What I got

I'm steppin' out the door again
Wondering where my feet will fall
I got myself a plane ticket
But no plan, darlin'... no plan at all

I got myself a world of plans
And no idea about what lies ahead
I'm lettin' this will decide
Where I'll start and where it will all end

A story from the day...

... as I was supervising my English class today as they were writing the essay component of their semester final, I was too cold to sit and grade other assignments (the north China wind was blowing too incessantly in my classroom window) so I decided to write a narrative on the same prompt as the kids. Enjoy.

*********************

My toes are curled over the edge of the building. I'm sure the question has to be asked: "What are you doing standing on the top of a high-rise with your toes wrapped around the stone lip of the ledge?" It has a simple answer, but you're not going to like it. It's an answer you're going to hate: I'm done. This is the end for me.

It's impossible to pinpoint one moment in time where this was a foregone conclusion. Don't misunderstand… my life's been brutal. I don't know if the fates have crafted this as an inevitable ending to my miserable, somewhat brief existence on the planet. Nonetheless, here I stand and that's not going to change.

One of the first big things was the divorce. No, not my divorce. I'm a kid. Well, I'm a kid in the sense of the typical designation. Seventeen isn't so much a kid in actual living terms when you look back on the "Greatest Hits" list of my life. And regardless, it happened when I was still in the more non-self-aware stages of life, where my only concerns were a clean diaper and food. I guess in certain ways life isn't so different now, but it's still an important distinction to make.

When it happened, I was a big inconvenience. My dad was a junkie, my mom was attempting to battle her own demons of booze and an abusive boyfriend, not to mention a meaningless job at Saver Mart. As you may have guessed, she didn't exactly run the show. About two months after I was born, my dad took off and he hasn't exactly sent much in the way of birthday cards. I got five bucks in one that was three months late when I was about five years old, but other than that, he's been MIA. He took my mom's car. Are you beginning to spot the run-on of cliches? Of course, he hasn't been around since. I think I saw a movie like this once. I guess I didn't think I'd have a starring role as the hopeless misfit.

The second big event came when I was about six years old. I woke up one morning in the spring time and my mom wasn't in her bedroom. Or in the bathroom. We lived in a dumpy, beat up mobile home on the outskirts of Welling, Alberta. Oh, you've never heard of Welling? Then you'll probably guess that it's not home to a giant hockey stick or monstrous rubber tire. Not much to see other than farmers combining and tumbleweeds rolling down the highway. And coyotes. Lots of coyotes. Anyway, I called out a few times. I was already pretty unhappy most of the time but knew how to cope. I could make food (as long as it didn't involve more than one pot… I was a wizard with grilled cheese or Iciban instant noodles). But as I called out more and more, I knew that something had different. I waited. I tried playing card games but just couldn't stay focused. I kept calling.

I then heard a BANG on the door to the trailer. I figured it was mom, drunk again and just falling into the door. But it wasn't. It was my neighbor Debbie. Some people called her Deborah. I always thought that she seemed more like a Deb. I don't know why. Well, as I opened the door, I saw Debbie's makeup was a mess and tears were streaming down her face. The only thing she kept saying was, "Baby. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

It was a few days before I found out that my mom had been killed in a car accident. She'd been drinking after work again and drove her car off the side of the road and into the canal running beside Johnson's farm.  I'll spare you the details, but it was grisly.

The rest of my life seemed like a series of unfortunate events. Or more like a Sunday night, made-for-TV special that suburban, two-parent homes would find heart-wrenching and would cause a whole lot of weeping and hugging of kids who don't believe that it's likely and therefore have no real urge to kiss their mom and dad goodnight. My routine was full of group homes, foster parent interviews, more group homes, a stint in juvey for having a knife on me at school during a fight (I never took it out, but after getting thrown to the ground it flew from my pocket). I got kicked out of the school… that was number three. And I did another stint for having a bit of pot on me at school (school number four… same result as previous). At this point, there weren't many people who had faith in me getting out of the rut. There were a few sympathetic counselors and such who urged me toward the right path. But in all honesty, it just didn't hold a lot of interest for me. I didn't see a point and didn't have much ambition to make more of myself. Having a warm bed was nice. The rest of it meant nothing.

