Petrarch's Blue Jay

These rain clouds stretch forever in the sky.

It’s too damn cold for this to be called May.

Cut and killed for views ugly in their way,

No trees grow through the glass before my eye.

Barren, muddy pits out my window lie.

This storm roars raucous screaming in the fray.

The world outside looms sinister and gray.

No forest anymore. Nothing stops the rain.

A blue jay perches perked on my fence post.

Sapphire dancing on a steeled grisly knife.

Sunlight pours from the brightest of the blue,

And with that blue jay dances thoughts of you.

For you have brought me sunshine most,

The blue jay of my cold and stormy life.

The Drive

I shoved an over sized air mattress into the bed of my truck. I cursed under my breath, as I let air out in short intervals. Eventually, the mattress slid in between the top of the wheel wells and the bottom of the camper shell. It was bowed and uneven.

“That’s going to get really uncomfortable really fast,” I thought to myself. I followed it up with a, “Fuck it,” as I slammed the tailgate and canopy closed.

The cab of the truck was stuffed with snacks, books, clothes, more clothes, every conceivable adapter for a car charger, disinfecting wipes, a ukulele, a camera, and this leather bound journal. I scrolled through my phone for the last and possibly most important preparation for a trip--music. Essential 90’s Rock seemed to fit my mood. Eddie Vedder started screaming through the stereo.

You know Cabin Fever is an actual medically recognized thing? I was supposed to be in Hawaii. If all had gone according to plan, I probably would have been surfing at that very moment. But when has anything ever gone according to plan? Instead, I was making my way West, as best I could. I drove around and up the peninsula passing small towns and forests and the state capitol. It didn’t really matter which road I took, as long as I was moving. I left the highway at random exits just to look around. You don’t mind getting lost, when things feel pretty lost already. I drove down country lanes. I doubled back. I got a dirty look from an old man in a small town grocery store parking lot for using it to turn around. I kept driving until the white light over country bridges gave way to gold. Campgrounds greeted me with big brown closed signs. I came across a small dirt lot next to a lake. “NO OVERNIGHT PARKING” was announced in metallic red and white.

“There’s overnight parking tonight,” I thought to myself, as I backed the truck up to the lake overlook.

A couple extra layers later, I was bundled in the back of the truck. I never did feel comfortable on an air mattress. The instability of the thing is disagreeable. Still, I nodded off quickly, wrapped in the comforting blackness of the place.

I woke up to the feel of cold, hard plastic truck bed liner on my back. An awkward shimmy to the tailgate gave me room to twist myself in every direction with a series of pops up my spine. The world around me was still covered in black except for a rich purple rising over the snow capped mountains. I watched from the tailgate as sun slowly cut through the crisp morning air. I sat on the edge flipping my pocket knife in and out. “Proverbs 17:17” was engraved on the side. Somehow I felt more alone that morning than a month of quarantine in my house.

I laid back down on the air mattress with my body only half supported. The time passed over me with the realization that this wasn’t a real road trip. Not like I knew it. There would be no friendly hostesses at diners. No casual conversations struck up at gas stations. No best friends made for the night over the bar of some local pub in a town no one has ever heard of. Over an hour went by. I sank deeper and deeper into the mattress, though the air pressure never changed.

“Even if I can’t change the state of the world, I can always change the state of myself.”

Suddenly, I felt the need to start moving again. I slid out of the truck bed, closing it with conviction before strutting around the vehicle. The turning key in the truck’s ignition felt good. The sound of the engine coming alive sounded sweet. And I drove.

Lightning

A friend told me on a video call the other day that “no one is a real person until they’ve gone through trauma.” As children, we’re pure but lack real empathy. We’re fearless but empty. It’s the bad stuff that makes us grow.

A defibrillator is an interesting case study on life. If lightning strikes a person, their heart stops. But if you rub some gel on Mr. Cardiac Arrest, send 1,000 volts through two little paddles, and smack him in the chest, his heart starts right back up again. Either way, it was electricity the whole time.

What I’m getting at is that sometimes trauma derails our lives. It brings us to a standstill. It breaks our hearts. If we can take a little trauma and capture it--point it in the right direction--it’s the one thing that can bring us back from the dead. I know there’s a lot of fear right now. A lot of loneliness. A lot of trauma. Despite the obvious fact that pandemics really suck, I know we can use this to restart something great together.

