Mykee's Blog

2008-03-09T11:38:00.000-04:00

I've never quite cared for fashion, and style is in the eye of the beholder. I like how certain colors (like black) look on me. I've never been hip to all the changes in fashion. Don't get me wrong, I can dress very well, very cool, if I actually give a damn about what is labeled, "hip" or "cool". Usually, I just don't care. And I'm not trying to be a rebel, I just be who I be, and throughout my life that has been labeled everything from devil worshiper to freak to "what the hell?" to "turn down those colors!"

What's a guy supposed to do? There have been times when I have gotten in trouble for my dress assembly. I went through a phase in college where I was really into collecting knives, mainly hunting knives. Now, I've never hunted a day in my life, and personally, I don't care for the activity. My interest in hunting knives was an interest in knives, not hunting.

I purchased this very cool knife one time at this midwestern fair. I still have it today. It is this amazing, Texas toothpick, hunting knife. It's so rad. I love it. In any case, one day I was getting dressed at college, and I thought of the coolest idea. I would wear my camouflage, army pants, black boots, black t-shirt, and my knife, locked and loaded, attached to my boot. It looked so badass.

As I've mentioned in previous writings, I attended a conservative, evangelical Christian college. And it probably goes without saying, but dressing in that style and going to morning, religious services did not show a great deal of prudence on my part; although, I never thought it would cause the stir it caused. I was pulled aside by the campus police, because someone called me in, stating that my dress was very threatening, and that they were worried that I may do harm to someone.

Are you f'n kidding me? I'll tell you what, after being pulled aside like that, I most certainly wanted to do harm to someone.

Well, eventually, my camouflage clothing days faded away, and I moved on to other fashion styles, and some of them people actually liked.

Now, jump ahead with me. A couple of months ago, I was getting my daughter dressed for the day. I picked out a shirt and pants that looked good together. My daughter, with eyebrows raised, was incredulous. She said, "Daddy, that doesn't even match! Let me do it."

My daughter is three. . . .

Some things never change.

2008-03-08T19:11:00.000-05:00

Saw my mom in the hospital today. She will be having open heart surgery on monday or tuesday. three of her arteries leading to her heart are 90% blocked. she went to the hospital yesterday for a catherization. she expected to be out of the hospital within hours. after the catherization, the doctors told her that it was not good news. they immediately admitted her to the critical care unit. though bypass surgery is somewhat routine these days, there's a reasonable chance that my mom may not make it. this makes me terribly sad and troubled. Did I see my mom for the last time today?

My friend Matt wanted to comfort me. He said, "I'm sure your mom will be fine." I said, "And what if she doesn't make it? Whether she makes it or not, her life is in the hands of God." I've never really been good at duping myself, at pretending that everything always works out for the best. It's not the way life is. My mom will die some day, and it may be on Monday or Tuesday or 20 years from now, but the one thing I can't do is pretend that this may not happen soon.

I couldn't keep a smile while with her. She's scared as hell. She's so torn, so sad. I am so sad, so torn. I couldn't do much except cry today. I wanted her to hold me like she did when I failed that test in the 5th grade. I wanted her to hug me like she did when I was busted for shoplifting, and the store owner wanted to press charges. I wanted to hold her and let her know that I am in pain, as well.

I knew when I reflected on Joan of Arcadia that God was telling me to pay attention and prepare myself.

I sat there in the hospital room and wondered if I was ready for all of this, and these tears that run down my face right now have no simple solution. The bear has jumped out in front of me and is loudly roaring.

"You can take it in stride
or you can take it right between the eyes
suck up, suck up, and take your medicine
it's a good day, it's a good day to face the hard things."
Cloud Cult, 'Take your Medicine'

2008-03-07T23:30:00.000-05:00

Some of you know that I had an interesting few days a couple of weeks ago. I felt that my death was somehow approaching me. Then I felt that it wasn't necessarily my death, but something that had to die within me or around me.

I was feeling rather anxious on my birthday today. Didn't know why. I took a nap and I had a dream about my tooth falling out for no reason. Apparently, teeth dreams are about blocked anxiety within a person's life. Why was I feeling anxious?

I suspected that it was because my mom went into the hospital for an explorative scope; the doctors wanted to see if there was any blockage to her arteries. My ma doesn't have a crazy amount of medical problems, but she does have some concerns.

The procedure was only supposed to last a couple of hours, and then she would be released from the hospital within the same day. Perhaps I was feeling anxiety because of this. I hadn't heard from my dad, and I was slightly worried.

When I went out for dinner with Tessin this evening I couldn't concentrate on the meal. I needed to find out what was going on. I called my dad and he told me that they had to admit my mother to the hospital because she needs an immediate triple bypass on her heart. You heard me right: a TRIPLE bypass.

I don't know how I feel. I'm numb. I feel as if death is approaching my mother. I'm trying to gear up for the worse. No sense to give myself some idea of false hope. For if she dies, that will make it much worse for me, if I sit there and say, "Oh, she'll be fine." I am much more of a realist than that. I am not afraid of death. We all must die. But though I know death's inevitability, I am sad about death, and the thought that I will lose my mother one day. I just don't want it to be now; yet, I sense that this is one of the signs I was sensing a couple of weeks ago. And oddly enough, I feel as if there are more signs to come. This is only the beginning.

2008-03-07T13:15:00.000-05:00

Dear Charlie:

Do you remember back in that April of 1993, back when I was on that desperate train that had gone far out of control? Do you remember? I called you one day because I wasn't sure if I was going to make it. I tried to call my mom and tell her that I was in pain. I tried to tell my mom that I never really wanted that boy to take advantage of me. I tried to tell my mom without really telling her, but she couldn't see that I was bleeding, so she just kept cutting. And I was almost bled out, Charlie. I almost bled it all out on that day, Charlie. My thoughts were cutting me, and I wanted to jump from that train. I was almost convinced that jumping would be fun. I almost couldn't see past the moment of my jump, but then I called you. And you listened. And you pulled out that bandage. And I cried because it hurt so bad, Charlie. And I never saw God more clearly than on that day. You listened. You prayed. You let me cry, Charlie. And I almost couldn't take it. I wanted to punch my head through a wall, so all the blood could come out at once. And you never made me feel bad for that.

If ever the time comes, I would gladly lay down my life for you, Charlie. You have always been the soft whisper of God in my darkest nights.

