Rise of the Order 1.2

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Part 1.2 of the Rise of the Order. 

The Matriarch reached out with preternatural empathy, given from her Heart-gate, and was met with a stubborn wall of pride.  Gallet had always been stubborn, an older sister to the tee.  Gallet always had a way of knowing when and where someone needed her. Of course, it had been because of her affinity to the Pineal-gate but the two of them hadn’t realized that when Gallet had found her, that came much later. In the infancy of her development into one of the Daeva, she had been too weak to survive. Gallet had taken on the burden herself, scouring the streets, stealing food and keeping thieves at bay.  Gallet had always been willing to take in another stray, of course, but the two of them quickly formed a bond they both desperately needed – a sense of normalcy, a sense of family. Gallet had never made so clear the betrayal she felt when the Matriarch left.

She wished she could explain. She had no choice when the clan had come for her and if she had, it would have been to take Gallet with her. By then, of course, Gallet had taken charge of a whole group of children and would never leave without them. From Gallet’s perspective it must seem that the Matriarch, finally able to walk and do things for herself, suddenly able to contribute to the community that Gallet had worked so hard to create, left her for a new family – away from the struggles of the street.

“You’ve seen it then?” The Matriarch asked.

“I have.” Gallet said simply.

“There is nothing I can do?”

“Not and keep the children safe.  We have a deal, Venara. You get them out safely, I keep them safe.” The anger had faded now replaced by regret.

The Matriarch’s plan had always been to eventually convinces Gallet to accompany her back to Sunder’s Peak, to build the commune she’d always dreamt of. But the longer they worked together bringing children out of the city, the more the Matriarch was sure Gallet would never leave. There would always be children to help in the city.

In the deep recesses of her mind, the Matriarch longed to embrace Gallet. To somehow allow her to relax and tear down the walls of her own pain, but the truth was that part of her had been locked away for years. The Raven Clan trained each new Daeva to be impassive and detached – skills needed for those so often employed as assasins. Instead, she simply nodded.

 “You’ll find them in the beds below the window.  They drank Ylla root tea before bed. They know your coming.” She took her bowl to a small wash tub, still full of tepid brown water, rinsing and scrubbing it with a cloth at her waist. “Poor Mayris is terrified of leaving her brother behind.” She turned to face the Matriarch after putting the bowl away.

“And what of you, Gallet?” the Matriarch asked.

“For me? Likely the headsman. I’m not sure why I did it Venara. So few of the children even recognize the things I do for them. Perhaps that’s my gift to them. All I can ask is that the rest don’t suffer for the ones we’ve saved.” She shook her head, contemplation still deep in her brow before she said to herself, “I just pray he isn’t lost to us completely.”

The turmoil was as plain on Gallet’s face as it was in the Matriarch’s heart. She had come back to save Gallet, not send her to the executioner’s block. The children would come first, though. If anything, she would not damage the oath she gave to Gallet by abandoning the children in place of her. The truth was Gallet valued the children far above herself; the Matriarch would no longer be able to fulfil her end of the agreement without Gallet as Head Mistress of the dormitory – these would be the last children to escape the bonds of the Order. In Gallet’s mind, saving two of the children at the cost of her own life was well worth the exchange.

That didn’t mean she wouldn’t try.

“Await me in the foyer,” she said, turning curtly towards the door.  Gallet snorted softly, still leaning against the wooden counter as the Matriarch strode out of the room. It seemed the both of them were too wrapped up in plans and counter plans to give much argument.

The Matriarch left the room without another word to climb the spiral brick, suitable to be attached to the kitchen but a stark contrast to the elegant foyer.  Though purposeful, she stepped lightly in her rubber soled boots.  Gallet knew more than she was letting on; the Matriarch didn’t expect to walk into an ambush – from a Gatekeeper or otherwise - but the precaution had to be taken.

In her stealth training, she had learned much about the other Soulgates.  The one she was most cautious of now was the Root-gate.  Though no sound escaped her movements, a Keeper of the Root-gate could sense rippling vibrations emanating from footfalls.  It was a rare skill, but one she was cautious of none-the-less.  The children would be left alone in their beds but Gallet’s demeanor had put her on edge. Her old friend’s skill with the sight was not so acute as to be infallible, but one relied on their senses in all things. 

From her heart the Matriarch quested out, even as she approached the crest of the stairs.  Gallet’s essence was unreadable, she had expected the sallow mask of pride to crumble away as she left her friends side.  In all things we are alone, Gallet, she thought, yet we hold tight to company in the darkness.  

The stairs ended in a grand opened hall lined with bunks, children sleeping in each.  The half-circle window at the far end of the room illuminated a sliver of the room; the moon still cast shadows along the courtyard. The Matriarch never knew the children she escaped with until they reached Sunder’s Peak, where they could begin new lives: staying with the sanctuary and helping to build the community that she had started or striking out to find their way in a city further to the east. Most of them stayed, those that left did so with the Matriarch’s blessing but weren’t allowed to return for fear that they would be followed back to the sanctuary.

With the same care as she took the stairs, the Matriarch strode towards the window.  As her feet touched the moonlight her shadow left a stain, and in it, she redoubled her resolve.  The two children were in their beds.  Moving the threadbare blankets aside she found them left as she had instructed Gallet each time before, bound in a rope tied harness.  The Matriarch could not carry the children on her back – not in flight.  The harness held them upright and centered over a hand grip.  The clandestine nature made the binding necessary. As much as she didn’t like it, they were unconscious and the straps would be removed before they awoke.

