"There will come a time when you believe everything is finished. That will be the beginning." - Louis L'Amour
There was a precipice. Stephen stood beside it and let it fill his field of vision. It was wide and bottomless bounded only by an impenetrable mist. And yet the soft sun shone on it from an early morning angle giving it a sense of calm newness and a whisper of hope. There were years enough for a lifetime behind him now. If he were to step off into the abyss, there would be those who would ascribe to him an end as appropriately timed as any and those who would move on without hesitation or wonder at the brevity of all life. Perhaps one or two would think to miss him but, truth be known, he had been leaving for most of his life and his absence would soon be an adjustment made. His connections to friends and family had always been maintained with simple civility and sparsely attended functions. No, Stephen was not one to delude himself with the thought of being indispensable. He had chosen his journey to meaning. He had pursued it with passion and, eventually, with honesty. He had experienced the attainment of his life's ambition. He understood that it was but for a moment of joy against a lifetime of missed opportunity. To this minute he had survived the stunning lack of consolation that accompanied his newly found certitude, his abiding faith. God is. He had walked to the precipice where he stood knowing there would be an end to the pain, the pain of knowing that he had wagered life for meaning only to learn that life was meaning, having been robbed of life, of meaning, by his consuming anticipation of some grand discovery. He had loved the idea of truth so completely that he had imagined no other outcome but joy to be the consequence of it. It was a fool's price paid for a common wisdom, a hollow victory. His eyes lifted to the idea of a horizon in the distance and his body moved rhythmically with the breeze undulating him ever closer and forward to submission, to his desire to be finished with everything. Quietly he heard the whisper of his daughter's voice on the wind. He sensed her shattered heart in his chest. There was confusion and anger in it, the unknowable why of his choice a cancer growing in her. To lose naturally is a consolable sadness. To willfully take is an inconsolable assault. He knew now. Everything was finished...unless he ended it. Then all, paradoxically, would not be finished. Some memories must not be made of choices. He had lived without consolation since he learned of life and what was behind him now. He had not begun anew for having mourned his losses. He could not place the burden of his failure upon his child. His weight went to his toes. His back arched sending his chest skyward. His momentum shifted away from the precipice. Stephen's eyes looked to the sky as his body moved from the edge. "I am finished", he said. "I begin."
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Gifts from My Children
"In order to please others, we loose our hold on our life's purpose." - Epictetus
(Note: copied from my new journal)
Lizzy gave me this book and the pen that I am writing with for my 50th birthday. She told me to use it to write down all of my ideas and funny stories. The other day, Grant told me that he wanted to create a company called “CDS Omega” because he liked the way it sounded and because he wants a way to market all of these “great ideas” that I have for creating income streams. Both of my children, with the utterances of a few purely heartfelt observations about me, have provided me with a simple but powerful confirmation that I have something to offer and that I should offer it. Their words mean more to my confidence and determination to move forward than any MBA or PhD. Thank you, Grant. Thank you, Lizzy. I love you more than you can ever know.
When I was a child, about Lizzy’s age, I remember standing in front of a shelf full of bound journals with blank pages and I felt an odd sadness and a longing to write myself onto the pages. But it was my father’s birthday and I was looking for a gift. I wanted him to write about his life for me, a simple diary for his own expression and my pleasure. I got caught up in the moment and forgot the golden rule of gift buying – the gift is not for me. I bought my father, the hard living brick mason, a “diary”. When I gave it to him, he laughed. Of course, he never wrote a word and thenceforth, I didn’t either, at least not in a journal for posterity. Whatever has made it to the page from me, with the exception of a few recent “blog essays”, has also made it to a fire in a bucket or a fireplace or a burn barrel in the back yard. Sometimes simple things change our lives. Thank you, Lizzy, for bridging those decades, for giving me a book with blank pages because you think I should fill them with myself. I assure you, I am not laughing…
As for you, Grant, “CDS Omega” exists. Today is the official “public launch”. It will change our lives. Whenever I feel like a fool, whenever I feel like quitting, whenever I feel like I should be standing at a station on an assembly line somewhere stamping out widgets the way I was always trained to do, I will remember the times when you looked at me with wonder at the things that would come tumbling out of this odd man’s head. You laughed, yes you did, but it has always been with the joy that ideas bring to the world. I love you, son.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I humbly (at the end of a personal journal entry published in a public blog) wish to take this opportunity to make an announcment. The resultant of 50 years of life research, merged with enabling technological innovations thousands of years in the making, and melded together by fate, faith, and desperation, yields the introduction of a new taxable entity to the world: “CDS Omega”. Well, that was simple enough. Now, off to find a niche...
That’s about it for the rollout at the moment! ;-)”
(Note: copied from my new journal)
Lizzy gave me this book and the pen that I am writing with for my 50th birthday. She told me to use it to write down all of my ideas and funny stories. The other day, Grant told me that he wanted to create a company called “CDS Omega” because he liked the way it sounded and because he wants a way to market all of these “great ideas” that I have for creating income streams. Both of my children, with the utterances of a few purely heartfelt observations about me, have provided me with a simple but powerful confirmation that I have something to offer and that I should offer it. Their words mean more to my confidence and determination to move forward than any MBA or PhD. Thank you, Grant. Thank you, Lizzy. I love you more than you can ever know.
