Life

Its funny how your life becomes the controlling factor in who you are.
I’m not talking about the life within you, your soul or essence, the force of being within you; but rather the life you live every day. The job, the hobbies, the food, the cleaning, the bills, the money or the lack thereof. It has a way of taking over. Then one day you realize there must be more to it. As the lyrics in one of my favorite songs explains, “You run and you run to catch up with the sun that’s sinking. Racing around to come up behind you again.” So you ask yourself, Am I not more than my job and the bills? Am I here - merely to feed the system?
Your life, controlled by credit.
Your life controlled by an overwhelming sense of losing it all.
Your life controlled by money.
Your life controlled by insurance?
Your life controlled by fear.
I shudder to think that’s all there is.
And the fact of the matter is. I believe it isn’t. We are so much more. We are Fathers and Mothers, and Poets and Artists, and Musicians and Chefs, and Writers, and lovers and husbands and wives. We are alive. We live on a big beautiful planet full of wonder and mystery floating in a galaxy of stars. That all by itself is amazing. We are traveling at 108,000 km/h or roughly 67,000 mph which means our planet travels 940 million km during a single orbit around the sun. Mind blown right there. We have numerous opportunities, every day, to learn and create and to tell the people around us how much they mean to us. We have the capacity to love, laugh and fill this world with art and joy.
So I guess what I’m trying to say is, maybe we should look at it a different way. Life I mean. Maybe we should try to see each new day as a chance to change it all, our destiny, our perspective, and our world. Teach yourself something new. Google it. Right? You want to know about bees. Then learn about bees. Is space your thing? Art, Music, Food? The world is out there…waiting for you to see it-and learn about it and make it beautiful with your own special stuff. You. Your life. The real you.
The money problems, the insurance, the debt. That is not who and what you are. I fight with it every day. I do not want it to contain me, control me or make me less than I can be. Put your arm around your friends and family and support them. Help them be more. I’m willing to bet they will do the same for you. We all can be more if we stop thinking about the problems and start seeing the solutions. Just a thought…it’s not as easy as it sounds sometimes. But it is what we need, to be more than just - life.
Tony Whitford 10/20/2015

The String

By A.W.Whitford                                                                                                                   

One morning, when I was a little boy, I found a string lying in the grass by a tree. I picked up the end of the string, surprised to find it there. I pulled on the string and watched as it lifted into the air parting the blades of grass, wet with the morning dew. As it rose from the grass droplets of dew sprayed into the air around it turning to mist, creating rainbows that wavered before me in the bright morning light.

I shook the string watching it zigzag through the air and swung it around in circles as if I were playing jump rope with my friends, amazed by the way it stretched across the yard and on into the distance. I pulled on the end of it wanting to gather the string and explore its length. The weight of the string seemed to pull back as if something, or someone on the other end were waiting for me to follow, for surely there was an end somewhere. Had I not already found one of them?

I began to follow the string, pulling on it as I walked across the yard, pretending that I was a mountain climber making my way across a vast mountain range, made up of black crumbling shale cliffs that could break away from under my feet at any moment. I followed it across the backyard, around the garage, past the rusting gardening tools and dry rotting old tires and down to the street running parallel to the small houses placed neatly in a row along its borders.

 I stopped and looked back at my house before following the string across the street, knowing I should not leave the yard. I stood there for a moment, feeling as though I left something important behind, feeling as though there was something I should say—or do. I saw my Grandmother standing at the sink in the kitchen, her silhouette clearly visible through the glass and sun faded curtains and I watched her there cleaning the morning’s dishes. I waved at her—but she did not see me—and so I said goodbye in a small voice heard only by the birds singing in the trees above me, watching with wary eyes and nervous wings. I began to gather the string and follow it, pulling the rough string with my little hands, feeling its fibers vibrate with anticipation each time I let go with one hand and pulled with the other.

 After a short while I turned to see how far I had gone, and the little house, the first one of my memory, began to slip away, becoming smaller and smaller as the string began to pull me along as quickly as I could follow.

