Thursday, June 30, 2011

pickle

I need sun. A faulty fluorescent bulb and dwindling flame are the options I have chosen as of late. The duration of time a girl can survive on stories is questionable and at times I tire of the search. Then I notice it. A thin strip of natural light pushing in from under the door. The bulb blinks, I hear it pop. I walk toward the door and open it.

She has plans for him. That is all he tells me. His weekend will be filled with demolition, reconstruction. It is a life they are building from the remains of former ones. I smile at his smile. We are close enough to have a knowing glance and this is the best one we have shared in years.

Monday comes in a welcome ceremony as I need a spreadsheet, the surety of data entry, sweet sweet numbers, familiar faces and laughter. Only when I hear it do I recognize the craving I have for laughter. I fall over myself doing dances for such a genuine sound of happiness.

He does too so I ask, Busy weekend?

He dances with words, conducts the stories with his hands, moves about the room with a demonstration here and another there while for just one moment I can experience it, Shea you wouldn't believe it. I don't know where she gets the energy from. We pressured washed the damn paint off the deck.

You have to seal it, right?

Oh, done that too. We painted, worked in the yard. The heat was killing me. The sweat pouring from my body, my face dripping. I would stop what I was doing just to go in, take a shower, change clothes and go back outside to work. She is a power house. I have a hard time keeping up.

I smile and he goes on.

And pickles. You would not believe the pickles we put up. Cucumbers everywhere. Every type of pickle you could even dream. Everyone will be getting pickles.

Oh good, I say.

We couldn't keep our hands off each other. Everything we did we had to be right next to each other. Laughing, talking, just being close.

I can't imagine.

I guess we're still in that newlywed phase. I don't know. It's like we had been working all day and sitting in the  living room that night and all of a sudden she heard one of those jar lids pop and she got so excited that it worked and it was great. You shoulda seen how she danced around.

I am so happy for you.








Gratitude.

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

rest

I would like to fall asleep with my head in your lap while you are telling me a story. My dreams would follow the plot, and I would see you, float above you in the ether as you played out your next little escapade. Your next social experiment, a point you have to prove in costume. You are boy building dams just to control the water so I wait for a hard rain and smile in the knowledge you will have to give it all up. Raise your hands in complete frustration, fists clinched wanting a sword.

And then you would feel the rain.

The downpour.

I have seen your eyes light up when the skies grow dark.

I have seen the first drops touch your face.

You opened your mouth to drink it all in.

And then you screamed.

The rain came harder, huge baptismal drops.

What a beautiful smile you have. What a transforming laugh.




I look down at the dams. They have washed away.

It is here I know you.



Gratitude.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

asylum

I say to Charlie, If you don't believe your music is good how can you ever expect anyone else to believe it?

I agree, he responds.

Believing must be the hardest part.

Tonight I submitted to the book, put it in the hands of the most sociopathic editor found on Earth. I am lucky to have him. He will cremate it, hold the ashes of it in the palm of his hand, smile and blow them in my face. Thank you, Adam.

It wasn't until the fourth draft, after fighting demons of control, expectations and a complete loss of self before I was able to say, This is it.

This is the book. This is worthy. I believe it.

For you, I have shots from the cell windows of which I escaped. I affectionately call it the asylum weekend.












Gratitude.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

April first

Alright Jesse, here's your story.

My Papaw and I had one holiday we celebrated. It was April first, the annual pull a prank on someone day. He was the king of it and would always seem to get me even before I realized what day it was. That is until I was eight years old, the age you will be next year. That year I waited for April first. Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas, my birthday, whatever. Those were just distractions for the real holiday.

It took some planning, an accomplice and a hike to the softball complex. I included Stephanie Holland, Ben's older sister, on the plot. Now I wonder why but I think maybe I had her there as a witness so someone else could see Papaw's face once I yelled out the joke's on you exclamation.

I walked to Stephanie's house early that morning since Papaw got up before the sun and it was crucial my little hijinx lead the day. After what I was going to do he wouldn't be able to follow up. Nothing he'd do would do anything but pale in comparison to what I had planned for him. He'd be stumped.

