The Magic of Fire

It's been a bit since I've had a chance to write. It's not by choice, I assure you i am clogged up with good blog post ideas. I've just been busy and preoccupied with the pesky think called "life".

Friday before last one of those days where an awful lot of information get dumped on you at once. It was like trying to drink from a fire hose. Some was good, some was bad, some was neutral. It was just a lot of data at once. I knew I was in for a contemplative night.

There are many ways to handle such a night. I could have sat on the couch and watched my beloved Star Trek TNG and enjoy a beer. I could have visited friends. I could have worked on one of my never ending woodworking projects. I decided to take another route. In the spirit of my meditation practice, I went for a walk in a large pasture near my home in the dark of night.

It was a crescent moon so ambient light was scarce. I had a flashlight but wanted to just make my way without it. There was a path were the cattle that graze the land travel quite often and I decided to see where it would take me. There was no plan, just a walkabout. I went along this path for a good distance until I came upon a large tree of some sort. It was the only tree around for a bit but had been here for many years judging by the size. It was right next to a man made pond for the cattle to drink from. It was a peaceful spot and on the crest of a minor plateau. I decided this was a nice spot to sit. There was much dead fall around this tree. I just so happened to have a lighter with me and began to gather some dead tinder and fuel for a small and peaceful fire.

Fire has always fascinated me. I doubt I am alone in this. I imagine fire has mesmerized humans ever since Ook The Cave Man first brought it into his cave. The ground and wood was damp but I used my boy scout skills to get a very small and intimate fire going. I watched as the flames danced and curled, brightened and dimmed, and consumed the fuel that I fed it. I set my meditation timer for twenty minutes and decided to just stare into the flames for this time. I wanted to see what answers the ancient wisdom of fire could give me. I cleared my mind and just observed the mesmerizing beauty of the flames. At almost the exact moment my twenty minutes of meditation was up, the last bit of flame died and left only glowing coals. I continued to gaze into the orange coals for what seemed like forever until they too died away.

My eyes were quite adjusted from sitting so long in the dark and I began to observed what else was around me. To the south, I could see the glow of the city and could just barely make out the largest tower downtown. I looked to the sky and could see an amazing amount of stars. The crescent moon was still there, but not I could make out what I am pretty sure were planets in close vicinity to it. I believe it was Venus, Mars, and Jupiter. It was breathtaking. I had been out here for quite awhile and was starting to get cold. I made sure my fire was dead and out and started to make my way back to civilization.

I don't know that I gained knowledge from the fire as I had hoped. What I did do is get a chance to contemplate life in the same way people have since the time of Ook up until that very night. The brotherhood of humanity throughout time gave me much perspective on all I needed to absorb and process. There has always been fire and stars just like there with always be days that are a bit overwhelming. That idea is comforting in its permanence.

Don the Steinbeck Tramp

John Steinbeck is probably my favorite author. Of Mice and Men, Cannery Row, Tortilla Flat, all wonderful works of art. These stories paint a picture of down and out men that are poor as dirt and homeless. They are happy go lucky though in their situation and seem to always come out of things OK (except for when George blows Lennie away after he accidentally kills Curley's wife, that's kind of a downer). These guys have no home, no money, and most of the time few worries. Was this a real way of life for depression "bindle bums" as Curley's wife called George and Lennie? I don't know because I was not there. I like to imagine it is, because this dovetails nicely with my fantasy world of running off and being a nameless and wandering nobody (see my earlier post titled "The Wandering").

I had to get my post from yesterday out about the nameless homeless woman I spoke to before I wrote about Don. Don is a homeless guy that hangs out in the park near my office that I meditate at most days. I had spoken to a few other homeless people after my first encounter with the nameless woman. Most were awkward and not very fruitful in finding a connection. Some of the people were quite insane, not in a dangerous way but certainly in a way that hinders a deep and meaningful conversation. Then I happened upon Don.

I had observed Don several times in the park as I would sit and meditate. He looked like an older guy, with gray hair and a bushy gray beard. He was certainly homeless with the required shopping cart full of his possessions, but he looked well kept. He did not look to be filthy and dressed like a normal older guy of meager means. Don would also just sit at the park like me. He seemed to just enjoy being there. Many people would pass Don, but I never once saw him ask for a handout or anything. He did greet a few people kindly, but it never looked like the beginning of the normal routine with some people where "hello" quickly turns into "can you spare some change". Don just wanted to offer a sincere greeting to a passersby. Don seemed to me to be the very model of a Steinbeck tramp.

After observing Don a few times and sharing the park with him, I decided to go over and say hello. Don was very friendly and I asked him if he minded if I sat down with him for a chat. He said sure and looked to be grateful for the company. As before, I did not tell Don I was a policeman because that always changes the dynamic of the conversation. We talked about simple things and I asked him questions about his life. I did not want this to be an interview, but just a conversation where you get to know some things about a person.

Don seemed to be completely mentally sound and was not drunk or high on anything. He said he is 57 years old. I asked him where he usually stays and he told me he has a good overhang he sleeps at. I asked him how long he had been on the streets. He told me since 1982. I exclaimed that this was quite a long time. He says the only time since 1982 he has not been a tramp what when he did ten years in prison for a stolen car and weapons charge. This actually blew my mind. Don seemed like a good guy. I would love to know the story behind that but I did not press. I was content to know the Don sitting beside me now, not the Don that got himself locked up in prison. I asked Don what had caused him to be homeless. He told me nothing caused him to, he just decided this was the life he wanted. He said that he enjoyed the freedom. He had no wife or kids. He worked when he needed or wanted to work. He seemed genuinely happy with his life. There was no woe is me story. No destructive drug use, no mental illness, just a guy that wanted to live his own life his own way. I asked Don if he had it to do over again, what would he choose? Would he chose a life like mine with a good career, steady pay, a good home and a son or would he live his life as it is now. He said without a moment of hesitation that he would be who he is now. He liked what and who his was. He enjoyed the absolute freedom to be his own man, and he seemed to be getting by just fine.He asked me what kind of work I did and I told him. He was only a little surprised because I had already spent time showing him that I was genuine and compassionate and was not defined by my career. We chatted a bit more in a way similar to how you would chat with a neighbor. Small talk with just enough familiarity and connection to make the chat worthwhile. We talked until I told him I should probably get back to my office. He joked that they might start looking for me if I don't. As I stood to go, I reached into my pocket and handed him a five dollar bill. Don had not asked for or expected this. I told him to go have a nice lunch somewhere and he thanked me with genuine gratitude. A five means almost nothing to me, but Don could enjoy a nice burger or something and reflect on the kindness of a stranger as he ate it.

I see Don every few days and always go over to say hello to him. Sometimes I give him a few bucks if I have it on me, sometimes I don't. I ask how he is doing and make sure he is staying warm and dry somewhere. He assures me his two sleeping bags are quite cozy. He asks me about my work and when we are going to move into the new building across the street. It is always a good conversation both directions and well worth the time. He never expects money but seems to really enjoy the chat. He is a human being and a man, and I imagine few people talk to him as an equal. I like to think that by chatting with my friend Don, we both gain something meaningful. I get to gain perspective on those much different from me and show compassion. Don gets to feel like a neighbor and maybe get a few bucks to spend on something.

Some may look at Don and be disgusted. Get a job, they may think. He is loafing on my tax dollars they may think. I think if the government can pay for all the ridiculous pork barrel politics or to fly IRS employees to Las Vegas for a week of "training", we can help Don along a bit with some warm soup and clothes from charity. I honestly envy Don. He was sure of what he wanted his life to be and was brave enough to take that leap of faith. He sticks with his decision and is OK with who he is. I envy his freedom and his willingness to walk his own path. Goodnight Don. Stay warm out there, you bindle bum.

A Dollar for Your Thoughts?

A month or two ago, I was reading this book about Buddhism. The name of it escapes me, but it was a simplified crash course type thing mean for us scatter brained Americans We need our information processed and simplified like a chicken McNugget. Regardless of this, It was a good book with some pretty good thoughts and concepts on how to me more human from a Buddhist perspective.

Buddhism is all about compassion. I think most peaceful religions are if you really study them. Jesus hung out with the whores and tax collectors because he had compassion for what their lives had become. Through this compassion, he changed lives and attitudes. I cannot give a specific example of a Buddhist version of this because of the McNugget nature of my meager reading thus far. More studying is needed. 

