Asleep

I've abstained from writing for quite some time. I was unsure as to whether I'd be able to convey thoughts and interpretations in a clear and concise voice. Dare I say, words failed me. Perhaps it was I that failed them. This inability to function as a writer cannibalized my emotions until there was barely nothing but a void. Emptiness.

October 29th, 2014. That was when Superman found himself in a hospital bed, barely unable to move or convey words comprehensively. A stroke to the right side of his head rendered him immobile. Asleep. Distant voices and ghostly images became familiar. His head swollen with despair and unimaginable pain. Almost too much to bear.

The nights of October 31st, November 1st and 2nd will never abandon my memory. These were the nights I stayed with him overnight in a hospital room. I watched him sleep, watched him struggle to make sense of it all. In that despair, I wilted physically and mentally. The darkness of those nights enveloped us without restraint like a cloak of desolation. I faltered at times to think clearly, to function coherently as it all unraveled. He simply slept, only to be awakened by pain, discomfort or primitive impulses to get up from the bed. The times that he remained awake for a few minutes, he simply pondered. The agony of the situation etched on his face, this visage I have known all my life to be one of extraordinary love and compassion towards family, friends and mere strangers.

Helplessness can be an overwhelming agent. You want to do more, to see him up, without pain, without discomfort. You give what you can mentally and physically. Never an overtly religious person, I clung to faith. I sought for it in that darkness. I implored for his well being, for no more pain. I never got angry or questioned the implications of the situation. I simply prayed and sat by his bed, watching my old man as he once watched me many moons ago.

It has certainly taken a lot of out of me these past couple of months. You change. Things like these often do change you. It has taken a lot to write this, to revisit recent scars of the soul.

He is now home and under therapy, recuperating. Looking forward to seeing his grandchildren in a few days. The darkness has subsided. Christmas nears.

On November 1st, around 2:30 AM, just days from his stroke, in one of those small windows of time where he remained awake, he thanked me. I asked him what for. He responded, for taking care of me.

There was nothing I could say back to the greatest man I have ever known. My Father.

The Flaws in its Sunrise

Here we are, at the doorstep to another adventure in Paris. A place that elicits such emotions out of me on a personal level, as a citizen of the world and as just another human being. I understand. Nothing is flawless. Some carry an idealistic notion within themselves where nothing is truly flawed. While I do not count myself as those that carry such notion, it is worth mentioning that perhaps it is ok to focus on the positives, the magical and the truly inspiring.

I'd like to think I am aware of the world's problems at a micro level. How can you not be at this stage where everything is televised, tweeted, and so on...? I know the problems that plague cities such as Paris, like other major European cities. The stigma of poverty and cultural indifference permeates the air, and if you let it, can sweep you into its own tumultuous machinery of self-loathing, pity and remorse.

But that is not why I am here in one of the most truly awe-inspiring places on Earth. I am here to escape the day to day, to a place which clings to me as if part of my very air. It is an ethereal feeling that I long for, one I have yet to find elsewhere. There are magical properties in the breeze, in the sky, in the smells coming from all directions. In some cases, you feel as if you've time-traveled to a realm of magic and mystery.

On my last trip, I visited several of the more renown churches in the city, each with its own character, its own aroma. Faded memories permeated these structures and the musty air reminded one of ancient times where historical events took place. Weddings, baptisms, funerals; these are the common visitors that have strolled their halls and have approached their altars. What I witnessed was distinctly different. Prayer. In the middle of the day. In nooks and crannies, near the altar, everywhere. Faith, in a world that's almost forgotten the word's significance. To believe without evidence, whether physical or by other means. To hold onto hope when none should exist.

The events of these past few months, the Ukraine/Russia struggle, the massacres in Gaza, the many lives lost in recent air strikes and accidents, have impacted me one way or another. And perhaps as I get older I become more sensitive to the struggles of others. At the same time, I cannot let these things unsettle me.

Why Paris? Because it does not pretend to be something it is not. It is flawed, it harbors poverty, it can be culturally indifferent. It is also magical, magnificent, spellbinding in a way almost too complex to put in words. I long to be there and count the raindrops and watch the sun rise and surrender myself to hope. A solemn feeling of hope, that things will get better, before they become progressively worse. That perhaps it is not too late for us still.

