"Every Man's Journey"

How many lives do we live? Not in some transcendental manifestation or hereafter, but how many lifetimes do you see when you look back at your past?  I see three.  And each is so different from the one before.  Not truly an evolution, but each winding through the person I was, or more wasn’t yet. All along one path full of ebbs and flows through a story that I no longer shy from when asked to share – that is if you dare.

Dissecting each, I’m trying to give myself some clarity as to where they all meld to make today, tomorrow. And maybe yield some perspective on how all of our lives are one continuous journey, with many stops along the way.  They have meaning, purpose and even in the dark times they give us the deepening roots to who we are.

Joseph Campbell was quite right to perceive “The Heroes Journey”, a circular pathway to enlightenment and growth.  If you don’t know who this is, it’s ok.  Star Wars, Hercules, Jesus, Iron Man all go through a similar arc.  And while I dig his thoughts and insights, I HATE the term Hero.  So, I will call it “Every Man’s Journey”.  And this is my call out to EVERY MAN, EVERY WOMAN.  Over the course of my own three lives.

First Life: The child inside dies, yet there is a spirit of hope, of laughter about him… “Shattered”

We all start out with this innocent core.  Something that is waiting to be touched with design, with insight, with new things to explore.  Yet there comes a point where all of that is tainted.  With the brutality of an abusive home.  The need to be perfect from a former prom queen mom.  The silence from career parents who need to focus on the next step, the next promotion.  With the uncertainty of poverty and neglect.  With our own searching and seeking knowledge/truth, where dark and light often sit side by side.  Everyone has a story being written from an early age.  Maybe even from conception, but I dare not broach that topic because I might enrage some with my own personal stance.

When it’s shattered, the innocence that’s so precious, it’s not a bad thing.  It’s how the fracture is handled.  Is it mended and tended to or is it hidden?  Is it made known to everyone through ridicule or shame?  Is it embraced and honored, even blessed?  When innocence is gone, it’s gone.  But it doesn’t have to destroy.  It can further enlighten and mold us – if there is communication and a voice given.  Side note – as I was traveling through the pain of my past, I learned that I had to bless the moment of fracture.  Otherwise I would stumble along for the rest of my life.

When I was 8, I knew.  And I hated myself for the longest time.  But I also loved the simplest parts of life.  I’ve always sought those out.  Even rotten, disgusting acts by evil men can’t take that away.  At least they don’t have to.  I survived.  I hid.  Yet, I still played.  I ran through my neighborhood, rode my bike (symbolic now if you know me).  I wanted to fit in more than anyone would ever know.  In fact, every chance I had to tell my hurts was immediately pushed down by my need to be LOVED and not feel rotten at my core.  I was busted up pretty good.  Found food.  Masturbation.  Star Wars.  God.  Music.  And finally writing.  Oh, thank you for the written word.  That may have been the biggest safeguard to the inevitable.  

But a dam is only able to hold back so much water, so many tears before it collapses.  And mine burst.  It burst forth with the destructive power of a tidal wave and it wreaked havoc on my and my young family’s world.  And the clean up from such an event, well there’s just not much you can do but try and start over.  Nothing left but a “Shattered” man.  A broken life.  And Death – though not a physical one.  A spiritual collapse of epic proportion that just doesn’t go away.  

Not without help. 

“How many times can I break til I shatter?

Over the line, can't define what I'm after

I always turn the car around

Give me a break; let me make my own pattern

All that it takes is some time

But I'm shattered

I always turn the car around”

~ Shattered by O.A.R.

Second Life: Two Worlds Collide - “Against All Odds”

After losing everything, and yes, I truly lost everything, I found myself seeking anything that would fill the void within me.  And at this point I knew EXACTLY how big of a chasm I housed inside my soul.  When your truths are exposed, they aren’t always palatable.  They can frickin’ burn!  Truths are a fickle pill.  They can be just that, true, but who the hell can handle all of someone’s truths.  The family I loved dearly quite honestly didn’t know how to handle the monster that I was.  Though they wouldn’t ever know all of my ‘sins’, just the pain that I caused.  The rough edges inside me started to show – then hide.  I found myself meandering more than ever.  I was truly lost in a wasteland of hiding, being found out.  Living for my God/Spirit yet burning within.  And It was a good thing.

