"H-Reek, hreek, huh-REEK!" he chants as I ride beneath the towering telephone pole he is perched upon. His mate sits silent on the cross bar beside him. She shifts her position slightly, turning her head to keep her cold, yellow eyes fixed upon me. A shiver runs through my body, carrying with it a sense of metamorphosis...
- - - - - - -
A shadow, a flutter of feathers, and I am in her grip, snatched from within inches of the shielding safety of field-side grasses. I wriggle and squirm, but I cannot get free of the powerful, skeletal claws, their scaly skin clutching me tightly, almost cutting off my breath in a horrible parody of a loving embrace. I can feel her razor-sharp talons pressing in on me, pricking beneath my fur, painfully foreshadowing what is to come. She smells of guano and blood.
Then for a moment, the sensation of soaring through the air penetrates my terror. I am flying. I can fly! My tail dangles behind, catching the currents that ripple through my soft fur. Wind beats against my eyes, making them water. But oh, how wonderful. How...
Then it is over before I can even process the feeling. With a back beat of her enormous wings, my captor cups the air and alights gently on a tree branch, crushing me mercilessly against the bark. I cannot breathe. I can feel my tiny bones popping and collapsing. It will be over soon. She lowers her piercing beak to my neck, and for just an instant, her hard, golden eyes peer into my beady black ones. "So pretty," I think, practically mesmerized. There is an agonizing cold, a sharp snap, effortless on her part, and then....
- - - - - - -
Darling Wife and I watched "Kite Runner" last night.
.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Temporal Vortex
A truck hauling hay breezes past me, smacking me in the face with all the power of memory. The scent of the warm straw instantly transporting me to my grandparent's barn...
I am a child again, eight, maybe nine years old. My sister, brother, and two cousins scamper around on the dirt floor some ten or twelve feet below me, playing tag or chasing kittens. But I can't see them; my back is turned, and I feel the semi-soft seed heads scratch my hands and knees, the blades and stalks poking and jabbing as I climb up the side of the stacks of tightly bound rectangular bales, something we were strictly forbidden to do. It is mid-summer and blazing hot in the barn, and our playtime activities have stirred dust and grass particles, which whirl around in tiny shafts of light from small holes in the tin roof.
When I reach the top of the stack, I turn and grab the rope dangling from the rafters about twenty feet in the air. A surge of fear and excitement shoots through me. I look down at my fellow thrill seekers waiting below, some encouraging, some taunting, and I almost turn back. I can't do this. What if the rope breaks? What if my hand slips? What if the rafter snaps?
The hay bale I'm standing on shifts beneath my feet, side to side, following the trajectory of my wavering indecision. Then suddenly, I'm free, swinging through the air with mingled terror and reckless glee. The rope creaks and pops as I reach the top of the upward arch and my forward momentum stops and changes direction, returning me to the safety of the haystack. I let go and tumble into the cushioning bricks of dried grass, dizzy with childhood delight as much as anything else.
Then just as abruptly, I am back on the bike path again, a middle-aged man enjoying a morning ride. Who said it was impossible to be in two places at once?
I am a child again, eight, maybe nine years old. My sister, brother, and two cousins scamper around on the dirt floor some ten or twelve feet below me, playing tag or chasing kittens. But I can't see them; my back is turned, and I feel the semi-soft seed heads scratch my hands and knees, the blades and stalks poking and jabbing as I climb up the side of the stacks of tightly bound rectangular bales, something we were strictly forbidden to do. It is mid-summer and blazing hot in the barn, and our playtime activities have stirred dust and grass particles, which whirl around in tiny shafts of light from small holes in the tin roof.
When I reach the top of the stack, I turn and grab the rope dangling from the rafters about twenty feet in the air. A surge of fear and excitement shoots through me. I look down at my fellow thrill seekers waiting below, some encouraging, some taunting, and I almost turn back. I can't do this. What if the rope breaks? What if my hand slips? What if the rafter snaps?
The hay bale I'm standing on shifts beneath my feet, side to side, following the trajectory of my wavering indecision. Then suddenly, I'm free, swinging through the air with mingled terror and reckless glee. The rope creaks and pops as I reach the top of the upward arch and my forward momentum stops and changes direction, returning me to the safety of the haystack. I let go and tumble into the cushioning bricks of dried grass, dizzy with childhood delight as much as anything else.
Then just as abruptly, I am back on the bike path again, a middle-aged man enjoying a morning ride. Who said it was impossible to be in two places at once?
Monday, July 07, 2008
Sail, ho!
