Tag: blogging

to S.B. on her birthday

March 19th, 2020

We were five weeks into it. My trips on weekends to visit.

S.B. was living on Stieber Street. Doing her best. Trying to teach art to kids that didn’t get regular meals, words of encouragement, or hugs.

She was raising a two-year-old. By herself. In a neighborhood that was just a step above questionable. The lady across the street thought S.B. was rich.

Because she was a teacher.

Because she was able to put her son into daycare from 7:30 to 3:00, while she worked.

The lady came over on a regular basis to ask for money.

For food.

For formula.

For tampons.

It was hard for S.B. to say NO because she has seen many things. Because she is sweet-hearted.

But her experience has given her a good, solid, fool-proof, bullshit detector.

I know, because she uses it on me.

But that is neither here nor there.

This is about the time we were sitting at the kitchen table that eventually became our dining room table, our living room table, the family table. The one with the small, round, wooden top, and black wrought iron legs.

We were drinking wine, listening to Rage Against the Machine, Tool, Pearl Jam, and Dave Matthews Band.

And we were playing Rummikub.

She was vibrant as ever.

Black tank top.

Grey yoga pants.

Smelling like vanilla and rain.

She amazed me.

Raising a kid, working her ass off, doing all of it on her own, and then welcoming me, a stranger for the most part, to live with her and her baby two days at a time.

A chubby guy with good intentions. On her doorstep every Friday night, after a 239-mile drive.

Time and distance have moved us here.

Life on the 45^th parallel, just a few blocks from Lake Huron, in the place we will always call home.

It’ll be a dozen years come August, and to me, there’s no end in sight.

I believe that all we’ll ever do is start all over again.

Because of that one night.

Drinking Yellow Tail.

Listening to Crash by Dave Matthews Band.

Together.

Playing Rummikub.

I’d just ended my turn. Looked up.

Smiled.

And for whatever reason, she leaned over the table and kissed me.

I don’t think she knows it, but that’s what pulled me in.

A simple, single moment that connected me

to everything.

~ KJ
the work around

August 27th, 2019

Sitting with artists.

Drinking Seize the Day.

Hearing ideas.

Sensing stifled thoughts.

Frustration simmers

just below the surface.

As always.

All of us just want to do what we love,

but politics always come to play.

Challenge us.

Keep us in line.

But if we are as creative as we feel we are,

we will find ways to work around

and within

the system.

To do what we love

regardless of rules.

~ KJ
Been Here Before

July 27th, 2019

July 17, 2019

8:26 am

We are citizens of the Universe. Feeling like we’ve been here before.

Energy waves. Vibration. Attracting and repelling other energy.

It’s difficult to remain connected—centered, but even more challenging to rediscover connection once it’s been lost because this existence requires a measured amount of disconnect to function.

The great trick is learning how to disconnect without becoming desensitized. To take that leap of faith that propels you beyond what you know.

Maybe it’s a new job.

Taking a different route to work.

Or forcing yourself into an uncomfortable situation.

Whatever it is, you’re never sure in the moment, but recognize it once it has passed because you feel regret for not letting go and allowing the Universe to take control.

Why are we so afraid of giving up?

So content with comfort?

Stuck in this perpetual return. Die. Come back. Die. Come back. We die again and again and again. So tied to the fears of this physical world that we’re unable to break free and simply be.

And so, we are left with fleeting instances of déjà vu.

~ KJ
the never end

October 4th, 2018

I lifted the cat and hugged her.

Even though she’s shit on our bedroom floor and I stepped in it twice.

Barefoot.

Once, as I clomped my way to the john in the dark. Bladder so full of vodka, Sprite, and water that I thought I’d never go back to bed.

The other, a weird moment when I was here, but there–a man dead, but alive–dreaming but awake. It woke me, but instead of cleaning it up I sat on the floor listening to my wife snore.

And I loved her more than I did the day I said I do.

There are more moments like this than I like to admit.

Broken plans.

Wayward dreams.

An intense belief that ghosts do not only exist but push day-after-day to remind us of how quickly this life ends.

But I don’t believe them.

I can’t.

There are cats to hug.

There’s shit to clean up.

And those hands sweeping round silently never ever end.

~ K.J.
understand

October 2nd, 2018

I have many faults.

I’m impatient. Lack discipline.

I’m too lazy to understand

our differences.

And so,

I get stuck

in deep ruts.

My wheels spin.

I create paranoia.

Make problems that don’t exist.

Because I’m bored.

Like a coyote in a cage.

Running back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth.

Again.

I don’t stretch beyond what I know, so I do what I’ve been doing all along.

Dying without ideas.

Even if it’s wrong.

Because it is easier to reject the unknown than it is to understand.

