REWIND: Writing

I don't know what to say about this post. I'm glad a few of you requested it. This post contains the seeds of everything I've ever tried to tell you: Imagination is realer than we think. And we're more fictional than we like to admit. When those two propositions collide, Merrily Merrily Merrily Merrily...

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WRITING

I’m afraid there’s a black snake under my desk.

It’s long and black and coiled in scary circles of long black snake. Lying in wait. Under my desk. I have tried to cross my legs in my chair but have found this position to be unsatisfactory. I have wondered if tapping my bare toes in circles will attract her attention or complicate her strike. The black snake is a source of great stress and indecision.

I have feared this snake under my desk since early in the year 2001. I was writing. There was from nowhere a thick sense that indicated a black snake under my desk. I rolled my chair back and checked. I looked all around the office. I found some steel toe work boots.

What would Dr. Freud say? Something about my cock no doubt. Dr. Jung? A craving for unconsciousness in the primordial dark of the blind and eternal uroboros. But who cares? The snake’s presence is more interesting than where it comes from or what it means. It’s presence? Yes. The snake is there. Every morning I wake and begin to write with the fear of a black snake under my desk. I spend the AM assaulted by the anticipation of fangs sinking into my ankle. I would undoubtedly shake my leg and kick my foot, but the snake would shudder like an ungodly muscle, sink her fangs in deeper, snap & flip like a deadly whip. Until I went limp.

Though the sense that there’s a black snake under my desk lingers to this day, I no longer frantically search or compulsively check for her anymore. No more boots either. My feet are bare. The fear of the black snake is old and comfortable. Like the fear that no one cares about me. Or the option of suicide. It’s just there. But it’s a fear nonetheless. I am always tense and nervous when I’m writing.

I’m afraid there’s a black snake under my desk. I write these words on the edge of death.

REWIND: X Man & Jackson Day

I couldn't pick between these 2 Jackson posts, so you get both. It's the weekend. You have time. (And tomorrow's Chillween.)

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All the criticisms of parent blogging that I've read are shot through with ignorance and obviously motivated by envy. If you know of a balanced critique, please direct me to it. Until then, there's this. My kids will probably be embarrassed by what I write. Tough shit. They should've seen my Dad's sweatpants. But above and beyond all the mortifying over sharing, I've consciously planted little bombs throughout this blog. I want lumps in their throats. I want my love to tear through their skin and attack their bones.

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X MAN

J—

I have abandoned myself to various forms of addiction. And reclaimed myself. I have sold my soul to the devil and welched on my end of the deal.

I went underground for years and read the bloodiest texts. Some books, little boy, are bombs.

I met an unfathomable genius and he took me for a pupil based on the chance of a flashing glance.

And yet in my history of explosions, nothing has been more catastrophic to my sense of self than you. For 10 years you have called me into something bigger. You have tenaciously refused to allow me to retreat into my own hollow chamber. Since your first word, “Cracker”, you have talked incessantly. You have filled my world with jibber jabber. You have called me out out out of myself. You insisted that I be someone else. Something more. You taught me, through a lot of hard work and patience on your part, how to be a Dad.

And on your 10th birthday we find ourselves in a paradoxical situation. I have made progress toward finding peace as a member of our foursome, of identifying with our foursome before myself. I have finally reconciled the conflict that was never really a conflict (except in my conflicted head) between my vocation and my family. There is room in this teeming selfhood for the Husband, the Dad, and the Writer (plus Other Crazies who limp through the Night).

And the tragedy (What great peace is not stretched across the abyss of tragedy?) is that I’ve found peace with the very situation that you must now destroy.

You are evolving into quite the mouthy little punk. The guidance you used to crave and seek from my fatherly tongue is now met with a snotty “I know. I said I KNOW!”. You scoff at me. You roll your eyes at me. You are yanking yourself from the protective identity of our family into being your own little man. And you’re being kind of a dick about it.

But this is the way of things. Being born is hard. Just as you were pulled screaming from your mother 10 years ago today, I will spend the next 10 years screaming at you. Watch your mouth, boy. Go tell your mother you’re sorry. Do you know who you’re talking to? Etc.

