The Cheek of God

A Toast and A Song, Neither of Which Contain The Word ASS . . .

Brian — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 12:22:40 +0000

[clinks the stemware with his fork . . . slowly rises . . . ]

I’d like to propose a toast.

[glances around the room, at the tables filled with friends from around the world, then settles his gaze on the bride . . . ]

You.

[he can’t hold it . . . looks down into his champagne, searching for a place to stash the lump in his throat that is about to choke him to death . . . finds the words, slowly . . . ]

You are the best of friends. A shoulder when life is just too pushy. A smile, shared at just the exact moment it is needed. A laughter that invades kindly.

A word. The perfect word. Always.

Amanda raised her glass earlier and said much that I can second. Like how you were there in the beginning, lending a hand to those of us newborn, unsure. But you never were the lording counselor, critical and so high above us. Instead you encouraged and uplifted us. Me, for sure. As a peer and a friend. One who is limping this road, slow and steady, looking for light.

Thank you. For things only you’d understand. For giving me a voice once, and for allowing me – granting me the honor – to return the favor.

You are gorgeous. You are strong. You. Kick. ASS!!

(I tried . . . )

So. To the happy couple, I raise a toast. May every day be unique, bearing equal parts levity, laughter, and love. When there are pits, those inevitable gouges in the road that would slow your progress, may you find strength to grip the wheel tightly. To never give up just because it’s hard. Stop if you must. Make adjustments. Then muster the courage to move.

Never settle. Always empower.

And at the end of it all, simply love. Like breathing . . .

[Flickr photo is by dps and is protected]

Filed under: friends

From Here . . .

Brian — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 12:18:38 +0000

So, I got to talking to Neil yesterday. Saw his name, with the little green circle beside it, so I posed a question. Thus began a most interesting give and take, bits of wisdom strewn about like so much confetti after the big parade, and yet not really like that at all, for it all had a point, made sense, wasn’t just tossed out there to be blown about by the winds and whims of chance.

I’m trying to think about how I “perceive you”

I like to do that occasionally. Just start a real-time chat with an available person. Sometimes, it’s awkward, like with the lady who showed up as a recommended contact via Google who happens to share the same name as my daughter. Same unique spelling of an uncommon name. No real rhythm, just starts and stops, digital caesuras, fingers poised but not striking, perhaps a bit of mutual, cautious contemplation. We talked briefly and then went our separate ways. I see her name there, another green circle, and I wonder where she is. What the room looks like. Is she alone? Multitasking, or just bored?

i see you as a solid guy
maybe Midwestern in sensibility, which is probably my NY-LA stereotype
like you enjoy eating in manly diner rather than anything too fancy
have good work ethic…. that bullshit

At dinner the other night, I belittled my son. Acknowledged the elephant in the room in a way that cut deeply. He cried. Maybe crocodile tears, but I doubt it; he’s too genuine for that bullshit. I am not that dad, the one who does it right all the time. I envy those with young children, the kind who don’t talk back or think they know it all or remember the times you made them cry and hate you for it. Even as they love you for all the rest. The stuff you can’t remember so well anymore.

Also your name Brian Thomas…. sounds sturdy.
like a quarterback

He won his first wrestling match this year, a pin in the first period. A new year, with new coaches and a few new teammates. Last year he wrestled only a few times, when the other team had enough boys for exhibition matches. Yet he never missed a practice. He ran, hopped, jumped, jogged, sprinted, assumed the position, every night for a month and a half. Me? I recall one practice. One of two I survived. Thought I could be the center. Maybe the long snapper. Cleats and pads and a too-big mouth piece that tasted like soap. Real boys hit hard, don’t help you up when they knock you over. I took the pads and jersey home, dressed up, put on the helmet, and smiled as someone took a Polaroid. I look . . . ridiculous. I wanted him to see that picture and be proud. I quit the next day. My boy? He never quit. And he won. My turn to cry . . .

you definitely do have a philosophical bent
a thinker
cheek of god

Shoulder surfing instead of sleeping, he saw about Iris. “Done,” he said. The next day, she woke up, and I wanted so badly to tell him, to let him know that . . . what? His prayer worked? That prayer can indeed change things? I still am not so sure prayer changes things, but I know for a fact that prayer can change the person. His heart is so large, and he took a moment to care about Iris. To consider her, and to wish and hope for her something that wasn’t pain or uncertainty or fear. His prayer changed him. He smiled when I told him. Acted like it was no big deal but smiled nonetheless. I could hear it over the phone. His prayer is changing me.

so much of this is all capturing the mind of the other
that’s a book I want to read.

From here? Things are unclear. And by things, I mean the specifics of things. Or perhaps the particulars of things. The arc is an ancient one, lived out in a way peculiar and mine alone. Hitch a ride, but hang on tight . . .

Filed under: children, memoir

The Boot or: How We Got Kicked Out of the Mall for Hugging People for Free

Brian — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 09:45:58 +0000

My religion is simple. My religion is kindness.

~ The Dalai Lama (1935 – )

There is the older lady, arms overloaded with packages and wearing a determined gaze, who stopped, cocked her head and smiled, sat down her bags and wrapped her arms around me.

