Fingerposts

Saturday, 07 November 2009

  • Blue

         I got a call the other night.  I was talking with someone on skype, and my phone rang.  I looked to see who it was, half-annoyed, and saw *RESTRICTED* on the ID screen.  Mom, I thought.  I told the person I was talking with to hold on, and I answered.
          "Hello?"
          "Hello Uncle Matt."

           It is hot.  I think sometimes, that it seemed hotter than it really was, because I was spoiled by the cool Ohio summers.  But, I could feel the heat of the sidewalk as we walked down Hyatt Street, by the old sycamore trees on the edge of town.
           Her legs were small, and I would shorten my steps, slow them, to match her pace.  She walked beside me, her little bowl-cut hair bouncing brown and full in the hot July sun. 
            "Hello Meredith," I said, breaking the 10 minutes of silence since we'd left the house.  She always was quiet.
            "Hello Uncle Matt."

           I grin as I recognize her voice.  13 years and 3 weeks old, on the phone - still 3 in my head.  My grin must be huge, because I hear the voice on the other end of skype giggle for a moment, and smile. 
           "You haven't called me back in forever, Mer!  I've been leaving you message after message!"
           "I know, I know, I was rilly busy," she says, all 13 years of her voice funneled into the annoyance that only a new teen can have - [and I wonder if she knows that I have always noticed that she never says her E's correctly, and makes them I's...?]

            We get by our old house, the old brick one, on Broadway - where I grew up, the house of darkness and terror to me - the place where Meredith was born - a house she cannot remember. 
             "That's where I was born!" she says excitedly, in her kindergarten voice, pointing to the house 40 feet away. 
              "I remember, sweety." and I am glad that she does not remember the circumstances of her birth.  We've never told her the way people looked cross-eyed at her, a bastard child, when she was first born.  We never will.  She, after all, is our Meredith.

              We talk, and she tells me she has read the first 3 books of the Harry Potter series that I got her in August several times over - and that the other books are in Baton Rouge, at my parents place, and she will get them when she sees them next. 

                I stand next to her, in the line.  She is 5, and has learned to read.  I am not sure who taught her - I think she figured it out herself.  Maybe it was her being read to.  Maybe she's just memorized the menu at Dairy Queen.  I'm not sure, to be honest.  I think it's the last though.  She really does love ice-cream.
               "What do you want, sweet-heart?"  And I look in my worn, black-leather wallet.  27 dollars.
               "I want a Mister-Misty!" and I know her favorite is blue (whatever flavor that is...)
                "What color do you want?" I ask, grinning, because I love to hear the excitement in her little voice.
               "BLUE!" she says, her grin big, red face, sweaty, the most beautiful little girl in the world.
                I get my usual - a small reeses-cup blizzard - and it cost us 4 dollars and a few cents.
                We sit down, and we laugh, and bother all the other people in the restauraunt, as we eat our ice-cream in the cool air conditioning. 
                 My baby is happy, and so am I.

                 "So, I heard you're gonna be in the National Honor Society, Meredith..." I say, grinning, proud as I can be - I feel like I am going to burst with it.  I love her so much.
                 "Yeah, our thing is on the 11th.  I think there's gonna be a banquet."
                  "Will your mommy be there?"
                  "Nah, she's gotta work."
                  "Aww.  I'm so sorry.  I wish I could be there to cheer you on."  I mean it, and it hurts so bad.  She should be appreciated.  She has worked o hard. 
                   "It's okay.  It's just a banquet."  And in her voice, I hear me.  No matter how big, make it small, and it can be handled.  Don't let it get to you.
                    I change the subject, because my heart hurts, to know she has to accept the award without anyone to take her picture, and pat her on the back, and hug her, like she deserves.  Some days, I hate living in Kansas City more than others.
                      "So, what do you want for Christmas, Meredith?"
                     "A Nintendo DSi." 
                    I google it, because, frankly, I don't know what it is.
                     "Ahh, a DSi? What color?"  And I know the answer before she says it.
                    "Blue!"

    And i think, don't worry baby.  I'll be there on Christmas Day.  And we'll be happy.

Friday, 06 November 2009

Tuesday, 03 November 2009

  • Things You Didn't Know About Me, according to my cell phone pics

    12)Butterflies land on me when they're around.  It seems to happen to me more than most.  Sometimes, they just stay on me for a long time, and I just take them for a walk with me.

    11)When I get bored, I write myself ironic notes with silly doodles. 


    10)Kids are great.  I always try to see what they do.  Sometimes Invariably it amuses me. 


    9)My nephew is adorable.


    8)I think stupid is a plague.


