If America ever decides to drop an Atomic Bomb on some poor, poverty ridden country again (or any country dropping it for that matter), I am making a vow right now, at 11:54pm on May 31st 2010 that I will volunteer to not drop the bomb. That sense of power would haunt me for the rest of my life and it's something I don't need that much control of. I don't have power trip moments due to feeling insecure. Whiskey takes care of that one for me.
No my children, I want to be the fucker strapped to the bomb. I want to feel the wind whipping and stinging my face. I want to see the world in such a way that an object of mass destruction sees it. The one pushing the button generally only sees radar blips. Dots, dashes. I want to see what the actual bomb sees before it cause a wild fire of burning flesh and embers.
We simply push a button that is controlled by a switch, in return it releases the harness of death, chaos and destruction. Man made mind you! I'm curious to see what the bomb sees before it hits the ground. For it is not human, it does not know the pains of life, love, poverty, richness, health, sickness...it knows none of these things. The person hitting pressing the "fuck it" button if you will, given by orders from someone above him in the "food chain of power" tells him to do such a horrendous act.
What do we do it for? To end a war that we stumbled upon? To save lives? To end lives as an act of revenge? Words are a very powerful equation of letters stacked upon letters, making noises, making a word, which makes a sentence, that turns into a phrase, which leads to a paragraph, which leads to a quote, which ends in a memory.
I want to see the "face" of mass murderer. For it is surely not the person pushing the button that drops the bomb, it's the person in charge who sends the orders to drop it, but he didn't kill anybody. The ordinance drifting freely on a guided mission does. That's the face I want to see.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Dear Granny
Give me eyes, so that I can see the world
Give me feeling, so I can touch everything I see
Give me a nose, so that I can take in the sweet smell of
The honey the bees buzz around valiantly to produce
Give me a tongue, to speak kind words to those
Who hear nothing
Give me a beating heart, so these hands can continue
To pursure childhood dreams
Give me a mind, so that I can understand
The deeper meaning of my intuition
Give me feet, so I can wander this Earth
Combined with my hands to share the journey together
For we are not alone
Lastly, give me wings so I can soar above the heavens
Dropping little notes to those without eyes
Without hands, without feet, without compassion
Without thoughts, without imagination,
Without an understanding,
Without anything.
I want to show them that there is hope at the end of the tunnel.
I can't wait to meet you again so you can see the tattoo I'm getting for you.
Give me feeling, so I can touch everything I see
Give me a nose, so that I can take in the sweet smell of
The honey the bees buzz around valiantly to produce
Give me a tongue, to speak kind words to those
Who hear nothing
Give me a beating heart, so these hands can continue
To pursure childhood dreams
Give me a mind, so that I can understand
The deeper meaning of my intuition
Give me feet, so I can wander this Earth
Combined with my hands to share the journey together
For we are not alone
Lastly, give me wings so I can soar above the heavens
Dropping little notes to those without eyes
Without hands, without feet, without compassion
Without thoughts, without imagination,
Without an understanding,
Without anything.
I want to show them that there is hope at the end of the tunnel.
I can't wait to meet you again so you can see the tattoo I'm getting for you.
Hands Like Asbestos
So, presumeably an old chef came into the resturant on Friday night. He came in after a large party of people decided to go out to eat at 10:15 at night. I'll never understand why this is the trend, but so be it. In any case he wants to order some pizzas and asks for garlic bread, and marinara for dipping. Now, why in the middle of a rush with only two on the line do I go out of my way to kick my ass a little more? No idea.
In the midst of running all over the place I make all these special requests for this kind man, normally things I would never do for anybody. Why did the other people start groaning and complaining because they had to wait, while this guy forcefully hands me money and says one of the greatest compliments I have ever gotten
Thank you so much for your time. I really appreciate it.
Nobody has ever thanked me for my time in a kitchen. Ever. Well, a patron at least. It was rare, beautiful, and slightly mysterious.
Shortly after he orders even more food. Then I hear the greatest phrase ever coined.
Careful Dad, the plates are hot.
It's ok, I used to cook for a long time. I have hands like asbestos.
It was then that the appreciation made total sense, the twenty dollars in my pocket, the memories I will have from this, and memories I left with them.
I never got his name, but he didn't quite hear mine. So to him and his family I will be remembered as Jeff.
