Safe Haven (Part two - Perfect Strangers)

 He was aimless on the edge of a new dawn, freedom like he had never known. He never thought about summer ending. It was like he was exempt from all of the consequences and afflictions of the world. 

On a bright summer day, aimlessness suddenly dissipated. His impulse was at its highest in the toxic smoke of a thick and heavy summer night. He pushed all of his chips into the center of the table. Fearlessly, he went for it. His endless energy supply fueled his fight to take any chance he wanted.

He picked her up during a hide speed chase. He thought he was just so clever and thought it was all him. Really, though, nothing was in his control. It wasn’t him. It was her. Death masks itself as freedom, and it plays it so well.

If only it were a movie I could watch now, I would cry and scream at the screen, "Get out of there!" He would not listen if he could hear across the celluloid barrier. Even though he was free in every other sense of the word, he was still bound by the shackles of youth. Those can be the most formidable.

The night before the dagger was plunged into his entire existence, he had a moment of clarity, but it was on a misty, dream-like ride to work late at night. Sister Ann sang a haunting tune about perfect strangers. It was a cry, and he knew it. Don't cross the river. Don't board this plane. Stay here. Run... The tone of her voice still chills him today every time he hears it.

Run, you stupid boy, RUN.

As the sun rose, he stood at the canyon's edge in the foggy morning. Proud and pleased with what he was about to do. He leaned into it, muscles tensed, and he sprinted as though fired from a cannon. The edge came fast. He stepped off at velocity. Expecting flight, he plunged. Nothing felt like it should. He was not where he thought he should be.

Photo by David Gabrić on Unsplash

He landed in familiar places but found the math was off. The laws of physics were no longer constant. He knew he had crossed into another dimension. He was innocently standing in public on a cool fall morning and suddenly was ambushed by someone he did not know. A glimmer of light appeared on the floor; it was a dusty sword others had dropped because they would no longer carry it. He took hold of it, held it up, and suddenly found words he did not possess moments earlier. Where did this come from? He knew deep down that the power he had been given in the mantle light was it, and he wanted to return again and again.

Hungry, he did what he always did, but this time, it only gave way to shame. Things were different now. He had no plan and no wisdom here. The last time he had been on a journey like this, there were only 3 walls. Leaving was always easy. Today, there were four walls and no doors or windows. 

Attackers came in so many forms. The kings had banished him from one land after another. He fought in city after city, numbing the pain of his choices in the night. As the season grew old, he fought even harder. He was running out of clever tricks. His energy was involuntary, spinning with that sword every day, doing what had to be done to make it through. The road was ending soon; there would be no place to go. Where was he going? How could he change it? As magnificent as he was at so many things, he pushed everything beyond its limits many times. 

The Wind

 You are lost. The complexities of relationships that should be so straight forward are tough when you find that perception and reality do not intersect. What, then, is there? You spent so much time lamenting over loss that you felt contained no compromise. But now, it is not that way.

It was easier when it was black and white. Straight-up heartbreak felt so much better than this muddy mess of debris in which snakes hide everywhere. You want to cry, but that seems inappropriate. You want to scream in anger, but that betrays the foundation. The void is upon you, and you cower in the wind.

Photo by Gurudas Gandhi on Unsplash

Before the dawn broke, you heard it screaming in the tree tops. You know that you must get up and move on from this scorched and barren spot of earth. Moving directly under fire can be done when the OP4 possesses bullets and bombs. It has been trained upon, one generation after another. But the wind, it will find you the moment you try to move on. It won't care who you are. This mess won't discriminate.

In the timeline of your days, this unrelenting foe that seeps through the cracks and crevices of your shelter, screaming its haunting war cry, is relatively short-lived. That does not matter. Not much can make you feel this small. No matter how hard you try, you cannot even pretend to be immune to this feeling. 

Dear one, what have you done? Look at the land for as far as you can see—burned, gone, and sad. This never seemed possible; everything was so much more noble and kind. Sometimes, life is not pretty. 