I suddenly felt as though the string needed me to see something of great importance. It was as if whatever waiting for me there—on the other end—could not wait for me to arrive. A sense of urgency far too great for me to ignore pressed me onward, moving me toward something that I needed to see, something that needed to see me.

 Hours passed in seconds, weeks passed by in minutes, years passed by in days and I followed the string, looking up occasionally to see a house, or a girl with a beautiful smile, reaching out to me as I walked along with the rough thread sliding through my hands.  Still, I followed, amazed at the prospect of finding the end. For surely there was an end somewhere—wasn’t there?

 Once, when my feet grew tired, my hands grew cold and cracked, and my hunger for rest became more than I could bear, I tried to drop the string and go back home. Finding the end no longer seemed important to me. I wanted to be still and rest. I wanted to enjoy the world around me. I wanted to live in the moment. I began to realize that the world around me passed by as if I did not even exist, as if I were nothing more than a dandelion seed floating in the wind. I had become insignificant, an echo in the void.

 I longed to see the past again and feel the warmth of my small room filled with books, games and toys. When I turned to see where I had been, nothing waited for me there. The past was vanishing behind me as if an eraser of enormous proportions were wiping it from the pages of my life, leaving only blurred images, vague memories, forgotten words and faces.

I decided to let go of the string. I decided I would drop it, turn around, and go home.  No matter how hard I tried to let go—the string stayed in my hands as if it were a part of me. My Destiny, my fate, waited on the other end

 When I stopped walking in revolt against its power, it pulled me along faster causing me to run in an effort to keep up. The world passed by in a blur of noise and confusion. I watched as family and friends disappeared behind me, some said their goodbyes—their voices broken by the wind rushing in my ears. Some simply turned away, as if they never knew I was there.

 Trees grew and fell away; children lived their lives without me. Still, I followed the string, praying that the end was near. My body began to fail, my legs began to shake, no longer capable of supporting the weight and wear required of them. I fell to the ground and stared up at the sky watching in amazement as tattered clouds passed by chasing the Moon. The Sun rose and set bouncing on the horizon like the blinking of a giant bloody eye.

The string pulled me through the dust of time and over the bones of those fallen before me as I watched the stars above, dancing in the blue-black ocean of the night. I prayed to the heavens, to the gods of the Moon and the God of our fathers, pleading with them to let me go home. I closed my eyes and listened to the voices of the past and the voices of my weak and weary heart. I slept and dreamt the dreams of the forgotten.

I dreamt of a father and a little boy. I dreamt of a baseball glove and the smell of the leather and freshly cut grass. I dreamt of a child shouting at his grandmother that he wished he could hurry up and be older, so that he could be free from her rules. I dreamt of my purple spider bike, I dreamt of the huge rough hands of my Father, and the lines burned into the palms of his hands. I dreamt that I held his hands in mine and I rubbed the scars with my thumbs and asked him how he got them. He smiled at me and said, “From following the string that brought me to you.”

I looked up into his hazel eyes and I began to fall. His hands slipped out of mine and I fell through the darkness, flailing my arms, as the string tangled around my legs until I jerked to a stop hanging upside down in the dark, suspended in space. 

I awoke, startled and screaming and opened my eyes to the dazzling sunlight slicing over the rooftop of my childhood home. The sun shining on the wet grass created sparkling diamond reflections in the air around me. I rubbed my eyes with my fists as I rose to my knees in the grass by the tree where I lay—blinking and struggling to make sense of where I was.

Birds sang kindly in the limbs above me, welcoming me to the new day, and the string was gone. I looked at my hands; they were still soft and new, with only the faint wrinkles of life beginning to form in the smooth pink palms.

I stared at my hands opening and closing them, hands that would learn to play a guitar someday, hands that would build sandcastles and bookcases, hands that would pull wriggling fish from the ocean and the hands that would hold the hands of my children. I stood and looked around, I was home again and my heart filled with hope and relief.

