Haunting Dreams

I'm there again. The house is different, slightly. I'm older. This time I'm buying the house and my father is with me, and we're walking around, looking at it.

This time the house is different, bigger, more rooms...rooms that were there before but we never noticed.

Each dream is unique, never quite the same. But each dream features that house.

Perhaps a part of our childhood will stay with us always, perhaps some parts are better as memories. Those memories can be so strong, so overpowering.

For the biggest part of my childhood, age 5 through 11, I lived in an old house in Sanford, Florida. It was over a hundred years old at the time, white, frame, two stories, large yard. It was the perfect house. Our later abodes were far less memorable in many ways....a mobile home, a tiny rented house, a two bedroom one bath ranch....

It's natural to remember that old house with fond memories, but things in my later life were so underwhelming, so disappointing, that the old house in Sanford was raised to lofty proportions. The morning after we moved out I woke up, looked around, and realized with sadness that we weren't there anymore. From that moment until the present, I have been haunted with dreams of the old place. Sometimes I will dream about it every night, sometimes I will go months without dreaming of it. But the dreams always return. Sometimes I'm buying the house, moving back in, sometimes it's bigger, more grandiose. It is impossible to describe how real some of those dreams are, so utterly real. I know, absolutely KNOW it's real as it's happening, I say to myself "This is real, this time I'm not dreaming, I'm really HERE". Without fail, every awakening brings sadness and overwhelming emptiness.

Last week I went back there. It's been 30 years. But I went back. As I drove up the street towards it, everything was familiar. I'd never left. Then...there it was. Look at it. I don't say a word, I just look, I look at the yard, I look at the windows, the front porch, the trees, the sidewalk. I get out of the car and walk around. Every board, every shrub is familiar. I know that place, I never forgot it.

It's yellow. It has vinyl siding...used to be white wood, the shrubs are very overgrown, the grass is not kept up. The whole neighborhood has gone downhill. There's a crazy, zig-zag fence in the backyard, and a huge metal garage in the far back, like for a business.

The whole place has shrunk. I don't know how, I'm no expert in physics, but I know it's smaller. The giant yard that hosted many a game of kick ball, now seems not giant at all. The big, wrap around porch is not very big. Even the length from the front steps to the sidewalk is smaller. The other houses in the neighborhood have gone through similar transitions.

There's a giant live-oak tree in the side yard that stretches over the whole yard and to the sky. My dad once threw a long rope over a high branch and made a swing for us....that branch was a mile high. That tree still seems huge, other trees are gone. Others....well, it's been 30 years, others are very big and old, but didn't exist when I lived there.

I was very tempted to walk up and ring the bell. I could ask to look around. I could offer to buy the place, it certainly needed fixing up. A crooked flag was strung across the front porch between two columns, an old sofa was on a side porch. I could restore it, put it back to it's former glory. Maybe it could blossom again, maybe it could grow again.

Maybe someday.

I walked back to my minivan, and told the wife and kids "Alright, let's go".

Hmm...Okay, on second thought...maybe not.

It may be possible for some people to "find themselves", and in some sci-fi sort of way, it may be possible for one to find an alternate version of themselves.

For me, it happened in Florida last week. There I was strolling down the beach, my shirt unbuttoned, a breeze blowing through my hair as I slowly looked around at what the tide brought in...and what it brought in was thousands upon thousands of dead fish, compliments of a red tide...and I was picking them up, one after the other, and putting them in a big bin I was dragging along with me.

What? Wait a second, that's not me! That's the ALTERNATE me...that's what I COULD have been...the real me is sitting on a third floor balcony of a very nice condo, WATCHING the other me. I sat there, sipping my drink, discussing investment real estate with another vacationer, trying to decide the break-even point on buying a condo to rent out, all the while eyeing the man on the beach.

I had seen him before, and a few others like him. They were old. They might not have been more than 40 or 50, but they were old for their years....their skin was dark and very wrinkled. Their hair long and grizzled, and with much grey. Their clothes spoke volumes, it spoke of years of usage and neglect. I wondered what their story was, did they quit school to live the life of a beach bum? Did they find themselves swallowed up with condos and resort hotels? Are they now living the only life they've trained themselves for? Did they lose that special girl they loved so much in their youth, because she wanted someone more responsible, someone who could provide for her and their kids?

I remember once hearing a teacher say that maturity is when you think of the future and not just the present. When you plan for tomorrow, when you give up good times right now so that you will be better off later. There's a lot of ways to say it but the meaning is the same.

