Circling down over the city, the sky is a familiar grey and clings halfway up the horizon. I know that when we land the air will feel brisk and the wind will try to burrow its way into zippers and down coat collars. I know that it will smell like jet exhaust and oak leaves and I know the bittersweet taste of returning that will be thick on my tongue, in my throat.
We bank widely over the lake and swoop back over the subdivisons, neatly lined with trees now orange and yellow and red. In the distance you can make out dense pockets of land that have not yet been defeated by progress. And acre after acre of autumn-colored farmland. The sun sinks lower and everything is golden.
And in my heart I can feel it, between the pulses, coarsing through the veins. How I am woven and nourished and attached to this fifty-mile scrap of land just west of the old steel mills, just south of the lake. I can see the beater cars in winter, salt stains clinging to rust, I can see the endless grey of concrete and sky, I can see the roads covered with snow, the only sign of life being the tracks you make down lonely roads towards home. And I can feel the first sun of spring drenching my skin, smell the magnolia and lilac and honeysuckle. And the heavy humidity of summer and the languor that such unrelenting heat draws out. And fall with its musky evenings of decaying oak leaf and wood smoke.
I close my eyes and realize that more than anything I need the changes to keep me sane. That strength comes from winter and creativity from summer and passion, perhaps, from fall. We touch down and everything in the entire universe is again in its right place. There is a dinner waiting for me and I am, completely, comforted.
16.10.06
4.10.06
Already wiped.
It's funny. I am typing this from a vantage point that I was similarly inspired by during the lazy summers in between years of high school. I used to watch the bank ladies take their smoke breaks in the alley across the street. I would sketch their likeness in my notebook, write about the struggles of a tedious life, answer the phone occasionally when it would ring. This was before the internet, before blogs.
More than ten years later, here I am, again. Same office. Different job, but it is amusing that here I am, sometimes answering the phone, writing about life, still mostly about the struggles involved therein. And didn't I always know, somehow, that I'd be back?
So, yes, I did get the job that I interviewed for. I also found out that my dispatch training will start next week. So for the next month or so my life will be anything but tedious while I try to maintain my sanity while balancing a 60-or-so hour work week. It hasn't started yet but I am already tired.
And the bank ladies must have found a new place to smoke. Either that or they've given it up.
More than ten years later, here I am, again. Same office. Different job, but it is amusing that here I am, sometimes answering the phone, writing about life, still mostly about the struggles involved therein. And didn't I always know, somehow, that I'd be back?
So, yes, I did get the job that I interviewed for. I also found out that my dispatch training will start next week. So for the next month or so my life will be anything but tedious while I try to maintain my sanity while balancing a 60-or-so hour work week. It hasn't started yet but I am already tired.
And the bank ladies must have found a new place to smoke. Either that or they've given it up.
13.9.06
I stuttered
It's the largesse that we picked up along a dusty stretch of road in Colorado this June. The way we brightly festooned each naked spot to fill the emptiness, the nagging isolation. But you can't ever get enough. Or so I learned, later, down a different highway in Montana. Just like that snap your fingers it can all go away.
It was a slow fog that settled on the place, and perhaps is the off-gassing of the fresh paint or the humidity which clings even in the corners of the closets. It descends heavily after Patrick leaves for work and grants me a reprieve when he comes home again. It is at its thickest when I am left alone with my thoughts, nothing to distract me. Recently I have (for the third time) picked up MacIntyre in an effort to soak my mind in something else, but the book actually seems to make it worse. I light candles for myself, markers to navigate throughout the halls when the fog envelops everything, totally.
And I am always looking for the one box which didn't seem to make it to the apartment. Inside it contains my identity, and I think I've misplaced it. Of all the things I could have lost. Then again it could be on a chilly beach in California.
Come down, come down, come down.
In eight days I will be 27!
It was a slow fog that settled on the place, and perhaps is the off-gassing of the fresh paint or the humidity which clings even in the corners of the closets. It descends heavily after Patrick leaves for work and grants me a reprieve when he comes home again. It is at its thickest when I am left alone with my thoughts, nothing to distract me. Recently I have (for the third time) picked up MacIntyre in an effort to soak my mind in something else, but the book actually seems to make it worse. I light candles for myself, markers to navigate throughout the halls when the fog envelops everything, totally.
And I am always looking for the one box which didn't seem to make it to the apartment. Inside it contains my identity, and I think I've misplaced it. Of all the things I could have lost. Then again it could be on a chilly beach in California.
Come down, come down, come down.
In eight days I will be 27!
1.9.06
The fiery truck
The lonliest feeling. She told me it was a fatal car crash and I went down the checklist in my head. She was the only one I came up with who would be driving there at that moment and she was the one who told me about it, so everything was okay. Turned off the panic. Switched into the grief of placing myself in the driver's seat of that car, wondering what it was like, was it painful, how long did it last? Half seconds in and out of the fantasy, wondering if maybe there was something wrong with me for even wondering.
Thoughts of Nick. There are some journeys that we can't prepare ourselves for. They just come one day and you do your best.
When I got home I looked at the news and the car had been driving the wrong way on the highway for about a mile when it slammed head-on into a semi. Smoke and flame and violence but the driver of the car was the only one who didn't walk away. I caught my mind hoping that it was an old person who had settled his accounts and had lived a full life. And I stopped wondering if there was something wrong with me, of course there is.
It could have played out so differently. If she had left a few minutes early where would she have been on the highway? I hate how fucking tenuous our grasp on all of this is.
Thoughts of Nick. There are some journeys that we can't prepare ourselves for. They just come one day and you do your best.