On the horizon I see a speck of white, its shape indiscernible through the squiggly lines of heat and haze of smoke. I am back on the bike path, surrounded by nothing but rolling pastures and the occasional olive tree. Like the sails of a distant ship at sea, there is nothing of note to see but me and that far-away white speck. So I watch it. Not out of any personal interest really. I am in The Zone again despite the triple-digit heat and choking atmosphere. I am stubborn. I will not be pushed out! And in The Zone, not much matters except breathing in, breathing out, pushing the pedal with the right foot, pushing the pedal with the left... breathe in... breathe out. And even these are only a vague pattern in the pack of the mind, a rhythm that lulls me through the miles as my consciousness drifts I know not where. The white speck is merely something to look at on an otherwise blank surface, a mild curiosity, nothing more.
As I watch, the speck grows larger, shaping itself into the shirt of another biker, its legs barely visible now as each moves up and down in turn. But I still cannot make out any detail, spy any colors on the nearing vessel. Is she friend or foe? Merchant or brigand? Will she hail me or fire on me? I do not know, but I refuse to alter my pace. I have a good wind and a fair course; I will not reduce sail now.
Slowly I gain on her, closing the distance between us until I can see that "she" is a man of medium age, perhaps three or four years older than myself. The white shirt is made of an opaque mesh, the kind that breathes well, allowing the dry California air to wick away sweat, cooling the wearer marginally but thankfully. He also wears spandex pants and rides a thin-wheeled racing bike, all signs of a serious cyclist. However, I notice that his pants are of a red and black tiger pattern, the sort you might find at Walmart rather than a bike shop, and his waist is thick and slightly protuberant. These details show him to be a novice cyclist, much like myself.
I think, carrying on with the nautical theme, "Ah, she is bluff of bow and drawing deeply amidships, not as heavy as a man-o-war, which one hardly ever sights in these waters, or as light and fleet as a schooner or clipper." These last two being the "serious cyclists" I often spy on the bike path. "She is a friend and fellow countryman," I think. I will draw alongside and hail her.
But suddenly the guy's head turns, and he sees me closing on him, moving out to pull up next to him, and he lays on speed. I think, "What is he doing? For more than three miles, I have gained on him steadily without quickening my pace at all; he was clearly in no hurry. But as soon as he thinks I am going to go around him, it becomes a race. Jerk!" He pedals harder and faster, unfolding more and more canvas, as it were. And I begin speeding up as well, letting him see what I can do. The desire to pass him, born out of competition, grows strong within me. I will blow him out of the water.
Then I think, "Perhaps he isn't a jerk. Perhaps he merely thinks I am a pirate." I reduce speed, return to my former pace. Soon, he is no more than a speck again, and in a short time, I am back in port, safe and quiet. We will both survive to sail again tomorrow. Perhaps we will meet again... or perhaps not. Only Poseidon knows for sure.
As I watch, the speck grows larger, shaping itself into the shirt of another biker, its legs barely visible now as each moves up and down in turn. But I still cannot make out any detail, spy any colors on the nearing vessel. Is she friend or foe? Merchant or brigand? Will she hail me or fire on me? I do not know, but I refuse to alter my pace. I have a good wind and a fair course; I will not reduce sail now.
Slowly I gain on her, closing the distance between us until I can see that "she" is a man of medium age, perhaps three or four years older than myself. The white shirt is made of an opaque mesh, the kind that breathes well, allowing the dry California air to wick away sweat, cooling the wearer marginally but thankfully. He also wears spandex pants and rides a thin-wheeled racing bike, all signs of a serious cyclist. However, I notice that his pants are of a red and black tiger pattern, the sort you might find at Walmart rather than a bike shop, and his waist is thick and slightly protuberant. These details show him to be a novice cyclist, much like myself.
I think, carrying on with the nautical theme, "Ah, she is bluff of bow and drawing deeply amidships, not as heavy as a man-o-war, which one hardly ever sights in these waters, or as light and fleet as a schooner or clipper." These last two being the "serious cyclists" I often spy on the bike path. "She is a friend and fellow countryman," I think. I will draw alongside and hail her.
But suddenly the guy's head turns, and he sees me closing on him, moving out to pull up next to him, and he lays on speed. I think, "What is he doing? For more than three miles, I have gained on him steadily without quickening my pace at all; he was clearly in no hurry. But as soon as he thinks I am going to go around him, it becomes a race. Jerk!" He pedals harder and faster, unfolding more and more canvas, as it were. And I begin speeding up as well, letting him see what I can do. The desire to pass him, born out of competition, grows strong within me. I will blow him out of the water.
