"How is it I remember
knowing that I would live forever?
Isn't it strange
how truth can change?"
-Toad the Wet Sprocket

I noticed it a year ago, just after Christmas, but I think my mother was the first to point it out to me.

Actually, she had predicted it many years before that, when I, as a teenager would wear baseball caps every where I went. I had a whole collection of these caps, and I remember her warning me many times that the constant wearing of hats would cause me to go bald. I told her that I wouldn't mind -- my hair had an annoying curly quality that I wouldn't particularly miss when it was gone. For this reason, I have had a longstanding custom of getting crew cuts.

But last year, during our annual gathering at my sister's house, I asked my sister to snap a photo of me holding my newborn nephew. In the photo, I was seated in a chair, holding the little one in my arms, with my head tilted down toward him. I still remember the seeds of denial sprouting in my mind as I perused the freshly developed pictures a few days later.

At first I told myself it was just a mixture of the lighting and my light-colored hair. I mentioned it to the girl who usually cuts my hair, but she said she didn't notice any particular thin spots (a white lie I assume she told for fear of losing out on some of her tip). Then I asked my mother, who almost gleefully confirmed that I did indeed have the beginnings of a genuine bald spot. She went on to say that my father was about my age when his spot started to appear.

It was tough for a while, as all the tacky solutions I swore I would never consider started creeping into my head. But it's a year later, and I think I'm a little more comfortable with the idea now. After all, I did spend my youth resenting having a full head of hard-to-manage hair. So maybe this is what I've been waiting for all these years, even if I didn't think it would begin at the age of thirty.

And as a man who has been mistaken for someone still in his early to mid-twenties, it is a little strange to realize that my eternal youth is escaping me. But there'll be no Rogaine for me yet...

(Or perhaps this is one of those thought patterns I could only be following while under the influence of prescription pain medication.)

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."
-Semisonic

This always seemed like a perfect New Year's comment.

Well, I saw the oral surgeon today, but he can't operate on my wisdom teeth yet because there's some kind of infection.

So he gave me prescriptions for antibiotics and pain pills in the meantime.

Normally I hate to take pain relief drugs.

Yesterday, in addition to waking up with the early symptoms of the flu, I also felt a mild amount of dental discomfort. With this in mind, I called my dentist's office to make an appointment. The receptionist told me the earliest opening was two weeks from yesterday, unless it was an emergency. I told her it wasn't, that I was just feeling a little discomfort.

Within a couple hours of making the appointment, I realized the discomfort was quickly becoming full-blown pain. When I got in touch with my dentist, he recommended I visit him today, and for me to consume ibuprofen in the mean time. He told me to exceed the suggested amount on the bottle.

Given the pain I was in, I followed his orders, despite my personal feelings about artificial pain management. But it still hurts, though not as much.

That makes two straight days with nothing significant to say -- but it is still sandwich week.

...and not just because of all the leftover turkey and ham that's exiled to the land of lunch meat. It's that wonderful time of year between the Christmas and New Year's holiday -- the rush is finally over and nothing seems too serious, for just a few short days.

In that spirit, I have nothing substantive to contribute right now.

"Nobody said it was easy;
no one ever said it would be this hard..."
-Coldplay

I have, for several years now, had an ongoing internal discussion on the subject of love. It strikes me that the most popular concepts of love are also the least effective.

I have clung to the notion that love isn't the emotion we feel, but rather, the will we possess to act for the benefit of a person, thing or idea. The emotional side often follows such a will, and occasionally, emotion can even kick start the will -- but eventually, the will must become the foundation. Without the will, emotion is simply not steady enough to inspire the sacrifice that is often necessary.

As someone who dabbles in romantic thoughts, I have been confused for someone who believes in the more than less empty version of love, the kind based on emotion rather than conscious choice. For the record, I am very much opposed to strictly emotional "love." Sure, it's good for having fun, but any bad day can pull it apart at the seems.

When trying to write romantic things, I have learned to generally avoid the idea of love, sticking mostly with the pleasant, fluttery thoughts that sometimes accompany the will to love. As often as love and romance co-exist, it becomes relatively easy to lose sight of the strong distinction between them.

Whether it's a matter of impatience or preference, I think far too many people confuse the two.

My mind has been racing in these wee hours of the morning. I've been wracking my brain, trying to write something, which is not normally how I write; usually I just get a thought and the rest spills out. But for some reason, I feel impatient, and I'm sure I need to say something, but it doesn't seem ready to be reveal itself.

