But the bell rang at 2:20. Immediately, I had three students come in to serve detentions for either talking out of turn or being out of their seats. I also had two students come in for make-up work. I managed these students until shortly after 3:00. At that time, I began making phone calls to parents about having to assign detentions. The phone numbers in our system are typically incorrect, by fabrication or whatever reason. So, in order to uphold my word of making phone calls home, I must pursue the right numbers and have them on record. I’ve spent about fifty minutes making three phone calls. I contacted two parents, one biological, one foster. Both parents, in so many words, would “take care of this tonight”.

Also, since 3:00, two sections of the band, clarinet and tenor sax, are practicing at opposite ends of the hallway. My room is directly in the center. I just pondered for twenty seconds about a hyperbolic situation to which I could compare this. Then I realized that being at the center of a tunnel, the ends of which occupied by high school band members practicing by loud horn two different compositions simultaneously, is its own metaphor of aural discomfort, to put it mildly.

So, this has been the after-school portion of my bad day. The actual contract portion was the really bad day. I’m tired though. I just got back from an extended vacation to Mexico, so I might be and should be experiencing some pretty healthy vocational karma.

At the beginning of October, I returned to Kansas for what was initially supposed to be a 5-day visit, which turned out to be a lazy, comfortable 2 weeks thanks to the flexibility of Southwest Airlines and the hospitality of my rather attractive sugarmama.  I’d spent the two months prior sleeping wherever, living off peanut butter & jelly, ramen noodles with an egg scrambled within, water, and beer – little to no money while trying to “make it” in opulent South Florida.  I board a plane to Kansas…during Fall…where the love of old friends and family abounds…and football’s on…and I’m sleeping in a bed.  To me, Kansas in the Fall is more alluring than South Florida will ever be.  There’s that blinding red tree with the orange one behind and a man is sippin’ on a beer while he waits to check the meat in his smoker and a united, elevated hum fills Sunday living rooms waiting for kickoff.

Being back home, I realized that I hadn’t been gone long and that this little adventure I’m on is far from over.  I was eager to get back to Florida, now rejuvenated to continue looking for work.  But a few days back into wandering the docks, handing out resumes and business cards, trying to impress people with as few words as, “How ya doin’?  Need any help?”,  and then never having the phone ring,  is disheartening.

I muddled over many possibilities for change and it boiled down to two positions:  sell the truck and keep inquiring about work or go back to Kansas, put some money together, and backpack in Southeast Asia as somewhat of a surrogate adventure that money could buy.  Back and forth, back and forth.  The backpacking seemed most logical, since boat work opportunities have been virtually nonexistent thus far.  But, hadn’t I just spent over a year of my life looking forward to being in Florida searching for a sailboat voyage?  Certainly, I can’t give up so easily.

When I have a dilemma, the world goes away and all I have is a ping-pong match in my head where no one wins and no one loses.  Though several people offered invaluable advice, in the end, I was left alone with a decision in which I have no idea what I’m supposed to do.

Ultimately, life is good.  I can always rely on this simple cliche.

Thinking there was a pretty solid chance that I would be returning home, I filled up my tank and decided to drive south and check out Key West while still in the region.  On the way down, I picked up a hitchhiker for the second time in my life.  His name is Mark.  He left St. Augustine, Florida, one day before I initially left Kansas back in August.  Among other dreams he has for his life, Key West would be the place where his goal of being an accomplished musician would come true.  I was honored to be the vehicle for the last leg of his 9-week journey.

Mark had been hoofing it for nearly 500 miles – I was only the third motorist to pick him up.  He had a small backpack and a guitar slung over his shoulder.  He and I realized quickly that we had much in common.  We talked about zeitgeist and chemtrails, our love for music, spirituality and religion, on this, the final two hours of his journey to Key West.  Though he didn’t have a cell phone, I gave Mark my card to stuff in the dirty pocket of his corduroys in the event that he should need anything.

