Fish Gotta Blog

Wonder

2008-07-21T18:54:00.000-07:00

Where does the feeling of belonging come from?

I like to think about this, think about whether this mystery can be understood. It's especially fine to luxuriate in the afterglow of finding that kind of connection.

I'm not just interested in where it comes from or what triggers it, but whether I can learn to build this deep appreciation or recognition into my life? Or is that an ugly kind of self-deception?

You might ask why I have "Wonder" as the title of this thing. Good question. I can't say. Part of me is aware that when I feel that I'm part of something, that I belong, there's a sensation that's like the opening that happens in wonder. A parallel emotion, I guess.

On Friday, Proust crept up again and waylaid me with tacos.

It is known among a few of you how lucky I've been in my food life. Solid cooks in my family using pure and fresh ingredients. Chomping on the madeline is never far from my experience. The real shock for me is that it is rarely those foods that I grew up with. More often, it's either Indian food or Mexican food that sets off a body memory that's full, fast and overwhelming. Those foods that I think of when I think of a woman I've loved.

So it was with the Taco place here in Medford. In a rush, the sweet corn tortilla, the luscious seasoned pork took me to San Diego. Took me to my past, took me to hope and love, the ocean pounding out a blessing with every wave. I was happy that my friends didn't see me tear up for a moment. Reader, I fell in. The water was all around me and I didn't even have to swim.

Worthy Blog

2008-07-06T00:37:00.000-07:00

Okay, she's my niece but you have to look at her blog: even*cleveland.

http://evencleveland.blogspot.com/

Stephanie has a beautiful sensibility, style and brains that I envy. Do a nice thing for yourself and peek in.

Obsession

2008-07-06T00:12:00.000-07:00

With obsession, there really isn't a Part 2. It's all Part One, first chapter and last chapter. Those of you who find themselves on a track know what I'm talking about. On waking, in dreaming a luscious scene replays and it's difficult not to watch yet again.

Melodramatic, aren't I?

A positive change of thyroid juice has transformed me into my old, energetic self. This includes a return to my ability to obsess. In my old days, my obsessions were often destructive due to my near complete inability to keep the record from skipping and repeating. Honestly, I always thought that there was something wrong with me. Well, there was but nothing that I couldn't have addressed with the proper insight.

I didn't understand that I could form a relationship with my mind rather than be its mule. The thing upstairs pointed the way and I followed. When I resisted, the discomfort usually got me right in line. Most often, the jockey kept the horse at a twitchy standstill. What a way to live. This, I am happy to say, is no longer the case.

After my physical renaissance, my mental upgrade followed. It's a blessing not to be physically crippled. It's a blessing not to be mentally crippled. I can thank myself for working out how to live with a busy brain. It's taken five years of poking around my sore spots but I've had a couple fundamental insights about how to live. Oh yeah, nothing to it!

You three readers have read about them, pretty standard realizations that the buddha's been offering for thousands of years. Anyone can sign on and I did.

The good news is that although the volume's been turned up, I'm as relaxed as I possibly can be, getting stronger and happier and more obsessed. I suspect that I'll have to tease out what the obsession means eventually. For now, I'm happy to have my old speedy brain back. But I will not let that gray bastard beat me like a rented mule. Instead of it slapping me around, I'm working on a choreography and it seems to be intrigued in the possibility.

Obsession

2008-06-28T22:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Reader,

Don't run away. It's only me.
Don't be afraid of what you can't see.

I was struck by lightning walking down the street.

Well, I rolled and I tumbled, cried the whole night long.
When I woke up this morning, all I had was gone.

im invisible
am, an eraser of love
why dont you call me I feel like flying in two
im invisible
am, an eraser of love
why dont you call me I feel like flying in two
am, an eraser of love

Whats real, and whats for sale?
Blew a kiss and tried to take it home

Touch it, bring it, pay it, watch it,
Turn it, leave it, start - format it.

Love is a burning thing
And it makes a fiery ring

Just some thoughts. None mine.

Vacation Over

2008-05-18T19:39:00.000-07:00

It's official: my vacation's over.

For any of you that still might check in, a brief reason why....

When I started my new job, I gave myself a six month fucking around period -no pressures- while I learned my job, got a sense of the new area and learned to work again. I extended that another few months when I was reassigned to an intense project. Just this week, I had the "time's up" moment, get back to work.

