caveat emptor

Method to Madness

Whenever I'm feeling a little blank or a little psychically wind-burned I write dialogue. It's a safe place to say a small thing. Sometimes I will profile an imaginary dysfunctional person, trying to understand what we might have in common. (How could I, after all, understand anything else?) Comedy comes when I'm feeling anxious or unsettled. Comedy skims and scars the surface. It's easy and cheap, but it's a relief sometimes. When I'm feeling conflicted or confused I write poetry, hoping it will say something I cannot, never really sure if it does.

Running is what really makes me feel good. When I haven't run for a long time, when I'm getting reacclimatized, I force myself to focus only on my breathing. I'd rather stop running and catch my breath than run without control of my breath. I push myself, trying to convince my heart and lungs to calm down. Everything will be okay. It takes several days, a couple of weeks, but I eventually cross that place, that wall of pain, and come out to the other side. I end up in that place where breathing in and out, counting steps, is a rhythm to which I can sing a song of wellness and contentment. When I reach this place I feel as though I might be a normal person. Almost. I might almost be a normal person. I never reach that place, though. I haven't run for more than twenty years. I never run.

After an initial paragraph about a topic, when I'm afraid I can't say more without saying too much, without repeating myself, I just change the subject. I talk about something else. I might, and often do, come back to the topic of the first paragraph in the third paragraph. By then, however, the danger has passed. Now it's safe. Now it's all casual. The third paragraph is probably my favorite place in the world.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Small-talk and Terror

He was an older man in a starched, white shirt, nice slacks and a smart tie. She was young with long, auburn hair, a brown, flowing hippie-chick shirt and thin, brown pants that gripped her firmly at the top and flared out at the ankles. He wore polished wingtips. She wore stringy sandals. He was small and mousy with close, grey hair and a clipped mustache. She was tall, slender and glowy. She floated just above the ground. He was planted firmly upon it, rooted even.

"You look familiar for some reason," he said, smiling timidly. He was obviously terrified by her.

"Oh," she said, returning his smile and matching his timidity. "I can't imagine from where." She was terrified also, but for vastly different reasons.

He drove away in a grey Buick, east, and she in a brown Jeep, west. I'd like to think it worked out between them, but something tells me it did not.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Scan Day

I keep this picture of River handy in case he ever starts to feel like too much of a stud.

River and Robyn look happy, but Rayn looks a little unsure. She could use a little more personal space. (Robyn always has the most adorable smile.)

I never really looked like this, but my roommates Drew and Michael convinced me to let them do my hair this day. Holy crap. I can't even open my eyes all the way. Way too cool for such a simple dude as me.

In case you're interested, I scanned a lot more family pictures yesterday. Baby pictures. Too cute. Be warned.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

BlogHim '07

In honor of Neil's BlogHim '07 I'm going to talk about being a man. This means I will not be droning on and on and on about my vagina like I usually do on Fridays. I won't being saying things like, "My vagina feels weird today," or "Does this jacket make my vagina look big?" No, today I will be focusing on being a man. Try not to be afraid.

What does it mean to be a man in today's world? For some men, being a man means you have sex with other men. For some men, being a man means you get to control the barbecue grill even though you're really not good at it and you always burn everything (including your eyebrows.) For some men, being a man means you jump motorcycles over as many buses as possible. The more buses the better. The more buses the manlier.

For me, being a man means I don't cut my hair. It means I know things, but not useful things. It means I grunt a lot. I have grunts that mean, "I'd rather just sit on the couch" and grunts that mean "you drive like an idiot" and grunts that mean "Dang! Look at you. I can't believe I'm married to you. Please come closer." Being a man means that I wake up first and that I'm responsible to wake everyone else or they will just sleep until I wake them up the next day. How many of these things would I do were I a woman and not a man? I have no idea.

So, now it's your turn. Everyone has to say what it means to be a man. Even the women.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Just Crazy Talk

Do you ever get the feeling that the universe is trying to tell you something? Do you get that too? No? You don't? Oh yeah. Neither do I. That's just crazy talk.

Whenever I hear Van Morrison sing I always imagine him giving a concert for the faerie king who lives under the hill. Do you do that too? No? Oh. I do.

