A Minor Elaboration

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Hey, everyone. Your old buddy The Madchronicler here. It’s been a rough week. A sick baby at home—first a stomach bug, followed by a cold—means very little sleep. I think that it’s safe to assume that I am suffering from a combination of sleep deprivation and the beginnings of my second sinus infection this winter. Some might say, “Frank, go to the doctors! They have medication for that sort of thing!” Problem is my wife, my daughter and I are all on my health insurance presently, and my health insurance is pretty piss poor (I generally don’t mince words when I feel like shit). So rather than mortgage my life away for a PCP visit and some medication, I choose to suffer. Maybe when number three kicks in come March and we’re on Nicole’s insurance I’ll go see my PCP. But until then, it’s Claritin, Tylenol and burning sinuses for me. The only one we’re paying doc’s bills for right now is Cara. It’s better… and cheaper… that way. Trust me.

The question then becomes: why am I writing, presently? If I feel so utterly and completely shitty, why not just lie in bed and watch “Aliens” on AMC for the umpteenth time in the last month? Multiple reasons. The first and most important is that I’m at work. Of course I’m at work on a Saturday morning. When else do I write? But the other reason is more pressing. Considering the events of the last 48 hours, I feel the need to explain a bit about what I’ve been doing.

If you’re my friend on Facebook, or you follow me on Twitter (one of the whopping 14 followers that “madchronicler97” has therein), you’ve likely noticed something peculiar in my status updates and tweets. Beginning at 10:40 AM yesterday with the status update/tweet, “Will not be posting anything pertinent for the next 24 hours. Simply random thoughts,” and proceeding through this morning’s status update/tweet at approximately 9:00 AM, I did just that: I posted absolutely nothing pertinent or personal about myself. This was not a psychological experiment, nor was I participating in some sort of social networking study. I certainly was not losing my mind, though if you ask anyone that has seen my condition over the last week, they’d likely tell you differently (I’ve lost about seven or eight pounds, have complimentary black bags under my eyes and am in dire need of a shave). No, my staccato status updating/tweeting was undertaken as a direct response to the postings of a few former Facebook friends who apparently thought that spouting their own, personal, biased catechism was more relevant than people posting updates on their personal lives. As for whom these people were? I’m not going to mention names or throw anyone under the bus. But if you know me… if you know what my “Friends” list should look like, you’ll notice the conspicuous absence of a two people that should be there. But no longer.

Understand that this decision goes well beyond Facebook “friending” and “unfriending.” This decision carries over in to my personal life as well. With a single letter, sent this morning, and a quick tap of the DELETE button on my Moto-Droid, I have cut all ties to these people. I consider myself a man of principles and scruples; a man with a strong moral compass. I’m also a father, attempting even at six and a half months old to raise my daughter properly. I want Cara to grow up in a tolerant environment. If her foundation is pure… if her father and mother have done everything that they can to help her transcend everything from racism to sexism, to any other –ism you can think of, then she should grow up to be a tolerant person, not someone whose humanity is about as questionable as their taste in music. Allowing people who use terms like “ghettoness” to describe a ravaged city, and refer to the victims of natural disasters as “just more black people” access to my daughter as she grows up is not an option. Not for me, not for my wife… shit, not for anyone that I consider a member of my extended family (friends and blood relations).

You see (*BREAKS OUT SOAPBOX AND STANDS ATOP IT*), I’ve known all along that the world is fucked up. I think we all have. Anyone who tells you differently is either completely uninformed or denying the obvious. The world is fucked up, and our country is fucked up. I wake up every morning at anywhere from 6:30 to 7:00 AM, and I check my text messages from the night before. Generally, I have at least one or two CNN BREAKING NEWS ALERTS about something fucked up that happened somewhere either in this country or in the world. Political bickering between parties and government upheaval; a natural disaster in a country less than 300 miles south of our country’s border that is estimated to have killed over 200,000 human beings; the brutal murder of an 84 year old social worker in the town two boroughs north of mine, the only motive of the murderer the acquisition of some jewelry, a couple of bucks and a car; a heightened terror threat in Britain; five more American soldiers killed in Afghanistan. Nary a morning goes by in which something that tugs at my heart strings doesn’t show up on my phone. I’d unsubscribe to these breaking news alerts, but I want to stay informed… I need to stay informed. When I get in my car to drive to work, I turn on KYW to hear “Traffic and Transit on the Two’s,” and unavoidably hear the same stories I read on my Moto-Droid when I woke up repeated, save for one difference: I get local stories that tear at my heart strings, as well.

