Tag: life

Father’s Day

I don’t much remember my early childhood with my dad. This isn’t so much a specific memory error as I don’t remember much at all anyway. But I do remember holding his hand as I walked as a young kid, or taking naps on Sunday afternoon next to him on the couch.

I remember him coaching (or was it umpiring?) the T-ball team I played on. After getting a hit, I remember fixing my gaze on him as he stood by first base. As I ran up the line, I was running towards my father. I remember how excited I would be if I beat out the play, to stand next to him while I waited for the next batter to get a hit, or the disappointment if I was out, to have to jog back to the bench and leave my dad standing there.

Much later, in my junior year of high school, he and I played on the same church softball team. I don’t remember our team being that good overall, but my dad pitched and I played infield/outfield. It was fun watching him from the center of the diamond, and knowing we were playing the game I (almost*) love together. *Softball is not baseball.

Not everything from my childhood with my dad was roses and sunshine. I also remember being terrified of my dad. “Just wait until your father comes home” was no idle threat, and if I was disobedient, my mother would say variations of that, and I would live in fear the rest of the day of what would happen when my father did arrive home from work. I would usually receive a violent spanking, maybe get yelled at, or have some other abusive punishment. I know now that he was struggling with his own mental health, tough work environments, and the stress of raising me and my brothers and sister. I don’t say this to excuse the abuse, but to put it in context. He did the best he could, even if that was sometimes horrible.

It took me a long time to understand and appreciate my dad. I certainly didn’t know about mental health and stress as a kid or teenager. I just knew my dad would often sleep a lot after work, be moody, and sometimes emotionally unavailable. He would yell, he could be violent, but that wasn’t all he was. He was, and ever is, gracious, generous, loving, ready to help out where he can, paradoxically patient (in relation to his emotional swings), and funny. He is smart, incredibly wise and understanding, and always ready for a good time.

It was from my father that I received, and am ever grateful for, my love of all things science fiction, of Isaac Asimov, of Star Trek, and many other things. We enjoy many of the same books, and films, and he was my gateway to nerd culture. Without him, I would not be who I am today, in more ways than one.

I’ve said before that as I grew up, matured, and left home, I felt like I had two dads. One that wasn’t much fun to be around, and one that I loved a lot. I viscerally hated the first, and enduringly cared for the second. It made for some complicated feelings. As a young adult, I wasn’t around my father much. He was in Papua New Guinea and I was in various colleges, universities, and my first home with my first wife. I spent much of my time nursing an overpowering rage towards my dad as I dealt with my own precipitously declining mental health. My first therapy sessions were more about him and my anger towards him than my failing marriage or anything else.

I often wonder if I had focused my attention in therapy elsewhere if I would still be married to my first wife, and if I wouldn’t know my dad as I do today. That is still an impossible choice to make, even in hindsight, but I all I knew then was an overwhelming cloud of negativity towards him that I wanted to dispel. As I got healthier, got started on medication, and talked so much about our life together, he and I, I realized we had more in common than not, and I learned to love who he is, and accept who he was.

My marriage failed spectacularly, but I regained my father. I will leave history to judge what the ultimate meaning of that is, but I’ll just say I am glad to have a relationship with my dad once again. It was still rocky over the few years following the onset of my therapy, but I am so ecstatic to say that my dad and I have a fantastic relationship now. We can talk about almost anything, we share so many things in common, and we enjoy our time together.

For me, Father’s Day was complicated. I was expected to make cards for, and show appreciate for, a man who at times abused and loved me, who frightened and delighted me, who was there and not there. It was difficult. Now I am so happy that Father’s Day is an uncomplicated time to celebrate my dad, in all his failures and successes.

I cherish and love my dad so much. I am forever grateful that I am his son. I didn’t get to chose my dad, or have much choice over how my first eighteen years played out, but I do get to choose him now. We are both so much in a better place than we were seventeen years ago, and while its been a tough journey, it’s a road we’ve walked together. I look forward to the rest of our travels, my dad and I.

