Not much has been accomplished today.  The boy has changed his mind.  He will play bass.  The biggest instrument, of course.  Taller then his own father.  I’m suspicious.

I went out for breakfast and sent off an email, writing:

As a wanna-be writer, my desire is to be free of second-guessing.  I want to say what’s on my mind without reproach, which isn’t saying “without accountability.” But maybe like your group of friends who occasionally patronize you, I want the ideas in my head to find their way into word form without individuals trying to turn it into a personal matter.  Like everyone, I am searching for my connection to the world on a higher level, and I don’t need someone’s own limited ideas of who I am continually trying to drag me down.  Does that make sense?  I think it may be the very thing that you, too, are trying to do, when you realize that not everyone needs to know everything because you feel that it will only limit these other people’s idea of the real you.

We will return home with the giant instrument.  The boy will play the theme to Jaws while I clean the house.  Sunday will sneak up, swallowing me whole.

The boy serenades me awake at 6:20.  Deep, off-tone notes coming from his bedroom as he draws the bow across his new bass, then the sound of shuffling, wood bumping into door frames, someone entering my bedroom. 

BAROOOM, BAROOOM, BAROOOM, BA-ROOOOM.

“Get up, Dad!  Let’s go!”

“I think I’ll sleep until 7:00.”

“Okay.”

He sits down on the chair in my room, talking for the next forty minutes.  Musical interludes are provided.

He seldom sleeps through the night, instead drifting in and out of two to three hour blocks, waking, walking around, stepping outside for some air and staring at the stars.  Two nights ago he went to bed at nine but was up again at midnight, sitting on the couch watching three hours of Law and Order.

“You didn’t wake up once last night,” I say.

“I know,” Imaginary Keith says.  “Must have been all that TV last night.  Law and Order sometimes reminds me of old times.”

“Good times?”

“No.”

The rain has begun again in Oregon.  October is an off and on, indecisive affair, sunny one hour, drizzly the next.  I only mention this because I remember Imaginary Keith sitting there on his couch years ago, watching that show with that pained look on his face while his relationship tried hard to mimic Oregon Fall weather.  It was hot that summer in the house, but he’d brought the television out onto the front porch and watched from there, bugs swirling around the screen in the dark.  Law and Order.  That sound between scenes seemingly aimed directly at him, counting off the scenes as my friend suffered through time.  Watching him agonize there on the front porch that summer taught me how slow an hour can pass for a man who knows his wife is off with another man.  We passed the time blending margaritas.

“Hey, look.  Harry’s here.”

Sure enough.  Harry’s red truck moves towards the barn, trailer in tow.  You have to love old men for their ability to simply show up because they need something to do.

“I hope those two cows load easier then the last two,” I say.

“Me too,” Imaginary Keith says, even though he hadn’t helped.  “Me too.”

I can’t seem to find the time (or maybe I’m confusing time with energy) to fix the colors here on the site.  It looks great in Safari on my laptop, but I know everything is too dark on Internet Explorer, or even Firefox maybe.  Dark and brooding and hard to read, but since I never see it that way, it’s an easy thing to push to the back of my mind.

I know I’m not the only one who suffers over the visual aspect of their site and its effect on the presentation of the writing, as well as, perhaps, the writing process itself.  For instance, Randy over at The Illustrated Encyclopedia of an Imaginary Universe is talking about a redesign because of this very same internal debate.  I sometimes find myself just a tad envious of the people who find a layout for their site and then seem content, as if the idea of change doesn’t even enter their heads.  How can they do that?  What’s their secret?

I still don’t know if I like the idea of my daily event writing showing up as a page two story.  I think about it every time I see it.  Not that I completed this site’s redesign, or even came close.  Still a dead end Links page and a Projects page that is incomplete and experimental, at best.  And a few places, where the correct page isn’t even called up right, and things don’t quite make sense.  And my idea to start designing sites.  Ha!  Better finish my own first, don’t you think?

This week we fix up an entry.  A little stone work and some irrigation changes.  A splash of green here and there.  Throw in a bench, a bit of pruning.  Tidy up.

