Nathaniel Sewell's Blog, page 3

I’m Kind Of, A Big Deal

“Have an opening for a single?” I said. 

The young, dark-haired assistant golf professional separated from me by a square plastic barrier. He wore a greenish healthcare worker mask. The pro shop appeared like every golf pro shop scattered across planet earth with copious glove, golf balls, and hats, shirts emblazoned with the club logo available for a quick sale. 

Outside the long horizontal windows the green grass course active with golfers driving white battery powered carts from the driving range, some parked near the practice putting surface and I scanned over at a group teeing off on the first tee.

“Sure thing,” he said. He examined the computer screen, his brown eyes searching what I assumed were the listed tee times. He looked over at me. “Got a two-some in twenty?”

“I’m in,” I said. I paid the green fee. “Call me over?”

“Will do,” he said.

I strapped my golf bag onto the back of the cart, put on my golf shoes, and drove the cart over to the driving range. It was abnormally hot, even by west coast of Florida standards. It did not take long for my middle-aged body to warm up and regain just enough flexibility to make my shoulders have a pleasant turn back and forth, strike the ball and finish with the club’s grip above my left ear. 

The common dimpled range ball took flight from an almost effortless golf swing after finding its energy from the driving club’s metal sweet-spot. But then the next shot thudded off the toe of the club, the result, a classic golfism, worm-burner. Both swings defined life, I thought. Sometimes you find that Zen relationship with a pretty girl, other times its turbulence and misunderstanding. Either way, I’ll keep playing the game. I sighed. At my age I decided my swing was my swing and better to practice putting and make myself quickly available to join the two-some. I drove the cart back toward the pro shop. 

Two putts into my practice and I heard my name over the loudspeaker. I perked up like a Meerkat peeking up outside its earthen hole. I loved going out to the golf club as a single and getting hooked up with a group. It was a fresh adventure to learn about people. Little did I know I was about to meet two characters that I can only define as peculiar. It was the reason I lived in St Petersburg, Florida. It has a pleasant town like feel bountifully sprinkled with eccentric characters. And if you are a creative spirit like me, you’ll never have writers-block.

“Hi,” I said. I had parked the cart behind two other golf carts near the first teeing ground. “The pro shop set me up with you all, I hope that’s okay?” 

Both men were likely middle-aged, with amble bellies, and shorter than me. They dressed in typical golfer garb with white golf hats and were casually swinging their metal driver’s in preparation to tee off. 

“Come on up,” he said. He wore tinted sunglasses with a gold rim. “I’m Reginald.”

“Don’t believe a word from this ass-hat,” the other said. “Jay Sean, like the Indian R&B singer.”

“Oh, I was not aware you sound more like a Brit,” I said. “Thanks, just call me Bobby. But you have, I mean no disrespect, Indian skin tones and hair.”

“Careful, Bobby,” Reginald said. He pointed over at Jay Sean with his golf club. “He’s gay, don’t turn your back on him, even out on the golf course.”

“Ah, Reginald is projecting again,” Jay Sean said. “I’m not a Brit, I’m Welsh. Mum and dad adopted me, I was a baby. Father is ex-military, Royal Marines. They stationed my parents in Mumbai. I’m an only child.”

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to insult.”

“No matter,” Jay Sean said. He waved my words away. “What’s your line of business?”

It was the simple question that I always received after meeting an unknown person out at the golf club. But the question leads to other questions. A question I had learned to manage, but I still thought difficult to answer. And then every conversation would become quiet and pensive. 

“I’m a writer,” I said. “Novels, short-stories and even poems.”

“What’s your genre,” Reginald asked. He leaned down and put his white golf ball on the wooden peg. He stepped back and allowed his grip to relax and waved the club head near the ball. “Got a best seller?”

I kept quiet. Reginald drove his golf shot down the finely mowed grass fairway that moved right to left toward the first green. It landed just short of a mound covered with deep grass. Jay Sean followed Reginald, his shot landed on the left side of the fairway. I tried to summon my youthful, effortless appearing swing. The result was modest. I realized I was not twenty-two anymore. 