I recently watched Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade with my father, and my favorite part of that film is the relationship between Indy and his father. Their interplay and rediscovery of a wounded relationship was always something I identified with. I have now what they discovered in that film: an appreciation of who my dad is, and a renewed joy in spending life together with him.

In some ways, I will always be running towards my father, following in his footsteps, trying to be the best man he was always striving to be, and didn’t know how to be. I don’t know if I’ll ever arrive where he is, but I do know we can stand together now, safe, and looking forward to what is ahead.

I love you, Dad.

Dad and Me, a few years ago

Milestones

Hit. Single. Squibber. Blooper. Line drive. Bouncer. Whatever you call it, Detroit Tigers’ designated hitter Miguel Cabrera has 3,002 of them (at time of writing). Some of them were home runs, doubles, and I’m sure a few were even triples. In fact, Cabrera’s first hit was actually a home run, as were his 1,000th and 2,000th hits. Three thousand was a slap shot through the infield into right field. Not even Cabrera can hit it out of the park every time.

I’ve been watching Miguel Cabrera play baseball since 2003. It’s surreal that I saw his journey begin 19 years ago, and while not over now, 2022 is certainly the twilight of his career. Cabrera started with the then Florida Marlins, and I was living in Orlando at the time. I watched the Marlins advance to the World Series that year, and saw Cabrera and his teammates defeat the New York Yankees to win it all. (A lifelong Cleveland baseball fan, I will nonetheless cheer for any team playing against the Yankees.)

I almost saw Miguel Cabrera hit his 500th home run. Ever since I was young, I’ve wanted to visit all 30 Major League Baseball stadiums, and number 10 on my list was Comerica Park, home of the Detroit Tigers. Last year Cabrera was chasing another milestone: 500 home runs. Alas, he didn’t hit one while I was there, needing a few more games to get to the momentous number, though like his 3,000th hit, I saw the game on TV.

Ever since this afternoon’s famous hit, I’ve been thinking about other milestones I’ve witnessed in baseball. First to come to mind is Cal Ripken Jr’s breaking of Lou Gerig’s consecutive game streak in 1995. Gerig played for 2,130 straight games. Ripken would play for another 502 games to set the record at 2,632, finally ending the streak in 1998. I was eight years old when I watched Ripken on that first historic night.

Roger Maris, back in 1961, set the home run record for most home runs in a single season at 61. That record would stand until 1998, truly an historic year in baseball, when Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire would simultaneously chase Maris’ record. I remember watching highlight after highlight of home run after home run as those two power hitters traded the most home runs that year. McGwire would come out on top with 70, a record that would stand until Barry Bonds hit 73 three years later in 2001. Sosa, McGwire, and Bonds have all been plagued by allegations of steroid or other PED use that sullies their achievements, but as a kid in the 90’s nothing was more exciting than watching all those home runs fly out of the ball park.

Mariano Rivera is one of the greatest closing pitchers of all time, and currently holds the record for saves at 652, set in 2013. I remember Rivera not just saving baseball games, but completely shutting them down. Whenever he came out of the bullpen, to Metallica’s “Enter Sandman”, you just knew the game was over for the opposing team, and it very often was.

As I’ve grown up watching baseball, and continued to watch it every year, I’ve seen many amazing plays, records, and incredible feats on the diamond. Along the way, I’ve grown up and have been making a life for myself. It was always my dream to play professional baseball, and while that dream never materialized, I remain a lifelong lover of the game. It’s surreal to me that I’ve seen so many great, now Hall of Fame, players, and Miguel Cabrera is one who I’ve been privileged to see for his entire career so far. There have been others, of course, having watched baseball for close to 35 years, but Cabrera stands out among them. Congratulations to him on 3,002 hits and as many more as he can collect before he retires to well deserved accolades and eventually the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame.

Play Ball!

