%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |   All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views |
|
Obshchak Some torn to the ground Some burn to the ground Others removed brick by brick Redesign for the times When the lease comes up Or just fold up When you have a bad day and need a reason... Formerly: New Zenith To Hell…(all started with arc as writer here from the trials of Rising Stars to Preferred Author to WDC Quills Best Poetry Collection... "Whoever fights monsters should see to it…he does not become a monster.” - Some guy, I guess. Look it up? I’ve been to the abyss and back. Not so bad. The loneliest happy person you'd ever meet, when not the saddest person who needs to be alone. In an ever-changing world, we need to handle topics at the ready. If you roll over and give in to the narrative without lending a voice, might as well hand over your civil liberties. Voices could connect to true conscience and spirit for honest and open discourse. Why feel so redacted? Unify on issues or don't but put drama aside. Open minds require complete objectivity. Or, agree to disagree and have a beer. Just writing what I feel without the narrative-altering mind f---ing with my head. [MY Chorus] In your house, I long to be Room by room, patiently I'll wait for you there, like a stone I'll wait for you there, alone - Chris Cornell, RIP Some other stuff ▼ My recent poetry:
Sometimes epiphanies about my insights on writing and life and what goes on... Blah, blah, blah ▼ ![Merit Badge in Rare
[Click For More Info]
I like your work!](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/general-Rare.gif) Thank you WakeUpAndLive️~Happiness  for honoring me with your kind words!Read here some old blog entries...  2018 Highlights ▼ More... 2018: The Quiet Ones ▼  Brian K Compton notes an echo~  |
| I had a strange feeling wash over me when I read this line... Say howdy to George Carter, and thank him for taking the pistol from you when you were shooting at me. ...which comes from a yahoo story I just read here... http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/sideshow/letter-freed-slave-former-master-draw-atten... http://www.lettersofnote.com/2012/01/to-my-old-master.html If you have time to read the story, a freed slave is propositioned to return to work by his former master in Tennessee. It's a bid odd and bizarre to read. The freed man goes back and forth like I seemed to do with my dad as a child. You know him and you were conditioned by living with him and so you were ready to crawl right back into that den of snakes, but you want assurances that he will treat you better this time. I'm impressed with the letter and I'm sure very candid and courageous for its time. You can see the former slave is empowered now that he can raise his family somewhat comfortably after the civil war. But he would actually consider returning to the place where he was stripped of all dignity and treated more or less like a common farm animal. I don't think this story is too far removed from the way my dad treated my family, especially my mother, as I am sure growing up in his Italian family he witnessed his own father's atrocities towards his kin. So many generations it takes to separate us from the past and even shift the balance of power to the family matriarch while dad becomes duller and more dimwitted (like me) these days. I was bullied by kids and put up with it as a child, because my dad conditioned me not to respond 'or else' I would get the stick...a three foot long flat wooden cane kept above the entry door frame. We never thought to hide it, except when we knew we were really in trouble, ran for it and took it with us wherever we found safe passage to barricade ourselves from him. 'Children are to be seen, not heard' he joked. He laughed when he heard some old man down the block tied his wife to a plow and made her till the garden. He would try to get my mom's attention by whistling after her in the yard like a dog, "Here, Marget!" he bellowed. He killed family dogs that wouldn't hunt. They went out in the woods with him and never came back. He'd get another, we'd befriend the pooch, and it would happen all over again. We got back at him in the end, as I became a teenager who surpassed him in strength. I remember the night my brother and I were out past our curfew and tried to come in the house through the back door so as not to wake anyone. We didn't expect him to lynch us in the kitchen. And he went after my 15-year-old, scrawny brother. My mom tried to intervene and he hit her in the face while revealing a gleam in his eyes that seemed to say I don't want to be deprived of my wicked fun. I had put him in a reverse arm lock and listened to him mock us all. And when he started to mock me and told me things about how I wasn't a man, I set out to prove him wrong and went on a wild rampage of my own. After wrestling him into the living room, I threw him on the couch, sat on top of him and repeatedly hit him with glancing blows off his thick noggin. I seemed to be pulling my punches while yelling at him how much I hated him (though secretly I still loved him), as all he could do was look up at me in shock, maybe terror. I don't remember how it ended, but after that day he stayed away from me and my younger brother. I moved out several times and kept coming home and he never bothered me again. He still had his veiled insults and other innuendo and never gave me credit for anything I yearned validation, as I continued to grow into manhood. I eventually landed in radio and was the local news reporter and my mom told me that he said he was proud of me. And he started to converse with me more civilly and would be chummy with me like his friends. That was okay. I felt like I can do this, but somewhere in the back of my mind I didn't trust him. I couldn't be there for him during his last days, because I was so conflicted. He hadn't changed much. He took my sister-in-law to some senior citizen's dance a few years before his death and was threatening to knock the block off some other old guy. I could not see him ever changing his