December 10th, 2008

10:08 pm




Little Man's asleep. Tucked away in his big boy bed. Dreaming of Bucky. The goldfish he picked out and named today. The reward he got for wearing underwear five straight days and using the potty more often than not. Actually, I guess the kid could be dreaming about any number of things. But I hope he's dreaming of Bucky. He worked hard to get that fish. Was so excited and happy in the pet store. Had nothing but love to give as he sat at the kitchen table hugging the bowl, kissing the glass, as the big-eyed fish swam round its new home.




S.B.'s sleeping too. Today was her rough day at school. Teaching kids that need so much more than an art teacher can give. She fell asleep stretched out on the couch. Her head on my chest. Curly shock of hair tickling my chin as I stared at the television seeing nothing, but feeling so much. Both of us there. Here. Together. Making it. Doing it. Living the best we can. With honesty and respect. Great doses of fun. And I wondered how I ever believed I would be anywhere else, how I could never see how good it would get.




But that's how life is. We cannot truly know until we know.




She was up stretching and yawning half an hour ago.




"I'm going to bed," she said.




"Okay, honey. I'm going to lock up the garage. Get outside and unplug the Christmas lights. Then I think I'll write a while."




We hugged. Said goodnight. And now she's there. Gone away in sleep. Safe and warm under the blankets on this cold December night, while I sit here in the hard chair working away at the keys. Words. Letters. Symbols. Scratching the surface of this something new we've been given to share so that I can begin wrapping my head around it.




I'm going to be a Dad.




I think it. Type it. Say it aloud. But I cannot fully know the importance of this great, weighty thing, until I hold it in my arms.




But that day is a ways off and all we have is the now. One son asleep upstairs. My lovely bride asleep across the hall. And the faint shape of what's to come resting in the depths. Maybe another son. Could be a daughter. But of one thing I am sure. It is made up of hope and heart, hard work and dedication. It is the sum of two imperfect souls striving for perfection in this big wide world that simply keeps on turning. And somehow, everything feels good.




~ K.J.

Posted on Thursday 11 of December, 2008 [02:45:54 UTC]

December 3rd, 2008

Finished Landscaping. It's been three years in the making. The initial draft and subsequent revisions have been completed for several months. Nearly a year. But the fine tooth combing took a year itself. Now that it is done, put to rest and between the covers, I'm going to leave it sit. On my self-publishing bookshelf at Lulu.com. I haven't much faith in the saleability of this book. It's good writing, but the subject matter isn't top notch, as the subject matter is me. My life and the musings that developed as I struggled to settle up north. In the old house near the old church, in the country. It is a personal book filled with journal entries. But, if you are familiar with my work, you know that my journal entries aren't simply journal entries. For some reason, I can't help but dig a little with each word. The title, as you can imagine, suggests the theme of the writing.

Landscaping

(from Dictionary.com)

land·scape: noun, verb, -scaped, -scap·ing.

–noun
a section or expanse of rural scenery, usually extensive, that can be seen from a single viewpoint.
Fine Arts. the category of aesthetic subject matter in which natural scenery is represented.

--verb (used with object)
to improve the appearance of (an area of land, a highway, etc.) as by planting trees, shrubs, or grass, or altering the contours of the ground.

Indeed, the writing is the viewpoint of one man living alone in a rural setting. I tried to paint a picture. Alter contours. Do some landscaping. Show the world for what it is while not losing sight of what we want it to be. To do this, one must go below the surface. Get the fingers dirty. The knees bruised. Work the very earth that he is from and will return to. And by the simple act of digging—going deeper—one is able to improve the appearance of the surface, of the world, he is part of.

Or something like that.

I've never been very good at explaining things. Not formally, anyway. Probably why this book will not be successful. Probably why my other works aren't successful. Because I'm unable to sell my work, my writing, my ideas, they get stuck on self-published bookshelves in stores that do not really exist (amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, lulu.com). And I get to write about my writing for no other reason than to hear myself talk. Convince myself that what I'm doing is good and right and important. Even if it is only for me.

I've only done one official book signing. One newspaper interview. And I've only written one novel. First novels are not taken seriously. My short stories, nonfiction and poetry have only been filler or lone bright spots in obscure magazines. But to hell with thinking about it so much. All of it is practice. God knows I need more of that. And maybe if I practiced more I wouldn't be here writing about my writing.

