Eating Elephants

Tuesday, July 7th

There are a lot of things about the 4th of july that I really wish would just go and fucking die. Or maybe it’s just the present mood within which my brain presumes to preside. There were a lot of things that left me feeling irked, by the time the fuses to the fireworks were lit, and everyone was permitted to squirt.

Wednesday, July 8th

I suppose I should start with what I saw on Sunday, the 5th. The day… was a pretty good day by all accounts. Woke up whenever, ate whatever. However, the contents of thee whenever and whatever are not what call this Yellow Ticonderoga No. 2 pencil to scribble upon this piece of lined, white paper. I have been frequenting a place that feels quite sacred to me probably dating back to April, P.J. Hoffmaster, and I have seen so many things that have left me stumbling in a stupor, marveling at the splendid wonder of nature. On Sunday however, I stumbled upon, well, a man and a woman scratching their itch within the sand. Let’s leave out the fact that they were only 50 yards from the shore where hundreds of people were basking in the sun or swimming with their children. Let’s leave out the fact that it wasn’t a “we’re in nature so let’s make love” type of scenario.

Friday, July 10th

Oh no, It was an “I’m going to fuck your face into the dirt” type of aggression. Who am I to say nothing, yet, I’am all of us pleading to see everything. There was something about that encounter that spun the wheels within my noggin. For one, I felt disturbed. Then the emotions turned into anger, curiosity and finally stopping with a hint of envy. Back in March, I had an interview to be a seasonal ranger at Hoffmaster. For whatever reasons an employer chooses to go a different direction, the rangers conducting the interview found those traits within me. I wasn’t mad at the decision then, and I really can’t be mad at it now. I think it was because they asked me how I would deal with guests in the park that didn’t have their dog on a leash? To which my response was “I’d probably be pretty lenient if I had that encounter in the park…” Yeahhh it was the type of response that sits highly unfavorably with these folks. So I left the meeting feeling a bit sad and when I got the E-mail from them a couple weeks later, it was determined that I would not be monitoring the dunes of Lake Michigan. Or rather, I wouldn’t be getting paid for the countless hours spent swimming, walking, crawling, climbing or breathing in the sights of the lovely park. It’s probably better this way anyhow, for I really get to bide my time in each encounter with the wild. The anger within witnessing two people fuck in a space that I’ve grown oh too familiar with, probably stems from reflecting back onto that interview. Had things turned out differently in that room of three, where they tried to gauge me on my woodsman’s expertise, I can say right now that I probably would have spoken up to the couple fucking on the beach. I hated how I could hear his thighs and dick clapping the back of her ass. I hated how eager he was to get under the blankets and insert himself into her warm and tender nether parts. I hated how compliant she was to give into what he wanted. I hated that such a sacred act done in such a sacred place, consisted of a duration of only a lousy 30 seconds…

Tuesday, July 14th

The curiosity that ensued from my finding the couple on the 5th probably comes from the notion or motto that “sex sells”. I think I speak for a lot of humans in particular, sex can be a very pleasurable and captivating thing. All sorts of questions can stem from that line of thinking. For example, how did it escalate to full on sex right there on the beach? What type of foreplay was involved, or was it merely the wordplay of two individuals that aroused them so? How long had they been together, as a couple, or was this some sort of strange one-off hook up that sparked a hunk of naked and sweaty bodies to collide with one another? Was this something that the woman actually wanted or did she feel obligated to appease her man? Lastly, if they fuck like this on a public beach with hundreds of people merely 50 yards away, what is their sex life at home like? 

The envy that I felt was a bit of a strange emotion that popped up for me. For one, I haven’t had sex since January so the longing that I feel at times, for intimacy at least in a gentler fashion, is understandable. I felt envious of just the act itself; two freaky sex monkeys bumping uglies at the beach. Before I departed the dunes, making my way back to my vehicle, I got around the couple as stealthily as I could. After I got around them I took one last look to see if they were still going at it, which is also how I knew it only lasted 30 seconds. The woman was sitting up, messy hair and wandering eyes to see if they had gotten away with it. I think she even caught my gaze although I can’t be sure from the distance that I was at and I did not wait around to ask them how it went. My ego also had a little voice that barked inside my head, uttering to me “you could do better than that, you could please her far more than what she just received!” Just as quickly as that voice joined the table, I stood and walked away, ashamed to even feel that competitive edge within my internal dialogue over something so silly as an awkward sexual encounter. 

