Great Writing

This space is for writing...my own writing mostly...but every once in awhile I am reminded why I love to write, what inspires me to try to be a better writer everyday, and that is other people's words; words that are strung together with such grace and beauty that we just have to sit back and say..."Damn that is good!" So today, I am going to post someone else's words...enjoy!

Lost in the Flood

The ragamuffin gunner is returnin' home like a hungry runaway
He walks through town all alone--"He must be from the fort," he hears the high school girls say
His countryside's burnin' with wolfman fairies dressed in drag for homicide
The hit-and-run plead sanctuary, 'neath a holy stone they hide
They're breakin' beams and crosses with a spastic's reelin' perfection
Nuns run bald through Vatican halls, pregnant, pleadin' immaculate conception
And everybody's wrecked on Main Street from drinking unholy blood
Sticker smiles sweet as Gunner breathes deep, his ankles caked in mud
And I said, "Hey, gunner man, that's qucksand, that's quicksand, that ain't mud
Have you thrown your senses to the war, or did you lose them in the flood?"

That pure American brother, dull-eyed and empty-faced
Races Sundays in Jersey in a Chevy stock super eight
He rides 'er low on the hip, on the side he's got "Bound for Glory" in red, white and blue flash paint
He leans on the hood telling racing stories, the kids call him Jimmy the Saint
Well, that blaze-and-noise boy, he's gunnin' that bitch loaded to blastin' point
He rides head first into a hurricane and disappears into a point
And there's nothin' left but some blood where the body fell, that is, nothin' left that you could sell
Just junk all across the horizon, a real highwayman's farewell
And I said, "Hey kid, you think that's oil? Man, that ain't oil, that's blood"
I wonder what he was thinking when he hit that storm, or was he just lost in the flood?

Eighth Avenue sailors in satin shirts whisper in the air
Some storefront incarnation of Maria, she's puttin' on me the stare
And Bronx's best apostle stands with his hand on his own hardware
Everything stops, you hear five quick shots, the cops come up for air
And now the whiz-bang gang from uptown, they're shootin' up the street
And that cat from the Bronx starts lettin' loose, but he gets blown right off his feet
And some kid comes blastin' 'round the corner, but a cop puts him right away
He lays on the street holding his leg, screaming something in Spanish, still breathing when I walked away
And somebody said, "Hey man, did you see that? His body hit the street with such a beautiful thud"
I wonder what the dude was sayin', or was he just lost in the flood?
Hey man, did you see that, those poor cats are sure messed up
I wonder what they were gettin' into, or were they just lost in the flood?
Bruce Springsteen
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"All with love...L... O... V... E." Michael Jackson, after correcting mistakes by his dancers in rehearsal

Last night I attended the release of THIS IS IT, the Michael Jackson documentary that reveals that in the last days of his life, Michael was as fit and fine as he'd ever been. His dancing was, as usual, phenomenal, his voice spot on...his attitude upbeat and professional. The weird thing was how not weird he seemed. Yes, his face had a Jokeresque look about it, the tattoos on his eyes and lips accentuated the weird jaw and prosthetic nose...but truthfully, he didn't look as weird as I'd seen him in recent years. He was so ON...I can't imagine that the man at these rehearsals was the same man who had insomnia so bad he needed anesthesia to fall asleep.
Two things jumped out at me...1.The dancers and singers involved in this production must be DEVASTATED...the chance of a lifetime...they had it in their hands...and then...they didn't. Reminds me of a baseball game I watched recently.
2. Michael Jackson was a really sweet person...patient and kind and giving in his performances...I don't want to get into a big debate about his sexual proclivities...he did not come off as the type of person who would harm another person if he could help it...that is my take on the guy...you can have your own opinion.
The one inarguable fact about Michael is that he was unique. The world lost an amazing artist who cannot be replaced.

