Launching the Future

As we prepare to launch the new year, I am reminded of Marcus Aurelius' words:  "Though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending."  Revisiting the past is only valuable if it gives us hope for the future.  Otherwise, that which is behind us will seek to either entangle us in sentimentality or bind our present and future with bitterness and excuses.
Let us remember the past as lessons learned.  George Santayana once said, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."  I would add, "Those that linger in the past are condemned to languish with it."  That which is behind us must be made subservient to our plans for the future or our future will be subservient to our past.

Twas the Night Before Christmas in Alabama

‘Twas the evening before Christmas

And through the trailer house

Not a varmint was stirring

Not even a louse

The stocking were stapled to the paneling with care

In hopes that ole Santa would get his tush there

The kids were all sleeping still wearing their clothes

While thoughts of electronics their dreams did compose

And momma in her nightgown and I in my briefs

Had just finished fighting just sorting our beefs

When out in the yard I heard such a racket

I grabbed for my gun off the deer hunting bracket

Away to the window near the old septic tank

I flipped up the shade and turned the big crank

The moon on the glow of my Ford pickup truck

Gave me plenty of light for some sitting duck

When what to wondering eyes did appear

But some crazy old man bringing me some deer

With a short little driver, so quick and so funny

I knew right away ‘tweren’t no Easter bunny

Faster than a Harley his twelve points flew down

And he actually named them, that crazy old clown

“C’mon Dasher!  Move it Dancer!  Now Prancer and Vixen!

Get going Comet, Cupid, and Donner and Blitzen!

Get up on the porch and climb up the wall!

I thought, “What a moron, those deer will all fall!”

But sure as dry leaves blow before a hurricane

They jump in the air when they got to the propane

So up on the tin roof those crazy bucks did fly

With a sleigh full of goods that could come from Best Buy

And then in a moment I heard overhead

The scratching of metal that’ll cost some bread

As I gathered myself and was turning about

Through the vent shaft Santa came tearing up grout

He was wearing a fur, from his foot to his head

I knew that PETA would want this man dead

A bag full of toys, he had hanging on his back

He looked like a bum, or someone on crack

His eyes had that twinkle!  His face was all merry!

His nose was all rosy, and his face was all hairy!

His funny little mouth had this silly lookin’ smile

And his beard needed trimming at least once in a while

The stump of a pipe he clenched tight in his lips

He smelled like my grandma, except now she just dips

He had a big head and a big belly too

That shook when he laughed, I thought he’d lost a screw

He was chubby and plump, a right crazy old coot,

And I laughed so hard, it nearly made me poot

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Made me kind of nervous, but there was nothing to dread

He never said a thing, but got straight into work

He filled all the stockings, I felt like a jerk

And laying his finger right beside his nose

And giving a nod, out the vent shaft he rose!

He got in his sled, to the deer gave a whistle

And off they flew like a rocketed missile

He yelled, “Merry Christmas!” as his image did dim

I guess he was Santa, glad I didn’t shoot him!  --- P. J. Casselman

Anticipation of Christmas

The baby’s in the manger

Lights upon the tree

Cookies placed for Santa

We wrapped the shopping spree

Kids are hopeful sleeping

Dreaming of their toys

Nick has gone high tech

For little girls and boys

With all the stress endured

We strove for jubilation

After all this bustle’s over

We’ll need a strong sedation

Relationship Grief

I have a close friend who recently went through a break-up with his girlfriend.  He was so down as he expressed how much he hurt.  "You're grieving," I told him.  "But it's going to be OK.

"Grieving?  Hey, she's not dead!"

"But the relationship is.  Right now you think life can't go on, but it will and you will be fine.  Give it time and know there's an end to the dark tunnel."

After a breakup, there is a cycle of grief.

1. SHOCK & DENIAL-

Wow, did that really just happen?  No, it was just a bad day.  She'll come around.  Your heart doesn't want to feel the pain, so your mind takes you to a safe place: the unreal.  This can last for a while, so you can assimilate what's happened in your own time.

2. PAIN & GUILT-
 

When reality slowly returns, you will feel the pain of loss.  Sometimes it will seem unbearable, but you need to go through it.  Drinking it away will not help.  Instead, masking the pain will only prolong it.