As we walked the mile or so down the road to where most of us kids spent our summer nights, girls playing softball, boys playing baseball, I explained to Stephanie what would be happening. This seemed more of a test than anything. If I could get her excited about it just with the story of it then the actual act would be all that much better. It worked. The more I talked about it, the more she giggled and the faster we walked.

It wasn't long before we were standing in front of the pay phone at the brick concession stand right at the entrance of the park. I had brought a quarter and before I put it in to dial Papaw's number Stephanie and I looked at each other and began to laugh. We needed to get all the giggles out before I got on the phone. The whole plan would be ruined if at any point I even smiled during the conversation with Papaw. He'd know I was up to something. Surely he knew it was April first. I figured he was waiting on me.

Once I felt calm enough I turned away from Stephanie, put the quarter in the phone and punched in the number. It was early enough that I figured he'd be reading the paper, drinking a cup of coffee and smoking a cigarette. (I know, Jesse, he should have known better). I could just picture the steps he would take in my mind, out the kitchen down that dark hall across from the bedroom to where he finally picked up the receiver on that big, black rotary phone.

Hello, he answered.

Papaw, I need help. I cried with as much desperation and fake pain I could muster.

What's wrong, Shea? Where are you? He seemed to be falling for it, but I couldn't be sure. He was tricky.

I'm at the softball field, Papaw. I tried to break up as if I was sobbing. Stephanie and I were practicing. Pretending to cry is easier on the phone than it is in person. Nobody's here, Papaw. Frantic, I had to add frantic as well. I think I broke my leg. Complete desperation. I think I need to go to the hospital, Papaw. Then the clincher. Please help me.

I'm on my way, Shea. Just stay right there.

Okay. Okay, I'll be right here. Hurry, Papaw, it hurts.

I hung up, turned to Stephanie and she wanted to know if he bought it. I didn't really trust that he wasn't onto me and going to do some alternate ending to my little joke so I simply said, I think so. Bottom line is we had no time for any doubt since part two of the plan was for me to be on the ground writhing in pain as Stephanie paced around in great fear of what could have happened to her dear, dear friend.

We had to be quick 'cause I knew Papaw would be jumping in The Silver Streak and running stop signs to come get me. I was right. He was there in no time and Stephanie and I were amazed at how he got outta that car and ran up that hill. The sheer disbelief that we had been able to trick him so thoroughly kept us from laughing.

I don't think I can walk, Papaw. I said in the tiniest of voice and Stephanie shook her head in agreement.

As he was scooping me up and I was doing an ouch here and another ouch there Stephanie and I looked at each other in awe. We had pulled one over on Papaw, which I had thought was impossible. I almost started giggling right then but covered up the need with a moan. Stephanie had to look away with a smile.

Once we were down the hill to the car, which was still running, Papaw got Stephanie to open the rear passenger door where he slid me in ever so gently. I groaned enough to overcome the fact I couldn't fake cry. They closed the door behind me. Stephanie got in the front passenger seat, Papaw jumped in the driver's seat and in the very moment before he pulled the car from the P to the D I yelled out with the biggest grin on my face,

APRIL FOOL!

Now, Jesse, you gotta watch this 'cause there are some adults who will pull you out of that car and whoop ya'. No doubt about it, but your great grandfather was not one of those adults. His eyes looked up in that rear view mirror and began to dance, a smile filled his face and he started laughing. We all started laughing, and I said I got you in one of my proudest musta won the Super Bowl moments.

I think I gained some respect that day.



Sweet Jesse, I do wish that you and Slater and Wyatt could have known him and he you, but I am so very grateful that I have at least this story to tell you.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Seane Corn

Everybody is somebody but some people catch my attention.


Maybe it's not a bad idea to check out what she's doing in this world, how she got to the place where she is, how she settled a busy mind.



Gratitude.

Friday, June 24, 2011

after the sixth date

It is getting harder to not attach things to your name. I know better. I should not be looking at this and thinking of you but I can't help myself so I allow myself.

This is the part of love I love, the yearning.

After the yearning what is there? beatings? Not literally but at least metaphorically, right?

I have done a five year study on relationships with a group of people who span two genders and two races (by race I mean color of skin, white and black). My conclusion is that we should not compromise who we are for anyone. It's crazy, relationships without compromise.

So this is when I ask the question,


Can you be happily who you are while I am being wonderfully who I am and vice versa?

