I wonder if that small mint green Mazda AZ wagon holds all the screams that tore out of my throat over those two years
If I’m running out of guts to spill in an age of tenderness and rage
I’ve been taking sinfully long sleeps. I’ve yipped in dreams and woken myself in the witching hour
I’m soon leaving the corner castle of glass and steel— the unexpected bastion during my twenties
The palace of white leather and liquid empathy
“In the age of tenderness and rage
On nights that went on forever
With winter so cold your spit froze before it hit the ground
All dead men are at peace”
-Excerpts from the Wandering Scribe
In a turn of waves I found myself on this shore. The horizon a faltering, distant thing. The orange dusk a faded relic of brother times.
Stretched out before me were blots of iridescent light hovering over dark waters. It brought to mind an alien invasion or another otherworldly horror. The kind you witness without voice, for reason departs in the face of abstract terror.
It didn’t feel real, nor does it now. You could tell me all that time was a dream and that I never left.
I walked under a light drizzle tonight as the clouds merged overhead in a rumpled configuration. I snapped a photo of cherry blossoms illuminated by the streetlight as Huckleberry tugged on the leash.
I thought of an orange dawn and the creative spirit. Of cowardice and love. I thought of half a thousand things as I walked down rain soaked pavement with the houses full either side of the street, but sidewalks bare.
I thought of old photos with departed friends and the nature of aging.
I thought of the pause before impact and the outsized power of small words.
I thought of driving home at three thirty in the morning and the navigation of morals and schedule. The belated wail of fire trucks and stepping onto the balcony to look at nothing much at all.
I thought of you and how the sun dips before you reply.
So I thought again of cherry blossoms and nothing much but everything at all.
On the verge of spring break, except I’m no longer in school. Now I’m waiting for the soccer season to end as spring transitions to summer and the rain gives way to silk lightened sun.
My sleep cycle is so far off that the mundanity of week days doesn’t clock my brain as I sleepwalk through the beginning of each morning.
Heartthrob honey baby, staring into X-rays wondering why I can’t see your soul.
It can be tough to put a name to it.
So often it’s a nebulous thing. Something that couldn’t be connected to yourself. Something that happens to others, but not you.
But hearing it from my sister as we sat across each other at Pho van fresh— “that sounds like depression,” as I explained that I couldn’t see the future. That even though I’ve been working towards goals… it hasn’t felt like there’s been any tangible progress or energy to it.
Funny that forcing it out in the open (of what has been a pretty obvious thing for the past two years) allowed me to take that necessary step back. The “aha!” moment that explained the patterns that didn’t have a good explanation.
“Something is off, but I don’t know what.” I’m sure I said that half a hundred times. Even the enjoyment of core activities had diminished. I was still writing and coaching, but at subpar levels.
Writing this now isn’t some triumphant bugle call that I’ve created the mountain, but rather that I’ve seen the peak.
The past two years have been a whirlwind of grief, dislocation, wonder, sorrow, unease, and incredulity.
There’s an apathetic sleeper hold depression wields with me. A slow choke that slowly bleeds the colors out of who I am. What once was a kaleidoscope became a monotony.
I’ve been told in the past that I hardly show when I’m anxious or scared. But I can promise you that whatever calm I operated on wasn’t the smooth ride you’d imagine it to be.
I bottomed out on confidence. Passion was a distant thing. The future held horrors or calcite snapshots of another age. And all the while I’d chug along— knowing that something was deeply wrong, but unable to accept the reality.
I’d had the same problem wrestling with loneliness at the beginning of my adventure in Japan. I acted as if surviving one extreme bout of it would somehow insulate me from ever experiencing it again (wrong).
That’s how I was approaching depression (which half I’d saddle on seasonal depression— you gloomy fuck, bring back the sunshine). Almost a willful disregard to a treatable problem (but only if there’s a diagnosis).
Maybe the heart of it is that dreaming new dreams can be terrifying. Because the ones from before are gone. Or at least, they’re gone from view like flowers pressed between pages. A beautiful thing captured.
I hope to dream anew
Under the approaching spring sun and lengthening day light. I hope to exit gracefully from this period of my life (or at least functionally).
I have been unmoored— by design— for the past couple years.
