Stop

No time to write today, no sleep last night.  Not enough of it, anyway.  I am back to work, eager to do tyrannosaurus handstands for the adoring public, and more.  To do his special bidding, Jesus Spock.

I used to laugh at the idea of sleep, dancing in the face of it.  No longer, no more.  Now I bow to it, mumbling incantations, prayers and desperate celestial appeals.    

Even an atheist needs prayer, right?  

Some might say that an atheist needs extra prayer, a few specifically additional lines thrown in with sickness, soldiers and world peace - special invocations for the heathen heart.  Today is not the day to be miserly with your prayers, to scrimp and save them up for another day.  

Wouldn't you feel silly having a headful of unspoken prayers when Dr. Spock returns...

. 

Evidencelessness

(Chrysanthemum in full sprint)

Well, half of my weekend is over.  A day sure does slip by, especially when lubricated.  Red wine functions as WD-40 on time, or perhaps K-Y jelly.  But oh my, does it sure make me giggle sometimes as the world flies by. 

Or, does it just disappear.

I went to bed early last night, hoping to also wake up early, with the intention of writing.  Now I sit here with a blank screen.  Hold on, I'll go make some tea...

Ok, let's see if that has the desired effect.  I have shifted away from coffee to help sustain my diet of no dairy, no fried foods and no soda.  I do love Earl Grey tea.  I recall that the character in "Kafka on the Shore" also loved it.  It's too bad that love for tea was all that was shared between myself and that book.  I tried to read it.  I was never able to finish it.  I don't get the fascination with, and success of, Murakami.  The writing is very poor, the ideas are puerile, and nothing in the writing seems designed to capture or sustain my interest.  It is a world of magical talking cats that is somehow even more boring for them being so.  Some people seem to believe that an inexplicably talking cat is a major theme, worthy of much speculation, and needing no explanation when sheer evidencelessness will suffice.  

When I was younger I became interested in a style of writing known as magical-realism.  Murakami's style might best be described as magical-boredom.  I have been told that my starting with "Kafka on the Shore" might have been my mistake, though I strain to understand how.  It's been relayed to me by a faithful reader here that "Norwegian Wood" is truly the one to start with.  We'll see.  I found it to be much less stream-of-consciousness writing than that the writer really didn't quite know what to say next and simply had to somehow finish the book for publication, or perhaps even for other, less important reasons.  It was just forced invention after forced invention.  There was the sensation that it was a story unfolding in the mind of a child, and not a very literate one at that.  I suppose one day I'll see how he handles loss and sexuality with "Norwegian Wood."

No, wait... I just went to do a little research on it and on one page it was described as a "coming of age" novel.  That sounds like it might be a little too close to the other for me.  I'm not sure I want to read another book that primarily appeals to teenagers.  I remember reading once that Murakami studied western literature and that's why his stories are somewhat unrepresentative of Japanese literature.  But I'm not sure if that's a selling point that works for me when there are so many great writers to choose from already, Franz Kafka among them.  Perhaps it's part of his success in the west though.  Who knows.  Maybe I just don't "get" the pastiche of postmodern literature.   Just because a talking cat is not supposed to be in a novel doesn't mean that it should be.  It's like reading a novel by Nostradamus, the hair stylist.  

Artifice upon artifice, endlessly rolling, we prattle onward.

"For I am nothing, if not critical." 

.

load-bearing lies

(click above)

A beautiful day to have off from work.  The sky is a rich blue, clear and cool with a breeze.  I think I'm going to drink a bottle of wine and play my guitar until my fingers run a bloody mutiny.  

The picture above was taken a few days ago, click on it for additional pleasure.  I stopped on my drive towards work to take it.  There was a flock of birds dancing above a flock of sheep.  

The simple and the wonderful still startle me.  I am a romantic also, don't let my critical ways fool you.  

"O gentle lady, do not put me to't.  For I am nothing, if not critical." - Iago 

This morning when I was walking Barkley the pup I was reminiscing about when my father was here and, on that same walk, he was trying to convey to me that he has respect for me and the choices that I've made, that he might have misjudged me when I was younger.  He didn't use those words.  I intuited them from what he was saying, you see.  He might not have meant that at all.  But he was definitely trying to further bridge a gap that had grown between us for reasons that neither of us fully understand.   I took the time to explain a portion of my side of the relationship, telling him that I was angry in youth because he never offered to help me with college.  I put myself through to completion and I felt a growing resentment at having to have done so.  

His response was simple, "You never asked."

I was shocked with the candor of his answer.  It wasn't true, for one, but that didn't really matter, any more.  I've realized that there must be quite a few lies that he must also tell himself to make possible the bridge that exists between us now.   I think of the many load-bearing lies that I've self-endured and I would be remiss to deny him a few of his own.  

I reminded him of a moment that he tried to tell me, after my mother had died, that he was proud of me for pursuing my own path in life, and for sticking with college.  I told him that his pride had no place in me, that I had done it on my own and he has no reason to share in it, that he's not invited towards it.  He, of course, remembered this conversation.  

I apologized for the bluntness but told him that of all the things that I have come to terms with over the years, or simply let go of, the lack of both psychological support and financial help was the most crippling and damaging to our relationship. I reminded him that I did quite well in college and received a degree for my efforts, the first in our family.  A point that I have never openly used in this way before, to my memory.  It was not so much an attack as an assertion of independence, a way of still resisting our new cozy mutuality.  

It didn't feel right, of course, and I wasn't very proud of it.  It's just what I chose to do because I had prepared myself for so long to feel a certain way about it.  The feelings linger, I suppose.  But having your father tell you that he's proud of you after decades of uncertainty is also something simple and wonderful, and I was both pleased and startled at the sudden offering.  I wished I could have pulled the car over and taken a picture of it.

Don't let my critical ways fool you.  But also, gentle lady, don't put me to't.

.

