“You look pretty in your fancy dress
but I detect unhappiness.
You never speak
so I have to guess
you’re not free.”
–Old Enough by The Raconteurs

I’m obsessed with this song by Jack White and his buddy Brendan Benson. The band (check out their sweet site) released the whole album just a week after this single hit the airwaves. Song is about someone talking to the pretty girl who puts that tough front on, always running through everyone on her way to nowhere. The singer tries to give out advice, almost brotherly, that something may come down the road and being brash and beautiful can only help so much. The more you appear outwardly confident and brazen, the less strength you possess on the inside. Speaking from experience, pausing and judging is better. Running and leaping only works about half the time. Jump out of enough hay lofts into rickety wagons and you are bound to get a rusty cut.

“Think about this carefully,
you might not get another chance to speak freely.”

Time is a commodity. It can be quantified, counted and reserved. You can save it. You can waste it. You have all of it in the world. And none to spare. It can be on your side or it can get away from you. I put it number one on my stress board. The checklist in my brain cross-references the clock ticking in my heart. Once I start rolling down that list, the ticking becomes louder and more painful.

I’m a brooder. Time is my common opponent. Nightly checks of when I should get up and head to the job. I always go in earlier, rushing out the door with just a quick glance at the newspaper and a promise to resume the push-ups tomorrow. Hope is the rage in the morning, so much is going to get done..on time. And when the time comes, it has successfully slipped away. So I spend the night laying there, thinking about all the times I’ve seen before. And I feel time is passing me by. Where was I two years ago (getting ready for the Black Cruise)? Where was I eight year ago (summer internship with a minor league baseball team)? Where was I 16 years ago (playing second base on the Galway Machine…hit .654 with my pink batting glove)? Those times come quicker than where was I two months ago. I believe my time now is wasted.

Do you spend enough time loving? Do you spend enough time caring? Do you spend enought time improving? Do you spend enough time relaxing? Do you spend enough time living?

Did you take the time to say what you wanted to say? Is there enough time to say it again? Did you say it in time? Oh, I love that last one. Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Shorn’t. (Office reference). My instincts are very sharp, yet I don’t often take the time to trust them. Like wearing a pink batting glove, not the right decision at the time.

The battle is keeping time from controlling you. Accept the time you are given and take the time to enjoy it. When you find the time to be inspired, waste little time in immersing yourself.

Hence this poem I wrote below:

Replacement 1/25/07

Replace the tape
the old dirty relic
songs repeated and tiresome, melodies a bore
Bring back the classic
the solid gold record
tune after tune
wake the words and strong vibes

Eddie Vedder turns the trick
note after note
song to revive me
His words are painful
anger smothers his voice

A few songs come back
and scream for hope
Fight for redemption
days come
and days go

Your footsteps must continue
and it will be so..

–VC

Hawaii– Now I know this is cliche’ and everyone wants to go to Hawaii but I can’t pass up the opportunity to see a place in America that is that beautiful. I also think the underwater opportunities there are amazing. They have little submarines you can go in to see all the sea life and whatnot. I am a sucker for fish and creatures that call the ocean home. I would also like to clarify for Kyle that a sea urchin is different from an urn. It can get confusing when words start with the same letter Kyle, don’t feel bad.

London– There is so much history in England and London especially. I would really like to see where Austin Powers was filmed and maybe check out Buckingham Palace. The royalty thing is very interesting and seeing as though I have never been out of the country I would like to see things in countries that aren’t America but still speak American. Also I plan to spend an entire day driving in circles saying, “Look kids, Big Ben, Parliament.”

Alaska– What a place to investigate the wild and wilderness of the great white north. I think a summer trip to the other random American state would be pretty exciting. I would like to cruise this area and bring a few memory cards for my camera. Polar bears would be numerous with penguins and seals torpedoing through the waters like, well, torpedos. The cool temps would be quite exhilerating and I could wear sleeves so I wouldn’t have to change my style.

