Tomorrow by Nina

I just saw someone realize their incapacities. The look of their face was numbing. The body was nearly frozen, but the mechanics of the pained mind moved on at a pace that let you see a frenzied scattering for answers within their soul.

Was this true? Is there no way out? There has to be a solution

So they move just the slightest to regain eye contact.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah. I was just thinking"

Yeah, you were just thinking about where you go from here, and the thing is, you don't know. You have no clue. I can't help you, either, b/c the truth is, I am not so sure I'm doing what i'm supposed to be doing, either.

So we take a silent moment. A moment that is just a second too long. That second that holds the vulnerability of me knowing the terror that you've found within yourself.

You can't succeed at what you want to.

You'll try to forget that this just happened. That it all came to you in an epipheral moment of realization that shatters your dreams. Your idea of who you are. Your hopes for tomorrow.

You turn away from the mirror.

And you walk away.

Doc-Week 2

Dan...Week 2

Put Your Shoes on Hippie. By Dave M.

Some background: I'm at work. I work in an office building. There are several offices in the building. My wife happens to work in the office right next to mine, though she works for a different company than me. I just met my wife in the public hallway by happenstance. This is where I discovered something about my wife that I would rather not know. My wife doesn't like to wear shoes. She is barefoot about 80% of the time. (That is not new, I've known about that for a long time.) But when I just met her in the hallway she was barefoot. Come on, she is at work, you cannot wear shoes throughout the workday?! But it's ok, I can get past that. The problem is, she was headed to the bathroom. I asked her if she intended to go into the public restroom barefoot. She replied in the affirmative. I don't like the soles of my shoes touching a public restroom floor, let alone my naked skin. All I can think about is those disgusting germ infested feet in my bed, it makes my skin crawl. It is just not ok to go into a public restroom without shoes on. Am I alone in this? I'm grateful that I don't have a toe sucking fetish.

Trees Lounge

On the Road

If you ever get the chance to get on the open road, letting the wind blow in your hair...DON'T!!! It fucking sucks unless you like sitting in the same spot for hours, eating fast food all day and driving through such states as Nebraska and Iowa. States that you wonder if everyone living there is suicidal due to nothing around them. It's such a weird thing to be...on the road.

Back in the days it seemed like such a fantastic thing. Living off of apple pie and whiskey. Hanging out at on on ramp with thirty people, drinking and eating and playing music. Now a days there are physical signs with a thumb up in the air with a big red mark through it. Stating,"This era is dead. Move along there is nothing for you here."

I will have to state that driving in a car for such a long times forces you to deal with issues that you've put on hold. There are no distractions, no t.v. to watch (unless you are fucking rich and can afford a dvd player in your car) and you really can't get up and walk away. You are stuck staring, looking into your soul. I will have to say that as boring as I've made it seem, it's theraputic. I've never felt better, being in such a shitty situation. So fuck it. Grab your Atlas, gas up the car and get the fuck out of dodge.

A Long December

http://www.beaverislandtour.com/the_story.htm

"Captain Owen J. McCauley, now 79 (in 1948), who retired in 1936 after 38 years in the lighthouse service, tell the story of the tragedy which took place on December 14-15, 1900. Of which he was the only survivor. The Squaw Island light on the northernmost island in the Beaver group was closed the morning of December 14. At 12:30 the keeper, William H. Shields, his wife, her niece, Mrs. Lucy Davis, of Richmond, Indiana, first assistant keeper, McCauley and second assistant keeper, Lucien Morden of Montague, along with Shield's shepherd dog, Fids, launched the 22 foot sailboat which was to take them on the first lap of their journey home for the winter months.

The day was cold and dense vapor hung over the water making visibility poor. A moderate wind was blowing from the northeast which gave the craft a beam wind and from the speed the party estimated they would be at St. James harbor in two hours. In less than ten minutes, however the boat was becalmed for a short time before another breeze blew up from the east forcing them to haul the sails in close to hold their course. Just as quickly the wind died down and the boat was again rocking in the swells.