  

The free association for the denial of science

(the sky is round)

So, there now exists empirical evidence that conservatism appeals to dumb racists.  Sort of.  They don't start out as racists, they just end up there.  A Canadian study claims it, then proves it, empirically.  Here is the abstract for the study.  It is worth following the links and reading the actual report, which I finally did for the first time this morning.  I had been reading a few articles about this study on Slate. But this morning Selavy sent over a new article over from The Guardian that made some salient points, mixed in with some prejudicial thinking of its own.  Or, is it just categorical thought...  I get confused with the terms.  Do you use the polite ones to describe the left and the remaining ones for the right?  

That feels about right, right?

"Importantly, it shows that prejudice tends not to arise directly from low intelligence but from the conservative ideologies to which people of low intelligence are drawn." - George Monbiot

Seems sensible.  What other explanation could there be for so many people being drawn to conservative ideals... ?  Stupidity explains everything!

Maybe that's the problem, it is mainly one of perception.  The world's view of Americans is not incorrect but rather statistically misshapen.  The view of Americans formed by the rest of the world is from the media image of a disproportionally exaggerated right-wing.  There must be studies reflecting the frequency of right-wing rhetoric being aired on international television when reporting on America's political process as opposed to left-wing counter argument or liberal initiatives.  It certainly would explain a few things.  For example, why so many foreigners treat Americans as if they are all Republicans.  It's as if they refuse to believe there could be a true liberal in America.  

Perhaps there aren't.  Perhaps I've only seen them on tv, where 9/11 happened.  

Well, this study should do well to help balance out the conversation in America, if nothing else.  Now, along with global warming, creationism, the moon landing and gun control we'll have the science of stupidity to deal with also.  Yet another good talking point to advance science, or the denial thereof.  The emerging field in science will be the study of the denial of science.  You'd never run out of funding.  Both sides would be happy to fill your pockets.

If nothing else this study should somewhat change the conversation on college campuses.

I can hear it now:  "You do realize why you're dumb, right?  It is simple science, you poor misguided simpleton.  You're making the earth warm from your prejudicial thought.  Your racism is melting the ice caps.  Do you even know what ice is?  Morons are a religious group in Utah, dumb-ass.  All of this is happening only because you were afraid that you might be a homosexual when you were young.  It's okay to be scared, you're just stupid, straights often are..." 

We'll see...  

Well, the ever-enlightened left will anyway.

.

The Lost Snow Moon

(Rafael Schmall)

No time to write today.  I am off to the city, then to work, a 16 hour day.  Another one tomorrow.  I would be happy if my work week were like that though. Two 16 hour days in a row, then one 8 hour day, coming in when I choose, then 4 days off every week.  If I had arranged the 40 hour work week then life would be very different.  But they never even asked my thoughts. In fact, they seem to actively oppose the idea of me expressing any of my opinions, especially as to how they could improve.  I am what is known as a disrupter, an impediment to productivity, a potentially dangerous insubordinate.  

Well, sort of.  I don't think that my unique contributions to team spirit are always acknowledged. 

Ok, no work talk.  It will make none of us happy.  Most of us already know what the experience is like.  I doubt that I'll add anything of value today.

Well, sort of.  I'm working all day, I must be doing something right, be of some value, as much as they seem to suggest otherwise.

Perhaps it's just my attitude. The way that I talk. The things that I say.

That stuff.

.

Tango Lessons

(John Singer Sargent, El Jaleo, 1882)

Falling once again, mind left spinning, thinking of the many phrases hoped to never endure by hearing them spoken.  This, above all others, keeps haunting: Tango Lessons.  What a stilted parade of images comes dancing rickety forth at the mind's mention.   Memories of 70's.  Warnings.  Horror. 

Driving home tonight, practically chanting them over again, the words.  Hoping to exhaust their marching powers over me, to make them walk away alone, never returning with unbitten rose, never a world spinning in forced coercion.  Teeth clenched in concentration, envisioning the flesh dancing of youth; the neighbor one is thorned, that nightly peddled tango lessons, bingo, fondue, weekly disco dances.  Church. Socks not of silk, never of lace. Payrolls, not periwinkles, stern chances.

Squinting into their lives from afar, wishing to push them away with dim insight. 

I get sucked back red and aged by the spell of tigers.  

Tango, gypsy, bravo.

I drove.  I drove, and drove. After 45 minutes the hum had become my terse tango mantra, taking sometimes two, or more.  Counting sometimes even four, then four by four, or fours, never more.

Watch the tango performed on the streets of Buenos Aires, at an open market, summer sunset, by a group of only two, surrounded by enthusiastic locals, swiftly clapping.  Their lives, flickering in usual fashion. The endearing act, one performed preciously, with admirable candor, an ease of energy;  a shedding of the little pretend pretenses.  

Wandering by myself, unable to sleep from an overnight flight, morphine heavy and unslept mania, standing before a big night of evermore.  Then back to the airport to fly home again, new friends akimbo, all dancing lost limbo among the stars.

There and back in a weekend, over and over again until there was no kidding any more, another after-party tango taxi-drive near, or just offshore, sunlight drifting into sharp time there and here, slipped above, arc-bored.

A daily dance of persistence.

Certainly someone must have taught them to dance the tango, sometime, with its specific steps and quick formal gestures, its strictly choreographed formalities. These people were, of course, family members, loved ones, not teachers, instructors, disciplinarians of dance.  These were not gringos, paid.  

Perhaps I was wrong, it is all a pretense, little else.  A memory that becomes natural, unlike anything before formed, been taught, or developed, sustained.  A dream that becomes an agreed upon dream, a drama of moment, of prideful past, of the moment always falling towards two engrossed. 

It disappears so gently, the thinking of it mostly, the pretend that pretends itself at last.  It is a dance of mutual half-time crucifixion, turning together, as turning across; darting profiles hung this night, together in paradise.

  

Oh, I wish I were just a gypsy lost, dancing the gestural tarantellas, anywhere drunk with love, unhung by age, unhinged with youth, without charge of fact, or truth, happily marching out the pre-ordained steps of the refined, powerful, and patient passions.

