Entropy

The whole thing is quite hopeless, so it’s no good worrying about tomorrow. It probably won’t come.

I coughed, my eyes and throat burned, but the taste in my mouth was pure and clean, but in the lungs and throat it stung like air itself had become toxic to my body. I exhaled the thin, misty translucent smoke.
“Ahh, fuck dude, you’re seeing Jesus, guess I gave you a little too much,” Saul said, steadily holding the handle of the thin ‘nail’ that served as a precision applicator, coated with the slightest amount of heavily concentrated cannabis oil.
I had to shut my eyes tight, finally the violent throat irritation subsided and the air didn’t burn unbearably on inhalation. I lay back gasping and laughing while Saul hit the rig with his butane torch until it was glowing red before just barely touching the nail to it, a small tendril of smoke went up and Saul sucked in through the mouthpiece, the water recycler bubbled and chamber filled with the translucent mist, his eyes went wide as he hit it hard.
“It’s like a race car man!” He said taking his mouth off for a moment before hitting it again without exhaling and pretending to steer with his dab rig; he was without a doubt the most hardcore pothead I knew, could smoke like no other, cultivated his own plants, customized and sometimes built his own pieces from high end surgical and food grade equipment, created his own highly concentrated extracts like some mad chemist.
Finally he finished and blew out a massive cloud. He always had a deep hacking cough for a while afterwards, mine had subsided but the throat irritation hadn’t gone away, instead I felt like I had hair growing on my esophagus and it was creeping up towards my mouth and tongue.

We were sitting in our lawn chairs towards the front of the garage on a clear night in our shorts, sandals, and hoodies. Saul’s mom had told us we couldn’t smoke in the house anymore after there had been a slight burning accident on the carpet in the sun room where we usually smoked.
“Feelin’ it?” Saul asked, as I blew out some considerably milder, but thicker hookah smoke.
“Yeah, my tongue’s grown hair again, and I’m feeling like I’m perpetually falling.” I said, handing him the hose which he puffed on as the hookah bubbled and the coals glowed.
“Yeah, you probably got about a quarter gram of 90% pure THC with that hit. I probably gave myself a half a gram,” he said blowing out a cloud of smoke.
“For real? Dude, that could get a pothead high for like a week, you shouldn’t have wasted that on me.”
“Hehe, nah, all good, that’s why they say, ‘a dab will do ya.'”

We talked about work, visitation with my son, all the usual things. I texted back and forth with Her. Even from thousands of miles away that woman always knew what to do or say to get under my skin, in a good way of course. I’d never known anyone so skilled in the art of seduction. Or at least she made it look like skill, perhaps it was just who she is to me, I’d fallen in love with her sexy smile, and her innocent eyes, and the things she would say. Saul was looking forward to meeting Her from all I’d told him. Of course, I told him about her singing and love of music and silly, carefree ways. The lustful, sultry parts I left off, those were a private, intimate matter between Her and myself.

“Car is looking great man,” Saul said gesturing at my new car as he took a puff.
“Yeah, perfect, new, almost makes you sad because you know that in time, it will get weathered, probably pick up a few dings here and there, the mechanical parts will wear and stuff will break, the interior will age,” I lamented.
“Yeah, I know. You know what I used to do when I would get a new bike?” Saul asked handing me the hose and continued as I smoked calmly, “I would take it out here to the drive way, look at it one last time in it’s perfect state, sigh, and push it over. I mean, it is only gonna get thrashed and fall over at some point, so I figured if I got it out of the way then, I could enjoy riding it more because I wouldn’t be worrying about keeping it perfect.”
“Haha! Well, that is one way to do it. You have a point. But, I’m not going to go run my car into a wall just so I can drive it around without worrying. I’ve accepted it will get that way one day, may as well enjoy it while it is new and fresh.”
In a way, I suppose that both approaches could be valid. I guess it depends on your mentality. I used to be a big worry-wart. But, when the worst things you can imagine happening in your life happen, divorce, death, separation, feuds, loss, and then they happen, and you are still here, surviving, it makes you appreciate the good times. It helps you worry less, because you know you’ll survive, and if you don’t, you won’t care. Sometimes things are so nice, and so good, and so perfect, and you almost want to cry because you’ll think ‘it’ll never be this good again’, whether it be a new car, a sunny day at the beach, a night of passion, or a blissful, loving marriage. You know entropy will eventually catch up. Beauty fades, the new and interesting becomes passé and trite, relationships wither, bodies grow old. It’s easy to get caught up in mourning while the corpse is yet alive and vibrant. Only love can stave off the decay, but sometimes things aren’t worth preserving. You preserve a classic car, not your daily commuter. You preserve a beautiful intimate relationship, not a once-hot fling that went cold. Sometimes with love and relationships you’ll never know what you’ll be getting. I know I need to enjoy it while it is fresh, shiny, pristine, and new, and not worry about it getting old, getting bored, building up toxic tension, falling out of love, especially when it may never happen, or you may not live to see it. That’s the only way I can love freely, deeply, unapologetically.