On and on it goes. My internet homepage, be it MSN, Yahoo, CNN or AIM cycles cover stories all day illustrating how fucked up the world is. Those CNN BREAKING NEWS ALERTS keep rolling in on my Moto-Droid all day. “Traffic and Transit on the Two’s” driving home is proceeded and precluded by news stories about how fucked up the world is. And then I get home, and I hop on Facebook, defined by Wikipedia as “a social networking website that is operated and privately owned by Facebook, Inc. on which users can add friends and send them messages, and update their personal profiles to notify friends about themselves,” hoping for a brief respite from the fucked up-idness of this country and the world…

…And I read the following post on one of my “Friends’” walls in response to a thread about how we shouldn’t give a shit about Haiti. Spelling and grammar preserved, despite being completely fucked up (this coming from a once-English Major, who as my friend Tom will tell you could care less about spelling and grammar):

“I’m so sick and tired of hearing about Katrina. Coming from *LOCATION REMOVED TO PRESERVE ANONYMITY* where there’s natural disasters with several tornados a year that completly take down towns and no one cares to help. There is no reason that New Orleans couldn’t handle it themselves, but because they kept crying about it because most of those people were minorities, they got everything and are still getting everything handed to them. I will never travel there on my vacation, because I refuse to give them any more money. The people of New Orleans need to get over it.”

Helplessly, I think to myself, “Wow. That’s pretty fucked up.” And the next time a neuron fires in my brain seconds later, I think to myself, “why am I friends with this person, again?” But I stick it out… I make no comment because I deny no one their right to have an opinion. I don’t even comment about said person’s atrocious use of spelling, grammar and punctuation.

Days later, as I’m at home with my wife and daughter watching the biggest fund raising event in the history of fund raising events for a country that… apparently… we shouldn’t care about (if said “Friend” was correct in their assessment), I hear a sharp intake of breath from my wife, and the intonation, “oh… my… God.” My first thought is that something is wrong with the baby semi-sleeping on her shoulder. But no. She follows this statement up with, “*NAME REMOVED TO PRESERVE ANONYMITY* posted something.” I waste no time in reading the post, and am shocked to read that said person would rather contribute a couple of bucks toward renting a movie than watch the telethon showing simultaneously on every network/contribute a couple of bucks toward making sure millions of Haitians are fed.

Pause…

Neuron fires…

And I think to myself, “Why am I friends with this person, again?” Most people would wait for a third time before acting. Two was enough for me. My approach toward cutting ties with this person… with these people… was twofold. First, I would make a point by spam status updating/tweeting completely irrelevant topics for 24 hours whilst posting nothing personal or pertinent about myself. Because obviously, such things are unimportant. I discovered throughout this process that… surprise… people want to post personal information about themselves. In response to a post about the maximum clocked time of a flying chicken, one person shared an anecdote about the chickens on their farm. In response to my statement that “I always bet on black, and if I’m feeling frisky, 0 or 00,” one person told a story about the time she put $5.00 in to a roulette machine and won $60.00. People shared personal remedies for bringing down fevers; people expressed personal opinions on music, cinema, Anderson Cooper. You name it. Why? Why would such things matter if Facebook was, is, and always should be a site devoted to the expression of personal opinion… however detrimental or damaging… before personal information?

I guess you could say, then, that it was an experiment. But it was an experiment with no control; an experiment which I knew the outcome of even before I began it. It was not intended as such. Rather, it was intended to prove a point.

And that point…?

Simple, really. Meeting and sharing information on a social networking website is really no different than meeting at a bar, or meeting at someone’s house to do the same. We talk about what we did the previous day or week. We muse about our favorite movies, television programs and music. We vent about our jobs. We take useless facts as simple as the maximum clocked time of a flying chicken and come up with ways to improve upon them. One person mused that “we just need to toss them off a higher building. Bet you could get 20 secs.” And we do share opinions. That is an integral part of spending time together in a social setting, be it electronic or otherwise.

But think about this. Scenario: You are a liberal thinker with strong convictions. You believe in equality and equal opportunity, regardless of race, gender, sexual preference or otherwise. You have a child, or multiple children that you are attempting to raise to think in the same way that you think. Obviously you will let your child make his or her own decisions as they come of age, but you understand that it is your job to lay the groundwork for a life approach free of bias… free of prejudice. In essence, you want to raise your child to be a good and wholesome individual. Do you surround yourself and your family with people that echo your views? Yes. Do you surround yourself with people whose views are in opposition to your own? Yes. Variety is, after all, the “spice of life.” But only to an extent. Add to this scenario a person or persons who refuse to acknowledge a post-indentured servitude society; a person or persons who see a natural disaster like the earthquake in Haiti or Hurricane Katrina as a form of Natural Selection that weeds out minorities, and then asks a country that exists in 80% abject poverty to “help itself…” my friends, decide for yourselves, but admittedly? These are not the people that I want my daughter to grow up around.

To quote the aforementioned letter that I sent to these former “Friends” this morning:

“Look deep down to the national and international problems that you so conveniently express your uninformed opinions on. You’ll find that intolerant people like yourself are the root cause of all of our issues. I don’t need facts to back up that statement. The history books are littered with them.”

That statement pretty much sums up my “why.” Why break ties with someone I’ve been friends with for over a decade… someone who has helped see me through some of the toughest times in my life? Someone who stood with me on the day I got married and me on the day they did? Because, my friends, no amount of history… no amount of shared experience can disguise a person’s true identity. Said person… said persons have changed from what they once were to what they are now. You could argue that said persons were always intolerant and prejudiced, it simply took a bit of time for their true colors to reveal themselves. The sad part is? People have tried to tell me these things for years. But I was steadfast in my loyalty because loyalty is an integral part of my personality. To those people reading this who tried to convince me of the truth? Sorry it took me so long, but that’s the way I am: I need to learn things for myself; need to see things for myself before I can act. Thanks to a few random posts on Facebook and a re-evaluation of the last few years, I now have. I’m grateful, though admittedly, a bit sad.