Dear Aine:

It's strange how timely it has been for your footsteps, your friendship to enter into my life. I know you think that you don't have the magic words to speak me out of the whirlwinds and hurricanes that beset my path, but you, Irish soul, listen graciously with heart. Your words and thoughts have brought comfort to me. It was you, in my darkest moments in the fading autumn light, who reminded me that darkness was only the absence of light; darkness truly doesn't exist within a relationship unto itself. It corresponds to the degree of light. Darkness can only exist if light dims herself; darkness can never take over light. It was you who reminded me of this simple truth. And I know I've said this to you before, but it's worth saying again, you, with laughter and truth, have melted some burden down. Ferron said it best:

And I found that all the world could love you save for one. And I don't know why it is, but that kiss will be the haunted one. You'll pine and weep and you'll lose good sleep and you'll think your life has come undone, until you learn to turn and spurn that bitter wind.

Because it'll probably be the one you least expect to, who will wager through your storm with you, who will give your fears respect... who will melt your burden down...though you probably don't want that yet, still...the odds fall sweet in favor to an open heart.

So, that's it. I'm learning to turn and spurn that bitter wind. I just wanted you to know that I am deeply blessed to have your friendship in my life, at this time. And when you do finally resign yourself to those Irish shores, know that you will always be irreplaceable within my heart.

Dear Charlie. Dear Aine. I think on you two today, my birthday, and the friendships you've bestowed upon me. And with this, I give thanks.

2008-03-07T05:30:00.000-05:00

What more could I say? This day is cloud dust and star shine.
Mostly what I choose to make it; mostly almost done.
And yet, as I breathe, as I know,
We, (mostly I), are fortunate to dance with each other
in time, in step. Who knows what our silence will bring? Who knows if we will be awakened, or sleep with sleep, dreaming
about it all again? For now, I am grateful to curl in my bed,
returning back to that place where I almost knew all the
answers. Birthdays should not feel sad; yet, something about
the rain coming down causes me to focus on the rain coming
down. I am the perfect seven on the dice, so humbled and
gracious for all of you beautiful friends. All of you.

Happy birthday to me.

2008-03-02T15:24:00.001-05:00

The Rubik's Cube: A theory in defense
of the existence of God

We've all seen the Rubik's Cube; that six sided enigma that has perplexed simpletons and the brain-powered. To some mathematical geniuses, it is just a fascinating equation, one that can be solved using a minimal amount of moves. To me, it was, and remains to be, a luring quandary.

I started playing with the cube when I was 10. I studied books on the cube, and would spend hours trying to solve it. When I eventually solved, (with the help of some suggestive books), I decided to mix and match different approaches in solving the cube. (I've never been quite good at following someone else's approach.) I had Rubik's cube books that claimed the cube could be solved in 45 seconds or less. I've never been able to solve it that quickly. My fastest time was 70 seconds.

When I was younger I focused on results, (e.g., how fast could I solve it, why is it so hard to turn at times). I wanted to do it faster and faster. But alas! 70 seconds was the best time I could get. Eventually, I got bored with the Rubik's Cube, and I put it away.

Within the last six months, I mentioned at a show about my Rubik's Cube abilities. After this show, a girl came up to me, holding out her cube, asking me to solve it. I froze. I hadn't seriously tried to solve the cube for more than (Gulp!) 20 years. And because the cube is not a mathematical equation to me, (geometry was the only math I disdained), I was stuck. I couldn't solve it. I couldn't remember my moves. I walked away embarrassed that I even mentioned my Rubik's Cube days.

I went home determined to solve the cube, once again. Within hours, I was able to solve the cube; I rediscovered the process. It's odd how things start to come back to you when you haven't done an activity for so long.

This time around, though, I was intrigued by the process, the "how," and not the "how fast." There are hundreds, maybe thousands of ways to solve the cube. I have my series of 20+ ways. One approach that remains consistent with me is that I start off solving the cube by working on two opposites first. The color patterns are always the same: red/orange, blue/green, white/yellow. Therefore, if I choose the yellow as my first color, the white side will follow. Before fully completing those two sides, I arrange the corners of the four remaining colors, and then I finish the rest of the two colors with which I began.

Upon completion of the initial colors, I work on completing the remaining four sides. However, in order to complete the remaining four sides, one must be willing to "upset" the order of the two completed sides. When I am solving the cube I don't even pay any attention to this disturbance; it is what is necessary when I am trying to solve the cube. I thought about how wonderful of a metaphor solving the Rubik's Cube is for life. If there is a lot of distractions and disturbances and confusion for a relatively simple cubed equation, what more can be said for the distractions and disturbances and confusions within the multi-variables of life?

As some of you are aware, I am intrigued by philosophical and religious meanderings. I love to sit and ponder; this brings me joy. Lately, I've been reading and listening to discussions about Evil. For those of you who are unaware, the problem of evil is the chief weapon for atheists in their defense that God does not exist. Personally, I believe God exists. Yet, I can't just ignore this serious premise: If God exists, why would God allow evil? If God is loving and benevolent, almighty and omnipresent, why would God allow bad things to happen to good people? Why is there suffering?

For the sanctity of blogging, and for the sanity of my reading audience, I will keep this discussion to simplicity; yet, I recognize that even simplified, this discussion can be discoursed equally as well with mushrooms, as with sobriety. By the very nature of this discussion being philosophical, some of you may bow out right about now. For those of you who are still around, let us enjoy one another's company.

I can get bogged down with themes such as the local and global arguments from evil, the idea of God, the hiddenness of God, and the suffering of animals to approach this discussion. However, time and interest is of the essence; therefore, allow me to draw upon my rediscovery of solving the Rubik's Cube as a general, but faulty, approximation of why evil exists.

Earlier, as you may recall, I mentioned two salient points concerning the cube that I would like to infuse within this discussion. First point being, there are multiple methods to understanding and solving the cube. Secondly, the process in which I take requires the disruption of seeming perfection in order to obtain holistic perfection. In other words, I must first destroy the two sides I solve in order to complete the remaining four sides.

Could not the Rubik's Cube, in theory, be seen as a working metaphor to address this question? What if life, as we know it, (or life unbeknownst to us), is working to achieve some level of perfection? And what if this journey is far more extravagant than some simple cube? What if the mathematical computations are played out through billions of years, with infinite possibilities, with pieces (i.e., people and things) that don't necessarily fit within their given time and space, and can only later be understood through reflection or the revelation of other factors? What if God is beyond the scope we place on God? Beyond the books and sermons and suicides and prayers and judgments and boxes in which God so neatly fits? What if God can only be God? What if stopping all the evil would no more be of God than stopping all the good?

