Yawning to Byzantium

Yawn.

Blah-blah-blah. Blogosphere.

It's time to put this lame attempt at blogging on hiatus. I guess I'm not sure what to get out of this or how to go about getting something out of it -- or helping any of you get anything out of it.

When an old buddy/former coworker pointed me to the blogging experiment he'd started with similar misgivings about its direction and ultimate purpose, I thought I'd join in. But, why?

I carved out a few entries over time. But, I never even told anybody I was doing it, for a while. So, any readers would've been passers-by who happened upon it via that little random NEXT BLOG button at the top of your screen.

There's an aura of faux-anonymity instituted by an unspoken rule that becomes ludicrous when combined with the fact that the only readers I eventually conjured up are people that know me (and, for the most part, are people I told to come and read this): the guy that brought me here, a handful of former coworkers, an old army buddy I found online, and a childhood pal. Oh, and the people that they told about it.

Here's the deal. I think, in a great many instances, diaries/journals/blogs tend to default to someone seizing an outlet for their disappointments, anger, and dislikes. Then, years down the road, what is documented for posterity is merely negativity and ranting. Surely, that doesn't really reflect any given person. I mean, there's more to their lives than their rants, right?

But, maybe that's what some people need. That process of thought ought to be therapeutic on some level. In an online journal, though? Doesn't feel right.

Some people blog to essentially create an autobiography. That's okay for them. But, it's not what I wanna do. I can’t see that there's anything gained from doing that here.

I think celebrities and pundits blog to keep themselves connected to their "fans" and their constituency. That seems to provide a purpose.

Also, some blogs I've read serve as daily devotionals or a centralized site for a given group to disseminate information to their members. Again, purposeful.

Then, there are the wacky, zany bloggers who do it for entertainment. They are the SNAKES ON A BLOG folk who get silly and are good at it.

And we can't discount the other side of the blogging experience: the readers. They have a variety of different types, too. Some read for entertainment, or to keep track of a friend. Some will read just speculate on what they make of it in their own minds.

Whatever the case, this blog has sort of expired of its own lack of fuel.

I don't wanna delete it, though. There may be a time when I find an answer to those questions about what to do with this blog, about who the audience is or should be, about what it can do for me, if anything. So, I may wanna come back to it someday and revive it without having lost the entries that have gone before.

Hollywood & Hope for Humanity

I was standing on Hollywood Boulevard for a few hours.

A buddy of mine moved to California, and I helped drive the truckload of his life out west. As the movers unloaded my friend's rental truck and hauled his possessions upstairs to his new apartment, it was my duty to guard the truck, or more specifically, its contents.

To my right was Little Armenia, and to my left was the liveliness of H&H (Hollywood & Highland), the Walk of Fame, Graumann's, and the Capitol Records Tower poking its spire over the other buildings. The famed Hollywood sign floated overhead somewhere, overseeing the proceedings. But, I didn't have line-of-sight for it unless I was on the nicely appointed roof deck of my friend's apartment building.

Sometimes, the traffic light that served as the gateway to Little Armenia would back up traffic where cars were stopped in front of me. Occasionally, I got the sense that some of these passers-by were wondering why some chubby guy was standing in front of a building reading a book in the relentless and atypical heat. Perhaps the motorists magically discerned I was a Texan and glared at me accusatorily for bringing the heat with me.

"Hey!" Someone was yelling. "Do you need some food?"

Oh, great. Heckle the fatboy. Geez.

But, when I looked up, I saw that the woman shouting was doing so at the two pedestrians that had just passed me. The pedestrians were dirty and carrying lots of their belongings (at least I guess the belongings were theirs and not my friend's, as I'm uncertain since I was reading) in a manner that suggested they were down on their luck and possibly homeless.

Shouting Woman hopped out of the passenger side of the banged-up, '70s model truck and pulled two large bags from a pile of similar bags in the truck bed. She tossed them to the pedestrians. "There's lots of really good food in here. Enjoy it. And have a good day."

Well, I don't really think she said "have a good day" as she climbed back into the truck. Perhaps it was "keep up the fight." Whatever the phrase, it intimated her understanding of what they were going through and encouraged them to remain strong in their life-journey and know that there were people that cared about them.

