6:51 PM

Five o’clock comes and I’m done. Fuck it. There are no quotes, orders, or customer calls. That’s it. When the computer’s shut down, the phone’s hung up, the chair pushed in - I’m free. Done with what others want from me. When five 0'clock comes I head for home, or the pub, or to the river. I run. Drink. Or fish. Or, on days like this - a bit rough around the edges in the head, afraid that I’m not going to be able to relate to anybody because of the mood I’m in - I write. I sit down, calm myself, and do a little tap, tap, tapping on the keys. A little unwind time.

Or wind me up. I’m not really sure.

Bought a cell phone today. Haven’t had one since St. Paul. Thought it might come in handy, especially if I make the move to Kalamazoo. It’s one less thing I have to worry about. The phone, making contact - that’s covered.

So what’s my number? Sorry. You can’t have it. Mr. Stevens is in hiding. Giving out the number only when necessary. Yes, I’m sorry. All of this is on my terms. At least today. Today - hot, sticky, fucking sweaty - and dreams I had last night still weighting my down.

Of course, I dreamt of her. I doubt she’ll ever go away. The most frightening part was that I woke up (or thought I did) and sat up on the edge of the bed, and there she was. Standing in dark. When I stood up to move toward her she was gone. Evaporated. Disappeared. Fucking poof.

In the dream, she simply wanted me to know that she was okay. That she was sorry. That she wished things had been different, but was grateful for the way things had turned out. For the way things had to be. All comfort and smiles. But she had bags under her eyes. Still the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen, but she had these big, tired bags under her eyes, as if she could take no more. She touched my face. Smiled. I didn’t know what to do or say. She was there for the taking, real or dreamed up, and I was still. Frozen. All shook up. So stirred that I couldn’t move. Until I woke up. Sat on the edge of the bed, and saw here watching me.

Dreamt of tornadoes too. Goddamned recurring tornado dreams. Have been having them since I was a kid. Me, always knowing it’s coming, always getting ready, trying to get people to safety, but always that big, terrible tornado comes. Ripping apart everything. Doing it’s best to divide friends and family. I made it through the storm last night. With my parents and brothers, and a few friends. We locked down in the basement of a big, beige, stucco-walled house. It felt like it was mine. But I’m not sure it was. All I can be sure of is that the tornado came tearing through, and there I was again, trying to make sure everyone was under cover, full up on safety.

My brain’s nightly activity probably explains why I was so grumpy at work. Ready to swing. To bite. To tear anyone and everything in two. I got through it though. Pushed my way through another day, hoping that the next moment will be better - or at the very least, will allow me to reflect upon the moments before.

Not sure what the night holds for this old boy. Will head into the glorious villa of Alpena. Wash my truck. Get something to eat. Perhaps, a drop to drink. Hell, maybe I’ll even watch a movie.

In any case. Cheers. Have a good night.

~ k.j.

7:38 PM

Want to be at the bar, sipping drinks, talking with her. I’d like to identify it as alcoholism, loss, or loneliness, but it is none of these things. It is something else. And it has risen once again. It is keeping me awake at night. Distracting me during the day. Forcing me to stay put and to run all at once. So, here we are again. Meeting at our own little pub. A place on the screen. Existing together and separate - all at once.

Before I get too far gone, I want to mention this:

Visit this page. Read these books. There is a revolution taking place. At the roots. A recognition. An awareness. One by one, the voices of our day are rising. We need to listen. Travis Mulhauser. Dave Shaw. Steve Almond. These are more than names.

11:49 PM

Finally. Opening up. Breaking the seal. Cracking the vault. It’s been a long, long while since Mr. Stevens was able to open up anywhere besides on the paper. Too long. It’s like I’m waking from hibernation. Stretching the rested muscles. Seeing things for the first time. All over again.

Taking it slow, like all newly wakened bears should. Letting it come out a little at a time. There’s no sense in rushing it. Burning through it quickly. Forgetting what it’s like to work toward being done.

I see now why it is that I haven’t been writing Why I’ve been forcing myself out of the house, into new situations. Taking a step away from the writing, away from the every day routine of putting my guts on paper, has left me with one other option - to put my guts out in the open. To learn how to share subtly. With others.

That’s what I’ve noticed. Especially tonight. After seeing her.

That smile. Good God all-mighty - that smile. It’s amazing what it can do. What it does do to me.

Funny when it starts on the inside and works it way out. Rising up out of you. Surrounding you. A cushion of goodness. A nourishing layer. It’s something I didn’t know I needed until now.

~ k.j.

9:39 AM

Thunder. Rain. Lightning. Nature’s fireworks for another happy 4^th of July. But people will bitch about the rain. Clamor about the lightning. Shudder at the thunder. It ought to be sunny and warm for their day off. Clear and bright for their BBQ. For firecrackers. For the parade. People won’t be united by the spirit of the 4^th. Instead, they’ll be united by the raindrops. Puddles. Cloudy sky.

Windows open. Fresh air coming in. Raindrops making song. It’s as bright as ever as far as I’m concerned, and this rainy 4^th is just fine with me.