When I solve the cube I solve two opposite sides first; the opposites work in tandem with one another. They work together and rarely against each other. What if these opposite sides were to be seen as love/hate, evil/good, suffering/healing? What if to God the framework is not greater and lesser evils, but rather, greater and lesser goods? And what if it is about the intentions of things, rather than the acts themselves? For example, if I say to you is a mother evil if she purposefully shoots her child? Would it matter if I told you the mother was mentally ill? A criminal? Or if I told you that the mother had been wounded during war time, dying, and her eight year old girl would be raped, tortured, and killed by her captors. Would that make a difference?

We can only see through this glass darkly. We are trapped within the immediacy of our time. We attempt to understand the pieces of this cube we call life, but we don't know the intentions or strategy of the Cube Solver. Onlookers can only gasp and remain baffled by the movement of life within God's hands, and what appears to be the destruction of perfection, what we label as evil, could in the end, be set to serve the greater good.

2008-03-02T11:55:00.001-05:00

the unilateral decision concerning bilateral hearts

You twice asked me to completely move on,

as if it were like stretching,

and not like rubbing sand to make diamonds.

I am amazed, blinded by your persistent

faith, by your dedicated, Catholic belief

that we are wrong for each other.

I wish I could sing like a lute;

words aside, harmonizing to your lilting voice.

But alas! I have lost. I am jazz to your self-reflective pop.

I once avoided an argument with you

over the use of the word ironic by Alanis Morissette.

We both remained smitten by her song.

It appears ironic to me that you were the only

one who fastidiously held to your druthers

that my death was not rapidly approaching.

This is ironic because, in truth, it was your hand,

thrusting that heavy dagger of disbelief

up under my rib, piercing my heart, and bleeding me out.

2008-02-28T10:28:00.000-05:00

The complete story of this strange presence of death

In my early teens throughout my early 20s, I had this strong sense that I would die young, violently. Part of this sense had to do with what I envisioned myself doing in the future. I pictured myself working with gangs, ministering to them on the streets. As I got into my mid-twenties, the presence of death subsided within me.

Within the last two weeks of February in the year 2008, the appearance of death has revisited me. I want to document its path so that all can understand that I am not just superimposing random incidents, though, some of you may still feel, after reading these words, that I am being dramatic about some mere coincidences. So be it. I'm just trying to read the signs on the wall. I'm just paying attention to a sixth sense.

Let's start.

About four weeks ago, I found a bunch of bumper stickers that I had purchased about eight months ago when I was in California with a dear friend. I had thought that I had lost these bumper stickers because I couldn't figure out where I had misplaced them in my house. I was ecstatic when I found these bumper stickers. I looked through the lot of them and I chose four that I wanted to eventually put on my suitcase. The four were:

COEXIST (with each letter being drawn with a symbol from all the world's religions)

"Why do we kill people, who kill people, to teach that killing people is wrong?"

"You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one." – John Lennon

Homophobia is a social disease.

Those were the four. Not a big deal; they were just bumper stickers.

Jump ahead.

Two weeks later, I woke up in the middle of the night because my stomach was bothering me, and I could not sleep. I decided to watch a couple of episodes of Joan of Arcadia. Unbeknownst to me, at that time, my mother, around the same time, jumped out of her sleep, panicked, stricken with an overwhelming fear that something bad was going to happen to me. But then again, my mom can worry about all her children. That's what mothers do. I didn't hear about her concern until the next day. I heard it in her voice: she was scared. I just ignored it, at the time, because she was annoying me. But I would like to go back to Joan of Arcadia for a minute.

I've spoke about this before, but I will reiterate now. Joan of Arcadia is not just a t.v. show to me. For some reason, (this will sound crazy to some of you), it speaks to me as if God is directly speaking to me, bringing forth lessons I need to learn or to which I need to pay closer attention. The first episode I watched in the wee hours of the morning was extremely moving to me. I cried because I felt so moved and sad by the story. I felt sad because of the people I've hurt in my life and those who have hurt me. That is what I was taking away from it at that moment. However, there was a scene in this episode that struck me as well. At the beginning of the episode, God, in the form of an older woman, said to Joan, "You need to pay close attention, Joan. You are about to be tested, and I need you to pay very close attention." A similar statement was repeated later on in the episode by God, in another human form. I wasn't paying attention at this point.

Jump ahead with me.

On Friday, February 22, I had a snow day. (Yay, for me!) I watched movies all day. One of the movies I watched was "The Killing of John Lennon", a story about Mark David Chapman, John Lennon's assassin. This guy, Chapman, was most assuredly mentally ill. He became obsessed with John Lennon being a phony and felt that his life mission was to kill Lennon. And that's what he did. John Lennon died a tragic, violent death. The movie was unsettling, but I wasn't reading the signs, yet. It was just a movie that made me think about the possibility of someone doing that to me.

(Now, my friends, I'm not having a god-complex nor am I thinking that I am so important that of course someone will want to kill me. Still, at times, I pay close attention to individual reactions after I do my show. Some of the reactions that I have experienced from audience members have been extreme, not violent, but extreme. After watching the killing of John Lennon, it just gave me pause to think about this. John Lennon and I shared a similar vision and philosophy concerning the world.)

In between my movie watching, on this Friday, I was burning CDs onto my iTunes so that I could eventually put it onto my iPod. There are several artists of whom I have multiple CDs. The ones for which I have the most CDs are: Bob Dylan, Ani DiFranco, Greg Brown, 2PAC, Larry Norman, Tori Amos, and Bright Eyes. When I load any one of these artists onto my iTunes I try to load their whole collection, so as not to forget which ones I have remaining.

Friday, I decided to put Larry Norman onto my iTunes. Larry Norman brings back a lot of memories for me. He has been labeled the grandfather of Christian rock. I hadn't listened to his music for quite some time; it was cool revisiting his planet. I looked up his website to see if he had any recent CDs. He did, but I couldn't order any of them because his website was under reconstruction. I saw that he was still doing performances, but had cancelled his last show on February 1^st.

Now, as I was burning some of his CDs onto my computer I went looking for my "Juno" cd. "Juno" is a movie that was up for best picture. I found my Juno cd underneath a movie called, "Across the Universe," a musical movie using no other music except Beatle songs. John Lennon was a member of the Beatles. At this point, I started feeling those old feelings of death. They weren't overwhelming, but they were there. I started to read the graffiti on the wall.