How about a before and during picture.  After pictures on Friday.

With the boy’s tenth birthday looming in the distance, he has started to think about having a party.  He’s at a new school, making new friends, so maybe a party would be good.

“I’m thinking maybe forty kids,” he says.  “Or maybe it would be easier just to invite everyone from my class this year and my class last year.” Yea, right.

“Easier for you.  All you’re doing is making a list.  How many do you have so far?” I ask.  “How many boys?  How many girls?” He looks down at his list and counts.

“Twelve and zero.”

“Twelve girls!” I try to sound incredulous.

“Daaaaad.”

“Well, what about girls?”

“Yea, I kind of forgot about girls.”

This is an outright lie.  Tonight at the movie rental store, everything he asked to get had a picture of some woman on the cover.  “What about this one?” he’d asked, holding up a copy of Wild Things.  “It looks interesting.” I think I answered with the International Sign Language Face for “Nice Try”.  I had my eye on Robots, but for whatever reason, our household is all out of whack and I always end up the one begging to rent cartoons.

“So, how do you spell Nicole?” I tell him.  “Emily?” The spelling goes on a bit.

“So, what are you up to?” I ask.

“Twelve and six.”

“Better invite six more girls and even it up.” My mock fatherly advice knows no limits.

“Why?”

“For the dance, of course.  I’m sure you’re going to want to dance.”

I waltz around the room.  He groans.

Picture day at school for the boy, and suddenly he wants me to give him a haircut at 7 a.m.  I haven’t given a haircut in at least a year, and if I remember right, the results were less then desirable.  Plus I’m still waiting on the coffee and trying to remember last night’s dream where I was talking with some other bloggers.  Who were they?  I can’t quite remember.

I like to imagine that there are people out there in the world with children who actually have calm, quiet morning.  Think of it - children who don’t chatter on endlessly from morning until night.

But the boy did start my coffee this morning.  I guess I owe him one.

8:00 a.m. update:

I convince the boy that only one small tuft needs trimming from one side of his head.

“That’s ugly!,” he yells. “You’ve ruined it!” The haircut is going just like I remember them going.

“You’ll have to do the other side now!” The cat shoots down the hall, looking for cover.

I run the clippers over the left side of his head, cutting nothing.

“There, all evened up.  Look good?”

The boy scrutinizes his head in the mirror, apparently satisfied.  Another morning saved with disception.

The day flies by, moving ferns, throwing soil here and there, firming up stepping stones, and of course, planting.  I move around the beds searching for angles, some internal plant growth gauge busily churning away inside my head.  What will it look like today, two years, five years, ten?  My idea of a decent landscaper is someone who can see into the future, and I don’t just mean the check waiting for them at the end of the day. 

The tree we brought, a dwarf Hinoki cypress is too small, which I knew it would be, so I dash over to another nursery and chat up the owner.  All his workers are away, picking hazelnuts, and he is left alone to man the fort from his wheelchair.

“So, I guess that means no dozing off today,” I tell him.  We laugh.  Small talk.  Who would ever have guessed that it would be the stuff that keeps the world on track and people from going insane as they muddle through their days.  I’m not actually much of a small talker, and might compare it to something like, I don’t know, eating rice cakes maybe.  Just something to keep the jaw busy it seems like.  The conversation does leave me wondering if I’ll ever end up in an electric wheelchair?  I’m hoping something all-terrain.  One that can jump curbs, maybe spray a little gravel out if I really get on it.

Anyway, the only thing standing between us and completing this job is a custom-made trellis, a couple of missing plants, a bench that is sitting in a store 15 miles away, three yards of bark dust, and a small bit of time.  I convince the customer that it is in everyone’s best interest to reschedule the trellis for a week from Monday, then send the guys out for the bench.

“We’ll wrap this thing up today!” I tell her.  Two days early.  She is very excited.  The plantings look good, and with her family coming in on Saturday, it is obvious that she wants everything to look perfect.