~ K.J.
devastation like this

September 20th, 2018

(Please note, this is a creative work. If you need help, please call 1-800-273-8255. Or reach out to family or friends. It’s bleak, but it isn’t worth shutting the light out.)

I know how deep it gets. A switch clicks. And there is no coming back from it.

Whatever IT is.

Could be chemicals. Or the devil. Or any combination of fears, ignorance, and neglect. But it is real.

I know because it has pulled many people into it.

Including me.

The dark, sticky, sad, angry mess.

Where you can stay in bed for days and not give a shit.

When nobody understands how deep the rabbit hole gets.

And you find beauty and comfort in the darkest, most unfriendly places.

One night, I stopped a friend from pulling the trigger. It was accidental. I had just rented Conspiracy Theory and stopped by to return his Van Halen tape. When I walked into his house, he was sitting in the middle of the kitchen with his forehead resting on the barrel of a 12 gauge. He had his shoes off and his toe on the trigger.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

I didn’t know, so I said nothing. But I did walk over and smack him in the side of the head with an open hand, and then I took the gun.

He cried and hugged me and said he was sorry, but I knew he’d be back again.

And he did it. Finally. Eight years later. After his kids left to live with his ex-wife and her new husband.

I wonder if he waited, paused at the sound of a car coming down the road. If he hoped it was another accident in the making—a friend with a cassette tape and a Mel Gibson movie.

It comes suddenly. Ruthlessly.

One minute I’m wondering at the strength and balance of my twelve-year-old boy as he beats opponent after opponent on the soccer field. The next, I’m thinking about a friend I had in high school—an acquaintance really—that made an impact when nobody else could.

He had a full-time job. Drove a CJ-5. Was upbeat, friendly, and always out for fun. One time, he took me aside because he was concerned about how I was handling the break up with my long-time girlfriend. He asked if I was depressed. If I was going to make it. Offered to be there. Anytime. Anywhere. For me. He told me this under the bleachers at a high school football game. Both of us sipping Mohawk and Mountain Dew Big Gulps.

I would never have imagined that thirty years later he would give in. That his wife would find him hanging from the rafters of the garage. Twitching. Not strong enough to lift him up and save him.

Then again, there has always been devastation like this.

Three from elementary school, that I know of.

Two from high school.

One from college.

And two co-workers.

People so sad and disconnected that they took pills, fashioned nooses, and put guns to their heads. Not because life was bad, but because it was so good, and they never knew how to feel the way they were supposed to.

It’s hard to get up and just BE every day. To maintain the happiness, patience, and normality everyone expects. But it is doable. And it is possible.

Pull yourself out of the depths into the light, so you can see and breathe again.

Know how deep it gets. That the switch clicks. And that there’s no coming back from it.

Whatever IT is.

It could be the chemicals. Or the devil. Or any combination of fears, ignorance, and neglect. But it is real.

I know because time and time again it tries with all its might to pull me in, and down and under, but it never wins.

~ K.J.
the mightiest of wolves

September 17th, 2018

Not many men write at night.

After wives and kids have gone to bed.

Those that do, I suspect, have pain. Or boundless energy. Or are so narcissistic that they don’t know any better.

Dan Rather says, somewhere in his new book—and I’m paraphrasing here—that we shouldn’t feel sorry for people. Instead, we need to empathize. Seek to understand. Extend our hand, reach, and bring people closer.

Together.

Because when we are close—just sharing space—there is always the great chance that we will find our commonality. Create community. And unite.

But what Dan Rather has to say, and what I have to say means nothing if you are unable to recognize that most of what you know isn’t yours. It was put into your head, as truth, by somebody else.

You have been taught to believe in God, taxes, and Santa Claus. You have been taught to tie your shoelaces, turn the other cheek, and to stand at attention for the flag.

It’s a shame really. How easily we are duped. Shamed. Made to fit into sheep’s clothing when we are the mightiest of wolves.

Aching to howl.

Barefoot and ready to fight.

Fearless, as we kneel and allow our enemies to take the first shot.

~ K.J.
running out of time

August 27th, 2018

monarchs © 2012 Brooke Stevens

My kids love without conditions. They care about people and animals. Water, dirt and sand, rocks and trees. They care about many things. They have not yet been spoiled by their surroundings. They want to help others. Pick up trash. Recycle. Give.

Not only to those less fortunate but to everyone.

Sometimes, I wonder if they’re mine. They are better than me. Purer. More observant. More in tune with the place they came from than I am or will ever be. I think it’s because they’re closer to it. Younger. Not that far removed from the magic. Like an egg to a caterpillar to a chrysalis to a Monarch. A winged insect flying a drunken pattern to Mexico. Only to love, live a short while, and die.

