Friday Flashback: The End?

I’m starting a new feature today, the Friday Flashback. The plan is to to repost something from my archives. Hopefully, it will be something you haven’t read before. Today’s entry was originally posted May 13, 2004.

Here we were, after all these months, the nights, the days, the phone calls, the arguments. After so many times of almost ending it, we were finally about to do it. I thought it was for the best, and I’m sure she felt the same. But still, while on the outside my actions and words indicated I was ready to go and that I no longer cared, inside my heart was clinging to her as tightly as it could.

And while initially, the physical body may win that battle. In the long run, the heart will still be holding on, long after she is gone. When I can no longer see her face, hear her voice, smell her perfume, look into her eyes, my heart will still feel her, long for her, remember her, love her.

There is always that moment when you feel like you still have a chance to save it all. And you think that maybe if you just say “I’m sorry” or “I don’t want this” or “I love you” that maybe, just maybe, everything will be OK. I mean, is it so bad to apologize even when you don’t feel like you were wrong? Is it so wrong to give in and lose one battle in order to save months or years spent building a relationship? No. But it is difficult. It is a hard thing to swallow one’s pride. But pride makes a lousy companion.

How did we get here? When did we stop fighting for each other and start fighting against each other? That is the million dollar question. And I have no answer. I suppose that it starts with something small. Some seemingly insignificant moment. Maybe I did not return her “I love you.” Or maybe I hung up the phone on her. Or maybe I forgot to call to say I was going to be late.

And once one person stops giving one hundred percent, stops living for the other, it is only a matter of time before the other becomes weary of trying to sustain the relationship alone.

Maybe I could stop it. I probably should stop it. Or at least try. Looking back one day, I know I will see so many times when she was reaching out to me, just begging me to pay attention, to change things, to right the ship. Yet we just sailed on, slowly going down with the ship and acting as if we never saw the treacherous waters raging around us.

And suddenly I remember. I remember the girl I fell in love with. I remember every sweet thing she used to do. I remember us, before we became her and me. And I love her. And so I say it. “Let’s not do this. Can’t we work this out?” But then her face is strange. Her mind is made up. I can see it without her ever saying a word. It is too late. Her body is there, but she is already gone. And in that instant, my heart sinks to the pit of my stomach. It breaks. My eyes water. I can barely breathe. My life, my world, my best friend, my partner, is gone…

And then the phone rings. And I wake up. All at once I realize it was all a dream. Everything is OK. Wrong number. I hang up and call her. I wake her up. It does not matter. I have to tell her. I tell her I love her twenty times. She has no idea what has gotten into me. But that is OK. She is here. She is wonderful. Life is good. And I am thankful that it was only a dream. And I make a vow to myself to try harder, to do better, so I will never have to face the end.

“And I know that you’d be here right now, if I coulda let you know somehow…”

Keep your seats, please

Blogging away while wondering why I keep receiving mail-outs from The Scooter Store and a reminder for the Surviving in the 21st Century senior citizens seminar. Perhaps I can drive to the nearest Scooter Store and give them back. Or just cancel my mail.

The weather today was gorgeous. I opened the sunroof, adjusted the rear-view so that I could look at my beard (yeah, that’s normal), then drove around listening to cassettes. You just aren’t going to find that last sentence anywhere else in the blogosphere, my friends. If you’re nice, I’ll make you a mix tape. Like many of you I’m sure, days like today make me want to play frisbee. I think that would be one of the best things about being a dog. Playing frisbee. That and not having to work.

However, forgive me if I do seem a bit cantankerous this eve. I’m still not over being submitted to coerced standing ovations Monday night. And having to miss all but ten minutes of 24. I had to attend some chamber of commerce banquet. You know the drill. Every single person who goes up on stage gets a standing ovation. I’m the last person to stand up each time. Because I keep thinking maybe we won’t stand up for this one. So I look around to see if anyone isn’t standing. Because if just one other person isn’t standing, then I won’t either. But everyone is. So I give in to peer pressure, sigh very heavily, then act like it’s a major chore to stand up and clap. I think maybe I’m developing a few misanthropic tendencies. (I only know that word because it was used to describe Larry David in an article I was reading once.)

It is my opinion that we are giving way too many standing ovations in this country. A standing ovation used to mean something. You had to save a life. Or win a Nobel Prize. Or score a touchdown. But now? It’s like the NBA slam dunk contest. It just doesn’t mean what it used to. We’re giving standing ovations to every Tom, Dick, and President who walk into a room. It’s lost its luster. Like a month-old imitation silver watch that your girlfriend gave you. Like the Super Bowl halftime show.