Guilt is inevitable.  You will question everything you did, said, or did not do.  Your feelings towards yourself may become quite harsh.  You will think things like: "I'm too ugly!" or  "How could I have been so stupid?"  You aren't ugly or stupid or you wouldn't have been together in the first place, right?

3. ANGER & BARGAINING-
 

 Now you get to vent.  It was all their fault!  How could they be so heartless?  I hate them!  Why me?  Why now?

This is your body getting rid of all the pent up emotion.  Mixed in all the anger is often bargaining.  "If she'll come back, I'll change."  You may begin to think of all the ways you could change to win back your love.  It's all part of the process.  You're fine.

4. "DEPRESSION", REFLECTION, LONELINESS-

A great time of reflection begins to overtake you.  You listen to all of "Our Songs."  Her pictures mean so much.  You wished you hadn't smashed that one when you were in the angry stage.  Others will try to cheer you up, but it will only aggravate you.   Try to let them know what's happening and that you'll be fine.  There's no sense burning bridges with the innocent.

Depression can set in.  You will probably want to sleep a lot.  Your mind will go to "that time when."  Once again, you're not going to live in this depression, but it needs to run its course.

Loneliness is also a part of the process.  You will feel all alone in a crowded room.  Without her, there's only one of you wherever you go. 

5. THE UPWARD TURN-

One day, you will wake up and your life will just seem normal.  Your first thoughts won't be of her, but of getting to work.  Depression will lift and you will begin to live again.  You will probably have thoughts about her, but they won't eat away at you.  

6. RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH-

You now begin to function and find activities to enjoy with your friends without her.  Practical living will take precedence over lost love.

7. ACCEPTANCE & HOPE-

The day of acceptance is coming.  You will learn to love again and move on with your life.  Be careful not to force this while you are in stages 1-5.  Instead, let it happen over time.   

Accepting what happen does not mean you will never remember what happened.  Instead, it means that it will no longer control you.  You must choose to step out into happiness.

Her Reflected Love

Touching heart and mind with thoughtful flirtations

Gazing with eyes penetrating deep within

Speaking emotions from places not fathomed

No sweeter tune plays a bowed violin

Hands of gentle embrace with strong intention

Grasping my soul with unbreakable binds

Sweetly flowing her deepest expression

Beauty reflected in my eyes she finds

Encompassing tightly my fervent praise

Desiring passionate affection not wavered

Longing the release of grand appreciation

Approving with glances most favored

Blame Games and Sewage

     Dysfunctional families often create creative creatures, but seldom have happy habitants.  There's so much pain from father wounds, mother wounds, and sibling wounds in our society.  Often well-meaning and sometimes ruthless parents or siblings inflict a lot of pain that sinks deep into our souls.  We can blame them, if we choose, but does that do any good? 
     I found the source of our backed up sewer, but that did not mean I could take a shower.  Instead, a backhoe dug up the earth, created a downward slope, and put in new pipes.
Assigning blame leaves us in a stinking mess.  We can sit in it if we passively to our demise.   However, choosing to dig up, clean up, and refit can drain not only the pain, but the source of the problem.  Renew your mind, clear your pain, and start fresh. 
     The problems we inherit only remain our problems if we choose to own them.

The Tweeter Friends Book

Greetings Writer Friends!

Here's the scoop on our joint book to fight cancer.  We will begin compiling in January after the mad rush of Christmas is past.  I don't know about you, but I barely have a chance to enjoy the holidays because I'm too busy rushing to where the enjoyment is suppose to be.

Our book will be composed of at least 10, 1500-2000 word stories, hopefully more!  There is no topic.  The idea is to display our best work in our genre.  Not unlike Five Stop Stories (Thanks for showing me that Dionne), the book will be for the one serving reader.  Readers Digest has operated for years on top by providing variety, so we'll take their lead and do the same.

Two issues pose themselves.  First, who is to compile and edit the stories?  We will.  But before we post, I suggest we have one other writer from the group look at our story.  We won't judge content, but point out typos, etc.

