There was a time when I made the Boise run and it was filled with adventure. There was a time when I would go down the road with a pad and pencil by my side, ready to jot down imagery at seventy miles an hour just so I could plug it into a letter to you once I hit the Meridian library or got back home. There was a time when I felt powerful, indignant, villified, somewhat unhinged by all the drama that those rides represented.
It was a heady time, those days when I would take to the road in that old Honda wagon of mine in search of my family and my reeling mind and my ragged heart. Those were the days when I was told to fill up the car with things that everyone on that end needed. Those were the days when I was told to bring the kid's clothes and their toys and books and bedding. Slowly but surely I drained the life blood out of this house and replaced it with some sort of alternative universe that only I knew about and could understand and was willing to deal with.
There was a time when I made that thousand mile run and it was a pleasure of sorts. I would take the trip and fill it full of stops, packed it full of second handing and road food and visions. I remember all too well all the times I pulled to the side of the road just to talk to you. There was a time when I couldn't get too far outside of La Grande before I had to stop, for if I didn't I wouldn't find reception, couldn't hear your words, feel your voice, until I hit Boise or Pendleton. There was a time when I would spend the night before my run not only cleaning the house but writing a poem or a long letter to you. Sometimes those words, that effort, just flamed our ardor, sometimes they just amplified our loneliness and added to the craziness of our lives.
There was a time when I would take those drives just so I could get back home again to you. There was always that longing for you that went along with the drive that made those trips bittersweet. Sure, I loved those trips if only because I could do that strange and wonderful absentee dad dance, but those trips were also augmented with library runs with the kids so I could email you, or with trips to the market for those quick and daring phone calls to you, or with outings that I could relate back to you, like birding with the kids at the Snake River on Christmas Eve or finding cookbooks at Savers and such. On those trips I did things that I thought we would all like to do, and sometimes, in the relating, you found yourself there, right alongside us, too.
There was a time when I went away only so I could come back home to you.
Now, all that has changed.
I go to Boise these days with the knowledge that to go means field work, means investigation, means getting a lay of the land. Going now means looking for employment, means scoping out new neighborhoods, means looking for that next best place to live. Going on the road to Boise means finding someone to watch the cat, means finding someone to keep an eye on the house. Going now means coming home to a light burning, to an email box full of job information. Going now has none of the thrill of those other trips outside of the joy and pleasure of seeing my children. Going now is filled with the knowledge that time and chances and opportunities have been squandered, knowing that my family has come and gone and that all too much has changed between my Estranged One and me. Going now means endless miles of music and scratched notes and money spent to no end other than to have a good time and up-to-date information about the road and to have filler for that set aside novel of mine.
Going now means leaving only to return home to prepare to go back again.
Somehow I need to stop the coming and going and just stay somewhere meaningful for awhile.
There was a time when I would be here writing these things for you, and now I write them to you, but it is the world who is bringing them to your doorstep, not me. There was a time when I set up an email box for you and you told me that you were happy to finally have one of your very own. There was a time, at the end of those long and lonesome road trips, where I would have volumes of things to say to you packed in my head and know, when I finally got those words down that they those words would take wing and inflame your heart and imagination because those words would alight in your email box, words and imaginings were meant just for you. There was a time when those volumes of words, those tales of love and longing and loneliness would spark your imagination, would let you know that those road trips were taken, not just with a car load of bedding and toys and cookbooks and cassettes, but with you by my side.
There was time when we loved. There was a time when you meant the world to me and that time Jane, well, it's still here.
I leave in the morning and know that when I do my words will take wing and fly back home to you. These words of mine are still yours, my dear, as is my heart.
Take care.
Your WHMB
Monday, October 26, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Bridge talk,'05-'09
The cat wasn't the reason why I was awake at three this morning, but I would like to think that he thought so. There is something wonderfully crazy about an insistent furry head under your hand wishing to be petted in the wee hours, something that connects you to the larger world outside your head and your bed.
I have a drive ahead of me today and my intention was to get a full night's sleep. I didn't skim the fat off of a pot of chicken stew the other night and I think that it, somehow, more than the cat, was the reason why I was awake ahead of the alarm. I woke up thinking "lettuce", a glass of water and a trip downstairs. The cat thought that all the rustling around was for his benefit, hence the crouching on my chest, his head butting up against my hand, not so much for a good head rub but to let me know that he had other things to do, to prowl, be out and about, to be one with the world.
Being one with the world is what I am all about these days. I sometimes find myself adrift in it, not really knowing how to best to spend my time or where I am heading, but I know those kinds of days are counter productive and slightly dangerous. Dangerous only in the way that they can make your time disappear. I know to some it would appear to some that I am idling my time away these days. I sit with the Hot Dog King around the lunch hour to watch the courthouse crowd come and go. I flit here and there around town, picking up dayold bread at Helpline, trolling the aisles of the second hands and video stores looking for interesting things to read, listen to and watch. I walk the trails around the perimeter of the Woods if only because they are quiet, slightly more challenging than the track and filled with fall color. Time is slipping away and yet it manages to fold back on itself when I sit down and work it with constructively.
Exercise is constructive, no doubt about that. The other day I went over to Tacoma and instead of finding a track to walk I parked the car and walked the Narrows Bridge, instead. It was a wonderful day to walk that path, sunny, cool, high clouds, no breeze. It was a fairly short walk, too, considering all, and it was uphill all the way to the car in the end. What was grand about that walk this time, in comparison to the time before, was that it was fairly quiet on the bridge, outside the roar of traffic. We had just had a spate of rain and I suppose that most casual weekend walkers were passing on the experience of the Narrows, fearful of being caught out in a rain shower out on that bridge. I think to be on that span in a good blow would mean getting back to your car seriously soaked.
That second bridge span was far from being complete back in our day. As a matter of fact it was a full year later when it officially opened to traffic. Speaking of road trips, it was being dedicated as I drove over it on my way to Boise that day, back in July of '07. My arm was still swollen from holding onto that laurel in the front yard as I grabbed it going down, holding on for dear life. I ripped muscles in my arm I never knew I had. It was a long, hot drive that year, too, even with the stop in Richland to see Rosie. It was a long road in my mind and my heart, both coming and going. Still is, as I am hesitant about doing it even in the best of circumstances.
But we took to crossing that bridge like old China hands. From what I can recall we crossed it together about four or five times. Twice to Ikea, once to see if we could find your Scottie dog lamp in Sumner and then that very last time on that very grand and wonderful CalCoPo meeting over to Vuelve La Vida. And while we didn't do a lot of driving that way, each and every time it seemed to yield some sort of memorable event. We were able to wander about in the rugs at Ikea, ate pie and ice cream late on a weeknight at Marie Calendars, we swooned in the rows of dahlias at Connell's, chomped mints on the boat docks late one night in Gig Harbor. We managed to find new things in the midst of old things everywhere we went, if only because we always managed to keep in practice the fine of art of exquisite mundaneness. Nothing gets old that way. There is always a bit of shine to be found in the most beat and tired of things.
I suppose that's why I find myself here with you. It's not as if life is slipping by and I have nothing better to do. I am not pining but musing. I am not lost in some sort of old dream, but allowing that old dream to influence my waking life. I am not obsessing but caught in some sort of slip stream of wonderment. Some might think I am wasting my time, but time I have plenty of and time, all this "idle" time, is the result of that whirlpool I was caught in with you years ago.
