As I rolled Azarias drown the drive I felt a renewed sensation of anxiety wash over me. My head turned from side to side as I scanned both lawn and ditch for my precious cargo. Not knowing which way to go I made an arbitrary left and followed the curb downhill, as it was the easiest direction to push. Frustration mounted as I passed first one house and then the next in my futile search. At one point I even stopped at a nearby storm drain and bent down to peer into the inky blackness to no avail.
The search continued until I had made my way down the length of the hill. Ahead of me lay a small bridge that spanned the neighborhood creek. Approaching, I saw with horror in my mind’s eye the possibility that the thief had dumped the cargo into the shallow water below. If that were the case, the soft current almost certainly would have washed away the remaining traces by now. I leaned over the rail and gazed into the mirrored reflection of the water below. Is this the end of my search, I wondered?
My thoughts were interrupted by the distinct sound of coughing coming from under the bridge. Curious, I rolled Azarias into a clump of nearby bushes and made my way gingerly down the slope of the embankment. Standing at the water’s edge, I glanced cautiously back up the line I had descended making note of my path, then turned and looked into the darkness beneath the bridge.
“Is there anyone in there?” I asked, cautiously. My echo was greeted with silence. “Hello?” I said again more firmly. Still, if anyone was there they were not going to reveal their secrets easily. “Look, I know someone is down here. I heard you just now coughing.” The stretched out silences were perturbing. “God damn it, I want someone to answer me!” I shouted the frustration of the morning beginning to spill in fury.
“’God damn it’ you say? ‘You want’ you say? That is a fine way to call someone.”
I turned. Not three feet away from me was a man dressed in dirty brown clothes. Startled, I said “What did you say to me?”
“No matter” said the man, pushing past me with my wheelbarrow in hand.
“Wait, where did you get that?”
“Some fool pushed it into the bushes. It’s mine now.”
“No” I said matter-of-factly “it is not. It’s mine, and I will have it back.”
The old man turned and looked at me “You have some kind of fire in your belly to be shouting curses and telling strangers what’s yours and what’s theirs.”
“And you” I looked for some clever retort “have no business taking what isn’t yours.”
He looked at me rather pitifully, then shrugged his shoulders and dropped the wheelbarrow where it lay before walking into the darkness beneath the bridge. Stunned, I watched him take several steps before I realized that this man was a potential witness to my crime, and needed to be questioned further. “Hey, wait!” I shouted. “I want to ask you something!”
“Suit yourself” came the voice from the dark.
Numbly I walked forward, pausing momentarily at the line between light and shadow before passing under the bridge. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim. The old man was sitting on a small ledge of concrete busily piling small branches and twigs.
"I need to ask you a question." No response. "Look if you help me there could be a reward involved." Again, no response. I glanced uncomfortable at my feet only to realize I still had my house shoes on. "You see, I've lost something. Actually, it was stolen."
From somewhere in his pockets the man produced a small lighter. He bent over the pile of wood and attempted to light a small fire. The flint made a shower of sparks but produced no flame. Several quick successions of strikes produced the same result. "Impotent" the tramp said.
"I could help you" I offered producing a matchbook from my pocket. "But I need some information. You see someone has stolen my fertilizer."
Faster than lightning the man hopped up. "What did you say?"
"I said someone has stolen something from me, and I will help you..."
"Not that" he said eyeing me suspiciously "After. Did you say fertilizer?"
"I did."
At this the old man seems to go insane. He began to hop about muttering the most indecent obscenities I have ever heard. "And you, you little slut, think you can march in here and make accusations of me? Of me! How dare you come into my home and try to steal from me!"
"I don't think you understand" I stammered, I am not stealing from you, I was stolen from. I am the victim here."
"You? A victim? Don't make me laugh" he barked. "It is obvious you are here to steal my bucket." he pointed to a small tin pail by the side of the stream.
I knew immediately that I had made a mistake venturing to talk to this man. Clearly he was not playing with a full deck. Any minute now, I imagined, he would be upon me and I would have to defend myself. "Don't be absurd." I said, backing away. What have you got there? Nothing of value I bet. Probably just a bucket of fish heads."
There is absolutely no way to describe to you how stunned I was at his responce.
Who told you!" he raged advancing towards me with eyes blazing. "Who have you been talking to? That is my precious fertilizer. Mine! And no one can have it. Do you understand?"
I mean, how does someone guess someting like that? Your standing under a bridge talking with a crazy person and they say "what have I go in my bucket" what is the right anwer here? Your marbles?
I cursed my luck as I looked at him. "You can't be serious" I said bending down and picking up the closet rock I could find. "If that is fertilizer then I am a monkey's uncle."
Picking up the stone was poorly timed. My gesture of self defense was undoubtedly interpreted as one of attack. With a howl he launched himself at me. Instinctively I flinched and hurled the rock. Missing him the rock skidded across the pavement and into the bucket, knocking it into the water. The splash seemed to freeze time all around us. Then, a small bubble of fish entrails rose momentarily to the surface before being washed away by the current.
Turning on his heel the man seemed to forget about me and desperately chased after the the pale floating upside down in the creek. Without a moment’s hesitation I used this distraction to turn, and with one deft motion slammed into my wheelbarrow and used this motion to propel both I and it up the hill.
"No!" came the howl from below. Then all was silent.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Canto II
It is no exaggeration to say that there is nothing I think I can’t do. My father would tell me as a child that I could earn a B average in basket weaving and particle physics. I like to think that my ability to apply myself equally well to whatever occupation calls comes from my prodigious intellect, but the truth is perhaps more that I lack a sense of modesty that would prevent others with less formal training from continually embarking into areas of which they have no knowledge.
What would I need in order to find what was stolen from me? One thought rose through the fog of questions and feelings. Clues, I needed clues. Isn’t that what every good detective starts with? I scanned the ground for incriminating evidence that I felt I was sure to find. A piece of cloth, a bit of hair, a crumpled business card would have been nice. But my search revealed nothing other than the damage evident to my property, the loss of my wheelbarrow, and a single tire track etched in the mud outside the garden gate.