I heard the familiar squeaking of the hinges on our screen door and I turned to see my grandmother walking out onto the porch wiping her hands on her apron. I ran to her and hugged her at her waist nearly knocking her down.

"Here now what's this about?" she said, pulling me back and looking at me, surprised by my sudden show of affection.

"I'm just happy to see you that's all," I said.

She looked at me with a question in her eyes, as if she knew something, as if something in my eyes frightened her. She held my face in her hands and smiled. She opened her mouth to ask—but then changed her mind.

"Go eat your breakfast," she said, and opened the screen door. I looked back for a moment, scanning the yard, making a mental note of the bushes and trees, the garage and the fence, the layout of my world, the way I would always remember it. I looked up at her, she smiled and nodded and I went inside. The warmth of the kitchen filling my soul.

©2011

4/28/2011

The Middle of Nowhere

When nowhere looked like a good place to be
I set up shop right there
I hung the sign above the door
And filled the shelves with nothing
Content with my plan
I advertised
To help me spread the word
Television, radio, websites and magazines
The world beat a path to my door
They bought as much as they could carry
And then came back for more
They filled their lives with nothing
They worked both night and day
To fill their homes with more of it
From the ceiling to the floor
What their neighbors bought
They bought as well
To even out the score
Nothing here and nothing there
Nothing in their eyes
Great arguments were lost and won
With nothing to describe
So here in the middle of nowhere
With nothing in their lives
They wonder who they all should be
But there’s nothing there to see.

T. Whitford 2/22/2016

Something to think about.

Something to think about.
As I watched the news this morning with my usual sense of awe and disgust of the irrationalities we as humans seem to impose against one another, I began to voice my opinions to the television, the dog and anyone else that would listen. Or at least pretend to. The dog only looks at me with those sad old eyes, the television certainly could care less and everyone else in the house merely shakes their head in agreement. I am convinced that they aren’t ...really listening anyway. Who wants to listen to the diatribe of a middle aged man first in the morning? I’m not sure I do at this point. I simply can’t help myself. Who doesn’t feel as if they have all of the answers? It certainly is easy, resting in the comfort of my Lazy-Boy Recliner. (Tony Whitford does not receive compensation for this product placement. It should also be said that he would accept compensation if said compensation were offered.) Let’s see where was I?

So let’s say for the sake of…discussion, that you were reading a science fiction novel. In this novel you learn of an advanced life form that rises from the mud of their existence to build sprawling civilizations across the planet they inhabit. They soon begin to question their existence. The meaning of life and the reasons for their morality and mortality, the lack of each and the purpose of their lives. And of course the fear of the unknown. Because of the need for answers they begin to believe that they have tapped into the realm of a supreme being who can answer these questions and give reason to the evil acts of their fellow lifeforms. To fill in the blanks that cannot be explained due to their own unavoidable ignorance so to speak. They call this new Supreme Being Zog.

As time goes by a number of the inhabitants of this world believe that Zog wants them to kill the lifeforms living across the valley (This is a lush, mountainous area, filled with wildlife and beauty) because they worship Zog differently than them. They soon begin to wage war against one another, burning the valley and killing the backwards, wrong believing, Zog loving enemy in an attempt to wipe them from the planet. Of course the lifeforms from across the valley retaliate and vow to see to the destruction of the other wrong believers. This begins an endless cycle of destruction, temple building, and the blowing up of said temples. Of course along the way they build weapons of war far greater and more terrible than any lifeform has ever seen, using all of the resources that help feed and house them. Which as you well know leads to the overall, ridiculous and inevitable collapse of their world.

How does that sound to you? Stupid? Absurd? Guess what? Yeah that’s right, you guessed it. You live across the valley. What do you say we leave Zog out of it and learn to live on this rock without the hatred, war, starvation, should I go on? Or maybe it’s just a novel and there are no similarities to us. You decide.
Tony Whitford
1/8/2016

The Door

The Door

He opened his eyes and looked at the clock. Something from a dream had woke him and something about the dream seemed to have opened a door, a door he closed again with the idea of possibly nailing it shut. This door, the door to his father’s room contained the memories of his fathers words and actions, his very essence, everything he could remember. He kept these items of the past locked away in a safe place to protect them. Hell who was he fooling? He kept them there to protect himself.