When I was a child, about Lizzy’s age, I remember standing in front of a shelf full of bound journals with blank pages and I felt an odd sadness and a longing to write myself onto the pages. But it was my father’s birthday and I was looking for a gift. I wanted him to write about his life for me, a simple diary for his own expression and my pleasure. I got caught up in the moment and forgot the golden rule of gift buying – the gift is not for me. I bought my father, the hard living brick mason, a “diary”. When I gave it to him, he laughed. Of course, he never wrote a word and thenceforth, I didn’t either, at least not in a journal for posterity. Whatever has made it to the page from me, with the exception of a few recent “blog essays”, has also made it to a fire in a bucket or a fireplace or a burn barrel in the back yard. Sometimes simple things change our lives. Thank you, Lizzy, for bridging those decades, for giving me a book with blank pages because you think I should fill them with myself. I assure you, I am not laughing…
As for you, Grant, “CDS Omega” exists. Today is the official “public launch”. It will change our lives. Whenever I feel like a fool, whenever I feel like quitting, whenever I feel like I should be standing at a station on an assembly line somewhere stamping out widgets the way I was always trained to do, I will remember the times when you looked at me with wonder at the things that would come tumbling out of this odd man’s head. You laughed, yes you did, but it has always been with the joy that ideas bring to the world. I love you, son.
Ladies and Gentlemen, I humbly (at the end of a personal journal entry published in a public blog) wish to take this opportunity to make an announcment. The resultant of 50 years of life research, merged with enabling technological innovations thousands of years in the making, and melded together by fate, faith, and desperation, yields the introduction of a new taxable entity to the world: “CDS Omega”. Well, that was simple enough. Now, off to find a niche...
That’s about it for the rollout at the moment! ;-)”
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Zero to Sixty in Fifty Years: Accelerating to a Full Life After F***ing Up the Front End…
I have been looking for a label for years now, something simple to say to people who are left puzzled by my behavior and choices, something that answers the question, “What is wrong with that man?”. A label that can convey to others the complicated mix of tic - the psychological patterns associated with my process of living; tac – the environmental factors that I am stuck with; and toe - the physical & physiological characteristics that I was born with. Tic tac toe is an infuriatingly accurate metaphor for the process of labeling a human being because, well played, there is rarely a winner, rarely a satisfactory result. Cat usually gets the game, scratches in the litterbox for a bit, and takes a nap on a window sill. Ho-hum, so much for making an effort. Played well, there are no “winners” in tic tac toe nor in the labeling game.
There is no single label in the orthodoxy of the Association of Professional People Labelers (APPLe!) that can define a non-dead human being precisely. The process of labeling must intentionally pull up short of the holy grail of specificity because to be too precise is to lose the illusion of correctness, to lose the illusion of the pending declaration of specificity - the promised land of the self-absorbed. If you try to peg the perfect label on a human being, Cat wins. I suspect there are very few true seekers in the ranks of APPLe because the frustration of the process would lead them to declare themselves crazy, in the general sense, and, thus, not capable of delivering the “appropriate” label upon another human being, nor upon themselves.
However, there are likely millions who have taken a bite from the forbidden fruit and have no reservations about seeking the god rush of having a handle on a human being, even if they seek no more than a handle on themselves. To label it is to own it, to feel control over it. In fact, we label everything and everybody in some vague sense or another for the practical purpose of yielding a solid field of vision for our operations of living. As Albert Einstein said, “Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” Our security is grounded to the wisps of statistically insignificant “somethings”, dots of energy, interacting in an ocean of nothingness. We are unknowingly perched on a sliver of a ledge, confident in our illusion of security, proclaiming the creatures of our existence to be thus and so, peeling the back off of the labels, and sticking them to their respective foreheads as they pass.
I so wanted my label, my understanding, my security but, alas, this past year, I went too far. I searched too long. I sought to identify my true, accurate, and specific label. Not just for my benefit, but for yours. I wanted all of us to be secure in the knowledge of “what is wrong with that man?” so that I, we, could react appropriately. Instead, Cat won. The promise of specificity was an illusion. Everything promising disintegrated as I approached. There is nothingness. More of it than I can comprehend. And, now, it has filled me up. Please, let us simply agree to say, in a general sense, that I am crazy.
So, having decided upon identifying with the general non-specific label of “crazy”, I am left to decide how to handle my tics, tacs, and toes in light of my newfound understanding, or lack thereof. From henceforth, crazy does as crazy is. The lunatics have always run this asylum anyway. I am simply surrendering the illusion and, I hope, the stress of maintaining it.
This is my loosely knit plan:
• If I feel like I am paranoid, like someone is watching me, I will go stand in front of a security camera, I will mumble loudly while walking erratically through a crowded mall, I will sing badly at a karaoke bar, I will seek minor celebrity, I will do stand-up comedy, or I will act in a play.
• If I feel depressed, I will read about bad things happening to good people, I will think about people that I have loved and lost, I will think about dreams that have died, and/or I will cry.
• If I become obsessed with something, I will make it the center of my universe. I will study it. I will live it. I will love it. I will wear it as my new fashion regardless of the season and for as long as it feels good.
• If I feel a compulsion to do something, I will do it like it is the best damn idea that I have ever had. I will do it until I don’t want to do it anymore. I will do it twice more because I fucking want to, not because I feel like I have to.
• If I feel love for someone, I will love them, damn the consequences. I will love what I know about them. I will love what I don’t know about them. I will love not caring what they want to do in life, only that I want them to DO IT. I will love whatever of it that comes back to me.
• If I feel anxious, I will stand with my fingers in a pot of water while waiting for it to come to a boil, I will rub a balloon until it finally pops, I will place a raw egg in a cup secured to the end of a 3 foot stick and walk around while balancing it on my fingertip, or I will intentionally hold the child support check until the court sends me a notice.
• If I am afraid, I will stand close to a cliff or the roof edge of a tall building, I will cross a busy highway at rush hour, I will pick up a poisonous snake, I will skydive, or I will jump off of a tall rock wall into a flooded quarry.
• If I feel cold, I will put on a coat, I will turn up the heat, or I will go somewhere in the world where it is warm.
• If I feel hot, I will take off my clothes, I will turn down the air conditioner, or I will go somewhere in the world where it is cooler.
