It's not wedding season. Not for me. Weeding season? -- I've got some to pull. It's rose season, I saw a sign that said so. And there's a shit-ton of roses out there. By that sign today I saw: red roses, pink roses, peach roses, yellow ones, whites, maroon roses, even rose-colored roses. Just walking around Ladd's I saw bunches of these flowers. Guess that's why this the Rose City. But today, I also happen to catch a glimpse of geraniums, forget-me nots, irises, purple things, leafy ones, and other multi-colored plants. Now, I don't know flora all that much (obviously) but I do know what smells nice. Green. Cut grass. Blooming flowers. Pollen. Air. It's nice to be outside these days. I used to enjoy staying in, looking out. My favorite color is gray. The cold, wetness was my excuse to hole myself in and read and type, to be alone. There was something solo about it. It's better to get out -- there some friendly faces out there. I've come to appreciate crisp air, exercise, neighboring nods. No longer drab, no longer dull, I'm walking the dog nightly and figuring out what else it is I've been missing out on. Bloom-ya.

Love no matter what


Two years ago today I was at work and I got a call that I was expecting. But I did not answer it. The call was from my mom; the message was Poppa died. She called to tell me. I knew before I heard the message. I was at the hospital the day before; he was already gone. But her daughter, my mothers said that Poppa was proud of me; he loved me. But he wouldn't be around any longer. He was gone.

Sad? Sure, when I played the message durning my one-hour lunch break at Whole Foods. I finished the workday, though, at the place I started working when he was alive -- Borders --and the place he asked me 'Gonna keep this one for awhile?' after I was fired from the pervious job.

I use this computer to create scenes on the screen with these keys as an outlet, a way to communicate. If I write it, I think it. If I type it: it's told. It can be read.

Poppa doesn't read my blog. But I do think he is able to hear some of my thoughts. I can write: this was the day he died. I can think about him. Think: Grandma, who remains and wrote me today to tell me, 'I'll love you no matter what.' A common candle lighted.

And that's what I love: no matter what; no matter where; no matter matter.

So on this day -- I have to work at Borders tomorrow! -- his voice is quiet as it was. But his presence is felt. One hundred and one he'd be, and 102 soon. I'm a quarter of that I am. And trying to be half the man he is to me -- Love you no matter.

Your grandson

You can't wash away sin

Splish splash, the water passes over my feet, and it's fucking cold, I remember that. The waves come up to my ankles and it feels good, but it's also is cold as shit. I can't imagine swimming in the Pacific, though I have. Here, it's cold as all hell and is better viewed, buut still, it's inviting.

We submerge ourselves in water, and though it seems cliche to say, water is renewal. It's a symbol of birth and rebirth. I was born. I've lived. I bathed. I was reborn. Rebirth. I don't know, I think as I'm looking at the waves, the beautiful sea scape in front of me. You can't wash away sin. You can't unfry things, Jerry.

But we're alone when we submerge ourselves in water. It's just us when we take down a mouthful of the beverage. We're solo when we are in the shower -- mostly. And it's us and our thoughts durning these times: we're holding our breath, gulping down, washing up. It is kind of a rebirth because we come out of these solitary moments with a new perspective. No matter how small, it's a different mind set. We're refreshed.

And I'm thinking about this on the beach, where water ends and land begins: A different kind of life starts, but at the same time the the other still exists. And I"m dead and alive at the same time. Part of me is gone forever while I continue be and grow. Drink and shower. Submerge and see scapes.

I'll start anew tomorrow. Rested: maybe. Reinvented: not so much. Rebirthed: of course. It's new. So fresh and so clean.

I'm thirsty. And I'm going to get some water. Anybody? Water?

the Freemason's foundation

Brother: I see some of him in me. Or maybe it's that I see me in him. I don't know. We're fucking brothers and that's what fucking happens. You drop F bombs for no effing reason.

So, there he his, sitting on the couch. Reading and laughing. "This book is pretty funny," he says, but I could have just as easily have said that. I have before, when no one around me was listening or paying attention, or could have possibly have known the premise to the novel. The plot or the characters. Certainly not the scene. So why say it? That's what we do. It helps make sense in our heads.

