The thoughts that creep in during quiet moments between heartbeats, the fleeting stillness of an idiotic hope. A long ago whisper echoing through the dark, she told me once life is over there, behind the shelf the sexton keeps the key to,putting up our life, his porcelain, like a cup, the skeleton of a thought that was once flesh.
I closed its cover and a solitary droplet of saltwater traced the outline of my cheekbone, following gravity down to the hollow inside of my ear. All at once the beauty of human life descended heavily down, down, down and crushed me in a sudden remembering. I wondered how long it had been since I felt that feeling. How long since I even remembered that it was possible to cry for what was beautiful, and not just for the ugly and broken.
We stood there at the end of the world, early morning fog obscuring the horizon as we looked back at the space that spanned the void. A bridge from nowhere, to nowhere. There were no words, somehow silence was the only appropriate reaction. I thought of the moment when I realized that the poem was about God, I was still standing on a northern corner, moonlit winter clouds the color of the desperation of wolves. Proof of your existence? There is nothing but. In an instant the words' loneliness was replaced by a contentedness that has only been rivaled by the hunger after a good swim. I imagined what Alaska would look like during those months when it is never dark but never quite light either. The sun teasing the earth below by casting an unending dusk upon the land. Would the sky dance with reds and oranges and purples as the children made their way home, as dinner was prepared and the fire stoked?
And why is it that such details make all of the difference?
30.8.08
27.8.08
I'll bite at your ankles
Josh or one of the other con guys that we used to be infatuated with scrawled it across a wheat paste poster illuminationanticipationisbetterthansex... and he had a point. The anticipation is usually better, in all things. Except, except.
Eight of us on tonight and I think I was sent to 80% of the calls. Monitoring my MDT screen throughout the shift, keeping track of all the red lines. The delineation between sheepdog and sheep. I remember him saying you'd tell me if you thought I wasn't pulling my weight, the image of that self-consciousness was in my mind as I was saying motherfucker through tight-lips at my radio all night. A girl could get burnt out like this. I think that you are not pulling your weight.
But in the end, it doesn't matter. My evidence guy came to back me up and he had no equipment to process fingerprints. Had to go all the way back to the department to retrieve the right tools. Me in a dark sandstone dirt floor basement with my gun drawn, flashlight leading the way. Clearing every cob-webbed corner for the bad guy who had committed the aggravated burglary, lest he be hiding out, waiting for me to leave. All by myself and I knew it was stupid. But those damn red lines on my computer screen makes the sheepdog in me puff up. Later the homeowner commended me for my bravery. No time to eat and he sends me a quick message to not be mad because he's going to lunch. I go from call to call to call like a freaking car-hop and I am still motherfucking the radio.
It's nights like these that my appreciation for JD grows exponentially. And I begin to understand the sarcasm in his voice.
Later on a 911 hang-up and my backup diverts to a different, more glamorous call. I can hear the frustration in the dispatchers voice as she is looking for someone who will back me up. In the end no one comes and I offer everything up to God. Because really, what else can you do?
Tomorrow I will be stronger, and smarter.
Eight of us on tonight and I think I was sent to 80% of the calls. Monitoring my MDT screen throughout the shift, keeping track of all the red lines. The delineation between sheepdog and sheep. I remember him saying you'd tell me if you thought I wasn't pulling my weight, the image of that self-consciousness was in my mind as I was saying motherfucker through tight-lips at my radio all night. A girl could get burnt out like this. I think that you are not pulling your weight.
But in the end, it doesn't matter. My evidence guy came to back me up and he had no equipment to process fingerprints. Had to go all the way back to the department to retrieve the right tools. Me in a dark sandstone dirt floor basement with my gun drawn, flashlight leading the way. Clearing every cob-webbed corner for the bad guy who had committed the aggravated burglary, lest he be hiding out, waiting for me to leave. All by myself and I knew it was stupid. But those damn red lines on my computer screen makes the sheepdog in me puff up. Later the homeowner commended me for my bravery. No time to eat and he sends me a quick message to not be mad because he's going to lunch. I go from call to call to call like a freaking car-hop and I am still motherfucking the radio.
It's nights like these that my appreciation for JD grows exponentially. And I begin to understand the sarcasm in his voice.
Later on a 911 hang-up and my backup diverts to a different, more glamorous call. I can hear the frustration in the dispatchers voice as she is looking for someone who will back me up. In the end no one comes and I offer everything up to God. Because really, what else can you do?
Tomorrow I will be stronger, and smarter.
24.8.08
Next time.
Remember:
The good guys always win. There is no way we can do anything other than what God has planned for us. It just takes faith and then comes so much sweetness.
You will always be stronger than the last moment if you choose to be. You will always be smarter tomorrow. Think about it.
There is still a warrior standing with her arms outstretched to the fates in a still darkened parking lot as the morning rush hour traffic whizzes by a few hundred yards off. That strength, determination, resolve and self-assuredness ripples underneath.
You are farther along than you will allow yourself; take the break that you know you need.
The good guys always win. There is no way we can do anything other than what God has planned for us. It just takes faith and then comes so much sweetness.
You will always be stronger than the last moment if you choose to be. You will always be smarter tomorrow. Think about it.
There is still a warrior standing with her arms outstretched to the fates in a still darkened parking lot as the morning rush hour traffic whizzes by a few hundred yards off. That strength, determination, resolve and self-assuredness ripples underneath.
You are farther along than you will allow yourself; take the break that you know you need.
21.8.08
LOVE/hate.
You tell yourself you are smarter than this in the quiet moments after you wake up in the morning or as you make the slow trek to bed through darkened hallways in the empty house. You make a strong resolve to pack up the accumulated baggage, small as it may be, and toss it over the nearest bridge next time you run. Watch gravity take it all the way down until the river has claimed it, and there are no more ripples. You remind yourself of how it will end, otherwise, and try to be practical for the foolish girl who would suffer through the inevitable pain. You keep a steady eye on that weakness that just can't find it in herself to care.
Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all she whispers in my ear on my most recent run.
The phone beeps and like Pavlov's dog I am transfixed. The determination evaporates like the early fog of what will be a very hot day. You can't stop thinking about me. I find myself in mid-conversation before I realize that I've dialed the number. The whole relationship is played out between the lines and hours afterward I am still engrossed in the analyzation of what wasn't said. Then later, when it rings again, the waltz we dance with the sound of laughter and sighing. There is so much potentiality in what can never be and you think that you must enjoy torturing yourself.
You think too much, I have told him. Using the conversation as a mirror to remind myself of my own truths, and to see if any of it takes hold across the cell towers. What will the reaction be? His answers, between the lines of what we say I realize that it is not like falling at all. It is much more like a slow descent down a dark trail where you can't even see your hand in front of your face. The fingers become the eyes and all you can do is pray that your instincts can be trusted.
And we tell each other, everything happens for a reason.
Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all she whispers in my ear on my most recent run.
The phone beeps and like Pavlov's dog I am transfixed. The determination evaporates like the early fog of what will be a very hot day. You can't stop thinking about me. I find myself in mid-conversation before I realize that I've dialed the number. The whole relationship is played out between the lines and hours afterward I am still engrossed in the analyzation of what wasn't said. Then later, when it rings again, the waltz we dance with the sound of laughter and sighing. There is so much potentiality in what can never be and you think that you must enjoy torturing yourself.
You think too much, I have told him. Using the conversation as a mirror to remind myself of my own truths, and to see if any of it takes hold across the cell towers. What will the reaction be? His answers, between the lines of what we say I realize that it is not like falling at all. It is much more like a slow descent down a dark trail where you can't even see your hand in front of your face. The fingers become the eyes and all you can do is pray that your instincts can be trusted.
And we tell each other, everything happens for a reason.
10.8.08
Paper jam
The way the story was retold was actually worse even than I thought the two-dimensional paper version would be. I remember the way he looked at me when we were out in the hallway before the pow-wow. I knew he was thinking of packing it in and finishing the report with TOT... and I did not want to accept that. Don't allow yourself plan B, it's just that simple. It was the same look in the squad room, because I was staring at him during the re-telling. A pause in the monologue would be followed up by eye contact that I never let myself break. The middle-schooler inside would have been proud. My SCAN instructor told us that 95% of lies told are lies of omission...