For now, I will crash weddings as I did the last time. I will sit and watch the sky change colors. I will walk through cobbled streets that lead to unexpected paths. I will drink copious amounts of wine and wallow in the pursuit of happiness, even if it's for a mere seven days while speaking broken French. Life is short.

The Return

Do I return to you? Unchanged, unfazed by the aftermath. Do I embrace you as I once did? You smearing your lipstick on my neckline with no second thought. It simply was. It was more than simple really. The love notes, the close encounters. Fantasizing about your smile and hair tosses. Looking deeply into your soul, with the clear and utter understanding that we belong to one another.

Was there ever truly a goodbye? Was there a finality to the pulse and the breathing? There were never such things. These are elements out of our immediate control. Time. Longing. You are beautiful. An open letter full of the sweetest lines ever written.

I return to you. My one and only Paris. See you in August..

Mirage at the Corner

Standing in the shadows of the buildings that surround me I became engrossed in the concept of no cover charge. Surely most of us at some point in our indefatigable pursuit of acceptance and flat out debauchery have come upon a dark corner; inviting at first, it is the mirage we nomads find in the middle of the desert. And perhaps it is what we need, without us truly knowing it to be so. A portal, a sanctuary of sorts. Its gravitational pull is impossible to resist.

And who are these characters that dwell in these places, in these caves deep in the alleys of our misfortunes? Truly they must be mythical in their appearance and manner, these solicitors of souls with their shiny trinkets and rouge spread like paint on a canvas of lips and dimples. Wiry wigs and skin tight dresses pressed tight against our bodies in a macabre dance of ecstasy and despair.

It is intoxicating this longing for acceptance in a world full of mercenaries and debonair actors, holding their martini glasses with remarkable dexterity. They point their fingers and choose who gets to act out their fantasies, while the rest simply drag their miserable existence through the dust of what could have been. Indignation sets in.

This concept of no cover charge surely has its limitations. Its banality while blinding, can be remedied in time. We can be conquerors, we can liberate. The line in the sand is crystal clear to those who acknowledge that the myth is no more than a hallucination of sorts; a provocative affirmation that we seek with eyes firmly shut.

Acceptance. Longing. Do the hermits win? In a world driven by social media, gossip and drivel, perhaps the hermits truly are the winners. They have reached the high watermark. They have seen the signs. They have traveled and read provocative works. The sign at the entrance of the bar flickers wildly, signaling that they are closing for the night. For some, it is salvation. Others step into the proverbial ark, waiting for the flood to subside.

We can be conquerors.

Fragmented

I am beckoned to make morally important decisions. Some of these decisions are morbid in nature. Others have the right focus, observed under the right lens. It all becomes a landslide of fire and ash, violently moving towards me as I run down the steep hill. Should I decide not to run, it will certainly consume me. It is this imagery of lava and steep hills that haunts my dreams. Most of it created by my observations of those around me and the decisions they fail to make, or the ones they make disastrously.

The earth is cracked beneath my feet. Dry and desolate, devoid of any true form or malleability. The hot air makes it difficult to breathe. Suffocating, it wraps around my throat in an embrace of sand and emptiness. My legs buckle as those around me simply remain in a state of inertia. I wonder if anyone cares. I wonder if anyone else suffers the human condition.

A newly minted Academy Award winner - Lupita Nyong'o - made an impressive statement during her acceptance speech, that has remained with me, day in, day out. "It doesn't escape me for one moment that so much joy in my life is thanks to so much pain in someone else's." And it is that very concept of the opposite forces at play that pervades my thoughts.

Humans are not made of the same material through and through. Some carry deep convictions that permeate their DNA. Some are disavowed since early in their life, and carry nothing but hatred and sorrow. Others are welded piece by piece. Each piece resonant with their experiences, their losses, their falls, their successes and failures. It is this fragmentation of the human experience that is paramount to how each and every one of us responds to the proverbial call. To help the ones that cannot help themselves. To save the ones that cannot be saved. To nurture, to console, to give more of ourselves. To love unconditionally, without remorse, without regrets, without grudges.

