only with age can you sound this way
You only get this Thanksgiving once. Cheers, everyone!
Doors that won’t lock and steam that rises not enough. A smile pressed upon the see through door. What happens when a nothing of a thought dies. Begging to begin again with the same thought. Asking again with the same question. Can I come in. Still is the heart that sees.
I sit my two year old son, Gavin, on my lap just after he bumps his head on the coffee table in the living room. I tell him, ‘Gavin, you need to be careful of your head. You need what’s inside your skull. You don’t yet understand just how important it is to protect what you have. Love you buddy.’
Gavin then jumps from my lap, grabs a Dino, and makes a loud roaring sound. And off he goes. I know that Gavin doesn’t fully understand what I’m telling him. But what I believe he feels is a caring tone. We’ve (Megan and I) repeated this hundreds of times. If not thousands. We’re teaching him to care for himself. We’re teaching him to love himself. Something I didn’t learn to do until my mid thirties.
I made a decision before Gavin was born to forgo the growth of my career to be the care giver to my son during the week. A decision I know to be the correct one for myself and my family. The best parenting advice in the world comes down to two words. Be there. My career, which I built, can be built again. The one chance I have to be the best father possible, is now.
As I continue to observe Gavin’s growth and development I often think of children who do not have a guardian that’s acting in their best interest. I think of guardians who hit. Who scream. Who sexual and mentally abuse children. I hope you bump into these words if you are among that ilk. It’s you. It’s not the child. It’s you and you need help. Stop hitting. Stop screaming. Stop abusing and turn yourself in. You won’t. You’re too weak. It’s your weakness that owns you and you aren’t intelligent enough to know what to do with it.
If you are a child that somehow reads these words. It’s not your fault. It never was. It never will be. This isn’t a promise for you to keep- to protect them any longer. Turn them in. They are killing you.
If you are a parent or guardian that suspects something has affected your child, ask them. Right now. Do not wait. If you don’t ask, no one will. NO ONE.
Abuse of a child runs rampant in all countries. All societies. If you are an adult that witnesses abuse, step in. That very moment. That child may never have another chance.
It’s 4:30 AM and I’m shivering while writing this. My son just woke up, upset, and needing attention. Megan or myself is always there for him. With endless, us. I wish every child had this. Unfortunately I know this to not be the case.
Enjoy your coffee.
Kelly’s work is free of falseness.. It lives.
What began as a hurried trudge through yet another reading assignment for last semester’s art history class turned into an enjoyable experience, an essay that embodies several of the ideas that shape my world. It was Junichiro Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows.
I enjoy Tanizaki’s poetic almost rambling style and the rich images he creates with words (perhaps that’s due in part to Seidensticker’s translation.) Many phrases struck me so significantly that I’m compelled to quote them. His ideas of inhabitation, full descriptions of traditional Japanese architecture, music, paper, pottery, and jade, etc. are worth consideration.
Tanizaki describes Japanese aesthetic preferences, the elegance of age, the glow of grime, the beauty of Japanese lacquerware with its “colors built up on countless layers of darkness” and silverware and metal with dark spoke patina, “the tarnish so patiently waited for,” and the traditional Japanese reverence for shadows and compares them to…
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A man sits on a wooden bench
unable to know home
and with all of his knowledge
He is dead
He sits alone
The bench, surrounded by forest-
Listens for him
as the wind rushes along the tops of the trees
while the man rests his palms on his knees-
His dried knuckles have cracked and wrinkled
for the man lived lived and lived-
They had begun on the coast
wearing large smiles
eventually finding this forest
where a bench begged to be built
along the edge of a soon to be
She had picked their bench
a nicely fallen oak
and asked for it to point
here, toward the slope,
where they could sit hand in hand
and listen to the wind
as it passed along the tops of the trees
bringing sounds of the ocean again
Now she was gone
and he sits all alone
looking at the forest
knowing he’d never
I can hardly swallow
preaching away at the howling
seething structures grimacing at me
- You wrote it.
- You didn’t care if you received 1 or 100 likes.
- You sat and bled just as Hem said to do and it makes perfect fucking sense to you.
- You read your work the next day and squirmed. You’re onto it. Keep going.
- You haven’t any choice but to write so you do. And you do. And you do.
- A family member read one of your pieces and said nothing. Instead they cried.
- You love yourself enough to write. So fucking write.
I took these two photos while in Northern Maine last week. I’d like to offer them to all of you who take the time to read what I’ve written.
No strings. I don’t want credit. I just want to say thank you. If you like one of them, it’s yours. Use it/them however you would like.
The brook rambled on. Pushing forward, begging the boy to continue. The boy wanted to adventure further. Though the sun had started to dip just below the tree line, he wasn’t afraid. He wondered if he had enough time. The boy listened to a voice whisper from above. ‘If we placed time into a bucket with water and soap, what do you believe might happen to the bubbles? Two options. The bubbles would become gone instantaneously because time would have run out. Or, the bubbles would last forever because time granted it so.’ The boy didn’t move. Heart pounding thinking of time. ‘What if I move now? What will happen?’ -M. Taggart copyright 2017