One of the concepts that stood out to me in reading this book was a statement about how humans can only see about a hundred people as human beings. This was based on some study the author referenced and has something to do with the fact that our brains evolved from the perspective of a relatively small band of monkeys (a herd? a gaggle? a flock? I don't know the proper term). There were no monkey metropolises, unless you count that one from the Planet of the Apes movie with Markie Mark where he goes somewhere in time and crash lands at the monkey Lincoln Memorial. That movie was actually considered torture under the Geneva Convention and therefore does not count. Our chimp and caveman forefathers were in smallish groups of no more than about a hundred, and I guess our storage capacity to know more people than that did not get upgraded as we learned to be what we are today. According to this study, our family, our friends, our coworkers or classmates, our neighbors, and so on, fill up this one hundred person capacity. Beyond that, the people we interact with are just objects. They are that thing that gives me my Big Mac, that thing I give my dry cleaning to, that thing that drives the bus, or that thing that checks me out at the register. Homeless people have it even worse. During the study, peoples brain activity was monitored as they interacted with different people. When they saw or interacted with a homeless person, the brain reacted in the same way it does when it sees or interacts with trash. To the unenlightened human mind, a homeless guy is the same as a discarded candy wrapper or a dog turd that was not picked up by an inconsiderate pet owner. Holy crap! How can that even be? It shocks the conscience to think of such a thing, but deep inside you know it to be true. It might not be like that for all humanity, but I bet it is close to the way it is for most.

After my brain explosion and subsequent spiritual healing, I found this to be wholly unacceptable. I decided I needed to try and interact with those thought of as garbage as actual human beings. On my first encounter, I had just left the courthouse downtown to drop off some paperwork. There is every sort of humanity you can imagine around the courthouse. As expected, there were several homeless people. I passed a dirty and smelly woman that was likely younger than me, but with many hard miles on her. She mumbled something half hearted about if I had some change to spare. Usually I politely decline and am never rude or hateful to such requests. I kept my walking pace and began to speak whatever my polite refusal would be and stopped dead in my tracks. The thought of this woman being perceived by most as a piece of garbage shot to the front of my thoughts. When I walk downtown, I hide what my profession is for many reasons related to safety and wanting to me part of the invisible masses. This woman did not know I was a police officer because she would have never asked such a thing from a cop. I did not reveal myself and took a seat beside her.

Sitting beside her took her by surprise. I was also quite surprised I had actually done something so foreign and out of character. We were both quite uncomfortable with this odd situation but I decided to forge ahead. I told her I did indeed have a dollar, but that she would have to earn it. The look on her face was priceless. I'm sure she was envisioning giving me a handie behind the dumpster or something. I quickly explained that I just wanted to have a sincere conversation with her. This also seemed to surprise her, but we both just rolled with it.

I asked her what her name was and she told me. I explained to her my little idea of talking to people as a way of recognizing their humanity and the one hundred people thing. She wasn't really getting it, and I struggled to connect. I know how to talk to people, I know how to pry conversation out of the most unwilling of people and went to work. I remember her odor and knew she was legitimately homeless and living on the streets. I asked her where she stayed and she said she had a tent over in the woods by the highway. I knew this place to be a regular area for the homeless. I tried my best to not be condescending or make her feel like some sort of experiment. I ask her what put her on the streets and she tells me its from being stupid. I press a bit and she says its the meth. I, of course, know this from her appearance and condition before I even asked but I wanted the conversation to gain some momentum. We continue to chat in somewhat sincere small talk. She mentions her struggles and her dreams and I just listen or comment enough to keep her chatting. She becomes a human being to me, someones daughter, someones lover, someones friend. Someone with hopes, desires, and fears just like all of us have. We sit and chat for several minutes. The talk begins to drag and I know its time to move along. I stand up and dig into my pocket for my dollar. I give her a five instead for going along with my need to connect and her effort to be genuine. 

I decide there is one more thing I want to share. I say, "you want to hear something that will blow your mind?' She is interested and says "yeah". I reach into my pocket and pull out my badge and ID card with my picture in uniform. Her eyes get wide and uncertain. I tell her I am a cop and then say "have you ever had this kind of interaction with a cop before?". She chuckles a "no" that means her normal interaction with police is not kind or human at all. I say something about how we both learned something today with her having a five dollar genuine chat with a police officer that would usually be telling her to get lost unless she wants to go to jail. She seems genuinely amused by this. I tell her goodbye and walk on around the corner. I feel good about this encounter, but I cannot remember her name. I am very bad about remembering names and it is quite important this time to know who I just spoke with. How can you be human without a name?

I quickly head back to where I had last seen her but she is gone. She has faded off into the city, slowly making her way down some street like a discarded newspaper in the eyes of most that see her. This connection was made and lost in only a few minutes. I like to think that she got more than just five dollars from this deal. Hopefully she felt like a real person with value, someone worth listening to. Even if just for a moment, I hope I gave her a bit humanity and a meaningful existence this day. 

I'm a Lumberjack, and I'm OK

So I think I have already covered this, but I worked an awful lot of overtime these last two weeks. Today was the beginning of the intermission until I start working myself silly in December. Anyway, it was glorious. I slept late, but not too late. I read a bit. I relaxed in general. I considered doing some house work or unpacking (we moved in a month ago), but ultimately did a load of laundry and called it good. My biggest indulgence of the day was devoted to my new woodworking and bowl carving hobby.

Somehow my when my brain broke this past spring, I came out of it with a strong desire to be creative and artistic. This blog is one of the results. I have built things, got into collecting and polishing rocks and gems, have plans to paint and sculpt, and then the woodworking. I have many plans for woodworking, but I am currently focused on bowl carving. The idea is to take a log, and carve it into a beautiful bowl using only hand tools. No lathe to turn bowls, where you can make a pretty awesome bowl in an afternoon. No chainsaws. No electric sanders, no power anything. My one and only concession to this is an electric drill to use when I build my bowl carving horse. I need to drill four inch and a half holes into a eight inch diameter log for the legs and then its back to the 18th century tool wise. The hand tool aspect is what appeals to me most. This takes commitment and patience. It is very zen like to work this way, very good for the soul. I have ordered all the tools and am only waiting for my adze and bearded carving axe to arrive from Europe. I was so eager to get started, I carved a wooden mallet to use with my chisels and gouges because I didn't need special tools for that. It just needs some finishing touches and its ready to go. My next project is the most important, the bowl carving horse.

A carving horse is basically a raw log that is about 8 inches in diameter and about 36 inches long. It stands on its 4 legs just below waist level. Right in the middle you cut a section out that is about a foot and a half long and halfway through the log. You wedge the log into this part while you are hacking all the non bowl parts away. There is also an "L" cut into one end for when you don't want your piece so tied down. The legs are made from a single log that is quartered, with its four parts shaved into legs. It is primitive and also a working work of art.

Today I ventured out into the creek and wooded area behind my neighborhood to find my carving horse. I needed a tree to be the right size and straight. It needed to be a hardwood tree that had enough straight section for the carving area and legs. My added problem is that I didn't want to just chop down some majestic tree and use only a bit of it. I had to find the right tree, hopefully one with a good sized side branch so the tree could continue on living but donate a bit of itself to my art. I searched and searched and could find no such tree. The candidates were either not straight or not thick enough. I wandered in these beautiful woods and along the peaceful creek, listening to the ever so calming sounds of gently flowing water from the recent rains. I was not discouraged or frantic, because I knew the right tree would find me. I tend to think most things are less about the destination and more about the journey, and this journey was what I needed after the arduous month I have had.

I had followed the creek for a good distance when I came upon an area just ahead that looked different. I scrambled up the embankment and walked into this most amazing group of trees. They were all elm trees and they were all growing parallel to the ground towards the south. There were at least a dozen of these trees, all together. They were mature trees, twenty years old at least but likely older. It was hard to tell because of the odd way they had all grown. I had so many curious thoughts about how on earth this had happened. I could see no damage, like a tornado or wind storm and blown then down and they tenaciously kept growing. It was just like they all sprouted, grew a bit, then decided to head south. I also thought about the wicked awesome fort I could make around these trees, since I'm basically a boy at heart. Each tree was perfectly straight and more than thick enough for my needs. I could not cut a single one of these amazing trees down though, that would be an abomination, a selfish indulgence that would rob the forest of this amazing display. I knew all this the moment I saw these trees so I just enjoyed them for awhile as the daylight began to fade. I decided it was time to head home, refreshed with my journey when I happened upon "my tree".

