Painful Necessity

Pain
Oh how I hate thee
I say I don’t
But I think I do
It makes me feel so departed

Pain
Oh how I love thee
I say I don’t
But I think I do
It makes me feel so alive

Pain
Oh how I need thee
I say I don’t
But I think I do
It makes me feel so receptive

Pain
Oh how I want thee
I say I don’t
But I think I do
It makes me feel so complete

Pain
Oh how you create thee
I say you don’t
But I think you do
You make me feel like I can see

Sometimes

Sometimes
Sometimes I think I have it all worked out
Every move I am going to make
Every word I am going to say
Sometimes it seems so simple
Sometimes it seems so right
Every feeling
Every emotion
Sometimes I foresee the pleasure
Sometimes I foresee the dolor
Every smile
Every frown
Sometimes I am flawless
Sometimes I am worthless
Every victory
Every failure
Sometimes I know exactly what I want
Sometimes I know exactly what I don't want
Every desire
Every rejection
Sometimes I am extraordinarily wise
Sometimes I am insultingly ignorant
Every recommendation
Every fiasco
Sometimes

Tragically Mirthless

Laughter
Underused by
The Bitter and forlorn
Doubting their lugubrious lives
No fun

Somewhere,
Lost in the years
Lay the remains of a
Fractured spirit, weathered by pain
No joy

Humor
Once effortless,
Now a hidden birthmark
A subterfuge of emotion
No smiles

Missing;
Forgotten glee
Stolen by circumstance
And caused by overwhelming grief
No drive

Absent
In mind and soul
Waiting for the anvil,
Depriving them of happiness
No life

Drinky-Talky

I lost my watch for two weeks
Only to find it in a shoe…
Which was in a shoe box.
Inebriation establishes the definitive daredevil,
Spurring the most random acts of honesty,
And stupidity.
Is taking a shot of urine an imprudent offense?
Only if you have a soul and a brain.
One I was born without,
The other I traded for the ability to,
Accomplish unconscionable acts.
Beer-muscles are too clichéd.
Beer-goggles-- too much of a lie.
Loquaciousness is my weapon of choice.
The drink doesn’t magnify it,
It simply changes the flavor.
To speak in ignorance to inhibitions--
Without comprehension of its effects,
Is the most sincere from of candor.
And often gets me slapped.

The Brilliance of Deconstruction

---

We lose the things we want to keep.
We keep the things we want to lose.
A fantastic irony that is only ironic to the one seeing the irony.
A cosmic faux pas granted only to sentient beings.

Imagine an imagination of proportionate proportions.
A quantifiable quotient of thinkable thoughts.
It would limit the limitations that juxtapose the meandering mind.
A simplistic simplification of the wandering wanderer.

Passionate indigestion caused by a constipation of feelings.
Questionable questions relayed religiously by the ego and super-ego.
A battalion of battles all being battled by battered brain.
A cosmic faux pas granted only to sentient beings.

They Call Me 'Slasher'

Every once in a while you are presented with something that renders you completely speechless. What I am about to describe is precisely one of those rarities.

There was an article in my local paper a few days ago which spoke of a man who is currently on trial. His charges? Burglary, larceny, assault in the first degree, and attempted murder in the first degree. Just another criminal being punished for crimes against society.

I speak to this man frequently. He is in punitive segregation right now for being involved in a fight while in jail. That means he stays in his cell for 23 of 24 hours of the day. Over the past two weeks or so, he has told me about his life, his family, his case. Nothing new exactly. Every inmate seems to want to tell their story. To someone. To anyone. I guess I just happen to listen more than others.

He was telling me that he is coming to grips with the fact that he is going to lose his wife and son. He has already told her to go on and live her life and to try and raise their son as best as possible. What do you say to someone in that situation? I know what he did and I know that he has to pay for what he is done, but I can't help but feel a bit of sympathy. Here is someone who literally had his nipples ripped off by his own grandfather when he was a kid. He was abused and neglected in his youth. He was high on cough syrup and alcohol when someone offered him money to break into a house and slash two people.

It is no excuse, I know that as well as anyone. Yet I still can't bring myself to do the things that other officers do. As long as they are polite to me and I am not busy, then I will talk to them. I offer what advice I can and try to be supportive. After all, my job isn't to punish these people.

When I came into work the other night, the man they call "the slasher" told me about his day at court. He pleaded guilty to the four counts that he was charged with. The man they call "the slasher" is facing 32 years in prison for the crimes he has committed. But wait; the man they call "the slasher" is not really a man at all. The man they call "the slasher" is just a kid. The boy they call "the slasher" is 23 years old.

He will likely never make it out of prison.

This boy they call "the slasher" slipped me out a picture through his bars last night and had only one thing to say to me. He simply said, 'read the back before you go to bed'.

I just read it and I will repeat it verbatim now.



"Yo, I've been meaning to do this for a few weeks Crandall. You know I get along with a few C.O.'s here but every once in a while I see a confused flash of mistrust and detest for me in their eyes. You're a rare guy and you have my respect. A world where you're the "good guy" and I am the "bad guy", and I don't think either of the logic is that shallow. That blade logo is an emblem of a pact me and some other "dangerous" acquaintances share in the world outside. I've only given this form of respect to one guy since, and that is because he married a girl I grew up with as a best friend AND he happened to be involved in the same..."line of work" as me. I never should have trusted my friend "CJ" on the outside with the knowledge of my crime. I wouldn't be in this mess. Anyway, there is somethin' about you, man. You are okay. You will be successful in life. I know it. You are a smart dude-n-shit."
- Zack "They call me Slasher"



Some people will laugh at that. Others will think it is wrong. What do I think? I don't know if I am really good at my job or really bad at it. But really, none of that matters. What matters is that I live my life the best way that I know how and to keep reminding myself that:

"I am not as bad of a guy as most people think. I also don't believe the others are as bad as I think."

And every once in a while, I am presented with something that renders me speechless. And THAT is a very good thing.

Dream a Little Dream

I had another dream about Kelly last night. Like most of my dreams, it was simplistic, natural, and quite frankly, rather boring. As they say, ‘if it doesn’t involve sex or myself, then I’m not really interested’, but I am going to describe it anyway.

First off, let me say that I interpret dreams a little differently than most. Well, perhaps that isn’t correct either. I put a respectable amount of stock in dreams, to at the very least, tell me what my subconscious is doing. Whether or not this is accurate and unbiased, I don’t know. What I DO know is that upon waking, I always try and sort out what I can recall. Make a guess here, connect a few dots there. All this in hopes of making SOME sense of things.

The thing about dreams is (at least mine) that there never seems to be a beginning. There is a middle, and usually an end, but rarely a beginning. Things just seem to be…happening. This is exactly how I remember THIS dream.

The earliest part of the dream that I now remember is Kelly and I sitting in a bedroom. I don’t recall any conversation or any actions. Just sitting on the bed. It must have been down in Virginia because my parents and my brother Mark had come down to visit for the first time. They all stood in the doorway and waited for me to give the introductions. I don’t think my brother said anything, just waved and walked away. My mom came up to the bed, smiled, and shook her hand. My dad (and I remember this so clearly) said, “so this is the girl that my Eric fell for.” That is the way that “scene” ended.

The next thing I know, it is early morning and Kelly and I are spooning in bed. I awoke (in the dream) with an erection and of course my first inclination was to have sex. I repositioned myself and moved my hand down her tummy when she woke up with a giggle. I was caught a little off guard as I had intended to penetrate whilst she was still sleeping. When I asked her why she laughed, she said that my foot was hairy and that it tickled her. I looked down and noted that I was wearing socks and proceeded to tell her just that.

I don’t remember a response to the socks but the next thing I recall is looking around her room and seeing calendars everywhere. When I say everywhere, I mean EVERYWHERE. Maybe I should clarify. They were pages of a calendar, months and months all taped or pinned to the walls. I looked up and they were on ceiling too. I gazed around the room in amazement and only one thing stood out to me. Almost every single one of the days had a big “X” going from corner to corner. As if she were counting down the days of a prison sentence long since forgotten. That one thing that stood out was simply Tuesday the 5th. On the months that the 5th was on a Tuesday, there was no “X”. I searched high and low, and sure enough, that exact date was unmarked. I’m not sure if any other days were open along with it, but I know undoubtedly that Tuesday the 5th was the key date. (I have no idea what the hell that is supposed to mean, if anything.)

