Passing Fancies, Moments of Brilliance and Bitching About the Rain

It seems the more I write the more I fall in love with myself.  Sick and egotistical I know, so I wonder how many authors write purely for their own entertainment.  The novel that I am now attempting to write is slowly taking shape.  Actually, that is not true, the story is already finished . . . three volumes worth to be exact.  It is the writing that is SLOWLY taking shape.  Among art forms, I believe the written word to be the purest.  The witty turn of a phrase or a startling description that can paint a picture without the aid of a brush are two of my most favorite things.  I possess a gift for neither, so grinding out a novel is no small task.  Occasionally I read back through what I have written and see a flicker of hope, a moment of clarity when the light from my star breaks through an overcast sky.  Just as quickly, the brilliance fades and the entire project becomes a passing fancy.  A brief moment of self-love pitches itself into a prolonged sense of self-loathing.  This is particularly difficult to swallow when I trade the pen for a book mark and delve back into whatever book it is that I am currently consuming at a fairly prodigious rate.  Until recently I had made a very concerted effort in my life to ignore the words of others.  To be honest, I am still fairly picky where this is concerned, but I am warming to the idea with each passing day.

There are some truly brilliant writers out there and the thought of anything I write being worthy of a spot on the same bookshelf is, well, ludicrous.   Truth is, just about the time I start convincing myself that it might be possible to make this a productive vocation rather than a fairly consumptive recreation something always sees fit to knock me back to earth.  Whether that be a written work that makes my own look like the scribblings of a toddler or an improbable job posting passed along by a friend.  I think the latter has shaken me far more than I would have expected.  The vague understanding that this change in my lifestyle is not a permanent one is easy enough to shove to the back of my mind.  I tend to live in the now for the most part, while maintaining grand plans for the future.  The problem is, even the best laid plans of mice and men . . . well you know the rest.  The reality that this is truly a sabbatical rather than a retirement hit home recently when a friend from back home sent a job posting that I might be qualified for.  For the first time it sank in that sooner rather than later, I am going to have to face the truth and it ain’t pretty.  For the better part of the past week, I have really struggled with the idea and I came to the only rational conclusion:  Be Irrational.  Foolish, Unreasonable, Crazy, Ridiculous, Absurd and Silly, these have all been used at one time or another to describe some of the greatest moments and grandest achievements throughout the history of mankind.  So, why NOT me?  Why can’t I do the same?

I know what is expected.  I could read it clearly in my wife’s eyes.  I should return to the 9 to 5 or 8 to 6, or God forbid the 7 to whenever.  Not to do so upon our return to the US would certainly raise some eyebrows.  The naysayers will say nay and my convictions will be tested.  It has taken me most of my life to figure out what it is that I really want to do, and I won’t let loose of the notion so easily.  Certainly I have the ability, the skills and credentials to return to the world of the pinstripe panted drones who shuffle the papers of big business in a never ending quest to receive THE gold watch, I just don’t have the desire.  I think most would find themselves of the opinion that not returning to a career utilizing my degree and licensure would be an act of great waste, while I believe returning to the same would be an act of greater cowardice.  I have ALWAYS marveled at the bravery of those who have chosen to gamble on themselves and spit in the face of convention.  I now find myself at this crossroads and the devil can keep his fucking guitar, I will buy my own gold watch.  With that settled, it is time to make like Charlie and find my Hustle.  In the soundtrack of my life, this is where the Dubstep beat drops and the rest of the story is written.  Now if I could just get it to stop fucking raining.

It is hard to grab life by the balls when you don’t want to get out of bed in the morning.  We are three weeks in on a patch of foul weather that doesn’t show signs of stopping.  Unfortunately, I have long since run out of corn for popping if you know what I mean.  I need to take the leap, make a move, get things going again, but the gray skies have me grounded like fog at an airport.  I NEED sunny skies and the warm sting of summer on my skin, and I need it badly.  I need long afternoons at the beach and visits from home.  I need foreign travel, inspirational recreation and dinner under the stars.  If I could just forget what the inside of my home looks like for even a moment or two I would be better for it.  Until that time arrives, I plan on pouting and being in a generally foul mood.  I shall stomp through the mud and curse the rain.  Just a fair bit of warning for those that prefer my ordinarily sunny disposition.  Until then . . . R.

Why the Camino de Santiago is Safer than the Appalachian Trail

One word . . . Hillbillies.  As I mentioned in one of my recent posts, I am in the process of chewing through Bill Bryson’s masterpiece entitled A Walk in the Woods.  Not only is it irreverently funny and brilliantly written, it is more than of passing interest for those of us who think the best way to find yourself is to actually lose yourself on a 500 mile walk.  The author’s initial impressions of his endeavor are an interesting reminder of all those things that can, have and will happen to anyone going it alone on a remote wilderness trail.  Now, to call the Camino a wilderness trail on par with the Appalachian Trail is probably a bit of a stretch, but certain dangers are inherent with this type of activity.  As I read through his list of concerns, I was able to mark most of them off of my list.  The North American Black Bear is obviously of little concern for me, hence the name “NORTH AMERICAN Black Bear”.  The other crown jewel of potential dangers on the AT are the toothless hillbillies bent on raping unsuspecting hikers just for the sport of it.  To be honest, I can’t even watch a Ned Beatty film anymore without getting a little queasy.

Still, I find myself puzzling out those things which I must have overlooked.  The hidden dangers.  The things I can’t expect or possibly prepare for.  I know that there are accounts on the Camino of roving bands of stray dogs that have been known to set their sights on those with a shell on their pack.  I feel relatively prepared for such a contingency though, as I will be walking with two rather imposing walking sticks that I am certain I could wield with ninja like deftness in fending off even the largest of mongrel canines we are likely to encounter.  So what have I missed?  Where is the chink in my armor?  Could it be gypsies?  Supposedly potable water laced with some micro-organism bent on the destruction of my digestive system?  Maybe it will be something as simple as the apparently difficult to recognize trail markers that will eventually lead me straight off of a hidden cliff to my certain death on the valley floor below.  I know for a fact and now from experience that the abuse and necessary care for my lower extremities will be of utmost concern, but that can be said for most any hike.  It would seem that being run over by a speeding bus could be one danger that could be easily overlooked if you were say  . . . BLIND.  Apparently there was one woman who was wiped out by a drunk driver, but I think the odds are in my favor on that one.