When he talked to me about this long walk, Mark said that there were times when he was hungry and thirsty, obviously.  He capped that off with some simply profound and profoundly simple Stones’ lyrics, “You can’t always get what you want, but if you try sometime, you just might find you get what you need.”  Things just came together for him when it was necessary.  Meeting him made me realize that, while I did indeed drop many of my possessions, I wasn’t nearly as raw as he.  [unfinished]

From Night Letter to the Reader by Billy Collins

I was perched on the steps of an open air entertainment block in Fort Lauderdale last week and, for the first time, playing guitar for passersby’s sticky bills and coins.  A platinum blonde darling beelining directly toward her next engagement marched three steps more hastily than her handsome beau.  He had this not entirely unfamiliar countenance – a combination of uncertainty, apathy, and a misdirected determination to please her.  For instance, if Captain Blood had whispered this chump aside, beckoning, “we need a healthy, scurvy dawg as y’self aboard, lad.  The Arabella Bishop awaits ye!”, I think this cat would’ve thrown the keys to his shiny whip at the back of Barbie’s head and gone dipping and soaring with the wind.

Yeah, so I’m playin’ and singin’, which I enjoy immensely and will now do about anywhere.  More than the experience of people putting money in my guitar case, I enjoyed the wondering glances.  I don’t, well, I didn’t look like a bum – blue jeans, button up shirt, and my favorite hat.  But there’s an association with the practice of performing on the street.  It’s a bum’s occupation, I suppose.  Call me a bum, if it is; I’ll own it.  Making eye contact with the well-to-do, their heels knocking the concrete like prized ponies ready for the state fair, I feel assuredly more unfortunate for them than I do for myself.

I remember the handsome beau’s eye contact mostly.  I was reminded of  the prophecy scribbled on the rancid wall of The Replay in Lawrence:  No matter how beautiful she is, somebody, somewhere, is tired of her shit.  Forgive the presumed misogyny in this timeless trinket of toilet philosophy, but that was the look on this dude’s face while his vixen left him in the heavy cloud of her designer perfume.  He cast a wary glance at her and strayed from his path for a couple steps to drop a folded dollar bill in my case.  I nodded, smiled, and continued to sing.

When the song was over, I anxious unfolded his dollar bill and, to no surprise, in thick black marker, the inside of the currency read, “HELP ME!”  Quickly, I flicked a quarter at a real bum sleeping lightly on the steps.  His mouth open, the heavy coin bounced off his tooth – or his gum, maybe – which stirred him awake.  I hollered back, “Watch my axe, bro!” and ran in hot pursuit of the bimbo who had greedily nabbed the adventure straight from the heart of this innocent bloke.

Okay, that didn’t really happened.  And that cat’s situation was probably not as hopeless as it seemed to me.  But..   [unfinished]

]]> http://pjrichardson.wordpress.com/2011/09/15/genius-caveman/feed/ 0 pjrichardson http://pjrichardson.wordpress.com/2009/09/26/whim-of-the-wind/ http://pjrichardson.wordpress.com/2009/09/26/whim-of-the-wind/#comments Sat, 26 Sep 2009 18:54:56 +0000 pjrichardson http://pjrichardson.wordpress.com/?p=26 ]]> Sailors may be drawn to this craft, this way, this life, because it jibes with the manner in which they’re already livin’.  Forgive me, I should speak only for myself, but I want to assume that every sailor has within them the fickle adventurist; the character whose soul, having been trained, battered and bruised in that rat race, only wants to take off his shoes and become abysmally small, insignificant, no one, out on the big blue balloon.  A sailor grants his naked existence to the water.  A destination is imminent, though not determined by exact time and place.  For now, it’s this, whatever this is.  Allow me safe passage but be not hasty, for this is my life and I simply, humbly live for now and by the whim of the wind.

In late August of 2009, I bid farewell to the only region, people, and life that I really know.  In the grand scheme of historical time and place, it’s not that big a deal.  Life had grown ordinary.  Oh, Lord, I’m fine with being misunderstood, but please, please don’t let me be ordinary.  And so I sold and disposed of my stuff — all the years and piles of Me.  Sentimental shit like a nickel-plated piggy bank that I’ve never not owned, pictures of awkwardly lost adolescence, and cards from my ex-wife.  I watched Thursday morning garage sale rats sniff and rummage through tokens of my past.  I wondered what it must be like for them.  That is, so detached from those little things that I’m so attached to.  They give me sweaty pocket change and waddle off with the tangible replica of my psyche tucked under flabby biceps or stuffed into a faux leather purse.  Little did they know that the sentiment of those valuables stays right here with me.