Wound Care

Back to that "first fresh cut of pain" thing...this morning I was reminded by a sudden stab in the heart and hot tears springing up without warning, that it takes a long time to heal some wounds. A casual remark about an inconsequential topic, and I was transported instantaneously through time and space to a moment a couple of years ago that I never wanted to revisit. My apologies to the unwitting tongue that let slip the remark...my issue, not yours.
The question I am posing is, do we ever really heal from that kind of hurt? Years can go by and then, phfft!, phfft!, phfft!, our heart is freshly filleted and ready to be served with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. I guess all we can do is keep the wound clean and dry, change the dressing often and avoid pouring salt on it whenever possible...it may never fully heal, but at least we won't bleed to death.

Newsong, New Life...some of you have heard this before...for those who haven't I am Sharing my Good News

As a child who would someday grow up to be a writer, I could not get enough of the “story” of Jesus Christ. It was, in truth, my favorite story. Movies like The Robe and The Greatest Story Ever Told, and King of Kings and musical stage productions like Jesus Christ Superstar and GodSpell captured my imagination: but not my soul.
I was raised Catholic by a non-practicing mother. I went to Sunday school, and attended confession on Saturdays. Each week kneeling in that confessional, I would think about the foolishness of having the priest tell me to say a few Hail Mary’s and a couple of Our Father’s to atone for my sins.
At Mass, I would find it difficult to pay attention to the service. It wasn’t reaching me. God seemed to be talking to all the older folks; the blue haired women running rosaries through their fingers, lace doilies pinned to their heads and the stooped shouldered old men who mumbled and crossed themselves a hundred times.
One Sunday the children were instructed to go to the church basement for a “youth service.” A young man with long hair wearing jeans and a tie-dyed tee shirt sat in a chair in the middle of a circle of chairs. He had a guitar and was singing something by Peter Paul and Mary…really. For six exciting Sundays after that, we all got to hear him sing and talk about God…it was the first time in my life I looked forward to church. Then, as soon as he appeared, he was gone. A few years after that, I stopped attending church. I was eleven years old.
As an adult, I would watch the old religious movies when I stumbled across them on an off night or rare day off, and they still managed to enthrall me. Movie Jesus was handsome, mysterious and…entertaining. I fit him when I could…in between working and trying to acquire more and more things and money. My life was not really my own.
In 2004, I followed the media hoopla surrounding Mel Gibson’s Passion of The Christ with interest. I was happy that another Movie Jesus was going to keep me busy for a few hours. I didn’t get to see the movie until years later. When at last I rented The Passion, it was almost 4 years after its release and my carefully constructed life was crumbling around me. My husband of many years had lost faith in us and left me, my sister had lost faith in herself and committed suicide, my finances were in ruins, my job was about to be eliminated and I had lost faith in myself and was on the verge of giving up.
I had spent the year and a half before all of this happened searching for some meaning in my life. I spent hundreds of dollars on self-help books and writings by spiritual and metaphysical gurus. Wayne Dyer told me to manifest my own destiny…Deepak Chopra asked me to find the Godhead within me…Ekhart Tolle chided me to abandon my ego based consciousness, and The Secret told me I could have the world at my fingertips if I just asked for it…hmmm…that’s where things got funky. Every one of these books I was reading had something in common…they all supported parts of their philosophy by showing how Jesus had been teaching the same things.
Now I was intrigued…I started reading the Bible and then found my way to Lee Strobel’s The Case For Christ and something started to click. I had been looking for what I needed in all the wrong places.
In John (14:20) Jesus says to Phillip, “On that day you will know that I am in my Father and you in me, and I in you.” Clearly this is what Deepak Chopra meant when he said that the discovery of God was one of self-discovery, and what Eckhart Tolle meant when he spoke of the single consciousness of the universe. This is further evidenced by Jesus’ words: (Luke 17:20-21) “The kingdom of God does not come visibly, nor will people say, ‘Here it is,’ or ‘There it is,’ because the kingdom of God is within you.”
And in Matthew 21:22 “And all things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.”…certainly this was the essence of The Secret.
I finally watched the Passion of the Christ alone on a Thursday night and Movie Jesus was forever erased from my memory. I can’t explain how deeply watching that movie affected me. But I was different afterward. I appreciated the story of Jesus even more than before, but now it had reached my soul. I was so profoundly grateful for what He had done for me…I knew it was the Truth and I wanted to tell someone.
I think though that the most persuasive influence has been Anna. She is my “Letter from Christ”. And I am so grateful for her.
So now I am attending New Song service regularly, engaged and moved every week by what I hear and see and so glad to have met the wonderful people here. I am praying each day for strength and patience and giving thanks for the gifts He has given me. The worst time in my life has become the most joyful, creative and blessed of any other. I have renewed optimism and I know that my life will no longer be ruled by the things of this world, but by the knowledge of my eternal life with Him.
Thank you Jesus.

