Steve Robison's Blog, page 3

Life is a Beach

Many of my old habits don’t work for me any longer. When I decide to play small and whine that the world is unfair, when I look with desirous longing on what I have not yet, when I act as if what I dream will not manifest, when I pretend to be incapable of understanding the mysteries of life, at all those times I am turning away from truth, my truth, and then the larger me wakes, intervenes, enforces the requirement that I close my eyes to falsehood and open my heart and mind to truth.

There’s no value in wishing for freedom as freedom is already my life. I’ve no need to want for more as I already have much.

I’ve no need to look at photos of the ocean for I live at the beach.

The House

“What are you so scared of, Gilbert?”

“That place is fucking creepy.”

“Scaredy cat.”

“Am not.”

“Let’s go closer. I dare ya.” Danny grinned a grin that seemed ominous to Gilbert, though that wasn’t the word he’d have used. He’d have said of Danny’s smile that it was creepy, or weird, like the abandoned structure before them, guarded by five turkey buzzards, two on the highest branches of a dying and bare tree trunk, the other three on the peak of the unstable roof.

They had leaned their bikes on a stump about fifty yards from the quiet Saw Mill Road after a fifteen minute ride from their homes in Ellendale. The rough and sharp remains of hardwoods as old as the house were as a moat, protecting the dark castle within. “It’s fucking creepy,” Gilbert repeated. “I learned in school that buzzards have this kind of sixth sense, like they know something nearby is going to die soon.”

“Probably just a rat.”

“What if it’s got rabies?”

“Don’t be a baby, Gilbert.”

“I think we’re close enough. I don’t want to get rabies. Frankie’s cousin from Nebraska got rabies and had to get shots in his belly.”

“Need me to hold your hand?”

That was all the prompting Gilbert needed. He weaved slowly and carefully through the rough fallen kindling toward the missing door. The house looked hungry, capable of devouring both him and Danny, of swallowing them whole, both body and soul. Danny was a few steps behind, he heard, as the house grew closer, grew creepier, with each step.

The sound was like rusty hinges opening, the screech of one of the giant birds above. Gilbert wasted no time, turned back, and ran to his bike.

That was three years ago. Danny was never found.

 

Roller Coasters

“You warm my fucking heart, baby,” he said. It was that full and real smile of hers that melted him. Every time. Butterflies and heat and roller coasters. All at the same time.

“Awww, thanks, Hank.”

“Want to get out of here?”

“Thought you’d never ask.”

Cold Trauma, Hot Coffee, Warm Breeze

I’ve had times when I felt positive, upbeat, hopeful, in love with life and the world. It’s still my wish. Lately though, it’s been tough. So many lost and wandering souls, lashing out, trying to take by force of will and word what’s not theirs.

Not for an instant saying I’m better than them; I make mistakes every day. And I doubt, get scared, worry, reminisce in my trauma. But I try diligently to simply do the right thing, the kind thing, the loving thing. I forgive as quickly as I can and follow the path that’s before me, sharing my heart, my art, my gifts. And then I’m minding my own business, creating this or that, for myself, for a client, for the world at large, and bam! Some jackass leaves a stupid comment, or some jerk honks his horn on the nearby road. It blares with his anger. I tell myself to take a breath, to clear my mind, to let go and forgive. But the concentration is broken now. So instead, I brew a fresh cup of coffee, rant a bit to myself in my journal, distract myself with a movie, and later I’ll wonder: Did I attract this? Did I cause this trauma that somehow still finds me, as I mind my own business, whistle along with a happy song, and do my best to create something of value? Or is it just the way of this flawed and fearful world I share with jerks, bullies, and chicken littles?

The coffee’s hot, the sun is shining, and the leaves continue to dance in the slight breeze. The song changes. I breathe in deep, find a place of hope.

YOU are Enough

Open your soul.

You are perfection, dawning, expanding, living.

There is nothing you need do but be YOU!

One in seven billion; that's who you are. Is that not not enough?

Laugh, dance, leap, rest, run, walk, stop, soar; it matters not--you are perfection.

Notwithstanding the doubts, the judgments, the drama the chaos and the the little moments when you feel you don't quite belong. Let me assure you: You belong. You are here for a reason. You are here for a purpose. Find it!

Find your reason and chase it, pursue it, tackle it and overwhelm it and make it the thing which matters most! 

Start today. Right now. You deserve it. You deserve only the very best and when you're living in awareness of these simple truths, the very best is what you shall have, today, tomorrow, every day.

Father's Directive

Jason had never spoken to her. Seeing her as merely a play toy, an object to satisfy his amusement and lust—and Father’s directive—he communicated with pokes, prods, and, occasionally, gesticulating motions, as if she were a German Shepherd. Sit. Stay. Quiet.

The basement was damp and dreary this time of year, the rainy season, late April, but Jason didn’t mind. Most of his days he spent at work, and his nights he slept in his comfortable bed. Still though, this prize hadn’t brought him the joy of the last three. He sighed as he looked at the calendar hanging by the wall phone in his bright kitchen, twelve days down, twenty-eight to go. The specific methods were at Jason’s discretion, but the timeline followed his father’s precisely. The capture the night of the full moon. The sacrifice forty days later. He filled his thermos with fresh coffee from the percolator before heading to the office.

Make love to me, Hank.

I typed in the search box on Facebook her name, Aimee Rogers. Thirty results. None of them her. I tried again, different variations, adding our high school, our hometown. Still no joy. I felt suddenly stricken. What if she’s dead? Or what if she blocked me because of that incident in my car, parked near the Occoquan River, as it neared eleven o’clock? One of my life’s great regrets.

She’d said, “Make love to me, Hank.”

And I’d made the mistake of looking at my watch. I took her home instead, as I’d promised her father I’d have her home before midnight. When I called two days later, and four, and seven, she didn’t take my calls, nor return them. And when I saw her in school, she’d turned to her friends and laughed. I slinked away, in disgrace.

Why did I think I could correct that past mistake? And why did it bother me when I couldn’t find her again after all these years?