The topic that chose me this morning was African Elephants. Unbidden, they came from depths unknown— I did not plan to ponder Elephants, and I certainly didn’t intend to write about them.
Yet here they are, grand, gray, glorious, trumpeting and trampling through my thoughts, pushing aside other ideas, and knocking over the carefully arranged furniture— generally making a mess of the place, as one might expect of such titans trapped within the mind’s limited landscape.
So here I sit, at the keyboard and computer, an ethereal door to the digital wilderness, open wide, inviting them to wander into the vast wilds whence they came.
Elephant Parade was published in Kindred Characters Literary Magazine (Lark & Owl Booksellers), Issue 2, Winter 2025
Some friends have been doing one of those month-long song challenges on Bluesky (#David’sMonthOfMusic). I found out late, which tracks, since I don’t really pay much attention to social media. I also don’t usually do challenges, but any excuse to talk about a few favorite songs and artists is hard to ignore. And because I’m bad at rules and worse at daily commitments, I figured I’d just do it all at once.
This also ended up being longer and more meta than anyone probably intended, with side stories and songs that might only mean something to me and a small handful of other people. I don’t really expect anyone to read or listen to the whole thing, and that’s fine… that kind of stuff tends to be my favorite things to write anyway.
Day 1 – A favorite song
Song & Artist:Random Rules by the Silver Jews
I love everything David Berman, and trying to pick just one Silver Jews song is next to impossible, but I’ve always loved this song and the video. Berman writes like a poet who accidentally ended up fronting a band, which is basically what happened. (His poetry collectionActual Air, I can’t recommend enough.) “Random Rules” is classic Berman: witty and self-aware with lines that kinda sound like a shrug and land like a punch. It’s a combination of mess and clarity, like somebody telling the truth while trying to laugh it off.
Berman’s life ended the way a lot of his best lines always hinted it might, and when you go back through the catalog after his suicide, it feels obvious. If you aren’t familiar and feel like exploring him, (and you definitely should!) for sure hit all the Silver Jews records, and when you’re ready, jump into Purple Mountains. It came out right before he died, and it feels like a final postcard that’s funny and sad and brutal in the same breath. If you actually listen to the lyrics, and you possess even a minimally functioning emotional system, there’s a pretty good chance you’ll notice some moisture in your eyes.
A few lines: I know that a lot of what I say has been lifted off of men’s room walls Maybe I’ve crossed the wrong rivers and walked down all the wrong halls But nothing can change the fact that we used to share a bed And that’s why it scared me so when you turned to me and said “Yeah, you look like someone… Yeah you look like someone who up and left me low Boy, you look like someone I used to know”
Day 2 – a song from this year
Song & Artist:Feel Free by Jeff Tweedy
Why:Twilight Override is a huge triple record, but this song feels like its quiet center point. It’s loose, repetitive, and doesn’t ask much of the listener. Just a reminder, offered without irony, that some things still belong to you. And according to Apple Music’s end-of-year thingy, it’s the song I played more than any other in 2025. It followed me on a lot of long runs, sometimes on repeat. At seven minutes, it also happens to pace a seven-minute mile pretty well.
A few lines: Feel free Get yourself born in the USA Love with a love they can’t take away Feel free
Day 3 – A cover version
Song & Artist:The Ghost of Tom Joad by Rage Against the Machine
Why: The original Springsteen version is amazing, of course, but Rage turns it into something else entirely. Less like a story being told and more like a warning being shouted through a bullhorn. Tom Morello does that thing he does where the guitar turns into an air-raid siren and a turntable at the same time, and conjures a riff you can’t get out of your head. Zack’s anger gives the song its teeth. It’s one of those covers that doesn’t just pay tribute.
I was lucky enough to see Rage once around 1998 or 1999, and even though I’ve been to hundreds of shows over my 45 years, I’ve never been in a room that boiled over with that kind of energy before Zack even picked up the mic. And once he did, it absolutely exploded.
A few lines: Wherever there’s a cop beating a guy Wherever a hungry newborn baby cries Where there’s a fight against the blood and hatred in the air Look for me, Mom, I’ll be there Wherever somebody’s fighting for a place to stand Or a decent job or a helping hand Wherever somebody’s struggling to be free Look in their eyes, ma, and you’ll see me”
Day 4 – A song with four words in the title
Song & Artist:One of These Days by Neil Young
If I were the type of person to create a holy trinity of songwriters, it would include Bob Dylan, Jeff Tweedy, and Neil Young, with Conor Oberst, David Berman, and Leonard Cohen right there too. With the exception of Cohen, who I regretfully never got to see, I’ve seen everyone else on that list live multiple times. And while I wouldn’t rank Neil as my favorite among them, because that kind of thing shifts depending on the day and my mood, I can say with confidence that Neil Young and Crazy Horse at ACL Fest 2012 is still my favorite live show I’ve ever attended.
But I digress. “One of These Days” sounds like a grown-up promise: one of these days he’s going to sit down and write a long letter to all the good friends he’s known. It’s simple and warm and a melancholy. And its a song that, if you’ve lived long enough, reminds you there are people you should probably write that letter to also.
A few lines: One of these days I’m gonna sit down and write a long letter To all the good friends I’ve known And I’m gonna try And thank them all for the good times together Though so apart we’ve grown
Elliott Smith had this unfair ability to make something sound gorgeous while it’s fucking cutting you in half. “Waltz #2” is melodic and almost sweet on the surface while the lyrics take inventory of damage. It’s one of those songs that makes you appreciate how much can be packed into a few minutes when the writing is that sharp and the delivery is that controlled. It’s like you’re listening to someone who could describe pain with surgical precision and still couldn’t outrun it.
And yeah, going with Smith after leading off with David Berman, it might seem like I’m drawn to a certain “tragic musician” archetype. But that’s only because I am.
A few lines: Now she’s done and they’re calling someone Such a familiar name I’m so glad that my memory’s remote ‘Cause I’m doing just fine hour to hour, note to note Here it is, the revenge to the tune “You’re no good You’re no good, you’re no good, you’re no good” Can’t you tell that it’s well understood?
I’m never gonna know you now But I’m gonna love you anyhow
Day 6 – Another favorite song
Song & Artist:Don’t Let Me Down by The Beatles
What can I even say about The Beatles that hasn’t been said a billion times by people who know more than I do. The rooftop performance is iconic, and the whole thing has that rare “caught on tape” energy where you can hear the band locking in around John in a very human moment.
A few lines: I’m in love for the first time Don’t you know it’s gonna last? It’s a love that lasts forever It’s a love that has no past
A few lines: I remember the song that she used to sing, I hear it today and it doesn’t mean anything An obligation inside of you, was it one and one that makes two? I remember the day that love ran away I pinched myself in hopes I was dreaming
Day 8 – A song with you / me / us in the title
Song & Artist:A Song for You, For Me by Clay Nightingale
In 2005, I’d just gotten out of the Army, and my sister and her boyfriend at the time—now my brother-in-law, Joe—were living in San Marcos, attending Texas State University. My wife and I spent a lot of time there back then, before we had kids and real responsibilities. Joe was in a band called Clay Nightingale, and so many of my favorite memories from that stretch of life revolve around going to their shows, hanging out with everyone afterward, feeling like everything was still wide open. This song is a cappella, just voices, stomps, and claps, which I always thought was cool, considering the band was made up of some of the most talented instrumentalists I’ve ever known.
