Saturday, December 9, 2017
Ice Cream
for the World: It Started Simple Enough
It started simple
enough. Marci and I were sick. We had just finished
watching Forest Gump. I had commented that as good
as that last thought of the last scene of the movies was,
when Forest says—
“I don’t know if it’s Mamma
that’s right, or if it’s Lieutenant Dan; I don’t know if we each have a destiny
or if we’re all just floating accidental like we’re floating on a breeze, but I
think maybe it’s both; maybe both can happen at the same time”
—I said that as good as that
thought was, it was an intrusive narrator speaking, not Forest.
I then asked my son Everest to bring
me a dish of ice cream. He resisted, saying among other things that
dairy isn’t good for you when you have a cold. I prevailed,
reminding him of all the many times I made dinner for him, hinting that it
could all come to an end if he were not forthcoming with the ice
cream. All he had to do was dish it up. I would crunch
the sugar-free chocolate and strawberry wafers on it myself.
I did prevail. And oh that
ice cream felt so good against my sore, raw throat. That’s when a
thought formed in my mind, so simple, so clear, it could almost be pure
religion—inspiration untainted by the ways of the world.
“You know, if this was it, if
this was all there is, to come to earth, to get a body, to taste ice cream, I
mean really taste ice cream, I think it would be all worth
it.”
“Maybe you should start a charity,”
said Marci. “Take ice cream to those who never had it.”
“Ice cream for the children
in Ethiopia,” said Everest.
They were joking, of course, making
fun of me.
But I knew then and there, no matter
how much I hated dipping ice cream at Braum’s after school, as a teenager
growing up in Texas, I had just found my true calling.
I went to the restroom as I also
had diarrhea and I Googled “ice cream trucks for sale” on my
I-Phone. It wasn’t easy. My I-Phone is my enemy, but I
did it.
At first I found a fleece
blanket, “Ice Cream Truck” byAngie Turner, $74.99 on Wayfair.
That was
pretty cool, but not what I needed.
Posted by Steve Brown at 6:04
PM
Sunday, December 10, 2017
Ice Cream for the World: Why Do Women Always Have to be So Dang Practical?
It was 7:58, Sunday morning, December 10th, 2017, to be exact--twenty-one days and three hours and 32 seconds before we would pull out of the lane at our place just east of Sandstone, Utah and hit the pavement for our new life on the road in our new very rustic ice cream truck.
It was a cold, dry morning. 23 degrees. I had woken up with a
cold, dry cough and gunky eyes and thought about taking a shower. I
had had a dream where I was making a data table of some sort for a
school. I must have been a consultant. It was an Excel
sheet, quite pretty, if I remember correctly, with big, bold lines for major
divisions, and thin, little lines for minor divisions, and lots of pretty
colors, from vibrant brights to ever so subtle pastels, and I was showing it to
some colleagues. They weren't really colleagues. I was some outside
consultant making twice each of their salaries, because that is the type
of thing school districts do, and I have been on both sides of it, the lucky
consultant and the overworked teacher, and generally, it all amounts to nothing
in the end--oh I won't worry my life away... (It's okay to
hum a bar of Jason Maraz's "Remedy" here.)
Anyway, my "peers" had some issues with some of my squares
of data. They wondered where they came from. I studied them
carefully, thinking back, trying to come up with some reasonable
explanation. The terrifying thing that I realized is that these boxes did
not contain student achievement scores; no, they didn't even contain
student or parent perception data; what they did contain were single words that
I'd isolated out of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki
Murakami. Apparently, I'd been up late working on a class for my MFA
program while also working on my consultant work, got bored, and started
filling in my data sheet with random Murakami-words: Kasahara,
occurred, Creta Kano, surrounded by darkness, sleep no border,
wakefulness.
The dream went on from there to places I will not follow that involved a
close-up of a saltine cracker smashed to pieces on a pristine polished school
tiled floor--the old type from the seventies, where each tile, itself, looks
sort of like a saltine cracker. I can picture an old heater by the
principal's office blowing out hot air. I would sit on it before school
and stare at frost on the lawn, watching it slowly melt in the early morning
November sunlight. Perhaps that is why it took so long for me to find my
true calling. Nobody has a need for someone who sits and watches frost
melt in the early morning rays.
Yet, after I dutifully read in my Book of Mormon, that's
also exactly what I did on the Sunday morning we speak of. I got up,
walked to the glass sliding door in the kitchen, looked out to see if there
were any deer. There weren't. Then, I grabbed the laptop out of the
living room, which is really the family room--Marci switched them--and I headed
to my blue chair in the family room, which is really the living room. The
sun slanted hard across the juniper ridge in front of our house, creating long,
blobular shadows, sort of like the shapes of hot air balloons, but not quite.
There was the beautiful pink and gray twiggy tops of cottonwood along the creek
bottom. There was the old, rustic, leaning ranch gate, and of course,
frost slowly melting off the rubble of dry wild rye. I was irritated that
there was also the red, iron arm of a digger--a snort, like in the book Are
You My Mother?--sticking out over the edge of the side canyon, meaning
they still hadn't gotten that pipe line laid right across our property.
They'd torn up our road more times than Trump had shocked the world.
I decided then and there, that it being a beautiful Sunday morning despite the
smog slowly leaking into the valley from Salt Lake and Provo in the north, and
the smoke slowly pouring in from the west from the fires in
California, and the gunk slowly oozing out of my eyes from my cold... Despite,
all this, it being a beautiful Sunday morning (and it truly was), the Lord's
day, I would not bring up the ice cream truck idea again until Monday because
it had not taken my relationship with Marci in a positive direction
when I brought it up the night before. Why do women always have to
be so dang practical?
Posted by Steve Brown at 8:40
AM
It was a cold, dry morning. 23 degrees. I had woken up with a cold, dry cough and gunky eyes and thought about taking a shower. I had had a dream where I was making a data table of some sort for a school. I must have been a consultant. It was an Excel sheet, quite pretty, if I remember correctly, with big, bold lines for major divisions, and thin, little lines for minor divisions, and lots of pretty colors, from vibrant brights to ever so subtle pastels, and I was showing it to some colleagues. They weren't really colleagues. I was some outside consultant making twice each of their salaries, because that is the type of thing school districts do, and I have been on both sides of it, the lucky consultant and the overworked teacher, and generally, it all amounts to nothing in the end--oh I won't worry my life away... (It's okay to hum a bar of Jason Maraz's "Remedy" here.)
Anyway, my "peers" had some issues with some of my squares of data. They wondered where they came from. I studied them carefully, thinking back, trying to come up with some reasonable explanation. The terrifying thing that I realized is that these boxes did not contain student achievement scores; no, they didn't even contain student or parent perception data; what they did contain were single words that I'd isolated out of The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. Apparently, I'd been up late working on a class for my MFA program while also working on my consultant work, got bored, and started filling in my data sheet with random Murakami-words: Kasahara, occurred, Creta Kano, surrounded by darkness, sleep no border, wakefulness.
The dream went on from there to places I will not follow that involved a close-up of a saltine cracker smashed to pieces on a pristine polished school tiled floor--the old type from the seventies, where each tile, itself, looks sort of like a saltine cracker. I can picture an old heater by the principal's office blowing out hot air. I would sit on it before school and stare at frost on the lawn, watching it slowly melt in the early morning November sunlight. Perhaps that is why it took so long for me to find my true calling. Nobody has a need for someone who sits and watches frost melt in the early morning rays.
Yet, after I dutifully read in my Book of Mormon, that's also exactly what I did on the Sunday morning we speak of. I got up, walked to the glass sliding door in the kitchen, looked out to see if there were any deer. There weren't. Then, I grabbed the laptop out of the living room, which is really the family room--Marci switched them--and I headed to my blue chair in the family room, which is really the living room. The sun slanted hard across the juniper ridge in front of our house, creating long, blobular shadows, sort of like the shapes of hot air balloons, but not quite. There was the beautiful pink and gray twiggy tops of cottonwood along the creek bottom. There was the old, rustic, leaning ranch gate, and of course, frost slowly melting off the rubble of dry wild rye. I was irritated that there was also the red, iron arm of a digger--a snort, like in the book Are You My Mother?--sticking out over the edge of the side canyon, meaning they still hadn't gotten that pipe line laid right across our property. They'd torn up our road more times than Trump had shocked the world.
I decided then and there, that it being a beautiful Sunday morning despite the smog slowly leaking into the valley from Salt Lake and Provo in the north, and the smoke slowly pouring in from the west from the fires in California, and the gunk slowly oozing out of my eyes from my cold... Despite, all this, it being a beautiful Sunday morning (and it truly was), the Lord's day, I would not bring up the ice cream truck idea again until Monday because it had not taken my relationship with Marci in a positive direction when I brought it up the night before. Why do women always have to be so dang practical?
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Ice Cream
for the World: Should I Buy the Ice Cream Truck? Should I Not?
Later that same Sunday after the
sun had dropped and shadows were long, and the back of our old single-wide
trailer across the field from our house was a blob of deep blue-purple with the
Juniper hill behind it softened in the sodium light of the frosty
pollution-rich inversion, I was staring at a rectangle of sunlight cast against
the family room wall when our youngest pug, Buddha (short for Budapest) broke
into frantic yapping, growling and scraping at the sliding glass door in the
dining room. I thought perhaps she saw or heard a deer. She never
seems to think our two big outdoor dogs, a blue heeler and a German
shepherd/golden retriever mix, might be better equipped to handle an
invasion of revolutionary-minded deer armed with shot guns better than
some yappy flat-nosed, baby-bite pug.
I had been reading Murakami's The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle as
I thought perhaps I should. As stated previously, I'd had a dream in
which I'd created a data table for a school to be used for tracking school
improvement (or more likely, the lack there of), and had randomly placed the
following words from the novel in the table: Kasahara, occurred,
Creta Kano, surrounded by darkness, sleep no border, wakefulness.
The words probably meant nothing. I don't read too much into
dreams, but it was odd that I would remember them, quite odd indeed.
I can never remember names, especially when I have to. I would tell
my students that it is impossible to know what you are going to write before
you start because without some trick, a mental trigger, like a rhyme scheme,
the human mind can't hold much more on its mental screen than three
sentences. And I believed it. Energy, not thought, carries human
communication forward--one word, one image, one phrase, one clause, triggers
the next domino to fall in a chain reaction that can ultimately produce
something as beautiful as War and Peace. Okay, time to
admit here that I've never actually read War and Peace, but you
get the idea. What I always left out during this great oratory
on the merits of automatic writing is that my mind can barely hold one
sentence. If Marci wants me to get more than three items at the store, I
make her write it down, or better yet, text me, as I also frequently lose bits,
sheets, or even slabs of paper. So, that I would actually
remember what I assumed were random words from a dream was a bit of a miracle
to say the least. I wanted to find out if they actually were in the
novel, which I hadn't opened for at least five years.
Before that, I had been reading in my Book of
Mormon. Nephi I, Chapter 22, verse 18 stood out:
Behold, my brethren, I say unto you, that these things must shortly
come; yea, even blood, and fire, and vapor of smoke must come; and it must
needs be upon the face of this earth; and it cometh unto men according to the
flesh if it so be that they harden their hearts against the Holy One of Israel.
I thought about the fires in California, about the smoke. Skies were
seldom clear anymore even in a county of less than two people per square
mile with an area of 6,828 square miles. And compared to China, our
air was a pristine glacier-fed stream, China's the Ganges
River. Perhaps we were living in the time of the vapor and smoke
prophesized.
I thought about the firefighters and those who lost their homes. I
thought about how, although a nice bowl of cold, pure vanilla ice cream
couldn't undo all the sorrow and pain, it could sooth the parched throat and
temporarily bring relief to the broken heart.
It was a simple act, but perhaps that's what the world needed now more than
ever. Simplicity. Good simplicity. Kindness without
motive. Something without too much ego. How can you tell someone
who has had their home wiped out by a wall of flame that everything is going to
be okay? I wasn't even sure myself everything was going to be okay.
In the long run, sure. I was convinced that there is a grand plan that ultimately
leads to joy for all but the most wicked. But, science indicated we were
headed towards climatic catastrophe and the predictions of the prophets of my
religion and Christianity in general seemed to confirm that this indeed might
be the end. But, one could, with a small gesture, still say "I
care" with a scoop of ice cream.
I also thought about my dream, about the student-data table, about how
meaningless most of our activities are in the grand scheme of things. I
had been in education for nearly twenty years, always working to better things,
and yet, as far as I could tell, things at best remained the same, and in some
ways they were spiraling out of control--mainly because of the disintegration
of the family. Life wasn't meaningless. I just had to look out side
and see that. It was the way we choose to spend our time that meant
diddly-squat.
Maybe my dream meant something. I picked up The Wind-Up Bird
Chronicle. I knew that was silly. I don't believe in fortune
cookies. Yet, I wanted to find something in black and white, something
that would tell me what to do. I wanted an answer, quick:
Should I buy the ice cream truck? Should I not?
Just then Buddha went off barking like a maniac, and I went to see what was
up. It wasn't a deer. It was one of our home teachers bringing us
goodies for the holidays. In the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day
Saints every family is assigned a set of priesthood holders who visit and check
in on them to see how they are doing and report back to the bishop if there are
any needs. For example, an elderly couple might need yard work in the
summer or firewood split in the winter. Or, perhaps a family where one of
the parents had lost their job or was laid off would need financial help.
The pair of elders would report that back to the bishop so that the family
could temporarily receive help through the church welfare system.
Generally though, home teaching is just a time to socialize and share a short
gospel message.
Ray, my home teacher, was a cop. He didn't stay long, but he told a
story about last Christmas, how he was called out because there was a
semi-truck going down the freeway at 110 miles per hour. That, in itself,
would not have been so bad, but it was in the middle of a heavy snowstorm.
