Friday, August 21, 2009

All I Have in This World

One of my favorite movies (most men for that matter) is Scarface. Al Pacino’s portrayal of Tony Montana, a Cuban refugee who illegally and forcefully brought himself from poverty, to wealth, and finally to a violent death was incredible. There were many lessons to be learned from that movie, one of my favorite was ironically character.

“All I have in this world is my balls and my word… and I don’t break them for no one.”

Beyond the crassness and horrible grammar, these are amazing words of wisdom. A man is his word until he breaks it. Once his word is broken the bond that he has with the truth can forever be broken. Regardless of looks, money, success or intelligence, a man’s word will take him further than any other attribute. The ability for a man to look another man or woman in the eyes and be trusted is priceless.

I am raising sons, two sons to be exact. Both of my sons often choose deception over honesty, especially when they find themselves facing the consequences of their actions. As a father I find it extremely difficult to impress upon my sons the importance of honesty and how lying can develop into a habit-forming addiction. I want them to understand that actions have consequences – good or bad. They need to understand that Newton’s Third Law – for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction- is deeper than physics. I want my sons to learn a concept that I didn’t learn until later in life- I effect other people. As simple as this concept may be, I don’t believe that many of us live our lives based on an understanding that our lives are the extension of so many others. This reality had more of an impact on me than the morality of truth.

As a man, understanding Newton’s Law has had a profound effect on my life. I was not always the most honest person. As a matter of fact, as a child, I had a very distant and strained relationship with the truth. Lying started as self-preservation, as most lies do. I found myself unwillingly facing the consequences of my misbehavior and surmised that there was a chance that I could escape punishment by removing guilt. I didn’t realize (and neither do my boys) that with age comes wisdom. More times than not, my mother was already well aware of the truth but in attempt to teach me responsibility waited for the confession. I was persistent. “It wasn’t me Mom.” I would proclaim. Her anger grew towards my deceit. I didn’t understand until I had my own children that the lying wasn’t the source of her fear. It was the fact that I was so convincing. It frightened her because she was getting a glimpse at the man I would become… a dangerous man… a talented prevaricator.

Despite my mother’s efforts, I continued to weave webs of dishonesty that persistently caught up with me. It wasn’t until my late twenties that I discovered that honesty was a choice. I discovered that a man who is upright and honest at all times is a valued treasure to all he encounters. A simple notion yes, but I am ashamed to admit not a concept that came easy to me. I didn’t realize that my behavior would eventually have a greater impact on the people around me than me. In life it is much easier to accept the consequences of our actions, however it is more difficult to accept that we are the cause of the innocent’s pain.

As with any parent, I want my children to learn from my mistakes rather than repeat them. When dealing with the dishonesty of my boys I utilize a different approach than my mother. I address more than the lie… I try to address the effects the lie has on each of them in the long run. It is proving to be a bit of a daunting task to convince my boys that the consequences for lying far outweigh the consequences of whatever infraction they lied about. Always proving themselves intelligent, my oldest queried, “So if we tell the truth does that mean we won’t get in trouble?” I actually hesitated slightly before answering this question. Though that type of leniency would appear to be a justifiable response to honesty, what am I teaching them? If you tell the truth you won’t be held accountable for your actions? We all know that’s not true. Instead I promised them that lying would ensure a swifter and more severe punishment than anything else. The problem (as the wittedly pointed out) is that this rule cannot be proven or disproven.

My boys will one day become men and one day discover what I have as a man: being a man can be tough. Now I can just hear women scoff at this statement but there is a lot that goes into being a “good man.” They will learn as I did that a good man is defined usually by the woman’s morale code and needs that you happen to be in a relationship with. There are some universal rules but for the most part each woman creates her ideal man as she goes along. I only hope that the wise words of Tony Montana ring true in my sons’ lives. I hope they can stand on their word, flatfooted and unmoved. I believe it will make it easier for them to meet the needs and desires of their future wives. I try my best to give them an example of brutal honesty when needed and gentle honesty when necessary. Though not always, now in all things I am honest… even it hurts. Manhood is a process.

