To begin...
House projects. Putting up drywall. Plumbing. Carpentry of any kind. Laying carpet. Anything associated with electricity. Installations and removals. I'm terrible at all these things. Can barely wield a hammer properly without hurting myself, someone else, or one of the aforementioned housing projects. I can be convinced I've found a stud and then have the shelf I've erected from the ashes of oblivion fall right back to its former state. We tried to overhaul the kitchen in our home; we succeeded in destroying a few things. And then we succeeded at picking up the phone and calling someone who could help. Terrible!
In the process of bragging, I promise.
My memory. Lacking, to say the least. I can barely remember what I did yesterday. What I accomplished. What I ate for lunch. What I wore. It all flitters into the silence of the stars' hazy light.
I can barely sing one octave. My voice cracks on the high end. And it rasps into obscurity on the low.
I think I'm right most of the time. Obnoxiously so.
And speaking of being obnoxious, I'm one of those who corrects grammar. A grammar elitist, you might say. 'It's not between you and I, it's between you and me,' I expound confidently. And it's 'to whom should I send the letter, not to who'. 'I spoke slow? No, I spoke slowly.'
I am afraid. Everything, it seems, proves an obstacle that I hesitate to pass. I would both love and hate to pack myself into a small room full of books and never talk to anyone again.
I have bragging rights to all of the above. Not monopolized by any stretch, I know. But rights nonetheless. Why, you ask?
Because I know all of these things about myself. And in knowing, I do something about each one. I may not always succeed, but I succeed a hell of a lot more times than I fail because I deny denial.
Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sunday Scribblings. Show all posts
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Sunday Scribblings: In Which Era Would I Live?
When I saw this topic, I said to myself, self, you've studied a lot of history given you're a history teacher by trade, so of all those eras you've taught, in which era would you choose to live? Being a history teacher, I've heard the question before. From students, other teachers, parents, friends, family, those questionnaires everyone sends via e-mail asking what your favorite color is and the like.
I have the quick answer, the answer about which I can speak at length. The Enlightenment. France. Paris, to be exact. I'd have to be at university or involved in the intellectual life to some degree. And I'd have to be a white male. What an exciting time, I'd say. Yes, I know that I wouldn't have the technology. Yes, I know the cities stunk. Yes, I know that it most likely would have been a difficult life. But, the uncovering of points of view, the leap forward towards revolution would have been enthralling.
Those are the reasons I could give for choosing the Enlightenment. Those and so many more. But I choose that period also because I know the most about it. It is, in some ways, very familiar to me. A time with which I can relate, being a European mutt by ancestry.
When I saw the question posed on Sunday Scribblings, I got to thinking about it more. Would it really be the Enlightenment? Or would it be some other time? I needed to try to think outside the box.
I could say that I was born in exactly the right time and place. That would be true. I enjoy my life, and if given the chance, I wouldn't live at any other time. But, for me that steals the fun out of the response. I kept thinking.
The 20th century? Nah. Not really into world or cold wars. Outside the box... I could have lived in another country that wasn't too much affected. Like which, I responded to myself, Mongolia?
Back in time. 19th century? Certainly not the U.S. China, maybe, before the significant interactions with the West. Or even Japan. To be a part of Japanese culture before 1868 would have been truly interesting. But too strict. Too totalitarian.
Ha! you may say to me. Try to find a situation in which a society was NOT too totalitarian in history. Some African tribes. Some Native American tribes. The Vikings, though too decentralized for me. There were plenty.
So, when and where?
After some research, I settled on the Navajo in the southwestern U.S. BEFORE the arrival of the Europeans. In reading about their nomadic culture and their love of the land and everything the land gave them, I would have to say that - although I would have no conveniences - I would be a part of a tight-knit matriarchal community that understood the truths of history and the future.
Why the Navajo? Too much further north, and I would have been freezing. Too much further east and I'd have been annoyed by the humidity. Dry warmth is my idea of a good climate. Why not the Mayan civilization or some other in Mexico or South America? The government was too centralized. Some of the dictators in Tenochtitlan and the other Native American centers were just as bad as any Asian, African, or European dictator.
