Something Else

Love Stumbled Upon

2012-02-09T12:42:00.001-08:00

Some thoughts have been floating around my head lately that I've been wanting to articulate, but feel like I lack the proper words.

It mostly started with the first song in this video (Sorry Jeff if you're reading this).

In particular let's focus on these lines:
Stall your mother
Disregard your father's words

Two years ago those words would have meant something incredibly different to me. They would have been me pleading with my love to give me just that one more minute of her time. It would have been a look back at the past, of those great moments that encompass falling in love. But no longer [not entirely true]. My eyes turn toward the future now. One day I'll be the father whose words are disregarded and Robyn will be the stalled mother. These are songs that no longer belong to me in the same way they use to.

I suspect the cliche feeling I should be having, especially with these particular lyrics, is to be "Not with my daughter!" Maybe when she's sixteen and not one and half I'll change my mind, but as of now I look forward to her having these sorts of experiences. I look forward to meeting her future and all the people she brings into it. I look forward to her future love as much as I look forward to anything in life.

Of course, I don't think for a second I'll ever be witness to these events, but I hope some day she gets her late night shooting star and I hope some boy (or girl) writes her songs (regardless of how asinine and terrible they are). I can't wait for the day we stumble into each other walking down the hallway--she's oblivious to the world, beaming--and I get to ask, "What's up?" And she gets to grin and claim, "Nothing." That will likely do.

Home

2012-01-22T09:37:00.000-08:00

Finished this book and aside from the obvious ideas that were dealt with: how we often try to return home to avoid or deal with problems in our lives only to realize that many of our problems and issues stem from that home, so going back doesn't do much to offer relief; it also had me reflecting greatly on what home is.

The word home doesn't mean the same thing for everyone. I think this is often taken for granted. We imagine everyone has this place where they can return to, that encompasses their childhood, a place that we can inspect and see first hand how much the world has changed, a marker not only of the past but of the present and into the future as well.

But then there are people like me and my brother and his family. People who moved around a lot because of their parents' work. There are a myriad of other reasons why one might not have a place they call home but I suspect many of them lead to similar experiences when reflecting back upon the concept.

When I think about home I think of two things, well three really. These two things are a shrunk (which is a large piece of wood cabinetry built in Germany) and a nondescript plush lazy boy style recliner. The third thing is sort of an extension of these two, or the root of them really. My parents. Their house, though I've never lived in it, still feels something like home.

This lack of grounding in a place is a peculiar feeling. There's no returning to an old neighborhood and feeling the pull of nostalgia as I walk beneath the trees or down familiar streets. No beloved playground. No best friend's house. No high school to revisit. No movie theater where my first kiss took place. Visiting Idaho is like floating free across space until entering my parents' house. Once there things make sense, but looking out their front door, onto their front yard and at the fields across the street, invokes no more emotion or memory than looking at a picture of the Martian landscape.

As time passes the inside of their house changes. They get different furniture, buy different rugs. At this point even the dogs we had when I left after high school are no longer alive. But the shrunk and some version of the recliner always seems to stay around.

After leaving home I moved as much if not more than ever. I think I averaged a move once a year for the first six years after high school.

But now I've lived in one city for ten years and the same house for almost nine. Just a fraction of the time one might spend in a single home growing up, but still more than double anywhere else I've ever lived.

With Berkeley with us now I can't help but look around and think about what sort of place this would make for her as a home. Her youth will be nothing like mine (forgetting even about technology). Will she run these streets with the few other kids in the area? Will she love the beach? In my mind I see her as a young teen standing on the dunes looking out at the waves, taking in the vastness of the ocean, contemplating it for the first time, wind blowing her hair into her eyes. This image alone convinces me here would be a good home.

Robyn sort of hates our house. I can understand this. It has its issues. The electrical outlets, its general age, the impossibility of keeping it warm, it's only two rooms, the kitchen is small and a little gross, sometimes there are mice. I get it. But since I lack a childhood home of my own this one that I adopted when I was 25 feels special to me in ways that probably don't make sense to a lot of people.

One day, assuming we are here long enough for Berkeley to feel like it is home, she'll probably leave at the first opportunity. While San Francisco and California have the air of freedom and independence to me they'll be the exact opposite to her. A place to escape, to get away from in order to see the world. To be her own person. But equally as likely she'll come back one day and stand on the dunes, put a hand to her head to shade the sun from her eyes, a tangle of gray hair blowing around her head, and she'll marvel again at how big the ocean is and how lucky she is to call this place home.

Space Filler

2011-11-16T07:49:00.000-08:00

Along the nerves of nothing, where not begets naught, where seconds are years are millennia, the thought occurred: I Am. A stirring of ether, a silent revelation: I am all. The second, less profound but more disturbing. I, a pillar holding up nothing, standing on nothing. Others were made. Reflections, so alike that they too were I. These things, too much like the I Am, were pushed aside, discarded as useless, left alone to find their own way. Later, further attempts: angels, devils, cherubs, demons. Less like the first but still a part of the I Am. Saliva and dead skin instead of brains and heart. Let them do what they will, but there is no doubt what they'll do--a war, a hero, a victory. The I Am recedes, tries to become small. Everything collapses with it. A pin-point encompassing everything. Here the I Am rests and thinks. How to get out of the way? The hero, still there in the point, whispers a new word: We. The Word is born. With a big bang a new space is created, cleverly crafted and hidden from the creator. Rules invented. Light, gravity, atoms, fission, life. Pools of water and crystals spread across millions of planets. The Word speaks to each of them but they do not stir, until at last. From the other place the I Am decrees. They will have two legs, as not to look like pillars. They will have a brain, so that they may have free will. They will have a heart, so that they will love more than they hate. They will walk upright, so that they may not lack pride. They will have eyes to weep from, hands for crafting, knees for bending, mouths for singing, tongues for confusing, ears for understanding, wombs for recreating, and death for meaning. And it was so.

On the Infinite Nature of Black Holes, Life and Death

2011-09-04T19:52:00.001-07:00

I proposed to prove that death is an illusion perpetrated upon the living. Of course professor Strauss said it was an unacceptable topic for an astrophysics thesis. My brief discourse on the ability of small minds to forestall great scientific progress did nothing to further engender her favor. I may have seriously harmed my reputation and hampered the likelihood of my graduating in a timely manner. But where would we be today if Copernicus or Newton or Darwin hadn't ruffled the establishment's feathers?

I suppose I should have explained the theory better, particularly on how it relates to astrophysics. The key to the theory, and life when I think of it, is the peculiar nature of black holes. More specifically, exactly what happens at the "Event Horizon." The Event Horizon is an invisible boundary around a black hole, imagine it as the surface of an invisible ball with the black hole sitting in the center of the ball. As an object approaches the black hole time becomes skewed. The closer the object gets the slower time becomes. At the exact point when time stops is when the object has intersected the Event Horizon. To the outside viewer the object appears to have ceased its descent into the depths of the black hole, but really it's just a trick of the light. The gravitation pull has become so strong at this point that the light reflected by the object is frozen in time and space.

Now for the leap. There are certain forces in the universe; some are weak and some are strong; some, like death, are irresistible. The leap, and not a far one to anyone who has lost a loved one—perhaps a leap on the scale of the Grand Canyon, but how small is that earthly scar when we're dealing with stars and galaxies—is that the power of death is at least as great as the black hole's. (I'm still looking for some one from the Math Department to help me with the calculus required to prove this, but I'm pressing forward knowing in my heart of hearts it is true.)

Now let me explain what must certainly happen as one approaches death. As life draws near that overwhelming and all encompassing point that we call death, time too must slow down. And just as time stops at some point prior to reaching the final dense void that is a black hole, time too must stop at some moment prior to death. Time expands if you will. Each microsecond becomes longer and longer until one of them is infinite, never ending. But even that final infinite microsecond is never reached because every fragment of time before it is stretched to near infinite as well. And thus the man or woman traveling in their flesh-bound vessel of life toward that dark spot in the distance never reaches it. Every half measure closer they draw to it takes longer and longer until they seem to stand still.

From the outside, from the point of view of the living, the traveler has stopped still, has died, moved on from this mortal life. The living do not know that what was a mere second for them—the span of that last heart beat—has been stretched out into the infinite for he whose life is on the greatest of all brinks. We lament the lose but fail to realize that death is just an illusion.

Although I consider this theory with just the details already given a profound leap in the understanding of man, far surpassing any singular discovery made prior, I feel a few more details are easily made plain if we ponder what it means a little further. The big question that I think is reasonably answered using the framework already provided is: what is experienced by the person in these eternities of solitude? To answer this question it is instructive to look back to our example of the black hole.

As an object approaches a black hole not only does time seem to stand still but the object is also stretched thin. A celestial tower approaching the Event Horizon is pulled from one end until it becomes an immeasurably long spaghetti noodle. With this in mind let us think a little upon the man who approaches death. It could be reasonably argued that a man alone is nothing more than a tower of memories. As such, it is safe to suppose that these memories will be stretched infinitely long and thin like the atoms of our imaginary space-tower. Each moment of life remembered becomes a pin-point of brilliant light composed of memory and feeling. Imagine your favorite memory, boil it down to its most raw emotion, multiply that by infinity and you'll start to comprehend what is possible in the slow drifting state toward our ultimate unreachable end. Of course the corollary is true too, pain and sadness are magnified forever as well. We have infinite experiences piled on top of each other. I believe we can organize these memories as we see fit. Think of them as pages in a book; you can dwell on a single page but that doesn't mean the other pages aren't there, real, solid and waiting for you to visit them. Here we create a book more holy and profound than even the Bible.

Two things should be learned from this. One: fill your life with good memories as they shall be your constant companions when all else has abandoned you, likewise, be good to those around you so that they too are blessed by their own happiness. Two: if you've lived a full life, fear not that dark stalker in the night, the hooded life stealer, life's infinite divide, for the scythe of fate will always drop but it will take a million lifetimes to travel that final millimeter between your neck and the ever expanding universe around you.

An Uncommon Car

2011-07-03T10:08:00.001-07:00

Owning a sports car has pretty much always been a dream of mine. Of course I don't recall the exact moment my dad's (now my brother's) '67 Camaro morphed from the red hunk of steel that sat on four wheels and rarely left the drive-way to an object of desire, worship and prideful fascination. But at some point I realized we didn't drive it all the time because it was special and because it was special it was important. The car is now like a legendary artifact, a literal Holy Grail in my life. Seeing it and being in it, not only invoke the usual joys of a nice sports car, but it also has the mystical powers of nostalgia and it has taken on colossal size and meaning in ways that only childhood memories can properly distort. Stepping into that car is like stepping into a dream, a reversal of time, it's like bathing in the fountain of youth.

So while one might argue that my adventure yesterday had nothing to do with my dad's old Camaro, I'd say it has everything to do with it.

Hello there!

Last year I became a father. For my first Father's Day my wonderful wife and dear daughter rented me a Tesla. This is no small thing. If you compound my love for cars with the fact that the nicest car I've driven in the last nine years is a used WRX wagon (unless you count the numerous times I've driven my old M3 in my dreams) plus Robyn's ambivalence toward cars--at best we can call it ambivalence, but depending on the car it veers sharply toward despise or repugnance--then you can see why this was a pretty dang special gift.

How did it drive you wonder? I'll get to that. You're probably also wondering if there were any limitation on the car since it was rented. The good news is that there were not. It was a stock 2010 Tesla. My preferred driving scenario involves lots of fun turns in the 35-50mph type roads. I did drive the car along 280 from San Francisco to Palo Alto and back but I released most of my 80+mph speeding demons from my system back when I had my M3, so I didn't try topping the car out on the freeway or anything. I didn't exactly go the speed limit but accelerating from 65 to 80 in a blink of an eye is only about 100000 times more enjoyable than cruising at 90+ mph, in this man's opinion.

For comparison I've driven or been in the following cars while they were driven very quickly: a '96 911, a '94 RX-7 Turbo (I never drove this one but had a good time as a passenger) and my '96 Supercharged M3.

The first thing I noticed about the Tesla was its distance to the ground. The car practically sits on the pavement, I'm not sure how anyone over the age of fifty gets in or out of one--I got a cramp in my upper thigh trying to swing my legs in it the first time around (apparently the previous driver had been a shorter person which made my entry all that more difficult). Next time (please let there be a next time) I might implement a stretching routine prior to driving. Related to this is the size of the cockpit. It's tiny. I've been in small cars before, even my old Miata felt like a Lincoln Town Car compared to the leg room you get in a Tesla. But that wasn't a real problem, if I was looking for room to relax I'd have gone on a cruise.

I took a quick trip around the block with the owner in the car mostly because she said it was important to understand the regenerative braking. Anytime you let off the accelerator (I'm not going to call it the gas pedal) the car feels like you've down-shifted and it aggressively loses speed. This was fun, one of my favorite things to do in my M3 was to drop a gear or two when stopping to feel that pull. So even though the Tesla is an automatic you still get that nice down-shifting feel. The second thing that took some getting use to was that the gears are all buttons in the middle console, there is no stick of any type. You press a button for Park, you press a different button for Reverse and a different one for Drive. This took some getting use to and I grabbed Jason's leg multiple times because I was reflexively reaching for the stick I felt should have been there. Jason pointed out after the second time that if I had rented the car trying to trick my passenger into believing it was mine I would have just blown my cover. The regenerative braking also had me reflexively searching for the clutch a few times as well, my mind kept telling me I had to press it before the car died as I pulled up to a stop (which would have been embarrassing).

During that short trip around the block she had me get on the accelerator. Being downtown San Francisco I only felt comfortable going so fast but all I remember from the short three seconds when I hammered it was thinking "oh shit oh shit oh shit." The thing takes off like a rocket, with zero hesitation, and since it's an automatic you get to just mash on the accelerator without a lot of finesse or skill required to feel like your driving the fastest thing ever to roam the streets. The acceleration is crisp and so incredibly smooth. And although I'm sure it's faster than anything I've driven in the past, the smoothness and the lack of the usual sounds I've come to associate with a sports car (and perhaps due to the less-than-accurate memories of being twenty and riding in my first modern sports car) the Rx7 felt faster. I recall moments in the Rx-7 when its turbo would kick in (after you were already accelerating faster than you once imagined possible) and you'd get thrown back into your seat and it would sound like you were sitting on the wing of a jet. That distant experience, in ways that can't be substantiated, still feels faster to me though I'm certain the car wasn't doing 0-60 in under four seconds.

On the drive down to Palo Alto I was amazed by how fast it could go from 60-80. It felt like it had the same power at those speeds as it did starting from a dead stop. I'm so use to driving my Civic now which you have to make decisions about changing lanes years in advance that this felt like a dream where when I wanted something all I had to do was ask for it and it was mine, and sometimes it seemed like the wish was granted before I even finished asking for it. So after one trip around the block and two miles on the freeway I was in love. I even forgave the car its awful red color (call me strange but there is only one car that can pull off red and it's made in Italy and has a horse on it).

It's a strange feeling driving someone else's very nice (understatement alert) car. When I drove my M3 around, even though it doesn't compare to the Tesla in so many ways, I felt a certain sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. I often drove it around just to be seen in it (don't I sound like an awesome dude?). Don't get me wrong there were moments of pure bliss brought about by just driving the Tesla at reasonable speeds (I think I had a least three religious experiences by the time I arrived in Palo Alto), but--and this is where I realize, I know, but it doesn't matter, that I put too much importance in cars--it felt like I was borrowing someone else's life. So while I did miss out on some of that sense of accomplishment that the M3 imparted to me, the detachment, or the awareness of being borrowed, really let me enjoy the car for the sake of the car.

Dang, I didn't realize I had so much to say about this. I had like four or five things I wanted to say and I've only said one of them. This might have to be a double installment.

I speak as though you can hear me

2011-05-27T23:04:00.000-07:00

This is something I wrote while Robyn was pregnant, but never posted here.

I speak as though you can hear me
I speak upon the rolling hills
Among blades of grass
Seed upon seed
Soft as a whisper

I speak deep in the green forests
Over maddening monkeys
And ceaseless insects
Wet as rain

I speak under the endless seas
Drowned beneath turbulent waves
Source of life
Songs of whales

I speak of love
I speak of books
I speak of happiness
I speak of sorrow
And Maybe
I speak of God
Yet somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow
(thirty-two because nothing has ever changed
Then doubled
Because I'm certain of certain things)

Yet somehow
I've said nothing

So I rest my head
Upon your mother's swelling breasts
And pray
One day
I'll speak
And one day
You'll hear me

Filling Empty Spaces

2011-05-22T12:27:00.001-07:00

Over the last two weeks Berkeley has had a toy fish bowl that she's greatly enjoyed putting things into and then taking those same things out of. She's had big developmental moments before: eating, sitting up, picking items up, and making noises to name a few, but this one has particularly struck me. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I was never one of those people who was excited about watching the different stages of child development and so I let the obvious stages pass by with less amazement than they are really due. The other factor, I think, is that many of the prior major development steps are not only big and obvious to even those who haven't watched closely the daily development of a child but they are also largely shared across the animal kingdom. Every animal in the world knows how to eat, most animals either know upon exiting the womb or egg, or shortly their afterward, how to manage their main mode of locomotion, and often the first thing done once an animal can breathe in air is to exhale it with some primal noise. Even the picking up of objects seems far from unique, my dogs move stuff all around the house, either by picking it up in their mouths or moving them with their paws. They can even understand different types of things: things dogs do not touch and things dogs are allowed to touch.

But yesterday Berkeley noticed a drawer on the coffee table, at the perfect height for her to pull it out and push it in. She grabbed the handle, opened it, recognized the empty space within, searched around for something on the floor within grabbing distance, picked up a Hot Wheel, and unceremoniously dropped it in the drawer. This pleased her enough that she then put a ball and two more Hot Wheels in the drawer. The next ten minutes consisted of me watching her take the ball out and then put it back in numerous times. In a sense she has discovered a tool. I didn't force it on her, like the spoon she eats with, instead it's her own little discovery, made possible by hundreds of thousands of years of ancestors developing brains that find the use of empty spaces obvious. The Universe has been split in two for her. It now consists of things that possess empty spaces and things that go into empty spaces.

She is now, and has been for 18 months, marching down the path that is humanity's destiny. And I now look forward to more moments like this one, when she looks at an empty box and not only thinks about what can go in it but how it relates to the pains she feels in her heart after losing her first boyfriend (I had no intention of crying while writing this but no one is ever prepared for the Spanish Inquisition). How filling is related to feeling. How people can be sad and lonely, broken and empty, and how she can fill them with joy and how she can be filled by the joy and love of others. And how someone, even a child, can make you realize you had more space available than you ever imagined.

the beauty of life's invisible derivative

2011-03-19T17:35:00.001-07:00

She sits on the living room floor wrapped in the safety of a blue half circle pillow. I lay my head on that pillow, her body between me and the rest of the world.

It's hard to say how much she appreciates the closeness. Her hands and eyes wander amongst her toys, sometimes they cross my face and hair before going back to the stuffed spider or red and white maraca she loves to shake. She steals my glasses, fills my vision with her profile, her guileless eyes, her ears collecting light, her small nose, her divine cheeks. Behind her the window is blurry, beyond the window is an infinite gray that I know is rain, clouds and fogs, but feels like much more. This closeness to her, in the dying light of a rainy day isn't a thing I expected, it wasn't bargained for. Its like going into a used clothing store and stumbling upon a pair of slippers once worn by some mighty queen. It's a thing so great that even though it has just made its appearance on the distant horizon you can already feel its absents growing close. Some day she'll have boundaries, need space, have friends to impress, a life all her own, you can sense all this in that endless gray on the other side of the window, beyond her innocent face. The great arc of her love is steadily climbing, and although that most sacred parabola has many years before its slope hits zero--when the life of a child and her parents' go their separate ways--my mind already looks fondly but sadly upon a moment merely a few minutes old like a lost treasure buried beneath the endless blue seas.

Pleasanton

2010-09-20T23:25:00.000-07:00

Pleasanton: a suburb envied by other suburbs.

I had the pleasure this weekend of getting reacquainted with Pleasanton; two friends held a wedding celebration there and I arrived about half an hour early so I decided to walk around a bit instead of crashing the party early with my baby and stroller. I'm no stranger to Pleasanton since my first two years of college were spent living in Pleasanton, although I probably spent more waking hours at school and commuting the forty-five minutes back and forth to get to school. Let's see, if we do the math, that's ugh, twelve to fourteen years ago? OK, my age isn't really the point here. What is the point? I wasn't unfamiliar with the area so walking around the block felt natural.

