creative writing – Brunomad

Everything Has a Story

Everything has a story.

Every last little piece of goofy shit I have lying about my home, my classroom, even my car, has some sort of story behind it. The box of cookies from a student sits upon my table, next to a goody bag (from another student), a wad of yearbook receipts, and who knows how many novels and biographies?

But I could tell you e’ery detail about these objects, about how they influence and guide me, and why I keep them around. Some stories are simply worth holding on to.

And though I’ve told my students about not worrying so much about the future, it is a difficult thing to comprehend in youthful ignorance. But rest assured: we all get there in the end.

I have students who admit they don’t see themselves going anywhere with their Life. Students who admit they are afraid of their parents when bringing up Life after high school. I have those students who fear what the summer brings. And, of course, I have students who are absolutely terrified of the future. Plato’s Cave – those binding chains of comfortable ignorance – is a difficult place to escape, Prisoner.

The future is yet to be written; it is merely a Thing.

And every thing has a story.

Continue reading “Everything Has a Story”

Birthday

If any one has any videos of the forthcoming event, be a doll and share them with me via email. I’d like to see from your perspective.

Enjoy.

“Come over for a birthday beer!” she said. Of course I had already started on my birthday beers, my work being completed for the day and the spring sun reminding me that a patio drink actually sounded quite pleasant. “I’ve a Zoom at 4.” Plenty of time to share a drink with my dearest friend of a few doors down.

I tuck my cigarettes into my left front pocket, push a cozy over my Pabst, and pet the cat on the way out. My phone – which hasn’t stopped chirping with birthday notifications – is discreetly slipped into one of the many pockets of my Camino traveling shorts. I step out onto the front lawn and feel the paradoxical heat of the breeze.

Fuck me, I think, what a beautiful fucking day.

The rose bushes are devoid of blossoms; all save one.

I step into the soft grass (supple through dedicated watering sessions) and inspect the token blossom. It is pink – stunningly beautiful – but its edges have only begun to unfold. Three rose bushes and only this lone bud trying to break free to share its beauty with the world. The color, that splash of color like a New Mexico sunset – filled with purples and auburns and golds and mauves and yellows and reds – is about to grace the lawn.

So fucking beautiful.

I take a cigarette from my breast, light it up, and watch as the smoke mingles with the budding blossom. The haze is quickly dissipated by the endless breeze that marks the springtime of my desert oasis. The beer opens with a frothy hiss, and I idle for a few minutes admiring the simplicity of Nature’s realm. The sun beats upon my back, but still I cannot pull myself from the rose. She is too beautiful.

Coming to my senses and remembering I’m obligated elsewhere, I walk the half block to her new home. As my brother would later remark, my attire was delightfully that of a disheveled hobo: the stink of working in the lawn, shorts and shirt filthy from unwashed labor, Afghan Tactical Sandals upon my tanned feet, and the sweat-stained cap of a working man. Cigarette and beer in hand, I walk unhindered, ignoring the cop that passes swiftly behind me. An open container is certainly frowned upon, no doubt more so given my profession as an educator. Fuck it. The die is cast.

We sit on her patio for the first drink – a birthday beer of Dos XX – where the beating sun adds some color to my lower legs and makes the cigarette smoke seem harsher under the constant glow. We schwatz about this and that, about school and lawn care, about moving out and in, about the beauty of the day. Eventually we migrate inside to escape the sun’s amiable wrath, to sit in the cooler interior with colder beer. I nudge a poster board off the table so as not to warp it with beer condensation rings. She mentions an art project with the nephew. Beautiful.

I finish several in the time spent at her new place before she informs me her meeting is at hand.

I walk back to my place, the sun still beating, a new cigarette immediately replacing the last one, an endless cycle of self-mortification. Like a medieval flagellant, I punish myself to truly feel God’s glory.

The blossom greets me at the door, still a rosy pink, still incomplete.

My mother is supposed to come by (she needs help with another computer program and wishes to utilize my faster internet). I tidy up – no bachelor wants his mother to see him living in squalor – before she arrives. I down another beer and another cigarette. It’s too beautiful a day to be cooped up inside, and few things compare to a gentle New Mexico breeze and the shade of an old tree, vices in hand.

The doorbell rings and I quickly answer. Not my mother, but a pair of my students. They are dressed for the heat in athletic attire, one with a skateboard in tow. I remain in my hobo apparel; thankfully I left the beer on the table before answering.

“Happy birthday, sir!”

How the fuck did they know it was my birthday?

“Ah, kids! Thank you kindly!” I said. “How kind of you to come by.”

How the fuck did they know where I live?

We schwatz for a few minutes about the online schooling (a tragedy of corona) and how they’re keeping busy and occupied. Hence the athletic attire: out for a good run and skateboarding in Nature’s bounty.

I bid them farewell after some time, receiving further birthday well wishes and hugs good bye as they continue their adventures. How good of them to drop by unannounced; they care about you. I check the phone for the time and see further birthday notifications. Someone had squealed and now my students were bombarding me, not with homework questions or seeking advice, but wishing me well on this anniversary of sorts. Ah, my goombas. What would I be without them?

I return to the backyard wherein I finish another smoke and another bottle; consistency and pacing are key. Through the open windows I can see to the street. As the last ember begins to scorch my yellow-tinted fingers, I see the familiar outline of my mother’s vehicle. Both parents disembark, remark inaudibly about the state of the place, and make their way to the front door as I snuff out this latest cigarette.

They come in – without knocking – and immediately want to see the backyard.