With a mounting sense of frustration I followed the little specks of telltale earth down the drive and into the alley where they became more obscure and difficult to read. Eventually I discerned that the culprit had made his way towards a nearby park, but a thorough search of the park revealed neither more tracks or any further evidence that might be useful to my search. Deflated, I sat on the park swing and gently rocked back and forth dragging my heels though the gravel. The grating noise of the loose stone against my feet made a pleasant, albeit distracting sound, that lulled me into a state of restfulness.
Am I so easily defeated? Where had I gone wrong? Are the so-called professionals more suited because they have the most advanced technologies and training? Wouldn’t they do as I had done and comb the area for clues, canvas the neighborhood for witnesses, and make inquiries of the occasional passersby? Was I being too impatient? Giving up too quickly. Perhaps I needed to broaden my search and begin going door to door. Every thought seemed to offer both possibility and an equal probability of failure. Surely my neighbors had been asleep, or else they would have dialed 911, and no one could have been around to see anything, save the thief himself, and they weren’t bound to offer themselves up freely. So where had I gone wrong?
The answer presented itself so suddenly and with such a sense of profundity that it nearly rocketed me off of my seat. There is one thing that a detective has that I don’t, and it isn’t technology or training, it is something far simpler and more obvious. A detective has a partner.
Now let me just say at the onset, that I am not unaware that the casual outsider might at this point be looking upon my situation with a curious suspicion. “So you are going to chase after this guy who stole your…dirt?” They might say. My retort would be both simple and direct. To quote to poetess Sappho whatever one loves, is the best noblest thing in the world. If you were a stamp collector would you not love stamps? If you were a sports fan, would you not know with the greatest minutia the stats of every team, no, every player that walked the field? Then do not judge me too harshly, for while I can do many things I love my garden, and am passionately devoted to it. This theft is no less a desecration on my love than the fires that swept the great library of Alexandria would be to a bibliophile.
So where would my partner come from, who would this guide be; my Hermes, My Gabriel, my Sancho Panza? This would take some deliberation and even as I was pondering this thought another occurred to me: What if I am mistaken and in my assumption that the thief was after my fertilizer? What if he or she was a mere brigand of opportunity and simply stole what appeared to be the most valuable tool in the shed? In that case the thief may have not been interested in my fertilizer at all.
Could it have been hubris to assume the thief was after my precious mixture? My mind buzzed with incredulity. Could they have instead only been interested in the wheelbarrow itself? In that case why would they have not simply dumped the cargo and made off with the tool? Perhaps my early morning rise had somehow tipped the burglar’s hand and forced a hasty departure. That would account for the scrapes and marks left in their wake. But if that were the case, where would my fertilizer, my black alchemist’s gold be now?
These two near simultaneous thoughts collided in my mind in the most strange and unpredictable way. With a flash of insight I knew who my guide and companion would be. I hurried back to the house with a newfound sense of urgency. I climbed the steep slope of the drive and pushed my way though the garden gate.
Some guides are chosen others are thrust upon us. Of those that are chosen there are fewer in life, perhaps because it is difficult to ask for help, or perhaps because I am reticent to allow just anyone into the circle of trust. Of those that are thrust upon us we are seldom grateful. They are our parents, teachers, camp counselors, yoga instructors and the like. They come into our lives of necessity and usually depart without great fanfare, only to be appreciated later, though the lens of memory. But there is a third group of companions, born neither of necessity nor choice but some queer marriage of the two. Those guides come to us in moments of sheer desperation. Neither expected nor entirely welcome, they seem to possess the uncanny ability to cut though veil of our ignorance and reveal life in some new and altogether unexpected way.
Cutting across the path I made my way directly to the shed. I hadn’t yet repaired the door from this mornings vandalism and merely pushed it aside. In the grey interior I could make out the contents within. Buckets of seed and tackle, tools of various shape and size, a rake, a how, a shovel, and of course the red wheelbarrow.
The wheelbarrow itself was not immediately visible, rather its two yellow handles stuck out from beneath a heavy canvas tarp that had originally covered both wheelbarrows. Dutifully I removed the tarp, shook it gently, folded it and set is aside.
Grasping the two grips I pulled the slumbering wagon from its rest through the shed doors and out into the sunlight. Looking down I could see the manufacturers name and logo stamped into the center of the basin: Azarias Industries Inc. I have for years joked that this was my shepherd, the guardian of all the tools I used to prune and sculpt my various plants. This would ever be the partner I would need, faithful, fleet, and sure. I rolled the cart down the path, through the gate, and onto the drive beyond. I had yet to canvas the entire neighborhood, and on the of chance that the perpetrator had unloaded my precious cargo into some neighbors lawn or gully, Azarias and I would most certainly be ready to recover my stolen treasure.
What would I need in order to find what was stolen from me? One thought rose through the fog of questions and feelings. Clues, I needed clues. Isn’t that what every good detective starts with? I scanned the ground for incriminating evidence that I felt I was sure to find. A piece of cloth, a bit of hair, a crumpled business card would have been nice. But my search revealed nothing other than the damage evident to my property, the loss of my wheelbarrow, and a single tire track etched in the mud outside the garden gate.
With a mounting sense of frustration I followed the little specks of telltale earth down the drive and into the alley where they became more obscure and difficult to read. Eventually I discerned that the culprit had made his way towards a nearby park, but a thorough search of the park revealed neither more tracks or any further evidence that might be useful to my search. Deflated, I sat on the park swing and gently rocked back and forth dragging my heels though the gravel. The grating noise of the loose stone against my feet made a pleasant, albeit distracting sound, that lulled me into a state of restfulness.