And I'm sure the good readers of this post know where this is going. And there's no need to drag it out. Needless to say, we all make choices in life....who can ever say what a right choice is, or a wrong choice.

For me, I might have enjoyed the beach bum life, and it might have been fun for a while. But eventually I would have had to give it up, lest I become the alternate me, picking up dead fish on the beach for a living.

What is your ECD ?

I was in a meeting this afternoon; nothing special, just the weekly confessional.

“What did you do?”
“What is your ECD (estimated completion date)?”
“What are you going to do this week?”

The meeting was held in the extra large and fancy executive meeting room on the 15th floor. The chairs are covered in red velvet and there is a huge round table more befitting King Arthur than a bunch of computer geeks. The best thing about the room, though, is the view. One entire side of the room is glass from the floor to the ceiling. It faces north into Marietta and further on into Tennessee. On any day you can look out and down onto the tangled intermingling of gray ribbon highways. Eighteen wheeled monsters muscle out lesser vehicles as they merge and weave there way through the traffic. Cars break down and well meaning police and ambulance drivers worsen the situation with their hypnotic rubber neck inspiring lights.

Today, however God threw rain at those windows. At first the rain came in small taps, like a shy kid knocking at your door. Then the tapping became more urgent and adamant for attention. I looked over from my slice of the round table and saw the blankets of rain swirling and twisting. The rain was riding on an invisible wave that smashed against the mirrored exterior of the building and sent it sprawling in all directions. The thunder that had been building in the distance was now booming and close and lightning bolts burst like capillaries in the sky. In an instant I was looking out the window of my third grade class onto the playground.

There was a retarded kid named Eddie that sat behind me and made sounds like the wind blowing (when he wasn’t eating red crayons). The wind sound that Eddie made was so realistic that he could break your arm out in goose bumps from the anticipation of the chill. Many days I thought that there was a white squall minutes away from destroying the school only to realize the storm had originated from Eddie’s mouth. Once I went to a birthday party for Eddie and learned that I was way too obedient to win at Simon Says.

“Simon says Standup”.
And I would stand up.
“Sit down”.
And I would sit down.

I was the first one out, three times in a row and the early loser of the game. I sat and pouted as the other kids played out the remainder of the game.

“Pin the tail on the donkey, now that is a game” I said to myself.
“Simon Says is for babies” I added to make myself smile.

A huge crack of thunder split the air like a strike from God’s bowling alley and I was back in my slice of the meeting table.

“GS3 what have you been doing this week” my manager asked ready to document my response”

“Looking out the window” I said in my little voice.
“Looking out the window”.

Like water off a ducks back

Poor B, for someone who waited so long to get married, I wish that she had waited even longer. Not only did I loose an excellent hair dresser and wonderfully eccentric friend when her new husband whisked her off to Florida, but I have been led to the impression that the guy is a nutball. He is very jealous and controlling and has pretty much sequestered B in a hardwood-floored tower (he installs hardwood flooring) away from her friends.

I remember going out with B one night when the nutball was new in her life (she actually was dating two nutballs at the time).The whole evening was spent with her telling me all about the both of them. I could not help but to think (while she bombarded me relentlessly with joy-inspired, cryptic ramblings) that normal guys like me don't have a chance (this has been a topic on this blog before). A guy like me could never get a date with a B. What makes it worse is that if you rule out the appearance factor (I am told B's current hubby is no Clark Gable), I really cannot pin point what makes one guy attractive and another labeled with the “friend” curse. I have been around the block long enough to know that in general (not always) women like a challenge. They like for a guy to be rough around the edges. They like a project. It is no fun to get someone that is ready to go right off the shelf. But I can't help but wonder that as women get older; do they change what they look for in men? Does there come a time when the James Deans and Marlon Brandos of the world loose their appeal and all of the sudden a Rick Moranis or a Norm Abrams becomes more appealing?

My own father is shacked up with a twenty-four year old, big butt swishing moocher. It is amazing how a free house, a Ford Expedition, free child care and free college tuition will melt the years off of a 62 year old man and render him into an acceptable life partner. Each week I call my dad to get my dose of verbal abuse and he laments to me that “S is the only person that gives a shit if I eat or not!” This week he elaborated on his usual rant with the “I just might leave everything (money, property) to S, and you and T and T (my brother and sister) can kiss my ass!” I must admit that the thought of my grandmothers antiques and my great grandfather’s land in the possession of that little moocher hit a nerve with me. I wonder what my ancestors would think about the Shirley legacy being left to a bad waitress my dad met at the waffle house.

