Hiscox in my Sandy Orifice and the Laptop that Set my Crotch on Fire

It appears to have been nearly a week since my last entry, though that seems nearly unfathomable.  The days are bleeding together into a mélange of euphoric training hikes and monotonous single parenting opportunities.  The wife had not so much as left the driveway when the boys and I crafted a plan to hit the beach for a little fun in the sun and possible titty watching.  The latter seems to be of increasing interest to my eldest which makes me have to shield my laughter when I catch his eyes darting about the beach in hopes of catching sight of an elusive nipple or two.  I am far from what one would call “reserved”, so I take great pleasure in occasionally nudging him on the shoulder to point out a pair he might have missed so that I can watch his face turn bright red.   And yes, while Mom is away, you can be certain that I am doing my part to place a stitch or two of wild open-mindedness into their moral fiber.  Any damage done can certainly be re-sculpted in my month long absence in September.  My poor wife!

We didn’t bother with the body boards given my correct assumption that the water would be so intolerably cold that we would spend most of our afternoon digging in the sand rather than splashing in the waves.  It was just as well, as the beach was under yellow flag and the wave conditions were far too dangerous for my guys to be paddling around in anyway.  We splashed around on the periphery and dug a few healthy holes in the sand before our day was done.  On our way back to the car, I thought it would be a special treat for the boys to watch the equivalent of a coast guard helicopter take flight.  I guess I should have paid closer attention to those episode of M.A.S.H. when BJ or Hawkeye would scamper away from the chopper as it lifted back into the air.  This being France, no great precautions are taken to prevent you from shuffling into mortal danger, so our vantage point was barely out of rotor reach.  I would guess we couldn’t have been more than 10 or so yards from it when all hell broke loose.  The deafening noise was the least startling event in the no-holds-barred assault on our senses.  As soon as flight commenced, the rotor wash flooded our every pore and unguarded orifice with irritating flecks of microscopic sand particles sent our way at what felt like Hurricane speed.   The three of us dove for cover behind the far wall of the toilet chalet and waited for the storm to clear.  We laughed and spent several moments dusting each other off before heading for home.

After getting them hosed down and appropriately situated for the evening, I sat down for a spot of UK television and was immediately confronted by a commercial for “Hiscox” lnsurance.   That’s the name of the company by the way, not a variety of available coverage, though there may be a niche market there that someone might be interested in.  I have said it before and I will say it again, marketing fascinates the shit out of me.  What makes something sell in one part of the world would send consumers running  for the hills in others, or at the very least have them laughing so uncontrollably that their orange juice shoots out of their nose.  That hurts by the way, just in case you were wondering.  I get it, I have the sense of humor of a 13 year old.  Still, I think you get my point.  We expect Mom home tomorrow and life will return back to its ordinary ebb and flow.  This in turn will perhaps allow me some more keyboard time to hash out the next five posts I have already written titles for, the content of which I am struggling to keep hold of in the usual storm of ideas bouncing around inside my balding head.  

For now, I shall bid you all a good eve despite the fact that I have much more to write.  Truth is, the damned cursor keeps jumping around the page when I brush against the touch pad from my uncomfortable typing position and my aggravation level is making it impossible to go on.  The uncomfortable typing position is due to the fact that my laptop is on the verge of a catastrophic melt down.  The fan works non-stop by blowing scalding air onto my genitals which, in turn, forces me to set the “lap”top next to me on the bed.  I know what you are thinking, but desks are for suckers.  Why else would they call the fucking thing a “lap”top anyhow?  So, again I bid you a good evening and promise to give another shout as soon as time permits, provided the burn cream does its part in cooling my seemingly fire scorched testicles.  R.