In the pandemic era, playing golf required social distancing. Each player has their own golf cart, and the separation minimizes a lot of aimless chit-chat. We played the next five holes with minor delay. I boogied three and par for the other two; I guessed Reginald and Jay Sean were at about the same score. But then the inevitable backup, a golfer, hit a stray shot into the woods and a search party assembled to retrieve the wayward ball hidden behind tall trees, shrubs and brown thicket. We stood together watching them on the sixth hole tee box.

“What are your novels about?” Reginald asked, again. 

I sighed. I sucked in a deep breath. I wiped sweat from my eyebrows. 

“Family saga,” I said. I decided a little subterfuge might eliminate any more digging from Reginald. 

“Ah, mate,” Jay Sean said. His left gloved hand atop the golf club black grip. “What does that mean? You Americans shouldn’t venture into The Queen’s proper English. Subterfuge is a fancy word.”

Keenly aware just over an hour ago I met Reginald and Jay Sean. I shrugged as my authorship effort was out in the open. I just wished I had some real success to show from my work.

“My first novel was about child sexual abuse,” I said. I coughed even though I did not need to cough. “And the epi genetic link to young adult suicide.”

Reginald and Jay Sean were quiet and reflective. They stared forward at the palm and oak trees behind me. At the golfers ahead cleaning up the mess. They inspected the pond and the weak current frothing the black waters away from us. 

“I did not expect that,” Reginald said. “I think Jay Sean would say, in his Welsh accent, bloody-hell.”

“Bloody-hell, indeed,” Jay Sean said. 

“I know,” I said. “I hoped that if it became a best-seller, I know, I know, I was dreaming. Anyway, we might create a way for teenagers and parents to learn and perhaps – talk. Just getting a conversation going might save someone’s life. It’s toxic. It’s my primary goal for the project.”

“From you experiences?” Reginald said. He glanced over at the next green. The foursome walking toward their golf carts and clearing the playing surface. “Not trying to pry, just curious.”

“Yes,” I said, flatly. I thought it time to lighten the mood for the three of us. “I had an ugly childhood, I guess I should lie next time and tell you all I write porn. It sells, would have made my journey easier. But I’d have sold my soul to Satan.”

Reginald teed-up his golf ball. He walked behind it and lined up his shot.

“I prefer porn,” Jay Sean said. He pursed his lips and nodded. 

“You mean gay porn,” Reginald said. He smiled and let out a throaty, deep laugh. He acknowledged me. “Good on you brother, nothing wrong with looking out for children.”

“On behalf of my alleged gayness,” Jay Sean said. “I prefer big bosomed woman, curvy or the occasional exotic. It keeps things fresh.”

”I’ll note that for my next manuscript,” I said.

Reginald made a full turn from the golf ball, and sort of hopped around with both feet, catching the ball square in the club’s sweet-spot. A cool trick, I thought, as the ball took flight and somehow landed on the putting surface maybe ten feet from the flag. 

“Nice shot,” Jay Sean said. He strolled forward. “Ass-hat.”

“You two have such a caring relationship,” I said. I grinned at them.

“You must understand, Bobby,” Jay Sean said. He teed-up his golf ball. “At our combined ages being past a hundred, we prefer to remain aged fourteen.”

“Yes,” Reginald said. “I like fourteen. Out here I don’t do any adulting, I think that’s how my teenagers would describe it.”

Jay Sean stood next to his golf ball. He waggled the metal hybrid and methodically turned his wide shoulders. He returned the club face almost square and created a balanced follow through. The ball ended its journey near the left front sand trap. 

“Way to go,” I said. “Pitch and a putt, you’ll get your par.”

“Thanks, mate,” Jay Sean said. “I hope so.”

“I should tell you,” Reginald said. “I love kids, I am happiest looking after them. Anything that helps children I support.”

“And supporting your ex-wives?” Jay Sean said. He smirked over at me. 

“I have one of those,” I said. I dug into my right pants pocked, my fingers clutching for a wooden tee. 