Shouting Woman and the man driving the food-dispensing truck both appeared to be people who were dealing with difficult times, much like the two pedestrians. They could've easily been the two recipients of that scenario on some previous day. (And I like to think that's the case, because it belies some compassionate cycle of life.) I presumed that Shouting Woman and her cohort were probably volunteering to distribute the large food bags via some shelter or civic program that had likely helped them, too.

The whole scene left me infused with hope for humanity. People helping people is a good thing. People trying to assert their own sense of superiority by subjugating people that are unlike them with legislated bigotry or social bullying is a bad thing.

I'm just saying.

Ten Things I Believe

1.) I believe the life of a professional musician seems romantic and exciting. But, I believe I could never do that -- even if I was talented enough.

2.) I believe German chocolate ice cream is superior to all other flavors of ice cream.

3.) I believe in make-believe.

4.) I believe attending an opening day major league baseball game is thrilling and exciting, provided you are there with good friends -- even if you don't like baseball.

5.) I believe that bad people exist, and they don't always get what they deserve. Good people don't always get what they deserve, either.

6.) I believe solitude is a necessary function of soul and sanity. But, solitude should be a result of intent rather than circumstance.

7.) I believe in the Holy Trinity of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

8.) I believe constitutionalized discrimination desecrates the foundations of freedom in the manner that slavery dehumanized black people and the inability to vote marginalized the worth of women.

9.) I believe you have the capacity to realize your dreams, but I fear you will never truly believe it.

10.) I believe most people will never understand that Springsteen's Nebraska is an aural, poetic, spiritual masterpiece.

Cinema of the Unseen

Sometimes I find myself cowering.

Whatever wall of stoicism I had (if it ever was truly there) has been dismantled like the end of the Cold War. It's like my emotions are laid bare to the elements. And their raw exposure has not toughened them, but rather left them for prolonged damage.

I know something like FLIGHT 93 would reduce me to a puddle of blubber.

I understand some people are conflicted from the exploitation angle. I understand some people consider the subject too taboo, or at least too soon to be dealt with by big screen cinema.

And, let's be honest, some people are gonna make a massive fortune from every citizen determined to attend this film in an act of patriotism. Mayhaps they'll share the profit with worthy charities, but I suspect it'll buy Hummers and homes in the hills.

That's just me. That’s my take on the world.

However, I don't discount that the film might be done well. It seems, after all, that the camera work and casting and approach give the viewers a sense of a documentary, like the cameras were there that day -- or someone has pieced together the tale from archival footage. With no name-brand stars, it'll feel less like a movie, giving more subconscious acceptance of the documentary atmosphere. And that realism will no doubt be unsettling.

Mind you, this is all based on my understanding of the movie.

I haven't seen it.

I don't think I will ever see it, catharsis aside.

And the real reason is not something noble about objections over the commercialism or ideology or motives. It's because I know I'll be emotional mush. It will grieve me to endure it. And, if I'm looking for something I need more of, it's not emotional grief.

April & Everything After

Sometimes the rotation of the earth grinds to a halt, and the global lurch sends me sprawling to my face. It's in these prostrate moments that I wonder about myself, about all the aspects of what it is to be me.

During Easter weekend, I was driving a few blocks from home, and a random thought was followed by: "Mom would've liked that. I wish she were still here."

I'm not trying to upset the order of nature or anything. I'd just like something casual, something carefree. Perhaps I could just putter my car into some Twilight Zone and drop by their old house for a brief visit. I could hug Mom and kiss her cheek. I could make her smile and pretend to like that little rodent Chihuahua of which she was so fond. I could hug Dad and chat about his golf game. And maybe tell him on the sly about the milkshake from the local DQ that I snuck in the backdoor and left in the refrigerator for him. (Mom didn’t want him having them.)

Then, I could tell them good-bye. One more time.

That would make me happy.