In gazing about, McCauley recalls, he noticed a puff of wind coming from the north with great force and cautioned Shields who was at the helm and Morden who was where he could handle the fore sheet to be on the lookout. Instantly the squall hit the canvass and as the boat had no head-way it was laid over by the force of the wind. The boat was over balanced and slowly laid over until the sails were flat on the water. The women screamed and were helpless. When McCauley saw the boat tipping, he jumped on the side of it to avoid going in the water but when the others went in the icy water, he went to their aid. They pulled Mrs. Shields up on the upturned boat and tied her to the centerboard. Morden tied Mrs. Davis with the fore sheet and when McCauley saw that that would not hold he went down in the water and cut apart one of the sail halyards. After that the articles were thrown and shoved from the capsized boat to give it buoyancy.

Shortly after the accident they sighted a fish tug coming around the northeast point of Beaver Island but they were too far away to be seen by the fishermen although the squall had cleared the air. They had hopes however, that they would drift into the path of the tugs as the latter returned from the fishing grounds in the evening. About this time the dog, Fids, became exhausted and sank, the first victim. As darkness hovered over them they saw the lights of the returning tugs but they were too far away to make themselves heard by the men aboard the boats chugging along to their home ports.

Mrs. Davis, realizing that all was hopeless, wept bitterly and then seemed to sleep. She died about 6:30 p.m. Mrs. Shields kept asking for her niece and was told she was sleeping. She later became delirious and died about 8 p.m. McCauley, in relating the story said, 'It is beyond my ability to describe the horrible agonies suffered by the women before they died.' Morden then remarked that he would be the next victim. 'I tried to encourage him,' McCauley related, ' and told him that we were drifting toward High Island where the Indians would help us. But his hands were even numb and puffed by the cold. He was sitting erect, holding the jib sheet when suddenly he shuddered, losing his grip on the rope and slid into the water. I caught his arm and tried to help him but he pulled away. I heard splashing for a few seconds and then he sank.'

As dawn appeared and objects became visible McCauley and Shields found their boat still far from land. The Beaver Island fish tugs again appeared but they passed the northwest point of the island, and closest point was three miles from the overturned boat. As they continued to drift the two survivors knew they would miss Trout Island also. Their only hope was to drift into the steamer channel. Cold and hunger were already preying on them and a southeast wind which had started at sunrise had brought occasional snow squalls making conditions even worse.

The body of Mrs. Shields lay in the water under the gaze of her distracted husband. Shields moved about on the boat and retied himself and McCauley did the same, allowing a little slack so he could move about in an effort to keep from freezing. About the middle of the morning McCauley saw smoke to the east and after another snow squall a steamship was in sight. Shields could not even look up but McCauley managed to stand up and wave. He was sighted, the steamer swung towards them, lowered a small boat and they were carefully taken aboard. The ship was the Manhattan of the Gilchrist Steamship Company bound for Manitowoc with a cargo of coal. After the ice covered bodies of the two women were removed the ship continued to Manitowoc.

The next morning at Manitowoc the two men were taken to Holy Family Hospital. Shield's hands and feet were badly frozen but McCauley was in better condition. He was discharged from the hospital and arrived home at Beaver Island December 26th. Shields remained at the hospital for six months and one of his legs had to be removed at the knee. Following his dismissal from the hospital, Shields was appointed Keeper at the newly constructed lighthouse depot at Charlevoix where he served until his retirement in April 1924. He died in September 1925."

So why did I put this on? I'll tell you why. I've been down lately, depressed even. I know this may sound strange but there was a time when I thought about giving up on writing. Giving up on society and moving out to a log cabing never to talk to anyone again, becoming that old scary guy that lives at the end of the road. I had Strep throat for a good seven days, a week to recover, then I get almost a $900.00 bill to fix up my car. These are all things that came out of nowhere. They overwhelmed me to the point that my brain couldn't take it. I honestly thought I was going crazy and the thought of that...well it was driving me even more insane. I questioned everything that I have ever done. Yes, I know, I was over thinking but it's really hard to stop when you are in this slump.

