Fish Gotta Blog

The Song is You

2010-02-07T20:33:00.000-08:00

In spite of an overall very positive series of events lately, I sometimes still feel like a guy who's had a bad fall. I wander around for a few minutes getting my bearings back. At some point, tunnel vision opens and I notice that my shirt's ripped and my arm is a bit scraped up. These things happen. Change the shirt, swab the arm. In disaster movies, you've seen the placid faces of the injured: there's no pain, no injuries. Often you can see or hear the fugue playing in their head, those phrases or gestures grow poignant as they're done again and again. Later comes the panic of realization that some parts were bruised and torn and might be in peril.

I've spent my life smacking myself about when I've fallen short of my expectations or tried to exceed them. The process isn't as severe as it used to be thanks to a lot of work over the years. But it was in essence my fugue state. It's ironic that there's something so loud and constant that is difficult to hear. Luck put me onto my own background noise and assumptions. Meditation helped me hear and clarity these harsh voices and strident themes. Since I'm basically as tough as a donut, I thought I needed a less destructive atmosphere, a healthier backdrop. For the past years, I've worked on softening the monster shouting in my ear. Among the various tricks in therapy, it's possible to replace destructive voices with ones that love you. You might find it amusing that one voice (and face) who helped out initially was that of my midget league basketball coach, no kidding. (I do think that's what the league was called back then.) The voice inside has been altered and there's a healthier burble about doing better, doing my highest work That's good to have rumbling around inside. My coach's thick face sometimes pops up and nudges me toward what I know is the right thing when I don't deliver on a promise to myself. Of course I want to please that nice, disappointed man.

Trying to communicate what I see and feel has always been important to me. I'd like to let others see what I see but I've locked myself down. It's a waste of time to do anything other than unlock myself as tempting as Understanding might be. No one else sees why I'm so in love with so many things in the world. What that has meant is that there are have been too many people who could only guess at what I felt, too many who hoped I loved them rather than know it from me. Some do know I suspect but have still waited patiently for more of me to emerge. Patiently.

That's ultimately what I've been trying to fix, that paralyzing inner fugue and anything that sustained it. At some point, the responsibilities of health seems more attractive to me than the responsibilities of injury and limitation. It's a hell of a thing being injured. It's worse when you sustain and accommodate the injuries in your life because you have some twisted sense they'll serve you better than wholeness. That rancid tune repeats and becomes your song, your background music, the only music you hear.

I am working on rooting out what's not me, what I've taken on out of fear, confusion, weariness or habit. I like to think that I'm not torn or shattered. That I'm aware enough to assess what I experience and not be subsumed. Everything that life has to offer does not lead to injury. You've seen this elsewhere as I've tried to work this through here. The dusty themes that had been protecting me, blocking me from my life have gotten so quiet, that often I hear something simple and unbidden, building and rising, a loopy birdsong of surprise and delight- my new music.

whispers

2010-02-01T21:59:00.000-08:00

I despise cutesy titles like this but that's exactly what I'm going to talk about so I have to suffer through it.

You three loyal readers know that I've been working on what the aisle in the bookstore calls "self-improvement." Or more accurately, that wishing space where the habits and deficiencies of mind that afflict me might not be defects. For those of us who spend a lot of time conflicted about most things (Instant Oats! Steel-Cut Oats! Why Lord why?), the dingy fear is that it's us. It's not our training, not our biology, not some trauma. We are inadequate, broken or missing the original parts. Not a happy picture.

While I'm not going to ask you to invert your frown, I would like to take a moment to tell you, Billy Mays-style (no, not really) about a couple whispers that I've overheard. In a previous blog, I prattled on about how meditation had helped me understand the crazy device in my head known as my brain. That led to some half-baked ideas about changing my relationship to writing: Less force, more listening. Which lead to some half-baked ideas about changing my relationship to everything: Less force, more listening. The part of me who's watching my life's clock has been wondering whether the large investment that I'm made in selfish pursuits has been worthwhile or even makes sense. Nothing like reaching perfection then keeling over alone.

So I'm saying that it's worthwhile. I am not perfect and on some days I simply hang on. On most days, I am different than I was. In part because I have a new respect for what I used to ignore or browbeat into quiescence: whispers. Subtle little words, voices, pictures, acts where I seem to be telling myself something. It's a bit weird but I think ultimately sound.

For example, I've had this nagging suspicion that I've been missing something in my cognitive toolkit. It's not just a simple lacking feeling brought on by people thinking that I'm smart while I don't feel smart. As much as I am a self-deprecating fool, I do understand that I have some considerable skills, some abilities, some intelligences. It's the ease with which many folks understand and talk about complex processes. Recently I have had this little voice telling me that I was missing an ability that I thought was more hard-coded than learned. The voice has been saying, you just don't know how to do it. At some point, you'll identify it and figure out how to do it.

Thanks Voice! You da man! What nonsense.

That's been going on for about a year now. The kicker is that I now think that the voice is on the right track. I could spend A LOT of time describing the kind of thinking that I'm talking about and the cool evidence that backs me up. It's tied to the ability to comprehend complex information and process it verbally, logically. That's been nearly impossible for me. I see a path to that way of thinking now because I've been listening to that voice, that whisper and following it step by step. While the path might be revealed, I don't think that this will be an easy fix, but that's okay. I don't mind.

Little things like my decision to discontinue drawing or painting have their own internalized cartoon battle. This morning I was looking for a pen in my briefcase and found five art pencils and pens. How in the fuck did that happen? I had no memory of doing that. Maybe that's more a gesture than a whisper but you get my point. There's something for me to understand here that's deep and true. There's often something to understand from a quiet source. I always want to make a joke like "Yeah, understand that you are a twit and need the right things for work" but I know it's not like that.

You know when it's not like that.

Digital Real Estate

2010-01-19T20:59:00.000-08:00

I do like to read about man-made disasters and anticipated collapses. Every now and then, when my mind's fresh eager, I try to follow the thread of a trend through to real world consequences. If I were any good at this, I'd be Warren Buffett. Who in their right mind would prepare for our Star Trek future by becoming a railroad baron to haul coal, our nation's energy future? Which century did our time's odometer just flip to?

Collapse is a better word to describe what intrigues me. For instance, my latest interest is about how we're going to reclaim the gazillions of square feet of retail space now obsolete because of zeros and ones. Both because of products that are turning digital and shopping on the interweb.

Electronic readers like the Kindle and the Nook have fired my latest round of wondering. Without considering changing reading habits which is a whole nother topic, where is the tipping point for big box bookselling?

How much retail space is devoted to selling new books? It's simple math if you know how many Waldens, Barnes and Nobles and Borders there are out there. Oh, and book sections in Target, Walmart, Costco and Sam's Club. Just a matter of total square footage. The retailers threatened here are the books-only stores, others can repurpose those sections. Even with the plunge in real estate value, it's hard imagining the all of the above booksellers hanging on and remaining the same.

But it's not just books, videos are screaming toward a flaming death as well. Ironically, the film industry should like that idea. So the Blockbusters and Hollywood Videos are walking corpses, right? How much more square footage is that? Factor in the Mall real estate market which has been staggered by the downturn and we're talking about many millions of square feet.

(Note that I'm not thinking about crushing impact on jobs here. It might sound a bit cold, but that's not as interesting to me to think about. We're all caught in this vice so don't think me too heartless.)

It's not just traditional media (newspapers eek!) of course. Best Buy isn't far behind Circuit City (crappy retailers). Think calculators here. Every electronic device produced is affected by ever cheaper manufacture. Ever deepening pricing pressure. It is stunning to me that many devices that I might buy have so little profit for the sellers.

But really, my interest here is all of the real estate that can be affected by retailers drying up. Will there be a slow transition or a big bang like when Circuit City went belly up? That was the largest single abandonment of real estate in our history. Will there be an advantage to being a tenant for the first time in a long time? I doubt it. Other than food and trinkets, what is there that we will sell and buy at prices that rival internet prices? There are only so many high-end, frou-frou shops that can thrive.

Craig's List has moved the yard sale mess online. I doubt that there's much incentive in turning these spaces into giant barns of second-hand crap. I'd like to see a mandate that turns ghost property into something good for a community: gardens, play grounds, some other predictable lefty option. Pay the landlord some dollars for providing the space.If we can subsidize some questionable agricultural practices, we could subsidize this.

Note that I don't have a solution yet. Maybe there's not going to be a problem. Yeah, all economic indicators are a go! My favorite solution is to shutter any business that's gone belly up. Or at least a few stores if it's a large chain. Don't sell any inventory, just wall up the place and turn it into a time capsule.

My other favorite idea. In one hard hit area, take all the ghost stores, all the suburbs, all the city and infrastructure (poor Detroit is dealing with this kind of city death right now) and turn the lot into a national park. People can live out their lives there if they wish but no new citizens. (Prevent vandalism by some magical means. Hey, this is why I'm writing here rather than writing policy.) Tourism will take a few generations to kick in, but at some point, our kids will marvel at how we lived. Either it will be an awe-inspiring visit into a past where hearty ancestors got by without teleportation and other basics or an awe-inspiring look at a time when an entire people lived like Gods. Right now, I'm hoping that the future will lean more toward the first option but am uneasy that we're sliding toward the second.

Browser

2010-01-04T18:08:00.000-08:00

I've always seen myself as a bit of an information pimp although mostly pimp emeritus at this point. Scholarship is too much work as much as I admire that bent. Hell, expertise is too often out of my range. But I do like to graze in the information fields, snuffle out a juicy bit.

My new growing addiction is to thebrowser. There's a bit of everything here. Don't let the Anglofocus frighten you away. You'll find profound infobits like:

Time Really Is Speeding Up
Christopher Caldwell | Financial Times | 1 January 2010
It is particularly discomfiting to play this game with cultural products that are supposed to be, by definition, new, fresh and youthful, like rock music, for instance. The Sex Pistols’ Never Mind the Bollocks (1977) is closer to the second world war than it is to the present. The Beatles’ release of “Love Me Do” (1962) is closer to the first world war than to us. Bill Haley’s Rock Around the Clock (1954) is as close to the Spanish-American war (1898) as it is to us. There is nothing hipper than hip-hop, but the Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” (1979), the first rap song, is closer to Al Jolson’s last hits than to the songs in the rap charts now.

Scary! Scary! Scary! What are the chances that I'd google "Jolson" and "Sugerhill Gang" together and find this?

(I have a crateload of New Year's resolutions this year. One is to switch even more attention to the interhighway for news and information. How many resolutions do I have this year? I started them in November! THAT'S how chock full of resolutions my new year is: I had to add months if I hoped to achieve them.)

Here's another tidbit of a sciency sort:

On The Origin of Tomorrow

Carl Zimmer | Science | 3 December 2009

Each baby's DNA carries about 130 new mutations. Most of them have no effect on our well-being. People can pass these neutral mutations down to their offspring without harm, and over time, a small fraction of them will end up spreading across entire populations, or even the entire species, thanks to random luck.

I guess that random mutations are more unsettling than regular old mutations. Here's to having a prehensile tail in the near future! Also by Mr. Zimmer:

Whales: The Origins Of Big

Carl Zimmer | The Loom | 24 November 2009
Evolutionary rationale for size of whales. Tyler Cowen calls this "one of the very best short pieces I've read this year"

This led to:
I once wondered aloud if scientists had tattoos of their science. The answer was yes, and this ever-growing collection is the evidence.

I had planned on writing a post of unsurpassing beauty but was once again distracted. Since this wasn't a resolution, technically I can wait another day.

The New Me

2009-12-29T21:32:00.000-08:00

Don't be fooled by the presidential wave. It is me, as envisioned by a) Anish Kapoor, b) a fly on acid, c) both a & b or d) none of the above.

Hedges

2009-12-16T20:05:00.000-08:00

What important thing can I say after a year's absence?

The burning item that I've wanted to tell you: I wore mis-matched shoes to work one day.

I'm not saying that I wore a clown shoe and a stiletto. Nobody noticed for the same reason I didn't notice: these were two generic brown shoes. In any city worth its Nordstrom, I'm sure I would have been pointed at. Here in Medford, I passed muster. This post is not a thinly disguised jab at the Mythical State of Jefferson either. Let me say that there are no digs at anyone here today. This is more about the gray mistakes and adjustments I've been making over the past year.

It's been a good year of diving into myself.

Maybe there's a bit of a parable up in here. Or at least a fable about course correction. My tidy stale life needed some changing. So I've removed trying to play the guitar, writing my Old Tired Novel and painting. All fine activities. I'll return to painting someday but it doesn't make sense right now. I am writing.

I had to give up on what I had written because it wasn't working, the monster never roared to life. Once I realized that, it was time to move on. No harm in trying to animate the pile of flesh. But I didn't have the right pieces, the right electricity, at the right time. So I have a stockpile of words in cold storage and I'll start on a new pile. Knowing when to call a hard stop is a new skill. Knowing when to let something percolate vs. when to jettison has always been difficult for me. I no longer want my life to decay because something didn't work and I was timid about loss. Call what I've done a failure, a draft, a fragment or wisdom. But call it finished.

Thinking about heaviness helped me lay the few items above aside. It's simple: does X make me feel heavier or lighter? If heavier, am I rewarded for the effort or does it feel like cleaning and jerking a Volkswagen? If lighter, is it like a satisfying sigh or low blood sugar? I do like to haul me some weight, most of us yearn to: o sexy responsibility! But I have a slight frame, not designed for drayage. Not even a motorized metaphor probably. More like one of those old fashioned three speed bikes. With leaping gearing.

This past year has been about many things. There are so many gaudy bits: my life as an artist (as mentioned above) has been begging for an overhaul. I've struggled (constructively) on how to mend the giant hole in my life. How do I move from feeling separated to feeling whole? Lots of work to do but it's of a different quality now than in the past years. Years have gone by. My career change has provided a salutary spin on uncertainty. I'll write more about that because it's been illuminating some of the corners of my emotional life.

For now, I'm satisfied with making adjustments and pruning where needed. Literal pruning is something that I've done a lot of in my life, I'm shot through with my family's botanical DNA. I've always been much better at pruning plants than myself. Give me a stunted shrubbery, and I can set that thing free! I've had a built-in sense of where to cut, how extensively, to create a healthy, pleasing plant.

While I've had little doubt about how to strengthen the life of a plant through violent, creative destruction, I've been queasy about shaping my own life. I didn't know where to cut. I'd like to think that I'm learning how to recognize what isn't quite right in my life. That's what the past year's been about, moving away from what doesn't work, cutting it free. The surprise is that after the trauma, the organism can turn toward good, sturdy growth, unbound in the clean Spring sunshine.

Touch of Evil

2008-11-28T08:28:00.000-08:00

Nothing to do with Orson Wells, I just wanted to take a moment and blog while I was being repressed by the man.

There, I've rebelled.

ambraindexterous

2008-11-22T17:56:00.000-08:00

There's one piece of confusion that's been constant and giddy in my life. I probably share this with everyone but maybe not. The confusion is applying one the function of one thing to a thing that has a like function.

Two examples today. Been going to the gym in the a.m. I go with just the basics. I'm wearing my clothes, sweats and my locker lock for my keys, wallet and sweats. Otherwise, I'll leave something behind if I'm hauling it around in the gym. When I got out of the car this morning, I took the masterlock out of my pocket and began to use it to lock the car door. Wait, it don't work. Ha, is funny!

Then on the drive home, I was still listening to my ipod. (It's a very short drive; I don't do this as a matter of habit; The volume is low so I can hear real-life sounds. You be quiet.) As mentioned parenthetically, the volume was low so I tried to use the car radio's volume nob to increase my ipod's volume. Once again, mistaken object, similar functionality.

I'd like to chalk this up to some superb flowy brain state but I think it's just bad thinking made physically manifest. It might be for the best that this quirk doesn't happen with all of my thinking that's fundamentally flawed. I would like to see what that day would look like, the day when the real world gave me instant feedback. The day that I'd be able to tally my cognitive accuracy and weep probably.

mty Lfe

2008-11-20T20:26:00.000-08:00

I can't say that I enjoy writing but that no longer matters. My name is Frank and I am an alcoholic. My name is Phil and I'm a writer. My name.

'm not comparing my plight with those folks whose lives blow apart when they pick up a drink. For some afflictions, it's what you can't do, what might destroy you that defines you. Others, it's what you have to do that defines you. I guess that I'm saying that I am ill-defined, lacking sharp black outlines. Color inside of the lines if you can find them.

I might be locked out of heaven. It's not as dramatic as being in Hell. Nothing that desperate or scratchy. Think flattened affect, think of a streaky window, think of that thought that just eluded you.

Fruitless. Barren. Dim. Those are my non-writing conditions. See, nothing too severe. I want to touch that heat, just like Peter says. A thousand fruitless searches. Why not risk everything? I have nothing now and I expect less in the future. Am I a person who can't have anything he wants? Might be the best way. I mock those who find themselves in a monestary, winter wheat. That's what I'm contemplating: a drastic limitation, a row to hoe.