Monday, August 3rd

It is now almost a full month removed from the 4th of July and “America’s 250th birthday”. I don’t feel as angry as I did when the 4th of July rolled around on the calendar this year, I do however find it incredibly draining the amount of posturing it would seem this country takes part in. The amount of times I’ve walked outside my front door and felt a steaming stack of testosterone emanating through the air. Loud cars ripping down the freeway, honking their horns at another vehicle that slid into their lane, trying to keep up, yet driving the measly speed limit of 55 mph. Posturing in a sense that feels as if everyone is out to prove how magnificent they are, how intelligent they are, how strong and intimidating they are. My nervous system longs for slower living and quieter inhabitance. A place where we can try new things without an instructor breathing over our shoulder, waiting for us to make a mistake and say “ NO! NO! NO! This is how it’s done!”. As if there is only ever one way to get to the heart of the matter. 

My father and I started a tradition back in 2021 I believe it was. On the weekend of the 4th of July, we would drive out to Buchanan, Michigan to watch a Pro Motocross National at a venue called Red Bud! My sister has gone with us on a few occasions and when the three of us get together to watch a race, it always reminds me of the days when I used to race, oh the nostalgia. The scents of racing fuel and food trucks wafting through the air. The ground shakes as those powerful machines come roaring to life at the starting gates. Getting lost in a sea of people all with differing opinions on who their champion is and who they want to win. It is thrilling being at the races but it can also be wildly overstimulating! As my father, sister and I left where we set up our tent, we walked right into that sea of people, searching for a spot to sit down and watch the first 250 race of the day. My dad spotted an open piece of grass on the side of a hill, allowing us a decent vantage point of a vast portion of the track so we sat in the unclaimed spots and waited with baited anticipation. The opening ceremonies began and we rose as the national anthem played. Right in front of us, I noticed a middle aged man rising out of his lawn chair. He struggled as his arms hoisted his body out of the reclined position and when he finally got to his feet, it was as if his legs were so weak they could barely carry the weight of his fading physique. 

He dressed himself in American themed sweat pants with blue and stars on his left leg and red mixed with stripes on his right. The shirt he wore had the word “suicidal” embroidered on the back, right where the shoulderblades lay and I couldn’t help but wonder if there was some personal truth in his apparel. Or maybe there could be an even deeper meaning to this man’s apparel and physical standing, for sometimes it feels as though this country wants to devour itself from within. There are days when the land feels as though its very foundation rests upon weakened pillars, by all accounts holding a gun to its own head, ready to pull the trigger. 

The sympathetic bone within me took aim at this man and for a moment, I wondered what he would have done had I gone up to him and put my arm around him. To help him stand as the national anthem played. It was a starry and dreamy fantasy of what I imagined patriotism might look like. The fantasy fizzled out as the races began and soon we were consumed in the entertainment of dirtbikes surfing over the sand and gliding through the air. Little did I know that my sister had noticed this man too. Her intuition had clocked him at the same time as we both unknowingly watched him rise out of his chair together. Hers’ was of a mothers intuition however as she noticed another man, who was also in pretty bad shape, and a young boy who couldn’t have been older than 9 years of age. So as the race goes on, my dad and I become enamored with all the riders we’ve seen from our televisions, watching some of them make forward moves and others fading backwards from crashes or some other unfortunate mishap. My sister was also watching the race but she was also keeping an ever steady eye on the young boy. At one point, she noticed that the young boy stood up and said a few things to the two guys that he was with, and then slowly walked away by himself. We presumed he was going to the bathroom but still it was an interesting thing to think that neither of the guys went with him. What was even more puzzling was that about 5 minutes after the boy had walked away, the two guys that were accompanying him packed up all their belongings and moved on, WITHOUT THE BOY! Shortly after they walked away, the kid came strolling back and to his surprise, the two people that were supposed to be looking after him had vanished. 