In the midst of running all over the place I make all these special requests for this kind man, normally things I would never do for anybody. Why did the other people start groaning and complaining because they had to wait, while this guy forcefully hands me money and says one of the greatest compliments I have ever gotten
Thank you so much for your time. I really appreciate it.
Nobody has ever thanked me for my time in a kitchen. Ever. Well, a patron at least. It was rare, beautiful, and slightly mysterious.
Shortly after he orders even more food. Then I hear the greatest phrase ever coined.
Careful Dad, the plates are hot.
It's ok, I used to cook for a long time. I have hands like asbestos.
It was then that the appreciation made total sense, the twenty dollars in my pocket, the memories I will have from this, and memories I left with them.
I never got his name, but he didn't quite hear mine. So to him and his family I will be remembered as Jeff.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Nostaglia
Running into an old friend on the bus yesterday telling me he hardly recognized me. He doesn't stay where he used to, and that he is working on day eight of being sober. Such a beautiful moment, and so many words I wanted to say, but alas...my stop my next.
Dean-o was his name. He used to hang out with me at the bus stop while we both shivered to the bone in the dead of winter. I used to give him smokes and change for beer, food, I did whatever I could for that man, even if some days it was nothing more than conversation. Talks about life, girls, stories exchanged, warm spirits all around.
Tonight at work, I ran into an old friend, an old family member if you will. It being so long since we've seen each other, we again almost passed each other up for a conversation. My saving grace I suppose was the recognition of my tattoos. He asked how our tightly knit brotherhood that is our family is doing, and if I still talk to so and so.
I also saw regulars I haven't seen in ages. Their excitement to see me took me back to the first dishes I cooked for them and how excited they were to gorge themselves on food, on love. A family even, excited to see me. A pre-teen girl nearly shrieking once she saw me, waving excitedly. Of course, I remember what this family orders even though it's been months. Without even having to hear them order, I knew what to make.
Then I get a table of ladies who don't know what they want, but I can safely assume what to make for them. I urge them to allow me to let my creativity flow. They accepted the offer and trusted me. Now, I didn't make something extravagant by any means of the imagination, something different? Of course. They trusted me, so I had to deliver.
Not so much as a "Thank you" or "That was great" was even muttered from their mouths. Not too bad of a blow, the plate came back empty so I guess they enjoyed it, or like most women are great at faking. Who knows? If I sat here trying to figure out the complexities of the woman mind, my head would in fact explode. Hell, I have a hard enough time trying to figure mine out.
I'll have a slice of sanity, with the estrogen on the side please.
Dean-o was his name. He used to hang out with me at the bus stop while we both shivered to the bone in the dead of winter. I used to give him smokes and change for beer, food, I did whatever I could for that man, even if some days it was nothing more than conversation. Talks about life, girls, stories exchanged, warm spirits all around.
Tonight at work, I ran into an old friend, an old family member if you will. It being so long since we've seen each other, we again almost passed each other up for a conversation. My saving grace I suppose was the recognition of my tattoos. He asked how our tightly knit brotherhood that is our family is doing, and if I still talk to so and so.
I also saw regulars I haven't seen in ages. Their excitement to see me took me back to the first dishes I cooked for them and how excited they were to gorge themselves on food, on love. A family even, excited to see me. A pre-teen girl nearly shrieking once she saw me, waving excitedly. Of course, I remember what this family orders even though it's been months. Without even having to hear them order, I knew what to make.
Then I get a table of ladies who don't know what they want, but I can safely assume what to make for them. I urge them to allow me to let my creativity flow. They accepted the offer and trusted me. Now, I didn't make something extravagant by any means of the imagination, something different? Of course. They trusted me, so I had to deliver.
Not so much as a "Thank you" or "That was great" was even muttered from their mouths. Not too bad of a blow, the plate came back empty so I guess they enjoyed it, or like most women are great at faking. Who knows? If I sat here trying to figure out the complexities of the woman mind, my head would in fact explode. Hell, I have a hard enough time trying to figure mine out.
I'll have a slice of sanity, with the estrogen on the side please.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Time
Time is something that is inescapable, uncomprehensible, unforgiving, inexcusable, and something in which we live by. You show up late for work and it's something you can't escape. You live a life time and it's something you never understood. You have something you choose to regret, and you won't ever forgive yourself or the action. You claim I didn't have the time in the day...it's an excuse for being lazy. Don't worry, it's something we all do.