Why not the Hopi, then? Okay, fine, I'd consider being Hopi too.
Just as long as - I reemphasize - I would have been long dead before the Europeans came.
I have the quick answer, the answer about which I can speak at length. The Enlightenment. France. Paris, to be exact. I'd have to be at university or involved in the intellectual life to some degree. And I'd have to be a white male. What an exciting time, I'd say. Yes, I know that I wouldn't have the technology. Yes, I know the cities stunk. Yes, I know that it most likely would have been a difficult life. But, the uncovering of points of view, the leap forward towards revolution would have been enthralling.
Those are the reasons I could give for choosing the Enlightenment. Those and so many more. But I choose that period also because I know the most about it. It is, in some ways, very familiar to me. A time with which I can relate, being a European mutt by ancestry.
When I saw the question posed on Sunday Scribblings, I got to thinking about it more. Would it really be the Enlightenment? Or would it be some other time? I needed to try to think outside the box.
I could say that I was born in exactly the right time and place. That would be true. I enjoy my life, and if given the chance, I wouldn't live at any other time. But, for me that steals the fun out of the response. I kept thinking.
The 20th century? Nah. Not really into world or cold wars. Outside the box... I could have lived in another country that wasn't too much affected. Like which, I responded to myself, Mongolia?
Back in time. 19th century? Certainly not the U.S. China, maybe, before the significant interactions with the West. Or even Japan. To be a part of Japanese culture before 1868 would have been truly interesting. But too strict. Too totalitarian.
Ha! you may say to me. Try to find a situation in which a society was NOT too totalitarian in history. Some African tribes. Some Native American tribes. The Vikings, though too decentralized for me. There were plenty.
So, when and where?
After some research, I settled on the Navajo in the southwestern U.S. BEFORE the arrival of the Europeans. In reading about their nomadic culture and their love of the land and everything the land gave them, I would have to say that - although I would have no conveniences - I would be a part of a tight-knit matriarchal community that understood the truths of history and the future.
Why the Navajo? Too much further north, and I would have been freezing. Too much further east and I'd have been annoyed by the humidity. Dry warmth is my idea of a good climate. Why not the Mayan civilization or some other in Mexico or South America? The government was too centralized. Some of the dictators in Tenochtitlan and the other Native American centers were just as bad as any Asian, African, or European dictator.
Why not the Hopi, then? Okay, fine, I'd consider being Hopi too.
Just as long as - I reemphasize - I would have been long dead before the Europeans came.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
Sunday Scribblings: Forbidden; Matinee Muse: Abuse of Power
‘If you must,’ his wife acquiesced. At the young man’s nod, she ushered her two sons upstairs.
The two young men stood, obviously bracing themselves for what was to come.
The father, his plea unheard by his wife, decided to try a different tack with the two gentlemen. He breathed deeply and calmed himself before speaking. “Look, guys, I don’t know what this is about or what my voting has to do with it, but I think we can talk about this. Sound like a plan?’
The two young men actually chuckled. They now flanked the father, to the left and right of the chair in which he sat. The taller one spoke. ‘Sir, we were interested in talking, but you wanted to be difficult. And in front of your wife and kids. You’ve just proven that you’re a bad influence. We’re here to help you, your family, your neighborhood, and your country. We are here to start teaching you about patriotism.’
‘Patriotism? Are you saying I am not patriotic? I believe in the Constitution, the American flag. Everything that this country has stood for since its founding. I believe in checks and balances. Executive, legislative, judicial. I believe in…’
‘Sir, we don’t particularly care about your views of American history. Or about your beliefs. We care about your actions. And according to those, you have opposed the ideals of this country. Now, please stand and make this easier for us.’
He sat, careful not to make any rash movements. The two young men obviously outmatched him in strength. And they had him surrounded. He grasped the arms of the chair, about to rise.
There came from the front door a knock. His wife descended from her perch atop the stairs, intending to answer, but the short, stocky man held his fat hand up to her and made for the door. He opened to find an old woman who the husband immediately recognized as the odd Miss Oneiros from down the street. The families on the street knew little about her, except that she enjoyed her evening walks with her two Pomeranians, Bia and Eris. She had moved into the neighborhood about six months earlier and she kept to herself.
