Running with jello scissors

When you are not expected in the morning, to rise, to be outside, dressed, ready for the world, at any appointed time, time turns on itself and trims your day with jello scissors.

When you are not expected to speak, you find that you do not; not for hours on end. The most meaningful discourse shimmied to "Would you like plastic or paper?" or my favorite, "Did you find everything you were looking for?"

When you are not expected to perform excel manipulations or wordsmith tricks, you begin to teach your dog to dance; her silky coat rippling in the sunlight for a treat as you tempt her onto her hind legs for a count of ten.

When the alarm does not alarm, there is no need to shower, to dress, to comb the mares from your hair. You forget the days; seeing only is it daylight or night; hearing the quiet, the ticking of the clock (cliche clock) but it is there, tapping out the day and you will turn on anything to silence it.

Late, you wonder where is the twelve step program for the disenfranchised; the obsolete, unnecessary, expendable?

Then, late, all the pent up silence spills into a void, a vortex of silent deposit, here.

I should have known better . . .

than to buy him a present, an engraved present. He doesn't even know I bought him a present, but that is the way it has happened lately. The last three times (counting this one) that I have purchased a gift for a fellow, the relationship ends, self-destructs, faces undeniable truths, or communications are ceased.

A few years ago it was a watch. The last time it was imported Cuban cigars. This time it involved engraving.

So maybe being selfish is the best policy. Had I spend those funds on me, on Mary, especially considering this time I've just joined the ranks of those available for employment, perhaps those relationships would have turned out differently. I doubt it.

Nevertheless, how much happier I might be to think it is some random rule of the universe rather than something about me. Okay, it must be something about me then.

Vulnerable but hopeful

You know you are vulnerable when watching "Superman" and it's the scene where Lois Lane is hanging from the helicopter, about to plunge to her death. She loses her grip, and the Superman theme song swells. Your eyes fill with tears as Superman catches her mid-air and says, "It's okay, Miss. I've got you."

Well, no one has "got" me. I've got me.

I got the word on Friday that I'm being laid off. I only have about two weeks, then .... options. All of them -- what will I do?

I could go for a full-time teaching position.
I could teach high school or middle school English.
I could work at Trader Joes.
I could sell my house and become an international house sitter.
I could sell my house because I'm willing to give it away just so I won't have the debt.
I could stay and write and produce the book of our time, a first hand account of this "recession."
I could get another job doing administrative work - the mistake of my career for the last quarter century.
I could sell everything and move to Guatemala and buy a house for $20,000 and live on $3,000 a year; writing and hiking and swimming and eating mangoes and offering exclusive writing retreats to hand-picked writers six times a year (to earn my $3000).

BTW, Superman is 6'4" and weighs 225 lbs. Yes, that is the official word on that. At least I'm not crying anymore. And he never lies. I think that is a good policy; I'd rather hear an ugly truth than a pretty lie.

So, if I no longer have a 9-5 gig, what did I really want to be when I grew up? Didn't I always know that I could take care of myself? No. I didn't always know it. But I have known it for a long time. I cannot imagine that this won't be the next best thing that I never knew was coming.

Sabrina Wisdom

What you see depends on where you stand.

Some movies we enjoy because of the cinamatography; some for the characters; some for the message. Sabrina is full of lessons; never carry an umbrella in Paris, turn down the brim of your hat just a bit, and one of my favorite lessons is a cooking lesson:

The Professor: Bonjour, mesdames et monsiuers. Yesterday we have learned the correct way how to boil water. Today we will learn the correct way how to crack an egg. Voila! An egg. Now, an egg is not a stone; it is not made of wood, it is a living thing. It has a heart. So when we crack it, we must not torment it. We must be merciful and execute it quickly, like with the guillotine.
And the lesson that helps us see how this life is a conversation and not a lecture.


Thomas Fairchild: He's still David Larrabee, and you're still the chauffeur's daughter. And you're still reaching for the moon.
Sabrina Fairchild: No, father. The moon is reaching for me.
Of course, near the end of the film, there are more thoughts about the moon:
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sabrina Fairchild: I might as well be reaching for the moon.
Baron St. Fontanel: Oh, you young people are so old fashioned. Have you not heard? We are building rockets to reach the moon!