And with that, I’m done. The burn in my sinuses has become more than even a chronic rambler like The Madchronicler can contend with. Work has ended; “Aliens” has sequed in to “American Beauty” and now “Batman: The Movie (1966).” My attempted nap was an epic FAIL, and it’s time for my daughter to eat. Some semblance of order has been restored to my own, personal Facebook and Twitterverse, and though my “Friends” list is diminished by two, as I stated in my 9:00 AM post this morning, AKA the first, pertinent or personal thing I’d posted in 24 hours…

“I feel fine. ;)”

Another Saturday in ENDWORLD

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

Another Saturday morning at Advanced Fluid Systems, Inc. in Royersford, PA. It’s been a while since I’ve worked one of these. Pre-Christmas. I forgot how… unique working Saturdays in thisplace are. C.I.P. (case in point): I’m fried, this week, in every sense of the word. Mentally, physically… every possible capacity of my being is drained. And I still have to stay here until 12. After that, I get to go home and rest for a bit before dropping the baby off at my in-laws house and heading back out this way for a “holiday” party tonight.

Tomorrow… my other “day off” this weekend, my wife is driving to Lancaster with her sister to go wedding dress shopping, I’ll be at home until 2 or so with the baby. After that, I get to drive 45 minutes to an hour to my mother’s for dinner. Sometime after 7, I’ll be home tomorrow night, only to get up Monday morning and repeat the litany again. This is my life, friends, in all its splendor. All together now: “Oh thank GOD.” Sarcasm fully intended.

Yet as tired as I am, I suddenly find myself thinking about ENDWORLD for the first time in an eternity.

ENDWORLD, for those of you that don’t know me or have just gotten to know me in the last few years was my lone, completed attempt at serious, long-form writing. I actually wrote ENDWORLD between the ages of 18 and 20. Thereafter, it grew in to a trilogy of novels–all unpublished–known collectively as THE ENDWORLD CHRONICLE. Book One remained ENDWORLD. Book Two, CHILDREN OF ENDWORLD, and Book Three, HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD. I’d originally planned a fourth book called A BRIDGE BETWEEN WORLDS, but multiple attempts to begin that little composition ended poorly and in various places. I’d say BRIDGE had… err, HAS at least a half dozen potential storylines. But we’ll leave BRIDGE out of this for now. I could give a shit about BRIDGE, because without the other three, it doesn’t exist.

The problem with THE ENDWORLD CHRONICLE, more specifically: ENDWORLD and the first half of CHILDREN is this: they’re pretty bad. They were conceived of good intentions, and my youthful desire to be the next Stephen King. But I started working on them before I learned how to write/before I learned how to tell a story. The third book, HEAVEN, could easily stand alone as a good, well written novel if it wasn’t so heavily reliant on the first two for continuity. Therein lies the problem.

Why not just edit and re-write the first two, you ask? Well, it’s kind of funny. Quirky, actually. Those of you that write may know this or may not, but writers can be a bit… flaky. Sometimes, an invisible wall presents itself to us, and we are unable to breach it. So has been, and remains my issue with the first two ENDWORLD novels. I’ve actually tried to edit/re-write them multiple times. Each time, I’ve come up short. I think it’s because of how much emotion and time I have invested in them. Granted, I know they lack something vital despite the time and effort I put in to them many moons previous to this one, but I just can’t… seem… to alter them. Or the story.

I think part of it is also confidence, i.e. my lack of confidence in myself. Scratch that friends: I don’t lack for confidence in myself. I had confidence in my capacity to succeed at CVS, and I did… for 13 years, I climbed the corporate ladder, made a fuckload of money, and left on my own terms. I had confidence in my capacity to succeed at Advanced Fluid Systems, Inc, and I did. For four and a half years, I’ve toiled away at a business I knew nothing about coming in, and have managed to not only climb the “corporate ladder,” but have further managed to develop quite an impressive array of knowledge about hydraulic and pneumatic theory, topics… the knowledge of which… are generally reserved for degreed engineers. I didn’t lack for confidence in my capacity to return to school and pursue my MA after a decade away, and I succeeded, posting a 4.00 CUM GPA in Drexel University’s MA of Education program before embarking on sabbatical nine months ago to be a father. I don’t lack for confidence in my capacity to be a father, husband, homeowner and provider for my family. I know I can succeed at that, and despite one or two minor mis-steps (which we all have, regardless of our respective confidence levels), I have.

But with ENDWORLD… hmm. Strangely enough, it is a confidence issue. It stems back to those words spoken to me sometime after I completed the first book/began the second by my estranged father, Francis Xavier Marsh the Senior, when he informed me that ENDWORLD was nothing more than a “fantastical child’s wet dream.” They made me feel lower than the dirt on a hobo’s shoes. They didn’t stop me from completing the second and third books of my trilogy; didn’t stop me from embracing writing throughout my 20’s and in to my 30’s, but they DID leave a residual imprint on my confidence. Perhaps it’s my inverted and highly irregular schedule now that I’m a parent who works full time and has a newborn at home, but said residual imprint has presented itself in recent months like a case study on my psyche by a mad shrink. And here I am, still blocked; still unable to fix the single most defining, fixable moment of my young adulthood.