Have you ever thought about time though? Simplistically, it's numbers, hours, digits, analog, dial...etc. What is the extent of it's multitude though? What it is that makes us able to fall asleep at said time, to wake up at another. What is it that makes these numbers, gaps in between life moments if you will. We sleep in between the gaps of the processes of life.
Think about how much goes on while your asleep...Life forming, life ending and everything in between. A junkie starting an addiction, a junkie ending an addiction. A man starting a job, a man loosing a job. A soldier picking up arms, a soldier taking a nap and laying his down. A fisher reeling in his catches for the day, the chef waking up to go peruse these musings of fresh sea life, only to be put on a dinner plate in a few hours.
A father disowning his son, a son coming to a father saying sorry. A mother watching in agony, a mother watching in bliss. A drunk stumbling home, a sober man staggering to the bar to order a drink. The lonely reminiscing over love lost, the lonely finding love that's been there all along.
A sinner at an all night confession, a prostitute searching for a confession. A new life. The gambler leaving hoping for a better tomorrow, a gambler realizing he is going to loose and gives up.
A baby crying, a father tending to the child while the mother sleeps. A mother tending to her child while the father sleeps. A poor family loosing all they having. Starving. Full of desperation and an empty stomach. A family gaining a meal, and a lost son.
Time is almost an illusion of what's in store for life. It's like the preface to the epilogue. What's written in between you ask? The novel, the sweet novel!
The memories in which will never be forgotten. The faces, voices, sounds, touches, emotions...that's what life is. It can not, and shall be not measured by time. Age is but a number, a memory is but a time, but time? That's a matter of one's definition.
Have you ever thought about time though? Simplistically, it's numbers, hours, digits, analog, dial...etc. What is the extent of it's multitude though? What it is that makes us able to fall asleep at said time, to wake up at another. What is it that makes these numbers, gaps in between life moments if you will. We sleep in between the gaps of the processes of life.
Think about how much goes on while your asleep...Life forming, life ending and everything in between. A junkie starting an addiction, a junkie ending an addiction. A man starting a job, a man loosing a job. A soldier picking up arms, a soldier taking a nap and laying his down. A fisher reeling in his catches for the day, the chef waking up to go peruse these musings of fresh sea life, only to be put on a dinner plate in a few hours.
A father disowning his son, a son coming to a father saying sorry. A mother watching in agony, a mother watching in bliss. A drunk stumbling home, a sober man staggering to the bar to order a drink. The lonely reminiscing over love lost, the lonely finding love that's been there all along.
A sinner at an all night confession, a prostitute searching for a confession. A new life. The gambler leaving hoping for a better tomorrow, a gambler realizing he is going to loose and gives up.
A baby crying, a father tending to the child while the mother sleeps. A mother tending to her child while the father sleeps. A poor family loosing all they having. Starving. Full of desperation and an empty stomach. A family gaining a meal, and a lost son.
Time is almost an illusion of what's in store for life. It's like the preface to the epilogue. What's written in between you ask? The novel, the sweet novel!
The memories in which will never be forgotten. The faces, voices, sounds, touches, emotions...that's what life is. It can not, and shall be not measured by time. Age is but a number, a memory is but a time, but time? That's a matter of one's definition.
Monday, May 24, 2010
A Journey
So I know this is slightly off of everything else I have written but I had to share this mainly for the one person I know of who reads this. (Not to exclude anyone else of course).
Leaving work early today for a job interview I had to re-schedule, and sadly I didn't get it, but I'll get to that. I met a guy today who was a chef and I couldn't even recognize it. The last one whom with spoke to me was a brief conversation about the weather and the such, he gave me a parting phrase that I tend to dwell on daily. Keep your knives sharp. This man in which I met today actually empathized with me. Here I am standing at a train station in a chef coat, and it's already about 90 and humid.
He said back in New Orleans he worked (I wish I could remember where) but it was some hotel, or resort type thing, or perhaps I made that up. Maybe it was Arizona...Regardless he said he used to do parties for up to 10,000 people. 14+ hour days. He said the fact that I stood there after him asking me Do you carry your knives everywhere? that he respected me for battling such extremes.
In any case I finally make it to the interview, dripping in sweat. I didn't get the job because basically I didn't make it there in time. He had a spot for me though, and once things settle down and they weed through people, he would hire me if I bugged him enough. A month away at the shortest...or the longest. I'm going to view it as the latter.