She approached the window, peering out; the courtyard was still empty save for the drunken guard leaning against the wall.  All that remained was to eliminate the guard and instruct Gallet to run.  She could return after her flight to Sunder’s Peak in time to pick her up in the outlying forest surrounding Kanton.  Neither would be safe, but she couldn’t lose Gallet.

The window creaked as she pushed it open.  She had little time, once she unfurled her wings the entire Ministry would be alerted and running would be her only option. She turned back, ready to grab the children and run, and found a dark figure just cloaked in the shadow.  She had changed out of her worn gown and wore fitted cloth leggings and a vested tunic. The motherly figure had donned a burglar’s garb and the steely calm to accompany it.  Her left hand rested on the hilt of a sheathed short sword, a knife hung at her other hip and before the Matriarch could speak Gallet raised a hand to silence her.

“The Order knows a break out is happening tonigh,” the Matriarch tried to speak but Gallet simply rushed on. “They placed Kelen by the door to feign regularity, but Lord Kant has recalled an entire company. There’s no way I’ll make it out on foot.”

The Matriarch stood in stunned silence.  She had assumed so much in the face of Gallet’s visions; with all her bravado on the subject of betrayal Gallet knew her childhood friend would risk everything to save her.  “A Keepers accompanied the latest political envoy to the dormitory.”

The Matriarch nodded along absently, her attention weaning from the stress of the situation. Finally, “A powerful one, Ven!  I could see five of his gates opened” she said, near panic in her voice, “I’ve never seen anyone who could channel like that.  The threads of fate were spinning the events of tonight out even as we sat making pleasantries.”

Silence spanned several moments before the Matriarch fully regained her composure, “Then you’re to make a distraction.”

Gallet nodded curtly.

“And you see no other way?”

Gallet looked away, avoiding the question. There was no was no despair in her aura, only resolve.  She had made the decision long ago, as had the Matriarch. These children deserved a better life than what they got from the Ministry.  Their lives a small price to pay, but Gallet’s check was soon to be cashed.

“This Keeper,” the Matriarch started, “What is his name?  So that I might avenge the sacrifice of the last person I was to call friend.”

“He came with the servants entourage,” Gallet said, “The minor noble he accompanied tried to be calm and dismissive of the man but his nerves were obviously frayed. His head was covered but I’m sure he was bald, and his eyes were unmistakable!”

The Matriarch raised an eyebrow at that.

“They were gold!”

The Matriarch gasped.  Not just any Keeper then, The Son of Order himself.  “What in the stars was he doing in a place like Kanton?” She asked, “The children cannot be so important to have the Son himself involved.”

 “We are irrelevant to his plans, Ven.  The children deserve a better life but he’s playing a game beyond the scope of my vision.  I doubt he’s thought twice about the children.”

Gallet moved to the bedsides containing the two litters.  She reached down and cradled the child in her arms for the last time, a mothers tear in her eye. She walked back to the other, a little girl, and lifted her into her arms. She looked upon the girl as she walked back to the Matriarch, pushing her golden locks from her face. “They are so precious to me,” she said. “All of them, and you were the first.” The two stood face to face as Gallet gingerly set down the girl.  The Matriarch could sense the affection Gallet had for her, and shared it as well, but her resolve was hard as stone.

“Then let what must be done, be done,” The Matriarch said.

Gallet reached forward and embraced her friend, catching her by surprise.  A soft kiss landed on the corner of her mouth, then she said: “Through all things, we are together.”

 “And together, even when apart,” she intoned. A memory from the dark recesses of her mind.

With that Gallet grasped the rope that held the Matriarch’s wings and cloak in place and slipped the knot loose.  In a sudden chime that would sear Gallet’s eardrums, the black wings of the Matriarch stretched wide open with a sudden gale of wind, knocking the window open. Beautiful and majestic. It was the first time Gallet would have ever seen her sister in all her glory. The wind whipped at her feathered wings which began to hum like vibrating crystal.  The melody of her wing-song would wake the other children in moments, and the guards would be on alert.  Gallet had forced her to flee quickly, leaving her to the guards.  The Matriarch grabbed the littered children.

“I charge you with the protection of my children, Venara, as I protected you in the streets so long ago.  Do not incur my wrath, Matriarch.” Gallet said with mock severity.

“On the honor of the Raven clan, I will repay the debt that is owed, sister.” The Matriarch said. 

Ducking under the Matriarch’s wing, Gallet leapt out of the window.  Spinning, she grabbed at a harness under her left arm before flinging a knife at the guard, Kelen, who had just started to stir.  He slumped back and down to the ground, motionless.  She landed in a backwards tumble and was off in a sprint toward the inner city.  The Matriarch was stunned to see the efficacy of her friends combat but she had no time for that.  One foot on the windowsill, she hefted the children up and leapt out into the night with the haunting melody at her back.

On to Rise of the Order 2.1 > >

Rise of The Order 1.1

This is a short story I've been working on over the past several months about the size of a novelette. It's set in a much grander world I've been building. If you like magic, fantasy, violence, or just plain old fashion interesting, character driven plot I think you'll really enjoy this! I'll be updating every other day for the next couple weeks with a total of ten updates. Stay tuned!