So, it seems I shall simply continue my preparations with a conscious eye on the common dangers of heat stroke, dehydration, blisters and the like in hopes that my real advantage lies in the fact that the only hillbilly that one might encounter on the Camino de Santiago is ME.  It is always good to be at the top of the food chain.  Ain’t that right boy?  You sure got a purty mouth!  R.  

The Mobster and the Congressman: A Tale of Two Brothers

You know how parents often refer to the growth of their children as being in kinship with that of a weed?  It seems to me that too much emphasis has been placed on the speed with which the weed grows.  That isn’t really the important part.  The truth in this analogy lies in the fact that no matter what you do, or how hard you try, you can’t stop the weed from growing.  Sure they grow up fast, but there are plenty of examples of varying types of flora that grow with incredible speed.  What makes the weed special is that it can’t be stopped.  It is this quality that makes a good gardener cringe and an even better parent lament the loss of their babies to adulthood.  In watching my own two children grow, I am reminded of the importance of capturing their essence with every milestone reached and every birthday passed.  Watching them argue, as they often do these days, I couldn’t help but notice the remarkable difference in style. 

My eldest is the consummate statesman, a rule maker who will filibuster the rules of any game right into the ground.  By the time he is finished explaining the rules, I am too tired to compete.  Rather than stifle his creativity with a round of heavy eye rolling and impatient sighs I have decided it is best to just pull up a comfortable chair and hope we will get to the point before I start drawing a pension.  These rules are meant to be a road map by which you chart your course.  They are generally open to debate and addendum.  In fact, he rather enjoys a good rider or two to be added to his legislation.  That way, nobody really knows what the fuck is truly going on.  In turn, he is equally willing to follow a set of rules set out by a third party.  He likes to have his say, but will generally coalesce.

The youngest has a different approach entirely.  He too has an affection for a certain set of rules, however, unlike my Congressman these rules are meant to control rather than to guide.  The boss of an organized crime ring is bound by a code, a set of rules put in place by his own design to keep the outfit under his control.  Any deviation from these rules will lead to a pair of concrete goulashes.  There isn’t room for interpretation or a debate on the Senate floor.  The rules are the rules and EVERYONE must abide.  Whether there is an appreciation for rules outside the “family” is a matter of simple convenience.  Sometimes it is easier to play by certain rules to keep the cops off your back.  Still others seem made to be broken.   In this way, life remains sort of a buffet.  He can take it or leave it and the decision remains exclusively his own.  Once he has chosen a good Lasagna, everybody . . .  and I mean EVERYBODY . . . will be eating Lasagna.

I know that this too will change in a matter of weeks, perhaps even days.  For now I am pleased to sit back and watch their personalities diverge even though most days it feels like watching The Untouchables.  Ness:  abiding by the laws of the land; and Capone:  doing his best to silence the snitch.  The only thing I know for certain is that BOTH are trying to steal my money.  Until next time.  R.

Back in the Lyme Light

As I stew around in bed this evening, unable to get completely comfortable due to the persistent ache lingering in my lower back after recently injuring it in some fashion, I can’t help but let my hypochondria run its course and concoct at least a dozen or so serious if not life threatening illness that this could be a symptom of.  As I sort through the list, the continued tenderness at the joint of my second toe on my right foot has caused Lyme’s Disease to race to the top of the differentials list.  Or perhaps, this is simply a reaction to a passage I just finished reading in Bill Bryson’s, A Walk in the Woods in which he writes:

“If left undetected, it can lie dormant in the human body for years before erupting in a positive fiesta of maladies.  This is a disease for the person who wants to experience it all.  The symptoms include, but are not limited to, headaches, fatigue, fever, chills, shortness of breath, dizziness, shooting pains in the extremities, cardiac irregularities, facial paralysis, muscle spasms, severe mental impairment, loss of control of body functions, and – hardly surprising, really – chronic depression.”

As I read down through the list I can honestly say that while my face feels fine and I can take a deep breath, there is no question as to the severity of my mental impairment, my chronic fatigue and the fact that I could lose control of my bodily functions at any moment.  Of course I try to calm myself by placing my tongue firmly in my cheek, but there is some precedence here.

You see, there was a time when my wife was a practicing Veterinarian.  At that stage in our lives, it was not unheard of for me to accompany her on a late night emergent call if our eldest and then only child was with grandma for the weekend.  Being an ambulatory veterinarian of the rural variety and a woman to boot meant that being called into the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night to treat a rather drunken gentleman’s ailing horse was reason enough to ask that I come along.  Even for the most mundane proceedure, I would gladly ride along since we didn’t get that much alone time with two busy careers and a toddler in the house.  However, on this particular evening, the gentleman’s intoxicated state made my attendance feel mandatory for safety’s sake.  When we arrived, it was much to do about nothing, as he was a jovial fellow with a truly sick animal.  He did, however, live in the middle of nowhere and this creature was going to need real emergent treatment on the spot.  As was occasionally the case, I would gladly lend an extra hand when needed.  Nothing that required actual training of course, but I can be a fetch-it boy with the best of them.

I won’t get into the gory details, but my assignment on this particular evening was to scrub the horse’s testicles once he had been sedated and laid on his side.  I still haven’t figured out if this was a joke or not since the horse seemed to be suffering from a respiratory condition, but you know what they say . . . idle hands.  So, here I am, in the middle of nowhere with my law license in my back pocket under the romantic glow of a pickup truck’s headlights scrubbing a horses nuts in clothes that I would have proudly worn to the office.  Sometimes I wonder if I REALLY married up.  In the end, the horse was successfully treated and we made our way back home. 

 At the time, I was in fairly good physical condition and the thought of seeing me naked, fresh from the shower, didn’t make my wife’s skin crawl as I can only presume it does now, so she was present when I exited the shower the following morning.  In looking back, I can only presume she was checking out my ass when she said, “that doesn’t look good.”  Geez, talk about a shot to the ego.  “What do you mean it doesn’t look good” I said with and offended tone.  “No, look” she said as she turned my ass toward the mirror.  As I looked over my shoulder I could see a fairly red bullseye on my right ass cheek.  “You know, your right, that doesn’t look good”.  She looks at me without so much as a pause and says, “I think you have Lyme’s Disease”. 


