E: Daddy, daddy, look I got new miks (underwear), mummy got me whole bunches a’dem.
T: That’s good, E, your miknoot were getting too small, huh?
E: Yep, I big huge, like Clobber-Time (the Thing, from the Fantastic Four). Daddy, I tiiired, go bed now.
T: I’m sleeping downstairs beebz, I have to get up before the sun come up, so I don’t want to wake you up.
E: I seep mummy?
T: Yep, seep with mummy.
E: Lub you daddy.
T: Lub you beebz.
That boy needs to sleep in his own bed, what is he, almost four years old? I was probably his size when I was in the first grade. Of course, he’s huge and I’m small, but he’s still sleeping with mommy and daddy at that age? Of course, if he were living in Thailand . . . my cousins probably go their whole lives never have slept in a bed by themselves.
I know that sounds crazy, but think about it . . . when they’re growing up, they share a bed with their parents; then their siblings but then they get married and share a bed with their spouse, then their children, on down the line. Maybe the baby of the family gets his own bed for two or three years, huh?
Of course, if he was growing up in Thailand, he wouldn’t be wearing any miknoot either. I was the only one of my cousins to wear pants—I was the only one that was circumcised, so everyone was always trying to check out my business. Mom figured that I should be circumcised since my father was—but I’ve been meaning to ask her—who did the job? I was born at home, like everyone else in my family; so there were no doctors involved. Did grandma do it? Had she ever done one before? Maybe she cut off to much or something—who knows?
Anways, it made me stand out quite a bit—it was bad enough that I was half-falang, I also had this whole thing to be ashamed of as well. So I was the only kid in the village running around with a pair of shorts on, which also made me stand out. Couldn’t they just leave well enough alone? I couldn't pee without half a dozen cousins crowding around to check out my goods. Talk about giving a kid a complex. Oh well, all water under the bridge, now.
7.31.2006
explained
Joe Liles was a good friend of B's Uncle Moose, who was Shiloh's father. The story in Amazing Grace actually happened to them while they were both working for the U of M. They were both involved with getting the Ann Arbor pow wow going--it's now one of the largest in the midwest.
Joe went on to work at the Little Red Schoolhouse in the Twin Cities and illustrated Edward Benton-Banai's "Mishomis Book".
Eddie was also a close friend of Moose's as both were involved with the American Indian movement and Wounded Knee. Moose and his friends were also instrumental in spreading pow wows throughout Michigan and the Great Lakes. They formed one of the first pow wow drums in the area, the HardCorps Singers, and Moose was at the forefront of the resurgence of Indian spirituality.
Joe just happens to be in town for the opening of an exhibit--a retrospective of pow wow flyers that he's done over the last 30 years. It's interesting sometimes, all the connections that exist between groups and individuals . . .
Joe went on to work at the Little Red Schoolhouse in the Twin Cities and illustrated Edward Benton-Banai's "Mishomis Book".
Eddie was also a close friend of Moose's as both were involved with the American Indian movement and Wounded Knee. Moose and his friends were also instrumental in spreading pow wows throughout Michigan and the Great Lakes. They formed one of the first pow wow drums in the area, the HardCorps Singers, and Moose was at the forefront of the resurgence of Indian spirituality.
Joe just happens to be in town for the opening of an exhibit--a retrospective of pow wow flyers that he's done over the last 30 years. It's interesting sometimes, all the connections that exist between groups and individuals . . .
Amazing Grace by Joe Liles
Amazing Grace, from Pow Wow Tales by Joe Liles.
Moose, Tony Joe, Lois, and Jim were traveling through Oklahoma representing the University of Michigan. Their "official" business was to publicize their university so as to attract more Native American students to attend college in the cold North. Their unofficial business was to go to as many powwows and gatherings as possible in the different Indian communities throughout Oklahoma.
Today Moose and company found themselves in Tahlequah, the capital of the Cherokee Nation. Throughout the centuries, these people have referred to themselves as the Tsa-la-gi. The visitors had just seated themselves at a table in the Lodge of the Cherokee. The waitress soon heaped upon their table a breakfast they would not soon forget: eggs, country ham, biscuits, gravy, and coffee. When the last biscuit was used to sop the last of the gravy from the bowl, these visitors from the North made their way back to their van in the restaurant's parking lot. There, they were greeted by an old Cherokee man. "I can tell you folks aren't from these parts," he said. "If you're going to be around here long enough, I'd like to invite you to a singing at my church tonight." Moose and his friends looked at each other and nodded their heads. "Sure, we'd be happy to come," they said. The old man gave them directions, shook hands all around' and disappeared behind some parked cars.
That night, after an extensive tour of the back roads around Tahlequah, the visitors found the community church they were searching for. There was no mistake, for the yard of the old wooden church was literally crammed with pickup trucks and cars. A welcoming light spilled out from the church's open door. The visitors went inside and quietly took their seats on one of the back pews. They were amazed by what they saw and heard. A five-piece band was performing at the front of the church; banjo, guitar, piano, fiddle and dobro. The congregation of moms, dads, children, elders, and babies clapped along with the song for its final chorus. More bands were registering with the church's secretary at the back of the church. One after another, these bands poured out talent, energy, and enthusiasm into the night until it seemed that this little church could hold no more.
When the evening of song and music seemed to be winding down, the church's preacher stood up and said: "We have with us tonight a group from a long ways off. These folks come to us all the way from the state of Michigan. We are honored that they have come to visit our community. I would like to ask them to come up and share with us a song from their land."
Moose, Tony Joe, Lois, and Jim looked at each other in shock. "He's talking about us! What can we do? What songs do you guys know?" It was determined that the only song that was confidently known to the entire group was "Amazing Grace," and, even then, they only knew one verse. The group awkwardly worked their way down the aisle and shook the preacher's hand as they took their place at the front of the church. Joe pulled a harmonica from his pocket and, on single notes, played an introduction to the song.
The others came in with their voices: "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see."
To the amazement of Moose, Joe, and the other new found musicians, the entire congregation rose to their feet. When the first verse was finished, the congregation took over. They sang the next four verses . . . in the Tsa-la-gi language! When the song was over, the group of visitors was overwhelmed with people wanting to shake their hands. The preacher's voice rose over the crowd and invited everyone to go to the community building for a feast. Next door, carefully balancing plates heaped with food, Joe and Moose asked a woman: "What happened back there? Why did everyone stand when we sang Amazing Grace"?
The woman replied: "You didn't know?! You sang a song that is very important to our people. Our ancestors sang this song to give them strength when they were forced to walk from North Carolina, Tennessee, and Georgia to Oklahoma on what we call 'The Trail of Tears'. This was done to relocate our people to Indian Territory. Many died along the way. The people here tonight are the descendants of the ones who survived that terrible walk."
Joe turned to Moose and shook his head. "Amazing Grace!" he said. Moose answered: "Amazing indeed!"
Copyright by Joe Liles, All rights reserved.
Moose, Tony Joe, Lois, and Jim were traveling through Oklahoma representing the University of Michigan. Their "official" business was to publicize their university so as to attract more Native American students to attend college in the cold North. Their unofficial business was to go to as many powwows and gatherings as possible in the different Indian communities throughout Oklahoma.
Today Moose and company found themselves in Tahlequah, the capital of the Cherokee Nation. Throughout the centuries, these people have referred to themselves as the Tsa-la-gi. The visitors had just seated themselves at a table in the Lodge of the Cherokee. The waitress soon heaped upon their table a breakfast they would not soon forget: eggs, country ham, biscuits, gravy, and coffee. When the last biscuit was used to sop the last of the gravy from the bowl, these visitors from the North made their way back to their van in the restaurant's parking lot. There, they were greeted by an old Cherokee man. "I can tell you folks aren't from these parts," he said. "If you're going to be around here long enough, I'd like to invite you to a singing at my church tonight." Moose and his friends looked at each other and nodded their heads. "Sure, we'd be happy to come," they said. The old man gave them directions, shook hands all around' and disappeared behind some parked cars.
That night, after an extensive tour of the back roads around Tahlequah, the visitors found the community church they were searching for. There was no mistake, for the yard of the old wooden church was literally crammed with pickup trucks and cars. A welcoming light spilled out from the church's open door. The visitors went inside and quietly took their seats on one of the back pews. They were amazed by what they saw and heard. A five-piece band was performing at the front of the church; banjo, guitar, piano, fiddle and dobro. The congregation of moms, dads, children, elders, and babies clapped along with the song for its final chorus. More bands were registering with the church's secretary at the back of the church. One after another, these bands poured out talent, energy, and enthusiasm into the night until it seemed that this little church could hold no more.
When the evening of song and music seemed to be winding down, the church's preacher stood up and said: "We have with us tonight a group from a long ways off. These folks come to us all the way from the state of Michigan. We are honored that they have come to visit our community. I would like to ask them to come up and share with us a song from their land."
Moose, Tony Joe, Lois, and Jim looked at each other in shock. "He's talking about us! What can we do? What songs do you guys know?" It was determined that the only song that was confidently known to the entire group was "Amazing Grace," and, even then, they only knew one verse. The group awkwardly worked their way down the aisle and shook the preacher's hand as they took their place at the front of the church. Joe pulled a harmonica from his pocket and, on single notes, played an introduction to the song.
The others came in with their voices: "Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found. Was blind, but now I see."
To the amazement of Moose, Joe, and the other new found musicians, the entire congregation rose to their feet. When the first verse was finished, the congregation took over. They sang the next four verses . . . in the Tsa-la-gi language! When the song was over, the group of visitors was overwhelmed with people wanting to shake their hands. The preacher's voice rose over the crowd and invited everyone to go to the community building for a feast. Next door, carefully balancing plates heaped with food, Joe and Moose asked a woman: "What happened back there? Why did everyone stand when we sang Amazing Grace"?
The woman replied: "You didn't know?! You sang a song that is very important to our people. Our ancestors sang this song to give them strength when they were forced to walk from North Carolina, Tennessee, and Georgia to Oklahoma on what we call 'The Trail of Tears'. This was done to relocate our people to Indian Territory. Many died along the way. The people here tonight are the descendants of the ones who survived that terrible walk."
Joe turned to Moose and shook his head. "Amazing Grace!" he said. Moose answered: "Amazing indeed!"
Copyright by Joe Liles, All rights reserved.
the Mishomis Book
The Mishomis Book: The Voice of the Ojibwayby Edward Benton-Banai
Mishomis is the Ojibway word for grandfather. This is one of those very rare books that makes you feel as though you are listening to a wise elder. Includes the creation story, the origin of sacred plants, and a wealth of information on Native values and culture.
Edward Benton Banai is the Ojibway teacher and spiritual leader who founded the Red School House, an alternative school for Native students in St. Paul, Minnesota. His goal in writing The Mishomis Book was to provide students with an accurate account of Ojibway culture, history, and worldview based on the oral teachings.
This book begins with the Ojibway creation story and how first man came to earth. The fifteen chapters cover the traditional teachings about the acquisition of fire and tools, the creation and meaning of the clan system, the migration of the Ojibway people from the Atlantic Coast to their present locations in Canada and the United States.
The final chapter describes more resent history. Throughout the book, the author includes the use of Ojibway words and their meanings, as well as helpful maps and illustrations. Other major topics covered include the four directions, the pipe, the Midewiwin and Sweat Lodge, the Seven Fires prophesy, and the Seven Grandfathers Teaching, values and beliefs, and the role of Elders.
7.29.2006
L-town pool and bowl
The middle photo is the bowl area at L-town, the other two are of the pool.
Thanks (and apologies) to Local Chaos for the photos. They also had photos of another skatepark in the town just south of here--one that I had never heard about, which the kids and I will have to go check out.
the week in review
It’s been a pretty hectic week—the first full week working first shift. I worked second shift for a little over seven years, worked third shift about six months prior to that. It’s going to take a little while to get used to, both for me and the family. I have to be at work by 7 a.m., but I get out at 3 p.m.; which leaves a lot of day left for me to spend with the kids, etc . . .
