Category: Writing

garbage day

August 10th, 2022

Another bag of trash to the can, then to the side of the road. Men with manners—they wave, nod, and even smile sometimes in passing—will be here soon to take it away and then lay the empty container on its side in the dewy grass. It’s summer, so hanging off the back of a garbage truck on a cool, sunny morning isn’t that bad. Yet. We’re only months away from cold hard rain, cold hard wind, cold hard snow. Everything cold. And hard.

But that’s okay. We will make the most of it. Watch our boy’s soccer games. Our girl’s silks routines. Do yard work. Regular work. Read new books, watch old movies, and play our favorite board games. Autumn brings color, flavored coffees, and easy walks with the dogs in cool weather. A welcome change of air and temperature and events that usher in months of wondering what it would be like to be snowbirds. The four of us living in a snow shovel-free zone where you can walk without slipping on ice, soaking up slush, and feeling extremities go numb.

Thinking about getting away, living an island life, is often enough to satisfy the itch. If not, there’s always winter vacation. A time to calculate, figure, deliberate and discuss, then CLICK! and we’re off for four nights someplace warm where people continually ask you if you’d like a drink. Where everything is bright and warm and cheerful with all-day all-you-can-eat buffets, giant chess games, pools, lounge chairs, and giant umbrellas where you can lay by the ocean all day if you want, snoring, and nobody gives you a second look.

For now, though, it’s another summer day. Garbage day. A few minutes before work. There’s plenty on the to-do list for me. And as I hear the rumble-roar of the truck down the street, I remember the trash in the bathroom, and in the kitchen, under the sink.

~ KJ
a glimpse of morning

April 6th, 2022

Early morning. I turn on the porch light to feed stray cats. There’s a puddle of blood. A big one.

I remember the red well. From hunting. From accidents. From intent. Just blood. It’s an alarming sight first thing in the morning. And seeing it there, near the warming house we put out for feral cats in the cold, makes me think of the Momma cat that’s been on and off our porch for weeks. Did birthing not go as planned?

There was a body. I see that. How it laid on the old wooden boards that have felt footsteps of creatures come and go over many years. But there’s no hair as if cats made a kill. No skin or flesh or bits of anything. No trails of blood from newborn kittens seeking warmth. No paw prints.

Back inside, I’m at the sink, filling the coffee pot with hot water. We’ve had opossum on the porch, but they seem to get along with the cats just fine. I’ve seen skunks, too, but rarely and if one was involved, it’s likely they would have run away, spraying their stink. Then, I think of owls. Wide-eyed, majestic predators. It’s possible one could be in town, near us. I’ve heard about more owl sightings in the past year than ever before. But maybe, I’m just listening more. Suddenly, I think of our house as a kitty bait pile. A hungry owl could feast every night by simply sitting on a nearby rooftop and waiting patiently for the right moment. Kittens playing. Cats on the prowl.

On the porch, I pour hot water over the blood. Some seeps through the cracks. Some—bright red globules—float away over the edge. The rest, the kind found by crime scene investigators, bonds to whatever invisible blood bonds to, and waits.

But this isn’t a crime. It’s nature. The evolution of life. There’s a lot happening I don’t see. Outside at night while we sleep. Inside at morning while we wake.

Every day, I stretch and rise slower than I used to. Splash cold water over the lines of my face. Put toothpaste on a brush to run over my teeth. Sometimes twice because I never want to lose them. Once I’m revived and recognize the person in the mirror, I return to bed, but only for a few seconds to hug and kiss my warm wife.

Then it’s down the hallway to stir kids that never want to leave their dreams. I get it. I understand. Most days, I don’t want to leave mine, either. I think of that as I run my aching hand atop the railing and descend the creaky staircase so I can look out the window to get that first glimpse of everything before it changes again.

I take a deep breath in, push a deep breath out, then turn on the light.