I haven't told you about the book that I imagine. It's a character, not a book so much, who is a version of me. It takes little skill to steal your own life. I don't have the temerity to steal someone else's life yet. The other character is me too. A younger version of myself. The little boy that was lost. Waaaah! No, it's nothing tragic about me, just a reflection on the common stream that misdirects us from our lives.

Those are the only characters that I care about. Except for the one my character loves and can't be with. There's nothing autobiographical here. It's a matter of what the character can't face down, can't ask of anyone. See, about me. Not her. There is something that makes the relationship impossible. I'd like to say that it's about the unique circumstances of the book/character. I'd like to say that. I'd like to say that it's not about my lifelong inability to stay hitched to one person, one place, one thing. I'd like to say that.

That's one of the many tripwire's I've set for myself. Everyword's about someone else. Every word is about me. Every word is about you. Every word. Empty is thinking like this. Empty

writing

2008-11-18T00:30:00.000-08:00

I'm writing.

Nothing special and that's the key. It doesn't require as much perfection as building a house. It's as if you could toss a bunch of stones down, shove some 2 x 4s in there, slap on some drywall and a roof. Then step back and say, whoa, that ain't right. Use your giant hands and arms to move, remove and adjust where needed.

Maybe one of the rooms is exquisite. You might be able to saw that jewel out, let it hang in the air, then stitch it back in.

My point here really is for me. Let's face it. By production alone, I am no writer. By temperament, probably. Enough have agreed where it's not completely insane to think so. My problem has been that I've tried to fabricate an architectural masterwork each time as if there were 10,000 pieces that fit together in this linear, 1 to 10,000 numbering system.

But I didn't have any kit, no numbering system and no idea of what I wanted. That's okay but I didn't adjust my expectations. The honest evaluation process is where I've fallen apart. I don't have the kind of orientation to see outcome and how to get there.

I am a hive. Each member contributes. The colony forms over time, correctly, mistakes discarded or shaved away. How do I trust that the flurry of activity will lead to structure and meaning.

Not my call. Just do my many small jobs. Something will form.

Triage

2008-11-16T21:27:00.000-08:00

Triage, that's the game. Blog has been last on the triage pile. Work, health, folks have come first. Work has occupied two spots. Unsavory but I am pulling a paycheck so I don't mind so much.

At this point, assume that I'm writing a diary, insecure as any school girl's with a shiny locking clasp, unable to defeat a paperclip. (you can provide your own skoolgirl joke here.) I'm saying, read if you want to but I don't expect that I'll be writing to create round, well-formed entries. That might happen sometimes, but expect more crap to wade through. Self-indulgent and I'm proud of that. You can be equally self-indulgent and walk away if you get bored. Deal?

Here's what I'm thinking about. How do I wipe out my emotional habits and affectations? My heart has true affections, that's not the problem. The problem is that I have a routine that has provided a constant structure to house my emotional life. There's a kind of comfort in creating a situation like this. Even the problems are known, familiar and acceptably threatening. Why Phil do you mitigate your funny little emotional life this way? Why are you like the rest of humanity?

Well, fuck me, I'm making little sense. I'm really talking about giving up some specific stuff here. I'm at the point where I want to kill dead any idea and routine of relationships that I've had before. The relationship has been one of the two key definers of who I am since I've been a teen. Work, of course, is the other. Well, fuck them both. I don't want to be a slave to this anymore.

I am sick being jerked around by the scrum of being in, out or between a relationship. That's it. I don't want a relationship ever again. I don't want one to end. I don't want one to begin. I don't want to be between an old one and a new one. I do not want it, sam-i-am.

I do want people, mens and womens. I want love, I want all that stuff. I do not want to be a puppet that needs love seasons imposed on its life. Christ, under this self-perpetuating scheme, I'm basically: blooming, pollinating, dormant, then waiting for the blooming again. I am not a plant, I am a human man! (Ha ha ha ha. Hollywood movies are funny. See The Peacemaker.)

To sum: I am not a plant. I like people, men and women. U2 is an awesome group. Cat drool makes my eyes itch. I want a new camera. Why doe consultants make so much? Perrier is refreshing. I miss the sun. Can I vacation in Cancun soon. Rhyme anytime?

See, not much of a closing. That's it. Next time, no that's it.

Dishwasher

2008-09-02T16:23:00.000-07:00

We probably spend way too much time thinking about our dishwashers. I think that I can say this with some confidence after years of hearing bickering about how to choose the best one, how to load it properly, which soap to use.

In the full spirit of journalistic integrity, I'm one of the worst when it comes to thinking that I have a better system than you do. I do. Yours sucks compared to mine. I guarantee it.

Okay, I no longer guarantee it. Here's why.

Friends en route from CA to WA stayed over at my place on Saturday. Being nice peoples, they helped clear the plates and -cue the horror music- loaded the dishwasher! This nice act is a kind of agony for those of us too insane to accept the kindness of normal non-neurotic peoples. My response was a nimble one that steered any concern away from how vital it was to stack the dishes correctly. Part of me felt that was a true response. The other part expected a micro-epic of disaster. Like Frank Gehry had stacked my dishwasher.

Wrong! I was wrong! Wrong in a special surprising way. Turns out that in addition to a pleasing organizational competence, a center rack that I had never used was revealed unto me. I had never even seen it! I kid you not. I opened the steaming dish laundry and I was transfixed by bowls floating above the bottom tray. How in the hell was that possible? Was there a Virgin Mary etched in steam on the dwasher walls too?

So did I not use this the first time I used the DW and thereafter it because invisible to me? Are there other dillweed miracles like this in my life? I know that my car has five forward gears (and reverse), the alphabet has 26 letters, doors open in and out. If you happen to spot any other gaps that I might have missed, please feel free to point them out to me.

You'll Never Guess

2008-08-09T21:56:00.000-07:00

Costco serves as a gathering place for us displaced folks in Medford. Today while waiting for my prescription, I had the chance to talk with two nice old Sicilian coots, Art and Emile. "Coots" I hope you hear as an endearment, these were two nice guys. Brooklyn. No Good Pizza Here. No Good Bread. Bagels? Forgetaboutit.

After I passed muster, Art began a routine that he'd been doing with Emile for at least a decade: guess what Emile used to do for a living. "You'll never guess in a hundred tries. Go head. You never guess. You don't want to take that bet."

The big cliche popped right into my head and I figured that they'd have a laugh and I'd make guess #2. Emile, despite his French-sounding name, seemed more laborer than something high-falutin. "New York City Ballet. He was a dancer."

I thought they went into another routine: "Jesus Christ I can't believe you guessed. No one's ever guessed before! That's incredible." I let them ramble on with this sarcasm for thirty seconds and then I said Okay. Let me guess again. "No no no. You guessed it. You got it right. Emile made ballet slippers for Capezio all of his life! Jesus Christ, nobody ever guessed before and you got it right the first time!"

Turned out Emile had worked with three generations of Capezios; taught the later generations how to make a good slipper.

They really couldn't stop sputtering. "This one got it right off. That has never happened before. No one's ever guessed right before." Minutes later we laughed our goodbyes and they disappeared into the large, value-sized afternoon.

Observation II

2008-08-08T20:24:00.001-07:00

I'm very observy after a fashion and maybe that's good. Recently I mentioned the little patch of retail near my abode. You know, the Buss sign and the Subway?

When you take one more eastward step, you're starting at a Castle Entertainment sign and a bad feng shui parking lot. Castle, if you don't know, is an attempt at bringing sex toys, porn and uh more porn into the respectable daylight of the superstore. Visiting one of these places seems like it should be a weird but my experience was as banal as any visit to the 7-11. As banal as any shop with a flashy display of S&M devices that look as if they're made by Playskool. No, no purchases were made. No, I wasn't looking for tips. No, I tell you. Now stop.

Yesterday I noticed that some vandals removed the plastic signs and left an exposed neon fixture that would do Dan Flavin proud. Me, I like that kind of thing, seeing the bones underneath. Not much of a prank but perhaps a conservative saved a few good souls from an ill-advised dildo purchase. Whatever.

Today I noticed a giant For Sale sign, the definitive marker of retail passing. (Hard to tell from the building though, it always looked closed to me. The kid proofing brown paper wrapper that covered the doors and windows up to around five feet means Closed for Business in my retail sign system.) As a retailer myself, there's nothing more shameful or lurid as a closed business. Thank god that purgatory (and Dante's silly middle book - you no read it!) has been voted out of existence. I would have spent too much time there atoning for my love of commerce. There's always hell, but I do digress.

So as I mentioned, my powers of observating have grown either stronger or more myopic. I'm voting stronger. Didnt' care much about the barn o porn before. Cared much more for the neon skeleton. I only wish that it would wake up and turn on at dusk now. The California smoke makes the setting sun look like it could ignite. I'd love to see that show through the cool horizontal tubes in that lonely frame. I'd love to see that.

Observation

2008-08-07T21:42:00.000-07:00

My Subway, my five dollah foot longs, are just a few feet from where I live.

I try to hang out there as little as possible because in spite of the bright yellow atmosphere (I am NOT a Spring or Summer), it's just not a cheerful place. Maybe it's the because of the bus stop nearby. Okay, before you judge me, it's not my queasiness about public transport that makes me pause. It's the telephone number, "486-Buss" on the helpful Metro sign.

Another drama that's often played out at the S'Way is a quiet one that's probably only in my imagination. There's one young guy who works there, not attractive and his english is sub-par, garbled, cleft. My reaction of first seeing him, honestly: thank god he found a job somewhere. We communicated just fine even though I cannot say that I understood a single thing he said. Maybe for him too.

On one night of too much office, too little of my fridge, I found myself getting another sub magically stacked to order without the benefit of understanding his words and without us pointing. Another retail miracle. Then he started waiting on the customer behind me. Magnificent Spanish rolled out of his mouth. Authority and confidence and a completely different person. Once again, I had badly misjudged someone. Now I'm a bit obsessed about creating his backstory, creating a happy ending.

***

A friend and I were talking about teasing out any false positives in our life. We've been golfing together some and golf is a Rorshach testing ground for false positives. Hell, it's what keeps golfers playing. For example, we amateurs celebrate when we hit one of those rare perfect shots as if it came from our consciousness, our muscles, our very will. Professional golfers know that for amateurs, most of those shots are coincidences- the exception, not the rule. I like to recognize this possibility and weigh any successes carefully. My friends must think me loony when I celebrate truly awful shots because I know that I did what I planned as part of my learning process.

Whether it's luck, repetition or humidity, it is far too easy to claim responsibility for good fortune. Tons of stuff fall under this false positive spell: picking a winning stock, chipping in from off the green, living in the U.S.

The other side of the coin, the false negative, is just as damaging. Go head and reverse any of the list above: picking a losing stock; muffing a chip to the green; living in a war-torn region right now.

The positives and negatives above might be your responsibility if: the entire stock market is down but you consistently find the few stocks that gain value; your chips to the green fall within three feet of the pin most times; I can't even begin to speculate about life in either place. That just seems like a bleak exercise now that I've said it. Again, the opposite might reflect on who you are either. Might not mean anything inherently bad. Maybe you should have your money in a bank and stick to Putt-Putt.

***

I found a yellowjacket nest on my patio a few weeks ago. Shockingly light and looks like an ultra-modern papier-mache bead. It lives in the bird's nest, an altar in front of the painting of the cats. Striped stones, dapper bird feathers inhabit the nest as well. I imagine that if we could creak open a door into their minds, we'd see an image like this in our kitties' brains. It makes a kind of Cornell sense that's appealing and relieving.

***

In a meeting last week, a VP in my company cited an action that I took to solve a problem as an example of how to live our corporate values. Hell, like I have a clue about those slogans. Of course I was pleased for a moment. Then I realised, Jesus, I'm 50 years old! I should damn well know how to do something like that. Don't get me wrong, I don't see this as a personal false positive. More like a corporate false positive. In the way of slippery distinctions, I don't feel qualified to delve into the murk of corporate epistomology, if that makes any sense at all.

***

Ha ha ha! Made you look!

What I've been thinking about

2008-07-26T20:05:00.000-07:00

Golf. It is an obsession. The balls are bleach white in the sun, blurry.

Monkeys. It is a professional concern. Writing about them. Writing about one of them. Kinda. Monkeys are thinking about many things and we don't know what.

When to hurt someone's feelings. It is a minor work matter but I don't know what to do.

Movement. Maybe I'd like to move around more. A new poledancing studio just opened here in Medford. Just saying.

How great the people are in my life. How little I tell them that.

Blue and yellow make green. How cool is that? Get some cheap ass paint and let blue and yellow do their thing. They will green for you.

Patty Griffin can consistently break my heart.

The white out tape dispenser at work. I use it to draw thick white lines which are ragged and meandering and charming.

I have too much stuff. How is that possible?

Fire suppression. I've been reading more about this for some unknown reason.

A motorcycle, again. "But mom, they get like 500 miles per gallon!"

Why I have two pairs of blue tennis shoes. How did that happen? Was I crazy?

I am good to go. I am ready.

Wonder

2008-07-21T18:54:00.000-07:00

Where does the feeling of belonging come from?

I like to think about this, think about whether this mystery can be understood. It's especially fine to luxuriate in the afterglow of finding that kind of connection.

I'm not just interested in where it comes from or what triggers it, but whether I can learn to build this deep appreciation or recognition into my life? Or is that an ugly kind of self-deception?

You might ask why I have "Wonder" as the title of this thing. Good question. I can't say. Part of me is aware that when I feel that I'm part of something, that I belong, there's a sensation that's like the opening that happens in wonder. A parallel emotion, I guess.

On Friday, Proust crept up again and waylaid me with tacos.

It is known among a few of you how lucky I've been in my food life. Solid cooks in my family using pure and fresh ingredients. Chomping on the madeline is never far from my experience. The real shock for me is that it is rarely those foods that I grew up with. More often, it's either Indian food or Mexican food that sets off a body memory that's full, fast and overwhelming. Those foods that I think of when I think of a woman I've loved.

So it was with the Taco place here in Medford. In a rush, the sweet corn tortilla, the luscious seasoned pork took me to San Diego. Took me to my past, took me to hope and love, the ocean pounding out a blessing with every wave. I was happy that my friends didn't see me tear up for a moment. Reader, I fell in. The water was all around me and I didn't even have to swim.

Worthy Blog

2008-07-06T00:37:00.000-07:00

Okay, she's my niece but you have to look at her blog: even*cleveland.

http://evencleveland.blogspot.com/

Stephanie has a beautiful sensibility, style and brains that I envy. Do a nice thing for yourself and peek in.

Obsession

2008-07-06T00:12:00.000-07:00

With obsession, there really isn't a Part 2. It's all Part One, first chapter and last chapter. Those of you who find themselves on a track know what I'm talking about. On waking, in dreaming a luscious scene replays and it's difficult not to watch yet again.

Melodramatic, aren't I?

A positive change of thyroid juice has transformed me into my old, energetic self. This includes a return to my ability to obsess. In my old days, my obsessions were often destructive due to my near complete inability to keep the record from skipping and repeating. Honestly, I always thought that there was something wrong with me. Well, there was but nothing that I couldn't have addressed with the proper insight.

I didn't understand that I could form a relationship with my mind rather than be its mule. The thing upstairs pointed the way and I followed. When I resisted, the discomfort usually got me right in line. Most often, the jockey kept the horse at a twitchy standstill. What a way to live. This, I am happy to say, is no longer the case.

After my physical renaissance, my mental upgrade followed. It's a blessing not to be physically crippled. It's a blessing not to be mentally crippled. I can thank myself for working out how to live with a busy brain. It's taken five years of poking around my sore spots but I've had a couple fundamental insights about how to live. Oh yeah, nothing to it!

You three readers have read about them, pretty standard realizations that the buddha's been offering for thousands of years. Anyone can sign on and I did.

The good news is that although the volume's been turned up, I'm as relaxed as I possibly can be, getting stronger and happier and more obsessed. I suspect that I'll have to tease out what the obsession means eventually. For now, I'm happy to have my old speedy brain back. But I will not let that gray bastard beat me like a rented mule. Instead of it slapping me around, I'm working on a choreography and it seems to be intrigued in the possibility.

Obsession

2008-06-28T22:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader,

Don't run away. It's only me.
Don't be afraid of what you can't see.

I was struck by lightning walking down the street.

Well, I rolled and I tumbled, cried the whole night long.
When I woke up this morning, all I had was gone.

im invisible
am, an eraser of love
why dont you call me I feel like flying in two
im invisible
am, an eraser of love
why dont you call me I feel like flying in two
am, an eraser of love

Whats real, and whats for sale?
Blew a kiss and tried to take it home

Touch it, bring it, pay it, watch it,
Turn it, leave it, start - format it.

Love is a burning thing
And it makes a fiery ring

Just some thoughts. None mine.

