The Event Horizon

(Sharon Kingston, Rilke's Sunset)

Well, I'm definitely home again now. The boy slept at my place last night. I have two lives, separated by nothing. I suppose that many people do. 

I need to find a woman with three lives, maybe more. I would describe my preference for the shape of those lives, though that might seem far too Roman of me. An emotionally complete woman with her own car and place to live would be acceptable enough. It would be nice if she did not have too much back hair, also. Little matter, that. Those things are easily enough fixed. Just look at me above the neck of my shirt. No one ever has to know. It's our secret now, baby.

The phone bill is due. I forgot to change the plan back after jacking it up to cover the excess minutes of my waning marriage. So, I just throw money from the back of a train.

I truly have nothing of value to say today. I am on the verge of a new life, but am not quite there yet. The old life keeps dragging me back towards it. The gravity of it like circling a black hole, awaiting the moment where events can no longer affect an outside observer, where my mass is split apart forever, spewing the invisible energy back out into the still-life void. 

I'm okay with it, of course, I have no choice. It just seems to be taking forever.

Sunset

Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors

which it passes to a row of ancient trees.

You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you

one part climbs towards heaven, one sinks to the earth.

leaving you, not really belonging to either,

not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent,

not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing

that turns to a star each night and climbs-

leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads)

your own life, timid and standing high and growing,

so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out,

one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.

- Rilke

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Flight delays and long term parking rates

(Teddy Bear Cove)

Home again. The vacation must have done me some good. I slept in until after sunrise and awoke straight into my workday. One can too easily forget the complexities of their job. That is, until you return. I function in a reasonably highly engaged capacity most days. I like it, of course, but there is a re-acclimatizing to it that must occur. It is uphill again, at first.

I already miss the wine cellars of the north. Each day we would try tastings of different wines and watch favored or suggested films. What a charmed luxury. I could do that for months. 

I feel more relaxed now than I have in a while. A friend noticed it today when we met for lunch. I dread the idea that the anxiety might return. Ah well, what can one do if not endure. 

Nothing to say when there is so much to do.

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1999 Barolo

Before I came to Washington I cautioned my friend not to be wasteful when sharing wine, that I could not tell the difference between a $30 bottle and a $100 bottle. It turns out that I was quite wrong. My favorite has been in the $250 range, a 1999 Vietti Barolo Lazzarito. Please take note of those important details, you will find that you need access to them before the 25th of October. You will want to contact Chambers Street Wines. 

Just say my name three times at the counter. They will know what to do. An unshaven leprechaun will lead you to a unlit basement. Do not resist, his hands are naturally wet and warm.

Neither, do not be frightened by my selection. There are plenty of $100 bottles of wine that can still be purchased for me that I will find acceptable. I am not a monster. I am merely moderate. I will smile, nod, say thank-you and store it in my basement for softening, maturing. 

I wish to alienate no one. 

I even snuck a $30-35 bottle into the lineup below, to show that I humbly appreciate my heritage, and still love some of the people from my own region, to which I must return today.

I checked into squatters rights for the state of Washington and determined that this must have been the main reason that my friend chose this state to amass his collection; a shrewd but perhaps necessary choice. I have already had all of my mail forwarded here, but to no avail. The Coast Guard has been flying patrol missions over the bay, skywriting their hints, messages, and warnings.

"Take your Oxford Commas home... Hippy!..."

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Panopea Generosa

(A hummingbird perched)

I slept in pieces to the sound of the rain, awoke to the overcast skies of morning. The day will pass the same, perhaps with me sleeping in it. My newly found love for nature photography takes up all of my time.

Another dinner last night, filet mignons on the grill, conducted before the diorama of the bay that is the back window of my friend's house. During dinner a bald eagle swooped back and forth, at times coming within a few hundred feet of the back deck. By the time I got my camera the bird was perching atop a tree much further away, towards the water. 

I believe it's one of the few times I've ever seen a bald eagle in the wild. I have a vague memory of having seen one before, but could not draw upon fact to complete the feeling. It might have been a first, creeping in at just under 47 years.

An unquestioned first, also creeping in just under... we bought and tried geoduck ("gooeyduck" , an American Indian name referring to the male genitals, or "akagai" in Japan) as an appetizer. We had it sashimi, blanched, and sautéed with lime juice and cilantro. It is considered a delicacy in many parts of the world. My friend stated that it represents the largest biomass of the Puget Sound. Our waitress from our oyster lunch yesterday claimed that her boyfriend harvests the stuff. It is a type of large clam. When sliced, or once circumcised, it resembled certain types of calamari in look, taste and texture, though had a fineness in flavor that was subtly different. Salty, like an oyster.

A taste more for the aficionados than the neophytes, of which I'd like to believe I am neither. Though all new to me, I now have that experience under my belt I am one step closer to being the former rather than the latter.