I drift back to a short poem by Walt Whitman, one which doesn't seem to have an actual title:

"O You whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you;
"As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you,
"Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me."

I copied the above verse into a card and gave it to a beautiful girl a while back, and she didn't seem to take it too seriously. I don't know why she shrugged it off; maybe she just didn't want me to be serious at the time. I'd like to write something like that for her now, but I can't seem to settle my mind on one thought pattern right now.

I spent Christmas with my family. We all gathered at my sister's house up in North Jersey. After hopping onto I-95 to start the trip, I passed what has become a familiar site every time I get on that part of the highway: a memorial arrangement of flowers that has been there for over two years.

I still recall the gaper delay that summer day in 2001. There was a light rain falling at around 2:20 in the afternoon. The sky was gray. As we passed slowly in the northbound lanes, we could see two cars (or what remained of them) on the southbound side. One, a station wagon with its front end practically sheared off, and the other, a sedan resting on its roof, about thirty feet away from the wagon.

We later learned through local news sources that the sedan had managed to loose control, leaving the northbound side and skidding across the sizeable grass median, colliding with the station wagon, which had been riding southbound. The occupant of the station wagon was killed instantly in the collision. Soon after that rainy day, I started to notice the tribute.

Since then it's been regularly maintained, despite laws prohibiting such roadside memorials (I assume the local powers that be, to their credit, have pretty much been looking the other way). A few times in the past couple years, especially on holidays, I've seen what I only assume are members of the victim's family as they visit and tend to the site. I saw them there last Christmas, as I was on my way back from my sister's holiday dinner.

And yesterday, I noticed the flowers were fresh once again.

I have no idea where this is going -- I didn't really have a point. I guess it's just a melancholy reminder of the importance of appreciating the people you love.

Merry Christmas...

The other night I was watching a History Channel feature on the Christmas Truce of 1914. I found it intriguing, especially given the great lengths to which each side's high command had gone to dehumanize the other. In case you're not familiar with the story, check out this account at BBC News Online.

I don't refer to this story as a rallying point for any anti-war statement (though peace is always a preferable situation). I just find it to be a stunning human interest story. For a couple days around this time almost ninety years ago, despite a raging propaganda battle to harden the hearts of each side's foot soldiers, many soldiers put aside their manufactured differences, and focused on what they shared. And this story involved men who would, in most cases, go right back to trying to kill each as soon as they were done fraternizing.

It puts some of us to shame. There are many of us who differ on issues, whether they be political, social, or ethnic, and we can't find the decency to be civil -- and so many of us have far more in common than the soldiers in those trenches eighty-nine years ago.

It just seemed like a beautiful moment; with so much to divide them, they managed to find things they actually had in common: they all wanted a peaceful Christmas; they all enjoyed a good old fashioned football game; and regardless of their uniforms, they were all human.

It's a good example.

Merry Christmas, and happy holidays to all.

"There is more to life than increasing its speed."
-Mahatma Gandhi

This line popped into my head as I sat in my car while waiting to pay my turnpike toll on the way to work yesterday. The usual rush hour traffic was exaggerated by the holiday shopping frenzy that generally occurs the last few days before Christmas.

The next thing I wondered to myself was why hadn't I joined the E-Z Pass crowd yet? Then I remembered, I believe E-Z Pass is one of the signals of the world's imminent demise -- and I'm sure my refusal to patronize this automated toll system will keep us all from perishing, at least for a little while longer.

There's even one of those technology commercials (I want to say it's an IBM ad, but I'm not sure), where one businessman is late to a meeting because he didn't have E-Z Pass. He is made to feel like an idiot because he's still stuck in the stone ages of handing his toll to an actual human being.

Wasteful though it may be, I still believe in handing my money to an actual (and sometimes) smiling person. Call me crazy (and there are people who will), but it warms my heart a little to think that there are still people who make really good money to take tolls simply because stragglers like me refuse to let their jobs become history.

And I know that when the powers that be decide to do away with actual humans in these positions, there won't be much I can do about it -- but I'll keep tilting at some windmills until I can't anymore, because no matter what other folks think, I still believe there are ideals that trump expediency.

I have just made a few additions to the poetry site, with a page titled "departures" -- for anyone who's interested.

"Met my old lover in the grocery store
The snow was falling Christmas Eve..."
-Dan Fogelberg

A long time ago I dated a girl who had the Dan Fogelberg song "Same Old Lang Syne" on a tape she had recorded from the radio. I remember it vividly, because she liked to play this tape all the time. I heard it hundreds of times in her company -- that alone would probably make it impossible for me to ever hear the song again without thinking of her.

