I found myself on an odd route home from work yesterday, because I wanted to stop by a specific grocery store. At one point I was at a stop and noticed a small side street called Old Bent Tree. I then realized I was near an area of North Dallas called Bent Tree; an older but affluent community, country club and all.

I spent a lot of time as a kid riding around with my Grandma in that area. I didn’t know up from sideways when it came to driving directions, but without the tyranny of operating heavy machinery, I was free to observe and explore the world that passed us by. I recognized places and signs, even if I didn’t know how we got there or how we’d get back.

I remember seeing ‘Bent Tree’ on sub-division entrances, churches, businesses–it sticks. It evokes a clear visual. And one day I found it. The real one.

I was sitting in the back seat of my Grandma’s Ford Taurus, and I saw a tree that had splintered all the way into the trunk, causing nearly half of it to bend to the side.

“That’s the tree! That’s why it’s called Bent Tree!”

The tree was my Dead Sea Scrolls and Bent Tree my Qumran.

It was actually a bit scorched, probably a victim of a fairly recent lightning strike. But to me it had been like that since the beginning of time, and I was the first to observe it among the currently living. A grand excavation of generations past, and I didn’t even have to take off my seat belt.

Believing was easy and without question. Truth was clear. The world was everything just outside the back seat window.

I rarely keep up with the weather forecast. If I did, I would’ve known it was going to rain this morning. I might have mentally prepared for the way even trace amounts of precipitation bring out more trepidation and floundering in Dallas drivers than a 4-year-old on her first swim lesson.

Slow and steady kills the pace.

Then I notice one of those school spirit stickers on the rear windshield of a large pick-up truck, the sort with a clip-art image of a soccer ball atop a white-middle-class sounding name. His name was Kyle.

Was.

Separating it from the rest of those ubiquitous stickers were the words “In loving memory of” forming a curve above the ball, where the name of a school or a team might be.

1997-2007. It was a portable adhesive headstone.

Part of me felt a little disdain toward the parents. “I know he was your son, and that loss is unimaginable, but why do you have to wave a flag of sadness in my face and make me think about something so awful? I didn’t even know your kid.” went my imaginary one-sided conversation. Death has already been on the collective mind lately with the Arizona shootings–a 9-year-old among the victims–I already had a criminally short life in recent consciousness.

A moment later, traffic didn’t hurt so bad. I was thankful Kyle’s parents inadvertently shared with me that though their son didn’t live long, he loved soccer.

I guess life is like that sometimes.

Within hours of being at work I learn from a friend that a guy we knew in school died from a brain aneurysm less than two weeks ago.

That’s too much untimely death after barely a cup of coffee.

Sudden. Unexpected. Hideous. Unfair. But so is my being.

Over lunch I went to Nordstrom Rack to see if I could find some jeans. Justifiably, in my mind. It’s been something like a year since my last. Rack isn’t super close to my office, but just close enough to leave me with about 15-20 minutes of in-store time. Some might not even bother, but this time constraint is a boon to me.

I like new things and I don’t like to settle for less when spending money, but every passing minute spent in a retail outlet counts toward an exponential rate of personal self loathing. If I can’t find what I came for within 20 minutes, then it isn’t there.

It worked. I got a kick ass pair of jeans that actually fit, in a 20 minute time frame, and I felt good about it. Sometimes I feel like a woman for feeling good about finding a great pair of jeans, but, whatever, get up off my steez.

And this whole time I never thought about death. I thought about jeans.

I guess death is like that sometimes. A strange duplicity.

It’s the pinnacle of existential human nightmare, and yet the mind is still capable of putting it out entirely, and with things of drastically lower intrinsic value. At least momentarily.

But this doesn’t make me feel bad, and I don’t think it’s dishonorable. This function is as human as death itself. I think most of those who are no longer with us wouldn’t pray we’d be crippled by their absence. They’d probably hope we notice some things we took for granted, see life in a richer way, appreciate the trivial things. Especially the trivial things. They all matter because none of them do.

So whenever my time comes, I hope you miss me, and I hope it hurts a little because it means you loved me, but I’ll be damned if I keep you from feeling good about a new pair of jeans.

so I resigned myself to making a list to stay on point:

• Milk
• Shampoo

And then I couldn’t think of anything else.

