T for Tom

Sea of Dreams

Posted in poem by johnsontoms on October 6, 2017

The valedictorian was the son of a truck driver

Had two brothers

Both older

Valedictorians the same.

I was eight seats behind the youngest when my name was called at graduation,

In order by our grade point average.

Some two hundred were behind us

Ordered by name to save them the shame.

But the kids at the top were spotlighted

And for us it felt like the inauguration to life.

It was affirmation that the kids would be all right.

 

With the applause came the dreams made for us

As much as by us

And the weight of expectations.

Those in the back came off easy

Because the valedictorian, well,

He was supposed to be a doctor.

The second fellow a lawyer

And the girl in third a politician.

Didn’t matter that we were sons of truck drivers

And so the dreams of our fathers weren’t out of sight.

The kids in the back could just smoke grass

And they’d be all right.

 

Those stuck with dreams weren’t the only ones to go on learning

And we weren’t the only ones to drop out either

We weren’t the only ones drinking underage

Smoking all day

And changing our minds

And for everyone it’s safe to say

We all missed the mark by a little.

None of us are astronauts, were never meant to be,

But a few of the kids are still all right.

 

A few of them made a few more moves and played it safe

Went out and became teachers before taking wives.

Not too far out, really,

When you’re still that close to shore.

 

A few others waded too deep and took the first thing

Married, then kids,

Then the fucking mortgages

While the lucky ones died just before.

 

We’re not really dreaming when we’re all doing the same thing.

 

Best to burn out bright

Or not go gently into night

Or whatever it is that keeps you from floating

Shifting around with human ghosts

Nothing to see

All of us lost on the sea of dreams.

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This Proximity to the Water’s Edge

Posted in Europe, Prose, Remember to Remember by johnsontoms on October 6, 2017

She had boarded the ship that would take her back across the water to her home, a ferry, but really a large cruiser that was used to transport people throughout the Scandinavian and Baltics via sea. I had made that sea-bound trip myself before from Estonia but this time flew into Helsinki and waited there for her arrival. Three days later she was leaving now and I had six hours or so until my return flight. I wanted nothing better than to walk around in the sun, or what little bit of it could slice through the Easter clouds of the typically grey Finnish morning.

My second time in Helsinki, this, and mostly all of both spent near the harbor, what is the heart of the city. That famous cathedral you know in the photos just a 100-meters or so off the central harbor not far from where she boarded, the steps to the chapel hall numbering some 50 or 60, enough that from its doors it overlooks the buildings at its feet and off into the water in the distance and further into eternity.

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I was so vibrant then.

Helsinki feels that way, the buildings rising to uniform height, all the even lines vertically and horizontally, so tight that merely meandering the human paths before you can feel as if stumbling through the Coliseum of the heavens.

But I didn’t go back to the chapel this morning, not for a third time just a couple days prior, but huddled close to the water line. It was early April and the sun comes up around 4am, had been up about five hours now as I walked the sidewalks along the water. The grass to my right separated me from the red brick apartment homes that overlooked it all. And from this proximity to the water’s edge, you can see, even in springtime, the frozen layer of ice that covers the sea for as far as the eye can stretch.

It’s been broken up now but not thawed. It moves slowly with the push of the ships coming to and from. It never laps recklessly like surf but merely slushes back and forth, hardly a line opening up to show the dark blue infinite. Just ice of various depths, the earth in cycle.

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…   …   …   …   …   …   …   …   …   …   …

I sat there for the entirety of my hours and wondered how something could be seen as less than cosmic. Equally of magic and beyond our machinations but yet so rote and earthen. Here long before us, here long after.

Like the frozen sea so too like the fiddles here, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over over and over and over and over, slowly, again, ceaseless unending, evangelical and worthy of praise.

 

One Minute for a Million Opportunities

Posted in america, poem, Remember to Remember by johnsontoms on August 24, 2017

Staring out the window of our second-floor barracks room, facing southeast outward to the parking lot in front of our Alpha Company building, there were a few tall, green oaks that stood in the hundred-foot space that separated our building from Bravo Company barracks next to ours. Our room was near the corner, and the two windows that on either side of my locker were always open because the air conditioner was in disrepair at all times. First thing in the morning and last thing at night, the scene out the window would be dark except for the orange glowing halogen in the street lamp between buildings. But every morning just after physical training and each afternoon at the end of class, the few minutes when I could slow down to think for myself for just one minute, I’d approach my locker and then swiftly move aside for the other five soldiers I shared the room with who were eager to shower or eat or busy themselves in some or other. Early on during that training phase in Virginia, the second and longest I’d endure after entering the Army, we had limited personal time and were under constant supervision. When other soldiers across the Army were training to be infantrymen and supply men and gunners and were scrutinized during a short, two-month period that saw constant activity and rare personal time, my classmates and I were the fortunate ones. As aircraft repairmen, we set about a long, six-month, class-based training phase that freed us up for almost every afternoon.

