caveat emptor

Will and Stone

It was a warm morning, but not hot, as Master Wu and I arrived at the mountain pond. The surface of the pond was like glass, and the reflection of the sky was like brilliant gold. There was no wind and no sound. I watched quietly as Master placed a mat in the soft, short grass near the shore. When he motioned to me, I sat on the mat. He stared out over the pond for many minutes, perfectly still as the morning. Then he began to speak softly but clearly.

"The pond teaches us that, when things are quiet and still, we can achieve a near perfect peace. Without wind to disturb it, the water rests in perfect repose. You cannot detect its small movement with your ears or your eyes. Here, in this quiet place, we will try to be like the pond."

I thought about this, and then asked, "Eventually, we will achieve peace that surpasses that of the pond. Eventually we will be able to have peace even when the wind blows. This is true, is it not?" I hoped he would approve.

He continued to stare quietly, his face showing no sign of approval or disapproval. "Eventually we may learn to be somewhat less peaceful than the pond in quiet times. In strong winds, the pond waves and laps the shore, but it is not broken. This we will also learn to emulate, but we will never have the peace of this pond in wind or calm."

I frowned, in spite of myself. We have will. We can ignore, become resigned. The pond cannot do this. "The pond is just a metaphor for peace," I said, "and, like all metaphors, it breaks down. The peace of the pond is easy to disturb. If I toss a stone into it, it will be shattered. We have will. We can choose to ignore the wind."

Again, he waited. When he finally spoke, he merely said, "Peace, now. Try to learn the peace of the pond in this quiet place."

I closed my eyes and went through the familiar steps of relaxation. Bit by bit, the tension and care left me. I both opened my senses and closed my mind to the world around me. No thinking, only feeling, only being. I was amazed at how silent the pond was, though I knew it was within an arm's reach. I was impressed, wondering if it could hear me. No sound. No breeze. Perfect peace.

And then an explosion of pain. I felt my scream rip through the serenity of the morning as I lunged forward onto my hands and knees and groped back for the pain that was ablaze in my back, just below my shoulder blade. I turned around in time to see Master Wu throw a stone toward me. I flinched and ducked, but it sailed over my head and landed with a splash in the center of the pond, sending ripples out in every direction. I looked back at Master Wu, who was walking toward me. I saw a smaller stone on the ground just beside my mat.

"Master! What? I..." I wanted to scream at him, but I knew better. I tried to reach the pain in my back, but it was in an awkward place and I could not. I was furious, and I began to breathe deeply in order to control my anger.

When he finally reached me, he sat softly to the ground beside my mat. "Looks like you were right," he said, "the peace of the pond was shattered with one stone. Look."

I turned to look, but the pond was as smooth as glass again. The ripples had already dissipated into nothing. My back, on the other hand, was still throbbing, and the pain was getting worse.

"And your ripples? All gone?" he asked, and smiled.

It was more than I could bear. I rose to my feet and started the long walk back to the house. Master just stayed there, smiling. "Just ignore it," he said, and he started to laugh. "Use will." Just before I was out of earshot, I heard him yell, "The man is just a metaphor for peace. He breaks down." He howled with laughter.

In the morning, he put the stone in my tea. Bastard. I slipped it in my pocket, where I still carry it to this day.

---

Hello, friends. I hope you enjoyed the story. Tell me how you're doing.

Upgrade

"Welcome to Circuit City. How can I help you?" He smiled a friendly, professional smile. He was a clean-cut, young black man in a red Circuit City golf shirt and black slacks and shoes. His name tag said "Kashawn".

"Hmmm?" The tired, chubby, thirty-something man shook his head as though waking from a daze and looked sleepily at the young man. "Oh. Oh yeah. I'm... uh... I'm looking for a new television."

"Great. Well, my name's KAY-shawn, and I'd be glad to answer any questions you have." He seemed like a really nice guy.

"Hello. My name is Scott." They shook hands.

"Tell me what you're looking for, Scott."

"Oh... Uh... Well... I heard somewhere that you have to get a new TV pretty soon because the old ones aren't going to work anymore." He was getting a little dazed again.

"Well, they are making a switch over to HDTV in the next couple of years. You still have a little time, but it's a good time to buy one right now. We expect a big rush soon. What size are you looking for?"

"Uh... I don't know. Normal sized, I guess. Not gigantic, but not tiny. I like to see it when I want to and not see it when I don't."

