A Prayer (You Are Not Forgotten)

You,

monstrous Medusas,

shattered sons of Pilate,

loud, untethered, cruel;

lazy with thought and with tongue.

You,

fallacious followers 

of the fashions of the day.

who choose to mold spiteful lies

out of love,

who make a morbid mockery

out of meaning. 

This is to let you know

that I will not follow you to slaughter,

or worse,

to the insidiousness of indifference. 

I shall go to the river,

to sit among the mangrove trees

and listen to their song.

I will bend my ear

to the faint whisper of that

still, small voice,

the song of the lonely

and the orphaned,

the lost, widowed

and bewildered.

And if the waters rise,

and the rocks cry out,

if the ancient chorus were to

raze your gated castles to the ground,

do not fear:

We will rebuild,

without castes, without walls,

with new eyes to see.

We will find sanctuary,

offering balms of Gilead,

for battered hearts

and souls burning with question and doubt.

And the seraphic song will be sung:

"You are not forgotten, child."

Come home,

back to the river,

to the ancient mangroves with me;

the beloved longs to have you near.

Come,

sit,

let yourself be known.

Let us meet, today,

in love,

healing,

overwhelming,

all-consuming, 

ineffable love. 

And You,

you of whom I spoke,

listen close:

they're singing for you.

"You are not forgotten, child,

you can come home, too."

The Eggshell Suite (Something She Would Never Have)

She felt the eggshells crush underneath her feet as she walked. She tried so hard to dance around them, but the heels she was wearing made it almost impossible. She would feel the delicateness of each and every shell smash like fiberglass underneath the soles of her feet as she attempted, with all the strength she had, to walk near him.

It hurt to say out loud, even to admit it to herself, but she was pretty damn sure he had never heard her real voice. Its true tone. You know - her REAL voice. That thing that courageous breaks through and emerges when you can finally be yourself with someone. And I mean your actual fucking self and not some filtered, censored, watered down version of who the world seems to want you to be. Certainly not the version of herself that "they" knew. And not that thing where she put on that fake goddamn voice for people. You know the one, we all probably do it. More often than she would care to admit, she'd catch herself doing it and wouldn't recognize her own voice. No matter how ridiculous the dance was, she couldn't understand why she had to act like anybody but herself about them. 

It's not like she wasn't being herself around him or was disingenuous, it's just that she couldn't really breathe. Not completely, anyway. Every attempt at breathing was shallow, labored, alien. She couldn't speak, either. She simply couldn't inhale the amount of air one needs to breathe into their lungs in order to exhale one's true, authentic voice. 

It was always imprecise, almost, at times, fallacious. Masked an octave off. Or wavering cadence. Or misinterpreted verbiage. Or, better yet, silence. 

She didn't know which version of her he thought he knew. All she knew is that a few people knew the real parts of her, once. She had given away so many pieces of herself, but no one had ever known all of her. And fuck, that was all she wanted. And, as the shells crushed under foot, she knew, it was something she would never have. 

Punk Rock Empathy..

Pro-Tip: Apathy is the death of Empathy. Want me to say it again?

Yes, the world (both the world-at-large and Your world) can seem overwhelming. Our personal lives may be full of stress, chaos and even, at times, in complete tatters. It may feel downright hopeless and you may be utterly exhausted from trying to fight the darkness, but losing empathy is not the way out. 

Now, I'm not condoning some kind of toxic or faux positivity. I'm not advocating for a particular meditation regiment or a specific sacred chant you need to do every morning to cleanse your energy, but I do think holding onto glimmers of hope are important to keep us from tipping over the edge into full blown apathy (or even worse).

There are no easy answers and I won't pretend I have them. I struggle mightily with depression and ideation, especially around the holidays. In fact, if I bottle up and don't share what I'm feeling when I'm struggling, those thoughts and ideations very quickly start turning into plans. And believe me, the bully in my head absolutely loves it when I make plans to end my life. That same bully loves apathy as a gateway to eroding the things that make us feel loved, grateful, connected. 

Your mental health is a very serious thing and I won't pretend to be a therapist, just so we're clear. Getting professional help when you are struggling, if you are so inclined, is almost always a good move. That being said, for me personally, getting smaller seems to help when I find myself in the grips of heavy despair. When things start to pile on and I feel out of control and hopeless, it helps me to focus on the small things, to minimize, to control the controllables, to take smaller bites. Once I get my balance a little, I tend to go for a walk to see snippets of natural beauty, to write a poem, make a delicious snack or reach out to a loved one to remember that I am seen, known and loved (hopefully, it reminds them too!).

Maybe it's just that the small things remind us that we can maintain a little hope for the bigger things; that even amidst the chaos there is still goodness and beauty to behold in the world, and that there is more to this mysterious thing called Life than we can possibly imagine. 

My solutions might not be your solutions, and I'm not here to demand that you hydrate, exercise and meditate. I don't know what medications you should take, which spiritual doctrine you should follow and I certainly can't pretend to know your trauma. What I do know is, complete detachment and isolation is the path of apathy and that path would surely have a person wired like myself sinking straight to the bottom in no time at all. The bully in my head that tells me I am unloved when the ideations get loud and rough and that's exactly the place where apathy resides and festers. As it grows, it dismisses meaning, frays connections and makes a mockery of suffering. It tells me that my pain and hurt are not only unimportant, but that my attempts to heal from them are futile. And, perhaps even worse, it starts to tell me the same about the pain and hurt of others as well. 

Empathy, on the other hand, is powerful. Many have rightfully clocked it as a superpower and I'd be hard pressed to find any disagreement. I believe it's the greatest rebellion against depression and the most magnificent tool in your arsenal against the cruelty of the world. Empathy is born out of the heart's wondrous realization that another person is every bit as real and beloved as you are, and that neither one of you are alone in your darkness. I truly believe that we should consider radical empathy to be the highest mark of emotional intelligence and human evolution. 

I've rambled long enough. I can't stop you from not caring, but I do want to remind you of one more thing, no matter how sentimental and goo-prone it might sound. We are all in this together. That's the only way it works. We circle the wagons and take turns protecting each other when it is needed. We widen our hearts and our tables. We hold space far beyond what our comfort zone would like us to impose. We listen to each other and laugh with each other. We stop reflexive naysaying as a defense mechanism. We stop denigrating effort and hope at every turn. We stop stigmatizing those already struggling or reaching for help. We stop responding to every drop of sincerity and authenticity with a cynical retort or an apathetic shrug. We recommit to each other, especially when it gets hard. 

Our time here on Earth is never a matter of indifference. Either we enrich the lives of those around us or we impoverish them. We humans are capable of making such a mess, but we are also capable of incredible clarity, compassion, connection and empathy, as long as we are willing to allow it. If we can summon our ability to care and show it, I truly believe the world becomes more beautiful, safer, more endurable and, essentially, a better and healthier place for everyone. The darkness is no place to call home and human beings are not made to shrug at the suffering of one another. We are made to care.

So that's it. We're in this together, fam. I know it isn't easy, but I'm on your team. So let's stop pretending like it's cool to not give a damn about anything or anyone. Let's get back to showing up for each other. Let's ditch apathy and rediscover the reservoir of empathy within. Because staying alive, caring about one another and looking after each other? Well, that's punk as fuck. 

Does Your Unconditional Love Extend To Yourself?