I woke to cat on my chest and thought "pets". I had to wonder what kind of animal would we have had if we had lived together. I thought about, then, the quiet of the night and wondered if you would have woke up and helped me make sense of these thoughts. I know that Mi Novia, when she was here last week, slept hard then woke to her own thoughts at three, but like me, kept quiet and listened to the night, instead. I think of all the women who have wandered through my life and my heart and my bed and know that it seems strange after all that noise and action and dedication to be waking to a cat on my chest, but then, maybe that's the point. I was supposed to get to this place, to this place of wondering and empty beds and idleness and strange nights sounds at three in the morning because I chose this path. You might not think so but I did.
I remembered a comment you made in one of your early letters, about coming back through Wyoming in the dark, about your youngest getting bored and restless and fighting with her sibs, and how it would grate on you. It had alot to do with that van speeding through the night with no stops, about those endless miles, the truckers, the wanting to keep the peace, about wanting everything to be okay. I thought about that while the cat purred on my chest. I thought about how you are where you are at like I am where I am at because of choices. I know in your second coda to me you said that you chose The Detective but I truly feel that he chose you. You might have, in the end, chose to stay because of comfort and God and all that, but I know that you would have upset an awful lot of folk if you had done anything different than staying where you were at and that was reason enough to stay, to choose that life over one that would have had you wandering through rows of dahlias with me year after year.
Keeping the peace is important. But somehow that didn't figure that into my thinking, even though I should have. I think, more than peace I wanted security, but then again, so did you. I think of all the living that I've done to end up with a cat on my chest at three in the morning and I know that it was meant to be, even if, in the end, my children question that statement. I know for certain that all this flailing I am doing to find work in Idaho will yield something, but then, see, I keep to the paths and aisles and rows of all my familiar places in hopes that someday I will see you wandering there once again, too. I know that when I crossed the bridge the other day I was taken back to one of our old conversations, one that has no place or bearing in my life right now but still takes me to a place that is comfortable and is very revealing about our times.
We had just finished a long night out. It was a cold night, good for bookstores and pho soup and furniture shopping. Great for coffee and pie and ice cream and long talks. I was anticipating a drive to Idaho later that month and you were anticipating a major change in your schedule. You were doing your best to be the Devil's advocate, trying your darndest to get me to find a way back to the family. No denying it, it was always about family and that part I couldn't fault you on. But then, see, there was that funny bit, that frontier that we crossed each and every time we met, that no man's land of emotion that we knew we weren't suppose to be traipsing around in but where we found ourselves in anyways, where we danced about, arm in arm amidst the landmines. What could anyone do to stop a love like that? What kind of choices do you end up making to keep love like that in check, or worse, to deny it?
We couldn't deny it, so we fought it, instead. But there were times, pure moments of happiness, of craziness, of pure devotion that couldn't be denied. If things were different we would have lived up to those words you uttered when we crossed that old span that night. If choices were ours and not everyone elses to make maybe I would have had you by my side instead of that cat tonight. Months later you told me "if it wasn't for the hard choices I would be waking up next to your face right now". But that night, that cold, wet March night before the schedules shifted irrevocably you told me, when I asked you, if you had a choice, what you would call me when you introduced me to your family and friends, you said to me "I would call you my husband".
We wake in the middle of the night to sound of strange noises, to indigestion, to cats and startling dreams. Tonight I woke with the knowledge that I've been on the road a long time and that I still have a long road to ride in front of me. I woke up knowing that those old dreams and words and bits of wisdom I shared with you, ones that I believed in, somehow led down a different path than I expected them to, but then again, it's all okay, because when you wake those old dreams and bits of wisdom are still there, coloring your world. As I get older I realize that those old dreams, like old lovers and old warrior songs, will always be there in my heart. But then, see, there is joy to be found in that forward going action, in the carrying of those old dreams foward over new bridges into the light of a new dawn, into a new life.
Time to live the day, Jane, and move on down the road.
But know, too, that I'll be waiting there for you, at the end of the road, on the other side of the bridge, at sunset.
Your WHMB
I have a drive ahead of me today and my intention was to get a full night's sleep. I didn't skim the fat off of a pot of chicken stew the other night and I think that it, somehow, more than the cat, was the reason why I was awake ahead of the alarm. I woke up thinking "lettuce", a glass of water and a trip downstairs. The cat thought that all the rustling around was for his benefit, hence the crouching on my chest, his head butting up against my hand, not so much for a good head rub but to let me know that he had other things to do, to prowl, be out and about, to be one with the world.
Being one with the world is what I am all about these days. I sometimes find myself adrift in it, not really knowing how to best to spend my time or where I am heading, but I know those kinds of days are counter productive and slightly dangerous. Dangerous only in the way that they can make your time disappear. I know to some it would appear to some that I am idling my time away these days. I sit with the Hot Dog King around the lunch hour to watch the courthouse crowd come and go. I flit here and there around town, picking up dayold bread at Helpline, trolling the aisles of the second hands and video stores looking for interesting things to read, listen to and watch. I walk the trails around the perimeter of the Woods if only because they are quiet, slightly more challenging than the track and filled with fall color. Time is slipping away and yet it manages to fold back on itself when I sit down and work it with constructively.
Exercise is constructive, no doubt about that. The other day I went over to Tacoma and instead of finding a track to walk I parked the car and walked the Narrows Bridge, instead. It was a wonderful day to walk that path, sunny, cool, high clouds, no breeze. It was a fairly short walk, too, considering all, and it was uphill all the way to the car in the end. What was grand about that walk this time, in comparison to the time before, was that it was fairly quiet on the bridge, outside the roar of traffic. We had just had a spate of rain and I suppose that most casual weekend walkers were passing on the experience of the Narrows, fearful of being caught out in a rain shower out on that bridge. I think to be on that span in a good blow would mean getting back to your car seriously soaked.
That second bridge span was far from being complete back in our day. As a matter of fact it was a full year later when it officially opened to traffic. Speaking of road trips, it was being dedicated as I drove over it on my way to Boise that day, back in July of '07. My arm was still swollen from holding onto that laurel in the front yard as I grabbed it going down, holding on for dear life. I ripped muscles in my arm I never knew I had. It was a long, hot drive that year, too, even with the stop in Richland to see Rosie. It was a long road in my mind and my heart, both coming and going. Still is, as I am hesitant about doing it even in the best of circumstances.
But we took to crossing that bridge like old China hands. From what I can recall we crossed it together about four or five times. Twice to Ikea, once to see if we could find your Scottie dog lamp in Sumner and then that very last time on that very grand and wonderful CalCoPo meeting over to Vuelve La Vida. And while we didn't do a lot of driving that way, each and every time it seemed to yield some sort of memorable event. We were able to wander about in the rugs at Ikea, ate pie and ice cream late on a weeknight at Marie Calendars, we swooned in the rows of dahlias at Connell's, chomped mints on the boat docks late one night in Gig Harbor. We managed to find new things in the midst of old things everywhere we went, if only because we always managed to keep in practice the fine of art of exquisite mundaneness. Nothing gets old that way. There is always a bit of shine to be found in the most beat and tired of things.
I suppose that's why I find myself here with you. It's not as if life is slipping by and I have nothing better to do. I am not pining but musing. I am not lost in some sort of old dream, but allowing that old dream to influence my waking life. I am not obsessing but caught in some sort of slip stream of wonderment. Some might think I am wasting my time, but time I have plenty of and time, all this "idle" time, is the result of that whirlpool I was caught in with you years ago.
