Thoughts for the Day

What is viewed by the willing participant as freely giving is, perhaps, viewed by some as sacrifice; is this because deep down some act is, in fact, something they themselves would be unable or unwilling to freely give of themselves? Perhaps those with a true penchant for charity only truly sacrifice that which is envied in the eyes of others.

Glimmer on the Bay

As he watched the sailboats in the bay, with their sails unfurled and catching what gentle winds were circulating, he caught a glance of her. Knew not her name but in an instance his mood was transformed. He'd come down here to escape memories both good and now tragic. They were and always would be something he would look back on with a certain melancholy; which was okay because that's how life worked, or so they told him. Still, he wished things could have turned out a little better.

Now, however, his attention had been pulled in the direction of shore. To the curled locks of a youthful looking brunette. Probably half his age or more, he thought, until she got closer. She was definitely attempting to play the part of someone younger than she was and, for all it mattered, for him she was just someone to behold. A certain radiance was there. And then, just as quickly as she had moved into view, she was now gone.

He turned back to the bay now. Then remembered the coffee shop in which they'd met. Adjacent to a bookstore, the back area a crumbling array of buildings made of brick and wild vines and grasses during the spring and summer months. Their coffee wasn't the best but it wasn't the worst. Sourced from a Guatemalan city through an importer who worked locally, it was seen as a nice hub in a city that had both forgotten its roots and remembered them well in the 10 or so museums that carefully gatekept its secrets and left a nice, touristy glaze for everyone to see.

"What was the name of that place", he said aloud to nobody in particular.

Push

The torch light held just a moment or two longer... Then, the embers held just the slightest crevice against the darkness... After that, they were plunged into darkness.

It didn't matter, though. The darkness was inevitable. After all, no matter what you did, the darkness always found a foothold... then it took over a corner... and then, once there was no more resistance, it flooded the room.

It didn't so much attack the light as just envelop it... leaving those who weren't prepared scuffling for purchase... until they could find their matches, lighters... or prayed like hell someone would come along and drag them out into the daylight.

That's where death was.

Yet, for them, it wasn't. Not yet, anyway. And if it were? So be it. They'd found plenty to die about over the last few years... plenty to sigh about over the last few decades... plenty to cry about since they'd been born.

Sure, words were the casual woman's way of attempting to give meaning to the world around you. However, it was during those placid moments... just before the tears hit... when words lost their meaning and the breath the darkness stole was absolute.

Absolute nothingness... and a dread that capitulated itself, forthright and absolute.

It might as well have been death—to be carried off like carrion into a pit so black that the soul had no way of finding its way into the light ever again.

The pain, she thought to herself... was unbearable.

From somewhere in the void, again... she heard a voice yelling...

Push.

Dear person...

It occurs to me now that maybe the whole truth about her, you know name now, wasn't that she drug me through any specific mud. Nawww, nothing like that. In fact, there were more than a few times that she drug me back to the shed, hosed me off and told me to get my little behind in the bathtub. Yet, she was a full grown adult doing this a full grown adult. She shouldn't have needed to do that with me. Yet she did it anyway. Until she couldn't. I appreciate what she done for me, more than she will ever know. Goodbye, dear person. You literally meant the world and hung the moon for me.

The truth of it...

The warming glow of the pit fire, the smell of cigar smoke on the wind, the sound of live music pouring over us, warming our thoughts and souls and the warm tickle of alcohol working to finish etching the grandest tapestries of our lives into our memories. It's not any one of those components but a subtle combination of them that constructs an enchanted evening. That is, if one just allows them to wash those tough mental callouses that have built up over the long and trying week-filled with joys and disappointments-and start the gentle healing that only comes with a social engagement.

Walking the rail...

Sometime in the last year or so I embarked on a journey I wasn't quite aware I was beginning. The starting point was unclear and most assuredly the destination is mostly a fucking mystery. Yes, at certain points I was made aware of forward motion on some path; in my case, a length of steel rail. Sometimes the length has been rusty and covered in weeds. Other times I could still smell the oil from the wheels and feel the lingering vibrations; rejoining the forward motion after a brief and necessary pause to get out of the way of a locomotive pulling a train carrying someone's precious cargo.