Am I so easily defeated? Where had I gone wrong? Are the so-called professionals more suited because they have the most advanced technologies and training? Wouldn’t they do as I had done and comb the area for clues, canvas the neighborhood for witnesses, and make inquiries of the occasional passersby? Was I being too impatient? Giving up too quickly. Perhaps I needed to broaden my search and begin going door to door. Every thought seemed to offer both possibility and an equal probability of failure. Surely my neighbors had been asleep, or else they would have dialed 911, and no one could have been around to see anything, save the thief himself, and they weren’t bound to offer themselves up freely. So where had I gone wrong?
The answer presented itself so suddenly and with such a sense of profundity that it nearly rocketed me off of my seat. There is one thing that a detective has that I don’t, and it isn’t technology or training, it is something far simpler and more obvious. A detective has a partner.
Now let me just say at the onset, that I am not unaware that the casual outsider might at this point be looking upon my situation with a curious suspicion. “So you are going to chase after this guy who stole your…dirt?” They might say. My retort would be both simple and direct. To quote to poetess Sappho whatever one loves, is the best noblest thing in the world. If you were a stamp collector would you not love stamps? If you were a sports fan, would you not know with the greatest minutia the stats of every team, no, every player that walked the field? Then do not judge me too harshly, for while I can do many things I love my garden, and am passionately devoted to it. This theft is no less a desecration on my love than the fires that swept the great library of Alexandria would be to a bibliophile.
So where would my partner come from, who would this guide be; my Hermes, My Gabriel, my Sancho Panza? This would take some deliberation and even as I was pondering this thought another occurred to me: What if I am mistaken and in my assumption that the thief was after my fertilizer? What if he or she was a mere brigand of opportunity and simply stole what appeared to be the most valuable tool in the shed? In that case the thief may have not been interested in my fertilizer at all.
Could it have been hubris to assume the thief was after my precious mixture? My mind buzzed with incredulity. Could they have instead only been interested in the wheelbarrow itself? In that case why would they have not simply dumped the cargo and made off with the tool? Perhaps my early morning rise had somehow tipped the burglar’s hand and forced a hasty departure. That would account for the scrapes and marks left in their wake. But if that were the case, where would my fertilizer, my black alchemist’s gold be now?
These two near simultaneous thoughts collided in my mind in the most strange and unpredictable way. With a flash of insight I knew who my guide and companion would be. I hurried back to the house with a newfound sense of urgency. I climbed the steep slope of the drive and pushed my way though the garden gate.
Some guides are chosen others are thrust upon us. Of those that are chosen there are fewer in life, perhaps because it is difficult to ask for help, or perhaps because I am reticent to allow just anyone into the circle of trust. Of those that are thrust upon us we are seldom grateful. They are our parents, teachers, camp counselors, yoga instructors and the like. They come into our lives of necessity and usually depart without great fanfare, only to be appreciated later, though the lens of memory. But there is a third group of companions, born neither of necessity nor choice but some queer marriage of the two. Those guides come to us in moments of sheer desperation. Neither expected nor entirely welcome, they seem to possess the uncanny ability to cut though veil of our ignorance and reveal life in some new and altogether unexpected way.
Cutting across the path I made my way directly to the shed. I hadn’t yet repaired the door from this mornings vandalism and merely pushed it aside. In the grey interior I could make out the contents within. Buckets of seed and tackle, tools of various shape and size, a rake, a how, a shovel, and of course the red wheelbarrow.
The wheelbarrow itself was not immediately visible, rather its two yellow handles stuck out from beneath a heavy canvas tarp that had originally covered both wheelbarrows. Dutifully I removed the tarp, shook it gently, folded it and set is aside.
Grasping the two grips I pulled the slumbering wagon from its rest through the shed doors and out into the sunlight. Looking down I could see the manufacturers name and logo stamped into the center of the basin: Azarias Industries Inc. I have for years joked that this was my shepherd, the guardian of all the tools I used to prune and sculpt my various plants. This would ever be the partner I would need, faithful, fleet, and sure. I rolled the cart down the path, through the gate, and onto the drive beyond. I had yet to canvas the entire neighborhood, and on the of chance that the perpetrator had unloaded my precious cargo into some neighbors lawn or gully, Azarias and I would most certainly be ready to recover my stolen treasure.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Chapter One
I awoke in the night, as if from a dream, where everything around me was strange and unfamiliar. It was as if the world had grown stiff and course in my slumber or perhaps refreshed I was only now seeing it for the first time.
Tossing the sheets to one side I rose and walked to the sliding glass door that over looked the garden. Staring into the grey for a brief moment I could recall a part of my dream, a mere sliver of some much larger tale of which I had no recollection. I was lying in a kind of wheelchair. I had no use of limbs or faculties, and my eyes bulged in my sockets like great watery orbs. Without, I was a vegetable, but within I was capable of such great imaginings that light of the world paled in comparison.
I stared into the garden again. The dream had all but faded. I flicked the lock, slid the door open, and walked out onto the brick terrace. The cool stone felt refreshing against my bare feet. Almost at once I stepped on a nettle. Wincing with pain, I bent over and pulled the thorn from my sole. Cursing my luck I threw the barb into a nearby bush and slid my feet comfortably into the gardening shoes I had discarded nearby the night before.
Armed with a newfound sense of confidence, I strode out into the lawn and surveyed the wonder of creation. I took pride in my garden. Each part neatly manicured with confidence and precision. It was important to me that nearly every part of my garden was edible, chives and rosemary, quince and blueberry. The whole layered spaciously to look slightly wild and unkempt but with an order all its own that made the gazing at it so much the richer.
I kept my tools in the shed along with two wheelbarrows. One red for collecting cuttings, weeds and debris, and the other green for fertilizer; an organic mulch made of compost, mulched leaves and cow waste. This was my favorite tool and I would spend my hours endlessly winding along the garden path sprinkling my mulch in the various beds of flowers and shrubbery, turning the soil into an alchemist’s black gold.
As my early morning walk through the yard progressed I found myself nearing the shed when I noticed something was not right. The shed door, which should have been tightly shut and locked was stilling slightly ajar. The right door had come off its track and was sitting wedged between the earth and the frame at a disquieting angle.