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The hangar.

And every day that I’d get off that converted school bus that carted us from the hangar back to the barracks, after standing in formation to hear our orders, if we weren’t scheduled to conduct barracks maintenance or trash pickup or supply loading or weapons maintenance or general training, and if we weren’t forced to get in the chow formation and march to the dining facility, if all those things lined up, we could have the evening to ourselves, only so long as we didn’t leave the barracks footprint. It was limited to the basketball court and bleachers immediately in the front or the PT field adjacent, but we could go there. If we wanted. And during those days, when I had the freedom to make a personal decision, I’d stand at that window and look out at the green, take in the sun through the window, and ask myself what I wanted to do that evening.

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The locker, the windows on both sides.

I’d listen for the clang of a chain net that meant some were playing basketball, or I’d see Ryan and Jason taking off to the smoke shack for cigarettes. Later on in training, as we were given more privileges, we would walk to the library a half-mile away and sit in the smoke shack there alone, away from the hundred other soldiers that were constantly around. During the first early weeks when we’d walk to the library or the post exchange, I’d picked up a couple CDs. It was the only way I had to get music, culture of any kind, and was the first time I’d been able to do either in six months time. One of them was the latest Fleet Foxes album, Helplessness Blues. A while later in the summer, it was Bon Iver’s Bon Iver, Bon Iver, but in the early weeks and with no other way to get new music, Fleet Foxes was played over and over and over. I put the album on my computer and on my phone which I had access to only in the evenings. The sergeants would occasionally do uniform checks in formation to see if any soldier had snuck their phone to class, and so going without, I made the habit of throwing that locker open when I came back from class, turning on a song and staring out the window. It was only 5pm, but after 12 hours of commands, that peaceful, gentle minute to myself, to make any damn decision, was the minute I lived for. What would I do today? really can be the truth of freedom.

We had a day once, just a couple hours. John and I set out to find the body of water on post, because godammit there was a body of water. If you’re not familiar with how wonderful the sight of a lake can be after six months of walls and trees, then you won’t understand why I nearly broke down crying just listening to the soft wave from a fresh lake lap up on the hard dirt beach. I mean, we just took a walk to the water, and it was magnificent.

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The lake on that day.

“After all is said and after all is done I feel the same / All that I hoped would change within me stayed.”

Through these little moments of repurposing our perspectives on freedom, the spirit was rich and growing, but I was still that lost, confused young man looking for answers, questions that led me to the Army. I guess I remember this song most during those early afternoons because I’ve always been afraid that I wouldn’t become something, even in the abstract. Because it was enough then just to have a cigarette after class, and it was enough then just to order a pizza a couple times a week if only to eat outside the DFAC, and it was enough then just to be with the friends I’d made in a forced environment. Inside me, some things stayed: the desire to be great, the unending feelings of failure and loss and hopelessness, that my dreams were always tethered to the fortunes of circumstance, circumstances that led me to the army. And I knew it would take much more time to get anywhere nearer I wanted to be, because in those times, in those vacuum environments, it was enough to just be with people who understood.

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That’s Ryan Landes in the smoke shack where we hid.

“After all is said and all is done / God only knows which one of them I’ll become.”

More days than not I chose to live. Thankfully. I could’ve never seen the rest coming.

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John, Jason, Ryan, myself; Hampton, VA, 2011

A Few Weeks In and a Future So Bright

Posted in Europe, Prose, Remember to Remember by johnsontoms on August 23, 2017

There’s a moment I remember in concert with this song, but the swell of emotions more accurately encompass the totality of a larger, greater period of years. M83 is a French artist, and I’d listened to his music in various depths throughout college. But there was always something about the lead single from his 2011 album HurryUpWe’reDreaming., “Midnight City,” that just told me the coming set of songs would be special. It came out five days after I landed in Germany and was nothing short of a soundtrack to those years in my life. It felt like birth, and the song “Intro” remains as much to me a sensation of new beginning, tied permanently with any great moment of vision I’ve ever had and create still today.

The moment I remember clearly, though, centered around a conversation I had with John and Corey in Ansbach, only a month after we landed in country for the first time. Corey and I were stationed in our home village of Illesheim, about 20 miles west, and had been to Ansbach once before, with a weekend in Nuremberg sandwiched in between. Because I had a flare for the cinematic, I had set about a plan to only travel out into Europe in steps, one distance at a time, each distance greater than the last. It began by walking to the nearest village the first weekend I had arrived, even if I were under orders not to leave base. Two weeks later and no longer on restriction, I took my first train ride to Ansbach, only those 20 miles, but a little bit further. Corey and I then spend four days in Nuremberg, about 50 miles away, and made the greatest friends we could have imagined there in the city. Our suspicions were proven true, and we knew Europe would be the blessing it truly was. A week after that Nuremberg trip we had reconvened to drink again and walk around Ansbach. With little direction at all, and with more joy to ever gained in the town center than can be done in one visit, we went back to the old town, which like any good European city was the center of the town and built around a centuries-old church.

