caveat emptor

Packing-Derm (A Repost from May 1, 2006)

I'm getting rid of my trained elephant, Stan. I'll send him to some sort of preserve where he can live out his days in peace. I had high hopes for Stan, thinking he could really be something special, but years of training have failed to do the trick. He's mastered juggling the flaming chainsaws and riding the unicycle across the heavy-guage high-wire. He's achieved an FIDE rating of 1950 in chess and can hit the bullseye on an archery range 99.8% of the time. He only came in second at the regional spelling bee, however, forgetting the all-too-obvious second "n" in "brunneous". Also his landing is still very shaky on his triple toe loop. It's hopeless. We've worked and worked and worked on these things, but he's maxed out. If the show can't be perfect, I don't want to put it on. I'm sure Stan feels the same way. I hope he does.

So, now I've got to find something else to fill up the hours of the long day. I want to invent reverse skydiving, where you start on the ground and shoot up and through the open door of a plane flying far overhead. I have no idea how I'm going to do it, but that's never stopped me before. I should probably buy a helmet.

Goodbye, Stan. I'll miss you, old boy. You were always friendly and helpful, and you made the best ham and mushroom omelettes. Find a cow to settle down with and I'll come and visit you guys from time to time. I'll never forget you, and I know you'll never forget me.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Fierce and Joyful

Today I'm thinking of Susan like this, just after she started treatment when we decided to shave her head because her hair began to fall out aggressively. She's in a long, major surgery today to remove her esophagus and the top portion of her stomach, a seven hour surgery, and I'm sitting in this damnable waiting room, and it comforts me to think of her like this, full of strength and good humor and energy.

Please think good things for her today. Thanks.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well.

Later. Love.

Again, Thank You

You know, I've never properly thanked you people for the difference you've made in my life. When I first started blogging, I was a little messed up. Like a lot of people, I started this blog mainly in the hopes of meeting people on the Internet, arranging meetings with them in person, and then murdering them. It seemed like the thing to do at the time.

Now that I know you, though, and I see what great people you are, I realize that I could never, and would never want to, hurt any of you. I've realized over the past few years that my ruse has become my reality. I have truly become this character that I created to fool all of you.

So, thank you. You've made me a better man. If I ever do make arrangements to meet with you, you can rest assured that I will not murder you. And this isn't just a part of my plot to lull you into my confidence so that I can, in fact, murder you. I'm really not going to. I swear.

And how are you today?

Later. Love.

(Originally posted on 03/13/2006.)

The Mountain and the Fire

There are many paths to the fire around which we sit, telling everything we've seen, everything we've learned. Life starts at the top of the mountain and plummets downward, rough and tumble. If you can resist the urge to turn and climb up again you may not die scrambling in futility on the craggy cliffs. If you can turn and find a path through the wilderness you will arrive, at length, at the fire. Here all are welcome, bewildered and suspicious to have apparently arrived. Some wander away, looking for the mountain again, straining to see it in the dusky distance.

When you die we throw you into the fire to keep it going, a sacrifice to the wilderness of life. Some say the smoke of you goes back to the top of the mountain. I don't know. Maybe it does, but mostly everyone burns bright, light and warmth for the circle.

When I'm gone throw me in. If I find my way back to the mountain I'll hurry back. I'll try with all my strength to remember all that happened, to remember being here, and to come back and tell you the truth at last.

In the beginning there is a mountain hard, cold at the top. At the bottom there is a wilderness wild laced and woven with more paths than you can count. At the end of every path is the fire. Come. Sit. Tell us where you've been.

Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?

Later. Love.

(Note: Originally posted 12/31/2007.)

