Journal entry
7-18-2012
          Picture this: weather warm and mild – high 70s-low 80s, cool breeze off Lake Geneva. Boats docked, boats sailing. Picturesque. The idea of beauty captured in these words. Many of my friends would take endless pictures of all that surrounds this area, rushing them along the wires of social media, attempting to convey the extraordinary experience being had.
          Take this morning, for example. I ate breakfast upstairs in the executive lounge, where one could walk outside to eat or sit inside and take in the scenic view. I ate inside. I’ve never been a fan of outdoor eating. After I ate, though, I did sit outside to receive what so many others before me had received: life.
          I watched the people who were eating outside, and I imagined those individuals retelling stories to their friends and family about the wonderful pleasure of basking in the sun and eating breakfast in this heavenly setting. I envisioned women telling their girlfriends about the romantic ambience set by the supporting cast – the weather, their spouse/partner, sounds of birds chirping, the smell of the air. And the girlfriends sighing with supportive (or competitive) jealousy.
          I was watching this couple eating breakfast while I thought about all of this. Now, I want you to hear the proverbial record scratch, and listen to the complete story.
        That fantastic, romantic couple eating outside said barely a word to each other; he was reading his paper, while she was trying to discourage those chirping birds from eating off her plate. And those peaceful noises? Well, they included the wrenching sound of a two year old screaming at her mother because she wanted to go into the pool like her brothers, and the mother, unmoved by her child’s endless screeching, had me nonplussed by her laissez faire acceptance of this wretched child. Oh, and let me not forget, the family comprised of mom, dad, and four boys showing off how at ease they were with each other, as they spoke in peaceful, Brady-Bunch-tones to each other, changed suddenly when one son accidentally knocked over a teacup, and it shattered on the ground; while the eldest son gave up drinking his coca-cola because the bees, too, thought it had a wonderful taste. And one last thing, that lucky elderly couple who were embracing their retirement years; well, besides drooling on themselves, and shaking like leafs while drinking their coffee, they were chasing playing cards around the veranda when the wind blew.
          Now, why aren’t these pictures ever captured on our vacation cameras? What if all vacations were not extremes, either awesome or nightmares? What if most vacations were just mediocre? Might I suggest that most vacations are just that – mediocre; whereas, it is our pictures, that are stunning!
          I’ve been thinking about our need to construct a reality that is anything but the reality – making others think that we have found the “it” in this life, us keeping private our shortcomings and disappointments.
          I wonder if most of us would stop working, if finances were not an issue. Does our work only serve the purpose for us to reach our vacation locale? In our work, do most of us find meaning? Is there only one task that we must set forth to do, and do well? Or are some of us called to, (pardon the colloquialism), multi-task our way through this maze?
          Certainly, my idea of a vacation differs from others, though pieces of it may share the same cloth. I, too, enjoy sunsets, relaxation at a pub, having a nice meal, and engaging in conversations with locals.
          But my ideal vacation may experience more alone time than is typical with others. I want to read in spurts, write essays, study new languages; I want to literally, get lost. I want the connection of a seduction, flirtation, or romance; then, I want to be alone, again. I want to see hard-to-find films that will leave me disturbed for days; I want to sleep and wake up, sleep and wake up, sleep and wake up, as if I were practicing for an Olympic event called ‘The Awakening of Sleep’. I want to find the best routes in a town or city that will avoid all tourist attractions, even if, (like in the case of the museums of Amsterdam), those tourist traps hold high, artistic value.
          I reflect upon my ideal “vacation”, and I am struck by the realization that most of my life is lived from this vantage point. I am fortunate. I do not work, for the most part. I play for my livelihood. I travel frequently and live somewhat of a charmed life; yet, life itself bogs me down with duties and people who not only rely on my attention to their situation, but they insist on removing pieces of my tranquility and freedom from all facets of my core self. Some of these things and people are hindrances or hurdles on my path to nirvana. And sometimes, I am grumpy about this.
          Such things just are; all a part of the balance. Such as it is, such as it will always be; for this, in truth, is the sinew of life itself. Anyone wanna take a picture?