Sixth date question seems kind of important.


Gratitude.

note to Christianity

yes, yes I'll do the poop but I want to say this first.

You taught me how to rebel. Thank you. You showed me the absence of absolute truth while also teaching me stories of right and wrong, shoulds and shouldn'ts. There are some great lessons there, fist pump respect. I think there are some great things about all religions and some not so great things. It's kinda scary to say this actually, that there would be some not so great things. I mean you're going against God, against religion if you say there are some not so great things. But then I think, no I am not going against God or Allah or Buddha or any other name. I am not going to fight with anybody about it. I am gonna say okay, that's cool what you think. but how 'bout this? you're right. but what about this? I never thought of it that way. so tell me about your Mom and Dad. where are you from? wow, what is that like?


I guess I just want to make sure if I am part of a group, if I solemnly swear to something with my right hand on the Bible and my left hand in some type of salute then I want to make sure we're on the same page or maybe not. Whatever, I just need to tell you that. One thing I love about this country is that I can say that, type it on the internet.





Gratitude.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

ballad

No more projects, I tell myself. You have enough and to some it may seem you are burying yourself in insurmountable tasks. Why are you burying yourself?

well, how can I not? when those things came up they just felt like the right things to do.


Feeling huh? How much thinking was involved?



well.

No. Seriously.



enough?

Hm.

Shea, there's a pile of Billy Sue poop on the living room floor. You think you could maybe go pick that up?




yeah, I'll do that.

No. Now. Not later.




now? This is writing time. I'm writing right now. And then I have those other stories to write.

Now.




okay.



Hello, Mom. At some point in my life you got in my head. Congratulations and thank you.

making peace with Wyatt

It was Sunday afternoon, late for me. Josh and I drove to town and back. In the time we were gone Jesse and Madalyn had arrived and Jesse was in the pool. My camera bag was on my shoulder 'cause if I'm doing right in the world it's there as much as my purse.

A huge red carpet announcement came running out of the pool, Uncle Josh! Aunt Shea!





Jesse! I shouted like we hadn't seen each other in years although we had dinner together last night. That's what she does. She makes you feel like she is an old friend you've been missing. She is the big bang theory. At any moment she will burst into a sun. And she wants us in the pool.

She jumps back in the water and Josh sprays her right in the middle of the chest with a water hose. Uncle Josh! Stop it! He laughs, stops and goes to the fridge. I get my camera out and sit next to the pool. No Jesse, you can't spray me with the water hose. No Jesse, you can't splash me. I have this camera and it costs too much to ruin.

Ya' gonna take pictures?

Yes and then I'll put them on the internet, my favorite ones, and then Grammie will show them to you. How's that?

Okay. She smiles at the thought.


I love her 'cause this is when she starts her model routine.

Get me doing this, Aunt Shea. Did you know I could walk on my hands?






No, Jesse. Do it.






How 'bout this?






Do it.                                Oh my gosh.







Get me doing this.






Wow.

This is Aunt Shea Jesse time. Tonight she was at Uncle Josh and Aunt Pris's place playing Mario so I have to take advantage of Aunt Shea Jesse time because it is rare and Uncle Josh and Aunt Pris totally rock. Yes they do.



Soon Jason,



Jesse's Dad/my brother, shows up with Wyatt, Jesse's big brother. Before long Wyatt is in the pool eating cold watermelon. Doesn't that sound like a naughty luxury? Something you're not supposed to do but get to do due to it being a special occasion. Every day is like that at Pop and Grammie's house. For me anyway. And Jesse. And Wyatt.

The sun is beating down and heating up like it is August. There is a splinter in the bottom of my foot and the sides of the pool let me know it's there. Here I am, it says. Nonetheless I am moving around with the camera always aware of where I am in relation to the water because I have two little (no big) brothers who if I didn't have a camera would be pushing (no, throwing) me in the pool. The camera not only takes pictures, it protects.

I'm shooting like crazy, two hundred pictures in just a couple of hours.

There is a problem though. Someone there doesn't want me taking pictures. It could be two people but Dad puts up with it and I guess you could say Wyatt does too, although he shouldn't have to.

