.<br />
<br />
It was, unfortunately, an end emblematic of her life.<br />
<br />
The relief of a burden lifted?<br />
<br />
I don't feel it.<br />
<br />
All I feel is regret. <br />
<br />
I look out the window, and I still expect - and want - her to slowly trek on by.<br />
<br />
I know now that, even though I can offer no evidence, I love that dog.<br />
<br />
I wouldn't have chosen her ... but she was ours.<br />
<br />
*** <br />
<br />
I remember the time, a few years ago, when I walked in through a back door and for reasons I can't explain, she thought I was an intruder.<br />
<br />
She barked fiercely down the hall.<br />
<br />
I stood still and quiet, curious what would come of it.<br />
<br />
What would she ultimately do?<br />
<br />
The sound advanced steadily down the hall.<br />
<br />
Then right to the edge of the door.<br />
<br />
She peeked around the corner and stopped.<br />
<br />
Underneath her was a pool of pee.<br />
<br />
She had been afraid - but she had kept coming.<br />
<br />
And, I imagine, not knowing what she would do - or what would become of her.<br />
<br />
What ultimately became of her was what she feared that day: death at the hands of a stranger.<br />
<br />
And, like that day, she willed herself to fight it.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
Her will deserves more than the legacy I can summon.<br />
<br />
<br />
I miss her. I want to see her. I want to draw some meaning.<br />
<br />
But the toll-taker is at the bridge - and he is paid in self-forgiveness.<br />
<br />
It's a currency I haven't earned.<br />
<br />
And I don't know how I could.<br />
<br />
R.I.P, Sky<br />
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<br />erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-31777097834204222942013-10-09T10:50:00.000-04:002013-10-28T10:52:16.178-04:00ChangesOctober 9, 2012<br />
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October 9, 2013<br />
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<br />erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-39742195500624708582013-07-15T10:40:00.000-04:002013-10-28T10:44:30.277-04:00Plugging Back InOur children each learned to jump in a pool here.<br />
<br />
Each time, the strategy was simple: Jump into my arms and I'll catch you; then pull away and watch them jump for the rest of the week.<br />
<br />
A new place compelling you to be somebody you're usually not and do things you might not otherwise do.<br />
<br />
A few years go by ... diving was a first here, too.<br />
<br />
This is the condo we've come to for the past 8 years.<br />
<br />
Myrtle Beach, S.C.<br />
<br />
For those who like to represent that they vacation here "ironically," they often refer to it as The Dirty Myrtle.<br />
<br />
A neon parody.<br />
<br />
*** <br />
<br />
Here a year ago, I was preoccupied, the momentum of deciding to move from where we'd lived for 13 years was consuming. This was a respite, a place where there really was nothing I could do.<br />
<br />
Upon return, the momentum built, pushing out of our state of inertia.<br />
<br />
We moved to the city. It was invigorating - but unsettling.<br />
<br />
The house - Great Depression era - is intimidating.<br />
<br />
The small size and lack of places to put things in old houses forced us to make decisions about what we could take with us.<br />
<br />
It has been liberating.<br />
<br />
There are things we have done without: Even floors, a dishwasher, ample electrical outlets.<br />
<br />
It feels like you're living in another time, an alternate reality. Almost like going on vacation.<br />
<br />
We often think back on our former home. We long for the conveniences but don't miss the listlessness.<br />
<br />
The reflection has faded as the months pass.<br />
<br />
We have a home. And it is what we know, even if it isn't as sure.<br />
<br />
***<br />
Last year, we rented the condo next door, because I had thought that I needed a change in my life and waited too long to book the one we usually stay in.<br />
<br />
Life changed plenty.<br />
<br />
I got this one in plenty of time.<br />
<br />
It's been two years since we've been inside this one.<br />
<br />
We weren't prepared for it.<br />
<br />
We had divorced ourselves from our previous life. You can drive through your old neighborhood, but it's just another car in your driveway.<br />
<br />
But the life you lived is sealed ... at least as far as houses go.<br />
<br />
When we entered today ...<br />
<br />
Look! Remember this carpet? Look! There's still a VCR player.<br />
<br />
A dishwasher. Electrical outlets. The floors are level.<br />
<br />
We have returned to modernity!<br />
<br />
But more importantly, this place houses our memories.<br />