It also means I get to eat with the family for a few days more a week than I had been.
I’ll still work some overtime, so there will be double-shifts and late nights, and extra shifts on my days off (which have also changed to Friday and Saturday). It’ll be different, for sure, but I think it’s for the best.
The kids and I road-tripped down to Todd’s skate shop (Ollie’s) and scored a bunch of gear (two completed decks, helmet, elbow and knee pads). We hit Tecumseh Park on the way back, where I ended up hitting the pavement pretty hard. Good thing I had on all the gear, otherwise I would’ve been in trouble.
We also ran up to M.P. the other day, hung out for a few hours whilst throwing some money away. I visited with my brother for a bit, so that was alright. The kids and I hit the water park yesterday and just chilled for about three hours, getting burnt, then cooling off.
I’ve been gone skating four times in the last week, which has been pretty good, but I had a couple of bad wipe outs. It takes me a lot longer to heal from minor injuries. I’ve pretty much given up on ollies—I think it might be best if I stay on the ground (or transition or vert) as much as possible. Going airborne in almost any manner isn’t a good idea for me—landing whatever trick is just way too hard on my knees.
E decided that Z-man’s new board is actually his, “Hey, where’s my blue skateboard?!” He also swiped Z’s knee pads and put them on—they’re so big that they completely cover his leg from the knees to his feet. E was trying to push the skateboard while we were still at Todd’s shop. He had his right foot on the back of the deck and was trying to push off with his left foot; it just looked hilarious—he wasn’t able to move it at all (since it was on carpeting) but he knew what he was supposed to do.
Nan got herself a green and white board and Z got a blue and gold get-up. Between the three of us we have enough pads to go around. If we’re skating the bowl or pool, we can go two at a time—shouldn’t really have three bodies flying around in there as it is. I imagine little E will be joining us by next summer, too.
Some kids at the park were checking out my old-school board---they call it a “fish” as opposed to their “popsicle sticks.” They were saying there’s a new skate park set up at a high school just south of town, which isn’t far from where Nan has soccer practice. They’ve got her going three days a week, so I think I’m going to be checking out the new park while she’s doing the soccer thing. Gas prices being what they are, I really can’t afford to drop her off/go home/drive back to pick her up.
It’s all good—Z starts football pretty soon, B and I have been hitting the gym. No complaints from here, at least for now.
It also means I get to eat with the family for a few days more a week than I had been.
I’ll still work some overtime, so there will be double-shifts and late nights, and extra shifts on my days off (which have also changed to Friday and Saturday). It’ll be different, for sure, but I think it’s for the best.
The kids and I road-tripped down to Todd’s skate shop (Ollie’s) and scored a bunch of gear (two completed decks, helmet, elbow and knee pads). We hit Tecumseh Park on the way back, where I ended up hitting the pavement pretty hard. Good thing I had on all the gear, otherwise I would’ve been in trouble.
We also ran up to M.P. the other day, hung out for a few hours whilst throwing some money away. I visited with my brother for a bit, so that was alright. The kids and I hit the water park yesterday and just chilled for about three hours, getting burnt, then cooling off.
I’ve been gone skating four times in the last week, which has been pretty good, but I had a couple of bad wipe outs. It takes me a lot longer to heal from minor injuries. I’ve pretty much given up on ollies—I think it might be best if I stay on the ground (or transition or vert) as much as possible. Going airborne in almost any manner isn’t a good idea for me—landing whatever trick is just way too hard on my knees.
E decided that Z-man’s new board is actually his, “Hey, where’s my blue skateboard?!” He also swiped Z’s knee pads and put them on—they’re so big that they completely cover his leg from the knees to his feet. E was trying to push the skateboard while we were still at Todd’s shop. He had his right foot on the back of the deck and was trying to push off with his left foot; it just looked hilarious—he wasn’t able to move it at all (since it was on carpeting) but he knew what he was supposed to do.
Nan got herself a green and white board and Z got a blue and gold get-up. Between the three of us we have enough pads to go around. If we’re skating the bowl or pool, we can go two at a time—shouldn’t really have three bodies flying around in there as it is. I imagine little E will be joining us by next summer, too.
Some kids at the park were checking out my old-school board---they call it a “fish” as opposed to their “popsicle sticks.” They were saying there’s a new skate park set up at a high school just south of town, which isn’t far from where Nan has soccer practice. They’ve got her going three days a week, so I think I’m going to be checking out the new park while she’s doing the soccer thing. Gas prices being what they are, I really can’t afford to drop her off/go home/drive back to pick her up.
It’s all good—Z starts football pretty soon, B and I have been hitting the gym. No complaints from here, at least for now.
7.24.2006
D. Camp-bell
I introduced the kids to hills the other day—seemed like a good time to do so, give them a break from the skate park for a little while. Hills are a good way to learn balance and to learn about steering your board by shifting your weight. I did quite a bit of hill riding, back in the day. I also spent a lot of time in parking ramps around campus, especially in the winter or on rainy days.
It seems to be a good idea to show the kids different kinds of skating—it is not all about the parks, right? We have gone on a couple of recon missions, looking for skate spots, just like in the old days. I told my kids they have it pretty good at the park—nice smooth concrete and ready-made obstacles to tackle. We had to find our own or make our own. The park can be a little intimidating for newbies—both the terrain and the other skaters, so it is good to mix it up with different locations that are relatively crowd-free.
I have been blessed in a way; the whole skating thing has given me an opportunity to bond with my two older children. It all came about somewhat organically, if I had pushed it on them a couple of years ago, it might not have worked out as well as it has. It is also a chance for all of us to try something new together—I never skated in a park setting (or vert for that matter) before, so it is just as new for me as it is for them.
How we approach a new situation, new challenges, and new faces is certainly useful in many different aspects of life. I want them to tackle these challenges with an open mind, an open spirit. Skating has become a way for me to share some of my values and beliefs with my kids—for what it’s worth.
Z-man and I met a local skate legend yesterday—D. Campbell—at the skate park. I have heard about this guy from friends since I first came to town, back in 1987. He is the best skater that I have seen live in person—he was shredding the @#$% out of that park. He also dropped into the pool—another first for us, we have seen videos and photos of pool riding, but never actually seen somebody do it in person.
For the record, Campbell is cool, was very approachable. Throughout his session, he was encouraging the other skaters and giving tips the whole time. He’s older than me—by 5 years? Not positive, but he is starting to bald up top, has an unassuming demeanor. He looks like he’s somebody’s accountant, not the best skater to hit these streets pre-Andy Mac.
It turns out that we know some people in common (kgh!) since he worked at Azteca’s for years and I worked over at Adler’s in the late eighties. The guy never stopped skating, has been going at it for nearly twenty-five years. He was self-effacing about his skateboard skills, though—said he owed it to time and practice.
His runs are super smooth, he does stuff off the bowl and ramps that I have never seen anyone even attempt before. He was shredding the coping left and right, doing airs all over the place. The younger kids don’t do runs—they shoot a line, throw in a couple of kick flips and call it good. Their style seems choppy and awkward by comparison.
Meeting him gave me a glimmer of hope, seeing a forty-something dude shredding as well as he was. If I could skate half as well as that D. Campbell can, I’ll be happy. My son said he seemed alright—just a normal guy with crazy skateboard skills.
I have been advocating this theory of late with the kids—I told them that anyone can become good at something, given enough time and repetition. Of course, there are those that transcend a sport due to physical and mental gifts, but that the majority of us can learn to do almost anything passably well.I am not sure if D. Cambell proves or disproves my theory—the dude was just killing that park, though. So I guess he must have some innate ability to skate like he does—he certainly persevered much longer than most of his contemporaries. Now that I’m working 1st Shift, I might be able to catch more of his acrobatic stylings and will attempt to come to some conclusion on the matter. Or I might just skate. Probably the latter.
It seems to be a good idea to show the kids different kinds of skating—it is not all about the parks, right? We have gone on a couple of recon missions, looking for skate spots, just like in the old days. I told my kids they have it pretty good at the park—nice smooth concrete and ready-made obstacles to tackle. We had to find our own or make our own. The park can be a little intimidating for newbies—both the terrain and the other skaters, so it is good to mix it up with different locations that are relatively crowd-free.
I have been blessed in a way; the whole skating thing has given me an opportunity to bond with my two older children. It all came about somewhat organically, if I had pushed it on them a couple of years ago, it might not have worked out as well as it has. It is also a chance for all of us to try something new together—I never skated in a park setting (or vert for that matter) before, so it is just as new for me as it is for them.
How we approach a new situation, new challenges, and new faces is certainly useful in many different aspects of life. I want them to tackle these challenges with an open mind, an open spirit. Skating has become a way for me to share some of my values and beliefs with my kids—for what it’s worth.
Z-man and I met a local skate legend yesterday—D. Campbell—at the skate park. I have heard about this guy from friends since I first came to town, back in 1987. He is the best skater that I have seen live in person—he was shredding the @#$% out of that park. He also dropped into the pool—another first for us, we have seen videos and photos of pool riding, but never actually seen somebody do it in person.
For the record, Campbell is cool, was very approachable. Throughout his session, he was encouraging the other skaters and giving tips the whole time. He’s older than me—by 5 years? Not positive, but he is starting to bald up top, has an unassuming demeanor. He looks like he’s somebody’s accountant, not the best skater to hit these streets pre-Andy Mac.
It turns out that we know some people in common (kgh!) since he worked at Azteca’s for years and I worked over at Adler’s in the late eighties. The guy never stopped skating, has been going at it for nearly twenty-five years. He was self-effacing about his skateboard skills, though—said he owed it to time and practice.
His runs are super smooth, he does stuff off the bowl and ramps that I have never seen anyone even attempt before. He was shredding the coping left and right, doing airs all over the place. The younger kids don’t do runs—they shoot a line, throw in a couple of kick flips and call it good. Their style seems choppy and awkward by comparison.
Meeting him gave me a glimmer of hope, seeing a forty-something dude shredding as well as he was. If I could skate half as well as that D. Campbell can, I’ll be happy. My son said he seemed alright—just a normal guy with crazy skateboard skills.
I have been advocating this theory of late with the kids—I told them that anyone can become good at something, given enough time and repetition. Of course, there are those that transcend a sport due to physical and mental gifts, but that the majority of us can learn to do almost anything passably well.I am not sure if D. Cambell proves or disproves my theory—the dude was just killing that park, though. So I guess he must have some innate ability to skate like he does—he certainly persevered much longer than most of his contemporaries. Now that I’m working 1st Shift, I might be able to catch more of his acrobatic stylings and will attempt to come to some conclusion on the matter. Or I might just skate. Probably the latter.
rabies road
There is a hill that is about a mile from the house that got the best of me eighteen odd years ago. My friend Dave R. and I were under the influence (tequila, et al.) and decided to go skating—bad idea. We were hitting hills wherever we could and stumbled upon “Rabies Road” whilst skating over by the retirement home.
We had been taking runs down Park Lane—which was a four lane at the time, speed limit 45. There are two big hills; one to the north of White Birch Rd. and another to the south, both are about a quarter mile to either end. A perfect storm.
There was a single light right at the intersection and you couldn’t see cars coming until their headlights were at the top of either hill. Cars would fly by doing 50 or 55 and we would be blinded by their brights as they sped along the fairly empty stretch. There were trees on all sides and houses at the top of the hills, but nothing closer to the intersection.
Rabies Road was at the top of the northern hill and disappeared into darkness below. We had no idea where it went, but it was an extremely steep ride, so we decided to take a shot at her. Unbeknown to us at the time, the pavement ended at the bottom of the hill and there was a gravel road beyond that. There are houses further down the road, but the first half-mile or so is heavily wooded.