‘Hello, young man. Is the man of the house at home?’ she asked.
‘Uh…’ The young man stuttered for a moment. ‘He is not available, ma’am.’
She glanced inside at the husband. ‘But he’s sitting right there,’ she spoke matter-of-factly. ‘Why are you fibbing to me?’
‘Excuse me ma’am. I said he is not available. I suggest you leave.’
She began to speak, mumbling at first. As if she was having some kind of autistic episode. Those listening caught only a few incoherent words. She finished. Then, she began what sounded like a rehearsed speech. ‘We are the Sons and Daughters of Liberty. Your abuse of power has ended. What you have forbidden, we will do. What you have given, we will take. What you have taken, we will redeem. The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure. ‘
‘Look, lady, I’ve been patient. I’ll only tell you once more. Get the hell outta here.’
She raised her cane and poked him in the chest. ‘Young man, you leave me with no choice.’ As he swung his arm to knock the cane from the woman’s hand, she pulled a hidden trigger at the head of the cane and watched as the young stocky man fell backwards, his head leaking blood.
‘Oh shit!’ the tall young man yelped. He pulled his concealed weapon but didn’t have the chance to fire. Another shot came from outside killing him instantly.
The husband sat in the chair staring at the old woman.
‘Well, I dare say you’d better come with me, Paul. I don’t think you’ll be safe here. Will your family be joining you?’ Miss Oneiros asked sweetly.
This entry is meant to stand alone, but it is also part of a developing story.
See Part 1
See Part 2
The two young men stood, obviously bracing themselves for what was to come.
The father, his plea unheard by his wife, decided to try a different tack with the two gentlemen. He breathed deeply and calmed himself before speaking. “Look, guys, I don’t know what this is about or what my voting has to do with it, but I think we can talk about this. Sound like a plan?’
The two young men actually chuckled. They now flanked the father, to the left and right of the chair in which he sat. The taller one spoke. ‘Sir, we were interested in talking, but you wanted to be difficult. And in front of your wife and kids. You’ve just proven that you’re a bad influence. We’re here to help you, your family, your neighborhood, and your country. We are here to start teaching you about patriotism.’
‘Patriotism? Are you saying I am not patriotic? I believe in the Constitution, the American flag. Everything that this country has stood for since its founding. I believe in checks and balances. Executive, legislative, judicial. I believe in…’
‘Sir, we don’t particularly care about your views of American history. Or about your beliefs. We care about your actions. And according to those, you have opposed the ideals of this country. Now, please stand and make this easier for us.’
He sat, careful not to make any rash movements. The two young men obviously outmatched him in strength. And they had him surrounded. He grasped the arms of the chair, about to rise.
There came from the front door a knock. His wife descended from her perch atop the stairs, intending to answer, but the short, stocky man held his fat hand up to her and made for the door. He opened to find an old woman who the husband immediately recognized as the odd Miss Oneiros from down the street. The families on the street knew little about her, except that she enjoyed her evening walks with her two Pomeranians, Bia and Eris. She had moved into the neighborhood about six months earlier and she kept to herself.
‘Hello, young man. Is the man of the house at home?’ she asked.
‘Uh…’ The young man stuttered for a moment. ‘He is not available, ma’am.’
She glanced inside at the husband. ‘But he’s sitting right there,’ she spoke matter-of-factly. ‘Why are you fibbing to me?’
‘Excuse me ma’am. I said he is not available. I suggest you leave.’
She began to speak, mumbling at first. As if she was having some kind of autistic episode. Those listening caught only a few incoherent words. She finished. Then, she began what sounded like a rehearsed speech. ‘We are the Sons and Daughters of Liberty. Your abuse of power has ended. What you have forbidden, we will do. What you have given, we will take. What you have taken, we will redeem. The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure. ‘
‘Look, lady, I’ve been patient. I’ll only tell you once more. Get the hell outta here.’
She raised her cane and poked him in the chest. ‘Young man, you leave me with no choice.’ As he swung his arm to knock the cane from the woman’s hand, she pulled a hidden trigger at the head of the cane and watched as the young stocky man fell backwards, his head leaking blood.
