Tough week....
X and I went to court Thursday for what we thought was the final step in our divorce. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to us, the state of Colorado's benefit-the-attorneys divorce system stated that we need to have an additional hearing AFTER our mandatory 90-day waiting period is up. Which means, yes, MBS and I have to postpone the wedding. Though I should have been a little more thorough in my investigation of Colorado divorce law, it just sucks that this state makes people jump through hoops in order to end a marriage. I shudder to think what the victim of abuse has to go through...
So, stay by me (and this blog) for updates.
In the meantime, we're going to Disneyland! :-D
Friday, November 16, 2007
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Crashed hard, landed well, everything wonderful
So much for the posting every day.
My computer is (as far as I can tell) a cold heap of silicon. At first I thought it was just the keyboard curling its little toes; certain letters weren't working. Another keyboard, however, did nothing to solve the problem and I ended my night by slamming another beer, hoping the FUBAR might be ameliorated by a sprinkling of sparkling smegma from the Fuckup Fairy.
He/She didn't visit or the smegma was on opposite mode because absolutely nothing but the power was working the next day. I tried my HP recovery disk (like patriotism, the last refuge) but it couldn't get past the "Are you sure you want to proceed?" screen. Thus, my online blackout began and it's been that way for a week.
Oh, I had limited access at work - yesterday was my last day - but most things of any interest (including Blogger and Gmail) get blocked for peurile and largely illogical reasons. As someone who has spent almost every day for the last 9 years connected in some way, the past week has been a bit disconcerting, and I found myself turning to my computer much in the same way an ex-smoker reaches for a phantom cigarette, a habit with the dint of a bad penny.
Not in Manitou Springs, obviously; tonight is really my first night of my new life. We're heading back tomorrow to fill a U-Haul (and put Scarlett up on a trailer) but for all intents and purposes, that part of my life is behind me. So indeed, landed well, where the love is abundant and dreams come true. Even if the old comp winds up in the recycle bin, it contains nothing that outshines a moment of sun here. Maybe it was time for it to die (if you believe in those kinds of karmic bookmarks), a page closed with no regrets.
My computer is (as far as I can tell) a cold heap of silicon. At first I thought it was just the keyboard curling its little toes; certain letters weren't working. Another keyboard, however, did nothing to solve the problem and I ended my night by slamming another beer, hoping the FUBAR might be ameliorated by a sprinkling of sparkling smegma from the Fuckup Fairy.
He/She didn't visit or the smegma was on opposite mode because absolutely nothing but the power was working the next day. I tried my HP recovery disk (like patriotism, the last refuge) but it couldn't get past the "Are you sure you want to proceed?" screen. Thus, my online blackout began and it's been that way for a week.
Oh, I had limited access at work - yesterday was my last day - but most things of any interest (including Blogger and Gmail) get blocked for peurile and largely illogical reasons. As someone who has spent almost every day for the last 9 years connected in some way, the past week has been a bit disconcerting, and I found myself turning to my computer much in the same way an ex-smoker reaches for a phantom cigarette, a habit with the dint of a bad penny.
Not in Manitou Springs, obviously; tonight is really my first night of my new life. We're heading back tomorrow to fill a U-Haul (and put Scarlett up on a trailer) but for all intents and purposes, that part of my life is behind me. So indeed, landed well, where the love is abundant and dreams come true. Even if the old comp winds up in the recycle bin, it contains nothing that outshines a moment of sun here. Maybe it was time for it to die (if you believe in those kinds of karmic bookmarks), a page closed with no regrets.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Nine pee em
…and eight days left (at work), another two after that and Manitou Springs is just a memory. In the meantime, trying to get everything packed or segregated for the garage sale, building a web site (soon!), taking care of kids and going to work… yes, a stressful time but a joyful one as well. Tonight calls for a few beers, some sweet nothings with MBS on the phone (soon we won’t need THAT connection) and then attempt to get the bulk of the web site completed.
MBS is my savior. This area has become (it seems) a vortex of nothingness, a black hole, and she has pulled me up into the light, given me love, given me hope, given me everything I’ve desired in life – and more.
The time to snap the bonds here is close. Although I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop (as if some malevolent force incarcerates me here), I believe the universe is finally turning in my favor and the time to manumit me has arrived. With my savior taking me by the hand, I gather up my children and journey to the Promised Land.
MBS is my savior. This area has become (it seems) a vortex of nothingness, a black hole, and she has pulled me up into the light, given me love, given me hope, given me everything I’ve desired in life – and more.
The time to snap the bonds here is close. Although I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop (as if some malevolent force incarcerates me here), I believe the universe is finally turning in my favor and the time to manumit me has arrived. With my savior taking me by the hand, I gather up my children and journey to the Promised Land.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Just sayin’
Oh, I was up way too late last night/this morning working on the wedding web site. Not tonight, my friends – and no writing tonight.
I’m that tired, heh.
I’m that tired, heh.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Randomly generated random blahging
Don’t know if you caught this last week, WH Press Secretary Dana Perino let some greenhouse gases escape from her little blonde head to bloviate about the supposed health benefits of global warming:
Um, “love to ridicule” seems a bit much; the airhead invites ridicule. If she was my daughter I’d be heartbroken with embarrassment.