Stay Gold

I’ve been struggling with whether or not to post the remainder of my short story “A Desert Rain” for the past few weeks. Much of my best work includes themes of isolation, despair, and futility. Mark said, “You write what you know,” and that’s honestly what I’ve known lately. 

I did what I do with most difficult decisions. Completely ignore it and find a way to distract myself from the problem. That’s why I was up at 1 AM reading a copy of The Outsiders I had swiped from the school library. As I came to the closing pages, I read about what it means to be gold. What it means to still believe there’s good in the world.

I thought about golden times. Times the world looked beautiful. 

I used to lay on my trampoline as a kid and stare up at the sky looking for shooting stars. Sometimes I would fall asleep out there, and my bed would be empty in the morning. It scared the hell out of my parents.

When I got older, I had too much restless energy to lay around. I’d go for a run, while looking at the night sky. I went to my high school football field mostly. It had a nice track and one of the best views of Las Vegas at night. I got caught sneaking back in once. It scared the hell out of my parents.

On camping trips, I ran on the beach around the old lighthouse. Just me and the crashing waves in the moonlight. It scared the hell out of my parents.

I even ran to a girl’s house to read her a poem I wrote and see if she’d invite me inside once. I didn’t have a car, but it was only five miles each way. If they had ever found out, it would have scared the hell out of my parents.

Thinking of Ponyboy racing his brothers home through the moonlight, I strapped on a pair of shoes and went for a run just before 3 AM. I cut through the crisp night air with those golden memories. All that faith in the future. All the wonder at what might be. All the times as a kid I nearly gave my parents a heart attack. 

I was so busy thinking that I ran right past the trail down to the lake and had to double back. There’s a short path through the forest to a small dock only big enough to launch kayaks. I stood at the edge of it with my chest leaping and falling in an attempt to catch my breath--I’m not a teenager anymore. Tiny lights from houses lit the opposite bank. The water made a mirror of moonlight behind the clouds pushing through the sky. There’s still beauty in the world. There’s still gold.

I honestly haven’t been all that golden lately. A lot of great writing has come out of that. But I wouldn’t say it’s golden. In light of recent events causing enough fear and isolation, I’ve decided to postpone releasing the remainder of “A Desert Rain”. (Sorry I couldn’t have given you a happier ending, Silas Hanover, but then it wouldn’t have been all that interesting.) Right now, I want to focus this blog on words that bring people together and show some beauty in our world. 

Stay Gold, Ponyboy. Stay Gold.

Please, leave a comment below of something that makes you feel golden.

Source: http://www.sehinton.com/books/

A Desert Rain

Silas Hanover turned the locket over in his waistcoat pocket. This had been his habit the last fifty-three days of travel in the stagecoach. He dared not open the locket during the day for fear that he would be so overcome with emotion that he may faint for the heartache of his distance. Such was the effect that the visage of Constance Winthrop had on Silas’s constitution. He only dared to open up the locket when he was safely tucked into his bedroll at night. He would stare into her eyes by light from the campfire. By this time, the coach guards would be drunk, asleep, or engrossed in a game of Faro. Often, they were in some state between all three. Silas was content to turn the locket over in his pocket, and dream of the woman whose heart he planned to win with this journey into the frontier.

If the guards caught him staring at her photograph with his lovelorn face, they would torment him with their guttural jibes or worse. Silas wouldn’t put it past them to snatch the locket and play keep away for their amusement like schoolyard bullies. Gaurd was a poor term to describe the four men who traveled with Silas. They more closely resembled a band of renegades. As likely to rob the bank’s shipment as they were to see it’s delivery safely through to San Antonio. They were loyal only to the highest bidder. For the sake of his safety, Silas hoped Winthrop & Donnely had paid them more than he was being paid.

Silas’s loyalties could not be bought nor sold the same as these men. He was only motivated by the affections of his beloved Constance and by his father telling him he was a “good lad now.” Silas was the son of a noble family thick in heritage and thin in pocket. The names Winthrop and Hanover once held equal prestige in England. Upon landing in Virginia four generations ago, the legacy Winthrop had only grown, while Hanover had been considerably less enterprising.

Still, Silas was able to acquire a senior clerk position at the bank by appealing to the status his name once held. He saw his career aspirations at Winthrop & Donnely as a means not only to restore some status to his family heritage but to win the heart of fair Constance. The only thing that could overshadow Silas’s loyalty to Mr. Winthrop was the devotion to his daughter.

