The Eye of the Storm

Shelters and havens,

Protection from the tempest

Safe harbors to rest

Oasis in the chaos

Whilst in the eye of the storm.

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The Secret Present

Secret Santa, Secret Santa, bring me my gift.

Make it so heavy that it’s hard to lift,

Wrap it in paper, stick it with a bow,

Under the tree is where it should go.

On Christmas day, I’ll grab it up quick,

And tear open the package with just a flick,

Revealing the gift that’s hidden inside,

“Just what I wanted!” knowing I lied.

And just remember this part, don’t forget,

We all agreed on a boundary, preset,

You can’t spend more than the ten-dollar limit,

Ok, fine, spend twenty, just never admit.

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Resolutions

Somewhere in this stack of life,

I made a list and checked it twice.

It was a list of things to get done,

A so called ‘New Year Resolution’.

I sat and added thing after thing,

Stuff to change, the new to bring.

The list was long and full of hope,

A lot more awesome, a little less dope.

I held my list up high and cried,

“I’ll do it this year, that’s no lie!”

Then placed it down and started to dance,

This year my life was not left to chance.

When I stopped, the list was not found,

It must have blown away while I danced around.

A sad look found its way to my face,

I slouched my shoulder, slowed my pace.

Then a grand thought occurred to me,

“Who needs resolutions? After all, they’re silly.”

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January 2nd

I’m a man of resolutions, the few I make each year,

Promises I proclaim,

Intentions very clear.

I’ll start to enjoy my life, I’ll get more sleep,

I’ll even lose some weight,

These promises I’ll keep.

These New Year’s professions, hopes said to the wind,

Then comes January second,

And the resolutions end.

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Looking Around the House

Christmas time is hear again,

And holiday cheer fills the air.

Christmas Eve Sarajevo by TSO

Plays on my Pandora station.

Stockings hung on the bookshelf

With names turned out but one,

Ornaments cracked and shattered,

While the tree lies on the floor,

Thanks to the cats.

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Writer’s Ramblings

I have been writing since I was in elementary school. I mean, the creative kind, not the other. I have obviously been writing since before kindergarten… well, maybe not so obvious.. and look.. a bunny trail right off the bat. (I can already hear my wife saying “Focus”) Ok, so.. as I was saying.. writing, elementary, creative.. ok.. back on track.

In that time frame I have had hundreds of stories that I have wanted to write. Ideas so grand that they would have been spectacular to read. If… I could only get them out of my head. There are times when I come across a story and I look at my wife and say, “That was my story from 20 years ago.” or I see someone with a name that I created when I was a teenager and I tell her, “I made that name.”

Everytime I do, she has the same response. She looks at me lovingly, sorrow filling her eyes, sympathy spreading from her heart out towards me as she embraces me in a loving hug and pats my head and strokes my hair and tells me, “You should have written the story then.”

Ok, none of that is true, except for that last part. She totally just drives that nail straight into my heart and, personally, I think she enjoys it a bit too much. I married a sadistic woman… but everyone that knows her will think I am lying because she is the nicest person any of them have ever met (or close enough that it’s just a matter of semantics).

I’m not really sure what it is that stops me. Sometimes I get bored with the story because I completed it in my head, sometimes I don’t think I’m good enough, sometimes I let every distraction get in my way, and sometimes procrastination is way too comfortable.

Then there is this blog. A source of enjoyment because I can complete something. Creating in itself a sense of accomplishment that I am truly writing and finishing something, even though it is more akin to eating cake then a proper meal. It’s the sugar rush without the content. It is an interesting conundrum.

Excuse me while I go bang my head on the desk…

Ok… now that I am done self deprecating, I do have several stories I am working out. One in particular has hit an interesting snag with the plot and I have slowly been working it out. Another has an enemy issue. Then there is the one that is a trilogy that just seems daunting every time I even think about it.

I really should just start writing them. Just get it out of my head, blow through the excuses, and do it.

At least that way I wouldn’t have to hear my wife say “You should have written the story then.”

Again.

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Little White Truths

I am a horrible person.