I had come home one day from work and I ask my brother if he had the link to this article. I mean, it was the weirdest thing cause I hadn't thought about it at all and then it just came out. He opened it up for me and I read it. I mean I really ready it, hardcore feeling and all. My great grandfather went through hell and back. I know not everyone who reads this is from Michigan but the winters there can be brutel. Colder then Hoth...way colder and things kind of clicked in my brain. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted off of my shoulders. This man, my ancestor didn't fight for his life through the cold, Michgigan winter for me to be stressed out about being sick, or having to pay money to fix my car or not sure if I was a good writer or not. He fought to live so I could live. That I could enjoy the things around me. I know this is sounding very "cheesey" and all. Like a fucking made for t.v. movie on Lifetime but it's not. It's just the way it is and when the future starts getting dark and hard to see, I'll look for that light house, that guiding light to bring me back to shore.

I Think This One is a No Brainer.

Hello fellow readers. I'm currently writing to bigger articles and trying to organize a two month stay in Michigan...oh yeah, also trying to work on the website so it's been busy to keep up with everything. I know your taste buds are watering for new material so I'll give you this to ponder on. Even though I HATE hypathetical questions, I found this one to be interesting. Why? Well the main reason was of the response I got.

I was at work today, counting down the minutes until I'm free and I thought of this question, "Would you eat a piece of human brain for a million dollars." I of course thought that was a no brainer...pun intended and said yes. People at work said no they wouldn't. They gave me reasons that it wasn't enough money. That it wasn't the right thing to do. I was shocked. I mean it's just a piece of brain and in my hypathetical question, the brain is from a human body, of someone who had passed away in their sleep, no diseases and said it was ok for someone to eat a part of their brain. Why do I feel like I'm the only one that said they would do it?

Big Trouble, With Little Jerry.

I am not a huge fan of donating money. Why do you ask? Well the main reason is that I don’t know where it's going. Sure, they say it's going right to the victims or it's going to help buy toys for little children but is it really? I think for the most part people donate because they feel guilty. Maybe they donate because they still believe in the system. I'll donate a buck or two from time to time hoping that it will make a difference, that is, if I'm donating to what I want to be donating to.

I'm driving home from work. I had a very bad case of Strep throat and my Service Engine Soon light just came on in my car. It seems that when it rains it pours, but then again it happens to the best of us. I'm driving up to one of the major intersections...it's the last one right before my brother's apartment. As I pull up to it, I see these firefighters walking in between the lanes with a boot in their hands. They are asking for donations. In my mind, I assume that it is for the victims that were hit by Katrina.

Finally receiving my debit card and having some extra cash on me, I figure that my life has been crappy...why not help out someone whose life is worse off then mine. I pull up to the stop and throw in five bucks. The firefighter thanks me and hands me a sticker. I feel good inside. I feel like if I don't do anything else for the rest of the day, that at least I did some good. I'm hoping that the five bucks goes to help buy a blanket, or helps feed someone. I'm hoping all of this until I look down and see, "Thanks for donating to Jerry's Kids." Mother fucker! Not that those kids don't deserve money but I didn't want them to have my money. Yes, I know, I am coming across as an asshole but it's true. I have friends who love watching the telethon. I am not one of those people. I remember as a child getting upset cause I can stay up late watching TV. but nothing is on because of the stupid telethon. Oh well, what can ya do? It's not the money is going to help support terrorists organizations or even to the "shitty people" foundation. So you may have one this battle Jerry, but you have not won the war.

Written by Dave M.

I've been thinking. In a stream of consciousness sort of way. Assessing where and why I am, and most importantly, but as you will see, lease importantly; for how much longer? A couple of my friends are currently losing their grandparents. I'm sympathetic, but in a "I don't really feel your pain" way. I care, and I'm sad, but let me put it in perspective. I've lost three grandparents, and my remaining grandmother (my father's mother) waits patiently in a retirement community. Frail watching football and eternally hoping that one of her great grandchildren will run into her room falling over something and seeking comfort in her octogenarian arms. She has lived her life and she is looking for the big things. I was nine years old when my other grandmother died (my mother's mother). It was my first experience with close death that I remember. (I only remember images of the lives and deaths of two uncles, though their deaths have had a profound affect on my psyche.) When my maternal grandmother died she was 83 years old and I was devastated. I sobbed at the funeral as the congregation sang Amazing Grace, her favorite hymn. I hugged my cousin resting my face on her breast, I was inconsolable. My cousin is about 8 years older than me. She was a young woman at the time, but when I think about it she was at that time much older than I would be for another 15 years.

