This is so wonderful, it must be shared. Enjoy!

Written by Tim Mayor; Read by Ben Taylor
(“Dedicated to all the children here tonight.”)

[audio]

Would you look at the number of stars out tonight,
I can’t think when I’ve ever seen starlight so bright.
You can see why they say it’s romantic, all right;
All those men with Flamenco guitars.
Can you find what your ancestors pictured up there?
Can you pick out the archer, the dog and the bear?
Do you know that the starlight is crowning your hair
with the wealth of the last of the Czars?

But someday we’ll grow older, as most people do,
We’ll look up at the sky and the stars and they’re no longer new.
So we’ll have to ask somebody little, like you,
Tell me, what do you make of the stars?

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Listen to and download songs from Ben Taylor from the Daytrotter Sessions

People are often admired for their passion to a cause, a belief, an idea; respected even.

But what of the passions that fail, falling short of their mark, their goal. Where does that energy go?

I am in the throes of just such a failure (though my friend Viktor would tell me it is not a failure, but an outcome).

I compare it to a car traveling down the road at a high rate of speed heading straight for a tree. At this point, the front end of the car has already wrapped itself around the tree and its momentum has gone from 90 to nothing in an instant. However, the back end of the car is still moving forward, still anticipating the crash but unable to do much about the inevitable.

Looking at it from that perspective, I can better see that my continued efforts to prevent a very bad crash are long past. Best to make what I can of what I have left.

Being the optimist that I am — a “utopian” as a friend used to call me — I am hoping that perhaps the rear of the car will survive the collision so that all the momentum to this point will not have been in vain.

Those screeching brakes so often heard just before a big crash? That is my passion and my energy screaming to not be stopped in it’s tracks, to not die. Perhaps I can separate the back of the car from the rest of the car and it can be useful somewhere else.

Passion is powerful and passion is addictive. It is sometimes blind. It is the round peg in the square hole that pushes the envelope of what is often complacent normalcy. We owe a debt of gratitude for the minds that think with passion.

It need not always crash into nothingness. And it need not be viewed as failure… it is simply an “outcome.”

I shall live to fight another day, and I shall continue to act with passion, bruised as it is right now, but intact.

I have not lost everything in this crash.

I have known Francesca since April, 2009 when I signed up to be a supporter and, by that time, she was already nine months into the nightmare this case has become. It has been a struggle on so many more levels than anyone can possibly imagine, but all center around her beloved dog, Brindi, who was seized by Animal Control in July, 2008 and given a death sentence for a minor incident with another dog on her property line. The case is wrapped in misapplied and emotionally charged legalities where the city of Halifax has chosen to ignore some of its own basic legislation in its quest to kill a dog guilty of less than other dogs in its jurisdiction. Dogs that were never seized; owners were simply fined. The specifics are beyond the scope of this post.

This has been a long and exhausting story that few know all the details of… and so be it because the more you know, the more horrifying it becomes. However, the one constant through this story is Francesca’s unwavering devotion to freeing Brindi and bringing her home so they can start to rebuild their lives from where they were more than a year and a half ago.

Much like Francesca, I am optimistic… albeit cautiously so. Please God, guardian angels, higher powers, whomever… let this be the light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel and let it not be another train; let Brindi finally come home to her mom, Francesca, and siblings Rudy and Amelia. They are so deserving of this.

I venture to ask you to ask your “angels” for the same.

“The Rogiers of Halifax”

Yesterday, I was riding my mower across the yard and I was thinking about the “Craigslist killer.” A young man who was soon-to-be a doctor and soon-to-be wed. Wonder if he wishes he could be at his folks’ house just mowing the yard. Seemingly he had a lot going his way. So what would possess him to consciously scour craigslist for someone to, at the least, allegedly rob. However, the young girl he contacted is dead. Assuming he is the killer, at what moment did he decide she needed to die? Did his mind just go beyond his tipping point and he went into some evil autopilot? Was he prepared to go this far when he hatched his plan?

As I was pondering this yesterday, a snake suddenly darted out in front the mower. A copperhead. Poisonous. I braked to a stop. In an instant, the thought popped into my head that I might be able to kill him if I drove over him with the mower. Is this a similar thought the craigslist killer experienced? In an equally quick instant, I thought “why kill him?” Granted, I did not just attempt to rob the snake. And granted, even though the snake had seen me, it was not going to call the police. The snake caused me no harm and I considered it might have some benficial role… so, instead, I chased the snake towards a flower bed out of my way and resumed pondering the craigslist killer.

