There's a tic in frantic
I wrote a note at work today. Somehow it seemed easier to just rip off a sheet of lined paper, scrawl some words and addresses on it, and sign my name. The signing gave me pause. There's no automatic signature on the pages torn from a notebook. After struggling through the closing, I felt refreshed. This was the pace of work at one time. The pace of writing. The pace of mailing. The pace of waiting. I had a coworker who used to talk about the days before computers. It wasn't all typewriters and carbon paper. She said mail would come in daily some time near 11 AM. The mail would get opened, sorted, letters would get answered and sent back out into the world. Sometimes in a day. Sometimes not. They didn't follow up on the same issue three times in an hour. They were buried in paper, sure, and they had occasion to use a tickler which makes me giggle a little bit, but work was different. For five minutes, I felt that today. It relaxed me. We go so fast. We get things done; it's true. Some of them get done multiple times. We are doing more than ever before. And that's what matters... That's what matters....
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Checked into the boards by Mr. Universe
I'm not sure about heaven, but Oklahoma...
Not how I wanted to start. Sorry.
Let me start again. There's a beauty in the universe and I suspect it's hanging around everyday. It's like beauty smog and it just sort of infiltrates everything around us. We breathe it in and stare it down and sound waves ride gondolas steered by able-bodied smog Venetians through it on the way to our ear canals. Most of us get caught up in too much other stuff to notice the fog of the smog of beauty flatulence. It takes an elbow to the throat to jolt us into noticing. I've had great fortune this week to take at least three elbows to the throat.
Elbow the first: I know that babies have a high cuteness quotient, but so few of them run with my crowd so I don't usually realize the depths of that power. Last week, I met Anya for the first time. It was a pleasure. She was fascinating. She'd move her hands while dreaming and the room full of people who had not stopped staring at her would collectively smile as if we were her puppets and she controlled our mouth muscles on strings. I was not immune to her power. It was a calming sensation and it put my whole week into perspective. The false complications, the various manufactured stresses- what is all of that compared to a tiny baby? Nothing. Each of us was once that small and that helpless. Each of us started out only wanting to eat, sleep, poop, or some combination of the three. We only pretend we have passed that stage.
Ulna the second: My iPod mini is full of music. Some of it makes me want to shake my tailfeathers. Some of it makes me want to grab my banjo and slow dance with it. There's music that makes me smile, makes me rock, makes me appropriately sad, fired up, or makes me want to break out my falsetto. There is one band though that reaches down inside of me, plucks out my soul, and serves it with cream of mushroom soup as part of the growing-in-popularity hotdish. That band is Hem. This weekend I got to sit in the front row while they served my soul as a delicious meal. Somewhere in the last few years I lost track of how much meaningful music they have put out. I delighted in nearly every song as they carried me through love, loss, and that place of peace that I can only recognize when I hear it in my innards.
Codo de tercero: High on a hill in grassy field in Virginia, framed by the Autumn colors of reds, yellows, and greens, chilled slightly by October air, a group gathered to play a game that has come to mean so much to me. That game- Ultimate. My mistress, my salvation, my social network, my release, my happiness. My first game of the season. I twisted my "good" ankle just before we began to play. With my bad ankle and my quadriceps already causing concern, I feared that I was done, but the switch clicked when the game began and the pain vacated. White plastic cut through chilled air and I gave chase. We carved tracks back and forth across the grass and let youth, joy, and beauty run into the indentations our pounding cleats left. The indentations overflowed and so we leapt into the air, diving, bounding, jumping, and hollering to pursue it all. Beads of sweat formed, deer appeared to watch this display of natural beauty as the disc spun on sometimes just out of reach. Bodies extended to fly through the air, feet darted, sometimes slipping, but panting and smiling we soared to meet the high of activity.
I'm not sure about heaven, but Oklahoma...
Not how I wanted to start. Sorry.
Let me start again. There's a beauty in the universe and I suspect it's hanging around everyday. It's like beauty smog and it just sort of infiltrates everything around us. We breathe it in and stare it down and sound waves ride gondolas steered by able-bodied smog Venetians through it on the way to our ear canals. Most of us get caught up in too much other stuff to notice the fog of the smog of beauty flatulence. It takes an elbow to the throat to jolt us into noticing. I've had great fortune this week to take at least three elbows to the throat.
Elbow the first: I know that babies have a high cuteness quotient, but so few of them run with my crowd so I don't usually realize the depths of that power. Last week, I met Anya for the first time. It was a pleasure. She was fascinating. She'd move her hands while dreaming and the room full of people who had not stopped staring at her would collectively smile as if we were her puppets and she controlled our mouth muscles on strings. I was not immune to her power. It was a calming sensation and it put my whole week into perspective. The false complications, the various manufactured stresses- what is all of that compared to a tiny baby? Nothing. Each of us was once that small and that helpless. Each of us started out only wanting to eat, sleep, poop, or some combination of the three. We only pretend we have passed that stage.
Ulna the second: My iPod mini is full of music. Some of it makes me want to shake my tailfeathers. Some of it makes me want to grab my banjo and slow dance with it. There's music that makes me smile, makes me rock, makes me appropriately sad, fired up, or makes me want to break out my falsetto. There is one band though that reaches down inside of me, plucks out my soul, and serves it with cream of mushroom soup as part of the growing-in-popularity hotdish. That band is Hem. This weekend I got to sit in the front row while they served my soul as a delicious meal. Somewhere in the last few years I lost track of how much meaningful music they have put out. I delighted in nearly every song as they carried me through love, loss, and that place of peace that I can only recognize when I hear it in my innards.
Codo de tercero: High on a hill in grassy field in Virginia, framed by the Autumn colors of reds, yellows, and greens, chilled slightly by October air, a group gathered to play a game that has come to mean so much to me. That game- Ultimate. My mistress, my salvation, my social network, my release, my happiness. My first game of the season. I twisted my "good" ankle just before we began to play. With my bad ankle and my quadriceps already causing concern, I feared that I was done, but the switch clicked when the game began and the pain vacated. White plastic cut through chilled air and I gave chase. We carved tracks back and forth across the grass and let youth, joy, and beauty run into the indentations our pounding cleats left. The indentations overflowed and so we leapt into the air, diving, bounding, jumping, and hollering to pursue it all. Beads of sweat formed, deer appeared to watch this display of natural beauty as the disc spun on sometimes just out of reach. Bodies extended to fly through the air, feet darted, sometimes slipping, but panting and smiling we soared to meet the high of activity.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Excuse me, did you say Hot Dish?