Let me tell you something. If you get a standing ovation, chances are that, at most, five percent of the people really wanted to stand up. The rest are just thinking “here we go again.” If I were getting a standing ovation, I would rather just ten or twenty people stand up. Because at least I’d know they meant it.

Contrast all this with Sunday night, when I went to see Merle Haggard in concert. He put on an excellent show. And I was happy to see that he still played and sang very well. A legend. A songwriting genius. He got several standing ovations. Deservedly so.

And the misanthrope in the balcony didn’t even sigh.

“Leather boots are still in style for manly footwear. Beads and Roman sandals won’t be seen…”

Keep your seats, please

Blogging away while wondering why I keep receiving mail-outs from The Scooter Store and a reminder for the Surviving in the 21st Century senior citizens seminar. Perhaps I can drive to the nearest Scooter Store and give them back. Or just cancel my mail.

The weather today was gorgeous. I opened the sunroof, adjusted the rear-view so that I could look at my beard (yeah, that’s normal), then drove around listening to cassettes. You just aren’t going to find that last sentence anywhere else in the blogosphere, my friends. If you’re nice, I’ll make you a mix tape. Like many of you I’m sure, days like today make me want to play frisbee. I think that would be one of the best things about being a dog. Playing frisbee. That and not having to work.

However, forgive me if I do seem a bit cantankerous this eve. I’m still not over being submitted to coerced standing ovations Monday night. And having to miss all but ten minutes of 24. I had to attend some chamber of commerce banquet. You know the drill. Every single person who goes up on stage gets a standing ovation. I’m the last person to stand up each time. Because I keep thinking maybe we won’t stand up for this one. So I look around to see if anyone isn’t standing. Because if just one other person isn’t standing, then I won’t either. But everyone is. So I give in to peer pressure, sigh very heavily, then act like it’s a major chore to stand up and clap. I think maybe I’m developing a few misanthropic tendencies. (I only know that word because it was used to describe Larry David in an article I was reading once.)

It is my opinion that we are giving way too many standing ovations in this country. A standing ovation used to mean something. You had to save a life. Or win a Nobel Prize. Or score a touchdown. But now? It’s like the NBA slam dunk contest. It just doesn’t mean what it used to. We’re giving standing ovations to every Tom, Dick, and President who walk into a room. It’s lost its luster. Like a month-old imitation silver watch that your girlfriend gave you. Like the Super Bowl halftime show.

Let me tell you something. If you get a standing ovation, chances are that, at most, five percent of the people really wanted to stand up. The rest are just thinking “here we go again.” If I were getting a standing ovation, I would rather just ten or twenty people stand up. Because at least I’d know they meant it.

Contrast all this with Sunday night, when I went to see Merle Haggard in concert. He put on an excellent show. And I was happy to see that he still played and sang very well. A legend. A songwriting genius. He got several standing ovations. Deservedly so.

And the misanthrope in the balcony didn’t even sigh.

“Leather boots are still in style for manly footwear. Beads and Roman sandals won’t be seen…”

Rumors of my demise

Just a note to say that I’m alive. Haven’t been able to post anything for a few days. Things that have been going on have dominated my thoughts. And everything that I’ve written has been very dark or sounds like self-pity.

When I began this, blogging was just a new, fun thing to try. I never thought it would last this long. I never thought anyone besides my real life friends would begin to read it. I never thought I would get to be fairly popular on here. With more readership came the opportunity to chat with and get to know other bloggers. And while the experience has been initially wonderful, it has opened me up to the danger of others revealing things about me that I’d rather keep private.

As contradictory as this may sound, I am a very private person. Blogging, ideally, allows us to expose as much or as little as we wish about ourselves. Yet it is done in an anonymous and safe way. I wish I had remained anonymous forever. I should have. I can write what I choose to write, and keep to myself those things I deem too personal. But now too many people know too much.

I remarked to someone the other day that now maybe I know in some very small way how celebrities feel. To go thru something very painful and very personal. And then to have it talked about or written about in a completely slanted or dishonest way. Never getting to tell your side of the story. And knowing that even if you did, it won’t ever change some people’s opinions of you. There are always at least two sides to every story.

You know the old saying “Sticks and stones…” That’s not true for me. Words hurt me much more deeply than anything else ever could. And I’m not the kind of person who can fire back with equally malicious things. That’s just not me. I’d rather take the blame, the guilt, and suffer. Because I think I deserve it. I’m a very sensitive person. Probably overly sensitive. It just became too personal. And I felt I couldn’t take anymore.