A few lines: I know you hate every job that this town has to offer, it’s ridiculous. We work for peanuts all day, put up with rich out-of-towners being dicks to us. Man, when I met you we both spilled our guts, how we’d be more optimistic if we could shake off the rust. We had a million good reasons to drive New York City nuts. Here, take my keys, give it some gas, easy on the clutch.
Day 9 – The first song you’d put on a mixtape to a crush
Song & Artist:Train Leaving Gray by Mason Jennings
The last time I made a mixtape for a crush was twenty-something years ago. And we’re still married, so I guess it was a pretty good tape. Okay, this was in 2003, so it was a “mix CD”, not an actual tape. And it wasn’t just one. It was several.
I don’t remember exactly what was on them, but I can make a pretty educated guess based on what I was mostly listening to back then. Tracy played one in the car once while we were driving somewhere with our friend Eric, and he said something along the lines of, “Dude. What the fuck. I’ve never heard such a depressing mixtape.” I’m pretty sure it included Elliott Smith, Mazzy Star, Conor Oberst, Jewel, Nick Drake, Ben Kweller, David Berman, and Damien Rice, so he may have had a point. Hey man, we have to work with the music we know.
But I’m also pretty sure I threw in a few songs that weren’t actively trying to ruin your day, like stuff from Dropkick Murphys, Jack Johnson, Old 97’s, and the Toadies. And definitely “Train Leaving Gray” by Mason Jennings. And if not, I should have. I’m going to go ahead and pretend I definitely did so I don’t have to burn one of the “another favorite song” slots on it later.
A few lines: Hoping that I see you on the street It’s your kind of day Nothing has the color of your eyes Train leaving gray
Day 10 – A song with a color in the title
Song & Artist:Love Is Blue by Clay Nightingale
I wasn’t going to repeat artists in this list, but, again, rules are meant to be broken. Especially self imposed rules. Love is Blue isn’t just a wonderful song from one of my favorite bands, but also my little sister happened to write the lyrics, so there’s that.
A few lines: The first time I saw you I didn’t know just what to do, so I walked away, I couldn’t find the words to say. If you want my love, this is all you have to do: come to my house, it’s the one that’s painted blue. I’m just sitting here killing time, wishing you were mine, without you.
Day 11 – A song where the title is a question
Song & Artist:Whatchya Gonna Do Now by HoneyHoney
I’m going with the live in-studio version from The Joe Rogan Experience because, one, it’s where I first heard of the band, and two, it’s a great performance with Suzanne Santo on the violin. The album version doesn’t have the violin, and I think it’s better with it. Personal preference.
Back before Rogan endorsed Trump (and then started doing that thing where he complains about the awful stuff Trump said he was going to do… when Trump actually does the awful stuff Trump said he was going to do), he used to have musicians in the studio pretty regularly. This performance by Ben and Suzanne was one of the best. The song is beautiful, a not-so-gentle shove to stop running, stop waiting, find some peace, make a choice, do something.
A few lines: So you run to the river, you run to the sea You sift through the rubble and search the debris But you won’t find anything if you don’t find peace Ooh, so what you gonna do now? Don’t wait ’til you die Cause you can always change your mind, and make it right So why are you still waiting outside?
Day 12 – A song you would describe as beautiful
Song & Artist:At Last by Etta James
I don’t really need to describe this song as beautiful. It just is, the way the sky is blue or rain is wet. No description or opinion needed. It feels timeless, like it’s always existed, and like it’s been waiting for whatever moment you happen to attach it to.
A few lines: At last The skies above, they’re blue Oh, and my heart was wrapped up in clover The night I looked at you
Day 13 – Another favorite song
Song & Artist:Oh! Sweet Nuthin’ by The Velvet Underground
Another band where I could’ve picked almost anything. Pale Blue Eyes is an all-timer for me, but Oh! Sweet Nuthin’ is one of Lou Reed’s best “just tell the truth” songs, a handful of people sketched with empathy instead of pity, like he’s simply saying, yeah, this is who’s out here.And it’s one of those songs where the first chord triggers a completely Pavlovian response, my hand cranking the volume knob to the right before my prefrontal cortex has even registered what’s playing.
It starts off loose and almost conversational, and by the time it opens up you’ve got this long, rising stretch where Sterling Morrison’s lead guitar starts wailing and those snare-heavy drums push it forward to a crescendo that peaks and suddenly crashes back to earth. It’s quiet and loud and cathartic and it doesn’t need to solve anything to still leave you with a sense of relief.
A few lines: Say a word for Pearly May She can’t tell the night from the day They threw her out in the street But just like a cat, she landed on her feet And say a word for Joana Love She ain’t got nothing at all ‘Cause everyday she falls in love And every night she falls And when she does, she says
Oh, sweet nothin’ You know she he ain’t got nothing at all
Day 14 – A song with a type of weather in the title
Song & Artist:Shelter from the Storm by Bob Dylan
I really considered making this entire 31-song list nothing but Dylan, and honestly, I could’ve pulled it off if he’d released albums in 2003 and 2013. Everything else is covered.
My friend Hatch once said the answers to all of life’s big questions are hidden somewhere inside “Shelter from the Storm.” Hatch is way smarter than me, so I’m inclined to believe him. And even if you’re one of those people who “doesn’t like Dylan,” this is the kind of song that explains why he’s the greatest anyway. Because he is. Don’t argue with basic facts.
A few lines: In a little hilltop village, they gambled for my clothes I bargained for salvation an’ they gave me a lethal dose I offered up my innocence and got repaid with scorn “Come in,” she said, “I’ll give you shelter from the storm”
Day 15 – A song that never fails to make you happy
Song & Artist:I’m Straight by the Modern Lovers
Jonathan Richman’s whole childlike thing makes me happy. The delivery, the sincerity, the little awkward clarifications that sound like his brain is narrating in real time. The opening is basically him talking himself through a phone call like a nervous middle-schooler, including the tiny aside about putting the phone back in place, and it makes me smile every time.
Also, true story: I had this record playing at my house a couple years ago and one of my daughter’s friends goes, “Ok, we get it dude, you’re straight,” and I had to give the whole mini-history lesson on why “straight” didn’t always mean what it means now, how he’s trying to convince a girl she should date him instead of Hippie Johnny, because Johnny’s “always stoned” and Richman’s “straight” in the not-high sense. So that memory makes me smile too.