Then I think, "Perhaps he isn't a jerk. Perhaps he merely thinks I am a pirate." I reduce speed, return to my former pace. Soon, he is no more than a speck again, and in a short time, I am back in port, safe and quiet. We will both survive to sail again tomorrow. Perhaps we will meet again... or perhaps not. Only Poseidon knows for sure.
Friday, July 04, 2008
What a piece of work is man
Have you ever noticed that when you're home, all you want to do is get away, and when you're away, all you want to do is go home?
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Lost... Found...Taken
You may find this hard to believe, but when I was younger, I used to run 3-4 miles every day, do 200 push-ups, and 250 crunches; I meditated for 30 minutes-1 hour each day. I could even control my pulse rate and body temp with thought and concentration. And I kept up my routine regardless of rain, sleet, heat, or social obligations. I felt good.
That's not to say that these activities were easy. The first 200 yards of every run took determination to keep going, as did the first fifteen push-ups and the first fifty crunches. But anyone who exercises regularly knows that once you get past that hurdle, you get into "The Zone." The Zone is that place where you stop counting the steps you've taken, stop thinking about the catch in your side; you're movements become automatic; your mind drifts elsewhere or nowhere, and you just keep going. I liked The Zone.
But once I started undergraduate studies full time, I allowed time to become my master, and I lost The Zone. I just couldn't keep up with its rhythms.
Periodically over the last decade, I have tried to find my way back, but I could never quite get there. Stress or weather or just plain fatigue would push me off course again and again until I would give up the search, return home determined to try again the next day. But eventually I'd give in and stop looking.
That is, until the past few weeks. It started as a desire to get out... get out of the house, get out of town, just get out. I began taking my bicycle out to the bike path that runs by our house and going a short distance along it each day. It felt nice to be doing something, to be going somewhere but not going any place particular; I was just going. Every day, I'd go a little further and a little further, not out of any intention to do so, mind you. No. I was just enjoying myself, so I'd think, "Why not go just a few minutes more. I have time." Then one day this week, I realized I had found "The Zone." There it was on a bike path in California's central valley. Who knew?
The path is cracked and pitted by the merciless rays of the California sun, but I'm not bothered by the bumps. I speed along at a fairly quick pace, but I'm not pushing myself or the bike to our limits; I'm just cruising, knocking off the miles without even getting out of breath. I've been biking about 15 miles a day with virtually no effort, once I get beyond the confines of my neighborhood. I just roll through the farmland to the west of town and let my mind wander where it will.
Yesterday, I noticed the haze on the horizon. It was worse than the day before. Arnold Swartzenegger's drawling, broken English plays in my head, "All ov CAL-i-FORN-ia is full of smoke. De smoke is very bad for de health. It is not good to breath de smoke, especially for dose wit asthma." But I'm in The Zone. I don't care about smoke.
But today I could smell it as soon as I walked out the door. I'd gone about two miles when it enveloped me like a fog. I am one well acquainted with fog. It is my friend. So, I rode on, expecting to feel the cool moisture caress my skin, but instead there were stabs of pain as my lungs betrayed me, the acrid smoke palpably bitter in my mouth. My eyes began to burn. I had to turn back.
As I biked my way back to my air-conditioner-filtered home, I thought that this time, I had not lost The Zone; it had been taken from me. I had been forcibly ejected, and I'd only experienced it for such a precious little time. California sucks! And don't let anyone tell you differently.
That's not to say that these activities were easy. The first 200 yards of every run took determination to keep going, as did the first fifteen push-ups and the first fifty crunches. But anyone who exercises regularly knows that once you get past that hurdle, you get into "The Zone." The Zone is that place where you stop counting the steps you've taken, stop thinking about the catch in your side; you're movements become automatic; your mind drifts elsewhere or nowhere, and you just keep going. I liked The Zone.
But once I started undergraduate studies full time, I allowed time to become my master, and I lost The Zone. I just couldn't keep up with its rhythms.
Periodically over the last decade, I have tried to find my way back, but I could never quite get there. Stress or weather or just plain fatigue would push me off course again and again until I would give up the search, return home determined to try again the next day. But eventually I'd give in and stop looking.
That is, until the past few weeks. It started as a desire to get out... get out of the house, get out of town, just get out. I began taking my bicycle out to the bike path that runs by our house and going a short distance along it each day. It felt nice to be doing something, to be going somewhere but not going any place particular; I was just going. Every day, I'd go a little further and a little further, not out of any intention to do so, mind you. No. I was just enjoying myself, so I'd think, "Why not go just a few minutes more. I have time." Then one day this week, I realized I had found "The Zone." There it was on a bike path in California's central valley. Who knew?