Play, those, I,  play, those, I, play,  've hardly ever known, forever untaught, somehow dancing along the ghosts of Helsinki,  Finnish'd, gypsy wagons dragging me home through the forrest, forced in the morning to return, to again the rosed oceans of the unsound, the highway hum of houses haunted, red weather waning, in red-weather going.

then what, gypsy roamers, 

what is this wanderer warning...

memories of 70's.  

memories of Buenos Aires.  

memories of lone, 

avoided yearnings

come wild wonder,

composed of stone oceans,

and the exodus' unlearning

.

...gossip and snow

(artist unknown)

Some clarification.  Yesterday a few of my friends reached out to me privately to find out if that day's post had actually happened. It seemed like I had explained beforehand, and then again during the telling of the story, that it did not reflect reality at all.  The only person featured in it was a fictionalized me, that it was meant to reflect an amalgam of my feelings at having committed a series of silly acts.  It was meant to be self-mocking in a few ways, for king and for country, for self, etc.  That's all.  

Moving on.  

The sky is grey again today.  The beautiful winter slumps onward.  I wondered if I would experience less of the seasons here, and by how much.  Only the extremes of the seasons seem less.  Winter has been winsome.  There will never be that "first snow" feeling of unexpectedly wonderful white.  The valley still holds its many charms though, cradles them even.

Do I miss the snow yet.  It is merely something that I no longer endure, for good or ill.  One only misses seeing snow through the windows, or when playing with the dog, or being in love, or falling there.  Nobody misses going to work in it, or dropping off the power bill, late.

People like being in restaurants when it snows, not getting to them, not leaving.

I wonder when I'll miss that, white wine, gossip and snow.

.

Blue Ribbons

Here is a tale of woe, for your imaginary pleasure...


Boy, have I learned my lesson.  I get a perverse thrill from arguing with others, but perversions can be strange. You look around laughing, enjoying them, and you suddenly realize that everybody is shuffling away from you, with a frightened and fascinated look of disbelief in their eyes.  One is not supposed to participate in the donkey sex show that you all decided to witness one summer when visiting Tijuana, that you were all only supposed to be there to watch.  It seemed, in retrospect, that nobody needed to agree on that ahead of time.   You'll know better next time, you tell yourself.  Afterwards, you try to explain to your friends that you were just kidding around, it was just a joke, have a sense of humor, etc.  But one of them will invariably say, "You were making contact with a person, on a paid public stage, who was also getting paid to have sexual contact, of the most intimate sort, with a FUCKING DONKEY, MAN!  We all saw this happening...."

There is nothing you can really say after that.  Because the tequila had rounded your sensibilities and when the woman started moving around the room trying to rub the front of guys' pants, you just happened to be the one gringo drunk enough to stand up and let her do it.  Little mind that there was a donkey fucking her from behind while this happened, that seemed funny. You didn't know, or should I say comprehend at the time, two very important things.  One, that you had just become part of a live sex show that featured bestiality as its main draw. And two, that the woman was not just there to have laughs with you and your friends. She was going to expect to be getting paid for sexual services performed, and if you didn't also pull your wallet out and hand her money for what had just happened, in full view of your friends, then you might end the night with a good ol' Mexican ass-kicking too, for free.  A third realization, that started to sink in with concreteness as the tequila wore off, is that there were many witnesses to this transaction, among them were some that you knew quite well, and had hoped to continue your friendships with.

There is something that I want to make quite clear here.  Nadja, the Belgian woman that I've been arguing with for three or four days now, is not the actress/prostitute/donkey-enthusiast in this story, nor is she the donkey, nor is she Mexican.  She is not in this story at all.  I mean that.  This story is not about her, it is about me, sort of.  She might have her own fictional version of how our interactions has made her feel.  But she plays no part in this version of my fantasy of shame, at all.  Zoophilia was just the first thing that sprang to my mind to elucidate the feelings that I am just now coming to terms with as the joy of argumentative perversions is wearing off and the painful light of reality is creeping in on my hangover, through the blinds of a cheap hotel that I am hoping to escape without being noticed.  

I've started to think things to myself like, "I never undid my pants. It wasn't really sex with a donkey. It was just funny, right?"

But then the voice of one of my friends after the show will waft through my memories... "You were engaged in a sexual act with a woman, who was getting fucked from behind by a very well-hung donkey, for money, in public."  Difficult thoughts to contend with, for sure.  They are the type sentences that you hope do not appear near your name when you Google it.  Nobody wants their online associations to be donkey-cock, especially Tijuana donkey-cock. Even more than this you do not want that association in the "images" section of Google. Your friends happened to be recording it all, though with none having previous suspicions that you would make your way into their videos, as the star.  That's not your fault.

Somehow it feels even more wrong that it happened in a Mexican-American border town, though not being able to imagine a place where it would have been better, the mind relents that it truly is as bad as it seems, almost impossible to be any worse or better. The idea of the experience taking a turn for the worse is far too horrific a vision to hold. The act of trying to imagine a more preferable place for it to have occurred makes you relive all of the shame and pain of the initial encounter and you wonder how and why you would be trying to fantasize about improvements on the experience. When it comes to fucking donkeys in public you chose well the first time, don't second guess that decision. 

Otherwise, you risk losing some of the magic, and that elusive glow of the blue ribbon.

...the feeling of the miraculous

(Natasja Fourie)

Up late, up all night, off to work, again. 

Thankfully, I have little to say today.  The war rages on in the comments section over at Selavy but I have given up.  He is right of course, that it is all a waste of time.  If others choose to be bigots they will simply find a different name for their bigotry.   One way or another they will justify their boorish behavior, often exalting it into a form of honor, a duty of sorts.  C'est la Vie it is.

Today is the old guy's birthday, so as a present I'll leave it all alone.  One gets tired of repeating the same thing over and over.  You begin to sound like your adversary, repeating something as if it somehow makes it more true, or worse, makes a falseness magically true at all.  It's like publicly discussing something with a politician. The most important aspect to any lie is only to repeat it.  Tautology it's called, a fault in style sometimes used surreptitiously as a method of rhetoric.  What, dear readers, could possibly be worse than a fault in style...?