“Let’s throw in a small stone step here,” I tell Fernando.  Ten, fifteen minutes of work leave her stunned.

“Fernando!  I just love it!” she says.  He smiles, which is nothing new.

Been quite awhile since I’ve come dragging in from work after a twelve hour day, the sky already dark.  Sunup to sundown used to be the norm, back in the day.  My back will be screaming by morning.

A shower, some dinner and a show.  In the big city that might work out as a night out on the town, but around here, it just means tired butt applied generously to soft couch.

I am desperately behind today, but thanks to the long, sustained beating I’ve taken over the years, it doesn’t feel that bad.  Things could be worse, like the dream I had last night, where the house had been sold and suddenly I found myself standing in the living room with the new owners, negotiating to lease back some of the land behind the barn.  Where would I put all the plants?  I certainly didn’t want to move 20,000 trees and shrubs!  A bus pulled up in the front yard.  What the hell!  The man ran back down the hall, leaving me with his wife, who only seemed tired by the notion that I hadn’t left yet.  She didn’t seem to be hearing me at all.  A car pulled up, right next to the front picture window like there was a drive-through there or something, completely flattening the shrubs.  The whole deal seemed like a complete wash, except the school bus, sitting out there in the front yard looked kind of cool, with some sort of articulated rear section, requiring the driver to work two steering wheels at once.  Wow!  The boy and I discussed buying it.

So another day, harried by my own deficiencies as a businessman.  I need to get checks out, which means balancing some accounts.  Everyone wants money.  Is there enough?  No, of course not.  Not these days.

This morning while I showered, I thought about the unused power held by the people.  Imagine, all Chase Manhattan credit card customers, for example, making the decision to act as a collective and refusing to pay their bill.  Giants could be brought to their knees.  Restaurants, like McD or BK could be boycotted, forcing them to the will of the people, rather than the other way around.  Bend or break.

What a complicated mess it is.  Too many layers.  I shaved, thinking of the new five-blade razor I’d read about somewhere.  A perfect example of the consumer dancing to whatever song corporate America decides to play.

I posted some new pictures in the gallery area.  A new gallery even.  Work.  I know.  I can hardly contain myself either.

And I’ve started to get emails, wondering if I will be participating in the Nano deal again this year.  The great 50,000 word novel in a month.  Hmmmm.

A single finger reached out and flicked on the wiper, sending the blades back and forth across the windshield, the brake lights of the cars ahead of him jumping into sharp focus with the buildup of mist gone.  He would have been surprised to be told how many unconscious movements made up a day, but then again, maybe he wouldn’t.  Hadn’t yesterday been one entire unconscious act?  The breakfast, the drive along the ridge, the gun under the seat? 

He focused on the brake lights of the car ahead of him, trying to remember.  Had he actually pulled the trigger?  What part of him could do something like that?

The brake lights of the car ahead of him went out, and his foot lifted from the pedal.  Another unconscious act, he thought.  Had last night been as easy as that, set in motion with no more thought then lifting his foot to set the car in motion?

The problem with spending ten years in nothing but shorts or blue jeans is that the moment you put on something different, you risk having your child turn on you.  All that hard work you’ve thought you’d done - attempts to broaden the child’s perspectives on life, lengthy discussions on change and difference and acceptance, constant encouragement on how people should openly express themselves in all ways - well, sorry, but sometimes it just flies out the window without a single glance back.

I’d put on a pair of khaki pants this morning.  Not something you’d think would rock anyone’s boat.

“Dad?  You’re wearing girl’s pants!”

“No I’m not.  They’re just khakis.”

“No, those are girl’s pants.  Austin had to wear a pair just like that at school.  They weren’t his.  The office gave them to him.  It was the funniest thing ever.”

Anything to entertain the troops.

Where did the boy get this love of Beach Boys music?  Not from me.  I hear the clink of marbles coming from his room and his nonstop babble.

“Califor-Nie-A?” I hear him say to himself above the music. 

“Daaaaad!  Come and play marbles!”

“In a second.”

The beat goes on.

