TomFlannery.com

My friend George Wesley received the Lifetime Achievement Award at the Steamtown Music Awards tonight. I was asked to say a few words….and this is what I intended to say. I didn’t get to say all of it due to time and volume….but it’s worth sharing…for me anyway. God I miss him…

“I was thinking the other day what would make an appropriate monument to George. Came up with the usual suspects. A re-named street….with the street sign we could subsequently steal. How cool would it be to have a hot “George Wesley Boulevard” sign in your man cave? Maybe a bust on the square in Wilkes-Barre….where kids could pay homage, armed with illegal smiles.

How about plaques and custom bongs in every green-room on the East Coast?

The logistics might be tough for that one.

All of us dressing completely in black for the next 40 years?

But no….George was a giant…and a giant deserves something….well…BIG..

Scale is very important here….time to think outside the box.

So I googled Mt Rushmore. That seemed entirely appropriate.

Lincoln’s face is 60 feet tall. His eyes are 11 feet wide. His nose is two stories high. Now we were getting somewhere.

So George with a 60 foot face and 11 foot eyes and a 20 foot nose….over-looking the Susquehanna river. He’d have to wear the Tam….not enough rock for the dreads…..but the beard could hang down until it reached the tip of the river. Think of the tourist dollars! A six story beard.

And then I thought….well…..who else could be up there with him on that mountain? Even Lincoln has some company.

And…well…..no….there’s nobody else. He’d be up there alone. The old lion. King of the NEPA musical jungle.

The music. Music was like exhaling to George. That’s how naturally it flowed from him. Mozart claimed to be able to “write” music in his head. George could do the same thing. And if you don’t think that comparing George Wesley to Mozart is completely badass and rock and roll appropriate, then Vinnie and Frank’s bar is not the place for you this evening.

Me and George sat in my living room last year with a bunch of my lyrics and he instantly came up with fully formed melodies….as he was reading them. I don’t mean he hummed a few bars and tried stuff out on the fly…I mean INSTANT….memorable melodies, fully formed. It was like catching fireflies to him. To steal a line from Twain…..the difference between George and the rest of us is the difference between lightning and the lighting bug. We were friends for 20+ years and I never stopped being in awe of him.

We’d play these songwriter in-the-round shows…..and George would always play along to whatever song I was doing. Even if I told him not to because the song was so new even I wasn’t sure of the melody or the chords. I figured if I didn’t know……there’s no way he could.

And George would always smile and promise….and then he’d play along anyway….he’d guess where the song was going and was always right….and we’d finish and he’d say “I’m sorry man I couldn’t help it…” I said…..”you’re incorrigible” and he said…”yea….but it sounds good…!”

He’d go into his kitchen to get a drink, and he’d have his guitar with him. He walked into a NYC hotel with Diana….saw 2 beds….and immediately said….”Great….one for my guitar.” I love that story.

I once asked him to stand still while holding a guitar…..and see how long he could go without playing it. It was like dangling ice cream in front of a child. I think he lasted 8 seconds.

The last time we spoke…..I told him that I loved him. And he told me that he loved me. So I have no regrets. If that’s how it has to end between friends, I’d wish that for you too.

And as usual…..he signed off with “Jah bless”…

And after I hung up…..I had tears. But they dried. They always do. And for the first time I thought….

“Jah bless….……Yea…..he certainly does…”

I’m a better man because I knew George Wesley. I’m not the only person in this room who can say that. Show me….show him…..raise your fucking glasses….

“You count your blessings / when you count your friends”

How blessed we all were.