The Matriarch stood, silhouetted by the moon, over a tall building overlooking the courtyard.  She wore the garb traditional to the Raven clan – black as the feathers born from her back.  Conforming leather from neck to foot with her talon like fingers and toes given wide birth to maneuver independently.  Her fingers and toes were the color and edge of obsidian and her dark hair was cut close to her face, framing the delicate features of a creature that was so rarely described as such.  Not a soul would see her descend this night.  None, that is, but the ones she chose.  The gates beyond held the prize she sought and the armored guards were just another obstacle in her path.  The towering stone masonry gave her a view of the compound: a sprawling pasture surrounded by razor rope. Within – the children slept.

She checked rope bound around her waist, tucking the wings and half-cloak closely to her back and began to descend.  She dug into the side of the brick wall making a foot hold. She had run atop the city once she arrived from her roost – she was comforted to let her arms finally begin to bear a portion of the traveling burden.  Though she knew with the completion of her goal tonight – a heavy and swift burden she would carry back to Sunder’s Peak.

The factory had only two floors but the first took up much of the space.  The children worked there during the day, at least a small portion of them.  The ones who were taken out into the city were forced to do much more difficult maintenance tasks, many of them older boys. But if the job called for labor, The Order didn’t hesitate to send out girls and younger boys as well.  Inside the factory was a host of manufacturing tasks.  Children weren’t skilled enough to make the intricately embroidered clothing of nobles but when the outlying lands were seized ten years ago, the craftsmen’s trade was crushed for lack of resources and the occupying force could pillage the city simply by forcing the indentured citizens to buy their goods.

The Ministry cared for the children, yes, but to what end? Slavery for room and board followed by a life of servitude; it wasn’t much of a choice.  The Matriarch wanted her city back but for now, she would content herself with rescuing the innocent. 

Daevas, as her kind were known, stood apart from society both hailed and feared. Half-Angels, they were sometimes called. Born from a divine spark, laden in a human child. The gift wouldn’t manifest itself until the child reached adolescence when wings would begin to sprout from the developing muscle tissue and the fingers and toes would calcify. Of course, this is what the Raven Clan had told her – her experience in the world had shown quite the opposite – that her  kind were hated, hunted, and persecuted. The clan knew this as well, so they trained in the guise of shadow.  The Matriarch lay cloaked in the shadow the moon’s light cast from the east. Full and high it sat, though not yet midnight, when she would be vulnerable to its light.

The razor wire fence surrounding the Ministry was to keep the children in more than other citizens out.  These were the outcast of society. The Order created the Ministry to keep the urchins off the street. The endless wave of dead fathers and pregnant whores made orphans a regular occurrence. Another consequence of the endless city-state wars, a consequence the Order had cleverly played to their advantage.

She didn’t make a sound, darting between shadows; her leathers were still damp with oil, to prevent cracks and squeaks, even after her flight.  The factory was on the Ministry’s compound but dormitory was the only portion under strict guard. Kanton’s streets may not want the children but the Ministry had to deter escape attempts.  She had easily evaded the perimeter guards from the roof tops but lanterns brightly lit the corridor leading up the courtyard providing its own challenge.  The small flames danced in their paper lanterns, six in all leading up the fenced path.

A figure leaned against the wall next to the door only dimly lit by the lanterns, his boiled leather helm sat pushed over his eyes. His spear-point upwards, resting between his folded arms.  She knelt down and folded her fingers together; index finger toward the sky and thumb to her chest.  She found this to be the most effective way to focus her gate. Out of her chest, a dull green dust began to spin, enveloping her thumbs.    

She studied the lantern closest to her. The lanterns light grew dim then was snuffed out. Channeling through her Heart-gate gave her a measure of control over the pressure in the air. She had the power to focus great gales of wind with a more overbearing hand but now she used a delicate touch. A mistake here could sound an alarm as easily as unveiling her wings.  Small tendrils of smoke rose from the first lantern, nearly indistinguishable from the darkness.  One down, five to go, she thought. 

Beads of sweat began to appear on her porcelain face.  The effort of drawing the power of the cosmos through one of the seven Soulgates was not insubstantial. The weaves of energy extended from her Heart-gate like a slow, controlled breath. Then, one by one, the lanterns flickered out.  The guard never stirred.  She looked up to see the constellation Vega, The Huntress in the stars directly above her; it would be another thirty minutes before another guardsman passed this way.

Taking a deep breath she rose and wiped the sweat from her face, glad to be done with the exertion. She strode into the now dark, open corridor; it was never a comfortable feeling, being so exposed. Though the building’s shadow still concealed her, she still longed for a corner to crouch around. She reached the door, finding the guardsman unmoved; the thick smell of ale wafting from his unconscious snores.  It was no wonder – the Ministry wasn’t a defensible priority and even though every man living in a City of Order was mandated to serve two years in the militia, all the competent solders were off in the border lands bringing an end to chaos. Kelek, she believed the guard’s name was, always seemed to find himself on duty and uncomfortably drunk when she made her visits to the Ministry though whether from bribery or his own desire to assist through negligence she couldn’t tell. Lithely, she swung through the door without so much as a scratch from her talons.  With luck, he would sleep till morning.