I don't remember how the topic came up, and I refuse to admit that I might have been swapping recipes. Nonetheless, there was a "hot dish" (apparently that's Minnesotan for "casserole") that sounded pretty delicious and pretty easy in this conversation, which may or may not have extended beyond hot dishes. Anyway, I came home, whipped it up, slathered it with ketchup, and put it in my tummy for the last two nights. It's so good I wrote all three ingredients down on a recipe card and wrote "Hot Dish" at the top so that my grandchildren can some day enjoy a hot dish of their own.
Hamburger (or soy crumble)
Cream of Mushroom soup
Topped with Tater tots
Cooked for 45 minutes
Hot Dish. It's almost as fun to eat as it is to say.
I don't remember how the topic came up, and I refuse to admit that I might have been swapping recipes. Nonetheless, there was a "hot dish" (apparently that's Minnesotan for "casserole") that sounded pretty delicious and pretty easy in this conversation, which may or may not have extended beyond hot dishes. Anyway, I came home, whipped it up, slathered it with ketchup, and put it in my tummy for the last two nights. It's so good I wrote all three ingredients down on a recipe card and wrote "Hot Dish" at the top so that my grandchildren can some day enjoy a hot dish of their own.
Hamburger (or soy crumble)
Cream of Mushroom soup
Topped with Tater tots
Cooked for 45 minutes
Hot Dish. It's almost as fun to eat as it is to say.
Monday, October 16, 2006
The Garter family
It never feels right trying to catch a garter from a barely-known groom. It always feels like there should be some bond between this groom and the "next one." At least that's my excuse for only coming up with one garter in seven tries this year. Those in attendance might call in to question the word "tries" for several reasons. At least two of the weddings decided to forgo the dive beneath the bride's dress, so they were out. I caught the one. I don't remember how two others went down, which leaves us with just two.
In the first, my young cousin took one for the team with a stunning diving grab. I was quite proud of him for his catching ability as well as his generosity in taking the heat off those of us that have actually reached marrying age. Good man. Good show.
The second of the uncaught garters came much much closer. The garter whizzed out to my left and above my shoulder. It was catchable; I should know, I like to catch whizzing things for fun, however, it didn't seem right to steal the moment from the gentleman to my left who was not only in the direct line of flight, but was also about a head taller than me. Quickly considering these factors, it only seemed fair to let him have the prize. He must have been considering a different set of factors because he politely stepped out of the way to allow the garter to fall to the floor. Like befuddled baseball players, we looked at each other disappointedly before recovering our dignity. "Dear sir. I believe that was yours. Please do pick it up now," we both said. This back and forth went on for an awkward stretch before a young lad saved us from further discussion and plucked the garter from the ground. This seemed like an excellent compromise to all parties involved.
It never feels right trying to catch a garter from a barely-known groom. It always feels like there should be some bond between this groom and the "next one." At least that's my excuse for only coming up with one garter in seven tries this year. Those in attendance might call in to question the word "tries" for several reasons. At least two of the weddings decided to forgo the dive beneath the bride's dress, so they were out. I caught the one. I don't remember how two others went down, which leaves us with just two.
In the first, my young cousin took one for the team with a stunning diving grab. I was quite proud of him for his catching ability as well as his generosity in taking the heat off those of us that have actually reached marrying age. Good man. Good show.
The second of the uncaught garters came much much closer. The garter whizzed out to my left and above my shoulder. It was catchable; I should know, I like to catch whizzing things for fun, however, it didn't seem right to steal the moment from the gentleman to my left who was not only in the direct line of flight, but was also about a head taller than me. Quickly considering these factors, it only seemed fair to let him have the prize. He must have been considering a different set of factors because he politely stepped out of the way to allow the garter to fall to the floor. Like befuddled baseball players, we looked at each other disappointedly before recovering our dignity. "Dear sir. I believe that was yours. Please do pick it up now," we both said. This back and forth went on for an awkward stretch before a young lad saved us from further discussion and plucked the garter from the ground. This seemed like an excellent compromise to all parties involved.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
The wedding wave crashes
I thought that I'd feel a bit more jubilant now that I have my weekends wrestled back from the marriage monster. I closed out Wedding Wave 2006 with my seventh and final wedding over the weekend. My suit will head to the dry cleaners. My tuxedo will head to the tailor. (There was a crotch-ripping incident. It was a good year....) It's odd, not knowing what's next. I can only wonder when I'll be able to vogue again. I don't know whose Mom will be the next Mom I get to hug or whose Dad I'll get to struggle through a conversation with. It could be six or eight months before I see another bridesmaid. I may be calling my friends to give toasts during my meals, just to ease me back into the weddingless existence. I thought I'd be happy right now, but I'm a little lonely. It seems that... uh... there ain't no party like a 19,000 dollar party, 'cause a 19,000 dollar party don't stop. Say what? er. They do stop. And people sort of stumble off the dance floor, hug, kiss, and wish the sharp dressed man and that happy woman an enjoyable visit to somewhere romantic. The rest of us return to our lives already in progress. Maybe we caught up with some old friends, but by Tuesday four days will be just like four years. Maybe we made some new friends, but by Wednesday who knows when we'll see them again. At least we've got pictures, and also CDs, coasters, coffee, small bags of edible goodies, and our memories. Someone will drink to that. They always do.
I thought that I'd feel a bit more jubilant now that I have my weekends wrestled back from the marriage monster. I closed out Wedding Wave 2006 with my seventh and final wedding over the weekend. My suit will head to the dry cleaners. My tuxedo will head to the tailor. (There was a crotch-ripping incident. It was a good year....) It's odd, not knowing what's next. I can only wonder when I'll be able to vogue again. I don't know whose Mom will be the next Mom I get to hug or whose Dad I'll get to struggle through a conversation with. It could be six or eight months before I see another bridesmaid. I may be calling my friends to give toasts during my meals, just to ease me back into the weddingless existence. I thought I'd be happy right now, but I'm a little lonely. It seems that... uh... there ain't no party like a 19,000 dollar party, 'cause a 19,000 dollar party don't stop. Say what? er. They do stop. And people sort of stumble off the dance floor, hug, kiss, and wish the sharp dressed man and that happy woman an enjoyable visit to somewhere romantic. The rest of us return to our lives already in progress. Maybe we caught up with some old friends, but by Tuesday four days will be just like four years. Maybe we made some new friends, but by Wednesday who knows when we'll see them again. At least we've got pictures, and also CDs, coasters, coffee, small bags of edible goodies, and our memories. Someone will drink to that. They always do.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Ways to look a gift horse in the mouth without sustaining serious injury
-Sneak up on the horse while she is sleeping.
-Stand perpendicular to the horse and use peripheral vision.
-Two words: Magna Fication
-Translated as one word: Binoculars
-Become a gift horse dentist, then it will be an occupation and OSHA will print guidelines for the bulletin board which will be oh so helpful.
-Wait until the gift horse is dead.
Or follow the advice passed down by generations of folks wiser than Salman Rushdie and don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
-Sneak up on the horse while she is sleeping.