I haven’t written anything worthwhile now in weeks, and what little creative energy might sputter to life is spent commenting on other sites.  Wasted energy?  Poor focus?  I wonder sometimes when I flood some site with comments if I am overstepping any sort of unspoken boundary.  The question of state of mind comes up for me.  What intent, real or imagined, does the site’s author place on what I say?  How can they even possibly come close to understanding what I am saying without any background or further information?  I worry sometimes that leaving comments is the equivalent of firing off a shot into the sky of a crowded city.  What happens when the bullet comes down?  There is no room to explain your intent.  Will someone be hit when the bullet comes down?  Will there be damage that you don’t even see?  What is it that I’m actually worrying about, anyway?  The implied intimacy of leaving comments, or is this taking it too far?  I don’t think so, based on the feeling I get from other sites; people’s desire to receive feedback on what they are saying and feeling.

The boy is still fast asleep, but I happen to know he set an alarm last night, and will wake in twenty minutes.

“Write fast in the morning,” he said last night.  “Then come in at 8:30 and lay in bed with me and we’ll talk quietly.” He’s a good kid and enjoys conversation.  Or it may be possible that he just needs my ears in the room.  The boy can chatter.

I can’t begin to think how many times we’ve moved a computer in and out of the boy’s room.  He doesn’t like change, but worse yet, he can never make up his mind.  Because he’s currently on a computer game binge, I’m forced to entertain his arguments for why one of the computers should be moved out of my office and into his bedroom.  Again.

“Dad?  Can I ask you something?” the conversation began.  “I know you’ll say no, so I might as well not even ask.  Are you going to say no?  You’re just going to say no.”

“Alright, then don’t ask.” Do you know any children who can keep their questions inside?  I don’t.

“Do you think I can (whisper whisper whisper).” It’s a childhood move, thinking he can sneak by his request by whispering it, hoping I will answer without hearing the entire question.  I’ve said it before, but I think the boy will make a fine politician someday.  The boy’s apparent attempt at sneakiness will one day blossom into something much bigger.  My little future pork barrel politician!

We’ve had a leftover pizza breakfast.  I’m cleaning the house and we’re watching a movie on television.  Pleasantville.  A good starter movie if you’d like having a conversation about prejudice with your young wards.

Earlier the boy downloaded some type of solitaire scrabble game.

“Try this one,” he says.  It smokes me, literally.  I don’t come up with words fast enough and the tiles catch on fire.  The boy has no idea how close to home this strikes.

With a little help from Homeland Security, work around here comes to a slow grind as Fernando flies off to Texas to sign paperwork.  He’s been working on the long, complicated process of getting his mother into the country for a visit, this trip hopefully being the final straw. 

I wish I could say I knew more about national security, but no, like so many other things, I’m completely in the dark.  But I do hope to meet my friend’s 80 year old Hispanic mother.  Maybe they’ll invite me over for dinner and she’ll make the fresh tortillas that Fernando talks about.

I’ve been reduced to swearing at inanimate objects.  Just now - “God damn you!” - directed at my desk for not holding its stacks of papers and unopened mail in control.  I’ve lost my grip, literally.  Everything seems to be on the move. 

Mail slides onto the floor and my laptop swivels around on a small pile of bills that have worked their way underneath it, cat-like, seeking warmth.  I can barely type under these lazy susan conditions.  Fuck!  My office is mocking me.  There can be no other explanation.

I seek out some happier music, something that maybe I’ve forgotten about and haven’t heard for awhile.  And there it is, a live compilation by Jack Johnson, G. Love, Donavon Frankenreiter, and Zach Gill, from the album Some Live Songs EP.

Last night a dream about some old friends of my parents, people I haven’t seen in 25 years.  Pulling up at some house in the country, twelve foot ceilings, a staircase that wraps around and around, my eyes taking in the old paint, calling out for the kids.  “Little Eve-y” I keep saying, climbing higher and higher, realizing that Eve would already be a grown woman.  These are new kids.  Odd, that they would name their new children the same as their older children, I think.  What does Little Eve think of this, sharing a name with a sister she has never seen?  Six stories, seven.  How tall is this house?  Finally, the top, and there are the children, waiting in a bare room.  They sleep on the floor with only a blanket, just like I remember the kids doing in real life all those years ago.  Their house had been barer then anything I’d ever seen.  No furniture, hardly any toys.  A few clothes in the closet.  My dream is the same, only the kids are new.  Children that were never actually born.

