The Living Dead.

Emotions or "feelings" are a lot like Zombies. You can try and kill them or bury them deep down as deep as you go, but they will alwasy rise back up. You can try and re-bury them or do something to throw more dirt on them, but they simply keep coming fiercer and fiercer. Eventually they will become to numerous, engulf me and tackle me to the ground. Then they will feast upon my brains.

Sexism...alive and well.

John McCain has chosen his Vice Presidential running mate. She is a feisty young woman by the name of Sarah Palin. It is a momentous occassion, because she has the prime opportunity to become the first female vice president. I was listening to some pundits discussing some pros and cons about her and the arguments that were being thrown against her made my blood begin to boil. Litterally, it was not a pleasent feeling as the blood began to boil and steam shot out of my ears. I wanted to throw my remote through the damn television and into the face of the people talking. One of the hosts stated that "how can this woman take on the role of being vice president and still be a mother to her children". Does anyone not notice the sexism in that question. It litterally made me want to vomit. We try and be this "open society" where everyone would be treated equal. Yet, this woman is meant to give up a golden opportunity because she has children? And where is the question asked of Barack and how he is going to raise his little girls while taking on the stresses of the presidency? Not to mention the criticism that Palin has gotten because of her seventeen year old daughter being pregnant. That by accepting the VP nod she is "putting her daughter into the publics eye and under scrutiny. First, her daughter is seventeen and capable of making her own decisions, she got pregnant and is getting married. It is not that big of a deal. Secondly, THEY ARE PUTTING HER DAUGHTER INTO THE PUBLICS SPOTLIGHT BY REPORTING IT!!! If it is such a travesty then stop talkinga bout the damn thing. And then there are "reports"(and by reports, i mean dumb ass bloggers who think they have relevency in the world who say stupid shit and it somehow gets picked up as fact) that her child with down syndrome(which I think is sad that everyone just refers to it as 'sarah palin's down syndrome baby') is actually her seventeen year old daughters that Sarah Palin has claimed to give birth to in order to protect her daughter. I just don't think these attacks would be thrown against a man and it sickens me to no end.

The Great What If

What if? That is a question that plagues us all at one point. When you apply it to matters of your life with which you are intimate with it will drive you nuts. But, sometimes it is fun to ponder the great question. With history for example.

What if the Native American's had been able to cross the Atlantic for example. What if their civilizations had been able to flourish. The Aztecs, Incas, and other tribes in Northern America had vast social networks, developed stunning buildins, and were advanced in mathematics and astronomy. In fact, the Aztecs were the first to develop a 365 day calendar. The city of Cahokia was a feat of a city when it was at its prime while Paris and London were villages. What if these cities had been able to advance.

Jarod Diamond has a book out. While I have not had the privilage to read this book, the title says it all: Guns, Germs, and Steel. This is the reason that the West was able to dominate the world. They had the steel which gave them guns which gave them firepower. Meanwhile their germs decimated the native populations which had no antibodies to fight off the bacteria. But, what if the natives had been able to develop steel and use the firepower of guns? Or, what if they had developed the ships which could have taken them great distances. Could they potentially have conquered Europe?

On that token what if the Chinese had travelled more. They had the ability to travel great distances on ships. In fact, some historians argue that they landed in the new world on the pacific coast before Columbus landed on the Atlantic Coast. But, they chose to stay closer to their home shores.

What if the Muslims had never taken over Constantinople? They cut off the land trading routes that the Christan Europeans used to get to the Indies where they would get a lot of spices and silk. Therfore some of those Europeans went looking for sea routes. That is what Columbus was looking for when he stumbled upon America.

The possibilities are endless. But, it is still fun to think about what could have been.

The Office

The Office season 4 comes out on DVD tomorrow. That is an exciting day!

We the People.

In 1776 Thomas Jefferson penned some words to a piece of parchment. It was these words which signified that we had shredded our ties with Great Britain. The process for the thirteen colonies deciding to announce independence was a complicated process which involved a multitude of people. The final conclusion of the decision was a piece of parchment with some signatures. When people think of who won American independence the names of Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and John Hancock come to mind. But, those people would be wrong. Now, don't mistake my meaning, I am entierly awed by the bravery and intelligence of our founding fathers. However, the people who truely won our independence were the ones who froze in the trenches at Valley Forge. The ones who crossed the icy Deleware on Christmas Eve to take out a battalion of Hessians. The ones who stayed with the Army even though it looked as if the American cause would be destroyed in one foul swoop. Those are the ones who truely won America's right to exist.

Throughout the ages it has been those people who served in America's military who have kept America's freedom as well. The faces of the Yanks as they were forced to fight their southern brothers. The face of the pimply faced teen lying face down on the beaches of Normandy. The Marine who braved the Japanese jungles. These are the faces who have allowed the United States to remain United.

I bring this up because I have been thinking about the military. And when I think about American history and what America represents it fuels that desire to want to serve. Beacuse it has been "we the people" who have kept America intact and it is up to "we the people" to maintain that. My friend Corey is also joining the Marines. The guy is more of a brother to me than the other person who came out of mother's womb. So, I say to you big guy, that when you join remember that it is an honor to serve. That you are in the company of people who are imprinted upon history. Also, stop bitching at me for not bloggng.

All I am going to say.

I feel a need to write something. It will be short.

Just because I do not wear my heart on my sleeve, does not mean that I do not have a heart.

Just because I do not write depressing blogs, does not mean that I am not depressed.

