love this life, Onward Through the Fog

Catching Up - More Small Stones

2012-01-20T18:01:00.000-08:00

#15 Recalling red tail hawks in KS, how they prefer to nest high in sycamore trees, next to creeks. How an adolescent will circle for hours on end, crying for it's parents to come feed it, when it could be hunting. How they watch from fence posts, and tilt their heads in thought.

#16 So - if sound waves are capable of molecular changes to matter, might constant 8k MHz tinnitus ring change brain, or is wave even there?

# 17 Sitting in my therapists waiting room, which is louder, The Ring or the white noise machines? Um, The Ring.

#18 Standing in the Portland rain, in the evening, watching the cherry tree, its branches bare in winter. Feeling the wind, feeling it's curves.

#19 Half light, just pre-dawn / driving my son to his school / Small blizzard, huge flakes // #senryu #haiku #amwriting

#20 Half past January. In the last two hours the precipitation has gone from rain to snow and back again, three times. Snowing out the window now, flakes the size of quarters. Fire place going. The Ring is up loud. Now it's Winter in Portland.

Stone #11

2012-01-11T07:11:00.000-08:00

The Ring is strong in this one.
Combination today - 8k, 6K, and 4.7k mhz
It's a regular symphonium dream

Breath in. Breath out.
Stretching face muscles
to relax them back down

Chill morning. Last night, I recall
A ring around the Moon
like a rainbow halo

A pill for this, a pill for that
to gain some semblance of normalcy
some measure of functionality

In my head, I hear....
We No Speak American0
visuals, hand dance by
Up and Over it

Wait a minute, wait a minute,
Here I'll give it to you
this Link to them on youtube

Stone #10 - All is Energy, Movement, Nothing is still - The Dance

2012-01-09T05:08:00.000-08:00

Even as I sit, I think still, I am not. Still

Is not just my unquiet mind, its me, and everything around me.

The Ring, constant in my head, is ever moving, steady but moving.

My breath is moving. The blood it fuels, the neurons it gives energy to fire, the very molecules of my body vibrating with the energy of the atoms within.

And those pesky Quarks, with their "Here I am, Oh I'm gone, Peak-A-Boo I'm back again" games.

And I'm not the only one. Oh no, everything is in on the movement, in on the dance floor of existence. Even that Dark Matter that isn't but is, moves with us all.

The micro and macro. Worlds within worlds and Universes within and beside and through each other now, all moving, and dancing the dance of existence.

Everything is connected to everything else.

I know, I've seen it in my fog, felt it in the wind.

I realize you know this. Just wanted you to know you're not alone in that, in the dance.

And now for the musical bit of our show, here's Cellist Extrodinare Zoe Keating performing Escape Artist. I think you'll be impressed, Roll over Yo-Yo Ma.

Quite The Little Fellow - Stone #9

2012-01-08T20:54:00.001-08:00

It's just a little old stuffed toy.

It encapsulates many aspects of life.

It speaks of innocent beginnings, time and tides encountered along the way.

It recalls precious memories, bitter disappointments, loss, and if one is very fortunate, a finding of the way home again, to be held forever in the tender love of one grown beyond.

Besides, I love the hat.

Stone #8

2012-01-08T20:03:00.000-08:00

Again, 8k mhz Ring. look, it's a constant in my head, so get used to it being in these Mindful moments.

The fog is thick, a tangible thing in it's touch, cool and moist, yet soft and intimate.

I have some affinity for the fog. It seems both friend and foe. Dulls some input, enhances others.

Obviously, I've never had to pilot a boat through treacherous waters in it.

Context can change everything, aye?

Stone #7

2012-01-06T22:50:00.000-08:00

(I see it)

*Flash*
an old bug, an old sticker on it "KILL YOUR TELEVISION"
*Flash*
my daughter loaned it to me *images of her growing up*
*Flash*
"KILL YOUR TELEVISION" is an authentic '70s credo
*images of my teenage years in a bug, much fun*
*Flash*

(My breathing starts again)
(insert sound, eight thousand megahertz, ringing in my ears)

(Blink)

Stone Number Four

2012-01-06T06:36:00.000-08:00

Five am, thick fog, frost on the ground
Inside the Subaru is an opposite clime
Street lights, halos, our passage through
Bruce Springsteen sings - Tunnel of Love

another small stone

2012-01-05T00:16:00.000-08:00

Stepping outside onto my small patio
inside of my small fenced in yard
I hear the Pacific North West rain
tapping on the hood of my coat

Above that, rides the tinnitus ring,
always there, that big and that loud.
Eight thousand megahertz, just for me,
heard or seen by none other.

The trees, the ground, the rain, and the moss,
set that taste on the tip of my mind.
Right here, right now, it all means the same.
I find that to be of some comfort.

Small Stones, a New Challenge

2012-01-04T06:52:00.000-08:00

Today I'm starting a new writing challenge. It's called, yes you guessed it, a river of stones. The badge above will link to the information page at Writing Our Way Home

This is another page and group that my friend Johanna Harness put me onto in one of her posts at Johanna's Big Thoughts - This one. She's awesome like that, @Johannaharness is

One - up & out of bed

First cup of coffee is just kicking in
as I climb the stairs to his room
He is almost eight, going on five
It's part of his boggle, you see

I make sure I've got Monkey
as I scoop him up from his bed
It wouldn't do otherwise
Monkey is "very special"

He's getting too big to carry around
my legs tell me so going back down
to his breakfast, and cartoons, and clean clothes
Dawn, coming in the window on his face

Two, off to school

He rides out on his little blue bike
a chipper fellow
in his silver helmet
and his red coat

It's just now full daylight and cold
he seems so small, so fast
Something catches in my chest
and he's gone

Jacob and Ava, The Scrap book

2011-12-30T08:43:00.000-08:00

This is one of my "Friday Flash Fiction" stories written for, and appearing at Amwriting.org A fine site for writers, and for readers.

The old man Jacob sat in his rocking chair, older than dirt he thought, the both of them.

It was that week between Christmas, with all the familying whirlwinds, and New Year's Eve. It was hard to get excited about New Year's, having seen so many of them come and go. It was hard to get excited about much of anything these days. He couldn't do much anymore, felt he hadn't done nearly enough for most of his life, and now his times of doing seemed to be mostly over.

He thought about this year, and all that had happened in the world and in his life. There were so many bad things happening in the world. There were good things too. It seemed like nothing was as clear-cut, as black and white as it used to be, for him or for most other people. Nothing was certain any more, and worse, life no longer seemed to hold the hope, the magic, that it once had.

Jacob went over and over his life in his mind, remembering when he was young and thought he knew it all. He had run out of tears years ago, for all that was lost or had never been because he was such a fool. As much as he had thought he'd known, he had known nothing, not even how much he was loved, until it seemed too late.

His daughter Ava, bless her heart, had called him the other day. If he had still been able to jump he might have jumped right out of his skin. He still hated the sound of a telephone, even now, when it rang so seldom.

She wanted to come over and go through his old photos with him, build a scrap-book, she said.

He reminded her that he could no longer see very well. What would be the point?

She said it would give them something to do together, something that she hoped they'd enjoy. She would build the scrapbook for him, all he had to do was tell her about the pictures.

He thought seeing all those old photos, thinking on those times now would probably hurt as much as they'd help, remind him of chances lost, possibilities died on the vine. But still, he did want to see them again, and to show them to her to remind them both his life had not always been as it was now.

Besides, he didn't have the heart to tell her no. He suspected she was afraid he might die anytime now, and wanted to have something better to remind her of his life than the scattered pictures he kept in worn out boxes.

When she came over she seemed to have enough stuff with her to build a world he thought. Boxes and boxes and portfolios of fancy papers. Tools and gadgets and bottles also came in the door and just kept coming. When he asked her why so much she said she brought it all so she'd be sure to have "just the right stuff".

And as they labored over each page he realized she did, in every case, have just the right stuff. Not only did she build up each page of multiple layers of different kinds of paper and fabric, she added other things.

For the pictures of the beach she found sand and shells, drift wood and dried seaweed, even scents in bottles for that "finishing touch".

For the forest pictures oak leaves and pine needles, a tuft of deer fur, the smell of old trees, and finally one single pinion, the silent flight feather of a great horned owl.

For the pictures of them together she had tiny bits of fabric one or another had worn, a piece of a toy, a ticket stub from a favorite event. Ava always found just the right, no - perfect, the perfect thing to finish off each page, to seal the power of the best, most important memories of his life .

Rather than taking an afternoon as he'd originally thought, it wound up taking the entirety of the week to finish the project. Some evenings she'd stop and fix him something to eat before continuing on her own, till long after he'd fallen asleep in his chair. He'd wake to find her curled up on the sofa under one of her mother's old afghans before the fire, and he could have sworn he saw a faint shimmer, he imagined like a magic faery dust, about her hair and shoulders.

Even as she worked through this with him Ava watched his remaining strength fading, day after day, though his mood seemed to actually get better. She was sure she saw a little of the old twinkle come back to his eyes.

He was napping in his chair as she finally finished the last page. She carried the thick book, practically a tome. over to him and placed it on his lap. Gently she roused him. "Dad, here it is. I'm going to go straighten up around the house a bit, you have a look, see what you think", and she was off in the other rooms.

Ava hoped he would find it as magical as she knew it had turned out to be. She imagined him in his chair slowly turning each page, discovering not only his own memories of each event, but also perhaps a new sense of the presence of the places, people, and things. She knew there was more depth to each story than either of them had been aware of. They had captured not just his impressions, but the essences of each moment, each day, that would make them new for him again.

As she puttered around the old house she began to feel him in there. It was a talent she had always had, to feel what he and a few others felt. Tired. She felt tired, and wondering if it was her tiredness or his, she went back in to check on him. "You okay, Dad? Do you like it?"

"It's marvelous, just marvelous, Honey" and he smiled at her, really smiled, as she hadn't seen in many years.

"I'm so glad you like it, Dad. I'll just be in the other room if you need me."

The book would sustain him. The book would hold him, as in a loved one's warm embrace, until the end of days.

When Ava returned to the room sometime later she found the book in his chair where he'd sat with it as he and the book became one.

She cradled it close to her heart as she gazed at the still glowing embers in the fireplace he had built so many years ago. "Happy New Year's, Dad."

Being Here, Being There.

2011-12-20T07:50:00.001-08:00

I've been thinking about airplanes. I've been dreaming about both my family back in Kansas and my family here with me. A lot. I've been feeling guilty for not being financially able to go back for Christmas. Nothing to be done to help that now. The truth is, I haven't been back in over two years. It all gets to be a complicated set of thoughts and feelings. This weighs on me heavily this time of year.

There is a shape, a taste in the mind, a physical feeling that goes along with some emotions. These are some of those. Both curious and lovely as well as both painful and pleasant, these sensations of mind and body and soul.

It's about those strongest of family ties. It's about memories. It's about hopes and fears and all those years bridging time and space between childhood and now, on into the future too, as perhaps no other season or holiday does.

Curious because it taps into and touches on thoughts and ideas about time and space. These things are always present, and somewhat of a quandary to me.

Sure I understand distance and I understand basic concepts of time. But really deep down inside, where something about those tickle something in my mind, I know there are mysteries involved.

Here is here and there is there. Now is now and Then was then. That's all there is to it, right? Except it's really not all there is to it. Not in the deep places of the heart and mind. Here and now are constantly permeated by there and then. Sometimes I even think by there and now, but that's purely imagination, right? How could I possibly be remembering there, now when I'm here now?

That is some of the lovely part of it, that memories of back home and times with my folks and my brothers are things I carry with me always. To feel, to see, and to taste and hear and smell.
I keep the best times close to the center, and when I want or they want, they come back to the fore. I remember a lot. Sometimes I believe I remember everything. I recall the good and the bad, happy and sad and all points in between. But not really. Not fully. Not like one feels the moment at hand because well, that was then and this is now.

And that's part of where the pain comes in, yearning as they say, to bring back those moments to their completeness of experience. The pain is knowing that those can never be fully seen and heard and felt in this time, with this mind.

But I am tremendously thankful and happy to have the memories I do have, however imperfect or incomplete, to carry me back to there and to then.

I am not alone here. I have my family here as well, the "new" family, the one I've brought with me and the one I helped build here. I do revel in the times and the moments we have here as well. I know that some day my current here and now will be another "there and then". And so I try, as best I can, to soak it all in to build the memories I will have of this later, knowing that my recollections will again be imperfect, incomplete.

Here is my point: Pay Attention. Soak it all in, consciously, mindfully, purposely.

The more you do so, the better you will recall later I think. Why would I think that? Because that has been my experience. When I tell my self to do those things, to pay attention and remember, I find later that I do remember better. Sometimes it happens on it's own. I hear myself thinking "I will remember this moment for the rest of my life" and so far mostly I think I have.

This may not work for you. I'm sure it doesn't always work for me. Sometimes there's just too much going on to be able to grasp it all.

As I go through this holiday season with my family here I know I will be split in two. I'll be trying to find my balance between living and experiencing these moments here and now and reaching through time and space to be with my family there and then, perhaps even there and now.

My wish for you all is that you have the best of times, make the best of memories, with whom ever you can this season.

And oh yeah, take more pictures.

Andy's Room

2011-12-02T08:43:00.000-08:00

A Crack in the world

He woke up. It was still dark. Off to the side he could just see the light around the top and one side of the door. He was probably three or maybe four, but he had no sense of that now. His big brother was there. Andy pointed to the crack in the ceiling. It bothered him. What was it? What did it mean? Dan said that was the ghost crack, the crack to The Other Side. If he wasn’t very quiet the ghosts would know he was there. Andy wasn’t sure if his brother went back to his own big bed, or if he left the room. He could do that, just leave the room. Dan didn’t have bars on his bed like Andy had on his.

In the dark from his bed he could just make out the crack in the ceiling. He stared at it – hard. He looked away fast. Had he seen it move? Couldn’t be, it was just a crack. A crack couldn’t do anything could it? He looked to his stuffed bunny, there beside him. Pulled it closer, buried his face in it. After a long time he looked at the ceiling. It had seemed to move just a little he thought. He pulled the covers up over his head. He wanted to call out for Mommy, Daddy, someone, anyone to come get him, come turn on the light. But he could make no sound. Not. A. Sound. After another long time nothing had come and gotten him yet. He pulled the covers down away from his eyes just enough, just barely enough, to see out through the wooden bars of his bed into the dark beside him. Nothing was there. He pulled the covers up over his head again. It seemed cold when he uncovered his head. Were Ghosts cold?

He slowly pulled the covers down again. He did not look right at the crack in the ceiling. He somehow thought that maybe it only moved, only opened when you looked at it. Was that right, or did it only move if you stopped looking at it? If that was true he hadn’t looked at it for a long time and maybe it was way big open now. He looked. It hadn’t moved. He looked harder. It moved. It didn’t. Did. Didn’t. He covered his head up again. If it got him, he would stay gotten for a really long time, maybe forever. He wasn’t sure either, what forever was, but sensed it meant for real and for keeps and maybe even past then.

He pulled the covers down again. He was sure the crack had gotten wider, deeper, and blacker inside. He looked away and then back. It was the same as when he first looked at it. But there, off to the side, where the ceiling met the wall, now he saw a spider web. Spider webs meant spiders.. A Spider! It wasn’t. It was. Wasn’t. Was. He covered his head with the blanket again. Did spiders only move when you were looking or when you weren’t looking?

That reminded him he hadn’t been watching the crack. He had to know, even if looking meant it would move while he watched. He looked. It was wider. It wasn’t. It was. It grew wider and wider still; began to open downward into the room. It was really dark inside, but he could tell something was moving. He could feel it coming to get him. He pulled the covers up over his head. He thought sure there was something, something mean and angry and hungry in the room with him now.

At that moment he was sure it would be bad. It would hurt and hurt and be scary and sad and hurt some more, for longer than anything ever and there was no one to help him because he could not move or make a sound.

Andy woke up. It was lighter in his room now. The side of his bed was down, like when Mommy came to get him. But Mommy wasn’t there. His gaze shot up to the ceiling. The crack, little more than a squiggly line on the ceiling. It was the same as it had always been. His brother Dan’s bed was gone. The funny cactus lamp was gone. The rug was gone. The bookshelf that held his Little Golden books and Dan’s big books was gone. Everything in the room, except his bed, was gone. He stood there in his pajamas looking for a long time at the floor where the rug should be. It was covered with a thick dust.

He had to find Dan, he had to find Mommy, or maybe even Daddy for this! He ran into the hall,down to the first place the steps stopped, to the front window. There were no curtains on the window. The window was covered in dust. He rubbed the dust away with his hand and wiped his hand on his Roy Rogers pajamas. When he stood on his tip-toes and looked out the window he could see his parents’ car out in front of the house in the street below. There were people in the car.

He ran, almost stumbling down the rest of the stairs, suddenly knew that the living room downstairs was bare of furniture, that the whole house was empty of everything except fort maybe ghosts. He got to the front door. Pulled with all his might on the big wooden door, and again, and more frantically still and finally got it open. He couldn’t open the screen door. He banged and banged on the door, trying to get the people to see him, to hear him. They were going away. They couldn’t hear him and they didn’t see him.

The car slowly pulled away from the curb and drove away. He sat down on the floor and cried. And cried harder. And cried some more.

Andy woke up. It was too dark where he was. There was a crack of light in the floor. He needed what was on the other side. He pushed the crack open, slowly, quietly. There was something alive sleeping in the room below.

And Andy was hungry.

Anything Can Happen - If I Say It Can

2011-11-16T06:06:00.000-08:00

Todays post is also found as a guest post at Amwriting.org

When he woke up Andy had a horrible headache centered in the back of his head, just behind and below his ears. It didn’t help that The Ring of his tinnitus was louder than ever. Somehow it made him think of a futuristic time bomb in his head, ramping up to vaporize his brain. He wondered if it would all be internal or if there would actually be grey matter on the walls after. In addition, it was time to write his guest post for amwriting.org, and make up for lost time on his #NaNoWriMo piece.

And so he wrote: Anything can happen if I say it can.

I recently read a fine post on this same site Let’s Talk About Your Premise, by Jason Black. It dealt with the idea that one’s audience will accept one major suspension of disbelief. The author described this as the writer’s “Freebie”. That really resonated with me. I think it bears revisiting in perhaps a little different voice because well, he made a lotta sense and I know how much trouble some of us have with that. I think that it could be said as well of life in general. He went on further to say that once you have established your freebie, any consequent fantastic concepts would generally be accepted IF they follow the internal logic of the first unbelievable premise. “Sure there can be a wyvern, I already told you, there is magic in this world”.