<br />
Our past life.<br />
<br />
A life we get to live if we make sure we make a reservation.<br />
<br />
If only for a week. But we can come back next year.<br />
<br />
And next year. And next year.<br />
<br />
A bridge between lives that we didn't know existed.<br />
<br />
What a great feeling.<br />
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<br />erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-59689648481679382242013-05-12T00:42:00.001-04:002013-10-29T11:36:36.120-04:00In The Crawl Spaces Of My LifeI crawled on my stomach under this house today - and I grasped what it means to be a mortal human.<br />
<br />
This house is intimidating, just by its sheer longevity.<br />
<br />
Sometime in the 1930s, we're told. We're not completely sure.<br />
<br />
The wood that supports it is cut from the center of centuries-old pine trees. They don't do that anymore.<br />
<br />
Old Christmas cards surface in the attic. The plaster cracks. Coke bottles are entombed beneath, surely someone just as frustrated as I at how little room there is to move.<br />
<br />
I'm down there because of the smell.<br />
<br />
Black spots on the support beams.<br />
<br />
<br />
Everything is ancient. I feel so helpless.<br />
<br />
I'm both comforted by the strength but frozen by the magnitude of how old this stuff is.<br />
<br />
Crickets are hanging around.<br />
<br />
I knew this. They don't bother me (I hooked plenty to catch fish) - except for the fact that they represent that you might have a problem you don't want to deal with.<br />
<br />
I'm crawling with the crickets. And the spiders. And perhaps the baby possum that I saw slink through a hole in the vent (which later would die beneath after sealing the hole; an outcome I tried to avoid but failed).<br />
<br />
Choking on cobwebs. Waiting for the next lowly form of life to greet me and show me where the real party's at in my home.<br />
<br />
The space crept smaller and smaller as I got to the most-important part of the house - where at that particular time, the most fucked-up shit is going on.<br />
<br />
The rusted pipe. It says, "We've been hear longer than you."<br />
<br />
This water dripping. Drip, drip, drip. Let's fuck up your shit.<br />
<br />
The crickets ... they eat mold, they thrive in a cave.<br />
<br />
And, on my stomach, prone, knowing that if some creature chose to use whatever evolutionary tool at its disposal to fuck with my life, I feel connected to our mutual mortality.<br />
<br />
We live above these things. But we are interrelated with them. To live above, we must have something beneath.<br />
<br />
And I'm here to tell you what's beneath is not where you want to go - because the grandiosity of the human triumph kills a truth ...<br />
<br />
We are these things.<br />
<br />
We are living.<br />
<br />
My face in the dirt, my nostrils clogged with black fibrous dust, my throat swollen from .... whatever ... this is the foundation from which we're all living.<br />
<br />
The crickets pop up through the drain sometimes. They see my life.<br />
<br />
But they aren't looking for it. They're looking for the cave, the cave below my house that I wish was less a cave experience.<br />
<br />
If a snake bit me, it would take me 10 minutes to manage the maze to get back to my space.<br />
<br />
<br />
Then you realize ... I'm on their turf.<br />
<br />
The view my dog sees every day. <br />
<br />
And all these unsavory creatures (who really wish you couldn't come back), they'll still be doing their thing when our loved ones in the life above have got no other place to put us.<br />
<br />
One with the Earth. We will meet again.<br />
<br />
I am a mortal human.<br />
<br />
Not unlike them, except the human part.<br />
<br />
But that part doesn't feel so significant, when you're stuck with the reality of how this life - and things you think you want - really aren't possible without the places beneath.<br />
<br />
A destination, sooner or later.erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-1976907183158458432013-03-31T01:45:00.000-04:002013-03-31T08:08:38.467-04:00Staying BehindThe dawning of Easter marks the end of our self-imposed reflection on what is dark and painful in this world.<br />