In that block the city brought out its best sunset lighting; its perfect mild evening weather and all the lawns were immaculately manicured, as if each day everyone in the city brings out their brand new lawnmowers to mow their yards, yards without a single spot of drying yellow or brown in them. The streets were clean, every house had a family car parked out front, and if the garage were open you could spot the BMW or Porsche--kept in pristine condition--and the mountain bike--with front tire off to let the neighbors know that they are serious about the maintenance and perfection of even their toys. If curtains are pulled aside you see houses full of Pottery Barn furniture and a mysterious lack of clutter that normally invades most lesser being's lives and living spaces.

The park is green, you can run bare foot without fear of stepping in dog feces, or human feces for that matter, and, of course, a man and his two strapping blond boys play catch in the field, the older boy taller than his father but still aims to please him. The younger boy goofy, doing cartwheels and hoping his older family members will remember to throw the ball to him even though he doesn't catch or throw well himself, and in Pleasanton they always remember to make that extra pass and chase down his arrant throws without a word of protest, they even marvel at how far over their own heads the young boy can throw the ball.

Sure there are apartment buildings in Pleasanton, but even they have an air of nobility about them. They have the same perfect common yards--green, shiny and resplendent from the dew left behind by the sprinkler system that always seems to work and always turns off just before you arrive so that you can marvel at the perfect yard without the worry of getting wet yourself. And while there are no garages for the cars, those same BMWs and Porsches live happily under carports and the mountain bikes line the decks and patios like honor badges, lest the neighbors forget... These are apartment complexes that the upper echelon of lesser cities would live in.

And sure every now and then you see an old car parked on the side of the road but they are more likely to draw the interest of collectors than the ire of police.

It all feels so planned. I mean they named the city Pleasanton. They put the trees in place, they paved the roads, and then they sat back and hoped that just the right type of people would arrive. And they did. They mastered that which they sought to master. And as much as the thought of suburban living doesn't excite me at this point in my life, I did feel safe, secure, and comfortable on those streets, looking at those houses--hypnotized by the absurd perfection.

Enlarged by One

2010-08-15T20:18:00.000-07:00

First, I'll admit it. I was not super excited about a baby in the house. And no way was I instantly falling in love with a crying (even if it were smiling) baby. But it happened. Like bam. Instant. World changing. Lightening striking. Ground shaking. Heart breaking. She is mine, and I am hers, and there's something perfect and natural, yet not exactly as planned and completely magical about the moment it happened.

But before she ever met me she had to make her way out of her mother's womb. That journey started in earnest around Sunday night (Sunday the 8th of August) when Robyn began having contractions. They were relatively mild and inconsistent so we weren't freaking out yet but we knew the time was drawing near when we'd be heading to the hospital. They would especially fall off during the day but come on strong in the night so that Robyn slept little Monday night and almost none at all Tuesday night. Luckily she fit a nap in Tuesday afternoon to prepare her for the hard work that lay ahead. There were plans to induce on Friday if the baby was still cooking but Robyn really really really wanted a natural child birth void of pain killing drugs and knew that it was much harder to achieve this goal if pitocin was used to increase the strength of contractions so she decided to be proactive. She tried some acupuncture, we went on some long walks and finally on Wednesday morning we went to the doctor and had her "membranes swept" which like many of the other things we had tried didn't guarantee anything but sounded better than what pitocin offered come Friday. But the contractions almost instantly got stronger. We went home, stopping for lunch on the way (which we ended early because Robyn was having some good healthy contractions that I think were freaking out some of the other customers). At home we put our hospital preparation plan in motion. Putting last minute items into the over night bag, making sure everything on the checklist was packed, and then waited for the contractions to get even stronger.

Robyn labored at home for six hours. We tried various relaxing techniques: calm music, hot bath, some guided breathing. Robyn had been told earlier at the doctors that she was a little dehydrated so I was being a slave driver and making her drink lots of water. She hates drinking water and told me she was going to throw up, but I didn't believe her, I thought she was just being a bad patient. But alas, she threw up, and then I felt bad, and did a better job of following her lead the rest of the way. After a while we invited our friend Liesel (an angel and a saint in so many ways) over to be support through the rest of the process. I instantly felt more at ease with the third person there, someone who has successfully delivered two children of her own no less, so she wasn't going into this thing completely blind. Like I said there was about 6 hours of labor at home, the second half of which Liesel was there for. Robyn was very concerned about going to the hospital too early and the thought of driving there early and getting declined admittance allowed her to have the strength to labor pretty long and hard at home. Liesel and I finally talked her into going to the hospital, so I called to make sure they were expecting us and we headed over.

I'm sure the car ride over seemed twice as long to me as it really was and probably twice as long to Robyn as it did to me. Almost every corner had another car that needed the right away or a pedestrian strolling at leisurely speeds and more bumps than we'd ever been aware of before. I talked the whole way there, just describing to Robyn what I was seeing and how the obstacles were slowly being conquered. Liesel followed along behind us.

We arrived at the hospital. Robyn was examined and determined to be at 4 centimeters. They admitted her and gave us a spectacular room with two walls completely made of glass overlooking downtown and part of a foggy forest. We didn't realize how nice the view was right away though as it was now 7pm and fairly dark and foggy. Robyn was given a little IV jack and then the nurses and doctors mostly left us alone to labor however we saw fit. For three hours she laid in bed, took another hot bath, walked the halls of the hospital while Liesel, Robyn's mom Lynn (who arrived shortly after we got to the hospital) and I gave her gentle but firm support, reminding her to breath, and that the pain, while unpleasant, was a necessary, natural and useful part of the labor and birth process. Unfortunately for Robyn she was throwing up everything she tried to drink so she remained dehydrated through most of the early labor in the hospital. After three or four hours Dr. Jones (yes that's really his name, and yes we loved having him at the birth, along with pretty much every other doctor and nurse we interacted with at UCSF) came around and examined Robyn again. She was at 5 centimeters and 90% effaced. Robyn was pretty disappointed with this information, and almost cried, she had that defeated look, I could see it coming, but she pulled herself back together, relaxed and the doctor explained that often times the first 5 is the longest and the next 5 can go by really fast (relatively).

Robyn redoubled her efforts and she labored on for three more hours. The contractions were coming stronger, we were all tired but felt like we were again making good progress. Liesel, in her wisdom, also recognized Robyn's disappointment with only reaching 5 centimeters and suggested to me, out of Robyn's hearing, that we tell the doctor not to tell Robyn how far along she was next time, instead he could tell me and I would decide if it was news that would help or hinder her. So I talked to him before he came to do the exam and he agreed not to say how far along she was unless she had made significant progress. He did the exam and then sort of sat silently (everyone in the room, even Robyn somehow) knowing what it meant. He called me outside and let me know that she was only at 5.5 and gone back to 70% effaced. I knew this information was going to break Robyn's heart and determination. On top of this bad news, the doctor thought that at this point it would be a really good idea to try some pitocin as Robyn's current contractions weren't pushing things along at all. She was already exhausted, she couldn't go on like this for another 10 hours, and possibly have very little progress, and then be expected to push out the baby.

So back into the room I went and told Robyn, it was one of the hardest things I've ever had to say to her, but there was no way around it. So I told her what the doctor said and she was indeed disappointed. She really didn't want to augment the contractions but she also knew she couldn't keep going as she had been. So she consented to pitocin, which she knew also meant consenting to pain killers. The doctor came in and explained that even with pitocin it would probably still be another five hours before she reached a full ten centimeters. She said, "I can't do it Shawn, I can't go that long." I convinced her to try a couple of the more powerful contractions to see if she could handle it and she did try, but it was too much at this point, she was too tired and the labor had already gone on longer than I think we had all envisioned. She convinced me she wanted some drugs, so we started with Fentanyl (a narcotic) to battle the pain and an IV to fight the dehydration. The pain was lessened for about two minutes but as the pitocin kept coming on the contractions became stronger and stronger. The Fentanyl was mostly useless. Her water broke with these new stronger contractions and meconium was found in it so we were told the pediatricians would be on hand when the baby was born to make sure her lungs were cleared. This meant that the baby would not be put directly on Robyn after the birth. This was another blow to the birth we had envisioned and it weighed heavily on our hearts. After about an hour of these new more intense pains Robyn said she needed an epidural. I knew this was the thing she wanted least of all from the on set so I made her tell me twice, which she did without hesitation and so I told the nurse about her request and the process began. Unfortunately the process was not fast, and on top of that the baby was showing some signs of distress due to Robyn not getting enough oxygen. The head doctor came in and put her on oxygen and said the baby's heartbeat needed to be more regular before Robyn could get the epidural. They suspected the oxygen would fix that and it did fairly quickly, but at the same time the doctor who would be administering the epidural had to go over all the benefits and side effects of it before having Robyn sign off on it. It was sort of ridiculous in the moment as Robyn was in unbearable pain, laying on her side, nearly fetal, with an oxygen mask on her face. The doctor would list a side effect then have to pause as Robyn went into a contraction. But finally it was finished, the tools were brought in, and the procedure began. For an epidural they basically put a needle in your spine and drip some fluids into your spinal cord to deaden your nerves from your uterus down. And with such a delicate operation you are of course suppose to sit very very still, which is a thing that is not easy to do when you're going through the final powerful drug induced contractions. They had Robyn sit on the edge of the bed and lean over a table. I grabbed her hands and tried to talk her through it. As a contraction came on she tried to bite my finger. I had to pull away quick or I'm sure there would have been some stitches involved. It took about two contractions for the procedure to be finished then another few for it to actually take affect. And then, like magic, the pain was gone.

The doctor checked her cervix again and she was at 9.5 centimeters and 100% effaced. She had for the most part gone from 0-9.5 centimeters drug free and with some very powerful pitocin induced contractions. We were all so very proud of her and how long she fought the good fight. I knew she was probably disappointed that the labor didn't go as planned but at that moment the lack of pain I think made up for that disappointment. It was now 7am August the 12th. The doctors thought Robyn should rest before starting the final push, and she still had .5 centimeters to go so they told her to sleep for three hours and they would be back to start the final step.

At this point the whole mood of the delivery changed. What was in the beginning a very tense, stressful, painful process, one in which I had a very specific planned out role of supporter and comforter, became much more calm and pain free. Robyn smiled, even laughed, and I felt a little lost in what my new role in the process would be. I even had time to go move the car before our meter started running at 9am. When I got back I went to sleep for two hours as did Robyn. I think Liesel and Lynn both stayed awake; one could't have asked for better angels and guardians.

I awoke to the sound of doctors talking. It was about 10 am. They wanted to check her again soon. I called Jason, and asked him to come up as I wanted him around. They checked Robyn a few minutes later and she was ready, 100% effaced and 10 centimeters.

We were privileged to deliver our baby on a weekday afternoon when UCSF has midwives at the delivers. Our delivery was overseen by Midwife Judith Bishop and first year resident Doctor Long assisted her. I think Judith was perfect for Robyn and her desires and made the process, that hadn't gone as planned so far, feel a bit more natural and intimate than one might expect from an M.D. directed procedure.

The midwife helped Robyn through three hours of directed pushing. She tried a few different positions and finally settled in on a "birthing stool", which Robyn really loved. At the end of those three hours, Judith directed Robyn to stop pushing and the readjusted her so that she was sitting on the bed, we could see our baby's little head crowning. The doctors turned around to prepare for delivery, putting on new gloves, getting the required tools in place, when Robyn said, "uhh I think she's coming out." And she did, quick as lighting and everyone in the room jumped for the baby and Judith caught her just as her head popped out and quickly twisted her shoulders in place and pulled her out. It was amazingly fast and probably left everyone in the room's heart racing. I cried, Robyn cried, I laughed, Robyn laughed, we cried, we laughed. I cut the cord, the pediatricians checked her out (under my watchful eye), wiped her off and let me carry her over to Robyn's waiting arms. I wish I had a picture of that look on her face at that moment. When my memories fade as I get older it's going to be one of the memories I try to hold onto the hardest and I will be saddest about when that clear, brilliant picture of love and joy slips from my mind. Robyn's uterus was bleeding a little more than the doctors wanted so there was some "minor" work that still needed to be done that unfortunately caused Robyn some pain during the first few minutes we got to spend together with our baby but won't matter in the long run. There she was our baby, later to be named Berkeley Lynn Kessler, alive and born at 1:21pm August 12th, 2010, weighing in at 6lbs 3oz and 20 inches long. Our family, enlarged by one, but infinitely bigger.

In the end Robyn was pleased with the whole experience. She loved the support and comfort she received during the first painful phase and also loved being able to be completely present for the second phase thanks to the epidural.

That night in the recovery room, I closed my eyes and all I could hear was the baby's heart monitor that was hooked up during delivery. At other times I'd hear little noises that reminded me of the sounds Robyn made while in deep labor pains. I realized that she'd probably make the same noises if she were seriously hurt or tortured, that in some ways I never wanted to hear that sound again. And somehow the baby's heart monitor was linked to it. I worried I'd live the rest of my life with those two sounds floating in the recesses of my brain. I closed my eyes to sleep and instead I cried. I cried a husband and a father's cry: full of love, full of fear, full of worry, full of pride and back again to full of love. I eventually succumbed to exhaustion and in the morning whatever powers are out there in the universe did me a favor and swept those sounds from my mind, so much so that even now when I try to imagine them I can't conjure a clear memory of them in my ear.

Thank you to everyone who helped us through this and everyone who has been so excited for us. Especially thank you to Liesel and Lynn for all their support, no way we could have made it through without you two. And thank you to Jason, who probably doesn't feel like he did much, but just knowing his strong arms were nearby meant the world to me. And thank you to Robyn, for creating the most wonderful little life I've ever seen and for loving me.

I'm Probably a Million Years Behind

2010-08-07T17:06:00.000-07:00

But wow....

A Preference

2010-07-23T14:59:00.000-07:00

When Robyn first got pregnant and people asked if we wanted a boy or girl I would honestly answer that I didn't have a preference. But in unidentifiable ways that has changed over the last nine months; I've slowly changed to have a preference. I can't explain it exactly, but it's somehow wrapped up in this:

Having been to my fair share of weddings I've seen this moment many times, where the father of the bride stands up and talks about his daughter, and at that moment his love for her becomes this living breathing palpable thing in the reception hall, and everyone there is better because of it. I want to be that guy someday.

Non-talkers

2010-07-10T10:32:00.000-07:00

I liked this from Angle of Repose:

Like my grandfather, he [my father] was not a man of words, and it is an easy mistake to think that non-talkers are non-feelers.

A Little Scenery

2010-07-07T12:14:00.000-07:00

Not often when reading a novel do I marvel at descriptions of scenery; in fact, more often than not I'm bothered by having to read too much about scenery. But Angle of Repose has drawn me in with scenery descriptions. There is a whole chapter dedicated to the descent into a mine that is really great (but way to long to quote here) and this description of a meadow that left me feeling and seeing tall grass all around me:

She guided her horse through willows and alders and runted birches, leaning and weaving until the brush ended and she broke into the open. She was at the edge of a meadow miles long, not a tree in it except for the wiggling line that marked the course of the Lake Fork. Stirrup-high grass flowed and flawed in the wind, and its motion revealed and hid and revealed again streaks and splashes of flowers--rust of paintbrush, blue of pentstemon, yellow of buttercups, scarlet of gilia, blue-tinged white of columbines. All around, rimming the valley, bare peaks patched with snow looked down from above the scalloped curve of timberline.

All but holding her breath, she pushed into the field of grass. The pony's legs disappeared, his shoulders forced a passage, grass heads and flowers snagged in her stirrup and saddle skirts. The movement around and beneath her was as dizzying as the fast current of the creek had been a moment before. The air was that high blue mountain kind that fizzes in the lungs. Rising in her stirrup to get her face and chest full if it, she gave, as it were, a standing ovation to the rim cut out against the blue. From a thousand places in the grass little gems of unevaporated water winked back at the sun.

Labor Eve

2010-07-06T15:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Robyn and I woke up with the great idea of getting lots of baby stuff done with this extra day off. The list looked a little like this:

Buy stroller

Get new dresser

get curtains for baby's room

buy warm clothes for baby (we got a lot of summer dresses for the little one)

find a pediatrician

wash and put away all the new baby clothes

finish thank you cards from shower

put together email list of people who will want to know when labor begins

It was a good list, full of useful, necessary things to do (only four weeks from expected due date). So I looked at it and said, "hmm, maybe we should go to Santa Cruz instead."

And Robyn replied, "I think Napa is warmer right now."

So I looked on the Internet for a few minutes, reserved a room in Calistoga, scheduled some massages and off we went. We're back today, with nothing crossed off our list, but man was that sun and massage nice.

Proof of Life (old news for most)

2010-05-28T10:38:00.000-07:00

There's this foot bridge in Maui, narrow enough for a couple people to walk across, high enough that I'm sure any sober person over the age of 25 wouldn't look over it and think, "hmm it would be fun to jump off this bridge." Under the bridge flows a small stream, it's hard to tell how deep it is but the sides of the stream are lined with gigantic boulders, they look like the type of boulders that would only sit next to a really deep pool of water. At the other end of the bridge is a forest of bamboo with a trail cutting through it that leads to your intended destination, a set of "sacred" pools.

You brought a couple of Friends. You look at Jason, you can tell he's thinking about the bridge too, you can see it by how he grips the railing, rolling his fingers across, white knuckled. Greg watches the two of you; he has no interest in the bridge; you are his sole interest.

It's been a good trip. Good food, good friends, wandering through mountains, shooting goats with the locals, not a worry in the world (except that girl back home who you just can't convince to love you). The air is perfect now, warm without a breeze, the guide book said the sacred pools are worth the three hour drive around the volcanic island and the hour hike, but there's this bridge.

"I'm going to do it."

No one believes you of course.

"It's probably eighty feet down."

"Fuck it. I'm doing it."

"Alright."

Greg heads to the end of the bridge then scampers down the bank to those large boulders. He peers into the water looking for any obvious dangers. He can't see any, shrugs a little then looks back up at you and the bridge. Before Greg headed off the bridge you handed him your stuff, stuff you didn't want to get wet, Jason does the same so you know he'll be following you.

Climbing over the railing you feel your heart. You think of Tori Amos, there's a bowling ball in my stomach and desert in my mouth. You think of that girl back home, this feels like kissing her for the first time. And the second first time. You hope the third first time will feel this way too (please lord let there be a third first time).

You don't do stupid shit. Risk taking is not your forte. You shouldn't be out on the edge of this bridge. You should be down there with Greg watching someone else jump off this bridge. You should be walking to the sacred pools, you hear it's amazing there. Why are you on this bridge?

"You gonna do it?"

"Yeah, of course."

You let go of the railing. Float there for a second. The sun is still shining, the air is still warm. Then there is wind, nothing but wind, and that helpless sense of falling. It lasts longer than you think it should, but you can't look down to see how far you still have to go. Maybe it never stops.

Splash.

You break a flip-flop, but swim out unharmed, but never the same. You lie on the rock next to Greg. "Shit. Shit. Shit." He laughs, gives your hair a little ruffling.

"You screamed the whole way down."

All you could hear was the wind.

Jason comes down like a torpedo. You're almost convinced the bridge must have gotten lower after you jumped, he wasn't in the air nearly as long.

Years later you marry that girl from back home. And a couple years after that you take her to Maui and show her that bridge. You tell her it's worth the three hour drive around the volcano and the hour hike. You stand on the bridge together. You're convinced you must have been insane to have stepped off it--she agrees. But damn it was worth it, being here with her, pointing over the edge.

Due Date July 30th. Baby Girl.

Some words I forced together

2010-05-26T23:02:00.000-07:00

I speak as though you can hear me
I speak upon the rolling hills
Among blades of grass
Seed upon seed
Soft as a whisper

I speak deep in the green forests
Over maddening monkeys
And ceaseless insects
Wet as rain

I speak under the endless seas
Drowned beneath turbulent waves
Source of life
Songs of whales

I speak of love
I speak of books
I speak of happiness
I speak of sorrow
And Maybe
I speak of God
Yet somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow somehow
(thirty-two because nothing has ever changed
Then doubled
Because I'm certain of certain things)

Yet somehow
I've said nothing

So I rest my head
Upon your mother's swelling breasts
And pray
One day
I'll speak
And one day
You'll hear me

Football?!?!?!?