It is the third day of December. The gray cold world, believe it or not, is ripe with possibility. So much out there to find, discover, unravel, make true. It's only a matter of digging for it. Under the dead leaves. Beneath the icy snow. Within the howl of unforgiving winds.

Let's make the most of it. Be thankful for our progress. Mindful of our growth. Focused on the keeping at the keepin' on.

~ K.J.

Posted on Wednesday 03 of December, 2008 [13:03:45 UTC]

Thanksgiving Day, 2008
8:20 AM

Clear and cold. Bright and still. A sleepless night, but a fine morning. I was out throwing the ball for Chloe. Watching her run back and forth. Back and forth. Chasing and retrieving the ball dozens of times before stopping short on her last run. She dropped the ball twenty feet away from me, by the big cottonwood, decided that was enough for this morning.

My intentions were to come here first thing. The coffee was done and poured. Dogs and cats fed. And all I wanted was to get into this chair and at these keys. But as I sat down to write, there she was. Chloe. Ole Slobbery. Looking in at me through the window. Ball in her mouth.

We made eye contact.

She dropped the ball.

I took a sip of coffee.

She picked up the ball.

I set the coffee down.

She dropped the ball.

There was no use trying to write when it was clear she wanted to play. So I put on my boots, gloves and coat. Took my hot mug with me. Headed outside. A great beginning to a thankful day. Breathing the fresh morning air. The smell and taste of it not yet spoiled by heavy traffic. The birds filling silence with morning song. The sound of squirrels in bare trees. And Chloe's paws crunching through leaves. Inside, I could hear S.B. doing dishes. Washing cups and the pizza pan leftover from last night. Putting away plates and sliverware that had dried. I took a deep breath. Held it. Savored all moments—good and bad—that have led to this, then exhaled all of them away.

It is our first Thanksgiving together. I am happy to be celebrating it in our own little home. In the Garden City. With my wife and my son. It's not that I don't want to see our relatives and friends or be away from our roots up north. But it's going to be nice to have Thanksgiving to ourselves. We can make the bird, stuffing, potatoes and pie. Watch football. Fill up. Then relax. Watch movies. Play. Read. Do whatever it is we want to do. The important thing is that we are together.

I've wasted many moments in my life. Looking for answers without asking the right questions. Searching desperately in the dark for someone or something to hold onto, instead of moving toward the light. I've drank away my senses many a Thanksgiving eve, only to wake halfway through turkey dinner the next day. Surrouned by family and friends. Immersed in hope and the potential for happiness. But too hungover with selfishness and regret to understand the importance of any of it.

“Jesus Christ, say Grace already. Get it over with. There's food to eat! Football on the tube! A recliner calling my name!”

All my Mom wanted to do was say a little prayer before dinner. Give thanks and enjoy the company. But when you're looking out for number one, full of yourself and stepped in ignorance, it's impossible to see what someone else might want, or need. And so that's all it was ever about for me. Eat and drink, watch a football game through the fits and starts of restless afternoon sleep.
But now, that's changed. I am clear-headed. As bright as the morning sky. As fresh as the air. And I am thankful for S.B., thankful for Little Man, thankful for my Mom, Dad and brothers. Thankful for my in-laws. Thankful for everything that's been good, that's been bad, that's got me here. To an early Thanksgiving morning. Still alive and kickin'. Full of memory, but focused on the hope of the day.

~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

Posted on Thursday 27 of November, 2008 [19:53:59 UTC]

November 20th, 2008

8:13 am

Sunlight making early morning shadows. Moisture in the wind that swirls round. It is thirty five degrees and holding. Another November day with a blue-gray sky getting lower and threatening. The weight of air and cold pushing down. Filling lungs. Clouding heads. But making us braver each day. We are tackling the tasks. Checking them off lists. Keeping ourselves busy. Distracted. In the groove. It is best to keep working. To not think too much about what's at hand. Because overthinking it, looking at it too long, makes for blindness. And when blindness comes it is not hard for ignorance to follow. So we plug away. At words and colors. Keeping house. Raising a kid. Staying sane and hopeful, as the unpredictable seconds and minutes that make up our lifetime continue ticking away.