On Saturday, I continued to burn more cds of Larry Norman. I have too many cds of the man!

On Sunday, I woke up with a more intense feeling of my own death. There was science of logic to it, but it was strong. In getting dressed and packed, I grabbed my bumper stickers and put them on my suitcase. If you remember, one of the bumper stickers was, "You may say I'm a dreamer, but I'm not the only one." – John Lennon. My eyes were wide open.

On the plane, flying to Minnesota, I put my iPod on randomized and just mellowed to music. Currently, I have 7,634 songs on my iPod. That's a lot of songs! So, I found it odd that within the 1^st 10 songs two of them were John Lennon songs, one of them being "Imagine," the song from where the bumper sticker received its words. My heart started to race a little bit more.

On my drive to my hotel, I called Tessin. We are no longer married, but we have remained very close to one another. I needed to speak with her about what she needed to do, if anything were to happen to me. I told her that I had a very strong sense of my own death. I felt certain that I was to die soon, tragically. She immediately said, "Please, Michael, please, don't say that. I didn't tell you this because I didn't want to scare you, but in this last week, I have had two dreams of police officers coming to my home to inform me that you have been killed." I then thought about my mother's strong, frightening sense of some danger involving me. I shared this with Tessin. I scared Tessin.

On Sunday night, I wrote a blog on my MySpace. These are the words with which I started: 'There is no simple way to say this, so I will not mince words: My death feels imminent.' I tried to briefly explain to my readers that I feel this very strong sense of my untimely death. I was reading the writing on the wall, trying to make sense of it all.

On Monday evening, I read on Randy Stonehill's blog the following words: "Larry Norman's Passing to the Next Life." What? I read it. Larry Norman had died in his home on Sunday, two days after I 'randomly' (for you skeptics) began putting his music onto my iTunes. Now, understand this, I hadn't listened to Larry Norman for more than a year. I stunned into silence.

I scanned the internet for any articles I could find. One of the article that I read said the following words: "In a message posted on his Web site, written the day before his death, Norman said he knew death was imminent." He wrote that message the day after I looked at his website.

It's strange. I felt oddly comforted by Larry's death. I felt that I was not making up what I was feeling. And then the words of Joan of Arcadia hit me, again, "Pay attention, Michael. You are about to be tested."

I don't think that I necessarily have to die, yet, but I think that something is coming that will challenge my very physical existence, and if I pay attention, I will be able to survive it. I feel as if God may be giving me a chance to make that choice. I don't think my death is what is supposed to happen, unless I am careless, unless I fail to pay attention. The writing on the wall is too great to call it random. I am comforted by this, as well. And know this, my friends, (this includes you, my dear one), I love you deeply. I do not love wisely, but too well.

2008-02-24T03:00:00.000-05:00

Thoughts on my daughter

Pet peeve. So, people want you, as a parent, to be tied to the themes of collective parenting. You discover this before your child is born, and throughout the child’s development. It goes something like this . . .

Be Giddy

At your child’s birth, you must be giddy, blown away by the fact that you produced (or involved in producing) this wonderful gift. Happiness should abound, doubt needs to be discarded; all is well.

The Famous Question

The famous question comes in form of a question, and sometimes it comes in the form of a statement. Simply stated, “Can you imagine your life without your child?” Or “I bet you can’t imagine what you did before your child was born!” People who say these things tend to have the same dumb, annoying smile spreading across their smackable faces.

The Innocent Fantasy

The innocent fantasy comes in a couple of forms, from what I can see. People want their children to remain “innocent” for as long as possible or forever, whichever one happens last. Or they raise holy fire on sport athletes if they show their deteriorating humanity, because, you know, their kids are going to be ruined now. Their children have idolized these athletes and these athletes owe their lives, their perfection, to the generation of innocent children. Dammit!

Just you wait

“Oh, well, just you wait until they become teenagers . . .” And blah, blah, blah.

My response

The birth of my daughter was not a happy day for me; I was embarrassed. I didn’t see myself as a father. I didn’t want to be a father. Nothing about the position offered solace. I didn’t love Saskia until she was five months. Friends couldn’t understand this . . . or could they? I think some could, but they were afraid about what the pressure police would think. I was anything but giddy at my daughter’s entrance.

Yes! I can very clearly imagine my life without my daughter in it. Do I wish this to happen? By no means! However, my life was not empty without my daughter; it is filled differently, now, but it feels more like a reshaping than a mere filling. And perhaps it is best stated by this card I picked up a couple of months ago: There are lives I can imagine without children, but none of them have the same laughter and noise. My days with my daughter is a gift, if she were taken from me tomorrow, I would be less for a while, but eventually more, having known her pretty voice. And my life would continue.

I don’t want Saskia to be innocent forever. I don’t. One of my friends was asking me how I will explain to Saskia about my art and photography collection. I have paintings and photography, hanging in my house, which entails artistic levels of nudity. I have no shame about this. They are not pornographic, and I do not hold puritanical sensibility when it comes to art . . . or life for that matter. I will have little to explain to Saskia. In truth, it will be society who must explain their position: to hide that which is beautiful.

In addition, Saskia will be her own hero, her own self striving to become her better self. No idols or expectations of perfection within the human race. Failure is part of our humanity, our essence, our greatness. We can do something that supposedly God cannot do: we can fail; we can grow.

And as far as waiting until my daughter turns a teenager, I will be ready when it happens. I love a challenge, and I don’t run from fights or roaring bears. I simply breathe, hoping to calm to storm and quell the tribulation. We’ll see. . .