~ KJ
rambling on a snow day – bus moments

March 24th, 2022

A few days ago, I set up the basketball hoop in the driveway. My kids and I played. Around the world. Horse and pig. It’s been all shitty weather since. Not an issue, but tiresome. This is living in Michigan. Cold, warm, sun, snow, rain, hail, a breeze, a blustery wind storm—all of it can happen in a day’s time.

This morning, we wake to a thin layer of wet snow on slush and ice. And no school. This is where I am reminded of being a kid, helping get our bus unstuck one winter day. Just a group of kids pushing on a big yellow bus on a backroad. We loved it. It was fun. Part of the everyday adventure of a kid living in the country. Not that the bus got stuck often, but growing up in the 70s and 80s in a rural area seemed to put people in situations they simply aren’t in today. Not better. Not worse. Just different.

We got the bus out. The driver was ecstatic. We were only a little late for school. Some of us dirty, some of us wet. All of us excited and proud of what we had done. That would never fly today. Our bus driver would have been crucified. She was one of the best, strongest, most independent people I’ve ever encountered in my life. Fierce. Funny. Took no bullshit. She hugged us. Asked about what was going on at school, at home. She brought treats to us. Presents. Even let us play our cassette tapes on the bus. But she also broke up fights, kicked kids off buses, and stopped drunk parents from stepping onto the bus to snatch their kids up and take them to God knows where. She was a good human. She made me feel safe, secure, and made going to and from school tolerable. Today, some fame junkie would have Instagrammed her into jail.

That’s what I think about while sipping coffee. Waking slowly. Moving from here—our life of comfort and stability—to my childhood. Growing up.

A snow day now would not be a snow day then. We wouldn’t sleep in, either. Already, my brothers and I would be dressing to get out in it. The snow. The cold. The new day of possibility. If we had a fancy portable basketball hoop like the one in our driveway, we’d shovel so we could play. But we didn’t have as many distractions. Information so ready at our fingertips.

These keys. Doing their trick. Pulling me back there. Into whatever it was. As if it was a life separate from the one I live now. And it’s not. I’m still there, playing in the snow with my brothers. Riding that school bus on good days and bad. And I’m here now. And I’ll be here tomorrow. And so will my kids.

This experience. It changes and rolls out and over us in ways we don’t always understand. We can’t know the value of what we’re in, it seems, until we’re out of it. So, I hope, my kids will write about their lives one day. That they will remember their snow days and relive their bus moments, whatever they may be.

~ KJ
simple depth

March 21st, 2022

For me. For you. The blue overlays the white, but we fight for clarity as we march toward destiny—an everchanging, growing evolution of experience. We won’t settle, except for slow times when recharging is necessary. An hour on the couch to zone out or laugh, be amazed, or afraid. Two chapters in a chair to feed the soul. Music—always music—in the kitchen, the office, the cars. There’s not much time left, but all the time in the world. Our fortune grows every day. Through kindness and good deeds and doing the best we can for us—all the living and undead—encapsulated within this space. So, we monitor the surface but go deep as necessary to retrieve treasures. One of us will stay watch while the other finds what others are afraid to discover. We will wrestle it free, hold it tight, and rise to show the world. Because that’s what we’re here for. That’s what we’re meant to do. There’s magic everywhere and the finest finds are not always hidden. They are within the depths of simplicity. The underside of the leaf. The tips of earthworms. The sound of swans as they sail through the air. We can’t give up or sleep too long because there is always this work that needs to be done. For me. For you. For the sake of clarity.

~ KJ
come down

November 25th, 2021

Feed your brain and body better ingredients and better experiences.

Don’t lose sight of stars. The horizon. The patience and magic that rolls a cloud into a whale, a penguin, a buffalo.

Pick up a book. Dedicate yourself to one page a day. Remove yourself from the narrative you’ve created and discover another.

Remember, there are invisible curative properties in autumn’s early morning air. So, get out. Walk your neighborhood, your property, a trail. Look at the ground—always there, holding you. Waiting. Even when you have risen thousands of feet thinking you’ve conquered gravity.

