Setting Fire to a Baby

This is the most recent fire I built. Baby not included.

Language is a gift.

I would set fire to a baby.

Most of us don't understand exactly what this would be to our senses. But some of us do. Those of us wrecked by terrors of war. Those of us repeatedly shaken in half by the violent imagery of some ghastly accident. The witnesses of these colossal horrors ache to scratch these memories from their tarnished brains. The rest of us, however, can barely know the notion of a baby on fire, let alone know the full reality. We don't know the smell of burning flesh. We can't comprehend eyeballs popping and melting from the heat. We would avert our faces from supple, young skin turning to black char. Muscles would burn from bone. Fat would spit and sizzle after it pooled in the back of a tiny skull. And if the fire was hot enough, the bones would crack and wither to dust. And to imagine such things makes most of us uncomfortable . . . to say the least. The simple sentence "I would set fire to a baby" immediately sickens us.

And I know what I am saying when I write this sentence and I mean it with all my heart. With great, unwavering conviction, I agree with setting fire to a baby, but this isn't entirely understandable unless I explain, unless I call attention to things that make sense.

. . . but I won't explain just yet.

For the time being, consider how blanket statements without clarification are considerably flawed. But, more importantly, I dare you to sit with what it means to completely burn an infant to a crisp . . . and then move on to consider my next statement:

So pretty. So deadly. Always the case it seems.

I made my mother a beautiful salad accented with flower petals.

This statement is, probably, relatively innocuous to most folks. Many different kinds of flowers can make a salad beautiful. With a leap of faith I've eaten rose petals before and while they are somewhat bitter, they can dress up a salad something fierce. On the other hand, what if this salad was prepared with foxglove petals? Anyone with a basic knowledge of foxglove likely knows how it can be extremely poisonous.

Foxglove, if ingested, can cause rashes, disorientation, hallucinations, fainting, blurred vision, nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting. And these symptoms are more sedate compared to the ones that are life-threatening. Foxglove can also change your heartbeat. It can slow it down. It can speed it up. It can make your heart muscles contract erratically. To be fair, however, I should mention that extracts from foxglove in the proper amount can be used to manage certain heart conditions. But if taken in the wrong dosage, like eaten from a salad bowl, it can give you a heart attack.

Foxglove can kill you.

So, let me be clear; I do not want to kill my mother with a foxglove salad. That would be reprehensible and twisted! Unfortunately, however, something like this has happened. Upon investigating foxglove poisoning, I found several instances where people have intentionally poisoned their partners. Can you imagine? "Here you go, hun, I made this delightful salad to go with your spaghetti. You'll love it!"

Half dead. Foxglove killer. 

My original statement about making my mother a salad accented by flowers and my subsequent explanation shows how language can easily be misconstrued if no clarifications follow. For those of you who didn't know foxglove was deadly, you might think a concoction of a salad with flower petals for my sweet mother was considerate and endearing. The statement, without the mention of foxglove, wreaks no havoc until our brains put a grave modifier on it.

In simpler terms, this is called jumping to conclusions. People do this all the time, forgetting to ask for clarifications. Why do some of us commit this mistake more than others? What mechanisms or manias give rise to filling in the blanks with unfounded conjecture and knee-jerk emotional responses? More importantly, can critical thinking be taught in a way to give greater rise to asking for clarifications first? I ask because I find myself, for better or for worse, driven to a quiet fury when folks jump to conclusions. I imagine their torture because of it. And, to paint a whole picture, I should also admit that I've had moments when the fury wasn't so quiet. These times are rare, but I have punched walls and smashed inanimate objects after witnessing such perseverations, especially after I've exhibited a colossal amount of patience and provided multitudes of calm, thoughtful clarifications.

So, a question remains:  Why does jumping to conclusions trump the gift of language, our ability to ask for clarifications?

Now, back to burning babies.

