Author Archives: Richard M. Rosso, CFP

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About Richard M. Rosso, CFP

I'm a money manager; a writer at heart. I love to observe the imperfections and dig into my own. On occasion, it's a bloody ordeal.

The Bullies Around (Inside) You – How to Defeat Them.

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“The biggest bully I ever faced was underneath my own skin.” Johnny Cash.

Paulie Greco appeared. In the schoolyard. I saw him. Rising like a demon above cracked concrete. I couldn’t focus on anything else after that. For hours. Through the massive, thick Brooklyn public school windows behind heavy-gauge steel grating, I could still see him. I couldn’t stop seeing him. Waiting. I couldn’t stop feeling the ice, the fear coursing through veins I didn’t even realize I had inside my body, my head. Until they started throbbing. 2:15pm. He’d been out there. Since noon. High noon.

I remember shaking uncontrollably at my desk the closer the small, black super-ticky clock hand inched moved towards 3. My heart beat heavy in both ears. I wondered how I was going to lose blood, teeth. My spleen. I heard somewhere you could live without a spleen. That oddly seemed to calm me. Would I be able to walk? Please god not the face was all I could think. Thinking positively – Perhaps a good pummeling would work off some of the belly fat I carried around thanks to Drake’s cakes, Yodels to be specific.

yodels

Oh Yodels – the unnatural perfect food.

I didn’t do anything to him. In fact, I stayed far from him. I was always aware of his space so I could purposely avoid it.  He hated me because I was fat, I wore green corduroy pants in the summer (thanks mom), I was diverting the attention of a puerto-rican beauty in spandex pants who didn’t give him the time of day – she liked my brains over his brawn. I was friends with his girlfriend (the damn cute girls always liked to be friends with me because I was, non-threatening, funny troll-like figure). I had bigger pimples, maybe. For one reason, many reasons, every reason, this guy hated my guts.

All I knew?  I was dead soon. No more pencils, no more books, no more teacher’s dirty looks. Rest In Peace. In a dirt-blood pile. Smashed behind a city school. 

butch

America’s favorite bully then in rerun form – Butch from The Little Rascals.

There he was – leaning against a shaky schoolyard fence. Greasy dark hair. Black leather jacket with chains (as I think about it, looked stupid in June). He’d deftly bounce off the chain link, then shuffle – from one foot to the other. Right. Left. Right. Left. Rocking. Like a psycho planning a pounce on chubby prey. I’m sure he noticed me through the smudgy glass and steel-cage monster panes of glass. I know, at the least, he smelled me. My fear. I think it made him rock faster.

3pm was here. I couldn’t feel my legs, not sure how I rose from the desk…Numb.

I walked slow. To the bulls-eye. Not sure of my fate.

Random Thoughts:

1). External bullies never go away. Throughout your entire life they’ll re-appear. Even those who were once close friends can turn. Corporate masters like to bully too. Because they can. Shareholders, Boards of Directors encourage it (mostly by demanding greater results). Bullies hate the truth, however. They diminish in power once they know you’re not afraid and you possess the strength of the truth. But you’ll need to shiver in the ice water, feel the cold of loss, first. Today, many companies can pay less in wages, avoid raises, ask more out of you, work you out of a position for others less skilled, because they have the power. As the economy slowly improves, their ability to bully and scare will diminish. Be patient. Stay true to your cause. You shall prevail in finding greater more lucrative ventures.

2). Get to know your inner bullies. The bullies who push against you from within. They do stick around you until death. You know them. You’ve faced them. The ones who constantly, mentally pummel you. Telling you you’re going to fail, fall, falter. The ones who nag at you. Encourage you to flee. It’ll take some strong self-analysis to understand your interbullies as I call them, but if you remain aware, you’ll face your internal Paulies head on. You may stumble short term; oh, they’ll rock you, shuffle you up, but you will win, eventually. It’s inevitable. The more you fight them, the greater understanding you’ll have of their crude methods to shake you. Your mind begins to grow smarter than your interbullies. It’ll take time but it will happen. Don’t give up. You’ll surprise them when you least expect it.

3). Don’t be bullied to be stupid with money. There’s a lot out there to taunt you to overspend or misuse credit. Stand your ground. Stick to a budget. The less you spend the more empowered you will become. The more secure you will become in your future. A bully should possess a negative net worth. Not you.

4). Discover your reinforcements. Seek and then never forget what/who supports you. Understand the need to train for battle. Friends (some you never knew you had), exercise, a good diet, sleep, deep breaths,  meditation, reading, heartfelt discussion, all need to be employed as you fight the bullies around you. It’s ok to wallow in Yodels a bit (if you can find them); too many will weaken your body and spirit. Know when to shut down the devil’s food (which is a devil’s food).

I couldn’t feel anything. The larger Paulie grew in my line of sight, the more steadfast my pace. I wanted to flee in the other direction. I kept walking. Straight. Closer.

I recall closing my eyes briefly. I wasn’t going to run. I didn’t do anything wrong. If I got beat so be it. With all the adrenaline running through me I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have felt a thing. So it appeared to be an opportune time for a thrashing. I just wanted one good shot. One good kick. One surprise that would shake him.

I stopped near the rocking bully. He stopped rocking. About seven feet from him. I tried to move in but couldn’t. Frozen. He moved towards me.

He spoke. Rough Brooklyn. Mostly hoodlum. Mumbled.

“You talk to my girlfriend?”

“Yea,” I said. What was I going to say? “She’s in my homeroom class.”

“I know people. I’m related to gangsters. You understand that?”

I knew that.

“I know people too. I hang out at Torragrossa’s Funeral Home. I watch them embalm dead people after school. You think my mother could get a discount if you kill me?”

I continued before he could say another word:

“You’ll need to realize I won’t die so easy though. If I can take you with me, I will,” I said. No reason why. Anger perhaps. All I know is I meant it at the time.