Back to B. For those of you that did not have the pleasure of knowing B, she was like a ray of sunshine. Nothing could rain on her parade (including reality). In some respects B was like Michael Jackson. Not that she molested children (I know he was declared innocent, right?), but that she did not seem to live in this world. Michael Jackson retreats from the world by going to the Neverland Ranch and B retreated from the world by living inside her own head. With every haircut that B gave me, she shared stories of possible dates with famous boyfriends and lucrative business plans to sell her famous makeup travel case. I may never know how based in this world B’s stories were but the joy on her face as she shared these dreams beamed like a breach from a nuclear power plant.

A friend at work was telling me about a friend of his girlfriend. Evidentially she is quite a hot-little number and could probably have her pick of men. However, her boyfriend is in jail. As a matter of fact, she is going to marry him before he gets released. When I hear stories like this, once again I am filled with wonder. If I went to jail, D wouldn’t send me a tube of Preparation H to cool off my over-used ass. What differentiates guys that can inspire fierce loyalty in women and guys that couldn’t get pissed on if they were on fire? Is it a big dick? Is it that the guy reminds them of their father? Is it that there is some sick need inside them that needs to be treated like shit? Or maybe it is something indefinable. Something that is not known until it is seen. Maybe geeks like me need to stop worrying about shit like this and enjoy the women that do like them. Regardless of the answer to my philosophical question, B I hope that you continue to let your smile be your umbrella.

This mess I have made

A lot of shit went down in 1985. My grandmother Mama Ruby had a stroke and died right in front of me on the blue and white checkered linoleum of her kitchen floor. It was also the year the Dire Straights came out with the Brothers in Arms album. You could not turn on a radio without hearing Mark Knopfler grumbling about getting your money for nothing and your chicks for free. There was only one season that year: summer, and it rained everyday.

During the summer of 1985, I was taking an “Into to Psychology” course at the Dunwoody campus of Dekalb Community College. I had a huge crush on a curly-haired, trench coat wearing classmate named Wendy Ivey. Wendy was four years older than me, which put her at a respectable 23 years old. Understandably, I lied to her and told her that I was also 23. I think she believed me. Wendy was one of many ex University of Georgia students at Dekalb whose grades had fallen on hard times. She was attending Dekalb College to jump start her GPA, make a little money working at the newly built Galleria Mall and hopefully return to Athens one day.

Wendy was the coolest girl that I had ever met. She liked to drink beer and talk about going to Scotland. We were going to be expatriates. One day we skipped class and hung out by the old mill ruins at Vickory Creek in Roswell. It was jungle hot that day and while Wendy worked on her tan, I drank sun-warmed beer and attempted sneaky glimpses at her cleavage (which was more than ample). Another day, she took me on a long car ride to visit her boyfriend in Athens. We listened to Bob Marley on her car cassette deck for the entire trip. It was the first time that I had heard the song, “Jammin” and I loved it. Wendy’s boyfriend lived with his roommates in a typical “guy apartment” full of empty beer bottles and a bong adorned coffee table. He was tall and blonde and nice and funny, so understandably I hated him. I remember standing uncomfortably by the “tree that owns itself” while Wendy and her man tried to work in some abbreviated loving in his cleanliness impaired apartment. I remember thinking, “Here I am with a fucking tree and he is inside with her”. “I am such a loser”. Finally she immerged from the frat cave, flushed and happy and talking about going to see a band called the “Swimming Pool Q’s”. The ride home was not near as fun as the ride out, and an electrical short began to form in my head as the beer worked on the area between my brain and mouth. I don’t remember what I said, but I do remember that the vibe in the car got thick and uncomfortable and Atlanta seemed a hell of a long way away.

Wendy was a great proponent of psychedelic experimentation. In an effort to cure my own curiosity and incur her favor I arranged through her to purchase a vehicle to transport me and a friend to an alternate reality. Under the guise of borrowing a text book, I rushed to her house one evening and collected the aforementioned substance on two Chiclets-sized pieces of paper, resting deep between the pages of chapter 8. It was this attempt at impressing Wendy by engaging in one of her favorite pastimes that eventually soured our friendship. In short, I never paid her the ten bucks for the product (ten bucks was a lot of money in those days). Those ten dollar bills became the piece of sand that irritated the oyster. Only instead of making a beautiful pearl, it made a great black sore spot in our relationship. Two, three, four times she asked me for the money and each time I turned out empty pockets. My lack of repayment for my purchase was due more to irresponsibility than intention. For some reason I was sure that she would turn away my ten and credit my purchase to the house. I was childishly wrong.