Again, I would incinerate a baby . . . but ONLY under the circumstances of creating a funeral pyre to respectfully let go of a loved one or maybe to burn away the presence of a highly-contagious disease. My graphic description of a burning baby above would be true regardless of the intent behind such an act, though, the telling "shamefully" steers the reader to revulsion. I could rewrite my beginning comments to embrace a more sublime atmosphere. I could avoid the description of a baby's eyes popping and melting and replace it with an account of the delicate and pleasing aroma of fresh lavender burning in the fire around the baby. These disparate accounts create different feelings for sure.

Language has great power. This should be self-evident.

What we jump to say and what we choose to say are very different things. Many folks don't think before they speak. As I said above, this mis-step, under certain circumstances, makes my guts hurt with controlled rage and I imagine scenarios where I'm drilling hundreds of sheet-rock screws into the bodies of thoughtless people. Separate from that frothing-at-the-mouth moment, I will note that what we say often gives others a pretty accurate account of who we are as people; it shows our mental fortitude . . . or lack thereof. What we say explains our upbringing. It shows our level of education. It discloses our morals. It can spell out our intent. It colors our character.

And yet, this is only one side of things. When someone says some blanket statement, regardless of what it entails, it doesn't end there. Oftentimes, it begs a question of clarification. In my observations, most folks just leave such unfounded conjecture without confrontation, saying "Oh, that person is crazy" or "That person is ignorant" or "That person isn't worth confronting" and they walk away having done nothing.

What do we make of ourselves if we don't confront people who speak without thinking?

Including myself at some measure, I think we are weak. I think we need to show more bravery when confronting racism, sexism, homophobia, violence, dishonesty and so on. And I'm not just talking about the blatant versions of these social malignancies. Those are obvious and easy to confront. I am, however, talking about the more subtle, institutionalized versions. It's far too easy to blow off, say, inappropriate touching when I think such an act should be "whacked in the teeth with a fucking wrench." Or, in another instance, it has become rote for many of us to look the other way when someone tells a white lie, but I sometimes am compelled to confront such a "mild" dishonesty with fierce fact finding and confrontation.

We also have a tendency to be lazy. It takes more work for us to vie for clarification, than it does to simply make shit up, fill in the blank, and believe whatever we want. For the sake of cognitive continuity our brains do this all the time as a normal process, but is being lazy the only reason for letting this mechanism go wild? If so, how did being lazy superseded our prominent faculty to ask a few respectful questions to understand another person's comments?

Steering back to my main concern, I simply claim loose-lipped, slacker-brained statements create havoc, but they only carry as much dynamism as we allow. I attest, we must confront thoughtless statements with grace and courage so as to point the offender in the right direction instead of allowing them too much room to justify their poor behavior. We cannot and should not rest on the notion that someone else will confront these mistakes, that the offender is somehow insufferable and should be ignored.

But allow me to bring this diatribe down a few notches. My original examples of language going wrong (burning a baby and fixing a foxglove salad) are extreme indeed. Without fail, gross and negligent examples of language should be challenged, but a similar treatment should also be diligently administered in the presence of comments seemingly innocuous in nature.

A salad for your thoughts?

And . . . all it takes is one simple inquiry:  What do you mean by that?

Like many of you, I've had way too many experiences in my life where folks easily jump to conclusions. They make up meanings of what others say and pass judgment long before the original speaker has a chance to explain their verbiage.

Anyway, I could bitch and moan about lazy language until you'll be inspired to mail me a cardboard box of vomit comprised of hot dogs and grape juice, but I won't. Instead, I'll just repeat something more important and something slightly more to the point and palatable.

Language is a gift.

Treat it as such and I won't be compelled to incinerate your baby while I serve you a salad made of foxglove petals.

It's Time to Shiver

The light of dawn had begun stretching over the hills all around me while the low valleys between them hung onto the waning night. Grace and I walked at the bottom of a slope, fumbling upwards in semi-darkness. She had just woken me from a fitful slumber. I rubbed my eyes with the pads of my fingers.

Grace kidnapped me yesterday. She had a habit of doing this. No explanation. "Just shut up and come with me," she would say. And who am I to argue with her? Besides, I was delighted to spend any time at all with her, especially ever since I learned she was still alive.