This lady said, “You’re getting rid of this?” as she held that aforementioned piggy bank.  It was a four-inch silver cube adorned with the alphabet and zoo animals.

“I’m getting rid of everything, lady,” I reminded her, since I told her the same thing when she arrived.  “I meant everything.”

She continued to rummage and finally purchased the piggy bank.

I asked if she had kids.

“I have a three-year-old boy.”

“Perfect, it’s his now.”

“We’ll take care of it,” she replied and I wondered at the time if I’d just passed on the very amulet that’d been responsible for all the juju in my life.  I wondered if her little boy would be blessed with wonderful people in his life; if he’d fall hopelessly in love over and over; if he’d dream bigger dreams than his little world could handle.

Anyway, I sold most of that stuff and, as my departure date approached, I set the rest of it out on a curb for the dirties to rifle through.  On the mailbox, I taped a big sign that said, “Free”.  Hell yeah, that shit was free — and so am I.

Okay, so Fort Lauderdale — or Fort Liquordale, as the chuckles like to put it.  I’m going to judge the city having only lived there for three weeks.  It’s got a long, beautifully established beachfront with bars and restaurants and a slithering short wall with a neon light that changes colors.  The water is warm and pretty clear.  I spent a lot of time at the beach, because it was free.  I’d go to the bar just to nurse a $7 coconut rum and pineapple juice and hope to strike up a conversation with someone who would be part of my path.  To me, what I’m doing is pretty interesting, but evidently I’m not so interesting to folks in those parts.  There are good people everywhere in this life.  I think that I just hadn’t found them in Fort Lauderdale in the short time I was there.

The crewhouse where I stayed while I was there is a duplex.  Each unit of the duplex is a two bedroom apartment.  Within each bedroom are two single beds, one dresser, and one closet.  I shared a room with Kelvin, who is a 37-year-old Jamaican who’s been in the yachting industry since he was young.  Kelvin is delightful and reverent.  He works on a yacht during the day, comes home, fixes a stew of chicken, potatoes, and curry (I think), and flips through some American television.  As reverent as he is, he has a healthy disdain for black males in American culture.

“Dey are eeediots, mon, all a dem.  I guh down to da skeeting rink and dees eeediots walk aroun’ wit dey undawears showin’, totchin’ demselves.  Fockeen eeediots, mon,” he exclaims.  Oh, and when Kanye West grabbed that microphone from Taylor Swift, he was livid.  Great guy, Kelvin is.  He worked pretty hard to talk to his people to find me a job.  Nothing ever came, but I’m grateful nonetheless.

Our other housemate was Arol, an older guy from Turkey who is very soft spoken and, in simple terms, quite insightful about the industry.  His English is well established, but he claims he could improve his reading and writing.  I admired the way he would sit at the computer and read Wikipedia pages about whatever was on his mind and take notes — electrical currents, the Galapagos Islands, baseball, whatever.

I spent the first two weeks feverishly and fruitlessly talking to crew job search agencies around town and walking the docks talking to people who may need work.  The job market is very discouraging; more so than I’d expected it to be.  I’d have lengthy conversations with well-traveled captains who were concerned about their jobs.  The prospect of them hiring a dude from Kansas who’s never been on the ocean was grim.  Most people at the agencies and on the boats were very cordial, admired my plight, and wished me well.

Several unforeseen financial setbacks and the disheartening job market had me sitting at home a lot after those first two weeks.  I’d peck around the internet and submit my resume to jobs that sounded the least bit suitable.  Nobody would respond.  Trying to live in the moment, I’d head to the beach for a swim, listen to the iPod, or read.  I also downloaded the four seasons of HBO’s The Wire that I hadn’t seen yet.  (I know, not quite the adventure you were thinking I was on.  But, goddamn, that’s some quality freakin’ programming.  The Wire is a well written series that details Baltimore’s drug problem from all points of view — the users, street level dealers, kingpins, foreign suppliers, the detectives who want to solve crimes, the politically motivated upper echelon cops, politicians, and media.  Interesting and deep character development.  Oh, whatever, best show ever, in my opinion.  But I digress.)

