June 11th, 2008
8:21 pm

Body feels it today. Muscles still working though the day’s nearly ended. Tired, but not tired enough to take me away from this.

Easier writing today than it was yesterday. Not that the act of writing is any easier. Putting fingers to keys, pen to paper, never gets easier. But sitting down to do it can be easy or hard depending on many factors. Lately, it’s been the office in a state of disarray. It is the last room to be unpacked and now, it’s nearly done. I built two shelving units out of wood I found in the garage. Old 2 x 6’s and plywood. They are not fancy by any means, but they are stout and practical and that’s what we need. S.B. was able to unpack and shelve her art supplies. That made me feel good because that means she is one step closer to painting.

We picked up a book shelf tonight. At the thrift store. It was only ten dollars. Is small, but wide and will be used for the rest of my books and writing supplies. So now, with the office closer to being done, I’m able to write. Some writers can write anywhere at any time. They carry around notebooks and laptops and whatever else it is they need to keep track of ideas, thoughts, and other useful information. I’m not one of those writers. Never have been. Never will be. I need a desk and a room. A keyboard or pen and paper. I don’t write while waiting in line at stores. I don’t write in coffee shops. I don’t writing while sitting on park benches or at airports. Writing is my business. My life. And I like to keep it private. If at all possible, within the confines of my own home. If I busy myself with jotting down ideas or details (or worse yet try to look the part of a writer) there’s no doubt I’ll miss the whole of the thing that I’m in the middle of.

Besides, too many writers write down too much information. They don’t take time to edit and cut and learn how to tell what to throw away and what to keep. If I were one of these write-anywhere-writers, I suspect that ninety-eight percent of what I’d write down would be shit. And shit is exactly what I like to keep out of my writing. I figure it’s best to walk around this place and keep track of details with the most important recorder I have. My brain. Doing this does a couple of things.

One. It keeps me in tune.

And two. It helps so that only the strongest ideas and details survive.

Got back to the woods today. Haven’t been in it for weeks. Not with the move and the fix-it projects. But now, with the move done and most of the projects completed, we are getting back into the swing of things. So we headed to the nature preserve. With the temp still hovering at 85 degrees. Mosquitoes thick as gravy. But the trail so different now at the end of Spring—the forest floor overflowing with green—that the lost blood, welts, and deep thirst were worth it.

Good to know that the world still greens. Even in the city. And that there are still deer walking trails—we saw plenty of doe and fawn prints pushed deep into the soft black earth. Good to know there are dragonflies—I counted nine in air, on trees and on low-lying leaves—bright and graceful. Doing their best to protect us. Eat up blood suckers that wanted nothing more than to feast and carry us away.

Goddamn. The body and mind feel good tonight. The muscles and brain tired. But in tune and making sure that only the strongest ideas and details are kept and survive.

Won’t be long and Me and S.B. will be in bed. Windows open. Warm skin breathing in the cool breeze. Hearts slowing. Lungs finding rhythm in their expansion and release. Expansion and release. And we will kiss and say good night and be thrilled with the silent tug and pull of this big ball of dirt as it whirls us through more space and more time.
And lullabies us to sleep.

~ K.J.

(copyright 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

Posted on Thursday 12 of June, 2008 [02:15:03 UTC]

May 21st, 2008
7:28 am

Dove nesting. So close to home. On top of the porch light. A foot away from the storm door. But most of the hard storms have gone. Now, with the warming weather and the bluing skies, all we really have are thunderstorms with lightning. High winds. Maybe some hail. The hard part has passed. Any storms that we encounter will be of our own making.

The dove knows this. Perched on a womb made of mud and sticks, grass and leaves. So it sits. Warms the eggs. And waits for the days and the nights—sun, stars, and moon—to bring the crack and movement of new life under wing.

☼

“Doves mate for life,” Dad said, after I’d told him about the dove. The one nesting atop the light at S.B.’s folks’ house up north.

“Like geese,” I said.

“Yep, like geese. And it’s the Mom and Dad taking shifts on that nest.”

We were driving down M-32. Past Lafarge’s quarry. Heading toward the property. My old house and church. To pick up the washer and dryer. The lawnmower. And whatever else I could fit into the truck.

This was it.