The constant analyzing that I inherited from my parents, the skills of observation, is both a blessing and a curse. I am pretty sure I am at the top of the curve when it comes to reading people, but it is sometimes painful to know the thought behind the thought.
As I was driving while on routine patrol much later I found myself, again, praying. For a stronger next moment. To be free of the negative thoughts which were draining my energy. To physically feel the guiding hand, the divine light within. The autumn-like winds rocked the cruiser and blew my hair across my face. The sun shone through huge, puffy clouds and it smelled like Olympia, like rain. There is always this moment, I thought, and it is always my own, and I can be as strong in it as I choose.
I gave myself advice via his arrest as I processed her this morning. I told her that we always have the ability to move forward, and to make the next step one that counts, one that is in the right direction. Here is to one foot forward.
The constant analyzing that I inherited from my parents, the skills of observation, is both a blessing and a curse. I am pretty sure I am at the top of the curve when it comes to reading people, but it is sometimes painful to know the thought behind the thought.
As I was driving while on routine patrol much later I found myself, again, praying. For a stronger next moment. To be free of the negative thoughts which were draining my energy. To physically feel the guiding hand, the divine light within. The autumn-like winds rocked the cruiser and blew my hair across my face. The sun shone through huge, puffy clouds and it smelled like Olympia, like rain. There is always this moment, I thought, and it is always my own, and I can be as strong in it as I choose.
I gave myself advice via his arrest as I processed her this morning. I told her that we always have the ability to move forward, and to make the next step one that counts, one that is in the right direction. Here is to one foot forward.
9.8.08
Shades of blue.
Three traffic stops on Friday, each with their own absurdness. I accredited it to the fact that it was the eighth day of the eighth month of the eighth year. I hope that doesn't mean that I'm into all the moon crap as one of my counterparts questioned.
1.
I was driving northbound on a busier street in town, minding my own business, drinking coffee and being thankful for such a sweet job. Ahead of me a car pulled onto the road from a residential street, completely blowing through the stop sign. I immediately activated my lights, and she stopped. When I walked up she told me that it was a new car and she was still getting used to how it worked. I asked her if the gas pedal and the brake were in relatively the same place as her previous car. Then I wrote her a ticket.
2.
I was sitting at a dead-end in a residential neighborhood, where you can simultaneously watch about three intersections. There was a paltry amount of traffic, and everyone was obeying the law and stopping for all of the stop signs. I was getting bored so I put in gear and started to creep out to resume patrol. A car approached the intersection that I was not ten feet from and completely blew through the stop sign, not even a whisper on the brake pedal. I activated my lights and she stopped. I walked up and she was very apologetic and really didn't have an excuse for why she didn't even pretend to stop. I wrote her a ticket because the house next door has five kids that play in the street a lot. Tragedy waiting to happen. When I walked back up to have her sign it she started crying and told me that what she actually was doing was praying and was so deep in concentration that she didn't even see the stop sign. I should have told her that she didn't pray hard enough. Instead I just handed her the yellow copy as she cursed the Divine.
3.
Waiting for a red light at one of the "no right on red" intersections in town and the car ahead of me turns right. I cut through the gas station parking lot and turn the lights on. She doesn't pull over. I honk the air horn a couple of times and she signals to turn left. I am right behind her gesticulating, with the lights blasting away and she turns into the Starbucks parking lot. She slowly finds a parking space, pulls in, turns the car off and starts to get out as I'm parking and jumping out of my car to beat her to the asphalt. I tell her to get back in her car and point to my lights blazing and ask her if she realized I was pulling her over. She looks stupefied -- she had no idea. Duh, she hadn't had any coffee yet. Yeah, she got a ticket. And I noticed, after I pulled away from the stop, she put it in gear without getting that first cup of java.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
What was it about today? There was something about the way she started to answer our questions before we had even finished asking them that struck me as wrong. The explanations just came out too readily. The dry-mouth was a massive red flag and I could see the face of my SCAN instructor -- he had an eyebrow raised and I didn't let it pass by unnoticed. Out in the hallway I thought for sure that my counterpart would agree with me, that we would huddle up and figure out our attack. His dissent made me question my conviction, and I volunteered to do the leg work to prove to myself that I wasn't crazy. He stayed and continued with the questioning. Before we parted I looked at him and said she's guilty as sin. He looked back with those hazel eyes. What if I'm wrong?
When I returned, victorious, she was mid-sentence with an entirely new line of bullshit. I was tired of the game, of the lying I am always so tired of the lying, so I pressed her hard, impatiently, and asked for corroboration. She was too reluctant and you could tell she was getting tired of keeping track of her story. So my counterpart posed her with the old, well if you're innocent then you won't mind if we look, right? To which she, of course, agreed. Because if you say no you look guilty.
Which kills me, by the way. Because if you say yes, we are going to find it, and then you are guilty. What tangled webs we weave.
We started in the bedroom, because it's always in the bedroom, and I found her drug stash. My counterpart uncovered a drawer full of sex toys and was totally engrossed when I noticed her apparently rearranging shoes in her closet. In a flash I realized that rearranging shoes in your closet while the po-po is performing a consent search in your bedroom is just not normal behavior. So I suggested to her, look, why don't you step out here and stand in the middle of the room where we can see what you're doing. I made a bee-line for the purse she had been trying to bury under a pile of shoes and, as if by magic, recovered what we had been looking for. Her eyes were burning holes into my soul the entire time I slowly unzipped every compartment of the purse. I kept watch on her out of my periphery and new I was going to find it. So much so that it was almost like watching a movie that you've seen before, the inevitable unfolding.
The rest was mostly procedure and paperwork.
I cornered him later though with I called it. Part of me felt cheap for saying it but I couldn't keep it down. He knew, and the look in those hazel eyes spoke volumes. Maybe it will be different now, I don't know. Things are changing all of the time with us.
As always it's his paper, his credit. I can't wait to read the two-dimensional version of how the whole thing went down. If nothing else I learned, unequivocally, to not question the gut reaction. You are right, the mystery is in figuring out how you are right.
Later, on my own, on the bike path, flying on the asphalt with the sun burning my nose. Glorious sanctuary that it is, the bike path. I found myself praying. Thank you, God, for such a beautiful day, the wind on my face, the sun, the strength to hurl myself forward, mile after mile. Thank you, Lord, for giving me a calling and the tools to be successful. Keep me humble, Lord, and always smarter and stronger than yesterday.
Later I got a text of admission that my gut was right on, and something about a hope that I didn't think it was down-played. And the flirtations. It is like being given a present of a book that's in a language I can't read. What does any of it mean? I think I should stick to my solitude, and to Rumi. Because when he says we have a barrel full of wine, but no cups. Which is fine with us, I understand.
1.
I was driving northbound on a busier street in town, minding my own business, drinking coffee and being thankful for such a sweet job. Ahead of me a car pulled onto the road from a residential street, completely blowing through the stop sign. I immediately activated my lights, and she stopped. When I walked up she told me that it was a new car and she was still getting used to how it worked. I asked her if the gas pedal and the brake were in relatively the same place as her previous car. Then I wrote her a ticket.
2.
I was sitting at a dead-end in a residential neighborhood, where you can simultaneously watch about three intersections. There was a paltry amount of traffic, and everyone was obeying the law and stopping for all of the stop signs. I was getting bored so I put in gear and started to creep out to resume patrol. A car approached the intersection that I was not ten feet from and completely blew through the stop sign, not even a whisper on the brake pedal. I activated my lights and she stopped. I walked up and she was very apologetic and really didn't have an excuse for why she didn't even pretend to stop. I wrote her a ticket because the house next door has five kids that play in the street a lot. Tragedy waiting to happen. When I walked back up to have her sign it she started crying and told me that what she actually was doing was praying and was so deep in concentration that she didn't even see the stop sign. I should have told her that she didn't pray hard enough. Instead I just handed her the yellow copy as she cursed the Divine.