More went on after that but I waited too long to write it down and now it is starting to slip away. Anyway, the dream continued and we slept again. In the morning, my parents said that they were going to leave and continue to their destination in Florida. Kelly heard this and said that her grandmother lives in Florida and that we should go down with my parents. Apparently I was fine with it because we went to Florida.

The good thing about dreams is that there is no wasted time, so the next thing I remember is pulling into her grandmother’s driveway in Florida. Now, it looked exactly like MY grandmother’s house, but I knew it wasn’t. I can only guess that my brain used images of my grandma’s house because I have no reference point when speaking of HER grandmother’s house. The brain uses these images to fill in the missing pieces (at least that is what I am guessing *shrug*).

Okay, now this part is admittedly a trifle strange. When we entered the house, her grandmother was sitting in a chair and appeared to be knitting. As I got closer I could see that she was actually working on a…pelt. Yes, she was sewing up a raccoon pelt. Not a beaver, not an otter. A raccoon. Also, there were a few little kids, maybe 6 or 7, and they were running around the house wearing similar furs. (Apparently the South has three and a half foot raccoons!) I think there was a conversation that went with it but sadly I can’t remember any more of it.

So I guess that wraps it up. How many dreams end in little kids running around in raccoon pelt one-pieces that were stitched by a grandmother whom you’ve never met? But unfortunately, this was actually one of those dreams that took me several minutes upon waking to realize that it wasn’t real. Not only did it never happen but it never even has a chance of happening. It gave me that horrible feeling in my stomach for most of the day but thankfully my brother got in a car accident and took my mind off things.

What can I say-- he’s a damn good brother.

Another Monday

It was just a Monday. Nothing spectacular, nothing exciting. My roommate was bar tending at Kings so I decided to stop down for a cocktail or two. I have given up drinking soda so I decided to have a Tanqueray, Triple sec, and pineapple juice. It was just me and the barkeep until his father strolled in. The Buffalo Bills were playing the Cleveland Browns on Monday Night Football and being in Upstate NY, Buffalo was the team many people rooted for.

I had just ordered my second drink when all of a sudden I saw a dark skinned, overweight kid make his way to the bar door. This kid was maybe, eleven-- twelve, tops. He was absolutely hysterically crying. At first I wanted to laugh because I didn't know what else to do. It was so out of the ordinary.

He finally was able to say that he was in an accident on the bridge. The bridge was about 100 or so yards from where we were and given the weather conditions it wasn't really a surprise.

Sure enough, we look outside and see a small SUV plunged head first into a cement wall. It was completely horizontal across the lane, obstructing traffic on this poorly lit bridge. I stepped outside the bar to get a better look at what was going on. I was going to check it out but it was one thing in particular that changed the way I reacted. The boy said that there was a baby inside.

I don't know why, but that was the trigger for me. That was all I needed to hear. That was what sent me into rescue mode. I am almost embarrassed now, thinking back on it, that it was only the mentioning of the baby that got me to react so swiftly.

When I heard that, I told my roommate to call 911. I then immediately took off for the vehicle on a dead sprint. I had hurt my ankle a few weeks before playing basketball, but I wouldn't have felt anything at that point in time.

It's strange. In that short of time, from my run from the bar to the car, I imagined the worst. Was I going to have to perform CPR? Was I going to have to decide who to save? I honestly didn't know what to expect. I was purely in reactionary mode. At times like that there is no time for thinking. You just react.

I got up to the vehicle and there was a woman, half on the ground, half inside the left passenger side door. The woman was on oxygen already and was desperately trying to free the infant that sat idly in a car seat. I went to the other door and climbed in the rear seat. My only goal at that point was to get that baby out of the vehicle.

The accident occurred on the crest of the bridge, so that meant it was going to be extremely difficult for oncoming traffic to see the obstruction. The weather had turned the bridge into a sheet of ice, so the likelihood of being hit by another car seemed to be the greatest threat. All I wanted to do was get that damn baby to safety.

The dome light inside the vehicle didn't work, so I used my phone to give me the illumination needed to get the infant free. I ended up just ripping the belt apart, and grabbing the little boy. Now, looking back, it may seem like not that big of a deal, but at that point in time, I was convinced we were all going to be crushed by a semi coming across the bridge.

One car DID come racing over the bridge while I was working on the car seat. I didn't get a good look at it but I did hear them hit the breaks and swerve. I wouldn't go as far as saying it was a close call but it was sure as hell closer than I wanted to deal with.

So here I am, on the Washington Avenue bridge, in 20 degree weather, holding a little black baby in my arms and trying to convince the woman on oxygen to stand up. I told her that we have to get out of the road but she was just so damned stubborn. She just sat there, crying, with a tube of oxygen running to her nose. Meanwhile, the boy who came running into the bar, stood nearby crying his heart out. I tried to comfort him, holding him close and telling him that he did a wonderful job.

It was simply surreal. Holding that baby in my arms, trying to calm down a pre-teen boy who was just in a car accident. Everything. It was just so odd. I was sitting in a bar, watching football and drinking booze, and the next thing I know, I am holding a baby and hugging a small kid. You can't make this kind of thing up.

Finally, after what seemed like forever, the police and ambulance showed up. I didn't have much to say so I just handed the child off to the paramedics and let them do their work. I stayed a few minutes and tried to talk to the boy that came running into the bar for help. Tried to reassure him that he did a fantastic job. That he was very brave for what he did. But still he cried.

I guess I am not as good as I thought I was.

So I let the professionals take over and I walked back to the bar. No thank you. No "nice job". Really, it is a microcosm of my life. No good deed goes unpunished. Or, in my case, noticed. I don't really care about that though. I have long since given up on having people notice anything that I do. I just do what I do and hope that it is the right thing.

I guess the whole thing wasn't that big of a deal to anyone else, but it was for me. Because for me it was a test. When things got hairy, I didn't waste time. I went into action swiftly and efficiently. So now I know. When the proverbial crap hits the fan-- I KNOW that I can act under pressure.

That is all I have to say about that.

That Awful Smell

---

Who are these people that control your life?
You think you know them but you know them not
Your words are treated like currency
Bought and sold with a blink of the eye
Nothing is sacred
No honor, no fidelity, no explanation
They want your trust but for what?
To serve themselves and their own purposes
Using your errors against you
Keeping your sins for future value
Whether friend or foe
Nothing seems to be off limits
No tactic untried
No topic too shameful
You give them ammunition
And they pull the trigger without hesitation
They will lie, cheat, and steal
To cover their own pathetic nature
Hiding behind ignorance
Deceiving with naivety
But the wise ones know the truth
That a coward lurks close
Justifications as flimsy as a house of cards
But will preach morals like a saint
They will play by the rules
They will say what wants to be heard
They will eat dinner with your family
And will curse your name as they leave
They will instigate, propagate, carefully navigate
But in the end they are what they are
And they get what they get
Stitches
Because no one likes a rat
Now that--
That you can trust.

A Hospital Hoodwink

It was stolen from me,
Before I knew it was mine.
They didn’t tell me I had one,
Didn’t know till I was nine.

The pain that this has caused me,
Is unknown to half the field.
Reduce that number by half again,
And honest figures it will yield.

This masked man of torture,
Said to be a creature of life.
But he took what was already mine,
And left me in terrible strife.

I dream what it may have been like,
Belonging to its rightful owner.
The games I could have played with it,
The protector of my boner.

Too many years have gone by,
I don’t even know what I’ve missed.
All I know is that I want it now,
If only so it can be kissed.

This fleshy hood that I once had,
Was simple, honest, and true.
It would have hid it well at times,
But not when I would screw.

Like an angel having its wings cut off,
A superhero losing his cape.
My member now sits naked at night,
With no blanket left to drape.

My skin mullet gone,
My organ clean and bare.
Words cannot express my anguish,
I can only gaze and stare.

I guess it’s something I’ll have to deal with,
It’s something I will always lack.
Why the hell did I get circumcised?
And why the hell do I want it back?