I had nothing to lose.

At that moment his girlfriend, my friend, ran up (reinforcements) and screamed at him not to touch me or it was over between them. He backed off.

A few weeks later I found out that he was a bit scared of me after that incident. It wasn’t his girlfriend’s threats. It was the fact that I watched the embalming process. It was a bit of information he wasn’t expecting. It was a surprise. A shock.

Bullies hate surprises. Shocks. The truth.

torregrossa

And apparently the embalming process.

Who knew?

 

Doors you Open. Doors you Close – Four Ways to Know the Dangers.

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At 4:45am. Every day. Even Sundays. She smelled like cherries. Sourced from somewhere. Her hair. Her skin. Her moving silhouette near a window, a small lamp reflecting on a sheer, white nightgown. I can see from the doorway. I can feel her spirit.

Not real cherries. Well, they were from nature. Once. Before the sulfur dioxide and calcium chloride polluted them. Transformed them into a syrupy, cherry-like Frankenstein concoction called Maraschino. That was the scent I detected. It hung heavy in the hall. In the mornings. Every morning. Seventh floor of a majestic, tall apartment complex.Ocean Parkway. Brooklyn. 1975.

Maraschino Sexy

I exited the elevator below her. Always. Floor 6. Nerves. Excitement. Fright. Anticipation – Mrs. Antolini’s donut breakfast. Strategically tucked. In a corner. Where the welcome mat joined the bottom of the front door. A brown paper bag. Inside a glazed beauty – carefully (lovingly) wrapped in wax paper. Precious Mrs. Antolini. A widow. Apartment 6F. She always thought of me, especially throughout the tough New York winters.

In the morning, pre-morning (because morning should really begin at 7), metropolis was quiet. And sometimes, as I rode my three-speed, dragging a wagon pile of Daily News, I felt as if I owned the early. It was mine. It was me. And 100 newspapers for delivery.

My cool Radio Shack bright-orange AM radio cutting through dark silence (waiting for the “Rambling with Gambling” show to begin – WOR Radio) attached to handlebars. Listening to a broadcast from Nashville that occupied miles of open airwaves. From WSM-AM. Until New York radio programming began and drowned out country crooners.

And there were the doors. So many doors.

Apartment Building Doors

That building was special. Because of Mrs. Antolini. Because of her. The girl. Dancing in the shadows. Just for me.

She flooded my nostrils. One floor above. As I slowly worked up a flight of high-rise stairs, the blend of aromas which lingered from dinners past, died away, absorbed into walls.  Strong ethnic origins. Around food. Now fading. Cherry was coming. Redder by the moment. A faint scent at first, now stronger with each step. Sweeter with each footfall. Up a flight. 25 steps. Straight ahead. Door to the left.

She knew my schedule. For floor seven. Between 4:45-4:50am. My duties as newspaper delivery boy for NY’s Picture Newspaper – The Daily News. Her front door was always open. Thin sliver but just enough. Just enough for me to see. And smell. To watch. Not too long. Just enough. Not to be late with my deliveries. She helped me make it through. From an image. Her moves. Through a door. Open slight. Wide to me.

I’ve seen her many times before this. Around the neighborhood. She was older. That I knew. More mature. Lived with her elderly Jewish parents. I collected my meager newspaper subscription money weekly from them. She was never there on late Friday afternoons. Door closed. I needed to ring the bell. That felt odd. Every Friday, Mrs A would have a special pasta dish for me.

Thank god for her. And her: The girl.

I recall her deep blue eyes. Striking long brown hair, curled up at the bottom. When she smiled at me. She never spoke. Just watched me. Danced for me. Always there. Never speaking but encouraging me to show up. Tomorrow. The day after tomorrow.

Cherry.

“Mrs. Antolini, do you know the girl who lives in 7G?” I asked on a Friday. Sort of in passing. Matter-of-factly. I always cut Mrs. A a deal on the newspaper. Actually, most of the time I gave her freebies. It was in trade for the food she was thoughtful enough to leave. The comfort she provided.

She looked at me. Puzzled. Like nobody else existed in the building.

In a heavy Italian accent she said: “The Rosenbergs. Norman & Rachel.”

“Well, I know them. I deliver the paper to them. I’m talking about the girl.”

“Their daughter Julie.”

Julie = Cherry.

I could see it now. She looked like a Julie. Julie Rosenberg.

“Did she open the door?” Mrs. A said. Concerned.

“Yes.”

“She’s been told to never open the door. Never.”

Random Thoughts:

1). Sometimes you’ll open the wrong door. Just accept it. Know when to close it. You’ll pursue a person, a vocation, a hobby, and realize you should have never opened the door. In hindsight it would have been best to leave the door closed. Sealed. We all understand. Opening the wrong door is part of life. The courage is knowing when to close the door, or realize when the door closes on you, permanently. And it will hurt. You wanted so badly for that door to remain open. For Julie to dance forever. To keep you going. But it closed. You failed. Is there a lesson in the failure? Learn to understand it. The longer the door stays closed the more you’ll admit to yourself that it was a good thing. For you. And Julie. Other doors, better ones are down the hallway. Don’t push. Don’t keep opening the wrong door.

2). The right door means everything. No matter how much you fuck up, the door stays open.Or opens wider. Friends, brothers, loved ones, those who stand by you through times of turmoil. You step back and thank god you opened those doors. Never forget those who are open to the good and bad of you. Find your Antolinis. Get to know them better. Appreciate them more.

3). Most doors in life will remain closed. There must have been 500 doors in that building. Faceless, nameless. Never opened to me. During cold mornings I was jealous of the warmth behind those doors. It felt distant. In the quiet of those deep halls. Warmth, friendship, love, felt years away. I wanted to knock. Ask. Seek. I never did.