Reginald shook his head and he flipped off Jay Sean.

“You should know,” Reginald said. “I’m kind of, a big deal, I have ex-wives, a business and many leather-bound books.”

“And you’re an ass-hat,” Jay Sean said.

“Seriously, if I can help with your project,” Reginald said. He stopped smiling and pushed his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose. “I know people and protecting kids is important.”

“I second that,” Jay Sean said.

“Thanks,” I said. I pointed over at them. “You never know. I’m just happy to be alive.”

Hanging out with anyone for several hours without distractions, I think you begin too understand that human being. People a lot smarter than me know your instinct whispers inside your brain to share their truth.

If you take a quiet moment and listen, you can feel deep down what type of person – are they honest, caring, kind or evil? The truth buzzes about their genuine nature. It’s all in front of you, but you cannot see it. 

The truth being about that day; I liked them. At first, I thought it would be an interminable day. But then sometimes magic happens and you view someone through an honest prism and see where their kind heart beats.

I think we all put up self imposed defenses, but being vulnerable allows us to heal and feel. It takes courage to let your walls down, and from the experiences we learn to communicate honestly. 

NS

A Conversation

I have decided to write a series of short stories. I have no idea what will follow or what I’ll create. I hope my friends will forgive me for my creative process and that they ‘might’ become sort of like literary characters. (Maybe) Also, I took off the self imposed expletive filter and I’ll let my thoughts roam free without reservation.

This one is about a miscommunication between an older man and a younger woman. The dynamic is classic. Think about it, have you ever liked someone even though they throw a lot of bullshit back at you? Or, someone makes a mistake misperceived by its intent? It‘s real life imagined.

I think you earn wisdom. So, this is my first of many soon to be created short stories. I titled this one, A Conversation.

——————————————————————————————————-

A Conversation

“I have missed your presence, my dear,” Bobby said. He stared down at the Guinness glass, frothing with pale brown turbulence. The St Petersburg, Florida evening spirit calm and resplendent. “Remember the night we ended up down here on Beach Drive at four in the morning?”

Tess tapped her long forefinger on the square table covered with a white tablecloth. The table observed a proper social distance from the other nearby tables. She sat back on the wooden chair, crossed her thin legs as an older couple holding hands strolled behind her along the wide sidewalk. The modern condominium structures gleamed with reflective sunlight.

“It hurts to think about how much wine we drank,” Tess said. She blinked her eyes playfully. “But I still think you’re an asshole. Wait, yes, I know you’re an asshole.”

Bobby nodded back over at Tess in agreement. He sipped the now dark red Guinness. It was a start, Bobby thought. 

“It’s true, it’s true,” Bobby said. He grinned sheepishly back over at Tess. “You’re not exactly the quiet and shy type either. I’m not proud of my ass-holy ness. As always, you’re right and I’m wrong. Sorry. I feel like I’m talking to my ex-wife.”

Tess watched the nearby slow moving street traffic. A fancy sports car driven by a balding old man with a ballonish sized head. The after market shiny chrome exhaust pipes spat out loudly as it rolled by them toward a salmon-colored hotel.

“He’s compensating,” Tess said. She pointed over at the German-made car. “I would never do that to that car, it’s smacks of desperation. It’s what under the hood that matters. I like the speed, driving fast makes me feel alive. That’s all for show, I don’t get it.”

“I remember I was barefoot, I walked like I was one of those fire walker-ish dudes,” Bobby said. He stared up toward the darkening blue sky and back over at a massive banyan tree. “What was her name?”

Tess looked back over at Bobby. Her angry eyes calculating Bobby’s next move. She had missed Bobby’s boyish charm, but then there was that darker side to him. The darker side a complete mystery to her. 

“Oh, Jennifer, or something like that,” Tess said. She held the red wineglass by the fragile stem. “She kept saying oh ‘my god, oh my god’, cute thing, tiny, she was fun that night. We had big-fun that night.”

