The Bible discusses a time that is coming that it the 'Great Tribulation'.

Matt 24:21

KVJ For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no, nor ever shall be.

American Standard Version for then shall be great tribulation, such as hath not been from the beginning of the world until now, no, nor ever shall be.

The Emphasized Bible For there will be then Great tribulation, Such as hath not happened from the beginning of the world until the present time, Neither in any wise shall happen.

NW Translation for then there will be great tribulation such as has not occurred since the world’s beginning until now, no, nor will occur again.

I've heard a LOT of rhetoric around what that means. But Jesus was pretty specific in Matthew 24 about how matters would transpire.

In the opening verses of Matt 24 he tells his disciples to look for:

wars and reports of wars. See that you are not alarmed, for these things must take place, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom, and there will be food shortages and earthquakes in one place after another. All these things are a beginning of pangs of distress.

Then people will hand you over to tribulation (Note, NOT the great tribulation) and will kill you, and you will be hated by all the nations on account of my name. Then, too, many will be stumbled and will betray one another and will hate one another. Many false prophets will arise and mislead many; and because of the increasing of lawlessness, the love of the greater number will grow cold. But the one who has endured to the end will be saved. And this good news of the Kingdom will be preached in all the inhabited earth for a witness to all the nations, and then the end will come.

It is only then that we see him introduce the idea in verse 21 of the 'Great Tribulation' that befalls all humankind. A global circumstance that is worse than anything man has seen before.

That means, look at history, all the worst stuff we've done to each other? Just the warm up.

Just the horrible horrible warmup.

What will get us through that? Faith. A relationship with the Creator, with God. IDK what atheists will make of the situation. My guess is the perception of aliens will somehow play in. A plausible explanation as to why the world is going to hell in a hand basket.

Not that it isn't already there.

But wait, there's more!

Its sometime during this period that the Book of Revelation discusses the idea of the 'harlot' (false religion) being destroyed by the world's governments.

It is an incredible development. Monumental. We think mankind has has some landmark events, but they'll be footnotes in history. Humanity will NEVER forget what Jesus dropped in that discussion at Matt 24:21.

what's wrong with me?

As with all things hypocritepoet, I want to make it about me. Maybe you too.

This isn't new information. if it's new to you, google great tribulation what is is wol.jw.org and get informed. Study God's word the Bible. This isn't a drill and it isn't a joke.

My question is, 'what's wrong with me?'. I've been a serious student of the Bible for more than 40 years. I lived my entire life like it was going to trigger tomorrow. Any day of the week for more than 2100 weeks, that's 15,000+ days, I lived like it could start.

That's not hyperbolic.

It's true, there were times when it felt more immediate than others. But rarely did more than a week go by before I began to feel that sense of urgency.

So, why, dear dear reader, is it that as I face the doorway to old age, does it finally feel on an emotional level that it could be decades away?

this Isn't an intellectual matter. I KNOW it can't be far off. Matt 24 has been largely fulfilled in my short life, but the emotion of it is different.

I an only say it must be relate to a weakened faith or that somehow my hope in a better future is tarnished. For so long, no matter how bad things got, how dark the day became, I could imagine things getting better. I saw myself make real progress emotionally and spiritually.

For the first time, I feel stuck. Stuck in time, stuck in location.

There's been 10 years of family tragedy involving deaths, suicides, disablements, sickness and disarray. That is definitely adding up, taking it's toll. I was able to live past it for a long time. As in: keep my face to the wind and endure.

But along the way, something broke in me. I lost my balance and when I reached out to regain it, all i found was vacuum. a tipping chair that when you realize you're going over and you grab, all you get is air until you clatter to the floor.

And like falling over, it hurts, but it isn't life-ending. Which is why i'm supremely confident that God's word is true and that the promises in it will be fulfilled.

I no longer feel the certainty that I am in line with His standards and have a place in his Kingdom, but that's okay. I trust His son, Jesus to make the right call, all things considered and accept whatever judgment comes from that.

I guess what i'm saying is, I don't mind where I came from, I don't mind where I'm going. What frustrates me is, where I am.

But, as they say, this too shall pass. I'm serving some kind of purpose here in Dust Meridian. I'm not sure what it is. But for whatever reason I'm here and I intend to use my time in the best way possible. There are a lot of minds that are set in stone, no changing them. Instead, i'll put my energy into helping shape the soft clay to be better teachers, more attentive shepherds and better friends.

Friends.

Jehovah says he'll be there for us. and I think in large part they way he does that is through our friends.

Worry

Worry distracts us and doesn't fix anything. But we can't help but do it.

Another thing Jesus said was that it would come as a surprise. So, maybe, just maybe the shift in emotion of desperate expectation to quiet surrender is an indication that I'm getting ready to be surprised.

Let's hope that's true. And that tomorrow, we both wake up shocked and a little bit scared.

#essay #bible

California state of mind

I stayed once On a boat, Marina moored, In San Rafael.

