Music and Language

My sister and I are a bit competitive in "being good at things." Well, we used to be, at least. There's still some banter back and forth, but we're both getting old enough that such things don't matter. As much.

For the most part, whatever it is we decide to pursue, I tend to pick things up more quickly than my sister. She hates it. I love it. But, like I said, we're not as competitive as we used to be.

There are, however, several things she hands-down kicks my ass at. Math being one. Yes, algebra is ridiculously easy for me, and trigonometry isn't much of a stretch. But give me a geometry or calculus proof and I guarantee I'll celebrate a few birthdays before I ever come close to figuring it out. My sister, though, will knock it out and go take a nap. Yeah, fine. I'll give her math. Since the only math I've ever really needed in life has actually been algebra - and some basic business mathematics - she can have this one.

But then there's music. There's a bit of a dichotomy with this one. I can score, arrange, and orchestrate far better than she can (I still suck, though... which means she REALLY sucks at it), but I can't play shit. A bit of piano, maybe a bit more trumpet, and the slightest modicum of saxophone and guitar.

My sister, though, can pick up an instrument like it's a toy. She doesn't have to beat a key, strum a string, or hold an embouchure very long before she just "gets it." Seriously, as one of the few talents I actually want to have, this pisses me off to no end.

Sure, I'm better at trumpet than she'll ever be, but that's only because I played for a decade and she never cared for the instrument. All I can play on piano is "Let it Be" by The Beatles, "Imagine" by John Lennon," and "Axel F" by Harold Faltermeyer. I'm currently learning "Misery" by The Beatles and I can play along with "Your Ghost" by Greg Laswell, but in the amount of time it will take me to learn these two simplistic songs, she could easily learn any concerto by any classical composer.

Argh!

And then there's language. My sister is competently trilingual. English, French, Japanese. And she's making a concerted effort to pick up Spanish. Hell, even my mother is bilingual (Japanese and English) and my father spoke a bit of Turkish back in the day.

Me? Well, there's English... and American. I took formal German lessons for 3 or 4 years, formal Spanish lessons for far longer than that, lived in Korea for a year, and have been exposed to Japanese for decades. And I can't speak a lick of any.

Oddly enough, I'm a little better at reading foreign languages than my sister is, but so what? I want to speak! Me talkie-talkie! Alas, no joy. How an entire subsection of my friends thinks I'm some master foreign linguist is beyond me. What? I'm lying about it? C'mon.

Anyway... I just felt like ranting. Screw you, genetics (it is genetic, isn't it?)!

In-Love-In-Law

"You ready?" It is a rhetorical question, though one whose answer is not known, since there is no answer. Actually, there are several answers. All correct. All incorrect. This is simply a situation in which only the future will reveal what should've been said.

Peter winks upon Keith's nervous nod, then laughs when Keith nervously shakes his head. Peter's been married twice already - his third fiancée is sitting somewhere in the pews - and knows the answer doesn't even matter. All can be changed later. Reverted, converted, subverted... what have you. But this is Keith's first time as a groom. And he's about to crap his pants (figuratively, of course).

"Don't sweat it," Peter consoles, though it's already too late. Keith feels like he's swimming, his body an overwhelming source of humidity in a desert so dry. "I freak out every time." There's another wink, though even Peter realizes that his statement will probably just make it worse. After all, Keith believes that his "one, true" is in a dressing room across the church. There shouldn't be another time.

Still, Keith finds it extremely difficult to maintain his cool. Point of fact is that he's already lost it. He worries that some of his reasons for getting married might not be... completely appropriate. It's a secret he holds that is dangerously close to breaking free. So close, there's no point in trying to keep it anymore.

"I'm in love with my Mother-in-Law."

Peter gags.

***

"No, no, it's not like that," Keith stammers, trying to rectify the confusion he caused.

Peter stares at his best friend through squinted eyes. His brow is ruffled. This is just completely unexpected. And, like, totally wrong. "What's it like, then?"

Keith takes a breath. He really doesn't know how to explain it. He's not in love with his Mother-in-Law (or, rather, the woman who will become his Mother-in-Law in about an hour), it's just that...

"I sort of..."