-Stand perpendicular to the horse and use peripheral vision.
-Two words: Magna Fication
-Translated as one word: Binoculars
-Become a gift horse dentist, then it will be an occupation and OSHA will print guidelines for the bulletin board which will be oh so helpful.
-Wait until the gift horse is dead.
Or follow the advice passed down by generations of folks wiser than Salman Rushdie and don't look a gift horse in the mouth.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Plant it on my cheek
Zach Braff is all the rage. Or at least he was like 10 minutes ago. I don't know why anymore. I saw Last Kiss and I'm depressed. It's a sad movie about how life sucks. I don't like to go to movies to find out life sucks. I go other places for that; country music stations for instance. I go to movies to escape, not to be reminded that at the end of this whole show we're all just going to end up dead anyway. I mean according to this flick, life is pretty much over at 29. Come on Braff, not all of us get to mambo with Rachel Bilson. I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm pretty sure that it adds rather than detracts from my ill feelings toward Last Kiss. The movie isn't dark and meaningful. They curse a lot, so it sounds dark, but it doesn't do it for me. It has some good music, but I wonder if it has the same problem that Garden State had. In that one, I found the soundtrack more moving than the movie. I can't confirm this on the Kiss yet, 'cause I haven't heard the soundtrack separately. It's just a theory at this point. Rachel Bilson had a really short pleated skirt. This factoid also seemed worth mentioning, though unconnected to much. Although in this case the pleats improved my opinion of this movie. In fairness to the folks that like men, Braff took off his shirt. This neither added nor detracted from my experience. Overall, I have to say that I wasn't pleased with the first movie I've seen in a theater since California*. Save your money.
*I'm looking into new ways to mark time. I have not ruled out states.
Zach Braff is all the rage. Or at least he was like 10 minutes ago. I don't know why anymore. I saw Last Kiss and I'm depressed. It's a sad movie about how life sucks. I don't like to go to movies to find out life sucks. I go other places for that; country music stations for instance. I go to movies to escape, not to be reminded that at the end of this whole show we're all just going to end up dead anyway. I mean according to this flick, life is pretty much over at 29. Come on Braff, not all of us get to mambo with Rachel Bilson. I don't know what that means exactly, but I'm pretty sure that it adds rather than detracts from my ill feelings toward Last Kiss. The movie isn't dark and meaningful. They curse a lot, so it sounds dark, but it doesn't do it for me. It has some good music, but I wonder if it has the same problem that Garden State had. In that one, I found the soundtrack more moving than the movie. I can't confirm this on the Kiss yet, 'cause I haven't heard the soundtrack separately. It's just a theory at this point. Rachel Bilson had a really short pleated skirt. This factoid also seemed worth mentioning, though unconnected to much. Although in this case the pleats improved my opinion of this movie. In fairness to the folks that like men, Braff took off his shirt. This neither added nor detracted from my experience. Overall, I have to say that I wasn't pleased with the first movie I've seen in a theater since California*. Save your money.
*I'm looking into new ways to mark time. I have not ruled out states.
Friday, October 06, 2006
A Public Service Announcement for my New York readers Or is it reader, now?
The baring of one's teenage soul seems like loads of fun. Or at least worth a cringe.
Let me know if you end up on TV.
The baring of one's teenage soul seems like loads of fun. Or at least worth a cringe.
Let me know if you end up on TV.
Thursday, October 05, 2006
The ballad of disease
Here's the profanity-laced follow-up to my first *hit* single, The stability song. This one was inspired by a heart patient with pneumonia. I figure it has to brighten her mood just knowing that I won't be singing this to her.
Just because it's still dark
Doesn't make it night
Just ‘cause they removed the fat
Doesn’t make it lite.
She’s out of bed,
But fighting a foe.
You can call him Murdoch,
But I’ll call him Moe.
He’s pneumonia
A mean ol’ lung infection
He's pneumonia
Nobody’s candidate for re-election
He’s banned from the A-team
And cut from JV
If he were walking
I'd kick his knee
That surly bastard
Attacking the impaired
Come on, Moe, bring it.
Are you scared?
He's pneumonia
Doesn't rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.
The immune system sounds the bell
does its Truman
And gives him hell
Pneumonia goes down
With a right to the jaw
The crowd cheers wildly
And sings this song
He's pneumonia
Doesn’t rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.
Immune system dances
Cha-cha in the street
Pneumonia shrinks away
He's been beat.
Just because it’s pink
Doesn’t make it dusk
Just because it's perfume
Doesn't make it musk
She's out of bed
And besting her foe
This song should've ended
A long time ago
Pneumonia!
Bloody hell.
Pneumonia.
Go on, get well.
Here's the profanity-laced follow-up to my first *hit* single, The stability song. This one was inspired by a heart patient with pneumonia. I figure it has to brighten her mood just knowing that I won't be singing this to her.
Just because it's still dark
Doesn't make it night
Just ‘cause they removed the fat
Doesn’t make it lite.
She’s out of bed,
But fighting a foe.
You can call him Murdoch,
But I’ll call him Moe.
He’s pneumonia
A mean ol’ lung infection
He's pneumonia
Nobody’s candidate for re-election
He’s banned from the A-team
And cut from JV
If he were walking
I'd kick his knee
That surly bastard
Attacking the impaired
Come on, Moe, bring it.
Are you scared?
He's pneumonia
Doesn't rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.
The immune system sounds the bell
does its Truman
And gives him hell
Pneumonia goes down
With a right to the jaw
The crowd cheers wildly
And sings this song
He's pneumonia
Doesn’t rhyme with Jack Sh**
He's pneumonia
Y’know she’ll get over it.
Immune system dances
Cha-cha in the street
Pneumonia shrinks away
He's been beat.
Just because it’s pink
Doesn’t make it dusk
Just because it's perfume
Doesn't make it musk
She's out of bed
And besting her foe
This song should've ended
A long time ago
Pneumonia!
Bloody hell.
Pneumonia.
Go on, get well.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The Juan Valdez where everyone thinks they know your name
There is a Juan Valdez coffee shop on the corner of 6th and Fun Street. It opened six months ago. Across the street is a Starbucks. The green wheel of coffee shop dominance spins in at least three Fun Street locales. Juan had to know this when he opened his shop. Still, he pulled his red awnings down and opened his sterile white walls to the world. Lines snake out the door of the Starbucks. There are no lines at Juan's. For a time, Juan didn't seem to have niche. Then, one day, looking in the window below an awning I saw someone I knew perched at a table. It wasn't just someone I knew, it was my friend Amy from elementary school. I did a double take and she was gone. A blonde girl with remotely similar features stared past me. Turning the corner, I looked in another window and saw Mike. I haven't seen Mike since I left Winter Park four years ago. I squinted and Mike morphed into an unknown scruffy coffee drinker.