The shack in which she placed me the prior evening had been comfortable and warm, thanks to a radiating pot-belly stove. I dined on fresh fruit, exotic cheese, and red wine for supper. Despite these comforts, sleep managed to escape me for the most part. Probably because Grace disappeared shortly after delivering me to the shack, which unnerved me. She did this often too. She was constantly busy, administering her version of perspective to those in need of such. I've seen her work before; it's alarming how effective she is at giving people exactly what they need, good or bad.

I once watched her provide a man with a machete so he could chop off another man's hands. Conversely, I witnessed her save a baby falling from a building with a sudden gust of wind, which pushed the infant gently through the air to an awning below. Grace's job is certainly odd. I don't understand half the things she does, but I know they all, in some way or another, boil down to a proper amount of retribution.

We continued to walk together uphill.

"You slept poorly," she said flatly.

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"That was me."

"Oh," I said back. "Why didn't you let me sleep?"

"You and I both know you do your best thinking when you're tired."

"Right," I said, nodding at the hillside in front of me.

I glanced over at Grace and patted her naked shoulder gently. Strands of her long, thick, steel gray hair swayed over my forearm and it felt like a silk curtain. Her strange hair belied her youthful skin, which almost looked silver in the growing light. Grace rarely wore clothes because the exposure helped heal all the scars she chose to carry. It was also her job to take on and process scars when she deemed it was time for people to let go of them. On her skin they would disappear over time. Some would go away faster than others, depending on their magnitude. I can always tell how busy she's been by how many scars are on her body. She had many that day at the shack. Her skin was rarely devoid of them.

"Here," she said suddenly. "Stop here."

"Why? I wanna be warmed by the sun at the top of the hill."

"You can't. You're not ready . . . not yet. You keep making stupid choices."

I looked at the ground and my face lengthened with shame. I knew what she was talking about. I wanted to explain, but with her such an effort would be wasted.

Seeing my reaction Grace calmly placed a hand on my forearm. I could feel her soft, gray eyes looking at me, but I continued to stare at the rich, upturned soil at my feet.

"When do you suppose they last plowed this field?" I asked in an even tone, trying to change the subject.

Grace ignored my words. The question admittedly held no purpose other than to fill the frigid air in front of me with puffs of white breath.

"She will be long and sharp," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"Long and sharp. She will be long and sharp."

"Who will?" I asked stupidly.

Grace sighed heavily, but punctuated the expression with a soft chuckle. I absentmindedly leaned over and picked up a smooth, round stone, which Grace immediately slapped from my hand. It landed in the dirt with a soft thud.

"No," she said curtly. "Long and sharp."

A single diamond tear welled in my eye and then streaked down my cheek.

"Very well," I said, finally looking at her. "But what shall I do now?"

Her eyebrows knitted, but eventually gave way to a comforting smile. The violent motion that dislodged the stone from my hand turned into gentle fingertips on my chin. She stood in front of me and her hot breath flowed up my nose. She smelled like lilacs and leather.

"For the time being," Grace said, "you will surrender to the cold. It's time for you to shiver."

The Lies Will Struggle to Flourish

Thou knowest not the end of thy days, when thou breathes from thy bosom one final strain'd breath. And therein, death doth not race on a speedy steed to warn thee of thy forthcoming end. He may taketh at his own druthers, nary a shred of kindness or of malice. This dark angel doth carry out his employment like the sun doth shine, like a storm doth torment with wreaking winds and clamoring thunder, resembling none other than the indifference of a mouse finding its fodder.

Plan thee not for thy death. Rather, spend thy days cogitating on what it is to live and to love, for you will reach a cause no more noble.

Of this device I speak unto all of our blue strumpets, unto our blasphemers of the sacred morals kept in earnest by the most diligent of our brethren. And to these blasphemers my words doth fall on deaf ears. Thus, mine eyes wet my cheeks whilst screaming this language with unrelenting zeal from a mountain peak tethered to a vast sky.

Alas, I fear I will not be heard, lest thou dost not beckon the righteous courage to serve in an army of truth tellers. At this conceivable notion, unto an audience crying with momentous sympathy, I woefully sigh.