(Large Seafood Penis)

My mini North by Northwest vacation will be over tomorrow. It is how things must be when one takes three vacations in a two month period. They will each be shorter than I might have hoped for, or if they had been conducted individually. Next arrives Mexico, a wedding on the beach at the end of May. I look forward to it, though I do not look forward to the flights there and back. I chose the cheapest option which includes unpleasant layovers. Many of my friends will be there, many that I have not seen in a long while. It is good to remind oneself from time to time of friendships, to affirm that form of love.


Yesterday, we watched My Night at Maud's. It was very good, and fine. It puts Woody Allen in place, or perspective, or context. He was perhaps not as much "America's Bergman" as he was "America's Rohmer." I see that now, after having watched only two of Rohmer's films. Allen stole freely, though I do not ever remember him denying such a thing so it may be unfair to claim it as if I have uncovered some profound wrongdoing. He has openly admitted his passions and influences.

Today we will watch Claire's Knee, which we started last night but could not pursue past the shin. Then, maybe, My Dinner with Andre. We did not invest significant time into the scheduling of our film festival.

Gates of Heaven and Vernon, Florida are behind us now, nothing before us but the rain.

(An eagle perching)

In the morning, we hiked down to the shore. There, we tossed a brightly colored cloth frisbee into the barely above freezing water for the Labrador, Daisy. The slight mist coming off the water told me all that I needed to know concerning its prohibitive temperature. The puppy was quite plussed by it all.

Vacation days pass as if almost already a memory.

There are worse things than not being in love, but few worse than falling out of it for good and ever. The period that follows seems to be a form of shameful mourning. It is a loss that is perhaps best consumed alone, in quiet. 

I don't see how women do it.

One must re-learn how to walk the earth, to chase flying circles into near freezing water for the fun of it only. Dogs may teach us just a handful of lessons, but that they must do so over and over seems our fault, not theirs.

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The Flower Moon

Waking up on vacation is a treat. The moonlight just departing the ambit. Nothing on my mind except how many naps I might take today, and how I should spread them out. It really is up to me. Maybe take Daisy the Labrador for another walk up the hill. There is an oyster shack towards the water that I intend to explore and perhaps conquer for the crown.

Yesterday, Vietnamese Kobe Pho to meet a friend of my friend's, and then a few movies. One day I will find pork Pho. It is out there and I am confident that it wants me. It is unreasonable of Vietnam to deprive me in this way. 

Gates of Heaven and Apocalypse Now (Redux) (It was my way of strikng back at Vietnam). Both were great, though having now finally seen Redux I don't understand what all the fuss was about when it was first re-released. It was an unnecessary director's cut, though admittedly there are a few nice additional shots. Cutting the French plantation scene from the original was the right thing to do. It distracts from the rhythm of moving upriver, of being drawn there, and attempts to explain the war in a way that the rest of the film does not. Too pedantic, too direct. The obligatory opium sex scene makes the film more mundane than what it finally ended up being.

This is the first time in my life that I have ever suggested that any titty scene should be cut from a film. Some might suggest that I am growing up. My response would be to prove them wrong. Of all the qualities, maturity is the one easiest to disprove. The previous sentence almost accomplishes that by itself.

Being in the far North-West it will - of course - intermittently rain the remainder of my trip and then clear up the day after I leave. My buddy and I will watch films between my occasional naps. We went to the video rental store yesterday and picked up Rohmer's Claire's Knee. We also have My Night at Maud's in the event of a runaway Rohmer fetish festival. 

Last night we ate dinner and again watched the sun setting across Bellingham Bay. The light forms a fantastic dance across the waters, with the shimmering cross current of waves. With too much expanse and too much information coming into the mind at once it becomes a visual impression more than a single fact, a soft suggestion of light and waters moving. The sunset is always an event somewhere. Entire neighborhoods are pleasantly dedicated, and situated to it here. 

The full flower moon's setting was barely visible from the guest room window as I awoke. I stood and watched it disappear. 

This day awaits the seriousness of my napping.

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Chuckanut Bay

(Daisy)

Bellingham, Washington. It is very beautiful. The bay looking west is peppered with both populated and uninhabited islands. Few vistas have ever seemed more inviting, to me. 

Last night we listened to music (Agnes Obel, Cat Power, Chris Isaak) and sat around the kitchen chatting as my friend made a sauce for the halibut. White Butter, I believe, is what the phrase translates to from French. It went very well with the fish. 

After dinner my friend opened an '86 Margaux. The year of our graduation from high school, before either of us likely knew what a Margaux was. I do not believe that I've ever had a wine that was so old, almost 30 years. It was very good, I admit. It tasted quite different from a new wine, unsurprisingly. His description of it as having a "tobacco" flavor might sound terrible to a reader, but it was accurate and somehow not unpleasant at all, quite the opposite. There was a distinct earthiness to it, layered flavors. Though describing something as having a "tobacco flavor" would not normally appeal to me; perhaps no longer.