As chunks of ice the size of the state of Florida, break off from the Arctic ice-sheet, the rightard’s gainsaying of Global Warming sounds more and more like the Chewbacca Defense. Speaking of which, I was more inclined to go out and chase fairies and unicorns than believe the Rockies would be anything more than soundly swept by the Sox.
It's almost time to harvest fallen leaves to feed the dump, orange and black bags piled high in a stinking maw.
And so, brothers and sisters, we, you, I (and hopefully, them), breathe, breathe, think and invite the faeries and unicorns sit in and chant an excerpt of a Samhain ritual, Invocation to the Guardian of the Gate and Sage:
...and there's always next season, it's a young team; expect us at Coors Field when the warm comes back.
Until then, there's Wolf Creek a mere half hour away, where next season always means "just more fun".
Sure. In some cases, there are -- look, this is an issue where I'm sure lots of people would love to ridicule me when I say this, but it is true that many people die from cold-related deaths every winter. And there are studies that say that climate change in certain areas of the world would help those individuals. There are also concerns that it would increase tropical diseases and that's -- again, I'm not an expert in that, I'm going to let Julie Gerberding testify in regards to that, but there are many studies about this that you can look into.
Um, “love to ridicule” seems a bit much; the airhead invites ridicule. If she was my daughter I’d be heartbroken with embarrassment.
As chunks of ice the size of the state of Florida, break off from the Arctic ice-sheet, the rightard’s gainsaying of Global Warming sounds more and more like the Chewbacca Defense. Speaking of which, I was more inclined to go out and chase fairies and unicorns than believe the Rockies would be anything more than soundly swept by the Sox.
It's almost time to harvest fallen leaves to feed the dump, orange and black bags piled high in a stinking maw.
And so, brothers and sisters, we, you, I (and hopefully, them), breathe, breathe, think and invite the faeries and unicorns sit in and chant an excerpt of a Samhain ritual, Invocation to the Guardian of the Gate and Sage:
You are the echo we hear at the forest deep,
And the warmth of the sun upon our face.
You are the ageless sound of the oceans roar
And the power that is felt in the wild place.
You are the wheat that rustles low on the breeze
And the spark that ignites the hearth fire.
You are the passion and the power and the ecstasy
That is reached at the end of desire.
You are the squirrel who plays games in the treetops
And the young stag who runs wild and free.
You are the clatter of hooves on the old gravel road
And the strength of the old oak tree.
You are the wrinkles of the old crippled man
and in the child, young and strong.
You are in the joy of union of love
In the passionate kiss, slow and long.
You are the lover, my father, and the Ancient One.
Take my hand and teach me the dance,
Of the change of the seasons and the eye of the storm
of fertility, of death, love and romance,
We remember always as your children to be merry
To hear the music, both dark and light
We hold sacred your realm and all it contains
As we dance to your tune in the night.
...and there's always next season, it's a young team; expect us at Coors Field when the warm comes back.
Until then, there's Wolf Creek a mere half hour away, where next season always means "just more fun".
Saturday, October 27, 2007
So, I said I was perfect?
A little misstep – sorry. Thursday night my internet went down and last night I was busy boxing things up and talking to MBS until 2 AM. The boxes are piling up and I’m doing with less and less. Actually, I’m pretty pleased at how well it’s been going and I don’t feel too badly about multi-tasking within the midst of this to design the wedding web site.
Naturally, no time to write.
I suggest you go here and read this NYT Magazine piece on evangelicals starting to actually act like Christians and rejecting the Falwell/Robertson/Dobson swine that have given Christianity a very bad name.
An encouraging article.
Naturally, no time to write.
I suggest you go here and read this NYT Magazine piece on evangelicals starting to actually act like Christians and rejecting the Falwell/Robertson/Dobson swine that have given Christianity a very bad name.
Today the president’s support among evangelicals, still among his most loyal constituents, has crumbled. Once close to 90 percent, the president’s approval rating among white evangelicals has fallen to a recent low below 45 percent, according to polls by the Pew Research Center. White evangelicals under 30 — the future of the church — were once Bush’s biggest fans; now they are less supportive than their elders. And the dissatisfaction extends beyond Bush. For the first time in many years, white evangelical identification with the Republican Party has dipped below 50 percent, with the sharpest falloff again among the young, according to John C. Green, a senior fellow at Pew and an expert on religion and politics. (The defectors by and large say they’ve become independents, not Democrats, according to the polls.)
Some claim the falloff in support for Bush reflects the unrealistic expectations pumped up by conservative Christian leaders. But no one denies the war is a factor. Christianity Today, the evangelical journal, has even posed the question of whether evangelicals should "repent" for their swift support of invading Iraq.
"Even in evangelical circles, we are tired of the war, tired of the body bags," the Rev. David Welsh, who took over late last year as senior pastor of Wichita’s large Central Christian Church, told me. "I think it is to the point where they are saying: ‘O.K., we have done as much good as we can. Now let’s just get out of there.’ "
An encouraging article.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Ho-hum, if said by enough people over and over again, might sound like ‘om’
I’m tired and I miss MBS. The Sox embarrassed the Rox in Game 1 of the world series. And there’s lots of boxes to be packed. I’m certain you can do the math.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Saying something
It seems pretty damned nuts that although we’re still a little over a year away from a presidential election, the campaigns have been dragging on since last January. Small wonder our system of government and politics is so screwed up. Almost two years of this crap infuriates even the most dedicated political junkie, yours truly included. Polls and palaver and dimwitted punditry non-stop - that the general electorate is exasperated by the endless circus shouldn’t arch an eyebrow.