I hit a rock or several rocks about twenty feet before the pavement ended, went flying and ended up skidding along the pavement and stopped just before the gravel began. I still have scars on the knuckles of my left hand and on my knees to this day. I ripped huge holes in my clothes, chipped a tooth and was a bloody mess. Dave scoured the brush, looking for my board as I sat there dazed and bleeding.
We wandered through the sewage treatment plant before heading back to Collegeville to patch me up. A friend of Dave’s gave us some Snoopy band-aids and we shaved each other’s heads with a pair of clippers we found in her bathroom. I eventually passed out in my blood-stained clothing and gave my roommate quite a fright when he woke up later that morning.
He said, “You look just like that dude on your t-shirt (Bill Danforth!).”
The blood had dried and my semi-shaved head (Dave and I didn’t do a very good job with the clippers) looked a mess. I could barely move that next morning and scabs were already starting to form on my elbows, knuckles, knees, even on my face. I must have flown off the board and skidded head first down that hill.I had Z-man go down the long asphalt driveway leading to the retirement home, just to see what a real hill was like. He bailed toward the end of the run, which is fine—the board was starting to wobble quite a bit. He hasn’t learned to snake his way down yet—so he just kept picking up more and more speed. We’re going to see about getting some protective gear—helmets and pads—sometime this week. At some point I’d like to hit that pool, drop in to the bowl and start riding the walls; but I’d like us all to remain scab and scar-free, as much as possible.
We had been taking runs down Park Lane—which was a four lane at the time, speed limit 45. There are two big hills; one to the north of White Birch Rd. and another to the south, both are about a quarter mile to either end. A perfect storm.
There was a single light right at the intersection and you couldn’t see cars coming until their headlights were at the top of either hill. Cars would fly by doing 50 or 55 and we would be blinded by their brights as they sped along the fairly empty stretch. There were trees on all sides and houses at the top of the hills, but nothing closer to the intersection.
Rabies Road was at the top of the northern hill and disappeared into darkness below. We had no idea where it went, but it was an extremely steep ride, so we decided to take a shot at her. Unbeknown to us at the time, the pavement ended at the bottom of the hill and there was a gravel road beyond that. There are houses further down the road, but the first half-mile or so is heavily wooded.
I hit a rock or several rocks about twenty feet before the pavement ended, went flying and ended up skidding along the pavement and stopped just before the gravel began. I still have scars on the knuckles of my left hand and on my knees to this day. I ripped huge holes in my clothes, chipped a tooth and was a bloody mess. Dave scoured the brush, looking for my board as I sat there dazed and bleeding.
We wandered through the sewage treatment plant before heading back to Collegeville to patch me up. A friend of Dave’s gave us some Snoopy band-aids and we shaved each other’s heads with a pair of clippers we found in her bathroom. I eventually passed out in my blood-stained clothing and gave my roommate quite a fright when he woke up later that morning.
He said, “You look just like that dude on your t-shirt (Bill Danforth!).”
The blood had dried and my semi-shaved head (Dave and I didn’t do a very good job with the clippers) looked a mess. I could barely move that next morning and scabs were already starting to form on my elbows, knuckles, knees, even on my face. I must have flown off the board and skidded head first down that hill.I had Z-man go down the long asphalt driveway leading to the retirement home, just to see what a real hill was like. He bailed toward the end of the run, which is fine—the board was starting to wobble quite a bit. He hasn’t learned to snake his way down yet—so he just kept picking up more and more speed. We’re going to see about getting some protective gear—helmets and pads—sometime this week. At some point I’d like to hit that pool, drop in to the bowl and start riding the walls; but I’d like us all to remain scab and scar-free, as much as possible.
7.19.2006
motley crew
The kids and I showed up at the skate park just after 11 a.m., and there was a lone rollerblader dipping up and down the smooth bowls and ramps. I was excited to have the park all to ourselves in the middle of the day. The kids and I usually sneak over an hour or so before closing time, just as the sun is setting.
The toddler even remarked, “we can’t skate, the sun still up.”
We hit the shortest incline first—not at all bad, maybe a two-foot vertical drop spread over three feet. The flat is another four feet or so, and then there is another transition, which is roughly the same size as the first.
I thought this would be the easiest thing for the kids to try, but they both were having trouble making to the top of the second transition. They can ride down the first without having to bail and go through the flat without a problem, but just can’t seem to get enough steam to make it the top. I keep telling them that they need more momentum; need to give themselves at least two hard pushes to make it to the top.
The surface is very smooth and fast, not like regular concrete—the fear of falling or losing control is just too much for them to overcome. I take them to another part of the park, where the transition is even higher, but it’s just plain concrete .
There is an even higher transition on the other end, but I told them I just wanted them to make it down the first one. They both made it down, after a little encouragement, a little ridicule. They also managed to get in the way of some of the other skaters who were filtering in by twos and threes, but that’s the price you pay for skating at a public park.
I am a little impatient with the kids, but I want to start riding the walls, want to start skating the bowl and the pool. They need to become more comfortable on the board yet and that is going to take more time and practice. I just hate seeing them not try something because of fear—fear of failing or fear of falling or whatever.
I’m still too chicken to drop in to the bowl and the pool is still a couple of years off, if I continue to skate into my forties. E goes along with us, but he still won’t stand on a skateboard, which is fine by me. He needs a couple more years before I’ll introduce him to it, but it’s really funny watching him slide into the bowl on his butt. There are a couple of kids who don’t appear to be much taller than him skating around, but they’re at least six or seven, whereas E doesn’t even turn four until September.
He’s REALLY big for his age. Z-man is kinda small for his age and I look really young for my age; and Nan, she looks older than her eleven years. A motley crew for sure, but we’re having fun, together, and that’s what counts, right?
The toddler even remarked, “we can’t skate, the sun still up.”
We hit the shortest incline first—not at all bad, maybe a two-foot vertical drop spread over three feet. The flat is another four feet or so, and then there is another transition, which is roughly the same size as the first.
I thought this would be the easiest thing for the kids to try, but they both were having trouble making to the top of the second transition. They can ride down the first without having to bail and go through the flat without a problem, but just can’t seem to get enough steam to make it the top. I keep telling them that they need more momentum; need to give themselves at least two hard pushes to make it to the top.
The surface is very smooth and fast, not like regular concrete—the fear of falling or losing control is just too much for them to overcome. I take them to another part of the park, where the transition is even higher, but it’s just plain concrete .
There is an even higher transition on the other end, but I told them I just wanted them to make it down the first one. They both made it down, after a little encouragement, a little ridicule. They also managed to get in the way of some of the other skaters who were filtering in by twos and threes, but that’s the price you pay for skating at a public park.
I am a little impatient with the kids, but I want to start riding the walls, want to start skating the bowl and the pool. They need to become more comfortable on the board yet and that is going to take more time and practice. I just hate seeing them not try something because of fear—fear of failing or fear of falling or whatever.
I’m still too chicken to drop in to the bowl and the pool is still a couple of years off, if I continue to skate into my forties. E goes along with us, but he still won’t stand on a skateboard, which is fine by me. He needs a couple more years before I’ll introduce him to it, but it’s really funny watching him slide into the bowl on his butt. There are a couple of kids who don’t appear to be much taller than him skating around, but they’re at least six or seven, whereas E doesn’t even turn four until September.
He’s REALLY big for his age. Z-man is kinda small for his age and I look really young for my age; and Nan, she looks older than her eleven years. A motley crew for sure, but we’re having fun, together, and that’s what counts, right?
7.18.2006
man screaming
I am the man screaming in the forest,
No one hears me,
I grasp for some acknowledgement,
Even a simple shut the hell up.
I want something to matter,
Something to cling to,
But I am exhausted from the effort.
What is the next step,
What is there do be done?
Everything feels so hollow,
So useless right now.
Even the things that I love,
That fill me with hope,
Seem to be mocking me.
Emptiness stares back at me,
Laughing and jeering,
Better off not having cared at all.
Why did I ever care,
Ever want any part of this whole thing?
Only natural I suppose,
Life is all about living,
Life tries to prolong itself,
Propagate itself in any way possible.
A simple shut the hell up,
Please—that’s all I want right now,
All I need to know someone’s listening.
No one hears me,
I grasp for some acknowledgement,
Even a simple shut the hell up.
I want something to matter,
Something to cling to,
But I am exhausted from the effort.
What is the next step,
What is there do be done?
Everything feels so hollow,
So useless right now.
Even the things that I love,
That fill me with hope,
Seem to be mocking me.
Emptiness stares back at me,
Laughing and jeering,
Better off not having cared at all.
Why did I ever care,
Ever want any part of this whole thing?
Only natural I suppose,
Life is all about living,
Life tries to prolong itself,
Propagate itself in any way possible.
A simple shut the hell up,
Please—that’s all I want right now,
All I need to know someone’s listening.
7.16.2006
pow wow cd
This is a really good live pow wow cd for a numberof reasons:
1) Mickey Hart, Grateful Dead drummer, produced it.
2) Recording quality is very high
3) Great songs from great Wisconsin drums
4) My wife sings backup for Smokeytown
football angst
So we’re about three weeks away from the start of football practice. My son stands 5’1” and weighs between 80 to 85 lbs. I think he’ll be ready as far as cardiovascular conditioning. I’m just concerned about him getting hurt because he’s so small. He’s been hitting the weights, but it’s unlikely that he’ll gain 15+ lbs. of muscle in three weeks. Some of the kids in his class are much larger than me already, and I’m tipping the scales at 180 lbs. these days.
I was pretty slight at his age, however, even though I was taller and weighed more. Yes, I played football, but quit after playing j.v. my sophomore year. I started on defense and offense my freshman and sophomore years, more out of default than anything else. I played football just to have something to do and the neighborhhod kids and I grew up playing pick-up games at the elementary school or vacant lots near our homes.
I loved the first day of pads, because I genuinely enjoyed hitting people. You could take out a whole day’s frustration by lowering your shoulder pads into someone’s gut. The THWACK of hard plastic against hard plastic gave me a thrill. I couldn’t cover worth a crap (I played defensive back) or catch very well (slot back), so I just focused on hitting people.
I was a bit of a late bloomer, didn’t really hit my stride in sports until I was already at university, either playing intramurals or pick-up games. I played a lot of football with B’s brothers and cousins and their friends during the early part of our relationship. We played in the snow, played in the mud and rain, played whenever we could get at least four players on the field. I was usually the smallest guy out there, but after awhile was always one of the first picked for teams.
Playing pick-up games when I was growing up, I was usually the last one picked. I didn’t realize that I could be quick and could outrun the other players. I was even worse in an organized settting—I would get confused or flustered at game time. I gave up some big plays on defense and never picked up any yardage on offense. Part of it was confidence—I simply didn’t have any, but I didn’t really fill out until I was tweny or twenty-one.
I stopped growing (vertically) by the time I was fourteen, just shy of 5’8” (yes, I’m short), only weighed about 120 lbs. at the time. I tried lifting weights of course, but never saw any results so I would just give up after a couple of weeks. The summer of my junior year, I decided to hang up the cleats and ran cross country instead. Not a bad idea in retrospect—we ended up moving further out into the suburbs midway through the year—to a football powerhouse that played for the state title my senior year. It’s very unlikely that I would have even made the team if I had gone to try-outs.
When I met my wife, I had been working out for about nine months, pretty religiously. I was around 155 to 160 lbs., in the best shape of my life, really. As she said recently—“you got the girl, what else do you want?—so I guess it turned out for the best.
I just wonder, though—what if I had been able to be that size or my size right now when I was still playing? What if I had been able to dominate at that level? I could hang with Minx and Noogie—both of whom are 6’0”, 185 to 225 lbs.—when we played pick up games out in the field. The organized setting is quite different, though, so someone dominating a five-on-five game might just be average on an eleven-on-eleven setting. And I still would have been small by high school standards.