Ireland– I have long wanted to see castles and very old structures that were built long before America was even concieved. I think the highlight for me would be that everyone would come to me and tell me that I look really tan. You know I might actually  move to Ireland and become a pinup model. Remind me to look into that. Also I would like to visit the Lucky Charms factory. I know leprachauns aren’t real but I would like a picture of the marshmallow tree. I might even pick a few fresh off the branch if I can get away with it.

Australia– This would be the ultimate. It seems so amazing when I see pictures of all the natural wonders this country has to offer. From coral reefs to animals who carry other animals in pouches, Australia has it all in a travel destination. I would imagine there are many friendly people there and dingos which enjoy eating babies. These are things that are necessary when one vacations.

There you have it. Five spots I would like to go someday. Only thing I need is a travel partner… and money… and free time. Once I get all that, consider me gone.

–Mid

My thoughts often ramble in this forum, spitting out incomplete stories and references I, or very few, can link together. But a constant you can easily see is my displeasure and the chains I’ve locked around my words.

These April showers bring life to the ground around me and the Sun is prepared to call forth the leaves and the flowers. Mother Nature’s hot, gaseous clock has done the same to me, shredding the sweaters of winter and the coats of duty.

One flower, a daffodil amongst the late roses, comes early in my field of promise.

Years ago I would take my goats for walks outside the fences that kept them from our gardens. Down by the stream linking ponds on either adjacent properties, I would let the goats drink and graze while slipping away to adventures found in books. Four total, including Firecracker, my tall and ornery Nubian, explored the newness of spring while I leapt from each bank, naming rivers a far. The Nile, the Ganges, Euphrates. I saw them all in the pages of National Geographic, rushes of water, bottomless with the unknown.

My day dreaming was interrupted one day. By a sign.

Or should I say, 200 signs. In the form of escaped milk cows, streaming into the field, their hooves stomping towards a nine-year old and his goats. Slapping the goats on the rump, I took off like a deer towards the rock wall (an old way of marking property lines) and vaulted into my back yard. My breath was gone when I reached my parents and gasps about stampeding cows brought laughter and doubt. More made up games and adventures from the little boy.

That lasted about 30 seconds before  cows appeared on the rock wall, mooing and pawing.

I feel that same feeling now, awaken from another dreamy slumber. Living on tales of the past, created by others and proliferated inside my head, I’ve been sitting by the stream again. Awake, I will, for it is not a herd of cattle that has shaken the crumbs from my eyes, but this flower. It rose quickly and shines bright with the coming Sun. The garden revolves around the single yellow center piece, full-throated beauty on its best day and a single pillar of hope on the dark ones.

Tell me no, believe me not. This is the sign, I sought. And let it pass, I shall not.

I collect them like baseball cards, these little signs. Its a simple transition, really. I happen to walk by the counter, spy a shiny pack with a star outfielder and a barely visible price tag.  Quick check of my pocket for the money and the pack was mine.

First things, first. What is in there? One of the “1 in 500 packs” selections? A hot rookie? And which Red Sox? Oh, I wanted a Red Sox. Preferably not a relief pitcher. So I rip that pack open, caution thrown to the wind. Always from the back, slide the cards out the top, kind of like a bag of chips. The back of the bottom card in the pile stares at me but I quickly flip to the front and carefully identify each of the villains in the lineup. Mark Langston, Mike Stanley, Carlos Baerga, Mickey Morandini, ooh Frank Thomas, Steve Avery, NOMAR!!!! Jackpot. My sign. A good day ahead. Save that guy, put it in between the other 14 cards so the shape and edges remain. Hold that sign, grip that hope.

I don’t buy baseball cards anymore. Ok I lied. I’m sorry. The last pack of cards held a sign as well. This was not full-throat, Robert Plant-screaming, wake up the neighborhood, a blazing bush sign. Completely the opposite. Ohhhh man. So I bought a pack of 1995 Leaf baseball cards and flipped through the small collection. I got lucky and found a sign. A Derek Jeter rookie card. The Derek Jeter rookie card. Book valued at $80. Crap.

Sign of my last summer it was.  That false and crashing hope.

I found a new sign.  Oh did I.  Wake up.  As I will.

“Meet me in the summertime
I will meet you there.”