In my mind It was to be glamorous.

But in reality, not so much.

Where were the Yachts and The beautiful girls In bikinis?

The drinks And boat shoes With parties Into the night?

Instead, Moldy aroma, Galleys too small, hand-pump toilets.

Charming is Too generous, But certainly Memorable.

Sad captains That all appear To be divorced Dads who got little Else but the aging Houseboat.

Ironic that among All these bound vessels There are so many Souls unmoored from life,

Adrift in a universe That hardly knows they Exist.

Here, in San Raphael.

A view from an evening at Heinold’s First and Last Chance Saloon

Okay, so it was not quite so melancholy as my reflections sound. But it did rain the entire time we were on the water. And the characters really were quite shady. But we had fun. It reminded me of van-life, only you could drown. We had a great time, I recall, watching Jake Gyllenhaal host SNL and watching Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang late into the morning.

And San Rafael was a delightful place to live for a short spell. We took in a great film festival and met lovely people. I think this was the first time I recall the clash of a very posh environment with the homelessness problem. Of course this was more than half of a decade ago. So it was quite surprising then.

Jellybean loved this little organic Tibeten place. All vegan as I recall. And a view of the bay bridge from Berkley. Hey, how can you tell if someone is vegan? They’ll tell you.

WONDERFUL breakfast. PACKED early, but perfect for Sunday brunch.

Fishing vessel in Bodega Bay

A view up from our waterfront bungalo in Bodega Bay

#poetry #travel #essay #sketchbook

2018-10-15 19:55:08

speed of hearts

Friendship is an arrangement by which we undertake to exchange small favors for big ones. Count your life by friends and your age by smiles.

I had a long conversation with a young friend last night. He's been struggling with an addiction to pornography for the last year and a half. He's young and frustrated because it's an old demon he thought he had conquered more than a decade ago.

But moving to an emotionally and spiritually challenging place was biting off a bit more than he was ready to chew.

Personally, I didn't do enough to help him. I could have been more present, engaged and more of a friend. But the Keeper was battling his own dragons.

His frustration stems from what seems like an impossible task: to slay the desire for something he hates. And speaking to him, he has all of the barriers in place that one can have to stay governed.

But it isn't a knowledge problem, it's a matter of the heart. Knowing what to do and having the power to do it are different things. This seems to be a plague that is afflicting millions of young people, male and female.

In my opinion, and experience, the greatest asset we can have in fighting heart failure is to FEEL loved.

THINK: don't offer a lecture to someone who needs a hug.

Again, it isn't enough to know that you are; you must feel it. Constantly. Friends are critical in this. Honest, genuine and close friends. Those sticking closer than a brother. Those born for times of distress.

I think this is the blow that opened the crack of my friend's weakness. Too often he was seen as a resource and not nearly enough as someone to laugh and cry and share quiet moments.

When you feel lost, used and forgotten, it's easy to reach for that which makes you feel something else. Something good.

My friend is now considering a relocation.

Smart, but I hate to see him go. We need more men like him here—men capable of displacing the narrow thinking that too often controls the actions and decisions of those charged with taking the lead. Not malicious or bitter men, but men who have become so accustomed to managing every detail that they can no longer see the difference between micromanaging and shepherding.

So, I'm doing what I can to be a friend, as I have for some time. As I work to heal, I hope that I can help him do the same thing.

Prayer, time and hard work are the tools in my arsenal, which is enough. According to God's word, with Him, all things are possible.

Jesus, I think, knew what he was talking about.

#essay

When you kill someone, you don't just kill who they were, you kill a little bit of everyone who knew them.

This quote hit me like a freight train—not just because it’s true, but because I lived it.

I am watching a documentary about Brad Bird. He directed The Incredibles, Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol, Ratatouille, and one of the greatest films ever made: The Iron Giant.

If you haven't seen the film, or read the source material, The Iron Man by Ted Hughes, what are you doing wasting your time here? Go read the source and then watch the film. It's a soul-rending story about being the best you can be, not what everyone expects you to be. Not even what you are SUPPOSED to be.

At least enjoy this great documentary. Maybe I'm biased as an animator, but it's terrific.

The Giant's Dream – Making of the Iron Giant

In an interview, Brad Bird says the above about killing someone. His sister had been murdered by her husband and it unmoored Bird. He started asking the question, 'what if a gun had a soul'. Then when presented with the Iron Giant project he pitched shifting from the Pete Townshend rock-opera concept to the more human-scale and heart-tale that we got.

His comment about killing a little bit of everyone the person knows ripped my heart open.

Brad Bird’s quote hit me like a freight train—because I lived it. My sister almost died at the hands of her husband nine years ago this month.

The Brother I was

I have two little sisters. One a year younger (Marie) and a second 3 years my junior (Capri). I was never the kind of brother I think a brother should be. We argued and fought a lot. Mostly Marie and I. Capri, as the youngest, somehow managed to avoid my wrath. But for some reason, Marie and I were always at odds.