Time went by and after many weeks of trying I finally got through to Wendy on the telephone. The level of irritation that she had towards me was made evident through a voice that seemed to be forced through a clenched lips.

“I am engaged to a real Scotsman, now”
“I met him on the beach”
“Oh, really” I said. “Are you going to get to go to Scotland?” I asked her.
“In a month”
“That’s great” I said with regret and jealousy in my heart.
“You know I still work at the radio station” I said trying to thin out the slow and heavy conversation.
“I gotta go, my mom needs me”, she said not interested.
“Okay” I said meekly and listened to the finality of the dial tone.

That was the last time I spoke to Wendy. Man, I sure can make a mess. Some fuck ups you never get the chance to fix.

Do It Now!! NOW!!!

Children's merriment and joy,
All the hopes we used to know.
All the dreams we used to have,
In the oh so long ago.

As our souls are soaring high,
To the furthest reaching stars.
Can you here those voices sing,
Of the treasures to be ours?

If we started once again,
Would we walk a different track?
Could we change a slight degree,
Change our course and not look back?

It's been long years since last we trod,
Along these avenues of dreams.
And yet we see through filtered hearts,
The sunlit end where hope still gleams.


Have a dream? Have an ambition? Ever want to do something different with your life? Let me ask you this, how many oppurtunities have you passed up to be where you are right now? And what wonderful dreams are you still planning for "someday"?

Let's go back in time. Come with me...come back to a place far away and a time long ago...back to your childhood. You used to say "when I grow up..." now finish that sentence in your head. "When I grow up....".

Now let's move forward, move forward....to high school or maybe college or maybe that first job you ever had. You had such big dreams, such high hopes! Anything is possible, everything is before you! Maybe you had a goal, a plan. Maybe you had a dream.

Now come back with me to now. To the present. How long has it been since those early days? Five years? Ten? Twenty years? How far are you from where you thought you would be? Let's ask someone a simple question, let's ask that little child who used to say "when I grow up..." what they think of this adult. "Little child, this adult had big plans and dreams just like you. This adult didn't fulfill those dreams. What do you think of this adult?"

Now let's ask that cocky 20ish person who was going to move the world what they think. "What do you think? Are you disappointed? Depressed? Does it bother you that this person is so far off from where you thought they should be?"

Okay, the truth is we ALL end up different from what we planned. But in the end, when all is said and done, when that great hour is upon you, and time will be no more for you, the last thoughts of a dying soul will be "I should have spent more time at the office..."

Think that's ridiculous? Well then think what your dying thoughts WILL be. What regrets will you have? What "might have beens" will you dwell on?

We all have dreams...ALL of us. But time is a relentless pursuer, and the dreams begin to fade like the last glimmer of sun on a late summer's evening....until they are gone!

I have a friend who wants to start his own business. The nature of it is irrelevant, it's something the average person would not consider. But that's his DREAM! Ignoring it is like ignoring who you are. I know someone else considering moving to San Diego. Don't wait!! Go!! Don't sit here, year after year, thinking about doing it and not doing it.

I was recently told by a coworker that I had outlived my usefulness. It's true. I'm a has-been. My time in the sun has gone but I don't yet realize it. My only reason for coming to work is to provide for my family. On my deathbed I will not give a red rat's ass about the software I'm currently devoting my life to. I have other dreams, other hopes...I have faith in a different future for myself. Will I follow those dreams? Or will I sit here, year after year, day in and day out, caring less and less, and becoming less noticed, less important.

What are you dreams? What do you want out of life? What do you want to be when you grow up? Now what are you doing to get there? Think it might take a long time? If it takes five years to reach your goal and you decide not to try....guess what, in five years you'll be five years older and no closer to your goal.

Wait a few years, maybe longer, keep putting it off, and do you know where you'll be many years from now? Look around you...that's where.

In our last hour we still have a chance to shine. In our final moment we still live! Until the end comes, life is there. Make it worth living.

Almost There

I almost made a pilgrimage to Nick Drake’s hometown. For those of you not familiar with Nick, he was an English folk singer/ guitarist who left this planet way too soon. Nick was only 26 years old, when he died on Thanksgiving Day, 1974. He had been suffering from severe depression and took an overdose of antidepressant drugs. No one knows if his death was intentional or accidental. Nick’s music is very haunting. Some of his songs have crept into my dreams. More than once I have awakened in the small hours of the morning with Nick’s unusually pitiful and wailing voice sounding the lyrics of “Black Dog” off the walls of my brain. Believe me, there is no going back to sleep after that dirge runs through your processor.