I didn't know pain until my dad died. Grandparent's deaths are hard, they love you, they don't judge you, they give you a crisp dollar bill when you visit, they rarely discipline you and they die. It's hard and you get over it as time goes on. I watched my father gurgle his own phlegm and struggle to breath. I begged my father to let go and I wished him dead. His pain so thorough that simply lifting his diseased arm would bolt him straight out of bed, wresting him from a morphine and cancer induced slumber somewhere between life and death. It was the only action that would bring a semblance of his former self to the surface of his face, but it was nothing you would do more than once. He died and I was relieved and I cried. I've never so fully grieved in all my life. I've never been so happy and angry and broken all at once. To think of it five years later, it still brings tears to my eyes. I miss my grandparents that have passed, but it is rarely a day that goes by when I don't wonder how my dad would resolve a situation in which I have found myself. It's rarely a day goes by that I don't wonder what he would think of my children, or what he would say when I do something stupid like hit a deer with my wife's Cadillac. He was always sarcastically comical when you needed it the most. I still needed him when he left, and I was not ready to let go. My grandmother simply stated that she would give anything to take his place so he could rise and be healthy.

I once pondered why my cousin was not nearly as upset as me when we buried my other grandmother. It dawned on me that three years before my grandma died, my cousin's dad died of Lou Gehrig's disease. She was sad to see our grandmother pass, but she knew the pain found in the absence of her father. She knew the pain my grandparents felt in the loss of their son. She was child when her dad died, orphaned at an age much earlier than I would ever be. My friend's grandfather was recently diagnosed with Lou Gehrig's disease. Strange for a man in his seventies. Most people die like Lou Gehrig did, in their forties or fifties. I lost two uncles to the disease, both died before their parents. I may be predisposed to developing a hereditary form of the affliction. Sometimes it bothers me. Sometimes when someone I know gets the diagnosis it really bothers me. When I allow my mind to take me to destructive self pity I can look 20 years down the road and imagine losing feeling in my thumbs and slowly succumbing as my muscles no longer respond to my commands. My grandparents all reached their eighties; I've always felt it was my duty and right to outlast them. A centurion is a proud and noble figure, but there is a simple 25% possibility that I have a gene mutation that will permit me to reach only half that age.

My point is not for you to care about me, or feel sorry for me, I surely wouldn’t and don’t. My point is that I watch my babies crawl around on the floor or run through the house screaming "dadda! dadda!" It warms my heart, and I know that they will never be ready for me to pass. But it is not my job to live forever for their comfort; it is my job to prepare them for life beyond my home. I am not the one who will leave them; it is they who will leave me. Off to school, love, and life. They will travel the world, smoke joints, drive a hundred miles per hour down a back country road. When my father died, I reacted to my grandmother's statement and realized she could never express her pain, she could never cry enough to ease her loss and sorrow. I wondered what I would give for my father's health, for his return. Of all the things that I contemplated, my own life was never bargained like she did with hers.

Every night at 9:30 I pick up my daughter and ask her if she is ready for "night, night" and she nods her head with an affirmative. I change her diaper and put on her pajamas, brush her teeth, and we give kisses to her mother and brother. We select a book to read and when it is finished I turn out the light, place her on my chest and rock her to sleep. She snuggles her little head into the space between my jaw and neck, and presses her body as closely as she can to mine. As she lays there sleeping on my chest I cannot help but realize that I don't care if I don't make it home from work tomorrow because I've already experienced more wealth and happiness in that simple nightly ritual than any one man deserves throughout his lifetime. I would die a thousand times to know that she and her brother would live long and happy lives. I would give my father's life a thousand times for their health. I long to dance at her wedding and throw her babies into the air. But I am pleased with what God has provided me to this point, and it has taught me that when your grandparents begin the long decent to death that they are happier to celebrate your life than to lament the loss of their own. Lou Gehrig was a man of talent and grace, I intend to borrow and live with some of that grace throughout my life, no matter how long it should last. With any luck at all my children and grandchildren will be devastated when I die, but not so devastated as at the simple thought of losing a child of their own.

Something else my grandmother said as we both sat in a guest bedroom and watched my father slowly die has remained with me. Blankly watching my father’s wasting body she mutter, “I’m glad your grandfather is not here to see this, he never would have lived through it.”