Vacation Over

2008-05-18T19:39:00.000-07:00

It's official: my vacation's over.

For any of you that still might check in, a brief reason why....

When I started my new job, I gave myself a six month fucking around period -no pressures- while I learned my job, got a sense of the new area and learned to work again. I extended that another few months when I was reassigned to an intense project. Just this week, I had the "time's up" moment, get back to work.

The work. The stuff that matters. The writing and whatever habits it takes to support the writing. There are other distractions of course. The distractions damn near define me. Painting, musicing, pining, yearning. Lots of ings. Christ, I've even been swinging the golfing club.

The other reason why the vacation's over: my physical self is rocking. Another ing! After uping my synthroid dose a fair amount, I'm no longer physically crippled by pain. It's a bit of a miracle to feel like this after so many years of doing nothing but hurting. For those who have listened to me whine about this over the years, I thank you for listening. I wouldn't be here without you.

So when you talk with me, ask me how the novel's going. It will be going. You might not get much info from me other than productivity reports. What I'm writing about is A Big Secret. Pester me, my vacation's over.

Russell Banks says

2008-05-18T19:34:00.000-07:00

"From the Beginning I've found that I have to speak past the internal censor who basically wants me to shut up and be silent, and the best way for me to get something said has been to move real fast. The faster I can write, the more likely I'll get something worth saving down...."

"The dreaming self has a more powerful memory than the conscious self."

april

2008-04-21T20:57:00.000-07:00

i am near ready to break into poetry which is disturbing. don't be worried, nothing is going to happen, fair warning. nothing is going to disturb, nothing is.

saturday another winter april day i was painting. Testing colors really, not trusting the deep expertise of the book in front of me. when i found out the book was right so i moved on to working with a new big brush. i haven't done large format but i don't want to be fussy and small all the time so i am learning how to apply pounds of paint at a time. i've had the brush for a while but not the guts to use it. so much paper, so much paint, so much waste.

the flurries started as i dipped the brush in water and dipped for paint. o another time: the new brush smelled like my grandma's house. it's no revelation that paints smell, usually just chemical. brushes smell. often stink at first because they're dead animal hair. i have a squirrel brush that smells like hot summer ass.

the susie short brush took me right back to the days of baba's stove, alive with chicken soup and cabbage rolls, her giant presence and me wanting acceptance. i was her son's ghost unnerving her following her wanting to be loved again after leaving so soon the last time. who can paint with the snow flying on a spring afternoon forty years ago? time will kill me all over again.

what i see

2008-04-06T22:08:00.000-07:00

Hypocrisy and Other Big Words

2008-03-17T22:20:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've written. I apologize for the lack of twaddle.

Well, I'm a hypocrite. It's a bit vexing but not fatal. You might be interested in hearing about the details but you're not getting them. None of your business. I think it suffices to say that I spotted the infraction, eventually clucked a bit and went on my way. Don't worry, it wasn't anything big. Just like something on the bottom of my shoe- inconvenient but a couple of swipes later, gone.

There might be other glaring examples of this kind of self-duplicity in my life. Hope not. I'd like to think it's not who I am. But you are reading the diary of someone who's avoided shopping at one of the best grocery stores in town because I thought it was seedy and low-rent. Went in there tonight and bought a bunch of organic stuffs at good prices. Some of you are familiar with that pattern. In spite of the consistent recommendation of folks around me, I avoided the place. Ultimately, I didn't listen to those around me on this. Another strike against me!

It wouldn't have surprised me if I had overreacted to the episodes above. Who in their right mind welcomes a self-egging, regardless that the eggs were laid by free-ranging hens fed only organic feed? It wasn't too bad finally. Nice to spot the outright mistakes in my life. Maybe there's some hope on teasing out the more subtle offenses too.

Misc o llaneous

2008-02-24T21:24:00.000-08:00

I propose that when a person guns down a handful of other people, the news media should not use the killer's name. Sure, sometimes it's some illness that causes the terrible action and that's horrible too. But I am tired of hearing the name of the killer and his story. Time to stop. Report the story and snuff out his identity. Kill and you will become generic and unknown.

***

Splotches are gone. What was fascinating was the sequence in which the offending sulpha drugs left my body. First this area, then that. The last body parts affected, after everything else had cleared up, were my hands. The palms were very red, like I'd dipped them in too hot water, a slight itchiness. The progression was similar to what the Human Torch goes through before he flames on. Sadly, I think I'd need to take more of the drugs before that happened.

***

My company had its second jam night with a bunch of bands comprised of us worker bees. Let me tell you, we got us some talent in the hizzy. (A hizzy, for you older readers, is a house. That is how I interpret it from my large collection of hip-hop records.) We rocked The Hungry Woodsman (no, I am not making this up) until 1:30 when we were kicked out. Best of all, in my company, everyone is free to act as they want to. No false dignity: everybody dance now! At one point, a guitarist broke into a smoking rendition of the Voodoo Child lick and one of our executives raced out onto the dance floor and slide onto his knees into the "we are not worthy" salaam pose. He was followed by directors and various folks. Now THAT is team building.

***

I finally ordered a grinder to replace the one I lost in the mini-flood. I have been putting this off but started to do the Starbucks math: grinder it is.

***

For some reason, whiskey tastes better to me than it has for years. Isn't that a heartwarming story?

***

Tonight I imagined that I was sitting in the Academy Awards audience because my novel was adapted into an Oscar nominated film. Fantasy, I know. But it's better than my usual fantasies of finding dollar bills on the ground. Or turning into an ant. Or turning into an ant who finds a dollar bill on the ground. See what I mean.

Green Way

2008-02-16T21:56:00.000-08:00

Any city dweller expects something special when they hear the word green way or green belt. There's the small promise that the city hasn't swallowed our animal selves whole. Maybe we'll have the chance to pause for rustle, smell the trees or see a glint in the creek.

Medford has the Bear Creek Green Way which has been a work in progress since the early 70's. It runs more or less along Bear Creek from Ashland through Medford. Oh, and along I-5 as well. The run isn't pristine by any measure. It's been called one long campground for the homeless, among other things. I've found that to be accurate enough not to quibble.

When a friend recently visited, I suggest that she not wander alone in this stretch. I hate that. I hate saying stay away, not safe, when the path should be a community jewel instead of a halfway house. Still the right call, I think. For me as well as her.

My experience along the green way so far is what I expected. I feel safe enough on my bike and whenever I stop, the others stopped are usually those folks seen as the problem, the folks that are just hanging on. Today, I talked with a couple of guys as we watched the ducks dipping for, uh, duck food in a big rough pond.

Gary's bike was acting up again and Phil was happy that he was able to find an pint of an elusive very cheap kind of beer. Each had stories of getting knocked off their bikes and ending up in trouble. Gary was cited after he was hit and hospitalized for going 5mph in a 3mph zone. No kidding. Phil said that the hardest thing about relying on the bicycle for transportation was that there were stretches where only I-5 was a good way to go. He extended the opinion that truckers really didn't like bikes on the highway.

Both of these guys fit under the general heading of the underclass that's robbing Medford of its greenway. I had a hard time thinking that way. Both worked when they could find a way to the site. Otherwise, they collected cans which usually were transformed into food and beer. The green way was convenient for them, central and safer than the streets. Today was a good day in the valley- you could almost spot Spring in the mountains.

As much as I'd like to launch an impassioned defense of or attack on something here, I find myself thinking about something simple instead. What would I do if I were these guys? I'm lucky in spades compared to these two. Gary's eyes just glazed over when he found out that I sit in front of a computer to make a living. Way beyond him, he said. Phil, an Indian, talked a bit about meeting an Indian brother once who lived like an Indian, on a reservation. That was just as foreign and impossible to him as the computer was to Gary.

No answers here. I thanked them for the company and took off back down the Green Way. The little hut overlooking the pond was soaked by the golden hour. They fired up their beers and enjoyed watching the ducks swim in lazy circles.

Thread Count

2008-02-12T17:15:00.000-08:00

"...like something out of the book of Job" has been the line that people have enjoyed most over the past few days. I've been trying to describe what almost all of my clothed body looked like after an allergic reaction to an antibiotic. That line kills. You can use, is okay.

I'm still quite itchy although now I look a ton better, more along the scale of the damage caused by the worst episode of biting critters you've ever encountered. And yes, that is a ton better. The splotching and hives were spectacular, like a red, angry cheetah. Thought about posting a photo of any body part but decided it would do no good at all.

I took four days off to work through this (not quite done yet) and doped myself up with antihistimes and wore very soft clothing. I found out that a pattern printed on sheets is not comfortable in all skin states. I thought gingham was my friend....

***

I have a new job assignment. My company is converting a tired piece of software into fresher puppy and I'm the expert from my and another department. This should last around eight months. After that, I assume that they'll put me into a digital shredder and sell off the remaining 1's and 0's. How do I feel about the move? Should be worthwhile; a great way to learn what other departments do, mess with stuff and shape tomorrow's future! For the better! Really! I hope so, at least.

***

My heart clutched a bit when I saw a book on the bestseller list with an element in it like the one I'm writing. If the element was too close to mine, I'd be screwed.

Close but not close enough. I continue one. And no, it's not a Nora Roberts or Maeve Binchy book you bastards. Leave me alone.

***

Reader, I bought a couch. It's a simple leather thing from Macy's. It's some fake Italian name, Scolifiganlio, or some nonsense. That's because it's Macy's Natuzzi brand made in China. Great sits and I'm still trying to figure out how to use it.

***

My kitchen flooded due to a stopped drain common to our fourplex. Once again, nothing but respect to water and its ally, gravity. Two sets of plumbers visited, the first incompetent, the second competent. Why in this town do all plumbing services have "rooter" in their name?

***

While I was down with the scratches, I tried to watch a bit of daytime tv. Wow. You three regular readers know that I can watch me some crap. But the predominance of Court TV shows (four on six channels in the two time slices sampled) made me wonder about who watches this misery. What does it mean to their life? Do I want to live near them?

Not to be unkind to my new town, but it might have been instructive if one channel featured meth cases. But that's not the point, is it.

Time Machine

2008-01-19T19:47:00.000-08:00

Courtesy of the Cinemark Movie Theater in White City, I fell backwards in time. I could do a bit of research to pinpoint the date but it's not necessary. Rosy neon seen now, I suspect, only in bordellos, warmed the lobby and some vague memory.

The matinée of No Country for Old Men, the Coen Brothers latest film featured not only an old fashioned matinée time limit, 6pm, but the price for the matinée was $2.50. Yes, that's $2.50 American. With pricing like that, I felt duty bound to purchase the largest snack portions I could stomach. With bountiful Mediums purchased, the entire bill was under $10.

No Country was set in 1980, just about the era of the White City ("A Great Place to Live") Cinemark. White City (have I mentioned that it's a great place to live?) rose out of nothing in 1941 as Camp White where over 100,000 soldiers were trained for WWII. German P.O.W.s were housed there as well. Much better than being executed.

Sorry about the history lesson, that's the damn internet's fault.

This was the first film I've seen since I've moved to Medford and what a pleasant, competent surprise. Now that I know that watching a movie is cheap, I'll see more films, crappy and otherwise, than I've seen for years. Medford 1, Modernity 0.

Since someone will ask- yes, see it. That simple.

Guitar Town

2008-01-18T10:15:00.000-08:00

I am totally moved by Tennessee Blues from Steve Earle's new album. Thought you should know.

Whiskey Post

2008-01-12T23:40:00.000-08:00

Don't panic! I'm not tied to the whiskey post, or anything harmful or bluesy like that.

I wanted to take advantage of the many whiskeys I had tonight and write a bit while loose and disconnected. Not as stunning an experience as when I first dropped acid and wrote revelatory prose which, it turned out, saved the world. The whiskey infusion happened as I listened to a colleague's band, Red X.

One of the best things about the evening was that I got to stagger home from the event because they played tonight at the Hungry Woodsman, a few blocks from me. No shit. Well, technically, they're playing at the Buzz Saw Saloon, a subsidiary of HW, Inc. I was mightily tempted to purchase t-shirts and send them to my friends and family, all three of you who find yourself immersed in my life.

Rob, the colleague, is the guitarist for the band. He has a terrific, gymnastic mind and is quirky in the best way. Great to have him around. The trio, not surprisingly, brings a healthy sense of irony to their gigs. Based on one listen, they're at their best when they mix styles. For instance, they shredded a version of Play that Funky Music, White Fellow, that rocked (insert the devil horn sign here)! Always fun to go out an listen to tunes.

At one point, a nice young woman came to my table and asked me to dance. Well, of course. So I let thoughts about simple harmonic motion guide my legs as the song (Stray Cat's Strut) played and had a lovely dance from the not young, but no where near as old as me, woman. Let's face it, I am old and I will not be chasing those who are 15 years younger than me. Just a sweet, disconcerting moment in my funny little life.

***

Often, I have found that apartments too much resemble a hotel through the magic of whiskey eyes. Thankfully, that wasn't the case tonight. I don't think I would have enjoyed that much. When I came home, I quickly stripped, threw every swatch into the washer and jumped into the shower. I will be very happy when the smoking ban in 2009 takes effect. After toweling off, I immediately fired up the 'puter to communicate to you that, I drank, I listened, I danced and I showered. Thank God for blogging.

Guitar II

2008-01-06T23:24:00.001-08:00

Happy New Year!

Sorry about the lack of writing, that will change now that I've gotten through the demands of the holidays at my newish job. My focus has been myopic but that can now change a bit. Maybe biopic or triopic. Cool, third eye!

For those of you keeping count, my little family consists of two guitars now. One created for electrical outages, one to increase my carbon footprint. The new, manually powered model is silly as you can see but it's a real Gretsch and sounds and plays great. I don't trust my word on this but my colleagues who really love playing these cheap little fellows. Thank you special discount!

In all fairness, it does make real guitar sounds when others play it. So far, it dutifully spells out whatever sounds I attempt. The real guitar sounds are just around the corner. I can feel it! By the way, a square little plastic man named Korg keeps my guitar tuned. One eye glares red at me until I find an acceptable note. Then the other turns green. Kind of like David Bowie. What a funny job.

The packaging is just as silly as the guitar itself. The idea of learning how to play the guitar without learning attracted me, as you might suspect.

It's been a funny month. Kinda like reverse, first and overdrive were the only gears I used. Did I mention Park? A lot of Park. No great thoughts to be found here. Just a little notice that I still exist, that I'm not yet a threat to take food out of any gigging guitarist's mouth and that I've been working on a novel. You know, everyday life.

Self Mythology

2007-12-08T21:07:00.000-08:00

I've been on a meandering, semi-persistent quest to strip away some of my more destructive self deceptions. The problem I've found is that it's tricky to identify self deceptions from self mythologies. Let me 'splain.

In my best moments, I make this intuitive distinction about my potential. You know potential, that latent talent that most of your family and friends see in you. It's a funny thing to understand in a dissembling guy like me or psychotics. Okay, that's all harsh and everything, I know. But when does potential have to be downgraded to self deception? Or a kind of mass hysteria?

The question of when to stop has been my constant companion for the past few years. Possibly, it's the wrong question but I had to start somewhere. I'd not been happy with the turns of my life and I decided to dig in best I can. The process has been remarkably linear. First, calm my mind. Second, get stronger. Three, evaluate where I stand and what I like. Four, change change change.

Going well so far. By any standard, I've got a great job after a number of necessary failures. I'm a specific kind of calm which honestly I never thought was sustainable. I have a core of folks that I'm lucky to know. All good, no doubt. This is all massive, emotional hard-to-do territory and I've hung in there. I sometimes am pleased to realize that I am doing exactly what I need to.

That's it. Need versus want. The "what I like" step is trickier than I thought. I like plenty of stuff. A friend once suggested that I have a catholic sensibility and that's not far from wrong. I know that I've been too long vaguely intrigued by what others like to do. Part of me wonders whether that voyeuristic tendency was vestigial false politeness or overcaution. When less charitable, I'd call it fear. But I'm getting off course and vague.

What I like versus what I need. I've been thinking about this for a while, mainly due to the Rolling Stones. The intersection of what I like, what I need, what I want and my self mythologies finds it's best tangle in my quest to write. I've spent a ton of time writing, thinking about writing and learning to write in my past few years. Working in these disciplines simultaneously has provided unexpected lessons and parallels. Maybe I'll write about that someday. For now, I'm trying not to pull at the tangle. Maybe the knots will relax some if I leave them be. All this activity is based on the idea that being a writer isn't a self-deception but my grandest self mythology.

I am not alone in having an artistic impulse that is a struggle. It's common but conflicts with my current direction away from what brings me pain. I find some consolation (warning: I am not comparing myself to VvG in any way) from a line in John Updike's review of Vincent Van Gogh: Painted with Words: The Letters to Emile Bernard. "Writing came easily to Van Gogh; he confided to his correspondent that he found it 'restful and diverting' after a long day of struggling with the evasive nuances of portraiture."

