Once a day, every day, even if the mantra is the thing itself. Even if the telling is of the telling itself. It doesn’t matter, it’s the practice, the doing, because sometimes, something else will come from it, the repetition, the routine creates the groove, the groove creates the ease, the ease assuages the guilt of the telling. The guilt of it all. the guilt of taking the time out to take your yourself out of this time, to dictate of that time. Shameful rip form blanchot. When I am writing, I am not living, but if I am not living, what is of there to write.

On and on it goes, but it doesn’t matter, the practice matters. You cannot practice life, there are no rehearsals, not out takes, you are suddenly on stage without lines and so few cues. Merely suggestions accrued over time, of being under the spotlight when such and such a scene has played out before, and you improvise, you hesitate, someone else steals the spotlight but in the end it’s always been your show. You can however, practice this, the writing and the telling and the saying and the revision and the something that escaped notice and was truly trivial until you made it real and whole here, in this empty space.

We can say there was never an end to it, that it went on and over, on and over. But was there a time before it, before this? Or was it always already concrete and sinew?

That’s beautiful, he said and strokes his son’s head. Or was it his daughter’s? Or was it a dream he had while he was passed out on the couch and she was at her mother’s funeral? They had argued about this, about the memory, and made love afterwards and she slapped him as she left. It was funny but he was tired and bored.

In the end there was a very promising beginning, and if his dog hadn’t gone deaf, or was it the cat going blind, or the fish turned upside in the yard sale bought aquarium, he might’ve gotten up to draw the blinds and stop making a show of it.

There’s a talent to this, she said.

Earlier today, a construction crew was driving down the block pulling out old cable with the cherry picker RAISED and ripped right thru my internet line. I approached the guys and said hey you know what you did?

One of them says, ya sorry, you have optimum or Verizon?

I tell him Verizon.

He says, ok we can’t touch it, you have to call them.

So I call Verizon, they tell me earliest to fix is Friday. I tell them how does that work? Everyone is remote now, what do I tell my boss?

They go, we understand your issue.

I say, no you don’t, I’ve been a loyal customer for ten years.

We appreciate your loyalty.

If you appreciate my loyalty get someone here tomorrow.  otherwise this is all thoughts and prayers. Show me your appreciation.

We’re sorry, we can’t bump someone else.

I say, you mean to tell me everyone else scheduled for tomorrow pays Verizon 400/month? Been with Verizon for ten years? That would show me appreciation. Then I tell them, that’s alright, here’s a picture, I’m at the Verizon store right now to cancel all my services.

They put me on hold. Guy comes back and tells me tomorrow afternoon.

Motherfuckers man

You want. And want. And want. It’s all yearning and desire and ennui and goddamn it I wish I could do more. Didn’t I write about spindlefingers?

No, that’s not right. It’s never right. It’s an attempt, a series of attempts. Aborted attempts. Not a safe topic. Not something to talk about. Write about. We’re not in a safe place. Increasingly not a safe country. Was any of this really possible? But it happened and we weren’t dreaming.

I keep coming back to this memory I have of Blitz, taking about a near future of indentured servitude of credit and how he must feel silly that it didn’t come to pass. But what is passing is far worse.

And I want to write that none of it matters. None of it has mattered, nothing has really changed. Not for us at least. We’ve been lucky riding the coat tails of privilege that never belonged to us. We’ve been passing.

I will not write about the fourth of the July. the split in the country between the true patriots and the idealists. The ones filled with angry nostalgia for a country seemingly lost to them but never truly was. Or the ones teetering on a certain kind of despair that the dystopian worlds they secretly had a fetish for is coming to pass.

No, I will not write about them. Instead I will write about my son that left our home today with a kind of jittery confidence and arrogance to watch the fireworks at the beach but left in the middle of the day to do so. I will write instead of my daughter anxiously optimistic but terrified of becoming a young adult as she preps for college in the city at the tail end of summer. I will write of my wife as she joined me in the pool that was still too cold for her tastes at 86 degrees.

I will write on how I picked up three mike’s hard lemonades with the intent of downing them all but barely finished one. I will write instead of the dread I feel going back to work from the comfort of my gaming chair and not feel the slightest bit of guilt over it. I will write instead that my mother bought me the first edition paperback of kazantzakis’ report to greco and perhaps that was the most thoughtful gift she had ever given me.

So, no. Not about the fourth. If my fiftieth was a day like any other, then so is this one.

Although the fireworks were kinda nice.

Blank page. Where are you. The you will always be different. You are different. You haven’t changed at all. greyer, a certain finesse to the temples. Isnt that an odd thing to say, a finesse, to the temples? I mean, what the fuck is that? Does it matter?

Roaming around brooklyn, looking for The Stranger Things Experience at the brooklyn naval yard. A town in itself. Gentrification in full effect. Cafes with six item menus placed blocks apart with working class delis in between. Still early. Come back in five years, it’ll all be vegan burgers and high end boutiques. The “experience” itself fun, kinda slick, but you look at it too closely, overpriced and kitsch. You need to give yourself into those things. You need to suspend your anti-capitalist tendencies and just give into it. it is what it is. Expensive and overrated.

But who cares goddammit. I’ve turned fifty. I want to be a child again. I’m really not going to go down without a fight. Fuck that. The past five days, the constant mantra, take a serious picture, come on, grow up. That’s the point everyone, I’ve grown up already, this is not the way I want to be remembered. I want every photograph to be a disruption to your sensibilities and expectations of age, of time, of me. Time will not beat me because it already has beaten me. Like that Jack White songs, time, takes takes takes.

I’m going to give it a fistful. I’m going to laugh in its face.