I Got a Letter Today

I got a letter today. I rarely get letters anymore. The envelope was small and plain. The address was scratched in the ugliest block letters you’ve ever seen--like a hand that remembered how to print halfway through each character. It hadn’t done the postman any favors. Who even had my address anymore? Yes, it was a surprising little thing. I tore open the envelope and something fell out. It was a tiny folded card. Blank white on the outside and a little bent from the mailbox. The inside was scrawled with a friendly script. I read the note over a few times before folding and placing it back in the envelope. This must have been written months ago, but just so happened to arrive when I needed the words most. The last lines kept repeating in my head.

“Remember that you’re helping people. You know more than you think, you have more than you think, and you are more than you think.”

I got a letter today from me.

For The Lovers

Her head laid on his arm. Hair spread out like sunshine over the silk pillowcase. She made a face he had never seen before. Before tonight, he could have sworn her lips were frozen in a permanent smile, but now with her eyes closed, she relaxed into a visage of calm contentment. Corners of her mouth still slightly upturned. The moon cast a cerulean light on the skin of her neck and down to her hips. His fingertips ran along her side like five tiny breaths. It was soft and just a bit salty. It was as if she had been swimming in the ocean and dried by the cool air. There was no water for miles.

She cooed and rubbed her head into his arm. She pulled herself deeper into his grasp. This creature was the single most beautiful thing he had seen in his life. There was something electric but fragile in the way they laid there together. Strong and unspoken. He was sure he must have lived before he met her, but he couldn’t--for the life of him--remember what it was like.

Digital Dysmorphia

My recent forays into social media have had me thinking of the way we see each other. The way we see ourselves. I’ve found myself putting far too much mental energy into getting the lighting right or hitting the perfect angle or writing a clever caption (that no one is ever going to read). We spend so much time trying to put only our best feet forward online, that we’re fixated on the parts of ourselves we don’t want people to see. Filters and Facetune can get rid of blemishes on the screen, but at what point is that memory no longer of you? So, in the effort to make every online interaction look smart, sexy, and cool, I’ve just been hanging out with all my fears and insecurities--it’s exhausting. Because we know for every night out for the life of the party is another night spent in bed feeling like you want to die. But we know those don’t get the likes.

I’m not attacking Insta-models or saying that I don’t like to edit my photos. My favorite part about creating is in the editing, in fact. I think it’s refreshing to put something out to the world that feels a little more authentic, is all I’m saying. Taking a deep breath, embracing your flaws as a human, and letting the world know about it feels pretty good. 

Through the Lens

** This post contains an excerpt from a larger piece **

The murphy bed was stuck in the down position. Joey didn’t mind the rusted hinge that kept it from folding back into the wall. He wasn’t going to ever have company anyway. The sheets were thin, as was the quilting on the top of the mattress. Joey could feel every spring on his back, as he laid motionless staring at the ceiling. Light crept in through tiny slits in the blinds. The rest of the room was dark.

Joey could feel his body sink down and melt into the mattress. His skin became a part of the quilting. His blood spiraled down the coils. Joey thought about how his parents would hate to see him like that. The fact that they were gone was exactly the reason he had so many days he couldn’t get out of bed. There was something deep down within his chest that kept pulling. Pulling him down through the mattress. Pulling him so hard that he couldn’t escape it. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to.

A sudden beeping from the timer on his old kitchen oven broke the daze. His body and the mattress were two separate entities once again. Joey swung his feet onto the floor. He lurched over with his head in his hands. The oven timer kept beeping. Joey crossed the studio apartment with four short steps. He turned off the oven timer. The stovetop and oven had fallen into disrepair. Joey only used the timer.

He opened the bathroom door and was greeted by the strong stench of Rodinal--a combination both sterile and rancid. It always burned his nostrils a bit, when he was developing. Flicking the light switch flooded the bathroom with red. Joey unclipped several dried photos from the wire hanging above his shower curtain. A bird in a tree. A fountain. A woman sitting on a park bench. Photographs were all he had. He lived in the memories of others; he fantasized about what their stories were. His photos were a link to the past. A link to a time when he was not alone.

