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Friday, August 31, 2007
the boys of summer...
The boys of the end of summer, that is. The end is nigh, as they say. It's still warm, and the fall equinox is some weeks away (Sept 23rd, 9:51am), and yet the summer for kids is over, as of next Tuesday. Schedules change, regularity and school returns.
We've had some fun this summer with the boys, swimming, hiking, backyard camping, just to name a few things. My hope is that we'll continue to be in a position to keep doing things with them during their summers, and that they'll remember every minute.
I've created a short little slide show of some of the things we did this summer...I hope you enjoy it...
Music in Video: Artist = Massive Attack Album = Danny the Dog Song = Montage
Like electrical pulses...I don't know how else to describe them. A slight shudder, a shimmy, a feeling of dizziness, but only for the briefest of seconds. What is it? I don't know.
Moving through my day, with regularity, determination, and laziness, feelings pass through me like ghosts. Walking to the gym. Swimming. Another shimmy, a slight dizziness. The same as before. For the briefest of seconds.
For the briefest of seconds, I am dead. For the smallest of moments, valves close the chambers. But they re-open just in time to let the flow continue. One hundred and sixty times a minute, on average, the valves continue to push more than they have for a long time, through places encrusted with disuse, over the course of thirty minutes.
I stumble, I sit. I drift off for a bit, two fingers on my throat, eyes on the second hand. The valves have survived yet another test. The flow slows down, and the shimmy, the electrical pulse, returns. What is it? I don't know.
Do you?
Image Courtesy Sheryl of Wave of Modulation See Sheryl's Flickr site, HERE. See Sheryl's Blog, Wave of Modulation, HERE.
Can you imagine the pain? The pain of finding out the person who was your father, isn't the man you thought he was, all your life? How do you explain it to your children, your friends, yourself? I can't imagine the pain, but I've witnessed the pain of others.
How a family can continue to love, accept, and involve a person who has essentially lied to them their entire lives, is one of the most endearing things I've witnessed. Things aren't perfect, emotions and feelings are still frayed at the edges, and the facts have seen the light of day, and have again been shelved, as is likely best in most situations.
It happens more often than we know, this revelation of the double life. It's mostly men. More often than not, it's men who shout the loudest about the evils of a double life, an immoral life, a life not devoted to children and family. Perhaps this is why the shock and the pain are more profound when truth meets the light of day. Even though things like this tend to throw into sharp relief the hypocrisy embedded in those involved, I can't help but think about the collateral damage. The hurt feelings. The ruined images, and destroyed childhoods. I watch for it, as the truth burns the bearer to tears, confession, and silence.
Last night, we ate dinner in North Idaho's playground for the rich and famous, Coeur d'Alene, Idaho. Not being as familiar with eateries in this town, as I am in Spokane, I made my decision based not on how good the food was, but proximity to the beach (Lake Coeur d'Alene), and a park.
The food was, ok, the atmosphere, ok, but those things weren't really what we were there for. We were there to meet relatives that were passing through the area. It was nice to break our evening routine and get out of the house and do something social. It might be nice to do that more often.
But you see, we're southern and are cursed with many of the idiocentric manorisms that southerners are stereotyped with. We wait to be invited. We do not invite ourselves. We offer you tea or some other beverage if you visit us. Also, we have three boys and are loathe to bring anyone into our house at the moment, for the obvious reasons.
So, at any rate, last night was a nice time for us. The lake city, Coeur d'Alene, was pleasant, even if Rudy tried to crash our party by the lakeside yesterday.
Oh, and Happy Friday to all, and to all a good weekend!
I'm becoming reacquainted with water. Not as a recreational device, as it was earlier this summer, but as an exercise medium.
I love to swim. I love the feel of the water as I slide through it effortlessly. Effortlessly, that's the trick, isn't it? Water lessens the earth's gravitational pull on my ever increasing mass. It makes me feel lighter, like I should feel.
As I swim, my legs burn, my arms burn...the water holds me up softly when I stop, however, and keeps from collapsing to the earth in a gasping heap. If I find myself overcome in the water, I can roll over, on to my back, and watch the sky, or in my case, the ceiling, slowly slide by, as I take a short respite from my daily exertion.
My hope is that my swims will decrease my weight. I am ready to be smaller and fitter. It's hard, though. Food attacks me at every corner, and I love food. But it's just the beginning. I'm on my way. Nothing has changed yet. I still displace the same amount of water when I get in the pool today, as I did yesterday. I will continue, slowly, trying, to do the right thing.