Now I look to open berths and whisper “courage” under my breath. I am starting again— with everything I have ever lived and loved. With every fear, nightmare, and dream that has shaped the contours of my bones.
it’s the dirty sand of the midnight bocce ball courts
the flickered blue light reflecting off hotel windows from the condos below
Reversed figured walking through lives that pass only in elevators and garages
Months back and worlds away
Sat reclined in a bed that yawns as wide as an ocean
Rumpled blankets resembling waves
No dreams await the rock
Spinnerets casting off red glass over stained sidewalks
There’s this odd whistle outside. It’s nearly three in the morning and I can’t tell if it’s late night trash haulers or if the streetwalkers have picked up another bad habit.
There’s a metallic hum that flows from the bathroom. Beset on both sides by intriguing noises— sleep will come swift, but not without precursors to the dreams.
The sun has returned and with it a vitality that I’d forgotten I possess. An easily solved mystery once you look through years of journal entries between November and March— the dreary moments and me do not make great bedfellows.
“I’m telling you something is wrong with him. I watch this man punch seagulls out of the sky for 45 minutes. That’s not normal behavior, Karen. I think this is a serious cause for alarm and if you don’t need something, I will.”
“Tom, I already told you to leave it alone. You know he’s from Iowa. he’s got more Four Loko in his bloodstream than he does white blood cells. I am not trying to end up on his bad side.”
“It’s all ladders across bridges.”
It’s all Polaroids on the wall. I’m running through my notes and I find one liners like crumbs out of a nature valley bar. You can find them in every notebook I’ve ever written in. In the margins, between the lines, scribbled over older passages.
waiting before a concert in the basement pub. Two active pool games, boys tossing darts, a lively LA derby game on TV. There’s a dark Czech lager sitting before me on the table. I wearing the yellow leather banded pearl bracelet I got back in Tsushima. There’s a fifty year old red Italian leather coat slung over my chair.
I’m sitting and waiting— it’s something that’s par for the course with a split schedule. Sitting in random places writing about things that won’t connect to me later. Or if they do, it’s not in the way I think it would be.
I sat in an office room today and watched the Stuttgart x Bayern game with other soccer coaches from my old club. The divide in this game is small. Especially if you aren’t a complete cockwaffle.
I’ve been reading a serial about a writer who’s gotten sucked into a Football Manager save. It may be the most relatable thing I’ve ever read. Outside of writing, soccer is a huge part of my life. So much so that getting into the Football Manager games led to me getting my first coaching license.
I haven’t laughed that hard at something I’ve read in ages. It felt like a tailor made piece. The style of observation, commentary on players and game situations (and the insults). Glorious to come across someone giving a digital shellacking to a player that’s earned generational wealth for playing a game.
Bad decisions compounded by sitting at the edge of a stage with a frosty Modelo and scribbling in a pocket notebook about the song choices the dancer has picked for her dances. A languid flow that slows time— there’s a smooth edge to everything as I can’t look away from her leopard print singlet. I don’t think I should have walked in the door, but now I’m wondering how someone decides which songs to dance to. Questions of style mirror the dancer as both spin before me.
***
I sit in the middle of a red leather booth, my hands planted on either side of me. Entranced rather than aroused. She presses her body against mine— the weight of her moving slowly as her hands pass over my hand and onto my chest. There isn’t space to speak as every turn compresses my focus into a singular existence. I want to ask questions about her style— about how someone can be so at odds with the style of others around them.
I speak at the end, but my tongue is heavy with wonder. I thank her for the dances and know that my appreciation is in the craft, not in an illusion of attraction. I wonder at this growing trend I’ve found in myself: the multiplication of destructive behavior spurred by a glaring lack of intimacy. I wonder if I’m crossing beyond— to a place that I won’t be able to return from without trouble.
I return to an empty condo— briefly being held up at the gated entrance to the garage as a white tesla makes me show my key fob before letting me in. There’s a juxtaposition between my 2002 Forest green Ford Windstar and the rest of the high value vehicles in the garage. I’m aware of the divide as the same couple holds the elevator door for me as I hurry to grab my groceries from the back seat. I laugh that I don’t blame them for being suspicious and they respond that they didn’t want another $100 fine from the HOA. We agree to let the matter settle and I step off at the sixth floor.