Yes, me and S.B. would be closing on our new home in a few days. Certainly, we’d already purchased a stove, hardwood flooring, paint for the living room and kitchen. And our August 8th date had been on the calendar for months. Waiting for us. Our special day. The one where we would cement everything—both of our lives—together, till death do us part. But for some reason, this trip to my old house, the dove on that nest, and talking with my Dad brought the whole of it around so that I felt it truly and more deeply than I’d ever felt before.
Suddenly, I could see three months into the future.

The old church spruced up. The hall decorated. Food on platters. Music, friends, and family. But only one thing meaning anything at all.

S.B. in her dress.

Our hands together.

Bodies close.

Us.

Taking a big, hard-earned step in the right direction.

“Mate for life,” Dad said, as he looked out the window. Over the quarry that was brimming with deep blue water. Surrounded by leafy green.

“Like doves and geese,” I said.

And this is how it comes, and these are the things a person thinks when finally it is solid. When it will last. When all of those miles traveled—seemingly without rhyme or reason—bring you to this part of the path.

Riding with your old man in your pickup truck. Comforted by his presence. Because he has seen it all. Been there with you since the beginning. Given you the strength and will to stand, walk, and fly. All on your own. And somehow, with few words and subtle action, he has passed volumes of unspoken knowledge to you.

So that you are thankful for everything.

These little cracks and slight movements under wing.


~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 by k.j. stevens)

Posted on Wednesday 21 of May, 2008 [12:40:20 UTC]

May 13th, 2008
7:40 am

A chilly damp morning thick with fog.

“Might want to click on the lights,” I say to S.B. as we hug at the door.
The mass of white-gray has lifted a bit. Is not as low to the ground since the sun’s started its round. But still, the headlights. They feel important this morning.

“Love you,” she says.

“Love you too.”

And I do. And I wish I had been in a better mood this morning when she rolled over only to find empty space in the bed.

Thousands more people dead today. From cyclones, earthquakes, driving through heavy fog. And as far as I can tell, there should be no reason to ever wake sour. Not for me or S.B., or anyone. But we do and the best remedy is to focus on the big picture. Whatever your big picture is.

If you don’t have one, I recommend getting to work so that you do. For reference. For focus. For purpose and direction. To remain steady and aim true.
Use the brush strokes of experience. The lines of days gone by. Use the colors of the day.

The deep red of the neighbor’s pickup truck.

Yellow-green of the lawn down the street. Cut too short too soon.

The mottled brown of the little wet bird that flew up as if to land on me when I was out early, in the thickest of it, letting the dogs run, shit, pee. How the bird zipped by my right ear. Looped around. Came back and hovered inches from my face. When the world slowed so much that I could see myself on the wet surface of its eyes. And I was reminded that this will be a good day, a good life, if I always remember those big little things.

A bird in the big sky.

Me in the small fenced yard.

Our paths coming so close.

Only inches apart.

And I wonder, what did it see in my eyes?

I watched her walk to the truck. Hop on up inside. Hit the ignition. Turn on the lights. My little art teacher in the big pickup. And I couldn’t help but smile and be thankful for this. Because this is how it’s supposed to be. Wanting light and warmth and safety for someone else more than you could ever want it for yourself.

Good to be here this morning. The fog now lifted. Sky a robin’s egg blue. Dandelions all puffed up into fuzz waiting for dew to dry so that seeds can spread as far as wind or wings will carry them.

Another stroke of the brush. Dash of line. Dab of color. In this big picture made up of us. Learning from each other.

Keep the strength. A steady aim. And keep on keepin’ on.

8:05 am

~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 by k.j. stevens)

Posted on Thursday 15 of May, 2008 [18:11:23 UTC]

May 7th, 2008

Sun pushing away morning clouds. Dandelions poking through thick, dewy grass. Sparrows and robins fueling up for another day of survival in the city. S.B.’s at work. Little Man is sleeping. The dogs are resting in the cool basement. Teddy, the cat, is stretched out and purring. On the kitchen floor. White light in through the big window washing over him.

