298/365

everyone is out.
to classes or working:
mary lane is empty
but for gabe and me.
the san diego sun
drowns our living room
in a lattice of beams.
i’ve chosen to cut class today
to listen to mellon collie
and the infinite sadness.
it will become the soundtrack
to the end of nineteen ninety five
and much of nineteen ninety six.
twenty six years ago:
we’re twenty one years old:
unencumbered and impetuous.
the introductory piano lines
an open door to twenty eight songs
running the gamut between
the sacred and profane.
jason will hate most of it and complained
loudly and often about corgan’s whiny voice
and the rat in a cage line.
never one to champion victimhood,
one assumes he felt the band
lacked integrity or grit.
knowing the job like obstacles
he had cleared even then,
i can see why he might
not respect a pasty bald narcissist.  
but not me- i crawled into those songs
and hid behind the wall of sound
treating each tune like a nest
in which to find shelter,
from which to jump.

gabe and i spent the whole
day with the songs:
in the yard, on the floor,
in his car, on walks to the taco place,
it was dark and night
when we finally powered off:

the sun shines but i don't
a silver rain will wash away
and you can't tell, it's just as well
goodnight, my love, to every hour in every day
goodnight, always, to all that's pure that's in your heart.

the songs
remain embedded
in the ventricles.
held in place
by the loose
tapestry of memory.

255/365

i don’t remember deliberately hiding my heart in its barbwire cage. i don’t remember whether this was a deliberate or necessary act. i don’t remember its state at the time of encasing: a fragile flower. a tiny mirror ball. a flickering flame. a handful of fireflies. i know it was alive and needed safety, after the nights in the dark and the hands and the terror. i don’t remember when the cage began to unravel or when the heart outgrew it, pushing outwards so the barbs tore the muscle walls, leaving scars as they released the light. the rusted wire embedded in the flesh like shrapnel. pulsating in my chest- a bizarre metamorphosis, real time evolution. i don’t remember exactly when some bad company pried the remaining pieces with southern comfort, gin and peach shnapps out on the hills after midnight with a brand of vulnerable masculinity that thrived on bleeding hearts. unclenched fists letting go. gentle breaths on tiny fires. i don’t remember passing it around too much after that, exposed and hungry for love. i don’t remember what they did to it or what it did to them, the girls and women in my life. i would hope they danced in its light and felt the warmth from the flames they fanned, but there’s no doubt they choked on the metal pieces now rooted in flesh. i don’t remember it falling a sleep or waking back up. i don’t remember how it became this way or what to call it now. sometimes when i lay real still i can hear it beating irregularly in my chest. what’s asking for, i’m still not sure.

236/365

when they knew she had died
the daughter crumpled to the floor
like a wrinkled dress fallen from its hanger
shapeless and spreading like a shadow.

he had seen her at the hospital
before they left for oregon:
her eyes distant and fearful,
her skin bruised from the fall
her neck fragile like her voice,
whispering jokes to the end.

how often do they come to school
carrying the weight of an expansive grief-
a hole left untended waiting to swallow
everything on its edges.

this thief leaves no clues
toward his intentions.

from the abyss the survivors
live surrounded by flowers.
her roses ripe in the sunshine
leading up the driveway
and into the world.
her body floated away in
that icy river in a foreign land.

the storm is coming
the voices remind us from behind
as we race up the stairs to escape
the soft whispers that never go quiet.

the son and the daughter
have suffered since,
but pain is just one part
of this cavalcade.

197/365

make this one a dream
uncomfortable and tangled,  
fill it with dread and ecstasy.
chaotic with images:
a tornado in an hourglass.
a shimmering absinthe light.
a freakshow. the sea on fire.
a television in the darkness.
running up the stairs
a hand on your shoulder just
before you slam the door.

who are we to judge
each others traumas?
every affliction
mutilates in its own time
in its own way
leaves its own scars.
there is enough emptiness
for us all.

remember the hot tub in the snow.
the stars and the frozen lake,
all of us floating in the fog
laughing and breathing underwater.
invincibility needs only faith
in itself. the bottom of the lake
says we need more words for darkness.
the nerve endings surprised by the breaking
of the ice. the brain explodes with fireworks.
the mind awake. running back across
the road, barefoot crunching the snow,
they cheer from the hot tub.
music playing. an ample fire inside.
youth is nothing but a dare you know you won’t lose.
where do the words come from you thought
before you started.

make this one a dream
uncomfortable and tangled,  
fill it with dread and ecstasy.

