A call to arms
Ok — so here’s the thing.
I think the common consensus is that people (including myself) would like me to write … at least SOMETHING — who knows what.
With that — I’ve been working on the journaling with some mixed results — mostly positive, but not exactly substantial or consistent.
So here’s my call to arms. I need encouragement and/or support. I need people to tell me that they want me to publish at least one blog post a day — I can work up to that — and I’m not sure I can pull it off –it could become a bit of a burden — but if I get in the habit of doing that — and just spewing out whatever I can — then perhaps I can an also get into the habit of writing something into a book or article on a daily basis and who knows — within a year I might have something worth taking to someone real?
SOOOooo…
my request is that if you’re reading this — please send me emails — and/or cajole me when you see that I’m not posting — get me going — help me stay honest about it — say things like “hey, you didn’t post today” … I’m sure as I start off it will be one of two things — either I’ll post all the time — or I won’t and it’ll be spotty.
It’s not so much a process of needing positive feedback on articles (though that’s nice too if you really feel it) — but just _ hey — push the button today, rat — your maze is stuck.”
I’d feel more encouraged by spotty because then it’s not just “false enthusiasm” you know?
in any event — if you’re “in” to help me — please let me know.
Thanks 
Learning to Blog All Over Again
SO!
I got a new application that is a journaling app — and I’m trying my best to start writing into it regularly — which is good. Not all the entries will ever possibly make it to this blog — but I’ve found a new methodology that I think I really, really like. I don’t look at the screen when I type — I look off in the distance and type REALLY fast (because I can) — and that lets me type to the speed of my thinking to some degree, and well — that ends up making it easier to put my thoughts down — just like this.
So, what was my weekend like? Pretty good — Nate and I went to the batting cages in Poulsbo, and had a blast there –I also saw Tuvan throat singers — which was pretty cool … I also got some rest this weekend… but meanwhile we’re struggling with a mattress problem. We bought one from Select Comfort and I think they actually suck.
The bed is really cool — except for the pillow top. The pillow top is a foot deep — yes, I said 12 inches deep — and filled with a combination of memory foam and regular foam. That’s not great to begin with — but it’s the model that we wanted because the floor model felt good. But the floor model isn’t what we received at the house.
it ends up that the floor model has been laid on by thousands of people, most of whom are likely heavy set (we’re on the Kitsap peninsula after all) … and well, I think that after a year or so of laying on this bed, they’ve crushed it to a level that we consider comfortable.
So of course, we ordered the bed. But when it arrived, it was not flattened by overweight Washingtonians (even though we would happily order that special from the catalog if we could). Instead, it was a dreadfully happy, fluffy top that has all the joy and bounce still in it. So we loathe it completely.
We called the company — which is run by petulant cows, I believe, and they said while chewing their cud, that they weren’t able to get us a different pillow top for this model — but would we like to trade it in for the lousier model? You see, all the “good” models have pillow tops — would you like the “jail cell” model instead?
Ummm… no — we’d like to know why this model doesn’t match the one on the floor.
Well — suffice to say that when I go to the store to talk to them about it — I wasn’t ready for “Dr. Teeth” to come and start selling to me — he’s a smarmy jerk, and no offense to the muppet by the same name, these two characters seem to have the same motivations.
However, since I was dressed down and talking to him in a Silverdale Mall store, I think he didn’t realize who he’s dealing with; so Dr. Teeth made the dreadful mistake of trying to “handle” me — but he made the further, more deadly mistake of telling me that if I “chose to boycott the company, there’s nothing he could do to stop me.”
Well, that sort of smarm may result in a letter to the CEO (I have a method by which I can guarantee that my letter is taken seriously — but I don’t share it in public because I learned it from a professional PR guy — so I’m sworn to secrecy).
Anyway — I took the pillow top off completely on our bed and Kathy and I are going to try it tonight — we’ll see what comes of it — perhaps we won’t need the fancy bed after all — they have three classes — C, P, and I.
I call those classes “crappy”, “popular”, and “impressive.” The good sales guy thought that was funny — Dr. Teeth didn’t “get it.”
