Time is Milk, and Milk is Precious

I wonder if America sees me coming? No, not the last great hero who will liberate the children of shackled disillusion; not that at all. More like an exact replica of who they want me to be. I feel as if so many different words are piercing my head, all with the intent on clearing out space for a new ideology. The more I study your history, dear America, the more I learn that your babies have never been satisfied with your milk. Has there ever been a generation who hasn't sworn off your virtues? Who hasn't cried for the flag of freedom, all while operating in the very system they march against? It's a shame, America, that your children do not give you a chance to speak for yourself. 

How about a word from our country, people? 

Let's give her a moment. 

Moment is here. 

Moment is past. 

She can't speak for herself because of the white fists of democracy shoved down her throat. It's dark in here, children. It's dark because we refuse to shine any light worth lighting. We cling to the phrases that are passed down to us from other rebels who aren't sure why they rebelled, either. Think back, guerrillas; was it America who disgusted you, or the crowds who inspired you? I'm not sure what your answer will be, but I hope it will be one of reason. 

Reason is the waste product of our society. Reason and time. Both are precious and both are running out. Justice is a facade. Freedom is easily manipulated. Reason and time remain pure. You can't molest reason and you can't influence time. They are both the centerpiece and the measuring rod of our collective foot holds. And we need both of them. Without reason, the "cause" ceases to be. Without time, well, who has time to figure that out?

Can we all agree on one thing? What we consider to be so vile is the very reason we must reach harder than ever before. America isn't the problem and she never has been. America is what her brat babies make her. America's flavor is only as good as her chefs. If you want to curse her shortcomings, aim that gun at the rightful targets; her masters.

In short, blame whitey.

Living In The Whenever

I'm not ready to deal with finality...

I'm too immersed in the present. My past still hangs on like a symbiotic leech. The future seems to be a hazy memory that hasn't happened yet. The present, however, is fresh and bright. Red and green, like untouched Christmas wrapping.

There is a newness to the present that is absolutely undeniable, but completely misleading.

The present, you see, is either constantly passing or eternally ahead.

It doesn't exist.

The idea of the present is what we proclaim, but there is no truth to it.

The second the present happens, it slips away.

The past is made up of ghosts; the future, of animated prophets.

The present dies as soon as it is born.

This is nothing to mourn, for it simply is what it is. It's liberating, actually. When idealists who can't remember what they idealized tell you to live for the present, you can have full knowledge that the very act of living for the “now” is impossible.

Where is this pessimism coming from? Wasn't this the fount that was made to proclaim positive truth?

Yes, indeed it is. There is no pessimism in admitting that the present doesn't exist, anymore than it isn't negative to deny the statements of “living in the now.”

Here's what I have chosen to live for: I live to leave a pristine ghost. I live to grasp an untouched future.

Living in the present is impossible. Living in comfortable shoes is attainable.

Leaving Your Wife While Still Being Married

I'm so glad I've gotten over my obsession with correcting the world/saving the world. I'm glad people like Bono and Oprah really want to handle that, but I'm done with. I can't do it and it wont happen. I think any man that has a wife and a child/children, but spends more time at his church or working on plans to bring world peace and end poverty is a piece of garbage. I meant it. You can make it sound as noble as you want; "I'm doing this for my church! For God's kingdom!" If your wife and children feel second to anything, you're wrong. It's that simple.

I love my church. I love my job and my future career as a special education teacher. But let me tell you, the second any of those things require more of me than expected, and if that expectations come at the expense of my wife and son's feelings about their daddy; if they begin to lose trust in my dedication to them, I'm stepping back. If it means I have to miss a pay increase, or looked at as non-committed, so be it. It's that simple to me.

There is a huge phenomenon, especially, in the Bible belt, called the "Church Widow." The church widow is a wife who marries a Christian man, and that man decides that it's completely acceptable to spend more time doing "ministry" than spending time with his bride. He's up at the church early and late. She's always waiting for him. He volunteers to do things that someone else could do easily. It's such a common story, it's almost pathetic.