There, I admitted it. Not a surprise to those that know me, I am sure. But to those that don’t, this may come as a shock. Now, I know many might be asking what nefarious thing have I gone and done this time, but I will get to that shortly. I just feel with the Christmas time being so near, I need to clear the air about my wrong doing. Or rather, about my… not wrong doing… as it truly would be stated.

See, I don’t lie. Not the big fat ugly ones, not the little innocent white ones. So much so that I have told my wife pretty plainly, “Don’t ask me a question you don’t want an answer too.” As she is sure to eventually ask the dreaded question all husbands seem to lie about…”Does this make me look fat?” to which I would have to respond in a manner that would deprive me of… well, marital bliss… shall we say.

So why would I be apologizing for not lying? Well…. see, that’s not what I am apologizing for. I am apologizing because in the fact that I take great pride in not lying, I do tend to manipulate the way the truth is told. I have learned a lot of ‘trade’ or ‘craft’ secrets when it comes to disseminating information in a manner that leaves the hearer the ability to fill the holes in as they would.

Now a prime example of this would be how I find information out. It’s a great tactic, and if there are any parents reading this, you are free to use this on your children if you want. If there are children reading this, well.. stop reading this particular entry and go check out my Count Your Blessings blogs… after all it’s Christmas, you should be thankful, right?

Ok, now that the kids are away… here is a prime example of one of the ways I manipulate the truth without lying. I would sit at the dinner table with my kids, and during a quiet moment, look over at them and simply ask, “Why would your teacher contact me about your behavior in school today?” They would stop, look at each other with the look that spoke volumes about how they hated their sibling for tattling on them, and then they would start to spill the proverbial beans about what they did wrong that day.

I know… fantastic! Right?

I never told them the teacher called, I simply made asked them a question. It is a glorious tactic, one that has led me into more information than I might want to know about the on-goings of my children, but glorious none the less. Feel free to try it.

I also tend to steer around telling a flat out truth, almost finding it a game of “Keep Away” when it comes to some truth I know that I don’t want to reveal. My children have learned that I do this and knowing that I won’t lie to them, have taken it as a challenge to ask better questions.. or just stopped caring to find out.. hrm, maybe that’s why we don’t talk as much as we use too..

Anyway… when faced with avoiding having to tell a truth, questions are great and become a tactic by using them as a diversion or a counter method toward the questions being asked (see disclaimer at the bottom). I would give some examples from my own life, however nothing is coming to my mind at the moment (or I am holding back and deciding not to share any of my trade secrets… it’s one or the other).

Now, yes, there are those that would argue that this is, in fact, lying. I’m not here to argue that point, but more clear the air before Santa comes, because this year, I really want to get my Red Ryder BB Gun with compass in stock.

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(DISCLAIMER… I have a policy that I can not use this tactic when it comes to my wife. One, she would hurt me, two, it’s just not right to keep secrets from your spouse, that can be dangerous (see first point))

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Brewster’s Problems

Given the ability to do what I want,

With no thought to extravagance or to cost,

I’d find myself wanting to just end the day,

Cause in my head I would just get lost.

No, seriously.. I wouldn’t even know where to begin…

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Name Calling

Nerd, geek, dork and dweeb,

Names used to call me,

But not like most,

I tend to boast,

At least it’s me they see.

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Boot Camp

Scout the Protector

The room was getting dark in the later afternoon, as the sun’s last rays shone into it. Emily lay on the floor, looking at the cat hiding under the dresser. His black fur absorbing the light, making his outline fade into the shadows. His eyes were aglow, bright green as he stared back. Emily reached out her hand slowly toward him, reaching under the dresser to where he currently hide. He watched, his eyes unblinking as her hand drew closer to him. She stopped as she saw him move his head away from her fingers.

“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.” Emily spoke out to him. “Come here kitty.” Her 12 year old voice soft and cooing, like her grandmother Rose had taught her. Emily could hear Rose saying, “You have to be gentle, calm and slow. Earning an animal’s trust is no quick matter.” It made Emily smile a bit to think back to that time when her grandmother would place her on her lap and they would talk about the animals.