This morning, thoughts on the circular nature of depression, constantly feeding on itself, creating a cycle that becomes hard to break as it drains away energy.

And there’s a spot in my house that smells bad, although I can’t figure it out.  The boy can’t detect it, but it’s there.  Nothing terrible, like a dead mouse in the ceiling, but more like old food that’s going bad.  But in the middle of the room?  A mystery, and all I can think is that it’s coming from the ceiling.  Maybe a hobo living up in the attic who keeps house just slightly worse then I do.  Anything seems possible at this point.

And the idea of filming a movie bouncing around up there, again.  (Not the attic, but in my head.) Nothing big.  (Not the attic, not my head, but the idea.) I’m thinking of using toys.  Toys and action figures, but not even going to the trouble of using stop action, instead just reaching in there and moving them around with my hands.  Low budget Bunraku.  I’m not sure of the script.  Possibly reenactments of entertaining entries from other people’s blogs.  Hmmm…

Do I even know how to work my movie camera?  I’m not sure.

“You really do have a sweet setup here, I’ll admit.  What about breaches?”

“No, the perimeter’s secure.  Armed guards every hundred yards with an underground tunnel connecting all stations.  Nothing passes the perimeter without us letting it, including you this morning.  If you hadn’t dressed exactly like I’d told you, you’d have made it no closer then two hundred yards.”

“I saw the bodies.”

“We leave them.  A natural deterrent.”

“Some were still alive.  I heard them.”

“I suppose.”

“What do you do when that happens?  Finish them off?”

“Listen, if you’re going to be joining us, then the first thing you need to understand is conservation.  Conservation of everything, and that includes bullets.  Contrary to everything you’ve ever been taught, life is about conservation, not excess.  Here, everything, and I mean everything, has been carefully calculated to fit into our equation for survival.  The local population, food preserves, disease and starvation, government intervention, both local, state, and national, and our ability to protect our perimeter, as well as sustain our numbers, heal our own sick or wounded, and continue to feed everyone here in the compound.  It’s an intricate equation, Paul, and must be followed without question.  Do I like seeing people suffer?  No.  But the numbers are very clear when it comes to ammunition.  One bullet per invader.  No more, less if possible.  Like I said, it’s about conservation.  How do you think we got to this point anyway?”

“I know.  It’s was just a little hard, seeing it like that.”

“But can you tell me it’s better out there?  I don’t think so.”

“No, you’re right.”

“Listen, Paul.  I won’t tell you you’ll get used to it, because I already know you won’t, because that’s just the kind of person you are.  But it’s also the reason I wanted you here with us.  You’re empathetic but reasonable.  Sensitive yet decisive.  You’re the kind of person that will survive, Paul.  The kind that needs to survive.  Now, do you want to see the armory or the gardens?  We can start anywhere you’d like.”

“The gardens would be nice.  I couldn’t believe it when you’re courier mentioned fresh vegetables.  Is that true?”

“I believe they’re picking tomatoes today, Paul.”

“I never thought I’d live to see that again.”

“No, I bet you didn’t.  Not out there.  Come on, it’s this way.”

I often wonder how much information to give the boy.  My general rule of thumb has always been to answer his questions as openly and honestly as I know how, without going over the top.  He’s nine, almost ten, and doesn’t need to know everything, after all.  What is it?  Four or five more years?  The teen years.  Won’t he naturally fall into all worldly knowledge then, without any help from me?

On the way to school today we are stopped at a stoplight, so I take the opportunity to point out the steady stream of cars moving in the opposite direction, all containing only one individual.

“All that gas, wasted,” I say, “just to push along all that metal and plastic.  How come we don’t have small, tiny versions of cars to get us where we’re going?”

