Good-bye

Today was my last day at work. For the last year I've been a Grounds Maintenance worker. In a month I will be a foreigner and a teacher. Until then I am just a bum, but a reflective bum trying to soak up as much of my beloved shire as I can.

I have gained a deep respect for the working man. My dad is a working man. My grandfathers and their fathers were working men. There is something satisfying about going to work everyday and working hard with your hands. If there are jobs in Heaven, I hope to be a gardener. My boss, a squat tough east coaster extended his hand to me this afternoon and wished me well. He appreciated my work and I know that he is a bit sorry to see me leave. You don't know these guys I worked with, they are just normal guys, but I tell you, they come to work every single day, rain or shine. They visit the chiropractors more than some and they smoke cigarettes and talk shit but I've never met such honorable men. And if an employer asks about my experience as a maintenance man, I will say this to him, "Working as a ground maintenance man was not glamorous. I didn't learn any new software. It barely paid the bills, but it did toughen me up. It was a struggle against nature. It was very quite but the trees spoke and the flowers asked for water. And the men I worked with were good hard working men. It taught me more about myself than four years of college."

The Computer

The computer has arguably had the largest impact on human society. In the vast stretches of time that man has roamed and settled the corners of the earth, computers are comparably a new tool, but one that has, unlike any other, drastically aided in the increase of knowledge, communication, and innovation. It shapes nearly all aspects of modern human culture. It’s full impact is yet to be seen but for better or worse, the rapid increase in computer technology that we are seeing in our day is changing the very way in which we as people see ourselves and our place in the universe.

For thousands, if not millions of years, man followed the migrating beasts of the plains as hunters and gatherers. Around ten thousand years ago some of the people stopped following the beasts and did something that man had not done before. Settle. They planted fields of grain, domesticated the wild beasts, they built cities with stone walls. Hunters became farmers and soldiers and merchants. Governments formed to manage the trade of the grain. Life went on like this for nearly ten thousand years and knowledge increased slowly, rising and falling like an incoming tide.

About five hundred years ago something changed--man invented a process of enquiry that became known as the scientific method. With this new approach to the natural world, man’s knowledge increased greatly and produced greater and more powerful tools. Then, just over seventy one years ago, a very sophisticated mass of vacuum tubes became known as the computer, a tool used for calculating. Aided by the computer, man’s knowledge is now exponentially increasing, accelerating faster than it ever has before. Where it took man one hundred thousand years to learn to farm and ten thousand years to become industrious, it has taken but fifty years for him to become a space faring race.

Computers now sit on nearly one billion desk tops around the world. Paired with telecommunications, the computer and the world wide web, allow people from all walks of life to share themselves in community and network in ways that promote connectivity and creativity which in turn spurs innovation. The computer redefines space and time, making the world smaller and move faster. There are some that speculate that computers will themselves become human, that artificial intelligence will emerge, perhaps not a tool but a companion.

It is fascinating to think about where the computer revolution will lead man in the end. Perhaps the world will move to fast for his liking or he may adapt and become something else all together. Man is organic, imperfect--beautifully small in comparison with the cosmos. Man is by nature a poet. As computer technology continues to advance, man will probe deeper into the subatomic world, to the outer limits of space and beyond. The hugeness of our universe, almost impossibly large to comprehend might be made just small enough for a person to put on his desktop next to a vase of flowers and picture of his family.

Mr. Antolini

I've been reading my favorite books again lately. The books are the same, but each time I go to them I am different. I finished one of my favorite books tonight, The Catcher in the Rye. I've read it several times but I was always Holden Caufield. Reading it this time I found that I was able to relate to Holden but for the first time understood Mr. Antolini.

Like Holden, I can see the people running through the rye towards the cliffs all around me. I can relate to him in that. The world is full of phonies. But I never realized the beauty in Holden or that spark in him until now. For all his criticisms, he's just another kid playing near the cliffs. I understand why Mr. Antolini strokes his hair and watches over him as he sleeps. Mr. Antolini is a catcher in the rye!

When Holden is nearly at rock bottom in the living room with Mr. Antolini, smoking cigarettes and drinking cocktails in the dark, Mr. Antolini says something very profound--something that speaks to me. He quotes William Stekel: "The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of a mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one."

That is encouraging. Perhaps the cause can be won in the end with a good attitude, a firm handshake, a hug, getting up everyday and working with a smile, picking up those that stumble.

Leather

My shoelace broke today at work. At lunch I stop at a corner market to buy a new pair. I ask the clerk if she sells shoe laces and she says yeah and directs me down isle three. There they are, and to my surprise there are a variety of styles to choose from. There's a pair of laces for $2.19. Just what I need, but next to them is a pair of hardy leather laces oozing with ruggedness. They're tagged at $4.49. More than double the price. I had the adequate laces in one hand and the manly laces in the other. I pay double for the lumberjack laces as a treat to myself.

I get out to the truck and my partner sees the laces and comments on how hardcore they are. You bet they are. I even say the word extravagant out loud to describe them. I'm really excited, no kidding. I've got one boot tied up real snug and I feel as if I could hike Mt. Rainier--or, get in a knife fight in loose gravel. Beaming, that's what I am. The laces in the other boot aren't broken but I take out my clippers and cut 'em off anyway. I don't even bother untying them. They're weak, old. I start threading the second boot up with the leather straps and my partners watching me, grazing on his sandwich and cheese crackers. I get the lace through the second eye and give a firm tug. The strap, the leather man-lace rips! "You've got to be kidding me!" I scream. My partner laughs at me. He's crying with laughter. I'm crushed. $4.49. Down the toilet.

I head back into the market still with only one boot laced up.

The Two Well Mannered Anarchist

I'm sitting on the front porch browning in the brilliance of the sun. Two young men walk by. Scrunny but cheerful chaps they are. One is wearing a brimmed hat pushed back high on his forehead and in his hands holds a silver trumpet. The other wears thick glasses and carries a great tattered flag over his shoulders. It is a red rectangle above a black rectangle and the two colors are held together with a strip of elctric tape. They stop at the end of the walk way in front of the porch, eyeing Beth's boots that she had put out on the curb.

"Are these free for the taking?" the trumpeter asks?

"They are," I say.

He's happy for the gift and with boots in hand, continues down the street.

"Hey," I call, "What does your flag mean?"

They look back smiling. "Anarchy", they say and turn back away.

I chuckle to myself. Anarchist politely asking if they can hall away a free pair of old boots. They aren't very good anarchist.

Hope and joy in unexpected places

I know quoting texts can be dull but there is much here that I want to share:

"When shall I see a sign that it will ever be otherwise?"

"Turn your face from the green world, and look where all seems barren and cold!" said Gandolf.

Then Aragorn turned, and there was a stony slope behind him running down from the skirts of the snow; and as he looked he was aware that alone there in the waste a growing thing stood. And he climbed to it, and saw that out of the very edge of the snow there sprang a sapling tree no more than three foot high. Already it had put forth young leaves long and shapely, dark above and silver beneath, and upon its slender crown it bore one small cluster of flowers whose white petals shone like the sunlit snow.

--Tolkien, Return of the King

Free Market

eHarmony is being sued for not offering their services to the gay community. This is like someone suing McDonald's for not serving pizza. If a business does not serve your needs then go somewhere that does or start your own business to rival the competition. Come on. This is just common sense people!

A Thousand Words

I invite you over, pour you a drink in a smallish crystal glass with clinking ice cubes, tell you to relax and from out of the back room I come with my slide projector and screen. You roll your eyes and throw back your drink. A little bit of bourbon dribbles off your lip and on to your white shirt. Your in for a long night. Enjoy!

Mt. Baker and the Twin Sisters brooding over our fair city


The Bridge


Innocents!


Frodo-Son


The wonder years.

Subterrianian Death Chamber/Space Interogation Room

If you're like me, you're heart beats just a bit faster each time you open a door. There is always that thrilling chance that on the other side you'll find another world. I've visited such places before, if only in dreams. This evening I opened my microwave and to my astonishment, found myself in a strange and unfamiliar world. It wasn't the golden wheat fields I long for but one can hardly be picky when magic manifests itself behind doors. The history of violence in that brutal den is terrifying. I stood dumb struck, frozen burritos in hand, between two worlds.



Here, flip it upside down and you see what I'm talking about.

Frank Brikowski

There is this hermit woman that lives across the street who in our rowdier days would would scream at us to keep the noise down. She lives in a house made out of siding that looks like fake brick. We started calling her the Fake Brick House Lady. That eventually evolved in to Frank Brikowski. Frank for short. We were at the Co-Op the other day and ran into someone from a different circle that mentioned Frank Brikowski. I wonder how far this has spread:)

The Return of The King

Today was an absolutley wonderful day. My parents came up this morning to go to church with me. I am a major Lord of the Rings nerd right now as I'm reading it again (this is one tradition I started five years ago and want to continue through out my life and pass on to my children: to read The Lord of the Rings every spring). So I was reading them one of my favorite passages when my neigbors came down and saved my parents from my ramblings and whisked us off to church. The first thing I saw when we got into the church was that some in the congragation were waving flags with orange and red and yellow tongues and the choir was singing a Jewish song and there were bongos! It is Pentacost! To see the banners waving and people singing like that just filled me to the brim with overflowing joy! I have been walking on clouds all day. I can't wait for the Return of the King! The flags, the confettii, the laughter and the song. After the service, when we all spilled out onto the stone steps outside, underneath the stain glass, I longed for a trumpet in my hands to blow a mighty note!