It was getting late.
“I need to be getting home and to bed for work tomorrow,” I yawned.
“Yeah man… I’ll be up a while yet myself, but thanks for coming over.”
“Yeah, thanks for having me.”
“Anytime,” he looked thoughtfully as I was leaving then said, “Well, you know they say ‘a dab will do ya,’ but I find six or seven is better.”
He smiled big as he picked up his dab rig and took out some more extract to put on the nail.
“Whatever man, you do you, haha.”

The Golden Age

The air smelled of salt, the sun was shining. With Memorial Day weekend upon us and an excess of tourists in town the beach was packed. I held the leash of my sister’s dog, while my sister walked beside me down to the sand. We’d planned for the excess of people at the popular spots, so we went to a small rocky cove that was generally only frequented by locals. It was somewhat hidden, and probably not very popular since from a ways away it didn’t look like much, but it was a small microcosm among the rocks and tide pools once you got close enough to see. Here, there was a small sheltered area where the tide gently flowed and foamed among the shelter of the rocks, here the water was slightly warmer the than the freezing cold ocean.

We let the dog off the leash and sat down on the rocks to watch the tide come in and out on the coarse sand.
“I should have worn sandals like you, that way I’d be more inclined to take my shoes and socks off, I don’t know what I was thinking,” my sister lamented as she puffed on a cigarette.
“Definitely, it’s a perfect day, I haven’t felt the water in a while, I’m going to put my feet in at least,” I said leaving my sandals in the sand and rolling up my jeans.
It’s the initial rush of dipping your feet in cool, clear seawater that makes it worth it. So refreshing and pure, makes you feel alive as you feel you toes in the sand and the water rushing around them as the tide rolls in and out. My sister became jealous and finally had to take off her shoes and socks and dip her feet in.
“Ahhh, this is heaven, you forget how nice it is.” She said.
“I know, I haven’t been to this spot in probably 20 years, I remember coming here in elementary school with Sam.” Sam was the Elder’s son, a close childhood friend. “I used to lay back in this channel and just let the tide carry me up and down.”
The water was clear to the bottom, which was covered in large rocks and seaweed, the occasional speckled crab scurried by.

We waded deeper in till we were up to our knees, finally, I decided to commit. I put my wallet, my cell phone, my car keys back up on the dry rocks and, leaving all adult responsibility behind me, waded into the deep. I felt the water come up and soak my body and t-shirt and jeans as I dove under, instinctively closing my eyes so the salt wouldn’t sting them. It was cold, a cleansing for every sense, more alive than I’d been in ages, it was a baptism, a catharsis. I swam out of the inlet and into the open ocean past the rocks. Surfaced and bobbed up and down in the current treading water as the waves came past me.
“How is it?” My sister called asking.
“Freezing, but it feels great,” I called back.
She went in herself, swimming out into the inlet. I can’t remember the last time I swam in the ocean, it had been more than a decade. I swam back to the inlet and lay back, letting the gentle, foaming tide carry me and listening to the sound of the gulls. I closed my eyes and felt the sun on my wet skin as I floated up and down, losing all sense of time and care. I was soaked to the bone, but I’d lost all inhibition, there was only that moment, and nothing else, it was meditative, the peace I felt in my soul, I could almost see my body above the water as my spirit floated above. Finally, we waded back to shore, our clothes soaked and dripping and collected our things. The sun dried us as we walked back home. Maybe this is my fresh start, the time for the golden age to begin.

The Rainbow’s End

Last night, Her and I talked. I feel she and I are both at a crossroads in our lives. We are traveling blindly, following our hearts. Both of us free to seek new companions, and after all, we are both very sensual people, we’ve both had ‘meaningless’ sex before. We both agreed that sex is never meaningless, but it can feel so empty when the other person you are having it with doesn’t connect with you; you don’t know what they are feeling, in the moment and sometimes even later on. Free of my wife I should be out picking up girls on a nightly basis. But, here I am alone again tonight. In some ways I’m frustrated with myself.