• If I feel however and whenever, I will do what I damn well feel like to give it life so long as it is doable and not obviously permanently detrimental to me or those within range of the fallout. I will have faith that I was built this way for some relevant reason, even if I wasn’t. Therefore, I will try not to gum up the consequences with too many good intentions.
I will give my “issues” a reality to exist in and then I will bow and leave the stage, or inch back away from the cliff, or turn from the gravesite, or clean up the egg. I will give them their daylight because they have spent 50 years stuffed in a box. They are crazy and irrational with boredom and neglect. I no longer care to be anything other than who and what I am, whatever that is. And for now, at least until my “issues” can moderate and regain their appropriate dimensions in my spirit, I am crazy. There are many things I have declared that I will do as I move quickly, hopefully, to a full life but there is one affliction that I feel confident about never being able to overcome again. I truly doubt that I will ever be able to make myself do anything that I don’t want to do, for any extended period of time or energy ever again. And that disability is one that I plan to live well with.
There is no single label in the orthodoxy of the Association of Professional People Labelers (APPLe!) that can define a non-dead human being precisely. The process of labeling must intentionally pull up short of the holy grail of specificity because to be too precise is to lose the illusion of correctness, to lose the illusion of the pending declaration of specificity - the promised land of the self-absorbed. If you try to peg the perfect label on a human being, Cat wins. I suspect there are very few true seekers in the ranks of APPLe because the frustration of the process would lead them to declare themselves crazy, in the general sense, and, thus, not capable of delivering the “appropriate” label upon another human being, nor upon themselves.
However, there are likely millions who have taken a bite from the forbidden fruit and have no reservations about seeking the god rush of having a handle on a human being, even if they seek no more than a handle on themselves. To label it is to own it, to feel control over it. In fact, we label everything and everybody in some vague sense or another for the practical purpose of yielding a solid field of vision for our operations of living. As Albert Einstein said, “Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one.” Our security is grounded to the wisps of statistically insignificant “somethings”, dots of energy, interacting in an ocean of nothingness. We are unknowingly perched on a sliver of a ledge, confident in our illusion of security, proclaiming the creatures of our existence to be thus and so, peeling the back off of the labels, and sticking them to their respective foreheads as they pass.
I so wanted my label, my understanding, my security but, alas, this past year, I went too far. I searched too long. I sought to identify my true, accurate, and specific label. Not just for my benefit, but for yours. I wanted all of us to be secure in the knowledge of “what is wrong with that man?” so that I, we, could react appropriately. Instead, Cat won. The promise of specificity was an illusion. Everything promising disintegrated as I approached. There is nothingness. More of it than I can comprehend. And, now, it has filled me up. Please, let us simply agree to say, in a general sense, that I am crazy.
So, having decided upon identifying with the general non-specific label of “crazy”, I am left to decide how to handle my tics, tacs, and toes in light of my newfound understanding, or lack thereof. From henceforth, crazy does as crazy is. The lunatics have always run this asylum anyway. I am simply surrendering the illusion and, I hope, the stress of maintaining it.
This is my loosely knit plan:
• If I feel like I am paranoid, like someone is watching me, I will go stand in front of a security camera, I will mumble loudly while walking erratically through a crowded mall, I will sing badly at a karaoke bar, I will seek minor celebrity, I will do stand-up comedy, or I will act in a play.
• If I feel depressed, I will read about bad things happening to good people, I will think about people that I have loved and lost, I will think about dreams that have died, and/or I will cry.
• If I become obsessed with something, I will make it the center of my universe. I will study it. I will live it. I will love it. I will wear it as my new fashion regardless of the season and for as long as it feels good.
• If I feel a compulsion to do something, I will do it like it is the best damn idea that I have ever had. I will do it until I don’t want to do it anymore. I will do it twice more because I fucking want to, not because I feel like I have to.
• If I feel love for someone, I will love them, damn the consequences. I will love what I know about them. I will love what I don’t know about them. I will love not caring what they want to do in life, only that I want them to DO IT. I will love whatever of it that comes back to me.
• If I feel anxious, I will stand with my fingers in a pot of water while waiting for it to come to a boil, I will rub a balloon until it finally pops, I will place a raw egg in a cup secured to the end of a 3 foot stick and walk around while balancing it on my fingertip, or I will intentionally hold the child support check until the court sends me a notice.
• If I am afraid, I will stand close to a cliff or the roof edge of a tall building, I will cross a busy highway at rush hour, I will pick up a poisonous snake, I will skydive, or I will jump off of a tall rock wall into a flooded quarry.
• If I feel cold, I will put on a coat, I will turn up the heat, or I will go somewhere in the world where it is warm.
• If I feel hot, I will take off my clothes, I will turn down the air conditioner, or I will go somewhere in the world where it is cooler.
• If I feel however and whenever, I will do what I damn well feel like to give it life so long as it is doable and not obviously permanently detrimental to me or those within range of the fallout. I will have faith that I was built this way for some relevant reason, even if I wasn’t. Therefore, I will try not to gum up the consequences with too many good intentions.
