A thought about nothing: 3

AS THEY SAT IN THE CAR HE WONDERED ABOUT THE POLAR BEARS AND THE ICE CAPS MELTING AND HOW THERE USED TO BE A LOT OF NEWS ABOUT IT BUT HOW ITS SLACKED OFF IN THE LAST FEW YEARS AND THEN SHE WALKED OUT OF THE STORE AND HE STARTED THE ENGINE AND THEIR SON ASKED ABOUT WHAT WAS FOR DINNER.

A thought about nothing: 2

HE TOLD HER MANY THINGS LIKE I LOVE YOU AND YOURE BEAUTIFUL AND IM SO LUCKY AND HE KEPT TELLING HER THESE THINGS FOR A LONG TIME BECAUSE HE WANTED TO BE SURE THAT SHE WOULD REMEMBER THEM ALWAYS.

A thought about nothing: 1

THEY SAT QUIETLY ON THEIR FRONT PORCH AND TOLD EACH OTHER OF BEAUTIFUL THINGS AND OF FAR OFF PLACES AND OF HOW MUCH THEY LOVED THE BREAD THAT THEY HAD BAKED AND HOW THEY CARED FOR ONE ANOTHER THEN THEY DECIDED TO WED BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT YOU DO WHEN YOU LOVE SOMEONE AS MUCH AS THEY LOVED BREAD.

Rusted.

"Isn't she beautiful?" he asked the Lion.

"What?!"

"Quiet down you overgrown cat! I said that she's pretty."

The Tin Man had all the capabilities of viewing something as pretty but no understanding of how to use that information. You see, Tin Man had not heart.

"You can't think those kinds of things." said the Lion.

The girl had paced herself a few steps away from them and was humming some beautiful tune, as was par for her.

Tin Man longed for her and for love and for a heart. But most of all for her.

Psalm 8.

The tilled soil of our hearts is irrigated and fed by the ever-flowing spring of life which comes forth from the veins of my sweet Jesus.

Strength in Him.

I shall not have the face of a sinner sown upon me nor shall I bathe in the filth of those whose ways are not His ways. I pray that the Lord might build my stride upon the foundations of truth and humility so that I might walk humbly but with the greatest of strength. For it is in my daily walkings, runnings and stumbling that I am reminded of my utter and complete requirement upon the Lord's strength. O that He might continue to find me worthy of his grace and giving of strength.

Names being defined in the aftermath of a party during spring break in a winter ski-town.

Corley was asleep face-down on the couch and Robert sat alone on the wooden deck that over looked the forest. William and Jen were asleep in the bedroom and Bill was staring at a book pretending to read but really he was thinking about Corley. Carl and Shawn were rolling a blunt in their car in the driveway which was un-exitable due to the new snow that had fallen. We would have to walk to the lifts in the morning. Kelly, Beth and Erin sat at the kitchen table slumped over in drunken postures supporting their heads with weak arms flicking beer can tabs and talking about how they wish they would have attended a university in the mountains rather than one near the beach. Robert came inside and sat by the fire and was joined by Carl and Shawn who were now plagued by blood shot eyes and horrible cravings for pop-tarts and red-drink. Bill came in covered in snow, shook off the powder, grabbed a blanket and covered Corley who was now in the fetal position with her knees pressing into her breasts. Bill and Robert motioned to Carl and Shawn who motioned to Kelly and Beth and Erin who motioned to me as I sat on the bar with my back against the wall. We all grabbed blankets and sleeping bags and pillows and hoodies and turned off the lights and laid down with the flickering flicks of the fire light pressing and patting our faces. We lay in rows and cross sections and diagonals of one another in the warm cabin with legs tangled and heads spinning.

In the northern room.

There was little to do that day so we sat, quietly together, in the northern most room of the house.

Your feet curled up under your tan thighs on the old red couch.

I watched as the cranes flew in and landed in the shallows filled with tiny sparkling fish that would become their early supper.

At length I watched and then turning I saw your dark brown hair sway from before your eyes.

You saw me and we looked at one another and fell in love all over again.

These are the times when I received gifts.

When you turned back from your drivers seat after dropping me off at my house.

When you were leaning your head against that wall that looked like the surface of the moon.

At the Christmas party when you were sitting on the floor, talking to Kelly about how good the apple cider was.

When we were laying on the asphalt in central Florida after the lightening had subsided.

When you quickly turned your head and your hair flipped out and your eyes looked like pools of sky with lumps of crushed ice dumped into them.