    7)I don't think the world makes sense.


    6)I miss real winter.  Sometimes.


    5)Sometimes, I find strange things on campus while I work.


    4)My church has a bigger fireworks display than most towns do.


    3)I have a pretty noticeable skin condition, and it can be rather painful, at times.  I don't think i've ever written about it on here before.


    2)I like Chicago, and have had some pretty neat adventures there.


    1)I really love taking my family out.  Especially to goofy childrens movies.  And to take pictures in the theater, while people give me weird looks. 


  • One day more

    I wake up in the morning.  It is early.  I do not know when i fell asleep.  It was dark, and she was there, but when I wake, I am alone, and she is not watching me anymore. 

    You can run on for a long time
    Run on for a long time
    Run on for a long time
    Sooner or later God'll cut you down
    Sooner or later God'll cut you down

       My clothes go on.  Jeans, still dirty from the previous day.  Boots - thick, brown, leather, dirty, tired, worn.  I wear the same white cotton shirt each day, just a different copy of it.  My belt goes on, and I cinch it tight for the days work.  Finally, I grab my thick blue flannel, clipping my keys into my boots.  I recall the hunger of just waking as the cold morning air hits my face.  I ignore it.  As always.

    Go tell that long tongue liar
    Go and tell that midnight rider
    Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter
    Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down
    Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down

    When I start my shift, the air is cold on my face.  I carry the heavy bags back and forth, dumping the leaves.  The bags of leaves are 90 lbs.  I drive across campus, the jostles and slams of the gator on the grass make my back ache.  My hands get drier, bloodier with each load. 

    Well my goodness gracious let me tell you the news
    My head's been wet with the midnight dew
    I've been down on bended knee talkin' to the man from Galilee
    He spoke to me in the voice so sweet
    I thought I heard the shuffle of the angel's feet
    He called my name and my heart stood still
    When he said, "Matt go do My will!"

    We eat lunch, someone gets chinese.  I think my flannel and boots must look incongruous with my chopsticks.  The people around me seem strange, distant.  They wear nice clothes, or hood clothes, or uniforms.  I wear denim, flannel, cotton, dirt, and scabs. 

    Go tell that long tongue liar
    Go and tell that midnight rider
    Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter
    Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down
    Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down

    As my cart bounces along, I think of what her family said about me.  That I am in it for the money.  That I am a threat to children, and I wonder who this person is that they speak of.  How odd.  The gater bounces, my keys on a green carabiner jangle. 

    You can run on for a long time
    Run on for a long time
    Run on for a long time
    Sooner or later God'll cut you down
    Sooner or later God'll cut you down

    The dumpster is mostly full now.  It was empty when we started,  this morning, when the dew made the leaves heavy, and now it is thick.  I am dry faced, covered in dust, leaves, sticks.  My hands are rougher, if possible, than at the beginning of the day.  My face is redder, if possible, than at the beginning of the day.  I grab something heavy, pointy, and mash the leaves over and over until I know that the work will fit in the dumpster.

    Well you may throw your rock and hide your hand
    Workin' in the dark against your fellow man
    But as sure as God made black and white
    What's down in the dark will be brought to the light

    The other guys quit.  I still have 3 hours on my shift when they leave.  I am covered in dust, and filth.  I ache.  I wash off in a sink, and see the mud drain down, and wonder why the dirt and coldness and scrapes and coldness feel so distant from me, even as I experience them.

    You can run on for a long time
    Run on for a long time
    Run on for a long time
    Sooner or later God'll cut you down
    Sooner or later God'll cut you down

    We try to talk, and there isn't time.  There's never time.  Always, it is cut short.  Always. 

    Go tell that long tongue liar
    Go and tell that midnight rider
    Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter
    Tell 'em that God's gonna cut you down
    Tell 'em that God's gonna cut you down
    Tell 'em that God's gonna cut you down

    It is dark.  I am alone.  I write, and write, after I worked, and worked.  I look at my hands, hands that type, hands that throw bags bigger than a pair of people without trouble, for hours on end.  I feel the ache in my back.  I feel nothing.  I don't know what it means.

Sunday, 01 November 2009

  • Unstoppable

         I recall the feeling of being mocked, sometimes.  The feeling of being told that I am useless, worthless, of no value.  I recall the sting of the words, and the pain of realizing no one cared.

         I recall the feeling of being strangled, beaten, pummeled to semi-consciousness, sometimes.  The pain of being hit, over and over, and having people kick me, mock my weakness.  I recall the sting of those hands, and the pain of realizing no one cared.

