The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

As the merry-go-round makes another lap in perfect order, giving heed to the big nuclear fireball in the center of it all, we are less than a power bill cycle away from the end of the Mayan calendar. King K'inich Janaab' Pakal, we should've gotten a bigger stone. This might freak somebody out someday. If this is the end, rock it until the break of day, cuz I'm going to take a backseat nap before it all goes down. Nevertheless, today is today. The day with ground fowl in the oven and the diet A&W root beer chilling to celebrate the successful journey of a few hundred 17th century boat people to the promise land. And for nearly a decade now Bob Ross's happy little mountains love where they live a little more as the raccoons and old possums translate another installment of The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner.

The climate control kids race in the car pool lane with their hazards a blaze; rushing to sell carbon for credits in horror of the ghost of progress past. In the words of a master of words smithing; human nature is but a frail filament of incipient folly, especially fickle in the presence of prosperity. And I say this species is not of the order of physical progress of evolution. Darwin was still correct! Those pretty little island finches surely were distant cousins of just one. Natural selection minds me none. Let evolution continue to change the native terrestrial because we are of the foreigner's race; the race of Adam... Apes are friends, not ancestors!

Humans are giddy beings caught up in just being. Some spend all their life looking into sky for a speck of life on a space rock, while arguing life on this earth is a choice. Stop chasing the space yeti, the great planner designed this brief history of time to never let us see those who inhabit the rest of the celestial real estate. Thousands, tens of thousands, millions of planets inhabited by the human equivalent of Darwin's finches; all endowed with the gifts of music, art, written word, belief, creativity, death, destruction, faith, and the choice to endure and gain, or to bark at the stars. No matter the size of the rocket ship or the power of the satellite beams, we will never bridge the universe’s Galápagos Islands. That will only occur once the envelopes of time closes for good. There are no space saucers. No little green men. No alien visitors waiting for us to evolve. Just those there and us here -- all working through a plan of being more than just a being. Working to finish what started on the dawn of the mortal parade. The road is not as unfamiliar as one may believe, nor lonely as some think. Just know that we’re not alone.  

Happy Thanksgiving,

Jarvis

The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

For nearly a decade on the fourth Thursday of the eleventh month I set free a brief prose of thoughts, ramblings, rants and self-medicating key strokes to family, friends and future foes. As the Bard of Avon helped me to understand, “joy’s soul lies in the doing,” and for me the doing is writing. The printed verse captures thoughts my tongue struggles to craft into coherent streams. My words are an attempt to express hallelujah while consuming passion’s buffet. This personalized trip in the now for me is like a child’s wide-eyed amazement of the majesty of life’s center stage performance. Not a mere love note, but a tribute to my lust for life; a simple celebration of drowning out unearned pessimism, which is known as The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner.

Born into the river, with a flow that has always been, and no known end. We gained entrance at the irrefutable moment after our own kind, as the temperature and speed of the river unknown the starter’s gun announces our unique journey. Toward the end all beings set pace, closely in the river we’re this dispensations Human race. Canyon walls colored with a fallen source, on loan to keep veins pulsing and beautifying the terrestrial splendor of this spaceship’s skin. Before the Sheppard’s crook snags me and Mother Earth summons this glove back to dust, the acted upon should’ve fulfilled the added upon.

Even though my lineage lives and dies in another state, my posterity gazes nightly across a field of mismatched dinner plates. How sweet family is to the plan. The early dawn’s eastern sky is never uninvited, signaling to this lost southerner that blood binds across rivers and roads. As the trivial matters ever consume the world, while negativity cranks up needless noise, oh angelic is the magnetic voice of the one from Galilee balancing out the universal order with a soft answer to eternal truths.

When the seraphim flies near with a live coal in his hand, taken with the tongs of the earthly alter set your eyes to the celestial ceiling. Lose yourself by staring down into space, where direction is completely lost. Just as the twinkle of those stars that burnt out millions of years before; their light debuts in an old movie with none of the actors still radiating. The still small voice of eternity’s round can sweep us up, away from the fear of tomorrow’s unknown. How important it becomes to shed the uniform littered on by a natural man, even for a brief spell, allowing the distant sounds of our thoughts to swing from broken trees. May peace know us all.
This year I am thankful for the love of my wife, the health of my children, and the support of my family. The cherished friends east in the land of the Great Smokies I miss you all and wait in anticipation to when we can break bread again. And to those west of the Rockies known as the Sons of Scarlet, may the black line always guide us to prosperity.

Be pro-choice, always choose life.

Jarvis

The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

If the Mayan Calendar in my laundry room reads correct, we are a mere two trips around the great light bulb in the sky before things get a little weird in 20-twelve. Thank goodness we are a species of procrastinators; we’ll panic, blame it on our upbringing, and run through the streets yelling “We will die another day.” For now, today, this day, the time of the year when footieball, deep-fried forest fowl, and family reign supreme… may gastric pleasure know all of you this day – Thanksgiving Day! It has become a tradition on the fourth Thursday in November to piggyback on the commercial success of this holiday. For nearly a decade an annual exercise in mental cleansing is shared with some friends and annually introduced to a few new ones. And even though Ned Beatty gets PTSD when he sees pigs, this is The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner.