Random, random thoughts....
I just hate seeing families broken up, and I think it's even more despicable when it's in the name of good intentions. Just because you're married doesn't mean you're there.

Winter's Darling

Break forth in song, all you rabid life breathers!

I'll break forth in solitude. 

Life lived alone seems almost a farce. 

If a heart breaks and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound? 

Thank the Creator for skin to touch, lips to taste, and breath to feel.
Nothing seems real without your feet on my floor. 

You, who are so present in my past, now, and future. 

Your eyes burn a woman-shaped hole in my chest.

A woman as flesh and bone as can be. 

A sensual offering from a God who owns love.
Shove my face close to the wall! 

I can't see at all, and through that I will find focus. 

Your hands seem to know this dance all to well, but I can't tell if you are trying to dock or sail. 

Most of us are either reaching for the wheel, or sleeping in parked cars.

I hope that the randomness of my love for your warm stare does not deter your ability to shatter my confidence and bolster my esteem. 

You, you, you. 

I'll do this for you. 

"This" being a never ending list of chores, adventures, pains, and deaths that would fit nicely in a request, 

Rolling off your life filled lips and seeping ever deeper into my ear.

Ask me a question, winter's darling.

The answer is written on my sleeve.

Horror As Art

I can't help it....
I love horror films.

It started at a young age, and it started with the Wolfman. I was absolutely riveted by the idea of a man changing into a wolf. I started checking out books from our school library about Lon Chaney Jr., Bela Lugosi, and Boris Karloff. In a way, my love for horror movies started my love for film, because this was the first time I was interested in the actors, the people that made the film, as well as the movie.

I saw them all, or as much as my Mom would let me watch. She is really responsible for my love of horror, whether she wants to admit it or not (I bet she's proud of that, however). She would tell us stories about killer mountain lions, severed fingers, and scary events from her childhood. I was transfixed on fear. I don't know why. Why are any of us attracted to being scared?

I am afraid of sharks. The idea of being in the water whenever a shark is nearby literally gives me goosebumps as I type this. It's an almost claustrophobic fear; a fear of no retreat. Despite this fear, I love documentaries and movies about sharks. Jaws is my favorite film of all time. I live for Shark Week. In essence, I am very much the same little boy wanting to hear more and more about the things that terrify me.

So listening to my Mom's scary stories lead me to the Wolfman. The Wolfman lead me to Dracula, The Mummy, and Frankenstein.

My fascination with the "unknown" eventually caused me to become an amateur junior cyrptozoologist by the time I was in 6th grade. I could tell you anything you'd want to know about Bigfoot, Nessie, UFO sightings, and ghosts...

Ghosts...

I loved books about haunted houses. I checked out Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark from the Londonderry Elementary library so many times, I could recite many of the stories, word for word. The artwork in that book was, and still is, extremely creepy.

As I aged, I wanted to find things that scared me more. I still loved (and still love) the Universal monster movies, but I felt like I was ready for something a little more intense. By this time, I was in 7th grade, and my 3 brothers and I lived in Wellston, OK, after moving from New Hampshire. We discovered the wonders of Wellston Video, and their massive collection of low-budget to blockbuster horror movies. You could rent 5 movies for 5 days for 5 dollars. We watched every horror movie in Wellston Video, most of them twice. Our Dad would drive us in, and we'd pick out 5 rather quickly. We'd usually have 3 of them watched the first night, then the final two, the next. I have no idea how much money my Dad ultimately spent at Wellston Video, but we went 2 or 3 times a week during the Summer, always renting 5 at a time.

There has never been another time in my life like those nights in Wellston with my brothers. My life is so much better now, being married and having a son, but the innocence and freedom during that period of my life will never be duplicated. It was such a joy, and I think that's why it irritates me when people tell me how awful and "Satanic" horror films are. They were simply fun. A release for 3 boys who weren't exactly sure who they were or where they belonged.