I'm just now, in my mid 40's, beginning to fully understand how my own self-doubt has hurt people around me in the past.

I'm just now fully absorbing the idea that anything less than unconditional love for myself does not serve anyone.

If you want to grow, to love, to learn to better listen and serve one another and the world.. Love Youself.

I'm serious. It's the most radical step you can take. 

Love Yourself.

Fully. Without caveat. Without restraint. Without condition. 

Love Yourself.

Then, and only then, can we become a vessel that Love can truly flow through. And that is the most precious gift we can give to others; our full and present Self, flowing with Love. 

It's Not Perfect, But It's More Than Enough..

Love, or at least love as I have come to understand it, has nothing to do with perfection. The world is bandaged together, a fractured thing at best. If you're lucky and you're attuned to it; if you're acclimated to life's rhythms and changes and seasons, you can see and find the light that leaks out of the cracks.

I believe in kindness and in a hard day's work (especially for the people I love), but I've never really understood the idea of destiny. Despite its majestic beauty, which can admittedly reduce me to awe and tears, life still seems mostly random from a ground-level view; even mercurial, asymmetrical, entropic. It rarely adds up. And this, this utterly familiar feeling of bewilderment, is exactly where I find my place as a writer. 

Over and over again, I find myself drawn to clumsy narratives, bumbling human effort, awkward sincerity. I love the deeply flawed. I see myself that way, too. I don't grapple with some kind of monumental personal destiny that lies within a looming, grandiose, symmetrical construction. I am a fractured thing, warts and all. And I'd be willing to bet that you are, too. So is almost everything and everyone else I love. 

I'm not sure I could sit with this feeling if I thought it all centered around some kind of righteous plan of perfection. Whatever joy I can lay claim to is found in the smallness, in the moments, in the clunky minutiae. That's where I find meaning, day after day, and it seems a lot more feasible than any kind of destiny. Moments where the dream of something beautiful, albeit abstract, persists, despite the world trying to impose itself like some kind of wet blanket. There are countless things in this world that call upon you to be cynical, but the unraveling wonder of the dream persists. There is goodness in this mess and it's not a design feature, it's you. 

Or maybe I'm wrong. It wouldn't be the first time. Hell, most of us are. Maybe everything is unraveling in a way that will prove the cynics right, or cement the notion that the hand of fate is somehow at the helm of this herky-jerky ride and there's little we can do to change it. Maybe it's all going to hell - families, hopes, economies - and I'm in some kind of blissful denial about the gravity of the moment, foolishly refusing to see the bigger picture.

But even if that were the case, I would still tend to find so deep meaning in the little moments in this ragged world. It doesn't feel like it's collapsing, even though I can't make sense of it most of the time. And sure, it could be that I'm naive or that I'm thinking small, but I chalk it up to something else entirely: I chalk it up to Love. Not the kind you see in those phony rom-coms or hallmark hogwash, but the real, messy bunglesome stuff you see and feel in the everyday moments that find their way into your heart. It's not about perfection. It never was. It's not even about making sense of any of it. It's about finding the light in the cracks.

I'm not dismissing the sadness that comes with this world, or even the notion that this whole unfolding spectacle could be guided by something I can't even begin to understand. I'm simply here to tell you that even in the midst of the lows and sadness, in a world rife with covid tests, economic insecurities and looming unknowns, I see clear evidence that beauty resides in so many small things, moment to moment. It's not perfect and it's not destiny, but it's Love. Fractured, beautiful Love. 

And that's more than enough for me. 

---

If you feel my musings add anything of value to your life and you're so inclined, please feel free to Buy Me A Coffee at:

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I Keep A Close Watch On This Heart Of Mine..

You come out of the womb and into this world with a face, but an identity doesn't really form until you grasp that first letter, the beginning of a lifelong climb, letter by letter, then word by word, into the eddying spirals of meaning and obfuscation. Slowly, bit by bit, you start to get a grip on things like joy and fear, love and death.

It was death that got my little boy that day. He woke up one afternoon, a rare Sunday when he had taken a late nap, shaking and crying after a bad dream he had about his great grandfather, who had only recently passed away. The particulars of his dream are hard to remember all these years later, although I do remember we discussed it in great detail in the moment. I believe the nightmare essentially centered around his realization that he would never see one of his favorite people in this world ever again. I do recall that it was not an easy conversation.

I wiped my son's tears with the sleeve of my sweatshirt and read him some of his Scooby Doo books, until he decided he wanted to "play chess," which, at that point, meant that we would pull all the pieces out of this magnetic travel set we had and then try to put them back in their places. Each piece fit snugly into a felt indentation.   

"Do you see the one with the horse shape that could go there, bud?" I asked. 

He tried to put the knight in its place, but had it facing the wrong way.

"How about this way?" I said, gently turning the piece around and handing it back to him. He got it in and smiled.

"You make this game fun, Dad!" he said. 

He fell back asleep a little while later, with me rocking him against my chest and singing Johnny Cash's "I Walk The Line" really softly. I kissed him on his curly blonde head and carried him to bed. 

Even in the harder moments, explaining death and nightmares, I couldn't understand what I'd ever done to deserve such a beautiful day, a beautiful child, a beautiful life.

I'm not sure I have any better answers to those questions all these years alter, but that feeling remains.

We began perfect. Look closely, that has never been lost. 

----

If you feel my musings add anything of value to your life and you're so inclined, please feel free to Buy Me A Coffee at:

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A Love Supreme

When I listen to John Coltrane, I can hear my Grandmother washing dishes while talking to the next door neighbor through the kitchen window. I hear rain pop-lockin' on a yellow 3rd grade raincoat on the corner of Broadway and Lindero. I hear my father, a few drinks in, dirty work boots still on, rustling through his change pocket to bestow upon me a handful of quarters for the pinball machine down at the laundromat. And I hear my cousin snappin' her fingers to George Benson.

Coltrane's music sounds like a picnic accompanied by a ride cymbal. It hits me in the dreamlike spaces where haunted pools of memory accumulate. It's the soundtrack to the picture books of my childhood that I keep in my head. The things I still want to remember. 

Sometimes, life is a long beautiful melodic line and sometimes you drop a fork in a quiet restaurant and everyone stares.. But it's all there: the magic of the Universe, the ghosts that dance in the alleyways of fuzzy childhood memory, the hope I keep like a secret love note gathering dust in my pocket, and the conversations I still have with my Grandmother, long gone, but somehow echoing through every note.

I hear it all in those records. Very few things come close. 

---

If you feel my musings add anything of value to your life and you're so inclined, please feel free to Buy Me A Coffee at:

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Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Thirteen.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

The sound of a street musician playing a saxophone with a warm tone. Looking at neighborhood Christmas lights with a cup of hot cocoa in your hand. A cat pretending a mistake was entirely intentional. A room full of happy green plants. Letting your muscles rest at the end of a long and productive day. 

Lost In America..

It’s such a wild indictment of these times we are living in that we can see where our elected officials spend money (both theirs and ours) and we could not care less. The mechanisms of accountability for our leaders are already weak and feeble, but they are rendered essentially nonexistent if we refuse to hold anyone's feet to the fire simply because they are part of the ruling class.

There’s a profile on Twitter (and some other sites scattered on the interwebs) that track the investments of senators and congressional representatives. Dan Crenshaw, for example, recently went big on investing in tech companies. Nancy Pelosi, if you're keeping score, owns a sizeable stake in companies that manufacture weapons. Meanwhile, millions are food insecure and are barely hanging on in dilapidated housing. Nothing for the unwashed rabble.

