Monthly Archives: August 2017

With love

I can still feel my heart still as you slid uncontrollably down flat rocks
Along cascading waters on a sister dare. The edge of fear and elation you rode on gave sisters confidence and mothers a heart attack.

I remember watching you ascend the “X-rock first with your helmet facing the horizon and spaghetti straps intertwined through your lead rope. You climbed through the fear and strength with a purpose; giving confidence to your sisters through smiles and laughter.

I remember watching you jump your horse over poles and barrels leaving the definition of freedom wisping in the air like a cloud of confidence.

Then showing your horse, who’s nerves waited on you to calm her feet. You twisted and pulled till it was time to jump and I watched your Momma and sisters stare in wonder at your bravery as you jumped in the air of freedom and ribbons.

Countless times I’ve seen you step out first fighting fear for your sisters and others. Wether it was on a softball field or ballet stage, in a shop in Mexico or a school at home. You always stepped up when others stepped back.

Now you’ve taken a big leap. You’re gonna start a whole new chapter in your life in a few short weeks. Again, you’re gonna be first and to listen to you, you’d think you were “an old pro”!

I always saw through your bravery. You were always brave for others fear. You stepped up to ease the anxious nature of others. From the time you got your “Leadership Medal” in Kindergarden you were destined to lookout for others, and look at your career, you’re doing what is in your heart.

I know in those silent moments you have your own doubts and fears. I also l know that you’ll find a way to overcome those anxious moments with grace. You’ll probably spend those last moments reassuring others and wondering “what the hell have I got into now”!! Don’t worry, I promise you you’ll do good and Cooper will capture your heart and make all the questions dissipate like the sun on the mist over a pond as it rises.

I’m excited for you and I love you. I hope you remember to breathe and look around at all the folks that love you and David. All the folks that will share the endless moments of pride and joy Cooper is gonna bring to everyone. This is a first for you.

I say that it’s a first for you, not because you’ve never done this before, but because you are about to redefine love in a way you can’t imagine until Coopers here. That’s something for you to embrace at a level you’ll understand later, this first is for you and David, no one else.

I know you’ll prepare for that day. I’m sure you’ll be ready for every eventuality. You’ll prepare and share what you learnt about the latest techniques and toys. You’ll make plans that will fall apart and you’ll ask yourself, “What was I thinking!” It’s all good though because no matter how much you prepare you can’t prepare for life after your baby comes and that makes me smile.

Congrats on still being the first! I’m so excited for you, and a David, but especially you. Try your hardest to soak up the love around you throughout these next weeks. Try to let go of “what if” and enjoy the scenes around you. Those folks in the waiting room are part of the beauty.

You’ve been the first for me many times. This is a probably my last letter to the you who has brought me so much love and joy through years of joy and pain. I love you and can’t wait to watch you grow once again into the Momma you’ll become from the girl I adored.
Love
Dad

Rant #1

Anarchy is poverty’s carrot at the end of the reins of lesser men who resent freedom. These little fucks out there don’t even understand they’re traditions are theater. Those hippies weren’t real. Them bitches were just looking for a reason not to do shit for a couple years. As soon as they grew up they put on their fucking tweed jackets and knee pads and learnt to say yup, that’s how yes came out when you had a mouthful of capitalism trying to say yes at the same time you swallowed a mouthful of oppression.

Yeah, it’s alright now. Just ignore those bastards out there having public tantrums over shit that ain’t none of us even able to feel. So we fake it like everyone else and put on polo shirts with stripes and put chains around our neck pretending we’re slaves to something other than our own egocentric existence, you need a switch motherfucker.

Man, I remember that dude crying about the music died. Bitch, you had no idea that American pie would taste like regurgitated plastic black beans and rice that’s floated in the gulf for 70 years. Then you have the audacity to bring out those tired motherfuckers who hid in the trailers of yuppies and sang cartoon songs for a living so boomer never felt left out as he aged.

You run around being cool with that blunt in your ashtray. You fake little bitch. You don’t know what dope is. You fuck around smoking anything you can put in a pipe and try and make that shit a career. Then you find yourself arm in arm headed into Walmart with some bitch wearing size 12 stretch pants straining under a t-shirt with a set of Mick Jaggers lips splattered across her fat ass chest. You and your dented up Honda with speakers in it that cost more than the damn car did blowing some fake ass mixed shit. Fuck you and your Walmart video.

