Tag Archives: death

10 Things You’ll Remember: 10 Seconds Before You Die.

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“Two boys gone. The land is mine, Roy.

They’ll never build on it.”

Johnny Cash was awkward at consoling his friend.

Johnny and Roy

I marveled how he lived. Perpetual discomfort in his own skin, especially when the topic turned to human hardships, death or separation from people he had embraced once or a thousand times. He was touched easier than most people.

His heart was meant to be touched.

There was an eternal itch he couldn’t scratch, a wound that never healed and occasionally those souls festered and formed into poetry, often set to music. But mostly, scribbles on wrinkled college-ruled. I possess a few of those scribbles.

He took in those he cared for. All the way in. No one who touched him was ever gone. They continued to tap him on the shoulder, sometimes a bit too much.

Death or disappearance didn’t matter.

Souls gone but never gone, faded to an image of a re-lived last goodbye or emerged as hard reverence.

A graceful testament to those he loved. Especially the tortured ones.

Mostly. The tortured or hurt ones. The frail who couldn’t go on and took matters into their own hands.

Like he was singing to God to let them in.

Pleading for their mercy.

Let. Them. In..

Faron-memorial-300x220

The Faron Young Memorial. The country legend. A suicide.

They slunk like shadows out of nowhere to follow him.

Around the edges dark of light.

At times, he was ahead of the demons. Then black days existed. He was captured.

Unfortunately,  like ill-timed the public always seemed to be around for those moments.

Johnny mugshot

He was heartbroken and haunted over deaths of youth. They were his losses. In a way, J.C. anxiously sought to absorb the pain because that’s what you did for people you love.

He never was able to release from the death of his brother Jack.

He shuffled the heels of his favorite house shoes.

Back and forth in the dirt like an anxious child with an agitated hitch in his step, or nervous tic. Forming nervous heel arcs in the dirt.

Solemn words delivered deep and straight and without compromise.

Cash was like that with promises.

Those he made to others were kept. Promises made to himself – not so much.

As we admired a big, slung-low orange sun disappear in slow motion beneath the glass-like water of Old Hickory Lake, the conversation shifted to Roy Orbison who lost two of his three children to a house fire.

The Cash and Orbison families were next door neighbors in 1967.

Perhaps it was the Tennessee high-octane that gave me the courage to pull the past into this moment, dig into the scars of heartbreaking tragedy.

The fire fascinated me. Fire always fascinates me.

JC’s overwhelming act of love fascinated me more. As I watched him ponder, perhaps relive that moment, I asked a question that popped into my head.

What do you think goes through your head 10 seconds before you die?

Dark shadow

I don’t know why 10 seconds. It was a question that popped into my head because it was supposed to, I guess.

10 just rolled off my tongue. Little did I know at the time how important the thought of 10 seconds was going to be. And asking the question. Over the following decade I was to lose everybody I cherished.

He spoke in deepest baritone. Vibrations circle and settle in my ears.

In the middle of the night I can hear that voice resonating under my head. Shaking my pillow.

I listen.

I always listened…

plane death

John Gilpin was testing out his camera when he accidentally caught a 14-year-old stowaway’s fall.

The last seconds of a life are staccato sparkles which ignite eyes to free your eyes.

To see.

A thousand firecrackers. Energy agitated, ready to flee, anxious for release.

It’s you pushing out to the next you, whatever, whomever that is.

It’s the wave before the crest.

The smell of a season.

The crisp of air that kisses sharp on the cheeks. Tiny blades of pain and comfort that are rarely never forgotten because it coupled with a first kiss.

The eternally burned anguish of the unrequited.

The glimpse from afar before the lids seal tight.

The sound of a distant cry.

A final goodbye never delivered.

Oh, I’m no expert on death.

Unfortunately, I’ve been in the wrong places at the wrong times. Or have I?

“What are you thinking?” has been my question.

I’ve asked my grandfather, my father, mother, a good friend and a music legend.

The last glimpse of a life from the inside out or inside the inside.

There are snap shots I’ll never forget. Nor do I want to.

But when I asked JC, when I asked him what he believed his last 10 seconds would be like, what would he say?

Quiet. Then.

5 responses:

“I’d see my demons move on. Defeated.”

“I’ll remember how proud I am of my kids and I’d tell them once a second. Ten times.”

“June and I would travel around the planets in a camper.”

“I’d hug Jack for as long as Jesus would allow me. And then some.”

“I want to compose great music to keep the heavens shining.”

Loved ones. I’ve lost many but I’ll stick with my top 3. Their “close to last” words stick with me. They surround me but never wall me in. They encourage embrace.

So, what would your  last 10 seconds on this planet be like?

What will you remember?

Write them. Feel them. One second. Slow it down. Turn it into 10 minutes, 10 hours, 10 days. Then know you have more time than 10 seconds.

Slow it down.

You’ve been given 10 seconds, 10 lifetimes, of second ten chances.

Are you holding something back?

Are you not telling people in your world how much you love them?

10 seconds goes a long way to shattering a lifetime of regret.

So, 10 seconds is a title. A thought. Headline candy. Nobody is talking anything coherent 10 blood-beats before life energy is released to the universe.

Dad: “Why didn’t we spend more time together?”

Mom: “Will I ever see you again?”

Me. So far: “I never stopped loving you. I never will.”

To live fully is to die a thousand times in one life.

The resurrections make you who you are.

And then there’s the shit that sucks.

Like things you meant to say to those you love before they go.

But you didn’t.

And now you must think those words and hope they carry to a place they may hear them and hold you.

