Day 41: Music Is My Master

If you are the type of person who wanted to do me harm, the worst thing you could do is ban music from my existence. I'd go mad sooner than later.

I can't remember a time when music wasn't one of the most important, if not the most important, factors in keeping me breathing. Music means so much to me, it's impossible to capture it in words. I literally can't focus on just one aspect for more than a few seconds without my mind racing down a thousands different related roads.

I realize I'm no different than a bazillion other people who rely on music (probably too much) for happiness and strength and peace of mind and more, but music is beyond a personal experience to me. Always has been. I've listened to it, played it, written it, reviewed it, watched it performed, dreamed about it, missed it, taken it for granted, shared it, believed in it, and treasured it.

One of my greatest achievements has been passing my appreciation and love of music on to my kids. They have wonderful taste, and I know that each of them will always have music in their lives. I see how they depend on it and seek it out and sink into it. I witness how they explore it in order to arrive at their our choices. It really is a beautiful thing to see. Better, it's a beautiful bond to be able to share. Music will always tie us together, and how could I not be anything but thankful for that?

I love when people ask me who my favorite band is. It also perplexes the hell out of me. There are some bands that will consistently make the Top 10, but my answer could change 10 times within the same minute. One day it's The Replacements. The next it's The Pixies. Then there's The Band or Duke Ellington's Orchestra or early Stones or Rage Against The Machine or Public Enemy or Wu Tang Clan or The Flying Burrito Brothers and so on.

Nailing down a favorite all-time song is impossible. Some days I'd say Van Morrison's "Sweet Thing" tops my list. Then's there Dylan's "Idiot Wind" or any one of a dozens others from him. One hour it's The Replacements "The Regular" or "Skyway," while the next it's Willie Nelson's "Angle Flying Too Close To The Ground." Listening to any song by Son House or Ralph Stanley would leave me content for the rest of time.
The wedding songs my wife and I picked were "Wrecking Ball" by Neil  Young and "Carrying A Torch" by Van Morrison, and those both could top my list.

More than any other facet of life, music has been the most important. It's been the foundation for about every emotion I've ever felt. It's motivated me. Soothed my soul. Changed my way of thinking. Educated me. Enlightened me. Drown me in sorrow. Pulled me in directions I couldn't imagine having gravitated to otherwise. It's amazed me, disappointed me, and maddened me. It's disciplined me and fought for me.

The single greatest thing I ever did for myself was teach myself how to play guitar. It opened countless doors to appreciating and understand music in new ways.

The greatest influence on me musically has been Bob Dylan.

I've lost count of the number of people I've seen concerts with, but I can't be more thankful for how music put me in the same space with so many people sharing a common experience.

Elvis, Muddy Waters, Son House, Johnny Cash, Miles Davis, Jerry Garcia, Ralph Stanley, Keith Richards, Stevie Ray Vaughn, and so many others have been like fathers to me.

If I could only listen to one type of music for the rest of time, it would be traditional blues.

The first album I bought with my own album was "Cum On Feel The Noize" by Quiet Riot.

I wore out my copy of "Purple Rain" sometime around 1990 and had to buy another.

My daughter was named in honor of Ella Fitzgerald.

I've listened to Dylan's "Blood On The Tracks," The Replacements "Tim," and John Coltrane's "Love Supreme" probably more than any other albums.

I prefer albums, but I am a man of the digital age.

Every member of my family but my four-year-old has a copy of Lucinda Williams' "Car Wheels On A Gravel Road," and I'm proud that I introduced them to it.

Lucinda Williams with The Bottle Rockets was about as much fun as I've had at a show and sharing it with my wife is one of my favorite memories.

Pop music is the only music I don't like.

50s garage rock is the best music to dance to.

I love Tito Puente.

I love Cuban music.

Bruce Springsteen is as good now as when I saw him in 1984. "Jungleland" gives me chills every time I hear it.

Ricki Lee Jones makes me swoon.

Elvis' "Suspicious Eyes" is genius. Graceland should be a mandatory visit for every human being.

Buddy Guy makes me smile without playing a note.

I've had a crush on Joan Jett for a long time.

My heart goes bonkers every time I'm in the midst of a great record collection.

I saw KISS on the first tour they did after the makeup came off. "Lick It Up" indeed.

It breaks my heart more people haven't reveled in John Prine.

Fleetwood Mac's "Rumors" is a wonderful album, and I don't care who says different.

I firmly believe that The Valley High School pep band playing Rick James "Superfreak" in 1985 before our basketball game was a sign from god that life is to be enjoyed.

I wish I was more like Steve Earle, Merle Haggard, Buck Owens, and Leonard Cohen.

Husker Du makes me want to fight.

I've exchanged email with Henry Rollins on a few occasions, and each time he responds I feel like a school girl in love.

I have a strong appreciation for Slayer, Metallica, and Pantera.

Lyle Lovett is a good man.

Last night I did the dishes listening to Warren Zevon.

I have to stop now. Life is calling, otherwise I could do this all day.

Music is my master, and I'm a willing servant.

Day 40: The F Word

I’ve been thinking about the F-word this morning for some reason, probably because it’s been flowing out of the mouths of the people seated around me fairly frequently. It’s strange because the F word is probably my favorite word of all. Love its versatility. Love its force. Love its simplicity. I even love the controversy it manages to conjure up in countless ways. There are few other words one can shape and mold and make fit into virtually any situation, and I can’t think of too many situations where the F word can’t find a home. Beyond “Love,” it’s hard to think of another four-letter word with as much universal functionality, and there are some powerful four-letter words out there (hope, kind, stop, hurt, etc.) Still, I’ve been bothered to hear it this morning, and I can’t figure out why.

If you know me well, you know my fondness for dropping the f-bomb fast and furiously—in safe company and in certain settings, that is. Back in the good ole’ days of playing softball or slapping paint on walls all day or just about any other situation where decorum wasn’t mandatory the f-word was a staple of my vocabulary. Hell, who am I fooling? The word became a staple back on the playground. If I had a quarter for every time I’ve uttered “f*ck,” I could build a temple to worship the word at.

I like to think, though, that I’m fairly responsible about where and when I use it, although there have definitely been times when I spoke the word, saw the reaction in the eyes of those near me, and instantly regretted it. I used to promise myself that I’d never say the word in front of my kids. I haven’t entirely lived up to that  promise, but more often than not I do pretty well. Even if I’m talking with my 19-year-old, I cringe when it comes out of my mouth. Rationally, I know he’s 19, he’s heard a lot worse, and I’m fairly certain it doesn’t even faze him. I know it doesn’t faze him to say the word to me, something that also makes my cringe. Still, there’s something unsavory about when I do it, and I feel a little less responsible and dignified and appropriate when it happens.

