In Memory of My Son

***
Whether you lose a child through death or failure, the loss hurts just the same. I have lost my son, and very few understand, or know, the chasm of sadness existing within my chest and mind.

When there is no casket, there is no sign of loss. Only disgusted looks at you and your soul. Though there is more to the story than meets the eye, the armchair journalists, activists, and philosophers blame the father for the ailments…for surely the mother cannot be wrong, abusive, nor inattentive.

Let me be explicitly clear; loss from failure cuts to the soul even further than the loss from a death. Especially, when the failure comes from the system letting you down, actually working against you.

It was just days before Christmas 2007 that I lost my eldest child, through failure, not death. And both the uninformed and the arrogant point their fingers in my direction as the culprit of a great tragedy. Yet, the fight I gave to save, raise, and provide for him goes unnoticed.

His mother won the battle, our son lost his life.

No man should have to ever chose between saving his eldest child or saving his other two children and wife. Yet, we have to sometimes make those decisions. And the decision becomes difficult, logical, easy, blurred, and obvious all at the same time. But, I had to make that choice…philosophical dilemmas are both disgusting and vile when they occur in real life.

Legal decisions and discussions surrounding this are callous and clinical. The true emotion comes while driving home, alone, behind the wheel of an old red Dodge truck, tears making the oncoming traffic look double. A true man is not supposed to show emotion…I turn from others to hide my shame of sadness. The light turns green…I press the gas pedal more cautiously then other days.

People pass by unnoticed...

Joint legal custody means nothing more than the fact that the father has absolutely no right in making decisions for his child. It only makes him financially responsible for the inept decisions of others.

Say a prayer for my son…that’s all he has left at this time for his salvation and redemption.

A father is supposed to be emotionless…and yet the tears, sadness, and hopelessness overwhelm me during a time of year that is supposed to be filled with hope, joy, and renewal.

I lost my son December 19, 2007. End of story...

There was no memoriam. There was no funeral. There was no wake. Only an abyss of silence that deafens my soul…nothing more…

And the truth is? Silence has more echoes than sound ever had…

EjG

nocturnal

there is nothing more simple
nor more complex
than that which is found
within the mind
at the hours
past midnight
where upon the wine
and the whiskey
take hold of the mind
allowing both the beautiful
and the mundane
to become intertwined into
a quagmire of existence
while my guitars
sit on their stands
in silence
as the radio plays
some tune that becomes
an incantation for relief
from the mediocrity
we all somehow manage
to live with
inside our brains…

there is no true solidarity
nor true solemnity
when the mind
can no longer rest
because the remembrance
is as jaded as the reality.

ejg

sunday morning

sunday morning i chased a balloon
like a carefree child…

it was free,
we were free
following the wind and the sun,
just like a soul should be…

yet, as it landed,
holding my son’s hand,
we watched in awe
of something simple,
grand,
and beautiful…

life,
it is meant
to be like that balloon…

simple,
grand,
beautiful…

sometimes we forget this…

EjG

-----------

I asked Solomon, "How did I lose my simplicity and creativity?"

And he responded, "You have not lost it, only ignored it, like life. Stop ignoring it."

"How?" I asked.

Solomon responded, "Like the balloon, chase the wind. Remember the innocence and wonderment of your son as you both looked at the balloon. Become like a child and chase that which is simple and beautiful. Then, my dear friend, you'll have life, simplicity and creativity."

And so now, I start that chase. It's the crossroad once again. I like the crossroad. There are diferent paths to choose, all with excitement and life.

It's nice to smell the trees once again.

Echoes Beyond Midnight

Is it better to die young,
experiencing life to all of its excessiveness
possible,
or
to die old,
experiencing life in all its cautions and mediocrity?

Which is better?

To burn out from the excesses of humanness
or fade into the mediocrity
of day-to-day life?

Fear both life and death…
It has become the same continuum for us all.

One where there is both a possibility of an ever after
and a possibility of nothing
but pure silence.

The infinity of silence…

An abyss

A gamble we take…

Some days we feel alive and dead, all at the same time.
May our souls rest upon a sunset.

And may God find mercy on all of us,
the wealthy and the poor.
the powerful and the timid.
the Us and the Them….

The pain in my chest and my head are unforgiving…

It is relentless to the point of madness.

And, they are both more real than ever imagined.

EjG

----------

Both the Scribe and Solomon were silent. Unsure what they heard and not understanding what was meant to be understood. It was night. The abyss of silence was upon them.

Elizabethtown

There are very few movies that persuade me the way Elizabethtown has done. In my collection of movies to watch on a rainy day, I own Dead Poets Society, Good Will Hunting, Bridges of Madison County, and now, soon to own, Elizabethtown.

The movies that touch me most have some relational aspect of them to either my experiences, loves, interests, or desires. Such as, I need that road trip taken out of Elizabethtown. We lose too much in our haste to attain some destination that we lose, or forget, or maybe overlook, that the journey tends to be more powerful and impactful than the destination.

In fact, I have done things similar to that final destination, though less grandiose, as that in this movie.

I remember bringing my future wife (now current wife) across the state, providing directions for her, and noting landmarks she would see along the country route. There are small things I remember, like the word “Creamery” in cement, on a brick building in Carson City, Michigan (which was covered up by some senseless individual). Or the farm with several tractors, believe they were John Deere’s, on the corner of Barry and Washington Road in central Michigan.

