Whatever It Takes

whatever it takes

to escape the pain
if only for a minute

whatever it takes

to keep myself sane

or even to admit it

to take a hit
to draw a drag
to punch the vein
to light the fag

to sniff a snort
to slice the skin
to drink it dry
to grind a grin

to give it up
to a stranger's grope
to hang it high
to knot the rope

whatever it takes

to keep myself sane

or even to admit it

whatever it takes

to escape the pain
if only for a minute

***

A Very Snowy Day

A Very Snowy Day, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

A peculiar thing
to see a squirrel
dragging a cut
of cloth, jumping
from branch to branch,
through swirling
bits of snow.
Later, I ascend
the stairs
to a window,
binoculars in hand.
From my warm
perch I spy
the clump of
leaves and twigs
just slightly above
eye level
and bring the
viewing circles up
to take a look.
At once I am,
or perceive myself
to be,
in the nest
padded by a cut
of cloth on this
very snowy day.

Reading about Poetry

Reading about Poetry..., a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***
Reading a book
about writing poetry
on a couch
in front of a window
while wind and snow
blow at my back.
My son says,
"Look Dad, it's a
blizzard!" And
so it seems.
***

The Sweater

The Sweater, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I want to write about the sweater. It has wide stripes of black and red, only some have said over the years that it is dark pink or other somesuch color. The color is not important, though there is some significance to the fact that it was a color other than green. That detail came from how I acquired it in the first place, from friends, on my birthday, while serving as an infantryman in Korea. They were one American school teacher and two Korean students, friends I'd made while teaching English as a volunteer in the evenings in a small town north of Seoul.

They bought it at a shop outside of my military base, a shop among many shops selling cheap knockoff clothes, watches, and anything else that could be stitched or made to look like something it wasn't. But this sweater was different; thick, warm, and roomy. It has been in my possession for twenty three years and it looks like it could have been bought yesterday. What significance the red/pink/salmon whatever color?

My wardrobe then and now is 75% olive drab with the other 25% comprised of mostly earth tones. They were happy to give it to me for my birthday, so far from home, and laugh that they bypassed a nearly identical one that was green and black because I needed something "different" to wear. I later saw the one they passed on and found it exceedingly pleasing to my eye, but I did not buy it.  Instead, I wore the one they bought me out of deference to their friendship, a sustaining force in a hard place in my life, and it grew on me.

I brought it back to the States when my time was served and continued to wear it when the weather permitted, usually with a black or olive drab turtleneck, needing to temper its color with something more familiar, a compromise of sorts. I was wearing this very sweater the night I met the girl who was to become my wife. Accoutrements included a beanie and a man purse that I wore across the chest and called a "pouch." We laugh about it now, such strange ideas, individuality gone a bit awry. It is the prerogative of the single person with all eccentricities at full bore w/o any temperance or tampering by others, significant or otherwise. Somehow it was not off putting enough to disallow the coming of vows and the co-creation of two small but exquisite human beings who fill my heart beyond imagining.

The years have passed and the sweater has followed. It has survived several wardrobe weanings as we've hopscotched from the Midwest to the East Coast to the South and back to the Midwest. I have never been able to part with it, though it has fallen out of favor with my wife almost from the git go and I've ignored it these past almost fifteen years of marriage, sitting in the back of closets or in boxes, touched by neither moth nor decay. Until today.

It was one degree fahrenheit this morning when I let our dog out to potty. Instead of her usual roaming she did her business and returned quickly to the door to be let in. The few seconds of having the door open while standing there in my PJ's was almost unbearable. I made my way back upstairs and looked to my top shelf where I keep my sweaters, digging through the green, beige, brown, and black ones until that odd colored one dislodged itself, unearthed like a pleistocene fossil, the gay coat of a woolly mammoth. I brought it down and unfurled it to take a look, unchanged over so many years, a witness to so much of how I came to be who I am.

It was as thick and comfortable as I remembered it, worthy of a polar vortex. I'd sworn off turtlenecks for decades, nevertheless I dug around and found my old olive drab one and felt the two should be wed once more. Coming downstairs, I found my wife cooking breakfast for the kiddos.  She glanced up at me when I entered the kitchen. There was a hitch to that look that made her eyes hesitate, "You're not going to wear that to work, are you?" I told her it was warm and, ultimately, just a sweater, though in that look I could see that she wished I'd gotten rid of it years ago.