Inside she found herself in a foyer showroom.  Ornately carved wood trimmed the walls and the staircase that wound upwards to a balcony loft where the Ministry would entertain guests.  The façade appeased the politicians. Children weren’t allowed in these rooms; not even when making their way to the factory.  A crystal chandelier hung in the center of the grand foyer but the only light within shown from the moon through the high windows. A sliver of candle light flickered under a doorway from the kitchens to her right.

Making her way down the eastern corridor, well hidden in the shadow, the faint smell of spiced broth struck her. 

Her secret accomplice. 

The door at the end of the hall was cracked open and from within the Matriarch could see a woman just setting a place for herself at a high-topped counter.  She was thin, her clothing was ill fitting and hung loosely about her shoulders. Although nearing her  thirtieth dawn, the gray of her hair and the circles under her eyes gave her the appearance of a woman far deeper into womanhood.  She sat down, lifting a spoon to her lips, then spoke: “You must forgive me, Matriarch.  The days are long and your presence makes this night longer still.”

The Matriarch pushed the door open slowly, allowing the light to spill onto her form from the kitchen; the woman didn’t stir, leaving her back to the Matriarch.  When she saw that the two of them were alone some of her tension eased.  “You would do well to keep your talents hidden, Gallet.  The Order keeps a short leash on its Gatekeepers.”

“Yes, yes, but it’s that same talent that made me Head Mistress to the Ministry.” She laughed weakly, adding only to herself, “Head Mistress, Ha! More apt to call me Hidden Mistress for all the Children allow me to covet the title.  The politicians take our grand foyer for their dignitaries and allow me to parade our most promising children through. ‘Look at how grand we treat our lost ones!’ they say.” She scoffed then as if the sound of her own voice disgusted her. “Might as well take a cow to the theater before you have it for supper.”

The Matriarch stood back from Gallet; the woman hadn’t turned to look at her but the Matriarch knew she was a clear image in the woman’s third eye, a gate that manifested in the brain swirling in between her brows. She wasn’t able to grasp it entirely, but the Matriarch knew that the Pineal-gate  would show the keeper images, perhaps even from the future.  Much like her own use of the Heart-gate –Gallet was able to channel, but the power of the universe manifest differently through each Soul-gate.

The room had a skylight and the moon poured through it giving the room a ghostly air.  Wooden counter tops swept the room.  Tubs, cauldrons, utensils and hearths lined the outer edge of the room and the smoky lingering of this evenings meal hung in the air.  A candle flickered dimly at a doorway opposite the one the Matriarch entered from.

“Are they ready?” The Matriarch asked.

Gallet lowered a spoon full of broth to her pewter bowl, her head forward still refusing to meet the Matriarch’s gaze.  “They are,” she said.

“Let’s be done with it, then—” She began.

“Tonight is the end Venara,” Gallet said.

The Matriarch paused; her childhood name, the name that had left her after becoming one of the Daeva, stung as much as the proclamation attached to it.

“The Order has discovered your weakness, and now you betray me?” Her voice was even, but she felt the pain emanating from her once childhood friend.

“You speak of betrayal to me, Ven? You, who left me to rot in the streets when your wings began to sprout and your clan came for you?” there was venom in Gallet’s voice and The Matriarch could see her steady herself from shaking on the table.  “You knew comforts that they will never know!” she spat, “A clan! A watchful eye! A—no.” She took a deep breath, finally turning to look The Matriarch in the eye. “You know nothing of betrayal, Matriarch,” her voice scathing, “and you’ll know none of it from me.  No, tonight is the end because I’ll be dead by morning.” Tears rolled down Gallet’s face now, try as she might to hold them back.

On to Rise of the Order 1.2 > >

My Year: a Sober Journey

This, in many ways, is the story of how I got to this picture.

     It has been, in fact, over a years since I’d taken my last drink of alcohol. That’s right; if you hadn’t heard already, ol’ Matty’s been on the wagon for over a year.

     In that year, I’ve had some pretty amazing changes in my life. I can’t say they’re all from dropping my alcohol habit but there are quite a few I can. See, like anyone else who’s looking to solve a problem in their life, I had to first admit I had one: Hi, My name is Matt and I’m an alcoholic.

     To some of my friends that statement may have been a surprise, maybe not so much to others. You see, for me, alcohol has been a compulsion that I was unwilling – or unable – to control. I remember about the time this picture was taken thinking, I ought to try and limit myself to three drinks a night.



     For me, that never worked out. If I had one drink, I was going to continue drinking until I went to sleep. It would start out as, “What a long day, I sure could use a drink to unwind,” however, unwind never happened; it was a matter of momentum and acceleration. I remember when I first had my driver’s license, I would feel uncomfortable (it sounds weird even as I type it) remaining at a constant speed or decelerating. As a result, I ended up with my fair share of speeding tickets. Somehow, I managed to get that same feeling when I was drinking. If I didn’t keep accelerating into my intoxication, I felt uncomfortable in my own body.
It’s powerful, I mean, how do you deal with that?



     Here I am again, out drinking with some buddies who came out to visit me when I was in Las Vegas. Notice I’m basically in the same pose? The drink is in my hand, the horns are out, I’m as brutal and black metal as they get. At least that’s what I wanted people to think.