What fate shall I henceforth suffer for breeding this lofty stance? Will my heart be hewn from my bosom with wanton cruelty or will my bravery fall upon respectful salutations? I know not, therefore, I trundle through a wilderness fiendish and wicked.

And this darkness shall henceforth plague our environs, save for when love can be thrust into it . . . like a sword thrust into the belly of a rabid beast. And so bringeth a noble blade a graceful light unto bile-filled entrails!

At the horizon cometh the rising of the sun and therein an antidote to this wretched darkness rests in the hearts of our human family. It is love that doth blot out its raging opposite! It is love that doth lift us from our foul mires! It is love that doth reconcile our sins!

In what part of my flesh resides such love? If it is not in my heart alone, then it is also issued from my lips with great rigor and resolve. Dost thou know of what truth I speak? Dost thou blend thy good sense with reality as it should? To know wholesome truth, is to forfeit the utterances of deceit. Embrace the kingdom of love and the lies will struggle to flourish.

A Letter to Elspeth

Dear Elspeth,

You can imagine the heart shock I had when I saw you yesterday in that lesbian bar - where did you disappear to so quickly? Whatever. It had been, what, some three years since I last saw you? Do you remember? It was in New York. Do you recall that crazy bike accident we saw? You showed up out of nowhere, like you usually do and we were walking under some scaffolding, just shy of the 23rd Street Station. The Flatiron Building loomed ahead of us. I remember looking at that building while I held your hand. I told you I wanted the building to tell me stories. You smiled and squeezed my hand tighter. That moment reminds me of the time we were walking together in San Francisco and we saw that sidewalk stencil graffiti on Valencia Street. You squeezed my hand tighter then too. I realize now you hold fast, if only with torturous brevity, to support me through all the times you've vanished.



Yep, the actual sidewalk stencil graffiti from Valencia Street.

Anyway, when that cyclist got side-swiped by a pick-up truck, I was out in the street before she hit the ground - you know me, enough empathy to fill a mountain and confident during emergencies. I could feel you smiling at my back, full of pride, when I leaned over the unconscious gal. My hand went to my back pocket to retrieve a handkerchief and within seconds I had it pressed against the side of the woman's head. There was so much blood. For a split second I thought half her face was torn off when she bounced of that bus. She should have been wearing a helmet, but I think her thick nest of fire-engine red dreadlocks cushioned her fall. You told me later you turned to an old man standing next you to remark how glad you were to know me. With his eyes far away, the man grinned at the street; it was a smile that seemed to say he knew what it meant to love someone as much as you love me.

Yep, it's a true story.

Do you remember my last bike wreck? That woo girl turned left right in front of me without signaling. I was coming down the hill on Pine Street in Seattle. The impact ripped my handlebars in half and I bounced off the windshield, landed in the street, and slid another 10 feet on the pavement. I was fine . . . well, sort of fine. The cops wouldn't let me make a statement because I was "injured." I wanted you to be there to set them straight, but you were still in New York I think. Or were you back in Cologne at that point? They gave me morphine at the hospital. I wanted you there to monitor me while I was high and not thinking straight. I still remember the smell of morphine - that sweet, tart plastic odor.

Ya know, our children think you should show up already, that you and I should officially meet. They miss their mother, even before they have found themselves born from you. Iselabein wants you to hold her hand while walking through the sculpture park and Cade wants you to sing him a lullaby while he begins to slumber under the blanket I had as a child. Naturally, I can do both of these things on my own, but it's better when we're both here - together. And I . . . I want to look into your eyes. I want to watch your heart shield me from all these fucking idiots and liars. I need your protection, but only as much as I know you need mine. This liar's paradise is nearly unbearable without you by my side.

I'm so tired of this. I know you . . . I just don't know where you are. Find me, please. Occasionally, I feel like we are wasting time by not being together presently, but then I realize it's impossible for me to waste time because of how I think everything is a lesson. I cut beautiful sculptures out the most boring stones. I paint away the wicked with worm-ridden mud. I marvel at the color of deep red as it drips in waves from my nose, bleeding from thinking about you too often - as if my brains drum to the sound of your heartbeat . . . somewhere in the world. The violent drumming will stop the moment we touch.