This was maybe one of the most challenging categories, because there’s no shortage of songs that make me happy the second they come on. “New Slang” by The Shins. “I’m Alive” by Johnny Thunder. “Whiskey River” by Willie. “Don’t You (Forget About Me)” by Simple Minds. “Just Like Heaven” by The Cure. But if I’m only picking one, I’m sticking with Jonathan Richman and the Modern Lovers.
A few lines: I called this number three Times already today But I, I got scared, I put it back in place— I put my phone back in place I still don’t know if I Should have called up Look, just tell me why don’t you If I’m out of place Cause here’s your chance to make me feel awkward And wish that I Had never even called up this place
Day 16 – A song from 2003
Song & Artist:Laminated Cat by Loose Fur
Let’s see how many Jeff Tweedy songs I can sneak in here without just turning this into “Nick’s top 31 Wilco songs.”
“Laminated Cat” has that jittery, slightly surreal energy Tweedy does so well, where the images come fast and don’t explain themselves, but somehow still feel emotionally dead-on. It’s funny and anxious and kind of beautiful.
A few lines: Summer comes and gravity undoes you You’re happy because of the lovely way the sunshine bends Hiding from your close friends Weeding out the weekends Candy left over from Halloween A unified theory of everything Love left over from lovers leaving Books, they all know they’re not worth reading It’s not for the season
Day 17 – Another favorite song
Song & Artist:Lizzy by Ben Kweller
This song and album always takes me back to a really good time in my life.
A few lines: Sign me up, I volunteer Votes are in for lifeguard of the year Her feline past lives are plain Their singularities are shown in this life again Like momma said “Don’t you let it go to your head When you know you’re being fed” I’m so proud to know you
Day 18 – A song with air, fire, water, or earth in the title
Song & Artist:Moon River performed by Audrey Hepburn (Henry Mancini / Johnny Mercer)
When Tracy and I first started dating, I learned she’d never seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s or Roman Holiday, which obviously had to be corrected. There’s something kind of funny about the role reversal of an active-duty soldier in the barracks insisting his girlfriend sit down and watch old black-and-white romantic movies, but stereotypes are made to be ignored.
A few lines: Two drifters off to see the world There’s such a lot of world to see We’re after the same rainbow’s end Waiting ’round the bend My huckleberry friend Moon River and me
Day 19 – A song with a part of the body in the title
Song & Artist:Your Rocky Spine by the Great Lake Swimmers
Atmospheric indie-folk band with banjos and mandolins and beautiful harmonies with a little Neil Young and Nick Drake in their DNA. Whats not to love.
A few lines: The mountains said I could find you here They whispered the snow and the leaves in my ear I traced my finger along your trails Your body was the map, I was lost in it Floating over your rocky spine The glaciers made you, and now you’re mine
Day 20 – A song with a name in the title
Song & Artist:So Long, Marianne by Leonard Cohen
Cohen was a poet long before he was a songwriter, and you can feel it. Not many musicians can squeeze that much emotion out of a single line.
A few lines: We met when we were almost young Deep in the green lilac park You held on to me like I was a crucifix As we went kneeling through the dark Now so long, Marianne, it’s time that we began To laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again
Day 21 – A song from 1993
Song & Artist:Start Choppin by Dinosaur Jr.
I was 13 when this came out, right at that age where your brain is basically a sponge for anything involving distorted guitars. J Mascis sings like he’s half bored and half wrecked and 32 years this song still hits the same part of my nervous system in the exact same way.
A few lines: When you call, it’s just not fair It’s the last thing you should share I can’t deal, I’ll let you know Still, I wish you’d let it go I ain’t telling you a secret I ain’t telling you goodbye
Day 22 – A song with your favorite lyric
Song & Artist:Via Chicago by Wilco
Sometimes words land like a half-dream, explain nothing, and your chest registers something real before your brain catches up. It’s okay to love something without being able to explain exactly why you love it.
A few lines: Where the cups are cracked and hooked Above the sink They make me think Crumbling ladder tears don’t fall They shine down your shoulders Crawling is screw faster lash I blow it with kisses Rest my head on a pillowy star And a cracked door moon Says I haven’t gone too far
Day 23 – A song with an animal in the title
Song & Artist:Buffalo by Hurray for the Riff Raff
Hurray for the Riff Raff somehow weren’t even on my radar until earlier this year, when we went to a Bright Eyes show in Austin and they opened. One of those magic moments where you walk in not knowing a thing about the band, and then ten minutes later you’re fully converted. They absolutely blew me away—especially Buffalo, and another song, Ogallala, which has the great line: “I used to think I was born into the wrong generation. But now I know, I made it right on time… To watch the world burn.”
A few lines: Will we go like the woolly mammoth? Or the dear dodo? Gone like the Bachman’s warbler Disappeared like the melting snow Little Mariana fruit bats Or the bridled white-eye bird Or will we keep on running Like the sound of the buffalo herd?
Day 24 – A song you’d kiss to under the mistletoe
Song & Artist:Happy Christmas (War Is Over) by John Lennon and Yoko Ono
I assume this prompt is asking for a “mistletoe song,” which usually means something flirty, or at least something that sounds like a Hallmark movie. But it’s Christmas Eve, and this is the one that always shows up in my head. If you’re going to kiss someone under the mistletoe, you could do worse than a song that’s basically saying: hey, maybe we don’t have to keep doing the same violent, stupid shit forever.
Also, let’s be honest, if it’s the right person, the song doesn’t matter. Winking at you, T.
A few lines: And so this is Christmas For weak and for strong The rich and the poor ones The road is so long And so happy Christmas For black and for white For yellow and red ones Let’s stop all the fight
Day 25 – A Christmas song
Song & Artist: Merry Christmas From the Family by Robert Earl Keen
I’m not sure Merry Christmas From the Family is “traditional” for most of the country, but if you grew up in Texas in the 90s, it might as well be Silent Night. It feels like a Houston-area holiday in song form. The house too full, everybody drunk and talking at once, somebody making an emergency store run, and the whole thing held together by food, noise, and affection.
Also, Robert Earl Keen is actually starting to look like Santa Claus.
A few lines: Mom got drunk and Dad got drunk At our Christmas party We were drinking champagne punch And homemade egg-nog…
Day 26 – A song with love in the title
Song & Artist: Let’s Not Shit Ourselves (To Love and to Be Loved) by Bright Eyes
I remember my sister telling me once, and I’m totally paraphrasing here, so forgive me Mer if I get this wrong, but she talked about sitting in her car in college, listening to I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning and just crying, partly because it was so perfect, and partly because no matter how good of a writer she is, she would never be able to write lyrics like Conor Oberst. While that’s debatable, because she’s an excellent writer, I know exactly what she means.
Wide Awake is probably the more complete album, but Lifted has some of my favorite Bright Eyes songs on it, “Make War,” “Waste of Paint,” “Laura Laurent,” and then this ten-minute fever dream at the end. And the fact that he wrote a lot of this stuff before he could legally drink, makes me think Mer might be right that some people just have a thing the rest of us don’t.