I think it was her inability to just stop instead of escalating. I'm not sure which of my parents that behavior comes from. I guess... mom? I don't really think of either of my parents as escalators, but who knows what we saw and experienced when they were still figuring out how to be adults.

I do know Marie's very vocal nature frequently grated on my nerves. And between the alcoholism at home and my parent's work schedule (mom worked nights and dad worked days), it seemed like while we had parents around, we often just had to exist on our own. I think I saw myself as some kind of disciplinarian, which I was clearly not qualified to do. I just yelled and screamed and hit like I saw my parents and aunts and uncles do.

Maybe Capri just stayed quiet and low to avoid the pummeling she could see inflicted on her big sister. But before you consider me a Machiavellian villain, Marie was no light weight. If she got one thing from our youth, it was how to take a hit and how to dish one out.

I wish she hadn't learned that lesson.

Between the home life our parents had in those early days, my own violent contributions and a wicked assault by an uncle that we all feared and loathed, Marie developed a taste for abusive men.

Both of my sisters did.

In the youngest, this manifested in an inability to maintain a consistent relationship. She has been married 5 times, twice to the same man. At 50, she is currently single and will likely stay that way.

Marie, the middle sister, first married a hellion of a jerk who was verbally abusive and manipulative. She had a large family with him and over time, he manipulated her and the courts to cut her out of her own children's lives entirely.

I was out of her life for a number of years because of her destructive behavior, so I am not privy to exactly what happened. It is possible that he was completely justified in the devastating act of cutting a mother off from contact with her four children. But, knowing the man, I think it was her childhood that allowed him to do that.

Marie had been mistreated as a child and though she could give as good as she got, her self-worth probably took a huge hit when she had to go to court and listen to her husband lie and cheat to paint her as a wicked mother.

In hindsight, I wish I hadn't cut her out of my life. She likely felt alone and abandoned during those years.

Because she was.

My parents were there, but where was her big brother? Aren't they supposed to defend their siblings?

What the hell, Keeper?

What would you do if you were a mother of 4, having lost a 5th in the first weeks after birth and your whole life has it's rug pulled out from underneath you?

Well, Marie fought it with drugs, alcohol and education. Always a fan of drink, she turned her habit up to eleven trying to hide from the demons of loss and then used drugs to function as a human being during those numb states. This was important while she took her RN degree and went back to become a Nurse Practitioner.

Her NP would give her a new, well-paid life that she practiced on the road working one temp gig after another.

She traveled the country three months at a time. A huge portion of her income went to her ex-husband to care for her children. A two edged sword for many.

She never spoke to me about how she felt about it. But I'm sure she was of two minds.

Who of us wouldn't be?

On one hand, you can provide your children with a more comfortable life, on the other, you're trusting a scoundrel to do that.

With lots of money, lots of time and easy access to drugs, she became a target for the kind of man Gary Michael was.

A worm of a human who gambled and drugged his way to a disability. He was looking for someone to take care of him when he met Marie.

I remember her coming to see me before she married him and I had little input for her. We had been estranged for more than 20 years at that point and I, full of myself and my own righteousness, couldn't be bothered with her car-wreck of a life.

In hindsight, I can't help but think that if I had taken a single hour and listened to her story—offered her some stable advice, things might have turned out differently.

But I didn't.

I can still see her standing next to the big tree in my front yard, stamping out a cigarette. Trying to play it cool that I didn't really want to talk to her. What a pathetic fail.

She would go on to marry Gary Michael and disappear from our lives altogether. Prior to this, she was in semi-regular contact with my parents and Capri (the youngest) but now even they lost track of her.


We would learn later that Gary Michael would keep her tied up in casinos gambling and drugging every minute that she didn't have to be at work. She was his meal ticket and funder for his life-long gambling addiction.

What Happened to Marie

I don't know what happened that May 2016. She maybe got tired of his constant leaching, insistence on her severing all contact with her family or maybe it was just a fight that got out of hand.

I'm guessing.

What I do know is that the morning of May 6, 2016 a 911 call went out stating that a man had found his wife unresponsive in their bathroom.

He thought she was dead.

First responders would come and find that she was unresponsive, but not dead. They rushed her to the hospital where they put her on life support. She had suffered a hypoxic brain injury that left her comatose.

That means her brain was deprived of oxygen for a long enough period of time that her body was in the process of shutting down.

She was dying.

The Fight for Her Life

Had Gary Michael waited another half hour, she would have expired.

Frankly, that might have been a blessing.

Marie would lie comatose for most of a month. It was a terrible thing to see. A vital and robust woman who we had only ever know to be bigger and louder than almost all of us was suddenly reduced to a flaccid bag of mostly water.

Gary Michael, a former nurse himself who lost his license for stealing drugs from work, knew the terminology to put the medical staff at ease and dissuade any question of foul play.


According to him, they had been drinking the night before and that Marie had too much. He went to bed and found her in her state. He was surprised and heartbroken. But, he didn't count on the determination of Marie's will to live or her mother once she was involved.