Wondering who I'd see on the inside, I took my seat at the window and chewed on a Juan Valdez tuna salad sandwich. There's a reason Juan is not known for his tuna. I was reading the paper as I munched, when an attractive woman burst through the door, turned the corner, and cried out "Nick..." and then trailed off into, "Oh. I thought you were someone else."
These events have lead me to believe that Juan Valdez was not so foolish as to challenge Starbucks. I believe Juan Valdez is not on the corner of 6th and Fun. Instead, he's set up shop smack dab in the intersection of reminiscence and familiar faces.
There is a Juan Valdez coffee shop on the corner of 6th and Fun Street. It opened six months ago. Across the street is a Starbucks. The green wheel of coffee shop dominance spins in at least three Fun Street locales. Juan had to know this when he opened his shop. Still, he pulled his red awnings down and opened his sterile white walls to the world. Lines snake out the door of the Starbucks. There are no lines at Juan's. For a time, Juan didn't seem to have niche. Then, one day, looking in the window below an awning I saw someone I knew perched at a table. It wasn't just someone I knew, it was my friend Amy from elementary school. I did a double take and she was gone. A blonde girl with remotely similar features stared past me. Turning the corner, I looked in another window and saw Mike. I haven't seen Mike since I left Winter Park four years ago. I squinted and Mike morphed into an unknown scruffy coffee drinker.
Wondering who I'd see on the inside, I took my seat at the window and chewed on a Juan Valdez tuna salad sandwich. There's a reason Juan is not known for his tuna. I was reading the paper as I munched, when an attractive woman burst through the door, turned the corner, and cried out "Nick..." and then trailed off into, "Oh. I thought you were someone else."
These events have lead me to believe that Juan Valdez was not so foolish as to challenge Starbucks. I believe Juan Valdez is not on the corner of 6th and Fun. Instead, he's set up shop smack dab in the intersection of reminiscence and familiar faces.
Monday, October 02, 2006
I think I was blind before I went to your wedding*
The Internets are already burning up with tales of the Voltron-like union of Kristin and Justin, but in an attempt to make up for my dismal blogging September I thought I would add my own account.
I admit to wondering how a wedding in a high school auditorium was not going to feel a bit too much like "awards night." I stopped wondering when I heard the rumor that Chuck had designed a set. I've seen the man's entertainment center, I knew he was capable of class. So I took to wondering what sort of song and dance number we'd get to see. Kristin and Justin did not can-can, but they put on quite a show. The stage was set simply and beautifully. The programs on notepaper were perfect. Every detail from the hot pink ties to the music had Kristin and Justin's personality in it. Lucky for all of us, they each have fantastic personalities. My favorite ceremony moment was hearing excerpts from their personal letters. Both are such wonderful writers with such distinct voices, to hear those voices wrapped up in a growing love was a special treat. Arguably a better treat than the the 1 million different varieties of cake offered at the reception. Although, in fairness, the Butter Pecan did rock my world. Do you know what else rocked my world? Paul. He was a beautiful dance partner. The most beautiful dance partner I had all night besides Julie, Anne, Kristin, that one girl, J-dub, and of course, Clare. Beautiful in his own way. And, a genius. Paul came up with the routine that would carry us to third place in the dance contest. Jumping jacks are sweeping the countryside like giant electric brooms. You'll see.
The thing about this wedding and the thing that I'm not sure I can really put into words is the love. There is joy in seeing two great people come together and it helps so much when you know each one is great. What makes it even better is getting to witness such an event surrounded by bunches of other great people. It doesn't hurt at all when those bunches can cut a freakin' rug.
I'm glad I didn't die before I got to party.
*With all due respect to Bright Eyes and the song that I've listened to 8 times today and sung constantly since leaving the Midwest.
The Internets are already burning up with tales of the Voltron-like union of Kristin and Justin, but in an attempt to make up for my dismal blogging September I thought I would add my own account.
I admit to wondering how a wedding in a high school auditorium was not going to feel a bit too much like "awards night." I stopped wondering when I heard the rumor that Chuck had designed a set. I've seen the man's entertainment center, I knew he was capable of class. So I took to wondering what sort of song and dance number we'd get to see. Kristin and Justin did not can-can, but they put on quite a show. The stage was set simply and beautifully. The programs on notepaper were perfect. Every detail from the hot pink ties to the music had Kristin and Justin's personality in it. Lucky for all of us, they each have fantastic personalities. My favorite ceremony moment was hearing excerpts from their personal letters. Both are such wonderful writers with such distinct voices, to hear those voices wrapped up in a growing love was a special treat. Arguably a better treat than the the 1 million different varieties of cake offered at the reception. Although, in fairness, the Butter Pecan did rock my world. Do you know what else rocked my world? Paul. He was a beautiful dance partner. The most beautiful dance partner I had all night besides Julie, Anne, Kristin, that one girl, J-dub, and of course, Clare. Beautiful in his own way. And, a genius. Paul came up with the routine that would carry us to third place in the dance contest. Jumping jacks are sweeping the countryside like giant electric brooms. You'll see.
The thing about this wedding and the thing that I'm not sure I can really put into words is the love. There is joy in seeing two great people come together and it helps so much when you know each one is great. What makes it even better is getting to witness such an event surrounded by bunches of other great people. It doesn't hurt at all when those bunches can cut a freakin' rug.
I'm glad I didn't die before I got to party.
*With all due respect to Bright Eyes and the song that I've listened to 8 times today and sung constantly since leaving the Midwest.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
The stability song
I've decided to write a song. I'm not so much with the music or the lyrics, but I'll italicize the words and make odd line breaks and everyone perusing the Internets like child molesters that thought they missed me this month can remember that they didn't. That same everyone can also be insulted that I just compared them to child molesters. Then they can wonder why good-looking singer-songwriters are such jerks. Then the ones that are singer-songwriters can be upset that I insulted them too. Oh. Man. The child molesting singer-songwriters are going to be furious. Maybe they quit reading in early September. Please don't tell them. I hope they don't have an RSS feed.
This is a song about being stable.
I didn't write it. I wasn't able.
This is my song about stability
Sitting here in all my futility
Working hard every day.
Just so I can say,
Oh, I'm working haaaaard
This is a song about being still
I wouldn't sing it. I'm not Phil.
This is a song about not moving.
Broken down and not grooving.
Working hard every day.
Just so I can say,
Oh, I'm working harrrrrd.
Traveling the countryside
In my gas-guzzlin' ride.
I'd rather take the train.
I'd rather it not rain.
I'd rather you silence that phone.
I just don't want to hear it.
I'm busy working hard.
Why-oh-why
does your ringing,
sound three point five times better than my singing?
