Straight Outta Dunwoody

I met some dear old friends from NYC out Monday night.  It was good to see the 'C+C Music Factory' in the ATL again – it had been too long.  We had a great time at multiple crappy establishments in Buckhead (of all godforsaken places). Colin impressed with capital ‘A’ architecture stories, CKS said a lot (it was all “retarded”), Black Joe drove the car and I wore a cool hat.  As a result of said good time, I’ve been convalescing with the pups for the last (48) + watching hour after hour of bad movie. 

Colin was introduced to me as the “music guy” in the break room of the firm on my first day.   I took exception to this immediately (of course).  My “mentor” was a tool and I unfairly assumed Colin was as well by extension.  I learned otherwise, but it took a while – not that you need my advice (rock star architect), but you should get loud.  You’ve got a voice.  Artistically.  Architecturally.  Emotionally.  Musically.  I rarely hear it.  Get LOUD brother.  Own who you are.

I met Caroline in a Monday morning meeting.  Soon after, I realized (I knew right away) that she was full of shit.  She sold it well though and knowing everything she said was BS wasn’t enough for me to not get behind what she was saying.  That’s a helluva thing, right?  I’m an Arab.  You’re selling me sand.  I don’t need it – I will buy a billion pounds of it Caroline.  It’s ridiculous.  You actually believe the nonsense that comes out of your mouth and that makes those words genius (not retarded).  I re-read the recommendation letter I wrote for you some time back.  I clearly drank the Kool-Aid kiddo.  Well done.  You call it marketing.  I call it Jim Jonesing.

Black Joe remains an enigma, by design I’m sure.  You’ll never read this (being anti-social media and all) but you’re the guy.  Even more than Kiley 108, I’ve modeled how I manage on how you “managed” me.  You let me make mistakes and learn from them.  If not for the fate twisting recession you’d still be my boss.  (In private I sometimes wish that were still the case.)  There are many times throughout days that I could use your guidance or at least your advice.  You surely understand that I can’t ask for it though.  It’s my show now.  Let it be said that you set a standard to which I judge myself in this firm – a standard that I may never live up to.  Thanks for driving.

I wore a cool hat.

I'm way off-topic.  

After weeks of prodding, I accepted an invitation to play trivia with my boss and some of his family tonight.  As is the case with all other things, trivia is different in the ‘burbs.  As soon as I heard the team names I was taken aback.  In my neighborhood, trivia team names are badges of honor (or at least of decadence).  Team names in Dunwoody are “The Parents”.  In the EAV we were the “Prom Night Dumpster Babies” – in Dunwoody tonight, my team name was the “Diablos”.  Though catchy, it’s not edgy is it?  “Stephen Hawking’s Football Boots” was replaced with “I Cheated in 4^th Grade”.  Take a breath, John.  This is different. 

I appreciated the invitation and in spite of my hesitance I did have a helluva good time.  The people were unlike what I’m used to though.  They all seemed so happy.  And friendly.  No ink.  More khaki than denim. No people of color.  Not the patrons, not even the wait staff. That’s weird, right?  It’s like black people don’t even exist in Dunwoody, Georgia.

But alas they do, as I found out when I stopped for smokes and a sixer for the long ride back to the “hood”.  Black people are in full control of the gas stations in Dunwoody.  And the gas stations are over-run with polite white kids in nice clothes and nicer cars buying sodas and snacks after 10:00 on a weeknight. I'm not sure who this says more about, but I was just as apprehensive and wary of these kids as I am the base-heads at the liquor store on Fayetteville. 

It was like driving to another time zone for me to get to Dunwoody’s Mellow Mushroom tonight boss and it felt like another country - another planet really.  I’ve explained to you where I live a thousand times and you still don’t know where that’s at and you’ve still never been closer than Turner Field to my block.  I don’t live in Decatur.  Yes, I’m south of I-20.  Yes, it's inside the perimeter. Yes, it’s like Little 5 but it’s different.  It’s East Atlanta.  I live here.  I love it here.  You couldn’t hold a gun to my head and make me live where you do.  It doesn’t make either right or wrong – it’s just a statement of fact.   In some ways I’m envious of the “safe” suburban bubble that you live in.   But in most, I’m not.  I’ll be back for trivia though.