What a stupid neoliberal dystopia we inhabit. No wonder fascism and other forms of political and cultural idiocy are showing their dip shit faces yet again. And even against the backdrop of all this utter insanity, this untethered and unfathomable greed unfolding right before our eyes, still, no one wants to talk about any kind of communal equity or wealth redistribution or even access to mental health care. Hardly a peep from the peanut gallery about rampant economic abuses and systemic injustice. Barely even a shrug. Instead, we will get an earful about how a drag queen ruined your meek sense of masculinity or how immigrants are suddenly making your neighbor unsafe because, you know, they're not American.

We have lost our way.

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Twelve.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

The first brush stroke on a fresh canvas. Leaving snacks for the crows in the park. Letting your hand drift on the wind out of a car window. Crisp green grapes. The smell of an old book that has been sitting on your shelf for too long. A friend or a loved one texting you that they made it home safely. 

Dispatches From The Storm..

We are in the middle of the storm. We still don't know what all this means yet. 

Perhaps, a century from now, historians will consider these decades, this era we are living in and through, to be host to the last pathetic death knell floppings of fascism. Maybe we will look back on the champions of this cruel and barbaric movement, people like Nick Fuentes and Donald Trump and Ron DeSantis, as the last gasp of Nativist Neanderthals haphazardly careening toward their failed fascist utopia. Then again, maybe this movement is simply the birth pangs of something far worse, of even more horror and bloodshed, of wars and rumors of wars; a time that historians will write about and wonder why and how in the hell we didn't all see this coming. 

But we are in the middle of the storm. We still don't know what all this means yet.

It's up to you. There's hope in that, even if it doesn't seem like it. We decide. If this is, indeed, fascism raising its ugly head, we must be the ones to stomp it back down again. If this is the crawling, half-dead specter of 20th century authoritarianism desperately trying to hang on in the new millennium, we can and must bury it in the same grave as eugenics and slavery. 

The good news is: We've done it before. At Gettysburg, at Normandy, at the ballot box on November 3rd, 2020. We can do it again. We *will* do it again.

"Though all we know depart. 

That old commandment stand:

In courage, keep your heart, 

In faith, lift up your hand."

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Eleven.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

Little birds in a tree singing sweet epiphanies in the early morning breeze. Warm red beans and rice in your stomach. Long slow deep restorative breaths in and out. Sending a poem to a friend struggling with grief. The crunch of leaves and pine needles under your hiking boots. Knowing you're safe and loved no matter what. 

This Complicated Mystery..

Call it a suspicion, but I think it's pretty safe to assume that no one is exactly who or what they appear to be. What I mean by this, more specifically, is that we tend to, or even learn to, bury parts of ourselves deep within the caverns of our beings. To know ourselves, truly and deeply, and to become known - these things take time, patience, and dare I say, a kind reverence. 

There are many melancholic lessons we continue to absorb with advancing age, but one of the beautiful things I continue to learn about myself is that there is so much about my inward parts still left to be discovered. Life, for me anyway, as time advances forward and certainty falls away, is a process of almost constantly unforming and reforming, bending towards some kind of invisible current that seems to be ever sweeping me forward. 

This process requires gentleness, openness and patience. It requires the realization that I am not unlike the saguaro cactus, whose discernable growth requires decades. Or that I am not unlike the monarch butterfly, on a thousand mile search for home, for community, for rest. 

I am an unfolding mystery, and so are you.

I'm a mystery of a trillion cells and a beating heart, firing neurons and flowing blood, and a myriad of other miraculous things happening and unfolding incessantly, unbeknownst to me. I'm a cosmic happening rooted in a local event, and so are you. 

I'm also a mystery of fragility, of aging, of softening, of time increasing the metaphorical rings marking each passing trip around the sun. 

When I seek to understand the mystery, both within and without, I turn to words. More specifically, I turn to stories. I suppose I'm not alone here. Story is part of the human condition. To share my story (and stories) unveils a bit of my mysterious soul to another, and vice versa. To honor my story means to hold it with a kind of reverence. Instead of reflexive naysaying or finding reasons to conjure fear that often comes with change; instead of admonishments or advice or rebuttals, embracing the mystery with a grateful heart. Real, tangible, juicy gratitude for the messy and sacred process of speaking these truths into existence. 

I am a being affected by history and by geography, by theology and anatomy, whether I know much about these subjects or not. And with this fragile thing called my life unfolding, I am also admittedly harmed or healed by human interactions. I, like you, am a paradoxical combination of many things, neither fully bitter nor sweet, neither fully angry nor joyful. I am complicated. But guess what? I Am. And you Are, too.  And that complication is beautiful.

You are complicated. Connections are complicated. Feelings are complicated. Nature is complicated. 

I've come to realize that we are not observers bypassing a creation we've been kept out of; but rather, we are a part of the very creation we recognize as mysterious, strange and complicated. We are symbiotic souls in need of fellow humans to hear and hold and witness and commune. 

But we Are. And we are here, together. And dammit, that's more than enough. 

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Ten.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

Dipping your toes into the ocean at first light. A monarch butterfly flittering around a sunflower. The familiarity of a song you listened to and loved as a kid. Children running around the park pretending to be wild animals. Salted butter and jam on a warm baguette. Relaxing in a cozy beanbag chair. Knowing you're exactly where you're supposed to be. 

Thanksgiving Musings..

I have come to believe that there is a space within all of us, a longing that wants to be known.

Often, we will hide our depths because we are worried about being rejected; or we will stifle our gifts and talents because we are fearful of failure, of not living up to them.

Much of the time, many of us harbor resentment because we no longer want to be known for who we once we're, but for the person we've grown into Now. Being trapped by the past is a heavy gig. 

If life consists of continuous growth, which I believe it does, then we should honor it - not only in ourselves, but in those around us.

I was once certain of so many things, but the older I get, the more I've learned to hold space for the mystery, embracing it like a friend.

I'm always learning and I make a metric fuckton of mistakes, but I have slowly come to realize that it is an act of love to hold others with a loose grip, to assume that they are not their history (or our shared history), to assume that they are not the same, that they continue to grow. One of the ways it has become easier to embrace this idea is by the simple act of listening more than I speak and by asking better questions when I do.

I won't leave you with any signaling about gratitude. There is nothing you are Supposed to be, feel, embody or carry on this holiday. The only insight I have is that, perhaps, a holiday dinner is a good place to start holding that space, embracing that mystery, honoring that growth. It's a good place to set down preexisting narratives, roles and expectations and replace them with humble hospitality, curiosity and genuine interest in who we are all becoming.

Suffice to say, you are welcome here, at my metaphorical table, in all your changes and complexities and beautifully unknown parts;  welcome, celebrated and loved. You are a person worthy of knowing. Come take a seat. 

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all.

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Nine

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

The sound of the wind rustling through the trees. A cup of coffee steaming in the chilly morning air. Throwing a plush toy or ball to a sweet pup who loves to play. A shared laugh with a stranger. Watching raindrops trail down a window. Biting into a big juicy cantaloupe. Knowing there's beauty in the world no matter what the cynics say. 