Those thoughts loosened the structure of the dam, and I was soon flooded in emotions of loss and grief. Mostly, I recall the wonderful memories and the warmth of family love. But, last night, I couldn't keep at bay the accompanying visions of those three Aprils, when I returned home from California, Korea, and Colorado to bear my loved ones to their final resting. My grandmother, father, and mother died in consecutive Aprils.

I think T.S. Eliot had the power of discernment. April is the cruellest month.

I miss Mom and Dad terribly.

Clarity in a Stairwell

I recognized something today that I think I've been aware of on some level for a while. In a moment of clarity while walking up a stairwell, I realized one of my best commodities in the work place is that people enjoy working with me.

Yes, I'm a dedicated and diligent employee who's knowledgeable in my field of expertise, and I've been called a workaholic more than a few times for my efforts to ensure my projects yield the best products on schedule.

But, the thing is, I'm fun while I do it. And that may constitute a bigger slice of the pie chart than people suspect.

I don't really think I've spent much time assessing myself. But, when I examine the available data, I've no other reasonable conclusion.

I've worked before with people who did their job well, but their personalities and attitudes were so unpleasant that you hated to learn they were assigned to your projects. It is sometimes preferable to have a coworker with less ability who is earnest and likable. This can be especially true if your work has the propensity to require long hours.

I think enjoying yourself at work is important. Heck, I know it is! And I think my colleagues have learned that I'll meet my milestones and embrace some entertaining conversation along the way.

That keeps people requesting me for their projects, which can be bad if their projects are being conducted in a place I don't wanna be.

The lesson for today, boys and girls? Fun trumps lame.

Schemes to Gain the Motherland

I recently bought Jackson Browne's SOLO ACOUSTIC, VOL. 1.

I'm in awe of it. And I don't know if it'll ever come out of the CD player in my car.

It's a live recording, and it feels so righteously intimate. It’s like he sits in my passenger seat every time I drive somewhere, serenading me with his smart lyrics and spellbinding musical phrases.

The CD showcases Jackson's songwriting and performing, as he shifts between his guitar and a piano -- engaging the audience in one long conversation for which he supplies the soundtrack.

Whether the gentle aural massage of "For Everyman," or the yearning infused throughout "Your Bright Baby Blues," I'm simultaneously captivated and disappointed. But, my disappointment is rooted only in my assumption that too many people younger than I have missed out on his formidable talents.

I'm reminded, though, of that inspiring and poetic induction speech Bruce Springsteen delivered, as he ushered Jackson into the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame.

Just because I think you ought to, read this excerpt:

In seventies, post-Vietnam America, there
was no album that captured the fall from
Eden, the long, slow afterburn of the sixties --
its heartbreak, its disappointments, its spent
possibilities -- better than Jackson's masterpiece,
LATE FOR THE SKY.

…Jackson was always the tempered voice of
Abel. Toiling in the vineyards, here to bear
the earthly burdens, confronting the impossibility
of love, here to do his father's work.

Now, I always thought that in our fall from Eden,
…our real earthly task was that an unbridgeable
gap, or a black hole was opened up in our ability
to truly love one another and so our job here on
earth, the way we regain our divinity, our
sacredness, and our general good-standing is by
reconstructing love and creating love out of the
broken pieces that we've been given.

Unguarded Thoughts

I suppose this sort of idea has been lying about in my thoughts like a vagrant on a park bench -- eyes averted from it, because it seemed unsightly.

But, yeah. I'll cop to it. Isn't it really a part of our humanity? Isn't it part of what has brought bloggers to the Internet...or, in truth, guides us through much of our real lives?

Last year I caught an interview with Tom
Arnold regarding his book How I Lost Five
Pounds in Six Years. The interviewer asked
why he'd written the book, and I was somewhat
amazed at the honesty of Arnold's answer. The
comedian stated that most entertainers are in show
business because they are broken people, looking
for affirmation. "The reason I wrote the book,"
Arnold said, "is because I wanted something out
there so people would tell me they liked me. It's
the reason behind almost everything I do."
-- Donald Miller, Searching for God Know What
I once worked with a woman who had a very abrasive personality. While working late one night on a project, I tried diplomatically addressing the issue with her.

