Slide

You say I miss the signs

or do you,

by design?

Go pierce the air

with (well-rehearsed)

indignant scream

gaining steam

on your way

to contrition.

It's a condition

you seek

a position unique

to gain a peek

dependent, of course

on which

way you turn.

Aaron

Build me a son, O Lord, who will be strong enough to know when he is weak, and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid, one who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat, and humble and gentle in victory.

Douglas MacArthur

... and I sat for a moment, before beginning my usual non-fishing day routine of coffee and the joke of a morning paper 'they' call the Spokesman-Review...

I thought of Aaron again. It'd been awhile since I'd heard from him. Always so damned busy. Always. Busy to the point that, because of my respect for his space and time, I'd been hesitant to get in touch. If ever there has been anyone I have known in my life who's more crunched for time all the time... well, I have never known anyone quite like that. I don't know how he does all the things he does, and does so well. I really don't. He's amazing; I say that, now, as I have ever since he was just a kid. He's always been amazing. He's my son and I have the right to say that anyway, but, damnit, he really is.

Anyway, right then, I heard my phone buzz. It buzzed with the tone I had assigned to Aaron's text messages, but for a second, I wondered what that sound was, and my reaction reminded me of my dad... looking around in every direction as if totally befuddled by what I was hearing until it came back to me (like the hot kiss at the end of a wet fist) that indeed it was my phone, and by god it was Aaron.

"Mother nature's been good to me..." he wrote. My eyes teared up.

I've always thought it's a blessing that my son enjoys the same type of music I have listened to for eons, and I texted back the following line from the song he'd chosen to send. We sent texts back and forth (he's so much faster at it than I'll ever be) and he told me that he'd been in Irvine and 'they' really wanted him to come work for/with them, and as per usual, he soon had to go...

"I love you", were his last words. "I love you too, Aaron", I returned, fighting back a fresh round of tears. Leaning back in my chair, I one more time counted my blessings.

Aaron, you are always there, always. I cannot possibly put into words how important that is to me. I know your life is upside down most of the time. I know how badly you wish to be done with school and all the crap you have endured for these past few years. Hell, I know how much crap you have had to wade through to even get to where you are. I mean I don't know it all, but I know enough. I know enough to be extremely proud. I know this too, and have known for years, how much I treasure your existence on this earth.

You are one hell of a fine man. And, most importantly, a fine son.

I love you Aaron.

Holidays rhymes with malaise, kind of.

I'm so depressed. Christmas is the worst of all. Holidays are terrible, worse than Sundays. I get melancholia.

David O. Selznick

And so here we go again. Falling helplessly, almost as if in a never-ending nightmare head first, into THE HOLIDAYS.

Even the Christmas Cactus blooms early, thinking, I am sure, that to do so will hasten the passing of the days until this is all blessedly over.

Jester

People like eccentrics. Therefore they will leave me alone, saying that I am a mad clown.

Vaslav Nijinsky

And they will love me through the times,

or forget me in kind...

could the visit be more or less

blind

one of convenience

timed

to coincide

with reference points

in all those lives

I intersect

but never really touch

Yes, I am loved

and pass as such

into moments

left in trust

archived simply

in the dust

a now-faint trail

into a place

where I sought

refuge from

their space.

Subsequent consequence

as in

product of event

percolates in the silence

of maybe, maybe not

biding its time

a colorless gas,

killing

so slowly

it seems like a lifetime...

Redemption

Imagine the most insignificant

characteristic

magnified a thousand times

a beacon summons

and no one sees

but I cease to be amazed

instead

a blur then a flash

and I'm tight to

the next

last chance for redemption

every time

I lose myself

wanting to be found

anywhere

at any time

tightly connected

again.

Some people hear their own inner voices with great clearness. And they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy... or they become legend.
Jim Harrison

It does occur to me, as I lazily curl around discussions with myself concerning any worldly value I may have accrued over the years, that my inner voice does not go more than one or two words into a given thought before seeking the refuge of a connection to fishing, or flies. And, much to my satisfaction, I do not think this is anything but healthy. I may very well physically starve to death for the lack of my desire to any longer pursue monetary compensation; I truly dread the thought of being forced to work, or to even come to grips with the attitude change necessary in order to obtain work. 'Work' is simply what the word says, and I've long associated that word with everything in life that ends up killing me sooner than I am ready. It has, through my life, even payed me, sometimes handsomely, to do that to myself.

I much prefer my avocation. Not only is that a much more poetic word, it also signifies a love for what I do; never mind the stark reality of any compensation, at least in a monetary sense.

All this leads me right back to my wonderful companion. I am so pleased that I have listened. I have learned more from it than any other source.

Perhaps there will one day come some life-changing epiphany; the dream sequence must seem oddly macabre to those around me. Bus after bus departs, without me on board. I wave goodbye to each one, as my inner voice speaks softly, and intently I listen...