To Gather Paradise

Every day lives are crushed by injustice. Horrors abound. I know this. I can hear it in the background rumble along with the Top Forty and the slow drone of scattered silence, white noise. There are too many voices directing me to too many right paths, there are too many gods looking for prophets, panning for profits. Forgive me if I give only a casual nod to your life in flames. It's not that I misunderstand the gravity of your plight, it's just that gravity pulls me in a different direction to the same ultimate destination. We are forced to laugh in spite of awful sadness if we are to laugh at all. There are also a million shouts of joy, and we cannot heed them all. Sometimes my mind aspires to enlightened hope, and sometimes my hands clap on the downbeat. Some would wrest my soul free to spiritual Nirvana, and often would I gladly go. Today, however, I search for animal heaven. Today I kiss her neck, lost in her long, dark hair. Today I pull her close and, smiling, growl into her ear. To be a human is to balance and experience as much as we can of all the choices and voices with only two hands, two feet, two eyes, two ears, one mouth, one mind and no idea what comes next. Today I will not throw myself into the flames in despair. Today I will grow just enough to embrace just a little more. I will do this each day for as long as I can.

Hello, friends. What will you do today?

Later. Love.

(from 03/30/2007)

Show Me the Way (Again)

Everyone is an option, but not really. You have to be careful doing it, but I recommend exploring everyone around you. Pick them up. Listen to them. Really, really look at them. Figure them out. Then put them back down. Try not to be obvious when you do this. If they realize what you're doing they won't act naturally. You'll get scripted life like reality television. It may get written poorly, it may get written on the spot, but it's still written. You don't want this. What you want is to invade them where they live, to intrude where they think you cannot come, to catch them unaware.

In most people I see the key to living happily. All around me people tell me, without knowing it, the better way. I take careful notes and resolve to become that person. I will wear what they wear. I will eat what they eat. I will know what they know and love what they love. I will hold my mouth like that, with the little upturn on the lips, pursed together, eyes looking intently between here and there at the minute details of nothing at all. Every day I learn the way. Every day I really understand, for the first time, what it all means.

Still here I am. Day after day. Month after month. Life after life after life. My experiences do not accumulate. I'm karmic Teflon. Tomorrow will be today, as was yesterday. I felt this same way in France, in Egypt, in Mesopotamia, in the Pangæan Sea. Only one time around, in a distant life, did I believe in transmigration of the soul. Mostly, in the other lives, I've been the skeptical sort. I've no use for such nonsense. I never have. Well, once I did.

There is a girl, I'd say two or three years old, holding her juice with both hands high above her head as she walks. I will do this. From now on, I will do this. It is so obviously the right way.

Hello, friends. How are you?

Later. Love.

(Originally posted 06/24/2008. Sorry for the repost. Busy.)

Repost: Seed

More hospitals and tests today. No time for writing. Here, therefore, is a repost. I originally posted this on December 20, 2005. I hope you enjoy it:

Now you find yourself nestled in loosely packed soil. Being a seed, you begin the slow process for which you are famous. You're just floating around in this sea of particles, which is not a conducive state for anchoring a large tree. Your first job is to stabilize your position and reach out for food and water. If you succeed in this, you'll send skyward the delicate shoot that will be the trunk. If not, you'll dry out and die. These activites are all rich sources of metaphor, but not for you. You really are a seed planted in fertile soil. Your metaphors will have to come from elsewhere. You struggle like a newly married couple trying to make a place in the world, trying to start a branch for your ancient family trees. Your struggle is much like that. You do not know it, but you will succeed. In the process, however, you will become something very different. You will become a tree. There are no successful seeds, there are only trees.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Made in the Shade (Orig. From 05/06)

(Repost today. Busy. Sorry.)

Shadows stretch and lengthen across the yards and parking lots around town as evening sets in. This triggers some part of me to come alive. I have this theory that I'm 1/64th vampire or something. I love the night. (Plus garlic makes my breath foul. Coincidence? I don't think so.) I love the shadows. What is the night, after all, but the queen of all shadows. At night we stand where the shadow of the Earth begins. From there it casts out across the vastness of space. Shadows never end, as long as there is the potential for light.

When you tell people you love the night, many of them get the wrong impression. I am not, for example, a party boy. I don't say, "Woo." I don't frequent the places circled as "Hot Spots" on Mapsco books of the Girls Gone Wild production team. I've never walked into a flashing, thumping dance club, and I never will. I am also not a Goth person. I wear jeans or shorts and flip flops or sandals and T-shirts or those Latin wedding shirts or camp shirts. I do not wear long black trench coats in the middle of the summer. I do not wear eye makeup. I do not sign my name "Sköt Wight." If I am, in fact, 1/64th vampire, I'm the white sheep of the family. My love for the shadows is milder and more organic.