But, what Elizabethtown has given to me is the quote on failure. I have failed at many things, many times, even today, but I continue to press on and look for new ways of doing things, new ways of experiencing life, new ways of understanding this world we live within.

Failure is a non-achievement the conformists and the mundane love to force upon the non-traditionalist, with admiration. Whereas, we, the artists, love to see failure validate our non-conformist ways. Why? Because we know failures are merely steps to success.

In the corporate world, perfection without failure equals mediocrity and attainment of the status quo. Outside of that, those challenging the norm, who eventually succeed, see success greater than that imagined. Those who fail, either pick up and move on, settle for the security of the mundane and the mediocre, or pass silently away to obscurity through their own madness.

I may be close to the madness, at least my wrinkles prove this could be close, but I think one more road trip will bring out the true greatness that is present in all of us. One more trip to discover America, my soul, our essences, or just to discover life. And I wrote “life” without thinking about Elizabethtown, seriously, but that is how the movie ended. Discovering life. Let’s discover life!

Let’s run as fast we can down the road, any road, or path, to discover something new.

The rest can wait until later…

EjG

================================

From Elizabethtown...

Claire: So, you failed.

Drew: No, you don't get it.

Claire: All right, you really failed. You failed, you failed, you failed. You failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed, you failed….

You think I care about that?

I do understand.

You're an artist, man. Your job is to break through barriers.

Not accept blame and bow and say: "Thank you, I'm a loser, I'll go away now."

Oh "Phil's mean to me, wah, wah, wah..." So what?

Drew: I don't cry.

Claire: You want to be really great?

Then have the courage to fail big and stick around. Make ‘em wonder why you're still smiling.

That's true greatness to me.

Dungarees...

The other day I washed my favorite pair of jeans, by hand, so I could wear them, as they had already been well worn this week. It was just like some dungaree commercial, one you would think makes for a good commercial on TV, but may not really happen.

And I laughed, while no one was home, as the soap suds spilled over the sink, and from there being too much material to easily engage in this endeavor. But, life has become so mundane that wearing jeans last Friday was one way I could get at my simplicity, wanderings and creativity.

They represent the many miles traveled. They represent me not wanting to fully conform to the system. They represent some odd sense of individuality. They represent my country roots and love. Most of all, they represent freedom.

I’ve been listening to a CD called Grandfather’s Hat by, believe it or not, Jeff Daniels, and it is not what you would expect. It somehow speaks to the wanderer in me. His song Mile 416, talks of travels, across Highway 2, but more importantly about what a wanderer sees, remembers and forgets along the way.

And, that’s how it is; what you see, what you remember and what you forget.

The song reminds me of traveling up M-32 in Michigan, with a barn off in the distance, as I travel north to Charlevoix. It is red, as red as barns are supposed to be, with white trim and Celtic markings on it.

It reminds me of driving along I-80, in August, through Iowa. The miles and miles of sunflowers, in full bloom. Their brilliance accentuated by the sun and a cloudless, blue sky.

I think of Highway 34 in Colorado, smelling the pine as they whistle with the mountain winds, eventually reaching the point they end to make way for the tundra. The air as clear as it will ever become.

And, it reminds me of KY 80, out to Hazard, Kentucky, where the trees and small homes dot the landscape reminding me there are poor here in this country, too. Coal is one man’s gold and another’s subsistence.

The song also reminds me of Hancock County Road 6, in north central Ohio, where a graying barn leaned with the wind and a vagrant, with two canes, walked the lonely miles. His skin, tarnished by the years, was wrinkled and brown from the sun. I am sure he had a name.

Yes, this song reminded me of all this. But, I also mark my maps with a blue pen so I know where I have been. Partially because I know I will forget, but also to ensure I continue to explore every inch, acre and mile I can.

Looking down the road that passes in front of my house, just a small place in America, I realize it’s the beginning for any journey.

My truck, my dungarees, my guitar, my pad of paper and the endless black top.

EjG

Photographs

I've been taking photographs in order to understand life. Each representing some reality I know, experience, or dream about. It is an attempt to find beauty and art in a place that stifles them both, stifling it with an ultra conservative exuberance for it's not what the mundane can have nor understand. Once I was able to dream, but those dreams keep getting fainter as time moves along. Therefore, I take these pictures, began drawing, and began writing again. I'm recapturing these dreams.

There is no life without art and beauty...

EjG

medial

medial

over half way through life
and the lines upon our faces,
illustrate,
illuminate,
trivialities
of our senselessness during youth;
to which we now pacify
ourselves to contentment
passing off
the realities of:
divorce,
re-love,
resentful offspring,
downsizing,
and mental constipation.
pacifying ourselves
to the point where
a cognitive roadblock
prevents some viable beginning
or ending.
yet we are caught between a
left brain / right brain
dichotomous process of thinking
between the corporate professional
and the striving academician;
between the philosopher
and the poet;
between the artist
and the engineer.
giving up our youth
for prosperity.
the moon means nothing more
than the incandescence we apply to it.

EjG

Solomon looked at the Scribe and asked, "Do you feel like you have accomplished that which you had intended to accomplish in life?"

And the scribe shook his head back and forth to indicate he had not.

"So then what should we do?" asked Solomon.

And the Scribe said, "We should look back at the premise and the philosophy of the Crossroad. Its time is more prevalent than ever."

Both stood contemplating the Crossroad and where it will lead life. Both stood looking at the mountain for its guidance.