The World Needs Luke Skywalker

It has been 30 years since we last saw the green Jedi light-saber being twirled around by one Luke Skywalker. Our last glimpse of him puts him next to his comrades celebrating the fall of the Empire. Sure, we all experienced the entire prequel trilogy, and while Anakin showed glimpses of heroism, we still hearkened back to the days of old; the boy from Tattooine.

What is it about Luke Skywalker? He has become a mythological character, our Achilles or Odysseus. The last 15 years have resulted in a surge of heroic characters and trilogies. Take your pick of Spider Man, Superman, Avengers, Iron Man, Captain America, X-Men and so on. They’ve all come and gone, yet, the void remains. In those same 15 years, we’ve experienced terror across the globe in many forms, some more sinister than others, all leaving their mark.

To explore that void, we must go back to our childhood, that supernova of pop culture that was the 80’s. I was too young to remember Episodes 4 and 5, but 1985’s Return of the Jedi left an indelible mark in my psyche. Luke was the representation of hope, goodness, redemption, heroism. He was Odysseus and Achilles and maybe even Superman.

That’s the thing about Luke. He was an amalgamation of all of these virtues. TV made Star Wars characters into household names. Vader and Skywalker and Solo and Leia; these were intermingled with Magic and Kareem and Bird and Ripken. Who didn’t want to be Luke Skywalker, mechanical hand and all? We all did, though we always had a few dark side seekers, lovers of all things Vader.

We need our heroes now more than ever. The dark side has spread its doctrine to every corner of the globe. The world needs hope, it needs its mythological representation of hope to return.

It is perhaps apropos, that we will see one Luke Skywalker return come December 18th. Perhaps he’ll sport a beard or a goatee. Perhaps he will no longer be young. Yet all that know him will see him as just Luke. The eyes of childhood will look upon their hero and rejoice once again.

The world needs Luke. The world needs light. May the Force be with us once again.  

Stations

I have these recurrent dreams where I am chasing drug dealers on foot. At times I have a gun in my hand. Other times, I simply chase. My brain is saturated with episodes of an HBO series known as "The Wire". I cannot stop watching. I go to bed at crazy hours of the night because I simply cannot look away.

In between episodes of the aforementioned show, I've been caring for my father at his home. Things did not work out as previously planned during my stay here in Florida, with my mother landing in the hospital due to severely elevated blood pressure. Nonetheless, these past two weeks in Florida have been a godsend. I've spent time with my parents, my brother and nephews, milking as much time as possible from those encounters.

You see, the element of time is an unforgiving bastard. It steals moments from you when least expected. It speeds up when you least want it to. It drives the engine of despair to a grinding halt at times rendering you obsolete to anything but pain.

My dear father has improved his condition since the stroke, but we are far from declaring victory. His speech is still sluggish, his left arm and leg remain impaired. His mind muddled at times, unsure of the day of the week or the calendar date. Yet, his memories remain a spectacle to cherish.

During my Mother's stints at the hospital this week, Dad and I have shared coffee together. I've cooked for him, I've bathed him, I've tucked him in, I've cared for him. And in that sliver of time, that precious window, we have shared memories; of his childhood, his life being brought up in a small wooded house, surrounded by coffee, cows, fruits and all manners of trees. He talks about his legendary pub crawls in Puerto Rico with old friends and long gone family members.

With each sip of coffee, more conversations arise, around music, about long-lost muses, politics, tranquil waters and the art of making chicken soup. I cherish each sip. I watch him intently, this tower of a man who has built his life upon hard work, sacrifice and a relentless drive to better his condition for the sake of his own.

His eyes are dim at times, darting around as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. I weep inside. He praises my sandwiches and frequently mentions restaurants he wants me to visit during my stay. Of course, he wants to tag along.

It's hard to understand unless you have lived your life beside his; unless you have admired him up close and personal. It's heartbreaking. At other times, it angers me, to see him in his state. Yet, he remains ever wise, and ever quick to quip about me forgetting to dry his back or failing to get him a beer.

I haven't written in quite some time. Yet this week, my mind was filled with things I needed to jot down. Observations.

I sit close by his side, and we talk like father and son. I look towards the sky and nod appreciatively. I understand my station.

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.

