I don't know a lot. Anyone who knows me fairly well can confirm that for you. I can name like three trees, and I didn't know that the abbreviation cyn. on California road signs was an actually an abbreviation for canyon, bur rather thought that it wasn't an abbreviation at all but this weird CA proclivity to attach the word cyn to certain roads. I shit you not. The revelation that it was in fact just an abbreviation for canyons came in my early twenties, six years or so after I'd started driving, on a dark night driving back up to my home in Chico and my head lights hit this particular green sign full on, and I had this flash of inspiration like great scientists have when making a breakthrough, except that the breakthrough was that I had been reading road signs like a complete jackass for an obscenely long time.
I don't understand the health care law. I do understand that health care now consumes twice as much of our government budget as it did roughly fifty years ago. I also know that demographically speaking we are getting older. The post war baby boomers are getting up there in age and an era of birth control has lead to a population distribution issue that we haven't really encountered as a country. We're going to have a bunch of people highly dependent on medical treatments that are supposed to be shouldered by a much smaller number of working age folks. This is a problem. And it's the sort of problem that is going to have to be solved creatively. I realize that the majority of people are happy with their health care, but we are first amongst industrialized nations in cost and 34th in quality of care. So, we're not doing it all that well, and it's only going to, demographically and thus cost, get worse. That's why I'm a bit saddened to think that we might start moving backwards on health care. Because we don't really have time to talk about the good old days, which always turn out to have never existed. The health care law, by no means perfect, was a first step, but many more needed to follow. I'm not sure that going back to crawling is going to get us to safety any faster.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
This
"I spent a lot of time as a volunteer in a nursing home in Amherst last summer. I was reading Dante's Divine Comedy to an old man, Mr. Shulman. One day, I asked him where he was from. He said, "Just East of here, the Rockies." I said, "Mr. Shulman, the Rockies are west of here." He did a voila with his hands, and then said, "I move mountains." That stuck with me. Fiction either moves mountains or it's boring.; it moves mountains or it sits on its ass."
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Conversations
M: I'm going to make oat bran muffins.
S: I don't think we have any oat bran.
M: (Looks in cupboard) Forget it, this was a terrible idea anyway just like America.
S: Oooh. This is the recipe I usually make.
M: Are you listening? I'm slandering the forefathers.
S: These both call for canola oil.
M: I give up.
http://youtu.be/WqFVHHzDaUY
something's gonna be changing come the morning time my friend
as fickle as these streets are they might not even wait around till then
M: No, I didn't feed her any yogurt while you're gone. It makes a huge mess.
S: I knew it. I feed her yogurt every day.
M: How is an all yogurt diet better than no yogurt at all? It's the scientists who've brainwashed you with all their talk of probiotics.
S: Eat with your spoon honey.
http://youtu.be/qwU3PxtHeFE
He came up over a bit of a hill, and for a while it looked as if he was floating, or riding in on the sun itself. That was how he first appeared.
M: I think you sort of compared me to a megalomaniac. I believe it was something along the lines of thinking very highly of myself and very lowly of everyone else.
S: Do you disagree with that characterization?
M: Not entirely, but it isn't exactly flattering. I guess under the right circumstances, power and such, I'd probably wind up burning a bunch of people or something.
S: Really?
M: I think of Nero less as a historical figure and more of as a father figure.
S: Andrew!
M: Is it too soon?
S: A little.
M: Okay, because it's been like two thousand years. I thought Nero jokes were okay now.
If the day is cold, the train slow, people distant. If the moon is out early, solemn and lonely as usual. On that sort of night, even the light on the dark pavement can remind me of the folds in a silk dress, folded on the edge of my bed by a woman I used to love.
S: I'm just saying that if we both lived like you it would be a pig sty.
M: Yeah, without you I'd probably have never noticed the ants.
S: Probably.
M: Actually, without you around I'd probably have befriended the colony and mated with the queen by now.
Note: Later S made a similar remark about mating with part of the ant colony. And, when you've been married almost nine year you celebrate new conversational milestones like making jokes about mating with an ant colony twice in the same day.
http://youtu.be/ZJqIKWU9v10
I'd wander the streets in February, pretend to be smoking, admire the shards of ice painted like jagged cliffs by a child on telephone wires. The streets all smelled like winter. I'd pretend to text friends, hail taxi cabs just to have them drive me around the block. They were from everywhere but here, and that's what I liked best about them, how little they knew about me, how little they cared that you or I even existed. The cold feel of the leather seats seeping through my jeans and straight into the bone, that's what got me through that first winter without you.
