Moving Corridors

Alex - a diminutive of the male given name Alexander.  My Alex is just Alex, not Alexander, yet both are steeped in greatness.  One was a Greek king of Macedon who conquered the known world and never lost a battle. The other is an 8 year old wonder whose quirkiness and inquisitive nature define him unlike any 8 year-old boy I’ve ever met.

This past weekend he stood on a baseball mound as a pitcher for the first time in his life.  This lanky, sometimes awkward and mostly clumsy kid stood there and fired off pitch after pitch.  Though most missed the plate, there were a few that nicked it with zip and movement – a microcosm of life in bloom. 

Our day to day is spent polishing the moving parts that affect us the most.  The ones outside that zone are hung to dry somewhere in the corridors of despair.  We throw things, friends, acquaintances away that we once cared about, to the trash pile of our memories.

My eyes welled up and I fought tears as I saw the wonder that is Alex, with his left arm and leg up in the air as he fired pitch after pitch.  He didn’t care where the baseball went, he simply fired them along.  

This carefree 8 year old with bright hazel eyes can teach us a lesson or two about really opening our eyes and paying attention to everything around us; just like he pays attention to a plastic bag or a lost-on-his-way earthworm or a rubber band.

Mostly, I was incredibly proud to see him on the mound of baseball – I was proud of my son.  Baseball mirrors life in mysterious ways, sometimes all too clear for us to focus, other times thick as molasses, yet non-elusive to the wonder of an 8 year boy and his left-handed delivered fastball.

Hand Loose On The Knob

The allure of the place is not the ethereal smokiness or the frames on the wall – monuments perhaps to better times.  But it lives in the smiles of strangers - smiles tinged with sadness and the loss of what may have been.  Still, the place exists as a gathering for lost souls and dreamers. 

The dim lights, the clatter of the glass on the counter. Everything is orchestrated. Each sound, each sigh a part of some greater function. It passes us by, in a blur, the time we spend in this place.  Distant times glistening with smeared makeup, washed away in the flood of life. 

It becomes home to us dreamers, writers, lost souls and rotting corpses - a compilation of us zombies, pale-faced and absent-minded. Yet, it is here where creativity flourishes – debates abound, love is found even if for a couple of hours.  Between cocktails and sudden stares, hope become something greater than hope.

We leave this place with a bit of sadness, the type that burns inside your brain, as we become aware that outside that door, hope dissipates into smoke. Love found becomes an illusion. And for a second we hesitate, the body stifling beneath the routine of the day to day. The hand loose on the knob, not as sure anymore. Everything compels you to turn around and contemplate and dream and flirt wildly between cocktails and sudden stares.

Roaming the Halls of the Frost Dragon

For three straight nights early this month, a peculiar series of dreams captivated me in such a way that I am still reeling from its effects.  I’ve had my share of lucid dreams in the past, but frankly nothing ever this real, or shall we say, eye opening.  Dare I say, I’ve made some headway in deciphering the overall message, yet it remains as mysterious and elusive as ever.

Night 1 – 11:25 PM. I walk down a winding stairway in complete darkness, except for candles attached to the walls. At the end of the stairway, a wooden door appears and I reach out to open it.  As I walk through, the scene before me is that of a page straight out of a fantasy world. Everything around me is covered in snow – mountains, trees, hills upon hills of snow. I continue to walk and I hear cries as if a battle is brewing nearby.  The closer I get to it, the more I realize, perhaps instinctively, that trouble looms ahead.  I also realize that although everything is covered in snow and grey skies, I cannot feel cold. There in the middle of the field up ahead, it lies - a creature of unimaginable might and destruction – a Frost Dragon. The thing is stomping and munching on a group of dwarves and elves.  Bodies are strewn everywhere.  It catches me in its glance and startles towards me with great speed.  This is where things get interesting.  I find myself equipped with armor, a horned helmet and a long spear with which I attack the creature.  It tries to claw at me in vain, hurtling itself towards me with maddening speed. I feel overwhelming confidence as I spear it time and time again, until it dissipates into thin air. “Where are you Frost Dragon?”  I yell.  I would not doubt that at this point I was talking in my sleep.  Looking from one side of the field to the other, the creature is nowhere to be found. I find myself alone in the wintery landscape. I awake.

