When We Vacation (Or Go On Holiday)

We have all done it--we go somewhere on vacation, some incredibly beautiful paradise, then decide we will quit our jobs and move immediately. This is natural for most people, Cathy and I included, to begin brainstorming creative job opportunities in order to expedite our move to a beach front community.

Cathy and I have attempted to temper our purchasing resolve in St. Augustine, Florida, but planned on looking at houses while here (in advance of our trip) to potentially make an investment purchase. I would be lying if I said the beach bug had not bitten us shortly after looking at the first three homes, but we elected to take a deep breath and talk about what we want to accomplish in the short and long term.  (Sometimes acting like adults is a terrible thing.)

With that, I have made it no secret how much I adore this small town, The Old City, the Castillo de San Marcos, the Fountain of Youth, and the very unique lighthouse that stands proudly on the west side of Anastasia Island. The residents of the town are wonderful, and we found ourselves hanging out with some regularity at Isabela's Cigar and Wine Shop. I was fortunate enough to have met Isabela, a wonderful Cuban immigrant who claims to be the only American female cigar shop owner, several years ago and was blessed to enjoy her company once again.  

Just walking around town, you get a sense of the centuries old history of the area. The Minorcan Indian tribe that resided there before the Spanish Conquistadors arrived are an integral part of the city's feel. Brick and cobblestone line the Old City's roads and mom and pop shops keep the local economy vibrant and consistent.

On Anastasia Island, hidden bars tout "locals" hanging out, and it is clear that it is true in many cases. Smiles, a slow pace, couples young and old holding hands as they walk along the gorgeous beaches are all part of the reason we want to own a place here. 

The truth is I have always wanted to be a pirate and love the pirate lifestyle; well, I would have to shower more frequently, but still, would it not be very Jimmy Buffet-esque to sail the St. Augustine Sound, fishing and singing about tourists covered in oil?

To sail the Atlantic off the coast of Saint Augustine is my dream.  Maybe one day...

Our Passions Become Us

In halls far and wide people gather to train, sweat, and sometimes bleed. It is difficult to articulate to the non-martial arts practitioner what drives us to engage in the violent arts, but for those of us driven to learn budo (lit. warrior way) it is as natural and understandable as breathing.

For those who do not understand why multitudes of people get together in their white pajamas and inflict pain on one another with great regularity, let me not attempt to explain, but rather un-explain what we do.

The traditional arts of Okinawa and Japan were not intended for "cowards," as I have sometimes heard some ignorantly state. In fact, the older military arts of Japan were developed by and for the bushi (lit. warrior). After the Meiji Restoration of the late nineteenth century in Japan, the samurai were no longer the ruling class and the arts moved to a more mainstream arena offered to those not of the samurai class, or of samurai lineage.

In Okinawa, Te (lit. hand) was brought from mainland China and developed into what we now know as karate, or karate-do. Different family systems were created and passed down to the sons of those early masters. Eventually, western soldiers were allowed to train in the Okinawan and Japanese arts, which resulted in their propagation in the western world.

As with anything and any association, politics rears its head and system members leave and train alone. Karate is no different than other organized activities and multiple factions were created in the fifty plus years after its migration from the far east.

I was privileged to be a part of a reunification of sorts; a coming together of brothers and sisters originating from Dr. Tsuyoshi Chitose's Chito Ryu.  Family members sharing this lineage piled into a hall at General Butler State Park in Kentucky for four days to learn and train with one of the last great students of Dr. Chitose, Masaru Inomoto.

For decades Inomoto sensei lived next door to Dr. Chitose and trained in his brand of karate. He kept intact what he learned from his teacher and shared openly with those of us fortunate enough to attend "the gathering."

Men and women sweat, banged around on each other, broke bread, laughed, and toasted Inomoto sensei as a group sharing a common understanding of a karate system in dire need of unity. We are a strange bunch--those who share combative and lethal techniques then talk about how proud we are to brandish bruises and bloody knuckles.

I look forward to other gatherings and sharing of information, history, and combative techniques--for these are the things that drive the budoka (lit. person who studies the warrior way).

Banzai!

                                                                      

Our Homeless

I work in Atlanta, Georgia and see homelessness every day on my ride into the city.  Naturally, I've born witness to poverty all over the world, and always feel a strong sense of remorse for not being able to help folks who have found themselves, for whatever reason, in such a terrible position in life.