— tf 9/15/2016 11pm V-Spot Scranton, PA

Track 4 – Dupont Back Porches

Title tracks. I wanted to have one. Problem was I didn’t have a title. Bret lives in Dupont, so this one didn’t take that much imagination. We didn’t make this music on the back porch because it was the dead of winter and that would have been weird, but it sounded like the kind of music people make when they’re passing a guitar around over sun and beers and illegal smiles. So I sent Bret a text and said “I’ve got a title…”Dupont Back Porches”…and he loved it. Then I said, “we need a song.” I had this little instrumental that I was gonna use…some 2 minute open G tuned guitar ditty that I cut in my basement…but I kept thinking….”no, we gotta sing this one.” I had one verse and a chorus scribbled on a legal pad. No music. While Bret fiddled with the chorus I wrote another verse, and when he was done with his bit I was done with mine. Pure collaboration. Knee to knee. Some hand claps and electric guitar added later. It was the last thing we recorded. When it was done we knew we had a record.

Like a fingerprint no two the same / this back porch keeps me in the game

You can purchase a copy of Dupont Back Porches here.

Track 3
Track 2
Track 1

Labor day has passed, always that stubborn signpost that marks the end of summer. The kids are back at school and it’s time to start worrying about how many days off you have left this year, because most likely you blew just about all of ‘em on some shore visit that you put on the credit card. The fact that it’s still 90 degrees outside is pissing me off some, but fall will arrive. It always does. And with it comes our tendency to barricade ourselves indoors….where we can choose our own distractions. And, incidentally, where it’s more difficult to spend money.

Summertime is for frolicking. We rarely get anything substantial done while sweat is dripping into our eyeballs. It’s what Chevy Chase called a “quest for fun”, and we go full speed ahead searching for it, even if it makes us fucking miserable. We pretend all is well and then look back, sipping a beverage while being massaged by a cool September breeze. We revisit all the cute pictures we took, and reality is walled in like that dead nuclear reactor in Chernobyl. We recall the glorious sunsets and the sparkling sand, and forget about the trip to the emergency room with the Jellyfish bite, and how much it cost to fix the broken air conditioner. We’re humans. Woody Guthrie called is “hoping machines”. We remember the party and forget the hangover. We’re glorious idiots, and I love that about us. And not much else.

We lose track of what time it gets dark. We cared back in July….when we went searching for the fireworks. And they all started around the same time. Close to 9:30pm. What time will it be dark tonight? Honestly, I’d have to look it up. And the time creeps too….like the turtle in the race with the hare. So eventually we go from fireworks finishing up near 10 bells, to leaving work at 5:30 across a pitch black parking lot….and never fail to be stunned by how it all seemed to happen in an instant. Lawn-mowers and snowblowers are like two ships passing each other in the night. Football goes from those fans blowing ice water on dehydrated offensive linemen to the frozen tundra of Green Bay. Where does all this time go? Is this the “life happening when we’re busy making other plans” thing? Perhaps. But I can’t imagine not living with the rhythms of these changes.

And so I come to the point of all this meandering. I wasn’t sure what to write about today, but I was sure that I wanted to write something. Because writing is what I do, and it’s what makes me feel good. Words. The way some luxuriate in bath bubbles…..that’s me with the language. Writer’s block is real, but it’s not an excuse. So off searching I go on days like this, hoping to be inspired by, well, anything. Begging. Borrowing. Stealing. All’s fair when you’re starting at an empty page. Being OCD helps too. A newspaper column is around 7-800 words. So these posts I make are never less than 700 words…..the same way no record I release has less than 10 songs on it. Because 9 seems like cheating (cmon! You don’t have some acoustic demo lying around to make the round number?)…..like a 699 word column. Of course none of this is rational but I know lots of writers, and while they don’t have much in common, a lack of rationality is the river they all run through. Which is why we don’t get invited to many parties, but the ones we do are always the most memorable.

So I sent a text this morning to my friend Bret Alexander, a man who is also word hungry. No preamble. Got right to it. “I need something to write about. Gimme an idea”.