Night 2 – 10:35 PM.  I’ve been looking forward to sleep, confident that I will once again encounter the creature. It’s like I am willing myself to meet it, to ask the questions that need to be asked. I fall asleep and find myself in a desert like landscape.  I am in a house under terrible conditions, the walls are clawed, and the roof is sunk in some parts.  I am not alone. Family members abound in this house in addition to others I cannot place. Sounds of a stampede resonate in the distance and they get closer by the second.  This isn’t what startles me, but rather it is the bloodcurdling screams that accompany it. The house is suddenly invaded by these mini- dragons looking creatures with sharp claws and terrible fangs. They start decimating everyone they see. Blood everywhere. I suddenly feel that all hope is lost and my attention turns toward my children.  I huddle them and we all run as fast as we can through a back door into the sand. I awake, knowing full well that these were minions sent by the Frost Dragon.

Night 3 – 11:10 PM.  I have been mad all day due to the events of the previous night.  The creature has provoked my anger and I am ready to meet it once again and end it.  I fall asleep and walk down the familiar winding staircase.  I open the door and I find myself once again in the icy land of the Frost Dragon.  I am once again equipped with the familiar armor and spear. Trotting along I hear nothing but silence. It is so silent I can hear the snowflakes fall upon their snowy beds. I get to the field where I once battled the creature, yet nothing remains. There is nothing, no one. No other sound.  I remain there for a bit, disappointed.  The creature is long gone.  I awake.

After much deliberation, I’ve come to the conclusion that the Frost Dragon and I were always the same person. I was battling myself, seeking to learn about myself and attempting to protect loved ones in a desperate whirlwind of a dream sequence – a sequence that will go down as one of the most vivid and surreal events I’ve ever experienced. Cannot wait for the sequel.

Fluctuations

I tend to think that many of the events that occur during our lives are a product of the culmination of our decisions or actions- whether we make them or fail to do so. Something that happens 5 months down the line is the trickle-effect of some thought that materialized or didn't. It is an interesting concept to think that whatever I read today or whomever I speak to, will ultimately have some influence over some random event in the future. This event will somehow impact me or those close to me in some odd way.

No, not karma. Just little fluctuations in the air, in thoughts, in dreams, that somehow manifest themselves in rather strange circumstances. It's like watching a puppet show. You do not see who pulls the strings, you just know someone is pulling them.

I read a lot, yet few are the books that stay with me. Few are the ones that make such an impression that years down the line I can literally smell what the air smelled liked when I read that particular book. I remember whom I loved and whom I didn't. What I drank, perhaps some rum, or some gin. Maybe a beer. Which makes sense in the realm of things, as we cannot recall the millions of thoughts, actions or decisions made, unless these resonate. The proverbial sound and the fury.

Spent some time today reading past e-mails, and I began detailing in my head what led to those e-mails. What was the series of events that culminated in the writing of that particular e-mail. There were certainly some highlights, some moments where I clearly knew the why. Yet, not every step resonated, and as I backtracked, I lost my way. Into the great void where the majority of our decisions, actions or thoughts go. Some far off place filled with nightmarish creatures and most of my missing socks.

So is life. Fluctuations in heartbeats, in voices, in emotions, in temperament. Things resonate, others don't. Things fall apart, others remain. Convergent forces meet, embrace, fuse and ultimately coalesce into something..

I wonder why I dropped those eggs...  I wonder if they too are in the void.

Here to Show the World

A New Year can be deceiving. We strive to wash ourselves from old habits and set on a chase of outlandish conquests. We steer the ship through murky waters hoping to come out squeaky clean on the other side - wherever the other side may be. Yet, we commit the same errors, over and over. We trust too much that the turn of the year will bring fresh air, fresh ideas. But we tend to get caught up in the tendencies of human nature. Relationships stagger like drunks on a Friday night. Friends and acquaintances phase in and out like clocks that no longer can tell time.

At the beginning of 2011 I referred to the year as the Year of Embrace - a year of embracing what you feel and how to express it. And it indeed was such a year. It was a year of discoveries and introductions. A year of embracing strong heartfelt emotions.