He is a great wine enthusiast and knows the many terms to describe them, not the adjectives I jokingly resort to but the more technical terms of the trade. Chromatic something.... 

I will often just describe them as intellectually satisfying while structured unctuously, or some other such phrase meant to confuse or mock both the listener and the speaker.

I came here to retrace Lewis and Clark's return trail east only to find that they landed on the Pacific quite a ways south of here. You can imagine my surprise and disappointment. You can relive those feelings if you visit here yourself, and become likewise confused concerning history and geography. Ah well, perhaps that is an exploration for another time. I am close enough to the Canadian border that I must remain vigilant in the event of any funny business. My buddy has described the occasional nighttime Coast Guard raid on boats out in the bay heading across the border from the north; helicopters descending on some unsuspecting smugglers, boarding the boat from above, dropping in on lines, bright lights and orchestrated military maneuvers. 

Today, maybe, we will play tennis or go for a hike, kayaks were mentioned to traverse a portion of the bay, perhaps to sneak across the border by sea and have a peak at America's northern frontier: Vancouverlands.

I've never wanted a submarine so badly before in my life. 

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First, we failed

I am looking forward to getting away. A few days in the far North-West. Bellingham. I hear that it is a beautiful place. I have always liked Seattle and Vancouver, so I suspect that this will be no different. We will go on hikes and eat seafood, I hope. I have updated my iPhone's software and backed it up. I am prepared to lose it, if needed. I have been losing things lately, again.

Writing this blog has allowed me some odd insight into myself. In certain ways it is a fiction, where ideas are entertained purely for the sake of indulgence. Then, there are other times in which I write something that surprises me, yet I see a kernel of truth in it. Other times it is plainly confessional. Artlessly flat, composed of Catholic guilt. It is all an exercise in fictive honesty, or rather creative self-revelation, hopefully and when at its best.

In the past week or so I have had to ask myself some very difficult questions about how I want the future to unfold. I had hoped that the questions need not ever be asked, but it seems now as if the questions will be forced. One never knows precisely how much they are willing to concede or to swallow until they hit that point. Then you know, and you can't pretend that you don't know any more. You can keep swallowing or conceding if you choose, but something inside of you is lost, perhaps gone forever.

An online friend whom I have grown quite fond of has encouraged me to "take the high road" and that is good advice. Difficult advice to heed. 

Nobody, I do not believe, seeks a state of mutual accusation. It's a small part of why people stay together. Divorce is painful and involves the asserting of grievances over time. It is a simultaneous assertion of, and yet loss of, credibility. 

Crimes and misdemeanors. 

I have seen a divorce statement and it is a very difficult read. You see another person's idea of you in it, cobbled together with a version of fact and held by innuendo. Divorce statements are not flattering, by necessity. They are not meant to be. They are meant to make your version of the story of your marriage part of the permanent record. All of them should be forced to include your wedding vows as a preamble, as a reminder, but I don't make the laws around here.

I wish that I did. I would make all marriage illegal, unconstitutional if possible. I would establish that a marriage fundamentally infringes on a person's right to the pursuit of happiness, and as such should be struck from the books. What right should state governments have to knowingly issue a document that causes intrinsic suffering which often results in inequality. 

You see, this is why they do not let me make the laws.

I have not been the only person who has been crafting a narrative about me. There are parallel documents elsewhere that one can go and read if they so choose. They are part of the permanent public record.

I imagine Rhys one day going and reading them out of curiosity. It is not a thought that gives me much solace. So, a companion piece is all that I can offer.

It will start with the simple recitation of a vow: First, we failed at keeping our word.

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The Open Secret

If only to give you an idea of what an enormous sucker I am... today marks the day that the boy tried his first taste of banana, three years ago. I put it in my phone, each year it repeats. Not the banana, but a note about the banana. An heirloom made of family bytes.

I know. I know how lame this sounds, openly admitting such a thing. It is what parents do. They wish to preserve memories, and more. They will sacrifice pride for what resonates with them. They will sacrifice more for more, or even less for less. They will sacrifice, because it seemingly proves something.

Time: you can't even save parts of it. Pictures help, they fade and disappear. Drives crash. All that makes us "us" is ultimately lost. Only idiots and idealists believe otherwise. If the soul is eternal then I don't want one.

I want two.


A friend recently had a beloved dog pass away. That was her takeaway from it all, basically. There is no better place, where self meets some otherness in mute heavenly wonder.


You'll wind up there with yourself in tow. It is utter meaninglessness, grasped clumsily by imaginative mammals, fought for and against. Death rots and love hurts, and rape is never very far off.  All pain is a warning concerning death. Joy traps us in a moment which should remind us, but it doesn't. But joy is joy, and time touches it less and more, depending on your reaction to it.