If you're like me you've always had an aversion to Sansabelt slacks. You've always feared that, if you wore Sansabelt slacks, you'd have to put Brylcreem in your hair. A little dab will do ya. You've always dreaded having to wear those really thin golf shirts that cling too tightly in all the wrong places. You've pictured leather shoes with tassels. When I picture Sansabelt slacks I picture Rodney Dangerfield on the 17th hole or on his yacht. And you?

I don't know where this post is going. It's meandering. Sometimes my mind wanders. It's at those times that I lose track of language. It's at those times that I ask myself strange questions like, "Did that saxophone just say what I think it said?" Saxophones don't talk, however. If they did you might have to have a conversation with Kenny G, and no one needs that. That's just crazy talk.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

On Ghosts and Resolve

I don't believe in ghosts. This annoys them to no end. "Maybe we don't believe in you either," they say. "Maybe you don't exist."

"Maybe," I reply, not looking up from what I'm doing. They hate this.

I've decided to start taking firm stances on the important issues of life. I'm going to examine my ideas and feelings, consider them carefully, argue the pros and cons with myself and then establish a position to which I will hold fast. Once I decide that a position is right, I will defend it and even promote it. I will try to better the world.

Man, that sounds really hard and tedious. It also sounds a little boring. Doesn't it? I mean, seriously, who cares what I think about issues and so forth? I don't. I think, instead, that I will live actively in the moment. I will simply be. Ask me a question and I will respond truthfully with all the conviction of the awareness I can muster in the moment. Ask me again later and I may tell you something very different though equally sincere. I think this better suits me. I will not become, I will simply be. I believe, according to Heisenberg, that not being able to measure my position on an issue should make it feasible to measure my momentum on it. So, you know, there's always that. I have quantum principles.

The ghosts in your life want to believe in you. They secretly wish you well. They ask for nothing in return. They think about you all day, and at night you haunt their dreams. They wait for you to come through the door, though, unlike them, you must open it first.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Mostly This One is Just a "How To" Post

I'm thinking of switching to more of a "How To" format. I want to provide practical advice that people can use in everyday situations, the sorts of occasions that arise every day in life. You know, directions for living life. For example:

How To Pick Something Up: Use your hand. Reach out and grab it. Pull it toward you. If it's too heavy leave it alone. You'll hurt yourself.

See? Those are the sorts of things that people do all the time. Here's another:

How To Eat My Candy Bar: Dude, is that my candy bar? Don't eat my candy bar. I'm going to eat it later, after dinner.

I feel better already. I feel like I'm finally contributing something to society. I feel like I'm giving something back to my readers. It feels good.

Let's see... Hmmm... What else? Hmmm... This post needs to be a little bit longer... Hmmm... Oh! I know! Here's a picture I took of River and me during our walk on Saturday:

He's getting really big, but I'm still taller. That's him on the left.

Okay. That's all I can think of today. I'll leave you with one more piece of practical advice that you can use in your life today:

How To Wax Your Handlebar Moustache: Do it like Snidely Whiplash from the old Dudley Do-Right cartoons, or like Dick Dastardly from Wacky Races.

Hello, friends. Do you have any advice for the readers?

Later. Love.

Family. Photo. Two Hundred Times Three.

On Saturday I told River - looking out across two hundred yards of beggar-lice and burs - that we might want to walk around. He disagreed with me until - about twenty feet into the field - the prickly annoyance became intense. We didn't turn back, however, the damage having been done. We pressed on through the thick, humid, morning heat. When we reached the manicured walking path on the other side we sat, much to his protest, and removed beggar-lice from our socks, shoes and shorts for the next forty-five minutes. As we worked we could hear the tapping sound of the approaching rain on the leaves of the dense thicket to our left. It came cool and soft, not violent, and we just sat and continued our work. I don't remember many useful things, but I will probably remember sitting there in the rain and picking at those cotton socks forever. De gustibus non disputandum est.

The legendary turtle pond where we had witnessed, several years ago, the magical sight of two hundred turtles scattered around the long, steep banks, was, this day, turtleless. In their place, however, were dozens of herons scattered in the trees. There were Snowy Egrets, Great Egrets and Great Blue Herons skimming low over the pond, the tips of their wings drawing occasional ripple traces on the murky surface. Inspired by them, I took out my phone and snapped the worst and most disappointing nature photos in history, completely failing to capture anything, doing justice only to my lack of skill.

