Go Eagles!

There’s a dank, musty smell emanating from the depths of the boys locker room at Eagle Crest High School. It’s the sort of puckered nose twinge of horror that basements with rotting vermin and half-chewed armchairs evoke. It was also the place I had to spend my weekdays.

I thought becoming a gym teacher was going to be an easy gig. None of the parent teacher meetings— I mean, what are you going to ask about if you’re a parent? “Why doesn’t my kid have an A?” It’s because they won’t dress down and refused to run the mile. No hard science there. No effort, no pass. Say your sorrys and give yourself over to the demonic creature that is the summer school P.E. instructor.

Late twenties and spiraling towards mediocrity, I thought a semi-permanent job that held the guise of a career would have been the ticket for me to rocket back up into relevancy amongst the go-getters. Spoiler—- it has not. That is unless you believe driving a 1994 Ford Escort wagon that’s the color of neon blue alien blood strikes desire. For heavens sake, the driver side door doesn’t even unlock from the inside. You have to roll the window down and open it from the outside. Nothing says “I’m really loving my life” like rolling that window down during a torrential rain storm and getting soaked before you step outside.

So now I’m debating the merits of signing up to become a home inspector. If' fate has already decided I’ll be sequestered to the shitholes of fading Americana towns, I might as well get paid a little extra for it. My daily Spaghet fund could use some cushioning after a blowout weekend in Reno left me heartbroken and itchy in places you don’t mention in polite company. Maybe I should inspect my own life before making a go at the homes. I’m sure I’d find I’m due for renovations.

Late Mornings Brightened by Sun Stars

I’m sitting at my new desk overlooking a former trap house/ chop shop. To my right is a dirty mirror left by the previous tenant and an orange sun star I bought at the store the other day. The info ticket said the flower can grow up to a foot long. The tiny little fronds frosted with bright yellow pollen might be making me sneeze a little extra, but the color is worth it.

I’ve had two mornings in a row where I’ve slept in. Curled up under the twenty pound weight of the gray weighted blanket that doubles as a dream innoculater. It’s been ages since I’ve had two days in a row where I didn’t have to immediately be somewhere in the morning.

I’ve tossed on my green leather banded pearl bracelet I received from the Kuta JHS staff. I remember standing before the assembled members like some departing son. It’ll serve as the high watermark for my Japanese ability as I described the past two years and how they’d come to shape me. I don’t know that I’ve ever given a speech with that much emotion in my life, let alone in a different language than English.

Yesterday I assembled my rotating bookshelf— I’m slowly putting together a white, wood, paired design eclectic sort of room that I’ve always wanted but have never had before. I feel like if you stepped inside this room you’d have a good handle of what sort of person I am. I don’t know if I can say I’ve had that before. Staggering it’s taken until thirty years old to get that sorted, but each at their own pace.

Sitting with my books to my back and an open window before me— I look forward to this coming summer. One in which distant stars seem quickly approaching.

Ramble

It’s been a sprint since the end of January towards May. The slog of practices, games, moving, returning to the classroom.

I find myself constantly in motion— the last time I cooked an actual meal was well over three weeks ago. The days take on a technicolor sheen as the slipstream casts me forward.

Small idle moments find me rediscovering memories like an old dog stumbling over a half-buried bone in the yard. When I step back from the immediate, I can see this vast arc I’ve been riding.

Even though I intellectually knew I couldn’t shield myself from the pain on the horizon, I still tried to hide from it. Instead of passing through it and out to the other side, I lingered in this foul malaise— like the Blob had undulated over my heart and kept me in a chrysalis of unfulfilled emotion.

I woke early today— laying on my brand new light blue rose bedsheets. The hard-fought futon I wrangled after four hardware store trips (WHERE WERE THE CORRECT BOLTS?!) stood steady (enough). It felt surreal how quickly a new change had happened— A quick scene change from the top floor of my parent’s house to a NE craftsman. The light shone through the windows (drapes still not purchased, but curtain rod holder purchased— baby steps). I felt exhausted— but in a good way as the regular week pulled to a close. I work today at a high school out in Gresham— it’s a half-day and the sun is shining.