"Why was a truck going 110 in a snow storm?" I asked incredulously.
So, I realized ice cream can't solve everything; in fact, I doubted it could
solve most problems. Still, I was pretty sure, despite its
limitations, it could definitely bring joy. Did data tables ever do
that? Not unless you were laughing at the futility of your
efforts. Then sometimes they did, but I was sick of finding mirth in
meaningless daily existence. I wanted results, and positive ones at that.
Maybe I had my answer. Maybe not.
Posted by Steve Brown at 4:48
PM
I had been reading Murakami's The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle as I thought perhaps I should. As stated previously, I'd had a dream in which I'd created a data table for a school to be used for tracking school improvement (or more likely, the lack there of), and had randomly placed the following words from the novel in the table: Kasahara, occurred, Creta Kano, surrounded by darkness, sleep no border, wakefulness.
The words probably meant nothing. I don't read too much into dreams, but it was odd that I would remember them, quite odd indeed. I can never remember names, especially when I have to. I would tell my students that it is impossible to know what you are going to write before you start because without some trick, a mental trigger, like a rhyme scheme, the human mind can't hold much more on its mental screen than three sentences. And I believed it. Energy, not thought, carries human communication forward--one word, one image, one phrase, one clause, triggers the next domino to fall in a chain reaction that can ultimately produce something as beautiful as War and Peace. Okay, time to admit here that I've never actually read War and Peace, but you get the idea. What I always left out during this great oratory on the merits of automatic writing is that my mind can barely hold one sentence. If Marci wants me to get more than three items at the store, I make her write it down, or better yet, text me, as I also frequently lose bits, sheets, or even slabs of paper. So, that I would actually remember what I assumed were random words from a dream was a bit of a miracle to say the least. I wanted to find out if they actually were in the novel, which I hadn't opened for at least five years.
Before that, I had been reading in my Book of Mormon. Nephi I, Chapter 22, verse 18 stood out:
Behold, my brethren, I say unto you, that these things must shortly come; yea, even blood, and fire, and vapor of smoke must come; and it must needs be upon the face of this earth; and it cometh unto men according to the flesh if it so be that they harden their hearts against the Holy One of Israel.
I thought about the fires in California, about the smoke. Skies were seldom clear anymore even in a county of less than two people per square mile with an area of 6,828 square miles. And compared to China, our air was a pristine glacier-fed stream, China's the Ganges River. Perhaps we were living in the time of the vapor and smoke prophesized.
I thought about the firefighters and those who lost their homes. I thought about how, although a nice bowl of cold, pure vanilla ice cream couldn't undo all the sorrow and pain, it could sooth the parched throat and temporarily bring relief to the broken heart.
It was a simple act, but perhaps that's what the world needed now more than ever. Simplicity. Good simplicity. Kindness without motive. Something without too much ego. How can you tell someone who has had their home wiped out by a wall of flame that everything is going to be okay? I wasn't even sure myself everything was going to be okay. In the long run, sure. I was convinced that there is a grand plan that ultimately leads to joy for all but the most wicked. But, science indicated we were headed towards climatic catastrophe and the predictions of the prophets of my religion and Christianity in general seemed to confirm that this indeed might be the end. But, one could, with a small gesture, still say "I care" with a scoop of ice cream.
I also thought about my dream, about the student-data table, about how meaningless most of our activities are in the grand scheme of things. I had been in education for nearly twenty years, always working to better things, and yet, as far as I could tell, things at best remained the same, and in some ways they were spiraling out of control--mainly because of the disintegration of the family. Life wasn't meaningless. I just had to look out side and see that. It was the way we choose to spend our time that meant diddly-squat.
Maybe my dream meant something. I picked up The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle. I knew that was silly. I don't believe in fortune cookies. Yet, I wanted to find something in black and white, something that would tell me what to do. I wanted an answer, quick:
Should I buy the ice cream truck? Should I not?
Just then Buddha went off barking like a maniac, and I went to see what was up. It wasn't a deer. It was one of our home teachers bringing us goodies for the holidays. In the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints every family is assigned a set of priesthood holders who visit and check in on them to see how they are doing and report back to the bishop if there are any needs. For example, an elderly couple might need yard work in the summer or firewood split in the winter. Or, perhaps a family where one of the parents had lost their job or was laid off would need financial help. The pair of elders would report that back to the bishop so that the family could temporarily receive help through the church welfare system. Generally though, home teaching is just a time to socialize and share a short gospel message.
Ray, my home teacher, was a cop. He didn't stay long, but he told a story about last Christmas, how he was called out because there was a semi-truck going down the freeway at 110 miles per hour. That, in itself, would not have been so bad, but it was in the middle of a heavy snowstorm.
"Why was a truck going 110 in a snow storm?" I asked incredulously.
So, I realized ice cream can't solve everything; in fact, I doubted it could solve most problems. Still, I was pretty sure, despite its limitations, it could definitely bring joy. Did data tables ever do that? Not unless you were laughing at the futility of your efforts. Then sometimes they did, but I was sick of finding mirth in meaningless daily existence. I wanted results, and positive ones at that.
Maybe I had my answer. Maybe not.
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Ice Cream
for the World: Small Moments of Caring without All the Ugly Awkwardness
Surrounding Human Emotions
Monday did not go as planned.
I passed a bladder stone though, and that was quite the relief. The day
started in a hazy dream, literally. I was in a big lumber/hardware store,
and it was dimly lit, dusty, and almost empty, not of goods, but of customers.
At first, I was looking for some batteries. I'm not sure why. I
think I'd found them and headed to the cashier. The checkout stands were
empty; a ghost-like light poured down through a high window, specks of dust
floating aimlessly down towards them. I must have
found someone to help, because over the loud speaker, someone called
"Customer Service wanted in Lane 4".
A ghostly girl, with long, dark hair and a pale face, maybe sixteen or
seventeen years old, emerged out of the darkness. Just as she
approached the check-out stand, I remembered I needed a radio, and I asked
where they were, got my answer, and took off. I'd taken oh about 10 steps
when another girl, about the same age, said, "Well, that was
rude."
I stopped. "What?"
"She walked all that way to help you, and you just leave."
"I forgot something. Besides it's her job. Her job."
I then headed for the back corner where I had been told the radios were.
It seemed forever far, and it was so dark in there, I wasn't sure I'd make it.
I kept telling myself. It's only a hardware store, you can do
this. Only I realize now, that it wasn't really a hardware
store. Or if it was, it was the type of hardware store you
would find in a small town, except it was giant. Stores in small towns
always contain more than what they promise, and also less of what the they
promise. For instance, when I was a kid growing up here in Sandstone,
Pioneer Market, a grocery store, sold shot guns not 10 feet from the children's
toys. Right above the toys were art supplies, such as acrylic paint, oil
paint and chalk pastels. In the back corner, down a slanted wooden floor,
the frozen pizzas were right next to the women scarfs. It was hard to get
a whole meal of food there, but you could supply yourself for an enjoyable
evening of landscape painting or a rollicking good time bunny blasting in the
process.
Anyway, I did make my way through the giant building of dry fog and eventually
found the clock radio that I was seeking, a small pill-shaped gray plastic
battery operated one on a giant, orange metal and wood plank shelving
system--the type you would pull a fork lift up to and unload a pallet
of bags of concrete. There, on a shelving system that ran the length
of a football field, was the alarm clock I wanted. It was the only
thing. I was creeped-out about it for a second or two, but then
grabbed it and headed back across the enormous gray void to the register
under the shaft of dusty light.
When I arrived, the girl with long, black hair and ghostly white skin was
waiting. She was terribly thin and small framed. She wore a pale
pink sweater. Her head was a bit long, but she had enormous dark,
brown eyes. They might have been inviting, but they were sunk in, circled
by shadow, and when she opened her mouth to ask if I had everything I needed, I
noticed she had little tiny pointed teeth like on a small puppy. I
realized they were all but rotted away. She noticed I noticed and seemed
embarrassed. I noticed she noticed, and I was embarrassed that I noticed.
Teens are so overly self-aware as it is. I tried to ease the tension by
making small talk, but I've never known how to do that.
It was long, awkward minute.
I woke up and I realized my life was rich with such awkward moments, and I
hated them. If I had had an ice cream cart in a situation like that, I
could have just said, "What's your flavor?"
She would have told me, I would have gotten it and handed it to
her. Tasting that cool sweetness--I'm thinking she would like
strawberry--she would have forgotten I had noticed her very unattractive teeth,
and I would have forgotten she noticed me noticing. I could have
gotten a scoop for myself too. I prefer clean, pure vanilla.
We could have enjoyed a silent moment of eating ice cream and then I could be
on my way. And it could be like that anywhere. You know how
you never know whether or not to give money to drunken panhandlers?
Well, what harm could ice cream possibly do? See what I mean: small
moments of caring without all the ugly awkwardness surrounding human
emotions.
Posted
by Steve Brown at 6:22 PM
Ice Cream for the World: More conflict; More
Ego-Eating Buzzards; More Slow, Gradual Enlightenment
As I started to say, Monday did not
go as planned. I hate gravity. I always have and I probably always
will. I hate designers who have no clue how gravity works even more than
I hate gravity itself. Designers of kitchen utensils seem especially
unschooled in the way gravity works. Designers of spatulas and stirring
spoons seem spectacularly inept.
Anyway, after I struggled to free myself from my dream of the girl with the
little pointed puppy teeth, I staggered to the kitchen to make my routine
egg. All went well until I rested the spatula in the pan with the
sputtering egg. It was a big, grand pan, and the two eggs slid down to
the far edge, so rather than gunk up the counter-top, I just let the spatula be
in the remaining portion of the pan. However, due to the spatula's stupid
design, gravity did not. It yanked on that incredibly fat heavy handle
with all its might, flung that thing up, over, and then down on the dirty,
dog-hair covered floor. Damn! Who makes the handle of a spatula
heavier than the spatula itself?
I thought to myself, Nope, ice cream can't solve every problem in the
world. Who knows what to do about the worm-infested minds of inventors
who don't seem to grasp the very essentials of their art. I'm thankful
the same can't be said for bridge engineers. Some people in this world
deserve ice cream. Others deserve firing squad.
I picked up the spatula, threw it in the sink, and sat down at the table, mad
at myself for getting angry at such a little thing. After regaining my
composure, I thought about wiping up the greasy spatula-spot on the floor but
decided to leave it for the dogs to clean up. I sat down and opened up my
scriptures to read while eating my breakfast. This day 2 Nephi 4:15-16
stood out:
And upon these I write the things of my soul, and many of the scriptures
which are engraven upon the plates of brass. For my soul deliteth in the
scriptures, and my heart pondereth them, and writeth them for the learning and
the profit of my children.
Behold, my soul deliteth in the things of the Lord; and my heart pondereth
continually upon the things which I have seen and heard.
I set my thick, black leather quad (King James Bible, Book of Mormon,
Doctrine & Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price) on the crumb-cluttered
green table cloth, open, so as not to lose my place, and took my fork to the
egg. Not to be egotistical, but my fried eggs are simply the best.
The secret is to season them with Old Bay and Cavender's All Purpose Greek
Seasoning. It gives them a slightly sweet salty taste. That bite
was so good I almost forgot about gravity.
I thought about plot, daily conflict--how so much of it leads to
nothing. That is what is wrong with Victorian novels--or art in
general, I thought. The plot has a point. It does in
life too--to piss us off so that we have to deal with our ego, with our
constant desire to be in control of things we can't control, until we are
forced into that corner of uncertainty and are finally willing to just let go
and turn things over to God. But, in life, it's not neat and tidy.
Nothing is wrapped up and tied together; there is no chain of seemingly small
little coincidences that come together in some great resolution--or at least
not anything we can see from this side of the veil. Some people do die
and return to tell about it. Most of them do actually claim it does kind
of add up like a Victorian plot. But here I am eating my eggs, all wound
up from a flying spatula, and I just don't see it. That little crisis
might add to the rising action of what is obviously going to be a stinking day,
but I just don't see that it matters!
I had a gulp of watered down 5 calorie grape juice. Not that
it bothers me. Delighting in the things of the Lord isn't the same as
delighting in each day. It is narcissistic to expect to enjoy each
moment. What I delight in is writing down on my soul the slow eroding of
the natural man as a steely blue-eyed raven plucks the flesh of my ego away bit
by bit and I feel myself soften in the ways of the Lord. This occurs
precisely because of gravity-flung spatulas and other daily travesties.
For instance, I said grandly inside my head, not once
today did I say the F-word. There was a time that surely would have come
out. Perhaps a cupboard door would have slammed too. Marci would
have tucked her head under the covers thinking, What kind of maniac did I
marry? But instead, here I am, calm and cool in the face of dealing with
gravity, reading my daily scriptures.
I looked up and noticed it was 8:22. I was suppose leave 12 minutes
ago. More conflict; more ego-eating buzzards; more slow, gradual
enlightenment.
I thought, It's an ice cream of some sort.
Sunday,
December 31, 2017
Twice I have said Monday did not go as planned. Work,
however, was the norm. It always is. I work at a residential
treatment center for teenage boys with addictions. These are adaptive
youth, which is a nice way of saying that they are used to manipulating the
adults in their lives to get what they want. Because of their addictive
behavior, they don't really view people as people, but rather as objects to get
what they desire--namely to not grow up. Our lead therapist, Doctor Zeeloff,
or Doc Z, as he prefers, says that they are on a "developmental
vacation" and will do anything, absolutely anything, to avoid
maturity. He says they view themselves as the center of the universe, and
their primary job is to keep you, the adult, in orbit, circling around them,
catering to their every need. They do this by tricking you, the adult,
into falling into one of the two effective ego states--for them, not you:
1) the nurturing parent, or 2) the critical parent. The ego state you
want to be in is the adult: someone who is open, but steady; someone who is
caring, but not emotionally dependent; in short, someone who has their own life
to lead and neither orbits others nor expects others to orbit them.