S: I don't think we have any oat bran.
M: (Looks in cupboard) Forget it, this was a terrible idea anyway just like America.
S: Oooh. This is the recipe I usually make.
M: Are you listening? I'm slandering the forefathers.
S: These both call for canola oil.
M: I give up.
http://youtu.be/WqFVHHzDaUY
something's gonna be changing come the morning time my friend
as fickle as these streets are they might not even wait around till then
M: No, I didn't feed her any yogurt while you're gone. It makes a huge mess.
S: I knew it. I feed her yogurt every day.
M: How is an all yogurt diet better than no yogurt at all? It's the scientists who've brainwashed you with all their talk of probiotics.
S: Eat with your spoon honey.
http://youtu.be/qwU3PxtHeFE
He came up over a bit of a hill, and for a while it looked as if he was floating, or riding in on the sun itself. That was how he first appeared.
M: I think you sort of compared me to a megalomaniac. I believe it was something along the lines of thinking very highly of myself and very lowly of everyone else.
S: Do you disagree with that characterization?
M: Not entirely, but it isn't exactly flattering. I guess under the right circumstances, power and such, I'd probably wind up burning a bunch of people or something.
S: Really?
M: I think of Nero less as a historical figure and more of as a father figure.
S: Andrew!
M: Is it too soon?
S: A little.
M: Okay, because it's been like two thousand years. I thought Nero jokes were okay now.
If the day is cold, the train slow, people distant. If the moon is out early, solemn and lonely as usual. On that sort of night, even the light on the dark pavement can remind me of the folds in a silk dress, folded on the edge of my bed by a woman I used to love.
S: I'm just saying that if we both lived like you it would be a pig sty.
M: Yeah, without you I'd probably have never noticed the ants.
S: Probably.
M: Actually, without you around I'd probably have befriended the colony and mated with the queen by now.
Note: Later S made a similar remark about mating with part of the ant colony. And, when you've been married almost nine year you celebrate new conversational milestones like making jokes about mating with an ant colony twice in the same day.
http://youtu.be/ZJqIKWU9v10
I'd wander the streets in February, pretend to be smoking, admire the shards of ice painted like jagged cliffs by a child on telephone wires. The streets all smelled like winter. I'd pretend to text friends, hail taxi cabs just to have them drive me around the block. They were from everywhere but here, and that's what I liked best about them, how little they knew about me, how little they cared that you or I even existed. The cold feel of the leather seats seeping through my jeans and straight into the bone, that's what got me through that first winter without you.
Friday, March 9, 2012
MSN Friday: Ten ways to keep things hot when you're apart
1) Puzzles. Nothing says, hey, we've got something really special goin' on here like doing a puzzle. Your sig. other can quiz you about how you're doing on the puzzle, whether you've found that patch of grass piece that looks like every other patch of grass piece. It will excite them because it shows them that the mystery is still alive, and that you're willing to still do crazy things, like a puzzle.
2) Watch an episode of the Bachelor together while you're on the phone. Analyze the personality of the girls and the cut of their dress. Make sure to only make rude comments about the contestants who are considered "hot" while praising all of the contestants who are considered "nice" and "sweet." This activity will show your sig. other that you don't mind watching trashy television even when you're apart, and the shared activity of dishing will bring you closer together.
3) Turn up the heat to eighty. This simple task will function on two levels. One: the house will definitely be hot, and you'll be so excited for your spouse to come back and turn it back down to a reasonable level that you'll love them even more and appreciate all those other qualities like washing dishes, pulling the plough, and making homemade vodka that you've always loved about them and Eastern Europeans in general.
4) When they call, read them your favorite passages from Moby Dick. It will probably remind them how interesting and smart you are, and how you're always reading from that dam- book despite it's esoteric nature and how you persist in stupid activities like that, and that that's what they love about you. Plus, who doesn't love a good passage of philosophical lyricism? Certainly not the sort of person that you'd be with.