I left work late today after a long video chat with Her. We keep coming down to it, both of us baffled by our feelings for each other, how they can be so strong when we haven’t met.
“I love you baby.”
“Love you,” she smiled a sweet smile that melts my heart every time, I feel so connected to Her when I look into her eyes, even if it is only through a pixelated screen.
“Talk to you later.”
“Ok.”
I started the car and put my playlist on shuffle. This playlist is kind of the playlist of my life, I try not to play it too often, but it is my go-to when I’m not sure what to listen to. I don’t necessarily put songs that I’m entirely in love with on it, just songs with meaning for whatever reason. If my life was the film, these were the soundtracks that were played to punctuate the major events. There’s a bit of my childhood, and high school, and my friends, good times, bad times. I just keep adding to it, there are songs that my wife and I shared, ‘our songs’, songs of love, romance, and plenty of old Swing standards. For example, Polka Dots and Moonbeams is on there.

I pulled out of the parking garage.
“Think I can fly, think I can fly when I’m with you, my arms are wide, catching fire as the wind blows,” came the song over the stereo from my phone, accompanied by a cascading synth melody.
Yes, Sierra is in the playlist too, how could she not be? This was a song that twenty-year-old girl played for me on a particular late night drive, befitting her youthful exuberance. It isn’t a great song per se, Galantis is somewhat too gaudy and overproduced for my tastes, but one particular lyric always sticks with me,
“Even if we’re strangers til we die…”
Sometimes I wonder if Sierra thought about that lyric as I did when we were together. That our relationship was never meant to last, and we would share an intimate physical relationship for a time, and then return to being strangers until we die. Seemed like that was the plan. I have trouble regretting it; it had its time and place.

As I drove, I thought about Sierra for a time, picturing her smiling there beside me. Thinking about her betrayal and how it all ended. Another song came on.
“Can you find the time to let your lover love you? He only wants to show you…” Christina Perri sang.
This was one of Her’s favorites, and it meant a lot to me since she’d sung it to me herself. The song’s infectious idealism of the love of soulmates (and seabirds that mate for life) is almost bordering on the sappy side, but, somehow it works so well, but only if sung with such genuine heart as Christina and Her sing it with. I felt so warm inside hearing it on the drive home, hearing Her’s lovely voice in my head.
“Baby we’re fate, baby it’s fate… not luck.”

After dinner, I walked with my sister and her dog to the liquor store to get her cigarettes and a bottle so we could make some cocktails. I was texting some more with Her, she was watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, one of my favorite movies, I was a bit sad I was missing it. It made me think of a post I’d made a long time ago now. Her and I talked some more. It was a continuing theme with us, we both never wanted to be trapped again, we wanted to be free, yet we kept coming back to how empty the idea of sex with other people seemed to the both of us at this time, we had become… monogamous, yet we’d never met one another nor were we tied together by any vow or expectation. We admitted our love freely enough to one another, but we were both very much aware it likely wouldn’t be forever.
“‘People don’t belong to people. I won’t be put in a cage…'” She quotes Holly to me in a text.
That final scene in that film, it all comes together so beautifully. Holly has a point, after a manner she is right, no person should ‘own’ another and put them in a cage. She is terrified of commitment, of falling in love, of losing. She won’t even name her own cat and call it hers. In some ways, that’s how Her and I were being, and perhaps it is some wise caution for two people thousands of miles away who’ve never met. But, Paul’s monologue, as he stands out in the rain leaning into the cab, perfectly delivering Capote’s immortal words that cut to the heart:

You know what’s wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You’re chicken, you’ve got no guts. You’re afraid to stick out your chin and say, ‘Okay, life’s a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that’s the only chance anybody’s got for real happiness.’ You call yourself a free spirit, a ‘wild thing,’ and you’re terrified somebody’s gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you’re already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it’s not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It’s wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

You have to have courage to belong to someone else because that’s life, people do it, they fall in love and sometimes they fall out of love, or they hurt and cheat each other as Her and I have done to others and had done to us. It’s all a risk, it’s scary, and people get hurt, but good still comes of it, we pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and the memories and music and meaning remain. We’re after the same rainbow’s end, Her and I, why not seek it together?

Fated to Pretend

Youth is happy because it has the capacity to see beauty. Anyone who keeps the ability to see beauty never grows old.