3.
Waiting for a red light at one of the "no right on red" intersections in town and the car ahead of me turns right. I cut through the gas station parking lot and turn the lights on. She doesn't pull over. I honk the air horn a couple of times and she signals to turn left. I am right behind her gesticulating, with the lights blasting away and she turns into the Starbucks parking lot. She slowly finds a parking space, pulls in, turns the car off and starts to get out as I'm parking and jumping out of my car to beat her to the asphalt. I tell her to get back in her car and point to my lights blazing and ask her if she realized I was pulling her over. She looks stupefied -- she had no idea. Duh, she hadn't had any coffee yet. Yeah, she got a ticket. And I noticed, after I pulled away from the stop, she put it in gear without getting that first cup of java.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
What was it about today? There was something about the way she started to answer our questions before we had even finished asking them that struck me as wrong. The explanations just came out too readily. The dry-mouth was a massive red flag and I could see the face of my SCAN instructor -- he had an eyebrow raised and I didn't let it pass by unnoticed. Out in the hallway I thought for sure that my counterpart would agree with me, that we would huddle up and figure out our attack. His dissent made me question my conviction, and I volunteered to do the leg work to prove to myself that I wasn't crazy. He stayed and continued with the questioning. Before we parted I looked at him and said she's guilty as sin. He looked back with those hazel eyes. What if I'm wrong?
When I returned, victorious, she was mid-sentence with an entirely new line of bullshit. I was tired of the game, of the lying I am always so tired of the lying, so I pressed her hard, impatiently, and asked for corroboration. She was too reluctant and you could tell she was getting tired of keeping track of her story. So my counterpart posed her with the old, well if you're innocent then you won't mind if we look, right? To which she, of course, agreed. Because if you say no you look guilty.
Which kills me, by the way. Because if you say yes, we are going to find it, and then you are guilty. What tangled webs we weave.
We started in the bedroom, because it's always in the bedroom, and I found her drug stash. My counterpart uncovered a drawer full of sex toys and was totally engrossed when I noticed her apparently rearranging shoes in her closet. In a flash I realized that rearranging shoes in your closet while the po-po is performing a consent search in your bedroom is just not normal behavior. So I suggested to her, look, why don't you step out here and stand in the middle of the room where we can see what you're doing. I made a bee-line for the purse she had been trying to bury under a pile of shoes and, as if by magic, recovered what we had been looking for. Her eyes were burning holes into my soul the entire time I slowly unzipped every compartment of the purse. I kept watch on her out of my periphery and new I was going to find it. So much so that it was almost like watching a movie that you've seen before, the inevitable unfolding.
The rest was mostly procedure and paperwork.
I cornered him later though with I called it. Part of me felt cheap for saying it but I couldn't keep it down. He knew, and the look in those hazel eyes spoke volumes. Maybe it will be different now, I don't know. Things are changing all of the time with us.
As always it's his paper, his credit. I can't wait to read the two-dimensional version of how the whole thing went down. If nothing else I learned, unequivocally, to not question the gut reaction. You are right, the mystery is in figuring out how you are right.
Later, on my own, on the bike path, flying on the asphalt with the sun burning my nose. Glorious sanctuary that it is, the bike path. I found myself praying. Thank you, God, for such a beautiful day, the wind on my face, the sun, the strength to hurl myself forward, mile after mile. Thank you, Lord, for giving me a calling and the tools to be successful. Keep me humble, Lord, and always smarter and stronger than yesterday.
Later I got a text of admission that my gut was right on, and something about a hope that I didn't think it was down-played. And the flirtations. It is like being given a present of a book that's in a language I can't read. What does any of it mean? I think I should stick to my solitude, and to Rumi. Because when he says we have a barrel full of wine, but no cups. Which is fine with us, I understand.
6.8.08
Viva la vida.
The first thing I noticed when I cleared the apartment were the cat droppings covering the living room floor, and then the cat, emaciated, with its eyes gone. It looked like one of those cartoons of a dead fish, where it's just the rib cage and two "exes" where its eyes had been. I remember thinking, well, maybe he just went out of town and forgot the poor bastard, completely denying the smell that was raping my nostrils. I pulled my gun and saw Don follow suit. I remember remarking to myself that I was going to have to be the sheepdog in this, if there was a bad-guy lurking somewhere. I could hear the building manager in the hallway, repeating everything that I said. I remember wondering if she always repeated things back like that, or if perhaps it was just the way her nervousness manifested. I cleared left and turned to cover Don but when I saw his expression, I knew. He had found him.
The image of his face, purplish black and bloated, is burned into my memory and I find it in the forefront of my mind when I allow the brain to idle. The smell, the flies, the utter loneliness of the view from his shabby eleventh floor apartment. The calendar on the wall was from a local Chinese restaurant and was stuck in April, 2007. There were fifteen unplayed messages on the answering machine that had accrued during the week he was MIA; all of them from the same man who was not his family.
It was better when my grandfather's friend from the coroner's office arrived. He reminded me of Grandpa Z and it wasn't so bad to go back into that death house with him. The compassion behind his eyes, his gentle way of moving, was unmistakable. We talked for the hour that we waited for the body to be removed. Mostly about the connection between our families, police work and the like, but every now and then the topic strayed to the apartment's former resident and how a life could possibly end up in such a way. I offered up my thanks that he was the one sent that particular afternoon.
And when I got home I ran and I cannot stop. I have logged hundreds of miles with my legs over the days since I was sent on that call, and sweat gallons. My entire body is sore, but it works itself out as soon as I get going again. I have discovered that if part of me is feeling pain, if it is hard and I have to push myself to keep going, then there's no mistaking that I'm alive. That there is no chance I will end up cloistered in a 90-degree dismal apartment with old photos on the wall of people who don't call anymore. That at least, if I am to die soon, when my grandfather's friend comes to investigate he will think to himself, her house was in order and she kept herself in shape.
And why that is important to me I really haven't figured out, but it is directly related to that hot Friday afternoon.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
And there is another memory that keeps descending from the recesses of my mind, when I am alone and it's quiet and I have the time to indulge myself. It ties us together in an invisible spiderweb. When we talked, the way he mentioned it, I knew that it held the same place in his mind, and I imagined him shutting up the door to the guest room, closing his eyes, and being selfish for just a few moments. The way that sounds change on humid nights, the way that smells linger and float heavily in the damp air. The way that our gravities orbit each other, like a waltz in slow-motion. I can't forget it.
The image of his face, purplish black and bloated, is burned into my memory and I find it in the forefront of my mind when I allow the brain to idle. The smell, the flies, the utter loneliness of the view from his shabby eleventh floor apartment. The calendar on the wall was from a local Chinese restaurant and was stuck in April, 2007. There were fifteen unplayed messages on the answering machine that had accrued during the week he was MIA; all of them from the same man who was not his family.
It was better when my grandfather's friend from the coroner's office arrived. He reminded me of Grandpa Z and it wasn't so bad to go back into that death house with him. The compassion behind his eyes, his gentle way of moving, was unmistakable. We talked for the hour that we waited for the body to be removed. Mostly about the connection between our families, police work and the like, but every now and then the topic strayed to the apartment's former resident and how a life could possibly end up in such a way. I offered up my thanks that he was the one sent that particular afternoon.
And when I got home I ran and I cannot stop. I have logged hundreds of miles with my legs over the days since I was sent on that call, and sweat gallons. My entire body is sore, but it works itself out as soon as I get going again. I have discovered that if part of me is feeling pain, if it is hard and I have to push myself to keep going, then there's no mistaking that I'm alive. That there is no chance I will end up cloistered in a 90-degree dismal apartment with old photos on the wall of people who don't call anymore. That at least, if I am to die soon, when my grandfather's friend comes to investigate he will think to himself, her house was in order and she kept herself in shape.
