I like the “what if’s” of life. I used to have a teacher, actually she was the principal of my grade school that would say “uh-uh, no what if’s.”
How sad.
What if the sky was pink and the oceans were lemonade.
What if I had a better job, and why don’t I go get it right now.
What if people treated each other better, or if government had a better mandate for the people or if religion taught individual salvation, what if sandwiches were the reward for the well lived life, what if, what if, what if.
What if I added olives to my marinade?
What if I drank another beer?
What if I told that S.O.B. off, like s/he so desperately deserves.
What if I tried to be less angry, more hopeful, less sullen, more joyous, less proud, more proud.
I think what if’s get the lawn mown. Get the trash taken out. Get dinner made and get us out of bed in the morning.
If I had a chance to go back in time and finish that particular conversation (there are so many) I would tell her, what if’s are the things of dreams, the imagination of children, the aspirations of adults, they are the reason we live, the reason we die, why we try and fail, and why we try and succeed.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Dog Daze
I can’t help but sit here and think about all those novels set in the deep south that begin with a description of the long wearisome heat of summer that bears down on the mind and the senses. Something about women bathing before noon and gentlemen wiping the damp from their foreheads with a yellowing handkerchief. Every one of my pores breaks out in an absolute panic each time I set foot outside. I am like a deep-sea diver descending into a foreign land, my sweat like a layer of armor against the elements.
Yesterday S. and I were the pool where I fished a dead cicada out of the water. “What is that?” she asked.
“A cicada., the trees are full of them.”
“Why” she asks, not so much to further the conversation but really more to say “I have nothing at all to say to that.”
“Listen” I say “you can hear them all around us.” The trees are full to the aching whine that is the distinctive sound to the insect.
“I don’t hear anything.”
Incredulous I point to first one group of trees and then the next. “There” I say “and there. No?” Nothing. Like a pungent aroma that seemingly vanishes within minutes of first detecting it, she has managed to pushed the sound out of mind and memory till it has become completely undetectable. “Nothing at all?”
Cicadas aside there is a kind of meditative stillness to the long, hot, dog days of summer. Total immersion creates a kind of restfulness that monks achieve after years of contemplations. Standing in my make shift studio in the garage, the banter of my mind is silenced by the drone of the fan blowing against me. Paint stiffens in the heat and the wet bristles of the brush begin to wilt. The eye darts from canvas to canvas making spontaneous decisions in an effort to out pace the heat.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Monday, July 6, 2009
Moments
Is it selfish to suddenly realize that the moment you are experiencing is yours and yours alone and that when you die that moment will be gone, lost forever and will pass away into oblivion. What if you have this realization? Do you ask yourself, how great is that moment? I mean, come on, sitting on the toilet is a moment I may have had but I am not about to share it with the universe. Ask yourself, how important is it.
Standing there in the sunlight, my children playing in the pool, I had what you might call a moment of clarity. Million of lives, billions, life after life sharing moments of awareness then passing into the dark, moments that may have been similar to this, or more likely vastly different, all of them lost, all of them un-… un what? Unrecorded? Unremembered?
Every moment is precious, whether we appreciate them or not. I am often annoyed by the fact that moments of seemingly no importance seem to stand out in my memory more than those that I might have so dearly hung on to.
I was a party shortly after high school graduation talking to this girl. Making small talk I asked her “Where did you go to school?”
“Um” she replied, “we went to school together.”
“Really?” I said feeling awkward.
“We walked down the aisle together at graduation and you gave me a big hug”
Now I feel like dying.
Some are poets, some are architects, others are bankers and maids and journeymen and accountants. This moment will pass and this and this and this. I imagine that the world is gone, absorbed into the vastness of space, only to be replaced by another and anther and another.
“There is a book” said the man, “that records the lives of all men.”
“Where can I find this book?” asked the student.
“The book is hidden in the most obvious of places, and is written in the most common ink of all.”
“I what is it’s name?”
“It is the name that each man calls himself. It is your name.”
So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.
O Lord of the universe, I see in your universal body many, many forms--bellies, mouths, eyes--expanded without limit. There is no end, there is no beginning, and there is no middle to all this.
So I begin to wonder, how different are we after all? Some are angry, some are happy, others open mouthed and ignorant or wise and mute. I read somewhere in particle physics that the path of the electron is not determined until the scientist had recorded the observation. The universe is made in our beholding and grows as we grow, expands as we expand and diminished as we diminish.
“Papa” she asked “where do we go when we die?”
“Heaven” I said.
“Where is that?”
“Its right here” I said confidently.
“Yeah right” she said dismissively, taking another bite of her ice cream cone. “You always say that.”
Standing there in the sunlight, my children playing in the pool, I had what you might call a moment of clarity. Million of lives, billions, life after life sharing moments of awareness then passing into the dark, moments that may have been similar to this, or more likely vastly different, all of them lost, all of them un-… un what? Unrecorded? Unremembered?
Every moment is precious, whether we appreciate them or not. I am often annoyed by the fact that moments of seemingly no importance seem to stand out in my memory more than those that I might have so dearly hung on to.
I was a party shortly after high school graduation talking to this girl. Making small talk I asked her “Where did you go to school?”
“Um” she replied, “we went to school together.”
“Really?” I said feeling awkward.
“We walked down the aisle together at graduation and you gave me a big hug”
Now I feel like dying.
Some are poets, some are architects, others are bankers and maids and journeymen and accountants. This moment will pass and this and this and this. I imagine that the world is gone, absorbed into the vastness of space, only to be replaced by another and anther and another.
“There is a book” said the man, “that records the lives of all men.”
“Where can I find this book?” asked the student.
“The book is hidden in the most obvious of places, and is written in the most common ink of all.”
“I what is it’s name?”
“It is the name that each man calls himself. It is your name.”
So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.
O Lord of the universe, I see in your universal body many, many forms--bellies, mouths, eyes--expanded without limit. There is no end, there is no beginning, and there is no middle to all this.
So I begin to wonder, how different are we after all? Some are angry, some are happy, others open mouthed and ignorant or wise and mute. I read somewhere in particle physics that the path of the electron is not determined until the scientist had recorded the observation. The universe is made in our beholding and grows as we grow, expands as we expand and diminished as we diminish.
“Papa” she asked “where do we go when we die?”
“Heaven” I said.
“Where is that?”
“Its right here” I said confidently.
“Yeah right” she said dismissively, taking another bite of her ice cream cone. “You always say that.”
Saturday, June 27, 2009
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
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
Monday, June 22, 2009
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.”
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.”
Friday, June 19, 2009
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.
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.
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