Another day. Up with the urge, but bodies unwilling. An old cat's unsettling meow. Dog paws click-clacking the hardwood floors. And the alarm clock sounds.

I threw the covers aside. Sat up.

"The same thing every day."

I said it, but meant only to think it, and as soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted it. It is not the type of thing your wife wants to hear first thing in the morning. Especially when she is the one getting up day after day to go to a job that is more frustrating than rewarding. Especially when she is the one working to pay the bills, put food on the table, keep a roof over our heads. But it had been said, and when I left to get at the morning chores I'm sure the words were still there, moving around our bedroom in the dark.



We ate breakfast. Listened to the radio. Talked about the auto industry crisis. Felt sympathetic for hard working men and women who are always the sacrifice, but angry at executives for taking bonuses and flying in private jets.

"Goddamned people," I said.

S.B. nodded. Finished her toast.

After breakfast. She was in the bathroom. I was here. At this desk. Hoping to get started on the writing. As S.B. emerged from the bathroom, Little Man appeared. Seemingly out of nowhere. We did not hear his footsteps, his usual morning sounds, but there he was. Arms full of stuffed animals. Hair sticking up. Freshfaced and smiling.

"Hi, Mommy!"

We bundled him up. Coat over pajamas. Slippers on his feet. Hat on his head. And I carried him to the truck. He held me tight. Arms around my neck. A twenty second hug between house and booster seat.

"Thank you!" he cheered, as I buckled him in.

"No, thank you," I said. "I needed that."

And I did. Still do. Such a little thing. The morning rush. A family setting off on their day. And the little kid along for the ride, no sense of urgency, no particular agenda or cares. Just a natural inclination to love.

The thing that has me here. Still and always. The four letter word deserving of a capital "L" and deserving much better than this. But it is all I can muster. This wanna-be writer, stay-at-home Dad, feeling out of his element, holding on the best I can as we continue this path ripe with tight learning curves, sudden starts and stops. The daily detours that keep us lively and alert. Focused. Even on the toughest days. With sunlight making early morning shadows. Moisture in the wind. And blue-gray skies getting lower. Threatening. The weight of air and cold pushing down. Filling lungs. But making us braver each day.

~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

Posted on Thursday 20 of November, 2008 [13:47:32 UTC]

November 19th, 2008

7:47 A.M.

A punch in the face day. That's what it feels like. The icy cold into blood and bone. The tireds weighing me down. Basic urges riled up. Wanting again, like always, to fight and fuck, eat and drink. Move ahead without regret. Set things right. Bring wellness to the world. But there are people that need to be punched. Not because violence is the answer, but because sometimes fear is the best medicine. And because there are people who need to know what it's like to have their heads roll.



The headlines read:

Senator indicted on extortion charges

Dad accused of killing daughter while cleaning gun
Boy, 11, dies of gunshot wound to chest



Let the punching begin.

People have lost their sense of consequence. It's ruining the world. Making it harder for us to keep on keepin' on. And it's pissing me off.

But I can't be pissed today. Doing so will waste energy and energy is what I'll need. To keep up with Little Man. To work on the writing. To be upbeat and open when S.B. comes home from work. Her busiest, roughest day. Hundreds of kids. Most of them with attitude. Demanding respect, but unaware of how to give it. And she will need a hug, a shoulder, ears that not only listen, but hear.

Today, I'm a grumpy old man. Ready to beat the world with my cane. But filled up with so much love and hope that it kills me.

I want to buy a hundred thousand Christmas lights and decorate our home with Little Man.

I want to disappear into the woods. From morning till night. Come back cleaned out and clear-headed.

I want to spend an evening with S.B., have dinner, talk and touch, and let the loving begin.

But I can put all my wants and wishes in one hand and crap in the other and I know which hand will be filled first.

So goes life. It is not perfect. Neither are we. Some days we wake soft and sensitive. Some days we wake hard-headed and ready to kick ass. Today, I'm in between. Spread all over. Spread too thin. Needing so little that it feels like everything.