But if I could communicate anything to you, if I could somehow express a fundamental rock of truth that might subsist beneath our long future of butting heads, I would want you to know that I have not forgotten. There is a secret part of me that applauds your mouthy little defiance. You are a rebellious little raindrop aching to get off our cloud. And I’m cheering for you.

You have to invent your own wheel with your own hammer and your own chisel. You must kill your Father to become who you are. Time be a motherfucker who rages into an autonomous you.

Happy 10th X Man. And, please, pick up your god damn socks.

Dad

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JACKSON DAY

BABY JACKSON: Dada.
BLACK HOCKEY JESUS: That’s right little guy. I think Surrealism was overly programmatic too. Dada was fresh and innovative and—
BABY JACKSON: Dada. [and the world exploded]

Let’s get this straight, Jackson. I was just your mother’s boyfriend. I met her when she was 2 months pregnant with you and there was no way in hell I was getting wrapped up with some pregnant chick but she acted like she fell asleep at my place when we were watching movies. She looked like a wayward Goddess who took a wrong turn at some sacred crossroad and got lost in our profane world. So I let her stay.

Then when Bryan hooked up with that job clearing trails in Colorado, I couldn’t afford to rent the place above the tattoo parlor by myself. I moved in with your mom just 1 month before you were born. But, like I said, I was just your mother’s boyfriend. That was the agreement. You were her kid. You were her responsibility.

The capacity for male denial to convince itself of blatantly absurd realities in the face of the contrary is far reaching. In due time I will verse you in its ways.

Without getting too technical, there’s an interesting branch of philosophy that denies the essential existence of things. They don’t believe that the world of things existed first and mankind went around naming everything second. Rather, they believe that the existence of a thing is bound up in language, that, for instance, a tree was called into Being by the word “Tree”. This is tough stuff to get your head around because there’s a place where reason fails you and something else is required. But I know it’s true, Jackson. I know in my heart it’s true.

Because you spoke me.

Do you understand, boy? Please understand this someday. I was a disparate collection of blurry fragments until you uttered me into the world. You spoke me. You said “Dada” and called forth a Dad out of the teeming formless void. The word “Dad” blurred the myriad distinctions in the impermanent march of ceaseless change and instituted my emergence: a somebody, a Dad in service to his Son. You Dadded me. The who of who I am coheres in your word. I am the plaything of your speech.

The mouth of the baby gives birth to the Dad. You made me a man, little boy, with the sound of your newly emerging voice. So this morning, today, Father’s Day is not just about me. It’s about you.

For you are the boy with the magical golden tongue.

REWIND: Fat Bald Retarded Kid

So this was my 11th post. Thanks for indulging me with this. Some of these old posts are like old friends. It's a shame to leave them buried so deep in the archives.

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FAT BALD RETARDED KID

Today at the master planned community pool there was a fat bald retarded kid. All the master planned community parents were wondering "What's with the fat bald retarded kid?" Nothing overt, mind you. Just a community vibe, you know? All their crazy colored floaties & inner tubes and wild family adventures tended to discreetly drift away from the fat bald retarded kid. I am a magnet for this kind of thing. The fat bald retarded kid was all up in my face showing me some sweet karate kicks. His dad was hyper-conscious of the fact that I had not solicited this parade of karate. I waved him off. “He’s fine. Fine. No problem.” I said. In some inexplicable emergence of selflessness, I wanted to do something for the fat bald retarded kid’s dad. I don’t know what. Wash his car or make him an origami crane. Buy him a beer.

Why don’t they sell beers at the master planned community pool? Who do I talk to about this?

I said “What’s your name Bruce Lee?” and he gave me an emphatic “ZACK!” It could’ve been “Zach” but it was expressed with such urgency that I’m going with “ZACK!”. I said “Hello Zack. This is my son Jackson. He does not possess your skills in any of the Asian cultural combat systems, so please spare him the varied harms you might bring.” Zack squinted. Jackson looked at me like I was making him talk to a fat bald retarded kid. I interrupted their awkward silence by introducing Lucy. “He looks crazy!” Lucy chimed and I thought: this blog is writing itself.

I don’t have any moral for this story. Just a revelation of a kind. Something like a discovery of a hitherto unknown facet of my inner geography. Remember all that pop psychology smack from the 80s about healing your Inner Child? No? Google your Inner Child (How could I NOT say it?). I don’t know about you but when I see John Bradshaw I want to punch him in the face.