My alarm went off, the blaring inches from my head. I switched it off and I mechanically climbed out of bed, slipped on my jeans and a hoody and creaked open my bedroom door. My sister was snoring softly on the couch, she’d been kicking her legs while sleeping lately, so she’d put herself on the couch to save her husband from being woken up constantly. The moon was a silver sickle, it was dark as night even though it was the early hours of the morning, I climbed into my car and drove. As I walked in my ex-wife handed me the baby monitor and told me I’d forgotten to grab my mail last time I was there, adding that I never listen to her, the room was dark, and I couldn’t see her face. She left, I took the baby monitor upstairs and set it on the coffee table, adjusted the couch cushions and lay back on the sofa, falling asleep in an instant. It hadn’t looked like a comfortable sofa in the pictures, but it had had good reviews, and my former wife and I had agreed it matched our decor well. I dreamed of Her, as usual, tenderly making love while I looked into her sweet eyes. Soon enough I woke when I heard my son stir softly on the monitor.

Children were running and screaming.
“Nice job buddy, you can do it, another step,” my son carefully stepped up the playground steps towards the slide, he gripped the railing carefully with his small hand.
He was pretty sure-footed for an almost 2 year old, but every once in a while he’d lose his balance and go tumbling, so I always kept him in arms reach. He was ecstatic when he got up the last step, then sat down on his bottom and scooched the rest of the way to the slide and slid down. We all cheered and clapped. He just smiled and looked at us, then ran back to where the steps began and started his climb anew.
“Such a happy kid,” my friend Monty remarked.
I had met Monty and his wife, Denise, and their son at the park. I’d been friends with Monty since elementary school, he and his wife had just moved back to the area, in fact, Denise had gotten a job at my company, different department though. Their son was just a few months behind mine. We were the first two family men in the old crew from high school, well, perhaps I was now an ex-family man, but still a father. We talked and helicoptered over our two young toddlers on a sunny day in the park. A park that Monty and I used to play in, we’d ride our bikes out there, play basketball at the courts, or go screw around down by the creek, harass the cattle that lived on the other side of the fence. It was strange coming back to it now that we were older and had kids of our own. We reminisced about the trouble we’d get into, about those carefree days. And we talked about jobs, family, daycare, finances, politics, and other adult matters. We avoided the topic of my divorce.

All the while my ex-wife was sending me aggravated texts. She’s been pushing to drop one of my visitation days already, saying it was too much to bear seeing me three times a week. I thought we’d be going to more visitation, not less. I wasn’t willing to budge on this without good reason though. She was claiming that our son wasn’t sleeping well and being very fussy after I left on the visitation days. I knew it would have to be an adjustment, it wasn’t easy for him or me to go from seeing each other every day to about every other day. My ex-wife was claiming this was all in our son’s interest, but I feel she’s blinded by her own pain and projecting it onto him. Her and I were also texting, she is always my ray of sunshine, Her and my son.

Times certainly had changed, it was almost noon, I was exhausted from chasing a boundless bundle of youthful energy across the park on a hot day. But, it was nice, watching my son’s wonder and curiosity, picking up sticks, rocks, wood chips, an old deflated balloon was his favorite toy for the day, simple pleasures and joy of life. But, all good things must come to an end, Monty and Denise hoped to do it again sometime, we had to get the boys home for their naps, so we said our goodbyes, and I pushed the stroller off towards my former home. Life is never like you imagined it would be when you were a kid.

Maps

Love is a striking example of how little reality means to us.

The party wasn’t quite going as I’d hoped. I’d brought Abigail that evening, picked her up as usual and driven to my friend’s place in the city. It seems we were sliding inevitably into the friend’s zone after a few dates. That night, she met Karen’s ex, Tom who was in town visiting. Tom was tall, he towered over me at 6 foot 3, handsome, very clean cut, and dumb. I generally give people the benefit of the doubt, but Tom really wasn’t the sharpest spoon in the drawer, but he was a pretty boy. We sat in the atrium and smoked sweet and spicy prickly-pear flavored hookah, Abigail cuddled with me on the couch at first, but gradually moved away from me and hung on Tom’s every word. The ass was clumsy and was screwing with the smoking circle by hogging the hose and pulling on it so three times the hookah tipped over while he sat there holding the hose and not puffing, and not passing. Several times I had to grab burning coals before they landed on a pillow or someone’s legs. I wasn’t looking good, I felt like an uptight asshole, and I probably was given I was highly irritated with Tom and Abigail. At least Karen and her current boyfriend were annoyed at them equally.

