...sez Mark

Joo Joo Eyes on You*

2010-04-22T21:07:00.003-04:00

John Lennon said it this way: “I know you, you know me. One thing I can tell you is you’ve got to be free.”

Jesus said it better: “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

Although Lennon’s view of freedom may have been some spiritual ‘joo-joo eyeball,’ he had a kernel of truth.

The truth can set you free in a lot of different ways. But one sure way to remain bound up tightly in a little bundle of ‘yourselfness’ is to hide the real you from the people close to you.

Here’s why I like the way the Beatles sang it. If I let you know me, I don’t have to hide. That sets me free from the cage where I’m hiding my secret self. I can’t keep my secret self locked out of sight without the rest of me being stuck in there too.

It works better, of course, if you let me know you too. It sets your secret self free from its little cage as well. Two uncaged souls getting to know each other, now there’s some freedom.

But while Lennon had some trippy ways to describe his view of knowing each other, Jesus had a simple if-then. “If you stick with this, living out what I tell you…then you will know the truth.” And knowing the truth about each other is simple, but not easy.

It’s not just about dumping all your junk in somebody else’s lap and going home. It’s about opening the door to your junk room, and giving someone you trust a pass to go in, snoop around, and ask questions.

Seeing all your issues, all your ‘junk’ through the eyes of someone you trust, is often enough to start the process of dealing with it. Inviting that friend to regular inspections of your ‘junk room’ helps you keep it clean.

Then when that friend gives you a pass to his junk room, it gives you the grace to deal with that friend’s stuff gently, humbly. You can’t act ‘holier-than-thou’ when all you are is forgiven.

Come together. Be accountable.

Previously posted at NewPointe.org
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Mourning Christmas

2010-01-15T16:26:00.003-05:00

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There’s a misty drizzle turning the dried winter scum on my truck into a gross gray slime. I might say it’s unseasonably warm for January, but in this corner of the North Coast, there is no unseasonable. We had snow and ice. One day we even had sunshine. Now we have slush and rain.

But today is not a day for sunshine. Today is a day of mourning.

I put Christmas to rest today. I peeled the last of the clear lights from the three birch trees in the front yard, and stuffed them in the attic. All the gifts are no longer gifts, simply possessions. And my Christmas CDs, which I listen to surreptitiously long after December 25th, have been buried on the back of the shelf.

But it’s my soul that closed the door on Christmas today, I think. Because what I really love about Christmas is the mood, the spirit. All the lights, decorations, music, gifts, are simply enhancements to the heart of the season; the sense that during this time it’s okay to care about others, to love and to give. Joy rules.

Until today.

Today I walked by the guy playing guitar on the street without a nod. Why?

Why not? Did I ask him to sit in my path and play his guitar? No. Do I like the mushy folksy stuff he’s playing? No.

Would I have ignored him a month ago? No. In December I would have dropped something into his case. Smiled at him, told him it sounds good. Not today.

Today I put Christmas to rest. Today I mourn.

* The mood is fact. The events are fiction.
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Perfect 10?

2010-01-07T13:44:00.007-05:00

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Ten. Not the Commandments or a gymnast’s perfect score. Not the old Dudley Moore movie or the backdrop of Hamilton’s picture.

Ten is the New Year. At least, on January 1, 2010 it was. How will yours rate?

So we may call it Twenty Ten, or out of a decade’s habit, Oh Ten. But to me it’s simply Ten. It sounds so clean, so perfect.

But a new year can be like a new car. The minute you drive off the dealer’s lot, your brand new year is a used year.

So what’s the minute for you when the shiny New Year is, well, just a used year? Is it the first time you break your resolution; when you light up, pig out, blow up, veg out, drink up, pass out or shoot up? Or when you simply fall flat on your face with a self-proclaimed challenge?

Maybe it’s more gradual, when old habits slowly weasel back into your life. When exciting new commitments become old and worn, and pushed further back in the closet.

Is it when you realize, it may be a New Year, but it’s the old you?

Change, true change in our lives rarely happens suddenly. We know this, and yet pretend not to. Lasting change is a process, like putting miles on your new car. It may be used, but you pull into your driveway for the first time, and the odometer is still mostly a long row of zeros. You have months of new car smell to enjoy.

Can we see the New Year that way? There’s three hundred sixty five days in this New Year.

Change a little every day, and next year – next year you’ll look back and see. It was a New Year all year long.And on a scale from one to ten, you’ll see this year was, definitely, a 10.
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Discovering Wishes

2009-12-22T19:31:00.004-05:00

A Frothy Fable

Once upon a time a charming young lady rode in her gaily decorated carriage to the nearby village to visit the liquid confectionary shop to indulge her desire for a chocolate potion of such deliciousness that it made the harrowing ride quite forgotten.

She arrived at the shop rosy-cheeked and quite eager for the sweet liquidy goodness she was about to enjoy. As always, she ran in the door as the jangly bell announced her presence. She looked for Genevieve, Nana Viv as she liked to call her, to concoct her signature potion in her own special way.

But Nana Viv wasn’t beaming over the counter. In her place was a pleasant looking lad with a cherry-chocolaty smudge on his chin and a misplaced spatula tucked into the pocket of his over-sized apron.

“Good afternoon, young lady.” He was all polite and proper and not Nana Viv. “What’s your pleasure this fine afternoon?”

“Where – What – Why isn’t Genevieve here?” She was quite flustered. This afternoon was not what she was expecting at all.

“Miss Genevieve was called to City for conferral with the Mayor’s council on sweetness. But she left me with all her recipes, if you would be so kind as to tell me which one you want.” He stood with the Giant Red Recipe Book at the ready.

The charming young lady sighed impatiently in a quite uncharming manner. “It’s. Not. In. Your. Book.” She stabbed at his tome superciliously.

“Fine,” he was unperturbed. “Just describe it to me, and I’ll make it just like she did.” His smile remained unaltered.

So she impatiently rattled off the list of ingredients, involving copious amounts of chocolate in every form, spices local and exotic, milk fresh from Nana Viv’s dairy cow, several fresh fruits, and one I dare not mention. This she followed with a staccato recital of the steps involved in the preparation of her concoction.

Pleasant lad bustled about the counter and cabinets, gathering and assembling and mixing and stirring and blending with remarkable efficiency. Shortly he paused, surveyed his work area carefully, and took a deep breath. Taking the gleaming pitcher in hand, he poured with utmost care into the tall, graceful china mug, spooned fresh whipped cream from his bowl, and finally executed his coup-de-maitre, hand-shaving dark chocolate curls on top.

With a big smile, he lifted the mug to present to the young lady, only to see a frown on her face.
“You did use the candied ginger from Nana Viv’s kitchen, yes?”

He gestured to the row of glass jars on the shelf behind him. “I used Genevieve’s own blend of dried ginger. It’s the best in town, I assure you.”

She rolled her eyes at his obvious ignorance of her wishes. “But Nana Viv always uses her personal store of candied ginger in my concoction.” She pouted her well-worn pout. “I guess this will have to do.”

“No.” His smile was pleasant, but his tone was unyielding. “This will not do. Miss Genevieve is quite insistent. I will make exactly what you want, even if you don’t tell me what you want. It’s my pleasure to discover your wishes.”

The well-worn pout melted from her face, and she watched quite entranced at the zeal with which he returned to work. Without another word, pleasant lad repeated all his steps with the same enthusiasm (except for a quick trip into Nana Viv’s kitchen to retrieve her candied ginger) as he recreated the wonderfulness charming young lady was expecting.

This time when he lifted the steaming mug, she was waiting with an eager smile. She took the mug from his hands, lifted it to her lips, and first inhaled deeply.

“Ahhhh, the aroma is enticing.” And then she sipped. Her eyes closed in bliss as the warmth slid down her throat and warmed her from the inside. She sighed, deeply, and sipped again. Pleasant young man watched with quite the bemused expression on his face.

Finally, charming young lady opened her eyes, and lowered the mug briefly. She smiled the biggest, happiest smile he had seen all month. “It…is…sensational. It’s…just…perfect.”

So charming young lady never strayed from her faithfulness to Nana Viv’s confection. And pleasant lad finally understood what Miss Genevieve meant when she said, “It’s my pleasure to discover your wishes.”
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Don't Be Herd

2009-12-03T22:06:00.002-05:00

If you want people to listen, don’t be ‘herd’.

When you look and sound like all the other animals, nobody pays attention. But become the ugly duckling, or the tenor sax in the string quartet, now people sit up and take notice.

If you’re part of the herd, you won’t be seen. When you look like everyone else, you become the wallpaper, not the icon.

In many fields, there’s an accepted way of communicating with your clientele. A fast-food restaurant doesn’t talk like an insurance company. That’s great, since you don’t want to hear about your homeowner’s insurance in terms of 99 cent specials.

But what do you do when you (and thirteen other guys in town) are selling furniture, and everybody talks about quality and service and free delivery? You’re in the herd. And you’re not being heard.

Now’s the time to find your own voice, to uncover the qualities that make you ‘you-nique’. Not a cookie cutter sound from Marketing 101. Not ‘louder is better’. What makes you different?

If you've not yet discovered what’s unique about your enterprise, get busy. If there’s nothing distinctive about you and your business, if you have no personality, get busier. Or settle for being part of the herd.

Cuz you ain’t bein’ heard.
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Camels in the Streets

2009-11-28T20:52:00.000-05:00

Wisemen and camels plodding through the streets -- in Bethlehem they searched for a King. In Village Square it means a parade.

Main Street in Village Square is a festive blizzard of lights, music and shoppers. Crowds line the street in anticipation of the event. But this is not a 'holiday' parade, not in this village. With shepherds and their sheep, singing angels, and Mary, Joseph and the babe in the manger, this is very clearly, Christmas.

This really is smalltown, so it's a really short parade. But it's unabashed in tone. The music, the parade entrants, all center around the Bible story of a God who became a baby. It's quieter than most parades, and many of the several thousand spectators follow to the manger scene, for community caroling and candlelighting. This is a celebration in honor of the birth of the Divine Son to a human family.

In a community known for living a peacable lifestyle, this hardcore Christmas parade may seem a quiet act of rebellion against the sanitized and secularized holiday season. But it's really just a people celebrating what they believe: A King is born. He brings peace to the soul.

For wise men and women plodding through the streets of Bethlehem, Times Square, or Village Square, that's worth celebrating.
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Facebook Thanksgiving

2009-11-26T20:19:00.002-05:00

Today was my first ever Facebook Thanksgiving. Is that a good thing? Is that a bad thing?

"It's a family Thanksgiving dinner. I'm not taking my laptop." That was my bold declaration at 11ish as we left the house with our collection of foodstuffs for the two get-togethers we had planned.

Heh.

At the stuffing ceremony that afternoon, we discovered my new camera takes videos too. (who knew?) So we recorded a holiday greeting for an absent nephew (stateside) and an absent niece (an ocean away.) Of course, this had to be posted on Facebook immediately.

And the floodgates opened. It seems laptops run in gangs. Or they like to gather on Thanksgiving like other families. Within an hour I was staring at maybe half a dozen Dell, HP, and Asus logos perched smugly on their owners' laps. A little crowd hovered around the first person to pull up the just-posted video of the dinner we had just engorged, I mean enjoyed.

Not that it ruined our family time. Half an hour later the dining room table was crowded with a card-playing group. The guitars came out later for some home-cooked music. And before the day is over, family from hours or days away gets a glimpse into our day.

No, it wasn't a Facebook Thanksgiving. It was a family day with a new wrinkle in our rhythm, a wrinkle that served to expand the borders of our family along with our waistlines.
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Pay Here

2009-11-05T21:00:00.000-05:00

Pay Here, said the simple hand-lettered sign at the entrance to the tent-covered petting zoo.

Alas, I wish life was like that. 'Pay here, pay this much for this experience'. But it's quite the opposite.

In the exhibition called life, you see the picture of a little girl on the back of the giraffe and you wander inside to see it. Turns out there's no giraffe, and if there was you couldn't ride it. The pygmy goats are there, and the ducks. A garter snake but not the ananconda. It is a petting zoo, but you can't touch the sheep. Just the puppies, which are on sale today for only seven hundred and ninety five dollars.

But it is kinda fun and you're smiling and you wander out to the exit only to be stopped by a smiling, but resolute gentleman.

"That will be $49 for your tour of the petting zoo, please."

"Forty nine dollars?" you protest. "I would never have gone in if I knew it was $49 and there was no giraffe."

That's life. It doesn't tell you ahead of time what an experience will cost.
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Soul Rhythm

2009-11-01T19:38:00.000-05:00

It's not just the music; it's what the music did to the people listening that sticks in my mind.

Rock the Block was a Friday night party in downtown Winston-Salem. Playing on the blues stage was The Ladies Auxiliary, two white chicks and two black dudes rockin' the park. Not the headliners, but they could belt the blues.

But the crowd...the crowd was the show. The rains had just passed, mud prevailed in small grassy space directly at stage front. The sidewalk in front of our seats was mostly underwater, so the first row of seats became the ad hoc walkway. The teens danced in the muddy grass, the grown-ups stayed on the sidewalks.

One couple in particular was entertaining. The wiry, sharp-dressed gentleman, from crisp white shirt to polished shoes, was smooth as butter. Not big and flashy moves, but small, elegant. And the lady, though not so small, showed a love of the rhythm in her smiling eyes, the swing of her hips and the grand gestures of her bejeweled hands. We were enjoying the show...until...

...until the wiry gentleman beckoned insistently to a friend of ours, who promptly joined him on the rain drenched sidewalk. And then the big lady with big rhythm beckoned me and didn't seem to care if I could dance or not; she only cared that I had a smile on my face and rhythm in my soul.

Luvly joined me shortly and we rediscovered what everyone who taps their toes to the music instinctively knows; Listening to music is a pleasure; experiencing the music with your body gets it down in your soul.
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Milkshake Chaser

2009-10-28T13:34:00.003-04:00

Straight? With a spoonful of sugar? Or with a chocolate milkshake chaser?
Sometimes it's not just knowing what to say, it's knowing how to serve it up.

Ok, all the married ladies are going, "no duh." They know a simple "Yes, we are having leftovers again" might work fine. A big hug and kiss may be good before explaining the $50 designer jacket for Phydeaux the mini wonder dog. But the big nasty scratch on the side of his beloved ski boat will take a better story to put it in perspective. Preferably something involving a noble deed like, "I was rushing to the Mothers of Charity grocery store for more Doritos and Mountain Dew before the game tonight."

Guys on the other hand tend to use the same approach to "Honey, I'll be ten minutes late for supper" as they do for "Oops, the lawnmower ran over your Grandma's prize-winning wisteria."

A good salesman will tell you the same thing. If you're buying a doormat, the clerk can tell you, "ThatwillbetendollarspleasethankyouforshoppingatMallWart. But if you're spending thousands of dollars on a Persian rug, you want to hear the stories about the sheep that provided the wool, and the hunched over artisan who spent a big chunk of his life hand knotting one thread at a time.

In business communications sometimes we forget that. The visitor to my website probably doesn't want to hear about how my love for my pet Chihuahua when I was ten lead me to re-selling glittery $2 leashes from China for $10 online. She wants to know what colors are available, how much it costs and when FedEx will drop it off.

But if you have a disgruntled client who thinks paying you $3000 for six coaching sessions should have him dating the girl of his dreams, a more nuanced, personal approach is needed. Seems the more money is involved, the more it matters what you say and how you say it.

And the closer you get to the things a person really, really values, the more crucial it is to make every word count. The right word, at the right time, in the right manner can make or break a friendship, a sale, or a business relationship.
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Blank Slate

2009-10-23T17:05:00.001-04:00

"What is it that you write?" Cynic eyed The Lad at his slate.

"Perhaps I am not writing. Perhaps I am drawing." The Lad's chalk cut an extravagant flourish through the morning mist.

With a patient sigh, "So. What is it that you draw?"

"I did not say I'm drawing. I said perhaps." The Lad studied the road curving out of sight.

A derisive snort. "You seem not to know. Perhaps you merely waste a morning."

The Lad now looked in astonishment at the Cynic. "First I contemplate. Then I create. You deem that wasteful?"

Cynic lounged in his seat. "But you know not what you create."

"You asked amiss. I know what I create." The Lad placed his chalk in the center of his slate.

"So what do you create?"