A highly experienced nurse herself, a few weeks into my sister's 'recovery' and once the shock of the event began to recede, my mother started asking questions. The first thing of concern to her were the bruises all over my sister's back and shoulders. When she asked the medical staff, they said her husband told them she had fallen. When Marie's mom asked Gary Michael, he evaded and said he didn't know. After that conversation, he avoided being at the hospital any time my parents, my youngest sister, or I were at the hospital. Which was almost always.

Marie was in ICU in a hospital three hours from home, but my parents just rented a short term hotel and lived there for a month.

My wife and I traveled down for a half a day at a time.

I remember seeing my sister's husband sitting in his car once when we arrived. When I mentioned this to my mother, she pointed out that she thought he was avoiding them. Waiting for his wife’s family to leave so he could come in and try to control the narrative.

After a month, the decision had to be made to terminate life support or let her exist in perpetuity at the whim of a machine. I forget why, but the decision fell to my mother. I think Gary Michael had begun to extricate himself from the situation at that point and staff deferred to my sister's family to make her health decisions.

So, my parents decided to 'pull the plug'. My mom explains that as a nurse, she knows there is no quality of life living on machines and if you've got not brain function, you are as good as dead anyway.

We all agreed with this thinking. We could still recall the Terri Schiavo debacle in Florida and none of us wanted to see Marie end up like her.

But, my younger sister was as tough at death's door as she had been in life. She wouldn't die.

After a week, she started to show signs of consciousness. Little things like facial expressions when she would hear the voice of my parents, Capri, my wife, or me.

That last one was pretty touching. I thought she'd spent her life not caring much for me. But there was something in there. I would read to her from the Bible and sometimes I would find a tear streaming down what I thought was an unconscious face.

As she started to develop more and more awareness, my mother noticed Marie had a very strong resistive reaction to any moves made toward or around her face and head. She interpreted this as a defensive reaction.

My mother became convinced that Gary Michael didn't just find my sister, but that he had done something to her. She connected the dots of the bruises on her back and can elucidate how you can wrap a large town or sheet around a person's face to restrict airflow.

To get enough pressure to cut off breathing you would need to knot them in such a way that would leave large bruises on the upper back of the person.

When the police were called, almost six weeks had passed from the inciting incident and evidence of foul play was circumstantial at best. Detectives did find that after Gary Michael moved out of the temporary apartment they had rented while she was on assignment there, the landlord had to hire contractors to rebuild the bathroom. The sheetrock had been broken, mirror smashed, sink broken and the door jarred from its hinges.

When asked about this, Gary Michael explained that they had locked the dogs in the bathroom and left for the day and they had torn it up.

They were two Pomeranians.

I don't really understand why this didn't go anywhere. It could be I am biased and so the 'evidence' adds up to attempted murder. But the police didn't see it that way. It could be we are entirely wrong. That the story my sister's husband of 6 months is true. That she was a drunk and an addict who just went too far.

But, my gut says no. My feeling is that Gary Michael is a dangerous actor. My interactions with him in the year or so after this happened always felt off. He lied about strange things that didn't require lies. He always wanted something and when it became clear we all thought he was responsible, he became combative and angry at the idea.

I can understand not wanting to be best friends with someone who suggests you might be a murderer. But anger and deception is the wrong approach if you are trying to convince a family of something other than what they think.

Months would go by with Gary Michael doing everything he could to close all interested parties out of Marie's life. It was atrocious. My parent's had to fight tooth and nail for any scrap of information or thing that belonged to my sister. Finally threatening legal action if Gary Michael did not acquiesce.

Early into the time when she came home, there was a real effort on my sister's husband's part to try to get physical possession of her. My mother thinks this was an attempt to ensure he could get access to her social security.

And true to form, at some point, she discovered he was at the social security office attempting to file that paperwork. But an astute employee asked too many questions and he evaporated like had been doing with anyone who asked to many questions about my sister's condition.

Her Life Now

Her condition, specifically, was that the hypoxia left her brain damaged. She has no short term memory and her long-term memories are vague and inconsistent. She also has very limited motor control of her hands in addition to her peripheral vision being impacted.

If you've seen 50 First Dates with Drew Barrymore... it's like that but not cute or sweet at all. She doesn't relive the same day over and over. But she will watch the same film for 6-8 weeks at a time before she realizes she's seen it already. Right now she's on her 700th viewing of Dirty Dancing with Patrick Swayze.

In the first year she was home she cried constantly and couldn't form words. She walked all the time. If she was awake, she just paced up and down my parents very long hallway or walked around the yard inside the fence.

A few times she got out and it was a panic. I found her in the middle of the road a few miles away once. She had no way to tell anyone who she was or where she was from. She didn't know her own name.

She could not (and still can't) feed herself, drink without assistance or use the toilet without an attendant.