But, I could tell she insisted on wearing her "strong personality" (boy, there's some propaganda) like a badge of honor, claiming that some people just find it difficult to deal with. She even laced her propaganda with misplaced pride. Truthfully, she needed to replace "strong personality" with "pompous, didactic jackass" -- and she might even need to insert "huge" before "jackass."

(There I go being diplomatic, again.)

I'm sometimes astonished at how people seem to misread themselves. Maybe they truly know better, but they just present an outward appearance based on preference.

That makes me suspicious I somehow do the same thing.

By The Seat of His Breaches

From an Associated Press report:

In dramatic and sometimes agonizing terms,
federal disaster officials warned President
Bush and his homeland security chief before
Hurricane Katrina struck that the storm
could breach levees, put lives at risk...and
overwhelm rescuers, according to confidential
video footage.

...Four days after the storm, Mr. Bush said:
"I don't think anybody anticipated
the breach of the levees."
The article also cites then-FEMA chief Michael Brown referencing a conversation he had with the president on the day the storm hit. Brown said Bush was "asking questions about reports of breaches."

I suppose the president could clarify that he was talking about "britches." Sure. He was asking about reports of britches being in short supply for the naked survivors.

I'm confident this surprises no one. Instead, it's sending Republicans into a frenzy of spin control and (no doubt) an investigation about who leaked the video footage.

Here's what the Republicans will do: they have all their pundits stir up some rage about how this is all some spurious and mean-spirited attempt of The Left to discredit the president and the administration.

Ah, yes. The patented non-denial denial. The "I'm-going-to-incite-the-masses" plan that completely sidesteps questions of the president's integrity. Republicans honed that skill during Watergate, when the misdeeds and allegations reported by The Washington Post were responded to with enflamed cries about the liberal media agenda to undermine the Nixon administration, while carefully avoiding whether or not the reports were true.

Ugh. That partisan gamesmanship and political posturing has incensed me against the machinations of our nation's capitol.

The Democrats are guilty, too. What did the Clinton administration do when political mines exploded in their camp? They sent their crazed wildman, James Carville, to lambaste all things non-Democratic with his patented whirling dervish of media incendiary. That man could get fired up with righteous indignation about the color of flowers and make a sound bite out of the blathering spectacle.

It spreads, too, like a plague. Every conservative talk-radio host will key on some circuitous logic to make this about a liberal agenda. And their sheep will fall in line with enthusiasm.

That's right. The Bush administration's lies about the awareness of danger associated with Katrina and their inept response to widespread devastation are really about the agenda of the people who call attention to it.

Statuary & Sanctuary

My grandfather's 117th birthday was a few days ago. Yesterday, I visited him...at a cemetery in Waco.

I have very few memories of my grandfather. In fact, what I recall as a real memory (not a story told to me over and over) was a visit to his home in Waco when I was a child. I remember playing with a yellow Wilson tennis ball can he'd given me.

He played tennis until his death, often beating players many decades younger. There are legendary tales of him defeating state-ranked high school players in California doubles.

His photos remind me much of E. B. White, which is a fine comparison in my book. My brother, almost two decades my senior, has shared stories of the well crafted, hand-written cards he received in the mail with almost every available space inhabited by our grandfather's meticulous penmanship.

I'm fascinated by the stark comparison of my dad and his own father, two very different men. But, I attribute their divergent ways to their respective upbringings and the prevailing social mores of their respective times.

I wish I could've spent time growing up with my grandfather rather than the ghost of his memory summoned through the countless retelling of family lore and captured in the black and white world of old photographs.

Stretched Thin

Things have been frightfully hectic at the office lately.

Our diminished staff is juggling an increased workload, and it's taking a notable toll on morale and overall mental health.

Yeah. That's what I was looking for: more avenues of stress.

However, I did just get another promotion, and I'm moving on up to the eastside (a.k.a, transferring out of Cube City back to the land of office-dwellers).

When I first came to work here, I had an office for several years. Granted, it wasn't a necessarily nice office -- and the furniture was nothing to incite envy. But, there were walls and a ceiling and that blessed thing we call a door.