He touched the lamp by the bed, washing the table and floor with yellow light, and he turned off the alarm and he swung around and placed his feet on the floor, reaching back to scratch his neck at the base of his hairline.

His father held a persistent place in his memories. Floating through his days and his thoughts like an insolent ghost who cannot stay out of the places he does not belong. He sat looking at the floor, feeling the age in his back, feeling the years in his eyes and he tried to shake the thought of his father from his mind.

There were times when he still couldn’t actually believe he was gone, which was a foolish thought indeed—considering he’d been dead for forty six years.

He really didn’t know much about him. The kinds of conversations they had were of a parental nature and that of a father to his inquisitive young son. And most of the words were blurred like grease on a window, still there but unintelligible at best. He did know that he smoked, and drank. He knew that he fought in a war, and he knew that he loved several women. He knew that he played golf. He knew that he wasn’t very good at it—but he played anyway. He knew that he could play the piano but he never heard him play. And he knew that the he remembered the smile that brought tears to his eyes when he thought of it, just because he missed it so much.

Thoughts like these were something he’d grown used to. They came and went like a foggy mist, and burned away again when the son found the strength to shine. He looked at the tangle of covers beside him and he glanced at the man looking back at him reflected in the mirror hanging on the closet door.

He thought about how long it had been since he put the lock on the door of his father’s room hoping  to keep the memories hidden. He closed his eyes and concentrated, and instead of locking the door again, he pushed the door open in his mind as far as it would go, the door knob banging against the plaster with a satisfying thud.

He opened his eyes and he gathered up his clothes, his socks and shoes and cell phone and he said to himself, loud enough for his father to hear. Come on Dad, we gotta get ready to go to work, you’re making me late again.

He could feel the smile glowing behind him as he started down the stairs.

Tony Whitford

12/29/2015

Red White and Blue Son

I fought for this corner

Splitting my take was unacceptable

So I fought for the right to own it

And won

So now I keep it all

For me and mine

Food for my thoughts

You have more

You worked for it

But I work for mine too

 

Flying a cardboard flag

One arm makes it harder to hold

Harder to fold

I tried to keep a job

Though sometimes I see things

That make it hard to do

But I don’t complain

I walk the holy ground

My brothers helped defend

Some of them can’t walk at all

 

Need help

Homeless vet

Most people think it’s a scam

Too lazy to work

Must be crazy

Eyes averted

You see me

Watching the light

Doesn’t make it go away

 

I try to stay clean

I have a toothbrush in my pocket

Gas station bathrooms

Bottled water

Hotel rooms

Stained and broken

Wash my clothes when I can

 

Can’t help this time

That’s okay

I’ll be here tomorrow

Flying my flag

Standing under the red, white, and blue sun

Still here

Still proud

Try to take me down

My colors don’t run

 

Tony Whitford © 8/10/2015

 

 

 

NOISE

 

 I tried not to say the words

Tried not to speak

Tried not to hear my thoughts

The noise they would release

My mind would not be silent

My heart would not be quiet

No amount of meditation

Could convince them to be still 

No sleep

The words continued

No gate

The words contained

Broke through the wall of will

Like water crashing from the sky

And as the words fell between us

I saw it in your eyes

The light that filled my rooms with hope

Began to dim

A joy you held so near

Felt smaller now

Pulled at the seams

Less important

And frayed

Betrayed by my words out of place

 

If I could take this moment

And change it back to then

If I could pull them back

Change them in some way

They would not be the words

I choose today

But the past cannot be swayed

The line must read the same

They remain throughout our lives

Lying between us

The dust will not cover them

The weeds will not grow

Great stones have given way

And I see them everyday

I tried not to say the words

Tried not to speak

Tried not to hear my thoughts

The noise they would release

 

Tony Whitford 7/22/2015 ©