191/365

it’s a dull grey saturday. just noon. thunder rumbling through the throw of clouds intermittently releasing a lightening bolt like some primordial metronome keeping time through centuries. the girls each have a pack for friends over. sitting in the darkness of their rooms cackling in the comfort that there are people who accept them for who they are  and who they are becoming. the frightening formation of identity keeping them all busy.we are reading in the dim darkness of the day, my wife and i. the quiet a gentle salve from the rock and roll energy of the previous night. i saw a photo of you with a group of masai men. you short one leg and still engaging warriors. we’ve passed the wanderlust baton for decades. i yearn to grab it and join you on that deck. the two of us approaching fifty. watching the trucks raise dust at dusk bootlegging khat to ethiopia- you’ll tell me for the millionth time, as if I don’t hang on your  very word. the stories we tell ourselves of ourselves are myths now. your young red beard from your first trip. my time in mozambique. the attack in tanzania. the two of in kenya. bathing my first born in a bucket at your house, before we took her to see the jane goodall chimps and lions and a lake’s worth of flamingoes, darkened by ample shrimp. your anguish is on my mind. knowing the pain of not being able to choose all the starfish to throw back in is weighing heavy on your heart this week. do me a favour. go down to my banda. open the doors. shake out the sheets. clear the spider webs.run the water. and think of me for a short while. i’ll be there again as soon as i can.

139/365

it’s hard to tell
what allows men
into each other’s lives,
what with the insecurity
and false masculinity.
 
adolescent alcoholism,  
reckless desperation,
being wanted
(needed)
(noticed)
is what did it
for these two.
that and:

lack of fear.
no judgement.
drunken walks.
exploring selves.
unvarnished truth.

football games.
jabbanwhiches.
xmas shopping.
double dates.
sleeping in.
farting in groups.
talking shit.

ignoring speed limits.
chewing tobacco
driving to tahoe.
yearning for the edge.
altered states.

car crashes.
inner rage.
tears in hospitals.
take-out from work.
pushing wheel chairs
sharing journals.
catching dawns.

changing bandages.
sharing meds.
first time on the internet.
road trips.
car crashes.

long letters.
big distances.
years separated.
shared dreams.
opening schools.
hiring teachers.
sitting on decks.

meeting wives.
grieving deaths.
loving kids.

it’s hard to tell
what allows men
into each other’s lives.

Be Better

I want things to be quiet and I want to be better.
I want to do things more deliberately and less habitually.
I want to stun a room into silence and take breaths away.
I want to create and carve and reconfigure.
I want to let the stirrings vibrate and hit the right notes.
I want my words to rumble, tumble and hit on impact.


I want to be more than your scroll and your feed.
I want to be more than liked.
I want to borrow into your thinking and force your heart to skip a beat.


I want the minutes to slow down and feel like hours, and these days like lifetimes.
I want to inspire you and share with you and shake you and wake you and remind you.


I want to please you.
I want to Leonard Cohen you.
I want to turn off the noise and ignore the mob and their voices.


I am tried of comment sections and blogs and social media and the accidental nonsense.
I am tired of options and pundits and comedians and experts and artists.


I want to stop ignoring every detail that demands my daily attention.
I want to breath in and out and be here now.
I want to disappear into the gentle silence of midnight.


The flickering lights
and consistent promises-
another decade is off and running.
A new year on the horizon.


With our eyes closed
I feel that chaotic night in the city
Gabe and I walking across the bridge at dawn
wondering if you would live.


Who could have guessed that a love so young
could have carried us so far.
Who knew how little, boys need, to be men.


All we ever wanted was to be better.

We Are Winning: Alone

I put some weight on my right ankle today and I have been able to walk about a little without my crutches. This feels like a miracle seeing that a few days ago, I couldn’t even think about adding any pressure to it.


I watched The Raiders win their ninth game of the season. It was closer than I would have liked in the end, but it was a W and I still can’t believe the season we are having. I can’t remember a time, ever in my life, when watching the Raiders has ever been so satisfying. We are good. We are winning and people are talking about how good we are and how we are winning. 9-2!


I got a bit of work done. I realized that I have a lot of marking to do. Marking I had forgotten about. Marking that would make sense for me to start doing tomorrow as I lay around in bed. Suddenly the rest that was so boring, feels so far away.