“Yeah we did, that’s it, from Michigan, sounded like she popped out of Central Casting,” Bobby said. He chuckled. “That tiny girl could drink. After she drank all my wine, at three-thirty in the morning she popped up off the couch, decided she needed to find her car. I could barely keep up with you two. We walked with her. I was so drunk I forgot to put on my flip-flops. I think you stopped her and got her an Uber?”

“I did, you were rather wobbly,” Tess said. She picked up her smartphone and appeared to examine the screen for news from within the worldwide portal. She did not look back over at Bobby. “I bet we amused the police watching us stumble back to your apartment. Strange to realize cameras are all over town.”

Bobby studied the restaurant menu. He heard forks and knives being used and the normal hum from human activity during a busy Florida winter season. 

“At least I’m not boring,” Bobby said. He thought it best to get all her venom out. He earned her poison. He used a Muhammad Ali rope-a-dope boxing strategy. “If I may, you look lovely this evening.”

Tess shrugged. She pursed her lips.

“Oh, I see, nice try, no sir,” Tess said. She whispered over toward Bobby. “You’re not just an asshole, let me think, dickhead, yeah, you’re a dickhead. I could say worse, but I don’t want to insult the people sitting behind you. And unlike you, I have some dignity and class.”

“I can be a funny dickhead,” Bobby said, ruefully. He looked down at his flip-flops. “Too.”

The former friends remained quiet for several minutes. A young waiter wearing a black mask attended to their table. They ordered another round of adult beverages with humus with naan bread. Bobby wished he had had the power for reverse time travel and could eliminate his tempest storms. But if he were truthful to himself, his middle-aged mind understood Tess had gotten passed his emotional guard gate and that scared him. He preferred to keep the world, and her, at arm’s length. They were not former lovers or any real dating match. She was tall and thin; he was a lot older with graying hair. But they had enjoyed hanging out, and they could talk with each other. 

“I’ll give you credit,” Tess said. “You are fun to go out drinking with, I think you collect peculiar people for sport.”

“Perhaps that’s why we understand each other,” Bobby said. He winked over at Tess. “You have the same skill set if I remember correctly.”

Tess stared forward and observed every thing but Bobby’s face. 

“I like to have fun,” Tess said, matter-of-factly. “As the saying, life’s short, play hard.”

“I agree,” Bobby said. He nodded. “Remember the time we started talking to that couple from down south, he kept telling us how rich he was.”

“Of course,” Tess said. She almost smiled, but quickly caught herself. “She told me they had met in rehab, and yet, they were out drinking with us. They fascinated me. Met in rehab? I wonder what else those two had experimented with?”

“I know,” Bobby said. He smirked at Tess. “Remember the cool lesbian chick we met over on Central?”

Tess crossed her arms. She suspiciously stared over at Bobby. 

“Trying to get me to remember our good times?” Tess said. She leaned forward. “But should I remind you about your dickhead moments?” 

Bobby was quite aware Tess’ brain microscopically processed faster than his. He ignored her comment and kept jabbing and weaving. 

“We ended up at that gay bar,” Bobby said. He smiled. He sipped the Guinness and set it back down on the table. “You started dancing with the fossilized dude who liked to wear gold, gold rings, chains, I can only wonder wear else he had gilded himself.”

“You left me there that night,” Tess said. She looked blankly at Bobby. “Remember?”

Bobby thought Tess’ gaze at him her best counter punch for the evening. Her pretty face had molted into pure disappointment with him. A hurt between friends indescribable via the English language. And Bobby understood genuine pain from divorcing his best friend and an ugly childhood. 

“I was rather inebriated. Besides, that’s not my crowd,” Bobby said. He coughed because he sensed the real question. “I know you can manage yourself, you’re a big girl and I knew those boys would protect you.”

Tess huffed through her lips. She wiped away any potential tears.

“You know what I’m saying,” Tess said. Her voice low and measured. She fumbled her thumb and forefinger along her shirt cuff. “Why do friends hurt me the most?”

Bobby’s lips trembled. He clenched his teeth to keep his emotions from spilling all over the concrete. 