"You fuck her? Please tell me you didn't fuck her."

"Dude! No." It's Keith's turn to be flabbergasted, though he probably should've expected the question. His Mother-in-Law, Susan, isn't unattractive, and were it not for her daughter, none of his friends would've questioned Keith bedding the older woman.

"You let her watch you fuck Catherine?"

That one, no reasonable person would expect. Although, for some reason, the memory of a porn movie watched while in college flashes through Keith's mind. Peter's, too.

"What the Hell is wrong you? Let me finish!"

Peter sits forcibly down on a small chair and almost immediately falls off. He quickly regains his composure, pulls his tuxedo coat straight, then crosses his right leg over his left knee. It is both a mock and quite sincere indication that Peter would love the whole story.

***

"So, hold on, one sec," Peter's trying very hard not to laugh. "You knew Susan for a year before you met Catherine, and that's what's fucking you up? That's it? Really? Come on, Keith."

"You don't think that's weird at all?"

"What? No, why the fuck would it be?" Peter is honestly beside himself. Of all the stupid things... "You sure you didn't sleep with her?"

"I swear."

Peter smiles; he can't resist. "And you're sure you didn't let her watch you pound her daughter?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Pete. We're in a church."

As Keith and, indeed, Catherine were both agnostic, Pete finds himself again being unable to resist. "You'll get used to it."

There's a loud knock on the door. It's time.

***

Peter finishes the toast. The ceremony went down without a hitch - which resulted in a deep, slow, and relieved exhalation from Peter immediately following the "I dos" - and the reception is proceeding nicely. His speech to Keith (and Catherine) brought uproarious laughter and more than a few tears and sobs. Peter's built for the limelight, no matter how small and subjectively important. He winks at his own fiancée, Amanda, and almost finds himself unable to resist another temptation.

But he holds his tongue. Sure, it would be funny (to independent observers only, of course), but Keith genuinely loves and is genuinely in love with Catherine, so to say anything would be ridiculously rude... and unforgivably disloyal. Peter is Keith's best friend, after all.

And besides, given that Peter's about to embark on his third marriage, he muses for a moment that perhaps Keith did it the right way. Instead of picking the bride and hoping for a great mother-in-law, maybe - next time - he should try it the other way around.

Trophies for No One

Her children are less a responsibility and more of a reminder of victory, however Pyrrhic. She's bored by them and doesn't even really want them around, but her divorce was ugly and, well, she wanted to "win." Full custody escaped her, but the 50/50 arrangement is enough to make her smile. Her ex-husband already has complete custody of three other children by two other women, and she'd be damned if he got her three. It is an empty victory, but a victory nonetheless.

***

"Mom, can we play Battleship?" Jasmine asks. She's the eldest child, 11 years old, and a complete tomboy. She's going to be attractive, of this there's no doubt in anybody's mind, but she doesn't let her mother comb her hair or dress her up. It's a secret source of annoyance for the mother.

"I'm watching television. Play in your room and be quiet." One might think there'd be a pang of guilt in such a response, but the doctor is just about to save the life of a wounded paraplegic who looks like the doctor's dead fiancée and, come on now, who wants to miss that?

Jasmine walks away, her frown barely hidden. She pauses during her retreat when she hears her mother stir suddenly, but apparently that is simply the result of a cliffhanger ending eliciting a subdued disappointment at reading "To Be Continued..." on the screen. Jasmine can barely make out the beginning of a Viagra commercial as she closes her bedroom door.

***

Harlon is 10 and plans on being a ninja when he grows up. Or a pirate. Despite his youth, even he finds it silly that adults seem to canonize such ridiculous historic figures as being the epitome of bad-ass. It wasn't too long ago that he was afraid to think of the word "ass," but ever since his parents split, it somehow worked its way into an acceptable vernacular... though some of the faculty at his school don't seem to think so. He called himself the Ass Ninja on the playground one day, and subsequently endured a conversation with the Principal over an inappropriate topic that Harlon knew nothing about. Ah, well... the bliss of childhood.

So now he's just "The Ninja." Use of "The" when addressing him is mandatory.