The other day, while lounging half asleep – OK so I was writing, but lounging half asleep sounded better… While lounging half asleep with the tv on, because I was too lazy to turn it off, I overheard parts of an episode of Vegas. Apparently Tom Selleck, I don’t know his character’s name, had just bought the Montecello, the casino around which the show is built. He was in a period of adjustment, of shaking things up, as it were, and he took as his mantra the phrase “Anything can happen”. I really liked that. It made perfect sense(and yet I still got it). Normally, out here in the sometimes foggy, sometimes windblown poo-storm reality of the Hinter Lands of perception, I would be hard pressed to believe that anything could really happen. For instance, I’m now fifty three years old, vaguely self employed, but stifled work–wise by chronic Irritable Bowel Syndrome. I find it unbelievable that I could yet wind up a yuppie, being neither young nor a “professional”. Similarly I find it hard to believe that I could actually become an Olympic power lifter, brain surgeon, professional skate boarder, or a successful financial investments broker. But on this episode of Vegas, I could believe it.

“Everyone bring one suitcase to the lobby for a raffle. Someone is getting on a plane for a mystery two day trip to somewhere waaaay more exotic than Vegas”. “Here, passers-by, have some truck keys. Instead of giving away one Maserati, I’m giving away one hundred new pickup trucks”. Very believable because it is Las Vegas, he owns a Casino, he can do that. And more than that, it’s believable because we know we’re dealing with make believe. It’s a Story. Someone wrote a Story. Wait a minute; I think that was important, well, at least to me, currently in the persona of Writer Man, able to write about leaping tall buildings in a single bound! It was a story made up by a writer, and the audience all, hopefully, understood that.

We all as writers get one freebie suspension of disbelief, however that one freebie might – might just be capable of containing myriad smaller suspensions of disbelief because we’re making up stories, written down by we, the writers.

My wish for my eternal freebie – I’m a writer. This is a story. Anything can happen, if I say it can. Okay, here’s where I make what I think is an important modification to that. In order to make that work, I may occasionally have to step back and give the readers a little background, a little “this world” history or theory about how and why this thing that would totally tweek the reader’s melon in “real” life is totally doable. Ya gotta have a little mercy, or a little sense of authorial self-preservation. Let’s face it if one story is just too chock full of “unbelievable weirdness”, unsupported by any internal logic or plausible back story, the reading public is not likely to want to partake of, or worse pay for, any more. Then we might have to go get yet another real job to support our caffeine and chocolate habits and we certainly do not want that.

Reminder to self: You may have to explain, like Piers Anthony, how it comes to be that there are two parallel worlds, one of technology, the other of magic(See the Blue Adept Series, I really loved that). Besides, it’s just fun to say or to think “Blue Adept”. That could mean all kinds of erotically charged things. Or not. Anything CAN happen.

That’s where my head is at, this mid NaNoWriMo morning. How many of us #amwriting folks are doing NaNo, and how is that going? What kinds of things are we making happen?

Elements of Writing(But probably not the ones you're thinking of)

2011-10-19T12:47:00.000-07:00

This was originally posted at Amwriting.org. You should visit there.

Joni Mitchell had it right.

“Great. What the Hell are you on about now, John?”

Bear with me. You know how my mind has to come at things sideways. You don’t? Um, perhaps you might want go take a quick break, get a beverage, smoke if you got ‘em, come back prepared to think all random abstract up in here.

You back? Great.

When you were learning about writing, about how to tell a story, there were I’m sure, lessons about elements of writing, elements of story. Do I know them? Some, but not the same. Sure-sure beginning, middle, end – plot, character – conflict, resolution … and yeah, some of those others I can’t easily bring to the surface. But I didn’t learn them in any real organized way as I should have. Misspent youth, too much fun,“OH, Shiny!", whatever. For me, a lot of this is happening as we go, studying when I can, gathering to mind other lessons and observations learned in the last fifty or so years and making them relate to this craft of showing, of telling, and hopefully of relating.

This is Bad. I don’t know what I’m doing in any formulaic, quantifiable way. Not in any way that’s easy for me to discuss, and especially not discuss intelligently as I’m doing it. I have to come at things a little differently. Think of it as the Pantsing Mind(i.e.- flying by the seat of the pants)

This is Good. I know from observation that all the world seems to crave the different, the unusual. Is that not what keeps advertising agencies, research and development departments, and all kinds of creatives going? Different – I got. (That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.)

“Artifice… Brutality… and Innocence – Artifice and Innocence” – Joni Mitchell, The Three Great Stimulants – Dog Eat Dog, 1985 – track number three.

Yes Joni had it right. Those are three great stimulants “for the exhausted ones”. And they will serve us well in the showing and the telling.

The artifice comes in as a necessary quality of crafting our words. A matter of choosing which and where and how we put them down. “Say me something clever, he begged.” Yes, yes we want our characters and our stories to seem to have grown “organically” from some greater or different nature, but let’s face it, a lot of it comes from carefully choosing, endless times of thinking, crafting, revising, editing.

Brutality may be actually brutal or it may come symbolically as an element of drama, trouble,“Danger, Will Robinson!”, conflict, something to add some spice to the mix. If you think of brutal in the sense of "from the brute", is not all human conflict on some level brutal in it’s most condensed essence?

Innocence provides the necessary balance to brutality. An animal which is by nature innocent of human malice may act in a way that seems brutal, but is it really? If so then they’re much as we, being capable of innocence and brutality within the same shell. Innocence may only be a relative position to the circumstance of the story or to a conflicting element or character of the story. Or the innocent element may truly be innocent, blameless, guileless and without a shred of meanness in it’s whole being. Next time you’re reading a story you love, look for artifice, brutality and innocence. See if they’re not there in some form.

How about some different elements?

A long time ago it occurred to me that there are certain aspects, objective as may be, that all good Rock ‘N’ Roll seems to have in common. Those are what I call Tooth, Edge, and Snap. No, they don’t necessarily correspond to artifice, brutality, and innocence but sometimes may.

Tooth is that element of nature, “red in fang and claw” as they say. Something to bite down on the beat with, the part that speaks to the monkey brain, gives us the primal in your gut sensation. It’s the “NnnnGar!” in the song.

Edge, though similar to tooth, is not the same. Edge is that part of good Rock ‘N’ Roll that literally puts you on the edge of your seat. It’s the electric Zzzzzap!, the sparkling shiny bit of tingly stuff in the sound.

Snap? Think of snap as the crispness, the bounce–back, the rock in Rock ‘N” Roll. It’s the actual snap in the beat and in the phrasing of notes.

“Okay John, enough about yer heathin Rocky-rolly, we’re here to be on about writing!” Well, of course we are.

It’s the same thing.

Yes, that’s right, I said a good piece of writing is much the same, has much the same feel, the same taste as a good piece of music generally, and rock sometimes specifically. Well, it does.

So, there then are some of the elements of writing that I think of, strive for, listen for. And even though I’m pretty sure you won’t have run across them in any of your normal writing studies I hope perhaps they will give you something to think about.

Now if you haven’t already, please go watch and listen to Joni Mitchell and friends, including pretty much all of Herbie Hancock’s band performing The Three Great Stimulants, which carries it’s own jazzy versions of tooth, edge and snap.

Are there any unusual or unorthodox elements you know of or look to create in your writing? I’d love to hear about them.

The Game, Passages, and ...

2011-09-30T09:16:00.000-07:00

My son, seven, got his first serious game machine, a hand-me-down PS2, last weekend. If That isn't a sentence rife with potential for several different blog posts and probably a short story or three, well, I just don't know if a person, no wait - a parent could call themselves a writer.

It brings up parenting issues about values, socioeconomics, Rites of Passage, (I promise I'll stop using capitalization for emphasis soon, I'm coming off of it gradually, because quitting cold turkey would be Traumatic)

Where was I? Right then - PS2 - 7yo(autistic spectrum remember) - Rites of Passage now - value judgments and socioeconomic implications and traumas to be dealt with later - got it.

As I mentioned in Monday's post, nice neighbor dropped off his old PlayStation 2 last weekend, and of course A-Boy was thrilled, just thrrrrilllled I tell you! My first thought was "And so it begins". My second thought was along the lines of perhaps now he'll be more likely to be content on his own a bit and not be requiring direct, active attention seemingly all the time. I know, I'm a horrible parent. Sometimes, even when my child is awake and around, I just want to concentrate on something not involving him, or his repetitive large/fast movements and sounds. Something like reading or writing or even, Heaven forbid, watching a movie and actually hearing all the dialog. There, I said it, send me to horrible parent Hell.

Well that has not been the case. It turns out that playing video games is just not as fun by one's self. I've been captured and drug upstairs to the room with the thing. I have been forced to play video games. And occasionally, just occasionally, it's been OK. More than Ok. Other times, not so much. Not surprisingly, I suck at pretty much any video game that involves speed and control. Yeah, all of them. But it's not about me, right? Right.

About A-Boy and the Game console, I see that it's a modern rite of passage. Even if his is a second hand less than current example of the game maker's art and alchemy. He's a big boy now. He has his own game machine. He can invite his friends over to play and have something they know, something that makes him part of the group.

Getting the training wheels off his bike was a rite of passage that I could recognize, could remember and relate to from my own childhood. That one has been around for many years, a well known passage I'm sure recognized world over. It's almost as integral a part of growing up human as walking is.

This video game as rite of passage thing though, I've got no reference for that. Never been a video game guy and when I was A-Boy's age they hadn't invented Pong, and no one new who Atari was. Yes, I'm that old. And here's another one coming up, his own phone. No, I'm not buying a seven year old a cell phone, but I anticipate that it won't be very many more years before a cell phone will be a practical necessity for him. Will his first phone be a smart phone? Or, perhaps it will be one of the emerging pad/phone/game/video production hybrids that are pretty much here or right around the corner, waiting for a release date. How would I know, I'm a dinosaur!

So what have I learned here? Um....Oh, I know! Pick me! Pick me! What I've learned on a real, visceral level, that I only could have theorized before on a rational, hypothetical level, is that our children will have, are having, an often very different set of Rites of Passage than we had. And I''ve learned that not only will I not have had some of those experiences as a child, I can't even partake in the activities, the languages, or the mindsets involved in them now. That makes me kind of sad, but it's not like the same thing didn't happen to our parents. First-time things we did, not realizing they even were rites of passage, became those for us, and our parents may not have even known it, let alone been able to witness and partake in them.

I realize that many of you probably already experienced this. But it was a "Wow, look at that weird thing happening" moment for me, so of course I had to write about it.

So, have you noticed any important rites of passage your children or their children have had that are part of the new?

It's Just Not Right

2011-09-26T14:24:00.000-07:00

Aaron likes his routines. Unless it's a "cool" surprise, like when our neighbors gave Aaron their old PlayStation II complete with, well, pretty much everything(including two game guitars - TWO!) Yup, to Aaron that was a very cool surprise, a definitely ok break in routine.

We're sharing one car in our house now. One died so now there's just the one to share, and yes, I know how Blessed we are to have even one relatively nice, safe, legal, comfy Subaru Outback (love the Outback - it's name is Yoshi).

This means a not cool shift of routine for him. We have to get him out of bed and into the car at five-thirty am in order to get Ginny to work by six. Then he can come back home and snooze for a half hour or so before he really starts his day, but I'm afraid by then the damage is done.

Now remember that Aaron is high-functioning autistic. Most of the time he seems like a pretty normal(and bright of course) seven year old, if perhaps a little emotionally young. Think seven and a half, going on four and a half or five emotionally. Add to that mix an autistically expect-able rigidity of mindset regarding things like routines, what's ok and right, and what's decidedly Not Ok or "Just Not Right". This makes the crack of dawn disruption of routine a potentially big deal.

Today was our third day of the new thing, hopefully soon to be for him, routine. Fine. Got Ginny to work, him to school, me off to my Dr. appointment across town. I got home about eleven am, just in time to get a "Come to the school NOW" message from his school Principal. It was his first big Melt Down of the school year, now in it's third or fourth week. We did have enough foresight to have our intro to Aaron show and tell meeting with his new teacher less than two weeks ago, so the melt down chair tossing session should not have come as a total surprise to her. Except - we're talking a TOTAL five star no-verbal communication, kicking, snarling, throwing chairs to the floor kind of a Big Ole' No Reasoning With Him Aaron Melt Down. It was a "Room Clearing Event" as they say. That means that what Aaron was doing in the class room caused his teacher to get everybody else the Hell out of the room in a big damn hurry for safety's sake. Not good. Big. Not. Good.

I got there a half hour after his classroom antics, fifteen minutes after the phone call, to find him in the Principal's office, at least sitting unrestrained while the Principal attempted to get him to talk to her. I tried to get him to talk to me. That was a no go on either account. Principal and I had our necessary chat around him(she at least, has seen similar from him before) and I carried him(it's just safer all around that way) out to the car.

Got him home, sent him stomping up to his room, where he screamed incoherently at me for ten minutes before crashing out on his bed. An hour later I got him up, he, still not talking. Two hours later over a peanut butter sandwich I finally got him back to talking again enough to ascertain that there was some issue with his reading worksheet paper which frustrated him. A Lot. (somewhat of an understatement, that.)

When these things happen the not talking at all for a couple or three hours is probably the most frustrating and scariest part for me. Well ok, after I've determined that neither he, nor anyone else, or any expensive school property has sustained significant damage.

There's that irrational little voice in the back of my mind that thinks "What if he's crossed some new threshold?" What if today is the day that will be remembered as "...and he never spoke again"? That would be highly unlikely from everything I've been able to find out from reading, from talking to other parents, and to more than a few professionals of various levels and experience. I mean, normally this kid can not shut up for more than five seconds. Maybe six.

Still, every time he Melts Down Big Time and goes non-verbal, the fear is there.

Later on after picking Ginny up from work, he seemed to flow back into his average evening of being a basically normal seven year old. After his almost favorite dinner of waffles and bacon we went and played some Guitar Hero. He kicked my ass about half the time. Hey, it was only my second time to have ever played, and besides, he needed to win at something today, ok?

Was the real issue behind his melt-down the disruption of his three or four week old routine? We will probably never know. It's just the biggest thing to have changed around him recently, and we know that can be kind of a trigger set up for problems.

OK, so it could be a weird reaction to having been given the neighbor's old PlayStation this last weekend, but he's not really playing violent stuff. He's playing football, bike racing, Guitar hero- OK, one Fantastic Four game(rated E for Everyone). Somehow, I'm not buying that as the fuse, just from my observations of him.

I'm more inclined to believe his emotional stamina or fortitude was compromised by having to get up an hour earlier than his normal six-thirty. And then, something was "Just not right, It's gonna be ALL MESSED UP!" That can definitely be a trigger for him. It's like if this one thing, especially if it's about his performance on something he is insecure about doesn't work, The Entire World will End!(at least for him).

Now he's bedded down all safe and secure. he's very recently been happily playing with some small thing, talking non-stop to Ginny, watching Dancing With the Stars(hey don't judge, now). and he's been as happy as a proverbial clam. Everything in his world restored to equilibrium, to ok, to just fine and dandy.

Until next time.

I have no idea what would be an appropriate music selection for this. Sorry.

2011-09-23T08:29:00.000-07:00

The Hilltop, Sandstone, and …

This is my Debut #FridayFlash story, Written for Amwriting.org. Thanks to @JohannaHarness, and to #amwriting, for having me.

Bob knew the path from the house up through the woods by heart. He could take it at a full run in pitch dark by feel without ever stumbling or hitting a snag.

At the top of the hill, in a clear swath that ran the width of the woods, were the sandstone places. Just there by where he made his fires he would often find one of the great horned owls sitting up in an oak that was part of the last “virgin woods” in the county. He liked it here. Quieter, safer, than back in town.

Bob never quite fit in back in town. In grade school he was the little guy with Clark Kent glasses, nose always in a book, didn’t even try at sports. Just too perfect a target to resist for some. Kind of kid had to take a different door out of school, a different route home every day, for fear he’d get beat up. Then that one day in gym he just lost it. Dove on the bigger kid, had him by the throat, purple and gasping on the floor before the other guys pulled Bob off. They mostly left him alone after that. But Bob was still angry.

Now days he did much of the same stuff his few high school friends did. He drove around in his V-Dub, listening to Rock N Roll, laughing and shouting, drinking and smoking, singing along to The Who and not quite getting it all and knowing he wasn’t. And he worried about everything and nothing. And he was still angry.

As much as he loved this place, these woods, he felt like he didn’t quite belong here either. It seemed that he hadn’t quite passed some test. Bob wondered if he would ever belong anywhere, indeed sometimes wondered if there was much point in bothering with any of it. And Bob was still angry.

Something seemed different today. There was an extra quiet to the woods, not just the normal thing. Something was missing, and something else was there. Most days during the hot Kansas summer the woods had their own sounds. Small animals coming and going, the breeze through the black jacks. Amazing how much noise a turtle could make trundling through the dead leaves.

Sitting by his fire, he tried to follow the old pipe way, praying with the pipe to the East, the West, the North, and the South. No one here to teach him those ways now. He’d have to muddle through as best he could on his own. He felt the smoke take him then. And he felt The Other too.

Bob had tried to put the fears, troubles, and the anger all out of his mind. Those kinds of feelings weren’t compatible with the smoke. He knew bad thoughts or bad feelings could let bad things in between the big spaces. He hoped that instead the smoke would give him some relief, let him forget, to just stare at the stars later on.

He saw that the fire had burnt low, didn’t bother to add to it. It was after all mid summer, the evening just a little cool up here on this low hill. As dark came on fully, he smoked the pipe again, this time with just a nod to the four directions. The smoke came on stronger now.

Bob felt the wind not just in the trees, but inside his head. He heard the calling of the owls, the singing of the coyotes. And then, something coming. Something BIG coming, and still coming … and then, stopping. Bob felt it there, just out of the light, watching and listening. He could feel its strength, feared its power. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it could snuff him out in a second, if it chose.

All of his fears, all of his anger slammed down on him like a mighty wind, unstoppable and unrelenting. He lay back on the sandstone, not quite giving up hope, but no longer resisting. He let loose the feelings, let the thing take him where and how it would.