2009-11-16T09:45:00.001-08:00

A few weeks ago I passed up the opportunity to join some friends for a gathering that would have been enjoyable for its intellectual stimulation as well as being nice just hanging out with some people I really enjoy. I may have picked up a reputation for thinking and intellectualizing too much. So this particular group of friends were sort of in shock (at least one was shocked in a positive way while the others were like "OMG, really? Him?") when I decided to skip that gathering and instead chose to drive down to Stanford to watch a football game on TV. That particular game wasn't overly memorable, nor are most of them, but similar to my love of a cars there is something very family-feeling about it for me. While most of my friends at this point probably look back on their childhood Sundays and recall getting up early for church, wearing uncomfortable clothes, seeing some of their favorite friend--equally fashionably dresse--and spending the day thinking about kindness, good deeds, Jesus, and reverence; my Sundays were nothing of the sort. We spent the day plopped in front of the TV, from 10am to 10pm (give or take a few hours on either side depending on the timezone we found ourselves in) watching our favorite teams run up and down a 100 yard field. On really special days large quantities of Taco Bell or KFC would be consumed as well. So now when I sit down with my childhood friend and watch the Colts play the villainous Patriots I feel a certain connectedness with my family (whom I don't see or talk to nearly enough, which I'm fully to blame for) that few other activities can invoke. I imagine my mom and dad and brother watching the game at the same time and it just feels right.

I don't know what my point it is.

But I do know there is a certain high after the Colts win a game like last nights that lasts for a few hours and is hard to replicate, and unlike many highs, it feels good and healthy, even after the high has passed.

Go Colts!

Best Poem I Ever Wrote

2009-11-05T10:00:00.001-08:00

Roses Are Red
Violets Are Blue
Sharks Are Mean
And So Are You

Missing* the Lipless

2009-11-02T20:03:00.000-08:00

Here is something stupid. We went to Vegas for Halloween, just a single day. While there we wandered over to the Wynn where you can find a Ferrari showroom. Sigh. I paid the $10 to get in and look at them. And well the closest feeling I can describe it as (this is the stupid part) is a sense of longing like breaking up with a girlfriend.

* Yes, I know it's Kissing.

Where the Wild Things Are

2009-10-23T15:49:00.000-07:00

As it turns out the whole world had read this book as a kid. Somehow it was a book I missed, although when I stop to think about it I can't really tell you a book I read as a child, so who knows, maybe I did have it read to me before and I just forget. Anyway, the book seems to sit somewhere on the surface of the American Consciousness and when the trailer came out for the movie everyone was going omg gah gah over it. And it did look like a good movie to me but others were practically brought to tears by the trailer.

Then it came out and I watched it and I loved it. I'm probably lucky that I never read the book as the only complaints I've heard about the movie are where it wanders too far from the exact details of the book.

Max is a great character and a complex child, and reminds me of one of my own family members. I think I fell in love with him over that 2 hour time span and also felt closer to the real person in my life. The movie did a great thing in lending me a bit of understanding.

I don't know if this spoils anything for those who haven't seen it but let me tell you about my interpretation of the movie.

The wild things are not suppose to represent adults, but each (with one exception, maybe two) were little parts of Max but magnified and stripped down to a few simple traits. They allowed Max to see those parts of himself and how they affected other people. One wild thing was the little kid that no one listens to, another was someone who puts holes into things, another was prone to anger and out bursts, willing to destroy his own home if things weren't going perfectly, another demanded that everything be perfect all the time, the other was the quiet kid too shy to talk. The exception to this rule seemed to be KW who symbolized a mix of Max's mother and sister. She seemed to be the one that all the others pinned some sort of hope on, but who had friends that none of them could understand and who she would rather spend her time with. There is a great moment when Max literally (yes literally) crawls inside of KW to hide from the wild thing that symbolizes his anger. He sits inside of her while the other rants and raves at her. And at that moment it seems that he finally gets what it's like to walk in someone else's shoes.

I don't know why I'm writing about this. But it has sat in my head for a week, very happily and it makes me smile when I think of the movie and the way it made me feel. I'd suggest it to anyone, though I hear people are hesitant to bring super young kids to it as it has sort of a sad feel to and it's highly symbolic. I don't have a kid though, so I don't know. :)

400 Words about Sleep

2009-10-10T13:24:00.000-07:00

I don't know much about metaphysics; sleep however is a topic I know a bit about, at least in the same way one who spends their days on a farm knows about animals though they've never taken a zoology class.

I’ve been blessed with the ability to sleep well. I can fall asleep on a whim. As I grow older the locations and positions I can sleep in have decreased, but give me a bed and two minutes and I’m out. Struggling with sleep sounds horrible to me and is a thing I hope to never deal with. Unfortunately it’s probably a false hope, like hoping you never have to deal with losing friends, having your loved ones die, or dying yourself. One of the few times I lose sleep is when I’m worrying about that tragic day when it takes me an hour to fall asleep.

Clearly a key question is: how does one fall asleep? I’m not sure exactly. But I can say how one does not fall asleep and from that perhaps we can suppose how one falls asleep, even if we can’t nail down the physiology behind it. Outside of some “problems” with the brain there are two ways not to fall asleep: if your body is too uncomfortable or if your mind is racing, thinking about something. In regard to comfort I can testify to the importance of a good mattress, this is a thing that can’t be overrated in life. But at my age the bigger problem for most of the people I know is the mind--learning to turn it off. What should we think of a mind that can be turned off so quickly? Does its owner posses such great power over their body? Or does its owner actually NOT have a single important thing to think about? Does the owner have a conscious so clear there is no burden or guilt keeping them awake? Or do they have such a deep and profound apathy that the ills of the world, and their own, can’t penetrate whatever defenses they’ve placed around their minds?

Once, on Maui, I was probably 19, I slept on a hard floor in a sleeping bag; I put a CD in, skipped ahead to song number ten, hit the repeat button, and fell asleep to the sounds of a tropical rain storm and this. And life was brilliant.

Tired

2009-10-09T16:33:00.000-07:00

What a tired little blog we have here. Not a post since July?!?!?!!? How has the Internet survived without me? Maybe we'll remedy this shortly.

Touch

2009-07-24T13:58:00.000-07:00

Feel this ... for a little while.

Left Field

2009-04-05T20:26:00.000-07:00

This is a couple days old, but I was happily surprised by Iowa's Supreme Court decision on same-sex marriages. We live in such a bubble out here in California that I forget the fight is everywhere. Anyway the decision/opinion of the Justices is here and is worth the read but the best part is the treatment on child rearing. I'm pretty sure it's the best response to "what about the children?" that I've heard so far.

Promotion of Optimal Environment to Raise Children. The second of the County’s proffered governmental objectives involves promoting child rearing by a father and a mother in a marital relationship, the optimal milieu according to some social scientists. Although the court found support for the proposition that the interests of children are served equally by same-sex parents and oppositesex parents, it acknowledged the existence of reasoned opinions that dualgender parenting is the optimal environment for children. Nonetheless, the court concluded the classification employed to further that goal—sexual orientation—did not pass intermediate scrutiny because it is significantly under-inclusive and over-inclusive.

The statute, the court found, is under-inclusive because it does not exclude from marriage other groups of parents—such as child abusers, sexual predators, parents neglecting to provide child support, and violent felons—that are undeniably less than optimal parents. If the marriage statute was truly focused on optimal parenting, many classifications of people would be excluded, not merely gay and lesbian people. The statute is also under-inclusive because it does not prohibit same-sex couples from raising children in Iowa. The statute is over-inclusive because not all same-sex couples choose to raise children. The court further noted that the County failed to show how the best interests of children of gay and lesbian parents, who are denied an environment supported by the benefits of marriage under the statute, are served by the ban, or how the ban benefits the interests of children of heterosexual parents. Thus, the court concluded a classification that limits civil marriage to opposite-sex couples is simply not substantially related to the objective of promoting the optimal environment to raise children.

I should learn from this

2009-03-21T15:23:00.000-07:00

A quote from a book I just finished:

If he had learned anything it was that family was not so much what you were given as what you were able to maintain.

I'm sort of a bad family member. I'm sorry family for driving you crazy, who knows if I'll ever do better much.

Chairs for the Library

2008-12-02T22:25:00.000-08:00

One is incredibly too big, but so comfy. The other is small and Robyn found it for $50--we couldn't pass it up. Now we just have to find another that matches it.

Rivers continued

2008-11-30T23:27:00.000-08:00

He did finally get on that plane. And he did finally see the massive expanses and great depths of the Amazon.

He stepped into the water; it was warm against his skin. He relaxed and then it happened. A school of piranhas swam by. They circled back as he eased out further into the warm waters. He sank deep, letting the water wash over his head; he wanted to know if he could touch the bottom. Sink sink sink. Then the fish flowed around him, ignoring him, almost as if they didn't believe their good luck. But not all the fish were tricked by such good fortune.

The last fish opened its mouth and bit at his calf. He felt a small sting. Then the other fish received the firsts silent message--sent through thousands of blood cells: nourishment was here. The blood of our blood. The life of our life. The love of our love. And there in the dark green waters of the Amazon he was consumed.

After the fish had picked his bones clean and moved onto smaller meals, the unrelenting flow of the river caught hold of his bones and washed them out toward the ocean. They mixed with the silt, passed alligators, fresh water dolphins, and children wise enough to stay clear of schools of piranhas. They were swept off the continent and into the ocean, spewed from the mouth of the land. There in the ocean he was swallowed by a giant whale, mouth opened wide, eating blindly. The whale closed its eyes and sank to the ocean floor where it slept. And slept. And slept.

Many years later it awoke, hungry for air. It rushed to the surface. A spout of water shot from its back, reaching for the moon and stars. And out came the bones. When they hit ground he was back, back on the quiet shores of the Mississippi. There he rested until the river overcame its banks.

Then They were together again.

A Failed Letter

2008-11-11T11:48:00.001-08:00

I sent a letter to the SF Chronical in hopes of being published but the attempt failed (my poor ego). Anyway, here it is, a bit late, but no less relevant at this point as the Church now confronts the pain it helped cause.

I'm a Mormon and I'm voting No on Proposition 8. If you too are Mormon then you're probably scratching your head in disbelief; if you've been watching in horror as the money flows into the Yes on Prop 8 funds you're probably also equally confused. How can it be, a Mormon openly voting "No" on this, the most important proposition of our time?

There is a small band of us here in San Francisco, we walk in two worlds, one that assumes too much about our beliefs and hearts because of the church we belong to and another that isn't quite sure what to do with us because of our liberal politics and because we openly chose not to follow Prophetic wisdom. Outside the Church our friends (and sometimes families) wonder why we stay in a Church that causes so much internal conflict. And in the walls of our church buildings people worry about our testimonies and commitment to the Church and the Gospel. I doubt I, or anyone, can explain the dynamic in anything less than a full memoir. This won't end up as a perfectly wrapped bundle; it's messy and real, like your own life, only the details differ.

One of the Articles of Faith (a list of thirteen statements that briefly summarize the Mormon religion for those unfamiliar with it) says: "We claim the privilege of worshiping Almighty God according to the dictates of our own conscience, and allow all men the same privilege, let them worship how, where, or what they may." I belong to a Church whose home state was once barred admission into the Union until it dropped its own marriage practices that fell outside the norms of modern society. One might think we would sympathize with the Gay and Lesbian community better than most other churches, but here we are leading the charge against them. This contradiction causes me to look at the current situation and think that perhaps the leaders of the Church are wrong on this issue because it goes against so many of the principles I've been taught by the Church itself. But at the same time other church members look at this exception and think it must be really important for the Church to come out and take a stand that isn't completely consistent with its own teachings.

My intent, my desire, is to plead with both sides. My church is one that believes that the two greatest commandments are to love God and to love your neighbor, and that also believes you are in the service of God when you are in the service of your fellow man. Regardless of your political bent there is much to be admired about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. There is a near constant flow of charity from the Church to those suffering throughout the world. The Church is full of people with big hearts and good intentions, and although they might be your enemy today you have many causes in common with them and overall they are a valuable asset to America and the World.

And to my church: What we ponder this voting period is whether or not to extend the rights of the majority to a minority. The Constitution was built with the intent (one of its many intents) to protect the rights of the minority, and on every occasion in our past when we have extended such rights--the right for women to vote, the abolition of slavery, the right for interracial couples to marry, the right of people of all color to vote--we have never regretted such an extension. I pray we will all consider this move with the utmost seriousness, with as much care and concern as we would employ when considering these other past accomplishments of this great nation. I ask that you pray, fast, and seek the Spirit before placing your vote on this issue. I've pondered this issue for the past four or five years, I will continue to ponder it, but as of now I'm not ready to throw a blanket of oppression over the sweet bell of liberty.

The choice to be in both these worlds is not easy, another assumption made by both sides. From those not affiliated with the Church we hear it is easier to stay in the church you were raised in than to leave it. And from the our fellow Mormons we hear that it is easy to side with society and modern progression. It's not easy—it's a tight rope, with dueling desires that are very hard to balance. So when you meet a Mormon on the street don't judge them too fast, they just might be your ally in this cause.

On the Wise and the Beautiful

2008-11-03T15:55:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I beheld something truly amazing. (But honestly I'm sure the amazement mostly reflects my biases more than anything.) Yesterday Robyn bore her testimony at church. She cried a little, which usually gets me rolling my eyes at the speaker (because crying doesn't imply truth). But when she cried I cried, and there was truth. The truth is and was that she is greatly pained by her church and the actions it has taken over the last several years and especially in the last three or four months as it pushes to pass Proposition 8. At the same time she loves her church, which is precisely why it hurts so terribly much.

The amount of courage and passion (and sadness) it took to get up and stand before her peers--her peers that by all appearances hold little to no sympathy for her position, her peers who have marching orders from no less than a prophet of God--to say that she is in pain but that she also loves her church is probably more than I could have ever mustered. I spend a lot of time expressing my struggles in the written word which lends itself to a certain amount of cowardice, but this thing she did was bold and without guile. I'm lucky to know, much less be married to, such a girl. The church is lucky to have her as a member. Robyn Kessler, I solute and love you for all that you are: your struggles, your love, your passion, your kindness, your heart, your sympathy, your selflessness. I have no doubt that God will fling the windows of heaven open on that great and sad day when you return to him. My pride overfloweth. :)

No On Prop 8

2008-10-10T11:59:00.001-07:00

I tend not to get too political here but there is a very important vote coming up that effects many of my friends, extended family and coworkers. I urge anyone reading this to Vote No on Prop 8.

As most of you know I'm Mormon and that the way I'm voting runs directly counter to the efforts and suggestions of the Church. It puts me in a weird/uncomfortable position but one well worth being in, in my opinion.

Outside of theology the Church is using legal fear to convince people to get involved. They want you to worry that you'll lose your ability to practice your religious as you like, specifically Churches will be forced to marry same-sex couples and Church adoption agencies will be forced let same-sex couples to adopt. There are others (6 in total). I'm posting here the professional legal opinion of an active member of the LDS Church. This article explains why all of the church's legal fears are either unfounded, false or misleading. Please take the time to read it and consider it when placing your vote, a vote that will go down in history no doubt.

The Article.

Sigur Ros - As Life Should Be

2008-10-04T11:11:00.000-07:00

At 5:00PM Friday night I thought to myself, "I really don't want to get on the train to ride an hour to get crammed into a car with five other people so that we can sit in Friday night rush hour traffic crossing the bay bridge in order to sit in an outdoor amphitheater and get rained on while still fighting off the tail end of a cold."

With that thought in mind I packed a bag full of warm clothes and headed off on my journey. My train trip was cut a little short as Robyn was able to pick me up at an earlier stop. I added the ponchos she had purchased to my bag of warmth and became aware that Robyn wasn't in the best of moods, having had a hard day at work. We arrived at the Santos' home and all piled into their car.

The interesting thing about me and Berkeley is I don't really know anything about it outside of the campus and maybe two or three blocks on each side of campus. And although I'd lived there for two years I'd never actually been to the Greek Theater. I don't think I even realized it was an outdoor theater when I heard its name previously. I always imagined it as a stuffy indoor place where you feel crowded and watched Opera and Symphonies. It's nothing like that (although I'm sure it is a lovely place to watch those two things). The stage looks very, well Greek and the amphitheater is outdoors with evenly spaced rows of concrete to sit on.

We arrived in Berkeley and parked at the Church Institute building. We wrote a note assuring whomever read it that this car indeed belong to Mormons, placed it in the window and walked the few blocks to the theater. We walked past Soda Hall, the CS Building where I spent many sleepless nights, which brought a sweet sense of nostalgia but also the up hill walking while sick quickly brought on a headache. But at least the night air was perfect, there was no breeze and I was able to walk around in a t-shirt without feeling uncomfortable.

Our friend's Brigham and Dan had arrived earlier and saved us some pretty great seats at the bottom of the theater seats which were probably about fifty to a hundred yards back from the stage (the space between us and the stage was all flat and standing room only). The theater seats were great, because unless a giant sat in front of you everyone had a great view of the stage, but at the same time they were incredibly hard.

So there I was, and all I could think was, "this better be good."

Friends, I've been thinking about how to describe this. I'm not sure I can do it justice. Given the hard seats and my headache and the dull annoyance of being sick this still managed to be in my top three concerts. And I wonder had I not been sick would it have been worse or better? I can't say for sure.

There is little doubt about the beauty of their music, which comes off equally well live as it does recorded but in this setting its as if mother nature had come along to the show with us, not to watch but to be a part of it. Like they had orchestrated their set with her.

As they opened up a very light rain, almost more like a mist, washed down upon us. It was as if God wanted to reassure you that he was there but without being to forceful about it. A light touch on the arm, "worry not." The giant trees behind the stage --outside the theater--seemed to sway with the music and even the silent flashing lights of distant airplanes were perfectly in place with the music. Robyn put her hand on my shoulder, warm against the night air, and there was never a more perfect time for that, this is what hands and shoulders were made for. I could see God crafting Adam's body, lovingly creating his shoulder, then stopping and thinking, "Yes, Eve's hand will go here."

I could perhaps ramble on and on about every song they did but I'll spare you, reader, and only dwell on a couple. However the thing about Sigur Ros is I don't know the name of a single one of their songs, the names are all gibberish to me, and I'm no good at describing music so you'll have no clue for the most part what song I'm talking about. But it doesn't really matter, listen to them and you'll know what I mean.

Throughout their set they had a gray or white background draped across the back of the stage. During one particular song they had the gray out and upon it two spot lights played. But they weren't perfectly geometrically shaped lights. They were slightly bean shaped, with fuzzy edges and their shapes changed a little. They maybe even looked a little bit like one cell organisms. They mostly stuck together. In fact at times they would become a single light and the smaller one would slowly try to break away from the larger one, but as it broke away it would get sucked back in or it would become even smaller and almost appear to jump back into the bigger one. It was like a cell trying to split in two, a thing that is one trying to become two, but not wanting to change, to lose that oneness. It was a constant struggle throughout the song: one then two then one then two then one then two then one. And in the end, when the song really picks up steam, they both disappear and from the top of the stage they release thousands of small pieces of reflective material (maybe even bubbles) and turn the strobe lights on. It was as if the two had exploded. Now they were thousands of small brilliant points of light, they'd changed, I don't know for the better or for the worse, but they were no longer two flat lights, they were three-dimensional and everywhere and on everyone.

And speaking of everyone. If you stopped watching the show for a while and looked around at people, wow. The smiles, the happiness, this IS life as it should be.

The rain never actually picked up any steam so it was a dry warm night when they closed their set. But as you know, no set is complete without an encore. And this would prove to be most true tonight. They came back and played the song I've linked in this video:

While their performance wasn't exactly the same it's fairly similar with the lights really going crazy when the music crescendos. But just before that the wind picked up a little, all the confetti they'd dropped from a couple previous songs started to form into small little confetti dust devils. The smell in the air changed and as the music picked up speed and power, rain started to fall, first lightly, then with force and the crowd grew excited and thrilled and it was hard to tell if they were cheering for the band or the rain. And instead of pulling out those ponchos we'd bought earlier, Robyn and I sat there letting it fall on us, she turned her face to the sky and smiled. And it in a word was Perfect.

Accessories

2008-09-24T09:36:00.001-07:00

I've picked up a couple items that are both practical and useful for an overall library effect. We have three sets of bookends, a reading lamp and a throw blanket, that will eventually end up on the new chair I bought (not pictured because 8-12 week delivery time).

Books

2008-09-20T09:43:00.001-07:00

I have placed books onto my bookshelves! Now, however, as you can see I have way too many shelves for the amount of books I have. I use to think I had a fair number of books but now I see I clearly need more. So when Christmas and birthdays (my birthday or yours) come around, feel free to get me books. :) I wish I could take one picture that sort of gave a feel for the whole room but it's just too small. Perhaps I'll have to break out Robyn's fancy photo equipment (wide-angle lens) and see what I can do. It's sort of anti-climatic, but behold! My sparsely populated book shelves:

I have more books but they're like text books and travel books. Maybe the travel books will find their way down there but I want it to feel like a library, not a school so the text books will probably have to stay away for all time an eternity.