In the interest of saving billions of dollars, the relative sanity of most Americans, and the ozone, elections need to be restricted to six weeks. If a candidate announces prior to the agreed upon start date, they’re disqualified; any money raised prior to that date will be considered illegal. Any candidate who can’t build support or a decent platform in six weeks doesn’t deserve be in office. Indeed, restricting the election cycle to six weeks would eliminate a lot of the pandering and triangulation that pollutes the whole process.
The tragedy is, the dog and pony show distracts from the very real fact that this country is in crisis. The thugs and thieves who have looted our public trust (and coffers) the past seven years need to be stood in front of a firing squad, not just tossed out of power. The sad-ass state of the nation, the suffering of its children, the shattered promise of the country I grew up with... I'm sick of the whole damn process but it's all we have (short of revolution).
So return to my previous post, please. Keep hope alive.
In the interest of saving billions of dollars, the relative sanity of most Americans, and the ozone, elections need to be restricted to six weeks. If a candidate announces prior to the agreed upon start date, they’re disqualified; any money raised prior to that date will be considered illegal. Any candidate who can’t build support or a decent platform in six weeks doesn’t deserve be in office. Indeed, restricting the election cycle to six weeks would eliminate a lot of the pandering and triangulation that pollutes the whole process.
The tragedy is, the dog and pony show distracts from the very real fact that this country is in crisis. The thugs and thieves who have looted our public trust (and coffers) the past seven years need to be stood in front of a firing squad, not just tossed out of power. The sad-ass state of the nation, the suffering of its children, the shattered promise of the country I grew up with... I'm sick of the whole damn process but it's all we have (short of revolution).
So return to my previous post, please. Keep hope alive.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Time to deliver
I thought this was cool, social scientists say just 11% of us make a difference:
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/stacey-lawson/are-you-part-of-the-11_b_69285.html
Read it and ask yourself if you are one of the 11%...
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/stacey-lawson/are-you-part-of-the-11_b_69285.html
Read it and ask yourself if you are one of the 11%...
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Sunday/snow day nothing-to-say edition
Snow today, the first of the season, about 5 inches of it. There really hasn’t been much of a fall – I mean the leaves have turned and everything but the weather has been decidedly summer-ish – and so the cold and snow came somewhat as a relief. Until a couple weeks ago there was no snow on Pikes Peak, by far the latest in the year that the Peak has gone without snow in all the time I have lived here. Needless to say, the extended summer temperatures and no apparent autumn had been disconcerting.
Not nearly as disconcerting, apparently, as the news that Albus Dumbledore is gay.
If you were wondering how the hayseeds were handling this news, you need to read this for a good laugh (while you’re there, poke around a bit for their hilarious take on the fishist attack on Banned Books Week).
*sigh* Ah well. At least there’s a purpose in the universe (per mathematical equation). To which I say:
Not nearly as disconcerting, apparently, as the news that Albus Dumbledore is gay.
If you were wondering how the hayseeds were handling this news, you need to read this for a good laugh (while you’re there, poke around a bit for their hilarious take on the fishist attack on Banned Books Week).
*sigh* Ah well. At least there’s a purpose in the universe (per mathematical equation). To which I say:
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Blahg-ing
Bleah.
Back in Manitou Springs for my final bid of loneliness and to put in the last stretch at work. Boxing things up and getting ready to sell the farm before I leave for Pagosa Springs three weeks from now. And as I said in my last post, this situation hardly makes me feel happy about posting every day but there you have it.
I left Pagosa a little after 8 this morning and drove straight for the 4 ½ hours it takes to get here. Took in my mail, unloaded my car and went straight to work. In a few hours I’ll be on the phone with MBS, transported by her sweet voice, missing her terribly. Needless to say, I’ll be too preoccupied – and too exhausted – to spend any time here.
Yes, we’re too adorable… and so is this:
Back in Manitou Springs for my final bid of loneliness and to put in the last stretch at work. Boxing things up and getting ready to sell the farm before I leave for Pagosa Springs three weeks from now. And as I said in my last post, this situation hardly makes me feel happy about posting every day but there you have it.
I left Pagosa a little after 8 this morning and drove straight for the 4 ½ hours it takes to get here. Took in my mail, unloaded my car and went straight to work. In a few hours I’ll be on the phone with MBS, transported by her sweet voice, missing her terribly. Needless to say, I’ll be too preoccupied – and too exhausted – to spend any time here.
Yes, we’re too adorable… and so is this:
Friday, October 19, 2007
Down the road a bit.. no a bit more... um, just a little more... almost there...
Out at a gathering hosted by MBS' friends, the couples and almost everyone's kids, which wasn't nearly as dreadful as it sounds. MBS has some very cool friends. We gathered to eat, play, jam, drink, laugh - all accomplished beyond expectations. Children with penny-whistles, beating on drums, belting it out on the couch, marshmallows melted on sticks fired in a wood-burning stove. Ladies gossiping and laughing in a tight huddle while the boys toasted a bowl in the laundry room.
NOT standard suburban fare, thank god.