It’s been a while, everyone. I’m struggling to stay positive and forward thinking. Objectively, I am doing alright, but psychologically, it doesn’t feel that way. That’s depression, I guess.

When last I wrote, my job had been halved, and it still is. Since then I’ve been on a job interview, and am doing the maddening waiting game to hear if I have new employment. A painting was in progress, and I finished it, though I am disappointed with the end result (it was a paint by number kit, which I hadn’t attempted since my childhood). I haven’t worked out this week aside from doing yard work on Monday, which hit my fitness goals while not feeling like working out, a net positive I guess. Overall, I feel defeated.

I have created some more pieces for my photography diorama which I am extremely happy with, and I am still working on my 52 Week Photography Challenge, though I missed a photo (which I plan to make up this week). You can see both the diorama bits and my latest challenge pic on my Instagram. I have purchased a few new books that I am excited to try to read. I have projects to work on, and things to do around the house. I don’t lack for directions to go.

Yet I don’t know what is going on. Perhaps I need to adjust medication, or maybe I need to just endure some doldrums. Maybe a new job would provide the pick-me-up that I need. I just don’t know. I am taking at least one, sometimes two, short naps a day, even on days when I work out or am more active. Lately, when I do have a more active or productive day, it feels like I pay for it for the next few days. By that I mean I spend the following days unable to do much other than sit around. I try to give myself grace, and let be what will be, but it’s hard to not feel like I “should” be doing this or that. The sin of productivity follows me all the days of my life, it seems.

Last time I wrote that I don’t want to complain, and while I am trying hard not to do that, it really is difficult. I admit my frustration; clearly I want things that I cannot access right now. If you follow my blog regularly it probably feels a bit down in the mouth recently. If nothing else, I strive for honesty here. You won’t find much sugarcoating, so take this for what it is: a real look at my life. This blog is called A Simple Man, and that is all I am: a simple man, trying to make my way in the universe.

I spent part of yesterday, or the day before, just sitting outside with my pups. It was warm in the sunshine, with a nice breeze. The dogs were soaking up both, and I tried to stay in the moment, practicing mindfulness and being present where I was, not letting my mind wander or my thoughts intrude in the peacefulness. Mostly I was successful. I got some vitamin D, and a small respite from all this negativity that I’ve been experiencing lately. It was great. Then I had to come inside and back to all the grey. Still, I am thankful for what I have right now. It could be, and has been, much worse at times in my life. I’ll take all the forward progress I’ve made.

As always, I march ever onward. I really want to bring a positive blog post soon, and hope I can. For now, it is what it is. I was just watching a baseball game, and the Guardians won a double-header. But I am reminded that baseball is 162 games in a season, and is perhaps the hardest grind there is among the top sports. You don’t win baseball in an at bat, an inning pitched, or even in a game, but over the long haul. If you are not prepared to hurt, to be down and out, and to completely strike out, baseball is not for you. Champions are made from those who show up to the ballpark day after day and tie on their cleats, button up their jersey, and straighten their hat and go back out there to compete again. I’ll take a lesson from my favorite sport, and remember that it isn’t today that determines whether I am on top or not, but rather it’s the many days of being in the sun that proves I am where I want to be.

Mine Own Deformity

I am simmering with rage. I am sinking to the terrible depths of despair. I am blanking into the unremarkable mess of it all, bland and unfeeling. I am barely holding back tears of burning, biting sorrow. I am frustrated. Bitter. I stumble through murky mists and sit and stare at nothing.

I am listening to a song by an old band, a favorite of mine, Burlap to Cashmere, called “Scenes”. The lyrics talk of a fight, a war, and quotes from Richard the III, a play about a twisted man who plots to be king. It is a deep cut from my teenage-hood, a turbulent time of longing, depression, and deep angst.

As befits my mood, I am listening to the song on repeat and brooding on the meaning, and mine own deformity of mind.