During these horror film marathons, the films would mostly be laughable. Low to zero budget films with horrible overacting, 40 year old high school seniors, and ridiculous kill scenes. These were the best. We would laugh until our stomachs hurt. Many nights, our friend Mike would join us. We would always choose at the beginning of the film which character represented ourselves. Mike would always choose the most ridiculous character in the film and, 9 times out of 10, Mike would be the first to die. He would then feign sorrow and horror at the murdering of his avatar, while we rolled with laughter. It was absolutely beautiful.

Other times, you'd find a legitimately scary film; one that would stick with you while you were trying to sleep. Though we enjoyed watching the goofy ones together the best, I started mentally cataloging the really good ones, knowing one day I'd watch them again. I started to look for redeeming qualities in the bad ones, as well. In a way, finding really well made horror movies amongst a plethora of horribly hilarious films taught me how to watch movies: how did so-and-so achieve that feeling using lights; does music add or take away from this scene; what is it that really scares me, and how can a filmmaker pull that off?

I discovered Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Shining, The Exorcist, Jacob's Ladder, Night of the Living Dead, The Serpent and the Rainbow, Halloween, and a few others that I genuinely love. These were movies that rose above the idea of just a good horror film; these were just good films, period.

I have gone back and forth over my love for horror. Sometimes, I would feel bad about liking such a despised genre. I would feel like there was something wrong with me. Why am I attracted to dark things? I'd soon realize that any conviction I felt didn't come from God, it came from religion. As I've aged and matured, there are certain things I do not like to watch. I'm not interested in anything that is gratuitously sexual. I do not like sacrilegious things, unless there is something redeeming in the end. But for the most part, I just enjoy being scared. Until Jesus tells me other wise, I probably always will.

Saint Anger Around My Neck

If I could destroy one aspect of my personality, it would be this...

I would righteously murder my anger.

Anger has controlled me my entire life. Those who know me socially might be surprised by this. I remember sitting at a church function a few years ago, and one of the young ladies in attendance said she couldn't even imagine me getting mad. This made my wife almost snort with laughter.

And that hurt me.

Amber doesn't have to try very hard at all to imagine me getting angry. All she has to do is think about any random car ride we've taken where I encountered the least bit of traffic or a slow driver.

All she has to do is think about anytime something didn't go the way I expected it too.

All she has to do is think about the hundreds of times a week I've become frustrated over pointless garbage.

The person I love above all has no problem imagining me angry.

I don't want to be this way, and I certainly don't try to get mad. I hate the way it makes me feel. I hate how my neck hurts and my head pounds. My entire body gets angry. I can almost feel it swallowing me, the way a claustrophobic describes having an episode. 

My anger has been such an issue in my life, it has at times caused me to question the very existence of God. I'll explain: since I've been young, I've prayed, cried, and begged God to take away my anger. It comes out of nowhere, and I rarely feel it until it's peaked. All I want is for it to be away, but God has never seemed fit to do so. Any time I've talked to someone about this issue, I get the same regurgitated garbage about "God only helps those who help themselves," which isn't Biblical, by the way. People who are the quickest to give throw-away advice are usually the worst people to talk to, but they seem to always be around. I've come to terms with my faith in God, however. I read about Paul who asked God to deliver him from the "thorn in his side," but Scripture never indicates God did that. Maybe it's just something I'm stuck with.

That really bothers me, though, because it's not how I want to live. I want to be laid back. I want to be able to relax and enjoy things. I want to be happy without consciously waiting for something to ruin my mood. I guess I just want to feel normal.

