K.J. Stevens's Blog, page 2

undetected

Saturday – August 30th, 2025 – 7:55 am

It can go on like this for a long time. Putting together casual observations. Gut to brain. Heart to vein. Paper to pen. And still, I struggle with penmanship.

I recognize—finally—it’s part of my process. Journaling fills the well.

I sort paper, plastic, and cardboard at the township fire station. I’m putting garbage in big metal containers so it can be trailered away by big, dinosaur-eating trucks, to become something else—renewed, repurposed, then garbage again. All the while, I have a soft spot. Warm and soggy below my sternum.

I texted my Dad early. Three minutes to seven. I knew he’d be up. So, I asked if he wanted to ride along with me—backroads. Or if he needed anything from town. I’d pick him up. We’d catch up. But he said no. Thanks. He has stuff to do today.

I was hoping for a story. Maybe from his mid-twenties. Half in the bag. Shooting deer out the Bel Air window with Uncle Vaughn.

Fourteen. Racing motorcycles through Gapski’s cornfield with Cousin Pete. Wearing nothing but cowboy hats and cutoff jean shorts. Beaten by rough leaves and woody stalks.

Even a story about a story he’d heard one day. A former tenth-grade classmate, Becker Smith, didn’t show up for school for a week. A troubled kid from a troubled family. Principal Steele checked in after calls home went unanswered. Becker’s parents were shot dead in bed. But Becker, the family’s Dodge Power Wagon, and Sandy, their beagle, were gone.

Or maybe I’d have one. About being six. Standing barefoot on the hot pebble gravel at Grandma’s. Between Dad and my Mom’s brother, Stan. Watching my Dad listen. Quiet. Pabst in one hand. A Basic smoking away in the other. All while Uncle Stan rattled on about the ’59 Electra 225 he found. An old lady on Schooker Road. Dead husband. Garage sale. He noticed the car behind the barn. Grass grown up all around it. Massive fins. Spotless chrome. A 401 Nailhead. And floors so clean, you could eat off them. He got it, and all the dead husband’s fishing tackle, for two-hundred-and-twenty-five bucks.

My Dad drank. Smoked. Nodded. Stan moved on to a fishing boat he found. Maybe my Dad would be interested in it. Sixteen foot. Deep-V. Little eight horse Johnson. Stan would even throw in some of the tackle he’d recently acquired. Any other day, this would have sent hope radiating—but I was still at the Buick.

How could it stay so perfect left to the weather like that?

Was the old lady sad to sell it?

Was she all alone? Did she have a dog?

Or a big orange tomcat at least?

How did the husband die?

And most importantly, what was he talking about—eating off floors? Was that something adults did when kids weren’t around?

It came and went like everything else. I knew better than to ask questions because I wanted to always be there—listening, learning—as much as possible, without detection.

You discover a lot when people don’t notice. Don’t remember, or care you are there.

That’s how I pick up information.

And that’s how I fill the well.

~ KJ

walking with my wife

We walked the cemetery. Read names. Dates. Heard feet against a soccer ball. High school boys practicing. The little alpha males calling out. Playing on the other side of the chain link fence.

Crows have been following me all day.

I woke at the cottage with them there. Cawing from treetops. Perched on the neighbor’s roof. One flew up to the big glass window facing the lake. It sat on the window ledge. Tapped its beak to the glass. Turned, flew off with the others.

At home, they walked the funeral home lawn across the street. I sat at my desk—crunching numbers, calling, strategizing—and they appeared again. Fence. Bushes. Basketball hoop. They cawed and cawed. Then flew off.

In the cemetery I only saw one. So low to the ground and far enough away that I thought it was a black cat.

My wife looked at me like I was crazy.

Home now. Not a murder. No crows. But the fat gray cat licks herself like it’s her job. The repetitive head jerks. Wads of hair. Awful sound.

I don’t sleep enough. Legs ache. Kick. Arms tingle, go numb. My mind runs wild—takes me places that I’ve never been, yet know. Like I’ve been away so long I can’t remember home. So, I make it up—happiness. And believe in it. People listened there. Felt it.

Short stories are powerful. They’re the hardest, the brightest. The best. But headstones never say enough. Leave me without saying anything. Grind me up into dust. Let nature carry on the conversation. In silence we’ll grow.