Slowly slipping into financial ruin. Bills going unpaid. Still trying to dig myself out of the hole I put myself in when I moved back from St. Paul. I’m out of the hole mentally. Feeling as good and confident as ever, but I cannot make ends meet. Can’t even find the damned ends anymore. And when I get to thinking about that it gets pretty depressing.

I always knew that this writer’s life would be tough. I was fully aware that the greatest reward would be putting the words to paper. I have never been concerned about being paid for what I do. Payment seems ridiculous. Fame even more so. A man does something like this because he loves it. He sacrifices many things. Friendships. Material gain. Love. He creates and remains in his own world. He is selfish. Driven. Giving. He is social and loving. Brutal and reclusive. Survival is the trick of the writer’s life because he does not need what others need.

It’s okay to live on soup and crackers. It is enough to catch her eye across the room and exchange smiles. I don’t need anything more. I have plenty and I’ve taken to living my life by dishing out as much as I can. It’s here. Over and over again it’s here for the taking.

Here to give. There to receive.

Let’s keep this rainy relationship growing. Fed with truth. Watered with wonder. And let’s march together despite the weather - making our own little parade.

~ k.j.

8:45 PM

Desperation comes when I’m not writing. Thinking. Creating. It sinks deep, pulls me under, and before I know it I think I’m having fun. But I’m not. I’m only going under. Slipping around in the same circular cycle. Round and round we go, where we’ll stop only Mr. Stevens knows.

And it’ll stop here. Tonight. Will ratchet down the feeling. The wanderlust. The desire. Will buckle down. Strap myself in. And I’ll stay home. Out of the bar. Away from pretty girls and cold beer. Will shut myself in for a night. To heal. Reflect. Think. To scrape away at my insides so I can gather up a bit of belief. Hope. That fucking thing with feathers.

Worked hard tonight. Mowing lawn. Trimming. Digging a fire pit. Doing all I could before the sun ducked down behind the leafy green and the bugs came out to feed. Did it. Got it done. Now, although I’m a bit tired, all I want to do is head to town. Sit at The Owl, or JJ’s, and relax with a drink or two.

But I can’t. I’m here. All showered up. Getting sleepier by the minute.

I think sometimes that I’m too goddamned normal to be a writer. At least lately that’s how I’ve been feeling. All I want to do is spend time with friends. I want to be out and about. In public. Around other people. Sitting in this fucking writing room, hacking away at ideas seems senseless. Stupid. Wasteful. Nothing’s come out of this writing. Not for anybody else but me. The only reason I do it is because I think I need to do it to survive. To keep sane. To keep my head above water. To stay on the level. I’m not sure that’s the case anymore. At least not now. Right now, these days, I feel I need to run fast and hard, as if it’s all about to end.

But it’s just me. Straightening out. Coming down. Forcing myself into the circle again. Moving around the cycle. Round and round we go.

Have been taking pleasure in simple things these days. Obvious beauty. Pretty girls. Summery hair and skin and skirts and shirts. Everywhere. My head on a swivel, enjoying the scenery. Nearly all the women seem beautiful this time of year. All earthy and sweet. And after all, I am just a man. Another fella on the street. Making his way through life the best that he can. Wanting to touch and feel something other than what’s inside.

When you live life on the bottom, always examining the deep, the sandy shore can be a shock. A real treat.

~ kj

6:54 PM

To Chicago and back. Two days without sleep alters a man’s perception. The white crosses stuck in ditches, in grassy medians, alongside highways and freeways, take on more meaning. Barreling along in a 3/4 ton pickup. Several thousand pounds of steel behind you on a trailer. Bugs bursting into color on the glass canvas. Black. Red. Yellow. Black. Red. And yellow. Billboards become distractions. Lines disappear. The eyes see things that cannot be. Faces in the clouds. Angels in trees. Movie stars passing by in sports cars.

There and back. Full up and empty. Back home, but part of me left out there. On the road. Hundreds of miles away. Walking in a different direction. That’s how it goes when you are fine on your own. When the confidence is high. When the skills don’t ever feel like they’ll fade. You can come and go. You can run. Stop. Fall asleep at the wheel, but whatever you do, you remain. You stay at the places you’ve been, and people will always remember you. A glance through the window at 75. Leaning against the truck at a gas stop. Pulling through the drive-thru for a burger. We exist and become permanent with every moment we live.

Hot as hell today. Roasting here in the hand-me-down chair. Thinking about ice-cold beer and pretty girls dressed in summer clothes. Aching with happiness. Happy with pain. Fine with who I am, what I’ve done wrong, and all that I’ll keep doing. In short, I’m holding up my end of the deal - keepin’ on at the keepin’ on.

Haven’t been writing much. With autumn coming, I know I’ll have to buckle down. There’ll be people reading what I have to write. There’ll be expectations. There’ll be much work. I can do it. I haven’t a doubt about it, and I should be practicing to make perfect right now, but for some reason the best thing it seems I can do is just live.

Fly by the seat of my pants. Enjoy the moment. Shake things up. Love the day. I have to get in some doing right now because later the real doing will have to be done, and it’s hard to truly do if you haven’t done it.

So, what are you doing?

How have you been?