I'm not classically trained,
I'm not filled with pain.
I'm not having fun.
But
I'm
Working
Hard.
I've decided to write a song. I'm not so much with the music or the lyrics, but I'll italicize the words and make odd line breaks and everyone perusing the Internets like child molesters that thought they missed me this month can remember that they didn't. That same everyone can also be insulted that I just compared them to child molesters. Then they can wonder why good-looking singer-songwriters are such jerks. Then the ones that are singer-songwriters can be upset that I insulted them too. Oh. Man. The child molesting singer-songwriters are going to be furious. Maybe they quit reading in early September. Please don't tell them. I hope they don't have an RSS feed.
This is a song about being stable.
I didn't write it. I wasn't able.
This is my song about stability
Sitting here in all my futility
Working hard every day.
Just so I can say,
Oh, I'm working haaaaard
This is a song about being still
I wouldn't sing it. I'm not Phil.
This is a song about not moving.
Broken down and not grooving.
Working hard every day.
Just so I can say,
Oh, I'm working harrrrrd.
Traveling the countryside
In my gas-guzzlin' ride.
I'd rather take the train.
I'd rather it not rain.
I'd rather you silence that phone.
I just don't want to hear it.
I'm busy working hard.
Why-oh-why
does your ringing,
sound three point five times better than my singing?
I'm not classically trained,
I'm not filled with pain.
I'm not having fun.
But
I'm
Working
Hard.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Pink Perfection at the "Sugar Shack"
The sun was painting the sky in a daily farewell. Pink lemonade strips were woven between fluffy white cumulus clouds. A rain was coming, but only one. Followed by another. Rain, like underwear, is puzzled by its number. Unlike underwear, rain is not nearly so puzzled when it comes to gender. American rain lacks an obvious gender, but French rain is female. The buttons on her shirt are on the left, for the rain-servants. French rain can wear short skirts and get away with it. When French rain gets asked out for coffee, the thunder almost always picks up the check. This makes American rain exceedingly jealous because American rain has to pay for its own coffee. Plus American rain is tired of Pat jokes. What's that? It's American rain.
At night, after the sun has set and the little ones are asleep, sometimes American rain cries itself to sleep. It's very hard to tell because tear drops on rain drops can be a subtle phenomena only detectable by trained eyes. Although, there was a man with no eyes at all who could hear the tears. They drove him mad and he invented a shampoo for children and sensitive adults, but his brother... His brother Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack next to the home of American rain. Johnson didn't have the incredible ears of his brother Johnson, but since people often confused the two of them anyway, this story has shifted in his general direction.
Now, Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack. That sounds sweeter and/or dirtier than it was. He worked part time as a painter and the other time he spent thinking of ways to get out of working altogether. In a fit of inspiration, Johnson painted his modest meadow dwelling to look like a spun sugar egg. There are those that claim he had a Gretel fetish, but the most commonly held theory is that the younger Johnson decided that he could charge tourists to gawk at his shack. It was not altogether a bad plan, especially when one considers that the Precious Moments chapel attracts 400,000 visitors a year.
(The answers to your questions are yes, I'm reading Tom Robbins again and Pink Perfection and "Sugar Shack" were my dinner. The former was a smoothie, the latter a platter with baked beans, crepes, eggs, and Black Forest ham.)
The sun was painting the sky in a daily farewell. Pink lemonade strips were woven between fluffy white cumulus clouds. A rain was coming, but only one. Followed by another. Rain, like underwear, is puzzled by its number. Unlike underwear, rain is not nearly so puzzled when it comes to gender. American rain lacks an obvious gender, but French rain is female. The buttons on her shirt are on the left, for the rain-servants. French rain can wear short skirts and get away with it. When French rain gets asked out for coffee, the thunder almost always picks up the check. This makes American rain exceedingly jealous because American rain has to pay for its own coffee. Plus American rain is tired of Pat jokes. What's that? It's American rain.
At night, after the sun has set and the little ones are asleep, sometimes American rain cries itself to sleep. It's very hard to tell because tear drops on rain drops can be a subtle phenomena only detectable by trained eyes. Although, there was a man with no eyes at all who could hear the tears. They drove him mad and he invented a shampoo for children and sensitive adults, but his brother... His brother Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack next to the home of American rain. Johnson didn't have the incredible ears of his brother Johnson, but since people often confused the two of them anyway, this story has shifted in his general direction.
Now, Johnson lived in a Sugar Shack. That sounds sweeter and/or dirtier than it was. He worked part time as a painter and the other time he spent thinking of ways to get out of working altogether. In a fit of inspiration, Johnson painted his modest meadow dwelling to look like a spun sugar egg. There are those that claim he had a Gretel fetish, but the most commonly held theory is that the younger Johnson decided that he could charge tourists to gawk at his shack. It was not altogether a bad plan, especially when one considers that the Precious Moments chapel attracts 400,000 visitors a year.
(The answers to your questions are yes, I'm reading Tom Robbins again and Pink Perfection and "Sugar Shack" were my dinner. The former was a smoothie, the latter a platter with baked beans, crepes, eggs, and Black Forest ham.)
Thursday, September 14, 2006
I got Lost in the fictional town of Neptune
DVDs and cliffhangers are a bit like Oreos and freedom. With only work, pauses for meals, and the jaunts to the bathroom to slow me down, I have made my desperate grasps for closure and in trusty television fashion I have been left wanting. They can take the commercials out of the TV, but they can't take the consumer off the couch. With the ads gone, my desires are more uncertain. I don't know whether I want Budweiser or Kellogg's Corn Flakes, but I know that I want. Somewhere deep inside of me, I want. I hunger. I thirst. If not glued to my seat, I'd pull out the blender and mix everything I could find. Twizzlers, hummus, milk, and mystery. Is that a me-shaped mold on my couch? If I'd rotated couches, I could now make multi-colored plastic me's and sell them off to pay for other things I might crave.
I heard I might crave one of the new Apple gadgets. The nano comes in color now. Just what I need. The wee little shuffle is so small it can be swallowed and passed through the system. Eat it with fiber and it'll shuffle inside of you for a full battery cycle*. (*Not recommended or proven) I'd run out to buy one, but I'm not speaking with my iPod at the moment. We got in a tiff recently. My silver mini was blocking out the world all proper-like, spitting my music collection through the buds and directly into my brain. Swept up in a Funnel Cloud blowing down Metro's tracks in a crush of suburb-dwellers, my eyes passed over the weakened force. Silently I commiserated with the masses. Ties were loosened, bone-crushing heels clung to feet, eyes remained downturned. As my cloud paused and the doors that always seem to be closing hinted at opening, a woman waited next to me. She was leaving. I was staying. She was dressed in her conservative best. Her big black heels raised her golden hair slightly above my dumpy lid. She turned to me and I watched her lips move. Words, a sentence, spilled from the moist pinkness below the brown eyes tilted just slightly in my direction. She was speaking to me. In an instant I reviewed the rules of public transportation. No eating. No drinking. No music without headphones. No littering. Oh. Yea. And the unwritten rule, the genesis of the infamous Metro stare, the rule that says nobody ever talks to anybody, especially not the smelly bearded men, a party with whom I was currently registered.
