I remember the picture of Mary Lou Retton on that Wheaties box.  That bright winning smile, an American icon of winning and success.  I remember, too, that my father used to come home from the turkey ranch, stinking of shit.  The stench was so bad that it was difficult to be anywhere near him until he had washed and changed out of his work clothes.

I don?t think he ever saw that Wheaties box but he went to work every day, whether it was to that turkey farm or some other menial job.  He worked, brought home the paycheck, and supported his wife and kids.  I don?t know if he ever dreamed of doing anything that would land him on a cereal box or in a magazine, but I do know that working in shit was worth it to him.

Some times I think about some of the people I know and their dreams.  I don?t know that many people, but there are lots of people with dreams in LA so I?m bound to meet one here and there.  I wonder to myself what it is that is so terrible about their lives in Iowa or Illinois, etc., that makes them so desperate to chase their dreams out here.  What is it that they are chasing? or running away from?  Maybe they worked in horse shit.  I?ve seen horse shit, and they come in bigger piles than turkey shit.

In LA, images are flashed at me everyday about what I ought to be.  I ought to be a party kid on Sunset, my name on every guest list.  I ought to be a playa in a jogging suit with 14 carat electroplated bling.  A baller, an outcast, a greaser, a neo-hippie, a Democrat, a wheeler and a dealer.

The message is that I ought to be someone other than me.  I?m a reasonably open-minded person, and I?m open to the notion that I ought to be someone aside from me, but it?s not clear who ?me? is.  If I knew who I am, then it?d be a cinch to not be me.  I see parts of me in the billboards and the images, but I?m not sure if I came first or I became them.  If I dig deep into the center of myself, that warm spot two inches below the navel, I find that the one thing I am absolutely certain of is that I don?t want to work in shit.  That?s a start at least.

Looking for the Evening Star by whose milky light my world is illumined.
Toward Her Unwavering Gaze is my navigation firmly destined.
Weary traveler I have been, a solitary gait seeking Yonder Beacon.
Dark earth beneath black sky into Wonderland will my landscape blossom.

Golden orange sun hovering in a crisp blue sky.  Long slanted shadows at midday as if the morning lingers on into the evening.  Burgundy leaves cracking underfoot, the sound cutting through cool, dry air.  Summer was so long ago, seemingly a dream forgotten just yesterday.  Fall is in full stride and winter approaches steadily on frosted tips.  Another New Year lurks only a few steps behind.  What will we have to show for another year gone by?  Will we mark an exceptional year, one we?ll never forget and cherish with happy memories?  Or will it fade into the fog of all the years before?

To be a saint is a full-time job, and I admit that I?m already otherwise gainly employed.  Thus, to those I?ve offended on purpose or not, to those I?ve slighted in ways large and small, I apologize.  The lady whose fish-print dress I snickered at, the homeless beggar I pretended to ignore, the child whose lollipop I stole, to you and you and you, most of all, I submit my remorseful regret.  If these humble notes do not satisfy the anger and shame and distress I might have caused, please excuse a simple working man who, to the saints, must one day make amends.

Luster fade from eyes unseeing. 
Body wilted soon departed.
What words pass through parting breath? 
Too much undone?
Or Good load of fun?

I enjoy curling up with a good novel on a Sunday afternoon, or saving the world (again) in the latest blockbuster video game.  These are simple pleasures that I enjoy but I rarely make the time for because there?s always a list of much more important things I ought to be doing.  I could be reading a self-help book, washing the car, balancing the checkbook, or putting in an extra hour at the office.  I could be doing a whole lot of other things that are productive rather than lazing around and doing something I enjoy.  There is always another rung on the ladder to success that I could be climbing, but where do those steps really lead?  Will being productive make me happy?  Maybe, or maybe not.  I do know that chocolate mints go down well on a lazy Sunday afternoon, and that turning each page in a good book makes me happy, even if it does make me feel a little guilty? for being happy.

From memories fade the fondest days.  Had I known that this was the last before the parting of ways, would I have lifted the setting sun and held back forever the passing of the day.

Indelible moments etched in glass:

Crystal clear were your eyes, dancing with each happy sigh.
Careful mirth across your face, as those golden hours went too quickly by.

But even glass melts under the press of time.

Those precious memories, so sharp that day, melt now with each rising sun.  I grasp at each drop to lock it tight, but through desperate fingers those treasured moments fall to puddles on the ground.

Reflections of that cherished day evaporating under the unforgiving sun.  Away to nothingness go your warm embrace and that knowing smile.  With despair I rail against the fading of that fondest day.

To have met and laughed, and to have seen and admired from afar and near.  Then to depart the best of friends, with the brightest of beginnings, and the promises of infinite tomorrows.  But the promises will be left unfulfilled and those tomorrows will never be today.  The beginnings are the endings and the writer left with the ink still un-dried.  One comma out of place in the promissory note and we null and void the fairy tale before it's written.  To live and hope for the rainbow in the sky and fearful that it's just a chance illusion after all.

That rare and exceptional day is today.  It is not tomorrow or the next day.  It is not the day of the beautiful sunrise or the day you earn praise from your peers.  It is the day you wake up to, the day you draw breath and feel your way to the bathroom with sleep sodden eyes.  Aye, every day.  Today is a precious commodity, a beautifully rare day you will never have again.  Wait not for tomorrow's promise, live today.

In him the dragon untamed, roaring and belching its acrid malcontent.  Every word is a curse.  Every gesture perverse.  Around him people shiver and hide, disgust and pity pushing their backsides.  He sees nothing in the mirror that pleases but the reflection is the mantle he knows.  Twist and turn he might, fleeing into the uncaring night.  Turn around, Mr. Black, the beast is on your back.