habits. I would always be his victim, if I let him. So, I found my emancipation away from home. Though, I returned to it several times up until 1993 before I finally got my act together and eventually met my current wife and taskmaster. I let her control me now, but she can be kinder and more nurturing than my former master. It's been 10 years since his death. I didn't acknowledge the anniversary. Forgot about it actually. That's good. But I'll never truly be free. I will always restrain myself in one way or another and not think I'm good enough. I will always be tempted to crawl back into that den with the snake and be treated like a nobody, because that was the way I was raised. Fortunately, being bullied is not an option anymore. But, it gets in my head from time to time whenever I'm in a social situation that tears me down. I've had my virtual moments in places like this, too. I pick myself up today, having the epiphany from the slave's liberating letter. A little bit freer, a little bit wiser now. Thankfully, I had my mom to take the figurative 'pistol' from my dad. I hope comparing my child self to a slave is not too racially insensitive. |
| So, I was in a bit of a foul mood yesterday. I won't get into the why or what of it, just that I had a little word with God before I went to gym asking him to help me when I start to feel frustrated and want to misbehave like I'm prone to do on most days when I visit the YMCA. As usual, I prepare at home by combining Naproxin and Ibuprophin and be sure to eat to avoid nausea. I have a little caffeine, sometimes an energy drink. Though, that's not always effective. I've sat in front of the computer or tv all morning and let the drugs help with the stiffness before I stretch. I had four hours of sleep, about one less than I usually get and about three less than I normally need to help my body recover (from what I do not know, but must be getting old ... I'm in denial about that). I dress in my tank top and shorts and pull on a t-shirt and sweats so I'll be ready to go when I walk into the building. Like I'm ever ready. But I will play without warming up if the chance presents itself. I gather together a gym bag, realizing I forgot to grab a Powerade from the basement fridge as I'm walking out, but certain that I have one still in my bag from the last day at the Y (which I would later not find until after our games were done ... forced to drink water!) and pile into the truck. Was that a run on sentence? What's my hurry? This is what it's like each day preparing for my punishment. Some days, I don't want to go and wait and wait and wait until finally I have to scramble and get everything together before remembering some stuff I forgot or will have to do later before I fire up the truck. I put on loud music, preferrably Razor 94.7 which plays the hardest rock. I'm lucky if I find a tune I like to motivate me. I usually find a commercial break (if I'm really running later, because it's no longer drive time) and have to tune into some oldies station and find ELO or EW&F, if I'm lucky. I might get a tired old Fleetwood Mac hit but never tire of the Bee Gees. Thankfully, I still have Sirius radio until April and crank "Warrior's Call" by Volbeat and pound the steering wheel as I drive. No not really. I don't remember any good songs coming on. But I sometimes get a good song to fire me up, as I drown out the lyrics with my horrible rendition. Then, after weaving through construction and cutting a few people off before getting to the exit, I arrive at the gym. Today, I sit and pull off my new winter boots and fleece-lined jacket. Pull off my tee and sweats and sit on the bench at the back of the gym and proceed with the ritual of preparation. I put on the smelly high tops I wore ouside all summer with their mud stains. My wife won't let me bring them in the house because they smell like 'cat pee'. Google what causes your feet to make smells like that and learn more about me and my diet. I fish around in my bag for my patellar straps. You think I would put them in a zipper compartment, so they're easier to find. But, I've gotten into the habit of dumping everything in and go though the hand towels, back up sneakers, bandanas, half-drunk sport drink bottles, mp3 player with headphones, goggles and more to locate what I need inside the black cavern. The bag has a hidden compartment from a side pocket that goes all the way under the bag. The zipper had broken and the compartment was pulled out and twisted and apparently hiding my last powerade. I still don't find that for another two hours. That's how much torture I was in for. Right in these moments of preparation, I was thinking I wished I had kept paper and pen in here too, because I could write about my odd preparations. I pull on my patellar straps and proceed to fold a bandana in half and then roll it into a flat cigar shape to wrap around my forehead and tie in back. I pull out my googles, stained with drips of the last struggle's sweat and wipe that off with my tank. I finish by wrapping my head with the headphones attached to my mp3 and proceed to find songs that suit my current mood: Somber. I fire up and then I cool down with some Patty Loveless. Yeah, I'm stretching...a little. Bend over and touch my toes with ease, mostly because of my long torso to short legs ratio that makes it easy. Not that I'm really that limber because I could grunt with every effort to bend at the waist. I forgot my good ball today -- the old ball. Since I have a new one that sounds like a giant racquetball when I pound it into the harder portions of the gym floor, I don't get the full appreciation of handling a good basketball. It's smaller than the regulation size it says it's supposed to be, so I can palm it and it's a little sticky making it harder to release cleanly when I shoot. But, I'm not going to complain, though I'm clearly frustrated and not getting into my usual groove. So I stop. "Thank you God for this opportunity to play. That I might be here and just have the ability to do this," I remind myself. Sometimes I whisper the words soft so no one could hear, but usually say it mentally in my head. I have these brief moments with my maker quite frequently (at the gym), though I sometimes get out of the habit. I need to remind myself that it is a privilege (even though with the family plan it nearly costs $60 a month) and I must honor Him before putting myself before all others. I was going to be patient today and I was going to mind my behavior. Little did I know how much he was going to test me. More later... |