Haven’t heard from you in a long time. Funny how we come apart the older we get. Lose touch. Fall into our daily routines and block out the what-if’s, the might-be’s, and the could’s. Interesting to me how many people settle. I’m not talking wife and kids, mortgage payments, and 401k’s. I’m talking about how little by little we give up. We stop growing. We chalk everything up to not having enough time when time’s all we have. It’s all we fucking have, and it’s all we’ll ever fucking have, but here we are, going day to day, planning for events, occasions, incidents that might never come. Burying ourselves in obligations and getting so distracted by whatever’s put in our way, that we forget the simple fact that seconds - our life - is slipping away.

And what have we shared?

How much of me do you know? How much of you do I know? How much of ourselves do we know? Or is it more important to know your political affiliation? Your god? The balance in your checkbook?

I don’t know. I never do. All I’m doing is asking. Asking me as much as I’m asking you.

It’s been a long time. Too long. And I wonder how long it’ll last. This distance? The miles? The faking away of days? Fake. Fake. Faking along. Fucking ourselves. Destroying potential. Growing dormant. Falling, ever so slowly, to sleep...and soon, I suspect, we’ll all be asleep behind the wheel. Sooner than later, we’ll recognize our loss of control as the lines blur by, and we hurl headlong into the end we never would have guessed was coming.

7:09 AM

Oatmeal. Instant coffee. Fuel for the day. A spark in the morning. Blue skies. Green grass - greener than it has been for months. Chill in the air. Dreams lingering. Heading to a place I don’t belong, to do something I don’t believe in.

Because of fear. Because of training. Because bills have to be paid.

What I owe grows, as I dig deeper. The dirtier I get, the more I hurt, the clearer it becomes. To be free - spiritually, mentally, emotionally - a person has to dig. And dig. And dig. This life of surface dwelling does nothing. It only keeps us buying and selling. It only keeps us under control.

And for some reason, people give away independence and strength so that they can be kept under control.

Strange how we don’t see the fish bowl we’ve put ourselves into.

Every so often, I get the urge to settle down. To stay put. Build walls. Then spend the rest of my life making sure those walls look nice, stay up, and keep me in my comfort zone. But the urge to settle does not last. I’ll read a book. Watch a tree in the wind. Listen to the birds. Take a brookie off the hook. And I’ll get back on track.

We aren’t meant to settle down. To shut down the spirit by giving it to a god, or punching a time clock. We need to explore. Inside. To dig within. To dive below the ripples on the surface and find the bottom. We need to take hold to the bottom and bring it to the top. Stir the silt. Share the shells. Eat the oysters. Fillet the fish. All of it is part of us. We are part of it. Existence is symbiotic. Life is flow. Motion. The ability to be balanced within instability and chaos. To recognize the importance of having no control.

- kj

June 12, 2005

6:32 PM

The weekend spent at The Gabions hasn’t got me as relaxed as I had hoped I’d be. I’m tired. Full. Wishing I could sleep for a day. Or two. Would like to sit, have an ice cold drink, and talk with you. It gets tough sifting through all of this, but the older I get, the more I realize that the strongest growth comes from the ability to think and believe on my own. We learn from others. And we learn from experience. But growth is personal. It belongs to, and is of the individual.

I enjoyed myself. Felt comfortable and at ease in the woods, near the water. I fished. Waded the Au Sable. Played horseshoes. Ate great food. Had a few drinks. Listened to stories. Told by friends. And told by nature.

Perspective - no matter what I do, what happens to me, nature keeps moving. She is as cruel and unwavering as she is beautiful and nurturing. There’s a bigger plan at work. Cycles and cycles upon cycles and cycles. We’re all part of it. And it is part of us. I’ve been thinking that for a long time, and it’s only being driven into me deeper each day.

My time at The Gabions, in the Au Sable, was no exception. Standing hip deep in fast-flowing current, feeling the sun’s rays reflect from the water into me, looking at the sandy bluff hovering over me, I was content. Connected. At peace. And all I wanted to do was relax, go down, and let the river take me. To disappear into it without anyone knowing.

But shell’s are always left behind, and our existence, as insignificant or important as we believe it to be, is always traceable. Trackable. We can be found. If people care to look. If people care to examine surroundings through senses and soul. Through observation and absorption. Who we are can be identified by others if we care enough about what we keep inside the shell. All the bones, burials, and graves we leave behind cannot begin to tell our story.

I think about the tracks I’m leaving. Think about the prints all the time. Not because I believe that I’m more important than anyone else. But because I have been blessed with the ability to leave a solid imprint. A unique track. A colorful shell. Some people push through days without any sense of time, place, or being. And they live their lives by marking things off a personal TO DO LIST. A grocery list of sorts.

It’s a list that’s been written and passed on for generations. And we move through endless aisles putting items in a wobbly-wheeled cart, working our way toward the checkout, oblivious to the cost, because we’re happy with what we’ve bought, and pleased because we’ve played our role. Hunter, gatherer, provider. The good Christian soldier on a mission of consumption so that life’s cycle is sure to go round. Feeling content with his shopping experience, he heads through the big shiny doors, into the light, clutching the receipt in his hand, unaware of the price he’s really paid for the little he’s got.

Eventually, bones rot. Shells dissolve.

