Saturday, April 7, 2018

The Ballad of the Bouncing Baby Boy

A dozen and some small change.

When I awoke the morning of the incident, none of my senses appeared heightened in the least.

I was a child, full of innocence and relatively unaware of my own mortality. Although memory is most often an erratic and unreliable scene setting, I confidently recollect that the mortality of others, like my own, had never even once crossed my conscious mind. Luke Skywalker’s mortality was of great concern to me, but none of the living or even the reality in which they lived, ever really occupied the paradigm of my insomniatic adolescence. I did not know too many unrelated people and shallow was my depth. Again, I was only a dozen and some small change.

HE was just a baby. A beautiful baby boy.

Dancing around the truth, if you have been paying attention, is a familiar pattern of mine that deliberately detracts from the celebration of self-awareness through self-disclosure.

The truth is out there! 
I will get us there, I assure you.

Meanwhile, the eight-track tape  as the magnetic sound-recording technology extraordinaire of its time, was nearing the end of its popularity. This now obsolete technology was alive and well circa the moment in question. It was 1979. Barney was not yet a purple dinosaur. Superfluously detailed to overly contextualize the character of the protagonist, this diminutive discourse demonstrably derails the focal context of the story at hand. 

Ponder this.  The sentence for involuntary manslaughter was likely longer than the melting of the snow beneath the rubber boots that I wore during my lonely walk to Longfellow Junior High. The walk itself was perhaps my single greatest challenge on blizzardy mornings  uphill for more than a mile  in the snow, both ways.

As the oldest male child I was the hand-me-down production artist, never the victim. Entitled was my middle name. Poverty was not my style but it was well known by the poor people that I lived with.

Bourguoise muah!

Proletariat deux.

Death knocks for all.

Death. Thank God you were not the final outcome of what I refer to as Exhibit A.


Exhibit A: The shit I have been painstakingly talking about.

Exhibit A: The alleged accident.


Cognizance of the time of day, the day of the week or even the day of the month, let alone the month itself is something that I cannot summon unto my memory, even with my heightened ninja-like ability to print a calendar and draw tiny circles around numbers and follow-up with arrows pointing to specific dates.  Yellowed paper makes this exercise seem all that much more authentic.


The sentence for involuntary manslaughter 
would not become known to me then 
— now — 
or at any other time in my living history.

My baby brother. I loved him dearly.

My baby brother. I likely changed his diaper(s) more than any other sibling ever did. Probably more than even his mom or dad even did.

My baby brother. Lovingly held in my arms as I brought him from his crib, down the stairs, to the breakfast table, like so many other times before.

Why did someone put a blanket on the stairs?

Why did my left foot buckle as I lost my balance?

Why did my superhuman brotherly love strength fail me on the final step?

Why did everyone have to watch as I tumbled stair by stair, head over heal, in slow motion?

He lived.

I lived.

Live and let live.

Will he ever forgive me? Will his service as my eternal muse ever pay dividends that he will treasure as much as I treasure him?


Retrospectively speaking I understand fully why I was always visibly the least favorite among my stepfather’s many critical responsibilities. 
If you can not do the time   do not do the crime.

Friday, April 6, 2018

Mi Musa y Mi Corazón

I once dug a shallow grave for myself because I was bored and had a shovel. 

“¿Cómo estás haciendo amigo de mi imaginación?”

“Et tu Snuffaluffagus?” I confidently replied.

In this very same moment, in my mind's eye, I saw myself simultaneously serving as both the pallbearer at my own funeral as well as the eloquent and elegant clergy conducting the ceremony.

I kicked spiritual wisdom like a surfer on the Santa Cruz boardwalk with a brand new hackey sack. Consolation with the left foot, "So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed for I am your God," Isaiah 41: 10.

Gnarly dude, that's how I roll. Puff puff pass.

Semi-flip, left hand down as I poetically gain my balance. Right foot extended, connect. "The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit," Psalms 34:18.


There's nothing wrong with dying  a noble death is on my bucket list. Last item to be honest.

I always preferred black high tops — if I had to wear shoes that is.

I would have to take them off, however, if I aspired to come close to an accurate count 
of the many reasons that death and I were not ready to engage 
in that final passionate loving embrace. 

The fear of death has never been among the many reasons that life and I remain lovers.

So back to Einstein. 

Not the lightly toasted sesame seed variety with the cream cheese schmear, but the scholar. 

While he danced among the living he allegedly once said, "Imagination is more important that knowledge."

Imagine this — if you will.

Imagine this — if you can.