Gi lo Sa quo hi rode his pony slowly up the hill from the south. It had been another long day of traveling on his family’s annual excursion up north to trade. Late, it had already gone full dark. Ten days each direction it took, and the way grew wearisome some times. Lately, he had found himself feeling as though time were running out somehow. He had heard rumors about the new people coming from the east. So far away it was, but their conquest was mighty it was told. He had heard they were crazy, that they destroyed the land wherever they went. He wondered what would become of this place, if any would honor it later.

Coming to the top of the hill, just up from the living spring, he knew something was changed. Drawn by some new sense he broke off from the others and walked the pony a ways to the west. There, just this side of the trees he could see the glow of a camp fire it seemed. Cautious now, he got down, leaving his pony to knicker gently in question as he crept forward to see a figure there asleep by the fire. Closer still, this young man, no older than his own sons, was not of The People. The boy’s skin was too light, his clothes entirely strange, of no hide or weave he knew. This must be one of the new people. But why was he here all alone, no weapons, no pony, no food, not even a blanket. Gi lo Sa quo hi moved closer still, leaned down, drew back. He was not to touch, only to see, to know, and perhaps to offer some comfort to a lost spirit, adrift far from its rightful home. Reaching in his pouch, he drew out one feather, beaded along its quill, the story pattern of Great Horned Owl. He laid it down next to the strange apparition of things to come, made solid in this place of The Rock and The Spring, for him to see and know.

Awake now, Little Head Bob turned and looked around, stopped as he caught the light on the shiny beads on the ground below. He couldn’t think why they mattered. His brothers and sisters there on the branch roused and hooted softly, as his father flew in through the woods, breakfast in his strong talons. And he heard the wind in the trees.

Pink Floyd - Learning to Fly

note: Gi lo Sa quo hi is actually Cherokee for "Someone".

Geez, Sept almost gone.

2011-09-20T16:28:00.000-07:00

Geez, where the Hell did September go?

I hadn't realized it'd been this long since I've appeared here. It seems that most of my last few posts have been crossovers of posts I've actually done for Amwriting.org or the one for Moondustwriter's Blog . In other words, I've been either busy or neglectful. We'll go with busy, ok?

I have recently read one post from a friend about gaining or re-gaining some sense of balance in her life as a working professional mom, writer, human bean(spelling intentional - just for fun). And I have also read another post by a fairly accomplished writer about balance being overrated and how writers, especially new writers, need to forget balance and devote themselves more fully to gaining their craft.

Devotion and dedication are great things, and most of the writers, artists, musicians I know have to push the boundaries of the point of diminishing returns in order to move forward. That said, I have long maintained that in life generally Balance is the Key. I stand by that. Without some kind of healthy balance one will soon find themselves an overwhelmed less-than-healthy mess. Balance is not something one attains and can then forget about. It must be constantly reassessed and adjusted. At this point my balance scale is leaning too far away from time spent writing again. I need to fix that.

So here's the plan - I'm setting myself the goal to post SOMETHING on every Monday and every Friday, taking my que there from Quickmissive, as that seems to work pretty well for her as writer and for we, her friends a/o followers.

Bear with me. Or shall it be Bare with me? Ok, that could get a little disturbing so we'll just go with "Bear with me", mm'K? Anyhow, bear with me, I'm just not able to be brilliant on demand(why I got out of the graphic design program in college). So some of these posts, IF they are actually going to occur on a regular schedule are going to be....well, Not Brilliant. They may be all kinds of things, hopefully somewhat entertaining enough to satisfy some of us, and that will have to do. It's as much about the process as the product at this point in my writing.

I have still not been able to settle on any one given topic or specialty, which I understand may mean certain death or at least an interminable amount of time for this page to not quite flourish. Too bad, I'm just not that focused on one kind of thing.

Ding! (That signals a change of topic, a mental shifting of gears in my family, so it will here as well)

Funny how after all the toys the kid wants, gets, and forgets, he is still just as happy eating a snack in his "house" box. Recently re-diagnosed as high functioning Autistic, it's good to see him quietly enjoying using his imagination, which is not all that unusual for him, and having good "by himself time", which is unusual for him.

let's just consider this one a "check in", shall we?

What kind of things do you do to maintain your balance? Or is it even something you consciously have to think about at all? I'd love to know.

Learning to Ride Einstein's Bicycle, a poem by my brother, Mr. G. Barnes

2011-08-30T13:31:00.000-07:00

My Big Brother G. is a much better poet than I, and along with my brother Michael, one of my best mentors in all things regarding the arts. What follows is one of my favorites of his, written while he was the Director of Literary Art for the Utah Arts Counsel in 1985.

Learning to Ride Einstein’s Bicycle

Careening towards the camera,

mounted happily atop his bicycle,

dressed in his old man cardigan –

we’ve all seen the photograph.

Between unmanageable mustache

And the celebrated brow,

Albert Einstein’s look of glee,

eyes crinkling at the their corners.

He appears a little wobbly,

but in no danger. He could be pedaling now,

or coasting, or braking – we’ll never know.

“Once you learn it, it never leaves you!”.

we can almost hear him squeal.

There is delight in the incongruity of the picture;

used to thinking of him bent over his desk,

or lecturing in front of a chalkboard

festooned with formulae, or even walking,

self-absorbed under his homely hat,

his hands pitched deep into the pockets

of his rumpled raincoat, he appears in this photo

so like a child perched there on his bicycle seat.

And on some shelf in Wichita, Kansas,

Einstein’s brain has been preserved

in a very scientific jar. During the years

I’ve known about this, I’ve often thought of it,

pictured it in my mind. The same questions

roll over and over, like bicycle wheels:

who did this? why Wichita, Kansas?

was Einstein consulted – did he suggest it, even?

In my imagination I hear someone raving

that technology will catch up to the great brain,

frozen while the decades run ahead.

Someone wants to learn if there’s any more in there

about E=MC²or something, I expect.

And I remember reading that once a convolution

gets carved into a brain it never fades,

the new information stays. I like to think

that squads of doctors will find a way to thaw

Einstein’s brain. And I imagine that charged moment,

them in a circle, arrested, reverent

over what they are about to discover. But what they get

is a little gallery of photographs of young Albert

first learning how to ride his bicycle.

G. Barnes

20 February 85, Salt Lake City

Black Planet, Dark Matter, Creepy Writing

2011-08-22T13:31:00.000-07:00

Today's post is a guest appearance over at my blogging home away from home Amwriting.org . In which I use the word Stuff way more times than is actually allowed. Please click one more time to visit over there.

Thanks,
love John Ross

Way back, this morning....

2011-08-08T13:16:00.000-07:00

Click to enlarge
Morning, Coffee, Wooden Feather & Origami Cicada

#Amwriting - An Open Love Letter, in Four Movements

2011-08-03T02:12:00.000-07:00

1st Movement: Questions in the Dark

Somewhere in 2010, I think: Browsing through Twitter, reading about writing, trying to catch up on a craft, on an art-form, a life - remembering some words - "So short the life, so long the Craft to learn" - William Morris. I follow one person, I follow another, through The Fog that is this life, this mind, and eventually somehow I stumble upon @Johannaharness and #AmWriting. She wrote something I really liked, and I @replied her to the effect that although I wasn't a "real writer", only writing my little blog, that I appreciated that thing she said.

I didn't really expect a reply. I mean Real writers like someone who could write the Claire Morgaine stories wouldn't be responding to me right? Especially after having just read a scathing post by another writer about unless we "posers and wannabes" had paid our dues(to the degree that she had) we were "Fucking Well NOT writers!"

Oh.So.Wrong. Not only did Johanna respond, she admonished me to stop thinking that misguided way because "Blog Writers ARE writers".
And then she showed me #AmWriting. (Que: Sun breaking through clouds)

I knew myself then, as I know myself now, vaguely, to be "much the same, but wholly Other", and my general theme is still often Sheryl Crow, On the Outside. A haunting tune for a haunted mind.

2nd Movement: Awakening the Dream

Winter Two Thousand and Ten, early Two Thousand Eleven - I gradually fell in with the "wrong" crowd. You know, writers, musicians, artists and other Bohos of that general ilk. Yahoo! Now we're having FUN! Did a lot of therapy. Took a lot of pills. Gave up the masque of "normalcy" I'd been not so successfully sporting for so many years and started embracing the Madness and the Fog. Turns out I'm not Mad, yet, just "not like the other boys & girls", and we're all in the Fog sometimes, I just more than most perhaps.

And somewhere in there, through the kind and gentle guidance of Johanna and her band of literary Merry Pranksters within #AmWriting and without, I've begun to develop a voice that I'm not ashamed of, that I'm comfortable having and being. I've come to learn that I'm less Other and more the Same than I thought. This through, dare I say it from within my badger hole, Sharing. Sharing real life stuff to a surprising depth. Being allowed in to know my new friends deal with many head and heart pains similar to mine.

A trust and sense of community and support have become part of that experience for me in a way I have not had craft-wise in many years. Getting in touch with the flow, as it were, learning to be comfortable with the joys and pains of being me, being we. To that end, "let us Pray" - Sarah Mclachlan, Witness

3rd Movement: Slammin' the thing, Hearing #TheRING

Here I am. All INFJ, Random abstract, Get Those Meds Balanced, Onward Through the Fog, Ta-Tonka Boy in the Sea Cave, Two a.m. Wow, "Love is the Drug for Me" - #AmWriting once again.

#Iam a Loon
Honeymoon in June
It's a thing
It's a thing
Can you hear #TheRING?
It's JUST a THING we use
All payin' our Dues.

Nobody get's out of This Place alive,
but what they must have learnt to strive
And Someone here be singin' The Blues

It's Johanna, Kristina, It's Kerry and Bill
It's Jack and Jill went up the Hill
It's a thing
It's a thing
It's JUST a THING
Are you tellin' me
you can't hear #TheRING?

- And then I hear My #AmWriting theme: Stevie Windwood - Spencer Davis Group GIMME SOME LOVIN'(Every day) 1967

4th Movement: In this New Space.

I could spend all day reading all the great stuff on #AmWriting. But I can't. I've got a lot of sifting to do, here in my head. I've fallen in with another "bad" crowd. The Poets, the #Haiku cookers and addicts of the #Twitterverse too numerous to name here, but I will say, much of the fault for the velocity of my decent in poetry lies with @Moondustwriter and @Coyotesings from over at @Onestopoetry .

As I write here from my comfy sofa, ancient and venerable laptop aboard the "we had a toddler" Ikea coffee table, I look across the room. There is a focal point, a centering place. I keep there bits and pieces, mementos of special times, significant objects and totems of power: the abacus I brought back from Hong Kong in 1976, the miniature book of original Edward Curtis Indian photos, my first Hard copy of a William Gibson book, A hand blown glass gee-gaw from Multnomah Falls, Bear Totem, Glass box of Cannon Beach, and there now at the front, from last April's #Tweetup at Powell's with my #AmWriting "Gang of Six", my County Line pin to go with my copy of Bill @bcmystery Cameron's last book of the same title - And my #AmWriting pin.

And now I'm like that guy in the old song by the Band, "and when they get to the end, he want's to start all over again".The Band, Stage-fright, from Martin Scorsese's THE LAST WALTZ

A Very Happy Birthday to #Amwriting! The next stop on our tour is at the home of Linda Poitevin

The Compass the Binnacle & the Three Legged Dog

2011-07-27T06:41:00.000-07:00

Today's post, about writing whether I feel qualified or not, is a guest post done at the most kind invitation of my friend Johanna Harness. You can read it over at Amwriting. If you write, and you don't know Amwriting.org, do yourself a treat & get over there. So much to see, so many fine writers and fine people. On twitter, my main online addiction, you can follow Johanna as @Johannaharness and @amwriting as well, you get it.

Stackin Rocks or How Twitter Changed my Life

2011-06-17T12:00:00.000-07:00

Click on the title to go where this is posted - Amwriting.org

I'm very happy to be part of the Amwriting community.

The Thing about Aaron

2011-04-30T12:42:00.000-07:00

Today my post for Autism Awareness Month is a guest post over at Leslie @moondustwriter Moon's blog. They tell me it's a poem. I guess I did steer it that way. The most big real thing I've written about in a while, I think. Also, It was meant to be an account of This is what it's like Just on the Edges of the Autistic Spectrum. P.S. I think the best book I still have ever read about autism is Elizabeth Moon's (no relation?) Fiction novel The Speed of Dark.

Thanks Leslie!

@moondustwriter Leslie Moon

"The Thing about Aaron" #autism http://nblo.gs/hg6th @BarnestormJohn

I've been thinking some more(Yeah, some of us are incorrigible that way)

2011-04-18T12:26:00.001-07:00

I was procrastinating, rebelling against actually writing. (I mean today, specifically, those other times don't count in this)

This is where it's gonna start to get weird, perhaps a little hard to follow, cause I thought of something else.

That's the first point, a given, if you will, in this little reality we're sharing on this screen/page between us. "Then, I thought of something else" may be a reoccurring break or apparent change in topic in this post.

Cause why, you may ask? Aw, go ahead, ask, please? Ok, cause even though I know readers are used to, and expect any thing dubbed "thinking" to be presented as one cohesive, preferably coherent bit, that's not how I think. Is that really how other people think? Amazing.

So I understand that, I really do. I try to do that for us here most of the time A) To get some real, understood communication done between our minds and B) because if it gets too convoluted(possibly like this) then readers will throw up their hands, shake their heads, perhaps mutter something like"Geez John, perhaps a little less Mental here?" and move on.

Despite that, this post is going to be...Ahem -

"EXTENDED TRAIN OF THOUGHT
AND YES,
STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS ...
... STUFF."

That is after all, how we all experience things, isn't it?
Today, I tell it like it happened to me folks.
There really will be a point or two by the end, I promise.

"keep your arms legs inside the ride at all times please, until we come to a full and complete stop".

Reading about String Theory in physics again, warming up to searching about Leonard Susskind, the Plumber Physicist's theory about a holographic projection of the ENTIRE UNIVERSE(ok, what warrants all caps more than the ENTIRE UNIVERSE?) - Projected that is, on the inner(?) surface of, yes, the ENTIRE UNIVERSE itself. Everything that ever happened? All at once of course, or well, the Universe wouldn't be acting in that decidedly charmingly goofy way of doing/being exactly what you wouldn't expect it to be coming up with next.(Yes, supposedly there is, may be, an inner surface or membrane to the outside of the Universe. More mind warping theoretical stuff.)

And yes, it's kinda like that last paragraph that way.

So, everything that Was or Is or as they say, Yet Shall Be - has a twin holographic double, way out there, yes Virginia, Across the Universe.(remember, that's the ENTIRE UNIVERSE). Morgan Freeman says(yeah, he got this started) - "While we think we're all here, that this is all happening, here in this 3 dimentional reality, there's another reality - everything on the surface of the Universe out there " - But what are the other we out there, in the holographic projection version of reality, thinking about it?

At this point, I decided to go out on the patio and smoke a cigarette about all this. I usually go out, light up, and pace. And I look to the sky, always, to watch the world turn or the clouds blow, and think.

This time I sat down.

Well that was certainly different. "Really John, sitting down was different than standing? Imagine that." - aside - "It's gonna be one of Those days".

It was. Way - Different.

Just that little bit of difference in visual perspective made my yard, my world, more private, more quiet - closer to still. It became slower, and lower in it's intensity. That's a good thing for me. Less intensity in my perceptions is sometimes - a good thing.

Something moved. Ok, obviously about a ba-jillion things moved, all around and in and out of the whole scene. I mean Something. Moved.

Back inside, (how's that for some head-O-logical cliff-hanging-stuff for a break) Like -"Mean while, back at the ranch"

I step inside to this on X-finity Music - K.T. Tunstall, live, Come on Get it . from the Manchester Ritz 2010. I Wonder if Big Black Horse might have been written about that Black Gibson Dreadnaught she's playing in the video - never mind.

A nice break from physics & Head -O-Logics.

So, there's this Black Hole see, in the middle of our cozy little home galaxy - the Milky Way. As you would expect, there are things doing odd elliptical orbits around Mr. Black Hole, drawn in by his HuuuuGe Melon. Er, I mean Gravity - Yeah Gravity, that's it, Of course.

Some of these things, orbiting the hole, are stars. All kinds of Stars. They spin faster as their orbits loop closer to the hole. Of course they do. Do to. That's one way we know the Hole is there.

This all eventually, Mr. Freeman's distinguished baritone says, conveys to the Black Hole Information Paradox and the debate between Hawking and Leo Susskind. (they call him the Pumber-Physicist - but check out his creds on wiki).

Leo, as you may remember, brought us String theory, bless his heart. Really interesting, supports the Vibrating at Higher Frequencies thing, much to my delight.

As we get past Black hole in middle of Milky Way, (wonky star patterns in there, tell us so. No, really.), - past that, past string theory, To the Black Hole spraying, as it were, the reflection, and the sub-atomic-particle essence of EVERYTHING out Across the Universe, to it's very edge, it's very gravitational membrane, to where ALL THAT gets holographicly projected.

Now we're back to there's another exact analog of EVERYTHING that ever was, is, or will be, out there. Yup, WAY - the Hell & gone, beyond comprehend-able(or at least relate-able) distances.

Crunch a few brain cells up against that for a little while and see if things don't move.

Back at the ranch, I still have a couple of post owed about specific stuff, that didn't get done, but will. That brings us to the main point number TWO:

All the sudden, it snuck up on me, I've hit that point where I need to start keeping track of ALL MY IDEAS.

I haven't been in a creative state where that was an issue for many years. It's a quandry of retention, and of organization. But it's a quandry I am happy to feel. Again.

Thank God, I was afraid I might be gone.

And then I had a thought. No, really.

I sometimes tell myself that the Loud tinnitus, The Ring, which is with me always, is actually the long distance remnant of The Music of the Spheres. (just a little story I tell my self to amuse me)

Have I mentioned that my thought processes are decidedly Random Abstract. Perhaps I should have warned us. You're sharp, I bet you figured that out by now.

Remember, today you're getting it the way it comes to Me. It's about trying to relate My world, as it Really Is. Or is it as it only seems? How would I know?

Eventually, we get to the point of Morgan Freeman's Cosmological expounding, which is: Hawking was wrong about this, Susskind was right: A Black hole does not, in fact destroy or do away with the matter, the accumulated INFORMATION that goes in. INFORMATION IS NOT LOST. Perhaps. Not. Ever.

I will pause while we all think on that little tidbit. Yes, in this sense I think, at least for purposes of this, we are information also.

