Category: Blog

All Goals Go To Heaven (A Tale Of Necromancy)

(Listen to the audio instead)

Once upon a time there lived a boy with a dream. In those early days, the dream burned brightly. It was all consuming. It was everything the boy could think about, and so he spent every waking moment making plans and setting goals, making sure that the dream would become a reality. Days passed. Weeks. Months. He was seeing results. He was on his way to achieving his goals and becoming the man he wanted to be.

And then Life showed up to smack him around. That bully called Circumstance threw obstacles in the boy’s way. Distraction (capital D) seduced him into taking a break from his schedule. Just a small break to catch his breath. Just a minute or two to see how this all fits together. Just a day or three to make a new plan. Just a week or four to have time to prepare. Just this month and maybe next, and then he’ll be ready to attack that dream once more. He’ll be the man he wants to be next year.

One day, when the boy’s older, when he’s trudging through the hours of a job he never thought he’d be doing, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and realizes that he’s not a boy anymore. He’s a man. He’s not even a young man. He’s in his late thirties. He’s forty. He’s fifty. He sees himself through the eyes of that boy who had a dream. He wonders whatever happened to those aspirations. He wonders who he could have been if he’d just stuck to the plan. But there’s work to be done. Time marches inexorably. He turns away from the mirror.

But that glimpse haunts him. He doesn’t know it yet, but that little flashback reignited something deep within him. It’s just a spark at first, but sparks begin to smolder. The man starts to get a little antsy. He’s a little restless. Maybe somebody notices. Maybe somebody asks him, “What’s up with you today?” Only, he doesn’t have an answer. Not yet. He knows that if he just keeps his head down and goes about his business, this feeling will go away. He’ll lose himself in the never ending series of moments. He’ll shake it off like he has so many times before.

He turns on the radio to distract himself. He listens to a podcast hoping that someone’s saying something interesting. He downloads a few books by people he’s never heard of, but they made him laugh during the interview. They made him think outside his box for just a moment.

With those books, that moment becomes minutes becomes hours and days. He’s inspired. He’s motivated. He looks into the mirror and maybe he’s not so old after all. Maybe he’s still a boy with a dream. Maybe it’s not too late for some things. If he takes the advice in the books. If he does the shit he said he was going to do and never did. And the fire’s raging now, and he’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eyes wide with racing thoughts as a plan begins to congeal into a goal.

Before he knows it, he’s a boy with a dream once more.


A Memory For Mother’s Day

My earliest memory is a three-way tie. I like to tell people that I remember being three or four, riding my tricycle down my driveway, trying to catch up with my brother and his friends. They’re in the street doing donuts, laughing and hollering, telling me to hurry up, but just a I get close, they take off down the street, leaving me in the dust.

Is this my first memory? It’s one of them.

I also remember being around the same age – I know, because at four years old we moved out of the old farmhouse, and this was definitely in that old farmhouse – I would climb down the stairs on my hands and knees, being as quiet as a kid that age could, and I’d sneak up behind the couch and crawl onto the bottom shelf of the end table so I could see what kind of TV shows my parents were watching.

Sometimes I break that one out instead of the tricycle thing. Ya know, if I’m trying to be cute.

But, my friends, there is a memory that I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone. A memory from the second story of that old farmhouse. I don’t know how long I’d been out of diapers, but I maybe should have gone just a little longer. You see, and pardon me for saying it, but I had to poop. Big time. The kind of poop that feels like it weighs enough to register on a none too sensitive scale. The problem? My brother was in our bathroom.

Sure. You’re thinking, “There was probably a toilet downstairs. Why not use that one?” Well, smartass, I didn’t yet possess the reasoning skills to ask if I could, just this once, use the toilet downstairs even though it was past my bedtime (I’m assuming. I don’t really remember for sure).

So there I sat, on my hands and knees, peeking under the door to see what the hell was taking so long. I couldn’t see anything that I remember (can you ever see much of anything when you’re peeking under a door? I couldn’t), but I was desperate. I yelled and I complained and then, and you knew this was coming, I pooped. Right there in the middle of the hallway. And boy, was it as big as it felt.

Now, I don’t remember the clean up. I have a vague sense of my mother with an entire roll of paper towels, but I don’t have the detail like I do leading up to “the event”. Not having any children of my own, I’ve never had to pick up human feces by hand. Sure, I’ve had to plunge the odd toilet here and there throughout the course of my life, and that’s bad enough, but to actually pick up poo… I don’t care how many paper towels…

Maybe it’s different when it’s your kid. I dunno. Either way, to all you mothers out there who have a similar story about your children, all I have to say is cheers to you!

Happy Mother’s Day!

Three Little Birds

Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds (cover)

Every Sunday for the last month or so, I’ve greeted the day by recording a song or three for a friend of mine. My goal is to woo her anew once a week, but it’s also just a nice way to start the day. I don’t know the song until the morning of, and the recordings are rough (like this one) and sometimes silly (also like this one).

Since I’ve been thinking of ways to structure my life, I think I’ll add this into the mix. This is what I do on Sundays now. Every Sunday. Neat, huh?

If you wanna hear more than the weekly post, like and follow. If you have a song you think would be entertaining to hear me butcher on the ukulele, comment, like, and follow. I’ll see what I can do.