I had two extended naps today and I ate pizza in bed for lunch. A few Bojack Horseman episodes rounded out the digital portion of my day. I’m out of pills, which doesn’t really matter because I am not sure they were actually doing anything.


I feel like I am disappearing here piece-by-piece, breath by breath. Not to be hyperbolic, but I haven’t seen another person in almost a week and the extrovert in me misses your attention. The occasionally private message is nice, but I am learning to manage the loneliness of recovery. I can’t help but think about Jason’s strength over the last twenty years. He, unlike me, doesn’t want or need this attention, but I owe him a line: You are the strongest person I have ever known in my life. I have seen and felt your strength and admire it beyond anything a simple word like love can ever capture. Thank you for guiding me through my life with your strength.


I’m reading the Bruce Springsteen bio because Chris insisted that I read it and I am loving it. I am listening to Nebraska as I type these words and excited to learn more about an artist I know little about.


The political world is so absurd these days that it is hard to take seriously, but I read articles today about the plans for the federal government jobs and it is clear that things are about to get very grim for these United States. I just hope that you people living there, can survive these next four years and begin to rebuild the shit show that is coming. I am too tired right now to address this issue and the work required at the moment, but it is on my mind and I hope to get to it soon enough.


We are a few days away from the end of yet another year and December has never been an easy time for me. Excited that as it approaches, I feel like I am on an upward swing.


Looking forward to getting rid of this mustache. This year it has been a mark of sadness and I won’t even be at school on the last day of celebration. Just a quiet shave and goodbye.


Tomorrow is another day and I look forward to seeing where it takes us all. I miss you all. Today was the 333rd day of the year by the way.

Chapter One for Twinkle

I was never an orphan, but when I was fifteen year’s old I clearly needed to be adopted. I was a shy awkward kid who wanted to be accepted, loved and noticed. I had spent most of middle school on the periphery of a Marin world I didn’t really understand, and to tell the truth I didn’t really understand what it meant to be an American. I was an only child in an household filled with love, but also many silences and empty spaces. I needed more family than our three-member unit was providing.


It was summer before sophomore year and I had started hanging out with a little freckled kid named Anthony. Even now thirty years later, I can’t recall what brought us together, but we used to ride our bikes to Derek Thornhill's house to play football. This was a new world of mansions and country clubs for me. After several visits to the Thornhill place, we started going up to Margarita Drive to Jason’s house. We played hoops. Swam in the pool. Built friendships that would last for decades.


But this is not a post about friendship, it is a story about family. As soon as it became apparent that our visits were becoming more and more regular, often turning into weekend long sleep-overs, I was adopted by the Dohertys, and no one was more accepting, generous, hospitable and loving that Jason’s mom Karen “Twinkle” Doherty.


Twinkle passed away this weekend, and many of you have been so kind as to ask about the allusions I have been making to a special person in my life who has been suffering. Karen was like a mother to me. I often said that she was my second mom. From those early days of making us breakfast, making sure we were safe and making us laugh with her infectious and highly inappropriate sense of humour, to the last time I saw her looking weak and frail in the hospital, Karen has been a constant source of light in my life.


In life Karen was the most beautiful woman I have ever known. Her kindness and ability to transmit joy to everyone around her, were only surpassed by her unflagging strength and selflessness. She was a mother to all, not just me. She was a true matriarch. I have countless stories to share about her love of life and her ability to overcome obstacles, each one bringing me to tears at odd parts of my day, so I cannot write them all tonight.


I just needed this first post to announce her passing and make it real. To open the first chapter, so as to let the healing, grieving, honouring and celebrating to begin. At first I was nervous to write these words or even mentioned her name at all, because this is not my story alone to tell, but as I mentioned above, she adopted me and made me feel part of her beautiful and complex family. She gave me Christmas and Thanksgiving. Sunday night football. Nieces and Nephews. She gave me full access to her son and her family and their home and her heart. And for all of this I will be eternally grateful.


By being my mother and mentor and guide and role model, she has shaped who I am more than any other person in my life. I will miss her so much and it is simply too soon to understand what her loss will mean to my life, our family and the hundreds of lives she touched throughout her life. There is so much more to say, but tonight is not the time.


All I needed to say tonight was, "We miss you already Twink. I love you so much and thank you. I hope you are free of pain and resting. I will always carry you in my heart. I like you there to keep me balanced.

A Tornado Is Coming

I read the news today oh boy!

The Iranian president, now that the sanctions have been removed, has been gallivanting around Europe. First on a trip to Italy and now he is in France buying up airbuses and making deals with car manufactures.