Crows circle. Kids run. Kick the ball. Chase it. Light fading.

~ KJ

storms

Up to the city siren.
Out of bed quick
to survey the situation.
As if there’s
anything
I can do
to save us.

Wind drives
waves of rain.
Trees and wires sway.
Lawn chairs tumble.
Bird feeders swing.
A garbage can rolls
down the street.

In the basement,
we wait.
I touch the wide beams
that hold us every day.
Rough edges rebuild
my confidence.
This hundred-year-old house
has weathered plenty.
It will outlast me.
Maybe even
the new builds.

The siren stops.
We climb upstairs.
My wife cracks eggs.
The kids pour Lucky Charms.

I step onto the porch.
Hair rises.
Ears drink sound.
Eyes scan the sky.

Hoping
for more.

~ K.J.

ragers

No rage here today. Only dewy grass. Chickadees. Lake Huron air.

Was there ever a reason to be mad? Frustration makes us flounder, fall, fuck up. A thoughtful, calculated approach is what we need. Subtle impact, over and over again, like waves rocking a ship. The momentum builds, water rises, and the big machine is flooded and crushed, until it sinks.

What about people on board? Those working? Or just along for the ride?

They’re part of the mess. The problem. The issue. The need for a reset. I’m not saying violence is the answer. I’m saying nature—what’s natural—eventually strikes back. Fake suntans and phony money are destroyed, just like us, in the end.

There’ll be other ragers. Big babies who were never told “no,” trying to get their way. And they will—for a while. But they can’t fight the ending. Not with life jackets, rafts, or flares.

Because the god that reigns doesn’t give a shit. She’s not afraid to drown the world. She always tips the balance toward growth.

Quiet mornings in Northern Michigan.
Dew. Chickadees. Lake Huron air.

~ KJ

no next

August 17, 2025 – 7:44 pm

Go to a CAKE concert. Don’t feel young. Don’t feel old. Just the right age. Not screaming incoherently into the void of noise. Not still, unaffected. But attentive. Swaying with the music. Singing the hits. Happy to see my wife and daughter dancing, smiling, excited. And people of all ages and different places connecting. Because we let art do its thing. Expression and absorption all at once—symbiosis at its best.

I was dreading lots. The stupid drunks—because I used to be one of them. The gathering together of people and getting mixed up in all those energies. And, of course, waiting in lines, the parking and leaving. But all of it was better than expected. All of us together. Smooth and tight.

Lake is rough today. Blustery wind against the house. Waves breaking on the shoreline and splashing the yard woke me. From wherever I was. I sat on the edge of the bed trying to remember anything but I could not. Dreams were deep, secretive, and renewing.

I let Astro, the Husky, out. He sniffed around the grass as if he’d been dropped off on the moon. Tiptoed to the closest cedar and peed. Now, he’s on the couch. Sleeping. I’m at the old yellow Formica table sipping black coffee. The breeze blows curtains to-and-fro and tells me that Autumn’s on the way. But that’s okay.

This was the fastest summer yet. I know it’s not over, but I know what awaits. Kids back to school. Wife back to teaching. A return to real life. Alarm clocks and schedules. All of us working for whatever’s next.

But there is no next.

Just like there wasn’t yesterday.

Driving home. Happy behind the wheel. Wife at my side, in the passenger seat. Daughter behind me, curled up under a blanket. Both tired, full, and settled enough to sleep for long stretches of twisty curves and bouncy county roads. And songs on the radio by Pearl Jam, Michigander, Fiona Apple, and Fleetwood Mac. Just a man doing one of the things he loves best—hands on the wheel, navigating the road—eyeing all the two-tracks and trails, feeling the old familiar urge to take one—a different path. But knowing full-well that time for those explorations has passed.

I’ve learned that no matter how many or what type I take, I’m always brought back.

People depend on me to be here. In the present. Doing what needs to be done—working and building, maintaining and protecting, fighting and figuring, saving and spending, and cleaning up messes others won’t touch. That’s my purpose. And when my day is done, and I drift off, I will know I’ve done all I can.

Because I’m going the distance.