Yup, I just said that.  It was a good thing.  You can’t really move past early hurts without hurting as much in the groaning to be more (Think Thor in the latest Avengers movie).  Oh, I didn’t just spend a little time groaning.  15 years.  Not wasted, but in pain.  Wondering if there really was anything up above.  A waste of a man, at least in my own eyes.  I fought to be ‘normal’ while I wasn’t even sure what normal was.  I gave myself to growth, then pulled my own feet out from under myself in the process.

But it doesn’t have to be some epic event.  It’s in the daily grind.  I respect the HELL out of some men who I see as really good dads.  For some reason my cousin Casey (Chatham) keeps popping to mind. I don’t know him well in this life, but we grew up around each other.  I do respect what I see from his and Lisa’s, his wife’s posts on Facebook and just knowing the provisions he brings to his young family.  You have to daily decide to go against the odds and fight everything that pulls you away from a spouse, family, persistently making that small difference that will touch not only his kid’s lives, but his wife, friends, family.  Just because everything looks good on the outside doesn’t mean there aren’t huge heart battles being fought.  Battle lines drawn and all enemies kept at bay, silenced and unable to take hold over those that are entrusted to us.

Against all Odds…

I thought I was there.  But I lost that battle.  I failed.  And so did my spouse.  And we fought each other with a vehemence that terrified me both physically and spiritually.  We were wrong.  And we lost.  Only a little boy survived (barely).  And that has been no easy back and forth.

I am strong.  And I’m a fighter.  But I often fight my battles deep inside without any loud battle cries or strong champions at my side.  And that stings when one of your deepest desires has always been to find that one person who ‘gets me’.

Third Life: “We’re Not Gonna Take It….. Anymore” 

Then there comes a point where it really just doesn’t matter.  The pain, the struggle.  They are just your past.  You wake up one morning, after years of fighting and realize that breath is more powerful than all those dark hurts.  You shed the boy and become the man.  Not losing hope, joy, laughter, but realizing that the world can really just SUCK IT!  I’m not gonna take their bullshit.  It’s my life and all the other hidden and overt designs upon it can just take a big ole hike!!  Believe what you know to be your own truths.  Live and love the way you were meant to, for you.

The journey, Every Man’s Journey is one day at a time.  In each moment.  Digging deeper roots, even in foreign soil in the far reaches of the universe (the Pacific Northwest), while growing stronger, wiser, calmer.  Find spirit.  Seek truth.  Guard when you need to guard.  But don’t hesitate from opening up to new possibilities or truths.  They grow us.  Make us stronger.

So journey on.

Link to Video about "the Heroes Journey"

Finite

adjective

1. 

having limits or bounds.

"every computer has a finite amount of memory"

synonyms:		limited, not infinite, subject to limitations, restricted; More

2. 

(of a verb form) having a specific tense, number, and person.

Some of you never knew the world without instant connection.  A screen that lights up and allows you to go just about wherever your mind can imagine. Video chat with a friend in Bangladesh, sending memes through the universe on a cloud of information, communication and connection.  Or at least the semblance of these things.  And inside all of this connectivity I find myself lost within a fantasy that just isn’t always the truth.

We can seem invincible. Not lost in a sea of distraction. But aren’t we really?  I know I am.  And I waste so many hours in search for truths that the internet, Google, Microsoft, Instagram, Facebook all just seem to forget, if they ever knew them at all. We need touch.  Breath.  Deep conversations and spontaneous laughter that can’t be felt, held, or even truly accurately heard through the best iPhone XXWZ22.  We replace our hearts with endless rabbit holes of nothingness.

I am finite.  No matter the spiritual persuasion you hold to… 

I will die.

And so will you.

We weren’t given eternity here. We were given time.  It is the best and hardest gift to manage.  And for those like me who have the dreaded ADD/ADHD, it is insanity when you find yourself losing hours to meaningless searches, ‘friend’ requests, Cat-memes (what the F*@k!).  I lose myself to fantasy and come up empty.  The time slips away.  And time isn’t something that we can go buy from Amazon or Walmart.  It is gone quickly and vanishes if we don’t leave it with a mark that keeps those moments rooted in our heads.  

I’ve seen this as I’ve left all of you.  I still check Facebook, and I’m thankful for being able to take a peek into your lives.  But I’m just scratching the surface with 1,000 people that I may or may not know very well at all.  I long for face to face.  That feeling of being in the same room with someone and hearing the subtle nuances of their tone. The trembling of a voice in pain. The guffaw that stops the entire room at some seedy bar.  The hand that reaches out to comfort and to let you know that there is still real human connection available.

