It's safer...

I've been sitting here trying not to think about how my mom hasn't called to tell me she made it safely home on her flight. She was to arrive at 7:00, but you know how the airlines work these days...

I have no expectations after this trip. It's safer that way, for me.

Still, you'd think rules of common courtesy would apply. A person buys you a ticket for a vacation and you don't spend a dime during your visit, so you call when you arrive home to give a quick, "I'm home safe." Maybe a, "Thank You."

But it's safer not to have expectations.

Even if she does call, it's safer. I'll keep her at a distance, because if I've learned nothing else from her visit, it's that though I have changed, she has not. And all that has been revealed cannot be summed up so simply. I have much to think about.

Without expectations, because it's safer...

My own promises...

Shall I tip in a toe, walk out and swim to the forever horizon? I'll be at peace while the sharks nip at my ankles. Their love is for blood, not born to protect. Instead, I'll face the reality to my right. She once shed blood and held me tight, whispering motherly promises for my future. Her son's blood spilled for those broken promises that he's held for far too long. I'll skip them like shells into the deep blue, stand strong on the shoreline, and create a future for myself.

Of her love

My mom arrives tomorrow. I bought her a plane ticket for her birthday, a olive branch to perhaps mend broken ties with her. We'll see how it goes.

To prepare, I've been cleaning and completing a list of projects that I've want to start and finish for some time. Nothing like a deadline to get you motivated.

And nothing like stress to get your house clean... when I'm stressed, I clean. And cleaning is what I've been doing. I fucking shampooed carpets today. I organized my files, moved furniture, refinished and painted furniture... I even vacuumed the feather duster.

I invaded the closet to measure the distance between each hanger-- all shirts alined, organized by color, and my shoes lined like militants prepared for battle.  I wish I had more feet so I could wear them all!

Our little pantry, the refrigerator--the labels face forward, alphabetically (though I switched back from size of container).  I ironed my jeans and shorts before putting them back in my drawers.  My underwear all neatly folded, stacked and next to my rows of socks packed tight like peas in ponds.  She'll be in those drawers if I leave her along.  I want her to see that I'm worthy of her love.

Who does these things?

Yes, stressed. I have no idea what this week will bring. I'm not sure how my mom will look. I'm not sure what words might be minced. I'm not positive I won't put her back on a plane the moment she arrives.

To drink

Ocean breeze and green trees, the rain has stopped and I can smell growth, birth, and renew. Lightening bugs dance against a dark black curtain as bright stars seek to be seen through the bright city lights. This is home, now. The hollow door closes calmly behind. The silver chain echoes as it bounces back against the jam and molding, exposing my variability to myself. No chains, nor distance can keep me. And smell of mom's cookies that she never baked lingers. I find a corner of the room, hidden from the light, to shed my first tear. I'd swim in it if I could, laps upon laps, gone forever into the blue horizon. Dive deep and fly away. Free from the pain that gravity brings. Its reality presses against my chest. And another falls. Mankind has spilled enough tears to fill an ocean. And yet, the earth is thirsty for more. Why do we make each other cry? To fill the glass. To drink. Drunk off the sorrows of others, the light shines through. The seed sprouts. And the birds sing.

Pain. It doesn't really hurt.

Found

His thoughts run rapid
Whirl wind leaves on a sweet October night.

Search for meaning in an uncertain world
Direction sought on uncharted maps.

A song bird sings, orchestrating a cry
Beseeching direction from his promising mother.

Leaves, heavy with penitence, hang
Overhead protection for my brittle skin.

He forges ahead--the future,
Against thorn bush branches.

Frolics in his blood shed, someone somewhere
Holds me back.  Up.  Down. Down.

The reflecting pond marvels the scares
Reminders of survival, not of pain.

He throws stones to break truth
And I bask at veneers of imperfection, not of pain.

A butterfly's wings brush against the breath
An air that warms us both.

The lonely blue jay replaced
The harmony of mother and son.

Cold, ruthless pain, will if fade
With infant eyes closed.

Mother’s arms wrapped around her child
Familiarity pries the son from the womb.

Eyes wider, and I shutter
lies lead to the long and winding path.

A deep breath and a whistle
I take the blue jay’s simple song.

I am...?

I've been reading The New Earth. Actually, I've finally finished it. It's not something that I'd typically pick up because I stray away from the buzz worthy books. Thanks to Oprah there is a lot of buzzing, which is yet another reason to boycott. But others have suggested it, told me to read it. Someone who reads this blog has suggested it frequently. I figured I wasn't going to escape it.

So I picked up. And I gave it a go.

I like to think I'm pretty grounded and in touch with myself and those around me. You know, self help is beneath me... I know who I am. What I do. What I like. What pisses me off.

Hello ego.

I've come to realize that I'm just a lost spirit, searching, seeking, wanting more. But more of what? I'd like to order a pizza right, I can tell you that. I'd also like to lose about fifty pounds. Own a house. Drive a nice car. Help more in the community. Dedicate myself fully to my faith. Be a better friend. Be a better husband. Be a better teacher. Be a better son.