The work. The stuff that matters. The writing and whatever habits it takes to support the writing. There are other distractions of course. The distractions damn near define me. Painting, musicing, pining, yearning. Lots of ings. Christ, I've even been swinging the golfing club.

The other reason why the vacation's over: my physical self is rocking. Another ing! After uping my synthroid dose a fair amount, I'm no longer physically crippled by pain. It's a bit of a miracle to feel like this after so many years of doing nothing but hurting. For those who have listened to me whine about this over the years, I thank you for listening. I wouldn't be here without you.

So when you talk with me, ask me how the novel's going. It will be going. You might not get much info from me other than productivity reports. What I'm writing about is A Big Secret. Pester me, my vacation's over.

Russell Banks says

2008-05-18T19:34:00.000-07:00

"From the Beginning I've found that I have to speak past the internal censor who basically wants me to shut up and be silent, and the best way for me to get something said has been to move real fast. The faster I can write, the more likely I'll get something worth saving down...."

"The dreaming self has a more powerful memory than the conscious self."

april

2008-04-21T20:57:00.000-07:00

i am near ready to break into poetry which is disturbing. don't be worried, nothing is going to happen, fair warning. nothing is going to disturb, nothing is.

saturday another winter april day i was painting. Testing colors really, not trusting the deep expertise of the book in front of me. when i found out the book was right so i moved on to working with a new big brush. i haven't done large format but i don't want to be fussy and small all the time so i am learning how to apply pounds of paint at a time. i've had the brush for a while but not the guts to use it. so much paper, so much paint, so much waste.

the flurries started as i dipped the brush in water and dipped for paint. o another time: the new brush smelled like my grandma's house. it's no revelation that paints smell, usually just chemical. brushes smell. often stink at first because they're dead animal hair. i have a squirrel brush that smells like hot summer ass.

the susie short brush took me right back to the days of baba's stove, alive with chicken soup and cabbage rolls, her giant presence and me wanting acceptance. i was her son's ghost unnerving her following her wanting to be loved again after leaving so soon the last time. who can paint with the snow flying on a spring afternoon forty years ago? time will kill me all over again.

what i see

2008-04-06T22:08:00.000-07:00

Hypocrisy and Other Big Words

2008-03-17T22:20:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I've written. I apologize for the lack of twaddle.

Well, I'm a hypocrite. It's a bit vexing but not fatal. You might be interested in hearing about the details but you're not getting them. None of your business. I think it suffices to say that I spotted the infraction, eventually clucked a bit and went on my way. Don't worry, it wasn't anything big. Just like something on the bottom of my shoe- inconvenient but a couple of swipes later, gone.

There might be other glaring examples of this kind of self-duplicity in my life. Hope not. I'd like to think it's not who I am. But you are reading the diary of someone who's avoided shopping at one of the best grocery stores in town because I thought it was seedy and low-rent. Went in there tonight and bought a bunch of organic stuffs at good prices. Some of you are familiar with that pattern. In spite of the consistent recommendation of folks around me, I avoided the place. Ultimately, I didn't listen to those around me on this. Another strike against me!

It wouldn't have surprised me if I had overreacted to the episodes above. Who in their right mind welcomes a self-egging, regardless that the eggs were laid by free-ranging hens fed only organic feed? It wasn't too bad finally. Nice to spot the outright mistakes in my life. Maybe there's some hope on teasing out the more subtle offenses too.

Misc o llaneous

2008-02-24T21:24:00.000-08:00

I propose that when a person guns down a handful of other people, the news media should not use the killer's name. Sure, sometimes it's some illness that causes the terrible action and that's horrible too. But I am tired of hearing the name of the killer and his story. Time to stop. Report the story and snuff out his identity. Kill and you will become generic and unknown.

***

Splotches are gone. What was fascinating was the sequence in which the offending sulpha drugs left my body. First this area, then that. The last body parts affected, after everything else had cleared up, were my hands. The palms were very red, like I'd dipped them in too hot water, a slight itchiness. The progression was similar to what the Human Torch goes through before he flames on. Sadly, I think I'd need to take more of the drugs before that happened.