"Well, the flat panels are pretty inconspicuous. Let's look at those." It was pleasantly surprising that he knew the word 'inconspicuous'. He was a smart kid, for a TV salesman. They walked toward the flat panels. "Maybe you could give me some idea of what features you're interested in, Scott."

Scott was daydreaming again, though.

"Scott?"

"Hmmm... Oh... Sorry." He shook is head again to clear it.

"What are you looking for in a TV, Scott? What would you like to see?"

"Oh..." Scott stared off into the distance. "Well... uh... Remember that show The Greatest American Hero? That was pretty good. I liked Bosom Buddies with Tom Hanks and Peter Scolari. They were a pretty good team, and they made the most of a really stupid plot. You know?"

"I've never seen those shows. If they're out there, though, you could probably watch them on any of our televisions. Let's talk about some standard features and see what grabs you."

"Tom Hanks has really done well, you know. I mean, he's everywhere, even after all this time. You never really hear about Peter Scolari, though. I really thought that guy would go somewhere. And Joe Piscopo, too. He was really a funny guy. Then he got into body building and you never saw him again after Johnny Dangerously. Do you remember him, Kashawn?" But Kashawn was gone. All the televisions were showing the same thing, some Rob Schneider movie. Scott had never cared for Rob Schneider. He wandered away to look through music CDs, mildly worried that his television might stop working soon, but also a little excited about it.

P.S. - Hello, friends. How are you? I posted a couple of things on my cogito writing site. Check them out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.

The Reality of Monkeys

Some ideas sound really great when you first discuss them with your drunken buddies, but they end up being terrible ideas. Don't get me wrong, I rarely if ever sit around with a group of drunken buddies espousing ridiculous plots to get rich or be happy and fulfilled. In this story, however, I'm pretending that my life is like a sitcom or an animated comedy ensemble series geared toward adults but watched primarily by slacker high school and college guys on 'shrooms. Just go with me.

One idea that sounded great but ended up being a terrible fiasco was my plan to assemble and train an army of flying monkey soldiers like the one the witch had on The Wizard of Oz. First of all, every place I called insisted that there were no such animals as flying monkeys. I'm not sure if this was a government coverup or what, but these people were relentless in their denial. Once it became clear that I was not going to break through the wall of secrecy surrounding the flying monkey market, I reached the obvious conclusion: I was going to have to breed my own flying monkeys.

Oh, man. That was a nightmare. I'm not a genetic mad scientist or anything, so I decided I'd have to do this the old-fashioned way. I managed to get my hands on a retiring makeup lab chimpanzee and a Peregrine falcon. Both males. Oops. So, I sold that chimp to McDonalds and, after several unsuccessful attempts to purchase a female chimp, ended up stealing one from the local Mexican circus at the bazaar near downtown. I thought that the rest would be easy street, but I was very wrong. If just one of them had been into the idea, I might have been able to get them together. They were not, however, and that's an understatement. I got scratched all to hell and beaten about the head and shoulders numerous times before I gave up. In hindsight, I think the falcon may have had some sort of erectile dysfunction. I was so frustrated by the end that I donated both animals to Taco Bell's Meat Research Labs. Breeding was not going to happen.

At that point I came to two conclusions. First of all, I realized that my monkey army was not going to be able to fly. This was a huge disappointment, but I came to terms with it. Secondly, I realized that chimpanzees, although about the right size for my envisioned army, were far too strong and hard to acquire to be the basis for my army. So, I did what anyone would do in that situation: I ordered two hundred Capuchin monkeys.

While waiting for them to arrive, I started sewing their outfits. I had a really elaborate uniform in mind, like something Michael Jackson would wear, but my sewing skills are limited. The uniforms ended up looking like bright red pillow cases with arm holes, a head hole and a belt around the "waist". After a week, I had twenty three of these outfits completed, far short of the two hundred I needed. I never got any more assembled, however, because the monkeys arrived at that point.

You know, you may think that you know what two hundred Capuchin monkeys would be like. You may imagine that you've made preparations and that you're ready for them. You may think, "It will be difficult until they complete basic training, but I'll be able to handle it." You may think all of these things, but you're wrong. Trust me. Oh my god, are you wrong.