Conceptually, it sounds very clean, and in the process, makes the boys I work
with seem like little monsters. But, if you go back through it again,
you'll see the same thing could be said about, I'm ball-parking it here, based
on 17 years of teaching, 80% of the youth anywhere, including your children and
mine, and oh I'd say 60% of adults. Fact is, few of us want to grow
up--ever! Hard things are hard. Who wants that? We cling to
anything and everything to avoid standing on a high cliff on a cold, hard
star-studded night, looking over the black void at our feet, while calling out
to our creator, "Here me, my Lord, I come to thee fully prepared to accept
whatever trials you wish to give me in order to forge me into a better
man. I submit; your will be done, not mine." That simply doesn't
happen. We kick and scream and throw tantrums every single time that life
doesn't submit to our will. We are all kids.
So, I love my job. I am working with kids as I always have. I enjoy
their creativity, I enjoy their humor, and I enjoy their cynical outlook on life.
What I enjoy most though, is that they love music. Teen worlds revolve
around songs. I don't especially like rap, like they do, but I like
anyone who orbits around music. It's an unconditional admiration.
And I've found unlike most adults, teens are open to new sounds. I listen
to a lot of jazz funk and blues, and they are receptive. They ask
questions like, "Who is that by?" or "What is that
song?" When I tell them, they write it down. Although they don't
say it, I know they are planning on adding it to some play list when they get
free. Songs are knowledge; music is currency; you can buy cool with them.
Sometimes, those are also just manipulations, and I know "Who is that
by?" will be followed with, "We had to go to group last night, so I
wasn't able to finish my paper; would it be a big deal if I turned it in now
instead?" Usually not. They genuinely like music. So do
I. A lot. So I like teens. That's all I really expect from
them--to like music.
Occasionally, I get one who doesn't, and then I struggle. I about lost it
one day when, in the middle of the first cannon firing of "The 1812
Overture" Winston Oregano Black asked, "Can you turn that shit down;
I'm trying to take a test!" I felt like failing him right then and
there; I struggled towards my adult ego state--I mean I literally crawled.
And here I don't mean literally literally; I mean it the
way your teenager means it; I mean that I metaphorically crawled
towards my adult ego state, but I used literally to emphasize
that struggle, which is absurd, of course, because that is what a metaphor is
designed precisely to do--to emphasize! Okay, perhaps I expect more out
of your kids than to like music. I literally expect them to
use literally right. Of course, they won't, and there will
always be some dweeb, such as Winston Oregano Black, who cares more about
concentrating on his grammar test than bowing before the majesty of
Tchaikovsky. And that's where Zen comes in.
I turned it down. The other students, of course, all groaned.
"Why'd you do that? This is the best
part." They are right, of course, but they don't understand
Zen. Zen is not a teenager understanding. It is clearly more part
of the adult ego state.
"Bless you, Oregano."
He looked up at me with way too blue confused eyes and a strange baffled
expression on his chubby, round too blond, pink-skinned head.
"What?"
"For teaching me the art of Zen."
"What?"
"I killed the last kid who told me to turn down Tchaikovsky."
He smiled. "You're strange." He went back to his test.
I would have given him ice cream if I had had a scoop, but I didn't. Then
I thought, someday I will though, someday I will.
A ghostly girl, with long, dark hair and a pale face, maybe sixteen or seventeen years old, emerged out of the darkness. Just as she approached the check-out stand, I remembered I needed a radio, and I asked where they were, got my answer, and took off. I'd taken oh about 10 steps when another girl, about the same age, said, "Well, that was rude."
I stopped. "What?"
"She walked all that way to help you, and you just leave."
"I forgot something. Besides it's her job. Her job."
I then headed for the back corner where I had been told the radios were. It seemed forever far, and it was so dark in there, I wasn't sure I'd make it. I kept telling myself. It's only a hardware store, you can do this. Only I realize now, that it wasn't really a hardware store. Or if it was, it was the type of hardware store you would find in a small town, except it was giant. Stores in small towns always contain more than what they promise, and also less of what the they promise. For instance, when I was a kid growing up here in Sandstone, Pioneer Market, a grocery store, sold shot guns not 10 feet from the children's toys. Right above the toys were art supplies, such as acrylic paint, oil paint and chalk pastels. In the back corner, down a slanted wooden floor, the frozen pizzas were right next to the women scarfs. It was hard to get a whole meal of food there, but you could supply yourself for an enjoyable evening of landscape painting or a rollicking good time bunny blasting in the process.
Anyway, I did make my way through the giant building of dry fog and eventually found the clock radio that I was seeking, a small pill-shaped gray plastic battery operated one on a giant, orange metal and wood plank shelving system--the type you would pull a fork lift up to and unload a pallet of bags of concrete. There, on a shelving system that ran the length of a football field, was the alarm clock I wanted. It was the only thing. I was creeped-out about it for a second or two, but then grabbed it and headed back across the enormous gray void to the register under the shaft of dusty light.
When I arrived, the girl with long, black hair and ghostly white skin was waiting. She was terribly thin and small framed. She wore a pale pink sweater. Her head was a bit long, but she had enormous dark, brown eyes. They might have been inviting, but they were sunk in, circled by shadow, and when she opened her mouth to ask if I had everything I needed, I noticed she had little tiny pointed teeth like on a small puppy. I realized they were all but rotted away. She noticed I noticed and seemed embarrassed. I noticed she noticed, and I was embarrassed that I noticed. Teens are so overly self-aware as it is. I tried to ease the tension by making small talk, but I've never known how to do that.
It was long, awkward minute.
I woke up and I realized my life was rich with such awkward moments, and I hated them. If I had had an ice cream cart in a situation like that, I could have just said, "What's your flavor?"
She would have told me, I would have gotten it and handed it to her. Tasting that cool sweetness--I'm thinking she would like strawberry--she would have forgotten I had noticed her very unattractive teeth, and I would have forgotten she noticed me noticing. I could have gotten a scoop for myself too. I prefer clean, pure vanilla. We could have enjoyed a silent moment of eating ice cream and then I could be on my way. And it could be like that anywhere. You know how you never know whether or not to give money to drunken panhandlers? Well, what harm could ice cream possibly do? See what I mean: small moments of caring without all the ugly awkwardness surrounding human emotions.
Anyway, after I struggled to free myself from my dream of the girl with the little pointed puppy teeth, I staggered to the kitchen to make my routine egg. All went well until I rested the spatula in the pan with the sputtering egg. It was a big, grand pan, and the two eggs slid down to the far edge, so rather than gunk up the counter-top, I just let the spatula be in the remaining portion of the pan. However, due to the spatula's stupid design, gravity did not. It yanked on that incredibly fat heavy handle with all its might, flung that thing up, over, and then down on the dirty, dog-hair covered floor. Damn! Who makes the handle of a spatula heavier than the spatula itself?
I thought to myself, Nope, ice cream can't solve every problem in the world. Who knows what to do about the worm-infested minds of inventors who don't seem to grasp the very essentials of their art. I'm thankful the same can't be said for bridge engineers. Some people in this world deserve ice cream. Others deserve firing squad.
I picked up the spatula, threw it in the sink, and sat down at the table, mad at myself for getting angry at such a little thing. After regaining my composure, I thought about wiping up the greasy spatula-spot on the floor but decided to leave it for the dogs to clean up. I sat down and opened up my scriptures to read while eating my breakfast. This day 2 Nephi 4:15-16 stood out:
And upon these I write the things of my soul, and many of the scriptures which are engraven upon the plates of brass. For my soul deliteth in the scriptures, and my heart pondereth them, and writeth them for the learning and the profit of my children.
Behold, my soul deliteth in the things of the Lord; and my heart pondereth continually upon the things which I have seen and heard.
I set my thick, black leather quad (King James Bible, Book of Mormon, Doctrine & Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price) on the crumb-cluttered green table cloth, open, so as not to lose my place, and took my fork to the egg. Not to be egotistical, but my fried eggs are simply the best. The secret is to season them with Old Bay and Cavender's All Purpose Greek Seasoning. It gives them a slightly sweet salty taste. That bite was so good I almost forgot about gravity.
I thought about plot, daily conflict--how so much of it leads to nothing. That is what is wrong with Victorian novels--or art in general, I thought. The plot has a point. It does in life too--to piss us off so that we have to deal with our ego, with our constant desire to be in control of things we can't control, until we are forced into that corner of uncertainty and are finally willing to just let go and turn things over to God. But, in life, it's not neat and tidy. Nothing is wrapped up and tied together; there is no chain of seemingly small little coincidences that come together in some great resolution--or at least not anything we can see from this side of the veil. Some people do die and return to tell about it. Most of them do actually claim it does kind of add up like a Victorian plot. But here I am eating my eggs, all wound up from a flying spatula, and I just don't see it. That little crisis might add to the rising action of what is obviously going to be a stinking day, but I just don't see that it matters!
I had a gulp of watered down 5 calorie grape juice. Not that it bothers me. Delighting in the things of the Lord isn't the same as delighting in each day. It is narcissistic to expect to enjoy each moment. What I delight in is writing down on my soul the slow eroding of the natural man as a steely blue-eyed raven plucks the flesh of my ego away bit by bit and I feel myself soften in the ways of the Lord. This occurs precisely because of gravity-flung spatulas and other daily travesties. For instance, I said grandly inside my head, not once today did I say the F-word. There was a time that surely would have come out. Perhaps a cupboard door would have slammed too. Marci would have tucked her head under the covers thinking, What kind of maniac did I marry? But instead, here I am, calm and cool in the face of dealing with gravity, reading my daily scriptures.
I looked up and noticed it was 8:22. I was suppose leave 12 minutes ago. More conflict; more ego-eating buzzards; more slow, gradual enlightenment.
I thought, It's an ice cream of some sort.
Conceptually, it sounds very clean, and in the process, makes the boys I work with seem like little monsters. But, if you go back through it again, you'll see the same thing could be said about, I'm ball-parking it here, based on 17 years of teaching, 80% of the youth anywhere, including your children and mine, and oh I'd say 60% of adults. Fact is, few of us want to grow up--ever! Hard things are hard. Who wants that? We cling to anything and everything to avoid standing on a high cliff on a cold, hard star-studded night, looking over the black void at our feet, while calling out to our creator, "Here me, my Lord, I come to thee fully prepared to accept whatever trials you wish to give me in order to forge me into a better man. I submit; your will be done, not mine." That simply doesn't happen. We kick and scream and throw tantrums every single time that life doesn't submit to our will. We are all kids.
So, I love my job. I am working with kids as I always have. I enjoy their creativity, I enjoy their humor, and I enjoy their cynical outlook on life. What I enjoy most though, is that they love music. Teen worlds revolve around songs. I don't especially like rap, like they do, but I like anyone who orbits around music. It's an unconditional admiration. And I've found unlike most adults, teens are open to new sounds. I listen to a lot of jazz funk and blues, and they are receptive. They ask questions like, "Who is that by?" or "What is that song?" When I tell them, they write it down. Although they don't say it, I know they are planning on adding it to some play list when they get free. Songs are knowledge; music is currency; you can buy cool with them. Sometimes, those are also just manipulations, and I know "Who is that by?" will be followed with, "We had to go to group last night, so I wasn't able to finish my paper; would it be a big deal if I turned it in now instead?" Usually not. They genuinely like music. So do I. A lot. So I like teens. That's all I really expect from them--to like music.
Occasionally, I get one who doesn't, and then I struggle. I about lost it one day when, in the middle of the first cannon firing of "The 1812 Overture" Winston Oregano Black asked, "Can you turn that shit down; I'm trying to take a test!" I felt like failing him right then and there; I struggled towards my adult ego state--I mean I literally crawled. And here I don't mean literally literally; I mean it the way your teenager means it; I mean that I metaphorically crawled towards my adult ego state, but I used literally to emphasize that struggle, which is absurd, of course, because that is what a metaphor is designed precisely to do--to emphasize! Okay, perhaps I expect more out of your kids than to like music. I literally expect them to use literally right. Of course, they won't, and there will always be some dweeb, such as Winston Oregano Black, who cares more about concentrating on his grammar test than bowing before the majesty of Tchaikovsky. And that's where Zen comes in.
I turned it down. The other students, of course, all groaned. "Why'd you do that? This is the best part." They are right, of course, but they don't understand Zen. Zen is not a teenager understanding. It is clearly more part of the adult ego state.
"Bless you, Oregano."
He looked up at me with way too blue confused eyes and a strange baffled expression on his chubby, round too blond, pink-skinned head.
"What?"
"For teaching me the art of Zen."
"What?"
"I killed the last kid who told me to turn down Tchaikovsky."
He smiled. "You're strange." He went back to his test.
I would have given him ice cream if I had had a scoop, but I didn't. Then I thought, someday I will though, someday I will.
Tuesday, January 2,
2018
Ice Cream for the World: What if She
Calls and I Can't Get to my Phone?
Kudos to the evil
genius who designed the i-phone just the right width to slip down between the
car seat and console--a space too narrow for even a slender, artistic hand,
like my own, to follow. This was my thought
halfway through taking a left onto Main in Lava, Utah after dropping a
colleague off after work. It must have slipped out of the pocket of my
joggers. My son hates that I have a pair of joggers. He lets me
know it is uncool for old people to wear joggers, but I will wear joggers if I
please. I will wear pajamas in public if I please. I once
did. Up north, to Provo, the big city. My children were horrified,
but oh how comfortable I was. That is the great thing about getting
old. You know that no matter how you dress, you won't be turning any
heads. So you don't even try. It is great. The ultimate
freedom. Happily married with a steady job, I can finally live the only
place I ever wanted to live anyway--my head. To hell with what's on the
outside. All I have to do is be comfortable in my clothes and dream.