I don’t necessarily want to unpack and lay bare all my feelings. This isn’t that kind of post, and really, that sort of talk belongs in therapy securely locked behind patient-therapist confidentiality. What I do want to talk about is the fact that mental illness, while ever present, is not insurmountable.

I haven’t written about my unending, unyielding fight against depression in a while, but I have done so quite a bit before on this blog. Mostly I try to keep things positive, and sunward.

Lately I have noticed a trend in my life, of ups and downs, and they are becoming quite predictable. I will have a day, or two, or three if I can stretch it, of productivity, good feelings, and steady energy. Following that, I will have a few days of sleep, lethargy, and feeling out of sorts and down. This evening is the first time in a long time I have felt dark.

If this sort of talk makes you uncomfortable, welcome to my world.

I am uncomfortable most of the time, usually tempted to hate the sunlight and the happy times, because I know that night and sadness inevitably follows.

I simply mean to say that tonight I feel so much. It’s confusing, irritating, and follows a day or so of blah. It’s exhausting. I want to feel me and myself and have that stretch into an unending now-ness of being who I truly am when I can shake off all else that drags me down. But I can’t always do that.

Why type all this? Why put it out into the world and rip away the facade to show my nakedest, truest self? To declare, once more, through the darkness and negativity that I. Am. Me. This is actually the anthem of my living day, that I. Am. NOT. defined by depression. I am myself.

Honestly I don’t feel that, and the voice in my head is telling me to delete all this, that it is shit, and I shouldn’t bother. But I know that voice. It is a filthy liar, and isn’t a reflection of reality. Without straying into therapy again, I have defeated that voice, despite it’s endurance, and don’t need to listen to it. I can direct the aimlessness, dispel the murk, and march steadily towards far green countries. I am the Hero I need so desperately in the fight.

I have tattooed on my arms two Elvish phrases: aure entuluva and auta i kelomia. They mean “day shall come again” and “night is passing away” and too often I fail to read and comprehend why I have those marked forever on my body. It is for times such as these, when I need to stand and continue forwards. That’s why I keep going, because even the darkness must pass and the light will shine out the clearer in its wake.

I turn off the song, turn down the lights, and settle into bed. As Gandalf the Grey, the wise, the friend, once said: “All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.” And I am deciding to continue to fight against my depression and have a better day with the rising of the sun.

Mental illness may feel strong, but I am stronger by far.

Derailed

Life. Look, I don’t swear much when I write, mostly because my mom sometimes reads these, but life is sometimes fucked up and exhausting. I was about to say especially these days with covid but I am not sure that is true. Sure, a global pandemic that is still raging after two brutal years is unprecedented, but I am not certain that life hasn’t always been difficult for one reason or another. Maybe these days we all finally share an affliction, along with everything else. Maybe now with social media and the firehose of information that most of us have access to it is more immediate and raw. In the elder days, we didn’t always know what was happening across the world or in other communities. But now? In. Your. FACE. ALL the TIME.

And I have had, since summer, a bunch of little things all the time that are hammering away at me. I’ve talked about some of them here, others on Twitter, but they are here and not leaving. And really, I am worn down. I can’t care about most of them most of the time anymore. I simply don’t have the emotional capacity. I would love to be concerned about all the troubles of the world, but that simply isn’t possible for a fully functioning adult, and let’s face it, I am not one of those. On good days, I can barely make it, but on most days? Forget anything other than surviving.

I’m being real because life is real. I suffer from depression and social anxiety and other mental health afflictions that make it difficult for me to cope most days. But none of that is really what I want to talk about right now.

I am feeling particularly down because I have made commitments that I am not currently able to follow through on. I was taught to always make good my obligations, to honor what I said, and to let my “yes be yes” as the “Good Book” says. On the surface, as an adult, you should generally be reliable and dependable. I find that a challenge.