Quickly I walked over to inspect the situation. As I drew closer I could smell the sweet earthy scent that emanated from within. Peering into the darkness I could see my tools in disarray. For a moment I imagined some wild animal burrowing its way between the doors and disheveling the contents within, but as my eyes leveled on the vacant spot where my green wheelbarrow should have been I knew that I had been robbed.
My foot moved back, almost in impulse, as I hesitated. Was the thief still here? No, that is nonsense, the wheelbarrow is gone, and the thief has taken it and departed.
I turned and scanned the yard. This time, ignoring the vines and the flowers, looking instead for the telltale signs of intrusion. A wheelbarrow full of dirt is not an easy item to simply scamper over the fence with. There must be some other signs of entry. I hastened to the gate, and found it closed, but by narrowing my eyes I could see a slight scrape in the paint indicating that the thief had passed this way. I opened the door and looked beyond. There was nothing. Only the still of the morning, the slight rushing of the breeze against my face, my wheelbarrow was gone. “Gone” I croaked with utter despair “Gone.”
As I walked back to the house my mind was filled with conflicting images. On the one was the thief, executing with midnight bravado the daring theft. On the other me, patiently explaining to the patrolman the value of my precious mulch.
“Dirt?” he asked questioningly.
“A special blend of organic fertilizer” I replied. “It is the secret of my garden’s success. Everyone knows this. It was highly prized.”
“This” he said, searching for the term “dirt?”
“Yes” I said patiently.
“An when you say ‘Everyone’ whom do you mean exactly?”
“Oh, well, the neighborhood, I suppose, and my church group. Don’t be fooled there is more than one or two grandmothers that would like to have gotten their hands on my mulch.”
“A grandmother” he said, then paused and continued “wheeled a truck load of dirt across the garden, unlatched the gate and then sauntered down the alley with cargo in hand without so much as breaking a sweat?”
“Of course not” I said indignantly “there could have been accomplices. Look isn’t there supposed to be a detective or some such person here to take this information down.”
“Oh I’ll be making a report,” he said “don’t you worry. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up. These things aren’t usually resolved as quickly as you might hope.”
He looked me in the eye and I knew at once what he meant. No one was going to investigate a stolen wheelbarrow. There would be no crime dogs, no team of forensic investigators to document tire tracks and fingerprints. Mine was not a high priority case and would, in all likelihood be brushed aside and forgotten, dismissed as a teenage prank or as a simple case of vandalism.
Weary and broken, by this imagined conversation I turned and trudged back into the yard and stared down at the latch on the gate. How can so small a thing make the difference between serenity and insanity? Why had I not given locking the gate the same precious care that I had given concocting my fertilizer? Leaning against the fence post I rubbed my fingers deep into the corners of my eyes.
I stand there motionless, like some caricature of myself. I want to weep, but feel to tired, too emotionally drained. I want to shout, to rage against the injustice of the smirking police officer, against the thief, against the world, but none of it seems to matter enough to muster even the most inaudible groan. I feel lost. The mechanisms I had grown to trust, friends, neighbors, even civic law enforcement, had let me down. The paths that I had trusted would not be the ones that would lead me away from this place.
From this paralyzed pose I suddenly had a lucid, singularly inspired thought that had not occurred to me before. What if I track down the thief? My hand clenched and unclenched spasmodically. Could I do it? Would there be any danger? What would be the cost? This thought made me pause for a moment before I settled on the cost of getting my wheelbarrow back, I decided. But would it be intact. Would my mulch still be there? It seemed impossible to know. Night was departing and dawn was rushing forward. “I must do this,” I said, standing. “I must.” I launched myself forward towards the gate and the drive beyond. “If only to put an end to the unknowing.”
Tossing the sheets to one side I rose and walked to the sliding glass door that over looked the garden. Staring into the grey for a brief moment I could recall a part of my dream, a mere sliver of some much larger tale of which I had no recollection. I was lying in a kind of wheelchair. I had no use of limbs or faculties, and my eyes bulged in my sockets like great watery orbs. Without, I was a vegetable, but within I was capable of such great imaginings that light of the world paled in comparison.
I stared into the garden again. The dream had all but faded. I flicked the lock, slid the door open, and walked out onto the brick terrace. The cool stone felt refreshing against my bare feet. Almost at once I stepped on a nettle. Wincing with pain, I bent over and pulled the thorn from my sole. Cursing my luck I threw the barb into a nearby bush and slid my feet comfortably into the gardening shoes I had discarded nearby the night before.
Armed with a newfound sense of confidence, I strode out into the lawn and surveyed the wonder of creation. I took pride in my garden. Each part neatly manicured with confidence and precision. It was important to me that nearly every part of my garden was edible, chives and rosemary, quince and blueberry. The whole layered spaciously to look slightly wild and unkempt but with an order all its own that made the gazing at it so much the richer.
I kept my tools in the shed along with two wheelbarrows. One red for collecting cuttings, weeds and debris, and the other green for fertilizer; an organic mulch made of compost, mulched leaves and cow waste. This was my favorite tool and I would spend my hours endlessly winding along the garden path sprinkling my mulch in the various beds of flowers and shrubbery, turning the soil into an alchemist’s black gold.
As my early morning walk through the yard progressed I found myself nearing the shed when I noticed something was not right. The shed door, which should have been tightly shut and locked was stilling slightly ajar. The right door had come off its track and was sitting wedged between the earth and the frame at a disquieting angle.
Quickly I walked over to inspect the situation. As I drew closer I could smell the sweet earthy scent that emanated from within. Peering into the darkness I could see my tools in disarray. For a moment I imagined some wild animal burrowing its way between the doors and disheveling the contents within, but as my eyes leveled on the vacant spot where my green wheelbarrow should have been I knew that I had been robbed.
My foot moved back, almost in impulse, as I hesitated. Was the thief still here? No, that is nonsense, the wheelbarrow is gone, and the thief has taken it and departed.