His mother has fallen asleep at her computer, and he can't resist the target. After all, ninjas have to practice stealth constantly, lest the skill erode from disuse. In any other moment, the slight trail of drool on the left side of his mother's mouth would have made him laugh. This time, though, he's on a mission. Memories of hide and seek and scary stories rush through his young mind. He imagines his mother laughing - something he's not seen in a while - and submitting him to tickle torture.

The gash on his forehead from the now-broken laptop was not what he'd been expecting.

***

The youngest child is Sage, and she's 8. She's also the smart one. Sounds odd, sure, but anyone who has spent time with all of the children come to this conclusion. Not as pretty as Jasmine, though much more girly, her ability to read people is likely what caused ancient man to start believing in ESP. As soon as she was old enough to form an cognitive thought, she knew her mother to be an angry woman. She recognized every smile for a facade and despised the puppy-dog voice when her mother was pretending to be comforting and caring. As a result, Sage didn't let her mother comb her hair or dress her up, either. Those activities were reserved for her aunt.

Sage just stayed out of her mother's way. She did exceedingly well in school, reading at a grade level three above her own, and excelling in the arts. It was during a drawing exercise that her teacher noticed Sage's illustration of her family contained a female monster, tinted in blue. Upon questioning, Sage replied, "That's mom. She hates us."

***

The father is, naturally, oblivious to any of this. Dealing with five children - one had finally left the roost - is more than he can realistically handle. But, he, too, savors the empty victory from the custody arrangement. Still, though one cannot argue that he genuinely loves and enjoys his children, he fails to provide them with a sanitary place to live and healthy meals to eat. Nature and nurture do not peacefully co-exist in the lives of these children.

***

Her mother is less a responsibility and more a reminder of victory, however Pyrrhic. Sage is the smart one, and her education and subsequent career proves this beyond any reasonable doubt. Like a cliché, Jasmine became a stripper, struggling to support two children of her own. As his stereotype, Harlon became a thief and makes his home in a state penitentiary. Sage, though, earned a doctorate in history - her favorite subject - and became a published author. She never married; never had children, choosing instead to concentrate on her work and reside within her own mind... the only safe place she's ever known. Her imagination prolific and adept; surpassed only by her memory.

Such a combination could only lead to tragedy, and it has.

By the time her father died, he needed a cane to walk. At the end of it all, he became an apologetic and sentimental man, evidenced by the names of his eight children - he had remarried - etched in his walking stick. Always his favorite, he gave the cane to Sage, knowing that she would not want or need anything else in his relatively frivolous estate.

The day after the funeral, with dad no longer around to bear witness and be disappointed in her, she beat her mother to death with it.

A final trophy, stored in an evidence bag, forever lost to the world.

Partus Sequitur

*This is the first part of what will hopefully be a nine-part entry in the River of Mnemosyne challenge that's happening over at The Tenth Daughter of Memory (it's also an entry in the weekly Theme Thursday event). Hope you enjoy! I honestly have no idea how it's going to wind up.

The blood on the floor is no cause for alarm. At first it spread quickly, and this was no surprise, but now it seems as though it's creating a warm pool for which the soul to swim. A red liquid blanket of sorts, for that last night of sleep... that last and eternal night of sleep. He is not alarmed. He is not surprised. But even he admits to himself that his expectation was not to experience something so terribly inviting.

***

He is the world's oldest living man and it is his birthday. For the past few years, ever since the previous world's oldest living man went ahead and died, the press have made his birthday celebrations less than tolerable. Sure, the novelty of the first time was enjoyable. He'd never been on television up to that point, and he took more than a little pride out of his fifteen minutes of fame. After that he just wanted to be left alone... to celebrate his birthday with his children who were still alive (he'd outlived a handful of them) and the grandchildren who still had enough respect to pretend to care. Last year, he half-joked that he hoped his body would fail him before his next birthday, for the inquiries had become far too annoying.

Yet he is still alive. But, this year, the press aren't around.

He is alone on this particular birthday, and while the ghosts of the people who once shared his home still haunt him, he feels the solitude bearing down on him, burdening him with the heavy weightlessness of empty. His mood is somber; more than a little depressed. Yes, his depression has everything to do with the day, but has nothing to do with being alone.