Though gods were there.
Tomorrow I have to return north and finish up that chapter of my life. I do not want to go. My home is here and what I have there feels like the tail-end of a flop, where I surf a couch, waiting for the inevitable ascent to tomorrow. With the exception of my kids, everything is here and soon, even they will be here so there will be no reason to ever leave again. A night like tonight reminds me where my heart is, where my home is, where I'm meant to be. Tomorrow I'll be at my not-home, working at my soon to be not-job, not happy, not with MBS.
Fortunately, it's not long in all that but until then, prepare for rather testy posts. The next three weeks will be busy and bitchy.
NOT standard suburban fare, thank god.
Though gods were there.
Tomorrow I have to return north and finish up that chapter of my life. I do not want to go. My home is here and what I have there feels like the tail-end of a flop, where I surf a couch, waiting for the inevitable ascent to tomorrow. With the exception of my kids, everything is here and soon, even they will be here so there will be no reason to ever leave again. A night like tonight reminds me where my heart is, where my home is, where I'm meant to be. Tomorrow I'll be at my not-home, working at my soon to be not-job, not happy, not with MBS.
Fortunately, it's not long in all that but until then, prepare for rather testy posts. The next three weeks will be busy and bitchy.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Making out with Mara, drunk on wine
So this whole posting every day thing isn't supposed to start until November but I figured I'd flex my limbs, curl my toes, chop all the hair out of my nose in order to get ready for the... whatever it is that posting once a day gets me. A nifty
thing on my blog roll and two or three people who never read me and - after reading me - realize there's better ways to kill a minute... sweet.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
I rise to the challenge, even if I'm a wet willow branch that bends in the wind
Contrary to all rumors (that I started), I am in fact now posting every day until the first of December. The persistent yet otherwise magnificent MizMlle challenged me to NaBloPoMo (illegal in 6 other states, still) and I accept, the taste of a nation (or the tastes of a weird few) be damned.
So you might get a lot of this:
or this and that.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
With one small rock in place, we are a step closer to a new adventure
Since nobody noticed that I failed to post a Random Friday thingy (in fact, no has has seemed to notice that I haven't posted anything at all in the past week and a half), I'll just kind of skip over the not posting part and pretend I'm my usual chatty self. Or not.
I've had bigger fish to fry (and more on that in a bit) than updating here. MBS arrived with her sparkling trio of daughters on Friday for a big weekend in my neck of the woods. My mother graciously hosted a slumber party with combined broods while MBS and I stepped out for dinner at one of Manitou Springs' nicer restaurants for an evening of romance and big deals. See, although MBS and I had pretty much decided that we would be married January 5, 2008 and agreed that together forever was where our hearts resided, I hadn't gotten around to "the official asking" task. So it was a dinner with a mission.
We chose the "Old World" appetizer and the Seafood entree' platter, electing to go with their 3-wine matches for the various courses (with my nerves a little frazzled, I had to opt for another glass). Everything was superb, delicious although the quality of the food, wine, or service was a distant third to what was truly on my mind: the marvelous company I had for dinner (my best friend ever, my soulmate, the most beautiful woman in the world) and of course, the task at hand (pun indeed intended, mea culpa).
Right before the chocolate fondue and the tawny port, I palmed the ring, got up from my seat and moved to MBS, reeling with anxiety. Yeah, I knew she'd say "yes" but still, it was a huge deal, a lifetime-defining moment. Before her, I knelt on one knee and took her hand in mine and said, "Um... I have the wrong hand, don't I?"
MBS giggled, I think she thought my nervousness was kind of cute, and offered me the correct hand. Slipping the ring on her finger, I asked if she would do me the honor of being my wife and live with me forever. I hope it goes without saying that she responded positively especially considering the post from a weeks back.
I'm in Pagosa Springs now, having followed MBS and her fabulous girls home after the elation of that evening out. I want to thank everyone for their suggestions on the color scheme for our wedding website (I'll post the URL as soon as I get it done), we decided to go with white, red, and black (something to do with Celtic tradition). In the flurry that is moving a family and planning a wedding, I hope I can find time to post here every few days or so but I think you all will understand if I don't get it done.Anyway, I don't have Photoshop here to clean up the two dark pics our waitress took with my phone at the end of our dinner...
You'll have to help me decide which pic is better.
However, I think you all can decide that she is, in fact, the most beautiful woman in the world.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Friday random yadda yadda
There's a ga-jillion reasons I'm looking forward to moving to Pagosa Springs but I must confess that a small guilty pleasure is the existance of a dishwasher. As I type this, a sink full of dirty dishes moans my name like some dope-fiend distant relation and I'm doing all I can to ignore the imprecations of the stack teetering at sinks edge. We wash by hand here in Manitou Springs, a hard scrabble life. This second glass of Shiraz is helping me tune out the din of dishes tired of posing as seventh-grade biology projects.
The midget mafia is in the other room, squeeling like nitrous fiends, batting an inflatable skeleton around (that they've named, for no good reason, "Bobby"), pretending the puffy bit of kitsch possesses some potential for terror. The mafia browbeat me into putting up Halloween decorations with a threat somewhere between "we'll put them up ourselves" and "pity if something should happen to your fingers sometime during the night". So, there's glowing plastic pumpkins in the windows and orange icicle lights hanging from the eaves although I'm not certain what orange-colored faux icicles have to do with Halloween. When the Boss tells you what you gotta do, you don't ask which windows get the goofy bat stick-ons.