“They should be electric,” the boy says.

“That’d be a start you’d think.”

We continue the conversation for the last mile to the school, but unfortunately don’t rein myself in quite fast enough.  I believe the last thing I leave him with is some sketchy information about the the sun eventually burning out and leaving Earth a frozen block.  Good grief, what was I thinking?

I walk into the school with him to talk to someone at the front desk.  They are taking orders for embroidered school sweatshirts.  The boy and I order a matching set.

“This should keep us warm when the sun goes out,” I say.  Fortunately, the boy’s grip on the present is much better then mine.

“I hope the sleeves won’t be too long on mine.”

“I think they’ll be just right,” I tell him.  Fatherly reassurance.  I write the check and leave for work, my job there complete.

Dear Imaginary Keith,

I’m writing to you today with the hope that you can settle a dispute that’s been going on between me and a friend for over twenty years.  We’re seriously deadlocked on this one thing, and as you can imagine, it’s put quite a strain on our friendship.  If this isn’t settled soon, I’m afraid the two of us will have to go separate ways.  We then had the idea that maybe you could help us.  We are both big fans of yours and will accept your decision as gospel truth, so please, if you can, take the time to write back with an answer, or better yet, post it to your site so that this matter will be settled for others who might be having the same fight.  Thank you.

Our question is:

What do you think was the better toy?  Battling Tops or Rock’em Sock’em Robots?

Sincerely,
Your Faithful Readers,
Thomas Pinchnet & Henry Jimes

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dear Thomas and Henry,

Thank you for your letter.  While I receive hundreds of letters each day, and unfortunately cannot possibly answer each and every one, your letter stood out among the rest as particularly alarming.  Friendship is not something to be lightly cast aside, especially when it’s a twenty year friendship about to end over a fight over some toys.  You were right in writing me to help settle this long-standing dispute.  I believe I can be of some help.

At the risk of alienating one of you as a reader, I’m afraid my answer is rather straight forward and to the point.  One of you is an idiot, plain and simple.  While Battling Tops was certainly a fun game, it in no way came close to the excitement of Rock’em Sock’em Robots.  I mean, come on, knocking a robot’s head off over and over - what can possibly be more fun then that?

In all fairness (feeling a tad bit sorry over my need to call a reader an idiot), I presented this question to Keith, to see what his answer would be.  As expected, he refused to offer any solid answer.  Rock’em Sock’em Robots was fun, he said, but he could also appreciate the Zen-like qualities of Battling Tops with its mesmerizing spinning and the calming effect of winding string.  Battling Tops, he said, was a game that would appeal to knitters, kite fliers, and fisherman.

Apparently my friend is also an idiot.

So, my answer is this:  Continue to fight.  Friendship is good.

Imaginatively yours,

Imaginary Keith

Another day.

No school and the boy is heading my way any minute now, four friends in tow.  Another sleepover!  Pizza and roughhousing!  Barn exploration!  The cat, hiding in terror.

Thanks to Immigration Services, Fernando missed his flight and was stranded in Texas.  He called this morning.

“Hello.  My name is Fernando.” He then explains the predicament to me, which basically boils down to: can I get on the computer and get him another ticket?  His new plane lands in Portland at 2 a.m., which is an hour drive from Salem.

“I work tomorrow,” he says before hanging up.  “Thank you.  Thank you very much.”

The man sweats work ethic, I’m telling you.  It pours out of him in buckets and if you’re even close you either soak it up or drown. 

The boys are busy trying to create some sort of game.  I eavesdrop.

“My name will be Speedster.  I have 100 speed.”

“My guy will be called Pistachio.  100 pitching, 100 batting.”

“All my guys will be called Darth Nelson.  Or Agular.”

“My bat is virtual.  I turn on a headlight and it appears.”

“Pistachio could hit it, easy.”

“Kid Boo.  And Lilagooshi.”

“Hold on, hold on.  What can you have besides batting and catching?”

“Speed.  Kid Boo has 200 speed.”