I’ll highlight a few notable happenings in Fort Lauderdale.  It’d been my goal to seek out musicians in the area, so I’d been combing Craigslist to see what’s out there.  Three days after I arrived there was an open mic night at the Octopus Garden hosted by a band, who would open with a set then take a break for some amateurs to come up.  These guys were all plugged in to their amps and sounded great.  They played a few songs and there weren’t many people there, so I signed up.  I brought my acoustic up there and plugged it in for 5 songs — Bananas and Blow and She Wanted to Leave by Ween, Driftless by Greg Brown, Redemption Song by Bob Marley, and One by U2.  The applause was light and no tomatoes were thrown by the growing crowd, so my ego was fed.  The band was quite established and working in the area, so it wasn’t quite the circle of pluckers I’ve been seeking out; like, for me, the greatest musicians alive, who play whatever, however, and to whomever is walking by the landing at Perry Yacht Club.

About a week and a half after I’d been in Fort Lauderdale, I was sitting out back of the crewhouse on a picnic table playing guitar.  This lanky, disheveled and dreadlocked character peered out from the porch of one of the other crewhouses — there are about 7 of these places that share a common rear courtyard.  He walked over to find out if, indeed, someone was playing guitar.  He asked if I’d join them for a beer.  He and his two buddies were some gypsy-looking bros with combat boots, black jeans, long hair, plaid, denim vest, etc…  Everyone I’d met in Fort Lauderdale to that point had a standard haircut, khaki shorts above the knees, collared polo tucked in, white sneakers, and a digital watches.  Their laughter is timed and exaggerated like a bad sitcom (i.e., According to Jim, King of Queens, anything with Jeff Foxworthy or his idiot friends).  I’m a bit out of place in trying to look for work on yachts in Ft Lauderdale with my little ponytail, baggier shorts, and Air Jesus sandals.  Now, these hippie bros stood out like Fred Phelps at a Scissor Sister’s concert…and it was much welcomed.  These cats were in town for the past week taking a course for certification at Maritime Professional Training (same course, same school that I attended in March).  They were on their last night here and found some microbrews at a local market for $3.50/6-pack.  They also had some bourbon, some fresh lime from that tree over there, and a freakin’ coconut that the lanky dude climbed a tree for.  He had forearm abrasions to show for it.  We spent the evening talking about humanity, the establishment, spirituality, and music while sucking down good beer and cocktails concocted of bourbon and the fruits of Florida’s climate.  I brought out my laptop and we listened to Ween’s 12 Golden Country Greats (only 10 tracks on this album, by the way) and a shuffle through Air albums.  I also played a few songs on guitar for them.  Nick, Kyle, and Chris were their names.  Chris, the lanky one, as grimy and disheveled as he was, reminded me of my good friend Cameron Bond from Washington High.  From the moment he spoke, I felt the same kinship with him.  The night was a little slice of reality that I’d needed at the time; a welcome break from the superficial regimen of almost scripted conversation I’d had to that point.

I also met a young man from Johannesburg, or JoBurg, South Africa, who was on the same type of wandering as me.  He was the only one of three brothers to have finished college and his father advised him to go on a little adventure before he gets shackled into a career.  So, Fletch — yeah, that’s a variation of his middle name, Fletcher, which he uses because he doesn’t like his first name — came to look for work on boats.  We found comfort in the similar lack of success in finding work and also music and movies and other topics.  Fletch is a little cleaner than I am, superficially, and he’s also a dive instructor.  He’ll have no trouble finding work if he sticks to it.  I got a call to help a guy shrink wrap a yacht in preparation for shipping.  It was just a day job.  While on the phone with the guy, I told him I had a friend, Fletch, who was also in need of some work.  This guy obliged to have Fletch along as well and Fletch thought the world of my mentioning him to this prospective employer.  We spent the next day shrink wrapping a boat, which, I’ve heard, wastes more plastic than grocery bags each year.  Unfortunately, this is no concern to the super rich as they are not affected, being also made of plastic.  I haven’t heard from Fletch for a couple weeks, since I’ve somewhat relocated.