So I seriously considered quitting this blog this morning. This was originally going to be a farewell post. But thanks to a friend, I changed it. She told me, “I can’t believe you are going to let this defeat you.” And she was right. I’m sure I’ve lost or will lose a few readers. But blogging is the sole reason I’ve rediscovered my love for writing and desire to write. And I’m not going to throw it away just because of a bad experience and a few hateful comments.

Blogging began as a mostly anonymous thing. And I believe bloggers should have an understanding and mutual respect to keep it that way. That being said, I opened myself up. The blame lies entirely on me. And I accept it. All.

On one final, very important note, I want to say the most heartfelt thank you to the handful of you who have offered your support to me during this. I didn’t ask for it. You just gave it. And it literally moves me to tears to think about you right now. You’ll never know how much that meant. When I needed it more than you could possibly know, you were there. That will never be forgotten.

Thank you for reading. And I hope to be back to normal blogging tomorrow.

“I’m sorry for the way things are in China. I’m sorry things ain’t what they used to be. But more than anything else, I’m sorry for myself. Cos you’re not here with me…”

Rumors of my demise

Just a note to say that I’m alive. Haven’t been able to post anything for a few days. Things that have been going on have dominated my thoughts. And everything that I’ve written has been very dark or sounds like self-pity.

When I began this, blogging was just a new, fun thing to try. I never thought it would last this long. I never thought anyone besides my real life friends would begin to read it. I never thought I would get to be fairly popular on here. With more readership came the opportunity to chat with and get to know other bloggers. And while the experience has been initially wonderful, it has opened me up to the danger of others revealing things about me that I’d rather keep private.

As contradictory as this may sound, I am a very private person. Blogging, ideally, allows us to expose as much or as little as we wish about ourselves. Yet it is done in an anonymous and safe way. I wish I had remained anonymous forever. I should have. I can write what I choose to write, and keep to myself those things I deem too personal. But now too many people know too much.

I remarked to someone the other day that now maybe I know in some very small way how celebrities feel. To go thru something very painful and very personal. And then to have it talked about or written about in a completely slanted or dishonest way. Never getting to tell your side of the story. And knowing that even if you did, it won’t ever change some people’s opinions of you. There are always at least two sides to every story.

You know the old saying “Sticks and stones…” That’s not true for me. Words hurt me much more deeply than anything else ever could. And I’m not the kind of person who can fire back with equally malicious things. That’s just not me. I’d rather take the blame, the guilt, and suffer. Because I think I deserve it. I’m a very sensitive person. Probably overly sensitive. It just became too personal. And I felt I couldn’t take anymore.

So I seriously considered quitting this blog this morning. This was originally going to be a farewell post. But thanks to a friend, I changed it. She told me, “I can’t believe you are going to let this defeat you.” And she was right. I’m sure I’ve lost or will lose a few readers. But blogging is the sole reason I’ve rediscovered my love for writing and desire to write. And I’m not going to throw it away just because of a bad experience and a few hateful comments.

Blogging began as a mostly anonymous thing. And I believe bloggers should have an understanding and mutual respect to keep it that way. That being said, I opened myself up. The blame lies entirely on me. And I accept it. All.

On one final, very important note, I want to say the most heartfelt thank you to the handful of you who have offered your support to me during this. I didn’t ask for it. You just gave it. And it literally moves me to tears to think about you right now. You’ll never know how much that meant. When I needed it more than you could possibly know, you were there. That will never be forgotten.

Thank you for reading. And I hope to be back to normal blogging tomorrow.

“I’m sorry for the way things are in China. I’m sorry things ain’t what they used to be. But more than anything else, I’m sorry for myself. Cos you’re not here with me…”

When I grow up

(NOTE: Blogger’s word verification seemed to be broken Sunday night and early Monday. I turned off word verification yesterday for awhile. Everything seems to be working properly now. Please let me know if you have problems.)

(This really didn’t start out to be some kind of motivational post. And I’m sure you’ve all heard about my desire to write ad nauseam. Nevertheless…)

What did you want to be when you grew up?

I remember in high school we had to fill out a little questionaire for the prom booklet. One of the questions was where do you see yourself in ten years? I’m not sure what I said. Probably something like married, with a child or one on the way, and probably something about what job I’d have. I tell you what I didn’t say. I didn’t say that I’d be 33 years old and single and have a blog. But life doesn’t always go like we plan.

So what did I want to be when I was young? Well, besides a garbage man, of course. Why do kids want to be garbage men anyway? Or maybe it was just me. I think it’s because when you’re a kid, that’s really one of the only jobs you see and know about. The garbage man. Twice a week. You get to ride on the back of that big truck. And when you’re a kid, big trucks are cool. Garbage truck, dump truck, bulldozer, fire engine, etc. Anyway, I’m straying from my point.