The path is cracked and pitted by the merciless rays of the California sun, but I'm not bothered by the bumps. I speed along at a fairly quick pace, but I'm not pushing myself or the bike to our limits; I'm just cruising, knocking off the miles without even getting out of breath. I've been biking about 15 miles a day with virtually no effort, once I get beyond the confines of my neighborhood. I just roll through the farmland to the west of town and let my mind wander where it will.
Yesterday, I noticed the haze on the horizon. It was worse than the day before. Arnold Swartzenegger's drawling, broken English plays in my head, "All ov CAL-i-FORN-ia is full of smoke. De smoke is very bad for de health. It is not good to breath de smoke, especially for dose wit asthma." But I'm in The Zone. I don't care about smoke.
But today I could smell it as soon as I walked out the door. I'd gone about two miles when it enveloped me like a fog. I am one well acquainted with fog. It is my friend. So, I rode on, expecting to feel the cool moisture caress my skin, but instead there were stabs of pain as my lungs betrayed me, the acrid smoke palpably bitter in my mouth. My eyes began to burn. I had to turn back.
As I biked my way back to my air-conditioner-filtered home, I thought that this time, I had not lost The Zone; it had been taken from me. I had been forcibly ejected, and I'd only experienced it for such a precious little time. California sucks! And don't let anyone tell you differently.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Bi-coastal Disorder
I hadn't realized it had been so long since my last post. I've had things I could post about. For one, Darling Wife and I celebrated our third anniversary last week, and we spent a great deal of time reminiscing about our life together. We have certainly had some great times. Lots of stuff to think about there. And my father and stepmother visited us for the first time ever. In fact, I think it may have been the most time I've spent with my father in my life. Yeah, there was some bloggable material in there. But I just haven't felt like it. For the first time in years, I am really, really enjoying just being home, curled up on the sofa with a good book in my hand, puppies at my feet, and DW at my side. There is very little lure to a computerized escape.
But life is not all wonderful. If you've been following the news, you know that California is once again on fire. There is a sizable blaze in Napa Valley, pretty close to where we live. We aren't threatened by the conflagration, but the delta breeze that we usually value so much in the summer for it's cooling freshness is wafting smoke and fumes into our charming university town. The air is hazy and difficult to breathe. I am reminded again of how much I dislike it here.
And escape, blessed escape is on the horizon. My nephew has thrown us a lifeline in the form of a graduation invitation from upstate New York. Blessed child! We will be departing this inferno via a red-eye flight from San Francisco Thursday night and traversing the breadth of our nation for a few wondrous days on the opposite coast. In fact, we will be flying into our nuptial city, that fabulous old Puritan town, and driving the entire width of the great state of Massachusetts. Glory be! And though thunderstorms are predicted to dampen the affair, I think DW and I will welcome the mercy drops. I can almost feel my skin soaking up the heavenly moisture even now, and my nostrils inflate, drinking in the sweetly remembered scent of rain-soaked Berkshire forests.
It is a good thing we aren't taking the dogs or we might not return to this accursed land of flame and ash at the end of the earth. Does anyone know if you can Fed-Ex live animals?
But life is not all wonderful. If you've been following the news, you know that California is once again on fire. There is a sizable blaze in Napa Valley, pretty close to where we live. We aren't threatened by the conflagration, but the delta breeze that we usually value so much in the summer for it's cooling freshness is wafting smoke and fumes into our charming university town. The air is hazy and difficult to breathe. I am reminded again of how much I dislike it here.
And escape, blessed escape is on the horizon. My nephew has thrown us a lifeline in the form of a graduation invitation from upstate New York. Blessed child! We will be departing this inferno via a red-eye flight from San Francisco Thursday night and traversing the breadth of our nation for a few wondrous days on the opposite coast. In fact, we will be flying into our nuptial city, that fabulous old Puritan town, and driving the entire width of the great state of Massachusetts. Glory be! And though thunderstorms are predicted to dampen the affair, I think DW and I will welcome the mercy drops. I can almost feel my skin soaking up the heavenly moisture even now, and my nostrils inflate, drinking in the sweetly remembered scent of rain-soaked Berkshire forests.
It is a good thing we aren't taking the dogs or we might not return to this accursed land of flame and ash at the end of the earth. Does anyone know if you can Fed-Ex live animals?