Having been warned of the Dunwoody police I was on high alert on the ride.  Back safe in the ‘ville I googled this classic cluster of gansta rap blasphemy. 

It’s kinda gold, but I prefer the real thing:

Straight Outta Dunwoody

And for those of you like me, here's the real:

Straight Outta Compton

The Ghost of Joe Strummer

In 1983, I was (11) years old and hadn’t quite found my musical compass.  Whatever I could tune in on radio (or what my sibs were into) was what I listened to.  Dexy’s Midnight Runners, Joan Jett, Eddie Rabbit, New Edition, Kool and the Gang; none of which is inherently bad, just not in my wheelhouse. It seems odd to me now that I was ever clueless about music but hey, I was just a kid.  I do remember, lying under the covers spinning the wheel of the transistor looking for something, anything that was better than Eddy Grant’s Electric Avenue.  Actually, in hindsight in many ways that song primed me for my later love of Bob Marley and even the Clash in some respects.  At any rate, I knew or at least hoped there was something else out there.  It’s just occurred to me that I’ve always been a musical snob even before I knew what good music was.  Oh well.

This is at a time long before the internet and iTunes, so one’s musical tastes were somewhat limited by their environment.  I didn’t live in NYC, quite the opposite actually.  MTV was on-air then but certainly wasn’t carried on the local cable provider – it being the handiwork of the devil and all.  Radio was a year behind.  We did have Friday Night Videos though and that was something, but I never saw the Clash on FNV. 

One day my brother received a package in the mail from Columbia House.  Anybody remember those days?  Inside were the (12) + (1) free cassette tapes he had purchased for a penny when signing up for this record club.  I’m not even that old and that last sentence just sounds stupid to me now!  Record club?  Really?  Yup.  I don’t think I’ve ever told him this but those (13) cassette tapes probably had more impact on my musical sensibilities than any other single event in my life.  There was some great stuff in that box man – Stevie Wonder, The Police, Electric Light Orchestra, Eagles, Big Country – I can’t believe I still remember that.  The most important tape in the stack though was Combat Rock by the Clash.  One look at the cover and I was hooked, before I even heard the songs.  Who were these guys?  Whoever they were they were dangerous and they were not the people in my little town and I loved it.  It was new.  It was different.  And it opened my eyes to a musical world that I had no idea existed.  Being just a kid, I filed it away after a couple of months. 

Over the next several years any time I heard Rock the Casbah or Car Jamming I went right back to that first day I met Joe Strummer.  The Clash were always around.  I listened to every song but I never really heard the music. 

Years later after I’d moved out of my first marriage, I was sifting through the damage and happened across this actual cassette from my way back.  I must have swiped it when brother wasn’t looking, I don’t remember really.  I still have it though, properly alphabetized (of course) in the crate under the bed with the rest of my cassette tapes from back in the day.  (How can I get rid of gold?)  I popped it in and listened to every track and it took me back to my childhood in a way that I can’t describe – to some of the absolute best memories I knew. 

That wasn’t enough.  Honestly, as a kid I hadn't known that Combat wasn’t even nearly their best work, but as a young man I realized that I had to hear what Joe and Mick were saying, not just listen to the music.  The lyrics had not registered with me at (11) but they did that day.  Luckily by then Al Gore had invented the internet and I went to work re-discovering and devouring every morsel of music and information I could get my hands on.  I was (29) [I think] and from that day to this not a day has passed that I didn’t listen to at least (1) Clash song and more often than not a helluva lot more.  I’m Not Down quickly became my personal anthem and almost literally carried me through those days.  It’s carried me through tough times since and is back in heavy rotation even now.  And is there a better song when you’re going through a break up than Train in Vain?  I don’t think so.