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The believers say that Easter frees them.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The joy. The colors. The family.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I feel burdened - burdened by faith in something I don't understand.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Or maybe I do understand ...</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Humans create God, humans kill man who says he's God, humans deify man they killed after they experience the depths to which his message can change their lives.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">During Lent, when it comes time for that stark realism of starting as and returning to dust, I feel most close to Jesus, whatever that means. I thank Jesus for giving me the opportunity to feel like that's enough to know God - but I suspect it can't be that simple.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I can "give up" this or that ... but I really feel that a season I live in year-round is simply being recognized by everyone else.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Then ... the white robes and lilies and incense and beautiful children.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"<i>CHRIST HAS DIED, CHRIST HAS RISEN, CHRIST WILL COME AGAIN</i>."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Christ has died.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And with his death, I find hope.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The life of a perfect man. In fact, you could say I have faith in that life and its promises. Perhaps even that there is a "God" that loves me.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">When it comes to Christ rising and, in particular, Christ coming again, I find myself a certain type of Christian here on the eve of Easter Sunday. If I even understand what a Christian is.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I've struggled with this each Easter.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The joy isn't there for me.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I am here in this life.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The genesis of my faith is in how to make that life meaningful. Some days, I'm simply trying to make it functional.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My priest once told me, "You have to believe Jesus was resurrected, or we both might as well be wearing a yamaka."</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Fair enough.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">CHRIST HAS RISEN. CHRIST WILL COME AGAIN.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I can believe that, but - living in a world where I see people getting the truth twisted until it isn't the truth any longer - not with malice or pursuit of power - just wanting to believe so much - I can't argue with those who tell me I'm suspending my reason.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Not that reason overrules faith absolutely.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">But what exactly am I uncomfortably suspending reason to believe in?</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">For me, it is the life, here, a peculiar collection of interacting forms driven by an unseeable force to survive.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This is where I tread on the edge of hypocrisy - or, I hope, maybe I don't.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">If you see me smile on Easter, know that I'm happy for you.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">If you see me somehow left behind in a Lenten state, one that I embrace, know that I am still happy for you.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br /></span>
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erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-72578413571763593342013-02-05T03:22:00.001-05:002013-03-31T00:15:26.852-04:00The Thing That Gets In The WaySo did Steve Jobs create the iPhone shotgunning Busch Lites?<br />
<crunch></crunch><br />
I'm glad somebody was on top of it.erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-90711093185999095392012-12-24T01:17:00.000-05:002013-01-10T01:18:56.277-05:00War Of ChristmasI've been locked in this War on Santa for going on half a <a href="http://greatelsewhere.blogspot.com/2006/09/movie-credits.html">decade</a> now.<br />
<br />
In all these years, what was I fighting for?<br />
<br />
The real spirit of Christmas, I suppose.<br />
<br />
This year, I haven't felt "the real spirit of Christmas."<br />
<br />
In fact, I've come to believe that Christmas resembles little of what those who lament its American plasticity wish it to be.<br />
<br />
There weren't three wise men. There were wise men - and three gifts were brought.<br />
<br />
It's no revelation that Christmas coincides generally with the winter solstice, and that solstice had long been the celebrations - the lights, the debauchery, the friendship - of long-held pagan traditions.<br />
<br />
Christianity assumed the solstice. If you can't make them stop all the wickedness, make it yours.<br />
<br />
And here we are.<br />