We finished smoking, and made some midnight quesadillas and opened another bottle of wine. Abigail was still all about Tom. Karen finally looked at me and asked me if I’d help her and Max beat the last stage on Expert that was giving them trouble on Rock Band on their Xbox, we left Tom and Abigail to it in the atrium and went to the living room. I usually do guitar, but I took drums this time, I prefer drums since it seems easier to me to play real guitar than Rock Band guitar in some ways. At least with the drums I could work on my rhythm. Max took guitar and executed the opening picado riff before I came in on the snares and kick, Karen took vocal. She really had the perfect voice for this song, smooth and bittersweet, drenched in far off longing.
“Pack up, don’t stray, oh say say say oh say say say…”
I held the beat steady as Max wailed through the solo and Karen’s voice rose, crashing through the crescendo.
“Aaaaaahhahh aaaaaahhahh, wait, they don’t love you like I love you!”
We nailed it with a near perfect score. I threw the sticks as Max cheered and pretended to smash the guitar controller, Karen hugged me as I got up.
“She’s not worth it, find someone who loves you,” she whispered to me.
“I know,” I replied and grinned.

After that point, Abigail was really only hanging around me to get to Tom since I was her connection to that circle. In the end, nobody liked Abigail, except me. Tom couldn’t care for her, Karen didn’t much either, none of my other friends were a fan. But, here I was head over heels for this girl that clearly didn’t care much for me. I was jealous of Tom, even a bit mad at him for stealing my girl, but how could I hate the guy? I had nothing against him, and it wasn’t him anyways, it was her, and it was me.

Polka Dots & Moonbeams

The atmosphere was splendid. White table clothes, the clink and clang of silver and glassware, conversation and laughter. Most everyone seemed happy at the family event. My wife was putting on a good face and trying not too be overly perturbed by my sister’s impertinent comments. The band was good, I recognized a few of them from the open-mic jazz night at the small hole-in-the-wall hipster cafe downtown, and they had been running through old swing standards as folks danced across the floor in the middle of the room. I was certainly enjoying myself. It was moments like these that I thought that marriage and family life wasn’t half bad. My wife and I had our problems, but each day was another day to start again. We’d had our arguments and issues the last few days, but tonight perhaps we could put it behind us, right?

As the band finished another number, I got up, and straightening my dinner jacket, excused myself to the restroom. Walking by the stage I gestured to the vocalist who’d been crooning away all night and whispered to him, he nodded and I strode back around to our table. The rhythm section took off, I caught my wife’s eye. She gave me a knowing look when she recognized the song (we only had two songs she and I, and this was one of them), I just smiled back and held out my hand, after a moment she got up and took it as I led her to the dance floor.
“A country dance was being held in a garden, I felt a bump and heard an ‘oh beg your pardon’, suddenly I saw, polka dots and moonbeams all around a pug nosed dream…”
My wife put her hand on my shoulder as I put my arm around her waist and we twirled off across the floor. I’ll admit, I’m a terrible dancer, so was my wife to be fair. But it hardly mattered what anyone else thought, my wife and I just spun and floated across the room, off into moonlit clouds above the restaurant.

I sat and let the memory wash over me as the song played on the car radio. I smiled at the poignancy, though a grimace formed at the line,
“Now in a cottage built of lilacs and laughter, I know the meaning of the words ‘ever after’…”
But, it had all had meaning, at least to me, it hadn’t been a waste, despite the horrible things I did in the end. It didn’t matter if everyone from the outside saw two average-bordering-on-terrible dancers, that hardly mattered those moments when it was just the two of us dancing on the clouds. I hope at least one day, those moments will mean something to her as they do to me.

Somebody to Love

It is better to be hated for what you are than to be loved for what you are not.

I steadied the rifle on the wooden rail, the telescopic sight swaying slightly, held my breath for a moment then exhaled slowly and squeezed the trigger.
“Nice!” Saul cried.
A small puff of smoke rose from the impact of the small pellet from the air rifle, but seconds later the small battery pack was billowing smoke and scorching the dirt and concrete around it. We’d spent all afternoon trying to blow up these battery packs. After all the hullabaloo regarding lithium-ion batteries exploding in phones, we thought these massive cell packs used to power small electric bike motors should give a good fireworks show, but after overcharging them up the wazoo with a 6 volt charger, then plugging them into a 12 volt car battery we could only make them puff and grow hot (while we hid safely behind a wall 30 feet away) but no explosions or smoke. Finally, we’d taken the puffing overcharged packs and put them against the concrete wall in Saul’s backyard and taken turns with the air rifle putting pellet after pellet into them before I finally caught one on fire.

