Dennis Dubay

While reading online, i came to a very interesting question that we’ve all wrestled with at one time or another. It’s neither deep nor daring of a question. It’s very simple really. Interestingly simple.

What is the purpose of your life?

And I sat through lunch and most of the rest of the day pondering that very question as my soul was raked over hot coals in a job that I don’t want, can’t stand, and need a break from. What is my purpose in this world, of this life?

And I came to the conclusion that it’s unfair to ask such a question. No one knows the absolute answer – and I deal in absolute. I don’t deal in destiny, or what ifs. My “purpose” in life can’t be defined in any one answer.

My purpose is not to be a brother, a father, a son, a lover, a friend, a soldier, a politician, a doctor, a lawyer, etc. These things are not purposes – they are privileges, they are choices, they are actions of living.

My “purpose” changes like the sand of time, like the sun setting and rising again. My “purpose” is to live, to survive, to sustain, to grow. We’re just plants, passing by. Feeding off of one another – growing with each other.

Growth is our purpose. Adapting and changing and learning from our past mistakes and making new mistakes and moving from them.

But mainly, my purpose is to figure out a way to pass the day. From one day to the next. I wish the people that lead us would do the same.

Dear Internet,

Did you watch last night? Probably not. I didn’t. I DVR’d it. Just in case.

My friend Hannah mentioned she was looking for a place to read the txt of the speech, as she was busy doing something. So i filled her in on what was spoken about … and, just in case the rest of you missed it, here is the txt of the speech:

President walks to podium.
Pauses.
Coughs.
Opens mouth.
Lies fall from his mouth.
clapping.
pauses.
looks at crowd.
coughs.
Opens mouth.
more lies.
pauses.

Repeat for another fifty-two minutes.
——
Here is the actual text of the speech.

Even when i was younger, thinner, more athletic I never really dug running. In fact, one time, when I was student at St. Charles middle school I was told I ran like a horse.

At first I thought that it was a compliment being paid. But, as kids can be, it was just a cruel way of saying I ran funny.
Fuckers.

But I’ve been running all my life – so it seems. Running towards a wall to see if I can survive the impact of its reality.

You see, every bottle that I grab from the 18 pack in the fridge is just a little game I play.

Remember that atari game … you remember atari, right? It’s where games like Pac-man and Frogger came from … and possibly Donkey Kong … but I may be wrong on that one.

Oh, and Centipede and Asteroids.

Fuck. Great games.

Anyways, one game has always stood out to me …well, two. Combat is a great game. Pretty sure our government has seen it.

It’s tanks and submarines and what not just shooting. Cuz that’s what we do in life, we j…. Wait. This isn’t a political entry.

Fuck politics. Fuck wars. Fuck our government. Fuck it all.

I know, that was a lot of fucks.

The other game was “breakout” … many will remember it’s big brother, “pong” but I always thought “breakout” was a better name.

I was probably 7 or 8 when I got my atari. Poor family, this wasn’t a typical item purchased. And I remember even than being embarresed that I got it … when I knew things were tight. I didn’t want to show my happiness, or excitement …

But I loved it. Played it so much, that, the sound died and the joystick broke. Probably the greatest gift I ever recieved.

Well, except for those race tracks where the cars spun off them if you went to fast ….. (see if anyone remembers those)

But, yeah. Breakout.

Even after the game died, and atari closed, and time went on, I kept playing it.

Running towards the wall …

Ever seen a raccoon?

I have. Probably 20 times in the last 30 days. Yeah, be impressed. Because it’s impressive. I know.

It started about , well, 30 days ago. I was loading the washing machine up with my clothes, while humming a Weezer song, maybe even dancing a little bit.

But don’t tell anyone. That’s not important.

As i was humming and .. well, you know … I noticed movement in the corner of my eye. At first, I stopped paying attention to that fact and then started thinking it’d be cool to be a robot.

I could see everything all the time, from anywhere.

Then I remembered the movement and stopped thinking about becoming a robot for a second. I looked to my left, where the movement had occurred.

Never look right. The right side is wear strokes occur. Oh and never go home with a woman named Judith, if your taking over a country through bloodshed and war.

To my left, an old window with flaking white paint chips sat, or sit, or… what do windows do?

A raccoon sat outside it, staring at me. I walked over slowly, thinking somehow this raccoon had a key or blades of steel. And I stared into its eyes.

I stared into the eyes of a huric…er, raccoon. I named him Rupert. Rupert the Raccoon. And I talked to him, thinking he could hear me through the window, and translate our words with a raccoon to human species dictionary.

And he asked me If i really wanted to be a robot, that saw everything for what it was … and i said, Rupert … because I named him Rupert … I already do.

And he scoffed at me. Threw an acorn at me, and told me to grow up.

Rupert was a really angry Raccoon.

The fog was extremely thick outside this morning as I woke up. Bear was laying next to me on the floor. I had passed out on the couch. Twenty beers will do that to you. But it was Saturday night, and I was enjoying the fellowship of friends on the internet, and from my Dad sitting across the table from me.

The fog appeared outside early yesterday afternoon. Driving over the bridge to get to Mt. Zion, you couldn’t see the lake we were crossing. It’s a bit surreal, knowing something is there … but not being able to see it. Its a bit jolting, in fact.

Something that was there, being gone.

I let Bear outside, and he roamed the back yard as he does first thing in the morning. We’ve been doing this routine for the last six years. He’ll roam, sniff, stop, look at me and then run wild to the back yard. He doesn’t do his business in front of people, he’ll go behind the garage for privacy.