More, more, more.

I'm sure if the clarity came from the book itself, of if it's always been there and the author simply put into words that I could devour. (More like snack, since it took me so long to consume its entirety).

When I read over things I've written in the past, I see that I'm pretty much in the same place I was years ago. Sure, there has been growth (and I'm not just talking mid-section), but really I'm just marking time. And as much as I love a parade, I want to go on with it... not just stand in place going through the motions, looking at the same old stuff, playing the same old song.

My writing is like a broken record.

A few years ago, all I had to say was that I wanted to finish school and how desperate I was to be a teacher. I thought that would make me complete. Today, I've finished school and I am a teacher. And all I can think about is getting back into school so I can earn my PhD.

Will Dr. Sortofblog complete me?

No. Nor will losing weight. Buying a house. Being considered a good friend. Owning a house. Blah. Blah. Blah. Because all I'll want is more, more, more. I'm always seeking. I'm always wanting. I'm always moving. I'm always defining. I see that I'm just trying to feel an emptiness.

I just don't know where that emptiness comes from right now?

I want to really sit down and really reflect on this book and give it a true review (See, I'm doing it again, this post isn't enough. I want more) but I'm too tired. But since it's fresh, I want to sort some things out. Rather, I want to lay it out now, so I can sort it out later.

-I need to be more present.
-I can't allow that voice in my head define me, situations, or others.
-I can't take things so personal. The world is not out to get me.
-Fear death not, and I shall really live.
-See beauty in all things.
-Realize that things happen for a reason, the inner voice defines it as good or bad.
-I deserve it.
-I am...

...?

That fat ass...

I think that Humpty Dumpty was framed.

No. No. Here me out…

He did not really fall off the wall. That fat ass was pushed.
Folks didn’t feel that an egg-head like Mr. Dumpty should possess such fame, money, and respect. Some wise guy decided he’d teach Mr. Dumpty, by making him look like an idiot… making it seem as though he fell not once, but twice!

Unjust. Unforgivable.

Mr. Dumpty got not only bad media coverable and a terrible reputation for being stupid and clumsy, but in further investigation, also received many hospital bills that his insurance would not cover due to his own, “ignorant negligence.”
I’m positive, while little kids sing the Humpty Dumpty Rhyme, Mr. Dumpty is sitting in a mental institution attempting to crack his shell and fry himself for breakfast. His one hope, to one day be an Egg McMuffin.

I’m not lovin’ it!

It is my opinion that Congress should hire Ken Starr to investigate. Clearly, there was a cover-up that followed when all the King’s men “tried” to put Mr. Dumpty back together again.

Through this dark veil

I know that love and forgiveness are the answers. I must remember that wounded people commit dark acts in dark places. That is where addition takes people. There, they truly become lost souls— totally separated from their higher power and those who love them— from their true self.

The addiction rules and it is cruel and very, very ominous. I remind myself that he, in his deepest soul, is still that little boy I helped to raise. He is still the boy that I loved and still love. And he needs love more than ever. I wonder how incomprehensible his act must be to himself, because I know inside him is that goodness that once shined through.

I have become grateful for these struggles. I can truly empathize with the families on TV and those sitting across from me at the conference table in my classroom. Their criminal stories ring true when I hear their cell doors lock or when they breathe their last breathe. I know deeply in my heart that someone somewhere is suffering a loss while others cheer in praise.

Addiction is a curse that takes on many shapes. It’s never a pretty form, but God has made a way for me through this dark veil. I use the lessons learned for good, for understanding, for teaching. I turn to the light to help heal my pain and shattered dreams for my brother. The addiction destroyed that. But I am not destroyed.

Nor will his son.

Protruding vomit hitting pavement

It's the Fourth. The holiday of big bangs and patriotic parades.

Independence Day was always filled with a mix of emotions. I looked forward to our suburban parade of drum cadences, fire trucks, and the presenting of the colors.

But I dreaded the party that followed, a tradition that had made my parents famous. It was an event that was often talked about months after the clouds of booms and bangs drifted out of the night's sky.

In our small back yard, we raised the volleyball net, fired up a multitude of grills, and iced the variety of kegs.

Patronage to the patriots!

Invitations were never sent. It was common knowledge that if you knew my parents, you knew that you were invited-- and your kids, too.

The parties started out innocent enough. The kids all chocking down hot dogs so they could beg their parents for money for the local carnival. The oldest of all the kids, I lead the group down the old dirt path to the park where we'd all inevitably argue which death trap we'd ride first.

Years later, I wounder how that traveling carnival ever met safety code requirements. Or how it is that no one was ever lost in the masses.

Hours would pass. Rounds and rounds of the Egg Roll ride, the Spide, and the Ten Top. Spent from standing in line after line, and broke from playing too many rounds of darts, all the kids would head back to our house... knowing that the climate had changed.