He doesn't want the attention of the big lens which looks like a monster so when I try to get a shot of him it has to be good the first time and then I have to let him be. There is also a part of me who says that Wyatt may not want his picture on the internet so tonight the photograph I send out to Wyatt is not a picture of him or maybe it is. Maybe this is Wyatt at sixty something.

Mom, you'll get your pictures from somewhere other than the internet. The next time I come I'll bring prints of my favorites of both him and Jesse. Wyatt and I, we are making peace with pictures.



Do you ever wish your Dad stayed the age he was five years ago? Did you ever wake up one day and tell God, Okay God, Dad is finished growing. You can keep him where he is right now. That is what I did on Father's Day.




I need some music here. How 'bout you? Second time around for this one 'cause that's how much I like (no, love) it.










Gratitude.

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

hydrotherapy by Jesse









 

not so much

When we write together it is as if the world opens in the words. It is slow love, a quiet thoughtful laugh, one of those soulful looks I crave. It feels like respect and it remains as a memory of once was upon a time. A sweet little fairy tale in my mind when the dream seemed shared but I truly knew better. I tried to write a script but you were caught up in a story.

So I allow for no other choice and you grant me a view upon request. It is Rome at night, a Chianti as you drink it in wondering why did I never come here and why am I leaving. Thoughts of you being trapped in a mind of fear danced like flame in a reflection. You were never scared, the fear was just a want of mine.

If you feared then I could hold you, play the brave one, prepare us a place. Silly, silly girl.

He says, Be aware. My eyes grow heavy and the dreaming begins.

When I dream it is not of Rome or Belgium or London or anywhere but here. I can take the heat 'cause I work for air conditioning. The stories come straight from the soil and are planted into the people through a vine ripe tomato. The watermelons are chilled and my niece shows me how she can dive into the pool.  We take a Sunday afternoon drive to the bait shop and go home the other way hoping it is longer. Old cane poles and catalpa worms, a straw hat with a large brim. We sit on five gallon buckets and drink cold beer from a cooler of ice.

I find shade, tell you the story of elusive land and how the list grows. Dirt roads, scarce hardwood, what didn't get planted this year. I laugh, turn to see your smile and find you are gone. Oh yeah, you were never here. 

You were in Rome.



Still I am grateful.

Friday, June 17, 2011

sunday

Once or twice I may have heard to never pray for patience 'cause God'll teach ya' and ain't nobody wanting to learn patience. I am trying to remember who said that, what their lives were like. Even now when I remind myself to not pray for patience I scold myself for even having the thought, is the thought to not pray a prayer within itself? Is this writing, in fact, a condemnation to the hell of impatience?

What is impatience? A feeling of cuspedness, to those of you who may be unfamiliar with the word I just now created, is a feeling of edge as if you are at the very top of the highest peak in all that is more and you are dangling. One foot balancing on the ground of what one knows to be true, factual, concrete: a coffee table, a book with pages and a hardcover, a chapter, typed words. The other dangles, held out into the void underneath it and the vast hope above it.

I have been standing in impatience, i.e. anxiety about what next in the headline Current Events.

an Is This It?

An interview.

An article.

Is this where I jump and if I have to ask is the act of asking the art of answering? Maybe. So what does jump mean? And how personal of a question is that? Even the fact I use the term jump when my Mom utilizes step is quite an individual take on what happens next in the thoughts of a human.

This is when I think of my Dad, or Diddy as he says I say it but I hate that 'cause it sounds so childlike and sometimes I like to pretend I'm all adult and proper yet now I realize what matters more than what I call him is my access to him, to what is us and rare and precious and I know he put some jump in me way back when. This is history in the now.

This weekend is my story for the book. I travel to see him and do my very first interview with the one story I am satisfied to tell that forty year old woman in the future who is wondering is this standing on the cusp of what is next.

The photograph accompanying the story has only been shown in my Mother's home. It was taken with a now shelved camera, but, ya' know, even now it says everything.


See ya' Monday.



Gratitude.

furrowed brow




That song on the Brothers' album, ya' know the one where Dan sings about the gears grinding away? What is that? Every time I hear it I want to remember those first few lines but I never do.


He is sitting on the desk and begins to rub his head. yeah, he whispers as his mind starts the search of the database, the catalogues, the files of this then that. Even tired with heavy he is quick. My gears they grind more each day and I feel like they're gonna grind away, he almost sings but doesn't.