Second, who should set up the account?  I'm the logical one, but I prefer it was someone else.  The reason is simple: I don't want anyone second guessing motives or worrying about improper use of funds.  This is no scam for me.  My great-grandparents had eleven children.  Six of these were girls.  Four of those daughters died of breast cancer later in life.   Many of their daughters and granddaughters have been diagnosed with cancer, including my aunt and sister.  Therefore, I want someone whose motives are unquestionable to post the book on their account.  I'm open for suggestion on this matter.

What should the title be?  Short Stories by Tweeter Friends?  Commuter Reads for Cancer Research?  Comments here would help!

My email is pjcasselman at gmail com.  Feel free to email me anything that can't be put into 160 characters.

PJCasselman

From Crises to Creativity

     Frustration awaits those who believe their best work comes from crises created by procrastination. How much greater could it be if we create our own early deadlines and work feverishly to complete our work, but still have time to rework it? Those who live off the energy of crises are blinded by the truth that it is the crises which leeches their own energy.

Weeping Christmas

Now I lay me down to sleep

Praying for peace not counting sheep

As Christmas nears there are bullets flying

Around their trees are mothers crying

May we find the way to grace

So mother and child can embrace

War on disease not human flesh

Heart and mind cure afresh

Is coexistence really a dream?

Revenge is such a fraudulent scheme

Stay in the moment, don’t look behind

Repent our angry frame of mind

Tear down the walls of hate and fear

Starve the war loving profiteer

Make Christmas a time to celebrate

Forgiveness can cure our love of hate

Creating Dissonance

     Living together in harmony is a beautiful idea.  I'd like to teach the world to sing and buy it a Coke, right?  All the wonderful people should dance in meadows filled with butterflies while children laugh around a fountain of endless chocolate pouring forth from a mountain made of fulfilled dreams.  What a wondrous harmony that would bring.  Unfortunately, that tune only exists in fantasy.
     In order to show the pain that they and others feel, some create dissonance.  They sing a very different tune in the midst of those trying desperately to find harmony.  When the diminished fifth clashes with the propagated chorus, people look to find the source of the disharmony and, hopefully, change occurs.  Often, the dissonance does not address the pain, however.  "Life is Meaningless" is not the antidote for "Life with Blinders."  "I Hate My Life" does not mitigate "Everything's Coming Up Roses."  Instead, the dissonance is seen as a ridiculous attempt to grab attention and distract from the harmony for neurotic narcissism.
      I love dissonance.  From prophets to poets, philosophers to philanthropists, those who step outside the harmony to call us to higher plains are my heroes.  Without genuine purpose, however, dissonance is only an ugly noise that will be drowned out by a louder chorus.  Rage against the machine, but understand its mechanisms.  Fight the power, but know our hoped end.  Rail against injustice, but first ascertain a viable ethic.

An Familiar Voice

Far too many times, I have picked up the phone only to have someone say, "hello" without giving their name.  They obviously think that I know them, even though I have no clue as to their identity.  Rather than embarrass myself and insult the caller, I continue talking until they will say something that gives me an "aha" moment.  This seems to work 99 percent of the time.
The other day, however, the other person was not so helpful.  Instead, I labored through the call trying desperately to find the morsel of information.  It never came.  The man told me about his aunt's arthritis, how the new job was going, and finished with a crescendo of why he was contemplating a divorce.  I began to feel like I was eavesdropping on my own telephone.  It was too late to say I did not know who the other person was.  After all, I was now counseling him through his marriage issues.  Suddenly it dawned upon me what to do.  I hung up.
The phone rang again.  "Bob?" I asked.
"No, it's Tom again.  I think we got disconnected."  Suddenly I knew that this was my old friend from high school.  Everything he said fell into perspective.  Both of our egos remained in tact and Bob's marriage is doing great...or was it Tom's?  Well someone is doing well somewhere.