I'm not posting this because I want anyone's advice on how to deal with it, although I'm sure someone will try. You can't help yourself, and I understand. I guess I just wanted to post how it makes me feel, because there may be someone else who feels as swallowed up as I do. I promise this: if I find a way to deal, to cope, and to exorcise, I'll be sure to talk about that, too. In the mean time, just know that you're not alone in your anger. Just know that I realize how frustrating it is when people say things like, "You just need to relax," or "Don't get so worked up about things," as if it was that simple. Trust me, if it was a matter of just "not doing something," I'd never do whatever that something might be again.

Here's to feeling better....

32 Is The New Camaro

What does it mean to feel old?

I'm 32. If you ask my Meemaw, I'm still a kid. If you ask some of my fellow classmates at UCO, I'm old. They'll tell me, too. It's funny to them. I'm an odd duck at college. I'm what they call a "non-traditional student," and that has nothing to do with the fact that I wear Hammer pants and a chef hat every day. It has to do with my age. Most non-traditional students are actually much older. Mainly women in their late 40's to early 50's who want to finish that degree they put off when the kids were born. So you have babies, early menopause, and me right in the middle...

The fact is, I don't feel any older at 32 than I did when I was 21. I still like the same music, I don't ever tuck in my shirt, and I don't listen to Glenn Beck.

I am very much a punk and metal kid who has a penchant for soul music and outlaw country.

I'm not old, am I?

Almost every time I see a teenager wearing those ridiculous looking skinny jeans or the girls who look like Cyndi Lauper, I just shake my head. I can't believe someone would willing look that silly based on a fleeting trend....

...I use to part my hair down the middle, shave underneath the longest part, wore Jnco's and No Fear shirts....

I don't think about that crap in those moments, though. It's my hypocrisy, and I wanna own it.

The fact is, I'm in my 30's. I don't care how young that sounds to old folks and how old that sounds to younger ones. It's just where I'm at. I'm in my 30's, and my career hasn't even begun. That's the part that depresses me a little. I'm going to be working with teachers my age who've been doing their job for almost 10 years, now. I'll be almost 50 when my oldest son graduates high school. I'll probably be looking at the end when he's in his 40's. There's a very good chance that my life could almost be half over...

Depressed yet?

I'm trying not to be. When you look at it like that, it can seem a bit sad. The truth is, however, we all have a short amount of time to get it all done before we die. It really doesn't matter if you start when you're 20 or 50. There is the bookend of life and death that surrounds us, and the events in between are solely up to us. It's hard when so many people have a time table which they hold every one else up to. I guess it's just a matter of realizing that my time table, my story, is different than anyone else, and I refuse to let someone write it for me.

Plus, I haven't peaked yet. That's what's exciting. The best years of my life are still ahead of me! I'll never be like the popular high school jock who, now in his 30's, realizes that the meaningless little world of high school football were the best years of his life.

Caleb is getting excited....

If You Don't Like Bob Dylan, You Can Kiss My Ass

On a chilly Kansas night on a road that is endless, 65 mile per hour wind whips through my veins as the stars start a riot. The flatlands are best experienced in the bed of a truck. Though the skin is cold, the organs are in-tune. Warm. Whiskey soaked. Tobacco cured. Harvest moon knows my name, but settles for my face, only speaking through beams that fall like dandruff onto my shoulders. And underneath God’s skirt, all is right with the world. This is what his voice sounds like to me.

Bob Dylan interrupted my ears and my soul. I wasn’t looking for him anymore than he for me. His revolution happened a little over a decade and a half before I was born, but his words and arrangements have a clamshell encased-like freshness to it that made sense to my ears; ears that had heard very little of the world outside of Motown and soulless pop country.  I wanted to believe in him before he strummed his guitar on that late night forgotten television tribute to someone or something. I pointed to the screen, speaking aloud to anyone who would listen, “This man is important. This man means something.” You hear names like “Dylan” spoken with the same reverence as “Lincoln” when growing up on the East Coast. Though I had sung his songs in an educational setting, I never heard the gravel under the tires (feet). And when the band kicked in through rabbit ears and mono sound, I invited the noise into my heart. I knew I had been changed. I realize not many people have these moments, but I sure as hell had mine. “Religious” would not encompass the experience properly, but “belief” sure would. I believed in myself like I never had before. I believed that the heart inside of me that wept the way 7^th grade hearts can only weep did not do so in vane. In short, if Bob Dylan was important, then so was Caleb Braudrick.