Day 1: Alarm: 6:15...then at 6:24...then 6:33 ...then a stumble of feet and a rustle of blankets as I try to find the door. Email/News Shower Breakfast/Pills Soft goodbye kisses....then NPR in the car for twenty four minutes. Work. Nothing exiting to report. Home. Twenty four minutes of the same NPR stories on the way home, that I heard this morning. I need to get my CD player fixed...or get an iPod. Not enough money though. Priorities, right? Driveway, park, food bag, porch. A creaking of metal as the screen opens. I need to fix that someday. A jangle of keys as the lock turns. The door opens. A rush of scent. Tonight, the smell is basmati rice and curry. I love curry. I love basmati rice. Soft hello kisses. Children hollering, slamming into me as I release my baggage. Baby, carried. Garden, viewed. Baths, taken. Dinner, eaten. Teeth, brushed. Stories, read. Baby, rocked to sleep in my arms. House, quieted. Baby, down. Television, off. Head, pillow.
Day 2: Alarm: 6:15...then at 6:24...then 6:33 ...then a stumble of feet and a rustle of blankets as I try to find the door.... ....
I've been flying, nonstop. It's claustrophobic and smells of human sweat in the cabin. On other days, it's cool, and the clouds burst open and cleanse us all.
Inside the vehicle the cold is extreme Smoke in my throat kicks me out of my dream I try to relax but its warmer outside I fail to connect, it's a tragic divide
Yogi wears a headscarf to keep the cold out, and the warm in, and sometimes to keep the warm out, and the cold in. I suppose you could say it's a dual duty turban. Turbans are useful that way, I suppose. Under his bridge, bucket and spade in hand, he digs up tomorrow and sets it free. In the folds of his garments and the gray of his beard, he finds liquid freedom, he dips tomorrow in his cup, and sucks the marrow out of the future.
Dark matter flowing out on to a tape Is only as loud as the silence it breaks Most things decay in a matter of days The product is sold the memory fades
Do you remember hearing the very first sound? The sound of the beginning of the universe? I remember. I was flying, attached to my selfless rocket, flying through the ether when it caught up with me. My ear perceived, listened, and then there was nothing but the cacophony of creation to contend with afterward. The grumble of the first sound decayed into every other sound that has ever been made since.
Blackened fish fly through the ever present fires of the upper atmosphere on Jupiter. They freeze and burn, all at once. But they live on, unconcerned with the whirling red eye that eats them alive. An icy wind flows around my naked body as I fly, unfettered, unhinged, un-winged and unconcerned, into oblivion.
You can sometimes feel it creeping up in the back of your mind. It happens when the body and the mind are quieted, around a fire. A small wood fire under an open and clear sky of cool blue and white stars. The crackling embers rise and blend into the heavens, adding dancing red jewels to the black canvas expanse of infinity.
Our species has only recently moved into fully climate controlled environments. We have, until this brief moment in our history, lived the bulk of our lives under the open sky, with little but our own ingenuity to make things out of our habitat to protect us from the unrelenting and ever present changes in the weather. Some years, the sky gods were angry, some years, calm. But on most occasions, they were simply unconcerned with our plight. Yet our species lived on, through ice ages, spreading out across vast mountain ranges, open planes, and grasslands with hidden dangers. Our ingenuity won, and now we can sit back and rest from time to time, in our comfy chairs, in front of flickering, talking, boxes. We can enjoy frivolous things like art, music, and all the modern pleasures we can afford.
There are those times, though, that you can still feel it, creeping up in the back of your mind. Memories of a time, sitting around a glowing fire that casts its red glow on the faces of your loved ones. A time when all we had was what was around that fire, our people, our children, our stories, and the cold quiet of the ancient night.
What a difference two years makes, you know? On the left, a pre-kindergarten five year old, on the right, a worldly wise (or so he believes) seven year old, going into second grade.
I love music, as you all know. Among the many many notable guitarists in the world, I've recently decided that there is a guitar trinity...at least my own personal guitar trinity. Each person must find their own path to guitar enlightenment, I believe.
Below, are YouTube clips of the three guitarists that are central in my own personal pantheon of guitar rock and roll.
Steve Howe
David Gilmour
Steve Hackett
You may notice that I don't go in for "shredders," but more for emotive and artsy players. I like guitarists that can make you feel, rather than scream. But hey, that's just me.