The challenge you now face is, where does this fall in the worst of who you are and who you have been. All that you regret, sitting before this disaster, who wins the bigger prize for the finest crime.

You never dreamed you'd be here. How does this look three years down the road? Did you lose that dear one long ago? Was she ever really here? Today, the wind is crying her name. Over and over. When will it stop?

Rust

 I remember a time when it seemed like people cared about everything. Store displays were built by a person who took pride in the outcome. They were not built by maps. The consumer's convenience motivated this work, not the profit margin of an offshore corporation. These businesses just wanted to be the best they could be. You were courted by courtesy and professionalism to find the highest quality of goods and wares. Doing it right meant something. They proved that efficiency could be achieved, but waste was unacceptable, and shortcuts were not considered.

What exactly got me thinking about this very long-lost standard? I was in my local Ocean State Job Lot store on Sunday. This store location was the Ames department store during its heyday in the 1980s, and it lost its footing in the '90s. By the 2000s, the space was abandoned. 

In the early 2000s, it was such a relief to see a store like Ocean State breathe life into the towns of Newport and Walpole, New Hampshire. The spaces, which were the first of many to sit empty, were suddenly clean, bright, and teaming with a whole new idea that, in its flanking genre, could somehow compete with the beast Walmart and Kmart, which we all thought was going to pull through when it merged with Sears and then died on the beach right before our eyes.

Ocean State has been here for a solid 20 years in this area, but I have noticed something. It is the sound of drums off in the distance of disintegration. It starts when the store is dirty. Just general cleaning happens. It used to be an adventure to see what I could save money on. These were mostly practical items that allowed my food budget to go further. I was in the olive oil section when I noticed that the price tags on the shelf did not match the item. It was not just in one place, but multiple.

Photo by <a href="https://stockcake.com/i/vintage-shopping-scene_1657085_1209314?signup=true">Stockcake</a

Something about this made me feel like it will only get worse and may never get better. It made me feel like I had climbed onto a spaceship for a week, but while I was away, the world changed in a way that will never be the same again. I suddenly remembered that A&P Market in Forestville, Connecticut, with the hardwood floors and the old red 8 o'clock coffee grinder in the aisle. I swear, as a child, I was sure as we rounded the end cap, we would run smack-dab into Mr. Whipple himself, gallantly guarding his precious Charmin from grabby housewives not being able to stop themselves from squeezing the goods.

Superficial? Maybe. But we have really lost so much. These little things can be linked to more severe changes in people everywhere. As imperfect humans, we had to push the envelope on everything we could see. Was this really worth it?

A walk through any average town or city, with some exceptions of recent repurposing, is a post-apocalyptic journey through sadness. We shined, helped, cared, respected, and did not seek our own exultation as a whole. Doing right by others, although it was never complete, could be found in abundance in everyday life. 35 years ago, a drill sergeant told me that he had been all over the world and could find love everywhere in people's hearts. This is an incredible statement from a surprising source. I will never forget him when I was at a tactical site in Fort Dix, New Jersey, in the winter of 1990, waiting for the OP-4 to attack. I know his words have lost their weight.

What happened to us. Did we really need a little shock and awe to feel something? Is that what made us just not care anymore. I bring this up because, as we watch one long-term company fall after another, it is like a sickness, and those at the top of these businesses cannot stop it.

What do people really want? Isn't that the question? How do you employ a staff and inspire them to never want to leave? Is it because efficiency has caused corporations to bleed everything good out of their own businesses? Swimming with sharks is never easy. Eventually, one tires and the shark wins.

As Gen-X gets older, this memory of what it was like will become less and less. Eventually, those days will fade from memory and become facsimiles in movies that get a little out of phase. I recall the 2nd episode of the 2005 reboot of Doctor Who. It was the last day of the planet Earth, and spectators bought tickets to a space station to watch the planet finally explode. People brought gifts to the event. One entry was a jukebox, announced as an "iPod." I know in my heart this is an authentic depiction of where we are going.