Cinco de Mayo en Bellingham, WA, USA

I'm sitting on the porch watching the youth of America stumble down the street shouting profanities. The people on the porch are probably the only sober people within a four block radius. I'm struck by the horror of it, how maybe I'm stuck in one of the modern zombie flicks like 28 Weeks Later. Where are the flags that were waving, the horns that were blowing? Where are the men of renown? The women of honor? Where are the humble, the chaste, the wise?

In the Garden

I've noticed something peculiar about people. They seem to always be incomplete presently, but participating in a program towards completelness. This makes my heart ache. I wish we were all fully realized beings.

Essence

It is getting late but I wanted to jot some things down before turning out the light. I've been thinking about truth and magic in story. I was talking with my brother and made a few discoveries that I can't wait to explore more when I have more time. See, that story I sketched out the other day about Hawaii and the color of my face, I've learned something important about it. My first reaction to the woman's question about the redness of my skin was defensive: she was pointing out an imperfection. But that's just silly. Here is what I think was really going on, the old woman at that breakfast cafe with her over ripe husband and ancient mother, sat in a heavy silence on a bright Sunday morning. Perhaps she sat there and watched me, a young man, talking passionately with my brother, slurping cup after cup of coffee--maybe she saw youth or charisma. Maybe it brought back memories, fantasies. Maybe she saw my red face and smile and thought of somewhere tropical where the sun always shines. And so when she asked me, where I'd been to get such a tan, maybe she wanted a story of adventures at the equator--snorkeling, pirates, coconut bombs, grass skirts. Maybe my answer, though a lie, was exactly what she needed. I'd like to think that I gave her a dream of sand and sun and she went home to cook a spicy dish for her aged husband.

And that is what writing is about. Gifts of visions--this is the essence of fiction. I'm more of a liar than a writer but it is awesome when truth presents itself so clearly.

I've Never Been To Hawaii

I got up from the breakfast table at the cafe and started to make my way to the door when a woman in a window booth caught my attention. She was staring at me with what looked like questioning eyes. "Hello." I said, and waited for her question, searching my memory to a clue as to who this woman was. She was a big woman, a stranger, and she began to speak, slowly..."where have you been?" I looked blankly at her. "Your face, it is so red. Where have you been to get that sunburn?"

I've heard this question many times in my life. I am red. I have sensative skin. What can I say?

"Hawaii."

"Oh fun. How neat, Hawaii."

"It was absolutely beautiful there, mam. If you get a chance you should visit. Enjoy the rest of your breakfast now."

I say to my brother when we get outside, as he is looking at me with a smile, "It's just easier that way."

Dating Game

I recently re-entered the dating scene. It is a loathsome place to be. I want a cabin with a fire place and two cushioned arm chairs side by side. The smell of must mixed with tea and honey--boots caked with mud by the door--by oversized parkas hung on the coat rack. Dating strangers is rather, like being in a factory from the 19th century and the workers have a look of desperation in their eyes.

I don't want to date. I just want to be human and meet other humans. Real humans. Not ones with shinny pointy shoes and earings to bring out the color in their eyes.

I've exited the dating scene. It was a loathsome place to be. I'm on a star ship with my cat and I'm hurtling through the cosmos with a crew of dwarves who shovel coal into the hyper drive while singing old mining songs. I'm a house plant physician who wears a stethoscope and a beeper. I give lolipops to saplings when they've been brave. I am a walker who has journeyed to the edge of the world and tossed pennies into the abyss for luck. I tend bar at a club shaped like a raindrop off a parkway made of cobblestone. It is a watering hole for telepaths. The jazz band is made up of one guy who wears a thin black-waxed mustache. He sits at a round table against a curved red wall and folds paper into nouns.

Caution, Work Crew up Ahead

Driving the work truck down a country road with ditches on both sides and beyond, fields of tall green grass, wet with the mists of spring, I'm deep in conversation with my partner, Yonk. I tell him about a movie I rented the night before called "The Holiday". "Maybe you've seen it. It's a chick flick," I tell him. "One of those emotional porno movies that women watch with their girlfriends while passing a quart of chunky monkey ice cream. It wasn't the feminine flavor of the film that struck me, that is why I rented it. I want to study romance stories. What stuck out," I say while gesturing with my hands--the truck swerving over the divider line--"is how the movie writers created characters that were movie writers. Hollywood is stuck in Hollywood. I mean there were palm trees and beautiful people and lavish mansions and Mexican house keepers, and..."

Yonk removes the lid from his thermos and takes a sip of steaming gas station coffee. "Authors don't speak for us," I say. "They write stories about powerful attorneys in powerful suits who manipulate the world from their offices atop skyscrapers and the young idealistic intern, a lone wolf, who fights back with guns and cell phones. Or, there is the story of the poor, the impoverished victims of society who overcome their troubled past, their sexual abuse, drug abuse, gambling addictions. But who is writing our story?" Another gas station is coming up on the right, a breakfast stop for construction workers. Everything they sell there is fried, sugary, or caffeinated. We pull in to use the bathroom before getting to the work site. Inside, I break down and buy a coffee and maple bar.

I turn on the windshield wipers after starting the truck. I move my lunchbox and thermos making room for my breakfast. Yonk caved in too. He bought a sausage muffin with cheese. I pull out onto the highway behind a port-a-potty truck. "So? Who is writing our story? What is our story? What does it look like?"

He thinks about it for a minute, a long minute, breathing out of his mouth, steam coming out it as he chews on his fried sausage sandwich. Finally, "We're in a comedy," he says. I laugh. "Really," he says. "Remember that movie with Emilio Estevez and that other dude? They are garbage men and they get into all these comical situations. That's us."

"Your right! Our lives our comical."

"Yeah they are. I don't mind being in a comedy. It's better than a drama."

We're still driving, only slower now because we've come to a work zone and a flagger is standing in the road holding a sign that reads, SLOW. She's smoking a cigarette. We sit silently--the truck wipers squeaking a bit as they rub abrasively against the thin mist. I break the silence, "Yeah man, but I mean our lives are more meaningful than that, right?"

"Well, I'll put it this way, there isn't much for drama. If a Hollywood producer bought our story he'd have to spice it up quite a bit. There'd have to be a love interest first of all. Probably one of the chicks at our work site. A really cute girl in need of a make over. She'd probably have an abusive boy friend and a drug addiction. The greedy governor would condemn her building to put in a race track and her boyfriend would be selling drugs to the Gov's daughter, maybe even boinking her. We'd come on the scene in our landscaping truck most likely packin' heat, maybe a rocket launcher mixed in with the rakes and shovels. There'd be a lot of explosions and one of us would rescue the girl and the other would choke the Governor out and put the fear of God into him with our hedge trimmer. Something like that. This job just isn't exciting enough, man."

"Your probably right. None the less, we have a story without the guns. I wake up everyday to the sound of my alarm clock. It rips me out of dreams. It's friggin' traumatic, man. I pull on my trousers, brush my teeth, and come here to work. This is noble. It might be invisible, but it's noble, right? I mean this is epic. We are the working poor. We are America. We have a story!"

He laughs. We pull into the job site. We inspect it out loud: the grass has grown quite tall in a week. The side walk edges are furry, the Fontainea hedges need to be trimmed. "Alarm clocks don't sell movies," he says. "We tell stories about men in castles and princesses that need saving. We're living out a comedy, man."

A Religious Experience

Seeing a large gathering of people in town square, I changed my direction, to curious to pass them by. I walked down the stairs of the amphitheater, past children coloring with crayons, pictures of the sun and the moon, of forests filled with birds. They looked content if not a little bored. In front of me, at the bottom of the bleachers under a pavilion erected on the theater stage, a man spoke into a microphone. I spied a seat at the foot of a comfortable boulder and leaned my back into it. I tripped on the people around me. They were organic people. No hairspray, make up, deodorant...no style of any sort. They looked like bark and they sat solemnly listening to the speaker talk about alternative fuels and energy efficient light bulbs. They seemed very familiar with the message, and as I listened, I didn't find it to be news to me either but they waved their flags and proclaimed their "hallelujahs" just the same. Their flags were blue with a circle in the middle. The circle was a picture of the earth. The man on stage told them what they had to do: buy local, buy organic, buy green energy, buy buy buy...

When the man was done speaking he exited the stage and a band came up and played a song with banjos and eight stringed guitars. The song, they said was written by a street person in Seattle, a prophet, I gathered. "When the sun comes out, it comes out for everyone. When the rain starts to fall, it falls on everyone." The audience was encouraged to participate and they did, some sang, some clapped, some looked skyward.