4). Understand what permanently closes, locks the financial door. And kills a friendship, a relationship. Lending money, co-signing on loans, borrowing money from those with open doors ostensibly can lead to trouble.

Julie opened the door in 1974. She was raped and beaten. She lost the hearing in her left ear. She was instructed to never open the door. Again.

She did. For me. I never entered. Just admired. To this day I can see her face.

In July 1976, I attended a funeral. For the Rosenbergs. For my dancing girl. For Julie. Found dead in a wide alley between buildings.

She was gone. At 15.

My cherry.

All because she opened the door. To the wrong person.

Mrs. Antolini hugged me. Hard.

Kissed my head as I cried.

The right door can save your life.

Always.

The Eyes of Death – What Happens When you Stare.

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I never realized how many websites exist about suicide. They’re close to being academic, actually. Taking you step-by-step through the self-kill dejour. Clinical. Videos of men who have taken it down to a science. Like Jerry Hunt.

http://www.jerryhunt.org/kill.htm

Today I searched those sights. Read through them. Because I felt lost. And I needed to shock myself back into reality. I wondered why tortured souls contemplated such things. I also saw the beauty in no longer being; perhaps non-existent is best. There is a peace, a new turn, a new beginning from an end. I’ve never been so deep in the dilation. The eyes. They mesmerized me for a second..

You can see I’m not thinking straight because I stared into the eyes of death, hopelessness until other voices told me to pull back, wake up. Breathe again.

The eyes of death are all around you. When they blink you can feel the breeze of an eyelash It vibrates the energy around you, turns it black. When the eyes capture you they don’t let you go right away. They follow you for a time, like a creep of a targeted cold chill on the back of your neck. As you move the eyes follow, steadfast.

The death glares – a past love, an old career, a  lost friend, loved ones gone. All which makes you feel human disappears. When the death gaze releases, you crumple to the ground. Sort of slow, deliberate. You wonder how to find those eyes again.

You examine how to take your own life.

Random Thoughts:

1). What’s important is how you rise from the ashes. Know when you’re in the grip. Focus on the fact the grip will pass, how you will fall. Just don’t forget to rise again. Even though you will no longer be the same person. You’ll be alive. You’ll rediscover the people who really love you. Those who care. Gratefulness will accelerate your rise.

2). Understand how far you will fall but swing. Hard. Even when the grip has you so bad you can’t eat, think, drive, walk, move, drink. You’re as good as dead.

3). A financial crisis doesn’t define you. The death grip despises your self worth. It will look to shatter it. Take drastic action to protect. Sell assets, hunker down.

4). Lock yourself away. Your friends will understand the decision to contain the wounds as the death stare is life altering.

Jerry holds up the face mask and puts it on his face. The mask is fastened by an elastic band which fits over his ears and behind his head. Emerging from inside the mask, below Jerry’s chin, is the plastic tubing which attaches to the gas cylinder.

Watch for Jerry.

His eyes will follow you.

Until he stops.

Then you will fall.

Just remember to stand again.

When Fear Turns to Strength – 4 Ways to Stand for What you Believe.

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“She may never come out of this Richard, but she may. You never know.”

Some doctor at Coney Island Hospital blurted these meaningless words at me. Advised me how this time around, this attempt to take her life was most likely, going to be successful. Or not.

Mom really did it this time, that I did realize. Now in a coma. I saved her. Just in time. At least I thought I did. Obviously, to the doc anyway, my “just in time,” was not timely enough. Or was it? I couldn’t tell from his words.

And I was scared. She was hooked to a respirator. Last time she tried to take her own life, mom was home the next day, following a stomach pumping. This felt different. Or didn’t.

It looked bad. And at ten years old I was scared. Shaken. Perhaps this doctor was right. Or not. The system told him she was dead, already. I should just deal with the fact.

I was afraid to be alone. I wasn’t prepared for this. It was then, the feeling was born. The feeling of ice water in my veins. The flow of dread. Helplessness. It pooled in my gut. Got colder. Coldest.  Froze me from the inside out. I needed to break free or remain under cold forever. I had a choice. Believe in the worthless words from an uncaring doctor. Or fight. For her. For another. For the others who also heard the same careless words.

I stood. Looked straight at the doctor, in the eyes, and said -“she will make it.”

He didn’t know what he was talking about. He didn’t understand the fight in her. Frankly, he could care less. I could tell. She was a number. Job security. A check mark in a box. I was thinking he was going to pick up a Quarter Pounder  & a Shamrock Shake on the way home and eat in front of some late night TV show circa 1974. Perhaps the late, late, late show on CBS. And the next day his routine will start over again. Another day of dispassion, lack of empathy. But at least he would get paid. Because that’s what it was about, wasn’t it?

I found a way to warm, melt the ice that night in March, 1974. I spoke my mind. I provided information the doctor wouldn’t/couldn’t know, I stood my ground. I turned fear into strength. I re-focused. Away from the cold and towards the heat. Just long enough to focus again on what was important. Her life. Her survival. Not my fear.

He turned. Walked. He adequately delivered his line. To keep his job.

Many of the people you deal with daily. Your boss, your spouse, friends, YOU. All believe you’ll buckle under – allow the system to overwhelm. Until you feel nothing. Until you’re spiritually broken. Just working to pay the bills. No waves. Afraid to stand for a higher calling. For others. Scared to make things better. Not bothering to try. Because it could mean danger to you and yours. And when you stand, sometimes you’ll fall under the weight of the decision; the consequence will overwhelm you. Until you re-focus on why you made the gutsy decision in the first place. But you’ll need to feel it first. It’s just the way it is.

The ice water.

ice water

Random Thoughts:

1). First understand: There’s a switch inside your brain. Maybe deeper than that. A beacon, a light, buried under the ice. Takes a lot to turn it on – the switch to warmth  comes from faith and fight. A passion for what you believe, because you know it’s the right thing. For others.