There are other things to mention like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; the dearth of Camel Wide Menthol Lights in Florida; the hookers that corral about The Booby Trap adult store around the way from the crewhouse; how you wake up to sunshine thinking about the beach and, by the time you scratch your ass and roll outta bed, it’s goddamn monsoon season again; the lizards that eat most the bugs; pretty sure the maid stole my Bluetooth earpiece; the night I and this Australian bosun partnered to run the pool table; and seeing the end of my financial stability.

Seeing an end to the means by which I would pay to sleep some place, I’ve been blessed with having my good friend Gene Glover in the area.  He has moved into a new apartment.  He’ll have a roommate moving in around the end of October and I have a place to crash for a bit in Margate, FL, about 25 minutes northwest of Fort Lauderdale.  Gene works tirelessly as a high school teacher by day and personal trainer by night.  Though we don’t see much of each other, by his good graces, I’m able to keep my head above the figurative waters of pricey South Florida.

This past week has been a serendipitous, exciting shift in winds.  At the moment, I’m sitting at the table in the cabin of a 2005 47-foot Beneteau, which is a sailboat for all you landlubbers. College football is muted on that flat screen, coffee on the table, and a Sam Cooke channel on Pandora filling the air.  Last week, my brother Jonny’s fraternity brother, Robby Haas, called to see how things were going for me.  He informed me that his father, Jim, would be in Jupiter, FL, on Wednesday and staying a week to do some work on the sailboat he keeps at the Jupiter Yacht Club.  I called Jim on Friday and he invited me up for the night.

As soon as I was granted permission on board, I was also drinking Tanqueray on the rocks, while Jim showed me around this beautiful vessel.  He pointed out the battery project that he would, for a few days, mentally and physically toil over.  (Stop! At this very moment, I’m having deja vous about writing this.  If you know my theory, you know that I’m right on track in life.  Fuck yeah!  Okay, back to the boat.)  I finished my gin and had a subsequent Sierra Nevada Pale Ale — thanks, Robby, I hear it was yours.  Then, we went out for a delicious dinner at Leftovers. Jim has been a perfect host and tour guide as we ran errands and worked on his boat.  He’s also introduced me to Rob King, who seems to understand my plight and is working tirelessly on the phone to find me a voyage.  Rob is an energetic character who knows many people around the area.  He’s got a delightful, humorous personality and it’s no wonder that people would do him a favor.  I gather he’s done many people many favors over the years.

Jim and I met Rob for lunch at a hot dog place on Monday.  This would be my first meeting with him.  I told him that I had a nice conversation with a sailboat captain up in New England who had very politely turned me down for a position about which I was inquiring.  This man said he couldn’t possibly take the risk of traveling over the Gulf Stream with a crew member that doesn’t know if he gets seasick.  Fair enough.

Rob asks, “Well, do you get seasick?”

“I dunno, I’ve never been on the sea.”

“Well, we need to find out,” Rob suggests.  The next day, we were out on a 32′ fishing boat bobbing around in about 5-foot swells, nothing major.  Jim took me out for Margaritas the night before to give me a bit of a disadvantage.  I also ate a pretty big sub sandwich on the boat.  I didn’t feel any seasickness and Rob says, “Now ya know.”  Good enough for me.

Since then, he’s called me several times saying call this guy, call that guy, email your resume here.  Yesterday, I went out on a 65-foot Stuart sport fishing vessel with a guy who needed a hand while he checked out his new transducer.  I’m very fortunate to have met Jim Haas and Rob King.

The first story I remember about Jim Haas took place about 10 years ago.  His daughter Stacy severed her foot in a riding lawn mower accident.  I remember hearing shortly after how Jim was working diligently at designing a prosthetic foot for his daughter, talking to prosthetic manufacturers, and learning the details of this practice.  That always stuck with me the way some stories do.  I’d never met Jim before last Friday, but I would remember that story about him forever.  I pictured a man distraught over this tragic disadvantage inflicted on his daughter, spending days and nights eagerly learning about how to make it right, and believing wholeheartedly that he could.  It’s a beautiful thing.