Circles Have Corners Too

What we see is what we get
Or is it?
There must be more to you
There must be secrets that are unknown
Everybody has something to hide
Circles have corners too

The charming, not so charming
The callous, not so callous
The virtuous, not so virtuous
The indifferent, not so indifferent
More or less, less or more
Circles have corners too

Every story needs a hero
Every hero needs a villain
The knight is a sinner
The peasant is a saint
The greatest evils, and the evil is great
Circles have corners too

Only restricted by our own boundaries
Taking the shape modeled from our actions
Except the rules of life are not geometrical
They don’t all have four sides
They don’t all have a radius
Circles have corners too

You may hide your face
You may conceal your colors
Despondent towards reality
Or be vulnerable to others
But one thing will always be true…
Even circles have corners too

Progressing Backwards

Past pleasures quietly leaving a doubtful mind
Future joys boisterously creating a hopeful heart

Old pains innocently drifting off to a disinterested sea
New agonies sweetly crashing in to a welcoming bay

Native feelings earnestly slipping to a peaceful lull
Foreign emotions riotously debouching to a jolting crux

Genuine circumstances passionately devolving from a graceful time
Illusory interests devilishly evolving from a common consortium

Without Power

It is 3am EST and I am laying in bed unable to sleep. We lost power about a half hour ago, the spiteful aftermath of Hurricane Turner, no doubt. I have lit two scented candles and placed them on each side of my overly grand cherry bed. One is lemon and the other is apple. The subsequent aroma is overwhelming and nearly nauseating.

I have always enjoyed power outages. For someone who enjoys electronics, being connected, and staying in touch-- I rather appreciate the simpler life. It may seem paradoxical at the moment, as I am writing this on my Blackberry, but the feeling is the same nonetheless.

It is so serene knowing that you are shut off from the world. No need to bother checking that email. No need to see the fourth quarter of the game. Just you, your thoughts, and if you're lucky, someone you love there with you. It's amazing how quiet it is. No humming from electronics or the gentle whir of a fan. No beeping or buzzing from appliances.

I could get used to this.

If I had someone next to me in bed, I would hold her and whisper sentiments to her. Careful not to disturb her, I would softly kiss her shoulders, watch her squirm a little, then lean back and smile. You don't need power and electricity to do that-- just a little bit of love.

Unrequitted Reverence

What does it take to be appreciated?
Meaningless salutations and gratuitous laughs,
A gesture of acknowledgment or a pictograph smile.
That is not displaying appreciation,
That is spurious attention.
Benevolent destruction of the most sincere kind.
Idolatry isn’t framed with language,
It is solidified by the devotion of feelings.
An expression of awe that is unmistakable.
Genuine cognizance of perfect quality
That is irrevocably lucid,
It leaves nothing in question,
No emotion in doubt.
A quiet nod or an imputed grin illustrates benediction,
But does not satisfy the thirst for plenary adulation.
Sometimes a simple word will suffice;
When the mouth that speaks it,
Or the hand that types it,
Has nothing to gain and everything to give.
When time becomes the greatest thing you can give them.
When the intonation of gratitude becomes so overbearing,
That it leaves you unable to do anything.
Nothing but explain its impact.
To spend hour after waking hour
Thinking of the influence that,
Somebody else holds over your head,
And why you love them because of it.
Is that what appreciation is?
I dare not be so presumptuous.
All I can do is sit and wonder,
Postulate and consider,
Think.
Maybe, someday I will be appreciated.

Mistress

The mistress always gets a bad rap. Kind of like Germans during and after WWII-- no matter what, nobody ever sympathizes with them. Social outcasts in a world wrought with moral ambiguity and human injustices. Ironic, actually.

The mistress is treated like the villainous Siren. Using their evil powers to seduce and destroy honest men and women for no reason other than lust and selfishness.

Love isn't as cruel as some would like to believe. Love is completely neutral. It's just...love. There is no explanation, no reason, no justification. It either exists or it doesn't. I can't help it if I fall in love with a single woman or an engaged woman, or a married woman. Love doesn't come with a manual and it certainly doesn't come with a play book.

So sometimes, when people "cheat", it isn't some horrible selfish act by two greedy people. Sometimes, no doubt, it invariably is. But not always. Sometimes the mistress is so blinded by love that nothing else matters. Whether their lover is married or terminally ill, it doesn't matter. Their passion for that person skews their judgment. It is almost as if they go into survival mode. They just NEED them.

I will never apologize for being in love. Never. And whatever I do in the name of love is something that only I can pass judgment on. Because not all mistresses are bad people. Sometimes their biggest crime is loving too much.

Pain vs Pain

I was able to experience the rush of excruciating physical pain earlier this week for the first time, for what seems to be, an extremely long time. It happened Tuesday night whilst playing basketball with a bunch of other 20-somethings who long for competition and that euphoric joy of complete muscle fatigue. That feeling that you get when you have pushed your body to the limit.

I didn't last long enough to enjoy the competition or to tax my muscles, but that didn't mean I escaped without a price. Within the first ten minutes of our first game, I jumped up and came down on someone else's foot. Landing on an uneven surface is never a good thing.

I wasn't looking at the floor at the time so I don't know what it looked like but I sure as hell know what it sounded like, and, of course, what it felt like. The sound was a sort of a crunching one, but not like bone crunching. This was kind of like the noise you might hear if you were to take a handful of rubber bands and and twisted them. An elastic being stretched too far, type sound. I think the sound was the most disturbing part, and the one that told me immediately that it was bad.

The pain was instantaneous. I dropped to the floor immediately, but only because I couldn't stand up right away. I absolutely HATE to be out of commission because of an injury. I got up, standing on my left leg, and hopped off the court. I am not the type to lay on the floor acting like I am dying, and I suppose that is part of the reason why my injuries rarely get the sympathy that perhaps they deserve. Then again, I could give a rat's ass about that. It is an issue with pride for me and that is something that only I can control.

Thankfully we had a sub there so I just pointed at him and play resumed. After the first game, the guys were asking me how I was. I just looked up, smiled, and said, "It's bad. Real bad." Since I didn't drive, I was forced to wait there until the end before I could get home and relax.

I took off my shoe and sock, put my leg up on a chair, and started to think about pain. How I absolutely hated being hurt but how I adored the pain. I would periodically try to stand on it, cringe and nearly fall over with pain, then sit back down and grin my stupid head off. A paradox of masochism, I suppose.

At one point, I thought about trying to suck it up and try to play. Perhaps 5 or 6 years ago I would have. Now though, I am smart enough to know that it wasn't worth it. Not the toleration of the pain, but of the consequences of playing on a bad ankle. It only would have made it worse, meaning I would be out even longer, and that just defeats the purpose.

I guess I like to see if I can persevere through adversity and that is why I often tear my body apart and continue to work through the pain. It makes everything that much sweeter when you know you have sacrificed yourself in order to achieve a goal. The pain tests who I am. Am I a fighter or a quitter?

But that is only physical pain. What about emotional pain? That is something that I struggle with, so in order to make that pain relatable, I often try to turn it into something tangible-- something...physical.

To be continued...

The Great Pimpkin

This is where I am in my life. Going on 27 years of age and I still express myself with alpha-male tendencies. However, in my own defense, this carving really isn't as narcissistic as it appears. It is not a philosophical statement conveying the objectification of women. I would never do that.

I only hit and/or belittle women on a "as needed" basis.

But seriously, I wanted to make some great intricate carving that even I would be impressed with but it turned out to be more complicated than I assumed. First off, I couldn't find any carving patterns that I thought were unique or fit my personality, so that alone disenfranchised me. Then, when I did find something I liked, it asked for my credit card number. Are you friggen serious? Finally, the free ones that I found seemed like they would have taken a week to carve-- and that is assuming there were no screw ups.

Then I found a picture of a "mud flap girl". Not very original, in and of itself, but it appeared to be something relatively easy to do, so I went with that. My obsession with order and symmetry compelled me to mirror the girl so that they would be facing each other. But still, it lacked something. It needed one more thing.

I wasn't in a clever state of mind and I needed it to fit between the girls so my options became limited. I settled on "PIMP" because it was short, easy, and fit the theme. I could have put "ERIC" on there but that came off as somehow being more lame than the other. I suppose being lame is better than being a douchebag. Go figure.

Anyway, that damn pimpkin took me 3 and half hours to carve. I swear to god that I had carpel tunnel and arthritis set in that exact night. Holy hell, that was a pain in the ass! But it was worth it. I think it turned out pretty damn well, despite the frat boy juvenility of the content.

Swing Me

It is never too late to be introduced to something new. Just when I thought my life couldn't get any more messed up, I was approached in a way that was new, even to me. Here I was, limping into the bar with a cast on, and before I knew it, I was confronted with a proposition to have sex with someone's wife.