His response? “Dude, you don’t know how creepy that question is…” Then he told me he was about to hit submit on his latest blog post….a post that dealt with…..wait for it….what to write about….and how to grind it out of yourself when need be. And then it popped into my facebook feed. Creepy indeed. As Van the Man once said….”Wavelength / Wavelength / You never let me down…”

I like to think that great minds think alike….but it could be that we are both just major league weirdos.

Which suits me just as well….because weirdos are rarely boring. And as a writer, there ain’t nothing worse.

So there. 781 words. My work here is done. And I feel fine. Until next time.

In a bit…

–tf

Track 3 – Got to Be the Change

Wrote this for my friend, the late great George Wesley. We never got the chance to record it together. It came together so easily. Such a simple sentiment. Scribbled the title down on a piece of paper. The verses spilled out. The melody was like a hovering firefly. All I had to do was bottle it. Like a child.

It seemed so simple that I was hesitant to do anything with it. I just sang a snippet of it to Bret and he immediately perked up. So we just fell in together. “Like a demented Simon and Garfunkel” is how I described what it sounded like when I heard the playback. We didn’t add a thing. What you hear is what we did in those 3 minutes. I called out the bridges with nods of the head and we (sorta) ended at the same time.

It would have been a reggae song if I could play reggae but I can’t so it isn’t. But my heart aches to think of what George might have done with this. I remember singing it with him in my living room and it was like he was levitating.

Bret’s guitar here is a perfect counterpoint to my simple strum…..all brightness and positive vibes. And it wouldn’t be half the song it is without his harmony on the chorus.

If you’re gonna make a duo record, make a duo record. Man…this was fun.

You can purchase a copy of Dupont Back Porches here.

Track 2
Track 1

Track 2 – When the Four Winds Blow

When in doubt, steal the title of a Fats Domino song. I did change “Let” to “When” though, so it’s not like I’m not creative.

Found this melody on the piano one day. I can barely play, so whatever I come up with is gonna be dead simple. Three or four chords, and slow enough so my fingers can catch up with my brain. So…really slow.

I was thinking of my nephew when the lyrics came….he was going through some heavy shit at the time. He came out of it tougher than he went in. Pretty proud of that kid.

I like the images here…even though I’m not quite sure what they mean…..

 Flames jump the water / looking for something to burn

I look in my rear-view / to see if you’re there…

The building blocks left from the sins of regret

Pretty sure this is the first song we cut. I remember heading down to the studio that first night. It was December, and my wife was putting up the Christmas decorations when I left the house. I had a head full of ideas, enough Diet Coke to get me through a civil war, and absolutely no plan, so I felt totally prepared. I was just hoping Bret didn’t think I was crazy.

I played him the piano demo I recorded on my Iphone….then went in and sang and played the song live with my acoustic…one take. Bret added some understated piano fills and some harmony to the bridge  (and got his first inkling that singing harmony with me wasn’t gonna be easy…as I’m incapable of singing a line the same way twice). I love the way his mandolin makes its entrance here. It cuts like a knife.

In our first pass at a sequence we had this song kicking off the CD.

You can purchase a copy of Dupont Back Porches here.

Notes on track 1.

Track 1 – Ben Franklin Bridge

Wrote this on the out of tune piano in our dining room. I had recently read a Rolling Stone magazine article about the city of Camden, New Jersey. Not the most functional city in the US, obviously. Makes Detroit look like downtown Disney. But still, if you are a middle class suburb dweller from Philly, it’s an excellent place to buy good, cheap drugs. And since many of its areas are so sketchy even the cops won’t patrol them anymore, getting arrested is the least of your concerns. My Dad used to revel in getting lost. And he’d seek out the most dangerous areas in which to do so. So he found himself asking for directions when mired in the bowels of Camden. Dude ended up stealing my Mom’s necklace, but before he did he gave letter perfect directions. I think my Dad said something like, “well, ain’t that America.” Or maybe that was someone else, I’m not sure.

One of my favorite bands is Marah….who came roaring out of Philly around the turn of the century. They have a great song called “Walt Whitman Bridge”….so I couldn’t go there. Lucky for me there’s another one.