I think that perhaps I have an Inner Fat Bald Retarded Kid. I can’t say that he needs to be healed or relieved of his shame or made whole. If anything, he just wants someone to watch him do some sweet karate kicks, to be in some way part of the master plan.

Walls

After a year of blogging and 4 months of reading everything on this little phone, my eyes are going. This upset me at first. It taunted me. But now I’ve shifted into trying to make peace with my decay. That’s the trick, isn’t it? To find joy in our own undoing? I take my glasses off and inspect the fuzzy world. There’s no clear distinction between my son and the couch. In the backyard, Lucy blurs into the grass and trees. The walls between all things come down and permit a hazy mingling. If I relax just a little bit more, the whole world collapses into one big Jackson Pollock.

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My first post went live on May 23^rd, 2008. On June 2^nd, Stefanie Wilder-Taylor mentioned me in a post. Then a month later, Jenny The Bloggess tweeted “Have you seen this guy?” A month after that, MetroDad mentioned me in a post. I just wanted to thank them.

Thank you.

Three explosions. Then I had to think of shit to write. What a crazy year. And for those of you that came around and stuck around in spite of the fact that my title references my daughter’s vagina, God thank you. What a crazy year.

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I love to write first and foremost. I love to be alone with my dreams and to fumble with letters. This is extremely hard on the people who love me. To be a writer is to not be a very good friend and that’s just the way that lays. I don’t, like many bloggers have mentioned, write to develop and be part of a community. I don’t know what to do with a community. I write to develop my solitude. Writing is revelry in solitude. 

But this blog thing. Like a pair of bad eyes, it tore down the wall between such strongly opposed distinctions. For what is a blog if not a blurring of solitude and community?

I wake up at 3:30 to be alone with myself and the letters and to stack up words like so many bricks. Trying to speak my corner of the world. Trying to articulate this loneliness. Not that one. Not yours. Not some general human condition. But this one. This condition. I’m trying to make sense of the sand in my face.

And the blog—with one click—permits me to effortlessly shift between this solitary confrontation with the silent world to being intimately bound up with the clamor of you. Who can begin to explain this? It’s the weirdest fucking thing in the world.

But I’m grateful for it. I’ve both shunned you and craved you with great force. And great force is indicative of great value. Thank you for breaching the wall and sharing this space with me. It means so much.

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I want 2 things from you. First, please, I want you to say hello. I’ve been blogging for a year. Can’t you at least say “Hello”? And, if you're familiar with me enough to have a favorite post, please tell me about it. I’m going to re-post some highlights over the next week or so to celebrate a year of blogging, but I’m more interested in knowing what you’ve enjoyed than my own assessment. 

On Friday I’m going to start with the post that caught Stefanie and Jenny’s eyes about Zack! The Fat Bald Retarded Kid. I keep my eyes peeled for that dude every time I go to the pool. Still need to slap him five. What a crazy year.

Chillween [A Photo Essay]

My daughter invented her own holiday.

"Today is Chillween!" she declared. "You know Daddy. Chillween. Like HalloWEEN - but only you chill instead of get candy. On Chillween all you do is chill with your family the whollle day. And drink 7 Up."

What better place to spend Chillween than at the recently re-opened master planned community pool?

Where the lifeguards smile at you through cascading waterfalls.

Where there are dudes like this.

What else can you say about that dude? He is awesome. And the pool, pregnant with meaning, abounds with women who are moments away from the miracle of birth.

Where large strangers talk freely with your daughter and your daughter says "Stop talking to me please sir."

Where the holiday illiterate mistake Chillween for the 4th of July.

And this too.

It's OK sweetie. He's not dead. It's Chillween. He's merely chilling.

If you can't beat him...

Chill with him.

Happy Chillween!

Lucy declared that every Sunday is Chillween from now on so grab a 7 Up and chill. ~bhj

Saturday Diversions

Greetings. I am very happy about your choice to visit The Wind In Your Vagina. You are only one click away from original Black Hockey Jesus content. Thank you for stopping by. Your consumption of this blog content is greatly appreciated and I would take a bullet for you. If someone tried to assassinate you, I'd leap in front of you in slow motion and scream "ARGGHHHHHH". And as I bled to death and you cradled my head in your arms, I'd say all borken and gaspy: "Thank you... Thanks... for reading." Then I'd die.

