precious little things

I was going to write a whole post on things I learned on Facebook, but I started to go over the content in my head while I was cutting the bushes and realized there probably wasn’t all that much there.

One of the most interesting things to me is that Facebook is a clear record of those times when I was more gregarious and those times when I was, well, introverted. High School, college and, now seem to be the three big times in my life when I formed lasting friendships, and the friendships that I formed seem to be pretty good.

I was pretty insecure growing up, who isn’t, and was pleasantly surprised to find people were just as happy to reconnect with me as I was with them. Moreover, old friends actually made a point of telling me that they had thought about me from time to time over the intervening years and that on a few occasions, I had actually made some impact on a few individuals lives. Spooky.

I was painting the other day and decided that the painting looked, well rainbowish. I recalled a proof by Descartes that discussed the optics of the Rainbow and superimposed the image onto the painting. Later, playing with S. in the yard I watched as she darted to and fro through a sprinkler. As one point she stopped and retraced her steps and stared at the stream of water. “A rainbow” she exclaimed. I couldn’t see one but realized almost instantly that she had purposefully retraced her steps because the rainbow was only visible from one particular point of view. It was Descartes theorem. I think I am going to paint a gigantic image of a push-up frozen ice cream treat in the middle of that painting reminding me of the outside fun and games of my own youth, as well as my time spent with S.

Both the image of the proof and the push-pop came unbidden and at completely different times. I am not even sure how they fit together, even after telling you about it here, but the thing is, they do and I I feel it, as much as know it.

Some things seem to matter so much and other things just fall off the radar. Worse I am a terrible judge of what those moments will be. I have a crystal clear memory of putting ketchup on some french fries at the pool when I was about six. Just the ketchup. Nothing else. But I remember that moment with such pristine clarity that I can actually summon the scent and the taste of the gleaming red liquid. I would tell you more but the baby is crying and least this be one of those moments for her, I am off to rescue her from what is undoubtedly only a minor inconvenience

Siesta

There is a kind of drowsy that is born of a lack of breakfast, triple digets before eleven and the feeding of a gnawing hunger that consisted of a handful of cashews, a dozen or so chips that served as the vehicle for green mountain gringo hot salsa, a cheese sandwich and few olives.

The oppression of heat and a full belly cause a myriad of phantom sensations: restlessness and lethargy, a kind of soulful emptiness and a bloated belly, an unquenchable thirst for water and its disdain. The desire is to work, and to sleep, to dream and to make tangible the stretch of the second hand.

Here there is longing and pity, the rising feeling of inadequacy. Nothing seems possible when it is hot. “Give your appliances the afternoon off” quips J. She looks at my unresponsive features and says “don’t you remember those commercials?” My mind turns to images of women fanning themselves on the front porch with weathered copies of Life magazine. “Bring Mama another martini” I joke. “That paper mache isn’t going to make itself” she responds.

The one who floods the private sanctuary
I've built, who takes away sleep,
who drags and throws me under,
that presence is the joy I speak. -Rumi

I think about drinking another glass of water. A dull ache appears in my belly in protest. “It is going to be hot and dry,” said the weatherman. All I can think about is the clammy moister that relentlessly clings. “Why can’t we go home” whine the students. “Because you paid me to be here. It wouldn’t be right me asking you to leave now.” “But we don’t mind.”

A tinny blues recording whines from the stereo. The fan hums on the living room floor. The cats, stretched out on the carpet, remain motionless as the three year-old screams “but I don’t want to nap!” “Yeah?” I think. “And that paper mache isn’t going to make itself.”

puzzle pieces

Coddleston, coddleston, coddleston pie. A fish can’t whistle and neither can I. Ask me a riddle and I’ll reply coddleston, coddleston, coddleston pie.

I was sitting in a hotel in San Blas with Adam. Adam had come along on the trip at the request of his girlfriend Amara, only Adam and Amara broke up two weeks before and now she was seeing Brad. Adam didn’t have the decency to bow out or sell his ticket and came along anyway. Brad and Amara had the sense to get a room in a hotel on the other side of the plaza and, in a cost saving move, I had offered to share a room with Adam, which meant I got to watch his slow mental deterioration over the course of the two week holiday as he watched his ex-girlfriend frolic in the hot Mexican sand with another man. It was something straight out of a Somerset Maugham novel.