| I wrote in my notebook today: Epiphany: I'm never going to be naive again, and I miss that. I felt more alive when I was vulnerable than the tired old skeptic I've become. Sticking with tried and true without the romance of taking a chance on something new doesn't mean you're wise but unwilling. Note to self: Take a risk today. Jaded is one word that comes to mind. Usually, when I see something unfolding, I'm already playing out the endgame in my mind. Apparently, I think I know everything about everything and I'm the prognosticator, the predictor of the future. In a world full of pundits (news and sports and around the table where you clutch coffee) people are know-it-alls. What do we know? History. History for me is from personal experience, but only what I'm willing to take on. Because I take so few risks, calculated risks, I seldom get to peer into the maw of something so great it might consume me. I don't walk on high wires between tall buildings. I'm pretty sure I'm crossing wires laid on the ground. See what I can do? See what I know about? Now, I do take risks when it comes to my limited vision. Stupidly. Like, driving at times or places when/where I shouldn't. Rollling around on the floor with the kids without my glasses on when I know I could take an unexpected blow to the head. Or, maybe, trying to read something in small print in a dimly lit office. (When am I going to start using those bifocals the doctor gave me/when am I going to figure out where I put them) Putting my words out there. That's a risk. I'm afraid I can't write the novel. I make excuses because I don't know where I'm going with a story. I struggle with character development. Well, it's going to take time, research, organization. I might have to actually sit down and write an outline. Of course, the tried and true, when am I going to find time? I need some sort of writing routine. Nanowrimo actually forces you to realize the process with writing x-number of words a day and I don't even do that. I could commit to writing like I do my daily trips to the gym. I could sit here and talk about all the trials of jogging up and down a basketball court with guys half my age and younger who can actually see what they're doing while I flail about trying to look like I know what I'm doing. But basketball is what I know and it is what makes me feel good about myself when I do play. Writing is the cruel mistress among other cliches. We write because we love the game, but we seldom get to win. And, if we do, it's a little ditty of a poem that got an awardicon here. I can proudly show off the little gems, put them all together in a collection and publish on Amazon, but it doesn't make me an accomplished writer. It reveals that I am not a risk taker. I didn't even commit my poetry to print...not even on demand. I just tell everyone I did it because my wife kept bugging me. But I'm on kindle direct publishing every day checking to see if I sold another copy. No, that's not success. That's not how you succeed. You win when you give it you best effort in the midst of the most horrible disaster and walk away from it unscathed and a little wiser. I can sip on some brew and reread my failed efforts down the road and perhaps find a bit of myself. I might learn what I was thinking, or what my shortcomings were. I might find new inspiration, or new direction, that might lead me to some new goal. I might look back at this blog entry one day and think, 'okay, that was good. Let's take it a step further now.' Or, 'I can't do any more with this. Time to move on to something new.' Life is like Flip Wilson's 33 different flavors of ice cream: chocolate and vanilla. I can find another ice cream vendor and more flavors. Stop. See that's a bad metaphor, because I guarantee no one who reads this blog has experienced the comedian the way I did growing up. But it is about understanding that even while we cannot relate to everyone, we can relate our thoughts to ourself to get a deeper appreciation of where one is as a writer. And, if you should happen to connect with someone else who reads this open diary to the world and they get what you are saying, that's topping for your frozen dairy treat. So, experience something new and exciting. Take a chance on yourself. Learn from it and hopefully grow from it. And, maybe you meet someone else who might have even more insight and wisdom to help you transcend from where you are. Transcend. That's the word. Ascension into a new dimension. Now we're writing.... Okay, now I'm done. For now.  Signed, Some guy who thinks he's really smart right now....shhhh, don't wake him.  Thank you emoticons for saying/showing what I'm too lazy to express in words. Stop!  |
| You know, being 6'2" has always seemed a shortcoming for one such as I who had dreams of basketball stardom. I think my limitations were all in my head when I felt I needed to be taller, at least 6'5", to make something of myself as a professional athlete. It would have made things easier for one who did not have the necessary/desired encouragement until it was too late to find himself among the redwoods on the hardwoods. Now comes my son. He's always been a big boy and we did his height predictions early on that said he might be 6'5" when he's done growing. He's always been in the 99th percentile for height and weight. His mom and I are both tall and both enjoy basketball with the ability to teach him everything we know, but he has shown little interest so far. For me, there wasn't much else to distract me growing up. It was basketball or baseball while cartoon programs were only shown on Saturday morning. My parents made me play outside