You are privileged. Many never have the guts to stand and fight. Because they can’t stand. Because they’ve lost the faith in their strength. They allow the ice to cover them, sink them. They won’t speak their mind or take action even though they know it’s the right thing to do. They’ll just document and report. They convince themselves with lame self-righteousness, how they’re good people. But they’re not. They’re spineless, nameless cogs in wheels of bureaucracy. They lie to themselves. They lie for others. Don’t sell your soul. Because under the ice you’ll be dead. 

2). Be selfless. Through selfless acts, following a passion with others in mind, you will indeed win. They’ll be battles, resistance in the short run. On occasion, a Goliath, a monster will attempt to crush you. The system lives to break you. Temporarily, you’re down but you’re not out because your focus is on stirring up change,for the better of others. In turn, good things will happen for you.

3). Realize it’s all a test. Almost every time you take a stand, your resolve is going to be tested. You’ll feel sick inside. You’ll doubt your past actions. You’ll regret the decisions. Because the system feels comfortable once you’re in it. It fools you. It makes you think it’s good to be dead. It wants you back. It wants you to surrender.

4). The system wants you to fail. It doesn’t want you to save, watch credit, live below your means. The American system entices you to overspend, consume. We are now all paying for those actions.

I don’t regularly attend church. Today I did. Up on a screen, above the Pastor, I read these words. I found a pen. Wrote them down.

“Jesus sees a man unafraid to push the accepted limits in order to bring about needed change.”

For some reason I needed those words, today. I closed my eyes. I could feel the ice melting again.

Mom was alive again.

She made it.

So will I.

Because I believe.

And will always push the limits.

For others.

Duel – Chase Yourself to Sanity in Five Quick Lessons.

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David Mann rolled over. He was late. Again. Third day this week and it was only Wednesday. Different day. Same shit. The wife of 13 years was already downstairs. Busy. For hours. Occupied with the twins as usual. And it was always about the goddamn kids. And why did they need two anyway? Because God decided to play David another shit card, that’s why. And now all she does is bitch and complain when all he’s doing is trying to is scratch out a living. Paying on a mortgage too big for his shrinking paycheck. And the wife wanted another baby? Perhaps a girl this time. No fucking way, David thought. Not going to happen.

She never understood his hours, his increasing time away from home. His work grew longer – like a slow, barely noticeable pull on his favorite indulgence – banana Turkish taffy. Sooner or later something was gonna give. Snap.  He told her deadpan, seriously, how he hated driving hours to see customers and spending time away from the family. Naturally, it was the nature of his business, especially in the face of rising financial obligations, the boys. Five years ago, his excuse was valid. Today, he was best to not say to use the same excuse and she knew not to ask. They both knew the truth…

bonamo banana

David’s favorite candy. He liked to smell the wrapper. Had stacks of them in the glove compartment.

David Mann loved being away from 101 Sycamore Street. As much as possible. He just couldn’t admit it outwardly. Or inside, to himself. Best to go with the flow until death came. Good fucking riddance. Inside – relief at the thought. He was glad to be out of the house as much as possible. David was 45, felt 95. Thinking about how his father died at 45, he mustered a smile. Sweet relief. Coming soon? He wondered. Deep down he prayed. Checking out wouldn’t be so bad right now. At least his next trips would be his last. Off to Grayson’s Funeral Parlor, then Peaceful Rest Cemetery. No more long commutes, no more kids, no more wife, no more clanging of pots and pans holding meals he never had time to enjoy, anyway.

Right now, ironically, Emily Mann (formerly Anderson) was taking out her frustrations on the man-sized breakfast of a frying pan. Or the lime-green enamel stove top. Or both. He thought her especially loud this morning; deep down resentment festered when he slept in. After all, the missus was stuck with two whiny, living alarm clocks. With wheat-colored bangs. Twenty-four hours a day. They jolted her from slumber, religiously at 6:30. Never failed. So now, the frying pan, today, was the chosen weapon of pent-up hatred for a marriage that just died away, leaving what David called “scatters.” Like the bones of carcasses he counted along Highway 57 through his numerous business trips that took him deep in the desert. 

The trips were so tedious, like his life, his job. It all just fit together. There was AM talk radio, thank god, but most of the time, the babbling hosts weren’t entertaining enough to keep him awake, capture his attention for long. David would pull over, roll down the car windows. Full. Allow the heat of the desert to press and swirl around him in a dry-warm death dance. The faster he went, the tighter the grip. Heat and cold he still felt. Barely. The breeze felt good. And not much felt good lately. At times he felt the heat was a devil. Wrapping him. Suffocating…

David started this crazy game over a year ago. He’d catch a quick glimpse of death from the open window of his red Plymouth Valiant Signet and then along the way, through the dust and gravel of his life, his travels, he’d count. Count again. And again. Count the carcasses as he passed. Carcasses of friends he never saw again, people who died away. Carcasses.

What was left of living creatures after trucks, cars, weather and scavenger birds were done: The “scatters.” Traces of what was full of life once – never truly disappear. Scatters. He remembered how he smiled to himself when he thought up this word. It amused him. He laughed the more he thought of it. Looking around he was glad other drivers didn’t catch the insane guy, chuckling to himself, hair flying in the wind, sweat on brow. Dripping on his new Ray Bans. It was rare for him to spend money on himself. The guilt was too much. With the wife. The boys. Most of the time he did without. Penance.

A pissed-off wife’s alarm clock – a frying pan. Better than the goddamn so called “state-of-the-art” Panasonic alarm clock she picked up at Erickson’s 5 & 10, he figured. Shook his head. Cobwebs fell away. 