Now that I know Jim, I wouldn’t expect anything less from him.  He tinkers and designs and learns and tinkers some more.  He’s got a big, big heart and a good sense of humor.  He’s letting me crash here for a few days while I knock off some detail work from his to-do list.  Maybe Rob King will find me some work or maybe I drift on to something different.  But, for right now, I’ve been blessed with this little break and I’m very much enjoying — somewhat indulgently — my time.

I can’t grow disgruntled at poor weather, I did that in Fort Lauderdale — mad as hell, wondering why people don’t call back, pouting about being uninteresting to those who don’t know me, pessimistic about what this little adventure has in store.  I really can’t do that anymore, because the universe will provide for me what I need as long as I let it, trust it.  Yeah, it’s some hocus pocus shit, but I’ve seen it happen.  Fighting it, muscling it, willing it to fit my needs doesn’t work.  Letting it does.  Just being does.  That’s what this adventure was supposed to be about — subjecting myself to the whim of the wind.

Among other diagnostic probes, he asked if I have any recurring dreams or nightmares.  And I did.  It stopped when I was younger ~ I dunno, eight or so.  It haunts me today.  It interests me today.  It’s brief and vivid.

When the nightmare begins, I’m standing next to the railroad tracks in the darkest, quietest hour of night.  Alone.  A startling panic ensues when the train rumbles immediately in front of me ~ not at the slow pace city folk is used to, but the bone-quaking stampede of rusty iron that roars through New Cambria.  In an instant, the train goes horizontal to vertical.  Increasing the roar and without loss of speed, the train is racing for the heavens.  As it passes, I see the blank stares of its passengers.  No emotion, subdued, like caged cattle.  Rattling cage after cage, I watch blank faces be stolen to a black nothing above.

The feeling I remember while standing next to the tracks is that I was supposed to do something, like I was supposed to do something to help those people.  And, given the impossibility of the situation, I was absolutely helpless.  Even though it was impossible, I still felt responsible, like I’d let those people down.

Shit, I don’t know what the dream’s about.  We lived a half-block away from the tracks when I was little.  I was probably just slightly awakened by a train passing by in the night, which would explain why it was recurring ~ it happened almost every night.  And since I was a raving insomniac throughout adolescence, the reason the nightmare stopped was because I was either wide awake or in some crashing slumber.

Or maybe the nightmare was when this fixation started.  The one where I think other people’s lives and their well-being are hitched to mine.  The one where I think I can muscle and grind things into changing.  The one that defeats me each time something doesn’t change.

She said, “You need to let go of that.”

“What?”

“The idea that people’s lives depend on your being there.”

I nodded in stark realization.  I thought I’d thought everything through about me.  I thought I knew all there was to know about me.  But I hadn’t.  How can I get over this notion that people’s lives are directly dependent on my presence or absence?  It’s a terrible way to live.  I don’t know if it’s the answer to the cleaning the muck outta my well-being, but it’s pretty fuckin’ important.

When people get too close, I tend to keep them at a distance.  If I’ve accidentally let them get too close, I really begin pushing them away.  Is this my way of avoiding the irrational nightmare of not being able to help them?  When it’s not my help that they want, but rather just my companionship, my intimacy, or my good nature?  What an idiot.

And I’ve been wondering lately why I do push people away, particularly the ones to whom I’m closest.

And the train rolls on.

I woke up this morning and saw my old friends Matty G and McCatty were my newest Facebook friends.  A trip back to some good ol’ days of grinding and drinking my way through college.  I was pretty happy then as I am now and equally distraught as I’ve always been.  Ahh, for fuck’s sake.

Ya know, another counselor was making checkmarks next to questions a pharmaceutical company was urging him to ask.  He asks, “Do you ever think about suicide?”

So I says to this guy, “Yeah, but, ya know, no more than I think about, like, sandwiches.  Got me?”  Ain’t no way, son.  At the end of the day, when the moon peeks between two clouds or I spot a raccoon’s night vision stalking me from afar or I share a hearty laugh with chums about some childish shit, I’m still all about this life.

Wow, another non-typically Kansas, cool, July day.  I’ll be outside.