But if we find that the pillow top removal solves our problem — we’ll just take half our money back and settle for one of the crappy models — which I’m sure is exactly what the folks at Select Comfort are planning — get the high end customers to return their product for crappier stuff to ensure a lower overall satisfaction and a thinner profit margin.
I hate that stupid sales manager — I hate that company — and now I’m going to go and sleep on their stupid hacked bed … idiots.
But! I love the fact that I’’m typing so fast and able to get a post in without pain or effort — loving that — this COULD turn into a lively blog again. I have made three entries in other journals tonight already — so I’m veritably prolific!!!
(PS — watch this space — I’m getting a new laptop shipped to me pretty soon!)
Santa didn’t make it this year — but he was here anyway…
Christmas day is over, 2009. It’s very late at night, and as I went to put the kids to bed, I saw the ribbon that is tied at the top of the stairs as an early morning barricade, hanging from a single knot, having done it’s job and been partially removed so kids could come downstairs.
For years, ever since our kids could walk, Santa has been the secret worker of miracles who tied that ribbon, ever so quietly, at the top of the stairs. That giant, bright red bow was always the first thing the kids would see when they woke up — a promise from a very wonderful person that not only had he been there and yes indeed it is Christmas!, but that they should stay where they were until mom and dad appear to bring them downstairs. That bow, more than anything else, means Santa to me.
When I was a young child — perhaps five or six — my brother decided to set me straight on Christmas. I remember it the way you might remember the details of a car accident. Being an ancient seven years older than I, he called me to my parents bedroom one day while the folks were at work, and sitting on the corner of their bed, he informed me of facts I won’t discuss here. My sister had half-heartedly tried to stop him, and couldn’t believe he was doing it — but he did it anyway, and I was hurt by that. To this day, I do consider it a selfish act, and I don’t know why my childhood had to be cut off like that at a whim. I can still remember the shock, and the hurt. To this day. I’m pretty confident that he didn’t mean to do something so severe. But he did. Right through my heart.
I didn’t realize until I was very much older that my parents, upon discovering what he’d done — made a rule that as long as I wanted to hang stockings, we’d do the whole thing. Every year, I’d be asked — well into my teens — and every year I’d just say “Sure, why not?” … not realizing that it had become some form of punishment for my other siblings. It wasn’t until I was somewhere around 17 or 18 that I realized it — when my sister yelled, “Oh come ON!” … I was unaware until that moment that I was a burden on their Christmas. I never wanted to do stockings again after that — or much else regarding hope, innocence, childhood, or imagination that involved trust.
So, when my kids were born, and Santa started visiting our house — I for one, was surprised to be ecstatic to have him arrive. What a joy to have his footprints in our fireplace (literally, one year, it would seem), to see the eaten cookies, to find scraps of eaten carrots that had fallen from the roof and onto the lawn. How great to just know that if my kids asked for something specifically from Santa — it was all but guaranteed to be delivered. The ride has been wonderful, like sitting on top of a bag of toys, flying through the sky, fearless and open-heartedly embracing the dangerous lighting bolt called Joy.
But this is the year. The one in which the question has been asked in earnest, and the explanations were given. You do it to show that you can be trusted, because it’s time — but you don’t want to do it, I assure you. Somewhere, at the edge of my imaginations, on a snowy border between me and the fantastic — I thought a gate was gently closing again… but this time, I was happy to find out it hasn’t — this time, I think I finally got it.
As I reached up and untied the ribbon, which is now just a ribbon again — I realized that I’d been given a wonderful gift … a joy to celebrate the arrival of such a great person for so many years; such a member of the family, such a person of Love. I realized that while I have been forced this year to take the training wheels off the fantastic notions that swirl around Christmas, I and my family are beginning a more significant journey together regarding the true gifts of Christmas, the truly miraculous Person involved, the most wonderful Friend who will not leave or fade away.
In life, we are all so desperate to grow up; that is, of course, until we’re old enough to be desperate to regain our youth. Things happen to shatter our innocence, and things happen to regain it … but through it all, one thing holds constant for everyone, belief or not — we want to know.