~ KJ

power and energy

Deer in the field. Crows on the crooked steeple. Birds in the leafy branches of the cemetery’s big maple tree. This simple life. Where today I’ll mow the lawn. Use the old green push mower that I found in the basement of the church when I moved here three years ago. A solid machine. Powered by a Briggs & Stratton. One that asks little of me. A bit of oil. Fresh gas. A clean spark plug. And always, it’s ready to run and to remind me of the day Dad brought an old Briggs & Stratton to the side door of Thunder Bay Junior High School. For me to disassemble and reassemble. For a project in my Power and Energy class.

Third hour with a bunch of burnouts and jocks. Led by Mr. Leeland. A short man with Popeye forearms who was filled with stifled frustrations, but guided by good intentions. His goal? To show these kids something they could use in this life. How to follow directions. Take things apart. Put them back together. And do it again. Because he knew how it would turn out. That most of us would never stray far from home. And we would never reach any higher than our parents did. There would be no climbing of the social ladder. No corporate executives. Genetic scientists. Or astronauts. We boys would grow into men’s bodies, but we would never change. We’d become bigger boys. Obsessed with Power and Energy. Being stronger and faster. But we would never have enough drive, ambition, or heart to know how to truly use any of it. The best Mr. Leeland could do was prepare us for a life of fixing things that he knew would be broken.

Dad knew this too when he brought me that small engine. In a heavy duty cardboard box. Covered with an oily rag. When he let me wrestle it into the school all by myself.

“I got it,” I said, stumbling up the steps and fumbling with the door knob.
“Oh, I know you do,” he said. “I know.”

And he smiled and waved as he drove away. And I walked inside. To a workshop table. To learn how to take it apart. And to put it together again.

I will think of that today. As I push along the old green machine. Mow diagonal rows. Until the lawn is tidy. Neat and trim. So people can visit. Pass by. Say to themselves, Now here is a man that really knows how to keep a place up! And I will feel I’ve accomplished something. As I retreat behind walls. Shower away the smells of another day that’s passed. The fresh cut grass. Exhaust fumes. Gas. And I will go to bed with some artificial peace. Balance in the darkness. At the edge of sleep. Knowing deep down that I haven’t done a thing.

Tomorrow I’ll wake. Refreshed, or haunted by dreams. And I’ll go downstairs. To the coffee pot. Pour in the water. Put in the grounds. Turn it on. And stand in the kitchen. To lean on the sink. Stare at the lawn, the trees, the old crooked steeple, and I’ll try to be happy because I’ve been given a great gift. Another day. To get through. To get things done. To make it okay.

~ K.J.

summer storm

August 8, 2025 – 7:38 am

Thunder just rattled this little house. Our cottage on the lake. It’s sturdy though—concrete. So, any noise came from improvements—vinyl windows, light fixtures, wall furnace. The new stuff—replacements and upgrades—are nice but never as good as the original. I’m sure other homes are shaking more this morning.

It started last night. Air, temperature, and humidity, wrestling about. Jolted by electricity. I was on the phone with my wife. She was home. At our big old house in town. Watering Mother’s Day flowers that have made it three months so far—colorful baskets that hang from the front porch. She was concerned I couldn’t hear her. She was moving around with the water jug and step ladder, traffic was steady, and the thunder was grumbling on and on. But I could hear her just fine.

We made plans for today. Our anniversary. Seventeen years that we both agreed seemed to have been pretty easy. As it turns out, listening and compromise build strength and unity. Not getting pulled into the bullshit that swirls around when families and friends collide— sticking together, not taking sides—fosters growth. Instills trust. Makes you unstoppable.

There have been hiccups. But we’ve always been focused on getting better. Together. It’s what got us out of low-income housing. Educated. Employed full-time with jobs on the side, and to the point where we can stop, take time to relax in the comfort we’ve created—side-by-side or apart.

Like last night.

When I felt the pull to be here. At the cottage. With water and ducks, chipmunks and chickadees—my thoughts.

And she opted for home—the couch, red wine, and a good book.

And even though we were miles apart and powers far beyond our control worked to shake the world, we knew we were safe. Connected. And that it was just another summer storm. Passing through.

~ KJ

bubbling

August 7, 2025 – 7:03 am

It’s fun. All of it.
The seriousness. The light.
Phony friends. Deep-set acquaintances. Family pieces.
The bubbling below the surface that we walk day after day.