There is the little child, wrapped in fluffy red and white, who hugged my son’s girlfriend tightly around her neck as she stooped to meet him at his level.

There are the two burly teenagers, with the stocking caps pulled low and smartphones held high, snapping pictures, who gave my youngest son such big hugs that they lifted him off the ground, laughing all the way.

These, and others, to varying degrees, will remember what we did.

I laid down the basics before we went in:

We do not represent any organization. We do not to ask for anything or approach anybody. We just hold up our signs offering “Free Hugs” and let the people come to us.

We hug and smile.

And later, we write a letter to the editor . . .

Thank you, Glenbrook Square Mall, for showing us the door.

My family and I had wanted to spread some holiday cheer, so we made some “Free Hugs” signs, gathered around the mall fountain, and hugged a bunch of smiling people. For about ten minutes.

Then Local Law Enforcement told us to leave. Said we were “soliciting” and that the only thing the mall allowed on their private property was “shopping and eating.”

Me and my family? We represented no group. No religious organization or philanthropic endeavor other than the obvious one – kindness toward humanity. We asked for no money, nor did we pass out any literature.

True, we didn’t ask for permission, figuring forgiveness might come easier. We didn’t push hugs on anyone. Just held up our signs and let the people come.

And they came. We spread kindness. And got the boot.

I had hoped to teach a lesson, about compassion, giving instead of getting, kindness and all that. Instead, we learned a lesson about the boot, and how it hurts most those whose hearts are (still) filled with the true spirit of the season . . .

[Flickr photo is by Lin Pernille Photography and is protected]

Filed under: family, holidays

One Thing or: My Son Turns Eighteen Today and All I Got Him Was This Stupid Blog Post

Brian — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 09:37:40 +0000

I really don’t think life is about the I-could-have-beens. Life is only about the I-tried-to-do. I don’t mind the failure but I can’t imagine that I’d forgive myself if I didn’t try.

~ Nikki Giovanni

I’ve been thinking about this post for several days. In fact, I could probably say with some accuracy that I’ve been thinking about this day for most of my life.

Your life anyway.

You turn eighteen today. Eighteen years.

It can also be said with some accuracy that I have no clue what to say. For a better writer, a post like this would be a snap. They would come up with the most eloquent things to say, and they would say them well.

I just can’t get past the fact that you’re my beautiful boy. Mom and I waited for you like we’ve waited for nothing else. The day you got your license? The day you told us about that special girl? The day you lost your first tooth or learned to ride a bike? All big days, for sure, but nothing compares to the day you were born. That snowy day in Fargo, surrounded by what seemed like every nurse, doctor, and immediate family member on the planet, and yet the way it was just you there in the end, when they left or went out to eat or shovel their way out, and I held you and couldn’t say anything at all.

Nothing.

You overwhelm me.

This morning, as I did on that day, I watched you sleep. All that hair. And those features that so remind me of your mother every time I look at you. Moments at your bedside, just watching you sleep, are the best moments of my life.

I realize just this morning that this fact might creep you out. Sorry.

A better writer would have planned this post in advance and taken time to write it. Wouldn’t have been in a hurry, or this disorganized. But I have to leave for work in twenty minutes. Once you figure in how I still have to clean it up, add some tags, hit publish, post it on your Facebook page, give your mother a sleepy kiss, and then actually get in the car and go, I am a bit pressed for time. So I will leave you with these few and simple words of advice, as my gift to you . . .

1) Stop plucking your unibrow. I have one. And if people don’t like it, fuck ‘em.

2) When you roll the dice, keep them on the table.

3) Talk more. You say the most interesting things.

4) Be flexible. Tomorrow won’t look exactly like today.

5) Don’t let the bastards grind you down.

6) While I’m quoting Bono, I’ll also add, “Choose your enemies carefully . . . they’re gonna last with you longer than your friends.”

7) Don’t quote rock stars all the time. You’ll sound pretentious and unoriginal.

8) For the love of God and Garl Glittergold, never stop laughing at yourself.

9) Gnomes rule.

And finally . . .

I know it’s hard to believe, but that’s really all I’ve got. All these years of me pontificating and meddling in your life, and on this day, I give you “one thing.”

You’ve been a part of my one thing for eighteen years. A red-headed, t-ball playing, adventure-seeking, thrill-a-minute part of life that, as your great-grandmother always said, I wouldn’t take a farm in Texas for.

One day, maybe I’ll write something smashingly awesome for you. On your wedding day. Or just before I die. But today, know that I love you. Every thing about you, I love. But mostly, for who you are.

My son . . .

[Flickr photo is by mangpages and is protected]

Filed under: children

The Green Monster or: NaNoWriMo Can Stick It

Brian — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 14:48:54 +0000

Grasp the subject, the words will follow.

~ Cato the Elder (234 BC – 149 BC)

We are eating scones made of all-natural ingredients and drinking hot chocolate, the milk the kind that does not come from cows and costs an arm and a leg for a half gallon.

Chewy and nasty.

