Posted on the 6S Social Network 16Feb10
She never seemed to have any luck:The few men that flew through her life left her
with only one thing: her children. Children that depended solely
on her; a boy without a daddy; two girls that knew from an early age that men
were only good for two things: fighting and running away. She never relented, never faltered; she knew
that these children would be doomed if the thought of submission entered her
mind; one week, one day, one hour at the time.
There was no such thing as sacrifice, there was only necessity, duty and Love,
with a twist of inspiration. Day by
day, mouths were fed and wounds were kissed to speed up the recovery. luck was only for the unlucky; as long as
there was Love in the house, luck be damned…Love built this family.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
The Great J of Yore
Posted on the 6S Social Network 11Feb10
In the grand scheme of life, every night befalls every morning light, until that one day. For my friend Jimmy, that night befell his last breath before his twenty-seventh birthday as he succumbed to his life-long struggle with diabetes. He wasn't the closest friend I have ever had, but he was more than just a pleasant acquaintance. As my grief from his death, more than three years ago, subsides, my mind generates only what seems to me to be bitter cliches. If you love someone, love them deeply and completely; if you hate someone, hate them ferociously and without remorse; no matter what you believe about anything, believe it until it hurts - make it true. There is never a tomorrow for any of us, only a pleasant surprise when we open our eyes against our most recent slumber...make it count.
In the grand scheme of life, every night befalls every morning light, until that one day. For my friend Jimmy, that night befell his last breath before his twenty-seventh birthday as he succumbed to his life-long struggle with diabetes. He wasn't the closest friend I have ever had, but he was more than just a pleasant acquaintance. As my grief from his death, more than three years ago, subsides, my mind generates only what seems to me to be bitter cliches. If you love someone, love them deeply and completely; if you hate someone, hate them ferociously and without remorse; no matter what you believe about anything, believe it until it hurts - make it true. There is never a tomorrow for any of us, only a pleasant surprise when we open our eyes against our most recent slumber...make it count.
Teacher
Posted on the 6S Social Network 11Feb10
He was out of place at this kind of party from the start, but she was a close friend and had asked him, so he would do his best to put on a smile and mingle with the shifty-eyed patrons. He stood in a semi-circle of men of varying age with varying degrees of facial hair as they talked shop, each of the men elegantly and politely stating that their job, their life, was more important than the next. As he tilted his expensive flute filled with expensive champagne up to his lips, one of the men seemed to notice him for the first time and asked him to what profession does he serve. He cleared his throat and replied "I'm a teacher at the public middle school". As the semi-circle gained it's composure, the inquisitor asked him what a middle-school teacher made; the semi-circle was silent, he had the floor. "A middle-school teacher makes do with what he is provided, and he stretches it as far as it will go, then he makes his personal budget razor thin in order that none of his kids ever goes without, then he gives a piece of his soul to each and every student to let them know that no matter what happens, they are loved; what I make, sir, is a difference."
-I wish I could claim that this was an original concept, but I can't. I heard the premise of this many years ago from somewhere, I wish I could remember where, and it stuck with me.
He was out of place at this kind of party from the start, but she was a close friend and had asked him, so he would do his best to put on a smile and mingle with the shifty-eyed patrons. He stood in a semi-circle of men of varying age with varying degrees of facial hair as they talked shop, each of the men elegantly and politely stating that their job, their life, was more important than the next. As he tilted his expensive flute filled with expensive champagne up to his lips, one of the men seemed to notice him for the first time and asked him to what profession does he serve. He cleared his throat and replied "I'm a teacher at the public middle school". As the semi-circle gained it's composure, the inquisitor asked him what a middle-school teacher made; the semi-circle was silent, he had the floor. "A middle-school teacher makes do with what he is provided, and he stretches it as far as it will go, then he makes his personal budget razor thin in order that none of his kids ever goes without, then he gives a piece of his soul to each and every student to let them know that no matter what happens, they are loved; what I make, sir, is a difference."