As for Z-Man, I just don’t want him to get hurt. He’ll be the smallest guy out there, and he’s got quickness, but no speed. He’s got something that I didn’t have though—the kid is fearless. When he played soccer, he’d charge guys that were a foot taller than him and take the ball away from them. His physical development has been slowed and perhaps altered by all the medications that he’s had to take these past eleven years, but he has the heart of a warrior. Perhaps it’s because of what he’s been through or perhaps his mother and I managed to do something right somewhere along the way.
I was pretty slight at his age, however, even though I was taller and weighed more. Yes, I played football, but quit after playing j.v. my sophomore year. I started on defense and offense my freshman and sophomore years, more out of default than anything else. I played football just to have something to do and the neighborhhod kids and I grew up playing pick-up games at the elementary school or vacant lots near our homes.
I loved the first day of pads, because I genuinely enjoyed hitting people. You could take out a whole day’s frustration by lowering your shoulder pads into someone’s gut. The THWACK of hard plastic against hard plastic gave me a thrill. I couldn’t cover worth a crap (I played defensive back) or catch very well (slot back), so I just focused on hitting people.
I was a bit of a late bloomer, didn’t really hit my stride in sports until I was already at university, either playing intramurals or pick-up games. I played a lot of football with B’s brothers and cousins and their friends during the early part of our relationship. We played in the snow, played in the mud and rain, played whenever we could get at least four players on the field. I was usually the smallest guy out there, but after awhile was always one of the first picked for teams.
Playing pick-up games when I was growing up, I was usually the last one picked. I didn’t realize that I could be quick and could outrun the other players. I was even worse in an organized settting—I would get confused or flustered at game time. I gave up some big plays on defense and never picked up any yardage on offense. Part of it was confidence—I simply didn’t have any, but I didn’t really fill out until I was tweny or twenty-one.
I stopped growing (vertically) by the time I was fourteen, just shy of 5’8” (yes, I’m short), only weighed about 120 lbs. at the time. I tried lifting weights of course, but never saw any results so I would just give up after a couple of weeks. The summer of my junior year, I decided to hang up the cleats and ran cross country instead. Not a bad idea in retrospect—we ended up moving further out into the suburbs midway through the year—to a football powerhouse that played for the state title my senior year. It’s very unlikely that I would have even made the team if I had gone to try-outs.
When I met my wife, I had been working out for about nine months, pretty religiously. I was around 155 to 160 lbs., in the best shape of my life, really. As she said recently—“you got the girl, what else do you want?—so I guess it turned out for the best.
I just wonder, though—what if I had been able to be that size or my size right now when I was still playing? What if I had been able to dominate at that level? I could hang with Minx and Noogie—both of whom are 6’0”, 185 to 225 lbs.—when we played pick up games out in the field. The organized setting is quite different, though, so someone dominating a five-on-five game might just be average on an eleven-on-eleven setting. And I still would have been small by high school standards.
As for Z-Man, I just don’t want him to get hurt. He’ll be the smallest guy out there, and he’s got quickness, but no speed. He’s got something that I didn’t have though—the kid is fearless. When he played soccer, he’d charge guys that were a foot taller than him and take the ball away from them. His physical development has been slowed and perhaps altered by all the medications that he’s had to take these past eleven years, but he has the heart of a warrior. Perhaps it’s because of what he’s been through or perhaps his mother and I managed to do something right somewhere along the way.
7.13.2006
guilt-stained
Guilt-stained t-shirt hangs limply from my shoulders,
Then hugs my protruding beer belly.
My thin mosquito-bitten arms sway awkwardly,
As I stride along, ala Bugs Bunny,
Feet splayed out at 45-degree angles.
Mouth dry, eyes bloodshot,
Joints aching, sinuses plugged as usual.
Why do I do this to myself?
Binge drinking to lift my spirits,
Everything comes crashing down.
The trip to the cemetery was surreal,
Fresh flowers adorned the mound of dirt,
And we stood there looking down.
My daughter,
visibly upset because there was no headstone,
wrote Shi’s name in the ground at the foot of the grave.
B watched her and became teary-eyed,
As Z kept slamming doors and the trunk,
Looking for strawberries to give to his auntie.
The reality of it all hit me in the gut,
I was left breathless,
Wandered back to the car.
Warm summer day, kids yelling and playing in the distance,
And here was death resting at our feet.
Here was Shiloh,
Never to be seen or heard from again.
My wife starts sobbing in her weakest moments,
When no one is around,
When she thinks no one can hear.
I feel lost,
Feel regret for things done or half-finished,
Wanting to undo or complete this or that.
Her laughter and warmth is forever gone,
And I try hard to make her kids laugh,
Knowing full well it is to make myself feel better.
Then hugs my protruding beer belly.
My thin mosquito-bitten arms sway awkwardly,
As I stride along, ala Bugs Bunny,
Feet splayed out at 45-degree angles.
Mouth dry, eyes bloodshot,
Joints aching, sinuses plugged as usual.
Why do I do this to myself?
Binge drinking to lift my spirits,
Everything comes crashing down.
The trip to the cemetery was surreal,
Fresh flowers adorned the mound of dirt,
And we stood there looking down.
My daughter,
visibly upset because there was no headstone,
wrote Shi’s name in the ground at the foot of the grave.
B watched her and became teary-eyed,
As Z kept slamming doors and the trunk,
Looking for strawberries to give to his auntie.
The reality of it all hit me in the gut,
I was left breathless,
Wandered back to the car.
Warm summer day, kids yelling and playing in the distance,
And here was death resting at our feet.
Here was Shiloh,
Never to be seen or heard from again.
My wife starts sobbing in her weakest moments,
When no one is around,
When she thinks no one can hear.
I feel lost,
Feel regret for things done or half-finished,
Wanting to undo or complete this or that.
Her laughter and warmth is forever gone,
And I try hard to make her kids laugh,
Knowing full well it is to make myself feel better.
bleeding money
I’m bleeding money out of my very pores,
Can’t seem to hold on to any of it at all.
I look forward to payday, a chance to catch up,
But I’m lucky to have even half left by nightfall.
Bounced check fees hit the account,
Which was already negative several hundred dollars.
My creditors are calling all over town,
Trying to pin me down,
Need to know how I’m going to rectify the situation.
Rectify what?
I pay every month, pay what I can,
But it is not to their satisfaction.
They call all my relations,
All of whom I owe money to as well.
Come get the car, come get the house,
It’s all worth nothing to me.
When I have nothing, what can I give?
Can’t seem to hold on to any of it at all.
I look forward to payday, a chance to catch up,
But I’m lucky to have even half left by nightfall.
Bounced check fees hit the account,
Which was already negative several hundred dollars.
My creditors are calling all over town,
Trying to pin me down,
Need to know how I’m going to rectify the situation.
Rectify what?
I pay every month, pay what I can,
But it is not to their satisfaction.
They call all my relations,
All of whom I owe money to as well.
Come get the car, come get the house,
It’s all worth nothing to me.
When I have nothing, what can I give?
closer to the brink
Inching ever closer to the brink,
I try to tame the mind.
It’s a losing battle,
Sometimes wonder why I bother.
Mind builds and creates,
Smashes and destroys,
But does so indiscriminately.
Woke up drunk again today,
Still not quite hung over just yet.
What did I do this time?
Why do I feel so guilty?
It’s always something,
Always something to hide,
Something to forget.
Scrub the memories from my brain,
But the stains never go away.
We cut across the northern suburbs of Detroit,
Driving down Interstate 696,
Carved into the landscape thirty years ago.
Staring at the vertical walls,
Catching short glimpses of houses
Every now and again.
Are the walls meant to keep us out
Or to keep the people in?
Beyond the walls, beyond the grass embankments,
I know there are houses and cities.
I grew up just south of there,
Traveled the checkerboard streets
Just north of Detroit.
I sucked in the industrial gloom,
Felt the oppressive heat of the segregated cities.
Everything has grown older, smaller, dirtier
In the twenty years since I lived there.
I lumbered down these broken streets,
In my uncle’s hand-me-down 1976 Ford cargo van,
Praying for deliverance but wishing for death.
I try to tame the mind.
It’s a losing battle,
Sometimes wonder why I bother.
Mind builds and creates,
Smashes and destroys,
But does so indiscriminately.
Woke up drunk again today,
Still not quite hung over just yet.
What did I do this time?
Why do I feel so guilty?
It’s always something,
Always something to hide,
Something to forget.
Scrub the memories from my brain,
But the stains never go away.
We cut across the northern suburbs of Detroit,
Driving down Interstate 696,
Carved into the landscape thirty years ago.
Staring at the vertical walls,
Catching short glimpses of houses
Every now and again.
Are the walls meant to keep us out
Or to keep the people in?
Beyond the walls, beyond the grass embankments,
I know there are houses and cities.
I grew up just south of there,
Traveled the checkerboard streets
Just north of Detroit.
I sucked in the industrial gloom,
Felt the oppressive heat of the segregated cities.
Everything has grown older, smaller, dirtier
In the twenty years since I lived there.
I lumbered down these broken streets,
In my uncle’s hand-me-down 1976 Ford cargo van,
Praying for deliverance but wishing for death.
bad haiku
Working time stands still,
Home time flies faster than thought,
Too late I realize.
My dreams fade away,
Like ships on the horizon,
Never to return.
Rollerblader dude,
Chugging red sugar water,
Sweating profusely.
Light-hearted laughter
Floats out of concrete skate park,
Infecting everyone.
Brokedown red daabaan,
I bought and then refinanced,
Drags me anchor-like.
I thought I was cured,
But I blundered and stumbled,
Right back to square one.
Writing bad haiku,
Instead of distilling thought,
Meaning gets muddy.
Home time flies faster than thought,
Too late I realize.
My dreams fade away,
Like ships on the horizon,
Never to return.
Rollerblader dude,
Chugging red sugar water,
Sweating profusely.
Light-hearted laughter
Floats out of concrete skate park,
Infecting everyone.
Brokedown red daabaan,
I bought and then refinanced,
Drags me anchor-like.
I thought I was cured,
But I blundered and stumbled,
Right back to square one.
Writing bad haiku,
Instead of distilling thought,
Meaning gets muddy.
7.06.2006
rotting under the noonday sun
Nothing, no one, nada. All alone, nothing and no one to see or speak to. Disconnected, disenfranchised, disillusioned, diseased. Drying, rotting under the noonday sun, flies swarming all around me, my own filth and stench sickening me as I lie here in a heap. What is it that I want? What do I want? The seeking, greedy mind keeps grasping for something, I know not what. I want, and want and want---the wanting is eating me alive. I throw money at it, I placate the greed with soda, cigarettes, rice, chicken, fish sauce, hot peppers, beer and video
games.
Sickenly, sickeningly, sickening, stomach grrwling, feels so empty, feels like I haven’t had anything to eat all day. Just sucking air, all day long. Belly full of hot dry air, that I belch back up to empty that empty stomach even more. Gonna get a pop, drink up 200, 300 empty calories to fill my gut, rot my teeth some more. Back molar’s been killing me for months now, hanging on by a thread, a coupla nerves, gonna need that root canal to undo the damage done. Gotta go see that dentista, not the same ole one, ex-MSU footballer, played for the N.Y. Titans, must be close to retiring, too much MSU paraphernalia in that office. Philosphically, sophistically, sophisticatedly, killing myself slowly with all this crapola, shinola. Don’t know one from another. Mudder o’God, Jesus Christo, Jesu o man’s desiring, what the hell?
games.