This post is dedicated to radio personality, incredible husband and father, and special person who will be missed  by thousands for an eternity.

A good man. A really good man. A noble man.

Matt

Take courage when the road is long.

Don’t ever forget you are never alone.

I  want you to live forever. 

Underneath the sky so blue….

Living Lessons From Dead Kittens.

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Kittens were flying.

flying Kittens

Not in the joyful verse of a storybook tale read aloud to wind down the kids before sleep.

Distant from a place of precious fluff balls, gossamer wings; where white feathers lullaby children.

Just the opposite.

This memory jumps right from the pages of a magazine I loved almost as much as Mad.

Terror Tales.

terror tales

Bone-chilling cries.

A skyscraper wall of piercing sound – decibels of feline sirens carried three city-blocks deep, two buildings high.

I remember. Straight up at 2:10am, my nightmares, which are frequent due to a three-year horrific fight with a former employer, increasingly begin with flying, howling kittens. Fur matted in life fluids. The more kittens, the stronger the images, the stronger I cold-sweat the bed.

1975 – Drowned out pop melodies of summer booming from open windows; 70’s tunes played from Panasonic hand held radios from behind shadows, dingy shades that framed pre-WW2 tenement pane glass.

“Brandy, you’re a fine girl…”

City traffic fumes rise high and hang heavy in humidity. Inhaling them is a compromise. A choice to swelter through a New York August behind closed windows, or fool yourself into believing a blast furnace of urban air is a refreshing alternative.

I enjoyed the confluence of odors; after years they smelled like home – auto exhaust, hot tar, ethnic cooking; easier on eyes and nostrils compared to the rank of cigarettes and beer that destroyed oxygen within our small apartment.

I swear the lead-based wall paint would emit a strange odor when the worst of summer heat arrived. The walls were coated in poison. I was doomed. At night, I’d dream how the shiny white lead chips that always pooled at the baseboards, would come alive, enter my bed and eat my skin. I didn’t sleep much as a kid.

“What a good wife you would be…”

The strong signal from Music Radio 77 WABC-AM drowned out. Harry Harrison’s legendary airwave trademark phrases fade to black; overwhelmed by shrill feline vocal daggers which ricocheted off concrete, found its human auditory target, and penetrated my skull.

Urban dwellers fortunate enough to enjoy white noise and chilled air of window air-conditioning units were spared of the sounds of people living and dying in a restless city.

window AC

I hated them; all comfortable in their icy luxury.

And there was the laughter.

It was out of place. Insane.

No way in hell should giggling immediately shadow the screams. Horror squares in happy round holes just don’t fit. In psycho movies – sure, but not real life.

I approached the red brick and banged-up aluminum doors of single-car garages in rows that bordered the Brooklyn apartment complex I called home. The panic noises I’ll never forget, grew louder. It sounded like babies being tortured. And that disturbing chuckling.

insane laughter

I needed to understand what was happening. My mind screamed “run.” My legs moved ahead. Faster than the upper part of my body. Labored but steadily onward.

I was close enough to observe three pre-teen boys on a garage roof. A kitten in each hand; six small lives gripped by the mid-section, writhing desperately to break free.

The ringleader of the demon trio, I recognized immediately. That ruddy complexion, dark eyes closer to his ears than the middle of his face, the unkempt hair. No surprise it was the neighborhood terrorist, a bully to all: V. He made so much of an impression on me that today all bullies I encounter lose their identities and take on bloated, blotchy Vinny face.

He and two other soulless boys in unison were raising helpless animals above their heads and like taking jump shots with basketballs, were propelling tiny bodies into the air. I took solace in the fact that cats land on their paws. I imagined them a bit shaken, possibly injured, but still able to flee from the scene quicker than these pudgy kids could catch them.

Wishful thinking.

It was a cowardly method for a frightened brain to work through the disgusting activity unfolding before my eyes. I despised the fear that gripped me more than I hated the thugs.

Deep breaths.

I felt my speeding heart squeeze through the veins inside my ears; t temporarily blocked all other input. I needed to see the kittens. In my head, I was already cycling through save-and-escape plans; my goal was to grab as many of the injured I could carry and then run like the wind. Anywhere. Just away. How can I get this done without getting my ass kicked?

I couldn’t move faster. I tried.  I was disappointed by sludgy footfalls. As I turned the corner, as I came upon the asphalt alley between long rows of garage doors, there stood a fourth culprit.

I was shocked to see a thug at ground level. Right below where the three other boys were up and into the driveway.

I didn’t recognize number four; I thought I knew all the assholes in my Brooklyn neighborhood.

Tall, sinewy. I remember the definition in his biceps that popped his veins.

A devil in red Ked sneakers.

Kitten three released – fly in the sky.

Damn the fate of gravity.

Tiny legs, paws flailing.

I was far enough from the action remain noticed but close enough to take in the fiendish plan unfolding.

Red Ked gripped a wooden bat.

In a pro-baseball player stance, he swung with full force at kittens “pitched” to him from 8 feet above.

bloddy bat

The home run kitten-head balls were the worst.

There was living sound one second, deadly silence the next. Mid scream. Then nothing.

And again – laughter. The serious side-splitting kind.

The swing-and-miss felines dazed by a rough asphalt landing, failed to hit pavement and flee. They sort of dragged themselves off, walking with an unsteady gait. Definitely not fast enough. Much different than I imagined.

I observed the keen sweat beads on Vinny’s face as he maintained visual contact on the shaky cat balls.