At least Mrs. Mann gave up waking him for anything. Everything.  A long time ago. David managed to focus. The first time of the day. Certain to be fleeting.

Thank god for small things, he thought.

And the fucking new alarm clock never went off?  At least he wasn’t sure. He thought he set it correctly, but David realized his efforts in the dark were clumsy at best. He’d been up all night. Exhausted. Trying to pull a miracle out of the hat to save one of his biggest and most reliable customer accounts.

He was notified yesterday, after 11 years of working together, that Bill Johnson of Johnson Electrical Circuits was ready to jump ship. For an overseas supplier. The death call came from central office.  Tough break. Same product – 20% cheaper. Stinking Japs. What was going on? What the hell happened to the competitive nature of the United States? Sad.

And the wife. Picking up this new-fangled Jap alarm clock with the clicking numbers, lights, bells, whistles he couldn’t operate. Hate began to rise up. She knows I’m losing clients to these bastards but spends my money on their shit. Perfect.

Panasonic

David Mann left the house at 10 that Thursday morning. Flew out. Barely a goodbye. His mind already setting into motion how he was going to lose about 30% of his pay, perhaps his job. And he was scared. Sweating. And it wasn’t even 70 degrees outside.

Time to hit the road. Same shit. Different day. Again. Rinse, repeat…

And now this goddamn truck is gonna mess up my day too? Why are you driving so goddamn slow! I’m going to be late. Are you counting the scatters? That’s my game! Scatters…

Wait…Now you’re on my ass? Did I piss you off? Great. Another wife. In a truck yet.

duel car truck

******

Steven Spielberg was(is) a genius. Early on in his career, in the 70’s, he managed to monitor and then document on film, the human condition. His strength was to show stories behind the stories. Turn stuff inside out until nerves were exposed. Then he danced on them. Until you couldn’t take it anymore. 

In November 1971, in an ABC-TV Movie of the Week, Spielberg visually spun a story. On a $450,000 budget. Completed in 13 days. Popular for over 41 years, he tells a tale of a middle-aged electronics salesman traveling in a Plymouth with a motor the size of a scooter, tortured, chased relentlessly by a faceless driver of a 1955 Peterbilt 281 Tanker monster along miles of a two-lane winding highway through a California desert.

The movie is popular, still. It frightens. Still. Why?

Because we’re all David Mann….

We are all “scatters.”

Random Thoughts:

1). Demons chase you. Rise up. When you least expect it. When you’re at a breaking point. When you’ve been kicked. You’re kicked again. At times you’ll be driving the wrong car, carrying the wrong thoughts and that monster truck, the demons will follow you. For miles. For years. Through the heat. How will you shake them off? What takes you to the breaking point. Write it out.

2). Scatters. How many carcasses have you counted? What scares you enough to wish those scatters whole again? Are they remnants of the dead you created? Do they follow you? When you stare out a window what do you see? When you stare into a mirror – what then? What are you driving today? A Plymouth or a Peterbilt? Are you being chased or are you chasing? What’s your test for the day? The week? The month? A lifetime?

3). Demons can be chased. And killed. Or at the least, set free. Establish your boundaries, turn the tables. The demons always believe they have the upper hand. Unfortunately, you’ll need to be tested to determine if this is indeed, true. The demons are overconfident. They can even play nice with others. But not you. To you, they’re deadly. They laugh in their hubris. At your fear. How will you turn the tables, surprise your demons today? Like David Mann did. And for a moment, moments, the trucker, the demon, held the upper hand. The stronger he became. The demon. Until his strength, his speed, overtook him. Right off a cliff. David Mann needed to take drastic action. Play the demon’s own strength against him. How will you turn your demons’ strengths into weaknesses, today?

4). Money demons exist. You’ve acquired them by watching your parent’s relationship with credit, debt, saving, investments. My parents were horrible with money. I observed their financial demons. Lack of life insurance, living only for today, not thinking of tomorrow. No wills, no estate planning. Those demons came for me. I fought them. Hated them. Have you inherited your family’s money demons?

5). What will lead you home? Is it something spiritual? Where’s your safe house? Find it. Live in it. Read it. Use it. Never turn what leads you home into scatters.

duel truck over cliff revised

Never forget…

The outwardly weaker being. David Mann. Won the “Duel.” 

His demon was outmaneuvered. Off the edge.

By a Plymouth.

Turned to.

Scatters.

And a new day had begun.

The Lives you Sever to Save your Own (and Others).

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“Are you done yet?”

I was kneeling. Looking up. At a shell. A skull with eyes. At ninety-seven pounds, mostly bones. Slumped in an ornate, chipped wooden chair I still own and stare at today. He still commands it. Owns it.  I can’t sit in it. After all these years. The chair frightens me.

dark chair

When he spoke, I remembered happily. I recalled the power. His presence. His flair. How strong he was. Even after cancer took 70 pounds away. Like a thief. Draining him. He was in a three-piece suit four sizes too big. We couldn’t alter clothes fast enough to keep up with the weight loss.

Yes,” he said. along with a tear. His. “I’m done.”

Water rolled down his face. Landed on our joined hands. I put my head in his lap. He stroked it. I told him I loved him. I didn’t want him to go. How can I convince him to stay. To change his mind. I would do anything. Anything. Wasn’t my love enough to keep him here?

Told me “it’s no big deal. You’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

Huh? I wasn’t going to be “fine.” I couldn’t “see.”  It was tough to ask the question and receive the answers I knew I was going to hear. But it was nothing less than I expected. I then understood how I needed to be strong. To help him move forward. Because I knew he wasn’t “done.” He had more to do in this life. It was a time. A snapshot of sweet surrender and acceptance. Still. Quiet. Like God was taking a photo of a moment for me. There was nothing else we could do. And surrender and acceptance are on occasion, not easy. Sometimes surrender and acceptance rips your heart out.