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Eight.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

The eternal perfection of grilled cheese and hot tomato soup. Wrapping a blanket around yourself like a cloak. Falling asleep to a familiar old black & white movie. Gentle waves lapping the shore. An opera aria that hits somewhere deep in your chest. The warm kindness of a smiling stranger in a coffee shop. 

Finding Divine Poetry Within The Mystery..

One of the most profound things I've come to believe after more than four and a half decades on this beautiful spinning rock is that mystery abounds. I don't know if one needs to believe in a divine creator to come to this realization, nor am I sure if I want to expound upon those beliefs now. Suffice to say I have them, and they continue to unfold and evolve with each passing day. But I can confidentially say, and share with you, that I believe in divine poetry. One can look at the glorious mountain ranges found on our breathtaking continent, formed over billions of years from earthquakes pushing up meters of metamorphic rock, collecting tectonic plates, and glaciers carving rifts and valleys with melting ice and snow that eventually trickled down to create deep, cold mountain lakes.

Regardless of whether or not one wants to place a firmly religious connotation to or on this process, this is, to my mind, a miracle. It's a miracle of time and matter. A miracle of chaos. A miracle of creation. We don't need literalism to believe in divinity. Besides, literalism kills poetry: more specifically, the poetry of gazing upon grandeur and explaining its majestic oldness away with literalistic verse and young earth theory.

I know there is a question of "why does it really matter?" And the truth is, maybe it doesn't in the grand scheme of unfolding life. I certainly don't write these words in a vain attempt to try to convince you of anything. I'm not a park ranger or a scientist and I certainly don't purport to be an expert on scripture or religion. But I do think that the possibility of oldness and evolution and an unfolding creation story that doesn't require literalism matters in our ability to hold wonder and stoke imagination. Among the many flaws of literalism would be that it allows us, and often even requires us, to leave our wonder and imagination at the door. It's like choosing a KOA campsite off the interstate rather than sleeping under the stars by a grandiose mountain lake formed over billions of years.

Literalism says: you don't have to think or wonder or doubt or even deconstruct. It simply hands you a one-size-fits-all belief system, wrapped up in a tidy bow.

Call me silly, maybe even brazenly foolish. But I'll take the mystery that abounds. I'll fumble for words, seeking an understanding of the divine poetry that surrounds me. This is the miracle that we're all a part of - as a witness, and maybe even as an essential component.

Mystery abounds. What a wonder to behold. Amen.

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Seven.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

Old lampposts lining a cobblestone street. Smoke rising from chimney tops on an evening stroll. The sweet crackle and hiss of an old jazz record. A neighborhood cat twirling around your ankles. Flower boxes in apartment windows. Warm apple cider. Knowing you have a place in this world no matter what. 

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Six.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

Reading a scary book by candlelight. Cool ceramic tiles under your bare feet. Running your fingertips along the fretboard of an old guitar. Explaining something mundane to a baby while they listen with rapt attention. Sprinkles of warm cinnamon in your morning oatmeal. Knowing you always carry home in your heart. 

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Five.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

An antique clock that still keeps time perfectly. Warm blueberry muffins fresh out of the oven. The smell in the air and on the concrete after a hard rain. Realizing the Appalachian Mountains are older than Saturn's rings. A bass line so funky you can't help but dance to it. Breathing like a dragon in the cold morning air. Knowing your community will always have your back. 

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Four.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

A bonfire on a beach on a late summer night. Standing alone looking at a masterpiece in an art gallery. The first sweet crunchy bite of a pink lady apple. Seeing your friend's smiling face from another city on a zoom call. An intricate map of a make-believe land in a gripping fantasy novel. A contagious giggle. Knowing that you don't have to be good at the things you love to make them worth your while. 

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Three.

 Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you think about before bed in the times of tumult and uncertainty:

A gust of wind that picks up leaves and flutters them all around you. An old winding path through a forest. Diner coffee and deep conversation with a friend. A wrought iron gate covered in ivy. Acoustic street musicians playing a lovely melody with perfect harmony. The scent of a crackling fire. Sharing ghost stories before bed. Watching the world burst into a riot of colors in autumn. 

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part Two.

Goodnight, my friends. 

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in the times of tumult and uncertainty:

The anticipatory sound of an orchestra warming up. Butterscotch street lamps lighting the way on your night walk home. A honeybee mistaking you for a flower. The crack of bat at the ballgame. Remembering to mark your place in a good book before you fall asleep. Soup warming your insides on a rainy day. Petting a neighborhood dog who gets excited to see you. The wind whispering poems in your ear. 

Here, Take This Before Bed.. Part One.

Goodnight, my friends.

Here's some good stuff for you to think about before bed in these times of tumult and uncertainty:

An old couple feeding the birds together in the park. The harmony of a church choir. Knowing how your friend takes their coffee or tea. The inherent kindness of strangers. When your favorite song comes through the speakers in an unexpected place. The moon peeking through the trees. Homemade pie from apples you picked. Learning new things about the people you love. 

Musing Upon The Red Menace, The Ballot Box and The Cartridge Box.

You're no patriot if you support the people openly attempting to subvert and destroy democracy. You have no right to fly the flag that has wrapped the corpses of men and women who gave their lives to preserve our flawed republic. Even if all the lying right-wing pundits were somehow right about democrats putting litter boxes in classrooms or intentionally raising the price of gas for some reason, it still wouldn't justify supporting the very party that is telling us all, right out in the open, that it won't accept the democratic process anymore, and that its people will use violence should they lose to the will of the American people at the polls. 

I'm not a dyed in the wool Democrat. In fact, I'm not even a registered Democrat. Most of the time, the Democratic Party and the policies they enact suck. The party is full of hypocrites who would gladly hide war crimes and immigrant abuses behind a veneer of progressive platitudes. I truly wish that there were Greens or Libertarians or even Republicans that could put up an actual challenge to a party that isn't nearly as radically pro-freedom and anti-authoritarian as Republican pundits pretend to be. At the end of the day, we have to make grown up decisions and disregard purity tests and perfectionism, and I tend to support politicians, sometimes albeit begrudgingly, that I know will at the very least get out of office if I vote her out the next go round, over a frothing at the mouth lunatic who thinks one of the biggest political disasters in American history is secretly leading the fight against a nefarious cabal of Satanic, cannibalistic pedophiles. 

The small handful of Republicans who are loyal to their oaths, the ones who have courageously stood up to the insanity of their own party, have been forced out. If you're a staunch Republican, and you want to see your grand old party return to normal, then your absolute best hope is to show the lunatics currently in charge that you won't support these QAnon troglodytes, that you will choose your nation and your community over your party, that you will defy, deny and denounce the violent, careening clown car that the GOP has become. 

Today is the day we vote at the ballot box. I won't mince words. We have to absolutely crush the red menace here, because, quite simply, if we don't, they've already made it clear that the only other thing they'll heed is the cartridge box. 

Vote. Don't make excuses and don't sit this one out. It's your duty - to yourself, to your children, to your loved ones and to all those marginalized and under threat in your community and others. Hell, it's your duty to your nation. 

Vote, and remember that democracy is a convenient fiction we tell ourselves; a set of rules that we are all supposed to follow to avoid the terrifying possibility of bloodshed at the hands of a mob following a despotic madman. Vote, and remember that, when one side realizes it can't possibly win playing by the rules, its only alternative is violence. 

Seeking And Finding A Spiritual Home.