I like the cool and quiet of the night. I love the lack of ambition. No one expects anything from you at night. Few people are trying to accomplish anything more ambitious than nookie. The night, as long as you can stay awake, is free time. I love this freedom, this easiness.

Some of you wear yellow and orange and white and you're sunny beach people. Some of you love a clear warm or hot day. Some of you love summer afternoons. That's good. The world needs people like you. The greeting card industry REALLY needs you. We all need you. And we love you. You're great. You really are.

We do, however, breathe a sigh of relief when you finally go to bed (at 8:30) and we can relax.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Repost: Tackling Block (from 01/07/2007)

Some day I'm going to buy a little house on Writer's Block. We'll have highly literary block parties, playing proverbial games in the storied street. We'll toast our muses and muse on our idyllic days and daze and confuse each other with beautiful lines and pericopes. We'll laze in the sun to the buzz of spelling bees, amazing Grace with grace and confessing sins to cardinals in their nests. Good neighbors sharing neighborly goodies and re-imagining every slight detail, detailing every imagined slight, documenting all the while, whiling away the time, timing every line, lining up to be the first to last, the last to die, the one who lives to tell the tale. Some day I'll write of Writer's Block, the place that I called home.

It brings to mind, all this talk, the days I spent in discipline strict, learning to be still. Stillness is the key to smooth movement, and smooth movement, perfectly in control, is the key to prowess in the martial arts. In a vaguely Asian world my masters taught me the secrets, the muscles and moves, the ancient truths of mêlée. The greatest strength is the power to stand against the blow, to block the foe's worst strike. The greatest block of all, the culmination of years of unlearning and learning and coming to know, is the Writer's Block. "The pen is mightier than the sword," he said. "We know these truths, because they were written."

They say a picture's worth a thousand words. I've got the negatives of more than twenty five birthday parties, at least thirty pictures each, in this envelope. Let's make a deal.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Rerun: Afternoon Haunts

Running late this morning. Here, therefore, is something I wrote and posted a few months ago. I hope you like it this time.

It's an old, abandoned graveyard — tombstones cracked and mildewed, statues with black, lichen tears molder and decay — on a sunny spring afternoon. Butterflies and dragonflies in the warm afternoon breeze light on sepulchers and crypts. There is a different quiet than you might imagine among the graves, the soft buzzing and chirping quiet of the daytime meadow. It's a setting out of place. All the ghosts have blown away across the field and are caught, flapping, in the highest limbs of the line of trees along the road. The reaper has shed his robes and is taking a dip in the nearby stream. It's a zombie picnic scene in the dreamy afternoon.

Paul sits at the end of the otherwise empty bar drooping like excess out of steam. More dust than you can imagine swims in the bright contrast of sun pouring midday through the small, high window beside the liquor shelves. A song you've never heard and won't remember when you hear it again plays reluctantly from the crooked speaker on the back wall, stiff wire snaking awkwardly from behind it to an unfinished hole poked through the cheap wallboard two feet below and slightly to the left. Paul is not in a noticing frame of mind but his blinking eye watches the slow journey of a single drop of condensation crawling down his glass to join its brothers and sisters in the sloppy pool below. Low self-esteem, I suppose, brings him here out of season when the place is lowly and sad. He's never felt adequate for evening, when nighttime raises the bar.

When the sun shines on my grave it warms my soul. The Greeks share one word, pneuma, for spirit and wind and air, haunted softly by the sweet scent of wildflowers on this waltzing afternoon breeze.

I like that one.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love

A Repeat from 5/31/2006: The Report

When my soul returned to the place from which we come, the others crowded around, as they always do, and begged to know. "What did you see?" they asked. "What did you see?" This is what I told them.