Close to ripe for another pitch.

I prayed for a strike-out afternoon.

I stood unnoticed. In front of a garage – door open. Empty, dark. I sauntered into the black to gather my wits. I needed to think fast. I glanced upon an abandoned tire iron in a back corner. Upright against a cinder block wall, begging me for my attention. Not sure how I noticed it in the darkness but there it was. Calling me.

I grabbed for it hard. I held on to it like it was a lifeguard and I was about to go under for a third time.

As I accepted what I needed to do.

From dark to light.

Firm stride onward.

Closer now to red Keds, I’m able to observe how his sneakers were white at one time. Sick to my stomach. He looked at me then.

I was the next fat pitch.

No matter what I was in a strikeout zone.

No matter what.

Secure in a place where dead kittens don’t interrupt the summer, my life and ultimately my dreams (nightmares).

Looking Glass pop stuck in my head. An endless musical loop that refused to stop.

“He came on a summer’s day. Bringin’ gifts from far away.”

Surprise. Your turn to be the ball, red Keds.

Here’s your gift.

red ked

Random Thoughts.

At one time, any time, you’re at risk of becoming a dead kitten. Something bigger and menacing will swing at you, long to crush your skull, ruin what’s left of your existence.

For three years I’ve been hit repeatedly by a large corporate red Ked, a former employer spinning outright lies, bashing my reputation, attempting to take me out and away from the profession I love.

Oh, I’m staggering, my gait a bit shaky, but I won’t be tossed in front of high-paid legal bullies for another chance at a feeding frenzy. They took much from me, already. Money, family, physical and mental health. But I’m still here. And I have found my weapons.

Ready to strike. My turn to swing.

It’s these incidents, the events that position me next in line behind the next dead kitten, that ultimately define how quickly I escape and survive (thrive). Unfortunately, I know Louisville Sluggers continue to lurk; bullies are like that. Life is good. Then they come out of nowhere just to fuck with you. Dryer lint can catch on fire and take the house down with it. I heard that.

Whatever swings with murder in its eyes, will eventually tire and move on because it can’t kill me. What stays after the hit sharpens my resolve, clarifies me and steels my purpose. And I’m not sure what energy stays exactly, but I’m glad for it. Like a warm, comforting shadow. Bullies and dead kittens show up right before defining moments.

It’s all about tire irons. The strongest arsenal, the most effective weapons I possess reveal themselves deep in black corners. Just when I think I’m a sitting duck, an obliterated feline, I accept and allow what’s about to happen as if I chose it. At that point, I am a clear thinker. A fighter.

Many people look for hope in light. Not sure I get it. I’ve learned that you must venture and stumble through darkness to discover what’s good. The universe reveals itself and nurtures me when I accept my fate and understand deeply that what I’m experiencing, as painful as it may be, needed to occur.

It couldn’t have happened any other way.

Looking back, those challenging episodes have formed a perspective I’ve used to help others make their way through red Ked moments.

Death is only the beginning. A music legend once told me that death is only the beginning. Near death, too. And before he passed, he told me again. I’m thinking in life we face several deaths. Illness, divorce, loss of inner circle relationships. And the beat goes on. Then stops. Then continues. The beating is the same, the sound is different.

Before nightfall I sit in the backyard, my dog Rosie next to me. I ponder who and what I lost up to then. I sort of feel like Michael Corleone at the end of Godfather III. Alone. Thinking in my last scene I should fall out of my chair. Dead. Rosie’s hot breath yapping in my cold face.

What an embarrassing way to go for Michael.

dead michael

Except I don’t drop. I’m fortunate to remember that with each liability, every loss, I gain a greater asset.

And I’m at peace. Finally.

Dead kittens are also dead presidents. How many times have I bloodied my net worth with a bat? Oh, many. I’ve loaned money to relatives who didn’t care if my credit went bust (never again), I worked for one of the worst penny stock chop shops and had my father purchase stock I knew would go bust (sorry dad), just to collect a commission, I have over-purchased shit I didn’t need, spent extravagantly at restaurants, too much wine. All dead money that taught me valuable living lessons.

“Hey asshole, what do you think you’re going to do with that thing?”

And as kittens were falling, I kicked red Ked in the shin. Before another word, he went down. I remember one furball jump in panic over his face, her back paws scratching deep into red Ked forehead (score).

I then slammed the iron down hard on his right shoulder.

RK lost his grip on the bat.

I wanted to hit him again.

I wanted him dead.

For all the kittens.

Past, present and future.

I grabbed his weapon and ran.

Directly to my Cousin Louis’ apartment 9 blocks away. He was NYPD. Built like Sly Stallone.

When I’m asleep and I see dead kittens, I know something big and life-changing is clawing at me.

Another lesson up at bat.

From the blood.

The music plays in my head.

And they disappear.

At least for now.

I hit the snooze.

““I know what you look like and I’ll see you before long.”

Ben Nichols.

This Old Death.

kittens with angel wings

Lessons Face Up: Three from Funerals.

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I was racing toward her house. In shock. I was numb to the potholes and other obstacles on Brooklyn roads.

 Sweating, pushing deep, in dense summer heat. 1977. My new Schwinn Sting Ray was sizzling tires on hot August NY streets. The banana seat, a metallic plastic with a double black vertical racing stripe, was as scorching as a furnace on full blast. But I didn’t care. I didn’t feel it.  For most of the two mile ride, I was standing up pedaling anyway.