“It was an honest misunderstanding,” Bobby said. “Of all people, I’m not that guy.”

Tess gripped her hands and fingers together.

“I want to believe you,” Tess said. “Trust is everything.”

Bobby leaned over toward Tess. He whispered. 

“You know my childhood, I don’t hide it,” Bobby said. “I’ve been betrayed. I trust no one. You know this?”

Tess squinted. She nodded. Bobby moved closer toward Tess. 

“All I can say is this, and I mean it,” Bobby said. His eyes open, his body vulnerable. “I’d protect you with my life. That’s all I have to offer you.”

Tess sat back and stared forward. Darkness returned as the street and car lights lit up her eyes. She looked back over at Bobby and closely examined his face.  Her shoulders released all her built up tension. She breathed.

“You’re still an asshole,” Tess said. She smacked down on Bobby’s left forearm. “But, you’re honest. I think. And your a funny asshole. I guess I’ll keep you around, for now.”

Bobby picked up the Guinness glass and clinked Tess’ wine glass.

“Cheers. Let’s always be brutally honest with each other,” Bobby said. “If you can accept my imperfections, see my worst and still care about me? And the same with you? I think then, we can be genuine lifelong friends.”

NS

The Things You Cannot See

Darkness,

I’m sitting inside a room without a view,

Air-Conditioning,

I sense my face being cooled,

Breathe,

Oxygen fills my lungs through my nose,

Exhalation,

Carbon dioxide escapes my mouth,

Mindfulness,

My naked feet feel the warm carpet,

Anxiety,

Accepting my life’s uncertainties,

Discipline,

Deciding I control my thoughts,

Hope,

My faith that things will all work out for the better,

Love,

A gentle whisper that my life matters,

NS

For My March Friend’s Memory

I know what it feels like to be out of your head. It’s that sensation that behind your eyeballs your mind swims within that viscous senescence being stuff.

Sorry, I’m not trying to be fancy, but I think that last sentence is accurate. I’m aging during a pandemic and I don’t know what to think. I don’t have precise thoughts like I typically would. 

Since we are living within an actual nightmare, the other day at the grocery store staring at the buy-one-get-one-free coffee display, I realized I had missed my annual opportunity to remember my friend. 

Unfortunately, one sad night during mid-March, she took her life. 

I cry about her memory because I think it mentally healthy. She deserved better. 

I try not to let people know this, but for her memory I’ll just write it out, I’m sensitive to the extreme.

I pick up on things I wish I didn’t pick up on and internalize. But I do. 

Any who, one night she came over to our marvellous house before we moved and hung out with us and our neighbors. 

We all adored her. She was striking, smart, and she mingled well. I adored her. 

We moved away; I lost touch with her. 

One day I got a strange smartphone call from a former employee. In retrospect, I guess my former employee had drawn the short straw. 

I got the tragic news. I tried to absorb the blow. I failed. I am thankful to have been alone. 

It’s important to share a nugget. My deceased friend had read parts of my first novel, Bobby’s Socks, before I had sent it off to the publisher. (The shared photo is the original book cover .)

Writing a novel about trauma and suicide is not a pleasant journey. But she had shared her darkness with me, and I had shared my darkness with her. We understood each other. We had a strong emotional bond. 

We were a lot closer than anyone might have realized and not icky, but in a “I’ll always be your older friend way”. 

I think she would appreciate my next words written in her memory. In honor of her. 

We are all living within a stress cocoon. I try not to watch the news. I try to be patient and kind. I try. I fail.

Ask yourself a question, “I never know?” 

If you think about it, if you never know, you might keep breathing and trying. Think about it. 

A simple, positive outcome. You might be the parent of a child that solves the riddle for all cancers. 

All because you kept asking yourself a simple question, “I never know?” 

So, you stayed with us on planet earth. 

I’ll share a truth. Since I was a teenager, I have kept asking myself that same question. 

“I never know?” 