–D. Grohl

The state of fuzz shall be reviewed, not that we think anything is out of range per the respectable data. But I will state it here.

My fuzz is half-dead. Just bleeding a lot, like Mr. Orange. I cut the two fake worlds I shared my life in. ‘book and …Bubble got thrown out. In all fairness to the deal, I still get the occasional ‘book message from my national fraternity and a crazy Australian.

But I read and decist.

The second half is slagging. Slagging behind. I slagged into second base. I don’t like that word anymore. It was a wet snow and we slagged down the hill. Going down? Right? I love my photos. I love the second I took it. And every other second I spent looking at it. I spend too much time putting my photos on another site, the other camera. Not the one you wait up for. Not the one you wake back up, because its down on the coach and not under your pillow. I shot a fountain, a flag, a flame and a video. Our country rests and enjoys its development. And I get scared. Can I show you what I see…every step and stutter? I get off a bus and see sorrow that is cold, always cold.

The worst torture in life is not the burn of sun, sting of sand or the water drip. Its the cold. The cold starts out…sneaks in and come out to the top again. Have you ever shivered? Same feeling. But multiply by degrees dropped. Shivers don’t become fun, like an sneeze when that snot shot out. If you haven’t had that glory of it, flipping at remarkable speed I suggest you try.

I want a dog. One of the shortest sentences they teach you to write. Jack in the box. Its fun to write the ‘x’ and I want it to be by signature. Good once, always good? I take care of something electronic…plug the toy in. I want a creature, some emotions, mostly need. I don’t need the basketball, but love it still. Basketballs never warm up, as they seem to in all that netting. Animals warm up. A cat crawling on you or laying there and swat their tail at your nose. Juiea, would do it. My sister’s cat. Our first, and last, cat to stayin the house. Young as six, I was crawling in between floor boards to bring little kittens out. Walked into the goat shed in the backyard one summer morning and saw a lot of wet everywhere. Two baby goats in the barn, one (mine) named Firecracker and my sister’s a little black and white (Liberty). Two goats and two nerds. Let it begin.

I’ve cared for plenty an animal. Had a horse. Claudia. White “C” in between her eyes. Spry quarter horse, she was. I would stand in the field, ready to feed her and watch as she ran sprints past me. I never climbed up on her back. Just tried to out-run her.

See how I deflected from the “Fuzz”. Ok, I haven’t submitted a photo. But see where I’m getting my photos. Four different publications at the College. If you’re reading this, you know where its at. This is my animal. The one I take care of. Read time after time, hang out behind the curtain. Oz. Ok, Oz didn’t have a sophisticated document organizer. And he doesn’t have the short hair. I swear, I amtrying everything ladies. No one cares? I can still dunk. Anyone like basketball anymore? Its become a NASCAR nation. Ok, I love Jacoby Ellsbury too. Nicest swing since Mike Greenwell. If you are still reading, have you checked your phone….maybe somebody texted you.

I hate the digital era. I hope it hears me. I’ve cracked and I’ve thrown it down. I tried every day on our computer. Went on the world wide web in house in Connecticut and was looking to see what people are doing. I’ve seen it. At least 1% of it. I’ve got an email account (ok, two) and a server password, fantasy sport password, and a instant messanger name (two again). The sad thing is, I don’t knowmy neighbors. Had bried exchanges and looks, small comment. To people three and four doors down. What is that? No block cookout, no families know all. An invisible force field on each side of the street. Best house to watch: new young couple on the corner. Matching GMC model two doors. Little dog. And I only ever see him walk the dog. She’s a pretty blonde but never outside. The dog’s name is Manny. I want to get a dog and call it Papi. Back to back! So my man walks Manny, up and down a 20 foot area. Manny never stops barking. I love it. I can’t hear it and some one else can’t get him to shut up. I don’t like little dogs. Own up to that, uncheck my bubble on Match. Cats, I’ll leave out. I’d rather have a chicken – Rhode Island red. Chicken won’t walk on my face. And it will go shopping for breakfast. Two sun-side up, please. I subsist at the digital era, looks like I’ll take a final swing through the emails before the night is over.