Joe Strummer died on Sunday, 22 December – the winter solstice as it is tonight – I think appropriately on the longest night of 2002.

I will not condescend an attempt to eulogize the man that Joe Strummer was and I certainly won’t try to convince you of how important the Clash remain to this day. They are, in fact still the most important band in the world.  If you don’t understand that by now, if you don’t agree with that statement I’m not sure what to say to you.  I was not aware of how groundbreaking they were when they happened.  The politics, the social statements that were made?  If you look at what Joe was saying then in today’s terms it might not be that shocking: but against the backdrop of Reagan-era policy, the cold war and everything else that was the cluster of late ‘70s / early ‘80s world culture it will blow your mind.  Groundbreaking is the largest understatement ever made as a description of who Joe Strummer was and what the Clash meant and still mean to music and more importantly to this world.  His words resonate with me tonight same as it ever was.

When the 1^st Gulf War started it's been said that one of the first bombs dropped on Iraq had the phrase “Rock the Casbah” scrawled along the side.  Strummer reportedly wept when we heard this – so many years after the fact and the world still did not understand the underlying message of his music.

The ghost of Joe Strummer haunts me every day / every night and I wouldn't have it any other way.  I would say rest in peace old friend on this the anniversary of your death but I won’t.  You’re not dead – you live on inside of me and millions of others whose lives you’ve touched.  You were the absolute deal brother.  I get that and as long as I’m alive everyone within earshot will get that too, or at least be made aware. 

I’ve said too much.  Listen to the music.  Maybe you will hear.

Car Jamming

Rock the Casbah

Spanish Bombs

Train in Vain

London’s Burning

Long Shadow

I’m Not Down

“Authority is supposedly grounded in wisdom, but I could see from a very early age that authority was only a system of control and it didn't have any inherent wisdom. I quickly realized that you either became a power or you were crushed”

--Joe Strummer

21 August 1952 – 22 December 2002

"I've been beat up, I've been thrown out

     but I'm not down, I'm not down
I've been shown up, but I've grown up
And I'm not down, No I'm not down" 

Memphis and a Chinese Book

On a recent morning flight my travel companion was an empty seat.  There are positive and negative aspects to that actuality.  The positive – I didn’t have to listen to someone’s inane babbling about the healing powers of organic tea or some such irrelevant BS.  The negative – I didn’t meet the new, whoever / whatever the new might be.  I surprise myself these days in that I actually crave meeting and talking to new people.  That’s not who I’ve ever been but I’m okay with it.  Left to my own devices with headphones imprisoned a lifetime away in the overhead I simply observed, as always I do.  I observed boredom and disinterest by all involved save (1).  By all I mean the (10) or so homo-sapiens in my immediate field of vision, but I imagine this observation held true throughout the cabin.  Flight is by its very nature a boring almost workmanlike activity.  Perhaps the airlines should invest in flight attendants who are not only polite and welcoming but also skilled as jugglers or magicians.  A hottie whirling (4) bowling pins and a caramel apple up and down the aisle would certainly be more entertaining than scrutinizing the passing cumulus formations.  And who wouldn’t prefer a magic act over a bag of pretzels?  Just my opinion.