A few lines: Well, I should stop pointing fingers, reserve my judgment Of all those public action figures, the cowboy presidents So loud behind the bullhorn, so proud they can’t admit When they’ve made a mistake While poison ink spews from a speechwriter’s pen He knows he don’t have to say it, so it don’t bother him “Honesty”, “accuracy” is just popular opinion And the approval rating’s high And so someone’s gonna die Well, ABC, NBC, CBS: Bullshit! They give us fact or fiction? I guess an even split And each new act of war is tonight’s entertainment We’re still the pawns in their game As they take eye for an eye until no one can see We must stumble blindly forward, repeating history
Day 27 – A song with a one-word title
Song & Artist:Knockin by MJ Lenderman
I think one mistake we make as we get older is assuming new music isn’t for us, like there’s some invisible cutoff where you’re supposed to stop being surprised and just rotate the same records until you die. I’m constantly asking what my kids are listening to, not just to make conversation, but because I’m genuinely curious what good music I could be missing. MJ Lenderman is twenty-something and I’m 45, so yeah, different generation, different everything. But then he’s out here quoting Dylan, so maybe it’s not that far apart. It’s a good reminder to stay open. Sometimes a song shows up and knocks you off your own familiar track.
A few lines: Loneliness is simple not much else is Her love for me is real She gives what she has to give She gave me wings and I caught flight And I think I might be knock knock knock Knock knock knock knockin’ on Heaven’s door tonight
Day 28 – A song from 1983
Song & Artist:The Creeps (I Just Wanna Give You) by Social Distortion
It’s no secret amongst my friends and family that I’m not the biggest fan of ’80s music in general, but I mean the Top 40 version of the decade: drum machines, synths, and feathered hair. When it comes to punk, though, I’m basically an ’80s loyalist. Black Flag, Minor Threat, the Descendents, Minutemen, Dead Kennedys, the Vandals, and of course Social Distortion.
A few lines: I’ll be vigilant, I’ll be silent Yes, no one will know You want something for nothing A toast on your grave I just wanna give you the creeps
Day 29 – Another favorite song
Song & Artist:True Love Will Find You in the End by Daniel Johnston
Daniel Johnston is part of the Austin DNA. He showed up here in the 80s handing out homemade tapes, and his music still gets covered in bars any night of the week. And of course there’s the iconic Hi, How Are You mural he painted on Guadalupe Street.
Kurt Cobain wore that frog image on a T-shirt at the ’92 VMAs and suddenly Daniel’s weird little corner of Austin got shoved into the mainstream. Austin even turned his birthday, January 22nd, into “Hi, How Are You Day” to push mental health awareness.
His songs are simple, but they’re not simple-minded. He had a way of writing lines that sound childlike but hit something deeper. “True Love Will Find You in the End” is a good example of that.
If you aren’t familiar with Daniel, it’s worth watching The Devil and Daniel Johnston. It’s a rough watch in places, but it’s honest about the price tag that can come with a mind like his.
A few lines: True love will find you in the end You’ll find out just who was your friend Don’t be sad, I know you will But don’t give up until True love will find you in the end
Day 30 – A song to dance to at your party
Song & Artist:Lou Reed Was My Babysitter by Jeff Tweedy
I don’t dance and I don’t really have parties, but if I were to, this would be the one. Another track off the new Jeff Tweedy triple album Twilight Override, this song sounds like a high school party for those of us who grew up pre-internet.
A few lines: I wanna sweat next to you Sweat next to you With a sticky carpet sucking on my shoes ‘Cause rock ‘n’ roll ain’t never gonna lose I want you to dance into me Spill my drink I wanna feel the kick kickin’ in my teeth My bleeding heart bleeding to the beat I want you to blow smoke in my eyes Smoke in my eyes I wanna shake, shake, shake, shake, shake until my shoes untie
Day 31 – A song that defines your year
Song & Artist:Maybe We’ll All Get Along Someday by Joe Purdy
Joe Purdy wrote this in 2016, back when a lot of us still thought the country might eventually get tired of the circus and move on. I guess the joke’s on us. In 2025 it still reads like a current-events summary, which is not the kind of musical longevity anyone was hoping for. The song is blunt on purpose: the TV-show politics, the team sports, the quiet ways the system gets “adjusted” so some people stay comfortable and other people stay stuck, the whole gun argument that keeps getting treated like a debate club topic instead of a growing pile of bodies. And then it comes back to that embarrassingly basic request: treat me like a human and I’ll do the same. It shouldn’t feel radical. But I guess the fact that it still does is kind of the point. Honestly, the whole album, Who Will Be Next, could be a soundtrack for this past year. Or decade.
A few lines: There’s a man who wants the White House For his personal TV show Wants his face on all the money Wants his name on all the roads
Says he can make us great again Says that he knows how He’s gonna build a wall, big and tall And kick everybody out
It’s just another reason that people can’t get along Pickin’ sides of the USA Treat me like a human I’ll treat you like the same Maybe we’ll all get along someday
Acorns pelt the ground, littering the lawn. She calls them small prophets, warning of the cold to come, though I suspect the trees only speak of the past.
My family is sitting in the living room watching a Batman movie. I’m not sure which one. I can tell you it’s not the Michael Keaton Batman of my youth. I’ve never cared all that much for superhero movies in general. Just not my cup of tea. But my wife and kids enjoy them, and if something makes them happy, it makes me happy.
I’m currently typing this in what we’ve come to call the music room. It’s connected to our kitchen, and the living room is right over… there. If this sounds a lot like a dining room, you’d be correct. And also incorrect, evidenced by the lack of a table or any standard dining paraphernalia. A few years ago we decided we didn’t really need a formal dining room. There’s a breakfast nook by the back door at the other end of the kitchen. It holds a small table and four chairs and suits our needs just fine for a family of four.
The music room has guitars hanging on the walls among prints of Zeppelin and Dylan and Willie and Tweedy, and other artists, alongside framed ACL Fest posters from years past and handmade paintings from the kids. A large rug sits in the middle of the floor and, yes, it really ties the room together.
There’s a long row of cube shelves filled with records and books, which I just glanced at while typing that sentence and noticed some dust that my OCD demanded I get up and clean. But I powered through and stayed seated. Dust can wait. On top of those dusty cube shelves—the kind that could have only come from a Swedish company famous for meatballs and saving you money by having you do most of the work—rests a receiver and turntable wired up to passive Klipsch speakers. A worn but comfy leather loveseat sits in front of the windows. I’m not occupying that sofa, though. I prefer the old and some might say gaudy floral-patterned armchair by the sound system, easily within reach of the headphones and turntable.
I’ve listened to it a thousand times and I’ll listen a thousand more if I’m lucky, but Kind of Blue by Miles Davis is currently spinning, the notes drifting into my open-back Sennheisers that I bought refurbished because I wanted a good pair of cans but couldn’t justify spending the money on brand-new ones. I’m happy with the purchase.