Enemy of Mine

Cold, still, rigidly lying on silken ruffles

Hands folded across her quiet heart

Peaceful, now that her battle’s over

Fought in a war she didn’t start

Eating away all but her spirit

Anguished by pain that never ceased

Smiles through tears unwontedly flowing

Though her foe’s attacks increased

You are my enemy, vile cancer

Eating the flesh that gives you life

I will not stop ‘til you are history

This woman you stole was my wife

(Written for a friend)

Freaking Friday

Everywhere I turned there were mobs of vicious grandmas plundering mass quantities of overpriced trinkets on sale.  A torrent of mothers nearly knocked me over as they barreled past to snatch the last disc of Battlefield 3.  When I heard the voice over the loudspeaker announce a flash sale on televisions, it suddenly dawned on me.  I was in the path.  Quickly dodging behind an underwear clad mannequin, I poised for the hurricane.  Loud, indiscernible shouts rang out as I peered out from behind my plastic fortress to see several groups of pillagers stampede past.  It was a close call, but I survived.  What a thrill it is to begin the Season of Joy at Wal-Mart.  Peace to all who survive.

Family Framework

     I'm looking forward to this Thanksgiving.  The older I become, the more family means to me.  There are many reasons.  Perhaps the foremost is that there are waves of time that erode the relational buildings we erect, but family is the framework that holds strong.

     When the friends, popular crowds, bullies, and crushes of high school are fading into memory, family remains.  When those who were transferred or simply moved, who promised to keep in touch are now out of reach, family is but a phone call away.  If down, family lifts up.  While in pain, family applies balm.  When succeeding, family rejoices.

     Dysfunctional families, exist and many feel alone in the world.  Their world of facade with no framework to support crashes quickly with the waves.  So I am thankful for my family, my framework.  Great peace of mind comes to those with healthy family relationships.

 

Who Is Important?

In March of 1981, Ronald Reagan was shot by John Hinckley, Jr.  Our president spent several weeks in the hospital.  During his recovery, the nation's work continued without a glitch.  There was no slump in the economy, nor was there an international catastrophe.  
Five years later on July 10, 1986, the garbage collectors in Philadelphia went on strike.  The city soon became a pile of rotting garbage.  Businesses closed because it was impossible to get rid of any waste they generated.  The city was paralyzed.
Imagine if the garbage collectors in all our major cities went on strike.  It would not be long before the country was in crisis.
So who is more important:  the president or garbage collectors?  There is strength in setting aside our personal needs for the good of the whole and there is power in unity.  Our importance in life is only understood as it relates to others.

Wall Street Siege

Starving sheep in a grassy field
To food for thought we did not yield
We see the truth in all we read
Yet wither up like a shallow seed

Hiding in cardboard during the storm
A simple acknowledgement becomes our norm
Waves of injustice crash down our dreams
Fallen are hopes by Wall Street schemes

Refuse their falsehoods and promised placation
While politicians in aisles offer them supplication
Twenty percent of our bread has been torched
Through greed and lies the land is scorched

No more pseudo promises of false moral hopes
No more programs to bind us like ropes
Cannibalized the masses? Eating to your fill?
"You are now under siege!" We call to the Bastille

Bitterness

It's been said that bitterness is like drinking someone else's poison and waiting for them to die.  Bitterness is a cancer that eats upon the host.
We have a dungeon in our minds where we keep those who have hurt us in the past.  The crass teacher, the bully, the girl or guy that laughed at us, the one who took our job or our whatever.  We keep them in that dungeon and periodically go down into that dark place and whip them.  Grown men and women will pace in the living room saying, "If only I would’ve... if only I had said…if they were here, I’d…” and after we whip them all into bloody pulps.  Locking the door of that dungeon and return to life, not realizing that dungeon is festering our whole lives.
The only way to find peace in life is to go down and unchain the prisoners.  Let them go and refuse to re-shackle them.  Only then will the vapors of pungent bitterness stop permeating the other rooms of our lives.

No Charity Please

A peculiar mystery puzzled our church board.  Toilet paper was continually missing from the stalls.  We would replace it, but every Sunday the paper was gone, roll and all.  Finally, we asked someone to keep an eye on the toilet paper (how crazy it that?).  A woman who was new to the church was pilfering it.
I asked why she was taking it.  She said they did not have enough money and needed some, so, because we were a church, she did not think we would mind.  I told her we would be glad to go get her some at the store and even food if she needed it.  She replied, "Oh I could never accept charity."

A Word about Bullies

     As a child I heard, "sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me." Who was the blockhead that said that? Names, put-downs, and pathetic attempts at sophomoric hazing can leave deep wounds that never heal. As for me, I prefer being whacked with a stick!
      If you are the target of such unwarranted criticism, remember: Every great leader in history was the target of put-downs. Usually the source was a wannabe trying to get attention.
      If you are someone who feels put-down, bullied, or beat up by others, remember: it will end, you will get through it, and you are not alone.

