Jogging Musing--ADULT ORIENTED--BE WARNED

I was jogging around Freeman Lake yesterday. This is something I started this past summer. Minus volleyball season, I have done it fairly regularly.  I always park at the main entrance by the geese beach off Ring Road, get my phone, and begin my lumbering few miles along the fairly serene path.

A few times early in the summer, I had parked and started my trek at the other entrance of the greenbelt, across the street from Grace Heartland. Both times there had been men there, backed into parking spots, sitting in their cars doing nothing. One day, I remembered reading an article in the BG Daily Times about gay men backing into parking spots at public parks as a sign to other closeted, married gay men that they were looking for oral satisfaction. Now, I am not a totally uncouth person. I didn't wave my finger at anyone, or run away like I was going to have my pants ripped off me; I am probably not any closeted gay man's type anyways. But, the situation did unnerve me. (Granted, I don't have any idea if these men were searching for this. I mean, it seems like they would be in the same car if they had been, and not in separate ones, but I digress).

(Sidebar--And also, isn't this what Craig's List is for. I mean you spend hours in this parking spot waiting for a possible chance of fillatio.  Craig's List will send notices to your phone. You could be at home putting new wax paper in your shelves, or building a model ship or something while you wait. Anyways...)

Usually, when I figure out why something unnerves me, the unnerving ends, but as I gulped for air ascending what felt like sand dune Giza, I still felt unnerved, because it wasn't the homosexuality of the men that caused it.  I hate when I can't figure my feelings out. I like to wrap things up in tiny little boxes and place them away as solved...over with in my mind. But as I drove home, I couldn't help thinking about those men, or any person who did this. I express myself well. I brag to my wife about always knowing how I feel about anything in any situation at any time. (She hates this, because I don't understand why sometimes she doesn't know how she feels about everything all the time.) I believe in this trusty technique (the few times I do struggle for words to describe how/what I feel) where I take a deep long breath in, breathe it out quickly and just say what I feel, as if my diaphragm  forces the secret emotions out.

So, driving in my car on I-65 South listening to Taylor Swift swear to never get back with Jake Gyllenhaal (I promise I am not one of those reverse parkers), I took my breath, blew it out and thought quietly to myself "They are me." I threw my head back, rolled my eyes, and slouched a little. A sigh came out of me like I an emotional vomit. "They are me", I am them. I hated this realization, who likes seeing themselves like this? Yes, I have never parked backwards at a park in search for head or a handy; however, I have been very desperate; I have been very lost emotionally and spiritually; I have felt utterly directionless; I have wanted to die; I have filled the void with empty, trivial things.

How can I judge these men? How can I sympathize for them, when in reality I am empathizing. I have waited outside a dorm for a girl for hours because she wouldn't return my 14 phone calls. I have viewed pornography when lonely or sad. I have drank too much. I have written the heartbroken letter. I have lied the pitiful lies to myself, "I have no friends," "no one cares."

They are me.

Having confessed those things, I must say, that most of those were born from a previous version of me-- a pre--wonderful wife, emotionally stabilized, depression recovered, grace understanding, version of me. But, they are me. I have been that man. I think most of us have been or still are. We could all probably tell a litany of embarrassing mistakes and judgements that would shade us red.

Desperation is a killer--emotional voids can destroy us/those, who can't find guidance and love to get them through it. At my worst, when I hated pretty much everything about myself, and everything around me, and I was believing those lies that I didn't matter, and that I couldn't feel better, and that I probably should just hope to not wake up-- I believe I heard God talk to me. It was simple, quiet. I was lying in my dorm room bed, on that little prison like mattress. I was sad. Had been sad. I was skinny, had lost more weight than ever thought possible. I had sullen eyes, deep purple rings surrounding them. And in that moment, through the smacks of deep sighs lapping at my heart, I heard God say,  You have to get over it.