The sand. The current. Animals and insects. Light and air. The dark. All of it works away at us. Reducing us to what we are. Potential energy. Food for thought.

Back from camping, my cupboards are empty, but I have no intention of shopping. Not today. It’s good going hungry. It builds stamina. Strengthens the heart. Strips away unnecessary layers, pushes the mind to levels beyond daily consciousness and basic thought. Helps ward off the rotting. The slow, simple-minded descent into complacency. And it fuels the fire of want. Helps us to reach beyond the basic constraints of need, and pushes us to achieve successes that can’t be measured, or marked off a list.

What do you hunger for?

Or do you hunger at all?

~ k.j.

June 7^th - 2005

Sunshine on the river. Songbirds over my shoulder. In blooming bushes. On the shale ridges. Above, in the late afternoon blue, seagulls circling. Swallows swooping. My lure sailing through the breeze, splashing into the water.

Several hits. No fish.

Another story about the one that got away.

Into this new year - number 32 for this old boy - I’m finding more validity in the old saying "grace under pressure" than ever before. I’m beginning to comprehend the importance of being as positive as possible. My problems are mine. The best thing a man can do is keep to himself. Get through on his own. Nothing good has ever come out of spilling his guts.

Has it?

Need to go into hiding for a while. At least for a few days. Haven’t been working the brain enough. Haven’t been writing hard enough. I’m getting softer. Weaker. Taking days for granted. Letting time slide by.

And there goes another second. Fluttering by. Swooping down. Blooming in the bushes.

A fish. Unseen in its surroundings.

A man. Invisible in the sunlight. Nothing on paper. Washed away by the river. Waders filling with water. Lungs going under. Breath as good as gone.

What’s important is to remember that you were in it. Part of it. The river. The song. The breeze. What’s important is that you remember...

~kj

Birthday

Time to put it away. Up. Out of sight. Time to run away from being run down. To stand and fight. Time to recognize time’s passing.

What are you asking?

Of me. Of you. Of the world.

What are you asking?

Or are the questions too deep? The answers too shallow? The end too near to touch?

I’m wasting away. Falling apart from the inside out. Drowning here. Drowning, but nobody can swim to save me. Nobody can drain the tub. Cap the bottle. Do anything to help me. So I must remember this - a kiss is just a kiss - and love is about saving yourself.

Night’s coming on strong. Hot. Humid. Thunderstorms slipping by in the dark. My mind falling to pieces. Dreams pushing through, pulling me down, and as another Monday comes around, I realize that there’s very little for the taking. More give than take. More up than down. A quiet slice of silence. A drum booming sound. Caught in chaos. Putting a knife between us. Spilling our existence all around. Pooling up on the floor. Slipping. Sliding. Rolling around in our own mud. Happy to be so clean and dirty. So needy and wanted. So dead while being so alive.

I’ve torn myself up. Out. Have pushed myself into the disposal. Flipped the switch, and have begun the painful process of grinding myself away. Making my self into bite sized parts. Something that someone can use. The less of me there is, the more useful I become.

Fertilizer.

Dog food.

Glue.

32 years. 32 and what have I learned?

kj

Memorial Day - 2005

Mr. Stevens. Up and at it. In the holy land. Maples birthing new leaves. Lilacs promising bloom. Skies blue with wispy white brush strokes. Windows wide open. The cemetery full of cawing, chirping, chattering. Birds on nests. Life moving ahead.

I mention the scenery, the details, purposefully. In stories, essays, poems. In these vignettes I share. It’s important that they’re mentioned. Shown. Thought of. Daily routine, this social evolution, has all of us away from where we started.

Today, we’re perched in steel and glass. Riding on rubber and foam. When our feet finally find earth, we hardly know it.

What’s happening to an appreciation of the simple things?

I cut the grass last night. But I left the chives. The smell this morning - felled grass and dewy chives - is head-clearing. And clearing is what I need.

I moved to this town believing that there’d be a very good chance that I’d stay. Settling down, being a homeowner, a monthly bill payer, seemed like the thing to do. I imagined myself writing more. I was certain that my productivity would increase. I was sure that after a year I would feel myself pass another growth mark. That I’d write another book. But I have not.

I’ve had internal growth marks since I was a kid. Every year or so, I would come to a place in my life where I’d get this enormous feeling of AH-HA! Something would happen that would make me look back at myself, my past, and I would be able to FEEL that I had changed. Internally. That I had reached a new level of understanding and appreciation. That I was different today than yesterday.

Unfortunately, since moving back to my hometown, I feel that the learning curve has been reversed.

Most of it is my own fault. I haven’t been reading enough. Haven’t been writing. Haven’t been engaging myself in interesting situations which breed interesting, thoughtful conversation. What I have been reading, what I have been writing has not been put to use. People aren’t much for talking around these parts. Unless it’s gossip, sports, or sex it isn’t a topic. Though I’m aware this is the case elsewhere, that Alpena isn’t the only place where this happens, what I’m also sure of is that people here do not make an effort to know things beyond their boundaries. And again, this is the case everywhere, but what’s important about Alpena, and small towns like it, is that it is a microcosm of our society. And it makes me worry.

