A pair of shoes, a shirt,
a known article of clothing
and a memory that serves you well
in your future life.
I watched something pure happen.
I saw a father and his son at the beach
yesterday.
They were looking through the shallows
collecting shells
and digging for sand crabs.
I saw them and felt the sting
of missed opportunities.
I saw why youth is wasted on the young
and how this as a recollection
and an understanding
that of course
there is no such thing as the future
to a kid . . .
There is nothing more than the moment
and the endless possibilities
that come with the confidence
and the plethora of tomorrows
I watched them as father and son
I saw their mutual curiosities
absorb the purity of the moment.
I watched the waves roll in
to drench their swim trunks and of course
I know the waves came in
to cool their skin from the beating sun.
I watched them take in the smaller
waves that reached the shore
and thought to myself,
“please Dear God,
let this be one of their great memories
with more to come.”
I saw their focus and to them,
I saw how nothing else mattered
and nothing else was more important than “the time,”
and the task at hand – – –
Chasing the waves,
finding sea shells,
and digging for sand crabs.
what else could be better?
I thought to myself about the boy
and I urged him through a silent supplication
and with both a mournful and heartful prayer;
I pleaded, as if to make a spiritual petition
and I offered this to the boy.
Then I submitted myself with my whispers to God
and to The God of my Father.
I pleaded with my heart and soul and offered
with my softest appeal and urged,
“let this be one of the great ones for them.”
I whispered to the soul of the child
like a friend whispering to the spiritual ear
of the young boy
and I proposed, “Hold onto this one kid!”
Please.
No one stays young forever
~ ~
My world this weekend was eye opening
and too, I am more aware of myself now.
I can see myself clearer
and now that I can see myself this way
and since it is me who sees,
then it is me who sees the madness
in my emotional reflection.
Therefore it is the awakening of my awareness
that causes me to convict myself
as I process the growing pains
which reflect when I see myself
in my mental mirror.
This is the reflection
that repeats my history from the view in the mirrors
and this . . .
this is what often distracts
and distorts the truth.
And as it was in the beginning, is now,
and will be forever
when it comes to the art and the dangers
of personal perception.
I recognize this because of course,
we are often altered and distracted
by the deception of our perception.
Or if at all and if at all this is only subjective to me,
then to me,
it is my responsibility to atone, amend,
and call out my sins, one by one,
and to do this
I have to do this openly and without dishonesty
or the decorations of ego and pride.
I am thinking of the father and son
I urged the boy in my heart:
Hold on to this kid
This memory will resurface later in life
and save you when you need it most.
Believe me.
I was a good boy once too
You know?
I was not always the bad side
I was equally the yin and yang
and the mixtures of good and evil.
I thought of things like a pair of shoes,
a shirt, and a known article of clothing.
Little boys look up to their first known hero
and they say things to their friends like,
“my dad can beat up your dad,”
and to the child, my dad is the all-knowing, and all-growing,
ever powerful, stronger, always providing for his family
and yet; fathers are often mysterious and serious
and gentle at times.
My Father was this way
(to me) intense, and to a child,
this is like the lead role and the heroic actor
in the opening scenes of a play
in this thing we call life.
I am no hero.
I never will be because the villain in me
will never allow me to shed my tail
or the horns that the devil gave me.
~ ~
I saw a small band play at a little bar the other night.
They sang old songs and songs from my youth
and the youth before mine.
Ah the benefit of nostalgia
and the joy of being a witness to new things
and old things being reconnected.
I love this.
I love to see this and act as a witness to real friendships,
and witness a small group of beautiful people
who go back 30 years deep.
I liked the music
I liked the band
I loved their rendition of a song
that brought me back to a memory of a good time
and the old band, Chicago.
The band played the song
“Does anybody really know what time it is”
and I love how lyrics to the song follow up with,
“Does anybody really care.”
This was good
Really good
I loved it
Wait. . .
. . Who is that?
Why is someone in this world interrupting a good night?
Wait, no . .
. . . why is a grown-ass man threatening a small woman
and making her cry?
Domestic abuse.
That is what this is called
And just then a larger man thought it was fine
to attempt an assault on a woman,
reminding me that I was once a scoundrel too.