Thursday, June 05, 2008
Unread Books Meme
Thanks Michele for turning me onto this. It was fun. I'm not going to explain what it is because my three readers already know.
3 started but not finished; however, I will say that this was not because I didn't like them. All of them were books read for school when I was younger, and I was forced to abandon them from time constraints. I would gladly pick any of them up again.
9 owned but not read. I think only one or two of them are actually mine. The rest belong to Darling Wife, and I think I would like to read most of them. In fact, she brought quite a few books into our marriage that fall into this category, and I wouldn't doubt that I've left some on this list un-underlined when they should be.
1 I hated. Proust... it was really, really dull. I guess I just didn't get into it.
Unlike Michele, I would like to read several on this list, and expect I will get around to many of them eventually.
The rules:
bold = what you’ve read,
italics = books you started but couldn’t finish
crossed out = books you hated
* = you’ve read more than once
underline = books you own but haven’t read yourself
1 The ultimate hitchhiker's guide by Douglas Adams*
2 Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell by Susanna Clarke
3 The kite runner by Khaled Hosseini
4 Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
5 Life of Pi : a novel by Yann Martel
6 Don Quixote by Miguel De Cervantes Saavedra
7 Crime and punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
8 One hundred years of solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
9 Vanity fair by William Makepeace Thackeray
10 The Silmarillion by J.R.R. Tolkien
11 Ulysses by James Joyce
12 War and peace by Leo Tolstoy
13 Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
14 The brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
15 Catch-22 a novel by Joseph Heller
16 Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte*
17 The Blind Assassin by Margaret Atwood
18 Quicksilver (The Baroque Cycle I) by Neal Stephenson
19 A tale of two cities by Charles Dickens
20 The satanic verses by Salman Rushdie
21 Middlemarch by George Eliot
22 Reading Lolita in Tehran : a memoir in books by Azar Nafisi
23 The name of the rose by Umberto Eco
24 The Kor'an by Anonymous
25 Moby Dick by Herman Melville
26 The Odyssey by Homer
27 The Canterbury tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
28 Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
29 The hunchback of Notre Dame by Victor Hugo
30 The historian : a novel by Elizabeth Kostova
31 Foucault's pendulum by Umberto Eco
32 Atlas shrugged by Ayn Rand
33 The history of Tom Jones, a foundling by Henry Fielding
34 The three musketeers by Alexandre Dumas
35 The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas
36 The sound and the fury by William Faulkner
37 The Iliad by Homer
38 Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf*
39 Emma by Jane Austen
40 Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak
41 Sons and lovers by D.H. Lawrence
42 Gulliver's travels by Jonathan Swift
43 The house of the seven gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne*
44 Guns, Germs, and Steel: the fates of human societies by Jared Diamond
45 Dracula by Bram Stoker*
46 Lady Chatterley's lover by D.H. Lawrence
47 A heartbreaking work of staggering genius by Dave Eggers
48 Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens
49 The once and future king by T. H. White
50 Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
51 To the lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
52 Mansfield Park by Jane Austen
53 Oryx and Crake : a novel by Margaret Atwood
54 Great Expectations by Charles Dickens*
55 Labyrinth by Kate Mosse
56 Tess of the D'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
57 Collapse : how societies choose to fail or succeed by Jared Diamond
58 The corrections by Jonathan Franzen
59 Moll Flanders by Daniel Defoe
60 Underworld by Don DeLillo
61 Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott
62 The grapes of wrath by John Steinbeck
63 Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte*
64 The Gormenghast trilogy by Mervyn Peake
65 The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells*
66 Jude the obscure by Thomas Hardy
67 The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin
68 Tender is the night by F. Scott Fitzgerald
69 A portrait of the artist as a young man by James Joyce
70 A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court by Mark Twain
71 The divine comedy by Dante Alighieri
72 The inferno by Dante Alighieri
73 Gravity's rainbow by Thomas Pynchon
74 The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand
75 Swann's way by Marcel Proust
76 The poisonwood Bible : a novel by Barbara Kingsolver
77 The amazing adventures of Kavalier and Clay : a novel by Michael Chabon
78 Sense and sensibility by Jane Austen
79 The portrait of a lady by Henry James
80 Silas Marner by George Eliot
81 The picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde*
82 The man in the iron mask by Alexandre Dumas
83 The god of small things by Arundhati Roy
84 The book thief by Markus Zusak
85 The confusion by Neal Stephenson
86 One flew over the cuckoo's nest by Ken Kesey
87 Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley
88 Bleak House by Charles Dickens*
89 The system of the world by Neal Stephenson
90 The elegant universe : superstrings, hidden dimensions, and… by Brian Greene
91 Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson
92 The known world by Edward P. Jones
93 The time traveler's wife by Audrey Niffenegger
94 The mill on the Floss by George Eliot
95 The English patient by Michael Ondaatje
96 Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon
97 Dubliners by James Joyce
98 Les misérables by Victor Hugo
99 The bonesetter's daughter by Amy Tan
100 Infinite jest : a novel by David Foster Wallace
101 Lord Jim by Joseph Conrad
102 Beloved : a novel by Toni Morrison
103 Persuasion by Jane Austen
104 A clockwork orange by Anthony Burgess
105 The personal history of David Copperfield by Charles Dickens*
106 Tropic of cancer by Henry Miller
3 started but not finished; however, I will say that this was not because I didn't like them. All of them were books read for school when I was younger, and I was forced to abandon them from time constraints. I would gladly pick any of them up again.