I will give my “issues” a reality to exist in and then I will bow and leave the stage, or inch back away from the cliff, or turn from the gravesite, or clean up the egg. I will give them their daylight because they have spent 50 years stuffed in a box. They are crazy and irrational with boredom and neglect. I no longer care to be anything other than who and what I am, whatever that is. And for now, at least until my “issues” can moderate and regain their appropriate dimensions in my spirit, I am crazy. There are many things I have declared that I will do as I move quickly, hopefully, to a full life but there is one affliction that I feel confident about never being able to overcome again. I truly doubt that I will ever be able to make myself do anything that I don’t want to do, for any extended period of time or energy ever again. And that disability is one that I plan to live well with.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Chief Rain Cloud
Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I am in love. I am in love with being alive and I have been for as long as I can remember. Even during times when I was so filled with pain that I was not sure I could bring myself to draw the next breath, there was some longing within that would speak to my comfortless mind and my broken spirit and whisper breathlessly to wait, for this, too, shall pass. I have not loved a shrinking violet. I have loved a steadfast sojourner clicking off its cadence with the consistency of a metronome. No mountain scaled, no valley traversed, in anything but the constant clicking of time. I am but a passenger to the journey of my life. I have the luxury of waiting and resting my mind as life presses relentlessly forward. There are times when I have no choice but to wait and let life move forward without my rapt attention. It does not need my consent. It carries me on through times when I cannot lift my eyes to see what is passing. It is my loss. But it is for the best. In moments of despair, I am aware, in some deep crevice of my heart, in my soul, that life is moving forward and it is safe to believe that there is still a love in me for the miracle of my life. If need be, I can simply close my eyes and wait. I am carried forward in the midst of the worst of life experiences and I am aware that there is still something of value in going with it. If only the marking of time. There is the sweet ache of the expectations love brings. I am in love. Oh, yes, deeply so.
My brother is dead. There’s no use beating around the bush about it. There’s nothing lyrical or magical in being dead. I have faith that God does as he wishes with us when we have marked our time on this planet. I leave the mysteries of what follows life to the moment my life ceases. I hold out hope for something amazing. I don’t demand it. I have something amazing enough to occupy my time for now and I do not want to think beyond the gift of life if I can do otherwise. I hope it is well with my brother. But what I celebrate of him is of the time he was alive.
My brother, Sonny, was a couple of years older than me but we were close to one another in size and people often were not sure which of us was the older of the two. We matured at different rates, both physically and emotionally. We suffered and achieved in uneven measure as we moved through our neighborhoods and schools. Sometimes I lost sight of who was first born and took for myself some of the birthrights of my brother. I was vain enough, and our family had enough turmoil at times, to make such things possible. They seemed relatively minor at the time but I will never fully recover from the scars from the gashes of my conscience upon his death when I realized how I had felt about myself and my brother. I know it is safe to say that he was my best friend and that I loved him dearly. But I also know that it is safe to say that, as the second born, I had the advantage of watching him struggle. I saw him struggle with his relationship with our father. I saw him struggle with peers and school. I watched and I learned and, in many cases, I avoided the suffering that Sonny endured. And, I am ashamed to acknowledge, I began to believe that my smoother path was indicative of some inherent virtue. I began to think I had something that Sonny didn’t have. I don’t think I ever made an overt statement and I know Sonny never let on that my attitude was so repugnant. But it was real. When he died, the realization of how I had felt about him crushed me. It took a long time to understand that, although not perfect by a country mile, Sonny was the most normal person in my family. He lived right up until he died. March 3, 1981.
He was on the USS Belleau Wood, steaming towards the Philippines, south of Guam, tethered in the back of a helicopter, moving around, working and making a difference in his world when the ship rolled and the wind blew and the blades ripped into the catwalk and the ocean took him without a trace. My brother left me in the dust with his work ethic. He was a full grown man when he was on the clock. On his own time, he was a child of wonder and slipped easily into his timeless imagination. He was securely tethered when he died, both to the casket like hold of a marine helicopter and to the points of his life that grounded him in this world. But make no mistake, all but one tether was long and, in the end, all allowed him to soar. I’m sure, in the flash of a few moments, there was recognition, denial, terror, acknowledgment, panic, pain, and release. I can only take comfort in the fact that it was over before I knew about it. I have never suffered in that moment with him because I know he would not want me there. He was my big brother. He looked out for me when he could. His remains lie buried in the dark depths of the Pacific Ocean. Yet I take comfort that, before the wreckage could come to rest, my brother was soaring, un-tethered.
I can see him beyond the rainclouds that he used to point to when he declared the need to bag his papers when the rest of us boys would bet on sunshine in order to avoid the extra time, effort, and expense of bagging. He wasn’t a pessimist. Sonny wanted to make sure his customers got a dry paper. We teased him and called him “Chief Rain Cloud”. Ironic, since it was the rest of us who were doing the dancing and hoping. Sonny just bagged ‘em and delivered ‘em, come what may. His customers loved him. It took me decades to match his work ethic, his desire and willingness to deliver beyond what was required. I struggle to match his desire and willingness to live, loosely tethered and soaring. I aspire still and always to be like my brother, Chief Rain Cloud, come what may.
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
I am in love. I am in love with being alive and I have been for as long as I can remember. Even during times when I was so filled with pain that I was not sure I could bring myself to draw the next breath, there was some longing within that would speak to my comfortless mind and my broken spirit and whisper breathlessly to wait, for this, too, shall pass. I have not loved a shrinking violet. I have loved a steadfast sojourner clicking off its cadence with the consistency of a metronome. No mountain scaled, no valley traversed, in anything but the constant clicking of time. I am but a passenger to the journey of my life. I have the luxury of waiting and resting my mind as life presses relentlessly forward. There are times when I have no choice but to wait and let life move forward without my rapt attention. It does not need my consent. It carries me on through times when I cannot lift my eyes to see what is passing. It is my loss. But it is for the best. In moments of despair, I am aware, in some deep crevice of my heart, in my soul, that life is moving forward and it is safe to believe that there is still a love in me for the miracle of my life. If need be, I can simply close my eyes and wait. I am carried forward in the midst of the worst of life experiences and I am aware that there is still something of value in going with it. If only the marking of time. There is the sweet ache of the expectations love brings. I am in love. Oh, yes, deeply so.
My brother is dead. There’s no use beating around the bush about it. There’s nothing lyrical or magical in being dead. I have faith that God does as he wishes with us when we have marked our time on this planet. I leave the mysteries of what follows life to the moment my life ceases. I hold out hope for something amazing. I don’t demand it. I have something amazing enough to occupy my time for now and I do not want to think beyond the gift of life if I can do otherwise. I hope it is well with my brother. But what I celebrate of him is of the time he was alive.