It is entirely believable that Gary Michael could have filed for her payments, then driven her to the middle of a desert and simply dropped her off 20 miles from people. She would have died from exposure in just a day or two.

I am glad my sister has found some kind of peace. She doesn't cry constantly any more and at times seems actually happy. She has forgotten that she has 4 children and lost one. She has forgotten that she was married to not one but two different assholes. Those are small blessings.

Forgiveness & Guilt

Recently I read an article on forgiveness. It made a good point, that when we forgive people we aren't condoning their actions, we are giving our selves a gift. I forgave Gary Michael many years ago and so have my parents.

It doesn't make the pain of seeing Maire in her state any easier, but at least we don't have to carry the weigh of hating a scum of a man.

I even offered to study the Bible with him. He said thanks but no thanks. I'm not big enough or mature enough to tell you that it didn't please me that he refused. It will be punishment enough to live with being who he is and when that day comes to face judgement for what he did (allegedly) to my little sister... well, I'll let God sort that out while I'm busy living the best life that I can.

My parents have been caring for Marie full time for 10 years now. They won't be able to do so for much longer. Maybe they have five years of energy left in them. But I can see the toll it is taking. They are counting on God's Kingdom to resolve this and if it doesn't come soon, it will fall to me and my youngest sister.

We do not have the capacity to provide the care my parents do. Perhaps the love, but simply not the physical ability. That means some kind of facility. I doubt Marie will care, she doesn't understand a lot (though she will tell you she knows her brain isn't working right). But it will destroy mom and dad to see strangers muddle at caring for her. If I am honest, it would be better for everyone for professionals to do the job.

The only reason they can care for her now is that my mother's professional life was as a nurse caring for the mentally disabled. But her emotional connection I think has prevented her from making some tough decisions at times.

For instance, for a time, my sister was behaving like a cat. She would go to my father and ask to be fed and he would acquiesce, then she would go to my mother and do the same. They didn't figure this out until she had put on about 70 lbs.!

Reader, I can't tell you how heavy this is on my mind and heart. I typically shut it out and try not to confront it emotionally. My sister-in-laws death 18 months ago keeps it in my frontal cortex night and day though. And when I read or hear something like Bird's comments it just rips me wide open.

I don't talk about this in depth with anyone. It might be good to, but I can't help thinking people don't want to listen to my problems when they have enough of their own. If you stuck around long enough to read this... well, I love you for learning a little bit more about me than you probably ever wanted to know.

The Brother I am Become

I know what happened to Marie isn't my fault. It's just unforeseen circumstance. But as I have alluded to, part of me will probably never forget that I wasn't the kind of brother I wish I had been. The protector, the supporter, the lover.

I have spent my life trying to make up for that, running from that boy I was and doing my best not to become the kind of man I fear any woman would dread. I have had some success. But the weight of that burden is incredible. To hate yourself so much that you try to be the kind of person you can love.

Friends confirm I have achieved enough of a measure of lovability to call myself a success, but those demons still lurk deep inside.

Like that iron giant, it's hard to override your programming.

It is true, that to kill someone is to kill a little of all who knew them. But there are extensions of that truth that get into to even how we treat one another. When we are angry, anger doesn't just impact the target. It splashes into the life of everyone they know. Maybe that is why the Bible promotes the idea of being wrathful but not acting (do not sin).

One day, we won't have violent actors. That is a promise God's word makes, that the wicked will be no more. Then we'll see the promised lion and lamb cohabitation. If men like Gary Michael can turn around and find a place there, I am at peace with that. Jehovah knows our hearts better than we do and that isn't a concern of mine.

I am far more interested in seeing my poor little sister made whole again. To see her run and laugh and cry like she should have when she was a child and not born of fear and anger.

Then, maybe, if I play my cards right, I'll get the chance to be that brother that I've read about in books and dreamed of becoming. Until then, I'll try to be as successful as I can by bettering people’s lives as often as possible.

And doing as little damage as I can along the way.

Some days are more successful than others.

Keeper

The Brother I Was What Happened to Marie The Fight for Her Life Her Life Now Forgiveness & Guilt The Brother I am Become

#essay #memoir #littlesister #irongiant #confession #alcoholic

2025-05-07 00:00:01

Change hurts. But so does staying the same.

I was terrified of a few things as a kid:

1. Glowing red eyes in the dark 2. Having my feet molested 3. The wrath of my parents 4. Cicada husks

You know the ones.


Those empty exoskeletons clinging to tree trunks, fence posts, and brick walls—tiny monster shells with hook-like feet and slit backs, like something that crawled out of a horror movie and left its skin behind.

My cousins thought it was hilarious to pluck them off trees and stick them in people’s hair.

Ugh.

I'm an adult now, and they still give me the creeps.
 The irony? I actually like cicadas. The real, living ones.