On Sunday River, my Dad and I moved furniture for my sister. In truth, River did most of the work. Once, when my Dad and I weren't looking, River grabbed two hundred pounds of washing machine from the back of the pickup and carried it inside all by himself. When we spotted him coming through the door we chastised him, telling him that he could hurt himself. I think we were just jealous. Sunday was a long, hard day, but we got everything moved for my sister. Her life is falling apart and her children are scattered to the winds. I'm worried about her, to tell you the truth. I love her very much. Sometimes, when you're a woman's brother, all you can do for her is move her furniture around. It's not much, but you do it because it's what you can do.

Hello, friends. How was your weekend?

Later. Love.

Boys in the Burbs

Some of the other men on my block have formed a gang. They're pressuring me to join. Yesterday evening, as I was picking up some litter that had collected on the curb in front of my house, they came up behind me. Their colors were flying. "You must be in the wrong place, bitch," said Owen. He lives two houses down and runs the web server farm for Burlington Northern Santa Fe.

"No, I live here, Owen," I said, turning to face them. "I've lived here about three weeks longer than you have. How are you guys this evening?" I asked, trying to dispel the tension with small talk.

"You must not live in this neighborhood," Randy said, getting right up in my face. "The men of this neighborhood stick together. The men of this neighborhood have pride."

I sighed. "Look, you guys, I don't want any trouble. I hope we can all still be friends, but I'm not joining your gang. We're all just too old and too white to be acting this way. I just can't do it." I tried to smile a friendly smile, but I was getting a bit annoyed. "Besides," I added, "I can't join another gang. I'm already a Crip."

They were shocked. "Seriously?" asked Raymond, backing away a step.

"For life."

They glanced around at each other nervously. "Uh...," said Owen, "do you think you could get us in?" He was blushing a little at the obviousness of his excitement.

I looked at them standing there. A couple of them were still in business casual from work. One guy, Hector, was decked out in an ill-fitting biker outfit he bought, probably for about $250, at the Harley-Davidson store up on the highway. Randy was in khaki Dockers shorts, a threadbare, white undershirt with a stretched-out collar and his house shoes. "I don't think so," I said. "Sorry guys."

They all scattered at that point and wandered into their houses to watch television. Well, all except Randy. It was almost 8:00, so he went to bed.

Hello, friends. 'Sup?

Later. Love.

I'm gonna live forever. I'm gonna learn how to fly.

I don't think of myself as a hero, I don't. I was just in the right place at the right time. I just did what anyone would have done in that situation. People are always coming up to me and saying, "You're a real hero, an inspiration. They should make a movie about you. You're a great role model for kids. You're a lot more attractive in person than you are in all that news footage." It's hard to take, all this attention. Really, I'm nothing special. I was just there when it happened, that's all. Before I became famous I could walk the street and crowds would not surround me. I could get from my car the coffee shop without cameras flashing in my eyes. I could sit and write and think and people would leave me alone, avoid me even. No people begging for autographs. No one asking me to pose for pictures with their kids. No one telling me, with tears in their eyes, how much what I do means to them. It was a lot different then, before I was famous. It was awful. I tell people all the time, "I don't mind being a role model. I'll gladly be a role model for kids all over the world. I don't mind at all. I will not, however, be an underwear model. No way. Especially not for kids. I'm just not comfortable with that." I tell them this, but do they listen? No. They never listen. If I ever get famous I'm going to constantly thank a person name Wadi Thunderbrain in every speech. "I want to thank everyone who helped me achieve this goal and I'd especially like to thank Wadi Thunderbrain, without whom none of us would be here today." People will wonder who Wadi Thunderbrain is. Some people will claim to know him or her. I will sprinkle my conversations with, "...as Wadi Thunderbrain says..." When people ask who Wadi Thunderbrain is I will just get really quiet, look into the distance and shed a single tear. For Wadi. Has fame changed me? No, not yet. It will, though. You can bet your ass it will. Hello, friends. How am I today? Later. Love.