***

My company had its second jam night with a bunch of bands comprised of us worker bees. Let me tell you, we got us some talent in the hizzy. (A hizzy, for you older readers, is a house. That is how I interpret it from my large collection of hip-hop records.) We rocked The Hungry Woodsman (no, I am not making this up) until 1:30 when we were kicked out. Best of all, in my company, everyone is free to act as they want to. No false dignity: everybody dance now! At one point, a guitarist broke into a smoking rendition of the Voodoo Child lick and one of our executives raced out onto the dance floor and slide onto his knees into the "we are not worthy" salaam pose. He was followed by directors and various folks. Now THAT is team building.

***

I finally ordered a grinder to replace the one I lost in the mini-flood. I have been putting this off but started to do the Starbucks math: grinder it is.

***

For some reason, whiskey tastes better to me than it has for years. Isn't that a heartwarming story?

***

Tonight I imagined that I was sitting in the Academy Awards audience because my novel was adapted into an Oscar nominated film. Fantasy, I know. But it's better than my usual fantasies of finding dollar bills on the ground. Or turning into an ant. Or turning into an ant who finds a dollar bill on the ground. See what I mean.

Green Way

2008-02-16T21:56:00.000-08:00

Any city dweller expects something special when they hear the word green way or green belt. There's the small promise that the city hasn't swallowed our animal selves whole. Maybe we'll have the chance to pause for rustle, smell the trees or see a glint in the creek.

Medford has the Bear Creek Green Way which has been a work in progress since the early 70's. It runs more or less along Bear Creek from Ashland through Medford. Oh, and along I-5 as well. The run isn't pristine by any measure. It's been called one long campground for the homeless, among other things. I've found that to be accurate enough not to quibble.

When a friend recently visited, I suggest that she not wander alone in this stretch. I hate that. I hate saying stay away, not safe, when the path should be a community jewel instead of a halfway house. Still the right call, I think. For me as well as her.

My experience along the green way so far is what I expected. I feel safe enough on my bike and whenever I stop, the others stopped are usually those folks seen as the problem, the folks that are just hanging on. Today, I talked with a couple of guys as we watched the ducks dipping for, uh, duck food in a big rough pond.

Gary's bike was acting up again and Phil was happy that he was able to find an pint of an elusive very cheap kind of beer. Each had stories of getting knocked off their bikes and ending up in trouble. Gary was cited after he was hit and hospitalized for going 5mph in a 3mph zone. No kidding. Phil said that the hardest thing about relying on the bicycle for transportation was that there were stretches where only I-5 was a good way to go. He extended the opinion that truckers really didn't like bikes on the highway.

Both of these guys fit under the general heading of the underclass that's robbing Medford of its greenway. I had a hard time thinking that way. Both worked when they could find a way to the site. Otherwise, they collected cans which usually were transformed into food and beer. The green way was convenient for them, central and safer than the streets. Today was a good day in the valley- you could almost spot Spring in the mountains.

As much as I'd like to launch an impassioned defense of or attack on something here, I find myself thinking about something simple instead. What would I do if I were these guys? I'm lucky in spades compared to these two. Gary's eyes just glazed over when he found out that I sit in front of a computer to make a living. Way beyond him, he said. Phil, an Indian, talked a bit about meeting an Indian brother once who lived like an Indian, on a reservation. That was just as foreign and impossible to him as the computer was to Gary.

No answers here. I thanked them for the company and took off back down the Green Way. The little hut overlooking the pond was soaked by the golden hour. They fired up their beers and enjoyed watching the ducks swim in lazy circles.

Thread Count

2008-02-12T17:15:00.000-08:00

"...like something out of the book of Job" has been the line that people have enjoyed most over the past few days. I've been trying to describe what almost all of my clothed body looked like after an allergic reaction to an antibiotic. That line kills. You can use, is okay.

I'm still quite itchy although now I look a ton better, more along the scale of the damage caused by the worst episode of biting critters you've ever encountered. And yes, that is a ton better. The splotching and hives were spectacular, like a red, angry cheetah. Thought about posting a photo of any body part but decided it would do no good at all.

I took four days off to work through this (not quite done yet) and doped myself up with antihistimes and wore very soft clothing. I found out that a pattern printed on sheets is not comfortable in all skin states. I thought gingham was my friend....