In walking through these years with Santa, and sharing the Wonder and the Joy with my children, a part of me that had died too soon was resurrected — and I understood, in the smallest ways, what it means to be whole again in places I thought I’d lost. I cherish the time I’ve had in the snow with that wonderful man … and I cherish the fact that God made it possible for me to have that piece of Joy for so many years, to find it again with my kids — delivered by someone as wonderful and real as Santa.
This Christmas, more than any other, I’ve discovered that knowing is a process of becoming more than you thought possible, by accepting more than you thought reasonable. What I know now is a Joy I didn’t know before, and that is an experience that cannot be taken away.
Faith is what Christmas has always been about, and should be about… it is not the process of proving how much we’ve grown by disproving all the delicate dreams of the people around us — instead, it’s the process of showing just how mature we really are in embracing those ideas that are so simple to discredit in a rational world, but so invincible when we let our hearts open just a little.
To know, I first had to believe … but when I couldn’t, I watched the Joy-filled eyes of my children believing, and decided to believe because they did … and when I did that — I tasted true Joy. To realize, in spite of all my jadedness, that I have truly received Joy, well that fills me with Wonder… and those two Gifts are mine to keep… forever — placed in my stocking by Someone who Loves me, a lot.
There are plenty of ways to shatter a dream — plenty of ways to sneer, like an angry 12-year old boy, at the beliefs of others — but at the end of the day, it is only the ones who Believe that get to partake in the Wonder and Joy of Santa… everyone else gets the lump of coal that comes from knowing better.
So many people feel that the process of understanding the Mystical comes first from knowing and then believing, that it is impossible to build a framework of trustworthy predictability if you don’t start with what you know and build outward. But, while that may be true in things of reality, for things of the fantastic, the opposite is true.
In Faith, you must take the child-like step to Believe, even when it makes no sense … then, and only then, you may very well find yourself showered in experiences you wouldn’t trade for the world.
So, for anyone, anywhere, who looks up at the sky in the hopes of glimpsing a face that matters… Merry Christmas. I, for one, can assure you — yes, He does exist…
Mob, do my bidding
I was standing in the ferry line yesterday, during rush hour, and decided to do a little headcount.
I realized that there was a small crowd of about 200 people, just standing there, waiting for the little light to go ding and allow us to all go through the little metal turnstiles. Even though the boat had docked and the only thing beyond the turnstiles was two plastic traffic cones, the entire crowd was standing still because that’s what you’re supposed to do.
I got into a frame of mind to look at the folks, do a little people watching. It was kind of fun to see the various body types, heights, weights, seeming intellects — all standing in the same direction like an army of civilized zombies.
…an army of civilized zombies…
I then got to thinking about how great it would be if I had a little machine, perhaps the size of an iPhone, or better yet — an app on my iPhone — maybe call it iZombie.
What this app would do is take over the minds of these zombie mobs — and allow me to have them do my will. Just think of the things we could get accomplished if we had iZombie.
Of course, my first beta test would be to have that particular zombie mob just leap over the turnstiles and move onto the boat. No violence, no taking over the bridge — just a huge crowd of people who, as a mass, decide to go onto the ship now and take their seats — what could anybody do? Odds are pretty good that after a little fuss — the ferry would just leave and maybe there’d be a short story in the paper about the crowd that got away.
Well, once I had my iZombie tested, I’d go into all sorts of places and get my mobs to do fantastic things to make the world a better place.
I could go to ballgames. I’d take over the stadium — and when a strong hitter for the other team was up at bat, I’d just have the entire mob stand up, all at once and go completely silent — of course the first time it would freak out the pitcher on our team — but after a few rounds — I expect our team would realize the zombie master was on their side and we’d always win! I could make the wave seem like child’s play — we’d write out words in the ripple — we’d all move down to the edge of the field and yell “woogie woogie”, and then go back to our seats in an orderly fashion. We’d all get up at once and turn our backs on the field. My favorite would be when, just as the ball was leaving the pitcher’s hand, the entire stadium yells in unison, “Miss!” I don’t think anybody’d want to play us anymore.