Yeah, those are good lines.


He nods.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

siblings




















amateur (m -tûr , -t r, -ch r , -ch r, -ty r) n. a person whose friends may take the opportunity to obtain a decent and inexpensive Father's Day gift while helping said person to learn, practice and become more than. hopefully. surely. maybe. 



Much gratitude to Adam, Hannah and Will.

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

intimacy

Not naked but honest, I wonder how many of these relationships can a human handle. Charlie said the man and woman in The Civil Wars are not married, but, in fact are in relationships (marriages?) with other people. My brain screamed, ears bled. Not really, but it felt like a disappointment.

Then I began thinking about the intimate relationships in my life.

Tonight I'll say you'll never be more intimate than with the human being that comes out of your magic baby door (great Craig Ferguson piece about Scottish sex education). This human will, will do things to you that have never been done before. You will never love like this. Shit puke tears blood, laughter that's music, a smile to light the world, a pout to destroy the universe.

We have been taken over by the children.

Slater and I have this look. It is a different look than I have with anyone in the entirety of all that is. We'll call it an acknowledgement. In a room full of everyone including him I will always have a certain interior magnet which consumes me. Where is he? Is he smiling? What is he doing? Does he need me? If you can only imagine what it feels like to live in an environment where someone is consumed by you then you have to consider he did pretty well living with me.

He is beautiful. Calm. Cool. Collected.

He lived in a world where the drama was my head and we laughed at it.

Did I mention his laugh? Yeah, I think I did once or twice in the layers of this space.

Anyway, my cousin Betsy is going to have a baby, she and Ted actually. Aunt Sue is going to be a Grandmother, mama a la grande. Nice, warm, cozy little bundle of life and they are preparing mentally, emotionally, physically, every whichaway and I smile 'cause I know that no matter what they do, nothing will prepare them for the love,

the consuming kind.


Dear Bets,

If you don't have a very slight touch of neurosis now you will not be able to avoid being overcome with the most severe form of neurosis anyone has ever witnessed in just a few months. It's okay, maybe it is fatal but we'll call it a slow death. That human being growing inside of you will one day destroy you in the most perfect death any human can hope to expect. They are your greatest gift and I know you will be theirs 'cause you're one of the coolest fucking cousins I've ever seen.

You'll never share more stories than you will with this individual and stories are love.

You do have the capacity to kill Ted. Don't worry, Ted, you could kill Bets too. Right now you guys are the cutest, most everything all sweet, chocolates and kisses reason for facebook to exist. I love you guys but there is no doubt I'm looking at a couple of murderers there. Do something the other feels wrong to that kid and prepare to die. I'm not trying to get all dramatic here I am just saying that maybe when that perfect little human being arrives you both may need to have a shared respect sign. I don't know what it is these days, a fist pump? You may at least want to whisper in the throngs of overcoming some pain,


respect.

The laughter, I can't describe it. You know how you go to Widespread, Bets? You know that feeling you get being amongst all that shared groovy? That's a sneeze or maybe just the tingling you get in your nose before the sneeze.

Don't blink. Seriously, do not let your upper and lower eyelids touch 'cause while that contact is being made that kid will be outta the baby hatch and into college. And then at a job. And then at his Nan's. And then, maybe, you'll find ways to write you to him every night. That human will always consume you but you will find ways to not drive them crazy.

hopefully.

Is that all? No. I can't write that much. I just want to say, congratulations and I am sorry and welcome to you my friend. Welcome to you, that person is the best person you'll ever meet.

Love being shot like a laser beam right smack at ya',
Shea



Gratitude.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

recipe

I think this is when we are supposed to cook together. I'll try to impress upon you my love of this region's cuisine. You bring the ground venison and a bottle of wine.

Music? Well of course my kitchen will be filled with music. We'll start with some old and finish with some new.

You'll be here at seven? Be late, let me prepare for seven and enjoy what I have prepared for you until seven thirty. That thirty is crucial, it means that I am ready and now all I have to do is dance barefoot on a clean wood floor. In a span of thirty I'll look at the door fifty.

I better start chopping.