          I recall the feeling of being broke, having nothing, no resources or help.  The pain of wondering if I should go to the doctor or buy food, or put gas in the car.  I recall the sting of those moments, and the pain of realizing no one cared.

          I recall the feeling of being neglected, hungry, wondering if I had the strength.  The pain of an empty stomach, or the silence of being ignored, untouched unloved.  I recall the sting of loneliness, and the pain of realizing no one cared.

          I recall the feeling of heartbreak, loss, of no longer having the things I loved.  The pain of missing my best friend, or the heartache of watching them go after an impossible decision.  I recall the sting of my empty heart, and the pain of realizing no one cared.

         I recall the feeling of being terrified, unprotected, exposed.  The pain of having no control over what happened, while I saw the awfulness of the next thing, and the next thing, and the next thing, all coming.  I recall the sting of unbearable torture and helplessness, and the pain of realizing no one cared.

         I recall all these things.

         I recall them clearly.

         I recall them without flinching.

          I recall them without fear.

          I am not afraid.
      
          I can beat you.

          You cannot wear me down.

           You cannot overwhelm me.

           You cannot outlast me.

            You cannot endure me.

            I will win.

            Someday.

             Because I know now, as I always have,

             I

            Am

            Unstoppable.

             Best of luck to you.

             You'll need it.

Friday, 30 October 2009

  • Alone-ness

        I wonder sometimes, about how long I will continue to stay alone.  Tonight, my university hosted a dinner for alumni who live in Kansas City, and I made it to a nice Italian dinner at a place called Zio's.  Not bad.
         I sat down first, and made a point of it to sit at the center of the table (does anyone else do that?), and started talking to the people around me.
         Over the next few minutes the seats began to fill, as people from the class of 07, 98, 08, or whatever, sat around me. 
          And, I realized something: Everyone there was engaged or married, but me.  Not most: everyone else.    

         It is 2005, and I am freshly home from China.  My former room-mate had gotten married.  Paul and Sharla sit at a wedding party table, and drink to the health of the wedding guests.  Paul disappears from my life after that day.
           
         It gets weirder and weirder as I get older, and see that I am essentially the last of my un-taken friends.  Heck, a few have even gotten divorced and started to work on a second marriage/relationship.  At 27, I feel ancient.
         It is strange when my friends get divorced.  I recall them dating, and seeing the problems in their dating relationship that went un-addressed, and see these same problems tear them apart just a few years later. They are ruined by their own unwillingness to address the simple problems that face them, and instead become bitter, selfish, and destructive.

          It is 2006, in January, and my friends Adam and Natalie announce their engagement.  They have rushed into it, but persevere through for all the wrong reasons.  Years later, they will both confide in me about the pain of infidelity and divorce in their relationship.  The stories they tell me make me shudder, as I hear about the fights, the childishness, the affair, and the subsequent divorce. 

         I banter back and forth with all the people around me, and never know how to take the way that a married woman flirts with me as her husband looks away, or about the complaints of husbands of overbearing wives.  I see how comfortable, even happy, some are to be apart, while others who have been married for years and years are as happy as ever. 

         It is 2009, and a woman I love calls me, drunk.  She tells me she is worried about her wedding, and confesses she still loves me, and thinks about me every day.  We talk into the wee hours of the night.  A month later, she marries another man, committed to him but unsure.  She texts me once, asking "how are you matt?" and i respond by calling her by her married name, asking her how she is.  She doesn't respond.

         Even now, sitting on my bed, I wonder what will be of me, and whether looking has lost all point.  After so many broken relationships, after seeing so much, being rejected so many times, with so much up in the air, pursuing love just seems daunting, with a near impossible wall surrounding it.

         It is 2009, and I am alone for the 27th year    

Thursday, 29 October 2009

  • "What It Is"

    I just want to tell you a story.  And, it's a good one.  The ending is not a happy one, but that's not important for now.  What is important is that it's a good story.  I hope you like it as much as I do.

    We met in the cafeteria.  She doesn't remember it, but I remember things better than most people, have a memory for things that people usually forget.  I can tell you what I was wearing the last day of the first week of 8th grade (Black BUM equipment shorts and one of those t-shirt hoodies (white), or the what was the number one song when my sister started driving me to school instead of mom (Smashmouth, walking on the sun), or even the phone number of my best friend as a kid who moved to Colorado when I was 9 (667 5638).  Details.
    She had freckles and didn't look at me.  Those are the two things I remember the most clearly.  I don't remember much else, because of how passing it was.  We just happened to sit across from eachother, and that was that. 
        

         A summer passed.


    Funny thing is, I don't remember re-meeting her.  We must've remembered eachother, but she didn't remember meeting me.  Funny how that works out. 
         Here's where it gets good.
        