My mind began to race.  Lyme’s Disease?  I had heard of that before, but was uncertain as to whether it lead to instantaneous death and loss of bowel control or was simply something that would flare up from time to time and cause a leaky discharge.  Neither one sounded good to me, so I agreed that I should see a doctor.  Thankfully our family doctor was a light hearted fellow who shuffled around his office in a pair of Birkenstocks.  In a drop you pants and shove your ass in your doctor’s face moment, I loudly inquired “So doc, ever seen anything like this before?”.  In the same concise manner as my wife had relayed the same information, he announced that it looked like the signs of Lyme’s Disease and that the next step would be to take blood to check for the Lyme’s titer.

Tests came back with a BINGO . . . Lyme’s Disease, though it would seem the real test was the prominent rash on my ass.   “Ok, doc, how long have I got?  A year?  Less?”.  I was informed that we had caught the problem so early that I would likely not even show any symptoms and that the appropriate treatment would be to hit it with some heavy dose antibiotics to eradicate the condition.  Sounded good to me.  By mid-way through the treatment phase however, I did start noting some rather alarming stiffness in the joints of both hands.  Despite Mr. Bryson’s fairly accurate description above, migratory joint pain is one of the essential symptoms of the disease.   Eventually all such mild discomfort faded and since then I would consider myself to be right as rain.  Years have since passed and I wouldn’t argue that it has caused me even a moment’s reflection until now.  Now I find myself tempted to pour over whatever medical information I can find on the internet to see if there are any long term effects of having had this disease.  Perhaps these seemingly unrelated ailments in my foot and back are the beginning of the end and the natural consequence of treating such a heinous condition as not even a blip on life’s radar or maybe my back would feel better if I just went to bed and got some rest.  In the end, the moral of the story is this, never touch a horses nuts or it will come back to bite you in the ass . . . Words to live by my friends . . . words to live by.  R.

The Post-Apocalyptic Post

Over time, this genre has become fairly well defined and today’s pop culture scene has transformed it into an art form of sorts.  Skim through the jacket of a recently published book or catch the previews for the next summer blockbuster and you will likely find them painted over a post-apocalyptic landscape.  The world seems obsessed with “THE END OF LIFE AS WE KNOW IT”.  What is wrong with “life as we know it”?  Has it become so bad out there, that the fantasy of an approaching zombie hoard seems preferable to the reality our day to day existence?  If we were to compare the intellectual stimulation garnered from the Night of the Living Dead versus that which we now know as “Reality” television, I suppose I would have to side with the brain eating legions of the damned.  The fashion makes more sense anyway.  The tattered remains of a nurses uniform seems less ridiculous to me than the bedazzled ass cheeks of most designer ladies jeans.  Hey sweet cheeks, chances are I am looking at your ass anyway, you don’t need to make it glitter like the Las Vegas strip for me to take notice.

Truth be told, I am a big fan of the speculative nature of this now aging obsession with the end.  Whether it be a cataclysmic chain of natural disasters or a chemically induced mutation of the human race, I would like to think I would be one of the survivors.  I think the popularity of this theme lies within the depravities of the human mind.  We thrive on pain and suffering and some take great pleasure in the thought of rapid natural selection.  The old saying: “No news is good news” could not be more apropos in this “modern” age.  Go ahead, switch on the nightly news program or pick up the local paper and see if you can find anything in there that doesn’t turn your stomach.  At least a zombie doesn’t have free will.  The things we CHOOSE to do to each other are far more appalling.  We take so little time to get to know our neighbors that our heightened sense of suspicion make some as willing to condemn their fellow man now as they would if they were in their front yard consuming one of the neighbor kids with big sharp pointy teeth.  Before I jump on my soap box and serve up a heartfelt sermon on how we should all hold hands and sing Kumbaya till the world is a better place, I thought you would get a kick out of what I believe my day would be like if . . . no, when the zombies finally do arrive.  Believe me people  . . . THEY’RE COMING . . . SO, WAKE UP OUT THERE!

Day 15:  The howels and grunts from outside our doors at night are barely tolerable.  Driving us ever closer to madness.  Despite nightly patrols through our compound it seems their “hunters” are unaware of our presence.  We have taken to communal living inside the castle walls as it simply became too dangerous to stay in our own home.  We were attacked one night and barely made it out without being completely consumed by a hoard of barely recognizable towns people from a neighboring village.  They seem hungry . . . too hungry.  We all made it out unharmed except for the STUPID DOG who I presume to be one of the legions of the undead by now.  His eyes turning to dead black pools and greenish slobber collecting at the corners of his sunken jowls.  Poor bastard.  The infection seems to cause a certain amount of light sensitivity, so the zombies retreat into the darkness during the day.  We busy ourselves during daylight hours, forever fortifying our nest and collecting whatever food we can forage.  Uncertainty is the most difficult thing to swallow.  On days when the clouds obscure the sun, is it then dark enough that they will endeavor out of their hive to try and hunt us down?  So far this doesn’t seem to be the case, but we can’t be for certain.  For safety sake, we stick close to our compound on days when the sun isn’t shining brightly.

Our close quarters are beginning to wear on everyone’s nerves and tensions run high among those of us who have survived the initial infection.  We only have sporadic contact with the outside world through a small radio we managed to salvage.  It seems that the epidemic is spreading at a rapid pace and if left unchecked, will consume most of Europe in a matter of weeks.  Other countries have closed their borders and refused passage even to those that are not infected.  We are trapped.  No two ways about it.  Either we survive long enough for a cure or we begin to fight back.  My thoughts are occupied with this thought daily and I myself am leaning toward the latter.  I have begun to devise weapons out of whatever materials I can get my hands on . . . nails, garden tools . . . anything.  Meanwhile, my wife is using whatever information she can obtain about the infected to try to devise some cure.  Perhaps if she can get a sample of their blood she can utilize the abandoned facilities where she used to work to sort out a cure or at least a vaccine.  Discussions over the risks involved with trying to trap one of these things are heated at best.  She seems certain she can help, but nobody else seems so sure.  Being her only supporter, I begin to make preparations.  The kids don’t want me to go.  Certain of my fate.  The rest don’t seem to care and have resigned themselves to either certain death or a lifetime in hiding.