When I got home I looked at the news and the car had been driving the wrong way on the highway for about a mile when it slammed head-on into a semi. Smoke and flame and violence but the driver of the car was the only one who didn't walk away. I caught my mind hoping that it was an old person who had settled his accounts and had lived a full life. And I stopped wondering if there was something wrong with me, of course there is.
It could have played out so differently. If she had left a few minutes early where would she have been on the highway? I hate how fucking tenuous our grasp on all of this is.
15.7.06
been awhile
I haven't posted for awhile because I haven't had access to the internet. I also haven't showered for a week. Life's been a little rustic lately. So, anyway, after Patrick and I left San Francisco we headed south to Santa Cruz and Monterey. Both were kind of horribly yuppie-ish and spendy places but they were on the ocean, which is always a plus. Deep down I'm just not a city person.
But we went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium in, duh, Monterey, and it was amazing! Except for the hordes of people. California has WAY TOO MANY people. I managed to get some photos though, florescent jellyfish!
Patrick being completely mesmerized by their buoyancy:
Then we headed inland to Yosemite. We are slowly learning to not hit major tourist areas on the weekend. Fortunately we arrived at Yosemite on a Tuesday, and it was still totally crowded! Like I said, California = aggoraphobia. Too many people. But it was still beautiful in that angsty way it is when you have to keep dodging people who stop in the middle of the f**ing sidewalk to pick the underwear out of their ass. (I'm a little burnt out right now, need a shower and some fresh vegetables.) But seriously, the views were amazing, I would highly recommend going to Yosemite, just go any time other than summer.
The grand vista:
The falls:
And of course, the huge ass redwoods that are older than Jesus, seriously.
Then we decided to hike out into the back country and go camping for a few days out there. We ended up hiking about 18 miles, with a total elevation gain of 4500 feet! All that with a heavy pack on my back. (Every muscle is sore right now.) You can't go into the wilderness without a bear canister to store everything that smells like anything, which added a ton of weight and bulk to our packs. The views were great, it smelled wonderful out there (as long as you were upwind of me) but damn it was a lot of work!
Here's me resting along the way:
The waterfall we camped near the first night:
Our second campsite, see how our tent blends in with the rock!
We watched the sunset from our lonely cliff last night, it was beautiful:
We were both feeling pretty barnsour this morning, so we woke up at six and jetted down the trail back to the car and civilization. 9 miles only took us three hours, woot! Except I fell a couple times and once I fell off a tree I was trying to climb over and bloodied my legs pretty good. I'm all scraped up now and bruised. And I got all pissed at nature too, you know? Like every rock I fumbled over and that tree limb that broke, they were all put there on purpose to slow me down and mess me up. Yeah. Time to get to a hotel and unwind a bit. :)
So now we're in Redding, CA and the thermometer outside says 104 degrees Farenheit. The woman at the front desk told us that it was unusually cool for this time of year, last week it was 119. Man, and I was looking forward to soaking in the jacuzzi, too. Oh well. At least there's running water here.
Tomorrow we're heading to the coastal Redwoods, then up the coast through Oregon. More pictures later, now it's my turn in the shower.
=D
But we went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium in, duh, Monterey, and it was amazing! Except for the hordes of people. California has WAY TOO MANY people. I managed to get some photos though, florescent jellyfish!
Patrick being completely mesmerized by their buoyancy:
Then we headed inland to Yosemite. We are slowly learning to not hit major tourist areas on the weekend. Fortunately we arrived at Yosemite on a Tuesday, and it was still totally crowded! Like I said, California = aggoraphobia. Too many people. But it was still beautiful in that angsty way it is when you have to keep dodging people who stop in the middle of the f**ing sidewalk to pick the underwear out of their ass. (I'm a little burnt out right now, need a shower and some fresh vegetables.) But seriously, the views were amazing, I would highly recommend going to Yosemite, just go any time other than summer.
The grand vista:
The falls:
And of course, the huge ass redwoods that are older than Jesus, seriously.
Then we decided to hike out into the back country and go camping for a few days out there. We ended up hiking about 18 miles, with a total elevation gain of 4500 feet! All that with a heavy pack on my back. (Every muscle is sore right now.) You can't go into the wilderness without a bear canister to store everything that smells like anything, which added a ton of weight and bulk to our packs. The views were great, it smelled wonderful out there (as long as you were upwind of me) but damn it was a lot of work!
Here's me resting along the way:
The waterfall we camped near the first night:
Our second campsite, see how our tent blends in with the rock!
We watched the sunset from our lonely cliff last night, it was beautiful:
We were both feeling pretty barnsour this morning, so we woke up at six and jetted down the trail back to the car and civilization. 9 miles only took us three hours, woot! Except I fell a couple times and once I fell off a tree I was trying to climb over and bloodied my legs pretty good. I'm all scraped up now and bruised. And I got all pissed at nature too, you know? Like every rock I fumbled over and that tree limb that broke, they were all put there on purpose to slow me down and mess me up. Yeah. Time to get to a hotel and unwind a bit. :)
So now we're in Redding, CA and the thermometer outside says 104 degrees Farenheit. The woman at the front desk told us that it was unusually cool for this time of year, last week it was 119. Man, and I was looking forward to soaking in the jacuzzi, too. Oh well. At least there's running water here.
Tomorrow we're heading to the coastal Redwoods, then up the coast through Oregon. More pictures later, now it's my turn in the shower.
