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Opening When
I finally found the armor,
Admitted it, acknowledged it, I
saw the potential for softness. Hammering
away at the armor,
Slowly, methodically, painfully; A
scratch here, a small dent there. Unable
to locate the straps and
Catches, I’ve been forced Into
trying to break in. This
armor is heavy and uncomfortable,
And I’m weary of wearing it. Besides,
I’ve just noticed a slight rip in it... 12/29/95 Mentor He
was perfect: he had been homecoming king and
Captain of all the teams he played on. He
was 25, my first mentor, and to those of us
Wrestling with adolescence, he had it all. He
was a carpenter; capable of creation, and he
Made more money than we ever dreamed of. He
took my brother and I places; ball games and to the dumps,
Sneaking us a beer now and then. He
had the perfect girlfriend to my young eyes:
Buxom, high heels, and sometimes she stayed the whole night with him. He
had the perfect cars: a truck for hunting and fishing,
A ‘57 Chevy Nomad for all the rest. He
was the perfect neighbor: crafting a dresser for my brother,
Building a mantle for my father, giving me my first down sleeping bag. He
was the perfect son; visiting his mom every week,
Mowing her grass, painting her home. He
once brought the perfect girl to dinner at mom’s house,
Being the perfect son. He
excused himself from dinner for a moment,
Went into his childhood room and closed the door. He
pulled out the rifle he had hidden in the closet,
The rifle he had cut short sometime earlier. He
sat on his old bed, swallowed the barrel end,
And in one great, loud moment, ceased to be perfect. 3/20/99 Apathy If
it's our culture that's struggling with apathy,
Then why am I, the passionate one, Also
beginning not to care?
About Kosovo bombing and Kevorkian's verdict. Click
here, it said, and tell us how you feel.
Click there, I thought, and tell them how I feel? If
only it was that easy. Can the
depth of my
Emotions, my despair, be calculated with a Mouse
click and drop down menus? The
written word has long attempted to
Explain how we feel, to paint a verbal picture. To
describe my fear, my dismay, my depression at it all,
Takes all the words in the universe. Maybe
I do need more apathy. I have to
quit caring so much;
Caring about the way things used to be, and mostly, caring Too
much about the way things are supposed to be. 3/28/99 The Mall Shopping
has become a drug, a cultural fix to
Fill our emptiness, pacify our hunger. The
stores tell us who we can be, and who we
Should be. Endless
possibilities. Adolescent
girls wear their new sexuality like a
Prom dress: beautiful, special, uncomfortable; A
powerful new tool with no instruction manual. The
unspoken rules are clearly written: look,
but don't touch.
Look, but don't let me see you look.
I hope he Looks
at me. What's he looking at me for? Old
people walk slowly past the shops, trying to keep up with
Changing times and styles. Minimum
wage clerks offer to help. He
looks at her, frustrated, and says "Remember when...?"
"Yes," she says, "but that was a long time ago..." Middle
aged parents spend more than they should, trying to give
More than they had. They
watch boys and girls the same age as their Children:
making out, groping one another, and pray their kids are different. Like
most people I went to the mall looking to fill a need.
Once again, I left, one bag in my hand, and Feeling
more empty than ever. 4/3/99 Return Two
halves unite, reunite after
Unknown lifetimes, countless moments. Together
again, they become whole;
Complete, a purpose fulfilled, Only
to be separated again by
Fear and suspicion. The
desire to remain whole persists,
Driving them forward, forward toward wholeness. A
risk is taken, a risk is received,
And wholeness returns. 4/8/99 Crying The
song brought feelings
Unable to be expressed in my own words. I
couldn't speak; the words trying to open a floodgate
Of emotions I normally avoid. Tears
came easier than words, and flow they did;
Crying the words that wouldn't speak. The
silence was powerful,
And perhaps that was best. 1/31/00 all material Copyright Bret Stephenson 2012
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For more information, contact Bret. All material Copyright by Bret Stephenson 1997-2012 Last Updated Feb. 19, 2012
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