"Today." The Lad's chalk moved deliberately across the slate. "Today I create today."
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[GOD] : ROFL

2009-10-20T14:29:00.005-04:00

I picture God ROFL at our antics on some days. To One who sees what's around the next curve - what's coming tomorrow or next week or next year, our frantic paddling or pompous planning must look hilarious.

Like this: I meet my friend Joe every week, when we swap stories and he shares wisdom. Two weeks ago I talked to him about dissatisfaction with my career track leaving me unfulfilled and poorly rewarded. That means I didn't like my job and I wasn't making money. He gave me wise advice and sent me on my way.

The next week, I met Joe with a smile and a hug and the news that my career frustration was over. I now had a brand new opportunity. That meant I was laid off from my job and was allowed to look for something different. And Joe, he resisted the temptation to laugh aloud at the turn of events.

But God? I think he chuckled. Laughed. Rolled on the floor in mirthful glee. Because He knows whats around the next curve.

Unlabored Day

2009-09-07T19:33:00.002-04:00

On this Unlabored Day, listening to the rain on the screen porch seems completely divine. And having just watched "Julie and Julia," drinking wine just seems like the natural thing to do.

This has the magic of stolen time, an unexpected gift of unscheduled hours when plans go awry. See, today was going to be a biking day, until a cloudy and rain-tinged morning greeted us. So the backup plan of brunch and a movie fell into place.

I suppose Julia Child could be annoying if you weren't in the right mood. But I found her relentless enthusiasm and reckless enjoyment of life and all it contained to be contagious. So we watched a movie about French cooking, after which we must stop for a glass of wine. But the little downtown cafe isn't open today, nor is the winery in the country. Well, the kitchen at home is still open. We'll go home and start the process on our new venture, a batch of home-made brandy.

Not so fast. The yeast we have is not the right kind. The brandy must wait till tomorrow night. Thus, I'm sitting on the back porch listening to the rain and sipping the best wine I've had in weeks, with Luvly's homemade rosemary sourdough bread. How absolutely divine.

Is it? Is it a stroke of the Divine, when our plans keep falling in on themselves, and we keep finding alternatives, better things to do with our time. Choices that lead us to a slower, more relaxed, quieter time than we had planned. Time to soak up the day, like an all-day drizzle. An Unlabored Day.

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unsaid

2009-06-30T09:56:00.001-04:00

the wind it was from out the south
that took the words from out my head
and put their bite into my mouth
the wind it was that woke the dead

the dark was not to be unsealed
not ready for the light to show
in long hid places still concealed
the dark was not a thing to know

the words were thoughts and only that
not ready for the light of day
unformed unshapen and quite flat
the words were not the words you say

the echo came from off the ear
that heard the words were left unsaid
and spoke from out beneath the fear
the echo came and woke the dead

the echo heard the words unsaid
the wind it was that woke the dead

***

don't ask me what this means, tell me
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Alone / Together

2009-06-26T22:10:00.002-04:00

It was raining, that warm April night on Tucker Street, the gentle kind of rain that rinses the day’s dust off the shop awnings, and leaves the sidewalks glistening in anticipation of stiletto heels and Keds. I stood alone outside the window, the Guinness sign behind me reflecting in the gleaming black 69 Grand Prix at the curb.

I lit a cigarillo, took a long drag and exhaled. I watched the smoke mosey along, as mellow as the wisps of Bedtime Story from Boney’s horn drifting through the door, and I felt my soul down-shift a notch. But as I headed for the bar, I heard the slamming door across the street.

I turned just in time to see a girlish figure gesturing at a second floor window, now open with a face in the shadows inside. “You keep your stupid truffles,” she yelled. “And I can get better coffee at Dunkin Donuts.” She hurled a mug at the window. It missed, shattering noisily on the brick wall, and sending her running into the street to avoid the shards.

She stopped in the middle of the deserted street to put her heels back on, and compose herself. Now standing five inches taller, she tousled her hair and looked up to see me watching. Her annoyed frown melted slowly into a cool smile. “Enjoy the show, did you?”

I nodded, and tipped my trilby. “He didn't share his truffles?”

She strutted across the street, leaning against the Grand Prix and smoothing her sleek skirt. “Chocolate addicts, they're nuts. And he made this French-press coffee he swore was the best thing since Starbucks. He knows I like vanilla lattes.”

“So let me guess, you like Cosmos too?” I offered the pack. “Smoke?”

“Ewww, those things are disgusting. The drinks and the cigarettes.”

I grinned at her wrinkled nose. “Well why don't you come on into the bar and show me what a mug-throwing, coffee-hating, truffle-jealous chick drinks?” Her eyes narrowed at my blunt assessment.

She pursed her lips, pulled herself up to her full five-foot-six (with heels), and sashayed to the door.

Jack the bartender greeted us as we pulled up stools. She looked at me in the bottle-cluttered mirror. “I'll give you three guesses what I drink on a rainy night after a fight with a guy. Loser buys.”

I turned to study this intrigue, her nails tapping and head bobbing to the compelling rhythm of Max Roach. There was a spark in her eye, like an inner rebel peeking out. She was enjoying this. But then, so was I.

“After a fight? Grey Goose.” I knew her type, so I thought.

She smirked. “That's for the end of a sixty hour week. I just left a guy over truffles.”

“Okay, Scotch and soda? Hold the soda?”

She chuckled. “I'm not your grandfather.”

Hmm. She knew what she liked, even the vanilla latte. That's it. “What you want, is a White Russian.”

She shook her head with a grin. “That would be girls' night out. For the other girls.”

She turned to the bartender who was enjoying the show. “He's buying,” she elbowed me, “and I'll have Henny.”

I nodded at Jack, held up two fingers, and pulled out my cash. We watched silently as he poured the smooth dark amber into our glasses. Together we picked up our glasses, swirled, sniffed, and sipped. Together we leaned back, sighed and looked at each other.

“Kinda clears the stress right out of your day, doesn't it?” For the first time her lips softened into a real smile.

I nodded. “Like a gentle rain on a warm summer night.” I extended my hand. “By the way, my name is-”

“Shh,” she put a finger to my lips. “You'll always be Mr. Hennessy to me. But I'll give you a ride in the Grand Prix. You were paying more attention to the car than to me, weren't you?”

“The two of you go together well, I have to say. But yeah, it's a great car. And much as I love the rain, sixteen blocks is a long walk.”

We walked outside, and she dangled the keys. “You wanna?”

I snatched them from her before warning, “You really don't know me that well, lady. I could be a pervert.”

She winked. “So could I,” and hopped in the car. We hit the street and cruised along as Dexter Gordon played to the rhythm of the windshield wipers. The drink had relaxed us both and we chatted like old drinking buddies about life, love, chocolate and cognac.

It took about twenty minutes of random cruising before she gave me a sideways glance and said, “You know this is a lot farther than sixteen blocks in the rain.”

I turned the corner onto Tucker Street. “Or a lot closer than sixteen blocks in the rain.” I pointed down the block where the neon Guinness sign reflected in the rainy street.

She reached over and smacked my arm. “You live on this block?”

We got out of the car across the street from the bar. “Oh look, somebody smashed a coffee cup here.” I grinned at her. “I'd better sweep that up, I know my neighbor won't.”

“You're the neighbor? You’re the one on the balcony playing clarinet. We listened to you earlier.”

“Yeah, I went out for a smoke when the truffles became an argument. He screwed up my recipe, by the way. But wait till you taste my espresso cognac truffle. You’ll have to try one. Or six. Then I'll show you how French-press coffee is done right. But only if you help me clean up.”

She reached out her hand. “It's a deal. By the way, my name is-”

“Shh,” I put my finger to her lips. “You'll always be Truffles to me.”

It was raining, that April night on Tucker Street. The sidewalks glistened under a pair of stilettos and a pair of Keds. The Guinness sign put a glow on the street, the Hennessy mellowed our minds, and Guiffre's clarinet wrapped up our souls. But it was the simple wonder of two people connecting in the magic of the night that warmed our hearts. We were alone. We were together. Together is better.
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One

2009-06-11T14:45:00.003-04:00

Inspired by a writing exercise with a friend... (see end note)

"Sit."

I sat on the hard steel chair. He glared his cold glare from cold eyes. I tried to shrink in my seat.

"Why? Why won't you do this? It's a job, for pete's sake." He wiped his brow.

"I...I can't, I guess." I was at a loss for words.

"I need a drink." He poured. "You need a drink." He poured and served.

We sat and sipped. It burned, all the way down.

He sighed a deep sigh. "Do you care?"

I shrugged, but my head shook no. "Would it help?"

"No. Not now. You had your shot." I watched his big hands fret. "You blew it."

I took a swig. "Yeah right. You think that was my shot?"

He stared at me. "Of course. What did you think it was, show and tell?"

I laughed. "Don’t tell me you think that lame brain, lard ass, big mouth, half wit, two buck, red face, snot nose, desk dork is my shot." I stood, and jabbed his chest with each word. "I. Don't. Think. So."

"But he runs the place. He prints your words on his page. You get paid. What the hell more do you want?" He poured once more.

Wow. Might be he cares. But now I knew the truth, why I did what I did.

"Look. I write. If he likes it, I get paid. If he hates it, I don't. Fine. There's lots of ways to get your stuff out there. More fish in the sea, I think you said. But I will not write crap just to please his blue-nose stick-up-her-butt wife."

"She went to Yale, you know." He grinned.

"Of course I know. It's on her plates. Yale Grl. Like a girl scout badge. Sad, if that's all she's got." I took a swig.

"Well she does have a man who owns and runs this rag. And a fine pair of --"

"Oh grow up. She has a fine pair of hands that have not worked a day in her charmed life. That's what she has." I drained my drink. "One more?"

"Last call." He poured the last drop. "Well she had a name too, a name for the piece she wants you to write. You have yet to tell me what it is. Must have been bad though, the way you looked." He smirked.

"She thought it was cute, way cute I think she said." I shook my head.

"But when you turned her down, she talked to him?"

"And in two shakes of a dead lamb's tail, I was out the door."

"What now?"

"I'll write. That's what I do. They read it, or they don't. But I write."

"So what was this high-brow name she thought you had to use?"

"The name for my way cute piece was to be..."

"…The Monosyllabic Sesquipedalian"

He grinned. "Good call, dude. Don’t write that."

I put on my cap and went for the door. I turned with a nod. "Thanks, man. For the good word. And thanks for the tea."

...a writer friend who bragged about the wonders of one-syllable words when we wrote a very short story using very short words. She inspired me to try this. Go ahead, count the two syllable words.
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Alone

2009-06-01T21:30:00.001-04:00

Alone in the bar he looks out in the rain
At the cold black asphalt and tries to explain
Why the dark eerie shadows and unsettling wind
Put a twitch in his soul like a cold mortal sin

The air has a bite like a freezing rain drop
That lands on your neck and just doesn't stop
Sends a twinge down your spine clear through to your toes
And it tells of a danger your primal brain knows

He pulls himself in, tries to shut out the world
Not wanting to face the darkness unfurled
He huddles alone with his glass and his fear
And pretends he can’t feel the evil that’s near

The night has a chill, like a bad movie scare
When the ogre you feel that’s lurking out there
Slimes his way slowly in from the shadows to seize
Your heart by the throat as you fall to your knees

But it isn’t the rain and it isn’t the cold
Not the dark moonless night the real story hold
It’s the chill in his soul and the cold in his heart
That are twisting the last of his comfort apart

For the fear and the dread that weigh in his chest
Are not from the night or the weather’s unrest
But the gloom and the doom and the dark of the street
Are an echo unheard of a dark soul's retreat

No, it's not about me.
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48 Minutes

2009-05-04T19:33:00.011-04:00

What you see in 48 minutes on the bike trail - If that trail leads you through Ohio swamp country. You didn't know there's Buckeye swamps? Well, it may not be up to Cajun standards, but it's wet, muddy, and full of exotic(?) creatures.

So on Sunday afternoon I saw:

One stripe-backed ADHD rodent (chipmunk)

Three low-country feral canines (pet dogs)

One slither-thither split-tongued viper (blacksnake)

Two mud-crusted warthogs (groundhogs)

One tank-shell minisaurus (turtle)

Two gallant steeds (riding horses)

Two benign deliquents (boys)

Too many to count, and most exotic and varied of all, homo sapiens (people)

This in a bit over 10 miles.

Yes Scout, over 10 miles. Last time was only 6 or 7.
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To Don't List

2009-04-28T16:29:00.006-04:00

What I've been doing instead of blogging:

4/15 Filing taxes – Did you ever try to explain blogging expenses as a business deduction?

4/16 Bestest daughter's birthday – Buying flowers, baking cakes, driving her limo. Usual birthday stuff

4/17 Yooper sister's reception – I was emcee, and it always an adventure to have Mom at a party.

4/18 Bestest son's prom – He looked amazing. Sweetest girlfriend even better.

4/19 Yooper family dinner – I unintentionally dissed a new brother-in-law/Pistons fan.

4/20 Repair lawn mower – It runs. Woo-hoo.

4/21 Repair string trimmer – Oh, I mean try to repair it.

4/22 Administrative Professional's Day – Since I don’t have one, and I’m not one, it was a

difficult day.

4/23 Wash truck – It. Was. Dirty.

4/24 Bestest daughter knee surgery – Girl needs coddling. Even Vicodin doesn’t work.

4/25 Bestest son's senior class play – The Boyfriend Project. He played a hippie. Heh.

4/26 Mowing lawn – With a break to help little neighbor boy find mommy.

4/27 Marathon bike ride - Well maybe 10 miles. No hills.

4/28 Writing a list of excuses – You try to come up with 14 in a row.

There are elements of exaggeration in three of them. Take your pick.

Mister

2009-04-14T21:57:00.002-04:00

So the title I picked off the menu board at writers group this month was Mister. Enjoy.

Mister

Predictable? Try a hardware store on a Tuesday afternoon.

How many times can you help an old biddy pick out beige paint for her living room? Or explain to a wannabe do it yourselfer the difference between a galvanized nail and a coated one? Mostly you try to let them figure it out on their own.

They all fit into one of a few categories: Redecorating, gardening, home repair, remodeling, and – dating service??

“I need a mister.” The rather frazzled young lady startled me in the middle of sorting paint samples for the umpteenth time.

“Excuse me?” I looked around for hidden cameras. Was she serious? I've heard of meeting people in grocery stores, but this was different.

“I was told this would be a good place to find a mister.” She brushed dirty blond hair back from her face. No, I really mean dirty blond hair.

“Um, well, it is a hardware store. And it’s pretty busy today. I guess this is about as good a place as any to find one.” She musta been reading one of those chick magazines.

"So where do I look?" She seemed really quite anxious.

“Well, they tend to be in almost every department. I think maybe the best thing would be if you were to browse through the store and look for one you like.”

“Oh...but...surely there's a good place to start?” Her big brown eyes looked at me helplessly.

“You could start in the plumbing section." I took her arm and pointed her in the right direction. "There's usually a few of them there.”

“Wonderful! I’ll look there first.” She bounced off, leaving grass clippings in her wake. I shook my head in amazement. Well, Grandma used to say, “There’s more than one way to feather a rooster.”

I got all the paint samples in order, and was just starting to straighten the shovels and rakes when she came breezing around the corner. "I couldn't find any, but I did get these cool knobs for my bathroom faucet. So where should I look next?"

I found this quite amusing by now. Plus she was kinda cute, so I wanted to help her. You know how guys are. "Well, why don't you check over in the hand tools. Maybe you'll have better luck there."

"Oh thank you!" She patted my shoulder and zipped away.

Maybe I should just help her. No, that would be awkward. Besides, I didn't really know what kind she was looking for. And then her bright smile appeared around the corner again. "Any luck?" I was starting to care.

"Nope. Just hammers and wrenches and stuff. Maybe this isn't the right place." Her smile was fading.

"Oh don't give up too easy. Do you know what kind you're looking for?" I turned my full attention to her.

"Just one that works, I guess. Doesn't have to be anything fancy or special."

"Okay, come with me. Let's check out the lawn and garden section."

"Oh you're going to help me. Cool!" Her smile was bigger than ever.

I led her through the white plastic arbor that was the entrance to our lawn and garden area. We walked past the bird baths and garden globes and just as we were by the water hoses and sprinklers she stopped and grabbed my arm. "Here they are. You found them for me. Thank you, thank you!"