Just before dawn, I make my final preparations and head out.  I kiss my wife and children and promise I will return.  You can’t help but notice the snears from the others as they doubt they will ever see me again except as a shell of my former self with decayed flesh pealing from my bones.  I must try, or everyone is doomed.  The patrols are getting heavier and they linger around the castle now with an alarming frequency.  Just waiting for some sign of life.  I worry the slightest disturbance will tip them off and they will begin to assault the tower that we have fortified ourselves inside and with enough of them, they will make short work of our encampment.  At just short of dawn they will be getting desperate to feed and retreating to their hive.  Uncertain of its location I must follow them silently and undetected if I am ever to set an effective trap.  I must learn their patterns of behavior, if in fact there are any before I try to capture one of these creatures.  I dare not confront one though I have seen several isolated from the main group.  Even the slightest squabble will set the whole hoard on me and I will be finished in seconds.  I follow them all the way to the neighboring village where they retreat into a catacomb of sorts below the main administrative building, some of them fighting and killing each other in desperation for food.  Cannibals on top of it all.

I return to a small clearing in some woods between the Chateau and the village where I have stowed the supplies I think I need for a trap.  Some rope, a wooden crate, nails and the few rudimentary weapons I have constructed in the even there is a fight.  I have to stay.  Make sure nothing goes wrong.  If the others discover the trap left un-triggered, they will know we are alive and tear the Chateau apart looking for us.  I have one shot at this.  It MUST work.  After the trap has been set and preparations have been made, I realize it has taken me longer than I anticipated and the day has passed.  It is approaching nightfall when I turn to the final step in my plan.  Bait.  I didn’t have any volunteers for this part of my plan, so it ALL falls on my shoulders.  I cut my arm with a cringe, unleashing a stream of blood that I trickle through the woods all the way up to my trap.  With the sounds of howling in the distance, it is clear that they have picked up the scent.  I quickly wrap my wound and scramble into my tree to keep watch.  Before long, a small group of these “THINGS” creep into the clearing, heading straight for the trap.  Soon enough it is triggered and one of them is swept into the air and suspended from a tall tree by a branch.  I quickly cut the rope attached to the tree at my location and a long spear swings free, gliding through the trees and impaling the now squealing zombie at the end of my snare.  The others scatter in desperation and dismay, uncertain what has happened and reverting to a primal need for survival.

I don’t have much time.  I must clear the trap and drag the now lifeless creature back to the Chateau undetected if my plan is to work.  Scrambling down from my perch I approach with caution, making sure the coast is clear and my prey is dead.  I quickly cut him . . . or her down and remove any trace of the trap itself.  It is hard to identify this thing by gender or even as remotely human.  And the smell, dear God, the smell of rotting flesh is more than I can stomach and I begin to wretch.  “Pull yourself together damnit!” is what I keep repeating in my head.  I wrap a piece of fabric torn from my shirt over my mouth and nose to block the smell and begin dragging this thing back to our home by an establishe root that is so out of the way it takes all night to cover the distance.  By the time I make the final turn in this elaborate labrynth of misdirections, the sun has risen and I am certain my wife and children are fearful of the worst.  When I limp into the compound with this thing in tow, I can see the horror wash over their faces.  It is STILL ALIVE!  I quickly subdue it with a stomp to the skull and tell my wife with an exhausted nod that the rest is up to her.

Farting in the Bathtub

Don’t act like you’ve never done it and that it does’t still make you giggle.  My poor wife lives in a house full of man folk, so farting is a regrettable part of her life and that is before we even mention the STUPID DOG.  Things only get worse when she is out of town on business.  We take full advantage of being completely unkempt slobs.  Laughing at crude bodily functions is just the start.  We rarely eat a meal in the dining room and almost never at the appointed time.  Bathing is only observed when the kid stink becomes too much for even me to handle.  Even then, it is really more about playing with action figures on a pretend river than actually bathing.  That being said, the wife is well aware by now that the operational tempo changes a bit when I take on my role as a single parent while she is away.  I do think, however, she assumes it to be far worse than it actually is.  Things maintain a certain order, there is just a different focus on priorities when I am left to my own devices.  The lack of certainty on her part is evident from the field orders that almost immediately begin trickling in via text message, reminding me of her long list of parental duties that now rest on my shoulders in her absence.

Like any good lieutenant would tell you, sometimes you have to violate direct orders in order to accomplish the mission.  The General is often miles away from the front line and doesn’t have the perspective necessary to make the split second decisions required when a firefight breaks out.  Ducking for cover and dodging through doorways is just part of the standard operating procedure on the front lines of the urban warfare that is single parenting.  I feel responsible.  More so than one can possibly comprehend when our little platoon is exclusively under my guard.  One wrong move and someone could step on a landmine and then it is game over.  And still we survive to fight another day.  After the battle has been won and the rebels have been sent scurrying on their heels, the General will return to assess the battle damage.  She will find us with thousand yard stares and grubby little faces.  There will be cuts and bruises and the occasional story of a particularly ugly skirmish, but we will be ready to fight again come morning when the rules of war will again have changed and underwater flatulence will not meet with laughter but a swift court martial and a night in the brig.  Miss you babe . . . see ya soon.  R