2008-01-10T18:51:00.000-05:00

nine one one

9-1-1
i got an emergency
9-1-1
can you hear me?

and 9-1-1 must have been dialed
a hundred thousand times on that day
when we got played
and tall buildings came crashing down
to that terrible, but terrific silence
of sound
and there was no one around
to answer our calls
because darkness was rising
like ashes that fall
so we all scattered to hide behind
imaginary walls
of fear

9-1-1
i got an emergency
9-1-1
fear is starting to cease me

and the real irony:
the people who were early for work that day
got worked that day
without the pay
and the people who were late
were right on time
to see planes and bodies exploding
like nursery rhymes
“rock-a-bye baby on a tree top”
and just like when the bough breaks
if you jump from a burning building
you will drop
and pop
goes the weasel
and chicken little was running around screaming
“the sky is falling”
and we were all bawling like little red riding hood
lost in the woods
so the big bad wolf hung us all from a noose

9-1-1
i got an emergency
9-1-1
there’s a new enemy

and new friends were found
and new enemies were born
on the day that america’s bravado was torn
and Ha Shem and Buddha and Jesus
all drank from one chalice
but Allah was crucified
by Ignorance’s malice
and you were better off just hiding your face
if kufis or olive tones betrayed your religion or race
because a cowboy was president
and revenge was our case

9-1-1
i got an emergency
9-1-1
who is my enemy?

what languages do they speak
and in what countries do they live
the limp of their walk
their eyes, their smell, the way they talk
to you, to me
then to each other
should i kill! kill! kill!
even if it’s my brother?
or mother, or father
my sister, my child
will the pointer aim at them
when they move the dial?
i’m just asking –
the mucus is making it hard to see
which ‘them’ i should call my enemy
and wait, the dial, it’s turning again
but this time (surprise, surprise)
it’s pointing right at my friends

9-1-1
i got an emergency
9-1-1
they’re surrounding me
9-1-1
am i the enemy?
9-1-1
i am not the enemy

2007-10-25T16:29:00.000-04:00

Dear Val
(for VG)

Don't know if i ever told you
but i know a thing or two about bleeding hearts on sleeves
and how they stain clothing and skin alike
and how trust is just an empty hotel parking lot
whose toothless manager named honesty is about to expire
and how you want to cut it out from your skin
and hear your name be reclaimed by your own voice
and how the **** sword that wounded you
is the **** sword that heals you

Don't know if i ever told you
i know a thing or two about loneliness
and how the night goes on forever
and you stay up past reason
and you live to see sobriety come back before the dawn
and the shadows of night no longer scare you
because you've become their nightmare
last night i pulled 7 blankets over my head
just to make sure i could be buried in my own sleep

Don't know if i ever told you
but i know a thing or two about anger
and how it feeds off of life, taking days away from you
and how it makes you wish ill on anything noble
or of good cheer
and how you want to take that abandoner
and vomit into their mouths
so they'll know that bitterness can be passed on
when love or safety or trust has bowed out

Don't know if i ever told you
i know a thing or eight about love
and by vowing to love less, i learn to love more
and how light and darkness are joined at the feet
and how every ending is a beginning, so we begin to end
and how you will find a way to dance again
and how you will learn to leave the fear of the unknown
to those who fear the unknown
and it is true: love will set you free

2007-10-18T04:30:00.000-04:00

The Oprah Request

I have had many people throughout the years ask me why I haven't been on the Oprah show. My answer is simple: I haven't put out energy towards that end. However, recently, I've been bombarded by a number of people asking me repeatedly. I tell people that I admire Oprah and work she does, and if they wanted to write to Oprah personally, they should feel free to send her an email.

I am certain that emails have been sent sporadically to Oprah, but I am also certain that a mass bombardment of emails have not been sent. Therefore, for the next month or so, I am going to keep this blog as one of the top five entries on my site. I encourage all of you who have seen my show to write into Oprah and let her know how it has affected you. And hopefully, if it is my destiny, then I will be on the show some time in the future.

Be well, my friends, and write. Write. Write!

http://www.oprah.com/email/reach/email_showideas.jhtml

2007-10-17T06:37:00.000-04:00

God Spoke Softly

"When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to him,
Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden.

For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth." -- Kahlil Gibran, On Love

I woke up this morning at 4:30am. I am in so much pain, so sad. I can't shake this which holds me, that which has left me, all that remains in me. I am shakey and my blood rises, aching my body, reminding me of this sickness, this great sadness I have allowed to consume me. I want to snap my fingers and let it all dissipate. I want to feel great again, alive! Why do I allow this to suck me, to feast on me? Why can't I just be stronger and "get over it"? What does this mean? Am I being selfish? Is she being selfish? Are they being selfish? What a selfish lot we are! All of us. None of us are worthy of anything more than the death which faces us. No smile, no mask can hide this despair. I am bloodless; my blood boils; my blood is lava; my blood is no longer blood.

I cried out to God, "Why? Please take this away!" And I heard God laugh that knowing laugh that transcends time. And God made an exception to God's rules: God answered me at 4:30am. God answered as only God can answer -- with questions, first.

"Why must I take your pain away from you, Michael? Do you not know that it is by your pain that you will grow? Do you not remember the days of your youth? Do you not remember the days of wandering, of wishing to die, of suicidal thoughts? Do you not remember when you were so desparately alone? Do you not remember this illusion? Do you not remember me being there even then? Do you not remember that without your pain and suffering there is no happiness and joy? Do you not remember that time is an illusion, and that I can no more stop the motion of your pain than I can unthink you? Do you not remember how I build muscle? It is only by the destruction of muscle and sinew and tissues that I build stronger muscles and sinew and tissues. Do you not hear all the people I have used to speak to you. Oh, my friend, my son, you are not alone. I have something great for you; your desire -- the things you cannot see -- will come through. It has come through, but you are only seeing the illusion of time. Do not ask me to take away that which makes you grow. Embrace this pain. This pain is for your pruning; this pain is for your growth. Just trust."

And now, I face my day . . .

"But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter, and weep, but not all of your tears.
Love gives naught but itself and takes naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love." -- Kahlil Gibran, On Love

2007-10-06T16:49:00.000-04:00

[The visitor speaks.] "I came to tell you that in the next life
you won't return to Earth."
Of course, Agnes knew in advance what the visitor would say
to them, and she is hardly surprised. But Paul is amazed.
He looks at the visitor, looks at Agnes, and she has no choice but
to say, "And Paul?"
[The Visitor speaks]"I only want to ask you one question:
do you want to stay together in your next life, or never meet again?"
Agnes knew the question was coming. That was the reason she
wanted to be alone with the visitor. She knew that in Paul's
presence she would be incapable of saying "I no longer
want to be with him." She could not say it in front of him
nor he in front of her, even though it is probable that he too
would prefer to try living the next life differently, without
Agnes.
Agnes gathers all her inner strength and answers in a firm voice:
"We prefer never to meet again."
These words are like the click of a door shutting on the illusion
of love.

Milan Kundera, Immortality

So the situation is like this: if you had a choice concerning who you would meet and know in the afterlife or next life, people who are in your life presently, who would you choose and who would you prefer not meeting again? I don't really expect outward responses to this question, because sometimes the people who you would prefer not knowing in the next life would be people dear to you right now.