=D
8.7.06
No one says "Frisco"
After leaving Pullman we made a bee-line for Northern California and camped at Mt. Shasta (we had to go through Weed, CA to get there). Apparently, to the hippies, Mt. Shasta is this huge energy mecca where healings and things of that nature take place. I didn't have any kind of miraculous experience there, but it was beautiful:
Then we headed towards the coast and San Francisco. Being in a city was some serious culture shock after camping and sticking to the back roads. Lots of homeless people, bad smells, bad moods and crass consumerism. But it was also full of culture and color and trees, flowers and ocean. This was our hotel room:
On Friday we braved the mass transit system and jumped on the side of a trolley car and rode all the way down the line to Fisherman's Wharf. Too bad this one's not still moving. ;)
At Fisherman's Wharf we caught a boat out to Alcatraz Island and took a tour of the prison, which is maintained by the National Park Service, strangely. Alcatraz from the boat:
Me in a jail cell, jesus they were small:
Can you see the Golden Gate Bridge in the background? We drove over it on the way into town.
So now we're outside of Monterey and are going to head to the aquarium tomorrow and find a campsite on the beach somewhere. We had breakfast with my friend in Berkeley (and her dog!) and drove down to Santa Cruz to hang out, which was sort of disappointing. Lots of yuppies and kids and over-priced shit to buy with your disposable income. Kind of depressing in the plastic way. I'm a little burnt on cities so the forests and beaches are calling. I'll post more pictures of Yosemite after I get a chance to take some.
Then we headed towards the coast and San Francisco. Being in a city was some serious culture shock after camping and sticking to the back roads. Lots of homeless people, bad smells, bad moods and crass consumerism. But it was also full of culture and color and trees, flowers and ocean. This was our hotel room:
On Friday we braved the mass transit system and jumped on the side of a trolley car and rode all the way down the line to Fisherman's Wharf. Too bad this one's not still moving. ;)
At Fisherman's Wharf we caught a boat out to Alcatraz Island and took a tour of the prison, which is maintained by the National Park Service, strangely. Alcatraz from the boat:
Me in a jail cell, jesus they were small:
Can you see the Golden Gate Bridge in the background? We drove over it on the way into town.
So now we're outside of Monterey and are going to head to the aquarium tomorrow and find a campsite on the beach somewhere. We had breakfast with my friend in Berkeley (and her dog!) and drove down to Santa Cruz to hang out, which was sort of disappointing. Lots of yuppies and kids and over-priced shit to buy with your disposable income. Kind of depressing in the plastic way. I'm a little burnt on cities so the forests and beaches are calling. I'll post more pictures of Yosemite after I get a chance to take some.
4.7.06
Paradise Found
We spent last night at my mother-in-law's newly acquired land in Idaho. She has 20 acres on which exists two cabins and a pond and nearly a million pine trees. It was beautiful, and I hope that all of you can at some point come out here and stay there. There's no electricity so at night we lit candles and kerosene lamps and I remembered how beautiful candlelight makes everything. There is a propane stove so we had pancakes and tea for breakfast!
The cabin with me in the pond:
The little guest cabin where Patrick and I spent the night, it's big enough for a bed and a chair, but what else do you need?!
Here's another view of the main cabin.
And Patrick by the fire. Dry pine needles are amazingly effective tinder.
The moon, a few Ponderosa Pines and the smoke from our fire.
The cabin with me in the pond:
The little guest cabin where Patrick and I spent the night, it's big enough for a bed and a chair, but what else do you need?!
Here's another view of the main cabin.
And Patrick by the fire. Dry pine needles are amazingly effective tinder.
The moon, a few Ponderosa Pines and the smoke from our fire.
29.6.06
The desert is haunted.
So after the Rocky Mountain National Park we drove to the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. Awesome name. It's this huge gorge in an otherwise fairly flat stretch of Colorado. It's like a 2000 foot knife cut. Hard to capture digitally or otherwise. Anyway, here are a few photos:
We took a long hike up to the top of a mountain for a better vantage point, this is me halfway up.
After camping there for a night we drove to Utah and to Arches National Park. My favorite!! Could I have, I would have pitched my tent and stayed there forever. Sadly, the campsite was full so we only got a day to enjoy it. Seriously though, this place is magical. I will return here someday no doubt, want to come?!
and
and
Check out the signage in Utah:
Yikes!
We took a long hike up to the top of a mountain for a better vantage point, this is me halfway up.
After camping there for a night we drove to Utah and to Arches National Park. My favorite!! Could I have, I would have pitched my tent and stayed there forever. Sadly, the campsite was full so we only got a day to enjoy it. Seriously though, this place is magical. I will return here someday no doubt, want to come?!
and
and
Check out the signage in Utah:
Yikes!
25.6.06
postcards from the road
We woke up early Thursday morning and hit Trail Ridge Road through the Rocky Mountain National Park. I don't know if I've ever been on a more beautiful road. The highest elevation on the road is something like 12,000 feet but the Honda (I've named it Jack) climbed the hills like a champion! The mountains were hard to capture on film, you just can't get the sense of vastness.... anyway, here's what it looked like, sort of! (Patrick took these photos.)
The clouds hang low in the air (low being like 10,000 feet) and storms can blow in on a dime.
If you're in Colorado, never go anywhere without a good hat for shade and a camera!
This little bastard wouldn't have lived long if Zeke had been with us! We found him chilling out at a roadstop near the top of one of the mountains.
It's amazing the part elevation plays in temperature. I think I read somewhere that you lose 10 degrees with every 1000 feet you climb. Anyway it was COLD up here but so pretty. The rocks behind the snow are lava! Remnants of a violent volcanic eruption...