Each of us is very lucky to not be dying or suffering tremendously at this very moment. Yet where is there much happiness within the cosmic glow of such luck?



CS mentioned something recently about having a distaste for mundane photographs. One can hardly help themselves when they have a child, though. Very little seems mundane about the boy, to me. He is a marvel that grows in marvelousness by leaps and bounds and leaps again. Every time I see him he has added to his wonder. All of life is having a giggling fit when we are doing nothing at all.

That is the way of things.


Time used to be a paradox. Few things help you negotiate that logically unacceptable proposition more than something that gives you access to the past and the future all at once; the present is a way of longing for, fearing against.


Children, they really are our future.... 


For some, it is the only answer to the lonely riddle. For others, druthers.


You can go back far off in time, disconcertingly most of all in pictures. You can not go much farther, also; though it might not seem that way at all.

Time is the truth that can lie about itself. It will tell you whatever you wish to feel about it, but most of all what you do not ever wish to.

You are just trucking through the cosmic dust that is your imaginary piecemeal religion. It's in all of your songs... this half or full or untrue message of moment. Time is incomplete. We sense it in ways.


There is no fixing the senses, the wants - the senses that want and wish.


Don't let your demons overtake your passions for very long. That is how time slows down to the point of punishment.


Be wary. Be eventual.
Never marry. Have kid.


I did.

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The Sexual Olympics

(Eric Heiden, 5 time Olympic gold medalist)

On mornings when I get enough sleep I tend to drink too much coffee. That is what I did this morning. On the drive into the city I chatted with my usual easterners. We all agreed on what we agree about. CS thinks that I am courageous, like Bruce Jenner. 

A few friends have asked me if I am going to write about Jenner. There is not much to say from my perspective that has not already been said. In discussing or writing about such a thing one always risks more than one gains. If you lack sufficient sympathy then you have wronged the world, even if what you are saying is deeply sympathetic, but only using your own words to express it. Or not, if you simply assess the situation through analysis then you have likewise crimed someone. 

It is called an individual choice and it certainly is that, but it is another thing also, at least one other thing. Culture functions as a series of dynamic exchanges and the continued assertion that gender and sexuality are choices, some made at birth and some not, has its eventual impact. This is not a criticism of that culture, only an acknowledgement of it. 

If I had not included that last sentence it would seem to suggest its opposite to some. It doesn't.

Before the availability of reassignment procedures this issue was not nearly as prevalent. There were fewer sexual and gender options, so people made their choices among those options. The collective mind slowly expands to accept these new choices and decisions, as well as the resulting outcomes. Invariably, there will arrive some who wish to expand these limits further. On and on this process goes. It is described very well by darwinians and sociobiologists alike. It is a by-product luxury of such a diverse pool of individuals functioning together as a species.  

I say this disinterestedly. Truly. Some will misunderstand the use of the word. 

So, it is a thing that can not be adequately discussed, nor discussed fully. It can only be agreed upon that sympathy for the courageous is the expected response; the demanded response. There is, of course, some truth in this, though to the exclusion of the full use of the mind. Freedom allows for a spectrum of opinions and anybody who would disagree might only see the rainbow as representing a completeness of the visible range, where others see it as a very thin portion among all of the frequencies that make up the electromagnetic range.

Some will find in these words cause for offense. It will seem that I am assessing a thing in which I have no rights. My response would be that I am speaking from my transgender mind. It is the opinion of a woman that is trapped inside of a man, and that man might not even be me, though he was born inside of me, sadly. It could even be the man that I am trying to escape, to realize my full potential as a group of individuals then at least one of us must go. It is my choice to decide how many people I am and I expect applause for my feminine courage, not derision, nor the scrutiny of masculine analysis. 

Who among you has the right to tell me otherwise?

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I hear the train a' comin'

I have nothing to offer today, and even less yesterday. The lack of sleep is destroying me.


We took Rhys and his buddy, Jordan, to a model train station museum. We thought that they would love it but they bored of it quickly, as they could not directly interact.

Lesson learned.


When we first walked in there was a walkway through the museum and then there were the faux landscapes that seemed train-heavy and unnatural. The various members of this museum, the ones that worked directly with the trains - the ones wearing engineer hats and denim overalls - were on platforms with spaces cut out into the landscapes so that they could gain access to the trains and all that surrounded them.

Whomever designed this did so rather poorly, in my estimation. The platform that the working class stood on was about two feet lower in elevation than the platform that the spectators walked on. So, when I first walked in I was given the impression of a strict midget-only hiring policy. The interesting thing about this was that it took me a few minutes to realize their error (or was it mine), because they all seemed unusual in other ways, not just their uniform paucity in height.

 Now, I recognize how evil what I'm saying is, but that has never stopped me before.

So....