I was not guilty of the same things
but not doing anything would only make me guilty again
He reminded me why I hate the old me.
He reminded me why
I would grab the old version of me
and beat him, repeatedly.
I swear old ghosts and demons have tricks they play.
Another man attempted to settle this dispute
but his method was not impactful
or promising enough to ensure a safer passage
for the little woman.
I decided to settle this the only way that made sense
He made that little woman cry
So
I made him leave quickly and quietly
and seriously enough to understand.
I did this with an aggressive and promising approach
that explained “Hey, pally . . . I know evil too, and I know him very well.”
I made sure my approach came off as if to explain
that my time will not be wasted
and I will not be bullied
nor will I allow a grown man, drunk or otherwise
or with whatever other excuse he used
to hit a woman.
I offered my attention and explained myself
The man listened
I walked him out
with no issue to report.
Enter the internal conversation:
I could have killed him
You know?
“You should have killed him!”
I might have killed him
and who would object
or what jury would convict me?
“Was he like you?”
No!
He was never me and I was never him
but still,
I saw him as a painful reminder of my sins
and how the sins of my sins
duplicated and multiplied and defied my truth
by letting me believe “that this was me!”
“But he is NOT you!
So why bother this way?”
Because . . .
Like it says by Shakespeare:
Mercy for the guilty is cruelty for the innocent.
“Are you innocent?”
No. I am stained and guilty
and the stains on my hands prove this,
even if no one sees it.
I know they are there.
“I can see the stains.”
I know.
But he should still have to pay
“Did you pay?”
I’ve paid and paid and I still come back empty and bankrupt
“So then why did you let him go?”
Because killing or beating and punishing him would mean nothing
Or maybe, spilling him across the floor
or inflicting pain would be nothing else
but purging my own guilt.
Pulling his shoulder out or choking him out
and watching him regain consciousness
to see it was me
or to see my face and to know
that I punished him means nothing.
I realized this made it about me
and that this is my regret
and thus, this exposed the hatred
I have for myself and my past.
“You did a good thing, son?”
Did I?
But it wasn’t good enough!
“Have you ever been good enough?”
No, sir.
Maybe my amends were not enough or fell short.
Maybe my rage was accurate and justified
and so, maybe I was fine to stand up for someone
who could not defend themselves
“So then, did you punish him enough?”
No
Is that because you haven’t punished yourself enough yet?
Ah, you
My deep subconscious self
You are so smart and I,
although I am you
I struggle
Punishing that man and his acts
would essentially be me killing my old self.
Perhaps this way
that old part of me could die
and never resurface. But ah,
ghosts and demons love to whisper
and stir the echoes of old memories
that never want to die
or go away.
A pair of shoes, a shirt,
and an article of known clothing.
The weekend was eye opening
and wonderful and emotional and otherwise,
I see that man can carry too much
and so the weight on my shoulders
is enough to make a man crazy
or believe in our own craziness
A saw a boy and his dad….
I have no Dad
My Father, The Old Man died when I was 17
and we missed too much
I remember the morning after he died
I was in my parents bedroom
I saw his sneakers, a nightshirt,
and later in life, I found an old scarf of his
and it smelled just like him.
It’s amazing how we feel the energy
of someone after they are gone.
Blessed Father,
I miss my Father.
I miss the fact that we missed too much.
I wish . . .
We should try to find some way to catch up
Even if I won’t be able to hear what you say
Send me a sign
I understand the tension and the reasons
why age makes us different
or sometimes angry
I don’t want to be angry anymore, Pop.
I just want a day on the beach
you know?
to look for sea shells
and chase sand crabs
A pair of shoes, a shirt,
and an article of known clothing.
I wonder what I will leave behind to let someone know
No matter what
I am still here
I love you
And not even Hell or the devil, himself
can change that love
A pair of shoes . . .
A shirt . . .
And a known article of clothing
Man, I miss so much of what never happened.
I missed too much
So now, I have decided to make up for lost time
alone or otherwise
It’s my turn now Pop
Do you hear me?
I hope I make you proud
Please
The Written Addiction 