It's not bad enough that I'm getting my balls busted by festivity infested firkins and fuzzy flatware but I also need to get a wedding web site together, whatever colors we need eludes me at the moment. Once upon a time, before the Dot Bomb, I worked as a web designer and was damn good at it. And I guess I could do that but I'm still wondering if I do this well in the least, this with 'the blogging'. All that's out there - what color does that get? These aren't questions that should be asked when one's balls are smashed, but here they are, nonetheless.
What colors would you go with?
I'm not too proud, see.
When other bloggers talk about their random 10 or whatever, they're talking about their iPod shuffle. Hey, if you're going to sit there watching Murder, She Wrote, you need to know how this all goes down.
I'm too poor to own an iPod. Nothing's random but this, here.
The midget mafia is in the other room, squeeling like nitrous fiends, batting an inflatable skeleton around (that they've named, for no good reason, "Bobby"), pretending the puffy bit of kitsch possesses some potential for terror. The mafia browbeat me into putting up Halloween decorations with a threat somewhere between "we'll put them up ourselves" and "pity if something should happen to your fingers sometime during the night". So, there's glowing plastic pumpkins in the windows and orange icicle lights hanging from the eaves although I'm not certain what orange-colored faux icicles have to do with Halloween. When the Boss tells you what you gotta do, you don't ask which windows get the goofy bat stick-ons.
It's not bad enough that I'm getting my balls busted by festivity infested firkins and fuzzy flatware but I also need to get a wedding web site together, whatever colors we need eludes me at the moment. Once upon a time, before the Dot Bomb, I worked as a web designer and was damn good at it. And I guess I could do that but I'm still wondering if I do this well in the least, this with 'the blogging'. All that's out there - what color does that get? These aren't questions that should be asked when one's balls are smashed, but here they are, nonetheless.
What colors would you go with?
I'm not too proud, see.
When other bloggers talk about their random 10 or whatever, they're talking about their iPod shuffle. Hey, if you're going to sit there watching Murder, She Wrote, you need to know how this all goes down.
I'm too poor to own an iPod. Nothing's random but this, here.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Another Hell in the Here & Now
Boycott Chevron & Total filling stations until their companies quit doing business with the brutal regime in Burma
Hopefully I got your attention with that, the extent of anything a worthless blogger like me can do for the people of Burma.
I've been staring at that last sentence for a half hour and now that I'm typing again (in this weirdly meta-meta-way), it occurs to me that the problem is not having anything to say but wanting to say too much, all at once, frothing at the mouth, fists clenched, veins bulging in my neck and forehead. There are times I want to be Superman and use those powers to make a difference, fly to Burma and slap the crap out of the soldiers until they see that firing on their own people is wrong, criminal, a one-way ticket to hell; I want to round up the junta and toss them far out into the sea; I want to have the CEO of Chevron quivering and crying on the ground in front of me, kicking him in the nuts until his ears bleed.
For those of you who were just rescued from a collapsed mine, Vicki fills you in, classier and with more restraint, natch. So does Amanda:
Read them and then see what kind of brutality they're talking about.
It's really hard to type with clenched fists. I just want to kick in a door and smash the little painted clay statue of capitalism lit with candles, glittering with the chipped pittances of the poor, shining on an altar in every glass monstrosity casting its long shadow. Every one of us here immersed in the glow of these photons spun to us through a few holes in the wall seem to owe our alliance to Chevron and/or Time/Warner and/or Disney/ABC/CapCities and/or/and/or/and the transfat empire but I can assure you, we can shake off our chains (um, except, I suspect that if you're reading me, shaking off chains isn't usually your motivation).
Don't buy anything from Chevron or Total, that's all I'm saying. So glad I live in a society where I can say what I want, a society of laws and compassion.
Hopefully I got your attention with that, the extent of anything a worthless blogger like me can do for the people of Burma.
I've been staring at that last sentence for a half hour and now that I'm typing again (in this weirdly meta-meta-way), it occurs to me that the problem is not having anything to say but wanting to say too much, all at once, frothing at the mouth, fists clenched, veins bulging in my neck and forehead. There are times I want to be Superman and use those powers to make a difference, fly to Burma and slap the crap out of the soldiers until they see that firing on their own people is wrong, criminal, a one-way ticket to hell; I want to round up the junta and toss them far out into the sea; I want to have the CEO of Chevron quivering and crying on the ground in front of me, kicking him in the nuts until his ears bleed.
For those of you who were just rescued from a collapsed mine, Vicki fills you in, classier and with more restraint, natch. So does Amanda:
Our hearts are with those who struggle in Burma because they must, because you will never be wholly owned as long as you continue to struggle. It’s easy for me to say that, though, isn’t it? Which is why writing this is hard; my awe of those who put their lives on the line is humbling. May we all have the courage of our convictions as those who struggle against the military dictatorship do.
Read them and then see what kind of brutality they're talking about.