These guys were weirdos, useless in the real world and you could quickly tell. They all had that disaffected look of men that never quite launched in life. They retreated into a hobby so as to avoid the pains of rejection. Yet they all seemed quite content to be doing what they were doing. I expected them, at any moment, to mobilize and go on some sort of a quest. They were the type men that refer to their car as their steed.

I wanted to ask Rhys if it seemed novel to him, but knew better than to draw his attention into the perversion that is my normal waking mind.

He was attracted to a spot in the glass where there was a cutout where you could see a bridged ravine in which there was an almost diorama scene of a previous train accident. The cars were all slid down into the slot of the canyon in the position of past chaos. He asked what had happened and I told him there had been an accident. He drew everybody's attention that he could gather to the carnage, explaining that there had been an accident!

He did not want this point of fact to go unnoticed by passers by. Nor I with him. It had become of such great temporary importance that he pointed and explained, over and over, there was an accident....

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The Winner Of My Discontent

Resentment has landed where I suspected it might; difficult to avoid, nearly impossible to escape. It is a whirlpool made of snakes. Nobody, I do not believe, desires it much. It ensnares one as they attempt to afflict another. It teaches lessons about the nature of love, what love means, how it happens, and how it ends. It's as natural as any other emotion, only far more corrosive, as it occupies the empty spaces remaining, filling in the raw heart where better impulses once roamed. It is a weapon used against self, an acid that rises just to prove itself.

This, and this only.

I didn't sleep a single minute last night. Not one. I recited one half of many conversations to myself, again and again. They were not resentful, but rather filled with the fresh remorse of having let some go.

A return to love, of sorts, though of a vastly different shape.

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The first day of the last day of the rest of my life

A little more than a year ago I remember writing a post in which I stated, "I awoke in the darkness and felt free." It had to do with the ending of my relationship. 

What changed? Why the anguish now? I suppose there are a couple reasons.

I awoke today and felt rested, which leaves one being closer to feeling free. Without sleep, all is lost. I feel much better than yesterday. If I can make it to the gym this morning then I'll feel like Rocky ascending the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

Later this morning Rachel and I will go sign our divorce papers. It won't be finalized at that moment, but it will be the act that puts finalization into process. There will be a new custody agreement also. The boy will have two equal parents, at least in terms of custody. It is for the best for the boy. We know this. It is all that can be done once the relationship fails, to try to do what is right for the child. Not so many are lucky enough to accomplish such a thing. I know. I have heard the horror stories. I know that in some ways we are lucky, though it doesn't often feel that way.

The boy and I spent the night together last night. It was the first I had seen him in more than a week. We had a pretty good time. We put on our swimming shorts and tried to take a dip in the pool, but it was still too cold. We stood on the first few steps with our colored noodle floats and laughed about going in deeper, which the boy did, though not entirely.

At one point he exited the pool, dropped his swimming shorts on the pool deck so that he was naked, announced that he had to go potty and squatted as if to create his own exit.... I leapt into action. I explained that we could go home and use the potty there, that it wasn't very far away, which is what we did. Once there, the volume of product the boy produced made me giggle, thinking that it was within a second or two of existing fresh on the communal pool deck.

Kids....

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On Returning

(This post is unrelated to Wire)

It makes no sense. Something's wrong with me. I spent the better part of yesterday coming home from NYC, a long subway ride leading up to a much longer flight and then a bus ride to long term parking and then the hour+ drive home. I get here and go straight to sleep. Three hours later, wide awake.

I only wished to return to the gym this morning, but no... My body is determined to ruin me. 

I slept pretty well in NYC. More than six hours most nights. I get here and I'm restless. It's maddening. As I was falling asleep last night, exhausted from a full day of traveling I even considered setting my alarm, something I never need to do. It's just stupid. It drives me nuts. Truly, it keeps me from sanity. My wits are always just beyond my grasp.

Home again... I will pick the boy up from school today and we'll have some time together. It is what I look forward to most. 

My life is difficult and painful right now. If you've been reading here at all you would know. That same life seems simple and complete when I'm with the boy. It's something that I need to be careful of. CS has warned me of the dangers of single parenting. The child becomes the most important, or perhaps only, thing in your life and you weight the relationship too heavily with your own needs and expectations. I can feel it happening, and worry about it, but am not quite sure what to do.

Travel, I guess. Give myself other things to do for a while until some sense of self returns and replaces the empty sense of heartache and loneliness. Yes, heartache and loneliness, that's what I am feeling right now, alone in the middle of the night there is only the ghost of failed love.

It will pass, of course, but it's a mother-fucker when you awake to it and that is all that there seems to be, without cessation. You stare into it and expect an answer, none arrives. There is just the witless emptiness mocking the witless emptiness within you.