***

I have a new job assignment. My company is converting a tired piece of software into fresher puppy and I'm the expert from my and another department. This should last around eight months. After that, I assume that they'll put me into a digital shredder and sell off the remaining 1's and 0's. How do I feel about the move? Should be worthwhile; a great way to learn what other departments do, mess with stuff and shape tomorrow's future! For the better! Really! I hope so, at least.

***

My heart clutched a bit when I saw a book on the bestseller list with an element in it like the one I'm writing. If the element was too close to mine, I'd be screwed.

Close but not close enough. I continue one. And no, it's not a Nora Roberts or Maeve Binchy book you bastards. Leave me alone.

***

Reader, I bought a couch. It's a simple leather thing from Macy's. It's some fake Italian name, Scolifiganlio, or some nonsense. That's because it's Macy's Natuzzi brand made in China. Great sits and I'm still trying to figure out how to use it.

***

My kitchen flooded due to a stopped drain common to our fourplex. Once again, nothing but respect to water and its ally, gravity. Two sets of plumbers visited, the first incompetent, the second competent. Why in this town do all plumbing services have "rooter" in their name?

***

While I was down with the scratches, I tried to watch a bit of daytime tv. Wow. You three regular readers know that I can watch me some crap. But the predominance of Court TV shows (four on six channels in the two time slices sampled) made me wonder about who watches this misery. What does it mean to their life? Do I want to live near them?

Not to be unkind to my new town, but it might have been instructive if one channel featured meth cases. But that's not the point, is it.

Time Machine

2008-01-19T19:47:00.000-08:00

Courtesy of the Cinemark Movie Theater in White City, I fell backwards in time. I could do a bit of research to pinpoint the date but it's not necessary. Rosy neon seen now, I suspect, only in bordellos, warmed the lobby and some vague memory.

The matinée of No Country for Old Men, the Coen Brothers latest film featured not only an old fashioned matinée time limit, 6pm, but the price for the matinée was $2.50. Yes, that's $2.50 American. With pricing like that, I felt duty bound to purchase the largest snack portions I could stomach. With bountiful Mediums purchased, the entire bill was under $10.

No Country was set in 1980, just about the era of the White City ("A Great Place to Live") Cinemark. White City (have I mentioned that it's a great place to live?) rose out of nothing in 1941 as Camp White where over 100,000 soldiers were trained for WWII. German P.O.W.s were housed there as well. Much better than being executed.

Sorry about the history lesson, that's the damn internet's fault.

This was the first film I've seen since I've moved to Medford and what a pleasant, competent surprise. Now that I know that watching a movie is cheap, I'll see more films, crappy and otherwise, than I've seen for years. Medford 1, Modernity 0.

Since someone will ask- yes, see it. That simple.

Guitar Town

2008-01-18T10:15:00.000-08:00

I am totally moved by Tennessee Blues from Steve Earle's new album. Thought you should know.

Whiskey Post

2008-01-12T23:40:00.000-08:00

Don't panic! I'm not tied to the whiskey post, or anything harmful or bluesy like that.

I wanted to take advantage of the many whiskeys I had tonight and write a bit while loose and disconnected. Not as stunning an experience as when I first dropped acid and wrote revelatory prose which, it turned out, saved the world. The whiskey infusion happened as I listened to a colleague's band, Red X.

One of the best things about the evening was that I got to stagger home from the event because they played tonight at the Hungry Woodsman, a few blocks from me. No shit. Well, technically, they're playing at the Buzz Saw Saloon, a subsidiary of HW, Inc. I was mightily tempted to purchase t-shirts and send them to my friends and family, all three of you who find yourself immersed in my life.

Rob, the colleague, is the guitarist for the band. He has a terrific, gymnastic mind and is quirky in the best way. Great to have him around. The trio, not surprisingly, brings a healthy sense of irony to their gigs. Based on one listen, they're at their best when they mix styles. For instance, they shredded a version of Play that Funky Music, White Fellow, that rocked (insert the devil horn sign here)! Always fun to go out an listen to tunes.

At one point, a nice young woman came to my table and asked me to dance. Well, of course. So I let thoughts about simple harmonic motion guide my legs as the song (Stray Cat's Strut) played and had a lovely dance from the not young, but no where near as old as me, woman. Let's face it, I am old and I will not be chasing those who are 15 years younger than me. Just a sweet, disconcerting moment in my funny little life.