Here are a few things I've learned in my spiritual seeking, from being raised nominally Catholic, to being a devout Buddhist for a few years and then spending a significant amount of time pursuing the Left Hand Path at the Golden Lotus OTO in Garden Grove and in my own magickal practices. From being ordained as a lay monk in the Vedanta tradition in Hollywood to spending time among friends at the Buena Park Gurdwara. These things may or may not apply to your personal journey, so feel free to disregard what may or may not ring true to the path you're walking. But this is what I've gleaned about the nature of what you might call "God" on my journey so far. Take it or leave it. 

You can't question your way out of Love and you can't deconstruct yourself into oblivion. Ask the questions. It is seeking you as much as you are seeking It. Even right now, It is reaching out to you. 

We are, all of us, prodigal children, with zero exceptions. We are beloved - though we may wander in our own ways, seeking replenishment, and beauty and some kind of hope within this grand mystery - we are fully loved and beloved.

Many of us will find our way out of the path in which we were raised. It takes a certain amount of courage to leave the safe confines of the familiar and all that comes with it, but leaving familiar territory doesn't mean reckless meandering, and having questions and doubts does not mean a total extinction of curiosity, wonder or faith. Don't fall for their insistence that you have somehow strayed. You are right where you need to be.

As a matter of fact, it is precisely during this wandering that our doubt and despair can lead us toward a more beautiful resurrection than we ever thought possible. Even when it feels like the familiar may be lost and our next steps may be unsure, please know deep down in your heart: You're always deeply loved. You've never been forgotten. And, whether you believe it right now or not, all your wandering can lead you Home. 

Can you hear It calling you?

Strength, Weakness, Radical Tenderness and a Crowded Table..

Sometimes, I get really sad; Consumed with the melancholic thought that we're living in an age where malignant narcissism is considered to be a sign of incredible strength. Where bullies and trolls and edgelords seem to find genuine joy out of causing harm to the most vulnerable among us. That's power to far too many people, that's strength. In truth, rarely have I seen a more glaring weakness. The strongest among us champion Compassion, Empathy and Mercy and are defiantly unafraid to show it to the world. The weakest wish to further exploit the marginalized and vulnerable, sow further divisions and other anyone they aren't willing to even attempt to understand.

The distinctive gift of tenderness that we humans carry; that is where you can find truly incredible strength. Radical tenderness is fundamentally full of light, and those who can move past their fears, cultural programming and egoic concerns and work from that tender place are truly the bravest among us. May we carry it within and without, especially when we are afraid. Let us break bread in a house with a crowded table, where bellies are full, love and laughter are abundant and our differences are cause for curiosity, conversation and celebration. Let mercy not be rationed here. 

You and I. We are not strangers. 

"Intelligence Work Has One Moral Law -- It Is Justified By Results.."

"If I'd stolen Top Secret/SCI, I'd be.."

You'd be dead. Flat out. Full stop. Dead as Disco. That's what you'd be.

This is John le Carre shit we're talking about here. Black bag, found at the bottom of an elevator shaft on top of some bullets, "Bridge of Spies" type shit.

This pig-headed, imbecilic cretin had it in a room next to the goddamn pool. 

If It Were Any More Real, It'd Be Science Fiction..

Regarding a popular horror/sci-fi trope:

You know, any supernatural creature that attempts to attack me "within my mind" is straight f*cked. Those clowns have no idea what a shit show it is in there; what horrible, evil nonsense my electrified jellymeat has to process and digest on the daily.

Have fun getting locked inside a psychic funhouse made of beans, baseball statistics, occult drivel, forgotten song lyrics and trauma, you dumbass ghost creature. You'll be stuck in this hideous meatsack just like I am, and you'll hate every second of it.

Come get some. 

And All Around Me, A Voice Was Calling..

With apologies to Woody Guthrie, who remains one of my heroes, this land is not your land or my land. She was never ours to conquer, nor some sort of divine gift, bequeathed by God, for the lives brutally extinguished in the shameful, bloody mess of colonization. 

You see, self-evident truths, the ones we purportedly hold firmly in our American hearts, are not so self-evident when the civilization we uphold has been built upon blood and bones on the land of ancient, already-existing peoples. Take a deep breath and read it again, without needing to get defensive. Let us first tell this mournful truth before we take a victory lap or gather to celebrate, and let us have the courage to examine these myths much deeper.

Liberty for all. It's a beautiful concept that is merely a punchline when my country, the United States of America, continues to lead the western world in mass incarcerations. This is a place of denial and a place of unspeakable violence. This is a place where traffic stops still end in far too many murders. This place, that you claim to be Holy Ground, is the place where dozens of immigrants are found dead in abandoned trucks, and where even Independence Day celebrations culminate in hysteria and death. 

How can God Bless America if she oppresses her people, like she has done for centuries? An America that provides freedom for the precious few but denies the humanity of its most vulnerable citizens. We were founded in violence and denial and these things remain deeply embedded in our DNA, evident in every new story; so numerous we grow apathetic, so commonplace that very few of us seem to remember that THIS IS NOT NORMAL.

---

I remember some years back, hiking on Chemehuevi and Mojave land on the outskirts of Joshua Tree. I remember feeling the sacred vibration as my feet touched the ground. I was surrounded by Ocotillo and Mariposa Lillies, the kind that grow in unforgiving climates and remain as a testament to a natural world teeming with something bigger than any human being can ponder. This Earth, this Country, is their home. 

And Joshua Tree isn't unique. This land belongs to the wildflowers - the lupines and the columbines, the bluebells and the larkspurs, the poppies and the yarrows. This land belongs to the redwoods and aspens, the junipers and ponderosa pines, the descendents of even older species who hold precious secrets, who remember. This land belongs to the towering Rocky Mountains - so old we can barely fathom their millions and millions of years of existence. 

----

Nationalism tells us we have some God-given and sanctioned right to strip lands from the peoples who cultivated them. Nationalism says God has blessed us, in particular, and above others, because of a document forged in half-truths and dripping with exclusion and cruelty. Nationalism holds power above reverence, absolutes instead of mystery. Nationalism requires loyalty and pledges instead of honest reflection and critique and it perpetuates violence in a land already steeped in it.

If I love this land, and I do, I must care for her. If I love this country, and I do, I must love her people. If I revere freedom, I must require it for all, no exceptions. 

As much as I want to believe in the Church of Woody, I cannot. This is not our land, yours or mine, but she is our home. And we have much to lament, much to make right, before I hold up the sparklers, throw the hot dogs on the grill and celebrate the myth of how chosen and star-spangled awesome we are. 

It's The Howling Nothingness

We often say things like "the person who gunned down innocent bystanders at (name Any recent event) was mentally ill" because we're simply not comfortable or emotionally equipped to deal with the truth. 

Sit these shooters down with some psychiatrist or clinical therapist, and more than likely, you won't get a diagnosis of a personality disorder, or PTSD, or schizoaffective. You likely won't even get the DSM's flavor of "psychopathy" or "sociopathy." You'll likely get nothing even remotely remarkable, except maybe what Stephen King calls a "howling nothingness" behind their eyes, a demonic slyness hidden deep beneath layer after layer of ideological justifications and defense mechanisms; a willful ignorance of any metric of kindness, decency or compassion.

Stop stigmatizing those who struggle with their mental health by conflating them with monsters. Some things are what they are. These people aren't mentally ill, they're evil. 

