November 30/30 - 21/30 - Men's Day

Responsibility is the new black. The watchword that lets us know that even though we are men, we are still people. That even though I myself do no control the world, my brothers do. That even though I can lift the heavy things, I cannot push a relationship into starting. Finesse is something I need but possess only in spurts. We can leash the lightning and we can change the face of the planet but the inner journey of ourselves as males is what is important. The mannequins have come to life. The dress-wearers. The baby makers. They have sparkled into life and self-awareness in a way that causes us to see unicorns where before there were only ovens and dishwashers. And how does one talk to a unicorn?

This list of new directions is a treasure map with fresh ink. Those amongst us literate in pirate cannot read them. I know the past was hard and the future is going to be a trying place but it’s all for the better.




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November 30/30 - 22/30 - Western

The realization came to me on my own personal highway in the darkness like a wild mustang. The horse that drives my life is a living creature. It’s a symbiotic relationship. Am I driven by my horse or does it lead me? It has to be both. My hope is that my horse is allergic to cliffs, a fast runner, and has good night vision.

Two out of three ain’t bad.

With life lasting no longer than a sneeze, there are small moments of opportunity for rein-pulling direction changes.

I want my horse to buck more. I feel as if I’ve broken that horse properly over the years but that the most it does these days if flick an ear or swish a tail. I need adventure but that’s hard to do when so much experience has already bored your eyes to indifference. Nowadays, only loud noises causes reactions.

I want to lead this horse to water. I want to ride into rough towns and clean them up. I want the decades of my life to be westerns with happy endings.



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November 30/30 - 23/30 - Swim

It was that day, that birthday, where you became a metaphor.

That night we were drinking and decided to go swimming in the ocean naked. There were six of us but only three of us were into it. Me, you, and another girlfriend of yours. I was the only man. You’d only do it if we did it, you said, so some of us did. Naked in the darkness on a rocky shore, we clambered stupidly into the dark water in the summer like we were sliding into night. Our pale bodies disappearing inch by inch, freckle by footstep, nether by waist, elbow by shoulder, into warm ink.

I’m not much a swimmer. I hung out in places where I could still touch the bottom even though there were treacherous rocks. Your other friend swam out a little further and came back quickly. Both of us happy with the courage we’d shown so far and drunk enough to be laughing at the fact we were naked instead of being awkward or embarrassed. The people still on the beach seemed to be cowards.

But you. Troubled. At home only during chaos and quite drunk, hard to employ and carrying a home life that I hated, possessing domineering parents and a broken compass where your heart was, announced you were going to swim out to touch a buoy. As you left us behind and went farther than any of us dared, we looked at each other in fear. Neither of us was capable of catching you and the people on the beach wouldn’t even come into the water.

We knew you had a competent history of swimming. We knew you loved the ocean. As you headed out towards the buoy, you went in the wrong direction. We had to yell to you to direct you in the right direction. Your eyesight isn’t good and your glasses were on the beach. You have to imagine the growing sense of worry we were tending.

We tried to cajole you into coming back to shore but the night air stole our words. You stayed out there, impossibly far in the night, a fleck of white in unending black, for nearly twenty minutes while we occasionally lost sight of you for seconds at a time with our hearts in our mouths.

You came back unscathed, undrowned, and calmer than I’d seen you in months. Your emergence from the water was like a rebirth. The moon shining off the curves of you as the other girl who’d come with us brought you a towel. You didn’t shiver, you didn’t speak. You smiled peacefully. The two of us had been back on the beach and dressed for a while.

You’re a creature of extremes trapped in this boring predictable world. I see now that only those troubled enough go the farthest. That the extremists are the ones who change the world. That the idea of running away can lead a person out into the night-time ocean while friends cross their fingers on the shore.

In that moment, I saw you as more than human. You became metaphor. And I’m so glad I know you. I got your back. I’m proud of you.



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