The neighbors next door racket
The dirt, the grime
Reminds me of Grove Street
And Mac, sleeping
Angelic snores from a lofted bed
Where I sat, idle in the morning
Last nights memory a circus
Holding my piss, hungry
Waiting for Forest to finish his shower
So as I could relieve myself
And head back to Long Island
Where I’d dream of dying
In my studio by the sea
Beautiful music plays
while I remember—the worst—
most beautiful days.
Yes, I knew better
with every fiber of my being
I just couldn’t stop the show
even if I’d wanted to
The dancers danced regardless
while the showmen sang,
underpaid and underdressed
If nothing, I knew better
than to give them validation
or the contents of my soul.
In the presence of family,
be only with family.
Put aside the work and worry.
It’ll be there when you part.
And enjoy one another
as if each member of your family
were a dish at the dinner table.
Fill yourself with their essence.
Allow them like nutrients
to replenish your mind, body, and soul
so that when you leave one another
you’ll do so knowing
their presence is with you
for better or worse, forever and onward—
second star to the right and straight on till morning.
Love is a language
a well written play
worn like a curtain
pulled closed on a stage
the cheering erupts
thrown roses at bay
behind a closed curtain
life’s finest display.
What is it that makes you Tik? And I’ll tell you what makes me Tok.
(But for real! What makes you get up in the morning, drives you through the day, and helps guide you to sleep?)
I’m curious to know more about you.
I’m all ears…
After a good, long day of self reliance, sleep, and in depth personal analysis, I am left with this thought.
What you do from here on out is your own cross to bear.
Though like a broken record I’ve continued to circle in place.
Einstein said, “insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
Well, though I agree I’m no Einstein, I’m not insane, I’m just a bit of a slow learner.
See, the hardest pattern to break isn’t necessarily the pattern but the mission so to speak.
We’re all on our own personal mission, aren’t we?
And whether or not we choose to accept it, it exists.
It’s taken many years through trial and error, deliberation, and self reliance to understand.
Carole King said, “you’ve got to get up every morning with a smile on your face and show the world all the love in your heart…”
Carole also had two children by the time of her divorce and continued to create with love and compassion.
So what’s my personal mission? And what’s yours?
Will we rise tomorrow with faith and gratitude in our hearts or repeat the same patterns that no longer serve us?
Olmec said, “the choices are yours and yours alone.”
But of course we all need a few humorous anecdotes to help us get through.
And I will, as will you.
Tomorrow, reach a little further than you did today. Try something new and show the world the love in your heart. The choices are yours.
And I’ve built my cross, one which I’m willing to bear.
It’s a heavy son of a gun, but I assure you I’ll be walking, hand over foot—that which does not kill us, makes us stronger— like Nietzsche once said.
If I could go back, all those years, and stand next to twelve year old me, would I have the courage and strength to tell that nervous boy watching all the other children, swimming, laughing, and running—playing shirts v.s. skins—to quit worrying and join in, that it doesn’t matter how chubby you feel, or how different you look, that as long as you love and accept yourself, no words from another can harm you, or would I just sit back and watch, still the observer unable to join the party?
It’s funny how something so simple as taking your shirt off to swim can be so detrimental to a young child’s self esteem and yet as adults we often forget what that was like or rather what external forces beyond our control led us to believe ourselves unworthy of such a simple, yet harrowing task.
As in childhood, so as in adulthood, what we allow to harm us will.
Commercials show us long, slender, sleek models who seem to effortlessly fit in to their surroundings while being rewarded with warm smiles and admiration for seeming perfect.
Television shows and movies give us well manicured, quintessential versions of ourselves that often seem more like science fiction than what actually is.
Billboard ads and magazines are placed conveniently to fill all our psyche with blemish-less detail to promote this false sense of unattainable beauty that even when met, there’s ultimately an even whiter teeth formula, or wax to whisk away our imperfection.
It’s a cycle that even before the mind has time to develop, stunts it’s growth and like a cavity begins to decay all sense of self worth.
How often have you judged yourself by your looks rather than how you feel?
For this average white guy, countless.
But it’s taken all those countless times to figure out that it doesn’t matter in the slightest, especially as a child who’s developing.
So would I tell that twelve year old me to take his shirt off and go swimming with the rest of the lot?
I don’t think there is a clear answer other than that instead of telling him what he should or shouldn’t do like all the rest of the world, I’d allow him the opportunity to listen to my story and decide for himself.
But I would say this. Chances are that boy or girl over there thinks there nose is too big or there ears are too small. Chances are that kid who cringes to put on his glasses everyday feels just like you do now, wondering what others will think of what makes him human.
Perhaps I’d reassure him that everybody has stretch marks, even the biggest, strongest athletes. Even his mother, and what could be more beautiful than sacrificing your physical form to grant another life?
But we all figure it out in our own time.
I know he did.
Even those tiny violinist’s know when to stop playing
and when to start singing the bridge over Simon’s water.