Sickenly, sickeningly, sickening, stomach grrwling, feels so empty, feels like I haven’t had anything to eat all day. Just sucking air, all day long. Belly full of hot dry air, that I belch back up to empty that empty stomach even more. Gonna get a pop, drink up 200, 300 empty calories to fill my gut, rot my teeth some more. Back molar’s been killing me for months now, hanging on by a thread, a coupla nerves, gonna need that root canal to undo the damage done. Gotta go see that dentista, not the same ole one, ex-MSU footballer, played for the N.Y. Titans, must be close to retiring, too much MSU paraphernalia in that office. Philosphically, sophistically, sophisticatedly, killing myself slowly with all this crapola, shinola. Don’t know one from another. Mudder o’God, Jesus Christo, Jesu o man’s desiring, what the hell?
warm deez bones
Like a scared child, he clung to anything that would give him comfort, security. Self-medicated to the point of numbness, scared little boy, trying to shield himself from all the ugliness of life. Cocooned, hiding, reveling in his second childhood, never thought that he was damaging himself, but the damage done is difficult to undo.
He no longer feared any flashbacks, but he felt stunted, living in perpetual childhood. The society celebrates youth, tells you that you are only as old as you feel. Telling you that it’s good to be “young at heart”—but then condemns you if you aren’t mature enough to deal with reality. Make up your mind—show some maturity dammit!!
Cold, freezing, frozen to the bone, silver ring slipping off my bony finger, no extra meat to hang onto. Eating canned chili to warm my bones, with crackers in a package, packed in twos. Head is spinning, body shivering, from hunger, from cold. Cold, tired, hungry, no way to live. Gotta warm deez bones, warm my innards.
He no longer feared any flashbacks, but he felt stunted, living in perpetual childhood. The society celebrates youth, tells you that you are only as old as you feel. Telling you that it’s good to be “young at heart”—but then condemns you if you aren’t mature enough to deal with reality. Make up your mind—show some maturity dammit!!
Cold, freezing, frozen to the bone, silver ring slipping off my bony finger, no extra meat to hang onto. Eating canned chili to warm my bones, with crackers in a package, packed in twos. Head is spinning, body shivering, from hunger, from cold. Cold, tired, hungry, no way to live. Gotta warm deez bones, warm my innards.
in the dark hours
Wish I could clear my history, delete my files, start all over with a clean slate. Some of the things I’ve done, I’m not too proud of, but life can be like that I suppose. In the dark hours, under the influence, I’ve seen glimpses of myself that makes me shudder. I’m far from perfect, far from evil, just a man like anyone else. We all have the capability of good or bad within us, we’ve seen what we can do when given free reign. We have been great and horrible, sometimes at the same time, forging empires while destroying entire societies. It’s easy to point a finger, hindsight is always clearest, but we have stumbled and fallen and we have risen to the occasion time after time. We all share in the blame and in the credit for all we have done to ourselves and to this
planet. I sometimes like to think that I’m different, but everyone is cut from the same cloth, molded out of the same clay. My indifference and apathy damages me as much as anyone else, but I failed to acknowledge this fact. In my dark hours, my mind has maimed and mutilated all that was sacred to that very same ego that thought it was in control. I try to destroy the self, while sheltering it from all invaders. This self, this mind that I call my own, controls and directs me toward goals counter to what I know to be correct. It craves and wants with no limits and it tortures me with false hopes and desires. The wanting is the danger, the true evil. The enemy is within, never content with life as it is, with what is right in front of me. The life that is here
never proves to be satisfactory, the mind is never satiated. That drive has helped us make great technological advances, but it hungers for more. How much is too much? At what point do our wants and needs overtake those of the planet? Will we know how to stop, when to stop?
planet. I sometimes like to think that I’m different, but everyone is cut from the same cloth, molded out of the same clay. My indifference and apathy damages me as much as anyone else, but I failed to acknowledge this fact. In my dark hours, my mind has maimed and mutilated all that was sacred to that very same ego that thought it was in control. I try to destroy the self, while sheltering it from all invaders. This self, this mind that I call my own, controls and directs me toward goals counter to what I know to be correct. It craves and wants with no limits and it tortures me with false hopes and desires. The wanting is the danger, the true evil. The enemy is within, never content with life as it is, with what is right in front of me. The life that is here
never proves to be satisfactory, the mind is never satiated. That drive has helped us make great technological advances, but it hungers for more. How much is too much? At what point do our wants and needs overtake those of the planet? Will we know how to stop, when to stop?
twenty-nine years & nine months
“Ty!, Ty!”
Stacey’s trying to get my attention, but I’m ignoring her. Gotta focus at the task at hand.
Wazzup? Leaf me alone. Not dealing with it today. I skrewd up and worked overtime again. Just barely hanging on to sanity. Head’s spinning. I should try eating or something, huh?
“That’s what I’m sayYin . . . that’s what I’m sayYin”
Lisa’s talking smack to whoever it is she’s got on the phone line. Apparently, somebody flashed our phone number on the T.V. screen or something. Something about a wanted person. She’s getting all kinds of crazy phone calls now.
“Dooh . . . Ty, Julio, somebody! I need help . . . they put our number on CrimeStoppers or something!”
Not my problem, Lisa. I got my hands full right now. Not even sure what my name is right now. Lisa’s got issues, least of which is her phone line ringing off the hook. Stacey was trying to get my attention so I would go over and tell Lisa to calm down. That’s not likely to happen, so I’m not even bothering with it.
“Well, three of the people said they didn’t even know the guy’s name or something . . . and this dude’s wife is Jamaican . . .”
Jamaican? What on earth is she talking about? What’s that got to do with anything? Stay FOCUSED, maannn! Why is always tripping?
“Hey, is our fax machine working? Deputy So-and-so says he keeps getting a busy signal when he tries faxing us . . .”
Tell Deputy So-and-so to fax it over again. And please, spare him the details of your great adventure. It’s too late for me, but I can at least save some other poor soul from having to listen to your endless babbling. Oops—too late. She’s telling him the story right now. Poor So-and-so. He walked right into that one.
“Hey, Daddy, blah blah blah . . .”
Whew, we’re all off the hook for a little while. She’s talking to one of her dads. She says she has three dads. Her biological dad; her adopted dad, who her mom left her with when she ran off; and whomever her mom is currently dating. Sound confusing? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. She’s talking her dad’s ear off right now, talking about everything and nothing all at once.
All I know is that I’m gonna punch her mom in the face the next time I see her.
That’ll be her reward for unleashing all that psychic weirdness upon the rest of us. I know I should be more understanding, I know I should be more compassionate.
But not today, maybe tomorrow.
So much noise and confusion comes out of that corner of the office, it’s just not fair to the rest of us. She has these manic jags completely out of the blue, but her depressive states aren’t much better. She’ll bury her face in a book for hours and not say a word to any of us. This is while she’s on the clock. When she’s supposed to be working. Like the rest of us. There’s no happy medium here—she’s either on or off.
Oh crap. She just called a dead guy’s house.
We all have a sudden attack of gallows humor:
“If the guy’s been dead since November, then where is the equipment calling in from?”
“We can’t get a signal from Detroit, but apparently we have good cell coverage from Hell.”
“Client claims to be dead.”
“We’ll need agency verification. Ask them to hold for us until then.”
“I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”
“Can never be too sure. No bond on our charge.”
“Case notes read: subject smelled of alcohol.”
“I’m afraid that wasn’t alcohol they were smelling.”
“No wonder we’re all over the news lately, we didn’t even realize some guy we were tracking died five months ago.”
I’m sure there’s some logical explanation for all this. Maybe our field office finally recovered the equipment and hooked up the modem to download information. They just forgot to call us and warn us about it. Would have been nice of them.
Would have saved us from calling a dead guy’s house.
But we don’t call the shots, we’re just trying to roll with the punches. Just trying to do the best we can and keep our sanity at the same time. Well, some of us at least. I can’t speak for everyone. Just another day at work. Can’t wait for retirement, only a mere twenty-nine years and nine months more to go.
Stacey’s trying to get my attention, but I’m ignoring her. Gotta focus at the task at hand.
Wazzup? Leaf me alone. Not dealing with it today. I skrewd up and worked overtime again. Just barely hanging on to sanity. Head’s spinning. I should try eating or something, huh?
“That’s what I’m sayYin . . . that’s what I’m sayYin”
Lisa’s talking smack to whoever it is she’s got on the phone line. Apparently, somebody flashed our phone number on the T.V. screen or something. Something about a wanted person. She’s getting all kinds of crazy phone calls now.
“Dooh . . . Ty, Julio, somebody! I need help . . . they put our number on CrimeStoppers or something!”
Not my problem, Lisa. I got my hands full right now. Not even sure what my name is right now. Lisa’s got issues, least of which is her phone line ringing off the hook. Stacey was trying to get my attention so I would go over and tell Lisa to calm down. That’s not likely to happen, so I’m not even bothering with it.
“Well, three of the people said they didn’t even know the guy’s name or something . . . and this dude’s wife is Jamaican . . .”
Jamaican? What on earth is she talking about? What’s that got to do with anything? Stay FOCUSED, maannn! Why is always tripping?
“Hey, is our fax machine working? Deputy So-and-so says he keeps getting a busy signal when he tries faxing us . . .”
Tell Deputy So-and-so to fax it over again. And please, spare him the details of your great adventure. It’s too late for me, but I can at least save some other poor soul from having to listen to your endless babbling. Oops—too late. She’s telling him the story right now. Poor So-and-so. He walked right into that one.
“Hey, Daddy, blah blah blah . . .”
Whew, we’re all off the hook for a little while. She’s talking to one of her dads. She says she has three dads. Her biological dad; her adopted dad, who her mom left her with when she ran off; and whomever her mom is currently dating. Sound confusing? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. She’s talking her dad’s ear off right now, talking about everything and nothing all at once.
All I know is that I’m gonna punch her mom in the face the next time I see her.
That’ll be her reward for unleashing all that psychic weirdness upon the rest of us. I know I should be more understanding, I know I should be more compassionate.
But not today, maybe tomorrow.
So much noise and confusion comes out of that corner of the office, it’s just not fair to the rest of us. She has these manic jags completely out of the blue, but her depressive states aren’t much better. She’ll bury her face in a book for hours and not say a word to any of us. This is while she’s on the clock. When she’s supposed to be working. Like the rest of us. There’s no happy medium here—she’s either on or off.
Oh crap. She just called a dead guy’s house.
We all have a sudden attack of gallows humor:
“If the guy’s been dead since November, then where is the equipment calling in from?”
“We can’t get a signal from Detroit, but apparently we have good cell coverage from Hell.”
“Client claims to be dead.”
“We’ll need agency verification. Ask them to hold for us until then.”
“I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”
“Can never be too sure. No bond on our charge.”
“Case notes read: subject smelled of alcohol.”
“I’m afraid that wasn’t alcohol they were smelling.”
“No wonder we’re all over the news lately, we didn’t even realize some guy we were tracking died five months ago.”
I’m sure there’s some logical explanation for all this. Maybe our field office finally recovered the equipment and hooked up the modem to download information. They just forgot to call us and warn us about it. Would have been nice of them.
Would have saved us from calling a dead guy’s house.
But we don’t call the shots, we’re just trying to roll with the punches. Just trying to do the best we can and keep our sanity at the same time. Well, some of us at least. I can’t speak for everyone. Just another day at work. Can’t wait for retirement, only a mere twenty-nine years and nine months more to go.
raging full on
Spring is raging full on all of a sudden. I was scraping ice from my windshield earlier this morning, but now the sun’s all shining and everything just stinks of spring. The Great Lakes region is famous for crap like that. Sweat your buttocks off during the day, freeze em at night. I’m half conscious, still trying to shake my nightmares, convince myself they were only dreams. Lack of sleep always screws up my grip on reality. I worked 16 hours last night, hadn’t planned on it, but couldn’t say no to the extra cashish.
The boundary between reality and illusion becomes really blurry for me following a double shift. I had nightmares all morning long and still feel on edge. I ended up getting home and driving the kid to his A.C.T. test and then dinked around with the toilet for awhile after that. I found a small leak where the bolt attaches the tank to the seat, probably not that big of a deal, but once I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours, everything becomes a big deal.