I become sad when I think about that question as it refers to me. I think about some of you, my readers, who would prefer not knowing me in the next life, not because you hate me or dislike me, but because you would prefer not having me in your life again. It's a little depressing of a thought, but I couldn't help but to reflect upon this question once I read the passage in Immortality. It troubled and moved me. Just to think some of us would choose parents and lovers and siblings and soulmates. And if you know this answer now, does it make your relationship with these people less significant or more meaningless?

I don't mean to bring you down, my friends. I was reflecting upon it myself, and am completely afraid to travel this road of thought alone.

Any ideas?

2007-10-03T07:34:00.000-04:00

Educating Saskia

"When I was four years old
they tried to test my iq
they showed me this picture
of three oranges and a pear
they asked me
which one is different and does not belong?
they taught me different
is wrong." --
Ani DiFranco, 'My IQ'

After one of my performances, an English as a Second Language (ESL) teacher approached me, sharing some valuable information. She loved my show and it reminded her how we are taught from an early age. She noticed that in her classroom children have been taught from an early age that difference is wrong, is bad. She gave me this example. When we were in our youth teachers would give us an assignment: there are four objects on the page, three are similar, one is different. Find the one that is different, and then, CROSS IT OUT.

We were conditioned early on to notice difference and abandon it, cross it out, destroy it, ignore it. We weren't taught to put a smiley face next to it. We weren't taught to celebrate it. Uniqueness was questioned, forced to come to a hault.

I don't want to participate in this game with my daughter. I don't want her to have to re-educate later in life. I want her to get it now. And she does. I think all children get it early on; they just learn how to forget it or unlearn it. They are stripped away of their brilliance by teachers and parents and friends and antagonists.

My daughter has three baby dolls. They have no traditional names. I see them as two white baby dolls and one black baby doll. To Saskia, her three babies names are Blue, Pink, and Purple. These colors are the outfits her dolls wear. And so they are Saskia. So they are.

Tessin and I have been teaching Saskia our names and her name. Now, Saskia says: "Daddy is Michael Fowlin. Mommy is Tessin Bozard. I am Saskia Bozard-Fowlin." She asked the other day why Tessin and I have different names. I thought about this for a second. Tessin kept her last name when we got married, and I wanted to tell Saskia that was the reason why, but then, I reeducated myself. I answered Saskia in this manner: "Daddy and Mommy both chose to keep their own last names."

I know some of you will say 'what's the big deal?' It's slight, but I wanted Saskia to know that as a girl, as a woman, she doesn't need to take on a man's last name for identity; and just as importantly, the man should think about taking on her name, or both sharing a new name. I want her to know that she has choice in all these things. I want her to know that she has choice in all of Life's decisions. I want her to know that any person she chooses to be with, man or woman, must walk side by side on this path with her.

2007-10-02T11:59:00.000-04:00

In a sociological survey, fifty people, over the age of 95, were asked one question: If you had your lives to live over, what would you do differently? What a profound question for all of us to answer. I suspect that the answers change from time to time. These old people had a multitude of answers, but there were three that surfaced time and time again. They said, "If we had our lives to live over, we would reflect more, risk more, and do more things that would live on after we were dead." And it is this last one where I want to focus today.

These elderly people found that immortality was of critical essence. They were not speaking about the immortality that extended their physical lives; no, they knew such was not their destiny. They wanted the immortality of affecting this world, lingering on the pallet like a bold Cabernet Sauvignon. Are we, who are younger than 95, any different than these elderly people?

This thing called immortality is critical to our survival as a race, as a species. I used to wonder, (I'm ashamed to say), into my mid to late 20s why people start projects that they may never see realized. Why fund or invest into something that may take 50 or 100 years to mature? And I am not just speaking of finances. I'm talking about it all: money, time, energy. What is the point? I think these old people were on to something. We are all fading fast, a moment's breath in Life's nostril.

Look at my picture. I am adorable, strange; youth hangs in my eyes, though I am passing my youth. I am still young and energetic, willing to love again and again. But see me 10 years, 25 years from now, will I have the same grace? I most certainly doubt it! But will I see myself any differently than that boy in the picture who is 30-something or the boy who was 8 speeding up and down the street on a Huffy bicycle. I think about this all the time. I think that's why I've fallen in love so many times.

I have friends who have never been in love, or perhaps in love only once . . . Me? I fall in love frequently. The intensity varies, but each time there is a refuge I seek. I seek to make an impact, to be remembered. In short, I want to live forever. Immortality!!! My love has grown. Lately, I fall in love far less than usual, but that is another story . . .

I used to tell my former wife that I want thousands of people at my funeral, giving testimony to my life, the good and bad. I would tell Tessin (stupid me) that I wanted all the women who I loved to be devastated by my departure. These women would be more because of my presence in their lives, and slightly less because of my absence. I seek this realization far less these days. I am content with those I have already; I am content with one.

Sometimes while I'm driving, the thought of someone who died a year ago, ten years ago, hundreds of years ago, will cross my mind. I will wonder, if they ever thought that someone, when they were long gone, would remember them on some uneventful day, while driving through Autumn leaves.

"All our superstars are suicidal casualties
And our heroes die in motel rooms and motorcades
Oh it seems like all our dreams are only fantasies
And I wonder if we'll learn from the mistakes we've made."
Randy Stonehill, 'Through the Glass Darkly'

2007-10-02T11:02:00.000-04:00

"There is a certain part of all of us that lives outside of time.
Perhaps we become aware of our age only at exceptional
moments and most of the time we are ageless." --
Milan Kundera, Immortality

I am currently rereading this book called Immortality. It's a wonderful book, one of my favorites. The book is difficult to describe on a linear, plot-driven sequence. It's a fascinating book exploring the concept of immortality. Much of what we do as people focuses around our desire to be immortal. We plant trees; we have children; we save financially; we try to take care of our physical selves; we feel guilty when we don't; we love the idea of creating memories with loved ones; we ignore each other; we hold on to arguments and fights far past reasonable expectation. We have fantasies of avoiding or bargaining with death. When we hear about someone being sick we lie to them that everything will be alright. We use aging creams, tanning salons (some of you), plastic surgery, adding and removing whatever it takes to bring us to immortality. We often avoid graveyards; we fear them for they are our destination. We crave the connection: we spread our legs wide, we push it in far, we hope to suck in and be sucked in . . . permanently. And why not? Perhaps there is still that tree, in the garden, long forgotten; that tree the gods had almost forgotten: let us banish mankind from this garden, in case they eat the fruit of immortality, because with the knowledge they have, they will be like us. You see? We have it partly right -- striving for immortality. Yet, like Eve and Adam, we are stuck on gorging ourselves, nakedly, with all that brings us shame. Our eyes are wide open, seeing everything clearly, increasing our knowledge, our fear, and hastening the river that brings us closer to death. And there stands, off in the distance, another tree with seemingly unnecessary fruit waiting with the silence of secrets. And once again, we've missed its whisper.