If April Showers Bring May Flowers

Then what do May Showers Bring after all the flowers have been drowned?  I know, do you? No?  It brings misery, that’s what May Showers bring . . . MISERY.   It has been raining for so many days now that I have simply lost count.  I feel a vague yearning to gather some animals and build an Ark.  Of course if Noah had started this late in the game all would have been lost.  What can I say . . . I’m lazy.  Though I don’t remember heavy rains being a particular problem last year, I do recall the change in daylight.  It doesn’t get dark till somewhere on the order of 10 p.m.  When paired with the incessant deadfall of rain, this fact does nothing but exacerbate the natural effects of my undiagnosed seasonal affective disorder.  The rainy retreat has given me even more time alone with my thoughts than usual.  Not always such a bad place to be.  Just today, however, the weather has turned back to the favorable and yet here I sit rattling away on the aging keyboard of my trusty Sony laptop.  In secret I am hoping it meets and untimely end so I can upgrade to an Apple machine, but I don’t think my wife will buy the excuse that it “accidently” fell off the table.  As I sit down and reflect over the past several weeks, it seems more appropriate that I should title this post “June Flowers”.  I feel as though just last night the puzzle pieces that are my life began to take shape and June promises to be a beginning, not just of the warmer summer months, but the start of the first few paragraphs in the next chapter in a story that is probably half written, but only a quarter told.  This is all beginning to have the trappings of a midlife crisis of sorts.  If I suddenly opt for hair plugs and an opulent sports car you will know the truth of the matter.  I would like to think that this is something more.  A turning point . . . an awakening.

If I were to place titles on each segment of my life, I would entitle the first 36 years (essentially from birth to just about a year ago) as “Lost”.  I have spent half a lifetime simply going through the motions.  No thought was truly given to its direction.  I was following a path because it seemed the only one within view, and yes, it was the social norm.  Attempting to grind out an unfulfilling career and settling down into a deep rut from which the only escape would be retirement and a less than dramatic death in some senior citizen club somewhere in Florida maybe.  Though I still think a warm climate would be ideal for the golden years, the map may have shifted a bit as has my perception of the silver haired man I will become (figure of speech obviously as at present I have no hair at all and absent joining the hairclub in coming weeks when all this enlightenment wears off, I am likely to stay that way for the remainder of my days).  The truth is, there is only one hope for the thoughtless . . . luck.  I have been lucky in ways I can’t possibly describe and most of that luck falls upon the auburn covered head of my lovely wife.  Lucky in love as they say . . . Indeed.  She has given me two wonderfully beautiful children, loads of hopeful encouragement and most of all . . . TIME.  It is that last that has perhaps saved my life.  I think she knew before I did that I needed time to sort some shit out.  So here we are, ass deep in an adventure we are hopeful to find our way out of in the near future having taken stock of all things exotic and finding the simple bliss the place we call home.  For me, however, the adventure has just begun.

You see, this past year and the year that lies ahead have opened a door.  And though this may be the shortest chapter my unwritten biography, it will likely prove to be the most important.  I would have to entitle this small but meaningful portion “The Manhunt” for I am looking for this man, a man I knew existed only in fragmented glimpses . . . the man I am meant to be.  It seems as though I have found him, and now he has a shit load of questions to answer like “Where have you been for the last 36 years?” “Lost” seems to be his only response.  So now we embark into an unwritten section that I will entitle “Found”, he and I.  We have a new career path, though we don’t know where that will lead.  Along side that career we seem to have been bitten by some kind of strange bug.  We have discovered a secondary calling if you will.  The first was simple enough to digest.  Writing as a career choice is simply a matter of taking stock in that which you love to do and for once having the courage to shake free from convention and chase it down like a tribesman running down wild game.  The second part is a bit more elusive and less certain.  I hope one day to have it etched on my grave stone . . . “Writer and ADVENTURER”.  To be honest, aside from possibly finding a deeper meaning to life which is reason enough, the upcoming trip to Santiago De Compostella is starting to make more sense than ever and I am now longing for its approach like a child yearns for Christmas.  Until now, I had almost been dreading it, and for good reason too.  Without knowing the reason for my compulsion I could only focus on the sacrifice.  I know without doubt that leaving my family (namely that final good bye when I hug the kids tightly and kiss the wife one final lingering time) for an entire month is going to rip my guts apart.  Yet now, there is an element of joyful anticipation attached to its rapid approach.  It is the anticipation that I think all those preparing for a long journey into unknown waters has faced over the course of history and it all makes way too much sense to me now.  I share a thirst with them now . . . a kindred spirit that I didn’t even realize I was missing.  Don’t misunderstand, I have a fair bit of responsibility that keeps me anchored in the harbor and I am unlikely to wildly set sale and wander the planet in search of formidable seas and a lifetime of adventure.  After all, I have a fair bit of adventure right here at home.