I turned and scanned the yard. This time, ignoring the vines and the flowers, looking instead for the telltale signs of intrusion. A wheelbarrow full of dirt is not an easy item to simply scamper over the fence with. There must be some other signs of entry. I hastened to the gate, and found it closed, but by narrowing my eyes I could see a slight scrape in the paint indicating that the thief had passed this way. I opened the door and looked beyond. There was nothing. Only the still of the morning, the slight rushing of the breeze against my face, my wheelbarrow was gone. “Gone” I croaked with utter despair “Gone.”
As I walked back to the house my mind was filled with conflicting images. On the one was the thief, executing with midnight bravado the daring theft. On the other me, patiently explaining to the patrolman the value of my precious mulch.
“Dirt?” he asked questioningly.
“A special blend of organic fertilizer” I replied. “It is the secret of my garden’s success. Everyone knows this. It was highly prized.”
“This” he said, searching for the term “dirt?”
“Yes” I said patiently.
“An when you say ‘Everyone’ whom do you mean exactly?”
“Oh, well, the neighborhood, I suppose, and my church group. Don’t be fooled there is more than one or two grandmothers that would like to have gotten their hands on my mulch.”
“A grandmother” he said, then paused and continued “wheeled a truck load of dirt across the garden, unlatched the gate and then sauntered down the alley with cargo in hand without so much as breaking a sweat?”
“Of course not” I said indignantly “there could have been accomplices. Look isn’t there supposed to be a detective or some such person here to take this information down.”
“Oh I’ll be making a report,” he said “don’t you worry. But I wouldn’t get my hopes up. These things aren’t usually resolved as quickly as you might hope.”
He looked me in the eye and I knew at once what he meant. No one was going to investigate a stolen wheelbarrow. There would be no crime dogs, no team of forensic investigators to document tire tracks and fingerprints. Mine was not a high priority case and would, in all likelihood be brushed aside and forgotten, dismissed as a teenage prank or as a simple case of vandalism.
Weary and broken, by this imagined conversation I turned and trudged back into the yard and stared down at the latch on the gate. How can so small a thing make the difference between serenity and insanity? Why had I not given locking the gate the same precious care that I had given concocting my fertilizer? Leaning against the fence post I rubbed my fingers deep into the corners of my eyes.
I stand there motionless, like some caricature of myself. I want to weep, but feel to tired, too emotionally drained. I want to shout, to rage against the injustice of the smirking police officer, against the thief, against the world, but none of it seems to matter enough to muster even the most inaudible groan. I feel lost. The mechanisms I had grown to trust, friends, neighbors, even civic law enforcement, had let me down. The paths that I had trusted would not be the ones that would lead me away from this place.
From this paralyzed pose I suddenly had a lucid, singularly inspired thought that had not occurred to me before. What if I track down the thief? My hand clenched and unclenched spasmodically. Could I do it? Would there be any danger? What would be the cost? This thought made me pause for a moment before I settled on the cost of getting my wheelbarrow back, I decided. But would it be intact. Would my mulch still be there? It seemed impossible to know. Night was departing and dawn was rushing forward. “I must do this,” I said, standing. “I must.” I launched myself forward towards the gate and the drive beyond. “If only to put an end to the unknowing.”
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
plumbing is a messy business
I’m not really much of a plumber. I guess you could say I know enough to be dangerous. I’ve soldered a few copper pipes together, installed a disposal in the kitchen sink, and repaired or replaced a few leaky faucets. So when the guest bedroom toilet backed up and sewage came up out of the shower drain I thought, “I guess I’d better snake it.”
Standing in Home Depot, surveying the different brands of drain augers, a sales employee approached me and said “you need any help?” I described the problem and he said “You are looking at the wrong tool. You need to rent a bigger auger.”
I decided not to listen and took my chances with the fifteen dollar solution, but when that didn’t seem to get my anywhere I headed back to home depot armed with the knowledge that I needed something bigger.
My experience with the clerk behind the rental desk was an entirely different exchange. He took one look at me and my auger and said plainly “You need a plumber.” Taken back I asked him what he was talking about and with annoying alliteration he said “You need a plumber.”
Chagrined, I asked him why Home Depot would rent the equipment if there wasn’t an outside chance that the average layperson couldn’t accomplish what the seasoned plumber could do? His response was pretty much “YOU need a plumber.”
It’s funny but I knew, at that point that he was probably right. I listened to his advice with good cheer when he spoke of my choices between going through the toilet or an outside vent and when I left I muttered “thanks for the vote of confidence.” At home I took one look at the toilet and knew that it was an all day if not all week job and felt totally deflated. I paused for a moment and wondered how I would even begin finding the outside vent, fought back a sea of emotions ranging from helplessness to despair and humiliation. Then tucked my tail between my legs and went to J. and said “we need a plumber.”
The next morning I overheard J. and the plumber talking. I could barely look at him. I heard him say in a clear voice “I am going to need to go through the outside vent. That will be an extra two hundred dollars.” My heart sank. J. left for the store and I sat on the couch numbly watching a show on ancient Egypt. What did Egyptians know about plumbing? They just peed in the sand. Afterwards I went outside to survey the plumber’s work. He was climbing down a ladder with the exact same model auger I had rented the previous morning. “I could have done this” I thought. I gave up too easily.
When I was fourteen I was challenged to an arm wrestling contest by a larger boy. We sat arm in arm struggling for what felt like an eternity. I remember to this day the conscious decision I made to give up. Not because it was momentous, but because of what the other boy said right after “Man I am glad that is over, I couldn’t have gone another second.” I remember it now because in my memory it sounds a lot like “You need a plumber.”
I was sending some Rumi passages to a friend the other night when I came upon one that feels a lot like how I feel right now.
No intellect denies that you are,
But no one give in completely to that.
This is not a place where you are not,
yet not a place where you are seen.
I know neither the boy nor the Home Depot clerk defeated me. Instead of focusing on them and my feelings, I remind myself that none of this really matters. No one will remember this day, except for possibly me. True, I don’t like feeling like I can’t do something, and I like it a lot less when it is me that tells myself “I can’t do this.”