“Two monks were traveling together,” Adam continued. “Devout and holy men, they had been together for twenty years sharing life together though neither had ever spoken a word. One day they came to an impassible river. With neither boat nor bridge in sight the first monk turned to walk back they way they came when the second held out his had. Without a word he gingerly stepped into the water. Miraculously the water bore his weight and first one foot and then the other he proceeded to walk across the river. When he had reached the far side he turned and beckoned his friend to follow. The first monk stared incredulously at the second and then shouted “If I had known you were such a charlatan I would never have walked with you” turned and walked back up the dusty road.”

Adam smiled smugly at me.
“What?” I asked.
“You don’t get it do you?”
“No” I said, “I don’t”
“It’s about the abuse of power.”
I looked at him for a minute trying to decide whether to say something or not. Adam was enjoying one of the few confident moments he had enjoyed all week. I looked at his haughty smile. It was tiresome. Finally I shrugged and said “Oh that part I got.” I paused as he looked up at me with disbelief “but if the second monk was so much better why did he break his vow of silence?”

Coddleston, coddleston, coddleston pie. A fly can’t bird but a bird can fly. Ask me a riddle and I’ll reply coddleston, coddleston, coddleston pie.

Standing in my makeshift studio in the garage I am surrounded by canvas that refuses to cooperate. My eye lands on a piece I was working on yesterday “That is a dark purple” I think to myself, “I wonder what it would look like with white?” I reach down and grab the corners and lift it towards the easel. I feel something prickling on my hand as I lower the canvas the prickling moves. It is a roach. I drop the canvas and shake my hand. The bug drops to the floor and I stomp on it. “Very un-Buddha-like” I think as I kick the bug and send it skidding only to come to a rest up side down beside the trashcan. I gather brush and paint and turn towards the canvas, casting one long sideways glance back to the dead roach. It is missing. “A people should know when they are defeated” I think.

Coddleston, coddleston, coddleston pie. Why does chicken? I dont know why. Ask me a riddle and I’ll reply coddleston, coddleston, coddleston pie.

G’s shrieks emanates from the bathroom. Moments later she emerges and calmly asks “Today is the last day of swim lessons?”
“Yes.”
“And afterwards we go to Braum’s” she asks, again, calmly
“Yes”
“Why did you scream in the bathroom?” asks her sister.
G. stares at her sister with disbelief.

phone greetings

The air is incredibly humid. Going for a walk is like taking a long swim. “Is that a gas station?” I ask myself. I walk over the long field. The remnants of an old road are buried under the long grass. The debris of broken glass, discarded bottles and shreds of paper remain. “I wonder if they sell beer.”

My name is winsome. “I simply love your dimples.”
“Thank you” I say.
“Do all your children have them?”
(Internal sigh) “Yes” I say pleasantly.

The secret jambalaya? Use the grill. Grill sausage, chicken, bell peppers and onions slowly over an open grill. Only later do you throw them in a pot with a bunch of celery and tomato. Add Stock, bring to boil, add rice and slow cook to perfection.

I know I have talked about this before. I don’t eat meat. Well I do eat seafood. But really, how important is it? Some say “you haven’t eaten meat in TWENTY years?” It’s as if they were saying “You haven’t taken a breath in Twenty years?” For some people raw hamburger is the equivalent of a good deep breath of air or a drink of clear water. Forget trying to figure out why I am a vegetarian-ish person, and try to figure this out.

What you put in your mouth will not defile you, rather it is what comes out of your mouth that will defile you.

My name is corn silk. “When are you going back to South Dakota?”
“Never.” I say this matter-of-factly for greater emphasis.
“Why not?”
“There is nothing there for me.”