every day until the sun went down. Not the same any more. Everyone is vying for our children's attention while my little one keeps growing out of his shoes as his feet turn flatter and pigeon-toed. Recently, Alex had his yearly appointment with the doctor and we got his official measurements. I decided to do one more height predictor on Parents.com. The results only remind me how cruelly ironic parental expectations can become dashed. Though he's 5'5" (and 1/4) and weighs 128 pounds on his 11th birthday, he apparently still has a lot of growing to do. Parents.com gave me the results with the message, "Congratulations! Your baby has a good chance of being 6'10" tall." o_0 Why you gotta do me like that God? Can't I somehow impose my will for him that he might live out my dreams by being the basketball athlete I was with the potential to be something I wasn't. Even if he could play first string in college (for my ol' buddy Tom Izzo), it would be heaven sent. We know we are not supposed to force our kids into life choices, but can't I steer him in this one direction...somehow, someway? He's brilliant and could learn complex schemes: he's top 5% for his age group in math in the state of Wisconsin putting him in the accelerated program. He's an avid reader who won his school spelling bee. More than musically proficient, he's played piano since five and plays beautifully. I want a well-rounded life for him, rather than one washing dishes or raking coals from a furnace. He could have a college scholarship and the athletic life, if I could just get him off Star Wars and Legos and into a Packer's jersey and a pair of orthopedic high tops. There's your irony. Twist of fate that I should be the one pounding a ball into the floor three days a week in hopes of being in the best shape when he's ready for those one-on-one match-ups in our driveway. I'll stay the course a little longer, waiting for divine intervention. I needed someone to idolize growing up and found Lew Alcindor and Johnny Bench, but Darth Vader?! He's just made up. But isn't the idolatry of athletes also a bit fictionally driven? I'm guessing the people who market icons nowadays find real people too disappointing or ordinary. If I could just unmask all the fake ones and show him a real role model, maybe there's a chance. By the way, it's not me. I've taken him to the gym and let him watch me play. He just wants to leave 15 minutes after we arrive. If I could dunk the ball again like I did 25 years ago, I'm sure his chin would drop to the floor. But watching an old guy in goggles, patellar knee straps and bandana swishing a three-pointer doesn't cut it. 6'10?! I hope he doesn't expect any more piggy back rides. |
| Words. Put them in a sentence. Put sentences together to make a point. And, collect all those points and they point to what? Well, if words and sentences are as aimless as mine.... I think each day about what I should write. I jot down ideas on scraps of paper that disappear for days and months on end only to be rediscovered in a cloud of confusion. What was I attempting? I push myself to make a blog entry now about what I don't write. And, I think, it's because I think too much. I don't commit these thoughts to a more permanent format...like the blog...not to those lost scraps of incomplete wisdom. I don't even know if what I'm writing now is going to go anywhere. I am writing for the exercise. And what I am also learning is that I need to read. I don't pick up books. It's easier to click on a computer or television and sit and wait to be entertained. I'm not wading through texts to find hidden gems. I'm not exercising that part of my brain that could create words with some direction. Am I going to neatly tie up all these thoughts into some pearls of wisdom? Okay, this is going nowhere. I can accept that. I should write and read more. I'll take that much away from what I've just wrote. Blog tomorrow? I have to kept the flame lit. Don't let the pilot light burn out. Note to self: write a poem called "The Pilot Light". I challenge anyone reading this to try to do the same. If you beat me to it and do a better job, that will teach me to just idle on these thoughts. |
| If I don't stay in shape, I feel another injury is coming. I got off gloucosamine for awhile. I quit my diet for awhile. I was playing well up until about two weeks ago and then I really started pounding the seasonal food. I didn't play ball for eight days and it was like I was the offspring of the Michelin man and/or the Pillsbury dough boy. I couldn't get limber. Drinking caffeinated, five-hour energy kinds of drinks weren't giving me the zip I was hoping for and I knew it was time for a reality check. I played two times since Tuesday and started to feel a bit better today but really tired because all the kids here at the Y are home for spring break and the run, run, run. And I didn't get my pick of the usual slow, old fart fatties. I held my own in stretches. Played really well with my passes and defense, keeping my head until the third game when I panicked and took a three-pointer to close out a game and airballed. Looking ahead to 2012, I need to get back to the diet. Stick with the gloucosamine and get back to what I originally set as my goal...to jump high enough to dunk again. I think I'm further ahead physically with all the two steps forward and one step back approach to getting myself back into game shape. I still keep thinking of Tom Izzo, or someone from my past who used to get me pumped up to play. I wish I had someone's ear like I did then. All the time they spent sitting around building me up so I could go out there and best the opponents we played. I could use a motivator, a positive influence. I only have myself now and I keep having to remind myself to think of what they would say. I have to shut out those few who still punctuate some of the errors I make on the court and find a way to maximize on what I do right. Why am I so insecure about myself still at this age? Why do I feel like a boy among all these college aged guys? I look at Alex and think I was doing this for him, too. I wanted him to get excited about basketball the way I did. To see what he could offer physically with his size and his intelligence, the genes handed down to him by his parents, and to think he's only interested in Star Wars toys and building Legos when he's not winning spelling bees or solving difficult, advanced math equations. I still didn't get that interested in the game until I was his age and I got an eyeful of the few NBA games I would watch on the weekends. Now, there is such a huge confluence of pasttimes with modern technology that kids seldom see the outdoors unless they are really motivated by sports to be active. I guess time will tell. In the meantime, got to get my own act together. |