Not to mention the lessons about cooking a souffle. The film Sabrina is full of lessons.

Just because you don't get what you want doesn't mean you won't get something better and more authentic and better suited later.

Taking on Water . . .

Dreams of the last nights are riddles, puzzles, mirrors, windows; if I can just decipher the code.

Four nights ago, on a windy dark road through a thick forest, no moonlight, I am driving. There is a female in the passenger seat; maybe Sara, Wendy, Susan - I don't know the woman, but I know she trusts me and she is counting on me for something. I am driving. But I am blind. I say, "I can't see yet."
"But you're eyes are open." She raises her hand to the wheel.
"Yes, but I can't see yet. I have a condition."
"A condition?" I can see her panic like a funnel cloud in the distance racing closer.
"It's okay really. I'm highly intuitive."
"What kind of condition?" she says and her voice is pitching higher than the strings.
"Delayed rotation."
"Can you see yet? Can you see the road?"
"No." I begin to doubt myself. My teeth clench and my shoulders turtle up. "But I'm on it." I swallow. "Right?"
"What is delayed rotation?"
"I open my eyes but my eyeballs are turned inward because it is my nature. Mine have become delayed. They take longer to turn out again."
"Do you know where you're going?"
Then I wake up. I open my eyes, grateful for the dark room but the grays of definition. How much do I need to see to know where I am? I walked through much of my childhood without the lights on and I'm thriving. I can walk in the dark. I can trust my feet.
Right?

Dream two:
Last night, sidewalks, trees, dark misty night, some chemical smell as if a refinery is not far, The air is dense. My thighs are loaded with lead; I'm no larger; but I cannot move. I need a machete to move through this thickness. My back bends and there is no relief and no end to the road, rolling out like a ribbon of gray taffy. There is no stopping, no resting place. There is only the hot tar road beneath the thin souled shoes and this weight. Is this how we move in the world? Is this where I have to be now. It is as if I am swimming toward a shore that recedes with every stroke. And I am not in a place that permits floating. So there is only moving, stroking, swimming.
I wake exhausted, beaten. There it is then; the thing that doesn't happen to Mary. I feel beaten. I know I am not - but right here, this night, this moment, the vessel is swamped and taking on water.

There comes a time . . .

At one point or another most of my children's generation contemplate or get a tattoo. My daughter, Sara, chose her 18th birthday to get one. My son, Dylan, has been talking about the one he wanted for over a year; one of his own design and meaningful to him; individual.

I shared with him that I believed the strongest statement he could make with his skin would be to be one of the very few of his generation who turned around at 35 or 40 years of age and did not have a tattoo or piercing; that who he is should speak so confidently that no mark or sign would better represent him.

He disagreed. He was determined and had decided he would get a tattoo when he was 18. So, I decided I would scope out local tattoo parlors, try to determine the cleanest, safest, and most talented ink artists. Once an 18 year old "child" decides a course of action, it seems the best alternative is to participate and guard and guide as much as they will permit. I was impressed with Dragon Moon Tattoo in Glen Burnie. They refused to tattoo Dylan prior to his 18th birthday. They check ID. They use the most recent and thorough of sterilizing devices for their needles and their ink! So here is Dylan, my Beamish boy, my brilliant son, bearing the ink that defines him, for today anyway. It is possible that this may be the ironic highlight that defines this part of his life.

Psyche's Dream

Psyche's Dream

As Psyche, the most
beautiful of mortals,
sleeps among the
flowers, she dreams
of beholding the
perfect face of
Eros, her lover.
Having found true love
in each other,
they float down the
river of life forever.

What resonates for me is that Psyche is dreaming, floating. It is very much how I move through any given day -- seeing the endless potential, the potential, the portent of the curve of the moment.

Hope on Fire

Sometimes our lives ignite.
Like tonight.
There is the personal and
the global.
First - I am unwilling -
but you knew that -
to ask for help, to be less
than my whole life - to do less
than breathe fire.
If not now - when?

We knew this moment - we smiled all this day - we were jubilant at the poll place - we danced in the streets - we were gleeful - we knew.

