To Autumn

 

Leaves begin to turn

A chill inhabits the air

Love lingers

And all just are waiting

For time to show her hand

Little do they know

Death may have other plans

Amidst the fray

Autumn casts its beauty

While hope eternally fades

Andrew

      Last year, I did not have a full teaching roster, so I was assigned a miscellany of other duties.  One of the more challenging and at times, daunting duties was  picking up Andrew in the mornings and then later driving him to his vocational internship.  The mornings were mostly fine and we’d often stop in Dunkin Donuts to pick up some breakfast; of course, we were always on time and brought donuts for everyone!  The drive to the internship always turned out to be more of an adventure.  We had to take the expressway and then hop onto 476… Andrew would often encourage me to pass whomever was in front of us.  During this time, I did have a pretty nasty Challenger with a 5.7 Hemi with a 6 speed manual transmission.  Andrew was enamored with this beast of a car and often inundated me with questions about it:

-How fast does it go, John?

-Do you race, John?

-How much can you get for this, John?

-And then, of course, there was the old “Why can’t I drive, John?”

     During these trips I got to know Andrew pretty well; sometimes he would tell me about his challenges at the residence he was staying at; or he would recap the big fight he had with his mom’s boyfriend and describe how he knocked him out and threw him down the steps.  Once or twice, he shared his feelings with me about his absentee father.  He expressed his dislike for him and would ask, “John, what kind of dad doesn’t want to see their own kid”.  I felt badly for Andrew and assured him that whatever the reason might be, that it was not his fault and he deserved better.  And I still believe this today. 

Conflict = Life

 

     As a creative writing teacher at The High School for Creative and Performing Arts, I had the challenge of teaching a Fiction course.  When I first started, there were no books, no curriculum, no prior syllabus... nothing.  My principal just handed me a binder with the word "fiction" on it and that was pretty much my  foundation for constructing the course.  I didn't mind; I was young and energetic and was very interested in writing. 

     During my teaching tenure there, I gravitated toward the short story genre.  This genre served the my purposes well - first of all it was short, so it enabled me to really focus on the respective structure and language so as to illustrate to my students what to model and what to avoid.  In my opinion, the class evolved over the years and offered a substantive study of the short story.  At some point during my preparation for this class I had an epiphany:  the short story was a lot like our lives.  First, let me share a kind of "literary equation" that I penned during this time:  Character + Conflict = Plot.  It's important to note here (and I expressed this to my classes a countless number of times) that without conflict, there would be no plot, no story.  Often I'd pose this question:  Can there be a short story without a conflict?  Of course, there were always attempts made by some of my writing students to argue that this brand of "conflict-less" story was possible, but ultimately I'd prevail and maintain conflict was an inherent part of the short story equation and that without it... again... there would be no story.  

     With respect to my literary equation, of course, we are the characters... the "plot" is the course of events that our lives happen to take.   But what about the "conflict"?  Naturally, our lives are beleaguered with conflicts throughout and arguably, the impetus which drives the progression of our lives.  Think about it:  how we act and react to these conflicts presented to us leads us to make certain decisions which ultimately determine our destiny.  Now, what happens if somehow "conflict" is removed from our lives (of course, impossible... but just suppose) what would drive our actions?  What would motivate us?  What would we have to react to?  Not a whole lot... perhaps our existence would be pretty boring...  uneventful - just like a short story with no conflict.  

Presence of The Past

 

      There is a paradoxical dichotomy in the way that the past exists in our present.  We have had friendships and previous relationships in our past.  These memories often play themselves out, time after time in the labyrinths of our minds... and never seem to change.  In fact, these recollections can't change: they are a part of a time that has already been shaped; so no matter how we may regard them, no matter how many times we re-create a conversation or re-think a decision, no matter how desperately we'd desperately give anything to visit that precious loved one just one more time,  the end result will be the same.... over and over again...  The sobering reality reigns supreme:  We cannot change the past.   Although the memories of our friendships still exist in our minds exactly as as they were years ago, the present, here and now experience with these respective individuals is of a different essence.  Therein lies the paradox - we know our friends, we remember them... we believe they are exactly the same as we recall from our past, but the reality is they are just not the same... nor are we for that matter... nor are our relationships with them.  So there is the challenge: dealing with the presence of the past. 

1. 

My Way

"The record shows, I took the blows... and did it:  My Way".  When contemplative and look back, I might not make the same choices; be more collaborative...  maybe foster a more broad perspective.  