The shit don’t stop. Even these retro living geeks with fake muscle cars that drive to plastic cubicles where they’re filled with photos of some poseurs at a plastic campsite surrounded by bug repellant and the hum of a generator charging the C-pap machine inside the RV so he don’t fall asleep driving back to his tortured life.

And you folks out there labeling your world for your obsessive compulsive comfort. Keep us out of your box. You crayon box life is infantile. I ain’t white bitch. I’m me motherfucker. And I don’t color no more. So take your red, white, and black crayons and melt them down into a candle you can burn at the next mock vigil for the “homie” you didn’t ever even talk to.

Protest my ass. You little pricks spend your weekends starting shit believing your righteous. Your a dumbass who don’t even understand who your producer is. Them motherfuckers been starting shit for decades in the background. You think your waving a sign for justice, you just didn’t read the back of the sign like that juvenile middle school tactic of taping a kick me sign on the back of the weakest kid. That’s you bitch, and those progressive puppet masters got you on a string you can’t see in a play your so focused on your part you forgot you were on stage. Wake up bitch.

I’m sick of hearing about football players with retro hair do’s whining about a job. Fuck him. He quit a job and is still gettin paid for it. If yo ass was good enough you could have overcome being a dumbshit who was duped by some Muslim pussy that had an IED in it, you were the I ED, immature educated dumbass. OJ could get hired by the Patriots before you could get picked up by the Browns. Stupid fuck, go back and listen to the dad talk about woman and relationships.

All this shit about “22 a day”, PTSD, and veterans before illegals got my ass going to. Bitch, you must think we’re stupid. Cause your the same motherfucker who posts about millions of trained veterans on standby. Go look at the data for which vets are killing themselves tell me more about your sneaky ass motives. PTSD ain’t nothing new murtherfuckers. Beaten housewives been dealing with it for years. You ain’t got PTSD if your ass was in Quatar handing out towels at an MWR pool and had to watch a video of your old lady giving birth to your first born poseur.
And your so fucking stupid that you don’t understand that when you post about vets before illegals your talking about dependents also. Mexicans and Mexican Americans got a solid rep for steppin up and many of the folks they left behind ain’t legal. Not to mention the numbers of undocumented German and Korean spouses who were dumped by their piece of shit old man for a Hood rat when they got stateside. Quit trying to network the broken so you can have a career when they privatize VA. You ain’t slick bitch!

We gotta bring the schoolyard bully back. Not the little bitch Ya’all know who runs around talking about folks and starting shit trying to make folks feel bad about theirselves. I want the motberfucker who kicked the shit out of that little mouthpiece and taught him or her to stay in their lane.

I’m so sick of the monument morons who bounce around the country looking for the county with the lowest IQ to come in and divide. They hand out Tiki torches and vagina hats , then shout “Are you ready to rumble?” In their best WWE voice. If you’re so stupid you can’t see what’s up with the folks moving into your town and finding a couple dumbasses to help stir shit up; you might be a ……!

I don’t care about these white supremacist asshats either. They’re not even a threat, unless you run a porn shop that sells beer, leather nazi hats, and riding crops. Who takes anyone serious that meet in old garages with flags on the wall, bitch, you need to put your crayons away and get a fuckin tan.

I’m done for now. I hope I didn’t offend anyone, but if I did, fuck you to. It’s time to be real and stop looking like the jester on the national scene. I mean really, other folks are looking at us and thinking we’re the leaders of the intellectually challenged world order.

We need to silence these little bastard who are pitting the dumbasses within our country against each other to further their political game. White and black supremacist, genderist, feminist, separatist, all the “ist’s” are obviously still believing the progressive movement is on their side. Wake up, they’ve been using you for decades and leaving you no better than before you met them. How long are you gonna get fucked before you expect a kiss!!!!

Peace out!!!

Parenting is Offensive

A few days ago I commented on a friends post about fatherhood. I am still getting noticed about folks commenting on his post. So yesterday I get a call from someone who’s wondering how to explain to their parents that they will not be continuing the traditions that brought them into the world. My simple answer was; Nothing offends folks more than your parenting style!.