It's good to ache like this. With the November cold cracking bones, freezing the flesh, making me feel again. And I am better for it. Coming round the bend. Driven by determination, a sense of what's right, and believing I can do it all. Get it done. Make a difference before my light burns up. The heat is gone. And I'm the faint orange glow of an ember. Ready to go out.

But there'll be no going out today. And not tomorrow. There is plenty to get done. Much to work on. And nobody ever got anywhere by letting the bad, the tireds, the basic desires run all over them.

So here's to us. Our drinkless cheer. Letting the world know we're still strong. Still keeping at it. Still here.

~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

Posted on Wednesday 19 of November, 2008 [13:13:47 UTC]

November 17th, 2008

8:07 A.M.

Snow brightening the sunless morning. Coffee warming my gut. Got the push roaring down deep. Will try harnessing it today. Put it to good use. Chop away at manuscripts that need finishing, or work on something new. Harder to write these days. Impossible to maintain flow. Over the past year, I've had to change the way I go about writing. It isn't as easy as sitting down when the ideas need out. Now, there is a Little Man to watch over. Help out. Guide. There is a wife to please and take care of. There are pets running around the house. Chores that need to be done. Blah, blah, blah. All stuff that all writers have had to deal with since writers started writing. It's no different. It's just somedays I really feel it. The writing life I had compared to the writing life now. I had more time to write in the past, but I wasn't as prolific as I am now. I've written hundreds of pages this year. Most of them inspired by my experiences as Daddy and Hubby. In the past, I spent more time getting things right. Getting the writing out and polished as soon as possible. Now, it's a matter of trying to find time to polish. Nip, tuck. Do the editing. But I'm doing it. And there's no sense going on about how I'm not writing as much as I would like to be. There's nobody to blame for my lack of success, except for me.

And Little Man wakes. Yelling DADDY!



Back at it. Nearly an hour later. He had his PBJ for breakfast. Drank milk. Ate vitamins. Brushed teeth. And to my surprise, there hasn't been much fuss. There was a little at first, when he sat down at the table and his PBJ wasn't ready.

“Want peanut butter jelly!”

“I know, buddy. I'm working on it.”

First, I wanted him to take his vitamins. Then, I wanted him to try a few slices of orange.

“Want peanut butter jelly!!”

I handed him the vitamins and orange slices.

“No want!” and he turned away, whining.

“Listen!” I said, maybe a little too harshly for a Monday morning. “You are going to get your peanut butter and jelly. First, you need to eat your vitamins and eat some oranges.”

Some more whining.

“If you whine, if you act like you did yesterday, no peanut butter jelly.”

He stopped whining. Scrunched his face all up. Shoved a vitamin in his mouth. Picked up an orange.

I went back to making his PBJ.

It's hard raising a kid. I can hardly believe that people have three or four of these little creatures. That they manage all of them at one time. I applaud these parents. Respect them. Am in awe of them.

I poured some coffee. Sat down across from Little Man. Watched him devour that PBJ, as I flipped through the yellow pages.

“V, v, v,” I said.

Little Man looked at me.

“V?” he asked.

“Well, it's not under V.”

I thumbed back to U.

“Doing, Daddy?”

“Looking to tie it off, buddy.”

“Tie off?”

“Here we go,” I said. “Just what Daddy needs!”

Little Man took another bite of PBJ. I made a mental note of the nearest urologist. Took comfort in knowing that a vasectomy is only 2.3 miles away.



The rest of our morning has been fine. There wasn't much fuss when it came for diaper change. Out of pajamas and into big boy clothes. He insisted on watching PBS Kids. I did not fight it. He is in a good mood. Much better than the monster he was this weekend—two full days of whining, screaming, crying, pouting, and tantrums—so if he wants to watch some educational television, so be it. We'll be out in the cold soon enough. Bundled up and enjoying the great outdoors. Not sure what we'll do. Maybe take a walk. Maybe he'll want me to pull him in his sled. We haven't enough snow for it, but any snow is enough snow for a kid to get out a sled. No matter what we'll do, it will be fun. And I'll do my best to tire him out. Get his little heart pumping. Let him burn off some of that energy that can build and build and then erupt in a fit of emotional frenzy.

