One Thing Leads To Another

One thing leads to another.

Somewhere along the way I became lost; too many blurry details.

I try to focus; find the positive steps that lead the way out.

Is there more than one path? How do I know?

Should I just sit back and watch?

Some of it is entertaining, some just irritating.

It becomes tiring.

I continue to sift through the turmoil; searching and learning.

I do not let it break me; it is controllable.

Knowledge keeps me grounded. Strength keeps me going.

The light shines through; only if I am aware.

The path opens up; only if I can see past the brush.

There is always a way up the ladder, for one thing leads to another.

Donald J. Trump’s first year in office as President has been one ludicrous, mind-numbing day after another. From his nuclear war-baiting Tweets to his calls to investigate or criminalize legitimate opposition and our free press, Trump has shown America that we may no longer use the term “America First” without cringing.

We allowed, even if we didn’t elect, this racist, mind-blowingly ignorant, sexist, likely criminal, narcissistic child to ascend to our highest office in the land, a catastrophe from which there may be no turning back. Propping himself up with profoundly unqualified, white male sycophants, Trump has unloaded  damage to the air we breathe and the water we drink. He has brought out deep-seated hatreds, emboldened the Nazis, caused average citizens to doubt basic science and fact. The Trump regime has, lowered our standing as a democracy at home and abroad.

Yet, here is the greater problem, the proverbial “elephants in the room:” the Republican Party leadership in all the branches has not only allowed this Trumpian takeover but facilitated it, nourished it, as well as provided cover for it.

Some of the elephants in the room have called for the first Justice Department criminal investigations, not into Russian interference or Trump campaign team collusion with Russia, but into the  intelligence officer Christopher Steele, the author of the “Trump dossier as well as Robert Meuller's investigating team - investigating the investigator basically.” Whether the GOP leadership’s actions are a result of blackmail, bribery, or cowardice, it is certain that they have lost their way. Even the Republicans in Nixion's time weren't this bad.

Republican Speaker of the House has allowed unfiltered access to all documents in the Russia investigation to a man (Nunes) who has already spent a full year furiously working at misdirection.

Republicans in power are doing everything they can to prop up Trump even as he wanders, loses track of where he is or what is going on. Republican leaders of the past would not recognize what has become of their party.

How fitting it is that the Republican Party’s symbol is the elephant, only this elephant is not rare or endangered, just big, bullying, and destructive.

Behind the Melody

A dark figure stands alone on the side of a bridge. A saxophone, reflecting the lights of street lamps and passing cars, is clutched in his hands. He stands motionless for what seems like an eternity. Cars go by. As the street lamps flicker the one closest to him goes out, leaving him in complete darkness. Every now and then another car goes by, illuminating the figure standing silently on the side of the bridge for an instant before driving by.
After what seems like years a single note pierces the still and quiet air. Not a loud note, nor a sharp one. A simple G, alone and without company, sustained for a few seconds and then lost amid a flurry of passing cars. The sound begins again. The G pierces the air again, followed by a slow and mournful melody. Each note reveals the innermost recesses of the artist's soul, disappearing as fast as they come. Far to fast for anyone to read upon them the true feelings of the man, but long enough for a casual listener to bathe in the sheer beauty of every note and phrase. Finally the song comes to a close, and the dark figure sustains the last note for several seconds as the cars go by.
He does not wait for the applause of a non-existent audience. The world has already rejected this man and the music he brings. Now he has nothing more to do but to play his mournful tunes to all who will listen, and all too often he finds his only audience to be the raging currents beneath the ill-lit bridge. Another tune starts up. As the notes and phrases progress, a listener can detect a basic melody hidden deep within the notes. Every action is precise, every decision contributes to the song, every song is part of a concert, and every concert is played out on this bridge, while the only that this man ever receives is the sound of waves clapping heartily on the rocks below. Sometimes he allows his mind to wander, and wonders why he shouldn't end it now, throwing himself and his saxophone down onto the jagged rocks. His answer to this question is simple. As long as he can please someone with the sound of his music, he's like to remain alive, and he always pleases himself.
"Too far ahead of his time." the critics had said after going to the little hole of a club where he played.  

"Complicated and uninteresting" read the review on the night in which he had played "My Favorite Things". The owner of the club had promised to keep him for as long as possible. He stayed at the club for one week before the owner had no choice but to send him on his way.
 After a week playing in an almost empty jazz club, he was left with nowhere to go. The lone figure on the side of the bridge finally picks up his saxophone and begins to play again. He plays "My Funny Valentine"...his favorite. He always holds the last note in his heart. The notes came and went. Some are sustained for a long time, some are released almost immediately. With each improvised phrase the artist reveals himself, and then just as quickly, the notes disappear and the musician returns to his hiding place behind the melody.