Fatal Distraction

Obsessive.  Perhaps not compulsive, but most definitely obsessive.   This is the greeting I give the man in the mirror on the now infrequent occasion that I am motivated to shave my face clean of its stubble.  I know I can’t hide forever.  Eventually the itching will become unbearable and I will have to come face to face with my reflection.  Don’t be misled, I am still a long way from Glen Close(ing) the family bunny into the cook pot, but I feel afflicted none the less.  I have read three novels in as many days.  I have taken to paintings that have been sitting untouched for days and am in the process of finishing several blog posts that need publishing.  The thoughts race around my head in an uncomfortable tropical storm that will spin itself into a full blown mental hurricane if I let it.  I have written three fictional novels inside my head and the one that is currently on paper is getting a re-write in the first person.  Not that I am abandoning the purely narrative account.  I have decided to write it TWICE.  I think perhaps it is a flaw in my DNA.  Something passed down.  I have seen this type of mania before.  This is the reverse side of the coin I spoke of in my last entry.  This is the influence of my father and perhaps his father before him.  A rolling stone gathers no moss indeed.  I have weighed my anchor and gathered the winds in my sails.  IN doing so, it seems I have over corrected and found myself lost in a sea of creativity.  Breakthroughs and epiphanies seem to attack me even in my sleep.  It is only now that I realize that the transformation is complete.  I am an artist.  Unstable, eccentric and fantastic.  Yet somehow, I know I must find a way toward the middle ground for my families sake.  Surely the children wouldn’t understand their father racing around the house in a bathrobe caked with paint and modeling clay, a bow tie and a beard longer than the fellas in ZZ Top.  And so, as I began obsessively searching through Amazon’s database of literature I fell upon a series of books by A.J. Jacobs it hit me.  Smudging my greasy fingertips as I perversely perused through titles on my wife’s Kindle I read through a few of sample of this author’s works.  Almost immediately I threw the device on my bed and ran from my room in terror.

There it was, it black and white.  OBSESSION.  I know that like a moth to the flame I will return to these works, but for the time being, I dare not give in to the want for solitude and the siren song that is calling me forth.  I remind myself of the lyrics of a song that has been played to exhaustion on my ipod as of late:  “It’s hard to lay a golden egg when everyone’s around . . . It’s hard to stay inside my head when words keep pouring out.”  The answer is clear.  Avoid solitude, but how?  I carry these things around in my head and absent the assistance of a guillotine I see no way to separate myself from my ability to retreat into the recesses of my brain.  I once told my wife something that I think she failed to understand and in some way scared her a bit.  I told her that I feel as if I live two lives.  My days are divided into the internal and the external.  I guess you would call it the very advanced stages of multi-tasking.  There is the day and the reality that the world sees when they encounter me on the street, going about my daily routine.  Then there is the day that occurs within.  The stories that are written.  The thoughts that are hashed and re-hashed but never discarded.  The conversations I have with myself about my profound thoughts that many wouldn’t find all that interesting.  It is often these things that find themselves written in these pages.

There is a cold reality to face here.  I have become a bore, the natural consequence of writing your every thought for the world to see.  I find that I no longer have anything meaningful to add to dinner conversation.  Even though the odds are great that my company would not have read my writings, I don’t necessarily feel compelled to repeat myself.  And so I remain silent.  The last thing I want is to be the old man that keeps repeating the same tired story over and over again because his short term memory is so terrible that all he can remember is the past.  In my recent posts, in fact, I swore off any acknowledgement of nostalgia and so I am forced to look forward for new things to discuss.  This makes for long and uncomfortable pauses over a plate of goose liver when as mind races for fresh banter.  In reality though, this isn’t all there is floating around in the recesses of my mind.  There is a font of material there, but most of that is not truly fit for publication or mixed conversation.  They are the absurdities of my mind.  The things that really make me marvel that most would find troubling and then wonder if I should be locked up somewhere for having a screw loose.  I also don’t desire to be the guy sitting on the street corner talking to a lamp shade and living out of a grocery cart.  Snap out of it!  Somehow I have to seek distraction that will at one time allow for a controlled creative process to flower into that which I feel is my calling while still maintaining the relative sanity that is required for day to day existence.

And just like that, I realized the reason for the message I received at the end of last year.  Why I must find my way to Santiago de Compostella.  The pilgrimage is the answer.  A month of relative solitude to find balance and meaning.  Enough time to formulate a game plane and stick to it.  The newness of our adventure has worn off and the lack of focus in my life which seemed a nice vacation from the working stiff life I once live is beginning to take its toll.  People constantly ask the question and until recently I haven’t given it much thought.  Perhaps in the end they all have it figured out and I have been deluding myself by believing that THEY were the blind ones.  After all, I wouldn’t say that I am “bored” as they often refer to it, but still I am caught off guard these days because of a certain lack of purpose.  Has it really taken me this long to realize that?  And so,  as I sat watching Toy Story with my youngest last night I was lost in thought as usual as the evil neighbor kid begins to burn Woody’s head with a beam of sunlight through a magnifying glass.  There it was.  The answer.  FOCUS.  I need focus.  Has it been laziness that has allowed me to float along in the ethereal like a hippy on an acid trip?  Nothing wrong with being an artist or an eccentric, but I need to focus those efforts into an overall purpose.  If I can manage it, perhaps I will find the meaning I have been searching for this past year or so.  I think I know where this is heading, but I still have some things to sort out.  Until then, buckle up, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.  R. 

Nostalgia

Could it be that we have now lived abroad long enough to have become nostalgic over our humble beginnings here in France?  For certain, life has returned to . . . well . . . normal, if indeed our lives have ever been so to start with.  The daily tedium is starting to feel like a long prison sentence in many ways.  The adventure seems to be waning and at this point I think I would feel more comfortable at home.  Having very little wind to fill my sails, all creative endeavors have come to a crashing halt.  I am still obsessed with upcoming travels, but it seems to be the only bright light that keeps me moving forward.  I have no less than 5 blog posts that are half written and needing my attention, a fictional novel that has lost some of my interest after its first chapter and 3 paintings in varying stages of completion with paint drying to a crust on my unused palate.

The only thing I can think to do is to “write” my way out of this slump as I often do these days.  I have come to a realization that my true calling is to be a writer.  While I doubt my meager skills, it is the one thing that brings me as much joy as the company of my family.  I often receive remarks these days regarding the transformation of my life and the fact that this move to France has perhaps had more of a profound effect on me than the rest of my family.  Sure, each is more proficient in French than I and each are having life altering experiences, yet I have somehow been transformed further still.  Part of this transformation includes the realization that I am a bit more like my mother than I would like to admit.  I have taken her vocation and struggle with a moderately depressive personality to boot.  I suppose this to be both a gift and a curse.  Being fairly introspective provides insight and an intense examination of the world around me has led to tremendous emotional growth.  On the other hand, your thoughts can easily become your master and pitch you into a dark chasm from which you can’t escape.