Sting ray

It was grandma Nellie. On dad’s side of the family. His mother. What was to be a routine gall bladder operation, turned out to be the last time we saw her alive. After a blood transfusion. Since she always had some type of ailment, we sort of took grandma’s illnesses for granted. Gee grandma has another ache, gee what else is new? Another operation? She’ll be out in no time cooking again, for sure. No?

This time was different. Very different. Something went way wrong. And I never had a loved one, one so close to me die, so I pushed those pedals at a maddening pace for reasons I don’t quite understand. I had no idea what I was supposed to do once I arrived at grandma’s house. She died in the hospital but we were “instructed to meet” at the house per grandpa’s instructions. All I knew is I needed to get there. I was instructed. I obeyed.

It’s all blur after that. Until the funeral  – or the “wake,” where family allows viewing of the body which is all fancied up for the next energy adventure. The experience remains vivid in my mind. I can still smell the cloying odor of flowers. So many. My first open casket too, Nellie was in a misty-blue gown with silver shoes. Her gray hair was coiffed tight, slight smile, her third chin, not as “third” as it once was.

I touched her. Cold.

I withdrew my hand quick. Then suddenly felt ashamed.

Too many zombie flicks even then.

I placed my hand back on her joined fingers, a silver rosary string between them.

She looked more peaceful than she had in years. I was amazed. After all those tortuous years with my grandfather I’m sure she was glad to be rid of him. He was colder alive than she was dead. They slept apart. Did everything apart. I bet she was relieved to be rid of him, finally. And I could see it on her face.

But what about him now? Some family episodes you never forget..

Random Thoughts:

1). Wish always for one more day. Consistently, as I come across a person in my inner circle, I’m never afraid to express how grateful I am for their existence. There are those who have disappeared suddenly, like a friend from September, grandma who I didn’t visit in the hospital because she was always sick so what’s the big deal, a music icon, close friends, cousins, both parents, (Jesus, so many) that I wish I had one more day to see, touch, talk to them.

Regrettably, I can’t go back. But in my head, I do. I’ll hear a song, watch a movie, a date on the calendar will pass, I’ll come across a photo I thought I deleted, and there you are again – Wishing for one more day. It’s part of what I call “the human drag.” The tormented thoughts that tire you, push hard on a nerve, never go away, throb in a distance but close enough to injure. Right around a mental corner. There the fuck it is – the big turd in the middle of your mental soup.

Regret is part of our psyche. And for some, it’s strong. When investing, we regret we sold a stock too soon, too late, we didn’t invest enough money in Apple or we sold it and it went higher by a billion percent. So now, I’m a bit more vocal with those I care about. To lessen the regret. If I miss someone I tell them, if I care I say it. If I don’t, well,  I say that too. If I sell an investment too soon but I made a profit, I let it go. If I sell it too late, well I learn an expensive lesson. But I never stop wishing.for.one.more.day. A client: “I sold that stock in 1983, like an asshole.” My gosh, we’re reliving a Phillip Morris stock trade from 1983? Seriously? 

Dad was out with some model chick, 25 years his junior, the night grandma died. What dumb luck. Or fate.  He was supposed to visit his mother but decided the hot model was more important. He called Nellie in the hospital for like five seconds. Said he would see her tomorrow. There was no tomorrow. A week before he died in 1993, dad told me how much he regretted that decision. Two decades later he still carried that mind weight around like an anchor. I asked: “What was that model’s name again?” He laughed. He said “I don’t know.” Yikes. Then he gave me a gaunt, smart-ass look. Message received.

2). What will people think of you after you’re gone? My grandmother did some incredible things for poor families, especially kids. She loved kids. She was the janitor of my public school (P.S. 215) when I was attending; I was embarrassed because she cleaned toilets. Then, at her funeral, I discovered how so many of the kids loved her, how she gave candy, played Santa Claus at Christmas for them at the local library. I totally missed it. I didn’t want to see it. I loved her but she was a janitor. I did tell her how much I loved her, so at least I don’t live with complete regret so many years after her death. But I wish I knew what others thought of her while she was alive. Write down what you want people to remember about you. The good things. Then execute the plan so it works out that way. Oh and no strippers at my funeral, please? Thanks.

3). People feel their mortality at funerals. Do you? Attend enough funerals and you begin to see how blood and bones wear out. You become overly sensitive to it. We’re all equal at the end. All those funerals have given me the motivation to stay as healthy as possible. And now that I have a physical problem preventing a right kidney from functioning properly, I’m striving more than ever to stay in shape, eat right, follow a better sleep discipline. Want to gain health? Follow James Altucher’s The Daily Practice as best you can. You will see, feel the results.

Grandpa Frank was beside himself.

As they closed Nellie’s casket, he collapsed. Screaming: “I wish I would have treated you better, I LOVE YOU!” 

I never heard “I LOVE YOU” from him before. Ever.

From that point he was a different man. Completely.

On Christmas eve 1985 I called him.

“Grandpa, you’re my friend, I love our relationship. I’m just so grateful we’ve become so close. I’ll never forget it.”

He died the next day.

Christmas.

And I’m thankful.

One less weight on my head.

I have enough already.

So do you.

Time to bury them.

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.

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.

Governing Money – Lessons from the “Governor.”

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In a former life, the world before hell and earth went inside out, Philip Blake was a husband, father. I think he sold insurance (and wasn’t very good at it). He probably carried too much debt, drank too much  – I’m certain erectile dysfunction was a grim reality.