"I did? Oh...you wanted a…misting sprinkler for your...flower beds?" I tried to stay cool.

"Yes, a mister. So how does this thing work?" She scrunched her forehead cutely as she studied the pictures on the box.

"Well it can be a bit tricky to get it positioned just right. Look at these instructions." We huddled over the little box trying to decipher the fine print.

"Oh dear, I don't know." She turned those big brown eyes on me again. And I was lost.

"I could come over and help you set this up after work if you want."

She squealed – yes, squealed in delight. "That would be so awesome." She gave me a quick grass-clipping dirty-hair hug. "Give me your phone and I’ll put in my number.”

I waited awkwardly as she punched in the number, and then looked up. “Oh, my name is Missy, by the way. And you are…?”

“Well, um...my real name is Sylvester, but my friends just call me…Mister.”

“Okay then, Mister, thanks for helping me find a…” She stopped and stared open mouthed. Her eyes got even bigger, and her smile split into gales of laughter. Her sound of her glee tumbled through the garden section till every customer there was smiling too.

She was still giggling as she skipped out the door. She got her mister. And her Mister.

Men Don't Ask

2009-04-11T22:10:00.005-04:00

True story, unedited:

6:12, last Friday night. My phone rings as I'm getting my supper at the coffee shop. It's my brother. What could he possibly want? Concerns about Mom? Questions about my sister's upcoming reception?

No. Not quite.

"Hey Mark, I have an unusual request for you."

"Sure, go ahead." This could be interesting.

"Well JT (his wife) and her friends are in Next City Over and they can't find WalMart."

I'm thinking, I can look up the address, or the phone number, or I can tell him where it's at.

No. Not quite.

"So I was wondering if you could call her and explain to her how to get there."

Huh?

He continued. "She tried to explain to me where they are, but it's been awhile since I've been there. She thought if you would just call her..."

I chuckled. Gleefully, I'm afraid. Men don't stop and ask for directions?

What to do, what to do? Oh I know, of course I called her.

She explained which street they were cruising up and down. I told her which street to look for, which way to turn, how far to go past the McDonalds before turning onto WalMart's street.

They found it. She called me later to thank me, and do the sister-in-law chat.

No, the man doesn't stop and ask for directions. But apparently neither does the woman. She just calls her husband to have him ask his brother to call her, take her hand and lead her to her destination.

Way better.

JT, I love you. Thanks for letting me help.

Scotch

2009-04-08T21:36:00.005-04:00

“Scotch.” He sagged onto the barstool like a bag of feed sags onto the floor. I watched his face as I poured him a double. The bottle stayed.

“Got your day in?” A tiny twitch around his eyes told me it was too soon for that question. His beefy fist thumped the bar in exhausted disgust, and he proceeded to answer.

Now as much as I like to tell a story straightforward, the ensuing stream of profanity, vulgarity and obscenity would not better you in any way, and so will be mentioned, but not repeated here. I poured again.

Yes, his day was in. All twenty-eight hours of it. And more to come tomorrow. The tyrannical boss was the subject of his next tirade. I learned three more word combinations. I poured once more.

“How’s the rest of the crew taking it?” A shot in the dark, but I guessed he wasn’t in this alone. I was half right.

To spare your ears, the “women and children” version involved incompetence, irresponsibility, inexperience and idiocy. He had run out of obscenities, and was now recycling. Another pour.

"Sounds like the place would fall apart without you." The weathered face eased just a bit.

A humorless chuckle, followed by good-natured profanity rewarded my effort. He lifted his glass and groused, "Here's to all the #%$&*es and all the *&%^#es. They make us look like geniuses and saints."

"Hear, hear. So what'll you do after this job is done?"

Every line in his face relaxed. There was no smile on his lips, but his eyes gave him away. "Flower beds. My wife and I work in the flower beds. Greatest thing in the world, your hands in the dirt."

He drained his glass, and got up with a crooked half grin. "Time to sleep." He tossed a bill on the bar. A C-note. He waved off my thanks. "You're a good man. You listen."

Do bartenders listen because they care, or to wangle tips? Yes.

Fun With Consultants

2009-04-02T20:51:00.000-04:00

Corporate consultants are fun. No really, it can be very entertaining, to watch a man try to weasel his way into your brain and ferret out bits of information you wouldn't tell your boss, trusted coworkers or even your dog. Heh, three animal references in one sentence.

But he was creative, he really tried. The gentleman who invaded our company for a few days spent maybe fifteen minutes with me. He schmoozed, calling me brave for shaving my head, and told me I don't talk like someone who hasn't finished high school. Then a personal anecdote to establish rapport; "My father quit school in the 4th grade. I was the only one of my family to go to college."

And then he saw the jumping off point to cut to the chase. "What do you think can be done to improve your company?"

Huh?

Sure, I walk around hiding company restructuring plans in my back pocket, waiting for the right outsider to hear my wisdom. I guess I was expecting a more user-friendly approach. How about these questions:

Which of your co-workers would you like to tar and feather?

How many Dilbert comics have you thought were about your company?

Which of your customers could we cast in the sequel to Clueless?

How could we better extract more money for less product?

Did you know the glow at the end of the tunnel is really red ink?

Are you an old fart or will you agree mindlessly to everything I suggest?

Okay, I guess maybe his approach was more productive. But mine would have been way more fun.

And I'm pretty sure there's no latent belligerence in my fictional questions. Pretty sure.

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You missed the party?

2009-03-29T18:53:00.011-04:00

Friday was my birthday, in case you missed it. Which one? You'll have to go back and ask Roman.

Birthday candles that brightened the day:

**A hit and run hug from a cute blond.

**Lunch with Bestest Daughter at a fascinating little bistro.

**An impromptu rendition of Happy Birthday from the lady at the next table.

**All day long, congratulatory texts messages, including one from an unknown number.

**A mini party with Mom at The Place on the Hill. Luvly brought chocolate cupcakes.

**Mom getting either bored or antsy and rolling off to her room. Did Mom dis my party?

**A Saturday night celebration at my favorite restaurant with a number for a name. Us four and two more (Bestest Daughter and Bestest Son each brought a friend.) Bread was devoured, food was consumed, but wine alas, was only sipped.

**Birthday package from Yooper Sis including dark chocolate and sufficient endowment for a good brandy. With instructions to use it for such. I do believe I have corrupted her.

**Oh yes, and new lights for outside the garage, which Luvly suggested I might want to install for my birthday. Indeed.

Was it worth turning xx? What, you still haven't figured it out?

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Roman sez...

2009-03-27T16:47:00.007-04:00

"Here lies in the eternity of the past, from whence there is no resurrection for the days—whatever there may be for the dust—the forty-ninth year of a well-spent life, which, after a lingering disease of many months sank into lethargy, and expired, March 27, 2009, A.D. leaving a successor inconsolable for the very loss which occasioned its existence." Adapted from Lord Byron

Roman sez…

Random Kid: You look older.
Cantankerous Old Goat: It must be something I VIII.
RK: So what are you looking IV?
COG: The last V decades.
RK: Will you find where they went II?
COG: The odds are M to I.
RK: So where are you going II?
COG: I’m going to L.

If you know 'where' Cantankerous Old Goat went, leave appropriate comments. Chocolate cake with double fudge frosting to the clever.

The Rhythm's Gone

2009-03-22T20:43:00.010-04:00

You remember the villanelle, don't you? Ok, me neither. But what I wanted to write last night didn't fit anything else, so I shoe-horned it into this form.

And yes Mikki, I cheated on the rhymes. Is that an F?

The Rhythm's Gone

The singer left the stage and took his song
His last note disappeared into the night
The drums were put away, the rhythm's gone

They dragged off all the gear and moved along
Their moment came and went beneath the light
The singer left the stage and took his song.

The one who heard the music settles down
And turns his ear to its own silent plight
The drums were put away, the rhythm's gone

But rhythm that's unheard is really gone
To where a song can soar in unseen flight
The singer left the stage and took his song.

The soul who felt the music as its own
Still hears the rhythm deep inside despite
The drums are put away, the rhythm's gone

The singer leaves, but doesn't take his song
And yet to those who don't see unseen light
The singer left the stage and took his song
The drums are put away, the rhythm's gone

This post was inspired by my mood after an evening of listening to two endlessly creative musicians, who play and sing waaaay better than I write poetry.

Sunday Sun Day

2009-03-16T19:59:00.000-04:00

"Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life." Pablo Picasso

Sunday was one of those rare March days on the North Coast, where it stopped rainsnowsleetslushing long enough for Luvly to declare that she will certainly be depressed if it snows again this spring. Yeah, sometimes the winter grime gets in your soul, too.

Sixty, I tell you, sixty degrees was topped on the little dial outside my window that oddly enough seems to tell me how happy to be with the weather. And...And! The sun showed its face like an embarassed truant, sneaking in and out, hoping to seem like it had been there all along.

So with the sun clearing the cobwebs out of my brain, I did what any spring-loopy guy would do on a Sunday afternoon. No, not golf. I washed my truck.

Bucket, hose, sponge, chamois, paper towels, one neighbor waving jealously(?) pityingly(?) and the truck looked much better. Nothing like a hand wash to get rid of the grime.

A few hours later as I'm writing, in the background I hear Jim Cullum's Jazz Band, heavy on the clarinet and sax tonight. The music filters through my brain and my soul, taking along the tension, the edginess, the unrest, and leaving me at ease with the world. At least for tonight.

Yeah, the grime does get in your soul, but oh my, how music can wash it away.

Inspector Bleunohs Visits

2009-03-12T14:51:00.011-04:00

Inspector Bleunohs: (doffs his fedora) Excuse me my good fellow, but we haven’t seen Mr. Sezmark for a week. You were identified as a former associate. Do you have any clues as to his whereabouts?

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) Harumph! Former associate. And nobody says whereabouts anymore.

Inspector Bleunohs: (sniffs in annoyance) Well we certainly don't say harumph anymore either. We found bits of chewed up paper next to your cage. Why is that?

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) He fired me, so I ate him. Kinda chewy. Did not taste like chicken.

Inspector Bleunohs: (knits brow sternly) You bloody well can’t eat someone for firing you.

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) He dissed me for eating bananas. Plus he fired me.

Inspector Bleunohs: (slumps resignedly) Oh dear. I do suppose I must tranquilize you now. Bend over.

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) That’s not a syringe. That’s a baseball bat.

Inspector Bleunohs: (smirks) But I do believe it will tranquilize you. And quite dissuade you from dining on dissenters.

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) Awright awright, don’t get your knickers in a knot. I didn’t eat him. Geez, you think I’m an animal or something? I just ate all his ideas. He went to look for new ones.

Inspector Bleunohs: (jaw drops) New ideas? What a jolly good notion. I quite hope he finds a lorry load.

Mr. Sezmonkey: (scratches) Don't get your hopes up.

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I Failed at Mediocre

2009-03-05T17:00:00.003-05:00

The assigned title was "Mediocrity and How I Achieved It." I failed at mediocre. I did terrible really badly.

Medocirity and how me acheives it.

My Daddy was all the time tells me like this, "Son, if a somethings what your gonna to do, if’n its not worth doing at all, then I’m for certin it ain’t worth doing right in the first place." Always he wood tells me stuff like that. Sooner than youda thunk, just it soaked in, and I beleeved it to.

So me, I sets about to make a reel something of me, cuz I thinking he prolly is right. I done did my darnedest to not ever to do nothing what might not be worth not doing at all, at least not right. So you no, I got just purty good at it, this not doing nothing ain’t worth not doing right.

All of it, it worked out awright, pretty much so, till I goes and got a job from this guy. He was be a farmer who owns a farm and always he goes and tell me to do stuff. So but when I looked at things, you know, what he want me doing. I thinks always of that my daddy sed to me. I think then, this is not worht not doin rite, so’s Im thinkin not to do it in the start.

But this guy, this farmer who owned a farm, hes not like my dady when it’s come to thinking about how to do and not to do work what it mite not just be worth not doing.

He says I’m the most medeocirest person he nose. So he fired me.

I thinks Dady wuld be prowd.
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Monkey sez...

2009-03-03T22:30:00.001-05:00

Monkey sez...

I'M FIRED?!?! You're getting rid of me? I can't believe you'd do that. Without a word too. One day I'm happily greeting all your visitors, the next day I'm gone. Fired. Axed. Downsized. Dumped. Unassigned. Disappropriated.

Mark sez...

I'm sorry. Times are tough in the blogging business. I had to cut costs. I really couldn't afford you anymore. You know how much it costs every day just to have the ASPCA monitor this site? Then there's your health insurance. And bananas.

Monkey sez...

I. Eat. Bananas. And you can't afford me. It's not the bananas. What is it really?

Mark sez...

~sigh~ No it's not. It's just that people thought you were writing the blog. I can't have that. It's embarrassing.

Monkey sez...

So you found some scrap metal and spray paint in your garage, and painted me out of the picture. That's cold.

Mark sez...

You're a monkey, get a job at the zoo. Or Congress. Or as a spokes-monkey, like that spokes-gecko.

Monkey sez...

Hey my cousin runs one of those money-sucking banks. I could be the Money Monkey.

Mark sez...

But not a comedian. Oh, I found a buyer for your crib.

Monkey sez...

You're selling my cage? You know what, you're fired as my blog host. Maybe I'll start my own.

Any monkeys displaced in the re-organization of this blog have been offered other suitable positions. No money-sucking banks have responded to this post.

A Chic & Immodest Proposal

2009-02-24T20:49:00.014-05:00

Things to bring to the party:
Gaily wrapped box filled with presumptions of propriety
Sense of humor
Grain of salt

Things to leave at the door:
Said gaily wrapped box
Mental ossification
Lavish gifts for the doorman

Food For Thought: An Immodest Proposal

It is a heart-rending sight indeed, the emaciated frame of the average super-model. (Is that an oxymoron?) Surely our civilized society in this 21st century can no longer ignore this tragedy. We can handle the pictures of third world orphans with bloated bellies. Those kids are a world away, and besides, their families probably aren’t making the best use of their resources. And globally there are far too many of these starving waifs for the few of us to make a significant difference in their lives.

But super-models, that’s another story. These girls we admire, if not for their contribution to mankind, at least for the beauty and glamour they add to the runways, catwalks, TV commercials and magazine ads. But these girls need help, and it’s a small enough group that we really can make a difference in their lives. And if we can, I believe we must. We can no longer allow them to go through life looking so undernourished, so ridiculously cool, so much more beautiful than we are. They must be helped, even if they are unwilling to eat.

And just in time, help is at hand. A new report by STASH (Start Thinking And Stop Hunger) suggests a solution that may seem to be too good to be true. Dr. Nathaniel Franks has developed a method to metamorphose the energy from brain activity into bodily nutrition. Deceptively simple, it is however something that was impossible before the latest advances in computer technology. This cutting-edge innovation allows complex programming to be put on a chip the size of an ink dot. Dr. Franks explains, "This program is loaded in the tip of a needle and inserted acupuncture-style into the scalp of the patient. The programming then trains the body to recognize energy waves from the brain as food, and to obtain nutrition directly from brain activity."

The benefits of this process should be immediate and obvious. With a worldwide shortage of food, and increased concerns about the safety even of organic food, we now have a viable alternative. The initial cost of this procedure of course is significant, and probably only available to a few elite such as our target group, the super-models. But as the process is refined, experts expect the cost to come down to a level where the ordinary Jane Doe can afford it. What is unclear is whether it will ever be cost-effective to use with the millions of poor starving orphans around the world.

So far only one dissenting opinion has been raised. It is the voice of English hunger activist, Lord D. Evan Grizzles. He advances a valid concern, that being the lack of brain activity in certain groups of people, and whether those people will receive proper nourishment. "Would it be a case of smart people being well fed, and stupid people remaining undernourished?" he asks. "Or might we have cases of people whose daily life just doesn’t require any thinking unwittingly starving themselves? These are serious issues and cannot be ignored in a rush to embrace potentially flawed technology."

So that brings us full circle, to the deeply troubling issue at hand; will this or will it not help the plight of the emaciated, possibly oxymoronic, average super-model? Yes, it would have the potential for nutrition without the annoying caloric side effects. But if one were to listen to the concerns of Lord Grizzles, you would really have to worry about the survival of this elite group, given the low level of brain activity in their average workday.