Or so I thought until I rounded that corner and felt my i-phone quickly slide
out of my joggers' right pocket. I reached to grab it, but it was too
late. Other than the fact that I'd planned on plugging it into the
cigarette lighter after McDonald's and blasting Dire Strait's Alchemy album
on the 45 minute commute home, leaving it there wouldn't be such a big
deal. Except it was. Marci might call. For some strange
reason I feel obligated to answer whenever she calls. I expect the same
from her. A small bubble of magma rises from deep within me every time I
get her auto text-massage, "Sorry, I can't talk now." What I
hate most is that it sounds nothing like her--even in text form. It
should say something like, "Go away, I'm in the restroom," which
would really mean, I'm hiding in here reading Facebook or doing a
puzzle on my phone because I don't want to deal with you right now. That
I could live with because I do live with it, and I'm a happy man. But,
"Sorry, I can't talk now" infuriates me. How do I know my wife
is on the other end when I receive such an anonymous message? What if she
was abducted by aliens or ran off with some young college dropout to find peace
and happiness in Portland? I don't mind that she would rather deal with a
puzzle than me. I can be pretty difficult to live with. I want to
quit my job and give away free ice cream the rest of my life (and yet, I have
no mojo left, if there ever was any, to drive her libido to the point where she
is ready leave reason behind and follow my crazy ambitions). No, what I
mind is not knowing she is still there. That is what I'm addicted to:
knowing she is there. I don't care if she is crocheting, playing Mahjong
or on Facebook. I just care that she is there. "Sorry, I can't
talk now" gives no hint her presence. It's empty. A
vacuum. When I hear it, I feel like an astronaut floating alone out in
space while David Bowie's "Space Oddity" plays in my head forever and
ever.
I always assume everyone shares my emotional insecurities, so I thought What
if she calls and I can't get to my phone? There I was midway
through Main, panicking, trying to reach my hand down a crevice not big enough
for my middle finger, which definitely wanted to show its angry juvenile head--no
adult ego state here, and all I could think was, What if she calls and
I can't get to my phone, What if she calls and I can't get to my
phone, What if she calls and I can't get to my phone?
Kudos to the evil
genius who designed the i-phone just the right width to slip down between the
car seat and console--a space too narrow for even a slender, artistic hand,
like my own, to follow. This was my thought
halfway through taking a left onto Main in Lava, Utah after dropping a
colleague off after work. It must have slipped out of the pocket of my
joggers. My son hates that I have a pair of joggers. He lets me
know it is uncool for old people to wear joggers, but I will wear joggers if I
please. I will wear pajamas in public if I please. I once
did. Up north, to Provo, the big city. My children were horrified,
but oh how comfortable I was. That is the great thing about getting
old. You know that no matter how you dress, you won't be turning any
heads. So you don't even try. It is great. The ultimate
freedom. Happily married with a steady job, I can finally live the only
place I ever wanted to live anyway--my head. To hell with what's on the
outside. All I have to do is be comfortable in my clothes and dream.
Or so I thought until I rounded that corner and felt my i-phone quickly slide out of my joggers' right pocket. I reached to grab it, but it was too late. Other than the fact that I'd planned on plugging it into the cigarette lighter after McDonald's and blasting Dire Strait's Alchemy album on the 45 minute commute home, leaving it there wouldn't be such a big deal. Except it was. Marci might call. For some strange reason I feel obligated to answer whenever she calls. I expect the same from her. A small bubble of magma rises from deep within me every time I get her auto text-massage, "Sorry, I can't talk now." What I hate most is that it sounds nothing like her--even in text form. It should say something like, "Go away, I'm in the restroom," which would really mean, I'm hiding in here reading Facebook or doing a puzzle on my phone because I don't want to deal with you right now. That I could live with because I do live with it, and I'm a happy man. But, "Sorry, I can't talk now" infuriates me. How do I know my wife is on the other end when I receive such an anonymous message? What if she was abducted by aliens or ran off with some young college dropout to find peace and happiness in Portland? I don't mind that she would rather deal with a puzzle than me. I can be pretty difficult to live with. I want to quit my job and give away free ice cream the rest of my life (and yet, I have no mojo left, if there ever was any, to drive her libido to the point where she is ready leave reason behind and follow my crazy ambitions). No, what I mind is not knowing she is still there. That is what I'm addicted to: knowing she is there. I don't care if she is crocheting, playing Mahjong or on Facebook. I just care that she is there. "Sorry, I can't talk now" gives no hint her presence. It's empty. A vacuum. When I hear it, I feel like an astronaut floating alone out in space while David Bowie's "Space Oddity" plays in my head forever and ever.
I always assume everyone shares my emotional insecurities, so I thought What if she calls and I can't get to my phone? There I was midway through Main, panicking, trying to reach my hand down a crevice not big enough for my middle finger, which definitely wanted to show its angry juvenile head--no adult ego state here, and all I could think was, What if she calls and I can't get to my phone, What if she calls and I can't get to my phone, What if she calls and I can't get to my phone?
Or so I thought until I rounded that corner and felt my i-phone quickly slide out of my joggers' right pocket. I reached to grab it, but it was too late. Other than the fact that I'd planned on plugging it into the cigarette lighter after McDonald's and blasting Dire Strait's Alchemy album on the 45 minute commute home, leaving it there wouldn't be such a big deal. Except it was. Marci might call. For some strange reason I feel obligated to answer whenever she calls. I expect the same from her. A small bubble of magma rises from deep within me every time I get her auto text-massage, "Sorry, I can't talk now." What I hate most is that it sounds nothing like her--even in text form. It should say something like, "Go away, I'm in the restroom," which would really mean, I'm hiding in here reading Facebook or doing a puzzle on my phone because I don't want to deal with you right now. That I could live with because I do live with it, and I'm a happy man. But, "Sorry, I can't talk now" infuriates me. How do I know my wife is on the other end when I receive such an anonymous message? What if she was abducted by aliens or ran off with some young college dropout to find peace and happiness in Portland? I don't mind that she would rather deal with a puzzle than me. I can be pretty difficult to live with. I want to quit my job and give away free ice cream the rest of my life (and yet, I have no mojo left, if there ever was any, to drive her libido to the point where she is ready leave reason behind and follow my crazy ambitions). No, what I mind is not knowing she is still there. That is what I'm addicted to: knowing she is there. I don't care if she is crocheting, playing Mahjong or on Facebook. I just care that she is there. "Sorry, I can't talk now" gives no hint her presence. It's empty. A vacuum. When I hear it, I feel like an astronaut floating alone out in space while David Bowie's "Space Oddity" plays in my head forever and ever.
I always assume everyone shares my emotional insecurities, so I thought What if she calls and I can't get to my phone? There I was midway through Main, panicking, trying to reach my hand down a crevice not big enough for my middle finger, which definitely wanted to show its angry juvenile head--no adult ego state here, and all I could think was, What if she calls and I can't get to my phone, What if she calls and I can't get to my phone, What if she calls and I can't get to my phone?
Saturday, January 6,
2018
Ice Cream for the World: In the Room
the Woman Come and Go Talking of Michelangelo
If my life were a work
of fiction, I would have glanced up from struggling to retrieve my i-phone from
between my seat and the console only to find a large, dark green flat-bed farm
truck loaded with caged chickens coming at me. There would be the
collision, the spinning of my little gray Toyota Camry around, and a bunch of
flying chicken cages, that would implode upon impact, sending terrified birds
scampering to and fro. When all the dust settled, a single chicken would
rise from the rubble, stand on the heap of carnage, let out a little
under-spoken bock-bock, and then peck at my bloody, amputated arm.
This is how I pictured it all going down as I made my way through the
drive-thru at McDonald's where I ordered a 20 piece Chicken McNuggets for Marci
and Everest and Chicken tenders for myself. It's not much of a meal, but
the whole thing, including my large Sprite Zero, was only eleven bucks.
It would have been even cheaper if I could have settled for Chicken McNuggets
myself, but I can't eat them; they're simply too processed. One time when
we were traveling up the Oregon Coast, we stopped and had breakfast at a little
pastry shop across the street from the bay in Newport, and afterwards, we
walked along the docks. A fishing boat was unloading these little tiny
silver fish, and I asked the men what all those fish were used in. One of
them replied "Chicken McNuggets". I have no idea if there is
any truth to that or not, but it was enough to steer me away from them
forever. When I split apart a Chicken Tender it at least appears to have
the texture of chicken. This is not necessarily so with a McNugget.
Sometimes, on the rare occasion I try to convince myself to eat one, I'll split
one open, and it is so oyster-like inside that I expect to find a pearl.
No thanks. I'll spend a little extra for the strips. But as Marci
and Everest don't seem to care, why not save some cash?
What really happened when I made that distracted left turn is nothing.
Lava has a lot more traffic than Sandstone, but generally the oncoming cars are
still a half block apart. Besides Utah small town streets are so wide
that even if a car was coming, I would have countless escape routs. It's
kind of like avoiding cows in Brooklyn or reality while watching Fox
News. It just isn't that hard. So nothing happened.
Nothing is a big part of my life. One night I spent hours trying to slip
a humorous jab at Trump into a novel I was writing and nothing came.
Really? How is that possible? That's like not being able to grow
pineapple in Hawaii or mold in Miami. Yet it was so. I sat there,
sucking snot back up my runny nose, my head slightly numbed from a thick cold
coming on, and nothing came.
I am alright with nothing being a big part of life; truth be told, I prefer it
that way. Decisions are not my thing. Neither is movement, nor
direction. I always thought J. Alfred Prufrock had the perfect life, and
I wondered why he couldn't enjoy his stasis more:
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table...
One hot muggy afternoon in Arlington, Texas--are there any other type?--I
was entranced when Professor Cohen read these lines. He went on, line by
line, to explain that although the poem appears to be about the stagnation of a
middle-aged man stifled by an upper-middle class lifestyle, it is really about
the insecurity and angst of a nineteen-year-old T.S. Eliot, the author.
I cared less about all that. What I cared about is that he seemed to be
describing the perfect life:
In the room the woman come and go
Talking of Michelangelo
Oh how I could picture that. In eleventh grade I had taken an art and
music history class. Apparently, only the daughters of the upper-middle
class take art and music history because I found myself in a room of seven
beautifully dressed, sophisticated-talking, charming girls, one obviously gay
guy who fit right in with them, a stunning, oh so slender, elegant teacher
sitting on the edge of her desk, and myself, a shaggy-headed geek, who wore the
same white, button up shirt everyday that was two sizes too big, tucked into
Levi's that did not reach my ankles.
They'd spend the hour casually discussing the most beautiful nudes ever painted
as the images were projected on the classroom wall and casually discussing
their world travels. Oh I remember that one from the Louvre or I
had the greatest cup of coffee just across the street from that fountain in
Rome.
Me too. And there's that great little travel bookstore right next
door. Rome is so wonderful in the spring.
Oh, and Paris too!
Yes, we should go. I'll ask my daddy.
That's when Miss Jones, our elegant teacher would chime in. Actually,
I was planning a class trip in June for those interested.
That, I knew, would not happen--at least not for me. These were the
daughters of lawyers and bankers, world-travelers, cultured in all things fine,
including the arts. I, on the other hand, was the brother of a real,
working artist, and the poverty that goes along with it. I was Pipp
without any great expectations. My brother was Picasso in his blue years,
long before he would rack up thousands by doodling on a napkin enjoying some
wine and cheese at a cafe with some friends before rushing off to see another
bull fight.
Yet unlike Pipp in Great Expectations--I'm really mixing my
allusions here--I was a bit more satisfied, though not completely, with my lot
in life. Not only did I not expect to go to Europe, I didn't even expect
to be noticed by these wonderful girls. I was satisfied to sit there all
but invisible and be entranced by their musical voices, their long slender
legs, and perfectly manicured toes sticking out of leather sandals. Their
legs were always crossed under the desk, and they'd idly swing the leg resting
on their knee casually back and forth, a leather sandal casually dangling off
the end of a foot, ready to drop off at any moment--the sandal ready to drop,
not the foot; that'd be gross. I'd become mesmerized, like watching
swaying palm fronds from a cabana in Hawaii--not that I ever experienced
that--while their artistically styled sentences dropped rose petals on the
dirty tiled floor of a typical public school classroom. Why they didn't
go to private school, I don't know. I went to high school in a fairly
wealthy district, with a diverse population. There were apartment
complexes to be sure. I lived in one of them. But we also had one
student who was dropped off at school by a limo each day and the parking lot
was full of BMWs.
The point is. I was happy enough to just observe those girls' world from
the outside. Like J. Alfred Prufrock I yearned to be part of their world,
but unlike him, orbiting around the fringes didn't make me miserable--at least
not yet; that would come later. Yearning was there, a slight scent, but
not yet an agonizing pull.
Put simply, I was quite happy to observe that--
In the room the woman come and go
Talking of Michelangelo
If my life were a work
of fiction, I would have glanced up from struggling to retrieve my i-phone from
between my seat and the console only to find a large, dark green flat-bed farm
truck loaded with caged chickens coming at me. There would be the
collision, the spinning of my little gray Toyota Camry around, and a bunch of
flying chicken cages, that would implode upon impact, sending terrified birds
scampering to and fro. When all the dust settled, a single chicken would
rise from the rubble, stand on the heap of carnage, let out a little
under-spoken bock-bock, and then peck at my bloody, amputated arm.