Premature

COSI, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***
Perpetually born premature
I live out these tenuous hours
in my incubator of a house
kept alive by the oxygen-rich
vitality of my two children
and a spouse who will not
simply let me go with the
pull of a plug when the
drain of my selfishness
has reached its fullness
***

My Father's Shoes

New Basketball Shoes, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

I found them in the back of my father's closet amongst a litter of 70's style above-the-ankle leather shoes with side zippers. To be fair to my Dad, it was the 70's and I was seven years old. Above my head hung what seemed to be hundreds of polyester suits and a rack of ties, each wide enough to prevent any food from reaching a shirt front. In those younger days I had a habit of exploring every nook and cranny of the house when my parents were otherwise occupied, certain that I'd find something of interest that had been hither to hidden from me. And, by gum, I found just such a thing that day.

I picked one of them up and turned it in my hand to look at it from different angles, heck, I may have even smelled it. It was not like the others and it did not seem connected to my father who was a preacher from a very conservative denomination that was always on the lookout for signs of "worldliness." Its function and appearance did not include anything remotely Sunday-go-to-meetin' and had me not a little scandalized, but exhilarated all the same. What was it? Well, I can only say in retrospect what I did not know at that time. It was a bona fide black canvas Chuck Taylor All Star high top tennis shoe.

This was a part of my father that was a mystery to me at that time. He traveled a lot for his weekday job as a carpet salesman and oftentimes got home late. On Sunday mornings and Sunday evenings, as well as on Wednesday nights, he was preaching. The first time I really saw him in action was when he had invited another pastor from the same denomination to bring some of his church members over to play a full on game at the basketball court situated on a corner of the town square.

They all wore short sleeve buttoned shirts and long pants, not t-shirts and shorts which were deemed too worldly. They had to be a witness to anyone that might pass by and plainly see that they were of a different sort. The Chuck Taylors made an appearance that night on my father's feet for the first time since my discovery. I watched him shuck and jive around that court, run from end to end, and throw up several Bob Cousy style running hook shots. It made me deliriously happy and proud.

Now I am forty four years old and I have a son who just turned nine. This evening we bought him his first pair of high top tennis shoes for basketball season which starts this Sunday afternoon. Seeing those black Nike high tops in front of his closet tonight brought back that memory of a thrilling discovery in the back of my father's closet all of those years ago. And it made me deliriously happy and proud.

Purple Play-Doh

***
It's all she wanted
for Christmas
at two, almost three
years of age.
A consistent request
from which she
did not waver.
The look on her face
when she opened
that yellow cup
filled with the shade
of her fancy.
Who can describe
such a thing?
I won't even try.
***

The 4th Day of Christmas

***

On this fourth day of Christmas our almost three year old was playing with her favorite Christmas present, a Sesame Street playdoh color mixing machine, while standing in her tower at the kitchen island. She was also eating breakfast which was a glass of ice water and a small bowl of cut up sausage pieces.

At some point I looked up from my coffee and saw her using the small playdoh dipping spoon to transfer small amounts of water to her mouth, à la Orthodox Communion.  "Hey Anya, you look like you're taking Communion."

This triggered a huge grin and what appeared to be an actual sparkle in her eye. She picked up the glass and gave it a big kiss. "I kiss da cup," she giggled. She then put a piece of the sausage in her mouth. "I eat da bread."

Elias and I looked at each other and started laughing. High on her imagination and energized by our response she proclaimed in a loud voice, "I take cu-moony-yum!"

***

Children’s Classics

Poppyseed has discovered classic children's poems and songs on her mother's iPhone. For the past several days I have found her listening to them or singing snippets around the house. Today I caught "Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater..." coming from the front room. I later went to investigate and as I turned the corner I was greeted with "Pussy cat, pussy cat, where have you been?"

It's strange how technology is shaping the way we ingest information these days. I can remember these exact same poems and songs in our Childcraft books growing up. I can perfectly picture the illustration for "Fishy, fishy, in the brook..." as well as others that really caught my eye and stoked my imagination. The other source of these children's classics as a kid was the record player with it's quarter-sized plastic adaptor for playing 45's.

I'd recently opined that Poppyseed knew more pop music references than those poems and songs passed down through the generations. Now it appears that she is making up for lost time on a smart phone. And now that I'm living in the new millennia I think I'm going to go on line and find those books on Amazon. Poppyseed's birthday will be here before we know it.