Despite my exhaustion and general cognitive vapor lock, though, that may be changing.

Driving in to work this morning, I was struck by two, simultaneous thoughts. I was following my morning routine, listening to KYW-1060. My head was spinning from a lack of good sleep, the migraine I’ve been sporting for three days now, the cigarette I’d just inhaled and the caffeine just beginning to course through my system (my emergency stash of Vivarin in my car this morning was a must). My stomach was growling and the sound of Harry Donahue’s voice was the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. Thought one: I NEED MUSIC. LOUD MUSIC. SOMETHING LOUD ENOUGH TO DAMPEN THE BUZZING IN MY HEAD. I immediately switched from 1060 AM to 94.1, WYSP FM, and was shocked to hear…

…GASP…

…Stabbing Westward? On YSP, AKA the home of everything Zeppelin, ACDC, Aerosmith and Rush… and NOTHING ELSE? Shocker! More shocking, though? The song playing. “I Won’t Become The Thing I Hate.” Holy shit! That was never even released as a single. It was, however, along with the album containing it (“Darkest Days”) integral to the composition of HEAVEN AND ENDWORLD. Back in 1998-1999 as I was writing the closing chapters of my opus, I envisioned the final showdown between my protagonist, Roland MacNuff, and my ANtagonist, Dan DeNardo, transpiring to the intense backbeat of that song. It was perhaps as integral to my writing process as the songs “Kissed By A Rose” and “Bawaitaba” (don’t ask: my musical tastes are reflective of my personality: diverse, quirky and flaky). I hadn’t even thought about it in ages. Though I’d added it to my iPod shortly after my wife gave it to me for Christmas two years ago, it had never once played, not even on SHUFFLE. My ex-girlfriend used to tell me that God speaks to her through the radio. Was God doing something similar for me?

That thought branched off in to another sub-thought (I’m not to the second thought yet, so bare with me): I should put together a playlist on my iPod of ENDWORLD-type songs, AKA “Music Inspired By And Inspiring The Never Published ENDWORLD CHRONICLE.” It is now 10:50 AM in the morning on Saturday, January 16, 2010. I am still at work, sitting at my desk at Advanced Fluid Systems, Inc. in Royersford, PA, and I have been listening to my newest iPod playlist, “ENDWORLD Music” since nine.

A sampling of songs that have played follows. First to last order:

“How Many More Times,” Led Zeppelin

“Rollin’ (Air Raid Vehicle),” Limp Bizkit

“Princes Of The Universe,” Queen

“Faithfully,” Journey

“The Shock Of The Lightning,” Oasis

“Bawitaba,” Kid Rock

“I Can See A Liar,” Oasis

“Blowin’ In The Wind,” Bob Dylan

“Dazed And Confused,” Led Zeppelin

“Break On Through,” The Doors

“A View To A Kill,” Duran Duran

“Tangled Up In Blue,” Bob Dylan

“You Know My Name,” Chris Cornell

“Seasons,” Chris Cornell

“The Sky Is Broken,” Moby

“Holiday In Spain,” Counting Crows

“Home,” Foo Fighters

“Bulls On Parade,” Rage Against The Machine

“No Excuses,” Alice In Chains

“The Times They Are A-Changin’,” Bob Dylan

“Tuesday’s Gone,” Lynyrd Skynyrd

“Roll It Over,” Oasis

“Spaceboy,” Smashing Pumpkins

“Wanted Dead Or Alive,” Bon Jovi

“Not To Touch The Earth,” The Doors

“Tomorrow Never Knows,” The Beatles

“Silverfuck,” Smashing Pumpkins

“Stadium Arcadium,” Red Hot Chili Peppers

PAUSE (dramatic?) TO RE-READ WHAT I’VE WRITTEN SO FAR

“Kashmir,” Led Zeppelin

“The Rain Song,” Led Zeppelin

“Squrim,” The Dave Matthews Band

“Helter Skelter,” The Beatles

Is God talking to me through my iPod? I think so, because I’m feeling the zone, just beyond my reach, for the first time in almost a decade. Some have heard me call it “The Void.” Any way you slice it, it’s there. ENDWORLD is waiting for me, and in the immortal words of George Lucas, AKA the man who shit on my childhood by basterdizing the original STAR WARS trilogy with a new trilogy of sub-par prequels (though I DID like “Revenge Of The Sith”), “I’ve got a new MacGuffin.”

MACGUFFIN is, per Wikipedia, “a plot element that catches the viewers’ attention and drives the plot of a work of fiction.” Lucas wasn’t the first to conceive of it. The MacGuffin was actually Hitchcockian in origin. The lineage of the MacGuffin is not important. What is important is this: the original ENDWORLD as conceived of by my pre-adult alter-ego had no MacGuffin. It was a love story set against the back drop of a fucked up, “Terminator-esque” future world. Blah, blah, blah. Invigorating, huh? About as involving as a lobotomy to the non-“Titanic” loving portion of society.