The New Year is upon us and with it new challenges, new conquests, new terrain to tread through. What wonders shall it bring..? What will it be filled with, aside from days on the calendar? The plot will reveal itself in due time. For now, let's sit still and revel on the unknown. Let those who hide behind a mask of lies and false words simply phase out... Happy New Year's!

Holiday Wine

I don't know if it's that Christmas and New Year's are around the corner or not, but I have certainly run into the proverbial wall. Officially running on fumes at work. Luckily, I am on vacation next week, where I intend to just unwind and relax and enjoy the day as it comes. It's almost as if the body/mind are aware that the year is about to end and are gearing up for that final uphill run before passing out into rehabilitation.

It's been a heck of a year for me personally, from my daughter Miranda being born, to the fantastic family vacation to the Cape, to my folks moving back home. Personally, it has been very fulfilling. I've gotten closer to some of my older friends whom I dearly love and have made new ones in the process. At the beginning of the year I referred to 2011 as the Year of Embrace, and that it has certainly become - a year of embracing friends and family and coming to terms with internal turmoil and fears. A year of really focusing on the needs of others versus mine - finding long lost family members whom I hold very dear.

As for 2012, well, I guess I haven't thought that far off yet. I know there are upcoming vacations to places like the Caribbean and perhaps some other unexplored venue. More to come on 2012. For now, I countdown the days left before Christmas vacation; two more days and I'm home free until 1 flips into 2.

Day Within a Day

Today feels like what tomorrow will feel like; which is what yesterday felt like. There was laughter and introspective thoughts. There was an infusion of joy and nostalgia. Tomorrow brings with it emotions and aspirations for the new year. Today is filled with planning and dedication. In the end, it is all intertwined in a web of sticky glue. Many aspects of tomorrow will blend with today with a sprinkle of yesterday. It's like one of those long jazz compositions - complex in nature, yet simple to understand, if you are committed to really listening. Perhaps, that is what we fail to do, really listen. The rush of the moment inhibits us from truly listening.

Stop. Breathe. Blink a couple of times, and listen.

For All We Know..

...someone is out there, playing, praying, perhaps simply portraying themselves in lights unbeknownst to them in past adventures, during past tribulations.  Out there in the rain they play the puppet, withering away to life's fatal touch - the wound that festers and never heals.  The strings dance along like permanent rain, masking the deceit and the many triumphs we have chosen to bury, simply because we can.  Because the truth is ugly and does not cease to show its face around corners and in shadows.

Still, for all we know, it makes us better individuals, better citizens. It is liberating no matter how intoxicating. The pages of the book continue to turn as the seconds tick away and our lasting memories shift onto themselves; consolidating the present and throwing away the left-over cigarette in the ashtray of tomorrow. Sooner or later we find ourselves, there I say, we find about ourselves things we were too blind to see. Even in the mask of night and isolation, one can truly find themselves.

The ashes continue to bubble up in dark clouds, the strings moving along fast and furious - yet we still find ourselves, our center, our raison d'etre. It's a delicate art form, deadly and life-affirming. At the end of the day, the rats come out in a circle to the tune of the piper. The question becomes airy, like a whisper...what are you doing for the rest of your life...?

...someone is still out there, playing, praying, perhaps simply portraying themselves in the illusion of the inevitable dance, for all we know.

Train Station

The tracks end in a blinding flash, unexpected yet familiar. Like a distant nursery melody that reminds you of your early childhood days; the high water mark when things stood still and meant something much more profound. The familiarity of the sound compelling, the fury unparalleled. Still, we remain in constant search for something meaningful and fulfilling. The spirit, the soul, the mechanism that makes us feel and ache and at times, weep. Adrift the melancholy of the past and what could have been, it simply lingers.

December the 1st is here and with it, thoughts turn to the past. Childhood memories, of Christmas and loved ones and fun filled days of eggs sunny side up. Days when there was no snow, yet no snow was needed. Sad memories go by the wayside giving light to sounds of laughter and music and all of that magic that comes with this month. If one could bottle the magic that December brings and spread it throughout the year, how different life would be.