I recently read a great Bukowski poem where he complains that “cicada” is used too much in poetry—like it’s a literary silver bullet.
 Use the word cicada, and boom: you’re published.

cicada

writers love to use the word “cicada” in a poem. it makes them believe that they are there, that they have done it. every time I see this word in a poem, I think, damn it, haven't the editors caught on yet? that it's a con? a way to milk the game?

and look at me: here I'm using it: “cicada.” well, that means that this poem surely will get published. see? it works.

Cicada, cicada, cicada.

Poof!


Beetle-cicada appears , dressed in black and white stripes like some kind of gothic referee and grants you publishing.

I won't wait for the check on this one.

What's wild is how they spend most of their lives underground—quiet, unseen, gnawing on roots, cool and hidden from birds and beetles and snakes. 
 Then one day, it's time.
 They rise.
 Transform.
 Sing their strange song.

They become summer.

Last night, I dreamed I was having breakfast with a giant cicada. Everything it said came out in that raspy ch-ch-ch-ch sound, but somehow, I understood perfectly.

It liked the tea.
 The eggs, not so much.
 (It poked at them with a claw and muttered something that sounded judgey.)

After breakfast, it handed me a tiny black helmet—custom-made for my dream head—and motioned for me to climb onto the back of its motorcycle.


Well, not exactly a motorcycle.


It was more like a cross between a mandolin, a grasshopper, and a comet.

We zipped through clouds, dodged between Saturn's rings, and finally landed on a shimmering planet where the trees glowed blue and hummed softly.


Cicadas. Everywhere.


Not just insects, but tall, glistening beings—armored, radiant, some still cracking open their backs to let their new selves crawl out into the light. These beings weren't living underground for seventeen years.

My cicada guide turned to me.


“Ch-ch-ch,” it said.


Then it offered me a thin blade made of light and pointed to my chest.

It was asking me to molt.

I hesitated.


Tried to laugh it off.


But my hands were shaking.

I looked down at my body—soft, unfinished, full of pressure just beneath the skin.
 I could feel the new me beneath it, wriggling for air. But I was terrified.


I was afraid of the change.

Afraid of what I’d leave behind. What it might mean to become something else—something I’ve always been, just hidden under a layer of politeness, duty, fear, routine, marriage, roles.

What if I shed my old skin and people looked at what I used to be and recoiled?


Not because it was ugly, necessarily, but because it was real.
 Because it wasn’t neat or acceptable or easy to explain.

What if they said,
 “Oh. So this is who you were all along?”


And worse—what if they were right?

But deep beneath that fear, in the marrow of the dream, in the hush between the cicada’s ch-ch-ch’s, I realized:


I am aching to molt.

I want to become the self I’ve half-dreamed but never dared to wake up as.
 The guy telling the truth, even when it hurts.
 A creature walking away from the roles that no longer fit.
 The one who chooses aliveness over approval.


Who writes something so raw it makes people gasp.


Who kisses someone in the rain without checking if it’s allowed.
 Finally admiting he’s tired of being obedient.
 Who wants more than endurance.
 Who wants to feel joy and danger and awe and yes.

Yes.

That’s the sound the cicada really made, I think.


Not ch-ch-ch.


But yes yes yes.


Yes to transformation.


Yes to exposure.


Yes to the strange, shimmering self inside the husk.

But still, I couldn’t do it.
 Not yet.

Even in a dream, I couldn’t crack open.
 And that’s okay.
 A dream isn't asking me to molt.
 Just showing me that I could.

My guide, revved the mandolin-comet-bike. And we rocketed back to home.

Without change, we all end up on The Road to Nowhere

Close My Eyes Forever

Any World (Will Do)

#dream #essay #journal #writing #music #cicada

2025-08-07 18:00:00

Levity is Good for the Soul. Intelligence is good for the mind. This should soothe both!

Greetings, dear reader! Today thought I’d catch you up on some of Mister Tom Gauld’s latest and greatest. Please visit Tom’s website if you can and give him a little love. You won’t regret it!! ❤️

On the meantime, here are a few laughs.

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing #comic #tomguald

2025-07-13 11:30:00

Only summer sounds like this

Summer is universally loved. In spite of the heat, there's a great charm in the sweat and the being of out of doors that no other time of year quite matches. As I walked out this afternoon to decompress, it struck me how I haven't taken a single moment to enjoy my summer.

Here's a little glimpse of that moment for me. Join me, won't you? Taste it.

Sorry about the audio. Wind noise is aggravating.

The bees this year are't quiet as robust. I think I might need to harvest some honey. Maybe an abundance is making them lazy? or their weak? Not sure. but probably about half of this activity right now.

2025-07-11 19:25:00 #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing

Mornings are not for answers, but for contemplation and observation.

A pathway along a river slow Red and winding, shrouded in shade

Spiderwebs in the morning sun Stretched amongst the honeysuckle.