I need a girlfriend, or a cat, or a girlfriend with a single cat. I don't mean a cat that is available. I mean having only one feline, etc. Though I don't feel like flirting much right now. The entire time in NYC I was staring at women, intently, trying to detect if any blood was rushing to my testicles but there was nothing. That's how you know if you like somebody. You can feel it starting in the genitals as a tingling sensation. Tender love, it's how you know.

I just went to check the mail after having been gone a week and the mailbox was packed with letters from debt collectors for the previous resident. It's mostly all I ever get, though a friend from Holland did ask for my address recently so some genuine correspondence might arrive soon. That will be a novelty. I'll need to buy a fountain pen to write him back.

Ah well, certainly people don't come here to explore the misery of another. It will pass. It always does. I'll read some Celine tonight to take my mind off of things.

I was able to catch up with some friends in NYC, thankfully. A family there is relocating to Hong Kong which will give me a reason to take the twelve hour flight from San Francisco. 

Soon, I hope.

I have considered selling all of my stock and traveling for a little while. I don't think that I would regret it very much. I could even take the boy with me on some trips. I like having the imaginary money floating around out there though and would probably miss it when it was gone, watching it rise and fall with the world market. The thought of sitting still and doing nothing, waiting for nothing, exacts its toll on me also.

I just searched for my copy of Waiting for Godot and found it next to Murphy. Perhaps Beckett is a safer bet to read right now, to keep my mind light and airy, free from concerns.

What, oh what, will arrive to haunt me next.

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Was Town

(Preparing for her baby cousin's baptism)

Last day in the city. Then to another city, and then a town, what was to be "Our Town":

I want you to try and remember what it was like to have been very young. And particularly the days when you were first in love; when you were like a person sleepwalking, and you didn't quite see the street you were in, and didn't quite hear everything that was said to you.
You're just a little bit crazy. Will you remember that, please?

I remember that, perhaps most of all.

I also remember feeling silly the first time I referred to San Francisco as "the city." It's not. It is something, and I like it for being that, but it's not The City.

The quotation above is from Thornton Wilder, Our Town. If you have never read it then don't blame Common Core Standards.


This time next year I hope to bring Rhys with me. There's a good chance that he won't remember any of it as he grows up, but few of my friends here have ever been able to get to know him at all. It doesn't seem right. I know most all of their kids.

There is one child here, India, who was a little bit too young for me to connect with the last time that I was here, but this time she and I became good friends. She spent much time showing me the proper way to brush her pet stuffed dog, Pugsley, and then the other one, Spot. I read to her and her brother a bedtime story and they both went right to sleep, a feat that was marveled at by all witnesses. Such is the certainty of my parental prowess.

India is only a few months older than my son, so perhaps they will have a chance to become friends this time next year. I hope so. Watching kids play together creates within the viewer something like youth. There is a sparkle of life contained therein that is magnified even further by participation. Play is hopeful by nature, a commodity increased through regular practice.

At previous points in my life I might have thought that only an idiot could derive pleasure from such things, but I was wrong. Kids are more than just fun, significant lessons can be learned by interacting with them. Most of them know how to live life better than I do, and a few of them even seem better at making decisions. The seven year old boy, Luca, beat me at checkers last night. It is refreshing to interact with a nearly unfiltered mind. It's almost like a drug, if a drug could be so innocent.

Some will not like me saying that, I know. Though the reason I started doing drugs was to gain different experience, to see the world from a different perspective, to feel differently. It was all quite innocent. I think of those days fondly and often.

Sometimes it's important for me to remember that, like the quote above concerning the dizzying illusory spell of first love, the disorienting young stirrings of what might one day become your absolute undoing.

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Comfort food, etc.

What a mess it is, love, particularly at the end, or just thereafter.

I enjoy vacations of course, like anybody, but without exercise I quickly lose my centeredness. I begin to spin. Little things, or perhaps larger things, will cause me a barely manageable anxiety. The humidity in NYC is enough to drive someone mad. Once you acclimate to Northern California then everywhere else feels preposterously humid. It all seems so unnecessary. 

Is Sonoma considered Northern California? I'm not sure. It seems more Central. I have asked this many times and no one seems to care, or know.

I am currently having to deal with things for which I had not prepared myself. I should have readied, but I didn't. When a pattern is that deeply ingrained in your partner then you should not ignore it, but instead learn to rely on it. You can count on it.

I don't mean my partner. That sounds silly, now. We were never really partners, we stalled long before ever achieving anything like equality. 

I often hear believers say things like, "Well, you have to let go and give it to God." This is sound advice whether you believe in a God or not. Unless you let go too much, of course. Then, people will tell you that you've got it all wrong. It's somewhere between what you have control over and what you do not. It's not an idea that holds up very well under scrutiny, or even in application, because it assumes far too much about the relinquisher, which in this case is me.

I worry too much, it causes suffering. There is some relief in letting things go, whenever possible. 