Yet here we are at the opening of the bell. The first of the month, reminding us that there's more to come in wondrous ways. Reminding us that at the end of the tracks, the flash gives way to memories and unbridled joy.

Peek Up and Read Mee

This is the abstract from a business plan / feasibility analysis from my Entrepreneurship class. I got a 100% on it, and it inspired me to perhaps pull the trigger and see if it can become a reality.

Abstract

It is staggering to think that this generation of children may not have the privilege of spending time in a bookstore or a library simply reading. What happens to children when bookstores and local libraries ultimately disappear? 

Imagine not being able to hold a book in your hand because they are no longer available.  The unavailability of physical books can have a detrimental effect in not only children but in society as a whole.  Most of us grew up having access to a local library or a bookstore where we could spend hours sifting through shelves.   Having this access allows us to develop socially and intellectually.  Neural pathways and cognitive abilities are enhanced.  According to John Dupuis, the Head of the Steacie Science and Engineering Library in York University, Toronto, ON, Canada, “the local bookstore creates all kinds of value for its community, whether it is providing community bulletin boards, putting rocking chairs in the kids section, hosting book readings, or putting benches out in front of the store. Local writers, harried parents, couples on dates, all get value from a store's existence as an inviting physical location, value separate from its existence as a transactional warehouse for books.” (Dupuis, 2009).  A bookstore’s value is existential; its mark profound in not only the social arena but in the human arena.

In the same vein that there are Chuck E’ Cheese establishments spread out throughout the country; there is a need for a similar space in the reading arena. Let’s face it; children nowadays are more interested in the next video game system versus the next great read.  It all started with Atari and Nintendo and as of recent times, the Microsoft Xbox and Sony Playstation systems.  If a child does not have one of these systems available they simply have their parents take them to Chuck E’ Cheese and spend countless hours playing arcade games.  It is in this simplistic concept that the idea of Peek Up and Read Mee is born – misspelled in purpose to make it more appealing. If kids can spend countless hours playing video games at pods like Chuck E Cheese, why not make it accessible for them to spend some time reading as well? Why not facilitate an environment for children, where they can come in and pick up a book and spend some time reading? 

Public libraries and independent bookstores are closing across the country not just because the Internet is gaining strength in the eBook space, but also because libraries are failing to advertise themselves as beacons of adventure and reading pleasure. In this space is where the idea of Peek Up and Read Mee takes shape – a place where children can come and read and actually enjoy themselves. If you think of Chuck E’ Cheese for a second and what makes them successful, it is not only due to the arcade games but also the secondary products they offer, such as the birthday party space and the pizza and sodas. They understand that if they can make games available, why not make pizza available, enticing the kids to stick around longer. Peek Up and Read Mee would provide ice cream and music – a lively and inviting place to read and peruse shelves and get lost in the adventure of the imagination. 

Bleached Sox

All empires inevitably, must fall….

It happened to Alexander the Great, it happened to the Greeks, it happened to the Romans, it’s happened to countless other dynasties and kingdoms. Hell, it’s even happened to the Yankees.

It is now Boston’s turn to fall.

Historically, most empires fall because their leader is inept, or diabolical or just plain bats-hi*t crazy.  It is different here in Boston. The man at the helm was known as a players-coach, loyal to the end. A man of high baseball IQ, demanding, yet fair. During his rookie season, Dustin Pedroia hit under the “Mendoza” line (under .200) for the first two months, as the starting second basemen for the Sox. Francona stuck with him, and he ended up winning the rookie of the year. The next year, he won the MVP. When Papi started off and the media and fans wanted him gone, Francona stuck with him. Ortiz had a decent 2010, and this year ended with 29 home runs 96 RBI and a .304 batting average.

The demise of the Red Sox does not lie on Tito’s shoulders. It lies on something much more intangible. Specifically, it lies on the introduction of players that do not mesh with the fabric of the Boston Red Sox.  When you think of recent Yankees, you think of Bernie Williams, and Jeter, and Posada and Pettite, guys that ooze Yankee pinstripes. When I think of recent Red Sox players, I think of Damon (he was never a Yankee), Schilling, Varitek, Lowell, Pedro, in some cases guys that truly “bled” Red Sox.  Crawford and Lackey are no Red Sox players. Neither is Adrian Gonzalez.