-I wish I could claim that this was an original concept, but I can't. I heard the premise of this many years ago from somewhere, I wish I could remember where, and it stuck with me.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
E.S.C
Posted on the 6S Social Network 2Feb10
When my son was a newborn, he had a fascination with my hands. He would wrap a brand new, soft hand around one of my calloused, scarred fingers and hold on. Each scar on my hands has its own story; not all are bad, but most are. I have used these hands to love and comfort; to mend and fix; to hurt and kill. His hands have not felt the sting of rejection, nor the joy of love; bone cracking from a well placed blow, nor the feel of a soft caress among lovers. When he holds my fingers, I hope that somehow he is learning from my mistakes so he wont repeat my life.
When my son was a newborn, he had a fascination with my hands. He would wrap a brand new, soft hand around one of my calloused, scarred fingers and hold on. Each scar on my hands has its own story; not all are bad, but most are. I have used these hands to love and comfort; to mend and fix; to hurt and kill. His hands have not felt the sting of rejection, nor the joy of love; bone cracking from a well placed blow, nor the feel of a soft caress among lovers. When he holds my fingers, I hope that somehow he is learning from my mistakes so he wont repeat my life.
Good Vibrations
Posted on the 6S Social Network 2Feb10
A young boy walked along a sidewalk, using his fingers to create clean lines on dirty glass. The vibration that was sent through his body from each slow step reinforced that thought in his mind. The thought that he is living life in small increments; a short burst of meaning between silent travels of time. He stopped, lifted his fingers from the dirty window, and inspected the filth that had accumulated. He looked back at the four lines that were cut into the dust, and he smiled. He looked forward, wiped his hand on his shirt, and ran.
A young boy walked along a sidewalk, using his fingers to create clean lines on dirty glass. The vibration that was sent through his body from each slow step reinforced that thought in his mind. The thought that he is living life in small increments; a short burst of meaning between silent travels of time. He stopped, lifted his fingers from the dirty window, and inspected the filth that had accumulated. He looked back at the four lines that were cut into the dust, and he smiled. He looked forward, wiped his hand on his shirt, and ran.
Hooked on Ferrets Worked for Me
Posted on the 6S Social Network 3Feb10
There are two professions that I know of in which the real world experience of the teacher means nothing to the student: teaching the ropes course of life to a teenager, and a kamikaze pilot. When my wife or I try to tell our one-month-until-I'm-thirteen year old daughter a valuable life lesson we've learned, it's like trying to teach string theory to a ferret; they look you in the eye at first, then they go and gnaw the strap button off of your 1974 Fender Stratocaster. We try to stress to her that the world is a wonderful place to live (because she has no choice) but the world can be treacherous if the wrong moves are made. There has to be some point in which a teenager turns into a human being. I thought about drawing upon my own teenage experience to set her straight, and then I remembered that I can't remember much of my teenage years. I was way too busy having way too much fun.
There are two professions that I know of in which the real world experience of the teacher means nothing to the student: teaching the ropes course of life to a teenager, and a kamikaze pilot. When my wife or I try to tell our one-month-until-I'm-thirteen year old daughter a valuable life lesson we've learned, it's like trying to teach string theory to a ferret; they look you in the eye at first, then they go and gnaw the strap button off of your 1974 Fender Stratocaster. We try to stress to her that the world is a wonderful place to live (because she has no choice) but the world can be treacherous if the wrong moves are made. There has to be some point in which a teenager turns into a human being. I thought about drawing upon my own teenage experience to set her straight, and then I remembered that I can't remember much of my teenage years. I was way too busy having way too much fun.
Horses?
Posted on the 6S Social Network 4Feb10
I lived in The Netherlands for a year in 1999-2000. I learned as much Dutch as my American tongue would allow before I moved there. When I started talking to Dutch people, I couldn't help but notice that they were giving me odd looks when they found out that I spoke only English. When a Dutch person would greet me, in Dutch, I would say, "Pardon?"...then came the odd look. I found out a little later that "paarden" (pronounced pardon) in Dutch means "horses". When someone would ask me, in Dutch, how I was doing, I was replying back, in Dutch, "horses".
I lived in The Netherlands for a year in 1999-2000. I learned as much Dutch as my American tongue would allow before I moved there. When I started talking to Dutch people, I couldn't help but notice that they were giving me odd looks when they found out that I spoke only English. When a Dutch person would greet me, in Dutch, I would say, "Pardon?"...then came the odd look. I found out a little later that "paarden" (pronounced pardon) in Dutch means "horses". When someone would ask me, in Dutch, how I was doing, I was replying back, in Dutch, "horses".
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