I bet he fantasized about having sex with the twenty-something barista at Starbucks or even worse – the overweight college dropout with crooked, yellowed teeth and soured look from behind the register at the local Piggly Wiggly convenience haven. In other words – HO HUM. Mundane. An existence we all mistake for a life because we were told that’s what life is, ya idiot. Or as a friend would say – lame ass!

And now?

He’s bigger-than-life in a world shrinking (literally) from decay. Ain’t that a bitch!

walking dead zombie A former insurance prospect? You betcha!

The “Governor” as he’s been proclaimed by the inhabitants of the fictional town of Woodbury, exists, rules, and on occasion, thrives (code for: gets some). You know what that means. Wink, wink.

It appears the whole end of the world thing has added pep to his step. He dons cool vests and brandishes a big-ass knife low on his hip. He’s handy with an automatic weapon. Yep – he’s discovered his true, higher calling, although the path he takes on occasion, would classify him as certifiably insane. Well, if the world was as it was, once upon a time – the one of sales calls, stopping for beer and milk on the way home to the mortgage payment; praying to get it up on a weekend for the wife he’s long tired of. But in this new world?

He’s the king, baby!!

the governor hip

The Governor appearing calm, collected in front of Woodbury residents. Notice the power stance (I’ve eaten a great breakfast at the coffee shop behind him and was able to leave town, peacefully).

But this new normal is truly abnormal. It requires a huge (over) dose of out-of-the-box thinking followed by unorthodox actions to keep him and his close-knit brood, alive. Fight or die. Stay alert because at any moment you may become a food source for ravenous, rotting flesh eaters and/or victims to the living who want what you have, what you worked so hard to build. All you possess can be gone in an instant. In this place, you fear the living and dead, equally.

His life demands tremendous inner reflection, strong leadership, a healthy dose of paranoia, an intense hunger for knowledge of the deademy (my zombie bon mot for enemy,) stamina, charisma, a penchant for strong tea, an instinct to survive and on occasion, cold-blooded murder of his own species (the living) which is an odd way to re-populate the planet. The deeper he believes in his mission to preserve what’s left of the human race, the more he perceives outsiders as threats. Appears almost everyone is an outsider.

fish tanks

The Governor laments the “experiments” that just didn’t work out.

The end of the world definitely raised his stature. Forced him to rise above. Imagine a former insurance hack re-born as a new-found savior. Only in the America of the living dead. Bittersweet (bloody) success. Climbing the ladder of what’s left of the human race.

The Governor fights passionately to protect what he’s re-created – a tree-lined, bucolic microcosm of once was; the time before this time or whatever this putrid shit is now. He preserves, behind big makeshift walls made of of fat tires and metal, the lives and well-being of his followers. The ones who still breath and don’t seek to eat each other.

In this Georgia sanctuary, residents adhere to daily routines like doing laundry, taking the kids to school and on occasion, they gather together to enjoy a hearty zombie gladiator fight in the center of a dilapidated makeshift arena. Hey, we must have our sports events no matter what, right?

Born from the imagination of master comic-book genius and creator of the concept for the hit show, “The Walking Dead,” Robert Kirkman’s “Governor,” is possibly one of the most complex characters to bridge the annals of comic and television history.

the governor walking dead

The Gov, played by Brit actor David Morrissey, in a pensive mood.

Something has gone dreadfully awry on the road to Woodbury (when it’s not dressed up for television this town is really the peaceful haven of Senoia, GA). You can see it in the eyes of the town folk. They’re scared of Philip Blake. Philip Blake who knocked on their doors once trying to push term insurance. In that old life, they didn’t open the door or got the dog to chase him. Maybe a family pet bit him.

I guess change happens when you can no longer self-regulate (or have no reason to try) – you create the rules, acquire minions to reinforce them. Ostensibly, a bit of sanity erodes as you’re tormented by the memories of those you lost, those you cherished, to wide-mouthed bites of growling corpses who drool black goo. When your back is truly against the wall – you shake things up.

Ponder the horror long enough and the snap-crackle in your mind ostensibly goes pop. You’re no longer who you were. The person inside, the one who worried about following the lawn fertilization schedule to the letter on weekends, is in a dark place now. Deader than dead.

The Governor has allowed the demons to occupy a great portion of his psyche and they rest on his mind on a full time basis. He can’t win against them any longer, so he commands them steer them to push him forward. Hey, when in Rome!

Black inside, tortured but he’s moving. Getting shit done. Every day.

He’s been re-shaped, reborn, by the end of the world he knew and the path he cuts to cling desperately to what was. After observing him you cannot decide who’s more rotted inside – him or the staggering corpses who meander around the parameter, tripping over debris, bumping into burned-out husks of rusted autos of drivers not lucky enough to escape from rotting marauders of warm flesh.

To the people he protects, the Governor is the best thing around. He’ll do whatever is necessary to guard his flock from strangers – living or dead – as long as they’re loyal. There’s something admirable about his rise to power, his grandiose vision to take back a human race most likely lost forever; yet, his actions at times are so horrific, his thought process so cold blooded, you almost wish to take your chances with the ghouls outside the walls of Woodbury.

He does have his heartwarming moments. Like when he talks soothingly to the chained and straitjacketed pre-teen zombie  who once was his daughter Penny. He keeps  her nestled in what appears to be a human kennel, deep inside his quarters. He brushes her hair (which falls out), sings to her.

Penny snarls and snaps at him as he releases the chained collar tight around her neck – her jaws make a  sharp snap sound, directed toward his warmth, like a blind ravenous canine searching for a steak in the dark. She’s so long gone, however. Yet, it’s Philip’s very last cling to hope, to who she was, the young life with so much potential she represented. Represents still, as he works with a genius professor geek deep in the bowels of Woodbury who works fervently to discover what makes these dead things tick. And perhaps, just perhaps, a cure!  He denies the fact there’s truly no cure for what ails precious Penny (except a bullet to the brain).