‘Oh shit!’ the tall young man yelped. He pulled his concealed weapon but didn’t have the chance to fire. Another shot came from outside killing him instantly.
The husband sat in the chair staring at the old woman.
‘Well, I dare say you’d better come with me, Paul. I don’t think you’ll be safe here. Will your family be joining you?’ Miss Oneiros asked sweetly.
This entry is meant to stand alone, but it is also part of a developing story.
See Part 1
See Part 2
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Sunday Scribblings: Wedding
I made a mistake last night. And I can't take it back. I'd never had that much to drink, but honestly, when it's your 21st birthday, you're supposed to let go. Still, I should have known better. I'm not like everyone else. Well, I am like everyone else except that I have a skeleton in my closet that will haunt me for the rest of my life, whether I allow it to dangle in all its bony glory outside the closet or push it behind the shoes and jackets inside.
It's about my parents. And when I told my friends the truth in our tiny dorm, they didn't say anything. They just awkwardly made excuses and left. My roommate, someone with whom I could talk about anything, told me he was tired and rolled up in his bed.
But it's my fault. I always want to get to the punch line first. I'm a bad comedian. But also a terrible storyteller. Perhaps I should practice. Do you mind if I practice with you?
My parents have fascinating stories. My father was born and raised in Abilene, TX. He lived there for the first five years of his life until his parents were killed by a drunk driver. Killed instantly. My father had a sister who lived in Bellevue, WA. So, he and his brother - my uncle - got shipped up there and lived with who I consider to me my grandparents.
Meanwhile, my mother was born in Seattle. A crack baby. Daughter of a prostitute and a pimp. She lived with her mother for a couple years before - she told me - the cops arrested her mother and killed her father in a raid. Her mother was declared unfit by the courts thus effectively making her an orphan. Well, a kind man and woman from Bellevue fostered my mother starting at age four and then adopted her later on.
Well, my mother and father met and then came up through school together. Same grade. From an early age, they clicked. And by the time high school came around, their emotions had lead them to do the inevitable. So I was conceived. They talked about getting married, but they weren't sure it was the right thing to do. My father insisted; my mother hesitated. Then they brought it to their parents. The parents didn't take it well. So, they skipped the wedding, ignored their parents, and traveled down to Vegas where they married.
Knowing they couldn't go home again, they moved out here. Where no one knows that they share the same parents.
It's about my parents. And when I told my friends the truth in our tiny dorm, they didn't say anything. They just awkwardly made excuses and left. My roommate, someone with whom I could talk about anything, told me he was tired and rolled up in his bed.
But it's my fault. I always want to get to the punch line first. I'm a bad comedian. But also a terrible storyteller. Perhaps I should practice. Do you mind if I practice with you?
My parents have fascinating stories. My father was born and raised in Abilene, TX. He lived there for the first five years of his life until his parents were killed by a drunk driver. Killed instantly. My father had a sister who lived in Bellevue, WA. So, he and his brother - my uncle - got shipped up there and lived with who I consider to me my grandparents.
Meanwhile, my mother was born in Seattle. A crack baby. Daughter of a prostitute and a pimp. She lived with her mother for a couple years before - she told me - the cops arrested her mother and killed her father in a raid. Her mother was declared unfit by the courts thus effectively making her an orphan. Well, a kind man and woman from Bellevue fostered my mother starting at age four and then adopted her later on.
Well, my mother and father met and then came up through school together. Same grade. From an early age, they clicked. And by the time high school came around, their emotions had lead them to do the inevitable. So I was conceived. They talked about getting married, but they weren't sure it was the right thing to do. My father insisted; my mother hesitated. Then they brought it to their parents. The parents didn't take it well. So, they skipped the wedding, ignored their parents, and traveled down to Vegas where they married.
Knowing they couldn't go home again, they moved out here. Where no one knows that they share the same parents.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Sunday Scribblings: Invitation
I'm just returning from vacation with my buddies. Sunny Mexico. Beautiful this time of year. Hell, beautiful anytime of year. Better than Las Vegas. No guilt. No witnesses. No rules.