I just have to remember my good friend PATIENCE. Keep things in perspective. Not take things so seriously. Have fun. Because when it's all said and done, that's what we need to aim for. More good than bad.

Maybe later I'll get back to writing. Editing. Chasing this foolish writer's dream. One day, I might even get close to having the success I hope for. But for now, the imagined life of being a real writer, one churning out readable literature that people can relate to, that pays the bills, is somewhere off in the distance. Not yet to be mine. All I have and all I need is now at my side. Tugging at my arm. Done with tv. Wanting to play.

“Come on, Daddy! Come on!!”

And so it goes.

~ K.J.

Posted on Monday 17 of November, 2008 [13:45:08 UTC]

November 16th, 2008

9:04 am

Thought I better come here first. With a time slot open this morning, there's no use in wasting it. Little Man is enjoying a Sunday morning movie. Sitting on the couch. Wearing big boy underwear. About ready to leak at any moment. He's not so good about the peeing thing. But he's getting better at the pooping, and practice makes perfect, so what's a little more laundry?

S.B. is making breakfast. She was preparing quite the feast when I went in there for coffee. Eggs, bacon, hasbrowns. Ah yes, I love Sunday mornings. So this entry will not be long. Only a little brain exercise, gut release, before we eat.

Fall is leaning more toward winter. Trees are nearly stripped bare. They are black and wiry against the white sky. Today there will be snow. It was heavy in the air when I walked out to feed the dog and cat. Definite snow making going on up in that sky. I've been breathing it since I was a kid, living up on The Ridge, and even though the air isn't as clean down here in the city, I cannot mistake the scent. The feeling. Makes me want to bundle up. Walk into the woods. Sit in a blind and watch it come. Not that I feel much like hunting these days. That urge has gone dormant. Is barely alive. But I would like to sit. In my old hunting blind. Small propane heater hissing flames. Blanket across my lap. Coffee in a thermos. Me alone with the woods. A book. A pencil and paper. Boy, I miss those days. Chickadees flying into the open window. Sitting on the sill. Only inches away. Cocking their heads from side to side. Checking me out. The loud jays squawking. Turkeys calling and scratching. Deer moving through the thick swamp and my ears tracking them. Sticks snapping. Leaves crackling. Long snorts and short grunts. And then, if I am attentive and still, they come. Out of the tree trunks. Out of the dead cattails. Out of the brush. Brown against brown. White tails twitching. Big ears rotating round.

But some days there would be nothing. No animals or sound. Only the eerie stillness of the woods in waiting. The air cool and heavy. Tree limbs wiry against the white sky. Me alone there. Watching, as scattered flakes began to fall. And always, it made me smile. Because there is comfort in knowing that the world keeps on turning. That the sun will rise and fall. That life goes on. With its rain and wind. Heat and ice. And there is something especially lasting about the tiny flakes swirling round, as I look out my window right now. Hear Little Man running to the kitchen and S.B. calling to me, Honey! Breakfast is done!

~ K.J.

(copyright 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

Posted on Sunday 16 of November, 2008 [13:56:14 UTC]

November 14th, 2008

9:34 am

Washing machine shaking. Wiggles singing on the television. Little Man singing and dancing along with them. Taking time to run down the hallway every two minutes to burst into the office and say HI DADDY, or RAAAAH, or PEEK-A-BOO! Already, we've played on bikes, raced around the remote control truck, ran around the back yard, checked the tire pressure and oil level in the pickup, checked the pipes under the house, did dishes, swept floors, taken care of the dogs and cats, and got the laundry going. And it's not even ten o'clock.

It is Friday. I feel like plopping on the couch. Shutting my eyes. Drifting away to la-la land. At least for a little while. But that's not an option. And there's no sense in doing nothing because when I do nothing I tend to think too much. And thinking is something I'd rather not do today.

Have been thinking too much for 35 years. I'd like to take a little vacation from it. Stop reading papers, watching news, reading books. Would like to stop watching good movies, listening to talk radio, and rummaging around the internet. Would like to go on sabbatical for a while. Hide away. Write. Take care of the family. Take care of myself. And emerge in two years. With a new book finished. Ready to participate in the world again.