5) Drink a glass of red wine on the couch while carelessly reading a book and talking on the phone. When they hear this they'll remember how dangerous you're still capable of being and love you even more. Also, they'll probably remind you that if that glass falls over the next couple of days that you sure as hell better start running because hell hath no fury like a woman whose couch has been stained by sheer idiocy. But then they'll remember that you can have a huge argument and then follow that up with a passionate washing and hanging up of the diapers while watching an episode of Downton Abbey for the third time.
6) Get out some modeling clay and tell them how much you love the movie Ghost. Then spend the evening sculpting them a mug that they'll probably just use as ash tray because you suck as a sculptor. It's the thought that counts, and this idea didn't take much.
7) Make them a mix tape and then play parts of it while you're on the phone to remind them that you think of them often. However, since they're out of town, and you're the one putting the work into this project put some songs that you like on there as well. No one likes a pushover.
8) It's probably time to go out and buy a fish to remind yourself of your sig. other. It's probably best to buy a fish, because a cat or a dog could be too much of a surprise. However, you can bring the fish home and feed it frequently and name it after your sig. other, and maybe put it's bowl facing the television with you. However, it's best not to tell your sig. other about this as they might get jealous, plus fish are notorious for dying, which wouldn't be much of a memento now would it? In fact, even if the fish lives it's probably best to send out down the toilet and on it's way to the ocean before your sig. other comes back, because fish are kind of lame pets anyway.
9) Call them up and let them know how clean you're keeping the house. Tell them that you scrubbed bathroom tiles, that you went outside and cleaned up that pile of leaves that's been sitting around since last October. Tell them that you took a bunch of old electronics to good will and got rid of them. Then tell them you bought a pony, because you've got a sense of humor too. But now you need to flip that pony and fast. Thank goodness for dog food.
10) After you wave goodbye, drive straight to the airport and camp out for the entire time they're gone like in that Tom Hanks movie, that we were all kind of excited about, because hey, Tom Hanks, but it was the post amazing run Tom Hanks and no one ended up seeing it, and we all kind of went, meh. When your sig. other comes back and realizes that you've lost your job, grown and grown a Brett Keisel style playoff beard they'll remember what a colossal fool you are without them and secretly love you more.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Dreams
I slept poorly last night because of the dreams. Dreams of the sort that don't even make sense in the morning. Dreams whose depths I surfaced from after a long struggle in open water. Dreams whose content I couldn't describe to you in any detail at all. It is like trying to catch thin strands of light in the webbing between your fingers. And each time as I finally breached from the broken strands of sleep I'd breathe in deeply, feel the small of my back against the curve of the mattress, the u shape of the pillow around my head. I'd remind myself that whatever had been happening in the dream wasn't real, that what was real was the dark, the bulky mass of the mirror on the wall, my even breathing. I was home.
I'm not at all certain how hopes and dreams came to be tied one another. When I quizzed S on her dreams she mentioned one about needing to chop a person into a bunch of different pieces. She wasn't sure what for, but it's safe to assume it wasn't for the person's benefit. So, why dreams? Dreams are perverse and strange things. They seem to have very little to do with hope. In less that hope is that one day a person will become a human butcher, which, Fried Green Tomatoes aside, a person could probably do better.
It was raining. I took off my coat and swam through the streets. The fog was in, and I was wearing an old shirt my father had given me. Women in distant windows called down to me from above, promising the pipe and dreams of the sort that I could never have imagined. At first, when you're swimming through the dark, you feel odd, as though one shouldn't back stroke across Main Street, that it isn't proper. But you get used to it after a while. And soon you don't understand why everyone doesn't swim through the shadows in the middle of the night. Underneath a small stone bridge that connected one crappy area to another equally crappy area, a group of us were gathered around a fire telling stories about the other dreams we'd had, of flight, of mothers, death, the loss of a loved one, and when it came my turn to speak I told them this dream:
She appeared on the side of the road, standing in the gravel, in a streak of headlights. It was mid-summer, the rain was warm, and the cicada’s were buzzing in the jack pines. I remember hoping desperately that I did not seem insane.
“Looking for a ride?” I asked, and I was certain that I should have just said, “Hop in,” and that she would think that I was going to cut her into little pieces and mail her across the continental United States.
Rain ran smoothly down her face and hung from her thick top lip. She had blond hair, and skinny white legs. She looked up the road at the stream of headlights coming her way. “As long as you promise not to do anything funny.” She said.