It was simple. It was straight forward. There was no light. There wasn't any trumpet or harps...no beautiful brunette Irish angel taking my hand. But I heard it. I know this will be hard to believe for those without faith in a relationship with God. I get that, and I understand why. But it is my truth and that is ok. So, the next day I still felt sad and looked like crap, but I started doing work, and making changes that I knew had to be made, and slowly the void filled, and new people were brought into my life, and a different motif started appearing on the  canvasses of my days.

So I guess I send this out to the backwards parkers, the women who go from boyfriend to boyfriend, the ones who hoard their money, the middle aged who eat too much, the gossips of the workroom, and those afraid to leave their house, in hopes of them knowing that I believe there is hope--that there is an answer to the question of what will stop the deep heavy sighs. He loves me--and he loves you too.

The Very Manly Musings

I haven't written anything in forever. My mind is a colander. My thoughts run wild like prison escapees.     This summer I read some of the things I wrote in college (creative writing major w/emphasis in poetry). I missed it sort of. Not so much that I missed being good at something, but missed the ability to express myself so directly, quickly, minimally. So I planned on writing a poem everyday, regardless of how awful it was.

I have written 5. Here they are, the very manly musings of this well intentioned teacher, but slightly poorer executor.

June, 23^rd 2012

Yes, babygirl

You see through me.

And I get you.

Eyes blue, how writers describe streams,

how editors airbrush skies.

They break me already,

how hands cling to a ledge

finally give up

and fall,

you cause that moment after,

the fainting freeness,

accepting what

is about to come.

You, with those blue eyes,

already seeing the disappointments within me.

June, 25^th 2012

The falls, the knocking over,

the trips.

A bruise blooms, spreads

a thin oil spill across your brow.

A wail, tears simmer.

My own heart yanking within me.

As if I am being lifted

a heavy boon attached drawing me up,

my body flacid and sprawled under the weight.

September 8^th, 2012

She with

the tender nostirls,

the half brown eye

rose brushed cheeks.

Slinder fingers skating

across the keyboard.

Shoulders tense and annoyed.

Her mind sees 1's, 0's, patterns,

repetition. The feverish

gears finding the order. Every

hair numbered.

She is the every hair numbered--

by her slender fingers,

which skate across the keyboard

prepping for another day.

September 11^th, 2012

It is September the eleventh.

My daughter is not 1.

She, paws at her sippy cup,

flails it around like burning stone,

grasp, gropes, flings, releases,

over and over again.

I think about the names of those who died.

How I thought, if I could just remember

one or two of them? If I could remember one

face, of one beloved one that wasn't mine

then maybe that would say something...

about humanity?

I search, I flail the filing cabinent,

fingers dash through blank

index cards, memories sort

as if magic dispenses them,

dance to an imaginary baton.

But there is nothing,

just the sound of the flung sippy cup.

The ticker of daily events under

Kathy Lee's face.

A flash of a smoldering

heap of metal,

like a kindling pile of pine,

smothered quickly

under one's foot.

September 12^th 2012

Lumber. Stomp.

That is what I did today.

Through a field of molasses

wearing lead boots.

My eyes puffy, squinty,

as if someone were kicking

from behind.

My heart tight,

a red paper origami,

turn, fold, crease--

smaller with each

nimble thumb stroke.

And then a student laughed,

his eyes danced, clear,

bright. Stones reflecting

in shallow pools.

Reverberation,

like the laugh of my own babe.

Screetching, barreling,

my feet plodding quickly

in the chase.

Her own reflecting stones

glance over her shoulder.

A smile curls, a squeal unfolds

arches, dances, springs upwards.

I see it. The yellow laugh, the orange

giggle, the fushia plum of joy.

Awaking the folded heart paper,

a time lapse warming,

the folds becoming pedals--

my heart into a bloom.

A New Idea for Hallmark

I have lost a friend, a good friend. He isn't dead, or moved, or incapacitated. There was no fight, no moment where words were exchanged or damage done. There was no long drifting apart as our families and jobs pulled us in different directions. It was more so simply as if one day we were friends, and then the next we were not, without any discussion, argument, or agreement between him and I.