     I had moved out to Las Vegas after some pretty significant life changes. But most of my habits kept up with me. There was even a brief period of cigarette smoking. Whenever life changes in a significant way there’s this natural tendency to figure out where everything first again – your life is a well-manicured block house and when it violently tumbles down around you there’s inevitably an emptiness that we try to fill.

     Toward the end of my Vegas life, I was starting to feel a sense of normalcy. I was working (a lot), I was gigging (a lot), and I was writing (you guessed it, a lot). I never drank and worked, though I often drank because of work as so many of us do. I never drank and gigged, though I often would drink heavily afterwards. And I never drank and wrote; or at least I realize very early on that my brain couldn’t function on the level needed to make coherent thoughts appear coherent on paper while alcohol was involved. This was my first clue.

     I had started writing a screenplay with David Stewart (you can check out his works here) in 2010. It was really the first project I’d ever worked on that was mine. I mean, the first project that I felt like was my baby. I don’t think it was his first but I know he feels the same. I could not, for the life of me, reason out plot points with a single drop of alcohol in my body. Couldn’t happen, wouldn’t happen, didn’t happen. I would, inevitably, drink after I wrote. Suddenly a clear picture of my life is forming in my head. I rushed through the things that other people thought were important to reward myself with a drink.

     Here in lies a problem: I’d spent my entire adult life drinking. It dawned on me that I didn’t know how to socialize without drinking. That’s a problem. Seriously. If you’ve ever felt that way, consider what’s happening.



     But I didn’t know what to do. It was socialize with alcohol, or; recluse in my room and be creative. This was me at the Tao night club. A bunch of us had gone out that night. We had a lot of fun in the Vegas party scene but honestly, even though I look relatively like myself in this picture, I didn’t feel like myself.

     It took another life changing event: I left Vegas. David and I were musicians to the bone but our passion was storytelling and we figured we didn’t need to be away from our families anymore to do that. So we left the Las Vegas sun, and my block building came tumbling down again but this time writing was at the center. That April, 2013, David and I wrote a complete screenplay, a page one rewrite (basically a complete screenplay) and a complete teleplay. In thirty days, we had completed three MAJOR works. It was easily the most productive I’ve ever been in my life but still, at night I drank.

     I drank now because I had no social life. I had my family nearby but alcohol is a part of our culture. When you’re trying to rebuild, you tend to model your life after the people around you. So I drank. I drank with high school friends; I drank with family; I drank watching the Giants play and frankly; I drank alone.

     Until one night.

     Seriously, Mae Rabe God bless you.

     I drank one too many.

     Then I drank three or four too many.

     Then I was dropped off at my house.

     Puking my brains out.

     This was early May: May 9th to be exactly. I woke up at the time that David and I always scheduled to write. Except I was going to pay my respects to the Porcelain gods. I puked all morning, then slept on the cold tile floor. By 10am, David had called me more than a couple times to make sure I was okay. I couldn’t answer. My head was inside a church bell and nothing would make the ringing stop. If you drink the way I did, you’ve had a hangover like this before. I’m sure I text messaged him at some point to let him know I was alive but something broke inside me that day: it was the first day in more than a month that I wasn’t going to be able to write. It made me say the magic words:

I’m never drinking again and this time, I mean it!

     It took me two days after that to decide I wanted another drink but there was an oath I’d made to myself. I could do anything for five days, after that I would make decisions based on how I felt. At the five day mark, I realized that It had been ten years since I’d gone a full seven days without a drink. At seven days the animal in me would have killed for a drink. I wanted one so bad I could barely think straight. It was then I made another decision:

     I can let this compulsion control me or I can control it.

It took me about two weeks before I social occasion coaxed me out of sober hiding. A dear friend had just graduated from his nursing program and even though I knew there would be alcohol there I chose to go. You can’t live your life in a bubble, protecting yourself (or anyone else) from undesirable things. You have to make choices. I chose to be with my friends.

     I was reserved, but glad to see them. They of course had questions and I did my best to answer them. How did I feel? Was I craving it? Do you think you’ll ever drink again? Good, yes, I don’t know. I was much more reserved that night then I would have been with a drink in my hand but I was talking about things that were important to me. I talked about my writing; I felt like I actually connected with people I hadn’t seen in years; I felt… like me. And that’s an interesting realization – it wasn’t until a couple months later, at a family gathering, that my Aunt Sherrie said to me, “Matt, you act like YOU. The way you used to act. You have the sense of humor I remember you having. You stopped drinking but you’re still so funny!” She was right. Some interesting things had happened.



     I met someone. The most important someone I’d ever met.

     I came out of my shell. In doing so, I became comfortable with who I was, who I’d been running from. We all carry baggage that we begin accumulating from the moment we’re born and alcohol had been how a barred it. Without the alcohol I actually had to acknowledge the things I had been carrying around all these years. Alcohol had helped me change my personality to suit the people I was around; it made me a social chameleon. Because inevitably as we go out into the world from the safety of our parents households, it’s natural to thirst for the approval of people around you; to strive for acceptance in your new environment. In doing so, for me, I had eradicated all the unique, special things about myself.

     I wanted so badly to be a performer – to be an extrovert, really – that I used alcohol to stifle the introvert that I truly am. Sober, I had a clear channel to my feelings and the things that were important to me. I remember exactly how that smile felt, when I brought Cinderella’s slippers back to her.