Click here for my latest MamPop post. It's pretty much just a list of adolescent fantasies I had about having sex with sitcom Moms. This one even got me an email from Amalah that said the post was too dark and creepy, which of course makes it awesome because how fun is excess? Props to MamaPop for letting me publish what they themselves didn't like - my kind of editors.

Or go here to see my latest at DadCentric. This is about me & Jenna & the kids going to a magic show but it's mostly about the barely dressed magic assistant girls.

Damn. My wife's pretty tolerant. Say a prayer for her. And have a great weekend. ~bhj

What To Do About That Python In Your Head

So it all started when Panic Room Ryan quit smoking. If he had just kept smoking, none of this would have ever happened and I could’ve been spared the harrowing encounter with my conscience. But instead he did quit smoking and he was of course all irritable and edgy and probably being a bigger dick than he originally represented because quitting smoking? It’s the worst god damned thing in the world.

I would rather be punched in the face than quit smoking again. Imagine a big python roiling around in your head. That’s one thing. There’s this constant yucky roiling all around your head. But every now and then, the python’ll bite your brain, which is of course very unpleasant. And then python venom courses through your brain and you want to throw your computer monitor through the window and scream “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU I WILL I’LL KILL YOU! AND FUCK YOU I DON’T CARE IF PYTHONS DON’T HAVE VENOM, YOU NATURE CHANNEL WATCHING SMART ASS!”

You literally go from cool to head exploding off your body mad in 0.3 seconds. And there’s this Jekyll and Hyde sense about you that you, in the end, fundamentally, have no fucking idea who you really are. You come down from those rages like you’re some wife beater in a Lifetime movie: “I’m s-s-sorry honey. That wasn’t me. T-t-take me back” Etc.

Anyway, Panic Room Ryan quit smoking and he asked for advice regarding how to deal with the python in his head. So rather than shut my fucking mouth, I told him how I quit smoking in 2004 and started running and that running was badass blah blah blah. And even though he got probably 10 million comments (Ryan’s blog is really cool and you should check it out. I love it. But I also have this jealous hatred of him, which makes my feelings about Ryan very complex and interesting. Like a complicated magnet I’m kinda drawn to Ryan by some mysterious power. Do you think this is creepy? How do you think Ryan feels?)—like I was saying, even though he got probably 10 million comments, he says “I’m gonna try running”.

OK begin self-loathing. Imagine me lurching about and clutching my chest like I’m Reverend Freaking Dimmesdale.

Because I DID run, see? In 2007 I logged 1000 miles (on the nose), ran 2 marathons and 2 ultramarathons where I made it 33 miles and 42 miles. And then what? Blogging is what. I started writing these damn posts and the internet got its filthy hooks into me. It’s been all M&Ms and 15 extra pounds. It’s constantly me starting tomorrow and my wife rolling her eyes.

So even though Panic Room Ryan lives probably 2000 miles away, as soon as he said he was gonna try running, my conscience got all scorchy and I was haunted by this imaginary email: “Hey bhj—Gonna be in town the last week of October. Let’s meet up for a 10 miler. Thanks for giving me the running advice. I love running now. Isn’t running great? How is your running? Can you imagine life without running? Running running is the running of the runningnest run of the runley run runarunrun.”

Coincidentally enough, the idea of running was like a python roiling around my brain.

So I did it. I started running again. And let me just warn you that your body doesn’t really care about how you used to run. I ran 17 miles last week and it was like climbing Everest. But, somehow, in spite of the pain and the panting, I found that part of me that used to love it. There’s a place, and you usually have to go longer than a half hour to get it, where your body kinda says “Fuck it. He’s not gonna stop and everything’s starting to hurt. Cue euphoria!” and there’s this whole layer of yourself that drops away. That bitchy veneer of you that moans and whines and complains just gives up and the python in your head suddenly dies of unknown causes and turns into butterflies or some other poetry shit.

So I did it. I started running again. And I'm a lot more careful about giving advice in comment sections.

Happy Mother's Day, Jenna