Maxed to the Max 

(Jag älskar min son, Max)

Because I've been weighed down for the last two years --
(the lies, control, and deception of a sorcerer);
Because it happens to be this day --
(feel I for sad you);
Because I have nothing more to say:
(even now, the feminine progenitor blocks my celebration under her apocryphal marrow);
And yet, you are alive and breathing
(So it is all said and done) -- welcome to journey from the cradle to the tomb. 

To all of you who teach

Definitely Beautiful

I'm listening to you, Rush and Sean

Hey! I just realized that I've been raising my daughter incorrectly. In fact, I've been influencing children across this world in the wrong manner. Why, you ask? Well, recently, there have been a couple of troubling incidents that have happened across seas. It seems like we (I must take responsibility, too) burned some Qur'an, and our President apologized to the Muslim people for this action. He acknowledged it as a mistake. It sounded reasonable enough to me, but boy, I was so wrong.

All across the airwaves of America's conservative media, there was outrage at our President for apologizing to "those terrorists". Why should our President apologize to "them", spoke the talking heads? That is a sign of weakness. Now, mind you, these are the same people who often claim to own a corner on Jesus' teachings. You know, the ones that say, "Love thy neighbor" and "Pray for your enemies" and "forgive those who do you wrong" and "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you"...yeah, that Jesus, those teachings.

And then more recently, an American soldier went a little haywire and open fired and killed 16 Afghans. And once again, our President apologized for this atrocity. Interestingly enough, the talking, conservative heads, like Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity, remained mute on criticizing President Obama on that apology. Why no speak, babbling brooks?

Here's my question (or issue): why do we bother teaching children lessons that they need not apply when they become adults? If it is all fairy tales, then I prefer that we skip that chatter, and give the children the hard lessons. Here's what I learned are the adult rules:

1. Play fair, unless you can get away with cheating
2. If you physically hurt somebody, make sure that they stay down
3. During war time, rules don't apply
4. If you hurt somebody's feelings, too bad for them. Apologies are for sissies.
5. Only use truth or religious passages if it can justify your hatred

I've decided to re-teach my daughter. Why have assemblies on anti-bullying or violence prevention, since they are not used once a person turns 18? I think it's easier to teach children to destroy their enemies, than to help, understand, or forgive them. But then again, who is my enemy?

Can you hear me? Fear is ceasing me? There is a new enemy. Who is my enemy? Now, they are surrounding me, for all along my enemy has only and always been me.

I am one of them

It’s the People That You Meet
v.2
“I am one of them”

Several years ago, I performed at a school for emotionally challenged children in New Jersey. My performance was for the staff, who, themselves, proved to be a resistant group of miscreants. Ok, perhaps I exaggerate the matter at hand; however, for the most part, the majority of them were well equipped at the art of detachment, with one glaring exception to this observation: the principal of the school.

The Golden Gate Bridge, in San Francisco, is the number one public suicide site in the world. Since 1937, there have been more than 1500 suicides from that bridge.

All throughout my performance, this beautiful soul of a leader kept smiling and bountifully expressing her reaction. She was a source of comfort to me, as I felt the aloofness of the rest of her staff. She didn’t allow her staff’s lack of emotional investment to curtail her transparency. She laughed when she found humor in my show, and she cried quietly when her emotional strings were plucked. She was the reason I was able to survive those empty stares.

Since 1937, there have only been 25-30 survivors who have jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge.

Upon completion of my presentation, only one audience member approached me – my delightful principal. She embraced me with a hug born of a deeper narrative than transpired words. As she hugged me, she turned her back to her staff, and said the following: “Michael, please don’t walk away. I don’t want my staff to see me cry. I don’t want them to know that I am not as strong as they think I am, but I need to tell you that your show deeply affected me. I have a secret that I have never told anyone. It is the reason I am crying now. I am one of the survivors who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge. I am one of them.”

I continued to speak to her for another 20 minutes. I was worried about her, and I was moved by her honesty. Here was a woman who spent years wearing an ironclad mask of tenacity that hid the most brittle of pain; a woman who was an impenetrable leader in a demanding school who knew, all too well, the sadness behind her students’ eyes.