Is it a worm or is it me??
So now I'm in a hotel in Colorado because it's Sunday and Deadwood's on. Tomorrow we're hitting up Black Canyon of the Gunnison and then on to Moab, Utah and Arches National Park! More photos to follow, so check back, eh?
The clouds hang low in the air (low being like 10,000 feet) and storms can blow in on a dime.
If you're in Colorado, never go anywhere without a good hat for shade and a camera!
This little bastard wouldn't have lived long if Zeke had been with us! We found him chilling out at a roadstop near the top of one of the mountains.
It's amazing the part elevation plays in temperature. I think I read somewhere that you lose 10 degrees with every 1000 feet you climb. Anyway it was COLD up here but so pretty. The rocks behind the snow are lava! Remnants of a violent volcanic eruption...
Is it a worm or is it me??
So now I'm in a hotel in Colorado because it's Sunday and Deadwood's on. Tomorrow we're hitting up Black Canyon of the Gunnison and then on to Moab, Utah and Arches National Park! More photos to follow, so check back, eh?
22.6.06
Garden of the Gods
Hiking through this amazing rocky park this morning, made me think I should move to Colorado. Everywhere you look there's a trail. Even in the towns.
Me and Patrick at the Siamese twins:
Our hiking companion:
Tomorrow it's Boulder and then the Rocky Mountain National Park. More pictures in a few days.... :)
Me and Patrick at the Siamese twins:
Our hiking companion:
Tomorrow it's Boulder and then the Rocky Mountain National Park. More pictures in a few days.... :)
9.6.06
beauty and lonliness
They bought a round for the sailor
and they heard his tale
of a world that was so far away,
and a song that we'd never heard
a song of a little bird
that fell in love with a whale.
He said: you cannot live in the ocean,
and she said to him: You never can live in the sky.
But the ocean is filled with tears
and the sea turns into a mirror
and there's a whale in the moon when it's clear
and a bird on the tide.
Please don't cry
Let me dry your eyes.
So tell me that you will wait for me,
hold me in your arms,
I promise we never will part.
I'll never sail back to the time
but I'll always pretend that you're mine,
though I know that we both must part
you can live in my heart.
and they heard his tale
of a world that was so far away,
and a song that we'd never heard
a song of a little bird
that fell in love with a whale.
He said: you cannot live in the ocean,
and she said to him: You never can live in the sky.
But the ocean is filled with tears
and the sea turns into a mirror
and there's a whale in the moon when it's clear
and a bird on the tide.
Please don't cry
Let me dry your eyes.
So tell me that you will wait for me,
hold me in your arms,
I promise we never will part.
I'll never sail back to the time
but I'll always pretend that you're mine,
though I know that we both must part
you can live in my heart.
24.5.06
Sun and fog
A week ago they offered him the job for another year, with a paid summer off. A week ago we forgot about the boxes on the floor, about the cats on the plane, about what we’d do when we got there. We hopped in the car, I behind the wheel, he filling the space next to me so nicely. A week ago tomorrow we were blessed over and over and over by a voice I’d like to somehow make my own.
And then on to New Orleans, just the four of us (plus one), and the call we all felt to bear witness. There is a stretch of road that goes on, mile after mile, with nothing but rubble and ruin. Poor lives caught up in the politics of tourism, souls smashed like the cheap clapboard siding of their houses. On one cement block foundation someone had spray-painted “Baghdad” in ugly handwriting. Joe, the driver of our limousine, told us that the GI’s he’d been bringing home said the lower ninth ward looked worse than Iraq.
And the Christians will tell you that we are our brother’s keeper. But if I know you, you won’t believe them.
The French Quarter smelled like old beer and mules and cayenne pepper. And we walked in the sun like we were Icarus. She has the cop eye, she looks into your soul. And so do I. And we will always have a home, as long as there exists the other. These shiny bright bits of glass help me to remember that I can never truly be alone. To remember that the sky is giving thanks to the sea every time that it rains.
And she is getting married, and when I think about it long and hard (as you know I do) I can’t think of a better match. He is a child, and so is she, and I mean that in the best of ways. In the way that it’s only children who would take the time to find the beauty in a blade of grass, to know what fireflies smell like. They will never stop questioning, changing, growing, and they will have that in common with each other.
Then I think that we are all growing old together, aren’t we? I have visions of grey hair, floral print dresses, tattoos and piercing poking out from underneath and it makes me grin. The skin may sag but the Jindra remains intact.
Also, everyone, listen, I had this idea. Since there’s this guy in town who does web design but he’s likely to go to prison, I should do web design. Send cards to all his clients and the like. I could do that part-time next year and sell my crafty stuff for the other part time. But I need help thinking up a name for a web design company. I thought of “Zen Design” but it’s taken. Something that conveys a very sleek, artistic, functional, technologically capable design company. Ideas please!
And then on to New Orleans, just the four of us (plus one), and the call we all felt to bear witness. There is a stretch of road that goes on, mile after mile, with nothing but rubble and ruin. Poor lives caught up in the politics of tourism, souls smashed like the cheap clapboard siding of their houses. On one cement block foundation someone had spray-painted “Baghdad” in ugly handwriting. Joe, the driver of our limousine, told us that the GI’s he’d been bringing home said the lower ninth ward looked worse than Iraq.
And the Christians will tell you that we are our brother’s keeper. But if I know you, you won’t believe them.