It's really hard to type with clenched fists. I just want to kick in a door and smash the little painted clay statue of capitalism lit with candles, glittering with the chipped pittances of the poor, shining on an altar in every glass monstrosity casting its long shadow. Every one of us here immersed in the glow of these photons spun to us through a few holes in the wall seem to owe our alliance to Chevron and/or Time/Warner and/or Disney/ABC/CapCities and/or/and/or/and the transfat empire but I can assure you, we can shake off our chains (um, except, I suspect that if you're reading me, shaking off chains isn't usually your motivation).
Don't buy anything from Chevron or Total, that's all I'm saying. So glad I live in a society where I can say what I want, a society of laws and compassion.
Monday, October 01, 2007
Camomile Tea
Outside the sky is light with stars;
There's a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers,
The wind is shaking the almond tree.
How little I thought, a year ago,
In the horrible cottage upon the Lee
That he and I should be sitting so
And sipping a cup of camomile tea.
Light as feathers the witches fly,
The horn of the moon is plain to see;
By a firefly under a jonquil flower
A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.
We might be fifty, we might be five,
So snug, so compact, so wise are we!
Under the kitchen-table leg
My knee is pressing against his knee.
~ Katherine Mansfield
The leaves are turning and mornings bite, a nip sharp enough to make me take a breath of it inside and convince me that a coat has a place in my future. Every year I wish summer would endure and every year those wishes get whooshed away with the dervishes of dust and leaves that spin eastward down my street. The windows get closed at night and there’s pumpkins to be carved.
This year is different, though: it’s my first samhain, be gentle with me.
Prime me with camomile tea.
Finish me with mulled wine.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Never pass by
About a block away from where my children used to have day care is a post that flashes a crossing warning for school kids. It’s not normally something that would capture my attention but I noticed it the first time when I dropped my kids off at daycare. The post was covered with plastic flowers, ribbons, photos, small toys and teddy bears piled up at its base. About four feet up was a piece of cardboard about 2 foot square with a picture of a young girl, dark hair with a slight wave and black eyes shining with the glee of being, her broad grin both loving and mischievous, a missing tooth telling the world she was probably in first or second grade.
Scrawled around her photo in a deliberate, pained script were phrases of love and sorrow, beliefs of a better world and the certainty of an ache that would never go away. One cold morning, the horizon tinged with scattered hues of autumn, I stood reading those words, tracing the outline of her face with my fingertip as I gently wiped the grime of traffic from her photo. I could not touch her, my fingers merely moving across the projection of what she had been and what her family wanted me to know of her, a stranger passing by and taking the time to hear their lament. The story was clear and sad in that rarified fall air. I could not touch her but she and her family had touched me.
Months later, the post was clear, everything stripped away so that only cold steel reflected the colors of passing cars rushing into lives indifferent to what had been there before. City workers, I thought, ordered by some mindless bureaucrat to “beautify” an otherwise ugly strip of pavement where drivers blazed by with single-minded intention and kids crossed in peril. My sadness grew; not just that the memorial had been taken down (and for no good reason, I thought) but with the thought that she was now forgotten as life marched relentlessly, heartlessly along.
Today I was supposed to go visit the grave of my son who passed ten years ago but unfortunately, my head was down and I was swimming upstream, fighting mindless bureaucracies, driving with single-minded intention, heedless of love or lament or plastic flowers laid out to remind me of my own ache. It’s not that I had forgotten (not a day goes by when I don’t think of him) but I was too busy rushing headlong into every challenge that presented itself. Every time I hit the canvas, I got up for more, bloodied but resolute, angrier and more determined. The fire in my gut told me that I would end up victorious and in some ways, I had. Unfortunately, that fire took what I needed to sustain in my heart. Fighting made me as ugly as the boulevard that cannot sustain the memory of a life cut too short or families who bother to build a monument to love.
Rekindling the spark in my heart, I’m reminded that my own memorial does not reside on (or in) a post, or in a graveyard. Three beautiful children I’ve raised, the love that I offer to MBS and her three beautiful children, his spirit, love; his spirit thrives. Indeed, it's that energy that commands me to share the abundance, his legacy, not the stone in the ground, the bit of cardboard that says nothing and everything.
That and then sharing even more with MBS and her three beautiful children is as good as any pyramid or a cathedral. Noble taught me many things, the most important being that I need to stop and read at those places where teddy bears have been piled up and plastic flowers have been sewn lovingly into the fabric of a painful memory, that there are many more important things than to answer each petty battle with a flint face. He taught me that the fire in my gut diminishes the light in my heart and for that, he will always be loved; he will always give me pause and require me to stop and stand on the side of a road to weep.
About a week ago, I noticed that the pole had been done up again. Fortunately, for the same girl. The fire in my heart blazed as I considered how a family had taken their own fire and turned the decree of one more heartless bureaucrat into fuel for their hearts. Good for them, I thought, and my mind turned from where I was going to where I had been. I was no longer driving by with my own mindless, heartless direction but set on a path that did not ask me to fight or react out of anger but just do what needed to be done, accumulate teddy bears and plastic flowers and place them all where all could see that my love would overcome the need to fight. I miss my Noble so much (and such an aptly named child!) and tomorrow, 10 years and a day after I last held him in my arms, I will stop on the side of the road and weep.