Many well-intentioned people have lost their jobs. They have families and they are losing their homes, their cars and their savings. Sometimes, one of the distraught spouses commits suicide or kills their family than themselves… probably because in some moment of twisted, frustrated thinking, they believe this is the best way.

As I spread newspapers on the rubber pad for the puppies, the center pages of one section is always the obituaries. There are people whose life story covers almost 1/4 of the page; they have been so loved and done so many things and touched so many lives. I wonder what my obit might say. There are also obits for people who are just starting their lives and for some reason, it has tragically ended too soon. Many are younger than me.

There is little point to this post except to marvel at all the variables that are life. You could finish medical school and marry your fiance. You could look away and run over the snake with your lawn mower. Maybe you could even grit your teeth and dig still deeper to make it through this lousy economic time. Easy to say, so why does life have to be so hard sometimes?

Watching all the celebrities and the rich in front of us each day, it is so easy to wish to be them. Some have three or four houses and I think I would be happy with just one of them. Some of them are philanthropic, but I am not poor enough to be a cause. Susan Boyle has hit it big at 47. Damn, I am 52.

I am older these days… in my fifties. I am recently unemployed. I have several rescued animals in my care and am wondering if this is my last chance to create a new life/career for myself. Perhaps this is the time to do some of those things I have always thought I would do “one day,” follow my passion — while I still have life.

I’m thinking this might be a good idea and have been giving a lot of effort to this direction. But every now and then, a funk comes over me. Remember the John Travolta movie, Phenomena? Suddenly he has all the right answers to the world’s problems… and later finds he has a brain tumor which is prompting his brilliance. So if I have a brain tumor which is making this new direction look so bright, please let me succeed in my new endeavor before anyone diagnoses the tumor. And let my positiveness about the new direction override and erradicate the tumor.

To my guardian angels: please look over me and my very large extended family. We don’t need a lot, but would appreciate good health, happiness and a roof over our heads… and enough food to go around. We have cut back to just essentials (not that we ever splurged much anyway); we have planted a garden. Please help me find enough work to pay our bills. Please help me succeed. To anyone reading this, please send good thoughts and prayers our way.

We choose life.

The cycle of feeling sorry for myself

Every so often a funk grabs a hold of me, for no good reason. And not the sequined Rick James funk of awesomeness either. I feel sorry for myself. I lament my unemployment and the general state of my life. I start to envy all the things everyone else has and I don’t – big apartments, cars, jobs, stuff. It’s an ugly scene, and the envy can reach ridiculous proportions. The other day I found myself begrudging Matthew McConaughey his success as an actor. Why should I care? I don’t even want to be the male lead in bad romance comedies that should go straight to DVD. The six-pack abs would be nice though. And the million-dollar paychecks… I’d take those.

When in these funks, I feel like the only person who is struggling – a ridiculous notion, but true in the world of me, myself and I. This is a selfish and irrational way of looking at things. And people would be right to call me out on it in the forums and comments sections. Hell, you have my permission to walk right up on the street and slap me across the face if you have to. I forget to give equal weight to all the good things in my life – family, health, etc. They get minimized and pushed aside. The feeling sorry for myself isn’t productive. But it happens every now and again, often enough that I recognize the cycle for what it is.

My birthday was such a good time that the letdown afterward probably sparked this latest round of woe is me. But any little slight or setback can do it. Getting out of bed that next morning took some serious effort. I lay there staring at the insides of my eyelids, thinking that more sleep might make everything better. But more sleep only makes me feel guilty for wasting the morning. So I dragged my ass up, put on my workout clothes and headed off to the gym.

This funk-y workout wasn’t very good as workouts go. They never are. I tried to harness the negative feelings to push myself harder. In the movie version of my life, this would be the montage scene before the moment of truth. Alas, without the ’80s music, the cameras and the inspiration, this tactic didn’t work. Rocky had Drago. Lane Meyer had Roy Stalin, that blond-haired skier guy. I have unemployment as my nemesis. There was no face to picture when eking out that last set. There wasn’t even a last set. I just wanted to go home and stay there.

Home is the best place when I’m in a funk. The only people around the apartment during the day are the cats. And they just sleep and leave behind tumbleweed-like fur balls. I did go out that afternoon for cookies and coffee – the bread and nectar of life. I have to stay strong in case a potential employer wants to interview me. I can’t be scaring children like Michael Jackson or Sophia Loren if I ever want to work again. Walking the streets was a challenge. People were everywhere and always in my way. Part of that is just my neighborhood, Jackson Heights, where most of South America now lives. Everyone seemed to be going important places and doing important things. Most of them, of course, were not. But I saw everything through a lens of negativity. It made me want to just push people out of my way.