The French Quarter smelled like old beer and mules and cayenne pepper. And we walked in the sun like we were Icarus. She has the cop eye, she looks into your soul. And so do I. And we will always have a home, as long as there exists the other. These shiny bright bits of glass help me to remember that I can never truly be alone. To remember that the sky is giving thanks to the sea every time that it rains.
And she is getting married, and when I think about it long and hard (as you know I do) I can’t think of a better match. He is a child, and so is she, and I mean that in the best of ways. In the way that it’s only children who would take the time to find the beauty in a blade of grass, to know what fireflies smell like. They will never stop questioning, changing, growing, and they will have that in common with each other.
Then I think that we are all growing old together, aren’t we? I have visions of grey hair, floral print dresses, tattoos and piercing poking out from underneath and it makes me grin. The skin may sag but the Jindra remains intact.
Also, everyone, listen, I had this idea. Since there’s this guy in town who does web design but he’s likely to go to prison, I should do web design. Send cards to all his clients and the like. I could do that part-time next year and sell my crafty stuff for the other part time. But I need help thinking up a name for a web design company. I thought of “Zen Design” but it’s taken. Something that conveys a very sleek, artistic, functional, technologically capable design company. Ideas please!
9.5.06
a crack in the sidewalk
There's this great tune that Johnny Cash sings, A Boy Named Sue. The crazy thing about the song is that Shel Silverstein wrote it. Yeah, the guy who wrote all those awesome kids' poems! Apparently he wrote a lot of songs, too. Here are the lyrics, I think they're great:
My daddy left home when I was three
And he didn't leave much to ma and me
Just this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.
Now, I don't blame him cause he run and hid
But the meanest thing that he ever did
Was before he left, he went and named me "Sue."
Well, he must o' thought that is quite a joke
And it got a lot of laughs from a' lots of folk,
It seems I had to fight my whole life through.
Some gal would giggle and I'd get red
And some guy'd laugh and I'd bust his head,
I tell ya, life ain't easy for a boy named "Sue."
Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fist got hard and my wits got keen,
I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.
But I made a vow to the moon and stars
That I'd search the honky-tonks and bars
And kill that man who gave me that awful name.
Well, it was Gatlinburg in mid-July
And I just hit town and my throat was dry,
I thought I'd stop and have myself a brew.
At an old saloon on a street of mud,
There at a table, dealing stud,
Sat the dirty, mangy dog that named me "Sue."
Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad
From a worn-out picture that my mother'd had,
And I knew that scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
He was big and bent and gray and old,
And I looked at him and my blood ran cold
And I said: "My name is 'Sue!' How do you do!
Now your gonna die!!"
Well, I hit him hard right between the eyes
And he went down, but to my surprise,
He come up with a knife and cut off a piece of my ear.
But I busted a chair right across his teeth
And we crashed through the wall and into the street
Kicking and a' gouging in the mud and the blood and the beer.
I tell ya, I've fought tougher men
But I really can't remember when,
He kicked like a mule and he bit like a crocodile.
I heard him laugh and then I heard him cuss,
He went for his gun and I pulled mine first,
He stood there lookin' at me and I saw him smile.
And he said: "Son, this world is rough
And if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough
And I knew I wouldn't be there to help ya along.
So I give ya that name and I said goodbye
I knew you'd have to get tough or die
And it's the name that helped to make you strong."
He said: "Now you just fought one hell of a fight
And I know you hate me, and you got the right
To kill me now, and I wouldn't blame you if you do.
But ya ought to thank me, before I die,
For the gravel in ya guts and the spit in ya eye
Cause I'm the son-of-a-bitch that named you "Sue.'"
I got all choked up and I threw down my gun
And I called him my pa, and he called me his son,
And I came away with a different point of view.
And I think about him, now and then,
Every time I try and every time I win,
And if I ever have a son, I think I'm gonna name him
Bill or George! Anything but Sue! I still hate that name!
My daddy left home when I was three
And he didn't leave much to ma and me
Just this old guitar and an empty bottle of booze.
Now, I don't blame him cause he run and hid
But the meanest thing that he ever did
Was before he left, he went and named me "Sue."
Well, he must o' thought that is quite a joke
And it got a lot of laughs from a' lots of folk,
It seems I had to fight my whole life through.
Some gal would giggle and I'd get red
And some guy'd laugh and I'd bust his head,
I tell ya, life ain't easy for a boy named "Sue."
Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean,
My fist got hard and my wits got keen,
I'd roam from town to town to hide my shame.
But I made a vow to the moon and stars
That I'd search the honky-tonks and bars
And kill that man who gave me that awful name.
Well, it was Gatlinburg in mid-July
And I just hit town and my throat was dry,
I thought I'd stop and have myself a brew.
At an old saloon on a street of mud,
There at a table, dealing stud,
Sat the dirty, mangy dog that named me "Sue."
Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad
From a worn-out picture that my mother'd had,
And I knew that scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
He was big and bent and gray and old,
And I looked at him and my blood ran cold
And I said: "My name is 'Sue!' How do you do!
Now your gonna die!!"
Well, I hit him hard right between the eyes
And he went down, but to my surprise,
He come up with a knife and cut off a piece of my ear.
But I busted a chair right across his teeth
And we crashed through the wall and into the street
Kicking and a' gouging in the mud and the blood and the beer.
I tell ya, I've fought tougher men
But I really can't remember when,
He kicked like a mule and he bit like a crocodile.
I heard him laugh and then I heard him cuss,
He went for his gun and I pulled mine first,
He stood there lookin' at me and I saw him smile.
And he said: "Son, this world is rough
And if a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough
And I knew I wouldn't be there to help ya along.