The third view is this: The potential negative raised by our esteemed English colleague may in fact be a blessing in disguise. What we have here is a solution with a compounding effectiveness, first in easing world hunger, and then serving to decrease the pervasive lack of thought that many people seem to give to their daily activities. As a facet of natural selection, this lack of nourishment to people with low levels of brain activity will effectively minimize their numbers. This will have the extended effect of leaving more traditional nourishment (food) for the rest of us. If this is taken to a global level, it is very possible to believe that the demand for natural food will decrease to the point that we will have enough excess to consider exporting to starving orphans and other needy groups.

And the super-models? Well, I guess the surviving ones would no longer be average, moronic, or oxymoronic.

Props to Natalie G, a tip of the hat to Jonathan Swift, and a what-up to Charles Darwin.

Rob's Workshed

2009-02-21T20:39:00.002-05:00

I have dusty memories of watching Grandpa work in his little shop. I remember the big wooden workbench with the hand cranked vise on the one end. He had the hand driven auger, one of the old wooden block planes, and a wood handled hammer and chisels. What I don't remember is this:

This is Rob VanNatta's interpretation of a workshed. It looks nothing like I remember my Grandpa's. And yet it looks exactly as I remember it. The light streaming through the window, the dust in the air. The old bench cluttered with tools.

And that I think is the artist's genius. He evokes things you can't see. He puts it there without putting it there. And it's what I aim for as a writer. I want the reader to see things I leave out, to read between the lines, I guess.

It's one of my mantras as a writer; A picture is worth a thousand words. A word creates a thousand pictures.

Rob's painting for example. I could write a thousand words trying to describe the style and composition, the colors and lighting, the mood and other stuff you can't even put into words in a painting like that.

But every person that reads the word 'Grandpa' sees a score of mental images that represent Grandpa to them. A different set of pictures for every reader. If writing makes those pictures come to life, it works. If a painting stirs up all the words you can't quite say, it works.

I borrowed this from Rob because I like his work, it makes me think. And because he's just cool. I think you would probably like it too. Check it out at his site.

Tired Mish-Mash

2009-02-18T12:11:00.003-05:00

A Tired Mish-mash is what you get when you spend half an hour in a tire store with nothing but a pen and legal pad.

I got tired at Mylittleburg Tire Emporium. Well to be precise, my son’s Jeep Cherokee got tired there. All four of them. And I have the credit card bill to prove it. Ouch. Until I realize, I got four rubber tires that I expect to make millions of revolutions over anything and everything that happens to be on the road. Rain, snow, ice, dead animals, car parts, canyons and occasionally, dry pavement. Hmm…maybe not such a bad deal.

Eight tire shop firsts:

Mario Andretti’s autograph on the wall. In Sharpie. What’ll they do when they need to repaint?
Cappuccino machine. Okay, fake powdery concoction, but hey, it’s sweet.
Brightly colored, shiny clean waiting area. Comfortable chairs.
Big screen plasma TV. With Headline News. No sports, no fishing.
Popcorn machine. The cool carnival kind.
Electric fireplace. On a chilly morning, anything that looks warm is inviting.
Toy table for kids. Guess climbing on the stacks of tires was not an option.
House Beautiful magazine. Or something like that. A whole magazine stand just for the chicks. Sorry, I mean for the lady customers.

Random Santa story from a previous visit:

I’m buying tires the week before Christmas, and the salesman has a genuine Santa beard and Santa smile, wearing a Santa hat. So I have to ask, "Wouldn’t Santa be giving away tires?"

"Oh yes," he assured me. "On Christmas Day he would. Course we’re closed on Christmas." Dang.

Oh well, you know what they say - What goes around will eventually go bald or flat. Isn’t that what they say?

Told you it’s a mish-mash.

God Had a Bad Day

2009-02-15T22:40:00.008-05:00

Two things struck me as I studied the face before me. First, God has bad days. He certainly did when he made this mug. The one eyebrow sagged. The left ear was lower, its lobe looking like it was melting and almost dripping. The nose was askew, and the high cheekbones served only to emphasize the pock marked skin. The towering forehead looked like a rough mountainside, with enough ledges for a beginner mountain climber to scale. The jutting chin pointed, but not straight ahead. There were no lips. No, God was not having a good day when He made that face.

The second thing that struck me was actually two separate things. A: when I go to the bathroom at 3:45 in the morning, I should not turn on the four 100 watt bulbs above the mirror, and B: one should never arrange a bathroom so that you're looking in the mirror while...um...sitting on the commode. Those two things combine to depress a man, especially one with an already shaky self-image.

I wandered back to bed, huddled under the covers, and watched reruns in my head. Okay, the thing at WalMart was not my fault. I'm pretty sure the cashier did not have to see my ID to sell me beer. I’m not that far into my thirties, but the face I just studied in the mirror is engraved with a few extra, shall we say, lifestyle years. I look old enough.

And the 'manager', all zit-faced 135 pounds of him, should not have taken that tone with me. All I did was fake a move at him and he stumbled back and dropped the six pack I was trying to buy. It really was funny when the bottles and all the Red Stripe did a shock and awe move on the shiny tile floor at register 17. Yes, I laughed at him, but calling the security guard really was over-reaction on his part. I had never been thrown out of a WalMart before.

Too annoyed to sleep now, I rolled over, sat up in bed and picked up the bottle next to the TV remote. Studying the soggy label, I remembered the gentleman’s first words to me a few hours earlier.

“It was Red Stripe, wasn’t it?” I was still sitting on the sidewalk where I had landed when I heard his voice. I suppose I was too dazed to answer, because he just sat down next to me and put the six-pack between us. “I don’t think an over-zealous manager should get between a grown man and a good beer, do you?”

Now, that voice sounded familiar, and I turned to look at him. I'm sure my jaw dropped. His big smile was just as bright here with a faded Browns shirt and an old camo hat as when he wore his $1000 suits and $100 ties. Yes indeed, he looked even nicer in person than on TV. I looked around to see if anybody was watching. He was still smiling. “I’d open a couple for us, but I suppose that would be illegal here in public. So here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take one home, and leave you with a five-pack. Tonight we’ll share a drink, just not together. Deal?”

"Um, yeah, sure. Thanks man. I mean, thank you, sir." I took one from the pack and we clinked our bottles to seal the deal. He slapped me on the shoulder and walked off, bottle raised in salute.

Now four and a half hours later, I sat on the edge of my bed, finishing off the last bottle. And two things struck me. One, it's good to know there's a God, even if He did have an off day. And two, if the pastor of the city’s largest snooty church sits on the sidewalk and shares your beer, maybe he has something worthwhile to say.

Despite my best efforts, tiny bits of fact invaded this work of fiction. And no beer was consumed in the writing of this story.

Dark and Stormy Night

2009-02-11T21:16:00.007-05:00

It was a dark and stormy night. No really, it was. Small farm animals were blowing across the highway as I raced madly from the Village Square coffee bar to the Hip Old Folks Chillin' Out Home. I had a blueberry smoothie for Mom. It was melting more with each passing mile. As I came flying around a curve I saw the most unexpected sight. Well, besides flying farm animals, that is.

Tail lights. Miles and miles of taillights as far as the eye could see. I pulled out my night vision binoculars, climbed up on the roof of the truck, and peered into the distance. Alas. As best I could determine, a sheep had apparently been bouncing along on gusts of wind, when it collided with a buggy, knocking the horse right out of the harness and taking its place. It looked like the horse had done a reverse 1-1/2 somersault tuck and landed on the roof of a passing RV. I believe the RV driver then panicked, hit the brakes, and skidded sideways in the highway. This caused a chain reaction collision of six silver minivans neatly crunched together, DVD monitors still glowing blue with the same Sponge Bob video. At least that's what it looked like. But the sheep had calmly trotted off, buggy in tow.

Since this was obviously taking awhile to clean up, traffic was looking for alternative routes. Some took the country road left. Others took the country road right. Me, I followed the muddy sedan in front of me down the shoulder of the highway to the country road. Or so I thought. We turned into a muddy gravel lane, only to find it leading to the little harness shop next to the country road. Too late I realized my mistake. I stopped, tried to back out, and saw another two cars directly behind me, everybody following muddy sedan guy down the wrong lane. So like a game of Lemming Madness, we wound down the rutted lane, into the gravel parking lot, circled around and went back out. A quick right, and another quick right, and we finally found ourselves actually on the country road. Yeehaw!

Many scenic miles later, (except it was dark so I saw no scenery but fences, ditches and mailboxes,) I reclaimed the highway, and found my way to Hip Old Folks Chillin' Out Home. Melted remnants of smoothie in hand, I found my Mom, we shared the smoothie and a rich but lukewarm cup of coffee. She was so grateful she gave me a piece of chocolate.

As I exited the parking lot, I was pretty sure I saw, disappearing down the hill, a round wooly form leading a buggy with a snoring old man drooling in his beard. But I may have been wrong. It was, after all, dark and stormy.

This story contains 100% facts, 5% of which are all-natural, unprocessed facts. The other 95% of the facts contain up to 99% additives, preservatives, fillers, and falsehoods.

No sheep were harmed in the writing of this story. The horse's ego however, was severely bruised. Complete recovery is expected.

The Legendary Halfwit

2009-02-08T20:33:00.015-05:00

"Let's all write a story using the same title!" That sounded like a good idea in writers group. Heh. Then I tried to write. Lacking a story, and fresh off an exploration of blank verse, I felt adventurous enough to risk making a fool of myself. Here ya go:

The legendary halfwit was a man
who didn't seem to be quite all that smart.
And yet he had the world in hand at times
when it would not have seemed to be so wise
to tell the truth about the things you see
to those who want to close their eyes instead.

A world of make believe is fine, but not
if you forget just where the story ends
and life, real life begins. Do you? Do I?
Or are we of the crowd who turns a blind
eye to the portions of our life where we
would rather not be made to face the truth?

The halfwit was so called at times when all
the world seemed to say yes and he alone
stood tall and quiet. No. He would not do
what he could see was not in line with truth.
He stood alone - but not alone - for truth
remained with him - the halfwit they all knew.

But legend takes a time to grow, its not
a thing of season, nor a thing of time.
So years of staying true and true built slow
a man who knew he knew, and did not need
another man to tell him how to think,
or how to be, or how indeed to live.

And then the tide of time washed out the sands
from underneath the castles built by those
who loved the fairy tale, and did not see
the line between the story and true life.
The make believe that they believed would be
forever-after crumpled at their feet.

So now the legend taller stood, alone
among the fallen ruins of the ones
who loved a lie and ever shunned the truth.
His story didn't change at all, but seemed
the more to grow with every passing storm.
The halfwit long forgot, a legend still.

Sorta True Barista Tale

2009-02-05T21:45:00.005-05:00

A couple of sixty-somethings, a husband and wife, amble into the Village Square coffee bar. The gleam in their eye speaks of adventure.

"Good afternoon, folks. What can I get for you?" The teenage barista greets them politely. They're old folk. What fun could this be?

"Oh look dear," she grabs hubby's hand. "They have ice cream." The lady's laugh lines crinkle, in a pattern started decades ago.

"Would you like an ice cream, darling?" It's a romantic weekend, and he's a gentleman. If she wants ice cream, she gets ice cream.

"That would be lovely. Let's look at the flavors." They stand arm in arm studying the eight flavors in the ice cream case. For a minute you can see the two teens in a soda shop from another life.

After three minutes of careful consideration the charming couple is ready to order. The gentleman takes the lead. "We'll have a medium butter pecan ice cream, please," he smiles at the young man who is patiently waiting to scoop.

But the bored young man has one more question. "Did you want that in a bowl, or in a cone, sir?"

The gentleman pauses, looks at his wife, and repeats, "Do I want it in a bowl, or do I want it in a cone?"

She smiles, and replies sweetly. "Well that depends, dear. Do you want me to spoon it, or do you want me to lick it?"

"I want you to lick it." He turns to the suddenly smiling young man. "We'll take it in a cone, please."

Snicker firmly in check, the young man scoops. Into a cone.

The gentleman and his lady stroll off, with ice cream and smiles on their lips, and laughter in their wake.

What Not To Do With "1"

2009-01-31T15:05:00.006-05:00

Eight things the number "1" should be:

The U.S. Route I'm cruising from Jacksonville south to Key West.

Superbowl chant preceded by "We're number..."

What two shall become at the altar.

The 'table for' you need when dining alone.

Keychain dangly-thingy for your significant other, e.g. #1 Luvly.

The likely reason for a visit to the little boys' room.

The penultimate prelude to Auld Lang Syne.

A Grand Prix racing Formula designation.

The one thing the number "1" should not be:

The temperature on a sunny Saturday morning. Give me 2. Or even 1 below. But not 1. It just seems wrong.

Wander Winterland

2009-01-29T13:44:00.007-05:00

Yes, it snows in Michigan's Upper Peninsula. But that's not all you see. Well, not quite. Along this scenic route...

...you'll see dozens of places to buy pasties.

This is a pasty. Pass-tee, not pay-stee. In case you wondered. Best with gravy.

If you do make it to Houghton, you'll find within walking distance of MTU, my sister's house.

They found a novel use for their backyard deck. Snow storage.

Looking out from their bay window are three distinctly different views.

Snowy front street...

Snowy neighbor house next door...

And snowy back alley. It's there, you just can't see it.

If you venture out to downtown (watch for strolling college students)...

...you'll find Cyberia Cafe. Heh. Cyberia in Siberia.

Then head down this major highway a few miles (watch for snowmobiles)....

...and follow this country road another mile (watch for snowblowers-really!)...

...you'll find the newlyweds home. Well, you'll see it, you just can't get there.

If you're quick on the draw (he likes cameras), you may shoot a Bear.

And if you decide to skip town at 4 AM, you may spot a local lurking around the corner.

See, I told you it's not all snow. And yes, it was other-worldly beautiful.

To Love and To Giggle

2009-01-26T20:32:00.004-05:00

The wedding started at three o’clock. At 3:04, "Mimsy" stood outside the sanctuary doors giggling. That’s fine for a teenager arriving late with her friends.

But.

Mimsy is not the teenager arriving late. She's my middle sister. And in this particular wedding, she is the bride. And you have not seen her when she gets a case of the giggles.

See, usually Middle Sister is quiet, reserved and well mannered. But on occasion, with family or close friends, something strikes her funny bone just right, and she starts to giggle. And then laugh. And shake all over, with tears running down her cheeks as the giggles just bubble out uncontrollably and go tumbling all over the room. Yes, it’s fun and it’s funny and it’s contagious.

It’s also an unconventional way to walk down the aisle to greet your ‘for better or worse.' Oh, she did look resplendent in her gown and veil, and I was ready to take her arm and walk her to her betrothed. But she was giggling. And when she saw me watching, it just got worse. I was afraid we would have a giggle delay in the wedding. Oh dear.

Not to worry, the giggles were short lived, and I escorted a smiling bundle of nerves down the aisle. I think she actually glowed as she pledged eternal devotion to her prince. He in turn had the look of a man who knew at that moment that there really is a God, and He brings people together.

Mimsy is on the better side of 39, and has found the love of her life. This is a union of two people who were busy making their own path through life, and along the way, found each other. She found her Prince Charming in a Winter Wonderland, probably riding his snowmobile.

This was a wonderfully happy event. This was two families celebrating and relishing this union. This was two becoming one, to love and to giggle, till death do them part.

To “Mimsy” and her Prince, our congratulations. May love and giggles fill your home.

UP a Snowy Mitten

2009-01-22T18:54:00.008-05:00

"Okay, you see the hand?" We're looking at Michigan.

"Like a mitten, the thumb and the hand."

"That's it. We're driving all the way through that and out the top end."

"What happens when you fall out the top of the mitten?"

"I think you land in Arctica or Iceland or something. They call it the U-P which really just means, well, up."

"So you're going up to UP."

"No we're going further. You see the little pointy thing at the top of UP? That's the North Pole, I'm pretty sure. That's where we're going."

"To the North Pole? But it doesn't point straight up. It's all sideways leany."

"Course not, cuz of the wind. And Santa Claus. You wouldn't stand up straight either if he landed on you once a year."

"The North Pole in January. Why not December?"

"Well the locals don't call it the North Pole. They call it Houghton, Michigan."

"But Houghton in January? Again, why?"