This weekend the second team has a final for President’s Cup and the top team has a quarterfinal. The top girls team has a final for the President’s Cup as well. I’ll be stood out at Tualatin for a good four hours as I coach/ cheer the kids on. It’s funny how all the drills, team talks, and personal prep goes into making moments that will flicker like halcyon lights in your memory.

Next week is try outs for the younger kiddos— I’ll be coaching the 2018 boys group. I expect dinosaur noises, tears, tackles, and big hearts from the little lads. The following week I’ll be taking over the 2011 girls group. That group I have less expectations about what I’ll experience— but I look forward to the challenge of being an age group coordinator.

I’ll never escape the Shark Boy (Taylor Lautner) comparisons. Never Jacob from Twilight— always Shark Boy. I had a set of students whisper “Doesn’t he look like…?” “Isn’t that?…” It’s not the same energy as the Val Kilmer comments, but at least I’m saved from other critiques.

“I was never that far away.” A line stolen from a Mundial magazine about Nina Hagen and her lasting impact on the Union Berlin club that her status as a legendary punk rocker helped raise support for. The quote referred to her growing up right by the Alten Försterei stadium. It made me think of my own boomerangs back into Portland— specifically southeast. Even halfway across the world, I was never that far away.

I think in many ways we’re never that far from our roots. Not if we’re able to lean into the love. They can be a wellspring in darker moments. In the times where the path forward isn’t visible. That’s when you know you’re in new terrain. Where the brambles stretch across your way forward and you have to take the scratches with the progress. Or maybe it’s not progress— but simply an aspect of the journey. The pain can serve as a wake up call to return to the present— to exist beyond our mind that crafts oh so delicate realities— ones that are blown away like gossamer thin spider webs. The ones that have disappeared from the dewey mornings where you walked on rain-soaked concrete towards a towering brick school building that basked in the orange morning light like a awning lizard.

Maybe the purpose isn’t the point. Maybe it’s living in the moments.

Ebb ‘n Flow

Got the wrong bolts twice today

Moved in without throwing my back out

Caught a ball to the face that cut my nose and damaged my glasses

Got a locals tour of Broadway that ended with a killer Italian at Lottie & Zula’s

Light blue roses are the design of my new sheets of the new (old) bed in my new (old) house

I’m eating Al pastor enchiladas that cost way too much

But I learned there’s a tango class at the restaurant that served them

I live close enough to my sister to walk to her house now

Everything is flowing~~

Everything is changing~~

Everything is

The Velnic Sage

A gravestone stared back at me on the longest night of the year. 

A watermark etched the wall that stood on the edge of the cemetery as a forgotten sentry to the Samhain flood that covered the once prosperous village of Yestlin.

I rummaged through the pouch Safira gave me at the last town. Two silver coins, a red silk thread, a tigers eye stone, and a couple grains of salt. I dumped the contents onto the ground before the name “Haljmund” and carved a circle into the dirt with a sturdy stick. I’d waited long enough for answers. 

The dead know a peace the living can’t hope for. Tales of the restless dead don’t belong to truth. That doesn’t mean nothing moves in the night. 

The son of a cobbler and wandering performer, I wasn’t raised on stories of dragons and bouts of heroism. I didn’t come to this crossroads with fire in my heart or glory to be chased. 

I stood before the last Velnic Sage because I’d been raised honor honest men. Life taught me the fate a ruthless world had for them.

I’d read the accounts from the Wandering Sage as he strode past the wreckage in the Malton Court and through the Temari Plains. Learning about the exploits of Arkes and the due given to his threat had changed my life. It had been fifteen years since I’d held a proper set of pincers or leather cured for shoes.

Camp Welby Pt. 3

Gabe had forgotten how loud the wilderness could be. The dead pine needles didn’t completely muffle his footsteps nor distract him from the rustling in the bushes beyond the trail. Unlike the background hum of distant cars on the freeway or the muffled talk of passing couples at night underneath his street side window at home, the forest filled the air with noise.

