Then just as quickly, those moments of respite are gone, and we are faced once again with the dust heap. It lies in our garages, in our e-mail in-boxes, in our hall closets. Only while we looked away, it has grown greater, taller, wider. It is a veritable mountain of senseless minutiae. How did it get so big... so quickly?
One is left to ponder, not how we manage to cope with it, but why.
Is it any mystery that countless numbers of today's youths prefer to be jacked into mp3 players and video games? Why drug abuse is rampant in our society? They seek drama and excitement, anything to quicken them and allow them to ignore the triviality of the heap.
But I don't long for that sort of escape. Instead, I hear the voice of Thoreau, "Simplify, simplify, simplify," it says. The word sounds in the midst of the refuse like the sharp call of a bird whose shape I know, but name I've forgotten. Thoreau wrote, "Most of the luxuries and many of the so-called comforts of life are not only not indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind."
I am weary of being hindered. If only I had the courage to be elevated.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Monday, August 25, 2008
Love is all you need
And then, there are those stolen moments with someone you love that sweep all the trash away.
Or perhaps, the trash is still there, but you are able to see again how insignificant it truly is.
If only those moments weren't so difficult to come by. But then I guess they wouldn't be worth as much.
Or perhaps, the trash is still there, but you are able to see again how insignificant it truly is.
If only those moments weren't so difficult to come by. But then I guess they wouldn't be worth as much.
Friday, August 22, 2008
It's the little things
They come at you, all the time, piling up like garbage at a landfill. Each one by itself is insignificant, and you know that in time, they will not matter.
Perhaps that is what makes them so hard to deal with. They are so trivial; what is the point? Why exert yourself?
But if you do not, they soon bury you. So you work them out, clean them up, handle each one in turn... over, and over, and over again... until you are exhausted.
But you can't really complain because... after all... they are trivial. Right?
Perhaps that is what makes them so hard to deal with. They are so trivial; what is the point? Why exert yourself?
But if you do not, they soon bury you. So you work them out, clean them up, handle each one in turn... over, and over, and over again... until you are exhausted.
But you can't really complain because... after all... they are trivial. Right?
Friday, August 08, 2008
Will You Not Shed a Tear?
I named my PC "Glorfindel." To those steeped in the lore of Tolkien, this name may not be unfamiliar to your eyes. But to those who have never ventured into the complex worlds of this master dreamweaver, let me assure you that this is a name to conjure with. Glorfindel was an elf lord of the Eldar who returned to Middle Earth from the Undying Lands, a journey never undertaken by other being, to help Frodo escape from the Nazgul and come within the protecting sway of the elves of Rivendell in Fellowship of the Ring. (This role was usurped by Arwen Undomiel in the film.) Glorfindel is powerful and good, and I had hope that bestowing this name upon my mechanical servant would render it some manner of protection.
But alas, some two days ago, a friend reached across cyberspace and time to send me a video file. This file contained a music video filmed in his new soundstage in my old hometown, and he desired my opinion of it. Glorfindel informed me that I needed a certain codec to view the file, and I went speedily in pursuit of it. In my haste and poor judgment, I discovered what I believed to be the sought after element and gave it to Glorfindel.
Woe and destruction followed, for the thing I had unearthed was not the codec I mistook it for but a foul fiend of the abyss. Harken unto me, friends, and harken well. Know you that this fiend is called Antispyware 2008, and it is a most fell beast. Test it not. Touch it not. But avoid it with all your might unless you long for a life of peril and death.
This grievous foe latched onto Glorfindel with the swiftness of birds in flight and the strength of a cave troll. Like a guard asleep at the castle gates, my virus-protection software recognized it not until it was well beyond the reach of the defenses, wreaking horrible damage upon all that crossed its path.
I hastily procured the services of a mercenary by the name of Antimalware, available at Malwarebytes.org, and he succeeded in utterly destroying the enemy. But it was too late. Glorfindel has suffered a mortal wound that is beyond my powers to heal.
Fortunately, he was able to hold himself together long enough to allow me to save the precious cargo he carries, but his memory must be wiped and his operating system reinstalled. He will no longer be recognizable as the companion of my recent years. I am most cast down. A moment of indiscretion and folly has brought the ruin of all that he and I had built together.
It is a gray day, my friends. Please, lament with us.
But alas, some two days ago, a friend reached across cyberspace and time to send me a video file. This file contained a music video filmed in his new soundstage in my old hometown, and he desired my opinion of it. Glorfindel informed me that I needed a certain codec to view the file, and I went speedily in pursuit of it. In my haste and poor judgment, I discovered what I believed to be the sought after element and gave it to Glorfindel.