To be honest, “anchor” is an unfavorable term to what keeps me tied tightly to my wife and children.  They are more like those that tend the lines of a hot air balloon.  They keep me from drifting off before I am ready to fly.  They wish me well and know that the wind will forever blow me back in their direction.  Sure, some flights may take me a month while others may end in an afternoon.  They know that whenever I go, there will always be space for them in the basket and if they don’t choose the come along, they can rest easy knowing that the weather isn't often favorable for ballooning.  Even on those days when the wind is right and weather fair, I am likely to stay with them at ground level.  That being said, I am confident that they will tend the lines and even encourage me to journey when the time is right just as they are now in the face of a very busy Fall.  So now, with my maiden voyage yet to even leave port, I am eagerly planning the next.  In a recent email sent to an old friend I offered the following:

“. . . I am finishing up a book that put me in mind of  you and I and it got me thinking.  I think after I get back to the States for good it is high time we seek out an adventure together.  Not some random weekender but an epic, life changing siege.  Maybe on motorcycle or maybe on foot . . . maybe a coast to coast ride?  Maybe a ride through Central and South America?  What do you think old friend?  You up for something like that?  I have quite a list of shit that I am bound and determined to check off the list before I die.  Maybe a pilgrimage to Rome, Hike the Pacific Crest Trail, oh . . . maybe we buy a boat and go on a sailing expedition, no wait . . . ever wanted to see the north of south pole?  Shit . . . dog sledding! . . . “

I suppose this could be referred to as my “bucket list” so to speak, and while it was an earnest invitation to an old friend it was also a promise and invitation to myself.  I suppose it all sounds a bit mad when looking at it with fresh eyes, but that hasn’t really quelled my resolve.  I plan to do these things and bring you all along with me as I write.  I am dabbling with a bit of fiction for the novelty of it, but adventure writing is where my heart lies and I feel strangely that the adventure that I am writing about now is coming to an end.  I have made my discoveries and shared this part of the story.  If I am honest with myself, I have but a few of these entries left in me before September which is where I will call this quits for good.

I admit that my retirement from this project has been a bit Michael Jordanesque but it has to end sometime.  Rest easy knowing that I will be back soon enough with a new blog or perhaps a book if I am lucky enough to publish.  What really would suit me would be a series of magazine essays or a newspaper column, so if you know anyone in the editorial field, put in a good word for me.  Stay tuned . . . R.

Silencing the Metronome: Growing Pains and Armpit Stains

Tick Tock, the pendulum swings

each side sings its song

One for the better and one for the worse

neither to admit their wrong

Tick Tock, the clock confirms

we can’t go back in time

Be it black or be it white

your opinion’s not worth a dime

I debated simply posting this and letting nature take its course.  To do so would have led to some very interesting conversation for those brave enough to voice their thoughts.  Since I don’t usually get much of a response given my limited readership, I think I will go ahead and explain.  What started as a cleverly written verse about blind optimism and even shorter sighted pessimism became something much more to me the more I read what it was that I had actually written.  To begin with, it is important to know that when I write, I only write what I know to be real.  I try not to fabricate drama where none exists and in turn avoid glazing the truth to a shiny pearlescent sheen.  Being a blog author myself, I spend a fair amount of time in the blogosphere perusing the works of others.  Most being at least semi-autobiographical, I find myself scratching my head sometimes at the content.  I use the term “semi”-autobiographical because most seem to have an innate need to fabricate a truth about themselves to portray to the public.  They seem to go about this in two manners, neither of which has a better claim.