***

Ol' Roy

Untitled, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***
It's raining
in December

Ol' Roy
hangs on
our tree
these past
ten Christmas's

painted before
kids came

A young
married couple
far from
their roots
in the
Mid West

He was
my grandpa
and he
loved trains

Still feeling
the thrill
of his
room-sized
train set

A six
year old
boy with
engineer's cap

shoebox-sized
train cars
powered by
electrified rails

A connection
that gets
more precious
with time

***

A Full Moon

St. Elias, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***

My son lies
in a darkened room
the lights out
sleeping
as I stand
over his bed.
I can see him
in the cold glow
of a full moon
its reflected rays
slanting through
his bedroom window.
Three fingers together
two drawn downward
making the sign
of the cross
reciting
a paschal hymn
a psalm of protection.
Let God arise
let his enemies
be scattered.
Let those
who fear Him
flee before
His face.

***

The Desert

Watching the Mud Dry #1, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

***
Still haven't figured out this writing journal thing. I've always waited for inspiration in order to write and having some direction has always made writing easier. Writing w/o direction or inspiration, now that's a different story. When there is no excitement to fuel the writing it becomes a vast desert of unexplored territory. And what to explore? Sand? Cacti? The occasional boulder?

Writing seems to be pure magic. When I can't do it I wonder at those who can. When I am writing and it is going fairly well I wonder at where all of this information is coming from and how I am able to make sense of it all. I've also learned that I'm a sucker for alliteration and it comes up frequently when I write. So much so that I have to edit it out sometimes because it can get comical when I'm not trying to be funny. "The conniving clown cut cautiously on his crusty carbuncle." See what I mean?

At present I am trying to write a story about a crow I killed when I was a kid. I sense there is something powerful and disturbing in this story. I feel a need to write it out, to think it through, and come out on the other end with some new insight into myself. I love the idea of writing as self-therapy. I was made aware of this facet of writing when I was taking pictures and writing poems during a deployment to Iraq. It was so desolate there with no escape to familiar places or a recourse to well known faces. Sitting in my little concrete room at night I could handle the fear, the tedium, and the loneliness by writing a poem and pairing it with a picture.

Another recent example was starting with the idea of "I remember when" which led to memories of visits to a laundromat in the small town I grew up in. When we first moved there I was starting first grade and we were renting a house while waiting for our house to be built on the edge of town. The rental house, I later learned from my Mom, had no washer and dryer and that is why we were visiting the laundromat that first year or so. In writing down that little walk down memory lane I was able to gain a greater appreciation for my Mom. Our relationship was pretty bumpy growing up and looking at this one little bit of our lives by writing about it as an adult brought some understanding and healing with it.

So writing *is* powerful, but you gotta put down the words and spelunk the brain. That's what this journal is all about and this is my second entry, Hurray!
***

"Hallelujah"

***

If we only knew
the gravity of grace
that sustains all that is
and all that could be
working in and through us

one word would repeat
in an endless loop
of joy and love
transforming our suffering
into hope and thanksgiving.

***

The Door

"How are you feeling today?"

is the door
through which
the doctor steps.
Some answer, some don't,
some can't, and some won't.
A trickle may come
that is encouraged to flow.
A flood may result
and cover the floor,
two people bobbing
on words and emotions.
He provides an anchor, an oar,
a will to be present.
Whatever happens,
he must never be distant.
Above all else
it must remain open.
But if it is slammed shut,
he will wait patiently
on the other side.

***

Uncle Bob and the Baltimore Ravens

Uncle Bob and the Baltimore Ravens, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

Grabbed my Baltimore Ravens cap as I headed out the door to return my son's books to the library today. I've not worn it out and about before, but today seemed a good time to do so. The trees are in full Fall regalia and the sun is shining down with a cool breeze blowing.

I am not a Ravens fan nor do I know any Ravens fans in the circles I run in here in the Midwest. I've heard that someone on that team had been involved in a stabbing years ago and "got away with it." I don't know much about it, but what I do know is my Great Uncle Bob lived in Baltimore and was a Ravens fan, a mellow man with a sweet spirit.