I’m at it again. Fingers to keys. Glass of water. Mug of coffee. Reaching out by reaching in. Trying to find a way to explain my decision to reenter the world of academia. As if a decision like this needs an explanation at all. Isn’t it enough that a person wants to learn? Sometimes, it is not. And this is one of those times, so now I need to be as clear and concise as possible. To the point. Aware of an audience.

Why is it that I want to engage in graduate study at Mercy College?

Mercy College fits my lifestyle. During the week, from 7:30 to 4:15 every day, I’m Little Man’s stay-at-home-Dad. His teacher, provider, protector, and guidance counselor. He is two-years old. My fiancée’s son. And even though he could be in childcare, I’ve decided to forgo working a regular, 40-hour a week day job to be his sole parental figure while S.B. works. She is a teacher for The Academy of Westland. Her passion is art and that’s what she teaches. To a revolving door of three-hundred plus students. Kindergarten through eighth grade. It is not an easy job, but it is an important job. One that both of us believe in and support wholeheartedly.

It is not easy being a stay-at-home-Dad, but it is has been the most rewarding experience I’ve ever known. I’ve learned more about love, loyalty, compassion and truth in the past six months than I’ve learned the rest of my 33 years. This lesson, however, will change course in approximately two years. That’s when Little Man will be old enough to go to school. And that’s how many more years S.B. sees herself working at her current school. So, in a few years, we’d like to be able to put our feelers “out there” and decide if this is the place we want to stay, or if maybe we want to move. To another state. A warmer climate. Or maybe up north. Closer to our family. Back to our roots. And some long-time friends.

If I’m accepted into Mercy’s program I will work hard and work smart, and I’ll finish my degree as soon as I can. The aim is to have earned my MA by the time Little Man is ready to attend school and by the time S.B. has put in her inner city teaching time. It will be then that we’ll be able to make some decisions. Investigate more opportunities. Having my MA will help us. I’ll be able to teach and write and help students make their decisions and reach for their life goals.

I’ve always pictured myself as a writer and a teacher. A permanent part of the academic world. Helping people discover themselves by discovering others. Sharing my passion for writing and reading in an effort to help others find what it is they are passionate about. There’s much to be discovered in this world. Most of it is locked deep within. And success is the lifelong process of finding the keys that fit the locks. For me, many of these keys have been discovered through my personal writing and through literature. From James and the Giant Peach and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, to Roethke’s The Waking and Hemingway’s A Farewell to Arms, I’ve always had teachers and professors that presented literature to me in ways that made me feel as if the writer had written the words especially for me.

My intention is to earn my MA and continue writing. It is my desire to teach, research, and continue on this path of growth and learning by securing employment at the college or university level. Doing so will not only provide me with peace of mind, but it will also provide S.B. and Little Man with more comfort and financial security.

Many thanks. Best to you and yours. Keep on keepin’ on.

~ K.J.

Posted on Friday 09 of May, 2008 [13:19:33 UTC]

May 2nd, 2008
12:33 pm

Train down the tracks. Rumbling and thumping. Shaking the core and blending with the sound that passenger jets make as they amble through dark clouds.

And thunder comes.

Deep within the eardrums. To shake big fat raindrops from the sky.

There is a storm out there. Ready to break loose. Tear apart this early Friday afternoon. And take away this nearly perfect day. One ripe with creativity. Fit for writing and for drinking.

But it’s too soon after noon to pour anything besides water. And since my fingers are on the keys. Putting together today’s entry. I suppose we’ll call this writing and get right at it. Straightaway and sure.

We aren’t in Alpena anymore. Mount Pleasant’s dead and gone. And we’re far enough away from Saint Paul that we don’t have to worry about all the things we had hoped we’d be.

After all, we’ve made it. And we’re here. No money in the bank. Bills piling up. But goddammit, we’re here. Solid and true. Still at the words. Working with balance. Heart and mind. Dreams and reality. Everything we thought we’d find if only we’d buck up, shed the bullshit, and move ahead like a man.

A blast of lightning through the sky. White hot and instantaneous.

The past seems so small. The future so big and growing. Inch by inch, like Little Man asleep in his bed. Teddy bear pulled tight to his cheek.

And day by day with S.B.. Doing whatever it takes to build this solid foundation. Our home away from home. Decisions to be made. Vows to take and uphold.