My problem where the F-word is concerned is that I have several nonsensical standards where its usage is concerned. These standards literally make no sense, yet for some reason I can’t shake them. For example, I’ve said the words plenty of times to friends during personal conversations while at work, but when I hear other people doing it, my radar goes off and an alarm sounds. “That’s not cool,” I’ll think to myself. “Save that f*cking” stuff for somewhere else.” I guess “discrepancy” is really the word I should be concentrating on. “Hypocrite” might be a good one, too. It also pains my ears to hear certain women say the word, another double-standard that I can’t make a good argument for but have tried to unsuccessfully on more than one occasion, only to wind up sounding and feeling as dumb as my argument is. “Women are too sophisticated to use that word.” “It takes away from a woman’s beauty.” “It just doesn’t sound right.” Yeah, all BS, I know.

Despite my prevalence for starting and ending sentences with “f*ck,” I’ve respect for and admire people who don’t use the word. I imagine this is due to their personal tastes, just like my own. I also imagine there are moral or decency purposes attached, as well. I’ve heard more than one person, for example, argue that they won’t “resort” to using that word or any other curse word, and I understand the reasoning. I could go as far and even say I agree. There’s a certain four-letter word some idiots refer to women by that no one should use or try to defend. Still, I don’t consider my use of the F-word as “resorting” to anything. I choose to use it. 

In spite of my confused reasoning and hypocrisy, just saying this one word can lift my spirits or fill me full of needed motivation or inspire confidence or allow me to express the shock or awe or reverence I’m feeling. To this day, I take great delight in hearing or seeing the word used in ways I haven't previously. Think you have a creative use? Drop it on me. I may or may not be offended. 

Day 39: The Power Of Facebook

It’s a little known fact is that I have two blogs, this one and “Slimfast Buddha Live Here”. It’s a little known fact because so few people have read the posts I've made on “Slimfast Buddha.” (The blog's name alludes to a nickname a friend gave me to pay tribute to my love of all things Zen and the fact that after a few surgeries years back, I was frightfully thin. Zen + Skinny = Slimfast Buddha.) 

I posted my first blog entry at “Slimfast” in May 2006, shortly after our dog Miles died. That entire post amounts to: Long Live Miles The Great, the king of all dogs and his snoring, big tail-exploring, problem-ignoring big bad heart. Not a day . . . Miley. Not a single day . . .” 

(God, I miss that dog.)

That same day I also wrote about our new dog Slim: This dog, Slim, he follows me around all day like I'm his dad or something. I tell him I have three kids to keep my eyes on already, but he sees my bluff. He's a smart dog, being just a pup. I bet if he was a boy, he'd be a ladies man. He's smooth and good looking with these steely blue eyes, and he's cocky-sure. I like his style most days, but he's relentless. One-track mind dog. Dogs are pretty cool, though. Good teachers, too. Slim's teaching me about confidence. Pure-breed little bastard.

A lot has changed since then. I now have four kids, and it turns out that Slim wasn’t nearly as smart as I thought he was going to be. In fact, he's not too bright at all. Further, he didn’t teach me nearly as much about confidence as I anticipated. Our cats push him around all the time. 

What hasn’t changed is Miles is still a major influence in my life, and few people visit “Slimfast Buddha.” Although I had big (but probably naive) plans for “Slimfast,” it never became what I envisioned. As the years slipped by, I wrote less and less, and before I knew it, the blog had pretty much become little more than a poor excuse for a journal that I more or less neglected. Still, I’m fond of it and appreciate the intention and effort I initially put into it.

I may be reaching here, but what I find really interesting about the two blogs and the two dogs are the correlations one could draw if so inclined, and I am. Miles and Slim are both dogs, but they came along at far different times in my life and mean different things to me. Similarly, “Slimfast” and “Absopositively” are both blogs, but they hold very different meaning. “Slimfast” is like Miles, an old friend I’ll always have a strong connection with. “Absopositively” is like Slim, a work in progress that continually morphs before my eyes. I don’t know where either will end up, but I know it will be interesting. Both blogs have also been influenced by Facebook, but in far different ways. 

“Slimfast” was created in the pre-Facebook age when “social” and “media” were words few people put one in front of the other. Back then a blog was social media. A blog was the long-form equivalent of Twitter. A blog was your Facebook page. Today, it’s safe to say Facebook has pretty much supplanted “blogging” for the Average Joe.  

I've written about technology roughly 15 years, I’ve been lucky to see things like Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Flickr, and other sharing sites in their infancy, often while they were still in beta and only a select few were privy to using them. I wrote about Facebook, for example, nearly two years before the world started to notice and its popularity exploded. I had no idea the impact it would have. The impact has been huge.

On a personal level, I’ve experienced Facebook’s impact via these blogs. Sometime late this week or early next, for example, “Absopositively” will pass “Slimfast” in the total number of page views it amassed. Again, I started “Slimfast” in 2006. I started “Absopositively” about 40 days ago. I attribute the disparity in numbers entirely to Facebook, and I view Facebook's impact as  positive. 

I’ve always been hesitant to share personal writing with close friends, let alone anyone with Internet access. Hence, I made little to no effort to share "Slimfast." For better or worse, though, writing is the best way I know how to communicate. Thus, the concerted decision and effort to share “Absopositively” because I want to step into the light a bit more, make a decided effort to examine that part of myself I've never been pleased with, and dare to share what I discover while simultaneously learning from the people who read and respond.  

I have no idea what value there ultimately is in having a blog or what value those who read it might obtain. I do know Facebook and social media has made sharing what I write incredibly easy and convenient and exposed me to all types of creativity, wisdom, knowledge, insight, and varying views from all types of people I otherwise wouldn’t have had easy access to. I’ve truly been enlightened on a few occasions, entertained on many others, and always interested. 

There is power in Facebook. I’m thankful I’m allowing myself to tap into it, both to learn more about the people I value and to learn more about myself.  

Day 38: Little Debbie, I'll Always Remember You Fondly

I’m not ashamed to say I’m a follower of Little Debbie’s Facebook fan page. My wife and a few friends have teased me for years about my fascination and infatuation with Little Debbie. Their barbs and jabs don’t bother me, though. They don’t sting or bruise. Little Debbie is so lovely and delicious nothing could ruin our love affair. Nothing could come between us. Nothing could put up a wall between me and sweet, sweet Debbie.