The only other lesson I think they could potentially learn from Tony Montana is ambition. The following is a scene that I try to live by as well:

Tony Montana: Me, I want what’s coming to me.

Manny: Oh, well what’s coming to you?

Tony Montana: The world, Chico, and everything in it.

Now if that isn’t philosophy… I don’t know what is!

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Isolation... A Photographic Essay

Photography has always interested me. I am fascinated by the idea that a moment in time can be captured forever with a camera. I respect and admire a photographer who is able to create stories with his camera much like an author with her pen. Please do not accept this post as an attempt to place myself in the league of these artists. This is just a hobby that I would like to share with you...

I call these photos... Isolation. I think of my camera as a tool that I use to manipulate, create, capture, and document the world around me. I noticed all of the subjects of these photos while armed with my camera. Pushing the shutter gave me an opportunity to freeze forever the beauty that my eyes originally saw. In life we can be so enamored with one single object but our focus is blurred because the background becomes the foreground. We miss the beauty of a child's smile because of the fear that it won't last forever. The magnificence of a kiss becomes dulled by the thought that it may never be repeated. Even the sun abruptly bursting into our window is drowned in negativity because of the day it signifies is before us.

I wish that it were possible to see the world like these photos. The beauty contrasted in color and the background in black and white. The joy of our lives plucked from the fear that holds it captive.

This is my essay on isolation... enjoy.

Isolation

The gentle curve of this flower's apex intrigued me. It gave the impression that the flower was competing with it's origin, did the leaf come from the ellipses or visa versa? Are we products of our surroundings or of the desire we have to be more.


These Koi swam in sync for at least 2 or 3 minutes before I snapped the photo. The darker of two was smaller but appeared more dominant. It gave me pause that as humans we give dominance to size and appearance, rarely do we allow dominance to come from within. Our obsession with outward appearance forces us to submit to inferiority disguised as dominance.


These beautiful flowers seemed to take over the shot. I tried to isolate the flowers but the chaos of their growth wouldn't allow me to. It so true that in order to take control of our lives, sometimes we have to submit and emulate the chaos around us.


I have always been impressed with the pride and cockiness of a rooster. Unlike the Koi, the rooster has accepted that appearance is as much apart of who he is as the vibrant colors of his feathers. I can't help but wonder what secrets this animal may be keeping as he struts through the brush he calls his home.


Honestly, I didn't think this was a very good photo at first. It wasn't until I manipulated the colors that I realized how much of the shot truly is the butterfly. It made me think about my own life as I search for assurance that I am the focus. I may need to just spread my wings and realize that I am as important to the world around me as the world is to me.


These two photos are simplistic and verbose. The story they tell needs no words. The colors allow these flowers to control the photograph and force the eye to focus on them. In my own life, I have found myself the focus of scrutiny and praise. I have found that all of the identities I hide behind: father, husband, writer, lover, son, brother... they can never hold as much weight or importance as my first identity... me.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

The Truth About Siblings

Sometimes I can be a little dishonest. I try to never lie but at times I can be a little less than forthright with the complete truth.

I am the type of writer that rarely writes without muse or motivation. I’ve never been one to just pick up a pen or begin to type without some outside stimulation guiding my words.

I apologize that I wasn’t upfront about the muse or motivation of my last post entitled, “Where I Wanna Be.” I wrote that piece attempting to trick the reader into believing that success, or lack of success was just an abstract thought that came to mind.

Here’s the truth:

I was in my garage looking for my drill this weekend when I stubbed my toe on a large box. Angrily, I kicked the box and it toppled over spilling its contents all over the garage floor. Books. My books. My unread, unsold books. There they were, 50 of them sprawled all over the ground mocking me.

I wrote a book about two years ago entitled, Siblings. Like a father holding his newborn baby, I had great expectations for that novel. I envisioned my infant narrative growing and developing into a strong, strapping best seller. I was sure that I would carefully hand a copy of Siblings to Oprah Winfrey and she would swoon over its carefully crafted words. Alas, that was not the case. My novel became its parent’s biggest disappointment. My book was an embarrassment and a subject I avoided with disdain. I began to question the validity of my willingness to so freely call myself a writer. I vowed to put down my pen and walk away from the very thing I, for years, wanted desperately to identify with. I was sure that I would never stand amongst the great writers of our time. Who would dare mention my name along side Hemingway, Austen, Ellison, or dare I say – Shakespeare?