Glistening dew already burned away Leaving a dusty thread of white

A mom runs behind a stroller, pushing her newborn (Burning the baby weight — not too fast, mom)

A little bird peep peep peeps over the muffled roar A waterfall beyond the high hedge row

Wet-smelling mist drifts into the low morning sun While water cascades

Down

Down

Down

Like the wants of a heart that never run out Filling the river of a lifetime That runs into the sea of a family

This is the payment for an early morning walk Fed by a God of beauty and kindness

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing

Path of a Heart

Mornings are not for answers, but for contemplation and observation.

A pathway along a river slow Red and winding, shrouded in shade

Spiderwebs in the morning sun Stretched amongst the honeysuckle.

Glistening dew already burned away Leaving a dusty thread of white

A mom runs behind a stroller, pushing her newborn (Burning the baby weight — not too fast, mom)

A little bird peep peep peeps over the muffled roar A waterfall beyond the high hedge row

Wet-smelling mist drifts into the low morning sun While water cascades

Down

Down

Down

Like the wants of a heart that never run out Filling the river of a lifetime That runs into the sea of a family

This is the payment for an early morning walk Fed by a God of beauty and kindness

#reflection #essay #memoir #journal #100daystooffset #writing

2025-07-22 12:00:00

Sometimes we are born again through the memories we left in cold rooms.

I was looking for my hat—the wide-brimmed one I wore when I was someone else, someone who drove through red dirt roads and squinted into the sun like it was a dare. The kind of hat required in Dust Meridian.

It had been missing for years. Maybe longer. I didn’t even know I was looking until I opened the refrigerator and there it was, perched beside a frosty beer and a carton of eggs.

Cold to the touch.

But not dead.

I blinked.

“What are you doing here?”

I wasn’t joking.

It felt like it owed me an explanation. It had disappeared ten years ago. I looked high and low, traveled and called everyone I knew, but it never materialized. I lamented its loss—the countless adventures we’d shared. It was practically part of my identity for nearly a quarter of a century.

The hat turned slowly—almost shy—and answered, but the words slipped sideways, as if the air between us was warped. I heard syllables like birdcalls, like eucalyptus leaves whispering in spirals.

Like a secret I knew once, but had since packed away with my passport and the smell of old firewood.

Still, I smiled. Not because I understood. But because something in me stirred—some flicker of a self I’d shelved. Not abandoned, exactly—just chilled for safekeeping.

I held it to my chest. It smelled faintly of sweat and eucalyptus, of rain that never came.

I considered putting it back in the fridge. Maybe it liked it there. Maybe it was hiding from the heat of a life half-lived.

But I didn’t.

I slipped it on, and for a moment, the kitchen spun into something vast the wood floor cracking into gravel, the hum of the refrigerator becoming cicadas in the trees.

And there I was.

There WE were.

Me, and the version of me that remembered what the wind felt like in wild, open places. The one who once drove toward the horizon with no map.

And no need for one.

“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
 — Thomas Campbell

You may recall my forlorn farewell to an old friend from a few days ago. DE lived in Dust Meridian for nearly 20 years. Before that, it was two decades in the South Pacific and another ten in Southern California. He’s a mature man in his mid-sixties, so it came as a surprise when he pulled up stakes, sold both of his homes, and headed to the other side of the country.

He says it’s for his wife’s health. The allergies here in Dust are brutal for many. On top of that, years ago, she suffered a stroke that left her speaking with what sounds like an Icelandic accent. Her heritage and native tongue are Peruvian. She went from sounding like a southern girl to something ethereal and ancient—almost elvish. Like someone installed an Old Norse filter on her voice.

I thought she was faking it at first, but it’s a real thing. Foreign Accent Syndrome. Rare, but real. The result of a traumatic brain injury that causes someone to suddenly start speaking with an accent from a region they’ve never even visited.

In her case, it even shows up in her writing. She spells things phonetically now, based on how she hears herself speak. It’s charming, honestly. But also a constant reminder of how fragile the brain is. That same stroke could’ve left her unable to communicate at all. That would’ve been a terror.

My own sister suffered a hypoxic brain injury—lost her short-term memory, and now struggles even with simple tasks. She’s aware of her limitations, which might be the cruelest part. It occasionally lends itself to moments of levity, but mostly, it’s just tragic.

As for DE, I don’t doubt his reasons—physical or mental. His wife or his own. From experience, I believe the lifestyle and mentality here in Dust Meridian takes a tole on anyone with sufficiently curious or robust intellect.

That sounds harsh. Like dummies thrive here. Apologies—I calls ’em like I sees ’em. There are many fine minds here, many dear souls. But there are also plenty of fantastically difficult situations. My own family not excluded.

So no, I don’t blame DE for the move. It’s exciting. I’m a little jealous, if I’m honest. Not that I’d pack up three trucks and drive 1,500 miles to West Potato—but the idea of a fresh start, a new landscape, is tempting. Then again, he’s lived in three other vastly different places. Why not make it four? He’s tapped all four compass points while he still can.

My brother-in-law, RLW, volunteered to be part of the cross-country convoy, hauling DE’s belongings to his new home. That’s significant because RLW is the same man who buried his wife—my wife’s sister—just sixty-nine days ago. A partner of 45 years, gone in an instant. Snuffed out like a candle in the rain.

