Month: March 2015

Every trip to New York is different. Every trip is a homecoming but home is different. I am different. As I move out of my thirties and into my forties I am starting to notice the wear and tear on my body and soul; the scars that I’ll bear with me to the grave. These are the marks and experiences that make me who I am, but sometimes the weight of doubt and regret manifests physically and in that fashion (or any other truly) is too much to bear.

Yes, I wish I’d done things differently. Turned left instead of right. Loved more; deeper. Written more. Believed. However, the truth is that the exact conditions of yesterday created the me who I love today. Reveling in that love and treating myself to the belief of that lasting love is the best gift I could ever receive. That being said, I want to make some proclamations.

I am a better teacher than I am today. I am a better writer than I am today. I am the person I choose to be and I am proud of that man. I believe in who I can be as much as I did yesterday and tomorrow.

The above is my new mantra. It is not a resolution for the new year, new life, or new age plateau. It is a reflection of the person I am evolving into and the best version of myself. It is a challenge to always get better and stronger and work harder and carry a piece of that New York grind with me at all times.

Afternoon snow painted a lazy haze over the city. I was due to meet my friends on Bleeker shortly, but from where I was on 135th and fifth, it felt like I’d have them waiting a long time. Across the Hudson was the 4/5 train station which presented a faster path to where I needed to be. Getting across the hudson happens only by boat or bridge. The closest bridge waited behind a gauntlet of traffic and blustery winter wind, rain, and snow. In the world of street numbers the journey was only from 135th to 138 and Grad Councourse, a route if by land should be nothing, but the bridge and highway traffic meant it was much more.

I’ve never been ashamed of being a sci-fi writer or a fantasy writer. This doesn’t mean that people haven’t tried to make me feel that way. The majority of writers I am or have been face to face with over the years are literary fiction authors (with a gentle dusting of YA and urban poetry. Many subscribe to the real in a way that is dismissive of the unreal. I’ve written in the past about how science fiction and even fantasy are still talking about the core ideas of what it means to be a human being and deal with difficult yet everyday situations. The fact that a guy like me likes to slather assault rifles and fire-breathing dragons on top of that should only add to the complexity of the prose. Rare is the sci-fi author who slips past the gauntlet of derision and self-doubt to become accepted on both sides of the writing spectrum—both as a commercial artist who ‘writes the sci fi’ and literary juggernaut whose work is to be considered canon for all of those who want to learn about what it means to write.

As the gulf between NY publishing and smaller MFA print runs grows, I find myself less interested in debating the legitimacy of my work and more concerned with producing writing I can be proud of. Recently I produced work I was not proud of. I allowed the pallor of distraction to overcome me and take from me the joy of what I love to do most. It was a dark stain on the project and a lesson to be remembered. Writing is a joy, but dealing with the life around writing is a chore. Writing is a joy, but the politics of writing suck. Writing is a joy yet putting your butt in that chair is the hardest thing you’ll do everyday.

As I moved through New York today it occurred to me that all my references are dated. This flashed through my mind last year when I showed people the city, but this year I feel more present in the city, having time to actually enjoy it and see the changes. Not everything is grand. Little facets of my home environment have changed just enough to be noticeable and make this home world seem as though I’ve been dropped into a parallel version of Harlem. Little things like the position of the couch in the living room of my childhood home, the position of Yankee Stadium on the horizon, fences lining the rooftops of buildings that never needed fences before.

With subtle change comes the more dramatic. The cultural energy of the place has changed and in some ways faded as the people who were part of the Harlem of my youth pass on and out of the city and often out of life itself to be replaced by a series of outsiders looking to make Harlem their own and create their own history here with seemingly little regard for what came before. The sociologist in me calls it gentrification. The businessman in me calls it eminent domain—though all that is being torn down are the families and history that shaped this place. The shells of the buildings remain intact with redrawn interiors cut free of rent control and thrust into a world of pricey Manhattan real estate. As a kid I took pride in knowing I could stroll through Harlem at night. Nowadays that action has no deeper meaning than being able to withstand the winter chill.