Penny

A heartwarming moment as Penny noshes on body parts of the once living who faced the Governor’s wrath. 

And if you watch AMC’s hit show “The Walking Dead,” you’ve been fascinated by the Governor and his actions. Why? Because you know (oh, you do), that you can go bat-shit wacko if faced with the same horrific circumstances. You would be altered in ways you cannot imagine. You would work effortlessly to cling to what was, because what was there and now is gone changes you. Lose enough people you love, then you tell me.

There’s a little bit of Philip in all of us. 

There’s a bit of anger, insanity, in all of us. 

There’s a bit of bad behavior where the living are slaughtered, the dead walk (figuratively) in all of us. 

There’s a bit of motivation to protect Woodbury, the safe haven, in all of us.

And when we sit alone and stew about this stuff, allow the demons to play handball against  our psyche, then we are no longer insurance salespeople, stockbrokers, artists, psychologists, the “sane” ones. We are indeed – governors.

Random Thoughts:

1). Construct the walls around you (carefully). Just be mindful of the materials you use. Employ love, civility, warmth and mix in a small dose of paranoia for those who attempt to enter your Woodbury. On occasion, you’ll let undesirables through however, do what the Governor does – dispose of them quietly and explain to yourself how that person, entity, drug, drink was endangering the lives of your minions (or brain cells).

2). Be open to what breaks your current mindset. Recently, I had a revelation after an e-mail exchange that allowed me to easily remove someone from my Woodbury. Realize that Penny isn’t gonna return, put your own back against the wall, get winded. Then wake up. Instead of changing for the worse (as you’ll see in the Governor in the remainder of season 3 and 4), bounce hard against that wall and propel forward. Philip Blake has been broken by the horror of his experiences. He had good intentions in the beginning, but something really bad happened along the way. Watch your path. Create guardrails to not veer off to blackness.

3). Don’t be afraid to retaliate now. As the economy improves, I’m personally seeing, hearing, about people breaking the chains of their old employer and discovering healthier ways to make a living. Something I predicted in my book “Random Thoughts of a Money Muse.” Check out the link below, here’s a blurb from a recent CNBC article outlining the trend:

The steady drumbeat of “you’re just lucky to have a job” that played through the recession is finally starting to fade and employees may be getting ready to say, “I quit!” and bolt for the nearest exit.

http://www.cnbc.com/id/100359891

Don’t feel bad – be slightly angry about how you’ve been treated. Rise above. You’re the Governor over your fate and as the economy slowly recovers, you should get your mental minions to focus on a brighter future.

4). Get shit done. Every day. For a time you’ll seethe, give yourself that. Then go ahead and continue to tend to your walls which surround the quaint town in your mind. Eat healthier, exercise more, find better conversationalists, seek friendships where you didn’t look before. Read a book. I’m reading Eckhart Tolle’s Stillness Speaks at this time.

5). Be bad. It’s ok. Just don’t appear to be above, criticize, or correct others. You’re not perfect and on occasion, you rot and stink worse than the walking dead. And your opinion is just that especially when wrapped in judgmental tone. You’re getting tuned out, too. Fast. The Governor has convinced himself that even the horrific things he does is for the good of his little community. He’s lost the ability to judge his behavior, self correct. You cannot do the same. Oh, unless the dead want to eat you. Then feel free. Have a glass of wine, a dessert, kick a wall (I accomplished all three last month).

6). Appreciate what you have. Now. Before the dead come back and the world goes to hell. Learn to appreciate those you care about. Feel good about your possessions; realize there’s a point when too many possessions eventually own you, especially if you’re taking on debt to “own” them.

7). Appreciate and gain protection. I know I’m making fun of Phil being a pain-in-the-ass insurance salesman in another life, but do not discount the need for life insurance. Bypass the salesperson. And think term insurance. It’s the cheapest, purest type of insurance. One of the best life free life insurance needs calculator out there is here:

http://www.lifehappens.org/life-insurance-needs-calculator/

For insurance quotes investigate http://www.selectquote.com or http://www.matrixdirect.com.

8). Know your enemies. Inside and outside your skin. Which emotions hold you back? Are there people in your life who do the same? Self assess, write it out, drink some strong tea or coffee and take some time to analyze. Then toss out of Woodbury, those threats to your well being.

9). Learn to let go. When the Governor lost his beloved Penny to a samurai blade to the head, you can tell how broken he was and about to become (terrific acting by Mr. Morrissey). You need to let go of what’s dead already. A love, a longing, a feeling, a thought, a friend, a lover, an actual shopping cart with wheels that work at the supermarket. Learning to let go means less stress. Laugh more.

10). Stand like the Governor. I mean it just looks cool, right? Hands on hips. Your body language says a lot about you.

DSC_0370

The set of “The Walking Dead.” Note the tire, metal walls. Also, the building in the background (with ladder) was the place where the Governor & Michonne fight was filmed. 

11). Don’t lose yourself in anger and regret. With his beloved Penny gone, the Governor has lost all hope (and sanity). He is consumed with the torment that goes along with surrender of the traits which make one human. And a white-hot anger about his failure to protect Penny was enough to break his sanity. Regret and anger has now overwhelmed every thought, each motivation. Perhaps a cure against living death was close.

It didn’t matter now.