Through life you’ll need to sever lifelines to those who hold power over you. Those you love more than anything. Yet, they’re not there. Or here. And you can’t move forward. And last night I had a dream about dad. What he said to me that day in 1993.

His one last thought. Because he always had the last thought.  One lesson I’ll never forget.

He said: “Sometimes love isn’t enough.”

I literally carried him down the stairs. He let me. I know that was tough for him. Tough on his pride. But he let me. Because he knew I needed to. He spent years being the strong one. Carrying me. I rested him on the couch. The vigil began. He wanted to die at home. I made sure nobody would dissuade me from the mission. I held his hand as he slipped into a coma.

On a frigid, gray February day before he spent 48 hours dying on a couch, dad severed his lifeline to save me. Made me feel ok about his inevitable exit. At least he tried. He even worked a full day at the office before coming home and slumping in that damn chair. The death chair. Like it was no big deal. Close some car deals. Drive home. Die.

“I don’t want you to be done.”

But sometimes love isn’t enough. And you always want love to be enough.

Random Thoughts:

1). Some lifelines get severed carelessly. Why must they? What the hell stands in the way of happiness? There are people we should engage as friends, lovers, mentors, yet sometimes love isn’t enough. Respect isn’t enough. Something unspoken hangs like a deep cancer you can’t cut out so you decide to cut off. It’s easier – but is it the right move? Do you sit in the chair and say “I’m done?”

2). Some threads need to be severed so both parties can survive, move forward. And it’ll rip your heart out because you know the sever feels wrong. You lose a part of yourself when it comes to this cut. This one is gonna hurt. It’s going to take time to heal. But sometimes, love isn’t enough and it needs to be done.

3). On occasion the attempt to sever causes reflection. Do you really want this person out of your life? Is there an illness, an internal hemorrhage that can be healed? Is there some feeling other than love which blossoms health and unity? Or do you allow release? Do you move a person you love to another plane?

4). Be prepared to sacrifice yourself, go out on a limb, be cold. For resolution, or severing you’ll need to “prep” the area. Not easy. What is the catalyst that gets you to this point? It’s different for everyone. Dad knew when it was time. After all, it was going to be fine. No big deal, right? At least that’s what he said when I know it tore his soul to say what he did to me. He appeared strong, almost defiant, flippant? Just so I would have the balls to move forward. An ultimate sacrifice. Sometimes love is enough?

5). Don’t sit in the death chair. Until you’re ready. And you may never be ready. Surrender isn’t easy. Acceptance is worse. Understanding you have too much debt, or you suck at saving, or you can’t handle investing in stocks, or you got duped by a financial professional promising unrealistic returns, is a good first step. Accept and improve.

It was 1am. Dad woke out of his coma. Briefly. He moaned. The whites of his eyes turned blood red. He spoke to me one last time. He said – “you’re going to be great.”

I whispered in his ear. I had all these memories I need to share.

“Remember when my green Schwinn with the banana seat was stolen two hours after you  bought it for me? You came home and bought me another one.”

He grimaced. Maybe he smiled. Then he was gone.

He stopped breathing. I could still see the movement in his chest. It was his heart.

It was still beating. Fighting to stay. His body moved with the rhythm of it. Because of it.

He was strong that way. He needed to leave me a lasting impression.

I told him his love was enough. It was time for him to go.

Then the world stopped.

But I didn’t.

heart light

He wouldn’t accept it.

18 Miles – How far out will you go to change?

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When I talk to her, listen to her, watch her speak, stare into her blue-greens, I wonder how she was as a child. I pay close attention because there’s passion in her words, her thoughts. I don’t want to miss a beat. Yet, all I can think about is her beginning. Her upbringing.

She shines with incredible substance and polish. There’s strength in her words. I wonder what kind of family, household forms this quality of person. A human who shines like this. I bet her house was full of sunlight, fine wood, literature, bone china, warm, comforting aromas and love. And I’m glad. And I’m fortunate to know her. Her impervious sense of self is magnetic. Many see it. When you stand near, her personality generates heat. I bet she glows in the dark. If I told her that she would laugh, probably call me silly.

I’m absolutely sure she glows.

woman glow

Then I think about how incredibly different our paths to here, this moment we meet for an interview, must have been. Light years. I’m certain she never came home from school to find her mother topless and drunk on the lawn or her dad in a hot tub with three females twenty years his junior. I’m sure she never had to fear for her life on the way to high school or practice hours in a mirror to remove a heavy, lower middle class urban accent. Nope, I’m certain of all this. I’m sure her diction was perfect; her voice resonates from deep in her chest, rises up – her words are as dense as diamond. She makes life look easy. I have always labored through it. I believe her road was paved with beauty, mine graveled with ugly. Yet, smooth and rough can collaborate and create.

We know each other, respect each other’s strengths. And when I’m in her presence I wonder: How many miles would I need to venture from my comfort zone to be like her, possess a slice of her self confidence. I’ve figured about 18.

18 miles out.

roads

Can disparate roads eventually merge? 

Random Thoughts:

1). How far out of your comfort zone are you willing to travel today? Take it a mile at a time. Maybe you believe you can’t get past the shit in the road, but the more you trudge, work, push forward, the cleaner and smoother the path will become. As a kid if you would have  told me I would have gotten as far as I have and consult and meet with the diamonds I do today, I would have laughed hard in your face. Will you practice in the mirror of your soul, for hours, to be a better person? To seek knowledge? To bathe in the wisdom of words and actions you see in someone like KC. I call her KC because she brings the sunshine band with her wherever she goes.

2). The farther out I go. The more I discover who I am. When I traveled 18 miles outside of New York City, I felt the dirt fall away. Permanently. When I travel 18 miles outside of a rural Texas town, I hit a patch of land I recall as a crossroad for change. I can pass the road today and remember the thoughts of that day. What changed about me. Where is your crossroad? How far out will you travel, will you go to change something about yourself? Begin 18 miles from point center.