More thunder. The jets. Another train. The rain has discovered its rhythm. Is serenading this concrete and blacktop world with the promise of cleansing.

And the grass is getting greener.

The leaves a brighter shade.

And solid is the core that shaking creates when we are unafraid of the storm.

~ K.J.

(copyright 2008 by k.j. stevens)

Posted on Friday 02 of May, 2008 [17:35:21 UTC]

April 25th, 2008
7:49 am
 
Raindrops drove worms up and out of the ground last night. The city got a good washing. Something it needed. Something it always needs. Baffles me, how dirty and careless we can be. 
 
But we can’t let the dark sky and threat of more rain keep us down. It’s one of those days, is all. You have to dig down deep and pull sunshine from the warm space at the core.
 
There’s plenty bad in this world and it will wreck you if you let it. The key is to be aware, mindful of it, and to fight it without becoming bad yourself. For so many of us, that’s what happens. We fight the bad and it stains us so deeply that we cannot wash it away.
 
Not even with rain.
 
The drops so big last night they plunked hard against the window and I opened my eyes to darkness and found that old feeling of loneliness churning inside. The loneliness I’ve had since I came into this world. Kicking and screaming into new light and sound. The loneliness that’s always been here. Nagging the heart, gnawing the brain. Even when I find myself caught up in the middle of a crowd.
 
But last night, waking to rain against the window, I realized that it is something I’ll always have. Realized it so much that it only made me hold her tighter, brush my fingers through her hair, and thank God that I have this. Our moments together on this big spinning mass of dirt and air, fire and water. Moments when I feel that something that people always said I needed, that people always said I’d feel. If I’d only open up. Set myself aside. And let it rain down.
 
This life at the keys. Looking out the kitchen window. Birds to worms like bees to honey. Drops hanging from the black hand-rail on the stoop. Drops resting on newly greened blades and leaves. And her. Out there into this waking city, so early in the morning, rising like the sun to bring light to lives. Color, texture, and form.
 
And all of it—a great beautiful painting—that is more than I will ever deserve. 
 
~ K.J.
 
(copyright 2008 by k.j. stevens)

Posted on Saturday 26 of April, 2008 [12:51:11 UTC]

April 22nd, 2008
7:50 pm

Will be a hot one today. That clear sky and the sun already beating down. A bright morning. As if everything is wrapped in tin foil. The eyes do not have it. The patience for such a bright morning. Not here, with sunlight beaming on concrete, metal, and glass.

Today, I wish we were waking by Grand Lake. That it was all eggs over-easy, bacon and buttered toast. That we’d sit outside on the deck by our small wooden table and bring in the day with orange juice and coffee. Just the three of us. Me, S.B. and Little Man. Fresh faced and feeling good because we are out in the northern air. Away from the freeways, the lights, the noises at night, and able to write and paint, fish and play, read and relax for the summer.

That’s what drives me these days. To keep at the keys. Maintain my aim. This—the morning vision of waking up north by the lake—is something in our future. I’m working with the assumption that my writing will help get us there. Certainly, there are no guarantees. The future is far off. We must savor the now of the day. But if we work, we must work for the things we love. Keep steady. Stay true.

That’s it, and that’s what all of us should do.

We’ve made it through another Michigan winter. Are shaking off the tireds. Wiping away the sleep. Stretching, so that blood can run deep. Wake our senses to see beyond the white and gray of yesterday and embrace this greening world. The birds—big bellied and busy with nests—snapping worms from the ground. Squirrels shedding winter weight with high-wire acts and great leaps from tree to tree to tree. People everywhere. Emerging from their slumber. On bikes and on foot. In cars and planes. On stoops and decks. Thanking God for the sun.

But the sun’s always been here.

All it ever takes is a little digging.

To push away the snow.

Concentration.

To chip away the ice.

A willingness to break free from the surface. The cold distractions of the day-to-day-to-day. And to recognize our strength at the core.

We can weather anything. If we start at the center and warm from the inside out.

Keep on keepin’ on…

~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

Posted on Tuesday 22 of April, 2008 [18:38:39 UTC]

April 18th, 2008
12:08 pm

Got fingers busy with the pen this morning. Very important to remain connected to those roots. Handwrite letters. Put them together. So that they make words. Doing it like that—the old fashioned way—gives the brain more time to process thought. Makes it more likely that I’ll put down the good stuff when I start with the pen. It can’t hurt anyway. And I’ve always believed it increases the chances of getting it right.