Well, nothing but an ever-growing realization that I’m not 19 any longer, and I can’t hop out of bed and hit the ground running, and that I have a four-year-old to chase around all day, and I have a 14-year-old who is getting better at basketball than me, and that my belt size is rapidly approaching my IQ. There are those things I suppose. And I guess I should add to the list that while Little Debbie will always be in my heart, but she’s also causing it to beat a little less efficiently with every tasty damn bite.

Yeah, I can’t ignore the facts any longer: Little Debbie, as good as you’ve been to me, as much as I love the way you look and taste, and as many good memories as we’ve shared over the years (including that time I ate a whole box of you with a warm Bud Light chaser), it’s time we go our separate ways.  You’ve other lives to wreck. I’ve my own life to prolong.

Despite not feeling all that positive, this is a positive move. I’ve been trying to make more of these of late--with varying success. For example, my pledge to quit drinking Coke (for political and environmental reasons) is still intact months later. At one time, there was more Coke in my veins than blood, so I’m proud of this achievement. On the other hand, my pledge to stop ladling sugar into my coffee in the morning was an undeniable failure. I guess I was compensating for the Coke withdrawal. Overall, though, I’ve realized for some time that if I’m going to make it long enough to see my kids make it to their 40s and then revel in watching them having to sacrifice their own vices, I better get in gear and take better care of myself.

I’ve often pondered why I don’t eat better and exercise more. The latter is easy. I played sports from the day I could practically walk, and I’ve remained active since. I can’t run a marathon, but I get by pretty well for a 44-year-old. Still, the cracks are started to show, and I can’t ignore the power of time and gravity much longer. As for eating better, that’s more difficult. One of my theories for my poor food choices is that I gravitate to what tastes good but also what’s not good for me. Subconsciously, I think I’ve used cupcakes and candy bars and so on as a reward system. Facing a difficult day at work for the 100^th day in row? Well, a nice cream-filled roll ought to perk me up. Three conference calls this morning and two more deadlines to meet by 3 p.m.? A nice, unhealthy fast food lunch ought to satisfy the soul. Three loads of laundry, supper to make, kids to take to practice, etc. after work? A heavenly bowl of ice cream should take the edge off.  

Well, the time to wise up has long passed. The time for action is here. Little Debbie, you beautiful, amazing girl, I’ll miss you. We were good together, but it wasn’t meant to last. Now, go on. You’ll meet someone new. He’ll make you happier than I can. 

Day 37: Let Love Rule

A violation of civil rights for gays and lesbians. That's what a federal appeals court had to say Tuesday concerning Prop. 8, the would-be California ban on same-sex marriage the court declared unconstitutional. Let's says that again. Unconstitutional. Unconstitutional. Unconstitutional.

OK, let's get something clear upfront: I find these kinds of developments that specifically put same-sex relationships in a favorable light incredibly positive. They leave me hopeful that more and possibly complete acceptance are ahead for us. They move us along to being a better society. They open the doors to expose the lies and tainted information too many people have thrown around for too long. These developments also expose those who have been negatively affected by such legal attempts for the real, decent, everyday people they actually are. Developments like these shed more light on the moronic darkness that’s lingered over our heads far longer than I care to remember or know. If the U.S. Supreme Court should rule similarly to the federal appeals court potentially sometime next year, I’ll feel just as ecstatic then as I do now.

By now you've gleaned my position on same-sex marriage, and it’s unwavering.

Now, if you don’t feel the same way, feel free to stop reading (if you already haven’t). Nothing I’ll say or do is going to change your way of thinking, and you’re not going to sway mine. I’m not even going to try. It would be a waste of time and energy, and I would probably only end up insulting your intelligence and mine in trying to do so. If, on the other hand, your position still wavers and you haven’t arrived at your ultimate position yet, I encourage you to keep searching for the truth, as well as searching your soul and whatever levels of compassion that exist within you.

But if you never investigate the issue one step more, that’s your journey. If you’ve already arrived at your permanent position, we can just part ways now. We don’t even have to pretend that we respect each other's opinions or that we can agree to disagree. The truth is, although I respect your right to express it, I don’t respect your opinion where this issue is concerned. And I can’t foresee a time when I can agree to disagree about it. With the utmost respect, you are not on my radar where this topic is related. I’m simply not interested in the same tired, nonsensical BS that's already been spouted, and I'm not interested in standing still and pretending change isn't required or warranted.  

I am interested in the encouragement I feel when witnessing children operate with open minds and hearts where sexuality is concerned. I’m interested in seeing parents who accept their children for who they are and what they do on a daily basis, not what gender they happen to fall in love with.  What I’m interested in is churches that allow anyone to practice their faith, not judge who is worthy and who is not by whom they kiss goodnight at the end of the day. I’m interested in happiness and love and where the two meet. I don’t care about your protests or objections or fairy tales concerning immorality or sin that are created to divide. There’s been too much of that for too long. I’m interested in progress and acceptance. I'm interested in cohesiveness. Healing. 

I know you have your opinion of me and anyone else who doesn't uphold the sacrilege of marriage as you see it.  I absopositively don’t care.  

Day 36: The Small Things

Today I was reminded of the type of person I tend to like the most: The guy who doesn't ask for much in his life but is rewarded with lots of great little things when he deserves it. I really like the guy who goes through life as pleasant as possible, looking for the good in things, and just minding his business. I like the guy who doesn't demand anything of others he's not willing to demand of himself. And even then, he's not the kind of guy who is going to demand anything anyway. I like the guy who looks forward to small things because they generally make him happy. I like the guy who doesn't need constant stimulation or higher meaning or greater purpose. He just needs what is right in front of him. He just needs simplicity. He just need a few minutes to look around, appreciate what he sees, and carry on. I really, really like this kind of guy. And today I was reminded of one. I really would like to be that kind of guy someday. 

Day 35: Neighbors with plows.

The snow piling up outside today made me realize that if you have a neighbor with a snowplow on a truck, you've done something right along the way.

I don't know if I've done anything right or it's just that I've gotten lucky, but I've had some great neighbors through the years. I had a neighbor Al who was retired and had a lot of time on his hands. He had two of every tool imaginable, worked part time in a hardware store, and knew what he was talking about. Al liked things precise and orderly. I was a young home owner with little kids running around. Keeping the yard up to his standards was possible. But according to Al, we were a big step up from the people who lived in the house before, so even though I knew he didn't like how my tree hung over into his yard, he didn't say anything about it. Al edged my lawn, let me borrow his tools, gave great advice (whether I asked for it or not), and was just a good guy.