Do you know how strange it is to have a woman hit on you with her husband standing 2 feet away? I mean, I am pretty cool under pressure, but still, that is an awkward moment for anybody. Apparently, he likes to watch other men have sex with his wife. Okay, yeah, I have heard of such fetishes, but to involve me? I am not used to that kind of thing. I am a simple man with simple desires.

To complicate matters further, there was another girl involved. Her name was Sarah and is a friend of a friend. I had never met her before but she knew a little bit about these swingers that seemed interested in me. You see, I was in denial at first. I thought the woman was just a little drunk and a little flirty, but they informed me that they are swingers. Well, in an attempt to avoid the swingers, apparently I made too good of an impression on Sarah. Honestly, I wasn't trying to flirt or pick up either women. My natural demeanor is friendly and can sometimes give the wrong impression.

So, in my attempt to avoid having sex with someone else's wife, I inadvertently made another girl feel wanted. Really, I had no idea what was going on. I had taken pain pills and then foolishly went out to the bar. By then end of the night, I had a woman asking me to sleep with her and letting her husband watch, and another girl who thought I was repulsed by that proposition and wanted me to go home with her.

If I was a scumbag, I would have got the single girl's number and then gone home with the wife. But because I am still so mentally effed up, I said no to the swingers and told the single girl that I would call her.

I have no plans to speak to either of them ever again.

Is it really so difficult to just find a single girl who likes me for me? My god, I always find the most messed up chicks.

Go figure.

All I know is that I refuse to ever get involved with someone who is already in a relationship. I tried that once and got burned beyond belief. From now on, I will just exploit young, inexperienced girls. That way I don't get hurt so bad.

Little Black Band

I knew as soon as I decided to do it, that I was going to get an earful-- all because of a little, one-inch black elastic band. Funny how something some small can cause so many things to change.

At work, we will often don a black “mourning band” on our badges when a fellow law enforcement officer is lost. This is a departmental issuance, and not some individualistic crusade. It seems easy enough to do, but I assure you, in a bureaucracy, nothing can ever be simple.

First they have to decide if they want to “honor” the person who has passed away. Then, if they are worthy of a little black band, they have to decide how long they should be worn. A day? A week? A month? It all depends on the circumstances surrounding the death AND the deceased’s connection with the department.

After all that is decided, then a memorandum is handed out stating precisely how long the little black band must be worn. This is non-negotiable. For the length of time stated on that memo, that little black band is part of the official duty uniform. Technically, failure to wear it can result in disciplinary action due to a violation as set forth in our Policy and Procedure.

So you see, a civilian only sees a little black band around the badge. They are spared the memo reading in the pre-shift briefing. Lucky them.

I kind of went off the reservation this weekend. I made a promise to someone that I would wear that little black band in remembrance of a fallen officer, and to them, a lost loved one. But if I was going to do it, I was going to have to be willing to fight for it—no matter what.

As I made the decision to wear it, I also made the decision that I would not take it off for any reason. Not even to save my job. I left the house Friday night with the mindset that I have to be willing to stand up for what I believe, at all costs. This is where I usually get the eye rolling.

I had not been there a minute, literally, before I started hearing about it. I thought that it might take some time to notice, but no, apparently it beckons for attention. Of course, the sergeant-wannabe was the first one to raise issue with it, informing me that I am “out of uniform” by wearing it. That just fueled the curiosity, and at that time, I was defensive and retorted with hostility.

I was nearly begging for it to become a bigger issue. In my head, I was daring someone to stand up against me. Because one of the few things I am good at is being able speak passionately, coherently, and stoically, in the face of opposition. I was more than willing to be a martyr that night. People have lost their jobs in far less noble ways than the heinous act of honoring the life of another human being.

My defiance in the briefing room seemed to have set the tone and I wasn’t really bothered by anyone else about it. When people came up to me, or called me and asked about it, I told them the reason. I think they could tell by the way I spoke that this was one issue that they didn’t want to fight me on.

Wise decision.

Now it is Sunday morning and I have done what I promised. I know it doesn’t mean much, but it means something to me. Because I know that was willing to suffer in the name of someone else. I suppose people will say that that isn’t the way to honor someone, but that is the only way I know. Sacrifice, after all, is the way I am able to pay my respects.

That little black band was not coming off my badge this weekend. Even if that meant I was no longer able to wear my badge.

Sometimes—you have to be willing to stand up for what you believe in.

At all costs.

Where The Secret Things Live -- Part II

So now it is time to talk about that second item that I found yet avoided discussing previously. There is no great story behind this one though, as I have made sure of that.



35 mm 100
Color Print

RETURN TO FAYS
FOR QUALITY PROCESSING


It is, of course, a roll of undeveloped film that has been in my possession for close to 15 years. Fay’s Pharmacy was a regional store chain that my family would often use. I remember they used god-awful yellow plastic bags with bold black lettering. Fortunately, that store chain hasn’t been in existence for quite some time, so I don’t have to worry about those putrid bags anymore.

This lonesome roll of film has sat quietly at the bottom of my box without ever getting the chance to speak. How unjust. How unfair. It did its job-- it imprinted the present so that in the future, I could look back at the past. But I did not want to look back at the past.

But I didn’t want to destroy the past either. No, I never had the courage to get it developed, but I also never had the courage to get rid of it. That pharmacy no longer exists and that technology has become obsolete, yet still, it can speak if I choose to let it.

I have some idea of what is on there but no specific images come to mind. I am sure that it contains pictures from a New Years Eve party in either ’94 or ’95. It was at Leslie’s house, I remember that much, but little else. I don’t really think about that sort of thing very much. I don’t really handle the past very well.

I have a very difficult time looking at pictures (yearbooks are the worst). I don’t even really know why I struggle so much with it. I have given this a lot of thought and I can’t come up with a definitive reason as to why. All I know is that it makes me supremely uncomfortable. It would be understandable for someone who hated his or her past but that just isn’t the case. Actually, it is quite the opposite.

I tend to think that everything in the past was better. Looking at pictures reminds me of all the fun I had and it depresses me to think that I may never feel that way again, even though it simply isn’t accurate. Sure, I won’t be able to relive those times, but I sure as will (and have), create other ones. But my brain doesn’t see things that way. It only knows what was, not what is and not what will be.

It seems so paradoxical now that I think about it, but I tend to bury the good things in my life, and flaunt the bad things. As if I am unworthy of good things. In many ways, shame motivates me more than pride, so I make sure that I never let myself off the hook too easily. But as I said, everything is better in the past.

I am sure a psychologist would say that I remove the “good things” from my view because I have a fear of never being able to duplicate them. Freud would just say that I have a fear of not living up to my father’s expectations. That, and that I really just want to sleep with my mother.

Whatever the case may be, I think it is time I let this roll of film out of purgatory. I don’t know what to expect in these pictures or how I will react, but now just seems like the right time. I don’t know why, but this last time that I was rifling around my old lock box, a fake ID and a roll of film caught my attention.

Go figure.

Perfect

Let me speak
For a moment
About perfection
Perfection is nearly
An oxymoron
No object can ever be perfect
No item can ever be pure
Ideas can be perfect
The reality of them
Cannot
People can be perfect
Not without flaw
But still perfect
Perfect for somebody else
Perfect IN somebody else
I am not interested in
A Person who is perfect
I am interested in
A Perfect person...
For me
Our desires mold our ideals
Creating a map
An intricate design
A new definition of
Perfect
But now perfection
Haunts me
I had perfection
I touched perfection
Now I need to see
If perfection can exist
Again.

Where The Secret Things Live

I was searching for another black mourning band to put around the badge that is on my coat when I inadvertently stumbled upon two objects of my past. Before I delve into the stories behind those objects, let me first describe where, exactly, I was looking.

I like symmetry and I like order. This is something that has influenced me ever since I can remember. Now, unlike obsessive compulsive people, I have never been controlled by my desire to have things fit neatly together. It is more like a guide than a behavioral trait.

Anyway, when I was young, maybe 12 or 13, I purchased a metal lock box which I could keep things safe, and more importantly, away from curious eyes. I never really had anything to hide, but it provided a sense of security nonetheless, no matter how easily it could be broken into should someone really want to. It was something that only I had access to. Only I had the keys to this lock box.

This particular box came with a money tray that sat neatly on top so that other things-- secret things-- could be hidden beneath it. I loved that money tray. It made me feel so...in control. It separated my money to perfection like a retail cash register. A neatly organized army of coins-- a platoon of pennies at one end and a battalion of quarters at the other-- and I was the commanding officer.