From John’s apartment up the hill, it was a direct walk down the towering land overhead that made way to the river bed where the church sat in the middle of the town, a 30-minute’s walk to paradise. Once through a little urban apartments that scattered outside the old town ring, and under the breezeway supported by a bell tower and clock, the walkways no longer accepted cars, narrowed into tight, cobblestone lined paths, and was lit up by the shops on all sides, the shopkeepers living overhead in the second floor and third floors. The road makes an S-curve quickly and just past the coffee shop there heading north sat a döner stand, on the east side of the street. It was the quick bite, but it was also the most rewarding. We started each night in Ansbach this way, and rather than getting cooped up in a restaurant, we took the döners outside with a beer and sat on the steps to watch the passersby, the light peering in from in between the tall urban shops and homes turning from pale blue to orange and finally to a rich hue of navy, night setting in overhead and the soft white of the cobblestone illuminating from the lamps on every wall and on all sides. Europe really has a special way of lighting up at night.

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John standing in that European night.

I remember sitting there buying beer after beer, talking about our hopes and dreams for the immediate future. We didn’t have conversations about the state of politics (not directly, anyway), and we didn’t set out our plans for financial security. We were men under control of other men, and the best we could hope for was the freedom to travel the world on the other side, one weekend at a time. We made jokes about the few places we’d been, the things we’d learned, and how we’d do it better next time. We talked about Corey spending an entire afternoon in Ansbach sitting at the outdoor coffee shop not 30 feet from our current location, sipping radlers until we were drunk, making his plan for approaching the beautiful girl who worked in the jewelry store directly in our vision. The sun hung sweetly overhead all that afternoon, a blue sky blue, as we burned through a pack of cigarettes and dreamed of getting to know her name. He eventually went in, tried on a watch, and came out alone.

Later on after the döners, we made our way to a nearby bar that became our patronage. I liked being in these new places with these wonderful people, like Aldi, the bartender and owner at Brasserie who always laughed with us and poured us shots of absinthe (pronounced “ab-sin-tay!,” emphasis on the exclamation), the only people in his bar after dinner hours. I liked being in a strange, small, low-ceiling building that I learned was commonplace and expected. I liked eating strange and different foods, drinking whatever was passed my way. But mostly I liked walking from each of these places to the next and not even really knowing where the next one was or in what shape it would take. We needed another bar and so we put on our coats to warm us from the chill of the European winter and started walking in any direction, usually the direction opposite of the way we came. Endless adventure, always onward. I remember walking by a chapel on the way back to John’s apartment, the kind of chapel that is innocuous in and of itself, but from the alley where we emerged just slightly downhill from the chapel, it appeared to rise like a mammoth and stand lit, a stone-cut yellow giant against the faint last breathes of a blue sky day fading into night. And I remember it being magical.

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That church rising like a monolith.

But mostly I remember sitting outside that döner stand and talking about the future and how it had no end. In a short week’s time I’d be able to pick up my car from the port of call where military vehicles were shipped. I’d finally be able to start driving around Europe. I loved the train, but I loved even more being able to go anywhere at any time. I remember how I didn’t even have an idea yet of where I would go, only that I would be driving through Germany and Europe like it was my home, because it had become that, though I didn’t feel it just yet. I remember telling John, “I’m going to get in that car and speed down the autobahn, M83 at full blast.” I remember saying it was “European music in a European car on a European highway” and I just wanted to feel the breeze from the open windows at ninety miles an hour.

And then I did, and the future never felt so bright.

Age 25, First Snow

Posted in Remember to Remember by johnsontoms on August 22, 2017

I had only been back from Rome for a couple weeks and wasn’t traveling anytime soon to save for whatever came next. Most of my friends were off to the Alps for skiing, and I had been left behind without a plan, alone there on the post with the German winter to pass the time. It was inviting. Farmland spread all around, the grey skies over the rolling hills of deep green fields where the farmers woke before sunrise to till with manure before the ice set in. It was the beginning of January and the worst of winter hadn’t yet arrived. Without a snowfall, it didn’t seem to have been quite winter yet, though it was still very cold.