For my upcoming 35th birthday in February I have asked my wife to schedule me an appointment with the family physician. “Doc, I would like a medically induced mid-life crisis.” Because the video streaming through my high-def eyeballs is sure not what I imagined life would be like on the north side traveling toward 40. I’m grateful for the libertarian mind telling the body that age is just a government mandate. Nonetheless, this crazy chlorine head sure ain’t running a 26.2 anytime or dead lifting a car. Nope! It's difficult enough to play the sport of life when massive amounts of testosterone and passive aggression fuel the masses. Sitting around inhaling our own greatness weighs on the rest.

Such is this existence that in 120 years no one who is today will be, and no one then is here today. My heart is dancing to the thought of how great the space we don’t occupy in this vast universe. If I was a good guy and came to my senses, I might toast a hot cup of jack squat to the game; but gravity distracts me from the ants who say, “Man, a good guy simple lives to gain.” It is my children and eternal wife who keep me from laughing off this living fiction – trading in rubber on the road for a world tour with Stephen Hawking and Deepak Chopra. PEOPLE!… we rent space on a 6,000 billion billion ton atomic fireball with a thin candy shell, rocketing at 67,000 miles per hour in a Polish victory lap around a freaking star, with no glue or double sided tape keeping us here. Please excuse me for being a little distracted by gravity… it helps me stay grounded.

So until next year, may your minds be a little less distracted by small things and your lives are full of love. Hopefully the ones you want around stay for a long time. To those who have been given the opportunity to add a member or two, congratulations. To those who have lost one, may a special piece of their time with you stay for a long time.

Be well friends and family.

Jarvis

The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

WAIT... Everyone quiet! If you listen close, just behind the announcer snake charming our skinny wallets, we can hear the sounds of the holiday left out in the cold by the dot dot dot gift-giving juggernaut. If my gastric impulse is aligned with the Mayan calendar’s prediction, it can only be the day yard fowl live to die for. Thanksgiving Day! And like all time tested traditions there usually comes wannabes leeching on its success. For nearly a decade now it has become apparent to few and new to more that the fourth Thursday in November has produced an itty bitty platform of loose style and jumbled imagery. And even though the United Daughters of the Confederacy dry heave when the “send” button is hit, this is The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner. 

Once considered a meatloaf of 12 months worth of scribbled and orphan thoughts, Chronicles has become my literary equivalent of show n’ tale for friends and family. A celebration in prose, this day every year, a product of observations. Writing has become the connection to my posterity decades away. As my children will know me as father, my grandchildren only as old; their grandchildren will never experience me. Not consummated in narcissism, rather in compunction for not knowing those before my grandparents. Chronicles has become a public glimpse into my voice to the 4^th generation and beyond. A cathartic exercise as mortalities final act is hopefully tardy, like sticking my hand as far down my soul and pulling up congenital peculiarities for those I will never ken.

Dignan’s notebook wrote of a 75 year plan… This southerner is shooting for verse that pushes through blood lines 300 years forward. Cuz if I’m working on something which can be completed in my lifetime, it ain’t big enough. As these thoughts are masked in androgyny, steeped in the emotions of tradition, and perfumed by the shadows of grace’s substance, let one’s posterity speak in the ears of the now. The mirrors forward extend as far as the mirrors to the rear -- connecting through multi-direction generations that enjoy chakra expansion as individual’s lineage aligns. Death doesn’t have to be the deal breaker.

What a cruel joke on this experience if Charles was correct. This whole sand castle with aware ants playing ant games, merely the random spawn of aimless space junk dancing in the soup of time. Even with that lingering, being addicted to the now is becoming more unsettling. It would be twisted humor to duct tape America’s fidget to the floor and watch with awe as their vagabond communication devices buzzed and beeped in a symphony of utilitarian oblivion. Driving the addict to social madness, as if the info junkie has become an abandoned dairy cow agonizing for the farmers hand to milk their brains of all the sweet substance the rest of the world must have to continue spinning. Perpetuating a false sense of life’s accomplishments.

I am cattle! 

Thanks for letting me take up a bit of your attention. To my family this year I give thanks for having you all. To my friends I give thanks that none have been lost and a few friendships have been regained. Hopefully this day finds you well and in good spirits, and the rest of the seasons are full of importance. Until his time in twenty-ten, may we all enjoy this roller coaster ride.

 Jarvis

The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

No man has found pure space, nor seen the outside curtains, where nothing has a place.

                                                                                                - “If You Could Hie to Kolob”

Good day my friends.

 If my calendar reads correct it is the last Thursday in November. That can only mean one thing… Thanksgiving! And, Franklin D. Roosevelt rolls in his grave whenever it’s read out loud, but time has come for another installment of The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner. This annual mass communiqué is turning six, and I know no better way to celebrate than continue spewing nonsense and grammar challenged prose.

For those who have seen this locomotive before, it will be lipstick on a pig (or was it on a hockey mom’s pit-bull!?!). While those who are receiving it for the first time may just wonder what color “confused” is on the politico map. Nonetheless, I hope y’unz enjoy.