Asshole Bliss, The Goddess of Buying Cigarettes at the Gas Station, and a Poem Without a Title

There's this couple I see in the coffee shop. Here's the deal with them: They're both assholes. He's a jerk and she's a... well, she is. It's not a matter of opinion. You can easily see this for yourself if you can stand to hear them talk for more than ten seconds. Here's the interesting thing: They are so sweet to each other. They listen to each other gripe and they sympathize, each contributing vitriol to the other's cause. They take care of each other in small ways, helping each other. It is the nature of their relationship that they are pitted, together, against the world. They don't turn their ire inward. She will smile at him and fix his collar. He will get her coffee and tell her she looks pretty. They always share a lovely kiss before they get into their respective cars to rage the roads to work. It is asshole bliss, and it's sweet in its way.

Also there is the following.

It occurred to me as I watched the lady in front of me buying cigarettes at the gas station counter this morning that she is the goddess of buying cigarettes at the gas station. Maybe you've heard of her? It's rare to glimpse her, and she looks nothing like you might imagine. She's small and old and dried out, like a prune, and her laugh is gruff. When she buys cigarettes at a gas station, however, there is a glow deep in her eyes, and you can feel the virtue of her benevolence issuing from her to bless her children. I watched her drive away in her pickup and wondered where she would go next. Maybe you've seen her? You'd remember if you did.

And now, a poem.

The clouds today are low and grey
And as I join the herd
My heart inside is light and gay
In the traditional sense of the word

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

peace talks

a cup of cool water and some simple bread and maybe we can agree. cold, smooth stones in a ceramic bowl. the sound of falling water. a cool breeze. maybe here we can find common ground. a friendly smile and a nod, sitting together across the low table, afraid to talk. peace floats between us, fragile and shy, afraid to be grasped. the table between us perched precariously on a precipice, the narrow strip of common ground. if you breathe or blink too forcefully, if you smile at the wrong time, talks break down. let us embrace, you and i, and put trepidation away. let us agree where we can, and ignore the slight and the sleight. peace talks between two world-weary souls. i will let me live, if you will let you. hello, friends. how are you? later. love.

The Supergravity Issue

Context is everything, and if you don't have it you don't have it. Some things you can only understand if you are me, and very, very few of you are me. Talk about your inside jokes. Wadi would be proud, if only that dinosaur hadn't eaten him. See? That's exactly what I'm talking about.

Enough of that.

I was told recently by one of my son's friends that the eleventh dimension is leaking supergravity. I have to be completely honest with you, I have no idea how to feel about this. Should we be worried? Is there anything we can do about this? Does Al Gore know about this? Is Haliburton to blame? Who was supposed to prevent this? Have any heads rolled over this? I wonder why I'm just hearing about this from a kid who, I'm pretty sure, isn't smart enough to understand more than two dimensions at a time? I suspect a cover-up.

When the sun peeked over the horizon this morning it sounded a little different. Did anyone else notice? It was lower, and there was a faint "clunk" sound. I hope that's nothing to worry about. I've been staring into the sun for the last thirty minutes and everything looks okay so far. I wonder if all this supergravity that's puddling up everywhere has affected the sun? Who's going to clean all this stuff up? I hope I don't have to do it, because I'm really busy.

Were Wadi here, he'd help. He's not here, though. He was eaten by that dinosaur.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Two Scenes and Advice

I'm the only one on the programming team that agrees that writing our code in haiku sections will increase our productivity and help to focus our creative energy. Today I'm going to introduce the alternate idea of iambic pentameter, which is easier to accomplish in lower-level languages like Assembly than it is in C++. "Does it have to rhyme?" Milton joked yesterday afternoon, demonstrating that he knows no more about poetry than he does about programming.

[SCENE]

They asked me about my dream house. I don't know. It's small, not big. It has a porch. It's comfortable. It has electricity, but you have to really look to find it. The large, shady front garden runs all the way to the road. There is no curb, just a small ditch for rain drainage. The road leads to town, but it curves a few times first. It's walking distance, so you don't have to take the pickup, and it's not a dangerous walk, because no one ever drives on it. The garage is detached and rarely used. Beyond that, I don't know. There will be wood. Lots of wood.