Scrawled around her photo in a deliberate, pained script were phrases of love and sorrow, beliefs of a better world and the certainty of an ache that would never go away. One cold morning, the horizon tinged with scattered hues of autumn, I stood reading those words, tracing the outline of her face with my fingertip as I gently wiped the grime of traffic from her photo. I could not touch her, my fingers merely moving across the projection of what she had been and what her family wanted me to know of her, a stranger passing by and taking the time to hear their lament. The story was clear and sad in that rarified fall air. I could not touch her but she and her family had touched me.
Months later, the post was clear, everything stripped away so that only cold steel reflected the colors of passing cars rushing into lives indifferent to what had been there before. City workers, I thought, ordered by some mindless bureaucrat to “beautify” an otherwise ugly strip of pavement where drivers blazed by with single-minded intention and kids crossed in peril. My sadness grew; not just that the memorial had been taken down (and for no good reason, I thought) but with the thought that she was now forgotten as life marched relentlessly, heartlessly along.
Today I was supposed to go visit the grave of my son who passed ten years ago but unfortunately, my head was down and I was swimming upstream, fighting mindless bureaucracies, driving with single-minded intention, heedless of love or lament or plastic flowers laid out to remind me of my own ache. It’s not that I had forgotten (not a day goes by when I don’t think of him) but I was too busy rushing headlong into every challenge that presented itself. Every time I hit the canvas, I got up for more, bloodied but resolute, angrier and more determined. The fire in my gut told me that I would end up victorious and in some ways, I had. Unfortunately, that fire took what I needed to sustain in my heart. Fighting made me as ugly as the boulevard that cannot sustain the memory of a life cut too short or families who bother to build a monument to love.
Rekindling the spark in my heart, I’m reminded that my own memorial does not reside on (or in) a post, or in a graveyard. Three beautiful children I’ve raised, the love that I offer to MBS and her three beautiful children, his spirit, love; his spirit thrives. Indeed, it's that energy that commands me to share the abundance, his legacy, not the stone in the ground, the bit of cardboard that says nothing and everything.
That and then sharing even more with MBS and her three beautiful children is as good as any pyramid or a cathedral. Noble taught me many things, the most important being that I need to stop and read at those places where teddy bears have been piled up and plastic flowers have been sewn lovingly into the fabric of a painful memory, that there are many more important things than to answer each petty battle with a flint face. He taught me that the fire in my gut diminishes the light in my heart and for that, he will always be loved; he will always give me pause and require me to stop and stand on the side of a road to weep.
About a week ago, I noticed that the pole had been done up again. Fortunately, for the same girl. The fire in my heart blazed as I considered how a family had taken their own fire and turned the decree of one more heartless bureaucrat into fuel for their hearts. Good for them, I thought, and my mind turned from where I was going to where I had been. I was no longer driving by with my own mindless, heartless direction but set on a path that did not ask me to fight or react out of anger but just do what needed to be done, accumulate teddy bears and plastic flowers and place them all where all could see that my love would overcome the need to fight. I miss my Noble so much (and such an aptly named child!) and tomorrow, 10 years and a day after I last held him in my arms, I will stop on the side of the road and weep.
Monday, September 24, 2007
The Times They are A-Changing
Yes, it’s been over a month since I threw up my last post (yes, the allusion to vomit was intentional) but I’m not back because I believe I owe an apology. My life has been full and happy and exciting and for that, I refuse to offer amends. What I will offer is an explanation for why Patriside has been and the promise that this little space won’t be as bone dry like it’s been the past few months.
Some of you (the three or four of you with the questionable taste for reading me) have no doubt noticed mention of MBS, My Binary Star, the love of my life. Despite my innate skepticism and atheism, I’ve tossed the term “soulmate” around without irony or sarcasm. From the first moment I chatted with MBS (a giddy and delirious conversation that stretched into the wee hours and was reluctantly terminated in deference to the need for sleep) I knew she was special in a way that rocked my world, opened my heart and mind, special in a way that far exceeded anyone I had ever met before.
When we finally met a few weeks later, all my hopes and dreams were confirmed. MBS came to Manitou Springs (a 4 ½ drive from her place) to meet me at the legendary Loop Mexican restaurant. I got a small table near the window to watch for her and as long as I live, I’ll always remember the vision of her crossing the street to meet me. My first reaction was total awe, her beauty was stunning. Almost immediately after that I was hit with doubt and fear: how could a woman this gorgeous have any attraction for me? Then, sadness as I worried that our weeks of connection on the phone, text messages and emails would be washed away into a bad memory hole as she got a good look at me and said, “You’re a nice guy Jim but not really my type…”
Fortunately that was not the case (and other than finding me attractive MBS has exquisite taste) and the rest is, as they say, history. The moment I met MBS that night online, my life changed, for the better. My lifelong dream of an eternal passion with an intelligent, beautiful, sexy and loving woman looked like a possibility. Our first weekend together made it abundantly clear to me that not only was my dream within my grasp but that woman I’d always dreamed of would also be my best friend. The entire weekend felt as though I’d spent glorious hours reconnecting with a long-lost kindred spirit, it felt as though we’d known each other our entire lives.
Every time we get together it just gets better and better. Since late February we’ve been together over a dozen times (I just returned from 4 days with her and her children) and the more we’re together, the more our passion grows – and the more the longing aches as we pine for one another, crave to be together.