I wanted to take her pain into me so that she could be free from its shackled grief. I wanted her to know that she was meant to survive that day, both then and now. She was here to live. To live. Unabashed and unfettered.

I can't say it more clearly than this

It will never stop or really ever change, until those who are in the majority of any group speak up on behalf of the minority of the group, and the minority allow the voice of the majority.

Sexism will never change until those "important" books for girls are also read by every boy, until men get pissed off by the subjugation of women, until men join and understand the feminist movement as well.

Racism towards any group will never end until it keeps the oppressors up late at night, until those who belong to the privileged group speak loudly and clearly about how this is all our issue, until certain oppressed racial groups (mainly blacks) stop promoting pain as a black issue, and allow members of other groups to join the fight as well.

Homophobia and moral condemnation of the GLBTQ community will not change until the hetero-gender-abiding-religious-or-non-religious understand that no one is free until all of us are free; until love, not interpretive doctrine, not fear, gets embraced; until all of us realize that we are a reflection of the animal kingdom at large; therefore, if homosexuality is 'wrong' in form (orientation) or action (behavior), then it should not exist as a natural occurrence within the animal kingdom. However, it does exist, not as an anomaly, but as a natural part of most animal groupings.

Class-ism can only be rendered inoperable when those in power speak alongside with those who lack power; when we see family as more than genetics and neighborhoods and cities and countries and borders; when the walls of Jericho come crumbling down between us; when we can taste the salt in the others' tears, and realize that we are only stronger with the other.

The idea of the bully and their arch enemy, the victim, will never be resolved to those of us who are bystanders stand together with those who have been victimized, and all of us look at the cruelty within ourselves before attempting to remove it from others; when we stop the idea of us versus them, and instead, replace it with us AND them, until we finally realize that there is no 'them': we are us.

It’s the People that You Meet
volume 1

I’m at a rest stop in Massachusetts, grabbing some food. There is a man sitting next to me. He looks like he’s seen his share of rough days. I just eat, minding my own business. I’m certainly not going to stare at this guy. And then, out of nowhere, he starts a conversation with me.

I can’t recall his name, so I’ll call him Bill. He drives an 18 wheeler for a living. He tells me all about how it works. The hours. The miles. The lack of sleep. The sleep-deprived hallucinations. The roads. The independent loneliness. He tells me all. He then starts to tell me about his family. They live in Texas, and he gets to see his wife and children every few months. He recognizes the difficulty of being a dad and husband when you are never around.

He has many children. I forget the exact number. His children are from two marriages. He admits that his first marriage was a disaster. He was abusive to both his wife and children. His older children hate him, and he doesn’t blame them.

I find myself wanting to hear more stories from this stranger. We start talking about places to travel. He gives me some off-the-beaten-path places to visit, roads that are most certainly less traveled. I take mental notes.

We start talking about how short life is. I briefly tell him what I do for a living. He has no meaningful interest in it, and I am comforted by his honesty. Still, I do strike a chord with him when I mention that our lives are but brief breaths of air. He vigorously shakes his head. Then he leaves me speechless with his final story.

One night while driving the dark roads of America, he was in a conversation with one of his best friends, who also happened to be a truck driver. They were keeping each other awake, as both were worn out from the taxing day. Bill was driving in mid-America; his friend was driving in Virginia.

At one point, his friend shouted out, “Oh, s**t!” Bill responded, “What’s wrong?”
“I loss control of my truck, and flew off the edge of the cliff. Oh, man, I’m going down. Tell my wife and kids that I love them.”

My mouth was open. “What did you say? What did you do?”

“Nothin’,” he retorted. “I just said, ‘I’ll miss you, man’, and then there was a loud noise. And then there was silence.”

Conveniently, he had to head back to his truck, and I had to head back home. I had 250 miles to go, but I didn’t want to drive home; I just wanted to keep driving. I wanted to drive on the straightest path possible that wouldn’t take me over any cliffs.