It was below that corps of change that the real secrets were being held captive. Not only from those curious eyes, but from my own. It was the shameful things that I would hide there. The things that I didn't want to look at. The things I didn't want to remember.

But I didn't get rid of those things either. No, for some reason I saved them-- protected them even.

Over the years, items have come and gone from that box. Hiding condoms and cigars became unnecessary and organizing my money became less and less of a realistic concept. Eventually the lock broke and soon after the keys went AWOL as well. It became yet one more thing to clutter up my room.

Like the pockets of secrets that I hid, I took that keeper of my past and stored it up in a filing cabinet. Once again, those buried stories could remain under the sanctuary of lock and key.

I didn't add nor remove much of anything from that metal box for many years. I just let it keep hiding whatever it was that I thought needed to be kept away. Most of the things were trivial items that, given public judgment, none would see fit the need to keep such things so heavily guarded.

But each solitary piece in there has a story to go with it. All those soldiers have something to say. I will now share two of those.

The first piece of history that I unearthed was my first fake ID. Well, I only ever really had one, but I always seem to give it the designation of being my first. I am a sucker for "firsts".

A good friend of mine, Tim, went to Niagara University, right near the US-Canada border in New York. He had told me that you could get fake IDs at this shady head shop in Toronto and that I should come up, party with him, and then go up there the next day. It sounded good to me, so I asked a mutual friend, Thane, and he was down for the road trip as well. This was the fall of 2000, I believe.

Sure enough, we got to the university and partied. We went to some club that I can hardly remember now and can barely recall the events of the evening at all. The next day, however, I remember very clearly.

We made the hour and a half drive into Toronto and immediately started searching for this shop that would magically make us older. Tim had been there before, so Thane and I followed closely behind like obedient children.

After scouring the city streets for a half hour, we finally found our Mecca. It was EXACTLY how you would picture it in the movies. It was on the ground floor, which means you had to walk down the damp steps that smelled of fried foods and urine. That smell that you can only find in big cities.

They had an array of drug paraphernalia all throughout the place but we weren't distracted in the slightest. We made our way to the horseshoe-shaped glass display cases where the good stuff is always held. There, like puppies in a window, begging to be picked, sat row after row of different IDs to choose from. All the way from Nova Scotia to Hawaii-- I could become anybody I wanted, hailing from any number of places.

My imagination had to take a back seat to logic, so unfortunately, I couldn't be an architect named Gabriel with an Arizona driver's license. I needed functionality, that is, after all, its primary purpose, so I wanted to keep it as simple as possible. I chose the Ontario ID to be my underage weapon of choice. Coming from NY, and from a town noted for recruiting college hockey players from our Northern Neighbor, I thought it was a fairly prudent selection.

Next, we had to write down our personal information, or rather, what we wanted our personal information to say. Me-- I figured the simpler the better. I kept my same name and same birthday sans for the year (Instead of 1981, I had put down 1978). Keeping my name the same proved to be a wise decision as I would later find out, suspicious bouncers would often ask for a second form of identification. Something else with my name on it. A credit card solidified the ruse to perfection.

Then it was picture time. There was a large square painted bright white on one of the walls with a single chair basking in the reflected glow. It reminded me of picture day back in school. I could almost see a line of freshmen lining up, trying to look older than the representation of their teenage faces, but their bodies betray them.

Nothing a different date and cheap laminate can't cure.

I sat down and-- FLASH! No pleading for a smile. No 'look here' comment. Just the sound of the shutter and the blinding light of the flash. The clerk simply told us to return in a half hour to pick up our "souvenir identifications".

We left to go find some sustenance and ended up hastily eating Chinese food in a train terminal. When we finished, we once again made our pilgrimage back to the underground head shop with the steps that reeked of fried foods and urine.

There it was. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The gateway to a whole new set of experiences. We each picked up our new cards, staring in admiration of the potential that this flimsy piece piece of laminated paper held, and carefully tucked them in our respective wallets.

I have little recollection of what happened after that. I do remember getting a parking ticket, crumpling it up, and tossing it on the city sidewalk. I was never coming back to Canada so if they wanted me to pay for that ticket, they were going to have to send some Mounties to NY to get my ginger ass.

Still, to this day, I stand by my claim that that was the best twenty dollars I have ever spent.

As for that other item that I found? That will have to wait for another day. Nostalgia is a dangerous weapon with me so I must proceed with caution.

To be continued...

The Hypocrisy of Time

Why is it that ‘time’ gets credit for everything? Time is unsympathetic to our cries for help and continues to move regardless of any misfortunes. Time isn’t some magical elixir, it isn’t some curing remedy, and it isn’t a problem solver. Time…doesn’t heal anything.

Time does not heal all wounds and it is prodigiously insulting to tell someone that it does. All time does is allow ourselves to flood the brain with information. It is the introduction of neoteric stimuli that gives us different experiences and thoughts, which only help to diminish old memories, not eliminate them. People choose to heal the wounds by choosing to move on to new things. Time has nothing to do with it.

But choosing isn’t as easy people make it sound. I would move on if I could, but my brain simply does not allow it. I am reminded all the time of what I am supposed to be moving on from. The thing which ‘time’ is supposed to help me with. Time hasn’t so much as made a dent in the landfill of emotions that I still retain.

Time has no means of destroying perfection. It can’t. I can only hope to let perfection fade by camouflaging it with other, less meaningful stimuli. Maybe quantity can finally win out over quality.

But the one thing I know for sure is-- time does absolutely nothing but move continuously, regardless of any misfortunes.

Dream On Dream

I had a dream about her last night. Not unusual, I guess, but the circumstances surrounding it is what makes it so memorable. In the beginning of the dream, she wasn't around. It was just two other people and myself, walking around the perimeter of my former elementary school. We were looking for a way inside because we had a reunion to get to.

We finally got inside and there was large crowd of people that I know, or rather, used to know. Strangely enough, most of them were all males. The females that were there all had boyfriends or husbands that were also there.

I recall seeing a friend that I haven't seen in probably 5 years. His hair was long, like it used to be, which really did bring me back to our old school days. He was a HUGE Grateful Dead fan and used to smoke a lot of weed back in the day.

I hear that he is a deputy with a sheriff's department in a neighboring county. Go figure.

Anyway, there were a ton of kids there. Not just random kids though. These were the children of the people at the reunion, and they too, were all boys. There was no variance in the ages of these kids. They were ALL that really fun age-- about 18 months old.

We made our way to the auditorium (which was identical to a movie theater) and we watched some sort of movie. I can't remember any of the particulars of that movie, but I know that in my dream, I fell asleep in the movie. I had a dreamed of her while I was sitting there in my elementary auditorium/movie theater during some sort of class reunion. I woke up from my dreaming dream and the movie had barely progressed.

That was when she walked in with her boyfriend and sat down. Our eyes met and there was a momentary pause in movement as she had never expected to see me again. It was the deer in headlights look. Now, as I close my eyes and think, I can see the exact image of that scene.

I couldn't wait for the movie to end because I wanted to tell her that I had had a dream about her during the movie. Finally, the movie ended, but another one started playing right away. This was like a TNT movie though. That is the feeling I got-- like it was a TV movie that was playing. The majority of the people got up to leave, so that is when I made my way to her. I made the introduction by saying that I dreamed of her but I don't think she was too impressed.

I asked why she was here and she said that a mutual friend of ours had invited her at the last second. The thing is, they both live in the same city, and that city is not anywhere near where we were. Besides, he NEVER would have invited her, nor would HE ever be at MY reunion, yet still, the explanation was satisfying. It seems that I was more concerned with why she was at the reunion rather than why she was even in my city.

I didn't want to leave the auditorium/theater, I remember that. I wanted to stay there because in there, we could just pretend that everything was back to normal. Like a movie itself-- get lost in an hour and a half of make-believe. I convinced her to stay in the theater with me and we sat next to each other for a bit. Then, out of the blue, she decided we had to leave. She grabbed me by the hand and we head out to the lobby of the school.

This was where I saw everybody before we went to the auditorium and there were many people still there. It was raining out, and she had convinced two people that were there to give us a ride. While waiting for the car to pull up, I went over and started playing with the kids. I was hoping all the people there would notice how well kids react to me and how good I was with them. As if I were auditioning for fatherhood.