Just a few weeks before, on Christmas Eve in fact, I had been in a town about 30 miles to the east visiting a good friend at his own army post. We had gone out for the last of the Christkindlemarkts, the festivals in every German town where merchants gathered and music was played and food and alcohol was served and where the spirit of Christmas was so rich that it could’ve been a film played before our eyes. It wasn’t our first time to the Christkindlemarkts. I went there in Ansbach with John some three or four times, but I had been also to Wurzburg, Nurnberg, Munich, Bad Windsheim, Rothenburg ob der Tauber, and a couple more. Each were different and unique and I wanted to get them all in me, to see the lights and savor the mulled wine that was served by the cauldron at each, each township with their own slightly different brew. At the last of the markets there in Ansbach, we weren’t intending on getting wild, but posted up by a fire pit with a glass of wine and listened to the local horn bands play their renditions of Christmas classics up on the stage, complete with John Denver’s “Country Roads.” Under the blanked of night but standing under a wooden awning to cover the fire, the snow began to fall for the first time, at least in my life. John had told me before that it snowed in Ansbach a few weeks ago, but the 30 miles distance between the two towns was more pronounced by the nearly 300-meter difference in elevation as Illesheim, my home, sat just below a steep drop from the plateau that defined upper Bavaria. It was enough to keep us from sharing weather events, and the early snow fell above the plateau after drifting up the ridge with the rising winds. I had to wait for my first snow.

It happened in that couple of weeks after Rome when I was alone. I don’t remember what I was doing at the time, if I had left the gym or the commissary or was just generally going for a walk in the first place. But I remember seeing the snow begin to fall and thinking that I must walk further, out and into it. The thing I love and miss most about the German farmlands in their connectivity, each combined by a walking path for tractors to drive and horses to walk and just generally to get about in large areas where roads don’t exist. Where in Texas there was no way thru, in Germany everyone was welcome to saunter by. I had walked out into these fields this way already many times, but in the late morning hours on this day, I felt it in me as necessary. I packed a bag with a heavy number of half-liter beers, put on my jacket and just started walking toward the next village in the way I always had.

I remember along the way, after crossing the creek from the village twice and stepping over the bridge that headed to main turn toward Bad Windsheim, there was a little pond on the left. Very small, about the size of a bedroom, but a foot or more deep. It became the first frozen body of water I ever walked over on that day, and remains the last. I sat for a time at a bench along the walkway, staring at the thin line of trees that separated the two fields before me, watching the branches sway gently, the snow falling to the ground. When the skies are grey it doesn’t look like the snow comes from anywhere in particular. But the skies were always grey in Germany, and the snow was thick and real but soft and plenty. It landed on the arms of my black jacket and sat for a few minutes before melting away. It gathered on the paved walkway, it gathered on the leaves of the single tree next to the bench where I sat. I blew heavily under the bridge of the road about 100 meters away, and through that bridge by another kilometer was Bad Windsheim.

Instead of taking the path all the way to main road that entered the circular village from the south, I followed the short cut footpath into the village from the west where it would take me to the grocery store. The footpath ended on a road that guided me north into the heart of the village, a few lovely two-story homes along both sides of the road before a block of empty lots that sat behind the village cemetery. The cemetery gate was open and I went in.

There were a few people walking about the cemetery slowly. In the center was a small building that held maybe two rooms, and the headstones were on all four sides. It wasn’t a large cemetery, but it serviced the village well, I’m sure. The oldest date I saw was 1914, I remember clearly, because I learned from John later on that the bodies were interned for only so long before being rotated out – there just wasn’t enough room for all the people to be buried. But there were probably 300 graves there now, in one of most four shapes. The dark, dirt green and rust brown fading over the stone that on this dark day looked more black than any color of rock. Large oak trees sat in the center of each grouping of tombstones, to give shade to the dead. But in this grey, snowy sky, it cast a dark, late evening-like feeling over the middle of the day. I walked from corner to corner and took in the scene, all the grave stones that were marked with crosses, a few with saints, but none larger than a single headstone, no great fanfare for any single person over the rest. For the few people that still walked through the cemetery I eventually ended up on the northern boundary where the exterior wall of stone had a hallway lined with wooden benches. I took a seat.

I peered out from the hallway into the cemetery, dark above me from the brick overhead, shade below me from the trees, tombstones scattered out before me, and all of it shaking with the snow that fell to the ground, each piece growing more and more and more white with the time that passed and the snow that gathered. The sky never brightened, the day never ended, and I sat there for an hour or more listening to “o god, where are you now?” The song says there’s no other man that could raise the dead, but I felt like I could right then and there.

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The fields where I lived and walked often.

I Didn’t Miss It At All

Posted in Europe, Prose, Remember to Remember by johnsontoms on August 17, 2017

It was going to be my first time out of the country, or at least the country that was my new home. You see, in America, where I spent the first 24 years of my life, I had never crossed into a neighboring country such as Mexico or Canada. The distances were too far, the limits too great, the benefit too low. That last sentiment is surely wrong on all accounts, but it was the feeling I was given by my country – Mexico has nothing to offer, Canada is the same but colder. We never go, we never went.