But that's not reality. And it wouldn't do me much good to shut down for so long. So instead, I'm doing it little by little. Stealing away time throughout the week to sit here and write. Fighting to maintain balance. An alert mind. Clean spirit. Healthy lifestyle. So that I set an example for Little Man. Am a good, reliable husband for S.B..

This weekend will be three weeks since I've had a drink. Not a big deal, but another little step in the right direction. Craving a beer at two in the afternoon probably wasn't a good thing. And the longer you walk in a direction the harder it is to turn back, so I'm going to stick to this sobriety as long as I can. I'll never be a teetotaler. I will always appreciate a fine drink. But for now, especially this time of year when I used to spend so many evenings bellied up to the bar, it's important I keep clean.

I figured I was headed this way when I made the decision to commit to this new life. And little by little I've made the right steps. No more bars. No more late nights. More early mornings. Miles on the treadmill. Water in my body. Words in and out. And as I go about this path, I'm discovering the obvious. The more good you put in, the more good you get out. A no-brainer. But like I've said in the past, I have a tendency to learn the hard way.

This book, these blogs—A Year In This Life—will soon come to a close. Near the end of this month, I'll wrap up and get to the hard work of editing. This is not to say that I won't continue to write. I'll have to do that. But the next phase, the next book, may take another angle. Be stripped down. A little more raw.

In any case, I feel the closing of this book close at hand. Much like I feel the year, the season, this stretch of life coming to an end. There is more to come. There will be more to learn. To give. But I definitely feel the internal gears, as they click, engage, and begin the shift.

Best to you and yours.

~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

Posted on Friday 14 of November, 2008 [14:34:26 UTC]

November 5th, 2008

7:44 am

We are up and we are at it. Sun rising through cool clear skies. Soft light on leaves so that our yard is bursting with trees of gold. It is a new day. With autumn to breathe. Summer to remember. Winter on its way. And spring, always there. Over the dark horizon. With new life, just below the surface, fighting to survive.

And that's what keeps us ticking. Tired feet over the edge of the bed. And one in front of the other, as we do our part to take care. Of this great gift we've been given. Of all that surrounds.

There is much in this waking. This time of change. But what it comes down to are the basics. Needs that must be met before we can ever rest. Find that small space of peace at the end of the longest day. When we can exhale. Relax. Let limbs of worry fall away. And simply be. Part of this big thing. Ashes and dust. Heart and hope. Beginnings and endings. Round and round. Over and over again.

Little Man upstairs. Still enjoying the warmth of covers.

S.B. in her long coat. Wrapped up beautifully, a present for our daily discovery. On her way to work. To teach and inform. Guide and inspire.

And these words. Here for the taking, or for the leaving. But here all that same.

It will be a fine day.

But there is not much new to report from the Garden City. Just more of the same. Rising as best we can. Reaching. Keeping at the keepin' on. A mantra. A way of life. A personal code. One based on the maintenance of a solid foundation. One based on learning and growth—strengthening the core.

A man. A woman. A child. Days of work. Days of play. All of us aimed at perfecting the imperfections of family life that make the commitment and journey worthwhile.



"He's a good boy," the old woman said. She was cute with her thin face. Bright eyes. Poofy white hair. Providing voter information and handing out stickers.

She plucked a sticker off a roll and put it on Little Man's hand.

"Oh, nice!" he said.

"What a good boy," she said, as she looked at him.

"So far, so good," I said, as I filled in blanks. Name, address, date of birth.

"No, he's a good one," she said. "He'll always be good. You'll see."

"Well, thank you!" said S.B.. "That's very nice of you to say."

The old lady patted Little Man on the arm. Smiled. And it looked like she wanted to hug him.

It's okay. Go ahead and hug him.

That's what I wanted to say. Because I could see her wanting it. Julian waiting. And I knew what it was like to want to just hug a kid sometimes. Out of the blue. For no reason at all. But it did not come. The moment passed. It was election day after all. Serious business. Right and left. Red and blue. And the line needed to keep moving.

"Bye!" Little man cheered to her, as we walked into official voting room. A middle school library with cardboard dividers on tables to serve as voting booths.

"Bye, bye, honey," she said.