Perhaps would not have taken on the establishment with no backing, scattered support.  As the years pass, I realize that time does not really heal all wounds... but it can distract you from them and if fortunate, time will illuminate a bit of clarity.  It is up to the individual to process that clarity, forge ahead, and hope to achieve the victories that may await in the horizon.

Swooning Souls

 

I've always been moved by the end of James Joyce's "The Dead":  

 It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

These snowflakes swirling and indiscriminately falling from the sky to land "upon all the living and the dead" often inhabit my mind.  I envision these flakes to be the souls of beloved friends and family members that are no longer with me.  Perhaps their very essence is intricately designed in each snowflake - swooning souls... whirling freely and as they mesh and blend in communion.

An English Teacher Laments...

Behind Bars

     I've been behind bars my whole life.  Growing up in Southwest Philly with an Irish Catholic dad who drank his fair share of  Ortleib's and then some provided a unique foundation and education regarding how one should conduct himself when frequenting local drinking establishments.  I was pouring beers from my father's beer meister at the age of 5.  After many of my little league baseball games, my father would take me with him to Hastings Cafe or The Catholic War Veterans Club on Elmwood Avenue.   There were many jokes, jeers and fights amongst the patrons, and many phone calls from my mother to the bars looking for my father… Even today, I can still envision my  father waving his hands at the bartender to signal that we were not there.  This was an Irish Catholic kind of thing - we were raised to be honest and to tell the truth, but when you were with your father and he didn't want your mother to know where you were or what you were doing, somehow, you learned to navigate the way between honesty and the realities of the tap room. 

  After graduating fifth in my class from West Catholic Boys and a short stint at St. Joseph's University for around 2 months (I just wasn't ready for college; was drinking too much which led to one too many fights with these fraternity guys who just did not appreciate a commuter who made the trek every day in his 75' Malibu from Southwest Philadelphia) I began to seek refuge  in the plethora of neighborhood bars:  Eddies, Devine's, Roses' Tavern, Hastings Cafe, McDonough's, Terry's, Rudy's, Tiffany's, and even the Hug a Mug… Abandoning my college career so abruptly at that time may sound tragic, and of course, I hope to God my son never has this lapse in judgement... but it was in these drinking holes that I was able to find my identity... my voice... amidst a cast of characters that I'll forever cherish.  

Steadfast

There’s a historic cemetery that I like to visit in the early morning.  It’s quite humbling and enlightening to witness the sun peer through the tall pines and illuminate the worn marble headstones of the departed.  No matter what may be troubling me, as I make my way around the solemn paths of graves, I gain somber perspective and inevitably I think of my father.  

My father was a simple man, not formally educated.  All he ever wanted was to have a good time and take care of his family.  He never really ventured far from home, and I remember how I resented this.  More than a decade after his death, I’ve come to realize the beauty in the simplicity of his life – he loved being home.  Jack Dunphy was forever steadfast.  

At some point during my walk, I’ll focus on a particular headstone.  I read the name and observe the carved dates in the stone.  I begin to wonder what their life was like; whether they were happy or not and what it must feel like to be dead for a couple of hundred years.  It’s eerily sobering to ponder my existence in these terms:  that we’ll all be dead at some point… and time will continue on, generation after generation, but to what avail?  Is there a divine plan?  Or just random passage of time and events that shapes and misshapes our lives.  

 

Certainty

     How do you move forward when you’re tied to the past?  At what point is it “unhealthy” to keep commiserating about what could have been, should have been…  I’m convinced that the more one ruminates, the more they are ineffective and disconnected from what might lie ahead.  Naturally, there is a future of some sort, but the landscape uncertain.  Certainty doesn’t avail itself until it does…

But what if the questions, tension, and turmoil that torment us are somehow, some way of fate urging us to not give up, to keep holding on….. 

The reality is things have changed, people have moved on with their lives and we're  just another compartment of their past.

We have to change, adapt… survive… and wait for Certainty to avail itself.

Beauty

     Beauty surrounds us:  it’s pervasive.  Even in the everyday, seemingly picayune moments of the day, beauty is present.  It infuses our souls… enables us to breathe.  In these challenging times, it is of vital importance to remember the precious gift of beauty and to value each day with our family and friends.  Yes, beauty is omnipresent and perhaps one goal we should strive for is to recognize and appreciate all that is beauteous.  We owe that to each other, to ourselves.   Perhaps the next rainfall will offer a cascading dalliance as water from the heavens falls down on the earth.  Maybe the kindness of a stranger will strengthen our hope for humanity… or the innocent smile of a child may offer warmth to a soul surrounded by cold.  Life can be so simple, so full of beauty... we just need to be able to witness it.