Writers often say writing, as a process, is somehow both liberating and profoundly painful.  "To write good works," they opine, "is excruciating, but to finish good works is miraculous."

Make no mistake: Atlas shall not shrug with the compositions contained herein; I will surely not channel Atticus or Holden or or Montag or any number of poetic standards, but rest assured that in some way, the process remains unchanged.  And that's true for each of us, isn't it?  We write - we create - not because we necessarily enjoy the process itself, but because the finished product, laid bare on the page or the screen or the canvas, is that piece of us that cries out for release. 

 We create because there is no alternative.

I've struggled to find an appropriate topic that I might breach for my inaugural post here on Open Salon.  In fact, the indecision (for lack of a more appropriate word) has caused me to procrastinate until this very evening, a delay that has been broken by a convergence of very personal moments.  But here!  The time has come for all good men to come to the keyboard of the open forum.  And quite frankly, if the country can buck up and lead its most promising inauguration in modern memory, then heck...perhaps I can ride atop the momentum.

 Of course, this is not my first experience playing around on OS.  In fact, my uncle and guru of both the written and visial arts, Gary Justis, introduced me to the site some time ago.  At the time, I was experiencing technical difficulties (read: user errors) that prohibited me from signing up effectively, inconveniences that, coupled with a career in transition, flipped a signup onto the backburner.  However, as I put off taking my own leap into the pond, I was still able to read Gary's posts as he became an apparent well-known character on the forum. 

For those familiar with Gary's work, you know the ways in which the writer intertwines timely social commentary with extraordinarily vivid snapshots of the past - moments of insecurity, epiphany, hesitation, reckless abandon, and love for family and friends that echoes through his words almost tangibly.  I became familiar with this likely as you did, dear reader, as if we read from the same book, and they were his words that brought me here.  And now I write, because I must.

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In September of last year, I read a very small piece on Gary's blog.  Entitled "Giving it Up," the narrative reflected on moments shared between the writer and his older brother, Gregory Justis, as they romped and fought and grew up in Kansas, the land of their birth, the land of brown and dust and flat, of pumpkin pies and bottomless pots of stew and the smells and sounds of youth.  My youth, too, shared but so wonderfully unique.

I grew up in northern Michigan, picking apples and making cider with a little old fashioned cider press in the backyard.  What a beautifully idyllic scene that was: boys (my father, brother, and I) in gloves and jackets working the press and tossing away spent apple bits; girls (usually my mother and perhaps a family friend or two) bustling about, hurling gallon jars and jugs of fresh cider as if weightless, always ready with the next empty bottle.  Gary and LJ came up one chilly fall season, and we pressed until our hands turned blue.

What a perfect fall.

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We're so many little pieces, aren't we?

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I miss my dad every single day. 

But cry not for me, nor for those many who lost a friend, a fighter, a confidant, a brother, a father, a figure of such matchless might that the world moved beneath his boots.

Cry for those who never knew. 

Shed tears for they that will never laugh as he did, or shake his hand, or feel the warmth of his hug or the bristle of his poorly-shaven face. 

And still, though I stand tall in his memory, I remain immovably sad. 

My sadness knows no bounds, because time is boundless.

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I spoke with a distant friend the evening before last, and somehow, in the midst of one of those melancholy moments that seem to appear from the general coversational fog, the discussion turned to family.  In truth, I was a bit depressed this particular night, and my pal was simply lending a sympathetic ear. 

How lost we sometimes feel, I mused. 

Family relationships can seem so confusing, even after a lifetime of learning.  This was brought to such sharp relief when the pillar of my family, my dad, was no longer around to act as the shepard of this oft-wayward flock.  In retrospect, perhaps he was so strong for all of us that we all felt inescapably weak when he was no longer there.  As my personal and professional life evolved and changed in the months and years following his passing, I found myself - ironically, it almost seemed - asking more questions with each passing day than I was ever finding answers.

 As the evening waned, I talked with my friend of moments and memories, my words slowly laced with that sadness that I found so overpowering.  But the power of words, beautiful and terrible, while they may expose the raw flesh to the fire, can also tend to wounds and lift us gently to the  light.

My friend - Michelle is her name - spoke of love.  She spoke not only of love for each other and for all wondrous life, but of love for one's very being. 

I have an endless love for the things that make this dreary road seem forever fascinating.  I find the passion and the promise in literature; I see the power and potential in politics; I adore the simplicity and complexity of the arts, and the perpetual lessons of history; I am forever a student of the sciences.  The loves of my life are many, and while I have many to thank for the person I am tonight, I can thank none more than my wonderful dad, who bestowed upon me a recognition that our experiences in this life need not be bounded by convention or guideline.  We have been placed here to drink of the cup of life, to live moments with gusto and outside voices, and to fight to our last breath for those less fortunate, to raise pens and arms against those who would seek to limit the potential of our collective community. 

The strongest man is rarely the one with the tightest fist.  He is the man who teaches others to breathe deeply, to live and laugh and love and play, to shout and cry and kiss and tell and live and die with a passion that burns like stars. 

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One of the last times I spoke with my dad was just before leaving to drive back from Michigan to Bloomington, IN, where I was living at the time.  As I was packing to leave, he pulled me aside and into his office where we chatted and rummaged around in his desk.  This was a ritual when I left home, and had been since I first left for college; we would look at mementos and knicknacks, speaking of the past and of the future as if it was one endless story. 

When he pulled out a small folded piece of paper, I knew immediately what it was.  I had seen it before: a folded page from an unknown magazine, the upper half only, with an ad for a random company that took up the entire section.  It was a photograph of a man sitting on a dock, his silhouette flanked by ocean and a deep blue sky.  The man was typing away on a notebook computer, bottle of water at his side; you could smell the surf just by looking at that crumpled page.  

We had discussed this picture before.

"Someday," he would say, "that'll be me."

He folded the paper up again, and placed it back in its traditional spot in his old desk.  Time went slowly then.  We talked of nothing in particular.

When I came home after hearing that my dad was gone, his desk was the first place I went, dropping down into the worn leather chair.  I cried - as I had done for 8 hours of incredibly difficult driving - and held my head in my hands. 

It was surprisingly difficult for me to open that desk.  This was wrong, all wrong.  He can't be gone.  He needs to open this desk, not me.

I still have that crumpled old picture, tucked away in a traditional spot, waiting for a someday that will surely come.  Such an insignificant little piece.

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I was mucking about Mr. Gore's internets the other evening when I stumpled upon a website run by a relatively popular new-vogue gallery in Los Angeles.  As I perused the artists' samplings, I noticed the works of a fella by the name of Rich Tuzon, whose paintings seemed to display striking tones of youth and an intruiging juxtaposition of loneliness and hope.  While I enjoyed many of the pieces featured on the site, one stood out as particularly special, reaching me in a way that I'm not sure I can textualize.

Somewhere, my dad is on a swing, cowboy hat and boots glittering in the evening sun, the mountains and mist so striking in the background, the warm wind blowing the clouds across an amber sky. 

Rich Tuzon's "Patiently Waiting"

We are so many little pieces, you and I. 

I look forward to seeing you again.  All good things.

-GJ