Two days later I just left that house. I locked them all inside and left. I never went back. After a couple of days, I started to feel guilty, so I placed an anonymous call to the SPCA and told them where they could go to rescue the monkeys. As I suspected, they put out a warrant for my arrest. I took the little remaining money I had and disappeared. They still have secret flying monkey SPCA commandos looking for me today, I'm sure, but they've not found me yet.

P.S. - I posted a piece on my cogito writing site. It's called Renters. Check it out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.

Upright

He was suggesting than humans decided to walk upright. I was suggesting that he was not very observant. However it happened, through design or the slow survival and copulation of the upright, there is no doubt that our current bodies are absolutely built to stand bipedally, and that is through no decision of our own. Look at the positioning of our legs around our pelvis. Contrast the length of our legs with that of our arms. Look at the rotation of our neck and the distribution of our weight. If we attempted to live on all fours, we'd constantly be staring back through our legs with the top of our vulnerable head pointed at the ground. We'd constantly be on the verge of a somersault.

The mistake, I think, is in seeing upright walking as some sort of indication of separation from the animals. We are doomed to be upright animals, but this means little. We are not the only ones, and this is not what makes us human.

"I think we walk upright so our minds can be closer to God," he said. We stick out from this globe in every direction like the pins in my Grandmother's tomato pin cushion. That cannot literally be the "reason" we walk upright, though I'm sure it was meant to be an inspirational maxim and not a real theory. I'm tempted to tell him that we are differentiated from the animals by our ability to walk upright but still have our heads up our ass. I really don't feel that way about us as a society, though.

"I think we walk upright so our hats don't fall off," I said, and I left it at that.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

P.S. - I posted a piece on my cogito writing site. It's called weather changes. It's short, and I like it. Check it out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.

Busy. And also wire.

I'll be honest. I'm in business meetings all week, so I'm not riding the train. That means no time to write and no time to comment on blogs and no time to... well, you get the picture. My post from yesterday was actually something I wrote last September. Here's something I wrote the other day. It's not exactly a complete thought, just a bit of silliness. See you soon.

I wonder why we hate wire so bad. Everyone wants to get rid of wire. I bet wire always goes home depressed these days. "It's just a matter of time," it thinks. "I'd better update my resume." People want wireless networks and wireless peripherals. The other day I heard someone describing wireless power. "It's coming," they said. While this seemed to excite them, I was filled with a mild dread.

What's wrong with using wire? Are we going to eliminate it completely? What will the birds sit on? Will we have wireless fences and wireless underwire bras? Wireless prisons? Wireless highwire acts? Wireless wire whisks?

I like wire. I just want to go on record with that. I like it.

Later. Love.

Old Guy

He's an old guy in a light tan jumpsuit. He's big and bulky with a huge, bulbous nose. Sitting next to him, trapped between him and the window, is a small, dark man from India with business hair and a tightly-groomed mustache. Immediately after the old guy sits down, he asks the Indian man, "Did you have any family stuck in New Orleans?"

"I'm sorry?" the Indian man replies in his thick accent.

"In New Orleans. In the hurricane. Did you have any family trapped there?" I think he believes the Indian man is African-American.

"Oh, no," the Indian man answers politely. "What about you, did you have family there?"

"Oh, I've got lots of family there," the old man proclaims loudly, "but they all had the sense to get out."

"Oh. That's good." The Indian man looks away through the window into total darkness.

So, the old man turns his attention to me. He asks about my laptop, not because he's interested, but because he wants to talk. He starts announcing loudly that Hewlett-Packard is a pretty good company but they make all their products in Singapore. "If we don't stop hiring foreigners and buying foreign products, there won't be anything left over here," he says, passionately.

"Oh," I say, not looking up. I'm trying to communicate nonverbally that I don't want to have this conversation. He takes the hint and clams up. After a minute I glance up and make eye contact with the Indian guy. I try to give him a subtle, apologetic smile. He smiles and nods slightly in greeting, but I'm not sure if I've communicated with him or not.

What do we make of the old guy? He's old, so we just write it off to that, I think. We don't challenge him or worry too much about him, because his influence on the world of tomorrow is negligible. He's probably as dissatisfied with the conversation as we are. In the good old days, people would have joined right in with him and they'd have had a helluva time.

I think things are getting better. It's a slow process, but things are getting better. I wonder what the old guy thinks. I wonder what the Indian man thinks.

I wonder what you think.

Later. Love.

