Cocktail hour reads.

Good evening, friends. And a happy Mother's Day to all the mother's out there. I just got back from seeing my mother, up in the wilds of North Jersey. The drive back to Jersey City -- with my lady beside me and big band music on the stereo -- couldn't have been better. Now's the perfect time to pour yourself your favorite adult beverage of choosing and stimulate your gray matter. Here are some interesting things I found this week:

• A photographer traces his grandfather's journey across Europe during WWII when he discovers a box full of his undeveloped film. (Huckberry Journal).
• The pine snake is common throughout the southeast. They tend to stay south of the North Carolina border -- except for the population that lives in the sandy soil of the New Jersey Pine Barrens. (NJ.com)
• I got my first induction to Harold Bloom my junior year of high school with his How to Read and Why, which I still think is one of the greatest titles of all time. I didn't know he was still alive, let alone still writing. And, apparently, he's a fan of stuffed animals. (New York Magazine).

Over the top.

Do you know where the phrase, "over the top" comes from? It's one of those well-worn cliches that's lost its original meeting. And it's original meaning is horrific. 

I've been listening to Dan Carlin's Hardcore History podcast. His series on WWI, Blueprint for Armageddon, is a must-listen.The Great War is overshadowed by its younger brother. And that's most likely because it was our grandfathers and and grandmothers who fought it, not some long-dead relatives. I contextualize it like this: My grandfather died in his late eighties, and his uncle fought in the First World War. 

There's a trunk in the basement of my grandparents' house that holds the family relics and talismans. I'm told that great-great uncle's gas mask was once in there, but one of my uncles, or possibly my father, misplaced it. What's still in there is what looks like a gigantic New Year's Eve noisemaker -- the kind with the paddle that makes a clacking sound when you twirl it. This one is a lot like ours.

Imagine yourself, ankle deep in trench filth, and one of your buddies comes tearing along at a run, suited up like a mud-caked astronaut, twirling that sinister party favor above his head, his shouts of Gas! Gas! muffled by the folds of his mask. You scramble for your own as the deadly, low, yellow fog starts to sweep over and spill into the trench. You watch in horror as some of your friends are too slow to get their masks on, clutching at their throats, tearing at their clothes.

I'm told my uncle was too slow, once. I like to think he wasn't again.

That was one of the horrors of The Great War. The other was going over the top. A whistle would blow, and it was your turn to leave the trench and charge through the maelstrom of flying shrapnel, toxic gas, exploding shells and hot lead. Death was all but guaranteed. 

I'm struck by this phrase, over the top, because it's taken on a meaning that diminishes and dilutes its original. Imagine your heart sinking, falling down into the pit of your stomach when you heard the order. And it falling even further when the whistle blew, and it was your turn to go.

And they went. Our great-great grandfathers and uncles went by the thousands. What compelled them to go? It's not my intention to answer. I don't think anyone who hadn't endured the horror them self ever could. But it does make you wonder what you're capable of, doesn't it?

Three demons | Rationalization.

Of my three  demons, Rationalization is the most insidious. He seems weak. He's passive-aggressive. He's never done a squat in his life. He hides behind the guise of duty and responsibility, and he sends me on a guilt trip when I don't follow through on something he perceives as important. Rationalization is persuasive. Rationalization has convinced me to stifle dreams, or cajoled me to keep suffering out of a misplaced sense of obligation.

Rationalization sent me to college as a history major so I would be on a good trajectory to get the law degree I would need to support an upper-middle-class lifestyle and a big SUV. He made me think that years from now, I'd look back on that heady period of creative impulse that preceded my adulthood fondly, and that would suffice.

Rationalization couldn't keep that impulse quiet. He said to me, "OK. You can be a journalist. Journalists get to be creative and they get to collect a somewhat regular paycheck. That's respectable." And then when I landed on a news desk, Rationalization piped up again. "It's alright. You're not writing. But at least you're getting paid to play with words."

And that was fine for a while -- for a few years, really. But the impulse never went away. It just got worse. So I stopped letting Rationalization win. I stopped compromising so much, both in my personal life and my work life. And I took the drive I have in my job and applied it to my calling. 

I don't know if it will pay off. But that's not the point. The point is to stop rationalizing my life away. And now, Rationalization doesn't know what to do.

Fuel.

“Music has always been a matter of Energy to me, a question of Fuel. Sentimental people call it Inspiration, but what they really mean is Fuel. I have always needed Fuel. I am a serious consumer. On some nights I still believe that a car with the gas needle on empty can run about fifty more miles if you have the right music very loud on the radio.”

— Hunter S. Thompson

I was a musician before I ever wrote. Like most kids, I thought I had a fantastic voice, and I spent a great deal of time singing to myself, or no one in particular, often improvising lyrics to well-worn melodies. To this day, I catch myself humming, inventing melodies in my head for no one else's benefit (most likely to others' annoyance).

What I always loved about English, and languages in general, is its musical quality. Each word is like a song by itself. And that's why, when I tutored writing for beer money in college, I always had my students read their prose out loud, something I do to this day. If you select the wrong word, it's going to spit in your ear like a sour note. 

I envy poets for their ability to meld the mediums of music and the printed word. Poetry is the closest a writer can get to music on a page.

I'm no musician. I'm definitely no poet. But music, and the musicality of language, drives me like it did Dr. Thompson. There's a reason I keep a guitar parked beside my desk. If I find myself hunting and pecking at the keyboard, searching for the  right word, sometimes, on the right kind of night, I can pick up my G chord machine, and the words will find me.

Intentions | Focus.

I went for a hike Sunday with my fiance, one of my good friends and his girlfriend. Over the course of the hike, and the few hours we spent taking in the vistas above Greenwood Lake, I managed to consume nine fermented grain sodas, jump into a frigid pond, and build a suitable campfire. In short, the day was perfect.

It had also been some time since I'd hiked over rough terrain with a loaded pack. In this case, my pack held about 15 pounds of beer and some water, in addition to my everyday carry. I had forgotten just how easy it is to lose your footing, slip, and twist an ankle. Or worse. Especially when you eschew hiking boots for Chuck Taylors like I do.

My tendency was -- as it's always been -- to want to look up and take in the scenery while on the move, but as someone who can't walk and chew gum, that poses a problem. I had to keep reminding myself to mind the trail and feel the variations in the ground. Each footfall was a call to attention, like a focal point, or the thought of only the breath during yoga or mediation.

Eventually, there was little in my head but left foot up, left foot down, right foot up, right foot down, repeat. And so I found my intention for this week: focus. I may have just been walking through the woods, but I was doing some of my best walking through the woods.