[SCENE]

Never pick up a hitchhiking clown. Trust me on this one. Just don't.

[ADVICE]

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Susie Day

Thirty-seven years ago today the potential for someone like you to exist in the world was realized. From that day forward you were more than just an opinion, you were a fact, indisputable. You were true.

You are older than me by several months, so I have never lived in a world where you were not true. You have always been a fact for me, though I didn't always know it. As a child I learned many other facts, like the fact that it takes seven seconds for the light from the sun to reach the earth, or the fact that Canadians return to the place of their birth once each year to spawn, but I didn't learn until I was nineteen what was to be the central truth of my life, the fact of you. I never knew, as I grew, that you were out there, a wiry young girl playing on playgrounds. I never knew your active mind as it played imagination games with your friends. I never knew you were silently beating all the brain boys in high school to graduate as the surprise Valedictorian. I was completely oblivious to the truth of you until we met.

Today I know nothing as well and as surely as I know you. I've forgotten other things, learned that others weren't true. You are my absolute. Every day, when I wake up, you are still there and you are still true.

Happy birthday, Susan. I love you.

Hello, friends. It's Susan's birthday.

Later. Love.

P. S. - If memory serves, it's also your twin sister's birthday. I think that's right. So, you know, happy birthday to Katie too.

Handy and So Forth

The world's been pretty screwed up for a while and I've been too lazy to do anything about it. This morning, though, after I had a cup of coffee and watched the last thirty minutes of Revenge of the Nerds III on some basic cable channel, I decided to give the world a quick gander and see if I could figure out what's up. To be honest, I wasn't very hopeful. It's really not my area of expertise. Even so, I think I've figured it out. It's right over here, behind the refrigerator. Look. You see this thing here? You might need to scooch down a little. See it? This thing? Well, I think it's a valve or a flange or something. See all this water? Right here? Well, I'm pretty sure that's not supposed to be there. I think it's a leak. Maybe a blown seal or something. I'm pretty sure this is what's wrong with the world. Maybe we should call someone to fix it. I mean, I could get out my tools and bang around with it a little, but it's not really my area, like I said. Maybe we should get a professional. What do you think?

Oh, hey! Forget that last paragraph. It wasn't even true. Here's something I just thought of. (Of which I just thought?) This one time, when I was a kid and everything, we was tubing behind Howard's boat on Possum Kingdom Lake. It was my turn, and I stayed on the tube for a really long time. Well, I guess other people wanted to go, because Howard started trying to throw me off the tube. He could have just stopped and told me to get off, but I was a kid and he was a grownup and I guess he wanted to teach me a lesson about not tubing too long or something. So, anyway, he started going really fast and then he turned the boat in this really wide turn. The tube and me went WAY out to the side, and the force slowly tore my fingers loose from their grip. I saw it coming. I actually watched my fingers slipping, but I had no idea how bad it was going to hurt. I came loose and skipped across the surface of the water like a stone. The water felt like solid ground at that speed, and I was stunned pretty badly. I just floated there in the water and thought "ouch" and so forth. Still, the tubing was fun. I never did it again, but I can remember it being fun before all the pain and all that.

Later that night I snuck out of the campsite and went to see the Possum King. I joined his band of knights and told him to send word if ever he needed anything from me. So far I haven't heard anything. Come to think of it, that part might not have really happened.

One thing I know: If I ever have a boat - and I'm pretty sure I won't ever have one - I will never do that to a kid. It hurts. I'll just let him tube all day. Why not?

Hello, friends. Tell me what you're thinking.

Later. Love.

Lilith, Cruel and Fair

I've never really been one to worry. Sometimes I try to be anxious about my lack of concern, but I can't seem to muster even a mote of trepidation about it. I wonder sometimes if that's normal, but I don't lose any sleep over it. I've attempted to toss and turn all night about it, but I can never stay awake long enough. Oh well. I'm sure it's fine.

Do you ever get the feeling that everyone thinks you're paranoid?

