Liar, Liar, My Trousers Are On Fire.

I have written this over and over again.
Each time with a different spin.
This is the chance to lie about who I am.
This is the chance to justify what I have written.
This is the chance to rationalize myself to you.
Maybe I am just crazy.
Maybe I am unrealistically sane.
Whatever I am.
That is what I am.
I am Thomas Edward Holdman Jr.
Son of Thomas Edward Holdman Sr.
Who is the son of William Floyd Holdman
And he is the son of the late William James Holdman.
Anyways thats my name.
And thats my lineage.
But that is not who I am.
I am what I have written.
For better or worse.
So now you know my name.
But if you read my work.
You already knew me.

Deafening Sound

Sometimes.

Only sometimes.

Well, I suppose you could say often.

So Yes.

I often.

More than I should.

Listen to songs that pull at my heart.

Because I believe that my heart was made.

I believe it was made to make music.

So I listen to these all of these melancholy songs.

Hoping that my heart will play back.

Because I would rather hear my heart preform on tiny violins.

Than to hear the pounding silence. 

Tender Age

I was going to write (and complain) about how my parents treat me. I was going to write about how I am a legal adult and can make my own choices., but that all changed when I ran out of gas this morning. It all changed when I was helpless.

I ran out of gas on the freeway. 

I got out of my car and walked. 

I walked for two miles and no one would stop. 

Till a ,very suddenly, haggard time worn minivan came to a agitated stop beside me. 

Inside this van was an equally time worn, haggard man. 

In any other situation I would have shied away from this man.
His eyes seemed lost and his speech was slow.
I thought he had nothing to offer me but a ride to the nearest station.
I was in need, so I accepted.

We came to the station and it was closed.
Why wouldn't it be on that cold early Sunday morning?
Even though it was out of his way the haggard man drove me farther down the road.
I was grateful for him but still upset at the situation.
We keep pleasant conversation but I didn't think much of it.
Because it was hard for me to understand his slow speech.
I felt rushed because I believed I had places to be.
I was still polite, of course, but I wasn't fully invested.

In the end we retrieved the much needed gas and returned to my car.
Which was at that point  was far away in a different city.
As we filled my car he talked bout his wife and the wonderful story he now had to share.
He proceeded to recount everything we talked about, in order, and with emphasis on my goodness.
I was shocked.
While I was busy being upset by my situation this man was delighted.
He wasn't delighted with my misfortune, his delight the chance to meet me.
I am still a little surprised he went so far out of his way to help me.
But I am equally not surprised.
It wasn't the middle aged man in his expensive Lexus that stopped.
It wasn't the soccer mom in her new sports utility vehicle.
It wasn't the able bodied father with his family.
It was an eighty year old man.
In a tired old van.
This man remembered my hopes and dreams.
He remembered my concerns for the future.
He cared.

I feel ashamed.
Because as I drove away.
I couldn't even remember his name.
I thought I was the tender age.
I thought I was deserving of compassion.
But I am not.
I am hard as stone.
This man is the tender one.
Because his heart was open and mine was closed.

How to be me.

I haven't discovered, at this time, how to be me. So I'm afraid I will be unable to tell you how to do it. Please check back in about 6 months when I'm supposed to have it all figured out.