At a future date, I hope that my blobs of paint are restful diversions after a long day of doing my own writing struggle thing. I hope that my self mythology (okay, self deception) will be about me as a painter, not a writer. I can't say that I've adequately explained what I set out to. No matter.

Now, here's a nice picture for you to look at.

Rest, Van Halen-style

2007-12-02T20:28:00.001-08:00

The three of you, my readers, know that I've been busy lately, due to fun and work. That's a challenge for the delicate boy who's newly returned to the work world, one that I anticipated and have prepared for. Meditation, mindfulness and a bunch of other things have helped me keep an even keel.

The good news is that while the preparation for a calm, energized life is real enough, my commitment remains skin-deep. I've had to adjust my activity/rest plans on the fly because of opportunities that come my way. Many would define that as "life."

After a busy three weeks -Kansas City, Seattle- I was really looking forward to a calm weekend of calm, writing, cooking and calm- the basic regenerations. Calm. Late Friday afternoon, one of our directors pulled me into a conference room and closed the door. I am an optimist so I expected something good. "I know it's short notice, but would you like to go to Portland and see Van Halen on Saturday?" Ha, it was something good!

Another director rented a Ford Canyonero ("smells like a steak and seats 35") and we headed off to Portland on Saturday morning. We met our vendor benefactors at Doug Fir, a sweet eatery, downed some nouveau comfort food and headed to the Rose Garden to shed a few unwanted hertz of hearing range. Mission accomplished. Plus, the upper registers of human hearing are WAY overrated.

Great show. Those old dudes sure can bring it. David Lee Roth was an adrenilated version of Captain Stubing (from the Love Boat, not Salton Sea). Eddie just ripped the place apart. What a monster! The sound quality was typical arena fare: loud and distorted when the whole band was playing. When Eddie soloed, it was fine and he was locked into making noise on a massive scale. Noise- good.

As loud as the PA system was, the crowd was often louder. Early on, Dave (he is our buddy, after all) asked, "Are you having half as much fun as we are?" The answer appeared to be yes. Those guys were having a ton of fun. It was a thrill to see them breathing fire and enjoying themselves so much. We had fun too. Not just because of the cocktails, or the witty banter or because we tried to see how many people we could fit into our rolling warehouse on the way to the concert.

The younger folks among us had the extended-play version of concert fun. They went to the hotel bar after the concert (no, not me. I said "younger"), encountered guys who wanted to fight, a vomit-covered women's restroom and a fellow, face down on the floor, who'd been mugged in the men's room. Now, that's good times. I was quite happy for their near misses but glad I'd opted out. Been there, done many of that.

So today, I'm a bit yawny and will go to bed early. Monday, I'll begin my restful period. Really. Nothing ever happens on Mondays at work after a soothing Van Halen weekend, right?

Arrival

2007-11-17T11:08:00.000-08:00

The discerning reader might have figured out that my guitar has arrived. It's pretty although don't be fooled. It's a mighty shredding machine. The astute among you will notice that it's missing the toggle switch knob. I'll have to go knob shopping.

It's just pretty and I don't have much to say. Yes, the neck is straight, not warped. I just don't have the camera that will do the little mother of pearl moon inlays justice. If I've learned anything today, I now know that it's difficult to take picture of glossy things.

Kansas City, Here I Come

2007-11-12T18:12:00.000-08:00

I spent last week in Kansas City, Missouri, helping with our distribution center. Lots of hours, lots of dirt, lots of success.

No need for work details. My partner and I made a big dent and as critical as I am, I can't imagine a better outcome.

Did I mention the new guitar? When it arrives, I'll take some pics. I will spare you any practice downloads though for at least a year. Promise.

Power

2007-11-05T19:19:00.000-08:00

In my high school physics class (you know, the one with the greasy-potato-chips-on-the-brown-paper-sack experiment), power was defined as the ability to do work. I was always charmed by that imprecise definition just as I was by the Euclidean definition of a point: a point is that which has no part.

I'm not just spouting my high school education to impress. The reason I'm talking about power and work is because I had begun to doubt my abilities. It's been years since I felt good about my contribution to my workplace. After my brief, horrible tenure at that newspaper, I thought that I might have devolved into a half-assed working person. In my perspective and history, there's not much worse.

There are stories out there of my past ability to do tremendous amounts of work. Okay, there's mostly stories that I tell but they're more or less real. At one working establishment, it was not unusual for a few folks to gather around to watch me work. They decided that it would be counterproductive to pitch in.

While I'm not old, I'm not young. Some of you out there might be feeling mortal too. Not a bad thing, just a spur to figure out the fine points of living well. But the nagging pattern of disengagement in my recent career was not the kind of spur I expected.

Well, this might be anti-climactic. But I'm alright. I've spent time scraping away a lot of personal rust, adding a few skills and figuring out how to find a job that I'd like. Not a surprise that my work energy is good, my focus keeps getting sharper and I've got some fire back. It feels good, being back in the mix, having the feeling that things matter. Now that's power.

Halloween

2007-10-31T20:14:00.000-07:00

You might have expected a few photos of 'treaters but no. Just a quick story.

Tonight, I sat here with my pumpkin full of candy, all excited about giving it away. No such luck. The late afternoon melted into evening and zip. Nothing. And feeling a bit bad because I snacked on a few items in spite of my fancy meal plan.

As it was getting a bit on, I was just about to shut down Operation "Save-me-from-myself" when the doorbell rang.

A lovely nuclear family yelled the traditional greeting and I was happy to be facing gaping pillow sacks. "We are SO glad that you were here," the dad said. "We just came from the mall where ALL the stores had only tootsie rolls to give away. Can you believe it? So we left the mall to go to the neighborhoods and nothing. Finally, we saw your pumpkin light and there you go!"

I asked the little girls to take many handfuls to save my colleagues at work. Their tiny little hands grabbed and grabbed. Made the dad and mom grab too. The whole thing felt speedy and a bit frenzied. I think that all the adults were relieved that sugar had passed from hand to hand. We could tuck ourselves (and our kids) in for the coming winter, with some ghosty bargain kept.

breadbasket

2007-10-28T23:25:00.001-07:00

"Right in the ole breadbasket" is one of my favorite descriptions pointing to the mid-body. I like that phrase but I've never liked "bun in the oven." That's always grossed me out. Since I don't have an oven, I'm going to talk about my breadbasket. More specifically, what I put into it.

As you my three readers know, I've been working out a bit since I've been in Medford. My goal is to be able to tool around without pain and maybe with some power and grace. So I'm semi-hard at work lifting weights, aerobicizing, revising my diet. My trainer (Remember the old days when your coach would exhaust you for free?) provided a weekly menu for the next hunk of time so I can shed a few fats while I build a few muscles.

I went shopping for my week's menu yesterday and I have to admit that it was an unsettling experience. My intentions are good: strict adherence to each prescribed snack and meal for the next six weeks. Buying a exact week's worth of food at a time was a bit disconcerting - three oranges, 70 grapes (no shit), two carrots. My shopping kart was pretty full. Sure, I bought a few staples that will last for weeks, if not months. But most of the load will be consumed in one week.

It was sobering to think that I ingest that volume of food in a week's time. The sense of volume worked two ways for me: first, the plain old size of the pile in front of me; second, that my body (aka, my digestive tubes) was going to have to deal with that pile of food. It was also sobering to know that it tallies up to far fewer calories than I normally eat. Soylent Green apparently is packed with calories. The ghost of my usual fare was crafting a greasy indictment to stop this madness.

I can't say whether this was a meaningful exercise or not. As I shopped among the folks in halloween costumes, many of them skeletons, I felt right at home. I had some empathy for what that hot dog eating champion must feel like every time he competes: "That pile is going into my body? What in the hell was I thinking?

distinction

2007-10-24T20:32:00.000-07:00

Being still is not the same as being motionless.

"Inspiration is for amateurs"

2007-10-22T20:33:00.000-07:00

I was happy that I got the chance to hang out with one member of our rapidly-aging boomer population this weekend. Birthdays were had, dinners were eaten and art was seen.

The Portland Giftshop of Art featured a knock-out exhibition entitled: Chuck Close Prints: Process and Collaboration. I'm not going to attempt to review this amazing show. Go to the show or check out the companion book. Me, I'm simply going to mention what Chuck said in the video Chuck Close: Close Up: "I think that the problem that you create is more interesting than the problem that you have to solve."

(By the way, I'm typically not a fan of watching video in museums when you've got the damn art on the walls. But this was a fascinating look into a unique life in art that helped amplify what was on the walls.) (By the way, I do apologize for all the hyperlinks.)

The problem you create. I'm working on that right now.

Slice of Life

2007-10-15T21:15:00.000-07:00

Much of what I do I consider to be self-indulgent. You don't have to tally the score too carefully to come to that conclusion. That's not a brag, for God's sake. It's more an admission of ability or capacity. With that said....

Today, I'd like to report on some of the happenings of my day. This isn't meant for you voyeurs, although I hope that you do enjoy. It's more because I thought I had a peculiar day today.

I rolled out of bed late this morning after interesting dreams about bugs, dread and volcanoes. Many I love were in the dream so it was must-see TV for me. Plus, volcanoes, lava and peril! What's not to love? Whipped myself into the shower, conditioned my hair, took off too much skin from my face. Wolfed down the blueberries I prepared the night before with some yogurt and I was out the door.

Annoyed, my car has flipped a computer chip. It wants to rev in short sharp cycles between 1000 and 2000 rpm. It does that for two minutes, then decides that it has overheated. I blast the heater on full and the sensors sense that all is in balance. A minute later, I'm at work. Car's in the shop tomorrow.

Today, a team huddle in our VP's office, neither routine. An announcement about someone up the food chain who apparently was given the boot this a.m. "Not about going private. Nothing to do with a blood-letting now that we've gone private." A good thing to say but just a couple hours later, another quick huddle about another person who was let go. A guy right near me. Not his choice either.

I'll miss him. Once a day, he'd pick up a guitar and play some Stevie Ray Vaughan. He's been working on "Cold Shot" especially hard. Too bad. Really too bad.

After, I was doing my normal routine, ordering stuff, tending to small fires and I looked up and it was time for lunch. YES! I love lunch, for those of you who never know what to get me. I plotted the range of my differently-abled car and went home for lunch. Too much football impeded my ability to find exciting lunch food on Sunday. So I vacuumed the fridge and ate what I collected.

During lunch, I read about the dominance of the Patriots, those sneaky Blackwater folks, and about the new CD releases I wasn't going to buy. The point is that the newspaper is still the best thing to read at lunch. Period. It's all smudgy.

A few triumphs after lunch. At one point, I threw my arms up into the air to celebrate something that I did correctly, with knowing how to do it. Two or three people were looking at me funny so I told them that I had just done something spectacular. They mercifully didn't ask for details.

As I worked late in the day, the internet kept me current with the Indian's game. The internet coverage was a fine parallel to watching a real game. Not much happened really, and bloggers were yakking about stuff while they waited for stuff to happen. Just like a real broadcast.

I worked 'til a bit before six and went home to watch the game. In a fit of madness, I ordered delivery pizza and talked with Mom. She wasn't watching the game because her watching is a well-known jinx factor. I ditched her when the pizza arrived and I was very excited! My first Medford delivery pizza! It was just as fabulous or craptastic as any but I kept loading slab A into slot B, happy as a clam who eats pizza.

At sometime during the 8th inning, as the Indian's pitcher faced the Sox's best, I stupidly let my guard down and began to believe that the Tribe could win this thing. What is wrong with me? I din't buy Ohio State backing into the top BCS spot this week. Why wasn't I strong enough to keep the Indians at bay too? O stupid Northeastern Ohio sporting fan! Every season, every year, every decade, the same: "Bernie will save us! Tim will save us! Brady will save us!" Rinse and repeat for each Cleveland major league team. 1) Insert hopes into crushing device. 2) Crush.

Now I'm sitting here typing this, full of pizza, full of stupid hope and thinking about lava. I don't want the lava to get my friends, my teams or my fine collection of rocks. I really am hoping that the lava doesn't start flowing near me. I'm wearing cheap red ikea slippers which, in spite of their redness, would be no match for lava. Honestly, I'm am too loaded down with pizza for me to care about eluding hot flowing magma and besides, I've got a two games to one ALCS lead. Why should I worry about a little lava?

Nostalgia Again

2007-10-07T14:26:00.000-07:00

I'm no more immune from the pleasures and traps of nostalgia than anyone. Nor would I want to be.

Today's aromatic topic: chicken and rice.

Lately I've been having strong visualizations and scent memories of Grandma Fieata's chicken and rice. My memory is spotty enough that I can't claim to be certain if I'm even remembering that this was her dish, rather than Mom's. (Sorry Mom.) For someone who really likes food, that's a surprising admission. What I do remember is how all of that chicken fat (and butter too?) created something fattening and beautiful.

The good news: my re-creation of this chicken and rice memory was successful. Tasty even with brown rice and I suspect loads less fat. I can't say precisely what in me was getting fed.

It's not unlike me to remember a swirl of sensations without an anchor. Often, what is the essence remains ghostly for me. The only solid thing I remember here is the electric pan. This tired warhorse was called into service for chicken and rice as well as kidneys and rice, if I remember correctly.

Kidneys and rice wasn't just a budget choice. The Italian folks I grew up with had a sincere love for the internal organ. And skin too, as long as it was roasted crispy. I always felt deep down that eating organs was just taking it a bit too far. Kidneys struck too clinical a chord for me, but I liked the texture so I ate them anyway. This food acceptance was unusual for me, one of the pickier child eaters on the planet. This was a clear exception to my dainty eating patterns. Maybe it was a perception that as misfit as I was, if I ingested organ meat, I'd not be completely non-ethnic. Even Grandma's stunning venison heart in marinara couldn't get me completely over this visceral hump.

I'm surprised that I've not been overwhelmed by these savory flashes of nostalgia since I find myself in Medford, Oregon rather than Seattle, Northeastern Ohio or any other place. When you sincerely try to change your life, every little life thing is open to inspection, every gain, every loss. Memories rub up against me and give me pause and I move on. I have to in spite of the invitation to each specific lovely longing. Nostalgia is fine. I accept it as a type of quick warm memory but I have to take care not to warp it into an inaccurate emotional mythology.

It's kinda like being continually visited by a version of Scrooge's spirits of the Past, Present and Future. What happened versus what do I think happened. I am not Scrooge, thankfully; and the Ghost of Christmas Future no longer has its claws in my bones. I'd say, metaphorically, and at the risk of too much schmaltz, that Tiny Tim is still living and there's enough coal to warm the future. On this Christmas morning, that fine young lad brought me just a few chicken parts, not the biggest bird in the shop. But that seems enough for now.

Backyard

2007-09-30T19:19:00.000-07:00

The apartment front yard is nothing to write home about:

Nice sky today though.

Now the backyard is something different.

For those concerned...my rocks made it to Medford in fine shape.

Taming the Wild Corrrugation

2007-09-22T20:54:00.000-07:00

For those concerned, I've beaten back the onslaught of cardboard. It's isolated to one holding pen, known as room #2 or more descriptively, the middle room.

That means that I now have some sense of how my junk fits into my space. The score: space 1, junk 0. Perhaps that's not a fair evaluation but it's Saturday night and I'm typing a blog entry. My junk has really stepped it up and filled a lot of square footage. My junk is the man.

The real news is that I found my camera. Literally the last box I opened. Of course I had a special box within a box that had all the stuff from my table including my camera. It's still charged up and I'll take it out tomorrow and snap some pics of Medford, my apartment and post something poetic and lovely.

I've been working now for two weeks. I like them; they seem to like me. I'm enjoying learning new systems and processes within a new industry. I will at some point be able to call myself a supply chain professional. I can call myself anything really. Specs will probably do for most of you.

The surprise for me is everything is going as planned. To a startling degree, in fact. No big surprises, good or bad. The one thing that I underestimated was my commute. Not its length. But that it is not consequential. Five minutes, honest, and I'm at work. Since we're encouraged to keep holy the 5pm end of the day, I often find myself home at 5:10, without any commuting effect. Sweet.

You might be wondering about my emotional life. I'd normally indulge in some histrionics about the wonders of my emotional life but not right now, thanks. I have been on a pretty even keel. Meditating helps and I've started at the gym again. Now that many pieces are in place, I expect to get writing, drawing, all of those arty things.

In the category of things that I can't believe, I will be buying curtains for one of my windows. I think. It's strange that I'd want to do this not under any duress of a team of design martinets. Or at least a posse from Pottery Barn. But I am going to do such a thing in my bedroom. There's something satisfying about imagining a tidy little machine precision geared for my deep sleep. The kind of precision only voile or or velvet can bring.

You started reading this with visions of roiling cardboard and you've been sullied by a man telling you about drapery. That's one thing about the blog: you know that such depravity is possible but you just don't think it will reach into your world. Please forgive me.