Now, harness the faith in your own desire, your own perfection, your own "everything." There is no need to compromise in your self. Celebrate - and then get to work. As my grandfather always said, "Life is work. Love your work."
Thanks, Pop-pop.

Don't Vote

I remember when the school system made a move to ban books by Stephen King. He was thrilled. He told them to go ahead; ban his books; remove them from the library. He smiled that crooked, wicked little smile and said, "Ban them and your children will seek them out, find them, and huddle beneath the covers with a flashlight and read them in the dark of night."

So I say to you, "Don't vote." It won't make any difference. Besides you haven't done enough research, and they are calling for rain later. Why don't you at least wait until after you get off work. Put it off. After all, you are just one person. How much could it possibly matter.

So stay home. Don't vote.

Haunted by Tail Lights

She doesn't stand at the door.
She doesn't watch people drive away.
She's not haunted by tail lights
trailing off down the dark country road
under a half-moon, neither waning or waxing.

She doesn't hold on too long.
She doesn't want the off-balance
of the early release, the tumble
seeking gravity. When she turns,
she just keeps going; no need to
check over her shoulder; rather use her
resources to shield the glare of the sun
streaming into her eyes.

Mary Buys a Kayak!

Mary Visits Jiffy Lube

I'm experimenting with making videos. Some things are bound to turn out better than others :-/

Read this right now!

Obama is recalling growing up, raised by his grandmother. She said to him, "Well, it's no picnic for me either." What I heard was, "My life ain't been no crystal stair/But I's still climbing...."

I dob't take anything away from McCain. I respect McCain. I admire his service to our country, his tenacity in surviving being held captive. I see a life well-lived, in so many respects.

BUT, he does not know my childhood or my friends lives. That doesn't make him a bad choice for a leader; but McCain is not my choice. Not just because we are not similar in our experience in America, but more because he chose, he "chose" Palin.

I had wanted Hillary to be the democratic candidates. I see now why she is not that candidate. I only say this so you see that my objections about Palin are not because she is female. My doubts are not that she is inexperienced with world leaders and even national politics beyond her peninsula. I wonder, however, if you put her in a room of 8th graders and they played, "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego", if Palin would be in the top three. I wonder if she played a game with sixth graders about the constitution and the amendments, if she would be in the top six. I am not willing to wonder that about my vice president.

Barack knows the constitution, knows he is not a perfect man, knows he needs guidance and help and will ask for the help he needs. I believe those things about him. I do believe that if he asks America to step up, that finally, we will "all" step up; all of those that are able.

Is this powerful media - YES, it is. This is a presidential candidate who understands that all of the citizens are at his disposal; this thirty minute spot is how he talks to everyone - not the people who can buy a plate at a dinner to support him that costs in excess of $500. He spent his campaigning dollar to talk to me, to you. What did he ask for in return?

Pay attention. Listen. Vote.

Crazy Kayak Girl

The summer of 2008, I went kayaking about six times. The Severn, the Magothy, the Bay, became as much my waterfront as any one elses. No cell phone, no moving quickly. The sun, the salty-ish air, the birds, and my sister and friends made for hours of paradise in my own neighborhood.

We'd typically meet at the Boatyard Bar and Grill in Eastport for their legendary Bloody Mary(s) and then walk down the block to rent kayaks from Annapolis Canoe and Kayak rentals. They hold an annual end-of-season kayak sale and I was among the handful of people anxiously waiting for them to open the doors on Sunday morning.

An hour later, I was a proud boat owner! My kayak is a blue Dagger 12 with a skeg. Now all I need is a paddle, a whistle, a bailing system (sponge or cup and sponge), and a life jacket!

There is one other small detail that I didn't think through - transportation. For now, my kayak is safely cradled at Annapolis Canoe and Kayak. Next weekend, I hope to recruit a friend with a large vehicle to help me get my boat home. It is just possible that this modest kayak may fit inside my vehicle with the hatch open, etc. We'll see. Until then, if you see me walking down College Parkway with a kayak trailing behind me, you'll know that I'm headed for water!

Long Nights

Take off your shoes
Pin up your hair
Don't worry about the crumbs
or the dog hair. Spill
your wine on the carpet

And don't worry about the
mail; this has been a long day
and it's gonna be a night
deep as hell.