“Where’s your laptop, Mutti?” I said.

“I wanted to see your computer.”

Well that’s fucking dumb, I thought.

“Show me the tomatoes.”

“Jetz,” I said, gesturing to the back door.

As I show them the progress made with the endless amount of time (being a non-essential employee), my phone begins to vibrate ceaselessly in my pocket. I ignore it; as a rule, I do not check my phone with company present. That would be quite rude.

My mother’s phone begins to chirp – having no qualms about my sense of chivalry, she answers. I can hear my sister through the tin speaker (for she has always been loud). They schwatz for a minute as I show my father the woodpile.

“Your sister is coming by with a cake. Let’s go up front.”

“Fuck her,” I said. “She can come out back and deliver it.” Quarantine be damned.

My mother sighs. “She has two screaming kids. Go up front.”

I tense my grip on my latest beer but relent. Don’t argue with your folks, especially at my age. We make our way up front. Dad remarks that my flowers need more water and that my edging could use some work. He stops at the rose blossom and smiles. He knows far more than I.

As we wait for my sister’s untimely arrival, I hear a cacophony of car horns sounding out a marching beat. How irritating, I thought, for this is a nice neighborhood. I never liked the sound of horns; far too shrill and aggressive. It makes me think of grackles, those hideous birds that infest our area. I turn toward the noise.

Happy birthday, Bruno!

Sweet fucking Christ, I thought. What is this?

My sister is leading a caravan of cars – 15? 20? – a poster with birthday wishes taped to her vehicle’s front. The cacophony grows louder as I realize I’ve been hoodwinked. Her windows are down and she’s smiling and waving – proud sister that she is – as she passes by my place.

“Happy birthday, little brother!” she said as she glides past.

I’m dumbstruck and mouth a response. My hand automatically returns the wave without a thought. My other hand clenches my still-cold beer. The cacophony continues as the caravan makes its way down my street. Neighbors are coming out their front doors to see the commotion; they soon join in the fest by waving and shouting congratulatory remarks.

My brother and his family follow behind, a poster for Uncle Bruno stuck to their vehicle’s side. My nephews wave and cheer. My good friend – with whom I was sharing drinks not an hour ago – is grinning like a Machiavellian mastermind as they drive past. She fucking knew!

But the greatest surprise – the greatest gift – follows behind the family cars leading this Seussian romp: my students – past and present – have assembled in this parade and call from their cars. Windows are down and I can see my students, my beloved goombas, shouting and waving as they drive past.

“Happy birthday, Mr. B!” I hear them shout from their air-conditioned cars. It is a scene of mirth and surprise as the cars keep coming. I remain dressed as disheveled hobo, a beer in my hand, standing in the New Mexico sun as the parade continues. I wave dumbly back, shouting some thanks and gratitude to each student.

“Happy birthday, Bruno!”

“Mr. B!”

“Bruno!”

The shouts never cease, each car striving to outdo the other in noise and celebration. I am taken aback by this outpouring of love.

There, some of my seniors. My first batch of students when I began my calling as an educator. They are denied so many rights of passage given the corona, but here they are in a force, waving and shouting. My OG Goombas. I wave fondly; it’s been too long since I’ve seen them.

Here, my juniors, those blessed kids who’ve had the misfortune of having me for two years in a row. They make up the bulk of the parade – a mosaic of car styles and vehicle colors that raucously makes it way through the neighborhood. The honking is drowned out by the shouts and exclamations of my students, for their enthusiasm cannot be contained. With windows down, heads and arms are out; some offer gifts and cards, and I dumbly step into the street to accept their well-wishes and bid them onward.

I still have a beer in my hand.

More cars continue to flood the street as the ruckus continues; those little fuckers, I thought. They threw me a parade!

As I awkwardly accept packages and envelopes, the tears begin to well up behind my eyes. How kind of them. How thoughtful of them. How blessed are they to be doing such a thing for a grumpy smartass like me. The grinding of engines and honking of horns is drowned out by their shouts and guffaws; my heart is ready to burst at this outpouring of love. What a spectacle; what a scene!

I see my students in their cars, returning their enthusiastic waves and cheers with my own, as I force the tears to stay put. I’m not crying in my front lawn as my classes march past.

As the last of the cars complete their circuit, I realize my parents have been behind me this entire time. They fucking knew. Mom didn’t need computer help – she just wanted to keep me at home for the big reveal. The sun’s heat pales in comparison to the warmth in my breast; I love those fucking kids.

Eventually the parade peters out, though a few students make a circuit to drop off still more gifts and cards. A few parents offer me six packs of beer, which I clumsily accept in the middle of the street. One student offers me her poster (a new keepsake for my classroom) and others simply swing back around to say their greetings anew. Dumbstruck and humbled, I finally step back onto the grass and out of the street. The honking has ceased and the shouts have been carried off in the wind. The curious neighbors have returned to their homes. A small pile of gifts and cards litter the lawn.

I’ve been holding my beer the entire time. Robotically I take a drink; it’s now cowboy cold, warmed from my pumping blood and the spring sun. I don’t notice the taste.

My sister and brother pull their cars along the sidewalk. My brother’s in-laws join suit. Suddenly I’ve got an impromptu family gathering on my hands. They are all laughing and chattering, congratulating themselves on their expert planning and execution. My sister is the mastermind – outwitted by my dear sister! – and my dear friend kept mum over the course of several patio drinks. She gives me the poster – the very one I had remarked upon earlier. Gaily, they gather the gifts, place them inside, then retreat to the backyard to schwatz and relax. Planning a surprise is tough work, and before long I’ve got the grill going. My neglected phone continues to blow up with new wishes and gotcha’s!

