Walk While Reading

2012 NHL First Round Playoff Picks….

Done by my five year old daughter, Ayla.

Vancouver Canucks vs. Los Angeles Kings - Winner Vancouver Canucks

St. Louis Blues vs. San Jose Sharks - Winner San Jose Sharks

Chicago Blackhawks vs. Phoenix Coyotes - Winner Chicago Blackhawks

Detroit Red Wings vs. Nashville Predators - Winner Detroit Red Wings

New York Rangers vs. Ottawa Senators - Winner New York Rangers

Washington Capitals vs. Boston Bruins - Winner Boston Bruins

New Jersey Devils vs. Florida Panthers - Winner New Jersey Devils

Philadelphia Flyers vs. Pittsburgh Penguins - Winner Philadelphia Flyers

I’d like to add, that my daughter had to think for a moment, regarding the Canucks, Kings series, which in turn, made my heart stop for just a moment. As well she picked the Boston Bruins WAY to fast for my liking, she may have even smiled at the sound of their name. 

Make You Cry Music

He use to only cry while watching Field of Dreams. The scene where his dead father comes alive on the baseball diamond to play catch with his son, got him every time. He’s seen the movie half a dozen times, he knows the scene’s coming, he hears the ‘make you cry music’ through the speakers. Even knowing all of this, he’s crying like he’s just lost his cat. 
Over the last year, it’s not just that baseball movie, that makes him cry. He has cried so much, over so many things, in his car, walking down the side walk, at work, on his couch while eating cheerios. That a strange sense of calm has come over him with regards to the act of crying. He’s no longer scared of letting go. He can almost will it to happen. He’s a grown man of some thirty or so years, that can cry whenever he wants. 
I’m sure this is not good, or what some would classify as not normal. That there’s an issue somewhere, hiding out between his eyes. This man doesn’t really care what others think. He’s done trying to classify or explain or hide who he is. What he’s become. If he’s crying after hearing Bon Iver’s Holocene, so be it. If tears are forming in his eyes, as John Nash in A Beautiful Mind tells the woman who didn’t give up on him. That he loves her and he’s the man he is today because of her, that’s fine too. And if he cries because somedays he feels alone, and scared, well thats more then okay. Because we all feel that way sometimes, and crying about it tells the mind that the body knows it hurts, and it’s okay.   

2011

2011 a year that’s almost over. The worst year of my life, for reasons never to be explored here publicly. I’m sure there’s people in this world who want this year to pass, much more then I do, but for me, the end of two thousand and eleven can’t come soon enough. The end of a year always brings with it reflection and also the hope of new beginnings. I won’t be reflecting back this year. I’ll be forgetting and continuing to look forward in hopes, what comes, will come and what may come, I’ll be happy for. That I’ll find peace, with whatever my life may bring.
I’m not really sure what 2012 will bring. They’ll be an election to follow, for a country I don’t live in. They’ll be birthday’s, and Grade 1. They’ll be the quest for the cup, my team came a game away from winning last year. They’ll also be the end of this blog. I’m most certain, my days on tumblr will end, this coming year. With age comes insight, and I’ve become too old for a platform dominated by youth. I’ve seen a lot of my favorite people on here call in quits, or pulled away. The Mill’s, and Abbey’s, the Ryan’s, and Laura’s, the Matt’s, Mari’s and Kris Payne’s have all taken a step back or said goodbye completely. I will be doing the same thing this coming year. I feel like Babe Ruth calling his shot, and it’s completely sad and rather pathetic. For whatever reason I feel I must talk myself into it, prepare for the void tumblr will no longer fill. I must download the writing my children may one day want to see, and delete and deactivate the account that has been my life. I no longer write much about books, which is what probably brought so many of you, towards my space here on the internet, in the first place. For the most part my blog has turned into a man struggling mentally with the mistakes of his past and the fear of what the future may hold. I’ve come to the realization, that I no longer need to do that in front of eyes that trace my existence through their computer monitors. Of course, I still smile when I see that little heart from the ones I’ve come to know, when I post something. That little symbol that say’s “hello, how are you, I just read that, and I just wanted to say hi, I’m out there”. But it’s not enough. My open diary to the world has become, uncreative. It’s turned into self-pity and repetition.  So here I sit rambling about, the year that was without talking about it whatsoever. 

To all of you Happy New Year, and goodbye 2011. 

Gift

She is his greatest gift. Like the sun, that rises, over blue seas, and grass covered plains, that peaks through snow covered mountains, her brown eyes rise to look at him. 