Upon the Pier

Be still my beating heart
When the sun finally sets and the wind blows west
When among family we are cherished and beloved
When the night knows no thunder, no riddle left to solve

Be still my beating heart
When the pools of happiness spill out incessantly
When with passing years age becomes a wonder
When amongst endless hugs and smiles, we no longer ponder

If my heart were to be still, it would be then and not any other time
Before our loved ones are captured in the grip of fate
Before their time ceases and the earth opens its gate
It would be then, amongst the joy of their company

Be still my beating heart, but not quite yet
For the sun has yet to set
For they still await a new year
For we sit in brotherly arms upon the pier


Happy New Year's...cherish those who love you..

The Adversary

The design is simple. They hope. They lose hope. They falter. Only to gain hope again and subsequently falter. Some never lose hope. Those are the lucky ones I suppose. It is a crap-shoot as far as I am concerned. Some are saved, most aren't. The decision is left to no one. I simply swoop in like a vulture to feed on the carrion of humanity. The weak. The wounded. The ones that can no longer muster the necessary strength to live amidst the decay of their consequences.

Why do I pick them apart, like a fresh carcass. Because I can. Because I want to. I am arrogant. You are beneath me. You reside in the pit of what is most hated. His imperfect creatures of such fragile nature. I pick each and every one of you apart with my claws, with my teeth. I leave you naked and distressed in the gutter of your own despair. Your arguments, I turn into vessels of violence. I penetrate your innocence with my acid-coated tongue. You fall. I break you further.

He fights me at every step, at every corner. He has his vision of what the world should look like and I burn his blueprint, only to have him create a new one. His table creaks. He drowns in his own tears. He gives you hope. My words gain strength in the restless noise and wanton desires of your humanity. Your meek nature poses no challenge. He watches your cities burn. He watches while your loved ones cease to exist in the most random of events. Yet you pray. And you visit his house. And you hope.

I remain. The unseen puppeteer. Your unsung hero is slowly fading away. I am keen and I am cunning. I wallow in the greatness that is your necessity to destroy one another. I wallow in your hypocritical nature, your so-called acts of kindness. I know the truth of what keeps you up at night. Your fears are the sweetest of dreams.

Go ahead. Put up your decorations and spend as much money as you possibly can on gifts for the mockery that you've made of his birthday. Pile them up real high under the tree. Maybe then he will answer your prayers. I will continue to watch it all unravel as I pick you apart piece by piece.

The Unsung Hero

The unsung hero sits by the darkness of the kitchen table. Smoke wafts from his lips reminiscent of a midnight ritual in some godforsaken place. He watches the night and lingers to hear its calling and its desires. He understands its retribution. It is a song meant to be heard by those unfortunate souls who have yet to cross the edge. The ones which have sat at that same table and have contemplated many things. Thoughts remain adrift and sudden movements dance gracefully as if guided by an unseen puppeteer of rare and exotic talent.

The night in all its simplicity provides him with uncanny fortitude of spirit and cunning. His palms heavy with stains from years of turmoil. His eyelids paint the picture of a man physically broken. A man whose gun rusts away, coated with the salt of vitriol and wasted years. It has been his companion through episodes of melancholy and trepidation. Everyone else is no longer here. The table creaks with solemn sighs of weathered storms. It is his foundation, however brittle it may be.

Moonlight's glow bathes the barrel of his gun in a silvery streak. He holds his head in his hands, his hair long and disheveled. The look of a man that has witnessed loneliness for far too long. He longs to ease the pain but must remain keen and cunning. He must breathe and remove himself from that caricature that sits by the darkness of the table. Relentless must be his pursuit of air. His tears like molten silver etch themselves on a visage long eroded.

In some far-away land, his song plays in old villages and older spaces. The unsung hero rides again in silvery light. The table no longer creaks. The rust and heaviness washed away by the rivers of overflowing dreams. Those wasted years so familiar are like a knife penetrating his side. He rides beneath moonlight's glow. The unseen puppeteer moves about like a wraith. Tales of woe and lamentation are carried off by winds of storm. The unsung hero is once again keen and cunning.

How Deep is the Ocean

Notes from the Stark and Decadent Desk:  It is dark, it is gloomy. It's time to start thinking about where to travel come 2014. Revisit Paris? Shack up under palm trees and steel drums? Hike Mount Everest? Let's not get ahead of ourselves. 2013 was...well ..is still...a banner year for travel. Took several mini-trips around the continental US and then tore off the bandage with a fury not seen since Brando danced his Tango...Paris beckoned. 