I laughed, which wasn’t funny at all, and I was afraid she’d step back into the night, the pines, and the rain from which she’d appeared. She was beautiful. I remember thinking that if God existed, she would step into my car, and I asked Him if I could have this one thing, on the lonely drive to my mother’s funeral.
“Are you starting to understand?” I ask, you as the car rolls by Paw-Paw and onward on this lonely stretch of road. The rolling hills pillowed softly by the mothering clouds.
She had a distant look in her eyes, like she was from Atlantis, a place my mother had read about to me as a child. I told her that I was driving to my mother’s funeral, and her face grew a bit distant and pinched as if she was smoking a cigarette.
What a strange question for a highway girl to ask someone she had just met. She turned to me, her green eyes so intent, so close, and I wanted to capture the whole of the ocean in a single bottle, to lay it at her feet. I said, “It is not an easy thing, this living.” She smiled and played with the cigarette lighter.
“That’s what I’ve gathered,” She answered, her words, like her, sweet and wet. And as you sigh, and relax into the cushion of the seat, I think that’s all I’ve ever been looking for, the mystery between two people.
I'm not at all certain how hopes and dreams came to be tied one another. When I quizzed S on her dreams she mentioned one about needing to chop a person into a bunch of different pieces. She wasn't sure what for, but it's safe to assume it wasn't for the person's benefit. So, why dreams? Dreams are perverse and strange things. They seem to have very little to do with hope. In less that hope is that one day a person will become a human butcher, which, Fried Green Tomatoes aside, a person could probably do better.
It was raining. I took off my coat and swam through the streets. The fog was in, and I was wearing an old shirt my father had given me. Women in distant windows called down to me from above, promising the pipe and dreams of the sort that I could never have imagined. At first, when you're swimming through the dark, you feel odd, as though one shouldn't back stroke across Main Street, that it isn't proper. But you get used to it after a while. And soon you don't understand why everyone doesn't swim through the shadows in the middle of the night. Underneath a small stone bridge that connected one crappy area to another equally crappy area, a group of us were gathered around a fire telling stories about the other dreams we'd had, of flight, of mothers, death, the loss of a loved one, and when it came my turn to speak I told them this dream:
She appeared on the side of the road, standing in the gravel, in a streak of headlights. It was mid-summer, the rain was warm, and the cicada’s were buzzing in the jack pines. I remember hoping desperately that I did not seem insane.
“Looking for a ride?” I asked, and I was certain that I should have just said, “Hop in,” and that she would think that I was going to cut her into little pieces and mail her across the continental United States.
Rain ran smoothly down her face and hung from her thick top lip. She had blond hair, and skinny white legs. She looked up the road at the stream of headlights coming her way. “As long as you promise not to do anything funny.” She said.
I laughed, which wasn’t funny at all, and I was afraid she’d step back into the night, the pines, and the rain from which she’d appeared. She was beautiful. I remember thinking that if God existed, she would step into my car, and I asked Him if I could have this one thing, on the lonely drive to my mother’s funeral.
“Are you starting to understand?” I ask, you as the car rolls by Paw-Paw and onward on this lonely stretch of road. The rolling hills pillowed softly by the mothering clouds.
She had a distant look in her eyes, like she was from Atlantis, a place my mother had read about to me as a child. I told her that I was driving to my mother’s funeral, and her face grew a bit distant and pinched as if she was smoking a cigarette.
What a strange question for a highway girl to ask someone she had just met. She turned to me, her green eyes so intent, so close, and I wanted to capture the whole of the ocean in a single bottle, to lay it at her feet. I said, “It is not an easy thing, this living.” She smiled and played with the cigarette lighter.
“That’s what I’ve gathered,” She answered, her words, like her, sweet and wet. And as you sigh, and relax into the cushion of the seat, I think that’s all I’ve ever been looking for, the mystery between two people.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Wednesday
Apparently the sun had a major solar flare. If you're worried about it, you probably should be. Fact: If the sun winked out of existence only people in Antarctica, who are used to its lack, would survive. I once walked up a small mountain to watch the sun rise over the emerald ocean, as it was born from there, that beautiful child. The day was a failure for a variety of reasons that I'd rather not get into. One must keep a thing or two close.