The chair and the sofa both came from my parents when they moved to New Mexico a few years back. In fact, a lot of the things in this room are hand-me-downs. Like most of the vinyl. And the small bar that used to belong to my parents as well, or at least that’s what it was designed to be. A bar. Since I quit drinking a few years back, it doesn’t hold much liquor in the interior compartment these days. The top doesn’t display bottles or shakers or ice buckets, but a small, what I guess you could call altar, for lack of a better word.
There’s a Buddha statue up there, eyelids half open, gazing softly into the middle-distance. A photograph of Thích Nhất Hạnh with a quote reminding us to breathe and smile and live in the present moment—the only moment—sits nearby, alongside a small singing bowl. In front of Buddha rests an incense burner where a stick of nag champa lazily sends smoke drifting across the room, spiraling and dancing in the constant light draft of an older home that’s never had the windows or doors updated. A couple of meditation pillows are stacked atop a barstool in the corner. The barstool came from either my mom’s or my sister’s house. I honestly can’t remember.
The last piece of furniture in this room, though, I know exactly where it came from. I’ve known it for as long as I’ve been old enough to notice such things, seeing it every time we’d visit my grandparents in Houston and later Corpus Christi. For many decades the heavy wood dresser sat in their bedroom. After my grandmother passed and my grandfather sold the house and moved into a small apartment in a retirement community, he had to downsize, and we ended up with this beautiful, if perhaps outdated dresser… though I much prefer the word vintage to outdated. He’s gone now too, and though I try not to build too much attachment to possessions, I genuinely enjoy being reminded of him as I make my coffee each morning and tea each night.
The dresser used to have a large mirror resting atop it, but that piece disappeared somewhere along the way. So now it’s just the base with the drawers. Instead of holding neatly folded socks and underwear and slacks as it did most of its life, the drawers are now home to kitchen gadgets that aren’t used daily. One drawer is full of coffee cups. And by full, I mean full. I’m not sure why a family of four needs something like twenty coffee mugs. Even when we entertain it still seems like overkill. But I suppose that’s one of those things that proves you’ve survived long enough and traveled far enough to have a drawer of proof. State mottos. Military crests. Inspirational quotes and cheesy jokes painted on bone-colored ceramic.
The dresser—which I assume furniture nerds might now call a sideboard or buffet, based on its current use—holds a lamp, a coffee maker, and a tea kettle on top. And another record crate, this one reserved for jazz. Mostly Davis, Coltrane, Duke, Ella, Monk, Peterson, Burke, and Mingus. A few modern albums too, like the excellent Concentrik Quartet by Nels Cline.
Speaking of jazz, “Blue in Green,” my favorite track on Kind of Blue, has just played its final notes. Let’s see if I completely lose my train of thought as I flip record to side B.
Once, a couple years ago, I was in a famous record store in downtown Austin, perusing the bargain bins. I found a couple of cool Thelonious Monk pressings, and when I went to pay, the clerk—a character straight out of High Fidelity—asked me what my favorite jazz album of all time was. It sounded more like a test than friendly banter. Since I’m not in the habit of trying to impress Jack Black lookalikes when there’s a line of people behind me, or really ever, instead of naming some obscure recording from 1942 that can only be found by seeking out a one-armed Russian upright bass player in a dank, smoky Greenwich Village basement or whatever, I answered honestly, “Kind of Blue.”
Of course I got the snarky response I was expecting.
“Ah… yeah. You, uh, do know that’s the best-selling jazz album of all time, right?”
As if that bit of trivia was supposed to fill me with shame and embarrassment.
Instead, I smiled and said, “Yeah, I know. And I’m guessing that’s not because it sucks, is it Barry?”
The girl working behind the counter had to cover her mouth to avoid spitting the Diet Coke she’d just taken a swig of onto the counter as she laughed. The snarky clerk looked mildly annoyed, so I took that as a win, grabbed my new-old vinyl, and left. It’s important to appreciate small victories where you can get them.
You know what? When I sat down to write tonight, I had zero intention of doing something as mundane as describing a room or recounting an encounter with a record store employee who music knowledge like a competitive sport. Nope. I intended to write about the comfort and joy that comes with being with the people you love most in the world. Even if being with them in this case means sitting one room over, typing away on a laptop, listening to a record I’ve heard more times than I can count, while they watch a Batman movie in the next room.
The open-back headphones let sound drift through. I can hear Batman beating the shit out of people and for some reason only speaking in “loud whispers.” I can also hear my wife and kids laughing or making jokes occasionally. I love it. Just being near them.
We’re only a couple of weeks from Christmas. It’s cold out tonight—not just “cold for Central Texas” but actually below freezing. But the house is warm and smells nice, and I’m feeling grateful and there’s really nothing I need in the world. When I was a kid, my favorite holiday— like most kids I assume—was Christmas. Back when ranking holidays was a thing. There were years in my late twenties and early thirties when I pretended not to like it so much, when I railed against rampant consumerism and corporate profit seasons. But like most people, I’ve relaxed with age and children. Sitting here now, closer to fifty than forty, I have no problem admitting how much I love this time of year. Those other, more hyper-capitalistic modern parts are still a little annoying, sure. But the parts that matter. Family. Tradition. That’s what matters.
This Christmas carries a little melancholy. It will likely be the last one with all four of us living under the same roof. My son is set to graduate high school and has plans that don’t involve living at home with his parents. My daughter is only twelve, so we aren’t quite empty nesters yet, but that day is coming. I do my best to follow Thầy’s advice and stay present, to enjoy these moments when all four of us are together.
That’s what I intended to write about tonight. But as so often happens with intentions, I got sidetracked. And that’s okay. Because this is honestly my favorite kind of writing. Not the structured, research-driven history or political pieces. Not the poems, with their attention to line breaks, rhythm, and the quiet internal negotiations they require. But just sitting down at a keyboard with a loose plan, or no plan at all, and typing to see what comes out. A kind of meditation in motion. I don’t have to worry about whether it’s good. Or whether an editor will accept it. Most of the time I don’t even post these late-night explorations in wandering prose. And when I do hit publish, I’m perfectly comfortable knowing it’s entirely possible no one will ever read them.
Or maybe somebody will read it decades from now—assuming this blog post still exists in some form or another—after I’m long gone and say to her brother, “Hey, I think I remember that night. Why the hell didn’t Dad like superhero movies anyway?”
Sorry, kids, but some mysteries just aren’t meant to be solved. Love you guys : )
I once pursued a degree in philosophy but didn’t finish, which, in hindsight, might’ve been the most philosophical decision I ever made.
The syllabus read like a price tag on secondhand wisdom, enough zeros to prop up a small island economy.
Somewhere between Aristotle’s ethics and a lecture on infinite regress, I started to wonder how anyone gets past the Cynics without questioning why we’re paying tuition to master the art of uncertainty—
a credential that mostly qualifies you to explain determinism to a coworker on a smoke break while your wages barely cover the cost of survival.