My family stays for the unofficial gathering and drinks all my new birthday beers. Eventually they retire to tend to their families and households; I escort them out and bid final farewells to cap this day of surprising mirth.

The sun is beginning to approach the western horizon; soon the sky will be a mosaic of brilliant color. A picturesque way to send off this day. My phone chirps again.

“Do you like wine,” she said.

The day continues to get better.

I pause in my front lawn where only hours ago I stood awestruck as my kids led a parade. What a day. I turn back toward the front, stopping to admire the rose bushes.

She blossomed. A full, pink rose – more beautiful than I had anticipated – now graces the lawn. All it took was a day for her beauty to become full. It is Nature’s way of reminding me of today’s love.

My heart is a well of love, replenished and overflowing with today’s spectacle. My kids – my goombas – who defied quarantine to participate in this birthday parade. I hear their shouts, see their smiling faces; I let a tear of joy fall.

Those little fuckers, I thought. I love them.

Immortal

I’m watering my lawn with the fountainhead, taking care to ensure it’s an even spray. I take pride in this thing – nurturing it back to Life from a dead winter. It is spring, after all, and a verdant yard is a sign of happiness. The water streams forth from my outstretched hand, like a modern-day Thor calling the rain. I sweep left and right and the grass glistens with each bounty; I’m a Life giver.

I look to my car – a battered ’97 Jeep Cherokee – and see the old warhorse at stable. She’s rusting in several spots, the paint is chipped and peeling just about e’erywhere, and the fender I lost in a near-death experience a few years ago has yet to be replaced. The zip tie I had used to mend the broken plastic has long since rotted away in the New Mexico sun.

My arms sweep the lawn, but my glance keeps returning to the Jeep.

I turn the engine over, fire up the wipers, and spray down the windshield. A flurry of water and bug guts comes crashing over either side, furiously wiping left and right to rid the stains.

“Mexican style,” I can hear Marco say.

Marco.

We used to work together at the tire shop. A few years younger than I, he taught me how to use the machines without scratching a customer’s rim. He made me mount and dismount the same tire a hundredfold; I can do it with a pair of screwdrivers these days thanks to him. He showed me how to stack tires 10-high; an impressive feat for a skinny little white boy. He was a gordo, a big fuckin’ Mexican covered in tattoos, a cigarette always dangling from his lips, and a laugh that made the entire shop seem like a decent place to work. When I called him a wetback, he’d remind me my family was from Europe: he called me an oceanback.

Marco taught me how to ride a motorcycle (he drove mine home the first day because I didn’t have a license). We used to get high after work at his pad – a dumpy, little trailer with refuse and junk piled like a heap in the lawn. The front door didn’t lock, but, he assured me, “When my big ass comes out the door with my shotgun, ain’t no motherfuckers gon’ mess with me.” He was right – no one fucked with Marco.

He taught me some Spanish (how to ask a customer which tire was flat, basic pricing, and how to refer to a lady’s genitalia) and I taught him how to ask for marijuana in German. Basic translation stuff.

We used to hang out after work in the hot summers, kicking it at his pad or a coworker’s. We got high often. It’s where I met the town’s resident crack heads and methed-up loonies. They were always welcome at Marco’s – no one fucked with Marco.

His novia made tortillas. “Ese, she used milk! I ain’t ever seen no wetback use milk in their tortillas before, homes.” She wasn’t a wetback (by the strictest definition) and she’d go off on him in Spanish about how he was a wetback.

I’d sit there on his dog hair-encrusted sofas and politely chew tortillas.

I didn’t give a shit if she used milk or not, or whether she was wet or he was; those things were good.

“Hey guey,” I said trying on my new cholo slang, “when can we drink some beer and get fucked up?”

“Ah, pinche gringo,” he replied. “You fuckin’ Mennonites need to relax.”

Fuckin’ Mennonites.

One day we had a Mennonite come into the shop: blonde hair – blonder than mine – with piercing blue eyes. He wore the Mexican-style cockroach killer boots and a Stetson, driving a piece of shit hoopty that belonged in Marco’s yard. I approached him (white people were always my deal, the guys in the shop declared), but that guy took one look at me then started looking around for an important brown person.

He talked to Marco.

And Marco, God bless him, did indeed help the customer, but he let him know – in English and Spanish – that it’s rude to ignore someone because you assume they don’t comprende. We fixed his tire and sent him on his way.

“Man,” I said, “white people suck.”

“Chinga,” Marco said. “You do, guerro.”

We laughed and got high after work.

The water is still going and some of it is has splashed onto my fancy shirt from decades past.

I remember Gus from the time I was working at Dillard’s o’er in Fort Worth. I hated the gig – I can’t sell shit to people who don’t need it – but I was a poor college student and my folks raised me to labor without complaint. And Gus, that fuckin’ guy, he war a breath of fresh air.

Gus.

I might’ve been 19 or 20 at the time, but Gus was in his mid-forties. He used to run a small tire shop, but the Great Recession saw him shutter the doors of his beloved business and force him to seek solace elsewhere. We became swift mates over mutual tire appreciation and general tomfoolery. That dude was a jokester.

He called my station one time – I worked the Daniel Cremieux fashion line (the Polo of Europe I was ordered to explain) – and put on a terrible French accent.

“Yes, zis is Daniel Cremieux; have you sold any of my shit?”