Decipher

I've spent the last four years trying to decode the secret message hidden in the lyrics of the Toto song Africa by the Knights Templar (I mean, come on, Toto IV is such an obvious anagram for Otto VI, a known Templar collaborator). Did you know that the words "Africa" and "he turned to me as if to say" can be rearranged to say "the one soft Saudi Aircraft may e". What does this mean? I have no idea.

Never mind. Forget that. I should be more careful with this information. It's not that I don't trust you people, it's just that I'd hate for you to be drawn into the web of intrigue and danger that is my life. It's for your own protection. The Templars are always watching me. My shrink tells me that's silly, but I think he might be one of them. There's some sort of crest on his diploma that looks a little Templarish.

Okay, let's change the subject to... uh... weather. We need rain bad here in North Texas. You guys in the Northwest are getting washed away. Jul has rain and snow up in Cincinnati. Peefer's up in Canada and Kassi's in Michigan. It's probably still freezing up there. Bella's weather out in West Texas is probably unseasonably warm and dry, like ours. Kehlers, Jill, Caitlin and the rest of the New York crew have had some warmth recently, but I understand it's dipped back down now. We get DCers, Bostonians, Pennsylvanians, Mississippiiteianers, Carolinagians, and Georgiacans too, but I have no idea what's up with them, weatherwise. Los Angelinos are probably suffering through their typical perfection. The weather in India is exotic and much more ancient, beautiful and meaningful than our weather here. Who am I forgetting?

Did I really just write a paragraph about weather?

"I hear the drums echoing tonight." Hmmm... Could be "China shooting. murder the eight." Hmmm...

Hello, friends. What do you think?

Later. Love.

P.S. - I posted a short piece on my cogito writing site. It's called dirt road. It's so typical of the things I write that it's almost laughable. But, it's innocuous and light-hearted. Check it out, if you'd like. Thanks for stopping by.

Race and Rock and Roll

I try to avoid inflammatory race issues, but I've been wondering: Why can't NASCAR add something to the fuel to make the flames visible to rescue workers? It would greatly improve driver safety, I'm sure.

But, that's enough of that. I hate to overplay the race card.

Last weekend I took my son, River, with me to the Guitar Center. We browsed and I told him everything I knew about everything I saw, which was probably unbearable for him. He was cracking me up, because he kept doing the silly Jack Black air guitar dance from School of Rock. He does it perfectly. We looked at the electric guitars, then the bass guitars, then the acoustic guitars, then the keyboards and then the percussion. They have a huge room for each of those. In the drum room I couldn't resist playing the congas a little. Man, I could just pitch a tent in there and stay for the rest of my life.

I wanted to leave with a huge trap set, but I left with a classic rock guitar fake book (chords and tabs) as a birthday gift for my English friend. Susan bought me two of them for Christmas (fake books, not English friends) and I've had a lot of fun sitting at our Yamaha electric piano and playing through the songs. I couldn't remember some of the chords, though, like Cm13 or F11, so I also bought a piano chord book. Now I'm bustin' power chords with the best of them (well, maybe not the best). I also bought a cable (actually two, since they were having a twofer) for my bass. It was a rare foray into the world of music and I loved it. I think River had fun too.

When we were checking out, the pierced clerk handed us the bag and said, "It's time to ROCK OUT, guys!" He was painfully sincere, and River and I laughed about it for quite a while, once we were far enough away to avoid hurting his feelings. "I think he meant, 'It's time to WALK OUT, guys.'" I suggested to River. "He was trying to get rid of us." We should have yelled, "ROCK AND ROLL!" at the tops of our lungs, flashing hand signals and hanging out our tongues Gene-Simmons-style.

Well, that's all, really. I do have one other race issue I'd like to discuss, however: What the hell is up with white people? I mean, seriously, what the hell?

Later. Love.

Memememe

Me (from The Flying Pig) has tagged me with a meme. It's a Me-meme. It's a Mememe about me. I guess that makes it a Memememe. The subject of the Memememe is, if I recall, five unusual things about me (not Me, but me). I think I've done this before, but I'll try to think of five new things.