I woke to cat on my chest and thought "pets". I had to wonder what kind of animal would we have had if we had lived together. I thought about, then, the quiet of the night and wondered if you would have woke up and helped me make sense of these thoughts. I know that Mi Novia, when she was here last week, slept hard then woke to her own thoughts at three, but like me, kept quiet and listened to the night, instead. I think of all the women who have wandered through my life and my heart and my bed and know that it seems strange after all that noise and action and dedication to be waking to a cat on my chest, but then, maybe that's the point. I was supposed to get to this place, to this place of wondering and empty beds and idleness and strange nights sounds at three in the morning because I chose this path. You might not think so but I did.
I remembered a comment you made in one of your early letters, about coming back through Wyoming in the dark, about your youngest getting bored and restless and fighting with her sibs, and how it would grate on you. It had alot to do with that van speeding through the night with no stops, about those endless miles, the truckers, the wanting to keep the peace, about wanting everything to be okay. I thought about that while the cat purred on my chest. I thought about how you are where you are at like I am where I am at because of choices. I know in your second coda to me you said that you chose The Detective but I truly feel that he chose you. You might have, in the end, chose to stay because of comfort and God and all that, but I know that you would have upset an awful lot of folk if you had done anything different than staying where you were at and that was reason enough to stay, to choose that life over one that would have had you wandering through rows of dahlias with me year after year.
Keeping the peace is important. But somehow that didn't figure that into my thinking, even though I should have. I think, more than peace I wanted security, but then again, so did you. I think of all the living that I've done to end up with a cat on my chest at three in the morning and I know that it was meant to be, even if, in the end, my children question that statement. I know for certain that all this flailing I am doing to find work in Idaho will yield something, but then, see, I keep to the paths and aisles and rows of all my familiar places in hopes that someday I will see you wandering there once again, too. I know that when I crossed the bridge the other day I was taken back to one of our old conversations, one that has no place or bearing in my life right now but still takes me to a place that is comfortable and is very revealing about our times.
We had just finished a long night out. It was a cold night, good for bookstores and pho soup and furniture shopping. Great for coffee and pie and ice cream and long talks. I was anticipating a drive to Idaho later that month and you were anticipating a major change in your schedule. You were doing your best to be the Devil's advocate, trying your darndest to get me to find a way back to the family. No denying it, it was always about family and that part I couldn't fault you on. But then, see, there was that funny bit, that frontier that we crossed each and every time we met, that no man's land of emotion that we knew we weren't suppose to be traipsing around in but where we found ourselves in anyways, where we danced about, arm in arm amidst the landmines. What could anyone do to stop a love like that? What kind of choices do you end up making to keep love like that in check, or worse, to deny it?
We couldn't deny it, so we fought it, instead. But there were times, pure moments of happiness, of craziness, of pure devotion that couldn't be denied. If things were different we would have lived up to those words you uttered when we crossed that old span that night. If choices were ours and not everyone elses to make maybe I would have had you by my side instead of that cat tonight. Months later you told me "if it wasn't for the hard choices I would be waking up next to your face right now". But that night, that cold, wet March night before the schedules shifted irrevocably you told me, when I asked you, if you had a choice, what you would call me when you introduced me to your family and friends, you said to me "I would call you my husband".
We wake in the middle of the night to sound of strange noises, to indigestion, to cats and startling dreams. Tonight I woke with the knowledge that I've been on the road a long time and that I still have a long road to ride in front of me. I woke up knowing that those old dreams and words and bits of wisdom I shared with you, ones that I believed in, somehow led down a different path than I expected them to, but then again, it's all okay, because when you wake those old dreams and bits of wisdom are still there, coloring your world. As I get older I realize that those old dreams, like old lovers and old warrior songs, will always be there in my heart. But then, see, there is joy to be found in that forward going action, in the carrying of those old dreams foward over new bridges into the light of a new dawn, into a new life.
Time to live the day, Jane, and move on down the road.
But know, too, that I'll be waiting there for you, at the end of the road, on the other side of the bridge, at sunset.
Your WHMB
Friday, October 16, 2009
Firewalls and the Minute Man, 10/05-09
This last week I took a walk in the Woods. I came across some advertising over by the homebuyer's center a few weeks ago and thought I would try to find the big regional trail that was mentioned on the kiosk map. It looked fairly straightforward to me that afternoon, but the day I decided to take a walk I failed to stop in and take another look. Didn't take anything remotely like the "ten essentials" along with me, either. Heck, the only thing I took with me that afternoon was my enthusiasm to be out walking around where you and I walked years ago.
Different trail, different time of day, same results. A myriad of switchbacks and poorly marked trails that lead to me being a bit late and bit more than worried. This time, just like that time, I didn't give myself enough time. That morning, what was it? Mid September, a middle of the week work day? The phone call came in much earlier than anything I would have expected from you. You told me you were out walking, would I like to join you? Heck, would I? I was dressed and out the door with about an hour to spare before my shift started. We met and took off down the Huckleberry path. Before too long it meandered and joined up with something else entirely and before we knew it my window of time was blown and you were apologizing every other step.
Different trail, different time of day, same results. A myriad of switchbacks and poorly marked trails that lead to me being a bit late and bit more than worried. This time, just like that time, I didn't give myself enough time. That morning, what was it? Mid September, a middle of the week work day? The phone call came in much earlier than anything I would have expected from you. You told me you were out walking, would I like to join you? Heck, would I? I was dressed and out the door with about an hour to spare before my shift started. We met and took off down the Huckleberry path. Before too long it meandered and joined up with something else entirely and before we knew it my window of time was blown and you were apologizing every other step.
I told you not to worry but I still gave a lot of thought to the time because I was on this crazy "no tardy excuses" probation thing at work. Before too long we managed to find a way out of the woods, about a quarter mile down the road from where my car was parked. Not only did we have a hard trot ahead of us but we also ran into some folks whom you knew which required a civil chat on our parts and a bit of a slowdown, too. To top it all off I took off down a road that had no easy access to the highway. That smooth move required a doubling back and before I knew it I was twenty minutes late for work.
Good thing for me my boss was late that morning, too.
Fast forward three years and I did it again. Took off down an unmarked trail there in the Woods and got tangled up in the greenery. Did it again this last week, too. I have to wonder if when surveyors go out to look for new homesites if half the time they don't find the shriveled remains of long lost homeowners or other hapless types who thought that it would be "fun" to go out walking along those treasured paths that the company touts. Tuesday's walk was great at first. It was late afternoon, quiet and peaceful there along the Big Pond trail. It had rained earlier in the day and the path was regularly filled with large puddles that were easy to get around but always managed to be in the way of an easy walk. I got to the top of the pond, and instead of turning around I decided to go "all the way". That led me to a few crossroads, an unmarked trail and finally, two wooden bat houses later, to a trail that dropped me off at a playground a quarter mile up from my car.
The big thrill wasn't being late this time, but passing by the top of your street. It was all I could do not to break out into a showtune from My Fair Lady as I trotted by.
So, tonight I was out and about and running the last of errands. I was deep into a rain shower and was finishing up my daily run of the stations of the cross when I thought of that night when the word "firewall" was a meaningful verb in our lives. I thought of rain and reluctance and the desire to turn around and finish up what we had started but then thought about the woods and the need to get back home, about that breathy finish at the end of our hard walk, about those flushed faces and all the apologies, about the hard run to work and the need to absolve ourselves from any misdeeds or misgivings. No regrets about throwing up those firewalls, no sir.
The other day I realized once I started that walk I was into something that I had no choice but to finish. Somehow I feel the same need here. With these words, with the novel, with our photos out and about around my house, I feel the need to finish something, whatever that is. Somehow I think that our story is still not being told the way that it needs to be told. I know that we have long ago come to our trail ends, that this Minute Man needs to keep to the terms of that probation you set for me, but still. I am a disciplined trail walker, but I am also a man who has no intention of staying on the reservation just because the Detective or God says so.