Me and Bret were running the song down in the control room and he hit on this little riff on the guitar. Sounded cool to me. But I had Van Morrison’s “Caravan” on the brain, having been listening to it on the way over, and I suggested we sing the riff instead.

Hence….”na na…na na na na..” We sang it one time, live with the harp breaks included. Bret got so inventive with his phrasing (otherwise known as “making it up as you go because the songwriter gave you 90 seconds to learn it”) that when I sing the song now, I sing it his way. The only overdub was Bret’s mandolin sweetener.

You can purchase a copy of Dupont Back Porches here.

Summer hanging on. Heat hangs like a vine on a chimney….but people are moving faster now. School beckons. And the growing up (or growing old) continues, or commences, depending on where your head is at.

Football is nearly for real….which means lifestyle changes for some. Weekends that were once made for something else, have now reverted back to the natural order of things. Vacations, if you were lucky enough to have one….are likely over by now. We just returned from a 3 day dash to the beach….where we gazed at the Atlantic Ocean together, as a family, for maybe the last time. Kids are getting restless, ready to move on. My oldest girl starts college in 3 days. Close, but not close enough as far as tears go, but 90 minutes away still means the house is gonna seem a bit empty….and a bit quieter….than I’m used to. Nobody makes me smile so hard as my Alyssa does….and my loss is only somewhat salvaged by the fact that it will surely become the Moravian College community’s gain.

My baby girl starts high school at the same time….so the new life events are doubled. My Kiera is brilliant, beautiful, and bound for glory. Nobody works harder at making things look so easy. At times she makes me so proud I start feeling like a balloon in a room full of pins. So I’ll stop gushing before I rupture something.

I’d wish both my girls luck but they’ve proven to me over and over that they don’t need it. Their sturdy character will get ’em past whatever obstacles this world might toss in their path (…and of course I’ll be there with a sledgehammer, just in case).

The days are getting shorter. Me and Kiera went searching for sunset pictures at the beach 2 nights running and mis-timed it twice, watching helplessly from traffic the last night as the sun dove into the bayside horizon. Another 2 green lights and we would have made it. Ain’t that the way life is sometimes though? Some nights the straightaways are simply filled with late yellows and early reds. One good thing about the sun though. It’ll give you another shot. And that’s about as fair as you can hope for these days.

There’s no school for parents. You fumble and stumble through and try to do no harm. If it feels wrong it is wrong, and if that’s the only thing you stick to as your kids grow up I think you’ll do Ok. As the father of 2 stunning girls I’ve certainly been rolled more times than an Idle Hours bowling ball…..but there were times when I held my ground, and it was these times that made me a father. It’s shit easy to be your kid’s friend. Not so much being their Dad. But they know this now, and sometimes (through clenched teeth) will even admit that I was (maybe…sorta) right all along. I’d take on an army for both of them, but that doesn’t make me special. It just means that I take my duties seriously enough to earn my pay. And to paraphrase Mark Twain, my girls, who once considered me the dumbest man alive, are now amazed at how much knowledge I’ve seemingly gained in the last 3 months.

It’s so easy to be cynical, it almost seems cheap. We seem to tear down instinctively, out of fear. We build up only upon reflection. Maybe what we need is more time for that reflection. Less mad dashes to and fro, less 30 second snatches of the 24 hour news cycle, less device clicking and more eyeball to eyeball. We all know that to understand each other we need to walk in each other’s shoes. So why don’t we take the time to lace each other’s up?

I’m as guilty as anyone. I try and I fail and I try again. I walk and I fall and I try like hell to get back up before somebody runs me over. But I get so preoccupied with my own journey that I don’t recognize that you’re on one too. And though we may chose different paths, I have a pretty good idea that our destinations are the same. And that they involve our children.

We should commiserate more, no?