Regardless, after unfairly categorizing and summarily dismissing the validity of all that I saw I fixated on a middle-aged, middle-class, Chinese lady (2) rows up on the right.  Not so much her as much as what she was reading.  I didn’t know the book at the time but I could see that it was written in traditional Chinese.  I watched her flip these pages from back to front reading and thought to myself how strange it must be to read a book from the end to the beginning.  That’s obviously not the case but certainly illuminates my American bias.  I also thought, now here is a language I could get behind.  I “read” magazines and newspapers from back to front after all.  Not sure why, just always have – give me the punch line and then the story?  Maybe.  I don’t understand Chinese script but I think it is a pure and beautiful thing.  It’s all apparently based on the square.  All characters fit into and / or are subservient to said square.  The order and discipline one must possess to read, much less write this language has to be immense and probably more than I care to undertake as a hobby.  The format is fascinating and the structure of the characters at least, seems to be a very architectural ideal.  I dig that – I find it very Lou Kahn personally.  Plus, there’s no punctuation.  I dig that also.  Punctual inflection is the responsibility of the reader and is contingent upon his / her interpretation of the ebb and flow of the narrative.  How cool is that?  It’s possibly the coolest thing that my western mind has no viable capacity to grasp.  She seemed genuinely content and thoroughly entertained though and that’s a helluva lot more than I can say for the rest of the gang (self included).

Speaking of reading backwards, I also passed some time (that I will never get back) with Sky magazine – possibly the single most worthless publication in the modern world.  The centerpiece of this particular issue was Memphis, Tennessee so I thought it might be interesting.  It wasn’t.  I spent more than a few formative nights and adventurous sun-baked afternoons in that town and it’s always held a certain stature in my nostalgia.  The picture painted on these pages was A-Grade bullshit top to bottom.  Sure, there was the obligatory mention of Stax and Beale Street and the Lorraine Motel but most of it was about Elvis.  I get that people call him the “King” or whatever but I’ve always thought that he was just another dumb redneck who happened to be able to sing.  Have you seen Graceland?  Has anything ever said “country-come-to-town” more than that dump?  (4) white columns does not a mansion make and carpet on the walls does not make one an innovator.   His music was okay but he stole his whole act so who cares?  He made famous what white people had not witnessed prior to.  Again, who cares?  I can draw a line between the origins of music and any / every important band and that line would not go through “the big E”.  It would often go through Memphis though and that’s what this spread obnoxiously ignored.  If Memphis is anything, it’s a music town and Elvis can’t even shine the shoes of the greats who walked along the very ground he’s buried beneath – long before he assumed the throne. 

I guess it’s not surprising that he dominated the piece but it was disappointing all the same.  I haven’t spent very much time in Memphis in a lot of years but surely there’s more to it than fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches.  There certainly used to be.  The ironic is that last week I read where a recent study ranked Memphis among the top (10) most depressing cities in the United States.  But reading this article it is actually more like freaking Shangri-La – advertising and marketing run amuck as per the norm.  Maybe I shouldn’t have read it from back to front?
 

Deplaning I saw that in Chinese lady’s haste to gather her seemingly (30) bags, purses, scarves and other sundries she neglected to grab her book and left it in her seat.  Not desiring to dislodge the karmic joy that is my life I scooped it up so as to return it to her in the terminal.  I was curious what the book was about and turned it over to the cover, but immediately recognized that the front was the back.  I flipped through the pages looking for a clue to the title, again forgetting that it was in a different language.  I had imagined it to be something profound from the Qing Dynasty or Confucius or maybe even Sun Tzu’s Art of War.  The book itself was so absolutely foreign to me that I didn’t even know how to hold it really!  I finally located the cover and much to my dismay realized that what this sweet lady had been so engrossed in, what she obviously gained so much joy from was not in fact profound at all – barely meaningful even.  There emblazoned across the “cover” in flaming yellow-orange Times New Roman was the title – The Firm by John Grisham.  Seriously?  What an enormous rip-off!  (The irony of the fact that I was pre-irritated by the Memphis article was not lost on me by the way.)  When I finally caught up to her she was extremely grateful that I’d returned her prized possession. “sweet young man” blah, blah, blah.  I was stunned.

As I walked away, karma intact, I realized that Elvis’ Blue Christmas was bleeding from the airport speakers. 

There is an odd symmetry to the randomness of life, eh?    

I find it improbably comforting.