And why that is important to me I really haven't figured out, but it is directly related to that hot Friday afternoon.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
And there is another memory that keeps descending from the recesses of my mind, when I am alone and it's quiet and I have the time to indulge myself. It ties us together in an invisible spiderweb. When we talked, the way he mentioned it, I knew that it held the same place in his mind, and I imagined him shutting up the door to the guest room, closing his eyes, and being selfish for just a few moments. The way that sounds change on humid nights, the way that smells linger and float heavily in the damp air. The way that our gravities orbit each other, like a waltz in slow-motion. I can't forget it.
22.7.08
The hardest hue to hold
When he fished his keys out of his pocket his rosary came out with them, black beads and silver chain wrapped around the ring and fob. He looked at me to see if I noticed, and I, of course, had. A half smile out of the side of my mouth. It made him instantly nervous and embarrassed, and he stuttered something about me thinking that it made him some kind of freak and how he made a promise to always carry it in his pocket. And I suppressed the emotions crashing over me and just quietly acknowledged how much the little things like this are what endears him to me. As if my hands were gentle enough, I could encase the moment in amber, forever.
Later, by a few days, he is leaning in, examining the talismans that I wear on chains around my neck. My efforts at keeping the dark and the evil at bay. The two pints of courage in his veins betrayed his excitement at yet another thing held in common. He reached into a jeans pocket and retrieved the rosary, and just looked at me. And I, of course, understood. He tells me, it's been in my pocket ever since I made the promise, so if I get killed on duty, remember. And it was all I could do to keep myself from reaching out right there, in front of all of our brothers. My wolf eyes held his gaze as long as he'd let me.
And later, and later. The way that we circle each other obscures the line between hunter and prey. We both want both, we want it all. Like a fire that is so hot it consumes everything without leaving even ash, or smoke. And will you consume me, too?
I vacillate between knowing that I'm smarter than this, and being awestruck. It is like being at the same time hopelessly smitten, and heartbroken. And I know there is no way this can last.
I guess that's what makes it so sweet while it does.
Later, by a few days, he is leaning in, examining the talismans that I wear on chains around my neck. My efforts at keeping the dark and the evil at bay. The two pints of courage in his veins betrayed his excitement at yet another thing held in common. He reached into a jeans pocket and retrieved the rosary, and just looked at me. And I, of course, understood. He tells me, it's been in my pocket ever since I made the promise, so if I get killed on duty, remember. And it was all I could do to keep myself from reaching out right there, in front of all of our brothers. My wolf eyes held his gaze as long as he'd let me.
And later, and later. The way that we circle each other obscures the line between hunter and prey. We both want both, we want it all. Like a fire that is so hot it consumes everything without leaving even ash, or smoke. And will you consume me, too?
I vacillate between knowing that I'm smarter than this, and being awestruck. It is like being at the same time hopelessly smitten, and heartbroken. And I know there is no way this can last.
I guess that's what makes it so sweet while it does.
17.7.08
When I run
The first footfall strikes asphalt and cleaves my mind. The day's accumulated clutter evaporates as the first few hundred feet clip by. My entire body lets go of a huge sigh and I give myself over, entirely, to the rhythm of left right left right. And I smile and think to myself, my body was made for this.
After the first mile or so the cadences from the academy vie for my attention and I can see Adam, leading us with the guide-on in the blackness of early morning. Dedication, I got a lot of dedication... Standing upright, chest out, head high, I am an urban lion migrating around my territory. My heart leaps and I push into the cadence, quicken the pace and concentrate on lengthening my stride.
My mind is a deluge of thoughts, ideas, plans for the future, all with a hazy screen cast around them. As if the running had claimed the forefront of my brain and delegated the bric-a-brac of daily life to the subconscious where it can't disturb the feet, the legs. The streets open up, the sky picks me up and carries me, and I ask St. Sebastian if he wouldn't like to travel next to me, for old time's sake.
In the end, I get tired. It crashes over in waves, usually starting just before the turn-around, if there is one on the route. I have learned, though, that the game I play is 85% mental, and it is just a matter of crashing through the barriers in my mind like a raging bull. The body and mind have to submit to the will, to the street, and the meditation of each step. I see myself back at the academy yelling to my brethren we cannot fail when the troopers would hold us over on Fridays or wake us up at 0300 for hell night. It is still true, we cannot fail, because we have decided not to.
And the lion lets out a might roar.
At last, my body betrays itself, because when I can sense or see the route's end it lets out another sigh and bolsters itself to be done. A surrender that does not pass unnoticed. I discipline myself by sprinting to the finish. Don't hold back, don't cheat yourself. I cross the line and suck in the sweet air of early morning or late night, victorious. The veins in my calves pulse, sweat runs down my shins, my forehead is lined with blood vessels rushing oxygenated relief to my muscles, my brain. I think of the Spartan spirit within, and feel closer to her, more connected to something primal, simple, uncomplicated and necessary.
And I laugh when I think that I used to hate this.
After the first mile or so the cadences from the academy vie for my attention and I can see Adam, leading us with the guide-on in the blackness of early morning. Dedication, I got a lot of dedication... Standing upright, chest out, head high, I am an urban lion migrating around my territory. My heart leaps and I push into the cadence, quicken the pace and concentrate on lengthening my stride.
My mind is a deluge of thoughts, ideas, plans for the future, all with a hazy screen cast around them. As if the running had claimed the forefront of my brain and delegated the bric-a-brac of daily life to the subconscious where it can't disturb the feet, the legs. The streets open up, the sky picks me up and carries me, and I ask St. Sebastian if he wouldn't like to travel next to me, for old time's sake.
In the end, I get tired. It crashes over in waves, usually starting just before the turn-around, if there is one on the route. I have learned, though, that the game I play is 85% mental, and it is just a matter of crashing through the barriers in my mind like a raging bull. The body and mind have to submit to the will, to the street, and the meditation of each step. I see myself back at the academy yelling to my brethren we cannot fail when the troopers would hold us over on Fridays or wake us up at 0300 for hell night. It is still true, we cannot fail, because we have decided not to.
And the lion lets out a might roar.
At last, my body betrays itself, because when I can sense or see the route's end it lets out another sigh and bolsters itself to be done. A surrender that does not pass unnoticed. I discipline myself by sprinting to the finish. Don't hold back, don't cheat yourself. I cross the line and suck in the sweet air of early morning or late night, victorious. The veins in my calves pulse, sweat runs down my shins, my forehead is lined with blood vessels rushing oxygenated relief to my muscles, my brain. I think of the Spartan spirit within, and feel closer to her, more connected to something primal, simple, uncomplicated and necessary.
And I laugh when I think that I used to hate this.
8.7.08
You and me and the devil makes three.
I am learning to dislike Monday nights. Monday night fallout, some of the guys call it. The weekends are generally busy in my line of work, especially when we're on midnight shift. Especially in the summer. Days blend into each other for those of us on patrol, Friday, Saturday, Sunday kind of lose the power they once held in our lives. Generally they are just another day on patrol, and usually indicate a heavier work-load. But for the brass upstairs, Friday, Saturday, Sunday still have the same sense of holiday as they do for most every other 9-to-5'er. Which is my verbose way of saying that when you are promoted off the street, you get weekends and most major holidays off.
Which also means that the weekend belongs to us on patrol, the meat and potatoes of the department. And it gets busy, and it gets crazy. Sometimes.
And then comes Monday, always. And the brass. They come in from the quality time spent with families, from projects completed, picnics attended and friends visited. Groggy-eyed, coffee mugs clad in hand, they review the record of what our department accomplished over the weekend. This is what most of the guys refer to as Monday morning quarterbacking, and is where (in my estimation) 80% of the strife between upstairs and down is born.
In the academy, when we reviewed training tapes of line-of-duty shootings and traffic stops gone horribly wrong, they were always viewed first with the caveat that officers have to make split second decisions in rapidly evolving situations and it would be wrong for us to sit here and critique everything that the officer should have done differently, from the comfort of our sterile classroom. The mistakes were usually obvious because we had no adrenaline pumping through our veins, no fight or flight kicking in, no back to watch. I always felt like we should have just watched the video clips in silence, as a way to bear witness to the life of each fallen brother or sister, while at the same time creating file folders in our brains lest we find ourselves in similar situations out on the road.