My brother, Sonny, was a couple of years older than me but we were close to one another in size and people often were not sure which of us was the older of the two. We matured at different rates, both physically and emotionally. We suffered and achieved in uneven measure as we moved through our neighborhoods and schools. Sometimes I lost sight of who was first born and took for myself some of the birthrights of my brother. I was vain enough, and our family had enough turmoil at times, to make such things possible. They seemed relatively minor at the time but I will never fully recover from the scars from the gashes of my conscience upon his death when I realized how I had felt about myself and my brother. I know it is safe to say that he was my best friend and that I loved him dearly. But I also know that it is safe to say that, as the second born, I had the advantage of watching him struggle. I saw him struggle with his relationship with our father. I saw him struggle with peers and school. I watched and I learned and, in many cases, I avoided the suffering that Sonny endured. And, I am ashamed to acknowledge, I began to believe that my smoother path was indicative of some inherent virtue. I began to think I had something that Sonny didn’t have. I don’t think I ever made an overt statement and I know Sonny never let on that my attitude was so repugnant. But it was real. When he died, the realization of how I had felt about him crushed me. It took a long time to understand that, although not perfect by a country mile, Sonny was the most normal person in my family. He lived right up until he died. March 3, 1981.
He was on the USS Belleau Wood, steaming towards the Philippines, south of Guam, tethered in the back of a helicopter, moving around, working and making a difference in his world when the ship rolled and the wind blew and the blades ripped into the catwalk and the ocean took him without a trace. My brother left me in the dust with his work ethic. He was a full grown man when he was on the clock. On his own time, he was a child of wonder and slipped easily into his timeless imagination. He was securely tethered when he died, both to the casket like hold of a marine helicopter and to the points of his life that grounded him in this world. But make no mistake, all but one tether was long and, in the end, all allowed him to soar. I’m sure, in the flash of a few moments, there was recognition, denial, terror, acknowledgment, panic, pain, and release. I can only take comfort in the fact that it was over before I knew about it. I have never suffered in that moment with him because I know he would not want me there. He was my big brother. He looked out for me when he could. His remains lie buried in the dark depths of the Pacific Ocean. Yet I take comfort that, before the wreckage could come to rest, my brother was soaring, un-tethered.
I can see him beyond the rainclouds that he used to point to when he declared the need to bag his papers when the rest of us boys would bet on sunshine in order to avoid the extra time, effort, and expense of bagging. He wasn’t a pessimist. Sonny wanted to make sure his customers got a dry paper. We teased him and called him “Chief Rain Cloud”. Ironic, since it was the rest of us who were doing the dancing and hoping. Sonny just bagged ‘em and delivered ‘em, come what may. His customers loved him. It took me decades to match his work ethic, his desire and willingness to deliver beyond what was required. I struggle to match his desire and willingness to live, loosely tethered and soaring. I aspire still and always to be like my brother, Chief Rain Cloud, come what may.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
SELLING THE SOUTH...
My new job is a replay of my old job with the same company from 16 years earlier, only under vastly different circumstances. One of the circumstances that remain the same, however, is the fact that traveling throughout the region is a weekly requirement. I live in the upstate of South Carolina. The extremes of my territory are effectively bounded by the ancient ridges of the Appalachian Mountains to the west and by the salt marshes and coastal sands of the Atlantic Ocean to the east. As a child of the South, I am thankful that I am not required to learn a new culture in which to transact business. I am older now and set in my ways. The very idea of transacting business north of the Mason-Dixon on a routine basis, at this point in my life, might be a hurdle my aging legs cannot clear. As it is, I had the opportunity to spend a few moments at the grave of a childhood hero, “Stonewall” Jackson, on a recent journey to my northern most accounts. I left assured that Virginia, despite snow in the winter and the infiltration of northern migrants, is securely Southern and, as such, a region in which I am at home.
At this time, there is little reason to consider traveling further South than Tallahassee, FL for business. That pretty much assures that I work in a region solidly “Southern” because, as most of us Southerners should know, any place South of Tallahassee is really not the South any more. I conducted what I call “the great tea survey” back in the latter part of the previous century. I stopped at various exits along the interstate and ordered iced tea without any further instruction to the waitress. I then waited to find out what the underlying assumption was, on the part of the establishment, as to the proper state of tea when referred to without adjectives. Did they assume I wanted sweet tea or did they assume I wanted un-sweet tea? Somewhere between Tallahassee and Gainesville, the state of Florida transitions from sweet Southern to un-sweet Yankee. That’s as far as you need to go for the purposes of selling in the South. I am sure there are places in which the great tea survey might measure the transition from the assumption of iced tea to hot tea but, frankly, I believe it would be some strange region of the world beyond the borders of the United States. In that respect, at least, we can find some basis of shared values with our Yankee countrymen. At least, thank God, there is that.
It might also be interesting to note that somewhere down around Fort Lauderdale, the state of Florida transitions into a Latin country. But that is superfluous information to selling in the south. Just to be on the safe side when I do travel there, I always carry my passport with me. You never know when you go that far south. South, that is, in the sense of the direction on the compass. I must pause here to ask forgiveness in advance from my native Alabama born Southerners. We know there is no place more passionately Southern than our homeland. Our blood is colored by her red clay soil. But in the history of the South, the great state of Alabama is one of the newer kids on the block. For history and for the evolution of the Southern ethos, the Southern compass points clearly to Charleston, SC.