There is no help at the door
and no one inside. All the window
are closed and the curtains
are blind. Sheets as cool as
a shroud and your lips wanting
a swell.

TV is chatter, night fog for the ear,
your skin has grown onion thin,
your heart a mollusk shell.

You just don't want to go,
and you'll die if you stay.
Those will be the words
on your dying day.

14 Hour day and still restless

Here is an indication of a lack of balance: the person who was up at 6 AM is still up at nearly midnight and worked two job and cannot settle down, cannot rest, cannot take herself upstairs to sleep. Oh, the snooze alarm will wink at me in the morning, entice me to tap it, tap it, tap it, til I go to work in wrinkled clothes and unruly hair and all the thoughts that would not settle down scribbled in the furrows of my brow.

Financial Forecasting

"There is a tide in the affairs of men.
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures."

Julius Caesar Act 4, scene 3, 218–224
Brutus

Sarah Palin Debate Flow Chart

Okay, I didn't create it and probably won't leave it here long but you have to admit that it applies to plenty of other situations, not only during a debate.

Sally escaped in the woods

Not far from here is a wood, a conservation area off Log Inn Road; the wood is untamed for the most part except for a service path that cuts through the center and around the perimeter.

I was looking for an open, natural space to allow Sally off her leash, to ramble and race and run like a dog should: Well, at least as Sally should. So I parked on the side of the road, and we climbed over the low placed loosely fitted chain. Twilight coming on but still an hour hence, soft light filtered down through the leaves and the ground was forgiving from recent rains. After a few yards, I undid Sally's leash. Whenever she got a bit of distance between us, I called her to stay and sit. She did.

We traveled deeper into the wood. I threw a stick and she chased after and carried back the stick (or its cousin) several times. Then just beyond where Sally stood, I spied a burst of movement, tall and muscular, nearly invisible, blended with the palette of colors of the wood. "Sally stay," I commanded and thankfully she did as I envisioned her otherwise bounding off through the woods, relentless in her pursuit of a deer.

I secured her leash and walked a bit more. It seemed the deer (or it may have been Sasquatch - who appears sometimes when the air starts to chill) had left the area. So I let Sally free once more and she wandered and returned and wandered and returned. Although she was growing increasingly confident in the degrees of separation between us. So whenever she returned, I produced treats (ah, bacon).

The sun was moving closer to the horizon and I realized I might have started this adventure much earlier lest I find myself far from the gate and still in the woods (Sasquatch prefers company at sunset). It is at this moment, as my creative thoughts begin firing more brilliantly, that Sally races off into the wood, her nose twitching, her quarters leaping logs and brush as she manically pursues, a zig to the left and a zag to the right.

I shout, I cajole, I offer food. I run and yell, "C'mon Sally. Catch me." She is not interested in catching any human though as she has caught the scent of Sasquatch (okay, maybe it's a deer)and must find it, corral it. Soon I cannot see her and have to leave the access road/path and traipse through the brush, the prickly, the fallen limbs. After a bit, I cannot see the access path anymore even though I know it is there, even though I know if I keep going, I will come ot the access path on the far side, even though I know I am in a contained conservation wood not far from civilasation and will not be lost as I could be in the hills of North Carolina near Little Switzerland. "Sally!" I spot her and take off in that direction but she has hiding skills too and her invisibility coat is blending with the tree trunks and brush. "Sally. Come!" She does not. I go further in. What choice do I have? What else can you do when what you care about goes chasing after the scene of something unknown but has a primal urge compelling it to find the prey and contain it.

I spot her again and because she is dependent on me, because she is vulnerable among the wild things, I cajole her back, leash her up and lead her back out of the wood. I do know that she was joyous in her pursuit and would, no doubt, have responded well if she'd actually encountered Sasquatch - especially if he'd had bacon treats for her!

Why is it always that . . .

that sleep alludes me when work and life tax me the most?

My day started earlier than most because I'm presiding over a training seminar and then worked my days work and then taught my expository writing class; the late class that runs until 9:35PM and after the drive home, it is 10:45PM and even if I listen to a lullaby, my mind is racing with ideas of new class exercises and domestic tasks and missed birthdays and what to be for Halloween and you.