The picture painted above is with the purist of emotions. It is necessary to carry out the rest of this piece, as painful as it is for me. You see, Bob Dylan feels as holy to me as tears. His words and music are so important to me that I have found myself several times in my life completing writing people off if they had a negative word to say about the man. Any sane person with a breath in their body and blood in their heart couldn’t help but see the genius. The truth of the matter is, however, Dylan didn’t turn water into wine, and he just pisses some people off. A very common sentiment among the masses is this: great words, awful voice. I take immediate issue with this, because his voice is unique, but the argument over vocal talents in regards to Dylan is fruitless. The hard truth that this jaded writer is forced to face goes way beyond my affection for Robert Zimmerman. The realization that my allegiance to people is dependent on whether or not they see the truth and beauty in the same things that I do is sickening to me.

How often have I shunned someone based on his or her non-acceptance of what I find acceptable? Am I that much of an elitist? I detest elitism with a gagging sound that is not unlike the sound my dog makes after eating too many lawn clippings. Elitism makes me so sick that I stopped attending shows in certain parts of our fair state just to avoid the hippster-scenester kids with interesting hair and judgmental ears; the individuals (and I use that term loosely) who have certain rules for being a fan. I shall never forget the evening a certain rail-thin boy-creep in jeans made for a 3^rd grader named Lucy told me I had committed a fashion “faux pas” by wearing a t-shirt celebrating the very band I had paid good money to see that night. Apparently, there is also a rule chastising anyone for wearing a concert t-shirt the day after buying said shirt. Things like this made me sad to be a fan of independent music and I swore never to turn into such a beast.

Then I lost respect for someone because they “couldn’t stand” Bob Dylan.

It doesn’t end with Dylan, however. My hypocrisy branches out much farther. I’ve also developed a pension for holding people in lower esteem if they happen to enjoy things I find foolish and shallow. For instance, the second I find out someone watches reality television or listens to Nickleback, I have a tendency to question their intelligence. I find it impossible to believe that someone who rocks out to “Photograph” before watching “The Hills” doesn’t have some sort of restriction on their driver’s license.  Unfortunately, these types of shallow entertainment permeate the eyes and ears of people I genuinely care about. To consider them a lower life form is no better than my greasy faced friend who questioned my common sense for wearing a certain t-shirt. It’s all elitism and it all has to go.

In the end, I don’t know if I’ll ever get to a point where I completely embrace people who can’t stand Bob Dylan, but enter an orgasmic state of bliss at the sound of Chad Kroeger’s post-grunge drivel. I think the fact that I’m aware of my hypocrisy is a step in the right direction, however. Will I ever advance past this point of realization? I’m really not sure. Maybe one day in my geriatric years, I’ll be able to live and let live. Maybe it’s best in the mean time to wear my passions on my sleeve and save my disgusts for circles that share them.

I’m trying to find an eloquent and a profound way to end this that will bring solace to many and stability to the rest, but “Subterranean Homesick Blues” just came on the old iTunes. In other words…

Oh, Ha Ha

10,000 miles
And not a drop to drink
Traveling like a worried man
Who's lost beyond his feet

I never did notice
You're not singing here anymore
I wanted to notice
I'd of beaten you to the door

Oh, Ha Ha
You've got a funny way of showing that you're gone

I wonder who's watching
Who's waiting for the end
I wonder who's drowning
In spite of all this land

I never did notice
Too busy ringing this bell
I wanted to notice
If we were paving over hell

Oh, Ha Ha
You've got a funny way of showing that you're gone

Too many underpasses,
Not enough light
Too many backward glances,
No, I don't want to fight
Too many scripted lines
Not enough breath
Too many broken promises
Not enough breath

Oh, Ha Ha
You've got a funny way of showing that you're gone

(I wrote this song about the loss of friendship. I think it's so common, and in some cases, over done, to write about the loss of romantic love. As a man who cherishes his close friend's dearly, it's very devastating to me to lose one. There is also a selfish element to the song, where I admit that, were I to know this friend would go away, I'd have beaten him to it long ago.)