"Little sister's getting married. And not to Santa Claus. Or an elf. And I get to wear a tux."

"Well, la-de-da. You know what I think the pointy thing is? I think it's the pinkie finger sticking out when they tip a bottle of beer."

"Now you're just being silly."

"I'm not the one driving through a mitten and going up to UP."

Blatant Flag Waving

2009-01-21T12:38:00.008-05:00

Yeah, I'm proud of my country. What an amazing sight, the peaceful, orderly, respectful transfer of power from one party to the other. Two factions with distinctly different agendas, and one steps aside as the other steps in. Why? The common good.

In some countries, this would involve violence and bloodshed, rioting in the streets. You don't yield to your political opponent peacefully. Yet here we do.

It warms my heart to see people put aside differences to work together for a common goal. Politicians and parties will disagree about the means, but the goal for most of us is the same - a safe and prosperous nation in which to raise our families and conduct our lives.

So here’s what I hope will change. I hope President Obama can hold to his belief that we are a United States of America. I hope he can foster an atmosphere of co-operation in Washington. I hope he can inspire people to look at what they agree on, not just what they disagree about. That would be a welcome change.

Hmm…what if Christ-followers were inspired to work together toward our common goal? Now that would be real change.

Destiny

2009-01-20T23:17:00.004-05:00

"Yet who knows

whether you have

come to the kingdom

for such a time as this?"

Camera Therapy

2009-01-17T21:34:00.006-05:00

What the eye saw:

That's really all I was taking a picture of.
The fork of a tree piled with snow.
It was cool.

It's like some scenes in my life.
Where I focus on the details.
Thinking it's the core of the matter.

So imagine my surprise
when I looked at the screen
and saw this scene.

What the camera saw:

This is not what I saw out the window of my truck
as I was going out my drive on Friday morning.
This is what my camera saw. Why?

Sometimes all you need is another set of eyes
to look at the scene right in front of you,
and it takes on a whole new meaning.

Take a scene in your life
That seems limiting or difficult
Show it to a friend
Then look at it through their eyes
I'll bet it looks different.

They Call Me Zero

2009-01-16T17:30:00.004-05:00

They call me Zero, all the boys in third grade, ever since the incident in Art class last October. Barry thinks it’s funny. Thomas is just being mean. But Ginger still smiles her freckly smile and calls me Philip. Well, we’ll see who’s laughing next week.

It was a simple painting day in Art class that Friday. Not like the day we had to build a house out of lifesavers. It was sunny outside, and two weeks before Halloween. I remember because my Dad wouldn't let me make the jack-o-lantern earlier. So I was all excited to get home and start carving out the pumpkins we bought the night before at Farmer Bob’s.

Miss Korrine, our Art teacher, laid out big sheets of paper that she likes to call our canvas. She passed out the paints and brushes while we put on our painting T-shirts. Then she pushed back her kinky red hair, and using a brush as a pointer, she explained our project.

"I want you to choose something you like, either in the classroom, or outside the window. But I don't want you to paint what you see. I want you to paint what you feel. So your painting won't look like an object, but an emotion."

Now, I was confused. Paint a feeling? But I didn't want to waste time, and I thought maybe if I finished quickly I could leave early. So I looked out the window to see if something out there gave me a feeling.

And then it happened. I saw a tree, with beautiful red and gold and green leaves. I thought of the tree in my front yard, where I would sit to carve my pumpkin. Now I was really feeling something. I was feeling in a hurry to get home. I needed to paint that hurry feeling.

I grabbed the biggest brush we had, and looked at the paint colors in front of me. I had red and green, but no gold. The blue would have to do. I dunked my brush in the red paint and made a wide stroke all the way from one side of my canvas to the other. I wiped the brush on my shirt, then dunked it in the green and made another sweep. I did the same with the blue. Then since I really liked red, I made one final brush stroke with the red, this one catty-corner.

I stood back and looked at it. It didn't look like anything, just like Miss Korrine had said. But it looked like I felt. Like I was in a hurry to get home to my red and green and gold tree and carve a pumpkin. I felt proud. I painted an emotion. And I did it in less than a minute.

I looked around and saw most of the kids just starting. Ginger was carefully painting tiny pink clouds with a tiny little brush. I finished first. I won.

Excitedly I called to Miss Korrine. "I'm all done! I painted a hurry up feeling. Look!" I pointed to my four brushstrokes proudly.

But a strange thing happened. My teacher did not look happy. She walked over slowly, her lips pinched together like she did when Barry ate all his lifesavers instead of building a house.

"Philip, I'm disappointed. You didn't even try. An artist must put some soul into his work." Miss Korrine pulled out her red Sharpie, and right on my painting, in the top left corner, she put a big red zero. "Now sit down and wait till everyone else is done."

I was crushed. This was all wrong. I did what she asked, and she didn't like it. Worse, I didn't even get to go home early. Even worse, the other kids started snickering. Thomas pointed at the painting, whispered something to Barry, and they looked at me and smirked. Soon all the kids were looking at the painting, and at me, and giggling. Except Ginger, who smiled sweetly. Miss Korrine smacked her paint brush on her desk loudly, and everybody went back to work.

Twenty-five long minutes later, the bell rang and we all ran for the door. Just as we got to the hallway, Thomas stopped me. "Hey Zero, nice painting." Of course, everybody heard it. And everybody thought it was cool, because Thomas said it. From then on, I was Zero at school.

It was a long winter. All my Christmas cards at school were addressed to Zero, and my Valentine’s Day cards. Except for Ginger. She handed me a Valentine’s Day card with Philip written in cursive, and little hand-drawn hearts. She smiled like she had a secret and asked me to open it right away. Inside was the flyer that changed my life.

On bright red paper covered with snowflakes, the headline read:

Igloo Children’s Beautiful Winter (ICBW) Festival,
announces the featured artists for their
February exhibition.

Ginger leaned in excitedly and pointed to the item halfway down the page:

In the Elementary division of Abstract Art
we will feature a piece by Philip Bartholomew.
Philip is a student of Miss Korrine at
Rovenstine Elementary.

His piece entitled Hurry Up
was submitted by his friend

Ginger Peach.

I was speechless. Until Thomas walked past singing, “Zero has a girlfriend.”

I smirked at him, leaned over and kissed Ginger on the cheek. “Thank you for being nice to me.”

“I liked your painting, Philip. The Festival people really liked the bright red sun you put in the corner." She winked at me. "Should we ask Miss Korrine to drive us to the exhibition?”

I nodded, smiled, and said, “You can call me Zero.”

*This is the promised response to this very entertaining post.

Dream an Evil Queen

2009-01-13T18:56:00.010-05:00

For your amusement, I present a short dream segment I wrote as part of a collaborative story for our writers group. I had fun writing it, hope you enjoy it.

Gray clouds crept along the ground, bringing with them, I was sure, creeping little orbs wielding deadly knives. A dark shape oozed out of the smoldering haze toward me and I reached frantically for my sword. What I pulled instead from my belt was a jagged mirror. I looked at it in panic, and saw the lined gray face of my brother staring blankly from bloodshot eyes.

I hurled the mirror to the ground where it exploded in a violet tinged fireball. The flames curled up gracefully, curving around the stunningly gorgeous face of Etherea. She smiled a deadly smile, and beckoned with a blood-red tipped finger.

"Come, Valentine, you must bring the Master to us. My husband may be the Boss, but I am Queen. You will not disappoint your Queen."

"Bring the Master, bring the... I will not disappoint... I will not... disappoint the mirror..."

I was suddenly face to face with Etherea, her eyes burning into mine. "Who am I?" The voice was velvety shards of glass.

"My Queen...you are...my Queen." The violet flames of her hair wrapped around my head and squeezed until everything turned black.

Boot the Diva

2009-01-09T21:38:00.008-05:00

The diva must go. Here at Village Square coffee bar, we pride ourselves on being tolerant and accepting of all kinds. But we have had quite enough of this one.

I know divas come in all shapes, sizes and genders, and ours is certainly unique. But you will best understand if you think of our diva thus; A blond cutie with a good brain but no idea what to do with it. She had street cred, and the right kind of friends. That was enough until she showed up in our coffee shop. There, much to her shock and surprise, she was expected to work hard, and work efficiently, every hour of every shift she put in.

This was obviously new territory for her. She had never worked a full day in her young life, I'm sure. She didn't have to, she was sleek and stylish, and just plain cool to have around. She had managed to slide by on those scant qualifications so far.

So she did what any good diva would do. She worked only when she wanted to, and only if conditions were absolutely ideally to her liking. If not, she threw fits. She had tantrums. She pouted. She vented so loudly every customer in the dining room stopped and looked and listened. One particularly noisy night the musician even commented on her behavior.

Will Diva For Paycheck. That would have been her sign.

Now you understand why the diva must go. So stand, raise a demitasse of crema-crowned espresso to the departure of our old espresso machine, the mechanical diva with a shiny steel facade, and a heart stained with rust and corrosion.

Sayonara. We miss you not.

Sam Walton Smiles

2009-01-06T12:25:00.010-05:00

Yes, if Sam Walton was watching, I'm pretty sure he smiled.

See it was after 10 last night when I stopped in at Mylittleburg WalMart to pick up new blades for my shaver. (Slick scalp, blunt blades.) Seventeen minutes later, I had my blades, and $20 of long overdue car-care and personal care necessities. I was tired, I just wanted to go home. I headed for the door, and she saw me coming from fifty feet away.

Big smile. Not just on her lips, but in her eyes. "Have a good night," the WalMart greeter lady enthused(?) bubbled(?) said.

"Thank you, you too," I mumbled(?) intoned(?) said.

"Why thank you, I will." I think she was for real.

This was not some canned
"hiwelcometoMcDonaldsmayItakeyourorderplease" script. She was enjoying what she was doing. And because of her I left feeling better. And Sam smiled.

Postscript:

I know WalMart hating is cool in some circles. But I also know I see hard-working people there making a living, so others can buy what they need. Is that all bad?

Viva la Resolución!

2009-01-01T20:59:00.007-05:00

Happy New Year! It's time for Resolutions! Get me a pen and paper! A pen to stab anyone who asks me for resolutions. Paper to stuff in their mouth.

Or, I could do something more worthwhile, like picking lint off my sweaters.

Resolutions, I believe, fall into three categories. And I don't even like to categorize. But I see them thus:

Socially acceptable; These are the ones we talk about to our friends and family so we don't sound like we're total losers. Includes the standards like, losing weight, stop smoking, eat healthy.

Professional; The ones all the business consultants insist you need to succeed. To look like we know where we're going, we lay them all out, realistic or not. We have goals, lots of goals, long range, mid range, short range, monthly, weekly, daily, hourly.

Goals of the soul; The ones we actually care about, but won't tell anyone. Except a stranger in a bar, drinks optional. But these goals are the hardest to nail down. Probably because it's things we don't even tell ourselves. But if we did get these right, I think a lot of other goals and resolutions would fall into place.

Do I sound like someone who doesn't make resolutions? Yeah, I suppose. I'm not good with written goals. I'm okay at writing the list. I'm just not good at getting it right. By the time I'm done, it doesn't look like me.

So maybe this year I'll try again. Not to nail down my goals, but to let them surface. Because I think the most genuine goals are the ones that you can't quite articulate. They'll come out if you listen to a different voice, not just the one in your head, but the one in your soul.

Glitter & Grime

2008-12-31T16:09:00.005-05:00

We slogged along, we did. The mob of us, through the mud and the slush and the ice and the snow. Not snow like I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas. Snow like you find in the gutter six days later. Mud that sticks to your shoes and then your pants and then your shirt. And slush and grime. The kind of grime that starts on the outside, but ends up on the inside. In your eyes and mouth. Then in your throat. And finally, you’re pretty sure, the grime is coating the inside of your soul.

I kept my eyes down, because I didn’t need to look up. I knew the path. I’d been around this way hundreds of times. I watched the muddy boots in front of me as they sloshed loudly into that same hidden rut, followed by the same listless profanity. And then I stumbled on the same rock as a dozen times before. Curses!

When I did look up, I saw the same dingy, hunched over forms doing the same shapeless shuffle as yesterday and yester-week and yester-month. Every turn in the path promised something new, and every turn in the path delivered more dull sameness.

The occasional mirage of apparent festivity would come and go, but nothing changed. We trudged through the lights and the food and the façade of fun, feeling only more downcast by what we couldn’t experience. Any attempt to linger was quickly overruled by the endless marching horde behind.

And now, we see less sun every day. More night. More cold. Yet the pace quickens. Why? We see lights. We hear music. We sense excitement. It’s by far the grandest celebration we have seen. We rush towards it, falling and running over each other in a chaotic attempt to get there, to finally rest instead of strive. And then we’re there. And then it’s gone. Alas, it’s gone.

We’re off our pace now. Unfamiliar forms in front, unfamiliar ruts. We seem suddenly to have no place to go. But in the bewildered shuffling, I find the crowd spreading out. The path is wider. Still mud and slush and grime. But in between the figures before me, I see bits of fresh snow, untouched by muddy boots. I look to the left, and I look to the right, and I see, we’re all side by side. Everybody’s at the front of the line. We’re approaching the mountaintop together. It becomes a march, stepping as one through the muck and the mire.

We’re counting steps now, 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4. And then: 10, 9, 8… in unison, 7, 6, 5, we can feel it, 4…3…2…1 – and we’re struck silent, standing breathless in awe at the sight before us.

It’s magnificent, as far as the eye can see, miles of pure, glistening white snow. Not a footprint to be seen. Not a splatter of mud. Just sparkling clean snow, waiting for the first footprint. Trees glitter and glorious sunlight shimmers off a crystal clear lake. Unbroken snow beckons: Make your own path.

So the light ahead becomes the light within. It cleanses from my soul all the grime of the past. It’s a new day. It’s a new year. If I choose, it’s a new life.

If moments were ornaments...

2008-12-29T19:02:00.005-05:00

...these would shine the brightest:

Christmas Eve opening number at New Pointe. Trans Siberian Orchestra, eat your heart out. And the closing number. Little drummer boy, here’s to you.

Talking with (unnamed friend) of my (unidentified offspring) and thinking, "This is a very cool (guy/girl), I hope (he/she) spends more time with my (unspecified offspring.) It’s complicated.

Realizing that for five people whose main goal is enjoying their time together, Panic Room can be a great Christmas movie. I suppose for too many parents, it’s just a Christmas Eve reality.

Christmas morning breakfast. Family. Crepes and eggs. Coffee. Smile.

Settling down on the floor by the tree. Anticipation.

Bestest Daughter opening her complete Friends DVD set. Her eyes and mouth were wide open, but no sound came out.

The bewildered look on Bestest Son’s face for the time it took him to figure out it was not a cheap camera case, but a case holding the lock-picking set he had asked for.

Realizing that Bestest Daughter had indeed found her way to Recognized Local Store and purchased the Specified Brand of a particular distillate for a father who would not indulge himself thus.

Giving a DVD player, and receiving one, which oddly enough is still not excessive in our house.

Understanding the thought and care that Bestest Son puts into his gift selection. He really wants you to like your gift.

The satisfaction on Luvly’s face when she realized Daughter had been listening when she described a pair of boots. And watching the joy on Bestest Daughter’s face.

My Mom being moved to tears by the sheer joy of spending an entire day with family.

Gathering extended family around the table in a temporarily transformed coffee shop dining room. Where family gathers, there’s a sense of home.

Living out the reason for the season. Peace in our home, goodwill to my family. It starts here.

Christmas Confession

2008-12-25T10:00:00.001-05:00

I used to listen to the all-Silent Night channel on Accuradio. Everybody's version of my favorite carol, for hours on end. And then I discovered on a random Christmas CD the best version I've ever heard.

The most beautiful musical instrument on earth is the divinely created female voice. The best way to sing this song is the way it's written; silent, and holy. And that's what I hear when Christina Aguilera sings this song, first in English, then in Spanish.

May we all know the dawn of redeeming grace.

Christmas Revelation

2008-12-24T11:20:00.003-05:00

It was my 45th Christmas before I finally figured out the one essential moment when my soul tells me it’s Christmas. It is the moment when in my heart, I visit the manger. All else is preparation, periphery. The defining moment for me personally, comes in the stable, by the manger.

For my family, Christmas is when we gather around and open our presents. It is a rare and special thing for our family to spend any time together not being entertained. So we gather, we give, we receive, we thank, we enjoy.

