A Screeching Halt

I just caused an accident... I think.

I was out for my afternoon bike ride, moving at a fairly quick clip, loose and enjoying myself in the mild afternoon sun. I had finished my exercise and had nearly reached home when I came up behind three undergraduate girls with long blond hair, wearing sun dresses and giant round-lensed sunglasses, carrying enormous "bags" (purses, not school bags), and riding side-by-side. One of them was talking on her cell phone, and the other two were keeping pace with her. They were all three creeping along on their big ole cruisers, blocking the entire bike path.

I followed behind them a short distance until they reached a section of the path with clearly marked lanes. I thought perhaps they would fall into line and stay in the right lane, as they are supposed to do. But the girls continued to pedal along at their extremely slow pace, staring around like they hadn't a brain among the three of them. So, I rang my little bike bell and said, "Excuse me. On your left," as I pulled up to pass them. The girl farthest to the left jerked her head around with surprise clearly marking every feature of her face and drove right into the side of the girl next to her. Their bikes became entangled, and they both went down in a jumble of fenders and chains.

All three girls immediately began swearing, not at me exactly, but at the universe, as if it had somehow betrayed them, and then they started looking over their bodies and clothes for damage. One girl had a pretty bad scrape on her knee, but she seemed more concerned about her dress than about her injury or the fact that she was sitting in the middle of the bike path with her knees drawn up and her legs spread, underwear clearly visible.

I stopped, got off my bike, and helped her to stand up. Then I righted their bikes and, with the help of another guy who stopped as well, straightened crooked handlebars and bent fenders. Meanwhile, the girls continued to swear and tug at their clothing. They didn't acknowledge any fault or assistance on my part or the other guy's, nor did they seem aware of what to do.

After a few awkward moments of standing there, unsure what to say or how to act, I got back on my bike and rode home. At this moment, I'm not exactly sure who was more at fault or who is more to be pitied.

Time and Tide

Time plays tricks with memory. We all know that. Memory makes a treasured space out of a horrible apartment you once had when you were a young student, fresh to the city from some provincial existence. Nostalgia reworks the bored hours of childhood into an adult's longed-for moments of innocent freedom.

But once in a while, we experience something that time cannot embellish. These experiences encompass more than the places where they occurred, more than the activities we were engaged in, and it is curious how we can live outside of them and inside of them at precisely the same instant. It is as if these experiences defy the laws of temporality and physics to allow a person to exist in two places... two moments... at the same time. Even if medical science can explain this phenomenon some day, will it matter? Will knowing the exact cause of the sorcery render it any less potent? I think not.

When reading a book the other day, I briefly touched such a blurring. The book is a decent tale by a moderately talented author, nothing profound or all that moving. But the novel's setting called forth a mental time capsule like something from a Wordsworth poem.

I stood again on a stretch of road that was in itself unremarkable. Cars sped along it, occupants busy trying to reach other destinations. I could feel the ocean breeze on my hair and smell the tang of salt and seaweed on the air. On either side, water pulsed and quivered, the narrow stretch of the Vineyard Sound on my left, Vineyard Haven Lagoon on my right. The roadway covered a tiny strip of land, little more than a jetty, and I could see jellyfish gliding easily in the depths below. Had I been on a bridge or a boat, the experience would not have been the same. This space was truly liminal, not quite land nor sea. Ahead lay Edgartown, the island's chief town, and behind lay Vineyard Haven. But this space, this strip of road, was outside of both. It belonged to nowhere and nothing... except to the journey between places, between worlds.

And now, it resides in my mind, not quite real, but not imagined either... undefined, unnamed, unbounded.

Short-term commitments

Have you ever heard the term "serial monogamist"? It refers to a person who is faithful to one other person while he or she is dating/married/sleeping with that person, presenting every appearance of maintaining a permanent situation. And in truth, sometimes these relationships can go on for years. But eventually, the serialist will sever the attachment, only to become embroiled in another one after a short time. Serial monogamists can be great partners if one is only looking for temporary stability and trust, but one can't base any long-term plans on them, despite all evidence to the contrary. For whatever reason, serial monogamists will eventually move on to different, albeit it not necessarily greener, pastures.

I was never a serial monogamist in the romantic sense. Oh sure, I dated various women for extended periods to the exclusion of other women, but until I met Darling Wife, I never gave any impression of a serious long-term relationship with any of them. Besides, I would often date many different women for years between these longer connections, and I went for long periods dating no one. Nope. Before I met DW, I considered myself a life-long bachelor, not a serial dater.

However, I confess that I have a track record of lengthy short-term commitments in most other aspects of my life. Three years is about average for me. Almost every job I ever held, with a couple of notable exceptions, lasted for approximately three years, give or take a few months. And every place I ever lived...? Yep... three years. You can measure out the phases of my life in three-year increments. I always thought this was because it took me a year to get used to something, another year to weary of it, and another year to find a way to change it. But whatever the reason for the cycle, each time I set up housekeeping with all of the appearances of permanent residence right up until the day I left.

After years of living this way, though, I long for a little more permanence. I want to plant a tree and watch it grown. I want to buy furniture without the thought of how I will move it a year later. I want to make an investment in a community and build lasting friendships.

Yet, the three-year itch is not easily shaken off. DW and I have lived here in CA for almost exactly three years now. As you all know, we haven't liked it beyond the first six months, but we stayed for various reasons. Now we have one more year... actually nine or ten more months. That's all. That isn't very long. But the three year period has passed, and like the mysterious migrational instincts of birds, I am struggling to stay put. Every sense within me tells me that we've been here too long. It's time to go.

We recently reworked our budget to start saving money for the move. We've also been examining potential communities in more detail. We even made arrangements to visit a few when we are back east for Christmas. All of these preparations should make me feel better, but suddenly a year seems like such a long time. You see, it's not just a year. It's a year beyond the three. And that, my friends, makes all the difference.

Civil Disobeisance

It turned cooler (mid-80s) here for about two days, but now it is nearly 100 degrees again. The lakes are lower than I've ever seen them, some are practically ponds now, and the creeks are all stagnant. Most of the plants in my garden are dying despite my daily watering, and the grass is disappearing from my backyard faster than wedding dresses at the Filene's Basement annual bridal sale.

In addition, I'm on jury duty. I was called and appeared on Tuesday as my civic duty demanded, and I was chosen as an alternate juror on a criminal trial that is expected to continue for the rest of the week. I've never been involved in proceedings like this before; I've only experienced the television version of them. It's very interesting, and I would probably be enjoying myself except... I spent all last weekend catching up on school work, and being in court all day is putting me behind again. I feel the stress starting to build with each day that passes.

And of course, that's not all. I could go on with the litany of petty annoyances, but I don't care to rehash them. The point is, I'm annoyed and cranky, which makes me more annoyed and cranky. Do you ever just get tired of being angry?

Through the Hour Glass

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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

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.