Now, what was it I was worried about before?

An additional thought: Those stars orbiting around the Black Hole make a pattern. It's exactly like the pattern made by sub-atomic particles orbiting the nucleus of an atom. It's that Microcosm, Macrocosm thing that we see as a repeated theme in both nature and human thought(which is, it has been argued, nature also).

Break!

Heres another musical interlude: Peter Gabriel, live, In Your Eyes.

I know, that's a long one(10 minutes), but I think it's worth seeing and hearing. Gets down to the nitty-gritty of what this relating stuff is Really all about. Well, I think so.

What was my point?

The universe is bigger and weirder than even we have imagined.

Sometimes, in the middle of all this random, Something Moves. In my head, in the Universe. Creativity is not dead. Information is not lost. Love(a type of information?) goes on.(Yes, it's a leap, but I'm going to make it head first. So sue me.)

There may yet be good reason for me, and for all of us, to Hope.

"Well, I think we've made excellent progress today, but it's about time to wrap this up".

more later...

Thanks, Kerry, Stylish huh?

2011-03-19T12:16:00.001-07:00

Of all the things I've been called in my life, Stylish., not so much.

Big surprise a couple of weeks ago when friend Kerry Schafer passed on the Stylish Blog Award to me and several others on her post over at KerrySchafer.com .

Thanks much Kerry for including me in this.

I really appreciate it.

Love This Life, Onward Through the Fog - I've been doing it for a couple or so years now. It's growth in quality has been slow and steady I think. I come to be having to write fairly late in my life. Kerry, and a few others have been great help and great encouragement in that(So it's really partially her fault, as well as my talented poet brothers Michael & G. Barnes, Johanna Harness, Kristina Martin, &, &, & ...

Many of those folks can be found in the "Blogs I follow most" of my newly declared stylish Blog, or in the "Following" section of my @Barnestormjohn twitter profile.

That puts us at the end of the "...thank God, and Everybody and their dog" part. It's on to the meat of this thing(unless you're a vegetarian, and then we're on to the Tofurkey & Curried anything). As Kerry and Kristina before have done, we begin the thing -

It's time for me to observe the venerable rules, rites, lefts and traditions of this most auspicious award:

1. Thank the Stylish Blogger Award giver and link back to their blog. See above.

2. Share seven little known things about myself. O-kay...

I was born on Shakespeare's birthday, April 23rd, in the same year as were born Prince, Madonna, Michael Jackson and Jamie Lee Curtis, 1958. Hmmmmm, 'splains a lot, huh?

I was engaged, but never married, three times - in kindergarten.

The first thing I ever learned on guitar was the bass line to Cream's Sunshine of Your Love.

I had to take swim lessons three summers before I learned to breath while swimming(without choking).
On the Myers & Briggs Character/Temperament sorter I'm an INFX(cross over INFP&INFJ), along with roughly .5% of the general population. Yes, I'm a rare & special boomer child.

I have never been to a high school football game (Try not to hate me like I hate crowds).

Even though John Ross was a fairly famous Cherokee Chief, I was actually named after both Gramps - John Barnes and Ross Anderson, nothing to do with the Chief.

3. Pass the award on to other bloggers

Jaqueline Dick for her young but very impressive blog 1emeraldcity. Tweeting as @Fumanchucat, Jaqueline is a prolific and fine poet and essayist, part of the poetry/art gang over at OneStopPoetry(a gathering place for writers and visual artists). She teaches literature and Facilicates discussions of current events and writes. I especially like her micro poetry. Jaqueline is hilarious as well as having quite an astute sense of observation coupled with a fine affinity for words. Major Micro Poetry.
Aliki McElreath over at Family Education. I have enjoyed the keen mind, thoughtful and very real writing, and kind friendship of Aliki it seems forever, but I guess it's really just a few years now. She is a Creative Writing Professor in North Carolina, An honest and forth coming chronicler of the life, love and laments of a parent of two great children, one of whom happens to have Aspergers. She has been a help in my endeavors to deal with our own special son.
Jane Devin Over there, at Jane Devin .com, you"ll find the real life of a strong voiced writer, from the land of New Mexico. Researched laboriously over a long span of time and space. @Janedevin on twitter. She just finished writing a big first book. She writes killer Blog Posts also.
Crazy Sister from her Blog: Graze If You Want To, But Don't Eat Dirt. Cello player , Mom, Wife, Writer from Queensland, Australia. She writes things funny, about things, that it turns out, Are Funny. She can also talk in a serious way, though much of it's camouflaged by funny.
Givenya De Elba Sister, it turns out, of Crazy Sister. Her Blog: Killing a Fly with a Ukulele is Probably a Wrong Thing To Do is well worth a follow any time. Another Mom, Professional, Wife, Writer also from Queensland, Australia. It's a whole 'nother mirror world, just like and very different, from an American perspective. She characterizes her family, including the dog, by Toy Story characters. And, it works.
Karla Archer for Living the Life Fantastic. Not only is she a talented writer & designer, she and her husband Randy met online, on twitter. She and Randy own Archer Creative in Birmingham, AL. They have four great kids that figure prominently in her family posts and in her tweets, followable as @karlaArcher. She and @RandyArcher are bigo Huge Bham fans. And yes, since I wrote that Bham has been devastated, still finding bodies, lives lost or starting over. Do what You can, pease.

4. Alert the blogers to the fact that they’ve been awarded.

Will do, immediately after I actually post this.

These Writers are not necessarily that much alike in content, perspective, style or aim.

These Writers are all pretty astute observers and fine story tellers and minds.

Well, I think so.

Once again, Thanks to Kerry Schafer for including me in this. Now, everybody go read each other's stuff.

"Turn to your neighbor(penguin) and Fluff him up a little"- Loveless the love penguin (Robin Williams) from the movie Happy Feet.

the room

2011-02-28T05:28:00.001-08:00

Walking though the dark building, lit only by his flashlight, he thought he felt the air chill. Reaching into his vest of many pockets, Phil pulled out his antiquated BlackBerry and pushed the touch screen. No bars, nothing, not a trace of a signal. He'd find the circuit box somewhere before long. He strolled down one of the old hospital's many basement corridors, checking each room for the main power box. He came to the last door in the line. Oddly, he thought he saw a slight puff of dust blow out from under the door as he swung his light around. Almost like a breath and he wondered where that came from. It turned out not to be the power room. No circuit box in there. Which is not to say there were no boxes. As he panned the light around the crowded interior he saw shelves filled with what appeared to be squat dusty plastic boxes, black with some kind of paper labels, as well as older tin cans, some heavily corroded. He started as he heard a whisper, right behind his left ear. Nothing there. As he walked back out of the room, he could have sworn he heard the whisper again.

In the old hospital, down in the basement, in that room, nothing moved that you could tell, but that didn't mean nothing moved. Dust. And ashes. And, a whisper, as though of some long forgotten memory. Forgotten, but not truly gone. At first, for long decades, there was nothing of awareness. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, they began to remember, to feel, and feeling knew loss. They knew not what they had lost. But they whispered among themselves. They whispered confusion, and darkness, and light. They whispered of bygone days out in the sun, and then of endless times confined within. but within what.

Plans were underway for demolition to begin within a few months, after all the channels had been gone through, paperwork signed, bids taken, more paperwork, then more again.

The phone rang at the Institute for Studies of the Unseen. There was something perhaps of interest down in Salem. Could they come to the old State Hospital? Yes, the one where they made that famous movie. Well, It was no big deal, really, just that they were getting ready to tear it down. No, of course demolition was not ISU's thing, but there were the whisperings. In the Room of Forgotten Souls. Where they kept the cremated remains of patients from the last sixty years. Sure, they could come today, today would be great.

The emf meter went wild, even though the wires had already been stripped out, and not a watt of power in the place. Likewise the Sub and Ultra sonic recorders. Mary and her tech team had to have new apps written to sort it all out. Five thousand voices, all trying to say their names, or the names of living relatives, all at once. The ISU team had tried to bring in a medium to talk to the voices, get them to take turns speaking. They wouldn't shut up long enough to hear the happy medium, overjoyed as he was to be there, for the Great Speaking, as he called it.

Eventually, temporary employees were hired to make the thousands of calls. No one told them where the information they gave had really come from. "We found some old data hidden away". People came from all over the country, and some even from overseas. All came to claim their long lost crazy relatives' ashes. They made great conversation pieces for one's mantle. And if you were quiet, after your dinner guests had all gone home they would whisper, happily, of freedom and release.

Note: The Room of Forgotten Souls is a real place within the old Oregon State Hospital, in Salem Oregon, where the movie "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" was filmed.

kptv-fox12, in Portland recently did a story on the room, but that link has since been removed from their site.

This Oregon State site, does however have listings of the names of the "Cremains" for those who think they may have relatives there.

Photographer David Maisel has done a fine series of photos of some of the old Cremains cans in his collection Library of Dust. I did not include them in the story because I don't have rights to them. However, you can see them Here.

For further reading on the Oregon State Hospital in Salem, you can start with the Wiki here.

It's not my hammer

2011-02-21T08:42:00.000-08:00

I recently found this old hammer half buried under a rhododendron in my back yard.

It's not my hammer.

I was raised better than that. We don't treat tools that way in my family. But why does it still stand there, rusty and unused in the weather?

It's not my hammer.

It's a remnant of some previous tenant, some prior existence there, in my back yard. I don't have to take charge of it's care if I don't want to. That was someone Else's responsibility. I'm leaving it out there for a reason, several really. I like the way it looks by the blue box. It has some meaning there, beyond that of a discarded hand tool, unused and uncared for.

It's not my hammer.

I could take it inside, try to clean it up & make it whole. It may not even be safe to use. Structural integrity and all that. I've had a chip off an old tired hammer break off and stick in my arm before. Yeah, really. Part of me wants to feel guilty about not making the effort to bring it back to usefulness.

I have been fascinated by this forgotten object though. It seems to be trying to tell me things. I've been visiting it out on the patio, watching it, listening for what things it might have to tell me, or to teach me.

Whoever left it out there in the first place is probably not a bad person. Sometimes one might forget, regardless of a proper upbringing, as regards the care of one's tools. One might be a young child, or easily distracted, or just plain forgetful. Not everyone recognizes or considers the value of a tool. Or perhaps they were just really busy, too busy to deal with one more thing. Life can be that way some times.

It has been said that we all live in a world of symbols and I believe that's true on a number of levels. I've also read and heard that we Native Americans have always lived in worlds of symbols and I feel that to certainly be true of myself and those close to me.

A hammer is a tool. It is also a symbol, an overall abstraction of a thing you can use to make something else, repair something else, Create new things in the world. Having a hammer and exploring what a hammer can do changes the way one perceives the world around them and the possibilities therein. It gives us a new way to relate to the world and those in it.

A talent is a tool.

For too long I have let some of my talents, some of my tools, lie rusting under the bushes so to speak. I was raised better than that. Here on this page I've been working on some of that. There are a couple of other talents I also need to get back to. It can be difficult to make the time. There are a lot of other things in my life that require my time, energy and attention. It's a work in progress, my life.

It's not my hammer.

But they're my talents, wherever they came from. I have sometimes tried to deny that. If a talent is not mine, not there in sufficient strength to be of use, then I'm not responsible to it, right? Ok, I see that's weak. We all have more than one talent. No, really. Some are shiny and bright. Easy for us and for others to see their strength, their beauty, their usefulness. Other talents, not so much.

It's not my hammer. Or is it?

So we have to pick and choose. Which talent to nuture and use, which to let go. Which tool to pick up and use, which to let go of, at least for a while. But I see some tools, some talents won't let you go. So work on the writing, let the knife throwing go. Work on the guitar playing, let the painting go. And on and on and on. Little talents. Big talents. Useful, or not.

They're all my tools to use, to be responsible for and to enjoy as I choose.

I'll work in some more writing, more guitar and some visual art, photography - yes, knife throwing - not so much. And, of course, that weak talent, that rusty tool, for making money - that's in need of some pretty big work I see also.

In all of that it's important to not forget, not neglect what may not be a talent, but is certainly important. The taking care of others - family, friends or to some extent, whomever I might come in contact with. Sometimes Kind is more important than Competent.

I guess the hammer is mine now. I think I'll go bring it in and put it in the garage, maybe see if I can clean it up a bit, even if it's not my best hammer, it's my hammer now.

Bright workin'

2011-01-28T06:33:00.000-08:00

This day they are working on a boat down on the Multnomah Channel, out just south of Scappoose off Highway Thirty. Driving down the road, gazing at the bluffs on the one side, there are dozens of small cascades from the recent heavy rains. Some are no bigger than your fore arm, others big enough to drown a goat. The little water falls come rushing from the seeps and holes in the rocks, between the mosses and ferns abundant there.

Turning in off the Highway, one would never imagine that a few hundred yards down the road was an affluent community of floating homes and boat houses. It's very rural here. This place is not like the manicured lawns and pristine monitored parking beyond the coded iron gates at Columbia River Yacht Club. Entering in there is all about the image of The Club.

Going down the dock ramp, under the moss covered blue canvas awning, Hank spies the resident great blue heron standing ankle deep in the chill river's edge. It is stoically ignoring the cavorting and diving black cormorants as well as the big gray geese on the bank just down from him. They say one will always be known by the company one keeps.

It feels good to duck into a tidy boathouse from the chilling rain. Bob the owner is considerate about getting the place heated up before their arrival. An advantage to working in a boathouse just across the dock from the owner's floating home. Retired Dr.s sometimes do alright for themselves and Bob has known what he wanted to wind up with for a long time it seems. His boat is a thirty eight foot Grand Banks Classic. A well respected and seaworthy trawler with a comfortable salon, state rooms fore and aft, and all the amenities of home. A good boat to cruise up the coast to the San Juans aboard. Bless his heart, makes good coffee too.

Hank digs in the supply boxes for the two-twenty grit sand paper, his towels and his deck boots - no street soles or hiking boots on this boat. He'll get up on the boat and then remember his rubber gloves. Best not to get skin oils on the surface of the varnish. Fold the paper and fold it again. It's got to be the right stiffness, the right flexibilty to both form to the curves and hold up to the edges. Long strokes when can and not too much pressure. He wouldn't want to leave scratches too deep or they'll show through the next coat. Where paint is said to hide a multitude of sins, varnish will expose all transgressions against the wood. Stroke and stroke and stroke some more. Wipe the dust off and see what he's got. Gotta maintain that balance between concentration and relaxation to get as light and even a sanding as can. Take the high points off but leave the deep. That's how you fill in the grain for that solid smooth shine. The goal is what they call a "Steinway" for that lacquered deep glass look. It takes about ten or twelve coats to build up enough varnish to hold off the elements. It has to be sanded and prepped between each coat. Varnish adheres by mechanical, not chemical bond. It has to have a surface with some tooth to grab.

After a couple or three hours between Hank and Sally the sanding on the brow trim up high and the transom aft will be done. The cap and top rails will come later along with the door frames. Then dry dust wiping and alchohol washing to take off more dust. Dust is one of the main enemies of the bright, along with mositure, too much temperature, too little temperature, too much wind or any kind of contamination. Sally likes to mix the varnish, she's better at getting it just the right thinkness for conditions she's best at gauging.

You can tell within the first few seconds sometimes, how the mix is going to go on, how you have to adjust your technique. It's all about the feel and the flow then. Still one needs to look back behind, check for dry spots or sags to be touched up if can before the wet edge is lost. If you lose the wet edge it will never be smooth, requiring more trouble on the next sanding, or worse causing a final coat not to be a final coat. At several hundred to a thousand dollars a coat, owners don't like do overs. As soon as the coat is applied it's off the boat and don't go back near unless you have to. To bump it then is not good.

Cleaning the brushes and the cups, or packing them to be done thoroughly at home is the last to do before getting clear and letting it dry and cure for a couple of days. The varnish has to be good and dry before it can be sanded again.

They will find out then just how well they have done, or not.

Hank Johnson Searches For the Word, among other things.

2011-01-23T03:43:00.000-08:00

no connection, I just like it.

Kristina said that writing was a little bit like dying one word at a time some days.

Hank liked the sound of that some how. Not the dying so much as the words. Yes, that was it, the words, the worlds, the feeling and the meaning. Like dying. Like giving it all. Like that favorite song, Witness, by Sarah McLachlan - "...And when we're done soul searching, and we've carried the weight, and Died for the Cause - Is misery made beautiful, right before our eyes, mercy - be revealed, or blind us where we stand?" Sometimes it's like that, to carry the weight and die for the cause. One more, as Bono says, in the name of love.

Rod Serling used to say "You're traveling through another dimension -- a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's a signpost up ahead: your next stop: the Twilight Zone." Again, he liked the sound of the words, & the feeling. Yes, there it was again - the feeling and the meaning.

And from somewhere in the Bible, the beginning of the Book of John, the beginning of the world, "In the Beginning there was The Word. And the word was with God. And the Word was God ."

There it was. Again. Words, God's words, created the world. At least in that one interpretation of the scene.

Hank's brother had once said something about words being how we thought as adult human beings. That we thought in words. He knew that was true, but not always, or perhaps not always the whole of it.

How much of his Dream Time was spent in an absence of words? Not all, but still much. A dimension of sight, of sound, yes, and of touch and smell and time and space, of feeling, and of fog. Always that fog in his mind.

Hank remembered something they talked of once, in the old time, he and she. Coming up, or perhaps across as it were, from one of those long twilight zone times of senses all alight and more somehow, to the knowledge, the absolute certain knowledge that there was and is a place of being where light and sound share a same frequency. He had later lost that taste, that touch of that realization. For years lost.

And then The Ring.The ringing in his ears. The ringing in his brain, or was it his mind. He didn't know when it started, at first only noticed when all else was silence. Then gradually The Ring asserted itself as a real thing. A certain tangible thing in of it's own right, it's own reality and reality changing existance, undeniable. Inescapable.

And then he remebered that place. The Place where Light and Sound and Touch and Taste and Love were all the same. The same frequency. The same meaning.
And Hank knew again, The Ring.

Could he somehow catch that light by paint or by photo process?
That light, that equal to The Ring.

And what of words? At once pure abstractions of things more tangible, more Real, and yet very Real and tangible things in their own right. To capture the word, the just right word to abstractly or concretely represent a thing, a dimension, of sight and sound and touch and smell and Feeling, for which he was just not sure there was a word or even a combination of words.

And there again, he found The Ring.