Emily was brought back to the moment at hand when she felt the soft tickle of a whisker on one of her fingers. She looked at the cat and saw him slowly start moving toward her outstretched hand, taking cursory sniffs at her. “That’s right. Come here kitty, I won’t hurt you.”

The cat stopped moving altogether, tilted his head at her then said, “I know.”

Emily froze in shock as she heard the cat speak, his voice like a long purr, gruff but soft. She pulled her hand back from under the dresser and scurried back as quick as she could, only stopping when she hit the bed behind her, causing her to sit up and pull her legs back, wrapping her arms around them and hugging them.

The cat moved forward, poking his head out from under the dresser. “Don’t be alarmed. I won’t hurt you either.” His green eyes staring at her.

“You.. you..you can talk?” Emily’s mind was beyond confused. Even at 12, she knew animals couldn’t talk.

“As can you.” the cat replied, fully emerging from under the dresser and sitting down next to it.

“But… but cats can’t talk.” Emily pulled her legs tighter to her.

“True. However, I am no ordinary cat. Well, I am, but I’m not. It’s all a bit confusing and quite a long story. I’d be happy to share with you at some later time.” He paused for a moment, stood on all four legs and walked toward the door. “But, for now, I need you to follow me. It soon won’t be safe in here and I won’t be able to protect you from what is coming.”

Emily blinked, her mind not sure of what was going on. She reached up and began to fiddle with her necklace and the golden heart pendant on it. “I.. I.. I just…” She froze again, this time as she noticed a long shadow cast on the floor from the window that moved toward her.

“Emily, I need you to move to the door, now!” The cat’s voice was higher, almost like it was screeching as it leapt between Emily and the growing shadow. “You can’t have her.” The cat raised it’s back hair, flattened his ears and got low on the floor, ready to pounce.

“Scout.” A sinister voice sounded from the shadow, as the leading edge took on an almost corporeal form of a disembodied wolf. “You can’t save her from me.” Scout started to move backwards a bit, still remaining between Emily and the shadow.

“I won’t let you hurt her.” Scout hissed out, his teeth barred. Just then, the wolf head snapped toward Scout as the cat leapt backwards, landing against Emily’s leg. “Emily, go to the door. Now!” Emily looked around the room, saw the wolf head moving toward her, heard Scout’s voice and, mustering her wit and strength, scrambled toward the door.

“You will lose.” Scout started to back up toward the door, the bed on his left, the dresser on his right. He quickly looked around, assessed the situation and his current position and told Emily, “Open it. Get out. I will take care of this.”

The shadow slithered further into the room, “Oh, Scout, what will you do to stop me from having her? Without your friends, you are just a weak, pathetic cat. What chance do you stand against us?” Out of the shadow three more heads formed, followed by front legs as the shadows took form into full fledged gray wolves. Teeth showing, low growls, tongues licking at the prospect of feeding their hunger. “Time for you to die, Scout.”

The space between the bed and dresser only allowed two of the wolves to come at him at a time, and Scout noticed a third had gotten up on the bed, their growls growing in intensity. Scout, not waiting for them to attack, mustered his strength, pounced onto the side of the dresser, using it as a spring board to leap over the closest wolf and bringing his claws down on the second’s face, scratching across its eye. The wolf let out a cry as the first one snapped toward Scout, barely missing him as he slid under the bed.

The wolf on the bed looked at Emily. Fear had frozen her in place, her hand on the doorknob, unable to move. The wolf moved toward her, growls emitting from his throat.

“Emily! GO!” It was Scout’s voice. Emily pulled on the door, in her fear not remembering to turn the knob. She couldn’t take her eyes off of the oncoming wolf as it bent low then took a leap at her. Emily thrashed around to cover her head, as she did, hitting the light switch in the room and turning on lamp on the overhead ceiling fan. She heard a loud howl, almost in pain, and then she shrieked out in fear, waiting for the wolf to hit her.

After several seconds of nothing happening, she dared to look from between her arms.

