The Ghost Around The Corner

Regret is shadowy
tied inexplicably
to mercurial memory
both unreliable
for who can know
who felt what
and when
or
what could have been
and yet
a surprise encounter
unearths
what was forgotten,
delicious shame
like a potent cheese
unwrapped with ease
floods my nose
and stings my eyes
and for a moment
I reel with unease.

There was a time
I feared the past,
the thoughtless
destruction
in my history,
terrified
to walk the streets
and perchance
confront the damage
I had wrought
but
over years
I've worked
to heal and build
rather than demolish
yet still
from time to time
I glimpse a
Ghost
around the corner.

JJ

You gave me rides in your Ford Pinto
and I made you tye-dye shirts
we'd hike and smoke
drink and wrestle
talk life, love, and ambition
there was that period
you were training for the Olympics
and teaching yourself piano
while I was a shiftless college student.

We'd spend hours
at the ping-pong table
and walking through the forest
conversation and silence
equally comfortable
but time passed
I moved and became consumed
in the pursuit of liquor
and you with existential dread.

At one point, you reached out
clearly struggling
looking for a life line
and I
in the throes of self-destruction
and self-interest
blew you off
effectively closing the door
on our decade old friendship.

Time passed
and we both emerged
from our respective darkness
me, sober
and you, in med school
I hope you are well my friend
our bond of fellowship
was balm and inspiration both
it's influence will never fade.

I'm sorry
I was not there for you
I tell myself
at the time
I was incapable
which perhaps is true
but that does not mean
I forget
the debt I owe to you.

Movement Teacher

At the time you were a revelation.
We fresh faced acting hopefuls
were awed by your stubborn optimism,
your physical assurance and fervor
were infectious.
You opened possibilities
to our young impressionable
artistic minds
which we had never considered.
We all came to love you
and hung on your every word
quoted you to each other, the gospel of Paul D.

Under your firm yet cheerful guidance
we studied the principles of Laban
we threw our bodies into
The Eight Efforts-
Indirectly pressing
sustained gliding
directly dabbing
weighted wringing
lightly flicking
quickly slashing-
all the innumerable combinations.
Under your benevolent supervision
our perception broadened
our bodies strengthened
our aesthetic sharpened.
We adored you, we your movement acolytes.
Until that day.

You stopped Caitlin during her solo exploration.
Vented your frustration and disappointment,
your scorn and consternation on her, undeserved.
We saw your positivity and support was but veneer.
Your confidence a fraying rope.
Your fear and discontent acidic.
And we, the recipients of this self-induced maliciousness
were left confused and betrayed.

We all lost something that day.

The Past

I do not regret the past
for every pain
has brought me to the present.
But
there are days.
When old shames
buried deep
bubble up,
when scare tissue
long healed
aches,
when forgotten wounds
reopen and spill remorse.
And there are nights
when every shadow
is a face
accusing and wronged,
when the dark
is crowded by ghosts
of the transgressed,
when sleep itself
seems aggrieved.

Like a chain around the neck
with each link trailing
back miles and years
to birth.

The weight
is sometimes
too much to bear.

Street Talk 24

I'm sitting on the steps of a church smoking, waiting to meet a friend. On Mondays the church sorts and packages clothes and food for donation. I notice on the side of the church there is an old man waiting by the side door. He is short and thin, his baggy cloths are dirty, his grey hair unwashed.

After a couple minutes he approaches the stairs where I am sitting.

Old Man: 'scuse me.

He sits on the stairs just below me. He has a to-go Styrofoam container with food in it which he begins to eat quietly. It's a Thanksgiving meal- turkey, stuffing, corn, and mashed potatoes. At first I'm nervous he'll ask me for money or a cigarette but he doesn't. We sit in silence. He eats, I smoke. We sit this way for about ten minutes.

It strikes me as incredibly sad. This old man eating a donated Thanksgiving dinner in the middle of summer. With the air so hot and humid I wonder how he could be enjoying it. I chastise myself, any food is welcome when you're hungry.

I wonder if he is waiting there for the same reason I am. I suspect he is not. I think if things were different I could be him. I think there was a time when the gutter held a certain glamour, a certain romance for me and that I am glad I am free from that delusion. I think his present could still be my future if I'm not diligent, if I'm not attentive, if I'm not wary. I silently thank him for his unconscious reminder.

He does not smell, he is not rude or pushy, he is not angry, he is simply sad. And the sadness follows him like a loyal dog. Regret too. I can feel the weight of his regret.

I think we are not much different him and I. Two men sitting on the steps of a church. One smoking, one eating.

Ode To My Arizona Straight Cut Jeans

Our time together was all too brief
you were my second favorite pair of jeans.
Had you had a darker wash
you would have been number one.

