A Day in the Life of Chaos

My mother bugged the hell out of me.  I can only say that now because she passed away eleven years ago and will never read this.  At least I don't think she will.  Of course I would trade all the irritation in the world to have one more day with her.  I might even let her smoke.  Mother's and the male children they spawn have a unique relationship and as a man I am still trying to understand it.  I say male children because I am neither a woman nor a mother so it would be difficult to see inside that world.  I am 44 years old, over half way through raising my own child and I still haven't figured it out.  Perhaps it is a mystery of the ages as distant as the ways of the ancients.  Despite this, as a thinking man I still try to understand.  I still contemplate the intense arguments I had with my mother in the morning as she drove me to school.  They happened so often yet I can't recall a reason for a single one.  I still wonder how my mother, who wanted so badly to

In Santa Monica California there is a long street promenade spanning blocks. It is a people place in a city built on cars, freeways and the isolated communities they spawned. Spaced out in increments musicians play, girls sing, clowns tie balloons and even the freakish contort their bodies in ways that defy sense. On one short stretch a young woman stood with guitar in hand. She sang from her heart, a smile piercing her lips. Her eyes were filled with joy as she seemed to turn this public space into a cathedral of her own.  With her talent on display for the world to see she was comfortable, almost serene.  There was no hesitation, no modesty, only a smile and an expression of joy painted with natural color across her lips. Santa Monica, is a wonderful part of Los Angeles mercifully rescued from the cycle of destruction and renewal. Los Angeles is a city that in truth is quite ugly however, little by little it is remembering that it has a soul. Lost among the maze of immigrant nei

Last night I dreamed of my mother. Of course we all dream of our mothers yet mine has been dead now for eleven years. It was one of those dreams where she seemed so real. I could speak to her and for a few hours or maybe minutes, I felt like she was still alive. I wonder if dreams are a gift or a torture. Do they help us remember or resolve conflicts in our mind? When my mother passed away from cancer I had so many mixed feelings. So many unresolved issues that could never be resolved. Yet some how, in the face of loss, the issues didn't seem so important anymore. If I could give anyone advice that has a parent still living it would be to find a way to set aside the anger. Your chance to know a person you have taken for granted for most of your life is so fleeting, don't waste it. Don't let it escape your grasp. Unfortunately we are all likely to repeat the same mistakes. It seems that so often the qualities that we love and admire about a person are not