What disturbs me most of all is that people have the potential to be great, but get caught up in mediocrity. Not every one of us is going to be an Albert Einstein, Ben Franklin, Louie Armstrong, or Margaret Atwood. But why don’t more of us try?

So often, I meet people who tell me that they aren’t good at anything. That, I think, is utter bullshit. Nearly every person I’ve ever known is good at one particular thing. Musicians, knitters, bowlers, hockey players, fisherman, dog trainers, welders, painters, movie critics, cooks, bird watchers, and the list goes on and on. Yet, for some reason, people don’t realize their talent, their ability, and they let it fall by the wayside. It ends up being a memory. Something they once did, but now they don’t have the time. Or, and this is most common, it becomes a hobby. Something a person does when they have time, but more often than not, something a person does to pass the time. All of us, passing time. Letting it get away. Being good Christians. Being even better consumers. Voting God’s choice. Drinking beer in the Lazy-Boy. Cutting the grass and making up stories. Being fine examples for kids we’ll have, or for kids we’re trying to raise.

What, I ask, will our children think about? Will they be as artificial, phony, and fearful as we have become? Or will they learn from our mistakes and be brave? Will they rise? Or will they continue the fall?

Why can’t I scratch the surface? Why can’t we get beyond what we are and become what we are to be? Better yet, why can’t I get beyond what I think we should be and accept who we are?

Here I am. Analyzing people. Analyzing society, and I don’t have enough common sense to stop wasting my energy on this and write a goddamned story. All I ever do is jerk off anymore. If practice makes perfect, what does pretending to practice mean?

I’ll be leaving this town soon enough. On my way to Kalamazoo, where I’m sure I’ll bitch some more. Expecting so much. Knowing so little. Wanting all of us to want more. I’ll finish up that Master’s degree. Participate in some formal education. Earn a piece of paper. Frame a degree. Be proud for a moment. Then spend my days building a nest. Somewhere near the maples and lilacs, where life is important because meaning is not seen.

~kj

9:54 PM

Bats up out of the chimney. Darting. Dancing. After insects. Seeing better blind than I’ll ever see with sight.

A hound’s yelping carried by a strong southern wind. Letting us know that a storm’s on its way. Moisture in the air. Fresh breaths. The grasses of the field. The trees. Frogs in the lowlands. All of them making song. Spring is here. Summer’s not far off. The cycle of life rising and falling. Predictable and beautiful. Like the moon and the tide.

Taking all of it in. Realizing where I’m at. Feeling - finally feeling - where it is I’m going. And it’s good. I’m a slow learner. A late bloomer. Thinking too much to grasp the glory of reality. But when it comes - when the clarity comes - it’s a blessing. Pure joy. The comfort of knowing life is not wasted. That all moments have led to this. And that there will be more moments to come.

It’s fine being alone. Better than I ever imagined. There’s great solace in solitude because solitude, if done right, is not quiet. It is not subdued. Solace, peace, being alone is being full.

When I think of where I’ve been, things I’ve done, wrongs I’ll never right, there is sadness, but there’s no guilt. There’s no remorse. We grow from the dirt. We bloom from shit. We’re a part of it as much as it is a part of us. There’s a connectedness in being disconnected. There’s awareness in being aloof. There’s great introspection involved in wearing one’s heart on her sleeve.

She’s renewed her vows. Rekindled promises to keep. Ironed the clothes. Cleaned up the mess. Bought new drapes to hang on windows she used to be afraid to look through. She’s changed her diet. Read self-help books. Listened to parents. And she’s gone to church. To her, love is about sticking it out. Sticking with it. Following through. Very much like this writer writing.

It doesn’t matter to me if people don’t believe. I’ll push forward. Keep taking deep breaths. I’ll remember. Reinvent. And I’ll write it all down. For better or for worse. For richer or for poorer. I’ll come back to this paper - my pen - even after I’ve been gone a while. On a bender. In the drink. Out in the woods. Fishing the stream. I’ll come back to her even though I’ve cheated. Come back to her fresh and new, filled with great hopes, and silly dreams, as if we’ve just married and our honeymoon’s just begun. And she’ll forgive me, just as she’s forgiven the rest because resentment never allows us to be clean. Guilt steals our innocence. Selfishness deepens wounds.

There’s a storm coming.

The hound’s stopped yelping. 

The bats fight the cool breeze in the darkness. Following what cannot be seen. 

- kj

8:21 a.m.

I feel the ideas and see glimpses of story as I take this long way round. Choosing to conform, for the time being, has stifled my creativity. This experiment of trying to live like everyone else has set me back. Buried me a bit. It’s as if I’ve walked into a morning fog and there’s no chance of the sun burning it off.

I can see why people forget to care. How people become complacent. How easy it is to plug away at a nothingman existence.

All around me, stunted growth. People, good people, hitting invisible ceilings. Knocked dead by roles and routine. And when conformity is questioned, they dismiss it. How they live is how it’s supposed to be. Compromise. Sacrifice. Loyalty. People so caught up in being what others expect them to be that they can’t remember who they were supposed to be. People so trained to obey scripted beliefs that they’ve forgotten what it is to live.

And when it does rise, when the core they’ve been suffocating for so long finally fights for breath, they do what they can to kill it.

Twelve-packs and religion.