ZOMG!?!?! Library Progress

2008-09-14T23:02:00.000-07:00

Eh, it's been forever, but I think deep down I knew that I'd actually hate hanging shelves, and I was right. Today I spent waaaaaay to much time putting up eight out of the sixteen proposed shelves. The big problem was that the floating shelves just wouldn't sit flush against the wall. Some angle bracket type thingies were employed and everything went fairly smoothly from there, except straight lines and measurements aren't my strong suit, you'd think a Berkeley degree would at least set you up with the ability to hang a couple shelves (clearly not true). Anyway, I like what I'm seeing:

As you can see, the books hide the brackets so it still looks like floating shelves when everything is in place.

People I Don't REALLY Know

2008-08-18T16:56:00.000-07:00

One thing I can say about her is she loves being a parent, a mom. Her two little girls are not ill-behaved, and they're both happy kids clearly pleased with their parents. My favorite thing to watch is when one or both of the girls get a little wild. You can see their mother's face apologetically cringe as she looks around, but the shame and guilt are fake. She puts on a show of being disappointed merely because that's how the world thinks a parent should feel when a kid is running up and down the aisles at church. But she loves to watch them be kids, her eyes sparkle with joy as she watches them "miss behave." However she is saying sorry to the rest of us, sorry that she unapologetically loves her children just as they are.

Library Part III

2008-07-23T10:03:00.000-07:00

Nate came by yesterday afternoon and helped me put the first layer of gray paint on. Check it out:

Shelton, WA

2008-07-21T22:40:00.000-07:00

Here is a place I barely survived. I'm sure that in reality it's a fine little city, full of happy and content people living their lives. In fact It was probably mostly timing that made me hate it so much; it had the misfortune of being my home directly after leaving Indianapolis, a place I truly loathed leaving.

I won't dwell too much on poor me and how hard that move was, but instead I want to talk about someone who briefly entered and left my life there in Shelton. I only mention the hardness here because I think this person had a similar experience, although the details were probably different.

Thomas had the ill-begotten luck of making friend with someone who had no intention of making any friends during their brief stay in his town. In fact one day in class a girl started talking to me and noted how unfriendly I was, to which I replied, "well I won't be here very long so what's the point of making friends?"

And yet Thomas and I managed to bond, mostly over black pants, long hair, rolling dice (to play D&D, not craps) and not quite fitting in (maybe because of those three previous things listed). Strangely, I can't even tell you how I met him, or where. I don't recall having any classes with him, I don't think he lived within walking distance of my house, he just sort of appeared one day--like a real life wizard straight out of a Dungeons and Dragons book. I remember staying the night at his house a couple times, I remember going to the fair with him and his family, I may have even flirted with his younger sister. But I can't remember meeting him or ever saying goodbye to him. Like another wizard I up a disappeared one day.

A conversation that never happened:

Thomas: "Want to come over and play some Mortal Kombat?"
Shawn: "Nah, hey, look, I'm moving." Kicks rock.
Thomas: "Really? That's a bummer." Cries, but only on the inside, where you can't see it so it's easy to convince yourself it doesn't hurt.
Shawn: "Actually I hate this place, I can't wait to leave."
Thomas: "It was good knowing you anyway."
Shawn: "Yeah, sorry you have to stay, and sorry I have to go."
Thomas: "It's cool, I'm use to it." Kicks same rock.

Instead he probably went to school, looked around for me the first couple of days and assumed I was sick. Then a week went by and nothing. Called my disconnected phone number. Nothing. Vanished like a ninja. Shit, I thought we were friends. I hate this place too.

Maybe I was nothing more than a blip on his radar. Maybe he forgot as quickly as I did. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Either way, sorry about that Thomas.

Library Part II

2008-07-20T12:33:00.000-07:00

This morning was spectacular. What does that have to do with the library project? I love it. Normally I'm pretty adverse to manual labor (hi, I'm a computer scientist) but rearranging the garage to make room for some of Robyn's stuff she isn't using, and moving said stuff into the garage, and spackling, and sanding the walls, and even doing the dishes as a "get this out of the way so I can get back to the library" was all quite enjoyable. Although some parts were naturally more enjoyable than others.

I had a little transcendent moment listening to My Morning Jacket and running my hands across the wall feeling for little bumps that I could sand away. I think for a second or two I saw the hand of God, Heaven touched Earth. It was a good way to skip church.

This is no criticism of Robyn, but more of a Shawn characteristic: I feel like most projects that require any amount of effort are usually things that Robyn is more excited about or initiated. This isn't a criticism because I just don't get excited about a lot of things, it has nothing to do with Robyn always insisting we do what she wants to do (because she doesn't). But this project is different. It's mine, I want it, I need it almost. So I've been incredibly happy this morning staring at white walls and feeling their textures under my hands, wiping dusted hands on my jeans, bumping my knee on the coffee-table and fighting with my power drill whose batteries are quickly fading.

As for progress, I've removed all of pictures that were on the wall, I've removed the door, I've spackled all of the holes and done a great amount of sanding. There are a couple holes that were quite large and so they're on their second coating of spackle and will need to be sanded when they dry. The bookshelves have arrived; they're a little redder than I had expected. Paint has been purchased. With Nate's help I narrowed the wall color down to about four options and once the shelves arrived the options were more like three (because of how red they were) and so yesterday Robyn and I went to the paint store and picked out a nice gray color for the walls (I know gray sounds crazy, but I think, and hope, it shall work) and the "base-boards" (which aren't base-boards at all) shall be a brownish-red that should match the shelves reasonably well. While at the paint store we also picked up some wood stain for the coffee-table that will hopefully end up matching the shelves as well.

Saturday

2008-07-10T22:42:00.000-07:00

I finished this book. It was really good.

My reading as of late has been pretty slow, I was maybe fitting in one or two books a month. So the fact that I finished this one in a week is a good sign of its quality (IMO). The language was very simple but he dealt with a lot of big ideas and struggles and the plot moved along nicely (I've never been so drawn into a game of squash).

But what I really want to talk about isn't his writing or the story at all. Instead I want to talk about this sensation I get when reading about the events surrounding nine-eleven and the Iraq war that followed. For some reason I'm adverse, or hesitant to read novels based around these events or the politics of these events. I'm not sure why exactly but it sort of feels like I'm being told, "this is how you should feel about nine-eleven." Or maybe it's all too fresh, it hasn't sat in our collective consciousnesses long enough for anything worth while and good to be written about the events. Which is really just perhaps an indication that I haven't fully digested the events and so there is some internal unspoken assumption that no one else could have made sense of it already either. Maybe a bit of "if I haven't figured it out then surely you haven't either." I don't feel this way about other major events in history (WWI, Vietnam, Hiroshima, Pearl Harbor) but that might be because I wasn't around then, so the events don't feel personal, they weren't mine. I wonder if other people feel this way about nine-eleven and if prior generations still feel this way about other historical events.

A New Project

2008-07-10T11:05:00.000-07:00

Rarely do I get excited about decorating/designing parts of the house. Normally I go along with whatever Robyn wants to do (which luckily turns out great because she has good vision). But the other day she sent me a link from the Ready Made website (I don't have the link anymore sorry) of an outdoor library. It was more of a "look how great this would be some day" sort of thing. But then I started thinking, "hey, we've got room in the garage for a library!" But that's kind of ghetto and that's when I came up with a brilliant plan (yes, brilliant). On multiple occasions people have asked what we're going to do with Robyn's studio space in the house now that she's moved into a real studio. Some have suggested a weight room or a tool/work room. But clearly library is the correct answer. Oh man, so excited.

I'll be documenting the process here. So for starters here's what the room looks like now, with a few random pieces of furniture from Robyn's stuff and a lot of photo junk hanging around doing nothing.

The space isn't huge but then I don't have a huge quantity of books so it should due. It's 10 feet by 11 feet. First thing that shall be done is the door will be taken off. Then all of the photography stuff will be removed. Holes in the walls (from nails and screws) will be patched up and then the walls and ceiling will be painted a light redish/brown. The base of the wall (you can see in picture one how the base of the wall comes out about a foot) will be painted a darker brown/red to match the shelves that will be installed. Then we shall install two rows of shelves (starting near the ceiling) that are similar to the ones in the first image. The fourth wall will have a couple of pictures and an actual short, wide book-case along it. We'll keep the coffee-table in the position it is in picture one but stain it a darker color to more closely match the paint and shelves. Then a chair will be placed on either side and another more comfortable chair will be placed next to the book-case. I'm thinking I'll put my chess board from Turkey on the coffee-table for permanent display and use as well. If we run out of book space we'll add another row of shelves on the three walls. There will probably be a standing lamp in one of the corners as well. Then we'll remove the spot lights from the ceiling and replace them with a single softer light. At that point books will be moved in and old bookshelves placed in the garage (or gotten rid of, or whatever). Oh yeah, we'll also put a darker rug down to hide most of the light carpet that is there now. I don't have the energy to recarpet and don't want to spend too much on the project. The shelves for the walls have been purchased and maybe sometime this weekend we can pick out some paint (if the shelves arrive by then).

Remembering

2008-07-06T16:02:00.000-07:00

I was deeply moved by this passage from Saturday by Ian McEwan. The protaginist, Henry, is recalling what his mother was like before her mind slipped away.

She was a woman who gave her life to housework, to the kind of daily routines of polishing, dusting, vacuuming and tidying that were once common, and these days are only undertaken by patients with obsessive-compulsive disorders. Every day, while Henry was at school, she spring-cleaned her house. She drew her deepest satisfactions from a tray of well-roasted beef, the sheen on a nest of tables, a pile of ironed candy -striped sheets folded in smooth slabs, a larder of neat provisions; or from one more knitted matinee jacket for one more baby in the remoter reaches of the family. The invisible sides, the obverse, the underneath and the insides of everything were clean. The oven and its racks were scrubbed after every use. Order and cleanliness were the outward expression of an unspoken ideal of love. A book he was reading would be back on the hallway shelf upstairs as soon as he put it aside. The morning paper could be in the dustbin by lunchtime. The empty milk bottles she put out for collection were as clean as her cutlery. To every item its drawer or shelf or hook, including her various aprons, and her yellow rubber gloves held by a clothes peg, hanging near the egg-shaped egg-timer.

Surely it was because of her that Henry feels at home in an operating theatre. She too would have liked the waxed black floor, the instruments of surgical steel arrayed in parallel rows on a sterile tray, and the scrub room with its devotional routines--she would have admired the niceties, the clean headwear, the short fingernails. He should have had her in while she was still capable. It never crossed his mind. It never occurred to him that his work, his fifteen years' training, had anything to do with what she did.

Nor did it occur to her. He barely knew it at the time, but he grew up thinking her intelligence was limited. He used to think she was without curiosity. But that wasn't right. She liked a good exploratory heart-to-heart with her neighbours. The eight-year-old Henry liked to flop on the floor behind the furniture and listen in . Illness and operations were important subjects, especially those associated with childbirth. That was when he first heard the phrase "under the knife" as well as "under the doctor." "What the doctor said" was a powerful invocation. This eavesdropping may have set Henry on his career. Then there were running accounts of infidelities, or rumours of them, and ungrateful children, and the unreasonableness of the old, and what someone's parent left in a will, and how a certain nice girl couldn't find a decent husband. Good people had to be sifted from the bad, and it wasn't always easy to tell at first which was which. Indifferently, illness struck the good as well as the bad. Later, when he made his dutiful attempts on Daisy's (his daughter's) undergraduate course in the nineteenth-century novel, he recognized all his mother's themes. There was nothing small-minded about her interests. Jane Austen and George Eliot shared them too. Lilian Perowne (his mother) wasn't stupid or trivial, her life wasn't unfortunate, and he had no business as a young man being condescending towards her. But it's too late for apologies now. Unlike Daisy's novels, moments of precise reckoning are rare in real life; questions of misinterpretation are not often resolved. Nor do they remain pressingly unresolved. They simply fade. People don't remember clearly, or they die, or the questions die and new ones take their places.

AZ

2008-06-30T09:44:00.000-07:00

Ten miles north of the Mexican border there's a town where you can sit on your back porch and watch the clouds quickly move across the sky. You can hear the thunder in the distance and see the occasional lightening bolt streak across the sky. Then the wind picks up, blows across your sun-baked skin, and soon you'll experience one of the greatest smells on earth: fresh rain on the dessert ground. It's a full sensory experience, both powerful and profound, and it's made even better by experiencing it all while sitting next to your brother.

In fact, they were the most beautiful.

Tender is the Night (Part II)

2008-06-20T13:40:00.000-07:00

This novel was... sad. I mentioned else where, to one of my most loyal readers (haha, that's funny, to me, and that reader--to the rest of you I apologize), I said, "this might be the first novel that has left me feeling depressed." But I insist that's not a bad thing, it's better than the novel that leaves you feeling nothing, empty.

I've been moved many ways by books: happy, inspired, disturbed, understood, on and on, but this is a first as far as I can recall.

In order to depress the book had to come down from great heights. Let me give you a tour from the top of the world:

The voice fell low, sank into her breast and stretched the tight bodice over her heart as she came up close. He felt the young lips, her body sighing in relief against the arm growing stronger to hold her. There were now no more plans than if Dick had arbitrarily made some indissoluble mixture, with atoms joined and inseparable; you could throw it all out but never again could they fit back into atomic scale. As he held her and tasted her, and as she curved in further and further toward him, with her own lips, new to herself, drowned and engulfed in love, yet solaced and triumphant, he was thankful to have an existence at all, if only as a reflection in her wet eyes.

Else where, equally as high.

Despite the overhanging mountains Switzerland was far away, Nicole was far away. Walking in the garden later when it was quite dark he thought about her with detachment, loving her for her best self. He remembered once when the grass was damp and she came to him on hurried feet, her thin slippers drenched with dew. She stood upon his shoes nestling close and held up her face, showing it as a book open at a page.

"Think how you love me," she whispered. "I don't ask you to love me always like this, but I ask you to remember. Somewhere inside me there'll always be the person I am to-night."

Then you glance further down.

The truth was that for some months he had been going through that partitioning of the things of youth wherein it is decided whether or not to die for what one no longer believes. In the dead white hours in Zurich staring into a stranger's pantry across the upshine of a street-lamp, he used to think that he wanted to be good, he wanted to be kind, he wanted to be brave and wise, but it was all pretty difficult. He wanted to be loved, too, if he could fit it in.

Bottom of the ocean. Shortly after Nicole decides to leave with the new man she loves, no longer loving Dick.

So it happened--and with a minimum of drama; Nicole felt outguessed, realizing that from the episode of the camphor-rub, Dick had anticipated everything. But also she felt happy and excited, and the odd little wish that she could tell Deck all about it faded quickly. But her eyes followed his figure until it became a dot and mingled with the other dots in the summer crowd.

And then, after so much love, feeling, life the last chapter crushes you. Because it all passes by, out of view. And we're left with nothing but a spot on a map, where we can point our fingers. Here.

Nicole kept in touch with Dick after her new marriage; there were letters on business matters, and about the children. When she said, as she often did, "I loved Dick and I'll never forget him," Tommy answered, "Of course not--why should you?"

...

[After a while] he didn't ask for the children to be sent to America and didn't answer when Nicole wrote asking him if he needed money. In the last letter she had from him he told her that he was practicing in Geneva, New York, and she got the impression that he had settled down with some one to keep house for him. She looked up Geneva in an atlas and found it was in the heart of the Finger Lakes Section and considered a pleasant place. Perhaps, so she liked to think, his career was biding its time, again like Grant's in Galena; his latest note was post-marked from Hornell, New York, which is some distance from Geneva and a very small town; in any case he is almost certainly in that section of the country, in one town or another.

Tender is the Night, Book I

2008-06-10T08:41:00.000-07:00

I just finished book one and for some reason I hadn't realized that Nicole, Dick's wife, was going to be the crazy woman in the story. I had read the introduction that was pretty lengthy and spoke of a doctor taking care of his mentally ill wife, but as I read the novel I assumed Rosemary was falling into mental illness and that her and Dick would end up together. Rosemary hints at having developing issues, she begins taking pills that are never fully described and she says she's going crazy falling in love with Dick, she starts to have sleeping problems, and seems so young and not ready for the affair her and Dick are headed for. Meanwhile, Nicole is portrayed as a Greek Goddess, perfect in every way, certainly nothing could be wrong with her. This put me at ease with their inevitable split, she would survive and move on, and maybe move upward.

Fitzgerald weaves the story in such a manner that even though there are children involved you don't worry about them any more than you worry about who will get the cars or the furniture. But then, there on the last page of book one you finally see Nicole breaking, you finally see the Nicole Dick tries to hide from the world (for her benefit more than his I suspect) and you realize.... Well I don't know what YOU realize. But I was sunk. But at the same time I started to love the story. I saw the complexities of Dick's position, which is silly because even without mental illness complexities were there. I wanted Rosemary gone. I wanted Nicole happy. I wanted Dick to take a second look and to get back to the path he was on before Rosemary entered their lives. And yet, I worry that none of the three will ever be happy while Nicole slips further and further away. My heart aches for them.

Sounds

2008-06-04T00:36:00.001-07:00

He found it and he loved it.

Indianapolis, IN

2008-05-25T18:13:00.000-07:00

Music for our journey.

Prior to Indiana my memories are stored as a series of distinct still pictures: me holding my bleeding head after playfully rolling down a hill and then dizzily walking into the corner of a building, me sitting under a bridge over a small stream eating MREs and burning the little plastic ties used to keep newspapers bundled together, a moment at Chucky Cheese, a pine tree, a nail threw the bottom of my brother's foot, songs I invented for my mother, lyrics I no longer remember.

The plane from Germany touched down somewhere in Texas. It’s like the Texas summer heat switched on the video cameras, life was in motion. One event lead to the next, one action caused another. Soon morality would make sense and soon people would be understood, loved, and missed.

Hot, humid summers and fireflies were the canvas of my childhood. And while I was a child both before arriving and after leaving Indiana, I can safely say these were my formative years (5th through the beginning of the 9th grade). Many memorable events happened in this setting. But of great interest to me, right now, are the few that caused me sadness or self disappointment. These are the first memories I have of the kind, and perhaps, these feelings are what caused my life to transition from still life to full motion.

Having spent the previous three years in Germany and only being ten or eleven years old, the United States felt a little like a foreign country. My style was off (not for the last time) and I was out of touch with popular culture. I remember sitting in the hotel we were staying at while we were looking for a house to live in, I was sitting there watching MTV for the first time. I was blown away, music videos, what a concept. I was amazed and excited and I immediately fell in love with Def Leopard and ripped up jeans. In that little moment I could feel life was on the brink of change.

I’m not sure I can say these words about anyone else I’ve ever known. I HATED Adam Boak, hated. I can’t remember all of the things he did to me. My first memory of him was when I walked into the bathroom at school, with my long (awesome) hair, and all the boys looked up at me and Adam said, “What are YOU doing in here?” Never having had a real conversation with Adam I assume he meant, "You look like a girl, get out of here?" And so that’s what I did, and I went out of my way to never go to the restroom during class breaks but to always ask to go in the middle of class when no one else would be in there.

I’m not sure if Adam ever caused me physical harm. None the less I remember him as a monster. He had big hairy arms, arms big enough to break every bone in my body if they so desired. He was a boy in a man’s body, a boy with a bad attitude.

His unfair stature gave him the privilege of being King of the bus. I don’t know if this is a decade thing or a regional thing but in Indianapolis in the early 90s you could know a kid’s social status merely by noting how close he or she sat to the bus driver. Those closest were the lowest and those furthest away—lording over the rest of the bus from their thrones at the rear—were highest. So from day one he owned the bus, it was his, and I was merely a visitor whose presence was put up with but not welcome. I wished that I could invent a teleporter that would send me directly to school so I’d never have to set foot on his bus again. Such an invention never came about so I watched Adam, bedecked in a crown of jewels and a cruel scepter, move directly to the back of the bus when we entered the seventh grade and there he stayed while I made a doubled-edged journey over the next three years from the very front to just two rows from his seat at the very back. This journey wasn’t so much a sign of my growing popularity but was part of the natural progression of going through the grades and reaching a peak during your 9th grade year—Adam was a rarity starting at the back.