What will our stories be as the days we lived run like watercolors in a cloudburst? Will we be painted as brave, caring, or insensitive? I do not know. There is so much rust around us that it is too late to fix. We must look at only what we have now and build something beautiful. If that is a house, a garden, or a meal. Let it make you feel that you have made it better today.

A Beautiful Disaster

A beautiful disaster awaits a word or two ahead if you want it.

 It is strong, wild, and unpredictable. All you have to do is jump. 

The ground will collapse all around you, and you will fall. 

You will know what you're worth in the beautiful disaster.

Hey man, it looks like you got it made, so lean, sharp, and squared away. 

Everybody wants some, watching, looking for a way to fit.

You move through the days and act so innocent, waiting to be discovered.

The darkness falls, emotions red line, and you are ready to bet everything you've got.

All along, you know a whole ocean presses against the wall you are hitting.

Today was great because of all the people who carried it with you.

How can you be so presumptuous to think it was all you?

Beautiful disasters only shine for a while before they live in the unattainable void between love and hate. 

Will you thank everyone for making it so great?

Beyond your morning coffee, there is treachery and treason, 

You knew it when the sun began filtering through the trees.

You anticipate the stumble and fall from a moral platform you have no intention of holding to.

You are looking a mis-step to regret tomorrow, a door you should have never walked through.

It is the one-way trip you have taken, not yet, and already done.

The irony is that this mountain was forged by devastating explosions, whereas the alternate path is only made by thousands of years of soft erosion. Who would you want to be?

It is one beautiful disaster after another that brought you here. You hold something that no one can buy.

Is it better to obliterate the wall than to wait for a door that might open?

It was so much easier when the sun rose in the water every morning. 

You lived such a simple, uncomplicated life.

Walking the streets, looking for conflict to add to wisdom and experience.

You got what you wanted, pulling entire buildings down to make it happen.

The scars of climbing out of the rubble and dust over the years have made it difficult to get up in the morning. 

Pain runs deep, and it is the price paid for such a cavalier existence.

A thousand times, you have contemplated the right course of action.

A hundred times, you acted on it.

There is a conflict similar to nuclear power, which is friction that never stops.

Can you harness that and show it how to build?

You know that there is a point to all of the chaos.

It could take more than a lifetime to sort out all the contrasts.

One hundred thousand bytes per minute stream into your head; how do you sort that out and make sense of it all?

You have notes, words, and instruments in a room where physical laws won't play.

You never give up, though. That could be the fallout.

The scene around you falls into line, and you have everything at once in your eyes.

When you wake up, it is 1970, 1980, 1991, and 1999 all at once.

A beautiful disaster has dismantled time itself from your continuity; 

because of it, you see it all, which often makes no sense.

...

It is February.

This is what it is like to be in my head in the month of February.

<sigh>

A Very Personal Trap

 Someone has filled my freezers. That person is me. They are full enough for me to rearrange the contents to fit something new. Something is amiss. I am not shopping more, not hitting great sales, and have not changed my shopping habits. That can only mean one thing. I must not be cooking enough.

So what is going on? Winter depression is all around like an unwanted, persistent weather pattern. I remember a time like this a few years ago. I cannot recall how I broke free from its gravity well. My ambition requires a jumpstart, and my motivation has flown south for the bitter winter season. I feel I am left with nothing, like Henry Bemis in the Twilight Zone episode Time Enough at Last. Socially awkward, Henry could not deal with people in any way whatsoever. His only refuge was found between the pages of a book. It was his special place. A catastrophic event takes the lives of every other person on the planet, yet Henry is spared. As he wanders around a post-apocalyptic city, he comes across the largest library he has ever seen. There is time enough at last to escape to the only world where he can exist. 

As Henry situates himself into the rest of his paradise life, his coke-bottle thick glasses fall to the floor and are broken. Henry could not read without them, and he could not see anything inches from his face. All of those printed words around him, his absolute paradise, become, in one moment, his torture. 