Example: my wife wrote more than half a book on writing. She began by asking me to look over a few chapters and to give her some feedback and help edit. It grew and developed into a project that I was helping to write by punching up the prose. I gave myself the deadline of October to get it done. It’s October now. How much have I done? None of it since summer. I feel terrible. My wife is depending on me to finish the book and deliver on my promise. But the last few months? I haven’t had the mental energy. I haven’t had the emotional reserves to pour into a large project. I completely missed the deadline. She asked me about it today, and I admitted that I hadn’t worked on it. I felt horrible to have to say that, because I know it is something she worked hard on, and not only do I want to honor her hard work, but I want to honor my commitment to do my part of the work.

I will get it done, eventually. I know that isn’t what my wife wanted to hear this morning, but I wasn’t about to lie. I wasn’t about to sugarcoat, or tiptoe. I have always tried to own up to my shortcomings. I don’t always do the work or follow through, and I fail, and that is my own particular road to hell. I could cheat, I could shortcut, but that proves nothing except that I know how to fake it. And I am not about fake things. Where does that leave me? With a half completed manuscript and a broken promise. I am struggling to work on my book of poetry. I have started a GoFundMe for my podcast that I want to start. Progress on those projects? I have my poems collected and that is all. I have no donations and no way to start on my podcast. I feel like I’ve walked down a single road and found multiple dead ends.

I have this maddening inability to exercise my full self. I really want to work on these projects and more. I want to create a work of poetry. I want to start a podcast. I want to finish the book my wife and I are writing. Some days I can work on some project or other. Most I can’t. I know that I have written about this before. Perhaps it is my lot in life. I seem made to suffer, as my internal Threepio would say. I have tried medications and therapy and they have moved me to a place where I can half function half of the time. But that far, and no further, it seems.

I wish I had a happy ending, a positive note, or a way to see the sunshine through the clouds. I’ve got nothing. Not now. Not here. I am exactly what I appear to be, a simple man, trying desperately to make my own way in the universe. Sometimes I end up among the stars, flying high, but most of the time, I end up at the bitter end of a bar sipping a galling drink, ruminating on the broken road that led me to where I am. I’ll finish my libation, head to bed, and hope for a better tomorrow. That is all anyone can do.

Check Up: 2021

I’ve been real on this blog before. Just search for “depression” and you will find a bunch of posts by me talking about my long-term association with the range of depressive expressions in life. I struggle with feeling anxiety, “classic” blues depression, and lethargy. I often sleep a lot; I can’t find the motivation to do what I want to do; and I find it difficult to engage in my hobbies and artistic endeavors. It is extremely frustrating. For instance: today I took a shower and changed my watch band, and that is the sum total of my productive energy thus far. As it goes, that is a win.

But I am increasingly dissatisfied with how my life is right now. I want to do and be more. I want to reach beyond. I want to own my depression instead of having it own me. I don’t even know if that is possible, but that is my new goal here heading into the end of 2021. Already we are eight months into the year, and I feel I haven’t really done anything.

I have a book that I am working on with my wife that I haven’t worked on in a long time. I have a book of poetry that I am trying to compile that I haven’t touched since vacation a few weeks ago. I have a podcast I want to launch in 2022. And I want to get back into building a little bit with LEGO, photographing my Star Wars Black Series action figures, LEGO minifigures, and other toys. I have dreams and aspirations. I just can’t, quite, reach them all right now.

To be fair, though, in this year thus far I have beaten Covid-19, re-launched my blog, took on a second part-time job, and had a week of vacation. So objectively I am not doing so bad from a “macro” point of view. From the microcosm of everyday life, however, I am still coming up very short. Most days I do nothing, or very little. My forays into the arts come in large segments in short amounts of time. I blog irregularly, albeit a lot more than I used to (thank you, Bluetooth keyboard!). So again, I am not doing that poorly. But I want more. So how do I get there?