What reinforces this song's stranglehold on my memory is the strange experience of actually running into her in a grocery store within a few days of Christmas a couple years ago. And you'd never guess the tune playing on the store's PA system when I spotted her.

I think I saw her first -- or I hope I did, because I'd be slightly embarrassed to think she saw me scramble around a corner to escape her line of sight.

It's strange. I used to really like that song...

I guess I should be grateful that she didn't ruin "Leader of the Band" for me, too.

I has occurred to me that anyone who writes for other people to read must be a bit of an exhibitionist, though I seldom think of myself that way. I think the fact that writers write alone, without immediate feedback, helps them forget that what they write could expose them to some degree. I was taught to keep my audience in mind when I write, but I tend to forget. I usually dismiss the notion that what I write will be read at all, a tendency that I believe keeps me a little more honest -- though honesty can be a double-edged sword.

I think it's better not to think too much about what other people will think of my writing. As scary as the thought of revealing myself to total strangers is, I find that my worst efforts are the ones I over-analyze. And I suppose I couldn't survive if I didn't attempt to say something I thought was meaningful and true.

"(I write) for my own reasons, not for literary reasons."
-Amy Tan

I like quotations, especially from people who spend time on the writing process. Several years ago, my oldest sister gave me a softbound journal called The Art of Writing (1995, Running Press). It contains about sixty pages of light gold parchment paper. On each page there is a quote about writing, usually from a writer. The quotes are meant to inspire creativity, I think...

Well, on June 29, 1995, I wrote my first and last entry in the journal my sister gave me. It wasn't that I didn't like it; on the contrary, I was afraid to ruin such beautiful pages with the sort of drivel I routinely scrawl in such books. I felt the book held more value to me as a sort of unorganized reference for quotations.

I own a few other useful quotation reference materials, as well as a collection I've scribbled myself from quotes I've heard and read. I even had one of those FranklinCovey organizers, complete with neat little quotations on each page. I always like reading these little snippets and figuring out how they might be relevant. I have often used them for jumping off points in my own informal writing, a way to get me going when I can't find a starting point.

"Driver 8, take a break-
-we can reach our destination."
-R.E.M.

I remember not liking some R.E.M. song lyrics, simply because they didn't make any particular sense to me. There was a time in my life when I had less tolerance for ambiguity. Now I notice that I appreciate some of those same lyrics, simply because they can be molded to mean something more particular to me. Case in point: the above quote from the song "Driver 8," which I wondered about for years.

I always thought of the song in terms of people I've known who seem to feel the world will spin wildly out of control without them having their hands on the wheel, so to speak. I guess if I was honest about it, I would confess to being one of those people on occasion.

It's a strange, unconscious arrogance some of us have, to believe that no one else will be able to hold down the fort. Of course, we are right sometimes, but it appears to be a fine line, the one between responsibility and self-importance -- a tightrope I'll confess to falling off of from time to time.

I like to think I'm getting a little closer, but, as the old song goes, I'm "still a ways away."

I upgraded to the new version of Blog a few days ago, and I think I like it, though I have been thrown off a little by some of the improvements to its user-friendliness.

I'm not one of those who has extensive skills in web design or html (in case you couldn't tell from my work here), but in recent months I have grown accustomed to some of the minor tricks. Now this new version has arrived, and I find it a little easier than I'm used to -- which, for blog software is a good thing. And I guess it does offer the option of using html as well as a "normal" option. I think I'll get used to it; the bugs appear to be minimal so far.

(Mr. Farook does fine work -- you can click the link on the sidebar to visit his site.)

I said something to someone yesterday, something I'd been contemplating saying for a while now.

What kept me from saying it sooner was my fear of it being the wrong thing to say, but once I went ahead and blurted it out, I felt a certain confidence that I was right to do so. I only hoped that the words I used would have the right meaning and effect.

-if that makes any sense to the outside world.

"Sunny came home with a list of names;
She didn't believe in transcendence."
-Shawn Colvin

This is the song lyric that popped into my head as I was contemplating the whole Saddam Hussein capture and the gung ho persona projected by our President -- except in this case, "Sunny" would be "sonny," I guess...

Okay, that was just the first thing I was thinking, but it did occur to me, with the many ramblings in the past several months from people who have accused President Bush of chasing Hussein as part of a cross-generational vendetta. And I heard a caller to a late-night talk radio show bring it back up, even in the wake of yesterday's triumphant moment.