But in Germany now for the first time, living and working with no end in sight, I had a grasp on the nearness of the countries, and by a large, unfilled whole in my working knowledge, I knew that each boundary meant separately unique, different, and succinct cultures and nations. I knew that each line was a defensive boundary built over hundreds and thousands of years and these simple lines meant new languages, new colors, new foods, new music, new politics, and new people. I had only been in Germany for six weeks but my appetite had grown immensely in the short time I had there. Each year in Belgium, the town of Bastogne celebrates its independence from Nazi Germany by staging a recreation of the march of the U.S. 101st Airborne Division that held during the siege of the Ardennes forest over the longest winter on earth, and pushed the Nazis back. There would be foot marches with citizens from around the continent, battle reenactments, regalia displays, parades, and booze of all kinds. I knew I had to go.

It was only a few months before while still in training in Virginia that I had purchased my first Norah Jones album, a CD of The Fall. That CD became a soundtrack to a room that I shared with the only person to understand me in the Army, and we played a long game of chess by moving a single piece at a time between our bunks. But when I got to Germany (as did my friend, although to another unit in another village nearby), I finally had access again to the internet. I decided I needed the rest of Norah Jones’s albums and went about getting them. In order, I listened to each of them in full.

So there, that month after arriving in Germany, I sat in the back of a Mercedes TMP, the kind the military purchases in lots throughout Europe to facilitate quick ease of transport for these types of events. It was a recreational event, but as one that promoted camaraderie with the local nationals, could be given a leave of absence and promoted throughout our unit. We were able to check out the TMPs and drive ourselves on the unit’s dollar. Everyone that was attending the event had been given pass to leave during the day on Friday, but there were a few of us stuck behind for the change of command ceremony to welcome the new battalion commander. As my reputation as a reporter always preceded me, I was selected to give the commencement and was among that small group leaving afterward. I didn’t know the sergeants I was leaving with well and took the entire back seat to myself, the floors stripped of any carpeting, the heater not working. And I sat there listening to all of Norah Jones while the roads passed by.

In Germany, there are no billboards or stores or gas stations on the side of the highway. There are farms and villages occasionally, but the highways were built to be out of the way of the people in the towns, and their rules regarding pollution keep it free of clutter and light and noise. The sky that day was a typical German sky, the kind I miss most; a deep grey throughout from the clouds that only just might drop rain, with small breaks of white, though the sun never shone through. The hills of Bavarian green grazed our sides for hours as first we passed Frankfurt, then Cologne, and continued west. Slowly, the hills became larger and the vastness of the forests grew in height. All the while the sky stayed green, and only occasionally a small mist might develop on the windows, but never a hard rain. The forest of oaks turned to large, upward columns of pine, and it’s the closest I ever got to a Vermont winter, all the way on the other side of the planet.

The first words were always the most important to me, from the moment I heard them: “As I sit and watch the snow fall…” It’s a feeling I always wanted since I was a child. To wake up and see the drifts of white descending to the ground, a new world unfolding over the one we walk through every day. I had never had that. But vast pieces of art, works of literature, and entire operas have been devoted to the snow. I had known it my whole life, but never seen these things other people talk about, the things that are dressed up in language to describe home, belonging, warmth. Snow always meant a sense of place to me – the idea that you could have a place to yourself under warmth of a fire while the snow fell outside. It wasn’t snowing on this day, but I knew it would soon, maybe days and weeks later, but I knew the snow was coming. I knew I would finally have the feelings I was never given during Christmas, during winter, during the times we should be alone and at peace. I sat there in the back of the van alone, listened to Norah, and stared at the pine and knew I would have my winter moment for the first time, soon.

I wasn’t talking, no one talking to me. There were no sounds of cars on the empty highway. There were no sights of people on a road miles from the nearest village. There was only the pine going by the thousands, and the sound of a piano in my ear.

I didn’t think of anything specific. I only thought of the general years and lifetime before these first few weeks abroad. And I didn’t miss it at all.

Mojave 3 – Bluebird of Happiness

Posted in Europe, Prose by johnsontoms on August 16, 2017

I have a playlist of 200 songs that remind me of the best, wildest, strangest years of my life, the sound track to my third life. This will be the first in a series chronicling just what a few of those songs means.

Rain pattered on the window as I stayed awake on the floor, eyes on the white, cantilevered ceiling. We were together on the floor unintentionally-intentionally because she was moving in two weeks and the furniture was already gone. This weekend was reserved for us to be together alone for the first time away from our friends, a chance to get closer. I drove us down to Munich that night in the dark, late on a Friday after I left work and picked her up from her home. The drive down was like the other times I’d driven to Munich on the autobahn, but a little darker and with a little more rain and with a girl I’d only just fingered the week before. It was her idea to go to Munich and I didn’t question the details, even now as I lay in a sleeping bag in an empty apartment.