I fell deep into a well of self-pity and self-loathing. Why didn’t my novel take wings and fly? Why am I not discussing a possible movie deal with an up and coming Hollywood producer?

The answer is very simple. I put tons of effort into writing the book and no effort into promotion, advertising or sales. Also, I didn’t even send Siblings to Oprah, that’s probably why she didn’t read it. For some strange reason I honestly expected the word to just… get out. I approached my novel the same way we often approach our dreams, half-heartedly. We put so much effort into preparation and execution but not endorsement. We expect validation without self-promotion. Being our own worst critic is what many people are good at. Self-pity is an art form that so many of us have perfected. Self-confidence doesn’t come as easy for many of us.

Some of the most successful people in the world have themselves as their worst critic and their biggest fan. We cannot expect to world to see our greatness if we don’t one, believe it and two, tell the world! The word has to spread from our own mouths that the world is a commodity that we will soon own. It is not enough to wait for others to believe in a truth that we are unsure of.

I have started a new novel and a new plan to promote it. I refuse to believe that I lack the skill or passion to bind my words and make them so interesting that the average reader can’t bring herself to put them down. This time around, my goal is to put as much effort into selling my book as I put into writing it. I have to convince anyone who may stand facing the vast sea of literature that a book by Anthony Massey is definitely worth the read. As for the books in my garage, I went into the house and grabbed a Sharpie and began signing them – all 50 of them. I figure when I’m sitting on the couch next to Oprah discussing my sophomore effort, Siblings will be somewhat of a collector’s item.

Where I Wanna Be

I can’t think of one person who didn’t, as a child, dream of the life they would live as an adult. We all fantasized and dreamed of having a life that could only be imagined. We allowed our influences in life: our family, our television, our friends, etc. to help paint a picture of what we define as the ideal.

The ideal. The ideal is nothing more than a concept that we create and emulate. If it is of our own creation, shouldn’t it be feasible that we can modify the ideal as we go along? The simple answer is yes, yes until you find yourself a bit short of ideal. I’ve found myself “short of ideal” a few times in my life. I had these dreams of becoming someone that any and everyone would admire. As I get older I become acutely aware of the fact that the clock is ticking and this is the only life that I will ever live. A wonderful concept if you are living your life at or beyond your expectations. I have been taught that my life belongs to God but the direction of my life is completely a choice that I make. Who amongst us have not remarked, “I am a good person, why isn’t my life better?” I have. I have gone so far as to judge people who don’t appear to have the same morals and values that I have but seem to be living a better life. With anger I scoff at the rich and famous, who obsess over the unimportant and celebrate the very worst in us. The materialistic and misogynistic themes of the rich and famous sicken me... Sicken me so much, I can’t look away.

So here are the lame and insignificant ramblings of someone who has yet to try and who is afraid to fail. Born with no silver spoon, my ideal was to be like those who were so fortunate. I allowed money to be my obsession and repeatedly asked, “why not me?”

Now I get it.

There has to be more to life than money or even success for that matter. There has to be a reality larger and more significant than what we have or do not have. Maturity can be defined as accepting that the ideal exists in the mind and hearts of the person who is willing to dream beyond their circumstances. Having a dream of something better is very different than defining “better” with the materialistic things of this world. Regardless of our beliefs of the afterlife one thing is for certain, nothing we have will go with us. Is it worth spending my life wanting what I don’t have only to ignore the things I do have? Better cars, better houses, better clothes don’t equal a better life. A better life exists in the love I have for God, my family and the love I have for me. I’m no cynic. I don’t believe for a moment that all of the rich are unhappy or unfulfilled. I believe that many people of means have found the happy medium that exists somewhere between having things and coveting things.