I got up to walk around. I passed signs that proclaimed things about war and oil, about carbon emissions and global warming. I looked for the signs that said, the end is near, but I didn't find one. College kids passed out literature concerning politics and the environment. They wore bandannas and hemp necklaces but no shoes. The uniform of sorts for a young devout mission ministry.

I know what this is, I thought. This is church. And it was. They all seemed caught up in the excitement of it all, but all a little desperate too...working, working, working to usher in the Kingdom.

Contentedness in Story

I've mentioned an idea here once before that I'd like to revisit and it involves story and contentedness and beauty. How does one write beauty? The struggles in life are the building blocks of narrative; rising conflict resolved in the end. Conflict is present in all good stories. I've been many characters here at Adventscribing, Ramandu, Black robe, the male house keeper, a dragon slayer, all pieces of me, projections of strength in difficult times. But who am I in pleasant times, in quite times? When I surrender and let God fight my battles? I am a whistler, a child of God, at peace.

Reading a bit from the Hobbit, I discovered that Tolkien touched on this idea as well. The dwarves and Mr. Bilbo set out for the treasure under the mountain and are confronted at once with difficulties, first losing a pony and the food he carried then when captured by the trolls, are nearly eaten for dinner. After all these adventures they finally make it to Rivendale where they eat, sing, and rest--simple pleasures. A span of weeks lodged in the elven city is captured in one paragraph. No struggle, no conflict, but merriment and peace--one paragraph. And the story would end there at happily ever after if it weren't for the long perilous road ahead of them.

I wonder, those people that tell their long stories of adventure, are they're hearts filled with conflict? Are they restless? I've spent nearly four years writing as Ramandu, sword fighting the beasts of youth: college, minimum wage, failed loves, challenging ideas. And I've finally come to the end of this road, to a place like Rivendale except real, full of peace and joy. I wish you were here with me. And while here I have nothing to write because I've been called to rest, for now at least. And so I fill up my pipe, pack a lunch, and meander up the hill where I lay in the grass and puff.

Honesty

There was this dog I admired today at the park. I don't know much about dog breeds but he was a short bronze colored brute with a very thick neck. He had a build that would lend well to guarding a scrap yard. He was wearing a leash and connected to that was his owner, a bipedal. Near the shore many people were gathered, smiling and nodding at each other while their dogs sniffed each others back ends. As the big muscular dog, I'll call him Brutus, spied the action down by the water he could barely contain himself. His tail started wagging like a maniac and he was choking himself as he tried to pull away from his master and go play with his kin. This big mean lookin dog was just a softy.

It got me thinking about humans. I think about this quite a bit, I'll admit, about what kind of pets humans would make to aliens that might take over the planet. Humans rarely let others see the kind of excitement that Brutus showed and when one does (get overly excited) they are considered weird or eccentric. I guess I admire that kind of naked lovingness that dogs have. Most of them aren't trying to be cool, or seem more intelligent or interesting then they really are. They sniff a butt and that is conversation enough. Then they are great friends. Humans are so intelligent that they are foolish, I think. I would be embarrassed of my species if we were domesticated by aliens and when taken to the park on leashes, refused to have any fun choosing instead to show off or exclude some because they weren't the right color or sort. What kind of pets would we be if when we showed up at the park, instead of playing with our fellow man for the delight of our alien masters, we just sat in a glum circle asking each other about our days at work?

Spring

I'm outside before bed. It's late and I can't sleep. I'm wearing my pajamas with the banana peel print and a t-shirt. The breeze is warm and for the first time in a long time I don't feel cold.

I look up at the sky, the white clouds are moving slowly against the black of space. The stars appear then disappear, reappear. There are frogs out tonight. What a miricle: my ears! I notice also I'm under the flowering plum tree he's pink and sweet, exploding with life. It's late. Where is all this color coming from? It's spring, it finally came and I smile in this realization. The stars, the clouds, the plum blossoms. It is too much. I want to share it with someone. I'm alone under the sky and want to share this moment.

Maybe I'll stand here forever--my joints getting stiff and creaky and my skin rough like bark. My arms will rise to the heavens and my arm hair, all ready standing up, will grow and stretch and burst at the end in flowers.

The clouds speed up, the stars streak across the sky. The sun rises and falls, the moon chases...waxing, waning. Seasons of earth...Seasons of the sun. All creation alive, pulsating, praising God. I'm lost in sky. I'm not alone.

What is it to be born again, you've asked? Look, look, it is all around you! In the trees and the moon. Spring is here at last!

Cyberdelic

How did he arrive at this point in life. The dark circles under his eyes were visual symbols for the depravity in his heart, the dull black poison of addiction. He sat in the corner arm chair, the stubble on his cheeks growing ever so slowly. He'd been sitting there for weeks. "Pass it here, man. Come on bro, I need a hit. Duuude."

His buddy, no buddy at all, giggled sickly and sunk into the greasy couch. "The walls are moving, man. They're moving." The buddy passed his laptop to the whiskered guy in the corner chair.

He stared at the computer screen inhaling the light deep into his eyes. "Woah man,the walls are moving."

My Cup Runith Over

It was sixty five degrees as I walked through the city at night. Pausing at the water falls, I leaned against the rails and watched the moon shadows dance against the cement overpass. Oh, to fall in love with the Creator of the universe on a warm spring night! Yesterday was a gift to us that have endured a perpetual winter sog. (10 points for the creation of a new word!)

On a different subject, I look at my education mostly as an opportunity for personal growth, an experience I am blessed to have had. But it is also an investment. And just as stocks can fluctuate based on consumer reports and media attention, let me say that my stock just went way up! For those employers out there that may be reading this, hire me; it will soon be trendy to have English majors discussing theory and criticism around the office water cooler.

Perception

Went out to a buffet restaurant for dinner tonight with a friend. We have known each other for ten years this month so it was kind of like an anniversary celebration. He and I met at a buffet. We were sixteen year old bus boys. Now we meet up at a buffet every couple weeks. We eat three plates of food starting with salad and going on to meat, potatoes, shrimp and finally, icecream. After the eating we walk out to the parking lot holding our guts and breathing strenously through our mouths, and after chit-chating by our cars, say good bye. We speed away.

Those coming of age years were spent inside a buffet restaurant! We were socialized in a glutton hut--grew up there. Went on dates with coffee server girls who wore pleated lap aprons and floral print skirts. Collected paychecks and then blew them on car wax and fast food. Were promoted from bus boys to dishwashers, cooks to managers.

And I wonder how I would perceive life if I were socialized somewhere else, like the Gap or a malt shop--where there weren't four hundred pound guest reeking of sweat and farts demanding more roast beef.

What MTV could be

Where I'd like to go for vacation

The Sun

Boulavard Park at sunset. Dark purple clouds. The Sun, blinding, falling, obliterating the west. And people. People are watching the sun. A girl sits Indian style on a park bench smoking a cigarette, watching the sun. Couples leisurely stroll, arm and arm down the board walk, squinting watching the the sun. An old man with fishing lures glued to his hat, a photographer, a gang of teenage fashion bugs, all, watching the sun. I, bundled up in my pea coat, smoke coming from my fingers, am enthralled by the sun.

An older gentleman, walking past me, stops, looks at me, gestures at the sun, "There is hope after all, the sun is shinning." He's smiling

I'm walking back to my car and pass a young girl with curly hair. She is in her car. I notice her eyes: blue, translucent, deep, teary, her pupils black specks. Sun light is filling her eyes and spilling down her cheeks.

Eyes. Eyes and the sun, at the park.

Happy Valentines Day!

My brother is the best guy I know. I sure do love him.

He's a nice guy, an innocent guy. Treats women like gold and so far they've stomped on him. He's kind of seeing this girl lately. I ask him what he's doing for Valentines day. He looks at me blankly. "Dude you better do something!" I say. "I'm telling you as your older brother, make a card, something." He agrees.

An hour later he comes out of his room with this card he's been making, a painting of a woman on the ground with a chest full of arrows, bloodied, and cupid flitting in the air with an empty quiver. It is precious. A thing of genius. Should be hung in the Guggenheim. And I know right then, he's going to get his heart trampled again.

"No, no, this won't do. You need flowers. You need canned mushrooms and a hallmark card with a 19th century love poem printed in an exaggerated feminine flowing script font. You have to take her in your arms and pretend that your an old time movie star. Give her all those fantasies she was raised on as a girl. Be an asshole, be an intellectual assf@#*, but don't be nice, don't be innocent! Get a cheap hotel room and bring a video camera. That is what women want."

He looks worried. "But Jaleena is a nice girl."

"Well now there is a question for philosophical inquiry," I say. "How can you be certain of anything? Everyone projects niceness at first but underneath, aren't we all seething pools of lusts, desires, and lies?" I smile, "Don't listen to your bro, I'm just kidding around. Just be honest."