After the game, of course, I’d have to deal with the zombies as they head out into traffic and onto the sidewalks. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I’d likely keep from the strong temptation of having them do the “parting of the Red Sea” bit so I could cut through quickly — since any official would notice it was me walking, like Moses, through the opening. Then again — if the cops chased me — I could also do the “closing of the Red Sea” bit as well … worked on the Egyptians…
Later, I’d head by Hemp Fest — which is a ripe place to gather crowds of zombies. The great thing about that is I wouldn’t even need to waste batteries running iZombie — I could just drive around in circles yelling “free chocolate covered potato chips around that corner” until I’d gathered enough zombies.
Then I’d go to Pike Place market … I’d have the zombies all line up around the fish market chanting “drop it, drop it” until the fish throwers couldn’t take it anymore and left. I’d use the abandoned fish to feed sushi to my mob — since you can’t ever be too careful with the care and feeding of a good zombie mob.
Having had my fill of tormenting retailers — I’d take my zombie mob to the movies. We’d all just crowd in, stand at concession and I’d have my mob jump up and down yelling “we’re popcorn, we’re popcorn” … we’d do that to gather the attention of the zombies working behind the counter … Then, once the movie staff was ready, I’d have them all stand completely still — and have them sing “Give us popcorn and soda for free” to the tune of God Bless America. Addled, I expect the concession and ticket zombies would just be absorbed. Of course, I’d be right in there too — getting my popcorn and pretending I’m a zombie… and then the iZombie mob would take me to my free movie.
The hardest part of course would be dealing with the press. Eventually they’d come along and figure out that something strange was happening in Seattle — that the zombies were clumping — that a new economy was evolving. If I was lucky enough — we’d attract national attention — which of course … would create a press mob, which I could then capture and make do my bidding.
I think the first thing I’d have the press do is report that Seattle had discovered a way to generate gold out of sea air and sand … that would likely attract a sufficiently massive number of zombies from all around the country, packing the streets… and my master plan would be underway.
First, I’d gather a small clump of zombies, maybe five hundred to a thousand — and I’d have them go to the nearest AT&T store and pack it full so nobody could move.I’d leave them there, and fill a new store every hour; going from store to store (being carried on the shoulders of small groups of zombie masses, of course) packing them and chanting “AT&T is run by zombies”.
Finally, I’d gather a few thousand zombies and head to the AT&T center in Carillon Point. Once there, the zombies would march around the building, silently. I’d have one zombie monitoring the news on CNN.com on her iPhone — and I’d be off, leaving them in auto-loop with my one zombie monitoring for my signal.
So now I’d need my first major zombie army … about 100,000 zombies. I’d head downtown, which is now full of gold-seeking American zombies, and I’d have them pack the streets tight, stopping traffic. They’d chant “zombie power” over and over while standing completely still (except for the fake zombies who all wear tie-dye and play hackysack on the outskirts of my mob — we can just ignore them, they’re always harmless).
With the city locked chock-o-block with zombies, I’d stand on the roof of my own home and have my press zombies post a brief article that heightened RF in the air, turned all the way up, would overcome the zombie epidemic. They would all write the same story in all their papers, news shows, and blogs — about the relationship between Radio Frequencies and zombification.
CNN of course would pick up the story and it would go to the front page — where my remote zombie (the one with the iPhone) would read it and immediately command my AT&T chant zombies to chant that AT&T must not raise tower signal in Seattle, as they circle the AT&T building in a tight pack.
AT&T would of course turn the towers up out of fear — and presto — I now have enough signal from my iPhone to capture millions of zombies and take over the entire state …
…but instead, I’d just turn off iZombie and make a phonecall — because now my iPhone would work.
That’s what I’d do if I could make these zombies respond to me … then maybe I’d head to Washington, D.C. … I hear they have a lot of powerful zombies there.
Wandering in the Ether
My folks sent me some old (old) books from around the time I left for Seattle. They’ve been in boxes for just about 15 years now, and many of them have been damaged by water — which kind of bums me out.
Many of the books are mildewed and ruined, including notebooks. One in particular is the journal I kept from the time I was 15 to the time I was 19 — which would be the craziest years of my life.