The ballet of papers, pens, people and property is ending. Tomorrow. The endless numbers of people involved are finally getting what they want out of us. First parties, second parties, third parties who are neutral...all parties, are getting their little slice of our American Pie. I hope they enjoy it...I hope this American Dream is all it's been promised to be also.
It's funny. I've always heard, or at least understood, that ownership is the hallmark of the American Dream. But it only seems like long term rental, so far as I can tell. Our house has sat on this spot since 1939. It has been owned by no less than three families/individuals since that time. We will be the fourth owners of this house. Do they still own the place? They own the memories they made in this place, to be sure. Their memories haunt the walls too, I can feel them. But the answer is no. They do not own this place. Nobody really owns it, we only borrow it from the future, for a time.
And so, we enter into a terrifying new world for us. A world of home ownership. Will it be a money pit? I don't know. We'll just live from day to day, and see what happens as life moves on around us, on our little piece of rented ground.
The CD player in my car is broken. I have one of those portable ones that connects to the tape player and the cigarette lighter...you know the kind? It's a hacked together system. Something I'm sort of known for. However, due to simple laziness, the contents of a forgotten soda in a cup holder (a major selling point for many cars, I'm told) adjacent to where I keep the player eventually left the security of it's paper cup container and shorted out the unit, and I'm left music-less, for the time being, on my drives to work. Do they still play music on the radio? [listening] Ah...ok, so I see the answer is "no."
I've become convinced, that one of my biggest inspirations for writing is music (children and love and landscapes notwithstanding). I've become dependant upon the images I magically receive when listening to the music I enjoy. National Public Radio hasn't been nearly as inspiring as my music. Perhaps I should drink more coffee, or would that be considered a "performance enhancing drug" and leave me unable to knock one out of the park? I don't know. I just feel, sometimes, like I've been buried under 1500 feet of rock due to questionable mining practices, and I'm suffocating while waiting for people to find me.
Maybe I'll run for President. I've done it before, but nothing really came of it. I don't think people were ready to have a commoner as president. I think most people know more about what's happening to skinny blonds than what's up with my views on socialized medicine and the Iraqi conflict. It's not my fault though, I have people who can tell them, you know? As for me, I'll just run my campaign from the coffee shop down the hill. I'm sure the Kafka coffee house can handle the pressure...I know I can't.
Good morning everyone...how are you all holding up this week?
Every day I am bombarded by news, work, stress, and noise. Most of everyone I know is bombarded by the same. The same death on the news, the Iraqi conflict, falling bridges, mortgage crisiseses (is that mispelled?), shootings, jumpings, missings, dyings...the crush of information is almost overwhelming. But most days, all I can think of is this:
Now, I am the sun, I am the first day of summer Never give in to the dark deep, fast becoming Now, I am the moon, I am the end of the tunnel Never believe in the dark ages, let's move a mountain...!!
Call me ageless, call me ghost, the diamond duke behind the shades The sunflower beneath the skyline swaying in the land of snakes Hey, I used to be a king, now I'm just a king of laughter
In November of 2005, I moved from my old blog, to this version of my blog. I made changes. I grew. I wrote differently.
The old blog, also named [ synaptic disunion ] and started in 2002, had become an encumbrance to me. It was full of political tripe, angry talk about nothing in particular, and had, in short, become something I wasn't proud of anymore. Therefore, I made a break from it, and moved here. However, I left the old one up. There was a link to it, on the bottom right of this one.
After much thought, I've decided that I just need to let it go. It was bad. It, in fact, sucked. I looked over it today, before I destroyed it, and I'm happy I deleted it all. No longer will the internet have to endure the old rantings of an angry early thirty-something. I've changed a lot since 2002, mentally, I think.
I kept some of the rare "good" posts from that era, and may be reviving them someday soon. But for now, it's gone, and I feel lighter.
You shout in your sleep. Perhaps the price is just too stepp. Is your conscience at rest if once put to the test? You awake with a start to just the beating of your heart. Just one man beneath the sky, Just two ears, just two eyes. You set sail across the sea of longpast thoughts and memories. Childhood's end, Your fantasies merge with harsh realities. And then as the sail is hoist, You find your eyes are growing moist. All the fears never voiced say you have to make your final choice. Who are you and who am I to say we know the reason why? Some are born; Some men die beneath one infinite sky. There'll be war, there'll be peace. But everything one day will cease. All the iron turned to rust; All the proud men turned to dust. And so all things, time will mend. So this song will end.