I think a good first step is to check in with my doctor. Maybe there is a medication adjustment I can make. With the sleeping, perhaps I should have another sleep study done or see if my CPAP needs tweaking. I want to make sure I am solid from a medical point of view. Psychologically, I feel, even with my frustrations and inability to act, I am doing well. I don’t have the huge swings of emotion that I used to have. I don’t have a lack of direction, and I don’t have a morosity or deep blue sea of overwhelming downness. What I do have, simply, is an inability to act, to get started, and to do. And I sleep a lot. (Damn! but that is frustrating.)

The good news is I have an appointment with my doctor on Thursday. I have another side issue that has crept up that needs to be discussed, and while I am there I want to ask her about these other things, the sleepiness and the lethargy. Maybe together we can get a handle on this particular dragon and see about looting the hoard it is currently, ahem, sleeping on. I hope. The next step will come after that.

All I know is I have been beaten down and motionless for far too long. I want to get going. Hopefully with a little help, determination, and hard work (because I just know that that is going to be a part of it) I can get where I want to be. I am no stranger to hard work. Done it before; don’t enjoy it – but I can do it. If that is what it ultimately takes, I am down for it. All I really need to know is what direction to go in. Even if the going gets tough, as the old saying goes, I am tough enough to get going. (Hoo rah!) But seriously. I really want my life to change and the only way it will is to make the effort to change it.

If you are struggling, it is ok to ask for help. Help is how anyone gets anywhere. Sometimes it comes from a source you do not expect, or a direction in which you are not looking. But accept it when it arrives. Use it to launch yourself forward. Along the way, acknowledge what you are already achieving. Give yourself the credit you deserve. Just today, one of my heroes, Adam Savage, reminded me that it is a demonstrable fact that humanity minimizes success and overemphasizes failure. I have done it just here in this post. Look at how much I have actually achieved versus how much I talk about what I haven’t. So don’t do that, RedBeard, or anyone else who is listening. You are doing great! And can do better!

I head into the rest of my day with a renewed sense of purpose and a new determination. I can do this. I will check back in and let you know how I am doing, but for now, I am optimistic. I know the next step to take, so I am taking it and trusting that the rest of the steps ahead will reveal themselves. They have so far, so there is no reason to expect that they won’t in the future. As the late, great Stan Lee used to always say: “Excelsior!”

Glimpse of Mortality

I’ve been close to death before, but it was quick. A move of desperation, grim faced and full of rage, daring the Reaper to take me. Then I rushed to my senses and swerved to safety.

But this past winter, I was made to stare into my own mortality and really contemplate the end. I was made to live with the knowledge that each labored breath could be my last, that if things went sideways or southwards, I’d be headed for my end.

I was one of millions who contacted the Covid-19 virus and it sent me to the hospital. I had survived a year of mask wearing and lockdowns and restrictions, but at the turn of the calendar, I got sick. One dark night, I tried to go to sleep. I have sleep apnea, and wear a cpap mask to keep my airways open. But even with that, I couldn’t fall asleep. Even with that positive air pressure being forced into my lungs, I couldn’t grab a breath. Into the night, sitting up in a recliner, I labored to breathe.

Eventually I texted my wife, unable to get enough breath to shout up to the bedroom on the second floor. Eventually I woke her up, and told her I needed to go to the Emergency Room. All the way to the hospital, I felt fear take hold. Unlike my previous suicide attempts, when I desperately wanted to die, this time I desperately wanted to live.

All year, I had seen the death toll rise world wide. I had read and heard stories of healthy people succumbing to this virus that sometimes seemed innocuous, and sometimes seemed vicious. I began to be terrified that I would never leave the hospital alive.

We arrived, and I sat alone in the waiting room, struggling to breathe. My wife wasn’t allowed to sit with me, to reduce the risk of infection to those healthy of the virus. Fear settled in to stay. Eventually I was taken back for a few questions and tests. I was given oxygen and a wheel chair. I could breathe easier, but inside I was still gasping, grasping for a hold on the moment.