Intermet!

2007-09-15T01:14:00.000-07:00

One of the silly-ass things I'll miss about Seattle is the Vern Fonk commercial with the pitchman who calls Al Gore's series of tubes, "the intermet." But that's not why I'm writing.

I'm writing because I can. The intermet is up and running here in Medford. You might argue that I don't need the internet to write a nice little thingie. The chosen dear diary format has made me what I am today. It's a manageable size which has kept me writing.

My purpose today is to check in and report on my first week, which went very well. The one thing I've noticed with this job versus the job at the Times of Seattle: Here, I'm enduring training and I'm itching (or is it scratching) to get to the actual work. Reversed at the Times: the best part of my day was the training. I hope that's a positive indicator. Maybe the most positive sign is that I am interested and engaged.

As each person in my world runs through another system, procedure or hunk of info, I've been able to find something that needs attention. That might mean that there's a lot that needs attention or that I like the problems in front of me. A bit of both probably. I like to think of myself as attentive and starting to control my universe.

I've gotten myself into what I thought I was getting myself into: a dynamic company with growing pains; an intelligent, warm, professional group of co-workers. It feels like I'll undergo a skills upgrade since the general level of systems competence is so high here. That I welcome. Overall, I couldn't ask for much more. That's good news indeed. Yup, it's still early in the game but I'm hoping for a long tenure here.

Medford itself still isn't on my map. I have a thin little slice of perception centered around my main drag, Biddle Road. Biddle gives me what I need: groceries (Fred Meyer), coffee & books (Starbucks and Barnes & Noble), and Oz Fitness (for a less creaky me). Just up the way, Costco provides gas at good prices which must be pumped by Trained Oregonians. It's the law. Really.

I'm typing from my middle bedroom. Typical apartment: living room box, 2nd bedroom box, master bedroom box in a tidy row. The middle room is the stillest of the three so that's where the books and the 'puter live. As I get settled in, I hope to be in here daily, piling words on words. For now, I'm happy to be in a room that isn't wild with corrugation.

I'm ready for bed; off to box three.

Arrival

2007-09-08T11:48:00.000-07:00

Just a brief note: I've arrived in Medford in one piece.

The new pad is enormous and I'll adjust to its sizeness eventually. That's one thing that I've trained assiduously for as an American. The movers haven't shown yet so tonight I'm going to stay in a hotel rather than sleep on the floor. About the move, it's amazing that I've amassed nearly 2400 lbs of crap, according to the movers. I suppose it's mostly weighty Ikea composite woods, books and as some can attest, too many carefully cultivated rocks from area beaches.

But that's given me time to explore the hood a bit. I am within a city block of a Barnes & Noble/Starbucks. In the same path, you'll find the DMV, Marie Calendar's and a Castle Adult Entertainment Superstore. Now that's a fine selection of services!

Not much more to say tonight. I'm off to bed, got a schedule to keep! Hope your dreams are sweet ones.

New Job

2007-08-24T21:57:00.000-07:00

Spent Thursday through Saturday in Medford, Oregon, seeing the man about a job.

There's a large retailer that talked I with about a purchasing position. Went well, liked 'em, they liked me, they hired me. It looks like a pretty good thing. I'll be leaving Seattle on the 7th or 8th of September.

Let's say that I've come to terms with leaving. Let's say that I've been coming to terms about what's best for me for the past few years. I am slow, what can I say. That decision looks ludicrously easy: I'm going to do the best thing for me. You all know what an obvious, difficult idea that is.

There's a provocative book, Stumbling into Happiness, that explores how poorly we humans are at imagining our future. Malcolm Gladwell provides an enticing synopsis for Amazon.com if you're interested.

Dan Gilbert makes one jolly claim in Stumbling that is disturbing. We don't make good decisions about the future because, in part, we think that we as individuals, are unique. It's not difficult to imagine what will make us happy. There are plenty of role models. He makes a long nuanced argument about this and I think that his conclusions makes common sense.

As I've torn apart my individuality over the past two years, I know that I've invested heavily in a pride about my specialness and it's hurt me. Not to worry, I'm not turning into a square peg for a square hole. The deal here is that some things have gotten clearer, less special, more precious. The lessons are dirt humble. I'd only feel comfortable sharing them sitting with a glass of whiskey as a boozy cover. Here's to finding a place in Oregon with some comfortable chairs for the next time I see you.

Automagic

2007-08-24T19:32:00.000-07:00

Indulge me, for a minute, about one of life's great pleasures: the mystical, uninterrupted drive across the city. During rush hour. In Seattle. AND upon arriving home, I snagged the closest street parking at my building.

Circumnavigating (okay, I know that's incorrect but there's got to be some giant important-sounding term employed here: "citynavugating" maybe?) downtown unstopped, from Queen Anne to Capitol Hill is an awesome feat.

Typically, it's a fifteen minute drive, lots of lights, always some snarls. Ten minutes is good. I made it in around five minutes. Of course there's some luck involved, but I changed lanes seven times to preempt any left hand turners, buses, or flow-eating queues.

This was a thing of beauty. Paradoxically, it was over so quickly it only registered as I was on the final leg, going up the hill. I guess that's how it works in the zone. I would be the last person to tell those other drivers to "Eat my carbon footprint," but I am pretty happy about my little trip.

Clippings, Part II

2007-08-10T13:14:00.000-07:00

My new favorite Rupert Murdoch mouthpiece, the Wall Street Journal, has this amazing, creepy story about the online fantasy land, Second Life. Who needs bodysnatchers when we've got ourselves?

http://online.wsj.com/article/SB118670164592393622.html?mod=hpp_us_leisure

Harry Potter in China, Part II

2007-08-10T13:11:00.000-07:00

The NY Times ran a nice set of excerpts from various Harry Potter knockoffs wandering around in China.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/08/10/opinion/10potter.html?_r=1&oref=slogin

Strap yourself onto your traipsing manteau and enjoy.

Patience, Fretting, Impatience

2007-08-09T12:57:00.000-07:00

Kenny Rogers still provides the most useful structure for decision-making in my world. You know: hold 'em, fold 'em; walk away, run. Maybe I'd adopt a more awesome rule like Kant's Categorical Imperative if I had a clue about what it means.

For now, I'll stick with the Yes/No, On/Off, Dog/Cat, Coke/Pepsi world of oppositions that Kenny hath wrought.

No more ado: patience is my new virtue. You could consider it a sister art of being methodical, which is also a newish trick that I've been attempting. Something like Patience is being methodical while being challenged.

My final drawing class was last night. Friends, drawing is patience. More than anything, I learned that no matter how gifted a draftsman you are, drawing takes time, mistakes and more time.

Our challenge last night was to produce a shaded drawing of a spot-lit plaster cast of a human foot. My perspective caused a severe angle with a scrunched view of the toes and shadows that made the bottom shape subtle, elusive. My reaction to my first quick outline was that it was horrible. Not the way to do it. The better way to think here is that this is the start, the sculpture underneath has yet to be revealed.

So after helpful advice from the instructor, I kept carving and different parts started to look footish. This poor person still had terrible problems with his toes (industrial accident? land mine? kickboxing?) which were bunchy and alien.

Round two of advice: see the big toe as one block, the rest of the toes as another. Get the shapes right, then worry about the detail. Okay. This was still hard but I blocked in the shapes using reference points to align the parts correctly. Wow! The swelling in the foot was reduced and the patient had a chance of keeping his appendage.

I could continue with tales of getting stumped, figuring it out or getting help. The point is that drawing complex things is hard. It is difficult. Every time. The only solution is to try. You then get closer or not. You do it again and again. You build in giant mistakes while you learn to see and get your arm under control. I expect that as I continue, I will make just as many mistakes, they will most often be more refined.

This was patience in action. Kept making marks until I felt stuck. Got impatient, called for help. Did not fret. Fretting no good. Fretting is not movement, it's being stalled. If there was no help, I looked harder and then made more mistakes. The positive person in me thinks it's more like focusing binoculars. When you put them to your eyes, do you toss them down in frustration if you can't see? No, you adjust them until you can see.

There are no shortcuts here. I had continued to hope for them, fretting all the while, fearing the irreparable mistake, staying stalled. Silly man, it's all about the mistakes, the attempts to get it. I want to be like those guys hanging in museums, passing time with my pencils and paper, hands and eyes. I want to keep correcting, sharpening my focus, taking the time to find my subject in all its breathtaking clarity.

Farmers' Market

2007-07-29T13:46:00.000-07:00

I've given up on thinking too hard about blog punctuation. "Farmer's or Farmers'?" You bright people know the answer. I would too if I weren't so wiped out.

I spent part of this overcast day in the gym moving plates of weight up and down and side to side. By God I think that this is one of the silliest things I do given that there's always real work to be done.

After, I wobbled toward home and cut through the farmers' market. A skyline of scrubbed beets, carrots and tomatoes competed for altitude and I thought of my Grandma Fieata. Her life was a continual farmers' market of few boundaries. Whether it was dandelions in the spring, berries in the summer, a local produce stand or her own overstuffed garden, she was always on the look out for the holy grail: fresh healthy looking produce cheap.

She would have loved the eye-popping selection at the Capital Hill market. I can't imagine how she would have reacted to the prices but let's just let that go. She might have been bewildered by the Lemon Cucumber. The name's about the shape and exterior, not the taste, if you were wondering.

Me, I thought of how lovely it would be to pick all the cucumbers out of her tomato salad again while she looked on in dismay. Then employ some good Italian bread for the juice. So that's what I'm doing in just a minute. (Please note, none of the pictures of the salad were crisp. I think I was ready to eat.)

Inspiration

2007-07-26T09:58:00.000-07:00

Many of you probably don't know that one of my life goals has been to be awarded an honorary doctorate degree from THE Ohio State University. Frankly, I've not made much progress on that front. Now, after reading about Brian May in today's news, I might strike the honorary degree from my list.

Unless you're a big-time guitar fan, you probably don't know who Brian May is. But you have heard him play, he was the screaming guitarist for Queen. Almost impossible to not to have heard their jolly noise! May became a headline because of his brain and what he made it do. Below is the note from today's New York Times.

Brian May, 60, who abandoned his studies more than 30 years ago to found the rock group Queen, has returned to his first love: astrophysics. Mr. May, best known as a guitarist and songwriter, said that within the next two weeks he plans to submit his doctoral thesis, “Radial Velocities in the Zodiacal Dust Cloud,” to supervisors at Imperial College London, The Associated Press reported. He was an astrophysics student there when the glam rock band Queen, including Freddie Mercury and Roger Taylor, was formed in 1970. As a result of the band’s success, Mr. May put aside his doctoral studies. He told the BBC he had always wanted to complete his degree. “It was unfinished business,” he said. “I didn’t want an honorary Ph.D. I wanted the real thing that I worked for.”

Well, crap- in a good way, I guess. Now I have little reason to whine about the difficulty of going back to school or to angle for an honorary degree from O.S.U. Just time to get to it and enjoy the work.

Ellipses

2007-07-22T23:53:00.000-07:00

No, this isn't another exhausting metaphor. It's really about ellipses. Really.

On Wednesday evenings, I've been taking an intro to drawing class. After dabbling around with paint for the past hunk of time, I felt like I hit the wall because I could no longer do what I wanted to. No enough skill, couldn't see how to get from point f to point m. More learning required.

Very basic stuff is what I'm learning- measuring, making lines, learning materials. Our class has been locked in a two week battle against the cube, cylinder, sphere. They're surprisingly resilient foes. We make one adjustment after another but we have yet to draw these shapes well, except for this bored teenage kid.

One of the many tricks necessary to learn is how to draw the ellipsis (the round ends of the cylinder). The key to making circles in various squished states is that they are always round. So you make a drawing like a tornado and you'll be making the correct shape. For some of us, this is an activity worth pursuing. For most, it's yet more evidence of something vaguely weird.

Today, I drew an embarrassing number of ellipses at differing widths. This practice happened after I'd been doing over an hour of drawing exercises already. The miracle is that after my first few dozens, I made a number of ellipses that were proportionate, delicate and pure. It was like making a snowflake out of dishwater. Delightful.

Cats

2007-07-15T20:16:00.000-07:00

My main concern has been coming home after one of these 100 degree days and finding that Emmitt has been turned into furry jerky. Didn't happen. You can employ the phrase "Hot enough for ya?" without any irony with him. A few times, he rested in the sink, but I think mainly for variety.

When the mercury dipped under 90, time to huddle up, conserve warmth. The kitty is a generous soul. Not only was he willing to share precious body heat, he would douse me daily with a ration of fur. Nothing but pity for the hairless among us. I typically looked like a wig factory exploded on me.

One of the breakout toys of his visit: the broken popsickle stick. That seemed to fire his imagination, although not as potently as the shoestring that I took from my old sneakers. He did like that and I'd burn about 20 minutes per day flopping that thing around. Exhausting. The picture below is a simulation of what it is like when E is hunting for prey. He's still, then Wham! - as quick as you can say George Michael, he's on it.

I think I'm turning Chinese

2007-07-13T08:49:00.000-07:00

Not really. Plus I'd have to learn Chinese and I still have problems with the English.

But I just heard NPR's twist on Harry Potter reporting which concerned the difficulties of bringing this final tome out in the Chinese language. The upshot is that it takes at least three months to translate the real thing. Pirates can create something in five days. This leads to a strange and delightful fact in Chinese publishing: the totally made up translation.

Bill Clinton's memoir was cited as an example. Below is an excerpt from Kitabkhana, a literary blog:

Clinton's memoirs have been sanitised by China's translators and book pirates.
The counterfeit edition of Clinton's book, My Life, starts with a memorable line: "The town of Hope, where I was born, has very good feng shui."
Another story reports:
Out went: "I was concerned about China's continued suppression of basic freedoms" and "I went to bed thinking that China would be forced by the imperatives of modern society to become more open."
In came: "She (Hillary) was as beautiful as a princess. I told her my name is Big Watermelon" and "China is a mysterious and unique place."

How can you beat that! Suddenly, I'm interested in biography again.

Humans 2

2007-07-12T22:44:00.001-07:00

i confess that i never tire of a rousing game of kill the snake. the human did well today and i learned something about their charming ways.

first the real news is that boxes must have some life giving importance to humans. and that the snake must be their animal familiar not cats. heres why i think this. today the human went into a large box and grabbed one of the boxes that cover his feet. i dont remember seeing it before but the foot boxes are held on his feet by snakes. so he has snakes that go into his mouth each night snakes that hold boxes onto his feet and i swear to tiger that he ate a plate of snakes the other day. funny how all eating is round for them.

the box must be sacred. today i watched him take a flat box, shake a wand onto it and some pattern emerged. he called it homework for a drawing class. i dont understand any of that. you know that they collect my droppings in a box. by st. francis there arent enough claws in christendom to count all the boxes this human has.

but im a bit off the subject.

the human takes the snake from his shoe and it is one of the biggest snakes ive encountered. it smelled like the snakes from the time before we lived inside. he watched protectively as i kept trying to kill the snake but he kept saving its life. he tries to kill me by making me eat the detritus from the nuggets but wont let me hurt his precious snake. get this he must have gotten scared for it. he did what. he put it into a box away from my teeth. jesus its just a snake. theyre made for killing.

at least he lets me hunt and thats good. he probably thinks that i wouldnt hurt his precious snake. he doesnt understand how it works. maybe he will keep bringing out bigger snakes. does he think we making friends. one of these times ill kill one of those thin bastards to make a point. hed probably not let me eat it and put it in a box somewhere.

Humans

2007-07-09T14:04:00.000-07:00

one of my humans is probably one of the stupidest humans on record. i am stuck at his den, betrayed by my other human. why this happens i cant say. the humans have physical abilities that they seem to use just because they can. would you put someone into a little box that goes into a rolling box to move him to another box. i didnt think so. it makes no sense. not even to birds i bet.

this human to tell you what he is about is not the brightest. it took him weeks of vacant stares until he understood that i want water from the water fountain. id tell him explicitly and he would just stare. sometimes he would notice that things went better once he turned on the fountain. the human has such a precarious grasp of cause and effect. cant they see how their lives bloom when cats are around.

hes iffy this one. most times hes good about the water. not consistent yet. it is baffling and amusing that he immerses himself under the giant fountain occasionally. he must be crippled in some fundamental way to let that happen. he must be very very thirsty. or sick perhaps. he puts lion awful medicines onto his body and in his mouth every day. its sad.

he does have one routine that i honestly cant conceive. he puts a snake into his mouth almost every day. his mouth somehow kills it judging by the snakes smell when its dead. he will then dangle it and i kill it proper. the human has a box of snakes he keeps in a box near the fountain. how do they do these things. it must be an instinct evolution must have taught them this. a miracle.

its not all bad. this one is very warm and that is good. my paws are like snow most of the time. this human has richer smells than the other and has not lost the ability to hunt which seems to plague the other one. still he insists on feeding me these stale little meat bones when he often has the real thing in front of him. again i think he might be weak because he never eats kill. he changes it by drying it with heat and putting more medicine on it. there are a lot of boxes involved one very hot one very cold another full of medicines in small glass bottles. most times some mixture of these boxes go into one of the boxes and its very confusing. i dont know how he can go on like that.

another good thing. the humans understand that being together in a pile is how it works. that is the most reassuring thing. it gives me hope that they might understand some day.

i think that they must be a bit crazy because they often use their bulk to move me from their gaze. it makes me a bit queasy to watch their stunted little legs do this. maybe thats why they put snakes and medicines in their mouths. tell me how any of this makes any sense. but as our people say what are you going to do.