| Why do I bother defending myself? That was the biggest question after my tirade at the end of the last game. I was getting harrassed by the same guy for the way I played. He bugged me enough Monday that I stayed away until Friday. But the big old straw on my back busted me, and my desire to take the high road, so I let him know what I thought of his criticisms. I then began thinking about the way I play and the way people perceive the game at the gym. It's sloppy ball at the best and I'm outted as the guy who's play made our team suffer. I rather point out that his selfishness and scapegoating took the rest of us out of the game, forced to watch him play 'Kobe ball' as I would described it. Essentially its four guys committed to playing fundamental ball while one guy does whatever he wants pointing out everyone else's bad play. On Monday, I won a game with a three pointer and the next game had a perfect opportunity to seal the deal with another and missed and didn't hear the end of it from him and a Packer player who shall remain nameless. I didn't appreciate being blamed for that loss when I stepped up and took my only shot of the game and nearly won it again. It's like they didn't even acknowledge how I duped a pretty good defender in the previous game and landed a perfect swoosh to get us another run on the court together. I wasn't going to come back because my body has been breaking down from playing a lot of ball and doing a lot of workouts wiht my personal trainer. Plus, I need to stay rested as we rip apart and remodel our kitchen. But, I was tempted and now regret putting myself in a situation where I look a fool for stepping up to someone who was still ripping me behind my back after the game was over. All this business about me reaching too much? The one play that put it over the top was me trying to deny an entry pass and force my guy to the baseline. He didn't make a move but threw a pass to a cutter who made a shot and I was told that was my fault because my guy was out of position behind me, apparently planning to help me? Why? I wasn't beaten off the dribble, the guy had only one place to go, under the basket, where I planned to squeeze him and trap him further. I play solid defense and I'm smart, but no one gives me credit. If I reach, it's to bother the guy rather than take the ball away. Or, force him to make a move before he's ready. It's basic pressure basketball and nearly everyone does it. It's sloppy ball at best out there, like I said, and it bears repeating because none of us is playing for some kind of championship. He defended himself by saying he's a competitive guy. I defended myself by saying I'm all about being positive and complimenting people when they do well. Where does this mentality come from that you have to point out people's flaws in front of god and man without being positive about it. It's okay once in awhile, but you have to let people do what they know is best. I told him I appreciate he knows the game very well, but he doesn't know me or what I'm capable of. He's taking on two guys when people like me are wide open on the wing and can nail a three-pointer easily. He basically walked away from me after I went into rant after rant about these issues. If he had just kept his mouth shut instead of trying to blame me for our poor performance in the last game, I would have been alright. It made me think about how I could have been less combative and confrontational. But the guy rides a lot of people out there and sucks the life and the fun right out of the gym. I cannot get behind someone who cannot be constructive with his criticism. It's okay to let everyone do their thing and fail on their own. Most people on the court were pretty quiet while I ranted with Eric. He is a good guy and he has complemented me in the past for my play. But he should realize I do my best with what I have and I don't want to be someone's stooge out on the court. I have a right to be trusted with ball and should not be made to fend for myself out there and take the heat when something doesn't go the way he thinks it should. And, it's just a game. To me, it's been more than that at times when I look at the clock on my life. I don't want someone dictating my play in what could be my final hours with this game. (Metaphorical) This has been a second chance that God has given me and the window is closing with this body and failing eyesight. I'm doing all I can to compete on every level out there with guys who should be way better than me. But, I'm learning to bridge the gap with my mind and certain abilities with the ball. With basketball, I have some purpose. I get to recall former glory and make some memories to savor for the days when i can't play any more. Soon, I'll be relegated again to tossing up shots in the driveway with my son who I hope learns to love and learn the game the way I did. Hmm  , sound like I love the game more than my son. Should I strike that? Let it stand. I have flaws.Had a bunch of typos. Took me a long time to get around to editing this. |