~ KJ
one year later — looking up

November 3rd, 2021

Big Dipper above as I walk to the trash can by the road. A bag of cat shit in hand. But the sky—full-blown with sparkling pinholes of light—gets me right for the day.

This is an opportunity.

Be mindful. Aware. Listen more today than you did yesterday. Learn.

And forgive.

They know not what they do. Though they should.

Common sense. Think before you speak. Be kind. Courageous. Do what you say you’re going to do.

I said I’d stop drinking alcohol a year ago today. I did it. Doing that—ceasing the act—was easy. Everything that comes along with getting back to basics, facing life as it is and not how you want it to be—that’s not so easy.

But, most often, it’s not the act that’s the culprit. It’s everything else that’s been put in play—some of it your own doing, some of it innate—and that, deciphering the narrative you’ve created, that’s the hard part. The sobering part, if you will.

Once you start taking a hard look at yourself, measuring your decisions, weighing consequences, it’s easy to not drink. It’s easy to turn the other cheek. It’s easy to believe in others, and most of all, it’s easy to believe in you. And once you get on that path of believing in yourself, you pick up steam day by day, and become, in a way, unstoppable.

There are endless opportunities to live a better life. To get happy. Sure, there are moments that are still utter shit. That’s how it’s supposed to be. You don’t learn much when everything’s roses.

And there’ll be days…days when you’re teetering on that familiar edge, wondering if you’re gonna make it. Doubting yourself and your ability to help create conditions that foster safety, comfort, and good for your family—for your wife and kids. But clarity will come and balance will be restored with strange, everyday, magical moments.

Like stepping outside on an early Wednesday morning. Feeling the cold. Letting that clean air into your lungs, into your blood, and looking up. At all those stars. So bright, patient, and knowing.

~ KJ
October 21, 2021

October 21st, 2021

“Writing is art,” she said. “Some paintings and artists offend people. You’ll piss off people. Others will like what you do.”

I sipped my coffee. I know this, of course. I’ve been writing long enough to experience the applause and boos of audiences. Some smart. Some not. Everyone with an opinion. And over time, it builds up. But now, I feel I’m about ready to let it all rip. Tear away the niceties. Let the writing do what it has always wanted to do. Run free. And even if it gets ugly and wild, there’ll be beauty.

I’ve spent so much time over the years reigning myself in that my writing has been too measured. Maybe it’s not about the iceberg theory—making meaning by what’s left out. Maybe it’s good to simply say it straight out. Do what the energy wants. Rip off the band-aid. Let it bleed. Let it breathe. Just let it be. And maybe this change is about more than writing. Maybe it’s about my life.

She is right. She usually is. She is my barometer. My mediator. My meditation. My best friend. And so, when she said those simple words this morning, it meant something. Set off a rush of thought and happiness that will fuel me the rest of the day.

That’s the stuff marriage is made of. Not vows and big, look-at-me events. Not flowers, rings, kisses, and hugs. Not even sex. It’s about having the guts to listen, to give way, to unite so you are strong together or apart. So that one day, when you are wrinkled up, deaf, and blind, you are comforted by that familiar spirit that’s there with you, holding your hand in the dark.

~ KJ
carry on

October 17th, 2021

autumn — art by Brooke Stevens

Too late in the morning to start a blog. The day, as it sits, feels strange.

We slept in.

Coffee should be further into the bloodstream, but I opened up with a cup of decaf, while the potent stuff brewed.

Cats loaded the litter boxes overnight. Dog shit in the house. Something—one of our furry friends—vomited in the bathroom. Clean up has always been my job. Spills, leaks, clogs, piss, poop, blood, puke. That’s me. I’m numb to the act. It’s not fun, but there are people that have to do it for a living. I choose to do it.

Life goes on.

I want to hit the road today. Get the 4Runner dirty. Run it through mud. Up hills. Into sand. Bump through puddles and smell fall through the open windows. I want to hear gravel pop and shift under the tires. I want to be simple and quiet and reserved. Digest a movie. Disappear. Lock myself away.

Not sure how it gets like this.