I’m learning to appreciate every moment. I’m learning to make my ideal and my life the same, or at the very least, similar. I’m learning that the power I give my regrets and failures are given freely. Where I want to be is a state of mind. I can choose to love my surroundings and embrace the life that I am living. Life is teaching me that shooting for the stars doesn’t mean that you have to lose your footing. It’s possible to have your head in the clouds while simultaneously having your feet planted firmly on the ground. That’s where I want to be. I want to constantly seek opportunities to be great while reveling in the moment, because at this point in my life, to just enough people… I’m pretty awesome. What a great place to be!

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Laugh Without Reason

My kids have returned from their summer vacations and with them they have brought back laughter to our home. I’m not talking about the type of laughter that follows a funny joke or a one-liner on a television sitcom. I mean gut-wrenching, awkward, milk-out-the noise joy that only a child can summon. Their wild eyes and inappropriate innocence is what every house requires in order to truly breathe.

As a father, I won’t lie; I’ve often tried to kill that laughter by insisting that my kids “grow up!” My sons have felt the worst of this wrath because, as a man, I live in constant fear that they will come short of my own journey to manhood. Desperate for my boys to be twice the man I am, I often push them rather than allow them to lazily stroll out of their childhood at their own pace.

My youngest son Desmond has an imagination that would rival the set of any Hollywood studio. He creates in his mind characters and stories that astound me with realism. His outlook on life is so naïve it frightens me. It scares me that he sees none of the pain and cynicism in the world. It scares me that his mind only processes the very best in everyone and that he and his siblings find the laughter in all situations. It scares me because the world will never allow him to retain possession of his optimism. It scares me even more that what he sees reality and I have created a watered down version of truth.

My oldest son, Jordan attempts to be a man after my own skepticism. He peeks around corners and tiptoes through situations being always on the look out for a possible ambush. However, in moments of weakness he can be found hanging out with his younger sister and brother rolling on the floor engaged in an imaginative contest with rules that are just as ridiculous as the goal. He wants to be the teenager that gets lost down the corridor of gloom but the optimism of adolescence keeps clearing a path for elation. I feel for my son because though he teeters on the threshold of adulthood having equal passage back and forth from youth and maturity, eventually one door will close forever.

I feel like a hypocrite telling my kids that the world is theirs for the taking and in the same breathe warning them of the pitfalls of the very world they can soon possess. Work hard and no one can stop you! Of course, you should be careful because there are plenty of people who will try.

I hope I have not painted a picture of grim despair while the children are not present. My wife and I have a great time together but never with the amiable and carefree approach to life of my kids. Whenever they are all in the same room a game of make believe creates a fantastical world that only they can see but my wife and I can enjoy. My wife and I have sat and listened to them describe the vivid and colorful world around them that we often only see in black and white. With broad-brush strokes they paint the world with colors such as happiness, joy, wonder, and delight. We are the audience with a front row ticket to the happiest show on earth, the pure and untouched perception of life through the eyes of children.

Tomorrow I think I will take an early day and ask my kids to show me a glimpse of a world that I haven’t in a very long time. With any luck they can teach to me to laugh uncontrollably and absolutely without reason.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

India Rivers

The other day I walked into a coffee shop nestled on the infamous Pacific Coast Highway in Southern California and spotted. a writer. Having traveled abroad, discovering another writer invokes the same familiarity as bumping into an American while navigating through a sea of an unfamiliar culture. I recognized her as a writer though she presented herself in what is now a very peculiar manner. She was the diamond in the rough that is recognized by a similarly unpolished gem. The environment and setting was perfect, she sat on the patio at a small metal table with a cup of coffee steaming in front of her. What gave her an uncharacteristic appearance were the spiral notebooks and leather-bound journals that surrounded her. In her mouth was a ballpoint pen tapping gently on her teeth as plots, characters, storylines, and the perfect ending swirled around in her mind.

In this day and age of "now" I was shocked to meet someone who approached the creative process the old-fashioned way. Understand I am not judging nor belittling the modern day laptop user. I am that writer. I am the writer that just had to go out and purchase the sleekest, shiniest and most innovative laptop I could afford before I could even dream of starting a blog. How am I to write without the perfect word processor and blogging software? Gone were the days of the inviting prod of a black and white, brand new composition notebook filled with fresh, white, untouched pages. The comfort of a favorite pen that made the words just spill on to the pages has been replaced with the gentle hum and peck of a powerful machine.