Politics and one-hitters.

Prescriptions for happiness.

Strange how freedom is based on being like others. Interesting how we do all we can to make one another the same.

I watched the gravedigger on Thursday. Behind the evergreens with a shovel. Scraping away at the earth. Getting dirty. Sweaty. Taking to the task with dedication. Driven by mouths to feed. Or a sense of purpose. Fashioning a final resting place, and growing inextricably intimate with a person he'd never known.

And I watched the funeral yesterday. A pearl-white hearse. Two dozen people dressed in black. It lasted ten minutes. People were marching away before the casket was even lowered. Respects are paid quickly these days. We have places to go. Things to do.

Say kind words.

Send flowers.

Pray.

As long as we believe we’re sending them off to a better place we can keep living our lives of quiet desperation. Burying ourselves deeper every day.

As the mourners turned to leave, two heavy-set men in blue work shirts came with shovels. They would do the lowering. And they would fill the hole. But first, they paused. One man lit a cigarette and put on a pair of gloves. The other set his shovel aside and knelt beside the grave. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, leaned over the casket, and wiped the dust away.

At sunrise, red and white flowers covered the grave. Someone else had knelt down. Spread topsoil. Planted neat rows. The final gesture of a loved one. The mark of a faithful friend. A florist putting in extra hours on the weekend.

All of this matters. Somehow. It fits together so well that the lines and connections are lost. Moments blend. Days pass. And our intimacy grows.

- k.j.

9:26 AM

It’s simple. And that’s what makes it so complex. To want to live alone. To live doing and sharing what you love. That’s how simple it is.

As simple as the bald eagle I saw tonight. Driving down King Settlement Road. My head filling up with bills to be paid, deadlines to meet, people to please, and there it was. Wide wing span. All stretched out. Chasing. About to snatch up a rabbit bounding through the field. True survival taking place. Outside of me. In the real world. Where winters starve, springs feed, and stars show the way.

I think I’ll make an effort to live off the land this year. Not for sport. Not for show. But because that’s how it’s supposed to be. An appreciation. An understanding. The ability to sustain, endure, learn, and grow. A vegetable garden. Trout. Walleye. Venison.

I’ll make an effort to open up this year. To simplify my life by opening up to others.

I’ll look at stars more often. Walk barefoot in the green. I’ll let people pass me on the highway. Hold the door. Say thank you at the drive-thru. I will read newspapers, poetry, and I will write another book. I’ll think of you more often. Picture your face. Hold your hand. I’ll top off your glass. Let you borrow my favorite fishing lure.

There are secrets meant to be shared. Simple, quiet things. Buried deep. But we forget them because they are simple, and quiet, and because they are things anyone can have.

- kj

10:28 AM

Had worried a bit that I’d driven too hard these past few days. That the late nights, the drinking, that all of it would tear me up and spit me out, but it hasn’t. Not yet. I eased up yesterday. Came down. And I slept in fits, off and on, tossing and turning, thinking too much - about the past the future, where I am, and where we’re going - and I woke up cranky, hoping I could put on a happy face for Easter dinner, sure that I could pull it off - that I WOULD have to pull it off - when out of nowhere comes a story. An idea. Something that had been brewing for days. Me, standing on a bluff in St. Paul, looking over the Mississippi as it rolled over its banks and carried the world away. That image. That moment. That new beginning in the big city, stuck with me. And somehow, over the past few days, my own banks flooded, it rose up, pulled itself to the shore, and planted a seed.

So, I woke up and wrote a story. Non-stop. Beginning to end. Something I haven’t done for over a year. It only took about an hour. Certainly, I have never stopped writing, but the beauty of this latest effort is that it came to me no matter how much I tried (directly, or indirectly) to prevent it from coming. People think I’m crazy, or that I’m living moments in my own vicious cycle, when they se me looking as if I am to self-destruct, but what they don’t realize is that there’s a lot of shit going on in this head. Not just the everyday thoughts that arise (how am I going to make that payment, I hope my folks are okay, I wonder how my brothers are doing, why does this coffee taste so bad, why can’t this person drive the speed limit) but other things that I cannot control, but come. It’s as if my noggin’s always tuned in to a hundred stations at once. Voices. Numbers. Songs. All of it rushing, carrying through, pushing - like the might Mississippi. And so, I write. I kill off, and shut down, as many brain cells as I can so I can get one single thought living.

And today. That’s what I’ve done. And since I’ve done it, all the other stuff has come back. All of it on, playing in my head, and there’s nothing that can be done. Always, it will be there. Never will it go away. That’s not a bad thing, but it is a distracting thing. A tough thing because it’s hard to talk, to relate, to listen, when all I have is inner monologue accompanied by music and visions. Always, there’s a movie playing in my head.

But it’s good. All of it is good. Today is a celebration. Of spirit. Of sacrifice. A celebration of friendship, love, and the ability for us - all of us - to endure.

So - at the end of all of this incoherent dribble - I say, Happy Easter...

- kj

9:19 PM

Spring

Moonlit night. Eerie blue skies. Lit up with low hanging stars. Spring in the air. Season changing. It’s everywhere.