Thursday, August 20th

Hilary was the only one of us three that had noticed everything transpire and amidst the chaos and incredibly loud motorcycles she leaned over and hollered at me “I think that boy just got left behind!” After telling me this, I noticed the rising fear in his eyes too and the three of us made eye contact with each other, beckoning the boy to come closer. We had asked him if he was with the two guys from earlier to which he responded yes and then we asked if he knew where they might be, to which he seemed just as dumbfounded as we were. I filled my dad in on the situation who was now aware that something was wrong. Skipping into action, I’m sure my dad got the young boy’s name as they walked together to where the end of the race podiums were stationed. He left the kid in the capable hands of the AMA (American Motorcyclist Association) officials. As my dad stood up and walked away with the kid, my sister and I immediately started to dissect the situation, or at least as well as we could with all the noise and commotion literally racing around us. There was a point in the race where both of us went silent, spectating the bikes slipping around turns and flying down slopes. In that moment, I felt tears rolling down my cheeks at the weight of what had just transpired. I felt grateful to be with my family. To watch them jump into action for this kid who probably has had more similar experiences like this, than he would care to admit. I wondered if anyone had seen the tears coming down my face and I cursed myself for leaving my sunglasses at home. 

It was a strange feeling to be surrounded by so much testosterone, such a chaotic environment that completely overwhelmed my nervous system, yet to feel the vulnerability of the moment. I’m not entirely proud of my country at the moment but I’ll be damned if I said I wasn’t proud of my family in that one. 

Wednesday, August 26th

Now, let’s jump to August 6th and, to the best of my abilities, recollect the endeavors of the day. I went into August off the back of a July that was filled with countless nights of bike rides and exploring all the cracks and crevices of my hometown, Muskegon. In a month that started out with anger, mostly on my own end, it took a surprisingly elegant twist in the form of sheer curiosity and exploration. I was simply mystified by the city I was born and raised in that harbors such a quiet charm to it, especially in the late depths of night. 

On August 6th, I had plans to hang out with some old friends and work mates at Pere Marquette, to share in the splendor of the beach and a bonfire by the lakeshore. I knew I wanted to ride my bike out there but I really wanted to take my time, to soak in all the sights and sounds as well as the scents that come rushing through the nasal cavity while riding a bike. I gave myself 3 hours to try and bike anywhere between 10-15 miles. I left at 4:30 hoping to make it to the beach by 7:30; I arrived at 8:00… There is a massive bike path that flows around downtown, around Muskegon Lake and continues on all the way to Lake Michigan. There is a portion of that bike path that extends into Muskegon Lake, where the ecosystem is teeming with life. It has a very expansive view allowing one’s eyesight to reach through vast amounts of space on all sides of the compass. The thing that really caught my attention was this old hand crafted wooden telephone booth. At first I saw it from a side angle and thought to myself “well that is fucking cool!”. I hopped off my bike and had this very playful energy about me. For I was going to walk into this telephone booth and pick up the receiver, dialing a number like the old timely days when we used to remember folks’ numbers by heart. What I was not prepared for, was the flush of emotions I would receive upon closer examination of this particular phone booth. 

You see, it was a tribute to a young man named Michael Anthony Williams or “Mikey” as the rest of the Muskegon Community College soccer team liked to call him. He was a kid that I coached from the young age of around 10 years old until he took his own life at 18. He was, without a shadow of a doubt, one of the most exceptional young men I’ve ever had the pleasure of being around in mine own 30 years of drawing breath. Not necessarily because he was this marvel of an athlete, but more so because of his soul and spirit that you could just feel in your bones. When Mikey walked into any room, it was like the sun came booming through the shades and lit the whole place up with radiance that permeated through him. He made our team better in every aspect of what a TEAM is. There are no words that I could scribble to try and encapsulate who Mikey was, or just how much he meant to so many people. Yet, I couldn’t help but to feel like that old telephone booth was as beautiful a tribute to anyone who has ever passed through the gates of death. I could feel him in that moment; in the refreshingly warm breeze that picked up in the air. In the song that was sung by the swifts as they skipped across the water. In the young boy that was fishing with his father just 100 yards behind me. In the salty tears that streaked down the side of my face. In the smile that rose from my lips and the warmth of the sun that kissed the hoods of my eyelids.