Two Hot Blondes and a Dead Soldier

I spent the last few days on a job site in suburban DC – nothing to report.  I did however meet some interesting humans along the way.

The second was a beautiful woman.  Long curly blonde hair, leather boots – the whole nine: she cursed like a drunken sailor and smoked and smoked and smoked and didn't shut up the whole time.  She’d just finished her abbreviated 3^rd and final tour of Afghanistan and was on her way back to NYC.  Though she was annoying it was refreshing to talk to someone my age (give or take) in the dark abyss that is the airport smoking lounge.  (I say talk, but really just listened.)  She showed and was quite proud of a wicked diamond shaped scar on her inner, upper thigh – the consequence of a well placed IED and her ticket out of the ‘Stan.  She didn’t fit the stereotype of a soldier in any way; certainly not what you picture when you think of a wounded veteran, but that’s exactly what she was.  She’s getting a medal of some sort that I do not recall the name of.  High school drop-out, (2) kids, single mother.  The marine corp made her a software engineer and she has a job lined up when she gets home.  I sat there in awe of this lady (an admittedly loosely used term) and felt shock and shame in the same measure.  Shocked that bravery and honor could exist in such a striking package – shame that I complain about anything ever.  I didn’t catch her name, but she impressed me.  I hope she does well.

I sat next to the third person on the flight home tonight.  Who’s in the next seat on a plane is the ultimate crap shoot.  You really never know what you’re going to get and it’s usually disappointing.  Tonight her name was Laura and she was a joy to spend time with.  She’s in her final year at UGA studying interior design; very bright kid.  She possessed that wide-eyed energy that young people have: that constant enthusiasm and positive outlook.   I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the design world is an absolute clusterf@%#.  I did the opposite actually – I offered her a job.  I’m under no delusion that she will in fact call when she graduates but I hope she does.  My firm could certainly use a shot in the arm and she seems like she would be perfect in that capacity.  I never cease to be amazed by people like her.  I was like that once; eager, inquisitive, strong willed, out-spoken.  I’m just jaded and more than a little pissed off lately.  Few people ask about what I do and ever fewer care.  She did and she wanted every detail. That’s awesome.  I could use her on my team.  She was waiting at baggage claim with her boyfriend when I walked out of the airport.  I had mentioned the blog and she stopped me to make sure that I remembered to plug Eighty Dollar Champion.  It’s a book about a plow horse who someone bought for (80) bucks and turned into a show horse.  That sounds like an great story.  I’m happy that I met Laura and that she told me about that book. 

When I landed in DC night (1) I "met" one of the most courageous individuals ever.  I was ready to get to the hotel so we could go out but the engineers I was with saw something that made us all stop and forget what we were doing.   Somebody was finishing their last tour in the worst way possible – flag draped in a coffin.  He was a few gates up from where we landed but we saw it as we taxied.  I was astounded by and incredibly proud of the manner in which the body was handled.  There was a hearse to receive the remains.  There was an honor guard in full dress uniforms.  The workers on the tarmac stopped what they were doing in freezing temps, took off there hats and waited until this ceremony was over.  It was voyeuristic in some respects as we were leering from the terminal windows but we couldn’t help it.  Once we saw what was taking place we were not only compelled but obligated to stand there in reverence and witness his passage.  I’m vocally against the war in Afghanistan and was against Iraq as well.  That said I have friends, dear compadres who are in harm’s way in country as I type this.  I’ve never lost (nor will I) respect for the sacrifice these gents have made and continue to make.  I don’t let myself think about the possible reality of what might happen.  I can’t imagine what it must be like for their families. 

What I saw Monday night galvanized my feelings on this and every other war for that matter.  In short, it’s not worth it.  In addition to the hearse and a silent police escort there was a limousine.  And though I don’t know for sure, I assume his or her family was in that limousine.   When the pall bearers walked away from the hearse, they stopped and saluted that car.  Just after, one of them took off his hat and passed it through the window to somebody inside.  I didn’t show it outwardly, but I lost it inside when I saw that.  It’s a damn crying shame the price that is paid – daily.