Southern is a convenient reference from a past when foreigners looked at maps of a new land and oriented themselves by the obvious geographic association to the points of a compass. I don’t know another term that could supplant it without attaching a lot of political baggage. Southern distinguishes us as a distinct grouping within the larger group, American. It is the only word I can think of that satisfies our need to be identified as a separate from the rest of the country and yet, by definition, an integral part of it. We are not Balkans, Croats, Georgians, Baptists, Jews, Mormons, or Klingons. We are Southerners. A proud, distinct culture based upon inherent regional traditions that are poorly understood by foreigners and poorly articulated by Southerners. But it is within this region that I am at home. It is within this region that allows for me to communicate with even those who come from outside my beloved South because the South exudes a subtly transforming elixir that is absorbed through the senses. It is the slow dance of common consideration and unspoken nuance, which molds foreigners into people that I can work with. Oh, I’m sure I could manage a miserable year or two working in the north, but I could not sustain it. I can sell the South for the rest of my life. And when I am weary and wary of the road and I wonder about the changes penetrating the region, I go to Charleston and I sit in a shaded courtyard and I let memories wash through me sweeter than the cold, sweating glass of tea held in my hands and I let Charleston remind me that centuries can pass and changes can come. The South endures. I can sell the South again…
At this time, there is little reason to consider traveling further South than Tallahassee, FL for business. That pretty much assures that I work in a region solidly “Southern” because, as most of us Southerners should know, any place South of Tallahassee is really not the South any more. I conducted what I call “the great tea survey” back in the latter part of the previous century. I stopped at various exits along the interstate and ordered iced tea without any further instruction to the waitress. I then waited to find out what the underlying assumption was, on the part of the establishment, as to the proper state of tea when referred to without adjectives. Did they assume I wanted sweet tea or did they assume I wanted un-sweet tea? Somewhere between Tallahassee and Gainesville, the state of Florida transitions from sweet Southern to un-sweet Yankee. That’s as far as you need to go for the purposes of selling in the South. I am sure there are places in which the great tea survey might measure the transition from the assumption of iced tea to hot tea but, frankly, I believe it would be some strange region of the world beyond the borders of the United States. In that respect, at least, we can find some basis of shared values with our Yankee countrymen. At least, thank God, there is that.
It might also be interesting to note that somewhere down around Fort Lauderdale, the state of Florida transitions into a Latin country. But that is superfluous information to selling in the south. Just to be on the safe side when I do travel there, I always carry my passport with me. You never know when you go that far south. South, that is, in the sense of the direction on the compass. I must pause here to ask forgiveness in advance from my native Alabama born Southerners. We know there is no place more passionately Southern than our homeland. Our blood is colored by her red clay soil. But in the history of the South, the great state of Alabama is one of the newer kids on the block. For history and for the evolution of the Southern ethos, the Southern compass points clearly to Charleston, SC.
Southern is a convenient reference from a past when foreigners looked at maps of a new land and oriented themselves by the obvious geographic association to the points of a compass. I don’t know another term that could supplant it without attaching a lot of political baggage. Southern distinguishes us as a distinct grouping within the larger group, American. It is the only word I can think of that satisfies our need to be identified as a separate from the rest of the country and yet, by definition, an integral part of it. We are not Balkans, Croats, Georgians, Baptists, Jews, Mormons, or Klingons. We are Southerners. A proud, distinct culture based upon inherent regional traditions that are poorly understood by foreigners and poorly articulated by Southerners. But it is within this region that I am at home. It is within this region that allows for me to communicate with even those who come from outside my beloved South because the South exudes a subtly transforming elixir that is absorbed through the senses. It is the slow dance of common consideration and unspoken nuance, which molds foreigners into people that I can work with. Oh, I’m sure I could manage a miserable year or two working in the north, but I could not sustain it. I can sell the South for the rest of my life. And when I am weary and wary of the road and I wonder about the changes penetrating the region, I go to Charleston and I sit in a shaded courtyard and I let memories wash through me sweeter than the cold, sweating glass of tea held in my hands and I let Charleston remind me that centuries can pass and changes can come. The South endures. I can sell the South again…
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
25 RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME. A SHAMELESS FACEBOOK RETREAD...
1. I just lost over 200 pounds! (I sold my weights today.)
2. I live near Greenville, SC. I’m divorced (twice). I have two children, Grant (14) and Lizzy (11). They keep me here. Sometimes against my will.
3. I am am a salesman/project manager for a specialty contractor that designs, manufactures, installs, and maintains corrosion ressistant linings in process vessels in the paper, chemical, and power industries. It’s not what I am. It’s what I do. I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. In the mean time, I sell and manage.
4. I am a Tiger twice. Graduated from Auburn and from Clemson. Paw power helps with the locals but there is only one battle cry that stirs my spirit. War Eagle!
5. After learning that a classmate from my acting classes at Auburn was a regular on Johnny Carson and a cast member on Saturday Night Live (Victoria Jackson), I managed to get myself fired from my first post-college job and I ran away to Hollywood, CA. I stayed 24 hours. I was not discovered.
6. God is real. I’m not so sure about us.
7. I want to own and operate a 100 acre worm farm.
8. I just learned that there are no frog farms in the United States and that the US is the second largest importer of frog legs in the world. Hmmm. Is this not a country of opportunities or what?! Ribbit!
9. I recently finished an improvisation class at a local theatre. Fun!
10. I am officially an unemployed actor with no experience and no prospects. I have arrived. Life is good!
11. I think my sister is the coolest chick I know.
12. I still get people telling me (albeit rarely now) that my election speech for student council president, way back in 1977, was one of the funniest things they had ever seen. I like that because the coolest sound that I have ever heard was seven or eight hundred kids laughing all at once.
13. People say nice things to me sometimes. I’m finally starting to believe them.
14. I’ve been accepted to the PhD program in Technology Management (Construction) at Indiana State University. It’s a distance learning program and I’m scheduled to start in the fall. I’m still thinking about whether or not I’m up to it. I still harbor this fantasy about teaching as a working retirement.
