"But you never gave up did you? Giving up is for cowards, not Gunslingers."

From the fire, and back into the fog:


Three months ago, I broke back into the world of writing.


Well, kind of.


The closest I've been was my five month stint with the Times Union. I wrote about Siena basketball. Some people like it. They didn't pay me anything and I still hassle them once a week. Is a gift certificate to Wendy's too much to ask for?


Since then I have wrote pieces on via BlogSpot and posted them on Facebook. Similar to most aspiring writers, I'm lazy, but three months ago I wrote a whopper.


I was going through a rut at the time. We all hit 'em.
What came out on screen was dark. If you know me, you know I'm generally a positive individual.


But a rut is a rut, so I wrote dammit. Spit it out on paper and let people think what they want to think.

Write first, think later.

Reading it now, it scares me a bit.
I wasn't in a great place.
I felt like the world was pressing against me.
I felt like I was in a burning building.
I heard voices outside coming for me, but nobody could get in to pull me out.


I grabbed for my soul and found it.
Then I ran.
I ran the hell out of that building. Literally ran.


I hit the streets like Balboa in Rocky Six and tried my best not too look back.
Initially, I felt like a lifetime smoker. I also ran like one.
I hacked and spit and did my best to keep pumping my legs.
It was the most physical exercise I had done since my boys from Siena and I went to beat up on some Italians a few summers ago.


My ankle throbbed and I liked it. I liked the burn and it liked me back.


On more then one occasion I received taunts from jackass high school kids who could clearly see me struggling. If only they knew, I used to be a big deal.


Slowly but surely, I began to become an athlete again.
The ankle still hurt, but the lungs felt better. I went a little more each day. Before each run, I'd pick out a person or a thing that would help me keep going. I was having a good time.


Two months into my new outlook on life ("Just run dammit"), I was on my daily journey. The sun was blazing and I liked that burn too.


I thought alot on my journeys.
I thought about everything, nothing, and anything.
All of a sudden I was brought out of my thoughts.
A horn was blaring and a car had slowed down.


"I swear if it's those damn kids again, I will pull them out of the car one by one," I thought.
It wasn't them.


It was a car full of females. That's right gentlemen, females.
I don't know if they were good looking or not, but frankly I didn't give a shit.
They hooted and hollered, and I smiled and waved.
Then I went back into my head and kept running.


So I got out of the burning building. Wohoo! Good, grand, great, wonderful!
Parts remain, some always will. We all feel the flames from time to time, sometimes hotter than others.
Just don't let yourself get trapped in that building. It's a long road out. So find a way out. And do it fast.


With the running I had found something. I felt alive and high.
I don't take drugs, so I don't know what that high feels like.
I do take beer, and know what it feels like to have a few in you.
But this was different. This was like playing ball again.


Then one day I ran into a fog. Back into a fog.
I thought I was out. I was sure I was.
I spent eight months in a fog once. It was a head hitting induced fog.
It's a fog that cripples you and makes a day seem like a long month.


So you could imagine my fear when this started happening:

One day at work I began to feel dizzy.
I felt real dizzy.
I didn't tell anyone. I'd sleep it off like a bad night at a bar in college.


I tried to ignore it, but it was relentless. I could function and get by without anyone knowing, but it was like a bad case of poison ivy. It just kept coming.
Everyday for two weeks I sold beds to people while eyeing a spot for my landing, which I was convinced would come any minute.


Over two years ago I got hit in the head with the hammer that is Ryan Rossiters elbow. It wasn't the first, second, third, fourth, or tenth time that kind of thing had happened. It's just the one that did the most damage.


It changed my life and still does to this day.
Since I smarted up and went to the Doctor, my symptoms have improved.
Nevertheless, tommrow I will have surgery on my left ear.
The injury happened over two years ago, but may have been re opened while running out of the fire.
I don't regret it. Far from it.


For the next week I will be on the laying low. I will be hanging out with King, Hemmingway, Bukowski, and Eric Taylor from Friday Night Lights. And don't forget, the infamous Phil.


I'd like visitors and presents. Mainly just presents. But if you want to stay and chat I'd love to have you.

Beer is out for now. But you can bring your own! Gatorade and chocolate milk would be appreciated.
When I feel up to it, I might clap on the keys for a while and take you inside my world.
If I seem like I'm on drugs, I probably am.


Come mid July, I'll get my runners high back.
I'm sure I'll have to hack and spit for a while. My ankle will get upset with me again. Maybe those high school kids will even come taunt me again. As long as they don't throw anything at my head, I'm fine with it.


Before I know it, the car of girls will come by again. I'll smile and wave.
Then I'll just keep running.

This blogs for you Dad. One of the good guys. Happy Father's Day Dad.

It's funny growing up.

My earliest memories are of following what my older brother and father did.