In the stink that the pig farm’s giving off from its place down the road. In the restlessness of Jimmy, the dog, as he runs about in circles, sniffing grass uncovered, rabbit crap in the melting snow, and bones forgotten. The change is present in the chattering of the birds in early morning, and the deer roaming the fields at night. Life is coming. Rising up from its respite. Pushing out. Beginning to breathe. Giving me breath again.

She’s in the air these days. Driving to work with windows open - just a bit - so that the fresh air stays with me through the long hours of bad office air.

She’s in the cheeks, smiles, and eyes of young women getting fit for spring. For weddings to come. For bikinis to wear. And she sends my blood pumping. My thoughts thinking. My soul to itself - reunited with the rest of me again.

How we come apart and come together remains a mystery to me. Over and over. Again and again. We push through the seasons. Spring, Summer, Fall. And winter. Beautiful, mean, loving winter. The old foe. The familiar friend. Finally, he takes his leave of us. He has had enough, and we have had enough of him. We’re ready for her to return. For her green, her clean scent, her life of bloom. She is what we’ve come from, and to her we shall return.

I held her tight tonight. Pajamas and sneakers. Standing in the snow. And I looked up and gazed into her eyes. Breathed her deep. Felt her close. In the owl’s call. The hound’s howl. It’s good to have her here again.

- kj

There’s work to be done. A story to write. But the dog drags me out. Into the wet. The cold. In my pajamas and boots, on a lead, through the snow.

I’m all mixed up in the head because there’s so much work to be done. Now. These days. While I can still think and write. While I’m still young enough to live, think, and write about it.

So much work to get done before I die. And death isn’t far off. Not out here, on the dead end road. In between sprawling fields that are ready to give up the snow, and grow. Not far off, beside this crooked-steeple church. So near to the tombstones. Sitting overtop the dead.

All I want to do is write. To get the story out. To get into it so that I don’t think about being 31. Alone by choice. Unsuccessful, and careless when it comes to living the American Dream. I look at the church steeple. Wonder how long it’s been up there. Leaning. Towering over top this place, over the people who’ve come and gone. All the lives touched by entering into the church, sitting in the pews, listening to the piano, reading the bibles, praying, as the sunlight poured through the blue, stained-glass windows, and tried with all its might to warm them. People up early. Sober. Hungover. Showered, or not. Just out of warm beds, cold cars, fuzzy pajamas. All of them coming to this dead end road. Out of guilt, love, obligation, or misdirection. People searching, finding, believing, when all along it was right outside.

The dog tugs at the lead, searches the ground until he finds what he needs. His own, frozen shit. A bit of himself that he’d left behind in the fall. He drops to the ground. Rolls in it. Rubs his body and face in the melting snow. And when he’s satisfied, he’s up again. Sniffing the wet air. Barking toward the east. Smelling what I can see. Deer. Big and dark against the snow. Awakened from swamp beds, walking into the orchard on the hill, searching for spring under the dead apple trees.

The dog wags his tail as he noses around a rosebush that’s survived despite my neglect, the hungry rabbits, and another Lake Huron winter. The little bush stands, still and frozen, gnawed raw, pleading to the white sky for more sunlight, a warm breeze, anything that will help it renew, grow buds, and bloom, so the dog stretches, lifts his leg, and leaves a hint of spring.

A sky full of sunshine. Warm blue. Bright light. Birds in trees. Calling to each other. Blue jays are king today. In and out of the dark green branches, knocking snow from limbs. Snow sliding off the church roof as it warms. The steeple, crooked as always, but still standing. A starling on point, chattering, as it looks over the field, the yard, the cemetery. Frost on the headstones. Glistening in the morning light. People asleep this morning. Down deep. With no intention of waking.

One of the reasons I moved here, to this particular place, with the old church, and the cemetery, was so that I could be alone. Not much traffic. Not many neighbors around. And I’m a good stretch from town. Most of the time, when I’m home, it’s business. Writing. Reading. Eating, or sleeping. I’m not big on visitors. On socializing in the home. Not because I don’t like people, but because when I’m home, I’m home for a reason - I want to be alone. If I wanted company, I’d find it. At the bar. The bookstore. A restaurant. If I wanted visitors, I’d invite them over. I’d get outside and shovel. Make the place more welcoming. But it’s just me, so I don’t worry much, and I let Mother Nature do her thing. Snow piles up in winter. Grass grows tall in the spring. Dandelions sprout in the summer. Leaves fall and rest alongside the church and in the ditches, to wilt and die.

I live on a DEAD END road, and the only visitors I really like are the turn-a-rounds. People who don’t want to see exactly where the DEAD END leads. People amazed that the old church is still standing. Or people who mistake my driveway for an entrance to the cemetery.

Once, there was a big man with a moustache. Driving a white, Ford Escort. I was standing at the kitchen sink, mixing a Bloody-Mary, when he pulled into the driveway. He got out of the car and looked across the road at the wide-sprawling field, then he turned and looked over the cemetery. He walked out of the driveway and stood on the road, hands in his pockets, staring at the church. I took a gulp of the Bloody-Mary, put on my shoes and a sweater, and went to the door, but by the time I got outside, he had started his car, and was heading down the road.