Well, I guess you could say that the straw for this camel was the robbery. Yes, this time it was me. This kid Bobby from group home number five convinced me that we should get some cash by holding up a convenience store. He explained that it would be a simple hold-up job… that we'd just pretend to be armed (by flashing fake replica 9mms at the staff and jacking the register). Then we'd take off for the coast and start new out there. I know… in hindsight this doesn't seem like it could go anywhere but wrong. And that's exactly where it went.

It turns out that the replicas weren't exactly replicas. Bobby pulled his piece after we kicked in the door and after having a confrontation with the owner, blasted off two shots into the ceiling. I freaked a bit… in all my reckless behavior, I was never the violent type. The fights were more survival than anything and I never actually had the urge to hurt anyone. I just mainly wanted to be left alone and got a bit angry when people wouldn't comply. After the warning shots, Bobby took the owner to the floor and as I was shaking like a leaf, I started toward the register. I had the gun in my hand because the idea of blasting a shot into my groin did not appeal to me at all and I was scared as hell. So I jumped the counter, but in doing so, rested my right hand on the countertop. I've never attempted to hop a counter with a gun in my hand. Yep, another good guess… I accidentally pulled the trigger. And knowing my luck, you can assume what happened next: the shot avoided all merchandise shelving and advertising and went straight through the chest of some middle-aged guy who just wanted to buy a six-pack.

Maybe there was a way out. Not so much anymore. And anyway, I don't have any interest in going to jail… especially REAL jail. Nope. I'm ready to cut my losses. Even in all the bleary-eyed intoxication, mom always said there was something on the other side. Whatever it is, it can't be worse than this place. And a guy has to pay the price for his actions. I never expected it to be this way when Debbie stopped by when I was six years old, but my experiences brought me here and there's nothing I can do to escape them now. Just one more step… I guess I'll see you over there. Whatever that other side thing is.

TM

Brief Reflections

I reflect on all the happenings
Of all I've seen and all I've been through
And although I might be walking away
My thoughts continue to turn to you

You came in unexpected
Sat down and decided to stay
But now we're at a crossroads, darling
And I'm not sure if we'll live another day

I cannot tell you what the decision will be
Which way the wind will blow
So forgive my current uncertainty
About whether to stay or whether to go

T

Picking up what remains

As a prairie fire, you've torn through all the safeguards I had in place and you threaten to jump the fireline I burned in my own flesh to keep from going up in flames again. There are currently moments when all I want to do is scare you off, wave the flames in front of your face so you startle and dash back to the place from where you crept so many nights ago. I wake up drenched, not with rain but with the sweat and anxiety of uncertainty, my mind changing frames faster than a movie playing in perpetual fast-forward. And I sit, paralyzed, wondering if I have the courage to take back what I feel is being stealthily stolen from me as I sleep.

Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding. But at my door you remain. And the fire burns on. And there's still no relief... no rain.

T

The walk away

It's 3am, the sky is black
But baby, I ain't sleepin'
All my strength ain't strong enough
To keep away this dreamin'
Every time I close my eyes
My mind just keeps on racin'
And I'm wonderin' if I have the strength
To fight against what I'm feelin

I need to walk away, run away
And leave it all behind
I need to walk away, fly away

You tell me sorry, that it ain't you
And tomorrow's a better day
But there's just too much on the line
The price is too high to pay
So pick your side and show your hand
Your bed is where you'll lay
'Cause if you've shown me everything
There's nothing left to say

Only the walk away, this walk away
There's nothing else to do
I need to walk away.
I need to walk away.

T

Lamplight

It's another evening in the lamplight, listening to the frozen rain lightly click and tap against the window glass. It covered my jacket just a few minutes ago, but now slowly drips to the floor in minute lakes that will be gone by the time the morning comes. No light reaches that part of the floor by the shoe rack, so they dry in silence. The weekend has found me full of contemplation as one nearby has been forced to acknowledge a whole world of emotion that she's been burying for years. Both of us are wondering how to proceed. 

When confronted with death, no matter what the scenario, it's hard to avoid looking inward. In her case, she was hit with it as if being hit directly in the chest with an avalanche. I can only assume that she's feeling the equivalent of a suffocating pressure as she considers what to feel, what to do, what's expected of her. The irony lies in the answers to her anxiety... the expectations are meaningless, the decisions will come with time, and the feelings are no more than what courses through our veins. We can't always choose how we feel, but we always have control over how we react.