I was driving around very early this morning, looking for criminal activity afoot, and I found myself thinking that the promotions might be too costly in the end. You trade in your boots for wingtips, your office no longer requires gasoline and you miss the sweet sound of the first birdsong at 0330 hours on summer mornings.
I ran it by my mentor and he agreed wholeheartedly. And I have not known him to be wrong.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sometimes when we are together I don't know who is the captain and who is the ship. It's like being a teenager again with the way that I forget my inhibitions. And when you don't know how to leave, I know that it's the same for you. There is some kind of magic in the summer air so late at night. I can only imagine what autumn will bring.
Which also means that the weekend belongs to us on patrol, the meat and potatoes of the department. And it gets busy, and it gets crazy. Sometimes.
And then comes Monday, always. And the brass. They come in from the quality time spent with families, from projects completed, picnics attended and friends visited. Groggy-eyed, coffee mugs clad in hand, they review the record of what our department accomplished over the weekend. This is what most of the guys refer to as Monday morning quarterbacking, and is where (in my estimation) 80% of the strife between upstairs and down is born.
In the academy, when we reviewed training tapes of line-of-duty shootings and traffic stops gone horribly wrong, they were always viewed first with the caveat that officers have to make split second decisions in rapidly evolving situations and it would be wrong for us to sit here and critique everything that the officer should have done differently, from the comfort of our sterile classroom. The mistakes were usually obvious because we had no adrenaline pumping through our veins, no fight or flight kicking in, no back to watch. I always felt like we should have just watched the video clips in silence, as a way to bear witness to the life of each fallen brother or sister, while at the same time creating file folders in our brains lest we find ourselves in similar situations out on the road.
I was driving around very early this morning, looking for criminal activity afoot, and I found myself thinking that the promotions might be too costly in the end. You trade in your boots for wingtips, your office no longer requires gasoline and you miss the sweet sound of the first birdsong at 0330 hours on summer mornings.
I ran it by my mentor and he agreed wholeheartedly. And I have not known him to be wrong.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Sometimes when we are together I don't know who is the captain and who is the ship. It's like being a teenager again with the way that I forget my inhibitions. And when you don't know how to leave, I know that it's the same for you. There is some kind of magic in the summer air so late at night. I can only imagine what autumn will bring.
28.6.08
Figure eight
His insecurity comes out unannounced and at jagged intervals, as if personalities could have Tourettes syndrome. We all were going from call, to call, to call, with no time to eat or catch our breath, or wipe our brows in between. And my phone rings during a momentary stillness and he tells me that I hope you're not worrying, I'm not ignoring you and I wondered about the thought of his behind the reason for the call. Then later my phone rings again and it's raining and I'm flying down the highway. He tells me I need to take a break, when it rains we slow down, and I tell him that I'm pretty sure I'm not sweet enough to melt if I get a little wet. He does his mutt-laugh and I tell him, in jest, that I think he might though, so he should stay dry and cozy in his car. There is an awkward silence followed by his mutt laugh and only then do I realize the full effect of my words. The power that you hand over when you want the other person to desire you. He tells me, you know you would be stuck with me and waits for the response. There is none, from me, and he asks if I would meet him somewhere.
And I felt so lonely for him, but couldn't explain why. Not even to myself.
Later in his self-conscious ramblings his lips are saying that my blue eyes are penetrating, like a wolf, like the lone wolf. And it comes out, in his boyish flirtations, that he's jealous of the attention that I get from the others. My ears perk up and I can tell that he is waiting for a response that would indicate my level of interest. Like a bastard, like the lone wolf, I let the silence surround us and watch him watching me. Maybe I am too much of the predator, too much of the time. I am thinking about how soon he'll be gone when we get the call, injury MVA, we go flying to it lights and sirens breaking up the dark humidity of the night. We split the call in half and later compare notes. He is helping me when I handcuff the sobbing child of a man with whom I was dealing; he leans into me as I tighten the first cuff, his weight against me, breath on my neck as I am engaging the double lock. I look up and laugh and he just says My God...
He makes me promise that I would be honest with him if I thought he wasn't pulling his weight. He thanks me for following up on a task that I was charged with. He calls for me with a question when I am already halfway down the hallway, leaving. The way my name sounds when he says it. What is it that I do to you?
St. Teresa intercede on my behalf...
And I felt so lonely for him, but couldn't explain why. Not even to myself.
Later in his self-conscious ramblings his lips are saying that my blue eyes are penetrating, like a wolf, like the lone wolf. And it comes out, in his boyish flirtations, that he's jealous of the attention that I get from the others. My ears perk up and I can tell that he is waiting for a response that would indicate my level of interest. Like a bastard, like the lone wolf, I let the silence surround us and watch him watching me. Maybe I am too much of the predator, too much of the time. I am thinking about how soon he'll be gone when we get the call, injury MVA, we go flying to it lights and sirens breaking up the dark humidity of the night. We split the call in half and later compare notes. He is helping me when I handcuff the sobbing child of a man with whom I was dealing; he leans into me as I tighten the first cuff, his weight against me, breath on my neck as I am engaging the double lock. I look up and laugh and he just says My God...
He makes me promise that I would be honest with him if I thought he wasn't pulling his weight. He thanks me for following up on a task that I was charged with. He calls for me with a question when I am already halfway down the hallway, leaving. The way my name sounds when he says it. What is it that I do to you?
St. Teresa intercede on my behalf...
26.6.08
A true friend's prayer
O St. Joseph whose protection is so great, so strong, so prompt before the Throne of God, I place in you all my interests and desires. O St. Joseph do assist me by your powerful intercession and obtain for me from your Divine Son all spiritual blessings through Jesus Christ, Our Lord; so that having engaged here below your Heavenly power I may offer my Thanksgiving and Homage to the most Loving of Fathers. O St. Joseph, I never weary contemplating you and Jesus asleep in your arms. I dare not approach while He reposes near your heart. Press him in my name and kiss His fine Head for me, and ask Him to return the Kiss when I draw my dying breath. St. Joseph, Patron of departing souls, pray for us. Amen
Say for nine consecutive mornings for anything you may desire. Be sure you really desire what you pray for because it has seldom been known to fail.
This prayer was found in the fiftieth year of Our Lord Jesus Christ. In 1500's it was sent by the Pope to Emperor Charles when he was going into battle.
Whoever reads this prayer or hears it or carries it, will never die a sudden death, nor be drowned, nor will poison take effect on them. They will not fall into the hands of the enemy nor be burned in any fire, nor will they be defeated in battle.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Some of them call me in brave moments when their wives or significant others have stepped out. Others send text messages as the alcohol takes effect, growing ever braver and bolder with every round. One leaves me voice messages which are at the same time insulting and possessive and I wonder, how does that work? Everyone acting on their own impulses, some more transparent than others.
They all call themselves brother and me their sister, but really more like the red-headed step child. And I guess, in a sense, we are a kind of family. Dysfunctional and troubled but the job requires that we be as close as kin.
Except for the exception. He gives me prayer cards to tuck into my vest. He made a gift of a key chain that his priest blessed. He tells me about the prayers that he has offered up with me as the beneficiary, gives me advice and is always en route to be my backup. And when I think about it I know that I'm not afraid of failing, but I am terrified of letting him down.
St. Teresa of Avila I ask for your intercession and strength as I walk through the wolf pack. Calm, assertive. Little flower, help me to establish myself as the lone wolf in the specific circumstances where it is warranted. St. Michael inspire my mind more than my feet, help me to remember why I am even there in the first place. Let it be my father's spirit that guides me at each impasse, and not the advice of those ill-informed who have their own selfish desires for my career. Blessed Father I ask for help in carrying out your mission in my small corner of this world. Help me to remember my purpose and the beauty that exists in sacrifice, the sanctity in being hungry.
Nod your head if you are called, too.
Say for nine consecutive mornings for anything you may desire. Be sure you really desire what you pray for because it has seldom been known to fail.
This prayer was found in the fiftieth year of Our Lord Jesus Christ. In 1500's it was sent by the Pope to Emperor Charles when he was going into battle.
