Case,
Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, which means finally I can stop reminding myself to buy a card for your mom. Actually, I haven't been putting off buying the card for the usual reasons -- I always remember important things at the worst possible time (I tend to be reminded of what I need to do between the hours of 11 p.m. and 2 a.m. when doing them is impossible) and I have made a frustrating sport of procrastination (I apparently don't have enough deadline pressure at work). No, I've been putting this off because I wanted to write something more than "I love you, baby" on the card. I've written thousands upon thousands of words over the last six years. Writing saved my life. But your mom showed me why it was worth saving. I feel bad that I've been so busy that I haven't come up with another poem or song to write on that card (sorry, baby; I really do love you -- more than ever). So, in lieu of that, I'm going to leave you with a few words I wrote about your mom when I first realized she was the one I wanted to put off buying Valentine's Day cards for (side note: don't ever let anyone tell you you can't end a sentence with a preposition). When you get older, I can show my "work" from the days before your mom came along. It's important to me, and I think much of it will be useful to you. But until then, trust me that what you are about to read is a seismic shift in how one man sees the world.
Four in one
You don't just make me laugh
You don't just make me smile
You make me feel like new again
despite the many miles
You don't just give me hope
You don't just give me praise
You make me feel like I can't wait
to greet the coming days
I've known smart and I've known funny
I've known beautiful and cool
But to know all four in one
I know I'm a lucky fool
You don't just make my day
You don't just make my night
You make me feel that in between
I'm doing something right
You don't just give me hope
You don't just give me praise
You make me feel that I have reached
the end of this long maze
You don't just take the cake
You surely take the time
And unafraid you ventured in
with quick wit and like mind
You see me like a scope
without a hint of haze
The focus of a pretty sight
on which I fix my gaze
I've known smart and I've known funny
I've known beautiful and cool
But to know all four in one
I know I'm a lucky fool
You don't just make me laugh
You don't just make me smile
You make me feel like new again
despite the many miles
You don't just give me hope
You give me something more
You make me feel like I have found
what I'd stopped looking for
Love,
Dad
Monday, February 13, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Poe, boy
Case,
Been a little busy lately; sorry I haven't stopped by.
Nothing significant is coalescing in this big brain of mine at the moment, but our recent trip to Baltimore and unsuccessful attempt to eat at an Edgar Allen Poe-themed restaurant reminded me of a writing from a few years ago.
I couldn't sleep after a long day of work and I ended up watching an educational video on the (in)famous writer. I've been a fan of Poe since my teens, and I found out early in our relationship that he is your mom's favorite writer. I had no idea when I started watching, and it turns out this writing is the first thing that led your mom to think it was worth pursuing an NFL-obsessed, fashion-deficient guy who could turn a rhyme now and then. The show was interesting enough that it got me thinking -- and pacing -- at 3 a.m. After about an hour of milling around my small apartment to keep the creative juices flowing, I looked down at the notebook I had been scribbling intermittently on this is what I had:
(I know this is a bit dark, but so was Poe. To me, his significance lies not in the macabre themes he so often mined, but in his love for the act of writing, which I believe, despite the subject matter, was therapeutic and necessary for a man beset by misfortune, whether by his own hand or simply cruel fate. I'm mot trying to compare myself to Poe (I have much nicer hair at the moment and I would never live in Baltimore), but I understand what it's like to use writing to clear your head (or, as your mom might put it, to get out of my own head). Poe lived a rough life, but it was writing that saved him (for a while) from slipping into the darkness that seemed to surround him. I don't know if writing will be part of your life, but we all have creative endeavors that serve as a catharsis, that allow the record (or CD, or whatever it is you kids listen to these days) to get unstuck once it starts skipping. It's funny that I got off on this tangent because it reminds me that it wasn't so much that I've been busy as that I've been stuck in the same groove (google "what is a vinyl album" and you'll get the reference). Now that I've emptied some more thoughts (many of which I didn't even know I had) onto this page, I feel liberated. I feel good. I feel like I want to write more (and I will later, but I have to leave soon and go to the gym; I don't want to go to the gym). I'm guessing that Poe, given his history, felt the freeing effects of creativity, even if he was writing about the death of his one true love. So whether you gravitate toward writing or painting or cooking or calligraphy or glassblowing or whatever, make time to do the thing(s) that makes you feel good. Even if that thing is writing -- as Edgar and I did -- about what's making you feel bad. Because the bad will always fade, one way or another, while what you create -- whether you're a struggling, snakebit writer who becomes wildly famous after death or a regular guy just trying to leave something special behind for someone -- lives forever.)
Edgar was a genius
Edgar was a genius who died penniless and drunk
Every ship he tried to sail inevitably sunk
Edgar stood on principle but fell more than he should
With all those smarts he couldn't help himself -- and he never would
Edgar went to Washington in hopes of finding work
He showed up stinkin' drunk; it was sabotage not quirk
Edgar met the president when he got a second shot
But he tried to sell him magazines ... I kid you not
The Raven was a masterpiece
The monkey killed them all
The heart would not stop beating
The red death cast a pall
Anabelle lay by the sea
in a lonely sepulcher
Ed's premature burial
began when he lost her
Edgar was a letters man, a man before his time
He invented the detective who figured out the crime
Edgar could be arrogant, insuff'rable and rude
A professional antagonist, he was never in the mood
Edgar didn't know it on that street in Baltimore
He'd someday get his due, respect, much praise and even more
Edgar had his share of loss in which he was to wallow
But his words live on into this day and many since have followed
The Raven was a masterpiece
The monkey killed them all
The heart would not stop beating
The red death cast a pall
Anabelle lay by the sea
in a lonely sepulcher
Ed's premature burial
began when he lost her
Edgar loved his mothers and also loved his cousin
He hated all his daddies, lived heartaches by the dozen
Edgar had his issues but had plenty love to give
But everyone he gave it to was destined not to live
Edgar had the Midas touch if Midas were the Reaper
Fate was not a friend; his bride he could not keep her
Edgar never understood what life was all about
His logic turned to madness before the lights went out
The Raven was a masterpiece
The monkey killed them all
The heart would not stop beating
The red death cast a pall
Anabelle lay by the sea
in a lonely sepulcher
Ed's premature burial
began when he lost her
Edgar was discovered in the outfit of another
He spent most of his years not too far from that damn gutter
Edgar had imagined all our final destinations
He needed for the afterlife to not be his creation
Did his nightmare finally end
when he left this mortal coil?