There’s no stopping this. Not now. It will end by its own volition.
We’ll hit a wall.
Slip down a hole.
Get zapped up to the sky.
Or put our heads to the pillow and stay there in perpetual sleep.

And all of it is okay, and good, and exactly what we deserve.

But let’s not think of the end when the day is so fresh.
When everything’s new—again.

Sipping fresh-brewed coffee while my wife showers.
She’s just through the wall.
Me at the keys, about to get dirty,
While she washes away the night, yesterday, the past—
And brings her brightness to the world.

All while I tromp through trash in search of treasures
that should have never been thrown away.

I find one occasionally—when I’m willing to really get in there.
Dig into the dark.
Teeter on the edge of warning cracks
And slide as far as I can down sinkholes
Without getting sucked in.

That’s where I find the good stuff.
Things I remember.
That I’ve felt someplace else.
Maybe even before here.

I know they’re important,
So I search as much as I can every day.

I know if I find enough, and bring them back to her,
She’ll see it’s not necessary for her to get dirty like this.

I don’t want her to shower just to wash things away.
I want her to stay that way—
Happy and clean.
No need to care about what’s bubbling below the surface.

~ KJ

moon slivers and stars

Make it original. Or not. People like what they like. But I’ll leave the garbage to garbage-lovers. They’ll eat it. Lick it up. Love it. Consume one another. Go round-and-round. Create content for the sake of creating content so they can fill their gaping holes—be heard and seen, liked, liked, liked—and followed. But sooner than later they lead people down the path of disappointment. Serving up all that hollow dissatisfaction catches up and they need new garbage to share. So, they go to the landfill—tip-toe through the world wide web of facts, figures, fakery, and imitation—and pick up the best piece of trash they can find, so they can make it their own. Be original. Attract algorithms.

But that’s not what lasts.

AI, quantum computing, Mother Nature, and god know that.

I’ll take the lake breeze, gulls bobbing on waves. The tiny brown squirrel chirping at chickadees that dart back-and-forth to the feeder and sneak sunflower seeds up into the swaying branches of the all-knowing cedar that’s been breathing all of this in for decades. And I’ll watch this big red sun rise to light the day, as it works to keep us warm and steady, so we can live these very real moments—together or alone—and make the choices that carry us to night. With the fireflies and bats, crickets and loons. So, we can sleep soundly beneath moon slivers and stars, knowing we did our best with what we had, and what we’ve made wasn’t made for strangers, but for those that understand what it takes to last.

~ KJ

Commit. Create. Endure.

One brother turns 50. The other turns 47. And you’re the oldest, so you’re ahead in years. Winning a race you’re not sure you want to win. Parents aging. Shrinking. Bodies and worlds—for everyone—growing big and strong and wide and wonder-filled—then slowly closing in.

Eventually, you’re 52 with two terrific kids, a graceful wife, a few pets, a happy, consistent, comfortable life, and you wake and stumble just getting out of bed. A shove. A reminder. Stay strong and balanced. Commit. Create. Endure.

I sat on the back porch while the dogs stretched, emptied, sniffed up a brand new day. Scrolled Amazon for a water filter while the birds kept calling. It wasn’t until I made the purchase that I snapped out of it. Realized—I got up and was given another last day. Warm and humid, an indicator of what’s to come—more heat. But I’ll take the heat today. Get to the lake later. I’d rather be walking barefoot in the grass sweating than high-stepping through snow. Winter is no longer my friend. If the choice were mine alone, I’d leave it behind. Come back to it on Christmas to pay my respects. Say hi.

The Great Lakes Review wrote about DEVOTION. Sara Hailstone, the editor, enjoyed the book. I read it quickly. Didn’t want to feel too good. Get sidetracked. The piece is good for promotional reasons, but mostly I was happy because she read it and felt it. And she reads a lot. Writes a lot. Having someone in the business give the book a quiet nod—it lifts you.

We don’t always realize what we’ve got. That none of this will be back. That we won’t return—not in this form. And that’s the thinking one needs to keep—just below the surface. In every situation. Those tense moments on family car trips when no one’s well-rested and everyone’s chasing ideas of a good time. The days when people bullshit you over and over again because they’re sick in the spirit and head. And the nights that finally let you go—heavy, filled with restless dreams—into another hopeful day when all you’ve got to do is put one foot in front of the other.

~ KJ