I love my bro. He is a nice guy. He is going to get destroyed.

Hag Betty at the Video Store

I am at the video store, strolling the aisle, already with two videos in my hand. There is this shrill valley girl voice booming from the middle of the store. I move in that direction to investigate. A girl about twenty, wearing make up, a college logo hoodie, and tight stylish jeans is scolding her boyfriend. "What would make you think that, Jimmy? Why would you say that. Why would he wear a black trench coat? Do you know?"

Jimmy looked dumb founded, pawing at the girl with pleading eyes.

"You don't know, do you. That was so offensive. Your so judgemental. Oh my God, a black trench coat. Your so judgemental!"

With calculation, she walked off. He followed her, grasping at her hands.

I'm looking at Jimmy, sending him psychic vibes, "get out Jimmy. For the love of God, get out while you can.

Drifting Away on Chuckanut Drive at Sun Set

I finished a great book a couple of days ago called A Heart Breaking Work of Staggering Genious. It was kind of a sad book about a self absorbed kid coming of age. The major theme was death. I just loved the pace of the book though.

So today I went to Barnes and Noble to find a new book. I went to the fiction section hopeing to find an exciting novel by someone young that would have the same pace and edge that AHBWSG had but with a bit more cheer.

I realize that I'd have to read every book in the book store and probably all the ones that don't even make it to the book store for what I am about to say to be true. But I haven't and I'm gonna speculate anyway. See, it seems to me that most of the literature and art that makes it to market these days all have similar themes, mostly of death and sex and race and, well, overcoming adversity through diverstity.

I took a senior writing seminar in college. The theme was "death and sex". That is what we spent nine weeks writing about and discussing. Death and sex.

What about life and love?

Long internal story short, I went to the fantasy section and found a couple good books about faerie land.

So I am driving home up Chuckanut drive and the sun is out and I am digging everything about the landscape and the light and Drift Away by Dobie Gray comes on the radio. This is what I'm talking about Dobie! I roll down the window and sing as loud as I can, drumming the steering wheel. Keep your self conscious modern art which highlights what is wrong with the world instead of what is right. Give me some of that old time rock and roll...speak to my soul!

Drift Away
DOBIE GRAY

Day after day I'm more confused
So I look for the light in the pouring rain
You know that's a game that I hate to lose
I'm feelin' the strain, ain't it a shame

Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away
Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away

Beginning to think that I'm wastin' time
I don't understand the things I do
The world outside looks so unkind
I'm countin' on you to carry me through

And when my mind is free
You know a melody can move me
And when I'm feelin' blue
The guitar's comin' through to soothe me
Thanks for the joy that you've given me
I want you to know I believe in your song
Rhythm and rhyme and harmony
You help me along makin' me strong

The People on the Porch

I get out of the car with a bag of McDonald's in my hand. I see people on the porch. They look dim, almost green under the porch lamp. I clutch my bag of McDondald's with a clear resolve, to get inside, to devour my tasteless, oh so greasy quarter pounders. This is my secret, my guilty little secret. Junk food. And I know, I just know that they will say something negative about McDonald's, about multi-national corporations, my support of western capitalism. Greed, they'll say. Death and greed...and deforestation. I just want to eat, no inhale, my junk food in peace. This is my reward. I deserve this. I work.

I get up on the porch. They start singing happy birthday. I grin bashfully. Aw, thanks, I say. I say hello and thanks. They smile, give me a gift even--a book about Narnia.

"What's that in your hand?" Here it comes, yep, I knew it. "Is that McDonald's?"

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"You want to see your next birthday?"

"..."

"You won't if you keep eating that stuff!" After watching Super Size Me, they are convinced that french fries can't be digested, that they just sit there in your bowls leaking saturated fat directly into the blood stream.

"You son of a beep," I say, beeping out the bitch part, laughing, "you have to have a cause, don't you."

I make my way into the lobby, to my front door. Freedom. I hear thier voices receding, talking about, sure enough, the rain forests.

Generation Y

We're all of us sitting in the hot tub, skin wrinkled, pruned. Conversation hasn't stopped for three hours which amazes me, how being submerged in hot water together can inspire this much talking in people who talk to each other everyday. Are we saying anything new? A new girl shows up, a friend of a friend, wearing a cast on her right arm from her fingers to her shoulder. She gets in, hanging her arm over the edge.

Beth, having had a bit to much wine, says something that scares me if only because I have thought it before, that our house, is like a sitcom and we are the main characters. We laugh. A familiar group laugh. A laugh track.

This is the last season. We are all moving away next year. The show isn't exciting anymore. We've tackled all the cliche struggles of youth. The drugs, the breakups, the political activism, demonstrating in the streets, discovering our sexuality. We are getting to old. The ratings are down. I imagine getting the script for the series finale. The apartment will be empty. No furniture. White patches on the walls where the pictures used to be. And at the very end, I'll be the last one out, I'll pause before hitting the light switch. I'll turn around, look at the emptiness. It will be real serious. No laugh track. No music. And then I'll turn back around and step through the door, locking it behind me.

I look up, through the steam at the new girl. Why is she new? She's just a person. But maybe she's like the ensigns on Star Trek, who die at the end on the away mission to the planet. I've met countless characters like her over the years but they don't last long. Whether a minor character down at the Reagal Beagle (from Three's company) or a love interest that lasts two seasons, they've all been written off the show. Just us main characters left. In a hot tub. Job promotions, marriages, inheritance money, sick uncles, just waiting to call us away, out that door, our series canceled.

Improvisation

The old men at work call me The Writer. They call my partner Improve because he is a improve actor on the weekends. The temp, who proudly refers to himself as The Reverend, they call Meatloaf.

Building ideas with other people in conversation is what I crave. When they say yes, and in addition..., instead of, yeah, yep, uh huh.

I haven't fully gotten over eating frozen Lasagna for Christmas dinner. A man on the radio last night added something substantial to my sullen feeling. He said that intention has a physical impact on food. That every culture, religious or secular, has a ritual, they bless their meal, say a prayer, give a toast. Mom's chicken soup heals the heart unlike a can of Campbell’s soup. It's true. There is much joy at a potluck but a lot less at the China Buffet.

My friend yesterday, greeted me on the porch after work. Have a beer, some pizza. I told her about the soup thing and she said, yes and in addition have you read Like Water for Chocolate? I have. Remember in that book, the main character is in love with the man who is to marry her sister, and she has to bake the wedding cake and she cries the whole time and her tears mix with the batter? When the cake is served at the reception it brings violent sadness upon the whole party.

Yes! Thank you.

For some inexplicable reason my brother and I are very poor. I made a meat loaf the other night, when the poverty situation called for creativity not utter starvation. I found a bag of freezer-burned hamburger patties in the freezer and a bottle of ketchup in the fridge. I microwaved the patties to thaw them out and kneaded the whole lump in an attempt to create ground beef. It didn't work like I dreamed but I baked it non the less, with ketchup on top. How would that meal effect a wedding party?

I reminisced with my brother the other night, "A year ago I was living the fat life of a college student. Long walks on the beach in the middle of the day, my only job writing fanciful stories to share with my classmates, a beautiful girlfriend, financial aide!." He said, "Yeah, yep, dude, I have been poor and single for four years! Curse this city!" We laughed...actually...we were eating that meatloaf.

Like Sand Through the Hour Glass...

Soul, Man

Most of the time I feel that language is a feeble way of expressing anything meaningful. To fully express one moment of feeling I would have to write a volume of poetry bound in a book to heavy to lift, construct a strand of DNA as wide as the galaxy and as complex as a rainforest and all the creatures there in. Or perhaps it is best to maximize the economy of language. Efficiency. Concision. Minimalism. A haiku that encapsulates the universe.

E=MC2

Today at work, my workmates and I were subjected to this thing that I can't begin to explain. It seemed wrong on so many levels. It would be better to just leave it alone, print out a resume on thick pulpy paper filled with catch phrases like "team builder", strut down to Seattle wearing kakis from Banana Republic, hand the resume to a cute receptionist behind a large glass desk, smile big--get a new job. Play softball on the weekends with my professional co-workers. But I can't leave it alone. It can't be written about or run away from, only widdled at from the edges with a pen.

A position for "Project Manager" came up in the agency I work for. Today, like I began to say, my workmates and I attended a company wide new age interview. Six applicants sat before our entire company at the front of a conference room we reserved at the public library. These six people nervously and almost with shame told of their heroic pasts and brilliant accomplishments. Self shaped commodities, they packaged themselves for our consumption. There was even a banquet table offering little palm size chicken salad sandwiches and platters of soft chewy cookies. There's nothing wrong with free food and I am not even going to say this subversive job interviewing technique was wrong but it defiantly lacked harmony--soul.

When I got back to the shop at the end of the day my coworkers, all good working men in their mid fifties, had a good deal to say about the whole episode. Most of it involved laughter and pity for the poor saps paraded in front of us as we ate our sandwiches, like popcorn at the cinema.