The woman was talking to me. Having reviewed the rules in my head, I also did a short equation. Attractive + woman + stranger + Metro = Avert eyes! Avoid the burning of human connection! I ignored my calculation as she had ignored hers and ripped a bud from my ear.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"Nothing," she muttered as she walked out the doors.
"Please stand clear, the doors are closing," said the only other woman that ever talks to me on the Metro.
Buds?! What kind of buds are these, Apple? The kind that shut out the secrets of the universe. The kind that prevent me from telling the Internets about the specifics of a failed pick-up attempt. These are not my buds. These are tiny white fists pummeling destiny. They are awkward little hands strangling fate. They are the miniature subwoofers adding pulsating depth to an otherwise ordinary moment.
DVDs and cliffhangers are a bit like Oreos and freedom. With only work, pauses for meals, and the jaunts to the bathroom to slow me down, I have made my desperate grasps for closure and in trusty television fashion I have been left wanting. They can take the commercials out of the TV, but they can't take the consumer off the couch. With the ads gone, my desires are more uncertain. I don't know whether I want Budweiser or Kellogg's Corn Flakes, but I know that I want. Somewhere deep inside of me, I want. I hunger. I thirst. If not glued to my seat, I'd pull out the blender and mix everything I could find. Twizzlers, hummus, milk, and mystery. Is that a me-shaped mold on my couch? If I'd rotated couches, I could now make multi-colored plastic me's and sell them off to pay for other things I might crave.
I heard I might crave one of the new Apple gadgets. The nano comes in color now. Just what I need. The wee little shuffle is so small it can be swallowed and passed through the system. Eat it with fiber and it'll shuffle inside of you for a full battery cycle*. (*Not recommended or proven) I'd run out to buy one, but I'm not speaking with my iPod at the moment. We got in a tiff recently. My silver mini was blocking out the world all proper-like, spitting my music collection through the buds and directly into my brain. Swept up in a Funnel Cloud blowing down Metro's tracks in a crush of suburb-dwellers, my eyes passed over the weakened force. Silently I commiserated with the masses. Ties were loosened, bone-crushing heels clung to feet, eyes remained downturned. As my cloud paused and the doors that always seem to be closing hinted at opening, a woman waited next to me. She was leaving. I was staying. She was dressed in her conservative best. Her big black heels raised her golden hair slightly above my dumpy lid. She turned to me and I watched her lips move. Words, a sentence, spilled from the moist pinkness below the brown eyes tilted just slightly in my direction. She was speaking to me. In an instant I reviewed the rules of public transportation. No eating. No drinking. No music without headphones. No littering. Oh. Yea. And the unwritten rule, the genesis of the infamous Metro stare, the rule that says nobody ever talks to anybody, especially not the smelly bearded men, a party with whom I was currently registered.
The woman was talking to me. Having reviewed the rules in my head, I also did a short equation. Attractive + woman + stranger + Metro = Avert eyes! Avoid the burning of human connection! I ignored my calculation as she had ignored hers and ripped a bud from my ear.
"Excuse me?" I asked.
"Nothing," she muttered as she walked out the doors.
"Please stand clear, the doors are closing," said the only other woman that ever talks to me on the Metro.
Buds?! What kind of buds are these, Apple? The kind that shut out the secrets of the universe. The kind that prevent me from telling the Internets about the specifics of a failed pick-up attempt. These are not my buds. These are tiny white fists pummeling destiny. They are awkward little hands strangling fate. They are the miniature subwoofers adding pulsating depth to an otherwise ordinary moment.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
My little weather
In the east, the storms have names. Ernesto is on his way. He's a Spanish storm prone to light destruction and searing bouts of depression. He's recognizable by the tears he cries. The weathermen all hail Ernesto. Ernesto will affect us all, they say. Especially our ratings, they don't say. Storms like him are big news. Here the storms take their time in coming. They plot and plod, spinning around those beady eyes and leaving a trail of fallen branches. We name them because we have time to name them. They aren't our friends, more acquaintances really. Freaks of nature, we claim behind their backs as we all track his progress eagerly on TV and radio and Internet. Even through our insults, we build a relationship with the storm. We introduce him to the family. We think about him while we purchase toilet paper and SPAM. We know him. Maybe we fear him. We definitely talk about him. Ernesto was quiet. I never would have expected this.
In the middle, storms are nameless. They answer to cyclone and tornado. The east may think this reflects a lack of imagination. What many in the middle gain during commutes, they lose in a storm. Proper names and waiting periods give way to green skies and the swirling winds. It's not a lack of interest that prevents naming convention. It's a lack of time. Storms in the middle are lust and raw energy. They are bumping against a bathroom stall, grunting, destroying. They are singular. They are in the moment. Storms in the middle sneak in, blow by, and leave us wondering where that came from. We remember them, but in a vague way, in a numbered way. That tornado in '86. The big one in '99. Storms in the middle are no less personal, they're just less personal to so many people. They don't give us a chance to talk about them until they are gone. It's like a tornado hit this place.
Storms in the west are a mystery to me. They seem to occur less frequently. In the west, mother nature is both more open with her emotions and more reserved. In some places, she doesn't allow them to build up inside and then come out in a rush of power and anger. She releases them daily with a sprinkling of rain and a mixture of sunshine and clouds. In other places, she withholds the emotions all together. She cries no tears and we sweat, but more figuratively than literally because it's all so dry. Of course, she has her moments, lightning and thunder and rain that still make children cower, but they seem to lack the magnitude found in the middle and the east. She makes up for this in other ways. Fires, earthquakes, droughts, she is a complicated woman.
Meanwhile, Ernesto stops at the beach for a frozen daquiri, a ride on the waves, and a desperate search for somewhere to let out his frustrations. Ernesto is on his way.
In the east, the storms have names. Ernesto is on his way. He's a Spanish storm prone to light destruction and searing bouts of depression. He's recognizable by the tears he cries. The weathermen all hail Ernesto. Ernesto will affect us all, they say. Especially our ratings, they don't say. Storms like him are big news. Here the storms take their time in coming. They plot and plod, spinning around those beady eyes and leaving a trail of fallen branches. We name them because we have time to name them. They aren't our friends, more acquaintances really. Freaks of nature, we claim behind their backs as we all track his progress eagerly on TV and radio and Internet. Even through our insults, we build a relationship with the storm. We introduce him to the family. We think about him while we purchase toilet paper and SPAM. We know him. Maybe we fear him. We definitely talk about him. Ernesto was quiet. I never would have expected this.