"a glimpse of the familiar"

A couple of days ago I was writing about needing to talk to my sister. By her own choice, she's no longer here on this earth...at least that's what I thought. Then, I happened across this relatively recent photo of her baby...and talk about that "first fresh cut of pain." It shouldn't hurt to look on the beautiful face of my own niece...but damn... it does...and that makes me angry with her mother all over again. Paige, I love you.

"...the stars look very different today"

It was brought to my attention recently that we all are just hanging on to this spinning ball of gas and minerals and magma by our fingertips, and any little thing can send us spiralling off into space. Sometimes the little thing is a big thing from our perspective. Life-changing, mind-blowing, and unavoidable... these types of "things" have to be confronted.

The problem with our perspective is that it we always view the world through the prism of memory and emotion. We can't stand back and look at anything, let alone something that is about to turn us into Major Tom, with a dispassionate eye. We must, because we are just human beings, pull from our vast memory banks of joy and loss and pain and pleasure in order to put the "thing" where we think it belongs.

I tried to put myself in the shoes of someone who is struggling to hang on while facing just such an upheaval. I wondered what I would do if my "thing" suddenly confronted me...I have to admit, it would mess with me something fierce.Of course it would be exciting, and for a time it might seem like nothing else mattered. My grip would certainly loosen, but I hope that I would hang on. Who can say? I'll only find out if it happens, and I certainly can't judge anyone who wants to check out what the weightlessness of space is like.

Off with Her Head!

Last week I took another trip down the rabbit hole, not unwillingly, mind you...
but,in fairness, I had been coaxed.
I ate a mushroom laced with all the right words and happily followed a carrot dangling from a stick all the way down.
The tea party was in full swing when I arrived bearing gifts and a hopeful spirit. The Mad Hatter was oh so pleased to see me.
The beautiful blond Princesses in attendance were but a foreshadowing of the wise and lovely silver-haired matriarchs around the table.
The conversation bordered on a small-scale military offensive, and I became surprisingly aware of my moderate nature. I enjoyed the insanity of it all.


The boy with the magic wand had a song on his lips and he serenaded me on the ride home. "Till now I always got by on my own. I never really cared until I met you."

I didn't realize I was about to lose my head at the whim of the Queen of the Mad Hatter's heart.


This time the climb back out of the hole has proven to be a bit less rewarding than my last ascent over a year ago. Then, I could not wait to be back in the real world and to leave the pain of failures and lost loved ones behind me...this time, not so much.
The Mad Hatter is not quite mad, just a little freaked out and damaged in places. The Boy has magic in his heart and the Princesses rule their kingdom with light and laughter.

I hope the effects of the shroom don't wear off too quickly...trips like this one have a way of reminding you that you are alive.

Morons and Mental Cases

I need to break out of the asylum I call home for roughly 60 hours a week. Bedlam has nothing on this place. Why is it that the profession I have been in for close to twenty years is, and apparently always has been, a safe haven and refuge for all manner of miscreants, and borderline personalities?
Monday: Boss is 2 hours late for work and then proceeds to sit and nod and drool at his desk for 40 minutes.
Tuesday: Same boss has a conversation on the showroom floor that consists of expressing his surprise at the "articulate" nature of black customer's speech...the guy was from England...and thankfully had left before this cretin began his monologue that started there and moved onto the English term for cigarette and, well you can imagine.
Wednesday: Depleted sales force, like a too-often beaten dog cringes their way through the day. They lie to avoid the beating, they resist performing even the simplest of tasks lest their boss should decide to zero in their activity.
Thursday: My day off...not long enough.
Friday: Spittle in the corners of his mouth, and crumbs flying out when he speaks...please, someone save me.