NS

A Cup Of Black Coffee

As the years, months, and days go by I realize,

It’s not about sex, it’s not about the physical act,

It’s wasted, It’s trashed to numb it away,

It’s about a feeling, an emotion, it abides the actual truth,

The truth that you cannot hide from you, 

We try to kill it, fear it, and throw it away.

Be honest to only you, It’s just you talking inside your head,

It’s you talking to you, 

Don’t be afraid of it,

Don’t walk away,

Get down on your knees and beg for it to leave you be?

It hurts what you see inside what only you can see,

Let yourself accept it in a quiet moment, with only you,

Think about it, because it goes without,

It is always nearby,

It waits,

It just wants acceptance, truth, and joy,

It just wants a gentle hug with no words,

It is the universal truth,

It is simply holding another warm hand,

It is knowing you are not alone living in a desolate land,

It is an understanding that you matter,

It is what we all wish for, inside and out,

It scares us because it holds our truth,

It’s priceless and it’s free,

It’s all that matters to me,

To love and be loved in return,

It’s so true,

I wish I could tell you,

I love you.

NS

Early Monday Morning

The best time to write, to tap into my heart happens early in the mornings just before human activity emerges.

Darkness pierced by yellow street lamps dissolves into a humid gray as the sounds from flowing rain waters confirms the summer storms had lashed out during REM sleep. 

It was not within my imagination during a cold nightmare that lightning cracked and thunder shook just beyond my windows. 

There is a calmness from watching moisture drip from the shadows of swaying oak tree limbs and palms as the sun’s pure white rays push away the gray to reveal the downtown landscape.

I am alone but surrounded by others. The streets look almost empty. 

My black mask with a charcoal filter hangs on my front door nob as a constant reminder that something unseen lurks. 

I am trying to find my self-confidence. My sense of purpose and meaning. I feel lost. 

If you strip away the non-sense, we are all vulnerable souls. We are all afraid to get bitten. 

I suspect I am not alone expressing that I am not as strong as I might attempt to act. 

Fear, loneliness, isolation, and a lack of patience permeate my mind and they have all come out of hiding. 

I try not to go numb. 

I miss a simple hug between friends. Wordless feelings between bodies that life will workout and things will be okay. 

An early morning innocent snuggle cocooned under bed sheets warmed with trust and safety. 

I gaze out my windows; the sunshine splashes as birds communicate. “Where have all the humans gone this Monday morning?”

I take in a deep breath and then drain my lungs. I drink the black coffee. 

My emotions stir. 

I decide to be productive; I focus my mind. 

Perhaps I’ll take a shower. 

Perhaps I’ll walk to the grocery store later in the day? 

Perhaps I’ll go for a lengthy bike ride later in the day and accept the intense heat? 

I nod, I drink coffee. I’ll remember to wear my mask. 

All I know, it’s another day, and I am alive to accept whatever happens. 

NS

A Welsh 5-Mile Bubble

My Welsh friends are living within a 5-mile radius in Wales.

Stephen King could not imagine their reality.

The government mandated this 5-mile radius to stop Covid-19 from spreading. (I wonder if anyone gets the “Hey nineteen, that’s Retha Franklin”? A Steely Dan reference… any who…)

As Madeline Kahn’s character in Blazing Saddles said, “it’s twue, it’s twue.”

A movie that in our current societal collective climate could never, ever, be produced again. We can no longer poke fun at each other and laugh.

I think Airplane is another movie never to get produced again, and Kentucky Fried Movie, do you have any others?

“It’s twue. It’s twue.” Thank you, Lili Von Shtupp.

Let me share a genuine story.

After my seasoned alien business owners, Alan and Suzanne, happily sold The Moon, my brilliant country encouraged them to flee back to their homeland, Wales. Actually, they were shoved, not encouraged.

A side note, my 4th novel, A Year Inside The Moon, was about the place and the story is about me, this lonely 50-something trying to figure out his life.

So, my Welsh friends, Alan and Suzanne, took me in like a flawed dog-rescue and gave me a place to call home.

It’s twue, it’s twue.