Craig lived nearby and was a genius at just about everything. There pretty much wasn't anything you couldn't ask Craig about and he couldn't either fix it or know who could. Craig was matter of fact, did thing right, wasn't satisfied until everything was, and worked hard.

Same with Steve. He built his own house, built the cabinets and everything else in it, and knows how to fix anything. Steve has helped me put in a wood floor, fix a broken water pipe, put in counter tops, and a hell of lot more.

Today, my neighbor Andy plowed my driveway. Didn't ask him to. He just did it, along with the driveway of everyone else in the circle. He helped fix my daughter's care not too long ago, as well.

Pays to have good neighbors when it snows. 

Day 34: Being Humbled

In an odd way, I think being humbled once in a while is an incredibly positive experience. I use “humbling” in the sense of being knocked down a peg or two or having it pointed out that you’re not any more special than the slob standing next to you in line. I don’t mean “humbling” in the sense of being told you’re ugly or bald or you can’t sing or your golf game sucks. I don’t know anything about that. (cough)

Periodically, I’ve told my kids a story about being humbled in 7^th grade by my basketball coach, a ninja where the art of humbling was concerned. After the final Friday practice before our first game on Monday, he came to me in the locker room and told me I would be starting at point guard. One important condition, he said, was that I wasn’t to shoot—at all. I was out there to pass. He told me that over the weekend he would be driving by my house periodically to make sure that was the only I was practicing. Shooting was a no-no. Only passes off the side of the house.

True to his word, he drove by multiple times. Each time he found me doing only what he had instructed. When the game rolled around, he asked if I remembered his instructions. I said yes. He also told me under no uncertain terms was I to go below the free throw line when we were on offense because I was to be the first one back on defense. Hyped and full of myself, I said, “Sure thing.”

30 seconds in, I passed the ball to a teammate who put up a shot. Hyped and full of myself, I sprinted to the basket to put the rebound back in for a basket, only the ball bounce off the rim long to the other team, which proceeded to score an uncontested layup because, you guessed it, yours truly trekked below the free throw line. By the time the ball had come out of the night, I had barely made it back to half court.

40 seconds in, coach yanked me out of the game, asked in so many words if I had peanut butter for brains, and promptly exiled me to the end of the bench before I could answer. There I stayed the rest of that game and the next one, too.

“You know what I did?” I’d ask my kids.

“What?”

“I never went below the free throw line again.”

To this day, I respect the hell out of what coach did that day and the lessons he handed me. He humbled me, and I had it coming. I got caught up in the prestige of being a “starter” when what I should have been caught up in was making sure I did what a “starter” was supposed to do—perform.

Being humbled isn’t easy for most people I’ve found. I’m prideful (and just insecure) enough to not always take being knocked on my ass with the appreciation it probably deserves. Sometimes, it’s not been until much further down the road when the fog of anger and hurt has lifted that I’ve even been able to see the positives in taking some deserved lumps. In a lot of ways, it seems there aren’t many guys like coach around who are capable of giving a kid a hard life lesson. In a lot of way, the opportunity to even do so doesn’t exist. I miss the old-school ways of yesteryear in a lot of ways. I’ve never been in favor of belittling a kid, which I saw a little too much of growing up by all walks of people, but I find myself missing the days when kids seemingly weren’t the center of the universe simply because they’re able to eat, sleep, and breath but instead had to earn the right to be respected before they could demand it.  

Day 33: The Small Town Influence

Educated in a small town,

Taught to fear Jesus in a small town,

Used to daydream in that small town,

Another boring romantic, that’s me.

-               -John Mellencamp

Growing up in a small town was one of the most positive things to happen to me, and that remains true through today. I lived in a small town the first 17 years of my life. And though I haven’t lived in one permanently since, the influence of those years has never left. As I age, the desire to return to a small town and never leave only grows stronger. I can’t even say that I still love the particular small town I grew up in. I can say, however, I still love the notion of living in a small town.  I love the sensibility and the idea and the pace and security it offers. I love that everything is scaled down, and that there’s much less chance of being exposed to unrelenting examples of excessiveness.

Still, I get that a good many people who grew up in a small town perish the thought of ever having to go back. I understand the complaints about how confining a small town is, about how a small town can pigeonhole a person, about how a small town provides fewer opportunities, and about how reputations can be gained unfairly and allowed to run amok. I understand how a small town can label a person without much justification and then isolate and segregate that person. I understand how some people feel trapped, alone, stranded, and misunderstood in a small town. I can relate to the feeling that it’s difficult to reinvent yourself in a small town.  I especially understand the sense that “no one understands me here” that can come from living in a small town. 

When I was growing up in a small town, I completely understood the kids who declared, “I can’t wait to get out, and when I do, I’m not coming back.” I understood because I shared the feeling. I did want out. I didn’t intend on going back. I didn’t think a small town could give me what I needed. Hell, for the longest time, I sunk way too many hours awake at night dreaming of being a music writer who would drink himself to happiness or torment, whichever came first, all surrounded by the wonderfully sinister trappings only a big city could extend.  

That was a teenager’s dream, though. The more years that separate me from that kid, the more I realize how fortunate I was to have enjoyed my childhood and how positive of an influence it was throughout the rest of my life. I’ve come to realize that a lot of the notions I felt true of a small town are also true of a big city. I learned, for example, a person can be labeled and judged and stereotyped no matter where he lives. I learned a big city can provide avenues of opportunity, but if you don’t possess the skill or talent or attitude, it doesn’t matter. I’ve learned that a small town can isolate, but it can also liberate.

Looking back, I value that I not only knew every kid’s name in my class but also in my entire town. It made me a more attentive, compassionate being. I value the freedom I had to walk the streets at midnight without fear. It made me put a higher value on liberty and freedom. I value having been able to listen to trains moan off in the distance out of an open window without anything interrupting the serenade. It taught me to sit in stillness and just appreciate and wonder and imagine. I value having been able to ride my bike into the country and swim in the creeks with my friends, pick green apples, or just sit for hours and stare at a fishing pole with no urgency to be somewhere else. It taught me to be content.

I think most of all I value having experienced what it means to have a true sense of being home, of having a place that felt right. That’s the allure of a small town that sticks with me: being home, going home, feeling at home, feeling at peace.