And that is always awkward, breaking up with friends, or in my case being dumped by friends. There isn't any protocol for it; there aren't whole sections of books devoted to it. I have been married for almost six years, to a woman I dated for 3 years prior to that. So, needless to say it has been a long time since I have broken up with someone, or been dumped, but I remember enough to understand that unreturned texts, unanswered calls, and the dreaded "un-friend" on Facebook equate to such.

The awkwardness for me comes from the lack of any defining moment when the split occurred. I am a deal with it type of person. I can handle being removed, replaced, rerouted, but I don't do well with loose ends. So how does one deal with this? Life is complicated and ever changing. I get that we sometimes out grow people, or need to make changes in our life, and that sometimes our friends will be the collateral damage of those decisions. But don't we owe it to people to be honest and tell them that is what is happening. Take me to dinner, make me feel fancy, give me the ole "it's not you, it's me" line, or even be blunt, call me annoying, needy, whatever. Maybe Hallmark should make cards for this sort of thing. It would make it easier on all of us. They could right 3 stanza little poems that end with lines like " Roses are red, violets are blue, we were once great friends, but now we're through". Then everyone could simply pack up and move forward, without having to make excuses or putting one's phone on airplane mode.

I won't lie and say I don't miss this friend, because I do. He was a good friend. And I won't lie and say that I haven't been pissed off about this, because I have been. But more than anything, I have simply been confused by this; I feel like (at least how I imagine )  some dog that's been dropped off in the Walmart parking lot, zigging and zagging to every redneck with a cart trying to figure out what happened to the one who brought me. Am I this pitiful, that at almost 33 I can get dumped and not even know it? Where is Carrie Bradshaw when I need her?

So, I suppose this is my closure, this is my dealing with it. I was hesitant about writing this blog, but what is the point of my faith and my life if I can't live it honestly and openly--my feelings get hurt; my ego gets bruised; I get confused. These are all truths that may make me seem less "butch" or may rob me of my "man card," but so be it. I can only hope that, if in the future I must cut a friend loose, that I will have the courage and funds to take them to a nice dinner first.

Gateways and Bongs

I must say I don’t understand how people say that dope isn’t a gateway drug, or that dope doesn’t hurt you. In my nine years of teaching, I have seen lots of kids start smoking weed, and 3-4 years later be someone completely different than who they were prior to their doja experience. Young men who (before) smoking weed, asked to borrow books like The Road and asked you thoughtful questions about the imagery being dark and sad, now screaming at parents, leaving home, skipping school, living with vagrants in ran down houses

I know the intellectual sorts say that weed is a plant, that it’s harmless, that if alcohol is legal, than weed should be too. And, I guess I understand that. I can’t rationalize why alcohol is legal and weed is not. I am not arguing those points, but I will argue that just as alcohol is harmful to the weak willed, the immature, the angry, weed too can be just as harmful.

A germ is not harmful, unless it finds a scrape, cut, wound to enter. Too many of our kids have plenty of wounds to invite addiction and imbalance. I see these kids, who are teetering. As if they are standing on some tiny pole high in the air amongst the clouds. Their lives are them constantly fighting for balance, balancing the bits and pieces of their lives, just waiting for one gentle breeze to topple them over. Weed, liquor, a bad girlfriend or boyfriend, it could be anything.

And I guess it is obvious, that I have specific examples in mind. I have picked crying kids up off the side of the street, taken them home. I have had them call me, worried for themselves, bawling in their own dissatisfaction, and I have seen them run to weed, or worse, to salve the pain. And I have seen them weeks, months, and years later; out of shape, dirty fingernails, uncut hair, begging for a ride to their third job in four months, running from drug test to drug test.

So, I will not agree when you or they say that weed is harmless, that it doesn’t hurt anyone, that it doesn’t lead to anything else, because it does. Missed opportunities, broken relationships, poor decision making.  I have yet to see this creative savant that everyone always romanticizes, the genius on weed solving the world's problems, while creating faith changing art and sculpture.  I can only go but what I have known and seen, and on that judgment scale, weed creates losers who only find more and more loss.