I Am Living!

Let’s be honest, when we’re getting false ballistic missile warnings, the most powerful politician in the world describes countries as shitholes, and women are vilified for coming forward about sexual harassment, it’s time to step back and immerse yourself in whatever makes you happy, even if it has been proven to clog your arteries or makes you pretentious.

Is this all there is to life? Chasing one high after the next? Slaves until the weekend, when we can drown our sorrows and feel okay for a few lousy hours?

That’s what we do, right? Chase these momentary fleets of happiness so we can feel alive once again. So we can look at our lives and say, “I am living!”
Or maybe it’s just me?

I don’t know if I’m going through some sort of identity crisis or existential dilemma, or maybe I am just losing my freaken mind, but it’s as though the universe has slapped me hard across the face and said, “GO CRAZY… you only get one chance at life!”

I suppose, over time, life had robbed me of my shine. I felt like I was stuck in a battle of who I am, who I wanted to be and who I should be. So here I am, doing everything I possibly can to claw it back, if only momentarily. To feel alive again.

It is during these moments when I feel most alive. Like, for a split second, I am the only person in the world. Nothing else exists.

And so I continue to tap dance along this fine line of insanity, embracing each and every fragile step. I continue to feel the pull of the universe inviting me to forget who I am ‘supposed’ to be and to embrace who I am.

So maybe this isn’t a midlife crisis, after all, but rather a second-half opportunity - to spread my wings and feel the wind against my body. To follow my curiosity and discover new horizons. To be unafraid of showing my true authentic colors in all their glorious imperfection. To embrace each and every bump, curve and storm. To throw my hands up in the air without a care in the world and scream…I AM LIVING!

For the Love & Fear of Words

Hello 2018.   Uh.......Now what? I'm a bit skittish after 2017. (Sigh) Okay...... Here goes.
Sometimes, I think of our goals in life much like a dark alley in the middle of the night. For some it might be just a shortcut, but for others it’s the path home. Either way you get scared easily. If you can avoid it, you will. Because looking into the darkness and not seeing the light at the other end is too terrifying. And maybe, despite being 90 percent sure, you’re just not willing to risk making it out.

So you don’t. And day after day you walk the long way home, avoiding the alley as if it didn’t exist. Just like, day after day, you avoid thoughts of the things you wish you were doing. The things you know you could be doing, should be doing. Or maybe you got stuck in that place somewhere between thinking of your goals constantly, and actually doing something about them. That is the worst place to be.

An accomplished goal brings with it the euphoria of success; the beauty of manifestation, and the fulfillment of finding purpose. An unaccomplished goal, on the other hand, is like a poison. The only cure, moving forward. We have to push towards our goals until the reality we see when we open our eyes matches the reality we see when we close them.
But it’s frightening. So you never try. And every time you bury the thought of what your life could be, what you could be, you feel a little bit more of that poison. You die a little bit more each time.

Every day you walk past that alley like you’re not strong enough. You think to yourself, I can’t possibly do this. What if I have to fight? The long way home is safe and familiar. It is… comfortable.

Many people will walk down that dark alley. But for the ones that don’t, I feel a sadness. The same cloud of desire hangs over all of us. And it blocks out most of our light. Some people can push on despite that looming cloud; others are simply consumed by it.

I am consumed by a desire write. As the years drag by, I fear my greatest regret in life will be that I did not write on paper all the things I wrote in my head.

These days I find it hard to pull together all the pieces of the story. They are like fragments that float around me, following me everywhere I go. Always in sight, but rarely in reach. And they haunt me, these pieces.

Is it writers block? I had an English teacher who refused to believe in such a liberty. There was a time when I agreed with him, but now, maybe not. Nothing is good enough and nothing makes sense. It’s just emotions and ideas and ramblings. It’s just me. Who cares? Who am I? I’m somebody to a lot of people but nobody in particular. Are my ideas relevant? I’m afraid I have no point. Do I even need one?

So for the longest time I have searched for something to write about. And because I thought I had nothing, I sort of stopped writing. The truth is I have always had more than enough stories, I was just never sure where to begin. Some days I can feel the story of the stars in my bones; putting it down on paper is the only thing that seems to make the anxiety disappear.

So I will write, not only to silence my mind, but to feel everything more deeply.