My tree was similar to the others I had marveled at. It had been damaged thought. The damage was not very old but it was evident that the tree was dying. It would be soil again in the not so distant future and I could see the insects doing their work at the damaged area. The wonderful thing was that there was a perfect straight and thick area from the ground and to the damage. It was more than what I needed and the best part is that I wasn't ruining a healthy and interesting tree. It was like an organ donation, though it was dying, it would live on through my art. How perfectly poetic.

I went to work with my tools. I had brought all I would need, my large axe, my hatchet and my crosscut saw. They were all purchased from Home Depot and not vintage. Side note; Would I be some kind of weird hipster if I used vintage tools? I would if I could find them, but I have been unsuccessful in finding what I need. The Home Depot tools have no soul, but certainly get the job done.

The work was hard, but I knew it would be so. This is the journey I enjoy. I sawed and a chopped and down came my tree. The sunlight continued to fade but I wanted to accomplish my goal. As dusk came and turned into evening, I just finished cutting my two logs to size. I left them where they lay since I have yet to figure out a creative way to drag them home efficiently. I will return to this enchanted spot in the forest sometime this week to bring them home. I may quarter my log that will become my legs in the forest for ease of transport, and for the opportunity to just be there and work surrounded by natures beauty.

I packed up my tools, tired but satisfied in a way that only comes from fruitful hard work. It was quite dark by this time. I went to the edge of the forest and followed the edge of the farmers field along the tree line towards the main path home. I am quite sure I was trespassing during this entire adventure, but that just makes it more interesting. I am an outlaw lumberjack, a loose cannon who plays by his own rules. Maybe one of my rules needs to involve bringing a flashlight next time though.

I trudged through the early night. I was in not hurry, for I enjoy the night. I savor the night and its peace and quiet. I have never feared the night, but embrace it. I let it surround and envelop me until I become part of the night. My mind was clear and my stress was gone as I made my way down my dark path. I could see nothing but the night guided me as a friend would do.

When I was nearing my home, my son called me to make sure I wasn't dead. I love that boy with his thoughtful and responsible nature. I assured him I was quite alive but was just enjoying the night. I got home and entered through the garage so that I could remove my muddy boots and dirty work clothes. I sat in my garage in the quiet and let the events of the evening sink in and become part of my ever changing story. I am grateful for today, for the creek and forest that someone unknowingly allows me to wander, and I am grateful for my donor tree. My mind is at peace and tomorrow will be another chance to find the beauty in this life I live.

I'm No Hero

"Daily Nobody Bodhi Huh?", you many be asking yourself. Hey, cut me some slack. I've worked like 45 hours of overtime in the last two weeks or so. I'm lucky to get laundry done.

Anyway...

I have worked an awful lot of Halloween oriented overtime recently. It's been tiring but also rewarding in a way. I really do enjoy being out in the public as a policeman, especially around kids. They like to say hello, shake my hand, ask weird kid questions (yes, a taser REALLY hurts), and maybe have a picture taken with me and them in their policeman costume. I don't enjoy this because it makes me feel like something more than I am. I like this because I know that kid went home and could not stop thinking about how he got to meet that policeman, AND HE EVEN ASKED WHAT MY NAME WAS!!!!! That kid got to meet and interact in a very positive way with someone he or she thought of as a hero. Who doesn't like to meet a hero?

I remember when I was very young, kindergarten or maybe even before, I colored this picture of a smiling policeman in whatever class I was in. I didn't get it quite finished and it remained this way until the picture met whatever unknown fate. The officer had a kind and friendly face. He was waving at me. The image was positive and friendly. Policeman were my heroes to me and every kid I knew. I was very fortunate to be able to grow up and become what I had always thought of as a hero. I go to work everyday and have this perspective. I know that there is always some kid out there that sees me in my uniform and thinks the same way that I did all those years ago.

One of my many overtime jobs has been at the costume store. I guess it is to deter theft. What is funny though is just how many people thought I was in a costume. I always roll with it because I'm a fun guy. I get to make the same jokes to each different person. "Yeah, it's a really expensive costume. You have to ask for it specifically in the back." Then I go into how totally worth it the costume is because it's so awesome, I get full size snickers. They catch on and we both have a good laugh. It is a wonderful positive interaction with the public. It shows that I am human and a goofball, not some robot in a uniform. I also talk to just about any kid that makes eye contact with me. I ask what their name is, what they are going to be for Halloween, and just other general chatty type things. Whatever I can do to have a positive interaction with this kid and his or her parents. I even did it in my very limited spanish today and that kid was even more impressed. It's fun. It's almost a PR event and I go out of my way to be approachable and friendly. Things were like this every time I was at a job like this, until today.

I was at the costume store doing my shtick today when a black guy came up to me and did the whole that's a neat costume thing. He had several kids and they were all standing around me. It was a wonderful opportunity to do what I love doing. This one was different. When the guy figured out that I really was a policeman, his expression changed to something like a mix of fear and horror. He snatched his kids away from me like I had just revealed that I was a convicted child rapist. He backed away with this look on his face that looked like he was in real danger. It took me a second for this to sink in, but then I understood. To him, I am the bogeyman. I am evil incarnate. I am a dangerous racist, thirsty for blood. I bet he still shivers about just how close he came to being beaten in a frenzy of hatred and racism. My duties were to wander around the isles and I ran into him and his kids again by chance. His kids had that same look of terror, like at any moment I would snap and just shoot them or something. I could not believe this. It was devastating to me. It happened again a short time later. A cute little black girl of about eight years saw me and screamed "police!" in terror and ran to the safety of her mother. The mother scowled at me like I had just tried to harm her daughter. My heart just sank.

What has happened? How can me and my profession go from being a hero to some little kid to something that puts genuine fear in the hearts of people? I had to stop paying any attention to the news about all the time all this Ferguson stuff went down because every other story was how evil and racist cops were. I had to abandon my beloved NPR because I could not stand to hear how horrible I was on such a regular basis. This idea just kills me. I leave my house and my son everyday do go out into the world and try to make a difference in someones life. Every time I walk out that door, it could be the last time my son sees me alive. I do this with eagerness because I feel fortunate to be able to help my community. I have names and faces forever etched into my mind of lives I have saved or changed. There are three real people that are only alive today because of my direct action, twice with serious risk to my own life. I love what I represent, safety, justice, protection. I can't understand why anyone would fear such a thing as that.

I am about to spell check and proof this entry and head out to another overtime job on Halloween. I will be there to protect and serve. I will be there to save people from themselves and others. I will do this with the knowledge that some will see me as a threat, a danger to society, a predator that lusts for the chance to perpetrate his racist violence upon the world. I will be there, committed as always, but I will be full of sorrow about what our world has become.

The Angel of the Night

Fear not the night.
Fear that which walks the night.
And I am that which walks the night.

But only evil need fear me …
and gentle souls sleep safe in their beds…
because I walk the night.

~by Lt. Col. Dave Grossman

The Wandering

When I was a younger man, in my early twenties, my home was the sea. Like for real, I actually lived on a ship. It was pretty awesome actually. I got to see about half the world from that ship and gained my love of travel in the process. My "rack" ,as it is referred to, was like a bunk bed stacked three high. This would have been totally rad when I was around eight years old, but as a young man it was a bit claustrophobic.

My vacation home was my car. A 1995 Dodge Neon. It was my first brand new car. I got it off the lot with seven miles on the odometer. It still had the plastic on the seats from transport from the factory. I had stopped at home on the way to my ship from my RM school in San Diego, then drove this gleaming white beauty to Florida to report to my first ship.

Living on the ship was pretty boring. I am certain they have much more entertainment on the ship for present day sailors. Back then, not so much. I read in my rack as much as I could handle, but most of the time I would get in my car and just wander. I would drive wherever I chose just for the heck of it. would often sleep in my car at some random destination. There was no family, no responsibility until I had to me back at the ship, nothing to tie me down. I enjoyed this freedom. My life was fresh and the possibilities were endless. Wandering was my way of being free.

Many years have passed since then. I got married, had an awesome son with a not so awesome mom, Got the awesome son full time, started my career, then got married again. This last event turned out to be a very bad thing. It was an exceptionally bad marriage with an exceptionally mentally ill woman.

This relationship completely deconstructed my being. I was able to escape, and escape is a very appropriate word. It has been a rough year, and the strings are not completely severed from this destructive person quite yet. The process of healing has been very eye opening for me. I have learned things about myself I did not know, seen issues inside of me that I did not know were issues, and began a different path I didn't know existed. Like the phoenix rising from the ashes, I have been reborn after a cataclysmic fireball. Every day is fresh and new but this sometimes brings new issues to ponder.

