Human and Feline Condition

“To him, who still would gaze upon the glory of the summer sun, there comes, when that sun will from him part, a sullen hopelessness of heart.” - Edgar Allan Poe 

I used to read more. The other night I stood reviewing the shelves of our library consisting of classic Hawthorne, Longfellow, and Poe. They sat right next to Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Philip Roth, and, my favorite, Jim Harrison. I sighed. I’d like to reread some of them as I’m sure my former self had no idea of the perspective I hold now. I’m sure they would read different for me today. Those authors were are all unique, yet all passionately articulate and poignantly eloquent on the varying degrees and perspectives of the human condition.

From this vantage point, today’s human condition and a broad view of modern life resembles much of what is disliked about the “happiest place on earth”. For a fairly steep price, one jumps on the “high school graduation – college – girlfriend/boyfriend – graduation – career – marriage – pets – parenthood – PTA meetings – 40 something – community volunteerism – career number two – kid graduations – aging parents – and stuff not yet conquered” ride where we blog, document, and record each meal, gathering, and event while screaming toward the ultimate exit, which sounds more and more like a long discussion about Sansabelt pants. Just a single day involves an alarm at dark thirty to work out, a glance through an online paper during a ten minute power breakfast, a flurry to make kid lunches, beat the rush to drop off said kids at school, careen into work, email, texts, errands or meetings at lunch, work, quick stop for some forgotten thing on the dash home, snail mail assessment, cooking, forced quality time at dinner with events of the day retold, clean-up, kid homework monitored, more email, media check, pet check, teeth brushed, goodnight kisses, alarms set, schedule for the next day reviewed, and … bed. And I’m sure I missed something. But, it is Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride for reals.

A couple of months ago, our waiflike cat became ill. She couldn’t move. We watched her struggle. We nursed her as best we could. My wife fit vet schedules into an already stupid schedule of her own. It threw a wrench into a barely tuned machine. On top of it all, it was mentally and emotionally draining. The good news is the petite cat is doing better now, albeit a bit wobbly. She might always be that way. We shall see.

But this weekend something typical happened, though often overlooked. Maybe it was the first real observed moments to feel like Spring. Perhaps it was a break after all the laundry, house cleaning, vacuuming, and grocery shopping. It could have been the exhaustion after all the mowing, weeding, fertilizing, planting, and fixing irrigation lines. But, our frail, dainty cat ventured outside for the first time in a long time. And, we stopped.

We stopped. We sat down on the sidewalk in the sun. We listened to birds and distant barks. We compared cloud formations and jet streams. We talked. We laughed. And, our hearts filled with joy as our little, feline companion did a “stop, drop, and roll,” something physically not possible the last couple of months.

Our Lucky kitty was – and is – a simple reminder that despite our personal, puffed-up significance and all our interminable scurrying around in this crazy jaunt of life, one’s wild ride doesn’t always head in the direction we planned. There is often great loss and unavoidable sorrow—and that sometimes there is a rare delight in acknowledging we are, more often than not, helpless in the face of it all.

I needed a reminder. That is why I desire a good book.

Remains of a Man's Day

That haunting movie was on again the other day and, after hours on the road within the last few weeks, it hasn't quite left the brain. The other day the t.v. remote found the instinctive impulse to stop and take another peak, if only to remind oneself of the soft underbelly of a respectful, middle-aged man. It isn't quite the Halloween scare you'd think, but rather a mental numbness of another sort.

It has been over 20 years since I was dragged kicking and screaming to see the movie The Remains of the Day. Yet the image of Anthony Hopkins, Mr. Stevens the Butler, sticks in one’s mind. Although the character is a man of honor and dignity, he is, for the most part, alone and unfulfilled. Empty. It is a fairly dark image of a man countered by a hefty respect for long hours, hard work, and putting the needs of others first.

It isn't currently important, really, just timely. When the movie was released in the early late 80s I saw it and I understood it, but did not truly get it. Fresh out of college, not yet married, and just starting a professional life of work, I was still in the making. The movie should have been forgettable and unremarkable to the college self save for the fact I knew men like Mr. Stevens. I worked with them. They were former professors. They were the middle class dads of friends and collegues who grew out of the depression era influenced generation ahead of me. It is a bit of my own father, who devoted his artistic soul to a vibrant career in music to struggle with early retirement and only a handful of gigs to satisfy his soul. And it is now me, twenty years into a career of giving my talents and dedication to one work project after another and coming home to happily cook, chauffer the kids, and attend to all the elements divorced/re-married dads do.

The Mr. Stevens character tapped into the silence and the unspoken hush of most dignified men. His self reflection is not lost on me. It is the dark, tacit part of us men not often shared. Though it could be Halloween-esque, it isn’t really a scary depressing place at all. It resembles center stage of an empty theater with a single, glowing bulb. It is a cigar, a glass of scotch, and an hour by oneself on the back patio. It is fishing or driving in silence. It is being. Respectful. Contemplative. Alone.

Men don’t share it because the answer is almost too simple. Get into the game. Stay in the light. Just leave the darkened mind-set and let that Emma Thompson character know of your true feelings and life can be complete. Yes, it can. I have. And, I am immensely happier for making the leap and trusting again. I didn't follow the script. But...