The truth is, for as long as I can remember, my mother has lived in that dark place.  I don’t think I ever truly understood the condition until recently.  The feeling of hopelessness without reason is a strange concept.  Nothing to put your finger on, just something weighing you down.  Eventually you crumble beneath this burden as my mother did throughout my childhood and even more so in my young adulthood.  So, despite this natural proclivity burdening my daily life, how is it that I come out free?  Reason and intellect help me stay the course, but I would say that it is my ability to excise the bad from my life with a surgeon’s scalpel that has kept me the moderately sane person who now stands before you, figuratively speaking of course.  One of those things that I have successfully cut from my life is a relationship with the person who gave me these gifts.  It was with some regret that this decision was made, but sometimes life is simply about survival.  I am a father now, and it is important that I protect those under my watch.  Still I think of her often and wonder if she understands my decision.  There is a childish chamber in my heart that will forever hope that she will “come around” so to speak, but I know that day will never come.  And so, I remain haunted by this decision in life and am reminded of other moments I wish I could change for the better but at this point it seems I am powerless to do much more than apologize.

A recent dinner conversation reminded me of the only other thing that I truly regret from my youth.  There was a time when I was obsessed with military aircraft and dreams of being a pilot filled my young mind.  My father was in tune with this interest and took it upon himself to build a replica of every modern military aircraft.  Not just a simple snap together casting, but a painstakingly crafted replica complete with custom paint rather than decals.  After construction was complete, he hung each with care from the ceiling in my bedroom.  I would fall asleep at night with a dogfight swinging from fishing line overhead.  Eventually I outgrew this fancy and found myself right in the middle of my early teens when rational thought is often seldom found.  From scraps of disassembled toys I had fashioned myself a sling shot of sorts and one afternoon took aim at these now dusty models.  There wasn’t any malice in my heart and their destruction was not meant as a statement of rebellion.  It was simply a thoughtless act.  It is only now that I realize the kind of pain my father must have felt as I threw them all away.  It is a pain that was revisited on me recently with my own child when after spending an afternoon drawing with my youngest, I presented him with a fairly decent drawing of Spiderman that I was certain he would love.  He did not.  He was offended that I used his paper for my project and promptly crumpled my drawing and threw it on the floor.  The rejection was earth shattering even though my project had been a fraction of the time in the making compared to the hours spent on the model airplanes.  I wish I could take it back.

And so now we will wait to see if my children eventually write me off to complete this cycle of life.  I certainly hope not, but time will tell.  I am doing what I can to right all of my wrongs.  I change the things I can and accept the things I can’t.  For all these things I apologize and will continue to look forward rather than looking back.  To close my day of remembrance I prepared a lovely lunch of hotdogs and dippy with a generous portion of Monster Munch.   I love my life.  R.

Get on the Good Foot

It certainly seemed to work for Mr. James Joseph Brown, so why not for me?  I must admit there aren’t a lot of similarities between myself and the “hardest working man in show business”, but I thought I would give it a whirl anyhow.  Just gotta stay off the bad foot-ah!  Uh, slight problem Jimbo. . . after a closer examination of both of my extremities, it doesn’t appear that I have a good foot to “get on”.  After an ill-advised 33km trek through the Dordogne River valley with the wife, it would appear that my age has finally caught up with me and my war torn body is sinking faster than the Black Pearl.  Don’t get me wrong, I am thankful for the suffering.  It was a well-timed wakeup call during which the concierge on the other end of the line indicated that I need to get my ass in gear or I am not going to make it for my appointment this September.  This pilgrimage of mine, it is never too far from my mind.  It is the driving force underlying everything I do.  It is that voice in the back of my head, begging to be heard.  As is often the case when the big man upstairs mandates you to accomplish something in your life, you have a want to bury it beneath your daily toil.  Dismiss it as fantasy and ban it from your logical thought process.  Perhaps a part of you even hopes it will pass.  This IS NOT going to pass.  It is something I must do.  I don’t know what is waiting for my in Santiago de Compostela, but to deny the journey would be a sin I am not willing to commit.

I have some mixed feelings with regard to the preparation for such an assignment.  A large part of me believes the path of true enlightenment lies in no preparation at all.  The physical suffering could surely be part of the path.  After all, people have been crossing this land for centuries without so much as the clothes on their back and the best intentions.  Historically, many of these pilgrims began their journey at their own doorstep and they would travel several hundred miles further than I will endeavor to cover.  In addition, the 20 year old heart that beats within my chest has a way of betraying the balding hunchback that greets me in the mirror every morning.  There was a time when a 500 mile journey on foot would not have caused a wrinkle in my brow or single drop of sweat to race down my weary face.  These days, however, aging wisdom has a way of leveling the playing field.  Logic dictates that the 37 years I have spent abusing my body will certainly play a part in the probability of my arrival in Santiago.  Yes, historically, others have simply taken the notion and left their homes in search of the truth without so much as a second thought on the spur of the moment.  These people, however, were cut from a heartier cloth than I.  If they needed water, they carried it by bucket from the river or a well, often an incomprehensible distance back to their home.  If they wanted to eat, they needed to cultivate the land to produce the crop that would grace their table each eve.  Whereas I, I simply turn the handle on my kitchen faucet in demand of my water and utilize modern combustion to carry my fat ass to the grocery store for my food.  Hell, I don’t even have to tote the groceries by hand any further than the distance from my driveway to my kitchen once my shopping is complete.