I wandered again today for the first time in decades. My teenage son is off on a trip with his friends so my only responsibility this weekend is myself. It is very different though. Today, I have a comfortable new home. I have a career, I have long term responsibilities. My wandering today was less about freedom, and more about a longing to be free. Were it not for the return of my awesome son on Sunday, I could have wandered off forever. I could have left my career, I could have left my home, I could have left my identity. It is a very strong desire, but alas It cannot be. It cannot be quite yet.

I have visions of a one person RV. It would be van based or maybe even a small towable one. It would not be my home though. I would sleep there, eat there, and keep my books there. My home would be the road. My name would be Nobody. I would have no superficial ties as I have now. My son is my only real anchor, but he is an adult soon and there are many ways to communicate frequently. I would be adventurously homeless, like men from an earlier time. I would live life just to live life.

I will truly be my Nobody someday. It is on the horizon, but I am not quite there yet. I will have the freedom of my youth but the experiences of my former life to guide me forever onward.

The Prairie Coneflower

The road to my home has a stretch that is a wonderful country drive. Each day, I am fortunate to observe its beauty. The trees both new and ancient, the deer, the rabbits, the coyotes, the cattle. The farmer working to care for his land. The simple beauty of all creation. I am treated to a showing of nature's art show each time I make this drive. There is one thing that has caught my attention above all these beautiful things. Where I turn off of the stretch of country road and onto the road that leads me home, there is this most magnificent prairie coneflower. This beauty is wild. It grows at the crossroads purely by happenstance. Only the randomness of nature itself has allowed me to witness her beauty.

Her petals are delicate like a daisy. She graces my eyes with a most vibrant shade of purple. No man can create such a hue, nor can he extinguish it. Her center is spiny and tough, well suited for the harsh prairie life. Although the spines are quite tough, they show a color that draws you into her beauty. The shapes and colors of the spines are so varied and intricate that you can never quite experience all the beauty she has to offer. Her stem is strong and stout. She can easily stand up against the most ferocious of Oklahoma's winds. Her beauty is stunning in every way.

Her beauty alone is not why I stop and gaze so often. Her perennial tenacity, her sheer force of will to exist as beautiful it was draws me in. There have been wildfires, tornadoes, and fierce hail storms. Errant cattle or dear have feasted on her delicate petals and even left their droppings on her ruined stumps. The winder storms have buried her in ice and snow. The county road plows have piled even more ice and snow on mixed with the sand and salt to clear the roads. A broken own old truck once sat directly on top of her for a full week until it was taken away. Despite all of these toils, she grows back every spring. She always returns, seeming more vibrant and beautiful than before.

This winsome prairie coneflower has brought magnificence to this crossroads for many years. She inspires me and delights me every time I get to see her. She will be here for many years to come, elegant yet strong for all those who can cherish her allure.

Love, Kitty Style

My efforts at sleep are futile and pointless. My head is swimming with words so I might as well write them.

Ah, the move is over. Half of my belongings are in boxes. I have sorted through my beloved books and grabbed a enough to keep me satisfied for a few weeks until they are all shelved. I dropped major cash on new appliances and was gifted a pretty nice refrigerator (thanks Big Dave!). Going from my pretty nice apartment to a rental house means I have to go buy a bunch of stuff I don't even think of until the moment I need it. The major upside is now I have a backyard for growing my veggies and a garage to do my woodcarving. The opportunities are endless.

The move was stressful to most of us. My son is always cool calm and collected and I don't think his pulse budged. Kiska and myself were a wreck and the recovery continues. I feel like I'm hungover from stress. I had two days of stressful moving with a time crunch since my old apartment was and probably will screw me over (full months rent for 2 days into October? See you in court I guess) I also worked two overtime jobs until 3 am both those days because of the above referenced crap I have to pay for. The alarm went off this morning to go to work. My semi-subconscious was all "screw that noise" and emailed my boss saying blah blah vacation day. Next think I know, It's 2 pm. Oh well, I needed the rest.

This is nothing compared to Kiska's stress, however. Kiska is our cat. She is a rescue that I got my son for his birthday early this year. Kiska Jacksonovna. My son has a serious interest in Russian and Soviet culture, history and language. According to the internet, Kiska either means kitty cat or is a vulgar slang for a woman and her special area. I was not able to truly determine this, but I figure there are not many Russian speakers around so who's going to know?

Kiska was FREAKED OUT. Kiska is strictly an indoor cat and has never actually been outside. People are mean to cats, so why risk letting her get hurt.  We had to put her in a box to take her to the new house first, before the movers arrived. She did not care for this at all and made sounds that made me wonder is she was going to spit pea soup at me when I opened the box (Exorcist? Get it?). The car ride was just as bad. We got her in and locked her in the spare bedroom with her food, water and litter box.

The movers come and go and I go to check on her. I can't find her. What the heck? Finally, I find her in the back of her enclosed litter box with a very displeased look on her face. She was terrified. Kiska, you see, is a very gentle cat. She is was easy with the claws when she plays, generally comes when you call for her, and isn't really moody at all. She's a good cat. It was Friday when this happened and she is still skittish and jumpy. She has hardly left my side the entire time since the move.

This got me to thinking about animals and love. I am very gentle and caring with all animals, so she feels safe around me. I have had many cats and they usually hide when they are scared. This has not been the case with Kiska at all. She has slept with me all night since we have been here. I don't mean just in bed, but basically spooned me with her head resting on my armpit. All. Night. Long. I walk to another room, she follows. I leave or go outside, she waits by the door for my return. Even hours later, there she is waiting.

I have had dogs too and I know this is normal for them. Dogs have personality and souls. Cats are cats though. Feed me, pet me when I want it and where and want it but otherwise leave me the hell alone human. This is not the case with Kiska. She has always been sociable but not like this. I am her safe place. She is scared and knows I will protect her from whatever just happened. Is this not love? I'd love to know what is going on in her cat brain. This is similar to a child in some ways. Freaky new place or people? Latch on to dad. Maybe I am dad in this case.

Kiska and I have bonded for sure these last few days. We have grown in our relationship in many positive ways. I am a cat person for sure, but I have always known their limits as a pet. This has been a different experience though. Maybe, just maybe cats have souls as well?

P.S. Greeting Canadians! I see I have three views from the Great White North since I last looked. Take off, you hosers! (actually, don't take off at all, read more).

That's All I Can Stands, And I Can't Stands No More

Yeah I know, technical difficulties and blah blah blah. I'm on my lunch break and I can post from my phone app. Deal with it. 

This past year has been stressful, like that guy from that Scanners movie when his head explodes stressful. It's just one thing after another. If I had a dollar for everytime I've said I'm stressed to the max or at my limit, I'd have enough money for a decent dinner, and maybe a good beer to go with it. It's been rough. 

I was driving in to work this morning, listening to my escapist audiobook, The Oregon Trail by Rinker Buck. I'm listening to this guys amazing journey across the Oregon Trail in a period correct covered wagon and mule team. He and his brother are middle aged men, exposing themselves to similar hardship has our pioneer ancestors did in the mid nineteenth century. There is a safety net of civilization and cellphones and no cholera, but it's still a risky adventure. Anyway, they are making their way across the vastness of Wyoming when disaster strikes. They are driving the wagon across an incline when the weightin their detached supply wagon shifts and overturns. This is bad. Major things break. They are truly in the middle of nowhere Wyoming and that's saying something in a place as sparsely populated at Wyoming. They need major repairs or the whole expedition is screwed. Pioneers died in droves because of this exact type of misfourtune. 

Rinker Buck reacts in a surprising way to all this stress. He is glad for it. He knew things would go wrong as a realist, and was waiting for it. This was his trial by fire at about the halfway point of his journey. He saw this as a chance to prove to himself that he had the ingenuity and gumption to deal with adversity and carry on. They do get it settled with the help of strangers who became friends and some good old elbow grease and ingenuity. What a grand opportunity! You can prove your meddle in a life and death situation that most normal soft bellied Americans haven't experience in and century and a half. 