Potty Mouth

Grab My Arm!
It has fallen asleep...
Much like the brain of mankind...
Kind man seems extinct,
Dead...
Buried...
Hidden...
Do you remember when logic ruled the earth?
Killed by the meteor of awareness, 
Aware, lest you follow the fate of those before
Who's scarlet letter was common sense
Senseless rambling resembling the state of our union
State of Emergency!
I declare in a voice that sounds too close for comfort
To the...
Comfortable...
The Abominable...
The Affordable...
Silence of those who's noises sound vaguely familiar
Familiarity is the sound of a cash register's
KA-CHING!
IT'S ALL ABOUT THE BLING!
Whether diamond encrusted, 
Or paisley-imprinted, 
I've never fully trusted
The smile-tattooed elite
Who swear by my best interest...

You should never swear...
Potty Mouth.

Haiku For Tired Souls

Profound exhaustion

Spores of thought are blown away

Dandelion, gone.

(I use to love Haiku and senryū, writing several a day. I fell out of that habit. I hope to write over 10,000 before I die.)

Open Question to Bruce Cockburn

Bruce told me to "kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight."

The Canadian Bruce, by the way.

I wish he were with me now, so I could ask him how.

Every time I kick at the darkness, I lose a shoe.

Expression is needed...

To blog is a very selfish thing; a very arrogant thing. A blog is saying, "My thoughts, my feelings, my frailties and strengths need to be shared with as many people who will read it." It may or may not be a sign of insecurity, but it is definitely a sign of courage.

To put it simply, I like having an audience.

I want to make that abundantly clear, right here and now.

I like being read, listened to, argued and agreed with. I don't like being seen, however. This is why a blog is perfect for an insecure, arrogant soul like me.

And this is very selfish of me, because this completely edifies my own ego.

But it is extremely therapeutic, and I am finding that if I do not write, muse, rant, regret, and rejoice, I feel incomplete.

So Ghosts of Fallis is my new project. It may or may not turn into a musical project, as I've not made that decision. What it will be, however, is a place for me to express myself, and expression is needed. Greatly needed.

We all need to feel connected to one another by the simple fact that we all have things inside of us that need to be released. I say "need," because I have found so much peace and solace in reading/viewing other's expression of self and feeling completely validated as a human. If they breathe, I breathe. If they hurt, I hurt. If they are angry, I am angry. I am not alone in this tapestry of emotion.

I also want to help. It's as simple as that. I do not feel my writings or the things I think and feel are medicine, I just know that there have been times when someone's honesty has given me hope. I can only hope I can do that for others.

So this is it....Ghosts of Fallis. That name means little, if anything, but the title of this blog does have some meaning to it...

Casting Out Spirits In A Ghost Town...

It's a line from a poem I wrote a few years ago that I may or may not post. I don't know what that line means to you, but I'll tell you what it means to me...

The feeling that you are devoid of emotion, goodness, or worth is a strong indication that you are actually brimming over with all three, because self-awareness is a beautiful and rare thing.

I use to view my heart, my inner-life, as a ghost town. When I realized that it was in fact inhabited by so much goodness and evil it could scarcely contain them all, I began the liberating task of exorcising (casting out) as many bad qualities as possible to make room for the good things.

And there are good things in me, even though I have to remind myself of that daily.

And there is good in you.

There is beauty in you words can't describe.

There is a place in you that God sees as holy...a place God feels comfortable enough to reside...

Your (my) ghost town is teeming with life.