He's me but he's not. We go for a run and I'm in pain from the start. I haven't run like this in awhile. Instantly it's my knees. Pressure from the pavement runs up my legs to my ass -- it feels like someone is gripping my buttox, but from underneath the muscle -- Let go!. Up my spine go the jolts. It circles my skull and comes down the front. I feel it as my heart beats. There's my lungs. Under my ribcage and down my gut. After the first lap of pain I feel better and we continue running. Got to keep moving.

He laughs over there on the couch like I would. There's no need to explain what's funny. That's what's funny: it doesn't matter. What's funny to me is hearing me, my laugh coming out of him from the couch.

We make it over to Oaks Bottom. It was a workout for me just to get there. And this was to be the place I wanted to take us to run. I had to rest. Take off my top. Wipe sweat from my brow and drink a waterfountain mouthful. We begin again. Running, him behind me, pushing down the hill on the paved trail covered overhead by big trees' branches. The Oaks, I presume.

He laughs again, this time just out the nose like I would. It's not a full out cackle that's for sure. It's a release of pleasure on a much smaller scale. A satisfactory sigh. I do that, I think. That's me, too.

He passes me on the trail that has turned to a dirt path. We were to circle the pond but I'm now cramping up. I don't think I'll make it, I think as I see him -- me -- pull ahead of me -- him. I'll slow down and I can tell he could tell that I was going to do it. I let him run ahead and out of sight as I catch my breath and head back to where the trail began, where the dirt paves. He's right: he's stronger and faster, I watch.

We'll go to the store soon. Buy some food to prepare and eat together. We'll break bread, the brothers will. And we'll put into our same but different bodies the same food. We'll feast and find out what makes us so different, yet the same.

simple thought

I wrote this on a cold, dark day. I called it a simple thought. But it's not.

I really wasn’t expecting this. It was a complete surprise. I never would have thought. It didn’t cross my border. I don’t need the light now. The sun is bright enough to go outside and breathe. More out there, so how ‘bout you you? Gell. One L? I should give her a call before it’s too late. It’s too late. I’m a fool. And the sun goes behind the cloud. It gets grey. And I say, Maybe I should stay. I'll make the call. No, I'll make cocoa. I'll relieve pain on paper with pen. Read and make-believe a picture from a plot, cream-colored characters and a place from inside my mind; set setting and make a go. Sun surprises by making an appearance. Blind me brightly with your easy inspiration and your serious light. Gift given gas goes in. I've blown numerous names, numbers, and nobodies; never normal and yet, never again. Ate the same oily, smoky sandwich last night. This is nothing like riding a bike, with these forgotten feelings aside. It can all be remembered with one call, a conversation. Don’t know what I’ll do when we are no longer able to. Don’t have a feeling of fortune. Why would things go right, now, when they did in the past? I spill while drinking, and drink when in-love. Wait. Go back and ride again. Remember and replay. Read and rewrite. I can’t type, this computer is ill.

Don't read this if you don't want to

I'm serious.

You will read something here that you don't want to. At times it can get ugly. It's me, though, not always bright smiles.

Your take on my thoughts, no wait, your take of my thoughts about my actions/observations, keep 'em. I'm writing this for me. For you to read, sure. So enjoy. Or don't. Think about it. Or don't.

I know a few who read; that's all I need. I know what I'm writing. You can tell me what's wrong with my writing -- please do, somebody -- but don't write me about what's wrong with me. I know where I'm wrong, that's why I'm writing, to figure out what's wrong.

X out of this window like you're going to. Defenestrate yourself from my nation; it's up to you. Keep your comments to yourself, and so be it. Be a good fish. Vote and take your vitamins and such. Say a prayer.

If He doesn't answer, try again later.

Look at all the ways we communicate without actually saying something.

When my back gives out I give thanks

Fuck, I yelled when my back went out at work on Friday. It hurt like Fuck. I was stuck in a hunched position. I couldn't move without pain. I had to sit down. I had to stop working. I had to bite down on a ball point pen in order not to yell anything besides, Fuck.