Each step brought him closer to a nighttime rendezvous with Emma and the sinking realization that getting close to achieving a dream means it starts becoming a reality. And for better or worse, reality never goes the way you plan. Still, he wished the person he wanted to spend alone time with didn’t want to do it at the place he wanted to be least. That’s the way the cookie crumbles. Or the glowing green ghost stairs appear. Either way, Gabe kept on until he made it to the base of Cairns Point.

“You made it!” Emma said, jumping onto the path.

“Emma! God, don’t do that,” Gabe said struggling to catch his breath.

“What? You get scared?” She said poking him. “I didn’t think a camp vet like you would be jumping in the dark.”

Gabe rolled his eyes and kept walking. Emma bounced along the path beside him.

“I thought you were going to meet me up top.”

“Well, I was, but I didn’t realize how spooky it would feel being up there by myself. Besides, I figured the more time I got with you the better since you’ve been avoiding me since we got here.”

Gabe startled at that, but turned to see a small smile spread across Emma’s face. He’d forgotten how playful she was. And how much being back home caused him to fold in on himself.

Spring Caprain Striation

I dipped a tanned finger into the jar of honey that’s been sitting on my beside for half a year.

I’m rolling a bright red lacrosse ball between my feet as I look through my substitute teaching paychecks.

I started work at 8am and finished around 9:30pm. A small hour break in between as I traveled between field and school.

I’ve got two vocations and a job. Writing, coaching, and substitute teaching.

I’m currently sat on the tri-color blend carpet my parents installed upstairs a couple years ago. As the beat of the song plays in the background I wonder how it’ll be to live in a shared house in Portland that isn’t my parents or the condo.

I’ve given myself a year to see how this goes— the adventure that I’m already plans to pivot out of. To venture in new directions as the veil lifts from my eyes.

I’m shaking out the small, black rubber pellets from my shoes.

Tomorrow is Thursday- my last coaching day before the solitary day of rest (which Friday’s should never be).

I’ve been buying books like a madmen as I’m reminded of the beauty of public libraries. The scent of evening jasmine has flown through the air. The off-leash dogs have lunged— finding cloth where flesh might be. Unscathed, I venture forward—

Distal Relation

“He was a man for who smiles came easily and meant little. I did not encourage the pearly encores, but a showman to the end, he refused to stop.”

Blossom

With the scents of new growth

And dappled sweetness

I feel like I’m being woven back into the world with the arrival of spring

the weight of a sailor who had been destined for rocks lifted with bird calls and bright April light

I can’t replicate the tweets, caws, and yawning that fill the air. But they’re etched into my bones nonetheless

Lattice

Trying out for affection like he’d dived into bloodsport.

Starting a new religion and loosening the shoulders like the weight of consequence found a new conscience to rest upon.

Kept up on destruction so that I could procrastinate my salvation the next morning.

Loved you like a renegade priest discovering a new god

How many slurred “hellos” have passed between strangers?

It’s been a back dive where unfurled fears waited for me to smash through them like I’d become a mosaic artist.

Into Rest

Last night I laid down in my bed and stared death in the eye. It has this small that is face-to-face with you always. It’s one of our first great tricks to forget that it’s always looking at us.

We make up stories and explanations to comfort ourselves in the face of our inadequacy of understanding. We don’t know what happens to the energy. We do know that it isn’t destroyed, but we don’t know where it goes. And what goes with it.

I’ve thought about the dreams where people reach you and the feeling— weight itself in the dream is different when they are in it. That is no longer a flimsy thing Your brain has conjured, but something that has gone beyond you.

I believe this is what Memento Mori truly means. Or what it serves to teach you.

You cannot brush away the knowledge that death lingers beyond— and that we don’t know what it is, except for everything we know it is not.

For all my lip service, I had forgotten the single immutable fact.

I don’t get to do this again. Not like this. I will never redo this life.

Lazaro

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

Alessian

“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

G

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.

Verge

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.

Intro

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.

Roil

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

Odd Hours

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.

Sea Fly

“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.”

Powder Walk

“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.