One half bell pepper.
One small onion.
Jalapenos to taste. Do you like spice?
One thick wood chopping block a friend gave me from the wood they had left over when they built the barn.
A knife. I secretly hope you can sharpen knives like my Dad. It is one of the most romantic things he does for my Mom. He keeps all her knives sharp, which not only means he notices the smallest of things but also can be translated to a certain amount of courage. He is a beautifully brave man.

This song comes on and a storm is brewing.

I hear the screen door open and shut, look at Billy Sue and she barks 'cause that is the one thing she is supposed to do. It is her duty. Don't worry, she'll fall in love with you. She falls in love with everyone. She is love.

You caught me chopping onions and my eyes are burning so I am crying and you begin laughing as soon as you walk in the back door and then I laugh and the music is playing and Billy Sue wants all the attention so you put the wine and pound of ground venison on the counter, bend down and pretend you have come just to see her. I tell her to stop, you have come for me but she doesn't listen.

I pull out the skillet Mom gave me one Christmas years back. It had this recipe in it. I don't know if it is one of  my favorites because it is so good or because when I cook it I am reminded of her handwriting. She taught me to write. Yes, she is a teacher.

You get the wine glasses. I point to the cabinet across the kitchen above the microwave. At the top, I say as I begin browning the venison.

Yes ma'am, you say as you reach up and pull down two glasses. A southern woman enjoys how ma'am rolls off a man's tongue no matter what his age in relation to her. Maybe it means he loved his Mama or that he respects a woman or maybe something else. This is one of those times where reason has little value to me.

As the venison begins cooking I reach up and pull down one of my favorite bowls. It is yellow and was given to me as a wedding gift twenty years ago. It is a loyal bowl, we have a history. In it I mix about (about is a common southern recipe word, good recipes always allow for a certain amount of freedom) three cups of cornmeal, one to two eggs and some milk. This is about consistency and I explain this to you as you watch me stir. I haven't cooked in some time so your interest makes me nervous and excites me all the same. I take a sip of wine and so do you and we smile.

I ask you if you can grate cheese and you roll up your sleeves and wash your hands at the sink. I pull a block of sharp cheddar out of the fridge, reach down to get the grater and stand up to find we are close. You and me close like this, without touching, is sensual and intimate and I have to break the silence of this moment in order to cook. Once again, you smile so I put you to work telling you not to quit until three quarters of that block is gone. Another yes ma'am and I am draining the venison, placing the chopped peppers and onion in the skillet. This song comes on and we begin to dance while we work. Is this work?

I return the venison to the skillet with onions and peppers, adding a can of cream style corn. Here I just want to make sure that the onions and peppers are tender. You finish the grating and present your masterpiece to me, a mound of fresh sharp cheddar cheese impersonating a pyramid. You dance a cute little jig and I laugh in appreciation. That you dance is one of my favorite things about you. Never stop dancing please.

I pour the skillet ingredients into another bowl you have so kindly placed in the only space we have left on the counter and tell you in front of you is our meal, everything we will need. I wash the skillet, dry it off, place some butter in it and put it in the oven which was set earlier at three seventy five.

You tell me about your day as I clean the dishes for which we have no more use. There was this moment you were caught in traffic but you had a book so you sat on a long interstate next to behind and in front on the rest of the world. And there was this one passage, I've got to hear it, it just struck you as the truest most beautiful thing you had ever seen written and then you looked to the side and a beautiful lady looked back at you and smiled and you smiled and waved and that moment felt precious.

I love it when you tell stories and I don't dare touch you now but I want to kiss you, a kiss for a story.

I almost forget we are cooking and quickly pull the skillet from the oven, pour the melted butter into the cornbread mixture, tell you to stir one last time and set the skillet on the stove. I pour half of the cornbread mixture into the skillet and instruct you to sprinkle half of your cheese masterpiece on top. I then place the venison, pepper, onion and corn blend in the dish. The other half of your cheese is sprinkled evenly about and we top it off with the remaining cornbread mix.

I stick it in the oven, set the timer for about thirty five minutes, turn around to high five you and find myself pulled into a slow dance to this song.



Some girls can't help but be dreamers. It was all they ever were.




Gratitude.

Monday, June 13, 2011

sunday mornings








I think everyone should befriend a dog who always looks concerned.