We saw New York, LA, snow, sleet, and sun.
But yesterday after stopping at 7-Eleven
while mounting my bike to leave-
you split from crotch to knee.

O' Arizona Straight Cut Jeans
you perished the same way
many of your brethren had gone before.
Shredded by time, damp, and legs splayed wide.

I will miss your stolid sturdiness
but you were a substitute for one before
and although it is inconvenient to replace you now
you are not important enough to grieve.

D.Bainbridge

I was ill prepared
for your boxing challenge.
I prepped
by eating fajitas
and drinking
sugary margaritas.
Filled with confidence,
youth, and no skill
whatsoever.
When signing the barman's waiver
you declined headgear
naively I followed suit.
Despite my advantage
of height, weight, reach,
and an inflated
sense of justice
I was out matched.
Your only target
was my head
which your arms
like pistons
pummeled.
The fight's duration
was one minute
twelve seconds.
You kicked my ass.
I cried uncle
before the first round bell
had even rung.
My friends swept me
up and out.
On the street
I puked.
As if to crystallize my defeat.

Sometimes
I'll think of flying to New York City
with a pair of boxing gloves.
To find you. Dan.
And demand a rematch.

A Fable About Rage

There once was a badger who liked things in a particular way.
His territory just so.
His burrow just so.
His meals just so.
His fur, just so sleek.
His claws, just so sharp.
He got up at the same time every morning.
He went to bed at the same time every night.
He was lonely but content.
Everything had its purpose.
Everything had its place.
One day a clan of squirrels came to live in the tree atop the badger's burrow.
He did not like this.
They scuffed his grass.
They scratched his trees.
Their incessant chatter filled his peaceful glade.
The squirrels tried to be friends with the badger but he ignored them.
He went about his routines pretending as if they were not there.
All the while something hot and dark began to grow inside him.
Over time a thousand little irritants stoked this little spark.
His anger, bottled up and never spoken, built into a great and consuming fire.
One day while on his morning walk a squirrel accidentally dropped an acorn on his head.
At that moment the fire was given shape, form, and deadly purpose.
It burned.
For some time the quiet of the forest was broken.
Coming from the shaded glade were screeches, whines, pleas, and groans.
Time passed and cruel Nature did her worst.

The badger wept.
His sleek coat now sticky and matted.
His bright claws now stained and dull.
Surrounded by tufts of fur, blood, and bone.
He met grief and shame and bottomless regret.

FOMO

what to do
decisions- rued

who is where
too much to bare

why/why not
which spot is hot

regret piles up
the present forgot.

Restraint

If you see something say something
may not apply
to friends.

Secrets, are often best kept
stories not-told
words unsaid.

Gossip can be acidic
I discovered
when relating seeing a fellow on a tandem bike.

She replied "I wish I did not know."
Shock hit me
like a gut-punch
and regret, the constant teacher, whispered:

Ignorance can mean contentment, consideration- silence.

Old Habits 2

Yesterday I accidentally over slept and was late for work. No particular reason aside from snoozing my alarm one to many times and burning the candle at both ends a bit. It's the kind of thing I use to do when I was drinking- chronic tardiness.

It's odd how some of those old habits come creeping back. Even without the booze, the despair, the deceit I still have a problem with punctuality. An issue work places don't overlook. It's certainly no where near what it use to be but it's still a bit discouraging to have these unproductive old modes of operation that are still lingering.

There were no repercussions but my supervisor did reference this other guy who use to work at my company, this guy who I think had a drinking problem, he made a very loose comparison to this guy because he said he was a bit worried. This guy once didn't show up for a couple hours because he had been jumped the night before. Of course with me I was only delayed about fifteen minutes but the comparison kind of brought me up short.

I'm almost two and a half years sober at this point but I'm constantly reminded that its a process not a switch that gets flipped. I'm never going to be cured. Sobriety and a sober life is something you work at every day, one day at a time. There are successes and failures and you keep moving forward doing the best you can utilizing the tools you have and by reaching out to people.

I may never completely shake some of my more ingrained negative habits but I can now recognize them and take productive actions to try to rectify them. No one is perfect, we're all works in progress.

Contention

I am sorry
for those things I did
-distance, temper, embarrassments-
there is much that I regret
but the past is changeless
I cannot live there
and lug it like some crushing weight.
There is no room
for clinging guilt
in this ever-shifting present.

Questions mask demands
whose nature I cannot understand.
Dumb, quiet, and slow
I stutter through "how I am"
and never wished more for words
to fill the yawning void
of love- years gone
fleeting like the dawn.

