The Ice Man Cometh

Yeah, you're looking at my worst fears. That this ice flow foretells where my heart is headed.

Representing that whole haunted, too many empty, 2 am eternal "last call" moments of recognition-I still pray this vision does not have my name written all over it. A flash frozen monument to my moment of reckoning. An image defining that so much expended energy chasing love resulted in this.

Nothing.

Or maybe "nothing" accompanied by the "empty something" of echoing memories, fading snapshots and unanswered AWOL expressions that bounce back at you and the other bar flies from the 140 Beats per minute funeral march of unmet expectations. A cadence reflecting all the other similarly disenchanted "last callers" with their own shipwrecked dreams.

"Let this be a lesson to you..." I can hear my conservative parents validating their beliefs- that a gay man's history, the sum total of all their heartsongs will repeatedly be marked by the same lonely, hollow end result.

I know, I know. Save it.

Now in the real-world, the world of the mud drenched, lift kitted, 4x4 masculine litmus test-that allusive state-of-being where the dudes yell and never scream, and don't you dare talk about feelings- fears- insecurity, I am not sure how to reconcile all these "heart" things.- Admitting your heart is busted up is no way to get respect in the he-man world of mission accomplished, shock and awe, and chin up and get back on that damn horse and ride like you mean it, Cowboy.

Remember, real men, bro's, and a man's guy-guys are not supposed to write about heart. Ever. Its just too uncomfortable. People figit. They change the subject, order you a drink or start talking about the set of hooters on their sister's best friend. Nope in that sacred locker roomed world, safe topics are all about conquest, great catches, and trophy mounts. It's about doing everything one can do to prove how insensitive they are to insensitivity. It's about a never ending demonstration of how much control a man has over the uncontrollable.

If by chance things get messy, Real Men move on, never looking back, sucking up their sucky lives-it's all about proving how tough the tough guys are. Self examination is for sissy's.

Duh.

I'm pretty much over it though. The exhaustion of trying to prove how rigid and unfeeling I can be. Denying the obvious runs counternature to the self examination table.

Double Duh.

I know for certain even real men feel empty on occasion. That's why they drink, shoot, piss in public, and do things their mothers told them they shouldn't. That's how they process, find closure, and heal. Maybe the "stuff your feelings" gang is onto something. Stalking, chasing, blasting, and gutting a five point buck is therapy. Hauling it into camp on the quad, and wondering if the taxidermist can hide the gaping hole where the buck's left eye used to be, has to be an effective distraction, if not true closure.

I'm a shitty hunter though. If I shoot something, its accidental, and probably not in season. It's probably best I embrace my fate.

Write like you mean it.

The New York Times had an article a few months ago which reported the cheery news that the life expectancy of writers is less than that of the average population. Now my dear literary fans, how amazingly cool is that. Writers die earlier than the hunter gatherer types the essay matter-of-fact stated. Poets fared the worst.

The article went on to say that the self examined, "the dare to write about it tribe", are also pretty creative at offing themselves. Either prematurely, or in the case of a harsh critical literary review, not damn soon enough. I once got in heap big trouble after penning an essay in high school about suicide in which I'd argued that the "do themselves in gang" were actually kinda brave- I mean they were ready to say to the world, "I am so over this that I am willing to risk everything I know for all the unknown, the whatever that lies on the other side of my last breath".

It was hardly original thinking but that didn't stop the alarms from sounding. Yep all that "creative" writing landed me in a counselors office. Reassuring the worried well educators that no, I was not thinking of killing myself, that this was about philosophy and taking on the taboo, my defenses did little to reassure them. So much for thinking outside the box. Or the noose as the case might be.

As a result of this and other experiences, I learned early that sharing uncensored feelings is a sure ticket to an emergency hall pass, a mental evaluation, and the drama of all sorts of people "who care" looking at you out of the corner of their eye.

Anyway, we are not really talking about suicide. We're discussing the courage of sharing the true state of your heart. Don't give up on me. I swear this is going somewhere.

Last weekend I was up near Metaline, Washington, standing on the edge of the Pend Oreille River. I shot this picture that Sunday, just before the snow squalls came out of nowhere and we later got stuck in a Spring White Out on the other side of Sullivan Ridge. But it's this tree that still holds my thoughts on pause-Not the white out, the frozen expanse of Lake Sullivan, nor the near ghost town like status of Metaline Falls.

Nope its all about the ice tree.

The tree captivated me. Even though the wind was cold, I remained motionless as I stared up at this mass of crystals, blue and aqua and white. Carrying an unwanted blanket, oppressing the old weathered cottonwood tree, she refused to bend, and rose, covered in layer after layer of ice. The sentinel tree stood naked at the top, never overwhelmed with the burden of her winter load.

Even more thought provoking, I knew the state of the tree was most likely not by choice. No sir, this had definitely "been done to her" by someone else. She just happened to be stuck bearing the weight of the actions of her perpetrators.

Worried that someday, if I wasn't careful, my heart would look like that, I stared at the symbolic vision of all things Rode Hard, Put Away Wet. Bitterly cold. Cynical and Jaded. Frozen, jagged, and easily sharp enough to cut deeply anyone who tried to break through all that cold as ice layering-the tree's exterior would keep her impenetrable to anyone trying to get at her core. The tree's heart was unreachable. In her survival, what had been a beautiful towering Cottonwood, now reflecting my own choice and my heart's potential. I saw myself in that moment and it scared the shit out of me. I suddenly had an understanding of the places a heart can travel and where it can become stuck through no fault of it's own.

After leaving Metaline and continuing our snowy journey, I remained preoccupied. Returning to the ranch, as the clouds broke through, and the sun began to warm my face, I finally understood what I'd seen.

Spring is coming. The season of chill, the low light northern days, and the far off heat of the sun is all subject to change. The ice covering that tree, will shed, if light is allowed to shine on her. This dark winter will become a memory, and new life will emerge. Survival isn't always synonymous with an embrace of the permanently deep frozen.

This observation holds true whether the subject is an iced over tree, or a still trembling heart, struggling to emerge from shock.