9 owned but not read. I think only one or two of them are actually mine. The rest belong to Darling Wife, and I think I would like to read most of them. In fact, she brought quite a few books into our marriage that fall into this category, and I wouldn't doubt that I've left some on this list un-underlined when they should be.
1 I hated. Proust... it was really, really dull. I guess I just didn't get into it.
Unlike Michele, I would like to read several on this list, and expect I will get around to many of them eventually.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Reclamation
Do you remember my new friend, the one who asked me to learn gun handling and go to a shooting range with him? It turned out that he wasn't really a friend after all. I haven't heard from him since that first week or so, and he hasn't responded to a message from me in about a month. I've been busy, so I haven't made a huge effort to contact him, but I have sent the random e-mail here and there and received no replies to any of them.
The last time we spoke, he told me his doctor found a heart murmur or something. He said the docs ran a bunch of tests, but he wasn't going to worry about it until they told him it was time to be concerned. When I didn't hear from him, I wondered if he was alright. All I have is his work e-mail address, and even though he's a tech junkie who connects to his work computer from everywhere he goes, including his phone, there was the slight possibility that he wasn't responding because he was missing work. I admit, I was a little concerned. Not enough to call him or go by his office, but concerned nonetheless.
But I saw him on campus today. I was riding my bike home when I saw him crossing to the sidewalk about 40 yards ahead. It took me a moment to register that it was him, and by the time I got to where he'd crossed, he'd already moved along the sidewalk a considerable distance. If I'd bumped into him naturally, I'd have spoken to him easily, but chasing him down seemed weird under the circumstances. So, I pedaled on without stopping, but now I'm really wondering what's going on.
Obviously, he doesn't want to be friends. That's fine. I don't really want to be friends with him either. It doesn't matter what his reasons are. Who would want to hang out with someone who doesn't want to hang out with them? That would hardly be a satisfying relationship. Besides, he's irresponsible and immature. This isn't sour grapes talking. His primary activities outside of work amount to smoking pot, playing video games, and going to the Bay Area to visit his folks. He's only 25. Maybe I'd just been trying to be young; I don't know. But that sort of behavior didn't suit me even when I was young.
The problem is, I loaned him some books. They aren't valuable at all, just some paperbacks. Nor are they favorites or anything. But they are mine, and I would like to have them back. My last couple of e-mails to him have been related to this issue, but he has ignored them. So, what should I do?
The last time we spoke, he told me his doctor found a heart murmur or something. He said the docs ran a bunch of tests, but he wasn't going to worry about it until they told him it was time to be concerned. When I didn't hear from him, I wondered if he was alright. All I have is his work e-mail address, and even though he's a tech junkie who connects to his work computer from everywhere he goes, including his phone, there was the slight possibility that he wasn't responding because he was missing work. I admit, I was a little concerned. Not enough to call him or go by his office, but concerned nonetheless.
But I saw him on campus today. I was riding my bike home when I saw him crossing to the sidewalk about 40 yards ahead. It took me a moment to register that it was him, and by the time I got to where he'd crossed, he'd already moved along the sidewalk a considerable distance. If I'd bumped into him naturally, I'd have spoken to him easily, but chasing him down seemed weird under the circumstances. So, I pedaled on without stopping, but now I'm really wondering what's going on.
Obviously, he doesn't want to be friends. That's fine. I don't really want to be friends with him either. It doesn't matter what his reasons are. Who would want to hang out with someone who doesn't want to hang out with them? That would hardly be a satisfying relationship. Besides, he's irresponsible and immature. This isn't sour grapes talking. His primary activities outside of work amount to smoking pot, playing video games, and going to the Bay Area to visit his folks. He's only 25. Maybe I'd just been trying to be young; I don't know. But that sort of behavior didn't suit me even when I was young.