By then it seemed obvious— a better choice might be living naked in a barrel, lobbing a few well-placed insults, and telling the occasional king to get out of your light.
Gaetano Gandolfi, Alexander and Diogenes (c. 1792).
Hi, friends. I wanted to share a few Collaborature updates in one place. Editor Melissa Lemay featured Mad Dark Winter Sky, a short poem my daughter Phoebe and I wrote together a few years ago when she was nine. We made it using those little word magnets you can rearrange on the refrigerator to form sentences.
Melissa also invited me to serve as the guest judge for the November contest—something I was admittedly nervous about and felt under-qualified for. But, being the wonderful human she is, Melissa put me at ease and reminded me that the guest judge simply chooses the poem that resonates most. In the end, I went with the one that jumped out to me first and stayed with me the longest. Congratulations to Chiwenite Onyekwelu for the winning poem, The Carpenter at St. Ignatius. There’s also a brief “meet the judge” introduction if you’re interested.
Collaborature is a collaborative literary space built around honesty, creativity, and community, and it’s well worth checking out.
Some numbers are just too big for the human brain to fully comprehend:
a septillion stars, two trillion galaxies, seven billion people, thirty-six percent
of Americans who somehow still look past the casual racism, the xenophobia, the creeping fascism flowing from the sleepy, unhinged man slumped at the Resolute desk.
To applaud a corpse is only arithmetic. Subtract the breath, add the headline, divide by tribe.
The flag gnaws its own threads, spits the blue space between stars into the gutter as wingbeats of lead scribble their errata across the sky.
Again we mistake fire for gospel, map for tinder. Every throat a fusebox, every ballot a feather that floats toward an open furnace.
Danger lives in the gray fracture, lurking behind a mask of slogans.
Is this the route we wish to take?
To march into fire believing it light, while cities fold into themselves like broken accordions?
When the sidewalks are salted with brass and steel even those who claim victory have already lost.
Nothing grows here but teeth.
A republic teaches itself to disappear by repeating the word them.
This poem was first published at Mobius: The Journal of Social Change and later nominated for a 2026 Pushcart Prize. Huge thanks to F. J. Bergmann and the Mobius team.
If anyone’s interested, the poetry collection I edited, Record of Dissent: Poems of Protest in an Authoritarian Age, is on sale on Amazon for the at-cost price of $4.99.
I’m not wild about sending Bezos another nickel, and yeah, the irony of selling a protest book on Amazon isn’t lost on me. But sometimes, to fight the system, one has to make temporary peace with its distribution channels.
The mask becomes your face— a shell you never meant to keep, carved to coax a voice out of the natural quiet that was always yours.
In small, obedient gestures you built your own confinement, grasping for the thing that kills, just to vanish a while longer.
There’s a kind of magic in it— to disappear in plain sight, to fold yourself beneath the weight of expectation—
while the machine cranks out billion-dollar death campaigns disguised as joy, as rebellion, as belonging.
To adapt to illness, to bury the self in the haze, all for the familiar delusion—
Look at us! Soul-split specters, clinging— pleading for the dose.
Normal is a fragile, strangest fiction.
I wrote this poem a few years ago. I honestly can’t remember if it was while I was still drinking or in the foggy stretch right after I quit.
I don’t have an exciting story to tell you about high-speed police chases, or cars full of “hookers and blow,” or waking up in the hospital, or some other cinematic rock-bottom meltdown. I didn’t drink before work. I didn’t drink at work. I didn’t lose my job or my family or my driver’s license. The reality was simpler. Boring, even.
It goes something like this: For years I drank normally. With friends. At bars or parties. A couple beers at a barbecue. Then, slowly, I started drinking more. And more. Then every single night, often to the point of partial blackout. Alcohol stopped being a social thing and became the way I smothered emotions and turned down the volume on problems I didn’t want to face.
There were plenty of mornings where I’d stare at my bloodshot eyes and puffy face in the bathroom mirror at 5 a.m., getting ready for work after another random Tuesday night where I’d polished off an entire 750 ml bottle of bourbon or vodka while watching TV, and mutter out loud to myself, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” You know, the kind of things “normal” people do.
Reality was puking into a toilet at midnight because I’d overdone it again and only had a few hours before my alarm went off. Reality was planning how to work booze into every event. Reality was going to the kitchen to “grab more ice” when really I needed to do a private shot because everyone else was drinking too slowly.
And while I wasn’t a mean drunk or a violent drunk, I definitely wasn’t as present with my family as I should have been. As I am now. There’s just no way—I spent too much time thinking about drinking, doing the drinking, or recovering from the drinking. Being a drunk is basically a full-time job made of guilt and logistics.
Then one morning, after what counted as a “light” night (splitting a six-pack with a friend and chasing it with a couple vodkas on the rocks, because let’s be honest, three beers might as well be water at that point), I went to bed and told myself, You know what, I think I’m done.
I didn’t believe it. Not really. It certainly wasn’t the first time.
I’d stopped plenty of times—or paused, technically. A week here. A month there. Once I even went five months without a drink before my brain convinced me that if I could stop for almost half a year, I didn’t actually have a problem and could definitely “moderate” going forward.
You already know how that story ends.
But for whatever reason, this time—March 2, 2023—something was different. I think a big part of it was the language I used with myself. Instead of I’m taking a break or I’m not drinking right now, I started saying, I quit drinking. Or, No thanks, I don’t drink.
Saying it out loud felt terrifying at first—like the words themselves were pushing me closer to some irreversible finish line I wasn’t fully convinced I wanted to cross—but it also started rewiring something.
The funny part is I didn’t get much encouragement. Mostly because I was “good” at drinking. Or maybe just good at hiding how much I drank. I’ve seen videos of myself on nights when I know for a fact I was absolutely shitfaced but not tripping or yelling or slurring my words. A “high tolerance” isn’t always a good thing. The most common response I got when I told someone I quit was some version of, “Why?” People I cared about genuinely had no idea what was going on in my head.
But I had one friend—one of my best friends of forty years, who quit a couple years before me—who understood immediately. He didn’t preach or brag or try to turn it into a competition. He just listened. Said he was proud of me. Told me he’d be there if I ever needed to talk. And for the first time—at least when it came to drinking—I felt, as the kids say, “seen.” (Do the kids still say that?)
I’m not going to go into detail about how I quit, because that part is different for everyone. There’s no single method. For me, it was a mix of books, podcasts, trail running, meditation, support from a few key friends, reinvesting in some meaningful relationships, walking away from a few unhealthy ones, and constantly reminding myself that I get to choose my own future.
That’s not the entire story, but it’s good enough for now.
Today, the day before Thanksgiving, marks 1,000 days sober. I know that’s not monumental in the grand scheme—not even three years—but something about hitting quadruple digits feels like a milestone worth acknowledging. Maybe even worth celebrating.