A Lie By Omission

In the wake of Dazed and Confused mailbox-baseball came back in vogue in my hometown of Rockford. In preparation my dad installed a quick release mailbox which would simply pop off if struck.

One day returning home from school I found our mailbox was not on its stand. It was by the front door with an envelope. In it there was a note and $20. The note said "Very sorry, this was an accident. There was no one home when I rang the bell. I hope the enclosed money will cover the cost of repair."

I took the mailbox and locked it back in place atop the stand. Problem solved. After brief deliberation I put the $20 bill in my billfold and threw the envelope away.

I never mentioned the incident to my parents. Or anyone else.

Smartphone

Today I finally made the switch and got a smartphone. I've already started feeling this senseless and cloying urge to check it when there is no reason to do so.

I've been a staunch detractor of computer phones and people being buried in them. People pouring time and attention into a device as opposed to actual humans. There is also something to be said for isolation and silence almost impossible to obtain when you have one of these itchy gadgets. But the digital chickys have come home to roost and my hypocrisy is in plain sight.

I'm feeling the phones quietly seductive grasp around my throat even as I type this. So convenient, so accessible, so functional!

I may have sold out. My life may plummet to a previously undiscovered level of meaninglessness. I may be on a never-ending path to fill the now unbearable void inside with a limitless supply of selfies and food pics and memes.

The upshot is I finally joined Instagram.

Defeat

Preparation is neglected
indecision soon detected

time squandered in procrastination
failure pronounced with condemnation

nerves begin to blitz and bubble
ambition lies a bombed-out rubble

every lesson has its price
and illuminates inherent vice.

Silence

I didn't speak until 7pm the other day. It reminded me, for a time, I wanted to be a monk.

The summer after college I used my graduation money to visit my then girlfriend in Vermont. She was working in a summer stock box office and was behind a desk during the day. I was at loose ends most of the visit and had to find things to occupy my time, difficult to do in rural Vermont.

One day I packed a lunch and just started walking down the highway. I was hoping for trails and deep woods but it was mostly rolling hills, small mountains, blacktop, and lots of cottages. After a while I came upon a sign. Monastery this way. I followed it up. and up. and up. On the top of a squat mountain I found a cloister of benedictine monks.

I stayed there for most of the day. Lounging in the shade, reading in the sun, walking the grounds, exchanging nods with monks involved in various tasks. No one spoke. It was calming. Seemed simple. And appealing. At the time my life was relatively tumultuous and desperate. I lived most days with an unshakable dread and/or an unreasonable rage. The idea of taking a vow of silence for a week, a month, a year, the idea of bowing out of normal life, was desirable. The monastery and the monks represented a safety and peace I wouldn't know for years.

I came back to Chicago after the trip. My girlfriend did shortly after. Slowly and surely my life started to fall apart for the first time. But I never forgot those monks.

Quietly gardening, conducting prayers, tending orchards, thinking the long thoughts of summer.

A Haunting Memory

Children sometimes say awful things to their parents while they are growing up. I certainly did. I regret a lot of my behavior over the past decade but only a few things weigh on me still.

Thanksgiving weekend 2003 I went out with some high school friends on Saturday night. We went to some apartment, I can't remember whose, an acquaintance of a friend, it was questionable. I played "never-have-I-ever" for the first time and we all got very drunk.

I made it home around 3am. I stumbled inside, fell up the stairs, and eventually made it into my room. The world was spinning. A short time passed which felt like a long time. I dragged myself over to my Chicago Bears trash can and threw up. At some point during my retching my mother opened my bedroom door. She asked "Steve...are you all right?"

I looked up at her- my eyes watering, body shaking, head hovering over the sick filled Chicago Bears receptacle- and replied gruffly "Shut. The Fucking. Door." And she did. It may be the moment I regret most in my entire life.

The next morning my father came into my room. Early. He asked "Did you puke in here?" and I cannot describe the scorn and disgust which my father injected into the word puke. I lied. "No." He looked at the Chicago Bears garbage can, picked it up, got a whiff of it, muttered "Jesus Fucking Christ" and walked out closing the door.

Shortly after I got up my friend Drew picked me up and we drove back to college. I don't think my parents and I ever discussed this particular event.

There were many similar events to follow which garnered much trouble, worry, and discussion. My parents have always supported me, loved me unconditionally, and endevored to help me. They never gave up on me, they never cut me out. I am grateful for them and sometimes astonished by the patience and restraint they showed.

Now I'm in a position to be truly loving, caring, and open with my parents. It's a gift. I can be there for them the way they have always been there for me. 

My folks July 2012 a week before they, along with my sister, helped me get some help.