And then he introduces me. A local writer and student of his wife’s at the local university. This is his first reading, so let’s welcome him.

Applause.

I sit on a stool that I have to bounce on the balls of my feet just a smidge to mount, and notice I am surrounded by a string of lights and hanging ornaments, ecumenical and bland. December, 2004. The young lady who read before me chose to stand off to the side, but I need to podium; I like to emote with my hands.

I read from the first short story I wrote for Mary Ann, W301 – Writing Fiction, titled, interestingly, “The Cheek of God” . . .

Those who come to the area for horseback riding or camping can no doubt see the smoke from my fires but no one braves the terrain or ventures close enough to investigate.

The soothing sounds of winter are interrupted by the distant chewing and spitting of chainsaws blowing north from the less protected areas of the forest as some cheerful family drags O Tannenbaum from the edge of the tree line, their voices ringing with joy as they tie it with string to the roof of their minivan.

Very few times has anyone come within eyesight, their bright catalogue clothing contrasting sharply against this viridian curtain surrounding them. I watch from the confines of my cave, my breathing shallow as they struggle along the distant horizon and then disappear. I imagined them thinking to themselves how on earth did I get here just before turning back toward Weatherford Trail leading them safely back to their soft suburban existence.

Mine was a simple choice, and no one defies the grieving. Emma floated away wearing a superimposed smile. It never fades but instead grows more vibrant and charming with each remembrance.

Two thousand words inspired by a news article I had read about a man found living in the woods. He wouldn’t talk about why, just packed his stuff and moved on. So I speculated, and wrote, and it came to me in an evening.

The thing that stumps me every year during NaNoWriMo is trying to do that every night, for a month, with no real plan. I can’t do plans. I have an idea, something that would be interesting to write about, and so I write. Only, 50,000 words is a lot of words, and the story in my head doesn’t have legs like that. I sprint. Endurance is not my thing.

Not that I haven’t gotten down some interesting stuff. Like back in 2009, when I hit 20,773 words about a guy who wanted to kill himself but could never shut up long enough to actually pull the trigger. Or this year, when I tried to write a YA fantasy/sci-fi sort of thing and came up with this . . .

Consider the soul.

No, seriously. Go. I have nothing but time. I’ll wait right here. So . . . GO!

(While you are doing that, I’ll spruce this place up a bit. Perhaps a splash of burgundy over the sofa. I’m growing weary of the green, which constantly brings to mind a twenty ounce Mountain Dew. I used to love Mountain Dew. I’d unscrew the lid off one about every meal. And the thing about Mountain Dew is that it is just as tasty whether you drink it cold, right out of the fridge, or at a more pleasant variety of room temperature. Something in the 60s. Fahrenheit. Which reminds me of one of my favorite books. Fahrenheit 451 by the incomparable Ray Bradbury. I had heard once that some big shots were thinking of making a movie out of that one. A movie for us modern folk, unlike that one from the 60s that starred Oskar Werner as Guy Montag. Who the hell is Oskar Werner?! Now I’m just getting angry . . . )

You’re back. So soon. Ahem. So, what did you think about.

Never mind. Stop right there. Because you’re wrong.

Something wholly indefinable and altogether wrong popped into your mind as soon as you set it loose. “The . . . soul?” You didn’t even prod your proverbial horse out of the proverbial gate, I imagine.

If you gave it a bit of a kick, you might have entertained notions of spirits or maybe even ghosts. (They are different, you know.)

Or perhaps some philosophical hogwash, such as Plato’s logos/thymos/eros trifecta, or the mind/body nonsense epitomized in Cartesian dualism.

Or maybe it was that old saw religion which reared its ugly head. Did you allow your certainties to show? Were you all set to preach to me about the soul as the seat of morality, and hence the motivation for right action when fed properly by a Spirit carried forth triumphantly upon a frequency transmitted from Heaven?

Or perhaps you embrace the eastern traditions and recognize your soul to be but Atman, your own individual slice of the majestic and faceless Brahman pie.

Or maybe you are hardened of heart. You don’t speak of a soul, for you have yet to truly taste of anything worthy of the name. For you, a soul is what most people lack, going about their days trampling each other underfoot and smiling empty smiles in the process.

These are but the highlights of a long list I could spell out for you. And they are all wrong.

I like this story, but how long can there be just this going on and on about stuff and nothing happening?! I tried to take the advice of others: just write and it will come; blow something up; create tension; blah, blah, blah.

And after this, my third attempt and my third failure, I have gleaned this: every time I try this thing called NaNoWriMo, I end up with a bunch of little snippets, each nearly exactly 1,667 words long, of really cool stories all jumbled together in one big Word document. I like my subjects, but they are small. The words come, but they are fewer than what is required.

One of my favorite writers is Andre Dubus. Somewhere deep in my creative mind, I want to be Andre Dubus. I don’t want to write long-form fiction. I want to stick with simple stories about real people with real problems and not be tied to a word count minimum that looks like that big green fence in left field in Boston, all the way out there and unreachable.

Or maybe I’m just an idealistic quitter . . .

[Flickr photo is by sidewalk flying and is protected]

Filed under: memoir, writing life