| There's something about March that puts a spring in my step. It could be my own kind of March madness. It sneaks up on me and the next thing I know I boundin' all over the basketball court and making impossible plays. It's like the writer finding his muse and I am writing odes to the basketball gods inside a little YMCA gym where only a few people look on in awe at my former glory returning to life. It started last week when I nailed about 9 out of my first 10 three point attempts, closing out two wins with three-pointers and racking up 7,8 and 9 points out of the team's 15 in each win. It's amazing what a little caffiene, naproxin and a flash or two of adrenaline can do to an aging ex-super athlete who thinks he's 20 again. It's gotten to the point where no one says anything anymore, unless some of the elder comrades want to shout a little moral support, hoping some of my good fortune would rub off. I'm grabbing rebounds and stealing the ball, making perfect outlet and interior passes to set up others. Once in awhile, it doesn't work because we don't always mesh on every play. Too many people in the mix and different faces every game. I make adjustments by working inside or outside, even playing point. If defensive stops are needed, I'm the hustle guy rolling around the court after every loose ball. I could be bruised or scratched and not know it, or even remember where all the contusions and abrasions come from when I wake from my reveries. I'm great, I think. I want someone to to talk to, but know I can't boast like I did when I was young...if I ever want to see the ball again. They'll shut you out. They decide who gets a look, a pass, god forbid a screen to get open. But when I am the fortunate recepient of these benevolent acts, I make sure to make the best of it. I finish those plays and inspire confidence in others to pass me the ball. Today was hardly different. I had one bad game where I went one of five and had a shot blocked. But with the confidence coursing through my being, I made some changes to my approach to the next game, lauching Jimmer Fredette-style three-pointers from the deep corners nailing every one. Some kids who were out of school for spring break were watching on the sidelines and were practically rolling in their seats after I nailed each deep three. I got a little cocky and pointed to them to say 'that one was for the children.' We still lost that final game, but I was outleaping everyone for the boards and setting up the guards with outlet passes, helping each possession flow from defense to offense. I felt good, vital. I thought about my old pal Tom Izzo and wish he could be here. I wish I had a do over and could go back thirty years and show him I'm mature enough now for him to consider me as a Michigan State Spartan. Why did I have to be a head case during that week in 1982 on the East Lansing campus when I could have impressed that young assistant coach. No regrets. God has given me this second, third, fourth and more chances to make use of what talent I have left. He'll decide when that achilles will pop and permanently take me away from all this. I'll be too old to rehab and come back to play like this again. One last shining time to look back on fondly with all the other moments He has blessed me with these past years. It seems a little hollow some times that I don't have some of the old friends to join after the games for drinks and wax nostalgic. Sometimes, I just need to be reminded because I forget what I had. Thank you God for all that you give. I hope I can appreciate enough what you have given back to me, especially this time each year. |
Sometimes, we just need to be lifted up. We need to be reminded to keep a chin up. That there is greatness in all of us, something awe inspiring. I wrote the following awhile ago and kept it private for some time. I want to share again, because it is something positive. Not the usual fare found in my port and I wish I could play on a theme like this more often.
|
Thanks to Ben Langhinrichs  another poem has been featured on Writing.com. This time "Be My Eyes"  [E] was in the latest Romance/Love newsletter, appropriately in time for Valentine's Day. The newsletter can be found here:http://www.writing.com/main/newsletters/action/archives/id/3549 It's nice to have the extra attention paid to this oldie that has been somewhat dormant in my "Adorned By WDC Members" folder.Also, a short story "Fishing With Dad" [E] was featured during the same week. This time, it was in the Spiritual newsletter. Lightning can strike twice, so careful while visiting this port!Thanks for the feature Sophy  :http://www.writing.com/main/newsletters/action/archives/id/3546 |
This is what I feel like right now...
|
| Just for fun I'm linking this article... http://buzz.yahoo.com/buzzlog/93359?fp=1 Seriously, though. Is anyone going to try to scientifically explain this? Isn't this like the time whales mysteriously started beacing themselves? These tentacled creatures are such an enigma. They might be the closest thing on this planet resembling aliens. I've always wondered, especially when you have UFOs rising out of the Pacific waters. Could they be related? It might mean creatures from our inner planet have been invading. Just a thought. Giant Squids! They're really not that big. I've seen some of the pictures of what people are picking up along the beaches. They top out at 60 pounds. But really, where are the legendary Kraken then? Where are the truly giant sea creatures? Will this prove they don't actually exist, if one of the hundreds that wash up on California shores doesn't surface? another link: http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-giant-squid2-2010feb02,0,5841943.story |
| J.D. Salinger was an enigma. Catcher in the Rye was my first real introduction to literature I could grasp, becoming a spring board for my future as a writer. With his death, I wonder if he has any hidden jewels the family would dare share with the rest of the world. He only had the one novel. Some thought he couldn't follow or duplicate the success of Catcher. http://www.time.com/time/arts/article/0,8599,1957492,00.html?xid=rss-arts I will be forever in awe. |
| I caught a clip of this video on ESPN's Sports Nation and had to share. Christmas is definitely over when you send your Christmas tree into orbit. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FCjHV63MQ4w The tree doesn't get its send off until after the one minute mark of the clip.