When talk of the trip started, RLW had big plans. He’d trailer his motorcycle behind one of DE’s work trucks, help with the move, then spend a few days exploring West Potato. From there, he’d kit out the bike and ride west—through the Northwest, down to the Pacific. He talked of revisiting places he and his wife had seen, and discovering new ones. He didn’t say it aloud, but I suspect he meant to scatter some ashes along the way.

But as time wore on, the plans shrank. Late spring snow made the northern routes dicey. Then he nixed the coast. West Potato lies just beyond the Continental Divide, and soon enough, he cut out any idea of leaving the mountains at all. By the time he left two days ago, the month-long journey had been trimmed to a week.

A few hours ago, he texted that he’ll be back in Dust Meridian tomorrow night. Yep. Thirty days of freedom and healing, whittled down to just four.

There and back. Turn and burn.

His son, SLBY—the boy (a man in his thirties, forgive an aging Wolf)—tells me he thinks his dad just misses home. The quiet of the road was heavier than expected. That makes sense. My nephew wants his dad to get out and see new places, to build memories without her. A critical step in healing.

When I speak to RLW, he says it’s his son and grandson who are nudging him to come back. He can 'hear it in his voice' that if he was back, they would all be happier. Home is big and lonely and his son misses his family. Doesn't like being without his core. His people. His comfort zone.

Essentially, they are both arguing the other wants to be together again. They tell me what the other wants. But really, they're telling me what they themselves long for.

SLBY the boy has told me more than once this last few weeks that he can’t stand being alone. He’d grown used to the bustle—his wife, his son, his parents, all under one roof. They live in a mobile home, so sharing space really means sharing.

Constantly.

With his mom gone, dad out of town, wife at the chiropractor, and the boy at school, SLBY finds himself alone on a rock hurtling through space at sixty-seven thousand miles per hour. Working from home means his only company is the blinking cursor on a plastic display.

He’s admitted, with surprising emotional honesty, that he cries often. This from a man who, just a few years ago, was all whiskey, beer, and bravado. Guns and guts. Today, the bottles are dusty and the guns live in a safe—a large one, granted—but they’re just objects now.

SLBY has become the kind of man who can acknowledge his pain and grow through it. A shock, honestly. But a welcome one.

His father, RLW, has also cracked open in ways I didn’t expect. Always the quiet, stoic one—he now speaks freely about how much his wife meant to him. That she was his light. His purpose.

And being retired is salt on the wound. 10 years ago, he would at least have a job he had to contend with, coworkers and daily business to get back to. But now? His only obligations are those which he chooses. A full plate with his spiritual family, but that can be shelved much longer than it should be. Leaving him in self-inflicted isolation.

Since her passing, he sleeps maybe four hours a night. He cries often. I imagine these moments are private—the kind where your ears roar, your eyes burn, and you fight to contain the flood so others don’t have to feel it too.

Every time we’ve spoken since he hit the road, he’s mentioned that he can’t stop crying. Triggers are everywhere. A song. A vista in silence where she would have commented or asked to pull off and take a picture. The absence of agitation at his driving (the way he jerks the wheel in little increments). No one stuffing the door panel with trash.

But mostly—silence.

An imagination haunted by 16,425 sunrises and sunsets together... and all that is in between—the subtle golden rhythms of a life shared. Every small moment now echoing in absence.

My God, how do you move on from that?

Patience.

Patience and tears. And prayer that God will intervene and part that ocean like he did for Moses.

I told him as much. “It’s good you’re blind with tears. You probably need to really cut loose—and that’s hard to do with a seven-year-old always around, or your son who’s dealing with his own grief. I hope this trip gives you some catharsis. That it helps you begin to heal in earnest.”

Grief is the price we pay for love. The greater the love, the higher the cost.

Three thousand miles in four days. And tears, door to door.

Luke 22:1-6 Now the Festival of the Unleavened Bread, which is called Passover, was getting near. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for an effective way to get rid of him, because they were afraid of the people. Then Satan entered into Judas, the one called Is·carʹi·ot, who was numbered among the Twelve, and he went off and talked with the chief priests and temple captains about how to betray him to them. They were delighted at this and agreed to give him silver money. So he consented and began looking for a good opportunity to betray him to them without a crowd around.

Mark 14:1,2 Now the Passover and the Festival of Unleavened Bread was two days later. And the chief priests and the scribes were looking for a way to seize him by cunning and kill him; for they were saying: “Not at the festival; perhaps there might be an uproar of the people.”

Mark 14:10,11 And Judas Is·carʹi·ot, one of the Twelve, went off to the chief priests in order to betray him to them. When they heard it, they were delighted and promised to give him silver money. So he began seeking an opportunity to betray him.

#essay #travel #memoir #loss #death #biblereading #100DaysToOffload #Writing

2025-04-11 09:35:00