He always wanted to have children. As early as he could recall he wanted to be a father. He never knew why, and looking back now, still doesn’t understand the reasons for wanting to be one. Some people do, others don’t, where the desire comes from, he’s not sure anyone knows. But it came for him, like smoke from a campfire comes for your skin. 

Then it happened, a life inside another. He remembers the tears of joy, and the fear that gripped his stomach. In a blink, like a flash of lightning in the summer sky, his life had changed. It was no longer what it was. It would never be the same and he didn’t care. His life had a new mission, a new puzzle to put together.

He was given nine months to prepare, to paint rooms pink or blue, to cover electrical outlets with plastic, to find the name his child will wear for a lifetime. He had already started to forget about himself. It happened without him knowing it. Who is your favorite band? I don’t remember. Remember two summers ago, that camping trip we went on? I don’t. 

Two hundred and seventy six days, give or take, and there you are. Alive, my, our, responsibility. He’s never looked after anything in his life. Excluding the family pets, in his youth, this is completely different. He did this, she’s in his arms, he made her. She has her mothers eyes, she has her fathers eye lashes. He will rock her to sleep, knowing when he’s put her down, softly in her crib, the universe will whisper in his ear “This is as close to perfect, we can offer you”.

She grows, becoming her own person. Then it happens, she’s five now and old enough to know he’s hurting. That somethings wrong with Dad. She’ll sit on his lap, and brush her fingers along the hair of his arms. She’ll want to hold his hand, everywhere and always. She wants to protect her Dad, she doesn’t know why, but she knows she has to. They’re too much alike she and him. 

That fear, again, is upon him. He doesn’t want what’s inside him anywhere near her. He’s angry, and crestfallen. He knows she will live an amazing life, but he sees it in her. The way she stares into space, her sensitivity, her smile, and the way she hides her feelings. He doesn’t know what to do. He asks her all the time, “what’s wrong sweetheart?”

“Nothings wrong Daddy”. He’s given the same answer, hundreds of times. He knows she hurts different then others do. He just wants to hold her, carry her all around, never let her go. He tells her he loves her, every chance he gets. 

His hope is she gets lucky. That the darkness in him and the one he thinks is growing in her, will get bored and go home. He wants her to never feel it, that the damage it can cause never touches her soul. 

He will continue to watch her grow. He will monitor the signs, like a hawk searching for prey. He will continue to battle the darkness, in hopes she’ll be able to see that it can be defeated. He will do his best to be strong, for her everyday. 

For he is her Dad, and for that he is grateful.

Like

Things I like:

Books all types, softcover over hardcover, authors Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Auster, Mitchell, Murakami, Bolaño, Wallace, Williams, McCarthy, Vonnegut, Franzen, Chabon, Kerouac, Carver. My wife, my children, my mother, my brother. Sports I like to play, golf, sports I like to watch, Hockey, Football, Football, Baseball. Tulips, Vinyl, tobacco, bourbon, ales, scotch, wine. Children, children laughing. Brown eyes, hats, freshly cut grass, Fall. Mid Centry Modern furniture, teak. Old cars, fashion, films, Pulp Fiction, Wes Anderson. Music, Radiohead, Cat Power, Bob Dylan, Bon Iver. Jazz, Davis, Coltrane, Monk, Baker. The Internet, tumblr, The Millions, The New York Times, ESPN. Listening, travel, my iPhone, iPad. Jeans, Ray-Bans. Sunshine, the mountains, photograph, art. Therapy, anti-depressants. Soldiers, Barack Obama, JFK, Canada. CNN, The National, PVR’s, HDTV, iTunes, Blu-ray. Skateboarding, snowboarding, surfing. Bars where you can talk, live music, FaceTime. Mad Men, Breaking Bad, Soprano’s. Management, employees, money. Food, candles. Reading lights, sailboats, Christmas lights. John Elway, Trevor Linden, Ryan Kesler, the New York Mets, the Denver Broncos, the Vancouver Canucks. Lego, board games, puzzles. Star Wars. Bicycles, beards, typewriters. Candy, cereal, toast, granola bars. Pets, dogs, goldfish. Trees, clouds, sand, air. Pencils, paper, words. Sex, love, hugs, hair behind the ears. Even numbers, skipping rocks, walking sticks. Learning, laughing, crying.

It’s good to write stuff like this down sometimes.

Dear Diary.

I hurt my neck lifting my daughter on to my shoulders. I have one of those necks that strains easily. I’ve hurt my neck drying my hair after a shower not once, but twice, or maybe three times. I feel old. Not old, old, but old for my age. I work really hard to make a living. A living with no future, because there’s not enough money to save. As hard as I work I should be a millionaire. A lot of the time I work for free, being on a salary and putting in extra time. Time not compensated into dollars. My parents had boats, and cars, raised me with holidays, and Sega Genesis for Christmas. How did they do it? I live in overdraft, and credit. My life is owned by my bank, they love my debt.