“You can’t have 200 speed!”

“What do they drive?”

“Your bat should be made of glass, so it breaks and the glass goes flying and everyone thinks they are after the crown but it’s just the glass.”

“Yoshi King already has that.”

“So does Darth Nelson.”

“I just made up Fireball Boy!  And King Bowser!  He has huge horns.”

A shame really, that no one’s ever come up with some sort of sliding cost of living scale for writers, or better yet, artists in general.  Or maybe they have.  Maybe it’d work something like this:

1. A person decides whether or not to become an artist, writer, musician, film maker, reflective thinker, etc. (hereafter referred to as Creators), which as you will see, will not be a decision entered into lightly, given the economic laws structured around such a career choice.
2. Creators would take a vow of poverty, which is not to say that they would be excluded entirely from profiting from their work.  Income limits would be set and strictly enforced.
3. Creators would become eligible for massive, across the board expense reductions, which would include day-to-day living items, such as food, housing, clothing, etc., as well as materials necessary for them to work in their selected field.

• School lets out in an hour.
• Grocery shopping, at least for milk and something for school lunches for the boy.
• 48 phone messages.  No kidding.
• Cut some checks before things start happening, like power shutoffs and the like.
• Print and mail October billing.
• Lets see… respond to the issue of suicide, brought up on Spanglemonkey.
• Write about the dog dying.
• My dream about cancer and my aching heart.
• Think about next year’s garden.
• Brainstorm a way to economically survive this upcoming winter, bound to be my toughest yet!
• Scrub some greasy frying pans.
• Collect eggs, pull the dog’s scruff.  Pet the cat.
• Call on equipment repairs.
• Oh look!  Round up a loose hen, again!
• Think about actually posting.

[taken from a comment thread on Spanglemonkey, regarding a post concerning, among other things, depression and suicide]

There seems an unwillingness by people to take happiness if or when the taking involves some vague violation of morals or ideals. For instance, let’s say that an alcoholic in my life tends to make my life miserable. Wouldn’t it then make sense to say that I would be better off without the alcoholic, without the constant pressure or demands that person makes on my life? And then on one hand, I have been taught that, yes, that is exactly what I am supposed to do, let them fall down. Their problem is not my problem. On the other hand, I have also been taught compassion and the idea not to give up on people. I would even take it a step further, and say that I have had instilled in me the idea that should I give up on the person, there is something wrong with me. That the act of giving up, taken as a sign of not caring, is wrong. That if I make some broad, sweeping statement such as, “The world would be a better place without alcoholics, and it wouldn’t bother me if they all simply disappeared,” I have overstepped the boundary of what divides the civilized from the uncivilized.

But have I?

And then what happens if I begin to substitute other things, such as depression, in lieu of alcoholism? How far can I take it before I become completely unbearable as a human being? Is it okay for me, for instance, to wish for the non-existence of mosquitoes, but not, say, old-growth forests? Murderers, but not homosexuals? Skunks but not rabbits?

My whole point is that there is an underlying stigma attached to a person being allowed to freely and openly express their opinion or feeling when that opinion or feeling runs counter to the accepted normal response, even though the accepted norm is in constant flux and very hard to put a finger on. This constant change in what is acceptable and what is not acceptable is, I think, a big part of what makes it hard for people to get along with one another, and consequently, perhaps ironically, helps lead to two of the “problems” in my example above - both alcoholism and depression.

As soon as you deny people an avenue to openly express themselves, pressure begins to build and troubles begin. Another example: when is it okay for a frustrated parent to say that they’d like to bash in the heads of the children who are driving them completely nuts? Never, I think, seems to be the answer, and yet, what harm is there in words that would help alleviate that pressure that might lead to something worse?

I got nothin’ but oddity pourin’ out every hole.

1. The Muppet Show in Hebrew [link removed]
2. The New Zealand Dairy Council singing about teats (not the Scrine version) [link removed]
3. A preamble by Elizabeth Clare Prophet, a bit of speaking in tongues, and a long list of musicians in need of striking down.  [link removed]

   and lastly

4. Cuckoos take over London and force everyone to live in cuckoo clocks in this animation by Aleksey Budovsky entitled Bathtime in Clerkenwell.  Music by (The Real) Tuesday Weld.  Very cool.