That's what you do when you're that young. You follow the people in front of you, because you don't know any other way.

You keep doing that for a while, and it feels good. When you fall down, they pick you up. Time moves on, time moves fast (it always does).

Adolescence is when you get too cool to follow your dad. You and your older brother get in too many fights in the front yard to really say you follow him.

You pick out people on TV to immolate.

For me it was always a basketball player.

It was Shawn Kemp for awhile. If I had continued following his footsteps I'd be in the 300 club with a reputation for cocaine and women.

You go through high school with a variety of influences pushing you through, guiding you to the next step. Some of the people are great. Some of the people you will remember and keep in touch with. Some you don't.

In the background there he was, guiding with a light hand. Never pushing, but always there waiting in the wings if I were to fall.

Then you get to college. The time of mistakes, short lived glory, mistakes, and education.

In college you try things on your own for a while, not really following anyone.
You're too old to make movie stars and athletes your role models, and still seem too proud to commit to following anyone in particular. You're a boy trying to be a man, succeeding a little, and failing often.

He's still there in the background. Watching. Even when you don't call or write, or don't seem to listen to the advice he offers, he's still there watching and ready to catch you when you fall. He knows you will, because at some point, we all do.

Then I fall.

I fall and he comes and finds me.

Drops everything and comes.

He see's you hurt in more ways than one.

See's the game you've loved and played for years being slowly but so quickly taken away from you.

He mows down everything in his path to get me back to where I need to be.

You see him in action, and you realize that this man is your hero. No questions about it, this is the guy.

You take notes. He gives a little advice, nothing extreme, but somehow every word you soak up like a sponge.

Life moves along. The circus that is college is in it's final year. You take a new approach, with the man that has always been there in mind.
You have some fun, make some memories, and adjust to a new way of life. It's scary and strange, and from time to time things get tough, but you know now where to go when scary and strange happens.
Whether it's a phone call, or just a memory, he lifts you up.


College ends and the real world is here.
You've heard rumors about this place.
But none of those rumors could prepare you for it.
It hits like a ton of bricks.

You're really on your own now. Things change quickly. Friends and relationships that you had for what seemed like forever seem to disappear quicker than how they arrived.

And then things get tough again. You're at another one of those points when you question where your soul is. You go home again.
It's where you need to be. You need to take notes again. You need to see him in action, even if it's just for a day.

You see him. The man he is. The man his father was. You see a man with true grit.
Yeah, just like the movie, True Grit.
He doesn't wear revolvers around his waste. He doesn't drink whiskey for breakfast or hand roll cigarettes, but he has the grit.
With a smile that lights up a room, and personality that could sell a diamond ring to a homeless man, he's a tough dude. He doesn't need to act tough to be tough. Most of the tough one's don't. He just is.


That's my dad. The man who I try and be just like.

It has been a wild ride since I graduated from college. I'm assuming most recent college grads would say the same thing.
Shit, it was a wild ride when I was in college. Lot of ups and some downs. Ah, the downs. The one's where you wake up in the morning and say out loud, "How the hell am I going to do this?"

After a while, you smile to yourself, and think of all the times you have done this.

When you're going through times of uncertainty and change you find the one who knows the playing field. You handle the situations like they would.

Growing up everyone in town knew my dad. He was like a celebrity on the streets of Bangor. It didn't matter if it was the mayor or the bum on the street he used to chum with in high school. It didn't matter who they were, or how they were dressed, my dad always had time to talk.
I got embarrassed. Always having to stop and shake hands and learn new names. I just wanted to go to the gym and play ball, that's all.

I wish I could do that over again. See all the peoples faces when they saw my father. It's so clear to me now as a young man why everyone wanted to stop and talk to him.

Why wouldn't you want to stop and talk to a guy who makes you feel like a million bucks?
Bill Magee is my father, and my hero.
My story is a long one, all of ours are.
We all get hit, we all fall down, we all have highs, we all have days when we wake up and say out loud, "What am I supposed to be doing here?"

We fall down. Sometimes we get knocked down. Then we scramble to stand up. Bill Magee helps me stand, then I move. Hopefully one day just like him.

Happy Fathers Day Dad

From the fire, but up and moving.

It has been some time since I have written anything that anyone's eyes other than my own has seen.

At the time I was anticipating the Siena Saints up and coming basketball season with a great deal of optimism. I firmly believed that the Saints had the body work to put together another spectacular season.

Similar to many of the things I had hoped for during my inaugural eight months in the adult world, my optimism was proved wrong. I watched from the bleachers and my couch, feeling the pain of their mediocrity this season.

Over the past eight months, I have felt much more disappointment than I had ever expected. I knew there would be adjustments and rocky roads, I'm not as dumb as I look, but I wasn't prepared for this.