I'm trying to figure out a proper analogy for the forces I see at work here. It might be something like this. My job has a function. Everyone else's job in my company has a function. We all satisfy a need in the agency. We are support beams in a structure. The agency is the structure. Other agencies might be shaped like a symphony hall or a palace or even the Jimmy Hendrix Museum but ours, as far as I can tell, like most government agencies, is bloated and boring. A box structure made out of aluminum siding. But this new age interview was an attempt to cover up the aluminum siding with a facade. A Lattice covered with climbing flowering vines. The disharmony I felt in the room was that shadowy creature of superficiality, the world of appearance, of catch phrases.Like I said, I can only widdle away from the edges.

Driving home from work, passing by the harbor, the paper mill and the refineries, past all those tin warehouses, I felt like I was moving through a Pink Floyd album cover. Wish you Were Here. Animals. I was driving through Detroit in the 70's. The sun was setting creating blue shadows next to orange patches of light. I felt a hope swell in my heart under my dirty work clothes and stocking cap as this song played on the radio: “Come on people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together try to love one another right now.”

I pulled off the road, got out of the car with my camera and pointed it towards harmony.

Mistaken Identity

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss," he said, "I've mistaken you for someone else."

Porchin'

I go out onto the porch for a smoke before bed. I'm wearing my pajama bottoms and a pea coat. It is cold and foggy out--silent. Across the street on the adjacent porch a kid with dreadlocks is talking on the phone. I listen to his conversation though I'm pretending not to. He is almost gleeful, talking about nostalgia and hope. His tone is somewhere between a laugh and a song. He is talking about love and peace. I smile, not pretending not to listen anymore. He mentions the fog to the person in the phone. My smile widens. It's a nice night out. I am gonna go to bed.

Coming Back to Life

What a beautiful morning! Thought I'd share some pictures I took of the fog over Lake Whatcom and this David Gilmore song.





Where were you when I was burned and broken
While the days slipped by from my window watching
Where were you when I was hurt and I was helpless
Because the things you say and the things you do surround me
While you were hanging yourself on someone else's words
Dying to believe in what you heard
I was staring straight into the shining sun

Lost in thought and lost in time
While the seeds of life and the seeds of change were planted
Outside the rain fell dark and slow
While I pondered on this dangerous but irresistible pastime
I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the moment had arrived
For killing the past and coming back to life

I took a heavenly ride through our silence
I knew the waiting had begun
And headed straight . . . into the shining sun

Dr. Matt

There is this term I have heard thrown around: serial monogamy. I guess the term applies to all those people getting in short long-term relationships, playing like a postmodern blend of Ward and June Cleaver and Dillon and Brenda from 90210, and then breaking it off when the real work of a relationship begins, moving on to the next partner and the next and the next. This goes on and on perhaps ending happily when one finally grows up, or, like all those grey bearded men you see walking their dogs down by the docks by themselves, in failure.

I can't tell you how many of the people I know will introduce their new boyfriend or girlfriend to me at a pub table and then moments later make these "cute" little jokes about their sex life. "But wait a minute, weren't you just with ______?" And so no one ever gets attached, no one ever really commits or works or plans, it is just this free flowing "post-modern" nightmare.

A guy I work with, a self proclaimed pagan high priest--a very cool guy--told me that he wants his women to be with other men, to experience and draw energy from others because then he gets to experience in a way, all this love and energy from all of her partners. Ah, no thank you. It is one thing to say something profound like that but completely different when implemented in the real world. See I think people are leaving bits of themselves scattered all over the place until gradually they thin out into shadow. I'm aching to live in a more traditional time.

Six

This just in, six from Battlestar Galactica is in this month's playboy.

Flattened Pennies

There has been some contention about these tracks, about where exactly they lead. I have walked them a good length. There were a number of human and natural dramas to be seen. A family of nudist picnicking. Hobos cooking dinners in tins over a fire. Seagulls cracking shells on the steel.

But the really interesting section of track is where it meets the edge of the world and curls out, into the heavens. You know you're approaching the end of the line when the rose colored fog carrying a smell of lavender and sea salt rolls in off the ocean. The tracks wind into a wood with moss for carpet, vacuumed twice a day by Sonia, a glowing Mexican housekeeper. There are bearded fairies there who roll the rails out like bread and get off work at dinner time. I've seen them walking home, covered in dough, eastward into the foothills, each one carrying a flower home to his wife. Squirrels carry umbrellas through the paths in the branches hanging over the tracks. They love to talk about the weather but not the actual weather, that moving living art piece in the sky that pervades our every experience, but the weather reports. And then there are the Mermaids who giggle, flopping away from the tracks, back to the water to watch and wait for the trains to come and flatten their pennies.

Blossoming

There is so much on my heart, I feel that years and years of heartache and joy can flow out of me, bleed out uncontrollably until I am left dry and cold. But part of me dares not go there, chooses instead to smile, to not take things so seriously; there is a sense of humor built into the cosmos.

I went to church this morning, something I have not done in a very long time. I went to church by myself this morning, something I have never done. I hit the snooze button on my alarm for an hour and almost talked myself into not going at all. "Just get up and get a shower to start," I told myself. And so I got out of the shower and almost put on my robe. "Get dressed, and see what happens from there." And so I was dressed and the next step was getting in my car. I almost convinced myself to just take a Sunday morning drive. "Just drive in the direction of church, you don't have to get out of the car." And so I found myself circling the church--a beard half grown on my face, circles under my eyes, smoking cigarettes. I saw people filtering into the church, all very wholesome looking, families with great cheerful smiles greeting the ushers on the front steps. And so I drove around the block some more, feeling almost to defiled to enter the house of the Lord. But I just had to commune with God, had to be with others communing with God. And I forced myself to park and then to walk to the front door, and then finally to sit down. Here I am. I don't know why I am here but here I am.

This woman spoke during the service, said 2006 had been a nightmare, that she had been reading from the book of Job but had recently started reading from the Song of Songs. She read chapter 2 verse 10:

10 My lover spoke and said to me,
"Arise, my darling,
my beautiful one, and come with me.

11 See! The winter is past;
the rains are over and gone.

12 Flowers appear on the earth;
the season of singing has come,
the cooing of doves
is heard in our land.

13 The fig tree forms its early fruit;
the blossoming vines spread their fragrance.
Arise, come, my darling;
my beautiful one, come with me."

Oh man, I have to say, I almost cried. That Jesus would think of me as his darling, that he wants me to come with him, ragged and bearded as I am...!

And then last night I read this man, Ravi Zacharias who I wanted to share with you. He can say more eloquently than I, the hope I have for the world. He also wrote this great essay about the dying art of thinking.

The season of singing has come! Everyday truly is an adventure, even if it means just taking one step at a time, out of bed to who knows where. Peace.

Photoscribing

Here are some pictures of my day. It started out early, at sunrise, with a cup of hot coffee.



I then made a twenty egg omlette and traded eggs for bacon with the neighbors upstairs. We basked in the sun and ate a huge breakfast. This is my kitchen after cooking. What a mess!



Here is the omlette cooking in the frying pan. I have this habbit of cooking enough food for an army. I guess that is because one of my favorite things to do is share meals with other people.



I then went for a walk up Sehome hill. It was such a beautiful, quite day. A much needed break from the rain. I read from Psalms at the top of the hill. This picture here is of a cross roads. It made me think of Frodo and Sam from The Lord of the Rings.
After all of that walking I cleaned up that messy kitchen and had more coffee on the porch. I went for a walk this evening and watched the sun set at the park. All in all a great sunshining day.

Running

I'm running through the jungle, my long beard unfurling behind me. I'm red and naked and I am running. In the jungle. A tribe of natives dance around a fire and burn incense. They have painted naked bodies covered in ash. I pass them at a tremendous speed. Also, there are bongo drums there. There are bongo drums in my head. Throbbing. I am running through the jungle, not away from something but towards something. A great big hippy love revolution--minus the hippies. Freedom. Paradise restored. I am running to the garden of Eden. My heart throbs. Everything throbs. Hey--ha. Hey-ha. Drums. Smoke. Light up ahead. Hey--ha. I am running through a jungle red and naked towards something big.

"Oh man. What happened to my music (Shpongle)? Battery dead?" I look at my iPod. "Yep batteries dead." I slow down my pace.

I am jogging on a treadmill. My whiskers itch. I'm in sweatpants at the YMCA, jogging, like a hamster in his wheel. In a cage. A group of people resolute on losing weight for the new year are walking like hamsters all around me. I hear a dull hum of machinery in motion. I look out the window in front of me and see the evening commute four stories below. I'm jogging on a conveyer belt and my iPod is out of juice.

"F#@! the music." I push the up arrow on the treadmill and build speed. 7 point eight. Point nine. Eight point one. Two. Three. I am running. I am running towards something big. Eight point four. Point five. I am running through a jungle. There are bongos. I am running through a jungle and there is a light up ahead. Hey--ha! Towards something big.

