Bryan Thomas's Blog

Stoning Red Walls White

A Reminder

  I

  am

 a reminder

to some 

of what they

could have been

 and to others of what

lay inside them then 

 was taken or stolen

or lost themselves

or lay dormant in

sentences in books

on shelves.

To some I am hated

but remind them still

of their speech unsaid

or some forgotten will.

Once alive and on fire

these leadings and tastes

upon the tips of the hearts

who now settle in haste

to read to themselves

 their own thoughts

never said,

their own youthful dreams

that now lie died.

To these I speak

and for these I strain

lifting up lost dreams

that shadow the stain 

of what once was

and now seems lost 

and whose flame

though dim

when saved at all cost

slowly drops wax upon the floor

till the dream is lifted and held once more.

 

-- Bryan Scott Thomas

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

 

The Monster

 

 

Everyone has a monster: A living breathing identical twin with a quicker mouth, a meaner spirit, super human strength, and no self control. It hides where we cannot see and shows up in the worst times and places. When we are at our best and have an easy day it sleeps. But our daily routines are marked by a struggle to keep it from waking.

I personally find myself tip-toeing through the day, measuring my strides and other’s strides as well. Because everyone knows monsters love to fight each other. Whenever one monster arrives it often attracts company and that company is hard to break up.

Monsters eat a lot too. The odd thing is (I am sure you’ve noticed this as well) that they usually disappear to slumber soon after. Sometimes the monster is asleep so suddenly after eating that I find myself whisked into its chair with an empty plate and glass in front of me, a full stomach, an urge to go to the bathroom, and a guilty conscience.

The guilty conscience is the monster’s footprint. You can always tell where it has been and how long it has stayed by that huge ugly footprint. I think the oddest and most regretful thing about the monster’s footprint is that it always stains. And it is not an easy to clean stain either. More like a red wine on a white wedding dress kind of stain. No matter what I try or how long I scrub that stain doesn’t get out for a long time regardless of the painful effort.

That monster leaves behind a stench too- a smell like onions and bad feet.  So harsh and poignant is that smell that I find myself often times fighting back tears. And that smell lingers on and on. That smell is embarrassing. Sometimes it’s embarrassing because I know others can smell it on me. I know that because all monsters smell the same and I sometimes smell their monster too- even if I don’t directly see it.

Others- they are my truest concern. The damn monster hurts them. Whenever it shows up it makes a mess of everything including relationships; especially the ones that are cared for most. And women hate every guy’s monster. So gentlemen do not wake that monster. That monster will chase away all your love interests and not bat an eye. And, for sometime afterward, for some reason, the time immediately following the monster’s contact with your loved one gives the monster more space, time, and strength. So be careful.

The only good thing I suppose is that we all can learn from our monster. It is only as big as us… no bigger. That means somewhere within us is the ability to be just as strong, just as energetic, and just as affecting. Who knows? Maybe one day we will be able to stand toe to toe with our monster and face him.

                                                                                                                 ----Bryan Scott Thomas

 

 

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 171 Second Street, Suite 300, San Francisco, California, 94105, USA.

 

 

How it's Supposed to Go

I came across this coffee stained piece of adolescence and thought I'd share it.

I wrote this when I was eighteen. 

[Disclaimer: I was eighteen... but I was honest. I am going to type this exactly the way it was written with no revision]

 

"She was everything. Phyllis was her name. I always referred to her as phillosis Phyllis, which means beautiful in Latin. When calling her so, she would let the extra syllables just fall off my tongue as if I had said nothing out of the ordinary. She had the longest dark hair; as beautiful as the sea, every motion, and every change in shape perfect. Her eyes were deep. They hid every desire and dream deep within their depths, safe from everyone but her. Her body was a gift from the gods, a gift I hoped and dreamed would someday be held in my mortal arms and my arms alone.

We were at camp. We went on walks together. We talked about everything and nothing. We trudged through the thick of the wood. We walked the shoreline like little children. We experienced a whole week literally spending almost every waking moment in each other's company. But still I hadn't the nerve to admit my feelings for her. I just couldn't work up the gall to commit to what I knew would be the end result. So we went on playing our little games.

My male friends urged me to say what was in my heart. "She'll understand," they said. I knew I had to do it. I had to give her every part of me. I wouldn't feel right with her only knowing what I had chosen to release. If I really felt the way I thought I felt, then there was only one option for me to do. I had to tell her everything. I had to describe to her, in the most detailed way possible, my feelings for her. I couldn't hold it any longer. It was eating me apart inside. Besides, this week, this vacation would be nothing if I don't act on the very feelings that feed it to begin with. The only reason I'm here is she. She is my everything, and our love would be god's magnum opus. We would set ourselves apart from every other couple on the face of the earth, because what we would have would be different. Our love would be true. Our love would be that thing that Shakespeare had the tip of his pen on but just couldn't fully describe. Shakespeare could only write examples and stories trying to capture that thing that just can't be explained in that simple, over-used word, Love.

It worked out the way I thought it would. I gave her the letter. The letter explaining my adoration, my zeal for her, my inexhaustible  fervor to be able to hold her in my arms. Phyllis and I were sitting together amongst a vast crowd of acquaintances and time was running out. We had only four more hours until we had to pack up and leave. I had waited a whole week and this was it. 