I remember having a few “pet peeves” that made folks uncomfortable when raising my oldest three daughters. I always told them, “I’m not raising someone’s wife!” They participated in dance, but I chose classical ballet. They had uniforms and dresses, but didn’t wear jeans. They ate what I cooked and were never made to “clean their plate”! I heard all kinds of advice about how that was wrong and because of my military background I was too strict. I was amazed that folks thought my parenting techniques were a statement about their parenting choices.

I didn’t really care what others were doing. I was, and am, paying attention to each child and ensuring I do as little as possible to define who they become. I trust that we are inherently good and that they will respond in kind. I recently told someone that I know exactly what I want my oldest boy to be when he grows up from his current age of 9. He’ll be happy, that’s it.

It doesn’t take long after a child is born before friends and family begin to “put in their 2 cents” about what your child should be doing. He or she turns 1 and they should be walking. 2 Years old comes around and solid foods and no bottle. Potty chairs at 30 months, listening and responding perfectly, and A,B,C’s. It’s crazy. It’s like “terrible two’s” are a parental problem, not the child’s. Everyone wants to control your child for you and advise you how to do it. It doesn’t matter that you’ve raised 6 kids and they’ve raised one, there’s is older and special so their gonna enlighten you.

If your having your first child and looking for advice, don’t. Go with your instincts. Follow development charts and look for good examples. Have a prepared response for those folks that want to interfere in the child rearing of your child. I like the statement for overbearing parents: “My parenting choices are not a statement of how you chose to raise your child. You raised me the best you knew how and I love myself, and I’m sure my child will do the same.”

Our children are ours. They won’t grow up to be what anybody thinks except themselves. They ain’t gonna be babysat by a TV with inappropriate television. They’re not going to have relationships in elementary or middle school. They’re not gonna run around worrying more about what they look like than how they act. And they will not run around with phones as an extension of their security blanket. Believe it or not these few rules will offend half your friends and family.

In the end your family is yours to protect and love. Traditions are wonderful if they don’t define the child. Culture is wonderful as long as it doesn’t oppress who your child wants to be. Family is important as long as there isn’t some vicarious nightmare that stifles who your child will become.

Just remember everyone has an opinion and the intensity is off the chart when it comes to parenting. Have an empathetic response prepared so as not to create too much friction. Most importantly though, make a statement. Those are your children, and while the sentiment behind your advice is appreciated, I’m the parent and I will do what I think is best based on what is best for my child, and there are no negotiations.

Curse of the Babbling Friend

Sometimes I never find the right words. Stolid seems to wooden, stalwart to posthumous, nothing really fits. I ramble on through cob webbed memories of vocabulary searching for the thought that clears my mind, all in vain.

I know all the cliche’s about “blank slates” and canvasses; but good friends deserve better. I struggle intermittently with “the right thought” to convey something much bigger than you would require. Like a dog with fleas I pause every now and then and go at it like there’s no tomorrow; and damned if there ain’t.

Handshakes are easy. The customary hug with the extra squeeze is comforting. For me though, it’s never enough. I don’t make excuses. Reasons are often selfish explanations, and factors just explain excuses. So in the end I guess words don’t matter as much as the effort.

It’s funny how a phone call can be a bridge to “the next time”. It’s never enough and sentiments are easy when you pretend someone is near. It’s “sweet” of you to make the effort. Then there’s the silent caveat that lingers like a speech bubble in a cartoon, if only I took the time when we were together.

Things left unsaid aren’t alway good, or bad either. Most of us have things we don’t say. The bubble is always there, but everyone’s left to just feel the thoughts, rather than hear the words. Our judgement is clouded by the unknown responses or our own demons.

There is a way to say anything, that seems to be a gift most folks don’t have. I suffer from not being able to write it or say it at times; or maybe even worse, say it or write it the wrong way. It’s that one word that says it all correctly that eludes me until after I say or write the wrong thing that haunts me.

This is why I write, how I care. I can edit what’s on my page. What I say is etched in time. One wrong word in the right moment can’t be edited without intense drama.

It’s not always that dramatic, but it is always that important to me. Sometimes it’s simple things like forgetting a phone call or visit. These situations beg for the right sentiment, but only leave me looking forgetful or uncaring, of which I’m neither.