15. I love being southern!
16. I miss my brother, Sonny. Lost at sea in a helicopter crash March 3, 1981. Life changed fundamentally from that moment on. Those of us who have lost a loved one in service to this country, whether in war or in preparation for it, understand the true cost of defending our freedom and security. I am radically, unapologetically pro-America. God bless this great country and her citizens. Semper Fidelis.
17. I can’t help myself, I love being irreverent.
18. I want to live in a motorhome and move from place to place at the drop of a hat.
19. I love speed and competition. I want get and race a 600 Racing Thunder Roadster.
20. If I had been raised Catholic (instead of converting in my 30’s) and had known about contemplative (centering) prayer before I had any children, I would have joined a monastery. Yeah, really.
21. If I had joined a monastery, I would have been kicked out for my inability to stifle irreverent remarks and my lifelong commitment to the belief that the only mistake Jesus ever made was to leave it up to his disciples to get it right for posterity. The Truth is what transcends the packaging and posturing. Very little tolerance out there for heresy within the Christian culture. Makes for some lonely Sundays.
22. Deep inside, I am such a hippie.
23. I have a pilot’s license (not current). When things got tough, I formulated a plan to rent a plane, head it towards the gulf on autopilot, parachute out over Harpersville, get my motorcycle out of the 280 storage shed, and head off into the sunset to start a new life. But then I found out it has already been done…
24. I wish I had a trade.
25. I want to ride a motorcycle to the tip of South America and back.
26. I miss Ronald Reagan (and the rest of his great generation).
27. Depression kills. I’ve been through it. I understand it. I don’t know the details of the recent suicide of a high school friend. I had not seen her since high school but I thought she was an awesome human being. The news struck me like a hammer to the head. Let me make this clear. If any of you people ever feel like you are ready to kill yourself, CALL ME, 24/7, 864-414-5219. Find me if I’ve changed numbers. I don’t’ care if we haven’t seen each other in 50 years or if we barely ever knew one another. I’ll come get you no matter where you are. I promise. There will be another sunrise, in more ways than one, you can rest assured of that. Many of us share a common history. It is there for a reason, to give us meaning, perspective, and support. Use it.
28. I have inertia. I am slowww to get going but, once in motion, difficult to stop. (No charge for the extra 3.)
2. I live near Greenville, SC. I’m divorced (twice). I have two children, Grant (14) and Lizzy (11). They keep me here. Sometimes against my will.
3. I am am a salesman/project manager for a specialty contractor that designs, manufactures, installs, and maintains corrosion ressistant linings in process vessels in the paper, chemical, and power industries. It’s not what I am. It’s what I do. I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. In the mean time, I sell and manage.
4. I am a Tiger twice. Graduated from Auburn and from Clemson. Paw power helps with the locals but there is only one battle cry that stirs my spirit. War Eagle!
5. After learning that a classmate from my acting classes at Auburn was a regular on Johnny Carson and a cast member on Saturday Night Live (Victoria Jackson), I managed to get myself fired from my first post-college job and I ran away to Hollywood, CA. I stayed 24 hours. I was not discovered.
6. God is real. I’m not so sure about us.
7. I want to own and operate a 100 acre worm farm.
8. I just learned that there are no frog farms in the United States and that the US is the second largest importer of frog legs in the world. Hmmm. Is this not a country of opportunities or what?! Ribbit!
9. I recently finished an improvisation class at a local theatre. Fun!
10. I am officially an unemployed actor with no experience and no prospects. I have arrived. Life is good!
11. I think my sister is the coolest chick I know.
12. I still get people telling me (albeit rarely now) that my election speech for student council president, way back in 1977, was one of the funniest things they had ever seen. I like that because the coolest sound that I have ever heard was seven or eight hundred kids laughing all at once.
13. People say nice things to me sometimes. I’m finally starting to believe them.
14. I’ve been accepted to the PhD program in Technology Management (Construction) at Indiana State University. It’s a distance learning program and I’m scheduled to start in the fall. I’m still thinking about whether or not I’m up to it. I still harbor this fantasy about teaching as a working retirement.
15. I love being southern!
16. I miss my brother, Sonny. Lost at sea in a helicopter crash March 3, 1981. Life changed fundamentally from that moment on. Those of us who have lost a loved one in service to this country, whether in war or in preparation for it, understand the true cost of defending our freedom and security. I am radically, unapologetically pro-America. God bless this great country and her citizens. Semper Fidelis.
17. I can’t help myself, I love being irreverent.
18. I want to live in a motorhome and move from place to place at the drop of a hat.
19. I love speed and competition. I want get and race a 600 Racing Thunder Roadster.
20. If I had been raised Catholic (instead of converting in my 30’s) and had known about contemplative (centering) prayer before I had any children, I would have joined a monastery. Yeah, really.
21. If I had joined a monastery, I would have been kicked out for my inability to stifle irreverent remarks and my lifelong commitment to the belief that the only mistake Jesus ever made was to leave it up to his disciples to get it right for posterity. The Truth is what transcends the packaging and posturing. Very little tolerance out there for heresy within the Christian culture. Makes for some lonely Sundays.
22. Deep inside, I am such a hippie.
23. I have a pilot’s license (not current). When things got tough, I formulated a plan to rent a plane, head it towards the gulf on autopilot, parachute out over Harpersville, get my motorcycle out of the 280 storage shed, and head off into the sunset to start a new life. But then I found out it has already been done…
24. I wish I had a trade.
25. I want to ride a motorcycle to the tip of South America and back.
26. I miss Ronald Reagan (and the rest of his great generation).
27. Depression kills. I’ve been through it. I understand it. I don’t know the details of the recent suicide of a high school friend. I had not seen her since high school but I thought she was an awesome human being. The news struck me like a hammer to the head. Let me make this clear. If any of you people ever feel like you are ready to kill yourself, CALL ME, 24/7, 864-414-5219. Find me if I’ve changed numbers. I don’t’ care if we haven’t seen each other in 50 years or if we barely ever knew one another. I’ll come get you no matter where you are. I promise. There will be another sunrise, in more ways than one, you can rest assured of that. Many of us share a common history. It is there for a reason, to give us meaning, perspective, and support. Use it.