It causes me a lot of anquish, stress, and heartache to know that you are suffering. It hurts to know that I have caused that. I will not get into the whole story, nor try to justify or defend my actions. I have done that with you already. It is a private matter. I will not burden anyone else with what is supposed to be my burdens. I harbor no ill will towards you. I harbor no spite towards you. If you need to hate me to get through this, then hate me. But don't say that I am dead to you. That I am the worst person alive. That I am nothing more than a shell of a good former self. And then wonder why I try to give you your space. Right now, I am a cancerous tumor to you and your psyche. If I need to remove myself. Then I will. I don't know what else to say, my mind is jumbled and confused right now. But, I felt a need to say something.

Part Two.

Richard

I walk down the dimly lit hallway. The slight Air Conditioning just mixes with the mold and dust and creates a musty feeling. I can already feel the grime of the place slowly crawling up my arms and beginning to envelop me. I sit there staring at the white paint cracking on the door in front of me. Looking into the peep hole, and wondering if he is staring back at me.

I don’t know why I wait to knock. I just sit there knotting my hands into tight fists and clench my jaw. It has been months since I’ve seen him. The sleepless nights, the fights with my second wife, and the lack of time I have had for my other child. All of these things come to the forefront. Some problems are intangible. You try and rationalize them out and attempt to change them with your behavior. Other problems are able to be seen directly in the face. You can look at them, and talk to them. You can hate them, but you love them. If you didn’t love them, then there would be no problem, because even after all some people do to you, in the end you are addicted to them.

I sigh and knock on the door. Knock Knock Knock. The sound reverberates in my head. I barely tapped the door, hoping that he would not hear me. That way I could walk away, and say that I was brave enough to come. After a minute I start to turn away when I hear the click of the knock. The door slowly opens and there stands the skeleton of my former son. He opens the door and stands there looking at me with his sullen hollowed eyes. They are black, and don’t hold the life they once used to. His hair is shaggy, matted, and covers half his face. He holds up his long thin digits over his eyes, attempting to shield them from the fifty watt hanging in the hall. How long has he been in that dark room? He wears no shirt, and it looks as if he has not eaten in weeks. His blue jeans are tied around his waist with an old orange extension cord. You can count every single rib on his torso. He used to be so muscular. Now he looks like he just come out of a concentration camp.
My son, the Holocaust survivor.
He stands away from the door and motions me in with his long disgustingly thin fingers. I follow suit and immediately a mixture of urine, vomit, and alcohol invade my senses.
The smell of teen spirit.
The room is dark with only a faint light from a street lamp outside. There is a small ceiling fan slowly circulating above our heads. The room is bare. There is simply nothing in there with the exception of a mattress and an old chair. A blonde haired woman lies half covered by a white urine soaked sheet on the floor, while her legs are draped across the mattress. I just can’t help but look around the room. There is so much space that simply isn’t being used. I notice a crack in the wall at the far end of the room. All it needs is some plaster, an easy fix. I make this comment to him, but he simply states that he hasn’t had time.

He sits on the mattress and just stares blankly towards me. I look at his arms, blackened and bruised. His toes also show the signs of injections. With every drug injected into his body, a piece of his soul was ejected. I notice all the empty syringes and beer bottles. All reminders of my failures as father. I try to look him in the eye, it is a vain search for something that used to be there. He can’t hold my gaze and just stares down. Does he hate me? Does he blame me? Where did I go wrong?

I try and start the conversation we both know is coming, “you can come home if you want.” I look at the girl on the floor with empathy, she is someone’s daughter. “She can come too, but you both have to go to rehab. You know the deal”. This is probably the millionth time we’ve been through it. He gets in trouble, and comes home. He goes to rehab, does well for a while, but he always falters. There has to be hope left? He just looks at me, “nah, I’m getting clean on my own. These needles are old”. He still has a piece of rubber wrapped around his bicep. “I just need some money to get me through the week, and I start my new job Monday”. I have to hold firm. He slumps to his side and begins to vomit profusely. I just get up and start to walk out. I won’t give him the money unless he at least tries to get fixed. I have tried to get him to clean. It’s not a one-way street. As I move towards the door he begins to yell, “Fuck you!” Here it comes. I turn around and he somehow manages to get himself up with his boney arm. His eyes, once which had no emotion at all, are now filled with a vile hate. And it is directed at me.”I’m sorry that I’m not fucking Duncan!”, his half brother, my second child. “I just need a little fucking help, and you turn your back on your own goddamned child!” He blames me. It probably is my fault. But, I can’t give him the money. As much as it hurts. It isn’t my fault right? I mean that’s what they tell you at those meetings. Yes, I go to meetings. Addicted to your loved ones addiction. I listen to all the other parents, wives, sisters, and brothers. They all talk of blaming themselves, but that they had some realization that it’s not their fault. It’s all just fucking words. I am this boys father and I have allowed him to lead his life to this shit hope apartment filled with drugs, and whores. Wasn’t I supposed to be the one who guided him. Was I too lenient, or too harsh? Which part of the delicate balance did I break?

The woman turns her head and moans something inaudible. How high is she? I wonder if her parents are looking for her. Danny yells at me some more and then turns and begins to vomit. I just turn around and walk out the door. I tried didn’t I? Can I now walk out with a clear conscience? Should I just give him the money? I mean, maybe he is attempting to be honest with me and just needs it for rent? It could be. He could steal the money if he wanted it for drugs. Maybe his telling me and asking me straight forward for the money is a sign he is trying to get clean. Trying to get his life straight. And by walking out the door I am doing nothing more than walking out on his chance to fix his life! No, I have to walk out. That is what they tell you at the meetings. That you can not give money to an addict. But, this is not an addict. It is my son. For all his imperfections, it is my son! When I look into his face and his hollowed out eyes, I see the reflection of my failings as a father. Every fiber of me tells me to turn around an to take his head and put it into my chest. To take care of him. But, I just keep walking away. As the tear begins to roll down my eye.