***

Often, I have found that apartments too much resemble a hotel through the magic of whiskey eyes. Thankfully, that wasn't the case tonight. I don't think I would have enjoyed that much. When I came home, I quickly stripped, threw every swatch into the washer and jumped into the shower. I will be very happy when the smoking ban in 2009 takes effect. After toweling off, I immediately fired up the 'puter to communicate to you that, I drank, I listened, I danced and I showered. Thank God for blogging.

Guitar II

2008-01-06T23:24:00.001-08:00

Happy New Year!

Sorry about the lack of writing, that will change now that I've gotten through the demands of the holidays at my newish job. My focus has been myopic but that can now change a bit. Maybe biopic or triopic. Cool, third eye!

For those of you keeping count, my little family consists of two guitars now. One created for electrical outages, one to increase my carbon footprint. The new, manually powered model is silly as you can see but it's a real Gretsch and sounds and plays great. I don't trust my word on this but my colleagues who really love playing these cheap little fellows. Thank you special discount!

In all fairness, it does make real guitar sounds when others play it. So far, it dutifully spells out whatever sounds I attempt. The real guitar sounds are just around the corner. I can feel it! By the way, a square little plastic man named Korg keeps my guitar tuned. One eye glares red at me until I find an acceptable note. Then the other turns green. Kind of like David Bowie. What a funny job.

The packaging is just as silly as the guitar itself. The idea of learning how to play the guitar without learning attracted me, as you might suspect.

It's been a funny month. Kinda like reverse, first and overdrive were the only gears I used. Did I mention Park? A lot of Park. No great thoughts to be found here. Just a little notice that I still exist, that I'm not yet a threat to take food out of any gigging guitarist's mouth and that I've been working on a novel. You know, everyday life.

Self Mythology

2007-12-08T21:07:00.000-08:00

I've been on a meandering, semi-persistent quest to strip away some of my more destructive self deceptions. The problem I've found is that it's tricky to identify self deceptions from self mythologies. Let me 'splain.

In my best moments, I make this intuitive distinction about my potential. You know potential, that latent talent that most of your family and friends see in you. It's a funny thing to understand in a dissembling guy like me or psychotics. Okay, that's all harsh and everything, I know. But when does potential have to be downgraded to self deception? Or a kind of mass hysteria?

The question of when to stop has been my constant companion for the past few years. Possibly, it's the wrong question but I had to start somewhere. I'd not been happy with the turns of my life and I decided to dig in best I can. The process has been remarkably linear. First, calm my mind. Second, get stronger. Three, evaluate where I stand and what I like. Four, change change change.

Going well so far. By any standard, I've got a great job after a number of necessary failures. I'm a specific kind of calm which honestly I never thought was sustainable. I have a core of folks that I'm lucky to know. All good, no doubt. This is all massive, emotional hard-to-do territory and I've hung in there. I sometimes am pleased to realize that I am doing exactly what I need to.

That's it. Need versus want. The "what I like" step is trickier than I thought. I like plenty of stuff. A friend once suggested that I have a catholic sensibility and that's not far from wrong. I know that I've been too long vaguely intrigued by what others like to do. Part of me wonders whether that voyeuristic tendency was vestigial false politeness or overcaution. When less charitable, I'd call it fear. But I'm getting off course and vague.

What I like versus what I need. I've been thinking about this for a while, mainly due to the Rolling Stones. The intersection of what I like, what I need, what I want and my self mythologies finds it's best tangle in my quest to write. I've spent a ton of time writing, thinking about writing and learning to write in my past few years. Working in these disciplines simultaneously has provided unexpected lessons and parallels. Maybe I'll write about that someday. For now, I'm trying not to pull at the tangle. Maybe the knots will relax some if I leave them be. All this activity is based on the idea that being a writer isn't a self-deception but my grandest self mythology.

I am not alone in having an artistic impulse that is a struggle. It's common but conflicts with my current direction away from what brings me pain. I find some consolation (warning: I am not comparing myself to VvG in any way) from a line in John Updike's review of Vincent Van Gogh: Painted with Words: The Letters to Emile Bernard. "Writing came easily to Van Gogh; he confided to his correspondent that he found it 'restful and diverting' after a long day of struggling with the evasive nuances of portraiture."

At a future date, I hope that my blobs of paint are restful diversions after a long day of doing my own writing struggle thing. I hope that my self mythology (okay, self deception) will be about me as a painter, not a writer. I can't say that I've adequately explained what I set out to. No matter.