This brings me to a brief moment of clarity and positive thinking. If Rinker Buck can be grateful for trashing his wagon in desolate Wyoming, surely I can be grateful for my vaguely alluded to head exploding stressors. Once my trials and tribulations have passed and been dealt with in a efficient and productive manner, I'll feel like I've achieved something. I SURVIVED something. Surely I will feel vigorous in my pursuit of living life once I have walked through the valley in the shadow of stress. I might just flitter off into the sky with my newly lightened load. It's a light at the end of the tunnel and a positive spin on things as I currently ponder my predicament, face down in the mud. Soon, life will be light and joyous. I'll have bells on my toes and a song in my heart. Hang in the old boy, the goal is in sight. 

My pictured friend Popeye says "that's all I can stand, and can't stands no more". He then slams some spinach and punches the stuffing out of someone. I might eat the spinach, but I now know I can stand more. I'll go meditate for a bit and save the punching for Popeye. 

WE ARE CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES...

WE ARE CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES. BODHI'S MOVE IN DATE TO HIS NEW HOUSE HAS BEEN BUMPED UP BY A WEEK. HE CURRENTLY HAS EXACTLY TWO BOXES OF BOOKS PACKED OUT OF HIS ENTIRE APARTMENT AND MUST BE OUT IN TWO AND A HALF DAYS. WE APOLOGIZE, BUT THE DAILY NOBODY BODHI WON'T BE SO DAILY UNTIL I FIGURE OUT EXACTLY WHAT BOX I PACKED MY LAPTOP UP IN. 

WE APOLOGIZE FOR ANY INCONVENIENCE. GO READ A BOOK OR SOMETHING. DID YOU KNOW HARPER LEE HAS A NEW ONE OUT? I WOULD START THERE.

The Loading Dock

It was December 7th, 1998. I was only months away from finishing my four year enlistment with the U. S. Navy. I had enlisted in the Navy and left for boot camp exactly thirteen days after I had graduated from high school. The Navy was to be my career. During my enlistment, various things here and there convinced me to choose another path career wise. These last few months were my twilight.

As you know, December 7th is Pearl Harbor Day. Savannah, Georgia has a tradition of inviting a Navy ship to be a guest for their remembrance of "a day that will live in infamy". My ship, a newly commissioned Burke Class destroyer was so honored with this invitation that year. 

If you have never visited Savannah, you should go. The city is truly a jewel of the antebellum south. Legend has it that the city leaders met General William Tecumseh Sherman at the edge of the city and offered to surrender in exchange for his army not leveling it, like he had done along every part of his so called march towards the sea. General Sherman accepted this surrender and offered her as a gift to President Lincoln. This could be historically inaccurate, but I'm going with it because it's pretty epic. 

Savannah is breathtaking in its beauty. The city planners designed parks to be liberally spaced between the ornate homes that were built mostly during the early nineteenth century. These homes have been lovingly maintained by their owners and have a charm that is hard to find in a nation filled with suburbs and McMansions. These charms are covered quite well in the book "Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil". I highly recommend this book (screw that movie though, blah).

A contingent of my shipmates participated in the parade marking the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor. The ship's officers were wined and dined by such organizations as The Daughters of the Confederacy and the like. I was content to just wander this city and take in all the beauty she had to offer. I, of course, did so in my dress blue uniform, in all of its splendor. The city was quite accommodating to all of her seafaring guests. 

As day turned to night, myself and many of my shipmates migrated towards the waterfront district that sits right on the Savannah River. This waterfront area was an entertainment district in the spirit of Bourbon Street in New Orleans. Alcohol, open container and public intoxication laws are generally ignored by the patrons and the police as long as you don't get too brazen in your alcohol fueled adventures. It was quite a night. Being a sailor in uniform and being an honored guest of this most gracious city meant that none of us paid for most of our drinks. No sailor worth his salt would pass up such an offering. "Drink to the foam" is a line in Anchors Aweigh that we  had to learn in boot camp. We must get drunk. This is tradition!

Get drunk, we did. We honored sailing men of the centuries that emptied barrels of rum well before there was even a United States Navy, and every sailor since with our drunkenness. Merriment was had, cups were emptied, uniforms were soiled. It was a grand time. 

All good times must come to an end, and several of my buddies decided it was time to stumble back to the ship. It was getting late and our livers were starting to tell us we would regret this someday. We headed back to our splendid warship home. It was quite a walk. They had docked our ship a good distance down the river in a fully industrial area, likely because of our size. We stumbled through a pretty rough area, in retrospect. The Good Lord added drunken sailors to that saying about protecting babies and fools that night. The Good Lord also had a sense of humor this night as well. 

We were most of the way back to the ship when I heard it. There was quite a good time being had just off the river. It was a low rumble of that festive techno dance music that always makes for a good time when you're drunk. I convinced my friends that we just had to check this out. This seemed like a good idea all around so off we shuffled. 

We soon arrived at the source of the party. It was a dumpy looking warehouse called "The Loading Dock". Dumpy or not, we needed in on this party. We went inside with visions of drunk ladies with a thing for men in uniform. 

We walked in the door. The music was definitely bumping but the crowd was thin. We stood by the front door and scoped the place out. So much for the crowds of women, lusting after sailors. Then I began to notice that there were really no women. There was not a single woman, but still some dancing and club stuff going on. The realization began to seep through the drunkenness as the doorman leaned over and said to me "I think you guys are in the wrong place". Indeed, he was right. Four drunken sailors, somewhat disheveled but still looking quite splendid in our dress blue uniforms, had just walked into a gay bar. 

We quickly left as I agreed with the doorman, "I think you're right". We continued on towards the ship, silent and milling around the horrible mistake we had just made. One guy made sure that we all understood that nobody must ever hear of this. Everyone agreed enthusiastically but me. How can you not tell a story as wonderful as this? You cannot keep this comedy of errors to yourself, it must be shared with the world!

We arrived at our ship. We crossed the brow and gave our salutes to the colors and then the officer of the deck as we came aboard. My shoes had barely set foot on steel as I began to tell the tale of that time five minutes ago when we wandered into a gay bar called "The Loading Dock". It even sounds like a good gay bar name, similar to "The Man Hole" or something. I told everyone I could find of our adventure, much to the consternation of my friends. This was much to hilarious to not be told. 

Many years have passed since this night. I looked on google maps this afternoon to see if perhaps The Loading Dock was still around. Maybe there were a few heartbroken gay guys that hang out there that talk about the time they let those handsome sailors get away. Alas, I could not locate The Loading Dock or really even tell where it was. I was quite drunk that night. I tell this story often, it is one of my favorites. Maybe, just maybe, there's a gay dude somewhere who tells it from his perspective so that it may come full circle. 

If You Come To A Fork In The Road, Take It

Yogi Berra passed on the the great ballpark in the sky this week. That's a sad thing, for he was an entertaining and beautifully ugly little big man. I'm sort of a passive fan of baseball. I enjoy it in the romantic sense like Field of Dreams, Casey at the Bat or that time a gimpy Kirk Gibson rocked one out of the park and did his epic fist pump around the bases. I work a low paying extra job for our local minor league ball team in the summer just to get to hang out at a ballpark. I obviously never saw Yogi play and am not particularly a fan the Yankees, or any team in general. I just enjoy the game and it's characters and legends. Yogi was one of those guys that transcended his sport and became a legend. His "Yogi-isms" are well known. "When you come to fork in the road, take it" is one. Another is "I never said half the things I said". The second one may be true but I'm not going to let the facts ruin a good blog opening. 

I have come to a fork in the road this week. I was cruising into work, late as usual, and had an epiphany. I really don't care for the job I'm doing these days. It doesn't suit my personality and it seems like I'm spinning my wheels most of the time.

It was an odd epiphany that came on all of a sudden. I even surprised myself, because usually I know these things. The wonderful thing about my career is there are many different possibilities for many different abilities and interests so it's not like I'm locked in to something I despise. I can go do something else with a simple request. It's really that easy. 

The problem is that I hate change. I mean I HATE change. The solution to my epiphany is so simple. "Hey, I want to go do this different thing". It's what I need to do without a doubt. There is no downside. My feeble mind just can't make it that easy. I've had to ask opinions from everyone I know. I must run it over in my head again and again. I fret, I worry about the negative possibilities that totally are not going to happen, I doubt my own decisions and needs. I don't know why this is. 

I just finished reading The Tao of Pooh and then consequently Winnie Pooh by A. A. Milne. Granted, The Tao of Pooh isn't some sacred Taoist text but the idea is a good one. Winnie the Pooh just glides through life, following his own path. When something comes up, he just does the correct thing. He doesn't think about it because he has no brain. It always turns out best for him and the others in the Hundred Acre Wood. No fretting, no worrying, he just follows the path set before him. He takes the fork in the road and everything is fine. He knows which path is his because he knows himself. 