|
| I'm laying awake thinking I'm not going to sleep until I write these thoughts down.... Life teaches us to do more, to rise above restraint. But with failing eyesight, I mentally wrestle with this logic each day while I am forced to accept my limitations. I push myself to write, read or research and learn more each day. But, I strain to read text and get frustrated with comprehension. I'm running to hide in the shadows or fleeing to seek out the light, but I just can't take things as they come. I need crutches to carry me through. I look for my support and find that I have shunned everyone, too proud to ask for help, but hoping someone will offer a lifeline. And when they do, that I won't reject the offer of help again and again until I've chased everyone away. It's difficult to accept what glaucoma is doing to me, what I'm doing to me. I've got to get a grip on myself, but I can never hold on for very long. More later. 9/1/2008 |
| Narrator: And so, we come to the last chapter, in which Christopher Robin and Pooh come to the enchanted place and we say goodbye. Pooh: Goodbye? Oh, no, please, can't we go back to page one and do it all over again? Narrator: Sorry, Pooh, but all stories have an ending you know. Pooh: Oh, bother. Narrator: Yes, the time had come at last. Christopher Robin was going away to school. Nobody else in the forest knew exactly why or where he was going. All they knew was it had something to do with twice times, and how to make things called A-B-C's, and where a place called Brazil is. Christopher Robin: Pooh? Pooh: Huh? Christopher Robin: What do you like doing best in the world? Pooh: What I like best is me going to visit you and you saying, "How about a smackerel of honey?" Christopher Robin: I like that, too, but what I like best is just doing nothing. Pooh: How do you do just nothing? Christopher Robin: Well, it's when grownups ask, "What are you going to do?" and you say "Nothing." Then you go out and do it. Pooh: I like that; let's do it all the time! Christopher Robin: You know something, Pooh? I'm not going to do just nothing anymore. Pooh: You mean, never again? Christopher Robin: Well, not so much. Pooh, when I'm away just doing nothing, will you come up here sometimes? Pooh: You mean alone? Just me? Christopher Robin: Yes. And Pooh? Promise you won't forget me, ever? Pooh: Oh, I won't, Christopher, I promise! Christopher Robin: Not even when I'm a hundred? Pooh: How old shall I be then? Christopher Robin: Ninety-nine, silly old bear. Narrator: Wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on top of the forest, a little bear will always be waiting. Epilogue excerpted from: Winnie The Pooh and Tigger Too! |
| Only 10 more pages and I'm done with this notebook. Handwritten dreams marginalized, ruled on blue-lined mead. Freshly honed pencil, scratch, write my epitaph before you dull, sending me out for a sharpener or a sleeker instrument of graphite. Not even half way down, the white stares back, blank. How long will the game play before I... Filling, between the lines. My mind moves in graphite sprawls, squalls from a barren mind, mined of matter less than pink, deep within the grey. Hefted utensil, heavier from growing disuse, lighter than the spilled ink, I think. What did I come here for? To write or babble or what? Deeper in the Ticonderoga jungles I hack and stomp, all the while looking back, as if I could see where I was going from whence I came. Monkeys in trees mock me, and I put them there! One page filled, moving on to number nine for more...filling between the lines.
The prolific spell will end soon. Just keep writing, stay elevated above the sucking, muddy plain/plane. Six pages to go? Lose count? It's better that way. Word counts and such are for editors and printers, not for you. A lull. Too much static all around, plagued by the upheaval, the swells, the inflammation. Not sedate, no sedatives anymore. Remember what your therapist said. You can ride this one out. We've run aground...again...just a sand bar in time. Wait for the tide to rise? How long is the wait? Or risk trying to manipulate this ship, shift it to lean back into the shallow water? What peril awaits then? Risk wearing out the crew, with no strength left to sail? Why not a motorized mechanacian of some sort? Everything I'm given is natural. I must trust the wind, the maps, these eyes...five pages to go.
Just finished editing this...