I don’t know if I’ll die in a small town, but the idea is appealing. 

Day 32: Defining Positivity

Throughout February, I want to explore positiveness in ways that go beyond just writing about things that I feel positive about or people or experiences that have left me feeling positive. I want to get more in-depth with this experiment. I want to define what being positive and optimistic means to me specifically, but also what being positive means to others. I want to find out where those two worlds meet or if they can. I want to explore who and what are my own positive influences and why. I want to try and understand why I crossed paths with these people and if there was a destined reason for our encounters. I want to dig into what possessing a positive frame of mind really entails and if creating a positive outlook is something I can do whenever needed. I want to document those positive acts that I’ve witnessed and the ones that I’ve pulled off myself. I want to uncover what was beneficial about those moments and why they don’t occur more often. Most of all, I want to gain a clearer picture of if it’s possible for me to life a positive, optimistic life all day, every day. To be positive, I must know what positiveness is.

Help me out by detailing what being positive means to you. 

Day 31: A Month Of Being Positive

I did it. For 31 straight days I managed to think, feel, and write about something positive for at least a few minutes each day. I have to say I’m a bit proud of myself for doing so. I honestly didn’t know if I had it in me. I didn’t know if I could manage to not let my negative, beastly side show itself even once in these daily writing and offerings. I’m proud I was able to beat the beast back and keep him at bay, even if only temporarily, in order to instead allow myself to contemplate, envision, and grasp hold of positive emotions without feeling strange or disingenuous about it. I’m better for living these true moments filled with optimism.

I have no idea how this experiment will play itself out over the remaining 11 months of 2012, and I have no idea if I’ll indeed be permanently changed by this endeavor. I can say, however, that I’m pleasantly surprised at the results so far. I’m pleasantly surprised at how forcing myself to stop wallowing and whining and wishing and hoping and plotting and swerving and generally gravitating to misery has made me feel more enthusiastic for living, breathing, exploring, and welcoming the next moment, not fearing it or wondering if I’ll regret it.

Hey, I realize I’m not exactly tearing down the Berlin Wall here, but living a more purposeful life tinged with a positive vibe has been special so far. January is done. Now onto the rest of my days. 

Day 30: MMA

I'm cheating a bit today by reposting something I wrote quite a few months ago on my other blog concerning my love for Mixed Martial Arts. I write "love" in the sense that I love watching, reading, and analyzing it. To date, I have shown my love by actually participating, but I'm hoping to change that soon. Odd as it might sound, watching guys purposefully try to hurt each other leaves me feeling extremely positive, as I try to describe below: 

In recent years, I’ve grown an odd fascination with mixed martial arts. I’m hooked. I’m an unabashed fan who can't get enough. I’ve spent what has probably amounted to too many hours contemplating exactly why I’m so absorbed by violent kicks to the head, swinging elbows to the jaw, arms and legs being bent in directions that God didn’t intend them to. 

More often than not when my wife passes through a room in which I’m watching an MMA match, she’ll ask, “Why do you watch that stuff?” Typically, I start to mutter some kind of a reasonable explanation, only to usually end up slouching down in the couch, turning my head away, and trying to avoid the embarrassment that she expresses on her face for being married to someone who takes pleasure in watching two men purposely seek to make one another bleed.

Still, among those friends that share my appreciation for the sport, I’ve seldom felt a stronger kinship among people who share a like-minded interest, and that includes such passions I hold dear as kids, music, movies, writing, politics, golf, the Yankees, etc. When I’m talking the finer points of MMA with like-minded souls, I find myself blissfully content. When we’re analyzing upcoming matchups to Nth degree by drawing comparisons to previous matches and shared opponents, the strength of a fighter’s ground game vs. his striking ability, or the merit of his jujitsu, I think to myself, “If only I could put this much thought into my own future.” The whole topic baffles me to no end.

The feeling only compounds when I realize that pretty much throughout my entire life, I’ve hated both being in fights and watching them. Even when the fights I’ve seen (and I witnessed too many for my taste) had some kind of justifiable element to them, in that one of the guys/girls getting beat on had it coming, I’ve hated them. Even when I’ve had to fight for some reason or another that I really believed in, the feeling that I’d rather be anywhere else doing anything else was always present. To this day, when I see a physical confrontation occur, it sticks with me for days, and not in a good way. I vividly remember being in a cab years ago near Times Square. The cab in front of us screeched to a halt, only for the driver, a huge man, to jump out and sprint to the front of the limo parked in front of him, also being driven by an equally huge man. The two exchanged a few brief words and then set about pummeling each other in the middle of the street. To this day, the image takes me back because not only were they senselessly harming one another, but also because seemingly everyone on either side of the street and in the surrounding cars didn’t seem to take notice.

Maybe the reason I can rationalize MMA's worth is that to me, an MMA “fight” isn’t a fight. Rather, it’s a well-thought out, well-prepared for battle much in the same way two men form strategies during a game of chess and execute moves made to attack and defend. Rather than move pieces about a board, though, MMA “players” look to exploit physical weaknesses or vulnerabilities in an opponent. They seek to use their own strengths to exploit the other’s weaknesses. Not everyone who views MMA from the outside recognizes this, and I guess honestly, I don't expect them to. Violence is violence after all, whether the two participants are willfully engaging or not. 

Ultimately, there’s too much violence that already exists in the world without men and women willingly engaging in it. Would the world be a better place without UFC pay-per-views beaming into homes world-wise every month? Yeah, most definitely. Still, are these “battles” all that much different from the battles that take place in corporate America every day, where CEOs aim to permanently injure or maim competitors? Is it any worse than the political battles that occur every hour in Washington and play out on news TV 24/7 in which drastically divergent sides purposefully seek to discredit and damage one another in ways that are often dishonest and illegal? At least the participants in an MMA fight know they’re engaging in competition for which everyone knows what is allowable and what is not. Everyone knows the risks up front. Everyone knows what’s expected and what’s not. Further, I’d argue that the kind of mutual respect that takes place inside an eight-sided square during a MMA fight, especially following the battle, occurs in few other venues with as much genuine sincerity and purpose.  