So it should come as no surprise to ya’ll that we’re going to be married. January 5, 2008 at our house in Pagosa Springs. Yes, I’m leaving my cool little town of Manitou Springs and realizing another long time dream of mine, moving farther into the mountains. I’ll be moving there in mid-November and will bringing the kids down in late-December to start school there in early January (the week MBS and I will be married!). We’re blending our family: MBS has 3 girls of her own (ages 12, 9, and 4) so it’s kind of a Brady Bunch situation. This blog started off with the subtitle “A single full-time dad figures it out” and that was changed after X and I went back to shared custody because I felt dishonest referring to myself as “full-time dad” (even though it can feel full-time). Still, when I’ve bothered to write, the emphasis of this blog has been, by-and-large, my life as a single dad. Obviously, that’s about to change and MBS has suggested that my writing will soon reflect the trials and tribulations of a newlywed husband and father of a blended family. One assumes that hilarity will ensue.
My reluctance to write about MBS had to do with a silly superstition that writing about relationships automatically jinxed the works. With a wedding date set and absolute certainty that MBS will be the last happy thought I have as I shuffle off this mortal coil, it’s clear I’m far beyond the influence of a jinx and my superstition was, yes, silly.
The view from our deck in Pagosa Springs
Time to change this blog. I am head over heels in love and about to be married for the final time, forever, for good and all. Hopefully I’ll be writing more about this new love and new life, my new family, my new locale, my new lease on life. There’s a lot to say and I’m glad to be over my irrational fear (and I firmly believe that fear is the opposite of love). For those intrepid few who have stayed with me, these upcoming months should provide a lot of material for me to gab about here.
And to my newest reader, MBS, these next few months will express some small measure of my love for you. The times, they are indeed a-changin’ and baby, so much for the better. The change here will (I hope) document our journey together towards a magnificent forever.
Some of you (the three or four of you with the questionable taste for reading me) have no doubt noticed mention of MBS, My Binary Star, the love of my life. Despite my innate skepticism and atheism, I’ve tossed the term “soulmate” around without irony or sarcasm. From the first moment I chatted with MBS (a giddy and delirious conversation that stretched into the wee hours and was reluctantly terminated in deference to the need for sleep) I knew she was special in a way that rocked my world, opened my heart and mind, special in a way that far exceeded anyone I had ever met before.
When we finally met a few weeks later, all my hopes and dreams were confirmed. MBS came to Manitou Springs (a 4 ½ drive from her place) to meet me at the legendary Loop Mexican restaurant. I got a small table near the window to watch for her and as long as I live, I’ll always remember the vision of her crossing the street to meet me. My first reaction was total awe, her beauty was stunning. Almost immediately after that I was hit with doubt and fear: how could a woman this gorgeous have any attraction for me? Then, sadness as I worried that our weeks of connection on the phone, text messages and emails would be washed away into a bad memory hole as she got a good look at me and said, “You’re a nice guy Jim but not really my type…”
Fortunately that was not the case (and other than finding me attractive MBS has exquisite taste) and the rest is, as they say, history. The moment I met MBS that night online, my life changed, for the better. My lifelong dream of an eternal passion with an intelligent, beautiful, sexy and loving woman looked like a possibility. Our first weekend together made it abundantly clear to me that not only was my dream within my grasp but that woman I’d always dreamed of would also be my best friend. The entire weekend felt as though I’d spent glorious hours reconnecting with a long-lost kindred spirit, it felt as though we’d known each other our entire lives.
Every time we get together it just gets better and better. Since late February we’ve been together over a dozen times (I just returned from 4 days with her and her children) and the more we’re together, the more our passion grows – and the more the longing aches as we pine for one another, crave to be together.
So it should come as no surprise to ya’ll that we’re going to be married. January 5, 2008 at our house in Pagosa Springs. Yes, I’m leaving my cool little town of Manitou Springs and realizing another long time dream of mine, moving farther into the mountains. I’ll be moving there in mid-November and will bringing the kids down in late-December to start school there in early January (the week MBS and I will be married!). We’re blending our family: MBS has 3 girls of her own (ages 12, 9, and 4) so it’s kind of a Brady Bunch situation. This blog started off with the subtitle “A single full-time dad figures it out” and that was changed after X and I went back to shared custody because I felt dishonest referring to myself as “full-time dad” (even though it can feel full-time). Still, when I’ve bothered to write, the emphasis of this blog has been, by-and-large, my life as a single dad. Obviously, that’s about to change and MBS has suggested that my writing will soon reflect the trials and tribulations of a newlywed husband and father of a blended family. One assumes that hilarity will ensue.
My reluctance to write about MBS had to do with a silly superstition that writing about relationships automatically jinxed the works. With a wedding date set and absolute certainty that MBS will be the last happy thought I have as I shuffle off this mortal coil, it’s clear I’m far beyond the influence of a jinx and my superstition was, yes, silly.
Time to change this blog. I am head over heels in love and about to be married for the final time, forever, for good and all. Hopefully I’ll be writing more about this new love and new life, my new family, my new locale, my new lease on life. There’s a lot to say and I’m glad to be over my irrational fear (and I firmly believe that fear is the opposite of love). For those intrepid few who have stayed with me, these upcoming months should provide a lot of material for me to gab about here.
And to my newest reader, MBS, these next few months will express some small measure of my love for you. The times, they are indeed a-changin’ and baby, so much for the better. The change here will (I hope) document our journey together towards a magnificent forever.
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