I guess that sort of trip whet my appetite for more International type travel. I long to see architecture and castles and surround myself in centuries-old customs. Perhaps a blend of both the ocean and the old world... somewhere in Western Europe. Away from the Vikings... 

Travel is as vital as oxygen. It is the proverbial pressing of the eject button to somehow escape the routine, the mundane aspects of our day to day. I want to get lost again in some city's streets and stumble upon empty bars and street musicians. I want to ride on the waves of its ocean and plunge into its depths and have it plunge its knife deep in my heart. So very deep that it will always stay with me. 

The need to be elsewhere is of utmost importance. It must be fulfilled by any means necessary. We cannot afford to languish under solitary roofs and meander soulless streets and stick to empty companions. Life is so much more than this. 

How deep is the ocean you ask...? Its acceptance perhaps weak and weary at time. I guess it depends on the individual and how far they are willing to go to shake off despair. To cleanse the rust and dust off familiarity. It is within familiarity that we fall victim to shallow shores, drowning us in its shallow waters, continuously scraping off the luster. It is as deep as you want it to be. Swimming lessons not required.

Reflections from the Tower

One of my very first entries on this site, titled "In An Elevator", written back on Aug 10th, 2010, remains one of my most emotional pieces. I oscillated between trepidation and rejoice so many times, thinking the worst, thinking the best. It was truly one of the longest nights of my life and perhaps the most exhilarating. It is a piece I wrote while looking back on that very night my oldest child was born.

Since then, I've dedicated similar entries to my son Alex. His first day in First Grade, his debut as a pitcher. I've thought about Alex more than usual as of late. He is now 9 and in three months turns 10. I look back at the struggles faced since his birth, weighing only 3 lbs, living his first few weeks in the NICU unit, the staples on the back of his head after a fall off the monkey-bars, and so on. He just recently got braces, something he's not entirely happy with..

I look back at myself as a Father throughout these past 9 years and hope I've done enough. Perhaps I am tougher on him than my other two because I see so much potential. I see so much brilliance and wonder and unbridled joy in the most mundane of things; a rubber band, a broken pencil, a small rock. It is truly a wonder to see Alex in action, architect and master of his kingdom.

Soon he will turn 10, and he will move on to those dreaded middle school years, full of complexities and turbulence. On January 24th, 2004 I found myself in a metal box of trepidation. The restraints from that box have slowly eroded, yet at times they pull me back and cloud my judgement. I'm still learning. To be a father. To push less. To sit back more often and watch him in all his wonder. To listen more about habitable planets and galaxies and far-off stars.

Perhaps I will never fully leave that metal box. Perhaps that is my role, to be both his protector, his tormentor and his guide. For now, I enjoy those mornings where we simply sit on the couch while everyone else sleeps, listen to jazz, drink chocolate milk/coffee and talk about the simple things in life. I love my boy.

Something Wicked This Way Comes....

Sneak peek at something I've been working on.... 

The morning after, everything was drenched in a carpet of rain drops and cobwebs. It was a surreal canvas to wake up to after last night’s events and its ultimate finality. Narrowing in on what we deemed to be impossible, we discovered things that ought to have remained hidden. Perhaps in another lifetime progress would have led to much needed freedom, the type which is almost inaccessible in most places; the freedom of the soul.

Languishing before us was the statuesque and ethereal silhouette of one Gretchen Harris. Her hazel eyes brimmed with tears reserved for lost loves, in this case in the form of Sam Parker. They’d met long ago when they were wild eyed kids ready to take on the world. At some point their paths diverted, one destined for despair, and the other leading to certain demise. Their story is the type written about by lost dreamers and subject matter experts in the art of melancholy.

In 1911, the Davis mine caved-in, killing 120 men. By the mid 1930s only the blacksmith shop and 150 cellar holes remained where homes once stood. The mine is the epicenter of all things related to Gretchen, Sam and myself. The aftermath of the cave-in is embedded in the residents of this remote town. The once prosperous area is now occupied by shadows, silence and desolation. And it is in the midst of this desolation that our story, steeped in melancholy, begins. 

Dim light of my despair

Restless in nature

Intimately aware

That my departure is unlikely

That I can no longer breathe air

In shadowy corners

In paths we’ve crossed

The allure seems brightest

The emptiness divorced

Dim light of my despair

Stay awake for me

Stay always with me

Till I can once again breathe air