Super Tuesday happened and we're all fairly certain Mitt Romney is going to win. We were all fairly certain Mitt was going to win before Tuesday, and we were all pretty sure he was going to win at the beginning of this whole electoral season. But we cannot say with certainty whether we like it.
Thoughts: Why are we thinking of selling off natural gas. I realize that our supply is outstripping demand, but it seems negligent to start selling it off before we're sure we can never use it. Why do gas prices alone influence consumer behavior? Even if you believe that global warming isn't going to cause any major problems, it's impossible to argue that fossil fuels are a limitless resource. Perhaps we should conserve ahead of time? Yes? Yes?
In the second grade I misspelled the word dictionary and lost the spelling bee. I tried to read a dictionary a year ago to make up for it, but the material was a bit dry. The losing word in third grade was column, which is a tough spell. In Rome I had S take a picture of me eating french fries from Mcdonald's in front of the Pantheon. I thought the juxtaposition would do the work on its own. Three of the columns had to be replaced in the 17th century, and you can tell the difference. I do not know which column I misspelled, but I'd prefer the older.
It seems that everyone agrees that Rush Limbaugh should not call women sluts. They prefer, women, daughter, mother, girl, girls' friend, Rachel, Jessica, Amanda, the girl in the library who curses too loudly. It's probably best to choose one of those. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." I mean, technically, He could have hauled off and tossed one at that point. This is perhaps, taking the lesson too literally.
Super Tuesday happened and we're all fairly certain Mitt Romney is going to win. We were all fairly certain Mitt was going to win before Tuesday, and we were all pretty sure he was going to win at the beginning of this whole electoral season. But we cannot say with certainty whether we like it.
Thoughts: Why are we thinking of selling off natural gas. I realize that our supply is outstripping demand, but it seems negligent to start selling it off before we're sure we can never use it. Why do gas prices alone influence consumer behavior? Even if you believe that global warming isn't going to cause any major problems, it's impossible to argue that fossil fuels are a limitless resource. Perhaps we should conserve ahead of time? Yes? Yes?
In the second grade I misspelled the word dictionary and lost the spelling bee. I tried to read a dictionary a year ago to make up for it, but the material was a bit dry. The losing word in third grade was column, which is a tough spell. In Rome I had S take a picture of me eating french fries from Mcdonald's in front of the Pantheon. I thought the juxtaposition would do the work on its own. Three of the columns had to be replaced in the 17th century, and you can tell the difference. I do not know which column I misspelled, but I'd prefer the older.
It seems that everyone agrees that Rush Limbaugh should not call women sluts. They prefer, women, daughter, mother, girl, girls' friend, Rachel, Jessica, Amanda, the girl in the library who curses too loudly. It's probably best to choose one of those. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone." I mean, technically, He could have hauled off and tossed one at that point. This is perhaps, taking the lesson too literally.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Tuesdays With Sadie
The day started out in a lovely manner as S decided to brave the cold weather and walked to work allowing lil s to sleep in until 8. Few things bring me more pleasure at this point in life than actually sleeping a full eight hours. Thus, we both woke up in a good mood. And it's pretty cute when a 15 month old is in a good mood. Mainly because if they are not in a good mood they cry. And crying is awkward when you're a dad who's been raised by sitcoms and told that crying is awkward, even when it's a baby.
Lil s started the day with her usual assortment of amazing breakfast items while I poured soy milk on Kashi. She let me know that she was done with her meal by throwing a couple of pieces of bacon on the floor. I almost spanked her. It's not okay to waste bacon.
We then went off to the living room where I explained that bacon was invented by Prometheus shortly after fire, and that he was currently having his entrails eaten by a vulture on our behalf, and I'm pretty sure she understood me. She showed her understanding by shoving a wooden doll in my face, which is baby for, "good point dad."
I got on the computer for a while and let her play in the other room unsupervised. I did it because the computer is also an important part of my life, and I don't want her to be one of those spoiled only children. She was sitting at a tiny table in a yellow chair playing with her dolls and the doll house. I heard thing or two hit the ground, but I was largely unfazed. Finally, I heard a slow crash, and I checked to make sure she hadn't done a half-gainer into the wall. Apparently her way of playing with the doll house was knocking it off the table onto the ground. I made sure all the dolls were okay after hurricane Sadie had hit and then pulled her out of her chair to explain to her why doll houses belong on tables.