Woe and destruction followed, for the thing I had unearthed was not the codec I mistook it for but a foul fiend of the abyss. Harken unto me, friends, and harken well. Know you that this fiend is called Antispyware 2008, and it is a most fell beast. Test it not. Touch it not. But avoid it with all your might unless you long for a life of peril and death.
This grievous foe latched onto Glorfindel with the swiftness of birds in flight and the strength of a cave troll. Like a guard asleep at the castle gates, my virus-protection software recognized it not until it was well beyond the reach of the defenses, wreaking horrible damage upon all that crossed its path.
I hastily procured the services of a mercenary by the name of Antimalware, available at Malwarebytes.org, and he succeeded in utterly destroying the enemy. But it was too late. Glorfindel has suffered a mortal wound that is beyond my powers to heal.
Fortunately, he was able to hold himself together long enough to allow me to save the precious cargo he carries, but his memory must be wiped and his operating system reinstalled. He will no longer be recognizable as the companion of my recent years. I am most cast down. A moment of indiscretion and folly has brought the ruin of all that he and I had built together.
It is a gray day, my friends. Please, lament with us.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Do You Believe in Signs?
I don't. Or at least, I say I don't. But I always watch for them all the same. I think it's human nature. We WANT to believe that we are part of something bigger, something that is secretly communicating with us.
Anyway, I just finished reading The Secret Life of Bees, and in addition to the thoughts I had about the novel, I was intrigued by the idea of keeping bees, something I've actually thought about before. Toward the end of the book, the main character gets stung, and her mentor/surrogate mother tells her that you can't be a bee keeper unless you get stung; it's sort of an initiation.
Goodness knows I've been stung plenty of times as a child, but it's been years since it happened. I used to swell up terribly, and my mother said I was allergic, though my life was never in danger. I lived in fear of bees. But not any longer. Perhaps not being stung in decades lessens the reality of the sting. For whatever reason, I find them fascinating now, and as an amateur gardener, they are sort of necessary friends, like earth worms. Without bees, I'd have no tomatoes, no squash. I think it would be fun to have my own hive someday, my own miniature city of tiny gardeners.
I was stung today. As I was riding on the bike bath, a bee struck my thumb, and I was stung. I've been hit before, in the chest, on the sunglasses... I even had a bee shoot right into one of the vent holes on the top of my bike helmet. But I haven't been stung until today. And I didn't swell up at all. It hurt like hell at the time, but by the time I got home, I could hardly feel it. And now, I can barely tell where it happened.
Do you think it's a sign?
Anyway, I just finished reading The Secret Life of Bees, and in addition to the thoughts I had about the novel, I was intrigued by the idea of keeping bees, something I've actually thought about before. Toward the end of the book, the main character gets stung, and her mentor/surrogate mother tells her that you can't be a bee keeper unless you get stung; it's sort of an initiation.
Goodness knows I've been stung plenty of times as a child, but it's been years since it happened. I used to swell up terribly, and my mother said I was allergic, though my life was never in danger. I lived in fear of bees. But not any longer. Perhaps not being stung in decades lessens the reality of the sting. For whatever reason, I find them fascinating now, and as an amateur gardener, they are sort of necessary friends, like earth worms. Without bees, I'd have no tomatoes, no squash. I think it would be fun to have my own hive someday, my own miniature city of tiny gardeners.
I was stung today. As I was riding on the bike bath, a bee struck my thumb, and I was stung. I've been hit before, in the chest, on the sunglasses... I even had a bee shoot right into one of the vent holes on the top of my bike helmet. But I haven't been stung until today. And I didn't swell up at all. It hurt like hell at the time, but by the time I got home, I could hardly feel it. And now, I can barely tell where it happened.
Do you think it's a sign?
Friday, July 25, 2008
In the Moment
The mornings have turned crisp and cool again, so I composed a post in my head during my bike ride this morning about my desire for autumn. But now that I sit down to type it out, the words drop away like overripe fruit. They can provide me no succor, no sustenance. The sight and smell of them merely increases my hunger with promise that cannot be fulfilled through longing.
Instead, let me feast upon thoughts of the summer that is still here in all it's ripe plenitude. Certainly there have been and will continue to be trials, like predatory insects snacking on the harvest that is mine, but these things pale in comparison to the bounty that remains.
Better health than I've enjoyed in years, the company of a wonderful spouse, the escapades of two rambling puppies, and the time to appreciate it all.
Instead, let me feast upon thoughts of the summer that is still here in all it's ripe plenitude. Certainly there have been and will continue to be trials, like predatory insects snacking on the harvest that is mine, but these things pale in comparison to the bounty that remains.
Better health than I've enjoyed in years, the company of a wonderful spouse, the escapades of two rambling puppies, and the time to appreciate it all.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Will Herd Sheep for Food
Camping with a large, moving shag carpet can sometimes be a little messy. I present for your consideration, Exhibit A.