There are those who veer toward the dramatic and every episode of their lives must be turned into a stage performance.  Even the slightest negativity is blown completely out of proportion till it overshadows everything else.  These folks seem to think themselves a magnet for misfortune and often say things like “Drama just follows me everywhere I go!” or “This kind of thing only happens to me!”.  I can assure you that neither is the case.  The truth is something more along the lines of “My life is so mundane that I feel it necessary to invent and fabricate a web of half-truths to make my life less boring than it actually is”.  The flip side of this coin is no easier to palate.  These are the “Shiny Happy People”.  Those who want you to believe that their lives are perfect and free from strife.  They claim their children are angels and there isn’t a moment of discontentment in their completely fullfilling marriage.  This is as big a con as those who claim that their life is full of want and woe with rotten children and cheating spouses.  In every life a little rain must fall.  Your children will disappoint you, your spouse will disappoint you, and you will disappoint them in return.  A little strife does not equal devilish hatred and will not condemn you to an afterlife of hellfire and damnation.

I guess what I am getting at is this:  What ever happened to honesty?  When I am happy I try to let that show.  Perhaps I am down more than I am up, or perhaps the opposite is the case.  I haven’t really gone back to check.  The point is, when I am proud of my kids I say so.  When they have stepped in it, I share that as well.  Same goes with the wife.  As you all know by now, I think rather highly of her.  Wouldn’t have chosen her as a spouse if I didn’t.  There are some days though, that I wonder what in the hell is running through her head.  Actions that frustrate and dismay.  And again, I share that too.  I even do my best to admit when I disappoint them, though I think I am not as self-deprecating as I ought to be sometimes.  I can be an ogre and I can be a Grinch, but I can also be kind and loving.  As I have mentioned, I can even border on the quasi-sentimental if you will.  So, the question for me is not of honesty but rather discretion.  My life is typically an open book and while my wife has gotten fairly used to my lack of candor, the children are a different story.  Some things are better left unsaid and certain confidentialities should not be betrayed.  So, where do I draw the line?

For instance, I haven’t a single bit of remorse in announcing that despite the fact that I am a grown ass man, I still find it next to impossible to keep from getting deodorant all over my clothes.  Whether the application method be pre-shirting or post-shirting, the outcome is the same.  Honestly, was there some pubescent training seminar that I somehow missed out on?  I see hundreds of fully functional individuals each day, yet none of them appear to share my need to be caked with deodorant to the point of looking like a Hostess powdered donut.  Now, I must admit that this is a sliding scale as there is a fair portion of French society that elect out of the usage of deodorant, yet those that do, don’t seem to have it painted all over the sides of their shirts.  Yet if this was an issue for my children I would be hesitant in discussing the matter for fear that it would discourage them from utilizing necessary hygiene products, and we all know how much I dislike a cloud of “kid stink”.  And this is just a relatively comical hygiene issue, imagine the plethora of meaty yet delicate subjects that I could weigh in on, yet somehow edit out of my report to protect the innocent.  You should all know by now that I don’t have much of an edit button, so for now I will be satisfied to tell it like it is (exactly like it is) provided my parental judgment  doesn’t get the best of me.  Until we meet again . . . R.

A Nice Day for a White Wedding (Part 2)

There is a vague awareness tucked in the back of my mind that is an interesting thought to ponder.  During my entire time back in the US, I had not even a glimmer of my usually compulsive need to write.  This seems notable on two fronts.  First, an eventual move back “home” might well bring an end to my fledgling career as a writer.  Second, I realized that the reason I write is to share the voice that is usually stifled by a formidable language barrier.  When in my native tongue I finally feel like myself again, capable of expressing my thoughts and dreams to others in spoken form rather than by way of the flashing cursor on this white blank page.  Pouring forth my thoughts in verbal format makes for one last interesting revelation, I HAVE CHANGED.  For most of the week, I felt utterly compelled to reach out to anyone unlucky enough to lock eyes with me.  This need for discourse is an interesting byproduct of our time here in France.  As it turns out, it isn’t the “French” experience that has had the most profound effect on my life, but rather the experience of solitude.  Perhaps we could have saved ourselves some expense and simply moved to a cabin in the woods for two years and lived “off the grid” as they say.  That being said, I now understand the plight of the Monk.  Personal enlightenment is more easily found during periods of intense sensory deprivation.  When one finally returns to the everyday, it is like being reborn.  Fresh eyes meet the world, and all that you have learned through isolation is put into action.  The results are astounding.