So I give ya that name and I said goodbye
I knew you'd have to get tough or die
And it's the name that helped to make you strong."
He said: "Now you just fought one hell of a fight
And I know you hate me, and you got the right
To kill me now, and I wouldn't blame you if you do.
But ya ought to thank me, before I die,
For the gravel in ya guts and the spit in ya eye
Cause I'm the son-of-a-bitch that named you "Sue.'"
I got all choked up and I threw down my gun
And I called him my pa, and he called me his son,
And I came away with a different point of view.
And I think about him, now and then,
Every time I try and every time I win,
And if I ever have a son, I think I'm gonna name him
Bill or George! Anything but Sue! I still hate that name!
8.5.06
Lucky kid.
A short post today because I can't get the words out of my head right. I tried earlier, it didn't work.
Inside my blood and guts and bones there resides a stone tablet, my own personal ten commandments. I don't have all ten yet, but when I hear a truth that I cannot deny and that will not leave my head I carve it there, with chisel and hammer.
One that I carved while still in high school reads, "the journey is what is important, not the destination".
At the top of the list I have just a word, in all capitals, "FAMILY".
This weekend I carved a new, and to me very important truth. It started as a joke, and there is no better way for a truth to reveal itself. With a laugh. "You will make it home if you remain true to who you are".
Remember, it is when you least suspect it that the universe will coalesce and hand you a lotus flower. I will write more later.
As for right now I'm learning a few Johnny Cash tunes and am actually managing to sing along to my strumming. Also feeling a little depressed but not minding. Feeling mean like the dog who guards the junkyard. Some days you just can't get out of bed on the right side to save your life.
Inside my blood and guts and bones there resides a stone tablet, my own personal ten commandments. I don't have all ten yet, but when I hear a truth that I cannot deny and that will not leave my head I carve it there, with chisel and hammer.
One that I carved while still in high school reads, "the journey is what is important, not the destination".
At the top of the list I have just a word, in all capitals, "FAMILY".
This weekend I carved a new, and to me very important truth. It started as a joke, and there is no better way for a truth to reveal itself. With a laugh. "You will make it home if you remain true to who you are".
Remember, it is when you least suspect it that the universe will coalesce and hand you a lotus flower. I will write more later.
As for right now I'm learning a few Johnny Cash tunes and am actually managing to sing along to my strumming. Also feeling a little depressed but not minding. Feeling mean like the dog who guards the junkyard. Some days you just can't get out of bed on the right side to save your life.
20.4.06
This time from Nana
Had another dream last night. Nana died this time, I don't remember how or if I was even there to be a witness but she definitely died. And then I woke up this morning to the phone ringing. Seven-thirty. The caller id said "Lifeline" and I knew it really was about her, Nana.
She wasn't dead though. They told me she pressed her button because she was weak and couldn't get out of bed. My mom was there. She was calling the ambulance. I think I said thank-you before I hung up.
I called mom over at Nana's, asked for a task, something to do, a piece of the burden she was carrying. I was charged with picking my aunt up (no small task, she's crazier than any of us) and bringing her along with me to the hospital. An hour, two cups of coffee and some second-hand menthol basic smoke later I delivered myself and my crazy aunt to the hospital.
Nana had already ingested an oxycontin, two percocets, and the nurse was emptying a syringe full of morphine into her IV drip. She weighs eighty pounds if she's just eaten, but she was fully concious, lucid even, with all those drugs in her system.
My mom says she doesn't have blood, that it's venom coursing through her veins. She might be right.
For the next four or five hours I watched as Nana yelled at my aunt and mom, smacked their hands away when they tried to help, cursed them, sobbed, and drifted in and out of sleep. She would put her hands to her face and let out a ghostly cry, "it's not fair, it's cruel, it's so cruel".
She was like an 89 year old infant, unable to deal with any amount of stress, emotional or otherwise.
I sat with her for another hour or so after she was finally transferred from the ER to a bed in the hospital. I watched her yell at a nurse, smack my aunt, shit her bed, sob.
I finally left, feeling as though I had lived through two days of not sleeping. And I'm left with so many questions.
This has been going on for almost eight years. At this point, she will probably not ever return home and will finish out her life in a nursing home. She doesn't really have any friends left and she's alienated most of her family. "Quality of life" seems so far away from all of this.
We went out to dinner tonight to laugh about things, instead of isolating ourselves in our kitchens and crying. At one point mom said, "Aunt Fran used to always say that we're more humane with our animals than we are with other people." And it's true, maybe.
As I sit here typing this I realize that I wish my grandmother would decide to die. The amount of medication that she will need to manage the immense physical pain that she's in will incapacitate her. Quality of life. When she gets drugged she gets mean, vicious, the nasty underbelly of her personality is all that's left. Is what my mom and aunt have to try and nurse.
I hope that she goes quietly in her sleep and I hope that wishing that doesn't make me a bad person.
She wasn't dead though. They told me she pressed her button because she was weak and couldn't get out of bed. My mom was there. She was calling the ambulance. I think I said thank-you before I hung up.
I called mom over at Nana's, asked for a task, something to do, a piece of the burden she was carrying. I was charged with picking my aunt up (no small task, she's crazier than any of us) and bringing her along with me to the hospital. An hour, two cups of coffee and some second-hand menthol basic smoke later I delivered myself and my crazy aunt to the hospital.
Nana had already ingested an oxycontin, two percocets, and the nurse was emptying a syringe full of morphine into her IV drip. She weighs eighty pounds if she's just eaten, but she was fully concious, lucid even, with all those drugs in her system.