Previous to the 2010 campaign, the Red Sox were known for winning with players not of all-star luster. In 2004, they coined themselves the “idiots”, and well so, as their cast included the Damons and Millars of the world. A cast of outcasts, outlaws and in some cases bat-sh*t crazy players such as one Manny Ramirez.  What separates those guys from this year’s team, is grit and guts. This year’s campaign sounds like an all-star line up – Ellsbury, Pedroia, Youkilis, Gonzalez, Ortiz and so on…and although some of them have won rings here in Boston, they are missing many others. The chemistry is unhinged, unbalanced, impaired. Guys like Mike Lowell are no longer around. Guys like Trot Nixon and Dave Roberts and Alan Embree and Mike Timlin and Orlando Cabrera, are no longer here. 2007 contributors like Eric Hinske and Bobby Kielty and Doug Mirabelli – gone….

Theo Epstein has done a wonderful job in bringing the right guys together to win championships. That is no longer the case. The Red Sox inability to not make much noise since 2007 is due to the current absence of players such as those from 2004 and 2007. Hell, I’ll take John Valentin and Brian Daubach and Troy O’Leary from back in the 90’s! Theo or whoever the GM may be, needs to get back to those roots. Boston is not a town that is known for glamorous baseball. It needs the Damons and the Millars of the world. That is why we won in 2004. That is why we won in 2007

Remember in Rocky III when Rocky gets beat up by Mr. T’s character (Clubber Lang…?)? Rocky got used to training in shiny gyms and clean facilities. Rocky finally comes around when he goes back to his roots, dingy gyms, jogging in the streets of Philadelphia – stays hungry. You don’t take a sewer rat and bleach him with Clorox.

Let’s hope the Red Sox can get dirty once again in the near future. After all, isn’t their theme song “Dirty Water”….?

All empires inevitably fall….

Destination: Somewhere Only We Know

Ever dreamed of just getting in a car and driving somewhere, anywhere but here, for an extended period of time...? I bet you have. And I bet you have also wondered who to take with you in such a trip. After all, it is not an easy decision to make. Said person must be one of intestinal fortitude, one that can laugh at your jokes on anything from pigs to clowns to drunks staggering out of bars, hell, even family members. Said person must be one that sees the proverbial "big picture". After all, a trip such as this deserves attention to this type of detail. You must ask yourself questions like, will this person be ok if I have to borrow their deodorant? Will this person be ok if I light their underwear on fire while they sleep...? Will this person be totally ok with me driving in my briefs with one foot out the window...? I know what you are thinking...who does these things..? Well, it just so happens that such are the only kind of people that can make these kind of trips. The kind that spell out things such as bar fights, and dream escapes; epic, legendary travels that constitute of wicked things and even crazier stunts.

It isn't healthy, and it's probably not recommended by the FDA, or religious cult groups in middle-America - but it's there for the taking, the idea of travelling out of state, out of mind, for days on end, sleeping in your car, bathing in a pond (or someone's shower if they leave the window open...).

Bring on the rock and the blues and the myriad of delicious but corrosive items such as sausages, and hot dogs and burritos and BBQ sauce lathered wings. It's time to make some of our own magic out there under God's blue sky. After all, we either get busy living, or get busy dying.

Road trip 2012 baby!

Shadows and Footsteps

I’ve always found it fascinating when life ‘s path puts you up close and personal with others’ struggles and desperations , in ways you never thought could happen.
Case in point, I spoke to an older gentleman yesterday during a cookout – a man whom I had previously been introduced to. All I knew of him was that he was seeing the mother of a friend of mine on a semi-regular basis.

As typical men do when faced with cool end of summer breezes, we chatted amidst the noise from the crowd, and we exchanged your usual run of the mill questions; how many children, where do you live, where are you from, and so on. This was one of those times where his answers to those questions became a stage upon themselves; a canvas of emotions subtlety registering grief and loneliness.

Since I learned that he was from Greece, I asked him if he ever went back and if he had family there. With his head down and his eyes looking at the grass, he responded by saying that he still had some cousins and aunts there, but that his wife’s family still lived there, and that ever since she passed away, he made it a point to stay in touch. It wasn’t the response as much as the overwhelming feeling of grief felt in the air, amidst the breeze.