I lost a sale because I was too busy laughing to deal with a customer needing another cashmere sweater. Gus made that job worth it.

We worked on opposite sides of the store, but we routinely found ourselves shooting the shit at one another’s sections on slow days. And there were plenty of those in a global recession.

“Why the fuck are you working here,” he asked once.

I adjusted my suit top. “It’s a job,” I said.

“Yeah, and so is stripping.”

“Well,” I asked, “why aren’t you doing that?”

“Because I’m old and fat.”

We laughed.

He had a marvelous goatee, like something out of one of the Renaissance paintings held in the local art museum, that he kept very well-manicured. And with all his charm and good looks, he was quite the lady killer. Ah, to see him flirting with the girls as he helped them try on shoes they didn’t need to impress people they didn’t like; he could sell ice to Eskimos.

“I hate this fucking place,” he said.

“Why’s that?”

“There’s no soul – we’re selling useless shit to people who don’t need more shit.”

He was right; I shared the same sentiment. Retail was a nightmare – with all the quotas and double-dealings and ringing in sales and the constant organizing and the bitchy customers and the self-entitled pricks who served as our customer base. It was not a good job for someone as charismatic and affable as Gus. He wanted to be his own boss again, to return the carpet that had been rudely ripped from him.

I just wanted to be like Gus: confident, funny, charismatic, and attentive.

I turn the hose off, gently lay it in the grass, and watch the amber sun beginning its descent into the cooler spring night.

We got along well with Mark. Whereas Gus was the older chap whom everyone could rely on for a laugh and a farce, Mark was that guy every little boy dreams of becoming: smart, sexy, a total badass, and always with a new bombshell on his arm.

Mark.

Mark was like a younger version of Gus: a smart goatee, a sly smirk, and hair that begged to be pulled in the heat of rapture. The two got along famously; I likened myself to their young protégé.

Mark was older than me by about 6-7 years – mid-twenties and already sleeping with the branch manager (different department, he said, so no foul in the ethics committee). He’d laud us boys with tales of his conquests, of his solitary motorcycle chases that inevitably ended up with him in jail, and how he was a man’s man. No bullshit, the guy was real to the core.

Helpful, too.

Despite coming off as a braggadocios asshat the first time you meet him, you quickly learn he’s on your side. More than once he stuck up for me when my numbers were down. “He’s learning, boss man. Cut the kid some slack.” His charm – that wit – couldn’t be resisted. It was always a good time to be caught between Mark and Gus; you’d laugh and forget you worked a shitty retail job.

The hose ceases to hum as the water flow is finally cut off. The last drops drain into the now soaked grass; I can retire for the evening. The sun continues to descend, inch by inch, upon the endless New Mexico horizon. Gray begins to move in from the east as the vibrancy of the west gives ground.

Laugh and forget, just like how Beck used to say.

“Fuck you, man,” I can hear him say through his pudgy face. “You’re just a fucking communist.” We laughed because we didn’t know what communism was in high school and profanity is always encouraged amongst teenage peers. He’d shake a meaty fist in my face and threaten me with violence.

Beck.

We went to high school together, that blessed alma mater, wherein we became swift friends. Like a modern-day Friar Tuck, Beck was loud, big, and jovial. When we did sneak liquor onto campus, he always had to have a little more – bigger boy. And, like Friar Tuck, he wasn’t without his wisdom here and there. But mostly he made us laugh. Everything is funny at that age.

As high school teenage boys are wont to do, insults often started with one’s lineage and maternal figures. How horrible we were to one another’s mothers in private, but how polite and respectful to their faces. Claiming your classmate’s mother gave you fellatio is a hell of a bullshit lie, no matter what modern porn tries to convince you. But that is how we talked – and still talk to this day.

But, Beck, kindly giant that he was, had his gaffe moments.

“Fuck you, midget,” he said. True, compared to him, I was quite dwarfish.

“Fuck you, fatass,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, making the universal sign for jerking off someone’s erection. “That’s what your mom did to me.” He grinned.

“Fuck you, fatass,” I repeated. “She couldn’t find your wormy dick under your jelly rolls.”

That always got him – the fat jokes.

He was angry now, his face turning as red as the setting sun, and he tripped over his words in his rage.

“Yeah,” he sputtered. “Your mom.” He pointed at me. “Her balls. My mouth.” He pointed at himself.

There was silence amongst the lads as we tried to process – and confirm – what he had just said.

It was shattered by raucous laughter.

“Wait, dude, you suck balls?”

He grew redder.

“With your mouth?”

More laughter – he had fucked up and we let him have it.

“Fuck you! And fuck you guys!” He stormed out of the room, slamming the wooden door behind him.

That fuckin’ guy.

The sun is now set; the grass will live another day, absorbing the water so carefully given. Nourishment, like a god from above, given to the thirsty denizens of the world. An apt metaphor.

But my friends of yesteryear won’t see this lawn.

Marco and Mark were killed in motorcycle accidents.

Gus and Beck took their own lives.

Little things, like splashing water on a windshield or watching the sunset, remind me that these gentlemen aren’t here with me any longer in the physical sense, but, despite the years and the inevitable turning of time, they remain immortal within me.

It takes Death to do that.

I Can’t Deal

My digits are now tipped in these rather strange talons most people call fingernails as mine have been bitten off for some 30 odd years e’er since tooth discovered keratin. I find it strange – it makes typing far more haphazardous – and I’ve lost the oral fixation Freud hurr-hurred on about for psychopaths and Oedipusians.