Nothing seemed to work right during the funk. My muscles felt heavy. My brain couldn’t hold a thought. I moved with lethargy and less purpose, avoiding new tasks and lingering over tasks that are second nature. My attitude was poor, and my temper short. I complained about really stupid, unimportant stuff. And I got teary-eyed and emotional over sappy TV. (Damn you Sarah McLachlan for showing me hurt animals!) The frustration, boredom and dissatisfaction inside leaked out in weird ways.

Something always pulls me back into real life. This time it was a two-year-old boy on the subway discovering the world outside. He stood on the seat watching the passing buildings, pointing and laughing as his mother held him steady. I sat across the aisle, iPod on, watching him. Something about the scene made me feel better. Maybe it was his joy. Maybe it was his innocence. Maybe the chemicals in my body picked that moment to readjust in a way that improved my mood. I don’t know, but I’m glad it’s over.

We all have ups and downs in our moods. They’re part of life. But unemployment can make the peaks higher and, in my case, the valleys lower. I go through these cycles often enough to recognize them. If I could steer clear, I would. That hasn’t worked so far, so I just try to just be productive and minimize the downtime. My best is the most I can ask of myself.

reprinted from Jobless and Less by Norm Elrod

luck
Pronunciation: ‘lek
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English lucke, from Middle Dutch luc; akin to Middle High German gelücke luck
Date: 15th century

1. a: a force that brings good fortune or adversity b: the events or circumstances that operate for or against an individual
2. favoring chance

The Visual Thesaurus takes it a step further by creating a visual for the word “luck.” I don’t fully understand it, but this is a great site for playing with words and learning new associations. You can make your own visual. Once you have created a work of art from a simple word search, you can email it or print it on a t-shirt or a card. Then you can become your own walking thesaurus.

So luck… what about it?

Luck is something I ponder from time to time: in those instances where you mutter, “Is this really my luck?” or “Wow, how lucky was that?” If you slow down for a minute and notice, you will realize that luck is woven throughout each day. For example, yesterday.

I stopped working yesterday to go to the bathroom. I walked into the bathroom, flipped on the light and found myself standing in water… and there was a sound I did not recognize. My brain said, “Now what?” On my last visit to the bathroom, I had put the small glass water bowl (for the cats) in the sink. Frankie likes to play with it and slides it either off the edge of the vanity to the ceramic floor or into the sink. It’s easier to leave it in the sink. While this generally works, it seems that yesterday one or a couple of the cats somehow moved the handle on the faucet for the hot water to full on. And somehow, the water bowl slide over the hole on the sink and was completely blocking it. The sink filled up. The water was running faster than the little emergency overflow hole could handle… and water was cascading over the edge of the vanity. It covered quite a bit of the bathroom floor and was spilling into the hall as well as moving under the wall into the adjoining pantry — under the flooring but on top of the subfloor. On its way across the vanity, it found a couple cracks and was spilling into the cabinet under the vanity soaking the radio and blow dryer, and also saturating a nearby dog bed.” Is this really my luck?”

Without a doubt some of the stupidest, most unlikely things occur in my little world. Often “is this really my luck” is replaced with a single syllable, four-letter word that starts with “ph–” (that’s phonetical). It’s short, sweet and to the point. The kids recognize this word, even if just barely uttered, as a bad thing and they become scarce.

It rained yesterday. A lot… 4-5 inches. The ground was pretty dry at the start and did a good job of drinking it up overnight. However, at some point between dusk and dawn, a tree in the neighbors’ yard fell over. One of the limbs struck the fence post on Otis and Layla’s yard. The impact broke the branch and the post spared the fence a lot of damage. If that branch had missed the post and struck the fence, it could have smashed the fence and Otis and Layla might have fled their yard in fear. Who knows where they would have run. The water bowl on their front porch was knocked over in a direction that suggests one of them was running away from the crash. But I have no idea when this occurred. Were Otis and Layla inside their house or were they sitting on the front porch? So I say, “Wow, how lucky was that?”

The local news has just broken in to warn of a “rain-wrapped tornado” heading this way. Luckily, it looks to be tracking south of me.

Luck is everywhere, everyday. Here’s wishing good luck to you.

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Small question here: is it luck when a cat wretches her breakfast from atop the fridge and one of the dogs finds it and eats it before I know what has happened? Maybe so.
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