Photo by Ivan Aleksic on Unsplash

Sometimes, winter does feel like a sentencing. I have bashed this worthy adversary for over 40 years relentlessly. Some things never change. 16-year-old me, sitting in my room, listening to John Lennon's Live Peace in Toronto 1969 over and over again, seeking new ways to smite this unsinkable taunter.

What gives, though?  My food? Seriously? This is the one place where I can kick it out and feed myself and my household. The canvas is blank, and the food is there, just like the many books in the library poor Henry Bemis sat in. My glasses are my cooking knowledge, tools, and stove fire. Seemingly, nothing is missing.

I can only conclude that something is missing. I need motivation and that insatiable need to discover and master more in the art of many things culinary. The worst struggles ever are those that we have within ourselves. 

I am old enough to know that randomly changing parts till you hit the target is not an option. Everything needs to count. That is why I am sitting at my kitchen table this morning, taking it apart, trying to see where the obstruction is. Just like my dishwasher, which is too new to experience an issue, despite that "is," which I will take apart later after work to see if I can fix that too.

That will displace the time that I would have been cooking once again. I see a connection between the broken stuff in my life and my frustration in not cooking. It is that proverbial sink full of dirty dishes, coupled with the dishwasher full of clean dishes, added to the 15 bags of groceries I just bought that are still sitting out 30 minutes after I got home and need to be put away. Yeah, and let me tell you, I was so confident at the store as I bought those groceries!  Oh, the stuff I was going to make!  You fool, I shout internally! What a joke!

It is the only way I know how to break free. To just get mad. So here I am, trying to shake this winter stalemate. It is a boring standoff in which everything stops. A terrible waste of days that needs to be smashed. I cannot do it. I cannot allow it. I need to mix everything up. Blend, shake, and throw it against the wall and see what happens. I know I can do it. I just need to push. Gravity feels heavier these days. I can do it, I know I can. Tall words to say when you are pinned down, but I got this.

A Certain Kind of Love

Where is the moment when everything changes? You are just streaming across the sky, and suddenly, Boom! Oblivion. We watch the days pass by from our little prison cell of our own making. The little habits and idiosyncrasies that we long to break free of. Little do we know, today, these cease. 

Does the coffee taste different? Does the air feel different when leaving the house? Is it just a day like any other day? Sometimes, lines intersect in hours; other times, more than 50 years. I cannot help but think about a glassy-eyed Paul, expressing with frustration, "And then there were two."

Photo by Ran Berkovich on Unsplash

Was she happy? Was she sad? Was she just lost in the distraction that the winter days write into our story as our hearts cry for seasonable days that make our infirmities feel small? He walks into the kitchen from the shop 41 steps away, weary from the years of standing under dripping, cold, and rusted problems that he can overcome for a price, but it is never enough. What else is there? He does not know.

She wraps her arms around him and makes him feel as important as she knows he is. He was made for her, which is enough for him because she was made for him.

What happened next, I do not know and probably never will. It is not my place to know but a stark reminder to appreciate what you have. In a moment, he was alone, forever. The pain that he was feeling was unimaginable because he had been right where he always wanted to be. But now, that was no longer possible.

 I know why he did what he did, though I would never understand it, even if it was me. The contrast between going to sleep in one world and waking up in a completely different one many of us could never endure. Although I have seen people who I thought could never survive, they climbed to the top of grief itself, and they claimed their loss with incredible decisiveness for the honor of who they loved.

I was not sure where he was going to land this time. My guess was that he would possess great strength, and although it would play out like some twisted gauntlet, he would get through. But then, we learned that we were wrong. We found out that their love was stronger than every other option, and in that, it was the best thing there ever was. It, too, was the worst thing there ever was.

I sit silently while a year has gone by. I have not made kimchi at all since before your last day. You always loved it when I did; somehow, the two have a connection thanks to my associative memory. I know that I will have to do it someday. I am strong in my own right, and that only has to do with who I am and no one else. I am sad because your whole existence was wiped off the surface of the world in a moment. It does not seem fair. I will honor you. I will honor the love that you had for her. It was a certain kind of love that could not continue without all of its pieces. I get it. A year later, I am still stunned.