My son took his A.C.T. at the state college with all the high schoolers. I walked him to the testing site, ducking and dodging the proto-adults along the way in the crowded hall. He got a couple of stares—the kid’s short for his age thanks to super doses of steroids, which also managed to jumpstart his kidneys back to life. But he’s still only thirteen, and here were all these sixteen and seventeen-year-olds ponying up to take the biggest test of their lives, so far at least.
There will be bigger tests, but those won’t be scored or graded.
I think we're driving over to London tomorrow, need to go visit Cheyenne. She's been in the hospital pretty much since A2 Pow Wow, except for a few hours last week. That's about two solid weeks. I'm purposely ignorant when it comes to medical terminology--back home the hospital is somewhere they take you when you're already dead or about to die. I just know that whatever's going on with her isn't good. It sounds like her cancer may have spread, despite the chemo, despite the radiation treatment. Not good at all.
The boundary between reality and illusion becomes really blurry for me following a double shift. I had nightmares all morning long and still feel on edge. I ended up getting home and driving the kid to his A.C.T. test and then dinked around with the toilet for awhile after that. I found a small leak where the bolt attaches the tank to the seat, probably not that big of a deal, but once I’ve been awake for over twenty-four hours, everything becomes a big deal.
My son took his A.C.T. at the state college with all the high schoolers. I walked him to the testing site, ducking and dodging the proto-adults along the way in the crowded hall. He got a couple of stares—the kid’s short for his age thanks to super doses of steroids, which also managed to jumpstart his kidneys back to life. But he’s still only thirteen, and here were all these sixteen and seventeen-year-olds ponying up to take the biggest test of their lives, so far at least.
There will be bigger tests, but those won’t be scored or graded.
I think we're driving over to London tomorrow, need to go visit Cheyenne. She's been in the hospital pretty much since A2 Pow Wow, except for a few hours last week. That's about two solid weeks. I'm purposely ignorant when it comes to medical terminology--back home the hospital is somewhere they take you when you're already dead or about to die. I just know that whatever's going on with her isn't good. It sounds like her cancer may have spread, despite the chemo, despite the radiation treatment. Not good at all.
an exercise in futility
An exercise in futility. Just feel like giving up. Gonna put my blinders back on, gonna lose myself in my daydreams. Suffocate my sorrows under the weight of all my illusions. Leaving reality by the wayside, blundering along into oblivion.
Overworking and overusing my metaphorical vehicles. Overtaxing my own mental faculties. No escape route to speak of, no way to go but down. Money woes mounting as the months drag along, no end in sight to the endless spiral. Madness is but a manufactured escape, not wanting to admit, to see, or to believe.
The ugliness within begins to be transferred on those with out. The beginning of the end. The beginning of the decline. It has all been nothing but decline, nothing but entropy for as long as I can remember. I am a collector of trash, a collector of stories no one wants to share.
I am a living monument to mediocrity and unfulfilled promise. I wanted to pave my own path, to follow my bliss, but somehow ended up here. Where did it all go wrong, was it ever right to begin with? It is just a phase I’m going through, so people used to tell me. When is this phase going to end? It has been over twenty-five years, a whole generation’s worth of bitching and moaning, and so very little has changed within.
Numb myself from the pain. Drinking away the remaining years. Descending into madness, death, twelve ounces at a time. Following in the footsteps of my ancestors, turning my back on the world that long ago turned its back on me.
Anger and dejection passed down through countless generations. We were warriors.
Now we cannot even battle our own selves. I remember seeing my grandfather sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee, at the same time nursing his bruised and battered ego from the soulless, brutal march of time. Dreams and hopes long faded, his gaze empty and faraway, longing for the promise of youth.
Grandfather, I have let you down. The future is now in my children’s hands, perhaps they can redeem us all. Perhaps they will succeed where we failed.
Overworking and overusing my metaphorical vehicles. Overtaxing my own mental faculties. No escape route to speak of, no way to go but down. Money woes mounting as the months drag along, no end in sight to the endless spiral. Madness is but a manufactured escape, not wanting to admit, to see, or to believe.
The ugliness within begins to be transferred on those with out. The beginning of the end. The beginning of the decline. It has all been nothing but decline, nothing but entropy for as long as I can remember. I am a collector of trash, a collector of stories no one wants to share.
I am a living monument to mediocrity and unfulfilled promise. I wanted to pave my own path, to follow my bliss, but somehow ended up here. Where did it all go wrong, was it ever right to begin with? It is just a phase I’m going through, so people used to tell me. When is this phase going to end? It has been over twenty-five years, a whole generation’s worth of bitching and moaning, and so very little has changed within.
Numb myself from the pain. Drinking away the remaining years. Descending into madness, death, twelve ounces at a time. Following in the footsteps of my ancestors, turning my back on the world that long ago turned its back on me.
Anger and dejection passed down through countless generations. We were warriors.
Now we cannot even battle our own selves. I remember seeing my grandfather sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee, at the same time nursing his bruised and battered ego from the soulless, brutal march of time. Dreams and hopes long faded, his gaze empty and faraway, longing for the promise of youth.
Grandfather, I have let you down. The future is now in my children’s hands, perhaps they can redeem us all. Perhaps they will succeed where we failed.
beyond the box scores
One foot in front of the other, bounding across the spongy track towards ecstasy. Not really. Not at all, actually. More like trudging along painfully, on the hardened plastic surface, baked solid by the noonday sun. Running used to be so easy, so effortless. That was forty pounds and twenty years ago. I’m struggling to keep with my thirteen-year-old as I run him through his paces. I finally give up and just jog back and forth, telling him his interval splits and
trying to sound knowledgeable in between gasps of air.
The boy’s managed to skip the last two track meets, not sure what’s going on with that. He was sick the first one and apparently forgot to sign up for the second one, or they only had one heat and he wasn’t able to run or something. Sounds like avoidance to me. Just be straight about it, you know? You signed up for it, finish it out. If you absolutely don’t want to do it, tell me. Don’t go about it all half-a**ed, though.
Too many examples of that in our lives--in our histories, personal and familial.Is he thinking he’s not as good as the other kids? Why do they think they have to be an all-star or great to be involved in sports? Especially at that age—why can’t someone play or participate just for the fun of it? There’s way too much emphasis on winning and losing in sports these days, I think the real value is beyond the box scores.
trying to sound knowledgeable in between gasps of air.
The boy’s managed to skip the last two track meets, not sure what’s going on with that. He was sick the first one and apparently forgot to sign up for the second one, or they only had one heat and he wasn’t able to run or something. Sounds like avoidance to me. Just be straight about it, you know? You signed up for it, finish it out. If you absolutely don’t want to do it, tell me. Don’t go about it all half-a**ed, though.
Too many examples of that in our lives--in our histories, personal and familial.Is he thinking he’s not as good as the other kids? Why do they think they have to be an all-star or great to be involved in sports? Especially at that age—why can’t someone play or participate just for the fun of it? There’s way too much emphasis on winning and losing in sports these days, I think the real value is beyond the box scores.
unpublished
So much for the redemptive powers of holy basil. The food tasted good, but I’m in the same situation as before. No use in calling the health center this weekend, they won’t be able to do anything for me until next week. I was in such a hurry to get out of the hospital, but they just had me sitting there doing nothing for four days. That gallbladder’s going to have to come out sometime, wish they had taken care of it while I was already there.
My co-worker Squishy is complaining about her cell provider again--had to call customer service, who we assume was outsourced to India. She’s having language problems and is getting quick frazzled. She knows how I feel about the subject, so she makes her xenophobic comments as far away from me as possible. Something about “those people” needing to learn to speak English blah, blah, blah . . .
The problem may just be that the person on the other line is speaking English—the Queen’s English—and Squishy’s using her biker mama jargon with them. Or maybe Squishy can’t hear a d###ed thing from too many hours on the back of a Harley. Darn Indians. Not speaking English. What the heck?! Just cuz they outnumber us by 3-to-1. This is our world.
I just love my co-workers, I really do.
I think Dell outsourced their help desk—I had to call them not too long ago. Didn’t have any problems communicating at all. My mom’s accent is pretty thick, though, so everyone else is understandable by comparison. Everything’s so over the top at the worksite, though. Everyone’s better than everyone else and so above everything.
What we do? We monitor felons. House arrest—that sort of thing. And we do warrants. Facility escapes. Supervision absconders. It’s not a lot of fun, we make the best of it I suppose. Your skin gets pretty thick after awhile. We crack jokes about stupid stuff. Easier to laugh than to cry.
Like the time I called a home because I showed the subject out-of-bounds. His mom and girlfriend both came to the phone in hysterics. The subject had O.D.’ed and the coroner was carting him off. How was I supposed to know? We’ve had a handful of suicides since I’ve been here. Lots of other drama, though—husbands, wives, significant others busting the equipment, busting up the offender, etc . . .
Lots of ex-guards working here. Lots of attitude, most of it bad. People leave the facilities for lots of reasons, I guess, but some are forced out. Some are attacked, beaten, shanked, jumped. This worksite is the Island or Misfit Toys. I knew that coming here, but I still came.
My compassion level is pretty low these days, but consider the company I keep.
I call felons with issues. I don’t call the ones that come home on time, or whose equipment is working fine. Often their families/roommates have their own issues. And my co-workers and I all have our fair share of issues as well. Issues with each other, issues with ourselves. Chock full of issues. We aren’t law enforcement. We aren’t parole/probation officers. You wouldn’t
know it to hear us talk. Felons bad. Us good. If it were only that easy. Some of us are on this side of the phone by the grace of God alone.
Sometimes I wonder if some of us should be on the other end.
My co-worker Julio got jumped while he was a guard. The dude just exudes nastiness. He talks down to everyone. Cracks jokes about the offenders and their families. I’m about ready to jump Julio myself. The dude’s so messed up, but he can’t see that. It’s everyone else’s problem—everybody else has issues except him. I guess he never got counseling after the attack. Who’s bright idea was that? He’s only back working for us because Workman’s Comp. made him take the interview, take the job.
Another co-worker, Paul, has been trying to get his brother a job here. We used to monitor Paul’s brother. He’s an ex-felon. Paul knows this. Knows the department won’t hire an ex-felon. So why the heck is he trying to get his brother in here? What kind of sense does that make?
Julio’s been hanging out with Paul and his brother at the bar, I guess.
Doesn’t Julio know he’s rubbing elbows with an ex-felon? He treats them like dirt while
he’s at work, but apparently it’s alright if they hang out at the bar. I’m expecting life to make sense. Sometimes that’s asking for too much.
Cheyenne’s not doing so great. Speech was beginning to slur, so they did an MRI, found some growth in her brain. She requested that they shave her hair when it begins coming out. My little Nan (10-year-old daughter) asked if she can cut her hair and donate it to Locks of Love. Man. I keep hoping and wishing things will get better, but I’m just in denial. It’s not good at all.
My co-worker Squishy is complaining about her cell provider again--had to call customer service, who we assume was outsourced to India. She’s having language problems and is getting quick frazzled. She knows how I feel about the subject, so she makes her xenophobic comments as far away from me as possible. Something about “those people” needing to learn to speak English blah, blah, blah . . .
The problem may just be that the person on the other line is speaking English—the Queen’s English—and Squishy’s using her biker mama jargon with them. Or maybe Squishy can’t hear a d###ed thing from too many hours on the back of a Harley. Darn Indians. Not speaking English. What the heck?! Just cuz they outnumber us by 3-to-1. This is our world.
I just love my co-workers, I really do.
I think Dell outsourced their help desk—I had to call them not too long ago. Didn’t have any problems communicating at all. My mom’s accent is pretty thick, though, so everyone else is understandable by comparison. Everything’s so over the top at the worksite, though. Everyone’s better than everyone else and so above everything.