After walking Camino for a third time, it seems the habit was left behind like a stone of ill-intentions at the Cruz de Ferro.

And after walking Camino, I find myself once more having that “Come to Jesus” moment about what is reality and where am I going with it.

Continue reading “I Can’t Deal”

Camino Frances: A Curious Incident Involving an Asian, a Money Belt, and a Banana Hammock

I remember to brush my teeth this evening and head to the men’s bathroom in this brand new – yet delightfully cramped – albergue perched upon the ass-end of a town that has the comical name of Calle. It seems apt given that there isn’t much to this place aside from an overpriced hostel for pilgrims and a kitsch beer garden that took the Germanic title far too seriously. Much as I love beer, being surrounded by emptied and graffitied bottles seems like I’m drinking dead relatives in a hops graveyard.

Regardless, I have applied fluoride to my brush, but stop before I even begin. Some poor bastard has left behind their money belt. A European, no doubt, I think to myself as I grasp the pouch. It is lightweight, thin, and clearly contains money, passports, and other important documents. I resist the urge to peek inside and gander at the identification card lest someone walk in at the wrong moment and assume I’m a thief.

The Asian fellow with the body of a young man but the emotionless face of a stone statue enters to freshen himself up for the night. His face is pockmarked, lacking a beard, but his eyes have that thousand-yard stare only pilgrims and elderly, bearded wisemen seem to possess. I turn toward him (a walking conundrum – like a shaved Confucius) holding the European man purse.

“Yours,” I politely ask.

He grunts in the negative, waving a foamy toothbrush and a dismissive palm toward me. “A no, a no, a no,” he says, caught in that infinite loop of speaking an unfamiliar language to emphasize a point. He points toward his toothbrush – as if it’s the owner – and returns to cleaning his young teeth in an old face.

I thank him for his repeated denial of confirmation and proceed to track down the owner. I scarcely leave that cramped shitter before a half-naked older chap is hit by the swinging door. He apologizes, but the frantic look in his eye indicates I’ve found my mark.

“Yours,” I politely ask.

“Ah!” he squeaks in pleasant surprise. He looks at me, looks at his man purse, looks at me, and takes the man purse from my outstretched hand. He ignores my pasted toothbrush in the other.

“Ah, thank you so very much!” he says. He has excellent command of the language, only the slightest hint of an accent, and I can’t place him just yet. “This,” he says holding up the man purse, “was my Life. Thank you.”

“No problem,” I say. “Happy to help.”

“I would be – as you say – fucked without this.” He emphasizes the word, like he’s trying to sense my limits by proffering the most versatile curse in the tongue.

He has since buckled the man purse about his bare waist. A damp tee covers his chest; an European banana hammock covers the rest. His legs are the same shade of pale as the slick tile.

The Asian man-boy is furiously brushing his teeth.

“It is very kind,” says the half-naked European, “to return this to me. You could have taken anything you wanted.”

I laugh. “It is Camino,” I say. “We are pilgrims. We help each other.”

“Ah, yes. That is true. I thank you.” He extends his hand and briefly shakes mine. My toothbrush remains unused and impotent. “I am from Slovenia,” he says, not bothering with a name. After releasing my hand, he produces a second tee from Lord knows where and begins to wash it – unperturbed by the Asian man-boy – in a nearby sink. The Asian is equally unfazed by the half-naked European casually washing his clothes. “Where do you call home?”

“United States,” I reply. “New Mexico.”

“Ah, yes!” he exclaims as if he’s ever been to that part of the country. “I was once in California – it is close, no?”

I think to myself how distance is relative and simply agree with him. Easier than explaining geography at this point. Our Confucian pal finally finishes scrubbing his gums clean of any and all filth and quietly exits the bathroom. “A sorry, a excuse,” he says. Given the cramped space, he simply squeezes between us, but my new Slovenian friend pays him no mind as he begins asking me about Trump, healthcare, and Camino.

“Trump,” he says with that European dissent. “What a character, no?”

“He certainly is,” I reply waving my hands (and toothbrush) in dismissive defeat. I haven’t checked the news since Lent but according to other pilgrims, The Donald is being racist or some shit back home. Same shit, different day. “But he will get re-elected,” I add.

The European nods in agreement, moving his head up and down like a sensible person, and thrusting his near-naked groin to and fro for some strange affirmation. He is caught up in his thoughts and fails to notice the quixotic expression on my face.

Even he knows the cult of personality and the rabid ambition the man has for the office. “It is about money,” he says, wringing out his second tee and standing in full. His money belt blocks the full view of his banana hammock, but I cannot get quite past the paleness of his legs. All these weeks in Spain and not a day of sun.

“Yes,” I say, “money. That’s what people care about.”

“Yes!” he says. I touched a nerve as he becomes wholly animated. “But all that shit – the shit we left back home – does not matter.” He holds his free hand high above his head. “A stack of money this tall does not make one happy!”

I nod.

“You cannot eat money,” he continues. “Money will not cure you of matters of the mind and heart.” His banana hammock flops in agreement as he excitedly moves about within our small quarters.

“And you can’t take it with you,” I add.

“Yes, very true that is. You cannot have it in the next Life.”

He returns to the sink (the Asian man-boy didn’t rinse his out thoroughly and remnants of Confucian spittle decorate the porcelain). He wrings the tee one more time for good measure. “Everyone needs to go on Camino,” he sighs. “It would teach the world of Good.”

“Where else in the world can you have moral philosophical discussions in a men’s bathroom with strangers?” I say. “Now that’s Camino.”