Aqua

After months, or maybe it's been years now, of floating through the cold depths of interstellar space alone, Dobbs has by some inexplicable miracle been drawn, that is how it feels to him, to this planet. For some time he had heard the faint song of a siren beckoning to him, to his ship, haunting the silence of his cabin. The voice, at first thought only imagined, had become more and more distinct until it was quite unmistakable that it was actually real, emanating from a tiny speck gradually growing to an all encompassing force beneath his ship. Gravity, to feel it again...he could understand how man had once deified the natural forces.

And if I were to paint a picture of Dobbs and his encounter with the siren I'd compose it so that a weary man stands in the foreground, cold--half mad. His right hand rests on a console made of silver steel, and buttons, like the tips of crayons, blink--talking to a man distracted. With his left hand Dobbs is pushing the frozen metal door outward to the world beyond. And what lays out there, painted in sharp contrast to the cool blues, grays and shadows in the foreground, is a field of green, red, and yellow brush strokes sighing in the breeze. A wooded meadow. In summer. With sky. And grass. And smells that bring tears to the eyes I'd paint for Dobbs. And in the white speckled glen, a woman dancing in slow motion in an airy white dress beckons the vagrant Dobbs. Come.

Inspiration and community

Some one just made my night and I feel so good right now. My audience has dwendle here on blogger and I hope to remedy that by posting more. It is my new goal to post at least one meaningful thing a day. I have many new goals of late. But over on blog ladder there is a real sense of community as we read and write and share our thoughts. Well I posted the White Fields post from yesterday over on blog ladder and got this wonderfully unexpected reply from my blogging friend, Grego. He played along with me perfectly. He writes:

But as he falls far behind the chariot, his breath becomes more labored as it frosts from the frigid cold. He is pumping his arms and legs harder and harder, but the snow relentlessly deepens and slows him down, pulls him down. As his face sinks into the rising snow, the light begins. Slowly, in the far corner of his eye, the pinpoint of light expands and he is riveted by the sight. Is this what heaven is? Then, the smell approaches; the wonderful smell of the scent that reminds him of pleasures past, the hint of a smile forms on his blue lips, his chattering teeth begin to slow as his smiling face begins to glow. This must be heaven! The cold recedes as warmth suffuses his body, the snow turns into brilliant crystals of light until his senses are filled with the moment. He suddenly realizes that she is there! She is next to him now, holding him in a tight embrace. The candle she lit in the dark room shines brightly upon them.

She is his heaven!

and I respond:

Yes! bnonman, that is beautiful! and I'm smiling ear to ear because of your wonderful words. thank you so very much for that!

and he says:

Couldn't have done it without your great starting point - you inspired me and gave me the story, the mind picture, the images I needed. I have never before written anything even approaching that type of prose.

How great to inspire! and what a fun game! Thanks Grego.

White Fields

He’s startled from sleep. The sound of galloping horses recede away from him and when he looks to the sound he sees a fading after image of red and shadow, a dark rider upon a chariot retreating over white fields. He rolls over to see his beloved sleeping heavily. He tries to stir her but she will not wake. A spell has been put on her. He is quite calm. As calm as the falling snow which is falling all around them, on her hair, in the bed, on his eye lashes. The air is quiet, muffled. The snow falls faster and more furiously, piling deeper, muting the landscape around him, covering his beloved under a great chill blanket. He must hurry. He must follow the chariot and rider-- defeat the shadow before all is white and cold.

Great Message

Went to church this morning and just got blessed. The pastor read from the fourth chapter of Philippians. This passage particularly seemed pertinate to my life right now.

11 Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.

12 I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need.

13 I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.

Spring

I love you. And I too look forward to spring.

Thank you for not smoking

I was sitting outside in the plaza having a cup of coffee and cigarette. All the tables and chairs around me were empty. It was snowing and a few people carrying shopping bags walked quickly towards tbe mall door, to the heat. So I was alone in the open air enjoying a guilty pleasure, watching the people walk by. Two security guards approached me cautiously, as if I were a criminal.

"Sir," the short one said, "your gonna have to put that cigarette out or go smoke it out in the parking lot."

I raised the cigarette to my mouth and inhaled deeply, my face I can only imagine was cast in shadow and glowed for a moment in the red light of my glowing tobbacco cherry. I looked up into the eyes of the mall security officers and exhaled a cloud of warm smoke. At that moment, a pack of ninjas decended on ropes, from the rafters of the open air canopy, each one into an empty chair. They all pulled from thier belts cigarettes and lit them with matches.

The security officers made a move for the tazer on thier belts but stopped short when the leader of then ninjas spoke up.

"Sir," he said. "You treat this man as if he were a criminal or the scum of the earth for enjoying a cigarette out of doors. Perhaps you believe he is unhealthy, which he is, but so are the people on the other side of this door who are wolfing down big macs and cinnabons. Perhaps you think this man is polluting the environment with his smoke, which he is. But so are the factories who produce the useless trinkets and sweat shop sneakers that are sold at your fine establishment. Perhaps you think that by smoking he is supporting the evil tobacco corporations who are bent on killing people for profit, and he is but are not also all those that mindlessly shop also supporting a system of greed and waste. You sir are a hypocrite. Leave now or die."

Needless to say they left. And the ninjas and I laughed and then began playing cards. Girls came by and said hello and pawed at me.

River

My brother showed me his work site out in the woods. He works for the Washington Conservation Corp. They plant trees and clean up streams and fields. At this particular site, his crew is working with environmental engineers, constructing natural habitat for salmon, using earth and living things as building materials. What I think particularly interesting is how they use steel cables to secure logs at certain points along the stream to create log jams. These natural log jams then become cozy little pools for salmon to play in.

And I think about my own thinking. I have a terrible habit of thinking too much. My thoughts are like a raging river, often rushing off--strait to the ocean. And the ocean is so big. I get lost. I need log jams. I need calm pools to paddle around in. I try to make sense out of where I’ve been--where I’m going and inevitably end up in places too deep. Why do relationships fail? Why is there pain in the world? So off I swim. I swim and swim and pretty soon I’m swimming out loud in the kitchen to my brother about Costco Lasagna, big box stores, modern art, and finally and always God.

Tim-ber! A tree falls into my river. A living memory. Of her hands in soapy water. She’s standing over the sink doing dishes. Her skin is freckled. I want to live--to grok that place where her freckles disappear under the straps of that white tank top. And I’m sitting there, behind her, on a stool and I’m watching her hands. Her red freckled hands meander in and out of the hot sudsy water. Not saying much of anything. So relaxed. Steam condensing on the chapel windows above the sink. The little bubbles on her hands, popping into tiny rainbows. A fizzing sound. A swishing sound. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. So simple. So innocent. So right. Contained. Lovely. Homey.

And I paddle. I want to paddle in that pool of memory for ages. But the foam comes in with the current and pulls me out down stream to places too big for this fish.

Coffee's on

It's early morning and it's snowing outside my kitchen window. My cat woke me up this morning before dawn, scratching on my bedroom door. I filled his bowl full of food but he hasn't touched it yet. He is sitting on the window's ledge watching the snow fall. I think he just wanted a companion to snow watch.

Coffee's on. Christmas cards are still displayed above the kitchen sink. One has doves fluttering in front of a pastel background; the other a picture of a cozy country church and steeple in a pre-dawn snow covered landscape.

I wonder what are Christmas cards, why do we send them? I think maybe they are symbolic portals, a gateway linking this kitchen to a larger network of family, friends-- humanity. What is the internet, this blog? I guess it has always been a door, a thing to scratch at. Come watch the snow fall with me. Coffee's on.

Extended Forecast

I had a dream last night that I checked the weather forecast on weather dot com and it called for snow this weekend. Lots of it. The little cloud icon for the snow was something else. It didn't just have three flakes coming out of it. Not even four. But Hundreds of flakes, all alive and unique.

!Look!

It is tiresome always being the strong one. I am weary from all the insecurity and pain in peoples life. I am sick of war, of greed, of cheating, of jealousy, of fear.

I am fed up with giving sound advice to people wandering about in the desert. I am grieved by sudden and pointless death. I am embarrassed by some of the so called wisdom people wear as flamboyant floppy jester hats.

I give to others and don’t expect anything in return but sometimes it would be nice to receive.

I am frustrated by people who build their own worlds and don’t stop to see the natural one. I don’t have time for mockers. I am heart broken by the lost, the sick, the dependent, the down trodden . I can’t live in a world with out genuine love and understanding.

I hate self-righteousness. I fight against evil and am burdened by it’s influence in my own heart. I want to be a warrior. I want to be a priest. I don’t want to want and am ashamed of my own soiled garments. I am exhausted by myself and try to avoid ranting though I always fail to write beauty.

I know that the answer will not be found in the world, in man, in the fruit of tree of the knowledge of good and evil. I know, to well, the rocky, meandering foot paths that lie in the midst of the brambles. I don’t understand how one can argue that peace can be ushered in by means of war. We can not build when we destroy. We can not move forward when we live in the past.