Then, my department moved to a different building, and we landed in a newly established Cube City. While the modular units were brand new and nice (in terms of what they had to offer), it still felt like an unofficial demotion to all of us.

It'll be good to have a door, again. But, I don't know how frequently I'll get to use it. There's a lot of business travel looming. And, since I seem to exist in an environment super-saturated in meetings and pre-meeting meetings and post-meeting meetings, having my own workspace will be less of a functional issue.

I'm pleased about the promotion/office. Don't get me wrong. But, it's tainted by that frustrating realization that it's long overdue.

In fact, it all came about chiefly because I forced the issue. And wouldn't it be better to be recognized for your contributions without having to quantitatively thrust your performance in front of your management?

Currently, the projects we support are being handled by me and one other guy. He's been out sick this week. Once upon a time, there were eight of us. We've dropped from eight to two. And, though I eat enough for two, this week there's just me.

A workload such as this virtually ensures that some project (or projects) will get slighted, because there's just not enough of me to go around. (Keep your comments to yourself.)

I'm ready for some decompression.

The Specificity of Moments

It honestly doesn't seem that long ago that my firstborn came home from the hospital.

We lived in California then. And, on a clear day, you could see the ocean from our balcony (if you stood at just the right angle and knew where to focus your gaze) -- so, I loved telling friends and family back in Texas that we had an ocean view.

News of the ocean view was eventually displaced by the arrival of our daughter, so tiny, so dependent, so bursting with the potential of a life full of possibilities.

I recall the long nights during those first few weeks, when I'd lie awake and listen to her breathing in the bassinet next to our bed. It was the same bassinet I had slept in as an infant.

Sometimes, the sounds of her breathing would stop, and I'd leap out of bed in the dark to lean in close and listen for exhaling or inhaling. If necessary, I would turn on the hallway light and bend down to examine her little tummy rising and falling.

Yesterday was her thirteenth birthday.

My little girl is a teenager.

This happens in the same year I'll be 40 years old. And while I don’t feel doomed by either of those events, I do feel the sharp pain of realization that the earth spins far too quickly.

Can I really be on the cusp of 40? Can my daughter truly be a teenager?

It's all too fleeting. I catch myself trying to delve back into my memory, convinced that if I can conjure increasing details of the years and months gone by, I can somehow expand them and understand the scope of all the hours that have gone before, all the experiences cradled by the days and weeks of my life so far. The specificity of all my moments will keep at bay the fleetness of life.

It honestly doesn't seem that long ago that my firstborn came home from the hospital.

Betwixt One Year and the Next

It was my honest intention to compose an ode to 2005, a summation of my experiences and whatnot. Perhaps I'd dress it up a bit with a look ahead to the possibilities and likelihoods brimming in 2006.

But, I've failed.

I've sat many times in varying degrees of solitude and proclaimed that I was going to mentally wrestle with the problem of what to say and how to say, that I was going to beat it down in some submission hold and OWN it, that my bout of consideration would not end until I knew exactly how to best assess things in a twelve month radius.

Consistently, during my little aborted sessions of contemplation, I wind up wondering if I set the TiVo to record a certain show, or I devote the entirety of my mental faculties to the math necessary to calculate budget give-and-takes that will allow me to buy this or that CD if I skip lunch on these days.

I've concluded it's just not going to happen.

I won't be listing my favorite movies or music from last year. I won't be documenting the pivotal months or weeks. And I won't be reliving any trips or vacations to exotic (or otherwise) destinations.

I hope to do better when 2006 draws to a conclusion. But, I make no resolutions.

Swirl: Processes of Existence

Sometimes I emerge from the great swirling of minutiae into an eerie calmness. It's certain to be the eye of some metaphorical storm, because it's always fleeting -- there's always more swirl looming.

In these sudden bouts of serenity, I tend to dwell on weighty things.

For example:

Sometimes I consider myself less of a person than the prospect of a place where the processes of existence collide. It's like I'm some cosmic case study in stress loads and abstract structural integrity.

I know.

We each forge our trails with unique mixtures of burdens and blessings.