A place, The Moon Under Water, on every Friday evening I looked forward to being inside the Snug, and drinking a Welsh whiskey shot at exactly 6 pm after Suzanne said, “iechyd da.”

It’s twue, it’s twue – and I think those words mean, in good health.

So, my friends lucked out and sold the business before Covid-19 hit planet earth.

And then, from an immigration snafu, we in Oldish St Peter lost two wonderful human beings with odd accents, both with wicked senses of humor and overall marvellous people from being in our presence.

It’s twue. It’s twue.

I know they will thrive inside their government imposed 5-Mile bubble.

They are those sorts of people… they’ll find the diamonds hiding inside a pile of horseshit. They are rare; you don’t come across people like them often. And if you are like me, you are keenly aware of this.

I love them without reservation.

I miss them.

I wrote those last two sentences with meaning and purpose.

As my dear friend Patti describes me accurately, “I’m a guarded personality”. If you Google “guarded personality”, you’ll understand me a bit.

I’ll not bore you with details, but I’m easy to talk with but difficult to know.

It’s twue, it’s twue.

If I decide I like you, If I decide you are my friend, well, I’ll give you my whole.

If I were living inside a 5-mile radius, I would hope to have Alan and Suzanne inside with me.

We would have plentiful Gin, if not, we’d figure out how to make it or some other adult beverage.

We’d make fun of each other and laugh late into the day.

It would seem as if the day was endless and we’d never reach the horizon.

I love my friends. I miss their presence. But I know they are happy.

It’s twue, it’s twue.

NS

I Love My Sister

I’m lucky, I can write out strings of sentences to express my feelings. 

If this pandemic, riots, protests and social unrest have taught me anything, it is that self-care is hard. 
I think as a society we seem to just deaden feelings. Kill the pain.
As the Polish proverb, “Not my circus, not my monkeys.” Shun the universe, it is easy to not feel.
I suspect many have similar feelings living through this bizarre time.  

Right?

I’m lucky. There is this one person on planet earth… she’s had me mapped out from day one. 
She’s the person I talk with that understands me.

My sister. 

She lived my childhood; she knows my reactions. If your mother was a cold fish and highly critical, like ours, well, those kindness skills don’t magically appear. If your father was pathological, etc… you might have trust issues.

I do. 

Growing up, I think I learned to have an excellent sense of humor from the emotional isolation. I enjoyed making my sister laugh. If she smiled, I smiled.

I rarely talk or write about her. She’s my only family. 
So I call her.
She talks me off the ledge. And then, she will tell me she loves me. I get this virtual hug. And all my built up anxiety washes away. She gives me hope. 

The photo I shared comes from when I was about 23. I was struggling inside. I did not have to say anything to her, she just understood me and looked after me.

I would not be alive today without her care and love. 

She’s kind. She’s smart. Her brain’s microprocessor zips data and information at a quantum speed. 

I remember she was about 6 years of age; I was 5 years into my life – we had packed our bags. We would escape from the insane asylum. 
We hid in a closet between shoe boxes and hanging clothes as the daily family storm raged outside the bedroom door. Unfortunately, we did not have a plan or resources before they discovered us. 

She’s the one person on the planet who was trapped with me on the same emotional desert island; we existed on it for decades. So, we have a tight bond, one to the other. 

If everyone had a sister like mine, there would be no wars, violence or bloodshed.

I wish everyone had a sister like mine. 
My sister has grace, she has dignity. 

I love my sister. 
NS

Triggered

I looked up the definition. Triggered.

It is a strange experience to read a textbook definition and realize the words on the page define you. 

As if I were a vapid child blundering into an active wasp’s nest, you have not a clue that those stings, those barbs, leave behind a lifetime of a slow release venom from the oozing puncture wound. The red swelling had instantly expanded in all directions from the center across the soft skin like a lustful nuclear blast. 

Eventually, the mushroom cloud dissipated, the body’s healing process fought back and the carnage disappeared. A few days later, as if nothing had ever happened across the now silent battlefield. It was just another day in my life.

Keep moving, keep walking forward. Stay silent. Be quiet. Be a man. 