At first this trip, or at least the symbolism of it, made me happy. After decades behind the veil, it feels like Iran might finally be moving away from the global pariah state. The picture of the President and the Pope was somewhat endearing. You see, we Iranian don’t see our leaders hobnobbing with the likes of people like the Pope too often. It feels strange and somehow important.

Maybe this could be a sign that Iran is finally about to re-enter the world of nations, instead of being on the Axis of Evil, denying the Holocaust, supporting Hezbollah or making nuclear bombs.

But as I read further, by newly found joy and mirth turned to skepticism, frustration and eventual rage. (It’s a joy being me.)

I began to think about how Rouhani and his chums, the clerics and mullahs, are going to benefit the most from the release of over 100 billion dollars worth of frozen assets. There is no way they will use that money to build Iran. For almost thirty years these bastards have been in charge and for what? How have they ever improved life for most Iranians? When have they ever been decent enough to think of the people they rule instead of lining their own pockets and pushing their backwards dogma?

Then I read about the statues and the wine, and I lost it!

So apparently when he was in Italy, the Vatican covered up all the nude paintings so as not to offend his holiness. In his defense, he did ask for this to be done, but the Vatican felt it would be a nice thing to do.

Well, is that swell. But get this! He was meant to lunch with the French president today. And in this case, he did ask that there be Halal meat on the table, fair enough, but that they also remove wine from the menu and not have any on the table.

Really? Really? Are we dealing with children here, that we have to worry that he might be offended of possibly seeing a few boobs and a penis, and that if he is even around a glass of wine…that what? What would happen exactly? Is he not the ruler of a nation, a people who’s history is over two thousand years old? Has he not been educated to realise that maybe the french like to drink some fuckin’ wine with their meal, and that maybe, just maybe, he can  ignore it?

So the meal was canceled, because the French refused to remove the wine! Viva Le France. They offered a breakfast instead, but Rouhani refused, saying that was “too cheap.” Palm to the face.

As if all of that wasn’t bad enough, in Iran, the Supreme Leader and his cronies have decided to ban the word wine from all books published in Iran.

Ban the word wine!

It’s almost too idiotic to believe. Who do they think they are leading? A bunch of morons? We Iranians are the people of Hafez and Rumi. (The symbol of wine, as in the drunkness of the beloved) is in our blood and our poetry.

"Bring the pure wine of
love and freedom.
But sir, a tornado is coming.
More wine, we'll teach this storm
A thing or two about whirling. "

I just don’t get it. The people of Iran, with our poetry and food and culture and history are like a magical gem that can and should shed light on the people of the world. We are The Persians for goodness sake. We were doing civilisation before anyone else. And what do these jack-offs in charge do with this gem? They cover it up. Try to remove its magic and in the process hide it from the world, as if it is theirs to control.

So yeah, the president of Iran is buying planes in France, but we are still a long way from Iran taking its place on the world stage. Not sure how much longer we will have to wait for freedom from this madness. Still hoping I see it in my life time.

…

It seems that I get hot and bothered about news stories I can’t do much about, and I am very happy when talking about my teaching and my new exercise routine (did body pump again today)

It’s been strange and thought proving to write every night for the last 29 days. It’s a lot like running, as I rarely want to do either. It’s hard as hell while I am trying to pull out the thoughts and dress them in words, finding something important or interesting or funny to say. And it feels pretty good when it is all said and posted. It is forcing me to really be aware of the thoughts I find valuable and carry around with me throughout the day.

...

My trip to Kenya is only a week away- I am ready to sit on Jason​’s porch and watch the sunset and talk and catch up and see my best friend again. As we get older and live farther and farther away from our closest friends, we learn to value the short visits we can sneak in. It has been a year since I saw him and I will only be at Daraja for a week, and will be busy taking care of students, but those nights when everyone is asleep and we sit and watch the stars and talk about the past, present and future…..well that is what heaven is like. Friendships that have lasted twenty plus years are what make life worth living.

…

I hate that Donald Trump is making Ted Cruz look like a viable candidate. But I love how Bernie Sanders is making Hilary look like less of one.

...

Lessons Learned:

• I feel a weird pride in my Iranian heritage and I hate it when the mullahs misrepresent what we are all about. 
• Writing every night is hard work. 

1. What do you love about your culture and who or what messes it up?
2. What do you like writing or exercise that is hard but pays off?