As I slowly grew in social stature and position I also slowly grew closer to Adam’s dreaded position at the back of the bus. I voluntarily inched closer and closer to the horned beast and his flame-tongued imps. When I peaked at the third seat from the back I was truly poised at hell’s gates. Had I been a more clever child I might have scratched a note into the seat: All hope abandon ye who enter here.

The day Adam decided to sit directly behind me, instead of two seats back, I knew I was in for it. The extra seat between us was usually my buffer zone, my demilitarized zone, I wasn’t close enough to touch and if I stayed quiet enough he probably wouldn’t notice me at all. But that day he flew into the no fly zone. Who knows what I was doing, maybe praying for a quick and safe ride home, or maybe pretending to be fine with Adam so close to me. But at some point I smelt something awful, the awful smell of hair burning, my hair burning, set on fire by Adam. It wasn’t any thing major, just some singed hairs from his lighter. He laughed and pushed my shoulder. I said nothing. I did nothing. It was a thing that happened in a life that happens. And I still struggle to form a positive feeling or thought toward Adam. I was thankful (so, so thankful) the day he was expelled for selling drugs at school. I was thankful for his loss of educational opportunities, I’m still thankful for it. I don’t know what this says about me, nothing good I’m sure.

But I wasn’t the lowest on the totem pole. I may have been small, and had girly long hair and listened to the wrong music, but at least I wasn’t over-weight. The life of an over-weight child must be incredibly hard, because they don’t only have to put up with the Adam Boaks of the world but also those who finally get to sit near him on the bus. There is no pride in this story; I don’t know when I’ve been a worse human being than in this story. But unlike the previous story I do have regrets and sadness about my actions.

Much like Adam probably doesn’t remember my name I don’t know the name of the kid in this story anymore either. Maybe it was Chris, I don’t know, but I’ll call him Chris here. Chris was fat, he wore glasses, he seemed nerdy but he struggled in school, looking back at him he didn’t have much going for him. I hope he turned out well. I didn’t interact much with him but at one point, soon after buying my first pair of awesome Nikes (a whole other story and social dynamic I wonder about) I started hanging out with kids higher up the social ladder. And with this move upward came the responsibility of messing with Chris at least once. So during social studies I sat behind Chris and me and the kid next to me thought it would be funny to tie his shoe to his chair. So we did so, very sneakily. I don’t remember how we managed to do it without him or the teacher noticing but we were, unfortunately, successful. When the bell rang and everyone got up to leave Chris knocked his chair over and drug it half a foot before he really realized what was going on. There was a lot of laughing and I felt so proud, I’d arrived.

Childhood is hard. Kids are mean, even kids who are normally nice. I wish I hadn’t done that to Chris. I wish Adam hadn’t done those things to me. But perhaps I’m a better person because of all these things. I can only hope the same is true of Adam and Chris.

Taxes are done!

2008-04-15T01:00:00.001-07:00

And I'm about to be $3000 richer.

Expanding

2008-04-05T14:07:00.000-07:00

I don't normally do poetry, but for the longest time I've had a desire to read Paradise Lost. So that's what I'm doing, and in the spirit of poetry I shall be reading it out loud to myself. This is only some what uncomfortable for me, but it seems like the right thing to do.

A Farewell to a Farewell to Arms

2008-04-03T23:55:00.000-07:00

That title is deep.

I enjoyed the book, of course I did. But at the end I felt a way I've never felt before about a book. I'll let Alex from Everything is Illuminated explain it. He is referring to a fictionalized biography Jonathan is writing about his grandfather.

I could hate you! Why will you not permit your grandfather to be in love with the Gypsy girl, and show her his love? Who is ordering you to write in such a manner? We have such chances to do good, and yet again and again you insist on evil. I would not read this most contemporary division to Little Igor, because I did not appraise it worthy of his ears No, this division I presented to Sammy Davis, Junior, Junior, who acted faithfully with it.

I must make a simple question, which is what is wrong with you? If your grandfather loves the Gypsy girl, and I am certain that he does, why does he not leave with her? She could make him so happy. And yet he declines happiness. This is not reasonable, Jonathan, and it is not good. If I were the writer, I would have Safran show his love to the Gypsy girl, and take her to Greenwich Shtetl in New York City. Or I would have Safran kill himself, which is the only other truthful thing to perform, although then you would not be born, which would signify that this story could not be written.

Although the circumstances at the end of Farewell are different and my feelings aren't as fierce as Alex's I did definitely feel like, "why couldn't they just be happy?"

Something Pleasant

2008-03-29T01:24:00.001-07:00

Try It.

Memories are Pictures

2008-03-23T11:49:00.000-07:00

Some Music:
Pictures

Some Words (by Earnest Hemingway):
Lying on the floor of the flat-car with guns beside me under the canvas I was wet, cold and very hungry. Finally I rolled over and lay flat on my stomach with my head on my arms. My knee was stiff, but it had been very satisfactory. [Doctor] Valentini had done a fine job. I had done half the retreat on foot and swum part of the Tagliamento with his knee. It was his knee all right. The other knee was mine. Doctors did things to you and then it was not your body any more. The head was mine, and inside of the belly. It was very hungry in there. I could feel it turn over on itself. The head was mine, but not to use, not think with, only to remember and not too much.

I could remember Cathrine but I knew I would get crazy if I thought about her when I was not sure yet I would see her, so I would not think about her, only about her a little, only about her with the car going slowly and clickingly, and some light through the canvas and my lying with Cathrine on the floor of the car. Hard as the floor of the car to lie not thinking only feeling, having been away too long, the clothes wet and the floor moving only a little each time and lonesome inside and alone with wet clothing and hard floor for a wife.

You did not love the floor of a flat-car nor guns with canvas jackets and the smell of vaselined metal or a canvas that rain leaked through, although it is very fine under a canvas and pleasant with guns; but you loved some one else whom now you knew was not even to be pretended there; you seeing now very clearly and coldly--not so coldly as clearly and emptily. You saw emptily, lying on your stomach, having been present when one army moved back and another moved forward.

Completely Unrelated

2008-03-16T21:26:00.000-07:00

Not sure why but I have an urge to post about this song. It feels out of place here, if there is a theme to the music I've posted (which I don't know that there is) I find it hard to imagine that any Neil Diamond song would fit into it.

The song entered my consciousness sometime in college. I'm sure prior to that I'd heard it and it would sound familiar on the radio, but it wasn't until I fell in love with Natalie Portman and Beautiful Girls (the movie, not beautiful girls in general, not that I have anything against beautiful girls). As a twenty year-old there was a little shame in falling in love with the twelve year old that Natalie portrays in the movie, but watch it and you won't think I'm a creepy-dude-who-stalks-young-girls-half-his-age (hopefully, and if you do it's probably because their's something wrong with you and not me).

It's interesting that she has nothing to do with this particular scene in th movie. Maybe my smitten love for her stuck to everything in the movie like syrup. Maybe not though. The basic premise of the movie is a guy comes home for the winter and hooks up with all of his old high school friends. They're just a bunch of regular silly guys, none of them doing anything spectacular with their lives and he's the only one who has left the town they all grew up in. The scene involves all the guys hanging out in a bar and they request that the main character play a song on the piano (he plays the piano in bars in NYC for a living). This is the song he chooses, and this is where Neil Diamond enters my life. The main character starts the song, begins singing and the other guys slowly gather round, sucked in by something. Then it hits the "hands, touching hands" part and they all sing at the top of their lungs (none of them any good at it, but it doesn't really matter). And I thought, "now that's something worth something."

I get a little chill whenever I hear it now. But here's the thing, and why I'm talking about it now, until last night I'd never heard this song played at a wedding. For those that don't know my wife is a wedding photographer and I usually assist her at weddings so I have a fairly large sample size (compared to your average person). Last night the DJ played it and the dance floor came alive with dancing and singing. Even the bar tenders, who hadn't done anything besides sluggishly pour drinks all night long, started getting into it (singing and shaking their hips). I've decided it's a phenomenal wedding song. If you're not married yet play this song at your wedding, especially if I'm going to be there.

Poor Behavior

2008-03-16T17:48:00.000-07:00

What a naughty blog this has been: quiet, sitting in the corner. I'll have to reprimand it.

End of an Era

2008-03-06T11:31:00.000-08:00

So I'm thirty.

Now enough about that.

If you read my old blog you know about my stint/dream of being a race car driver. At 3:35am, March 5th 2008 the last remnant of that dream was laid to rest. Moments before that exact time a man some ten blocks away from my house was attempting to steal a car. His efforts were thwarted but he wasn't done causing damage for the night. He jumped in his car (not really his car, the vehicle he was driving was also stole, and ironically a little black Civic CRX). He proceeded to drive down Moraga toward the ocean at speeds well beyond reasonable for our neighborhood. When he reached 46th ave (my street) he ran his stop sign and was hit by a car traveling along 46th ave (given the time of day and the tendencies of 46th ave drivers, this car was probably moving rather quickly as well). Our car thief spun out of control.

Even earlier than night I was out playing basketball. I was playing in Pacifica so I had to drive there. Robyn was working late since I wasn't going to be home anyway. I managed to get home before her (around 10pm) and the street was full of cars and for some strange reason I decided to let Robyn have the drive-way. So I parked my little black Honda CRX on the corner of 46th and Moraga, a place I've never parked the car before, usually it's in the drive way, in the garage or directly in front of the house. Robyn came home and parked our "real" car, our car we drive all the time and owe money on safely in the drive way.

Like I was saying, the car thief, he spun out of control. The first car he hit was my little identical black CRX. He smashed into the front drivers side tire breaking it off from the axle, breaking the drivers side window and part of the front window, removed the side mirror and crushed the door. From there he spun some more and managed to hit three other cars. My car will no longer start and even if it did it wouldn't move anyway. The thief then exited his stolen vehicle and disappeared into the night. C'est la vie.

At three thirty in the morning Robyn and I both sat up in bed. She said, "what was that?" I said, "it sounded like a car accident." Given the arrangement of stop signs in our neighborhood we knew it would only be a matter of time before a major accident happened at the corner of 46th and Moraga, we usually hear people honking at that intersection or the squealing of tires and breaks daily. So when we went to the front window both of our eyes went directly to that corner and saw nothing. However, parked in front of our house was a car, with one headlight out. Two men were standing outside talking on their cellphones looking back at that same corner. Another man came out of a house and asked if they were alright. They said they were cool. We assumed they were calling the police, but were still confused by what had happened. For the amount of noise we heard there was surprising little damage or activity in the surrounding houses or street. It was almost as if nothing had happened. To fully understand you must realize that the four other damaged cars, including mine, are around the corner from our house so we couldn't see what had happened over there.

One of the men out front of our house walked away from the car and never came back, the other got back in the car and sped off.

For reasons I can't really explain we decided to go back to bed. There we laid asking each other, "what just happened?" It was impossible to go back to sleep. And it would have been a waste of time anyway because around 4:30am the SF PD arrived at our door and wanted to know if I lived there and if I owned a black CRX. I knew as soon as I heard the knock on the door my car had been damaged. Luckily mine was the only one of the cars that took enough damage that it won't start or move anymore. The other cars were definitely hurt but they at least still worked. Also, fortunately, no one was hurt.

Later that morning I called my insurance company, took some pictures of the damage, called a junk yard and scheduled a tow truck to come take the car away (they're giving me $150).

To add insult to injury the car is still parked out side and will probably be ticketed in the next hour for being in a street sweeping spot and last night someone got into the car and took everything of any value out of it (an amp and speakers).

Although I'm not overly broken up about losing the car the incident put me in a weird mood. I was on edge all day and I finally figured out what it was that was bothering me. For lack of better words I felt, "at risk." That at any second something random could happen to hurt me or the ones I love. I was also sensitive to noises yesterday as well. I started assigning importance to every sound I heard. The sharp S's and T's of the woman sitting next to me that I could hear over my headphones. Every honking horn, squeaking breaks, slamming doors was a sign of trouble. The way the man walking toward us let his feet drag across the pavement. The homeless people talking to themselves seemed more threatening than usual.

Today I feel better. I guess it's good to be thirty.

So Far...

2008-03-02T14:58:00.000-08:00

I haven't made it very far into A Farewell to Arms yet, but this set of sentences struck me:

I sat now in the chair and an orderly of some sort looked at me disapprovingly from behind a desk while I looked at the marble floor, pillars with the marble busts, and the frescoes on the wall and waited for Miss Barkley. The frescoes were not bad. Any frescoes were good when they started to peel and flake off.

When I first read it I thought it was clever and true: no matter how bland a fresco is, to the untrained eye they all look good once they get old enough. The cracks and peeling make them legitimate. Then I remembered that one of the things Hemingway is known for is his use of subtext, so I thought about what he might be saying a little more. Maybe we can take frescoes and replace it with lives. All life seems interesting when we get to see the peeling and flaking. And given we're looking at a flashing love in the middle of a war we'll probably see a lot of interesting situations where people start to show their cracks. And, maybe more importantly, we've all got our peeling paint, so if you look close enough you'll see all of us are "not bad."

Just some thoughts. Carry on.

Febs. Bookshelf

2008-02-29T10:01:00.001-08:00

This month I managed to read four books (and start a fifth). I was probably averaging a book a month the previous few months so this is quite an accomplishment (for me).

Here's a recap:
The month started with The Great Gatsby. I talked about that already, so nothing further to report here.

Then I moved on to The Orc King: Transitions, Book I . Jason gave it to me for Christmas. It's sort of a tradition we have, buying each other Dungeons and Dragons books for Christmas. It was better than the previous three D&D books I read by the same author, so I was quite pleased.

After that I begrudgingly pickup the book my online book club was reading. Given I had just read a D&D book it might be hard to believe I'm somewhat of a book snob but I am (a little). The book club voted on reading The Road. I had to read it because I skipped the previous months (The Kite Runner). And I did read and it went fast. But so did the Orc King, so I don't know that a fast read means anything besides I don't have to do too much thinking while I read it. My biggest complaint was his use of incomplete sentence, it drove me a little batty. I was forced to read paragraphs over once I hit an incomplete sentence so I could figure out exactly what he was trying to say. But overall it was good, I enjoyed it. There I said it.

This week I finished Old School. The first half of the book was pretty good. After recently reading Portrait of the Artist I was sort of feeling jealous of boys who went to fancy prep schools and this story added to the feeling. The feeling never really went away but once Ayn Rand shows up in the story it feels a lot less like a novel and more like an essay on particular authors' styles and overall themes. This became bothersome until I stopped reading it as a novel and read it as an essay. It made for a decent essay. :)

Now I'm starting A Farewell to Arms. I'm excited for this book, but nervous too. I read For Whom the Bell Tolls last year and it became one of my all time favorites. What if A Farewell to Arms can't stand up to it? What if Ol' Papa let's me down? What if? What if?

For My Friends Who Find Themselves Up Late Every Night

2008-02-28T07:01:00.000-08:00

From Mr. E. Hemingway.

It was late and every one had left the cafe except an old man who sat in the shadow the leaves of the tree made against the electric light. In the day time the street was dusty, but at night the dew settled the dust and the old man liked to sit late because he was deaf and now at night it was quiet and he felt the difference. The two waiters inside the cafe knew that the old man was a little drunk, and while he was a good client they knew that if he became too drunk he would leave without paying, so they kept watch on him.

"Last Week he tried to commit suicide," one waiter said.

"Why?"

"He was in despair."

"What about?"

"Nothing."

"How do you know it was nothing?"

"He has plenty of money."

They sat together at a table that was close against the wall near the door of the cafe and looked at the terrace where the tables were all empty except where the old man sat in the shadow of the leaves of the tree that moved slightly in the wind. A girl and a soldier went by in the street. The street light shone on the brass number on his collar. The girl wore no head covering and hurried beside him.

"The guard will pick him up," one waiter said.

"What does it matter if he gets what he's after?"

"He had better get off the street now. The guard will get him. They went by five minutes ago."

The old man sitting in the shadow rapped on his saucer with his glass. The younger waiter went over to him.

"What do you want?"

The old man looked at him. "Another brandy," he said.

"You'll be drunk," the waiter said. The old man looked at him. The waiter went away.

"He'll stay all night," he said to his colleague. "I'm sleepy now. I never get into bed before three o'clock. He should have killed himself last week."

The waiter took the brandy bottle and another saucer from the counter inside the cafe and marched out to the old man's table. He put down the saucer and poured the glass full of brandy.

"You should have killed yourself last week," he said to the deaf man. The old an motioned with his finger. "A little more," he said. The waiter poured on into the glass so that the brandy slopped over and ran down the stem into the top saucer of the pile. "Thank you," the old man said. The waiter took the bottle back inside the cafe. He sat down at the table with his colleague again.

"he's drunk now," he said.

"He's drunk every night."

"What did h want to kill himself for?"

"How should I know."

"How did he do it?"

"H hung himself with a rope."

"Who cut him down?"

"His niece."

"Why did they do it?"

"Fear for his soul."

"How much money has he got?"

"He's got plenty."

"He must be eighty years old."

"Anyway I should say he was eighty."

"I wish he would go home. I never get to bed before three o'clock. What kind of hour is that to go to bed?"

"He stays up because he likes it."

"He's lonely. I'm not lonely. I have a wife waiting in bed for me."

"he had a wife once too."

"A wife would be no good to him now."

"You can't tell. He might be better with a wife."

"His niece looks after him. You said she cut him down."

"I know."

"I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing."

"Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling Even now, drunk. Look at him."

"I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He has no regard for those who must work."

The old man looked from his glass across the square, then over at the waiters.

"Another brandy," he said, point to his glass. The waiter who was in a hurry came over.

"Finished," he said, speaking with the omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners. "No more tonight. Close now."

"Another," said the old man.

"No. Finished." The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a towel and shook his head.

The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leather coin purse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip.

The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old man walking unsteadily but with dignity.

"Why didn't you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried waiter asked. They were putting up the shutters. "It was not half -past two."

"I want to go home to bed."

"What is an hour?"

"More to me than to him."

"An hour is the same."

"You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle and drink at home."

"It's not the same."

"No, it is not," agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust. He was only in a hurry.

"And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?"

"Are you trying to insult me?"

"No, hombre, only to make a joke."

"No," the waiter who was in a hurry said, rising from pulling down the metal shutters. "I have confidence. I am all confidence."

"You have youth, confidence, and a job," the older waiter said. "You have everything."

"And what do you lack?"

"Everything but work."

"You have everything I have."

"No. I have never had confidence and I am not young."

"Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up."

"I am of those who like to stay late at the cafe," the older waiter said. "With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those who need a light for the night."

"I want to go home and into bed."

"We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was now dressed to go home. "It is not only a question of youth and confidence although those things are very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the cafe."

"Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long."

"You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant cafe. It is well lighted. The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves."

"Good night," said the younger waiter.

"Good night," the other said. Turning of the electric light he continued the conversation with himself. It is the light of course but is is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not fear or dread. It was nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be they name they kingdom nada they will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine.

"What's yours?" asked the barman.

"Nada."

"Otro loco mas," said the barman and turned away.

"A little cup," said the waiter.

The barman poured it for him.

"The light is very bright and pleasant but the bar is unpolished," the waiter said.

The barman looked at him but did not answer. It was too late at night for conversation.

"You want another copita?" the barman asked.

"No, thank you," said the waiter and went out. He disliked bars and bodegas. A clean, well-lighted cafe was a very different thing. Now, without thinking further, he would go home to his room. He would lie in the bed and finally, with daylight, he would go to sleep. After all, he said to himself, it is probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

Slow Going

2008-02-27T18:25:00.001-08:00

I signed up for a writing class. I've done once before and it kept me writing more frequently--I'm hoping for a repeat (even if I don't learn a thing).

And another thing, if you haven't seen a shooting star recently maybe you spend too much time looking down, or indoors (as in my case).

One last thing, it's taken five or six months but I've finally--thank you God--reached a point where I'm reading as much as I did when I had a long commute. It was so hard to get into the habit of reading at home. I feel accomplished now. That is all.

Delayed Valentine

2008-02-25T10:31:00.000-08:00

I was driving through the City with my mom, aunt and Robyn following behind me (sometimes two cars are necessary). While I was driving NPR was playing a repeat of This American Life from Valentines. It's about love, not the lightening strike type of love, but love that has last a long time, long after lightening has struck. I didn't hear the whole thing but I did catch Richard Bausch reading his own short story. It was good. You can find the whole episode here:

The short story starts around 8:30.

That Night

2008-02-18T18:31:00.000-08:00

He laid on his back the remainder of the day with his hands in the grass, rows of soft blades peeking between his fingers. Here I will lay until she returns.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten. He counted in his head. Repeat. He watched the sun creep across the river. He watched the occasional boat slide silently by. He let the flies land on his arms. Ants crawled through his hair. Sweat slid down his temples. A rock settled into his back, just behind his heart. The sun set. His body ached; he did not move the rock.