Missing Persons

Yesterday I wanted to talk to someone to whom I used to turn when my life seemed like it was running off the rails, when I was sad or upset about something too personal to discuss with anyone else. No matter how busy she was or how messy her own life may have been at the time, she always made herself available to me, listened and then told me exactly what she thought. She never minced her words or placated me by agreeing with me for the sake of agreeing. I needed her then, and I need her now.
She is not here, and for the first time in a long time I have allowed myself to feel that loss without the anger that usually follows thinking of her.
Losing people we care about is never easy, when they choose to remove themselves from our lives...whether permanently or just for awhile, it hurts. The pain is a selfish pain though, a self-pitying kind of thing that settles in our gut and twists until we groan with the pressure of it. It is not something that ever really leaves us, either. We think we are okay and then a word, a smell, a song, a glimpse of the familiar in a stranger can set us back months, years even...right back to the first fresh cut of pain...I don't have a remedy for that other than to just keep moving...keep negotiating the road of this life like it actually leads to something...keep moving forward.

Does it get any better than this?

When I look at this face, it makes me happy. The happiness is deep and satisfying. I look at this face and the world of deadlines and deadends disappears. This happy little face is what life is supposed to be about. Find a face like this, or borrow this one if you want, but look at that face everyday...at least once...you'll smile and the endorphins that the brain releases when you do will cure a lot of ills...try it...go on...that's it...smile.

losing ground

I thought the view from where I am, looking back on where I'd come from, was pretty damn good...then I realized I was looking in my rear view mirror...and objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

You've got to be very careful if you don't know where you are going, because you might not get there-- Yogi Berra

It's the top of the eighth and the hometown boys are up by an insurance run and the guy everyone wants on the mound is there...we got this one...we do...and then we don't. The air sucks out of the stadium and the only sound is the collective jaw of Redsox nation hitting the floor. We are surprised, but not really. Disappointed to be sure, but its nothing we have not experienced before.
A single baseball game is such a great metaphor for life...even when you think you have it in the bag, something out of left field snatches defeat from the jaws of victory...in a blink it is all different.
When we think we know where we are going and the path ahead seems bathed in sunshine, its best to remember when you get to the fork in the road, you should take it...because you never know how quickly that sunshine can turn into a threatening storm that delays your game.
Remember, too, that there are only so many at bats in this game...don't waste them.

Boning a Duck

Okay, I'll admit that I have never boned a duck before. But I have managed to do a lot of things in the past couple of years that I never did before...
I smelled death.
I despaired.
I fell all the way down the rabbit hole and climbed back out again.
I said goodbye to people I loved.
I found out that alone isn't lonely.
I hated someone...and forgave them anyway.
I found God.
I felt joy...really felt it...savored it...learned to live in it.
I let go of what doesn't matter.

So boning a duck...not so scary. What boning the duck is a metaphor for...that is scary. We all have something that we are good at, something that makes us unique. Living up to that whatever it is, being who we are truly meant to be...that is the challenge. It is a lot harder than boning a duck, but certainly not impossible. Just follow your own recipe, don't deviate, don't substitute fresh ingredients with the same old stale ones you are used to, be fearless, and bone that duck!

Gifted Child

I met a man a few weeks ago who I thought I might like to see more than once or twice...then I met his son. It was then that I realized that while the man was pretty special, his son was absolutely gifted.
This boy smiles and you can not help but smile back. His joy bubbles out of his mouth and shines out of his eyes. His imagination zaps you as he waves his magic wand in your direction. With a snap of his fingers he has you laughing and wanting to be around him. He is special in more ways than I have discovered yet...I hope I get the chance to find out just how many.