Strangely enough, after writing the preceding paragraph, I let this post sit over the weekend to contemplate.  During that time, I continued my study on the upcoming Camino trip and pushed toward the half-way point in the book I am currently reading on a related subject.  This author too noted the strangeness one encounters when viewing their former world with new eyes.  In his case this was by way of a return to civilization after a long trek through the wilderness.  In my case, it is born of a different breed of isolation, but the lessons are the same.  Perhaps this is one thing that I WON’T learn during my pilgrimage down “The Field of Stars”.  More on that later.  I found the correlation between the author’s experience and my own to be quite refreshing and for the first time in months I was TRULY thankful for our life in France which had in recent weeks seemed a burden.  I was right, I HAVE CHANGED, and perhaps for the better I might add.  I certainly feel as though some great lessons have been taught and I am slowly catching up with them as time goes by.  I am, I fear, a slow learner.  Or maybe that is the way of all great teachings, sudden discovery after hours of seemingly mindless strife and struggle.  Mr. Miyagi knew that, and now so do I.  Wax on . . . Wax off . . . Breathe in . . . Breathe Out  . . . Focus Daniel San!

Well, as is my usual manner, I have prattled on for paragraphs without getting much of anywhere.  This seldom goes unnoticed by the wife who found my last entry to be a complete mess.  I am starting to understand why a lot of great writers have secluded themselves in cabins in some forgotten wood.  Perhaps it wasn’t to seek the inspiration that I spoke of just moments ago, but simply a way to get away from their far too practical wife . . . nag, nag, nag.  She did have a point though.  The title of the entry seems mis-leading.  How can I write a piece about a wedding and never actually mention the wedding.  Touche Mon Cheri!  So, let’s get down to the meat and potatoes for those that have been reading along feeling in desperate need of the same dose of reality that my wife likes to see in my posts.  The wedding was a lovely affair of Purple and Orange.  The bride and groom a vision of youthful love and lasting affection.  It was a simple outdoor ceremony with a rustic nostalgia that certainly warmed my heart a bit.  This was afterall, the kind of thing I had really been missing in my heart of hearts.  My visit was a well-kept surprise for my brother and his lovely new wife, and I was absolutely honored when they asked that I have an impromptu role in the ceremony.  I did my best not to sully their special day with my incompetence and social retardation.  I even remembered not to eat with my hands or wipe my mouth on my sleeve.  What more could they ask for really?  And really, aside from the Ambulance and Fire Truck arriving to assist an elderly member of the groom’s family who had perhaps had a stroke during the reception, the whole evening seemed to me to be a great success.  That sort of reminds me that I really need to check in to see if that gal came out alright.

As I watched the bride and groom dance their first dance and wander through their evening in the haze that most of us encounter on our wedding day, I couldn’t help but think back to the few memories that weren’t a complete blur from my own wedding some 12 years ago.  I envied them really, just starting out.  A long road ahead full of twists and turns that will lead to unexpected locations and a life they didn’t imagine when they started out together.  I envied them the way an old dog envies a pup.  Fresh faced and full of vigor.  And these two, oh these two are going places.  They have the entire world in the palm of their hand.  Adventurous to a fault and braver than I by a long shot.  They are impressive beyond words and I feel humbled by their grace and wisdom that is well beyond their years.  And just like that, I realized that I had not come for them.  Sure, from the outside, some would see it a long way to travel when it was certainly not expected.  Both would have certainly forgiven my absence and my presence didn’t really add anything to the event.   Their wedding and their marriage will be a success regardless of the guest list and table settings.  Sure, I wanted to be there for them on this landmark moment in their lives and they in turn pleased to have me, but my true reason for attending was actually fairly selfish indeed.  I needed to be there for . . . ME.  I needed to feel connected again.  I needed to feel as though I wasn’t slipping off the back side of the globe, away from family and friends that too often feel so damned far away.  Gone but not forgotten.  I needed to be reminded.  I needed to be there for this event to make up for two years of missed birthdays and anniversaries, holidays and nurseries.  In my life, I have really been terribly poor at keeping my focus on the importance of those around me. 

