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...

About...

To know me is to see what I've sacrificed to uphold my beliefs and my convictions. To understand me is to seek out those beliefs and convictions in me and potentially realize their impact on my decisions and their influence in my life both past and present. To love me is to accept that those beliefs and convictions are hard and fast and will only change if I feel they no longer serve my best interests. I have become a much more confident individual and I pray those who are setting sail to discover themselves that their voyage be filled with the treasures of self-awareness and enlightenment. I know my voyage is far from over but my heart and soul treasures a very special and unique gift I've discovered along the way...

If the Stilleto FIts

Perhaps the most daunting of tasks for any one female; to fill the shoes of those who came before her. How, in today's society, can a woman truly make a difference? Has the role of gender really been cast aside in lieu of a better, genderless based society?
In a word, hardly. Have situations and such been 'brought up to par' in terms of equality towards women? Some would argue that yes, in fact, they have. Others might argue that perhaps the stakes have been swayed in favor of our ultra-feminist counterparts. Those 'thug' types whose sole agenda seems to be a dominating role over their male rivals. Still others would argue that we still have a ways to go in the fight for women's liberation.
Thing is, at least from this males vantage point, the scores are about neck and neck with just as many women out there trying to make a difference; at least in this country. Hell, even in the grand old backwards state of Alabama we have women making contributions to society on a far grander scale than in times past. That, in my mind, is a true representation of progress. Let's face it, battles may be won but the war is far from over.
So what happens when the typical male reads headlines about feminists and their agendas? Here in good old Bama Country, even if it happens on a subconscious level, men everywhere are picking up their weapon of choice for 'their cause' and battling back. I don't necessarily see this as a bad thing. It stimulates competition between the sexes which I believe is as important as the oxygen we breathe. The important thing is that both men and women are each given an opportunity to be everything they desire to be without restraint from the other side.
In my humble opinion the true definition of equality is lost on the population and a poor choice of wording for our nations founding documents. You cannot have two sides considered 'equal' until both sides match-even basic math tells us this. Hence I, myself do not subscribe to the belief that all men or women are created equal. If we were we would all possess the same level of skill and capable of the same potential. As imperfect creatures, that just doesn't add up. However, when you substitute the word balanced, which I will humbly admit sounds absurd when speaking of man in general, you arrive at an entirely different conclusion. Each has an ability or skill to bring to the table. Each has the infamous three levels of goals (private, public, political) and each will take away a different piece of the pie; some larger, some smaller. This, I believe, goes a bit farther to describe what the forefathers of our country had in mind when speaking of equality. Each man and woman, because we are of one race, human, have certain rights given to us by virtue of living here and being citizens and being human. After that, you're on your own. Does that mean one person is better than another? Nope, in fact using a term such as balanced removes the possibility for that statement altogether. It means you are a puzzle piece with a place to fit in should you be fortunate enough and diligent enough to find it.
My favorite example of this is as follows. I have a very dear friend; a colleague of mine where I work. She is my sounding board, my confidant, and someone I truly admire. To those who know her she is strong willed, confident without the ego and man oh man can she accessorize...but, I digress. She is one of the few people I know that genuinely cares about others. Sure, on the surface there are those who seem to care but will only act if it involves them personally or will impact their situation in a positive way. My friend, on the other hand, although approaching a situation with calculated compassion, always weighs both sides and arrives at what most would consider to be a fair and just compromise that will usually leave both parties feeling satisfied.
My friend is someone who dedicates herself to something willingly and faithfully; never picking up a responsibility unless the cause is something other than rewarding for herself and others.
She once said that her role as temporary chair of the Women's Leadership Institute was a dubious one. How could someone not influenced by the idea of gender ever serve to fill this type of role (since historically the role has been served by feminists, at least from my perspective and possibly hers.) My answer was swift and confident; because she, as someone without a gender agenda can more fully dedicate herself to obtaining the balance of roles between men and women. Placing more emphasis on women in a leadership role with a positive influence rather than the negative stereotype. Yet, she can still realize when the potential greatness of a man in a leadership role will serve the greater good. More at home with a power saw than a box of bonbons and the daily soaps, she champions the ideal of true leadership with her ability to see past gender bias and cut right to the meat of the matter. She can see the true potential of a person, male or female, and challenge them outright if necessary (challenges stimulate strengths) to help them achieve their true potential.
In the end, with more positive influence from this younger, leaner, unbiased generation, I believe we will begin to see a sway away from the days of old where your gender defines your personality. At least, I hope it will one day.

Musings on Life

Life. It is an idea before it ever becomes a reality. If you believe in God, as many do; before he created the heavens, the Earth and all life that dwells within it, even He must have had an idea before that creation was brought into place. Parents, the ultimate example of true human creativity, have an idea of what their children will look like, act like and how they will interact with that new life. We are an idea before we ever become a reality.
When we are born the world is instantly transformed forever because our presence is now within it. The tiniest of beating hearts seemingly have very little effect on the rest of the world but through the idea that events chain themselves from other events, the birth of one small child can have a lasting impact and no one person could ever realize just what that impact could be. All of this happens in just a matter of a few moments but can last for generations.
With each passing day we as individuals, after becoming self-aware, begin making fantastic and sometimes dreadful memories of our daily lives. It is also true that others are making memories of their daily lives and we are a part of those memories. From the smallest, most intimate moments to the grandest of events in which we each play a part, memories are being made; whether they are cherished, regretted or otherwise.
As we get older we find ourselves harkening back to days when the times were more relaxed and life was a bit easier to deal with. We remember old friends and family who have moved on or left our side for good. Some have moved on to bigger and better things and left us with impressions on our lives that changed us, molded us and sent our lives in directions that may not have occurred had they never been there; some have even passed to a much better place.
From my perspective it is so very important to remember those who have passed on to a better place. We should always let their memory stand as a testament to who they were and never fail to mention them or cherish them at any chance we are given.
Death is just a stage of life that the body must go through in order to complete a very complex cycle. It has been said, “If it were not for death life would have very little meaning.” Without death life has no real significance.
So many think of death as such a finality. In a way, the physical presence being removed from this world, it is very much a finality. However, the person is not just a body. Their personality, their memories, their experiences and the contributions that they make to the world are really what make up the person.
When you are in a dark room and strike a match the light burns into your eyes and for several moments afterward the light is still a glowing memory that will eventually fade into darkness. The same can be said of a person in another persons life. If they are there for a brief time and suddenly leave the warm glow of their memory can be felt by both mind and heart, hopefully for years afterwards.
It is my personal feeling that each individual that touches your life brings a lesson to learn, not only in life but also death. As we mature and grow wiser the memories of those who have gone before us can help us to learn from our current experiences in different ways. This is why death is not a finality to me. They may not physically be in our lives any longer and the pain that is suffered during the loss can be tremendous. They will live on in our hearts, though and if the heart becomes forgetful and all that they were passes beyond memory; that is truly the end of a life. The end of an idea: for it can be said that we come into this world after the idea is formed and we leave before the idea can be forgotten. Never forget them and a persons life is never truly final.

In the Fields - Personal Writing

In the Fields
Where else can you find something as special and eternally sacred? None but those fields of dreams where the heart escapes the reality we box it in. The soul shall endeavor to discover the path for thy heart to run free and find solace in those fields forever and ever. When the path to those fields is turned asunder by the misfortunes of life it is our duty to clear the path and begin again the cycle of harrowing those fields to return a crop of peace and prosperity for the heart and soul to graze upon. When their time has come to dwell again amongst that of other souls they shall find a comfort for they can know true peace and can spread that joy to all they come to acquaint themselves with amongst kin and brethren alike.