I am trying to know myself. It is a process. We haven't talked much until recently but we have started the process of reconciliation. We will be friends again in time, and friendship begets trust. Then I will be like Pooh and take the fork in the road. 

Yogi Berra to career epiphany to Winnie the Pooh? It makes sense in my wacky mind. It's been a long day too, so cut me some slack. 

Yogi once said "it ain't over til it's over". Indeed it is Yogi. Play well in the field of dreams. 

Mistakes Were Made

I took a day off work today. I had a late night working an overtime job and didn't care for the idea of getting up early to go sit at a desk I really don't care to sit at in the best of circumstances. I have another late night tonight and tomorrow night, plus I have to be up early again tomorrow morning. I needed to sleep in today and it was so very glorious.

I finally get out of bed at an indecent hour and have a sandwich. I sit down and decide to watch one of the Star Trek, The Next Generation episodes I have on my DVR. I love that show. I didn't even discover it until a few years ago. I'm not into the Shatner Star Trek and some of the movies are cool, but TNG is awesome. That's another blog for another time. Anyway, sandwich in hand, I start the first episode on the DVR list. It's an interesting one. The USS Enterprise is sent back to Star Base Something Whatever Gamma Two to retrieve some database that was left behind when it was frantically evacuated eight years ago because of some contrived techno babble reason that makes TNG so awesome. Commander Riker led the rescue mission and was transported out last and in the nick of time because of the something something positron field did something bad. He was cited for bravery and being such a sexy man beast (probably). They had to wait eight years to go back because of something something quasar cycles. When the away team beams down, GASP!, they find Riker is still on the base. There are two Rikers! Geordi and Data explain that during the escape, the transporter operator did something technical and a copy was made of Riker and bounced off the megatron field, down to the Star Base where he sat alone for these past eight years. The other Riker went on to grow a sweet beard and bone a bunch of hot alien chicks (among other things). Both Rikers come to terms with the different perspectives they have now from their totally different experiences even though they are the same guy. While I'm watching, they start one of those annoying emergency broadcast tests that totally kills my Star Trek groove and the date flashes. September 25th. Holy crap. I totally forgot about today. Most days, I'm vaguely aware of what day it is and today was no different. The difference is that today is the anniversary of a rather large mistake I gleefully made years ago. I try to be vague here. Details just tend to muddle things. I assure you, this mistake was a doozy. One of many I have made, just like all of us I would imagine.

The double Riker thing gets me to thinking about mistakes I've made. Things I have done but should not have, things I haven't done but should have. There are many. I have great difficulty connecting with myself from an earlier time. I can no better put myself in my 16 year old or 30 year old shoes than I can put myself in your shoes. I don't know you, I cannot relate to your experiences or ideas about things. I cannot do this with myself and I find that very odd. I still wonder. What would Bodhi Nobody be like had he not made some of those mistakes? How much different would my life had been? How would my personality be different? I cannot mourn these mistakes very much, because one of my most epic of mistakes is what brought me my wonderful and life fulfilling son. I have him completely full time, you see, and he is an amazing kid. That epic mistake is just about the only way I could have managed to be a full time parent with the absolute control over my son's destiny that I am so thankful for. The only other option would have been to get pregnant myself. That would have been hard to do and my penis hole would have never been the same after giving birth, but I digress. 

Can I really regret my mistakes? They have made me exactly who I am today, and I like who I am. Some of my greatest mistakes have lead to very good things. My sometimes colossal mistakes have brought many good things to my being, beyond my amazing son and experiences as a single dad. My mistakes have forced me to look deep inside and see my true nature. They have guided me to meditate under the figurative bodhi tree with the Buddha. They have guided me back to my Methodist roots to hear the amazing philosophy of Jesus, to hear the sermons of Sam Powers, a man that somehow could look into MY heart and tell me exactly what I needed to hear to go out and be a better person (Sam has a good blog too, check it out at  http://precedinggrace.blogspot.com/). The Buddha and Jesus were both kind of on the same page I have learned, but back on topic Mister ADD. My mistakes have lead me to learn to let things go, the shed anger, regret and hate. My mistakes have caused me to discover my artistic side, from physical art, to trying to learn to play music, to this blog someone is hopefully reading (if so, hello there and welcome!). My mistakes have designed ME, and I really like me.

Could I have been a wildland firefighter for the National Park Service? Could I have lived overseas after the Navy? Could I have stayed in the Navy? Could I have not screwed off in school so hard (2.2 GPA baby!) and attended West Point or the Naval Academy as I had dreamed of? Could I have played a sport in school? Could I have not married and divorced twice? Could I have not returned home after the Navy? Could I have not let go relationships that would have likely been emotionally fulfilling? Could I have attended college instead of enlisting? There were so many choices made, some good, some bad, some exceptionally bad. Every single one of those choices brought me to this day and to be this man.

In the TNG episode, abandoned Will Riker and Number One of the Enterprise Will Riker did not get along very well. They could not relate to each other. Genetically, they were the same man, but very different in every other way. Alternative universe Bodhi Nobody would be a completely different man. He could have been a globe trotting cowboy astronaut porn star or something totally rad, but he would not be me and I would not know this man.

In my quite amateur and limited knowledge, Taoists say to just let life happen and don't worry about it, the path is before you. Buddhists say don't get caught in the past or the future because you will miss the now. Christians say be anxious for nothing for the peace of God will guard your hearts. Jews say may the Schwartz be with you (I haven't gotten much further than Mel Brooks movies in my Judaism studies). These are all very good ways to see things, but that doesn't mean you don't ponder the possibilities from time to time.

Happy Day I Made a Vaguely Referenced Mistake Day everyone!

The Art of San Diego

I'm moving again. Moving really sucks, just so you know. Yesterday I was working on packing up my library of books. I say library because I've kept every book I've every owned in the hopes of having my personal library one day. It's still a work in progress. As I'm putting books into boxes, I open one up that I've had since I was very new in the navy. When I was in the navy, I would stick documents or similar things in my books that I wanted to keep or use them as bookmarks. I open this book called "The Aardvark is Ready for War" and see a sticker I had put in there as a bookmark sometime in late 1995. This was while I was going to my comm school in San Diego. The sticker was for a place called Primal Art Body Piercing that I visited. That, my friends, was an interesting night. 

I arrived in San Diego in August of 1996, just after boot camp. I reported to the Service School Command to complete Radioman A school. I was nineteen years old and new to the larger world. 

San Diego is a pretty short distance from Tijuana, Mexico. I'm either wrong or was way naive but I don't believe Mexico was quite the drug war zone it is today. The brand new and often underage sailors from the base could take the short trip to Tijuana and drink their paycheck away, see the notorious donkey show, or do any manner of wild and crazy things. The problem was that a drunken nineteen year old sailor was a prime target to get thumped and robbed. Some were even cut or stabbed. The base commander, as you can imagine, didn't like such things happening to his sailors. The solution was to lower the drinking age on base to eighteen years old for beer only. This was designed to keep the young and stupid teen sailors drunk but nice and safe on base. It was a much different time. 

So the night begins. Myself and four of my sailor buddy's are at the base bowling alley. The base was in the process of being closed down for the post Cold War drawdown. This was really the only place to go for beer or otherwise. We had not been out of boot camp long enough to earn the privilege of wearing civilian clothes so we were wearing our "working white" uniform. It was white of course, with an short sleeve button up shirt with ribbons and rank insignia that we didn't have yet. We looked like milk men. 

We drink pitcher after pitcher of cheap domestic beer. We become quite lubricated after a bit. In this jolly state of ours, we decide that we all need Popeye tattoos. Popeye was a sailor, we are sailors, we are drunk. It makes perfect sense. 

We drunkenly shamble off base and down Rosecrans Avenue, the main street in front of the base. We are surely a sight to see, drunk children, wearing milk man costumes, stumbling around in public. We know from previous and non drunk experience there is a tattoo parlor just down the road. 

We stumble into the tattoo parlor and begin to explain our genius idea of us all getting Popeye tattoos. The owner politely listens then informs us that he cannot give us tattoos in our drunken state. 