My mom says she doesn't have blood, that it's venom coursing through her veins. She might be right.
For the next four or five hours I watched as Nana yelled at my aunt and mom, smacked their hands away when they tried to help, cursed them, sobbed, and drifted in and out of sleep. She would put her hands to her face and let out a ghostly cry, "it's not fair, it's cruel, it's so cruel".
She was like an 89 year old infant, unable to deal with any amount of stress, emotional or otherwise.
I sat with her for another hour or so after she was finally transferred from the ER to a bed in the hospital. I watched her yell at a nurse, smack my aunt, shit her bed, sob.
I finally left, feeling as though I had lived through two days of not sleeping. And I'm left with so many questions.
This has been going on for almost eight years. At this point, she will probably not ever return home and will finish out her life in a nursing home. She doesn't really have any friends left and she's alienated most of her family. "Quality of life" seems so far away from all of this.
We went out to dinner tonight to laugh about things, instead of isolating ourselves in our kitchens and crying. At one point mom said, "Aunt Fran used to always say that we're more humane with our animals than we are with other people." And it's true, maybe.
As I sit here typing this I realize that I wish my grandmother would decide to die. The amount of medication that she will need to manage the immense physical pain that she's in will incapacitate her. Quality of life. When she gets drugged she gets mean, vicious, the nasty underbelly of her personality is all that's left. Is what my mom and aunt have to try and nurse.
I hope that she goes quietly in her sleep and I hope that wishing that doesn't make me a bad person.
19.4.06
Message from my grandpa.
Had a dream last night that I was one of many underlings in corporate America, working in this four-storey renovated old grade school for some company whose product I didn’t know. I was one of only two disgruntled worker bees, out of maybe two-hundred. We met in the last five minutes of the dream, I had been dispatched by my supervisor, a mid-level manager, to the fourth floor to deliver an important message to the CEO. I took the steps two at a time to the top, and outside the CEO’s very important office doors, there he was, the other disgruntled. He was sitting at a desk in the hall, as if he was in the sixth grade and being punished. We made eye contact and recognized the rebellion lurking inside the other, and laughed. (The most appropriate thing in the world to do.)
I went into the CEO’s office, but left the door open so that my new ally could bear witness to the soul-crushing degradation that is working in corporate America. So that he’d know he wasn’t the only one doing some blood-letting. But I couldn’t remember the message. The CEO looked at me, questioned me with a crisp, “Yes?”, but it was gone. I could remember the ugly face of my mid-level manager, who looked so much like the Dean of Admissions. I could look into the future and see how upset she’d be that I hadn’t been successful on such an important task. But for the life of me I couldn’t remember her message.
Before the reprimand came I ran out of his office, grabbed my new friend by the hand and ran down the stairs with him. They were taking bodies in suits out on stretchers. People were dying and I had no idea why. The two of us threw open the front doors and ran outside together, into the pregnant spring. The corporate lilac bushes were in bloom, the daffodils, the grasses, the tulips, all growing together like a chaotic jungle, as if to make up for the lack of life just inside the building.
We two worker bees inhaled the fragrant air and then took off running down the sidewalk. I woke up thanking the stars that I don’t have a job to go to this morning.
And euc would always say, “Caged birds accept each other, but flight is what they long for.” And she’s right.
I went into the CEO’s office, but left the door open so that my new ally could bear witness to the soul-crushing degradation that is working in corporate America. So that he’d know he wasn’t the only one doing some blood-letting. But I couldn’t remember the message. The CEO looked at me, questioned me with a crisp, “Yes?”, but it was gone. I could remember the ugly face of my mid-level manager, who looked so much like the Dean of Admissions. I could look into the future and see how upset she’d be that I hadn’t been successful on such an important task. But for the life of me I couldn’t remember her message.
Before the reprimand came I ran out of his office, grabbed my new friend by the hand and ran down the stairs with him. They were taking bodies in suits out on stretchers. People were dying and I had no idea why. The two of us threw open the front doors and ran outside together, into the pregnant spring. The corporate lilac bushes were in bloom, the daffodils, the grasses, the tulips, all growing together like a chaotic jungle, as if to make up for the lack of life just inside the building.
We two worker bees inhaled the fragrant air and then took off running down the sidewalk. I woke up thanking the stars that I don’t have a job to go to this morning.
And euc would always say, “Caged birds accept each other, but flight is what they long for.” And she’s right.
29.3.06
Woof.
I am so incredibly bored at work today. So, I've been cracking out on internet quizzes and the like. This was my favorite result, by far:
I sound my barbaric YAWP over the rooftops of the world, people.
I sound my barbaric YAWP over the rooftops of the world, people.
28.3.06
I got screwed.
I should clarify; I got a nostril screw! That's what the professional body modification artists call it, in layman's terms it means that I got my nose pierced. I have for you, a picture (can you see the little flicker of steel?!?):
I cut my bangs and died them red, also. It's spring, it was time for change. SO, I haven't written for awhile. My computer crashed, this work thing is sucking my soul away, I've been busy designing tattoos to have inscribed on my flesh at some point in the future. The writing thing just hasn't been happening. I will try to jump back into the river soon, kiddies.
I did just discover podcasts though, and the fact that Democracy Now podcasts itself! (Can podcast be used as a verb?) Makes the morning cup of tea and mandatory mundanity of the data downloads that I am in charge of much more palatable.
HONK IF YOU'D RATHER BE HIKING!