I see God working in the world. I see beauty. I see little children searching for acceptance and love when I look into peoples eyes and I also see the film over their eyes as they try to hide it. My heart opens up so big it feels like it will burst.
I wish we could walk barefoot together down the straight earthy path as the sun rises.

I see the saints marching in. I see the world as it could be, as it should be, as it will be. I want to tell everyone, “Look! Look at how beautiful the world is! And isn’t this all just so curious. Look, we are angels, some of us have broken wings.”

I'm so glad that I don’t have to save the world; that God loves me inspite of my rants and frustrations. I am glad that though I am weak, He is strong. Hey, guys, isn’t this a curious and wonderful world. Look up. Look!

Yuppy Chain Mail '06

Seasons greetings my friends,

Thought I’d get you all up to date on the exciting things going on in my busy life. It was the other day after feeding the homeless women down at the shelter but before reading to the under privileged Hispanic kids--no--wait. Yeah it wasn’t before the Spanish kids it was before volunteer gift wrapping down at the orphanage. The point is I am a busy man. But for a moment, on my way to the kitchen to whip up a frappacino in my new espresso machine, I caught a glimpse of myself in the ceiling mirrors and I have to tell you, it lead into this really trippy slow motion movie that was playing inside my head. I was the main character of the movie and the plot line was pretty much just me shaking hands with important people and winking.

So this has been a long year but they go by so fast don’t they? Don’t they though? I kicked off the year with a New Years resolution to work out more. I went down to the Puma emporium outlet and bought myself a striped mauve sweat suit with a very airy fiber. It’s the latest fiber. All the big shots are wearing it. At the gym I lift really heavy weight and grunt a ton. I’ve seen some real results and I think my love life has improved because of it. Oh but I have to tell you this story. Back in May, like may second I think, this girl at the gym looked like she may have been a bit under privileged if you take my meaning. Cute girl just needed to do a little something with her hair and maybe put on a Puma jump suit. Well I get to chatting with her about a fantastic recipe she was reading in Readers Digest. She was on the bike I was doing squat thrust on the mat next to her. Well long story short. She didn’t have much money so I made her the recipe and invited her whole family, Husband, kids, grand parents. Her grand parents were Philipino. I rented out the YMCA dinning hall for the event and well I got my picture in the paper. Again. I just can’t stand to see class and ethnic minorities suffering. I am big into diversity.

Another thing I managed to accomplish this year is graduating from college. It was a pretty big day in my life as you can imagine. I mean I hated to leave the dean like that but I felt the real world calling to me. And you know I thought about getting a job in a big office with computers all over and a fax machine in corner but I felt like my heart was being lead like always towards the underprivileged. That is why I had to accept the job the housing authorities here in Whatcom County offered me on the grounds crew. I landscape the projects. I think of it as painting really. The apartment complexes are my canvas and I work with the textures of nature, spreading them on the canvas. Basically I bring culture to people in the ghetto, giving them confidence and dignity through art.

Also just thought I’d throw this in real quick. I am a regular at Star Bucks. I go in and the girls have my drink ready for me. I don’t even have to order. In the autumn I drink a tall double shot pumpkin spice latte with fat free soy milk. This month I’ve really enjoyed both the peppermint mocha and the chai-egg-nog.

Jessi and I celebrated our one year anniversary back in October. I mean I think we are in the perfect relationship. Our many friends say that we are adorable and we do cuddle quite a bit. For Christmas I bought her an amulet with my picture inside. Our child, Frodo, is the smartest and just most interesting cat I have ever seen. When I took him to the vet, the doctor wouldn’t even neuter him, saying that his little furry balls were like precious gems.

All of these things were in that movie in my head and I thought how blessed I am. Seriously guys, Have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Love you all,
Matt, Frodo, and Peter

A hip cat

This is Frodo, sometimes called Love-Love.

Mary

I had just gotten off work from the golf course a few months after graduation. I was on my way home, stopped at a red light at a busy intersection downtown. I saw a familiar face floating in front of the car in the cross walk. It was my favorite writing professor, a vibrant, beautiful grey haired woman. She looked over my way and her face lit up as she recognized my dirty face behind the wheel of my beat up station wagon. She ran up to my drivers side window which was down and with a big warm smile and a singing voice, said "hello!". This happened so fast it caught me off guard: she moved to kiss my cheek and as she did, at that exact moment, I turned my head a little to the left and unexpectedly planted one on her lips. It was like being European except awkward. We chatted for a few moments before the light turned green and I drove off day dreaming about log cabins and chimney smoke.

I had forgotten about that funny little moment until this morning when I saw her picture in the paper and the news that she just published her book.

Update

I have not been able to publish anything here in nearly a month. I finally decided today that I would have to trouble shoot myself. It turns out I just had too many posts on my main page. I knocked it down,the number of post, to my last ninety and wal--LA. Here I am.

I hurt my back. Yeah. Just started a new job in August and already I'm out for two weeks with pinched nerves in my back. It isn't fun, I know that. The thing about pain, especially a constant pulsating pain, is that only you can feel it. Nobody else can. Other than the fact that I've been walking like a ninety-year-old man, I probably seem pretty normal. And so I feel guilty that I can't do normal stuff like say, go to work and earn a living.

Also, I read this article in Wired magazine a few days ago and have noticed it getting a lot of publicity recently. Give it a read. These atheist sound pretty fanatical do they not? Kinda like the religious fundamentalist they attack.

Drew

I put the truck in park and push in the parking break. My temp, Drew, is licking his lips and shifting around in the passengers seat. He’s occupied with his phone; writing lusty love letters with his thumbs to all three of his girlfriends. It’s Friday morning and I don’t much feel like working.

I’ve been working with Drew nearly two full weeks and he is wearing on my last nerve. He isn’t a bad guy, he’s just interested in different things than I am. Mostly sex. He talks about it incessantly. Especially pornography and how girlfriend number one, or GF1 as I’ve come to know her, sends him videos of herself stripping in her bedroom. A few days ago while we were driving back to the shop he said, “hmmm, penises.” Those hmmm’s, those quick mutterings in his throat come from his side of the cab every time we pass a girl. He uses them to communicate his desire to bend them. I’m repulsed by those hmmms. The penis thing though was new. I kept my eyes fixed on the road and pushed down on the gas pedal. “Penises. Did you see those bushes?” he ask. “They looked like three penises.”

He isn’t a bad guy. He’s just absolutely creepy.

It has started to rain outside so I decide we should take a break. I turn up the AM radio and slouch in my seat. They are talking about politics and sex scandals on the radio program. Seems like the whole world has gone mad on sex. Drew looks up from his phone with a shit-eating grin on his face. I can feel his look on my cheek. It feel’s slimy. “I think GF2 might have givin’ me something. I’ve had rash for a few days and now GF3 just texted me saying she has pelvic pain.” I want so desperately to turn into black robe and smote this man with my staff. “oh yeah?” I say, not looking him in the eye, “that’s no good.”

Why is he telling me this? I can’t handle it any more. “Let’s get to work.”

I open the door and the cool air has the smell of rain in it and I feel baptized by how clean it is. I put my ear-plugs in and grab a blower. Drew does the same. I love blowing fall leaves while it‘s raining. It is like painting, methodically sweeping the ground with stokes of air, herding dead leaves into piles, being in my own thoughts with the droll hum of the blower vibrating the hairs on the back of my neck. We make our way to high ground, working our way downhill and around the cars in the parking lot.

It is essential as a leaf shepherd not to fight the wind and the terrain but work with them. I start in a good spot and walk back and forth, pushing the line of debris towards its’ destiny. It is important not to break that line. If you get ahead of the line you’ll have to blow the same spot twice. I look up from my painting and see Drew fighting the hill, fighting the wind, even breaking the line. He’s blowing debris all over the place. I gesture to him to keep the line and give him a nod of encouragement. Minutes, maybe hours later, I look up again to see where my partner is. He’s still fighting the leaves. I can’t handle it anymore.
I turn off my blower and walk over to Drew and he takes his ear plugs out and stands nervously smiling.

“Drew,” I say, “you can’t get ahead of yourself.” I tell him about the line. “I’m not trying to stifle your creativity here but I can tell you from experience that your blowing strategy makes you work twice as hard. Do what works, keep it simple.”

This look takes over his face; he’s having an epiphany. “No, your right,” he says. “Hmmm, I’m blowing these leaves just like I’m living my life. I’m making a mess. I’ll work on it. Strait line?”

“Strait line,” I nod.

In the next room

I never bothered with a cell phone until recently. Maybe I was to poor to own one. Maybe I didn't want to be like all those people yacking on their phones in line at the supermarket. But what it really was, I think, is snobbery. I quit being a snob two weeks ago at a Verizon kiosk at the mall.

A minute ago I was sitting on the couch surfing the internet when I felt the vibration of my phone buzzing in my coat pocket. I picked it up and saw my brother Andy's name come up on the screen. Andy is in the bathroom not ten feet away. In the phone I heard his voice echoing off linoleum and porcelain but I also heard his muffled voice from behind the bathroom door. "Dude," he said, "are Diana and Gavin coming over?"