Yeah, I know, I sound really tortured, don't I? Yeah right, an ailing artist, wracked with the terror of not being able to ignore reality like the rest of 'em. Yes, I sound weak . . . but doesn't that make sense in the context of producing good work? Then again, my work isn't really for others as much as it's for me. If this backwards love letter happens to touch someone, in a good or bad way, then so be it.


Yep, above all others, it's my favorite flower.

I love you for many reasons, but the following is one of the top reasons:  You visited that cyclist gal in the hospital for me when I suddenly had to return to Seattle the next day. You brought her white trilliums because you knew how they are my favorite flower. Elspeth you're magical. How in the blazes of hell fire did you find trilliums in New York City? Impossible! Plus, you're incredible in that you pay attention. Your level of consideration and savvy puts so many of our human family to shame. You later reported the gal's name was Ima Grey, but people often mistake her name for "Emma." You said her name was shortened from Imathilde. She was adamant you said; Ima wanted to meet me (while conscious) because I had helped her that day. Thanks for explaining to her about my forthcoming demon in Seattle and about how she'd have to be patient to see me. Elspeth, it's been several years since that day in New York City. I've sent the succubus back to her own hell.

I'm ready to meet Ima now. And I'm ready for you to find me - for real. I'm ready for you to stop moving in and out my head. I want the nosebleeds to stop. I'm ready to break open my colossal heart in a way I haven't previously. I'm ready to love like a titan.

Sending you all of my respect and love,

Chance Wolf Koehnen

An Anniversary of a Suicide Watch

On this day, nine years ago, I had brain surgery.

For those of you who don't know the story or those of you who might need a refresher, I found myself at the age of 28 thrust in a book of medical anomalies with the unhappy diagnosis of brain bacterial abscess caused by unknown infection. It took me two years to fully recover and I was on anti-convulsive medication for nearly six years after that. Today, I'm fine . . . except for all the other dumb stuff I do.

When I mention my brain trauma most folks react strongly. Many are prompted to tell their own stories of nerve-wracking surgeries, unbelievable accidents, and other near-miss encounters with death.

I-absolutely-love-these-stories.

A moral compass given to me by my father
several years ago. I have many that stem from
other sources. Some are made of diamonds.

Sometimes, I'll even make mention of my history randomly just so I can hear people spin their own tales. These stories are the stuff of champions; they have a tendency to breed humility. For me, it's sort of like going to a miniature boot camp that teaches good morals.

Moral compass training. We need more of it in this world.

At any rate, this is how I see it, but you get to decide what you glean from the words that follow. That's the point . . . you decide for yourself.

I'm not exactly sure how long I stayed in the intensive care unit after I got out of surgery. I think it was a day . . . well, maybe it was two. I don't know. Between the anesthesia and the morphine, I couldn't make sense of much at all. As I write this, I recall the fragrance of morphine; it's something like a slow burn of sweet-smelling plastic and it has a strange, subtle allure like the scent of gasoline. Not that I've ever huffed gasoline, mind you, but I've refueled enough lawn mowers in my teenage years to get the gist.

Anyway, after some time, the drugs wore off and my head throbbed with each beat of my heart. Humph . . . my heart was in my head, which always seems to happen when a person observes and accepts their mortality. Inexplicably, our brains seem to fuse with our hearts and we suddenly develop an exceptionally clear and super-human wisdom. Although, this intensified wisdom only lasts for as long as we can keep the wild, degenerative components of our egos at bay. And, the better we do this, the more we learn from our mortality.

So, head throbbing with heart, they wheeled me into a dimly lit room. I remember being severely exhausted and hungry. I hadn't eaten for quite some time because they didn't want me to blow chunks all over the operating equipment and . . . well . . . when you get a window cut in your head you're kind of tired afterwards. It was difficult to completely understand my surroundings. I knew I was in a room. There was a TV. A skinny, old man was sleeping in a bed next to mine. And my girlfriend was around somewhere. After a simple meal, I fell asleep.