3). It’s never too late. To travel. Build wealth. A business. Age is not a restriction. Picture your finances 18 miles out. Eighteen miles from today. Picture yourself debt free. Don’t look back. Begin the travel now.

4). Find the smooth road and then go open throttle. Analyze people you admire, tell them you admire them. Tell them why. Ask them for guidance to get 18 miles out. You would be surprised what you’ll get when you ask. Never abuse the privilege.

KC’s passions include issues that affect children and the underserved. She’s adventure, knowledge, devotion, cum laude of the school I always wanted to attend – Vanderbilt University. She told me I could teach there someday.

She has connections.

She’s a spark.

An “18 miles out,” destination we should strive for.

What are you waiting for?

Get moving.

And tune in.

http://abclocal.go.com/ktrk/bio?section=resources/inside_station/newsteam&id=7027627

Rocking Chairs – 3 Ways to Preserve Them.

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I wonder, on occasion, where we find our peace. How we shift back to center. How we remain sane.

How do we recover from what’s thrown in our path without falling over?

Insane

Some succumb. Throw in the towel. Others? Well, others find a way. They discover new methods to get their rocking chairs out of the rain. Protect their haven. Their own. All that they love and find of beauty. They find a way to protect. They teeter, but never fall.

You know them. They’re strong because they rock with the changes. They maintain a steady cadence. It’s a groove others see, admire, learn from. The rockers don’t realize how strong they truly are. But they are. It’s a sense of style, beauty, responsibility, slight humor, a smile. A dimple. A sparkle. It all works together.

chair

Set your chair. Look out. Dream of what you can become. Then get up. Do it.

“I miss my porch; now my rocking chairs get wet. I can’t protect them forever,” she said.

I was reminded today the key to sanity is to wobble a bit but to never lose sight of your core. Your center. Who you are. Where you want to go. You can hide your pain, suppress your happiness for so long. And then? You blossom. You emerge stronger. Nothing can stop you.

Random Thoughts:

1). It’s ok to seesaw a bit, but continue to focus forward. You know what it’s like to sit in a rocking chair. No matter how quickly or fierce you wobble, your eyes remain fixated. Forward. You never lose sight of what’s in front of you. The gaze is amazingly straight and balanced. Allow your eyes to waver, to move, align with the movement of the rocker, and it’s only a matter of time before you get sick, become off kilter. Remember to stay on message. Straight.

2). Understand how your emotions and your investment portfolio can teeter. The problem becomes when you can’t handle the swing. You take too much risk because you don’t fully understand your risk attitude. Your current broker or financial adviser is behind the times. Still using stale “risk tolerance” questionnaires to measure your ability to handle risk. Unacceptable. They’re plain ridiculous. Dated. Dig deeper into what makes you tick. Go to http://www.myrisktolerance.com and take the test. It’ll cost you $45. It’s worth the investment. Take the results to your financial partner and rock his or her world a bit.

3). Realize the rain is temporary. Storms pass. Another porch is built. The dry & clear returns. A fresh coat of paint makes things new again. Life is like that, too. I can see a new porch in her eyes. Her thoughts.

porch and chairs

It’s only a matter of time before you’re rocking again.

She looked away. She smiled. She looked at me. Said.

“I’ll have my porch again.”

I had no doubt.

The sun was out again.

Strong Ghosts – 5 Ways to Conquer Them.

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“And now you’re a ghost
I walk right through.”
Sky Ferreira
sky F
Sky is ok in my book. I think she understands the human condition.
Think about how many times people in your life walk through, then out of your life. It’s astonishingly easy. Even those you thought were closest can reduce to mist in a moment. They may say goodbye (or not) and what’s worse an electronic footprint, most likely, radiates within a device you carry with you daily. A digital photo, a text, the cold tone of an e-mail.
Words scorch into your brain and never disappear (even when you delete them). A techno-ghost of sorts. No matter how many times you read the words your mind stumbles upon the apparitions. The people. You were able to touch them, love them, kiss them. Then the last time you saw them, if you knew it was the very last time, perhaps you would have done it all different. Whatever it was. Maybe then..
They wouldn’t have decided, using thumbs and a tiny keyboard, to vaporize or dissolve you. It’s easier than ever today to turn yourself into nothing or transform another into an ectoplasmatic goo puddle.
Ponder those times you’ve walked through others. The ghost circle is now complete. C’mon. You’ve done it. We all have. You held the upper hand on several occasions. You turned souls into dust. It’s fine. It’s what makes you human. Severing the mortal thread (not coil) with another is as old as time. It’s never pleasant. Ok, on occasion it’s pleasant. Admit it. You really enjoyed vaporizing the bastard.
ghosts
How many have you “ghosted?”
Then there is one. That damn ghost. The strong one. The one you walk along. The invisible one you trip over. The one who slides in from a dark corner of thought, of memory, and causes you to stumble. To shake. Repeatedly. You. You. You, You gave the ghost permission to stick around. You didn’t complete the fade-out process. Because you weren’t ready to release the ghost that holds power over you. You walk around it. Never through it.You respect the presence. The strong one is still here. But not here. The strong one mocks you. Still.
The ghost who holds power over you. 
Still lingers. Waits. 
You can’t walk through. You’re not ready.
Sorry Sky. 
It feels too good to stumble. To succumb.
Time to change all that. Now.
Kill Ghost
Here comes the strong ghost. Teach it a lesson.
Random Thoughts:
1). Recognize what motivates the strong ghost. What empowers it. For me, it’s a song, a picture, a gift received. I’ve removed the powerful triggers from my life. I’m no longer feeding the strong ghost. She’s starving to death.
2). Fight the strong ghost with a stronger presence. The more active you are, the weaker the strong ghost becomes. Activity, accomplishment, sweat, pain, solace, love, peace, all work to slay the strong ghost.
3). Prevent the ghosts of bad financial decisions. Bad investments with too-good-to-be-true return promises, overextending credit cards, lending money to others (who most likely won’t pay it back), feed the strong ghost.
4). Allow the strong ghost to have its way. Let the strong ghost absorb you. Invite it in. Sooner or later, you’ll be so sick of it, it will disappear out of pure disgust for its presence. Too much attention will force your mind to expel the strong ghost. You’ll reach a saturation point.
5).  Recognize the signs of a strong ghost that waits in the wings. There is a person or addiction, or behavior you can currently classify as a potential strong ghost. It’ll be something you’ll recognize. Something that sparks you, inspires you. Makes your heart beat faster. Strong ghosts disguise themselves in chains of enlightenment. Respect the power and understand how the presence may be fleeting. You’ll learn to appreciate the moment more or recognize when the ghost has the power to be evil, debilitating.
There are many souls that cross your path. Many are innocent.
Then there are the ones. The strong ones. The ones that linger.
The ones that make you thankful to be alive.
And can take your life away.
In a moment’s notice. 
When you least expect it. 
And you’re going to love every minute of it. 
strong ghost