Now, here's a nice picture for you to look at.

Rest, Van Halen-style

2007-12-02T20:28:00.001-08:00

The three of you, my readers, know that I've been busy lately, due to fun and work. That's a challenge for the delicate boy who's newly returned to the work world, one that I anticipated and have prepared for. Meditation, mindfulness and a bunch of other things have helped me keep an even keel.

The good news is that while the preparation for a calm, energized life is real enough, my commitment remains skin-deep. I've had to adjust my activity/rest plans on the fly because of opportunities that come my way. Many would define that as "life."

After a busy three weeks -Kansas City, Seattle- I was really looking forward to a calm weekend of calm, writing, cooking and calm- the basic regenerations. Calm. Late Friday afternoon, one of our directors pulled me into a conference room and closed the door. I am an optimist so I expected something good. "I know it's short notice, but would you like to go to Portland and see Van Halen on Saturday?" Ha, it was something good!

Another director rented a Ford Canyonero ("smells like a steak and seats 35") and we headed off to Portland on Saturday morning. We met our vendor benefactors at Doug Fir, a sweet eatery, downed some nouveau comfort food and headed to the Rose Garden to shed a few unwanted hertz of hearing range. Mission accomplished. Plus, the upper registers of human hearing are WAY overrated.

Great show. Those old dudes sure can bring it. David Lee Roth was an adrenilated version of Captain Stubing (from the Love Boat, not Salton Sea). Eddie just ripped the place apart. What a monster! The sound quality was typical arena fare: loud and distorted when the whole band was playing. When Eddie soloed, it was fine and he was locked into making noise on a massive scale. Noise- good.

As loud as the PA system was, the crowd was often louder. Early on, Dave (he is our buddy, after all) asked, "Are you having half as much fun as we are?" The answer appeared to be yes. Those guys were having a ton of fun. It was a thrill to see them breathing fire and enjoying themselves so much. We had fun too. Not just because of the cocktails, or the witty banter or because we tried to see how many people we could fit into our rolling warehouse on the way to the concert.

The younger folks among us had the extended-play version of concert fun. They went to the hotel bar after the concert (no, not me. I said "younger"), encountered guys who wanted to fight, a vomit-covered women's restroom and a fellow, face down on the floor, who'd been mugged in the men's room. Now, that's good times. I was quite happy for their near misses but glad I'd opted out. Been there, done many of that.

So today, I'm a bit yawny and will go to bed early. Monday, I'll begin my restful period. Really. Nothing ever happens on Mondays at work after a soothing Van Halen weekend, right?

Arrival

2007-11-17T11:08:00.000-08:00

The discerning reader might have figured out that my guitar has arrived. It's pretty although don't be fooled. It's a mighty shredding machine. The astute among you will notice that it's missing the toggle switch knob. I'll have to go knob shopping.

It's just pretty and I don't have much to say. Yes, the neck is straight, not warped. I just don't have the camera that will do the little mother of pearl moon inlays justice. If I've learned anything today, I now know that it's difficult to take picture of glossy things.

Kansas City, Here I Come

2007-11-12T18:12:00.000-08:00

I spent last week in Kansas City, Missouri, helping with our distribution center. Lots of hours, lots of dirt, lots of success.

No need for work details. My partner and I made a big dent and as critical as I am, I can't imagine a better outcome.

Did I mention the new guitar? When it arrives, I'll take some pics. I will spare you any practice downloads though for at least a year. Promise.

Power

2007-11-05T19:19:00.000-08:00

In my high school physics class (you know, the one with the greasy-potato-chips-on-the-brown-paper-sack experiment), power was defined as the ability to do work. I was always charmed by that imprecise definition just as I was by the Euclidean definition of a point: a point is that which has no part.

I'm not just spouting my high school education to impress. The reason I'm talking about power and work is because I had begun to doubt my abilities. It's been years since I felt good about my contribution to my workplace. After my brief, horrible tenure at that newspaper, I thought that I might have devolved into a half-assed working person. In my perspective and history, there's not much worse.

There are stories out there of my past ability to do tremendous amounts of work. Okay, there's mostly stories that I tell but they're more or less real. At one working establishment, it was not unusual for a few folks to gather around to watch me work. They decided that it would be counterproductive to pitch in.