Eventually she took time for a nap, so I could work on all those things I've been putting off in my life like learning a foreign language, doing yoga, and making a crude map of where I've left treasure. After that, she woke up, and we had lunch. She has this tendency to start making angry noises if you don't feed her as soon as she's in her seat. The young and the old.
In the afternoon we played a game where I pulled all the couch cushions off while she ran around on it. I placed them underneath the couch to cushion her in case of a fall. Naturally she walked up to the one part with only half-assed blankets with a giant smile on her face, edging closer and closer to the precipice. I'm a dad, so I was pretty sure I could catch her if she fell. She fell. It happened quickly. Luckily she did a somersault on her way down, and I was able to catch her before she slammed into the floor. We both had a good laugh at our negligence, and then I banned her from the couch. She showed me she understood by shoving a wooden doll in my face.
We both got kind of bored for the rest of the afternoon. I read her every book on one bookshelf, and she kept smiling every time I read the last page of a book, like it had a good punch line, or a moral that made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Kids are cute. You should have one too. By the time I'd read twelve or so books we got bored again. I put her down for nap, because it's a good idea to just go to sleep if you're bored. Caesar or Einstein or someone said that. Or I did, just now, I'm not comparing myself to them, but I'm not denying it either.
In the evening I fed her dinner. She signaled to me that she was done eating corn by throwing it on the floor. When I started sweeping it up, she took it as queue to drop other kernels on the floor, like we were playing a game. I told her that I could set up a sort of Prometheus thing for her as well if she didn't knock it off, but I don't think I really meant it. I made her a piece of peanut butter toast instead.
And that's the sort of day we had. I tried to talk to her about Euclidean geometry on the way to pick up her mother, but she was busy reading a book called baby's first Christmas, (apparently I lose out to squishy boots and fuzzy hat). It's good to be loved.
Lil s started the day with her usual assortment of amazing breakfast items while I poured soy milk on Kashi. She let me know that she was done with her meal by throwing a couple of pieces of bacon on the floor. I almost spanked her. It's not okay to waste bacon.
We then went off to the living room where I explained that bacon was invented by Prometheus shortly after fire, and that he was currently having his entrails eaten by a vulture on our behalf, and I'm pretty sure she understood me. She showed her understanding by shoving a wooden doll in my face, which is baby for, "good point dad."
I got on the computer for a while and let her play in the other room unsupervised. I did it because the computer is also an important part of my life, and I don't want her to be one of those spoiled only children. She was sitting at a tiny table in a yellow chair playing with her dolls and the doll house. I heard thing or two hit the ground, but I was largely unfazed. Finally, I heard a slow crash, and I checked to make sure she hadn't done a half-gainer into the wall. Apparently her way of playing with the doll house was knocking it off the table onto the ground. I made sure all the dolls were okay after hurricane Sadie had hit and then pulled her out of her chair to explain to her why doll houses belong on tables.
Eventually she took time for a nap, so I could work on all those things I've been putting off in my life like learning a foreign language, doing yoga, and making a crude map of where I've left treasure. After that, she woke up, and we had lunch. She has this tendency to start making angry noises if you don't feed her as soon as she's in her seat. The young and the old.
In the afternoon we played a game where I pulled all the couch cushions off while she ran around on it. I placed them underneath the couch to cushion her in case of a fall. Naturally she walked up to the one part with only half-assed blankets with a giant smile on her face, edging closer and closer to the precipice. I'm a dad, so I was pretty sure I could catch her if she fell. She fell. It happened quickly. Luckily she did a somersault on her way down, and I was able to catch her before she slammed into the floor. We both had a good laugh at our negligence, and then I banned her from the couch. She showed me she understood by shoving a wooden doll in my face.
We both got kind of bored for the rest of the afternoon. I read her every book on one bookshelf, and she kept smiling every time I read the last page of a book, like it had a good punch line, or a moral that made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Kids are cute. You should have one too. By the time I'd read twelve or so books we got bored again. I put her down for nap, because it's a good idea to just go to sleep if you're bored. Caesar or Einstein or someone said that. Or I did, just now, I'm not comparing myself to them, but I'm not denying it either.