We are greatly disappointed this night. We wander around, dejected. We eventually stumble upon Primal Art Piercing and Jewelry. The owner is named Art. Art is AWESOME, probably because we are drunk teenagers from Podunk. Art has many tattoos, sweet tattoos, all over. Art has a brand on his calf, a real brand like a cow. It's in the shape of a hand with a spiral in the palm. Art listens to rap music and metal, like with cuss words and everything. Art has those things in his earlobes that make a really big hole. He has piercings, many piercings. We again collectively get another brilliant idea. 

We decide that what we really need tonight is not a Popeye tattoo, but we need our nipples pierced. We explain our plan to Awesome Art. He also tells us that he cannot do such a thing in our current state. We beg, we plead, but he will not relent. He does say that we can hang out with him is his shop, which is awesome. 

Art knows a lot of cool things. Art explains to us that a nipple piercing on a guy is one of the most painful you can get. You see, men don't have big nipples. You have to go behind the areola and basically pierce the pectoral muscle. Holy shit! Thanks for turning us away, Awesome Art. Art also tells us he has a Prince Albert. "A what?", say we. Art explains he has the head of his wiener pierced, both vertically and horizontally. It's like a medieval weapon dick. The look on our faces only encourages him. He says a Prince Albert is a fully manual piercing. It takes twelve seconds to accomplish. A metal rod on one side, a cork or something on the other. Your frightened dong is shaking in terror in the middle. Twelve seconds of pushing a rod through your wiener head. He did this to himself, twice. Art has transcended awesome. He is officially bad ass now. 

We hang with Art for awile. A woman comes in and gets her nipple pierced. We ask to watch but are declined. We listen to Art's CD's. We begin to sober up so we head home to our barracks. We thank Bad Ass Art for the interesting evening.

The next day, one of the guys I was with goes back to the tattoo shop and gets his Popeye tattoo. I don't remember his name but I do remember that I was glad I didn't get my own Popeye. It was pretty lame when I was sober. I did get a navy tattoo later. A traditional sailor's tattoo explaining my sea travels and adventures. It's much better than a Popeye.  

I don't know if Art still has a shop there. I thought about calling the number just to see, but that would be kind of weird. 

The navy base where we lived is long gone, along with the bowling alley that entertained us all those years ago. The base was turned over to private development a few years after we left. Google maps shows it to be a parking lot for a strip mall, along with our barracks. 

The navy no longer allows eighteen year olds to drink anywhere. You get in trouble for that now when you get caught. 

The milk man uniform is long gone as well. The navy has had a serious fashion spree in the last few years, changing uniforms several times for no real reason. Now they wear some black and khaki thing that makes everyone look like an officer, and that ridiculous blue camouflage. I guess that is so when you fall overboard, they don't want to be able to see you. 

It's funny how one cheap giveaway sticker can bring back so many memories. I'm glad I held onto it for all these years. Thanks for the sticker, Art. Wherever you are. 

The Perfect Storm

This storm, so tumultuous.

Send the ships out to sea, for they will be smashed to bits if left moored.

The conditions are perfect for such a gale. The pressure, temperature, and tide are all just right.

We strike the jack and hoist the colors, to the briny sea we sail.

She is quite angry, what was once a beautiful blue is now green and violent. 

We pitch fore and aft, a roll of more than fifteen degrees,

Gear crashes to the deck, a cup shatters, books tumble and fall.

Is the days of sail, we surely would have perished, eternal guests of Davy Jones himself.

I open my eyes, I open my mind.

My ever faithful ship shall weather the storm, she has never faltered.

But in the midst of these angry swells, my home port is so far away.

The Rookie

It was a late summer Thursday morning. The rookie had only been to his new assigned station a few times since he had never trained over there. He didn't really know that side of town. This was only the sixth time he had ever driven to this station and he still wasn't sure about timing with morning traffic, He did not want to be late since he was brand new. You can't start off a law enforcement career with a bad reputation. A police officer's career lives and dies with his reputation among his peers. Once again, he was about thirty minutes early for work.

The lieutenant says"Since your here early I'll send you down to Norman to relieve third shift. I was going to send Albrecht but she isn't here yet". The rookie dutifully complies and heads out the door to find and load up his pool car. When he heads out, he doesn't really know where he is and has a vague sense of where the hospital is. He ends up taking a route very much out of the way since that is all he is familiar with. The rookie eventually blunders upon the hospital. He parks on the far opposite site of the wing where the officer he is supposed to relieve is. Man, what a start to the day.

Now the rookie is new, but certainly not inexperienced in the ways of the world. He is a second generation police officer. His father served with distinction for more that thirty years on the department. His father was also a combat veteran in Vietnam, serving as an elite Airborne Ranger. He has grown up around the life. This is his calling. The rookie also served in the military himself. He had planned on joining the Marine Corps but was talked out of it by his experienced father. "You don't want to be a grunt like I was, join the Air Force of Navy and learn a skill you can use". He did join the Navy, with images of Maverick and Goose in his mind. He did communications, not exactly thrilling but it taught him about responsibility and taking care of business as a man. He is almost thirty years old himself and is raising his four year old son on his own. He has plenty of life experience.

The rookie somehow manages to find the room where the third shift officer is waiting. This officer is notorious for being a cocky jerk and is no different this time. The turnover consists of "here is a cookie, I'm out". "Thanks for the information, dick" thinks the rookie. The relieved officer walks away and the rookie is left guarding his prisoner. He was briefly told about the guy he was to guard by the lieutenant and he was on his way out the door. This guy had robbed someone or something and got hurt. He was in the hospital to heal up enough to get booked into jail. He is a skinny weaselly looking white guy, likely a meth head. He is covered in bandages from almost head to toe. He is injured on both forearms, his head, and right thigh. The rookie dismisses this mess of a person and sits down to make sure he doesn't hobble off. This guy is barely held together with stitches, how boring.

What had not been explained to the rookie by his boss or the officer he relived was that he was guarding a very violent and dangerous man. He would learn this much too late. This man was a serial home invasion robber. He had preyed on the elderly and weak. He would pick a victim, usually elderly women, and knock on their front door. He would spin a tale about how his truck had broke down and ask if he would use the victim's phone. The victim being kind and perhaps a bit naive would allow the predator into their home and the violence would commence. He had victimized three elderly women and one elderly man. Each time he would get more violent. The first few he would just use his hands to beat them. He would demand their money, checks, or anything of value. He would beat them until he was satisfied he had stolen all he could, then flee like a wolf from the hen house. The male victim had been beaten with a crowbar and was still in the hospital recovering from the edge of death itself.

The predator was not so lucky in picking his fifth victim. She was elderly, but she was a sassy large black woman. She was very stereotypical in a good way, a strong black momma. She would prove to be quite a warrior when her time came. He knocked on his unbending victim's front door like the rest. She was a kind and compassionate woman and she let him in because that's what a Jesus would expect her to do. Once he gets in the front door, she knows this was a mistake. His demeanor changes, he is screaming at her with threats of pain and death if he doesn't get all that he wants. He pulls out a knife. He will cut her if he has to. He thrusts the knife at her to let her know just how serious he is.

I don't know what Big Black Momma was thinking when all this began to go so wrong in her living room. I'd like to think she was scared but also thinking something sassy like "I'm not gonna take this shit off no skinny white boy in my own house!" I can hope these things but I'm certain is was something much more primal. The most basic instinct that every creature has inside them, "survive at all costs".

The predator thrusts the knife and the Big Black Momma again. "Where's your fucking money bitch! I'll kill you if you don't get it now!". Big Black Momma is scared and she is cornered. There is no flight, only fight. So fight she does. She reaches out and grabs the predators knife by the blade itself. She severely cuts her own hand as she takes the weapon away from her would be murderer. She removes the knife from the deep would she herself caused. She grabs the knife by the handle.With a mighty burst of adrenaline only available when death is at hand, she goes to work. She stabs, cuts, slashes, and punches this little twerp until he is a leaking mess on the ground. She fights like a desperate beast. She wins a glorious battle of the utmost importance, the battle for her very own life. Once she has thoroughly emasculated this criminal, she runs from her own home and to her neighbors house to get help. She is frantic, bloodied, but very much victorious and alive. The serpent gathers what little is left of his dignity and slithers out to his truck and flees.

The shamed predator drives to his sisters house and tells her a story about how he was jumped by some guys and she takes him to the hospital in Norman, well out of the rookies jurisdiction. Through luck and a detective going above and beyond the normal routine, the serpent is discovered and his crimes revealed. Big Black Momma carved him like a Christmas turkey, so he will be at the hospital until he is released to go to jail for his string of violent robberies on the weak and helpless. These are things the rookie does not know as he sits and tried to find something on TV in the hospital room to pass the time.