The car finally pulled up but we had to make a dash in the rain to get to it. We both hopped in the driver's side rear door and slid in the back. She was wearing a strapless top, I remember that much because I can clearly see the beads of water on her shoulders. She was sitting on my lap and I was just staring at those drops of water on her shoulders when I said something. Now this is precisely what I said to her: "I always loved the taste of you when you were wet", and then I began kissing her left shoulder. She just turned to me and smiled.

Something may have happened after that but I don't remember it if it did. I woke up and thought about it right away as to keep as many of the details as possible. It was the dreaming during the dream that really stands out to me. That, and the fact that both dreams involved the same person.

Go figure.

Incorrectional Officer

I think I have the least respected job in western culture. I have been thinking about this a lot recently and it is something that has been pestering me like a toothache. Just a slow and never-ending reminder of something that isn't quite right.

Correctional Officers, especially ones like me, whom work at the county level, are relatively despised, degraded, disrespected or dismissed completely. It truly is a thankless job, but one, unfortunately, that is essential in every society.

Not being liked by the inmate population is to be expected. There is and always will be that sense of resentment no matter how well they are treated. They are surrounded by concrete and steel and as far as they are concerned-- the officers are the ones standing in the way of their freedom. They don't even know me-- don't know my life and don't know my history but they see the badge and know that they have been conditioned to have nothing but contempt for it.

It shouldn't bother me but it does. I don't enjoy being looked at like I am a representative of tyranny. I can handle it, obviously, but that doesn't mean it doesn't take its toll. I don't need them to like me but I sure as hell want to walk out those doors knowing that I am still a good man.

Some inmates have a good rapport with me and occasionally that gets them into trouble. Simply talking to me can cause them to not be trusted, or worse, get hurt. The thing is, most of the inmates know that I abhor snitches. I like talking to people, inmate or not, but they certainly aren’t doing anything that would label them a snitch.

But all of that was to be expected when applying for this unheralded position. Inmates are "supposed" to hate us, but why do our colleagues have to be so egotistical and degrading?

I always thought that law enforcement personnel were all on the same side, but apparently I am naïve in my thinking. Everyone from police officers to sheriff's deputies to state troopers-- they all look at us like we are the little brother that was a failure. It is condescending and humiliating. If I wanted to be a cop, I would be. Hell, I never even wanted to be in law enforcement at all. I took the silly civil service test because I was out of college and didn't have a job. I had no idea what the hell I was even doing during that exam but apparently having too much common sense is the key to doing well.

It would be one thing if I were going around acting like a big shot because I have a badge, but I renounce people who do that. When I am off duty, the only time I ever carry my badge with me is when I go out of town. Even still, I have never once used my position in an attempt to get out of trouble or to further myself in any specific way. The way I look at-- I go to work, do my eight hours, then I come home. That’s it.

I guess I don’t like the fact that people make assumptions about people based on their job. It is, after all, a natural thing to do, but I feel I am so far removed from the average personality of this field that I feel embarrassed about it. I may work as a C.O. but that isn't who I am.

There is a stigma about those who work in law enforcement that seems to haunt me. I am not like most other people, let alone others in my field of work, so I strongly oppose the generalities that come with the title. There is the notion that people in this career are on an aggrandized quest to gain influence over people. In essence, they seek comfort in having power over others, and in turn, oftentimes abuse that power.

Take a look at how the media represents the profession of corrections. Repeatedly, we see corrupt officers violating the sense of justice by showing unfair treatment against the incarcerated. Always hitting inmates and denying them rights for seemingly no reason at all. Modern day culture has made the guards no better than the ones they are guarding. As far as the public is concerned-- everyone behind the walls is a criminal unfit for society.

Oh, and the average life expectancy of a correctional officer-- 58. How about that for a kick in the junk? Life itself doesn’t even respect the job. Go figure.

Trashy Celebrity Trash-Talk: Hollywood vs Sarah Palin

If there is one thing that really makes me feel better about myself, it is reading political opinions of celebrities. I may be broke but at least I am not an idiot. Of all the people, in all the world to bitch about politics, it is always the ones with the most money who decide to invoke their freedom of speech to make asinine statements on politics.

Hollywood has singlehandedly made 'celebrity' synonymous with 'hypocrisy'. In recent weeks, we have heard from the likes of Lindsay Lohan, Madonna, and Pamela Anderson on the wretchedness of Vice Presidential hopeful, Sarah Palin.

Everyone is entitled to give their opinion, that is the great thing about this country, but seriously, Lindsay Lohan? I honestly didn't think she gave her opinion on anything other than cocaine quality or endowment size, so to hear her make a political comment was a touch surprising. “I think the real problem comes from the fact that we are taking the focus off of getting to know Sarah Palin and her political views, and what she can do to make our country a less destructive place,” said Lohan on her MySpace blog. Sorry, Miss Lohan, but I don't think that is the real problem. A bigger problem is why people pay attention to anything that you say.

Madonna joined the Palin-bashing fray by publicly declaring that she wants to "kick her ass" and soliciting to “get that bitch out of here”. I must admit, that is a very good point to bring up Madonna. That was an intelligent and well informed proclamation as to why Sarah Palin is unworthy of being second in command. Why don't you go put some more cones on your boobs, or, perhaps you could just find another mystical religion to spend your time on. When it comes to making prudent decisions, I trust Madonna to make them about as much as I trust those black & white tabloid magazines.

Madonna did, however, go on to say that, “It’s nothing personal” and “I love her soul”. I really cannot comment any further on that because my brain is unable to operate under such high levels of retarded logic.

Speaking of retarded logic, Pamela Anderson upped her moron status a month ago by making a cliched bimbo quote in regards to Palin. Anderson used her large breasts to say, "I can't stand her. She can suck it". I am convinced that her breasts make all her decisions for her since they are the only things that get her any work. Also, does anyone else find it humorous that she said, "she can suck it"? It is the complete opposite of ironic, and that, in and of itself makes me laugh.

I suppose that is a part of being a celebrity-- saying fatuous things just because they can. But for God's sake, can someone please say something somewhat intelligent? It really isn't so much to ask. I guess that no matter how much money you have, it never exempts you from making a complete ass of yourself.

Go figure.

Chimps Up, Humans Down

It appears as though our closest primate relative is on its way to becoming just a little bit closer to us. Genetically, of course, no evolutionary advancement has been made, but that is not stopping advocacy groups from pushing the expansion of 'people' to include chimpanzees.

In a published report earlier this week in Current Biology, the rapid decline in the chimpanzee population has furthered the discussion as to whether the animals should be included as "non-human people". As if that weren't radical enough, some are even suggesting that they be guaranteed human rights.

Yes, you read that correctly. They want chimpanzees to be called 'people' and for them to be assured of "human rights". We still have 6 year old Malaysian kids working 16 hour days for major corporations yet some REAL people would rather spend their time and energy fighting for the rights of animals.

That's right-- animals. I don't care how many commercials you put them in. I don't care if they can use hand signals to tell you they want a banana. They are still beneath every human on the planet. Classifying them as people sure as hell won't change the basic premises behind Darwinism.

Don't get me wrong, I love chimps. I think they are hilarious and certainly more deserving of their own television show than a couple of guys dressed up as Neanderthals. I would be more than happy to spend a half-hour of my night just watching chimps throw things across a room. But we, as a society, have to draw the line somewhere. I draw that line at letting a creature who handles his own poo be classified in the same social class as I am.

Just think of all the legal ramifications. The People's Court now serves justice to humans and chimps. I guess we have to change it to The Human's Court otherwise our legal system will get bogged down with frivolous lawsuits over 'theft of services' when one chimp refuses to eat the bugs out of another chimp's fur. Do we start teaching our youth about the Human's Republic of China? How about the US Constitution? I don't think our Founding Fathers had chimpanzees in mind when they were drafting the phrase, "We the people".

I'll tell you what; IF the United States government can get these chimps to start paying taxes and contributing to society-- THEN I might consider them people. IF I see a chimp waiting in line at the DMV on a Friday afternoon with crying babies all around, and menopausal women behind the counters-- THEN I might consider them people. IF I see a chimp working with me knowing that he got the job due to affirmative action-- THEN I pack my belongings, throw poo at random people, and live out my remaining years living in Siberia.

Who knows, maybe in the future, humans will actually be considered "people" again. Let's just hope our population doesn't dwindle to a few thousand before advocacy groups start pleading our case.