After forever, I was taken to a room on the ER floor. An oxygen feed kept me breathing. After a bad night during which I didn’t sleep a wink and was reduced to deep indignity (no nurse was available to unhook my IV and in desperate need of relief, I shit my pants and pissed all over the room floor and still waited 15 minutes for help and a janitor to clean up my mess). But that was nothing: I was being admitted with a severe case of covid.

What followed was a week in which I was sequestered by myself in a hospital room on the fifth floor. A friend visited, but we talked on the phone and saw each other from 30 feet away through a window in the wall. He wasn’t allowed closer, being a nurse himself caring for covid patients. I couldn’t see my wife, and could only call her. I still can’t imagine what that week was like for her, alone and herself afflicted with a milder case of the virus.

I spent my long hours staring out of the window, watching the weather and thinking. For the first time in my life, I really contemplated the fact that I could die. The doctors, not seeing improvement, started me on steroids and a powerful drug (I don’t remember what it was called) to try to fight the infection. I was so scared, though I put on a brave voice for my family when they called. I kept thinking that healthier people than me had lost their battles with covid.

Eventually, after a few days, I did start to get better. In the end, I spent a full week in the hospital. I was discharged on oxygen and with a bucketful of meds, healthy enough to finish my recovery at home. I was finally reunited with my wife. It felt so good, though I was weak and still finding it hard to breathe.

It has taken me much longer to recover psychologically. Thanks to my doctors and the medication, my body got stronger and I could surrender the oxygen and I could walk up the stairs without getting winded. But the fear has only recently loosed its grip on my heart and mind. With my covid vaccine, I now am starting to feel that I might live a while yet.

No longer will I take life for granted. Never again will I tempt the Reaper. I know now that my life is precious. It could flee from me at any moment, after all, I could get into a car accident tomorrow, or something else could happen. The permanence of life remains an illusion.

But I deeply appreciate my life now in a way I didn’t before. I am gentler with myself, more accepting of my flaws and foibles. They aren’t as important or devastating anymore. I have been given a perspective I lacked before. I was flat where now I feel dimension. And all it took was a real look into the specter of nothingness. I wouldn’t wish covid on anyone. I wish I never had that experience, but I cannot deny the change it made to my life. It has taken me months to publicly talk about it in this way. But I find it important to acknowledge what happened.

I feel my life has begun in a new way since January. I feel I am living a renewed existence. And it feels good. Life still hurts and is confusing and messy and frustrating, but at least for now, I am breathing. And that’s not nothing.

One of those days when I was just lying in my hospital bed, I wrote a little poem. It isn’t anything profound, but I find it beautiful, and it is these little moments of beauty that I live for now. Life isn’t guaranteed, never was really, so I am about catching the little moments of beauty while they last.

The city,
wreathed in steam,
dominates only a small portion
of my windowed horizon.
An industrial plateau stretches ‘round.
What I took for a flock of birds,
frozen in the sky:
dirt on the windowpane.
Low winter clouds buttress the sky above,
grey and bleak and lit from far away.

- view from A5110

Shiver My Timbers

I shiver my timbers
In the sudden warmth of March
Lockstep
Towards the twelfth dread
Another spin around the drain
maelstrom’s fire scorching space

I fancy myself piratical
adrift, now making sail
Heaving to galactic destiny
Shanghaied
The siren sings of emancipation
Unlocking the depths

Yo oh heave ho
Haul anchors away
Into scarlet skies at night
Spinning yarns that couldn’t be told
Jones’ bones are allowed to speak
Dead man no more

Not all treasure
Is silvers of steel drenched
In blood
Pulled from beating hearts
Salty breezes sweep
Hearts high on sea swells

Star Wars: The Phantom Confession

“At last I will reveal myself to the internet. At last I shall have catharsis.” – Darth Me

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The Phantom Menace premiered in theaters on May 19, 1999. I had just turned 12 two months before and I was ecstatic to see this new Star Wars film. You have to remember, in those days, Star Wars was a trilogy, a finished masterpiece in three volumes. It had been since 1983, four years before my birth. For my entire life, Star Wars was the best set of films there were for a nerd, young or old. It was “this colossus, this great legendary thing”.