But, there are certainly days when I'd just like to dispatch of few encumbrances to some remote region. It would do me good to banish a few burdens to the hinterlands of exile.

I wish that's what I could do for you this holiday season. When gifts are proffered for Christmas or Hanukkah or Solstice or Kwanzaa or Whatever, I'd like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony and offer each one of you two free Dispatch Your Burden cards.

I know (again).

You and I already possess the power to do just that. And yet we don't. We don't because of the attendant complications or associated suffering or any number of whys and wherefors.

But, it's all moving forward. The world marches on.

And I hope for the best.

Now, here comes that swirl, again.

Marley's Ghost & The Drool Pool

...Nor did he believe it even now. Though he

looked the phantom through and through,

and saw it standing before him; though he

felt the chilling influence of its death-cold

eyes; and marked the very texture of the folded

kerchief bound about its head and chin,...

...But how much greater was his horror, when

the phantom taking off the bandage round its

head, as if it were too warm to wear in-doors,

its lower jaw dropped down upon its breast!

-- Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol, Stave I, "Marley's Ghost"

====================================

When I wear my CPAP, I also wear this cheaply made contraption/accessory that wraps under my chin and Velcros together at the top of my head. Then, I pull on the mask.

The device reminds me of the many images of Jacob Marley's ghost, come to visit Scrooge and sway him from the path he walks. When seeing "A Christmas Carol" films as a child, I always figured old Marley had some spectral toothache that was part of his purgatorial punishment. You know: tote these heavy chains for penance...and suffer this dental agony while you're at it.

Once I actually read Dickens's tale, I learned that the bandage was functional. It helped keep Marley's mouth from falling open.

That's why I wear mine, too.

The pressure on my CPAP (like the atmosphere of thousand worlds) is so intense, it would otherwise force my mouth open -- out of which would blast the CPAP-created chinook.

Feels a little like someone stealing your soul.

I didn't take my CPAP on a recent trip. Thus, I didn't have something to hold my jaw shut. And I discovered I now drool like a fool.

Man. My mouth can generate some saliva!

Saliva itself is not a bad thing. But, I'd just as soon turn it off while I'm sleeping, so I don’t wake in a pool of drool.

Decaf Eärendil Latte

I spent the first several hours of my morning attending a stuffed-shirt, yet informal, review of a classified presentation I helped put together for an overseas customer.

I was verbally plowing the attendees with my stunning eloquence and decisively dishing simple solutions to every problem that popped up like a corporate Whack-a-Mole.

At one point, I paused before a dependent clause and considered how well I was stating the necessary course of action. This sounds great, I thought. I gestured effectively with the 20-ounce Coke bottle, brandishing it like a phial with the light of Eärendil.

I work well with props.

As I completed a declarative lecture, I slowly brought the bottle toward my mouth, while eyeing the audience. It seemed a theatrical punctuation to end my sentence and immediately swig my cola.

But, the lid was still on it.

Autumnal

Autumn has always been my favorite time of year. I love the cool, brisk weather. And Mom was always a fan of Sunday drives through rural areas adorned in the vivid colors of autumnal leaves.

The season arrives escorted by the memories of yesteryear's holidays and other special occasions. Mom had an October birthday. And several cousins, who lived around the corner from my childhood home, celebrated November birthdays.

Halloween was always a mischievous treat in those bygone days before fundamentalists mucked it up with Harvest Parties at schools and their Fall Festivals, etc.

It's Halloween people. Get over it.

(Ya don't have to summon a demon or swear your allegiance to Satan. Just pretend you’re a vampire and get candy, or scare the neighborhood kiddies with elaborate tricks.)

Of course, November brings Thanksgiving, too. And the Thanksgivings of my youth were always special. We always had fun-filled gatherings of the extended family with games and delicious food. It was comforting. It was family.

Christmas wasn't far behind. And Mom always decorated to the nines. I loved going to the old church on December evenings with Dad, while he rehearsed the Christmas cantata and I wandered around looking at the greenery and candles in the sanctuary windows, placing my hand on the cold cinderblocks of the walls and listening to the organ and carols.

It all began with autumn -- like cresting the first big hill on a rollercoaster.