Her knee was resting on mine and we were both sitting Indian style on the bench watching people play basketball. There weren't any words spoken and I knew if I waited any longer I would explode. So, with note in hand I reached out to her. "I wrote something for you", I stammered, not being nearly as suave as I would have liked. She snatched it away from me instantly and to my dismay, she began reading it right there in front of everyone. I couldn't believe what was happening, this wasn't the way I imagined it. Doesn't she know how it's supposed to go. So there I was, waiting for the jury's outcome. My knee still pressed tightly against hers, my pulse beating insanely fast, and my eyes closed to all clatter around me but that of the motions of the jewel beside me. She folded the note back up after what seemed like hours and walked off slowly outside. I followed. She walked faster. I tried to keep up but as my feet began their ascent my heart began its decline. With her figure fading fast into the mirage of campers and tents I disdainfully heard the crack of the judges mallet. Guilty was the verdict. Guilty I was of foolishness, guilty was I for dreaming and for setting my hopes further than the grasp of my ability. I never felt sorrow as full and deep as I did that day. My heart sank deep into my chest and stayed there. The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into years, and to this very day whenever I feel myself opening up to a woman I immediately imagine her walking away.

I want to be able to say that whoever said "It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all", is an idiot. But I can not say that because it's true. I still feel hurt and ashamed from what happened, but nothing compares to the feeling of thinking you may have a chance with that person you love. That's why there's movies. That is why there are still romantics in the world, and that is why I will always be a romantic. I figure I'm much better off than a cynic, because I didn't give up. I will always hurt when I think of her, yet I will always love her as well. Besides, who knows maybe someday... when I'm swinging quietly on my big wooden swing overlooking my two and a half acres of deep green grass. Maybe I will look out to my left and see that figure who walked away from me, walk straight back into my arms. Her hair blowing in the wind, her scent once again over-riding all other senses, and at last we will be together. "

 

Side Note:  I wrote this as my first attempt at a College paper. Our assignment was to take something we had previously written and recite it in front of the class. I did that. When I began reading this a silence fell over the room. I missed the next day of class because I was too embarrassed. When I returned the following week the Professor pulled me aside after class and told me she had several women who approached her after class to tell her that they wished just once in their lives someone would feel that way about them. She also told me two pretty girls even cried during it.       

 

"Tragedy in Tucson"

 

A twenty-two year old mentally disturbed male takes out a gun, kills six people (including a 9-year-old girl born on Sep 11, 2001) and injures thirteen others including a congresswoman. This is tragic, no doubt, but though I would never use the word commonplace (and hopefully never have to) to describe these occurrences in our country, recently they do seem to be incrementally less sporadic and more periodic.  With the media concerning itself with the current political climate, specifically political speech, which may or may not have attributed anything to the shooting, it pays to compare the media’s handling of the Columbine shootings with the current media swarm over Tucson. It very well may show a shift politically that may someday be more tragic than the shootings themselves.

Columbine shook middle class minds and ever since has become a peculiar American reference regarding tragically abject consequences of commonplace angst. But much has improved afterwards due to our handling of it. After Columbine the reaction was first horror and then knee jerking anger at the two teens that dared to use guns instead of middle fingers. That anger then quickly turned into implementing quicker and smarter safety measures in schools across the country to hinder such a tragedy from happening again or at least limiting fatalities if it did. The responses from Columbine and other similar shootings have resulted in healthy debate and helped combine efforts between Police Departments and Schools which in some cases have implemented “active shooter” drills in certain districts.  It has also opened the American mind to the fact that we need to collectively do everything within our power to stop these tragedies from being a national pandemic.  In short our collective response to these tragedies has been surprisingly wise and remarkably united.

On the other hand, this past shooting in Arizona, the “Tragedy in Tucson”, has sparked a knee jerking debate about political dialogue. Why questioning political dialogue is the concern here instead of questioning why someone with a handgun was able to push through a line of people to get to a Senator and empty a whole magazine without being shot by security strains both the mind and conscience.

Political dialogue is often rude, presumptuous, exaggerated, uncivil, and even enraging at times but why is this shooting being chosen as a catalyst for political reform instead of safety reform?  As a nation we refuse to bargain with terrorists but are quick to question ourselves when a twenty-two year old kid, with no clear political views, pulls a gun? The media is pointing the finger at a Palin website, uncivil political speech, the music he listened to, and anything else it sees as political and doesn’t agree with. The real issue here is not what drove this teenager to do this, the issue is that anybody for numerous reasons can choose to become enraged about something and irrationally take a life. It has nothing to do with any political party’s agenda or dialogue. All sides of every political organization or religion have their share of wackoes. The issue is that if we allow ourselves to be moved by violence, that is to say, if our response to it is to make political changes because of it, we not only justify the evil act in the eyes of the perpetrator but we encourage the same act in others.  This act of violence should evoke disgust not political introspection and discretion.

The way our government works at the moment and the disconnectedness between those elected and their constituents is angering. Anything we believe strongly in we can get enraged about. But, because we know what country we want and how we want change to develop within it, we choose not to be violent. America is great because it understands that voting for change and amending a document at the polls is far better than a war in its streets. If violence and terror move our government then soon that government will know nothing else. 

After Columbine we took stock of the situation and implemented safety measures which have helped America's schools become safer. We have cracked down harder on bullying, gun ownership, school security, and have implemented "active shooter" strategies within Police Departments. (Active Shooter strategies now involve making Policemen immediately enter the school and engage the threat when there is an active shooter, this was not the case during Columbine) All of these things have served to honor the innocent children lost and safeguard the ones that remain. It is important to note that political or religious ideologies were briefly searched and then left alone and safety became the main issue. 

The same needs to be done here. "The Tragedy in Tucson" should be covered by the media as a safety issue and nothing else. When we begin to enact political change, even regarding dialogue, because of a shooting or act of terrorism we are treading on shaky ground. Let's not honor the gunman by shaking in our boots or taking steps to be nicer. We need to honor the fallen in the same way as Columbine and make others safer. Being less "noisy" or more politically tolerant will never stop a lunatic from hearing voices, or the disturbed from finding a reason to be angry or grab a gun. We have to deal with these tragedies while still minding our individual and collective rights.