"Yeah, they'll be by in a few minutes."

"Cool. Bye."

I laughed. I could have been having conversations like this for years.

Engsoc

I worked with a new guy today. The temp agency sent him over to finish out the season with us. He's young. Younger than me. A Nice guy. The guys on my crew refer to the temporary employees sent over from Express as temps. "Where's your temp?" My co-worker asked me this afternoon. They aren't Human but Temps.

I have to tell my temp what to do. "Rake the leaves out of that bed," I'll say, or "mow these lawns." I'd rather not give orders. My job isn't that hard. I noticed though that out of nervousness or maybe in an attempt to put up a positive front, each time I told him what to do he'd nod his head and say, "awesome". Not okay, not you bet, not even Roger that, sir, but awesome.

How far has the English language slipped when awesome means okay? Cleaning up yard waste isn't awesome. God is awesome. The trees that bear twelve varieties of fruit and grow on the banks of the river flowing from Christ thrown are awesome. The Grand canyon is pretty awesome. It filled me with awe anyway.

Playing around with my girlfriend I laughed , "I hate you." "Hate is a strong word, honey," she said back. "But don't you know," I said, "there are no strong words anymore."

Language has become parody.

Every time we say hate when we mean love, when we say fuckin' to modify an adverb, we are obliterating our ability to describe reality in a meaningful way. Some pretty smart men have said that man touches reality through language. What kind of reality is it when God and pizza share the same over-arching characteristic?

"Hey temp, how would you like to cut out of here a few minutes early today?"

"Fuckin' awesome, man."

Flavor

I want a Coffee flavor to stimulate parts of me other than my tongue. A curiousity of language is how it allows talk about flavors that have nothing to do with taste buds. There is the flavor of a city. Of fashion. Of personalities. Of moments. Seattle has a tec/grunge flavor. Put that in a drink.


I want a mocha that tastes like Saturday mornings in Bellingham. The tastes of sleeping in. Of morning delivery trucks driving past my porch. Of morning dew on spider webs. Of dandelions opening up for the sun. Of being young and full of potential.

Lunch Break

I was watching the children play tennis on this, their last day of summer vacation. I was nibbling on my chicken salad sandwich while Ubed sat next to me in the cab of the truck eating a microwaveable chimichunga. We were sitting in our work truck parked under a shade tree at the park. The AM radio was on quietly. A man was talking about Iran; about terrorist; about illegal immigration. After eating my sandwich I dug through my bag for my cigarettes and then after finding one, struck a match, lit it and plopped down in the dry grass beside the truck. I blew out smoke and looked up at the sky.

Ubed, he's my partner, a very likeable guy; quick to laugh. Very sharp. He's from the Ivory Coast. I hear him open and close the passenger side door and then make his way around the back of the truck, whistling as he walks. He appears in front of me with a bright grin on his face. He looks up at the sky and then looks at me. He has something to say. He starts, "I want a boat. I think I am going to buy a boat."

"You're gonna buy a boat?"

"Yes. I think I would very much like a boat. Oh it would be so great to go sailing on a day like today. To have my own boat." He's looking up at the sky and the trees. "All this talk about war and natural disasters--I believe good will come out of it in the end. God said to expect this. That before he come there will be wars and rumors of wars. I see in your face happiness. You want to be a happy person. Jehovah likes it when man is happy. It makes him happy. Don't worry. Can you even imagine...no war, no sickness, no death? Oh man. It will be great. That time is very near. And when it comes I want a boat and I will sail all over the sea. I will have my own sea and my own boat. Don't worry so much about what you hear on the radio, Matt. Everything will be okay."

I look around the park again. The children are playing. Two men are taking their bikes off their bike racks. Five women are standing in a circle each with a new born baby in their arms talking about baby stuff. The birds on the wind and the leaves in the trees starting to turn. Ubed says that lions will lay down with lambs. "Can you imagine a lion in the park?!" He says he'll still eat meat but only the meat God says is okay to eat. It will be alright. Yeah, it will.

Step Aside

Those cartoon fights where the brawlers leap at each other and all you can see is a ball whirling furiously, every now and then a limb or a head pops out in a puff of dust--that image is in my mind. What I like about those fights is that Bugs Bunny has the power to step out of the mess, bat his eye lashes and leave Elmer Fudd to fight himself.

With all the mess in the news today, thats what I'd like to do. Step back.

May 14, 2004

I watched a documentary about the choice Amish teenagers must make: join the church or play on the Devils Playground.
I want to be Amish.

I watched a film about Jackson Pollock and his rise to the top of the American modern art movement. He abolished form and content from his work.
I want to be a painter.

I watched a television special--an interview with a young Chinese-American poet. He had good things to say about his father and the Bible.
I want to write poetry.

I watched so much TV today that I wanted to be somebody else.

To Every Season

A long time ago, in a forgotten history, Man walked naked among the trees and the grass. Those men didn't think of themselves as primitive like today’s Men think of themselves as Modern; they didn’t have cinema or the printing press to tell him how to think.

I like to imagine that those forgotten men abided by a nobler law then we live by. The same law that the trees and the mountains and the wild animals abide by. They adapted to adversity by recognizing an immutable divinity.

The four seasons occur because of the Earth’s revolution around the sun. What about the revolution of our sun around the galactic center and our galaxy round the rim of the universe? Oh the colors of the slow cosmic seasons!

One could say that spring evolves into to summer. It does--and summer evolves into fall and fall into winter. But it would be wrong to say that summer is modern and winter primitive. Maybe too it is foolish to talk about the progress of Man. Maybe He too blooms and withers like the plants around him only to rise from the ashes another season.

This is all a long way of saying that I am amazed by the pliability of our law. Something illegal today can be legal tomorrow, one just has to convince everyone that it should be. In this way law is like fashion. It changes with popular attitude. It is free flowing, like the moods of a mad people. Yesterday gay marriage was illegal meaning, however subtly, that a majority of the people believed it wrong. A vote in Washington State yesterday could have reversed that ban on gay marriage. I’m not here to be a lawyer or a moralist. It just strikes me as odd how something considered a taboo--a high sin a generation ago could be celebrated the next. Is it progress? Is it fashion? Do we live by a natural law? A divine law? Are we evolving towards a singularity or simply growing cyclically?

A consensus among a majority has nothing to do with truth.

Ultimate Island

My brother and I were watching TV when a commercial for a new BBC America island reality Television show came on. Images of beautiful people engaging in dramatic social interactions were flashing on the sceen at a furious clip when Andy exclaimed, "Dude, get this: I have an idea for a TV show. It would be called Ultimate Island. We'd invite all the people in the world that are interested in being on one of these island shows and once they were all gathered there on the Island we'd loose the nukes on 'em."

Cosmic Religious Feeling

We were sitting out of doors on the balcony at our local brewery enjoying dinner. My girlfriend and her friend excused themselves to use the restroom, leaving me alone with her friend’s boy friend, a stranger. He had said he was a high school biology teacher. That’s interesting, I thought. I couldn’t resist, “So being a biology teacher, tell me, do you have any doubts about evolution?”

He looked at me for a moment, studying my expression and began, “It is a theory and there are questions still to be answered but no, I think the theory is a solid one. Why do you?”

Oh man, here it came.

“Yes, I guess I do. I have a hard time swallowing the idea.”

He threw his huge bearded head back and started laughing from his gut. “I’m sorry. Really, I’m not laughing at you. I just didn’t think people like you existed anymore. What gives you trouble?”

“I’m not going to pretend to be an expert. It’s just that it seems so far fetched, I mean first there’s nothing and then the nothing turns into something and after enough time passes there are single-cell organisms and then after more time passes there are mult-cellular organisms and now here we are eating dinner in a beer garden discussing it. It seems a little far fetched to me.”

He nodded and began about proteins. I nodded but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was sitting in a small desk in a high school class room. He knew his text book very well. And as he told me about this stuff called DNA, I couldn’t help but feel disappointed. I gazed off at the pink and violet clouds and the band of orange on the horizon as the sun sank behind the bay. I wanted to fly away to a different world. A magical world.

Someone asked me what happiness is. It’s hard to define. But so is that feeling I get when I watch the sunset in summer at the park while kids play catch with their fathers and young lovers walk together with their arms wrapped around each other. Maybe that is happiness.

Ask anyone what makes them happy and they’ll probably describe something like a park or a pet or something big and colorful like love. I’ve never heard anyone say that science makes them happy because science is a different kind of thing than a sunset or the buzz of restaurant. It’s a tool to describe the world not the world itself. Science and technology are wonderful things but they aren't happiness itself only a vehicle. It isn’t the internet that will bring joy to a poor child in Africa but the poetry he reads on it.

People do not need to be “educated” which to often these days means indoctrinated. They only need to be watered and nurtured and their curiosity encouraged. I think we are creatures created to experience happiness like flowers are creatures created to bloom.