Sometime around mid-point through CHILDREN, I decided I wanted to introduce an antagonist. Henceforth, Dan DeNardo was born, and quickly made irrelevant after two or three cameo appearances, only to re-emerge in HEAVEN as… what, the head of the Administration (the evil empire of machines that runs Endworld)? And his reason for hating Roland MacNuff, my aforementioned protagonist? He just didn’t like him and what he stood for. Okay, so Roland DID inadvertedly cause him to lose his legs, but it wasn’t intentional. Still, I guess I’d hate him to. But I digress.

Post-hearing Stabbing Westward in my car on the way in to work, POST-conceiving of the playlist I am proactively updating as I write this (which is causing a fair degree of vertigo as I scroll up with each new song that plays), I realized that a good antagonist… a TRUE antagonist… needs to be in more than just the final book; needs to have more than just a cameo appearance in the middle book, which SHOULD BE the strongest of the three to retain interest (the “Empire Strikes Back” syndrome). Darth Vader? Perfect example. Golum in LOTR is another one. He’s featured prominently and jaw-droppingly in the second movie, though admittedly, “The Two Towers” is probably the weakest of Peter Jackson’s three LOTR films. Take your pick of trilogies, friends. Zod in “Superman II.” Michael Corleone in “The Godfather II.” Had Belloq been in “The Temple Of Doom,” it probably would have been a much better film. You see my point. I realized that Dan DeNardo NEEDS to be in all three books. More specifically, he needs to have a history with Roland MacNuff that predates ENDWORLD. He needs to have a reason to hate him. This relationship may be the long, sought after key to reworking THE ENDWORLD CHRONICLE. But what function will he/does he have in Roland’s world?

I have a few ideas, though I’ve settled on nothing at this juncture. Time is actually growing short. It’s pushing 11:30 AM and I need to leave work soon. My boss gave me the okay to leave whenever, but… and by this, I mean no offense at all to my wife, Nicole, or my daughter, Cara… when I’m at work on a Saturday morning with little but ongoing projects to work on, I can actually think clearly and unacostedly. When I’m at home, my entire focus is on family and obligation… and finding a few moments to sneak a nap in. Besides, I think I need the relative silence of my car to hash out my thoughts from here on, so the 45 minute commute will do me good. Here’s what I’ve settled on so far:

Dan DeNardo and Roland MacNuff have grown up together. They both attend the same school: Jefferson Prep. They’re both 18. Both are seemingly unhappy with the rule of the Administration, but one is playing possum. Dan has been something of a double agent for some time, and will, over the course of time, use the misconceptions that Roland and others have of him to weasel his way in to the heart of Rebellion leadership… only to cut it out at the orders of the Lord Cornelius the First. More interesting: Dan is going to flee Jefferson with Roland and Maria Markinson at the beginning of ENDWORLD. And I’m thinking love triangle, though admittedly, that’s pretty goddamn contrived. We’ll see. And as “Helter Skelter” finishes up with Ringo screaming about the blisters on his fingers, I’m done.

More to follow…

"God grant me the serenity…"

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

“…to accept the things I can not change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”

I honestly don’t know how many people are reading this blog post, right now. For those of you that are, I’d like to share a story with you. It’s a real-life story, not some fabricated, fictional reality that I came up with on a gloomy, humid day in Royersford, PA. In the not-so immortal words of a little-known tragic hero of modern literature named Roland MacNuff, “I write the following account not to heal the ills of a sick world. I write it to heal myself.” But this isn’t about him or me.

This is about a little boy whose name I will not mention to protect the anonymity of the people involved. He’s 2 1/2 years old, and he was recently diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. Said boy’s parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and overall support base have been closely monitoring his situation for the last few months. This week, we were informed that the treatments utilized to heal the boy have been unsuccessful. I’m choking back tears as I write this so bear with me.

The general consensus amongst those involved is this: do not treat us any differently. If you pass us on the street and ask us how we are/how he’s doing, we’ll tell you that we’re doing/he’s doing great.

As a society, we talk every day–albeit through blogs, Tweets, IMs and text-messages–about heroism. We see it in the men and women defending out interests abroad; we see it in the vigilante actions of a group of neighbors taking it upon themselves to bring a child-rapist to justice (not all law-enforcement involves warrants and supeonas, and I applaud those people for doing what they did in West Philadelphia a week ago). We see it in the struggles of a single mother to support two, growing children through Catholic school and college by working two jobs. We see it in the movies and we read it in books, but we rarely… RARELY get to see it in our own lives.

In the space of a few months, this child and his parents have become the living, breathing embodiment of “heroism” to this oft-times strange, redundant and rambling denizen of the reality that exists on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existance. I can’t tell them that in person, presently… were I to do so, I’d be going against their wishes. Act like everything is fine, Frank. Okay, then. I will honor your wishes, but I promise you: I have been, and will continue to keep you in my prayers daily. And if perchance you’re reading this, you now know that I’m thinking about you.