     Then I began giving private concerts. I did it because I still loved playing; even if the piece wasn’t being performed flawlessly. I’d make up the words, and sing mumbo-jumbo about the room or how Jaida (my little dog) was going to eat me if I ran out of her dog food during the Zombocolyps. I played and a sang because it was fun – I hadn’t done that in years.

     Something else happened - I wasn’t hiding myself in pictures anymore.



     I could let the “goof” out to play. I was just me, unabashed. I loved myself, finally, and someone else loved me in return. This was taken about six months after my last drink. She put a bow on her head and I did the same. At this point, we’d both realized what a gift the other was. If I hadn’t taken the time to shed myself of the garbage that was clogging my life, that alcohol was blinding me to, I would never have been the person I needed to be to attract the person I needed to be with.

     Not everything is amazing and perfect on the road through sobriety. There have been a number of times when the guilt of something I’ve done is nearly overwhelming and I’ve got to pick up the phone and do my best to make amends for it. I know there have been more than one occasion where David got a phone call or text from me with an apology for something that happened long past, but those are exactly the things you can’t let fester. If they fester in you, they fester in the person you affected. I was lucky enough to be received with open arms and forgiving hearts. There’s a reason reparations is a part of Alcoholics Anonymous – it’s powerful and cleansing. It’s not just about gaining another person’s forgiveness, it’s about being able to forgive yourself. If I'd not had that, I may have never been able to stand up and give the best man's speech at my best friends wedding.

     My Dad said something to me today that made me smile. “You know, Son? You’ve had a pretty good year.” I looked back at him with a wry smile and said, “I think you’re right, Dad.” Because after a year of sobriety some pretty amazing things happened. I’d put myself on a road to a career that would give me a future: teaching. I’d started writing with unbridled passion, committing to something that will fulfill me until my dying day. I had rekindled my lifelong love of music, bringing it into perspective in my life where it serves me, rather than me serving it. I’d moved back home to be with my loving, ever-supportive family who’s advice and nurturing have made my entire life possible. And finally, if not most importantly, to which the point of this blog would have fallen incredibly short, I met the absolute love of my life.



     She’s a woman who by her very nature compliments my being, I mine hers. A woman who not only knows who Group-X is, will sing the Mario Twins with me in the car as we’re driving off to eat ice cream and then watch Bob’s Burger. A woman who’s unmistakable love for her family, nieces and nephews tells me that she’s going to make an amazing mother. A woman who knows me, and the things that make me happy, enough to give me those moments of solitude when I feel like I might pop from the pressures of everyday life.

     She’s a woman who, while bursting with laughter after she and my mother sang Beatles songs in our kitchen at the top of their lungs, turned to me and said, “You realize your dating your mother.”

     You know, I sure could do a hell of a lot worse.

     So while you’re sitting at home reading this, she and I are out celebrating one year as a couple. And so, Elizabeth. I’ll have already asked you by the time you read this, but for God’s sake:

Will you marry me?

The Tears of Prometheus: Happy Birthday Matt Wellman

The Tears of Prometheus: Happy Birthday Matt Wellman:



I wanted to share this amazing birthday gift my best friend made for me.  Thanks buddy!

Education, Mindset, Growth and Value

I am, among other things, a guitar teacher.  I’ve taught privately for ten years and I decided, this year, I would go get my credential and start making the big bucks (sarcasm?) in public education.  Class room teaching brings its own set of challenges.  With the onset of common core among our schools, staff development time is at a premium.  With this new prescribed teaching methodology there comes new ideas for class management and structure.  The problem is the questions being asked are how to teach and not what to teach.  The how is still very important, but the what is the fundamental; as with any structure, if the foundation is faulty the pillars holding the roof will, eventually, falter.

Common Core has a lot of buzz phrases (as with all educational models) that really excited me.  I work primarily at a junior high school - I also teach at a high school, all my meetings however take place with the junior high staff – and when I began to hear things like: argument instead of persuasion; academic discourse; Socratic seminar, I was excited.  The core teachers were/are scared about the change in style however I felt their excitement at the prospect of teaching children to use that most valued of tools of reason and logic: evidence!

This is where it gets fuzzy. The difference in argumentative and persuasive writing, as I’m told by the language arts teachers, is argument is derived from evidence whereas persuasion from opinion.   You see, in order for students to use evidence in the formation of an argument, they must be able to identify what evidence is.  Additionally, the students must be able to differentiate evidence from opinion.  Yet here’s the problem; in teaching “academic discourse” the school system has begun to train students using key phrases to communicate, all of which are opinion driven and not evidence driven:

·         While some people believe… I think…

·         The way I see it…

·         In my opinion…

“Make sure you cite the text to support your response.”  A text book is a secondary source. A text is always the synthesis of data into a conclusion from a 3^rd party and therefore invalid if trying to teach children to synthesis.  The work has already been done for them!  A valid source contains three things: a hypothesis, a method for testing said hypothesis, and the resulting data from exhaustive testing.

We’ve already a faulty foundation to our initial goal: to teach argument instead of persuasion because the very method of conveyance is secondary. Factual or not, we have side stepped the impetus of the exercise which is to teach students to prove an argument.  That is impossible using someone else’s synthesis of data.  We are, in fact, teaching students a logical fallacy: that truth comes from authority. 