I am the man who kept the firewalls up for you, and I am the man who, when the time comes, will tear them down for you as well if that is what you should so desire. In the woods or out in the open. And when that time comes, no running, no apologies and no regrets.
Your WHMB
Good thing for me my boss was late that morning, too.
Fast forward three years and I did it again. Took off down an unmarked trail there in the Woods and got tangled up in the greenery. Did it again this last week, too. I have to wonder if when surveyors go out to look for new homesites if half the time they don't find the shriveled remains of long lost homeowners or other hapless types who thought that it would be "fun" to go out walking along those treasured paths that the company touts. Tuesday's walk was great at first. It was late afternoon, quiet and peaceful there along the Big Pond trail. It had rained earlier in the day and the path was regularly filled with large puddles that were easy to get around but always managed to be in the way of an easy walk. I got to the top of the pond, and instead of turning around I decided to go "all the way". That led me to a few crossroads, an unmarked trail and finally, two wooden bat houses later, to a trail that dropped me off at a playground a quarter mile up from my car.
The big thrill wasn't being late this time, but passing by the top of your street. It was all I could do not to break out into a showtune from My Fair Lady as I trotted by.
So, tonight I was out and about and running the last of errands. I was deep into a rain shower and was finishing up my daily run of the stations of the cross when I thought of that night when the word "firewall" was a meaningful verb in our lives. I thought of rain and reluctance and the desire to turn around and finish up what we had started but then thought about the woods and the need to get back home, about that breathy finish at the end of our hard walk, about those flushed faces and all the apologies, about the hard run to work and the need to absolve ourselves from any misdeeds or misgivings. No regrets about throwing up those firewalls, no sir.
The other day I realized once I started that walk I was into something that I had no choice but to finish. Somehow I feel the same need here. With these words, with the novel, with our photos out and about around my house, I feel the need to finish something, whatever that is. Somehow I think that our story is still not being told the way that it needs to be told. I know that we have long ago come to our trail ends, that this Minute Man needs to keep to the terms of that probation you set for me, but still. I am a disciplined trail walker, but I am also a man who has no intention of staying on the reservation just because the Detective or God says so.
I am the man who kept the firewalls up for you, and I am the man who, when the time comes, will tear them down for you as well if that is what you should so desire. In the woods or out in the open. And when that time comes, no running, no apologies and no regrets.
Your WHMB
Monday, October 12, 2009
Empty chair, All Staff Day, Bremerton, '05
For the first time in seven years I'm not heading across the water on Columbus Day to hang out with my fellow co-workers. For some it's a holiday, and because of that it feels a bit quieter on the streets today, but then again, I haven't been up to the courthouse yet. My friend The Hot Dog King says that all county services will be open up there as usual, so not everybody has the day off. And while it wasn't a day off for county library workers I still miss the annual dose of comraderie, the bountiful food, the touting of the United Way baskets. It was always a time to celebrate what the job was really all about, and that was the effort that the STAFF put forth to make the system a smooth running organization in the eyes of the patrons. It wasn't called All Administration Day for a reason.
My first year with the organization we held the event at the Navy museum. Jane purposely ran into me in the hallways of the museum that first year she was on board just to tout herself. Somehow she hadn't gotten a call yet from the main branch for work yet and wanted to be sure that I had her number. Not in any way other than to be sure that she was on the list and that the list was up to date. I was the sub supe, you know, and that kind of information was important to know. Taking care of the work needs of the subs was, too. That was a somewhat thankless job as far as support from the system was concerned. I got grief from branch heads when the list was late or not cranked out regularly. I had a supervisor a couple notches above me that kept that group down somewhat, too. During the time I ran that pack of heroes we only gathered together as group once. Pity. It was an exciting time and great group of people and they were excited about working for the system, too.
Somewhat like Jane was that day she ran into me at the Submarine museum. We were all in costume that day, division by division. My crew as dressed up in their Mexican finery, all sporting sombreros I found around the region for the day. She was part of the PO Black Widow gang and had her black veil on. We hit it off all over again. I hadn't seen her since that day I interviewed her and it was just as pleasant to see her and to chat the second time around.
So, fast forward a couple years. She worked regularly for the system but kept hours that worked best for her homeschooling and summer trips, all that. We bagged hours for her as often as we could and it was always a treat to see her. She always brought smiles and worked hard and made us laugh. She and I always talked kids and Colorado and books. There was always something to talk about. But by the time we got to that one particular day, Columbus Day in '05, we had already embarked on the grand and awe inspiring voyage that would scar us both for life. But that day we didn't care a bit about scarring. We were still high from Gala and quietly giddy from pulling together baskets for the United Way. We bounced off each other all day long but for the sake of the system and our integrity we kept that sparkiness we shared under a bushel, or rather, United Way basket.
I can still remember lunch, she was three seats and across the table removed. But more telling was afterwards, when we sat through the first speaker of the afternoon. She was sitting across the way, at a different table, with an empty seat next to her. It would have been all to easy to slip across the aisle, sit alongside her, but you see, even though we felt that the world knew that we were on fire, we kept that flame down and close to our sides. Never mind we put that flame to the test out and about in the rain during the poker walk, never mind I can still see her looking up at me when the photos were taken. I have a copy of that photo, of Jane grasping her hands just so, looking up at me as the flash went off.
I will forever think of Columbus Day as some sort of Holiday of the Universe, some sort of national holiday of the heart. I think of how she quailed at the thought of group recognition for her part in pulling together those baskets with me, of helping me pull together the envelopes for United Way that sat on all the tables. I think of how we took different modes of transportation coming and going to the event, how we bounced off each other throughout the day like soft and permeable rocks from a faraway and mysterious asteroid belt, but more, I think of how, by the end of that rainy and cold afternoon, she was curled up in my loveseat with a book and blanket, taking in a moment of quiet and peace before heading off to home.
I think of this day, one where staff gathers and shares their joy, and think of how much it meant to me over the years. The years following that one particular day were always filled with disappointment, as Jane never returned to celebrate with the rest of staff on Columbus Day. Childcare, she told her supervisor. More than that, I know. From 2006 on it would always mean an empty seat across the way from me, no matter if it was filled or not.
Happy ASD, you wild and wacky bunch. Distant hallo's from both Jane and Roger.
Your WHMB
My first year with the organization we held the event at the Navy museum. Jane purposely ran into me in the hallways of the museum that first year she was on board just to tout herself. Somehow she hadn't gotten a call yet from the main branch for work yet and wanted to be sure that I had her number. Not in any way other than to be sure that she was on the list and that the list was up to date. I was the sub supe, you know, and that kind of information was important to know. Taking care of the work needs of the subs was, too. That was a somewhat thankless job as far as support from the system was concerned. I got grief from branch heads when the list was late or not cranked out regularly. I had a supervisor a couple notches above me that kept that group down somewhat, too. During the time I ran that pack of heroes we only gathered together as group once. Pity. It was an exciting time and great group of people and they were excited about working for the system, too.
Somewhat like Jane was that day she ran into me at the Submarine museum. We were all in costume that day, division by division. My crew as dressed up in their Mexican finery, all sporting sombreros I found around the region for the day. She was part of the PO Black Widow gang and had her black veil on. We hit it off all over again. I hadn't seen her since that day I interviewed her and it was just as pleasant to see her and to chat the second time around.