“There gone.” Scout said, more out of shock and surprise then as a statement. He moved over toward her, coming out from the bed. Emily lost her feet, and slowly slide down to the floor, tears starting to flow from her eyes.

“What was that?” Emily said through soft sobs.

“That was the shadows. They are why I am here.” Scout moved next to Emily, running his body against her leg, attempting to comfort her.

“I don’t understand. Any of this.” Her mind still racing to catch up to everything that had just happened, causing her tears to flow even more.

Scout stopped, placed his front paws on her knee and looked at her. “My name is Scout and I am a Protector. It’s my job to keep you safe.”

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Songing

I’ve been writing poetry for a very long time. Mind you, none of it is really all that good, at least not in my opinion. Add to that fact that I have this really weird way of creating songs out of nothing (a trait my wife calls ‘songing’ (yeah, I don’t get it either)), and you end up with this weird mish-mash of strange songs that get song (way out of tune) to the melodies I hear on the radio or tv.

Except for this one time.

I’m not sure when it happened, but it was sometime around my daughter being about 3 years old. She was a ball of fire, always on the go, always quietly planning to do something. That was one of her scary traits. With our son, we always knew he was doing something wrong because he would make a ton of noise doing it. Our daughter however, when she got quiet… you could almost guarantee she had some nefarious plot she had cooked up and was in the midst of trying to take over the world.

Sleep, sleep was something I am sure she deemed for the weak. We could always tell when she was tired because she would wind up, get very chatty, then take a breath and pass out. But I digress into the memories.

As I was saying about the badly tuned singing, I would periodically come up with some stupid silly song and it would just become the song for the moment. I once rewrote the Barney song when my son decided that crying was how he was going to accomplish getting sympathy. It went something like this:

I’m okay, you’re okay

Lets all have a happy day

No more crying, no more fuss,

Lets not be a grumpy gus.

Okay, it went exactly like that (I was trying to save my own dignity, at least what little I think I have left), and as I said, not the greatest (but what do you expect, I seriously made this up on the spot that day). To this day, when one of our children decides that pouting is the answer, it is not uncommon for my wife (or I) to break out in this song just to torment them. Parenting privileges, am I right?

The reason I say all that is because there is one song that has stuck with me since my daughter was about 3 (yep, I’m finally getting back to that part of the story.. rabbit trail much?). She was dressed up in a cute little jean dress, she had her hair up in a ponytail, white sandals and she was just raring to go. For some reason, that just hit me as inspiration, and I imagined her all grown up, and I came up with a little song. No, I won’t record myself singing it, as I do believe that would classify me as a distributor of a weapon of mass eardrum destruction, so for now, the world is safe. However, it has a country feel to the tune and the lyrics go like this:

Blue jean dress and her sandals on,

Hair up in a ponytail and she was gone,

Turning heads all around,

Breaking hearts across the town.

With hair of gold and eyes like the sea,

I just wish that she could be,

If only for just one more day,

Daddy’s little girl.

Needless to say, I was singing that in my head as I typed it up. I’d give you the tune, but unfortunately I am not gifted with such ability (my children however probably could). Years later (or maybe months, it’s all timey-whimey) I wrote a few more verses or chorus or… I don’t know.. lines? I don’t recall them, but they are written down somewhere in one of the many books I started using to write my stuff down.

So, I think I am done embarrassing myself today… but rest assured, there have been many other songs I have made up, none of which you will most likely ever hear (be thankful), and I’m sure as I grow older and grandchildren become part of my life, there will be many more silly songs with Lar… Todd.

Oh, the torture those children will suffer from my voice.

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The Taste of Life

Success.

Failure.

One makes the other better.

The other makes the one worse.

Without one, you can’t have the other.

If everything was a success, nothing would be a success.

The deeper the valley, the higher the peaks.

The higher the peaks, the deeper the valleys.

And one last thing…

Failure always feels like it last longer then success, so.. savor the success as long as you can.