In a bit…

–tf

I finally got here. I’ve read about it (two outstanding books, one by David DeKok and the other by Joan Quigley, along with a stirring little documentary called The Town That Was, co directed by a past Dunmore, PA resident, no less), and it’s been the inspiration for a few songs over the years. A once vibrant mining town of 2000 residents, quite literally wiped off the face of the earth by a combination of epic bad luck, bureaucratic incompetence, and an unwillingness to face the unpleasantness rising from the ground outside the kitchen window. It’s a true American tragedy, and yesterday as we drove in the first thing we noticed was the couple who had set up a hot dog stand on the side of the road. Doing a nice little business, I might add. “2 for $4” is what their homemade sign said. I like that. Sounds a better deal than $2 each, no? We are nothing if not relentlessly resilient. And hopeful.

Tourists like me pick over the carcass of Centralia on a daily basic. We get there expecting to see one thing, and we fine quite another. (And we get hungry too, I suppose). I can’t explain the fascination, other than to say it’s there. It’s the concept of “home”, on steroids.

My traveling companion was my friend Mike Stevens. Mike is a professional wanderer (and noted TV reporter) so this sort of thing is old hat to him. He’d been to Centralia at least twice before over the years. As a matter of fact Mike has seemingly been everywhere at least twice before over the years. Driving up through Frackville and Ashland, we scarcely passed a dwelling where Mike hadn’t given a speech or judged a pie contest. His fame is unrelenting. But he tolerates me and finds me endlessly amusing. Plus, he agreed to drive.

Images copyright (c) by David DeKok

I didn’t take this pic (thank you to author David DeKok for allowing me to use it)….but it gives you the general idea. What was, no longer is. There’s not much to see. This is the main drag. A very tidy, neatly laid out town in its day. We maneuvered through side streets. No street signs of course, but, eerily, the street and address numbers still register on GPS devices. So all afternoon I was standing in front of dwellings that exist only in the minds of global satellites. Mike noticed the curbs. “Unmistakable signs of civilization” he called them. Laid out in front of yards that were overgrown with trees. You could walk up driveways that led to nowhere. It was so quiet. The streets were like yours and mine. Cars. Children. Bikes. Pools. Laughter. Except they weren’t. A man walked past with his dog. He smiled. Very pleasant. Where had he come from? Where was he going? I wish I took his picture. Maybe he was a ghost.

Centralia is filled with ghosts. They haunt the town’s four cemeteries. Remarkably, all are immaculately cared for….still….as if making up for what the living were forced to leave behind (who pays for the upkeep?). A man was cutting the grass while we were there. He nodded politely at us. Many of the graves had recent flowers placed on them. This was clearly still home in perpetuity for many….and newer generations were doing the tending with no fuss.

And literally home to a few. Remarkably, some still refuse to leave. I think I saw two homes. One had a pool. I resisted the urge to gawk. Like most, I despise tourists unless I happen to be one. But as we drove past…..their stubbornness seemed almost sublime, and I suddenly admired the hell out of them. I wanted to run over and fist-bump the lot of them. “Fight the power” and all that. Home is where we say it is, eminent domain be dammed.

“Places like this make up the pulse up the country”, Stevens told me, and he ought to know, having seen a thousand of them. It reminded me of Lyndon Johnson’s quote about the Texas hill country, “…where the people know when you’re sick and care about when you die.” We focus on the large all the time…the loud. But when you sum up all of the small…..what you’re left with dwarfs the sky scrapers. But that takes time. And who’s got that these days? We’re not ignorant, really. We’re just lazy.

At one point during the day word was passed that a family driving a mini-van had gotten stuck on one of the trails (searching for the origin of the mine fire can be very interesting if you don’t know the lay of the land). Somebody alerted a local and in minutes he was there with his truck, pulling them free. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do when somebody is in trouble. That’s the way we’re supposed to treat others. The family thanked him (and us, as we arrived at the same time, proving way less useful….but it’s the thought that counts) and he simply smiled and shrugged. And then he was gone. Stevens said it again…almost under his breath. “Real people here….salt of the earth…”

(And then we saw this….and I thought, “damn right”..)