So, as I write this, I’m sitting 2600 miles from a little girl who starts college on Monday.  She’s in a pretty good place.  I’ve talked with her every day and I think she’s gonna be ok. She’s headstrong and stubborn like both of her parents.  And she stands as one of the best things that I’ve ever been a part of.  I had the privilege of spending the last three and a half years within earshot.  Close enough to hear sobbing when a boy wasn’t good enough, and to open my home to the many friends that would come to hang out.  I am a blessed man for that time, even though it’s changed in the last month.

The moments you share and the memories you make with others are so vital to who we are and what we were created to be.  Don’t get lost in a world that is so full of ‘likes’ that you miss out on something really special.

I sat at a table at my favorite Mexican restaurant with someone special.  I begged her to give me 7 weeks - the time that was left before I left to come to Oregon. Those few weeks rank up there with the greatest in all history!  At least for me.  

We are finite.  

Time here will end.

What are you going to do with it?

Live deep.  Connect.  And be.

Do Not Go Gentle

I was told that I was "Lazy".  That I wasn't capable of anything more than the basic place I held.  A man without any focus or distinction.

I was told that I wasn't good enough.  That my kids would fail, like I have.

Real words that were spoken to me.

They are lies.


I will not accept the lies of those who can't clearly see.  Nor should you.

I will not be made to listen when the voices speaking are filled with bile.  And you too should grow deaf to them.

I was told I'd never be more than the past that haunted me.  But I already am.  And you should shed your own demons and live.

We all have stuff.  Hurts.  Pain.  Disconnects.  Crazy thoughts that some see as a burden, but we know are part of who we are.

Don't bury the unique, beautiful creature that is inside you.  Embrace what engine makes you move and GO!!  Go fast and hard toward the light that beckons you from inside.  

When nothing else makes sense, listen to the voice inside that truly knows you.  The little place that holds the essence of your spirit.  Let that be your guide, not a man, a program, a self-help guide.  In 47 years I've found that fad diets don't work, everyone has their "best intentions" laid out for you, you can 'trust' our elected officials, and there is no quick way to make a buck.  So, why do we continue to look to the world for the answers that resonate inside like a GREAT BIG F*C%ing GONG if we just listen??

I came to Oregon to be close to my son.  Yet I've left two children in Georgia.  It tears me up, yet I know they have to find their path just like I am here.  But that's a blog for another day.

I came here with purpose, and a lot of fear.  I had no job, no place to call my own.  Nothing but everything I own on the back of my truck and in a 6x12 trailer.  And I wanted most of the trip to TOTALLY, HOPELESSLY Fail.  Truth.  I came here hoping that everything would cave and I could run back to everything that I had in Georgia.  And there are lingering vestiges of this.  

But if you know me a little, the me now that isn't quite the coward from just a few years ago, then you know one thing.  I don't half ass life.  Not anymore.  I run headfirst, cannonball in the pool, leaping off the deep end into a maelstrom!  

I came here with nothing.  And tomorrow morning I will wake and go to a job that I found within days of being here.  I will wake in the place I was led to call 'home'.  I have seen my little man more in the last two weeks than I have in any period over the last two years.  And I'm NOT DONE YET!  Look, I'm my own biggest Roger Ebert, and I still have a lot of growing to do.  But I am not backing down.

I will not go quietly.  I will not fall prey to my own past.  I will stand.  I will walk.  Hell, I'll even run.  But I will GO WITH A BIG NOISE!!  Hastening to the end.  Hoping to suck the marrow out of each and every day.

And you should find your own passion.  Your herculean adventure.  Your mountain.  Your Moby Dick.

And not go gentle...

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

NOT OREGON

I did not choose Oregon.

It was a decision made starting back in January that I was not made aware of until two months ago.  After all the arrangements had been settled.  Without any voice given to a father.

I did however choose to finally be close to my son.

The echoes of late January 2018 resonate throughout this move.  Calculated, decisive.  And the choice I was forced to make was to not allow my beautiful son to further be made a pawn in the hands of a cruel-hearted plot to eliminate his dad from his life.  And before you think that I’m over dramatizing, I can back up each of these feelings with fact.

• A job change was contemplated - January 2109
• A request to suspend all travel reimbursements was presented through the courts - February 2019
• A contempt charge was pursued while making huge life changes in secret - February/March 2019
• A job was taken out of state (and across country) - April/May 2019
• A costly court action revolving around our son was completed without any acknowledgement of the information above - May 2019
• The weekend following the court action being closed, I was informed of ALL of the above - May 19, 2019

If you read this and think I’m bitter, then you’re absolutely correct.  I am. Wouldn’t you be?  Duck, wouldn’t you be fighting mad?  I hope you would.  I’m mad.  I’m upset.  I had a life of my own in Atlanta.  A possible new career path, friends, someone special.  But I’m sitting in a hotel room just an hour outside of Portland.  Changing everything. 