I walk inside, adjusting the thermostat and unloaded a laden grocery bag with seltzer waters, eggs, and beer. I had been good with the turn of the new year, but already I’ve had a moment of impulse that stretched an entire night. I’ll reactivate a dating app and swipe without feeling. I’m far away from the heavy air that lingered between myself and Silver at the club. I’m a long way from anything at all.
Ten games over the course of two days. All in the midst of a nonstop rainstorm. The teams age from seven years old to eighteen years old.
I knew I was going to be in the thick of it with the spring season in full force, but I didn’t know that my own estimate for the amount of games I would coach would be significantly lower than what it actually will be.
Red rain-soaked Janowski‘s and durable rain pants made up my aesthetic for the weekend. Little bubbles would foam through the tiny pockets on the top of my shoes with all the excess water. The glamour of a career in athletics is on full display.
On Saturday, I didn’t eat a real meal until 5:30 in the evening. I survived off of coffee and cliff bars. I finished the Weekend with two nights in a row, where I passed out on the couch before dragging myself to bed.
Funny thing is it I will do it all again and I’ll be happy to do so. I’m working with some great kids and I can see the areas of improvement.
Last night there was an inclement weather enforced training cancellation. We had gotten to the last ten minutes of the youth academy trainings when a purple striped bolt of lightning landed a couple streets over from the field. Cue the calm, but energetic hustle to get all two hundred plus players off the pitch and into the blue, rounded clubhouse.
Today it’ll be a triple set of trainings as I work with three different high school aged teams. A change from the seven and eight year olds from yesterday.
Shameless plug for both the paperback/ ebook anthologies I’ve written and published on Amazon. If you want to give them a peek— you can find them here for the Anthology of Odd or here for the Howl of the Hamjackal.
I’ve been getting back into the routine of writing— more recently with actual fiction stories with Camp Welby (which will definitely have more added to round it out). It’s been difficult with the winter months and constantly shifting schedule as I return to life over here in Portland.
There are times where I think I’ll never put together a full length book or movie script. But then I stop and ask why that’s important at all. Especially if I just want to write. What has been cool has been learning the process of putting a manuscript together and designing a cover.
It’s been very gratifying to feel a physical copy of an anthology in my hands (which I currently have five copies sitting on my kitchen island, so I’ll extent that joy in due time to some other readers).
All in all, if you like any of the stories on the website or feel like giving a little support to a fellow artist, consider buying a copy of the book or even a ko-fi donation if that tickles your fancy.
A return to the regularly scheduled content will commence hereafter—
Thanks,
A
Gabe saw them right before he jumped. In that moment where you can’t stop, but haven’t transitioned to free fall, he saw the jade green glow of stairs underneath the water. His yell of joy caught in his throat unlike the other counselors. He fell into the lake like a late piano key being played— the water swallowing him in a rush of gurgled noise.
He kicked to the surface, joining the group. He couldn’t see the outline of the stairs with the water mimicking a sheet of obsidian. Gabe sympathized with the fool’s moon shining overhead.
Shouts for another jump were few, but enthusiastic. They swam to the shore and started the trek back to the camp and talked about college, old camp memories, and other legends Gabe had long since gotten used to as their soggy clothes dried out on the walk.
A hand pulled on Gabe and he turned to see Ryder. “Did you see them?”
“Did I see what?”
“The stairs!”
Gabe looked around before nodding. “I thought you said you could only see them at midnight. Or that’s what your brother said.”
“He must have been wrong. Do you think anyone else saw them?” Ryder said looking at the group ahead of them. Spirits were high as they bounced along the trail.
“I don’t know,” Gabe said. “Maybe someone will bring it up later. They’re probably just an old project from the thirties, right?”
“If you say so.” The pair lapsed into silence as they walked back. Their bodies worn like wrung towels from swimming. A soft luminescence filled the night as frogs croaked and fireflies flickered across the path.
The next week wrapped both boys up in camp duties and after hours shenanigans as they made the most of their late teens. Gabe kept an eye open for Emma as his crush proved stronger than ever. Ryder tried not to tease him too much about it, but would offer Gabe’s help whenever Emma needed something. What are friends for if they don’t lovingly embarrass and encourage you?