The point of this post? Perhaps I should say “points,” because there are many. Yet in the interest of remaining succinct and not over-elaborating with “flowery” yet pointless language, I’ll do something I rarely do: Be brief. In a little over a month and a half (give or take a few days), I will be a father. In truth, I already am a father. Nicole is already a mother, my mother and her mother are already “mom-moms” and my father-in-law is already a “pop-pop.” Cara already has an Aunt Katie and an Uncle Carl, an Aunt Deb and an Uncle Andrew, not to mention a million other Aunts and Uncles that have little or no blood-relation to her. I know that there are many other expecting and already-parents out there, existing simultaneously IRL and in “Web 2.0,” that may or may not be reading this blog post. To you, let me simply say this:

Love your children. Teach them to love you. Live each day for your children and teach your children to live for you. Sing to them in and ex-utero. Feel free to vary your musical selections from Britney Spears to the Rolling Stones because when they arrive, they may like one or the other. Hell, they may even like both. Read to them when they’re young, even when they’re too young to understand a word that you’re saying. Your voice will become a sense of comfort to them from day one. Listen to Harvey Karp. Hell, heed Harvey Karp like he’s your own, personal savior, ’cause the possibility of having the happiest baby on the block is better than doing nothing at all and hopingfor a miracle. Remove all bumpers and blankets from your child’s crib because the possibilityof SIDS can be lessened drastically by doing so. The doctors–and Harvey Karp–have no reason to lie to you. Swaddle your child because the doctors–and Harvey Karp–tell you to. If your child wakes you up at 1, 2, 4 and 6 in the morning, remind yourself that they’re only doing it ’cause they want to be close to you. Hold them close when they awake: let them feel your heartbeat. Wait for them to go to sleep before going to sleep yourself. After all, you’ve been sleeping through the night for the better part of a couple of decades. They haven’t slept through the night for the better part of their entire lives! Were I them, I’d be cranky too.

As they grow older, remember to do the following: have birthday parties for them, even if said birthday parties are simply a gathering of immediate family. Let them stick their heads, hands, feet… whatever they want in the cake… the damn thing isn’t for you to eat, anyway. If they ask for a toy, get it for them, or ask “mom-mom,” “pop-pop,” or dear Uncle Matt or Aunt Deb to get it for them. If they ask for a pony, take a second job, buy the property behind your house, build a fence around the complete yard, lay some sod and go get the best damn pony available. If they get less than a B in either Math, Science, English or History, take the pony away until they improve their grade to an A. And when your child wakes you up at 1, 2, 4 or 6 in the morning in tears because they just had a nightmare, remember that they’re doing it because you’re their hero or heroine. The first hero or heroine that they ever had, and they want to be close to you. Hold them in your arms: let them feel your hearbeat. Wait for them to drift off to sleep before going back to sleep yourself. After all, you’ve still been sleeping through the night for a longer period of time then them, no matter how old they get. Love your children. Teach them to love you.

As I prepare to conclude this dissertation, my mind hearkens back to the child that inspired it. I think of his parents, one of whom I’ve known since I was a baby. I feel an on-rush of tears behind my eyelids every time I blink, but I need to finish. Writers recieve grief every day for their use of cliches. Many call them formulaic, but as one, I see it differently. Writers find comfort in cliches. So much of what we do borders on the experimental. Thats all we can do to compete against the celluloid media moguls and the boob-tube executives. After all, the written word to media is fast becoming the equivelent of Public Television to digital cable. But one particular cliche rings true in my mind this grey and gloomy afternoon in Royersford, PA…

“Live for today.”

My thoughts and prayers go out to not only the 2 1/2 year old child who inspired this, but to his parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and overall support base. In the immortal words of a well known tragic hero of modern literature named Jesus Christ, “there is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear.” (1 John 4:18). There is no greater indication of perfect love than that embodied by the family contending with this situation… no greater exhibition of heroism than what they have demonstrated, and continue to demonstrate.

F.M. 6/11/09

“I guess in a way, you always end up right back where you started…”

The MadchroniclerLeave a comment

I guess in a way, you always end up right back where you started. Take me: I’m 33 years old. I’m married; I’m a homeowner; I have two furry children named Pandora and Roxy (cats, of course, not abnormally hairy human children) and my first human child on the way. A daughter to be named Cara Angelina Marsh. Incidentally, for those of you that are wondering why Nicole and I chose that name:

Cara: Italian: “Beloved”; Irish: “Friend.” Significance? Nicole has always liked it.

Angelina: Italian derivative of Angela: “Angel”; no Irish meaning (of course not! What Irish name ends in an “a”?). Significance? Nicole’s 94 year old grandmother—“Mom-Mom”—is named Angelina.

“Beloved Angel.” You can’t go wrong with something that meaningful, can you? Of course not. But this is my daughter we’re talking about. We could name her after one of the Garbage Pail Kids and I’d still think it was the most beautiful name in the world. Incidentally, the first person that calls my daughter Virus Iris or Wacky Jackie is going to end up with my size 12 boot up their ass and my fist in their pie-hole. Capice?

Sorry, I digress. It’s been difficult to contain my excitement at mine and Nicole’s expectant arrival, and that’s not what I set out to write about this afternoon.