    We started walking one night like we usually did.  Over the past few weeks we had gone from talking in the cafeteria to going out on these walks all over Mount Vernon.  I learned more about the geography of that little town in those few weeks than I did in all the rest of my time at Mount Vernon put together.  We went everywhere around that place.  I even started exploring to find neat places to find there.  did you know that about a hundred yards off campus in a little hollow you have to walk down a creek to get to that there is a sandstone fossil bed?  Or that in the Kokosing river there are about 4 deep spots that can be swam in without worrying about the current being to fast or the water too shallow?  Did you know that there are half a dozen bowl valleys within walking distance from campus that block out all the light so that you can see so many stars that it's like being in the deepest countryside?

    If I told you that I had fallen in love with her, I would be wasting my words.  You know that by now if you've kept reading.
    What you don't know is why I loved her.  It was because she laughed too loud and ran like a fool, and played with bugs and tried to dunk me in the river, and because when I ran a half mile down the river to find the flip flop she lost in the current coming back empty handed made her laugh - not at all angry that it was gone.
    And I loved her because of what we talked about.  She was the first person I ever opened up to about my parents, the first person I ever told about the stuff that I'd gone through, the only reason I could find a huge new level of honesty in my life.
         We started to dress more warmly as the year got on.  And we learned all about sitting in the same place so long that the dew settled on you while we just talked and talked.

    But she didn't love me back.

    There is a part of me that still does not wish to believe that this is the case.  That I mattered, that it mattered to her.  But that never happened.

    I remember walking out cougar drive, from cypress to the grove.  I picked her up at Galloway.  It was chilly that night, the piercing chilly air full of moisture that marks the late autumn night of middle Ohio.  The leaves were almost all gone by now.  And she was there with me, huddled up on my arm while we walked as was our custom.  I never survived so well on so little sleep before or since.  It was like there was no longer a single thing I couldn't do, like being around eachother made us somehow better than we were otherwise. 
    I realize now that what happened next is fuzzy in my mind, but we made it down to the lakeholm building, and I started telling her that I thought things were going good between us over the past few weeks and months.  And I touched on the tip of what I felt, because I didn't want there to be pressure or anything.
    A few hours earlier I had been praying to God, "please don't let her break my heart."
    God did not listen to this prayer, it seems.
    I remember telling her things, and when it was done, she said that she didn't want to be with me, that she preferred to be single, and that it was not something she wanted to pursue.

    .

     

    We talked some more, and I smiled, and eventually I took her back.  She tried to talk.

    What I felt then, and remember is what I thought of as purest blackness inside, it was like the coldest burning sensation imaginable, lodged firmly at the base of my ribcage, just above my stomach.  Like the feeling you are about to vomit dry ice.  There were no words to respond with at that moment.  Just nods.  Walking was rough enough.

    We said goodbye, and I did what I think was among the boldest things I've ever done.  I looked at her and kissed her on her lips.  Not because I wanted to know what it was like, or because she was pretty.  Silly as it might sound, it was an exploration of something I cannot explain.

    And in that moment I knew some of her truest feelings about me.

    We never went on a walk again.

    And that's my story.
    *orig posted 12 oct 2006

Tuesday, 27 October 2009

  • Comments

    I read a bunch of blogs tonight.  Instead of just hitting the two eprops, I just listed them all.  These are mostly from people I sub to (though not all).  I wonder if anyone will know which one is theirs?

    Sometimes, too much is too much.

    It's okay if you're not ready to sleep with him.  Don't rush it.

    Life is bigger than you realize; don't give up yet.

    A cause isn't faith.

    humility is the soil in the garden of the soul.

    the middle way is only right if you're between the proper two extremes.

    Don't try to be famous.  It's okay to be you.

    It's okay  to admit you're wrong.

    You will be beautiful after you are no longer pretty, if you work at it.

    Don't hate if we aren't the same.

    There is no luck, only fortuitous happenstance.

    You are wiser than most people realize, i think.

    Fancy phrases have very little to do with changing who you are.

    Being up on yourself is more helpful than being down on yourself.

    You are smarter, and more beautiful than you realize.

    You make me want to point to you, and say "LOOK - THIS IS WHAT LIFE REALLY IS!" all the time.

    You are bigger than your problems.  And no, that's not a fat joke.

    Don't try to be interesting.  Just try to be yourself.  That's always more interesting than sophistry.

    Education is not always intelligent.

    Your old picture was better.  I have a hard time getting used to the new one, and it has sorta killed all your blog entries since the change.

    It's the stories that really make the rest of what you do work.