But the violence left behind a legacy, a specter, a haunting reminder tucked away for an inconvenient encounter on down the journey. Unless I cut that journey short. I did not, I will not, many times I have refused the whispered invitation. 

So it came at me in waves and crashes as if it caught me in the ocean’s undertow. Helpless. Powerless. It intended to take me. I spat out the salt water, the foamy froth. Mercy not a part of the crime against my innocence. It wanted to drown me in my mind. It kept dunking me down deeper and deeper. My lungs exhausted, my heart pulsing from overexertion. 

The picture show had returned and flash froze me. But I had learned to let the show go on and not fight back and let the undertow cast me away after it had proven its power and control over my body. 

I knew what to do; I had been at that place before. I just sat there with a half-smile within the crowd, nodding agreeably, and accepted the invisible beating. It kept beating on me. I don’t know why it picked on me. I thought it had extracted the ransom decades ago. But I guess it wanted to remind me.

So I sucked in the wrong fuel. I blow-torched anything in my path. It was a convenient response. Scorched earth. If you kill feelings off, they cannot hurt your soul anymore. Kill it.

The interior leprosy a safe colony to remain hidden. 

I know I am not the only leper. So I write words on a page to express our collective feelings.

Feelings are hard to express in the written word, like attempting to catch butterflies with a shotgun blast. 

And then magic happens…

Let all the feelings return, let the evil images flow freely without restriction, their power will die off and then kindness and love will appear and navigate you back toward safety.

Stand with your toes in the sand and let the cold waters wash across your feet. Stretch out your forefinger into the air, let it accept whatever happens, and sometimes the butterfly lands on the tip of your finger. 

It trusts you with its elegance and its grace. It accepts you. 

As the butterfly flutters its wings, you feel the warm sunshine; you breathe in the salt air and hear the ocean’s waves cycle across the beach like sleeping lovers snuggled together within a protective cocoon. 

And the fragile butterfly waves the memories away and grants you peace. 

NS

Love You, My Friend

When moved I create free-formed poems. This is a short 1 minute read…

I know the last months and days have shot my anxiety level up into deep space. I tend to get a bit mean and nasty which is not helpful.

I am gifted at self-sabotage.

I thought this morning what if we could all go back in time and be an innocent child? Thus the photo – that is me from about eight years of age. Check out my bowl cut, innocent face and curious eyes…

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Love You, My Friend

I would open my heart, but I am afraid,

To open my heart allows you to see inside me,

To see my human imperfections,

So I hide my naked truth from the confused invader,

I wear a pirates tricorne with a fake eyepatch and I lash out with a wooden cutlass,

Slash, Gash, Severe, Injure, Wound,

I step back to observe the battlefield,

As the cannon smoke clears,

You see me; I see you,

But I cannot see your vessel’s scars,

And you cannot see my vessel’s scars,

Calloused, Cold-Blooded, Heartless, Insensitive, Apathetic,

Now the silence at sea,

Beneath our epidermis,

Mindless life experiences germinated from hate and hurt,

Power, Greed, Perversion,

Violence, Venom, Revenge, Hostility, Pain,

Agony, Torment, Anxiety, Bitterness, Misery, Grief,

I decide I will retreat to my island,

Numb to the world,

So, I will build an invisible wall around my island as high as Orion’s Belt,

Protected by the three sisters,

My thick island wall will stretch toward Andromeda,

Flanked by Perseus, master over the Gorgon,

I am guarded inside my self-imposed exile,

My little boy, my lost innocence, my scars,

In safe harbor,

Sheltered, Defended, Veiled, Separation,
Alone,
Isolated, Detached, Secluded, Private, Confined, Empty,
Lonely,

Someday I must emerge from my island fortress,

I have fished out the waters and deforested the coconut trees,

If I do not emerge I will die, we will all die from emotional hunger and thirst,

I walk out onto the scorching beach sands; I drop my cloak, drop by wooden cutlass,

I take off my fake eyepatch,

My defenses stripped away,

And I say, “Love you, my friend.”

NS