I saw him again one day. I was driving to town. Needed some food stuffs. Some water. Was going to buy a book and rent some movies. I saw him on M-32. He was across the road from the airport, in the big open field that planes pass over as they land. And he was flying a kite. A huge, blue contraption that had him leaning back and pulling on strings, like he and the kite were fighting. It trying to pull him up. Him trying to keep it down. It was a cool day. Windy. I’d even turned the heater on in the truck. To take away some of the chill. But there was the big, moustached man. Sweat rings under his arms. Big oval of sweat staining the back of his shirt. A wide grin stretched across his face. Him paying no mind to the yellow, flashing lights of the airport security jeep that was coming to get him.

Another day, there was an elderly couple. They’d been driving through the cemetery, had stopped to visit some of the dead, then took a left instead of a right. I was in the front yard, raking. They pulled into the driveway in a big, burgundy, classic job. A 1976 Cadillac Eldorado convertible. But the top was up, and the old woman lowered her passenger-side window. She had a long, thin face. A nice smile. Green, green, lively eyes.

"Wrong turn," she said.

Her husband waved. They backed out. Drove away.

I remembered that face. Couldn’t forget the car. And a week later, I saw her again. Virginia Smith, the obituary said. 76 years old. Mother of three. Wedded Arnold in 1946. Played piano for St. Catherine’s on Sundays. Earned a Bachelor of Science degree from Central Michigan University. Taught adult education classes for fifteen years. Was a founding member of the local chapter of Audubon Society. Died of an extended illness on Tuesday.

She’s buried out there now. Under the snow. Her husband used to come by every weekend. Saturdays and Sundays. In the big, shiny Cadillac. But he hasn’t been through in a long while. Not since the cold started. Guess the Cadillac isn’t good in the snow.

We’ve all got visitors. Day in and day out. Family. Friends. Strangers. Animals. Lint in the pocket. A bump in the road. Sunshine on the back. Snow on the toes. We’re surrounded everywhere by everything, but we live this life, at best, alone. Down DEAD END roads. Tucked away in places where snow plows don’t go. Where Cadillacs can’t reach. But memory can. Walking paths. Raking yards. Taking trips. Making wrong turns. Left or right. Forward or reverse. All of us together, but alone, searching for that wide-open space where we can finally fly our big, blue kite. Where we can write our story. Think of our loved ones. Or not think at all. Where we can finally stop, and rest in peace in our deep, snow-covered tomb.

- k.j.

10:00 AM

This time of the morning - around 10:00 - seems to be my most productive time for writing, when I’m actually able to write. Which isn’t very often, since I’m at work during the day, and usually nursing a hangover on Saturdays. But, here we are today. Big cup of coffee. Jug of water. Giving it a go. All sober, but still groggy from a night of sleeping, tossing, and turning.

Woke up this morning to a nice rejection letter. I mean it. A nice, cordial response to a story I sent them - in the moonlight - that was the story. They passed on it, of course. The chances of getting published in a reputable magazine are pretty fucking slim. I’m not sure why. Guess I have to chalk it up to editors and their "subjective" decisions, as StoryQuarterly put it. The writing’s pretty good. Honed. Shaped. Formed. Sculpted even. I’m like one of those ice sculptors. I use my chainsaw, my axe, my pick, and even get down to some tiny tools in order to present the finest details. It’s hard work, but I work as fast as I can, and as efficiently as I can, because it’s hard to say how long the medium will last. I cut, chop, shave. I smooth. I do all I can to get all the right lines, proportionate size, and show an accurate story. In short, I appreciated the nice rejection letter. It was a lot better than the one I received from the Missouri Review. Impersonal. A form letter that’s sent to every writer no matter how good or bad their writing is. And that’s part of what’s wrong with the writing world today. The writer puts all of his person into a story and the editor or publisher gives nothing back. They’re set on selling copies. Making money. And they want to go with what works. With what people are currently reading, what they’ve already read. There isn’t time to reply with an informative letter. There are other manuscripts to tear through. Other, more profitable, tried-and-true, stories to publish.

When I get published. If I ever get published. I want to form a relationship with the editor or publisher. That’s how it ought to be. I doubt that’ll happen, as the corporate mind-set has invaded just about every aspect of our lives these days, but I can hope. I certainly can hope.

The fact that I receive impersonal rejection letters, or nice, friendly ones, doesn’t bother me. It’s all part of the business. It’s all part of growing as a writer, and as a person. What bothers me is that I know my writing is better than most of the writing they read. Still, the writing, the art, the goodness of it, is not getting recognized. If the New Yorker, or Atlantic Monthly, or some other well-respected literary journal/magazine wanted to publish my writing, and didn’t want to pay for it, I’d let them publish it. Why not? Shit. I’ve been published in small outfits and haven’t been paid, so why wouldn’t I want to be published in a well-known publication. It’s about being read. It’s about sharing the words. It’s about putting the sculpture out there in the public eye, under the blazing sun, and seeing how long it’ll last.

That’s what I’m full of today. Not frustration. Not rejection. Not anything bad at all. If anything, I’m fired up. Fueled. Ready to send out stories to every magazine in the country, all at once, just to see how many rejection letters I can get. To see how many editors and publishers are asleep on the job.

- k.j.