I've seen fathers throw away their children, but sometimes they do not. I've seen mothers love their children fiercely, but sometimes they do not. I've seen a beautiful young girl smile at an eager young boy and terrify him. I've seen a handsome young man smile at an eager young woman and make her blood race. I've seen a man sacrifice his life and it was quick and brief and violent and glorious. I've seen a woman sacrifice her life and it was slow and long and difficult and beautiful, because a man will die for another, but a woman will live for them. I've seen mercy forsaken in the markets and courts, but manifested in back alleys and dark rooms. I've seen too much sun and too little rain. I've seen too much rain and too little shelter. I've see too much shelter and too little compassion. I've seen kindness stored up in vessels while people die in the streets. But I've also seen hints and heard whispers of a coming day, when kindness and mercy will be poured out from every doorstep. It will flow down into the low places, bearing us up like a mighty, rushing river, carrying us down to the sea and home.

"And when? When is that day?" they asked.

"I do not know, but not today," I replied. "Certainly not today." And then, though many souls like to wait and to rest and to consider, I turned immediately, and dove back in.

Hello friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Rerun: Will and Stone

I'm on vacation and, therefore, I'm not blogging. I know how badly you all need me every day, however, so I'm re-posting an old post. I originally posted it on January 31, 2006. I hope you like it.

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.

Okay. That was that. I hope you enjoyed it.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Rerun: Work and Play

I'm in a rush today. Sorry. It's not, I swear, a reflection of your value to me, Internet people. It's just that I'm attending a conference every day for the rest of this week and I'm running a little late today. So, here's a rerun from a post I originally posted in November of 2006. In some ways I really like it, and in some ways I'm not so sure. This is how I always feel about something I've written. I hope you enjoy it.

On Work and Play, My Child

Fancy and whimsy are the luxury of the unoccupied mind, the dream of something less difficult, more wondrous, than scratching vegetable survival from the dirt or running down bloody survival in the hills or the woods. We now enjoy a season, my child, in which we, humanity, have pushed back necessity from certain hours and certain years and opened up a time for fancy and whimsy, a time for play. This is a gift we give to each other, a gift our mothers and fathers for hundreds of generations have given to us. I hope you love to play, my child, and I hope that you play every day exhausting all the strength of your body and your mind.

Fantasy, the dream of other worlds and wonders unseen, has been the subject of human play for as long as we know. To imagine these things, to push our minds beyond our senses, is to be human. As long as you live, my child, use your times of play to explore the limits of human fantasy. Listen to the stories others have told, and tell stories of your own. Dream, as we always have, of a place where your mind breaks past the influence of your hands and the limits of your strength and exerts itself magically to accomplish everything your heart desires. Give yourself a place for magic in your mind, my child, and let it live there forever.

But with that same mind, my child, see yourself and the world with clarity. Do not be sad when you hear that your time for unbounded play grows short. From forever ago until forever to come, being human, indeed being alive, means that you strive to survive. There is a joy in work, my child, and I would have you love that with all the energy you give to play. There is joy in craft and skill, and you've seen this even in your play. There is joy in starting something new and joy in finishing. There is joy in learning and there is joy in teaching. It will serve you well to remember these joys, my child, and to think of them whenever you can, because work is hard. Some days work will leave you drained. Some days you will use all the strength you have to finish the job. Some days work will be too much. Some days work will break your back and wound your soul. Someday you may claim responsibility for and entwine your fate with a job that will take your very life. Even so, my child, take joy in your work as in your play.

And what joy is there, you might ask, for the dead? Do not forget, my child, your times of play or your dreams of magic. Even more, however, do not forget that they were bought for you with the sweat and, ultimately, the lives of millions of years of humans at work. Do not, in your play, become so distracted by the dream of another world, a fantasy, that you allow it to usurp the place in your heart that should belong to this, your world and to these, your people. Remember to love humanity, my child, to love this world with all your heart and strength. Remember to love those who worked for you. Remember to love those children to come and, loving them, to choose your work carefully, that it might buy for them a time to play.

Love, my child, is the joy of work. Love is the joy of those who die having done, for humanity, their job.