The summer night wasn't too cold. He didn't begin to shiver until he saw the reflection of the moon in the water. Above him bats and moths flew through the air, he could see their abrupt dance as they passed in front of the moon. Sometimes two would collide, without a noise, and only one would fly away.

A moth landed on his shoulder. There it sat for an hour, maybe more. He had counted to ten 400 times before the moth spoke.

What are you doing here?

Admiring the river.

It is a nice river. It'll be here tomorrow.

How do you know?

I've been flying over it for millions of years.

And it will be here another million years?

It'll be here long after you're dead.

He sat silent for a minute.

But maybe not?

Anything is possible. I'm only a moth.

The moth spoke again.

There are many rivers.

But look, he pointed across the water, this one is so wide you can't see the other side.

It is dark.

Even in the day light.

I wouldn't know. Have you seen the other side?

No.

So.

So?

So you don't know much about it.

The boy sat up to peer across the water. The moth flapped its wings a few times, barely taking to the air, and then settled back down on his shoulder.

Have you heard of the Nile? It feeds millions of people.

It is very far away.

Have you heard of the Amazon? It's so long it would take me a year to fly its length.

But is it as beautiful as the Mississippi?

It has its own beauty.

Yet here you are, flying.

It is the way of things. I must go.

The moth flew off. He watched it disappear into the night. He moved a hand through the compressed grass where he had been laying all day and found the rock. He stood, moving the rock between his fingers.

One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten. He threw the rock at a soft angle and listened to it skip across the water before it sunk to the sightless bottom.

Later that year he boarded a plane to Brazil--he had to see the Amazon.

Happy Valentines Day

2008-02-14T17:37:00.000-08:00

That's all.

Also I added links to the rest of my family off to the right. Now it feels a little more like home around here.

The Next Morning

2008-02-13T10:54:00.000-08:00

He paused at his front door. The air was humid, the katydids were already awake, singing their song. He stepped off the porch and walked through the morning sun back to the river.

There he sat the rest of the day awaiting her return.

She never came.

Mississippi

2008-02-12T17:38:00.000-08:00

We ran so fast the soles of our shoes flew apart, one small little piece at a time. Before our eyes and hearts we saw stars and planets and diamonds and doves and sunlight and dolphins and fireworks and mermaids and snowflakes and acres of peach trees and bolts of lightening and mountain-tops and we heard waves crashing, kids laughing, dogs barking, life moving--it sounds like this ffffffffft, can you hear it?--and then it all fell down around us. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM. "What happened?" "What happened," they screamed (with tears in their eyes).

He smiled. "Do you believe everything they told you, all the stories?"

She smiled too, "Yes, even the bad ones."

Our eyes still hurt from looking at the lightening and stars.

We sat on the east bank of the Mississippi. The sun lazily crept behind the tree tops. Its light filtered through the leaves and branches, barely touching her face, as if hesitating, worried it might not be worthy. What remained, the light that didn't stick to her skin, I herded in to small pools with my eyelashes. If I squinted just right the rest of the world turned into star-bursts, with her in the middle.

"You stare a lot; didn't your mama teach you any manners?"

"No."

With her in the middle... The Mississippi was grand. The sun was radiant. The wind was perfect.

Our shoes were useless after running so far so fast. "Let's swim." (It doesn't matter who suggested it, but it was her.)

She dove into the water and it parted as for a queen. This is her river; it had meandered through North America for millennia waiting for this moment, for her to jump into it, to wrap its cool waters around her shoulders, to wet her hair and create swirling currents and eddies around her body. It could dry up now, having fulfilled its purpose.

I would never be able to match her graceful entrance into the water. I climbed a tree and jumped off of it like a fool; it was better this way, better than trying to mimic her beauty, or trying to claim the river as my own.

A flock of sparrows flew over head as she swam close. Finally. She placed her lips to his and she knew she'd found love. Finally.

What a river. We renamed the river Love. We planted our flag in it. Claimed it as our own (but really I knew, in my heart, it was only hers). And I made a speech, floating on my back: Here Love will always flow. Here Beauty will always grow. Here God will always know. She spat a fountain of water on my belly and said, "Amen."

And then she swam back to the shore, put her wet feet into her broken shoes and ran away from the river. I never saw her again, except in dreams and songs and novels.

And It Will End

2008-02-11T08:36:00.000-08:00

The story will be wrapped up in here somewhere.

Another Story, Maybe

2008-02-10T17:21:00.000-08:00

It might start something like this:

I've always been extraordinary at remembering dates. You probably don’t believe me. Go ahead, ask me about an important date. Day my parents were married? October 25th, 1912. Day I lost my first tooth? January 2nd, 1919. Day I graduated high school? June 20th, 1933. Day I lost my virginity? June 21st 1933. Don’t be such a prude—I’m the old woman, not you. I’m going to convince you. Day my first grand-daughter was born? March 7th 1956, 2:31AM. This will do it. What day did our neighbor’s house catch fire and burn to the ground? September 15th, 1942. So many memories lost in that fire, so many memories.

Happy Super Tuesday

2008-02-05T10:55:00.000-08:00

My brother's going back to Iraq.

_______

2008-02-04T22:59:00.000-08:00

I don't have a single bit of creative energy in me. It's gone missing the last couple weeks.

Filling Holes and Gaps

2008-02-01T18:02:00.000-08:00

I'm reading the Great Gatsby now--for the first time--because no one made me read it in high school. Twenty or so pages into it and it's much better than I expected it to be.

For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened--then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.

A Break

2008-01-30T16:18:00.000-08:00

Scheduled Outage From Blogger.com.

Take your break and listen.

Everything Explained

2008-01-29T13:13:00.000-08:00

For some reason I've received a number of visitors to my blog looking for the meaning of this song. Being a gracious host I will now explain it. This is what the song means, the Gospel of Trapeze Artistry according to Shawn.

First, let's talk about Trapeze Swingers. This is a dangerous job; it's not suited for everyone; if everyone gave it a try we'd have many more dead and injured people on our hands. Second, this song isn't a story so much as a mood. You can traverse it from point A to point B without reaching the destination. Thirdly, it's a song about Trapeze Swingers, not clowns or bankers. There's a place for clowns and bankers in life, but that place is NOT high above a crowd with no nets to catch them when they fall. Remember that.

Please, remember me
Happily
From the get go we're told something has ended. We'll be reminded frequently. The story teller's real desire is to be remembered in some positive manner.

By the rosebush laughing
With bruises on my chin
The time when
We counted every black car passing
Your house beneath the hill
And up until
Someone caught us in the kitchen
With maps, a mountain range,
A piggy bank
A vision too removed to mention
Here's some examples of the good times, one can be happy for these can't they? The speaker seems to think so. The second half is the more interesting part. To the casual observer (one who catches them in the kitchen) it's all vague, like a map, mountain rangers, a piggy bank and visions that the observer couldn't understand even if they could see more than the maps and piggy banks.

Please, remember me
Fondly
Don't forget.

I heard from someone you're still pretty
Ouch, but he probably knew that already. More to the point, it's been long enough since they've seen each other that their physical appearances could have changed.

And then
They went on to say
That the pearly gates
Had some eloquent graffiti
Like 'We'll meet again'
And 'Fuck the man'
And 'Tell my mother not to worry'
This bit is harder to decode. I'm not sure the person actually said these things. Here's my suspicion, they said, "she's still pretty," and then the poor fellow is lost in his own thoughts. And these are the words he heard. We'll Meet Again. A Trapeze Swinger finds it hard to give up the heights. Fuck the man. And all the things he says are impossible. Tell my mother not not to worry. Even in your lowest of times you can't help but worry about mom.

And angels with their gray
Handshakes
Were always done in such a hurry
I'm not sure what the importance of the color gray is here, but I can imagine that if you get to touch an angel, that moment of contact will always feel way too short.

Please, remember me
At Halloween
There's really no better time of year.

Making fools of all the neighbors
Our faces painted white
See they're still having some good times. They can still make each other laugh. But the problem is, as we'll see later, they've given up their Trapeze Swinger outfits and are running around dressed as clowns, or ghosts of their former selves.

By midnight
We'd forgotten one another
And when the morning came
I was ashamed
And here it is, the beginning of the end.

Only now it seems so silly
Hindsight is 20/20: of course he shouldn't have forgotten her at halloween.

That season left the world
And then returned
And now you're lit up by the city
Things change and remain the same, but mostly they changed. Even so, it's true, she's still beautiful.

Please, remember me
Mistakenly
He wasn't perfect. Let's not make that mistake.

Disclaimer (I know, a little late): Now that I'm sitting here trying to figure out what's exactly meant I can understand why people searched the Internet to figure it out. I don't feel comfortable with the next couple parts but it's the best I could do. We'll see if I was really up to the challenge.

In the window of the tallest tower call
Then pass us by
But much too high
To see the empty road at happy hour
Leave and resonate
Just like the gates
Around the holy kingdom
With words like 'Lost and Found' and 'Don't Look Down'
And 'Someone Save Temptation'
Sometimes there are problems with too much height. You get way up there and you can't see things you use to be able to see, some of the missing things are simple, like happy hour, others are complex, like the gates that guard the holy kingdom. Then you realize you're not actually that high, but you would have known that long ago if you hadn't put so much stock in the words you found "up" there: "Lost and Found" and "Don't Look Down."

Please, remember me
As in the dream
This comes off as desperation. Just remember the good parts, not all the time, but every once in awhile.

We had as rug-burned babies
Among the fallen trees
And fast asleep
Aside the lions and the ladies
That called you what you like
And even might
Give a gift for your behavior
A fleeting chance to see
A trapeze
Swing as high as any savior
Here he tries to convince her that it was really worth it. It was worth flying. And in a perfect dreamy world perhaps they could have lived aside the lions and the ladies and the heights would have been a savior. But it's a dream, he's already admitted that, and she won't be taken in by it

Please, remember me
My misery
This is different. What does he want? Pity? It's tainting the goodness of all his other memories. Maybe this is where desperation leads. His thinking of the impossible good leads him to misery. Maybe.

And how it lost me all I wanted
It seems to be something else. Had he been happier back then, not because of her, but life, then perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps his misery and sadness drove her away? This is speculation as it does not sound like a trapeze swinger.

Those dogs that love the rain
And chasing trains
The colored birds above there running
In circles round the well
It's hard to make heads or tails of this since the previous line left me scratching my head. These are dangerous activities, much like trapeze swinging. Perhaps there is a certain sadness to the danger a trapeze swinger requires?

And where it spells
On the wall behind St. Peter's
So bright with cinder gray
And spray paint
'Who the hell can see forever?'
And no matter what it is, how good it could have been, or how bad it could have been, or how good it is, or how bad it is, it's still a gamble. We're all trapeze swingers to some small degree, because the answer to the question is "No one."

Please, remember me
Seldomly
He Knows he's been asking too much. Remembering isn't always a walk in the park.

In the car behind the carnival
My hand between your knees
You turn from me
And said 'The trapeze act was wonderful
But never meant to last'
The clown that passed
Saw me just come up with anger
When it filled with circus dogs
The parking lot
Had an element of danger
Here we are, back in real life. The end of it. The final act. He offers her a physical--if not loving at this point--touch, and she can't bare to look at him. All she knows is the the heights were wonderful, but they weren't meant to last. And all of the sudden they were both alone and vulnerable to the world, so much so that the parking lot filled with clowns and ordinary people feels dangerous--no high-wires required.

Please, remember me
Finally
Seriously, he's done trying. Things are what they are.

And all my uphill clawing
My dear
He did try pretty hard, but the hill was too steep, or his claws weren't strong enough or sharp enough.

But if i make
The pearly gates
Do my best to make a drawing
Of God and Lucifer
A boy and girl
An angel kissin on a sinner
A monkey and a man
A marching band
All around the frightened trapeze swingers
I don't know what this means. I'll leave it to my readers to tell me what it means. Please leave a comment.

Words Words Words

2008-01-25T19:26:00.000-08:00

...
Ache-Balance-Cheer-Death-Eve-Freedom-Garden-High-Ill-
Jesus-Kiss-Love-Mother-Night-Open-Poem-Qu[x]-
Rest-Safe-Trust-Universe-Vice-Will-X-Yes-Z
...

Given Eve's propensity to eat bad fruit, do you suppose she was the first person to die?

Interlude

2008-01-24T12:11:00.000-08:00

OK, I've been overly interested in cars since going to Tahoe. It's a long complicated route one takes from Tahoe to this pag e--I won't get into the details now.

You don't have to read about the details of the Skyline (although you might want to because it's a sweet car) and you don't have to watch all eight minutes of the drive around the Nürburgring Nordschleife, but do watch the first minute or so of it. In particular watch the driver's feet when he down-shifts. He brakes and feathers the gas (at the same time) to bring the RPMs up to just the right amount before reengaging the clutch. If you blink you might miss it. This sort of thing brings me great joy.

Imaginary Battle

2008-01-23T19:11:00.000-08:00

This morning I was half awake experiencing really great ideas about... I'm not sure what. I recall thinking, "oh that would be awesome in a story." And I couldn't fall back asleep because I kept thinking about this thing. But, at the same time, I knew the idea wasn't sticking, it was there, I'd think about it and then it'd be gone only to return a few seconds later. It was like fighting your way through a tangle of thorn bushes. You push through just enough to realize that you can't continue that way. You change directions ever so slightly and try again. On and on it goes. I know what this feels like because I've done it before, along the San Francisco cliffs. After climbing up a steep face, and nearly killing myself, I was presented with two options: either turn around and nearly kill myself again (really bad option) or continue up the cliff, which was less steep now but full of thorn bushes taller than me (slightly better option). Even though by climbing the cliff below I proved I was equipped to make bad decisions I made a pretty good one here and slowly pushed my way through the thorns. It was painful, it was scary, it knocked some sense into me. Anyway, that's what this morning felt like, but instead of my life I was losing an idea. But trust me, it was a really really great idea.

Martin Luther King Jr.

2008-01-21T10:28:00.000-08:00

Here is a man.

Here are words.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity. But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free.

One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land.

So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition. In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir.

This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation.

So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to open the doors of opportunity to all of God's children. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment and to underestimate the determination of the Negro. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights.

The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges. But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. we must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force.

The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom.

We cannot walk alone. And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" we can never be satisfied as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We cannot be satisfied as long as the Negro's basic mobility is from a smaller ghetto to a larger one. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair. I say to you today, my friends, that in spite of the difficulties and frustrations of the moment, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal." I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slaveowners will be able to sit down together at a table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a desert state, sweltering with the heat of injustice and oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character. I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers. I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring." And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania! Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado! Let freedom ring from the curvaceous peaks of California! But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia! Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee! Let freedom ring from every hill and every molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

When we let freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

Wow

2008-01-19T11:53:00.001-08:00

This is a place I would love to visit.

Nostalgia

2008-01-18T10:47:00.000-08:00

There are two places I can go that invoke instant nostalgia on demand. I'm sure there are other places I could go that would do the same but these two places I visit on a regular basis and they never fail to produce. The first is Berkeley. I usually find myself over there once every couple months and it always brings back a good warm feeling. I tell myself while I'm there, I could live here, it's the only place I say that about (I love SF). I also tell myself I should come visit more often, but sadly I don't--I don't really have many reasons to go over there.

The second is a little different, and indirect. I lived in Germany during my second through fourth grade years. One of most memorable things we did there was go to the German public swimming pool. I don't actually recall much about the swimming but I remember we always bought milk ice cream popsicles and salami sandwiches on these little tasty rolls. Also, there were these open air showers that you would get under and pull a little string and a stream of cold water would wash over you. You'd freeze for a second, shake off and then go into the pool. That second of freezing is what is brought to mind when I shower. Robyn hates hair; I lose a lot in the shower, so I always (she'll tell you I don't do it always, but I do try) take the shower head down after I've dried off and spray extra hair away. I use cold water to conserve energy and to invoke this feeling. When the water splashes on my feet I'm there in Germany, a kid again. Maybe it's a little like kicking a soccer ball.

Wall

2008-01-16T10:38:00.000-08:00

Clank. Clank. Clank. An old man with small withered hands sat before a crumbled stone wall; he struck the remains of the wall with an equally small and withered looking hammer. For a stone wall this one was quite long. In its prime it was said to have stretched over five thousand miles: through woods, over hills, and it was even rumored to have crossed a small lake. The wall had been hundreds of feet high and God knows how many feet thick. Of course that was a long, long time ago. Back then two people standing directly across from one another on opposite sides of the wall—exactly God knows how many feet apart—would have never been aware of each other’s existence.

The hammer on the other hand, was a completely different affair; it never was bigger than its current size; it was put together by tying a piece of sharpened metal to the end of a withered branch. The old man laughed at the thought of this once mighty wall falling further apart under his feeble strikes.

Clank. Clank. Clank. Another rumor concerning this wall is that it is filled with diamonds. Okay, perhaps “filled” isn’t quite the right word. But the old man had it on good authority from his wife’s dead right hand, which spoke to him nightly, that there were at least a dozen king-sized diamonds somewhere within the ruins of the wall. It was three years ago that his wife’s hand began talking to him. On the darkest of nights when the crickets were chirping, and (probably not by coincidence) when his wife was snoring her loudest, Tom awoke to find her hand, dead for all fifty-five years of their marriage, floating and talking above his head. Now, naturally hands can’t actually talk, they don’t have voice boxes, but Tom had had a deaf twin sister who taught him to read lips when they were teenagers. She died shortly after teaching Tom to read lips, hit from behind by a train furiously blowing its horn. The horn and the brakes made quite a ruckus just before impact. The conductor was quoted as telling the police, “It was like she didn’t even hear me.”

In honor of his sister Tom had kept his lip reading skills honed. Originally he practiced by muting his television while watching reruns of his favorite shows. This also inadvertently taught him to read body language and facial expressions quite well. This however, turned out not to be as useful when communicating with his wife’s dead hand. After the power went out for the last time, and never came back on, Tom had to resort to watching real conversations to keep from losing his talent.

Clank. Clank. Clank. He learned that Parker Brady was sleeping with Widow Deb. Mark, from down the street, believed ghosts were stealing the money he stored under his mattress. Jennifer R. had lost two sons to consumption before moving to Willow Wood. Tanya, the tailor, had always dreamed of being the President. His very own father swore on Sundays. George and Edna Donaldson affectionately called each other My Lamb and My Lion. The police chief was afraid of cats. Jerald Rich MD, the town’s florist and doctor, never loved his wife. Father Irving, who moved his lips when silently praying, always ended his prayers with, “if you’re really out there. Amen.” And nobody knew exactly where the power had gone.

In his early twenties Tom felt that he hadn’t learned anything interesting or useful from his lip reading and, besides, God would have surely given his sister her hearing back when she died, so he gave it up. It wasn’t easy to stop. He had to avert his eyes whenever he saw anyone in conversation. And, as it turned out, there was always someone talking within his line of site. He quickly realized that looking at the ground was the only safe way to keep his eyes out of other people’s conversations.

Tom had never been known for being crazy. People said he had a solid head on his shoulders; his friends and family would always come to him for advice about their lives and doings. He became an excellent listener, possibly owing to the fact that he stopped watching people and inadvertently started listening to them. So when his wife’s dead hand started talking to him he didn’t consider the possibility that he might be going crazy, instead he took it as a clear sign that something fundamental about the Universe had changed.

This wasn’t the first time he had to shift the way his mind worked because of alterations in the Universe. The first time the Universe moved on him was after the death of his sister. The second time was when he fell in love with Emma. The third time was when the power went out for the last time. The fourth time was when Emma fell in love with him. The fifth time was when he had his first child. The sixth time was when his last child died. The seventh time, and last prior to this wife’s dead hand talking to him, was when he first heard about the wall.