***

The press, it seems, are making it official. The various and until-now "unrelated" conflicts escalating around the globe have given birth to the Third War. It is a birthday of an entirely different kind and, subconsciously, he recognizes that it is probably the birthday of the monster that will bring about the end of the world. At least, he muses, the end of the world as he's known it.

He remembers the First War well. Though he was very young at the time, the First War was the event that permeated nearly all of his early memories, even those of playing childhood games in a schoolyard with friends long forgotten. His own father had fought in that war, sent to the mainland to oust a foreign power from a foreign country, and all with the aid of another foreign power. And though his father had returned home safely - he had never considered the alternative, even years later - he recalls the many months of his father's absence. Strangely enough, the strongest memory of his father's return was his father's sudden interest in making him learn English.

Try as he might, he can't forget the Second War, for he fought in it. Though much of the world considered that war to have lasted maybe a half-dozen years, his experience with it was almost a decade. Like, he believes, this Third War, the Second was borne of smaller "independent" conflicts. The reported length of the Second War depends solely upon where one takes their history classes. Secretly, he wonders if there will be any history classes to take once this Third War comes to its inevitable end.

Thankfully, his own children - all seven of them - were spared having to fight wars themselves, partially due to the global climate, but mostly due to the international community's enforced limitations on his own nation's military. He didn't much mind those limitations. For even though they robbed something from his nation's essence, they also ensured that his children grew up in peace whether they wanted to or not.

Despite the fact that he isn't close with a lot of them, he worries for his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Many of them are citizens of other countries - many he has never even met in person -  but like most patriarchs, he holds concern for his legacy. And, whether they are aware of it or not, those grandchildren are his legacy. Outliving one's own children is one of the greatest sources of regret for parents - if not the greatest - but he feels worse knowing that, with the battle lines being drawn as they are, many of his descendants will be fighting on opposite sides. And he has no desire to live to discover that one had killed another.

***

He weakens quickly, and death will soon arrive. The tantō blade remains protruding from his abdomen, and though his nervous system is no doubt transmitting frequent signals of pain, his mind does not receive them. He is long practiced in the art of meditation, and most who are aware of his skills know that he is a master. His mind is elsewhere, chasing the thoughts and memories that he desires to take with him to the afterlife. Images of his first wife, who died far too young. His second wife, with whom he spent nearly seven decades. Children, grandchildren, crystalline mountain rivers, and cherry blossoms. As he intends not to resort to prose when in conversation with his ancestors and his gods, he fills his thoughts with poetry.

Still, it is irresponsible to deny the ugliness found in the world, and he allows himself a single random thought. Somewhat unsurprisingly, he thinks of technology. He's lived through the advancements in human achievement that were borne of war, and he's experienced both the positive and the negative effects of those achievements. The tank, without which he would not have survived many a conflict. The aircraft, without which he would never have set foot in America - his one trip abroad not involving a military deployment - to visit grandchildren. Man's ability to harness the atom, both for creation and destruction. The list is too long to remember comprehensively.

As his final breaths escape his lips, he wonders what manner of weaponry the belligerents of this new war will manifest, brought to life by the imaginations of men and women who claim to not want to create machines designed to kill effectively and efficiently, but are amply paid to do so. He is glad he will not be around to see it - to see his beloved Earth burn - and as the last exhalation disappears into the wind, there is an upturn at the corners of his mouth.

***

One day, when friends and family, and maybe even the press, finally remember to celebrate his birthday, they will find that smile. A smile buried in congealed and coagulated regret spilled onto a floor, on top of which lay crimson stains on a white kimono, wrapped around the body of a disemboweled and frail elderly man. The only evidence of a small birthday celebration that marked the end of times.

*continued in Alive

Keep It Simple, Stupid: An Adventure in Peanut Butter

When I was younger, definitely before I was 10, I read an article in one of those National Geographic kids magazines (it could've been "3-2-1 Contact," but I forget) concerning a child inventor and his invention that would solve a great problem in society: how to get the peanut butter that sticks to the bottom of the jar out of the jar.

Now, this is going to sound silly, but to a kid who was less than 10, it was profound. Basically, this brat inventor in question developed a peanut butter jar that had lids on both sides of the jar. This, obviously, allows the sandwich-maker to get to the hard-to-reach sandwich topping.