It seems in hindsight the right words aren’t important between friends. The other speech bubbles I never see are the ones that say “I’m caring” because I tried. I have excuses because I care. I have reasons because I want you to know; and all the factors together mean I want you to understand that you’re important.

Maybe this is where writing and I fall short. It’s the words, the bubbles, and the actions together that satisfy our soul. Love is the only word that conveys this triad of affirmation.

For me the right “word” is important. I don’t expect to hear it or see it, but I strive to write, say, or demonstrate it. I’ve fell short more times than I care to remember. I’ve been speechless in words, actions, and thought. I’ve regretted not having the right words, and having the right words at the wrong time. I never regret trying.

So if I’m speechless know I’m caring enough to think. Silence is a word and an action that conveys concern. It’s when I’m at my best unfortunately. It’s not that I don’t care or you’re not important. It’s that you are worth the right word that not even bubbles and hugs can explain.

Thoughts on truth and knowledge

Every stroke of the pen brings me closer to the realization that thought is the pathway to all peace. The rigors of survival require ingenuity and fortitude. The constant nature of thought within empty spaces of freedom, untethered to the directed realization that thrive on mutual ignorance, protect us from disaster.

It’s alone where ideas are bold and independent. Consensus is for the weak. To dilute your thought with the intention of others is to rob the world of truth. This is not to say we should reject or dismiss the value of opinion; we shouldn’t concern ourselves with the response to our thought. Great thoughts are validated by time.

Boldness is not a character reserved for the warrior. The thinking man must attack his ideas with the same doggedness as an individual in a life and death battle. These warriors, of words or war, don’t protect their victories or care how they survived, they move on to the next battle with their lessons in hand.

We, citizens of the world, are in a battle with no armor or weapons. There’s a war being waged against our philosophical sense like none in history. An organized offensive that challenges our base of knowledge using opinion and persuasion to attack and infiltrate our sense of what it means to be human, spiritual, and patriotic. They wish to define your thought, direct your thought for their own financial and philosophical profit.

This is the critical hour for critical thinking. We need an Army of thinkers to launch a barrage of thought onto a field of dreamers. Wake up the sense of the common man against the well funded army of idiots using entertainment as a research laboratory for imaginary subjects creating imaginary truths.

Truth stems from reality, not vice versa. Only those brazen enough to blind the masses believe otherwise. Reality doesn’t change and truth relies on this priori path of circular enlightenment. Questioning truth is fundamental. Validating those questions leads to knowledge. However, the question is where the work begins, and just because you have an answer doesn’t mean you have a truth.

The warriors who hold truth must continue to rule while the dreamers challenge reality. It can’t be the opposite or compromise. It must be the rigors of true knowledge that lead us. This does not mean we stifle thought like an oppressive beast of ignorance. Free thought has value, like speculation, or fantasy.

I’m looking for those stalwart minds that stand firm on the grounds of truths. Those minds that evaluate consensus and speak up for realities within the truths of our times. Too many minds have been computerized into submission. Merely aping responses without thought are the fortitude to test what they’ve regurgitated.

We are a world within ourselves capable of creating within the constructs of our environment. We are capable of hypothesizing possibilities within and outside of these constructs. We are capable of destruction as well as construction if we lack the adherence to basic principles as protections from dreamers and mad men.

There are a myriad of examples of great thinkers whom we learned much from. However, if we would have followed them into the path of illusion we surely would live in a crueler world, Nietzsche comes to mind.

There are great ways to think and great thoughts. There are simple ways of thinking and simple thoughts. We can learn from each of these if knowledge and truth are our honest pursuits. You are what you think so protect your senses with a heart towards humanity.

Empathy

Surreality chokes the world with fear
While everyone fades to myst
And yesterday falls in a tear

Memories and fear share tomorrow
As if never is here
And joy cannot overcome sorrow

My self lies within crumpled dreams
As I rise to the reality
The words I spoke were a silent scream

Tears of the soul carry silent cries
Not heard or seen
By untrained eyes.

I feel the tears of a thousand souls
Carrying burdens and hope
And the the unbearable toll

Grief isn’t silent to those who listen
It screams through silent eyes
And tears that never glisten

So listen my friend to a story of old
Hardly ever heard, but often told
You can hear with your eyes
And see with your ears
If you listen with your heart
And embrace your own fears