Hank will keep searching, living, loving, reading and writing, for the words, for the word.

Experimental stream- o - consciousness thing.

2011-01-10T00:23:00.000-08:00

Seven something am, pink clouds at sunrise. Boxed Lincoln Town Car taxi, raised about six inches above factory and sporting blindingly shiny 22's - among the minis and smart cars.

Then, after waking up from a mid day nap, tripping in a movie. Then he's driving to the Indian clinic listening to the theme from the X-files - turned way up loud..

White noise machines in the halls of the clinic, wouldn't matter to him, could never hear private conversations behind closed doors over The Ring in his head - tinnitus in the extreme, just adds to the surreal feeling of his perceptions.

Aaron waking up damp, coughing, taking allergie medicine - packing the vintage superman lunchbox.

Elizabeth Moon book - Speed of Dark, a fine slightly sci-fi exploration of being Autistic in a *normal* world. The question of treating Autism for Normalcy vs. Rights of Neuro-Diversity.

His 20 year old, multi-functional Moog tuner has died, doesn't really need it, but just in case still has his late 70's plastic pitch pipe. Remembers watching his daughter as a child, tuning fork behind her ear, tuning up her cello. Then listening - Gomez, playing Airstream Driver, acoustic on 101.9 Kink fm live studio ...

Reads this, found stuck in an old English 101 notebook, from when J.L. Burke was his teacher:

I heard him ask you "Who can count the apples in a seed?"

But you never understood that the joke was on us both.

I'd been playing Three-Mile Island, Ayatollah Bingo

I'd been playing Toxic Waste Roulette

Glenfiddich, Mopar, Valvoline -

Shakespeare, Thorazine, Rock-N-Roll.

Onward Christian Soldiers - what?

Sitting, Feeling, on the hill. The wind is in my head

Waiting here for Everyman, Hoping I'll see Jesus.

Hoping I'll see.

Hoping.

things I remember

2011-01-04T04:30:00.000-08:00

Walking out the back door, across the flagstone patio, down to the creek he saw that it had shrunk back down. The earlier heavy rain had brought the tiny creek from a foot deep to more like ten, roaring at flash flood speed over all in it's path. He watched closely along the bank, scrubbed bare now. There, just there, some oddness, a hole too big for frog or snake. He dug, and digging down found the shell. A painted turtle or what remained of one.

Some would find it grisly. To him it was a marvel of design and more. A symbol for his people, some of them, of strength and protection, even though it couldn't protect the inhabitant from the earlier flood.

Turning from the bank he caught the smell, musky and sharp, taste of an old penny on the tongue. He froze in place, knowing that taste, that smell for the only thing it could be. Cotton Mouth. It was the only creature here to be feared, killer venomous, evil tempered and devious. Picking up his staff he swiveled slowly at the waist, not daring to move his legs yet. It had to be close. After standing there, half crouched for some long minutes, sure it was not directly under foot, he retreated into the creek. If he could smell it, it probably was not in the water.

Wading back upstream towards the house he kept a sharp eye out for any movement, any sign. Finally, coming abreast of the back porch, quickly charging up the bank, glad to be getting out of the snake's territory. He carried his treasure, the new old turtle shell into the basement to be put with the other half dozen collected over the last couple of years. Some day the inspiration would come, he would know how to paint them, to bring luck, power, or perhaps just the connections with this place and his people he cherished.

Stupid & Crazy

2010-12-18T10:39:00.000-08:00

This is a post I did a long time ago. It's subject has come to the forefront of my thoughts again, as I struggle with some personal issues.

I heard a comedian the other day...."You can't fix stupid." I've been thinking about this for a while. There are labels that we put on people that we use to make it OK to dismiss them, or ridicule them, or otherwise be less than kind to them. Among those labels are "stupid" and "crazy". It seems that socially two of the lowest things one can be are stupid or crazy.(OK, not as low say, as axe-murderers or animal abusers)

I think part of that is because either of those conditions can cause a person to be generally bad news. If you're stupid, you're going to do stupid things. Doing stupid things is dangerous. If you're crazy, there's no telling what you might do - totally unpredictable to others - also dangerous. Crazy is the next closest thing to a mind totally alien. other......"not we" (we and not-we, also known as "us'ns and them'ns" as in "Us'ns are fine-but them'ns are all messed up." another subject, another post perhaps). I wonder too, if we aren't afraid that crazy might rub off on us....or that others will see us near crazy, and think that we're crazy too.....guilt of crazy by association.

Ok, it's only prudent for people to stay away from those identifiable by their actions as dangerously stupid or crazy. That said, I feel for those who really have a diminished capacity. A matter of how to deal with the myriad of pieces of input coming in. All of which needs to be sorted, like wheat from chaff. Then more decisions have to be made. Matters of perception and judgment. How does someone deal with this when they have a lower than average ability to think, or perception more greatly scewed from reality than usual?

One Father's Day, a radio announcer asked listeners to call in the most important advise they ever got from their fathers. One caller said her father told her "Remember honey, You've got to be tough when you're stupid". On one hand, that seems like a pretty callous, non-supportive thing to say to one's kid. On the other, I can see it as kind of an admonition...something along the lines of "IF you're going to do something stupid, remember you've got to be tough to deal with the fall out".

I often hear people use either the stupid label or the crazy when others just don't agree with our thoughts or beliefs. It's an easy hole to fall into. Especially if you're smart. Or think you are.

OK, so, what's my point? Um......not sure.

I guess I would like to see in myself and others, a little more sympathy and compassion for those who are borderline mentally challenged in one way or another. Especially those who seem to know, somehow, that they're not quite up to the levels others seem to operate on. I see them really trying to keep up...As I feel that I'm constantly trying to keep up.

I say borderline because we as a society seem to be more supportive, more accepting, of those who are severely diminished in thought capacity or quality. It's those who are on the borderline we have no patience for.

Do we think that if they just tried harder they could perhaps be less "stupid" or "crazy"? Hard to tell, huh? I'm not saying we shouldn't try to help people. I could sometimes use some help with both perception and judgment.

Maybe I'm just stating the obvious ad-nauseum?!?

A line from a country song comes to mind - "Just be patient - I'm a work in progress".

52 Card Pick Up

2010-12-11T11:29:00.000-08:00

Aaron, 6, is learning.

Remember that annoying *game* from childhood, 52 Card Pick Up?

Some one approaches with a deck of cards - "Hey, want to play a card game?" Then while you're still thinking about that they fling the deck out at you to fall all around you and holler "52 CARD PICK UP!"

They think this is funny. They say you have to pick up the cards that THEY THREW DOWN, because "It's the rules".

Hold the phone, I didn't agree to this. They're not my cards. It's not my rule.

Pick up your own damned cards.

All grown-assed man now, I still find people in life who want me to play 52 Card Pick Up. It's not my rules. They're not my cards. Pick up your own damned cards.

The other side

Sometimes the card thrower is bigger than you, not your friend, possibly just looking for an excuse to pound on an easy target. You get tired of being pounded on. You pick up the cards.

Ever run into that feeling in your adult life?

It's a Giant Gundam

2010-12-09T03:19:00.000-08:00

Ok, so maybe it's a guy thing. I just love that for the 30th Anniversary of Gundam anime they actually built a huge model Gundam.

Hiking with Michael

2010-11-21T11:41:00.000-08:00

I remember being the little brother, going hiking with my brother Michael. I was perhaps six or seven then, in the mid '60s. Michael was, and is, about six years older than I.

We hiked out around Grandpa's farm, near Crane, Missouri. That was a big deal to me then. Down the hill, on the rocky dirt road, past the small old cemetary, along the railroad tracks. He taught me to walk the rails, for balance he said. He could go, seemingly forever, never slipping off the shiny curved top of the rail. I, I was always slipping off, at first. Later, I got the hang of it, barely looking down to see my feet. I recall the smells, in the mid summer Missouri heat. I don't know the names of the plants, weeds along the right of way, but I remember the warm dry smells of things not bothered by heat.

There were lots of things to see and hear. Hawks up high, crows, always, dragonflies & horseflies, the former welcome, the later, not so much. lizards, if I was lucky, to see and hear, and chase, and miss.

I remember once, standy on a short trestle, perhaps thirty feet above Crane Creek. Looking down into the clear water there were goldfish there, let out from some fisherman's minnow bucket at end of a fishing day.
They flourished there in that creek, for years, growing as big as a large mouth bass, fourteen inches at least, Orange and white and slow and serene. Our backwoods versions of koi, I think now.

And looking up from the creek from where we stood on the trestle there, across to the vertical bluff were goats, now wild on their own, perched, miraculously to me, on bits of rock no more than half the width of their hooves.

White and grey and brown, nonchalantly watching us watching them. they knew they were untouchable, aloof in their superiority of belonging, the kings and queens of the bluffs, much more at home than we to that place, that time.

It was a good day, among many good days, hiking with Michael.

To my Brother G, childhood memories

2010-11-16T07:26:00.000-08:00

Coffeyville, Kansas, about 1967 or '68, walking home, maybe about eight or nine years old, from the west on 10th street. crossing to our alley at the end of the block.

About then I was surprised to hear really quite loud rock n roll, blasting down the alley way. I recall thinking Oh, some old people are gonna be yelling at someone about that. I walked on. Once I got a couple of backyards down the alley, it was obvious the sound was coming from OUR old carriage house garage, OUR HAYLOFT! (I'm guessing Dad wasn't home). You were singing, um, pretty much screaming actually, Purple Haze.

I went up to be in on this strange & amplfied wondrous happening. I was the kid, didn't get to stay long.

My second mind expanding shock of the day came maybe an hour or less later. I was on the screened in back porch, trying to make a tornado out of play-dough. It was then a quite attractive young lady, probably Joanne came walking towards me from the direction of the alley, with the bright sun behind her, silhouetting her form through a white and yellow cotton dress. I had never seen that back lighted kind of view before. Oh my.

I remember her smiling and talking to me(probably asking after you) as she came towards me. It was pretty amazing, perhaps, as I say, even mind-expanding to an impressionable eight or nine year old. Now I can't help but see her, that dress, or the old carriage house garage, whenever I hear Purple Haze.

rock 101-mid 1960's

2010-11-15T20:51:00.000-08:00

Mid 1960's;  I remember that guitar, my big brother's Fender Duo-Sonic.  I   was too young to know it fretted badly. For many years I thought it  had  been a Telecaster or Strat, until corrected.  I had never even  heard of  a Duo-Sonic.

I remember it from the living room on 9th st.,Coffeyville, Kansas(We killed the Dalton gang-woo-hoo?). I would have been six or seven-ish. I was not allowed to touch it, though I dearly wanted to.
It could not have been a more magical or mysterious an object to me if, if - anything. It seems like I only remember seeing it played about once each by my brother G. and by Dad. I may be remembering imagining or dreaming of Dad playing it.

It did seem like seeing/hearing G. playing became much more frequent after the appearance of the Goya acoustic. I noticed here they're requesting photos of Duo-sonics and some other "obscure" Fenders. Man, wouldn't we both love to have that back, if only to put it on auction, or perhaps in a vault.
Here's a related memory - I remember being downtown, Coffeyville, Kansas at night, 9th street in front of about Newberry's, and seeing G. and some other guys, all about sixteen or seventeen, on a trailer, going down the street playing. Midnight Madness? The Roaches? was that a dream?

Sorting games

2010-10-24T19:44:00.000-07:00

Through out the time we were raising our daughter Amelia we used to play some sorting type games with her. They were also, underneath, thinking games, and I think at twenty-nine now she would say they have served her well. Here are a couple of them:

Kitch, Klassic or Krap (and yes, they're spelled that way on purpose)

Pick an item, could be nearly any item, and name if it's Kitch, Klassic or Krap.

Pink lawn flamingo - Kitch

Black Converse high tops with white rubber toe caps - Klassic

Those "temporary" ad signs with the big light up arrows and cheesey slogans - Krap

Beaded Spacecraft sculpture, from Etsy's space craft competition - Klassic Kitch? Definately Kool, though. I know, subjective. That's kinda the point, which brings us to -

Obviously, this is a subjective game. It is however one that helps define to us the mind set of the person we're playing with. Hmmm, that might make it a good early-days in a relationship game.
Feel free to steal it for that. I have.

Here's another one. We call this one Insipid or Insidious , and it works better for ideas, strategies, group habbits, etc. Bear in mind some things may be partially or wholly both.

"elevator music" - insipid

consumer or voter manipulation based on fear or guilt - insidious

Most televangelist presentations - ooooh, I'm thinking both.

You can play these two games on your own, silently in your head, and then make people wonder what you're grinning or shaking your head about.

Another game I liked to play with Amelia was Name That Guitar, but unfortunately most music t.v. channels have long since ceased showing enough music videos to keep the game going conveniently. (and I realize that for our purposes here it's maybe too esoteric - ya kinda gotta be a guitar geek to care) Still, I wanted my daughter to be able to tell the difference between a Gibson S-G and a Fender Strat for example. Just a family pride thing I guess.

Ok, how about this one?
Maybe not fair, that's a Fender Jag-stang, the illustrious offspring of a Fender Jaguar and Fender Mustang.

Pardon, I digress.

more later...

Taking Aaron to school

2010-10-02T14:51:00.000-07:00

Aaron has been in first grade for about a month now.

The first week we started out walking together, him holding my hand all the way to his class room. After the first day I was the only first grade parent to do that.

Ours is one of those close to an elementary school neighborhoods filled at that time of morning with kids, moms with strollers, grandpas with small dogs, smiling crossing guard ladies with florescent flags... The school is about four blocks away and he would fill that time and space pointing out items of interest - "that cool racing car"(a Nissan 3000 gt)," That cat's name is Max" (one of that particular kind of Siamese who want to be in the middle of everything), "Oh My Gosh that's a huge Christmas tree!"(a Red Wood that fills one corner front yard and up about a hundred feet).

The second week we still walked together, but he didn't seem to need to hold my hand any more, preferring to stroll along on his own, pointing out kids he knows and greeting them, petting Max the Siamese cat, lobbying to take the "short cut"(about half again as long). We've had to have discussions about how most kids are freaked out by being hugged, especially at or near school or in public-it's kinda part of his boggle. He does well on those walks at stopping at corners and waiting for Dad. I only have to tell him to stop once or twice, as opposed to his usual three or four times when he's doing something at home-again, part of his boggle, hard to get his attention.

This last week he has decided it's better to drive there. The first couple of days he wanted me to park the car so I could still walk him to his classroom. Now he'd rather I just drop him off in the turn out so he can walk in on his own, like a "big kid".

I still watch him until he passes by the principal at the door, often stopping for a hug, and is in the school building itself.

Time, as they say, marches on.

I'm going to miss walking him to school.

Noticing, again...

2010-09-22T08:38:00.001-07:00

Slide one: Outside, I'm looking at vibrant green moss growing at the base of the plain cement step. Up close at near macro level, the moss presents as fractal, organic and living, against the backdrop of the step. The step by contrast is almost geometrically angular, man made and dead, though it is arguable that even those fused together grains of sand hold some common spark of energy from which, surely all life flows.

This is the kind of stuff that seems of compelling presence to me. Important that someone, apparently me, notices it and stores it away in woefully fallible memory for the record. You know, those records that are in our minds, constantly being made of everything in our lives, to be retrieved at the end by God - someone, or something. Again and again it seems important to me that these small things, small lessons, small miracles of juxta-position or other, be consciously witnessed by someone, and if not me, then who?

Even though I've been ill, chronically if not critically, for some time now. Even though that illness has caused much set back and trouble, fiscal and emotional, even though all those issues are of a certain urgency, I still find these small moments of noticing to be of large, perhaps larger, importance .

It seems a thousand times a day.

Hey, I'm a busy guy.

You just can't see it.

snippet

2010-09-11T11:23:00.000-07:00

My older brother G. used to live right next to University of Utah. One night while I was visiting him he wound up having to go down the block to deal with a noise issue. Young presumably college guys were playing loud guitars from a second floor-over the side walk balcony. He did not go to tell them to knock it off, but rather so he could tune up their guitars for them. Imagine being young college guys thinkin' yer Rockin' out cool when some old(40ish) guy comes down the side walk, stops under your balcony and says "look, if you're going to do that, at least let me tune em up for ya boys" life is full of small, cool, yet humbling moments.

Just for fun, here's video from a friend of mine -
Back Porch Buddah - Neighbors

Back to school

2010-09-10T20:24:00.000-07:00

Aaron, 6, started the first grade this week.

I was really surprised the first day when he woke and immediately went into full blown sobbing about "But, they won't like me!" After much discussion a /o attempted fatherly type encouragement we finally got down to the point of I gotta go to work, you gotta go to school. Of course once we got him out the door he was fine.

We've been walking the four blocks to school together. It's been good morning Father-Son time.
That's all I've got to say about that.

Why Parenting blogs are like Love - Seriously.

2010-08-14T20:49:00.000-07:00

Parenting - it never ends :-)

Recently I've seen Parenting Blogs mentioned offhandedly in the same way, with the same dismissive "oh, so not cool, so not cerebral enough" fashion that years ago might be reserved for "Peace, Love & Understanding".

Ok, let's reserve peace & understanding for another discussion. There's only so much this father's ineffective little brain can deal with in one go.

Often, I have been as guilty as the next guy of seeing a heart symbol and rolling my eyes & thinking "I love you. You love me. Isn't our love just sweet as can be?" blech.

But those of us who love big know love isn't like that don't we? To some of us the symbol of the heart, (think FLAMING HEART) is actually a symbol of no small import or strength, but rather one invoking recognition of great power, both light and dark. It's not all sunshine and roses, beer and skittles as they say. It's about such heavy duty stuff as compassion, sacrifice, hard emotional work, days and nights of hard fought battles with THE DARK SIDE, as it were. Think Suzanne Vega's BOUND, or even Z Z Top's BREAK AWAY. And of course it doesn't have to be about romantic love. Brotherly love or Parental Love can be/is just as big and powerful and full of potential heart break, doom, disaster, fall and hopefully rise as any romantic love, perhaps in many cases more so.

Yeah, yeah, I hear you(or maybe it's me) saying, tell us something we didn't know.