This is a literal and figurative progression that has become a vital part of my life. I'm a traveler but mostly to places in my mind. My imagination whisks me away while my feet take me further down a length of steel rail-until I turn around and walk down the other side; successfully giving myself a north, south east or west-bound perspective on whatever might be troubling me. Unlike the winds of change, the rail is unforgiving. It's a constant. It can hold you up but like any balancing act, it can just as quickly become your worst enemy. It will, inevitable, throw you aside and cackle like an idiot as you pick yourself up, dust yourself off and (hopefully) try again.

Eventually, as with all things we dedicate time to and practice, I have become much more balanced in both my emotional life and walking on the rail. It requires time, patience and a knack for landing gracefully for a while until you learn how to hold yourself in just the right position. Then, of course, you move forward. I'm personally envious of the acrobatic tight-rope walkers of the world. But, who knows, maybe they are just as envious of me?

Thank you for taking a moment and allowing me to introduce you to a concept and a journey that has become near and dear to me. I've loved trains ever since I was a young child. The mystery, history and allure of the steel rail has always held an appeal for me Even as so many years have been added to the life of that small child, the love has remained. I will sit sometimes now, in wonderment, as I first listen to and then watch a locomotive and its train go by. Especially on those slow days where the engineer has dialed back his speed and lazily makes his way to the next destination.

Following now are journal entries written either about or as a consequence of this unique perspective journey. What is this journey you've maybe been asking? Partly finding myself. Partly discovering what I want out of life. Partly who I am looking for to walk beside me. Preferably on a steel rail and on into the future...

The Undeniable Case of John Ruby - Personal Writing

“Memories are like starlight. They live on forever.” ~ C. W. McCall

It was a beautiful, spring mid-morning sky that greeted the funeral procession as they made their way towards a vast arrangement of cars, trucks, vans and even one or two horse-drawn carriages. The vastness of the cloudless, deep blue sky seemed to stretch on until forever; wherever that might find you. It appeared, however, to be mostly lost on those participants seeking to bury the body but not the spirit of one George Franklin.

His headstone, already chosen several years before by his darling wife and lifelong best friend, read simply, “Here lies a great man who possessed an even greater devotion to the development of those around him.” It wouldn’t have served him, more or less, to be burdened with such a malign title as dignitary but you could assure yourself that he could, on any given day, rise to the occasion of helping someone less fortunate than himself. He relished this notion and recounted his belief of it many times to those around him: I’ll leave a legacy of strong people, not monuments! A simple stone, displaying simple yet dedicated craftsmanship, was to be erected where he was finally laid to rest.

From the procession one could pick out local heroes as well as those who’d played their part on the main stage of America both on and off the red-carpeted floor of Congress. They’d come to pay their respects to a simple man who refused to be draped with the political aspirations of others but whom, it could be said, had a political opinion about everything.

Of these magicians of political rhetoric was one, John Ruby. This still-practicing lawyer of obvious southern descent who would lay awake nights worrying about his health and the health of his clients as they all faced down the challenges of this information age. Some would say if he worried half as much about his family he might have been spared the tragedy of ’77 but no man or beast would ever convince John Ruby he’d done anything more than what God ever intended him to do.

John did have a son who survived that tragedy. However, he was fortunately never made aware of this minor bit of trivia; a small nugget of information that might have just sent his fare town into one hell of a tizzy. As John climbed into his suburban he saw, from the reflection in his side mirror, the mother of a child who was friends with his “official” son getting settled into her car. You know, I should remember her name. It really has been some years though.

John hoped he might be spared the embarrassment of forgetting this poor woman’s name. She pulled in behind him as he entered the motorcade procession. Now he was certain he’d have to face her. The cemetery was only a few blocks from this church and he hoped he could remember her name by then. Maybe I really could have paid more attention to my family, he thought to himself, almost dismissingly.