I used to know exactly how much money I had. I would keep a running total in my mind. Checking account minus this month’s charges on the credit card plus tips equals how much we have to go till rent. Not to lay blame, seriously, no blame, but this equation stopped to matter after I got into my relationship with J. Tension in our relationship has often been about money. Typical, I think. Not to be too much of a stereotype, but men fight about sex, and women fight about money. Men fight about something else, and women fight about chores… (I would keep this going but I am still thinking about sex)

Ninth grade. English class. Mr. Harnes. “A survey was taken of a college sociology class. The students were asked to write down what they were thinking about when they walked into the class room. 72% of the men said sex. 84% of the women said sex.” Mr. Harnes leered at the women in the class knowingly. I looked at him and thought, “but how many enjoyed it?”

“You changed your haircut.”
“I am surprised you said anything at all” chimed in another student.
“Why?” I said
“Comments about personal appearance can be misconstrued as sexual harassment.”
I felt the air in the room thin. “Really?” I said. “It’s come to that?”
“Apparently.”

My name is hot iron. “I never give it a moments thought.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know, I guess I am just impulsive.”

The phone rings, "a hoy hoy?" I say. What does one say when answering the phone? "Who the hell is this?" or "What do you want?" Kleburg county Texas became the first county in America to mandate that civil workers answer the phone "heaven-o."
I wonder, can they put a question mark on the end? "Heaven-o?" as if to say, "Who is this?" or will it be misconstrued as an article of faith, in which case answering the phone becomes "where are we going with this?"

Eternal Return

Everything seems to slow. You can feel the rivulet of sweat as it trickles its way down the back of your neck.

Looking at D. packing up for a sleep over, I feel a moment of relief. She has been kind of cranky lately and it takes its toll, seconds later my mind has done an imperceptible shift. I am going to miss her. I look at her. Her features are so like my own. Is this how people perceive me, happy one minute that I am there, and thankful the next that I am gone? My mind boggles at the possibility that I have learned something about myself in so sudden a moment.

The child has grown, the dream has gone…

Walking tonight with S. the twilight took on that strange stillness that one experiences like the calm that overshadows everything just before a storm. The light made the world glow with and eerie incandescence. I feel as though I could reach out and shatter the moment with the touch of my fingertips.

Rain has clotted the sidewalks with runoff. Mud is everywhere. It sticks to the tires of S.’s big wheel and the soles of my shoes. I try to wipe it off in the grass, only to get a thick coat of grass stuck onto the remaining layer of mud. I try to wash it off in a puddle only to feel the dampness invade my socks. The mud remains. I look behind as we walk on. Black footprints and tire marks follow. I smile. I imagine a tracker in a forest coming upon these marks and thinking, “there were two of them, one by foot and another by cart.” What would anyone want with this information?

A message pops into the inbox. “To see the comment thread, follow the link below:”

I try not to think about work. Well, not the work itself, but the endgames the personal agendas, and the closed door gossip. They are lies. Like treasures that beckon to lead me off of the path. If I but touch one, I will turn to stone. I fix my gaze on the present. I like what I do and I continue to keep my focus on that fact alone.

Long, narrow lines of blue shimmer on the surface of the canvas. In between the various stripes are ochre, olive green, magenta, and umber. Color spring across the surface, ethereal and corporeal bow to one another on the dance floor “"Queen of diamonds, Jack of spades, meet your partner, now let’s promenade."

In my dream I am sitting in an auditorium listening to a motivational speaker, someone walks in, he looks like Michael Douglas, though I think he was meant to represent my father. He beckons to the stage, where there are a half dozen tables each with a pair of chairs. Reluctantly I stand up to join him in one of the opposing seats. I look at the audience and quip “too bad it isn’t Texas hold’em” the audience laughs. The speaker continues: “affirmative reinforcement ensures a positive outcome of the events. The subject, by addressing his own needs, has predetermined the eventual outcome of all possible results.” The poker game begins. I look up. My brother is sitting in the chair opposite, diligently studying his cards. In front of him is a huge pot of chips. Without ever seeing the cards I know that I have won the hand.

All of this has happened before and all of it will happen again.