While's she's confronting questions of mortality and reconciliation, I once again consider what's passed... I consider the power of a face-down photo in the far reaches of an ill-used room here and how it's discovery can manipulate perspective. I consider the power of my words and my deeds as we near the holiday season. And I think about those who are with me now and those who lie in bed an ocean away. I wonder about will come in future days... months... years. I think about how simple life used to seem and how I felt that if I could only get a hold of one given aspect of life, that it'd all make sense. Strange how fleeting that control and understanding ends up being (that is until it's too late, of course).

I wonder about humanity, both mine and that of others. I wonder about my place in this community and the bigger community of my life. And I'm continually regarding my own needs (and neediness) with curiosity.

As the rain continues to tap away, I attempt to roll away to sleep. Let words be my balm to soothe my sleep.

T

On the inside

Crawl deep down inside yourself
It's safer to be alone
Curl up real tight and hide for a while
Ignore all that light you're shown
Shut out the world and cradle the pain
It's taken you this far
The only hitch is that you forgot
Exactly who you are

T

Butterflies

It's like I'm living on the cusp of a shadow
Or on a cliff over a cloud
Impossible to see what's immediately below me
A butterfly tempts me to step off
Take flight

The thought in my head 
Is "Stay back from the sun, my boy,
It's no place for you
And your wax-fixed wings"
So I stall
And ponder

I wonder if the beauty
Is merely fleeting
And what that winged beast holds for me
So I stay

There was another butterfly long ago
Who convinced me to fly
And only after I let go
After I jumped
Did I drown

Or so it seemed

But as I pen these words
I realize
That it was that moment
Where I finally learned to swim

T

An old poem...

I believe I wrote this either during my teaching practicum or while I was living my old life...

The world from the sidelines

Who's on the sidelines when the world is at war?
Who speaks of justice as you walk out the door
On your way to your job or your kid or your car
When bombs are destroying our world from afar?
There are innocent victims who die everyday
While kids are in morgues when they just wanted to play
In the street near their home with a ball and a friend
How can we justify such tragic ends?

But we only hears cracks that resemble the whisper
Of the wind in the trees or the door on the crisper
We retreat to our 'burbs with our kids and our car
Dreaming big dreams while guns fire from afar.
We have all ten fingers, our toes are in tact
And we're free from most harms and the fear of attacks.
We look to our flag and most constantly we say
Freedom is here… that's all far away.

When you hear a small crack that resembles a breath
It's easy to ignore and to think not of death
But when guns come so close and you're crying with fear
You'll realize it's not far, but the violence is near.
We cannot retreat when we open our eyes
The world's a train wreck, even something to despise.
But that's not a reason to shut it all out
In the defense of injustice, we beg you to shout.

T

Dawn to dusk

Today brought another day full of thoughts
About those loves that never were
Filling up pages in a book
But as if they were dreams
Faded and lost as the morning rolls on
Or cut out
Like pictures chopped from magazines
For a high school collage project
The remnants abandoned
Upon the art room floor
And the words are cut into unintelligible pieces
Never to be reconciled again with language
Or the messages they carried

Now as the day rolls into darkness
I think about the world being a new dream
One that won't fade into obscurity
Or be carelessly abandoned to the dust pile
In a corner

No
It will hold on
Find roots
And grow

T

"When"... bad days

The morn began with sunlight
But faded quickly as the sand-filled skies
Seeped in past my windows 
And my mind
Quiet and sombre
Like a funeral procession

One fiery tongue was made known
Presenting itself in the waning morning hours
And then another
And even more still
Until the day filled up
With the bitter taste of battery acid
And only 
Escape 
Could soothe the burns remaining
And act as the salve to take the pain away.

When the morning tastes
Like the blade of a scythe
The only release is the death of the day
Found in the starlit darkness of night.

Here I sit in the quiet

When the day has found it's end.

T

A day

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" is the ironic reference/inscription in the famous poem by Wilfred Owen. Sharing a moment of silence with my students who didn't understand the day but could understand the concept was a special experience. However, their connection with November 11th is much different. In the meantime...

Lest we forget.

T

Marks

I'm in a perpetual state of saying hello
And then immediately saying goodbye
Packing boxes and sending them abroad
Stepping foot in new, unfamiliar lands
Taking a photo
Then walking off toward the horizon

I smile, shake hands
And disappear in the distance

I wonder if, in my experiences with others,
If I tread lightly
Barely disturbing the slight film of dust
On the souls of my friends
Or exist as a breeze
Which barely caresses an ear or cheek

I want to leave a real mark
Stamp my initials on their hearts
With an iron brand
Or carve our story upon their flesh
Like a declaration of love
Upon an oak tree

I want the scar I leave to be cherished
And recalled for decades to come
Never to be mourned
Because I want people to know
That in those moments
We lived.