Turning

2007-07-01T21:58:00.000-07:00

I've been saying it for a bit now: I've turned the battleship around. You know the battleship. It's the heavy, irresistible thing that was pointed in a direction long ago. Easier to stay the course, if I may sound like Bush Sr. for a moment. Why I didn't realize I was off course, well....

Say that's true- the ship's momentum is stopped now -how do I proceed? Can't just fire up the engines again and point myself somewhere. I know that I can't yet chart a true course. Hell, I'm not sure if I'm in the ocean, a pond or a wading pool. Whatever body of water I'm in, I decided to be patient, to sit and pay attention. Willing to turn off the autopilot and tease out the details around me. I'll judge which direction I should head in, correct course as needed, wanted.

This is all about something simple. I might choose well and I might make mistakes but I am going to decide. Teenagers, adults, mid-life crisists, and elders make this kind of life-stage declaration, this strategic rebellion. Maybe it's not even as grand as turning a battleship, more like a cruise ship. You can layer rust into the comparison as well. So much to maintain and shine.

God knows that I no longer need a ship of that size, insulation and protection, guns or no. I want to offload what I need and want onto a more personal, nimble craft. I want to feel the bump of consequence and know that it happened because I pointed myself there.

Have I described this change accurately? Whether this has been a hopeful whisper to myself, the real deal or just a wet finger in the air, I can't say with any confidence. But I am the guy who's sitting here floating, looking: waiting to turn.

Ingredients

2007-06-24T17:06:00.000-07:00

After talking with the newly named "Supreme Auntie Mary Jo," I started thinking about the meaning of ingredients.

She and I were talking about the novelty that many children have when they discover that foods aren't always the thing in itself. I don't think that's an unusual discovery for many kids. When a child first encounters the idea that jam isn't picked from the jam tree, Coke isnt' siphoned from Coke Lake, it is startling.

There are consequences to this lack of information. Jam is a great example since so much jam is just sugar, fruited up. The consumption of Cokes and candies would suffer greatly if a label visualizing the volume of ingredients were on the package.

At some point, I started thinking about how you decide what the ingredients will be. I cook improvisationally so I get this in a deepish way, I hope. Recipes, ingredients, come from learning standards and taste curiosity. For cooks, a question gets lodged somewhere in them and helps form their cooking and eating identity. Usually the question is seemingly harmless like "What would happen if I added this? What would that taste like?" Man, that opens a can of corn, so to speak. You can't stuff that Pandora back into her box once she's on the scene.

So typically, an ingredient is a question answered or an experiment that will provide an answer or at least clarity. Nope, no more popcorn casseroles, as an acquaintance found out.

You, my three loyal readers, know that I keep trying to exhaust the stores of metaphors available in English. I keep thinking that if I find the perfect one, then the merry-go-round of Life will start spitting brass rings at me. With any luck, not at a high velocity.

In my current store of recipes, I've been ticking off the ingredients and finding the roster a bit tired. What to add, what to take away? More than that, I've been gripped with the fear that I might have missed key ingredients that I don't even know exist. Maybe that's a natural consequence of just asking the question. Maybe it might do me well to enjoy the meal in front of me, take it with, you know....

Hydrangeas

2007-06-18T12:26:00.000-07:00

Score one for Proust! Hydrangeas just crashed in on me.

As I was walking aimlessly on Sunday, the newly budding hydrangeas at my building were doing their thing on a dull, chilly Father's Day. Flowers hold a special place in the reconstructed narrative of my father, nurseryman. So that would include his mother, my Bubba, as well. While much of America was occupied with crisping meat on the grill, swelling the nation's collective tie rack and just taking a tiny moment for thanks, I was remembering the largest of my three grandmas.

Bubba lived about 15 miles from us in a quiet resort town, Fairport, Ohio. I have strong, iconic memories of the place for many good reasons. Some confusing ones as well. Mostly, Fairport had an instinctual childhood gravity for me, both weight and grounding. In the deep of a starving night, I see three images from my childhood: a set of tiny vacation cottages, huddled under snow; icy tree fingers clicking after a winter's freezing rain; and golden memories of fairport summers.

"Hydrangea" was far beyond me. "Snowballs" was the proper name for the giant, showy guys in front of bubba's porch. When I was tiny, I didn't know from flower names. Peonies appealed because they attracted so many ants. I liked that. The pink of the flowers provided a vivid backdrop for my industrious brethren. Ants were my tinier analogues, buggy dopplegangers for me, the boy fetus. By some sketchy association, I too was abnormally strong and to be feared, in spite of my size. When you're a kid, everyone's larger than you. But Bubba was a presence, overweight and big-boned.

Bubba's house too had a number of outsized features, large and round. There was the spectacular wall of rose vines along her straight shot driveway. The purple smoke tree in her side yard was one of the most mysterious things I'd ever seen. (My poor vision certainly played to the tree's strength and appeared even more nebulous than possible when in flower.) She always had Persian cats, fluffy beyond belief. It was hard to tell where the fur ended and the atmosphere began. I remember the name "Smoky."

How she lived contained seeming contradictions -etherial and earthy- but her tastes were not a surprise to anyone who knew her. She expected some types of excellence in her life, regardless of her circumstances. Bubba was an expansive soul and she was dirt plain too. For instance, her hounds were always named "Puddles," her stove always had the same few dishes simmering away, ready for ladling, and she was must have owned two, perhaps, two and a half, house dresses; her house had an indelible smell, changed only when overwhelmed by a new dish on the stove.

She never let complexity get the better of her. That could look like the limited response of a simple person. Not so from my reckoning. She understood that the reasonable thing to do was to apply what she had at hand, not lament what wasn't available to her. I don't think that she saw much value in trying to undo the pecking order of the universe. To my memory, her wry smile acknowledged the sad, unchanging joke of living. Laughter was always a sensible response to anything out of her reach.

Fairport memories abound for me. My near-blind Uncle Dave, the skeet-shooting champion. Aunt Marcha (still no clue on how to spell her name), who I thought was part horse. His son, David, the bully, least likely to succeed with a skull dented from one of Bubba's cast iron frying pans. One other memory of him: being horrified as he tried to nail the barnyard cats with darts. He's dead, suicide, just like his father. Aunt Susie, ripping the joint up with her accordion. Aunt Margie, her house on the beach; the Urbans; the lighthouse; the little store where we could get a treat. Most of all, I remember the crazy rhyme she'd do with us kids in some Slovak language. The key was the way she bounced our heads around in her giant hands in time to the rhyme. That was some fun. Bountiful memories.

I was desperate as a child to fit myself into this world. Honestly, I bet I was a pain more than anything. Didn't like David. Didn't like Bubba's food (when I was tiny). Felt too fragile for such a robust place. Never felt comfortable, but that didn't matter. I needed Bubba like food. As a teenager, I grew to such a likeness of my father, Bubba would cry every time she saw me. He died at the age of 33. Having his ghost around must have been bitter for her. Maybe I looked like him as a child too. Now I think that I look a cross between Bubba and dad.

The picture above was taken of the same bush, last year. I loved the two different colors, like some optical test. I can't say for sure that the plants at Bubba's were hydrangeas. Just too much little kid memory to be trusted. I remember a darker blue with white accents, large complicated balls. Doesn't matter much, the details of the door that you step through, does it?

Cleveland: We Could Use a Freaking Break!

2007-06-12T22:35:00.000-07:00

Cleveland's New Motto!

Thanks to a cheery analysis by the New York Times, everyone now knows that the Cleve claims the longest civic losing streak any city with three major league teams. (Listen New York, your city hasn't done much better recently and the Yankee's yearly salary is the same size as Ohio's annual budget.)

On the bright side, I'll be able to blame any personal malaise on the magnificent futility of our sports teams. Why not? We've nearly exhausted the cool titling possibilities for how our teams have lost: The Drive, The Shot, The Interception, The Fold, The 12-Gauge, The Space Tentacle, The Cheesy Poof. These things trickle down is what I'm saying.

I accept that LeBron is the man and that I am a witness. However, I don't think what I saw in the NBA finals was what Nike had in mind.

Crickside

2007-06-10T19:51:00.000-07:00

Before and after pictures are usually entertaining or horrifying. Here I give you both.
The falls at the head of Denny Creek are a lot of fun. You can walk right up to them, feel a gentle mist, take a rainbow pic if the sun is shining. Aw!

But take the picture early in the snow melt year (today), you'd be in a far more tumultuous scene: no walking path, just a crush of falls and noise.
Some blind madman appears in this photo so it's not quite an ideal image. What are you gonna do?

The entire creek bed was hopped up on melt but not deep enough to obscure the crazy Henry Moore boulders downstream. Dig it!

The best thing about the outing: the tendrils of cloud that kept shredding onto the tree covered mountains. I could not get anything like a good picture of that. Where's Ansel Adams when you need him?

Insect Assault Sunday

2007-06-04T19:49:00.000-07:00

Rarely do I feel I have news worthy of posting. I don't today either but I'm coming closer.

This past Sunday, June 3, Janeen and I drove up Mt. Walker, which is left of Nowhere on the Washington Peninsula. (That might not be accurate, but I think that when you say peninsula, you sound intelligent.) First, we drove to it and that was insect encounter #1.

Janeen was driving along at her normal 80 mph clip and something flew into my eye. It felt bug-like. Then I saw the dazed giant bee that I had just collided with. Jesus! It was one of those giant furry bastards with the maneuverability of a flying battleship. At that speed, it could have been driven into my brain, stinging my gray matter mercilessly. No harm, no foul, just a bit of swelling.

I shook this off and we figured out where the damn mountain was. It wasn't easy to find because of the stream of consciousness style of the guide book. The authors did not distinguish between getting there in a car and hiking with your legs. But on the plus side, the book is small enough to haul with you once you figure out when to ditch the car.

Before you abrade us for not walking up Mt. Walker, the guide book told us not to. According to Great Walks Near Nowhere In Particular, the "three mile ascent would wither the nuts and berries of the most hardy hikerman." Reason enough for me. So we drove to the top and figured that we could catch a trail up higher. After all, Mt. Walker was geared toward not hiking pleasure, but automotive panorama pleasure with one of the tinier hiking loops I've experienced outside of my studio apartment. Great views of Seattle, Mt. Rainier.

While we were gazing, this guy
flew onto my pants! The picture does not do it justice. We would have needed a magic camera (really, just a decent one) to capture the gaudy, yet subtle, iridescence. I moved der bug onto my hand and walked it around to the others on the hill. Everyone was blown away; nobody expected to see something like this outside of Costa Rica. I considered taking my new friend "Weevil" home but it flew away. It was a brief, satisfying affair.

Since the mountain was frugal with its trails, we took in the scene and decided to head toward barbecue (that was my hope, at least). The car wouldn't start. Classic. In a bad way, with wisps of electrical smoke escaping from the steering column. It was like we were witnessing the soul exiting the body. You can read Janeen's account but let me review a few salient points.

First, a wasp tried to land on my previously accosted right eye while we were deciding what to do. Thankfully, my mighty right eye deflected him away. A stung eyeball was the last thing we needed. It would have made an awesome portrait though.

Second, people were awfully quick to advise "just let the car coast down the mountain." Me, I don't know shit about cars. But I do know that they weigh a lot of pounds and some of their parts need gas, some need electricity. Beyond putting the "fillerup" nozzle into the gashole, I just couldn't tell you which needs which. I can tell you that guiding the powerless car down the very wind-y mostly one-land dirt road inspired strong visualizations of a car plunging to its metal death. Probably no fireball without the electrical though.

Third, it's fun to learn things! The guy who arced the starter gap (that's car lingo babies) and made the car go was our hero! Not only for getting us all the way home, but for teaching us something. I felt a mystic bond with all of those duffers of old, cranking their car's front end, churning it to life.

So three insect encounters, automotive troubleshooting atop a mountain, no towing charges and no blood spilled! That, my friends, is a Sunday.

Ferry

2007-06-01T21:28:00.000-07:00

Another lovely ferry ride to visit Janeen in Port Townsend.

I loves me a ferry, the sheer tonnage hurtling on top of the water. When I ride, I routinely buy a handful of candy from the candy store. Runts, I've found, are best for water travel. Today I found a near fatal flaw when I came a micro-second from eating one of my ipod headphones. Closer than it should have been.

In a similar vein, I laughed my ass off watching a sea gull try to land on the rather fat ship railing like his colleague. The landed bird approached perpendicular to the rail so his two feet fit neatly onto the rail. The other gull approached as if the rail were a landing strip. This meant that his feet were far wider than the rail. He kept trying to land and he'd bump his bird crotch (hey, I'm no ornothologist) onto the rail and rising back into the air and reattempting with results beyond clumsy. Honestly seemed embarrassed. Very slapstick.

Hanging out and watching Seattle get small, I find very relaxing. Once the gulls figure out that I'm not food and leave me alone, it's like being on a mini-vacation and no one has to ask if we're there yet.

Science Marches On

2007-05-29T09:50:00.000-07:00

Uptick

2007-05-16T10:13:00.000-07:00

Uptick!

Uptick. Okay, that's overkill but I think that "uptick" is a funny word. I wrote that because I'm feeling a bit uptickish myself lately. Maybe it's because I didn't get that job that looked burdensome. Maybe it's because I've had a few days in a row with decently oiled body parts. Maybe it's because my shiny bike is back from the shop. Maybe it's because I saw a raving foreigner whirling down the street shouting, "America BIG!"

Maybe it's more like I've got a metaphorical cat nuzzled in the pit of my arm as I read, with his paws on my chest. Here's how I imagine that gift cat would look.

Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie

2007-05-13T18:35:00.000-07:00

Here's just a couple of things happening, macro, micro, on the lone prairie known as Glacial Heritage Preserve in Thurston County, near Littlerock, WA. I am always happy to see pretty flowers.
I'm even happier to see the resident fauna. This creepy yellow spider is just doing its job, I know. But jeez, one of my few irrational phobias (hey, many are good and worthwhile), is getting a fatal bite from a spider hiding in banana bunches. Now that I know there's a sinister yellow spidy around, Dole has lost a customer for the forseeable future.

The purpose of gathering on the prairie was to draw, paint or photo it into submission. You know, the normal function of Art. After making a horrifying landscape, I muddled through with a pen drawing, none of which I'm sharing! Ideally, the best instrument to capture the place would have been Willa Cather. She didn't fit into my backpack so I had to make due. The best work I did was to lay back and watch the clouds go by.

Drought

2007-05-07T15:36:00.000-07:00

My Cat is Sniffing My Mouse. So it goes in post-modern life. My cat, Emmitt, was making it difficult to scroll. A molecule must have lodged itself deep into my finger during my bike ride this afternoon. In his brother's absence, E's adopted many of Atwood's habits, Molecule Sniffing being one of them. This is his way, I guess, of keeping family dynamics in place. If sniffing the computer mouse wasn't enough, he stopped worrying the molecule and went off to beat up his furry mouse after hopping off the desk.

You may have noticed that there's been a long blog drought (Long Blog Drought: one of Dave Egger's pirate names); Fish, apparently, don't gotta blog. The Drafts never made it to Post. I've been considering killing this thing along with the idea of writing altogether. This is a dance that I do every so often but now than before. My strong suspicion is that, sure, I can write some, but I'm not a writer. I'm more interested in the fantasy of writing and calling myself a writer. Babies, I can dither with the best of them.

If I'm going to struggle, I want to tussle with what helps me along. Drop anything that just weighs me down. I've written about my growing regard for process and this is just a part of that. I have to ask the question, What happens when I give something up, like the idea of being a writer, and leave it behind? If it continues to haunt me, do I have a false attachment or a real need?

The things that we need do not always bring pleasure. For instance, as I pushed myself up the ridiculous grade on my bike, I wondered which would happen first: would my heart expode or would my brain stroke out? Surprised that I reached the top of the hill. Good option. The outcome, expected, is that my dodgy knee feels stronger, springier. It will as long as I push it like this. When I leave it be, it starts to feel like a brittle Slinky. How does discomfort trade itself for comfort?