Okay. There it is, such as it was.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

Rumble: A Rerun

I'm crazy busy, so here's a rerun from October of 2005. It's called Rumble:

---

Tonight's the big rumble against the Dangerous Water Animals, our rival gang, and I'm SO not ready. We're going to surprise them over by the rec center where they typically hang out on Friday night. We've got no choice, really, they put one of our guys, Diet Dr. Pepper, in the hospital. He's a good kid, and we're plenty mad about it. I'm plenty mad too, believe me, but I wish it was next weekend so I could practice some more.

Don't get me wrong, now, I'm not afraid. The day a member of the Ferocious Predatory Cats, our gang of young toughs, is afraid of the Dangerous Water Animals is a day that's never going to actually happen in this path along the time-space continuum, if you know what I mean when I say that. It's not fear of them, it's performance anxiety. I always get it before a big rumble if I feel I'm not prepared. I'm just not sure of my moves. I wish we had a chance to do one more walk-through. I DO NOT want to be the guy who messes up the whole rumble.

The plan is that we'll come in from the right, walking slowly toward the cluster of Dangerous Water Animals on the left. They'll be standing on the sidewalk or sitting either on the curb or on the stoops. I'm sure their arrangement will be well-composed. They're pretty good about that (Leather Motorcycle Gloves, our handsome gang leader, would be furious if he heard me say that.) They'll notice us and slowly stand and group up behind Smoldering Eyes, their leader. When they're all in place, Leather Motorcycle Gloves will start the snap count, and we're joining in with snaps on beats 2 and 4. He's going to snap beats 1 and 3 alone. It's a pretty cool effect. Then we switch from our normal walk to the step/slide strut. I'm good with that part. We do that for four measures and then FLARE, BACK, BACK, KICK, SLIDE SIDE (2,3,4), SLIDE FRONT (2,3,4), FLARE, BACK, BACK, KICK, FLARE, FRONT, FRONT, KICK, SLIDE BACK (2,3,4), SLIDE FRONT (2,3,4). These are our signature opening moves. I know them like I know my own tap shoes. Then, of course, we just snap for sixteen measures while they do their opening moves.

This is where I lose it. I'm just a total blank. I think Wild Cherry Cough Drop does his swirling, kicking thing at this point, but I'm not really sure. WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO BE TONIGHT?

I'm going to text Hot Pockets and see if he can meet me for lunch. We can grab a salad or something and then go over our moves in the park. I'll offer to buy, that'll get him there. I really don't want to call in sick for this one. Leather Motorcycle Gloves is already a little depressed about attendance. He's so hard on himself. He's a good leader, he really is. I mean, he's no Smooth Cruiser, it's true, but who is? There'll never be another Smooth Cruiser. Nevertheless, Leather Motorcycle Gloves inspires the guys and his choreography is really creative. I really don't want to let him down.

Practice, practice, practice. Come on Hot Pockets, text me back.

---

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Love.

First Blog Post Ever

Today is my youngest daughter's birthday (Happy birthday, Rayn!), so I had no coffee shop time this morning. Hence I had no time to write. Instead, here's the first blog post I ever posted. It was originally posted on August 06, 2004.

Hello, Dalai

"I think I saw the Dalai Lama today at Luby's." He paused, waiting for a reaction. I winced in pain. His credulity sucked away all my energy, my will to live.

"Why would the Dalai Lama be at Luby's?"

"How the hell should I know!?" He was mad, and angry. It's not that I think I know everything, but I know this much.

"What did he look like?"

"He was old with a cowboy hat, a black golf shirt, blue jeans and cowboy boots." His stare dared me to scoff. He knew what he'd seen, damn it.

"What the hell makes you think he was the Dalai Lama?"

"Because, smart ass, it said 'Dalai Lama' on his belt buckle." Checkmate!

I could smell the sweet fragrance of the Lotus, and all my doubts evaporated into sublime resignation. Dharma.

Thanks for stopping by!