My Friday comes on Saturday. I had another work day of the week after this actual Friday, my Thursday. After some convincing, I went to the doctor to have my back checked out. You shouldn't lift anything for a while, the doctor said. You should have physical therapy, the doc said. I'm writing you a prescription for muscle relaxers, the doctor said. I'm here if you need me, the doctor said.

I took her advice and her medicine. I passed-the-fuck out, that Friday. And when I woke up my back still hurt like shit. I did arrange a ride, so that this day, my actual Friday, but really Saturday, I wouldn't have to ride my bike. It would have been impossible for me to take my bike. My back was taking my independence away, and I sure as hell wasn't going to take the bus.

Just as I was offered drugs from the doctor, I was offered sympathy from friends. I was offered a different role at work. I was offered promotional CDs from a work friend. I was offered a concert ticket by said friend, and offered a ride to the show. But before that, after my work week ended, I was offered a ride home. My bed offered an afternoon of comfort, rest, relaxation. I took everyone, everything up on their offers. Because I was not in the position to refuse.

Now, Monday, my Sunday, I'm still in a bit of pain and it pains me. I'm frustrated that I can't be my normal self. I'm stiff and stuck and shit-out-of luck. I stretch, pop pills, crack my back, put myself in the rack. I've gone too hard for too long. I don't feel young, no longer strong. But it's too early to get old. I'm not wise enough. Only recently have I appreciated the act of not-drinking.

And now this. Just as I get well in my head I hurt my physical being. I'd give thanks for allowing me to live when I should have already died. I give thanks for the chance to right some of my wrongs. I give thanks for the opportunity to reconnect with those I've pushed away. I give thanks for not making some of my mistakes again. But I just want my back to feel better so that I can do more than give thanks, I can give back.

the Mexican at the Max stop

"What's up, man?" a face I recognized motioned toward me with the jerk of its neck. The man was a Mexican. The Mexican was at the Max stop. I saw the Mexican at the Max stop yesterday. I saw the Mexican at the Max stop again this morning. The Mexican at the Max stop was the face I recognized, the one that said, "What's up, man?"

I was on my bike.

"Heeeep," which isn't really a word, but is what I said as I rode by him. I should have said. "Que?" or "Hola" or "Sup" or sompting.

I didn't want to talk to him, though, if you want the truth of it. Nor did I want to remember what had happened yesterday, although it was funny at the time, although I told the story to a few friends and made them laugh, although it is the fuel for this particular blog entry. See (not si, you silly gringo), I must write about it to work through it.

Here goes:

So I haven't done laundry in a few weeks. These things happen. I'm wearing a baseball/softball type of jacket you see people at the autoparts stores wearing. It was a gift from my brother and I wear it when I think it might rain. And it does often here, still. And, I ride my bike to work, or to the Max rather, and often get caught all up in the rain, as it were. As it was yesterday, when I met the Mexican at the Max stop.

It's five to five and I have more than a five o clock shadow, to tell the truth. It's been almost as long since I've shaved as since I've done laundry. Also, I have a backpack on that is not the newest in styles, but one that holds my shcool gear just fine. And I guess if I were a Mexican at the Max stop I might confuse my unshaven, untailored, bike riding, but otherwise helpful self as -- por supuesto! -- homeless. A helpful homeless.

I did help that senor. I told him which buttons to push to get his All Zone pass, which I shouldn't have had to there's an E(spanol/nglish) button. It was $1.95 por favor and he put that dinero in the machine, not me. He gracias'd me like a good hombre. I tired to de nada him, I did best I could. I was tired though, trieste, and he probably thought I woke up in the gutter or something because the next thing he did really had me smirking to myself on the Max ride to work. Like he's Porfirio Diaz he pulls out yet another dollar and tries to give it to me. No no no no no no, I say because it means the same thing in both E(spanol and nglish), before I take it and put right into the my pocket of mi pantalons.

So where I'm confused as I'm sure you are now making fun of me is: Is this a tip? Was I being paid for being helpful? Did he think I was a helpful homeless, a street kid, who needed food. Well, it's true. Es Verdad. All but the homeless part.

Adios, muchachos y muchachas,

Carson de nation