Where the future and the present meet

I have spent my life preparing. I was always told, and so I always believed, that I had potential. Potential to do things wonderful and worthwhile. Now, I'm at a crossroads. I have dreams and hopes and plans, but nothing is certain. I did not grow up with desire in my heart for a job or place in life. I have never wanted to be a fireman, or an astronaut, or any of the other myriad things other boys wished to be. My destination was not a profession; above all else I yearned to be a particular type of man. That is the goal for which I prepared. I have ever wanted to be a good man, just and strong when needed, but kind and happy. Life is not worth living if it cannot be enjoyed, softened with a laugh and brightened by happiness. But life has teeth as well, and some obstacles must be met with all the strength in ones bones, all the cords of muscle that can be raised, with the mental wherewithal to stand tall and resolute through discomfort and pain. These are the things I most desired, these are the things I have tried to train myself to be. I have no idea how close or far I am from succeeding. I have no great battle, I have never been tested, most of my life has come easily and without conflict, and I hate to start conflict, because my memory is long and I hold grudges. I have no problem finishing conflict, however. In fact, I like it. I like to surprise people, I like to win, I like to have my point proven and stand gloriously justified. But these are vain exultation's, and that I enjoy them so much frightens me. The man I wish to be should have a nobler spirit. A quiet voice with the strength of iron, a laugh that causes others to join in, an apt mind that seeks out the things others miss. Most of all I wish to have a family. That is my aspiration. Not a certain job, or amount of money, but family. A life-mate to share my joys with and to help carry my sorrows, children to delight in (for children see the world more clearly, adults muddy the waters of life with expectations, and clever men lay traps for others) and to teach my secrets to (those things worth knowing).

But, right now, I am in transition from a boy to a man. I have my degree, only the 3rd child to earn a degree of 8 children. I must start living. I wish I were a white knight in shining armor, out to conquer some part of the world and sweep a deserving lady off her feet, and so start my fairytale. These are boyish dreams, and I have read too many stories. Even at University, History always seemed to me to separate to the words, "his story."

And so here I am, lying awake at night with my hopes and dreams and plans tumbling in my head, my life aspirations guiding me into who I wished to be, instead of what I wished to be. I feel time ticking away, and I feel I must soon start one foot in front of another to begin my real journey through life. Schooling is over, it is time I learned to live.

Cimmerian Shadow

The rules change by night, have you noticed?
The light melts away behind the horizon,
as darkness pools in shadows and overflows,
staining everything until the black is complete.
By night, all the certainties I know melt away,
everything I believe is questioned, and my sense
of direction for my life are as forgotten as the burning sun.
In the dark, I forget who I am,
the mirror cannot throw my image back on me,
my confines and definition are melted with the light,
and I am empty and formless as the night.
In my dreams, there is light. It is an inner light
that does not guide, but paints the great 'what if's.
As I dream, the possibilities are endless,
I am 20 different people before waking.
My love is pure, my honor untarnished,
and I am brilliant and perfect in ways I could never be.
Nothing exists but the roving voice in my head,
a voice disembodied, full of scorn and sleepy uncertainty.
I lie awake, and love, and hate, and hope, waiting
for sleep or the end of this world, or beginning of a new.
I miss you, are the only words that coalesce enough to form.
Who do I miss, or what? A person, a life, a world far away,
where the light has fled to, where other tongues talk in poems
and beautiful thoughts I can't hear and wouldn't understand.
I am left bereft, shapeless and soulless, lost,
a poorly formed hope in the back of my mind my only guide,
and the hope that I will dream of something, somewhere, someone
that will show me who I am again.

Artifice

"It was not meant to be aesthetic or to adorn the walls. It seems somehow unfair that it is so pleasing to the eye--that the photographer ordered it just right, that he captured the feeling of life within the rigid order and cleanliness."

A friend posted this tonight, and included the caption. It's not very often a picture stops me and causes me to think deeply, and in truth it has more to do with the poignancy of the caption than the picture itself. The caption tells the viewer everything the viewer should be seeing, but is likely missing. Every so often though, something grabs my attention and won't let go... this is one of those times. When someone sees something deeper in anything you've only skimmed over and neglected, it makes you feel ashamed you didn't pay attention. And if it's something hidden that you are convinced you could not have seen yourself, you are then indebted to the eyes that saw that something first. It makes you want to be a better person, more perceptive, makes you strive to be more brilliant and poignant. At least, that's what it does to me. And even more with this photo and caption, the caption expresses an opinion/perspective about the contents of the photo, which could not be more succinct or better said. It is the kind of compaction for which poetry strives. The man here is real, gritty, rough and tumble. The background shows order in steely fashion, the holes and rivets too perfect, unbending and unyielding. It shows the man in the attire of order; he is poised, hand on hip, gigantic hammer comfortably resting upon shoulder, sleeves rolled perfectly. But look at his face; his eyes. His clothes do not fit well; the rolled sleeves are too perfect, the fabric too clean. His beard is barely tamed, his forearms are full of muscle and strength. He is an animal caged in iron order, the precise holes and rivets show themselves to be artifice, as do the clothes, the pose in which he holds himself. The only thing organic and real is the man fastened in the artificial and manufactured world surrounding him. And yet for all of it, the man remains. Caged perhaps, but the spirit is not cowed; there is life in him still.