Here is something they don’t tell you when someone close to you takes their own life. They don’t tell you that the grief comes in daunting waves, leaving you lying on the cold hard floor, grasping for some semblance of comfort. They don’t tell you about the fictional conversations you’ll conjure up in your mind with the dearly deceased. Your words hang on the edge of a knife as they tip the scales in favor of life. They don’t tell you that no matter how dark that person’s decision was, there will always be a gnawing voice in the back of your mind wondering if maybe they got it right. About a week or two before Mikey passed, I saw him outside of our training and games, driving down Seaway, a pretty busy freeway that loops around Muskegon. I’m not sure if he noticed me and I remember thinking to myself “I hope he doesn’t notice me.”. We came to a few stoplights down the stretch that we were driving and I consistently tried to stop just a few yards behind him so that we couldn’t have the opportunity to make eye contact. I’m not sure why I did that. I guess we can chalk it up to the fact that I hate driving because more often than not, it feels like everyone is in a rush these days. The look of anger is ever present behind the wheel, including in myself. I’ve never told anyone about this until now and it doesn’t haunt me as much as it used to, but I’ve always wondered what would have happened if I would’ve reached out to him as our cars came to a halt, idling side by side. Just like the guy at the races with his suicide shirt on, I wonder what the interaction might have looked like if I just looked his way and gave him a warm smile in a tense situation. 

This isn’t some confession of why Mikey did what he did. It is, however, a regret of mine that if I could get that moment in time back, I’d play my cards a little differently. We can all feel when someone is going through a tough time and the pressure comes bearing down on their shoulders. This is a message for myself as much as anyone else who finds themselves reading it. There are people out there that will bear the weight of it all with you, you need but only ask. So, when you see the wobbly man stand up with a shirt that says “suicide” on the back of it, ask him if he’s okay in a tone of sincerity. When you see a friend driving in their car and they are in that zone, GET THEIR ATTENTION! Even if you make a fool of yourself, it’s far better to look like a fool than it is to feel completely isolated. 

Friday, August 28th

When I started writing this journal entry, I didn’t really have a goal in what I was writing. It started out in anger but as the days went on, I found that I was beginning to enjoy my life, which paled in comparison to loathing it for all the trials and tribulations it has to offer. I bike rode so much that it took me two days of laying down for my back to recover, but I wasn’t hurt or lost, I was exploring. I twisted the tuning knobs on my guitar, but I wasn’t deaf, I was just finding a new sound. I looked to the skies and my eyes fell upon the moon and the stars, but I wasn’t looking for a sign, just for proof that there are still things that shine bright amidst a curtain of darkness. I wrote a lot, thought about a lot and even tried my hand at drawing a bit… (Slightly terrible at it but it was fun nonetheless!) 

The summer is always an interesting season for most of us, as we go in search for a whole lot of fun and maybe a few questionable choices along the way. The Fall always brings some sort of witchy vibe to it as if there were some necromancer casting spells upon us. My birthday falls on October 8th and although most of us find nuisance in the fact that our age is catalogued upon the pages of a calendar, it feels refreshing to think that my birthday is just around the corner. A time for a fresh start as I begin the calendar anew! Mikey passed away in 2024 on October 9th and I can still feel the weight of the phone call that I got from Sam, our head coach at the time. It is a sobering feeling to have celebrated my own life and the next day find out that another beautiful star in the sky had burned out. Yet, lets not mourn the loss of those that have passed on from this world. Let’s celebrate how bright their star shined for the time it was lit, and take the lessons they taught us into the world as we know it. Live Your Life! Have fun with it! Enjoy the time that is given to us and I promise, the world will be a much better place for it.