What we do? We monitor felons. House arrest—that sort of thing. And we do warrants. Facility escapes. Supervision absconders. It’s not a lot of fun, we make the best of it I suppose. Your skin gets pretty thick after awhile. We crack jokes about stupid stuff. Easier to laugh than to cry.
Like the time I called a home because I showed the subject out-of-bounds. His mom and girlfriend both came to the phone in hysterics. The subject had O.D.’ed and the coroner was carting him off. How was I supposed to know? We’ve had a handful of suicides since I’ve been here. Lots of other drama, though—husbands, wives, significant others busting the equipment, busting up the offender, etc . . .
Lots of ex-guards working here. Lots of attitude, most of it bad. People leave the facilities for lots of reasons, I guess, but some are forced out. Some are attacked, beaten, shanked, jumped. This worksite is the Island or Misfit Toys. I knew that coming here, but I still came.
My compassion level is pretty low these days, but consider the company I keep.
I call felons with issues. I don’t call the ones that come home on time, or whose equipment is working fine. Often their families/roommates have their own issues. And my co-workers and I all have our fair share of issues as well. Issues with each other, issues with ourselves. Chock full of issues. We aren’t law enforcement. We aren’t parole/probation officers. You wouldn’t
know it to hear us talk. Felons bad. Us good. If it were only that easy. Some of us are on this side of the phone by the grace of God alone.
Sometimes I wonder if some of us should be on the other end.
My co-worker Julio got jumped while he was a guard. The dude just exudes nastiness. He talks down to everyone. Cracks jokes about the offenders and their families. I’m about ready to jump Julio myself. The dude’s so messed up, but he can’t see that. It’s everyone else’s problem—everybody else has issues except him. I guess he never got counseling after the attack. Who’s bright idea was that? He’s only back working for us because Workman’s Comp. made him take the interview, take the job.
Another co-worker, Paul, has been trying to get his brother a job here. We used to monitor Paul’s brother. He’s an ex-felon. Paul knows this. Knows the department won’t hire an ex-felon. So why the heck is he trying to get his brother in here? What kind of sense does that make?
Julio’s been hanging out with Paul and his brother at the bar, I guess.
Doesn’t Julio know he’s rubbing elbows with an ex-felon? He treats them like dirt while
he’s at work, but apparently it’s alright if they hang out at the bar. I’m expecting life to make sense. Sometimes that’s asking for too much.
Cheyenne’s not doing so great. Speech was beginning to slur, so they did an MRI, found some growth in her brain. She requested that they shave her hair when it begins coming out. My little Nan (10-year-old daughter) asked if she can cut her hair and donate it to Locks of Love. Man. I keep hoping and wishing things will get better, but I’m just in denial. It’s not good at all.
on Buddhism
I’m a struggling Buddhist. I enjoy going to the monastery, listening to the abbot lecture on Buddhism, eating Thai/Lao food, and even just going for a walk on the twenty-some acre property. The Dhammasala feels like home to me, but I guess I spent quite a bit of time at the wat in my village when I was growing up. My youngest uncle was a monk during the rainy season and my grandmother would drop me off when she was to busy to drag me along. She was a midwife/herbalist/entrepreneur and didn’t always have the time or energy to take along a potty-mouthed, half-falang (foreigner: i.e., American) brat all over northeastern Thailand.
My understanding of Buddhism has changed over time. My first exposure, of course, was in Thailand—a few miles from the northeastern City of Udon Thani, not far from the Mekong River, which is also the border with Laos. My family is Lao, living in Thailand, or “Isaan”—someone made the journey across the river at some point and took up residence amidst the rice paddies in what used to be a sparsely populated area. Not quite Thai, but not really Lao either.
The form of Buddhism prevalent in Thailand is Theravada—the teachings of the Elders. The monks receive instruction in Pali, the same language that the historical Buddha used nearly 2500 years ago. The lay people, especially in remote parts of Thailand, infuse their Buddhism with animism and other indigenous belief systems. Their understanding of the dhamma is quite different from the monks.
My mother taught me what she knew as I was growing up in Detroit, but she stressed prayers to an omniscient, omnipotent deity. She was also well versed in superstition, astrology, and fortune telling. I didn’t see much difference between the Buddhism of my mother and the Christianity of my neighbors and classmates. There was no mention of meditation, at least none that I can recall.
At university, I studied Buddhism on my own, at the behest of some friends and acquaintances. It started as an outgrowth of some of our experiences with states of consciousness—chemical and otherwise—and took on a life of its own. Many of the books that I read then were on Zen—I really liked the spirit of many of the writings. Although I now admit that I really had no idea what they were talking about.
My understanding of Buddhism has changed over time. My first exposure, of course, was in Thailand—a few miles from the northeastern City of Udon Thani, not far from the Mekong River, which is also the border with Laos. My family is Lao, living in Thailand, or “Isaan”—someone made the journey across the river at some point and took up residence amidst the rice paddies in what used to be a sparsely populated area. Not quite Thai, but not really Lao either.
The form of Buddhism prevalent in Thailand is Theravada—the teachings of the Elders. The monks receive instruction in Pali, the same language that the historical Buddha used nearly 2500 years ago. The lay people, especially in remote parts of Thailand, infuse their Buddhism with animism and other indigenous belief systems. Their understanding of the dhamma is quite different from the monks.
My mother taught me what she knew as I was growing up in Detroit, but she stressed prayers to an omniscient, omnipotent deity. She was also well versed in superstition, astrology, and fortune telling. I didn’t see much difference between the Buddhism of my mother and the Christianity of my neighbors and classmates. There was no mention of meditation, at least none that I can recall.
At university, I studied Buddhism on my own, at the behest of some friends and acquaintances. It started as an outgrowth of some of our experiences with states of consciousness—chemical and otherwise—and took on a life of its own. Many of the books that I read then were on Zen—I really liked the spirit of many of the writings. Although I now admit that I really had no idea what they were talking about.
more than our biology, our history
I think that people are basically good. We become jaded and disillusioned thanks to our families, our cultures, societies, and our own experiences. People don’t normally go around trying to screw with other folks, but we just end up butting heads because of our egos. That’s the theory that I currently hold to, but I’m open to changing my mind.
I keep running into people who make me question my faith in humanity, in everyone’s “Buddha nature”, including my own. Everyone seems to have some hustle, some angle they’re trying to work to get themselves over on everyone else. It is especially hard to be optimistic about my fellow humans when the person in question is someone you trust or should trust, because of their occupation or profession. It makes me question everything and everyone—not a good feeling at all.
I have a lot of anger, a lot of hate—not 100% sure why, but at least I now acknowledge that it is there. That’s a first step, right? The whole trust thing is kinda hard—I have a really hard time trusting anyone. When I do give someone their trust and they screw me over, it’s close to impossible for me to forgive or forget.
The Mohawks’ first contact with the French was roughly four hundred years ago—they encountered Samuel de Champlain when he and some of his soldiers were accompanying a group of Algonkian Indians into battle. The larger force of Mohawks attacked the approaching line of Algonkians and was surprised, to say the least, when Champlain stepped out from behind the formation and fired a musket shot into them. The first shot ending up killing four sachems (elected representatives handpicked by the Clan Mothers). The Mohawks still haven’t forgiven the French—vengeance has been a prominent feature of their culture.
Like my Mohawk ancestors, I don’t want to forgive anyone—I would like to avenge whatever it is that needs avenging. But Buddhism teaches compassion—especially toward your enemies. Some modern Buddhist writers have been quick to point out that this doesn’t simply mean being a doormat to whoever comes along. Engaged Buddhism has you acknowledge and attempt to understand the other person’s side.
So I’ve been told, so I’ve read.
The main point is that we are all capable of change and all capable of living better lives. We are all capable of taping into our Buddha natures and to become more than our biology, our history. It is a horrible feeling when you feel that you can trust no one, when you feel that the worst parts of our nature are the only things we have in common. To have lost all faith in all humanity. But Buddhism teaches, stresses that this is only a feeling, and not the reality.
I just wish I could learn to believe.
I keep running into people who make me question my faith in humanity, in everyone’s “Buddha nature”, including my own. Everyone seems to have some hustle, some angle they’re trying to work to get themselves over on everyone else. It is especially hard to be optimistic about my fellow humans when the person in question is someone you trust or should trust, because of their occupation or profession. It makes me question everything and everyone—not a good feeling at all.
I have a lot of anger, a lot of hate—not 100% sure why, but at least I now acknowledge that it is there. That’s a first step, right? The whole trust thing is kinda hard—I have a really hard time trusting anyone. When I do give someone their trust and they screw me over, it’s close to impossible for me to forgive or forget.
The Mohawks’ first contact with the French was roughly four hundred years ago—they encountered Samuel de Champlain when he and some of his soldiers were accompanying a group of Algonkian Indians into battle. The larger force of Mohawks attacked the approaching line of Algonkians and was surprised, to say the least, when Champlain stepped out from behind the formation and fired a musket shot into them. The first shot ending up killing four sachems (elected representatives handpicked by the Clan Mothers). The Mohawks still haven’t forgiven the French—vengeance has been a prominent feature of their culture.
Like my Mohawk ancestors, I don’t want to forgive anyone—I would like to avenge whatever it is that needs avenging. But Buddhism teaches compassion—especially toward your enemies. Some modern Buddhist writers have been quick to point out that this doesn’t simply mean being a doormat to whoever comes along. Engaged Buddhism has you acknowledge and attempt to understand the other person’s side.
So I’ve been told, so I’ve read.
The main point is that we are all capable of change and all capable of living better lives. We are all capable of taping into our Buddha natures and to become more than our biology, our history. It is a horrible feeling when you feel that you can trust no one, when you feel that the worst parts of our nature are the only things we have in common. To have lost all faith in all humanity. But Buddhism teaches, stresses that this is only a feeling, and not the reality.
I just wish I could learn to believe.
wordiness, unbound
Wordiness, unbound to exorcise my demons for my own sake, for sanity’s sake.
I can feel spring creeping into my bones I see the mud begin to ooze from the ground
And the cardinals and blue jays have returned to take up their posts on my crabapple trees.
Winter is loosening its death grip upon the Midwest
At least for now, at least for the year.
I’m not quite ready for the season to come, I’ve been cocooned away in my glorified shack
feeding on my regrets and my disappointment.
Every winter seems to get worse my resistance is low, my desire is fading fast.
I need to get out and run about, shed some of this padding I keep accumulating.
I know what needs to be done, but the actual doing keeps eluding me.
My thirteen-year-old is running track this year, not quite sure who’s idea that is since he hates running.
Six weeks until his first meet, plenty of time for him to get in shape, plenty of time for me to get in shape.
I’m gonna ride his coattails, gonna draft behind him
And hopefully get myself into shape again. I haven’t run seriously in almost twenty years,
but still brag about the glory days, even if they weren’t all that glorious.
The thing about running, the reason I’ve been skirting,
Is that you can’t lie, can’t fudge the results.
Either you’re in shape or you’re not.
Your time is good, bad, somewhere inbetween.
I can’t face the reality of my own decline,
I talk such a good game, but haven’t played in so long.
My son is apprehensive, doesn’t think he’s fast enough, doesn’t think he can compete.
With running, you realize right where you are, no illusions,
You see what you have to work with and start from there.
You put in the time and the effort and you improve, and in the end you might just surprise yourself.
That’s the way it is with life, when you truly live, with your eyes wide open, living in the real,
instead of believing, wishing for some illusion.
I’ve become a semi-permanent resident of the daydream nation, wacked out on prozac,
wishing I had been bigger, faster, smarter, more, more.
When all I really needed was just to be me.
Whatever that entails, merely to start with where I am, right where I am and nowhere else.