<br />
Celebrating togetherness. Everybody agrees that everybody is supposed to be home. Lots of lights. Lots of great beer.<br />
<br />
Fun times.<br />
<br />
"The war on Christmas," they've said. "You can't say Merry Christmas anywhere."<br />
<br />
What I have to say to that is, "Who cares? Your Merry Christmas means little more than enjoy the solstice."<br />
<br />
The birth of Jesus? It's not his birthday. It's a time of incarnation - but a birthday?<br />
<br />
Let them eat cake.<br />
<br />
"Why do we do this," I asked a priest, "if it doesn't really mean what we think it means?"<br />
<br />
He answered me with a question, "Why do you do what you do at Christmas?"<br />
<br />
"Because it's what I've always done," I said.<br />
<br />
Sound familiar?<br />
<br />
That's why we do Santa ... because we don't want our kids to be the weird ones.<br />
<br />
I tell you, I have lost the war.<br />
<br />
The war that this Christmas is waging on my soul, my spiritual understanding.<br />
<br />
I can no longer give a gift because I want to show how much I love a loved one.<br />
<br />
I have to explain why I couldn't do more.<br />
<br />
<br />
Every advertisement has a general "Christmas Spirit" it pushes. Just a spirit of emptiness - well-marketed emptiness, born of cynical opportunism.<br />
<br />
Santa hasn't stolen Christmas. Nobody's fighting a war on Christmas. There's no true Christmas to be won - only the amalgam of a holiday of lights and festivity with the truth that it's just too popular not to Christianize it.<br />
<br />
Believe in Jesus and marvel in the incarnation of the beginning of a new age.<br />
<br />
But Santa didn't steal Christmas. We stole it from what his myth represents.<br />
<br />
And the fat man can have it. <br />
<br />
<br />
I will not abandon Christmas traditions, if only for what they mean for togetherness and beauty.<br />
<br />
But I've come to believe - through a nagging emptiness that only lifts the day after Christmas is over - that there's not a whole lot there to have.<br />
<br />
So, fly on Santa, into that dark night, spread your message of economic inequality and judgment. I don't have the spirit to fight a battle that doesn't exist.erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-54804031510506909862012-12-03T02:03:00.000-05:002012-12-03T02:03:00.534-05:00OrionWhen the trees lose their leaves, the hillside sparkles like a nighttime constellation.
The city over the other side, shimmering, a nuclear-powered dream.
A new place.
But above is a familiar pattern.
Stars shine from this new place.
If you live long enough, and live to be in new places, you discover within you just how ancient these patterns are, and how they help tell your story.
Constellations follow you, and their simplicity is so absurd.
Feel them.
erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-83609447499168430012012-11-29T01:56:00.000-05:002012-11-29T01:57:17.110-05:00Words To Uninspire
I have come to fear the deepest depths of my depression.<br />
<br />
Or let's say "had come."<br />
<br />
The despair, gripping me each day, lasting a couple weeks, or a couple months<br />
<br />
I never knew when I might finally strip my skeleton of it.<br />
<br />
When I did ... a true person would emerge. A "real me." I feel it, and I've been told it.<br />
<br />
That me is someone I love.<br />
<br />
Why does it have to come at such a price?<br />
<br />
**<br />
Let's say today I no longer fall into debilitating episodes of depression. Nor do I find myself usurped by the counterpart manic state.<br />
<br />
Let's say every day is like the next.<br />
<br />
Except that you know it isn't.<br />
<br />
But it is.<br />
<br />
I've lost myself by trying to find it.<br />
<br />
It feels as foreign as the language of hope and faith.<br />
<br />
They ring hollow.<br />
<br />
You know, Christmas is here. We now live in an old cottage in the North Main area of town, small but the plaster walls dampen the sound of people living out their internal dialogue.<br />
<br />
Boy, is it going to be beautiful ... when Christmas is here.<br />
<br />
But it is here. But it isn't.<br />
<br />
It's just ... me.<br />
<br />
Me. Me. Me.<br />
<br />
As I reach the supposed half point of my life, I feel like I have lived these lives that defined themselves and unfolded with each passing year.<br />
<br />
I feel like I've heard it all before. Even I haven't heard it, or seen it, I've heard or seen something like it.<br />
<br />
I'm inspired by people. Their lives of hope and faith and compassion and thanksgiving.<br />
<br />
But my inspiration is confined.<br />
<br />
I recognize them - but no longer with the empathy that made life so difficult for me.<br />
