Thomas R. Ruffin

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS, INTRODUCTION, DEDICATION AND RAMBLINGS

     It certainly does not go without saying … a mighty big thank you to every one involved in the process of making this book possible. And it is indeed a process. There are a few people I’d like to recognize. Foremost, my familial unit … to include parents, siblings, cousins, in-laws, aunts and uncles and the like. They have not and will not fail me; I know this to be true.

     I hold a special place in my heart for educators. As fine a group of people as any other to ever walk the face of the planet. We all owe a great deal of gratitude to our teachers, especially the ones who guided us through our formative years. I regret that I am not able to recall them all by name. I do remember a few who positively influenced me as I became a young man.

      Mr. Canzoneri, who challenged me to challenge and by persistent method caused me to think. He wore sandals and tiny, circular lensed spectacles. He sported close-cropped salt and pepper hair. I didn’t know what to think of him then… now I do.

Anne Calvert (the Sarge), who taught me that establishment has its place and some folks work well within it … just not I.

     Ms. Farrar, who seemingly will never get old. To this day her beauty has not abandoned her. I’m certain she taught me valuable lessons in reading, writing, arithmetic and such but all I can recall is her demonstration to my 2nd grade class of the proper brushing of our teeth. It’s a damn wonder I didn’t become a dentist.

     Ms. O’bryan, who was just plain cool and when I saw her later she always said she remembered me. Whether she did or not she was quite encouraging of my paper on James Joyce.

     Ms. Mittie Kay Smith … I cannot begin to speak of the values and ethical foundations that she instilled in me. Although I’ve managed to violate just about every moral code ever imparted to me … I can still hear her in my minds ear in the role of the proverbial good angel on my shoulder.

     Ms. Jeff, who always had a warm smile for me (though it may have been born of sympathy … nevertheless, I liked it). She taught math and although she might as well have been speaking Mandarin Chinese … I liked being in her class.

     Countless others who, day in and day out, endeavored to teach life lessons … in my opinion, the highest calling. Because of them I am me. Not particularly intelligent but that’s no reflection on them. I’m as smart as I want to be.

     To my brothers and sisters in law enforcement. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it a thousand or more times … there is no group of people quite like cops. Everyone, in some way, is intrigued by the cop persona. If not, why then are there so many television shows, movies and books about them? The answer is quite simple … cops are seen as heroes (in most cases). They rescue the damsels in distress, they put bad guys in jail, they make the world a safer place to play and they make for interesting characters. The general population expects cops to be beyond reproach and stalwart in disposition, yet, to the surprise of many, they are merely human. These expectations and realities often clash and the results can be quite tragic. All the more reason to depict cops by way of art … they then become truly iconic.

     The mind of a veteran cop is the most haunting of places … an inescapable pit of memories of human horrors, souls sold, lives lost and failures aplenty. Because there is never an attainable and agreeable level of public satisfaction with the efforts of law enforcement it should not be so surprising that soon follows the minds of cops … unreachable self-fulfillment.  I thank my brethren and I love them dearly.

     Vicki Waters, I thank her and, as unqualified as I am to do so, I bless her. Upon reflection, if it were not for her I seriously doubt that any of my words would have ever seen the light of day. So at least I have her to blame.

     An extra special thank you to my children. They deserve the very best of the future for they have not had the best of fathers. I have failed them in countless ways. I endeavor to make amends. They are such beautiful children.

      To my current wife … and I say current because I fully expect her to leave me at any moment. She very well should. She deserves to be free of me. She has endured more than anyone should have to at my cause. It cannot be of any consolation to her that I love her.

      A writer, of the journalistic species, once asked me why I wrote so much of pain and suffering, darkness and all things depressing. My response, and what was subsequently printed, was a denial of such an assertion. After that interview I became bothered by a nagging sensation of sorts that, sometime later, I realized was caused by that particular question … or my denial rather.

      So I set out to prove the position that not only was I not primarily a “downside” artist but that my work was overwhelmingly upbeat.

      Well … upon intense self-evaluation and an analysis of my work … I did soon arrive at the conclusion that I would fail miserably in any attempt to portray my stuff as “happy” more so than not. So I sought to rationalize the seemingly predominant themes of despair that appear in my writing. On second thought, though, it was not so much a process of rationalization as it was an examination of truths … the truths of life.

      As such as it is these truths are not always pretty … they are not always happy, gleeful, cheerful or the least bit positive. In fact these truths are often downright horrific. I’m sure it has been said before … something in the way of, “we are born, we live, then we die”. For most people two of those three events are happy ones. For others the entire process is perpetual misery. I don’t claim to represent the downtrodden, the underprivileged or the underclass, yet if my writing somehow illuminates the plight of those not truly represented, then so be it. Though I think that some readers might get the sense that my aim is to speak for the masses of the maladjusted, it is not my intention to do so. Quite contrarily, or at least in a neutral sense, I have no agenda … I have neither direction nor destination.

      As preposterous as that might sound to some it makes perfect sense to me. I write from the heart or I do not write at all. I am moved by emotion or I do not move. I am guided by the most beautiful of all sensibilities … that of the soul of human beings … or I am misled.

     If by reading my words the reader(s) sense a message … it is their very own … arrived at of their own volition by their own methods. Yes, of course I know what my words mean to me and I know what events, persons and/or spiritual occurrences inspired those words. But, for my sake and the sake of the personal experience of reading and enjoying poetry, the truth shall remain within me.

      There exists, on some plane, an intensity of human emotion that is wholly indescribable by humanity. Poets have for centuries attempted to capture that emotion in a web of words of many languages. To my knowledge this feat of art … this endeavor to replicate the complexity of feeling by way of mere words … has not yet been perfected. I dare say it ever will.

      The thrust of poetry, though, is the effort given to that end … the conquest of physical and soulful sensation experienced by language. We could all attest that at some juncture in our lives we have endured or enjoyed pain or pleasure so dynamic that no combination or compilation of words could ever recreate the experience. This might very well be for the best. Nevertheless, we perpetually seek to recapture these experiences.

      In this book I’ve decided to interject, at various points, a thought or two about a particular piece here and there. Keep in mind that these random thoughts are not presented in an effort to explain or enlighten the reader with regards to meaning. Again, it is my position that this would restrict the reader’s potential for self-interpretation. I merely intend to enhance the experience.

      It is my desire that a person that reads what I have written will, upon closing the book, feel something … anything. I don’t particularly care what they feel as long as their senses have been stimulated … for better or worse. It is apathy that will be the death of me. Not my own mind you … but the apathy of others. It is my fiercest opponent … my enemy.

     Once again, no apologies for what some may consider inappropriate language. I will concede that there are inappropriate times and places for it but I write real life … as gritty as it gets. And certainly no apologies for any political, religious, racial or other tender nerves I touch. They … most likely … need to be touched.

     I’m merely a poor boy from Mississippi. I’ve lost my way on more than one occasion though I’ve always found my way home. Seasons come and go … only to return … yet I seem to be none-the-wiser. I yearn to journey and often my mind is my only available vehicle … and, yes, I re-live the past and invent the future … and, as if atop a sideways train, it sure does make for one hell of a ride.

- Thomas R. Ruffin