Centralia is still a home. From homes like this come the men who fight our wars, and build our buildings, and put out our fires, and tend to our nation’s memories. And this is the kind of place I come from too. And when you need help and somebody arrives, it’s places like this they’re probably coming from. Nixon was an asshole, but his term “the silent majority” was apt and still stands.

And it’s easy to laugh on the inside. To scoff. We can look rough around the edges. A bit unrefined. Frayed at the seams. Our bodies can look lived in….our clothes worn. We may neglect ourselves in order to take care of our children. But we are the reason we don’t need to make America great again. All we need is a little amplification. And a place to call home. Only ignorance and hate can take hard-earned greatness away. And I saw precious little of it on my visit here.

In a bit…

–tf

I lost my friend George Wesley today. Cancer stole him from us. Cancer is the devil. It is evil in its purest form. It seeks health, and its aim is destruction. It does not discriminate and it does not get sidetracked. It’s a bully that never backs down.

I received the news early this morning. Since then I’ve been engulfed in a sort of fog. I’ve been physically and mentally wandering….not getting anywhere either way.

You think you’re prepared, but you never are. The mind has an almost endless capacity for hoping. The great Woody Guthrie once called human beings great “hoping machine(s)”. I knew George was ill. Very ill. But I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that he wouldn’t, in some way, find a way to beat the shit out of this thing. Because some people are just born to live. Dying doesn’t even enter into the equation. I’m a walking, talking hoping machine. And George Wesley is one of the reasons. And today, I’ve been diminished. We all have. To be diminished. Is there anything more sad than that?

I loved him. I told him that the last time we spoke. He gave me infinitely more than I ever gave him. He was the most generous man alive. I suspect there’s a lot of us out there admitting that to ourselves tonight. George just engulfed you. He radiated like a summer firefly. He wrapped you in a hug and blessed you, and turned non-believers into believers. I’m telling you this. If there ain’t no heaven….somebody ought to invent the place. Because for George to be anywhere else right now would be a cosmic blunder.

He thanked us for the inspiration. Truth be told nobody ever heard George’s music without feeling uplifted……like a child trying out a trampoline for the first time. He bobbed and weaved and sang Jah’s praises and invited everybody along for the ride. His music was unconditional and spiritual. He could rock. He could roll. He could groove. He could bring the funk. And he did it all on the offbeat. He asked for nothing in return except humanity. Peace. Love. In many ways George was a complex man. But his message could not have been more simple.

When we cry, we do so mostly for ourselves. I’m a selfish prick sometimes. I want him here. I want to call him up….to write some more songs together….to weave our guitars together and find melodies and phrases and reasons to smile. I want to sit at his knee and watch his hands on the frets….to close my eyes and listen when the visual gets too overwhelming. I want to hear him laugh with and at me. I want to call him and hear that growl….”greetings”….on the other end of the phone. I want to be blessed by Jah and I don’t even know who the hell Jah is. I want to see that smile obliterate the need for any other lights in the room. I want my kids to know him better and longer. I want my friend back. I’m selfish. For ME. My tears today were self-pity. I’m guilty. But I’m not sorry. I feel like Morgan Freeman in the Shawshank Redemption. “I guess I just miss my friend”.

George deserved more than this world gave him. Much more. All he did was give. All the world did was take. George lived with that. He left songs on everybody’s lips and smiles on their faces. And then he was alone, and life rolled the dice and whisked him away because she can be a dirty bitch sometimes.

Since the day I was born George Wesley has been in this world. Tomorrow will be the first full day he’s not here. It’s like a hole in the musical ozone layer. I have memories. And I have the music. That has to be enough. It doesn’t feel like it is, but it has to be.