The problem is, I loaned him some books. They aren't valuable at all, just some paperbacks. Nor are they favorites or anything. But they are mine, and I would like to have them back. My last couple of e-mails to him have been related to this issue, but he has ignored them. So, what should I do?
Friday, May 23, 2008
Nth Degree of Separation
I called him "Blue Boy." Of course, he isn't actually blue, but he wears blue. Blue jeans, blue jacket, blue helmet... even his bike is blue. I first noticed him because he comes through my crosswalk every morning almost precisely at 7:45, and that just happens to be the time that I need to move from one side of the street to the other.
See, the schools in my burg have staggered start-times so that the high-schoolers, who travel west through the intersection where I work in the mornings, come earlier than the middle-schoolers, who travel east. Consequently, midway through my morning shift, I have to change curbs in order to most effectively assist the kids in their crossings.
After a couple of weeks of observation of Blue Boy, I learned to rely on his timing. I didn't even check my watch anymore. I just waited until I saw that familiar blue form pass through the crosswalk to alter my standing position.
My reliance on him caused me to observe Blue Boy more closely, to pick him out of the crowd. He is handsome in an Aryan sort of way. I catch a glimpse of his blond hair beneath his helmet and notice the aristocratic shape of his nose as he breezes past me. He sits on his bike with confidence and skill, and his blue eyes never flicker for an instant in my direction, even when I have to stop him until there is a break in the flow of traffic to allow him to cross. He glides down the hill behind me and turns the corner to cross the street with speed and absolute silence. In a town where most kids say "hello," "good morning," or "thank you" as they cross, or at least make eye contact and nod, his lack of acknowledgment smacks of rudeness. I determined for myself that he is haughty or at the very least callous. The exactness of his timing every day and the unvarying monotony of his clothing contributing to my impression of him as cold and aloof.
Then one day, I noticed that Blue Boy's blue jacket is a varsity letter jacket. Surprise. He is an athlete and no doubt popular. Or that's what I first thought when I noticed it. Then I wondered at the fact that I had not marked it before. One can believe a letter jacket to be a symbol of elitism and discrimination or as a mark of pride and achievement, but regardless of the significance one places on the sign, it has more meaning than the nondescript "blue jacket" I had labeled him with up to that point. How could I not see it?
The next day, Blue Boy wore a hooded sweatshirt of a much lighter shade of blue than the letter jacket, and as soon as I saw it, I realized that this was not the first time I'd seen it. He frequently alternates between the jacket and the hoodie, and perhaps even other garments as well, but I had failed to take notice of this either.
I began to be aware that I had not seen Blue Boy at all. For my own purposes, I had branded him with a moniker that segregated him from the mass of his schoolmates and learned a few of his routines, and from this paltry evidence, I had constructed a profile for him that may have little or nothing to do with the boy himself. I mean, for crying out loud, I call him "Blue Boy," and in my mind, that is his identity. How could he be more than a cardboard cutout of a person? He is a color, not a reality.
One day not long after I made this observation, Blue Boy was accompanied by another lad. This one, about the same age, was of a completely different disposition. He is friendly and perhaps a little geeky. His clothes reveal somewhat less attention to fashion than many of the youths I see, and he never passes up the chance to speak to me. On more than one occasion, he has even initiated a brief conversation when he has had to wait for a pause in traffic. I'd never heard Blue Boy speak before, never seen him pay attention to anything in his surroundings as he sped past, but here he was, riding slowly in pace with this other kid. He talked animatedly, telling the other boy some sort of story about something he'd seen on TV or a movie. They were clearly friends.
I stood in amazement. Not at the boys, but at myself. Granted, I have little contact with these kids, so it is only natural that my assumptions about them are flawed and inaccurate. But it got me to thinking about how little we know anyone and how much we think we know. Do we really see others or do we always only see ourselves? I may never know Blue Boy's name, and I may never see more than a shallow surface, but I like to think it will be his and not mine. Do you think that's possible?
See, the schools in my burg have staggered start-times so that the high-schoolers, who travel west through the intersection where I work in the mornings, come earlier than the middle-schoolers, who travel east. Consequently, midway through my morning shift, I have to change curbs in order to most effectively assist the kids in their crossings.
After a couple of weeks of observation of Blue Boy, I learned to rely on his timing. I didn't even check my watch anymore. I just waited until I saw that familiar blue form pass through the crosswalk to alter my standing position.