This scene would have made perfect sense 10+ years ago, but Saul and I were in our thirties. The days of dry ice bombs, roman candles, bottle rockets, potato canons, home made explosives and flamethrowers were supposed to be behind us, right? But, here we were, spending a Saturday afternoon smoking hookah, drinking tea, and trying to blow things up again. Not to say it isn’t just as much fun as it always was, but I’m still having difficulty finding fulfillment in my life. I’m realizing that the most fulfilling times, the times I felt satisfied and happy were the times when I felt love. When I was a kid and I was with my family and everyone was happy to be together. When my future wife and I were laying on the grass in the park holding each others’ hands. When I was holding my son on my lap and my wife was next to me on the couch. To be honest, even when I was laying with Sierra and she was sharing her heart with me, which only happened two, maybe three times that she really opened up to me. I know I still have love in my life. I have Saul, I have my sister and brother in law. I have my son, but the times that I do see him make my heart burn for the times I can’t see him. I have Her, but the fact that she is so far also makes my heart burn in much the same way. And my heart breaks every time I think of my soon to be ex-wife. I can see so clearly what I’d given up now. Having a son and a wife to care for every day was one of the best things that I’d ever had going for me. Sure, it wasn’t the most fun sometimes, sometimes it could be exhausting, sometimes it could be a prison, sometimes it was exacerbating dealing with my wife, especially her indifference to me, but at the end of the day I felt happy. Granted, I felt happier still when I was in the arms of another woman, but that portion turned out to be unsustainable and cost me the rest. Despite my immoral behavior, the overall good I was able to do in my life outweighed it. I could be a good husband (arguably) and father. I could care for the needs of my family, I could sacrifice my time and energy and resources and love. In the end, I couldn’t have both. I couldn’t satisfy my desire for romantic and erotic love and keep my family.

On Sunday, it seemed like a no-brainer to me that I should give my wife flowers and a card for Mother’s Day. It turned into an emotional roller coaster I wasn’t prepared for. I picked out a bouquet in a vase with a red bow, and a card with a photo of the sun setting over the pier where my wife and I had gone on some early dates. I thought carefully about what I should say before putting ink to the card. An apology seemed natural, but I kept my focus on her good traits as a mother and how appreciative I was of those, and how much of a positive effect she had had on my life. I dropped off the card and flowers while I knew she’d be gone with the baby at Church. I expected a text later, it would either be a curt ‘thank you’ or indignation that I would dare to give her a gift. Turned out to be the latter. My tears had all been cried while writing the card, so there was nothing left when she told me she had thrown the card and flowers in the trash. I still just feel empty. I feel I have all this love to share, and no one to share it with. Even though I know that’s not entirely the case. The real case is that I have love to share but the people I want to share it with, I can’t, either because I’ve burned the bridge or they are too far away. I remember this very discussion would be had by folks at church whenever someone ‘fell away’ from God and returned to the world of sin as I had. Anytime the fallen fall on hard times, or became unhappy, or got mixed up in something, the answer was always the same “they no longer have God in their lives, so they had to fill up their empty life with something,” you could fill in the blank, whether it was alcohol, drugs, women/men, joining a cult, etc. I knew what people would be saying about me. It is tempting to go back, to try to get my wife to take me back, to get my church to take me back. I know repenting of my wicked behavior is one thing, but professing beliefs about God I’m not sure are warranted and wanting back into a marriage which was clearly toxic are other things entirely. I have to remember this is all a process, and much as I want to take the quick and easy path and return to the familiar, I know that I have to forge ahead into the unknown, moving forward through the shadows of uncertainty and doubt. Maybe they are all right. Maybe my life is now empty because God and family are gone. And my life will never be whole again until I realize that and come back. But, I have to find out for myself. I want people in my life I can love and that love me for who I am, however long it takes to find them. Especially that one person I can share my life with.

Man In A Shed

“The lieutenant took my bike and my trailer last week, and I’ve been trying to get them back, he said he’d get back to me several times and hasn’t,” the young man pleaded, he was dressed in a patchwork black hoody, ripped jeans, and sandals, a guitar slung over his back.
“Well, I can have him give you a call, do you have a phone?” The lady behind the counter and bullet proof glass responded.
“I don’t have a phone, I’m poor and my bike is how I get around,” the man continued his pleas.
“Ok, I understand…” said the lady with a tinge of sympathy.
I had been indignant yesterday when I discovered that my car had been towed away in the middle of the night. At first I had suspected thievery, but then recalled my expired tags and the fact that the city police were oft compared to the gestapo by the locals. I had been on the phone with the police and the tow company, and been back and forth to the station and the DMV several times already. Finally, after those trips and almost $300 in office fees and fines, the police were preparing the release I could take to the tow company to get the car out, of course, after I’d paid their fee for the tow and the day in storage. But, as I sat in the waiting room at the police station I couldn’t help but count my blessings as I saw shabby transients shuffle up to the counter and plead their case. I was there with paid time off from my job, a sister with a car to drive me around, and I was armed with a cell phone and credit card to get me out of this mess, others were not so fortunate.

