The storm before the calm.

The countdown is on. In three days, I'll begin the biggest road trip of my life. A cross-country trek is in order, with nothing to stand in my way. Look out New Mexico, here I come!

And of course... you had to call and suck the life force right out of me.

You may not realize it Father, but your voice alone makes me physically ill. Yes, I listened to your voice-mail. Of course I remember where I was on September 11, 2001. You and I were at home alone. We had breakfast. We watched the news and saw the second jet plane actually strike the World Trade Center on live television. Immediately, we knew there was a dastardly plot afoot.

And no, I have no intentions of calling you back. You see... there's a great divide in where you are and where you should be.

Here you are - believing all the world is right and you've not transgressed anyone.

Where should you be? Apologizing for all you've done wrong. The torment, the guilt, the suffering - it's all yours to feel remorse for.

That's the great big joke, though, is it not? You don't even realize what you should be sorry for. Three years on and you've forgotten how you assaulted my little sister. You've forgotten the lies you told. You've forgotten how you abused my ill mother in her time of dying, not to mention the infidelity. Oh yes, and you've also forgotten how you called my dear Crystal a voodoo witch (truth really is stranger than fiction). You have forgotten these things.

But I have not.

In place of these memories is your growing sense of sentiment. Father, I'm not sure whether you genuinely miss me or just want to feel better about yourself, but you're trying to fill that growing void.

Time is not the great nullifier, as you would have it. Nay, time has wiped no memories from my brain. I know what you've done. The real question is - do you know that I know?

Either way, you don't get to hear my voice. You've not earned the right to even hear the hollow breath escaping my lungs. For the past thirty-six hours, I've swollen up with a quagmire of feelings. As this evening settled upon me, I came to a final conclusion.

I'm not mad at you any more, Father. In fact, I pity you.

Anyone whom reads this blog regularly knows that my level of anger has lessened over the past few years. Writing this blog has been an effective tool in getting my emotional health back in order. This has coincided with an increased degree of control over my physical health, to which I feel immense jubilation. As I'm letting the physical baggage go, so too am I relinquishing my emotional baggage. Much of that is typical father-son angst, though more so complex in that our particular relationship (or lack thereof) is... combative. In the liberation of my spirit, I've decided to let much of my madness subside. I owe a great deal of thanks to the very people I aim to visit in my trek this coming week. 

Kathy, Billy... thank you for being there for me in my time of need. 

That being said, I'm not mad anymore. Anger ravaged my own health and personal relationships for far too long. It will grip my being no longer. As such... I'm not mad at you Father. That does not mean I'm forgiving of your actions, nor does it imply any degree of absolution. I'm simply no longer angry about the matter of our past.

At some point Father, perhaps you'll find it in your heart to say you're sorry. Say it to me, say it to your other children, say it to your dead wife. I know it's difficult for you, the egotistical sociopath that you are. What's the old saying -- "It takes one to know one"? You see, I came narrowly close to transforming into a sociopath myself... but one thing prevented me from doing so. 

My sense of guilt.

Slowly, but surely, I've stepped back from that ledge. No longer do I trivialize the feelings of others. I don't manipulate friends and family. I don't fabricate lies and weave stories constantly. I came damn close to becoming that which you are, Father. So close in fact, that I'm ashamed to admit it. All my life, I've let my heart hang heavy with guilt. More often than not, my guilt concerned events and people that I had no control over. It has been inexplicably linked to my anger, which I've come to let go of.

Ironically, it was my sense of guilt that saved me from you. I had the key to my salvation all along. I just couldn't see it.

Now, I see clearly. I've come to control my emotions more readily. The difference between you and I is apparent. When you're ready to apologize, you let me know. Until then, keep to your self.

Ahhhh... that feels better. How rewarding to unshackle that bit of emotional turbulence! My life force has returned; I feel rejuvenated and positive once again.

The Land of Enchantment truly is just beyond the horizon... and that feels right.

Happy place.

I returned a few days ago from a wonderful vacation. Not only did I travel to the farthest point north I have ever been before, but I also experienced something very special. For the July 4th holiday, Crystal and I took a road trip to New York. More specifically, we visited with her extended family on the majestic Lake Owasco. As one of the glacier-carved Finger Lakes, Owasco stands out as a serene setting that's historically been a very popular vacation destination for over a hundred years.