In order to create academic discourse, by definition there must be differing opinions.  Using our flawed method today, students are taught to agree or disagree with someone else’s synthesis of data rather than amongst themselves, which is where the richest learning occurs.  Students are unable to develop truly original conclusions because they are not given the proper tools (data) to do so.

Finally, the purpose of the Socratic method is to arrive at a single conclusion or truth among a group.  A group which has, as individuals; examined the data, judged its legitimacy and drawn a conclusion.  The method of arriving at individual conclusions is challenged amongst the group until only one conclusion remains.

A great example of how a class may approach these three steps would be teaching the mathematical constant π.  Pie – π – is calculated as the circumference of a circle divided by its diameter. Regardless of its size, π is always the same.  Here’s a fantastic video and a fun experiment to measure and find π:

And another great example of how to measure the approximate circumference of a circle:

http://www.mathsisfun.com/activity/pi-approximation.html

When done as a class, each student will come up with a slightly different number.  The teacher could average all the numbers, or simply ask the students to round to the nearest hundredth decimal place.  When the students realize that, amongst all off them 3.14 is the most prevalent (or ideally only) answer the students will ask the question themselves.  Now ask them to find the circumference of a circle, using the diameter and this new number they have discovered.  After repeated correct examples, ask the question, “Would this work for all circles?” Let the class come to their own conclusion based on the evidence they themselves have uncovered.  Once they arrive at their conclusion you let them in on the secret: they have discovered for themselves the universal constant π.

As I’m almost certain you didn’t come here looking for a math lesson, and God knows I’m not qualified to give one, let me get back to the topic at hand: the education of our children. The above lesson does many things; it teaches problem solving, communication, repetition of a concept, it brings legitimate academic discourse with the opportunity to employ the Socratic method.  This is one of thousands of examples that could be given, it’s just the one I’m immediately familiar with.

Now, why don’t we teach this way?  As I mentioned previously staff development time is at a premium in my school district – there’s a lot of it.  We all, teachers and administrators, bear through it because we truly do want to serve our students to the best of our ability.  Today our staff attended two separate educational seminars.  A seminar on Mindset by Carol Dweck surprised and inspired me to write this today.  It wasn’t the book itself - I haven’t read it.  The topic of conversation gave me pause to reflect heavily on what I have done as an educator, both privately and in a class room; what effect we as a community of educators are doing and creating in society; how students adapt to our teaching methodology as teachers and parents.

The conflict begins in our visions.  Visions of humanity, of society, of ourselves.  It is the constrained verses the unconstrained vision of man. I exist with the constrained view of man which is to say, man is fixed: man can grow and learn and adapt but man is not perfectible.  I have witnessed the strengths and weaknesses of my individuality.  The unconstrained vision sees man as perfectible.  That there is one path that, should we find it, be the perfect road to lead man to absolute equality in skill and reward. The unconstrained vision views equality as a value of skill.  If skill is equal, opportunity can be chosen.  The constrained vision views equality as a value of opportunity.  That if opportunity is equal, skills can be chosen.

I’ll come back to this before I wonder too far off topic.

Myself and my generation learned from a very young age that if we weren’t immediately good at something we should avoid it.  Why is that?  Because of the perceived need to create self-esteem among the youth our parents and teachers, for the most part, told us how great we were.  Then the moment came when we weren’t immediately good at something.  What did we do then? The praise wasn’t there so we went back to doing things we were praised for.  It’s simple behavior conditioning, but we learned that self-esteem and self-worth are external – that people can give and take these away from us.  Nothing could be further from the truth. 

I didn’t have a legitimate sense of self-worth until I was 27 years old.

Mindset calls what I had, and what many of our students have, a fixed mindset.  Defined as having fixed ability or intelligence.  If the individual cannot do it perfectly they would rather not do it.  Can you see how the previous example could lead us down this road?  The inverse is called a growth mindset: believing that your intelligence grows as well as your skill and ability.  A growth mindset student takes criticism as an opportunity to learn whereas a fixed mindset student would take it as insulting.

Here’s a contradictory statement: failure is the leading cause of success. 

What?

It’s true! What is the thing all success stories have in common? They were willing to fail.  Michael Jordan says it best:

Students with a fixed mindset are unwilling to fail.  If it’s not perfect it’s not worth doing.  I find myself in this mindset all the time, I’m a perfectionist and I’ve got to get over that.  If I could go back in time and give my younger self one piece of advice it would be this: take every opportunity; value the failures more that the successes. 

How can I provide this opportunity for my students? In the manner in which I have already discussed.  Using what common core espouses can create these opportunities for students to fail, rise up, and succeed.

How can we help students keep a growth mindset all the time? By helping them internalize their self-worth – not continuing to externalize it.  As a music teacher, writer and general creative thinker the best way to do this is through the teaching of aesthetics.  Aesthetics is the acknowledgement of beauty: visually, aurally or spatially.  More importantly, it is the value of affect.  It is an opinion that students derive from within and communicate to their peers.  As teachers we foster that through recognition and not through praise.  Through aesthetics students can learn what, why and how they value things and people, and how they value themselves aesthetically (not through appearance but through achievement).