I know this much about my fascination with MMA: At least in part, it’s directly tied to a lifelong appreciation/respect/admiration/etc. for the “warrior” mentality, particularly the samurai culture and lifestyle. I respect beyond all description anyone capable of making discipline not just part of his life but the reason he lives. So many people, including myself, waver day after day, often just to suit needs presently at hand with little or no thought. So many people push supposedly rigid ideals and morals aside without hesitation if it means propelling themselves even one step further to some kind of prosperity. So many people walk around obstacles instead of climbing them. So many people settle for less when more is possible because it might require a little extra effort. So many people refuse to sacrifice even the slightest because settling for mediocrity is far easier than working a little harder to obtain greatness. I admire anyone who possesses the discipline to push their boundaries and venture into the unknown. To seek what they’re truly capable of.

Are there knuckleheads who merely want to “rip somebody’s head off" in MMA circles? Hell yeah. But you can find “that guy” in any environment, and often you don’t have to look too hard. Few environments, however, provide the capacity that MMA does to both mentally and physically tap yourself dry—to really challenge yourself to not only meet fear in the eye but kick it the hell out of the way and stomp all over it as you keep walking to the unknown. I admire the hell out of that.

That’s how I see MMA. I wish there was an easy way to explain all that when my wife asks, “Why do you watch that stuff?” 

Day 29: Laying Around

I miss my dog Miles on Sunday mornings like this. Bit gloomy and overcast outside. Winter has barely sailed halfway by. No apparent reason to get up and get rolling. No reason to put one step in front of the other. Just a need to lay around and contemplate existence. To reason about the wonders of the world. To eat and drink when needed. To be thankful when appropriate, but mostly to relax.

Miles was a great laying-around partner. There's nothing truly like having a partner who shares the same bare-minimum expectations out of the day. Nothing like being in tune with someone or something else that just wants to lay around and not meet his potential for the time being. Nothing like having a dog that will just lay there at your feet, or even on them, and let you know there's no reason to go anywhere or be somebody or control anything or fall prey or hunt or devise or tinker or tweak or conjure or craft or bake or sew. Miles was the epitome of laying around, and I miss him dearly.

If you don't see the benefit in laying around from time to time, you're not doing enough of it. If you put in the time of laying around and still don't realize a benefit, you're not doing it correctly. Laying around isn't about being lazy. It isn't about wasting time. Laying around isn't about shirking responsibilities or "resting." Laying around is about exploring. About rejuvenating. Laying around is preparing. It's about reflecting on what's already happened so you'll know what you want to happen. Laying around is about reflecting on what's going to happen so you'll know how it might make you feel, react, or not react. Laying around is just as important as being up and on your feet; it's just that too many people missed the day of school when the teacher lectured about thinking and creating and imagining. I think more people would create and explore and even devise  if they would only lay around more.

That's my plan, anyway.  

Day 28: This Is Living

Ice Cube said it, but I will, too: Today was a good day. It always seems a good day when you get so much accomplished. I don't tackle household projects at nearly the pace I should. I don't seem to get too much free time the way it is, so spending it painting or organizing or crap like that doesn't turn me on. What does is when I do bother to get my act in gear and I see the results afterward.

I busted my arse today, and it shows. What's better is that I busted my ass for something that I'll benefit from for a long time to come. This wasn't like painting a kid's room and having about an hour to revel in the change. This work was all about me, and I'm glad I did it. Bonus.

Today was a good day. That's about as positive as it gets. 

Day 27: Becoming A Warrior

I deeply regret that it took me too many years to recognize that taking on a challenge and having to work excessively to meet it didn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. For too long, I tended to correlate challenges with being a pain in the ass. As being lost time I couldn’t get back. I didn’t always correlate challenges with learning and progressing and becoming a more learned and advanced person. I didn’t always understand that the hours of work I put into a given task would continue to payoff and teach me lessons way, way down the road. I’m not sure why it took me so long to recognize as much; I just know I didn’t do myself any favors by viewing many challenges, particularly those that offered little to me that was personally satisfying, more as something I could fail at instead of something I could prosper from.

I think I started to turn a corner on this way of thinking as my oldest child hit his teenage years. Realizing that he wasn’t a “boy” anymore made me realize that I wasn’t a boy, either, and there was going to be a time very soon where there would be fewer years behind me than ahead. That’s a frightening and sobering reality, and it tends to help put things into perspective. For me, the perspective that was realized was that there are a crapload of things I want to do, but also things I didn’t want to but had to. But just because I didn’t want to didn’t mean there wasn’t something to be gained.

In some cases, accepting challenges has meant purposely putting myself into uncomfortable, unusual situations. For example, when the pastor at the church I was attending six or so years ago was on vacation, I agreed to give the sermon the Sunday he was gone. Anyone who knows me especially from my early years is most likely enjoying a good chuckle envisioning that prospect. I’ve rarely felt as nervous or anxious as I did leading up to that Sunday morning. To top it off, I committed myself to playing guitar and singing a song for the first time ever in public immediately following the sermon. I didn’t want to, but I knew it was a worthwhile endeavor I needed to attempt. Countless times in the days prior to that Sunday, I asked myself, “You dumbass, why did you do this to yourself?” I felt good about the sermon I had written and was prepared to give. It was from the heart, and the content was outside the box of what typical sermons contain—something that I liked. I didn’t hold an ounce of the same confidence or enthusiasm where singing was concerned. Still, I sucked it up, summoned the courage, and gutted it out. I didn’t land a record contract, but I did gain something I didn’t expect: pride and self-respect.

Especially in recent years, I think I’ve recognized the importance of taking on similar challenges. The result has almost always been positive. Today, I signed up to participate in the Warrior Dash on June 9, a day before my 45^th birthday. I’m pitifully out of shape. I’m broken down and damaged. I’m nowhere near ready to meet the 12 physical challenges and 3.3 miles of running the event calls for. But I’m committed to try. Better, I love the fact that I’ll be taking this on with seven friends, and I love that we’ll tackle this together. I’m eager to experience difficultly as part of a collective vs. as an individual. I’m certain I’ll learn much and maybe even provide a little inspiration of my own or at least a helping hand. In short, I’m chomping at the bit to test my endurance and perseverance and see where it takes me. I haven’t physically done so in a long, long time, and this was needed.

This much I’ve learned about myself in recent years: I need obstacles to keep moving. If not, I stagnant, and I can hardly stand the thought of that. 

Day 26: Ron Swanson, The Ultimate Uplifter

Every once in a while, I need someone who is essentially the opposite of me to punch me in the face and get me back in gear. Someone who chokes the hell out of reason and acceptance and passivity and good manners and just says, "Stop you're whining and get on with it already." 