There’s no accounting for it, you know.  The lost time, the unsaid words, music you feel in your head but can’t quite remember the tune enough to hum.  We find something, we lose it.  It passes by with barely a glance. 

Think of the story that’ll make, someone thinks.  Maybe someone will tell it.  You might listen, you might not.  You rattle a finger around in your ear, hoping it’ll clear things up.  You’re on a barstool.  You take a pull from your beer.  Wheat beer with lemon.  “The thinking man’s beer,” you pretend to say, or maybe that’s something you’ll think up later.  Like I said, there is no accounting for it, especially the little stuff.

The man next to you finishes talking and leaves, a dollar slipped under his empty glass.  Incredulous times we live in, when the old man next to you missed his chance thirty years ago because his wife, when it came to finances, was overly cautious.  You’d listened to his story.  Eye contact, verbal response, questions when appropriate, you’d gone all the way with the little bit of human interaction.  The whole nine yards.  Now you watch the man named Hank head towards the door.  Retired Oregon high school track coach.  Teacher.  The man who once said no thank you to Phil Knight and a crazy shoe idea, the Nike idea, because his wife knew it was foolish.

“The shoes will sell themselves,” Phil had told Hank, and of course, he’d been right.

“But I don’t have any complaints,” Hank had told you.  “Teaching was good, and I always enjoyed coaching track.  I have that.”

You never got around to asking him what became of his wife.  Turns out, some details just slip away without a thought.  Maybe later, you think, but by then, it’s always too late.

I’m thinking about NaNo again this year, which of course kicks off in only a day or two.  I’m unprepared with little or no extra time.  I have no story, and possibly worse yet, I haven’t written much of anything now for a week or two.  My poor imagination, drier then that stretch of skin my dead Grandpa Simon once called the back of his neck.

This time last year I was getting ready to move back into the house, with just about everything imaginable in some form of transition.  I’m in the house, but other then that, I’m not sure much else has changed.  The dirt still slides beneath me, my footing unsure, and most of the time I am flat on my back, trying desperately to slow the descent, grasping at anything and everything, trying hard not to panic.  It’s only money, I tell myself, pretending not to wonder why so many of our dreams are built upon the stuff. 

My dreams, at least.  The stability of home.  Freedom to create without worry.  The best of my childhood memories, gathered together and played out once again on a grander scale for my enjoyment.  Farm, animals, chores, ground beneath my feet, spreading out in all directions.  Buildings to maintain and organize.  Equipment to work, vibrations of the past working through my hands, pulling memories from places grown dusty and unused.  The rumble as diesel comes to life.  An arm, tired from pulling uselessly on the cord of an engine that is dead. 

Children.  Dogs.  Cats.  Birds, landing on branches outside a window.  Goldfinches, browner each day as they race to blend with the approaching bland winter, then suddenly robins, bright red breasts, arriving by the hundreds each Spring just so I’ll notice how green the grass has become.  The seasons, marking off the time.  First the cool mornings, then the cold.  Sunshine cutting through fog that holds in quiet better then any hope or dream.  Rain then snow, frozen gravel crunching under each step.  The swing of a gate, hinges rusted, the small chain that keeps it in place hanging on a nail pounded in long ago by hands I’ll never know.  And paint, peeling off of the rough-hewn boards of the barn’s walls, passing by me just like seasons, only slower and somehow less deliberate.

There was no NaNoWriMo when I was a child, yet somehow the idea of it fits in well with my other memories.  That rushed feeling that something must be captured before it escapes, once and for all, and is lost forever.  The idea that writing is somehow like finding oneself in an empty, abandoned house, with nothing more to go on then an old, faded photograph you’ve found on the floor of a closet.  A child, posed on a swing beneath a giant oak, staring at his feet, thinking of something that somehow becomes your job to know.