I am perhaps as guilty of neglect as anyone could be when it comes to the relationships that I truly value.  I am selfish and self-centered and in many ways lack a certain warmth of feeling.  Aloof is probably an apt description.  I don’t cry at funerals and generally stray from the emotional in favor of the practical.  Perhaps a strange sentiment coming from an artist or a writer, but therein lies the key.   One does not need to be terribly emotional to be sentimental.  Perhaps a matter of semantics, or maybe something more?  Emotion is that which is played in the present for those that live in the now.  Sentiment strikes those who live like me, in the future yet to come.  And though my feelings are seldom shown when a moment comes to pass, each will receive its own due one day . . . in my memories of the past.  And so, I needed to make amends.  Be there when it mattered.  Share in the present to make up for the past.  I was fortunate to have the opportunity to do so, and thank my long suffering wife and two wonderful children for allowing me the time away.  And a hearty good luck to my brother and his beautiful bride.  Marriage is like a wild winding river.  There will be rapids with exhilarating highs and frighteningly dark lows when the horizon dips in and out of your vision in a frustrating flash.  There will be long pools of endless still water when your heart will grow restless.  There will be splits and bends and decisions you must follow.  Just remember to paddle on opposite sides of the boat and you will continue on your travels.  Cheers.  R

A Nice Day for a White Wedding . . . Makes it Hard to Get Back in the Saddle Again (PART 1)

Ever notice how many analogies and metaphors have to do with horses?  Anything from getting back in the saddle after a long absence to getting right back on after you have been bucked off.  How about “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride”.  Never fully understood that one.  There seems to me to be a whole lot of presumption in that statement that I am not comfortable assuming at this point in my life.  For example . . . Do beggars make wishes?  I feel as though their waking hours are filled with more practical thoughts such as . . . oh, I don’ t know, what highway underpass will provide the most cover in the face of an oncoming storm . . . or maybe where their next meal might come from.  If, in fact, beggars do dream, the presumption is that they do so more than the rest of us.  The wants and desires born from their monastic lifestyle making them far more prone to flights of fantasy.  Again I am skeptical, but if indeed they “wish” more than the rest of us, then they would quickly have a herd of horses that would make it virtually impossible to ride.  Their days would be filled with a never ending quest to care for and maintain their herd.  Feeding yourself is one thing, but scratching together enough grub to feed a stable of horses from the nearest dumpster would seem an impossible task that would be far beyond the reaches of the most common beggar.  It also begs the question (pardon the pun) that if a beggar were to suddenly find himself rich with horses, would he still be a beggar at all.  Surely the horse trade is not so poor that one could not make themselves a reasonable living with a little bit of effort.