"I Don't Like Kids.."

Hi. Friendly reminder that the oft-repeated online statement/sentiment of “I don’t like kids” should elicit the same revulsion and indignation as the statement “I don’t like gays” or “I don’t like black people.” 

Children are the most routinely marginalized and oppressed group of people on the planet; utterly powerless to defend themselves against a myriad of cruel, dangerous and traumatic things. When you say “I don’t like kids,” you’re normalizing that marginalization and that oppression and proving yourself to be one more person children can't look to to keep them safe. 

Stop doing it. You don't have to have kids. It's not a good choice for many and a completely valid decision to choose to not be a parent for a vast number of people. But stop hating the most vulnerable among us. Please, be better.

Under The Lying Stone, Water Does Not Flow..

War is never a good thing, which might be such an understatement that it borders on being criminally fatuous or at least flirts with hyperbolic idiocy, but you have to give credit to many of the kings and queens of the past. When their armies went to war, they often led them, and not from the command center of an ivory tower or from a secure bunker in a secret locale. People like Henry the Vth were horrifically maimed by arrows that tore into their body on the battlefield. They fought against their enemies, often in hand-to-hand combat, right alongside their knights.

I guess that's why Ukrainian President Vladimir Zelensky resonates so strongly with so many people. If you know me, you know damn well just how opposed I am to turning any politician into a hero or cult figure, but there's something that speaks to us about a modern leader who eschews the suit and tie in favor of a combat jacket. I have no idea if he's helped dig a trench or even fired a rifle, but he's still there, on the frontlines, still present among his people in the midst of a brutal and horrific war. 

Let's see the next President of Prime Minister to declare a war have the courage to follow his example. 

Down On The Dopamine Farm - Magick Lesson, #1: Culture Is Not Your Friend

Pro-Tip: Learn to disentangle yourself from the failed, degenerating quagmire of consensus reality. Free your mind from the puerile personality cults of charismatic, sinister figures who lust for likes in an ever-deadening attention economy. Learn to make your own way, create your own path and let no one else do your thinking, speaking, loving or living for you. 

Without living your own life and declaring your own Will and Purpose, you will continue to be mired in the illusory events of the cultural echo chamber, and your own hopes, fears and limitations will be defined by the leaders of this cultural wasteland; subject to their whims and the nauseating winds of cultural change.

You must become Regent of your own life and Master of your own Will if you are to stand any chance of breaking this hypnotic spell. Self-definition and self-determination beats any dogma available in either meatspace or the virtual dopamine farm. Learn to see within yourself. Seek and See what is real, eternal, unchanging; and you will become impervious to any plot or conspiracy that is not your own. 

Then, and only then, you can begin The Great Work of becoming the very treasure you seek. 

We All Want To Be Forgiven..

Without descending into a predictable screed regarding the myriad of ways that social media can be poisonous trash, I'd like to concentrate on a particularly pernicious sentiment I see floating around the on the topic of forgiveness in the social media sphere:

I see a whole lot of "you don't HAVE to forgive in order to heal" and, also: "you don't EVER have to accept an apology from someone who has done you wrong, fuck them!" 

On the surface, these ideas make sense. After all, we seem to be much more interested in ourselves as victims than as potential perpetrators, and the good old fundamental attribution error makes it rather easy for us to turn anyone who wrongs us into some kind of maniacal tyrant (much in the same way that everyone's exes seem to be "textbook narcissists), as opposed to a typically nice but occasionally flawed person who, generally speaking, only does wrong out of fear or error (like ourselves). 

That being said, perhaps, in the spirit of honest evaluation, we can take a look at the other side of the coin. If you've screwed up, and you're trying to make amends, remember that even your most sincere apologies and heartfelt attempts at reconciliation or restitution essentially only put the ball in *their* court, nothing more. You don't have to sit around in utter agony hoping against hope that you'll somehow be forgiven for your misdeeds. Nobody has that kind of power over you unless you give it willingly. You can be understanding, and you can try to avoid bitterness, but don't think for a second that you can't start to be a better person *right now* just because the people you've wronged aren't interested in accepting your apology. Your conduct is your own, and it is yours to own, and contingent upon nothing else.

You don't have to put your life on hold in order to torture yourself; as a matter of fact, if you do take that ill-advised approach, you might begin to develop toxic anger toward the very recipients of your intended apology! Letting this kind of simmering guilt and shame turn toxic and shove you deeper into self-loathing and depression is a horrible solution to the problem at hand. You simply aren't bound to the person (the old you, if you will) you're trying to heal and no longer embody, just because those you've wronged can't or won't forgive you. It may be even harder to accept the idea that their reasons may well be perfectly understandable and even justified. You might not want to hear that, but it doesn't make it any less true. 

Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I also want to say this: Don't let it stop you. Doing the right thing is always a worthy endeavor. Seek forgiveness. Make restitutions, if possible. Then move on, accepting the consequences of the past, and try your hardest to be someone different, someone better, someone capable of learning and growing and putting those lessons you've learned into action. That's what is truly owed - both to yourself, and to everyone else. 

Tom Waits and Embracing The Mystery..

"We are buried beneath the weight of information, which is being confused with knowledge; quantity is being confused with abundance and wealth with happiness." - Tom Waits

I don't tug on Superman's cape, I don't piss in the wind, and I make it a point to never argue with our prophetic griot, Mr. Waits. After all, I firmly believe that if God had a wallet, he'd carry a picture of Tom Waits in it. 

I often lament that we've lost touch with most of the magic in the world. I guess, what I really mean when I say that, is that we seem to "know" too much in this day and age: everything has had the wrapping torn off of it. So many have replaced curiosity with a need for certainty, and as a result, we think we'll find some kind of power if we can boil every single process down to the atomic level, if we can define and quantify and harness every potential quandary that creation presents.

And yet, deep down, I think we sense that a life lived without mystery - a life dissected beneath a sterile lamp  - is a life not only lacking magic and curiosity, but it is a essentially a life without intimacy. And a life without intimacy is a life of isolation and anguish, a life of imploded frustration and inverted desires. 

That's probably why music and the creative arts speak to us on such a profound level: because they give us permission to remember, once again, that there is more - much, much more - than meets the eye. They give us permission to once again be curious, to seek the magic, to embrace the mystery.

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised..

I just watched Trevor Noah's interview with Hillary Clinton and it left me with the taste of blood, bile and hatred in my mouth. At one point during the interview, he leans over and jokingly asks Sec. Clinton: "Haha, so how did you kill Epstein? Tee-hee-hee.." My blood started to boil.

See, this is why most talking head liberals in America are so disgusting. I wish I could call them a joke, but I don't want to upgrade their humorless idiocy with a term I happen to love.

Hey Trev - Why don't you ask her about how she and Obama murdered so many fucking children in Libya and Yemen and Syria, you smug piece of television trash? Ask her about her support for the laws that helped put a generation of African-American men in prison. Ask her about her support for policies that kept the government boot on the neck of sexual minorities for decades. Jesus, ask about how she championed invading Iraq, for Christ's sake.