Parenting Blogs are as popular as they are for a good reason. It's BIG-HEAVY-STUFF. Just like Love, part & parcel, as they say, of same. If you're a long time parent you know this, or should, already. But perhaps if you're a non-parent, a new parent, maybe an empty nester now busy with otherwise real life or even are a busy parent who just thinks "Yeah, parenting - just something we do, why talk it to death?" you might not get the why of parenting blogs. Why is because, I think, that for many of us it's THE BIGGEST TRIP WE WILL EVER TAKE. We're filling up bandwidth, eating up disk space and brain space with it cause we're exploring it, trying to make sense of it all, looking for support and giving support, or maybe - just maybe - even just wanting to celebrate it.

All kids have, or are, issues to deal with. Some more than others - differently abled is one current term for some of it. Take the above mentioned and now square it, upping the difficulty rating and attendant worry,
pride(or self shame), protectiveness, etc., etc., etc. accordingly. The same can be said for other factors - financial hardships, world weirdness, dangerous environments, or just plain head stresses. Yours or the child's.

Did I actually have a point here? Oh, yeah, I kinda did. It's for myself as much as the collective "you".

The next time you see that cute little pink Heart, or a Parenting Blog mentioned, please, let us all remember, if we might tend to not. Remember to Recognize & have a little Respect, a little Pride and simultaneously a little Humility, before the awesome Power of love, and the burden of the Weight of the World, that is Parenting, that is Love.

And now, just for grins, here's Elvis Costello & friends doing a Nick Lowe song.
Yeah, that's Bob's boy Jakob(Dylan) with them.

(What's so funny 'bout) Peace Love & Understanding

The Bath

2010-08-08T20:51:00.000-07:00

It's s Sunday evening and Aaron, 6, has just come in from playing across the street at A_____'s house. It's time for THE BATH. This is always a big deal. He's six. It shouldn't have to be a big deal. It almost always is. We're talking full blown screaming, thrashing, takes two adults to wash his hair kind of big deal. It's bad enough that I sometimes worry that the neighbors might call the cops because they might think we're killing him over here.

Later-After tonight's bath - he shouted(no, screamed) from his room that if he has to take a bath after going to A____'s house, then he doesn't want to go there anymore and he's not her best friend(which he is), he's not going to any one's house, he's just going to stay here all day. I explained to him that whether he went anywhere or not, he still has to have baths.

Did I mention that's he's been diagnosed as mildly autistic (by one bunch, the other bunch isn't sure, I suspect because if they say he is then they have to allot a whole different, greater set of school district assets to him).

I wondering if this is par for this course, or if it's just his own personal weirdness.

Onward through that fog.

TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES

2010-08-02T06:22:00.000-07:00

We are, most of us, surrounded by technical objects. Eventually they all break down. One of the problems with being poor, borderline in my case, is that when this happens you just have to live with it.

The little remote clicker for my car's locks/alarm quit working. Got a new battery. It didn't help. I can't unlock with the clicker and if I unlock with the key, the alarm goes off. I had to just disconnect the horn. Ho-hum.

The mp3 player on my blackberry has to be re programmed every day before I can use it. I use it a lot working by myself on boats. It helps my rhythm, and also drowns out the constant loud ring in my ears.

Now my laptop will only charge when it's turned off. This really cuts down on how long I can be on it at a time. In the time it has taken to write this it's used about 10% of it's charge. No long sessions for me.

I should shut down now.

Sometimes being poor really sucks. Having said that, I realize that many, many people would love to be "affluent" enough to have the issues I've described, that "poor" can be a relative term. I guess what I'm struggling with is trying to get over that hump to not being "poor", to being "normal", at least by American standards.

music 101 - Colvin & Krause

2010-07-31T14:42:00.000-07:00

One of those tunes that my children & grandchildren should know about, in order to have a well rounded familiarity with relevant music of our time..

Shotgun Down the Avalanche

Take note, this vid will self- segue into a series of vids including, but not limited to Suzanne Vega.

The other thing I wanted to show you today is a slide show presentation from Home on the Fringe
who unfortunately just don't post very often. They do great banners, etc. if you're in need of. It seems to be a kind of travel log vid, but it could well be the best pro-tourism commercial ever not broadcast(to my knowledge).
welcome to Portland & near

backpack-cat spray

2010-06-18T12:03:00.000-07:00

Well, it's about a new backpack and a cat...and moving a young relative..

Not long ago I went to help my son move. It went OK - for not having a truck.

There were two ill trained cats there. I saw one of them climbing in and out of open car windows. I kept my Subaru closed, except while I was going back and forth to load a dresser in the back.

In the front seat was my new Swiss Guard day pack - made by Wenger, one of the two real Swiss army knife companies, guaranteed for life, pricey and a joy to use everyday.

Got done loading, got in the car AND SMELLED CAT!

It turns out that my new pack got cat-sprayed. You know, that territorial scent gland thing they do. Yup, right on the front of my new day pack, which I DO use every day.

That was three weeks ago and no amount of Fabreeze, etc. has diminished the funkiness. I don't want to have to wash the pack, but may have to. It's hard on packs.

I'm sure this will be hilarious at some point in the future.

Things we Know how To Do

2010-06-08T23:00:00.000-07:00

Aaron said "I know how to drive, Dad." He is six. He does not know how to drive.

He knows how to sit on my lap and "help" steer as I back the car out of the garage.

I remember thirty years ago when I "knew" how to do life (and what death meant.)

Was I just sitting on God's lap playing with the Big(steering)Wheel of Life, the Universe and Everything?

Aaron likes to think he knows how to drive.,

I let him think that, as others have let me think I knew things.

He and I will both have to learn as we go.

The Talk

2010-06-03T08:43:00.000-07:00

My son Aaron is six. The other day I had to give him The Talk. No, not THAT Talk
(though it's coming soon enough-he Really. Likes. Girls.) This was the other talk. No, not the Death talk either, we've done that(and will again, I'm sure)

No this is the talk about "When you see something on t.v., or the net, or yes perhaps in print....and you get it home, and you follow the info-graphics, and then...it just isn't right. No, Dad can't make it be right either. No, If we took it back to the store for that they would give us another one JUST LIKE IT, and it still wouldn't be right, cause this thing or that isn't made quite right.

It takes a long time to get that essential not rightness of the world across to kids. Some, more than others.

And, it's always kind of sad when you have to see when it clicks with them. That little, corresponding click in their eyes, the slight fading or brightening of the light in their eyes from the shock and disappointment. If tears are gonna happen, it's usually then.

It's not the shock of Dad can't fix this because it just IS, or about a particular toy. It's nothing that easy.

It's about trust in the rightness of the world, just a little thing the kids may hardly notice themselves sometimes.

But, you'll see that look again, and you know it... and again...and again...

The balance trick here is perhaps to help them trust in the rightness of the world again. Point out those little extra-rights and better than imagined things that occur in our worlds. Positive affirmation time.

And you still gotta be honest about that "some things, some times just aren't gonna be right, or maybe even alright" thing. And that has to be alright too.

What did I leave out?

Standing in the back garden, blinking in the unusual sun, like some just un-earthed thing, I'm startled by a sudden loud buzzing just to one side of my head. It is not, as I thought for a split second, the world's largest bumble bee. I've just been buzzed by a humingbird. Is that good luck or just a good omen, either would be fine, really.

Suzzy V - go find her & listen

2010-05-16T21:08:00.000-07:00

Ok, this one is very hard to find for free on the net(legally, which is how I roll...)

Find a copy of Suzanne Vega's Beauty & Crime. No, Really, Go-Find-It.(yes, right now) Tracks 7 and 8. Bound & Unbound. The string arraignments alone in Bound would make it worth finding, Lyrics will cut you deep, if you've ever been where of she's relating. Over tones - haunting. Unbound starts out seeming almost "Walkin' on Sunshine" pop, then redeems itself admirably. It works as a stand alone piece, but works best following bound. Kind of like sherbet after a really heavy-duty red curry dish.

The rest of the collection is also very good, but these two cuts especially are ... Favs.

Mother's Day with Ginny & Aaron

2010-05-11T21:35:00.000-07:00

This last Sunday was, of course, Mother's Day. After a leisurely morning we headed off down the road to the Evergreen Aviation Museum near McMinnville . It's where they keep the famed Spruce Goose, which may yet be the largest airplane to ever fly. Certainly the largest wooden one. It's really huge. Aaron went BANANAS in all his ~~Mildly Autistic~~ six year old Glory. Besides seeming frantic to see/hear/do EVERYTHING. AT. ONCE. he really enjoyed himself. He was, at times, as frustrated with my direction as I was with his apparent lack of attention to directives(I know, it's part of his thing). I did my best to kid wrangle in as good a combination of tolerance and effectiveness as could. It was definitely a balancing act.

Ginny, bless her heart, was typically mellow and tolerant towards both of us and our usual fray of wills and wants. I think she was just glad to get out of the house and be with her "boys" somewhere different.

In the end, it's the memories, greatly if not exclusively happy, that count for all of us I think.

'nuff said.

Middle Aged Grooming

2010-04-17T22:55:00.000-07:00

You know you're Middle Aged Man when you cut the inside of your ear lobe - shaving. Or say, when you find that you now require reading glasses to shave. Shown: that tricky up-under the reading glasses eye brow trim. Some times I seem to feel & remember the full wieght and circumstances of my life and times that brought me to where I find myself now. Other times, I still seem to be looking out of the eyes and mind of my youth. Like Billy, in Slaughterhouse Five, who frequently became "unstuck in time". I often have this fleeting wonder as I wake, where and when I'll be when I open my eyes. One of my Grandaughters just celebrated her fourth birthday today. Happy Brithday, Zoe!

Aaron's night out

2010-04-07T05:03:00.000-07:00

Last evening, the Fam went to McDonald's. That's unusual. Nutrition, Economics, yada, yada.

Aaron's elementary school was having a "Mc'Teacher's Night". His school teachers were there, busing tables, selling cookies, etc. The school is to get 20% of the night's take. Happy Meals Everywhere! There was running(back and forth to the play ground thing), and screaming(none in pain or fright though), There were flat screen monitors on the wall, playing Disney Channel(i-Carly). He had a great time. We had a good time. It was...ok, no, better than ok. ON one level, I should be concerned that A: It's McDonald's - WITH our school. Big Corporate McDonalds. Hmmmm......B: Um, Cholesterol. Ah, well, perhaps once in a great while won't send us all to early graves or Hell, aye?

working on a boat, rock reviews 101

2010-04-02T08:29:00.000-07:00

This is the last one. Gel coat is a bitch. I've been working on gel coat, learning how to coax a factory like finish onto a basically messed up hull. For about ten years. If I haven't got it down now, I'm not gonna. I can get some good results.It just costs me too much. Too much time, makes it very hard to make any money. a repair job is only worth so much. Too much worry, Is this gonna work? Did I just create a lot more trouble for myself? Is this going to be done in time for the owner's schedualed departure?

Still, there are times, when all one can do is sand it, see what you've got. And that's a good time, sometimes. It can be very Zen-craftsman feeling. While I'm doing that, I like to listen to music on the headphones as I go. Some of those tunes, from the 70's, the 80's , 90's and even now are timeless classics. More than that, they are, as someone said, Instruments of Truth.

Yesterday, at one point, I had called up some mid Seventies Steely Dan. Countdown to Ecstasy. Boston Rag. Walter Becker on guitar, Donald Fagen, keyboards. Musically, technically, and lyrically, these two guys create a powerful team. To me, a fifty something father, grandfather, continuing rock devotee, regular guy(mostly), this is music my children and grandchildren need to know. More important history than who did what to who back when. To that end, I'm thinking of a series of reiviews, or possibly just relistens of old and new music. We'll call it Boomer Music 101.

This is not one of those. I don't have time today to get into that depth on one. But just for kicks, go to the link below. Watch. Listen. NO, really, LISTEN....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifjVRdzapx4

I'm going to hope here, that you are a person who is capable of being moved by music. Not just the lyric message, but the sound, the POWER IN THE SOUND. Can you find some Indescribable Wow of something true in a guitar solo, a keyboard rift, a rhythm beat? Check out the guitar solo towards the end of Boston Rag.

How can a sound, a simple or complex set of vibrations, translate in our brains to impressions of memories, emotions, feelings we can relate to as very deeply personal and yet as universally experienced as any part of the human condition.

more latter

Cleaning out the work shop

2010-03-28T19:28:00.000-07:00

Today I was watching Don lower a green plastic drain pipe into a trailer with a John Deere tractor. The pipe was maybe thirty two inches in diameter by twelve feet long. One end was sawed off at about a forty five degree angle. The other, the factory bell end, is the female end of a joint.They are just like the joints on a stalk of bamboo. Suddenly, I'm standing there watching Don load the world's largest cutting of Lucky Bamboo into a trailer. I guess these days a fellow might need a really big piece of lucky bamboo.

Standing at an old work bench later. I"m cleaning off a lot of small but vastly handy tools, bits, drivers, small pressure and vacuum gauges, parital rolls of teflon plumbing tape, probably a gazillion screws, bolts and sundry other fasteners, many small bits of wire, and, and, and. There was about thirty or forty years worth of accumulated small odds, ends, time savers and sometimes essential little things that Uncle Bill had on the back of his work bench. He died back last November. We still do some work on boats and stuff out of there, but we also figure on having to move out of the rented space to make room for the new owners - like any time now. So....Sorting through all these small, dusty objects of utility, I can't help but hear Bill saying " you're going to want to have that right where you can get ahold of it when you need it."

Blue River Anthology

2010-03-22T18:15:00.000-07:00

I've got a permanent link to Mr. Krieger's site down on the port side of this blog, but I really wanted you to see this part. You can get to the rest of his stuff from here. Beautifully crafted images that actually seem to mean something. Ok, the old guy with the sheep is just slightly creepy, maybe it's just me.

Blue River Anthology

   I've got RUSH boat job in the shop we're about to be in a rush to move out of. In last December there was plenty of time. Now there's not and I'm having my usual gel coat issues and thank God I've finally decided this is going to be my LAST ONE OF THESE F-ING GEL COAT JOBS!

   NO-REALLYREALLYREALLY!!!!! Other people, some of whom know, say my results in fiberglass/gel coat work are good. Sometimes, really good. The thing is, it costs me way too much in time, aggravation and general stress. Since I already have a couple of different stress related illnesses, I think it's time to drop this particular stress bucket. There is other boat work out there that is at least as lucrative and a lot less damaging to me.

   I step out back of the house. I turn my eyes to the sky. I'm watching the clouds, watching the fir trees and feeling the wind. I've done this probably a thousand times. I'm always looking to the sky. I think it's a way of centering myself with the world. "We are all of us in the gutter. Some of us a lookin' at the Stars" - Chrissy Hyndes, -Message of Love.

At attempt at what music looks like, and a good one

2010-03-22T06:56:00.000-07:00

Infographic of the Day: All Music Should Look Like This | Design & Innovation | Fast Company

I don't know squat about the term infographic. I know, as they say, what I like. When you go to Fast Company's page scroll down past the 1st image to the actual video. Watch.

Writers' Dojo A place for writers in Portland

2010-03-20T23:58:00.000-07:00

I came across this site/blog while noodling around G-chrome for PORTLAND bloggers. I think it's a great idea. Don't think I'm enough of a writer to justify the expense yet. Perhaps though, that's kinda how one might get to be enough of a writer to hang with professional writers.

Writing Community, Literary Magazine, Portland Center for Writers | Writers' Dojo

Life goes on

2010-03-18T03:29:00.000-07:00

It's been about a month, so I guess it's time to check in here.

Yay! I finally, thru the efforts of our local Geek Squad, have my inherited lap top on wireless. This is a good thing. I will now be able to be online at the same time as my wife or son, without going through complex negotiations or feeling guilty about wrestling the desk top away from one of them.

I can also recline on sofa or the "Dad chair", which is what we sometimes call our old leather recliner at our house, and simultaneoulsy be on the lap top and vaguely watching t.v.

That's probably about as close to conciously multi-tasking as I try to do.
Ok, I'm notorious for not being able to talk and drive at the same time.

One really anoying thing about this lap top is that as I'm typing, the cursor is jumping back through the previous text. Several times per line. Sometimes halfway back through the previous word, sometimes a whole line or so. I suspect that it may be somthing I'm inadvertantly doing on this unfamiliar keyboard, or perhaps I'm just hoping that's it and that I'll soon figure it out, without having to call Geek Squad back for a tune up.

Health continues to be an issue. I.B.S. is not going well. more tests going on, blood work, upcoming colonoscopy(oh, That'll be fun), etc. I was not aware that one can take daily vitamins and still be "seriously" deficient in vitamin D, or that they can/will write a prescription for weekly mega-doses of same. As you might expect, all that can put a serious damper on one's self employed earning ability, as well as one's ability to make obligatory work deadlines.

Hey, it's not like a single proprietor in a service industry needs a positive reputation for time-reliability, right?

The rest of this spring is set to be rediculously busy, hectic, a little scary, um, you know life.

Yesterday, I spent four and a half hours leaning into an aft cock pit deck hatch, attempting to fix a vacuum leak in a marine head system. It was less than totaly successful. The toilet will indeed flush, however the vacuum generator refuses to hold a vacuum, so the pump continually restarts every minute or so. What that means is that none of that time and painful effort is billable, and I still need to finish the job.

Imagine, if you will,(spoken in Rod Serling voice) lying on a boat deck, supporting your weight with your chest on the fiberglass edge of a long narrow hatch, stretching across about fourteen inches, down about a foot, over a flat topped square water heater, bracing your arms at about bicep level against the under side of the opposite edge of the hatchway , down about another foot, behind the water heater to work on water heater type hoses and a human waste pump system where you can sort of see about the top half of the system and get one, sometimes two hands on the work precariously, and with little leverage....for about four and a half hours. Oh, and all the while one is doing this, there is the pervasive oyfactory ambiance of well aged human poo, requiring serious hot showering IMMEDIATELY upon home arrival. I've got one line of welts(okay, bruises) all the way across my chest, two more across both biceps, more on my inner fore arms and wrists, and yes, they are pretty damn sore. And oh, did I mention I've still got to go back and fix the system, or - wait for it....switch the whole system over to a different type of electric system. NOW WE'RE HAVING FUN! It's good to have work, It's good to have work, It's good to have work.

Took AAron & his mom for new tennis shoes the other day. He is ecstastic with his new Sketchers light up "racing" shoes. He went out to the patio in the dark last night and did a little tap dancing type light show. It was actually kinda psychodelic. Kids get to actually display how adults sometimes feel about our new shoes.

Now I've gotta go talk to the boat head factory tech guy, then probably start researching ways and costs of changing to a new system.