Recording Each Day: Whenever one journal is closed and tucked away, I pull out another. My reflective mood seems altered by the medium I choose: paper vs. computer, pencil vs. pen, or different sized or shape notebooks. Each seems to stimulate me differently. One might remind me of a grade school notebook, another loose leaf, college-lined binders hold memories of former literary determination, or the notes of the journalist at a press conference or meeting. I could be creative, reflective; angry, sad or happy. I don't try to interpret what each of these sounding boards does or means to me. My environment could as easily be a factor into my prolific endeavors. I am facilitated by these tools that record what I espouse. The documents that here have become, I can either choose to share or let fade into the oblivion. Nobody cares besides me what I truly feel or think. People might be interested, pry to read, but we always find a snag, a soft point when I drone them all away. And it's just me and my instruments recording each day until we find the right frequency. |
| Nuther one of those days for me. My two-year-old gets me out of bed at 6:30 after 4 and 1/2 hours of sleep...my fault for staying up late. I nearly sliced my pinky off with a cheese cutting tool making breakfast for the kids. I didn't get to make my own breakfast, but fortunately Maddie didn't finish hers. After I managed to get myself bandaged (with gauze and tape since all we had were Thomas The Tank Engine band-aids), I pack up the kids and my gear for the YMCA. First stop is the store for some band-aids. After I managed to get through the checkout with protests in stereo for not buying treats, I get everyone loaded back in the truck before realizing I left Maddie's diaper bag at home. But what point was there in getting it? I go all the way home to get her traveling bathroom kit, bandage myself again before I head off to visit the Y, and the staff in their 'Kids Korner' doesn't bother to change her stinky. What's worse, it was dried on. The Y's sitters didn't even bother to tell me and I didn't check before leaving, so we had to keep the windows down the whole ride home...'cept on the interstate. Yuck! I guess that's just a small part of the day...I stayed in most of the day. Humid as heck outside. Watered my garden twice. The rest of the time it was on the computer or wrestling with the kids and putting Maddie down for her nap after lunch...which is getting more difficult every day. "No. I don't need nap!" CRY...CRY...it's over after 5-10 minutes, usually. I've got it pretty easy, I imagine. But the interruptions from everything to can I have a snack to 'Maddie is eating my crayons!' can be daunting to the creative mind. Luckily, Alex is my look out for part of that time...if he isn't engrossed in some show on PBS. Then, I have to haul Maddie to the bathroom for a tweezer session to pull wads of stuff from her nose...or hose off all the washable markers on her hands, face, legs, dress and toys. I'm ready for school to start and it's still another month! The two of them really do get along well...most of the time. They manage to fight over THE ONE TOY...like we had only one toy in the whole darn house. I take it away and in under five minutes or less they are fighting over something else. I threatened to throw away all the toys. So, later the six-year-old threatens the two-year-old to hand it over or 'Daddy will throw it away.' He gets a time out for that tactic in hopes that won't become an issue again. Whew! That's sort of what the days are like. Still seems pretty easy. I can't have my cake and eat it too with the writing thing. I'm just biding my time until fall. We could get a sitter. My wife claims it's not in the budget. But really, we don't manage our money that well. We seem to be able to spend more than we take in each month and still manage to stay afloat. It's funny adding up all the expenditures, knowing on certain days when we felt we could splurge, we really shouldn't have. And we never consult the numbers to find out how much we actually are spending. Just feels right by taking a quick glance at a check book or an online statement. Anyway, the point is, I'm the sitter. I'm the stay-at-home Dad who doesn't have time for his craft because of a crazy wife who thinks I shouldn't take the kids out to the McDonald's play area once a week for a kids meal and sundaes....while she's fisting 20's from the hospital ATM machine and paying nearly 20% in fees for each transaction...silly woman. But she's got the big paying job and I'm the one at home twiddling my thumbs having a good old time raising the kids...while my writing suffers. I blame everything and everyone else for this...but really the honus is on me. If I want this writing career to restart, I have to take the bull by the horns. Haven't been up to it. Sometimes, I think I'm ready for a fight. But I can't launch, knowing all my fuel is wasted on lift off and I go nowhere from there. Got to think smart. Plan. Maybe, someday I'll return to former glory and beyond; I'm not going to publish a book of poetry and call it a career just yet. Brian |
| For A Limited Time... I'm unveiling and rolling out onto the showroom floor all works that have been in hiding. Time to give the public one last look before these models are liquidated...eliminated. Depending on reviews...or lack thereoff...I will systematically remove old works to make way for new. So, one last looky-loo for you and then they go bub-bye. I'm not really working on anything new. But, it's a lot of work to keep up with all this stuff. Don't like all these items in cobwebs, hiding in corners, or tucked away in closets and attics. My aim is for a tighter, neater port...so that I can eyeball my writings better. Just feels too unruly and need to keep it simple to reduce searches...and the headaches and associated eye strain. Brian |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
[Click For More Info]
Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif)
In the Falkland Islands, internet is very limited and very expensive. The place I'm currently staying only lets me use it in the middle of the night, so when I have to get up at 3 am to check my texts (no cell service to the US here unless I'm on the internet) or WdC, I don't do nearly as much as I used to. 
I currently have 2 very long emails I still need to get to from several days ago. Anyway, I miss everyone, but I also miss sleep, so there's that. 
Have you spoken to the doctor about your vision problems lately? I know there are special glasses for it because I have to wear them to read much ever since the brain injury. It's part of why I now only listen to audiobooks instead of reading regular books. It took 8 years for anyone to diagnose it because I have a brain injury and while one might think it would be obvious to me that I see double, it wasn't. Partly, my brain does a fair job of compensating. But also, partly, you use your brain to realize and understand that the 2 images you constantly see are double vision and something you should mention to your eye doctor. Since my brain was damaged, even basic things like that can escape me. 
I never once thought to mention it, even with annual eye exams in the Army and an exam every 2 years at the VA. Though, in my defense, since it happens in something like 41% of people with a brain injury, it should have been discovered by an eye doctor much sooner. 
I know doing that activity is a CRAP TON of work. But you made a difference in lives, not just his, but for all the people he's reviewed since. 
Well done! 