I was proud of the fact that we show our fallen heroes that level of respect even on a Monday night when nobody is looking. It breaks my heart that this is our societal new reality though.

I know a million people on this earth.  These (3) affected me.  Most do not. 

That is that.

If Not This, Then What?

I watched a documentary about Todd Marinovich tonight.  It was one of those 30 for 30 ESPN films – if you’re not familiar with that series you owe it to yourself to check them out.  Most are not sports stories even though they are about sports.  They’re about people.  They often expose the ugly truth that dedicated sports fans don’t want to hear: athletes are just human beings and they are as flawed and bizarre as anybody else in this world. 

The Marinovich story was one I had heard but had forgotten about.  The quick and dirty, and all that I really knew was this; gifted athlete with an obsessive father, who flamed out in the NFL presumably due to his drug use.  There was much more to that story.  I remember watching this kid play – once in person at a USC game when I lived in CA before he was arrested the first time – he was an incredible, gifted athlete.   What I didn’t know is that after he faltered as a pro quarterback he took a position on an Arena Football League team.  Not because he wanted to get back in the game but because he needed money to feed his heroin addiction.  A fascinating footnote; because of the way that his father had “trained” him since literally the crib and his ability to fight through pain – he once threw (10) TDs in an AFL game…he was dope-sick at the time.

Sounds like a sad story, no?  It is but it’s not.  At its end, even at its core it’s a story of redemption really and that’s a story we all want to hear, I think.  I do at least.  I grow tired of nightly news calamities.  They only give me the tragic end of the sentence, the bloody exclamation point.  I want the unorganized paragraphs and broken punctuation preceding.  I’m a narrative guy.  I hate that we have become a sound bite society.  I’m more History Channel than Headline News.  Our collective attention span is shorter now than it has ever been and it grows more so every day.  One of my greatest fears is that we have lost the ability to go past the headline.  I perceive Americans as reacting to the “nugget” – not the news.  If that’s true, this country is in worse shape than even I perceive it to be.  For the record, Fox News is the most destructive organization as it relates to the integrity of the American intellectual and inquisitive spirit. But as per the norm, I digress.

I haven’t told, nor have I tried to tell Todd’s story (watch the film).  The only reason I’m writing now is something that he said that blew my mind, “If you’re good at something, does that mean you were meant to do it?”

Let that sink in. 

I’m good at what I do.  Shit, I’m a genius even (arrogant sarcasm) but is this what I was “meant” to do?  I think it is, but who’s to say?  There are certainly other interests I’d like to pursue but few if any of them would pay the mortgage. There are few things that I find more fulfilling than writing these words now and then – that doesn’t make me a writer. Twenty years ago, I imagined myself to be on a reunion tour as a founding member of a has-been heavy metal band right now.  Clearly, that’s not the case – and that doesn’t make me a rock star.  More often than not I throw my feelings down in paint on a canvas - that doesn't necessarily mean that I'm an artist.  Am I "meant" to do any of these? 

What would I do if I were not an architect?  I’ve never asked myself that question before.  Partly because, getting here was the hard part, and that was my whole focus – I never thought about what I would do once I got here.  Truth is I’m still not “here”.  After watching this doc tonight, I could not help but ask myself a hard question: “If not this, then what?”  And if not this, why have I sacrificed so much to get to “this”?

I hiked up Stone Mountain this morning and sat down on top of that big old rock.  As far as my eyes could see, I saw nothing but pristine blue sky.  I wondered aloud what that actually means – just how far can the eye see?  When I got back to the house I asked the “cloud”.  I got a lot of interesting answers - 250 million light years, 24 miles, 16 miles because of the curvature of the earth (it depends on where you are apparently).  One fellow from Albuquerque responded with (18) inches.  WTF?