Lots of questions lately. Questions have done me little good. My new equation, my new hope, questions + time = answers is a bit more grimy, painful and plodding. It's almost like I ask the question but then can't answer it with words. I have to stall my impulsive ability to imagine an answer since I'm constitutionally oriented toward believing the Blurt. The deep answer is usually never the first one with me. That's not the least bit unusual for anyone. But I am gullible, easily deflected so I'm working on killing the glib, distracting answers. It's like putting blinders on a horse if you need the nag to get you home.

Career Corner

2007-04-22T21:09:00.000-07:00

You know that funny definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? I've never been a big fan of that definition. But, that's been my story. Over and over again.

Somehow the patience to look at myself and see my encore performances continues to be available. That's enough for now.

Spring

2007-04-20T11:42:00.000-07:00

Spring continues to creep in here in Seattle. More like "infiltrates." This spring has the feel of home. Maybe it's because for the first time in many years, I have distinct seasons and time-specific markers. Here are some of the shows that are a block or two from where I live.

I am always excited about the onset of poppies. Not for the heroin so much, but the flowers. Just wanted to be clear.

Of course, I continue to look at rocks, take pictures of them, try to make paintings as well. They bloom year round and pose patiently for those of us with minimal skills. Perennials.

Secrets of Life, iPod Style

2007-04-18T21:21:00.000-07:00

Gotta make a move to a
Town that's right for me
Town to keep me movin'
Keep me groovin' with some energy

Thank You falettinme be mice elf agin

There's a place called the YMCA. They can start you back on your way.

U got to not talk dirty, baby
If u wanna impress me.

Ooh
I feel love, I feel love
I feel love, I feel love
I feel love

Get Funky Ya'll
With The Get Down

Sing it with the feelin' ya'all

Fire (Uh) [Uh]
Fire (It’s all about) [Uh, uh]
Fire (Woo, woo, woo)
Fire

Can you do any better than that?

A forgotten scent

2007-04-16T00:13:00.000-07:00

Mike Herring, my good tall friend, had no sense of smell. Technically I mean. He couldn't smell anything. This inability was a kind of ghost in his life, and we'd talk often about it.

One of the few services I could provide him was describing smells that he might not know existed. He knew about the obvious, perfumy ones. He could sometimes almost taste them. That was why he was a big fan of the stinking cheeses and leathery tobaccos that most of us flee. He could almost smell them.

Once, while we were walking down High Street on a swollen Summer day in Columbus, we passed a woman wearing a load of makeup. "Hey Mike, that woman we just passed, her makeup's frying. It smelled like burning tires." Or another time, some change included silver coin. I told him how silver has a acrid greasy smell when humans handle it. He always liked hearing about these glimpses into a world that he was locked out of.

I remembered Michael in conversation on Thursday and was reminded by laundry on Friday. As I was sloting quarters (yes, for the first time in memory, I don't have in-apartment w/d), I spotted an off-colored slug. Blame Canada, I figured. No, a 1958 silver jobbie, my birth year to boot.

The 1958 quarter is now sitting on my work/dining table. I like to ting it and hear the different music it makes compared to the dull coin of the realm. It seems like a vending machine to me. It stops me when I spot it and I get a toy or a candy or a mystery just by peering inside.

It took me back to my youth and trying to fill one of those useless cardboard penny hotels with Lincolns dating back to 1909. (Copper smells funny too, like how blood tastes in your mouth.) I was fascinated with old coins. Amazed that they weren't all locked up in museums. Amazed that I could touch an object that was like a mini time machine. A penny from 1929 saw hard times. That was the penny that you'd hope to save.

So on that laundry day, I had my little Proustian scent moment, all so quick. Michael's often around me but his quirky power has diminished for me over the years. I looked our late correspondence, when he and I wrote a ton each month. His writing was like a ton of bricks (mine like a ton of feathers, I suspect).

On reading some of the letters, I was amazed at his devotion to process and detail. His mind loved the grain of sand as much as the beach. If he had time, I suspect that he would have enjoyed looking into how each grain of sand got to its place on the beach. Worthwhile sure, but he probably would have been just as pleased to hear about the coconut fog that surrounded sunbathers as they roasted.

Obsessions

2007-04-10T10:51:00.000-07:00

That nice Michael Caine recently taught me that obsessions are a young man's game (see The Prestige, now on DVD). No matter, I'm doing what I can to build a new set of them. This doesn't mean that I'm throwing out the old ones. It's more like one of those corporate mergers where the existing employees all get to reapply for the jobs that they current hold.

One of my life long obsessions, never fully cultivated, is hanging out by stony riverbeds. I'm pretty happy with what the Seattle area has to offer. In fact, much of the region's natural world is sitting on my dining table:

Okay, calling this a dining room table might not be accurate. It's more like a Paper, Rock, Scissors court where Rock has a serious home-field advantage. The only wrinkle in this game is the abundance of water. Water wets Rock. Rock stinks.

Most of these rocks came from the Cascades or Port Townsend. Both fine places, full of rocks. Every now and then, I lift my head (and camera) and click at some differently-configured rock features.

This is a pic of Crescent Lake. Saw nothing shaped like a crescent or anything like a yeasty roll. Probably named by some lunatic who saw the crystal reflection of a gibbous moon. Just a guess.

Another sharply arranged pile of rocks is breathtaking from the ferry ride to PT. Mt. Rainier is beyond the abilities of my modest little camera but Rainier makes everything seem modest and little in comparison.

I didn't really talk about obsessions as much as I had planned. Rock and taking pictures of rocks are pencilled into the obsessions category. I might branch out and make painting rocks an obsession as well. Maybe I'll expand into eggs as well. That would be exciting!

Caps for Sale!

2007-04-01T18:53:00.000-07:00

I've been mentally trying on different career hats. The pace of the activity brings to mind the kid's book that I loved about the wandering cap salesman who wore like 50 soft caps on his head. In the Italian countryside, while he napped, a scrum of monkeys took his hats! He finally got the better of those monkeys, who I secretly rooted for.

While I'm trying to find a job, I'm still sorting through new possibilities. Rather than recount the laundry list of possibilities, let me tell you about two of my other childhood book favorites: Birds Eat and Eat and Eat and Go Dog Go. There was a book about trains as well but my memory has left the station on that one.

Go Dog Go doesn't show up on many of those "most influential" lists that famous writers compile. For a while, those driving dogs were the coolest, most exciting thing to me. Where were they driving to? A big party in a tree! I wonder if I associated them with my '57 T-Bird driving Uncle?

Birds Eat was probably of interest because my family ate and ate and ate too. How did those birds remain flight-ready? God knows few in my family have. Sorry guys. I suspect that the trains book also held interest since some of my family worked on the railroad, all the live-long day.

What these books have to do with my career search is unclear. Maybe it's just part of my relaxing Sunday. Maybe it's species envy. Birds fly. They don't have to enter the military, they just lift off. While it's pretty clear that dogs can't drive cars, they do seem to enjoy cars more than we do, from what I can tell. I'd have to go with species envy. Those animals have skills and propensities and they are their career.

I often traipse through my undifferentiated early childhood. You know what I mean: there's not a timeline, just a swirl of talismen or events. I'd like to say that there's a big kid vs. adult difference between my decision-making or recognition powers. I'd like to say that I possess tools more sophisticated than an undifferentiated swirl. I'd like to say that. Hey you monkeys, give me back my hats!

Push

2007-03-30T09:58:00.000-07:00

Since I'm still unemployed, I've decided that another push toward a stronger, more flexible body, is the order of the day, week and month. I expect one of two results. Either I get strong, fitter and full of energy or I get so sick and tired of working out, I'll work even harder to find a job. Win/Win!

My current plan is pretty simple. It's based on the idea that I need go harder than I have. Nothing complex there. Yesterday, I took advantage of the warm weather and took to the hills to climb them. Not looking for altitude so much, just a slope that would provide a lot of variation for my creaky joints.

While I didn't resemble a lemur, meerkat or some lithe silly animal, I didn't fall over or get et by a bear. (Why is that an obsession? Damn that Timothy Treadwell. "Mr. Chocolate; He's a BIG BEAR!) My knee felt a bit more stable so overall, very good! Plus mossy visuals always are relaxing.

My reward for my exertion was going to be a seat by the river, listening to the Spring wash. Still pretty cold for that. Lots of snow around. I was hoping for massive crashing boulder action from the snowmelt. No luck, mainly just angry burbling. Also, no enchanting pic of the river either. Just this one that's okay:

In spite of the cold, I had planned on sitting but the big black spiders altered my plans. Thankfully, not poisonous. My field guide book identified them as the "Pacific Northwest Furry Assbiter." Well, I made that up but I didn't want to take the chance so I headed home.

Out of all of the pictures that I took, none were as fun as the ones that I took in the car. I learned that other drivers respect the gleeful madman who is taking pictures as he drives. Thanks for the space everyone.

Drain, Take One

2007-03-21T12:49:00.000-07:00

One of the magazines I read to has a monthly feature called What I've Learned. I am always surprised that any one person has so much wisdom to dispense. Really, if a national magazine called me tomorrow and said, "Phil, now that you're famous, we'd like a page of your wisdom nuggets" I'd have to scramble.

Phrases like "Know when to hold'em," "Wisdom to know the difference," pop to mind. If Kant or Descartes were still on the pop charts, they might make it in. But on the whole, there's little in the way of pithy wisdom forthcoming. It might be a page of near-hit metaphors, since that's what I've been cultivating to understand the change in my world.

My bag of metaphors adds one or two each month it seems. My latest quest is to describe a something that seems to be a subset of the "chop wood, carry water" enlightenment story. (Caveat: no, I am not enlightened yet, goddamnit!) Here's what my metaphor factory is churning out right now.

Something in my life is falling into place. It's like a foundation brick, but it moves. I'd like to say that it's finely machined, like a piston in a chamber. Something so well tooled that, when it slides into place, you have to be patient while the air moves out of the way. Sometimes like a stopper in a drain. A dam? A conduit?

The comparisons that I've been using to understand what I've been up to have all sharpened up within a few weeks of recognizing them. This batch remains without form so far. It's been a couple of weeks and I'm in a muddle between solid and liquid, form and non-form, being and nothingness. (I just threw that in for drama!) My compass tells me that I'm in the right neck of the woods, if you were wondering....

My conceptual scaffolding isn't yet collapsing as a prelude to enlightment, or any such silly thing. Maybe I'm becoming a blade, or the wind or water. Compassion, Love, GiantNobleGoodness are still like cards in the deck, not the deck itself. I'm more like the vase or the flowers than the still life.

It's so quiet right now. Do you know what I mean? Yup, I don't either.

I had a Bug

2007-03-16T19:06:00.000-07:00

Not News of the Incredible, I know. It started on Tuesday but I didn't recognize the symptoms. Thought it was allergies. Then on Weds, hot then cold, speedy then sleepy. I thought: male menopause? Hoofbeats = horse usually, not zebra.

Slept most of Thursday once I realized what was going on because I felt sick. So much for my streak of no illness! Feel much better today. Nice gravelly voice too.

Hope all is well with you.

As they used to say in the old country: May your flowers bloom and your team move forward in its bracket. Go The Ohio State!

Capitol Hill Power Outage 3/13/07

2007-03-14T00:48:00.000-07:00

According to the radio, a fire in the electrical vault caused our grid to lose electricity tonight. Many of you are probably wondering, "Is he writing this post using only the power of his mind?" Please tell me that someone was wondering that....

Thanks to Ikea, I had ready the candle power equivalent of 20 Hoover Dams. If Hoover's no longer producing kilojuice, move on to your own favored source of choice.

Very proud. I caused no fires and the weird light of the evening enticed me to wander about and take some photos. These are probably analogous to writing poetry while on acid (who would ever do that cliche?).

Wet Sunday Stroll

2007-03-11T15:57:00.000-07:00

Ruined

2007-03-09T17:20:00.000-08:00

Such a potent word. I won't riff on all the possibilities here. You can do that for me.

The specific ruin I'm talking about is a tiny painting of my kitty. I messed it up. How you might ask? Well, it's easy to give the knee jerk reasons: not enough knowledge, couldn't leave well-enough alone, blah x 3.

But it's not that. I invited ruin. I was willing to fuck up a perfectly lovely little drawing and painting of my tender little guy. Not a small thing since it really was a very nice beginning which I could have left alone. I liked it enough to give it some time to see if I could call it "done" and send it off. Not yet. More to learn.

That's the program. You can call it process, you can call it faith, you can call it failure. I'm not concerned about the name right now. It's some graphite followed by some paint. Then some additional graphite and paint. Sometimes, the paper, drawing and painting works as I think it should. Then on it goes to someone I love. Then, more drawing, more painting, more ruin.

Dislocation

2007-03-08T09:51:00.000-08:00

No, not me or some refugee metaphor, but my camera lens. Let me 'splain.

Tuesday Seattle got the Summer tease: 70 degree weather, sun, balminess. Oh yeah. No job hunting on that day, priorities shift to building fitness! Fitness by walking along the lakes and waterways, hiking the trials in and near my fair burg.

I sometimes walk in the biggest (longest?) wetland in the city proper. It's this fine mess of weeds, scrub and moss that sits on channel leading into Lake Washington. There's always ducks, coots, grebes, uh, birds hanging around. Random turtles. Many of the trees are labeled which is great. I'm not sure if I could now distinguish between the European Silver-Tongued Birch and the presumably American Sandpaper Birch, but I'm well on my way to being able to identify a birch.

So the dislocation: the waterfowl are occasionally friendly and probably hungry. The current thinking is don't feed them. I don't know why but they look hungry and I feel bad about it. That sadness doesn't prevent me from looking well-fed and encouraging them to think that food might fall from me at anytime. That caused them to come up close.

This gal jumped right out of the water to coax food out of me via feathery charm. Once she committed, her shiny partner jumped up as well.

It's not the greatest photo, there are a couple better. But I did want to show the cool blue chevron on his wing. After the stones with the racing stripes and this, I've concluded that Nature is at least as colorful as NASCAR and able to turn in any direction.

Maybe it was the threat of those dull angry hungry bills that made me slip and throw my camera into the water! No, that didn't happen because I dutifully use the wrist loop which saved the day. The camera does not, however, come with airbags. When it hit the deck, its lens got dislocated. It looked like a fighter with a broken nose, down for the count. Didn't help that the batteries were low either.

I'll spare you the gory details as I relocated the lens, brought it home, juiced it up and tested it out. I can tell you that it seems to be working fine. Here's one for the road.

Stones

2007-03-06T02:17:00.000-08:00

This trio of stones came from the tough beaches of Port Townsend. As a geologist could tell you, each of these stones is a slightly different color and is very hard. A really good geologist could tell you why each stone has its own racing stripe. I am not a really good geologist, apparently.

I am, more accurately, like a little kid or a rock retrieving hound at heart. It's a flow experience for me, restive and reassuring. My eyes were trained on the shore rubble at my feet while Mt. Baker loomed across the sound. I've paid more attention to finding shells and rocks from watery places than I have helping the homeless, stopping hunger or splitting the atom.

One funny thing about me is that I'm always thinking "So-and-so might like this stone..." or maybe I'll find the perfect shaped stone for my love. It's just part of the internal selection process. Do others think about rocks like this? I chose the three above after winnowing down my choices from other fine candidates. Lined them up, Goldsworthy-style, took a family snap. A family of racing rocks.

I'll stop now about the rocks.

Got a Match?

2007-03-02T12:05:00.000-08:00

Ever curious, I have to ask why the job search engines think that I'm a prime candidate for meat-cutting jobs. On the whole, they're pretty good at matching me with some of the jobs out there. But these odd results, including the occasional butchery, will probably continue.

My exciting and dread-inducing foray into job hunting has also included such job referrals such as a graffiti removal manager as well as the aforementioned meat-jobs. This one came from an actual person who was probably using the search engines. Reminds me of the involved set of tests that I took in college to gauge my aptitudes. After a grueling day and a half, two obvious career paths were revealed: mining engineer or clown. Sadly, I've only pursued the clown option, as an amateur at that.

I'm thinking a lot about matching and decisions right now. Databases yield matches based on equations that must be mind-numbingly esoteric. They're just trying to arrive at a sensible match, a helpful direction. A match is not a decision, just an element of it.

Search engines, Jobs, Friends, Love, are all matches that hinge on how appropriate they are in your life. Thankfully, some matches require no decision. That's one of the magic things about living, that moment, that thing, that person that is right as rain. A precious few elements of my life have been gifts beyond my comprehension, mysteries. A good life thankfully isn't solely yoked to reason.

But I do know that a match becomes a relationship and matters will arise that require clear-eyed decisions. How do I arrive at the decisions about the most important things in my life? I'm constantly tugged between magical and practical decision making, thinking styles. Magical decisions, or more kindly and accurately, wishful thinking has often won the day. Not the best way of sustaining a well-grounded life.

I have suffered because I did not do the necessary work to make good decisions. I thought that decisions should be breezy, neat and not caked in grime.