And so, with this wisdom in hand, it was time to test the waters.  The wife and I signed up for a 33km 500m hike that was sponsored by one of the local village associations and just like that we set off.  Being ever conscious of the bravado beating in that 20 year old heart, 20 miles seemed like a cinch and a fine time to break in a new pair of hiking shoes under the weight of a moderately filled pack.  What was the worst that would happen anyhow?  The literature assured us that there would be numerous rest stops with refreshments and several opportunities to call it quits and catch a ride back to the start if we gave out before the 33km mark.  Indeed, as promised, there were plentiful rest stops ever 7km or so, but that ride back to town was nowhere to be found.  Limping into the rest stop at the 27 kilometer mark, there it was . . . the quitter bus.  The last 7 km had been hell.  At 20 kilometers everything was pleasant, perhaps a small blister working on my left foot, but nothing of any REAL concern and so we happily marched forth.  Not but a few steps into the following 7km, it was clear that it would be here that the battle must be fought.  The wife and I both began to feel the fatigue and mental exhaustion born from each painful step.  It was agreed that the next stop would be a longer one than we had afforded ourselves before.  We had skipped a couple of the rest stops along the way and only stopped for 15 minutes or so to consume our lunch.  And so, we agreed that this final rest stop would be a place to stop and collect ourselves for the final push.  When we did finally arrive at the 27km mark, however, the sight of the “quitter bus” weighed heavy on our hearts.  The ground we had just covered had taken its toll and the thought of another 6km or so seemed laughable.  We sat down for a bit with a bottle of water and tried to mull things over.  It was eventually left in my hands.  This was, after all, for my benefit and she would agree to call it quits here or push on if we must.  I sat there for the longest time watching as folks limped into the rest stop as we just had and eventually struggle with the same decision that we now faced.  It appeared that most were electing to call it quits and the bus began to fill to capacity.  Those that didn’t make it on would surely wait for the next one to come around.

This indeed seemed the rational choice.  Call it a day and board the “quitter bus” with our tail between our legs.  Neither of us felt too proud to do so at this point.  I stood up to gather my things.  I turned to my wife and opened my mouth to suggest we take the bus, but before I could speak I again could hear the voice begging to be heard.  Internally, I argued with the voice.  I told it I couldn’t go on and that the punishment my feet had taken over the preceding 7km would not allow them to carry me any further.  “They must!”, urged the voice.  I paused for a moment and looked at my wife.  I could tell that she felt as finished as I.  Yet somehow, through her eyes, I could tell that she had heard it too.  She had heard that voice urging me forward.  Without any further deliberation we gathered our things and kept walking.  We didn’t speak much over the remaining 6km.  I don’t know whether it was because we couldn’t think of anything to say or simply that every bit of our mental and emotional energy was being driven into our legs to urge them toward the next step that must be taken.  For me, I believe it was the ladder.  We both suffered silently and the only time we spoke that I recall was to speculate whether those that passed us on fleeter feet were suffering as much as we were and if that was the case, perhaps we looked as stoic as they appeared.  Not likely.  I would wager they weren’t suffering as much as we were and we were likely looking anything but stoic as I could feel my face grimace every time I took a step with my right foot.

And still we moved forward, certain that the finish line would never fall within our gaze.  We eventually fell to the back of the pack.  There weren’t many that had pushed on for the finish on foot, but those that had were seemed up to the task.  Still, I was proud to be in their midst.  Perhaps we didn’t belong there and were in over our head, but maybe that alone meant we were the best of them.  We were the ones who wouldn’t let our physical limitations dictate the length of our journey.  We CHOSE to move forward.  We WILLED ourselves to carry on.  Step by painful step we inched closer to the finish line.  And finally, after 33km we collapsed into the open hatch of the Renault.  The moment I had been euphorically dreaming of had arrived . . . I could take off these fucking shoes.  Delusional dehydration and the release of my feet from this terrible prison would certainly provide me with the relief I sought.  Unfortunately, that feeling would never come.  Damage had been done.  My feet did not immediately recover as I had hoped.  I could hardly walk.  Over the next several days, my right foot remained swollen and painful to the touch.  I had spent most of my young life playing baseball.  A pitcher to be exact.  Repetitive pivoting on my right foot had developed a thick pad on the ball of my right foot.  I have had it for as long as I can remember and it had never caused me any concern . . . until now.  Now it felt as though I had a grapefruit attached to the bottom of my foot and really kind of looked that way as well.  I wouldn’t be able to carry on this way on the Camino.  Could my pilgrimage be over before it started?  My heart was heavy as I spent a day or so essentially bedridden with my foot bandaged in ice.  Eventually thoughts of a doctors visit seemed less unreasonable and the possibility that my pilgrimage would be delayed in the event that surgery would be required began to plague my mind.  And just like that, the pain subsided and the swelling went away.  Perhaps now not a “good foot” but an “Ok foot” all the same.  That will do for now and the preparation will continue.  I will keep you posted when time permits.  R.

Hooker on Phonics: Chasing the Great White Whale on Moving Day

I went out on my hooker with a hooker and a hooker and came back without a hooker to spare.  The rather unfortunate consequence of relying on spell check is that occasionally it gets it wrong . . . or VERY right as the case may be.  Typing the title of this post rather quickly meant that the auto-complete spelling mechanism had mere nanoseconds to sort out what it is that I meant to say and this is what it came up with.  Perhaps it knows me too well.  Could it be that it intuitively chose hooker based upon my habitual use of profanity and poor judgment?  Before I became insulted that my laptop thought so little of my moral fiber, I thought I would do a little research.  As it turns out, “hooker” has a lovely array of meanings that seem to be overshadowed a bit by its more commonly used reference to the oldest profession.   A hooker can be:  A small Irish fishing vessel, the central forward in a Rugby scrum, and even a glass of undiluted whiskey.  And yes, it can even be a prostitute.  By now you are probably scratching your head and questioning why it is that you waste your time reading this crap, but you may also be curious what any of this has to do with my daily routine.  The truth is, it doesn’t.   I really feel as though I should have begun today’s comments with a pre-emptive apology.  If I am to be honest, I am not really loving life right now and am hoping these Dyslexic and potentially Schitzophrenic comments will put me back on my tea.