“Why do you keep avoiding me?” Emma said startling Gabe as he cleaned cutlery in the mess hall. She sat on the counter like a sphinx as she gave him a once over.
“I’m not avoiding you,” Gabe said staring into the dishwater. Foamy bubbles couldn’t hide his reddening neck. “I’ve just been busy with all the tasks.”
“Like cleaning knives?” Gabe looked up from the sink. Emma smiled and handed him a note. “Maybe you’ll finish up in time,” she said walking out leaving Gabe with wet hands and a water logged note.
Meet me at Cairns Point at Moon Rise -E
They made it easy to follow the rules. Enjoy the summer, don’t leave the cabins after dark, and never, ever, descend the stairs under the lake.
The last rule didn’t make sense to Gabe since stairs under a lake was a looney toons set up, not an actuality.
Gabe had been coming to Camp Welby since he was a little boy. He didn’t like to admit he used to cry himself to sleep. He certainly didn’t say anything about wetting the bed, either. But he’d been blessed with some compassionate camp counselors who helped him skate through the night terror years without public incident. It was the reason he returned to the camp after his freshman year of college.
His return as a camp counselor definitely didn’t have anything to do with the rumor that Emma LaFraigne was also returning in the same capacity. None at all.
Freshman year of college zoomed past like sugar rush roller skaters. He’d received his acceptance letter from the camp in April. He sat on his dorm room bed, under the gaze of a steely eyed Jim Morrison, and dreamed of the sweaty summer nights where a heartfelt confession didn’t fall flat.
Set in the Minnesotan wilderness, the campers had to arrive via floatplane. The popularity of arrival diminished in recent years after a spike in accidents. Gabe thought that was tied more to the age of the average floatplane than pilot competency. Still, camper attendance only made it to sixty campers instead of his childhood average of two hundred. The relative vacancy gave the lake an eerie, sparse feeling.
After the first day of welcoming campers, Gabe and his fellow counselors found themselves free. Willow and Lucas, two friends from Bear Lake said they’d stick in camp while the rest of the counselors made their inaugural trek to Cairns Point above the north end of the lake. There were cairns stacked in various sizes at the edge of the cliff overlooking the lake. The twenty foot drop wasn’t big enough to fully scare off the uneasy, but it did mean cajoling, bribes, and obscure threats had to be made in order to ensure everyone leapt into the water at the same time.
One doesn’t mess with tradition.
One counselor, Ryder, hung back to talk to Gabe about a rumor he’d heard a couple years back. It had to do with the last rule in the unofficial counselors notebook that previous years wrote their names and best (or worst) experiences of the summer in.
“It’s not a joke, you know,” Ryder said as he fiddled with the bark on his walking stick. “My brother told me a kid in his year found the stairs.”
Gabe gave him a look. “Come on, man. I know how brothers are. He just wanted to freak you out before coming here.”
“I don’t think so. He told me this a couple years back. Right after his last year of high school. That was the year they stopped letting high schoolers work here.”
“That’s ominous. Did he say anything else or did he just leave it at that?” Ryder looked around to check that no one else was listening in.
“He told me not to come up to Cairns point past midnight. He didn’t say why. But he made me promise.”
Gabe checked his watch, the aqua blue text read nine fifteen pm before shaking his head. “I think he’s just trying to do that older brother thing. We’re not going to be out here that late anyway, but I think he’s full of it.”
Ryder threw his hands up, “I was just saying…”
“Come on, let’s catch up with the group.”
Walking backwards is always a guess.
A wandering cowboy slips through the snow as the thaw of spring rears its frosted head.
The soft crackle of arched steps sounds through the room. Pacing like a sun-bound polar bear.
An illusion is brewing
It has been for a dogs age.
This medley of confusion and open-ended paths that so neatly disguise themselves as solitary walkways. Instead of the outward spinning circle from which we’ve all originated at the center.
Hesitating to close with grief as no arms find themselves around me.
Hate to accept the cowardice of refusing to face the dark wings of heartbreak in a lush environs. The demi-glacé of reality will not find me there.
“I’m telling you something is wrong with him. I watched this man punch seagulls out of the sky for 45 minutes. That’s not normal behavior, Karen. I think this is a serious cause for alarm and if you don’t need something, I will.” Karen rolled her eyes as she continued to pack scarfs into a soft-edged cardboard box. The box read “Xmas” in faded sharpie.