Excellent solution to a clear problem, right? I thought so. And I thought so for damn near the next 20 years. In fact, I'd often mosey through a grocery store wondering why in the Hell these jars weren't on the shelves.

Leave it to my mother to burst my balloon (she does that... all mothers receive pre-natal instruction in bursting balloons, I think).

A couple of years ago I was home visiting the parents when I saw my mother making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for my niece and nephew (actually, she might've been making them for me, but I will never admit such a thing). I could tell by the sound of the knife that the peanut butter was almost gone, and the memory of that boy's invention jumped back into the forefront of my mind.

Hah, I thought, I bet mom wishes she had one of those jars right about now. Hehehe. 

Yes, you've interpreted the tone in that thought process correctly: secretly, I wanted to revel in the fact that my mother was about to suffer from the same bane that's blighted me for decades. A small one, sure, but a bane nonetheless (and never mind that she's, no doubt, been dealing with peanut butter jars a lot longer than I have... this is about me, dammit).

And then she did it. The unthinkable. She produced a solution right before my very eyes.

She used a spoon.

The moral of this tale is, well, simple. When we over-think things (cough, politicians, cough), we can wind up solving problems that didn't exist, or creating problems that won't get solved. Or something like that.

Nah... the moral of this tale is to buy peanut butter in pouches.

Things I Did On Thanksgiving

Well, another Thanksgiving has come and gone and, as usual, I didn't do a whole lot. I haven't had dinner with the family since 2006 (which was the first time I had Thanksgiving dinner with the family since 1995). Hell, I didn't even have dinner this year. I don't know why, but such things don't bother me. I get berated for my blasé attitude a lot by many people, but I just don't change. Okay, maybe I change a little, as I did actually have plans this year, but my change is slow (unlike Obama's version of it... oh, wait a sec).

Anyway... what did I do this year?

I slept in until very late... like, a few hours after noon late. I did wake up to let the dogs out this morning, but other than that I stayed on the couch.

I argued with the person I had plans with, since xhe (a ha!) summarily canceled on me on the account of being depressed. I was supposed to go to her sister's for dinner and I'm fairly certain she told her sister that I pulled out, rather than what really happened. I even turned down two other Thanksgiving invitations in order to go, so I'm a tad annoyed about this.

The following happened on the 25th: I learned how to juggle three balls! Finally! Yes, I'm way too happy about this.

I played a video game called Plants vs. Zombies (really... but it's awesome... you should check it out) until I collected one of every plant for my Zen Garden (play the game to find out what that is... or Google it).

I had one cigarette and a limited amount of nicotine. And I had two pots of coffee (and broke a coffee cup, to boot).

I listened to every song on my Sprint phone at least three times. I love Sprint Music. I only download the free songs, but they tend to be really good and from obscure artists I would have otherwise never heard of.

I wrote this.

'Til next year!

Home

Strange thing happened to me this week. Well, I guess it would be more accurate to state that a strange thing happened to me again this week. The world reiterated to me that I have no home.

Most people consider a single place their home. Indeed, there's an interesting statistic that reveals that most Americans (and I'm sure this applies to most human beings) die within 50 miles of where they were born. I don't remember exactly where I read that, but I do remember thinking how odd that was.

As humans, we are the only species on this planet capable of going anywhere we choose, any time we choose. The world is ours to travel, to work in, to play in. Why should we die so closely to where we were born? Now, I do realize that many people simply return to where they were originally from after a lifetime of adventure, but I do also know that many people never even bother to leave the roost, so to speak. Again, why?

Anyway, this past week I worked in Atlanta, away from where I currently reside (a residence, I might add, that I do not consider "home"). And you know what? I didn't feel out of place, out of time, or any other comparative fish-out-of-water expression. I guess one could say that I felt at home. As much at home as anywhere else.

When I was in the Army I always found it amazing that people intended on returning to the very place they had left after their stint in the military was over. These people had just seen much of the world, done things they never would have done otherwise, and they wanted to return... "home."

I have my parents to thank for my attitude, I suppose. A father who never liked to stay in one place too long and a mother who has only seen her homeland a handful of times in the last 40 years.