As you rise to the morning sun in that period of daily bliss before your princess dawn awakens... as you settle into the familiar aroma of a classic blend of Sumatran Mandheling or Guatamalan Antigua... what is the story captured beneath your yawn? What do your sleepy eyes reveal?

Tu eres mi jefe, tu eres mi musa! 
You alone stand proud, uniquely Arabica in a world of Robustan mediocrity. 

You are my special blend and my very special friend. My Ethiopian Yirgacheffe.

For that reason alone, I will awake. Today, tomorrow, and forevermore. 
I will rise to embrace genesis.

And when the inscriptions are written with faux personalization to the masses that pretend they somehow knew of my imagination... that they somehow knew of me...

Only you will know. 

And you will have no one to tell. 

Be sure to tell them, just the same.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

Ku-Jo and the Dancing Fingers

O to the MG!

I figured out how to get back into this account. Dare I say I am a genius. Sure, who's to stop me?

I recall when the ritual of writing was a daily transcendental experience. Almost like meditating but with my eyes open and my thoughts unhindered.

Why do people blog?

I think there are many people that feel as though they have something to say. Perhaps they do. That is not my problem.

I think there are many people that feel as though there are people that want to hear what they have to say. Perhaps they do. That is also not my problem.

I blog because I have nothing to say and no one to whom I am attempting to say it to. So for me, the only problems that I have are contained within the mind that directs these fingers of mine to dance upon the keys that form the words that flow.

Flow free or not at all.

You know, it is kind of cool that I was forced to take a typing class over 30 years ago. I can almost keep up with my stream of consciousness.

Hooray for me!

Friday, February 2, 2018

Sharper than a Spoon

Once upon a time there lived a very interesting conversation.

This very interesting conversation involved many different voices.

These many different voices within this very interesting conversation all sounded alike.

They were in fact the same voice which in turn added to the level of interestingness of this very interesting conversation.

However (pause for effect) since this very interesting conversation resided solely behind a pair of blue eyes, every time that these blue eyes blinked this very interesting conversation disappeared.

Yes. I say yes to the question that nobody is asking because nobody is reading this.

Yes. Yes is the answer to the question that nobody is asking. If someone were by any remote chance to in fact be reading this, then there is a possibility that they in turn would also possibly have a possible question. It is a possibility.

Maybe. The answer to the likelihood of the question that this somebody who I once thought was nobody was asking was the very same question that the initial response of yes was intended to answer.

No. The answer to the question regarding the likelihood of any of this making any sense. Reframed more concisely and perhaps even more accurately and in the form of a question, is any of this making any sense?

More importantly and perhaps even more significantly, yes (and I do mean yes), yes can be made to answer a whole host of questions which when reverse-engineered in turn create a limitless host of endless possibilities that possibly seem to go on and on and on.

Yes. Yes it is I who own these blue eyes that in essence have had the ability to cause this conversation to fully disappear without a trace.

Yes. Yes it is I that am engaged in a delightful conversation with myself.

And by now you may have realized that framing the description of the conversation as very interesting indeed is in fact a purely subjective opinion and by subjective I mean to say that is is solely my opinion and not necessarily the opinion of the individual writing this very blog which you, as nobody (or possibly even somebody), is reading.

I could go on. And if I went on beyond that on, then in fact it would be more accurate to state that I could go on and on. Suffice it to say that I will not.

I am pleased that I was able to figure out how to get back into this blog. So I had to write something, right?


Write. Which is what I just did.

Sunday, March 24, 2013

Wood Yuh LIK 2 Smile

My son just told me he was thirsty.

I said to myself, “This quest for liquid refreshment is merely a ploy!” He read my mind and replied, “Dad, I’m really thirsty, I’m not lying.”

His quick defense confirmed my assumption. Have you ever felt that way? If you are a parent, I know you have. You see, the context behind the content of his statement regarding a simple request for a glass of water is this; he does not want to go to bed.

So, I, in the deep thought process to which I currently found myself lost, in an attempt to expedite our pleasantries, offered his thirst a sip of my soda. I know, bad parent. But the glass was really merely ice remnants with slightly flavored water remaining.

“I can’t drink pop, I’ll get in trouble.”

The ploy for sleep avoidance continued. And as lazy as I am, I chose not to get up and go downstairs but merely held the glass of ice-soda-water to his mouth.

“Dad, my heart will pop.”


“Yes dad, if I drink soda at night my heart will pop.”

Followed by, “I’ll get in trouble.”

Dare I say, when faced with up to 30 minutes of ongoing dialogue about all things complicated, I chose the simple route.

“Here is your ice water.”

“Thanks dad”

“Now get to bed or I’ll make your butt pop.”