I experienced many personal firsts on this trip...

• I rode in a canoe (absolutely terrifying).
• I went floating in an innertube.
• I went fishing in a boat.
• I shot off fireworks.
• I endured nearly a week without a shower (lots of sink bathing).
• It was the first real vacation Crystal and I have ever taken in the many years we've been together.

Certainly, there are other great moments I'm forgetting at the moment. A perusal through my photos would surely reveal more moments I'd consider as firsts. I can't help but be thankful for the new memories I made with Crystal and her family. They couldn't have been more warm and inviting to me. Folks I'd never met before knew my name. They knew who I was. They knew what I did for a living. They knew things about me I never expected anyone to know. It was like... they cared about me. It was a new feeling, but certainly quite welcomed. I'm very eager to see everyone again. They're part of my family now... and that means a great deal to me.

I also had the pleasure of visiting Fillmore Glen State Park. Hands down, this is one of the most spectacular parks I've ever seen. The vegetation was so lush and green. With the finely cut stone and rock from years of being weathered by rushing streams and waterfalls, it was almost too much to take in. I absolutely suggest it as a place you must visit at some point in your life.

To cap off our trip, we were walking out of the deepest spot in the park when a thunderstorm formed over us without warning. We were drenched. With a mile and a half to go, our little group kept in the trees to avoid lightning strikes (many struck close by). By the time we made it to our vehicle, our clothes and bags were sopping messes. No matter... it was fun like I don't recall experiencing in many, many years. I'll cherish this memory for the rest of my life. Crystal, Brad, Jacqueline, Cale - thank you for helping me have some fun for once in my life. Thank you for helping me find a happy place. You rock!

Yep... I look like a bloated knucklehead in this photo... but do you see that smile on my face? What the hell is that?! ;-)

Yoga?

I'm as sweaty as a politician taking a lie detector test. Exhausted. Pooped.

That's right... I just got done trying yoga.

Crystal suggested that we attempt a yoga video after our cardio exercises just an short while ago. Let me be perfectly clear...

Heavy people can not do yoga.

Much to Crystal's assertion that it's okay if I can't do the poses, I find the latter to be true. If you're not maintaining the pose as described, is it really yoga at all? Or are you just falling with grace?

The truly hard part though was actually calming myself and sitting in the yoga position. I had to sit in a chair ultimately because my legs would constantly fall asleep. When I'd try to calm my mind and relax, all I could do was laugh. After trying to be calm for what seemed like ten minutes (and fighting off the constant urge to laugh), I finally calmed down. Though, I think I just started to fall asleep.

I'll continue to try and do yoga because Crystal is right. I need to clear my mind and stretch my body out more. My joints are tight and I have no sense of limberness.

But damn if it isn't funny!

Wounds.

I recently listened to a story by the revered martial artist Enson Inoue. Inoue is a Japanese-American whom has held the Shooto Heavyweight Championship and operates multiple mixed martial arts studios across the globe. Considered one of the progenitors of the MMA sports field, Inoue is highly regarded. Amongst the Japanese people, they call him 'Yamato-Damashii', which in essence means 'Japanese Spirit'. The Japanese consider him to contain and harness all that which makes Japan unique and special. He is a warrior and guide to them, and rightfully so.

In this story, Inoue-san spoke of an altercation he encountered when he was young. To paraphrase, he watched as a young friend was beaten within inches of his life. Already fairly proficient in the martial arts, Inoue locked up from fear. From what, he asked himself? Having a broken rib? Being cut? Perhaps snapping a leg? The anticipation of physical harm scared him from getting involved. Fear conquered him on that day, to which he still regrets as an older man.

At the end of his tale, Inoue-san made a powerful point. Had he of stepped in and helped defend his friend, he most assuredely would have been injured. Yet, physical wounds heal. Bones can become unbroken. The flesh will stop bleeding. Instead... many decades later, he still has an emotional wound by not stepping in to help. Emotionally, he has not healed... and probably never will. Fear damaged him in a way that physical harm can not. Fear cut to his very essence, to forever be left with a scar. The emotional wound proved far more permanent than any physical wound he could have potentially received on that day so long ago.