So, fast forward a couple years. She worked regularly for the system but kept hours that worked best for her homeschooling and summer trips, all that. We bagged hours for her as often as we could and it was always a treat to see her. She always brought smiles and worked hard and made us laugh. She and I always talked kids and Colorado and books. There was always something to talk about. But by the time we got to that one particular day, Columbus Day in '05, we had already embarked on the grand and awe inspiring voyage that would scar us both for life. But that day we didn't care a bit about scarring. We were still high from Gala and quietly giddy from pulling together baskets for the United Way. We bounced off each other all day long but for the sake of the system and our integrity we kept that sparkiness we shared under a bushel, or rather, United Way basket.
I can still remember lunch, she was three seats and across the table removed. But more telling was afterwards, when we sat through the first speaker of the afternoon. She was sitting across the way, at a different table, with an empty seat next to her. It would have been all to easy to slip across the aisle, sit alongside her, but you see, even though we felt that the world knew that we were on fire, we kept that flame down and close to our sides. Never mind we put that flame to the test out and about in the rain during the poker walk, never mind I can still see her looking up at me when the photos were taken. I have a copy of that photo, of Jane grasping her hands just so, looking up at me as the flash went off.
I will forever think of Columbus Day as some sort of Holiday of the Universe, some sort of national holiday of the heart. I think of how she quailed at the thought of group recognition for her part in pulling together those baskets with me, of helping me pull together the envelopes for United Way that sat on all the tables. I think of how we took different modes of transportation coming and going to the event, how we bounced off each other throughout the day like soft and permeable rocks from a faraway and mysterious asteroid belt, but more, I think of how, by the end of that rainy and cold afternoon, she was curled up in my loveseat with a book and blanket, taking in a moment of quiet and peace before heading off to home.
I think of this day, one where staff gathers and shares their joy, and think of how much it meant to me over the years. The years following that one particular day were always filled with disappointment, as Jane never returned to celebrate with the rest of staff on Columbus Day. Childcare, she told her supervisor. More than that, I know. From 2006 on it would always mean an empty seat across the way from me, no matter if it was filled or not.
Happy ASD, you wild and wacky bunch. Distant hallo's from both Jane and Roger.
Your WHMB
Saturday, October 10, 2009
President's Hall, Kitsap County Fairgrounds, 06-09
Frankly, my dear, I think this "new" lifestyle of mine would kill you. But then, if you and I had pulled it off back in '06 I think none of this would have never happened. Life, oh life, as seen through the back end of a crystal ball.
All the same, what I do these days in order to pull myself and my world view together I believe would unsettle you. It's not as if I am scattered of mind or heart or living a desolute life. To the contrary. I still live each day fully and think as I always have, and that's generally in a positive and forward going manner. I still get up no later than eight, generally hit the bricks with some project or errand or activity to do before noon. I may be "in-between positions" at the moment but I am also looking at pulling off two, possibly four interviews by the end of the month. Not bad for a guy who always manages to hit the ground running.
But today was the kind of day that I think might have winnowed you out, or, at the least, given you pause. Today I went out and about and took in what I would consider to be an anti-retail kind of day, a gleaning kind of day. A day where finding things to enjoy came without the big time price tag attached. I think somewhere along the line you told me that you were a princess and at the time I had to agree. I have to wonder if you would have left me when faced with this kind of situation. Or, maybe, and this is the scenario I would like to think we could have pulled off, that you would have pulled yourself and our world up by the bootstraps and really dug in, made the best of it, really made the most of this time of hardship and turned it into a thing to write about and sing about later on.
See, I think of the gal that I got to know, the one who was born in the mesa region of the grand state of Colorado, the girl who was the jeweler's daughter, the dutiful one, the resourceful one. I think of what I experienced today, a late afternoon of co-mingling with vets, a morning spent looking at used books and films and such at the Friend's sale, an afternoon of finding practical things like sports chairs and a hose and heavy Danish enamel cookware and movies and such at Goodwill and think that the only thing you might have gotten me on was that I was spending too much money on music. "You already have waaay too much music, Roger". And I would had to agree with you.
I think of hardships, of our times, of my times right now and know that my visits to the fairgrounds over the course of the last few years would be a story of work and trust and hardship that always manages to rise back up to the top. I think of those vets I saw today and know that if I was along side you that you would have never allowed us to sink down that far. Hell, I suspect that you would have been right there right along side me on the other side of those tables providing services and handing out burgers and sorting clothes. No way in hell could I have convinced you to take any of those clothes away. Never mind that I did.
Today I walked out of President's Hall with some literature about veteran's services and a couple bags of used clothing. Three years ago I walked out of that same building with a rubber rug rake and you on my arm. I think of what time can tell and what time will do and what the mind is capable of handling and know that I can handle this, that this moment, one that I managed to steer right up to the minute is of my own devising but also that I am on my way to doing something that both you and I would be proud of. I hit the ground running, Jane, and that's the only thing I can imagine that you would you expect, hell, demand, out of me.
Love, your WHMB
All the same, what I do these days in order to pull myself and my world view together I believe would unsettle you. It's not as if I am scattered of mind or heart or living a desolute life. To the contrary. I still live each day fully and think as I always have, and that's generally in a positive and forward going manner. I still get up no later than eight, generally hit the bricks with some project or errand or activity to do before noon. I may be "in-between positions" at the moment but I am also looking at pulling off two, possibly four interviews by the end of the month. Not bad for a guy who always manages to hit the ground running.
But today was the kind of day that I think might have winnowed you out, or, at the least, given you pause. Today I went out and about and took in what I would consider to be an anti-retail kind of day, a gleaning kind of day. A day where finding things to enjoy came without the big time price tag attached. I think somewhere along the line you told me that you were a princess and at the time I had to agree. I have to wonder if you would have left me when faced with this kind of situation. Or, maybe, and this is the scenario I would like to think we could have pulled off, that you would have pulled yourself and our world up by the bootstraps and really dug in, made the best of it, really made the most of this time of hardship and turned it into a thing to write about and sing about later on.
See, I think of the gal that I got to know, the one who was born in the mesa region of the grand state of Colorado, the girl who was the jeweler's daughter, the dutiful one, the resourceful one. I think of what I experienced today, a late afternoon of co-mingling with vets, a morning spent looking at used books and films and such at the Friend's sale, an afternoon of finding practical things like sports chairs and a hose and heavy Danish enamel cookware and movies and such at Goodwill and think that the only thing you might have gotten me on was that I was spending too much money on music. "You already have waaay too much music, Roger". And I would had to agree with you.
I think of hardships, of our times, of my times right now and know that my visits to the fairgrounds over the course of the last few years would be a story of work and trust and hardship that always manages to rise back up to the top. I think of those vets I saw today and know that if I was along side you that you would have never allowed us to sink down that far. Hell, I suspect that you would have been right there right along side me on the other side of those tables providing services and handing out burgers and sorting clothes. No way in hell could I have convinced you to take any of those clothes away. Never mind that I did.
Today I walked out of President's Hall with some literature about veteran's services and a couple bags of used clothing. Three years ago I walked out of that same building with a rubber rug rake and you on my arm. I think of what time can tell and what time will do and what the mind is capable of handling and know that I can handle this, that this moment, one that I managed to steer right up to the minute is of my own devising but also that I am on my way to doing something that both you and I would be proud of. I hit the ground running, Jane, and that's the only thing I can imagine that you would you expect, hell, demand, out of me.
Love, your WHMB
Friday, October 9, 2009
Ceramic bird bath, 10/05
I look out my window and see hard travelers, migratory birds on their way back down south again. I look out my window at my garden and know that I'll soon be needing to stock my feeder again. Right now my little patch of color is filled with flowers and squash. To add seed to the feeder right now would mean the end of that. The squirrels would be at it before too long and would tear everything up in search of sunflowers seeds or whatever they could find. Too much bother for the moment. There's still plenty of chow around for them to savor in somebody else's flower bed.