Next year I will move again. To a place I have been before, but not one I ever properly called home, nor ever will.

I have no home. The world is my home. And I won't have it any other way.

An Age of Friends

His coffee didn't taste good to him tonight. Nor, for that matter, did his cigarette. It's as if decades of his old reliables had eroded any pleasures his pleasures had afforded him. But he didn't mind. He knew the time was coming. And, so, he wrapped himself up in his ragged Army blanket, barely noticing the pain in his chest, and returned his attention to trying to keep warm in front of the roaring fire.

His memories wandered as the flames ebbed and the embers cooled. Family would have been on his mind, but he had none to speak of. Instead, he remembered his friends. His ages of friends.

When he was a little boy growing up in a San Diego suburb, he remembered that all he had to do to see most of his friends was walk a few hundred feet west or east, down a few houses on his block, and ring a doorbell. Sometimes a mother or a sister who he would feel attracted to would answer the door, and his shy little voice would ask, "Can he come out and play?"

Occasionally the question would be answered with a seemingly heartless "no," usually on Sundays when one of his overly religious friends had to read from something referred to as "the Good Book" or some such nonsense. His agnostic upbringing couldn't discern the concept, so he would continue down the street and ring another doorbell.

Usually, though, the answer would be yes, and he and his friend or friends would revel in a game of street ball (either baseball or football, both of which often resulted in broken living room windows or dismembered rearview windows from an unluckily parked car) or mock costumes consisting of blankets for capes and last year's Halloween masks in an imaginary world of superheroes.

Later on in life, through high school, college, and the military, he remembered that hanging out with friends required a bit more effort. Plans had to made, times had to be coordinated, and walking places was generally out of the question. Everybody had to drive, since everybody lived in different parts of the city. Being friends with neighbors was in the process of becoming an afterthought, and camaraderie seemed to belong in the realm of the workplace or the classroom. Back then, though, he didn't even notice. It just seemed natural.

Despite being older and more "free," hanging out with friends was more limited. Occasional movies, more than occasional drinks, and frequent loud, crowded, yet ultimately boring parties rounded out his repetoire. Sometimes he and his friends would get more creative and actually go away somewhere for a while... perhaps a camping trip, or an overseas adventure, maybe a skydive or a scuba dive or two... or both.

Still later in life, his friends were even farther away from him, as most moved away, or back home, or to one of those countries they might have visited during the overseas adventures. Neighbors once again became "friends" of sorts, but only because his mobility was becoming more and more hampered. Acquaintances, more likely, as he knew who his real friends were. Those men and women he grew up with, when friends were made without prejudices, and those men and women he served with, when friends were made in spite of prejudices. Everyone else, it seemed to him, were just faces in the crowd. Touched and gone, as it were.

Walking was definitely out of the question this time, as was driving... at least most of the time. Usually, seeing a friend involved a few hundred dollars and an uncomfortable plane ride. He went through a period of time in which he avoided them, under the auspices of saving a little cash, but when the destinations starting becoming funerals... well, he had too much respect for his friends not to go.

He remembered how he used to love hopping into an airplane, either on his way somewhere exotic or new, or on a one-way trip to a drop zone. Now, he hated them. Airplanes merely became a symbol of seeing a friend that one last time... only the friend wouldn't remember him coming, or even know he was there, laying the flower on the casket, throwing the dirt into the freshly filled grave. His tears went unnoticed... so much so that he soon quit shedding them altogether.

The fire had died long ago. The coffee long cold. The cigarette burned to ash down to the filter.

He remained there, curled up in his chair, underneath his blanket. His face seemed peaceful, serene, and had a hint of a smile.

A smile one only has when with friends... forever.

If This Is Goodbye...

The world is bigger than any one person, but at the same time, it isn't. Our perceptions and perspectives define how this crazy planet and its events unfold before our lives. Everything that happens, and I do mean everything, is completely and unequivocally subjective. From our wars, to our World Championships, to even our weather. It's all subjective.

To him, Iraq and Afghanistan represent the ultimate in America's attempt at "saving the world." To her, Iraq and Afghanistan represent an exercise in futility. To me, it's all just a fucking waste of money and people.