TV liberals will make friends with Bush and turn him into a fuzzy, feelgood cartoon character after he leaves office, ignoring the mountains of unspeakable atrocities he committed. TV liberals will make friends with the Clintons, too. These people do not give two flying fucks about the mountains of dead and suffering piling up beneath the banners of these sociopathic lunatics; these men and women with all the power in the world at their disposal who use it for the most wicked ends imaginable. Liberals will cheer for Obama's simpering, morally-bankrupt attack on "wokeness," as though the man who indiscriminately murdered scores of children with drone strikes and built the most vast, over-powered surveillance system in history has any fucking right to say a goddamn thing about "civility."

Trevor Noah, Ellen Degeneres, Stephen Colbert -- these people are liberal darlings, and their willingness to share a laugh and cozy up to people who belong in a prison cell is all the evidence you need that the media "resistance" to the GOP is largely comprised of a bunch of rich assholes who will have war criminals on their stupid, puerile TV shows aimed at upper-middle-class white voters so they can answer softball questions to make them seem "relatable."

Fuck that. Fuck that, forever and ever and ever again. Never stop being angry about what these monsters have done - Millions of dead men, women and children in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Yemen and Libya. Fucking Millions. And millions of incarcerated men, women and children, too. Millions of sexual minorities denied their rights. Millions of men and women torn from their families and deported from America. Millions more Americans now threatened by the very systems these moral degenerates put in place and continue to prop up with your tax money. Fuck that. Never give these monsters a pass, because it's happening again, right now, and it will keep happening as long as we tolerate this disgusting pageantry, this smite on any kind of decency, these telegenic political demons and their talking head enablers who help hide the evil of their true actions with a glad-handing embrace, a duplicitous grin and a hearty guffaw that shows you how little they care about what they've destroyed. 

The Daily Marvel

I'm not into Certainty Worship. Faith, for lack of a better term, is not a scientific absolute - it's an ongoing dialogue with existence, akin to co-creating on an art project, a song, a poem. And to make a poem of what we call faith, I've had to learn not to settle for a false certitude but to instead lovingly embrace ambiguity and mystery with a curious mind and heart. The act is a dance, with every breath and every atom of existence as your dance partner. 

I aspire to co-create in ways that lead to better questions and to ever more honest seeking. Every day, I am less imprisoned in the poisonous self-critical notions of shame and wretchedness, but instead, I'm absorbing beauty, marveling at creation, at my growth and beauty, and at the growth and beauty I see in others. 

I marvel, every day; which is my own act of prayer. 

Valhalla Ain't Shit..

If you know me, this may surprise you, but when I was young, I fantasized about being a soldier or, at the very least, some kind of thrill-seeking adventurer. I thought staring death in the eyes was the apex of human endeavor and I was ready to be a casualty if it meant going to something resembling Valhalla as my reward. With this youthful vision all but being my northern star, I hoped for heroic lethality and some kind of noteworthy death. It sounds weird to say it out loud, but I used to dream of that moment of ultimate sacrifice frequently. I felt it was my destiny and I looked for ways to make sure I could fulfill it.  

I suppose, more than anything, such a burning inner desire spoke of simply wanting deeper meaning and purpose in life, seeking a reason to be heroic, a mission to which to belong. Being born with a club foot and the various corrective surgeries that followed all but curtailed any dreams I had of giving my life to some great military cause, and my attempts at seeking a similar fate, whether on the wrestling mat or out in the streets, were every bit as foolish as they were dangerous. But it was what I wanted; the way I had always envisioned my life playing out, and I was determined to secure my place among the brave.

Now, in my mid-forties, those dreams are but a fuzzy invocation of some lost version of me, like a photograph of childhood that becomes less and less familiar with time. Now, I dream of my children growing up kind, healthy, happy and strong. I dream of it and I ask for guidance to help me remain worthy of the love and trust they place in me every single day.

The fears that kept me lost in alleyways, searching and sifting through various paths of darkness or seeking the hand of fate seem so ludicrous now, in the light of my living room, where I can watch my children laugh and tell stories or argue about scientific theories or the mathematics of baseball. I see these things before me and realize I'd trade in every battlefield honor, athletic victory or potentially heroic final moment without hesitation. 

I know so many of my brothers who sought the hard road, either in battle or elsewhere, who share the same basic fear of a world that will forever pale in comparison to the incredible gravity of battle, where nagging self-doubt can so easily replace the certainty of purpose. 

So, I say this to you today, my fellow warriors: If that fear is what keeps you in uniform, year after year, or in the dojo or some other incredibly treacherous environment risking the beauty of life for some foolish pursuit or cause, please be sure of this: There is no greater purpose, no higher calling, no more sacred duty, than to be a father to your daughters and sons. And there is more glory to be found in a single afternoon spent playing, talking and laughing with your children than in all the valorous citations, battle scars, tattoos and black belt degrees from any kind of war fought in any kind of area in any corner of the Earth.

Leave the forever wars behind, my brothers. Leave the noteworthy death to someone else. Valhalla ain't shit. Heaven is here and it is available now. Go home. Be home. Your children are waiting. Their kindness and strength will someday become the honor you've always sought. 

When To Have "The Talk" With Your Kids..

I don't often dispense a lot of parenting advice. This is, of course, for a myriad of reasons; chief among them being that no one in their right mind would likely look to model their paternal behavior after me.

That being said, I was thinking about that potentially scary moment in a parent's life where they inevitably have to have "the talk" with their kid. I remember having the talk with my son Coltrane when he was about six years old. As i recall, he was very curious, attentive and surprisingly, asked very appropriate, thoughtful questions. 

I wanted to assure you, this isn't something parents should avoid or even be all that worried about discussing. I know the thought of broaching such a subject can seem a little daunting, but if you don't tell your children that the Civil War was fought against human-trafficking scum who deserved far worse than what they got, and that John Brown's grave should be a shrine synonymous with true heroism, they might get a very skewed view of history from the media and from their peers. Others will probably try to insist that your kids are simply "too young" to know that General Sherman did nothing wrong, but I guarantee you, they're already hearing stuff about the march to the sea from their friend's older siblings, and it's your job as a parent to dispel any myths, ill-conceived notions or outright harmful beliefs about the entirely justified destruction of Atlanta they may already have. 

Talk to your kids about the Civil War today. If you don't, some right-wing dipshit probably will. 

Your Huddled Masses Yearning To Breathe Free..

Only a morally stunted fool could summon the gall to ask, "Does the U.S. Government bear any kind of responsibility toward the plight of Afghan, Yemeni or Iraqi refugees?"

Only a moral reprobate, sick with the degenerative rot of Nationalism, could possibly answer "No" to such a question.

I remember a video, from a few years back, that captured a Cuban refugee boat sinking just off the Florida shoreline. It just so happened that a massive beach party was taking place that afternoon. As the refugees swam toward the shore with all the leftover strength they could summon, near the point of total exhaustion, they were greeted by exuberant, cheering partygoers, who immediately draped them in American flags, put food and drink in their hands, and joyfully lead them into the shade.

That, to me, is an example of an America worth our boundless passion. A place that still remains a repository of people's hopes and dreams, woven into the fabric of the hearts of the people held within her shores. People not just coolly or indifferently accepting newcomers, but welcoming them with energy, with excitement, with an eagerness to share all the things we love about our nation with newfound friends who, inspired by the stories they've heard, have traveled far and endured great hardship to join us. 

In the meantime, I'll continue to wonder how my countrymen can cheer for a kid who journeys across the national borders from Ukraine to escape Russian bombardment, while simultaneously cheering for the Biden administration (or Trump/Obama/Bush) as it continues to detain and deport more and more immigrants from the United States. The small "drop" in deportation rates for families and individuals that have lived in this country is not sufficient, until it reaches "zero."

