Can you get to that? I want to know

I once had a life, or rather
Life had me
I was one among many
Or at least I seemed to be
Well, I read an old quotation in a book just yesterday
Said "Gonna reap just what you sow,
The debts you make you have to pay."
Can you get to that?
Can you get (I wanna know)
I want to know if you can get to that (hey!) (get to that!)
Can you get (can you get to that)(I wanna know)I want to know if you can get to that – Funkadelic

I must admit to bit of writer’s block, although it feels more encompassing. My computer archive folder with all my “thoughts on paper” looks more like a smattering of words on the screen with little current meaning. Now that I have (almost) completely unwrapped my brain from last month’s move and merge, I look at myself and feel nowhere close to any expected routine. Granted, there has been little regular practice of any sort for a year or so now. And it isn’t just the writing now either. Cooking, exercising, music, reading, painting/drawing, as well as this creative outlet called writing, have all fallen off the regular radar.

But I have to admit, I feel ready. I want to get to that.

A day or two ago, I read in a fitness magazine (while in line at the grocery store) that even if one doesn’t feel like exercising or working out at least get up and make the attempt, that each individual has a personal “point of no return,” where, once you’ve reached it you’ll complete the workout. For me, my “point of no return” for exercise is simply getting my feet on the floor at 5 a.m. and out from the warmth of the snuggle. Once upright in the morning, I have no problem with the rest of the exercise program (as long as my iPod is charged).

Cooking still happens out of necessity, love, and fatherly duty. But it is far away from the way it used to be organized. I once had a chalkboard in the kitchen that displayed the scheduled meals for the week. Originally, this was out of necessity in order to avoid the post-work “what do you want to have for dinner?” conversation, the post-work run to the store, and the subsequent unhealthy options that inevitably became dinner due to the lack of time. With the chalkboard, there was no stall to think and debate. I simply made what was planned and on the board. Early Saturday mornings the quiet of the house is rather Zen-like with a cup of coffee, the weekly grocery ads spread out on the kitchen table, and blank menu board awaiting the plan for the week’s dinner menu/shopping list. In fact, the Saturday morning ritual only got better as The Girlie joined in on the tradition. So, what is the P.O.N.R. here? It is simply the chalkboard. Unfortunately, at the last house I created a bad, bumpy chalkboard with blackboard paint. I’ve been artistically offended at my own handy work since then. So, using it ceased. As a result, the weekly routine suffered. So, this weekend the board is getting sanded (after some quiet time with a cup of coffee and the grocery ads). I can get to that.

I can get to that!

Birthday Drive

This highway rocked of craters and boulders
Has wound around unto a new road.
It is rife and rippling with frustrations and rage.
Yet, the love and the calm of a cruise.

The rearview mirror reveals the many
Lefts and rights and the wrongs.
Only the horizon tempts with a rising sun
If I can stay within the guardrails of sanity.

I hold no regrets. Although, I have heart aches.
I get past them, around them, and through them,
Steering clear of them by looking ahead.
Tunnel vision forward. There’s no more what could have been.

I’ve always identified the family man, me.
I was one before family became true.
I wonder if I should change self-perception,
When they’re half the time not with you.

On this day on the morning commute, alone and quiet,
I wonder if the man I used to be, my younger self,
Could understand the path I have become.
That I no longer follow that map anymore,
That now I navigate my way better without one.

Dead Time

My watch died. It could be the battery. It is one of those self-winding deals. So I'm not sure and will try to find some "time" to take it in.

In the meantime, I've been window shopping. This, from Crispin Jones, I really, really like.The only thing is I'd like to be able to recreate the schedule to reflect my actual typical day.

Your Dates and Numbers and Time Frames

Birthdays are funny. The animal kingdom knows nothing of this practice since only the hyenas have a sense of humor albeit a mean, Bart Simpson-esque one at that. But us humans make a big deal of these dates and numbers and time frames.

“Let them eat cake!” – Unknown

As kids, birthdays were the next best thing to Christmas for most of us. Maybe better even, as they encouraged an air of self-indulgence and certain rights to do stuff on the special day. Kids love that stuff. Birthdays are parties, presents, and a seat at the head of the table for a change.

And then a few more years fly by and that all fades with the weighty task of acknowledging the dates and numbers and time frames. Most of us (Mud) maintain our birthday joy. Others don't as their dates have a significance best left unspoken and not acknowledged. Their numbers reveal meaning. And their time frames illustrate a certain gravity. Gravity. The root word equates with grave.

Hell, I guess, maybe, you are right. What does it matter for you any way, we all are spiraling our way toward compost no matter what we do. So yeah, 50 in a couple years, not a big deal so don’t make it one. How one feels about it is pretty insignificant considering the bazillions of humans who have treaded this exact path before. Ones life is nothing more than a blip on the radar of a map of the universe. You spend a nano-instant flailing with other humans scratching out an existence that might mean something, or not. It’ll all be over before you know it anyway. You hurt. You pain. You hope you have a few good times along the way, like the rest of the human race. And then you die. It’ll have a date. It’ll recognize a couple of your numbers. And the time frame on the tombstone denotes the gravity of one’s life awake. If you’re lucky, some other schmucks might talk about you and say nice things. So, skip the celebration. Ignore the date. Numbers mean nothing. And that time thing (waggle a finger in the air), just an illusion. Forget it all.

I hope it isn't the case anymore. It should be your happy day. It was once a long time ago.

I was thinking about giving you an impossible, backwards gift in sort of "Groundhog Day"-esque fashion. It might not work for you, but it might if it created positive change. If I could I would give you the knowledge of the calendar day you are going to die. Not the year, just the month and the day. Then, every year when you live to see another day/year, you can celebrate the way that most of us celebrate birthdays. To live another year in a pursuit of joy and a good life.

I do hope you have a happy birthday. I do.