When you were washing those dishes and you looked back at me and asked, "How long have you been standing there?"

That time we talked at length about our relationships with depression.

After we sat by that fire at your parents house after having dinner with that foreign exchange student.

That time before summer had come when we discussed loving people well.

The Amazing Life of Masson Johnson. (Edit I) (Part I)

When I was born, my mother tells me, they marveled at my physical state. Nurses had to tear me away from other nurses who couldn't stop looking at me. My pop tells me that it took nearly an hour for them to finally get me into my mothers arms after my birth. People just couldn't keep there mitts off me. Apparently I was a pretty baby. From the womb I had thick golden hair that was wavy in the back. By age 3 my hair had turned golden brown and, never having been cut, was already at my shoulders.

If you go back and look at the books you'll find notes on my birth records.

Note of Birth: Masson Johnson - Amazing physical beauty. Like none I have ever assisted in birthing. Full head of hair at birth. Strong muscle tone at birth. (7/4/81)

Even from early in my youth my dad was awkward about all of it. I never got to go out for the baseball team or got to run track. I was kept from knowing the exact dates of sports tryouts and was never allowed to attempt any kind of flip our technical maneuver off of the neighborhood diving board. He always just told me that "You wouldn't like it" or "You should spend your time doing something more productive." I myself thought that I would be, in actuality, very good at these things such as running and jumping and throwing things. But, with respect for my dad I always found myself on the spectators side of things.

High school was difficult. I was the biggest in my class.

Being 6'6" with hair that, when un-done from a tie, lay just inches from the ground did not help matters much. Being as that I was never permitted to go out for sports I was also never introduced to physical exercise. But never the less, my muscle tone was, if I do say so myself, of exceptional grandeur. I had golden-brown skin year round yet rarely found myself outside for more than an hour at a time. I was a reader. A lover of words. Inside, in a chair was an ideal environment. My mother always encouraged me to go and play with the other kids my age but I never did.

My senior year I was accepted to Yale on a full scholastic scholarship. The day I left my mom hugged me and reminded me about keeping my hair out of my face. My dad gave me a firm handshake with a hundred dollar bill inside and a word of advise, "Stay away from those sports fields ya hear!" He seemed to be joking but his tone was as serious as death. "Your school work comes first, second and third" he would always tell me.

I drove away not know that would be the least time that I ever saw them.

Midway through my freshman year my house caught on fire in the middle of the night. The investigator told me that they died in their sleep. He told me that due to smoke inhalation they most likely never even woke up. He patted me on the back and handed me the card of some state recommended family counselor.

I never went.

Instead, I just went back to school and kept on living. I loved my parents dearly but what was I to do? I loved my mother dearly but she would have hated for me to stop living my life in the way that she had taught me. And as for my dad...well. What can I say about a man who treated me like a charity case my whole life? I had to expand myself beyond what he had limited me to.

After my sophomore year I found myself board with life. I was at the the top of all of my classes, student body president and chief editor for the Yale Daily News. I found myself daydreaming of running in-between classes. my dreams had become consumed with images of me lifting skyscrapers and stopping trains with just a fist.

I was jumbled.

Confusion was my constant companion.

Then, one day came a piece of paper that changed everything.

"Yale track team seeking fresh meat! Seek further info here:..."

After a phone call and a physical with my doctor I found myself in a pair of khaki shorts and barefoot. I had never had the need for running shoes so I thought it best not to wear my top-siders. I felt so out of place. I felt like such an outsider. But, at the same time, I felt to at home. With the grass beneath my feet and space to run it was as if I had found my most applicable canvas. My body being the medium.

The ten others that stood around me wore what seemed to be brand new, high-tech shoes and super light weight shorts and sports shirts. I had no idea what the brands were nor did I even know where to purchase these things. But all at once my thoughts were turned to a tall, thin man with brown hair and thick rimmed glasses.

My Button and Me.

My button is missing, my button is gone

From my shirt it was taken by a singer of song.

He was red and yellow and he flew through the air

I've looked for him here and there and everywhere.

But alas, there it is, in the tree up above

In the nest of a wren or a sparrow or dove.

I will climb that tree with all my might

I will climb that tree if it takes all night.

My button, my friend, in the palm of my hand

Upon this old shirt of mine you will look so grand.

I wonder "where is the bird who took you from me?"

Is he here or there, oh where could he be?

Let us descend from this tree to the grass down below

That is where the flowers and grass and other things grow.

With needle and thread, once again it will be

My button, my button, my button and me.

On the floor in the bedroom. (edit 1)

His hands are the jitters.