I’m REALLY ambivalent about whether to keep it or not. It’s really beat up with water damage — but I can scan each page and recover it to computer. But looking at the pages brings back a LOT of weird memories. It’s like diving back into my teenaged years — that’s a bit much.
Part of me thinks that maybe I should just destroy it, burn it up — but then Kathy thinks that I might want to keep it for my memoirs in the future or something.
It’s kind of funny — it’s this rotted little spiral notebook, barely readable — but it represents a major portion of my self-development, deterioration into chaos — and phoenix-like return (or at least the first movements of the ashes, the actual recovery doesn’t get covered, but stirrings of hope are pretty evident).
Amazingly, the last page has a brief poem that is very teenaged — but has an interesting denouement for me:
Love
Life
and
Laughter
are
The
Three
Gifts
of
Happiness.
Clearly a statement of hope, which is nice. But Spiritually speaking — an even greater moment of Hope is evident between that battle-scarred boy and this man; you see, when we bought this house, which we truly consider home, the people before us had painted the kitchen and family room quite playfully… they’d written the words “Love — Live — Laughter” on the walls everywhere.
I think I’ll keep the book.
Creativity Day 1
So, the plan is to set aside Wednesdays to write. I got a few angry paragraphs out (see previous post) — and then wandered around the house fixing things for the day. I have a few plotlines rattling around in my head — but not anything I care about enough to get started.
It’s so ridiculously hot here — I mean, this is stupid. Why can’t we live in a nomadic society like normal people? Shouldn’t we all be headed somewhere cool by now, instead of getting up too early, crowding into each other on the freeway, pushing our little keyboard lives forward for the day, coming home, eating food, and sweating ourselves to sleep?
Generally — I think life would be a lot easier if we all just planted a crop of food to eat, lived off the land, and migrated as a community. Sure, there’d be pestilence, famine, the occasional war over food, and rampant chaos, disease, and suffering — but it wouldn’t be so hot — we’d be at the beach … killing each other for clams — wouldn’t that be great?
Why I write what I don’t write
I don’t write stories because I have to, or even because I want to. They’re like overweight children sagging the bag in my brain, whispering their beginnings to me over and over, threatening to break the bottom if I don’t take them out soon enough.
I write because I’m insane with these unspoken ideas that eat the silence in my life.
I fear rejection from the world, a hatred of insanity that would rather destroy me than let me run outside the boundaries.
I fear you, because to please you means I have to go crazy. I fear you because if you reject me, I go mad alone. It’s not just you, it’s all of you.
That’s why I write — that’s why I don’t write.
Dear Blog
I guess I don’t have enough impetus to write for the sake of writing — but damn the torpedoes — full speed ahead!
My leg hurts. No, seriously — it like aches as if it’s either healing or dying. I hope it’s healing — dying would really complicate my day
Here voicy voicy voicy
I am seeking my voice — perhaps just my smarmy blog voice.
I am pursuing this venture by spending the day allowing myself to blather gobbledygook (a word, btw, which passes spellcheck (another word, btw, which doesn’t pass spell check)) into the blog until my voice appears, or I say something worth saying.
It’s a tough thing to write “in the open” in front of y’all — but I think that’s something I’m willing and capable of doing. So I am posting as much as I can today — or discovering that I don’t follow through on ideas like this.
What an adventure!
A ball, a wall — Panama
A man throws a ball against the wall.
David thew the orb at his barrier.
The ball flew from his hand, striking the wall.
His rage, his life, his desire to be free — they filled the ball as he let it go, making it fly, giving it a momentary life as it hurtled towards the wall, where it stopped and died, until repentance.
Dave let the ball loose and it struck the wall.
Peter built a wall that wouldn’t move, even for a ball, even for David.
Rubber has an elasticity that not only stretches, it compresses, it refuses it for long, but it compresses — and the ball that David had thrown did that, momentarily, when it struck the wall.
An orb, a sphere, an intent — made by man, sent by man towards a plane of resistance, made by man, set by man long before the moment of will.
I threw the ball, it hit the wall.
The wall didn’t care.