We went to a friend’s house last night. Halloween movies by a bonfire. Bacon-wrapped jalapenos. Good conversation. Stars. A wild, leaf-rustling wind that blew over the projector screen three times. We laughed. We got serious. Talked about life and death. A body found in the quarry. Strange happenings. How great it was that the kids were playing together. Not on their phones but engaged with a board game.

My wife got to have a few drinks and relax. Share happy moments. I like hearing her laugh.

I had three decaffeinated, sugar-free sodas and half a bottle of water. This is all new. Being sober in social situations. And it was easy. If anything, I felt kinda bad for all the times I had been at this friend’s house and other friends’ houses, family gatherings, at bars, restaurants, and at my own home too drunk to care about the fact that my wife could not relax. Have fun.

But, there’s no sense beating myself up. That’s what led to all the drinking in the first place. Guilt. Sadness. Not feeling good enough. A whole bag of regret and poor decisions just stewing and stinking it up. And instead of addressing them, I drank.

Sobriety’s interesting. I remember it. And I feel good being back to it.

Normality. Reasoning.

Taking care of shit, doing the clean up as necessary, so we can carry on.

~KJ
a prayer

July 27th, 2021

I wrote A Prayer in 2004. I was a different person, but I wasn’t. There’s immaturity in that writing. That’s natural. As artists, we grow—if we dedicate time to the craft. What was best though. was seeing that I’d grown as a person. I don’t even recognize some of the stories. I get the meaning. I know what I was trying to do. I like the finished product. But I have evolved. My thoughts on love, family, life in general, have all changed for the better. But that passion! And some of the topics I wrote about? Abuse, alcoholism, marriage! I knew more than I thought back then. Not fully, but in parts. Glimpses.

That’s what writing has always been about for me. The glimpses. Little scenes. Blips of feeling. I get so caught up in the day-to-day now, that I forget to write about the blips. I neglect to acknowledge their importance. That’s unfortunate. But now that I’m recognizing it, I can fix it. I can remember them. Document them. Share them. And maybe they will make a difference.

Like this morning.

That younger version of me put down on paper what he thought was important. What was moving. And he was right. Sure, the presentation may not have been refined. One would never suspect he actually studied writing and wrote nearly every day. But he captured moments as best he could, like a kid at the kitchen table drawing his family with big, thick crayons. And today, I found that picture. And it made me smile. And I am inspired.

~ KJ
distillation

June 16th, 2021

You know how you wake up with a song in your head and it sticks there while? What if you put on the headphones and played that song? And what if you did it every time you woke with a song in your brain?

Would it change the course of your day?

I think the name of the song in my mind is Save Your Tears by The Weekend. I’m not a pop music guy, but I don’t turn off a decent tune when I hear one. This one is catchy. It must be. It’s been in the background all morning.

I’d certainly like to run away sometimes. Just long enough to regroup. Center. Appreciate—really appreciate coming home.

My restlessness has changed. It no longer propels me into bouts of self-destruction. I don’t need to tear apart the world, break it down and find the pieces that matter. I’ve done that enough times and have enough pieces. It’s time I examine them. Explore where they came from—the moments, what they might mean—and begin piecing them together.

All that destruction.

It’s amazing what we’ll do to escape the simple truths of life.

You know, like the fact that it hurts like hell some days. And other days, you’re animally happy. Blissful, even.

The breaking down is important though. It helped me distill, over time, what matters most. There’s plenty that does, by the way. And those pieces can all be glued together by one power, premise, energy, theme, if you will.

Love.

As corny, Hallmarky, or diary-like it may sound, love is the key. It’s the key, the lock, the door, the house, the block, the neighborhood, the town, the county, the state, the country, the region, the hemisphere, the world.

And beyond.

Funny. The song is still in my head. I’ll give it a listen in a bit. It might be a good release. A couple minutes of escape from expectations so I can revel in the now. Just being. A person able to think and feel and share and reach.

And I continue to do it the only way I know how. From the inside to the outside. Distilling this reality. Fingers to the keys.

~ KJ