There is a story from my childhood about another child who took my apple one day at lunch. Remind me to tell it here as it reminds me of the ongoing argument, an important lesson that perhaps I had forgotten. 

Rachel's mother arrives today, to help with the baby.  We are on the non-stop family express now.  I suppose it will all make a little bit more sense for us once we have bought a house.  It will be easier when we feel settled. We are as of yet floating in that sate of flux, caught between seasons, unsure how to dress, fumbling towards the door, wrong keys in hand.  So there is a sense that we are also guests, entertaining guests, in a guest house.  Or, an apartment, I should say.  It will be much easier once we feel that we are at home.

The baby is great as ever, Rhys.  He is just starting to respond more and more, to follow us with his eyes, even to smile a little bit, if only with his eyes.  It is subtle but you can tell mostly when Rachel holds him and talks to him, swaddled in the warmth of loving mother. There is an almost imperceptible change in his expression.  It can be seen, but it is still very minor, an acknowledgement trying to find its place among the features.  But it is a lovely thing to see, truly.  A pocket miracle.

He is just over one month old now.  It is still so difficult to believe, that the creation of a new life happened because it's what we wanted.  Never before in my life have the effects of my choices been so overwhelmingly pronounced, nor imbued with such a sense of importance, even simple grandeur.  At least that is the feeling to me anyway, one of naturally majestic proportions, packaged tightly, lightly and condensed in size.   

For others, outside of our lives, I understand that it is just another common event in a sea of common events, having a child.  I still believe that life is not precisely a miracle, but it certainly seems miraculous to us.  And what could possibly be a miracle that does not also contain the feeling of the miraculous?

  

.

Duel to the death of Xenophobia

(Dariusz Klimczak, Duel)

I spent almost my whole day yesterday piddling around the house, playing on the internet, to no real benefit of my own.  Now I have errands all day today, things that must get done, then back to work tomorrow for six days straight.  Where does the time go?  I know that they say it is behind us now and not to worry about it. But does it always have to disappear so quickly as it goes.

I was going to write further about my "argument" with the quick-witted Belgian woman, but I've exhausted myself from trying.  One day wasted is already too much. If you enjoyed yesterday's post then read the comments section from this link and then this one.  Also, you should read his post from today.   I think everyone that comes here should also read his daily posts. He is a fantastic writer and photographer and a good friend. He tolerates my excesses for reasons I don't understand.  

I wish I had more time to write today, perhaps later.  I want to get yesterday off of me. Most days I wish I could get the time back. This time I'm a little bit more eager to put distance between myself and then...  

As I was writing that last sentence I heard an email arrive. It was an email thanking me for putting the jobs link up on my blog, telling me that I am kind, deserving of great rewards in life, financial compensations, etc.  Well, sort of.  See... all it takes is a little kindness to turn things around sometimes.  Sometimes.

I stayed up late last night listening to this cover song over and over. I spent about an hour doing a re-edit of it of my own.  I think it's a fantastic cover of one of my favorite Bob Dylan tracks.  I have a friend posting my re-edit to youtube and I'll post that here also when I get the link.  I hope they don't put me in jail over it. .. The times they are a-changin', you know.

I have to go into San Francisco today.  It's still exciting, to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge.  It is a fantastic view of the bay and out to sea the opposite way, with the rocky hills of Marin just behind you. Once when I was driving to Sonoma from SF, long before living here, I was was looking out across the bay.  I happened to turn my head and look the other direction and a massive aircraft carrier had just left the bay heading out to sea, with much of the crew and planes up on the deck.  It's difficult to describe how big those boats are, much larger than most cargo ships, much higher above the water, and wider.  It was an impressive site, no matter how you might feel about the military.  I'm all for peace, of course, as you might have imagined, but the sight of this vessel going out to see was really striking.  Perhaps "striking" isn't the right word.... I wouldn't want to incite additional accusations of Americanness.  

It was a tremendous and unfamiliar view of something, but it didn't stir any nationalism or patriotism in me, nor would it normally.  There.

Oh, fuck it.  I've just decided to put off my errands until early next week.  I'm still feeling under the weather. Why do today what you can put off until tomorrow, or next week.  It's a beautiful day here in the valley. After taking a month off from work, when I finally did resume the drive back towards SF much had changed. The ground cover vegetation had really grown in, and in the middle of winter.  There were far more cows grazing in the fields.  It makes it easier to judge distances when there are many cows peppered along the way.  It is easy to believe things to be much closer than they are until you place a herd of cows in the distance.  When they are all nearly imperceptible dots it gives the mind a better reference.  

Yesterday when Rachel and I were walking the baby and the puppy we came across what we believed to be a cherry blossom tree blooming.  This valley is the strangest place I've ever been. Things bloom at what seems to be very awkward, counter-intuitive times.  Just as the winter is beginning and right in the middle of winter there are various plants that you never even noticed before that suddenly cover the valley floor.  The late autumn blossoming of mustard plants all over the valley left fields that were previously vineyards covered in the yellow blossoms of mustard plants.  They are everywhere. 

Ok, yesterday it was rainy all day, today has already become a blushing sky of blue.  I have a camera and a day suddenly wrenched free from cruel labor.  What would you do...?

(cherry blossoms in the rain)

 

.

Unprojected profits from the test market

(Bertil Nilsson)

I was only back at work for three days and I am completely defeated. This time not because of the job but rather the sickness. I can't sleep very well and when I do I dream of mundane things.  Last night the bit of dream that stuck with me into wakefulness was that I was a road manager of sorts for ZZ Top.  I might have also been in the band but I was definitely negotiating for them to play some roadhouse bar the night before the big gig, for a drastically reduced fee.  I won't bore you with all the details, and I assure you the details were boring.  So much so that I woke up from the frustration of the deal I was striking getting to be far too literal.  It ended with me stating that the band would bring in their own drinks so their fee wouldn't get eaten up at the bar.  Such is the extent of my inner-self right now, mundane and tired from sickness, wishing myself awake from my own dreams, but still in an aging rock and roll band... pathetic. 