This traditionalist author faced writing in the most self imposing method possible. She had no delete key to erase the ridiculous storyline she had been chasing for the past twenty-five pages. She had no CMD-up arrow keys to search through pages and pages to remember if the backdrop of her novel was the beach or the river.

No, she had to do this the old-fashioned way; she had to face her writing failures head on. If she made a mistake then she is forced to either one-line or scribble out her erroneous thoughts. The constant reminder
remains until she relents and tears away the page. This is raw, unadulterated writing.

I dared not disturbed her but just had to comment on how inspiring she was. Her zeal for writing and recognition as a writer were apparent in the brief encounter we shared. Her eyes seemed to occupy the conversation as the flickered about as she spoke of her passion. She was a writer. she was afraid, self-conscious, unsure, and flattered all at the same time. She was candid and relieved when I told her I too had found myself writing three separate novels at the same time unsure if I'd finish one of them. We shared a kinship in the span of ten minutes when we confessed that we wanted the world to read our words but wanted none of the judgment that was sure to follow.

Thank you, renaissance writer. Thank you, proprietor of the pad and ink pen for reminding me of all the reasons I began writing the stories that played out so vividly in my mind as a child. I want to believe that this encounter was God's way of telling me to keep writing. I want to believe that He puts little mirrors in all of us so that we can see ourselves in the ambition of others.

Hello world, India Rivers and I are writers.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Is the Food Really That Good Here??

I am a customer service Nazi. I am the type of person that believes that when I walk into any establishment that will require any exchange of money for goods or services I should be treated like I have a choice. I don’t necessarily believe that my butt should be kissed (though it wouldn’t hurt) but at the very least treat me as if I could walk out the door and right into your competitor’s wallet. I’ve been to different restaurants, retail shops, etc. and it is no secret or surprise that the more potential financial gain the better the customer service. It as if the cheaper the product the less the employees feel the need to show the customer that he or she is important. This never made much sense to me because if I was buying a Land Rover then what I want is a Land Rover. Very few people walk into a Land Rover dealership looking for just an “SUV.” However, there is a better chance of someone walking onto a Ford lot just looking for a compact that gets good mileage. This is the person that deserves your attention because literally they can find your product anywhere. Same goes for a burger, a sweater, or any other item that is sold in millions of retail and service stores throughout America.

Restaurants are the worst. I believe in rewarding excellent customer service but always feel a little empty leaving a healthy tip for someone who did what everyone should be doing. I always tip at least fifteen percent because I believe and fear the power of Karma; however I’ve been known to tip upwards of thirty percent for someone who really went out of their way to make me feel comfortable. There is no reason to disrespect or be rude to any paying customer. The customer is always right not because he is the customer; the customer is always right because the customer has the money. Now I do not agree with customer’s abusing their right to be right. The other day I went with my wife to get a pedicure (okay, I went to get a pedicure and my wife came along) and a woman walked into the nail salon claiming that she had left a bottle of nail polish at the salon the last time she was there. One of the salon employees politely asked her if she knew what color the polish was or what station she sat at while getting her manicure. The customer couldn’t answer either question but became increasingly agitated that the employees didn’t set her polish to the side and save it for her next visit. To add to this unreasonable request, when the employee asked her one of her co-workers if she had seen the bottle in her native tongue, the woman snidely remarked, “Speak English so I know what you are saying.”

This was a classic display of classicism in my opinion. I find it reprehensible when people treat service oriented employees as second class citizens. First and foremost, leaving a bottle of nail polish in a nail shop and expecting the employees to set it aside without communicating this expectation is ridiculous. Secondly, crass remarks before receiving service can alter the service that you receive. I believe we must expect great service everywhere we are served but I also believe that customers should be just as accommodating. In a crowded restaurant does it serve any purpose to repeatedly ask the maître'd or hostess if you have been called? You are seated a table with more the five people a little patience with the waiter may result in faster service. If you try on multiple garments in multiple sizes asking the employee at the GAP to retrieve clothes for you, can you understand that she may get an attitude if you purchase…nothing?