<br />
I'm better off now. Yeah. Put together. So stable. Reasonable. Fair. Less combustible<br />
<br />
I'm numb inside. That lack of inspiration you feel from me? It's real.<br />
<br />
The sounds of "A Charlie Brown Christmas" register as something beautiful in my life.<br />
<br />But I can neither tap into the past nor the present.<br />
<br />
I can't even feel it for my kids. I don't feel their pain, or their joy, and I don't offer them any vision and insight for their lives.<br />
<br />
<br />
Here's your house. Here's your friends. Here's your Christmas tree. Go ... feel it.<br />
<br />
It's not here and it's not there.<br />
<br />
The present, past and future ... nowhere.<br />
<br />
I can live like this the rest of my life. Despite so much change, change each and every day, no one day means any more than the next.<br />
<br />
Entanglements no longer trap me. Embraces no longer comfort me, because I have so little to give.<br />
<br />
I used to have so much more.<br />
<br />
Life will move forward as I decline.<br />
<br />
Is this what depression feels like now?<br />
<br />
Nothingness, but not the kind that brings you to your knees?<br />
<br />
It's from that vantage point that I become who I am.<br />
<br />
But the path to illumination is shrouded in muted, diluted fear of something I no longer feel.<br />
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erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-45069399843443833422012-08-14T23:16:00.000-04:002012-11-06T18:22:23.150-05:00Old LifeI never really got the "cat person."<br />
<br />
My mom always kept about five or so and treated them better than some humans are treated. My job was to sift the feces out of the litter box, so we didn't have to pay for litter each week.<br />
<br />
I hated it. And a part of me really didn't like the cats. I wanted her to feel something for somebody. These were easy because they didn't have complicated feelings.<br />
<br />
My wife and I headed down to Beaufort out of college to start our newlywed lives together.<br />
<br />
For two weeks I waited to for my position to be created at the newspaper while she went to work. I had spare time. Enough time, for whatever reason, to see an ad in the paper for a littler of kittens on the Marine training based.<br />
<br />
Easy enough. I dipped shit for years. My new lovely wife can have some kittens.<br />
<br />
I brought them to work. She was overtaken.<br />
<br />
We named them Tybalt and Juliet. We were into that Shakespeare, Baz Lurhman style.<br />
<br />
We went with Tybalt - because Romeo and Juliet shouldn't be brother and sister as cats. That's twisted and I'm not clear what the laws are on such a thing, anyway.<br />
<br />
She treated them like children. They were her test run, I guess. If they got outside, full-on manhunt mode ensued. She was scared of even the most-arcane things happening to them. If only all moms could be so conscientious.<br />
<br />
Two years later, we found out we were having our first child.<br />
<br />
We had to move north. The "kitties" had to come, too.<br />
<br />
We got settled here in the Upstate, the first home we owned. My wife four months pregnant, spending the winter getting the baby room ready, we lost a little track of the young cats from time to time. <br />
<br />
"Oh no, Tibby's out!" would be a familiar sound.<br />
<br />
We'd get him. It was a pain in the ass chasing him. Julie not so much. She wasn't as adventurous.<br />
<br />
She never was. And that's in the sense that "never" is truly a term that can apply after today.<br />
<br />
It was humorous: Determined cat gets out, runs around, gets caught, tries to go back outside.<br />
<br />
Until one cold morning.<br />
<br />
We look outside our window and Tibby is hit by a car. The driver stops, feels terrible. He helps to search as Tibby takes off and into a sewer drain, most likely.<br />
<br />
For a week we kept looking, hoping he was merely wanting to be to himself to heal.<br />
<br />
We got the call. They found him frozen and lifeless down the hill.<br />
<br />
Poor guy. My wife was crushed.<br />
<br />
And in a way so desperate that she could not accept that it had happened.<br />
<br />
That little guy was everything to her.<br />
<br />
The snow fell as we wrapped that little creature into a blanket we had bought that was stitched with landmarks of Beaufort.<br />
<br />
I dug a hole in the backyard and we put him there, covered it up and ... well I guess that's about all there is to it, right?<br />
<br />
So ends that beginning.<br />
<br />
But over the next decade, Julie (as we called her, though people didn't always understand that we didn't just name the cat "Julie" like in a human sense), was always there. She minded her business.<br />