I want me son to learn this lesson right now, not when he’s pushing thirty-seven--
carrying too much credit, too many regrets, living in a haze of desire and disappointment,
all the coulda beens and shoulda beens piled to the ceiling in a five-room shack just north of the state college.
I can feel spring creeping into my bones I see the mud begin to ooze from the ground
And the cardinals and blue jays have returned to take up their posts on my crabapple trees.
Winter is loosening its death grip upon the Midwest
At least for now, at least for the year.
I’m not quite ready for the season to come, I’ve been cocooned away in my glorified shack
feeding on my regrets and my disappointment.
Every winter seems to get worse my resistance is low, my desire is fading fast.
I need to get out and run about, shed some of this padding I keep accumulating.
I know what needs to be done, but the actual doing keeps eluding me.
My thirteen-year-old is running track this year, not quite sure who’s idea that is since he hates running.
Six weeks until his first meet, plenty of time for him to get in shape, plenty of time for me to get in shape.
I’m gonna ride his coattails, gonna draft behind him
And hopefully get myself into shape again. I haven’t run seriously in almost twenty years,
but still brag about the glory days, even if they weren’t all that glorious.
The thing about running, the reason I’ve been skirting,
Is that you can’t lie, can’t fudge the results.
Either you’re in shape or you’re not.
Your time is good, bad, somewhere inbetween.
I can’t face the reality of my own decline,
I talk such a good game, but haven’t played in so long.
My son is apprehensive, doesn’t think he’s fast enough, doesn’t think he can compete.
With running, you realize right where you are, no illusions,
You see what you have to work with and start from there.
You put in the time and the effort and you improve, and in the end you might just surprise yourself.
That’s the way it is with life, when you truly live, with your eyes wide open, living in the real,
instead of believing, wishing for some illusion.
I’ve become a semi-permanent resident of the daydream nation, wacked out on prozac,
wishing I had been bigger, faster, smarter, more, more.
When all I really needed was just to be me.
Whatever that entails, merely to start with where I am, right where I am and nowhere else.
I want me son to learn this lesson right now, not when he’s pushing thirty-seven--
carrying too much credit, too many regrets, living in a haze of desire and disappointment,
all the coulda beens and shoulda beens piled to the ceiling in a five-room shack just north of the state college.
7.04.2006
fragment
Not too much to say,
As I bleed away my days,
Trapped in my cubicle.
Co-workers chatting,
Talking about whatever comes to mind,
Killing their time freely.
So tired of all the bitching,
Just put in your time with your mouths shut.
Only looking forward to death,
Living our lives as ghosts,
The almighty dollar strangles and chokes,
Making us lifeless drones staring into the void.
We did this to ourselves,
Now we do what we must to survive,
Buying in to the illusion.
Break free from the self-inflicted pain,
Detach ourselves from the delusion,
Open ourselves to the universe.
Time and life are sacred
Materialism devalues all,
We must free ourselves.
All moments are fleeting,
Good or bad, it too shall pass,
And we shall all go back to ashes.
As I bleed away my days,
Trapped in my cubicle.
Co-workers chatting,
Talking about whatever comes to mind,
Killing their time freely.
So tired of all the bitching,
Just put in your time with your mouths shut.
Only looking forward to death,
Living our lives as ghosts,
The almighty dollar strangles and chokes,
Making us lifeless drones staring into the void.
We did this to ourselves,
Now we do what we must to survive,
Buying in to the illusion.
Break free from the self-inflicted pain,
Detach ourselves from the delusion,
Open ourselves to the universe.
Time and life are sacred
Materialism devalues all,
We must free ourselves.
All moments are fleeting,
Good or bad, it too shall pass,
And we shall all go back to ashes.
sk8 haiku x 7
Went to the skate park,
Lil’ E sliding on his butt
Giggling, sliding.
Concrete transition,
Metal coping eight feet up
Lil’ E slides on down.
Toddler shows no fear,
Everyday is such a lark,
Laughter fills the air.
Watching bladers trick,
Says, “Cool dude!” as guy flies by,
As sun sets slowly.
“That’s an old school board,”
guy remarks as he skates by,
“Yep, sure is,” says I.
Homegirl does tailkicks,
Halfway up the transition,
I try, almost fall.
Want to ride the edge,
Grinding, sliding on the lip
I can touch the sky.
7.01.2006
these moments
Twelve hours the first day, sixteen the second,
Twelve the third, only eight on the fourth,
Sixteen on the fifth, twelve on the sixth,
And on the seventh day, I rested.
Sixteen hours on the eighth and sixteen more on the ninth.
One hundred and eight hours stuck at work—
It just works out to twelve hours a day, not really that big of a deal, right?
So why do I feel so dead tired?
So sick of seeing these same four walls,
So sick of hearing the same old droning nonsense.
I run outside for a smoke, to skate,
End up skating and smoking at the same time,
Missing ollies, hitting cracks,
saving my face at the last second by putting my hand out.
Blame it on the wind, the pebbles strewn about the lot,
Lowest bidder applied the last coat of asphalt,
Cheap and quick, the way the government likes it.
“what are you doing, learning how to skate?”
no, not really, trying to relearn, I guess.
“so you can skate with your kids?”
yeah, I suppose that’s why.
“I saw these dudes skating once, they were actually good.”
Unlike me, you’re saying . . .
“they were jumping stairs and stuff, like them guys on the movies.”
Yeah, I’m just learning.
“you skate and smoke? Don’t that defeat the purpose?”
Yep, sure does. Gotta quit.
“I’m just glad my kids don’t skate—that looks dangerous.”
I’m trying to get my son to get more comfortable on his board,
He needs to ride it more to make that happen.
Maaaaan. Why do I even bother talking to her?
She’s always got everything all figured out,
Has her own preconceived notion about whatever it is,
Why do I bother trying to answer any of her questions?
I doubt she even listens to anything I ever say,
Might as well be speaking Thai for all she cares.
I am tying to find myself, lady, will you just let it drop?
Just leave it alone—it’s got nothing to do with you o.k.?
I enjoy skating. I enjoy the punk rock muzak.
Sorry if you don’t understand.
It makes me happy, makes me feel alive.
Maybe your old man went through the same, long ago,
Discovered hitting a golf ball gives him that thrill.
Or maybe he rides his Harley on weekends,
Or sneaks off to bang his girlfriend or whatever.
I don’t look forward to coming to work and seeing any of you,
That’s not what gets me out of bed in the morning.
That’s not what lights the fire in my belly,
Not on your life, lady.
I gotta do something, gotta look forward to something,
The nine-to-five can kill you, suck the life right out of you,
Get caught in a rut, waiting for the payday,
Just to get the bloodsuckers off your back.
I gotta look forward to something, right?
The boy, Z-man, is currently at—I’m afraid to say it . . .
Band Camp.
He could’ve gone to Skate Camp, but no,
He’s at Band Camp.
Apparently, it’s a very good Band Camp,
It had better be for what grandma paid for it.
But he went with his best buddy Bart,
Ran into some old friends from his old school.
It’s a learning experience, a growing experience,
It should be alright, ten days without my Z.
Little E has been missing his big bro,
Seems real clingy, told me “I lub you daddy”,
Told me not to go to work, not to leave.
Not sure which one of us is having the hardest time,
It’s probably me, not willing to let my babies grow up.
I want to protect them, to keep an eye on them,
At all times, in all situations,
But at some point I have to let them venture out,
To experience the world and deal with it on their terms.
I still can’t believe he’s starting high school in the fall,
My little Nan is starting middle school as well.
I am getting old, aren’t I?
Where did the time go, how did it slip away so fast?
My twentieth high school reunion is next year,
Wonder if I’ll get an invite, wonder if I’ll even go.
Can’t imagine telling my classmates I have a high schooler,
Not that unusual, what was I, twenty-three when he was born?
Just a kid, the nurses thought my wife and I were teenagers,
I always looked young for my age, but we were just kids,
I thought I knew everything, didn’t know a thing.
My oldest son, on the cusp of adulthood,
Just not ready for it, want to slow it down,
So I can enjoy these moments.
But the fleeting nature of these moments—
is what makes them so special.
Twelve the third, only eight on the fourth,
Sixteen on the fifth, twelve on the sixth,
And on the seventh day, I rested.
Sixteen hours on the eighth and sixteen more on the ninth.
One hundred and eight hours stuck at work—
It just works out to twelve hours a day, not really that big of a deal, right?
So why do I feel so dead tired?
So sick of seeing these same four walls,
So sick of hearing the same old droning nonsense.
I run outside for a smoke, to skate,
End up skating and smoking at the same time,
Missing ollies, hitting cracks,
saving my face at the last second by putting my hand out.
Blame it on the wind, the pebbles strewn about the lot,
Lowest bidder applied the last coat of asphalt,
Cheap and quick, the way the government likes it.
“what are you doing, learning how to skate?”
no, not really, trying to relearn, I guess.
“so you can skate with your kids?”
yeah, I suppose that’s why.
“I saw these dudes skating once, they were actually good.”
Unlike me, you’re saying . . .
“they were jumping stairs and stuff, like them guys on the movies.”
Yeah, I’m just learning.
“you skate and smoke? Don’t that defeat the purpose?”
Yep, sure does. Gotta quit.
“I’m just glad my kids don’t skate—that looks dangerous.”
I’m trying to get my son to get more comfortable on his board,
He needs to ride it more to make that happen.
Maaaaan. Why do I even bother talking to her?
She’s always got everything all figured out,
Has her own preconceived notion about whatever it is,
Why do I bother trying to answer any of her questions?
I doubt she even listens to anything I ever say,
Might as well be speaking Thai for all she cares.
I am tying to find myself, lady, will you just let it drop?
Just leave it alone—it’s got nothing to do with you o.k.?
I enjoy skating. I enjoy the punk rock muzak.
Sorry if you don’t understand.
It makes me happy, makes me feel alive.
Maybe your old man went through the same, long ago,
Discovered hitting a golf ball gives him that thrill.
Or maybe he rides his Harley on weekends,
Or sneaks off to bang his girlfriend or whatever.
I don’t look forward to coming to work and seeing any of you,
That’s not what gets me out of bed in the morning.
That’s not what lights the fire in my belly,
Not on your life, lady.
I gotta do something, gotta look forward to something,
The nine-to-five can kill you, suck the life right out of you,
Get caught in a rut, waiting for the payday,
Just to get the bloodsuckers off your back.
I gotta look forward to something, right?
The boy, Z-man, is currently at—I’m afraid to say it . . .
Band Camp.
He could’ve gone to Skate Camp, but no,
He’s at Band Camp.
Apparently, it’s a very good Band Camp,
It had better be for what grandma paid for it.
But he went with his best buddy Bart,
Ran into some old friends from his old school.
It’s a learning experience, a growing experience,
It should be alright, ten days without my Z.
Little E has been missing his big bro,
Seems real clingy, told me “I lub you daddy”,
Told me not to go to work, not to leave.
Not sure which one of us is having the hardest time,
It’s probably me, not willing to let my babies grow up.
I want to protect them, to keep an eye on them,
At all times, in all situations,
But at some point I have to let them venture out,
To experience the world and deal with it on their terms.
I still can’t believe he’s starting high school in the fall,
My little Nan is starting middle school as well.
I am getting old, aren’t I?
Where did the time go, how did it slip away so fast?
My twentieth high school reunion is next year,
Wonder if I’ll get an invite, wonder if I’ll even go.
Can’t imagine telling my classmates I have a high schooler,
Not that unusual, what was I, twenty-three when he was born?
Just a kid, the nurses thought my wife and I were teenagers,
I always looked young for my age, but we were just kids,
I thought I knew everything, didn’t know a thing.
My oldest son, on the cusp of adulthood,
Just not ready for it, want to slow it down,
So I can enjoy these moments.
But the fleeting nature of these moments—
is what makes them so special.
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