He laughs and with his free hand motions to fist bump. “You are right, American.” Again the banana hammock flops in agreement.

I return the gesture, my hand clenched around my unused toothbrush.

Doubt Breeds Strength

Where to begin?

I hear it. Those reverberating beats of guitar, drums, and keyboard before the onslaught of lyrics eviscerates my reality. That booming voice; a war god howling his rage and frustration. Deutschland. Again and again, repeated for emphasis, to show just how important it is for the listener to pay attention – to take fucking note. Ah, battle ne’er sounded so angrily beautiful. This euphoric assault upon the senses, bringing one to realization that the world is far vaster, far more important, than whate’er miniscule problems one might think they understand.

This is music. Continue reading “Doubt Breeds Strength”

Are You Still Blogging?

A former student of mine – now a Junior – asked this of me the other day whilst I invaded his class in a blatant display of ego-mongering. I was taken aback, for, as we know, I deny deny deny the existence of this blog. The tag line, after all, is “a blog for mad people by a madman.” Certainly isn’t apropos for a teacher to be guiding his charges (former and current) toward a blog of mad rants and ramblings of a drunkard trying to make sense of a world long lost to oblivion.

Well, fuck.

Empty Walls has been on repeat for the better part of an hour, I reckon, for – in times of dead reckoning – such tunes find comfort within my distended breast. Repetition, wh’ther it be poetry, politics, or people, is important to consider.

We repeat things for emphasis.

And, comrades, I daresay I sorely lack in the repetition of my writings.

Continue reading “Are You Still Blogging?”

They Don’t Fill Growlers on Sunday

Howdy folks,

Oft one might wonder what their purpose is upon gods’ green earth – yours?

Me? I serve as a reminder.

Oh, as I told my kids this past week, I know exactly who I am and what I’m here for. I remember Dr. Toland – ah, so many years ago – relating how he found his purpose under the shade of a tree whilst attending college. Not dissimilar from the Buddha (and the man could give His Holiness a run for His money in the theological thinker department).

My purpose, yes, that niggling thought e’er at the back of my mind. Between booze and smokes, under the light of eternal Luna, who wouldn’t ponder their mere existence in the light of something greater?

Call her a close friend, a lover, something more, but tonight she implored as to why I personify myself with Grendel. The monster that wrecks Hart time and time again and causes no end of anguish to the beleaguered Hrothgar. It is not until Beowulf – that bastard Geat – rips his arm from his socket that peace is finally found. Blood spilling forth from his mortal wound, all of his warfare and violence for naught, yet finding peace in the tranquility of the Abyss. But in peace, comrades, do we truly find our calling? What is a peace without assiduously applied butchery?

Today I wrote a children’s book whilst death metal blared from my antiquated speakers as I slowly put off my getting ready for church. Here, just as liable to assist children as I am to indulge my lyrical fantasies for violence and guttural shouts. Christ on a stick; what sort of existence is that where one finds themselves in such a paradoxical predicament?

Yet, comrades, I must reiterate my nature as a beast of Paradox:

I do not want children; I love all 150 of my students
I cannot commit myself to any one person; I am married to elucidation
I love who I am as a free individual; I bemoan the existence I’ve implemented upon myself
I detest school as a formal institution; I am a teacher
I love every heart I’ve broken – the list is arduous
I want the best for my charges; I cannot be a role model in my current state
I want my charges to experience failure and disappointment; I want my charges to Live without interference

Comrades, hark! What sort of madness beguiles this maddened scribe? How can any individual wish only the best for their students while wanting them to experience the bittersweet unguent of failure? Am I not mad? Am I not human?

A friend – and a few students – commented on my lack of humanity; how I have sold myself to Diogenes the Cynic oh so long ago. Yet I ponder: is such a thing necessarily bad? The bastard philosopher wasn’t necessarily wrong in his arbitrations of human nature and disposition. Indeed, being treated like a dog is a pendulum that swings both ways; a cutting blade liable to spill blood and offer enlightenment whilst doing so.

Is it wrong to want loved ones to fail the better able to sup their eventual victory? To want the young to witness and experience the tribulations of youth to better prepare them for the glory of adulthood? Forsooth, I want my nephews and nieces to touch the hot oven, the better able to learn for themselves than from the guise of a drunken lout who merely chuckles and says, “I told you so.”

Scarcely, I say, is it wrong to want suffering to be a guiding light? Who, among you, reader(s), have not suffered in your own quest?

This past week I have bombarded my charges with philosophy, trying to drill it into their heads the importance of being able to think – critically – and learning from those great thinkers who have gone before us. Yet I find myself wondering (on the occasion), am I misguided in my intentions? After all, I reason, are these blokes not very much dead?

Who gives a shit about Averroes? Avicenna? Plato? Kierkegaard? Sartre? These are dead men -rotten beyond comprehension – with idle words and ideas far beyond 10^th grade comprehension.

Fuck, me. They are dead. But the idea – the idea, comrades! – cannot be extinguished so swiftly.

I am a goddamned mess – a slew of vices corrupting my virtue – yet at least I am aware of my purpose. I am an example: of things to do and not to do; of things to emulate and things to ignore; of things to savor and things to revile; of things to witness and things to ignore.

To my charges reading this drivel: go to bed.

To my charges seeking enlightenment: cross the Dark Stream.

Trust me, comrades, the deeper you go, the more that makes sense.

Now then: we’re off to change the world. One cynical thought at a time. And to hell with the rest.