It helps even more to remember that this isn’t a zen thing, nor is it an exercise in humility or grace, well maybe it is, but for me it is more a recognition of my own imperfection. I want to think that my problems come from without, or that if they come from within, spiritual guidance will solve these problems. But really it is just me being human, and trying later to be kind to myself that sometimes I make a call that isn’t right or isn’t perfect, and that it doesn’t matter, and I can go on with my day, and what is more important, that I can use the toilet again.
Standing in Home Depot, surveying the different brands of drain augers, a sales employee approached me and said “you need any help?” I described the problem and he said “You are looking at the wrong tool. You need to rent a bigger auger.”
I decided not to listen and took my chances with the fifteen dollar solution, but when that didn’t seem to get my anywhere I headed back to home depot armed with the knowledge that I needed something bigger.
My experience with the clerk behind the rental desk was an entirely different exchange. He took one look at me and my auger and said plainly “You need a plumber.” Taken back I asked him what he was talking about and with annoying alliteration he said “You need a plumber.”
Chagrined, I asked him why Home Depot would rent the equipment if there wasn’t an outside chance that the average layperson couldn’t accomplish what the seasoned plumber could do? His response was pretty much “YOU need a plumber.”
It’s funny but I knew, at that point that he was probably right. I listened to his advice with good cheer when he spoke of my choices between going through the toilet or an outside vent and when I left I muttered “thanks for the vote of confidence.” At home I took one look at the toilet and knew that it was an all day if not all week job and felt totally deflated. I paused for a moment and wondered how I would even begin finding the outside vent, fought back a sea of emotions ranging from helplessness to despair and humiliation. Then tucked my tail between my legs and went to J. and said “we need a plumber.”
The next morning I overheard J. and the plumber talking. I could barely look at him. I heard him say in a clear voice “I am going to need to go through the outside vent. That will be an extra two hundred dollars.” My heart sank. J. left for the store and I sat on the couch numbly watching a show on ancient Egypt. What did Egyptians know about plumbing? They just peed in the sand. Afterwards I went outside to survey the plumber’s work. He was climbing down a ladder with the exact same model auger I had rented the previous morning. “I could have done this” I thought. I gave up too easily.
When I was fourteen I was challenged to an arm wrestling contest by a larger boy. We sat arm in arm struggling for what felt like an eternity. I remember to this day the conscious decision I made to give up. Not because it was momentous, but because of what the other boy said right after “Man I am glad that is over, I couldn’t have gone another second.” I remember it now because in my memory it sounds a lot like “You need a plumber.”
I was sending some Rumi passages to a friend the other night when I came upon one that feels a lot like how I feel right now.
No intellect denies that you are,
But no one give in completely to that.
This is not a place where you are not,
yet not a place where you are seen.
I know neither the boy nor the Home Depot clerk defeated me. Instead of focusing on them and my feelings, I remind myself that none of this really matters. No one will remember this day, except for possibly me. True, I don’t like feeling like I can’t do something, and I like it a lot less when it is me that tells myself “I can’t do this.”
It helps even more to remember that this isn’t a zen thing, nor is it an exercise in humility or grace, well maybe it is, but for me it is more a recognition of my own imperfection. I want to think that my problems come from without, or that if they come from within, spiritual guidance will solve these problems. But really it is just me being human, and trying later to be kind to myself that sometimes I make a call that isn’t right or isn’t perfect, and that it doesn’t matter, and I can go on with my day, and what is more important, that I can use the toilet again.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
secrets in the dark
I was hanging out with a few friends the other night when one of them said “Now I know your tongue gets a little loose when you’ve been drinking, but I don’t want you to repeat this.”
I think my first reaction was to feel a little hurt, followed by the realization that yes I liked to “share” but that this was only done in moderation and then only when I was certain I was safe, followed only later but the self introspective thought of “what is ok to share and what isn’t?”
I’m going to tell you another story.
D. reminded me, however casually as we were driving down the road, that she knew that I was prone to semi-suicidal thoughts and that this was no time for such self indulgent thinking.
As you absorb that one I have to tell you I cannot for the life of me (no pun intended) remember what we were talking about or why she would have said this. But I was so stricken by the fact that my eleven-year-old daughter knew this very intimate and powerful detail about my psyche that I nearly drove into the curb.
You know, I don’t think I keep secrets very well.
I used to like to “play” at revealing secrets; that is I would pretend to be ignorant of the fact that I was revealing something about Christmas or a Birthday and then take a secret glee in the reaction. “Oh Patrick! Can’t you keep a secret?” For some reason Unknown to me, I used to think this was terribly humorous. And while I do not think it is funny anymore, it lead me to think that people thought I couldn’t keep a secret because I had conditioned them to believe it so.
But the more I think about this. I begin to wonder.
Let me ask myself this question and see what happens: Do I keep secrets.
Yes.
How do I know? Ask another question.
Are there things I would never tell anyone? You bet’cha.
But then if this is the case, why do I raise the question at all? Is the question rather can I be trusted?
I don’t think it is because I know that I can. Loyalty is very important to me and I am very loyal and would take your secret to the proverbial grave if need be.
I don’t, however, feel particularly secretive about things in my own life. And maybe that is where the incongruity begins to seep in. Because I will freely tell you about MYSELF things that I would never repeat if they were about you.
I am not an exhibitionist. I don’t know what I gain from this, but I don’t mind being vulnerable if I think it will strengthen the relationship or if I think someone can be aided by my own experience strength and hope, especially when it comes to being human and making human mistakes. I am an expert here. That and, if you know me at all you will know that I love to laugh, and laughing at my own mistakes is joyous!
That makes me think too that I am a bit lousy at keeping secrets that are themselves joyous hence the Christmas, birthday, expectant baby kind of secret breaking.
I asked J. if she thought I was a good secret keeper and she said politely “I think it is an area that you struggle with” and then went on to say that when it were spelled out in no uncertain terms “Do not share this” that she knew me to be the kind of person that wouldn’t say a word.