And then . . . sucking. LOUD sucking.

The window in my head.

It was the middle of the night and I awoke to find a handful of nurses hovering over the old man. They were trying to comfort him while shoving a huge, plastic tube down his throat. He coughed uncontrollably and they pushed the tube deeper and deeper. When it got deep enough, flecks and chunks of thick sputum floated up the tube into a machine. The man wailed as best he could, but it sounded more like an agonizing moan. One nurse directed the tube and other two held the man down. He tried to push them away, but his weak, semi-flailing arms were no match for the sturdy, young nurses. I watched in horror as they emptied his lungs of fluid. For a split second I had half a fear that I was going to be next and they wouldn't even bother to clean off the tube.

The old man had pneumonia . . . bad.

The next day, when I told my girlfriend about the suck-fest, she had a hissy-fit and marched out to the nurses' station to demand I immediately get a different room. I don't know the science behind pneumonia, but last time I checked it's kind of contagious . . . especially for someone taking boat-loads of anti-biotics, just out of brain surgery. My girlfriend then was, to her credit, my strongest advocate. She raised hell to get me a new room. I'm still very thankful for her effort and care during that time of recovery, despite the fact that, at a previous time, she once kicked me in the back while laying in bed with her and also put her hands down another man's pants before the end of our relationship.

Yeah, I'm not making this shit up.

My girlfriend triumphed. I was wheeled to another room.

I shared this room with another old man, but only for a brief time . . . until he started hacking all over the place. He also had pneumonia.

I'm still not making this up.

My girlfriend didn't just stop at raising hell that time; I'm pretty certain she summoned a few demons as well. I think some nurses lost their souls that day and my girlfriend probably took one or two for herself. Occasionally, she was awesome and scary at the same time.

Anyway, I finally got wheeled to another room with the assurances my new roommate would not have pneumonia. When I arrived, the man in the bed next to mine seemed quite healthy. He breathed easy and had no bandages and seemed downright calm.

The only problem . . . he was secured to his bed with padded restraints. The poor man was on suicide watch.

NOT-MAKING-THIS-UP.

As I said, the man was strapped to his bed. A nurse briefly explained the situation, leaving out the details for the sake of confidentiality. The man had brown skin, dark course hair, and the features of a Hispanic American, although I was unsure from what ethnicity he actually hailed. He had a slightly rotund body and I could tell he was kind of short even though he was laying down.

At first, he was a sight to behold. He exuded complete listlessness and barely moved. For hours he stared at the ceiling. The nurses had to clean him occasionally because he would shit and piss himself. I felt bad for the man and for a while I couldn't shake the question of what could have possibly caused him to be that way. He gave me no clue at all. He remained expressionless. A mental health worker even arrived one day to speak with him, but he got nothing out of him except a heart rate and blood pressure reading.

From heart to head, it's not that far.

Eventually, I decided the man's plight was none of my business and I clearly had to focus on my own recovery. But his hopeless demeanor didn't sway my girlfriend from trying to reach him. She made a valiant effort, speaking to him with a compassionate, soft voice. Unfortunately, she failed as well. I spent the rest of my initial recovery from brain surgery in that room, next to a man who, literally, did almost nothing. About four days later, I had enough strength to walk out of there. I can't remember for sure, but I wanna say I looked at the man as I left. I'd like to say I mumbled something profound to him as I shuffled my weak ass out the door. I know I didn't. Whatever plagued him was beyond me.

From time to time, I think about suicide-watch man. I sometimes wonder if he ever uttered another word, if he ever eventually rose up out of his mysterious despondency.

And, because I managed to recover from a  random brain infection, I celebrate the notion that I can wonder anything at all . . . which gave rise to a greater self-awareness, a knowledge that helps me to accurately know which thoughts I should abandon and which thoughts should be carried to my heart.

In My Unfinished Room

What is this endless flight? To know the true acuity of things. To breathe air thick and thin and loving both just the same. To know blood for its rich, alluring color and the sickness it causes with the sight of an amputated arm. And, most of all, to know the love song of titans, but to be forbidden to sing with one's loudest voice.