The three of us settled. Little Man playing with his yo-yo. Me and S.B. with our ballots and pens. And as soon as it started, it was over. We had inked the dots. Made our decisions. And then we were on our way to the store. To find coats for winter. We hunted until we found the best deals. Parted with the hard earned cash. Then made our way to the Red Robin. A place none of us had ever been. We ate burgers and fries. Drank water. Talked about our day. S.B. riding high from a teacher's conference at Cobo Hall. Inspired by the key note speaker. Looking forward to the next day. Back at school. To implement new ideas, a fresh approach. And me, giddy for having finished my first story in months. The words started, middled with, and ended. Now awaiting the final draft. And Little Man amazed at airplanes going round and round and round near the ceiling.

"Airplane fly! Airplane fly! Airplane fly!" he said again and again.

"Yes, airplanes," we said.

And we ended our meal. Paid the bill. Got into the truck to get back home. The place we leave time and time again, but are always so happy to come back to. Little Man played until it was time for bed. S.B. showered and then we relaxed on the couch. Watched a movie. Talked. Listened. Until the credits rolled, we said our good-nights and S.B. went off to bed.

"Wake me when you come to bed," she said. "Let me know what happened."

"I will," I said.

We hugged. I stretched out on the couch. Moved from channel to channel watching history unfold. Feeling good. Not because there was more of one color than another. But because the age old process was working. People lined up. Volunteering. Participating. Doing their best. Getting involved. And it made me remember how happy I am to be part of this. Our little country, our little state, our little city, our little neighborhood, our little family. That is together. Fighting the good fight. Working for good. So that there are days like this for everyone.

All of us. Up and at it. Rising like the sun through cool clear skies. Soft light on leaves so that the morning is bursting with trees of gold. Another new day. With autumn to breathe. Summer to remember. Winter on its way. But spring, always here. Over the dark horizon. With new life, just below the surface, fighting to survive.

And that's what keeps us ticking. Tired feet into bed. Under the covers. To rest and be strong. Do our part to take care. Of this great gift. Of all that surrounds.

I shook S.B. lightly. She raised her curly head. I kissed her warm cheek.

"Who won?" she asked.

And no matter the results, I couldn't help thinking WE did.



~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

Posted on Wednesday 05 of November, 2008 [14:37:47 UTC]

November 1st, 2008
11:17 am

Little Man up before seven this morning. Rousing me from bed. We let S.B. sleep in, though I doubt she did much sleeping. Not with Little Man watching cartoons. Demanding peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast. And me doing morning chores. Now we are all up and at it. S.B. reorganizing the kitchen. Little Man in and out of tantrums all morning. Still reeling from his exciting night of trick-or-treating. Filled with goblins, ghosts, and ghouls. Eerie sounds. Shadows. Walking long stretches. From house to house to house.

He did a fine job. Had lots of fun. Did not fuss or get scared or overwhelmed. He was pretty keyed up last night when we got home. Was hardly settled down by the time he went to bed. Did not wake once during the night. But was sure to get at it early this morning. Bags under his eyes. Sugar still coursing through his veins. Rising to great fits of activity and then crashing into fits of screaming and tears. Right now, he is trying to settle down before lunch and before nap. Watching cartoons.

The family life goes on and on. A great ride of stable uncertainty. Every day the same, but very different from the next. My only constant these days is the load of cat poop I get to clean up off the floor every morning. Cabby, our 307 year old cat is showing signs of senility and old age, but there's a good chance she'll outlast me. I'll be 73 years old. On my deathbed. And there will be Cabby. Sitting on the floor next to me. All creaking bones and hollow meow. Leaving a load of crap on the floor. A little gift for me to take off into the great unknown.

But so it goes in the Stevens household. Another beautiful day in The Garden City. Leaves fluttering down. Sunshine blazing in the clear blue sky. All of us on the up and up with Little Man's nap time not far away.

I think it would be a good day for us to nap too. Me and S.B.. Get some shut eye. Recharge. Ease away the residual early morning tension. And rest side by side with white light easing through the windows. But it's hard to tell. Too early to see. Anything can happen between now and then. Maybe the best thing for me to do would be to write. Keep my keester on this chair. Fingers to these keys. And finish a damned story.


Last night. I was on the couch. Trying to decompress. Reading Rolling Stone Magazine. S.B. was next to me, at the book shelf. Looking at something.