Whoever reads this prayer or hears it or carries it, will never die a sudden death, nor be drowned, nor will poison take effect on them. They will not fall into the hands of the enemy nor be burned in any fire, nor will they be defeated in battle.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Some of them call me in brave moments when their wives or significant others have stepped out. Others send text messages as the alcohol takes effect, growing ever braver and bolder with every round. One leaves me voice messages which are at the same time insulting and possessive and I wonder, how does that work? Everyone acting on their own impulses, some more transparent than others.
They all call themselves brother and me their sister, but really more like the red-headed step child. And I guess, in a sense, we are a kind of family. Dysfunctional and troubled but the job requires that we be as close as kin.
Except for the exception. He gives me prayer cards to tuck into my vest. He made a gift of a key chain that his priest blessed. He tells me about the prayers that he has offered up with me as the beneficiary, gives me advice and is always en route to be my backup. And when I think about it I know that I'm not afraid of failing, but I am terrified of letting him down.
St. Teresa of Avila I ask for your intercession and strength as I walk through the wolf pack. Calm, assertive. Little flower, help me to establish myself as the lone wolf in the specific circumstances where it is warranted. St. Michael inspire my mind more than my feet, help me to remember why I am even there in the first place. Let it be my father's spirit that guides me at each impasse, and not the advice of those ill-informed who have their own selfish desires for my career. Blessed Father I ask for help in carrying out your mission in my small corner of this world. Help me to remember my purpose and the beauty that exists in sacrifice, the sanctity in being hungry.
Nod your head if you are called, too.
18.6.08
Scrubs need not apply.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Thank you: for being my backup even if you weren't dispatched to the call, for answering the question I didn't even think to ask, for making the effort to divvy up the work-load, for always watching my six, for the look that means you understand why I'm frustrated -- that I know you are too, for genuinely listening, for always always always being there if I need you, for being the best brothers that anyone could have. St. Michael, keep them close to your heart, watch over them with your sword at the ready.
We few, we happy few.
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
Thank you: for being my backup even if you weren't dispatched to the call, for answering the question I didn't even think to ask, for making the effort to divvy up the work-load, for always watching my six, for the look that means you understand why I'm frustrated -- that I know you are too, for genuinely listening, for always always always being there if I need you, for being the best brothers that anyone could have. St. Michael, keep them close to your heart, watch over them with your sword at the ready.
We few, we happy few.
16.6.08
Sunday night angst
I looked at my MDT screen in disbelief. Seven units on the board, six red and I was the only one in blue for "In Service". Six is our minimum and there I was, parked in the middle of town, the only car patrolling a city who has had as many as thirteen out at a time. Frustrated does not come close to what I felt. Anger is nearer to it, but there was a bountiful heaping of disappointment attached to whatever emotions were churning inside.
You do what you can with what you've got, I guess. That's what it comes down to for me, anyway. The calls came out and I was the first on scene, last to clear, and pounced on the radio before the scrubs could dictate the dispositions, as if they had been of any use at all. On more than one occasion I found myself praying to St. Michael out loud as I approached the addresses calling for help. Ride with me because you are the only backup I'll have tonight. At one point I was searching a hotel room alone, gun drawn, because the cavalry just wasn't coming and it had to get done. You take a deep breath, have faith in your training and just take the first step.
Three cars showed up after I had handled the entire call and served only as an embarrassment to a ridiculous situation. I am the rookie, I kept thinking.
I had this fantasy, this dream-team that I would put together if I could choose my own shift. It was too much to think about though, and on my way to back up another officer on a call I wasn't dispatched to I passed the zone car as he pulled into Dunkin Donuts, and lazily stepped out of his unit to go inside for a cup of coffee. The officer who was dispatched to be the backup on the call radioed in from the other side of town and I never called out that I was going to be enroute as well, so as far as this zone car knew, the primary officer would be on his own for some time at a fucked up situation. And still he felt that it would be okay to take a load off and grab a cup of coffee. I motherfucked him the whole way to the call. I remember him telling me on a slow night that he doesn't do anything that haven't trained me to do because why should I put myself out there and we were talking about typing reports on the computers in our cars. I remember regarding him as a sad old man then, scared, ineffective, and writing him off in my mind.
I realized tonight that there is really nothing that pisses me off more thoroughly than a bastard work ethic. Either shit, or get off the fucking pot. The "I'll show up eventually but only after someone else has arrived on scene first and only after I know that things won't be too fucked up" attitude puts my life on the line. We all took an oath when they gave us our guns and badges and no part of it contained the words, "I will hide on the edges of our jurisdiction" or "I will put forth the minimum effort required" or "I'm really just doing this for the job security and the benefits". Grow a fucking set and take some pride in what you do, what you are, the service you provide to your community. Or move the fuck on.
I was saved by a mutual aid call near shift change and the scrubs had to rely on themselves for awhile. As I was driving out to the other PD I was thinking about how much I work out, how I try to stay at the top of my game, how when it's slow I'll either play the street game, or drive around and think about how I would handle different tactical situations around our bailiwick. And I am by no means trying to sing my own praises, it's just that I know that these are the things that could save my fucking life one day, and I owe it to myself and my family to keep at it. I thought about my dream team and how it will never, not ever happen.
But then I had this vision of dad walking down the hall of his PD, with probably the same exact exasperated and FUCKING ANGRY look on his face as I had driving around in my patrol car. And how he would go into the kitchen, or the squad room, and proclaim, "There's no crime in here!!!" to which his officers could only respond by beating feet and getting the fuck out on the street where they belonged. And I prayed to God that someday I get the chance to say that to a room full of scrubs and have them respond similarly.
We don't work in an office building. People's lives hang in the balance when we choose to be lazy. Think about it.
You do what you can with what you've got, I guess. That's what it comes down to for me, anyway. The calls came out and I was the first on scene, last to clear, and pounced on the radio before the scrubs could dictate the dispositions, as if they had been of any use at all. On more than one occasion I found myself praying to St. Michael out loud as I approached the addresses calling for help. Ride with me because you are the only backup I'll have tonight. At one point I was searching a hotel room alone, gun drawn, because the cavalry just wasn't coming and it had to get done. You take a deep breath, have faith in your training and just take the first step.
Three cars showed up after I had handled the entire call and served only as an embarrassment to a ridiculous situation. I am the rookie, I kept thinking.
I had this fantasy, this dream-team that I would put together if I could choose my own shift. It was too much to think about though, and on my way to back up another officer on a call I wasn't dispatched to I passed the zone car as he pulled into Dunkin Donuts, and lazily stepped out of his unit to go inside for a cup of coffee. The officer who was dispatched to be the backup on the call radioed in from the other side of town and I never called out that I was going to be enroute as well, so as far as this zone car knew, the primary officer would be on his own for some time at a fucked up situation. And still he felt that it would be okay to take a load off and grab a cup of coffee. I motherfucked him the whole way to the call. I remember him telling me on a slow night that he doesn't do anything that haven't trained me to do because why should I put myself out there and we were talking about typing reports on the computers in our cars. I remember regarding him as a sad old man then, scared, ineffective, and writing him off in my mind.
I realized tonight that there is really nothing that pisses me off more thoroughly than a bastard work ethic. Either shit, or get off the fucking pot. The "I'll show up eventually but only after someone else has arrived on scene first and only after I know that things won't be too fucked up" attitude puts my life on the line. We all took an oath when they gave us our guns and badges and no part of it contained the words, "I will hide on the edges of our jurisdiction" or "I will put forth the minimum effort required" or "I'm really just doing this for the job security and the benefits". Grow a fucking set and take some pride in what you do, what you are, the service you provide to your community. Or move the fuck on.
I was saved by a mutual aid call near shift change and the scrubs had to rely on themselves for awhile. As I was driving out to the other PD I was thinking about how much I work out, how I try to stay at the top of my game, how when it's slow I'll either play the street game, or drive around and think about how I would handle different tactical situations around our bailiwick. And I am by no means trying to sing my own praises, it's just that I know that these are the things that could save my fucking life one day, and I owe it to myself and my family to keep at it. I thought about my dream team and how it will never, not ever happen.