This is how I pictured it all going down as I made my way through the drive-thru at McDonald's where I ordered a 20 piece Chicken McNuggets for Marci and Everest and Chicken tenders for myself. It's not much of a meal, but the whole thing, including my large Sprite Zero, was only eleven bucks. It would have been even cheaper if I could have settled for Chicken McNuggets myself, but I can't eat them; they're simply too processed. One time when we were traveling up the Oregon Coast, we stopped and had breakfast at a little pastry shop across the street from the bay in Newport, and afterwards, we walked along the docks. A fishing boat was unloading these little tiny silver fish, and I asked the men what all those fish were used in. One of them replied "Chicken McNuggets". I have no idea if there is any truth to that or not, but it was enough to steer me away from them forever. When I split apart a Chicken Tender it at least appears to have the texture of chicken. This is not necessarily so with a McNugget. Sometimes, on the rare occasion I try to convince myself to eat one, I'll split one open, and it is so oyster-like inside that I expect to find a pearl. No thanks. I'll spend a little extra for the strips. But as Marci and Everest don't seem to care, why not save some cash?
What really happened when I made that distracted left turn is nothing. Lava has a lot more traffic than Sandstone, but generally the oncoming cars are still a half block apart. Besides Utah small town streets are so wide that even if a car was coming, I would have countless escape routs. It's kind of like avoiding cows in Brooklyn or reality while watching Fox News. It just isn't that hard. So nothing happened.
Nothing is a big part of my life. One night I spent hours trying to slip a humorous jab at Trump into a novel I was writing and nothing came. Really? How is that possible? That's like not being able to grow pineapple in Hawaii or mold in Miami. Yet it was so. I sat there, sucking snot back up my runny nose, my head slightly numbed from a thick cold coming on, and nothing came.
I am alright with nothing being a big part of life; truth be told, I prefer it that way. Decisions are not my thing. Neither is movement, nor direction. I always thought J. Alfred Prufrock had the perfect life, and I wondered why he couldn't enjoy his stasis more:
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table...
One hot muggy afternoon in Arlington, Texas--are there any other type?--I was entranced when Professor Cohen read these lines. He went on, line by line, to explain that although the poem appears to be about the stagnation of a middle-aged man stifled by an upper-middle class lifestyle, it is really about the insecurity and angst of a nineteen-year-old T.S. Eliot, the author.
I cared less about all that. What I cared about is that he seemed to be describing the perfect life:
In the room the woman come and go
Talking of Michelangelo
Oh how I could picture that. In eleventh grade I had taken an art and music history class. Apparently, only the daughters of the upper-middle class take art and music history because I found myself in a room of seven beautifully dressed, sophisticated-talking, charming girls, one obviously gay guy who fit right in with them, a stunning, oh so slender, elegant teacher sitting on the edge of her desk, and myself, a shaggy-headed geek, who wore the same white, button up shirt everyday that was two sizes too big, tucked into Levi's that did not reach my ankles.
They'd spend the hour casually discussing the most beautiful nudes ever painted as the images were projected on the classroom wall and casually discussing their world travels. Oh I remember that one from the Louvre or I had the greatest cup of coffee just across the street from that fountain in Rome.
Me too. And there's that great little travel bookstore right next door. Rome is so wonderful in the spring.
Oh, and Paris too!
Yes, we should go. I'll ask my daddy.
That's when Miss Jones, our elegant teacher would chime in. Actually, I was planning a class trip in June for those interested.
That, I knew, would not happen--at least not for me. These were the daughters of lawyers and bankers, world-travelers, cultured in all things fine, including the arts. I, on the other hand, was the brother of a real, working artist, and the poverty that goes along with it. I was Pipp without any great expectations. My brother was Picasso in his blue years, long before he would rack up thousands by doodling on a napkin enjoying some wine and cheese at a cafe with some friends before rushing off to see another bull fight.
Yet unlike Pipp in Great Expectations--I'm really mixing my allusions here--I was a bit more satisfied, though not completely, with my lot in life. Not only did I not expect to go to Europe, I didn't even expect to be noticed by these wonderful girls. I was satisfied to sit there all but invisible and be entranced by their musical voices, their long slender legs, and perfectly manicured toes sticking out of leather sandals. Their legs were always crossed under the desk, and they'd idly swing the leg resting on their knee casually back and forth, a leather sandal casually dangling off the end of a foot, ready to drop off at any moment--the sandal ready to drop, not the foot; that'd be gross. I'd become mesmerized, like watching swaying palm fronds from a cabana in Hawaii--not that I ever experienced that--while their artistically styled sentences dropped rose petals on the dirty tiled floor of a typical public school classroom. Why they didn't go to private school, I don't know. I went to high school in a fairly wealthy district, with a diverse population. There were apartment complexes to be sure. I lived in one of them. But we also had one student who was dropped off at school by a limo each day and the parking lot was full of BMWs.
The point is. I was happy enough to just observe those girls' world from the outside. Like J. Alfred Prufrock I yearned to be part of their world, but unlike him, orbiting around the fringes didn't make me miserable--at least not yet; that would come later. Yearning was there, a slight scent, but not yet an agonizing pull.
Put simply, I was quite happy to observe that--
In the room the woman come and go
Talking of Michelangelo
This is how I pictured it all going down as I made my way through the drive-thru at McDonald's where I ordered a 20 piece Chicken McNuggets for Marci and Everest and Chicken tenders for myself. It's not much of a meal, but the whole thing, including my large Sprite Zero, was only eleven bucks. It would have been even cheaper if I could have settled for Chicken McNuggets myself, but I can't eat them; they're simply too processed. One time when we were traveling up the Oregon Coast, we stopped and had breakfast at a little pastry shop across the street from the bay in Newport, and afterwards, we walked along the docks. A fishing boat was unloading these little tiny silver fish, and I asked the men what all those fish were used in. One of them replied "Chicken McNuggets". I have no idea if there is any truth to that or not, but it was enough to steer me away from them forever. When I split apart a Chicken Tender it at least appears to have the texture of chicken. This is not necessarily so with a McNugget. Sometimes, on the rare occasion I try to convince myself to eat one, I'll split one open, and it is so oyster-like inside that I expect to find a pearl. No thanks. I'll spend a little extra for the strips. But as Marci and Everest don't seem to care, why not save some cash?
What really happened when I made that distracted left turn is nothing. Lava has a lot more traffic than Sandstone, but generally the oncoming cars are still a half block apart. Besides Utah small town streets are so wide that even if a car was coming, I would have countless escape routs. It's kind of like avoiding cows in Brooklyn or reality while watching Fox News. It just isn't that hard. So nothing happened.
Nothing is a big part of my life. One night I spent hours trying to slip a humorous jab at Trump into a novel I was writing and nothing came. Really? How is that possible? That's like not being able to grow pineapple in Hawaii or mold in Miami. Yet it was so. I sat there, sucking snot back up my runny nose, my head slightly numbed from a thick cold coming on, and nothing came.
I am alright with nothing being a big part of life; truth be told, I prefer it that way. Decisions are not my thing. Neither is movement, nor direction. I always thought J. Alfred Prufrock had the perfect life, and I wondered why he couldn't enjoy his stasis more:
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table...
One hot muggy afternoon in Arlington, Texas--are there any other type?--I was entranced when Professor Cohen read these lines. He went on, line by line, to explain that although the poem appears to be about the stagnation of a middle-aged man stifled by an upper-middle class lifestyle, it is really about the insecurity and angst of a nineteen-year-old T.S. Eliot, the author.
I cared less about all that. What I cared about is that he seemed to be describing the perfect life:
In the room the woman come and go
Talking of Michelangelo
Oh how I could picture that. In eleventh grade I had taken an art and music history class. Apparently, only the daughters of the upper-middle class take art and music history because I found myself in a room of seven beautifully dressed, sophisticated-talking, charming girls, one obviously gay guy who fit right in with them, a stunning, oh so slender, elegant teacher sitting on the edge of her desk, and myself, a shaggy-headed geek, who wore the same white, button up shirt everyday that was two sizes too big, tucked into Levi's that did not reach my ankles.
They'd spend the hour casually discussing the most beautiful nudes ever painted as the images were projected on the classroom wall and casually discussing their world travels. Oh I remember that one from the Louvre or I had the greatest cup of coffee just across the street from that fountain in Rome.
Me too. And there's that great little travel bookstore right next door. Rome is so wonderful in the spring.
Oh, and Paris too!
Yes, we should go. I'll ask my daddy.
That's when Miss Jones, our elegant teacher would chime in. Actually, I was planning a class trip in June for those interested.
That, I knew, would not happen--at least not for me. These were the daughters of lawyers and bankers, world-travelers, cultured in all things fine, including the arts. I, on the other hand, was the brother of a real, working artist, and the poverty that goes along with it. I was Pipp without any great expectations. My brother was Picasso in his blue years, long before he would rack up thousands by doodling on a napkin enjoying some wine and cheese at a cafe with some friends before rushing off to see another bull fight.
Yet unlike Pipp in Great Expectations--I'm really mixing my allusions here--I was a bit more satisfied, though not completely, with my lot in life. Not only did I not expect to go to Europe, I didn't even expect to be noticed by these wonderful girls. I was satisfied to sit there all but invisible and be entranced by their musical voices, their long slender legs, and perfectly manicured toes sticking out of leather sandals. Their legs were always crossed under the desk, and they'd idly swing the leg resting on their knee casually back and forth, a leather sandal casually dangling off the end of a foot, ready to drop off at any moment--the sandal ready to drop, not the foot; that'd be gross. I'd become mesmerized, like watching swaying palm fronds from a cabana in Hawaii--not that I ever experienced that--while their artistically styled sentences dropped rose petals on the dirty tiled floor of a typical public school classroom. Why they didn't go to private school, I don't know. I went to high school in a fairly wealthy district, with a diverse population. There were apartment complexes to be sure. I lived in one of them. But we also had one student who was dropped off at school by a limo each day and the parking lot was full of BMWs.
The point is. I was happy enough to just observe those girls' world from the outside. Like J. Alfred Prufrock I yearned to be part of their world, but unlike him, orbiting around the fringes didn't make me miserable--at least not yet; that would come later. Yearning was there, a slight scent, but not yet an agonizing pull.
Put simply, I was quite happy to observe that--
In the room the woman come and go
Talking of Michelangelo
Monday, January 8,
2018
Ice Cream for the World: On the Way
Home Across the Smoggy Yellow Desert I Almost Found Nirvana
On the way home across
the smoggy, yellow desert, I reflected a lot on the benefits of inaction.
Smog, for instance, is as much a product of action as it is of inaction.
Although technology can and does bring relief to the environment, it is the
developed nations, not the undeveloped nations, that produce the most
greenhouse gasses per capita. It is true our energy is much cleaner, but
we use so much more of it because of our excessive need to be productive and
entertained. We defy nature so that we can work and play throughout the
night. While much of the world is sleeping, we are up late, producing
carbon monoxide--staying late at the office, eating out, seeing a movie,
working graveyard, or sitting alone in Denny's writing a book. You name
it, the lights are on, and we are up consuming energy. Action.
I also reflected back on my life and realized I had done plenty. No, I
hadn't gained any fame. No, I hadn't accumulated any wealth. No, I
hadn't accomplished my dreams, but I had done plenty. What I realized I
hadn't done is enjoy the life I was living at the moment. I was always
acting on tomorrow. I was always escaping the now by fantasizing about
the future. For much of my life, I was bored, restless. Even now
that I was seldom bored and generally very satisfied, I was still always
dreaming of different tomorrows: getting the house clean this winter; finally
finishing the garden and patio area this summer; going back to school and
finishing up my MFA program; or most recently, giving it all up, to go on the
road and give ice cream away to the world. These were all things that
removed me from my present moment. Looking back, I realized that's really
all I got wrong in my life. I was never fully present in the moment.
In high school I lived with my brother, an artist. I might come home from
school and find him in the field across the railroad tracks from our apartment
complex flinging paint on raw canvas with the intensity of a conductor leading
a symphony. One year, he built city out of foam-core and charcoal in our
hallway. I had to step over foam-core cars to get to the bedroom.
It was like living inside a David Hockney instillation or the prop room of a
theater company. My friends and I hung out at the museum, the zoo, the
botanical gardens. We took photographs, went for hikes, long drives, and
went camping. My brother and I stayed up late, listening to music,
talking about arts and ideas.
So much of what I had done was good; I was just too stupid to realize it was
good at the moment. There was always some girl I needed in my life to
make me happy, so I was miserable. And the small part of my life where I
really went astray only occurred because I was too stupid to accept who I was
and where I was at that moment, and in the misery of the moment, sought escape
through alcohol.
Had I learned to be still, I realized, life would have been grand no matter
what I did or didn't accomplish. It wasn't movement that mattered, but
stillness.
I looked across the valley. The mountains at the south end had vanished
behind the sickly, brown smog. There was that strange yellow smudgy glow
of winter inversion. I felt dissatisfied. I wanted to do
something. Should I write my congressman? Donate to
Greenpeace? No, that would just use more energy. I would have to
get on my computer, keep on the lights, write multiple drafts to get it just
right. Someone on the other end would have to read it. They would
put me on their mailing lists and send me emails. People would be working
all hours to bring me into their correspondence, sending me weekly reminders to
vote or donate. I would spend hours deleting those emails from my
account. I had the urge to just slam on the breaks, turn off the car, get
out and stand in the middle of the road and listen to a single moment of
silence broken only by the cry of a passing hawk.
I thought of the moon, and emptiness; of clear, white light.
For a moment, I thought I found Nirvana.
Then I turned on the radio.
On the way home across
the smoggy, yellow desert, I reflected a lot on the benefits of inaction.
Smog, for instance, is as much a product of action as it is of inaction.