    You're my favorite.  Still.

    I wonder now if you hurt a lot more inside than you let on.  I pray for you sometimes, y'know. 

    I am always impressed by what you overcame, but I think you hold some of it in.

    It won't be as easy as you think.  Try to keep the love going in the hard times, too.

    These three things remain: faith, hope, and love - but the greatest of these is love. 

    Don't worry, no one pays attention to that after you graduate anyways.  I promise.

    Don't mistake your jadedness for wisdom.

    Every time I read a blog of yours, I imagine picking a fight with you.  I think it would be fun, up to the part where you knocked my teeth out. 

    I look forward to going out with you again, sometime.

    I love what you write - it is honest.




Monday, 26 October 2009

Sunday, 25 October 2009

  • Grandma

         Now, the first thing I need to explain is that in my family, everyone is responsible to take care of everyone else.  My uncles helped to raise me and my sister, as did my grandparents, and my parents.  I helped babysit cousins, and was babysat by others.  In my family - we all hold responsibility as a family.
         So it was, that about a year ago, I was in Huntsville Ohio, in my bedroom at the family lakehouse, when an unholy screeching brought me to my senses, rousing me from a very pleasant (but woefully short) evenings sleep.  My eyes were suddenly opened by the greatest of noises - an old German, a toddler, and 3 tween-aged girls, all in a family feud.
          In the wide world, the Good Lord has seen fit to sow such chipper people about - people who awake to the rays of sunlight coming into the room, hear the sounds of people about, and smell coffee, and think "Ahh, it's good to be alive!" 

    I am not such a person.

         I awoke to the unholy screaming 3 jr high harpy's, the drunken howl of an old German man, and the devilish bleating of a whiny toddler, and stood tall.

    I did the same thing I knew anyone should have done first - I put on pants. 

    You see, pants are essential in the practice of stopping an argument.  You need to appear to be in control of a situation, and nothing says "I don't have control" like staggering half asleep into a room in nothing but underwear.  So, like i said, I put on pants.
         Following my pants, there came shoes, a belt, and a white cotton tee.  My official uniform, I suppose.  Then, I clumped out the door, down the 20 foot hallway, and into the living room.
         Thereupon, I bellowed with the voice that only college, a few years in the blue collar world, and plenty of practice in the pulpit can bring.

    - pointing to the girls -
    "You - go to your rooms!"
    They go.

    -pointing to my 2 year old cousin, Noah-
    "You!  Stand right there-and stop crying!"
    He freezes, and waits.

    -Looking at my grandfather, whom no amount of alcoholism will ever make me respect less, yelling just to be heard -
    "I've got this, you can do what you want."
    He smiles his doddering, drunken smile, then lays back in his chair and turns on CNN.

    I looked down at Noah, and asked him firmly
    "Did you talk back to your grandfather, and then hit him?"

    His two year old eyes look away.

    "Look at me." - very directly, voiced raised, but not angry.
    I repeat myself, and finally he looks at me.

    I tower over him. He is just past my knee, and he is angry.

    He looks up at me and whines "It's okay because it's grandpa...  mommy says so!"

    The wash of family feuding - how my uncle and aunt divorced, and how she manipulates the children against most of the rest of the family - all flash through my mind.

    I respond quickly - "You didn't answer my question - did you hit him or not, and did you talk back to him or not?"

    He repeats, as do I.

    Finally, i look back at him, and repeat myself.

    He answers "yeah..." and starts to look at the floor. 

    Then, repeat "Look at me."

    He does.

    Then, I say - "You did that - and you need to appologize - you don't hit people!"  My voice has returned to the original tone of control.

    He refuses.

    I demand.

    He refuses.

    I demand.

    He refuses.

    I think to myself - I am an adult man - I have seen the world.  I am in grad school.  I will NOT be cowed by a 2 year old.

    Raising my voice, I tell him again - "You need to apologize.  And if I have to stand here, right here in this spot, all day, with you, until you apologize, so help me God, I will do so."

    He looks up, and I can see the light in his eyes judging.  He realizes that he has lost. 

    "Sorry grandpa" he says out quickly and whining through his crocodile tears.

    Looking back down at the child, frustrated, but willing to admit that he had appologized and wouldn't do it again, I say - "You may go."

    He bolts to his legos, a few steps away, and starts to play.  I play with him. 

    Later, I go to the bathroom, and bump into my grandmother.  She is 70, all the wiser for her many years of hard work. 

    She looks at me and smiles.

    "When you were talking to him, I couldn't believe how patient you were!  He didn't want to give an inch."

    I smile and hug her.

    A compliment from her is one worth having.


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