tangledupinblue

Longing and the grass is greener . . .

Oh how very wrong I've had it.

Young and old bi-polar disordered confused imbalanced gemini.

So many confusing and convoluted names, diagnoses and insurance codes and Rxs later -- maybe all I needed to hear was this. . .

"Son, you are a dipstick."

Well, there is that.

Maybe it isn't quite that simple.

BUT, I will try and remember that I have done a good deal of outsmarting myself, so let's try and keep this sage song front and center . . .

"Santa-Fe,
Dear, dear, dear, dear Santa-Fe.
Since I'm never gonna cease to roam,
I'm never, ever far from home"

What the hell does that have to do with the price of cheese in Kenya, Justin, you ask me (well, you might) --

Well, this is what this has to do with all that and more, says Justin (that's me -- Trash isn't really my name, jackass)

See, when I've been in New York, my eyes look south towards Franklin . . . and -- you all know where this is going -- when I am in Franklin, my eyes look all the way north until they hit Battery Park.

When the dew tickles my toes, my feet grumble about how much nicer the sticky asphalt would taste right about now. When a siren wails in the night, my ears scream for crickets. I've always felt restless, as if I were always cut off from my home because I have so many of them.

Leave it to me to miss the point.

I have many homes.

I should rest in each of them.

If I were thirsty and if I were given four cups from which to drink, and if each of those cups were filled with the finest of Gatorade, would I lament that I could not slake said thirst with each yummiliscious Jordan-sanctioned beverage first?

Heck no!


I've exiled myself from parts of my life for too long.

And that, my fine frelking friends, is done with.

~~~~~~~

By the way, cynicism, when it comes to true love, is lunacy.

I am just getting that right on the Jose Mesa (that's spanish for Joe TABLE -- get it -- oh I am on a roll tonight, but that is what happens when your camping gets flooded into the carport)

Seriously, though. If there is one place, one place for unguarded lay it on the line, go to the wall, bring-it-on-home-to-me, I am a fugitive from a chain gang, strap it on, optimism it's love (one place that is other than Shea Stadium -- with Reyes and David Wright the Mets are going to rule the NL East forever, suckers!)

Seriously though, I've been thinking about this for a good long while.

I've seen the best minds of my generation (cue Ginsberg snapping) laying in the gutters of Manhattan with their programs in shambles, just in ruination after the end of the affair.

Of course, it's bad. It scalds, it is a physical pain that is like a protracted spoon slap to the nads -- but, look, this is the one place in life you can't, well, strike that, where *I* can't afford to let the past claim the present or the future.

Looking at it, why let the misdeeds of bad people have any more time or emotion than they already took under the false flag of mislabled 'love'? It would be a disservice to myself.

I've known since I was oh, 20 or so that what I was meant to do, what I was meant to do best, was to be a supremely rocking husband and father. Yeah, I am getting real good at writing. In a year, I'll have a book done and hopefully published and cool, fine, good. And yes, if I wanted to run with it, I could be a badass litigator. Hell, I am already in one of the best litigation departments in the world. But well, when I look at myself, I know that it's my heart and not my mind that drives the machine. My mind's best function, and best work is done when it's working as the hammer to the John Henry of my heart.

Anyway, long entry, no one will get to the end, poorly written, don't care, not charging for it, just getting things out on the page that have been raging in my head since I slowed things down a week ago.

Life is good, and love is the best part of life,

besides The Passion of the Reyes.

Just Kidding,

sort of . . .

who knows,

lets say love is like the Jose Reyes of emotions, seemingly fragile, but unquestionably magical,

the emotion that makes Alfonso Soriano look talentless.

OK then,

carry on.

heh.

~~~~~~~~

Edited to say:

Those who let a someone else's carelessness or cruelty cash in the future for them are like folks who never went back to the ballpark after their beloved Brooklyn Dodgers moved to LA.

You all missed the Amazing Mets.

Looks like you hurt yourself more than anyone else ever could have or did if y'all ask me.