28. I have inertia. I am slowww to get going but, once in motion, difficult to stop. (No charge for the extra 3.)
Sunday, April 26, 2009
MORNING IN MAYBERRY...
It is morning. I am sitting in a small room at the 27 room Mayberry Motor Inn in Mount Airy, NC with a coffee from the nearby McDonald’s 24 hr drive through. No coffeemaker in the room. The motel looks to have been built in the early 1960’s. It is clean and well maintained by Alma Venable, whom I would assume to be the owner. It is a clean, functional, safe place to sleep, bathe, and prepare for the new day at a fair price. In any other town, it is the type of motel that I would have driven by on the way to a chain brand where, for 50% more, I would have the reasonable assurance that there would be a coffee maker in the room and twice the floor space. Here, however, I sit in this tiny little room fully aware of the fact that it is everything I need and, in this context, everything I want. Yet I know I am just visiting a place in time, a level of expectations and acceptability, which will shift towards bigger, newer, larger, and “better” when I drive out of town today. I wish it wouldn’t.
For today, however, I am in The Andy Griffith Show and Mayberry R.F.D and I settle that annoying little precursor of discontent in my gut with the idea that I am Barney Fife and I am spending some adventure time in a simple room away from home at the Mount Pilot YMCA where there is a twin sized bed, no phone, and the shared bathroom is down the hall. I am Barney, sitting on the side of the bed looking out the window as the sun rises and I am thinking to myself that this is a great day to be alive in the metropolis of Mount Pilot where there is so much to see and do. I am Barney, reaching for a pen to scribble a line on the postcard that I bought at the front desk so I can send it to Andy to tell him what a swell time I am going to have, feeling the need to get it in the mail quickly so as not to beat the delivery of it back to Mayberry. I figure that it should be there in three days and I (Barney) am staying in Mount Pilot for four, a day longer than originally planned, insuring that it will be in Andy's hands before I get back to Mayberry. Barney and I smile at the idea of Andy holding the card and imagining us having such a fine time. We wonder if it might not be better to be there when he gets it so we can enjoy watching him read it for the first time. It sho' does feel gooood thinkin' 'bout gettin' thought about...
Yep, I think the office is open now. Think I’ll stroll past the replica of the Mayberry squad car and Emmett’s Repair Shop truck on the way and get me another cup of coffee. Alma has an “Aunt Bee” room in the office, too, with all kinds of memorabilia from Frances Bavier’s estate, including some items from the show. If she’s up and moving around I might get her to tell me a little bit about when she was Andy Griffith’s mother’s hair dresser back in the day. I told her when I checked in that I was born and raised in Sylacauga, AL but I had never met Jim Nabors (Gomer Pyle) though I knew people who knew him personally or were kin to him. Alma told me that she had been invited down to Jim’s induction into some Hall of Fame in Alabama but she didn’t go. I don’t know if that coincided with the big Jim Nabors Day event that was held in Sylacauga years ago. I was out of town at the time. In any case, I was curious about the importance of having Jim’s friend Andy Griffith’s mother’s hair dresser on the invitation list but, hey, it’s a small town. It would have been rude not to invite her. Nooo. Uh-uh. It just wouldn’t do to be thought of as rude. No, siree, sir...
Yep. Think I’ll mosey on over there and get me that cup o’ joe…
For today, however, I am in The Andy Griffith Show and Mayberry R.F.D and I settle that annoying little precursor of discontent in my gut with the idea that I am Barney Fife and I am spending some adventure time in a simple room away from home at the Mount Pilot YMCA where there is a twin sized bed, no phone, and the shared bathroom is down the hall. I am Barney, sitting on the side of the bed looking out the window as the sun rises and I am thinking to myself that this is a great day to be alive in the metropolis of Mount Pilot where there is so much to see and do. I am Barney, reaching for a pen to scribble a line on the postcard that I bought at the front desk so I can send it to Andy to tell him what a swell time I am going to have, feeling the need to get it in the mail quickly so as not to beat the delivery of it back to Mayberry. I figure that it should be there in three days and I (Barney) am staying in Mount Pilot for four, a day longer than originally planned, insuring that it will be in Andy's hands before I get back to Mayberry. Barney and I smile at the idea of Andy holding the card and imagining us having such a fine time. We wonder if it might not be better to be there when he gets it so we can enjoy watching him read it for the first time. It sho' does feel gooood thinkin' 'bout gettin' thought about...
Yep, I think the office is open now. Think I’ll stroll past the replica of the Mayberry squad car and Emmett’s Repair Shop truck on the way and get me another cup of coffee. Alma has an “Aunt Bee” room in the office, too, with all kinds of memorabilia from Frances Bavier’s estate, including some items from the show. If she’s up and moving around I might get her to tell me a little bit about when she was Andy Griffith’s mother’s hair dresser back in the day. I told her when I checked in that I was born and raised in Sylacauga, AL but I had never met Jim Nabors (Gomer Pyle) though I knew people who knew him personally or were kin to him. Alma told me that she had been invited down to Jim’s induction into some Hall of Fame in Alabama but she didn’t go. I don’t know if that coincided with the big Jim Nabors Day event that was held in Sylacauga years ago. I was out of town at the time. In any case, I was curious about the importance of having Jim’s friend Andy Griffith’s mother’s hair dresser on the invitation list but, hey, it’s a small town. It would have been rude not to invite her. Nooo. Uh-uh. It just wouldn’t do to be thought of as rude. No, siree, sir...
Yep. Think I’ll mosey on over there and get me that cup o’ joe…
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