I can relate to Inoue-san in way that many can not. He understands how emotional trauma can have a lifelong impact.

As a child, I preferred the shoving and beatings over any amount of yelling... any amount of degradation and torture. On multiple occassions, I can directly recall simply asking my dad for a beating, just to get the whole altercation over with. It's disgusting... but it's the truth. At least I can move beyond the pain.

Pain is temporary.

Perfect love.

After putting in a few late night hours packing packages for my business customers this evening, I found myself exhausted. My eyes had that slight tingle that comes from staring at a computer monitor after a few too many hours.

I have burned the midnight oil this evening.

Just a short while ago, I leaned back in my office chair to rest my eyes. Almost instantly, my eyes were closed. I was calm for a short moment... calmer than I've experienced in a long time. My mind began to wander, much like a moth trying to find an ounce of sunshine in a light bulb.

Random thoughts... Reality. Compassion. Humility. Honor.

A few minutes passed. As I sat forward and opened my eyes, I couldn't help but contemplate the love that not all of us encounter. Not just any old love -- the type shared between friends, or the kind proclaimed by a young child about their favorite flavor of ice cream. I mean real love.

True, undeniable, inconceivable, illogical, completely selfless love.

There are indeed plenty of 'fish in the sea', as the old saying goes. Undeniably, we can almost certainly find someone that will share even a brief intimate moment with us. Someone whom will listen to us... share dinner with us... embrace us. While not temporary, these interludes of human compassion at the very least remind us that we are alive. Accordingly, I wouldn't dare level these moments as illicit or petty. The world is a harsh and uncaring realm of existence; any moment of happiness must be cherished and respected. Indeed -- if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with.

Yet, I want to attest to the power of an even higher degree of love. Such a love that is without conditions but loaded with consequences. Love that will change how you look at the world; how you look at yourself. Love that will make you dive into an ocean with no hope of rescue. Love that will drive you into a burning building, just so your better half won't have to die alone. Love that will inflict a wound so deep, that you may never love again.

Human beings may not be monogamous by nature, but a few of us are damn lucky enough to meet the one person that turns our entire world upside down. Red will change to blue. North will flip to south. Sweet will taste salty and cold will sizzle hot. A loving bond so unique, so perfect... should the two lovers be separated, the entire universe shall be torn asunder.

Yes... THAT kind of love.

We see a love of this caliber often on television or in movies. We sing songs about meeting the one. We write books... nay entire series of novels about eternal love. In every possible creative output humanity has managed to invent, we always elevate the concept of perfect love.

Hemingway did it. So did Van Gogh. Beethoven? Yep, he did as well. Springsteen has done it (and still is). Cusack gushed perfect love as the bumbling Lloyd Dobler. Grant and Hepburn, too.

Perfect love surrounds us. We glide through clouds of wishful wanting, often not evening knowing it. Could these clouds be so thick that we fail to see the love of our life fly by? Are we too caught up in the idea of perfect love that we fail to see it right before our eyes? Maybe yes... maybe no. Who is to say?

I approach the art of perfect love from a different perspective, in such a way that connects to the previously mentioned idea of 'plenty of fish'. Maybe... just maybe... a perfect love isn't inherently natural. As with anything, perfection doesn't exist in an objective sense. Two people, both filled with faults and self-loathing, trust issues and anger; they can create a bond of love that's perfect for them and them alone. But, these two people must be willing to work at it. Love has so much more importance when we work to make it important. A lasting relationship takes effort and dedication. Add to that heaps of trial and error.

Most importantly, loves requires sacrifice. We must not let fear deter us from sacrificing our own pride to the one we love. Once we've conquered the fear of humility, all other agents of destruction pale in comparison. Taking a bullet is but a small price to pay when compared to surrendering your own self-importance for the sake of your relationship. Fear is powerful; I don't foolishly disregard it. To be afraid is perfectly natural. Having the courage to admit you're afraid? That's the hard part. How appropriate that your lover, your best friend, your companion is there to help you along?

Fear is the darkness we follow love into, but never do we enter that darkness alone.

Scars.