Why we wear bike helmets

2010-02-08T08:38:00.000-08:00

Hi, My name is John, and it's been two and a half months since my last post.

Yesterday, it was a beautiful Spring-like day here in Portland. After helping a cousin with moving some guy-stuff(dirt bikes, power tools, wooden boat, etc.), My son, 6-ish, and I went for a short bike ride around the neighborhood. As we got started, I noticed his helmet, mandatory in these parts, was too loose. Naturally he behaved as though I were killing him during the strap adjustment - "It's too tight, Too Tight! T'T'TOO TIGHT!, AHHHHH!!!!". I finally had to resort to the "No hemet, no ride" decree.
Off we went down the sidewalk, to the paved path through the "don't stop here" apartment area(really, don't stop there, it's just not pretty), over to his grade school four blocks away, back up the "you have to push me" incline and almost home. That's when I, the intrepid biking dad, managed to dump over an eighteen speed fully macho mountain bike while going up a eight inch curb. I of course flipped over the handle bars at somthing bordering on the speed of Yikes, with aproximately the force of a 140 lb sand bag, and landed crookedly on my head and shoulder, all with my son coming towards me six feet away and watching the whole thing with fascinated awe. Bouncing back up very quickly and remounting the bike in typical "nobody-else-saw-that-right?" fashion worthy of any house cat, I casually said "Now son, did that totally on purpose demonstration adequately illustrate why we wear helmets and keep them on tight?" (yeah, I sometimes speak that way to my 6-tomorrow son - it's a gift, right?) He excitedly responded that yes, he saw that now. Of course, he had to tell his Mom ALL-ABOUT-IT ... IMMEDIATELY.

I'm fine, by the way.

kid stuff.

2009-11-18T07:06:00.000-08:00

AAron has been really enjoying kindergarten. especially his music class. They also use a lot of song as mnemonics in his regular classroom. He is learning a lot.

sung to the tune of "Oh my darlin' Clementine" - "Oh my monster, Oh my monster, Oh my monster, Frankenstein - You were built to last forever - You're so scary, Frankenstein".

And now he's reading to us. Reminds me of when Amelia, now 28 and teaching at Montesori, was about his age.

Time goes on.

Life is good(scary sometimes, but good)

new house, old back

2009-10-21T19:48:00.000-07:00

There is sand in this picture. There is sand in this post.
close enough.

We are pretty much fully in our new place - nice little two story townhouse. cool ceilings. better area, just on the edge-farm field 1/2 block away.

I've got a tiny(20'x26') little private back yard with an appropriately sized patio. It has dirt - and bushes-wooden fence-all that. It has weeds. It has needs...like weeding and some serious but tiny landscaping. I have a yard debris cart. There is only one way into the back yard. Through. the. house. Technically, the cart will fit through the doors. But it's just wrong. Now I've got to go buy one of those long skinny "runner" drop cloths just to get the unwanted portion of my yard's bio-mass to the curb. Still, I love my new previously unattended, unloved and disturbingly muddy(at this point) back yard.

Yay for life changes(sometimes, like new different homes)

My darling oldest daughter, scavenger and thrifter deluxe, recently brought me one of those green plastic turtle sand boxes for her 5 year little brother. She called me before she delivered it to ask if her little brother would find it's lack of eyes as traumatically disturbing as she thought, and if so where to get eyes. Craft warehouse. Her friend _-_-_-_, had meticulously cleaned it and the new big brown puppy eyes are kinda cute. now for sand. Six 60lb "truck tubes" were acquired. (you know, they go in the bed of one's pickup to add traction when nature takes some back during winter) Ow! 60lbs(times 6) weighs more than it did 20 or 30 years ago. The tubes are now stacked neatly in the garage. waiting. they will wait until: A. we decide where we want the sand box turtle for ever and all time(I'm not moving this stuff all in one pile) B. my back to stop hurting, or at least to hurt less.(went to the Indian Clinic today and got a couple of week's worth of Vicadin)

Boo on life changes(like what happens to the human body,slowly, over 50 or so years, while you're not paying attention-heavy is heavier, tired is tired-er, the ground comes up faster- and hits much harder, etc.)

Still, the sand box is worth the pain. Liking the new place A LOT.

new home.

2009-09-10T07:08:00.000-07:00

I'm actually still here. I know, it may seem from this blog as though I'm not, but I am. I've been really busy, and I've not known shat to say here.

Yesterday my wife and I signed the lease on our new townhouse across town. we will no longer be living in public subsidized housing. this is both scary and exhilarating. There are all the usual arrangements to be made. There are a ton of things to be done, in addition to all the usual things.

It will be a new phase in our lives. Oddly, I find there are actually things I will miss about where we live now. One of those will be my frequent drives down Marine Drive, right next to the river(Columbia). Obviously, there will be just as many good things that will be different(or else we wouldn't be doing it.

Onward through the fog.

...and home again...

2009-06-26T00:24:00.000-07:00

Family and I just got back from a small vacation to my Folk's place back in Kansas, some 2,000 + miles to the south east of our present home/location here in Portland, Or.

Got to help celebrate my father's 80th birthday. That was great. One of the guests help put things in perspective for him I think, when she said "I wish I was 80 again...that was a while back". Now THERE'S a sentence one doesn't hear often.

We went to the local little river damn. we saw long horn cattle(not the norm in Kansas). We saw buzzards on an armadillo carcass('dillos haven't been in Kansas that many decades - they're extending their territory to the north gradually) Arron thought both were very cool.

I noticed a lot more birds singing in the early mornings in my Dad's back yard than one hears in Portland.

I believe a good time was had by all. It was stormy and then it was hot(to us) in the mid 90s F, with much humidity.

We skipped most of the outings we had hoped to make - Woolaroc museum and etc.(Google it if you want info), the local safari zoo(home of the retriever nurtured white tiger cubs - google book TIGER PUPS).

There were more hoped for, including Aaron's 1st fishing venture - also didn't happen.

That's all just fine. We had a good time hanging out with family in the profusely glorious central air conditioning, something not that common here in the Pacific Northwest - it's just not that necessary here.

Took a couple of short road trips, compliments of my brother and sister in law's generous loan of a snappy little Saturn automobile ... Suddenly I'm hearing in my head ZZ-TOP - "she don't love me, she love my automobile..." big fun.

Went to see my brother's new(to him) house in Topeka. very nice. kind of bungaloish, not far from Washburn University.

Visited Ginny's folks in Blue Springs, MO(Not far southeast of K.C.)

Took a few pictures. may post some later.

I always find the whole experiencing one place, jet ride, then experiencing some other place half way across the country thing to be kind of surreal feeling.

Now we're back home...or was that back home, I get confused.

LOTS of boat work to get done in the next few months, probably more than is actually possible to do. both unnerving and exhilarating in that "good to have work" way.

Have been enjoying reading some fine blog posts from some of you, as well as your tweets. If you haven't, check out HEY LOLA (You'll have to find your own way there, too tired to do the link thing = sorry)

Wanted this to be much more....um, entertaining.....too tired...sorry.

more later,

john ross

This Week.

2009-06-05T06:53:00.000-07:00

What a difference a week makes. Aaron has been getting out more. He's found a couple of boys about his age to RIP around on big wheels with. He chased a bee. He caught it. He learned about bees. He's learning to dribble a basket ball - pretty well. We thunder storm yesterday. I'm really busy at work. Stressing on deadlines. I'm going to Dad's next week - very good. Exploring more twitter (when can, It's a lot more diverse than previously realized). Back still hurts, some more - some less. That's about all I know right now.

more kid stuff

2009-05-29T08:05:00.000-07:00

Aaron went out to play. He had his favorite CARS ball. He wanted to play with some of the other kids in our apartment area. He was very enthusiastic. They were a little older. They weren't up for him. After telling him to go back to his patio, which he didn't get, they dealt with it by throwing his favorite ball over the fence into the yard of another apartment place. by the time I got home from work, about nine, it was too late to go back for it. The thrower did at least apologize. He said he meant to throw it into the yard next to the yard it went into. There were other kids in that yard, throwing the balls back and worth to our apartment places' kids. Having been alerted to the situation I brought him home a toy golf set he can use outside or inside(so he could use it as soon as I got home). He's not too worried about his other ball now. T-T-T-Tiger Woods ya'll.

Discoveries of the life long variety.

2009-05-26T07:50:00.000-07:00

Aaron discovered my razor(disposable -triple blade) on the bathroom counter the other day. He is now sporting a small band aide on his chin which I believe to be quite adequately reminding him of the meaning of "sharp".

2009-05-12T07:48:00.000-07:00

Twenty some odd years ago, my landlord & neighbor had mercy on me and helped me teach my daughter to ride a bike. I had been attempting, for some period to teach her, and kinda freaking out on it in typical john-angst fashion. She eventually got it down. She has been just fine.
She teaches at a Montessori now. She is reasonable well adjusted and happy I think.

I have been trying, very sporadically to help my son 5, to learn now. I'm still not very good at it. Somehow, I get too "coach' like. Not in a good way. "Son, if you're not willing to go faster than that, you're never going to get it to balance without the training wheels." He thinks the training wheels are just fine. If you want it to keep moving, ya got keep pedaling". "No, no, NO! you've got to steer son! Keep it on the path!, watch where you're going, not everywhere else!" " Look, I didn't bring you and the bike out here just you could go only as far as the play ground."

I'm not sure why this is. I think part of it is that I see other children, who are not, i imagine, as "young" for their ages as he, happily ripping around on bikes, sans training wheels. He is young and small for his age. Just no getting around it. I know, it's NOT a competition. but still, it IS a milestone, a rite of passage, and one that i want him to successfully pass, perhaps more about me than him.

I have often been accused of being over protective.

I'm not sure if this is part of that or not.

I know eventually, he will learn. I know it will be OK.

My son loves his school

2009-03-20T22:31:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, My son Aaron is five. He goes to Early Special Ed at a local grade school half days, a couple of days a week. He is not quite autistic, but has some autistic type tendencies towards obsessive fixations, language, etc.

He loves his school. Since we've changed sitters to one that is not in the school's bus area I've been dropping him off at school on my way to work. Once we get into the building it's hard to hold him back from running to his classroom.

He is always greeted warmly by his teacher(s), and pretty much forgets I exist once he has put his things in his name labeled cubby and settled in to color his name on his name pad at his ever moving place at a table. I think they do this so the kids will learn to recognize and find their own names. I can tell he's happy to be there and enthused to start what ever the day will be.

When he sees other kids from his class on his way to the room he will invariably yell "there's my Friend!", run up to them & try to engage them in a conversation. They almost as invariably shy away from him, turning in towards the parent's legs, saying nothing in response. I've seen this reaction to him at other, outside of school gatherings like the Pumpkin patch train ride we took him on last fall. He doesn't seem to notice the lack of response in kind.

It breaks my heart to see. I wonder how long he can go on not noticing that his "Friends" don't talk to him. I hope and pray that the responses I see are only outside of class, and tell myself that this is a "special ed" class and maybe it says more about them than him. But like I say, I've seen this before outside of school, with kids who are supposedly "normal". Next year he will start Kindergarten, still with special ed help.

I remember my own kindergarten and grade school experience with learning to socialize. When I was in kindergarten I was pretty much golden. Almost all the other kids treated me like a friend. I was engaged three times(though the student teacher did turn me down saying she was just too old for me, I could do better)

Then I went to grade school. Everything turned to crap. The guys liked to beat me up, the girls thought I was creepy.

It got some better, by about the fourth or fifth grade. I had a few freinds, I was considered "smart" by some teachers, some kids. That was mostly not bad. Looking back though, I did retain the Oddness or Different-ness factor that I had come into during first grade, & never did really feel normal again. Eventually, being normal was not even something I aspired to. It just didn't seem relevant. I 've since heard that normal is what you think people are who you don't really know. That's supposed to be a joke, but I think it true to some degree.

Still, I want a better school time childhood for Aaron. I know fitting in is not everything. At the same time, not fitting in is certainly not always a good thing either.

I would guess that this is a pretty normal parental concern - "but, what if he(Norbert) don't like it in Romania, what if the other dragons are mean to 'im?" - Hagrid - Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.

I hope and pray for my son, for all of our sons & daughters(and our baby dragons).

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to take Aaron's monkey- head foam hat/visor off of him and carry him up to bed.

He's fallen asleep watching Transformers (again).

computer wierdness

2009-03-14T10:45:00.000-07:00

Perhaps things are turning around, to a minor degree, towards the positive. I think My general, and traditional winter bad times are about come to their yearly end. thank god. My commputer suuddenly can't "see" the printer. It's not the usb cable, SO, either the computer has lost it's mind, or, I've killed the usb jack in the back of the printer. For some time every time I boot up the computer, I've had to unplug the printer usb or the computer just won't finish booting. so, the usb cable has had a LOT of being plugged and unplugged. bummer. Now that's really screwy. this posting template thingy, won't respond right to entering a line space. what up wi dat? Ok, not doing this with that kind of wierdness, I NEED my enter function. I don't know how to write without it. I can't space things well without. more later.

just another day

2009-03-09T07:33:00.001-07:00

Yesterday we changed to daylight savings time. Thank you Ben Franklin. Today in Portland the for cast calls for scattered snow turning to rain showers later in the day (OH my god, I'm talking about the weather again!). This is the latest I recall having any snow in the 8 plus years I've been here. I'm ready for Spring.

While working on a bunch of paper work for the state last night I discovered that the computer can no longer see the printer. Now I have to go 25 miles away to borrow a computer and printer to get the required document copies, and either drive back the 25 miles to turn it in today(pretty much blowing a day of work), OR turn it in a day late tomorrow and hope all Hell doesn't break loose. As Jessica would say "Day-Um!"

A number of people I know now have those online faux lives - you know, design and build a separate reality. I thought, Hmmm, in the near future people will make money designing and selling things like art, accessories, etc. to people for those....My lovely wife informed me that once again, I'm behind the times. Apparently that has already come to pass. I've got to get more tech literate. I'm obviously missing some creative and financial opportunities.

Dancing with the Paisanos

2009-03-06T07:04:00.000-08:00

I haven't posted anything here in over a Month. Some times it's hard to know what to say.

Had an interesting experience the other weekend.

My wife and I were invited by a coworker of hers to a dinner and dance thing. We shipped Aaron, now 5, off to his big sister's for the night, got all dressed up(for us) and headed out.
We found the venue on the edge of a wooded park, just on the outskirts of Portland.

It was the home of Portland's Club Paisanos. This meant nothing to us. I was picturing an average Resteraunt/club type place before we got there. What it is though, is a Big old Dance hall type place the serves as the home for an old, venerable Fraternal Society of Italian Business Men and their families. This was one of their yearly open to the public dinner-dances.

We pulled around the gravel lot, among the large trees, found a spot, got parked. We got in the door and up to the host desk only to find out that, no, they didn't DO credit cards, this was a cash only kind of group. OK, we had a little cash, no problem. Got our tickets, found our places at the back of a long line waiting to get our salad and spagetti from the buffet, and took our first real glances at the rest of the folks.

I said this was an old association of Itallian businessmen and their families. We later learned that it dates back to the 1940s. I think that many of the three hundred or so people there were there in the '40s. To say that it was a crowd advanced in years would be an understatement.

We heard snipets of conversations like "The last time we were in Rome, things just weren't the same." I saw more diamonds flashing there than anywhere since I went to shop for my wife's engagment ring, and these diamonds were all MUCH bigger.

We got through the buffet line, and found a spot at one of the very few empty tables. we ate our food, as the table filled up with others closer to our ages(obviosly "the grand-kids" of this group). While trying not to stare at everyone else, we looked for the people who had actually invited us to this shindig, but we never did find them. we were on our own.

Did I mention that neither my wife or I are even a little bit Itallian? We're basically Scotch-Irish-Native American. We were getting some looks. Okay, maybe I imagined that. Maybe not.

About eight or so, the Band - Sand Point set up and began to play. They were quite competent, begining with some old '40s big band kinda stuff, then going on to '50s, 60's and even '70s pop dance stuff. They seemed to be able and willing to play about anything requested.
I never heard someone go from Tommy Dorsey to Bob Seager in one set before.

Then, the old Itallians got FUNKY! These people could Dance! These people had OBVIOUSLY been partying together for many decades.

We decided it was time to let down our gaurds and start drinking some red wine.
We got up. We danced. For a brief time the economic and other woes of hard winter February fell away. We were transported to an entirely other world of existance, one where We had a great time, and literaly forgot about our troubles for a while.

I briefly wished that one of my Native American ancestors had broken with their tradition and mated with some Itallians, just so I could join Club Paisano. (I think you have to be invited anyway).

That was the best part, and the saving grace of our February this year.

the end.

mixed feelings.

2009-02-05T07:32:00.000-08:00

This is an odd feeling. I think I've felt something similar before, but I can't remember what or when. There is a lot of anxiety. It is, I'm sure the same kind that many people are having now. business is slow. money is tighter than tight. Even my clients, the yacht owning crowd, are feeling the pinch and telling me that their businesses are hurting. Guys who never looked twice at my invoices are now bitching and moaning aboutcost effectiveness. Bills are late to be paid - to me and from me. We'll/they'll just have to wait.

So far my wife's car has racked up about a grand in repairs and we may not be done yet. I've been running the car back and forth between the shop and the Department of Environmental Quality inspection place for, either two weeks or always, I'm not sure which. The thing seems to run fine, but different pesky computer codes keep popping up after each new repair, after it takes about 300 miles to reset. Everyday is waiting for the other shoe to drop (wonder where that saying came from).

Sorry, I realize that we normally don't talk about money here, but am I not just voicing what many of us are thinking, or similar.

I know that for years I have looked around at the kind of money being thrown around by the general consuming public, and at the questionable real value of some of the things some of us do for money, and figured it would eventuallly all fall down, and now, it seems, it has. Many of us are going to have to come up with more real, more directly valuable work product to adapt to this new world.

And yet, I also find myself feeling a considerable amount of hopeful anticipation. Something is about to change, and it will all be alright - eventually. Different - probably, but alright. Is it because it's a different world now? One where America actually can and did elect not just a black man, but a smart, articulate, sense - making black man.....This particular man, black or otherwise. I like this guy...I actually heard him say, in reference to one of his cabinet choices that didn't pan out - "I screwed up". What are the odds of that kind of candor and honesty from a U.S. president? Three simple words, I suspect never before heard spoken publicly by a U.S. president. It makes all the difference. I find myself saying that frequently. Somehow, I now feel like I'm in good company there.