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Midnight Snack

The fridge called out to me, beckoning through the dark night.My hunger needed to be satiated, ice cream would set things right.I padded down the hallway leaving every light undone. Entering the kitchen, my prize would soon be won. Quietly I stepped, one step in front of the next, til finally I stood on the verge of the apex.My final step would prove fatal to my cause, as upon the cat I stepped and he swiped with his claws. I cried out in pain as tears welled in my eyes, my wife would now know my cheating from my howls and my cries.

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Confessions

There are things that I want to write that I don’t.

There are times when a thought comes to my mind and I mull it over, flipping it this way and that, tearing it apart and think to myself,

“Self, that would be awesome.. but…”

And yes, I do actually call myself ‘self’ when I am talking to.. um..myself.

Myself (just had to do it one more time).

I had this conversation with my wife the other day after I had written a piece that was very intense, but included thoughts that would just not be acceptable by the group of people who I associate with. It was real, it was gritty, it was intense.

It was erased.

I felt.. I don’t know. I felt wrong? I guess that’s the word I should use. Like if I posted this piece people would judge me or look at me differently, or disassociate with me.. or associate my writing with a walking away from my beliefs.

I’m not.

Just so you know.

I still believe in Jesus. I still have faith in what He did for me on the cross, the tomb and the rest. I’m not angry at God, the church, or the people of the church, and I still go at least every Sunday.

But… therein lies the issue. I have been a volunteer youth minister for most of my adult life. I lead my current churches youth group for over 3 years. I have students who, I assume, still look up to me. But I want to be real in my writing.

For instance, right now, I am struggling with even posting this, so if you are reading this, well, I won.. lost.. or.. something.. that particular battle. Will it go to my Facebook, Twitter, or any of the other social media hubs that I post my work on? I don’t know. (FYI, I’m writing this at 3:08 on Friday, October 10th.. so… )

Am I wrong for having this desire for freedom in my expression? Am I wrong for not wanting to be the stumbling block that may cause some of my students to look at me (or God) different? Am I wrong for even thinking (or being arrogant enough to think) that I could cause that?

I’ve thought about creating a pen name. Well, actually, I should say I have thought about finally using the name I came up with years ago. I just don’t know if that is the answer or a cop-out.

Granted, I don’t even know if I am good enough to have to worry about that, cause who knows if anyone actually reads my stuff. (no, that’s not self-loathing or a call for comfort, just a reality check on my ego.. of sorts)

Maybe I just put too much pressure on myself… wouldn’t be the first time in my life I had an over inflated sense of self. I don’t think I do it on purpose, but it’s more out of a sense of responsibility… a responsibility that I take very seriously. At least, I think I do.

I know others have done it. Merged their faith with their writing, and have been successful at it. I just don’t know how to do it and remain true to me.. the writing.. the idea… something like that.

(the following part was added today 10/23)

I’ve had several days to stew over this, still not sure if I should post it. It’s pretty open about my struggles and, as I have said, I know people I know read this.. (I know, I know, too many knows…)… I’m a little more at rest inside myself these last few days, almost as if just admitting this has been cathartic (question, is that a combination of catholic and cardiac? Like the way I assume one would feel going into a confessional? anyway…)

In the end I think I have to just come to terms with It is going to be what it is going to be. And if I am happy with what it is, than that should be ok.

Now, anyone got any advice on how to be happy with my own writing?

Seriously? Anyone?

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Putting One in the “W” Column

There are days we all just need a win. One to put up in the “W” column, so that we feel like we have actually accomplished something. I tend to have a lot of days where that just doesn’t happen. I’m not sure if it’s because my “W” column is too difficult, I feel defeated most days, I focus too much on the negative, or if I just don’t have what a clearly defined definition for what a win is.

(Ok, I really hated typing that last one)

So, in an effort to define ‘winning’, here we go…

I think the prospect of winning is grand. I also think that the summation of our lives is the total aspect at which we should measure it. That being said, obviously, we can not truly know whether or not we arrived at it. The why is simple. We will be dead, and in that is it really our’s to figure out whether we are successful.