I guess I'm in between, in that I didn't share the President's outward bravado going into this situation, but I think getting rid of a tyrant once and for all may be worth the struggle, as long as we don't drop the ball from here on out.

"The weapon of mass destruction has been found and now we can, and must, turn over a new page."
-Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi

It will be interesting to see what effect the capture of Saddam Hussein will have on the overall condition of Iraq. I will admit I was one of the people who thought it unlikely we would ever find him.

I am of the mind that this news should be of some help to the allied forces in Iraq. It should at least comfort a large number of people to think that there is no longer even a slim likelihood that he will come back to terrorize them. But even the President is warning that there will still be insurgencies against the forces on the ground in Iraq.

Still, I go back to the pleasant sensation of surprise I felt upon turning on my TV this morning and hearing the news. And I do suppose congratulations are in order -- like the Italian prime minister, I also considered Saddam the big prize in this struggle.

"Nothing like a bad decision says who you are.”
-Gin Blossoms

just a thought for all the struggles…
I'm not referring to the great sociopolitical debates of our time; mostly I'm just contemplating all the poor decisions along the way, often privately made -- often privately regretted. Personal choices whose consequences you couldn't quite see at the decisive moment. Not that you didn't know you were making a mistake at the time, but you just didn't think it would matter that much.

I used to think the above quote was a great truth of life, but now I think that it isn't the mistakes, but how (or whether) you recover from them that defines you. I've made many such mistakes, but the upside is that most bad decisions aren't heavy enough to sink you altogether. And if they are, well…

"I learned that you should feel when writing, not like Lord Byron on a mountain top, but like a child stringing beads in kindergarten -- happy, absorbed and quietly putting on one bead after another."
-Brenda Ueland (1891-1985)
American educator and writer

This is just how I feel about writing most of the time. Which is why when I feel a little strain about it, I've decided to insert a creative quote, followed by meager commentary, and call it a day.

An incident occurred the other day between two co-workers. One worker was seen physically assaulting the other. But that's not what bothered me most.

Not to excuse violence in a workplace (well, maybe I am excusing it a little), but the physical assault seemed to have been provoked by an ongoing assault of the verbal variety. At first, it was just one guy teasing another, but before long, a whole throng had joined in, including the immediate supervisor of the two employees. The worker who was being taunted asked them all to stop, even appealing to the supervisor, who should have been putting an end to it, but this just fanned the flames.

Like I said, I don't want to excuse the violence that occurred (no injuries, fortunately). But what burns me about the situation is the nature of the taunting in question. It was a classic example of sexual harassment, in that the constant verbal jabs were suggesting that the employee had had a certain relationship with another person believed to be gay.

Now the guy who was being teased is a guy who tends to be kind to other people; perhaps he does live an alternate lifestyle, or maybe he's just a really nice, sensitive guy -- I don't know. But I sometimes marvel (and not in a good way) at how petty and ignorant people can be. Some of the people who took part in the mob are people who, at times, pretend to be enlightened and politically correct. I was more than a little disappointed in several of these people.

Having been raised in a family with conservative religious beliefs, I find it strange how many other, less conservative folks seem so stuck in the past when it comes to lifestyle choices. I come from a place where I was taught homosexuality was wrong, but that we are to love the sinner, regardless of the sin. So, I have never been much for condemning people, simply because of that belief.

It seems strange that this is far from the first situation I've been in where I've defended someone against people who have claimed to be more progressive than me, and all the while these "progressive minded" people exhibit more hate and ignorance than the common stereotype of my own religious background.

I don't get it sometimes...

Al Gore endorsed Howard Dean for President yesterday.

I lamented in writing a while back of the Democratic Party's apparent inability to embrace the candidate who looked most like a "donkey." Dean was precisely the donkey I had in mind as I wrote my lament. I have to admit a bit of surprise, not just that he has since surged to the front of the pack, but also because he has now been endorsed by the former candidate I most associated with the Dems' lack of identity.

Strange, I guess. I myself, am not ready to pick my horse in next year's race, but if I do go big party this year, I'll most likely go for Dean. That is, if I can't find a less electable option.

"Fiction reveals truths that reality obscures."
-Jessamyn West (1907-1984)
American writer

-one of my favorite quotes about writing.
This is something I was reaching for, but couldn't quite find when I was writing about "autobiographical fiction" (12/3/03) I just came across it again today, so I thought to add it here.

I used to like to go down to this place in Bryn Mawr, a coffeehouse. I don't get out that way too often anymore, but I still try occasionally. Tuesday is open mic night, mostly music, not really a poetry thing. Not that it matters.