Although technology can and does bring relief to the environment, it is the
developed nations, not the undeveloped nations, that produce the most
greenhouse gasses per capita. It is true our energy is much cleaner, but
we use so much more of it because of our excessive need to be productive and
entertained. We defy nature so that we can work and play throughout the
night. While much of the world is sleeping, we are up late, producing
carbon monoxide--staying late at the office, eating out, seeing a movie,
working graveyard, or sitting alone in Denny's writing a book. You name
it, the lights are on, and we are up consuming energy. Action.
I also reflected back on my life and realized I had done plenty. No, I hadn't gained any fame. No, I hadn't accumulated any wealth. No, I hadn't accomplished my dreams, but I had done plenty. What I realized I hadn't done is enjoy the life I was living at the moment. I was always acting on tomorrow. I was always escaping the now by fantasizing about the future. For much of my life, I was bored, restless. Even now that I was seldom bored and generally very satisfied, I was still always dreaming of different tomorrows: getting the house clean this winter; finally finishing the garden and patio area this summer; going back to school and finishing up my MFA program; or most recently, giving it all up, to go on the road and give ice cream away to the world. These were all things that removed me from my present moment. Looking back, I realized that's really all I got wrong in my life. I was never fully present in the moment.
In high school I lived with my brother, an artist. I might come home from school and find him in the field across the railroad tracks from our apartment complex flinging paint on raw canvas with the intensity of a conductor leading a symphony. One year, he built city out of foam-core and charcoal in our hallway. I had to step over foam-core cars to get to the bedroom. It was like living inside a David Hockney instillation or the prop room of a theater company. My friends and I hung out at the museum, the zoo, the botanical gardens. We took photographs, went for hikes, long drives, and went camping. My brother and I stayed up late, listening to music, talking about arts and ideas.
So much of what I had done was good; I was just too stupid to realize it was good at the moment. There was always some girl I needed in my life to make me happy, so I was miserable. And the small part of my life where I really went astray only occurred because I was too stupid to accept who I was and where I was at that moment, and in the misery of the moment, sought escape through alcohol.
Had I learned to be still, I realized, life would have been grand no matter what I did or didn't accomplish. It wasn't movement that mattered, but stillness.
I looked across the valley. The mountains at the south end had vanished behind the sickly, brown smog. There was that strange yellow smudgy glow of winter inversion. I felt dissatisfied. I wanted to do something. Should I write my congressman? Donate to Greenpeace? No, that would just use more energy. I would have to get on my computer, keep on the lights, write multiple drafts to get it just right. Someone on the other end would have to read it. They would put me on their mailing lists and send me emails. People would be working all hours to bring me into their correspondence, sending me weekly reminders to vote or donate. I would spend hours deleting those emails from my account. I had the urge to just slam on the breaks, turn off the car, get out and stand in the middle of the road and listen to a single moment of silence broken only by the cry of a passing hawk.
I thought of the moon, and emptiness; of clear, white light.
For a moment, I thought I found Nirvana.
Then I turned on the radio.
I also reflected back on my life and realized I had done plenty. No, I hadn't gained any fame. No, I hadn't accumulated any wealth. No, I hadn't accomplished my dreams, but I had done plenty. What I realized I hadn't done is enjoy the life I was living at the moment. I was always acting on tomorrow. I was always escaping the now by fantasizing about the future. For much of my life, I was bored, restless. Even now that I was seldom bored and generally very satisfied, I was still always dreaming of different tomorrows: getting the house clean this winter; finally finishing the garden and patio area this summer; going back to school and finishing up my MFA program; or most recently, giving it all up, to go on the road and give ice cream away to the world. These were all things that removed me from my present moment. Looking back, I realized that's really all I got wrong in my life. I was never fully present in the moment.
In high school I lived with my brother, an artist. I might come home from school and find him in the field across the railroad tracks from our apartment complex flinging paint on raw canvas with the intensity of a conductor leading a symphony. One year, he built city out of foam-core and charcoal in our hallway. I had to step over foam-core cars to get to the bedroom. It was like living inside a David Hockney instillation or the prop room of a theater company. My friends and I hung out at the museum, the zoo, the botanical gardens. We took photographs, went for hikes, long drives, and went camping. My brother and I stayed up late, listening to music, talking about arts and ideas.
So much of what I had done was good; I was just too stupid to realize it was good at the moment. There was always some girl I needed in my life to make me happy, so I was miserable. And the small part of my life where I really went astray only occurred because I was too stupid to accept who I was and where I was at that moment, and in the misery of the moment, sought escape through alcohol.
Had I learned to be still, I realized, life would have been grand no matter what I did or didn't accomplish. It wasn't movement that mattered, but stillness.
I looked across the valley. The mountains at the south end had vanished behind the sickly, brown smog. There was that strange yellow smudgy glow of winter inversion. I felt dissatisfied. I wanted to do something. Should I write my congressman? Donate to Greenpeace? No, that would just use more energy. I would have to get on my computer, keep on the lights, write multiple drafts to get it just right. Someone on the other end would have to read it. They would put me on their mailing lists and send me emails. People would be working all hours to bring me into their correspondence, sending me weekly reminders to vote or donate. I would spend hours deleting those emails from my account. I had the urge to just slam on the breaks, turn off the car, get out and stand in the middle of the road and listen to a single moment of silence broken only by the cry of a passing hawk.
I thought of the moon, and emptiness; of clear, white light.
For a moment, I thought I found Nirvana.
Then I turned on the radio.
Thursday, January 11,
2018
Ice Cream for the World: Reason
Prevailed
As I turned on All
Things Considered on NPR, Debbie Elliott was talking to Robert Siegel
about the senate race between Judge Roy Moore and Doug Jones. I was
anxious and my stomach was somewhat queasy. I desperately wanted Doug
Jones to win, but that wasn't it. I had no clue whether or not the
allegations about Judge Roy Moore seeking out teenage girls sexually in the
1980s were true. I wasn't even overly concerned about them. People
change, and that was a long time ago. As a Christian, I believe in the
atonement, of redemption, of turning around one's life, and moving on.
No, what bothered me was that although he was denying the allegations, the
allegations could very well be true, and yet all those self-proclaimed
Christians appeared to be willing to vote for him, not because they knew he was
innocent, but because they could not bring themselves to vote for a Democrat.
Their political identity seemed to be stronger than their moral identity.
They were more concerned about their party losing a seat in the senate than the
trauma of a fourteen year old girl. They had become more focused on the
large picture than the fate of the individual players. They had become
more concerned about the machinery of the senate than the worthiness of the
office holders. Life had been reduced to a game of political strategy.
I feared a society where we lose sight of individuals. Sure, Judge Roy
Moore might be innocent. He could be the victim of political mischief,
but what about those girls? A fourteen year old girl cannot consent to
something so life-changing as sex. At that age, you try on a new
personality every day. Statutory rape is rape for a reason. Power
dynamics. Kids are not adults. It seemed many voters in Alabama
were willing to possibly place an unrepentant predator in office just so the
other party didn't gain political leverage. To me that was an omen of worse
times to come. I felt the democrats were a little better on that front,
but not much. As a country, we were losing sight of the sacredness of the
individual. We were acting like wolves, our brains seemingly hard-wired
to small allegiances, such as party affiliation, above overarching universal
cultural values. The phrase I'm avoiding is, we were acting
tribally. It's not that tribal societies aren't guilty of what
we call tribalism, it's that tribal used that way
is a pejorative term because nation states don't behave any differently.
Of course, it could be some Judge Roy Moore voters just felt he should be given
due process. I get that. It's just that, from the various radio
interviews I'd heard, that didn't seem to be the case. He wouldn't have
had a chance if there had been a Republican alternative. Voters in
Alabama considered themselves to be choosing the lesser of two evils. How
messed up is that? The thought that It's better to put a child
molester in office than a Democrat. To me, it was a clear sign
of a broken nation, a complete failing of democracy on so many levels, the two
most important being: first, the political parties had demonized the
opposite ideology to the point where voters would rather support a possible
pedophile over a candidate from the other team; second, the nation seemed to
have forgotten that democracy and a one-party system are in fact
incompatible. Each party needs the opposing party if our representative
system is going to stay intact. It is having a choice between divergent
views that makes our system work. No divergent views, no choice; no
choice, no liberty.
For the first time in my life, I felt the fabric of my country was coming
unraveled. Not because of this one election. Not even because the
election of Donald Trump. It had been building for some time, going way
back to Newt Gingrich's war on public television back in the 90s.
But it was so exaggerated now. Perhaps that is why I had wanted to
buy an ice cream truck and give ice cream to the world. I just wanted
some way to bring us all together again.
I realized then though how immature my thoughts were. Besides, what
impact did I ever have on the world? None. That would never
change. Nothing had always been my world. Nothing would
remain. That was okay. I'd grown to love insignificance.
Outside my job, I had little pressure. I had my garden in the summer, and
in all seasons I could take a walk up the canyon whenever I wanted to. I
had an amazing family. What more could anyone want?
I felt an enormous sense of relief. I would not have to bring up the ice
cream truck issue with Marci again after all. Reason had prevailed.
I was free, saved from momentary ambition.
As I turned on All
Things Considered on NPR, Debbie Elliott was talking to Robert Siegel
about the senate race between Judge Roy Moore and Doug Jones. I was
anxious and my stomach was somewhat queasy. I desperately wanted Doug
Jones to win, but that wasn't it. I had no clue whether or not the
allegations about Judge Roy Moore seeking out teenage girls sexually in the
1980s were true. I wasn't even overly concerned about them. People
change, and that was a long time ago. As a Christian, I believe in the
atonement, of redemption, of turning around one's life, and moving on.
No, what bothered me was that although he was denying the allegations, the
allegations could very well be true, and yet all those self-proclaimed
Christians appeared to be willing to vote for him, not because they knew he was
innocent, but because they could not bring themselves to vote for a Democrat.
Their political identity seemed to be stronger than their moral identity.
They were more concerned about their party losing a seat in the senate than the
trauma of a fourteen year old girl. They had become more focused on the
large picture than the fate of the individual players. They had become
more concerned about the machinery of the senate than the worthiness of the
office holders. Life had been reduced to a game of political strategy.
I feared a society where we lose sight of individuals. Sure, Judge Roy Moore might be innocent. He could be the victim of political mischief, but what about those girls? A fourteen year old girl cannot consent to something so life-changing as sex. At that age, you try on a new personality every day. Statutory rape is rape for a reason. Power dynamics. Kids are not adults. It seemed many voters in Alabama were willing to possibly place an unrepentant predator in office just so the other party didn't gain political leverage. To me that was an omen of worse times to come. I felt the democrats were a little better on that front, but not much. As a country, we were losing sight of the sacredness of the individual. We were acting like wolves, our brains seemingly hard-wired to small allegiances, such as party affiliation, above overarching universal cultural values. The phrase I'm avoiding is, we were acting tribally. It's not that tribal societies aren't guilty of what we call tribalism, it's that tribal used that way is a pejorative term because nation states don't behave any differently.
Of course, it could be some Judge Roy Moore voters just felt he should be given due process. I get that. It's just that, from the various radio interviews I'd heard, that didn't seem to be the case. He wouldn't have had a chance if there had been a Republican alternative. Voters in Alabama considered themselves to be choosing the lesser of two evils. How messed up is that? The thought that It's better to put a child molester in office than a Democrat. To me, it was a clear sign of a broken nation, a complete failing of democracy on so many levels, the two most important being: first, the political parties had demonized the opposite ideology to the point where voters would rather support a possible pedophile over a candidate from the other team; second, the nation seemed to have forgotten that democracy and a one-party system are in fact incompatible. Each party needs the opposing party if our representative system is going to stay intact. It is having a choice between divergent views that makes our system work. No divergent views, no choice; no choice, no liberty.
For the first time in my life, I felt the fabric of my country was coming unraveled. Not because of this one election. Not even because the election of Donald Trump. It had been building for some time, going way back to Newt Gingrich's war on public television back in the 90s. But it was so exaggerated now. Perhaps that is why I had wanted to buy an ice cream truck and give ice cream to the world. I just wanted some way to bring us all together again.
I realized then though how immature my thoughts were. Besides, what impact did I ever have on the world? None. That would never change. Nothing had always been my world. Nothing would remain. That was okay. I'd grown to love insignificance. Outside my job, I had little pressure. I had my garden in the summer, and in all seasons I could take a walk up the canyon whenever I wanted to. I had an amazing family. What more could anyone want?
I felt an enormous sense of relief. I would not have to bring up the ice cream truck issue with Marci again after all. Reason had prevailed. I was free, saved from momentary ambition.
I feared a society where we lose sight of individuals. Sure, Judge Roy Moore might be innocent. He could be the victim of political mischief, but what about those girls? A fourteen year old girl cannot consent to something so life-changing as sex. At that age, you try on a new personality every day. Statutory rape is rape for a reason. Power dynamics. Kids are not adults. It seemed many voters in Alabama were willing to possibly place an unrepentant predator in office just so the other party didn't gain political leverage. To me that was an omen of worse times to come. I felt the democrats were a little better on that front, but not much. As a country, we were losing sight of the sacredness of the individual. We were acting like wolves, our brains seemingly hard-wired to small allegiances, such as party affiliation, above overarching universal cultural values. The phrase I'm avoiding is, we were acting tribally. It's not that tribal societies aren't guilty of what we call tribalism, it's that tribal used that way is a pejorative term because nation states don't behave any differently.
Of course, it could be some Judge Roy Moore voters just felt he should be given due process. I get that. It's just that, from the various radio interviews I'd heard, that didn't seem to be the case. He wouldn't have had a chance if there had been a Republican alternative. Voters in Alabama considered themselves to be choosing the lesser of two evils. How messed up is that? The thought that It's better to put a child molester in office than a Democrat. To me, it was a clear sign of a broken nation, a complete failing of democracy on so many levels, the two most important being: first, the political parties had demonized the opposite ideology to the point where voters would rather support a possible pedophile over a candidate from the other team; second, the nation seemed to have forgotten that democracy and a one-party system are in fact incompatible. Each party needs the opposing party if our representative system is going to stay intact. It is having a choice between divergent views that makes our system work. No divergent views, no choice; no choice, no liberty.