1. Sitting in a room with the inside lights off, the curtains open and the sunlight coming in is depressing to me. When I'm inside, I like inside light.
2. The only team sport I like to see on television is football. I like individual sports (golf, boxing, skiing), but I don't like baseball, hockey, basketball or soccer. NFL football on the television always makes me happy, even though I'm not really into it. I could only name a handful of players and have no idea which teams are doing well and which are not.
3. When I was a kid I made up my own languages, complete with script, vocabulary and grammar. Yes, I was a Tolkein geek.
4. I've lived most of my life in Texas but I've never owned a single article of clothing that anyone would describe as western. No cowboy hats. No western shirts. No cowboy boots. I have an aversion to anything western, but I'm not sure why.
5. I almost never forget lyrics. I have 3000 songs in my playlist and I probably know all the lyrics to 2000 of them. I remember lyrics from TV theme shows I watched as a kid. I remember church songs, rock songs, rap songs, commercials, theme songs, everything. I even remember lyrics to songs I hate. Why? I have no idea.

Are those things unusual? Probably they are, a little. Interesting? That wasn't part of the assignment.

Now, I'm supposed to tag five people. Instead, I'll ask you people: Won't you tell me one unusual thing about you?

Later. Love.

Tracks

A dinosaur once walked through Glen Rose, Texas, though I'm sure it wasn't called Glen Rose or Texas at the time. We know this happened because there are footprints in the hardened mud to betray the great reptile's ancient perambulatory activities. During the gap in time between the cataclysm that killed all the dinosaurs that didn't live in Loch Ness and the time when scientists found and put together the evidence of dinosaurs, except the ones in Loch Ness, I wonder what the primitive people of what would eventually come to be called Glen Rose, Texas thought about these huge footprints in the rock. I wonder what sort of monsters they imagined. Had they ever seen dinosaur skeletons embedded in the rocks? What a mystery this must have been for them.

Many years later, I am in the fifth grade and my Royal Ranger troop is on a camping trip to Dinosaur Valley National Park in Glen Rose, Texas. We stare up at the huge statue of the allosaurus and the brontosaurus that mill around outside the visitor center. Then we hike down trough the low, scrubby evergreens and mesquite trees to the river, where a guide takes us to see the footprints. The ones I would remember later look like the footprints of a giant, three-toed bird. They look like chicken prints. I become convinced that it was not a dinosaur at all, but a giant chicken that walked through here so many years before. I bet the primitive people knew this too. It's quite obvious when you're standing there.

Sometimes things are not as they seem. Sometimes you're the only one who knows the truth. Sometimes you tell others, but they don't believe you. Sometimes you keep it to yourself. I learned this a long time ago, in Giant Chicken Valley in Glen Rose, Texas.

Hello, friends. How are you today? Talk to me.

Later. Love.

P.S. - I posted a short piece on my cogito writing site. It's called Whimsy. Don't let the title fool you, it's a little sad. Check it out, or not, with this in mind. Thanks for stopping by.

Basketball Dreams

I had this dream that I got to heaven and Joe Walsh was guarding the gate so Saint Peter could use the bathroom. He was just letting everyone in, as long as you were cool about it and didn't make a fuss. I was almost at the front of the line, and I was trying to imagine how to be cool about it. So, when I got there, I said, "So, Joe, looks like death's been good to you so far." He smiled politely, though he didn't really seem to think it was funny. He waved me on in, much to my relief. I thought about going back to explain the joke to him, in case he hadn't caught it, but I decided I should leave well-enough alone and just go on in and check out the place.

Anyway, Robyn's EEG results show that, although she has grown, she has not grown out of her seizures. She's as abnormal as ever (she gets that from me). The doctors are suggesting that we try taking her off of her medication to "see what happens". This is a prime example of why I don't have any more faith in science than I have in religion. These people don't seem to actually know very many things for certain. I think they're just making it all up as they go along.

Besides, I'd hate to mess with Robyn's chemistry too much right now. Her basketball team stomped the opposing team this weekend 25-2. She made 10 of those 25, the first one off the initial tip-off about five seconds into the game. She's twelve and she's taller than her mother already. At this rate she'll be able to support us all as a professional in the WNBA (assuming the male/female sports salary gap is straightened out by then). So, I say we just leave well-enough alone.

Sorry I've been so busy and so absent. How are you? What's up in your world?

Later. Love.

Horizon

I'm out of town. I'm crazy busy. I wrote a poem, though. It's called horizon and you can read it below. Or, if you want to read a good poem, go here and see one of my favorites.

---

horizon

i went to see the blind watchmaker
in his golden city
i wanted to ask him why
the moon often
looks much larger
when it's near the horizon
but when i got to the city
and rang the giant bell
there was no answer

the sky was clear
over the marshes
as i travelled home
and there were long lines
of migratory birds
undulating from horizon
to horizon

over the horizon
farther away than you can imagine
in another place
these things make sense
there are only answers
and birds
under the giant moon

---

That's it.