Life is still great in ways, sometimes they are just hard to see. As many young adults can attest to, the first year in the real world can hit you like a ton of bricks. You feel like your trapped inside a burning building. You hear help outside, but they can't seem to come in and rescue you.

I am almost twenty four years young, and I am still trapped in the burning building. I'm not totally alone, although sometimes I feel like I am. At times I've felt like laying down and letting the flames do their job on me. I fall asleep without much optimism, or hope for that matter. I wake up and by God the sun still rises! (or for much of these months, the snow still falls!). There may not be optimism there, but some hope is still left. The fire has yet to take away the four walls that surround me.

Yes, hope is there.

I think of the past months, and the obstacles and frustrations that life has thrown at me. Some have been beyond my control, others have been self induced. These bumps in the road make me feel like I've wasted my time, lost my fight, and pushed away some people and things that I love and have never failed to love me in return.

These post college obstacles and frustrations are minuscule compared to some of the horror and terror that has been going on in the world lately. Nevertheless, the obstacles and frustrations are still there, right in front of me, and boy are they real. I could be wrong, maybe I am, because I am still trapped inside, but I've come up with a few observations and conclusions while I've been in here.

1. Giving up on things you love is not an option, it just isn't. If you give up on anything you love, part of you will be trapped in that burning building forever, never too see the light of day. The burning building is not fun. A variety of debris and bricks fall on you daily and you go to sleep every night with new scars and bruises. The more wounds you accumulate, the hotter the flames get, and it gets harder to hear anyone outside coming for help. Before long, nobody will be outside.

Giving up MUST be set aside. Unless you like the burning building, which there are usually a select few. Usually those who like being in there are heroin addicts and horrific alcoholics. See my friend Charles Bukowski.

2. Time can move quick in the real world if you let it. The phrase "time fly's when your having fun," can be quickly shoved aside, because I have had little fun the past eight months, and even less over the past three.

I have a job that allows me to pay rent and purchase useless items from week to week. I do not manage my money well, and don't plan to for the time being (I'm still in the fire, remember?).

You talk to people who have been in this circus for a while. Some are happy, some act happy, and some are just downright miserable (definitely in the fire).

I work in a furniture store, and believe me, there is honor to it, as there is in almost any job. It isn't my dream job but it gets me my rent money and enough to eat. I've met some men and women who do their job with pride and do it damn well. Men who I would be proud to call my friend. But honestly, is that what they dreamed of doing in life? No, of course not. The majority of the American population isn't doing what they dreamed of doing, and in some situations that is OK.

But for some it is not OK ( the pretenders the miserables). These people have been in the real world (or even worse in the burning building) for so long they don't even remember their dreams. Well I still remember mine, and as I've stated, I'm almost twenty four years young! Indeed I am still young, but for the good or the worse, time moves fast! There is a voice deep inside me that screams "GET MOVING CORY, GO NOW! GO!" It is hard to get moving when your trapped inside the burning building. You try anyways, have little to show for it, and lay back down.

As of right now, I'm choosing not to lay back down, and anyone who is willing to openly admit of similar frustrations, I urge you not to lay down either. People will come for help, and you will help yourself, as long as your willing. Anyone who is too arrogant and proud to admit this, have fun living the nightmare.

3. Regret is a hurtful thing, and many times it can be horrific.

While in the fire, it is indeed horrific.

A quick word from the fire on regret; don't wait too long on anything you love. I've waited long enough on things I love over the past eight months, and the results are anything but desirable. If you love something do it, or at least try. Months move like minutes, and you'll feel alot better if you at least try.

Sometimes you lose an ounce of faith on things you love for one reason or another. When that happens people go into a shell, especially emotional people like myself. Once upon a time I lost faith in basketball.

I still love it to this day, but never fully recovered from the physical injury it caused me, and the ability to play it competitively again.

I have lost interest in my writing from time to time, but the typewriter is still with me and so are a few ideas that I plug away at while inside.

I stopped reading for a while, but have since resumed. There are too many stories and people to read about to put the books down. Yup, the literature is still here, and the magic still exists (burning building or not).

I didn't work out for months, a healthy and nourishing activity that I have done my whole life, until I got stuck in the fire.

I have found that I can still do push ups in the fire, and there is land all around for me to run (it's a big building). Hecklers or not, falling debris or not, running and pumping up my notoriously small chest is still here.

The most important piece to the puzzle is not with me. "Minutes away, but miles apart." This part, I will have to stay in the fire without, with regret, but never without faith.

I'll wrap this up now, there is a world to live, and a regret less day ahead. I'm not depressed, just in the fire. In the fire, but walking around, trying to claw my way out. The sun is fighting to come through, and I welcome it with a half smile, hope, and cautious optimism. Without these, there is no hope in the fire.

From the fire, Cory Magee