On this particular morning, I grabbed a folding chair and sat outside while I drank my morning Coke. Never been a coffee drinker – a fact my dad finds interesting. None of us boys drank coffee … its funny the things you pick up from your parents and the things you don’t.

Bear got done and noticed i was sitting on the folding chair. He slowly walked towards me … then barked. He doesn’t bark a lot. In fact, when we first brought him home from the pound he didn’t bark at all. We thought maybe he was mute.

It would be a week and a half before we heard his beautiful voice in the house. And we laughed. Such a big dog, his first bark was less menacing and more sweet – he was barking for attention.

He sat next to me outside, and we just sat there. He knows when I have a lot on my mind, and he’s the best listener … because he doesn’t expect words out of me. He just sits there, and from time to time, will glance up at me, to make sure I’m still there. As I do the same. Eventually, he won’t be here … or I won’t be here. Eventually neither of us will be here.

Eventually we both will be something that was there, now gone.

The sweet irony of it all, really, is that he held that lottery ticket in his hands for 37 minutes before he sloached down on his chair and died. He had worked 33 years at a job he hated. A job that stole his soul every monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday and half of friday. He’d buy those tickets with dreams in his heart and hemmroids in his ass. He knew no one like him would win … those be dreams for another man who deserved such a thing.

I always picture that being my dad. The guy that wins the lottery only to die soon afterwords. That’s why, when he talks about retirement I squirm in my seat a little bit. What is this old bastard gonna do when he doesn’t have work to do? I mean, I’ve known him all my life – 32 years thus far. I know he enjoys beer – a trait he gave his oldest son (which I’m very greatful for, as of now .. please hold, taking another swig).

I know he likes to look at big breasted bitches on the internet … but you can really only do that for so long at his age. I mean the ticker is rusty, clunky and well, tired. Plus, he really needs a bit more RAM in that machine, if he wants to get the full cyber stripper scene going on.

He loves youtube (a trait i gave him) … mostly of people falling on hand rails and busting there balls – or people jumping out at someone else, scaring the shit out of them. He listens to old music that I’ve never heard of before – those are the golden moments. I love listening to his stories about these songs, about him growing up, about him picking on his little brother Andy …

So retirement is near for the old man.

That’s got to be a scary thing for anyone though, right? I mean, sure it has its perks … like not having to get on your knee’s for the boss man everyday. Or dealing with the work politics … but … the sense of belonging … that’s nice sometimes, no?

I’ll never make it to retirement age. I probably, honestly, have 8 more years of life in me. I eat horribly, drink more than anyone should, and don’t sleep like humans should. They’ve told me that’s a cocktail of bad, a big bowl of no good .. but honestly, i stopped listening after the word cock was uttered. I’m childish that way.

So it’s amazing to me that he’s on this path now. His goal to outlive his dad’s age (70) and to retire to his home, his wife, and his computer chair (and beer). I’m proud of the man.

I’m just scared of what happens next.

I love to write. Not a lot of people knew that about me, growing up. I have literally dozens and dozens of notebooks from my childhood. Some books I’ve never opened after finishing the last chapter – some I still read – fascinated over some of the things I wrote at such a young age. But mostly, I try to stay out of those books.

The next seven or eight months of this blog will be a little bit different. I’m going to finally sit down at this laptop and cut my wrists, and bleed text. I’m going to finally do what I’ve always wanted to do. Write a book. It’ll be the same things that I’ve wrote a million times in different forms, in different times.

But it will be different. I’m going to push myself to the brink of my deep, largely uncultured and fucked up psychy. I’m going to tell you a story in 240 pages. A story about a little boy born in Bay City, Michigan who traveled all over the state of Michigan with his poor family and their trying times – and of course, their great times. Because along the way, there were some great times.

And I think i’m ready to finally do this. I’m ready to tell the stories … and I think, financially, I can handle the lawsuits that may come my way … just kidding … kinda.

So, in the mean time, like I said the blog will be different. It probably won’t contain much in the way of the poetry you’ve come to love or hate. Maybe snippets, but … it’ll revert to a daily commentary … weekly commentary … on life in general. No sports though. I’m done with sports I think. It just seems so trivial to waste my words on Billion Dollar Babies when there is so much more to write about.

Like John’s writing, Natalies aspirations of a better tomorrow, Kerry’s newborn baby boy, and K-Fizzy and her new house. Or Terri’s new life outside the bar, Yoga Hound Yoga, or the art work of Jennifer. That’s whats important. Well, atleast to me. Who can throw a baseball 100 mph doesn’t excite me like it used to. Or maybe, I’m just in a grumpy mood about sport right now.

But mainly, it’s about Shirley.

My Grandma, who passed away last March … jesus, it’s been that long yet it feels like just yesterday my Dad called to tell me it was over. My Grandma was a published author in her younger days, under the name of Shirlee Dee. I’m not sure why she went under that name – her maiden name was Sparks. I never asked her why … kind of wish I had. But I guess some mysteries are needed in the life.

She was a poet as well. Wrote about the cities and people of Northern Michigan. Her son Johnny was an artist as well, a very talented illustrator. Later in life, his ability was taken from him from complications suffered from a series of strokes.

I really feel as though my Grandmother would have been a great writer had she continued to write – but the job of raising my Dad and his brother and three sisters took precendent.

I wonder how many notebooks she had, growing up and old … and I wonder where they are. I wonder if someone is reading them now.

I want to honor my Grandmas spirit by giving back to what she gave to me … books, words, writing, reading … even though, she probably wouldn’t approve or even enjoy what I write about.