The ceiling is the thing I remember most. How these types of homes in Germany and across Europe are so small, but so ample for a person. The spaces on the top floor are even worse, where we navigate the rooms that are built into the slopes of the exterior ceiling, one room drooping away from the center in this direction, the other room drooping in the opposite. It was like something out of all the black and white films I had ever seen, but I was living this one, a few minutes at time.

She was much younger than I, and I was only beginning to find out. She wanted to please me, do everything I asked, do anything I could think of and more, except for the few things she wasn’t ready to. Once we were through the door, and even while driving the two hours from Nuremberg, it was a constant series of questions about what I wanted, where I wanted to be, the things I wanted to do. I just wanted to fuck there in the apartment at some point over the weekend. After we parked my car that first night we went straight up to the apartment, dropped off our things, and out for dinner.

That night I learned that she wasn’t going to have sex with me. There on the carpet in a sleeping bag with two bottles of wine in us, I didn’t think much of it. But it was the morning I remember.

It was still raining but the clouds have a way of thinning out in Germany that provides enough high-grey light while raining and still keeping the sun from shining directly. I could see it was one of those days from the floor where I stared up at the ceiling. We were using her laptop computer for music, for the same reasons we were on the floor. It was silent as I woke up before her, dismissed myself to the bathroom and relieved myself of the night’s drinks. She had an eye open when I came back and so I turned on the computer thinking that I might get laid here.

I needed something quiet, peaceful, not overwhelming, and instantly I thought of the soundtrack to the O.C. Clicked onto youtube and started the first playlist I saw. We sat there on the floor necking and kissing and staring at each other before I moved my hands into her pants and really thought this time that she was too young and inexperienced, and I knew then why she wasn’t ready. Just never had before. She went down on me, and I knew from the way it ended that she’d never done that either.

I told her it was okay and stared back at the ceiling as she cradled into my shoulder, the rain still falling, the ceiling overhead illuminating with the rising sun and the soft words echoing over and over from the speakers: “Gotta find a way to get back home, gotta find a way back home.”

There are other things I remember. The locals in all the pubs celebrating the home team’s big victory, and the emptiness of being with a girl I knew I’d be leaving. I remember walking everywhere in the rain and sharing an umbrella that only sheltered one. I remember the weekend being like nothing I wanted, but leaving a lasting mark in my memory. And I remember, as much time as we spent in the apartment cooking food and drinking wine and laughing and not fucking, I turned the Mojave 3 on over and over again, time and time again, even though I’d just heard it for the first time during that rain-spilled Saturday morning. I remember lying there thinking of this girl and her wonderful innocence, and thinking that even as juvenile as the days had become, they were nothing less than sweet, and I remember thinking that even sweet has a place in my memory, like this day now holds. But mostly I remember lying on my back and staring up at that white ceiling, dotted with the shadows of the raindrops on the window, and I remember being hopeful.

I remember thinking that this was home. Not the girl, explicitly, nor Munich and Europe, necessarily, but the movements in my life. Movements forward had become my home and the only place I could truly be comfortable. Home for me will always be on the road.

Everywhere I go now, I take home, as a piece of mind, with me. Got to find a way back home.

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We Have Never Defeated Nazism

Posted in america, Prose by johnsontoms on August 14, 2017

Fewer and fewer times do I have things to say. The myriad issues that plague us, approachingly, personally, more and more each day, the more I am becoming numb. The struggle for positivity is at large among the world favoring those on the wrong side, and each event is merely evidence in loss. Charlottesville is no different. I am not surprised that such an event even had ideation and was organized in principle; I am not surprised that many like-minded individuals attended in support, among which many wore and flew Nazi flags, symbols, regalia, and dress; I am not surprised that those who hold (rightfully) values in opposition chose to counter-protest; I am not surprised that these clashes ended in death; I am not surprised that the President is unmoved. What I am surprised about, by many on both sides (to use a phrase), is the end-gaming that Nazism, as an idea and object, is both at once to blame for the outcome and at the same time defeatable. It’s presence at the event and in the year 2017 (the year two thousand and fucking seventeen) should make obvious that Nazism, as an avatar of hate, simple hate, is both indefatigable and undefeated. We did not defeat Nazism. We did not defeat Nazism because it is just one face of fear, hate, and oppression. But fear, hate, and oppression come in many forms, and like Nazism, they persist. We may have defeated an evil in 1945, but we did not defeat evil incarnate. Nazism as a form of government then was defeated, but Nazism as an ideology for hate was not defeated. Do not think that defeating it now will solve the crisis at hand.

These conclusions are simple enough:

If it is that Nazism is here again, it must be, then, that it never went away.

If it is that Nazism never away, it must be, then, that we never defeated it.

If it is that Nazism was never defeated, it must be, then, that it is spreading.

If it is that Nazism is spreading, it must be, then, that is being bred.

If it is that Nazism is being bred, it must be, then, that the system allows it.