The thing for me, that I struggle with, as my wife so adroitly puts it is that I like to process my experiences and have a hard time setting boundaries with others, so when other people have expectations about their own boundaries that are different than mine, I find difficulty.
(I find myself holding my head between my hands in shame thinking “I am a terrible secret keeper” as if to say “I am a terrible friend” or “I am a leper”)
I keep thinking about this when the solution is right there. I need to clearly define what needs to be “secretive” with others when those situations occur. Because the real shame is not that I might be a poor secret keeper. The real shame is that I might break a friend’s trust. And that is something I do not ever want to do.
Still the notion that I am a flibbertigibbet nags on my conscience and is unsettling to me, and I suspect it will for sometime. I think the question I need to resolve for myself is: Is this a character defect? And right now I don’t think I have the answer to that question. SO I resolve to wait and see, to be a better friend and… as a dear friend recently told me “never miss an opportunity to shut the hell up” even though he was talking about his own excessive know-it-all-ism and not secrets, the similarities are striking.
I think my first reaction was to feel a little hurt, followed by the realization that yes I liked to “share” but that this was only done in moderation and then only when I was certain I was safe, followed only later but the self introspective thought of “what is ok to share and what isn’t?”
I’m going to tell you another story.
D. reminded me, however casually as we were driving down the road, that she knew that I was prone to semi-suicidal thoughts and that this was no time for such self indulgent thinking.
As you absorb that one I have to tell you I cannot for the life of me (no pun intended) remember what we were talking about or why she would have said this. But I was so stricken by the fact that my eleven-year-old daughter knew this very intimate and powerful detail about my psyche that I nearly drove into the curb.
You know, I don’t think I keep secrets very well.
I used to like to “play” at revealing secrets; that is I would pretend to be ignorant of the fact that I was revealing something about Christmas or a Birthday and then take a secret glee in the reaction. “Oh Patrick! Can’t you keep a secret?” For some reason Unknown to me, I used to think this was terribly humorous. And while I do not think it is funny anymore, it lead me to think that people thought I couldn’t keep a secret because I had conditioned them to believe it so.
But the more I think about this. I begin to wonder.
Let me ask myself this question and see what happens: Do I keep secrets.
Yes.
How do I know? Ask another question.
Are there things I would never tell anyone? You bet’cha.
But then if this is the case, why do I raise the question at all? Is the question rather can I be trusted?
I don’t think it is because I know that I can. Loyalty is very important to me and I am very loyal and would take your secret to the proverbial grave if need be.
I don’t, however, feel particularly secretive about things in my own life. And maybe that is where the incongruity begins to seep in. Because I will freely tell you about MYSELF things that I would never repeat if they were about you.
I am not an exhibitionist. I don’t know what I gain from this, but I don’t mind being vulnerable if I think it will strengthen the relationship or if I think someone can be aided by my own experience strength and hope, especially when it comes to being human and making human mistakes. I am an expert here. That and, if you know me at all you will know that I love to laugh, and laughing at my own mistakes is joyous!
That makes me think too that I am a bit lousy at keeping secrets that are themselves joyous hence the Christmas, birthday, expectant baby kind of secret breaking.
I asked J. if she thought I was a good secret keeper and she said politely “I think it is an area that you struggle with” and then went on to say that when it were spelled out in no uncertain terms “Do not share this” that she knew me to be the kind of person that wouldn’t say a word.
The thing for me, that I struggle with, as my wife so adroitly puts it is that I like to process my experiences and have a hard time setting boundaries with others, so when other people have expectations about their own boundaries that are different than mine, I find difficulty.
(I find myself holding my head between my hands in shame thinking “I am a terrible secret keeper” as if to say “I am a terrible friend” or “I am a leper”)
I keep thinking about this when the solution is right there. I need to clearly define what needs to be “secretive” with others when those situations occur. Because the real shame is not that I might be a poor secret keeper. The real shame is that I might break a friend’s trust. And that is something I do not ever want to do.
Still the notion that I am a flibbertigibbet nags on my conscience and is unsettling to me, and I suspect it will for sometime. I think the question I need to resolve for myself is: Is this a character defect? And right now I don’t think I have the answer to that question. SO I resolve to wait and see, to be a better friend and… as a dear friend recently told me “never miss an opportunity to shut the hell up” even though he was talking about his own excessive know-it-all-ism and not secrets, the similarities are striking.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Crazy
Editor's note: Crazy, written by Willie Nelson and sung by Patsy Cline, is the song I used to rock my children to sleep with
What do you do with your spare time? Anymore “spare time” is time driving from point A to point B, and so my quality time is time spent in the car. Still, I shouldn’t complain, because my drive time isn’t loaded with kids as I am mostly driving to work or driving to school, whereas my darling wife is driving to the kid’s school or is working on the kid’s problems.
I should be honest. I can really enjoy my drive to school. But most of that is my Ipod, and most of that is remembering to plug it in, charge it and getting the latest podcasts. Otherwise I am stuck with two and a half hours of yours truly, and that is, well, tedious. (At this point I should probably do an Oscar-like thank you to those of you who have spent serious time in the car with me) It can be an emotional experience. I don’t passenger well. Usually I get car-sick. I am prone to flights of fancy, or flights of fantasy. I can be joyful, bitter, soulful and annoying. I am highly critical of your driving, and I hate talk radio.
Let us pause here.
Talk radio is, well, horrible.
I hate it.
I hate Diane Rehm, though I listen to her constantly.
I listen.
I listen until the callers call in.
I can’t listen to the callers.
I can’t listen to the vitriol.
Can you?
The Republican Party is so…
(I like this)
(I hate this)
I turn off the radio.
I drive
I turn on the radio
I listen
The Democratic representative believes…
(I like this)
(I hate this)
The show continues…
I cannot stand the vitriol.
It makes me angry.
I do not want to be angry.
(I blame the radio.)
At this point if you were to stick your fingers in your ears and whimper “Na Na, Na Na Na Na” you would get the idea.