The national community of educators has an unconstrained vision of man. That if we can give each student equal skills they will be equal, but we see the failing of that vision every day in the trenches of the classroom.  Not every student learns at the same pace.  Some students are completely uninterested in topics, yet we would hold them to these standards because we believe we are making them equal.  Yet, if a student is gifted in music and poor in geometry do we foster his gifts?  No we punish him for his failings.  Were the tables turned, would you punish the student, in love with mathematics, for a failing grade in music?  Were that the case, how many Albert Einstine’s have we made into mechanics for not fostering their passions? How many Bill Gates have been put in middle management?  I believe Steve Vai says it best when talking about success in the music industry.  “I cultivate my strengths and avoid my weaknesses.”

It is the constrained vision of man that allows us to value what is innate.  We are equal in our opportunity to achieve.  Each of us was given life and a will to live it as we choose, and while skills can lead to opportunity ultimately it is the value of ourselves that pushes us to acquire a higher set of skills.  With a growth mindset students are capable whatever they can imagine.  My challenge to all educators is to learn to give the student room to imagine.  Our jobs are made much easier if we simply allow them to dream.

Give your Allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the flag.  Rarely do words make me sick, but these really do it for me. It conjures up images of grade school standing next to my desk pledging my life to a concept I couldn't possibly understand at the time.  Little did I realize that, as a part of my male privilege, once I turned eighteen I'd be forced to register for selective services. Lucky for me, we have a completely voluntary military and I didn't go through what my fathers generation did. It is, however, a constant reminder that my country believes it owns me.  I was lucky - all of my friends returned home from war, though not all of them whole mentally or physically I had the privilege of watching them sort through the dogma they were fed trying to accept the things they did.  To the republic, for which it stands - we are individuals. We are owned by no one but ourselves. I have a higher claim to myself, my property, and my productivity than any other individual or government.

I grew up in a country that was free. Where men in far away places fought so that I wouldn't have to. So that I could live a good, happy life free of tyranny. As a man I see it was all a lie. The heroes of my youth went off to war, fighting for American "Interests" abroad. Many have died throughout the history of the United States, but it has been so long since we actually fought to defend ourselves, for any realistic definition of the word justice. Even World War II, we engaged in the European front after being dragged into a confrontation in the Pacific. At every turn, The United States as chosen to escalate violence. This is not the banner of a free society, this is the banner of the war machine.

As I sit here I listen to men lamenting the loss of the Pledge in schools. Veterans who were duped by their country into believing they were protecting their families at home by killing people abroad; I can only think of Francis Bellamy, a Christian socialist who wrote the original pledge in 1892. A national pledge is, by its very nature, a collectivist/socialist gesture.  From Wikipedia:

In 1940 the Supreme Court, in Minersville School District v. Gobitis, ruled that students in public schools, including the respondents in that case, Jehovah's Witnesses who considered the flag salute to be idolatry, could be compelled to swear the Pledge. A rash of mob violence and intimidation against Jehovah's Witnesses followed the ruling. In 1943 the Supreme Court reversed its decision, ruling in West Virginia State Board of Education v. Barnette that public school students are not required to say the Pledge, concluding that "compulsory unification of opinion" violates the First Amendment. In a later opinion, the Court held that students are also not required to stand for the Pledge.

Our government has even legally recognized the nature of a pledge in a free society, yet the masses continue to bicker over it.  How ironic that the American ideal of individuality, accountability, and keeping the fruit of ones own labor could be symbolically destroyed with a fifteen second pledge.

I am a free man. I pledge allegiance to myself and to my family. I am owned by no arbitrary political border. I will conduct voluntary transactions with any, act morally following the non-aggression principal. I will exist as a true patriot, to raise my voice and shout in dissent to tyranny so that myself and my fellow man may live unobstructed for a time.  The State will claim our lives until you relinquish your permission.

Do What You Must

Do what you must, so you can do what you must! This thought occurred to me today, as I sat baffled by the shear number of tasks on my plate.  Writing projects, music to write, students to teach, practice to be do. I couldn't get started though, the thing that most needed to be done was the thing I least wanted to do.  It was a job, a job I saw as a block from the things that were more in tune with what my soul urged me to do, and that really bothered me.

Now I define job as something that puts food on my table.  Work gets done once the job is done, once I know I’ll be fed I can get to the business of being creative.  Being creative is my love and I define it as my work.

I think like most people I can become fixated on a task. Today’s fixation was how much I didn't want to do this job.  “I’m too excited about my work to focus on some job!”  I wouldn't allow myself to do the work until I had completed the job.  Then the words of a very wise man, my Father, came to me: “Do what you have to do first, then you can play all you want.”  I used to always take this as, “Get your damn homework done, THEN you can play video games,” in fact he may have said those exact words at some point! Today though, I learned a different lesson from them.

I had to ask myself: Is this job furthering my work in any way?  The answer was a resounding yes, it’s putting food on my table!  So I got off my ass, and got to work on the job.  You know what happened? The act of doing freed me. Once I was satisfied with the job, my work began to flow easily. In doing what I must (job) to meet my body’s needs (food, shelter, etc) I was able to do what I must (work) which is my life’s work of creation.

If the job doesn't further your work, drop it! I’m not saying everyone quit your jobs and move to an artist commune, or wherever you feel your life’s work would best be done, just remember the purpose of the job.  Don’t let your job define you, let your work define you!