Honesty is not Synonymous with Truth.

In Memoriam: Edmond J Holman Sr.

My Poppy was in the Navy. He was a little guy, thin and short, and I often wonder if he signed up just because he his father had done it before him; maybe he was just in it for the cool hat, maybe he was really just a brave man. I don’t know. I didn’t know him very well, he was hard to approach. His skull was too thick to listen to others and hear what they actually said and I was too young to know how to deal with that. He loved me though, because I was his only Granddaughter, because I wasn’t afraid when he yelled at me or bossed me around, because I smiled when he walked into a room. I miss him, years after his death. His presence is lost in his house, his pictures absent from the walls, his tools locked away in cabinets I’m not welcome to open. I wish I could talk to him, understand his life. I wish I could tell him about myself, whisper to him my hopes and dreams. I would ask him if he was proud of me, or did he wish I was different and I know, in my heart, that maybe he wouldn’t understand me, or agree with my views of the world around us but he would be proud. I think about him now, on Memorial Day, more than any other time of the year. He never let his position in the Navy define him, he was a master fabricator, if you asked him about his life, but to me he is a Navy Sailor, a little but fierce man, in a baseball cap with knock off Ray Bans on his face. He is short and thin and up in Heaven he is watching down on the world he left behind. Does he know I miss him, that I wish I had known him better? I hope. Tomorrow is his day. I hope he knows I’m thinking of him. 

Suit Up?

I’ll never understand why it’s necessary to smile through pain; to rush through adversity as if nothing is holding you down. I pretend everything is fine when it isn’t. I laugh when I want to cry, and when I am crying, I grit my teeth and pretend I’m doing nothing of the sort. Somewhere along the line humans became unsure of what to do with emotions. Some people hide them, or scream them out at the top of their lungs, others aren’t even aware they exist within themselves. I’m one of those people, and I hate myself for it a lot of the times. Sometimes, I can be sad and not even realize it until days later, I push that sadness down and I let it fester. I’ll put it out to someone, anyone, and then react by pushing it down as well. “Oh, it will work itself out,” “don’t worry, you’re brave and funny and will get through it,” “don’t think about it,” “don’t let it get to you.” Really? Because I’m fucking sad, or mad or happy or whatever it is and I’m not allowed to show or talk about it? Why are people like this? Why am I like this?

I think it’s because people don’t care anymore. We don’t measure life by feelings or risks, we measure life by success. Anything you need to do to accomplish something justifies the means. Admitting emotions is akin to admitting defeat, the opposite of success and accomplishments. Utter devastation has no place when you are fighting to meet deadlines and complete a project before someone else.

It’s sad. I feel like no one cares, because a set back is no longer a set back, its an adversary that needs to be beaten to the ground. There is no failure only the absence of success, but if there is no failure and there is no emotion than what it there? Nothing. I think thats worse then feeling sad for a day or two before picking yourself up off the floor.

Sometimes you just need a few days with you face pressed against the hardwood floor and chat with a friend about how awful and scary everything is. Except when you look around, no one is there. Everyone is out, feigning indifference and ignoring anyone who doesn’t follow the same suit.

So the only question left is… To suit up, or not to suit up?

Inkless Pen

I spill my words across the page,

writing rapidly without cease. 

When, upon completion, I glance

back and nothing remains except

the impression left by the weight of

my pen.