It was sweltering on the “set” of Woodbury during Season 3. Then he emerged. Walking behind us. David Morrissey. In his cool signature Governor vest. Carrying a script.

When I asked my daughter why she sat off to the side instead of joining me in a discussion I was having with him, she said bluntly:

“Dad he scares me. He’s the Governor.”

Comic Gov

The Walking Dead comic-book version of the Governor.

Impressions are everything.

Aren’t they?

From mental imprints, projections are born.

Out of grief.

Fear.

Anger. 

Regret.

Don’t let them consume you.

Work to break free.

Today.

I have faith.

You’re not the Governor.

A new season of “The Walking Dead” begins October 13, on AMC – 9pm/8pm CST.

 

Three Lines. Three Words. Three Lessons. Three Tips. Three Reasons to Believe.

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Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you. Just sit there (three sentences).

Santa

Not sure why Santa scared me so much. Clowns frightened me. Women frighten me. Threes.

Scary happens in threes. Scary movie sagas frequently occur in threes, although many times I wonder why. The Godfather movies? Three. Don’t ask me why. Don’t see Godfather III. Abomination.

On occasion you need three signals to wake you, shake you, bake you – Three hammers hit you in the head, three lightning strikes. You cry, you deny, you wake up. Maybe you wake up. Most likely, you don’t wake up. Try. I try every day.

Why?

Because your brain forms protective layers. Three from what I’ve discovered about myself. As your mind tries to protect your heart. To get through to you, to others, you need to bust through the layers.

Thinking in threes, speaking in threes, can improve your life, possibly save it.

Everything you ever need to know can be learned in threes. Everything you ever need to communicate can be accomplished in threes.

Random Thoughts:

1). “Leave me alone. Go away. I mean it.” Use this for bad thoughts, bad people, bad ideas, bad anything. Sure, you can stop at leave me alone but it’s not enough. Go further. There is a force in threes.

2). I love you. Three actions prove it: I’ve been there for you in rough times, I’ve been there for you when you disappear and return, I’m there for you now that you’re gone again. Being there through bad times isn’t enough to prove you love someone. It’s through the challenging times, confusing times, the times when you want to let go. But you don’t. And you should.

3). All you need are three rules to be successful with money. Save more, spend less, be thankful for what you have. It’s not rocket science people. The financial services industry makes it more complicated, sexy, confusing, on purpose. Now you may need a coach to help you save more, spend less, be thankful. Most of the time it’s a failure to accomplish one of the three simple rules that upsets the game plan. Recently, I met with a distressed lady who saved, had no debt (and a beautiful home), but was not thankful and wanted more. I spent hours taking her through an inventory of all the gifts she’s been bestowed, most of them based on her good habits.

Try writing out your throughts in three sentences. Let me know if it works.

In 2000, I received a call from a doctor I didn’t know. I was at work. 1pm.

“Mr. R? Your mother is here at our hospital. She’s been ill. She’s about to die.”

“I can speak with her. What do I say? I’m not sure.”

“Tell her you love her. Forgive her for the bad things. Help her to move on.”

He handed me the phone receiver.

“Richard? Are you there? I’m sorry.”

“I love you mom. I forgive you for everything. Grandpa is waiting for you.”

I heard three breaths. Then nothing. Then a dial tone.

Threes. What an impact.

On everything.

 

What the Dead Taught Me – Lessons from an Urban Cemetery.

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It was out of place then. It’s out of place now. Hundreds of years ago-perfect. And when I climbed the fence or dug a hole underneath to enter this hallowed wedge almost directly underneath the elevated “F” Subway line, I felt at home. Calm. An oasis of rest. There was nothing to fear, no one to judge. Just whatever is left after bodies move beyond the rot and weathered gravestones, some with captivating epitaphs.

First time I saw the sign was 1970. It’s timeless.

Hey, the cemetery was founded by a babe (lady). A plus.

There was a rumor that a tunnel existed underneath the caretaker’s abode; allegedly, this channel lead to the back of the cemetery, up through an unmarked grave to daylight. It was an escape route/hiding place during the Revolutionary War. I never had the guts to investigate the validity of this tale, although at times I was tempted. A couple of nights a week, especially during the summer, I’d find myself waking up early morning behind a grave marker. I felt a very live affinity for the dead.

The infamous caretaker cottage. Sealed for decades.

I’m not so macabre. You’ve been there. Many of the living hold a fascination with graveyards and tombstones. My connection, however seemed deeper. As I sat on lumpy ground deep inside iron gates, I’d close my eyes and attempt to cast out a spiritual thread. I was desperately seeking answers. Hoping for a visceral spiritual pull. Once, at 1AM through an August late night that turned to early morning, I felt a tug on the other end of the ethereal thread. It woke me. A voice.

I was startled. Awoke with a rapid heartbeat. It was so strong, I recall my ears closing up to any external sounds. The voice was inner and soothing. He said his name was William. Who the hell was William. I didn’t know a William, or a Bill. The words filled my ears-I live by them 40 years later (or at least by my interpretation of them):

                                                      “We are all the same.”

Underneath the surface not much different.

Random Thoughts:

1). Deep Down We All Seek. Love, good health for us, friends and family, success, fortune. Our paths to what we seek are different. Could be life experience, frames of reference, luck. Yet, no matter what, there is a measure of peace we all wish to discover. You wouldn’t know it based on the day-to-day surface noise we encounter which keeps us divided-class warfare, politics, work, the kids, constipation. Remember though we all share a spiritual thread. The key to reward is to cast it willingly and see what happens. Deep down we are all the same.