So, the more apt analogy would be that if a beggar has just one wish, and that wish was in fact in the form of a horse, then they would ride.  Given my general distrust for cowboy analogies, I guess I find myself disappointed to be hopelessly caught in the middle of one at this very moment.  It is an accurate description afterall, and the only one that immediately comes to mind.  I am in the process of “getting back in the saddle” so to speak.  I have been back “home” for a week.  Strange concept that . . . “home”.  It’s where the heart is right?  Hmmm, I’ll have to ponder that for a moment.  It would seem that while I am with my wife and children, a great deal of my heart is back in the US, yet while visiting in the US, my heart is back with them in France.  Having one’s heart split in two is not really all that enjoyable.  In fact, I know now that one cannot live forever with the knowledge that their heart is no longer a “whole”.  In my case, the choice seems quite clear . . . sort of.  One of two options seem to present themselves, but within those two generalities, a myriad of options seem available.  It is sort of like purchasing a new car.  The choice between a Chevy and a Ford is straight forward enough I suppose.  The general product line falls within certain design parameters and as such the consumer would generally be drawn by one firm’s designs more than the other.  A unified design team makes certain that certain design cues are carried from one model to the next and that certainly plays out in our preferences.  Once you have decided that you are a “Ford Man or Woman”, then the unenviable task of selecting the model that best fits your needs complicates the scenario a bit.  Now, I know there are lots of folks that prefer to shop by category rather than brand loyalty.  They choose a type of vehicle, SUV for example, and then weigh the options amongst all the car makers in the available market.  Those people are lost and will take forever to make a decision.  It is then like comparing apples with oranges.  The features and styling are so wildly divergent that selecting the best fit will almost certainly lead to buyers remorse and the “what if” factor that I am trying my best to avoid in life.  I need to keep this decision simple, uncomplicated.  To be honest, my usual methodology for buying a car doesn’t trend toward either of these scenarios.  I like a certain number of vehicles across Make and Model lines.  I like some compacts, some SUV’s and a few Pickup Trucks.  Comparing these is more like comparing Apples with Asparagus.  No longer are we talking about comparing two relatively dissimilar fruit.  Now we are comparing fruits with vegetables.

Yet perhaps it is here that my decision is made.  Do I prefer the sweetness of the fruit or the hearty earthiness of it’s cousin in the vegetable world.  Both have their claims and selecting one is certainly not a betrayal of the goodness found in the other.  Both will provide you the nutrition required for subsistence, but in the end, you will find yourself drawn toward one and regretting the loss of the other.  So it is with this decision before us now.  Do we stay or do we go.  It is as simple as that.  We either pack it in and end this experiment somewhere near our original 2 year commitment and make our way back to the US, or we stay . . . set down roots here in France and push toward senior citizenship.  When put in such concrete terms the decision is quite simple.  Perhaps it is because we have never really left the US in our hearts and as such have not given our lives here in France a fair shake, or perhaps we know that there is value here but the fit back home is simply better for us at this point in our lives.  I rather suspect the latter is true as I could certainly see a scenario where our lives could be much different.  When weighing the very real options, it is clear where my heart is.  It is with my family, and it is with them wherever they long to be, and it seems that their collective hearts are somewhere in the United States of America.  When the transition does finally arrive, I will be sad to bid France farewell.  It has held us and nurtured us like a surrogate mother.  It has offered the best of itself to make us feel comfortable and secure, and tending to someone elses children is no small feat. 

Though in the end we have chosen the apple for it’s sweet presence on our tongues and the Chevy for it’s spacious reliability, we have learned a great deal from eating asparagus drizzled with butter on the luxurious bench seat of our Ford Pickup Truck.  We will miss them both in their own way.  We have learned that the Ford is not so different from the Chevy after all.  Their style is different, but both will carry you in comfort.  And though the asparagus doesn’t tickle our fancy like the sweetness of the apple, the memory of it’s strange flavor on our tongue will have us looking for more whenever the menu provides it.  So, bring on the Chevy full of apples.  Whether that be a Silverado full of Granny Smiths or a Corvette full of Washingtons, we know where our heart truly lies.  Perhaps the greatest lesson of all is that we know that we could easily trade in our Astro Van full of Jonagolds for a Honda full of Sashimi and never be worse for the wear.  We now live a life of based purely on choice,  without regard for any known border, and that is really what this is all about, isn’t it?  In the end, I guess if OUR wishes were horses we would be unable to ride.  He who finds himself fulfilled would prefer to do the walking himself . . . the scenery passes slower that way.  R.

98%: Feeling Crappy with a side of Suckishness

Here is the problem with being 98% healed from any injury or ailment:  2% of the time you feel like shit.  The slightest discomfort reminds you that you cannot return to life as normal and must continue to caudle the weak link in the chain.  It is, to be completely honest, infuriating.  It is why children and dogs make such poor patients.  The moment they feel the slightest bit better, they overexert themselves and inevitably aggravate their injuries.  While most would argue that I act like a child and have the emotional depth of a canine, I still have enough wisdom to take it easy when on the mend.  That doesn’t mean I have to like it, does it?  My increasingly doughy physique is starting to piss me off.  I have training to do, miles to run and weights that need lifting.  The wife is rather insistent that I go to the doctor to have the injury in my lower back examined.  Right now I don’t love the idea, but I am warming to it the longer this condition persists.  The foot is now back to it’s pre-injury status and my amateur diagnosis is a case of tendonitis though it is probably worth a checkup as well if I am forced to the doctor’s office over my back.  I have a rather long transcontinental flight ahead of me and the thought of sitting there for that long with this unpleasant twinge in my lower back has me sweating bullets.  I refuse to believe at the age of 37 that this is a sign of aging.  I am too young for inexplicable injury.  The only thing that I can pinpoint that might be the cause was an impromptu round of football in the yard with my eldest during which I spent some time punting the ball for him to run down.  The pain was not immediate, so perhaps this is simply a slight strain that is taking its sweet ass time to heal.

I think the wife secretly hopes it is a problem with a disk.  Not that she wishes me ill, but rather that I would then be able to share in her misery.  She in fact has an injury that is all but inoperable from our viewpoint.  It causes her a reasonable amount of discomfort and I can imagine now that it borders on unbearable now that I have had a taste of that medicine.  In order to fix her ailment surgically, it would require cracking her chest and shuffling her organs around to gain access.  Given the invasiveness of such a procedure we are none too keen on crossing that bridge just yet.  As for me, I wouldn’t say that this is the worst pain I have ever experienced, but it is certainly inconvenient and a sign that I am not as spry as I once was.  An injury like this 10 years ago would have been right as rain in a day or two.  Now two weeks in, I am beginning to doubt whether I will ever have a pain free day for the remainder of my life.  I know that is not likely to be the case, but it is a reminder that the battle has begun against the sands of time.  It is time to start taking my level of fitness a little more seriously if I plan on lasting for the long haul.  I stopped aging emotionally and mentally somewhere in my twenties and believe in my heart of hearts that I am still that guy.  My eldest son’s reaction to my time on the disabled list has been the most difficult to stomach.  He sees me physically as the guy I believe myself to be.  No reason to doubt this at his age because my physical feats of strength are still far beyond his ability level.  You can see he doubts my complaints.  He is naturally willing me to be back in action.  Just yesterday I begged off on a round of catch in the yard stating that it would likely aggravate my injury.  His shoulders dropped and I apologized for getting old.  Very kindly he reminded me that I am not OLD and my physique is still in good form.  We have been active together, he and I.  He has seen me fight and scrap with guys 10 years my junior and has seen me compete in the martial arts with award winning flourish for my age group.  He knows even with an injured back I can throw him and his brother up over my head with relative ease and doesn’t think twice about using me as a jungle gym.

His optimism is inspiring even on days when I feel more like Clark Kent than Superman.  Somewhere in his enthusiasm I think I have found the answer.  Grit my teeth and endure.  Strengthen those areas that are healthy to pick up the slack for those that are faltering.  I need to workout.  Fortunately the sun has returned to the forecast and its warmth has renewed my enthusiasm.  So much so that the family decided to take a long bike tour yesterday.  We packed a picnic lunch and headed out.  Having my youngest aboard my chariot meant that I had a little more weight to pack around and even the slightest incline required additional exertion.  By the time we returned home, I was tired, but my back felt better than it had in days.  My son is a genius and perhaps the best personal trainer one could hope for.  He expects me to be fit and active and anything less will not meet with resigned approval.  No, Superman I shall be.  So, today I will throw away my black rimmed glasses and dawn my cape.  Being more of a Marvel family perhaps the better analogy is this:  Neither of my boys have ever seen Ironman fall in battle, so they will be damned if their war machine doesn’t rally when duty calls.  So I ask myself . . . where the fuck do I get one of those suits?  Until next time.  R.

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.