For my heart to know Christmas, it is the journey to the manger, and it is very personal. Usually that comes in the normal course of our Christmas events, a church play, a drama or musical performance. Maybe even a sermon. I suppose that is why any Christmas drama I was involved with at church was incomplete without a manger scene. You could take a thousand different paths to get there, but a Christmas drama of any sort always had to end at the manger.

When an ice storm cancelled our Christmas Eve service several years ago, we attended a wonderful service elsewhere, but it didn’t take me to the manger. And we didn’t go to a Christmas play at the regional theater, we went to a Holiday Show. It felt empty. It had no soul.

And then I read the B.C. Christmas Day comic strip. I read the message in the stars, and I joined the characters at the entrance to the stable. And in that moment I understood: This is the heart of Christmas to me. I enter the stable, and stand with the shepherds and the wise men in adoration of Mary, Joseph, and the new-born King, Emmanuel, the baby Jesus.

God rest ye merry, gentle folk. Oh come, let us adore Him.

Ho, Ho, Haiku

2008-12-23T13:05:00.005-05:00

Ho ho haiku! I’m a finalist in the 17 syllable contest I mentioned last week. I entered the one that got a comment, (thank you Jason,) and made the top five out of a hundred or so.

Finalists and funky category winners are here. It’s a fun read, here are a few of my favorites:

The winner:
(anlyledo)
Winter morning yawns
A downy peace covers all
I burrow deeper

One of the finalists:
(Me)
Pent up words rusting
In my soul where I can't reach
With my fountain pen.

And a few category winners:

(Richard Mabry)
"Dashing through the snow
In a one-horse open sleigh.
O'er the fields we go...."

(Cosimod)
Of cookies and milk
Santa dines night and day. He
can't fit in his sleigh.

(Me)
Santa said if I
Was good, he’d give back Christmas
To that Jesus guy.

WE

2008-12-20T12:12:00.006-05:00

"…back before WE learned WE had cancer."

So says my friend Jason in this post. We have cancer. Not my son, but we. How powerful is that?

This is not just an individual battle, this is a family fighting together. And from what I can see, it’s not just the immediate family of Mom, Dad and three sisters. It’s extended family too, aunts and uncles, grandmas and grandpas, all involved in bringing this brave soldier back to health.

Granted, this is not entirely a matter of choice for immediate family. I can only imagine how this turned family life upside down in so many ways. There must be times for the girls when it seems everything revolves around little brother. But if you’re in it as a family, if you really look at it as something we face, then you do everything you can for the family member who needs it.

We could use a lot more of that attitude. In our families. In our neighborhoods and our churches. In our nation and in our world. And I’m guessing it starts with me, getting my eyes off me, and onto we.

WE might just be the most powerful word on the planet.

17 Syllable Japanese Sneeze

2008-12-17T19:46:00.006-05:00

http://cba-ramblings.blogspot.com/
/\
/\
/\
Haiku contest there
One entry per person please
Here's what else I wrote.

On Christmas:

Found the perfect gift
When the babe in the manger
Found room in my heart.

Christmas lights and trees
Gifts and carols and candy
Point the way to - peace?

Silent, holy night
Is what I got for Christmas
At the manger bed.

On writing:

Talent trapped inside
Rusts the soul, so why can't I
Open up the tap?

Pent up words rusting
In my soul where I can't reach
With my fountain pen.

Go check it out, add your own. Yes, you.

A Christmas Tale in Four Acts

2008-12-16T22:08:00.006-05:00

A fictional conversation with John Bunn, based on his recent postulation that not just the Christmas story, but the story arc of Scripture, can be captured in four words.

sez Mark: So John, what’s Act I of your play?

John Bunn: OF.

sM: Of what?

JB: OF. Adam and Eve were created in the image OF God.

sM: Beats the proverbial silver spoon, doesn’t it? And what is Act II?

JB: That’s right, how did you guess?

SM: Huh?

JB: Act II is AND. Adam and Eve went down their own path. So now there’s separation, Man AND God.

sM: So what do you start Act III with?

JB: WITH.

sM: Yes, with?

JB: Yes, WITH. Act III is WITH. That’s the Christmas part. His name is Emmanuel, God WITH us.

sM: Then it ends in Act IV?

JB: You’re right, IN.

sM: I am?

JB: Act IV is IN. If you ask, the Spirit will live IN you.

sM: Is that like the ghost of Christmas past? Or like the Force?

JB: Were you listening on Sunday?

sM: It was early service, give me a break.

Of, and, with, in. I love a short story. Especially with a good ending.

Suede Booties

2008-12-10T20:54:00.003-05:00

"The world is a strange place right now. It's off its axis," a salesman from a Fifth Avenue retailer is quoted in the New York Times. Why? Travesties such as: Barney's of New York has suede booties marked down from $1195 to $720.

Suede booties for only $720? This is the stuff of economic crisis? Well.

I will confess to being a frugal shopper. I'm less interested in "Can I afford it?" and more interested in "Can I live without it?" So how would I spend $720 on clothes? Heh.

Let's see, my tailor is the Harvest Thrift store, my couturier Steve & Barry's, my haberdasher is WalMart, Gabes is my cobbler, and my hatter is the lost and found box at Java Jo's. Yes, $720 will last awhile. How long?

A brief survey of my closets told me thus: The "world off its axis" price of those suede booties will keep me in dress shirts and pants, T-shirts and jeans, sweaters and hoodies, jackets and coats, hats and scarves, shoes and boots for a year. Twice. At least.

Can you wisely spend more money on better quality? Of course. My job doesn't require a pricey wardrobe, and our social life is casual. I dress better for a job interview than I do for church. But I'm not a slob. My favorite fashionista told me I look like a "city sleeker." I think it was a compliment.

So is the world off its axis? Maybe the one that's spinning on a fragile, mortgaged spire atop a house of (credit) cards. The real world, where you earn money, then spend it on things you really need, or dearly love, that world may just be regaining its balance.

Oh, and Naomi, you can stop drooling now :-)

Who's on Bass?

2008-12-02T21:24:00.006-05:00

(A mostly true story)

The scene is a coffee shop throbbing with music. Two brothers and two friends jamming for two hours. It's standing room only at Java Jo, one of those rare performances you wish could last forever. But who are the players?

"So which ones are the two brothers?" Ed leans close to be heard over the music.

"Joas and Joel," I nod toward the band in the corner.

"Joel is the drummer?"

"No the other Joel. Yes, the drummer’s name is Joel, but the other Joel is the brother. He’s the one with the hat."

"Oh the one on the harmonica?"

"No, the other one with a hat. The one playing guitar."

"But not the one sitting down?"

"No, the one sitting down with the guitar is Joas. Oh wait, now Joel is sitting down, too."

"So Joas is the one wearing a vest?"

"Yes, no, the guy on the harmonica’s wearing a vest."

"What’s his name?"

"I don’t know. Just some guy that came with Joas. But Joas is wearing a vest too."

"So the brothers are the two guys with vests?"

"No the brothers are Joas and Joel. Joas is the one with a vest playing guitar."

"The vest plays guitar?"

"No, Joas plays guitar, wearing a vest."

"The guitar wears a vest?"

"See the guy sitting in a chair, playing a guitar?"

"The one with a vest?"

"The guy with a vest. That guy is playing a guitar. His name is Joas."

"The guy, or the guitar, or the vest?"

"The guy’s name is Joas."

"And his brother’s name is Joel?"

"His brother is the one wearing a hat and playing guitar."

"But not sitting down."

"Not right now."

"And the other Joel is the one with a beard?"

"The Joel with a beard is the guy on the drums. The other guy with a beard is Joas"

"The guy with a vest sitting and playing guitar?"

"Yes. The other guy with a vest is a friend."

"The one on harmonica?" The guy with a hat?"

"The other guy with a hat. Not Joel on the guitar, but the one with a hat playing harmonica. He’s the friend."

"And it’s not the hat playing the harmonica?"

"Might be."

The Cast:

Joas has a beard, wears a vest, sits and plays guitar amazingly. And sings. His brother…

...Joel has only stubble, wears a hat, stands (sometimes) and plays guitar similarly. And sings, maybe better.

Joel the drummer (actually the entire rhythm section since there's no bass), has a beard. No vest, no hat.

Friend (Chris?) wears a hat, and a vest, and plays harmonica marvelously.

A Tale of Two Cigarettes

2008-11-26T17:53:00.001-05:00

(From the storyteller's pen)

"Got a smoke, man?" A gravelly voice came out of the shadows. On this block, it neither startled nor scared me.

"Sorry, I don't smoke. Get you a cup of coffee?" Now that startled me, coming out of my mouth. I had three minutes to get back on the road or I'd be late. I hate being late.

"Sure whatever. Can I come along in to get it? Kinda chilly here." I looked at his frayed flannel shirt and tattered baseball cap. Compared to my leather coat and ski cap, it seemed frigid.

"Come on, we'll sit inside for a while." What am I saying? I don't have time to hang out with friends, much less strangers. And this man moved like he could handle himself in a fight.

We picked up our coffee at the bar and found a table. I watched as he added cream and sugar with the care and precision of a barista crafting a perfect cappuccino. This was a man who cared about the details of life. I wonder...

"So are you homeless, or do you just like to bum smokes outside coffee shops?" What am I saying? I don't talk like that. I smiled, hoping he would get the lame attempt at humor.

I met his quiet eyes, deep-set in a lined and worn face. I realized he was analyzing me, and that was unsettling somehow. Then his mouth twitched in a grin, and he pointed to the office building across the street. "See the light up there on the fourth floor. Little studio apartment. I take care of the building, so I get to sleep there."

"Just no money for cigarettes, I guess." Apparently that bothered me.

"I work security midnights at the WG warehouse over on southside. Buys food, clothes like this, and medication. And one brandy on Saturday night."

"But no smokes?" I was intrigued.

He sighed a resigned sigh. "I don't tell anyone about the cigarettes. Unless they need to know. I guess you need to know."

"I'm sorry, that's how we met, I didn't mean to be nosy."

"No, I find when somebody asks, they need to know. It's simple, really. I bum smokes to remind myself that I need help from people. I didn't used to know that."

Now I regarded him quietly. There was unexpected depth here. He nodded over at the office building again. "I used to own that building. This one too. And the warehouse where I work."

"Used to?"

"Got it all through hard work and listening to my gut. Did it on my own, so I thought. Course, life taught me otherwise."

I nodded. "Life has a way of doing that."

"Now I'm down to basics. I don't have much, but I'm not taking handouts."

"Except for cigarettes."

"I ask total strangers to give me cigarettes. It's good for the ego. And I don't even smoke. I trade them for my weekly brandy down at Jack's on the corner.

"You don't even smoke?" I was still confused.

"A man who won't give you money will still share his smokes. And it does something to you when you ask for something without having anything to give in return. Keeps you humble, I guess."

I nodded, speechless in the face of his simple wisdom. He stood, and extended his hand. "Hey man, thanks for the coffee. I still have to get my cigarette."

He ambled out to his post, leaving me agitated. He helped me more than I helped him. I hate to owe anybody anything. Even worse, now I knew what to do about it.

Ten minutes later, I watched the plaid shirt cross the street, tucking a cigarette safely in his pocket. I pulled on my cap, and took his place in the shadows, hoping to remain anonymous.

Five long minutes later, three teenagers came walking by. I took a deep breath and asked, "Hey man, you got a smoke?"

The one in front smirked, "We're too young to smoke, Pops."

But the skinny kid in the back pulled out a pack and handed me one. "Here ya go, man. Need a light?" I nodded, and we leaned close with the lighter between us. "Good luck, man," he said as he followed his friends.

"Thank you, thanks a lot." I walked to my car, smoking my first cigarette in twenty years. I stopped, and looked up at the fourth floor window. I think he saluted.

Sex at Church

2008-11-24T15:37:00.007-05:00

So if God created sex, why don't we ask Him how it's supposed to work?

Yeah, our fearless pastor talked about sex. The goal is of sex is not the act, but intimacy. Anything else is a cheap and unsatisfying substitute.

So I was sitting in church with Nickelback playing on my mental ipod. You can hear the longing for intimacy in Gotta Be Somebody.

Happy Birthday, Mom

2008-11-17T15:35:00.007-05:00

76 years ago today, on November 17, 1932, Elizabeth was born to Emmanuel and Mary Wengerd, the fourth (I think) of eight children in this Amish family. I wonder what her first few birthday parties were like?

I don't know if it's side effects of her stroke, or just more time to think and to talk, but I'm hearing stories of her girlhood like never before.

Two of her siblings, Uncle Mel and Aunt Edna used to play in a band. A band! Amish teenagers in the early 1940's, playing guitar and ukelele (we think) in what I'm guessing was a folk/bluegrass band. This would be the aunt that I have known only as a roly-poly Amish lady with too many kids for me to remember all their names.

Her brother once took my Mom and her sister to Nashville to see the Grand Ol' Opry. She thinks Minnie Pearl sang. And I thought Mom never got off the farm.

Mom and her friends used to meet for a much frowned upon Bible study. The Amish church did not approve of such activities, but Dawdy turned a blind eye. Mom the rebel. As Dad would have said, "Whodathunkit?"

Happy Birthday, Mom, and lots of love.

21 Ruminations

2008-11-12T20:03:00.018-05:00

These are not things I worry or obsess about.

These are things I ruminate on.

(Thanks Scout.)

* Working 6 days a week.
* Not making any money 6 days a week.
* Keeping the gremlins out of two coffee shops.
* Selling three rental houses.
* Finding more time to write.
* Actually getting paid to write.
* Knowing that my house is twice as big as it needs to be.
* Helping my son get on a college/career track
* Not letting my daughter's dream of acting/modeling die.
* Getting my Mom out of the nursing home.
* Keeping my Mom happy in the nursing home.
* Selling Mom's house.
* Managing Mom's money.
* Growing my faith beyond mustard seed size.
* Regaining faith in Divine involvement in my life.
* Having time for friends.
* Getting to know the redhead that lives in my house.
* Watching all the movies that I really need to.
* Creating time to give back.
* Seeing the other 99% of the world.
* Mining the other 90% of my potential

Random thought: Cows are ruminants, right?

Subliminal Ooze*

2008-11-07T12:18:00.003-05:00

I sits me down
I stops to think
And listen to
My brain cells clink

Why does it seem
I try too hard
Ideas die
In some graveyard

But if I catch
Myself off guard
I write a bit
Don’t try too hard

The thoughts leak out
From hidden place
Ooze out to fill
My writing space

Line up with care
Each precious drop
When it’s all gone
I know to stop.

*This is what happens when my subconcious springs a leak for six minutes.

Barfly vs. Banker

2008-11-06T15:27:00.008-05:00

Much as I love words, I think wisdom for the ages can be found in the comic strips. I yield the floor to the Rogers -- Mahoney and Kettle -- and their associate, Andy Capp.

Your House Got Soul?

2008-11-05T13:18:00.010-05:00

Perfection is reached, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing more to take away. - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

A sculptor in his sunlit studio contemplates a cold block of marble. Within that stone, he alone sees the beautiful shape wanting to emerge. So he strips away everything else to get to that image. Cutting, chipping, sanding, polishing till he’s down to perfection.

That’s my ideal when I write, to get down to the pure essence of the matter. I instinctively write short, saying the most I can with the fewest words. Too many words clutter the landscape and get in the way of the story.

Now I find the same principle at work as I look at home design. Where is my home bigger, more bloated than it needs to be? What’s the excess that’s getting in the way of the best use of my house? For that matter, what’s the primary purpose of my house?

Ah, now we’re talking. What do I want from my house? A shelter to live in? A mansion to impress my friends? Or an estate to maintain? Do I want a palace to rule from? A fortress with which to intimidate? Or a museum to fill with beautiful things? Do I just want a home for my family?

If I don’t know what I want, how will I know when I have it? If I get what I don’t want, I’m dissatisfied and so I want more. Maybe it’s not more I want, but different.

You can’t get enough of what you don’t really want. That’s the root of excess. Even better, it’s the key to simplicity. Know what you want, and why. When you have it, it will be enough. Strip away everything else and you may just discover the image of what was tucked away in your soul as happiness.

Sometimes contentment comes not from having more, but having less.

