Do you believe in love?

Not the love I want to believe in.

×∞ Adin

7 June 2020

She is tainted by ancient wounds

and when you kiss her

you can taste the bitter of “once upon a time” and

the sweetness of “the here and now.”

She is a conundrum that fell from a shooting star,

scorching those that attempted to save her.

Yet, soothing those that never tried to.

I am my mother’s daughter, my father’s legacy and the bane of my sister’s existence. Young, but not a child. Old, but not an adult. I am on the cusp of finding my purpose... or am I? How dramatic.

Maybe I’ll have that same lightbulb moment my sister had, when she realised that the sole reason for her existence was to slave away at med school for 10+ years in sunny down under. But what can I say? One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. Or in this case, what would be my personal hell is her heaven on earth.

Or maybe I’ll end up like my parents. Without a college degree and thoghroughly regretting getting married 20 years down the line.

Life’s strange. Everything seems so wishy-washy, from how quickly interests fade, or the way my grudges ebb and flow like waves on the beach. I really wish I knew more about myself. Been alive for a decade and a half, and still haven’t got a clue. If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that my biggest fear is turning 50 and only then realising that I should’ve begun my shot put career decades ago.

I know nothing, and even if I knew everything, nothing would be for certain. Every single thing is subject to change. Nothing is set in stone, but maybe that’s a good thing. It’s exciting that way. And good lord do I need some excitement in my life right now.

I am all the bells and whistles,

And everything for show.

Others say it’s superflous,

But I think that’s not so.

I soar far beyond the clouds

And pass above the trees.

I dive to hidden depths

In crevices beneath the seas.

I think if I had a colour

It would alter every day.

I am far too many things,

Which one? I cannot say.

Hello Baby! — So Long, Uncle George.

Today I had the chance to meet my newest grandbaby. She was born a few weeks ago, just a smidge under 7 pounds. She’s my eighth grandchild — six girls, two boys. And oh yes, there’s a great-granddaughter as well.

The Lamb Family is growing.

Having said that, I must point out that the Cassaneses (my Mom’s Family) is down by one: My favorite Uncle, George Cassanese, passed away at age 83, just 10 years older than me. He’d been in the Marines. Used to make my cousins and I march around my grandparents’ house. Always smiled. Funny fella. (By the way, he’s the guy who nicknamed me “Dumbo” because he thought my ears were big. Like I said, “funny fella.”)

Birth, followed by death. Joy, followed by sorrow.

Because I believe in an “afterlife,” I expect to see Uncle George again. And my parents and grandparents, too.

Why bring this up? Am I morbid? Or What?

For me, it’s time to think about such things.

Seems like every week an aged rock star, movie star, TV star, or other celebrity dies — all about my age or thereabouts. People you’ve probably never heard of, with names like Fred Willard, Little Richard, B.J. Hogg, Shirley Knight, Brian Dennehy, James Drury, Jay Benedict, Ellis Marsalis — all people who were young when I was young ... now gone.

Take, for example, Ravi Zacharias: March 26, 1946 – May 19, 2020, just a year older than me. (There’s a link to his obituary below, as well as a link to a recent interview.)

Zacharias traveled millions of miles around the world preaching the gospel. One of his specialties was going to college campuses and answering really tough questions about Christianity from students. Now “poof,” he’s gone: Dust to dust; ashes to ashes.

I’ll die one day. Maybe next year. Or the year after that. Maybe five or 10 years down the road. It’s inevitable. “Poof,” I'll be gone. Like a puff of smoke. Like Fred Willard, Little Richard, Shirley Knight, Ellis Marsalis, and Ravi Zacharias.

While I’m still here, I’ll share poems and stories, photos and Bible verses, thoughts and dreams. Some might make you smile. Some might make you sad. Some might make you angry.

After I’m gone, you’ll decide what kind of person I was. Hopefully, some of those thoughts will be pleasant. Like reminiscing about a favorite uncle — or meeting a new baby on a Sunday afternoon.

OBIT:

https://www.rzim.org/read/rzim-updates/ravi-zacharias-obituary

INTERVIEW:

https://youtu.be/0LfmEVJ1d_k

Sheesh... I have a laundry list for this one:

I dated sisters once. (Oh, c’mon y’all! Not at the same time!) Still, it never plays well with Mommy, Daddy... or the first sister.

I entered an “Eat the Worm” contest once. They tell me it was a really fun night, but I‘ll have to take their word for it. I still can’t drink tequila thirty years later.

I asked a girl out in the ninth grade after she did a strip tease on top of Mr. Kessler’s desk when he left the room. Turns out, she WAS wilder than me, and dumped me because I couldn’t keep up with her. Hurts just as bad to have to tell you about it now as it did to live it way back then.

Just like in a bad teen movie, I once watched two girls get in a fight and pull each other’s tops off. It still hurts that I may not “entirely regret” not breaking it up.

I cried when Ol’ Yeller died.

(Remember that these all happened long ago), but I kissed my best friend’s girlfriend once, and I kissed my girlfriend’s best friend... twice ;)

I wouldn’t let a high school teacher put my assignment stories in the school paper because I didn’t think it was “cool”.

I wore the grooves off of a K.C and the Sunshine Band album while I was, “Gettin’ down tonight!”

I put my hampster in my sister’s Barbie Winnebago and rolled it down a hill. The hampster became a seatbelt statistic in the ensuing crash. I never told my sister how the hampster died. Poor Barbie!

Me and two other guys dressed up as The Andrew Sister’s and sang, “Don’t Sit Under That Apple Tree With Anyone Else But Me” in a gong show. We even rehearsed. (It was for a good cause)

Thank God it was all before cell phone cameras!

she cries at night

because just when things started to get better

they got worse.

she cries at night

because she wonders

when her life will change.

she cries at night

because she loves someone she can never have.

she cries at night

because her heart hurts

to the point that it keeps her awake.

she cries at night

because i took her boyfriend

and left her friendless.

(i took her hope. i jumped on the pieces of her heart. i hurt her. i killed happiness for her. i ruined her life. i left her lonely. i did this to her. i did this to her. i did this to her. i am a monster.)

she cries at night

because of me.

(I'm so sorry).

Sorry kid, but you are a little late to the party.

We’d tell you what an adult does, but look around (or at least on YouTube)... most of us don’t know how they act either.

There was a time, not so long ago, when turning eighteen was a big deal. That was when your free and formal education ended, and it was time to get to work.

Eighteen used to be when you registered to vote, and for the draft, and when you moved out of the house to start a life of your own, but no one bothers much with such trivial things anymore.

Back when I turned eighteen it meant you were now able to buy yourself a cold beer, but we don’t trust you with that anymore either, kiddo. Heck, just look at how your college friends behave with a little booze and try to imagine what it would look like if we were to cut you all loose at once! Holy Kappa Alpha!

So just settle down, Peter Pan. There is nothing to get worked up over. Grab yourself a Pop-tart and the video game controller. You can take the next five to seven years to figure out just what you want to study (don’t worry, you can always default on those student loans), then you’ll have two or three more years at home in the basement, so you have at least ten, maybe even twelve more years until you need to grow up? Sweet!

Mom... have you seen my socks?

I am like a Faulkner novel... if you can put up with the poor punctuation, the occasional run on sentence, and a general long-windedness then you might find the golden nuggets hidden amongst the weeds.

“Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him.”

- William Faulkner