“Ok, Jason, sign here, and take this over to the tow company.” the lady behind the counter called for me.
I handed her the signed paper, took the release, smiled and said “thank you” before walking out into the daylight.

I was over the battle of trying to get my car road legal, it was costing me more than it was worth at this point, so after retrieving it from the tow company, I called Saul up and went into town to do some car shopping. With my wife’s and my finances now legally separated, I could finally take care of this. When I go car shopping I never seem to be able to stick exactly to my budget. Happens every time, still I felt I got a great deal for the money, and it won’t break the bank. Dropped the tired old car off at the junk yard to lay her to rest along with the memories. Sierra and I had had many a good time in that car, we’d dented the front end, damaged a shock mount, shredded tires, and busted the fog lamps, but it had all been worth it.

My wife was still furious when she found out I’d purchased a new set of wheels when I came over later for visitation with my son. I know at this time just about anything will upset her, and there is no getting around that. As far as she’s concerned, I’ve moved on easily enough, transitioning happily into bachelorhood complete with a new car and girlfriend. Not quite, the girl I am in love with is on the opposite side of the continent, and this transition wasn’t as happy for me as she was making it out to be. I feel it more than ever that my life has lost its purpose. It was all so clear before, I was a Godly Christian man, my wife’s husband, and my son’s father. I had purpose, I was somebody, there were people who needed me. Now what was I? I was living for myself for the first time in how long? While life is easier now, it is less fulfilling. It feels vain and hollow. Every aspect of my life used to be dedicated to others, whether they be my wife, my son, family, my friends, my church, my community, or my God. All that was gone. Sure, I paid child support and alimony, but that was taken with grudging acceptance from the recipient. Now I got up for myself, went to work for myself, made car payments for myself, planned my evening for myself, went to bed for myself. All this, more than anything, made me want to crawl back to my wife and beg her to take me back. Beg her to let me be her strength once again, to be admitted back to the family and care for her and my son day in and day out. Could I do that? Would she even consider it? In the end, I feel things would just end up for the worst. It is me that is broken. I was the one who did this after all. I fucked up the plan. Was it worth it? Sometimes I think it was, sometimes not. Do I try to step back into the role I used to take? Is that the adult, manly, noble thing to do? Maybe, but I think the most responsible thing I can do right now is to stay the course, give it more time, sort out my thoughts. Try to make a clear headed decision for once. But, how can I do this when I’m in love with another woman? I want to be with Her and I can’t just ignore my feelings.

Across the Universe

Sometimes my life doesn’t seem real. I feel that if it gets to being too much, I should be able to just close my eyes and scream and wake up, and there I’ll be in my bed ten years ago and wonder at this strange, vivid dream I seem to be living now. How could I have done those things. It is like at some point in my life I committed some crime against fate, I deviated from my programmed path by some freak glitch in the universe and split off into this alternate parallel reality. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. It’s all wrong. None of this can be real. How can it?

I think there are at least one, maybe two moments of stark, palpable realization of self awareness in a person’s life. Where they suddenly become aware of the reality of their own existence. Before that moment they’d lived their lives taking their own existence for granted, never giving it a seconds though. Never wondering, “could it have been another way than this?” Suddenly the person becomes aware of the billions of parallel realities that could have been, and by that mere realization they realize that these realities are indeed real, but beyond their reach. In these realities they’ve been many things, lived different places, married different people or stayed single. Every choice springs forth from each moment like a cascading stream filling the loose areas between the jagged black rocks of time and space, like water flowing into a dry river delta, the number of realities growing exponentially ad infinitum with each passing moment.