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Rerun: On Work and Play, My Child

Too Busy. No time for anything new. Here's an old post from late 2006. I hope you like it (this time.) Fancy and whimsy are the luxury of the unoccupied mind, the dream of something less difficult, more wondrous, than scratching vegetable survival from the dirt or running down bloody survival in the hills or the woods. We now enjoy a season, my child, in which we, humanity, have pushed back necessity from certain hours and certain years and opened up a time for fancy and whimsy, a time for play. This is a gift we give to each other, a gift our mothers and fathers for hundreds of generations have given to us. I hope you love to play, my child, and I hope that you play every day exhausting all the strength of your body and your mind. Fantasy, the dream of other worlds and wonders unseen, has been the subject of human play for as long as we know. To imagine these things, to push our minds beyond our senses, is to be human. As long as you live, my child, use your times of play to explore the limits of human fantasy. Listen to the stories others have told, and tell stories of your own. Dream, as we always have, of a place where your mind breaks past the influence of your hands and the limits of your strength and exerts itself magically to accomplish everything your heart desires. Give yourself a place for magic in your mind, my child, and let it live there forever. But with that same mind, my child, see yourself and the world with clarity. Do not be sad when you hear that your time for unbounded play grows short. From forever ago until forever to come, being human, indeed being alive, means that you strive to survive. There is a joy in work, my child, and I would have you love that with all the energy you give to play. There is joy in craft and skill, and you've seen this even in your play. There is joy in starting something new and joy in finishing. There is joy in learning and there is joy in teaching. It will serve you well to remember these joys, my child, and to think of them whenever you can, because work is hard. Some days work will leave you drained. Some days you will use all the strength you have to finish the job. Some days work will be too much. Some days work will break your back and wound your soul. Someday you may claim responsibility for and entwine your fate with a job that will take your very life. Even so, my child, take joy in your work as in your play. And what joy is there, you might ask, for the dead? Do not forget, my child, your times of play or your dreams of magic. Even more, however, do not forget that they were bought for you with the sweat and, ultimately, the lives of millions of years of humans at work. Do not, in your play, become so distracted by the dream of another world, a fantasy, that you allow it to usurp the place in your heart that should belong to this, your world and to these, your people. Remember to love humanity, my child, to love this world with all your heart and strength. Remember to love those who worked for you. Remember to love those children to come and, loving them, to choose your work carefully, that it might buy for them a time to play. Love, my child, is the joy of work. Love is the joy of those who die having done, for humanity, their job.

Hello, friends. I hope you are happy, or at least hopeful, today. Later. Love.

Repost: My Biggest Failure

My schedule is off today and I've no time to post. Here is a repost from long ago. It was originally posted here on September 13, 2004. I hope you enjoy it.

My Biggest Failure

In the middle of my back yard there is an enormous oak, more than one hundred feet high. Its lush branches spread out and shade the entire yard and more. It is tall and strong, beautiful and majestic. If you sit at the base of the trunk, where the mighty roots burrow into the soil, and brush aside the collected dead leaves and grass clippings, you will find a plastic bag. Inside you will find an old, tattered copy of The Ancient Oriental Art of Bonsai, and some rusted Bonsai clippers, bent and dulled from use. I finally gave up when I could no longer reach the upper branches. I followed all the instructions completely, and I don’t understand what went wrong. I should cut it down, but I leave it to remind me that we cannot all be good at everything.

There you have it. Thanks for stopping by.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.

Rumble

This is a repost because they made me wake up at 2:00 AM this morning and I'm not allowed to have caffeine. I'm in no state of mind for writing. I just want to sleep or caffeinate, but they won't let me. So, here's an old post from October 25, 2005, that I think is funny.

Rumble

Tonight's the big rumble against the Dangerous Water Animals, our rival gang, and I'm SO not ready. We're going to surprise them over by the rec center where they typically hang out on Friday night. We've got no choice, really, they put one of our guys, Diet Dr. Pepper, in the hospital. He's a good kid, and we're plenty mad about it. I'm plenty mad too, believe me, but I wish it was next weekend so I could practice some more.

Don't get me wrong, now, I'm not afraid. The day a member of the Ferocious Predatory Cats, our gang of young toughs, is afraid of the Dangerous Water Animals is a day that's never going to actually happen in this path along the time-space continuum, if you know what I mean when I say that. It's not fear of them, it's performance anxiety. I always get it before a big rumble if I feel I'm not prepared. I'm just not sure of my moves. I wish we had a chance to do one more walk-through. I DO NOT want to be the guy who messes up the whole rumble.