Later. Love.

Balance and Continuity

It is illogical to believe that the old days were perfect but that these days are flawed. The seeds of these days were the fruit of the old days and were planted by the old days in the fertile soil of their own decay. No tree ever planted itself.

Last night, on the way home from the coffee shop at 10:30 or so, I got behind this big, old Chevy pickup. In the back was a reddish-brown and white farm dog that looked like a cross between Lassie and a shepherd of some kind. We were at a stoplight and the dog had its paws on the tailgate and was staring at me. He looked like a good dog. Then the light changed, and the truck took off. The dog quickly turned and, much to my dismay, jumped up onto the toolbox that was mounted near the window and put his paws on the top of the truck cab. He stood up there, the wind blowing his fur, like a sailor in the crow's nest. The driver of the truck was not being particularly careful. He was driving rather aggressively, and the dog would pitch this way a little or that way a little as the truck changed lanes. The dog never stumbled much, though. He must have had great balance. I followed them for a few miles, enjoying the spectacle. At each stoplight, the dog would come back and stare at me, his tongue hanging out as he panted with excitement. He looked like a good dog. I named him Red. You're a good dog, Red.

A friend told me yesterday about teaching his son to ride a bike without training wheels. It's about finding your center of gravity. Once you can feel that, you can achieve the balance that you need. Each generation teaches this to the next, directly or indirectly. Some of us never achieve the balance that Red has, but most of us can ride a bike. Riding a bike is the same from one generation to the next, and it has been for a long time now. The seeds we produce are almost identical to those that produced us.

My yesterday has me thinking about balance and continuity today. What are you thinking?

Later. Love.

The Measure of a Girl

Robyn, my oldest daughter, my middle child, was four or five. She was out at the lake with me, just the two of us, and I was introducing her to the childhood disappointment and boredom that is fishing. We hadn't taken out my little boat, so we were just sitting on the bank casting lures out into the muddy water. She sat quietly and peacefully, good-natured as she's always been, but I could tell she was getting tired of the sitting and had imagined something much more interesting. I decided we'd eat the lunch we'd brought with us, even though it was a little early yet. I turned to open the little cooler sitting next to the tackle box. I fished inside for a sandwich for each of us.

"I'm hungry. Let's eat," I said, holding a sandwich out to her. She didn't respond. I looked over at her. She was staring out across the lake, lost in her thoughts.

"Hey. Do you want a sandwich?" I said, nudging her. She still didn't respond, and dread rose up in my mind. I remember the feeling. She was staring out over the lake, unfocused, and her mouth was moving up and down silently. My mind went immediately to an incident a couple of years before when half of her face became paralyzed for no good reason and remained that way for several days. The doctors hadn't been able to find anything wrong with her, a fact I've always hated.

Now she was sitting there, unaware, and I was unsure what to do. I started repeating her name to her and I put my hand on her arm. For several minutes, I don't remember how many, she just stared blankly and moved her mouth. Then she dropped her gaze a little, and turned her head slightly. I called her name again, but she didn't respond. Her eyes started moving around, and her face clenched a little, into a slight frown. I called her name again, and she looked over at me.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

"Yeah," she replied. She seemed to have no clear sense that anything unusual had happened, though she did seem a bit disoriented. I decided not to say anything about it to her, even though my heart was racing. I calmly told her I thought we should eat and go, because the fish weren't biting. She was relieved, I'm sure.

Several days and appointments later, they weren't sure. No tumors, no visible brain problems. They insisted this was unrelated to the facial paralysis. I always found that hard to believe. Then they did another test. We had to keep her up till eleven o'clock at night, let her sleep, and then wake her up at three in the morning and keep her awake. She had to be tired. In the morning, Susan took her to the doctor where they connected numerous sensors (leads) to points all over her head. Then they turned off the lights, flashed strobe lights at her and measured her brain activity. It was highly abnormal. Seizures. Robyn has epilepsy.