But if I’m honest, I’ll probably still need that list.

My nearest grocery store is a Super Target which upgrades me to A.D.H.D. I could repeat those items over and over in my head, between my car and those automatic doors—like I’m cramming the last few minutes before an exam—but it’s useless. As soon as I cross the vinyl threshold it’ll all go dark, and I’ll find myself an hour and a half later wearing a plaid trapper hat and zebra print snuggie, pushing a basket full of clearance items representing 65% of all departments—shell-shock faced—wondering where it all went wrong.

rung out and folded
we fill our lives with a stark brand of cold and warm
press the will of men
will you then?

tamed by the noise
incensed by the silence
informed by the dormant heart that sets until you claim it

switch it on and blame it
for leading dim to dangerous
fluorescent and courageous

beauty won’t berate us
entertain trust
and then what?

religious
and then dust

I jotted this down while in Chicago, in a Field Notes memo book while sitting in a trendy coffee shop that serves their brew–not from some commercial machine monstrosity, but made to order by the cup–on a wooden tray with a mug and a decanter, while they played the Fleet Foxes entire Sun Giant record, because fuck other coffee shops.

Coming back to it now, I really like it, but I completely dismissed it initially as disingenuous scribbling because I wrote it in the context of the most painfully rote hipster/poet/artist stereotype I can imagine.

But then I do this every time I begin something creative. Even something as small and fleeting as this. I find some reason to discredit authenticity and value in my own work.

I’m too self conscious and I’m a people pleaser. A terrible combination. But now I write for a living. And now I realize that’s where my self criticism and evaluation belong, because I’m writing for them. But everything outside of that–it’s for me.

The more I let that sink into my marrow the more I’ve been enjoying re-kindling my affair with writing, and the more free I feel when I sit down with my guitar and a 4 track recorder.

Creating should be therapeutic, and at times astounding. So, here’s to less is this clever enough? or is this trying to be too clever? and more is this fun? Do I feel free?

People tend to try and forget the bad days, to move on from them as quickly and abruptly as they came. This is not a phenomenon. It’s as equally important to learn as it is to move on, and doubly detrimental to move on and not learn. But abiding in the miseries of the past for too long does nothing but put new opportunity six feet into the ground. This is why we move on. This is why we should move on.

But what about the days that just seem so expressionless? The ones that in the moment clamber at a pace that suggests they’re entirely breaking the rules of time, but in retrospect are so hollow it’s as if they lasted merely a second. These are the days that aren’t forcibly forgotten — they are barely committed to memory. They are pages containing a few meaningless scribbles, torn out and tossed aside, making room in hopes of something more consequential. Casually and necessarily. This can turn into a dangerous routine, leaving a thick spine with just a few pages dangling from it.

The lack is then felt by the good days; pressured, their memories wrung out and stretched to fill the gaps. A recipe for a life that feels thin.

This is the part where I make a carpe diem reference, pump my fist, and then buy a motorcycle.

Except it’s not.

Those “seize the day” speeches can often be as vapid as the days I spoke of just a few paragraphs ago. Loud and full of machismo but lacking any practical application. Real life doesn’t cut to the next scene with you carrying a brand new attitude, instantly turning everything you touch into gold. It’s exactly that kind of grandiose egotism that leads right back into a cycle of banality.

It’s slow and steady. It’s the small things. More importantly, it’s the real things which are often inseparable from the selfless things. It’s hard to be disappointed and for void to exist when you realize the day is not yours, but ours and theirs. The days are only empty when they become entirely about you.

It’s not always easy; the change of approach is incremental and not overnight. But the once deleted days begin to coagulate, and life fills out a little more.

I had plans last weekend. The blueprints were sketched on the back of my hand. They lacked finesse and brilliance and better resembled a set list for an open mic at a local dive. They weren’t very detailed, but they didn’t need to be. All I required was a little acumen for getting the most out of these next few days.

—

I’m not sure how long it’s been, but the precise time isn’t that important. The only exactness I’m concerned with at this point is in negotiating this rugged and windy road.

I’m glad I’m in a rental.

These are the last few miles leading to the visitors office at Devil’s Den National Park.