The plan is that we'll come in from the right, walking slowly toward the cluster of Dangerous Water Animals on the left. They'll be standing on the sidewalk or sitting either on the curb or on the stoops. I'm sure their arrangement will be well-composed. They're pretty good about that (Leather Motorcycle Gloves, our handsome gang leader, would be furious if he heard me say that). They'll notice us and slowly stand and group up behind Smoldering Eyes, their leader. When they're all in place, Leather Motorcycle Gloves will start the snap count, and we're joining in with snaps on beats 2 and 4. He's going to snap beats 1 and 3 alone. It's a pretty cool effect. Then we switch from our normal walk to the step/slide strut. I'm good with that part. We do that for four measures and then FLARE, BACK, BACK, KICK, SLIDE SIDE (2,3,4), SLIDE FRONT (2,3,4), FLARE, BACK, BACK, KICK, FLARE, FRONT, FRONT, KICK, SLIDE BACK (2,3,4), SLIDE FRONT (2,3,4). These are our signature opening moves. I know them like I know my own tap shoes. Then, of course, we just snap for sixteen measures while they do their opening moves.

This is where I lose it. I'm just a total blank. I think Wild Cherry Cough Drop does his swirling, kicking thing at this point, but I'm not really sure. WHY DOES THIS HAVE TO BE TONIGHT?

I'm going to text Hot Pockets and see if he can meet me for lunch. We can grab a salad or something and then go over our moves in the park. I'll offer to buy, that'll get him there. I really don't want to call in sick for this one. Leather Motorcycle Gloves is already a little depressed about attendance. He's so hard on himself. He's a good leader, he really is. I mean, he's no Smooth Cruiser, it's true, but who is? There'll never be another Smooth Cruiser. Nevertheless, Leather Motorcycle Gloves inspires the guys and his choreography is really creative. I really don't want to let him down.

Practice, practice, practice. Come on Hot Pockets, text me back.

So, that's it. I hope you enjoyed it

Hello, friends. Tell me what's up with you.

Later. Love.

Greatest Hits (Redux)

Today my whole schedule is off. So, I'm posting an old post for you to read. I hope you enjoy it. I'll try to post something new later.

Greatest Hits (orignally posted September 2004 @ cogito)

Remember when we were kids? Remember?

Remember the time Tom (or maybe it was you) knocked down the wasp nest and we had to run across the yard and across the church parking lot to escape the wasps? Remember someone got stung (I don’t remember who it was)?

Remember peeking into the girls shower room that night at the state park during the camp out? Remember how you hogged the vent and I hardly got to see? Remember when the guy came around the corner and was, like, “Hey! What are you doing!?” Remember how we ran? Remember how scared we were? Remember how, when we got back to the campfire, we jumped into your raft to hide? Remember how we traded jackets so the guy might not recognize us if he walked by?

Remember sneaking out at night and running to hide from every car that drove by? Remember how Tom was like a ninja and he would jump into a tree and make his arms look like branches? Remember when the cop drove by and I jumped into the pile of leaves to hide, only it wasn’t a pile of leaves but a pile of sheet metal? Remember the loud noise? Remember how all the dogs barked for twenty minutes? Remember how the cop just drove by and looked at me like I was an idiot, laying on my stomach on that pile of metal, laughing my ass off?

Remember trying to shoot the golf ball into the side of the hill behind the church with the water balloon sling shot? Remember two of us holding the sling shot handles while you stretched the rubber bands as far as they would go? Remember how the golf ball missed the hill and kept going into the neighborhood across the street? Remember how it was still going up when we lost sight of it?

Remember scrambling down that same hill years later when the church flooded? Remember how the water was up to our waists when we went in? Remember seeing your car totally under water? Remember how the pews were floating around? Remember the giant storm drain in the back of the church? Remember how the water was over our heads when we went back out? Remember the clumps of fire ants that floated around and swarmed onto anything they touched? Remember how we started across the water about 200 yards from the drain and ended up about 20 yards from the drain when we got to the hill?

Remember all that? Remember that and a million other things? Remember?

That was cool.

Hello, friends. How are you today?

Later. Love.