Today was such a day. Today, I needed some Ron Swanson in my life. I needed to attend the Church of Swanson. I needed to worship at the Altar of Swanson. I needed Ron Swanson to pick me up and kick my in the ass and get me back in the game. Today, when I seemingly swam against the current each and every minute, Ron Swanson came to my rescue yet again. Thank you, Ron Swanson. 

I've been a longtime fan and would-be follower of John Wooden's Pyramid of Success. There's so much that's positive to be gained that everyone should spend at least a few hours taking a look, whether you like basketball or not. Still, as much as I respect Wooden and everything he accomplished and passed on to thousands of people, I'd argue there's as much to learn from studying the philosophies of Ron Swanson and climbing his own Pyramid of Success. 

In many ways, Ron Swanson is my hero. In many ways, I aspire to be like him. I don't share his politics or attraction to crazy women per se, but Ron Swanson is a man's man, and I respect the hell out of that. He's self-reliant. He pulls no punches. He adores meat and makes no, er, bones about it. He avoids sharing emotions with fellow man whenever possible and is comfortably an island onto himself. Ron Swanson buries his gold. Ron Swanson knows government doesn't matter. Ron Swanson is a master handyman. God bless you, Ron Swanson. You fill me with optimism. 

Pearls of Swanson Wisdom: 

• Ron Swanson: I don't want to paint with a broad brush here, but every single contractor in the world is a miserable, incompetent thief.
• Ron Swanson: (On fishing) “It’s like yoga, except I still get to kill something.”
• Ron Swanson: “I’m surrounded by a lot of women in this department. And that includes the men.”
• Ron Swanson: “The less I know about other people’s affairs, the happier I am. I’m not interested in caring about people. I once worked with a guy for three years and never learned his name. Best friend I ever had. We still never talk sometimes.”
• Ron Swanson: “I won’t publicly endorse a product unless I use it exclusively. My only official recommendations are U.S. Army issued mustache trimmers, Morton’s salt, and the C.R. Lawrence Fein two inch axe-style scraper oscillating knife blade.”
• Ron Swanson: "When I’m done eating a Mulligan’s meal, for weeks afterwards there are flecks of meat in my mustache and I refuse to clean it because every now and then a piece of meat will fall into my mouth.”
• Ron Swanson: “The whole thing is a scam. Birthdays were invented by Hallmark to sell cards.”

Day 25: A Blind Guy Walking Down The Hall . . .

Today as I was walking down a hallway at work, a woman was filling up her glass from the water fountain. From the opposite direction a blind man who works in my building was walking our way. After the man accidentally grazed the woman on her foot with his walking cane, she said, “Oops, I’m sorry.” The man, though, quickly followed up by saying, “No, no. I’m sorry. I obviously wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Awesome.

Both the woman and I instantly let out a chuckle. The man, though, immediately let out a booming laugh, something I found so appealing and satisfying. That laugh was so genuine and hearty, it made my day.

I’m nearly positive that this guy has pulled out that same joke from the “Guaranteed To Get A Laugh” jar dozens of times over the years. Who cares? It’s a great line, and damn it, if a blind guy isn't able to tell that joke whenever the hell he wants, what's the point of all this? It’s a sure-fire winner, and there aren’t too many of those in life.

Still, although the joke got me, it was his response and laugh that lingered on. That beautiful, sincere, honest laugh. Even though I strongly suspect that wasn’t the first time he broke that joke out, the delivery, the response he got, and his own willingness to laugh at his own joke gave no hint as such. That laughter was so infectious and so appropriate and so unique to him, I felt fortunate to have been in the proximity.

I have a lifelong habit of reading too much into situations and paying them more attention than they deserve. It’s very likely that I’m doing that very thing in this situation, but I don’t care. He brightened my day and for at least a minute, I forgot where I was, what I was doing, and how stressful my day was. For that moment, it was just pure gold to be alive.

Not for a second did he make me feel or think, “Oh, I’m so lucky to have my sight.” “Oh, I’m so fortunate.” “Oh, I should be so grateful.” “Oh, there for the grace of God. . . .” That crap never entered my mind. He just made me laugh. He just made me smile. And for the rest of the day when I think about that one seemingly insignificant moment, I’ll do the same.

We’re all just travelers, man. We’re all just making our way. We all have our own crosses to bear. It’s so tremendously uplifting to me when individuals are able to tote their crosses everywhere they go without any indication they are doing so. 

Day 24: A Different Perspective On Being A Coach

My daughter’s basketball season has been an unmitigated mess. Disorganization pretty much has decimated the fun and competition she should have seen but didn’t, and I feel incredibly bad for her. I haven’t forgotten for a second the excitement and anticipation I literally started to feel days before games. I can feel those emotions stirring right now just sitting here and writing about it. Sweaty palms. Heart beating a little faster. Warrior mentality kicking in. Sleepless nights ahead. It was all so beautiful.

That’s why I sympathize so strongly with my daughter’s disappointment. Twice we’ve trucked off to games only to learn when we got there that her team didn’t have enough players to take the court. Three times we’ve trucked off to practice to either find only three girls there or no one at all, including her coaches. This is all in direct contrast to last season when every single little duckie was standing at attention seemingly every minute.

My general reaction to this perceived lack of leadership before, during, and after her games has been anger initially. I’ve coached a lot of teams in a lot of sports, and while organization was never my forte, I did recognize its importance. If you don’t have enough players to field a team, you don’t allow families to travel across town in the hope enough will make it. You make certain there are enough players beforehand. If not, you call each and every family, tell them you’re sorry, and we’ll try again next week. For games you prepare by planning who you’ll play and when. You don’t install an offense or defense in warm-ups. You don’t learn the kid’s name seconds before tipoff. And if you commit to coach, you show up for practices and games. You don’t invite a revolving door of people to do it. All have been issues with my daughter’s team this season.

 But in an attempt to be more optimistic and understanding, I really have tried to look at these issues from a different perspective, namely one that isn’t my own. For example, my daughter is playing on a team where I get the feeling that the coach being able to take off from work even a half hour early, let alone the entire afternoon, for a game simply isn’t an option. I have a feeling that work takes priority because work means surviving, unlike basketball, which doesn’t. The noticeable economic disparity between the girls on my daughter’s team and those on the other teams they play leads me to believe this. If you want to know the financial well-being of a team’s parents, just look at the shoes the players are wearing. You can learn a lot from that tidbit alone. If not the shoes, look to their warm-up jerseys, which in the case of my daughter’s team, there wasn’t any.