T

No skies

I walked out into the world today
And noticed that there was no colour
Above my head
No sun, no hint of blue

Just canvas
And a pail of oils at my feet

There was a note alongside 
That little bucket of paints
Telling me
That it was time for me to paint the sky
And colour in everything
That hid behind my eyes

T

Another post of random bits and thoughts

A few of my own...

All things fiction are borne of reality and live as sparks in a man's heart before they find life in ink and parchment, whether presented in the realistic, fantastic, or mythic.

Some believe that mistakes cut deep and they may do their best to avoid them... but this is true only insofar as the chisel cuts deep through stone to reveal the form hiding therein. Should the sculptor avoid swinging his mallet toward the rock?

And a few quotes from Anais Nin:

"The preoccupation of the novelist: how to capture the living moments, was answered by the diary. You write while you are alive. You do not preserve them in alcohol until the moment you are ready to write about them."

"The final lesson a writer learns is that everything can nourish the writer. The dictionary, a new word, a voyage, an encounter, a talk on the street, a book, a phrase learned."

T

Goodnight.

I'm bidding my city a sort of quiet goodnight tonight, watching the rain pour down over the tile and concrete and glass that surrounds me; I battled through what can only be described as a bout of bitter melancholy today. It was only a day, as I hope for better things to come tomorrow. But the sort of angry, nearly metallic taste still lingers as if on my and makes me dread tomorrow's alarm. It came so quickly today, and I know tomorrow won't be much different. But maybe my dreams will be sweet instead of morose, and my head will rise in contentment instead of jaded frustration. Things pile. And collect. And sometimes you can actually feel their weight. Like a foot on your throat. I felt this today. The weight. And it's of my own making. The only solution: to unmake it. Tomorrow, there's a plan. End.

T

Question-based ramblings...

Just a warning... this is more just an indulgence in streaming the nonsensical things from my brain into print... I haven't thought them through enough to know if they make sense...

***

Why does it feel, so often, like we're examples of mutual exclusion? This one or that one, but never both...

And why does a public expression seem to make for a heretical declaration? 

How can a toe in the water make such a wonderful drowning?

What need have we for buoys when gills line our sides?

And what of sunlight when we can see so well under stars and moonlight?

- T

New looks

Thought I'd try out a new template. I've had the same black background for years now, so I thought it was time for an upgrade. Let me know what you think.

T

Coming down

A journal entry shortly after returning home from my holiday in Shanghai...

***

I'm sitting inside my stillness with pianos and guitars swimming around my ears. I can taste the silence of winter in the night air and for the first time this year I notice how abruptly the sun has run away from the afternoon. It's that silence of a quiet November walk on the west coast in the air, though this Far East home of mine has barely slipped past the advent of Mid-Autumn Festival. Quiet, solo nights lie ahead. Maybe I'll cram them full of chatter and TV and words, and although I can find comfort inside the company of others, I keep my phone silent and ignore the footsteps which may patter outside my door. Night's here... my night, and it's one of those times where home is here while remaining thousands of miles beyond the horizon.

I've been here countless times before, as if standing at the door of my childhood home. But the sense of what awaits me is much different, both cold and friendly, warm and sombre, all at once. I can't decide what colour it evokes... maybe a blue of the wintry moonlit ocean, or of the impossible purple hue in the late stages of a prairie sunset. Maybe it's the translucent black of a clear, starry, moonless midnight. Whatever it is, it remains immense and, while foreboding, is not wholly unwelcome.

I don't bother standing against it, but curl into the corner of the sofa so it can envelope me. I know I'll wake in the morning, possibly in the rays of the sunrise. All that needs to be done is to wait patiently for the warm rise of the early sun in the eastern sky.

T

A very "Invictus" sort of mood for life

I ravage watermelons and mangoes with messy, reckless abandon
and dream of dragonfruit and mangosteens.
I pursue sport and competition as if they were lifeblood
or the nectar of the gods.
I devour novels and poetry as more than mere subsistence
but as if they were the goal of all gluttony.
Robust red wine and seasoned meats and smoked cheeses
are no match for my appetite.
And I run...
I run as if my feet know nothing but constant motion
and without which they fail and wither and abandon me
just as I step out the door.