Boys Become Men

Once, when I was a young I played by a creek. I was with my friend Todd who, as I look back, was not much of a friend. There were many ducks and ducklings playing along side us, enjoying the sunshine and the water. Todd picked up a stone and threw it at a duck. He missed and threw more stones. Seeing him I threw stones as well. We missed all our throws. I did not want to hit a duck or hurt a duck. I did it because Todd was doing it and he was the type of friend who would call me wuss or weak or scared or dumb and tell me to go home if I did not do what he wanted me to do. There was also, I am ashamed to admit, a perverse pleasure I found in throwing stones at ducks, the anticipation of one of them being hurt or killed and I would be the one that caused it. Even so I do not think I actually tried to hit the ducks with my stones. Maybe that is selective memory but I do not think so.

Todd and I threw stones for some time. The ducks were not scared away which puzzled me. Eventually, inevitably, one of Todd's stones found it's mark breaking the neck of a large brown female duck. We stopped immediately, asking each other if it was dead. It floated to the shore, neck bent at an impossible angle. We stood over it staring.

Her eyes were glazed and the water running off her feathers made her look as if she wept. She closed then opened her eyes slowly and repeatedly. There was blood, how much I do not know, it mingled with her wet brown feathers. I had no doubt that she would die, I had no doubt she would suffer until her death.

The bottom dropped out of my world and I was sick. I did not feel powerful as part of me, I think, expected. I felt cruel and was disgusted by my cruelty. I turned on Todd berating him for what he had done. Asking him how he could do such a thing, he calmly reminded me of my compliance and I was shamed. We walked home in silence and never spoke of that day or that tortured duck.

Boys can be cruel and often are. They must learn compassion. If they do not they may become cruel men. And cruel men are fearsome things of little use save destruction.

Pooka

On the way to The Night Shift tonight I realized I needed gas. At the same moment I saw a young woman driving a late 90's Honda Civic. She was slightly hunched over the steering wheel and her long light brown hair was almost brushing it, her face hidden. The image of the woman and the thought of gas brought something up from the past and I momentarily lost the present.

Before I had my licence my high school girlfriend would always drive us around. She had a white two door SUV with the licence plate "Pooka". Whenever we would stop for gas she would religiously, almost ritualistically, open her glove compartment and turn off her phone. If I had my phone on me she would not get out of the car until I had turned mine off as well. After a while it started to irritate and eventually enrage me. I'd sit in the car fuming because of the minute or two she would take to turn off her phone.

She did it because her mom told her to. Her mom had read some article about a cell phone exploding at a gas station or maybe even an article about that being something that could happen. At 16 she didn't rock the boat, never rebelled, got along great with her parents. Me at 15 could not understand her attitude and was constantly exasperated when she refused to stay out past curfew or lie about where she was going. Her obeying her mother in the minutiae of turning off her phone while at the gas station became an emblem for me of her obedience. I frequently instigated arguments about it, needling her until she would engage.

I came back to the present gradually. Stunned by the vividness of the memory. Part of me wishes I could go back and do it all over again. Not to relive my youth or the glories of my past.

To put things right.

Ridicule

Easy Target

I was listening to Radiolab on the train ride into work today. It was an episode which tangentially mentioned bullying, during a segment a middle aged woman broke down describing being made fun of by her sister years before in high school. Memories from far away came trickling unavoidably back to me.

I was a chubby weird kid. I got made fun of for being chubby and weird. Kids poking my little belly or pinching my junior love handles. I liked books and had a vivid imagination. Boys called me girly, sissy, gay, would push me down or slap books out of my hands. I was sensitive and so when I was bullied I would cry and be made fun of even more for crying. I didn't, and to this day don't, brush my hair. "You stick your fingers in a light socket?" "You forget your bath?" "Dirty dumby doesn't know what a comb is!" I have a black birthmark on the side of my head. "You rub poop on your head?" "You stick your head in an oven and get burned?" as I got older stuff like "You toast shit and use it as mousse?" back when mousse was a common hair product.

I vaguely remember being chased to the bus. Pinned down. Not attacked necessarily but made immobile while things were yelled in my face. I remember being pushed, thrown, and checked into lockers. I was once chased with dog shit, another time with a squirrel corpse.

These weren't every day occurrences but happened often enough to have a significant impact.

I got older, grew, and these incidents stopped completely. I don't imagine my experiences are singular or terribly extreme but it does breed a certain amount of resentment, anger, and at times strength. People who sailed through their childhoods didn't have the same kind of tempering that kids who've been bullied had.

I don't regret the past, I don't blame a soul. I am the sum of my experiences, I don't know who I would be had the social aspects of my childhood not been difficult.

Sometimes though.

Sometimes I wish I could wrap my arms around that chubby little nerd and tell him he's not alone.