This year I’m thankful for a wonderful wife carrying our second child, his scheduled release date is penciled in for December One. Also, my fire-headed two year old gives me reason for thanks every season (Red for a reason they warned me). May she know the splendor her tiny shadow has cast over my world. Too a mother who still believes that all her children have places under wing; no matter their age or disposition. I Love you Mom!

To my family and friends across this great world, may happiness know you all. Thanks to those who have reconnected through social experiments in networking, and those continuing old friendships. To all, I believe every pole which snags sadness is a hook for getting trials in line. Front and center will joy be when newness for laughter infects times a’changen. It’s my understanding the naughty boys in cowboy hats will see what civility is when they reach the back of the line. Things are a’changen!

Unfortunately for Icarus the journey to the sun was lonely, while his Vulcan crew grew their wings out of admiration for totem’s arm length. As the remembered sing, Oh Mary don’t you weep no more, the kid emperor has Third Millennium Democracy! Even the right-man’s bogeymen are tired of putting new sails on sinking ships. The times are ready for anew.

As I leave dreams of axe’s karma and ghostmen on third, thoughts of foot steps belonging to the three who knew the winds of kindred agents, take hold. The carpenter understood it was a fall, not a failure. Slowly waking up to dawn’s whisper I still ponder - Is he a black man with a white mother, or a white man with a black father? No matter, those to come will know their comet came from the confines of our combustion chambers. May the sun save us from ourselves and cool breezes power the lands we have inherited.

On this special day set apart by the architect of a new deal so many years ago, let the defender be assured by the defended they’ll never be let down; because someone to die for is so more important than a cause to die for. Until next year, I wish wealth in your wallets and warmth in your homes.

Always wondering, 

Jarvis

The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

Greetings from the urban suburban paradise!

If the calendar is correct, it’s the fourth Thursday in the eleventh month…. Thanksgiving Day! Your spam filter may shutter in excitement but it’s another installment of the Chronicles of a Lost Southerner. Brought to you this year commercial free and void of product placement. For some of you it will be the experience of jumping from a burning building and to others it may result in the fifth anniversary of just deleting. Either way, hopefully y’all enjoy the day.

Loosen your belts and send the kids outside, Thanksgiving in America is no laughing matter – mass slaughters of flightless fowl in preparation for a holiday that comes but once a year and marks the evisceration of my wallet. With trappings of corn, potatoes, rolls, and a crazy uncle spouting from the living room why George W. “*” and the Big Three hatched a conspiracy to keep Dallas and Detroit in control of game day, but yet never actually meeting on the battle field. It pushes the button and is entertained.

On this day of excess a sense of tradition and history brings about a love for the gains we have made. (“Born to consume” plays over the p.a.) A love for the larger whole not yet lost; participating in something one has no control over - merely inserted into a long running play with just enough ability to keep from being run over by the ever changing story.

I am thankful this year for those who share in a love for conversation. Some say little, but when they do it’s to the point, and I salute that. Enlightenment is my drug; those who communalize are my drug dealers. Differing views fondly accepted to create a mended tail. Life is not a hotel for the accomplished, but rather a safari for the truth.

With the obsession of self overwhelming so many how twisted would the attempt to communicate with narcissism be absent I, me, my, mine in the spoken word. The new slang for the people that disagree with “this” Arms out stretched, closed eyes uplifted to the sky, the sun warming our good life I bid my friends and family all the best wishes and happiness this holiday seasons.

Jarvis

P.S. Fool yourself in believing carbon credits will save the world…

The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

Greeting from the lighter side…

The calendar reads Thursday, November 23, 2006… Thanksgiving Day. However, to the advanced spam filters it’s popping up as another installment of The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner. With all the trappings of an annual event that no one pays much attention to after it is over. I offer a few words.
>It seems to be nothing more than my ego talking to some, but nonetheless I’ll dedicate this year to Novalee Kay and Valerie. For some of you this may be a first, to others it’s just a recipe for a quick delete. Hopefully y’all enjoy it either way.

In the great spirit of American unity in this season of division and diversity I offer up a thankful pause to my friends and family. Being a descendent of the eastern band of Cherokee, the true founding fathers of the five civilized nations for which this holiday is celebrated. In remembrance of those people helping a few illegal immigrants to make it through a tough winter; I say to our illegal brethren this day “Los amigos buenos del día y la familia... ¡Acción de gracias feliz!”

Being from a promised land that keeps raising the stakes, making it harder to just get by, there are moments when some people feel nothing at all. Having their minds read by those looking down from the edge – a fact that only makes me stop to think we’re just painted by numbers. May we all escape the race for just one day and enjoy the ones we are with.

Another year twisting and turning around the only star that can’t be gossiped about or fall from grace. Things get complicated when we’re constantly tripping over the people ahead in order to be the next one closer to the end; with no prize for the most, the biggest, the best or the brightest. As the song once said “all good things must end someday”, I wish we didn’t have to go. Maybe it won’t be tomorrow… who would do all the shopping on the most important day of the year?

I just hope it’s not dark on the other side.

Until then,
I’m Jarvis.

Happy Thanksgiving!