Tom originally discovered the wall in a dream and the wall’s existences was later confirmed by Father Irving during a Sunday sermon. In Tom’s dream he stood in a long line of young people. Even though he was in his seventies he didn’t feel out of place with these people; his body ached less than normal and there were fewer wrinkles and folds across the backs of his hands. The line he was in inched forward slowly and at an irregular pace. No one talked in line but many people could be seen eagerly looking over the shoulder of the person in front of them—they all desired to catch a glimpse of whatever it was at the front of the line. With a little effort Tom could see the line lead to a great wall that spread out across the horizon. He marveled more at his ability to see such a great distance—something he hadn’t been able to do in quite some time—than with the magnitude of the wall. People stood and sat in front of the wall. As the line grew shorter and Tom approached the wall he could see that many of the people sitting were actually kneeling in prayer before the wall. Those who were standing placed their heads gently against the wall and traced elaborate patterns over it with their hands. From time to time a person would stop praying or drawing shapes and the wall would shutter and shake before them, bricks were sucked into the wall or shifted to the side and a hole large enough for a person to walk through would appear. The hole never hinted at what was inside—it was just a dark hole that you couldn’t see more than a few feet into. Once the hole had opened the person would walk in and the bricks would shift back into place. The next person in line would take the missing person’s spot in front of the wall and the line would creep forward.

Father Irving said this about the wall: all man-made walls are made to either keep people in or out, but this one was made to be crossed.

Standing before the wall Tom could see nothing special about it. Green moss filled the gaps between the bricks. The bricks themselves weren’t smooth, nor were they uniform in shape or size. Ants, beetles and other insects scurried between cracks and crevices. The wall was cool to the touch. It looked like any other brick wall he’d ever seen, except much taller and much longer. He watched his nearest neighbors for clues about how he should interact with the wall, but he was unable to gleam any pattern other than praying and touching. Tom wondered if he was dreaming.

Father Irving said this about the wall: the wall was created out of ordinary rock by ordinary people. It took ten-thousand-years to complete.

Tom placed a hand upon the wall. Rocks had always fascinated him; he and his twin sister had a shared rock collection before she died. They had two tiger-eyes, a handful of rose quartz pebbles, some turquoise, a small bag full of fools-gold, a sliver of jade, a large piece of petrified wood, a normal-looking rock with some ancient fossilized sea creature in it, three perfectly spherical rocks (they sometimes pretended these were the Sun, Earth and Moon), a rock so smooth and flat that Tom was certain he could skip it all the way across the Pacific Ocean (his sister thought this quite impossible), a dozen quarter sized opals, a piece of glass they both secretly believed was a diamond, and a very real and very small ruby that had fallen out of their deceased mother’s wedding ring.

Tom rested his forehead upon the wall. His sister had loved taking a rock in each hand and banging them together. Clank. Clank. Clank. Although she couldn’t hear the sound they produced, she could feel them vibrate in her hands. She would mouth to Tom, “this is what it’s like to be alive,” and then bring the two rocks together as hard as her skinny arms could manage. Sometimes she would accidentally smash the tip of a finger between the rocks but that never seemed to lessen or dull her joy. Tom tried to replicate her enthusiasm but found the banging noise painful to his ears and couldn’t overlook the sting in his fingertips when his aim wasn’t true.

Father Irving said this about the wall: the other side of the wall held the Kingdom of God. But, strangely, when the wall came down all that was seen on the other side were trees, and grass, and cows, and houses, and people.

Tom slid his hand down the wall as he thought about his sister. He pictured her smiling with rocks in hand, he heard her strange giggle (which she never heard herself). She also never heard their father say that he hated them or that he blamed them for their mother’s death during child birth. She never heard Tom crying in their shared bed, although his sobbing probably shook the wooden frame enough that she knew. She never heard the train coming and she never heard Tom whisper, “I love you, sis” to her back while she silently marveled at their shared piece of glass-diamond.

Father Irving said this about the wall: just like the power, no one really knows why the wall came down. You can still see the remains of the wall. Head west out of Willow Wood until you reach a fork in the road. Take the southern road toward Tangle Hollow, and about two miles down that road you’ll come across part of the wall.

Tom’s wife’s dead arm said this about the wall: In the wall’s remains there are twelve king-sized diamonds.

Tom finally felt the rocks vibrate in his hands. He stepped back and watched as the bricks shuffled apart, splitting and rearranging until a perfectly Tom-sized hole stood open before him. Tom wasn’t especially fond of holes. In his youth he had accidentally kicked his favorite red and white soccer ball into an abandoned well way out behind his house. He had dropped his lucky quarter on the floor one day and watched in horror as it rolled across the wood before falling into a small hole. He and his sister were certain a pack of vicious trolls lived in this particular hole, they were thankful it was too small for trolls to actually crawl out of, but still, you wouldn’t want to be walking bare foot and have a dirty little troll finger reach out and poke you, or feel its vile breath on your skin, or—worst of all—accidentally make eye contact with a troll through the hole. Two days after losing the quarter his sister was hit by a train—so Tom never doubted the lucky nature of the quarter. Later in life he’d take his wedding ring off while shaving. He’d place it securely in the soap dish where it would be safe from harm while he shaved. But one crisp October morning there was a rumbling that shook the entire house. He heard his wife yell “Earthquake,” but it was over before he could do much reacting. When the quake had finished he made sure his wedding ring was still safe and that his wife was fine before getting back to shaving. After shaving he picked his ring up but he hadn’t noticed that it had shifted ever so slightly, covering itself in soap in the process. He picked it up and it promptly slipped from between his two fingers. His gold ring went round and round and then down the pipes. He believed his wedding ring was at least as lucky as his old quarter and so he spent the next five hours in a panic tearing apart the plumbing until he rescued his ring from the muck and grime. Life started from a hole; like an hour glass it flowed out of his mother and into him and his sister. He watched his sister lowered into a hole six feet long, four feet wide and six feet deep. Being her twin, he never thought that hole looked quite right all by itself.

Father Irving said this about the wall: remnants of the wall can be found all over the world. Sightings have been reported in Egypt, China, Croatia, Germany, Saskatchewan, Australia, and even Minnesota.

After the sermon Tom asked Father Irving how anyone could possibly know that all those walls were once part of the same wall. How could a wall stretch all the way from Willow Wood to Egypt? Might the wall in Egypt be some dead old farmer’s wall, just something used to keep the sheep from running off? Isn’t it like insisting every grave in the ground use to be one large grave? Doesn’t that seem crazy, that we’ll all be buried in the same grave? Well that’s how all these walls being the same wall sounds too—plain crazy. This was really just Tom’s way of saying that he felt like he was walking into his sister’s grave when he entered the wall. It also felt like his mother’s grave, and that little hole his lucky quarter fell into. But complaining about the impossibility of the wall was the only way he could explain how he felt to Father Irving.

Tom heard the wall piece itself back together behind him. The insides of the wall began to glow barely enough to see the grassy ground a few feet ahead. A small red and white checkered ball sat on the grass with one side gently pressed against the wall. The neighborhood kids were all disappointed when they found out that Tom had accidentally kicked his ball into the well. But to be accurate, they never actually found that out. Tom told them he had forgotten his ball outside one night and in the morning it was gone, no trace of it, just paw prints—twice the size of the biggest dog’s he’d ever seen—right where he had left the ball. This tale helped lessen the blow of having the neighborhood’s only ball lost. Soccer was replaced by imaginary wolf hunting. The boys put together expeditions into the woods—but not too far into the woods—carrying sidewalk-sharpened sticks, fist-sized rocks and red makeshift bandanas tied around their heads while the girls picked wild flowers at the edge of the woods waiting to greet the boys like returning heroes, even when they returned empty handed, which they was always the case. That is of course until the night a frightening howl could be heard all across the village; it was so loud it even woke little boys and girls in Shady Pines, a village ten miles away. The kids didn’t talk about the howl the next day—or ever—but they all knew they’d never be going into those woods again. Except for Tom’s dear sister who couldn’t understand why all of the sudden no one was interested in hunting the wolf anymore and who never realized that the other kids hadn’t believed her brother’s story until the howl turned his lie into truth.

Father Irving said this about the wall: when the wall came down even the deaf heard it. And even the heartless felt the earth tremble.

Many years had passed since Tom had last kicked a ball. One can’t always rely on one’s body when it’s as old as his. Countless times he’d seen groups of kids playing soccer, but he could never approach them. Even if it were just a single kid kicking a ball against the side of a house or wall, he couldn’t trust his body to not make a fool of him. A single flash in his mind of laughing, pointing, mean little children, or a single glance at his awkward, bent legs and stooped back was all it took for him to put away all thoughts of playing. “You are an old man,” he’d tell himself and continue on his way. But here his body felt young again; his mind was less afraid. And, besides, there wasn’t anyone here to laugh.

Still, he approached the ball with some hesitation. Even though he was feeling younger he was still out of practice. Suppose his body couldn’t remember the correct way to kick. Taking just the right number of steps before swinging your leg back and giving a ball a good whacking always required a great deal of concentration and practice. If you were off by just one step then the whole process was botched and you’d have to start over. Luckily the interior of the wall didn’t leave much room for any heroic kicks so Tom settled on a simple tap with his toe. The ball rolled forward. No laughter. No falling. But there was joy.

He kicked again and again, sometimes a little harder sometimes a little softer. He began to run as he kicked. The breeze of childhood memories blew across his face, into his lungs and down his legs. He stopped thinking about the wall. There was no sound. There was sound, but Tom didn’t hear it. The walls behind him rumbled and closed off paths he had just run through. Similar rumblings could be heard deep within the walls. He didn’t hear himself giggle, or the dull thud of his foot impacting with the ball. Wet spots on the grass and sharp turns caused him to fall a few times but they were of the fun childish hydroplaning sorts of falls, they didn’t hurt. Without much thought he’d get back up and continue his kicking. The noise he didn’t hear grew louder and louder. He kicked harder and ran faster. Then it happened. The wall came down around Tom.

He was unharmed. His ball was lost again, buried somewhere beneath tons and tons of stone. He looked around and found other people standing inside the ruins, people he had recognized from the line. They looked scared and lost. They caused him to feel guilt for his happiness, for smiling. This is where Tom woke, still smiling, still happy.

Clank. Clank. Clank. After Father Irving’s sermon Tom and his wife went home. Tom started a fire and then sat in his favorite chair while his wife busied herself around the house: dusting, putting books back in their proper places and watering plants, all the while humming a little tune about doll-houses, tea parties and little girls. She whirled around him as he thought about the wall. He hadn’t felt this good in years. She willingly stopped at his side when he grabbed her dead hand as she headed to the kitchen. He asked, “How big do you suppose a king-sized diamond is?”

She smiled and said, “probably about the size of a soccer ball,” and then went back to humming and cleaning their home.

First Draft

2008-01-15T17:37:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm done with the first draft. I'm still excited for this story. That's momentous, usually I'm bored with whatever I'm writing before I even finish the first draft (which is why I now only have two first drafts, and I'm bored with one of them). Anyway. I think I'll post the whole thing here. I was trying to decide if it should be broken up into multiple posts over days, but that seems kind of annoying for a short story. Although, it would have the added bonus of appearing like I'm making a lot of posts and doing very well at keeping my blog alive. :)

I have to make some tweaks to formatting to make it play well on the Internet (and maybe come up with a title) before posting it. Maybe it will appear later tonight or tomorrow.

Some Kind of Perfect

2008-01-10T11:50:00.000-08:00

Awareness
Discovery
Fulfilled
An End

All Better

2008-01-10T11:40:00.000-08:00

Thanks Charles, you be the best.

The song about twenty-nine years sounds much better now. You might need to clear your cache (or refresh once you click on the link) to get the new version.

Tech Difficulties

2008-01-10T11:19:00.001-08:00

Last song I posted was wacky. I'm looking into some issues.

Next, Please

2008-01-09T11:14:00.000-08:00

I'm done with that story I was writing before the year was over (for Nate). The story sort of sucks. No really, it does. So when I say I'm "done" with it, I mean I'm done looking at it, not that it's in some sort of completed form. BUT it served a purpose in that it got me back into the habit of writing and the next thing I started working on I have loved, yes loved. It's been a joy to write and will hopefully continue to be that way. I'm so excited for it. I can hardly wait to finish it. Too bad there is this thing called work that keeps getting in the way. So it goes.

That doesn't really do much for this blog, in fact the story has horded much of my creative energies and feelings. So here's a song I've been listening to a lot lately. Around 2:45 it becomes glorious. I wonder how much of my enjoyment of the song is due to the fact that I'm twenty-nine, like when a song mentions your name you some how feel more connected to it (even though the writer/singer doesn't know a thing about you).

You know I've dreamed about you, for twenty-nine years
before I saw you
You know I dreamed about you
I've missed you for twenty-nine years

The Trees Were All Dressed in White

2008-01-06T18:48:00.000-08:00

My brother and our old friend Jerry were here this weekend. We went snowboarding, which I've done once or twice before but we decided to all board since Jerry had never skied and that would allow us all to kind of suck and feel challenged on the easy slopes. We weren't absolutely sure we were going to be able to make it up to Tahoe because the area was experiencing blizzard like conditions. I awoke at 4am Saturday morning to check the weather and roads and attempt to find a ski resort that was opened. Parts of highway 80 were closed but 50 was open (if you had 4wd or chains) so I decided on the first resort off of 50 that was open (Sierra-at-Tahoe). I woke Frank and Jerry and we headed out around5:30. It is a mere 3.5 hour drive to Tahoe that was mostly uneventful. The snow on the roads weren't too bad.

The snow at the resort was fresh (which translates to soft to fall on, which we did a lot of) but around 1pm it started snowing and blowing like crazy. Somehow this change in weather coincided perfectly with our first ride up to the very top of the mountain. It took use 1.5 hours to get down because we couldn't see more than 10 feet in front of us. So it was a bit like learning to snowboard with your eyes closed. At one point I fell down and then got up but couldn't look directly downhill without going blind so I looked down at the ground but could really tell where the ground was and I tried to get my board moving again and thought I had; I readjusted my balance for moving but it turned out I actually wasn't moving (the snow flying past my created the illusion of motion) and so I fell over again, which was even weirder because it was so white I couldn't predict when I was going to hit the ground. It was a very bizarre , and maybe humbling experiencing. I have new respect for the power of winter weather. I can see how easy it would be to get lost and confused in a powerful winter storm. The resort ended up closing early. The drive back home was slightly more challenging, mostly due to limited visibility but the roads were also slicker.

That's all a bit of a side track from my normal postings, but I had mentioned Jerry earlier and there is something profoundish about feeling lost in a sea of white. It was good to see Frank and Jerry together, obviously still good friends. That made me happy.

Love and War and all the Things in between

2008-01-03T10:54:00.000-08:00

Listen here.

Read here:

I'm nearing the end of Everything is Illuminated. There is a chapter dedicated to Jonathan's grandfather (Safran) and the Gypsy girl he loves but doesn't love. He is Jewish and has a dead right arm, she is a snake charmer, their love is forbidden, especially for him.

They exchanged notes, like children. My grandfather made his out of newspaper clippings and dropped them in her woven baskets, into which he knew only she would dare stick a hand. Meet me under the wooden bridge, and I will show you things you have never, ever seen. [This is what she told him the first time they met, sitting next to each other in a dark theater.] The "M" was taken from the army that would take his mother's life: GERMAN FRONT ADVANCES ON SOVIET BORDER; the "eet" from their approaching warships: NAZI FLEET DEFEATS FRENCH AT LESACS; the "me" from the peninsula they were blue-eyeing: GERMANS SURROUND CRIMEA; the "und" from too little, too late: AMERICAN WAR FUNDS REACH ENGLAND; the "er" from the dog of dogs: HITLER RENDERS NONAGGRESSION PACT INOPERATIVE ... an so on, on so on, each note a collage of love that could never be, and war that could.

The Gypsy girl carved love letters into trees, filling the forest with notes for him. Do not forsake me, she removed from the bark of a tree in whose shade they had once fallen asleep. Honor me, she carved into the trunk of a petrified oak. She was composing a new list of commandments, commandments they could share, that would govern a life together, and not apart. Do not have any other loves before me in your heart. Do not take my name in vain. Do not kill me. Observe me, and keep be holy.

I'd like to be wherever you are in ten years, he wrote her, gluing clips of newspaper headlines to a piece of yellow paper. Isn't that a nice idea?

A very nice idea, he found on a tree at the fringe of the forest. And why is it only an idea?

Because -- the print stained his hands; he read himself on himself -- ten years is a long time from now.

We would have to run away, carved in a circle around a maple's trunk. We would have to leave behind everything but each other.

Which is possible, he composed the fragments of the news of imminent war. It's a nice idea, anyway.

....

For all of his liaisons, for all of the women who would undress for him at the show of his dead arm, he had no other friends, and could imagine no loneliness worse than an existence without her. She was the only one who could rightly claim to know him, the only one he missed when she was not there, and missed even before she was absent. She was the only one who wanted more of him than his arm.

I don't love you, he told her one evening as they lay naked in the grass.

She kissed his brow and said, I know that. And I'm sure you know that I don't love you.

Of course, he said, although it came as a great surprise -- not that she didn't love him, but that she would say it. In the past seven years of love-making he had heard the words so many times: from the mouths of widows and children, from prostitutes, family friends, travelers, and adulterous wives. Women had said I love you without his ever speaking. The more you love someone, he came to think, the harder it is to tell them. It surprised him that stranger didn't stop each other on the street to say I love you.

My parents have arranged a marriage, he said.

For you?

With a girl named Zosha. From my shtetl. I'm seventeen.

And do you love her? she asked without looking at him.

He broke his life into its smallest constituent parts, examined each, like a watchmaker, and then reassembled it.

I hardly know her. He also avoided eye contact, because like Pincher P. who lived in the streets as a charity case, having donated even his last coin to the poor, his eyes would have given away everything.

Are you going to go through with it? she asked, drawing circles in the earth with her caramel fingers.

I don't have a choice, he said.

Of course.

She would not look at him.

You will have such a happy life, she said. You will always be happy.

Why are you doing this?

Because you are so lucky. Real and lasting happiness is within your reach.

Stop, he said. You're not being fair.

I would like to meet her.

No you wouldn't

Yes I would. What's her name? Zosha? I would like very much to meet Zosha and tell her how happy she will be. What a lucky-girl. She must be very beautiful.

I don't know.

You've seen her, haven't you?

Yes.

Then you know if she's beautiful. Is she beautiful?

I guess.

More beautiful than I am?

Stop.

I would like to attend the wedding, to see for myself. Well, not the wedding, of course. A Gypsy girl couldn't enter the synagogue. The reception, though. You are going to invite me, aren't you?

You know that isn't possible, he said, turning away.

I know it isn't possible, she said, knowing that she had pushed it too far, been too cruel.

It isn't possible.

I told you: I know.

But you have to believe me.

I do.

They made love for the last time, unaware that the next seven months would pass without any words between them. He would see her many times, and she him -- they had come to haunt the same places, to walk the same paths, to fall asleep in the shade of the same trees -- but they would never acknowledge each other's existence. They both wanted badly to go back seven years to their first encounter, at the theater, and do it all again, but this time not to notice each other, not to talk, not to leave theater, she leading him by his dead right arm through a maze of muddy alleys, past the confectioners' stands by the old cemetery, down the Jewish/Human fault line, and so on and so on into the blackness. For seven months they would ignore each other at the bazaar, at the Dial, and at the fountain of the prostrate mermaid, and they were sure they could ignore each other anywhere and always, sure they could be complete strangers, but where proven wrong when he returned home one afternoon from work only to pass her on her way out of his house.

What are you doing here? he asked, more afraid that she had revealed their relationship -- to his father, who would surely beat him, or his mother, who would be so disappointed -- than curious as to why she was there.

Your books are arranged by the color of their spines, she said. How stupid.

The most important part

2008-01-02T08:03:00.000-08:00

My eyes ~~alight~~ ~~linger~~ ~~stay~~ ~~rest~~ fall upon the hem of your dress
You lift the sides
revealing bare feet and spring-time mud
a heart discovers love
Soaked by the rain that covers
your dress, my hair, our world, all the rest
Spring will always turn to Summer
then Fall
stubborn-Winter
stubborn-eyes
stubborn-heart
But (and this is the most important part)
The spring-time mud ~~always~~ always returns

If I could, I would make it so nothing ever hit the ground again.

2008-01-01T17:41:00.002-08:00

"And then the General came to my father." It was not too dark for me to see that Grandfather closed his eyes. "Spit, he said." "Did he?" "No," she said, and she said no as if it was any other word from any other story, not having the weight it had in this one. "Spit, the General with blond hair said." "And he did not spit?" She did not say no, but she rotated her head from this to that. "He put it in my mother's mouth, and he said spit or." "He put it in her mother's mouth." "No," the hero said without volume. "I will kill her here and now if you do not spit, the General said, but he would not spit." "And?" Grandfather asked. "And he killed her." I will tell you that what made this story most scary was how rapid it was moving. I do not mean what happened in the story, but how the story was told. I felt that it could not be stopped. "It is not true," Grandfather said, but only to himself. "Then the General put the gun in the mouth of my younger sister, who was four years old. She was crying very much. I remember that. Spit, he said, spit or." "Did he?" Grandfather asked. "No," she said. "He did not spit," I told the hero. "Why didn't he spit?" "And the General shot my sister. I could not look at her, but I remember the sound of when she hit the ground. I hear that sound when things hit the ground still. Anything." If I could, I would make it so nothing ever hit the ground again.
-- Another quote from Everything is Illuminated.

