Paul Rowley Breen

“en merry old escondido, ca.” was the way Paul always ended his return address. He was a lad, and I say that because in his own mind he was the young man at the beach or concerts or his parents' house, a lad who still affected the happy-go-lucky wonder of the baby of the family. I was slow to learn of the burden he had been given and the stunting of emotional development so typical of the onset of mental illness. He, on the other hand, seldom burdened us with the fears he had to cope with.

This time he had, these last forty years, to replay all his memories and emotions.....which he often did as a gift to us in his famous letters. Yes, famous, because everyone in my family knew and discussed them. He allowed us to play like otters in his stream of consciousness, and it was like a waterpark, you went up and over and under in all directions, emerging stimulated and refreshed. You knew he had pain and fear and darkness but you never fetched up on their jagged edges.

It was that sweetness, that ability to yield to others on some level beyond my understanding, that made him so loved, a favorite even. By asking so little, he gave us so much. His hallmark was a certain politeness, a deference that demanded nothing in return. But this self-effacement didn't make him disappear; it made you want to embrace him. In the way he elicited caring I came to see him as a kindred spirit to my mother. He also taught my father, a man of unyielding standards, to accept imperfections in his sons and daughters, and perhaps himself.

Not that he couldn't be frustrating, stubborn, or contrary; one of the family as they say. It seemed like every year you had to find a new place to get a haircut, or deal with “they don't want me going in there anymore” or “they were looking at me funny on that bus”- a thousand instances of irrationality that you had to ignore or found exasperating if you were trying to accomplish some goal.

We all feared he would fall apart without my parents' emotional support, but in their absence he surprised us all by becoming more self'-reliant- giving up smoking, eating more regularly, expressing his needs more openly. It's a shame that these good habits were unable to make up for the damage already done.

Among the many identities he professed was one of a body surfin' boy, a role others of us can relate to. It gives me an analogy to leave you with.

At some point you're tired or tired of the activity or hungry or cold, the waves don't have any shape, they're too small or too big, you can't catch anything or you're getting rolled up, your ass kicked- for whatever reason or excuse, the next wave you catch is going to be last one of the day. You're going to stay in the chop and ride it all the way into shore, if you're lucky, until the foam won't support your weight or your legs drag in the sand. And that's just what he did , folks. He reached the other shore.

So lay down your burden, boy, and walk tall. May your return address always be merry. In your own words, after recounting a box-banging/bashing session with dad

“it wuz disconcerting

it wuz fun”

BALLPOINT PEN WIZARD

ever since I was a young man

I carried a small note pad

all across the northern County

Escondido to Carlsbad

I documented all my states

they went from grace to sin

that chain smokin' coffee drinkin' fiend

sure wields a mean ball point pen

I stay back close within the shade

whenever the sun is hot

I bask out like a lizard

the days that it is not

writing epistles to believers

in the God that lives within

that body surfin beach musician

sure wields a mean ball point pen

how do you think he does it?

What makes him so good?

You see I've got a method

just like old Kerouac

I'll do all the ramblin

just sit and kick right back

I'm on a stream so merrily

the dream may never end

that beatnik prankster choirboy

sure wields a mean ball point pen

give a thousand chimps typewriters

and all you'll get is squat

but a spider monkey with a notepad

and a ballpoint pen to jot

can weave a yarn indeed a spell

that lets the sunshine in

that box thumpin Sir Coconut

sure wields a mean ball point pen

BEHIND BLUE EYES

no one knows what it's like

to be the sad man

to be the bad man

behind blue eyes

no one knows what it's like

to be so fearful

of things I cannot prove

so don't argue

but my dreams are not so empty

tho they all stem from the past

I turn them over on my pages

that way I make my present last

if you see me with my hood up

even tho the weather's hot

don't treat me like I'm danger

believe me, ma'am, I'm not

when I'm riding on the bus don't

give me fearful sidelong looks

I may not make eye contact

but I've got it down in my book

no one knows what it's like......

touch me.....feel me.....see me.....heal me

burn me.....enurn me......inter me......I'm on my journey