The leather satchel my grandma gave me when I graduated from KU–a classy, functional gift; typically grandma–has been pushed to its threads ends. Stuffed with run-on sentences; Urban vernacular that defies the laws of standard American English; a new Apple laptop; and a copy of Time magazine containing an article about how our country’s schools are failing our brightest students; the black leather satchel my grandma gave me is bursting at the seams and worn at the corners.

The leather’s still soft and the faint smell of store bought leather lingers faintly. There are wrinkles now, though, the way soft leather does. It’s a classy, timeless satchel that will adapt to its purpose, value, use, and abuse. My grandma wouldn’t buy one that wouldn’t withstand. She wouldn’t have it.

I woke up at 9 a.m. on Sunday and arrived at the coffee shop by 10. My purpose was to drink a cup of coffee and relieve some of the stress that I’ve been placing on the leather satchel my grandma gave me. I corrected some papers with a red pen. (Some say, “don’t use red ink to correct papers, because the color has a disquieting effect on kids.” I say, if they don’t get that a color of one’s ink is arbitrary, then they aren’t qualified to do the assignment anyway.) I punched their grades into the computer’s grading system. Then, I stacked the papers that I saw no purpose in grading because the kids don’t remember doing that assignment and I don’t remember teaching it. Those I’ll throw away. Now, the leather satchel is organized, still brimming, but orderly. The contents are clear.

Nearly everything–and think about the mathematical value of “nearly everything”–has its limits. The leather satchel that my grandma gave me can withstand extreme conditions, yet still has its limits. Like a balloon, I fill the leather satchel out of its zone of comfort. I’ve found the time and good will to relieve some of that pressure. The satchel now has the memory of those limits and the elasticity to withstand again.

The bell to initiate my planning period rings &, like a burglar of precious time, my eyes sweep the clear hallway, I lock the door, & escape into my empty room.  Pushing a desk into the obscure corner of my classroom, I shed this persona I’ve devised to work here.  I don’t remember exactly whom it was that wrote of the persona in the way that I’ve come to understand–it may have been Gary Zukav in “Seat of the Soul”.  Anyway, this definition suggested that our soul is layered & multifaceted with many personae.  We outfit our soul to survive & flourish in different sectors of our temporal self.  For instance, I have a persona that will be comfortable at a pool hall at 1:30 on Saturday night.  That persona would not suit Mr. Rich at 7:00 on Wednesday morning, when my comfort is not as important as who I need to be for these kids.  So, I’ve outfitted a very different persona to meet the demands of this job.  It used to bug the hell outta me that I would behave differently in different social settings.  Understanding the persona, however, has helped me to understand that, just like animals adapting to different environments, I’m an intelligent creature surviving in different social climates.  It’s okay.

So, I’ll sit here in the corner, half the lights off.  Often I’ll hear the loose rattle of the aged door; someone has come a-callin’ & found the room seemingly empty, virtually empty.  This persona is thin lately.  I must admit that my best foot isn’t always forward when it comes to the practical, collegial demands of this job.  Then, I must redeem myself in admitting that I rarely, if ever, shed this persona in front of my students.  To many, I am their only rock, their ambassador, their safety, their reassurance that the world isn’t entirely against them.  It’s the most important part of my job &, though of late I’ve had to dig deep for resources, I always have skin enough to be there for them.

And, with that, I’ve squandered my planning period.

When I was a kid, Summer was my favorite season with tall rattling cottonwoods and the bite of chlorine fumes and my neighbor and her friends who were always three years older than me. There’s a collage of images: praying mantis in a pickle jar, foxhole by the railroad tracks, stolen cigarettes and porno mags. I’d hold my bare forearm next to my father’s all dirty and sweaty to see who’s darker. Before dusk, the tightly permed moms walk the block as the concrete cools. I’d monitor the goings-on of Scott Ave. from the hush of our thick Oak tree. Knowing all. Running things, I felt. I really did.

The blisters subside & Autumn is my favorite season. There’s a practical magic to, every year, trees’ leaves patiently waiting for that only moment of red, orange, and yellow. And there are uncountable leaves. Though, I’d like to pick One when it grows. I’d like to know it & the limbs from which it hangs. I’d like to greet it regularly throughout the year. Most of all, I’d be there when it makes its silent, insignificant detachment, descent.