<br />
The arrival of our two actual human children diminished her role.<br />
<br />
But she was content.<br />
<br />
For 15 years, she was content.<br />
<br />
In recent years, she had begun to pee on carpets and covers and clothes.<br />
<br />
We had to move her into a room we rarely used. That kept things sanitary.<br />
<br />
We virtually forgot about her.<br />
<br />
Some months went by, during this past Christmas break, and we decided to turn that room into a "tween-cave" where the boys could play video games and accommodate friends to do .... whatever kids and tweens do.<br />
<br />
As I set up the ladder and mixed the new paint, I remember telling her, "Things are going to get a lot more interesting in here for you."<br />
<br />
And it did, and she annoyed the shit out of anyone who came in there.<br />
<br />
She was getting old.<br />
<br />
But so lean, so small, so happy.<br />
<br />
"Demure" would be a good way to describe her.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Last month, we decided to sell our house and move into the city.<br />
<br />
It's been a time of unsettling uncertainty - but one of newfound promise.<br />
<br />
Kind of like graduating college, starting your first professional job, getting married, all in a new town.<br />
<br />
Kind of like starting a new life, like we did 15 years ago when we decided to try to take care of some cats.<br />
<br />
Our house is half-full of stuff. We've had to leave on a moment's notice for people to "shop" it.<br />
<br />
That ended today.<br />
<br />
After 10 days on the market, somebody decided to buy our house.<br />
<br />
I'll never forget this day - and how sad I could be over a cat.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
On Sunday, we noticed that Julie had begun to seriously deteriorate. By nighttime, she could no longer walk straight and you could tell she didn't know where she was. She was drinking incessantly, not eating, then peeing all over everything.<br />
<br />
We wrapped her up in a blanket.<br />
<br />
I told the boys to pet her, that we were taking her to the doctor in the morning.<br />
<br />
And - just like I never explicitly told them that Santa Claus was real - I told them that this might be the last day she would be with us.<br />
<br />
I slept on the couch and kept her by my side.<br />
<br />
I wanted to make sure that if she didn't make it through the night that the boys wouldn't be the first to discover it.<br />
<br />
The same night, we were told we had to be out of our house Monday morning so that someone could come look at it (the second person to come through).<br />
<br />
I would take the cat to the vet, my wife would take the boys elsewhere.<br />
<br />
In the morning, I took a carrier, but it was obvious there was no need for it.<br />
<br />
I kept Julie in a beach towel next to me in the truck.<br />
<br />
The inevitability of it all was surreal. You feel like you have control over this, like you can choose to end it but that you don't have to. But I knew I had to.<br />
<br />
I stopped by the Episcopal church on the way. They do this thing where you walk a labyrinth, a way of meditating.<br />
<br />
I walked her through that. Why? I don't know. I just wanted to do something significant, because I knew once we walked into that office, there wouldn't be much significance.<br />
<br />
I would then just be left to bury a family pet, just like before.<br />
<br />
The vet told me she was suffering from kidney failure, that it's something that happens quickly, and it was why she was drinking so much water.<br />
<br />
We tried to feed her some tuna to entice her to eat, and for once she did.<br />
<br />
He told me that that simply flooded her brain with protein. That wasn't necessarily the worst thing; it served to put her into a state of disorientation, probably not the worst thing when you don't have much more time left to live.<br />
<br />
The guy asked me if I wanted to hold her and have her brought back to me.<br />
<br />
I can't speak for others ... but I couldn't imagine them taking her away.<br />
<br />
I had cared for that animal for almost half my life. As real and salient as that experience would be, don't you owe it to recognize a life you define as precious?<br />
<br />
They did it. It was over. They asked me if I wanted a box or have her cremated.<br />
<br />
I had buried the one, no reason to not do the same.<br />
<br />
They take her away. Then a lady brings me a credit card bill to sign (I wouldn't charge for such a thing if my profession held such an equivalent).<br />
<br />
Then the box. I put the box in the passenger seat and drove home, hoping I could get it buried before my boys came home.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