I guess in a way, you ALWAYS end up right back where you started…

Take the other day: I ran out of sh*t to do at work. Rather than sit at my desk and twiddle my thumbs for the last hour of the day, I moseyed in to the warehouse… the empty warehouse… and swept the floor. I didn’t just sweep the damn thing, though. I spit-polished the damn thing… “shined it up real nice for ya’” I told my boss the following morning. He laughed. But deep down inside, I’d wager he was cursing my sarcasm. It probably didn’t help that I concluded our conversation with, “after a while, I was just pushing around 25 years of dirt.” Warm Regards, Frank Marsh, Office Manager/Inside Sales Rep, COMPANY NAME REMOVED FOR LIABILITY REASONS.

Warm Regards, my ass. In this economy? Maybe it would have been better if I simply reported that the warehouse was swept. No need for sarcasm, though admittedly: asking me… ME… to not be sarcastic is like asking Ashcan Andy to save the universe. Sh*t, R2D2 did it, why not him? But I digress…

I guess in a way, you ALWAYS end up right back where you started. I’m no stranger to hard work, though some might say otherwise about my “college-educated ass.” My first job was as an afterschool janitor at my grade school. I was 11 years old and working for 15 dollars a week—under the table, of course. Mom was a single, working mother; Katie (my sister) was eight; if I wanted spending money, I had to work. And I did… begrudgingly. I was an overweight, out of shape broom handler in a Catholic grade school who spent the first $2.00 of his paycheck at the candy store, the next $10.00 on cassette tapes in the bargain bin at K-Mart, and the final $2.00 at the candy store the following Thursday. That was me: that was my life at 11…

Now, at 33, everything has come full circle. Now, at 33, I find myself once again as nothing more than a glorified broom handler. At work, I clean sh*t up: that’s my modis operandi. I’m a proverbial Hydraulic and/or Pneumatic “Pooper Scooper.” Under normal circumstances, you’d probably think me one miserable motherf*cker.

Truth is? Up until I started sweeping the warehouse, I was. I hated my job. All the good sh*t that had been happening in my life lately paled in comparison to my daily grind. But something happened to me while I was pushing that splintery, aging broom across the floor. I started to feel at peace for the first time in a long time. I’d just completed my last graduate level class (EDUC 512: Cross-Curricular Geography… fun!); I was planning a weekend sojourn to Longwood Gardens with my wife on either Saturday or Sunday (it ended up being on Saturday). Save for an undergraduate Macroeconomics class that still hangs over my head for the next month and a half like a cloud of buzzing gnats (Macro blows!), my time—when not at work—is, once again, my own. Best that I enjoy it now, ‘cause once Cara gets here in July, my free-time will likely be quickly supplanted by responsibility. And I welcome that… I’ve been waiting a long time to be a dad, and finally, I’m going to get my opportunity.

I felt at peace. Not just relaxed mind you… oh no… completely and totally at peace. Anyone that’s ever experienced one of these moments knows what I’m talking about. I used to have them often: that moment when your mind, heart and soul suddenly feel as light as the air; that moment when a completely unexpected but incredibly welcome sense of euphoria rushes over you for no reason. All your aches and pains disappear and you open your eyes wide… wider than you’ve ever opened them before. It was one of those moments when everything seemed clear… crystalline. Like looking through a veil of tropical sea-water and seeing the smallest, most miniscule pebble as it waivers back and forth on the white sand below. Only the water is the goddamn, proverbial fog that you’ve existed in for… well sh*t, I can’t even begin to tell you how long. Suddenly and without warning, everything clicks in to place. I call it serendipity.

FYI: I know my friends. I know that one or more of you reading this are going to say that the feeling I’m describing is not serendipity. Some wise-ass out there is going to say that I got off on sweeping the warehouse. To that person—I’m looking at you, jerky—let me simply reiterate my statement from earlier: 12 inch boot up the ass, fist in pie-hole. Allow me a rare moment of writer’s bliss before I return to my aforementioned daily grind.

The moment didn’t last long. Maybe a few seconds, maybe less. But it happened. Since, I’ve been feeling different… a lot different. I feel more energized; I still have the same aches and pains that I’ve has for a while (they’re actually pretty bad today, but we won’t go there), but they’re minimized comparatively. And this afternoon, I suddenly got the urge to write. This little composition is simply an amuse bouche (sp? Anyone know French?): I have plans.

Don’t all scream at once.

The last time I had plans, I ended up writing a trilogy of novels which no one save for two people (I remembered to include you this time, Steve) read. I don’t think that my plans, as tentative as they are presently, are quite that ambitious. It’ll be interesting to see where they lead. For now, though? They’re simply thoughts. But my thoughts are quickly becoming a conspiracy to overthrown my rational, broom handling mind. Viva la mental revolution! I swear, if my daughter understands me even half as much as Nicole does (no one quite “gets me” on most levels like her), then I’ll be one happy, living and breathing facsimile of a smiley face.

But I digress…

I need to stop doing that.