Of course, as with anything else, there are scammers out there who make a fanciful living begging for money on street corners or at intersections.  I recall one such instance when I would see the same guy at the same intersection each day when I lived and worked in Chicago.  One day, as I approached the intersection, the young man was hopping around and smiling, presumably listening to music on a phone or iPod.  As soon as the light turned red and the cars were forced to stop, his body position changed to some sort of slumped over, malnourished being .  His face contorted into one so pitiful, had I not just witnessed the transition, I would have thought him truly unhappy, without family, and homeless.  This guy was gaming people and most likely making a fair living working the street.


A few years ago, I wrote about a homeless guy panhandling in the street while I was in Raleigh, North Carolina.  This guy was amazing, and as I stood there talking to him, he on his two prosthetic legs in the middle of the road, a guy stopped and handed him a dollar.  The man, he referred to himself as Everyman (I'll never forget that), handed me the dollar and told me to donate it to my church.  What a guy!  Of course, I handed him his dollar...but can you imagine that?


There is this one unfortunate gentleman who begs for change with regularity not far from where I now work.  I had my doubts about his homeless status, and figured he lived in some government paid housing not far from the area.  I say that to repeat what our moms taught us long ago--don't assume anything.


On my way home one day, I crossed under Interstate Twenty, making my usual left turn to drive up the on-ramp.  As I sat at the red light awaiting my turn, something caught my attention from the corner of my eye--movement directly under the interstate and above the steep concrete wall.  There in the small area created by the top of the wall and the bottom of the highway lay a man.  He rested on his side in the sweltering heat and I recognized him immediately.  He had on the same ratty white t-shirt and jeans I had seen that morning on my way into work.  I can't even begin to tell you how bad I felt for him and how upset with myself I was for thinking he was scamming people out of their money.


The next day, as I exited the interstate, I saw him.  He would put his hands together in a prayerful motion and bow to each car that passed him by.  I stopped and handed him five dollars and he looked up at me with his rheumy eyes and a blank face. 


"Thank you so much, sir.  God Bless you and please pray for me."  That's what he said to me.


Now, I don't know what he did that five dollars, and to be honest, I don't really care.  Did I enable more bad behavior?  I don't know, but what I realized was I gave a poor person a moment of relief.  Whether he bought food, cheap wine, or a hit of crack was irrelevant to me, because for just a brief second we were both part of the same stratosphere, and for just a second this guy was given notice by another human being. 

It's Time to Take a Stand!

Like most people, I grumble and gripe about things my government does or doesn't do.  More often than not I post sarcastic and snide remarks about their candid disregard for laws and the American Constitution.  Yeah, I'm that guy, but there comes a point where the grumbling must stop and action must begin.

Let me say, first and foremost, we are still a nation of laws and relative peace.  While I support the people's right to rebel against our government, I am an avid supporter of peaceful protest and insisting our voices be heard by our elected officials.


It has recently been reported that the Obama administration, and more specifically the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives (ATF) have begun illegally collecting names and addresses of legal firearm owners.  This database is not only immoral, it's illegal! 


My fellow Americans: I'm asking you to take this step--sign the petition below, and continue sharing it (not just once...not just twice) until President Barrack Obama is forced to respond and destroy this illegal list of law abiding citizens who happily and legally exercise their right to keep and bear arms.  Your help is needed, and I cannot stress enough how important it is to make our voices heard.  Send this to your elected officials; let them know we will not sit idly by while they continue to shred the very paper upon which our rights were promised by the Founders of this greatest country in the world!

Sign the Petition demanding the illegal ATF list of legal firearm owners be destroyed!

Another Project (or Three) on the Horizon

People who know me know my mind works a million miles per hour.  I can't help it--it's the way I'm wired. Perhaps I don't see things differently than most, but I tend to notice subtleties, or nuances about peculiar things.  As a result of the way my mind processes details, I'm rarely without bizarre thoughts and speculation.  I like to think of this mindset, if you will,  as hyper-awareness of the rather mundane.

My imagination runs rampant with possibilities; hence my appetite for writing.  I don't proclaim to be masterful in story-telling--on the contrary, I'm most likely quite ordinary.  But I want to believe (hope?) that I can bring forth stories that are entertaining, a little educational, and very speculative.  If I can accomplish this, and you the reader enjoy what I've written, then my mission has been accomplished.

I don't write for accolades or ceremony.  Writing has always been a passion of mine, but pouring my heart into a project then throwing it to the proverbial literary wolves to be devoured makes me nervous.  We all know what happens when something is taken into the human body, yes?  It's processed and used to nourish the body, or it sickens the body and finds its way from one or both orifices.  I pray the former, rather than the latter, is what readers gain from my trysts.