Gratitude.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

weave

I contemplate the possibility this is the end of desire. The gain more or have less are equal in value, no one thing better or worse than the next. If Bill Hicks really thought this was all a ride then why was he so angry and what did that anger do?

I think this is when I am supposed to go shopping, find a bright new shiny thing to add to a collection of dull dusty old things. What could I want? No thing.

He says maybe I need a pill but I ask him how can I trust someone who manufactures a pill to make me want. How do I know they won't just make my brain want them? He says maybe this is depression. But maybe, I respond, we just gave depression a negative connotation. Maybe it is okay to not want. Maybe the depression was caused by a media who gave us standards of happiness.

So how do you feel?

Disconnected but not bad not good not anything. No surge or depletion. What if this never ends, what if this is what you feel at the end. What if shame guilt pride greed jealousy no longer existed? What would we do without them? Just be grateful to be here, to be on this ride?

I think we've all felt like that before.

Okay, so maybe I am connected.










Friday, June 10, 2011

Thursday, June 9, 2011

title is grunting noise followed by I love you with a quick hang up afterwards

I don't know how to tell you this but see it's kinda like when you talk I don't hear what you say just what I think you mean and sometimes what I think you mean is that I am not good enough. You're not even saying that, I know, I know but it feels like it sometimes because I am hearing through my ears and your albeit slight (what right now seems like an understatement) use of what could be considered constructive criticism of an identity I have based the last twenty fucking years of my life on is ummmm, well,


it's just that one thing that



well



was the most important thing I had to do.







And yes, I fucked up in a no doubt about it situation and yes, at that moment

nothing

else

remained.




But your love.






And I am eternally, forever, it is the one thing I will commit to forever, grateful.





So the conversation we had tonight, it can be dismissed.

Bill


Gratitude.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

play

You know how every once in a while you like to pretend there is someone you can trust at the controls taking everything all serious so for just a moment or perhaps a few hours or maybe even a day you can throw caution to the wind, forget the responsibilities and play? Play like when you were a kid and the sun going down meant supper was ready but you didn't want to go in so you stayed out until your mother had to scream your and your brothers' names and when she did you convinced all the other kids you had enough time for one more round of hide and seek. And Ben Holland was it and he thought he was fast and he was pretty fast but you knew you were faster so after he got finished counting and all the other kids had made it to the base he finally found you but you took off as fast as you could and he was right on your heels so you shifted into turbo faster than fast speed and the swing set that was base had this little bar which made the letter A out of the side but the horizontal part of the A was not visible in the dim lighting and you were way too focused on making it to the base to comprehend the brutality of flesh at turbo faster than fast speed meeting the metal horizontal part of the A. You were clotheslined by a swing set and Ben Holland cried when he found you on the ground, your face covered in blood and all you could think was what a wuss and surely I beat him to base.

Good times, good times.




I think this is where I write a small note of gratitude to my emergency room ride.

Dear Mom,
Thank you for all those rides to the emergency room. Too many to count, huh?
Shea

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

others



I thought to prepare questions but then considered otherwise, grabbed a sketchbook, headed out the door and up the road. Just leaving was like jumping out of an airplane. It was Saturday, the kind of day we cook, watch movies, nap and any other darn thing we want to do. Yet here I was leaving my oh so comfortable abode, the confirmed introvert venturing out into another's home. Her Saturday like my Saturday could be sacred but she said it was okay, seemed excited about the prospect and what the hell, I thought, just jump.

My only goal was not to get in her way, not preconceive. I wanted to not conduct an interview. I told myself to allow, to be a photographer without the use of a camera. The only way to tell her story was to be a conduit from her to me to you without so much me. This is complicated since I was sitting there. I will write the story from my perspective. You will read it from yours.

It was the first interview in a series of I don't know how many interviews. The upcoming weekend will include a photo shoot as well. You and me, we'll see what happens. So far my perspective is of interest, respect and admiration. I hope to do her the justice she deserves.


Plus, it could be a reason for you to stick around. You never know what may happen around here.



Gratitude.

Monday, June 6, 2011

friend




Buddy, pal, confidant, partner, comic relief. The line has been crossed into ambiguity.
Whose pet is whose?





Gratitude.

Sunday, June 5, 2011