I finished my circuit of the warehouse with little more than ten minutes left in the day (it’s not really a big warehouse). By then, the moment had passed and the familiar fog/aches and pains had already begun seeping back in to my body. But my brain was on overdrive. I started formulating my plan. A new story idea was only one aspect of it. I started formulating a life plan for me, for Nicole… for our daughter-to-be, Cara. I started thinking about where I wanted us to go, and what I wanted us to do. Who’da ‘thunk it? Manual labor, the equivalent of Little Baby Touch-and-Go from “Heroes” (not a Garbage Pail Kid)? I was pretty shocked. Never forget: I’m the guy who, between school and work, lives on his computer. In essence, I started looking ahead, something I’ve been seemingly incapable of doing for the last few months. And what did I discover in the ether beyond my daily grind?

BULLET POINT ONE: I have a steady job, albeit a sometimes frustrating one. The same can not be said of many out there in the really, really real world, right now. It pays me relatively well and allows me the time to embrace and enjoy my life again. Friends; family… over the last year plus, these things have been, sadly, supplemental to school and work. No longer. That all changed on Saturday with the first Marsh family sojourn to Longwood Gardens, Bertucci’s. Kohls, Babies ‘R Us, Champs in King of Prussia and finally, “I Love You Man,” on the big screen. Great flick, by the way. I highly recommend it to anyone looking for a good laugh.

BULLET POINT TWO: I’m done with school for a while after Macro ends in May. At least until Cara’s at least a year or so old. A few of you reading this might be disappointed by this decree. To those who are, let me say this: priorities, priorities, priorities. My uncle got his MA at 35 and his PhD at 45. If I’m meant to teach one day, I will. If not? Well, I’m also meant to be a good husband and a father… a provider in whatever capacity that I can be. Call it my primal instinct or simply the grounding in reality that my mother provided me with at an early age: growing and nurturing my family is the most important thing for me to focus on right now. Don’t worry dissapointees: I will finish school one day. Just not now. I’ve got a baby’s room to paint and a pregnant wife to take care of in the interim.

BULLET POINT THREE: Life’s too short to worry about every little thing. In the immortal words of Marley, “every little thing, gonna’ BE alright.” I’ve seen more death and sickness in the last year than I can remember ever seeing before. Some have come through it, others have not. One or two are still fighting their own life battles. It disheartens me to see people that I care about suffering; my menial little issues seem irrelevant when stacked against theirs’. But if I’ve learned anything in the last year, it’s that life really is short on this bright and shiny, blue and green bouncing ball that we inhabitants that exist on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence call “Earth.” We should really, and I mean really embrace what time we have. Though my desire for immortality for all the people that I care about remains, I understand better now that my mortal coil is about to turn 34 this year. “Time to start livin’… time to take a little from this world we’re given…” Can anyone name that tune? Anyone? It’s from “Pippin.” Kind of the Broadway equivalent of “I Love You Man” but with dancing dudes in tights. Yes, I was in it. No, I did not wear tights. I don’t think…

I returned to my desk after sweeping the warehouse and settled in for the last seven minutes or so of my day. I checked my email: no messages. I checked my company Intranet: no new information to process or share with my office. I even popped on Facebook for a “tic.” Save for the latest trials and tribulations of the P.P.R.B.M., there was nothing new to report on there either. Someone had thrown a water balloon at me (I can’t remember who, but I’m looking at you, jerky). Nicole had “superpoked” me. I threw a water balloon animal back at my assailant and sent my wife a bear hug, along with an extra one for little, baby Cara (who, incidentally, was mistaken for a concealed weapon once again today as Nicole boarded her flight home from Pittsburgh). I reveled in the residual effects of my moment of serendipity before logging off and heading home for the evening. My daily grind had officially ended for two days…

And there was much rejoicing: “yay.”

Is there a moral to this story? This little piece of Mental Flatulence that has helped to fill a slow afternoon at work? I could have gone back and swept the warehouse again, but admittedly? The dirt was exactly where it was last Friday, and I still haven’t been able to pry out the splinter in my palm. So I decided to write. Writing without abandon: something I haven’t done much of in the last year. Love me or hate me, hopefully you didn’t think that I had given up on my art/obsession. Writing is a part of who I am, just like teaching will be a part of who I am… one day.

Being a good husband and one day soon, a good father is also who I am.

Hard work is an indispensible part of my mentality. A college education did not, can not, and will never change that.

Sarcasm is also an indispensible part of my personality. Deal with it, jerky.

As an 11 year old child, I was not only a broom handler, but I was also an avid collector of Garbage Pail Kids. I had at least a dozen Ashcan Andy’s because he reminded me of R2D2. R2D2 is, in my opinion the true hero of the “Star Wars” movies. Luke/Anakin Skywalker be damned!

Wishing immortality on the people I love is a part of who I am.

In my subjective reality on this side of the proverbial wormhole of existence, family and friends are interchangeable. I pray for both, equally.

Serendipity is not simply a so-so “Rom-Com” starring John Cusack… it’s an actual state of mind. May each and every one of you reading this—and those not reading this—experience it at some point in your respective lifetimes if you haven’t already.

I also have a plan. Don’t all scream at once.

“Wus” and farewell, mis amis (sp? Sh*t, does anyone speak French?).