My reliance on him caused me to observe Blue Boy more closely, to pick him out of the crowd. He is handsome in an Aryan sort of way. I catch a glimpse of his blond hair beneath his helmet and notice the aristocratic shape of his nose as he breezes past me. He sits on his bike with confidence and skill, and his blue eyes never flicker for an instant in my direction, even when I have to stop him until there is a break in the flow of traffic to allow him to cross. He glides down the hill behind me and turns the corner to cross the street with speed and absolute silence. In a town where most kids say "hello," "good morning," or "thank you" as they cross, or at least make eye contact and nod, his lack of acknowledgment smacks of rudeness. I determined for myself that he is haughty or at the very least callous. The exactness of his timing every day and the unvarying monotony of his clothing contributing to my impression of him as cold and aloof.
Then one day, I noticed that Blue Boy's blue jacket is a varsity letter jacket. Surprise. He is an athlete and no doubt popular. Or that's what I first thought when I noticed it. Then I wondered at the fact that I had not marked it before. One can believe a letter jacket to be a symbol of elitism and discrimination or as a mark of pride and achievement, but regardless of the significance one places on the sign, it has more meaning than the nondescript "blue jacket" I had labeled him with up to that point. How could I not see it?
The next day, Blue Boy wore a hooded sweatshirt of a much lighter shade of blue than the letter jacket, and as soon as I saw it, I realized that this was not the first time I'd seen it. He frequently alternates between the jacket and the hoodie, and perhaps even other garments as well, but I had failed to take notice of this either.
I began to be aware that I had not seen Blue Boy at all. For my own purposes, I had branded him with a moniker that segregated him from the mass of his schoolmates and learned a few of his routines, and from this paltry evidence, I had constructed a profile for him that may have little or nothing to do with the boy himself. I mean, for crying out loud, I call him "Blue Boy," and in my mind, that is his identity. How could he be more than a cardboard cutout of a person? He is a color, not a reality.
One day not long after I made this observation, Blue Boy was accompanied by another lad. This one, about the same age, was of a completely different disposition. He is friendly and perhaps a little geeky. His clothes reveal somewhat less attention to fashion than many of the youths I see, and he never passes up the chance to speak to me. On more than one occasion, he has even initiated a brief conversation when he has had to wait for a pause in traffic. I'd never heard Blue Boy speak before, never seen him pay attention to anything in his surroundings as he sped past, but here he was, riding slowly in pace with this other kid. He talked animatedly, telling the other boy some sort of story about something he'd seen on TV or a movie. They were clearly friends.
I stood in amazement. Not at the boys, but at myself. Granted, I have little contact with these kids, so it is only natural that my assumptions about them are flawed and inaccurate. But it got me to thinking about how little we know anyone and how much we think we know. Do we really see others or do we always only see ourselves? I may never know Blue Boy's name, and I may never see more than a shallow surface, but I like to think it will be his and not mine. Do you think that's possible?
Friday, May 16, 2008
Little Suprises
I haven't felt much like blogging lately. Not that I've been in a bad mood. Sure, the extreme heat, horribly dry winds, and forest fires we've been experiencing have somewhat squelched the high I was feeling a few weeks ago, but I'm in a pretty good mood all the same. It's just that now that I am finished with my classes until fall, I have more free time, and I haven't been inclined to spend it sitting at the computer. You know how it is.
But I had to share this one really cool thing that we just discovered. Darling Wife had the dogs out in the backyard for their... er... comfort, and she called through the window to ask if I had ever seen a hummingbird's nest. I remarked, "Only in pictures." She then asked me what they were made out of, etc., and explained that she thought we had one in the tree in our back yard.
I went out to investigate, and sure enough there it was. Here are a few snapshots for your entertainment. Cool, eh?
If you look closely at the last one, you can sort of see that they are made out of moss, and... get this... spider webs. That's why it's white. And that's probably why it nested here. Plenty of webs for its use... that and the feeder by the back fence.
But I had to share this one really cool thing that we just discovered. Darling Wife had the dogs out in the backyard for their... er... comfort, and she called through the window to ask if I had ever seen a hummingbird's nest. I remarked, "Only in pictures." She then asked me what they were made out of, etc., and explained that she thought we had one in the tree in our back yard.
I went out to investigate, and sure enough there it was. Here are a few snapshots for your entertainment. Cool, eh?
If you look closely at the last one, you can sort of see that they are made out of moss, and... get this... spider webs. That's why it's white. And that's probably why it nested here. Plenty of webs for its use... that and the feeder by the back fence.
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