If it is that the system allows Nazism, it must be, then, that the system must be changed.

This is the conclusion that will propel us in the right steps forward. This is logic, by definition. Logic determines that if we cannot suffer more tragedy, we must trace the events of causality to their root. Heather Heyer did not die because she was hit by a car (figuratively, at least), nor did she die because of the Nazis in the crowd. She did not die because the President of the United States encourages and endorses white supremacy, and she did not die because police did not intervene soon enough. The police did not intervene because of the never-imperiled distinctions of free speech that so protect our civilization that we forego simple enforcements that deny hate speech; the event occurred because declaring it an obvious intrusion on minority rights would be to declare it an intrusion on free speech; that do declare these protests an act of free speech must then equally protect those who choose to speak in opposition; that to protect both groups means to allow them, if not rightly encourage them, to appear face to face in physical antagonism without a determinant end.

Rather than step in and declare the obvious facts that this event would lead to death, the system must masquerade in protection of our constitutional rights until someone loses theirs.

This same masquerade is responsible for allowing Nazi flags in the march. This same system is responsible for allowing Nazi symbols online and in books and on clothing and in the streets and in the homes. This same system that will not impugn a person’s defined right to free speech is responsible for letting any person freely speak hate. This same system, the one that lets people freely march in Nazism in 2017, is the same system that declared victory over Nazism in 1945.

You’ve seen the pictures by now: improvised war slogans and updated propaganda to show Uncle Sam towering over the Nazi flag, ready to fight again. Do not be fooled that such a limited grasp of the issue will solve the problems. These are a few of the problems:

Black people cannot go safely in public.

Millions of Americans go bankrupt each year due to medical expenses.

Non-cisgender persons are shamed, murdered, and denied medical treatment.

Government officials are systematically redacting environmental protections.

The world’s wealth continues to accumulate at the top.

Aid is not distributed evenly around the world to states in need.

The education system is being dismantled to encourage creationism and science denial.

These problems are not the direct result of nor the cause of Nazism. They are one and the same in effect a result of hate, in its many forms. Distracting us to think that Nazism can now be the enemy again is to look away from the many problems that defeating Nazism will not solve. Distracting us to think that we can “defeat Nazism again” is to endorse the same government that “defeated” it before. Should you then endorse that system of government if it never defeated Nazism? Should you then endorse that system of government if it breeds Nazism?

Do not join in the chorus: Nazism is not your only enemy. Hate is the enemy. Government officials who prescribe hate are the enemy. The voters who empower those officials are the enemy. Be they Nazis, whites, klansmen, or your grandfather who’s just a believer in small government and fiscal responsibility. If it was your own father who prioritized lowering taxes over social equality, he is the enemy. He is also a fool. Do not be a fool also.

If you want to change these things, you must change the system that allowed them to exist. If you want to rid the world of these crimes, you must snuff out the protections that empowered them. If you want the voice of love and equality to be stronger than the voices of hate and persecution, you must form a system that educates, encourages, and promotes a tolerance for love alone with a violent intolerance for its opposite.

If you want a system that can defeat Nazism, the American system isn’t for you.

 

An Open Letter

Posted in Prose, Trying To Get Published, Uncategorized by johnsontoms on July 26, 2017

An open letter to my parents, their friends, and strangers like them:

Did all your dreams come true? Do you have everything you’ve ever imagined and more? I imagine you must be sitting there in a broad, window-lined living room, a small dog at the foot of your lounging sofa, the room dimly lit with ornate lamps, the spaces filling with the sound of Sinatra and a crackling fire while you or your spouse finish cooking in the kitchen where all the countertops are marble and the stove is electric. Somewhere in the garage are two SUVs and a stable of camping equipment for the many vacations you’ve taken and the many more you plan, miles of American highway that never stand in your way from the time away with your family. You return, you always do, because of the obligations of work and family, and spend the days in between your weeks alternately going to work and walking into church. The pension is growing, and there’s no need to worry when the boy and girl both need football equipment for their summer teams (soccer for the little girl, of course) because you’re on track for your third promotion and should have yourself set up quite nicely by the age of 55. No, nothing else could be needed.

Is that why you won’t let us have anything? Are you sitting there in that living room right now thinking, no, there’s nothing else the world could have or do, and so I will do everything I can to keep it just this way? Because I can’t think of any other reason to support the ideas, policies, and moral politics of a corrupt body that willfully, purposefully, and cruelly works to malign, injure, and put to death millions of people swiftly and at once.

If you are sitting there comfortably on your way to a rich retirement (and I don’t think you are), how did you get there? I believe you had opportunities, plural, rich opportunities in a world with less competition – when an entire race (or many entire races), gender, and age group are not allowed to gain employment in the only few sectors that pay salaries commensurate with a single family’s needs, do you feel that you fairly competed for the things you enjoy? Do you think that you got to that home, the two vehicles, and the recreational time by being treated equitably? If you think it’s been fair, you should look around. It hasn’t been, has never been fair, but the world is not ready to quit changing.