One night I was reading a childrens story to D. “More than anything a woman longs for children. Desperate she receives a magic seed from a witch. Once planted, a tiny girl emerges from its flower. The woman names the child Thumbelina. One night, Thumbelina is asleep in her walnut-shell cradle and is carried off by a toad who wants her as a bride for her son. Thumbelina escapes the toad and her son, and drifts on a lily pad. Winter comes and Thumbelina is given shelter by a field mouse in exchange for some house cleaning. The mouse suggests Thumbelina marry her neighbor, a mole. Thumbelina finds the prospect of being married to a mole unattractive, but the field mouse will not listen to her protests. Thumbelina escapes by fleeing to a far land with a swallow she nursed back to health during the winter. In a field of flowers, Thumbelina meets a fairy prince just her size, and eventually they wed. Thumbelina receives a pair of wings to accompany her husband on his travels from flower to flower, and a new name: Maia.”

She looks up at me and said “was that bird dead?”
“No, it was just sick.”
“Will you die someday?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want you to die.”
At which point, for no explainable reason, I launched into a description of the eternal return. “the universe contains a finite amount of matter, while time is viewed as being infinite. The universe has no starting or ending state, and everything in it is constantly changing. The number of possible changes is finite, and so sooner or later everything will line up just exactly as it has happened before. Someday all of this, you and me, will happen again and we will be sitting here having this exact same conversation.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”

What keeps me up at midnight

When I was six I sat in a rocking chair in my grandmothers bedroom, as I was sitting there my great aunt came into the room and started to undress, she looked at me and laughed and I ran from the room, terrified.

All of my daughters were nursed in a rocking chair. Their sweet faces quiet and still. I am on the outside looking in. How can both of these objects be called rocking chair?

Every day I wake up and go outside to get the newspaper off the driveway. I see my neighbors tree in the front yard, its waxen leaves raised to the dawn. Later I jog past the tree on my morning run. It is there to greet the mailman. It is there when I leave for work, and again when I return.

Stroller?

Deck?

Car would be hard.

Fence… does fence go with deck?

Brick wall… does brick wall go with deck, no asparagus makes it something new…

10 things I see every day.

I used to wonder if it is we who perceive the universe, or if it is the things of the universe that are watching us. I would imagine the light of the sun reflecting off of a tree, a bush, a car, passing through the lens of my eye and back out again, returning to the place what sent it.

I am pretty sure there isn’t much difference between me and these things. I am pretty sure we are the same.

A Cool hand...

J. and I watched Cool Hand Luke Saturday. (Sorry about the long quote)

“Anybody here? Hey, Old Man. You home tonight? Can you spare a minute? It's about time we had a little talk. I know I'm a pretty evil fellow... killed people in the war and got drunk... and chewed up municipal property and the like. I know I got no call to ask for much... but even so, You've got to admit You ain't dealt me no cards in a long time. It's beginning to look like you got things fixed so I can't never win out. Inside, outside, all of them... rules and regulations and bosses. You made me like I am. Now just where am I supposed to fit in? Old Man, I gotta tell You. I started out pretty strong and fast. But it's beginning to get to me. When does it end? What do You got in mind for me? What do I do now? Right. All right. [Gets on knees, closes eyes and begins to pray] On my knees, asking. [Peeks up with one eye, waits. Then opens eyes and crosses arms] Yeah, that's what I thought. I guess I'm pretty tough to deal with, huh? A hard case. [Clicks tongue] Yeah. I guess I gotta find my own way.”

I love this movie. I enjoyed the irony of showing up the church the next morning only to discuss Job in church class. Luke is a kind of modern day Job.

I vacillate between feeling disappointed and feeling like none of it matters. I find solace in making art and have been on a tear, painting large canvas and small alike with passionate abandon.

I think the message is we don’t get to know why we suffer.

Someone once told me that suffering is a symptom of our spiritual separation from god.

I focus on the four noble truths
1. Life is suffering and 2. Suffering is caused by desire or attachment but that 3. It is possible to stop suffering 4. There is a path to get you there. And that suffering will decrease the further along the path you go (though it may take many life times)

I tend to blame others for my pain. It is easier that way

“Smite me oh mighty smiter”

Freud talks about his patients as people who are unable to see that part of their life that is causing them pain. The long and short of this is, we dwell in ignorance of ourselves.

The further from pain and suffering I feel, the less I blame others.

It is in these moments of clarity that the truth reveals itself. Suffering is not something to be endured. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks.