Went for a trail run again today. I’m finding a beautiful emotional release in the solitude the forest, with only the sound of my breathing and and my footfalls to disturb the quiet. Well, not complete solitude. Maggie pants along with me. And I find comfort in her companionship. And joy in her happiness at being outside and free from any constraints. Maybe she is my metaphor.
I have a book and a short story in my head. I’m wondering which to do first. The book is actually 50% on paper. The short story is notes and scribbled ideas. They are two totally different genres that require to totally different parts of my brain. And both are clamoring loudly for my attention. I think I’ll ask my soon-to-be writing group what they think.
Had and incredible conversation with a friend who was more of an acquaintance from high school. Forrest was up in Seattle visiting his brother for Christmas, so I asked him if he wanted to go out for a cup of coffee. It kind of felt like I was asking him on a date. I got all nervous. Would he like me? Would he like the coffeehouse I’d chosen? And at the same time I had to remind myself not to play to rough with him in the intellectual sandbox.
Of course, I didn’t have to concern myself with any one of these things. Sometimes I think I overthink things.
We spent an hour and a half talking politics, economics, and philosophy. Turns out he works for the DOE in their biofuels division. He’s currently working on a cellulosic biofuel for use in NASCAR engines. I told him about my dad’s ethanol company in the ’80s. I also told him about my mom’s libertarian streak and her brushes with the law. He said he would love to meet my mom some day; they probably had a lot in common. I told him he should meet her. She’s an inspiration.
I told him about my views on healthcare reform and the role of government and the danger of corporations and lobbyists. He’s running for congress in 2012. I told him good luck. I hope he can effect change, but I’m a realist.
If I had a little extra time, I’d read all the books people had recommended to me in the past few years, like the Black Swan. I’d also re-read my philosophy books, and I’d probably check some others out of the library. I think I’m going to stop watching all tv for a while. Forrest has been without a tv for 9 years. I like that. There’s too much good stuff to read to waste time watching tv.
A lot has happened in the six months since I last wrote here. Six months of moving, relocating, readjusting.
And I love it. I went for a trail run today, disappearing into the quiet of Big Gulch, a local trail system. It was drizzling. With each footfall the road got rougher and muddier and my senses expanded dramatically: I heard the stream to my left as it tumbled and shooshed over its rocky bed, the wind in the pines, the birds’ furtive calls; I felt the cool air burn my lungs, the drizzle touch my face, my feet squish into the muddy track; and everywhere I saw a natural world that bordered and sometimes crossed into my dreams of an elemental existence. I felt like stripping off everything and running on all fours, fingers and toes gripping the leafy soil, a primal yell tearing from my throat. I think next time I’ll settle for running barefoot.
The kids are settling in wonderfully. They are for the most part oblivious to the cold. Although Kaia has said a few times, “I miss California, dad. It’s warmer down there.” She misses it for other reasons, too. We all do.
The day it snowed (read: dusted the ground), the kids were ecstatic. They ran out into the parking lot of the apartment (the only place the snow stuck) and scraped the snow into little round balls, packing them together with their useless woolen gloves, and hurling them at me with glee. Kaia, momentarily suspending her desire for warmth, dropped to the blacktop and made a perfect snow angel. Her first.
I feel compelled to write again in a big way. I want to write about myself, about others, about facts, about fiction, about worlds that are in my head begging to get out. I’ve been feeling this way for a while and a recent challenge from a former writing group partner has finally overcome the inertia. I am now rolling forward back into the writerly lifestyle, which, much to Denette’s chagrin, will certainly mean more time at coffeehouses and occasions when I must be alone.
It’s interesting: I’ve heard and read many other authors insist that being uncomfortable helps them write. It’s as though the creative process is driven by angst. I’m precisely the opposite. Angst and uncertainty might give me story material, but I write best when I feel safe and secure. Even if it’s about things that contain angst or uncertainty.
I have immensely more to write. I also have a morning workout schedule to keep. 5AM. I feel great once I’ve started.
I’ve decided that instead of dividing myself into many small distinct pieces, I’m going to devote my whole self to one major project, Hole in the Fence.
Because I need to. Because I have to. Because I want to.
So head on over to my other, other (now my primary) blog. I promise more than just updates about my garden. There’s juicy stuff a’comin’…
Later, when I have minions to administrate HitF for me, I will probably come back here to write and relax. But for now, I must focus.
We were down in LA this weekend remembering my grandma’s life.
I knew this day was coming soon. About a month ago I had visited. She said, “Samson, I’m tired. I don’t think I’m going to make it to my 88th birthday.” Recently, her eyesight had gotten so bad she couldn’t read or do her beloved crossword puzzles. Essentially, she got tired of living an increasingly austere existence and decided to move on. So we gathered together on Friday night to remember.
Remembering a life in my family means telling stories that could be movies, laughing, and, of course, playing cards. This is what we did after my dad’s death about two years ago. The whole night we talked about what my dad would have done had he been there: how he would have accused his brother Kenny of cheating at least a dozen times; and how he would have laughed at least as hard as the rest of us. It was a way to keep him present without agonizing over his absence. And now he’s become a part of every game.
Cards form the foundation of the social framework in our family. Every time the family gets together, the cards come out. When I think back to my own childhood, a vivid montage plays through my mind: my mom and dad, his two brothers and their girlfriends—and later, wives—gathered around various battered kitchen tables, wreathed in cigarette smoke, drinking coffee, and laughing, laughing with glorious abandon. I wanted to be a part of that group, to feel that sense of inclusion, acceptance, and joy of togetherness.
Finally being able to participate as a fully independent player (i.e. being responsible for my own hand), felt like a rite of passage. I could sense a shift in my relationship with the people around that table. I felt the weight of privilege and responsibility, a weight I accepted gladly. I knew that such things came with adulthood, and I wanted to make my parents proud by demonstrating my intelligence and maturity.
Not that such aspirations were always (or even consistently) realized. But at least I had been given the opportunity. I was part of the group, even if i didn’t drink coffee or smoke.
Now, when I play, it is with a tinge of sadness for my dad and his parents, players who are no longer at the table. The absence would be more acute—too acute—if there wasn’t another generation to fill those empty seats. One of my cousins has taken a spot. And Logan and Kaia will be in a position to take their own place at the table in a few years. First, though, I have to show them the ropes, so we started playing go, fish recently. I love watching them concentrate on their hands, asking someone for a king with such sincerity. They are incredibly, kissably cute.
I feel such a warm sense of fulfillment as I prepare this next generation to take their place at the table, how to interact, build bonds, and strengthen ties. I can only hope they will reflect back on their experiences with the same sense nostalgia and appreciation.
I help out with lunches at Logan’s school on occasion. They have a very nicely designed program that utilizes local businesses and provides real, healthy food. It’s anti-cafeteria food, actually.
The school also has a snack purchase system that could be used by parents as a wonderful tool to teach their kids to be frugal, thoughtful consumers.
But it isn’t.
The kids are constantly overdrafting their accounts. When I looked at the sheet today, I saw that some of the accounts were $15 in the negative.
One of the kids wanted to know her current balance. “From $64 to $9,” she said to her friends, aghast, “I’ll have to tell my mom to put more money on the account.”
Here’s how it should work:
Me: “Logan, I’m putting $60 on your account for the year. That’s enough for about two snacks a week. Remember, though, that this is all you’re getting. Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Plan accoringly.”
Logan: “Okay, dad.”
Then, when three months has passed and Logan has snacked himself into oblivion, he’ll come and tell me his account has dried up. And I’ll remind him of our discussion.
And I won’t change my mind.
And Logan will, I hope, learn an important lesson about fiscal responsibility. A lesson his classmates could most definitely use.
Or maybe mom will always be there to put more money in the account.
People who are pro-freedom, and who are therefore anti-big government based on the premise that big government impinges upon their freedoms, should also, by definition, be anti-big business. If their overarching value is that certain, often undefined, “freedoms” should be protected at all costs, then they should be just as willing to condemn the tactics and strategies of corporate america as much as those of the federal government.
Sadly, most of those who proclaim their allegiance to “freedom” are also pro-big business, despite overwhelming evidence that corporations continually infringe on our most basic freedoms, including those outlined and defined in the Bill of Rights.
I’ve been watching Fox News. Can you tell?
Email, twitter, rss feeds, facebook, youtube…the internet is artificially inducing ADD…
…I didn’t use to spend hours flitting from one piece of irrelevant datum to another like a hummingbird looking for its next sugar high…
…a new email. My eyes flit to the growl notification as it ghosts onto the screen, my mind quickly assess whether it’s important or unnecessary. If it’s not, I move back to my original task….
…but I’m already lost. My mind has begun to wander. Perhaps the email reminded me of another task I had planned, or perhaps the title inspired me to twitter something, or perhaps, perhaps…
…and I have work to do. Real work. Things that take time and quiet and a high level of concentration. Things that are meaningful and profound and important…
…yet I stray again, my fingers hit keyboard shortcuts of their own volition, and before I realize it I’m reading the daily email from the NYT, clicking on interesting links, and being enveloped by information, my brain sating itself on the novel, the controversial, the humorous, the grotesque…
…no more! I must reassert control of my attention span; I will not allow my free will to be subverted by the smooth, cool grays and attractive, rounded edges of firefox, netnewswire, or apple mail; I will be master of my day and my destiny.
Starting now.
My office/the extra room is a complete disaster.
I find it strangely comforting.
The level of disarray seems to be roughly equivalent to my level of creativity, and I’m feeling really creative right now. This has always happened: when I was younger my room was a chaotic conglomeration of my many projects.
It’s because I don’t have any staffing work. So eventually I’m going to be very poor. Which means that pretty soon I’ll start worrying about money and the fantastic will be obscured by the mundane, yet for the moment my office will remain a reflection of my heightened state.
Order will return soon enough—and with it a loss of a certain amount of joy and fulfillment.
Which is why I want HitF to work. I don’t want to give up the chaos.
There’s something very therapeutic and reassuring about building a fire. The pops and whines, the smoke and heat. It transports me to a different place and stage of evolution. I feel a unique, primal pride, a sense of strength and accomplishment, when I coax a fire to life.
The tinder must be bone dry. I search for it in the undergrowth: the topmost leaves from last season; dried moss in the bole of a tree; lichen draped low on bare branches. I gather two fistfuls and place them in the middle of the fire ring, then I fluff them slightly to ensure space for enough air.
Next I locate kindling, snapping each twig and branch and listening for the telltale crackle that indicates it is dry enough to catch. I lay the smallest pieces lightly atop the tinder so that it forms a rough cone.
Then I light the match.
I hold it to one or two places on the tinder, blow lightly, and watch to see that the kindling catches. When it does I place larger sticks on the fire until I have a healthy blaze.
I settle back to enjoy my fire once the first log is fully involved and the fire is popping cheerfully, casting it’s heat and it’s light into the cold dark. I breathe deeply and wish for a simpler time.
Then I reach for my iPhone to blog this.