The rookie is sitting here, bored. He is full of energy. "Do you know how much crime is out there right now? I am missing all of it babysitting an invalid" he thinks to himself. The rookie does his best to ignore the weasel he is burdened with. The weasel tells him that he doesn't know what this is all about, and that he didn't do anything wrong. The rookie mumbles something about how he doesn't know either and focuses on The History Channel.

The doctor comes into the room at around nine that morning. The supposed weasel is released to go to jail. The rookie seems to think he needs a form that he has left in his car to be signed by the doctor. He doesn't want to have to waste another minute with this guy because he didn't get something signed. He sees a prison guard around the corner. They are sort of like the police, so he walks over and asks if she can keep an eye on his prisoner while he runs out to his car real quick. He leaves the sight of his prisoner for just a brief moment. When he returns to the room, he sees his prisoner has gotten up and is standing by the door. He has a different demeanor and a look in his eye. The rookie later remembers this moment and realizes that he missed a major red flag.

The rookie handcuffs his weasel to the bed and runs to his car. He gets the form signed that he didn't even need in the first place. He gathers the prisoners items and uncuffs him from the bed. The rookie starts to cuff his prisoner in the standard way but sees there is a problem. The prisoners left wrist and forearm is so swollen and bandaged that no cuff will fit around it. The rookie thinks for a minute. His lack of experience convinces him that this prisoner is no match for the rookie. This guy can't even run, his leg is hurt. They start the long walk to the rookies car.

The rookie had parked on the opposite side of the building where is prisoner was being treated. The rookie and his pet weasel weave through the labyrinth of halls and walkways towards the police car and the trip to jail. The weasel stops several times, apologizing because his leg is hurt so bad. "I just need a short rest, my leg is really messed up. What is all this about again? What did I supposedly do?". With no experience to work from and the false confidence of a newly commissioned officer, the rookie buys the whole charade.

They finally make it to the front door after an agonizingly slow walk through the entire hospital. The weasel sees the daylight and knows he is going to prison. He knows his crimes and has fooled this rookie chump. The weasel become a cheetah and dashes for his freedom with an all or nothing desperation.

The rookie is shocked and angered. "How dare this weasel run from me!" he thinks. "Doesn't he know who I am? I'm the police!" The rookie drops his paperwork and the predator's belongings and gives chase. He draws his expandable baton with embarrassed rage. "Stop motherfucker!" he screams as he and the predator pass two doctors. "Stop motherfucker!" the rookie screams again.

He begins to gain on the predator, for he is fresh from the police academy and likely in the best shape of his life. He closes on the predator and swings his stick at his thighs. This trips up the predator and the rookie tried to tackle his escaping prisoner. The predator falls gracefully into a perfect roll and is instantly back to his feet and running away. The rookie falls into a heap and is not as fast getting to his feet to pursue again.

The rookie gets out his radio to call for help. He yells into the radio, giving the situation. There is no answer. He tries again. Still nothing. There will be no response. The radio is still on the channel of his home division more than twenty miles away and well out of range. The rookie realizes this and understands that there is no help to call. Whatever happens this day is solely going to be between him and the predator.

The predator has gained a valuable twenty yard advantage over the rookie from his advantageous fall and recovery. He zigs and zags across the parking lot. He begins to run north but sees a hospital security guard. The predator turns west as the security guard flees away from the escaping prisoner. The rookie sees this and cannot believe the cowardice he has just witnessed.

The predator continues west and crosses the busy street adjacent to the hospital. The officer is behind him and gaining ground. Cars slam on their brakes and skid to a halt as the predator focuses only on escape and the rookie focuses only on his fleeing prisoner. Both narrowly avoid being run down by morning traffic.

The predator sees a chance for escape. Across the street is an old man sitting in his car. The car is running. He runs to the passenger side of his final victim's car. He opens the door, gets in, and locks the door just as the rookie catches up to him. The game has changed, the stakes have been raised, the predator has just sealed his fate.

The rookie gets to the door and finds it locked. He looks in the passenger side window and sees the predator trying to sit in the lap of a tall elderly man. The man has an oxygen tube attached to his nose. The rookie would later be told this man had a minor heart attack just the week before, He was here waiting for his wife in the clinic nearby. He is in the wrong place at the wrong time. The predator has chosen yet another weak and helpless victim.

The rookie knows the old man's life is in jeopardy. The old man is tall and stout and in his younger years could have likely pounded this little turd into dust. These years have long passed, however. Today, he is in danger. The predator has positioned himself partially in the old mans lap, with one leg pressing the accelerator to the floor. The other leg is on the center console. The old man has his foot pressed on the brake with all that he has in him. The car is in gear. It is a battle of strength and endurance that the old man cannot win.

The rookie looks in the passenger side window and realizes the true danger of the situation as the cars wheels begin to spin since the accelerator and brake are both pressed to the floor. He screams at the predator to get out of the car. This is pointless and he knows it. Time starts to slow down, the noise of the city around him disappears. He looks down at his stick in his right hand. He throws it to the ground for now he understands exactly what must be done to end this reign of violence and terror. If he lets this predator escape with his fragile victim, the victim will surely be in grave danger. The rookie would betray his oath to protect the innocent if he does not act decisively.

The rookie calmly draws his weapon. It is a Glock 22. A .40 caliber pistol that has been studied, babied, and most importantly mastered during the police academy. The rookie is an excellent marksman, tested through all the stress his training officers could simulate.

Through the passenger window, he sees a target that he cannot risk taking. The predator and old man are almost one body. The rookie moves to the front of the car, wheels still spinning and the car lurching forward in violent jolts. Again he orders the prisoner out. Seconds seem like minutes. The rookie sees the predator partially in the old man's lap. He cannot risk shooting through him and into the innocent victim behind him. The rookie sees a chance though. The predators lower right belly is the only visible target that is not in front of the old man. The rookie calmly raises his weapon, lines up the most delicate of shots, and gently squeezes the trigger. There is no sound, he feels no recoil, he only sees the bullet ever so slowly exit the barrel of his weapon. He sees the round slowly rotate and advance towards the target. It seems like it takes minutes before it hits the windshield. It goes through the windshield with no deflection. The rookie sees his bullet slowly enter the predator. It hits exactly where he had aimed. The rookie knows this is a very minor wound and the predator is still determined to escape with his final victim. The wound does cause the predator to flinch slightly towards the passenger side of the car and away from the old man. The predator has given the rookie the perfect target.

The rookie's weapon cycles and he lines up his following shot. He must stop the threat, end this chaos, save this victim from certain death or dismemberment. He gently pulls the trigger again. Time hardly advances. Sound does not exist. The round again leaves the barrel, slowly rotating towards the windshield again. The rookie can see every single detail of this bullet, every single rotation is clear in his mind. His aim is just and true. The bullet passes through the windshield again, expands with deadly precision, and enters the predator right in the center of his heart. He sees the predator turn an odd gray color almost instantly. He sees the life drain from his body. He sees his soul descend into the depths of Hell.

The old man sloughs off the dead man from his lap. His lifeless mass falls to the passenger side door. He unlocks the door and the rookie opens it. The vanquished predator falls to the pavement like bag of trash. There is no blood, no gore, just a pile of skin and bones that were formerly used for evil. He looks into the car and asks the old man if he is ok. He replies "I guess so, but who is going to fix my windshield". "How appreciative" thinks the rookie.

Across the street the rookie sees two security guards, one of which ran from the battle just moment ago. Cowards, useless yellow cowards. They stand on the curb on the opposite side of the street like obedient purse dogs, content to just observe from safety. "Call an ambulance, asshole!" yells the rookie. They say they already have.

Time returns to normal. Details begin to fade and blur as the adrenaline goes away. The investigation begins and eventually ends. It was a good shoot. A life was saved, a life with a name and family. The rookie's career has just begun.

**********

This rookie is long gone. A decade has passed. The dreams and nightmares have faded and are mostly gone. His hair is gray. He is a seasoned veteran now. He has saved other lives in much less dramatic fashion. He continues to reflect on that day ten years ago. He has always believed it was just, the strong defending the weak from harm. The predator chose his path and chose his fate. It was our destiny.

"But if you do wrong, be afraid, for he does not bear the sword in vain. For he is the servant of God, an avenger who carries out God's wrath on the evildoer"