I took down my bird bath a couple months ago when I was pushing the outside work really hard. I was determined to have this house ready to go into the hands of the next owner by the end of the month but from what I can tell it's not happening. What seems to be happening is that I'm here and the kids are in Boise and that I'll be heading into the heart of fall and the beginning of the cold season on my own. For the first time since I can't remember when I'm truly on my own and I still don't know what to think of that. But what I do know is that it's almost time to put that birdbath back up again.
I look out the window at the garden and see things out there that take me back to other days, to times when birding was new and I had a guide to walk me through all those little moments that might have been laughable to someone other than you. You were kind in that way, telling me the names of birds and quizzing me when you figured I should know something and bringing things into my life that I needed to have to more actively appreciate the hobby. In turn I became a willing pupil and took to those guides and bought my seed and tolerated the pests that the seeds brought in order to feed the birds.
Birding seemed to be something that was always very special to you and you were determined to share that love of the hobby with me. I think of that birdbath you won that night at Gala as the first great birding experience we shared back in the beginning of our days. We were both working the floor that night, handling the silent auction and both of us kept watch on the bids for the birdbath. We had a pact going, that we would keep the bids moving along with our initials regardless of the cost. You wanted that birdbath and I was determined to help you win it. At the end of the auction you indeed did come out on top. It was a pricey win but it was beautiful and fragile and delicate. All too much like our arrangement. But what's money when it's something you love?
We trundled that bird bath to your house that night in the back of my car. We wrapped it well and took great care not to do any harm to that piece. I wonder about it now and then when I come across my old green and hardy plastic birdbath, the one you gave me on my birthday so long ago. I look at mine and think "pedestrian", "tough", "rugged", and know that's what I am supposed to be at this point. My relationship with birds has flagged a bit but I still thrill when I see birds around my neighborhood like our famous Blue Heron and our local woodpeckers and kingfishers. Alot of the tools of the hobby are tucked away now. The bird poster you gave me is folded up and stuck away in the crate. The bird guides, on the most part, are in storage. The big bird show in Portland was missed once again this year and yet I know that it's almost time to revisit one of those old pleasures. I know that winter is an important time to take care of the stragglers, the birds that stick around the Sound instead of taking off for warmer climes.
I can relate to those stragglers. I sometimes feel like one of those birds, one of the ones that stick around through winter and endure it. It would have been oh so easy to go, to take off to a sunnier place, to leave behind all this craziness, all these dogged memories. But somebody has to be the one to lend the place some color, to sing the old songs, to hunker down and take it and show Old Man Winter that he's not the king of the place, but that I am.
Yeah, the King of Winter. I can relate to that.
So, tell me Jane, what became of that bird bath? I will be wondering about it once I dig up my dahlia bulbs and prepare the garden for winter. The feeder will soon be up and stocked. I won't worry too much about vermin that roam about on the other side of the alley. The English ivy vines are down and access points to the attic of the Little House are few. The birds will be hungry come December and they will be to happy know that somebody was there along the line that taught me the fine art of feeding the less fortunate, even if, for the moment, those that are being fed are just our fine feathered friends.
I took down my bird bath a couple months ago when I was pushing the outside work really hard. I was determined to have this house ready to go into the hands of the next owner by the end of the month but from what I can tell it's not happening. What seems to be happening is that I'm here and the kids are in Boise and that I'll be heading into the heart of fall and the beginning of the cold season on my own. For the first time since I can't remember when I'm truly on my own and I still don't know what to think of that. But what I do know is that it's almost time to put that birdbath back up again.
I look out the window at the garden and see things out there that take me back to other days, to times when birding was new and I had a guide to walk me through all those little moments that might have been laughable to someone other than you. You were kind in that way, telling me the names of birds and quizzing me when you figured I should know something and bringing things into my life that I needed to have to more actively appreciate the hobby. In turn I became a willing pupil and took to those guides and bought my seed and tolerated the pests that the seeds brought in order to feed the birds.
Birding seemed to be something that was always very special to you and you were determined to share that love of the hobby with me. I think of that birdbath you won that night at Gala as the first great birding experience we shared back in the beginning of our days. We were both working the floor that night, handling the silent auction and both of us kept watch on the bids for the birdbath. We had a pact going, that we would keep the bids moving along with our initials regardless of the cost. You wanted that birdbath and I was determined to help you win it. At the end of the auction you indeed did come out on top. It was a pricey win but it was beautiful and fragile and delicate. All too much like our arrangement. But what's money when it's something you love?
We trundled that bird bath to your house that night in the back of my car. We wrapped it well and took great care not to do any harm to that piece. I wonder about it now and then when I come across my old green and hardy plastic birdbath, the one you gave me on my birthday so long ago. I look at mine and think "pedestrian", "tough", "rugged", and know that's what I am supposed to be at this point. My relationship with birds has flagged a bit but I still thrill when I see birds around my neighborhood like our famous Blue Heron and our local woodpeckers and kingfishers. Alot of the tools of the hobby are tucked away now. The bird poster you gave me is folded up and stuck away in the crate. The bird guides, on the most part, are in storage. The big bird show in Portland was missed once again this year and yet I know that it's almost time to revisit one of those old pleasures. I know that winter is an important time to take care of the stragglers, the birds that stick around the Sound instead of taking off for warmer climes.
I can relate to those stragglers. I sometimes feel like one of those birds, one of the ones that stick around through winter and endure it. It would have been oh so easy to go, to take off to a sunnier place, to leave behind all this craziness, all these dogged memories. But somebody has to be the one to lend the place some color, to sing the old songs, to hunker down and take it and show Old Man Winter that he's not the king of the place, but that I am.
Yeah, the King of Winter. I can relate to that.
So, tell me Jane, what became of that bird bath? I will be wondering about it once I dig up my dahlia bulbs and prepare the garden for winter. The feeder will soon be up and stocked. I won't worry too much about vermin that roam about on the other side of the alley. The English ivy vines are down and access points to the attic of the Little House are few. The birds will be hungry come December and they will be to happy know that somebody was there along the line that taught me the fine art of feeding the less fortunate, even if, for the moment, those that are being fed are just our fine feathered friends.
Love.
Your WHMB
Monday, October 5, 2009
Bold manuever, reckless behaviour 10/04/09
Let's just attribute it to having too much time on my hands, to having no real control mechanism in place in my life to help keep me in my seat or on the couch in front of a movie or in the sack..er.. reading a good book. Yes, we can say that this WHMB has an abundance of time, a long term ache in his heart and a number of ways that he can show it, guerilla style.
Last night it was a form of counting coup, or maybe just something out of a Shakespeare play. I didn't have my Julliet up in the window, and I didn't touch my staff to the shoulder of my opponent, but I did get out into the night and deliver a slight trembling note, a rememberance, a touch of my heart, to a quiet and sleeping world.
I did to the soundtrack of silence and a motor purring and a Cindy Lauper album. I took to the night like the wind, stealthy like a fox, lumbering along like the big man that I am. I drove and saw that the world burned lights late into the night, that folks go to sleep earlier than I expected on work nights. I went out and half expected to see the world waiting for me, expectant, whistling me along my way, but instead I drove and saw no one about.