I’m starting to wonder if I’m driving this road, or it’s driving me.

—

My set list has faded. I can only make out a few things now. I probably lost it to a drain at a truck stop somewhere off 30, swirling away, unnoticed through a grog that comes with being awake for 36 hours. No matter right now. It’s time to settle on a campsite.

—

A site that requires a mile hike including about 30 yards of rushing stream over slippery rocks with a big red cooler that advertises a lack of foresight was probably not something I had on the agenda, but the added adventure was too seductive to pass over in favor of an unimaginative car side spot.

I’m sure about this sunshine, though. It’s one of the few parts that hasn’t completely eroded from my outline. Even if it did, I wouldn’t have forgotten this part. The sun is definitely a thread I want stitching these days together. This buoys me up a bit. I may need it. I need to focus on not slipping. It doesn’t look like pleasant floatation is a service this creek offers.

—

I’ve lost count of the trips it took to get everything on site, but I’m glad my tent is up and everything is in it’s right place. I’m not glad that my shoes feel like they’re carrying 5 pounds of creek water. Why did I pack flip flops as my only backup footwear?

I need a nap.

Then steak.

—

I don’t know if things are following any program at this point, but things feel right. Ribeye and an open bottle of Corralejo blanco can tend to do that. Add to that a stockade of trees surrounded by the sounds of chirps, croaks, and a creek gently running in the ravine just below and suddenly nature is producing my new favorite song. This tequila is good.

And half gone.

So am I.

—

Something’s not right. A tepid night has turned to a very cold morning. This isn’t as disheartening by itself as it is coupled with the grey and sunless sky that derides hope of things getting balmier as the day matures. Without any cell signal there’s no way to check the weather. The day has barely started and I’m feeling defeated. I’m going to need fire and breakfast before I can work up any defiance.

—

Someone slipped some Johnny Cash into the set while I wasn’t looking. I know it wasn’t me. I don’t think my voice is stalwart enough to carry it through. This thunder sounds like it’s up to the task, however.

—

“Intermittent” should have meant these storms would have something of an intermission or two.

This matinee is running long. I’m not impressed with this show.

I try to sleep, hoping to skip the day ahead a little quicker, a little closer to some calm. But I’m not tired, and the thunder is using the mountains as an amplifier, and the rain’s theatrics refuse to be ignored. This might be beautiful if I didn’t feel so confined.

—

Four and a half hours have passed. The last half hour has been calm. I guess we all got the cue, because we emerge from our tents at exactly the same time.

We’re ready to build a fire and and prepare dinner. It feels a little repetitive, since that was about the last thing we were doing before seeking refuge from the rain, but after hours of incarceration this feels like a grand festivity.

—

Things are just getting kindled when the rain decides to show up again. We are low on wood. We’re not ducking out this time. We can’t afford to.

We’ve begun to build a wall of wet wood around the fire to dry it, laying in wait to be the next source of fuel. We’re trying to outplay the elements this time. It looks like a fence meant to corral a wild animal, except we don’t want this animal tamed. We need this beast to remain feral and uninhibited, fiercer than it’s showery cousin.

I’m wearing my warmest article of clothing, a cotton hoodie that nicely soaks up every bit of water it comes into contact with. I’m again reminded I wasn’t prepared for this. In fact, a look through my bag tells a story of a completely different trip in mind.

I’m miserable.

But somewhat satisfied. We’re winning. So far.

—

After an hour and a half of keeping the fire in operation things have quieted again and dinner is finally made. It’s delicious. I’m not sure if it’s seasoning is heightened by the labor it took to get to this point, but I really don’t care. I devour it. We all do.

The last scrape of my dish is punctuated by an ear-splitting crack of thunder.

Here we go again.

Not moments later the rain comes down with an intensity not yet seen and certainly not open to any bargaining.

It is not compromising this time.

We clean up and clear out within minutes.

—

Once again forced into my tent, this feels all too familiar.

Except it doesn’t.

I’m not sure if it’s because it’s dark now, my belly is full, I’ve been completely worn down, or all of the above. I’m conceding, but it’s not bitter.

All this time I thought I was fighting something, but now I sense a generosity. This final act was always coming, there was no stopping it. We were allowed our moment, our nice meal, but this storm was going to have it’s attention.