"And I thought about years...
how they take so long
and they go so fast."
Beth Nielsen Chapman, 'Years'

2007-10-01T09:08:00.000-04:00

"Ask about me, they'll tell you
I don't play, n**a
And I don't smoke bullS**
I smoke HASH, n**a
For real, n**a
I don't shoot n**as in the leg
I shoot to kill n**as" -- Green Lantern, featuring Fingerprint

One of my pet peeves has got to be the ignorance of people, and their numb-skull arguments. I love seeing black people go into hysterics when they hear a white person use the term nigger or nigga. Yet, some of these same black people will have little to no reaction when a black person uses these words in their vocabulary. Now, when it is used in the former instance, 'nigger', by whites, black people have cause to be offended. In the latter instance, 'nigga', used by blacks or hip-hop whites, I just think it's silly to differentiate or get offended by the white guy using it, and have no reaction or understanding of its significance. In case you are wondering the difference, allow me to present two separate instances.

Picture with me, if you will, a white guy with a Nascar hat, confederate flag t-shirt, chewing tobacco dribbling out of his mouth, a tattoo tattered on his arm that says something mysterious like: 'One in the same -- my sister, my wife', and he has a name like Biff or Buster or Shooter or Cooter or Hunter. Ok, are you holding that image? (See above picture to the left, if you are having trouble). Good. Now, picture that same man seeing a black person walking down the street, and snarls as he turns to his sister/wife and says, "I wish I could shoot that nigger." See? That is the first usage of the word.

In the second usage, I would like for you to picture with me a black male, gold teeth, sporting excessive jewlery, baseball cap, oversized shirt(s) and jeans, with a mugshot snarl, and a mysterious tattoo that says, "Real Niggaz iz Thug Niggaz". .. Ok, are you holding that image? (See picture, above to the right, if you are having difficulty). Good. Now, picture that same man seeing another black person, not from his neighborhood, walking down his street, and he snarls to his boys, "I'm gonna shoot that nigga!" See? This is the second usage of the word.

Now, some black people get offended if white people use either usage of the word. In the first instance, it is just racist, and in the second instance, it is not appropriate, thus making it still racist. Black people who use the word will claim that when a white person calls a black person "nigger" it's racist, but when a black person calls another black person "nigga" it is a sign of mutual understanding and respect, a shared experience, commraderie.

And that's where I get stuck. See, I just heard this song on MySpace at 7:15 in the morning that said, "I don't shoot niggas in the leg; I shoot to kill niggas!", and I can't help but to think of the 41 shots into Amadou Diallo, the rising blood of Emmit Till, and the bullet that scarred our dreams at some Memphis Hotel. And strangely, the two usages of the word, no matter what color, has the same searing tones.

2007-09-30T10:09:00.000-04:00

"I may be weary, but I am not weak.

I can sing a song of suffering.

Baby, someone's song is
dancing on the tip of your tongue." --
Brett Dennen, Someday

Lately, I've been thinking about conversations I've had with friends. I've been thinking about the cadence of these interactions: the revealation, denial, or disguising of an incident; the presentation of oneself as more noble or favorable than is true; the acceptance or denial of one's actions; the fear of judgment; black and white versus gray thinking; what I tend to feel versus what I say I feel. All of these thoughts have been a constant guest in my headspace within the last couple of weeks.

We, as people, are so quick to judge, dismiss, abandon, scoff at, or distance ourselves from the others. And you know who the others are! Don't you? Oh, yes, you do. They are the ones who sicken us, because they are not as noble as we are. They use drugs, have a new sexual partner every night, are the town drunks, pimp others, steal, lie, cheat, are abusive, completely selfish, shallow, and in short, they are no good! Corrupt to the core! They are not like me . . . and us.

So, I've been doing some self-reflection, putting things back into perspective, and finding myself humbled by the results. I have them all fooled. I am the worst of the whole lot, especially when I think I am so much better. I am devious; I lie. I have schemes beyond schemes, always plotting, far less noble than I may appear. I say I walked away when in reality the situation walked away from me. I tell myself to do one thing, and I find myself doing the opposite. I make escapes to avoid myself. I am weak-willed, always giving into temptation. I have secrets that I only share with myself, and that conversation happens all too infrequently. I am perverted in my concern towards others. I tell others to see themselves as beautiful, yet, I see myself as disgraced, God's nemesis. I reject love from those who want to love me, and I love those who can only reject me. I embrace shame, and have secrets that not even Vegas can hold. I am the worse offender: I don't hear the words you speak; they are mumbled, a cacophony of nails scratching on chalkboards. I wound you with my kindness. I tell you great tales of how strong I am, how things don't eat away at me, yet, I wonder what chemical treatment exists for my cancer, my poison. It's been chewing on my hope. I believe less and less. None of us are noble. You ask if I think less of you? I am darker than that, young one. I think the world of you, because that belief is about your potential. I can't think less of those I expect to fail. I am so confident of our failure. We are doomed. And when you move to or are moved by the grain, I don't trust you as far as I can throw you, and that makes me love you more.

And then along comes these others that say they see my beauty, my fear. You see nothing, but what I show you, and if I show you distance, do not think this is the way I operate at all times. I am distant to those who think they can solve this rubrick's cube. You claim, "I can no longer be invested in this friendship! We shared so much, and look at us now!" We shared only what I knew you needed to hear, to believe. I don't know the depths of my sickness, but I am certain, it will be the death of me.

My daughter will grow up with me as her father, and who knows what dark horses she will have to ride to take flight of my self-inflicting sword. In my path, I have left others feeling less after they have met me than they did before. And please, let me not hear the voice of your false comfort. The stench of vomit permeates your insincere words. They offer no comfort. Do you really believe you have it figured out with your fortune cookie ramblings? Do you think pretending these things are not our destiny is remotely helpful? Have you examined any of this and how it applies to your life? Am I the only one in this sinking ship? Is there not one tired soul out there who can slice away some of my skin and comfort me? These echoes are haunting me.