But then I had this vision of dad walking down the hall of his PD, with probably the same exact exasperated and FUCKING ANGRY look on his face as I had driving around in my patrol car. And how he would go into the kitchen, or the squad room, and proclaim, "There's no crime in here!!!" to which his officers could only respond by beating feet and getting the fuck out on the street where they belonged. And I prayed to God that someday I get the chance to say that to a room full of scrubs and have them respond similarly.
We don't work in an office building. People's lives hang in the balance when we choose to be lazy. Think about it.
4.6.08
Offering up my reward
Afternoon shift was ushered in with a flurry of good news and notes left for a job well done. The feeling of warmth paralyzed me as I stood in the dark in our tiny locker room, not moving until the waves had finished crashing over me. It is good to be appreciated. It is even better to believe that the praise is deserved.
Up on I-480 later, I thought the woman I was out with was going to fall off the bridge. Why is it that I always come across these people in the worst (tactically) places possible? Windy, rainy, heavy traffic, and there she was under the influence of something and trying to make her way back to me. In the back of my car she's telling me that I'm a very pretty cop and do I get hit on a lot? In between the sobbing and fumbling for her cell phone. She asks if I like my job, which I of course reply emphatically in the positive. So I reciprocate by asking her what she does and when the answer is exotic dancer I don't really know what to say. Then she follows it up by saying that she wants to be a detective. Then more unintelligible syllables in between the crying. I am getting a reputation for making people break down.
I asked John, later, if I really looked that mean and scary and he just laughed.
St. Michael stayed close all night because I was in good position for a majority of the calls we took. First on scene, last to clear, this is a good thing. I find that I use my stern voice (the one I use with Rocky) quite frequently while I'm working, but that there's always a part of me that just can't take myself seriously. A part of me that is standing a few feet away laughing at my attempt at seriousness. I am a kid playing dress-up in my dad's uniform.
When I got home, late, I went for a run and realized that it was my way of rewarding myself after a long and busy day. Took the watch off, the vest, the belt, it was just my shorts, shirt and running shoes. I felt weightless as I hit the streets and sucked the humid air down deep into my lungs. The fog clung to my skin and soaked me to the bone. Six miles clipped by like nothing and I found myself saying Gesu, Maria, Gesu, Maria under my breath to match the cadence of my feet.
It is good to go to bed hungry and tired.
Up on I-480 later, I thought the woman I was out with was going to fall off the bridge. Why is it that I always come across these people in the worst (tactically) places possible? Windy, rainy, heavy traffic, and there she was under the influence of something and trying to make her way back to me. In the back of my car she's telling me that I'm a very pretty cop and do I get hit on a lot? In between the sobbing and fumbling for her cell phone. She asks if I like my job, which I of course reply emphatically in the positive. So I reciprocate by asking her what she does and when the answer is exotic dancer I don't really know what to say. Then she follows it up by saying that she wants to be a detective. Then more unintelligible syllables in between the crying. I am getting a reputation for making people break down.
I asked John, later, if I really looked that mean and scary and he just laughed.
St. Michael stayed close all night because I was in good position for a majority of the calls we took. First on scene, last to clear, this is a good thing. I find that I use my stern voice (the one I use with Rocky) quite frequently while I'm working, but that there's always a part of me that just can't take myself seriously. A part of me that is standing a few feet away laughing at my attempt at seriousness. I am a kid playing dress-up in my dad's uniform.
When I got home, late, I went for a run and realized that it was my way of rewarding myself after a long and busy day. Took the watch off, the vest, the belt, it was just my shorts, shirt and running shoes. I felt weightless as I hit the streets and sucked the humid air down deep into my lungs. The fog clung to my skin and soaked me to the bone. Six miles clipped by like nothing and I found myself saying Gesu, Maria, Gesu, Maria under my breath to match the cadence of my feet.
It is good to go to bed hungry and tired.
30.5.08
Thomas
I didn't think about the ramifications of going on a call with him. I didn't think about it until we were at Sparky and it was too late. Behind him in traffic and he shoots a quick repartee to "S" shift as she passes, and I respond in kind. What are we going to fucking do when we get there? All you can really do is just puff out your chest and summon Billy Bad-Ass.
It worked out okay, I guess. Hard tellin'. I felt relegated, but in the end I came out on top. Ruffled a little maybe, but there's statue polish for that. It's just hard to take yourself seriously when between the lines and pauses in conversation there is that pregnant void that says what are we fucking doing to each other? I don't have the answer.
When I have the time to catch my breath I find that I am reciting the Lord's prayer to myself. Not the new, politically correct version, but the one that was taught to the disciples, the only one that I can roll off my tongue and feel like it's poetry. And it is followed by a reflexive, Forgive me Father, for I am a sinner...
In truth I have a soft spot for the wicked because I know the line is very, very fine. I think they can sense it and most of the time the story ends with them crying and me explaining why the apology they offer is not owed to me, but to themselves. To that future that they could have claimed, but have postponed. And I wonder how much of it is absorbed. The pessimist is certain that it's less than ten percent. And she's really the only part of me that cares.
Forgive me father, for I am a sinner. I fumble through the darkness and pray for divine illumination. I hope that some day some deed makes me worthy of all the blessings I have been bestowed. Cause the Lord knows they have not, as yet, been merit based.
It worked out okay, I guess. Hard tellin'. I felt relegated, but in the end I came out on top. Ruffled a little maybe, but there's statue polish for that. It's just hard to take yourself seriously when between the lines and pauses in conversation there is that pregnant void that says what are we fucking doing to each other? I don't have the answer.
When I have the time to catch my breath I find that I am reciting the Lord's prayer to myself. Not the new, politically correct version, but the one that was taught to the disciples, the only one that I can roll off my tongue and feel like it's poetry. And it is followed by a reflexive, Forgive me Father, for I am a sinner...
In truth I have a soft spot for the wicked because I know the line is very, very fine. I think they can sense it and most of the time the story ends with them crying and me explaining why the apology they offer is not owed to me, but to themselves. To that future that they could have claimed, but have postponed. And I wonder how much of it is absorbed. The pessimist is certain that it's less than ten percent. And she's really the only part of me that cares.
Forgive me father, for I am a sinner. I fumble through the darkness and pray for divine illumination. I hope that some day some deed makes me worthy of all the blessings I have been bestowed. Cause the Lord knows they have not, as yet, been merit based.
24.5.08
The night before...
The thing is to just go faster, I realized. Alone on an unending expanse of asphalt and my mind was steeped in the rhythm of shifting gears, and the push-pull-push that became the revolutions of my feet. You can never go fast enough. My t-shirt was soaked with sweat where my pack rested against my back -- inside was my gun, my badge, a cell phone and the spiderwebs that link a person to reality, to the present moment.
I tried desperately to shuttle myself into the future. The self that is untainted, perfect in its ability to never be reached.
The phone rings, he asks me when I'll be back to work, and he already knows. The conversation flows like a Virgina Woolf manuscript, me watching me reading it back into the receiver. There must be a point in time when this is all outgrown, I vaguely wonder. I can see the way it plays out, the utter disappointment of it all. Elizabeth Taylor said he was indeed a stud, not a pool boy, and it broke the heart of Richard Burton. I don't want even the power to break a heart. Leave me to the open road, my ruminations, leave me to my naivete. Give me only the power that's contained in the bronze of my badge, nothing more. Forget these human failings, I want none of it.
Tomorrow you will find me a grave, man. MLE, remind me of our mortality. Remind me, every now and then, to not take anything so blasted seriously. People like to complicate their lives too much. The better answer is an open stretch of road and a personal record to beat.
St. Sebastian stay close. St. Therese, stay even closer. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory...
I tried desperately to shuttle myself into the future. The self that is untainted, perfect in its ability to never be reached.