When Wasn’t I Awake?

Fuck, I love Tobacco

There is something to be said about vices and how they keep us human. After all, comrades, how are we to trust someone who has ne’er indulged themselves beyond the Dark Stream?

I first started smoking at 16 when I was punished for fighting at NMMI. I was only a Sophomore in high school, but my heavy boots and quick tongue found me in a moral quandary my young mind wasn’t capable of extricating itself just yet. My squad leader – a loveable chap who shall remain nameless – recognized my errant behavior and my uncouth attitude toward rules and regulations. After receiving my duly (and justly) fit punishment for breaking the rules, he and I stole away to an insecure power bay and there – on those hallowed grounds of cavalry stomping – I indulged myself for the first time.

Ah, how flitting is the smoke.

I went cold for five years when I found myself sworn to a girl I was for certain to marry. But, if you know my story, comrades, you know that weren’t the case. After five years of biting a hole into my cheek, of swallowing my tongue, of putting on the Richard Cory face, I watched as Rome burnt afore me; I hadn’t even a fiddle to play.

These days – far from that five years – I find myself with a couple of proper pipes and an endless supply of fine American Spirits. There is something to be said about addiction, comrades, for I find it humanizes me. After all, when one compares themselves to Beowulf’s greatest foe, it is reassuring to relate monstrosity to humanity. Am I not flawed? Am I not imperfect? Ah, yes; so very much so. All courtesy of a finely wrapped and packaged death sentence I all too happily indulge: we all die. Enjoy it.

The Longest Journey by Ensiferum has been on repeat for at least an hour – quite possibly more – and though I have listened to this song a thousandfold, each new reverberation brings a new realization. The Dark Stream; pray tell, what is it?

On the morrow I am to teach the Allegory of the Cave by a Mr. Plato. Some Greek blowhard who had some good ideas and unintentionally spawned Christianity. My faithful readers, I implore you to remember we are born of pagan ideals mixed with the blood of the Savior. The Allegory is a stark reminder of this. We escape toward Truth. We must cross the Dark Stream lest we let it consume us.

To my students who are reading this drivel, foremost: stop. Read something of substance. I shan’t quiz you on what your loony instructor writes, but that of what truly matters: this ultimate quest for Truth. And certainly don’t take up smoking; we all die, but at least die knowing you made a contribution aside from being a lung cancer statistic.

Back to the Allegory for I find it a most provocative piece: we delight in our ignorance. It is humanity’s universality. I have some kids who are dumber than a sack of hammers and are destined to make a killing in the o’lfield one day swinging said hammer, but is Life merely an amount of zeros following a dollar sign? No, comrades, far from it.

Beyond that Dark Stream – the proverbial End – and far beyond the Cave of Ignorance, a whole world yearns for our touch. Our gentle boot to the ass. The slap of indignation across the face of realization. To think – to fucking think! – that we are to merely exist to swing hammers and collect a paycheck; ah, how that irks. How it perturbs. How it disturbs. Disrupts. Defiles. And, most damnably, distorts.

We, my comrades, are not put upon this sphere of influence to collect magical pieces of paper with a monetary value in constant flux; render unto Caesar and fuck all. We were not put upon this globe to work until our hands shrivel in dotage and our ungrateful children retire us to homes of the walking dead. And we certainly weren’t put upon this earth, comrades, to labor for no higher purpose.

Are we not to serve as reminders?

Ah; education. Education – that bridge across the Stream, straddling the Cave – to enlightenment. My little bastards have but a taste of it; far more is to come as Real Life swings the proverbial Dick of Life into their wholesome faces, but let it be clear that it is with the best of intentions. Certainly, a dick in the face is frowned upon in polite company, but if you can learn something – for Good or Ill – is learning not worth it?

Years ago I learned I found relief in stimulants, my beautiful tobacco, and mastered the art of keeping an addiction under control for self-betterment. With each new high, I found the dragon e’er out of reach until I stumbled upon that one high replicated e’ery 49 minutes. Teaching, ah blessed Teaching, how you, like my tobacco, keep me humble, alive, and awake.

We all die, comrades. We all struggle with addiction. Self-doubt. The cancer of the soul that one day will claim us as another statistic of whatever egress you fancy. But, comrades, but, we aren’t there yet. Make something of yourself. Make something of yours. Embrace your mistakes and realize you were simply the Escaped Prisoner from the Cave the entirety.

If, dear reader, these words are lost upon you, then I fear you ne’er left the Cave. Rethink yourself. Rethink the Cave. The Dark Stream. Rethink you. What have you to offer, after all?

I am a near-alcoholic, chain-smoking, foul-mouthin’, fucking crazy.

But at least I am Free.

Grössi

It was Swiss National Day. 1 August, when the original three cantons swore blood oaths against foreign aggression and the hated Hapsburgs. It was unlike any other Erste August they had celebrated before.

He sat across from her, a diminutive woman from centuries past, a veritable peasant milkmaid once upon a time who most certainly hurled boulders on the invading Austrians at Morgarten. She might have been a shade, her stature so small against the massive wooden chair she found herself seated upon. His grandmother – his father’s side – who was approaching her 85^th birthday.

Grössi. Swiss shorthand for grandmother.