I did not choose Oregon.  I did choose my son.  I’m trying to do the right thing and let go of the feelings I feel, but you know what?  Duck it.  I have realized that when you deal with duplicitous, manipulative people it is better to remember enough to keep a safe guard on everything around you.  Otherwise you might find yourself heart-broke, pocket-broke, and starting over again at 47.

I’m willing to make the change.  I am even hoping to let go sooner than later.  But I will not forget totally a decision to disrupt entire worlds.  Remember what brought you to where you are.  Look forward, but don’t forget to look around.  Sometimes that path, well it can bite you in the ass if you aren’t aware. 

Pray.

Live.

Love while it’s there.

Don’t give up on what matters.

And breathe.

Labour of Love

They were sitting on the top shelf, tucked away from the other instruments.  Covered in dust and years of grime, yellowed slightly like bad headlights.  They sat there for who knows how long, and I would have never seen them if it wasn’t for a chance look around the instrument storage area with the director.  But there they were.  They were old.  Beaten and looking abandoned.  And they were beautiful.  I’ll tell this story without giving any names, but this has become one of the most important items that I’m taking with me across country.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

When I saw the drum set, I immediately knew what era it was.  Mid-late 60s.  Ringo, but not quite Ringo’s.  The comment I recall from the director, “it’s not worth anything, I checked.”  And I’m sure he did.  But there are times when you have to find the right kind of ‘worth’.  And I saw it.  “What’s that?”  “Why are those sitting up there?”  “You can’t leave them there!”  All the business I was there to conduct was out the window.  I had to know more about them.  I wanted to rescue them.  I salivated.  I mourned.  And yes, I know they’re just frickin’ inanimate objects.  “But you have to get them down from there.”  The part of me that was ripping out from the inside to climb the shelves and save that set was hard to quiet.  But I did and reluctantly followed the director back to his office to finish what I was there for, prep for next year’s marching band season.

As I was leaving our meeting, the director looked at me.  “I had the students leave you something beside your van.”  And with that I got up and went outside to head down the road.  Except it wasn’t a sousaphone or a couple of saxophones, it was three faded drums, circa 1968 that sat on the ground beside my van. Without a pause I loaded them up and got the hell out of there before he changed his mind.

Ringo Starr made Ludwig drums the most recognizable drum manufacturer on the planet back in the mid 1960s.  He had an affinity for these pretty, American made drums and it became hard for Ludwig, a family owned percussion company in the Midwest, to keep up with the demand. That’s a pretty incredible story if you ever want to google it.  And then Buddy Rich, John Bonham and so many others would take turns using their products over the years.  I did my research immediately, taking the information from the director, the date stamped inside (1968) and my own findings.  The director was right, they weren’t the prized “Ringo drums” that were so sought after.  What I did find was a drum set made for left hand set up, which was not done often, except on custom orders and for some larger music shops.  But they were perfect, even in this trodden state, and they were mine.

I took these home in the first days after my youngest son was born.  Four years ago.  And they pretty much sat, a fantasy in my head that I’d ever find the time of space to really put the energy to giving them the attention they deserve.  

Flashback to 1984. Summer between 6^thand 7^thgrade.  It was when drumming became real to me.  It was the first of the great outlets in my life up to that time, only to be surpassed by the written word years later, and then hiking and the outdoors in recent times.  But I remember so clearly the first drum lesson I ever had.  Dave Mitchell, jazz drummer and science teacher.  Coolest Cat EVER!  I saw him playing through the window of his basement studio before I actually heard the music he was playing.  Jazz. And then I heard the subtle, essential rhythms he was supplying to the music that touched my ears.  I.  Was.  Hooked.  I dropped the saxophone immediately and started lessons.  And my first drum set, well do you want to guess?  It was a mid 60s Ludwig.  It needed work, but it functioned enough to get me going.  I always thought I’d fix it up, but never had the means or the understanding of how to do it.   Eventually I got a newer, shinier set.  The classic just sat and collected dust until I sold it for basically nothing, not knowing how to really make it what it once was.

That drum set has haunted me ever sense.  Thirty years later, I always look at the classic kits and imagine just getting my hands on one. Maybe one day?