---

It wasn’t hard to recognize him as he stood upon the steps of the church. He’d been seen coming into town a few days ago since news spread so quickly after George’s death. As close as they say he had been to George it would have been no real surprise if someone called the man out of some important meeting or another just minutes after they stopped the clocks in the house. There were many who suspected most of Ruby’s associations with George were entirely fabricated but in the absence of a star witness, namely Mr. Franklin, it was anybody’s guess whether the two had done any sort of business together or not. As the ladies of the Women’s League were fond of saying about George, “He does cater to lost causes more often than he should!” and don’t you know most the townsfolk felt John Ruby was probably the most lost by far.

They’d come to honor George though and she best remember that. Who was it that said a funeral was for those well-wishers and temporally cheap dignitaries who couldn’t afford to make time before they were finally out of time? More likely her father or his good friend Karl, she suspected. How many hours had the two of them spent in that cabin on the river anyway? She chuckled to herself, hearing her mother’s voice in her own.

The processional motorcade ended on the curb facing a rather sparse but growing crowd. Two tents had been erected and a slew of chairs decked out in blue faux-fur were assembled beneath them. She emerged from her car as she caught sight of the pall-bearers as they began congregating behind the hearse. It looked as though Paul Laramie and his son had both been tapped for this particular occasion; a bit unusual but not unheard of in these parts. They both exchanged awkward glances with the rest of the ensemble and waited patiently for a cue from the funeral director.

XII:XV

The ancient, hammered clock struck midnight in the hall, just inches away. The rain outside pounded against the windows, deftly rapping its morse code upon their smooth glass to no soul apparent to the listless, restless night. A sliver of light, dancing to and fro, escaped from beneath the door of the bedroom down the hall, no doubt the flame from mothers candle being frisked angrily about by currents of air thrown through a crevice by the fiercely blowing wind. Just beyond the edge of the stair, where hungry shadows awaited to devour the remaining light and anyone foolish enough to step within its boundaries, a sound eddied from the world below and just as quickly as it had begun its heavenly decent it was hushed by manner unseen (or unheard.) A whispered, perhaps an imagined, hungry sound. With a mighty force that must have sent the rain sideways and tree limbs swaying with fury, the wind seemed to push its weight with an even heavier might so much so that the dying, dancing flame of mothers candle was doused all at once, the light retreating from whence it came, leaving the shadows a finish to their meal; first the stairs and now the landing and anyone foolish enough to remain standing on its seemingly safe and sane quarters. Darkness, robbed of light from moon, stars or other heavenly or earthly illumination, settled itself over the whole of the place, as the clock struck twelve-fifteen.

An Afternoon in March - Personal Writing

I'd gone to the park to grab a few minutes of quiet, to let the warmish wind blow through the car a bit and enjoy the remainder of the fragrant and sunny Spring afternoon as the clock toddled into evening. The sun had made its descent into a welcoming westward sky, the birds had refrained their chorus, most likely catching a well-deserved lazy afternoon nap and the sound of a jet bound for someplace, important to its passengers, made its way across a brilliant blue sky spotted with a few skimpy, gentile clouds. As bad as it had gotten and as bad as it might get, one thing was for sure; those few moments of certainty, while the voices of children laughing and playing in the park below could be heard, the world sort of stopped for a minute or two and let you get in one good breath before the carousel started back up again in fast forward. In those few, precious moments, where you just want to pull all of them aside and say, "take not, this innocence, for granted. Hold onto to it for as long as you can!"

Farewell, teacher...

A very close and dear friend of mine died this past year. They didn't die of the usual causes, either. It wasn't a heart attack or a tumor. They didn't contract some dreadful disease and perish nor were they lost in a traffic mishap nor did they slip and drown in their bathtub. No, they changed. With it, they took the parts of them I knew and most treasured. They became just like everyone else. The qualities that made them unique, much like a terminal disease effecting the body, they just withered away and died. I would like to say these qualities were replaced with equitable qualities, perhaps hidden from view. Yet, my faith in that possibility just isn't there.

No memorial services will be held...