To him, the Saint Louis Cardinals winning the World Series represents a return to form for a long and storied franchise. To her, well, she doesn't care. To me, it just means that San Diego Padres weren't the best team in the league this year.

To him, snow is a great change of pace, a chance to test out the four-wheel drive and his underdeveloped survival skills he learned in the Boy Scouts. To her, the snow is a distraction, a sign that tanning on the beach is months away. To me, it's just a reminder that I'm not where I want to be.

2006 was a year of polarization. A lot of great events occurred, as every year, but the theme this year just seemed to be one of dividing. From the illegal immigrant issue to a political party falling apart because of a cabinet member. Wars, taxes, and the omnipresent stalwarts of religion and politics. We're further from being one nation, one world, than we've ever been. Traditional alliances, from countries to corporations, all seemed to break apart this year. And, in an appropriate twist, large pieces of the polar ice caps decided to break off. All in 2006.

On a smaller scale (well, to everyone but me, that is), my life also polarized. I've written about what happened to me enough, and I'd really like to move beyond it, so I'll spare you the details here. But, the point remains... my life was split, irrevocably. My family, even though I am physically closer to them than I have been since 1995, is further from me than ever before. There are one or two that I have actually become closer to, but my family, as a whole, is less and less a family, and more and more a group of strangers that I share a blood type with.

There was, admittedly, one bright spot for me in 2006. And it's as subjective a bright spot as something can get. No one in my life, including the bright spot itself, sees itself as a bright spot for me. But I do, and right now, that's all that matters. I'm terrified that it's going to disappear from me in 2007, and that's going to break my heart, but I don't really see a storybook ending to anything that involves me anymore. Life is essentially a wind, and we go where it takes us. Even if it's a dark place.

This past year was also the year I realized that mortality is a fact, and that it's waiting for all of us. Several friends were killed this year. Several heroes, too. People I'll never see again, or ever have a chance to meet. Gone. The ones whom nature took were the lucky ones. The others, well, they were braver men than I.

I was angry this year, of that there is no doubt. Angry, and full of hate. Along with realization of mortality, however, I also realized that hate is a very heavy emotion, one that I can not sustain for long. Neither can sustain, nor want to. I've been trying to bury hatchets, sometimes successfully, sometimes less so, but I've been trying. I needed 2007 to be the year I could cut my ties to my past. Unfortunately, thanks to some long-term issues, I know already that I will not be able to.

Ultimately, I don't know what 2007 holds for me, for us. Such is the irony of our existence... the ability to change the world, but the lack of foresight to do it. I don't know if I'll be around at the end of 2007, I will never again assume that I'll live through anything, and I don't know if you'll be around, either. I hope so, but hope only gets us so far.

So, if this is goodbye... goodbye, and thank you for everything I owe you thanks for. Maybe in a year I'll say goodbye to you again.

Merry Christmas, Really

Well, it's another late night forced upon me by my foot injury. And, as usual, I have nothing better to do than to write something. Strangely, I feel good right now. A simmering calm in a storm where everything else has gone wrong. Maybe it's because it's Christmas, or maybe it's the empty glasses and bottles cluttering my desk in front of me. Either way, the end is worth the means.

No rant from me tonight, I promise. I just want to say, plainly and sincerely, Merry Christmas to all of you. Some of you got my blanket email I sent out a while ago, and I apologize for the cheesiness of that, but I'm too lazy to send out cards. Even if I weren't, I probably wouldn't send out cards anyway, but that's beside the point.

Merry Christmas. To all of my Army buddies, to all of my military friends, come home safely next year. To all of my film industry friends and acquaintances, Happy Hanukkah (I know you're all Jewish, or pretend to be... bet you wish you had my last name, don't you?). To my family, I know I'm not the closest of sons, brothers, uncles, or relatives in general, but know that a part of me misses all of you. To my friends who don't fit into one of the above categories, sucks to be you. Just kidding...

Seriously, Merry Christmas, and may you all enjoy this soon-to-be fleeting euphoria that I'm feeling right now.

Oh, and if some of you are worried that I'm turning into an inexorable sap, don't be... I'll be back to normal in 2007.