On this evening, I find myself mulling over of the imperfections we all share. Each of us is a complex mire of swirling vices and misconceptions. Many of the choices we make in life are shallow or short-sighted. Sometimes we make snap judgments without considering the long-term ramifications. Causation is chief amongst why we make the choices we do. Too many of us bear scars inflicted by those that have hurt us in the past, both physically and emotionally.

The beaten child becomes an abusive parent.

The scorned lover becomes a misogynist.

The overlooked student becomes a self-destructive party animal.

We all bear scars. You. I. Your best friend. The waitress that lives down the block. Your math teacher. The guy at the grocery whom bags your apples. The cop writing you a ticket. The prom queen.

We all bear scars.

Given the freedom to do so, scars can remain as open wounds that fester and spread sickness throughout your entire body. The sickness can infect your mind and spoil your thoughts. It can worm its way into your heart and ruin your ability to love - either yourself or anyone else. You grow older, more depressed, more untethered to the consciousness of mankind. Eventually, your light grows dim. At the end of it all, you find yourself to be a mere hollow shell. No spark. No internal flame. Done.

The causality of pain producing scars, which in turn causes us to make imperfect choices - that is a bond that we all share. Ironically enough, the state of normality is for us to be imperfect. To be "perfect" is not normal, but abnormal! These scars, whether we find a way to make them heal, or let them continue to sour our existence, are what construct the landscape of our lives. In a way, these scars... these past attacks on our potential happiness... they make us who we are. Each thread in the tapestry of our life is a choice. Some threads are given to us from others. Some threads are earned through hard work. Some threads are the scars themselves. Woven together, a complete person is produced.

We must hold dear our scars and attempt to heal as many as possible. Though, I make no implication as to forgiveness for the scars we have. Most actions can be forgiven; there are some that can not. This is purely subjective - only you can decide for yourself what is to be forgiven. At the end of it all, I'm left with one simple, but profound notion.

Scars are memories that refuse to be forgotten.

Make an effort.

Holidays typically prompt me to reflect upon the friends and family in my life, no matter the particular celebration at hand. Today was no exception. I can't help but think about how small my circle of family and friends has grown over the years. I realize many of you reading this fall into either of those two categories, but let me clarify even further. Within the span of a year, I will probably see between three to five relatives (not including those whom actually live with me) once or twice. Likewise, I may see one or two friends within a year (again... once or twice). Many of the people reading this will be doing so through Facebook - extended family, those of you whom I went to grade school with, worked with at previous jobs, etc. We haven't actually seen or spoken to each other in person at any point within the past seven to twenty years. Let me repeat that - seven to twenty years.

Are we really friends? In fact, wouldn't it be better to call us acquaintances?

Are we really family? It takes more than shared genetic material to be family in my book. To place this point in perspective, any two humans from anywhere on the planet are 99.9% genetically similar.

I've heard rumblings through the proverbial grapevine that many members of my extended family have taken offense to not seeing me for many years. They feel slighted that I don't come to Virginia to see my father and all of my kin. Yet, these same individuals made little to no effort to have any sort of tangible relationship with me before while I still lived in Virginia. Only now, after I have lived for many years in North Carolina, do they feel as if I should make more of an effort to be "closer". You want to know why I don't visit my father? Read this entire blog and learn the answer. You could ask him, but I doubt he knows himself as to why I don't speak to him. In correlation to this point, I'm not the type whom constantly clings to family for my survival (both financial and emotional). I don't live in a collective. I don't rely upon the kindness and assistance of relatives. I stand on my own two feet. Independence is important to me. Relying upon family goes against my very nature.

Some of you I have maintained close contact with, though we may not have shared the same airspace in quite a while. Distance has not kept us from staying in contact, to which I am grateful. We are certainly family and/or friends. You know who you are. Thank you.

The point I believe I'm winding a path towards is this...

If you want to be a part of my life, then you must make an effort to do so. It's okay to be a past acquaintance or a member of my extended family. Yet, don't make it out to be more than it really is. If you want things to change between us, then make a concerted effort. Or don't... it's your choice.

"When I see a bird that walks like a duck and swims like a duck and quacks like a duck, I call that bird a duck." -- James Whitcomb Riley