I hate vitriol.
I hate conservative god fearing republicanism.
I hate my slavish dogmatic loyalty to the other side.
I hate this.
I hate this.
I hate this.
How did I end up here?
Isn’t that the question I ask myself most often?
How did I end up here?
Is it the radio? The kids? The faculty? The insane look I get from people I think understand me?
Am I crazy? Or is “crazy” a word I made up to make sense of my misunderstanding of the world?
That’s crazy.
I read somewhere that acceptance is the answer to all of my problems today.
O.K. I accept that I cannot change the what people on talk radio believe. I can only change the way I react to it.
O.K. While I am waiting for that to happen, I turn off the radio.
What do you do with your spare time? Anymore “spare time” is time driving from point A to point B, and so my quality time is time spent in the car. Still, I shouldn’t complain, because my drive time isn’t loaded with kids as I am mostly driving to work or driving to school, whereas my darling wife is driving to the kid’s school or is working on the kid’s problems.
I should be honest. I can really enjoy my drive to school. But most of that is my Ipod, and most of that is remembering to plug it in, charge it and getting the latest podcasts. Otherwise I am stuck with two and a half hours of yours truly, and that is, well, tedious. (At this point I should probably do an Oscar-like thank you to those of you who have spent serious time in the car with me) It can be an emotional experience. I don’t passenger well. Usually I get car-sick. I am prone to flights of fancy, or flights of fantasy. I can be joyful, bitter, soulful and annoying. I am highly critical of your driving, and I hate talk radio.
Let us pause here.
Talk radio is, well, horrible.
I hate it.
I hate Diane Rehm, though I listen to her constantly.
I listen.
I listen until the callers call in.
I can’t listen to the callers.
I can’t listen to the vitriol.
Can you?
The Republican Party is so…
(I like this)
(I hate this)
I turn off the radio.
I drive
I turn on the radio
I listen
The Democratic representative believes…
(I like this)
(I hate this)
The show continues…
I cannot stand the vitriol.
It makes me angry.
I do not want to be angry.
(I blame the radio.)
At this point if you were to stick your fingers in your ears and whimper “Na Na, Na Na Na Na” you would get the idea.
I hate vitriol.
I hate conservative god fearing republicanism.
I hate my slavish dogmatic loyalty to the other side.
I hate this.
I hate this.
I hate this.
How did I end up here?
Isn’t that the question I ask myself most often?
How did I end up here?
Is it the radio? The kids? The faculty? The insane look I get from people I think understand me?
Am I crazy? Or is “crazy” a word I made up to make sense of my misunderstanding of the world?
That’s crazy.
I read somewhere that acceptance is the answer to all of my problems today.
O.K. I accept that I cannot change the what people on talk radio believe. I can only change the way I react to it.
O.K. While I am waiting for that to happen, I turn off the radio.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Birds of Appetite
Notes from Merton’s Zen and the Birds of Appetite
We imagine two systems: Christianity and Zen. The first is language, the other anti-language; a radical reversal of philosophical logic. While diametrically opposed, these systems can interact with one another, to prepare the way for one another, and can be defined as the relation of objective doctrine to subjective metaphysical experience.
Because Language is rational, ordered, and logical, the nature of objective doctrine must be reducible to some form that can be shared, and is therefore easily recordable in a set of symbols that are easily accessible to others. Anti-language, or the metaphysical experience, on the other hand, resolutely resists any temptation to be easily communicable or conform easily to comforting symbols, and is acceptable on the basis of its absolute singularity. That it is un-communicable is only resolved in an awareness that it is potentially already there but is not conscious of itself, an awareness of being in the here and now in the midst of the world.
End of Notes
I woke up this morning or at least re-awoke this morning with the idea of writing a book in which the characters were resolved in creating two different systems which, while opposed to one another, could be used to define both past and future events, something akin to Asimov’s “psychohistory”. One of the systems I decided would be based on Dante’s Inferno, while the other would be what? I thought about this for a moment and then spied Zen and the Birds of Appetite lying on the counter. I flipped it open and found the description of my “world” lying right there on the page in front of me. Merton was describing the difference between the Christian and Zen Experience. Reading these pages I began to form the idea that my so called “world” already existed, and that rather than independent of one another, Zen and Christianity might be thought of as opposites that came into being because of one another, trying to balance one another out.
It occurs to me that I should 1)not have gone back to bed and 2)Not have done any heavy thinking before my pot of morning coffee.
We imagine two systems: Christianity and Zen. The first is language, the other anti-language; a radical reversal of philosophical logic. While diametrically opposed, these systems can interact with one another, to prepare the way for one another, and can be defined as the relation of objective doctrine to subjective metaphysical experience.
Because Language is rational, ordered, and logical, the nature of objective doctrine must be reducible to some form that can be shared, and is therefore easily recordable in a set of symbols that are easily accessible to others. Anti-language, or the metaphysical experience, on the other hand, resolutely resists any temptation to be easily communicable or conform easily to comforting symbols, and is acceptable on the basis of its absolute singularity. That it is un-communicable is only resolved in an awareness that it is potentially already there but is not conscious of itself, an awareness of being in the here and now in the midst of the world.
End of Notes
I woke up this morning or at least re-awoke this morning with the idea of writing a book in which the characters were resolved in creating two different systems which, while opposed to one another, could be used to define both past and future events, something akin to Asimov’s “psychohistory”. One of the systems I decided would be based on Dante’s Inferno, while the other would be what? I thought about this for a moment and then spied Zen and the Birds of Appetite lying on the counter. I flipped it open and found the description of my “world” lying right there on the page in front of me. Merton was describing the difference between the Christian and Zen Experience. Reading these pages I began to form the idea that my so called “world” already existed, and that rather than independent of one another, Zen and Christianity might be thought of as opposites that came into being because of one another, trying to balance one another out.
It occurs to me that I should 1)not have gone back to bed and 2)Not have done any heavy thinking before my pot of morning coffee.
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