Early signs indicated I wanted to be a writer. I’ve already told you about my first book. Well, probably around the same time, a couple of neighborhood kids and I “published” our own newspaper. The publishing business is hard work. Especially without a printing press. Or a copy machine. Or a typewriter… Or carbon paper. Yes, every issue had to be meticulously copied by hand. It was like we were transcribing the Dead Sea Scrolls or something.

What was in this neighborhood gazette, you might ask? Well, it was a combination of current news, neighborhood social events, and op-ed pieces. But more times than not, it was stuff like “Bone defeated Chad 21-17 in basketball Wednesday. The game was played at the goal in the Vance’s driveway.” Then we walked around the neighborhood trying to sell it door-to-door for like fifty or seventy-five cents. I think we published two issues. Man, was my hand tired.

Then all thru high school, I always said I wanted to be a journalist. Journalism. That was going to be my major in college. Until I got there and found out how much English was involved. I love to write. But I never cared to learn all the technical correct grammar stuff. Nor did I ever like to read something I was told to read. Only things I wanted to read. So I was scared away from that. Everyone had always said I was great with computers. I pick things up really quickly. So that’s what I did. It was something I was able to do. It was something I was good at. But it was never truly what I wanted to be doing. It has taken me all these years to realize that. Or rediscover it. Or not be afraid to admit it.

So my theory is that maybe we know what we want to be from a fairly young age. It was true for me. And in talking to a few people about this in recent days, it was true for them as well. A few of them pursued it. Most haven’t. Many people I know are not doing what they really want to do with their life. Maybe they have a comfortable job. Maybe it pays well. But deep down, there’s always that unexplored dream.

My question is why? Why didn’t they? Why didn’t I? After all, I can really only speak for myself. Doubts. Fears. Taking the easy way out. Being satisfied with having a job and getting by. Being intimidated by something that seems so incredibly daunting, like submitting my writing to an editor. I have known what I wanted to do all along. But I let all these things that shouldn’t even matter deter me. Even realizing and saying all this means nothing if I do nothing about it. Then, at least I can say I tried. And that’s saying a lot.

Life doesn’t always go like we plan. But sometimes it goes like we allow.

What did you want to be when you grew up?
Are you doing it?
If not, why not?
Happy pondering ;-)

“And if your train’s on time, you can get to work by nine. And start your slaving job to get your pay…”

When I grow up

(NOTE: Blogger’s word verification seemed to be broken Sunday night and early Monday. I turned off word verification yesterday for awhile. Everything seems to be working properly now. Please let me know if you have problems.)

(This really didn’t start out to be some kind of motivational post. And I’m sure you’ve all heard about my desire to write ad nauseam. Nevertheless…)

What did you want to be when you grew up?

I remember in high school we had to fill out a little questionaire for the prom booklet. One of the questions was where do you see yourself in ten years? I’m not sure what I said. Probably something like married, with a child or one on the way, and probably something about what job I’d have. I tell you what I didn’t say. I didn’t say that I’d be 33 years old and single and have a blog. But life doesn’t always go like we plan.

So what did I want to be when I was young? Well, besides a garbage man, of course. Why do kids want to be garbage men anyway? Or maybe it was just me. I think it’s because when you’re a kid, that’s really one of the only jobs you see and know about. The garbage man. Twice a week. You get to ride on the back of that big truck. And when you’re a kid, big trucks are cool. Garbage truck, dump truck, bulldozer, fire engine, etc. Anyway, I’m straying from my point.

Early signs indicated I wanted to be a writer. I’ve already told you about my first book. Well, probably around the same time, a couple of neighborhood kids and I “published” our own newspaper. The publishing business is hard work. Especially without a printing press. Or a copy machine. Or a typewriter… Or carbon paper. Yes, every issue had to be meticulously copied by hand. It was like we were transcribing the Dead Sea Scrolls or something.

What was in this neighborhood gazette, you might ask? Well, it was a combination of current news, neighborhood social events, and op-ed pieces. But more times than not, it was stuff like “Bone defeated Chad 21-17 in basketball Wednesday. The game was played at the goal in the Vance’s driveway.” Then we walked around the neighborhood trying to sell it door-to-door for like fifty or seventy-five cents. I think we published two issues. Man, was my hand tired.

Then all thru high school, I always said I wanted to be a journalist. Journalism. That was going to be my major in college. Until I got there and found out how much English was involved. I love to write. But I never cared to learn all the technical correct grammar stuff. Nor did I ever like to read something I was told to read. Only things I wanted to read. So I was scared away from that. Everyone had always said I was great with computers. I pick things up really quickly. So that’s what I did. It was something I was able to do. It was something I was good at. But it was never truly what I wanted to be doing. It has taken me all these years to realize that. Or rediscover it. Or not be afraid to admit it.