So, yesterday I mentioned an article in The New York Times. I was going to further explain my feelings on the social giant here today but I just don't think I have it in me.  The sinuses still have too much of a grip on me and I am not up to the dual-sided polemics that it might require. Perhaps I'll leave it for another day.  Though one thought is worth sharing.  If Google and Facebook are scanning your private emails to form a profile on you based on the words found there, without much consideration for meaning, then I think I'm going to create a signature file that includes a rotating vocabulary of these words: Productivity, market assessment, in the black, unprojected profits, analysis, construct, contribute, etc., etc.  Since they don't seem to be mining for meaning everyone using one of their services should undermine the way in which those same services are being used against them.  It would be easy, really.  I just did it by posting this.

I have been naughty over in Selavy's comments section again.  I can't help myself.  I am as helpless as a morphine addict that has moved on to stronger stuff.  I suppose I could have been more clever, thinking that rushing a comment in somehow makes me less guilty. But it has had the effect of reducing the value of some of the comments.  I am a very dirty and arrogant American, I guess. You see, there is a woman who comments there frequently who has made it clear that she hates Americans.  I tried to suggest that perhaps it is America that she hates but I believe my intention was missed, or perhaps I am simply wrong and she really does hate Americans, as she immediately followed up my comment with more hatred directed at Americans and their "arrogant wars."  She greatly prefers the other kind of wars, I guess.  

She has described Americans in very specific and familiar terms and I must admit, she really knows how to delve right to the core of a people.  Since we are but all of a single kind, made up of 300 million identical humorless parts, it is both necessary and easy for her.  There could be no possible diversity in thought or feeling here, it would run counter to her claims.  It must be fun for such a sharp historically-minded soul to form such strong opinions of such a large group of foreign people, such and such.  She seems to have done much research in the matter, reflected in the acuity of her positions.  She then takes these pointed observations off to do internet battle, winning hearts and minds. 

I guess what I'm trying to determine is this... Is there any polite way for an American to tell a European that they're being an ignorant bigot?  Do you see, it just comes across as being a touch strong, especially towards the end where I stop referring to America and direct my attentions elsewhere.  Ah, who knows, perhaps just the right phrase will come to me. It often does, or so I think, once the second or third glass of wine grips my brain with its enthusiastic fever.  Perhaps I shouldn't openly confess to wine drinking... Certainly nothing riles the gentle mind of a European more than the absurd confession that an American drinks wine.  But of course, I will likely be relieved to soon find that all American wines are shit, made of fermented conceit alone, undrinkable by any civilized standards.   Our grapes are merely fruitless conspiracies.

Ah, poor old Selavy...  He has somehow found a way of attracting only the most brutish of minds - either strict disciplinarians, perverts or bigots.  I'd like to think that I am a little bit of all three, spreading my more repulsive qualities evenly along the fault lines.  Sure, life gets lumpy sometimes, especially when condensed from necessity, but all it takes is a little hostility, condemnation and nationalist haranguing to put things right again.  I just need a new nation that I can demonize..... I'm tired of Canada.  I want an unwilted target for my many chauvinisms.  Is there no new rising nation on earth to which I can assert my endless love for all things America...?  I want a fresh puppet regime and I'm going to hold my breath until I get one.

Ok, maybe later I will write the Google thing.  The tea is liberating my mind from its sleep shackles.

Well, 48 years ago today, The Beatles stepped off the plane at JFK... Yeah...!!! yeah...!!! yeah...!!!  I've probably mentioned that I am a Beatles fan.  My friend, Maria, has the box set of the entire Beatles catalog, remastered.  It is really something astonishing, to hear the tracks sound like they once did on vinyl.  The cd mastering that was done to their catalog in 1988 was terrible and flat.  The new remastering sounds like I'm high.  

"Expert textpert choking smokers, don't you think the joker laughs at you?" 

Test market, track, organize, modify, integrate, implement, evaluation, calculate, formulate, under-modulate our distribution costs for hidden profits.  

I'll be a financier, industrialist, rock star or media mogul in no time.

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Torn and Frayed

(Uda Dennie)

I woke up late and now have little time to write.  I am sick, very sick.  I've had a sinus cold for days but this morning I started coughing up blood.  Everything online says that is a potentially very bad sign and to see a doctor.  I won't, of course, unless it gets worse.  It already seems to be getting better.  I think it was only from a particularly violent coughing fit I had when I woke up.  Something feels torn in my chest, torn and frayed.  

Ok, I have much more to say on this next matter.  But for now I encourage everybody to read this article.  I have always projected a somewhat phantom-self on Facebook as well as here on this Google blog.  The idea that a digital profile is being created on that other self and is potentially being sold, or given away, to possible employers and/or the government has made me reconsider my feelings about the harmlessness of those services.  

More on that later, I promise.

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Super Dawn Sunday

(Afanasyev Vitaly)

I only jest, of course, from last night.  The boy is a true wonder, a "blessed marvel" as Selavy often exclaims.  

I just walked the dog and the sunrise was breaking into colored bands across the clouds.  Yellow giving way to pinks, separated by rich pre-sunrise blues, heading towards a losing purple on the opposite horizon. Row after row of clouds, arranged nearly along the horizon line, for Barkley and I. 

I only wish that I had brought my camera with me.

After posting last night a friend reminded me of Super Bowl last year.  It always strikes me as odd, time.  The years keep flying by, as evidenced by my vastly increasing numbers, sometimes seemingly in exponentials. But when I consider the distance between one Super Bowl and the last then the sense becomes elongated.  The feeling of impossibility suddenly stretches rather than collapses. Time runs off the other way with my mind.  It seems much further distant than could be possible.  If each is a year then how could there be such a difference in feeling. There is something wrong, I think, with my ability to sense time.  I will consult my astrologers and healers.

I am off, into and then past that blue aurora. 