I've been making the trip for years now. Since those spring breaks with my buddies back in the day. We see how many women we can get in bed. We have competitions. See how many women at once. How many women in one night. How many times with the same woman. It's awesome.
We buy some real potent shit. We just put it in their drinks and watch 'em fade. Load 'em up into our rentals and bring 'em home. Yeah, it sucks getting 'em back out after we were done. But, hell, that's part of the challenge. A few times, they've started to come to in the car and we've had to dump 'em real fast.
Now, I'm back. Getting ready for church with my family and then my son's peewee football game afterwards. I have to get my lesson plans ready for the week. A test for Thursday testing polynomials. Easter's coming too. I need to get the kids their baskets. My wife and I will have to go Wednesday night after my daughter's dance practice. Maybe my parents can babysit them.
I sit down with a margarita, a final taste of Mexico until next year. I check my e-mail. So many messages. I take some time to look through. And the final message is an evite from an address I don't recognize. I open the message. The evite is entitled 'Sunny Mexico'. I open the evite and see that only the sender and I are on the invitation. There in bold letters I see the following note:
The next margarita's on me. See you in hell...
I've been making the trip for years now. Since those spring breaks with my buddies back in the day. We see how many women we can get in bed. We have competitions. See how many women at once. How many women in one night. How many times with the same woman. It's awesome.
We buy some real potent shit. We just put it in their drinks and watch 'em fade. Load 'em up into our rentals and bring 'em home. Yeah, it sucks getting 'em back out after we were done. But, hell, that's part of the challenge. A few times, they've started to come to in the car and we've had to dump 'em real fast.
Now, I'm back. Getting ready for church with my family and then my son's peewee football game afterwards. I have to get my lesson plans ready for the week. A test for Thursday testing polynomials. Easter's coming too. I need to get the kids their baskets. My wife and I will have to go Wednesday night after my daughter's dance practice. Maybe my parents can babysit them.
I sit down with a margarita, a final taste of Mexico until next year. I check my e-mail. So many messages. I take some time to look through. And the final message is an evite from an address I don't recognize. I open the message. The evite is entitled 'Sunny Mexico'. I open the evite and see that only the sender and I are on the invitation. There in bold letters I see the following note:
The next margarita's on me. See you in hell...
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Sunday Scribblings: Coffee
The little boy sat at the table eating his Lucky Charms. His grandmother was preparing the hot tea for him and his grandfather, who was reading the Sunday paper. With both his grandparents distracted, the boy grabbed for his grandmother's pink mug and took a sip of the black liquid. 'Eww!' he yelped as this grandparents checked to see what had happened. When they realized what he had done, they chuckled. He was obviously not a fan of black coffee.
His grandmother brought the two mugs, the grandfather's straight tea and the grandson's sugar and milk tea, to the table.
'What is that?' the little boy pointed to the pink cup.
'It's coffee, don't you like it?'
'It's gross,' he said.
She then told him to wait a moment as she went to the counter. She was doing something to the dark liquid that he couldn't see. Concocting some potion. When she turned back around, the liquid had changed color. 'I just turned this coffee into tea,' she said. And in fact, the color of the liquid in her cup matched the color in his own.
'Huh?' grunted the boy.
'Try it. I'll bet you'll like it more than the tea.' So, he tried it. And he did like it. It tasted completely different. Sweet and milky, it didn't even resemble the liquid that was in the cup.
'What's this?' he asked, excited.
'It's a potion I made from the coffee. It's L A Tea.'
'L A Tea? It's better than this,' he pointed to the white mug in front of him.
'That's because it's a magic tea that is transformed from coffee.'
'Really?'
'Yep.'
'Can you do magic? Are you a witch?' he asked matter-of-factly.
'I used to be. Just ask your father.' She cackled. 'But I've forgotten all my spells. Just that potion. That's all I have left.'
'Wow.'
His grandmother passed away soon after, quite unexpectedly. And with her went her secret potion. He tried, in vain, to describe that potion that his grandmother had called L A Tea to his mother and his sisters. But they could never recreate it. No one could. Because no one knew what kind of tea this L A Tea was.