His sister is my grandma who passed away a few years ago. Their brothers died much earlier in a run of heart attacks due to bad genes and even worse eating habits. I remember those brothers only from foggy childhood memories of a family reunion or two, especially Uncle Charlie who was a real character and had a humdinger of a son named Chuckie whose antics have gone down in family legend.

Several years ago I visited a residency program in Washington DC as a fourth year medical student and Uncle Bob invited me up to Baltimore for breakfast at an old fashioned diner. I remember enjoying pancakes and coffee as well as his quick smile and uncanny resemblance to my grandma who was still alive at that time. When my wife and I moved to DC we visited him and Aunt Stephanie and later brought along our new little boy who was born there.

This past summer we went down to see my family in Southern Indiana. While we were there my Mom remembered that Aunt Stephanie had sent some of Uncle Bob's ball caps for family to have as mementos of his passing this year. My Dad brought down a shoe box full of them from the closet shelf and I went through them one by one. Many had golf themes which was a passion of Uncle Bob's though it is a sport I've never really gotten in to. Somewhere in the middle of the pack I found the Baltimore Ravens hat, a team that had just won the Super Bowl.

So, today I am remembering Uncle Bob in this beautiful twilight time of the year as the days begin to shorten. The leaves are starting to die, but not without an explosion of color to ease their passing in winning fashion.

Sibling Snuggles

***

There are two of them,
a boy and a girl,
six years apart.
There is no comparing,
it's apples and oranges
(I like it that way).

***

Starting a Writing Journal

I'd love to learn to write better, but my inclination is to take a picture instead., a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

10/30/13

What does one write in a writing journal? If what I've read is to be believed, you write about anything as long as you keep writing. So here I am, writing. I'm tapping away in a Panera Bread where I have not purchased anything, but inhabit a booth like a literary freeloader. In all truth I'm afraid to write. I see people write long stories or blog posts that go on and on and on, and I wonder, "where do all of those words come from? Why can't I just write and write and write?" My brain is always striving to be concise and say as little as possible to convey the idea or image I am trying to get across.

OK, see, here it is again. I stopped, looked around, and now I'm forcing myself to tap on keys again. I have started a journal like this a few times in the past and it never gets past one entry and that entry is terrible, so self conscious, so contrived, so dadgummed forced that I never want to try it again. But here I am, tap, tap, tap. You can't get from A to B by hanging around A and complaining how hard it is. Where will that novel come from? Where will those short stories wrung from life come from full bloom? I guess by doing this writing practice thingy.

And now, almost as soon as I've started, I'm finished. Family duties call and there is no spiriting myself away to some beautiful isolated locale to create imaginary worlds and revel in what amounts to self-therapy. At least this entry got made. I've gotta be happy with that, I guess.

The Protector of Children

The Protector of Children, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

*****

"I watch for cars when the kids are going over to Sunday School."  As he says this he looks left at a car coming around the corner.  When it sees him squatting there in the mouth of the alleyway on the narrow street, it slows down.

*****

Enough to Be on Your Way

Kevin Remembered, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

Tonight I was washing dishes and listening to James Taylor while the kids showered upstairs. The song I had on rotation was “Enough to Be on Your Way.” It is a favorite of mine and never fails to bring back memories of Kevin McCarty.

I bought the CD when it came out in 1997 and was so impressed by it that I took it with me to visit Kevin in his studio apartment in Marion, Indiana. We listened to this song in particular and when it was over I noticed Kevin had a funny grin on his face. “Man,” he said, “no one can sing the “F” word and make it sound beautiful like James Taylor. “

Kevin was tall and lanky like JT and I've often imagined that if his skull hadn’t been malformed by the radiation treatments he’d received as a child for retinoblastoma he would have looked very much like him.


So long, old pal.

A Visit with St. John of San Francisco

A Visit with St. John of San Francisco, a photo by []Aaroneous Monk[] on Flickr.

The melodic drone of chant
fills the immense church as
darkly translucent icons sway
in the flickering candle light.
To one side sits a glass-topped box
under a carved wooden canopy.
St. John is sleeping there,
more awake than awake.
His dry and boney hands
lay crossed over his midriff.
A bishop's crown is on his head.
A cloth covers his face,
not out of fear,
but as a function of mystery.
His experience transcends the flesh,
no longer limited to five senses,
no longer bound by space or time.
He hears prayers
whispered in earnest,
ever the pastor,
connected to all
through faith and love.
I draw near.