There is an unwritten rule that I am often the victim of: Horrible service forgiven by GREAT food. Now understand that the food has to be delectable and indescribable in words. The food has to give the consumer pause as it dances on their palate. I’m talking excellent chow. Very few establishments can boast of this rarity but there are a few. I had barbecue in Oklahoma at a little dive call John and Cook’s Barbecue and though the waitress seemed a little less than interested, the grub was amazing. There’s a restaurant I visit once or twice a year in Oceanside, California called the Hill Street Café that I have never received good service but the egg frittatas are amazing. Hypocrite? Why, yes I am. At those places I make the conscious decision to get my order to go so that I can enjoy their luscious victuals in the privacy of my home or car. I’ve thought of complaining but I'm reminded of the Seinfeld’s Soup Nazi. Sometimes you have to ask yourself, is the food really that good here? If the answer is yes, order your soup, have your money ready, and move on!

Monday, August 3, 2009

Author of Your Dreams

There are two peers that I have encountered in my life that I considered both friend and inspiration. I don't think I have ever really communicated the impact each has had on me but individually my two friends have changed how I approach life.

My adult life has been a bit of a roller coaster filled with ups, downs, turns and of course, the occasional stand still. For years I could relate to that moment a gut-wrenching ride at a theme park sits perched high atop an apex after a slow deliberate ascent. It is as if that moment of anticipation right before the plunge has been put on pause in my life. I know the descent is coming but I just can't find the energy to get enough momentum to start the horrific and exhilarating fall.

This standstill is the result of not being the author of my own dreams. For years I have allowed other people in my life to guide my steps and create my path. I have known for years that I wanted to write but writing is not exactly the type of nine to five that brings home a lot of bacon. Years ago, I should have taken the pen from the naysayers and the people who suggested that I invest my time and energy into a more fruitful endeavor. There were those who cheered me on and said go for it, but always added "be sure to have something to fall back on." Having something to fall back on eliminates the "go for it." A shot at anything great is always one shot. Wasting a bullet on a safe target only means that the true target, the impossible target, the sexy target will continue to flap in the breeze untouched.

I know two people (well many but these two sharply come to mind) that wrote their own dreams and are now happier because of it. My very good friends Kelly and Marlow both authored, edited, and published their dreams. Both overcame odds to attend school even at the cost of ostracizing themselves from those of us who didn't understand the urgency of their goal. Both Kelly and Marlow made a decision and answered with uncompromising assurance the question that plagues many of us for years, "What do I want to do with my life?" I'm sure each of them can attest to the struggles they faced then and a few that may come up now, but I am positive that their sense of accomplishment far outweighs any discomfort that life may introduce. Kelly and Marlow both became professionals in their fields, achieving a goal that most have to been on course for from the very beginning. These two remarkable people found their way through trial and error and the occasional detour. They never allowed life to even suggest that "here" is good enough. I believe their tenacity was a result of knowing the direction of their travels. In other words, they never gave up the map.

I believe that so many of us get lost on the way to our dreams because we have no clue where exactly we want to go. Instead, we allow others to dictate our path. The goal is important because it makes the journey worthwhile. If there is no goal, the journey becomes a useless and
inconsequential trip. Kelly and Marlow have taught me through their triumphs, success and failures that what I want should be just as important as what I am willing to do to get it. I don't envy their success because to do so is to surrender to the idea that I am incapable of duplicating that type of accomplishment in my own life. I have to believe that, although they are two very intelligent people, their intelligence has no bearing on their achievement. I have to believe it is the desire and steadfastness of their commitment that brought them to their goal. Believing this affirms that it doesn't matter how smart I am or talented, it only matters that I am willing to go through to get to.

Thank you Marlow and thank you Kelly and thank all of you who have authored your dreams to fruition for giving us, who are still writing, a blueprint for our own success. Adopting your insistence for triumph has been the push I needed to get over the hump and begin my fall...hands raised, wind in my face, screaming at the top of my lungs.

If imitation is truly the best form of flattery then my goal is to imitate your inability to allow anyone besides you to be the author of your masterpiece.

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