Two weeks ago, as I was getting more things organized for my move to the Northwest, I had to make a decision.  Take the drums with me like they were, no better than the day that I received them, or let them go.  I mean why take broken-down relics all the way across the country to just be stacked in a corner of my living room as not-quite-interesting-enough conversation fodder?  They WERE ugly.  I hadn’t done one thing to make them better.  The decision was hard.  I take care of my stuff.  I clean my instruments; I keep them safe and maintained.  But these drums were just overwhelming in the need to either do something to them or part ways with them.  

I did neither. Instead I ordered cases for them. I mean I can’t take them across the country without protecting them from getting worse than they already are, right?! 

But was that really enough?

I woke up late one night. Couldn’t sleep.  The cases sat empty.  I wouldn’t put the drums in them for some reason.  I took the small tom tom and found a drum key, a screwdriver and started to take it completely apart.  

Proceeded to clean it. 

I learned very quickly that elbow grease and a little simple green can get rid of a ton of grit and grime. 

Then I bathed and scrubbed every part that I felt comfortable dismantling. 

It was a process.  The first drum took me two days to get to a roughly clean condition.  Then I redid the whole process.  I would go through this drum, and each of the others twice on the big parts, and sometimes three or four times on the smaller chrome and metal parts.

And I learned something...

It was me.  This was never about cleaning the drums, though in the end, they’re exactly what I want to be.  Wanted.  Cared for.  Not forgotten and left on a shelf.  

I’ve waited my entire life to find a vintage Ludwig drum set, fearing I’d never have the money or the right situation for it.  When I got the drums four years ago, I hadn’t played set in many years with any regularity.  But then I get a job last August teaching at a music school in Decatur.  I started playing, roughly at first, every week.  I saw myself get better again.  I found a part of me.  But it didn’t stop there.  I ran into a student I taught over twenty years ago.  He told me that I actually influenced him to be a musician. He’s a touring professional drummer. And out of the blue he’s living right near where I’m teaching.  We reconnected (though not enough – sorry Robby!).

I wasn’t given the drums 20 years ago.  When I did play about 15 years ago, I bought a Brand-New piece of crap set to play on.  And even four years ago I didn’t have the space to make them part of my life again.  Space and timing aren’t always ours.  We have to soak.  To wallow (yes, Pam, we have to wallow sometimes).  We have to trust.  Damn that one.  And we have to wait.  “It’s not time yet.” (higher power/god voice)  And when we think we’re at our lowest, people and even 1968 Ludwig Super Classics come in and change EVERYTHING!  

The drums are done.  I can’t stop looking at them.  I’m not incredibly materialistic, but they’re not just about the shine or age.  They are about a kid who learned to drum.  Who always wanted to conquer the world.  Now a man who can’t imagine how significant it was for his future to have a director, no a friend, give a gift that goes beyond the music.  It absolutely defines this moment.  

Time to shine and feel as good as it’s going to be to play those drums.  To breathe in life’s rhythms and groove on.

GUT CHECK - Follow A Leading

I don’t know what guides you.  I personally feel there are voices on the wind, in a song, on FACEBOOK even that help nudge me along.  I’m pretty hard-headed, but there are specific ways that I find my mind, my heart and my spirit get aligned and I just know that something is the ‘right’ thing to do.

And I did ask God for a leading.  

So there it was.  A simple Facebook post, not looking for a handout but just frothed with that annoying spiritual-ized candor of an upcoming event in a person’s life. Made me kind of sick to the stomach. “Really Dude?!  Can it be something else?” - me talking to God.  I don’t know your particular spiritual flavor, but I call mine God. It’s born out of my Christian roots, mixed in with some tree-hugging, belly-rubber sentimentalities, along with a shot of cinnamon whiskey to give it a little ‘spice’.  And he gave me exactly what I was looking for…

…and more.

So I sent a text to the person.  It’s a friend that I’ve never invested in the way I could have, but I respect her crazy (the Hey-sus version of Crazy, not ‘lock-em-up in a padded room’ crazy).  I really don’t care much about the trip she was planning on attending or the cost.  I asked for a clear picture of what I was supposed to do.  Hammer to the head clear was what I got.  But you know what, it was important for me to find the place to give. So I gave.

$300.

I only bring up the amount because later that day it would come into play.