It’s hard raising kids when you know time is not on your side. That anything can happen. That our efforts at raising them increase the chance they’ll be messed up. They’ll learn our quirks. Adopt our mannerisms. Make the same mistakes we have. Again and again.

Giving up on gods. Disbelieving ghosts. Drinking or eating or doing whatever it takes to numb the pain. Another adult doing what it takes to make ends meet instead of doing what it is they are meant to do. Instead of that which they love.

I sent pictures of my kids—all smiles and ready for the first day of school—to my parents today. I said that it was strange how they were growing so fast. And then I thought of how stupid it was to say that. I was stating the obvious. Something they have known for years.

Life is incredible and sad and happy and inspirational. It is the hardest thing a spirit will ever encounter, especially when you choose to be a good parent and continue the cycle.

I’ve said a lot of things to them over the years that didn’t make sense. That were self-centered and steeped in ignorance. But it hasn’t seemed to change how they feel about me.

My parents…they love without conditions. They give. They listen, they watch and believe. They have not given up.

Not on people, animals, dirt, sand, rocks and trees. They have never given up on me.

And so, I am here. Four minutes after ten o’clock in the evening. Hearing crickets out the window. Seeing stars vibrate in the sky. Quieted by the realization that I too am running out of time.

~ K.J.
we’d never do that

February 21st, 2018

Everyone suddenly knows what it is that drives a young man to arm himself with a weapon and extinguish light.

Driven by their own beliefs, agendas, and experience, they label, pigeon-hole, and validate. Nobody seems to consider that perhaps all of it is more complicated than what we read and hear and see. We want so much to make sense of it, to understand and control it, that we do all that we can to simplify it.

After all, we have kids. We want them safe. We are good, God-fearing folks, and we believe most definitely that there’s a right and a wrong. That it is good or evil, black or white, left or right.

But maybe that’s the problem.

We spend so much time pushing people into places we think they belong that we forget.

We’re animals.

Sleeping and waking and working and faking. Doing whatever it takes to survive.

And when we are cornered, afraid of what may become of us and everything we believe to be true and right and just, we bite. We fight. We lie and cheat and steal and walk into schools with weapons wanting to kill those sacred, beautiful things we once had—innocence, possibility, dreams—all because we’re afraid that life as we know it is being destroyed by the OTHERS. The liberals, the conservatives, the waffling wimps in the middle, the whites, the aliens, the blacks.

It’s always somebody else’s fault.

The immigrants. The corporations. The lazy bastards at home milking the system.

It’s never us.

We’d never do that.

Ever.

~ KJ
church doughnuts

July 30th, 2017

This morning is a good one. It’s going to be another beautiful summer day in Alpena, Michigan. Clear sky, probably high 70s. Little to no wind. Except for cars passing down 2^nd Avenue every so often and crows cawing and heckling a few blocks over, all is quiet in the neighborhood.

Julian gassed up with Cocoa Krispies and half an hour of cartoons. He threw on clean underwear, the same shirt and shorts from yesterday, brushed his teeth, and ran out the front door to meet Gary, his mentor from church. They are in charge of purchasing doughnuts and treats and setting up the snack table for the devoted congregation.

Jovi got up, made herself a fried egg and toast, and dressed in her Sunday best—something colorful and not-matching, with beads and butterflies, and purple streaks in her white blonde hair. Nana and Papa picked her up so they can meet Julian, eat doughnuts, and attend the beautiful outdoor service.

The church is First United Methodist. My kids enjoy it. They go early and stay late to help with chores. They attend youth group, bible camp, and participate in whatever they can. They like the snacks, the library, the arts and crafts, hot cocoa, socializing with other kids, and spending time with their grandparents.

I’m no fan of church. It’s spooky. Thankfully, my kids are young enough so that they’re only interested in the surface stuff. They latch onto the love and tolerance and WWJ, but I think they’ve both got pretty good built-in bullshit detectors that soon enough things will start to stink and they’ll figure out that church isn’t necessary. That spirituality is beyond archaic, guilt-ridden messages, stained glass windows, and passing around a plate. That the love preached is not the same as the real love that grows from experiences at their fingertips, under their feet, in their heartbeats, thoughts, and dreams. That the real God probably prefers them getting out and doing on Sunday mornings—on every morning—rather than sitting and listening. The same messages hammered out over and over and over again. An old way of thinking disguised as new, still trying to send spirits backwards rather than encouraging true progress. The church’s filter stifling individuality and encouraging judgmental behavior by the sheer notion that one is not to judge.

But there I go. Preaching again when there’s shit to do.

I hope my kids are enjoying the doughnuts. That they’re watching seagulls float atop the waves. Listening to the water against the shore. Feeling the sunlight from the baby blue sky as ants in the grass carry crumbs and candy sprinkles to their colony.

~ K.J.