His explanation was that the farthest a man can see is from his head to his heart. It’s not only the farthest distance but the most difficult to traverse.  Wow.  I like to think that my thoughts are profound but the profundity of that assessment made me question my own questions.

Maybe that’s the point though.  If I didn’t question who and what I am on the daily, I wouldn’t be who I am and what I am, on the daily.

It’s okay to ask yourself “If not this, then what?”  But you have to be willing to honestly accept the answer that you give yourself.  And if “this” isn’t “what” you'd thought it would be, you’d better have the balls to change it.  If you can’t act upon your own reality, then you have no business in this conversation – you’re the 250 million light years away guy.

I can see the (18) inches, but I haven’t found a way to get the whole team there just yet.

Lennon & Shinedown?

(31) years ago tonight John Lennon was shot down in the street in front of the Dakota in NYC.  Howard Cosell told me so during Monday Night Football. I was eight. I knew who the Beatles were but I had no real idea who he was.  I had not yet grown into a place where Lennon’s words would matter to me – I was a child.  I remember being especially sad though.  As I’ve grown older I’ve become more and more sad knowing that he’s not around.  I would have loved to hear the music he would have made. 

I’m not someone who holds musicians up as gods (except for Joe Strummer of course) but Lennon was different.  He said exactly what the world wished were true.  He was long dead before I was a grown man, but he colored how I grew into manhood and who I was when I got there.

Part of the ironic part is that I had no intention of listening to John Lennon’s songs in tribute today.  I pay my respect in the way that I do, but that doesn’t mean I Wanna Hold Your Hand.  It doesn’t even mean Imagine. 

As it turns out, my company’s “Holiday Party” was tonight as well.  Call me what you will, but I had never been to a firm function without a beautiful girl on my arm.  I didn't know what to do, how to act, who to talk to even.  It's like I was retarded, and I know that I'm better than that.  I admit it sucked.  I eventually found a place to be and it was okay after a bit.  The first one we went to was the first of many bars we would shut down.  I’ll never forget our legendary coming out party, but it seems like a million years from that night to this.  So be it.

The after-hours supposed short ride home quickly turned to shit in Buckhead so I pulled a random CD from under the seat to pass the time.  Shinedown.  It wasn’t by design that I picked polar opposite of John Lennon but it worked.

You gave me that CD as a Christmas gift some time ago.  You never really understood how I could hit those harmonies, and I didn’t either.  You thought it was about my first wife, but it was about you.  I think we both saw the writing on the wall or whatever even then.  Regardless, I listened to this song on repeat for 120 minutes of pristine ATL traffic and dissected everything there is or ever was about us. Yeah, it’s been a while. It still sucks. 

So John Lennon’s dead (31) years.  That's sad.  I have neither time nor inclination to mourn a dead rock star tonight.  That's sad, too.

Inside a Burning Ember

The sky was a perfect crystal clear blue Saturday so I knew what the evening would be.  Autumn in Atlanta is the optimum time of the year to see the night – there’s no smog, no clouds plus the first-quarter half-moon was immaculate.  It wasn’t as cold as it’s been so I made a cocktail and a not-so-roaring fire in the pit on the patio and killed some time until the basketball game was on.  It seemed like a great opportunity to get the dogs out for some night play.  Maynard prefers his quiet time grunting and snorting, rooting around in the corner by the sweet gum by himself (my kindred spirit).  Belle’s a bit more social. Trying to have a quiet moment with her in the back yard can be a challenge but the ball distracted her just enough to allow my mind the time it needed to wander. 

Lying on my back staring into the sky trying to position the dippers and Orion and the rest, I realized it was the first time that I had looked up in months – years maybe.  The first time I allowed my mind to be still in a while.  It was nice.  There is a peace I feel sometimes that I doubt most would understand.  It’s when I’m at my home, with my dogs and my thoughts. Period – end of sentence.  When I hear the freeway humming in my backdrop I can easily convince myself that I’m in a hammock on a beach.  My grandma had a conch shell that held open the kitchen door in her little house on Vine Street and when I held it up to my ear I heard the “ocean”.  It’s the same sound I heard Saturday night – the same sound I hear every time I hold this city up to my ear:  it gives me the same comfort.