I wrote some jumbling words bottled up the other day on the way to the Free Library (obsessed with John Adams right now). If I can’t findit, I’ll thumb into the vaults. Listen to this Brad Paisley song called Letters to Me in the meantime.

Went to over a year ago…and five before that.

1.25.07

Sweet Smell

A day by day pursuit
the search for a content soul.
Push down the doubts
rise up the flowers of promise.
Some days I feast on my fears
wrapped with twinges of jealousy.

Control comes seldom
washed over with faces of the past.
I bring her into my head
a strong vision of the truth.
She told me to leave
get out of my shell and run a risk.

I seldom listen
beyond my feelings
trapped by self-doubt and pain.

Her Cheshire-cat smile hands me
the motivation to dream.

I owe you a treasure
something re-paid in friendship.

Stay by my sides
and in my head
its a long ride.

–VC

An increased workload has diminished my expression. The great American way.

Mid’s doing his part, I never meant to drag him. I’m the one running around town like Brittany Spears. Getting free drinks and self-appreciation from the local bar one minute, razor my hair away the next. 30 seconds to Friar Tuck, two minutes to Brian Urlacher. I didn’t buzz my curls for all the questions, for all the looks. I did it for simplicity, for something clean. My life of re-tread and laziness comes not from my recreation, but from my indignation.

I’m the kid who grew up wandering the hayfield, making friends with the sounds and the sights. Real companionship came in animal-form, spawning a curiosity towards humans that has yet to quenched. I look right at you, walking towards me in the special way that marks your humanity. Some sulk and turn in-ward, scared by my size or my stare. I’ve always come simple and direct, a hello early and a smile lasting. I accept and open up my space bubble, eager to learn who and why. I ask the same in return.

I am unused to being the forgotten one. Had a friend in college named John. No body remembered him. Not even his football coach, who forgot to get John the varsity letter blanket after playing all four years. It was a fun joke in the house: take John to meet a new group people and return the next day, betting on how many couldn’t recall his actions. We went to a football game two days before Christmas and John dressed up as Santa. So did the guy two parking spots from us. And about 3,000 other drunks. None wore their smile as wide though.

The last 10 days I have become John. Three out of four meals, the waiter forgot I had ordered. I got to sit and test my patience as all others ate away. I am shocked. Big and bright, I arrive. Clothes you never saw, a gaze you never felt. I constantly observe and re-con. I know your name. Remember your walk. Grab your details. That I care, is the meaning of the word. Do you care?

Just cut out a whole paragraph of weeping and self-misery. Because it was set on repeat for the last two year.

Tomorrow has begun. Tomorrow is yesterday. And I am scrambling. Because of you.

Your hello was fake. Your goodbye was forced. Your interest an act. Your compassion a must. Your reverence diminished out of habit.

Just keep walking by, I see something ahead.

Nothing Else Compares                                               7.13.03

Her eyes are blue
brilliant with passion.
But not enough.

One girl’s figure
shaped to twist necks,
isn’t enough to keep
the inner fire from extinguishing.

The blonde in her hair
smooths the chocolate in her eyes.
The diamonds in her ears
sharpen the white of her smile.

The calm of her skin
soaks the precious
softness of her lips.

Her elegance and grace
combine in a magical instant.
She flicks her soft hair
behind her ear
it falling into a perfect line.

The perfection
lies not in the details
but in the complete package
Imagine each individual color
shining on its own plane
of beauty.

But combine all the colors
in a single brilliant rush
and the purity
rushes at you
in one
single
white light.

No explanation.
No questions.
Just an awe.

She is nameless forever.
Never forgotten.

Her eyes noticed
but her expression wouldn’t admit.

I’d seen her before
seen her lick her lips
seen her comforting eyes
beckon.

Her hand flashed
to wipe her mouth.
Done with such grace,
such confidence.

Nerves begin to show,
her white nails
scratch at her face.
Imperfections only evident
in her mind.

She has none.

Her beauty speaks to me
in waves.

Crashing in my ears,
leaves my lungs grasping for more.
More of her air.