Whatever it is.

This sunny warm day. With its southwesterly breeze. Blue skies, transparent clouds, passenger planes silver and bright. The big, high-speed chariots that keep us in our state of perpetual motion.

I like it when they look so small and slow-moving against the wide-open canvas. Keeps me on track. Makes me believe that I’m thinking the right things. That sometimes it’s best to stop. Sit in a chair and relax. So the mind and body get in synch. And we are aware of how significant we are in this—the intimate smallness we share.

Like last night.

Me and S.B. in chairs. Side-by-side. In the back yard. Wrapping up our day with conversation, moonlight, the city settling down. Dogs barking in the distance. Traffic thinning. Bats nabbing bugs. The flashing strobes of chariots in the sky. A glass of merlot. A bottle of Coruna. Deep breaths. Sighs. The brilliant stars so sharp in the dark. And every problem, worry, regret, and fear eased away by the sweetness of night on skin. So that finally, when it was time to go inside and put our tired bodies to bed, I could sleep soundly knowing that I was getting close to being the man I’d always wanted to be. That this day-by-day existence of working hard and smart and truly was increasing my chances of getting it right.

Whatever it is.

These fingers to the pen. Or to the keys. Always, putting the pieces together. Making words that breathe and rain and warm and sing. So that all of us can find our moment. Hold tight. And believe.

~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 by k.j. stevens)

Posted on Friday 18 of April, 2008 [16:57:19 UTC]

April 14th, 2008
7:46 am

Frosty-window-morning. Bone-deep cold. But we are nearly clear-headed. Feeling solid. Ready to get back to the act of growing without getting old.

Rough one yesterday. Waking on high. Hitting an afternoon low. Then rising up again, as I spent time reading Islands in the Stream. Reading that book helped me fix the high in a sound enough place so that this morning the drive, ability and passion are doing their best to synch up and get desire back on track. So that I am focused once again on the direction that’s got me this far. The big picture is looming. Needing more detail, more story, more scene.

Will do my best to work hard on it today. It will come in spurts, as Little Man plays, reads, and naps. But I will work, as I always do. And now, with many distractions settled from ringing in my ears to a dull buzz, I will get more quality work produced.

Reading Hemingway again helps me feel my roots. I see them there. Planted firmly in the ground. Growing. He knew the importance of the big things. And though he may have not been very good at them (the relationships, child-rearing, keeping good health), he wrote of them beautifully. Something that cannot be done unless you know how they really are. Maybe that’s why I feel the writing so much. It is a struggle to know things, to want to share them, but not to know how to say them, or show them through daily action.

There’s so much I want to say to my family, S.B., and Little Man. So much I want to give to them. To share with them. But never have I known how. Not in my words, which are often disconnected and crass. Not in my actions, which are often subtle. Not in anything I do, but my writing. It would be untrue if Hemingway said today that the characters and situations of his writings were not based on his life. That the words were not part of him. Because always, what we put on paper—whether we like it or not—is us. Our thoughts and sweat, blood and tears, hopes and fears. Good, literary writing, which contributes to the common understanding and discovery of hope and love in this world, is not always full of love and hope. It is often brutal and angry. Filled with loss and pain, cruel words and evil actions that are steeped in selfish desperation.

But Hemingway can’t say any of that today. Can’t even think it anymore. He put an end to that long ago.

Cold steel ripped to life with fire and a burst of gunpowder. His final declarative sentence. Ended with a double-barrel exclamation mark. He saw it coming. Wrote about it. And instead of keeping at it, becoming strong at the broken places, he broke the damned thing right off.

I will not break.

I never want to be gone.

Am not a fan of exclamation marks.

All I want is to keep at these short fragmented sentences. Piece them together. The best I can. So that they carry through—and carry true—this big picture beat I always feel. Even on these frosty-window-mornings. Fighting off bone-deep cold. Nearly clear-headed. Feeling solid. Ready to continue this act. And get back to the art of growing without ever getting old.

~ K.J.