While I'm not old, I'm not young. Some of you out there might be feeling mortal too. Not a bad thing, just a spur to figure out the fine points of living well. But the nagging pattern of disengagement in my recent career was not the kind of spur I expected.

Well, this might be anti-climactic. But I'm alright. I've spent time scraping away a lot of personal rust, adding a few skills and figuring out how to find a job that I'd like. Not a surprise that my work energy is good, my focus keeps getting sharper and I've got some fire back. It feels good, being back in the mix, having the feeling that things matter. Now that's power.

Halloween

2007-10-31T20:14:00.000-07:00

You might have expected a few photos of 'treaters but no. Just a quick story.

Tonight, I sat here with my pumpkin full of candy, all excited about giving it away. No such luck. The late afternoon melted into evening and zip. Nothing. And feeling a bit bad because I snacked on a few items in spite of my fancy meal plan.

As it was getting a bit on, I was just about to shut down Operation "Save-me-from-myself" when the doorbell rang.

A lovely nuclear family yelled the traditional greeting and I was happy to be facing gaping pillow sacks. "We are SO glad that you were here," the dad said. "We just came from the mall where ALL the stores had only tootsie rolls to give away. Can you believe it? So we left the mall to go to the neighborhoods and nothing. Finally, we saw your pumpkin light and there you go!"

I asked the little girls to take many handfuls to save my colleagues at work. Their tiny little hands grabbed and grabbed. Made the dad and mom grab too. The whole thing felt speedy and a bit frenzied. I think that all the adults were relieved that sugar had passed from hand to hand. We could tuck ourselves (and our kids) in for the coming winter, with some ghosty bargain kept.

breadbasket

2007-10-28T23:25:00.001-07:00

"Right in the ole breadbasket" is one of my favorite descriptions pointing to the mid-body. I like that phrase but I've never liked "bun in the oven." That's always grossed me out. Since I don't have an oven, I'm going to talk about my breadbasket. More specifically, what I put into it.

As you my three readers know, I've been working out a bit since I've been in Medford. My goal is to be able to tool around without pain and maybe with some power and grace. So I'm semi-hard at work lifting weights, aerobicizing, revising my diet. My trainer (Remember the old days when your coach would exhaust you for free?) provided a weekly menu for the next hunk of time so I can shed a few fats while I build a few muscles.

I went shopping for my week's menu yesterday and I have to admit that it was an unsettling experience. My intentions are good: strict adherence to each prescribed snack and meal for the next six weeks. Buying a exact week's worth of food at a time was a bit disconcerting - three oranges, 70 grapes (no shit), two carrots. My shopping kart was pretty full. Sure, I bought a few staples that will last for weeks, if not months. But most of the load will be consumed in one week.

It was sobering to think that I ingest that volume of food in a week's time. The sense of volume worked two ways for me: first, the plain old size of the pile in front of me; second, that my body (aka, my digestive tubes) was going to have to deal with that pile of food. It was also sobering to know that it tallies up to far fewer calories than I normally eat. Soylent Green apparently is packed with calories. The ghost of my usual fare was crafting a greasy indictment to stop this madness.

I can't say whether this was a meaningful exercise or not. As I shopped among the folks in halloween costumes, many of them skeletons, I felt right at home. I had some empathy for what that hot dog eating champion must feel like every time he competes: "That pile is going into my body? What in the hell was I thinking?

distinction

2007-10-24T20:32:00.000-07:00

Being still is not the same as being motionless.

"Inspiration is for amateurs"

2007-10-22T20:33:00.000-07:00

I was happy that I got the chance to hang out with one member of our rapidly-aging boomer population this weekend. Birthdays were had, dinners were eaten and art was seen.

The Portland Giftshop of Art featured a knock-out exhibition entitled: Chuck Close Prints: Process and Collaboration. I'm not going to attempt to review this amazing show. Go to the show or check out the companion book. Me, I'm simply going to mention what Chuck said in the video Chuck Close: Close Up: "I think that the problem that you create is more interesting than the problem that you have to solve."

(By the way, I'm typically not a fan of watching video in museums when you've got the damn art on the walls. But this was a fascinating look into a unique life in art that helped amplify what was on the walls.) (By the way, I do apologize for all the hyperlinks.)

The problem you create. I'm working on that right now.