“Hey honey?” I said.

“Yes?”

“Take a look at that Big Fish book.”

She picked it up.

“Okay.”

“What's that writer's name?”

“Wallace,” she said.

“David?”

“Nope, this is Dan.”

“Okay, thanks. Nevermind.”

“What?” she asked.

“Well, this Wallace here...” I pointed to the article I was reading, “...is dead. Hanged himself.”

“Oh great,” she said.

S.B. I think, thinks I'm smarter, brighter, more darkly intelligent than I am. That maybe I contain some of these demons and struggles that these other writers have. And since so many of us have whacked ourselves out, I suspect she sometimes wonders if I'll go nuts, feel bad and sour enough to do it as well.

“No, not me, honey. Besides, this guy here was a genius, they say. The greatest literary talent of our generation.”

“I've never heard of him,” she said.

“Me neither. That's how good he must have been.”

But then again, I've been out of the literary loop for years. If I ever was in it. I suppose the closest I ever really got was a bit of correspondence with Dave Shaw, meeting and corresponding with Stuart Dybek, and taking the necessary literature courses in college. And getting plowed night after night. After writing for hours on end, day after day. Believing I was the next Roethke, Wolff, or Hemingway. Lots of delusional nights with my trusty, sober sidekick, Mulhauser, carting my ass around.

But anyway, this Wallace character was dark, but lovable. An underrated genius battling depression that somehow made it 46 years in this rough and tumble life and then decided to hang himself.

“Why on earth plug away at it for forty-six years and then decide to cash out?” I asked.

S.B. put her hands on my shoulders.

“I don't know honey. Why do it at all?”

And I thought of Hem. Sixty-one years old. Sitting in that room. Shotgun aimed
at his head.

“It must get really bad,” I said.

“It must.”

And I set aside the article. Decided not to finish it. Not last night. Not
today. Maybe never at all. Because it does get bad. It has been bad. And there's no use going to a dark place when what we should be doing is all we can to help the ones we love keep their heads above water. Feet on the ground. Fingers away from the trigger.

Damned writers. What a bunch of nuts.

There is a mystique about writers that off themselves. An awe and curiosity about those that choose to take leave on their own terms. But it is undeserved. Too many literary greats have been born out of selfishness. Too many of these supposed geniuses have not been smart enough to keep themselves alive.
But I did not always think this way.

When I was consumed with consumption. Filled with finding fame. Out of love.
Oh, how things have changed.

Life is serious business. There's no getting around that. And I still believe, as Hem once said, that we are bitched from the start. But the greatest thing about this life is that we can turn things around. It is up to us to raise our heads. Pull our feet out of the muck. And move on. Because even though life does not wait and does not care, the people around us do. Our wives and kids. Moms and Dads. Brothers, sisters, aunts and uncles. Dogs and cats. They all care. And there is always another day. Sure, everyone's clock is running out, and we can never know when the big ax will come swinging round, but why not buck up, get straight, and run strong? Like a bull. Right to the end.

I don't know that I'll ever read David Wallace. I do know that I'm not going to run out and by his book because he killed himself. Sure, I feel for him. For his family. Friends. All those lives he touched and that are better because of him. But what has he taught us? What was the great lesson to be learned by this parting on his own terms? What does it say to people with depression? To people who have hard lives? To people that struggle each and every day simply to rise up and get their legs over the edge of the bed?

I guess what I would have rather read last night and carried on into this day and those that follow was a story. A bright shining moment in literature and life instead of an article about this generation's greatest literary talent. A man that didn't have enough sense to pull up. Stop. Take a breath. And work a pen in his hand or his fingers at the keys, instead of a knotting a rope around his neck.

But so it goes. I'm getting old. Tuning out, but tuning it. Honing my survival skills. A little at a time. Every day. With this simple act. A man working away at the bad in this world.

With words.

I am not our generation's great literary talent. I'm not a genius. And not really that smart at all. But I know enough to keep at it. Not for me, but for those that I love. So that all of us can keep on keepin' on.

~ K.J.

(copyright © 2008 by K.J. Stevens)

Posted on Sunday 02 of November, 2008 [03:06:53 UTC]