As I have come to understand it, epilepsy means "Robyn has seizures and medical science has no idea what causes them." She's been on anti-seizure medication ever since. Her first medication required her to get blood tests all the time, which she did with a five and six year old bravery that would put many adults to shame. She's twelve now, and the doctors have always said she might "grow out" of the condition (I think this means that as you get taller the condition moves into your neck, where there's no brain for it to affect). She's gone back in for the same diagnostic procedure a few times over the years, but they've always showed the same results as the first, so she's still on medication today. Since she's been on the medication, she's had no seizures that we've noticed. We're hoping, one day, that she can stop taking the medicine.

Last night we kept Robyn up until eleven o'clock again. This morning I woke Susan up at three in the morning and she sat up with Robyn. Today they will hook her up to the wires and flash lights at her. Keep your fingers crossed.

Later. Love.

Incomplete

I remember this place, these things. I remember being here before. I remember sitting in that spot, toiling away with the tools that still lay strewn about where I left them. If I sat in that spot, it would only take me a minute to remember what was so needful of my attention at the time. I could pick up where I left off. I could finish.

I've never been a finisher. I always get reassigned when things are still in progress. When I do, I never look back to find out what happened. I just move on to the next thing.

I'm going  to finish something. I am. I'm going to select it, plan it, work it and finish it. Something big. Something grand. Something...

Are you a finisher?

Is this post worth 6000 words?

Last week I scanned some old pictures of my mom and dad from the days when they were first married. It's surreal to see them together. They split up when I was very young. These pictures are from some parallel universe. Here are a few of my favorites. (You can click for larger images).

This is not the life I remember:

Yellow is now a cool color:

Mom was a hippie:

Papa was a rollin' stoner:

Me in a leisure suit:

You can see more here if you'd like to. Also, here is my mother's mother's mother. Doesn't she look just like the perfect grandmother? She should have been married to Santa Claus.

Great Grandma Purdy:

Anyway. No big deal. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Synthesis and Omniscience

If you could hear every voice in the world, how do you think it would work? Would listening to a particular individual be like tuning to a radio station? Would you have to know all the languages, or would you just hear the meaning? Could you really process each individual thread of conversation, or would groups of some kind be averaged together into a collective message? I wonder if there is a collective message. If you synthesized every voice in the world into a common message, what would it be?

In his "prose poem" The Language of Crows, Louis Jenkins suggests that all there really is to say is "Here I am," and that we say it again and again. I don't know, but I like that. What do you think?

Later. Love.

Same Auld Lang Syne

With the new year I've decided to go with an entirely new format: 100% political blogging. Those of you who have hung around here for a while and who enjoy my silly little stories or humorous anecdotes or warm-hearted fluff, I hope you'll stick around. From now on it's all politics all the time. And, I'm going to be hard-nosed and no-nonsense about my political positions. You disagree with me? Bring it on!

Okay, here goes.

Uh. I hate all the people in... uh... Washington who have a different point of view than I the point of view I have! Damn, those a-holes make me sick! AM I RIGHT?! I thought so!

Uh. Let's see. Okay, I'm also against the things in which I don't believe. AND I'M NOT GOING TO SIT IDLY BY AND JUST TAKE IT ANYMORE. From now on, I'll boldly declare to anyone who cares to stop by and read this: I want to see more of the positions I support gain ground in policy and practice! I want to see fewer laws passed with which I don't agree! If I don't think you share my world view, I'M NOT VOTING FOR YOU!

Reading back over this post, I can't help but feel it lacks something. I mean, it's all true, but I just don't know that it expresses my specific beliefs specifically enough. I have to be honest with you people, I'm really not qualified to host a political blog. I never listen to, watch or read the news. I have no idea what's happening in the world. Whatever it is, I have to admit, I'm not really angry about it. It takes anger to be successful in political blogging, I think.

Okay, here's the deal. I've changed my mind. I'm not going to be a political blogger. For those of you who have showed up here because you heard the buzz on the blogosphere that "Scott's going political", I apologize. I'm just going to keep posting the same silly crap I always post. It's really all I'm good for.

Along those lines, the New Year's Eve Last Resort Party was a hit. We're still cleaning up from it. There were people everywhere, and Chris, one of our English friends with whom we ate Jap-Mex on Thursday, won the poker game at 1:00 AM. I'm not sure how many people were in the house but, including children, there must have been fifty or more. We broke the poker game at ten till midnight and watched the Central Time Zone ball drop in NYC. We cheered and hugged and kissed and champagne-toasted the New Year rather boistrously. All things considered, I'd say it was a wonderful time for all involved.

So, how are you? Talk to me.

Later. Love.