And that celebration is going to be simple: a long run, a nice dinner with family, and a Thanksgiving morning without a hangover. Which is something I can be genuinely grateful for.
run long and sit often. what follows will follow. what stays behind was not worth holding.
the demons lose interest when there’s nothing left to feed on, when sweat carries away what words cannot.
the mind, emptied by effort, listens.
there is no trick to this. no door you forgot to open. no shortcut.
only breath, body mind, discipline.
and the sound of your feet on the path,
the slow untying of everything you thought was you.
I guess this should be pretty simple and self-evident, but I’ve noticed over the years that the quality of my mental health is directly tied to the intensity of my physical efforts and the consistency of my meditation. Obviously, there are other components that play a role (for me those other components are meaningful human connection, sobriety, service to others, and creativity) but when I’m at the very least logging lots of long trail runs and staying disciplined in my Vipassana practice, there isn’t much room left for anger or anxiety to hang around.
Compared to my 50-year-old self, I’m kind of an idiot. I know this because I’m currently 45. When I was 40, I thought I had a pretty good grasp on life. I knew I didn’t know everything, obviously, but when I look back at where I was five years ago, it feels like that guy didn’t really know what he was talking about. Of course, he knew more than the 35-year-old me, or god forbid the 25-year-old me.
This has become a bit of a ritual. Every five years or so, I look back at the last version of me and take inventory: what I knew, what I thought I knew, what I was pretending to know. With each half-decade jump there are fewer “what the fuck was he thinking” moments, but still enough to make it obvious that five years from now I’ll look back at this guy (me, right now, feeling pretty confident about my worldview) and I’ll see the blind spots I can’t see yet.
I think most people feel this way. I hope so. I can’t imagine being the sort of person who holds the exact same beliefs at fifty that he had at twenty. That kind of stasis feels more like decay than conviction. At some point you have to let a few of your old certainties die of natural causes.
I think one thing this perspective gives me, this habit of looking back and realizing how much I didn’t know, is a kind of humility. I’m not going to call it wisdom. I certainly haven’t earned that. But Socrates said the only true wisdom is knowing you know nothing, and if the old philosopher was onto something, maybe I’m at least pointed in the right direction.
The older I get, the more suspicious I am of my own certainty. Whenever I catch myself getting too firm in a conviction, I try to walk around it, poke at the seams, ask myself what I’m missing. Because I’m definitely missing something. Maybe something small, maybe something huge. I won’t know which until later, when I’m looking back at this version of me again, shaking my head.
Not to make assumptions about lifespan, but I wonder if the eighty-year-old me will feel the same way about the seventy-five-year-old me? Maybe by then I’ll have gathered enough knowledge to finally understand what’s actually true and right, my worldview set in stone, and find myself sitting on a park bench somewhere dispensing wisdom to grandchildren or whoever will stop long enough to listen.
Or maybe not. Maybe that old man will look back on all those younger versions of himself and see that it was always the same story, thinking you’ve finally arrived somewhere solid, only to feel the ground shift again and realizing it never ends. Maybe by then he’ll know better than to offer advice at all and just keep reading, keep learning, keep living, right up until they start shoveling dirt on the coffin.
Of course, there are certain things I’ve figured out that haven’t changed and probably won’t. Some of my political views will keep shifting. Perhaps some of my opinions about success, purpose, work, ambition will keep evolving.
But then there’s the simple stuff (or at least the stuff that should be simple) that holds up no matter how much everything else changes. Like how it’s always better to be kind than cruel. Better to be honest and polite and to do your best not to hurt people if you can help it. To be present with the people you love, and even with the people you don’t, and to be present with yourself too, because you don’t get these moments back. To be careful with our words and actions and not take time for granted. And to have patience with people, because everyone’s in this same cycle. The person who frustrates you now, the one you’re arguing with or judging, will be a different person a few years from now, and so will you.
And maybe that’s all there is to do anyway, just keep trying to understand, keep adjusting the lens a little with each new version of yourself. If nothing else, it at least keeps the conversation going, even if you’re mostly just arguing with your own ghost.
Thank you to Melissa Lemay and Andrew Wilson for featuring the poem I wrote with my daughter Phoebe at Collaborature. It’s a wonderful site where writers and artists come together to create, connect, and celebrate honest, original work. Check it out!
When I first set up The Truth About Tigers, it was supposed to be strictly a poetry site. A place to write poems, share them, get feedback, and hopefully get better. Simple enough.
Lately, though, I’ve realized I’ve got stuff scattered everywhere. Substack, Medium, social media, a couple of blogs I’m about to delete, and a handful of random files floating around on my MacBook and in Google Drive. And that’s not counting the more polished political pieces I’ve written for places like The Fulcrum, HuffPost, and The Chaos Section. I’m a very organized person by nature (read: chronic, unmedicated obsessive-compulsive disorder), and it’s getting hard for me to remember where things live. The disorganization is making my brain itch.
So, I’m consolidating. I’m going to start posting some non-poetry pieces here and migrating a few over from other sites. Not the “polished” stuff that gets published elsewhere, but the posts that read more like a traditional blog or a secret-public journal. Think less punditry, more sitting-with-a-cup-of-coffee creative rambling. The more polished political essays I’ve written (and continue to write) will stay where they’re published.
No big plan, no upload schedule, and probably no real need for this post. I just felt like overexplaining the change to keep the OCD demons happy. Thanks for reading.
It’s not pleasure, not really. More the absence of pain— the way a tooth feels fine until the ache returns, and you realize how good fine can be.
Not contentment, but the absence of fear. Not confidence, but the lack of comparison. Not peace, but a brief reprieve from wanting things to be any different than they are.
The Buddhists might call it the end of craving. I might call it the pause between songs, when the silence still hums from what came before and the next note hasn’t yet claimed the air.
I try to remember not to chase fireworks, to remember that the truest freedom is the moment after the flash—
when everything goes dark again, and the night feels endless and kind.
Some nights the work is just to listen. The page can wait. The mind still gathers, and even silence can be practice. And yet sometimes that silence drives the hands anyway and a few words spill out, maybe the mind’s way of making sense of the stillness itself.
There’s a version of me that I really like. He’s the kind of person I want to spend time with. When I pay attention to how I do small things, I catch glimpses of him in the automatic rhythm of tying my shoes, the way I pour coffee, how I greet the day. Each minor, everyday act says something about the person I’m still becoming.
Attention has a way of adjusting the focus until the picture sharpens just a little. If I watch my daughter walk from the car to the school door and try to stay with the moment instead of the checking the clock. If I choose a record with intention, drop the needle, and really listen without scrolling. If I take a quiet walk without headphones and just… walk, feel each step rolling forward, remembering what it means to inhabit a body, to belong to time.
I think maybe character and contentment aren’t built in the grand decisions but in the patience of noticing. The smallest acts, done with care, keep teaching me how to move through the larger ones with steadiness and presence and a little less fear.
And when I truly notice people, really see them, kindness stops feeling like effort and becomes the only response that has ever made sense: to look someone in the eye, see the child they once were, and meet them there, in that brief light of recognition before the moment passes.