Times and places change. People change. The worlds of childhood look smaller and more distant in the lens of the present. I cling to the memories of where I group up as I cling to the memory of who and what that helped to shape me into.

Numbers are powerful. Pi, for example, is the numeric cipher for every thought mankind has ever had. 1776 is often called the birth of America. Post 40 is often called your second life. The coincidence of numbers isn’t lost on me. Other numbers have a symbolic meaning. Turning 40 is the official signifier of ‘damn that guy is old’. Of course, if you ask my students that number is a lot closer to 26. I thought I’d feel a lot older than I do feel. In truth I feel no different, and the symbol has begin to slide off me like rain off a slicker. I care about being forty in a more reflective sense. I haven’t experienced many people who are fully physically capable post 80, so I can submit that I’m about halfway done with this mortal coil. That leaves me forty or so years of life to love, and live, and explore inside and out. Today I explored something completely new.

I had a chance to experience Himalayan singing bowls today. Not the tiny (fake) amazon.com offerings but the real deal bowls worked by a trained performer. The sounds were deep and resonant and reverberated through me with such a force that I felt my body shiver. This was among the most relaxing and focusing activities I have had a chance to experience and on a day where I needed to find my center.

Forty feels great. It feels like work is yet to be done on all aspects of me. It feels like I’m ready.

I’m going to go ahead and dash any hopes of this being a big, long, thoughtful post. Sometimes it is nice to sit in silence and reflect on reality. Here’s a taste of reality: I’ll be 40 yrs old (young?) tomorrow. I am not afraid of it, or really excited by it, or dreading it at all. 40 is extremely symbolic and mathematically represents the peak of physical possibility before the next seven year cycle kicks in and starts to squeeze you towards a life unwanted.

I want to take this moment to reflect, and rest, and be ready for the next phase.

At some point I forgot the teachings of the great Robert Downey Jr. who said, “You never go full retard.” At times I think I do. It starts with good intentions and a plan for betterment–either of myself or the boys (usually the boys)–and it ends with me going completely overboard while those involved become disengaged or disillusioned. I.e. the story of my life. As a result I get upset and develop truly unwieldy expectations for all manner of reality. This time my plans focused on the act of being a single dad, and yeah, I went full.

Buddha taught of balance in all things. I tend to eschew balance in exchange for the purity and drive of a single thing. For example, when I first became a single dad it was all about how much time I could spend with the boys on the days I had them. I’d abandon all else in terms of responsibility in hopes of finding moments of joy and connectedness with them franchise boys. This was not the greatest idea of my life. As a result I tried to do all sorts of fun stuff and quickly found myself broke with a trio of bored boys who wondered aloud, “What are we doing next time?” As if daddy time was a vacation from reality. It isn’t–It should and can not be that, because it is their reality 50% of the time. Not to mention the fact that I cannot keep up with the expectations of three boys below the age of eleven. I don’t have the wallet for that.

Full retard here meant not striking a balance and allowing them time to enjoy simple things and to work here with me in the house and on the house. It meant that making every moment as fun as possible was a mistake and one that I need to swiftly correct, because their expectations are out of whack. They took the fun at face value, wanting to jump from game to game instead of taking the necessary moment to clean up after themselves. In the moments I allowed it I helped them develop bad habits and made things harder on myself. I’ve spent a busy spring break week now correcting the behavior and righting that ship, but it led to another revelation: Focusing on fun has allowed them to slack on the outside work that made them into strong academics. Even the eldest (who is far from a fan of reading) quipped, “How come you don’t make us read anymore?”

Boys need balance. They realize the world has changed and they’ve rolled with it to a point. My point is that I have to be better in grounding them and making sure all the bases are covered here for learning. The school system remains a supplementary academic force in their lives for the most part. Learning once started at home, and if they are going to be successful beyond K-5, it has to start in the home yet again.

There will always be time for video games.