“Tom, I already told you to leave it alone. You know he’s from Iowa. he’s got more Four Loko in his bloodstream than he does white blood cells. I am not trying to end up on his bad side.”
Tom shifted a couple more boxes around in the spare room as he tried to handle the volume of his grumbling. Usually threats of avian aggression worked better than this, he thought.
“You’d be surprised,” she said lighting the final candle.
“I don’t think so,” a man in a velour tracksuit said. The dining room of a Victorian house still fighting to evoke prestige flickered with the dancing lights of thirteen candles. “I’m only here because my Nona told me to come. I don’t brook with all this-“ the man twirled his hand is a dismissive gesture, “nonsense.”
A fey smile crept across the woman’s face. “I’ve heard that before.”
The next couple hours the surrounding houses didn’t notice the eldritch screams or swirling vortex of clouds over the Drasvlin House. The statues in the front changed faces as creeping vines slithered through the yard. Still, no one noticed.
I’ve been looking through the Google searches that have led people to my website— and so far, “are butter menthols bad for dogs” and “Is there an inappropriate time for ham?” are my two favorite ones. “brady bud save our horny queen” and “bottoms summoning tops” are also top tier additions.
I didn’t even know butter menthols were a thing— but regardless of human or dog consumption, I’d wager they aren’t too healthy. As for the age-old question of whether it is an inappropriate time for ham— the answer is a resounding yes. Mid-funeral, any school bathroom, in a bouncy house, on the hajj to Mecca, at a pig farm (or maybe not on that one, depending on the owners), during a standardized test, any moment of seduction, and probably during an induction ceremony. The possibilities are endless for inappropriate ham times, so you have to ham it up in spirit, not physical substance.
This weekend I failed forward. I was out at my coaching license course getting ready to demo my training session for the instructors and fellow coaches when the script was switched. Up until that point, all of the sessions had been run with coaches serving as players in the drills. I had that in mind as I created my session— the style of play, field space, numbers, etc
Enter seven u10 girls from one of the instructor’s teams. Not only was it not the eleven players I needed to run my drill, but the report I had built with my fellow coaches was out the window as I had seven new children in front of me. I had to switch the drill on the fly and interact with kids (which I wasn’t prepared for).
It was pretty disastrous. I stepped back from coaching— the players themselves didn’t have much success, and I felt like all the coaching experience I did have disappeared into the wind.
I couldn’t ask for a better scenario to learn from. Not only did it force me into an uncomfortable situation, but it clearly showed me things I need to work on. Stepping back from the players because I wasn’t prepared to interact with them isn’t a luxury I’ll have if I stay in coaching or education. There will always be scenarios in which new players or students, classes, teams, etc will need coaching from me in hurried circumstances.
I love soccer. If you know me or have read through my website, you’ve probably known that for a while now. But when it comes to the competitive soccer world, it’s been hard to shake the feeling of not belonging. I know the game—I love the game. I have an obscene amount of niche knowledge of players, teams, play styles, and numerous factoids. But it can be difficult at times to express that knowledge succinctly.
Really, it’s that I’ve had a severe case of imposter syndrome, and my demo yesterday felt like being found out. Only it wasn’t the end of the world. I went on to finish the day gaining new skills and knowledge. I left the field where the session took place and rushed back over to the east side of the town to coach two games for the U19 boys. A 3-3 draw and a 4-0 win weren’t bad ways to alleviate the post-lesson witches brew of feelings.
Learning can be a vulnerable process, especially when one's identity is wrapped up in it. The emotions tendriled around principles one is forced to cut away can be devastating.
I wonder in what ways I’ll grow as I continue along this lightning-forked path of coaching. What avenues will be pruned as I decide to carry forward in specific directions.
The swish of fresh nylon track pants taking one step at a time. A venonmous grey hallway across the way from big floor to ceiling windows.
A short, melodic whistle with each step. But the steps keep taking longer.
Tension rising as if waiting for something or someone to walk down the dark hallway across the road.
The whistler waiting for chaos to unfold.
The night is otherwise silent, save for the swish and whistle.
No sounds as horrors reflect in the windows across the way.