For the first time in my life, I felt the fabric of my country was coming unraveled. Not because of this one election. Not even because the election of Donald Trump. It had been building for some time, going way back to Newt Gingrich's war on public television back in the 90s. But it was so exaggerated now. Perhaps that is why I had wanted to buy an ice cream truck and give ice cream to the world. I just wanted some way to bring us all together again.
I realized then though how immature my thoughts were. Besides, what impact did I ever have on the world? None. That would never change. Nothing had always been my world. Nothing would remain. That was okay. I'd grown to love insignificance. Outside my job, I had little pressure. I had my garden in the summer, and in all seasons I could take a walk up the canyon whenever I wanted to. I had an amazing family. What more could anyone want?
I felt an enormous sense of relief. I would not have to bring up the ice cream truck issue with Marci again after all. Reason had prevailed. I was free, saved from momentary ambition.
Thursday, January 18,
2018
Ice Cream for the World: Looking at
Myself from Outside Myself, I Realized I Simply Wasn't Sane
I have been saying
Monday didn't go as expected. That is so true. I pulled into our
lane and our two big dogs, Oreo and Chewy greeted me, running in front of the
car past the old farm sheds and around the bend, where Chewy saw four or five
deer standing along the fence line, and took off after them, sending them
bounding over the barbed wire barricade. He could have easily followed
them, but turned back to the car. This was ritual, day after day.
So too was Oreo's head instantly appearing inside the car as I opened the
door. He could never wait for me to get outside to say
"Hi." It irritated me a bit, but his eyes showed so much joy as
his chin rested on my knee, all I could do is pat him on the head, "Hello
Oreo." Then I'd say, "How are the chickens?" He'd
instantly be gone, having zipped over to the chicken cage to let me know he was
doing his job. He spent the majority of the day laying by the wooden
breezeway that went from the coop to the run. He was utterly fascinated
with how the chickens could get through it. Originally, I thought he was
out to kill the chickens. But one day I let them out, and he had no
interest in hurting them. He simply admired how they could go through
that little suspended hallway from their dark, interior world, and pop out into
daylight. It was all very scientific to him; he'd sit for hours in amazed
observation. He also dug in the dirt for scientific purposes. I had
large spots of bare dusty earth all over the yard which Oreo created for the
sole purpose of watching the dust float away. They were his labs.
Scratch a little; watch it all be picked up and float away. My brother
joked that Oreo would start the next dust bowl. Oreo was awed by
movement. Somehow or another, he observed, those chickens just moved through
that tunnel. He didn't want to hurt them. He wanted to study them,
and so over time, it became his self-appointed job to watch over the
chickens. Whenever he was annoying me all I had to say was "How are
the chickens?" and off he'd run to see if they were coming through that
worm hole again. It was very cute.
Chewy followed me part way to the door, but torn between allegiances, bound off
after Oreo. I was dog free--at least until I opened the utility room
door.
The second part was to be expected. I am often
greeted with a showering of bullet-questions—indictments followed by question marks,
which are not launched seeking answers but repentance. But, that first
question seemed to require a response. What response I was supposed to
give, I wasn’t sure. I had purposefully not brought up the ice cream
truck on Sunday because trying to discuss it Saturday quickly turned
sour. So, maybe it wasn’t a question after all. Maybe it was
sarcasm. Maybe what she was really saying was have you dropped
that hair brain idea of the ice cream truck yet? That would make
sense. She would not want a response to that. For her, the answer
would be obvious. Drop it.
I decided the safest thing to do was answer the
second. “They go in the bottom cupboard between the stove and oven”.
“Very good. So why were they under the stove again?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. What I’d
learned over the years is that I only had to get through these first five
minutes. Marci is a wonderful person and everyone loves her. She
isn’t mean, she isn’t a nag. It seemed to have something to do with
crossing borders from the outside world and into the interior spaces of our
home. I’m not sure where it came from. It occurred whenever someone
was coming home, like I was now; she’d wait inside fully armed with a great
arsenal of questions. It also occurred if she was the one coming
home. She’d enter like a S.W.A.T. team and gun you down before you could
get out How was your day?:
“Why is that NyQuil cup on the bottle? Don’t
you know it gets the bottle sticky? And why did you change the
tablecloth? Don’t you know I hate orange?”
Sometimes I was stupid enough to respond, which
would unravel what would have been a great evening of cooking and watching TV
together. We always had a show we were watching together. Recently,
it had been Stranger Things. Sometimes Marci made
dinner; sometimes I did. If I could just stay quiet during those first
five minutes of transition, everything was grand. Very seldom did we
fight over anything big, especially since I’d found my way back to the
Church. I was simply easier to live with than I used to be. She
might be difficult to live with for 5 minutes each day, but for much of our
marriage, I could be terrible for weeks on end. In short, for most of our
marriage, I got the better end of the stick. Still, those five minutes
each day were hard, very hard.
“How was your day?” I asked, hoping we'd moved
beyond the questions.
“Okay. Did you give your notice?”
“Was I supposed to?”
“Yes. Isn’t that obvious? We can’t very
well pick up everything, buy an ice cream truck and become vagabonds while
simultaneously staying here.”
“But Saturday, you—”
“You aren't wavering, are you?”
“I didn’t even know a decision was made.
Saturday, you—"
Like I was saying, Monday did not go as
expected. Somehow between Saturday night and Monday afternoon, Marci had
switched sides on this battle front. What's strange is that I
instinctively stepped over the line in opposition to her; therefore, in effect,
countering all my own original arguments as if I had become her and she had
become me. Seeing things from her point of view, I realized what an idiot
I was. No wonder she had to let off a little steam each day as our worlds
collided by firing those damn questions. The pressure was immense.
Who gives up two secure jobs and a beautiful home to drive around the country
giving ice cream away--for free? Looking at myself from outside myself, I
realized I simply wasn't sane. What's more, this wasn't the first time
this had happened. If we actually went through with it, it would be the
second time, and that was her loaded cannon.
"What's the big deal? We moved here
without a plan."
"That's different."
"How? This is something you really want
to do, so let's do it."
I wanted to say yes, but I couldn't. From
where she formally stood--it all looked so incredibly foolish. All I
could see was our lives imploding and us becoming homeless. I wondered
what conversation she had had with herself to get herself to walk off that
cliff--out there in the deep, black void of the unknown. But there she
stood, calm as Buddha himself, perfectly at ease with an uncertain
future. How could I back out now?
I had no idea, but I'd sure in the hell try.
Our future depended on it.
I have been saying
Monday didn't go as expected. That is so true. I pulled into our
lane and our two big dogs, Oreo and Chewy greeted me, running in front of the
car past the old farm sheds and around the bend, where Chewy saw four or five
deer standing along the fence line, and took off after them, sending them
bounding over the barbed wire barricade. He could have easily followed
them, but turned back to the car. This was ritual, day after day.
So too was Oreo's head instantly appearing inside the car as I opened the door. He could never wait for me to get outside to say "Hi." It irritated me a bit, but his eyes showed so much joy as his chin rested on my knee, all I could do is pat him on the head, "Hello Oreo." Then I'd say, "How are the chickens?" He'd instantly be gone, having zipped over to the chicken cage to let me know he was doing his job. He spent the majority of the day laying by the wooden breezeway that went from the coop to the run. He was utterly fascinated with how the chickens could get through it. Originally, I thought he was out to kill the chickens. But one day I let them out, and he had no interest in hurting them. He simply admired how they could go through that little suspended hallway from their dark, interior world, and pop out into daylight. It was all very scientific to him; he'd sit for hours in amazed observation. He also dug in the dirt for scientific purposes. I had large spots of bare dusty earth all over the yard which Oreo created for the sole purpose of watching the dust float away. They were his labs. Scratch a little; watch it all be picked up and float away. My brother joked that Oreo would start the next dust bowl. Oreo was awed by movement. Somehow or another, he observed, those chickens just moved through that tunnel. He didn't want to hurt them. He wanted to study them, and so over time, it became his self-appointed job to watch over the chickens. Whenever he was annoying me all I had to say was "How are the chickens?" and off he'd run to see if they were coming through that worm hole again. It was very cute.
Chewy followed me part way to the door, but torn between allegiances, bound off after Oreo. I was dog free--at least until I opened the utility room door.
So too was Oreo's head instantly appearing inside the car as I opened the door. He could never wait for me to get outside to say "Hi." It irritated me a bit, but his eyes showed so much joy as his chin rested on my knee, all I could do is pat him on the head, "Hello Oreo." Then I'd say, "How are the chickens?" He'd instantly be gone, having zipped over to the chicken cage to let me know he was doing his job. He spent the majority of the day laying by the wooden breezeway that went from the coop to the run. He was utterly fascinated with how the chickens could get through it. Originally, I thought he was out to kill the chickens. But one day I let them out, and he had no interest in hurting them. He simply admired how they could go through that little suspended hallway from their dark, interior world, and pop out into daylight. It was all very scientific to him; he'd sit for hours in amazed observation. He also dug in the dirt for scientific purposes. I had large spots of bare dusty earth all over the yard which Oreo created for the sole purpose of watching the dust float away. They were his labs. Scratch a little; watch it all be picked up and float away. My brother joked that Oreo would start the next dust bowl. Oreo was awed by movement. Somehow or another, he observed, those chickens just moved through that tunnel. He didn't want to hurt them. He wanted to study them, and so over time, it became his self-appointed job to watch over the chickens. Whenever he was annoying me all I had to say was "How are the chickens?" and off he'd run to see if they were coming through that worm hole again. It was very cute.
Chewy followed me part way to the door, but torn between allegiances, bound off after Oreo. I was dog free--at least until I opened the utility room door.
As
I opened the bright yellow door, I was greeted by our two pugs, Buddha and
Camilla, yapping, spinning in circles and scratching at my leg. I walked
through the utility room, kicking a mostly-empty dog-food bag to the side, the
two dogs running before me, jumping up, yapping some more. Before I
reached the kitchen, Marci asked, “Dear, did you give your notice? Also,
don’t you know where the pot lids go?”
The second part was to be expected. I am often
greeted with a showering of bullet-questions—indictments followed by question marks,
which are not launched seeking answers but repentance. But, that first
question seemed to require a response. What response I was supposed to
give, I wasn’t sure. I had purposefully not brought up the ice cream
truck on Sunday because trying to discuss it Saturday quickly turned
sour. So, maybe it wasn’t a question after all. Maybe it was
sarcasm. Maybe what she was really saying was have you dropped
that hair brain idea of the ice cream truck yet? That would make
sense. She would not want a response to that. For her, the answer
would be obvious. Drop it.
I decided the safest thing to do was answer the
second. “They go in the bottom cupboard between the stove and oven”.
“Very good. So why were they under the stove again?”
I didn’t know how to answer that. What I’d
learned over the years is that I only had to get through these first five
minutes. Marci is a wonderful person and everyone loves her. She
isn’t mean, she isn’t a nag. It seemed to have something to do with
crossing borders from the outside world and into the interior spaces of our
home. I’m not sure where it came from. It occurred whenever someone
was coming home, like I was now; she’d wait inside fully armed with a great
arsenal of questions. It also occurred if she was the one coming
home. She’d enter like a S.W.A.T. team and gun you down before you could
get out How was your day?:
“Why is that NyQuil cup on the bottle? Don’t
you know it gets the bottle sticky? And why did you change the
tablecloth? Don’t you know I hate orange?”
Sometimes I was stupid enough to respond, which
would unravel what would have been a great evening of cooking and watching TV
together. We always had a show we were watching together. Recently,
it had been Stranger Things. Sometimes Marci made
dinner; sometimes I did. If I could just stay quiet during those first
five minutes of transition, everything was grand. Very seldom did we
fight over anything big, especially since I’d found my way back to the
Church. I was simply easier to live with than I used to be. She
might be difficult to live with for 5 minutes each day, but for much of our
marriage, I could be terrible for weeks on end. In short, for most of our
marriage, I got the better end of the stick. Still, those five minutes
each day were hard, very hard.
“How was your day?” I asked, hoping we'd moved
beyond the questions.
“Okay. Did you give your notice?”
“Was I supposed to?”
“Yes. Isn’t that obvious? We can’t very
well pick up everything, buy an ice cream truck and become vagabonds while
simultaneously staying here.”
“But Saturday, you—”
“You aren't wavering, are you?”
“I didn’t even know a decision was made.
Saturday, you—"
Like I was saying, Monday did not go as
expected. Somehow between Saturday night and Monday afternoon, Marci had
switched sides on this battle front. What's strange is that I
instinctively stepped over the line in opposition to her; therefore, in effect,
countering all my own original arguments as if I had become her and she had
become me. Seeing things from her point of view, I realized what an idiot
I was. No wonder she had to let off a little steam each day as our worlds
collided by firing those damn questions. The pressure was immense.
Who gives up two secure jobs and a beautiful home to drive around the country
giving ice cream away--for free? Looking at myself from outside myself, I
realized I simply wasn't sane. What's more, this wasn't the first time
this had happened. If we actually went through with it, it would be the
second time, and that was her loaded cannon.
"What's the big deal? We moved here
without a plan."
"That's different."
"How? This is something you really want
to do, so let's do it."
I wanted to say yes, but I couldn't. From
where she formally stood--it all looked so incredibly foolish. All I
could see was our lives imploding and us becoming homeless. I wondered
what conversation she had had with herself to get herself to walk off that
cliff--out there in the deep, black void of the unknown. But there she
stood, calm as Buddha himself, perfectly at ease with an uncertain
future. How could I back out now?