Two years ago, I found myself back in London. It was May, and in contrast to the murderous winter that I had experienced the last time I was there, the weather was pure gorgeous springtime. I had set aside a day in my vacation, to go see Nick. Nick came from a small town in the midlands of England called Tanworth-In-Arden. A three hour train ride from Paddington Station to Wood End and you are there. My trip to see Nick was fully prepared. I even knew the name of the street he lived on (Bates Lane) and that his house was called Far Leys. I even knew where he was buried. In the center of Tanworth-In-Arden is a church called the Parish Church of St. Mary Magdalene. Under a big oak tree, beside a well worn path is the small unobtrusive gravestone of Nick and his parents. I had made the journey to this place many times in my dreams (although I can never find Nick’s grave for some weird reason). I have imagined myself walking down Bates Lane, trying not to look out of place, while searching for a gate with the words Far Leys on it. I have imagined having a few pints in the pub before getting the courage up to take a walk in the church yard.

The day I had scheduled to go to Tanworth-In-Arden, I got up early and told D I was going to be gone all day. But something was stopping me. Normally nothing can get in between GS3 and his objectives but something was telling me to stay in London with D. Maybe part of me wanted this adventure to stay in my heart and remain unresolved. Maybe if I saw Nick’s grave, my dreams (although I could lose the scary ones) would stop. Maybe I was just worried about D becoming the next victim of the Ripper. Whatever the reason, I never made it out to see Nick that day. I always tease myself that the next time D heads off on one of her trips I am going to zoom over there (stand by of course) and complete my mission. Looking back on things, I should have shook off whatever was holding me back that day, and just hopped on that train. I still don’t know why I did not go. I was almost there.

"Where have all the beach-bum-dreams gone.... Long time passing..."

Having a full wall-sized mural of a beach scene on your dorm room wall makes you a little more popular, or more interesting at least. But for me, it was more than just a picture, it was an obsession. It's almost amazing I even made it as far as college, considering I once dreamed of moving to a Caribbean Island and getting a job at a resort as a dishwasher, just to be near the beach.

By the time I was 20, it was full blown. I had spent a month in the Bahamas and had come back with treasures to decorate my room and life, as well as a head full of ideas about getting a small boat to live on, and a fishing pole, cast net, and diving gear. I had a goal. A career choice. A dream.

I researched, went to the library, looked up maps of beaches and what kind of fish are good to eat and easy to catch. I knew which beaches would let someone camp out indefinitely, where to anchor my boat, and where to start diving for treasure. South Florida and the Caribbean was all I could think about. Names and words like Turks and Caicos, Mangrove swamps, Barbados, Spanish galleon, Dry Tortugas...they all swirled in my head like taunting, ungraspable images.

Anyone who ventured into my dorm room would have assumed I was studying marine biology. One look at the salt-water aquarium, the decorative fishnet and starfish on the wall, the pictures and posters of tropical scenes, you would wonder what I was doing there and not at a college closer to the beach. Indeed, I actually went to Armstrong State College in Savannah for one quarter for the sole reason that it was close to the ocean.

Songs swirled through my head like Beach Baby, Sloop John B., and Kokomo. In the early fall, when the bright green leaves of summer began to show the first hint of red, and a the slight crispness and long afternoon shadows gave an atmosphere both cheery and mournful, I didn't think of Halloween or hayrides, I thought of...it was time to go. I could feel a pull in my blood towards warmer climates and sandy beaches, a pull like the urge of a salmon to swim upstream for hundreds of miles. A desire I could hardly put into words, but felt as powerfully as any obsession I'd known.

Now, 20 years later, my dive gear sits in a box in the basement, my wall mural is rolled up and stored in the attic, and my wife is unlikely to agree to live on a boat with our two kids while I try and catch dinner and dive for treasure. Damn this bothersome streak of responsibility...got to go to college, got to get a job, got to make money...blah blah blah...

It's not that I regret having my family, they are my greatest joy. However, I wonder what happened to my youth, and my dreams, and my desire for the sound of the surf to lull me to sleep, and wake me at dawn.....the gentle sea breezes blowing open my unbuttoned shirt as I stroll under palm trees, looking for whatever the tide brought in the night before.... gently strolling, without a care in the world.