As darkness approched, so did the slurs of speech, droopy eyes, and staggered stances.

One year my mom insisted that I brush my teeth three different times before I went to bed. It was 8:00. At nine, I learned of adultery when I walked in on two of my friends' parents having sex in my bedroom-- not with their spouces. My mom tour her ACL trying to fight her pal for making eyes at my father. The next year, he was arrested for DUI during a beer run after the kegs went try.

Wendows were broken. Cars were crashed. People fought. It wasn't unusual for a member of the party to fall off our roof trying to get a better view of the fireworks over the trees that grew taller each year. It didn't even seem odd the year someone was arrested for trying to saw down those trees when they had finally grew to totally obstructed our view.

As bombs bursting in air, the sound of protruding vomit hitting pavement rang in the background.

My parents knew how to honor the Founding Fathers. This was the way to honor America.

An adult now, I've chosen to do things differently. My holiday are not about inebriation. An intiment cookout with a small group of friends and a few beers will suffice. I don't even need the booms and bangs. Sparklers in the backyard suffice. This year, impromptu front pourch cookout with the neighbors did the trick.

But I wonder about the kids I use to walk that dirt path with to the land of cotton candy and elephant ears. Did they find in a way out like I have? Or are they falling off a roof top somewhere, right now, vomiting on pavement. Are their children watching with giggles, hiding in secret their fright and shame?

I'll only brush my teeth once tonight.

God Bless America.

That damn cat...

I know a man isn't suppose to cry. Not in front of his wife. And not over a silly cat.

But he was my buddy. He was my friend. He understood me. And now he's gone.

Jo Jo was a Sweetest Day gift for The Wife the year before we were married. Though I had picked out a rough looking kitty that I though we could doctor back the health, crawling up the cage he shared with his brothers and sisters, Jo insisted that he was going to be mine. In that moment I knew he was be too; he had spunk.

He seemed to complete our little family from the start. Hidden away in my beat up car, Jo meowed hello to The Wife and sat beside she and I as we ate fries and shared a shake during her lunch break. She loved him instantly, which made me love him, too. And like that, Jo became our first little baby.

He lived with me before The Wife and I were married. He'd welcome me home from class each day. In those early years, he was small enough and liked to sit on my shoulder while I did anything in the house: cook, clean, brush my teeth... except when I'd try to type a paper. He'd jump on the keyboard because he wanted me to pet him. And all attention was on him when The Wife and I were together--- he demanded it.

Of course in those days, Jo wasn't Jo. First he was Kitty Meow Meow, then Suki, and then Josephinia. Nothing seemed to fit. After his first vet visit, it was discovered that Josephinia was a boy. And Josephino he became... as well as Jo, Jo Jo, Jo-cat.

We believe this sexual identity crises contributed to his often anti-social and sometimes bipolar behavior. Like me, he didn't like many people. He definitely didn't like folks touching him (or me for that matter, including The Wife). And like mine, the mood swings were frequent and unprovoked.

More than anything we liked to nap. Jo was a napper. We could nap like champs. He liked to sleep on my chest; I think because he listened to heart. I soon became dependent on his purring to fall asleep. We also liked movies, tv, and reading.

Though I wouldn't let him do it often, He also liked lick the outside of a cold glass while I drank soda or ate ice cream. Often he'd sneak without permission. Sometimes I'd find him on the kitchen table or on the counter looking at me sadly, because he knew he wasn't suppose to be there and was now in trouble.

Jo was an inside cat, but like to roll around on the porch and watch birds from the window. He liked playing with puff balls, cotton swabs and The Wife's nail file. He liked to sit up high, on places I'm sure was too tall for him to reach. He liked hiding in the closet, and had more than once spent the afternoon locked in my armoire after sneaking in when I accidentally left it open.

Jo got me through some tough times. When I was in the worst of the cancer treatment, and I just wanted it to all end, he was there. He seemed to cry out every time I thought of dying. When my brother was arrested for murder, and I stayed in bed for nearly a week, he remained close. In March, when I hurt my back, he knew to lay beside, not on me. When I'd hide away to shed unmanly tears, I only let him see because I knew he understood. He let me pet his nose, even though it annoyed him, because it made me happy.

It's strange how an animal can become so much a part of you. I missed him when I was away. I looked forward to seeing him when I got home. Sometimes, I'd rather hang with him than friends.

It seems Jo was dealt a pretty shitty hand in the genetics department in way of a healthy functional body. The doctor insisted that he was going to continue to have pain unless intense surgeries followed. Some signs suggest he's probably always had a bit of pain, but as he grew older, it was growing worse. The surgeries would also be very expensive and they may have not fully cured him from the pain.

Still, I feel terrible guilt that we couldn't afford the nearly $5,000 dollars to try.

So I held him. I petted his head and told him that I loved him. He looked at me as I petted his nose one last time. He made one last cry before putting his head down on my arm. Then, I let him go.

But really, I don't think I ever will... I love that damn cat.