The 45 Blog

Another night, composing, but somehow googled Sinead O’Connor. I can’t explain it, but months after her death, I still watch videos. We probably would differ on our world views and yet I feel like I could sit with her for a cup of coffee, and just listen– for days.

Watching your child want to belong is heartbreaking. I get it, but if they keep buying shit, like expensive ath-leisure-ware, in order to belong to some tribe– they’re going to go broke and be broken.

To add paint and color to a Japanese calligraphy piece is not an option. The color and images would distract from the meaning of the thick-black-lines, pulling the reader away from the message and its simplicity . It’s like looking at your shadow, severed into dots and rhythms.

So why do we distract the integrity of our own words with flash, pomp and lies? Adding colors and flares to the simplest gestures. And why do the images we’re presented lead us through tunnels so numerous, there’s one for every cell of our being, and any part of us we’d risk down the drain, just because we’re afraid of missing out.

On my morning walk, I spotted an autonomous lawnmower– absent a human.

I started thinking what it would be like to mow the yard without a body.

Then I wondered what it would be like to sit down with my family for dinner without a body–

And to embrace my wife without a body, for her to know I’m there.

Then I rubbed the callouses on the palms of my hand with my thumb, and felt grateful for the body, for this work of spiritual, tangible braille that I can touch, and read, and know God through.

When creating art and content becomes your resistance– when you use it to avoid the necessity to cold call potential clients. The social awkwardness you possess compels you to create, but not meet. This is the one thing to fix or else, frankly starve.

All night, the rain pours. Lightening flashes. The street illuminated by it all exposes a skunk walking down the road, like he owns the place. Then it all shuts off or simply goes missing into the shrubs, never seen again– just like memory or another insignificant picture we take with our cell phone. We’re all temporary on earth.

Just like that, my slow mood moved away. I just had to sit at my writing desk, dig into some drafts, and get lost in making the work more concise, more chiseled, removing “I” as much as ego would allow. Almost two hours later, I’ve either forgotten what put me in that mood in the first place or dealt with it, and learned from it, and will use it the way a nudibranch uses its opponent’s poison against others — incorporating it into its vastly glowing arsenal of stolen weapons, to be used or not.

There’s nothing more profound than an empty porch with a half-glass of lemonade sweating on the rail. Who was drinking it? Why did he or she leave? When did this person discover the taste of lemonade? Was the person 5 or younger? Or maybe the person was 16 and spiking it with a spark of vodka. Why do I assume the person likes lemonade– maybe it’s half empty because that’s how high she filled it? Is there bad news in the home, perhaps an emergency she leaned into, like maybe the toddler stuck his fingers in the electrical socket and she had to run, because dad felt too guilty for not baby-proofing enough. As dads say, You know, shit happens, then move on. Maybe the person swung inside to pilfer more sugar to sweeten up the concoction. What did the person’s face look like when it was too tart? Did his or her face scrunch into a small button, reactively– pained by the citric acid? Did he or she spit it out and make a noise? And who made the lemonade? Was it the child, testing out recipes for a lemonade stand? Or was it the grandmother, spending the summer with her favorite grandkids? Was it freshly squeezed or from concentrate? I gotta know.

I stood in the sun, looked at the porch, and thirsted my way to a few lasting questions:

Whoever lives here, whatever lives here, did they simply leave this lemonade for me?

And was this glass of lemonade half-emptied by my shadow on the other side of the wall ? If so, why? What does it want to say to me this time, so that I may grow into a better guest? Does my presence make the house ache for a different stranger or am I fine as I am, occurring here without invitation, but a heavenly hunch.

Last night, I shut the day down by having a cigar on the back patio. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of my puffy gray hair and thought to myself– Your hair looks crazy– like M’s. M. was a dear friend and mentor-poet. We exchanged poems and artwork– I’d visit him– walk around the university. He sent me books to read– and would recommend other poets , like Tomaz Saluman. Long-necked giraffe toys for my daughters appeared in the mailbox. He was a sweet man, with an active, turbulent, loving and creative mind– and a healthy love for cats. But one night, he broke down and told me a secret and it was bad. Instead of listening and being honest, I coddled him– said some BS , like we all mess up once in a while, M, that wife is giving you a lot of pressure. and he was crying. We hung up, then never spoke again. After all these years, I think I figured out why. At his weakest, he wanted accountability and needed it– but I shrugged off his mistake as if no big deal, that sobriety needs a day off once in a while, just for him to appreciate the clarity it brings after a night of drinking . But that’s wrong thinking– for so many reasons. I should have asked him if he went to a meeting or called his sponsor– and I should have asked what his next steps were. Instead, I acted like a boy . The shame that rushed in when I realized this overwhelmed me until I couldn’t feel it any longer . Now I feel okay and would apologize to him if I ever got the chance. That’s a little progress, but it’s something.

Driving home to Tennessee, we passed through Columbus , Ohio. It’s about a third of the way home for us. We started in Rochester, NY with a terminal point just south of Nashville, TN. In Pennsylvania and some parts of NY and Ohio, there’s the occasional slow traffic of Amish buggies when you take the side roads . They bounce down the shoulder, cluttering the dirty road air with dust pebbles . Their historical and pastoral appearance of hand-sewn dresses and chinstrap beards, in addition to those stern faces, makes everybody in my car sigh and relax . It’s one of those moments for turning the radio down to silence , and when everybody wants to be most attentive to a passing mystery.

It makes no sense.

If they were on a bicycle, each and everyone of us would be agitated– cussing out the window, maybe even spitting.

But because they’re driving buggies and look ancient to us, we stare at them as if staring at a river that leads down into Columbus, Ohio– the land of unfinished bridges. I couldn’t count all of them — because I was driving, balancing my coffee with one hand, not wanting to spill it on my wife. However, there was one bridge I noticed, less finished than the others, and I wondered where it would lead to, what lands or people would it be joining, what states of consciousness would it stitch together to make a person whole. Lastly, I wondered what toll it would charge for its use.

And that’s when I felt scared, and mute. I turned the radio up, and prayed for the music to yank me up out of my skin, to stretch me from one side of the unfinished bridge to the other side, which I couldn’t see.