2). Empathy/Fairness Strengthens your Signal. If you learn (not easy) to set aside the divisions and truly connect with the very human elements of others, then you will learn something that will make you a well-rounded individual surrounded by friend with rich experiences. Empathy or fairness provides mental fuel for the adventure. Regardless of who you decide to vote for in November, we are all the same.

3). Stock Markets are Fear & Greed Machines. It’s helpful to understand beyond the sophisticated math formulas and technology, financial markets are people. Irrational people. Fear & greed cycles through all of us therefore it flows through markets. It’s not different this time. Far from it. It’s always been this way and always will be unless the dead create a stock exchange. It’s best to understand and work within this framework. You’ll sleep better and deal with the fact that “it is what it is.” The thread that winds through markets is  all the same.

4). Better Them than Me. Recently I watched (50th time) the latest movie remake of “Dawn of the Dead.” When asked to say a kind word over the bodies of the dead (and dead again) Ving Rhames’ character blurts out candidly: “Better them than me.” Yes, better them than you. If you’re alive, keep an open mind. Rise above petty politics and trivial distractions of the day. Get acquainted or possibly connected with other breathing souls. Because when you cut through all the shit realize we are all the same.

And being alive and all the same is better than being dead and all the same.

Ok, Ving R. is a badass. Maybe a bit different? No. Just an actor.

The voice was gone. Heartbeat normal. The streetlight above was bright. I was able to read the gravestone.

Asleep in Jesus. W. Williams. We are all the same.

I went back to sleep. I was no longer the kid with the crazy mom. I was the same. I fit in.

Thanks for the lesson, William.

Home Base – 4 Ways to Rediscover Where You Belong.

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“You can’t stay here anymore, son. We lock the gates at dusk.”

“Really, sir?” I asked. I stretched out my voice. The politeness from him, from me, was painful. Sarcasm seeping through.

He stared at me. I returned the stare. Didn’t blink. He turned and walked.

I won again. Or did I?

The neighborhood park, an oasis almost directly underneath the rusted steel of the elevated “F” Subway line, was home away from home. For months. And now this prick was laying down some form of superficial martial law to prove he actually worked that day; like anyone I knew couldn’t find a way in to this park at night. Remnants of used condoms on the swings, discarded clothing told the real story. On the weekends, this park was teeming with people. Summer nights the same. Made sleeping on a park bench less sleep and more adventure.

park bench homeless

In Gravesend, Brooklyn. A lower-middle class pool of tepid toilet water. Swirling personalities. Harsh realities. Old-school foundations lost to a new generation.

During a summer when innocent people died.

When my father was almost shot by serial killer Son of Sam.

Four parked cars close. But far enough. He almost was called home. His ears were ringing from the gun exploding, creating death.

son of sam

Where home was. And hope wasn’t lost. Not yet.

Twelve-years old. Kicked out. Well, I left. Left a home that wasn’t a home. Too many strange men, too many strange drugs, too much nudity, too much of too much. And home wasn’t home anymore. And Dad was gone. Making out with women within the Son of Sam target zone; I was afraid of losing him. Like I lost my mother. Not to death. Just lost. She was in the dark. Couldn’t find home anymore.

She was..

Where home wasn’t. And hope was lost. Forever.

lose our way

Author Thomas Wolfe wrote “You Can’t Go Home Again.” It was published after his death. I disagree.

But.

There’s that recurring dream some of us have. We leave a home, a comfort, turn around, find ourselves in the middle of nowhere. In darkness. Panicked. Alone. Afraid. Disappointed. Saddened. Most of us eventually find our center again – the way back. Some don’t. Some stay lost. They’re alive, but restless. Can’t get comfortable. In their sleep they’re walking, searching. Awake they do the same. They try to find what’s lost. The home long gone.  A torturous circle. A path with no end. Just a beginning. Over and over, again.

Until. It ends. On occasion, it concludes badly. Home burns down. Nothing left.

A few get shot in the head. Self inflict damage. Blood, spirits 100 proof, substances more evil.

Not you, though.

Time to rebuild.

Random Thoughts:

1). Who or What is Home? Where’s your hearth? Who or what adds kindle to your fire? I’ve learned it’s ok if a person provides the fuel. Until that person is gone. And the bad dream returns. The door is closed. You look back. Dark. Learn to re-establish home base. Begin from the foundation. Understand what is home to you. Live it again. Feel the shelter form around you again. Rejuvenation.

2). Define or Re-establish  your Home Base. It’s there. Just hidden. It’ll take some deep reflection to establish a new home base because each time you seek home center, the structure you build grows weaker, more frail. Until you stop. Stop building. You stop. The end. Don’t stop.

3). Understand your Financial Home Base. And work back to it regularly. If you’ve stopped saving, start again. If you haven’t examined your portfolio allocation, it’s time to do it with stock markets hitting post financial-crisis highs. Time to get your financial home back in shape. It’s never too late. You can go home again.

4). Know When it’s Time to Demolish. Start again. There will be times you’ll build a home base that never really was. In your mind you thought it was standing. Because what your mind feels will always be real to you. But it’s not. It’s a mirage. You find that out once the hearth grows cold. You’ll find building a new hearth is tougher than building the home itself. But it can be done. With time. As long as you stay focused. Have a plan, a blueprint to rebuild.

You’ll rediscover.

Where home is. Who and what the real hearth is.

And this time you may. Just may.

Die happy.

With a home around you.

home hearth

 

Before you’re called to.

Another.