In the middle, storms are nameless. They answer to cyclone and tornado. The east may think this reflects a lack of imagination. What many in the middle gain during commutes, they lose in a storm. Proper names and waiting periods give way to green skies and the swirling winds. It's not a lack of interest that prevents naming convention. It's a lack of time. Storms in the middle are lust and raw energy. They are bumping against a bathroom stall, grunting, destroying. They are singular. They are in the moment. Storms in the middle sneak in, blow by, and leave us wondering where that came from. We remember them, but in a vague way, in a numbered way. That tornado in '86. The big one in '99. Storms in the middle are no less personal, they're just less personal to so many people. They don't give us a chance to talk about them until they are gone. It's like a tornado hit this place.
Storms in the west are a mystery to me. They seem to occur less frequently. In the west, mother nature is both more open with her emotions and more reserved. In some places, she doesn't allow them to build up inside and then come out in a rush of power and anger. She releases them daily with a sprinkling of rain and a mixture of sunshine and clouds. In other places, she withholds the emotions all together. She cries no tears and we sweat, but more figuratively than literally because it's all so dry. Of course, she has her moments, lightning and thunder and rain that still make children cower, but they seem to lack the magnitude found in the middle and the east. She makes up for this in other ways. Fires, earthquakes, droughts, she is a complicated woman.
Meanwhile, Ernesto stops at the beach for a frozen daquiri, a ride on the waves, and a desperate search for somewhere to let out his frustrations. Ernesto is on his way.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Unpaid advertisement
I picked up a little tip while I was in an Apple store the other day. I can create "Smart Albums." These albums group together my photos according to criteria I set.Oh the power. For instance, by first labeling all my wedding photos (with a little trick called Batch Change) so the comments field contains "Wedding," I am now able to instantly album-ize all photos taken at weddings this year. That way I have them all at my digital fingertips and I can tell you fun facts like: 132. My camera has snapped 132 pictures at weddings in '06. I can certainly up my totals while I ride the latter half of Wedding Wave 2006. One day, when I'm feeling particularly mean, I will create a slideshow from all the weddings I attended, set it to sappy music, and torture single people everywhere. Although, I must admit that I have ended up in about one quarter of the pictures, so what I really need is a Smart Album and accompanying slideshow titled, "Me. The digital years." That way I can torture everyone equally.
As, Bon Jovi didn't quite say, "It's i-life!"
(And it's now or never...)
Better yet, I should create a tune in Garage Band to go with my slideshow. Vanity in the 21st century ROCKS!
I picked up a little tip while I was in an Apple store the other day. I can create "Smart Albums." These albums group together my photos according to criteria I set.Oh the power. For instance, by first labeling all my wedding photos (with a little trick called Batch Change) so the comments field contains "Wedding," I am now able to instantly album-ize all photos taken at weddings this year. That way I have them all at my digital fingertips and I can tell you fun facts like: 132. My camera has snapped 132 pictures at weddings in '06. I can certainly up my totals while I ride the latter half of Wedding Wave 2006. One day, when I'm feeling particularly mean, I will create a slideshow from all the weddings I attended, set it to sappy music, and torture single people everywhere. Although, I must admit that I have ended up in about one quarter of the pictures, so what I really need is a Smart Album and accompanying slideshow titled, "Me. The digital years." That way I can torture everyone equally.
As, Bon Jovi didn't quite say, "It's i-life!"
(And it's now or never...)
Better yet, I should create a tune in Garage Band to go with my slideshow. Vanity in the 21st century ROCKS!
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Memorandum
To: Mr. Daimon
From: Mr. David
Subject: Comments on endurance
Dear Mr. Daimon:
Please come back to the U.S. of A so I can chase you around and around shaking my fist in a threatening manner. I had a history teacher once who said, "Old is 15 years older than you." I intend to live by those words. Runners are in their prime at this age. Cyclists have only just begun. I will not be putting up with your negativity.
If you have questions or need to reach me, I'm going to be out running.
Thank you.
If your comment was some sort of reverse psychology kind of thing, good work.
To: Mr. Daimon
From: Mr. David
Subject: Comments on endurance
Dear Mr. Daimon:
Please come back to the U.S. of A so I can chase you around and around shaking my fist in a threatening manner. I had a history teacher once who said, "Old is 15 years older than you." I intend to live by those words. Runners are in their prime at this age. Cyclists have only just begun. I will not be putting up with your negativity.
If you have questions or need to reach me, I'm going to be out running.
Thank you.
If your comment was some sort of reverse psychology kind of thing, good work.
Friday, August 25, 2006
There's a black hole in Minnesota
Rochester, MN It's unfair to blame Minnesota for the downturn that my vacation has taken. I overestimated my energy level and underestimated Ma Nature. Tired and rained upon, I managed to eat a salad by a lake, wander almost aimlessly until I stumbled to the pinnacle of Americana, the symbol of all that we are and can ever hope to be, the Mall of America. Shops, restaurants, theme parks all in one building- this is why we beat the British and this is why we fight the terrorists.
It's not the enormous mall's fault that consuming could not lift my spirits. It's not like the mega mall didn't try. I mean, virgin mango daiquiris, come on, people that want to be cheered get cheered by that sort of thing. I sulked on and then drove on. As I trudged up the stairs to my Motel 6 boudoir, I thought about how nice it would be to find a Laundromat. Yes. A Laundromat. I drew my curtain and there. Shining before me was a MegaWash. Open 24 hours. With a hop, skip, and a little tail wiggle, I unpacked the dirty clothes and prepared to wash the California out of them. Overjoyed seems a bit strong, but as my clothes spun, I had a moment to relax and enjoy the quiet slow rock of the MegaWash. I read. I pinballed. I folded. I returned to Tom's light a happier lad.
I woke this morning to the gray that has stalked me on this trip. It was gray all day and in kind I was in a fog of my own. For 5 miles, I broke free of the fog as I made my way along Bear Creek on foot-pounding good jaunt. I realized something during my run. I have taken out the long slow distance over the past two years. I should do something about that; it's likely the cause of my deteriorating endurance. Other than that moment of light, this day has been less than bright. I have some small hope for an entertaining evening, but at the moment I wonder if that, like Bunyan and the big blue ox are merely myth. Babe, I wonder.
Rochester, MN It's unfair to blame Minnesota for the downturn that my vacation has taken. I overestimated my energy level and underestimated Ma Nature. Tired and rained upon, I managed to eat a salad by a lake, wander almost aimlessly until I stumbled to the pinnacle of Americana, the symbol of all that we are and can ever hope to be, the Mall of America. Shops, restaurants, theme parks all in one building- this is why we beat the British and this is why we fight the terrorists.