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Super Bowl Sunday

(Artist unknown)

I have to work early in the morning, so I'll write tonight.  I know I won't have time for it tomorrow, SuperBowl Sunday, the 4th.  In the great wisdom that flows through the powers-that-be they've decided to have a mandatory meeting that lasts until evening tomorrow, just about the time the SuperBowl won't be worth watching any more.  Allora... who am I to question the wisdom of commerce and community...

So, I write tonight, after my first day back to work, the longest time I have spent away from the boy and the woman since they were separated one from the other.  Is that right? Can I refer to birth in such a way?  Sure, why not... It's descriptive and accurate, it only sounds wrong.

They haven't been separated in actuality for more than a few minutes at a time now, only as long as it takes for her to conduct a shower. Even then I start to get nervous when the boy is crying.  What am I to do?  I have no adequate charms to console him.  All the same tools are at my disposal, except one, or more accurately two, but those tools simply don't have the same effect on him as they do when she employs them.  I've purchased a home witch test kit, just to check.

The test, however, does not claim to be conclusive.  I retain all rights to assert.

I would feel silly not administering it though. It is my duty as the proud father.  That's a phrase that I keep hearing.  I'm filled with many emotions but pride hasn't been an overwhelming one as of yet.  The kid doesn't have enough skills to really judge, so far.  I mean, he's beautiful and looks very much like me, but is that really enough?  For some maybe, but others have standards to uphold.  He is very good at pooping his pants, peeing when mommy changes his diaper, crying for any subtle change in feeling, and sleeping up to two hours at a time, often less.  Beyond that he has few skills from which we could truly measure, no mark to either judge or compare.  In his current state he is somewhat untestable.

I suppose the pride is meant to arise from my accomplishment in the matter.  Still, it seems a bit presumptuous and premature.  If I were to write the young boy a letter today, as many have suggested, that he might one day read in the future, then I wouldn't tell him how proud I was of him.  I would tell him that he needs to pull himself together, it's been four weeks already and he's hardly learned to put his hand in his mouth, and he has yet to discover his thumb.  Shameful, by any standards.

I hope he never reads this.  I'm sure the internet doesn't hold on to this stuff forever, right ?


Rachel is going to kill me when she wakes up.  Hopefully I'll already be up and out the door, and this post will already be published.  She will be helpless to stop my heretic ramblings on mitigated pride and the uncertainties of home witch testing.  I owe it to my readers, both types.  I'm sure that many before must have felt the way that I do now.  I'm certain of it.  I am drinking beer, you see.  Not a lot, but enough to pre-celebrate the big day tomorrow, Feb 5th, the day of the Giant Patriots.  I think it will be the eve of the eve of the full snow moon.

Ok.

I'm imbibing just enough to ensure that my sinuses will not heal as quickly as they might otherwise.  I prefer to have my immune system fight for each and every victory.  I show no favoritism.  I treat my immune system like republicans treat poor people: there are no handouts, only bailouts.  I run a flat tax across my entire body, rich or poor.  Why should my immune system get any extra help just because it's struggling.  Sickness is just a crime waiting to be punished...

Cash, grass or ass... nobody rides for free.

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paranasal sinuses

(Michael Adamek)

Conveniently, I can't sleep the night before I am supposed to return to work.  Sinuses.  I have been lying in bed for hours tossing and turning, flipping from one side to the other, trying to create the magical balance that will hold long enough for me to go back to sleep.  What fun.  

There is no apparent end to the night. Perhaps my issues with insomnia are completely work related. Well, not work related, but related to the anxiety I have towards my job, or returning to my job.  In one month I will have been at my current job for five years.  I once read that if you stay at a job for more than five years without advancement then it looks bad for any future employers. They will see that as a sign of you being less than motivated.  

Oh my... if they only knew.  I have never understood how people truly dedicate themselves to the task of a menial job. It's as if the only joy they derive from life is pleasing those that they perceive as being "above" them on the ladder of life.  If they get an occasional pat on the head or a nod of recognition then they are fueled for months on end with deep-rooted satisfaction.  It sickens me.  They are either being false or they truly are the dumbest people I've ever met in my life.  Though I'm not ruling out the possibility that they might be both. 

Well, actually sitting up and writing this has helped my sinuses some.  Perhaps if I write a little bit more it might give me a window to go back to bed and try to fall asleep again, before the sensation of cavernous ever-migratory snot motion returns.  It is always a lesson in gravity and viscosity, a balance that can be struck but never held.

I just found a jar of Vicks VapoRub on the table, left there by Rachel, for me. I generously applied some to the inner mucous membrane of each nostril, wondering if it is in fact meant to be used that way, but unable to read the label as I'm still in the dark, except for the computer screen.  Ok, in truth I was too lazy to walk the jar the 3 feet back towards the computer as I was going to get a glass of water.  Too late, the potential damage is done, each nostril is filled with the magical petroleum power of vacillation goo. Already, things are improving. 

I'm going to try again to go back to sleep.  It is now 2:13 am, will advise.

Ok, 7:42 am, some sleep under my wings, though with much tossing and turning.  Once your sinuses become clogged it's as if all of the other systems develop problems to match.  When I woke up my throat was dry and coarse, my breath must have been horrific.  Each ear has spent the evening trying to out-wax the other. There was an accumulation of crust at the corner of one eye that I was afraid to remove, it seemed far too imbedded into the tissue.  The cranial bone on the front of the face feels bruised, tender. Perhaps a tea with lemon and honey will magically correct all of these issues but I hold little hope for it.  

Ok, tea with no lemon. We might have lemons somewhere but I couldn't find any. Honey will have to do, so I used extra. It's difficult to believe that now all that stands between me and work is a scaldingly hot shower and a long car drive.  I haven't used more than 1/3rd of a tank of gas since the boy has been born.  I hope I remember all the rules of the road.  

Ok, clearly there is nothing to report here. I won't try to lure you, dear reader, on any further.  I'm certain that my sinus issues must be fascinating to read about.  I'm planning a tell-all magazine article.  But I've somehow always felt that I was called for a higher purpose than to just report on my ailments, gripes, and blossoming sickness.  I could at least have the courtesy to wait until the fevered visions start.  