8.3.06
cedar sketches
There is a part of us that seeks the suffering out. We look for sadness and anger and jealousy under rocks, in raindrops, out at sea. We need the reactivity to spice up the bland reality of the day to day. We sink our teeth into the rotten parts of our personalities; we don’t let go. We live a life on tenterhooks.
But only on our bad days.
Sometimes we let ourselves rise like valkyries to meet the sky. We can be noble and empathetic and beautiful. Some days all things enter us and recede again like so many waves on an immeasurable ocean. We are earthly gods fueled by all of the hope that ever existed.
What I would like is to walk the road that exists between the two extremes.
**************
We spent whole summers outside in the forest. We got to know the change in weather by the way the trees smelled, by the texture of their leaves. We would have huge adventures building fires, climbing rocks, fording a creek again and again and again. We imagined we were the last remaining soldiers of an egalitarian monarchy. We were noble.
When we got older we’d return to the forest after breaking out of our houses in the middle of the night. We would congregate underneath a huge pine tree and consume what we managed to steal from our parents’ liquor cabinets. We’d watch the stars drift, climb the trees, race each other up and down the trail. We’d play the night game and imagine we heard wild animals chasing us, or convince ourselves that we’d seen the eyes of a madman peering out from just behind the far bushes. We would run until the sharp night air seared our lungs.
Last winter I hiked back in on snowshoes after a snowstorm dumped more than two feet on us. Mine were the only tracks for most of the way, and it was so quiet that I cursed my heavy breath for breaking the silence. I labored for most of an hour to make the bridge, and needed to take rest by the time I reached it. I made a seat in the snow and my breath slowed, my eyes closed, my body relaxed. I sat there for several minutes and let the quiet sink into my bones. A noise to my right caused my gaze to shift and there on a snow-laden sycamore limb was a giant downy barn-owl. We regarded each other for a few long moments, then he turned, and flew away.
I clamped my snowshoes back on and made my way across the bridge and back towards home. The streets were nearly as empty as the forest, but the smell of pine was replaced with wood smoke and the windows of houses softly glowed with the contentment of having a day off from work and school. Everyone together drinking big mugs of tea in front of a fire, safely away from the storm outside.
And if there was a heaven, this is what I’d want it to be. A stone house in a small town filled with family, with a naïve happiness, where you can always hike out to a snow-filled forest to remind yourself that everything changes.
But only on our bad days.
Sometimes we let ourselves rise like valkyries to meet the sky. We can be noble and empathetic and beautiful. Some days all things enter us and recede again like so many waves on an immeasurable ocean. We are earthly gods fueled by all of the hope that ever existed.
What I would like is to walk the road that exists between the two extremes.
**************
We spent whole summers outside in the forest. We got to know the change in weather by the way the trees smelled, by the texture of their leaves. We would have huge adventures building fires, climbing rocks, fording a creek again and again and again. We imagined we were the last remaining soldiers of an egalitarian monarchy. We were noble.
When we got older we’d return to the forest after breaking out of our houses in the middle of the night. We would congregate underneath a huge pine tree and consume what we managed to steal from our parents’ liquor cabinets. We’d watch the stars drift, climb the trees, race each other up and down the trail. We’d play the night game and imagine we heard wild animals chasing us, or convince ourselves that we’d seen the eyes of a madman peering out from just behind the far bushes. We would run until the sharp night air seared our lungs.
Last winter I hiked back in on snowshoes after a snowstorm dumped more than two feet on us. Mine were the only tracks for most of the way, and it was so quiet that I cursed my heavy breath for breaking the silence. I labored for most of an hour to make the bridge, and needed to take rest by the time I reached it. I made a seat in the snow and my breath slowed, my eyes closed, my body relaxed. I sat there for several minutes and let the quiet sink into my bones. A noise to my right caused my gaze to shift and there on a snow-laden sycamore limb was a giant downy barn-owl. We regarded each other for a few long moments, then he turned, and flew away.
I clamped my snowshoes back on and made my way across the bridge and back towards home. The streets were nearly as empty as the forest, but the smell of pine was replaced with wood smoke and the windows of houses softly glowed with the contentment of having a day off from work and school. Everyone together drinking big mugs of tea in front of a fire, safely away from the storm outside.
And if there was a heaven, this is what I’d want it to be. A stone house in a small town filled with family, with a naïve happiness, where you can always hike out to a snow-filled forest to remind yourself that everything changes.
27.2.06
A sketch
We spend Sunday nights around the kitchen table, with the radio on, NPR playing Folk Alley. We make a pot of tea, turn the oven on and crack its door to heat our drafty room. You talk about our plans for the future and I listen. I rant about the world’s problems while you play with the cat, while you listen. We let the conversation wane and listen to some reeling Irish melody. We sip our tea. The windows fog up from the heat of our oven, from our voices.
You don’t look the way you did when I met you. The boyishness is fading and in its place is a steady masculinity. You work yourself up with the “could-be’s” and “what-if’s” and your eyes get that far away focus and your brow furrows. And I think that you are beautiful. And I wonder if it is possible to know someone completely and at the same time not know them at all. My perspective swings like a pendulum; one moment I am sitting across from a stranger and the next moment I am sitting across from myself.
And I forgot to tell you this, I love you.
You don’t look the way you did when I met you. The boyishness is fading and in its place is a steady masculinity. You work yourself up with the “could-be’s” and “what-if’s” and your eyes get that far away focus and your brow furrows. And I think that you are beautiful. And I wonder if it is possible to know someone completely and at the same time not know them at all. My perspective swings like a pendulum; one moment I am sitting across from a stranger and the next moment I am sitting across from myself.
And I forgot to tell you this, I love you.
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