My thinking has typically been stunted by impatience and fear about the exploration that deliberation requires. I've indulged in imagination as a substitute for thinking. My fetish for the clean result has warped how I've arrived at a decision. Rather than arriving, I'd teleport to the result. Relying on a technology that doesn't exist is at best optimistic. Might as well don a pair of pointy ears and intone "Live well and prosper" while I'm at it. A good life can be diminished by overreaching faith in a good life.

I am all for imagination, well-mannered or fevered. Always thought that nightmares were kind of cool. But substituting imagining when I needed the pedantic results of thinking has not a help to me. Thinking, decision-making, matching, is a process, a long walk with a sketchy map.

I am working as diligently as I can to put one foot in front of the other, make sure that I'm on the right path and arrive in the place that is true to me. The funny thing is that this insistence on plodding along means that I have made more missteps than I'm accustomed to. That's okay. I've learned that you just back up, adjust direction and move forward based on the best read that you've got. Kindergarten stuff, but it seems light years ahead.

Still Life

2007-02-27T12:24:00.000-08:00

Small Pleasures and a Miracle

2007-02-27T10:52:00.000-08:00

We went exploring one amarillo Saturday hoping to discover the discrete charms nearby aged Texas towns. Small pleasures were the order of that day. Shared they would become a lasting pleasure. Antiques were a convenient focus since the area screamed "antiquated." The visual cues, bringing to mind words like, "dilapidation, ramshakle" were alluring. One town actually had a wacky tornado as its high school mascot. Plus, a few towns were really noted as antiquing hotspots. Maybe we'd find something irresistible, dusty, aching.

At the very worst, I'd have a few more wind-scrubbed landscapes for my memory of the hard beauty of the Texas high plains. With some luck, we'd at least scrounge an insulator or two from the power lines along the abandoned railways. A good friend has a weakness for the watery viridian of these glassy plugs. The lines were as powerless as the tracks and ridiculously near the ground. Probably set low due to the constant wind there. Still looked silly compared to the tall railroad trees in the mideast where I grew up.

Antiquing in the Southwest requires special visual skills. It's a special kind of biathalon event involving light. Strong bleaching sun and wind make you squint (for god's sake, save the retinas!) and dry you out. Enter the antique shop and it's the land that illumination forgot. "Adjust retinas, damn you!" If objects held any drama, you'd expect to find Carravagio painting these stagnant, blind interiors.

Architectural salvage is the other kind of antiquing in these towns. Just enough neglect and disregard for many buildings to retain a version of their original charms. Slouching, beaten, but still standing, still insisting on some respect.

This is Cornell, writ large. His windows found in his precious small boxes that open onto the vast and delicate. Peer into the dark inside after jockeying against the unrelenting sun and maybe, maybe something in there will unfold, stand up and articulate a wonder, a child's delight.

One building held promise because its interiors were destroyed. Not just aged, but artfully axed up and swirled around. Hints of life. Highchairs? Tables? Picture frames? It's hard to explain why destruction holds such promise. I think that when a jigsaw disrupts our seeing world, putting the pieces back together, reassembling a reality, is a necessity and brings assurance and pleasure.

The corner building, probably a business, once a residence, was accessible on three sides. The windows revealed enough to know that we might find something vital here. That optimism did not happen with every building we looked at. The opposition of exterior coherence with the interior chaos held a delicious attraction. Was it at the North wall or the street front where we saw it? Don't know. It became as strange and bracing as breathing at the North pole.

A white barn owl sat on the central stairpost inside this dark maelstrom, still and watching.

How is it possible that a perfect quiet thing finds itself in the middle of such destruction? When you look through a telescope into the deep night, what are you looking for? When you look at an earthquake's rubble, what are you looking for? I yearn to find something whole, a potent reminder of why. Maybe it's just as important for me that the chaos can be contained within a window or a telescope. What do you do when you find a savior in a manger? How is it possible to talk about it, share it, have it together? We squinted into the hard darkness and just took the miracle in, we let it fill us. We took it in.

Co-incidences

2007-02-21T10:35:00.000-08:00

First, the pigeons.

Twice this morning, I saw pigeons walking South on the sidewalk alongside a human as if they were companions. Humorous.

Last night, I was watching the Departed (vintage Scorsese, by the way). At a point in the film, when a door slammed, the neighbor slammed their door at the same time.

There was another one, but I forgot it.

Ground

2007-02-18T11:53:00.000-08:00

You think that you're able to relax and feel at home wherewhever you find yourself? I know that it's one of the areas of my life that needs work. Luckily, I have a professional visiting who can help me, if simply by example.

Here you see Emmitt hanging out in my bathroom sink, a bit miffed that I'm interrupting his buzz. You can't hear him purring and I was too impatient to capture his cat smile. Not because of impatience really, but because he might have decided that rest time was over. An uppity fur mouse might need a beatdown.

Since Atwood's gone, a large part of Emmitt's daily life has changed. He and Atwood had mostly cordial relations punctuated with occasional disaffection, just like most siblings. They found that teaming up together was an effective way to combat The Man, better known as Marlene and/or me. Eventually, the Stockholm syndrome kicked in and they began to sympathize somewhat with their oppressors. Regardless, they huddled together against life's tepid unfairnesses.

He misses his brother. Even if you're a person who is uncertain about the quality or existence of animal emotions, consider that the guy Emmitt spent all of his day and night with, is gone. That is an enormous change. I don't want to say that emotions are responses to unwanted change. Just that this change affects every hour of his day. At the very least, that is disorienting. Already, talk of a kitten, a companion, is in the air.

He might have us but he is alone now after sharing his life with his brother. His situation reminds me to the reasons why parents often want to have at least two kids. It's certainly about love and joy but also about the hope for companionship. Coming from a household full of kids, I know the manic understanding that can happen between little kids that makes NO sense to anyone but them. Kids and cats can best conspire with their peers. Anyone who's watched kids tell nonsense jokes to each other and scream with laughter knows about this. Sure, adults can find this camaraderie and it's nothing but joy. It's just harder to get to and less frequent, sad to say.

But I'm not a parent and it's probably not solid to extrapolate from cat to child to adult modes of companionship. I'm not much of a psychologist and I was too frightened to have children of my own. My claim here is that how we build satisfaction into our lives and ground them is slippery. As I watch Emmitt and ponder what will make him feel more at home, all is see is a guy wanting interaction. Not much different than me really.

Permission

2007-02-14T11:15:00.000-08:00

I don't think that I've ever decently understood that permission was a specific license granted within a specific context.

Pantfulness, Part 2

2007-02-12T21:10:00.000-08:00

An addendum to the nearly-going-out-without-any-pants story.

One of my favorite brain malfunctions I've had all my life. I suspect that I'm not alone in this delightful cognitive error.

The other day, I spent a few confused seconds before I realized that the computer couldn't heat my burrito. There just seemed to be no place to put the thing in.

In fairness to myself, my desk is now where my microwave used to be. But those dull moments before recognition were priceless.

A similar idiot thing happened in Florida with me and Scott. "Pasty, white, party of five," was lunching at El Grande Burrito de Mexico (not its real name).

After our waiter brought our beverages, I got Scott's coke and he got my diet. I pointed out to him that our drinks were probably switched. He tried his drink and concurred with me. He said, "No problem, let's switch straws." We did rapidly. There were a few seconds where everyone watched our amazement that this didn't fix the problem. We laughed more than was healthy and then switched the drinks themselves.

No wonder Woody Allen said that the brain was his second favorite organ.

art

2007-02-12T12:38:00.000-08:00

I have not been very good at all about keeping artwork or even documenting it. So for the record, here are my three favorite overlook (Louisa Boren Park, officially) pieces. Each of these is smaller than a postage card, which I like. They're also series like which appeals to my sense of production.

I've given away all of the Overlook stuff except for the drawing. This includes the fun experience of giving one away to visitors who were watching over my shoulder as I painted. Very satisfying to give a gift like that.

My latest fun thing is making even smaller paintings which a few of you have received via postcard. I'd like to mail little paintings to everyone I know this year. That would be a fine accomplishment.

Pre-Spring

2007-02-11T12:53:00.000-08:00

For those of you experiencing the insanity of winter (bless you, Oswego, NY), here is a preview of what's just around the corner.

I do have an image with a sharper focus of the hydrangea bud but it's too alien-death-mouth for me. Plus, in this one, the branches in the background are nice and blurry.

You can't beat the crocus for menacing crowd shots. I'd guess the tall one is their leader.

Here one of my favorite flowers, the Wrinkleblossom. Unlike the others, this is one of the least horror-film like of all the flowers on my block.

While you're nostalgic for spring flowers, I'm nostalgic for snow. Pain-provoking philosophers have described this duality and have assigned specific nomenclature. You'll get none of that philosophical nonsense from me today. I'm just happy to think about the snow and the imagined silence of a deep woods. The flowers make a similar sound.

Sadness

2007-02-06T18:57:00.000-08:00

My kitty Atwood died.

That is a sad thing. I can't adequately eulogize the poor thin man. He was a bundle of annoying traits, a sack of frail bones and utterly loveable.

It was my good fortune to see him the week before he died. Let him crawl on my chest and watch him think about kneading my belly, just like old times.

Here's a picture of him taken last year.
How can such a thing happen?

Florida sans gators

2007-02-04T09:19:00.000-08:00

Here are a few pics from the Land of No Gators.

There are no gators in Florida. I don't know how these rumors start. In addition to lacking gators, many of the birds there are blurry as evidenced by this photograph. These birds are apparently owned by the nearby IHOP and they work for squishy bread. Not the greatest of jobs but at least there's work if they want it. I very much would like to see them filling out the little applications with the pencil in their beaks. That's entertainment!

Florida is also filled with flowers based on the percentage of flower photos in my camera. In fact, all the flowers in Florida are camellias, which was a surprise.

Florida skies are dramatic, just as expected. I found them filled with something called "color." This gaudy show is spectacular, sure, but I like the old-fashioned gray skies that I grew up with and are a regular feature in Seattle. Yup, gray is the new black for me. This photo is a bit tilty, which I blame on Florida. It must be a very wiggly state.
There are more photos from the trip. You won't see any of me shooting skeet with Scott (by the way, sounds like a great Sunday morning TV show: Skeet with Scott!), eating mounds of food at the Waffle House or of my lovely family either. They're a great bunch of eggs and what a treat to get to hang with them in their gatorless land.

As much as I kid, I didn't really care about seeing gators. I bet they have foul breath and are ill-mannered. The company I was in was much more attractive and often smelled like various soaps and perfumes. Plus, the fam is fun, awfully nice and considerate, which you can't expect from gators, no matter what the brochures say.

Flordia View

2007-01-28T15:56:00.000-08:00

You thought that I was going to post a lovely photo and I will once I get back home.

Breakfast with Lori and Scott, Mom and Mary Jo at the Officer's Club at Eglin and the view was magnificent. The sun kept behind the clouds so my favorite grays were available in muted, moving glory. Think archetypical Rothko with three patches of color: inlet, island, and towering sky. A stack of clouds, the expanse of slate water and a thin ragged belt of civilization. Doesn't get better.

Pantfulness

2007-01-24T16:31:00.000-08:00

THIS close to leaving my apartment the other day without my pants. I had my coat on and knew that there was something awry, a lightness that seemed out of place.

Just How Smart?

2007-01-17T12:31:00.000-08:00

I am always stupified by the enormous annual report that comes annually from my 401k guys. It's big, did I mention that? Over 600 onion skin pages. It's like a softcover volume of the Oxford English Dictionary and far less useful.

I do rifle through it because the nice postal worker had to deal with it so I feel obligated to do my own review. Basically, this consists of trying to find the most obscure business sectors in the schedule of investments and the funniest funds. So far, the Ultra Short Bond Fund wins hands down. The different sectors are a bit harder to choose. Right now, Fisheries is winning over Airport Development and Diversified Minerals.

The folks at Principal are compelled by some silly law to send this to me each year. But they're also nice enough to send a score card each quarter with a big Thumbs up and Thumbs down. That I get. I like that report because it's simple and in color and tells me that I'll have to work another 130 years to attain my financial goals. Ha ha ha! Kidding. It's only 70 years. Kidding! Really.

I know that in theory, there's a lot to be said about having the details about where my money is spending its time. But other than the cost of the individual fund, I don't know if I'd ever have enough specialized knowledge to have the details make a difference. Do you think otherwise?

You will be happy to know that I am taking this diversion during my lunch hour. I've been diligently combing through the electrons looking for jobs. This afternoon, I'll have a well-deserved cup of coffee and then get back to the work of work. But for now, I'm thankful that the Principal Financial Group sent me their fine magazine. But for now, my best investment is getting me back in the workforce.

Decay

2007-01-15T21:47:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, it was depravity. Today, decay. Honest, I'll write something uplifting soon.

Til then, I have to report the demise of my once loved eyeglasses. Part of why I liked them so much is that they were incredibly lightweight. Why? Titanium! Now that is one light, tough-ass metal. Instead of having traditional stems with hinges, two wires were bent into a head-following shape and crazy glued into the lenses. It's kind of like drilling holes into two etherial coke-bottle bottoms and inserting two very precise, naked pipe cleaners. This created an open look with very little weight. When you look at my mug on this here blog, you can see that my frames are so unobtrusive that it's almost like my two lenses are floating in front of each eye, like tiny optic magician's assistants.

Of course, like many corrective vision sufferers, I have no adequate backup. This system is unacceptible but it the plan that many of us have in place. It's kind of like losing your job and going back to the company before that one and asking for your old job back. Or is it like running out of groceries and rummaging through the garbage? Perhaps there's no comparison. You've broken Glasses 12.0 so you install Glasses 11.0 or 10.0. Jam them on and Magoo yourself around the neighborhood. Thankfully, the #43 bus limited the guessing that I had to do and Laurie (Thanks!) motored me around after my pupils were dilated and everything looked like a Jimi Hendrix song.

Lenscrafters, of course! I had fun with the nice McFitter after the Doc slapped my eyeballs around with a lightstick. It was difficult choosing a style. EVERY brand has eyeglasses now. I went with a conservative pair from, uh, Dinty Moore, I think. Both of the McFitter's said "SWEET" when I told them that I might try to take my old lenses and affix pipe cleaners to them to wear around. IF I get that done, I'll post a picture as soon as I can. Really.

All three of you faithful readers know that my eyes are not like electron microscopes or telescopes. Very little scoping. In fact, after the fitter commiserated about his poor sight, I said something to Laurie about him and I having similar limitations about the glasses we could choose from. "Hey, don't lump me in with you," was his compassionate, disgusted response. He was honestly a lot of fun. He brought me cool frames and wild ones. I was convinced that had I chosen one or two of the crazy Dolce & Gabbana frames, I'd never get laid again unless I opted to wear copious gold chains as well. Nice.

The other affliction here is that those who tend toward the blurry end of things choose every option possible (almost) to make our glasses lighter, clearer and lighter and clearer. Anti-reflective coating? Check. Hi-index lenses. Check. Man, that sounded bad, price-index-wise. Scotch Garding? Are you shitting me? I am not eating on these things. If I have to, I'd retrofit some plastic sofa covers, for God's sake!

Once again, Laurie saved the day by landing a big additional discount because of the AAA membership. I'll refrain from making any lame jokes about some "anonymous" organization. (Truth is, I've been trying for the past ten minutes without luck. That's why I've given up.)

You glasses-savvy people know that I have to wait for the hi-index lenses. The level of accuracy here means that they have to order these from Boeing and an engineer will hand-sculpt those babies. Or something like that. Maybe it was General Motors. Or Dinty Moore. I just can't keep it straight.

The upshot here is that I'll be wearing my reading glasses for the next hunk of days. It's a bit funny how well these work not only for everything up close but everything far away. It's the middle part that gets blurry. So, screw you, middle part. You are getting ignored like Iraq withdrawl plans this week.

Namaste Football League

2007-01-14T23:35:00.000-08:00

Depravity takes many forms. I confess that I participated in one of the gentler forms but I still had to question my judgement.

You might make the mistake of thinking that I'm referring to the orgy of football games that I made myself watch this weekend. In the past few years, I've not exercised the man-perogative and stopped time for this important round of games. I'm glad I took the time. Good games and I feel strangely fulfilled. Now, let me get to the depraved bit.

I don't have an ideal way to watch the games in my place and that's okay. I have a slight fear of creating a setting so powerful, I'd never do anything again. So for each game, I lay on my bed and watch, sit in my chair, lay on the floor, exercise. Hard to sit still for that long. The genuine couch potato has skills that I can only dream of.

My apologies to my sister and the Buddha but I spent at least a couple of hours watching the games from my meditation cushion. My rationale was that I was working on my posture, which I was, kinda. Whatever the excuse, it's not good enough. I should have been able to figure out some other comfortable ass-perch without using my only dedicated enlightenment tool. That doesn't seem too much to ask.

But then again, the Seahawks were on the move in a critical series in the fourth quarter. Quite simply, I did want to pay attention.