In the evening I fed her dinner. She signaled to me that she was done eating corn by throwing it on the floor. When I started sweeping it up, she took it as queue to drop other kernels on the floor, like we were playing a game. I told her that I could set up a sort of Prometheus thing for her as well if she didn't knock it off, but I don't think I really meant it. I made her a piece of peanut butter toast instead.
And that's the sort of day we had. I tried to talk to her about Euclidean geometry on the way to pick up her mother, but she was busy reading a book called baby's first Christmas, (apparently I lose out to squishy boots and fuzzy hat). It's good to be loved.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Blogging on my day off
I had one of those moments. You know what I'm talking about. You're walking on a beige carpet with a cart full of books in your hand and trying to decipher a call number when it hits you. Or you're standing on that old kitchen tile in the break room stirring a cup of coffee with a small stick, waiting for the day to begin. Or you're sitting in your office when the phone rings, and in between rings you look out the window at a bird bringing a piece of glittering foil into the eaves for its nest. You're in Carolina just after sunrise, chalk full of pills, watching smoke rise from valleys who still have their Indian names. Or you're standing at the chalkboard and trying to explain to a room full of nine year old's why the Spanish Inquisition was a bad thing, why the paint on your toe nails is chipped, why you sleep alone, or on the couch gathering warmth from an old blanket knit by someone's grandmother, you don't remember who's.
And it hits you. Suddenly, and you know that you shouldn't dive any deeper. That to live inside an idea like that will only drive you crazy, and that you'll end up blown out over the street like the guts of an old whale or walking on black sand beaches, hat in hand, begging for money. I was struck by the absurdity of it all. There I was walking down an aisle filled with books to retrieve a specific book and send it off to West Virginia so that someone could further their study of life in Mizzoula at the turn of the century. It is absurd. Civilization is absurd. At least the ants know what they're about. We're very busy carrying things away from the picnic, but we've no earthly clue how we're to put them together to make something of meaning.
That's what I was struck by as I pulled down the book and placed it on the proper cart. That I could have just as easily picked up the wrong book, or walked backwards amongst the stacks with my arms flapping and screaming that I was angel. I could have done a poorly choreographed and danced rendition of Thriller. And yet, I did none of those things. I put the slip in the book and placed it on the cart to be sent out, because that's what we've agreed upon, that it's best if people put books on carts, refrain from public dances or attempts to make book angels, and perhaps that is for the best, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't occasionally struck by the absurdity of it all, by the expansive possibilities that are so narrowed by our interpretation of what's right to do in any given situation, and our concern for how we're perceived. But I've gone on long enough, all I'm trying to say is that it's occasionally useful to think about the gears, the machine grinding away behind the veil, the Wizard who reminds us all what we're supposed to do.
If you need be I'll be out in the yard drinking whiskey giving new names to the stars.
And it hits you. Suddenly, and you know that you shouldn't dive any deeper. That to live inside an idea like that will only drive you crazy, and that you'll end up blown out over the street like the guts of an old whale or walking on black sand beaches, hat in hand, begging for money. I was struck by the absurdity of it all. There I was walking down an aisle filled with books to retrieve a specific book and send it off to West Virginia so that someone could further their study of life in Mizzoula at the turn of the century. It is absurd. Civilization is absurd. At least the ants know what they're about. We're very busy carrying things away from the picnic, but we've no earthly clue how we're to put them together to make something of meaning.
That's what I was struck by as I pulled down the book and placed it on the proper cart. That I could have just as easily picked up the wrong book, or walked backwards amongst the stacks with my arms flapping and screaming that I was angel. I could have done a poorly choreographed and danced rendition of Thriller. And yet, I did none of those things. I put the slip in the book and placed it on the cart to be sent out, because that's what we've agreed upon, that it's best if people put books on carts, refrain from public dances or attempts to make book angels, and perhaps that is for the best, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't occasionally struck by the absurdity of it all, by the expansive possibilities that are so narrowed by our interpretation of what's right to do in any given situation, and our concern for how we're perceived. But I've gone on long enough, all I'm trying to say is that it's occasionally useful to think about the gears, the machine grinding away behind the veil, the Wizard who reminds us all what we're supposed to do.
If you need be I'll be out in the yard drinking whiskey giving new names to the stars.
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