Perhaps it was a question too close to his heart, this man I barely knew from a crab apple on a nearby tree. But the force of that emotion nearly knocked me to the ground. This soft-spoken man from Greece conveyed unexpected emotions to a complete stranger, as if looking for a sympathetic ear.

As the questions continued, he spoke of his children and where they lived. I may never forget the way he delivered a response to my final question. “Where do you live?” I asked.. “I live in Methuen……..alone…” It was in this answer as he looked towards uncertain skies, that I then understood the calamity in his soul. And I realized I knew everything I needed to know about this man in the mere minutes we spoke. Loneliness. A loving wife now deceased. A life of waking up to no one in the room, but his own shadow and footsteps. A man who sought for something to fill the void.

I may never know why this struck me as it did; one of those inexplicable events perhaps. We are all seekers in one way or another.

As I spotted him later in the day, I saw him caress my friend’s mother, lovingly. Long live romance. May love find him once again.

Circumstances

Maybe in the end, the circumstances dictate the pace to the point where light and dark blur into shades of grey - into shades of unobstructed moonlight, dripping with liquid fire. Maybe in the end, the irresistible force meets the immovable object and the confused gives way to the coherent - the grey dissolves, into nothing, into something. Dare I say, there are paths we have not crossed until we are made to cross them - paths of soft sand and hushed whispers. Maybe in the end, the circus comes to life and the shadows retreat giving way to the fantastic, the eerie and dynamic thunder.

As the descent continues, perhaps we change - we adapt to a weary state of shades of grey and their circumstances.

Authors Note: Interestingly the above came to me as I was looking at some black and white pictures of certain poets. Their poses and facial features seemed content, maybe even blissful. Compelled me to write.

One of God's Very Own Prototypes

Desperate times call for desperate measures. In his case, his life was a collage of desperate, crazed and dangerous times. How he found me is almost mystical. Perhaps I needed a jolt of sorts to jump start the soul. Then again, it was following 2001 and the devastation that 9/11 left not just in the American identity but also in the global psyche, that perhaps surfaced his wicked soul. Don’t get me wrong; he was around for a lot longer prior to those treacherous events - scouring the globe during his journalistic missions, which usually consisted of Chivas, guns or some sort of chemical. It is befitting, given his impact on me as a writer, but most importantly as a citizen of the world, that I pay homage to one Hunter Stockton Thompson on his birthday July 18th.

Simply put, his writing kicked my ass hard. It wasn’t just a kick in the shins by a 7 year old girl (which has happened...), but more importantly it was a wake up call – a punch to the heart and a bat across the back of the head all in one. Whatever compelled me to read his work I’ll never truly know. Perhaps it was a dangerous mixture of wanting to act like a savage and rebel against the institution. Perhaps it was Hunter’s penchant for kicking ass and taking names. There was a message to be extracted from the ramblings of this man from Louisville, Kentucky. Live life. Live it as if you knew that everyday of your life was to be your last. Behind the facade of his chaotic and irresponsible life was the message to live and live well. It is a lifestyle more than just a simple statement or a Facebook status quote. It is part of the fabric that makes us who we are, a part usually discarded or forgotten, or put to rest somewhere in the basement of our lives. I’ve met my share of individuals throughout my travels and I can count perhaps 4 or 5 who got it right. They got it right because they did not discard it or store it for a later occasion. They ran with it. I ran with it. I continue to run with it. And I hope my kids also continue to run with it, because it is a concept as critical and soul branding as air is to us. Live.

The many nights in San Juan; the time in Hawaii searching for Lono; the many many rum filled nights full of music and laughter and camaraderie. Thanks Hunter for kicking me in the face during dark times and flailing attempts at living. Thanks for the craziness and unabashed chaos. You left a legacy which will move forever undaunted by the weight of those who simply choose to slug along. Happy birthday you old goat – put in a good word for me. You got it right.

“Walk tall, kick ass… love music, and never forget you come from a long line of truth seekers, lovers, and warriors.” HST

"So we shall let the reader answer this question for himself: who is the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed?" HST