I wake up everyday and I think about (obsess about really) what has to get finished today. What is the most important ball that can’t hit the floor? Constantly searching for a way to make my career, my life, my world better?  How can I treat a client different today than I did yesterday that will change his mind and convince him to pull the trigger?  How can I be a more consistent leader, a stronger example to the people I work with?  What do I have to do today that will make me a better architect, a better man, friend, person?  How can I get a leg up?  How can I get out from under? How can I get the drop on this cluster-f#@& of a world I live in?  Sometimes I need a timeout: probably more often than I allow myself.  The battle will always be there for me to fight tomorrow, and I imagine the world will be around for me to conquer as well.  I’ve got some TOs left and it’s not even halftime yet (hopefully).

I think I’ve said this before but there is a strange phenomenon that occurs when a man is sitting next to a fire.  I can’t count the times I’ve sat across from a self-selected, fire-side philosopher transfixed by their narration, the power of the thought seemingly amplified by the crackling and the smoke. Many times it has been me.  There’s something about the random flickering madness that is a camp fire that I find soothing.  It’s mesmerizing and forces me to look inside of myself.  Not so much forces as politely insists that I do.  Regardless of the manner of invitation, I cannot resist.  I forget about it when I’m not there, but when I am it always feels like being at an old friend’s house.  My old friend – who I’ve silently disclosed more to than probably any actual person I’ve ever known.

Having given up on the constellations, staring into the fire I was reminded of a line from my favorite book when I was in 4^th grade The Outsiders.  Even at that young age I guess I realized that I was on the other side of everything.  I understood Ponyboy even then.  I’ve read that book a hundred times since and as a grown man it still speaks to me.  Not surprising really – I’ve always identified more with the anti-hero; Cool Hand Luke, John Bender et al.  That’s a conversation for another day. The point is what Pony said when he and Johnny were alone in the park.  “I saw Johnny’s cigarette glowing in the dark and wondered vaguely what it was like inside a burning ember…” This of course is Hinton’s foreshadowing metaphor of what Johnny and Ponyboy would discover later with the unfortunate burning of the Windrixville church.  I’ve always viewed it as more than that, the ember I mean.

Everyone decides who they are at different times and I imagine most don’t realize when they do.  I think that at least a portion of my future personality was defined when I read these words in the same book, “It wasn’t fair for the Socs to have everything.  We were as good as they were; it wasn’t our fault…”  It is possibly the predestination I’ve felt based on my early exposure to this idea but I have fixated on this my whole life since: the us vs. them, the me against the world mentality and the dynamics thereof.  Saturday night, gazing into the flame, that long lost memory was summoned back to the stage. 

There is nothing especially extraordinary about my life or who I am, but every minute of every day is a new challenge.  It’s a new opportunity to succeed or to fail, to win or to lose.  It’s the same for anyone.  Every decision we make, no matter how small has consequences.  There are a million balls that must be juggled at all times.  A million personalities that we encounter that each require a different level of interaction and attention; a million paths that we could travel, a million choices to be made.  That’s a heavy load but you can’t be scared to make a mistake, to fail, to lose or to get burned.  You can never expect to win if you are intimidated by the game.

If there is a discernible point to be identified in this ramble it is this: Life is a troubling, messy, disorganized, random cluster of ideas and realities that many don’t have the courage to deal with.  That’s the burning ember. Having the awareness and capacity to know when to shelter it from the wind and when to fan it into a blaze or when to douse it into a cool glow is what makes you the person that you are.  That’s living inside of the burning ember.  

The ability to exist inside of a burning ember without getting burned is what separates the wheat from the chaff.

I'm still working on that one.