When you grind life down to its powder, all it really consists of are the moments that you can remember. The rest is lost in the ether. The word “unforgettable” is dangerous, because forcing a memory and actually having one is the difference between knowing a phone number and repeating one you just heard over and over again so you can quick dial it before it’s gone.

With George nothing was forced. He was unforgettable for one reason. Because I’ll never forget him.

In peaceful water that’s where I’ll be
With eyes closed I don’t need to see
The hurt we bring on each other
Bless up my sister and my brother

In  a bit..

–tf

Before there was always grey area. We at least had that.

But that’s gone. Philando Castile was executed at point blank range for a broken tail-light. Spin it one way. Spin it the other. You’ll end up in the same place. He was no threat. He was shot point blank 4 times while reaching for his car registration. His fiance sat next to him in the car. Her 4 year old daughter was in the back seat. Based on how agitated and crazed the cop acted, it’s a wonder he didn’t shoot the woman and child as well. Castile’s fiancee pulled out her cell phone and recorded live video of him dying. One of the most horrific things you’ll ever see. America, 2016.

Castile was a legal gun owner with a concealed permit. He did exactly what he was supposed to do. Announced he was legally carrying. Clearly. No grey area. Didn’t matter. Gun advocates are strangely silent. America, 2016.

Dallas police officer Brent Thompson was killed by a sniper. A fucking sniper. Thompson was married 2 weeks ago. Spin it one way. Spin it the other. You’ll end up in the same place. 

One man died because he was a black male. The other died because he was a white cop.

Is it even worth pointing out that neither fit the stereotype they were killed over? It should be, so I just said it. But I’d be shouted down on TV. Eaten alive. I’d look weak and silly. Both sides justify the unjustifiable. Those who point this out get run over in both directions.

America 2016.

If Castile was white, he’d be alive now. Most likely, he wouldn’t have been stopped by the police in the first place. If he was? White guy….with white fiancee next to him. Behind them a 4 year old white baby in a car seat. A cop is gonna blast away when he reaches for his car registration? In fucking Minnesota?

And, put bluntly, if Thompson were black, the rifle scope would have passed him by. Because he didn’t fit the profile.

Hate does strange things. And it makes for strange bedfellows.

Castile mattered. For a few hours. But once that sniper rifle opened up, he became just another statistic. Because America, 2016 can’t handle nuance. We are too divided to find fault on our own side.

It has to be one story, or the other story. It can’t be both. There can only be one headline. And that headline is screaming right now. Cops were picked off like ducks in an American city, 2016. That’s what it has come to. I’ve never experienced anything like this in my lifetime.

We cannot handle nuance. We shout too loud. Facts become pesky. Like mosquitoes.

And then I saw this photo. And I thought, if we’re gonna put blinders on, maybe we should do so while staring at this photo. For a few seconds. A few minutes. Hours.

What do you see?

You know….maybe that’s America, 2016 too. Maybe, when the haters stop hating and the shouters stop shouting and the marchers stop marching….when we all collect our collective breaths, we can live and die together. We can comfort each other and ignore the fuck out of color and religion and class and geographical boundaries…..we can breathe the same air on this small planet and together cherish our children’s futures. And perhaps wrap our heads around the fact that the man who suggested we try something like this previously was killed. By a sniper. In Dallas. Hate can win battles but the war still rages. There’s still a chance. I can see it in this picture. Can you?

My eldest was born with the empathy gene. She feels the lash on the backs of others. At times like this she asks me, over and over…”why?” I stutter. I start to reply and then stop, because I realize that nothing rational is going to come out. She’s starting college in the fall. She’ll be away. I want to steal her and hide her and keep her from all of this. I want to block her ears and cover her eyes and cherry-pick her adventures.

But no. It’s those that feel the lash on another’s back that are in this picture. And if we’re going to heal this fracture, it’s those who must do the doctoring. The world needs her every bit as much as I do.

In a bit…

–tf