My eyes scream
please save me.
Please look at me
with the warm vision God gave you.
Ease my thoughts
with your words.

What is her name?
Where is she from?
What makes her smile like that?

She looks tired,
a bit lost.

And then comes a laugh, a joke.
Followed by her personality, flowing like the river
that swallows my thoughts.
Drowns my consciousness.

And I left,
thankful to have been there.

–VC 

The mysticism of Voodoo has appealed to me for years. I scrounged for books in the library, my mother never shielding my curiosity, only my identity. The librarians get scared when you those words, but she knew it as my wonder that took my steps, not any perverse out-cry or out-lashing. I put pen to paper in 10th grade, diving rather shallow from my backwoods ledge in upstate N.Y. To be fair where fair is concerned, my mother had given me the cassette “Jimi Blues”, Hendrix plugged into his given sound. In my eyes the Catholic-based yet Catholic-biased faith, Voodoo that is, tests the depths of your beliefs and the danger of your souls. Fear is what drives a man, one way or another. Fear of failure, fear of acceptance, fear of denial, fear of over-looking. You can’t run from fear, because you are fear.

I believe Voodoo’s darkness, the evil crawling underneath us all. The devil is one hard swing of the axe from filling our heads and sucking us below. Or….the depths represent a challenge, that thin sheet of ice you test in November. One person has to creep out and see if the pond is frozen. That same soul tip-toes out to the center line, daring the traffic to zip over the hill.

I’m a Voodoo Chile. I walk over to that line.

The examples can run free. I shame away from some, scars evident outside, piercing inside. Others are my badge, my merit. I can. And I will. I’ve never feared death, just expected its approach much sooner. My grandfather was gone at 37, a mine blast scarred his heart in his early 20s, ensuring his exit as quick as my father entered. I feel I’ve been sitting at death’s stoop forimg_1712.jpg years, living my days that are to be lived. I fear. Just like you fear. I am rash, just as I fear. I fear to love, just as it broke me. Fear loves me, just as I enable it. And fear replaces that love, the shadow form of remembrance bubbling to the surface each day.

Its a dark time for me. I am a machine. The worker bee. I have no balance. No pleasure, without guilt. I put in 32 hours by Wednesday and fall over the edge on a day off. I see no end at the road only the ice and snow awaiting my bare feet. I’ve been to that party before. I pledged my life to its course. I pledged my self to her.

I sold myself to the devil.. The she-devil. Taketh the money, pound your fingers and pound you head to stay near her. Selfless and loving compromised. I chose not my this, and took not my that. I tried to please them all, instead of pleasing within.

Voodoo seeks the weak, the stretched. Sacrifice is pure and sacrifice is healthy. I am the sacrifice. But who is the healthy?

I never had the ‘boys in the neighborhood” and I always looked for them. Wishing my neighbor would be home, maybe I could go over and play. Just hang out. Something new. Not so much. So my boys became my animals. I took care of a quarter horse, Claudia, and in a Horse-Whisperer moment, could get her to run 200-yard sprints around me one moment and stop and rest her head on my shoulder the next. Never got on her back, an over-sized dog she was. Many dogs I’ve taken out in the dark cold of an Adirondack night. Husky, Labrador, Rottweiler, Pit Bull, Golden Retriever, without as much as a flashlight.

I’ve cornered Rhode Island reds, played tag with steer, ridden fattened swine, and grazed the goats. My neighborhood rarely got ruff, unless you count a Billy goat horning my head and Angus, all 140 pounds of black rottweiler, keeping that raw steak for in his teeth. Humans are too complex, changing day to day. I can’t keep up, its not healthy for me to see so much difference. I longed for the day when I would leave that land and see everything in the books. And just this quickly, I want back. Mundane me. Pain my hands with raking leaves. Boredom and necessity cut the grass. Clean the pool again, two days later. For the plane over head, might see a tint of algae sour the crystal blue of fake water.