I parked in my neighbors' driveway, knowing that somebody was coming with a real estate agent to walk through my house.<br />
<br />
The blue Mustang pulled up, behind it a BMW gray SUV.<br />
<br />
They went inside.<br />
<br />
I'm hoping they're in and out. It's not easy.<br />
<br />
They're in there longer than I thought they would be. That was a good sign, I guess.<br />
<br />
The young woman comes outside. She's gesturing affectionately. She looks like she likes it.<br />
<br />
They go back inside. More waiting, hoping the boys don't come home.<br />
<br />
They emerge again, with papers in their hands, then drive off.<br />
<br />
I go to start up my truck, but the battery was dead.<br />
<br />
My father-in-law brought me some jumper cables and a shovel.<br />
<br />
The cables don't work. The battery was old, and he needed to do some work to fix it.<br />
<br />
I took the box to the backyard and started digging.<br />
<br />
I dug into some fibers, the remnants of the blanket I had buried the other cat in 12 years earlier.<br />
<br />
Weird, I know.<br />
<br />
I tried to put the box in but it was too big, so I took her out, wrapped in the towel.<br />
<br />
My face was wet as I hand-shoveled clay to fill the hole back in, a mixture of tears and the sweat of a hot, humid day.<br />
<br />
I repeated one line several times, the realest expression that revealed itself in that moment when you realize that there are inevitable things in life that you simply have to do.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry."<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Just as I finished, the boys arrive. My father-in-law felt like I had had a rough day.<br />
<br />
He bought me a new battery.<br />
<br />
The room where she stayed was clean, almost sterile.<br />
<br />
And so empty.<br />
<br />
I imagined a couple times that she was still in there, with a half-meow, half-squeak and rubbing up against my leg to the point I would shove her away.<br />
<br />
I told my wife that I couldn't understand why I was so upset.<br />
<br />
"She was a gentle creature. I just want to have her here so we can take care of her, like we always have done. Why can't we do that?"<br />
<br />
This is a scene that plays itself out on a grander scale, when a family member or friend passes away. I've experienced it before, in tragic fashion, just before my wedding, in fact.<br />
<br />
Still, you don't discount the feeling you have for something. True love for things are beyond comparison.<br />
<br />
--<br />
<br />
Later in the night, the phone rings.<br />
<br />
"Deal."<br />
<br />
We agreed to a contract on our house.<br />
<br />
I should be happy, and I am, but I feel like I'm leaving more behind than the home I've raised my children in.<br />
<br />
New life is ahead.<br />
<br />
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I wish you didn't have to leave any of it behind.<br />
<br />erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-69813272579626925672012-07-31T02:12:00.001-04:002012-07-31T02:19:16.023-04:00Ambient Energykeys look melted, when times worn them to stalagnites<br />
new code of stone<br />
BE CALM<br />
split vision, not a fantasy, an illusion, but unnecessary<br />
double vision<br />
Mountains of Busch call to higher lands, from where exlixir pours forth from the rim<br />
a can of beer, underestimates what it is, the value assigned to just one, plucked divinely from the stack<br />
stop editing, it's perfefct in this double vision<br />
All all right<br />
you have every right to be scared<br />
it's legal, treat the symptoms with serious double vision shit<br />
insidious<br />
but carry on, sound of feet on the ground<br />
don't shoot me in the head and WE .. Can ... DO .. This!!<br />
<br />
this man is empowered only by us<br />
see which one first - your spirit, or you're body<br />
x2<br />
<br />
pizza slices like mice hors dourves<br />
<br />
these animals WILL kill you if they could<br />
<br />
but some don't<br />
<br />
and they are blessed<br />
<br />
don't try to find meaning and you feel it<br />
<br />
imperfections of stock paper<br />
<br />
carry on ... ok<br />
OKKKKK!<br />
<br />
the love i feel for you is radioactive, kept safe from humans<br />
that's where it should stay, unless we want to start a war among men<br />
<br />
thank you "doctors" <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-87759440728347720872012-07-13T23:26:00.001-04:002012-08-01T01:44:45.087-04:00EventideSome nights you can feel the collective melancholy settling in the air.<br />
<br />
A brownish-golden mist.<br />
<br />
Beautiful because something will be missed.