Some Thoughts:

1. As I move further away from birth I find myself embracing the concept of Anicca, or impermanence. I’ve started to view things as the way they are in this moment and how best to deal with that as opposed to things as the way they are and will be. Inwardly I view my own self as transitional, which is an important mindset to be in. It allows me to view tomorrow as opportunity instead of lasting curse.

It is different being a kid now. I cannot honestly remember a day of my childhood where I was so bored that I moped around the house all day complaining about how little there was to do. My childhood was defined and managed by my imagination, a force that compelled me to turn ordinary days into adventures. I could sit in my room for hours with a couple of G.I. Joe figures and spin a story that shook the pillars of the earth. When I finally scored an Atari I didn’t put that thing down for months. When the Commodore 64 came into my life I quickly progressed from playing to coding, never without something to occupy my brain space. Today I watched as a kid came over to our house and proceeded to behave like this was in fact the most boring location on the planet. My boys did little to dissuade him from this belief. Most agreed.

“There’s nothing to do here!” became a gathering cry and behaviors devolved into that of infants. They were bored. The thing that sunk my heart was there was a lot to do while they were busy being bored. We have bikes and skateboards and balls and a block teeming with kids. At home they have dozens of video games and three different consoles–not to mention the computers. Boredom should never happen, but it happens all the time.

I’ve tried diagnosing it. I’ve given them the rundown of everything in the house there is to do (in list form) and they constantly fire back with a chorus of no’s. These are not boring things in our house. I designed the place with kids in mind. We have different consoles and toys and a bounce house. There is all manner of things to do, but nothing they particularly want to do. I’m trying to imagine what it is like inside the mind of a modern kid, where imagination is a thing of the past and all there is to look forward to is what pretty colors and other distractions can be flashed in front of them. Kids are jaded and spoiled as of late–mine seem to be especially so.

I don’t want a repeat of last night. There’s no gain in that situation. Tired, cranky, and run down isn’t the way to good writing, but it has been a way of life as I adjust to a new life that I’m still very much catching up to. TodayI got to spend all day with my boys. We wound up playing video games, talking, bowling, and watching Cinderella. Things didn’t go very well after that, but a brief recap of the early part of the day serves as a reminder of why I love being a dad.

My kids are horrible ungrateful little creatures who fight and argue and complain about everything that doesn’t go exactly the way they want. In other words, they are young boys–pretty standard boys at that. I love every minute of the interactions. I even enjoy the challenge of reminding them to be better men; of reminding them what it feels like to be a friend, a brother, to love, to be part of something larger, to define yourself. Today we talked about togetherness and getting along with each other. We played games together and then we went bowling. At some point the mid-kid decided that I wasn’t playing the game the way I could and decided to run his mouth about my lack of skill. Of course I had to take that bait and teach a lesson. After that lesson was dutifully learned we headed into the theater area to see Cinderella.

I’m going to pause to reflect on some reactions to my boys seeing this film. They aren’t those kind of boys–you know, the kind who believe watching Cinderella is only for girls and have to act super masculine when anyone talks about girl stuff. I have the other boys. I have the boys who really don’t give a damn. The movie  was wonderful and surprisingly Buddhist in its philosophical slant. I suppose it always has been, but I never paid much attention. We all reflected on her actions after and the boys were cool with Ella’s choices and ability to ‘shake it off’. I’m not quite convinced they’d do the same.

In the end we had a good day and I got to spend time with my boys. Not much in life is better than that.

Some Thoughts:

1. NBC’s new sitcom One Big Happy is basically an episode of Chicago Fire done in comedic series form.  I’m not exaggerating. A specific episode of Chicago Fire focused on Severide impregnating his Lesbian best friend and roommate and then getting a girlfriend who it seemed could become a serious lover. This is the entire premise of One Big Happy.

The cyclical nature of writing has again forced a certain level of understanding–as did the drool pooling around me. I started and stopped this post three times before recognizing that I’d passed out three times in a row. I don’t know for sure then how long its taken me to write this. I know its been at least ten minutes.

That kind of night indeed.