At that point, I think the default should be in the eyes of those closest to us: our spouse; our children; those we call family (even though technically they aren’t blood related). So I beg the question, why shouldn’t we put that definition into their hands now? Wouldn’t that relieve us of the fallibility of our own personal criticism? In essence, allowing us to live life the way it should be lived, for others.

I know, I know, for others?

That seems so…un-selfish…

It goes against everything that everyone has ever told you about winning. In order to win, you have to be the one in the spotlight, you have to be the one in the center, on the top, at the front. Have you ever noticed, those in the front, at the top, or in the spotlight, are the ones that everyone else is trying to take out in order to take over their spot. That doesn’t sound very fun to me. A dog eat dog world, indeed.

But what happens, if instead of trying to be the best, we helped out everyone else. Opened up literal and proverbial doors for those who can’t, giving up our moment in the spotlight to let someone else shine, or sharing ourselves to the betterment of others.

I can tell you what will happen. You will stop measuring success by your accomplishments and start leaving a legacy for those who come after you. No, there may never be a book about your life, you may not get that star on the walk of fame, and you may never be mentioned in the annals of time, but in reality, so few people do.

Nay I say to those trivial pursuits. Instead, you will be the man or woman who made a difference in the lives of people. Accolades be damned, let my praises be sung for a generation or two, spoken highly because of the impact on a life I made.

In the end, that is something we can all do.

Now that’s one for the “W” column.

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Here Lies Death

I have heard the following quote used by many people over the course of my life:

“A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once. It seems to me most strange that men should fear, seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.” ― William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

Might I just say, I totally disagree with it. Emphatically.

Sure, Ye Ole Billy boy was implying the statement to a soldier in battle, but even then, this is romanticized at best. To say that a brave soul only tastes death once, obviously invoking the physical death meaning, and yet the coward dies a thousand times? Obviously we are not speaking of physical death here, which makes the argument one of apples and oranges, therefore invalidating the statement as a whole.

Sorry Will.

I believe we all think about our mortality on a normal basis. When we aren’t paying attention and almost rear-end the car in front of us, that awkward pain you feel that sends you into a panic, or that one particular moment where every second of your life flashes in front of your eyes. For some of us, we can move beyond that. For people like me, we get stuck there for a much longer time.

It’s all the same though. For a moment, for a minute, for longer, we think about death. We think about the would have, could have, should haves. We evaluate where we are. Then we carry on.

Eventually.

No, I think Will had it backwards. I think the brave taste death a thousand times. The coward, they face death and it beats them. Then they run from it at every chance they get. Or end it.

It takes a brave person to live. It takes a brave person to go on. It takes a brave person to account for who they are, recognize, and then do something about it… in spite of death.

Physical death comes for us all. Once.

There is enough out there trying to stop us from living. Death just does it in a more permanent manner. So my advice to you (and even more so, to myself) is to shout out:

Live Till Your Dead!

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Inequality

Nothing is equal.

We are neither born that way and we do not die that way.

It seems, however, that everything else in the middle is fair ground.

As if, for some reason, we should all move toward the middle ground of what normal is.

That just seems dumb.

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Touche!

“Avante Garde!” She cried out as she took her stance. I stared at her, my epee lowered.

“What?” I said incredulously.

She lowered her epee also, stood up straight and said, “Avante Garde?”

I shook my head. “Avante Garde? Really? That’s what you just said?’

“Yes, is it wrong?”

“Did you mean to say ‘En Garde’?” I let the tip of my blade touch the floor.

“Is that what they say?”

I smirked through my mask. “Yes, it’s en garde. That’s French for, on your guard.”

“So, what is avante garde? I know I have heard people say that before.” Her voice got meek as she spoke.

“Avante garde is more about doing something that other people haven’t quite caught onto.”

“Oh, so, like starting something new?”

“Exactly.” I replied, satisfied that she finally understood. “So, shall we continue with the lesson?”

She nodded, raised her blade back up, took her stance and said in a clear, crisp tone…

“Avante Garde!”

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Weird Al says it Best

I know it’s already made it’s run, but this video is just so much fun.

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