Hopefully sometime today at work, just after lunch.  

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Jooble job search... Why wait...?

I got a very flattering email this morning.  Those are always nice.  You will never lack for someone to listen to you when you are flattering me.   This site was not set up to be a job search engine, as some of you might have guessed. But if you find yourself reading posts here when you should really be looking for a job then console yourself with the new link on my page for Jooble  It is an aggregate job-search engine.  My readers will no longer have to feel guilty about such trivial matters as being unemployed.  You can assuage those guilty feelings by reading posts to your heart's content, knowing that a job might be just one more accidental click away.  It is the very least that I can do for my readers in these trying economic times.

Worry no more, dear readers. Guilt will never be welcome here....

I came up with an idea to write a children's story last night.  I had drank a bottle of wine and the idea seemed great, and necessary.  Selavy jokes about me becoming a James Thurber, but he forgets that Oscar Wilde, Leo Tolstoy, Virginia Woolf, Mark Twain, T.S. Eliot and James Joyce also wrote children's books and stories.  But that is neither here nor there, my suspicion is that he was being snide, and I am not comparing myself to any of those writers, nor attempting to place myself among them.  My point is only that many great writers have committed themselves to the act of writing literature for children.  Antoine De Saint-Exupery is known mostly for "Le Petit Prince" but he also wrote many fine novels for adults, "Night Flight" and "Wind, Sand and Stars" among them.  The former is an excellent novella and the latter also an exceptional novel. 

But back to my point.  I forgot to write down my concept in full and when I woke up this morning the only remaining evidence of the idea was a post-it note that states "Animals tending a garden."  I'd say my children's book idea is off to a great start so far.  I seem to remember something about one of the animals dying and then the animals and vegetables coming to terms with it, and what to do with it.  Cannibalism was a strong theme that ran through the idea, comparing carnivorous behavior to vegetarianism, for kids...  The remaining carcass was then used as fertilizer, completing the cycle of farm life.  

Perhaps I'll leave the children's stories to Tolstoy for now.

Ah yes, a story I meant to relay from when my father was here but forgot to... Somebody from Texas accidentally dialed my father's phone number while we were out walking the dog. The guy on the other end of the line mumbled something about wanting to know where his truck was.  My dad told him that he thought he had the wrong number, the guy hung up.  He called back a few minutes later and a similar conversation ensued, with a similar ending. Then my dad received a text message in a sort of broken English that sometimes passes for language in these topsy-turvy times.  It was riddled with confusion and abbreviated misspellings. I asked my dad to look at the number, which I immediately memorized.  As we were walking, without my father's knowledge I texted the guy, "If you ever want to see yur truck alive agin then DO NOT call that numbr, 1-900-YUR-DUMB... You've been wurned." Then a few minutes later I followed it up with, "Yur truk is safe, but DO NOT call that numbr, ever."  

We kept walking the dog and my dad's phone rang again.  This time I asked if I could answer it.  He handed the phone to me. 

"Hello"

"Yeah, what's up?"

I said, "Are you in your truck right now?"

"Yeah."

"Then there's nothing to worry about, right?"

"Yeah."

"We're good, right?"

"Yeah."

"Don't call this number again.  This line is tapped."

He hung up immediately, never to call again. My father asked what that was all about and I showed him the texts I sent.  At first he was in shocked disbelief, bordering on frustration at such an irresponsible act.  Then it resolved into laughter.  He couldn't believe that I was willing to do something so pointless, and potentially dangerous (in his mind), just for kicks.  He thought the line, "If you ever want to see your truck alive again" was one of the funniest things he had ever heard.  It was then that he realized something about me that perhaps he had never quite noticed in full before.  He was genuinely pleased with me. I could tell. The very thing that he spent my younger years trying to dissuade me from, I had become, and had been all along, an adherent to the absurd.

With him approaching 80 I was pleased to have had the moment with him, simple as it was.

I have been writing this post with one hand, the other cradling Rhys so that Rachel can get some sleep.  It has not been an easy task as the boy has been crying about half of the time.  I've learned a few tactics to console him but none that are guarantees.  I go back to work tomorrow, where hopefully I'll have a much better idea of what I'm doing. We'll see.

Ok, if you're looking for a job then let Jooble help you..... click into the future.....

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Syzygy

Last night I stayed up late listening to music.  I was searching for a replacement to an old album of mine. The copy I have is poor in quality.  It's one of the better examples of its type from almost 20 years ago, "ambient-techno" is the stated genre.  For me the album still holds much magic. I listened to it twice in succession last night.  It's like a time capsule from that period, bringing with it strange and wonderful feelings from the past.  

The album never achieved wide success, though I fail to understand why.  It is much worthier than many albums that somehow did achieve notoriety.  I suppose the word "success" can hardly be used to describe much of the music from that time period.  It was made mostly for enthusiasts alone and certainly did achieve success at that level.  But rarely were the artists compelled to make much more of the music they were making because the financial compensation didn't allow for it, mostly.  The musicians path to the future is often narrow and rocky, and sometimes bullwinkled.

I'm being a little bit vague.  The album is by an artist named Syzygy and the album's title is "Morphic Resonance."  Going back and listening to it is, in some ways, like getting to re-experience a little portion of my life from that time.  A memorable time for me, though one that often lacks clear and distinct memories.  There was a period from about 1989-2005 that could be described as an extended blur of psychedelic elation.  There were other feelings but that's the one that I choose to remember over the others.  Listening to this album carries me with it back to that time, in spirit.  Well, it did last night anyway.

Ok, enough nostalgia for this morning.  I was having a moment last night listening to it and thought to convey it here.  But as an old friend once said to me, "Other people's nostalgia is dangerous."  So, I'll leave it there.  I'm listening to the album again now and it still amazes and delights me.

