My grandfather gave me a lot over the course of my life. If I listed out everything he gave me, we’d be here till Sunday. He gave a lot to many of people in this room too. He gave his love in teaching, in stories, in protection, and in gifts big and small. And he always made a point to give whatever it was abundantly, equally and fairly so that everyone felt loved and no one felt less loved than anyone else. He wasn’t really big on talking about those feelings, but when he spoke, his words clearly showed his love for us. And when he spoke in Italian, at least in front of me, his words often showed his deep frustration with some “stunat” he had to deal with. Even if that “stunat “ happened to be me.

Hey, it happened. I did wrong sometimes in his eyes, and he told me when I did. That was something we could all count on: if you did wrong to him, to someone he loved, or even just in front of him, you knew it. To Poppi, there was a line drawn through every action, every moment of life, that separated right from wrong, good from bad; a thick, solid line with white on one side, black on the other, and not a hint of gray in-between. That line, and the capacity to love in spite of it, is the one gift he gave me that I carry with me every day; even if I don’t have the same ability to point it out to people quite as much as he did.

Most of us waver, we bend, we flip-flop, we let things pass no matter how much we disagree with them. Or we think to ourselves, “that’s not what I would do, but that’s ok too” and we wave on the offense. Or worse, we do something we don’t believe is right just because others do it. But not my grandfather. He knew what was right and good, and he acted accordingly. If he bowed his head, looked at you with the good eye, and pointed to you with whatever was handy, you knew you crossed the line. And even if you didn’t know why, you’d better figure it out quick and cross back over. And it didn’t matter if you didn’t agree. It didn’t matter if you, your family, your friends, your teacher, your preacher, the pope and the president didn’t agree with him, he knew what was right, and that’s all that mattered. Simply, he had a strength of his convictions that I have never seen equaled, and that I still aspire to.

But even if you did wrong by him, he still loved you. Even when he reached the limits of his English while telling you, and had to resort to Italian slang and curses you didn’t and still don’t understand, you understood this: You did something wrong, and he still loved you. And just to make sure you knew, he said it plainly and clearly at the end, “I love you”. Because both were equally important for you to know.

He lived, as much as possible, on the right and good side of his line, and he believed everyone should do the same. Maybe that’s why he was so hard on people AND why it was so important for him to give everything: love, guidance, words and gifts abundantly, equally and fairly. Doing both is the only right and good way to live if you want to pass on to others the right and good way to live. And pass it on, he did. I know his life has guided mine pretty well so far.

It’s funny though… he always told us what he knew to be right, and every time we left him, he always told us to “be good”. But he never REALLY cleared up what he meant by that. He always said there were two types of good, and I STILL can’t figure it out: Am I “No Good” or “Good For Nothing”?

Either way, I’m sure someday he’ll tell us ALL how he thinks we did with that one, and also that he still loves us no matter what.

Where These Words End
- S.M. Lein

Where these words end, everything begins.

Poets, we write, we share,
and the best get praised.
With our words, laughs and tears and cheers are raised.
For a moment, our shoes are filled and a mile is walked.
A new world opened and explored while we talked.
But where these words end,
that world begins.

I could tell you of the Love I feel
or the wounds I heal
or the pain I take when tears are at stake.

I could tell you of the space I traveled
or the emotions unraveled
or the joy songs bring to me when I sing.

I could tell you how it feels when my soul collides
with another’s soul deep inside.
Or better, when it mingles.
And oh… how it tingles.

And after, I could tell you of all of my pain
and of going insane
because I just can’t explain
what’s inside my brain,
or my heart and my soul
and my fingers and toes,
and deep down inside where the energy grows.

I could talk day and night ‘til my last dying breath
and you still would not know of its depth or its breadth.
Because where these words end is where I begin.

I say these things not of ego or self.
I would gladly put my words on a shelf
to hear someone else tell, complete and clear
of his love and his lust, of his hope and his fear,
of his pain and his pleasure, and the difference therein.
Or of where “Love” stops and “in Love” begins.

See, it’s not that my feelings are more deep or more strong.
It’s not that my words are right and your words are wrong.
It’s only that some things just can’t be explained.
Like how the air smelled different before it rained.
Like knowing some place that you’ve never been,
or knowing some person that you’ve never seen.
Or how I can warm you up from so far away.
Or simply how I Love you more than words can say.
See, where these words end, infinity begins.

Words can really only say so much.
They can only go so far.
Not like a touch.
Oh the touch…
warm skin on skin.
A thousand words of Love found within.
Or of hatred and anger if the touch is right,
if that touch be a fist in the midst of a fight.
Or of more fear than a scream could ever say,
if that touch be a shove pushing Love away.

But even more than a touch is simply a look.
Held in a glance are the words of a book,
or a volume of texts, a fountain of feeling,
worth more than anything else that’s worth stealing.
They say that eyes are windows to the soul,
in them we see each other naked and whole.
No shields to protect, no walls to defend,
no words to lie, no words to pretend.
And where these words end,
the Truth begins.

See, these are just words, just sounds that you heard.
Don’t listen too closely to each passing verb.
Don’t believe all I tell you, or all that you read.
My thoughts and my words are really just seeds.
I give them to you to make them your own
with hopes that you will soon reap what I’ve sewn,
and that this chance to speak has all but been blown,
that these words that I’ve spoken will all go unknown.
Because where these words end,
everything begins.

Copyright 2009 – S.M. Lein

I got to see George Carlin live when I was in Vegas on my honeymoon. This was about seven years ago, and about 18 years after I started watching Carlin on TV. It’s 18 years filled with telling people that “Air Marshall Carlin told him to go fuck himself” and wandering where all my Stuff went. 18 years filled with wondering why we can watch people on TV talking about fucking but not hear them say the word “fuck”. That bit even had me writing a column about profanity and being told by the FCC that they don’t really have a list they go off of. Right.

Thanks George. For every laugh you’ve ever given us. Every laugh, every cause to think, every reason to be outraged at what our world has become, and every moment of greatness and inspiration. You will be missed. And we are far worse off without you.