What I am about to reveal is designed to be helpful to those who have faced a certain uncertainty in which, they had no vision nor could they conceive their life in any other way. Therefore, this is written to those who have faced in their own way or in their own right, the idea of a permanent means to solve a temporary problem.
Continue readingAt All Cost: Avoid the Interest
It is of no consequence for me or you to live as we live or do as we do. To us, this is life. This is our everyday version of normal—or at minimum; this is what we assume our “Normal” should be. We see what we see; therefore, we think what we think and believe what we believe.
It is nothing to me to see what I see on the street or to the mailman on a Saturday afternoon. It is nothing to excuse my feet on the subway while an old homeless man shuffles down the car with a cup in hand and asks for change. This is nothing for the normal everyday riders on a New York City subway system. This is more of the same and par for the course. Meanwhile, a man nods off into the depths of a drug called heroin. There is a slight aroma of urine on the train and yet, this is only an early morning ride which heads uptown.
Nobody remarks or says anything. Instead, we see this as another morning on the train. This is not different from any other day—so, why would be astonished or moved by the lonely man who is sleeping in the seat as if this were the only place for him to rest.
Continue readingGrowing Up –
I am not too sure when this happens. I don’t know when it is or if this is something that happens and one day, we open our eyes and there it is, the first gray hair. I don’t know when age happens — at least, not really. When do we cross the line from youth to adulthood? Is there such a thing? Is there an imaginary line that we step over and that’s it? It’s too late. I know people who have been adults since childhood. At the same time, I know people who look to relive their old high school glories because they never grew up.
Continue readingA Note: For Father Mychal Judge
“Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.”
This is something my Mother would type when testing a new typewriter. I was too young to know much about a book called The Early History of The Typewriter. I was certainly too young to know anything about Charles E. Weller. He’s the one who wrote this first. There were other things that Mom could have typed. For example, Mom could have typed “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog,” and this would have incorporated each letter of the alphabet. But no. Mom chose to write, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of our country.”
I always liked this. . .
From Letters: A Memory of the Boys
We sat together in a room on Christmas morning. We talked about our favorite meals and our favorite memories from back when we were young. And we laughed for a while.
We laughed about our childhood memories and the way it was to be a kid on Christmas morning. We talked about the presents and the way things change from action figures to a new bike (or something like that).
We spoke to one another the way regular people speak. There was no hierarchy, no pecking order, just a roomful of men who wished to be elsewhere. But due to the circumstance, for the moment, this was all that we had.
Ever Play Solitaire?
There was a time before machines and applications. There was a time when I was much younger with the entire world on my mind. I was armed with nothing else but a deck of playing cards and a game of solitaire. I learned this game from when I was sick and hospitalized. I have no real memories from this time. I was very young and the name of whatever sickness I had was more of an adult word than something an 8 year-old would understand.
I have pictures or perhaps flashes of me in a hospital room. I sickly and tired and wondering if this was my fault or if “God” was mad at me for something.
As a matter of fact, I tried to make a few deals with God. I tried bargaining but the needles kept coming. And man, did they hurt!
Anyway, this is when I learned how to play solitaire. I was able to distract myself—or better yet, I was able to lose myself in the different color codes of red and black and how to organize the cards.
For What It’s Worth
I think now is a good time that we have a little talk. I wasn’t going to do this here because I’m never too sure if we are ever alone—or at least, really alone. But at risk of exposure, I thought twice about this and yes, this is the right place.
I think the only approach is the humble one, which in my case; this is me, here and now. What I am about to expose or explain is something that comes from the heart—and while I admit this is raw and perhaps somewhat uncomfortable or perhaps it is too much for some people to expose one’s self honestly, it doesn’t have to be uncomfortable or strange. This doesn’t have to be uncomfortable at all, but yet, I get it. Bright light exposes darkness. And sometimes, it’s bright . . .
A Letter. . .
You lose touch after a while. The past is nothing more than the past and the old running buddies from the old stomping grounds are nothing more than part of your history. This took me a while to learn but I learned this, nonetheless. And for the record, I still remember. I’m sure you do too. I remember my old friends the same as I remember the stories that we shared together. I suppose what happens is we move on or in some cases, maybe we grow up. Either way, eventually, the past becomes old chapters that seem like stories, which happened in a different lifetime.
Continue readingFrom the Boys: A Memory
There was nothing so special about that afternoon. There is no reason why this day sticks out in my mind, other than the fact that this was simply a day in my life. Nothing happened. There was no special excitement. There was nothing specific or notable about this day. I was coming home after a weekend out. It was summertime in New York City. I made the choice to walk from 23rd Street at 2nd Avenue over to the Westside on 8th to walk upward towards Pennsylvania Station and make my train ride home.
Continue readingNotes From the Heart: To “The Kid”
So you breathe . . .
You breathe because what other choices do you have? You’ve fallen (maybe?) or you’re tired or you’re hurt, but hey, life doesn’t seem to care, right? Hurt or not, we still have a race to run.
The Written Addiction 