Can't Sleep

Nearly 4am EST and I am unable to fall asleep. Millions of people across the world have some sort of sleeping disorder so I suppose this is nothing new. Besides, the cause of my wakefulness is invariably that human computer that resides atop my shoulders.

THINKING: CAUSING SLEEPLESS NIGHTS SINCE CRO-MAGNON MAN

Thinking, for me, is very much like a two hour session of searching Wikipedia. They make those damn hyperlinks appear everywhere so you inevitably click and click and click until you are reading something that has absolutely nothing to do with what you were first researching. I do the same thing whilst laying in bed early in the morning when I am unable to sleep. I will be thinking about what I have to do tomorrow and the next thing I know, I am having an inner debate as to which is better: Tootsie Roll Pops or Blow Pops. I still blame the hyperlinks.

The philosophical debate that I was pondering when I finally decided to get up and write this was: If you could relive one day over again, do you know what day it would be? And nothing can be changed, it would literally be experiencing the same thing over again. I was relatively alarmed at how absolutely sure I was of MY day. I figured that if it was that easy to decide, then I must have an incredibly pathetic life.

But I am happy with my choice. If I could live that day over again-- I would be eternally grateful. Instead, I get to lay awake in bed and think about such recondite quandaries.

I wonder where the hyperlinks will lead me to next time?

Humageddon: The State of Humanity in the Twenty-First Century

What have we become?

Humankind-- The planet’s biggest conglomerate. Complete with profits and losses, discrimination and injustices, creation and destruction, hostile takeovers and unsympathetic layoffs. It will continue to run this way until…it doesn’t. That is the way it works. That is the way it has always worked.

They say that mankind is doomed. There it is again-- that proverbial “they”. Always making prophetic statements of pessimism and acting like it is the first time these thoughts have been expressed. Doomed? Perhaps it is. Perhaps our lives are meaningless. Just thinking about free will vs. determinism seems to be the most useless thing one can do. As if it will change things one way or another.

I am sure that every generation spawns thinkers that come up with these ideas that seem so unique to us. Ideas that, in years gone by, may have led to a revolution. Every generation sees the downfall of humanity. The disease, the corruption, the injustice, the sloth, the fear. Every generation has its social heretics.

What have we become? Absolutely nothing that we haven’t already been.

We live in a society where bigger, faster, and stronger is mistaken for BETTER. We attain, collect, and inherit things every day but we rarely earn. We blame, accuse, and shun but we rarely carry the burden.

People are no longer willing to sacrifice anymore. Integrity has been traded in for commercial use. Would rather look good and lose than look bad and win. Would rather sell a lie for a gain, than give the truth to break even.

What have we become?

We are Super Wal-Mart. We are corrupt governments. We are bigots. We are McDonalds. We are used car salesmen. We are anti-gay and lesbian protesters. We are Microsoft. We are Bloods and Crips. We are drug lords. We are scam-artists. We are gun-runners. We are anti-American. We are anti-French. We are anti-anything that is different. We are yesterday. We are today. We are tomorrow.

Old concepts. New names.

People no longer care. Who knows, maybe this is something that has been going on since the dawn of time. Everything is much more clear in the past. Individuals whom met their fate with the hangman’s noose and those unfortunate souls whom were burned at the stake get societal reprieves centuries too late. Go figure.

Will this planet ever have another martyr? Another Joan of Arc? Another Guy Fawkes? The answer is, of course: certainly.

Except they will be met with an ignorance that far outweighs the heinousness of a martyrs death. They will be dismissed completely. No hangman’s noose this time. No burning at the stake either. Nothing at all. Nothing but the peoples' contempt for radical ideological societal change.

They say things aren’t like they used to be. There it is again-- that proverbial “they”. Always making prophetic statements of pessimism and acting like it is the first time these thoughts have been expressed. Well I say things are EXACTLY the way they used to be. Same street, different house. Only two things have changed: technology and perspective. The former is a natural progression of any culture, so of course, it isn’t what it used to be. If we wanted things to be the way they used to be then we should never have invented anything. Maybe that is what should have happened. Then at least it would all be Cro-Magnon mans fault.

What have we become? Precisely.

People no longer want to talk because people no longer want to listen. They wish to avoid anything that could cause pain, cause hardship, or cause their plans to be altered in any way. People abstain from vices, from confrontations, and from work. They abstain from competition, from emotions, and from uncharted pleasures. People abstain from food, from joy, from sex. I say the only thing that you are abstaining from is LIFE.

Change is good. Pain is good. Even fear can be good. But people would rather ignore the great wrongs that are going on than to jeopardize their already meaningless lives. They don’t understand that there are only so many layers of paint you can put on the weathered edifice. Sooner or later, it has to be torn down and rebuilt.

Mankind hasn’t taken some radical turn for the worse-- it is our perspective that has done that. We are doing what we have always done, and nothing more. Humanity will always exist…if we want it to. There will always be wars. There will always be injustices. There will always be life. There will always be death. But if we change our perspective just a hint; alter our views just a hair; we can still pay our respects to humanity.

Humanity isn’t gone. It isn’t missing and it isn’t lost. It can’t be. It is there, lurking in the shadows, hiding in our subconscious, like a forgotten toy ready to be made useful again. It is always in view yet we rarely see it. Always nearby yet we never touch it.

People no longer sacrifice.

People no longer sacrifice even for themselves. Complacency is the one disease that is completely controllable but we seem to make it appear as incurable as possible. I guess its just easier that way.

Random acts of kindness are treated like community service. As if people do such things because they have to fill a quota. “I opened 9 doors, gave 3 people spare change, and helped a blind person across the street. Is that tax deductible?”

I would rather be paid in smiles.

All is not lost though. I still see people trying to do good, even if that means doing wrong. I would rather do bad things for the right reasons than good things for the wrong reasons. I never did play by the rules much. The only rules I follow are the ones that allow me to sleep well at night.

I sleep like a baby.

Do not mistake ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ with humanity, because they are not what humanity is. That is courtesy and even that can be feigned, as people posting on the internet can attest. I would rather have some one pick me up after a fall and stay silent than to look at me and ask, “hey, man, you alright?” Yeah, buddy I am, and next time, why don’t you say something else completely arbitrary and devoid of sincerity. Asking me how the weather is would be just as inconsequential and monumentally less insulting.

The key to humanity isn’t just kindness. It isn’t doing good deeds and it isn’t saying 'I’m sorry'. What is the key? I have no idea. Even if I did, I couldn’t sit down and write about it. That would be like trying to sum up the universe in 250 words or less.

Just live.

Do something kind. Do something foolish. Do something regretful. Do something painful. Do something reckless. Do something terrifying. Do something genuine. Do something that you are proud of. Do something that shames you. Do something out of anger. Do something emotional. Do something instinctively. Do something childish. Do something futile. Do something human.

Cry a little. Laugh often. Think a lot.

People can choose to live how they want to live. They choose to act how they want to act and to do what they want to do. People choose to ignore or they choose to recognize.

What have we become? We have only become what we ourselves created.

I choose to act stupid and to get drunk. I choose to write poetry and sing in the shower. I choose to make huge mistakes but few regrets. I choose punish my body and to punish my mind. I choose to feel guilt when I shouldn’t and choose to feel shame when I should. I choose to do things that people will not like. I choose to do things that people find difficult to understand.

I choose…to be human.

Bad Ink

Sitting at work on a Saturday night, or rather, early Sunday morning, I had a random memory of an inmate from a few years back. His name was Randy Manwaring. He had been serving time for a few months before I started working for the sheriff’s department. I started there in January of 2006, nearly three years ago now. Time sure does go by fast--that is for sure.

I worked days back then and always worked the same section every Monday and Wednesday. This was where I would first meet Randy. Randy was 46 years old when I met him, but in a way, he seemed so much older. I suppose his lifestyle is responsible for that.

A relationship developed between us—as much as one can between an officer and an inmate. I liked him. He was a pretty cool dude. Never gave me any trouble and always did what I asked. I would bust his chops and he would bust mine. Basically, just friendly banter to make the day go by quicker.

This type of fraternization is generally frowned upon in this business. Most officers want to rule with an iron fist—lay down the law and have men fear you. All that does is breed contempt, though. Sure, they will listen to you, but only because they don’t feel like being pepper sprayed and then thrown in solitary confinement. Instead, I use words and rationality to get things done. Go figure.