No one can hear you scream

2008-10-25T09:16:00.022-04:00

In the end, it was the friends, not the house, that impressed the most. And with a brand new house like Eugene and Joanie's, that's saying a lot.

It's a special thing, an evening spent with friends in their home. We were welcomed, given the tour, and had a grand time oohing and ahhing at their gorgeous digs. The kitchen is a perfect place for a family to hang out. There's hardwood flooring handscraped by prison inmates. The iron railing on the stairway looks like it came from an Italian villa.

We moved downstairs for pizza which was paired perfectly with wine, for no other reason than it's the wine we happened to bring. Pomegranate martinis were mixed by our host, and then it was movie time.

Ah yes, the main event. I can't begin to do justice to the techie aspects of the theater room. I'll use terms like waaaay cool. Red leather power reclining seats. Ginormous screen. Sound that registers on the Riechter scale. Clarity of sound and picture that makes you dodge the bullets. And there were bullets, since we watched the great western 3:10 to Yuma.

It was like Tinseltown, only better. No crowds to wade through. No loud comments from the row behind you. And halfway through the movie, we paused the movie, refreshed our drinks, exchanged comments on the plot, and went back when we were ready.

It was a grand evening. But when I think back, here's what really brings a smile to my face; the best part was how much our hosts enjoyed sharing something they really loved. Eugene and Joanie love their house. But not more than the people in their lives.

The house is beautiful. The theater room is amazing. But not so long ago, in a galaxy not so far away, these friends are out of this world.

All the Colors

2008-10-21T20:07:00.015-04:00

From this poet's dusty shelf:

Sings the artist to his painting
Words unheard and words unseen
Paints the singer on the canvas
All the colors never known
Writes the poet with his fingers
Dipped in blood from out his soul
Disappears the pained creator
There stands truth, and art is whole

Moving Crew

2008-10-15T16:53:00.006-04:00

I've never had so much fun moving furniture. Maybe because it wasn't mine. But mostly because of the crew I worked with. And their wonderfully fun attitude.

Let me introduce them in order of enthusiasm:

Joseph - What an adventurer. Figuring out how to take apart a table or move a bookshelf is amazing when you're 9. Sitting on top of the truck cab while it's in motion is better.

Emmanuel (Manny) - Half workhorse, half engineer. If he could budge it, he would move it to where he wanted it. At 8, anything is possible.

Peter - The senior brother (11), and carries himself with the wisdom his position calls for. He actually thinks before he acts.

Rebecca - At 13, that perfect in between little girl and young woman attitude. She was the tomboy who loved to jump in and help, and the young lady who knew how to stay out of the way.

Larry - The grown up. The blend of brain and brawn was great for working with kids and furniture. And nobody told him that moving your Mother-in-law's furniture shouldn't be a fun way to spend a Saturday morning.

Not in the photo, but certainly in the picture:

Shar, the queen of packing and crowd control.

Carol, the queen of food and organization.

MaryGrace, the four-year-old queen of "Don't step on me sitting in the middle of the room while you carry a sofa over my head."

Emptying your Mom's house is exhausting and stressful. And on this day, fun.

Quiet Praise

2008-10-04T22:01:00.010-04:00

I don't know how to write this. But I have to try.

The musician tonight at the local hangout, let's call him John, just sang the most painfully beautiful worship song. It was more beautiful because I know more about John.

See a couple of years ago, when John sang a song like that, it was with a beaming smile. He was joyful, seemingly always. Praise radiated when he sang.

And then the trials came. Difficulties personal, spiritual, physical, mental. When I first saw him after a year, I did not recognize him. The joy, the life, was gone.

He's better now. The glow is coming back. It's quieter, the smile more reserved. He lets you in carefully. The joy simmers, not bubbles.

And tonight he sang. It was beautiful. And when he sang about singing, praising, dancing in the dark times, there was a depth, a vulnerability. In the midst of a noisy coffee shop, there was a holy hush. I forgot to breathe.

Sometimes worship is loud and celebrating. Tonight, worship spoke quietly. Reverently. Lovingly. Tonight there was praise on the other side of pain.

Weak and wounded sinner
Lost and left to die
O, raise your head, for love is passing by
Come to Jesus...and live!

Now your burden's lifted
And carried far away
And precious blood has washed away the stain, so
Sing to Jesus...and live!

And like a newborn baby
Don't be afraid to crawl
And remember when you walk sometimes we fall, so
Fall on Jesus...and live!

Sometimes the way is lonely
And steep and filled with pain
So if your sky is dark and pours the rain, then
Cry to Jesus...and live!

O, and when the love spills over
And music fills the night
And when you can't contain your joy inside, then
Dance for Jesus...and live!

And with your final heartbeat
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side, and
Fly to Jesus...and live!

Chris Rice / Untitled Hymn (Come To Jesus)
(repetitions at...edited)

Caveman Rock Star

2008-09-30T22:38:00.013-04:00

So I wrote recently with a mixture of admiration and apathy about my experience at the rodeo. Watching men attempt to ride a raging bull or bucking horse was alternately silly and terrifying.

Well. Now imagine my excitement at watching men heave a rock. Not a baseball into a strike zone. Not a football at a sprinting, zigzagging target. Just pick up a rock. And throw it. As far as possible. Can a sport get more primitive than that?

But here's the deal. It's an oddly shaped 138 pound stone. When you lift it, if you can lift it, with arms extended straight overhead, you can not, if you want to survive, drop it.

If you do get the rock up there, you now run, or stagger a few yards to the foul line. An experienced thrower does a nifty little jig right at the line, allowing him to propel the rock from high overhead while his feet stop just short of the line.

Good throws range from 9' to 11' or so. Over 12' is rare. The all-time record is 14'6". It doesn't sound like much until you watch big beefy looking guys stagger under the weight. Style is useless, but technique helps.

This is Steintossen, Stone Throwing, at the Ohio Swiss Festival in Sugarcreek. It is a raw, simple, powerful, and visceral contest between a man and a rock. The men do okay, some of them. But I think the rock wins.

Gratitude Schmatitude

2008-09-19T16:01:00.019-04:00

We will return to our regularly scheduled programming after this tantrum from my inner Calvin. Please stay tuned.

Gratitude Schmatitude!
The genies left and took the electricity with them.
I want lights!
I want water!
I want it now, or I’m moving to Mexico.

This just in: Power has been restored in your area.

Thank you for your patience.

Oh. Never mind.

Empowered Gracias

2008-09-18T16:30:00.000-04:00

Sometimes it's the little things...

* A light in my closet.

* Water for brushing teeth.

* Cold beerverages ;)

* Not using the shower in Mom's basement.

* A late night chorus featuring critters, not generators.

* The electricity genies who left my neighborhood at 10:30pm.

* That the power, or the water, isn't off every Monday. Unlike mi amigos'.

* shhh...tv.

Powerless?

2008-09-16T15:45:00.001-04:00

It was a beautiful scene, my neighborhood in the ethereal light of a full moon. I sat on the front porch watching as patches of light and shadow danced across the grass. My dog- I mean Jo's dog- was sniffing the air, growling as best an 8 pound dog can growl at perceived dangers. That wonderful chorus of night sounds rose and fell in waves - the crickets, locusts, cicadas, bullfrogs etc, joined by the cacophony of clattering generators.

Oh yeah, the power was off. Which is why I was out on the front porch to start with, because I had no TV or computer, unlike my more 'fortunate' neighbors who were generating their own power. That was last night.

The previous night, the kids and I piled into the car and made a food run to Java Jo, which still had intermittent power. Back at home we sat around the dining room table with candlelight and a battery powered lantern. We enjoyed the food and the company, read books and comic strips, and forgot to complain about the inconvenience.

It's two days since the remnants of Ike's winds took out our electricity. What it did not take was our power to choose how we respond. Not ready to permanently 'live Amish' as my wife calls it, but knowing it's better than the ice storm was, better than Galveston.

Sans electricity? Yes. Powerless? Not with an innate, divine imperative to choose our thoughts. Now that's a beautiful thing.

As a man thinks, so he is. Whatever is good, think on it.

Be the Bait

2008-09-09T20:51:00.000-04:00

The really cool fish symbol, I think, is the one with the little cross for an eye. Except it reminds me of the X they use for eyes in cartoons when something is dead. I suppose that's weird.

I guess the use of a crude outline of a fish to symbolize Christianity came from Jesus' invitation to a couple of his future disciples that he would make them 'fishers of men.'

So I've always wondered, what did He say to the Dr. Luke? I will make you a healer of men? Cool. But then it gets a little dicey. What do you say to Matthew, the tax collector?

More to the point, what would he say to me? How can my day to day stuff be adapted as a follower of Christ?

My good friend Phil's natural talent showed up in two areas of his life. He was great at convincing people on the benefits of buying a car from him. He is just as good at convincing people of the benefits of living life according to God's plan.

But of the disciples, I like Andrew's style best. He simply introduces people to Jesus. In John's account, he tells Peter, "We found the Messiah," then takes his brother to meet Him. Later, with a starving crowd at hand he tells Jesus, "Here is a boy with bread and fish."

Andrew sees people with something to offer. He takes them to Jesus, not because Jesus is lacking, but because that's where they, and their gifts, will be best used and most appreciated. How simple is that?

Chillin'

2008-09-02T21:11:00.006-04:00

Yes, this actually was the scene at the end of a long lazy Sunday afternoon. *

After church, a 45 minute drive down Rt. 93 through scenic rolling hills (did I type that out loud?) took us to Roscoe Village. No, it was not founded by Rosco P. Coltrane, sorry. We did find parking, but only after I drove all the way from one end of the village to the other waiting for Jo to show me the restaurant, while she was waiting for me to pull into the next empty spot.

We ended up under the trees on the patio at Lock 27 Tavern. The chili-burger and baked beans were amazing - well okay, they were really good. Along the way the question came up, if your server doesn't smile, and you see another who is very friendly, shouldn't you be able to switch?

After a brief chit-chat with the couple who had their rottweiler and blue heeler in a trailer behind their motorcycle, we wandered across the street to the wine/coffee bar. We did not have wine. We did not have coffee. But we did have ice-cold beverages, (one each, Naomi,) which really put me in the mood for a nap. The shoes came off, the feet put up, and much relaxation was had.

Yes, indeed this was a day of rest.

*See 8/15/08

Babel gracias

2008-08-22T16:07:00.008-04:00

HEY YOU!! YEAH YOU!!
Shush, I'm busy.
Aren't you thankful for ANYTHING this week?
S'pose so.
Like WHAT?
I'on't know
Humph! See if I bless YOU again.
Awright, awright, fine. Here's your list.

Can I go now?
That wasn't Spanish.
No, Italiano. Gratitude is better in Italian.
You remember what happened at the Tower of Babel?
e9 8 43m3g34 2hq5 yq003n3e? or d97i4 j wi!
See. Don't mess with my languages.

Si, Signore.

Corona & Lime

2008-08-15T15:30:00.002-04:00

Never mind the latest addition to my Groovin' list, this is definitely NOT the scene at the end of my afternoon on the patio of the local pub. Do I wish it was? Not tellin.

Jueves Gracias

2008-08-14T10:03:00.004-04:00

Doggedly he turns his back on the circling horde bent on his destruction. He pulls from the inside of his ragged tunic a chunk of charcoal, and a roll of papyrus. He scratches earnestly:

I.
AM.
GRATEFUL.
For?

* More gloriously sunny days this summer than I can shake a stick at, whatever that means. I'll ask my Dad, next life.

* A pastor who realizes some of us might have given up on prayer. And he helps us understand...

* ...HIM. He wants to be friends. He wants to listen. He wants to talk.

* Six writer friends who pull me from despondency simply by sitting around being goofy and creative. And an ink-smudged salute to Annie, for being there, and being Annie.

* Us. The U.S. of A. We consider for our leader a strangely named black guy, an geezerly military jock, a screechy white woman and a Baptist rock & roll preacher. Are we cool or what?

* Coblentz chocolate covered pretzels. Makes 3pm almost fun.

* Lunar glory. It goes in circles reflecting light, and always manages to look amazing. And intriguing, like it's hiding something. Oh yeah, its back side.

* Gratitude. It turns your face to the sun.

His charcoal down to a pebble, he rolls the scroll and tucks it away. He turns to confront the horde, only to realize, the lot of them fled.

The Core Problem

2008-08-08T18:33:00.007-04:00

I have a confession to make. I throw apple cores out the truck window, into the ditch by the side of the road.

But I am emphatically not a "litterbug" as they used to say in the 60s. I am almost anal about not littering. You know the little paper wads you get when you take one Breathsaver out of the roll? I do not toss that on the sidewalk.

But somewhere along the line I decided that an apple core would decompose quickly, so it was okay to pitch. Not a banana peel - too big, too messy. Not fast food waste. But an apple core, sure. With a modicum of guilt. And not if anyone is watching. Hmmm.

Now, none of us is gonna dump a bag of rotten apples by the side of the road. But nobody will complain if I spit an apple seed out the window. One's definitely okay. The other is definitely out.

But where do you draw the line? Where falls the apple core?

Even more, there's "core" issues in my life that I never really decided where to draw the line, I just do what I do.

* When I download content, is it stealing, or is it just taking what's out there?
* When I pass along "news" about a friend, is it conversation, or is it gossip?
* When I overlook a wrong, am I choosing my battles, or avoiding confrontation?

That's just things I've run into this week. The extremes are black and white, the big space in the middle is shades of gray.

So I'm back to the question I asked myself about the apple core: What if everybody did it the way I do?

Call Me Cap'n Hook

2008-08-05T13:47:00.000-04:00

One 20' board is what I did for church on Sunday.

Sunday was Community Service day at New Pointe Community Church. It was a day for us not to go to church, but to be the church. Instead of buzzing around the hive making honey, we swarmed the countryside spreading love.

We delivered more than 1500 boxes of food to local pantries. At the church we offered a health fair, free hair care, car servicing. In surrounding towns we cleaned up roadsides, painted buildings inside and out, did home repairs. Early reports had over 1000 people involved.

My contribution? One 20' board, carefully placed, securely screwed fast, neatly painted, ready for hooks to hold clothes and towels outside a row of showers at Sky View Ranch.

Now that does not include the hour I spent attempting to fasten vinyl cove base to glass board with glue that stuck like oil to water. And the time I spent as a helping hand to the most skilled and efficient contractor/carpenter I have ever seen, my friend Paul Marner. I even got some dirt in my nails cleaning up landscaping trash.

But in the end, I looked at a 20' board as my accomplishment. It's not much, until you realize there were 1000+ people just like me, doing their own version of a 20' board.

Which means in one Sunday morning the NPCC volunteers could put up a 4 mile long coat hook board. Pretty cool if you need room for 20,000 coats. Next Christmas 3000 of us could bring our six closest friends to church and have room for all our Harley Davidson leather, Lands End, LLBean, or thrift store rescues.

What's better is when you have a church that cares enough about the people around them to find out what they really need, and finding a way to fill the need.

That's the church being the church. One coat hook at a time.

The Natives are Restless

2008-07-30T22:53:00.000-04:00

We did not see Trumpet in the Land last week. We saw Footloose instead.

If you don't know, Trumpet is an outdoor drama telling the story of the first white settlers in Ohio. It comes complete with love, war, brotherhood, racism, fat jokes, fire dancing, sacrifice, selfishness, smoking, drinking, murder and forgiveness.

It's a great way to spend a summer night outdoors. You're among the hills and trees of Tuscarawas County, where the natives roamed and the settlers lived and died. It's easy to suspend disbelief for a couple of hours and feel like you are actually watching events unfold.

If you haven't seen it, well, do. Check it out at http://www.trumpetintheland.com/

We did however see the outdoor stage version of Footloose, played in the same setting. I was trying to watch the story of a Chicago rebel convincing a small town to dance. But I kept expecting David Zeisberger or Simon Girty to crash the party. Rent the DVD instead.

Breakfast Bribery*

2008-07-24T13:34:00.000-04:00

*or - How to crack your son's shell without getting egg on your face.

To my half-asleep son on a late morning -

"Hey Caleb, I'm making scrambled eggs with feta cheese, do you want some?" He loves feta cheese.

He rolls over, one eye half open. "Um sure, if you don't mind."

Does he know or care that my part of breakfast was already over? No.

Does he like that I sit and drink coffee and talk while he enjoys breakfast? Yes.