It's not the enormous mall's fault that consuming could not lift my spirits. It's not like the mega mall didn't try. I mean, virgin mango daiquiris, come on, people that want to be cheered get cheered by that sort of thing. I sulked on and then drove on. As I trudged up the stairs to my Motel 6 boudoir, I thought about how nice it would be to find a Laundromat. Yes. A Laundromat. I drew my curtain and there. Shining before me was a MegaWash. Open 24 hours. With a hop, skip, and a little tail wiggle, I unpacked the dirty clothes and prepared to wash the California out of them. Overjoyed seems a bit strong, but as my clothes spun, I had a moment to relax and enjoy the quiet slow rock of the MegaWash. I read. I pinballed. I folded. I returned to Tom's light a happier lad.
I woke this morning to the gray that has stalked me on this trip. It was gray all day and in kind I was in a fog of my own. For 5 miles, I broke free of the fog as I made my way along Bear Creek on foot-pounding good jaunt. I realized something during my run. I have taken out the long slow distance over the past two years. I should do something about that; it's likely the cause of my deteriorating endurance. Other than that moment of light, this day has been less than bright. I have some small hope for an entertaining evening, but at the moment I wonder if that, like Bunyan and the big blue ox are merely myth. Babe, I wonder.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Oh you're not hardcore...
Salinas, CA- Dark Italian Coffee, free wi-fi, an empty downtown Sunday morning three blocks from the National Steinbeck center. Six locals and I wander the streets trying to pick the best coffeehouse and breakfast establishment, only I don't need breakfast. I've been up off and on since yesterday, which I suppose each of us could say about ourselves since conception or whenever napping truly begins, sometime after stem cells, no doubt. I meant I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Some less hearty souls might blame the ground for it was hard; I came prepared for that. I blame the chill. I'm not sure where I thought I was going, but I should have brought some heavier clothing. At 4:30 AM Pacific time, I could no longer abide by the upside-down-sprint-crawling-in-place method of warming up, so I left my campsite and went for a drive.
There are certain advantages to traveling alone. No one was around to complain that I was up and driving before 5 AM. No one would be concerned or have to find sleep of their own if I just stopped by the Pacific and took a little nap in my nice warm car. I had hopes of waking up to a gorgeous sunrise or some such poetry, but instead found the sky and the world to be what I can only assume from my short trip to be typically overcast. I was hoping my poetry would have yellows and pinks dancing on an ocean blue. I got greys and browns dancing on different shades of grey and brown. The poetry is subtler here.
Popping Pop-Tarts and guzzling water from a gallon jug, I made the drive back to camp in the light. Under grey skies I could see beauty in the countryside that had not been present in total darkness. I could also see golf courses. It is a strange sensation to sense the nearness of a vast ocean but not be able to see it. There is an endless quality to ocean and darkness, a pull outward toward the unknown. It is somewhat less strange to see the ocean in the morning. Vastness ends at the horizon. Vast still, but limited somehow. An ocean at night truly goes on forever and begins at the edge of sight. Golf courses, with their out of place and neatly trimmed fuzz of green, by early morning light and in total darkness offer a different flavor of strange. I had not felt the pull of golf course as I drove by in the dark. Now that I could see them, I did feel a slight pull inward. The ocean pulls out; golf pulls in. I am not sure what that says about adventure and privilege.
It's still morning and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I've put golf and the ocean a bit behind me. I've filled myself with coffee and filled screens with this jumble. I feel mentally calmer and bladderly more excited. I don't know what the day or the night brings, which is more like life than most of us want to admit. I'm going to be ok with that. I want to camp tonight to continue to prove my... cheapness, a quality that I seem to place up there with honesty on the pedestal of important qualities, but warmth is a quality that has its own particular value and so I will likely end up in a seedy motel watching HBO and wondering exactly what I had hoped to gain from this whole thing and then remembering that this struggle between golf and ocean, in and out, me and my particular set of values is fun. I'm thinking, awake, suffering, free. Speaking of suffering and free, I'm not used to this much coffee...
Salinas, CA- Dark Italian Coffee, free wi-fi, an empty downtown Sunday morning three blocks from the National Steinbeck center. Six locals and I wander the streets trying to pick the best coffeehouse and breakfast establishment, only I don't need breakfast. I've been up off and on since yesterday, which I suppose each of us could say about ourselves since conception or whenever napping truly begins, sometime after stem cells, no doubt. I meant I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Some less hearty souls might blame the ground for it was hard; I came prepared for that. I blame the chill. I'm not sure where I thought I was going, but I should have brought some heavier clothing. At 4:30 AM Pacific time, I could no longer abide by the upside-down-sprint-crawling-in-place method of warming up, so I left my campsite and went for a drive.
There are certain advantages to traveling alone. No one was around to complain that I was up and driving before 5 AM. No one would be concerned or have to find sleep of their own if I just stopped by the Pacific and took a little nap in my nice warm car. I had hopes of waking up to a gorgeous sunrise or some such poetry, but instead found the sky and the world to be what I can only assume from my short trip to be typically overcast. I was hoping my poetry would have yellows and pinks dancing on an ocean blue. I got greys and browns dancing on different shades of grey and brown. The poetry is subtler here.
Popping Pop-Tarts and guzzling water from a gallon jug, I made the drive back to camp in the light. Under grey skies I could see beauty in the countryside that had not been present in total darkness. I could also see golf courses. It is a strange sensation to sense the nearness of a vast ocean but not be able to see it. There is an endless quality to ocean and darkness, a pull outward toward the unknown. It is somewhat less strange to see the ocean in the morning. Vastness ends at the horizon. Vast still, but limited somehow. An ocean at night truly goes on forever and begins at the edge of sight. Golf courses, with their out of place and neatly trimmed fuzz of green, by early morning light and in total darkness offer a different flavor of strange. I had not felt the pull of golf course as I drove by in the dark. Now that I could see them, I did feel a slight pull inward. The ocean pulls out; golf pulls in. I am not sure what that says about adventure and privilege.
It's still morning and I'm not quite sure what to do with myself. I've put golf and the ocean a bit behind me. I've filled myself with coffee and filled screens with this jumble. I feel mentally calmer and bladderly more excited. I don't know what the day or the night brings, which is more like life than most of us want to admit. I'm going to be ok with that. I want to camp tonight to continue to prove my... cheapness, a quality that I seem to place up there with honesty on the pedestal of important qualities, but warmth is a quality that has its own particular value and so I will likely end up in a seedy motel watching HBO and wondering exactly what I had hoped to gain from this whole thing and then remembering that this struggle between golf and ocean, in and out, me and my particular set of values is fun. I'm thinking, awake, suffering, free. Speaking of suffering and free, I'm not used to this much coffee...
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