Having spent a fair portion of this week being affronted by a veritable menagerie of fairly rude and self-centered pedestrians on life’s main thoroughfare, I am ready to be back home where the sense of entitlement seems less apparent to me now.  Sort of a “distance makes the heart grow fonder” type thing, I think.  For in the bright light of day, nobody can deny that there are assholes where I come from too.  Still, these are my brand of assholes and I have spent a lifetime becoming depressingly used to their brand of ignorance and am seldom surprised by it anymore.  Move somewhere new, however, and this new brand of irritation can really get under your skin.  Perhaps it is that over the week that this post has been in the making I have gone from quite able bodied to essentially bedridden to the point I am beginning to become concerned that a surgery is in my near future, but we will get to all of that at a later date.  For now, let’s focus on something to get me re-energized about my life abroad.  How about some little known facts to start with?  For instance, did you know that Herman Melville’s Moby Dick contains 209,117 words whereby, in comparison, this blog just ticked over the 208,000 word count?  War and Peace, here we come!  Just so you know, we aren’t quite half way there.  War and Peace contains a whopping 544,406 words.  Anyhow, the realization that I am soon to eclipse the story of the Great White Whale, if only in word count, proved to be inspirational.  I am now several thousand words into my first work of pure fiction and find the process quite rewarding.  Unlike the contents of the blog, this work will likely never see the light of day, but the extra work keeps me out of trouble.  The best part is that now when I sit down now to write, particularly when working on this other project, I am reminded of Chevy Chase in Funny Farm.  The following piece of script is certainly on my horizon:

Andy: Okay. I’m ready. What’d you think?
Elizabeth: [hides her face in her hands, begins to sob.]
Andy: I guess that means you don’t like it.
Elizabeth: [Nodding, sobbing.]
Andy: You think it’s lousy?
Elizabeth: [More nodding, more sobbing.]
Andy: The whole thing?
Elizabeth: It’s all those flashbacks. You never know when anything’s taking place. In the first 20 pages alone, I counted three flashbacks, one flash-forward, and I think on page 8, you have a flash-sideways.
Andy: What about the story?
Elizabeth: The story?
Andy: Yeah, four poker buddies knocking over a casino? The perfect crime?
Elizabeth: [sobbing]
Andy: What are you saying I should do? Take out the flashbacks, rewrite the opening? I can do that.
Elizabeth: [Shaking head.]
Andy: Then what?
Elizabeth: Burn it.
Andy: You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You don’t know a damn thing about writing. You’re a goddamn school teacher, you’re not an editor.
Elizabeth: [still crying] It’s obvious. I read the whole thing. An editor would have stopped reading after the first paragraph.
Andy: Okay, you want me to burn it? That’s what you want, me to burn it? There. I hope you’re happy, Mrs. Critic. It’s burning now, okay? It’s burning! Shit!

Maybe I should just start writing about squirrels and save myself the hassle.  Either way, with this renewed focus on all things literary, I am reminded of two great milestones with the French language that I have somehow failed to report.  The first is that I am proud to report that I have read my first book written entirely in French.  It was a thinker for sure, a real “who done it”, or at least I think it was.  The book title was Franklin et ses amis:  Basile c’est trop timide.  If you get a chance to pick up this page turner at the bookstore, I would highly recommend doing so.  It was perhaps a bit above my reading level, even in English, but I managed and I think you will enjoy the twists and turns in the story line.  As if this weren’t accomplishment enough, I recently added a second trophy to my case.  During our recent ski trip we were invited to join in a game of French Scrabble with our flat mates.  My eldest son and I won the day against some pretty stiff competition, all of which spoke more French and one of which was actually a French citizen.  Not too shabby for a couple of good ole boys from Eastern Kansas.

Finally, and on a somewhat unrelated note, I discovered that perhaps such a good ole boy has much more in common with the French than one might presume.  Living a semi-remote lifestyle at the edge of what used to be the old west means that certain social norms stain the fabric of your being.  Where I am from, you can rely on those that are harvesting on similar soil . . . sort of a fraternity of settlers if you will.  When someone needs a hand you give of your time freely, knowing they would do the same if the shoe was on the other foot.  And this, for me, remains the cornerstone of friendship.  Any such person with such a like mind are closer to calling themselves my friend than someone I have known for years who will not reliably answer my call.  While the concept of friendship is a bit more complicated for the French and becoming a friend a much more gradual process, the social order of things means that when asked to assist, you are obliged to do so.  Think of it as an invitation to dinner.  Unless you have a damn good reason not to attend, it is an insult to turn down the invitation.  It is here, where our minds seem to meet.  Now, let’s be clear, helping someone move for me is a bit like running someone to the airport.  This sort of imposition is reserved for family and those who are your closest of friends.

That being said, I recently found myself a member of a moving crew in which I was clearly the “odd man out”.  By way of my wife’s acquaintance I was asked to help a woman move from her marital home to the apartment she will reside in once her divorce is finalized.  The cast was composed entirely of this woman’s co-workers and  . . . me.  While the goal was common, our reasons for being there were quite different.  They were asked for help by a co-worker and as such were obliged to help just as she would have helped them in the event the roles were reversed.  And this would certainly hold true for my wife by proxy since this woman has gone above and beyond the call of duty to help our family whenever we were in need.  Perhaps her work relationship with my wife meant she was obliged to do so, or perhaps it is something beyond that . . . the beginning of a friendship.  Either way, I had a familial debt to pay, but this really wasn’t the reason I agreed to attend while my wife stayed at home with the kids.  I agreed to help, not because we owe her so much or that my wife is obliged to do so because of their work relationship or even that we could now call each other friends.  No, I would be there without question because I know what it is to not have anyone there to help pick up the pieces when the puzzle has fallen apart.  To live life anew with little support other than the kindness of strangers.  We are plowing the same dirt she and I, and for this reason alone I was pleased to assist in any way I could.

The move progressed like all moves do with one notable exceptions that I think worth mentioning.  Though my French friends argue that this is not common, it is not the first time I have encountered this.  When one purchases a home here, it would appear that a kitchen isn’t always included as is often the case with lighting fixtures.  This is a relatively foreign concept to me, but when we were loading up, one of the tasks on the list was to remove all the kitchenware, right down to the cabinets.  That’s right, when we left this woman’s former residence, there were only bare walls and a few dust bunnies left behind.  The lighting fixtures were removed (by yours truly) as was the stove, fridge, oven and ALL of the kitchen cabinetry.  Perhaps I have mentioned this in prior posts, but a great deal of the construction process takes place at a brick and mortar store front.  You purchase your kitchen from a kitchen store and have it installed after the home is purchased.  The puzzling part for me is that when one moves, there isn’t a guarantee that your new kitchen will be organized in the same manner and yet you still take the cabinets with you.  This little piece of heaven makes moving day that much more difficult when in addition to the usual boxes, you have to allow for room on the truck for the ENTIRE Kitchen.  At this point, I am sort of surprised that the carpet and tile floors aren’t uprooted as well.  Oh well C’est la vie!  That is all that seems fit to report.  Until next time,  R.