Right now, I feel as if I can't breathe, like the wind has been knocked out of me by a ghost.

It's little things, like hearing your son tell you about the bike ride that he went on with his friend, the daughter of the new guy. You picture them all riding together, as if somebody poured mineral water on them and they became a family. Just like that, your son has a new father figure. He sprang naturally out of the ground in the last few weeks, and that is just the story that you're expected to accept. It's quite convenient, how none of it really matters.

That's the thing that I guess I hadn't prepared for. Nobody's "wrong" in doing what they're doing. Life moves on and kids are quite resilient, or so I am often reminded. Except if it's something I've done, then he might be damaged for good. Too many cookies perhaps causes lifelong devastation, or accidentally saying "fuck" in a sentence.... but a new father is the most wonderful thing in the world for the boy, should cause no confusion whatsoever in his little heart. 

Every child should have at least two of them, maybe more.

I know that, ultimately, the more people in the world that love my son then the better he will be, the greater capacity for love that he will also have. So, that's what you hope for; more love, not less. Even when it stings. I know this to be true and would not ever argue against it, but that doesn't help very much right now. Knowing things doesn't help anything.

In another couple months, when I've regained my breath, I'll start looking around for the boy to have a nice, new, second Mommy.

I wouldn't mind increasing my capacity to love, either. 

For now, I have returned to salmon on a sesame bagel in the mornings. 

Comfort food, etc.

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Like a Bridge Over Double Whatever

Taking days off from work is a glorious feeling, truly. I like my job, but still... it is something that I must do, and an occasional relief from responsibilities should be a requirement also. I will encourage my buddy to go get pork noodles with me from Ippudo today. It is raining, but the restaurant is close and the beer on draft is very cold.

Unsurprisingly, I miss my son. Talking with him on Facetime is not the same. I have been walking around asking myself if I would move back to NYC and the answer comes back a resounding Yes! Though, when I consider what my relationship with the boy might become, strained and difficult to connect, then the plan starts to crumble. Several people have reminded me that I must focus on my happiness first, as it is better for me to be a happy dad than merely a present dad.

It is a lot to think about. Escape is easy to consider when everything you hoped for in life has collapsed around you.

I wish that I would not have written so candidly about the feelings of others towards Rachel yesterday. It serves no purpose. Divorce is difficult. I must remind myself that others would encourage Rachel that she has done the right thing and all of this is the best thing for her, if I were not present in the conversation. It is the way people are. They try to be helpful. In the falling apart they sometimes forget that there is still love for the other person. You care, and to some degree that other person still represents you, as part of the choices you have made about life and that you found them worthy of love for many years, perhaps even years to come, though in a modified capacity, diminished to its purely abstract form.

Renouncing Satan did very little to help me this morning. The forecast says that it will rain all day. Weather is perhaps oblivious to my renunciations. Or, perhaps he is just striking back.


A friend wrote yesterday, prepping me for my Washington trip, reminding me of his wife's Irish-Catholocism. I assured him that I can fit right in. I am not one who would demonstrate the paucity of evidence for the existence of God, not at dinner.

When he and his wife came to visit Rachel and I in NYC we went to Holy Basil (since closed) for dinner and afterwards I demonstrated my belief in the power of spirituality by singing along with Art Garfunkel at the top of my lungs, and at the peak of my register. She found it to be "quirky but cute." Most people I just frighten with my unrelenting enthusiasms.


If you need a friend, I'm sailing right behind. 
Like a bridge over troubled water, I will ease your mind....

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Baptisma

Ugh. I haven't done very much since getting to NYC. It has been nice visiting with friends, but now I'll need to self-motivate. I'm not sure which direction to go. Sunday is a good day for the Moma or The Met. The new Whitney is not yet open and I have never cared for that museum much anyway. I've always felt that they should open a satellite branch in Houston, just for fun. The Whitney Houston.

Last night, I slept responsibly. Somewhere around 3am I was almost talked into going out to a nightclub, but I couldn't do it. It's in Brooklyn and I was within twenty yards of my bed. Now, my friend texts from some after-party, wanting me to come meet him. I just don't have it in me any more. I must be growing up. I had no idea that this is what it would feel like. It is marked by the absence of activity rather than by the replacement of impulses, or behavior.

Last night, as part of a post baptism ceremony party I chatted with a few men that are nearly my age, all likewise with children. We discussed the joys and trials of fatherhood. At least one of them was jealous of my situation with Rachel, already being on the other side of the failed marriage. Over the hump, as it were. The idea of having the boy half of the time seemed very appealing to him. Or rather, having complete freedom half the time was the appealing part. Either way, he recognized the charm in the arrangement. A mother among the group also indicated that she would be happy with having a week on and week off with her kids.

We all sincerely agreed how much we loved our children. I write this with no hint of irony. 