I always found it easy to write under those conditions. The funny thing is I can't always write, or think, with recorded music playing, but when it's a bunch of college students and frustrated local musicians, I have no problem. Anyway, I didn't really plan on doing anything like that tonight, but the thought has crept into my head.

I highly recommend the coffeehouse atmosphere if you're looking for something conducive to creative thought...

I thought I was steering clear of personal insults with my previously mentioned online discussion of labor matters, but judging by a recent reply from my old friend, I fear I may have struck a nerve somewhere along the way.

However it happened, his tone has gotten a bit nastier. Oh well...

I have been corresponding over the past several days with a former management person, a retiree of the company for which I have worked the past nine years. We have been disagreeing profusely on a couple basic points regarding the responsibilities of both corporations and and labor organizations. I want to clearly state my opinion of him as a decent and honorable fellow, no matter how staunchly I may oppose some of his opinions.

We got into an online discussion about companies having a responsibility to their employees. His view is that an company only owes its employees a legal wage and an opportunity for advancement. I agreed, but also maintained that there are many companies out there that offer both of those without really fulfilling their responsibilities to their workers. Whether it be an opportunity for affordable health coverage, retirement options or a living wage, many companies drop the ball with regard to their workers without violating the bare minimum of legal wages and advancement opportunities that he expressed.

He responded that it isn't the employer's task to take care of the workers; the employer's task, he said, is to make money and be a productive part of the economy. I half-agreed. It isn't the company's job to take care of a worker's every little concern, but there was a time when good companies did worry about their employees' quality of life -- when companies might have even sacrificed a pinch of profit to benefit their workers. But that seems long gone now.

I will interject that I am not one of those workers who feels my employer is delinquent in quality of life issues. I have to admit, I have been pretty well taken care of for the better part of the last decade, mainly because I am blessed to have a good job, one that challenges me from time to time -- but none-the-less, a good job.

But there are many places where the same cannot be said, and I have long been of the opinion that if a company is making a profit, some of the profit should be distributed to the workers who make the company profitable. In other words, if you make enough of a profit to pay your employees a living wage, you then have a (perhaps moral) obligation to do so.

My retired manager friend expressed the idea that companies have the highest obligation to maintain and, if at all possible, increase their profit margins, for the good of the overall economy and the shareholders (if applicable). He doesn't believe the employees rank as high on the profit priority list; I do. I think businesses should seek to take care of their people, while he thinks that labor organizations and people who support them are simply trying to drown the profitable businesses of the world for what he refers to as "nebulous reasons."

Suffice it to say, we do agree on many other things, but in this area, I don't think either one of us is on the same page.

I suppose it could be we're just wired differently. Who knows?

-Mark Twain

I probably need an editor. I'm convinced that I write too much and cross out too little. I did receive a fair amount of literary training, but I fear that my love for creating things far outweighs my desire to destroy them. I also enjoy planting and watering seeds more than pruning, encouraging people more than rebuking, and so on. Maybe it's a pattern; perhaps it's just a coincidence. That's all for now.

The most recent poem posted on the site is also the oldest -- so far.

It was written well over ten years ago. It tells a story loosely based on experiences I remember from a long time ago. It's what I started referring to several years ago as "autobiographical fiction." It isn't fact, but I like to think it's true, which leads me back in the direction of the manifesto link in my last post.

I decided to continue the thought process in a new essay I'd been considering posting on the "reason" page of the "streams" site. The new essay was stirred from the back of my mind recently by an online correspondent of mine, who referred to writing truth without necessarily using facts (or something to that effect).

Anyway, I think the new/old poem is that way, hopefully. Then again, it may be too narrowly-written to be understood by many people.

For whatever it's worth, it's there for now...

for anyone who was reading yesterday's post, but didn't make it to the bitter end: read this poem, if you haven't already. Also, you can check out the bio of Richard Wilbur.

She's quite impressive to me. I tell her she's beautiful, and she disagrees just enough to assure me that I'm right.

Years before I had her attention, she had mine. I knew I never had a chance with her, but I persistently pined for her. Many of the romantic poems I've written were inspired by her. Now I seem to have gotten her attention, and she has seen several of the rhymes she helped me write.

No longer unrequited, I find myself wondering what to do. I want to make all the right moves, but sometimes I feel unfamiliar, having spent so long believing my goal was out of reach. Other times, I'm full of enthusiasm and confidence, and I have to catch myself before I go overboard.

And sometimes I'm with her, and I think I'm lucky she even gives me the time of day.