We live in such a deeply divided world. A fragmented sphere continuously undergoing shifts in its core, in its inhabitants. What we do now, will define how things turn out tomorrow. Our time is running out. Our decision making must improve, for the sake of our own children. We must reap better than what we are presently sowing.

Everyone's a critic, especially when the topics of faith and spirituality arise. It's almost an inherently automatic response by us to flee in the face of something of greater significance. No one wants to believe, and most that say they do, truly don't. Just a few remain, tethered solidly to the cause. Running down the hill at breakneck speed. Fighting the good fight day in day out. 

We need those angels among us. We need them more than we think. Look around you, seek them. Stay close and help the helpless. The landslide is closing in. We still have time. 

My Little Shadow

Looking back at the blogs I've written for the past three years, I realize I've never written one about my youngest son, Julian. In lieu of his upcoming 9th birthday, I want to explore why that is.

Julian Xavier's arrival was an impromptu event which to this day makes us scratch our heads. Was is really the margaritas on that Friday night? His oldest brother was 3 months old when his Mom confirmed she was with child. "What have we done?!"..was the first thought, before we both fainted. 

I vividly recall his birth...same nose his Grandfather and I share. Didn't crack a single smile until he was about 3 months old. We wondered if he wanted new parents or a new place to live.

He first touched a soccer ball at 1 year old, and it was as if they were meant to be. Since then, the love affair has only blossomed. 

Julian's purpose has been not only to enrich our lives, but most importantly to be his older brother's most faithful companion; his protector. Alex without Julian doesn't make sense, and neither does Julian without Alex. And with a 2 year old baby sister, you can imagine how much he dotes on her. 

His ever outgoing personality has landed him friends and acquaintances everywhere. The guy can make friends with a lamp post. He is aware of everything that is happening in his school. Which teacher is getting married, which one is on vacation, which one is in the hospital...

Perhaps the reason I don't write as much about Julian is that he is a lot like me. I see a lot of myself in him. The way he talks, his mannerisms and gestures. He tries to emulate everything I do. He likes what I like, dislikes what I don't like. He is fiercely protective of those he holds dear.

Julian is my ever accompanying shadow, one that still holds my hand when attempting to cross the street. One that comes running down the stairs to greet me, when I get home from work. And I wouldn't have it any other way. 

Arise Darlings

A new year is upon us! A time to get back on that horse we fell off once the doldrums of the Fall and the melodrama of the Holidays set in.

Some will follow the latest fashion, pick up the most popular books of the season, stick to losing those ten pounds, polish off their resumes. But what of the rest of us? What becomes of those that seek something else, something less tangible..Truly there are some of us that long to search deeper, to seek inner peace, to finally publish those thoughts and ideas that have taken residence in the maelstrom of our souls.

This is the 85th installment of this site. Back when I first started, this was simply an idea, filled with trepidation. Friendly voices told me to go for it, yet I lacked the self-confidence. Eventually, I opened up to the idea of having others take shelter in my own reality. And this is exactly why I speak to you today.

Look, you have a lot to say and your reasons for doing so, and I commend you for it. We don't have to be in the front of the line waving the proverbial flag of rebellion, faces painted shades of blue. The trenches? We've already been there, toes firmly buried in the sand. You want the spotlight and the glamour? This is not the place for that. There's a time and place to dress like Ziggy Stardust.

We are the ones who truly dare, to speak through pixels, while you sit in the laundry-mat, while you sip that first cup of coffee, giving voice to those that have none. We are the darlings of our own misfortunes, and we bask in the cloud of our role. We hope that someone will listen, that somehow it will spark thought, ideas, discourse, indifference, angst, intercourse, something! It is a thankless task, to be that darling of misfortune, that rebel waist deep in the snow of our own dilemmas.

Call us cowards and we'll smite you with adjectives so profoundly, you'll be picking up teeth in every one of the seven continents. We are not heroes, we are not faceless stick figures that you can burn at the stake for your own amusement. We rise with the tide of the calling that washes over us every day. To be compelled to write.

Let your fingertips do the talking this year. I'll be watching hoping to embrace you as one of us darlings.