The phone rings, he asks me when I'll be back to work, and he already knows. The conversation flows like a Virgina Woolf manuscript, me watching me reading it back into the receiver. There must be a point in time when this is all outgrown, I vaguely wonder. I can see the way it plays out, the utter disappointment of it all. Elizabeth Taylor said he was indeed a stud, not a pool boy, and it broke the heart of Richard Burton. I don't want even the power to break a heart. Leave me to the open road, my ruminations, leave me to my naivete. Give me only the power that's contained in the bronze of my badge, nothing more. Forget these human failings, I want none of it.
Tomorrow you will find me a grave, man. MLE, remind me of our mortality. Remind me, every now and then, to not take anything so blasted seriously. People like to complicate their lives too much. The better answer is an open stretch of road and a personal record to beat.
St. Sebastian stay close. St. Therese, stay even closer. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory...
19.5.08
Sing to me...
It was prefaced with la, la, la, and was scrawled across a Jenga brick that we discovered in Indiana one lonely summer evening. We read the missive aloud to each other and when our host guffawed and awkwardly dismissed its message, we two just looked at each other and knew. It could have easily been a directive from our future selves; don't tarry long here, you'll never find what you're looking for. And so we made an escape the next morning that would have made our grandfather proud.
Sometimes the clues are that obvious.
Most of the time though, we are left fumbling in the dark. This is what I was thinking about, as the Postal Service sang to me on my way in this morning, semi-dark of dawn being burned off by an eager sun, Yirgacheffe filling the car with the smell of coffee. We could spend our entire lives striving to attain perfection and not ever get there. The point is to just believe that perfection is possible, and to get up each day and try again.
I'm sure she has that Jenga block somewhere, still. Oh yes, we sequestered it away as soon as our host turned her back, I think we both were waiting for it to turn green and start glowing. But the words I carry with me, in my center, with the lion and all the little warriors. How can you be lonely when the ones you love are always so close?
This afternoon, after work, the black asphalt stretched out before me in a seemingly endless stretch of possibility. One foot in front of the other I fell into an easy rhythm and it occurred to me that really, what else is this life I've been given but one foot in front of the other? I may stumble, and oh, I have stumbled, but the thing is to just get up and take the next step. It seems so obvious. But how many times have I chosen to completely give up on the path because of just one misplaced footfall? Humility necessitates being able to forgive yourself. Get up, get going, get on with it.
We are already more perfect than we can ever know.
Sometimes the clues are that obvious.
Most of the time though, we are left fumbling in the dark. This is what I was thinking about, as the Postal Service sang to me on my way in this morning, semi-dark of dawn being burned off by an eager sun, Yirgacheffe filling the car with the smell of coffee. We could spend our entire lives striving to attain perfection and not ever get there. The point is to just believe that perfection is possible, and to get up each day and try again.
I'm sure she has that Jenga block somewhere, still. Oh yes, we sequestered it away as soon as our host turned her back, I think we both were waiting for it to turn green and start glowing. But the words I carry with me, in my center, with the lion and all the little warriors. How can you be lonely when the ones you love are always so close?
This afternoon, after work, the black asphalt stretched out before me in a seemingly endless stretch of possibility. One foot in front of the other I fell into an easy rhythm and it occurred to me that really, what else is this life I've been given but one foot in front of the other? I may stumble, and oh, I have stumbled, but the thing is to just get up and take the next step. It seems so obvious. But how many times have I chosen to completely give up on the path because of just one misplaced footfall? Humility necessitates being able to forgive yourself. Get up, get going, get on with it.
We are already more perfect than we can ever know.
15.5.08
Faith in inches.
I love to see the tow-trucks as we pass each other in opposite figure-eights around town. The small ones, when they are empty, leave their haulers pitched against the frames of the truck so that they look like rusty iron crucifixes, arms outstretched upward to the heavens, I am ready if you would only find me worthy. They are a modern reminder of how much suffering and beauty this world can contain, and it is good to remember.
Yesterday I was reminded of something my defensive tactics teacher told me. He was showing the class how much more important position is than technique. If you are trying to work a certain technique, and get fixated on it, you will invariably forget about your position and end up on your back, or worse. He said he would work a technique in inches, and it might take him forever to progress half an inch, but that in the long run it would always be worth it because he would never lose ground. And yesterday in my funk and frustration I thought, it is the same with faith. It is not something I can really elucidate but it filled me with a lot of hope and strength. We do not have to be perfect, we just have to believe that perfection is possible. And you get up each morning and you keep working.
Blessed Father,
teach me to be generous;
teach me to serve You as You deserve;
to give and not to count the cost,
to fight and not to heed the wounds,
to toil and not to seek for rest,
to labor and not to ask for reward
save that of knowing I am doing Your Will.
Yesterday I was reminded of something my defensive tactics teacher told me. He was showing the class how much more important position is than technique. If you are trying to work a certain technique, and get fixated on it, you will invariably forget about your position and end up on your back, or worse. He said he would work a technique in inches, and it might take him forever to progress half an inch, but that in the long run it would always be worth it because he would never lose ground. And yesterday in my funk and frustration I thought, it is the same with faith. It is not something I can really elucidate but it filled me with a lot of hope and strength. We do not have to be perfect, we just have to believe that perfection is possible. And you get up each morning and you keep working.
Blessed Father,
teach me to be generous;
teach me to serve You as You deserve;
to give and not to count the cost,
to fight and not to heed the wounds,
to toil and not to seek for rest,
to labor and not to ask for reward
save that of knowing I am doing Your Will.
4.5.08
Last Midnight
Working with John, finally, last night. I had prepared the text on what my necklace meant and why I wore it, and gave it to him as he loaded his cruiser up in the parking lot, me just arriving. His smile is beatific, I always think to myself, and it lit up his face when he realized I had remembered to bring the meaning in for him.
Hours later we are parked car to car in some parking lot in town and he hands me a photocopy of the story behind his pendant. It is all too much, too beautiful, to kind, and my insides melt with the tenderness that this world can sometimes contain. It is of St. Benedict, and he tells me, they were twins. Benedict and Scholastica.
There is a special twinkle in his bright blue eyes when he casually lets it slip that the two were monozygotes, and that they only met once a year after making the many-mile trek to one or the other monastery. But how close they were, how close. In the end they were buried together, united even in death.
Of St. Scholastica they say Some say that we should only petition God for momentously important matters. God's love, however, is so great that He wishes to give us every good thing. He is ever ready to hear our prayers: our prayers of praise and thanksgiving, and our prayers of petition, repentance, and intercession. Nothing is too great or too trivial to share with our Father. The dependent soul learns that everything we are and have is from His bountiful goodness; when we finally learn that lesson we turn to Him with all our hopes and dreams and needs. Saint Scholastica is obviously one of those who learned the lesson of her own helplessness.
I like this very, very much. I think I am in need of constant help and guidance from the divine and this helps me to believe that I am not the only one; nor are my constant requests and interruptions (perhaps) as annoying as I am afraid they are.
Thank God for John.
Hours later we are parked car to car in some parking lot in town and he hands me a photocopy of the story behind his pendant. It is all too much, too beautiful, to kind, and my insides melt with the tenderness that this world can sometimes contain. It is of St. Benedict, and he tells me, they were twins. Benedict and Scholastica.
There is a special twinkle in his bright blue eyes when he casually lets it slip that the two were monozygotes, and that they only met once a year after making the many-mile trek to one or the other monastery. But how close they were, how close. In the end they were buried together, united even in death.
Of St. Scholastica they say Some say that we should only petition God for momentously important matters. God's love, however, is so great that He wishes to give us every good thing. He is ever ready to hear our prayers: our prayers of praise and thanksgiving, and our prayers of petition, repentance, and intercession. Nothing is too great or too trivial to share with our Father. The dependent soul learns that everything we are and have is from His bountiful goodness; when we finally learn that lesson we turn to Him with all our hopes and dreams and needs. Saint Scholastica is obviously one of those who learned the lesson of her own helplessness.
I like this very, very much. I think I am in need of constant help and guidance from the divine and this helps me to believe that I am not the only one; nor are my constant requests and interruptions (perhaps) as annoying as I am afraid they are.
Thank God for John.
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