My daughter just asked why am I sad? Why am I crying? How do I answer her? What truth can sum up these ancient tears? I am sad, Saskia, because I don't know why I am sad.

All I can do, my friends, my daughter is to try to see the dawn, allowing it to rush over me stronger than these emotions.

"My salvation is ahead of me
I can feel it calling me
I know that I
I know that I will be ready."
-- Brett Dennen, Someday

2007-09-25T11:44:00.001-04:00

Surviving High School (in the suburbs)

"Well, I know it isn't easy to be an adolescent
Patience is a virtue that just keeps you strong within
High school in a small town, man, could give you bumps
and bruises
The kind that could take years to heal
or even understand." -- Kevin Connolly, Marshvegas

I grew up in Toms River, New Jersey, a seaside town just off the shore. I lived there from ages 13 to 22. During my time in Toms River, I enjoyed my experience; I enjoyed the friends I had. My real friends were often the same souls that traveled with me in my church youth group, but these friends came later in my high school travels.

I saw myself as being popular, as being well known by many in my school. And though this was true to an extent, I was not in the "in" crowd. Did I believe I was a part of this group during this time? Perhaps, but I think I knew the truth deep down . I didn't fit in; my tan was too dark for understanding. It was not a summer bronze. It was centuries old. The darkness you accumalate from night, dust, and heat.

I went to a high school that had approximately 2000 students, spread throughout four grades. I was one of eight black students in the entire school. When I tell students or adults about this inequity of racial percentages I often get "oohs" and "aahs", but it really did not phase me very much . . . on the surface. My parents, (my mother more so than my father), raised me to see people as being people, good and bad, and all short of perfection. Yet, to say that I didn't take notice by the way I was treated by certain students, would be to say something false. Of course, there were students who saw my color way before they saw me. The majority? I don't know. During my time in high school, I didn't take much notice. I allowed myself to believe that most people were raised as I was raised to believe. Naturally, I lived in fantastical world, but how could I not? My teammates and others seemed to genuinely like me, while I was in school. Now, grant it, I wasn't invited to the parties, but I wasn't really interested in going to the parties.

Still, I would be willfully ignorant not to acknowledge the ways that I was made to feel different. In my freshman year (age 14), I kissed my first girl, T.R. She was a good kisser, and I had a strong crush on her early on in my young high school days. My friend Shawn set us up one night during a football game. That's the story I want to remember.

What I remember from "The Kissing of T" was that she was concerned about kissing someone black, and Shawn had to comfort her by telling her that I would be able to kiss as well as a white guy. What was she afraid of? Out of all the things I remember about my first kiss, her apprehension is what I remember best.

I will start off this next memory by saying, Beautiful Girl, I am sorry.

In my sophomore year, before my radical spiritual/religious transformation, there was this beautiful girl named ** who had a crush on me. She was a really cute, black girl who I saw as a threat to my integration into this white system of Toms River. ** and I would make the "perfect" couple . . . because we were both black. This was the pervasive thought amongst some of my "friends" who wanted me to stay clear of the white girls and date my own "kind." I've never really been good at following rules: my anarchistic thoughts are more suitable for chaos.

One night, at a football game, (are we seeing a theme here?), some of my friends wanted me to take ** into the woods and "use" her sexually because she was drunk and, according to them, "easy". I never did follow up on their recommendation, because my conscience was too shaped, in certain matters, even in my wild days, but more importantly, I chose not to pursue ** because it was what all my white friends thought I SHOULD do. In fact, the Monday following this football game, my friend Paul informed me that he and his mother had a discussion about me over the weekend. His mother told him that she thought ** and I should be a couple because it wasn't right for me to go out with a girl who is white. Paul had the audacity to tell me this.

The verbal lashing that I gave Paul that day was a build up of this underlying attitude I felt from others. Paul didn't deserve all I said, but I didn't know how to process all I was feeling at the time. It was building, and I wasn't acknowledging all that was happening.

** really liked me, but for every attempt of her trying to show me affection and kindness, I hurt her. I was cruel. I used her as a washed away game. I wanted to prove to everyone that I did not have to be with someone who was black; I wanted to show everyone that I was just as GOOD as a white guy. ** was my whipping post, my anger, my frustration at all those who wanted me to feel less than.

By the time I came to my senses the next year, she was gone, no longer attracted to me. I had hurt her enough to scar her. I heard sad news about her after I graduated, and I wonder if some of the emotional scars I placed upon her, contributed to her seeing herself less beautiful than she was. ** was and is stunning, a truely beautiful woman.

I can only say, "I'm sorry ** for mistreating you. I'm sorry for making you walk away feeling a little less than before we met. I'm sorry that I never allowed myself to be vulnerable with you. I'm sorry to fulfill the prophetic words: 'Youth is wasted on the young.'"

Years after I graduated high school, I started to believe that I fabricated my buried discontent in high school; things were not as bad as I had allowed them to grow in my brain. Then along came my high school renunion. It was a memorable experience. There were two incidents that stood apart from the rest.

I was interrupted from giving my welcome address to my classmates because J. O. needed to tell everyone that I actually graduated with the class and I wasn't the butler. Then later, Paul C. congratulated me for being married to Tessin, at the time, because she was white. If I remember correctly, the direct quote was: "Good job! We knew you wouldn't disappoint us; we knew you'd always go for the best."

What more can I say, my friends. I survived, but I still wince when I smell the fresh cut grass of football fields.

"Well, there's something about the suburbs
that will get you if you stay too long
Something about a small town
and how it keeps you in
Though every place is different,
and every place is just the same
and tension is alive and well
no matter where you live."
Kevin Connolly

2007-09-22T11:31:00.000-04:00

Why Life Comes Without Instructions

Start with the wide end on your right. Extend it about 12" below the narrow end. Cross the wide end over the narrow, and back underneath. Bring the wide end around passing it across the front of the narrow. Pass the wide end up through the loop. Hold the knot loosely and pass the wide end down through the loop in front. Hold the narrow end of the tie and slide the knot up snug.

And that's just for tying your tie! Any questions?

Free Hugs Amsterdam

2007-09-09T17:55:00.001-04:00

Here's my mission, as those who have seen me know as well. I love. And in return, I hope you will love as well.