Did he find the peace he sought
no longer playing life's sad foil?
Did the darkness that had set in
with him six feet under soil
release from his torment,
his trouble and his toil?
Or did death extend its welcome hand
to one who'd been so loyal?
Love,
Dad
Been a little busy lately; sorry I haven't stopped by.
Nothing significant is coalescing in this big brain of mine at the moment, but our recent trip to Baltimore and unsuccessful attempt to eat at an Edgar Allen Poe-themed restaurant reminded me of a writing from a few years ago.
I couldn't sleep after a long day of work and I ended up watching an educational video on the (in)famous writer. I've been a fan of Poe since my teens, and I found out early in our relationship that he is your mom's favorite writer. I had no idea when I started watching, and it turns out this writing is the first thing that led your mom to think it was worth pursuing an NFL-obsessed, fashion-deficient guy who could turn a rhyme now and then. The show was interesting enough that it got me thinking -- and pacing -- at 3 a.m. After about an hour of milling around my small apartment to keep the creative juices flowing, I looked down at the notebook I had been scribbling intermittently on this is what I had:
(I know this is a bit dark, but so was Poe. To me, his significance lies not in the macabre themes he so often mined, but in his love for the act of writing, which I believe, despite the subject matter, was therapeutic and necessary for a man beset by misfortune, whether by his own hand or simply cruel fate. I'm mot trying to compare myself to Poe (I have much nicer hair at the moment and I would never live in Baltimore), but I understand what it's like to use writing to clear your head (or, as your mom might put it, to get out of my own head). Poe lived a rough life, but it was writing that saved him (for a while) from slipping into the darkness that seemed to surround him. I don't know if writing will be part of your life, but we all have creative endeavors that serve as a catharsis, that allow the record (or CD, or whatever it is you kids listen to these days) to get unstuck once it starts skipping. It's funny that I got off on this tangent because it reminds me that it wasn't so much that I've been busy as that I've been stuck in the same groove (google "what is a vinyl album" and you'll get the reference). Now that I've emptied some more thoughts (many of which I didn't even know I had) onto this page, I feel liberated. I feel good. I feel like I want to write more (and I will later, but I have to leave soon and go to the gym; I don't want to go to the gym). I'm guessing that Poe, given his history, felt the freeing effects of creativity, even if he was writing about the death of his one true love. So whether you gravitate toward writing or painting or cooking or calligraphy or glassblowing or whatever, make time to do the thing(s) that makes you feel good. Even if that thing is writing -- as Edgar and I did -- about what's making you feel bad. Because the bad will always fade, one way or another, while what you create -- whether you're a struggling, snakebit writer who becomes wildly famous after death or a regular guy just trying to leave something special behind for someone -- lives forever.)
Edgar was a genius
Edgar was a genius who died penniless and drunk
Every ship he tried to sail inevitably sunk
Edgar stood on principle but fell more than he should
With all those smarts he couldn't help himself -- and he never would
Edgar went to Washington in hopes of finding work
He showed up stinkin' drunk; it was sabotage not quirk
Edgar met the president when he got a second shot
But he tried to sell him magazines ... I kid you not
The Raven was a masterpiece
The monkey killed them all
The heart would not stop beating
The red death cast a pall
Anabelle lay by the sea
in a lonely sepulcher
Ed's premature burial
began when he lost her
Edgar was a letters man, a man before his time
He invented the detective who figured out the crime
Edgar could be arrogant, insuff'rable and rude
A professional antagonist, he was never in the mood
Edgar didn't know it on that street in Baltimore
He'd someday get his due, respect, much praise and even more
Edgar had his share of loss in which he was to wallow
But his words live on into this day and many since have followed
The Raven was a masterpiece
The monkey killed them all
The heart would not stop beating
The red death cast a pall
Anabelle lay by the sea
in a lonely sepulcher
Ed's premature burial
began when he lost her
Edgar loved his mothers and also loved his cousin
He hated all his daddies, lived heartaches by the dozen
Edgar had his issues but had plenty love to give
But everyone he gave it to was destined not to live
Edgar had the Midas touch if Midas were the Reaper
Fate was not a friend; his bride he could not keep her
Edgar never understood what life was all about
His logic turned to madness before the lights went out
The Raven was a masterpiece
The monkey killed them all
The heart would not stop beating
The red death cast a pall
Anabelle lay by the sea
in a lonely sepulcher
Ed's premature burial
began when he lost her
Edgar was discovered in the outfit of another
He spent most of his years not too far from that damn gutter
Edgar had imagined all our final destinations
He needed for the afterlife to not be his creation
Did his nightmare finally end
when he left this mortal coil?
Did he find the peace he sought
no longer playing life's sad foil?
Did the darkness that had set in
with him six feet under soil
release from his torment,
his trouble and his toil?
Or did death extend its welcome hand
to one who'd been so loyal?
Love,
Dad
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