There’s no real point here, no grand wisdom, nothing new. Sometimes it just feels good to write whatever floats to the surface, not polished or perfect or sharp or whatever. Just practice and flow. Creation for its own sake, perhaps. A way of closing the day with a few honest words. Or at least as close to honest as I feel comfortable getting right now.
To don a bright mask for the faithful to see To placate the flock and pretend to believe To drag the dead weight of unbroken chains To laugh until laughter devours the pain
To plant the old flags and ring the new bells To raise up the prices and see what still sells To imagine that freedom is only a jest To swallow your pride till it rots in your chest
To close all the windows and fasten the doors To bury your secrets beneath the sea floor To climb golden stairs till you stand at the top To fall with the world when at last it all stops
To bolster your ego with glory and praise To purchase a past with the fortune you’ve raised To summon the fire and melt back the ice To never look once at their sacrifice
To turn up the volume and smother the cries To vanish in madness and cover your eyes To cut out your tongue to spite your own face To put profit above the whole human race
To pull out your hair and to tear at the walls To pave over gardens and silence the calls To load up the cannons, the weapons of war To never once ask who the cages are for
To dream of the faces you’ve lost all at once To wake with their shadows and feel their cold touch To walk through the mirror and linger a while To shine your dark shoes and lie with a smile
To pin every failure on somebody else To go to your grave deceiving yourself To polish a crown and call yourself king To scream for the stillness your riches won’t bring
To weep late at night in a bed all alone Your palace of pleasure turned prison of stone Surrounded by ghosts who won’t let you be You’ll ask yourself why you still don’t feel free
This poem was sparked by Jeff Tweedy’s new song, also called “Feel Free.” The shared title is obviously intentional, though the poem follows its own path. If you’re into poetry and haven’t spent time with Wilco or Tweedy, I’d recommend it. I think his lyrics have that same mix of plainspoken clarity and odd, dreamlike turns, lines that stick in your head and keep unfolding, much like in certain poems… maybe closer to William Carlos Williams or Frank O’Hara than anything polished for radio. He makes everyday language feel strange, and alive.
Feel free Get yourself born in the USA Love with a love they can’t take away Feel free
It’s not pleasure, not really. More like the absence of pain, the way a tooth feels fine until the ache returns and you realize how good fine can be. Most days, I move through life on autopilot, not noticing fine at all. I think maybe that’s the case for most of us. I only recognize it when something starts to hurt. When my back twinges, the way forty-five-year-old working-class backs tend to do. When the car makes a new sound. When someone I love is struggling. Then I remember how effortless things were a moment ago, when nothing demanded my attention.
It’s strange how rarely we name the absence of trouble. We give words to suffering, to joy, to longing and relief, but not to the even, unremarkable calm that sits between them. Maybe that’s why it slips away so easily.
It’s not contentment, but the absence of fear. Not confidence, but the lack of comparison. Not peace, exactly, but a brief reprieve from wanting things to be any different than they are. The Buddhists might call it the end of craving. I like to think of it as the pause between songs, when the silence still hums with what came before and the next note hasn’t yet claimed the air.
Sometimes I catch myself chasing the fireworks. The new projects and loud opinions and background noise, mistaking the bright moments for meaning. But the truest relief comes right after the flash, when everything goes dark again and the night feels endless and kind. I think maybe fine is enough. Life, in its quiet and ordinary way, is almost always better than it seems, if I remember to notice it before the next inevitable ache begins.
“You’re sick of the game!” Well, now, that’s a shame. You’re young and you’re brave and you’re bright. “You’ve had a raw deal!” I know — but don’t squeal, Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight. It’s the plugging away that will win you the day, So don’t be a piker, old pard! Just draw on your grit; it’s so easy to quit: It’s the keeping-your-chin-up that’s hard.
—Robert Service
When my sister and I were kids, The Quitter by Robert Service hung on the fridge, held up by a magnet. Our mom made it a rule that we had to memorize the middle stanza. You might think that’s the kind of thing that would annoy a twelve-year-old, and that he’d only come to appreciate it later in life—but honestly, I don’t think that’s the case. I don’t remember it ever feeling like a chore. Who knows. Memory’s a weird thing. But I do know it pretty quickly became one of my favorite poems. I went ahead and memorized the first and third stanzas too, and never forgot them. At 45, I can still recite the whole thing without even thinking about it.
Over the years, the poem became a kind of mantra for me. Whenever things got difficult, that familiar line would pop into my mind like magic: You’re sick of the game? Well now, that’s a shame… It stayed with me through the mess of adolescence, into young adulthood, through basic training, leading an infantry squad in Iraq, getting out and figuring out how to be a civilian, and eventually becoming a parent. Whenever it felt like a decent moment to throw myself a pity party—or maybe even throw in the towel—those lines would show up like an old friend, reminding me to buck up and do my damndest.
The poem hangs on my fridge now. I’m not sure my own kids can recite the middle stanza yet, let alone the whole thing, but someday they will. I feel extremely lucky to have the parents I do. My sister, Meridith, would say the same. They worked hard, expected us to do the same, to pull our weight, and not back down from something just because it was difficult. They’re kind, intelligent, and generous people who have always loved us unconditionally. A lot of the things they did and said have stuck with me, and I’ve tried to carry those lessons and words into my own parenting, though I don’t know if they’ve landed the same way. Time will tell.
Of all the good things they passed down—and there were plenty—The Quitter stands out to me as one of the more memorable wins in the parenting department. Just a printed poem stuck to the fridge, no lecture attached. But the message was clear, and it stayed with me: no matter what life throws at you, even when the chips are down and hope feels out of sight, if you’re still breathing, you can still fight.
And when you fail (because you will), get up, dust yourself off, and give it one more try. It’s the plugging away that wins the day.
— Nick Allison
If you haven’t read The Quitter in a while—or ever—you should. And it just so happens to be directly below this sentence… isn’t that convenient.
The Quitter
Robert Service
When you’re lost in the Wild, and you’re scared as a child, And Death looks you bang in the eye, And you’re sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle To cock your revolver and . . . die. But the Code of a Man says: “Fight all you can,” And self-dissolution is barred. In hunger and woe, oh, it’s easy to blow . . . It’s the hell-served-for-breakfast that’s hard.
“You’re sick of the game!” Well, now, that’s a shame. You’re young and you’re brave and you’re bright. “You’ve had a raw deal!” I know — but don’t squeal, Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight. It’s the plugging away that will win you the day, So don’t be a piker, old pard! Just draw on your grit; it’s so easy to quit: It’s the keeping-your-chin-up that’s hard.
It’s easy to cry that you’re beaten — and die; It’s easy to crawfish and crawl; But to fight and to fight when hope’s out of sight — Why, that’s the best game of them all! And though you come out of each gruelling bout, All broken and beaten and scarred, Just have one more try — it’s dead easy to die, It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard.
The Truth About Tigers 