If you had looked at my passenger seat you would have seen two fresh cut dahlias, one a starburst looking thing and the other a pom pom. Symbolic in itself, but made moreso that they came out of my yard. The scissors on the passenger seat would have been incriminating in unto themselves, but it was my smile, my disposition, my aching boldness that set me and those dahlias apart from the crowd. Why would I want to continue this fruitless mission so late into the night when what was waiting for me not only tonight but for the rest of my life was a lifetime of nothingness and feigned indifference? I might as well have walked down to the waterfront and tossed those dahlias at the starfish, at the sea, at memories, but I had to what needed to be done and that was to toss those dahlias on her lawn instead.
The months of September and October are filled with days and events loaded with import and those dahlias were like a Western Union telegram being delivered straight to her heart. It would have made no more of a difference if I had sent them via messenger or by a florist service or UPS. I made it my mission to get those flowers to that woman, that true love, that gal who stole my heart in the midst of a dahlia strewn lane oh so many years ago. I had a mission, sure, and it was reckless, but what can you do when even four years later you are still in love, living with a love that goes beyond boundaries, time and patience? I know that I would test the waters of that woman's memory the next day but I was being tested right then and there and once that ignition was fired and the car headed down the drive there was nothing, not a damn thing I could do but go along with it. Follow the car, the stars and my heart into the dark of the woods.
So I wandered into the Woods in the still of the night and drove around and up past her door and parked the car up the block and walked oh so slowly, so quietly as the crunchy asphalt would allow. I walked up to the edge of her lawn, looked up to her window and whispered a silent prayer and tossed those two dahilas into the air, heard them whistling as they arced through that quiet night air. I saw them land and with that turned around, opened my car door, sighed, turned over the motor and drove away.
I took a chance last night, I could have run into late night patrols, my car could have broke down along the highway or I could have had a light out or any number of things to get me caught up in the dragnet. I could have been seen or discovered or found out in my silliness which would have taken the shine out of things all together. But it went off flawlessly. Two years running, two deliveries of flowers in the dead of night, two years where the gesture wasn't acknowledged but still. I would have given anything to be a fly on the wall when those curtains of her's were thrown back this morning, to see what ever it was that passed over her face.
Last night I went on a reckless drive through the dead of night and know that's how love goes. Still, quiet and absolutely crazy, but that's what makes it beautiful. Mad, tender, sweet love in the form of dahlias on the lawn. Your lawn, Jane. Delivered with love.
Your WHMB
Last night it was a form of counting coup, or maybe just something out of a Shakespeare play. I didn't have my Julliet up in the window, and I didn't touch my staff to the shoulder of my opponent, but I did get out into the night and deliver a slight trembling note, a rememberance, a touch of my heart, to a quiet and sleeping world.
I did to the soundtrack of silence and a motor purring and a Cindy Lauper album. I took to the night like the wind, stealthy like a fox, lumbering along like the big man that I am. I drove and saw that the world burned lights late into the night, that folks go to sleep earlier than I expected on work nights. I went out and half expected to see the world waiting for me, expectant, whistling me along my way, but instead I drove and saw no one about.
If you had looked at my passenger seat you would have seen two fresh cut dahlias, one a starburst looking thing and the other a pom pom. Symbolic in itself, but made moreso that they came out of my yard. The scissors on the passenger seat would have been incriminating in unto themselves, but it was my smile, my disposition, my aching boldness that set me and those dahlias apart from the crowd. Why would I want to continue this fruitless mission so late into the night when what was waiting for me not only tonight but for the rest of my life was a lifetime of nothingness and feigned indifference? I might as well have walked down to the waterfront and tossed those dahlias at the starfish, at the sea, at memories, but I had to what needed to be done and that was to toss those dahlias on her lawn instead.
The months of September and October are filled with days and events loaded with import and those dahlias were like a Western Union telegram being delivered straight to her heart. It would have made no more of a difference if I had sent them via messenger or by a florist service or UPS. I made it my mission to get those flowers to that woman, that true love, that gal who stole my heart in the midst of a dahlia strewn lane oh so many years ago. I had a mission, sure, and it was reckless, but what can you do when even four years later you are still in love, living with a love that goes beyond boundaries, time and patience? I know that I would test the waters of that woman's memory the next day but I was being tested right then and there and once that ignition was fired and the car headed down the drive there was nothing, not a damn thing I could do but go along with it. Follow the car, the stars and my heart into the dark of the woods.
So I wandered into the Woods in the still of the night and drove around and up past her door and parked the car up the block and walked oh so slowly, so quietly as the crunchy asphalt would allow. I walked up to the edge of her lawn, looked up to her window and whispered a silent prayer and tossed those two dahilas into the air, heard them whistling as they arced through that quiet night air. I saw them land and with that turned around, opened my car door, sighed, turned over the motor and drove away.
I took a chance last night, I could have run into late night patrols, my car could have broke down along the highway or I could have had a light out or any number of things to get me caught up in the dragnet. I could have been seen or discovered or found out in my silliness which would have taken the shine out of things all together. But it went off flawlessly. Two years running, two deliveries of flowers in the dead of night, two years where the gesture wasn't acknowledged but still. I would have given anything to be a fly on the wall when those curtains of her's were thrown back this morning, to see what ever it was that passed over her face.
Last night I went on a reckless drive through the dead of night and know that's how love goes. Still, quiet and absolutely crazy, but that's what makes it beautiful. Mad, tender, sweet love in the form of dahlias on the lawn. Your lawn, Jane. Delivered with love.
Your WHMB
Sunday, October 4, 2009
The Dahlia Trail, 10/09
Home. Where is home, my old love?
I went off to play in Tacoma today. I was restless, the weather was nice, I had money in my pocket and I was a bit blue. The last part I can't deny. The Estranged One wrote me an email and broached the subject of dating and it put me into a tailspin. I don't why considering all the things that have passed between us over the last four years, but still. Not too much different than when she told me that she was filing for divorce back in February. Never happened, but still, it's in the wings. We are doing things backwards, Jane, always have. Now, instead of running away, having kids, buying a house and getting married we date, have lovers, then, when things look promising, sue for divorce. I don't know about the rest of the world, but what I do know is that the life that I am living is somewhat strange.
So instead of worrying about things that are out of my hands I took a drive. It was a gorgeous day, a knock down beautiful fall day that took no prisoners, that said to anybody and everybody who was half alive that life was out there and it had to be lived and because of that there would be no yard work done today. So I heeded the call and crossed over the bridge. For a bit there I thought I was going to walk the span over the Narrows but changed my mind. Weather? Clothing issues? No, I wanted to second hand and did it in a big way.
Afterwards I drove down to Pt Defiance Park and walked the walk that we walked oh so many years ago, part of the annual 27th of August thing that I couldn't get around to doing this year. I have to admit that the Sound was a different kind of animal today than the day we took that wee little walk back in '05. The breeze was up, the salt water moody and wild and the air was brisk. I talked to dogs and Highland Mexicans and old ladies and still I couldn't shake that business with the Estranged One. I continued my second handing, went to Grocery Outlet and bought canned goods and wine on the cheap, found a ton of movies at the pawnshop and still....still I couldn't find purchase, couldn't find soil under my feet. I ate a burger at a decent burger mill, found cookbooks at a decent price, sat in the sun and even drove a portion of the Stations of the Cross and still couldn't find that place that said to me.."everything will be okay".
Today, as I was out in the world, I truly realized that I am on my own until otherwise directed. I've known that and have been working towards some sort of resolution of my problems, but still, sometimes things become crystal clear like they were today. And that's what worries me. Life has not so much stalled but has been put into a waiting mode. I don't mind waitint but it sometimes breeds problems. I sometimes find myself with nothing to do so I sit and think and feel and look back on my times here in this house, in this wonderful part of the world that I have grown to love so much. I suppose that's why I am still here in the Kitsap house. I am still here not because of concrete things..the job is gone, the family in Idaho, you are out of my life, so I really have nothing holding me back...but more I'm still here because of memories of a life lived here and because of dreams that have been left unfulfilled.