A new film, a new trilogy, was announced. I scoured the young internet for news, images, clips, rumors and at dial-up speed, fuzzy jpegs revealed themselves for my viewing pleasure. Articles kept me fascinated. There wasn’t much being disseminated, remember, again, this was before Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, and every other network. We had no smart phones, no texting, no social media. I remember reading articles in actual magazines and the newspaper about this new Star Wars film. I cut out pictures from pages and savored images of Qui-Gon Jinn, whom I mistook for Obi-Wan Kenobi, and Jake Lloyd and Ewan McGregor whom I thought were playing Anakin Skywalker. I also remember savoring images of the Naboo starfighter: graceful, sleek, and deadly. Much of my information also came from LEGO, who had just signed a deal with Lucasfilm to produce Star Wars branded and based Lego sets. Most of my early spoilers came from LEGO fan club magazines that depicted ships, characters, and locations in brick form. Pepsi had also made a marketing deal in which every can of every variety of soda featured a different character image with a printed backstory that you could collect. Even Taco Bell got in on the marketing with their stupid chihuahua.  It was all glorious and amazing and wonderful. I annoyed my family and friends silly because I would not stop talking about the new Star Wars film. It was to be the best thing EVER.

A few days, or weeks, I don’t remember exactly, into the premier my dad took myself and my brother to a Saturday afternoon showing of The Phantom Menace and I floated into the theater. I absorbed every sound, image, and musical cue with delight … except … except, something wasn’t quite right. Jar Jar Binks wasn’t funny, like he was supposed to be. There were fart jokes, in the middle of John William’s grand score even! Some bits blew my pre-teen mind – Darth Maul versus the Jedi – podracers roaring around Tatooine, but mostly it was boring with a shine and long with excitement. I didn’t realize it then, but every time thereafter that I saw it, my smile was less broad and the twinkle in my eye shrank. I remember visiting my grandfather, perhaps the next summer, and convincing him to Pay-Per-View rent The Phantom Menace. It was a day long thing, where you could watch it over and over again for 24 hours. I must have watched it 8 or 9 times that day. Over and over again. It was amazing! It was Star Wars! but it wasn’t quite the Star Wars I loved and had grown up with.

Truth is: I loved The Phantom Menace. Even with Jar Jar and the fart joke. In those early days, I couldn’t get enough of it. It wasn’t until 2002’s Attack of the Clones that I began to become disillusioned. 2005’s premier of Revenge of the Sith arrived and I was in college. It failed to end the new trilogy properly, but I had lost my love. Star Wars was nothing more than the Old Trilogy, as it was now known, and the new films were dead to me. I even spent time methodically watching Menace, Clones, and Sith and tearing them systematically apart on my blog (which you can still read under the Star Wars tab). I made a reputation among friends and a presence online by hating the prequels.

But. But. I did love Menace. I thought Clones had good parts. I figured Sith was mostly there. I don’t know when or why I let other people’s opinions and acidity eat through my heart of enjoyment. I like plenty of badly written movies that are chock full of bad performances and cheesy effects. So I suppose now we are here, at the end of my vitriol to admit a love I once held dear.

I haven’t watched the Prequel Trilogy in years, now, and I feel a strange urge and longing to do so. Maybe it is the 11 year old in me that collected Mountain Dew cans for their images of Yoda and Qui-Gon Jinn. Maybe it is the 12 year old that convinced my grandfather to let me spend a day watching a movie ad nauseam. Maybe it is the 13 year old that treasured old LEGO magazines and their pages of colorful LEGO Star Wars sets.

At least I am willing to admit it to myself, and now, the world that reads my blog: unabashed, unashamed, unfettered: I loved Star Wars The Phantom Menace a long time ago, and may yet love it. And that’s ok.

Embrace your famdoms, nerd out, rock on, love what you love. It makes you you and no one else. And that is the best thing ever.