Randy had some of the worst ink I have ever seen. I mean, just horrible, horrible tattoos. The image that will be forever ingrained in my head is a tattoo that he has on the top of his forearm. It is simple three letters: P – A – M. A name—Pam. It literally looks as if a 3 year old drew on his arm with a cheap ballpoint pen. The kind the hotels give you with those cute little note pads that sit uniformly next to the phone. It was an atrocious sight and a constant reminder of what his life used to be like.

He is actually a cousin of the former Major League baseball player, Kurt Manwaring. Kurt had a hell of a career and made millions. Randy has had a career of regret and made millions of mistakes. Their two lives couldn’t be more different. Go figure.

One thing that I will always remember is that he did something that no other inmate has ever done—call me by my first name. He ALWAYS called me Eric. But not in a disrespectful or demeaning way. If there was another officer around or a supervisor was in the area, he would always call me Officer Crandall.

My nameplate says: E. CRANDALL, and one day he asked me what it stands for. People hardly ever ask me that, and when they do, I usually just tell them not to worry about it. But that day I told him. I’m not even sure why, other than the fact that he asked me sincerely. I am such a sucker for sincerity and honesty.

I usually tell people not to call me Eric. I hate it and usually prefer to just be called by my last name. Thinking about Randy (amongst other things) has made me want to stop being called by my last name. It is starting to take its toll on me. It feels so impersonal to me now, like something off an assembly line—no feelings, just an object. I fell in love with someone who NEVER called me Eric—not even during sex. It was odd, sure, but I didn’t let it bother me. Now, however, I regret not getting the chance to hear her say it.

Randy got released towards then end of 2006. I would be overstating it if I said his departure was “bittersweet” because that really wouldn’t be appropriate. I was glad he was getting out, for his own sake, of course. I wished him luck, he told me thanks, and we shook hands. I think that is another thing that the administration doesn’t like, but I could care less about that. I am a human being before I am a Goddamn corrections officer.

When Randy walked out that door, he took the name “Eric” with him. No one before or since has consistently called me that. If I could talk to him right now, I would likely embarrass myself with my ridiculous PMS-like emotions. But I would like to tell him thank you for calling me by my first name, no matter how much I hate that name.

Playing Possum

My parents have been doing some updates to their house recently and my father had been interminable in his pursuit to recruit me for labor. This is nothing new though. People are always asking for me when something needs to get done. I guess that is the price I pay for always having an opinion on matters.

Finally, after a month of deftly avoiding my parents, I succumbed to the constant nagging and made a date to go do the work. They needed me to help hang a door for them on one of the rooms in the house. They treat me like I am some kind of expert, when in reality; I have never hung a single door in my life. My dad just assumes I can do everything. Maybe that is because whenever anybody asks me about something, I say, “Oh, I can do that. That’s easy.”

The sky was crystal clear with nary a cloud in sight. The air was delightfully crisp and the temperature unseasonably warm. A Hallmark sort of day. One of those nearly perfect picturesque days that make you happy to be alive. I hate working inside when the world creates such exquisite displays such as this. It was quite a beautiful day.

It was a beautiful day for death.

It was about noon so I grabbed my keys, wallet, and phone and headed out the door for my rendezvous with work. My mom was home, which I had not been anticipating, but was pleased nonetheless. I was ready to get working on the door but she said she wanted to go out to lunch. I was in a somewhat solemn mood so I didn't protest in the slightest. Besides, I hadn't eaten yet, anyway.

Just as we were about to go, I noticed a little furry thing lying motionless near the 6ft chain link fence that separates their yard from the neighbors. All I said to my mother was, "so what died in your yard?" The ambiguous subject and monotone voice were intentional. That momentary look of shock on my mother's face always makes me smile but the same holds true for anyone. I feed off those looks almost as if it is something my body requires. Those instantaneous expressions are just so absolutely real. You know, at that very second, that you are getting a little piece of unadulterated humanity.

As she walked back towards the house, to where I was on the deck, that little ball of fur started to move. It was obviously sick or hurt, and it was odd seeing such a normally reclusive yet energetic creature sit immobilized by some unknown ailment. I continued to watch it until my parents finally told me to get in the damn car.

Lunch was strange that day. I had a million things on my mind and I wasn't my normal talkative self. I guess I was still nervous about talking to my parents about the recent events in my life. My mom mentioned something and brought up the point that I wasn't moving to Virginia anymore. I tried to act unfazed, which was a lot easier considering that I was only half listening to the noise around me.

I was eager to get home so I could just focus on manual labor and not have to deal with the torture of self-actualization. Before I could do that though, I wanted to check on that dying mass of gray fur that was obscenely protruding from the thick grass of my parents' yard.

It was a possum, I could tell that much. The tail was long, thick, and looked quite inflexible. The face was like a rat/raccoon hybrid. It kept digging at itself and in doing so, showed its repulsive teeth. It looked as if one bite from it would give you every known disease...and probably some unknown ones as well. All in all-- it appeared to be a vile and disgusting specimen of Mother Nature. Go figure.

Despite its hideous representation, I couldn't help but be in awe. The one thing that stood out to me more than anything else was the amount of flies that surrounded it. There were dozens of them swarming this ugly wounded possum. It seemed so...unjust. All I could think of was scavengers rifling through a dying man's pockets-- the complete lack of indecency and respect. They couldn't even wait for death.

I wanted to make those flies go away. Those soothsayers of death, oblivious to anything but their own needs, solidifying the fact that life was about to expire. It all seemed so unnecessarily cruel, to me.

But then I took my eyes away from death and looked up at the sky-- the crystal blue sky that looks painted on. Then I closed my eyes and breathed that crisp air into my lungs. The birds continued to sing their indecipherable tunes and the symphony of trees were still being conducted by steady breeze.

It was so strangely surreal—the weather, the possum, the flies…the looming death. How could anything die on a day such as this? Not only was it dying but it was suffering too; and nobody cared. In a way, I wanted to put it out of its misery but in another, I liked watching it. It is a fact of life—things die and things suffer. The sun would still set, the birds would still chirp, and the wind would still make music with the trees. A dying possum could never change that. Nothing could ever change that.

The universe is unsympathetic to life and death. It will rain at weddings and it will be sun-drenched at funerals, and that is the beautiful thing about it. People can be bitter and vindictive, but life, in general— it has no ulterior motive.

But maybe I am looking at things from the wrong perspective. Maybe that was the perfect way to die. Lying in the fall grass with the warm sun coming down—a more perfect stage could not be asked for in this tragedy. So before I go inside to work on that household project that I was contracted to do, I will pay my respects. But not to this dying animal. I will pay my respects to the hypocrisy of human assumptions.

It was a beautiful day for death.

Never Here

You were never here
But you were
In my mind and in my heart
It was everything that I thought it could be
Everything that I thought it should be
You made me what I have always wanted to become.

You were never here
But you stole my heart
You made me feel like I've never felt
Made me think like I've never thought
I loved you even though you were never here
I love the times we never had.

You were never here
But I shared everything I had
It was all I ever wanted
It was all I ever needed
Everything that I hoped it would be
You made me greater than I am.

You were never here
But I always wanted you to be
I could have been so wonderful
I could have been so proud
Made me feel like I was worth a damn
Made me worthy of this world.

You were never here
But I needed you to be
You would have been my greatest pleasure
You would have been my greatest love
Instead, you live in my dreams
A figment of my reality.

You were never here
But I prayed that you would
A link to something special
A piece of something great
Instead, you are just a thought
A wish never meant to come true.

Clearest Confusion

I do not know
I do not know who I was
I do not know who I am
I do not know who I will become

Good, bad, right, wrong?
Yes to all, but decisively no

A sometimes noble mind
A sometimes noble heart
A sometimes noble spirit
A sometimes noble start

It always ends differently
Never quite how I imagined
Never quite how I wanted
It always ends differently

A sometimes wicked mind
A sometimes wicked heart
A sometimes wicked spirit
A sometimes wicked start

Good, bad, right, wrong?
Yes to all, but decisively no

Innocent ideas turning cold
Pleasant thoughts becoming soiled
Honest intentions interpreted queerly
Genuine ideals or fool’s gold?

Difficult to understand
Sentiments changing by the hour
A once infallible mindset
But the milk now turning sour

I still do not know
I still do not know who I was
I still do not know who I am
I still do not know what I will become

Apologize? No. But repentant I am
Not for indiscretions but for the aftermath
I am who I am and I do what I do
And I love it.

Good, bad, right, wrong?
Yes to all, but assuredly no