I gloated inside.  I celebrated finding my “Big a$$ Good Deed” to do before I left town.  It wasn’t in humility.  At first it was, but it quickly became an internal “look at me, I’m Special”.  Gloating is something I really try not to do, but I was fully on a small little ego trip.  Then I got really tested.  I went to work at the summer camp I’ve been teaching.  There is a college student working there who had hit a tight spot. Wasn’t going to be able to cover their rent.  

Want to guess the amount?

I had no words other than, ok.  Not to the college kid, but up above.  Sometimes we’re asked to do a little.  Then a little more.  Other times we’re asked to give, then give a whole lot more.  For some reason this made me think about trust and taking a bigger stand on what the true direction is in my life.  I mean I was hoping to be led to some great deed that would make me feel really good inside.  I was wanting to be a ‘good guy’.  But that wasn’t what I was given when I asked.  I had asked for a clear picture of where I could help.

And I got the same answer. Twice.

I don’t trust well. In fact, I struggle mightily with this concept of trusting beyond what I know.  And six hundred dollars is nothing compared to the amount of trust I’m placing in a great unknown.  I was told to listen, and he’d be clear.  The direction would be clear enough to see just ahead of me, like on a foggy morning on the trails, those days when there’s visibility for like 10 feet and then it’s a wash.  Other than a sense of the right way to go, I’d be left to give my path to a spirit I do seem to trust.  Though I can count the people I truly trust on my hands, I trust what guides my heart, my head, my own spirit.  And that god has asked me to make a decision.  Either trust that I can go and make a new life close to my son in Oregon, or cower and let my influence be muffled, muddied as I linger across the country.  

And be humbled in the process.  That one stung a little.  

I keep having the image of the linebacker carrying the other player on his back from ‘Facing the Giants’.  The Death Crawl.  It’s pretty much a gut check.  Can I blindly follow a leading, no matter how clear it is?  When you can’t see the path, or the road, or the purpose even fully at times, can I trust?  I know that there is something out there to find.  It’s just like NOTHING I’ve done before.

And when I’m ‘DUN’ (done for you civilized folks), I find I’m often asked for more, then a little more. Yes, there is time for rest, but right now isn't that time.  I have to take that next step.  Path ahead, just have to wait as it clears more and more.

Facing the Giants DEATH CRAWL

click to view

Catch the Moon

Little boy tries to catch the moon

Like fireflies in the night in the middle of June 

Reaches up to touch the stars

Isn’t dismayed by how far away they are

To him they’re not out of reach

Just stretches out and continues to believe...

It’s not too far

Little boy grows to be a teen

Afraid of nothing? Continues to dream

Skyscrapers were meant to be tackled in one mighty leap

Nothing was impossible, at least nothing he could see

Would take away his dreams

Then life began to take its hold

Young man struggling with a past he’d never told 

All those deep-rooted fantasies

Were just his safety as he hid his dreaded beast

That ate his heart

From a childhood he’d always kept in the dark

Where am I going?

How do I live?

Within this rot I’ve always know

While inside there’s still a kid,

Who wants to play.

Young man now in his thirties 

Married once, a failure

Doesn’t know anything but fear and daydreams 

Looks at life still like that child

Aware of his anger, his hurt, but still wants to run wild

Catching the moon

But the monster, the beast

Devours his soul until he just can’t breathe

And all the fortress walls come down

Life he knows, crumbled to the ground

Like LEGO castles torn apart, spread all around

Picking up pieces now part of his life

40, and it’s just how he’s survived

But he’s learned to walk, to climb mountains that let him breathe

Still doesn’t have an answer for taming the beast

But he’s found solace within the spirit that moves the trees...

44, Looking down at his new little child

He’s a few years older, thinks he’s found 

A place to rest his head, maybe some new dreams?

But (even now) life is never what it seems

Death and divorce and tears in a little boy’s voice

Take away a life full of deceit and clouded beliefs 

Looking fully into his past 

Taking the guidance to walk past it at last

The hurt comes again real and he can’t hide behind 

Star Wars, LEGOs or B-rate comedies

He starts to believe 

That the only one who can save himself is “me”

And he breathes

Takes to fighting the battles 

No one would ever want to see

No one would believe.

And no one ever stood beside to see

Just how toxic a world could really be

Tire of being alone 

But pretty damn used to

Taking it all, and picking up pieces 

He’s roamed

Maybe now he can find a home?

Cause leaving is hard

When it’s all you’ve ever known

But sometimes, you just gotta leave

Heart just has to go.

Old man still looks to the stars

And maybe one day soon

He’ll tie a lasso around the night and

Catch the moon?

06/27/19

clc