Now I am trapped. I am inside the cage, looking out. I spin on the wheel, feet running every faster, tasks mounting so. Bring the cheese into my small box, and I shall run on that wheel ever faster. Look how fast you did that. Now do it without the cheese. My cage is inside a vast room of others, spinning different wheels, so get breaks, another to run on the wheel for a bit. This wheel is greased, not much effort to spin it. This other one requires expert foot work to spin, it showing ridges and complexity. And what about the cheese – what happened to that cheese that led you into the cage? Why was it taken away? How many times have looked for the cheese? Will that cheese holder ever return? I don’t like that cheese. I think of the other cheese. Two things are forever tied in my life. One left and I am too consumed to leave the other.

That’s my darkness, hidden in metaphors and twisted tales. These days, I don’t leave my computer, but for six hours of sleep. I don’t get cheese. And I can’t find Voodoo….because its already found me.

…….as always, my poems. this is me on the wheel, spinning away…

The Jeykill is leaving
my Hyde to do the work
My footbsteps and my work
are dragging me away
I look to my strengths
to my valor
to keep me from crumbling.

All my hopes and dreams
all my fears and doubts
got put in your basket.
I made that mistake
I loved you too much.
Blinded myself in the process.
Pushed everything to the side
longed for the girl I fell for.

She was a mirage, something so fake.
I will lace them up again
seek my direction

As if…

–VC

as its descent rather than a climb. Middy slops down the chicken and taters while I am in the corner, back snapping my thumbs for entertainment. I quelled my photo thirst in classic Keystone Light fashion, removing all sense of old memories and tired faces staring at me from the walls of my bedroom. I took down Erika, Keely, Ali, Lauren, the other Erica, another Ali and even Arianna. Photos I hung up two years ago with hopes of motivation and success, trophies of pretty girls, friend and family, to keep me friendly in the lonely nights. I slugged some Keystone Lights, got beat on a straight draw at my poker table and then came upstairs, not wanting to see those faces tonight.

Right then and there I decided it was time for new views. Ansel came out in calendar form, his black and white vision created so long ago. I’ve taken to his eye in much of my work. Colors are too hard to control and those beautiful shadow lines disappear. And then I am adding a large portrait by Wyeth, brown in color and “Open Window” in name. Create in front of the creative, I say.

Got a Facebook invite and a message in the past two days. Ignored them both. Had a face to face conversation and a reunion of an old friend. I’ll take the latter and the process it took to get there.

Of course this is just the first third of my Fuzz truck. L. Loke on the other side of the office has tossed a couple of old chairs over the side, unsturdy challenges each.

Submit my works – its coming. Need to find the right place. If you know where that is at, I am all ears. Maybe I need a fancy web site. No, that’s what this is. And I run one. Let’s go to contests. Submit it up.

And then she wants me to control my social life. I think that’s a nice way of saying, get a social life. I’ve manned up, went on my first blind date and am tracking down a match for the Foo Fighters on Thursday. I resume control. I resume a task. Learn more, see more, listen more. New people are everywhere and I plan on meeting all of them.

In fact, for your treat here is a poem I wrote about a brown-haired girl named Brenna I met last May on the Main Line. (got her number and she said she was leaving for Africa for the summer, never got the chance to go out with her).

Brenna In the Black Dress 5.19.07

My pen feels empty
in drained and gone.
The blanks need to be filled,
my imagination
trying to out-run itself.
Can’t scratch the lottery ticket
need to back-pocket this one
let it simmer.

I speak literally
in this poem
read not into any of it.
Hoped to get one page of words
layed out on the lines
before I took another look.

Let me get some water….

The eyes melt me
looking in and out
I let go, all I can be.
I hold nothing back, free from doubt.

Your song, I want to hear
every note, hopefully twice.
Leave for a month, leave for a year
that one smile will suffice.
I’ll save the ticket
scratch away no more.
hopefully one date, a landing I could stick it.

At Kelly’s by chance, praying you don’t walk out the door.

A bathroom to the side
Wildcat seniors sway the tide.
I met an NBA guy in one place
got to talk to a beauty
with such vigor amongst grace.
More than any I saw
shine and polish be damned
her smile so giggly and raw
My goal of goals
you leave me in awe.

Your dark dress fell all around
soft skin, I had to try
keeping my feet on the ground.

–VC