At yet another bus stop, I get asked if I'm a chef and I work somewhere. I come to later find out she works at a place in which I have had such the strong desire to work for for years. I don't know what the amazement is about the place, but there is something to it. Just the prospect of getting to work there makes my bones dance.
Leaving work early today for a job interview I had to re-schedule, and sadly I didn't get it, but I'll get to that. I met a guy today who was a chef and I couldn't even recognize it. The last one whom with spoke to me was a brief conversation about the weather and the such, he gave me a parting phrase that I tend to dwell on daily. Keep your knives sharp. This man in which I met today actually empathized with me. Here I am standing at a train station in a chef coat, and it's already about 90 and humid.
He said back in New Orleans he worked (I wish I could remember where) but it was some hotel, or resort type thing, or perhaps I made that up. Maybe it was Arizona...Regardless he said he used to do parties for up to 10,000 people. 14+ hour days. He said the fact that I stood there after him asking me Do you carry your knives everywhere? that he respected me for battling such extremes.
In any case I finally make it to the interview, dripping in sweat. I didn't get the job because basically I didn't make it there in time. He had a spot for me though, and once things settle down and they weed through people, he would hire me if I bugged him enough. A month away at the shortest...or the longest. I'm going to view it as the latter.
At yet another bus stop, I get asked if I'm a chef and I work somewhere. I come to later find out she works at a place in which I have had such the strong desire to work for for years. I don't know what the amazement is about the place, but there is something to it. Just the prospect of getting to work there makes my bones dance.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Conversations At Bars Part II
Myself
Bartender
So, I lost one of my best friends today. I woke up this morning to hear my dog was put to sleep after being struck by a car. The worst part, I think, about it is that the only tire marks were left across his back. Doesn't appear that the car slowed down, I doubt the car even fucking stopped.
I'm assuming you want a whiskey right? And a guinness? The Jameson is on me.
I thank her kindly for the hospice, and the shot and we banter back and forth for a while talking about the slow night last night, the dead day today. We conclude that it has something to with a festival going on in a town which shouldn't even be a town. Well, city rather than town. The city is basically a long strech of road lined with resturants and bars. That's all it is.
As I sit there staring off into space, thinking our eyes catch.
You shouldn't dwell on it, it's not very good to dwell on things.
I can't help it. That's the way my brain works, I don't intentionally dwell on things, but it's like an avalanche. One thing leads to another, one thought provokes a different one. My great grandmother passing, my dog being put to sleep...What's the third one? Who is it going to be?
You need to teach yourself how to meditate. It helps I promise. I'll give you the best meditation advice I can give you. Next time someone goes down on you, focus on your breathing, your heart beats, the sounds of the two. It puts what is happening to you in full perspective. It's quite the calming experience when you think about it that way. It's more pleasurable than the physical act. You just need to get some head.
Funny how things work out like that. I walked into the bar with no desire for sympathy. More so the desire to see some familiar faces, hear familiar sounds, feel something. Anything. I found that, and far much more.
Bartender
So, I lost one of my best friends today. I woke up this morning to hear my dog was put to sleep after being struck by a car. The worst part, I think, about it is that the only tire marks were left across his back. Doesn't appear that the car slowed down, I doubt the car even fucking stopped.
I'm assuming you want a whiskey right? And a guinness? The Jameson is on me.
I thank her kindly for the hospice, and the shot and we banter back and forth for a while talking about the slow night last night, the dead day today. We conclude that it has something to with a festival going on in a town which shouldn't even be a town. Well, city rather than town. The city is basically a long strech of road lined with resturants and bars. That's all it is.
As I sit there staring off into space, thinking our eyes catch.
You shouldn't dwell on it, it's not very good to dwell on things.
I can't help it. That's the way my brain works, I don't intentionally dwell on things, but it's like an avalanche. One thing leads to another, one thought provokes a different one. My great grandmother passing, my dog being put to sleep...What's the third one? Who is it going to be?
You need to teach yourself how to meditate. It helps I promise. I'll give you the best meditation advice I can give you. Next time someone goes down on you, focus on your breathing, your heart beats, the sounds of the two. It puts what is happening to you in full perspective. It's quite the calming experience when you think about it that way. It's more pleasurable than the physical act. You just need to get some head.
Funny how things work out like that. I walked into the bar with no desire for sympathy. More so the desire to see some familiar faces, hear familiar sounds, feel something. Anything. I found that, and far much more.
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