I finally realize this isn’t happening to me. It’s just happening. And I get to be tangled up in it. It’s flexing it’s might and I’m dangling from it’s sinew. I’m suspended in a moment where the only thing keeping me from annihilation is the thin ripstop nylon above my head.

Some things you just can’t control.

For the first time, this idea is comforting.

Because I value my intestines (sometimes).

The economy still sucks, the country is becoming increasingly jobless, and Toyota is trying to kill us all.

These are grim times, but there’s at least one great pillar of virtue coming to aid- Big Fast Food; providing our poverty stricken intestines with a variety (homogeneous re-arrangements) of food items for under a buck, all neatly assembled onto a menu plain enough for even the most severe of attention deficits. This helps conserve cash for more important things, such as beer and cable. And with savings this bountiful, when you find yourself drunk and watching the History Channel at 3 a.m. and the pangs of inebriated hunger strike, you can totally afford some more .79 cent tacos to power you through the fall of the Third Reich. God bless you food wizards, please continue to smile down on us from your corporate fortresses made of magic.

Value menus have existed for as long as I’ve been poor, but lately I’ve been noticing a Holy Ghost revival of fast food ad campaigns pontificating their cash saving ways. In reality, the value is an illusion. It’s not so much clever marketing as it is obvious and necessary; these businesses need their budgetary concerned market to keep eating their carb wrapped mystery meat, and in order to do that they have to convince them they can afford to do so. They offer pared down versions of more sizable and expensive counterparts piecemeal, in attractive sub-dollar denominations, making you feel more in control of your gastric and monetary destiny. It also provides the faculty for constructing post bar-closing meals of public offense proportions that end up costing more than those pre-arranged combos. This is good for business. This is how the corporate overlords are still making piles of green. The great food wizards are more sinister than I thought.

Outside of marketing coercive language, what is value? Is value ever truly unequivocal and intrinsic? Without someone holding something in esteem, is it really valuable? I think this applies equally to the animate and inanimate. What object has value that no one wants to pay for, nor holds sentiment. What person, moment, place, or feeling has any worth apart from its enthusiast or proprietor?

F--- you, bicycle spokes.

15 years ago baseball hall-of-famer Mickey Mantle passed on; inarguably one of the great icons in the history of the sport with a long and storied career. I remember my dad reminiscing at the time that as a child he used to buy bubble gum packs of baseball cards and would mount those cards on his bicycle in such a way that it would flap against the spokes, vaguely simulating the sound of a motorcycle. He distinctly recalled one of those many cardboard martyrs-for-imagination to have been of Mickey Mantle.

Predictably, my dad offered some light regret, as the value of that card was at a relatively astronomical value at the time of Mick’s death. But, I take this as tempered more toward an obvious and amusing irony; where an eight-year-old finds value is vastly different than an adult.

Imagine you are eight and are about to make your bike infinitely more kick ass by jamming Mickey Mantle into the wheel. Just before you ruin the card, a man in a suit appears, claiming to be from the future. This is completely feasible, because you are eight, and he’s wearing a tinfoil hat. He tells you that if you put that card in a safe place and keep it in good condition for 30-40 years it will be worth a considerable amount of money by then.  To take this investment advice would leave you having to wait 40 years for an outcome, for an indeterminate sum of money, and the sacrificing of about 30 minutes (maybe 45 if it’s good cardboard) of some seriously ballin’ pretend motorcycling.

Totally worth not having a trust fund today.

But, you’re not thinking in these terms. You’re eight. Your concept of quantification is rudimentary. 40 years is probably how long ago America was discovered and any defined amount of money is nearly incomprehensible unless described as “enough to buy a roller coaster”.

You look at bizarre future-man for a second, remember your parents told you not to talk to strangers (especially ones wearing tinfoil in any capacity), proceed to attach the baseball great to your Schwinn, and ride away nomadically to pop some sweet curb wheelies.

Though your 8-year-old self may lack some (a lot of) wisdom and foresight, living in the now and recognizing value in the things staring right at you can be an increasingly difficult exercise in the face of the increasing complications of life. I think we can all agree that our 8-year-old selves were a lot better at this than we are now.