I wanted to tell you, though, that I’m waiting for my moment. There is a moment in Winter that I’ve grown to love, I dare say, most. (I’ve tired of attaching value to the invaluable. There was a girl in college who glared at me after I ranted haphazardly about the treatment of sweatshop laborers. She spat, “It’s an economic necessity.” My response didn’t come to me until after class when she wasn’t there. It goes, “Well, Princess, I come from the hopeless & obsolete opinion where Economics is not a necessity.” And I still do. But I digress.) There is a moment in Winter when there’s no wind. There are clouds & there’s the moon; both are essential, complimentary. There’s an unmolested layer of snow, but it’s done falling. It’s after Midnight. Bundled, cigarette orange, and breath alive, you’ll hear the low-pitched squelch of snow crushed beneath heavy tires in the distance, a telling juxtaposition of the ensuing hush. A dead quiet–the good dead, the resting dead, the detached dead–encapsulates me. The moon in all her sly, delicate madness will waltz through a gap in the clouds. Silver, blue, black, white, like a reflection in chrome. It’s so quiet that I deny the possibility that other living souls dwell on that plane in that moment.

Upon this steady approach of age 34, I’ve been noting that this age is the same distance from 18 as it is from 50. While one’s age is an arbitrary, trite bit of information, there is, for me, some significance in considering myself a man halfway between an 18-year old man & a 50-year old man.

Recalling 18, I was ambitious & unrealistic in visions of my future: “In ten years I’ll be married with 2 kids while owning my own pizza place.” I would not go to college, citing supercilious convictions that, in hindsight, were born of insecurity & fear of inferiority. I was boisterous, reckless, & spontaneous in public; afraid, uncertain, & introspective in private. Today, I don’t think these afflictions are banished. I do think that I’ve devised more efficient methods in grappling with them.

Many issues remain constant. For instance, I still have an unbridled curiosity for the world, this big blue balloon, creepy-crawly with a prolific, wasteful, & irreverent vermin dubbed humanity. I still think I’m being punished for not believing in God, the Unseen. And I wonder what this punitive entity has in store for me. Also, an unsatisfied fascination with exotic people & places lurks patiently, yet urgently, on unkempt street corners of my subconscious. I still cherish the people that I know.

I had a conversation a while back in which we considered what advice 33-year old Paul would give 13-year old Paul. We decided that 13-year old Paul should have kept his grades up, participated in organized sports, & not settled down with one girlfriend. The consideration then turned to the advice 53-year old Paul would give 33-year old Paul. This, while standing at the threshold at hand–a detachment from someone with whom I’ve spent a third of my life & the emergence of an opportunity to sail to the aforementioned exotic people & their places–becomes a consideration of much more gravity. A smiling, grizzled, & content 53-year old Paul bends ever slightly forward & whispers, “Go”.

There’s also the unknowable advice 2-year old Paul has to offer. I’m thinking of the old photograph of me laying on the sidewalk. I’m wearing a t-shirt and a diaper, my favorite blanket beside me. By the wind of my sweet breath or gentle nudge of tiny pink fingertips, I would spend time altering the paths of ants, ladybugs, or whatever fortunate creature would happen upon me. I remember wondering, in however manner a toddler wonders, without words, only ideas, if these interactions would have lasting impact on those creatures & the communities from which they came. I wanted & still want those interactions to have had a lasting, exponential impact.

There must be some significance in remembering the unadulterated virtues of you as a babe. These must be the virtuous intentions of human aligned with soul. All the emotional & psychological crust that plagues us as we age encumbers the vision of our soul’s purpose. Life becomes a heavy cart, a straight jacket, both burdensome & habitual. Amid real snippets of slaughter in India, a black guard trampled under consumer-frenzied hooves, & the obsession with recession, my only reaction is to detach from my cart’s cargo, unshackle this jacket’s straps, & go sensitively attuned with the stone tablet of my soul.

At 34, I think I may be less susceptible to the trappings of love, money, & convention. These themes & their cohorts will be tossed aside, lightening the load. Hopefully, I’ll be 100 and still grinning & grizzled, or speculatively luring a ladybug onto a fallen leaf, or hopefully, just like today, pondering the simultaneous simplicity & complexity of this life & sharing the thoughts with you.