Travel Journal Entry 236

I stepped out of the terminal doors. My nostrils were welcomed with the pungent scent of sandalwood incense. It transports me back to Temple Valley; My brother and I run around the courtyard, as Buddhists ring the bon-sho bell that towers above us, and my grandfather smiles in the distance. The throng of people hurriedly spoke so many different tongues that I couldn’t pick out just one. They pushed past each other to grab their baggage and be on their way. A multitude of asura greeted me. Their many eyes followed. The countless points of their hats reached heavenward. The place was both familiar and new. Known and unseen. I slung my bag over my shoulder and walked past the asura. The grotesque beauty of their smiles put me at ease as if they said, “The brave at heart are always welcome here.”

Good Soil

Like a lot of you, I’ve been thinking about where I was a year ago and where I am now. As I laid in my bed looking at the plants hanging from my skylight, I thought of the things that are making us both grow--sunshine, fresh air, and good soil. Occupying a new space has done me good. A year ago, I felt stuck in a job and a house full of toxicity that pulled the life from me. Now,  I’ve found a place all my own. It’s a place to think, a place to learn, and a place to grow. My houseplants are thriving. I water them. I feed them. I hang them in my skylight for sun. But most of all, I keep them in good soil. The plants are growing and prospering, and so am I in ways I never expected. Put yourself someplace special. Surround yourself by people who care for you. Nourish your body and feed your soul. Plant yourself in good soil.

Where Has Luke Daniel Rice Been?

I kind of disappeared off the face of the planet. At least as far as the internet is concerned, I did. I left New York in October two years ago. After years of creating internet posts for a living, it’s safe to say that I needed to disconnect. I traveled slowly westward for six months and settled in Seattle, where I finally had the opportunity to get lost among the evergreens and lost in the pages of my own notebook. The promise of new adventures hung on the horizon.

On June 12, 2017 at 10:32 PM, while driving on Interstate 5 South, my car was struck on the left rear corner by another driver performing an illegal lane change from the carpool lane. The impact pitted my car and sent me skidding sideways towards the back tires of a semi-truck trailer. I spun the wheel clockwise to gain control of the skid. As I felt my tires gain traction, I quickly turned the wheel back counterclockwise. At this point, there is a slight gap in my memory. According to drivers following me, I narrowly avoided the truck but sent myself into a spin that ended when I struck a concrete barrier, where my car came to rest. Witnesses were surprised I got out of the car.

Although both vehicles were totaled, everyone walked away from the collision. I fell asleep in the passenger seat of a tow truck with some minor soreness in my back but an overwhelming feeling of thankfulness for how the whole experience had gone and how it hadn’t.

Over the next few days, that minor soreness in my back grew to an overwhelming pain that kept me from sitting up or standing for more than ten minutes at a time. I felt like a home run derby winner took a bat to my lower back—at least he was swinging for the fences. Shooting pains alternating with numbness down my left arm and leg kept me from sleeping more than two hours at a time. The effects of sleep deprivation partnered with flashbacks of swiftly approaching semi-truck tires and the mental fog of prescription muscle relaxers left me with only a vague memory of the following month.

The next year was filled with doctor’s appointments, therapy (both physical and mental), and accumulating a nice amount of debt. I left a very lucrative sales job, because it turned out that my manager cared more about keeping my closing stats up than my long-term physical wellbeing. Who would have guessed? On the bad days, trauma from the collision completely debilitated me. On the good days, I managed to get out of bed. But thanks to the support of my family and friends, I’m still standing. I can honestly say that the car accident is the best thing to ever happen to me.

Learning perspective has a way of making me forget why I thought any status or number in my bank account meant anything. I met legal assistants and therapists and doctors who treated me more like family than a paycheck. I learned to look forward to and enjoy simple things like going to physical therapy or taking a short walk. I even enjoy driving again. I’m taking my life in a new direction. I’m going to be a teacher. I reminded myself every day that just getting out of bed is an accomplishment and that means it’s a good day. I also happened to meet the most amazing woman I’ve ever known, and she lets me take her out on dates. More on that another day…

There are still days that my neck and back hurt (sitting in this desk chair isn’t doing wonders for them). Even after the insurance settlement, my bank account has seen better days. I’ll never be the athlete I was before the collision. I’d settle for going on a run without feeling it for the next couple days. But if you happened to wonder what I’m up to, I’m busy being the happiest I’ve ever been.