And that's the really cool part. We do get to talk. Cuz like many guys, my son has his Rambo times, when communication is in grunts.

But if you don't pigeonhole him, you can gently crack the shell and discover all the wonderful things inside. Like a feta cheesy sense of humor. I wonder where he got that.

A bribe is a charm to the one who gives it; wherever he turns, he succeeds. Proverbs 17:8

Jueves Gracias

2008-07-17T13:58:00.000-04:00

I'm grateful today for...

* Newcastle Brown, tall. If you don't know, you don't wanna.

* The musical genius that is Joas. And the Delta Legion, all (1) of him.

* Summer nights in July with loud music.

* Summer nights in July with a cicada serenade.

* Mudd Valley vanilla ice cream. With Ghirardellhi chocolate.

* A sister who listens without judgment.

* A daughter with the guts to start two new jobs within three days. Rys rocks.

* HIM. He makes sunsets. Really good ones.

Rebuttal

2008-07-15T21:23:00.000-04:00

*This post is best enjoyed a day after reading the previous one.*

Some things go like clockwork. A good shot of espresso runs for 27 seconds, give or take 3. A well produced and coreographed show doesn't have 10 seconds of dead time. Basketball even has a shot clock to force the action.

Other things run at their own pace. Bad espresso goes from 5-45 seconds. The preschool Christmas play, well, kids will do what kids will do. Baseball is our national pastime because it passes a lot of time while batters scratch and pitchers spit.

And then there's the rodeo. You cannot cue a wildly bucking horse to exit the chute now instead of 30 seconds from now. A raging bull will not run the route you hoped. And therein lies the thrill of the rodeo. The unpredictable wildness.

And it's that brief untamed moment that keeps you sitting for hours on end. The knowing that you don't know what will happen. The chute may open and the bronco may decide he's quite happy trying to scrape the cowboy off his back without getting out in the ring. Or the bull, having successfully thrown the rider, may continue his rampage on the spot, trying to pulverize his victim. Then he'll take a few victory laps, ignoring wranglers attempts to direct him back to the corral. And of course, animals don't understand that the horn at 8 seconds means the rider won and the game is over. The animal stops when the animal wants to stop.

Does the same thing happen in other sports? Kinda. We watch cars going around in circles hundreds of times, when the real excitement is the crash. Football teams can grind out yards back and forth for half a game, but it's the 50 yard pass play or the 80 yard punt return that really gets us going. Baseball has its home runs, golf the hole-in-one. But trained athletes and engineered equipment will always be more predictable than untamed animals.

Which may make rodeo riders the bravest, or the craziest athletes out there. Suppose baseball allowed the pitcher to bean the hitter. Or football had no rules protecting the quarterback. And Nascar drivers could throw grenades in passing cars. Heh.

So would I have wanted to be in an artificially cooled theater experiencing a great summer blockbuster? Not on this night, when we sat in the sun without sweating, and long after the sunset without shivering. We were on rodeo time, with nothing to do for the night except enjoy the action, and the lulls between the action. And the sometimes groan-inducing jokes of the clown. And the little Amish boy roping a toddler girl. And the patriotism and prayers. And all the people who dressed their western best for the show.

This is the rodeo, and I tip my ten-gallon hat to Nelson the bull-rider, and all the cowboys who try for an 8 second ride and end up with a face full of dirt.

YeeeeHaaaawwww!!!!

2008-07-12T14:50:00.000-04:00

The opinions expressed in this post are not shared by the other personalities of this writer. Tomorrow's post will devote equal time to a less acerbic view.

...so, um, we went to the rodeo last night. And after we were done at the rodeo, we were still at the rodeo. So... we stayed awhile longer, and then after a long time, they had intermission. After which, guess what? We were still at the rodeo. So after we were at the rodeo for awhile longer, we were still at the rodeo. And then..

***loud speakers blast rock music***

BULL RIDING!!!

Yep, three hours after we kicked off this shindig, we finally arrive at the big daddy event.

Cue bull.

Throw rider.

X6.

Game over.

Yeehaw.

Sushi communion

2008-07-10T16:06:00.000-04:00

Sometimes it's the bumps in the road that add flavor to the journey.

It was the most gorgeous, sunny day you could imagine for us four to explore downtown Cleveland. We finally found the sushi place we had been planning on all day. And it was closed, for another hour.

How awful then that our family was doomed to a sundrenched sidewalk cafe drinking coffee, reading, and eating espresso brownies.

We endured, though, and eventually found our way to Sushi Rock. The graceful curves of the bars (sushi and booze) combined with the open stairway to the second level made the narrow space look spacious while feeling cozy.

Our utterly charming waiter seemed to assume we knew everything about sushi and still explained anything we appeared unsure of. He recommended favorites like eda mame and the beef sushi which wasn't exactly sushi. And he pointed out that the whole table's order is served on one big tray, of which I thought, big deal.

Until it arrived, four giant rolls on a giant plate, and we started eating. Now it's pretty common for the four of us to taste each other's food when we eat out. But this was different. We weren't four people focused on our own plates. We were a group, dining together off a giant plate in the center of the table. It was communal dining.

Each of us sampled everybody's food. We shared, commented, critiqued. And we enjoyed. Not just the food, the fellowship. The being together. And it was enhanced, I believe, by the hour at the cafe where we decompressed from 24 hours of gotta-be-somewhere-do-something togetherness.

Sushi communion. It was an exquisite climax to a rare family weekend.

Prom Magic

2008-07-09T15:30:00.000-04:00

A few months after prom, I still remember the exasperating inefficiency and amazing effectiveness of a familiar group on an unfamiliar project.

You gather 20-30 people together whose only common bond is having a kid in the high school junior class. They see each other at ball games and school plays. A few see each other at church, or the local diner. A few are friends, some are acquaintances, several are strangers. Then you assign them the task of transforming a portion of the high school for senior prom.

On the big night, people dribble in over the course of a couple hours, as their schedule permits. Three or four of the people see the big picture, knowing how everything should look when it’s done, but most just want to help.

And so the magic begins. Two people adapt their skills to join on a task, until they’re stuck, and get help from a third, who replaces the first, who moves on to answer a question, and ends up taking over another task. Three people start on a phase, two more see opportunity, and replicate the actions on another phase. One little task is a serial effort. Guy and girl try, receive advice from a hubby, who steps in and helps, get assistance from a friend, who asks his wife for suggestions, who takes over the task, inviting more help from two others.

There’s lots of standing around, deciding how. Lots of looking for stuff – duct tape, stapler, hammer, cords. Lots of asking those who know. And lots of trying to help where help might not be needed.

But it’s organic. It grows out of the people and the skills that are there. It blossoms into personalities brightening the room. Those who can, offer ideas, suggestions, and know-how. Others simply take a task and complete it to their own satisfaction.

By the end of the night, we had created magic. An ordinary high school hallway became a setting from Arabian Nights. All for our kids to maybe, or maybe not, notice and enjoy on their big night.

Only looking back do I realize; I remember no tense moments, no arguments, no egos getting in the way of the work. Just friends, new and old, working together. Laughter and exhaustion, yes. Frustration or anger, no.

It was community, at its best.

Jueves de Gracias

2008-06-26T12:16:00.000-04:00

I'm thankful for...

*French roast Sumatra from Java Jo. Shameless plug? Not if you taste the coffee.

*People who go waaaaaaay out of their comfort zone to make other lives better. Eug & JoJo, you're cool that way.

* Three sisters and a brother, each finding a way to make life better for a mother who deserves more than we can ever do.

*Samantha Brown's appreciation for everything she experiences in Europe, including...

*...the citizens of Normandy who still honor daily the US serviceman who gave all. A moment of silence...

*John Rambo. What? He kills the bad guys. Really dead.

*John 1:12. Now if I could just live like I believe that.

*Dana. She reminded me why I used to like rain storms. Still do, I guess.

soul at rest

2008-06-20T12:37:00.001-04:00

and so the evening
rolls upon me
closing in and
settling slow
and sinking down
and resting soft and
wrapping warm a-
round my soul I
feel as though I
shouldn’t move I
can’t explain this
comfort to the
doubting mind for
its my heart that
sits and waits and
hesitates to stir too far
from where I am and
where I rest and
where I sit and
think the best

Jueves de Gracias

2008-06-12T12:40:00.000-04:00

Today I give thanks for...

* A gentleman boyfriend who picks up my daughter at the door. And dresses nicely.

* The resulting smile on her face. She's worth everything he can do. And more.

* HIM. I chose to give when I couldn't. He gave back more.

* Professionals who help you with banks and their paperwork. Mike's da man.

* Evenings on the patio. It's springtime.

* A friend who feels deeply about movies. And understands that I do.

* Time alone. It nurtures me.

* Mich Lite. Friday's coming.

Sez Who?

2008-05-17T12:29:00.000-04:00

Is the play complete if every other scene is played out behind the curtain? Are you cheating the audience? What if they don't know? Is the play worse for the hidden scenes?

Or are there two plays, with two audiences? On each side of the curtain, a play, an audience, a cast. The central character goes back and forth, never in two places, but always fully present.

This is my life. There are people on either side of the stage, and too often I keep the curtain down, showing nobody the all action. Can I keep it honest if I split it in two? Am I being me, showing only half of me to each group?

Statistical Anomaly

2008-04-23T12:33:00.000-04:00

Who voted for Obama in Pennsylvania? Well not enough of the everybodys, but a lot of somebodys.

The analysis is always a hoot. Hillary gets the white women, the working class, the less educated, the poor. Obama gets the black vote, the educated, the urban voter.

And yet...

Some of us somebodys just don't fit the profile. Nobody told us we weren't welcome there, so we joined the party anyhow.

Like me. White. Working class? Eight years formal schooling. Guy. Obamaniac. Well not quite, but in the camp.

There's only so much you can do with statistics. Only so many useful ways you can group groups of people. And then you realize, each one is still one. In a category of one. And each one can vote. In the ballot box, with their dollars, with their time.

We are a nation of statistical anomalies.

2nd Grade Crush

2008-04-19T12:35:00.000-04:00

"You'll be 50 this year, won't you?"

Smiling eyes from a pretty face danced in amusement at my surprise. She was off by a year (49), and I'm usually guessed low 40s.

"We were in the same class at Park Elementary." My jaw must have dropped. She's talking grade school, and tonight we're parents transforming the high school for our kids' prom.

I chuckled. "Yeah, I was there for (I counted on my fingers) four months." Maybe she thought I was someone else.

She laughed. "Yeah I remember you. You lived out by Northport." I knew her face from around town, I just had no idea of her name. "I'm Debbie Allison*. Well, used to be Milton.

Dang. Cute as she was, I could make no mental connection. And she was enjoying it. Knowing me, while I didn't know her.

Being remembered rocks. Maybe I should look up Ginger. Make her smile.

*Names may or may not have been changed to confuse the inquisitive.

Butterfly's Gift

2008-04-09T12:42:00.000-04:00

From the poet's dusty shelf...

Butterfly

I had a little butterfly I did
It flittered and it fluttered
In, around, about my head
Never rested never stopped
At my fingertips it danced
...Behind my eyes
...Inside my soul

Thought I caught it one fine day
Wrapped it up inside a box
Shiny paper, shiny ribbon
Gave it to my bestest friend
She unwrapped it, opened up
...It was plastic
...It was dead

Saw the butterfly the next day
Floating like the rainbow sun
Held my hand out let it flutter
Over under and around
Never grasping merely waiting
...Flash of color
...Blink-it’s gone

Now this butterfly it has me
Or I have it-either way
Though I see it no one else does
Only to my eyes it shows
All its colors, all my colors
...In my eyes
...Through my soul

Jueves de Gracias

2008-04-03T12:47:00.000-04:00

Things that make my life better:

* Skinny black arms that retrieve keys from impossible places. And the gentle souls to which they're attached.

* Smiling cousins who sit with you for refuge. And warm their cold hands on your neck.

* Magnums of wine.

* El Sol. Sun. Sunlight. Sunshine. Sunbeam.

* People who buy houses. And the banks who help them.

* J/O, who refuses to let you settle.

* My truck. It works, it plays. Smile.

* Red. The color. It warms my heart.

Dream a Little Dream

2008-04-02T12:49:00.000-04:00

What makes you think you can change the direction of your life? Who do you think you are anyway?

Well, J/O is at it again. There's a theme, of course.

Ask for something impossible.

Have an overflow mentality.

Unlock the gift within.

The underlying theme is an unshakeable conviction is the untapped, immeasurable potential for greatness in every person. There is an inherent, unique potential for being amazing, for doing the impossible. Dignus Res, was the old scholar's joke. The fire within.

And then, the faith of God. Not in. Of. It's like He has faith for me.

So if He put a dream in me, He still has faith that I can make the dream happen.

How do I know when that's happening? When I have a faith, but I don't know where it came from. When something in me tells me I can do something, even though my brain knows better.

Your Life. Re-imagined

2008-03-30T13:04:00.000-04:00

Where's the line between imagination and reality? Heh! Wherever I wanna put it.

If it's true that anything we do or have, we imagined first, then imagination is Act I of reality's show.

So then. You find yourself in the middle of Act II, and you think you see where the story is going. You know the good guy, the bad guy, and the girl. And you realize, the good guy is boring, and you're rooting for the bad guy. Even worse, the girl's best friend, the one that's just there to help the girl get the guy is way more fun than anyone. Follow me so far?

Now what?

Halfway through the Italian Job, Wahlberg & Co. had all their carefully laid plans yanked sideways faster than a Mini changes lanes. What saved them? Imagination. They took what they had, where they were, and re-imagined it. The result was pure genius.

And what sunk the bad guy? Yeah, no imagination. Oh he tried. But he couldn't think beyond what had already been done. He couldn't even come up with a way to spend the money. Just stole others' ideas.

So back to our story. We have a bad guy we like. And a funky, fun chick. Let's write our own story. Act II ends with a whiplash twist. Act III has you on the edge of your seat.

The ending? One thing at a time, bucky. We don't even know what happens in Act IV.

Impedimenta Liberata

2008-03-25T13:05:00.000-04:00

"I've also learned that paring down possessions means a lot more room in your life as well as in your house." Donna Freedman

Post-acquisitive, I like to call it. Having grown past the stage in my life of needing, wanting, to get more just to have more. Because there are many possessions that tend to turn the tables on you.

First you have the stuff. Then the stuff has you.

Like me and my house. Well, our house, I should say. Her house, really. When CSW fell in love with this property, it set us on a course of having more than we need, more than we can afford, and more than I want.

And we don't have it. It has me. All my money goes to pay for and maintain it. All my time goes to earn the money, or maintain the property. Mowing the grass, doing home fixup things isn't bad. I just don't like when it takes over my life. My summer outdoor activity is mowing, trimming, raking, etc. Not by choice. By coercion.

By stark contrast, I get a thrill out of eliminating the unnecessary in my life. Something I don't use, when I can give, sell, or throw it away, is as much fun as buying something new.

It makes room in my life, and in my house. Room in my life for what I want to be.

They say...

2008-03-23T13:07:00.000-04:00

Jose is back. The guy I used to hang out with, he's back. So they say. I haven't seen him, But everybody swears it's really him. Who's Jose? You had to ask, didn't you? Ok.

See, first I met him at a party. Cool and all, Jose always had a crowd around him, seems like. Great story teller. So I listened.

At first it just seemed like the typical self-help kinda stuff. You know, think good thoughts, have a good attitude. Plus a little bit of community spirit, like help your neighbor, feed the hungry. Jose even led an outdoor soup kitchen once.

Then it got more ethereal. What you give out comes back to you. You are what you think. Hmm, I think I'm a dark chocolate chunk.

But he kinda lost me when he tried to get political. No, he didn't run for office. He just started talking trash about corruption in the system, political, religious, social. You get a lot of enemies that way in a hurry.

The last straw though, was when Jose seemed to get a Messiah complex. I mean, you could interpret it different ways, but it sounded like he was comparing himself to God. Almost like he thought he was divine. Hmm.

Yeah, that pretty well did it. The corrupt religious right got together with crooked politicians, and accused him of working against the government. In my middle east country, that gets you executed. Quickly.

Well, it was good while it lasted. I thought. Guy took himself way too seriously.

Except.

They said he's back. Wait-- wasn't Jose dead?

Oh yeah, and it wasn't Jose, it was his son.

Jesus