As badly as my daughter has felt and been let down certain times during this season, I have been extremely grateful for her participation. I think she’s learned more and grown more perhaps than she even might realize. By being in the vast minority on her team race-wise, I think she’s been forced to see the game and life in new ways. I think by being around girls from different socio-economic backgrounds who maybe have had to work a little harder and go without a little more and who aren’t intimidated by confrontation or a challenge on the court, my daughter has grown.

Mostly, I’ve tried to accept that for many people, reality gets in the way of fun, and not the other way around. I’ve tried to accept that just maybe, the disorganization that’s wreaked havoc on her team wasn’t due to negligence but perhaps necessity. I may be projecting, and I may be creating a false reality, but I don’t think so. If you’ve ever struggled to make it day to day, it’s not too difficult to recognize the same quality in others.

My daughter is a good player, and truth be told, playing on this team was a last-second occurrence due to her former traveling team experiencing unforeseen obstacles that resulted in not being able to put a team on the court. There will be other teams and more games in her future, probably with different girls. It would be easy to characterize her season as a series of unfortunate events, but that would be wrong.

Day 23: Popcorn, You Charmer You

Want to know what I’m really positive about? What really fills me full of optimism? Popcorn. Yep. Popcorn. Love it. Could eat it every day. In fact, I think I may have tried for a couple weeks back in the early 90s.

When I got sick a decade or so ago and the docs told me that popcorn would be a no-no for the rest of my remaining years, I contemplated whether life was worth still living. I’ve since defied doctor’s orders, and I’m still alive to tell about it. So, get bent, Dr. Killjoy. Popcorn is the miracle drug.

As strange as it seems, I have tremendous respect for the power of popcorn. The smell floods my mind with memories of being a kid on early Sunday nights, waiting for the Disney Sunday night movie to come on the tube, and hanging on for dear life as my dad made the long walk from the kitchen to living room to bring my sister and I our own bowl of his white gold. My dad made the best popcorn, and it pretty much became his duty.

My aunt Teri made terrific popcorn. The secret ingredient was bacon grease. Sure, if we knew then what we do now . . . but we didn’t, and I’m the better for stuffing that crunchy magic she popped up into my big mouth by the handful. My cousin Margie cooked the stuff up by the loads, and it was outstanding. Perfect salt-to-butter ratio, and the only thing that bested her popcorn was listening to her beautiful, cackling laugh echoing from the kitchen as she lifted the lid off the pan and a defiant kernel or two would escape the pot and go soaring into the air. I can still hear that laugh.

Plenty of Friday or Saturday nights, my mom would pop a big grocery bag full of the fluffy stuff before we’d head off to the drive-in near 84^th & Vine in Lincoln and devour the stuff over the course of a twin-bill. My mom made magnificent popcorn, and talk about coveted childhood memories. Few are better.

My college roommate Doug and I played gin rummy nearly every night for the longest time right at 10 p.m. watching the news. Best three-out-of-five hands with the loser making the popcorn we’d eat while watching “MASH” starting promptly at 10:30. He always lost, and he always made a tasty bowlful (begrudgingly).

When I lived on my own for the first time after college, I commonly skipped supper and substituted a bowl of popcorn instead. I couldn’t have been happier for being lazy and being challenged in the kitchen. When I got married, my wife showed me her secret popcorn weapon (preheat the oil with several dashes of salt added in), and life was never the same.

I eat microwave popcorn today, but it’s not the same. It’s too easy. It’s too instantly gratifying. There’s no toil involved. The payoff is too immediate. There’s not anticipation. There’s no aroma slowly filling the space. There are fewer lingering old maids to pick and choose among. There’s only an empty bag as an afterthought. No bowls. No butter on the countertop. No salt under the fingernails. It’s too easy. But it’s still popcorn, and I marvel at its simplistic beauty.  

Day 22: My Wife

Pablo Neruda is my favorite poet. That wasn't always the case, but the first time I read "The Queen" from "The Captain's Verses" it was so. I fell hard, and I fell for so many reasons. Foremost, Neruda was able to say what I wanted but wasn't able. Neruda felt things for a woman that I believed I had felt, yet I couldn't come anywhere close to expressing my devotion and respect and worship that way he was able. Neruda spoke from the heart, but he did so in a way that made me believe he was channeling what he felt in his mind, spirit, and heart directly with no filters, no apprehension, no hesitance, no barriers. Neruda related his emotions hard and true. I admired that immediately, and I still do. 

And when you appear all the rivers sound 
in my body, bells 
shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I, 
only you and I, my love, 
listen to it.

I wrote my first poem when I was 14. Of course, it was about a girl. But it wasn't an ode to love. It was an ode to misery. An ode to rejection. An ode to a broken heart. That's where most of my personal writing has always remained--in the blackness, in the darkness, in the chasm. I've never been afraid to explore the "shit." In the years since, I've written very, very few poems, or anything else for that matter, of a personal nature that anyone would classify as being positive. It's not easy for me. Never has been. Sometimes, I feel I lack the ability to even pull it off. But there are those people and moments and emotions that all come together in perfect timing and inspire me. When I've been smart enough to pay attention to those times, I've been rewarded with the gift of being able to accurately capture how I felt. That's a gift, and I recognize it. 

Poems aren't for everyone. I'm not sure people even read poetry anymore, at least not as many as used to. Still, poems are the best way I've always known to capture the moment, emotion, and people. My favorite poem I've written is about my wife. That's not a coincidence. There's meaning and purpose there. There is stark reality in the words. True meaning. I'm proud of this poem. I proud of it because it says everything I feel but can't articulate verbally. I don't know if I would classify myself as an artist. I'm not sure I possess the skill to dub myself as such. But I think I own an artist's heart and mind, and that means putting yourself out there and dare to explore below the surface. I'm so grateful I dug below the surface and let myself feel these words: 

Thoughts On Shannon

On certain evenings,

I want your hair to hang down,

to drape deep with shadows,

to curl wild on bounce and wind.

I want you to pout your lip,

to heat me,

to slip your cheek,

to trick my eye,

to promise your voice,

to sway me full,

to twist your tongue,

to lick me sweet.

I want your jaw slung low,

to overtake my faith,

to slope my neck,

to drain me weak,

to drive me drunk,

to freeze me still,

to blaze my night,

to trace my eyes,

to rose my cheeks,

to spread the sky,

to leave me summer-strong.

On certain evenings,

I want your hair to hang down.

BAF