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All of the parents are gone and now I must find something to do with myself.  Only two more days before I return to work.  There is a distinct feeling that time is running out for me.  There were so many things that I had hoped to do while I was on this leave from work, none of which happened. Having parents visit is a full-time job in itself, leaving little room for else.  Seeing my father was great but he is getting older and is becoming increasingly distracted, though mostly in an entertaining way, not in the frightening or painful way.  

At one point he wandered around the apartment picking up other people's iphones and deleting things he didn't recognize, like the baby's feeding and eating schedule for the previous week.  It took him hitting the delete button, and the delete verification button, seven times each before he started to question why there was all of this information in his phone about Rhys' timetables, and why his phone no longer had a case on it, and why it was a different model from his, a different color, etc.  It was almost like having a toddler in the house in addition to the infant.  One must always be on guard.  Never leave things out on the table that he can reach.  

But I already miss him a little bit.  I only kid about the phone...  I'm sure Rachel has it all backed up.

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Mission Accomplished

My blog is officially popular now.  I can not be stopped, blogzilla I.  I'm reasonably certain that whatever new readers have been attracted through the birth of Rhys will eventually realize that they don't want to be here.  But for now they are mine and I will do with them as the wanton spirits of impulse instruct me. 

We shall see.

Downton Abbey is a soap opera.  I admit this.  I have a friend that is in some sort of paroxysm of denial over it.  He insists that because the show is thought provoking and that it deals with more than just who is sleeping with whom that it can't possibly be a soap opera.  Very little could be more silly, or wrong.  It has open narratives bridging each show, develops plot themes across each installment, it is episodic romantic fiction, often shows are ended with a "cliffhanger"... It is the very definition of a soap opera.  This only increases my guilty love for it. Apparently the suggestion might have the opposite effect on others.   The last show had so many borderline absurd "Ooohhh" and "Ahhh" breath inhalation and exhalation moments that I considered editing them together and looping them for my friend just to prove the point, but my tears prevented me from doing so.  

When I typed the word "cliffhanger" above I accidentally typed "cliffganger" instead.  I just might be onto a new type of plot device.... when all of the unresolved issues pile up on one character, or conversely, characters upon issue.  I might start an episodic tale here and attempt it.  

More on soap operas and their effect on people later.

Rachel and I are becoming more bold with taking little Rhys out and about.  We are also learning our lessons in doing so.  There are often unexpected tasks involved in these miniature outings that represent a magnitude of difficulty that exceeds our patience. Well, mine anyway.  I am having to learn the new rules, the new time-frame involved in travel.  Things simply take much longer than they used to.  Any event can be suddenly and easily disrupted. Or, an urgent need to abandon our plans altogether might arise without previous sign or signal.  

No, I'm being dramatic.  I have to be careful. Rachel reads this blog and any exaggeration concerning Rhys, no matter how useful exaggeration is in this endeavor, no longer seems to quite work for her.  I must either exaggerate to the point of absurdity or not at all.  The middle ground of our lives has become increasingly literal out of sudden need, some of it imaginary.  It is important that my changing feelings concerning life not be misrepresented in any way, so as to inadvertently create confusion among my many thousands of adoring readers, or Rachel.

An example of how life is changing...  Yesterday we went to Murphy's Pub.    It is a pleasant enough place and is not too far off from some of the Irish pubs in NYC that we used to frequent. It's a nice place to sit and have a beer, or three.  The main feature missing is any semblance of a happy-hour, as far as I can tell.  All beers are charged to your account, which is presented to you at the end of your time there on a printed, computerized receipt.  The East Village at least has the decency to not have computers in bars.  Most of them anyway.  To be fair Murphy's also functions as a restaurant so I suppose my criticisms are misplaced in this regard.  Moving on....

Instead of sitting at the bar we now sit at a table, sensibly.  We chose a table in the corner where there was plenty of room for whatever needs might arise.  The waitress took our order.  I had a Harp lager and Rachel had a red soda of some sort.  As wonderful and beautiful as breast-feeding is it still represents limitations in some ways, as alcohol goes straight into the bloodstream and subsequently into the breast milk.  It is to be avoided.  

The waitress wanted to see the baby boy so we lifted the fabric we had in place to reveal his little napping head. Immediately she said, "Well, I see where he got his hair" smiling at me in mock familiarity...  

Rhys came out with a full head of hair but it's not as if he had been lifting it directly from his lineage while I wasn't paying attention.  Listen, if you look carefully you'll see that he's also combing it forward. I mean, yes, it is a little fuller in the arid off-center spots of the front, on each side of the central "Phil Collins" peninsula, but one must consider that I have much more territory to cover.  Just look at the shear size of my enormous helmet. It is hideously large and as such difficult to sheath with flowing locks.  

I think my hair distribution is far more sensible than his, all things considered.  Just think of all the hair that has emigrated to my back through the years. Consider it.  That must account for a few hundred each year, easily.  Also, my face steals precious hair-energy from the top of my head every single night while constructing my weekly beard.  It's like a nocturnal tug-of-war that culminates in the nasal passageway, echoing through the recently forested nostrils.  Some mornings I wake up and I can hear the tiny calls emanating from the front of my face, " Pull...!!! Pull...!!! Pull...!!! " 

I've long considered the possibility that the hair on either side of the front of my head merely set out to find its own fortunes, to perhaps stake out a spot in my ears and have a family of its own. Can you blame them, really?  When the head is used, often as it is, as either a helmet or a battering ram...  their position was located in the danger-zone, the undesirable outlying region, the suburbs of decrepit tresses, my mane cul-de-sacs, etc.  Many of them were surely lost in battle, either in unexpected collisions or from doing too many u-turns under the sheets.

Oh gentle christ of amethyst past.....  Is there anything worse than a newly made father trying to somehow posit his sexual worth?  I mean, to anybody other than the mother.  Even then it should be done in as searching and as self-deprecating a manner as possible, if at all.  Such overt suggestions are for my younger years, the fog of the past, when I was a more dangerous man.

I'll stop there.  I'm certain that there's somewhere around the house that I could be feeling useless right now.

I have, however, included two pictures to illustrate my point about our competing hairlines.

(Sean)

(Rhys)

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