I had no idea, but I'd sure in the hell try.
Our future depended on it.
Saturday, January 20,
2018
Ice Cream for the World: Tyger,
Tyger, Burning Bright...
I was in a great olive
green room with high ceilings. It was an old room with dusty stucco
walls; it would have appeared dingy if the architecture wasn't so grand, but it
was very grand indeed. The entire wall at the front of the classroom was
this ornate Byzantine-like mosaic screen, also stuccoed-over, painted green and
covered with dust. Through it, I could see a courtyard with solid stone
tiles and high stone walls covered with grape vines. In each corner of
the courtyard was an Italian Cyprus. Across the courtyard I could see my
usual classroom at the residential treatment center where I teach. The
lights were on, and I could see the room through a large 1960s plate-glass
window. That room appeared to be an add-on to this much older structure
and seemed quite out of place.
However, in my dream, I didn't analyze the architecture of my
surroundings. It was the norm. The only thing that was different
was that they had fumigated my regular classroom, and it was my evaluation
day. I had moved over to this much older classroom and was in the back
corner trying to get a stack of papers to graded so that I would have the data
to measure my goal for that year. The kids were in the room, and I'd
started them on an informal pretest over the lesson objective prior to the
principal's arrival. The lesson was over noun clauses, and when he showed
up, I'd gather up the little slips of paper, go over a few of them with the
class, and begin the lesson. That is why I kept glancing out the screen.
I saw the custodian, a pretty Mexican woman, out there sweeping up vine leaves
that had drifted down from the high stone walls on three sides of the
courtyard. I watched her gentle figure for a while, glanced over at my
students, who were still working quietly, and then went back to grading.
After several minutes, I glanced back through the screen and saw the CEO of the
treatment center walk by wearing an Italian suit. That was unusual.
Usually he wore shorts and a t-shirt. But he'd worn the suite to work a
couple times before. I surveyed my students again and then returned to my
stack of papers. After several minutes, I glanced out the screen again
and saw a rhino walk by followed by some tall Maasai. That too was
unusual, but not unheard of. What was extraordinary was that there was no
sign of my principal. At least twenty minutes had passed. He was
usually fairly prompt. I was reflecting on how I could delay my
presentation when I realized the class had suddenly grown quite noisy.
I looked up to see what the commotion was, and my principal was sitting at the
back of the room, taking notes. I asked how long he had been there.
He smiled. "Oh a good while."
In my mind, I stood up to teach my lesson, but my body either didn't get the
instructions or refused to follow the orders. I tried again.
Nothing. I smiled back at him. "Just a minute."
"Take your time," he said. "Pretend I'm not even
here."
As soon as he said that, somehow I zoomed across the room and was so close I
could see the hairs growing out of his nostrils. Yet, I was still at my
desk, immobile. He just kept smiling and fidgeting with his pen. I
was feeling very claustrophobic, so I glanced back out into the
courtyard. The janitor was watering the plants that grew along the
edges. I studied her slender frame as she bent over, hoping to find some
sort of center, some will to get up. The light played softly around her
neck.
It was at that point I noticed a figure beyond her, in my regular classroom,
which was lit up. I bolted up, horrified. The figure was me.
I was standing before the blackboard, diagramming a sentence with several noun
clauses. The kids were in there, attentive. So was another version
of my principal. Because of the plate-glass window, I couldn't hear anything,
but it was clear everything was normal. What wasn't normal was this
sickly green classroom with the sickly green mosaic see-through screen and my
new immobile state almost in the lap of my principal. I
panicked. Surely, I'll get fired if I sit here and do nothing.
It was then I noticed the great blue vase in the center of the courtyard
filled to the brim with cool, refreshing water. I didn't know how I
didn't see it before as it was between the custodian and my old classroom, both
of which, I'd given plenty of visual attention. None-the-less, somehow I
hadn't noticed. The cool, deep water reflected the light pouring down
into the courtyard from above. It was so calming that after staring at it
for a while, I found my desk had returned to its natural position and my
principal was back at the far corner of the room, still smiling. I also
knew that I could now get up and teach my lesson. The problem was, I no
longer wanted to. Teaching had been a good life. I had no
regrets. I'd diagrammed a lot of sentences and had fun doing it.
I'd read a lot of amazing poems written by my students. Together, we'd
listened to a lot of great music--them, quietly working and me grading papers
while some grand jazz-funk, like Kool and the Gang's "Summer
Madness," played in the background. But it was time to move on.
Without a word, I got up, and walked out. In a moment of bravery, I
thought about kissing the custodian gently on the cheek and saying
"Thanks" prior to leaving. Then I decided it was kind of
creepy--Listening to NPR, I'd heard plenty of stories about the creepy things
men do lately--so I just walked on by. The only problem was that after I
took a few more steps, I glanced around and noticed the courtyard had no exit
and in each corner there was a tiger slowly approaching me. Over some
communist-styled propaganda loud speakers mounted on each of the four
high stone walls an oriental Khmer Rouge voice kept reciting the
first two lines of William Blake's "The Tyger" over and over:
Tyger Tyger, burning
bright,
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
I was in a great olive
green room with high ceilings. It was an old room with dusty stucco
walls; it would have appeared dingy if the architecture wasn't so grand, but it
was very grand indeed. The entire wall at the front of the classroom was
this ornate Byzantine-like mosaic screen, also stuccoed-over, painted green and
covered with dust. Through it, I could see a courtyard with solid stone
tiles and high stone walls covered with grape vines. In each corner of
the courtyard was an Italian Cyprus. Across the courtyard I could see my
usual classroom at the residential treatment center where I teach. The
lights were on, and I could see the room through a large 1960s plate-glass
window. That room appeared to be an add-on to this much older structure
and seemed quite out of place.
However, in my dream, I didn't analyze the architecture of my surroundings. It was the norm. The only thing that was different was that they had fumigated my regular classroom, and it was my evaluation day. I had moved over to this much older classroom and was in the back corner trying to get a stack of papers to graded so that I would have the data to measure my goal for that year. The kids were in the room, and I'd started them on an informal pretest over the lesson objective prior to the principal's arrival. The lesson was over noun clauses, and when he showed up, I'd gather up the little slips of paper, go over a few of them with the class, and begin the lesson. That is why I kept glancing out the screen. I saw the custodian, a pretty Mexican woman, out there sweeping up vine leaves that had drifted down from the high stone walls on three sides of the courtyard. I watched her gentle figure for a while, glanced over at my students, who were still working quietly, and then went back to grading. After several minutes, I glanced back through the screen and saw the CEO of the treatment center walk by wearing an Italian suit. That was unusual. Usually he wore shorts and a t-shirt. But he'd worn the suite to work a couple times before. I surveyed my students again and then returned to my stack of papers. After several minutes, I glanced out the screen again and saw a rhino walk by followed by some tall Maasai. That too was unusual, but not unheard of. What was extraordinary was that there was no sign of my principal. At least twenty minutes had passed. He was usually fairly prompt. I was reflecting on how I could delay my presentation when I realized the class had suddenly grown quite noisy.
I looked up to see what the commotion was, and my principal was sitting at the back of the room, taking notes. I asked how long he had been there. He smiled. "Oh a good while."
In my mind, I stood up to teach my lesson, but my body either didn't get the instructions or refused to follow the orders. I tried again. Nothing. I smiled back at him. "Just a minute."
"Take your time," he said. "Pretend I'm not even here."
As soon as he said that, somehow I zoomed across the room and was so close I could see the hairs growing out of his nostrils. Yet, I was still at my desk, immobile. He just kept smiling and fidgeting with his pen. I was feeling very claustrophobic, so I glanced back out into the courtyard. The janitor was watering the plants that grew along the edges. I studied her slender frame as she bent over, hoping to find some sort of center, some will to get up. The light played softly around her neck.
It was at that point I noticed a figure beyond her, in my regular classroom, which was lit up. I bolted up, horrified. The figure was me. I was standing before the blackboard, diagramming a sentence with several noun clauses. The kids were in there, attentive. So was another version of my principal. Because of the plate-glass window, I couldn't hear anything, but it was clear everything was normal. What wasn't normal was this sickly green classroom with the sickly green mosaic see-through screen and my new immobile state almost in the lap of my principal. I panicked. Surely, I'll get fired if I sit here and do nothing.
It was then I noticed the great blue vase in the center of the courtyard filled to the brim with cool, refreshing water. I didn't know how I didn't see it before as it was between the custodian and my old classroom, both of which, I'd given plenty of visual attention. None-the-less, somehow I hadn't noticed. The cool, deep water reflected the light pouring down into the courtyard from above. It was so calming that after staring at it for a while, I found my desk had returned to its natural position and my principal was back at the far corner of the room, still smiling. I also knew that I could now get up and teach my lesson. The problem was, I no longer wanted to. Teaching had been a good life. I had no regrets. I'd diagrammed a lot of sentences and had fun doing it. I'd read a lot of amazing poems written by my students. Together, we'd listened to a lot of great music--them, quietly working and me grading papers while some grand jazz-funk, like Kool and the Gang's "Summer Madness," played in the background. But it was time to move on.
Without a word, I got up, and walked out. In a moment of bravery, I thought about kissing the custodian gently on the cheek and saying "Thanks" prior to leaving. Then I decided it was kind of creepy--Listening to NPR, I'd heard plenty of stories about the creepy things men do lately--so I just walked on by. The only problem was that after I took a few more steps, I glanced around and noticed the courtyard had no exit and in each corner there was a tiger slowly approaching me. Over some communist-styled propaganda loud speakers mounted on each of the four high stone walls an oriental Khmer Rouge voice kept reciting the first two lines of William Blake's "The Tyger" over and over:
However, in my dream, I didn't analyze the architecture of my surroundings. It was the norm. The only thing that was different was that they had fumigated my regular classroom, and it was my evaluation day. I had moved over to this much older classroom and was in the back corner trying to get a stack of papers to graded so that I would have the data to measure my goal for that year. The kids were in the room, and I'd started them on an informal pretest over the lesson objective prior to the principal's arrival. The lesson was over noun clauses, and when he showed up, I'd gather up the little slips of paper, go over a few of them with the class, and begin the lesson. That is why I kept glancing out the screen. I saw the custodian, a pretty Mexican woman, out there sweeping up vine leaves that had drifted down from the high stone walls on three sides of the courtyard. I watched her gentle figure for a while, glanced over at my students, who were still working quietly, and then went back to grading. After several minutes, I glanced back through the screen and saw the CEO of the treatment center walk by wearing an Italian suit. That was unusual. Usually he wore shorts and a t-shirt. But he'd worn the suite to work a couple times before. I surveyed my students again and then returned to my stack of papers. After several minutes, I glanced out the screen again and saw a rhino walk by followed by some tall Maasai. That too was unusual, but not unheard of. What was extraordinary was that there was no sign of my principal. At least twenty minutes had passed. He was usually fairly prompt. I was reflecting on how I could delay my presentation when I realized the class had suddenly grown quite noisy.
I looked up to see what the commotion was, and my principal was sitting at the back of the room, taking notes. I asked how long he had been there. He smiled. "Oh a good while."
In my mind, I stood up to teach my lesson, but my body either didn't get the instructions or refused to follow the orders. I tried again. Nothing. I smiled back at him. "Just a minute."
"Take your time," he said. "Pretend I'm not even here."
As soon as he said that, somehow I zoomed across the room and was so close I could see the hairs growing out of his nostrils. Yet, I was still at my desk, immobile. He just kept smiling and fidgeting with his pen. I was feeling very claustrophobic, so I glanced back out into the courtyard. The janitor was watering the plants that grew along the edges. I studied her slender frame as she bent over, hoping to find some sort of center, some will to get up. The light played softly around her neck.
It was at that point I noticed a figure beyond her, in my regular classroom, which was lit up. I bolted up, horrified. The figure was me. I was standing before the blackboard, diagramming a sentence with several noun clauses. The kids were in there, attentive. So was another version of my principal. Because of the plate-glass window, I couldn't hear anything, but it was clear everything was normal. What wasn't normal was this sickly green classroom with the sickly green mosaic see-through screen and my new immobile state almost in the lap of my principal. I panicked. Surely, I'll get fired if I sit here and do nothing.
It was then I noticed the great blue vase in the center of the courtyard filled to the brim with cool, refreshing water. I didn't know how I didn't see it before as it was between the custodian and my old classroom, both of which, I'd given plenty of visual attention. None-the-less, somehow I hadn't noticed. The cool, deep water reflected the light pouring down into the courtyard from above. It was so calming that after staring at it for a while, I found my desk had returned to its natural position and my principal was back at the far corner of the room, still smiling. I also knew that I could now get up and teach my lesson. The problem was, I no longer wanted to. Teaching had been a good life. I had no regrets. I'd diagrammed a lot of sentences and had fun doing it. I'd read a lot of amazing poems written by my students. Together, we'd listened to a lot of great music--them, quietly working and me grading papers while some grand jazz-funk, like Kool and the Gang's "Summer Madness," played in the background. But it was time to move on.
Without a word, I got up, and walked out. In a moment of bravery, I thought about kissing the custodian gently on the cheek and saying "Thanks" prior to leaving. Then I decided it was kind of creepy--Listening to NPR, I'd heard plenty of stories about the creepy things men do lately--so I just walked on by. The only problem was that after I took a few more steps, I glanced around and noticed the courtyard had no exit and in each corner there was a tiger slowly approaching me. Over some communist-styled propaganda loud speakers mounted on each of the four high stone walls an oriental Khmer Rouge voice kept reciting the first two lines of William Blake's "The Tyger" over and over:
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
Tyger Tyger, burning
bright,
In the forests of the
night;
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night...
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