So my theory is that maybe we know what we want to be from a fairly young age. It was true for me. And in talking to a few people about this in recent days, it was true for them as well. A few of them pursued it. Most haven’t. Many people I know are not doing what they really want to do with their life. Maybe they have a comfortable job. Maybe it pays well. But deep down, there’s always that unexplored dream.

My question is why? Why didn’t they? Why didn’t I? After all, I can really only speak for myself. Doubts. Fears. Taking the easy way out. Being satisfied with having a job and getting by. Being intimidated by something that seems so incredibly daunting, like submitting my writing to an editor. I have known what I wanted to do all along. But I let all these things that shouldn’t even matter deter me. Even realizing and saying all this means nothing if I do nothing about it. Then, at least I can say I tried. And that’s saying a lot.

Life doesn’t always go like we plan. But sometimes it goes like we allow.

What did you want to be when you grew up?
Are you doing it?
If not, why not?
Happy pondering ;-)

“And if your train’s on time, you can get to work by nine. And start your slaving job to get your pay…”

In a year

In a year
Will you be here
Will I be there
Will we be one
Or still two

Will we look back
On these days
With laughter
Or tears
And regret

Will there be an us
Or others
Will we still talk
Will we still wonder

Will a thousand lonely nights
Seem a million miles away
In a year

“If my heart had wings, I would fly to you and lie beside you as you dream…”

In a year

In a year
Will you be here
Will I be there
Will we be one
Or still two

Will we look back
On these days
With laughter
Or tears
And regret

Will there be an us
Or others
Will we still talk
Will we still wonder

Will a thousand lonely nights
Seem a million miles away
In a year

“If my heart had wings, I would fly to you and lie beside you as you dream…”

State of the Blog Address

Congratulations to Pia. She has made the finals of the Koufax Awards in the Best Writing category. Very deservedly so. She has become somewhat of a mentor to me. Unwittingly or not. And a friend. I encourage you to visit the awards site and vote for her blog, Courting Destiny.

I apologize for not blogging much lately. Think I’ve been stricken with the worst case of writer’s block since… that really bad world famous writer’s block case of many years ago? Lately, everytime I have sat down to write, the only thing that comes to mind is how there’s nothing to write about. I try to pretend I have a writing job and I have to churn out a column by a deadline. But still, nothing. And so, you end up with this scintillating entry.

When I started blogging, it was basically a recap of daily events. And an admittedly poorly written one at that. I even put the names of people, places, and events in ALL CAPS. Very distracting revolutionary. If you don’t believe me, just check out the November 2003 archives over on the sidebar there. Yep. And now? Well, at least I don’t use all caps anymore.

As I often tell people, I blogged in obscurity for well over a year. Comments were as scarce as people willing to go hunting with Dick Cheney. Last March, my blog received 41 comments. Total. For the entire month. I was like the WB of the blogosphere. Then a funny thing happened on the way to blogging oblivion. I began to write more stories. I posted a silly little post last June asking where readers were from. It got 30 comments. My most ever. Then I got 10 comments on my next post. Then six. Then eleven. And on and on.

Not that comments are the only thing that matter. But for me, someone who wants to write, they are very important. Writing isn’t like so many other fields or professions. If you and I play tennis, it’s easy to determine who won. If we play ten times and you beat me ten times, it’s fairly safe to say you’re better than me at tennis. If I go bowling and my average score for three games is 200, I would consider myself a good bowler. But writing isn’t like that.

Only recently have I begun to realize that not everyone can write. I always figured if I could write something, then everyone could write at least that well. I just assumed that they chose not to. Does that make sense? It never dawned on me that I had any sort of above average ability. Because writing isn’t quantifiable. Unless you write a book and it becomes a best seller or something. That’s one reason that feedback is of the utmost importance.

Especially since I’m not an accomplished writer. At all. Just the opposite actually. But writing is the one thing I’ve found that I enjoy that I also believe I can be good at. People tell me I can write. But my confidence is very shaky. I look for reassurance. I crave feedback. You have given that to me. And I could never ever stress enough how thankful I am.

Writer’s block is tough. All I ever wanted to do was write. And now. I can’t? That’s like telling Chuck Woolery he can’t host anymore game shows. Then again, if I have writer’s block, does that by default mean that I am indeed a writer?

Thinking about it like that makes my inner hairy man smile.

“Dear Sir or Madam will you read my book? It took me years to write it, will you take a look?”