Lives that you let live.<br />
<br />
And in doing so, sharing.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pis-e0CtLKGnzRr-MCigkalr5fFN7yDZtZgtj4jH6exl4yw2t-8-UxktHDYs69-YDLTnlRpUZAiLklxQQw4BFmscu2x9ULLYZsrPMRZJqHvZVv05QfCqsCC8VhNssGWVLrKecQ/s1600/IMG_0929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pis-e0CtLKGnzRr-MCigkalr5fFN7yDZtZgtj4jH6exl4yw2t-8-UxktHDYs69-YDLTnlRpUZAiLklxQQw4BFmscu2x9ULLYZsrPMRZJqHvZVv05QfCqsCC8VhNssGWVLrKecQ/s200/IMG_0929.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-16432613447256325062012-06-25T01:44:00.000-04:002012-06-25T01:44:08.685-04:00Pitching Staph<br />
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<br />
This was Asa Friday night in the hospital.<br />
<br />
My little boy - newly turned 12, still calls his mother "Mommy" -- hooked into an I.V. for a staph infection in his leg that he got at baseball camp after a knee scrape on an ordinary dive for a ball.<br />
<br />
He ate the special candy given to him by baseball moms who've loved him for years. I didn't know when he'd be released but that it might not be for a couple days. The veins weren't easy to find. It was traumatic for him, felt like surgery.<br />
<br />
Then .... fast forward 36 hours ... and Asa (at doctor's approval) is on a baseball field in an AAU tournament. At first, it was to play limited time - but then teammates get hurt and he's on the mound for almost 5 (scoreless!) innings.<br />
<br />
The heavy bandaging I used to make sure his knee and thigh are completely protected from the elements forces him to change his pitching motion.<br />
<br />
Improvisation.<br />
We got the win - but even if that hadn't been the result ... I'm just so proud of him.<br />
<br />
This is why you play sports, to prove what you've got inside. There can be so many things. In this case, no one can EVER question his toughness. Barely a day out of the hospital ... takes the mound ... doesn't complain ... and gives it his best and the winning just happened to come with teammates who've got his back.<br />
<br />
I know that what happened to him could have been worse. A couple doctor friends told me we could have been in the hospital for the long-run, with surgeries, etc. It's the kind of thing that can maim you for life, even kill you. Another esteemed ER doc friend told me that the infection is like putting out a fire - you put it out and it's gone and you just have to see what the damage was.<br />
<br />
We're fortunate there was none. I feel for those who aren't as fortunate. It could have been a lot different, but it wasn't and I hope God helps me have the wisdom to recognize what we've learned from this.<br />
<br />
I know this: Asa looked like someone very grateful for the privilege of using a human body that works. Don't ever take that for granted.<br />
<br />
And today he didn't: <br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11172860.post-68514380070182332582012-06-15T01:21:00.002-04:002012-06-15T01:24:53.171-04:00Without Dead Dinosaurs, None Of This Would Be PossibleThe ingenuity of bureaucracy ...<br />
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And of course if you're engaged in private commerce ... it's really not a big deal to try to park at all ...<br />
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<br />
Whether a paying customer or a paying taxpayer ...<br />
<br />
So long as you're paying, right?erichttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14896660852844772908noreply@blogger.com0