Notice how she finds the one patch of dirt in our campsite that is not covered by a tarp, specifically placed there for her use.
How would you like that to lick your face in the morning?
.
Notice how she finds the one patch of dirt in our campsite that is not covered by a tarp, specifically placed there for her use.
How would you like that to lick your face in the morning?
.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Landscape of my Dreams
For the first time in nearly a month, I can see the hills on the horizon. They are not sharp or distinct; a slight haze still blurs them. But they are there, firm and solid rather than the phantom presence, sensed but not seen, that they have been. They form a nice boundary or backdrop to the fields and farms I bike through, a focal point, something to look at or from. This is my favorite landscape.
I enjoy the energy and verve of the city. Whether at night, with its blur of lights, or during the day, with its sidewalk shuffles and industrial bustle, a city possesses a sense of activity and movement. Though I admit that the sheer volume of this can be overwhelming sometimes.
But rolling farmland bounded by mountains or hills is the best. The farmland carries with it the idea of nature, harnessed and organized, yes, but not controlled. It cannot be controlled. Ask any farmer, and he will tell you that technology and hard work help him improve the odds in his favor, but ultimately, he is at the mercy of natural forces. Farms also open the landscape to the eye, give one a view to the horizon and options for travel. In contrast, forests close out the world, which is nice sometimes, but occasionally I've had difficulty seeing the forest for the trees. Once cleared for planting or livestock, the vast stretches of land give one a sense of distance, perspective, and opportunity. Farms are stable, present; they are of and about the earth. They remain still, but they also invite one to meander; they offer options. Whether you go across country or along a road depends on your mode of transportation and your momentary inclination. And farms change with the seasons, with the crop, in an ever moving cycle. Consequently, farms are permanence made fluid.
But mile after mile of flat farmland can lack direction. How does one choose one path versus another when there is little or no variation, no distinctness. Add high hills on the horizon, and you get a natural waypoint. You can choose to move toward them or away... or maybe you want to travel parallel to them, as if they were companions going along for the journey but not pressing themselves upon you. It doesn't matter what route you choose to take, hills offer you a purpose, a reason to move. And they give you something with which to monitor your progress.
Yes, options and freedom of movement in the present with a goal or an objective, however remote, in the future. This is more than a favorite landscape; it is how I like my life.
I guess that's why I don't like suburbs. Like office cubicles, they divide up the land, the view, into tiny parcels. This is mine; that is yours. They hem in, close off with fences and landscaping. They wind and confuse with roads that go nowhere but to other roads, other houses, each like the last. And they lock one into cars, away from interaction with anything other than middle class staleness. Suburbs are the only dead things I know of that grow, except perhaps for toenails. :)
I enjoy the energy and verve of the city. Whether at night, with its blur of lights, or during the day, with its sidewalk shuffles and industrial bustle, a city possesses a sense of activity and movement. Though I admit that the sheer volume of this can be overwhelming sometimes.
But rolling farmland bounded by mountains or hills is the best. The farmland carries with it the idea of nature, harnessed and organized, yes, but not controlled. It cannot be controlled. Ask any farmer, and he will tell you that technology and hard work help him improve the odds in his favor, but ultimately, he is at the mercy of natural forces. Farms also open the landscape to the eye, give one a view to the horizon and options for travel. In contrast, forests close out the world, which is nice sometimes, but occasionally I've had difficulty seeing the forest for the trees. Once cleared for planting or livestock, the vast stretches of land give one a sense of distance, perspective, and opportunity. Farms are stable, present; they are of and about the earth. They remain still, but they also invite one to meander; they offer options. Whether you go across country or along a road depends on your mode of transportation and your momentary inclination. And farms change with the seasons, with the crop, in an ever moving cycle. Consequently, farms are permanence made fluid.
But mile after mile of flat farmland can lack direction. How does one choose one path versus another when there is little or no variation, no distinctness. Add high hills on the horizon, and you get a natural waypoint. You can choose to move toward them or away... or maybe you want to travel parallel to them, as if they were companions going along for the journey but not pressing themselves upon you. It doesn't matter what route you choose to take, hills offer you a purpose, a reason to move. And they give you something with which to monitor your progress.
Yes, options and freedom of movement in the present with a goal or an objective, however remote, in the future. This is more than a favorite landscape; it is how I like my life.
I guess that's why I don't like suburbs. Like office cubicles, they divide up the land, the view, into tiny parcels. This is mine; that is yours. They hem in, close off with fences and landscaping. They wind and confuse with roads that go nowhere but to other roads, other houses, each like the last. And they lock one into cars, away from interaction with anything other than middle class staleness. Suburbs are the only dead things I know of that grow, except perhaps for toenails. :)
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Of Mice and Men
"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.
.
- - - - - - -
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.
.
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?
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