They are a swarm of lady bugs or maybe even locusts that will never find rest or calm.

They'll just keep flapping around in the summer sun with their millions of eyes.

His knuckles are cracked and dry and the ridges of the skin is deep like some smaller canyon that sits adjacent to the Grand Canyon.

His talking is not like my talking or like your talking but his talking is like his talking.

He groans with happiness and tears so you have to know him to know what's going on.

But even if you don't know him you already kinda know him.

He's an angel.

Did you know that?

It's true.

He talks to God and then he takes those conversations and relays them back to me and he tells me things like, "SLOW DOWN YOU ASS!" or "LEAVE ME ALONE!" or "BE STILL, YOU IMPATIENT JERK!"

He also tells me things like, "I love you" and "I'm so glad you're here with me" and "please stay a bit longer" and "Don't you think my dad's great?"

He's balding and his legs don't work but he's cooler than I am.

His laugh is more beautiful than yours.

His smile is grander than mine.

The sad story about the basketball player named Jerrold Folley.

Jerrold Folley was a very sad man.

You see, Jerrold Folley was a basketball player.

His three-point shot was mediocre.

His free-throwing ability was sub-par.

He excelled with his short game and loved a good assist here and there.

But Jerrold's real aspirations had been flushed away with a knee injury in his senior year at Duke. There, he played about fifteen minutes a game with little to no national recognition. He excelled in school and with girls, but his true love had always been basketball.

When he was young, before his dad lost the battle with lung cancer, he and his father would practice under the street lamp of their cul-de-sac. Short jumpers, bank-shots, lay-ups, hundreds of free throws before dinner.

His dad believed in him.

Told him he could do anything.

Be anyone.

Go anywhere.

Crazy things was, Jerrold believed him. With his whole heart.

So, after high-school, and after his dad's passing, Jerrold accepted the full-ride to Duke and went on expecting with every fiber of his being that he would one day play in the NBA.

Let me, with unbearable amounts of regret, inform you that Jerrold does not play in the NBA. He doesn't even play in the D-leauge. Nor is he coaching at the college or even the high school level. Jerrold, after college, became depressed.

With a torn ACL and after two surgeries that did nothing to help Jerrold left basketball behind and, with great anxiety, entered the financial sector.

Punching keys.

Crunching numbers.

9-5.

Single.

Drinker.

He would spend most nights after work at The Dog and Duck pub on Westover Ave. Two pints and a chaser were the usual fare. Nothing to impressive but just enough to take a brick and smash the edge that had built up around his soul from that days grind.

But then, one night, at the pub Jerrold saw a commercial on TV that sparked his attention and brought life back into his eyes.

The Harlem Globetrotters were coming to town.

"What if I tried out for the 'Trotters?" He thought to himself.

He quickly quit his 9 to 5 and found himself searching for opportunities to try out for the revered team. The team of laughs. The team of hope. The Harlem Globetrotters. His days became consumed with the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could play basketball again. Jerrold knew fully that this wasn't Laker's basketball and that he would be playing in college gyms around the nation and smaller venues around the world, but who cared? He wanted to hear the cheers again. he wanted to feel the pine beneath his feet. He wanted to feel the dimples of the ball rolling along his finger tips as he shot baskets once more.

"Please God!" He would day to himself under his breathe.

Again, I must be the bearer of bad news, Jerrold did not make the team. Besides the fact that he was white, had poor ball handling skill and a chubby beer belly, Jerrold was just simply not good enough to be a Globetrotter.

But...

Jerrold was just good enough to be a Washington General.

For those of you who are not up to date with your comical basketball acts, the Washington Generals are the team that the Globetrotters have beaten in every game since 1926. Fact.

It's a gag.

An act.

A play.

An exhibition.

But Jerrold doesn't care. How could he? He loves the game too much to throw away even the opportunity to lose every single night.

Jerrold plays the guy on the Generals who gets his jersey and shorts ripped off half-way through the first quarter and then proceeds to run around in his boxers. He doesn't mind, he likes making the kids and parents laugh. The smiles make it worth the effort. The pay doesn't seem so lousy after a good smile from a happy nine-year-old boy who is at his first Globetrotters game with his dad.

The teams travel by bus from town to town. It takes longer but Greyhound is an official sponsor so it's free. Free is good when you play for the Washington Generals. Sometimes, late at night, while in between towns with the rest of the team fast asleep, Jerrold will turn his eyes upward and, under his breathe, say in the most honest of tones, "Thank you God."