I’ve been unfollowing, people on tumblr lately. Blogs I never read. People are unfollowing me too. I get it. Tumblr feels really weird lately, like a whole bunch of people are going through, what I’m going through. It seems like really tough times are hitting us all. People going through tough times instead of fun times. There’s a few that are traveling, and getting drunk with friends. I look at them with jealousy. Where does the money come from? There doesn’t seem like there’s any to go around.

Love is being tested as well. Harder to love someone, or something, during this time in history. I see too many people alone, not enough relationships that are succeeding. We all want something, from each other, but can’t figure out how to deliver. I’ve followed the same hundred people for years now. Some are doing great, but too many are struggling, and it seems really unfair. I’m not sure. This is what I’m noticing. What it all means, who knows.

Beats.

Random Fact:

I listen to dubstep or post dubstep. I’m thirty five. 

Back in my late, late teens, early twenties, I had a friend who was into house music. He spun some records, played early on club nights, and I thought he was cool as hell. A lot of people in those days did ecstasy, crowded into a club on a school night, and got lost to the beats in their head. I wasn’t exactly like those kids. I was the kid in the the corner, not dancing and not doing ecstasy. But I loved the beats. 

Whatever label you want to put on the music now, whatever genre, the idea is still the same as it was, some, ten years ago. The beats. So here I sit, a thirty something father of two, listening to Scuba’s Triangulation, in my white Panasonic RP-HTX7’s. Even I don’t know who I am….

Pretty

His third coffee of the morning felt entirely different then other third coffee’s of mornings. It wasn’t black, something he drank religiously, but a coffee he had never heard of. An Americano Misto. It was the word Misto that caught his eye. Written on the trendy chalk board, with incredible penmanship were the words Americano Misto. He ordered it speaking in soft tones, as to not really wanting to be heard. The girl across from him, nice, unassuming, wrote some letters on a piece of paper, probably ‘AM’, and passed it to her coworker.

He picked a seat, by the window, alone, but comfortable so. We waited patiently, wondering what everyone in the cafe was doing on their computers. His thoughts weren’t with him long because there was a kind of shout, the words attached were ‘I have a 16oz Americano Misto on the bar’, the words floated across the cafe and landed on the table by the window. He got up and made his way to the bar. She was just pouring the steamed milk into the cup as he arrived. Before she finished pouring, out of his mouth came the word ‘pretty’. Instantly we felt eyes on him. He knew that he spoke what he was thinking. The coffee artist didn’t say anything, just looked at him as if he was drunk, or high. Feeling light on his feet, he moved towards his table by the window. He sat, he took a sip, things were different, this coffee told him so.

Not only was the coffee different, he was different. He’d been seeing his doctor again. His feelings doctor, the on again, off again relationship, he and his doctor had, was on again. He’d had some bad spells lately. The spells were worst then bad, actualy, they were dangerous and consuming and he was starting to feel scared and hopeless. He called his doctor and couldn’t see him for two weeks. So for two weeks, he hid, secretly evading people. The day of his appointment came, he was ready, this time was going to be different, he was committed to the cause. He needed help, instead of raising the white flag, he was going to set his sails for the open sea. His doctor was kind, happy to see him. The doctor told him, that he was going to be okay. If he was going to do the work and commit, finally to getting better, his life was going to come back. Not only was it going to come back, it was going to be an amazing life.

So here he sat, feeling different, drinking different coffee, knowing inside, his life was coming back. A life he had completely forgotten about. I life where sun hits your face and you’re happy. Life was starting to feel ‘pretty’ again, and he was living it.

Disappear

I started getting concerned when I couldn’t find them. I went searching for two blogs/tumblrs I’ve been following for over three years, They’re gone. They’ve vanished without a trace, and there’s no way to contact them. I’m worried, but my worries a waste of time because they’re not here. I understand this is the Internet, it’s not real. But those people behind the blogs/tumblrs are real. Now they’re gone without any warning. It’s like something’s missing. It’s of course fair to those that leave, disappear, vanish, it’s their life they can do with it as they please, but it’s unfair for those of us who do care. This place isn’t Facebook, or is it? The way we construct our blogs or the ones I follow have people behind them. I know some of you better then I know people in my own life. You’re friends but not in the true sense of the word, it’s different I know, you’re all strangers but strangers I actually know. Maybe I’m different. If, or when I leave one day, I’d say goodbye, thanks for the memories. But that’s just me. To the two people I no longer know, stay safe and I hope the dreams you seek come true.