When I was just a baby, newborn, Lilith came to me and touched my chest. The amulet I wore had been misengraved, so I was afflicted and filled with agony. Eight days I cried out, longing for the end, and eight nights she appeared and gazed, unmoved, at my plight. When the ninth sun rose on my tiny body, racked but vital still, she touched me once again and relief washed over me like a cool wave. Then, whispering into my ear, she told me a truth, a secret that I carry with me still. Sometimes, late at night, I remember it in my dreams. In the day, however, I can hear the noise but I cannot make out the words.

I'm not mad. I swear. I'm just touched. No worries.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Echoes and Such

I am often struck with the sense that the man I was when I was twenty would be disappointed with the man I am today. Yesterday, however, while I was looking through old photos, it occurred to that the boy I was at five or six would probably like the man I am today. I think that's more important to me anyway.

I've got little else today except that I've been thinking over the weekend about a poem I wrote a little over a year and a half ago. I posted it then, and could just link you to it, but instead I'm posting it again.

Even These

Who prays for the unlovable?
Who sheds a tear for the incorrigible bastards?

Crotchety old miser at the table alone
I know that your decrepit old heart
Longs for human kindness
In the vast desert of your miserable soul
And I weep for your loneliness
Justified though it is

Bitter, dangerous criminal in your cell
Disassociated and sociopathic maniac
There is no excuse for your murderous rage
But surely there is pain and sorrow in there
And despair of your wretched life
And I am moved for you today
And, could I, I would quiet your demons

Cruel and demanding bitch
Manipulative and destructive nag
You lord over your subjects like a tyrant
And you salivate to criticize and belittle
But you know the looks in those eyes
And you hear what they say about you
Surely this was not the little girl you were
This was not the dream you dreamt
I would uncrinkle the wadded remains of your heart
And remind you of hope and gentleness

I do not imagine these to be so distant
I do not imagine these to be so different
We all owe some apology
To the children that we were

That's it for today unless you're interested in the old photos I scanned yesterday.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

they call me pockets

I came to a conclusion about myself, about my identity as a man. I didn't want to admit it at first, but I've finally come to accept it. I am a man who uses his pockets. I use my pockets more than I use any other man-made technology. Whichever primitive person first had the idea of sewing little bags at strategic places on clothing changed my life profoundly. I keep my keys and money clip in my right front pocket. I keep my phone and security card in my left front pocket. I keep my wallet in my back right pocket. I keep my switchblade and my throwing stars in my back left pocket. I keep baby kangaroos in my pouch. I keep an unabridged dictionary in my shirt pocket. I keep my chainmail, the Sword of Agarotha and my trusty steed Echthelion in the bag of holding draped over my shoulder. I keep a dagger tucked into my tall leather boot. I am a pocketed man. I have pockets and I know how to use them.

Hello, friends. How about you?

Later. Love.

Me and Sid, We Was Friends

Siddhartha and I always argued at the end. Eventually we just stopped hanging out together. Our conversations had all become the same. They all went something like this.

"Look, I'm not saying I don't believe you're enlightened, dude. You might be. I mean, how would I know, you know? Who am I? All I'm saying is that I don't really believe in that sort of thing."

"I have found the Middle Way, Scott," he'd say, sipping his tea. "Why can't you just support me? I thought we were friends."

"We are friends, Sid," I'd respond, "I'm just, you know, skeptical. Plus, you know..."

"What?"

"Well, you know, it seems like you just want to blame people's suffering on themselves. I mean... I don't know... I don't think it's any great mystery why people suffer. I don't think it's any great mystery what we can do to stop it. It's just, you know, no one wants to do what needs to be done. It's a lot of work, you know?"

"No, I don't know. Enlighten me."

"Well, for example, your Dad used to push all these people into hiding every time you wanted to come out of your palace just so you wouldn't have to see them. That's how these people are treated all the time, Sid."

"So it's all my Dad's fault," he'd say.

"No, it's everyone's fault. That's just an example."

"It's your favorite example, though, isn't it? Look, maybe we just shouldn't talk about this."

"Whatever."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Then, after a long silence, I'd always say, "They're going to make a religion out of you, you know. These are ancient times, dude. That's what people do in ancient times."

"I really need to go, Scott. It was good seeing you."

"Just think about it," I'd say. "At least make it a good religion. At least do that."

"Goodbye."

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

P. S. - Sorry I was absent yesterday. I just ran out of time. Thanks for stopping by.