Memories. I think of steps that need to be taken to get life moving forward again, and I know that an awful lot depends on how I want to deal with my memories, memories of my family, of my house, of the Estranged One and you. Yeah, you, you have been gone and out of my life for years and yet if you were to walk into my house right now and look around, read my writings, look at photographs scattered here and there and peek at the fitfull beginnings of that novel of mine, you might think that you are still part of my life, part of my life in a way that my kids or my friends or even The Estranged One still are.
Today I went out and about and found out that those memories, memories of Sundays in Tacoma with the family, memories of all the goofs made between me and the Estranged One, all the memories of our times, wonderful as they are are liabilities, not assets, in my life right now. All those memories are doing are keeping me in place and holding me back from living a larger life, a life based on the here and now.
Yeah, I went out and about today and found out that all I've been doing has been walking around in a field of land mines. I touch that memory or this memory and bleewy, up in my face they go. I suppose like everyone else I just want to leave the past behind, have some answers about the here and now, answers about where I am going, something solid under foot to help me move forward, to someplace fresh and new where I can feel comfortable about going back to visit those memories every now and again. I want to tell folks, yes, those old times were interesting, great, powerful, bittersweet, meaningful, all that, but they're behind me now, I'm whole again.
I have no regrets about those days, about our times. Rather I'm just frustrated, mystified about where life is headed and where home is. Memories are good for idle times, but right now life requires an action plan to get it going again. Being lost in the land of memory has no bearing right now, memories are just so much dead weight that need to be kicked off the craft in order to lighten it up, get it in the air. For the first time in my life I have no one calling the shots but me and it's just plain out wild to think that. I wake up and wonder about it all, about life, about having met you, how I lost you, about what I plan on doing for work and whether my house will sell or whether I'll be here through the spring. I wonder about where I am going and where I'll end up, all that. I just want direction, my old love. I just want to know where I am going, where home is, just so I know what kinds of trees to buy, what kind of roots I plan on sinking in. I want to know where my next set of memories will be built, feel the earth solid under my feet again.
Home. Memoires of home. I suppose, even on those mornings when I wake up safe and comfortable in my bed, that I am charting a path without a map, that I am looking for a path that will halp me to find my way home again. Help me, my old friend, my old love. Give me some navigation tools to work with. They're there in your eyes. They always were. Let me see your eyes before I go. And help me out by hauling away some of these older memories of ours. Give me newer, lighter ones to carry along with me on that long voyage home. Home, whereever the heck that is.
Your WHMB
I went off to play in Tacoma today. I was restless, the weather was nice, I had money in my pocket and I was a bit blue. The last part I can't deny. The Estranged One wrote me an email and broached the subject of dating and it put me into a tailspin. I don't why considering all the things that have passed between us over the last four years, but still. Not too much different than when she told me that she was filing for divorce back in February. Never happened, but still, it's in the wings. We are doing things backwards, Jane, always have. Now, instead of running away, having kids, buying a house and getting married we date, have lovers, then, when things look promising, sue for divorce. I don't know about the rest of the world, but what I do know is that the life that I am living is somewhat strange.
So instead of worrying about things that are out of my hands I took a drive. It was a gorgeous day, a knock down beautiful fall day that took no prisoners, that said to anybody and everybody who was half alive that life was out there and it had to be lived and because of that there would be no yard work done today. So I heeded the call and crossed over the bridge. For a bit there I thought I was going to walk the span over the Narrows but changed my mind. Weather? Clothing issues? No, I wanted to second hand and did it in a big way.
Afterwards I drove down to Pt Defiance Park and walked the walk that we walked oh so many years ago, part of the annual 27th of August thing that I couldn't get around to doing this year. I have to admit that the Sound was a different kind of animal today than the day we took that wee little walk back in '05. The breeze was up, the salt water moody and wild and the air was brisk. I talked to dogs and Highland Mexicans and old ladies and still I couldn't shake that business with the Estranged One. I continued my second handing, went to Grocery Outlet and bought canned goods and wine on the cheap, found a ton of movies at the pawnshop and still....still I couldn't find purchase, couldn't find soil under my feet. I ate a burger at a decent burger mill, found cookbooks at a decent price, sat in the sun and even drove a portion of the Stations of the Cross and still couldn't find that place that said to me.."everything will be okay".
Today, as I was out in the world, I truly realized that I am on my own until otherwise directed. I've known that and have been working towards some sort of resolution of my problems, but still, sometimes things become crystal clear like they were today. And that's what worries me. Life has not so much stalled but has been put into a waiting mode. I don't mind waitint but it sometimes breeds problems. I sometimes find myself with nothing to do so I sit and think and feel and look back on my times here in this house, in this wonderful part of the world that I have grown to love so much. I suppose that's why I am still here in the Kitsap house. I am still here not because of concrete things..the job is gone, the family in Idaho, you are out of my life, so I really have nothing holding me back...but more I'm still here because of memories of a life lived here and because of dreams that have been left unfulfilled.
Memories. I think of steps that need to be taken to get life moving forward again, and I know that an awful lot depends on how I want to deal with my memories, memories of my family, of my house, of the Estranged One and you. Yeah, you, you have been gone and out of my life for years and yet if you were to walk into my house right now and look around, read my writings, look at photographs scattered here and there and peek at the fitfull beginnings of that novel of mine, you might think that you are still part of my life, part of my life in a way that my kids or my friends or even The Estranged One still are.
Today I went out and about and found out that those memories, memories of Sundays in Tacoma with the family, memories of all the goofs made between me and the Estranged One, all the memories of our times, wonderful as they are are liabilities, not assets, in my life right now. All those memories are doing are keeping me in place and holding me back from living a larger life, a life based on the here and now.
Yeah, I went out and about today and found out that all I've been doing has been walking around in a field of land mines. I touch that memory or this memory and bleewy, up in my face they go. I suppose like everyone else I just want to leave the past behind, have some answers about the here and now, answers about where I am going, something solid under foot to help me move forward, to someplace fresh and new where I can feel comfortable about going back to visit those memories every now and again. I want to tell folks, yes, those old times were interesting, great, powerful, bittersweet, meaningful, all that, but they're behind me now, I'm whole again.
I have no regrets about those days, about our times. Rather I'm just frustrated, mystified about where life is headed and where home is. Memories are good for idle times, but right now life requires an action plan to get it going again. Being lost in the land of memory has no bearing right now, memories are just so much dead weight that need to be kicked off the craft in order to lighten it up, get it in the air. For the first time in my life I have no one calling the shots but me and it's just plain out wild to think that. I wake up and wonder about it all, about life, about having met you, how I lost you, about what I plan on doing for work and whether my house will sell or whether I'll be here through the spring. I wonder about where I am going and where I'll end up, all that. I just want direction, my old love. I just want to know where I am going, where home is, just so I know what kinds of trees to buy, what kind of roots I plan on sinking in. I want to know where my next set of memories will be built, feel the earth solid under my feet again.
Home. Memoires of home. I suppose, even on those mornings when I wake up safe and comfortable in my bed, that I am charting a path without a map, that I am looking for a path that will halp me to find my way home again. Help me, my old friend, my old love. Give me some navigation tools to work with. They're there in your eyes. They always were. Let me see your eyes before I go. And help me out by hauling away some of these older memories of ours. Give me newer, lighter ones to carry along with me on that long voyage home. Home, whereever the heck that is.
Your WHMB
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