Apologies if you have read to this end with no real conclusion to offer up. All this rambling makes for incredibly boring reading, I'm sure. Most blogs of note get much further in today’s on-line culture by loudly bitching about something. But, to mer there is a sense of celebration in the balance between a man’s light and dark. One thrives in this balance. And that is ok.

Although he wasn't a role model, per se, Mr. Stevens taught me something once. And it has become clearer at the end of this day.

Not the First Time, But the Last

The Past is the textbook of tyrants; the Future the Bible of the Free. Those who are solely governed by the Past stand like Lot's wife, crystallized in the act of looking backward, and forever incapable of looking before. - Herman Melville, White Jacket

Memories are odd. Old habits die hard. But, what if IT was the last time? Would you do IT differently?

I had a quick trip up to San Francisco the other day and took the opportunity to search the FM band for music. A random radio station and a familiar song by The Who jogged the memory. I was transported back to the last time I stood in my basement hideaway in Michigan, right before the big move to California and my Junior year in high school. Everything was boxed up save for one record album and the stereo. I’d been unyielding in leaving the two items last and not get packed until the last possible minute. Before unplugging and walking out of my room and the house, I needed to say goodbye. I guess fifteen year old boys can be sentimental that way sometimes. So, the memory revealed “The Song is Over” as a personal, musical soundtrack to the end of a Michigan era. That song and that moment are one in my head forever.

There are moments in time denoted as an ending. Monumental endings are rare, but regularly celebrated or marked. Minor endings get washed away regularly. Maybe they shouldn’t be.

This could be the last EHTH blog post (doubtful, but it could happen). Maybe I should write this post differently, no?!

This could be the last Mac I own (doubtful, but things do change). I’ve also watched friends and colleagues convert to the Mac, yet there was not much talk about ending their PC affiliation.

That might have been the last time I imbibed a Pozo Martini (I’d hate for that to be true, yet I haven’t been out there in over three years). I remember the kids running around, a Spring day, bbq smells, and cold mason jar with bouncing olives. If I never go back, maybe that is a good last memory to file away.

Fashion IS change. It might be the last time you wear those favorite jeans. One day you may look in the mirror and see yourself in clothes from the 90s. Don’t you know the 70s are back? Maybe you should take those wonderful shoes out for one last walk around the block, just to say thanks for kickin’ it with me, before you casually chuck them in the trash.

The last time the diner club got together, it seemed unceremoniously forced and not fresh. That is no way to hang with longtime friends. That simply can’t be the last one. I won’t allow it. We should treat each gathering as if it was a special event as it very well could be monumental.

My wife and I just returned from a Marriage Encounter program, a retreat in the hills near San Juan Bautista. We had an incredible journey together, one which shall be cherished and referenced for years to come. One of the program questions asked, “What would you say to your spouse if you knew this was the last time the two of you could be together?” We wrote to each other, we talked about it afterwards, and we reached new levels of love and understanding. If something were to tragically happen, she knows now. But that is a tough question to talk about much less live with on a daily basis.

Flip it around. Think about it another way. We covet our cell phones like life itself, yet two years later we throw it away because the plan says we can. I change glasses every time I get the yearly vision check without batting an eye. We seek new wineries because vintages and winemakers change (and they no longer make that oaky, buttery chardonnay anymore, and have gone all stainless and minerally… bleah!). Google or Bing, does it matter?

Brand identity has become elusive in a disposable society, not always, but often. And, we rarely denote the switch from one thing to another.

If you knew today was your last chance or your last time with something, would you do it differently? I think the answer is yes.

So, maybe the saying should be changed from “live and let live” to “live and let go” … with everything.

Make!

The pseudo, New Year’s resolution was to (re) Make. To Make!

Making is what artists and craftspeople and musicians and chefs and winemakers do. They Make!

It is not the canvas or the instrument or baton or cut of meat or varietal of grapes. It is not whether it hangs on a wall or you consume it. No. Art is not those things.

What matters most is the artistic process. It is the act of making, overcoming inner doubt or an unusual harvest. It is cooking with limited spices, yet creating immense flavor. It is music created by scientists and lead by an artist who knows how to make the most out of what they offer. It is painting from the heart to purge out an image ingrained in the brain. It is the blend, the touch, the subtlety.

Art appreciation is undoubtedly an important end product. Acceptance, kudos, and applause is always the sugar on top. But artistic creation, overcoming risk, and making something happen is in the soul of the artist.

Make!

Maybe This Year, Then

Maybe this year,

The economy completely recovers.
The $300 I loaned out is returned (after two years).
The go-ahead for that next big project is granted.
Family life stabilizes.
The kids turn into adventurous eaters.
Technology mastery is achieved.
The commute becomes milder.
Leisure time is prevalent.
Gas prices drop while the mpg triples.
The housing market normalizes.
Global warming reverses.

Then, I can,

Paint and draw.
Write and blog.
Discover new music, live music.
Read.
Garden and grow things.
Build and construct.
Travel and explore.
Cook new things.

The point is none of the Maybes are likely to happen. So, why wait on the stuff I really want make. Remember Rule number Six.

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!