I have a strange fear, a real deep fear, that I’m wrong – you aren’t sitting there with a book in hand, staring out the windows at the light snowfall, dreaming of your upcoming beach vacation. You’re standing over the work desk, driving a truck cross-country, tossing boxes into the delivery truck, loading fish from the dock, or chopping trees. When you’re done you head home to a two-bedroom house with a five-member family, a kitchen without a stove, and only one car to drive the family. Worse, no car. Your marriage is tense because the bills are paid paycheck-to-paycheck while the children beg for more. Worse, no bills are paid and the children are still begging. And to top it all off, you remember sitting there in your parents living room – that same one I imagined for you – where the Christmas tree is lit, the presents stocked underneath, and you wonder why you don’t have the same. And worse, in your wondering, you believe the best way to get it is by getting back to that world where it seemed so possible – the world where everyone else (those weirdos with their dark skin and gay lovers and young punk hair) are stifled, put back in their place.

I wish that wasn’t the case. I wish you had the open-ceiling sunroom, afternoon sky gently illuminating your cocktail hour. I wish you had the trim garden outside with the veranda where you entertain your guests, telling jokes about the 18th hole. I wish you had the dreams of your fathers fulfilled just as they imagined for you. Because it would mean that these things were possible, in spite of the immigrants and the homosexuals and the millennials.

Because the immigrants and the homosexuals and the millennials aren’t going anywhere. This is their world to inherit. You and your friends have held on longer than usual, the benefit of growing medical science. There is reason for grievance – at the age now where you’ve either secured the healthcare you need through riches, or by simply living long enough to own state-funded Medicare, your choices and decisions and feelings about others (everyone else) is that they don’t deserve it. It might be even worse. Maybe you know they deserve it, too, but because you can’t think of a way for both of you to have it, you’ll selfishly deny them to keep your own. I can think of a few ways, but me and my generation, haven’t been allowed the clout of decision. I just wish it didn’t have to be that way.

I wish I didn’t grow up knowing I’d never have full garage or a mantel trimmed with Christmas stockings. I wish I didn’t grow up making plans to own very little, not even home to call my home, for fear of debt and the subsequent inability to move about. I wish I didn’t have to show up at work worried that my hair might make me seem out of place, or that I’ll never get promoted in time to cover my expenses because the supervisory jobs are held by boomers who never got their retirement. I wish I didn’t have to consciously, deliberately deny myself children because this world can’t sustain any more, or worse, the consequences of war and climate change would keep them from even living a full life. I wish I could sit there, like you wanted for yourself, without a worry in the world.

I am thankful, however, that you raised us in this world. Without the heartache, the unending the debt, the racism, the age discrimination, the wars on your behalf, the political manipulation of women’s bodies, the general diaspora of hate and filth, I wouldn’t be here today wishing you well. I might be just like you, in that living room telling the world to stop growing, stop changing, I like it just the way it was. I am thankful that I am eyes-open to the starving, the slaving, the shaming, the stealing, the warring, and the killing. Because I don’t want that for anyone. And that’s more important than what I do want for even just myself.

There isn’t enough for everyone to have large homes and multiple gas-fueled cars. There isn’t enough for everyone to have retirement funds or closets full of clothes or food for baby or books on the shelf or luxuries upon luxuries. There’s barely enough water on the planet as it is. We’re all just trying to survive. Those of us who suffer are catching on that the good life is an oasis, if not a myth outright. Don’t be so ignorant as to suffer and not yet be aware.

Because whether you have it now or never got it and still dream of having it before you die, I’m tired of you taking it from me before I ever even get it.

Signed,

T

It’s 2017

Posted in poem, Prose, Uncategorized by johnsontoms on July 26, 2017

I was raised in a world that believed in better.

Fresh out of war,

hope and virtues lapping up like waves on the shore,

Bright-eyed, starry youthful dreams because we landed on the moon

Before I was even born.

But

Right back to war and now

It’s 2017 and people are starving.

It’s 2017 and men carry guns in the street.

It’s 2017 and black people die everyday.

It’s 2017 and seeing a doctor, wanting to live, costs money, at all.

It’s 2017 and people walk through the streets,

Into shopping malls,

Into church,

Listening to Hells Bells,

Talking of Reagan,

Afraid of changing,

But changing can’t come soon enough.

Get with it.

It’s fucking 2017 and y’all out there shooting, hating, killing,

Watching people die.

How far we’ve come to have gotten nowhere at all.

It’s 2017 and the shores are rising from the ice that’s melting

And

One day if we’re lucky

The waves will wash over the shore and cleanse the earth of all and sundry.