Silence
if silence had a scent, it would smell like love
It would be tangy and bright
it would be souless and hollow
it would be a warning of the horror to come
it would be a refuge for those in pain
and the grief of those who have lost more than they can take
it would be the mountain we cannot climb
and the river we cannot swim
it would impassable, indestructable and valiant
it would be the essence of what it means to be brave
to sit and watch once the world has disapeared
and still, somehow, find your place
it would smell like a flower's dew and freshness of the air after a storm
it would be as vitorious as summer's rain
and cold as icey snow
it would be everything,
and it would consume
if sound had a name it would be fear
and silence would be the fear
of knowing that what once was,
is no longer near
Converting
Converting
August 31, 2024
I have a fourth party check drawn on a North Korean bank worth millions on paper.
My wife speaks seven languages with Catalan as her primary.
I measure weights and volumes avoirdupoisly. She is strictly metric.
I have toned down jokes to avoid the offense by adopting the “Dad” version.
My friend used to be a Catholic who used to be Jewish.
Caterpillars go to sleep as caterpillars. They awaken as butterflies.
I can change my curve ball to a two seam fastball grip in under two seconds.
No size 6 is the same as any size 6.
If you wish to be understood, be prepared to be understood.
Otherwise, the effort is “Who's on First.” Fun to watch it. Tragic to live it.
I Need the Money
I Need the Money
August 29, 2024
I am (somewhat) poor.
But, I do have some morals.
I feel the pull of poverty when I do not eat, the stack of bills is too difficult to bear, or when I can’t answer the phone because I know I owe money to the person that is calling.
I feel the pull of morality when I have to see myself in the mirror before making another dreadful decision.
Thus, and this is a rather large thus, I have become creative.
I pose for feet photos.
I permitted a cameraman to tattoo me with temporary ink. I allowed another to film me walking over eggs crushing each and every one of them. I sat for hours reading “Great Expectations” while dangling my pumps from my nylon covered legs.
The money is good.
I wear different polish each week. Some days my feet are covered in mud. Other days it might be pancake batter. Last week, my feet were enveloped with different flavors of Jello. Next week, I will star in a video of a woman who cannot decide on which pair of shoes to purchase.
My cut is nearly a grand a week.
The stack of bills is dwindling. The telephone does not ring as often. I look a little better when I see myself in the mirror in the morning.
The lights finally came back on.
How long I can ride this wave and stay in good graces with my (very) small circle of friends is beyond my pay grade. Right now, I am taking it day by day, expecting nothing from tomorrow.
I still have a few yesterdays that need attention first.
But once I clean the slate of past dues and final notices, I am going to take a computer class or two. For I remember pet rocks. Fads don’t last forever, but my memory of my poverty will.
Creative Hooker
I love to create. I picked up a pencil when I was 3 years old and started to draw my world. As soon as I knew how to make words, I created them too. I made up stories and fantasy worlds and made-up languages for those worlds. I wrote sad poems and filled up journal pages with all the words that made me want to cry. All the words I wanted so badly to scream.
I still create today, too. Not as much as when times were slower. Quieter. Simpler. Now I have to fit in short bursts of creativity between virtual meetings and doctor's appointments. Sometimes I'll find that I've run out of words to say after a long day of work. I've said them all in small talk and emails. My identity as an artist stops where my career begins.
Some people insist there's a way I can have it all. Have I looked into monetizing my graphic design? Have I put my illustrations on Etsy? Ultimately, what they're asking is: is it making you money?
In their eyes, it only counts if you monetize it. You can't be allowed to just enjoy something. You can't want to create for yourself. You have to give yourself away to be valuable.
A creative hooker. Someone who strips their ego and bares their soul on the page for the enjoyment of others, with a token dollar thrown at them. They hate it now. They remember when they started, blinded by the prospect of getting paid to do what they love. Now they sit disillusioned in front of a laptop. They're on their fourth coffee of the day — whatever it takes to meet those deadlines. They haven't done it for pleasure in months.
I didn't want that to be me. I didn't want to hate what I once loved. I didn't want to grow to resent my passion. By separating my two lives, I protect it. I allow it to ebb and flow and grow alongside me. There are some things you just can't force. And there are some things I'm just not willing to give away.
Waiting No More
Waiting No More
Dedicated to those who were there and those who understand why
My platoon waited.
We waited for the order to go. We waited for the order to load. We waited while we crossed the channel. We waited for the drawbridge to lower. I ran forward, but I had to wait to exit.
I waited to rise from the water as the tide came in. I waited for the gunfire to concentrate to my left. I waited to summon the courage to move forward.
My sergeant yelled, “Get off that beach!”
The wait was over.
It took us nearly a week to break through and concentrate enough forces and supplies to secure the beachhead for further reinforcements and supplies.
What I didn’t wait for was the bill. That had to be paid immediately by the young men ready to give their lives for the cause. Everyone went in with eyes wide open. All knew what was at stake. While the price was indeed high, the benefits were even higher.
Today was a deal.
I swore if I ever lived through this, I would never forget. I would make others never forget. I would teach those not yet born what happened and why.
Finally, I would give up waiting.
It is now 80 years later. I sit in my wheelchair watching the world go by, oblivious to the cost of their leisure activities and personal freedoms. I gave it my best shot at keeping my oath, but time snuck up on me and wore me down. I have eroded physical attributes keeping me from screaming from the rooftops. I no longer challenge the ignorance of those incapable of understanding.
I await my assured, impending demise as a comfort, not with fear.
But I still hate waiting.
So, on this day, most likely my last, I embrace the YOLO philosophy of my great grandchildren to call my own shots. I don’t check in for lunch of Jello and sugar cookies. I have an Uber ready for my signal. Once I stormed the beaches amid a hail of gunfire. Today, I will storm City Hall, crashing the gates, tempting the guards adorned in their jack boots to try to stop me.
Perhaps one will. Perhaps one won’t.
On this day, 80 years ago, all gave some, and some gave all. It is no longer good enough to regulate this memory to a Jeopardy trivia question. It must be exercised to be lived.
Otherwise, life in the gilded cage, we have constructed, is still life in a gilded cage of our own being.
Log that as my last thought, with my last breath, as I return to the sands of Omaha beach.