Knighting My Son

     A great dragon wars upon my son.  Each day he must embrace a special power to defeat the dragon.  He cannot kill it, but only thwart the beast.  Today my son turned sixteen.  He is now a young man.  What does that mean?  To paraphrase Robert Lewis, a boy becomes a man when he 1. rejects passivity  2. accepts responsibility  3. follows a noble cause.
     My son battles the dragon of evil that would destroy his very soul.  His power to fight the beast is found in his relationship with the King.  Only when the King steps in can the dragon be put down.  Why does the King not simply kill the dragon?  Because fighting the dragon has made my son into the knight he has become.

Our Veteran Heroes

You came home from the battles to family and friends
Often bewildered by the changing trends
While you were at war, we spoke of peace
But our regard for your sacrifice will never cease

A parade seems so little but we hope it's a start
To show our gratitude for fulfilling your part
You protected our freedom on land, air, and sea
When our country was threatened, you served willingly

You are the heroes, the models for roles
Of honor and duty, of loftier goals
May you feel our thankfulness for your sacrifices
One day is too little, but we hope it suffices.

Wounded by metal or wounded by pain
The flag we fly contains a blood stain
For many that were lost, who served by your side
Did not make it home, but in our hearts reside -- P J Casselman

The Gasping Heart

I heard when you said you liked my new clothes
Tossing off your words, Neurosis I chose
A huge vacuum of self loathing consumes all
It was not your words but me I appall

Nothing you say will draw me from my pain
Why do you strive with efforts in vain?
Please don't go, I want you to stay
But I hope in the end I will drive you away

Contradiction of who I am and would be
Violations and neglect circumvent me
Pain is what I feel when I open the door
Shutting you out is a must that I abhor

I have refused to believe that I am choosing
Hope is a fairytale I am fast losing
Passivity croons lullabies to my angry heart
Even though I wish a proactive new start

Can't you see that I'm fast drowning?
In spite of medication that I'm downing?
Get out, just leave, no please hold me close
Another lives inside that I just can't oppose

How can I be something other than me?
When the little one inside won't set me free?
Give me a chance; at least toss me a line
I can't handle your rejection, no I'm fine  -- P J Casselman

Worry Schmorry

Storm clouds are unloading nature's napalm on Kansas City.  Widows rattle from thunder between windy vibrations.  Flashing lightning permeates my den as I quietly sit typing replies on Twitter.  I believe it was Alfred E. Newman who said, "What, me worry?"  He had a point.  What good would worry have done for the passengers of the Titanic?  Of course, come to think about it, it might have done the captain some good.  This "don't worry, be happy" thing is more complex than I realized. Consider the birds of the air sitting on that power line during this lightning storm...oh wait, never-mind.  Consider the roasted birds in my lawn...I do believe there's a difference between not worrying and acting foolishly.  Worry comes from a lack of faith. Foolishness comes from a lack of forethought. Care for a drumstick?

Passing Time

The passing time rolls slowly when watched, too quickly when needed, and disappears when unnoticed. Grip time firmly and shape it while you can. For inevitable is the final chime. --P J Casselman

An Excerpt out of- "From Chicago with Hope: The Journey of Ruth"

Naomi could see that something was bothering me, but she waited in silence for me to say something.  The quiet finally became too much and I turned on the radio.   Sensing my avoidance, Naomi turned down the volume.

“Would you stop at the river for me?” she asked.

“Yes.  Any particular reason?”

“Tashlikh.  On the first afternoon of Rosh Hashanah, we pray near living water and cast our sins into the current.”

“How do you do that?” I asked, confused.

“We symbolically use bread,” she replied, pulling out a zip lock bag.  “I filled this before we left home.”

“I’m sure the ducks love the big sinners then,” I laughed.  Naomi gave me a quick smile, but I had already lost her to her reflections.  We drove to the Louisville River Walk where Naomi could complete her Tashlikh.  I could not imagine what sins she was tossing in the bread, because Naomi had been amazing this last year.  She brought a full bag though.