She asks about drinking strategically, and that’s what concerns me more than anything else. Her first party a couple of years ago, ages ago, I had advised her. I had said, I know it’s inevitable, follow these rules: don’t take any drink offer to you, don’t leave your drink unattended, don’t hesitate to call.

Simple. But she never drank. she tried it and didn’t like it and avoided it, basing her reluctance on science and brain development and the goals of her life. but now, she is contemplating it. she says, I’m going off to college, it’s not realistic that I won’t have a drink. I want to try it at this party that is coming up. What are your thoughts.

And I sat with her. I asked her what her goals were, what was she expecting. And she said she wanted to be prepared. It was strategic. It’s a fact-finding mission. To know who she was and how to be and adjust accordingly given this type of situation. She’s always prepared. So I told her my story. I told her how I had my first drink at 13, 14, gin that made me vomit because I drank it like water. How, even now, I drink like it’s water and I am a man in the desert.

I warned her: you have a genetic propensity to like it too much, my biological father was an alcoholic. That I considered myself an alcoholic and avoid it as much as possible. I told her, your grandfather was a mean drunk. That I was a happy drunk. That I liked myself when I was drunk. That I loved everyone when I was drunk. That I got most of drinking out of the way before I even turned 21.

I then got up and grabbed a fruity “hard” lemonade from the fridge. Set it before her. Let’s find out what type of drunk you are. Let’s see.

And, of course, she wouldn’t. this wasn’t the point, she said.

Have I lost it, as opposed to finding it. I find myself every day. Suddenly there, always there, a knowing and unknowing, a curling and staggered breath. it’s not supposed to amount to anything, just get it down. There’s so much garbage here. So much refuse. Words you barely know how to use but use them anyway because they sound cool. Make you sound cool. Like a coolatta. What the fuck is wrong with you? “coolatta” but hack at it. that’s the point, to drudge through the misery, get it out, dig around, hope you don’t get poked by a stray needle.

I was never ever really worried about random metal cuts. I was never worried about my hand in the heap and the pin prick of something rusty and jagged and filthy. Always thought myself invincible. Running down alleyways playing poor man’s football without equipment, too much traffic on the side streets to play a scrimmage properly, and there I was: husky kid barreling down the alleyway close to the wall, too close, gaining an ungodly momentum on the return and my hand holding the ball scraped against brick and mortar. And I feel the gentle tug of romance in that thought, in that memory of bleeding as I scored a touchdown, outpacing the boys that I wanted to be accepted by, the friends I never truly had. But that’s another story for another time if I ever get all the bits and bytes in the right order.

And it’s the order of things that bother me. How they get lost, or mis-shaped. You never really remember the thing itself: the thing itself is long gone. Even worse, the thing itself was never there. You were never there. Just the impression of a world you thought you were in but left little evidence on you and you on it.

turning fifty is a funny thing. and today is really like any other. at least to me, it’s just another, the sun will rise, some people are going to reach out, some people are going to call to catch up, most people will text. and usually i treat it just like any other, i move through the day at the same pace and vigor and attitude as any other day. after all, isn’t every day a new one to start all over again?

but, and i’ve mentioned it before, turning fifty this year was different. it’s not hitting me today, it hit me when my eldest was accepted to college a couple of months ago. and not just any college, but the college of her choice, and i was floored with a bout of insomnia that i don’t think i’ve quite shaken off yet.

you see, we spend all this time setting things up for a future that will be better than our present. we live for a moment in time that is far from our grasp. we toil, we work, we save, we buy houses, we set up 529s, we set up 401ks, we vacation to get a reprieve, we occasionally treat ourselves but with a severe eye on what this splurge might mean for future savings. but Ioanna going off to college meant this future was no longer some unseen point around a distant bend. it’s not even miles ahead. it’s inches away.

we went to san francisco this year, and during a hike in the redwood forest our kids were walking ahead of us and it was just me and my wife, my partner, the true robin to my batman, and it was just us. they had suddenly gone out of sight, that’s how far ahead they were, and i mentioned to her, “pretty soon it’s just going to be us on this trail”

and ya, it was bittersweet and true, and it brought tears to my eyes, because that time was coming, and with Io getting accepted, it solidified. it was no longer a random emotional thought that came to me being exhausted from days and days of walks and hikes. it was happening, it was inches away and i guess, i guess i am afraid to actually grasp it. to grab hold of it, to turn the years of reaching for it, to actually closing my fist around it.

anyway, like i said, the cold hard fact of turning fifty hit me months ago. today is just another day. the sun is up and it’s beautiful outside. so, um, i’m taking hold of it. unless something goes completely sideways, i’m gonna check out the next couple of days.

(sorry for all the writing but i think you guys should be used to it by now. i used to say, “i am a failed writer”, but i think the one change i will embrace, starting today, is telling people, “i am also writer”)

…the weave of it

my love,

we are making the slow transition into yet another phase of our lives. from anxious and newly minted, to prideful with caution, to now anxious again but somewhat weathered. we’re reaching the point where i am tempted to say, ‘ok, we’ve done our part, we’ve set up these little engines and off they go.’

but not you. no, not you at all. this thing with our kids, this blanket of love and care and comfort, if anything, for you the loom spins faster, the weave more intricate, more color, more stitch. all without effort, endlessly. each thread more confident than the last, stronger, more encompassing but forgiving, they are able to stretch and grow and without snapping.

your love for them knows no bounds. it is filled with worry and regret and admiration and strength and warmth and compassion. we are built for things in this life and part of the point of living is figuring out what that thing is and hopefully, with enough time, getting good at it. i cannot help but think, this has always been your purpose, to love us, care for us, guide us, comfort us. to be what we could never be, to teach us how to be, to weave something true and real and unending.

Happy Mother’s Day

always,
me