What is love?

2007-12-31T17:09:00.000-08:00

This is love, she thought, isn't it? When you notice someone's absence and hate that absence more than anything? More, even, than you love their presence?
-- Another quote from Everything is Illuminated.

Today

2007-12-29T09:31:00.000-08:00

I plan on impressing myself with many verbs and nouns.

More Illumination

2007-12-27T21:16:00.001-08:00

Maybe you're wondering if it's really worth typing all of this--it is. Even if no one ever reads it it's worth feeling the words travel through my fingertips. I thought after the first chapter this book was just going to be funny, but it's much more.

Yankel had lost two babies, one to fever and the other to the industrial flour mill, which had taken a shtetl member's life every year since it first opened. He had also lost a wife, not to death but to another man. He had returned from an afternoon at the library to find a note covering the SHALOM! of their home's welcome mat: I had to do it for myself.

Lilla F fingered the soil around one of her daisies. Bitzl Bitzl stood by his kitchen window, pretending to scrub the counter clean. Shloim W peered through the upper bulb of one of the hourglasses with which he could no longer bring himself to part. No one said anything as Yankel read the note, and no one ever said anything afterward, as if the disappearance of his wife weren't the slightest bit unusual, or as if they hadn't noticed that he had been married at all.

Why couldn't she have slid it under the door? he wondered. Why couldn't she have folded it? It looked just like any other note she would leave him like, Could you try to fix the broken knocker? or I'll be back soon, don't worry. It was so strange to him that such a different kind of note -- I had to do it for myself -- could look exactly the same: trivial, mundane, nothing. He could have hated her for leaving it there in plain sight, and he could have hated her for the plainness of it, a message without adornment, without any small clue to indicate that yes, this is important, yes, this is the most painful note I've ever written, yes, I would sooner die than have to write this again. Where were the dried teardrops? Where was the tremor in the script?

But his wife was his first and only love, and it was the nature of those from the tiny shtetl to forgive their first and only loves, so he forced himself to understand, or pretend to understand. He never once blamed her for fleeing to Kiev with the traveling and mustachioed bureaucrat who was called to help mediate the messy proceedings of Yankel's shameful trial; the bureaucrat could promise to provide for her future, could take her away from everything, move her to someplace quieter, without thinking, without confessions or plea-bargaining. No, that's not it. Without Yankel. She wanted to be without Yankel.

He spent the next weeks blocking scenes of the bureaucrat fucking his wife. On the floor with cooking ingredients. Standing, with socks still on. In the grass of the yard of their new and immense house. He imagined her making noises she never made for him and feeling pleasures he could never provide because the bureaucrat was a man, and he was not a man. Does she suck his penis? he wondered. I know this is a silly thought, a thought that will only bring me pain, but I can't free myself of it. And when she sucks his penis, because she must, what is he doing? Is he pulling her hair back to watch? Is he touching her chest? Is he thinking of someone else? I'll kill him if he is.

With the shtetl still watching -- Lilla still fingering, Bitzl Bitzl still scrubbing, Shloim still pretending to measure time and sand -- he folded the note into a teardrop shape, slid it into his lapel, and went inside. I don't know what to do, he thought. I should probably kill myself.

He couldn't bear to live, but he couldn't bear to die. He couldn't bear the thought of her making love to someone else, but neither could he bear the absence of the thought. And as for the note, he couldn't bear to keep it, but he couldn't bear to destroy it either. So he tried to lose it. He left it by the wax-weeping candle holders, placed it between matzos every Passover, dropped it without regard among rumpled papers on his cluttered desk, hoping it wouldn't be there when he returned. But it was always there. He tried to massage it out of his pocket while sitting on the bench in front of the fountain of the prostrate mermaid, but when he inserted his hand for his hanky, it was there. He hid it like a bookmark in one of the novels he most hated, but the note would appear several days later between the pages of one of the Western books that he alone in the shtetl read, one of the books that the note had now spoiled for him forever. But like his life, he couldn't for the life of him lose the note. It kept returning to him. It stayed with him, like a part of him, like a birthmark, like a limb, it was on him, in him him, his hymn: I had to do it for myself.

He had lost so many slips of paper over time, and keys, pens, shirts, glasses, watches, silverware. He had lost a shoe, his favorite opal cufflinks (the Sloucher fringes of his sleeves bloomed unruly), three years away from Trachimbrod, millions of ideas he intended to write down (some of them wholly original, some of them deeply meaningful), his hair, his posture, two parents, two babies, a wife, a fortune in pocket change, more chances than could be counted. He had even a lost name: he was Safran before he fled the shtetl, Safran from birth to his first death. There seemed to be nothing he couldn't lose. But that slip of paper wouldn't disappear, eveer, and neither would the image of his prostrate wife, and neither would the thought that if he could, it might greatly improve his life to end it.

Before the trial, Yankel-thenSafran was unconditionally admired. He was the president (and treasurer and secretary and only member) of the Committee for the Good and Fine Arts, and the founder, multiterm chairman, and only teacher fo the School for Loftier Learning, which met in his house and whose classes were attended by Yankel himself. I twas not unusual for a family to host a multicourse dinner in his name (if not in his presence), or for one of the more wealthy community members to commission a traveling artist to paint a portrait of him. And the portraits were always flattering. He was someone whom everyone admired and like but whome nobody knew. He was like a book that you could feel good holding, that you could tal about without ever having read, that you could recommend.

On the advice of his lawyer, Isaac M, Who gestured quotation marks in the air with every syllable of every word he spoke, Yankel pleaded guilt to all charges of unfit practices, with the hope that it might lighten his punishment. In the end, he lost his usurer's license. And more than his license. He lost his good name, which is, as they say, the only thing worse than losing your good health. Passersby sneered at him or muttered under their breath names like scoundrel, cheat, cur, fucker. He wouldn't have been so hated if he hadn't been so loved before. But along with the Garden-Variety Rabbi and Sofiowka, he was one of the vertices of the community 00 the invisible one -- and with his shame came a sense of imbalance, a void.

Safran moved through the neighboring villages, finding work as a teacher of harpsichord theory and performance, a perfume consultant (feigning deafness and blindness to grant himself some legitimacy in the absence of references), and even an ill-starred stint as the world's worst fortuneteller -- I'm not going to lie and tell you that the future is full of promise... He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feelings that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others -- the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad.

After three years he returned to the shtetl -- I am the final piece of proof that all citizens who leave eventually return -- and lived a quiet life like a Sloucher fring, sewn to the sleeve of Trachimbrod, forced to wear that horrible bead around his neck as a mark of his shame. He changed his name to Yankel, the name of the bureaucrat who ran away with his wife, and asked that no one ever call him Safran again (although he thought he heard that name every now and then, muttered behind his back). Many of his old clients returned to him, and while they refused to pay the rates of his heyday, he was nevertheless able to reestablish himself in the shtetl of his birth 00 as all who are exiled eventually try to do.

When the black-hatted men gave him the baby, he felt that he too was only a baby, with a chance to live without shame, without need of consolation for a life lived wrong, a chance to be again innocent, simply and impossibly happy. He named her Brod, after the river of her curious birth, and gave her a string necklace of her own, with the tiny abacus bead of her own, so she would never feel out of place in what would be her family.

As my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother grew, she remembered, of course, nothing, and was told nothing. Yankel made up a story about her mother's early death - painless, in childbirth-- and answered the many questions that arose in the way he felt would cause her the least pain. It was her mother who gave her those beautiful beg ears. It was her mother's sense of humor that all the boys admired to much in her. He told Brod of vacations he and his wife had taken (when she pulled a splinter from his heel in Venice, when he sketched a red-pencil portrait of her in front of a tall fountain in Paris), showed her love letters they had sent each other (writing with his left hand those from Brod's mother), and put her to bed with stories of their romance.

Was it love at first sight, Yankel?

I loved your mother even before seeing her -- it was her smell!

Tell me about what she looked like again.

She looked like you. She was beautiful, with those mismatched eyes, like you. One blue, one brown, like yours. She had your strong cheekbones and also your soft skin.

What was her favorite book?

Genesis, of course.

Did she believe in God?

She would never tell me.

How long were her fingers?

This long.

And her legs?

Like this.

Tell me again about how she would blow on your face before she kissed you.

Well that's just it, she would blow on my lips before she kissed me, like I was some very hot food and she was going to eat me!

Was she funny? Funnier than me?

She was the funniest person in the world. Exactly like you.

She was beautiful?

It was inevitable: Yankel fell in love with his never-wife. He would wake from sleep to miss the weight that never depressed the bed next to him, remember in earnest the weight of gestures she never made, long for the un0weight of her un-arm slung over his too real chest, making his widower's remembrances that much more convince and his pain that much more real. He felt that he had lost her. He had lost her. At night he would reread the letters that she had never written to him.

Dearest Yankel,

I'll be home to you soon, so there's no need for you to carry on with your missing me so much, however sweet it may be. You're so silly. Do you know that? Do you know how silly you are? Maybe that's why I love you so much, because I'm also silly.

Things are wonderful here. It's very beautiful, just as you promised it would be. The people have been kind, and I'm eating well, which I only mention because I know that you're always worried about me taking good enough care of myself. Well I am, so don't worry.

I really miss you. It's just about unbearable. Every moment of every day I think about your absence, and it almost kills me. But of course I'll be back with you soon, and will not have to miss you, and will not have to know that something, everything, is missing, that what is here is only what is not here. I kiss my pillow before I go to sleep and imagine it's you. It sounds like something you might do, I know. That's probably why I do it.

It almost worked. He had repeated the details so many times that it was nearly impossible to distinguish them from the facts. But the real note kept returning to him, and that, he was sure, was what kept him from the most simple and impossible thing: happiness. I had to do it for myself. Brod discovered it one day when she was only a few years old. It had found its way into her right pocket, as if the note had a mind of its own, as if those seven scribbled words were capable of wanting to inflict reality. I had to do it for myself. She either sensed the immense importance of it or deemed it entirely unimportant, because she never mentioned it to Yankel, but put it on his bedside table, where he would find it that night after rereading another letter that was not from her mother, nor from his wife. I had to do it for myself.

I am not sad.

Things that are old

2007-12-27T13:58:00.000-08:00

My old blog has finally resurfaced after many a months of being M.I.A. I don't know why it disappeared in the first place (besides a general overabundance of suckiness) nor how it happened to reappear. With such a mystery in the air I feel it is best to stay here in the warm loving folds of Blogger and Google. But here's a link for reference (in case you find my musings THAT interesting).

Holiday Travel

2007-12-20T20:47:00.001-08:00

I don't recall ever driving long distances in winter snows. I do recall riding in a car when I was younger but never actually doing the driving. Soon, tomorrow, I'll be making such a trip. Twenty-nine grand years of life and he finally puts himself on a frozen road. I'm a little nervous. I'm hoping the pass separating California from Nevada is mostly clear so I don't have to put chains on the tires. I wish I hadn't sold my all-wheel-drive Subaru to a stunt man.

This reminds me of road trips we took to Idaho while living in Indiana. Crossing the mid-west we saw some amazing thunderstorms. But mostly I remember we had one of those giant family size vans. It was so nice to be able to spread out and sleep in a moving vehicle, not worrying about anything in the world except how many fish I'd catch or how long we'd have to stay at Grandma's smoky house.

Thunder still sparks across those plains. Yes, thunder.

Everything is Illuminated

2007-12-19T14:54:00.000-08:00

I'm somewhat loath to admit that I've started reading a new book. Mainly I don't want to admit it because I'm so fond of Courtney and I know how excited she was to have me (anyone really) read Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell, but the two gentlemen magicians are boring me. I still plan on powering through the remaining 400 pages and would be doing so right now if not for a series of unplanned events. See I was heading to a place where reading is often required, the bathroom, and grabbed the closest thing along that path from my desk, which happened to be a splendidly colored book entitled Everything is Illuminated.

I read the first couple paragraphs and thought, "oh dear, Jonathan Safranis Foer is full of himself and his vocabulary." Then I realized that the narrator isn't a native English speaker and uses the vocabulary enlargement in an attempt to impress the reader AND he uses the words from slightly to completely wrong. It turned out to be quite funny. The most extreme example so far is his use of the word "retarded" in place of "retired" when describing his grandfather.

Later, riding the Muni on my way to basketball, I was so engrossed in the book that I missed my stop and didn't realize until the train had gone two or three stops past mine. I also literally laughed out loud; in hindsight I suspect people may have thought I was borderline crazy, but I'm not sure if there were even any people there, so whatever.

This book requires that I finish it before going back to the gentleman with thistledown hair and his two human counterparts. Forgive me Courtney, forgive me.

Verge

2007-12-18T15:47:00.000-08:00

Somewhere someone is doing something amazing.

I Must have had a Hundred Nightmares

2007-12-17T15:42:00.001-08:00

I have this tendency to worry when people take longer than expected to get somewhere or return home. This is a double-edged sword, especially with Robyn who is notoriously late for most everything. On the one hand I worry myself sick awaiting her return. On the other hand I'm never angry when she finally arrives, just happy that she has made it home. This isn't something that is limited to her, I do it with most everyone, but it comes up most frequently with her.

The first verse of this song gives me the chills because of my special relationship with worry and Chevrolet trains. It's a song I've owned for a while but only recently discovered and loved. Luckily there is little worry about the last verse.

Drive well friends.

Change

2007-12-15T14:31:00.000-08:00

Not the loose stuff in your pocket.

Today we've been moving Robyn into her studio. This is a change. It's big. Not quite like Everest.

For the last six months or so we've both been working from home so her spending half her time at the studio will be an adjustment. She says leaving her home office is like breaking up with an old friend.

One might think that growing up a military brat I'd be pretty adept at change. However, this hasn't proven to be true. I seem to grasp a hold of things and change very reluctantly. Maybe it's never having the stability, predictability and control that nonmilitary families have that has caused me to latch on. I'm good at accepting new things into my life, it's the other direction that is hard.

This song choice might not seem obvious, but it is to me, not so much the words but my relationship to it. It's been listened to a lot.

A Jam Session

2007-12-12T23:31:00.000-08:00

I heard this tonight.

I think my new bosses are socialites of the Technology World. It's kind of nerdy and kind of endearing. Nerdy isn't that bad of a thing in my book--recall, if you will, that in high school I was captain of the chess team and math champion.

Today they said I could work less if I went out with them to a giant meeting of nerds, there would be cocktails and a post party that included a jam session. I don't drink, and I don't socialize well (I imagine many in the group aren't so great at the latter either). So I wasn't thrilled about this proposition--it's not often I feel like I'd rather be working--but I agreed to go out with them. I was informed that the jam session would include "David S., 'Mr. Model Driven Development' himself".

At this point I was worried that I was about to get sucked into some techno-groupie-after-party-thing where we all stand around worshiping David S. I had conjured up this image of Jabba The Hut with Princess Leia chained to his person. We'd walk by and bow to him as he spat out some computer science gibberish no one really understood and, if we were lucky, we could get near enough to throw grapes into his gaping mouth. So also, obviously, the jam session I imagined involved little aliens playing silly horns and drums. I was seriously starting to dread this after party.

Luckily it turned out nothing like what my imagination had concocted. David was a small, soft spoken man. I was introduced to him, we shook hands and he moved onto unloading his guitars and mandolin. Two other men who I hadn't been introduced to took two of his instruments and began the process of tuning them. Meanwhile, the sounds of computer science ultra geek speak filled the room. Then one of the musicians took the lead and started playing, the other two--David S. included--followed. After their first little jam, David S. brought out some lyrics with chords written above them and asked if he could sing this particular song. It ended up being a Bruce Springsteen song I'd never heard of. He couldn't say enough good things about it. At first I thought the guys were doing a pretty poor job with the song but then I realized I didn't have much to compare it to because this was the first jam session I'd ever been to. I've plenty of friends who play guitar and I have heard them do their own songs solo but I'd never experience a group of guys sitting down with little to no prior preparation and playing music as a unit. Maybe they did well, maybe they didn't, but I enjoyed it. They were all older gentlemen, probably in their 50s and 60s, so most of the music reflected their age: Bob Dillon, Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton and The Boss. Yet watching them play, and truly enjoying themselves, they were all still little boys--no where near as scary as Jabba.

I was reminded once again that I wish I could play the guitar.

Remember Me, Fondly

2007-12-12T13:40:00.000-08:00

Finally getting around to posting The Trapeze Swinger, as promised.

Treasonous Traitor (for k8)

2007-12-11T10:43:00.000-08:00

This is a stretch, but I think I may have unconsciously stolen the idea of posting songs on my blog from Katie, so I had to come up with something.

In a comment to a previous post, Katie said, "i'd like to hear more about this changing jobs thing as i'm sort of looking to do the same thing. after almost 6 years in one place-i feel like a traitor."

A little history.
Once there was this company that made a decent product but could never sell it. We weren't exactly Arrested Development but we were adding value and pleasing a small set of customers. Then there was another company who did something similar and was also struggling. They purchased my company and somehow that made their struggle less of a struggle (they don't have a lot of expenses and the added revenue from our customers worked out well for them). At that point all of my stock options, that I'd hung many life dreams on, made this great swishing sound as they went down the toilet. The job market isn't so bad out here but I think the new company thought they were doing a select few employees a favor by letting them keep their job without any pay raises or replacement stocks. In fact, and I hate to brag--except for on Tuesdays and look at what day it is--they decided they wouldn't buy the company if I wasn't going to stay. I hate looking for work so I agreed to this staying, and truly honestly intended on staying. I also made it clear up front that I thought I should be getting some replacement stock but I was given the "we'll see how the CEO feels about my value in a year" song and dance. This is a boring song and dance that wasn't making me very thrilled to sing and hop around the floor (partner had bad breather perhaps).

Then a few months later my boss, who wasn't graced with the privilege of staying for less pay (like I was, and by less pay I mean minus my stock options I use to hold near and dear (yes like a teddy bear)) called me up and said he wanted me to come be the lead developer on a new project he was working on and, oh by the way, we'll pay you whatever you want. This presented a moral dilemma for me, I certainly would like to get paid whatever I want but I'd made a promise about sticking around. Everyone I talked to said, "leave." So maybe I was feeling like a traitor. But I hadn't gone looking for a job and what kind of fool passes up chests overflowing with gold (or even silver)? Not this type of fool apparently; I do other foolish things instead. Anyway it did take me quite a while to decide to make the move. What it came down to was the money and the fact that I'd be working on a product that would really help people. As a last ditch effort to stay where I was I told them I wanted more money than I thought they would agree to but then they did. Even then I wrote a long drawn out letter to my boss explaining how things happened and how I really did enjoy working with him and I thought the company was doing well but life happens. And I offered to give him two months notice so he could find a replacement and I could train them for a month. This is actually where I learned the most. They were VERY grateful for my "generosity." I found they understood the financial and personal decision and they were just happy that I was making the exit as pain free for them as possible. They said I was welcome back anytime, and I was eventually able to walk away feeling quite good about myself, the old company and the new company.

I'm starting to get bored with my post again.

Here's the thing people told me: it's business. When the company feels they're done with you they won't hesitate to get rid of you. And really if you're doubting how much you want to be at a place perhaps it ends up being better for both sides if you make a graceful exit. They can get someone new who is eager beaver (though probably not nearly as talented and charming as Katie) and you can move onto another job where you will razzle and dazzle the eyes right out of your new employer. That being said, I still have a hint of guilt about leaving the old job, but in a month it will feel like THE right answer. Unless it's a Jupiter month, then heaven knows how we'll feel.

Guitar

2007-12-10T10:21:00.000-08:00

This might not seem related but it is.

I was watching Juno the other day and recalled (for the ten-thousandth-and-second time) that not knowing how to play a musical instrument is kind of depressing. I've made a plan to start learning how to move my hands around a guitar once the new year starts. I know what you're thinking, why wait? It's because I promised Nate a story and I can only take on so many projects at once.

Wait, what? Guitar? Juno? Superstar?

Well, most of the main characters in Juno played the guitar, none of them were super stars but they had them laying around their rooms, they could pick other people's up and strum out a little music. That's really all the more I want. The song was in the movie. See it's all connected. Also the song is great, and meta (music about music, and love, of course).