“I brought half this bag for you,” she said smiling.

“Me?  What did I do?”  I knew she was joking, but then she also seemed serious.

“The things we cast on the water are anything we feel guilty for, Ruth.  It helps to just let it go.”  I took a handful of the bread from her and looked at the water.  I tried to think of something I felt guilty for.  Naomi began mumbling prayers I could not hear or understand.  After each prayer she threw a tiny piece in the river.

I pondered a moment.  Martha’s friend was a starting place.  I never should have slammed her hand down at the store.  The vengeful remarks at the bookstore were not my best hour either.  I began to toss piece after piece as I realized how many fragments of guilt I had buried within me.  When I first found out about the accident, I blamed Chili and almost began to hate him.  I tossed another piece of bread.  The way I snapped at the others when Naomi mentioned moving here deserved a piece of bread.  With each small prayer and the accompanying morsel, the guilt I had pent up inside began to dissolve.  It was cleansing to acknowledge what I did, feel sorrow for it, and toss it upon the waters.  I started tearing the bread in half or I was going to need another loaf.  Tears streamed from our faces as Naomi and I walked from the Ohio River back to the car.

A Charitable Heart

The greatest acts of charitable giving are not found on television or in the newspapers. Instead they are found at a dining room table where nothing is heard but a pencil scratching through personal desires to find funds for aid. A grateful heart is large enough to encompass the hurting.-- P J Casselman

A Misleading Gap

     There is a gap between the person I am and the person I want you to see.  Filling this gap can be done in two ways: The first is for me to stretch who I am into the illusion of who I am projecting. I must keep up the facade, while I diligently work to build up substance behind the wall of pretension. This method leaves me empty and never satisfied with my life. My illusion thickens and hardens into a wall you'll never get through.
      The second way is for me to drop the illusion and let you see who I really am.  There's a mess back here; it's in total disarray.  I'm scared of what you'll think.  When I drop my illusion, to my surprise, it was also feeding yours. It seems we both have a mess on our hands. I'll get a shovel and you a rake.

An Excerpt from "Angel Blood: Family Secrets"

The interior of Marcus’ home surprised Michael.  Roman shields hung from the walls.  Swords of various sizes were displayed on racks.  In the middle of the room was the normal large cooking cauldron, but this was surrounded by several small pots.  It was then that Marcus did something that shocked Michael.  He pulled out a long silver stick and placed it over an oil lamp.  A spark shot from the stick and the oil caught fire.  Edric quickly looked at Michael, whose mouth was agape.  Marcus placed one of the pots over the lamp to warm up some pottage from the cold cauldron.

Michael leaned over to his uncle and whispered, “Did you see that?”

Edric acted surprised.  “What do you think you saw?” 

Michael thought for a moment.  Perhaps he had made a mistake.  “Nothing, Uncle,” he replied quietly.

Edric circled in front of Michael.  “If you see something, trust your eyes, not your mind.”  With that he drew his own silver wand and lit another clay lamp.

Michael eyes grew huge and he backed against the door.  “How did you to that?!”  Michael’s voice cracked under the anxiety that flushed through his system.  He had only heard of such magic in stories.

“Do not be alarmed, Michael,” Edric said in a calm but firm voice.  “It is not some sort of dark magic you are seeing.”

“What is it then?” asked Michael, feeling the for the door latch behind him.

“This is the power of your ancestors, Michael,” Edric kept his distance, so as not to further frighten his nephew.

Michael thought for a moment.  Was his uncle telling him that he was from witches or elves?  Why did his mother never tell him about this?  “My ancestors…You mean my ancestors were elves or something?”

Edric sat down a stool at the table.  Putting his wand back in the pocket of his cloak, he smiled warmly at the trembling young man.  “Michael, you are from a great line of those from far away.  You are a Nephalite.”

“A Nymphalite?” asked Michael. “You mean I am an elf?”  He was horrified at such a suggestion.

Edric rolled his eyes.  “Not a Nymphalite, a Nephalite.”  He motioned to the stool adjacent his.  “Come and sit, my boy.”  Michael wanted to unlatch the door and run home, but he instinctively trusted his uncle.  Torn, he decided to sit.

You can read more here:  Angel Blood: Family Secrets .  "Look Inside!"