With a hectic 2015 and an even more hectic first half of 2016, I was forced to dabble in my writing, although I wanted to immerse myself in it.  Life changing events brought me endless days and short nights with which to jot down thoughts or lines I thought might fit into a particular work.  And as suddenly as the craziness started, it slowed to a drizzle--like a light rain in early April that covers the greening grass with a fine mist, only to quickly give way to an early morning sun.

And so a project I began last year is in process--something much different than my two previous fictional tales.  This is a work of passion--stories told by those having faced tremendous odds and how they have dealt with adversity through their lives.  You're going to love this book: for it has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with you, and people you know and love. 

Another project I've begun working on is a labor of love.  This treatise is a compilation of traditional budo (Jp. lit. warrior way) masters outside of Okinawa and Japan that have spent their lives dedicated to their respective art.  Even for the non-martial artist, I believe you will enjoy these stories.

Lastly, Bill Evers is making his long awaited return!  His newest adventure will take you, once again, to far away lands as he searches for someone or something intent on bringing great harm to humanity.  He is my unfortunate hero, and one I've hated to love and loved to hate.  A man with without a conscience in search of his soul. 

So there it is, my friends.  This is where I've been...where my mind has taken me, and where it will keep me for some time. 

As always, please feel free to comment below, share these blog posts, and most importantly live your own adventure!

Life is Unforgiving

This year has been tough. Two friends lost to cancer, another move, albeit a short one, and unbelievable work stress. Sometimes I ask myself if it's all worth it--you know, life, the universe, and everything. Then I remember Douglass Adams was brilliant and already answered my question. Did I mention Mr. Adams was my age when he checked out with a massive heart attack?

I digress....

I have alluded to my current writing project a couple of times. It promises to be a work of hope and inspiration; my first ever attempt at non-fiction. Here's what I didn't tell you: this is the hardest thing I have ever written. In.My.Life

When you are attempting to capture the human spirit in the written form, it's difficult. Pulling this off while coupled with the stories of those who have overcome insurmountable odds is beyond the pale. In other words, I find myself immersed in their words, their stories, the bravery they faced against odds many of us can't begin to imagine.

Sometimes this work leaves me depressed without compare. My own maladies fall by the wayside and my emotions run hot. This is life--something we are forced to face when we move away from youth and into a more mature state. Some of our friends pass away, others wish they had passed away when a loved one died. Others, still, press on in the face of adversity--a middle finger salute to karmic gods who attempted with great futility to repress and slay them.

This is your story, this thing I am writing. It is about you, your neighbor, your spouse, your parent, or your child. On more than one occasion I've wiped away a tear as I have read the compilation given to me in trust. We never know what our neighbors have faced until we develop a particular level of intimacy with them.

The writing comes in spurts. There are times when I cannot force myself to the keyboard because I know other's demons await me. Still, there is that need, that push, to tell the tale--an albatross of sorts, I suppose--because I have collected their stories and promised to publish them in hopes that others will draw a certain strength from them.

Understand Bill Evers fans--Bill will return in time. His adventures have not ended, at least until my time on earth is finished. But there is something larger than Bill that must be told in the interim, and soon I will get to share it with you.

Project Rejuvination

I was on a roll--a book a year was being written and published by my wonderful publisher Kaizen Quest Publishing. Then it happened...life took a strange twist and my passion was forced into the passenger's seat.

Last year I embarked on another writing journey, one that challenged me mentally and emotionally. I love writing fictional novels with an admittedly strange enhancement of out there, or beyond reason.  That form of creativity fulfills me and makes me happy, which is why I was shocked at my own desire to attempt something a little different.

A particular setback in life catapulted me into the world of non-fiction, and forced me to look inward to the real Howard. Who was this guy, and could he sustain something he felt momentously catastrophic? Things were shaky at best, and downright scary at worst.

It was then that a thought crept into my mind and a curious desire to understand emotional catastrophe. This self imposed inquisition has lead me down the path on a project that I believe is so important, so relevant, and poignant that I honestly feel unworthy to partake in it.

Without giving much away, let me say this: this book is the hardest thing I've ever written, but not in the contextual sense of the word. Grammatically, it isn't challenging, nor does it push me from a creative perspective. What it does do is gut check me every time I sit down to write. Emotionally, this project is draining. Let me say this--when I finish this book, it will be my proudest moment. To bring you a work of monumental strife, hope, and faith will make me the happiest man ever.

This is going to touch you......that I promise.