The Colors, The Times, of Your Life – Will You Remember?

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We were free. Moving quick in a white hot breeze. 1977. When the world flew by in lime green.

Slit through a black bowel of public housing. Deep in the middle of the aged carnival colors of blueviolet, aquamarine and bisque. Coney Island. A narrow way forged between the metropolis, slick brown with rot. The summer New York heat penetrated, bounced from dead, white alley cats forming a yellow haze floating neon pungent sluggish slow in still heat. Bright orange, with a burst of unhealthy steel-gray around the edges, like a healthy pink hue that hesitantly abandoned its soul, was there too. Cats and garbage rotted just that way in July. In 1977. In Coney Island. I remember.

The odor scorched the outer part of our pink nostrils until they flared red. But we didn’t care because this moment was designed to be fleeting. The clear blue of escape from a place we should not have been, was near. And as long as that moped motored us out  in one piece, alive, all the Sunday ritual – staring at the newly-painted off white walls behind the rich, marbled altar of St. Simon & Jude’s Church would have been worth it.

Until.

black out NY

Boom! Black.

The lights went out. A deepest black seeped in from the edges. Beige smoke rose above. From everywhere. It suffocated us like a color. Purple maybe. Stopped us dead. Frozen.

Then.

Restless white noise. Muffled sounds of agitated souls. Blood-red anger.

Frenzied, white round bursts of bright. Scattered. Flash lights cutting through, getting closer, like silver shards.

In the dim gray mist of yesteryear, when lapels were wider than a McDonald’s Happy Meal and Mayor McCheese still held power over us.

“We need to get out of here. In there,” I pointed. And kept pointing and she knew what I was pointing to. What I meant. Like she could see through midnight blue.

“Fuck no,” she said. A spanish, italian, puerto-rican fire mix of black-coal eyes, deep brown bouncy curls in red spandex and cherry-red heels.

“If you don’t get in the dumpster you’re getting raped and I’m getting robbed,” I said. Heels off. She moved. The color of imminent danger was crimson with dark-red daggers.

We dove boldly into the acrid stench of the mix. Eggplant in color, wet, with sticky blotches of yellow green. The lime-green Puch Moped that was to take us into the wild blue now secured behind the jungle-green metal coffin for the discarded muck public housing didn’t  want. Too much green. We puked. The gagging color of cloying hot crimson arose in our noses and throats.

A city summer. In the blackest of blackouts. 1977. I remember the gray shades of memories. The colors brought me back. To an alley. When looters almost discovered a boy, a moped and a girl’s saturated skin with Love’s Baby Soft (always smelled cotton-candy pink to me). All this clear vision from a lone lime-green bicycle I barely noticed. In a driveway. Yesterday. In Houston, Texas. A million miles away – faded into a lemon chiffon of time.

love's baby soft

Oh the colors, the colors. Perfect.

Colors have the astounding ability to anchor you back to a time and place for as long as you live. No matter how far to the past you venture. Colors are seeds that blossom the past to the present, immediately. Sort of like songs. Sort of like a person you love, or cherish. If you remember the colors, you’ll know what you feel about a moment is true. And real. Even when others doubt you. Even when you doubt you. The colors make it true. And true is slate blue.

Random Thoughts:

1). How will colors conjure up the past? Today I re-lived the memory of a first dinner. I smelled the thick tapestries of dark & tomato reds. The rich browns of hair and delicate tan of lines, of form, of grace. I’ll never forget the fire-brick colors of what ignited in mind and heart. The reams of gold in the conversation. I re-live those pigments every day.

2). Red & green are the colors of money. When stock markets are green, as they have been since the fiscal cliff (version 1) concluded, I use green to trim growth and profit. When there is red again, a trickle of crimson in the streets, I’m motivated to buy. Use the reds & greens to make smart financial decisions.

3). How will today’s colors form your future? Be careful with the colors you use today to form the thoughts that move you forward. Today I’m staring at coral, firebrick, and forest green from my windows. All soothing, positive colors to me. I’ll make it my business to avoid true dark shades today.

4). What colors will propel you to thank someone today, love someone, be grateful for a communication, a note, one positive word. Close your eyes. Think of those colors. Shamelessly relive the good memories tomorrow of how you changed someone’s attitude. For the better.

Like it’s 1977.

Because times were good.

Because we lived to escape.

The blazing yellow sun eventually showed us the way.

To the blue.

Back on course and lime-green.

Once again.

Like you.

And your memory.

Lime Green Puch Moped