I remember the first time I had this experience. I was in high school and it was 1 am and I brought a bunch of friends back to the house. My mom had gone to bed. My dad never would have allowed me to be out as late as mom did, and she also didn’t mind if I had guests back at her home during the wee hours. We came back and we were laughing and having a good time, I went to get a cup out of the cupboard, it had a clear glass door, and when I shut it I caught my own reflection in the glass. At that moment I became suddenly aware of my own existence, I stared at myself, into my own eyes and questioned my own reality. Was it really this way? Couldn’t it have been some other? It happened again today. I was rocking my son, he would rest his head on my shoulder, and then pick himself up and look at me and smile, and touch my face with his young fingers. His mother came quietly into the room. I kissed my son’s forehead and said “ok buddy, I’m going to give you to your momma, love you, goodnight.” I handed him to his mother, he leaned over and puckered his lips as he does before I go to get a kiss. I gave him one. And as I left he reached out his hand to me and waved a little toddler wave. I waved back. “You can leave now,” my wife’s cold voice came. My face cracked as a wave of emotion hit me, a tear almost started but I suppressed it, and made for the door as quickly as I could. Out to the hall, and stairs, and out to my car to drive away to my new home. It shook me I realize now, as I lay down to sleep. “Could it have been another way?” In another reality my wife doesn’t ask me to leave I as she comes in. She gives me a kiss as I hand her the baby and she starts singing a lullaby as I gently close the door behind me. I stay there and she joins me on the couch and we talk about our plans for the future. But, here I lay, billions of light years from that reality.

For Richer or Poorer

The grass was covered in dew and the fog hung low on an early spring morning. The people wore mismatched, sometimes dingy secondhand clothes. Old sweatshirts from long forgotten county or music festivals and events, old cargo pants and jeans, the occasional ugly patterned long skirt. I did my best to fit in, being clean cut, wearing a high end leather jacket, and selvedge denim, typing thoughtfully on a smartphone with a flip out keyboard (all the rage those days as some people, like myself, still held off making the dive to a fully touch keyboard). My text editor open,

class Display
{ static void Main()

I typed away with my thumbs, always filling in snippets of a class or method to include in my code base when they came to me. My wife had been gracious as I worked on these projects, taking a couple of half days every week to dedicate to them.

A man in a knitted beanie staggered down the line, cursing at some imaginary entity that it seemed only he could see. My wife hugged me close as he passed, I stroked her long auburn hair.

“Some interesting characters today,” I whispered once he was gone.
“I know, honey, some of these people just scare me, a few of them you never know what they’ll do,” she whispered back.
“Hehe, don’t worry, most of ’em are harmless.”
“That guy used to come into my work, sipping out of a gas can full of bathtub gin, we finally had to have the sheriffs come and remove him after he threatened my coworker.”
We’d started coming to the local food bank’s weekly distribution at the town community center to relieve some of our financial stresses. As a newly wed couple, we just couldn’t hardly afford the one bedroom place we’d started out in, even though it was a family property and had very reasonable rent for the area. We both worked full time, my wife at a dead end job, and me for the family business, and as a freelance programmer while going to community college. Neither of us had careers, jobs were scarce, cost of living was high, and we were up to our eyeballs in debt. My wife had a degree, but I kept switching majors, now starting my 8th year at community college. I would never complete a degree.

The bread line reminded me of church in some ways. The regulars at the bread line would share the stories of their weeks, talk about members not in attendance that day. There were your alcoholics and druggies, and just your average perpetually homeless and impoverished, elderly who’s Social Security checks weren’t cutting it, single mothers stuck with five or so kids from five or so different fathers, and mentally ill that society and family had failed. My wife and I seemed out of place, dressing in clean, half-decent clothes, but every week there was an excess of food being thrown away, so we figured that our income was low enough (just barely) to qualify for the assistance, so why not?

The volunteers who worked the line were sweet people, many of them clearly Christians and Jews, giving blessings to the parishioners as we passed through accepting the food they’d hand out. They knew most of us by name, could inquire about our lives, health, and families. We would go through the line, gratefully filling our canvas totes with old bruised vegetables and fruits, overstocked baked goods, and at the end of the line: table after table of overstocked breads the grocery stores would donate as a tax write off. The last week of the month would be ‘meat week’ when there would be coolers full of donated frozen meats. There was always more than enough for everyone, and my wife and I would fill our bags to overflowing with enough food to last us the week and beyond. With the excess we’d invite our friends and family over for meals. My wife was upset one time when I shared where the meal came from, they never would have known that a roast leg of lamb dinner with seasonal root vegetables had been provided free of charge otherwise. But, my wife never wanted people to know our financial state, it was too embarrassing for her.

We’d stuff our full bags of groceries into the trunk of our aging luxury sports car and drive off towards the coast. Our little place lay on a little forgotten peninsula, almost like the real estate agents had failed to notice this small section of beach front property, so the housing prices remained low. My memory of those days was it was always overcast when we’d get back from the bread line. We’d carry our plunder up the steps, looking out over the little bay as we walked. We’d fill the counters of the small kitchen, unloading our food and laughing and talking, we’d come up with meal ideas for the week. After that, and before work, we’d brew our morning coffee and sit by the window and look out at the sea together, and think how fortunate we were to have what we had, our little slice of paradise, and to have each other.