The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

Word is in from the heavens; “Mankind’s star charts are still accurate.” The universe is still out there. And the birds are still flying south this year. As the sane strive to avoid the brink, there are those clothed in warrior wardrobes shrouding all but the windows to their souls, polluting the www dot with their hornet’s blood. Murdering a plenty in the name of whatever. But it’s my hope on this day that the darkness some export from the abyss will become near past soon. Let us enjoy our own nostalgia by fostering the healing power of reminiscing past blessings. And what better day to do this than the fourth Thursday in November. The almanac of time traces this day back to 53 proud refugees celebrating their gardening skills with a few locals. They found no need to discuss future land development plans. No parades of lies. No disclosing of future floods of casino retributions. Not even a historical footnote mentioning it is time for another installment of The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner.

These words incubate in my fingers all year, now I just need to shake them out. No longer a concept of packaged thought inspired by understanding’s torchbearers – this year’s annual rag of prose is a declaration of war on America’s knowledge famine. Uniformed opinion loosely based on maneuvered facts thickens the devil’s fog of idiot. He marinates in the sludge of mental waste. A space ever expanding with conspiracy theorist; they seek to save the lazy mind from revealed truth one keystroke at a time. I would never claim martyrdom to secure The Bill of Rights, but I am well pleased that the “X” button in the upper right corner is protected under it’s ratification. However, as long as others are safe from smite I sustain those who chose to advocate for their ideal society. We all should work to keep them alive and free to speak. Ensure they survive, just not thrive.   

 

The reshaping of America by the will of many is the greatest gamble the Founding Fathers set in motion with their aggregated system. Today some, if not many, believe the country they were born into will not be the same country they belong to at their end. America in name only. An America consistently numb with well-maintained momentum financing surface level happiness for the purpose of keeping the rabble from scorching our shared paradise. We will be damned by the humanistic perspective. Supplying the brush strokes to the son of the dawn’s Gravity Hill painting… a portrait of an illusion. The illusion of an upward journey toward equality. One day the gravity of subjugation by those in the perceived know will bind foolish worshipers of mind. Fend off the madman’s bullets, rage against intellectual paternalism.

Even though I rue the day a generation lives out the words of the ancients, the DNA of the plan comforts. God is an astronaut with a great eye for organic architecture. Evolution is a wonderful tool. When looked through the lens of the eternities both science and faith are estranged siblings orphaned by the steward race. May we all remember reality is individualistic, and this space ship is all we have for the moment.

 

Be pro-choice. Always chose life.

Jarvis

The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

The sun is sailing across the sky at that familiar angle. The smells of giving thanks have returned to our homes. Gold and silver are briefly turned away to enjoy others. Some may be excited; some may dread the crisp air outside announcing old man winter’s reminder that our top half of this great spaceship needs a rest. And if my calendar reads correct it’s nearing the eleventh month’s end. Her Latin mother named her “Novem,” the Romans selected the ninth spot in their day planner, but then the Catholics felt she needed to book end autumn on the eleventh page. Even though the marketing executives have hijacked the spotlight for their pilgrimage of consumer, the fourth Thursday in November will always be Thanksgiving Day. And less important to humanity, this day ushers in another installment of The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner.

As good news ceases to be salient in our multi-layered anxiety cake, there is comfort in knowledge that life is relatively long and things change. However, stretch out eternity’s ribbon in both directions and view existence without an alpha or omega, our little patch of probation is a few stitches of the master’s loom. I’m grateful for the patterns on the fabric of man’s recent past revealing how the pursuit of calm trumps chaos. Some people attempt to tattoo bygone mistakes on those in the now. Nothing good comes by staining our walls with those past flaws. What happened to context? Even though context is amoral, it is malleable. And if left in the wrong hands in this age of fire and ice it can become deadly daggers or folly’s pillow. I can never guarantee my words will play well together, but I know with surety light always defeats darkness. One can only exist in the absence of the other. Never reciprocal.       

In this season of life I fully accept my actions to be the ghost of my children’s future. Because life is terminal, and no one gets out alive, these lines are ultimately for my linage just over the distant future’s horizon. Hopefully these words will ensure that I exist in the written form beyond a brief mortal sojourn. May my posterity find understanding in what I believed and can gain insight to help them stand on their choices. Pause! Choices have escape routes; consequences do not. I have anchored my life to that statement. May you gain strength from seeking out knowledge that choice; and more importantly agency, did not begin at the cutting of the umbilical cord. Disputation on the road to personal enlightenment is healthy. Strive for cultivating assurance by listening to counter points. Yet, skill in one school does not translate as a lock stock and barrel orator on the substance of things hoped for, while denouncing the evidence of things not proven. Be mindful of rhetoric as it is the fool’s white stone propagating the appearance of knowledge. It will condemn those who self-inflect ignorance. There is no valiance in thoughtless stupor or just marking time before the end. That is waste. And waste is simply sin.

To all my friends and family, have a safe and happy Thanksgiving. And until the next revolution around our neighborhood star.

Color is perception. Behavior is perspective.

Jarvis

The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner

Milestones across Western society are belongings drug out from the upper closet shelf to mark the past, used once in a while to share with others and dusted off to parade around in celebration. On the fourth Thursday of November this man, this father, this son, this brother, this friend has shuffled brain leafs to jot down a few words to celebrate. The soup bowl in the head needs a brief public tasting to ensure things don’t go mild. In the eyes of my eternal love I am her companion that rambles and raves about life’s oddly sorted connective tissue, to those below the Mason Dixon Line my voice is normal, and for the past decade these brief lines have constituted The Chronicles of a Lost Southerner.

As my efforts to reach back through time in hopes that those before accept the plan agreed up in the original rank I long to know the third stanza of eternity. The work house of the holiest has never been about bearing a weight because I’d be a fool to deny renting a post office box in this Disneyland of creature comforts. So when the circus of speaker boxes push medication for first-world problems I do struggle not to explode in out loud laughter. A mere flash in the everlasting.

Gratitude is overdue to my parents this season of thanks, they were immigrants to the middle class buoyed by a lineage of Cherokee, Scotch mountain folk and Irish common farmers living life with a long view. And as I navigate through the photo montage of my full length motion picture their teachings stay relevant – avoid being a great argument if it sacrifices being a better man, and make every effort to limit the number of good intention bricks used for paving the road to the palace of waste.   

As the cool winter breeze ushers in the season of spending I’m reminded that getting older does not worry me; it’s not having the stomach to handle 32 flavors of modern crazy. Color it as I may, frame it as I might, hypocrisy is still a minority partner in my life when it comes to mocking or pointing out fault in said crazy. That is why I am captivated by vain pursuits to complete the incomplete person – that temptation has always been a false god which manuscripts like a miraculous cure-all, yet when in practice actually it’s a diseased demeaning people and weakening all. There is nothing on this Earth or in the universe offering proof people are created equal, but all is lost if we as humans do not defend equality under the eternal laws. As arrogant or as righteous the practitioner we should never get those truths confused. So I’m not volunteering for the endless war over who will save the domesticated animals from themselves… it’s a graveyard of paternalism.

So until the next time the conveyor belt brings us around to this great American institution of celebration, I wish you and yours a Happy Thanksgiving.

Jarvis

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