(copyright 2008 by k.j. stevens)

Posted on Monday 14 of April, 2008 [12:28:20 UTC]

Hard because it’s windy. And cold. And I’m too full right now because I ate too much, because I always find it hard to have just one bite, just one drink, or to say just a few words. These days keep running on by and I always feel that I’m not getting enough out of them. That it won’t be long and I’ll be dead. Paralyzed by a stroke. Hit by a car. Bleeding from a bullet in the head. Or maybe I’ll suffer. Live longer than I ever wanted to or expected to, and maybe I’ll try wheeling myself out into traffic. Or not. Who knows?

When I go a day or so without addressing the mess that builds inside of me, I get out of sorts—off-kilter—and the best way to make adjustments, to shape the words, thoughts, ideas into sense is to wade through them. Kick aside the garbage, pay careful attention to the ground. Decide what needs to be picked up. What needs to be thrown down.

Flies on the wall. Ladybugs on the lamp. Wind beating on this old house. Cold seeping through cracks I cannot see. Raindrops smacking the window. The furnace running away. Sucking energy from the tank outside. Emptying my bank account. Day after day. Paying to live. Living to pay. All of us grinding our lives away. Being what others want us to be. Making ourselves into dust. Playing part in this game because we can’t get away with playing a game of our own.

How many fingers on the keyboard? How many intimate up-and-down clicks before I’m considered a whore? When finally, I’ve had enough. And I open up. Wide. To let it flow. And lose everything I’ve got because I always want to give. More. How long? And when will it stop? Or does it stop as soon as it begins?


Wish I was in that upstairs apartment in Saint Paul. Tonight. Suffering a bit. Writing away a silent night. Two blocks from campus. Above the married couple. Getting ready to call my buddy, Lunde. So we could go drink 2-for-1 mugs of beer. Leinie's Honey Weiss with a side of lemon. Sit and drink and talk. Both of us, working through the days behind and the days to come by having a few drinks and sharing brotherly love. Eyeing girls in booths. At the bar. Or walking by. Both of us wanting more out of this life and feeling good because we are connected in our agony. Alive and well in our self-pity. Wish I was getting drunked up enough to feel good and fearless and that I would call Julie or Stacy, Eva or Stephanie, and one of them would come join us and I could sit and look and listen, and think of how beautiful they are, how smart they are, and how I would like for them to just sit there always and be with me, because there is nothing like having a woman close by. One that you respect, care about, and would do anything for. Even lie.

And I have lied. Over and over and over again. And the lies will continue because that’s what men like me do. We lie. And the lies bring us—all of us—closer to the truth than we could ever imagine. The sin, the hate, the pain—all of it—brings us closer to glory, or God, or Love—whatever you need to call it to make it make sense and help you get by—and getting closer is what it’s always been about. For me. And for you. Getting by and getting closer. Even if it takes a little urging to get us on the trip. Spark us onto the journey. Shove us into recovery.

But none of us really recover, do we? The accidents keep coming. The scabs never heal. And it isn’t long before we’re sitting in a corner, alone on a cold, numbing November night, picking at the wounds. Scratching the itch. Begging for what makes us bleed. The drama. So phony. So real. And just what we need.

I wish I was there. In Saint Paul tonight. Away from this comfort of home. Wishing for the comfort of home. Telling Lunde how great it would be if
we moved to Michigan. Lived in the woods. Off the land. Read. Thought. Met some nice Michigan girls and settled down as neighbors. So our kids could hunt and fish and play football together. We and our wives could sit outside on a big old wooden swing, near the bonfire on summer nights, and we would drink and laugh, and be silent in our camaraderie as the blackness wound up around us and gave birth to stars as bats flew overhead and bugs sucked us dry.

But I’m not there. I’m here. Miles away. In place. In time. In frame of mind. I’m another season older. Not much brighter. Still stuck on things that I cannot have. And still fighting some invisible, unwinnable fight. Doing all I can to keep myself going. Fueling this fire by tapping keys. Making letters into words. Words into meaning. And throwing it into the wind, like seeds from a tree, in hopes that something will take root, produce fruit, give life and grow.

(copyright 2008 by k.j. stevens)

Posted on Saturday 12 of April, 2008 [15:12:46 UTC]