He looked upon her gnarled hands – worn well with ages of manual labor – and remembered the tenderness behind those curved fingers. How she would comfort his father when he was sick – a shot of grög to cure any illness (warm schnapps with water, lemon, and sugar to hide the bitterness) – how those very same hands once fended off a rabid fox using only a wooden pitchfork before his grandfather – Opa – shot it with a rudimentary (possibly flintlock) shotgun. The very same hands that knitted water-tight wicker baskets, carved planks from felled trees, sowed corn in the Alpine climate of Fribourg, cut beans, made salbe to cure wounds and prevent infections, swatted misbehaving children and grandchildren, and toasted fortune and misfortune alike with a hearty Sante and a fiery schnapps. Those very hands, rough as talons, that would pat his head and remind him – even well into adulthood – he was still just a little boy. Hepschabübe.

Apart from his full-blood Swiss cousin who was destined to inherit the family farm, he was the only grandchild who spoke enough of her odd dialect to engage in genuine conversation; the trouble with immigrant parents. He recalled the times she would badger him about his American girlfriends, when he would settle down and find himself a nice Swiss girl.

Üb’ die Berge, she would say, passing him chocolate and sweets, forcing him to sit in the shade and rest as she labored in the fields, refusing to accept his help. Over the mountain, indicating a potential Swiss bride was just over the next Berge for her wayward American grandson.

Nay, Grössi, i’ wie nicht, he would respond a thousandfold. No, Grandmother, I don’t know. His catch-all response for matters of the heart.

Schön, schön, she would sigh gayly, returning her attention to fields needing plowing and hay needing turning. Good, good. It was a waiting game for her – a means of conversation – and even though he dreaded explaining himself in a foreign tongue to this family relic, he found solace in their brief, practical conversations.

She was no taller than five feet, coming to his shoulder on a good day, but with a perpetual crick in her spine, as if the weight of the farm and family constantly caused her to tilt to and fro in either direction. Despite her size – this elderly ragamuffin – she was worth every ounce of her salt, easily outpacing him in plowing fields, harvesting hay, gathering roots, or chopping wood. She was a metronome, and he, in the prime of his Life, found himself wholly inadequate in her maternal, enduring presence. She was carved from the very stone of her mountainous homeland; part of him was certain she watched the granite blossom from nothingness.

He had visited the farm several years ago, intent on exploring Europe via foot and backpack. For a week, whilst his luggage languished in Germany – Düütschesland, she’d mutter – he helped about the place, trying to earn his keep, to show her that not all Americans were fat and lazy. Even though he awoke before dawn and helped milk cows before herding them to the hills, she was always there before him. It seemed Time was afraid of her and merely responded to her bidding. Geh’ du Lese’, Professor, she would say laughingly. Go back to reading. Farm work was no place for a boy outpaced by an octogenarian.

Once, many years ago, she asked about his American interests and what sort of music he enjoyed. Though he did take a particular liking to traditional Swiss polka and yodel, he confessed he admired Rammstein. She swore in rapid fire Swiss, crossing herself thrice – a good Catholic woman – before chastising him for his lack of taste and affinity for megabrutal music. Mein’ Gött. When they visited Rome together later that summer, she entered the Vatican on bended knee, crawling through St. Peter’s gate as a true Pilgrim. The heavens sang.

When his mother was stricken with breast cancer, the very same diminutive woman (who had only left Switzerland three times before) made an immediate pilgrimage to Lourdes to pray for healing. His uncle, who ran the farm, protested at the loss of his most valuable hand for a near week: how would he get by? Soga’ Ketzer brauche’ Hilfe, the good Catholic would laugh. Even heretics need help, she said with love. His Protestant mother had been cancer-free for several years.

He thought of the old woman he and his missionary comrades had served in Santiago de Chile. Abuela, they had affectionately called her, a tiny woman who was easily 80 years old, yet cared for her American hijos and hijas as if they were her own babes. He saw his grandmother in this woman – the very same spark of Life and vitality no hardship could extinguish. She kissed the ground as they left for the last time, falling prostrate, rising for each child, kissing them on the cheek, and whispering Spanish prayers into their ears as they hugged goodbye. He wept that day, finding his Grössi in the slums of Chile.

His thoughts returned to 1 August, a day of celebration and fest. Here they were, assembled as a family: grandparents, parents, children, grandchildren, brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, daughters, sons, the whole mess of them drunk on wine, schnapps, food, and family.

His father raised his wine glass and the table silenced themselves – the chatter and laughter coming to a hushed close. “I wish to make a toast,” he said in his heavily accented English, “to Grössi. And to Switzerland.”

The quiet table burst into raucous cheers of hear, hear’s and Sante’s as they clinked crystal wine glasses against one another, ensuring they made eye contact with every individual at the table (and never crossing arms; taboo and bad luck) before supping the fine French wine.

Amidst bread, blood, and drink, all was well.

He looked at his father, a proud, strong man who seized the American dream by the throat and throttled every meaningful promise into existence for his family. He held back tears – plain enough to see – as he smashed his glass again and again.

“Für Grössi, Vater,” he said as their glasses met.

Grössi raised her own glass, her petite bird arm cradling the fine schlöcki as she toasted her fellow well-wishers.

“Für dich,” he said as he met Grössi’s strong, patient eye. “Mein’ Grössi.”

“Mein’ Kinde’,” she replied warmly, the sound of cascading crystal reverberating throughout the room. My child.

She had passed away some 12 hours before, approximately 3,000 miles away, in the comfort of her bed.

My Grandmother in Switzerland passed away during the early hours of 1 August. I last saw her in 2014 when I started Camino Primaris, still the strong, implacable woman of my youth. Her image of strength, tenacity, and willpower will ne’er leave me.

Geh’ mit Gött, Grössi.

Go with God.