I lift my lamp beside the golden door.

Negative. I'm a Meat Popsicle.

I have to admit: I've thoroughly enjoyed a myriad of funny takedowns of recent Bruce Willis movies from the likes of Redlettermedia, Rotten Tomatoes, etc. I've shared their sentiment that Mr. Willis has, in recent years, seemed willing to sign on to play a role in just about Any puerile, straight-to-streaming, cinematic action drivel that miraculously found a financier. 

Now, upon further reflection, I just feel sad about all of it. It's one thing to be a shameless hack without discretion, enthusiastically signing on to any dross tossed your way by a greedy agent, while doing your best to hold on to some semblance of former fame regardless of the quality of the work you've undertaken. It's quite another to be a man who knows he's going to totally lose his ability to act very soon, trying to make as much for his family as he can before he just can't do what he loves anymore.

Get Me Off This Rocket Ride

Elon Musk has offered to buy twitter for the ridiculous sum of forty-three billion dollars. For that amount of money, he could build or buy just over one hundred thousand average-cost homes in the United States, and give them to one out of every five people experiencing homelessness. He could also opt to build smaller, cheaper homes and eliminate homelessness altogether.

Imagine if you held that kind of power in your hand: The ability to, on a whim, completely end homelessness in your county.

You and I don't wield that kind of power, but we do have something to offer. You might not be able to choose ending homelessness instead of buying Twitter, but you might be able to choose ending someone's hunger for the day instead of buying fast food. I can't single-handedly pay off all the water bills for the entire city of Los Angeles, but I can certainly help a struggling family make sure they have enough to keep the lights on for a month. 

I'm not a religious person, but the vast majority of my country purports to be a Christian. In your book, it explains that it's incredibly difficult for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. In the life to come, it says, their gold will testify against them, and burn their flesh like fire.

Now, I don't know if any of that is true, but I do know this.. If it is true, until that day, we can and should look after one another as much as we can. We can also refuse to venerate greedy, selfish celebrities simply because we see some wicked reflection of ourselves in them. 

I'll Never Be Your Beast Of Burden..

 In a world of Beasts, it is not the Beast but the Human inside that howls to be uncaged. 

Woke Up This Morning..

If you don't invite me on your podcast to talk about 1970's baseball, the fall of the Khmer Rouge, early garage psychedelia and/or my unbridled love of beans, you're canceling me and I will sue you. If you don't have a podcast, I'm sorry, but this is also cancel culture and you will be sued.

You have one hour to respond. 

Waiting For Our Arms to Grow.

I was thinking about how saguaro cactus doesn't begin to grow arms until it is about 75 years old. That's not an exaggeration. 

Seven and a half decades of growth, through tumult and joy, a generation of time. with not much to outwardly show for it until one day, when that transformation begins to take shape.

I was thinking that some of us are less like wild bamboo or other invasive species that grow rapidly and haphazardly overnight.. No, some of us are more akin to saguaros - We need time to find our way, to grow into what we're becoming.

Beautiful things take time. Growth happens in longer seasons. So sometimes, maybe we need to change the way we talk to ourselves while waiting for our arms to grow. 

In A World Of Monsters..

My latest version of self-harm includes watching old episodes of "To Catch A Predator," and feeling triggered and re-traumatized witnessing these disgusting cretins attempting to meet up with children for nefarious purposes. Unfortunately, the darkness doesn't end there. While my brain starts to spiral and I start to feel angry and unsafe watching these evil monsters, I then proceed to actually take the time to look up these heinous individuals while giving some consideration in my head to driving to their place of residence and taking some form of brutal vigilante justice into my own hands. 

I guess what I'm saying is: I probably shouldn't be your life coach. 

Swimming in the Darkness, Searching for the Light..

 Scott Durzo is a Free Man.

And here I am, rotting away on the inside, finding moments of incredible happiness and counting my immeasurable blessings, never short on gratitude. And yet, somehow, still trapped in the darkness; swimming upstream to the places where the light can find its way in.

I'll keep swimming. It's the best I can do. The people I love deserve nothing less.

But..

It's like James Baldwin once said:

"..the earth is always shifting,

the light is always changing,

the sea does not cease to grind down rock.

Generations do not cease to be born,

and we are responsible to them

because we are the only witnesses they have.

The sea rises, the light fails,

lovers cling to each other,

and children cling to us.

The moment we cease to hold each other,

the moment we break faith with one another,

the sea engulfs us and the light goes out."

------

Love has to Win. Somehow. And True Love, in the public sense, is the presence of Justice. What else can it be?

Right?

Reflections On A Strange World..

Twenty-two months of this virus. A strange world, reminiscent of some bizarre science fiction b-movie plot made manifest. It still feels a bit like living through a fever dream.

We just marked the passing of a second Covid Christmas and New Years, with new variants promising an inevitably dark winter, stealing away even more of our mental and physical health and well-being, along with our precious ability to escape, to blow off steam, to adventure, to recalibrate, to press re-set.

Eschewing holiday chaos and travel is not a new notion for someone like myself, but for many, the very definition of home has been radically challenged and often completely re-imagined in these daunting times. That safe place to either hunker down in (or mournfully avoid for some) has been altered, and that can prove to be particularly difficult during the holidays. 

Sometimes, I lose track of time. I know many of us have gone through so much during these past two years; some of us still numb to things, others feeling the wounds fresh still. We've passed 850,000 U.S. deaths; a startling and macabre statistic and a grim reminder, and yet that doesn't stop us from feeling that in-the-marrow impulse to celebrate the holidays, with family, friends, on our own, or observing whatever kind of ritual with whatever tribe makes us feel the closest thing to whatever home is supposed to mean. But the revelry for those of us who have a semblance of compassion and care for the vulnerable is tempered, and I, along with everyone and their cousin, continue to ask: For how long? 

Since the answer to that question is as unknowable as the fog was thick during the January marine layer early this morning, I have to simply plug myself in to what it is that gives me comfort and pleasure, and I sincerely hope that you're able to do the same.

I'm struck today by what relatively little insight I have as I reflect on the last year, because it feels as if so little has changed even though we've experienced a year of joys as well as tragedies. The predictable stuff. I guess the only real understanding I have is that all we can really do in the face of a pandemic, aside from smart, thoughtful, preventative measures that far too many are stull reluctant to take, is to count our blessings, assist others when we can, and focus on the pleasures, both large and small, that being alive gives us. It's good coffee and laughter, it's making playlists and listening to records, and holding on to the love of your family and friends, however you can.

I write this in relatively good health, vaccinated and boosted despite likely battling symptoms of long covid, recognizing my incredible privilege and luck. So, while praying ceaselessly for a light at the end of this tunnel, I'll continue to mask up, I'll limit any socializing, I'll mourn for the bands I'm not seeing and the venues I'm not seeing them in and I'll mourn the toll this virus is taking on all of us. But I'll count my blessings. Every song. Every breath. Every laugh. Every moment.

"Hope is the power of being cheerful in circumstances which we know to be desperate." - G.K. Chesterton.

These words I'll cling to in the coming months. Here's hoping 2022 works out better, for all of us.

Salut. 

Healing, Oversimplified..

 We heal when we can be with what we feel.