And then one day he happened upon the concoction. He was 16 and his girlfriend had convinced him to go to a coffee house. He ordered an iced tea. And she ordered a Cafe Latte. To the latte she added a couple sugars. When they sat, she asked him to take a sip.
'I don't do coffee,' he responded.
'Oh, just try it.' She flirted with her eyes.
'Fine,' he said, smitten. He sipped and his eyes bulged as he just about screamed 'L A Tea'.
His girlfriend, taken aback, stared at him and answered, 'huh?'
'What is this?' he asked.
'It's a latte,' she said, perplexed at his reaction.
He laughed. He had finally discovered the secret of his grandmother's final secret potion.
His grandmother brought the two mugs, the grandfather's straight tea and the grandson's sugar and milk tea, to the table.
'What is that?' the little boy pointed to the pink cup.
'It's coffee, don't you like it?'
'It's gross,' he said.
She then told him to wait a moment as she went to the counter. She was doing something to the dark liquid that he couldn't see. Concocting some potion. When she turned back around, the liquid had changed color. 'I just turned this coffee into tea,' she said. And in fact, the color of the liquid in her cup matched the color in his own.
'Huh?' grunted the boy.
'Try it. I'll bet you'll like it more than the tea.' So, he tried it. And he did like it. It tasted completely different. Sweet and milky, it didn't even resemble the liquid that was in the cup.
'What's this?' he asked, excited.
'It's a potion I made from the coffee. It's L A Tea.'
'L A Tea? It's better than this,' he pointed to the white mug in front of him.
'That's because it's a magic tea that is transformed from coffee.'
'Really?'
'Yep.'
'Can you do magic? Are you a witch?' he asked matter-of-factly.
'I used to be. Just ask your father.' She cackled. 'But I've forgotten all my spells. Just that potion. That's all I have left.'
'Wow.'
His grandmother passed away soon after, quite unexpectedly. And with her went her secret potion. He tried, in vain, to describe that potion that his grandmother had called L A Tea to his mother and his sisters. But they could never recreate it. No one could. Because no one knew what kind of tea this L A Tea was.
And then one day he happened upon the concoction. He was 16 and his girlfriend had convinced him to go to a coffee house. He ordered an iced tea. And she ordered a Cafe Latte. To the latte she added a couple sugars. When they sat, she asked him to take a sip.
'I don't do coffee,' he responded.
'Oh, just try it.' She flirted with her eyes.
'Fine,' he said, smitten. He sipped and his eyes bulged as he just about screamed 'L A Tea'.
His girlfriend, taken aback, stared at him and answered, 'huh?'
'What is this?' he asked.
'It's a latte,' she said, perplexed at his reaction.
He laughed. He had finally discovered the secret of his grandmother's final secret potion.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Sunday Scribblings: Miracle
He spent wary days
searching a lifetime of chapels
for kneeling saints.
He pulled white rabbits
from limited edition Lincoln
replica top hats.
He healed dying women
with herbs and scapulae
in countless foreigh huts.
He chose six winning lottery numbers
according to a variation
of the Fibonacci sequence.
He watched rippling waves
lapping at his calloused feet
on the shores of a blue lake.
He met the love of his life
in a small Kazakh village
as a bullet punctured his heart.
He was dying in a makeshift chapel
beneath a kneeling saint.
His body spasmed as he gasped.
To his love he whispered with his last breath,
'Before you, I only believed in irony;
But now I believe in miracles.'
She didn't understand him.
searching a lifetime of chapels
for kneeling saints.
He pulled white rabbits
from limited edition Lincoln
replica top hats.
He healed dying women
with herbs and scapulae
in countless foreigh huts.
He chose six winning lottery numbers
according to a variation
of the Fibonacci sequence.
He watched rippling waves
lapping at his calloused feet
on the shores of a blue lake.
He met the love of his life
in a small Kazakh village
as a bullet punctured his heart.
He was dying in a makeshift chapel
beneath a kneeling saint.
His body spasmed as he gasped.
To his love he whispered with his last breath,
'Before you, I only believed in irony;
But now I believe in miracles.'
She didn't understand him.
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