Practicing for the havoc to come.

When I was a boy, things were so much easier - as it is with most people I suppose. I recall how it occurred to me to think of things bigger than myself, about the stuff of life I didn't yet understand. I think I was practicing, preparing my tiny heart for the havoc to come. And truth be told, my trials have come to a measure no greater than that of the average person. Nevertheless, I carry a weight greater than I should. This is who I am. I will not stop carrying the weight to please anyone, save for myself, for it has served me well; the lessons often come as an imposing array of osprey diving and diving for sustenance. They do not delay or diminish how they vie for their nutrition anymore than I withhold my tenacious care and consideration.

And as I said, I go on . . . yet, I have a limit like anybody else.

My solitary, childhood room remained unfinished the entire time I lived in it. Make no mistake though, my father was scrupulous to complete the remodel of the upstairs, yet I believe, with the looming divorce of my parents, he lacked the financial resources. So, from the age of around 9 until I was 16, I spent most of my time in a room with plywood floors and walls of bare sheet rock. As a side note, I suppose this, in part, might explain why I'm usually unimpressed with pea-cocking and grandeur and more interested in scars and imperfections.

My room, devoid of refinement, didn't bother me. I decorated it with posters of mythical beasts, mostly unicorns, which makes sense considering my tendency to be one. I also had an expansive rock collection. I had rocks everywhere. My favorites were the ones I found personally even though they were often plain and some shade of gray. This makes sense, as well, because gray eventually became my favorite color.

My left sapphire with a fleck of blood in it.

So, imagine for a moment, a lanky boy hunched over a slight belly, sitting alone in his room with sun-soaked, platinum blonde hair and eyes so intensely blue that one might mistake them for smoky sapphires.

Have any of you looked into my eyes? If you did, despite the vibrant color and regal concentration, you'd just end up seeing guts because, in my mind - flawed as it often is - every sapphire has a drop of blood on it.

When I was a boy, I often cupped my chin in the soft pads of my hand - at my desk, in the ditch in the front yard, or in my unfinished room. As I said before, I was thinking of what lay ahead of me; I was thinking about the strife and the joy I would come to know.

These days, I am no different. I often sit with my sapphires burning against a blank wall . . . just to catch a glimpse of the poignant understanding that often runs days beyond my reach. Yet sometimes, I am blessed with the occasional epiphany, with a short-lived clarity that arrives to slake the mechanisms of terror so that I might see grace as it should be, which - mind you - doesn't even begin to describe the courage one would need to employ it.

And so, this evening - as I recall the scraps of my boyhood thoughts and as I ponder their adult versions - it occurs to me to call attention to a cup that all too frequently doth not runneth over.

It's sacrifice . . .

And I ask again. What is this endless flight?

Please, don't get me wrong. I have seen many brave, lavish moments of sacrifice in my days, some even bestowed upon me. Be that as it may, I have also seen too much of the converse. And I feel my heart occasionally weakened by such, even though I have diamond-like friends who breed grace at an alarming rate.

I see many elements of sacrifice burn away far too easily. I see courage wane and wither in moments when it should grow and evolve. I sometimes can't arrest the tremors caused by ill-sacrificial tendencies, when selfishness gives rise to pain.

And I am far from perfect. I struggle with some measure of hubris. I sometimes lose my way, forgetting to sacrifice with more appropriate and healthy means. I take stock of these shortcomings, though, when I am occasionally smart enough to open my eyes. And if I'm lucky, I'll show an ounce of courage and a pound of action to mete out deep kisses to all of my fears, which seems to be the answer for most difficulties.

To this end, I implore a somewhat malignant community to exhibit more consideration for others, to painstakingly recognize how we become stronger when we station our plights second to those we love. And don't do this because MY dumb-ass is asking, do it because it agrees with your own conscience. And if you don't agree, then do it not, but don't expect me to fight off your demons for you. I've got my own problems.

This pillar is not to be leaned on without reciprocation.