The priest who performed the baptism was there. He encouraged each of us to "Renounce Satan!" which I gladly did, several times. Spitting on the ground with each fresh renunciation of the dark one. I even renounced him again this morning, first thing when I awoke, and thanked Jesus again for his death, which was somehow also a victory over death. It doesn't have to make any sense. The best things in life, like love, usually don't.

I was encouraged by all that I would fall in love again sometime, when the time was right. None of them had any further need to conceal their mistrust of Rachel. The levees had been breached and the floods arrived. Some were not quite as hateful, but the consensus was clear: she is superficial and conniving, a person who used me, one who was never nearly as committed to me as I was to her, purely self-motivated and without any generosity of spirit. I sat and listened to all of this and could see parts of why they feel the way that they do. Some truths only appear in glimpses. I reminded each of them that she is a good mother to our child and that is all that really matters to me at this point. That fact didn't slow them down very much.

It is difficult to hear, while somehow still being an inviting thing, that your ex is not as liked as you and that you were the victim of her, not the other way around as she so often tells the story. At some level you know it to be a truth, yet there is something else mixed in with this feeling, the lingering memory of love and affection, and even trust. It is not so easy to convert that to a schema of purely guileful behavior. Cunning is a component of some people's love. It is best not to overthink it. It is a mechanism that develops out of situational need, and she has had much of that. In some ways divorce was inevitable. 

I tired of hearing about the evil Rachel, and it didn't take all night. One of her more vocal detractors was silenced when she again repeated the claim of Rachel's shallowness and superficiality and I responded, "Hm, I wonder if she ever knew you didn't like her. It never seemed that way to me."  

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It takes a village of penguins

It is all coming back to me, or seems to be. The sound of two taxis honking between themselves in motion. In this, I hear the sound of something like my name. The commotion of the city is oddly comforting. I miss being here much more this time than I did on my last visit. I want to move back.

"The true New Yorker secretly believes that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding." - John Updike

I met up with a couple old friends last night. We wandered the East Village, noting how much things have changed, and what remained. It was a mistake to lose my apartment here. Only two good things have come out of the leap I took: the boy and the job. Perhaps that will prove to be enough. Or, maybe another benefit will emerge. The weather is nice in California, and the surrounding land is beautiful. There is that.

The company I work for has recently opened a New York sales office, in the flatiron district. It is something for me to think about.

Earlier yesterday, I went to the Grand Central Oyster Bar, to meet another friend, an expert in municipal bonds. We sat and chatted about what to do with all of my money. He dissuaded me from municipal bonds, explaining that they're not a very sexy investment. I'll have to take his word for it.

Grand Central was impressive, as always. The subway ride up and back from Union Square was familiar, crowded on a Friday, as always. The people did not seem to bother me, as they might when I lived here. Everything is a recurring novelty, for me.

Today, there will be an infant baptism.  Before that, salmon and cream cheese on a bagel.

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Death, without decay

I keep having a recurring dream. It is about a cat, my cat, that's dying. Last night, in the dream, the other cats turned on him. I had to pull them off. They were going to kill. It was distressing in a way that is difficult to convey in waking words. The cats seem possessed with demonic energy to do my dream cat in. They were making their guttural threats, circling in intent.

It's not as if I'm not already going through enough in my active hours, now my subconscious is turning on me. I awoke restless, in a deeply troubled state.  The image of the frightened cat is etched within me. The mind is its own dark conjurer and sorcerer of self.

There have been too many endings in my life, of late. I must improve the nature of my dreams. Somehow, soon.

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Freedom, from a safe distance

(A view from the top)

Salmon and cream cheese on a sesame bagel again this morning. $15, with large coffee. I don't even like bagels all that much, but that is of no concern when in the place where they are made so well. It makes no sense, like pizza, why can no other city make it right? There are only so many ingredients, but still... There are some things that are ruined for you once you've lived in NYC. It just seems so pathetic elsewhere, done so poorly as to be not just a waste of time, but also an insult merged with the loss.

There has never been such a thing as Chicago pizza. It is something different and they merely used the same name because they lack any flair or hint of originality. 

Perhaps Ippudo for lunch today. The Akamaru or Shiromaru Chashu Ramen and a cold Kirin Ichiban draft. The heavens swim in pork belly broth.

I miss living here. It was a big mistake to move. I suspected as much at the time, but was persuaded anyway. Such is the...

I spoke on video chat with the boy this morning and he and I agreed that next year he would come to NYC with me. The idea both excites and frightens me a little bit. He and I still need to put a few smaller trips under our belts first. This summer I hope to take him camping up the northern coast. I will teach him the joys of tenting, awaking in the wild. 

Dad stuff.

The word still affects me, Dad. I look at it and don't quite equate it to myself. It is always another, older fellow, one now gone.

Perhaps it is because the boy still calls me Daddy, and not the other, Dad. 

There are always things to miss, even in the future.

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