So, here I am, along with millions of others, anxious, tired of and from so many recent setbacks, somewhat fearful, and yet hopeful and looking forward to a better future.

God bless us, one and all.

The New Header. and The Road I'm On

2009-01-27T09:03:00.000-08:00

I thought this was going to be a blog post about the blog - the new header that is, but it's really not...

The new header is a slightly adjusted photo of Mt Hood, here in Oregon, taken from a gravel parking lot, just off of Marine drive, between the Sheriff Station boat ramp and PDX airport. It's a zoom in of the view I see through my windshield driving home some evenings,
if I get headed that way while it's still daylight.

I'm not native to this area. This kind of scenery is not what I was raised on. Growing up in Kansas you just don't see stuff like this. Ever.
There are a number of things I miss about Kansas.
First, that bunch of my family that's not out here.
Second, some of the scenery there. It's not as spectacular as much of the stuff out here, but it has it's own impact, it's own kind of power.
A Kansas sky, if you take the time to see it, can be pretty impressive.
It's really, really big, and sometimes way wide open, in a way you just don't see here.
I miss my friends-all three or five of them.
I miss the times I had there in my young adulthood.

I sometimes miss being 19 years old, sure I had it all ,
a happy, pretty girl by my side,
me driving my Dad's blue pickup down a mid-June country gravel road,
equally sun and tree shadow striped, with
Jackson Browne turned way up loud, both windows fully down,
smelling the summer grass and the
rippling creek under the flat cement slab bridge, while
a family of raccoons crossed just in front of me and the
Red Tailed Hawk passed just over, from left to right.

That road led to this road.

Robert Plant and Alyson Krauss turned way up loud,
the tallest volcano in the Cascade Range in front of me,
Columbia river on one side and the bustling airport on the other,
the Black Cormorants bobbing just out of sight in the river, where the Monster Sturgeon waits to pull some fisherman's boat around awhile, and the Great Blue Herons stand watching me, watching them, as the
Red Tailed Hawk passes just over, from left to right.

This life, It does spin 'round and 'round doesn't it.....

AT LAST, a moment in time

2009-01-21T08:20:00.000-08:00

I don't do political stuff. I sure as hell don't do mushy stuff about political figures...But, just this once, perhaps-

Last night, I, along with millions and millions in the US, and around the world, breathed a sigh of relief. Sounds kind of cheezy perhaps, but, there it is. As Beyonce Knowles' absolutely belted out AT LAST, by Eta James, I turned to my wife and said "This is going to be one of those moments we look back on and say "I remember when..." . As the Neighborhood Ball progressed, the mood and the level of emotion never seemed to abate, though No one could top the obviously sincere Adoration Beyonce' evoked for the Obamas, the moment and yes, her country at that moment - along with millions of the rest of us.

It's going to be, as my father would say "A long row to Hoe". None the less, there does seem to be sense of hope and determination that I not sure I've ever seen before.

In case you missed it, here's the Beyonce/Obamas First Dance.....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XY6RdKtzo6Y

Now, off to work....

minimal

2009-01-17T01:02:00.000-08:00

One summer somewhere around one of the Falls, columbia River Gorge.

I'm still here. Nothing is coming to mind worth putting in text. I swear I used to be smarter, more creative, and a whole hell of a lot more clever...Or maybe in my youthfull ignorance I just thought I was and now have learned better...

I'll try again later - promise.

I GAVE A CAMERA TO A FOUR YEAR OLD

2009-01-06T07:51:00.000-08:00

Aaron's first evening with his new mini-vivitar.

(click on collage to enlarge)

Those shots of him were still frame captures from it's PC CAMERA mode-

Dad(I) chose when and clicked the mouse for those.

Ok, it's a "what was I thinking?" kind of event. This tiny little camera has only two buttons, and yet a full camera's worth of "modes" and "functions" .

It has a tiny little pop up view finder with the worst possible plastic view lens in it. This makes it nigh on to impossible to actually or accurately see what you're taking a picture of. Framing is, at best, an approximate kind of venture.

It has cryptic two character codes for functions which appear in the tiny and not well lit lcd display on the front of the camera. It will time itself out and turn off after a thirty second period of no button pushing. So the Dad has to tab to the correct code, hand it to the four year old and then say -

"go take pictures FAST, but remember to be very still while shooting, and remember to keep your fingers/thumbs out from in front of the lens - even if you DO think that's hilarious, and remember it has no flash so try to shoot stuff that's in good light(try explaining the photographic meaning of good light to a 4 yr old), and no, you won't get what you want if you hold it out like Daddy does his camera, 'cause there's no view screen to aim with, and yeah, I know it's hard to see through the little view window, and, and, There you Go!, you've taken a beautiful picture of something neither one of us can identify, and SURE, we can down load those thirteen pictures so you can see them and then start all over again......."

Ok, so it might be good to spend a little more than ten bucks for your kid's first digital camera....on the other hand, he couldn't be more thrilled with it, even if I could.

He particularly loves the PC CAMERA MODE because he can point the camera around (as far as it's three foot patch cord will go) and see what it sees, real time, while it's doing it. I still have to point and click the mouse on the capture still frame button. He can't be expected to do that, hold, point the camera, and try to tell it a story or sing into it because he Doesn't understand that it JUST DOESN'T DO sound.

And then the not well translated from Asian instructions on the included software will actually let you save to something else like picassa 3 so you can do an utterly heart warming, if not finely artistic, collage of your little person's first shooting experience with their own camera.

Ok, that was SO worth ten bucks, a half an hour's worth of frantic direction deciphering, and patient camera coaching of a four year old.

In retrospect, this would probably a lot more practical for, say, an eight year old, although an eight year old would be more immediately aware of the little camera's limitations, there by inciting I'm sure much lobbying for a bigger/better camera. Of course, I guess, many eight year olds now probably have a camera built into their personal cell phones that they can picture message with.... Ah, life in this, the best of all possible twenty first centuries........

And so it begins.......

Christmas gone, Playing catch-up at work, Nargles

2008-12-30T01:14:00.000-08:00

Cousin Don and Aaron, who moves too fast for "sport" mode.

Aaron, at Grandma's Christmas Eve.

A REALLY old Santa

The Granddaughters:

Zoe, Athena & Winter, with our daughter Tiffany, Mom of two.

Christmas is done & gone. It was a good time. Good family times.

Portland has indeed gotten more snow in the last two weeks than has ever been recorded on the ground at once before. EVER.

Thankfully, it has warmed up to the mid forties (Fahrenheit) the last few days, so that snow is pretty much just a memory now.

Uncle had to go back to the hospital Sunday, just as we were getting ready to eat another dinner. a Really unsettling combination of high blood pressure, very high heart rate, erratic heart beat, etc.

They think they've got him back to what passes for normal for his system.

He should be coming back home tomorrow.

Disturbing, but unfortunately not an uncommon occurrence for him over the last couple of years. The Hospital stays are getting way too frequent. I've lost track of how many and when over the last year or two.

Most of the rest of this week will be boat head jobs(sanitation systems) and broken fresh water systems (from the cold, not adequately prepared for by some).

The plumbing/sanitation work actually pays a lot better than the less technical, less nasty work I do on the outside of boats. There's a good reason for that. They don't build these systems to be worked on. When I get into them, I am generally in very confined spaces, with very nasty stuff, that really wants to get as intimate with me as possible. Again with the "Perversity of the inanimate" as Amelia would say. I could have provided any number of detailed photo illustrations. I doubt that's really necessary or appropriate here now. Just take my word for it.

Aside from the higher pay scale, the major gratification for doing marine sanitation is in how people react when the system that wasn't working, that they knew nothing about and didn't want to get into anyhow, is once again doing it's job(usually better than it did before it broke-how I roll :-) People who might have a reputation for being less than gracious to their own employees can be downright Lavishly effusive with their praise and gratitude for the guy who fixes their boat head. Especially if it's say, the second day out on a week long cruise, fifty miles down river from home, with the wife and teenage daughter - and both heads quit working.

How did we get from cute kids on Christmas eve to mental images of stinky non-functional boat sanitation systems?...

I guess the tie-in is that it's all part of the widely diverse patterns of my everyday life.

And still sometimes it gets to be ...just more of the same. What's the phrase - "Loonnnng stretches of real boredom, punctuated by brief periods of absolute panic" I suspect that probably says a lot more about my mindset than about my circumstances..."I suspect nargles." (luna Lovegood, from HARRY POTTER and The PRISONER of AZCABAN).

Fine then, consider this my not well laid out or well organized...or even particularly lucid version of a Sleeping with Bread Monday.

I think you can figure out the parts I'm happy about and not ....

Have a Happy and SAFE New Year's Eve.

more later.....

Stuff & Nonsense(probably)

2008-12-22T21:11:00.000-08:00

German glass, older than dirt(which didn't exist, as a word until sometime in the 1940s)

The "Indian" Angel ornament, from our first Christmas together.

Our Christmas tree Angel. Pretty old, though young enough for electric lights, from Ginny's life before me.

This is Aaron, snow angel-ing at the beginning of this, the biggest snow storm in Portland, Oregon since 1968. Um, that's 40 years for you math majors.

It's been interesting and challenging.

This kind of thing used to be a common occurrence for me in my Wichita, Kansas days. (HI Todd & Amy!)

Not so much here in the "Rose City", city of bridges, city of the ever present, nine months of the year rain.

Cleaning snow off of my lovely wife's little Ford.

Yesterday, when there was only about half a foot of snow, round two or three, after all the previous week's snow had melted.

Yesterday's depth of snow on the Subaru's windshield. a mere 7 or 8 inches.

Today's snow on the Subaru, more like a foot or so of drift. We actually only got ....well, almost a foot here in this part of town, over some ice, over the prior snow, over some ice.

The airport here has been canceling flights like the great CATACLYSM cancelled the flights of pterodactyls...

OK, maybe not with that finality.

Many people stranded at PDX.

They are saying quite a few of them won't get flights out now until after Christmas. I very much feel for them. I was once stranded by an erstwhile charter for three days in Seattle. It was January, 1976. I was 17. Some very nice retired Pacific Lutheran University Profs came and rescued me and put me up till the next Charter came to take me to Hong Kong. 'nother story.

When I go outside, to smoke(haven't quite quit yet) I always find myself looking to the sky. I've been looking to the sky, it seems, all my life. The sky here is not as big, as expansive, as the sky back home in Kansas. They Call Wyoming "Big Sky Country". I've been there. It's got nothing on Kansas for BIG skies.

Still, when I look to the sky, especially at night, where ever I am, I am always reminded of how huge the world is, still, even in this info-age without borders, compared to me....and how tiny the world is, compared to the immensities of the universe. (I sometimes go to Science/Astronomy sites just to remind me how un-fathomably huge the universe is).

I've been holed up in a two bedroom apartment for three days with my wife and our 4 year old, who is literally bouncing off the walls. It's actually been not too bad for me. Ginny has been down with migraine/nausea/low grade fever for a couple of those. She got back up to help assemble and decorate our artificial tree(economic, not aesthetic decision). Bless her holiday heart.

This season of the year I am always reminded, as I'm sure many are, of so many Christmases past. Fifty of them, on down through the years, some better than others. But...All with that more sweet than bitter feeling of belonging, of wanting the best for friends and family, of generally love and good will - at least on my part, and I prefer to think in the hearts of most.

I wish not for the Norman Rockwell fantasy Christmases so well ingrained in the hopes and expectations of our naive youths, but for the sense of belonging and of hope that comes with the Meaning of Christmas. I not much of a preacher. But, thanks God, for this and everything.

Thus endeth the nostalgic, possibly sappy ramblings of a middle aged Guy.

Merry Christmas.

worried about the humming bird

2008-12-15T20:14:00.000-08:00

I'm worried about the humming bird.

A sudden cold snap turned it 20 degrees F with a 25 m.p.h. wind - wind chill about 5.

The humming bird's sugar water keeps freezing up.

I know they have to eat about every fifteen minutes or so, especially when it's sub-freezing.

I realize that for many of you, this is just normal December weather. For Portland, it's not.

We got about three inches of snow and frigid temp/wind chill and you'd think the world had totally ended. I grew up in Kansas, where this is normal December weather, and I hated it as much as any of the born and bred Portlanders. It's supposed to stay this way all week, with more snow Wednesday and Thursday. We have hills here. People slide all over them.

Did you know that you only use chains on the front tires of a Subaru Outback, and not at all if you have the P225-60-R-16 tires(which I have). So what are we supposed to do when the highway dept calls for mandatory chains or studded tires? Stay home? Well, that would be nice, if one could afford to take snow days off.

One from the Ironic file - A semi tractor/trailer carrying road de-icer juice slid on freeway and overturned spilling deicer all over the road. It shut down the road all day....and the winter god's laughed.....

Thanks God, My Aunt & Uncle had in-the-house work for me to do today.....just getting over major sinus infection, I don't need to be out in this crappy weather any more than absolutely gotta.

9 days till Christmas. Am I ready? Oh hell NO! Not even close. As long as I get the ittle-bittys taken care of, I'll be Okay. .. and the Missus, but she knows the situation.......

Like I think Barrack may have said "It's the economy, Dumb-ass!" Ok, he didn't really, but I bet he's thought it about a bu-zillion times lately.

Got a warm home & bed. Been staying well fed. my dog wears Keds, never ever trust Feds.....

Okay, that last couple of parts was just for fun....I don't have a dog.

The economy is so sad/bad/mad that Powell's Books have requested that their employees voluntarily cut back on their hours so they won't have to lay anyone off for Christmas.

Life in the goofy lane.

2008-12-08T18:37:00.000-08:00

There are pros and cons to Aaron's being in early school now.

pro: He's picking up new things from new teacher & kid influences.

Con: He's picking up new things from new kid influences.

Last evening I got a call from his older brother, I think on behalf of his older sister (who has two daughters, one just four months Aaron's junior, the other two & one half. It's seems there was some reference made to "putting a baby in someone's belly". Granted, I had a fever at the time the call came in, but my reaction was kind of like "OH great, and so it begins". I admit. I've been taking the coward's way out today and waiting for AAron's mom to come back from migraine land to deal with it.

Today I went to the doctor's - again. Now I've got a sinus infection. oh great. It's kinda hard to do my job when bending over is a very bad thing as to face pain. And still there's the fever.

Picked up Aaron this eve. Told him about the doctors and getting a couple of different shots(ok, 3) to which he loudly proclaimed "OH-MY-GOD!" "Don't say OH-MY-GOD!, son, say OH My Gosh". "ok" We drove around a little while in the neighborhood, delaying getting back out in the main rush hour traffic, and looking at Christmas lights.

AAron-"OH-MY-GOD!".

Dad- "GOSH".

AAron- "OH-MY GOSH!'"

42 times in roughly a half hour.

ok, maybe it was only 4o times.

Christmas gifting is going to be very lean this year.

I'm sure that's the same for many, just doesn't make the parental "wish I could do more" any easier.

Aaron & Dad & Fevervision

2008-11-26T16:28:00.000-08:00

Aaron & I have both been home with colds, and he with an ear infection, for the last two or three days. We've both been going in & out of fevers.

Fevered perception is an odd enough shift in & of itself. You know, that somewhat detached, not quite there, twilight Zone feel to things. Kind of like some kind of tripping, perhaps.

Add caring for a four year old under the influence of antibiotics, cough medicine and Tylenol to that and you truly have an adventure of sorts.

For the most part, it's been as OK as could be expected. Hey, he's finally learned to blow his nose, if not well, at least with enthusiasm.

We've watched about a bu-zillion hours of Cartoon Network. Some of their programing has gotten truly strange - or maybe it's the fever. not sure. No, Total Drama Island is odd, though better, I think than the "reality" shows it lampoons.

Still haven't decided if he and I will make the trip across town to Grandma's for the Turkey-fest tomorrow. OH, who am I kidding....we'll most likely be there, for better or really not. Everyone there who is going to get this has already had it I think, so that consideration is kinda moot.

The photo is a from the Willamette River view of the Burnside bridge, in Portland - with Fever-vision added.

If you haven't ever been, go to this http://www.homeonthefringe.com/portland/index.html

It's John & Kirsten's Views of Oregon flash show.

They are of this http://homeonthefringe.blogspot.com/ blog, have Fringelements.com banner design, and have done a really truly fine job on the Oregon slide show. I have no idea if they're from here or where. Imagine my surprise when I was browsing through their photos in their blog page and was suddenly in the middle of a powerhouse show of my home area. Very cool.

And Kristen writes some major posts, though I haven't seen anything for a while.

My daughter Amelia will be doing Thanksgiving with her Husband's family, so I won't get to see her tomorrow. I'm kinda bummed about that, but it's OK. i guess. if I have to. I'm sure I'll get to see her again soon. I will also not be with my folks & brother back in Kansas, or my brother & sister-in-law in Seattle. I will be missing them as well.

Otherwise, the work I have missed doing this week will be waiting, if not patiently, when I get back to it. Life will go on. The fever will pass. Perception will get back to what passes for normal with me.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

more later

My Favorite Book Store..IN THE WHOLE WORLD!

2008-11-23T01:48:00.000-08:00

Okay, here is the deal .
This entire post will be pretty much nothing but a shameless plug.

Powell's Books, a Portland Oregon landmark, is THE BEST DAMN BOOKSTORE IN THE WORLD - PERIOD. http://www.powells.com/partner/33558

I don't say that because I'm now a web partner of theirs. I'm a web partner of theirs because I'm really very proud of them.

I take my daughter shopping there as the rare Father & Daughter treat when I have some spare money & want to make her Really Really Happy. (Could there be anything cuter than a highly intelligent, articulate, and studious 27 year old woman/daughter reduced to a giggling 5 year old in the middle of a huge bookstore?)

Powell's Books is the world's largest independent book store.

The original store in downtown Portland, Oregon, takes up an entire city block, four stories tall, of books and related shopping space (and I think perhaps a couple more floors of warehouse space). It has it's own parking garage, and of course, It's own cafe/coffee shop. The Coffee shop is also an independent, not a Starbucks - though Starbucks, another Pacific North West bred company is fine too.

The clerks at Powell's may have poly-chromatic hairdos (or tats), multiple piercings in more places than you really want to know about, and funny clothes (by whatever standard you might apply) - or not. They WILL be courteous and helpful and will absolutely know their stuff.

Powell's sells new and used books. TOGETHER.

What this means is that when you find the book your looking for, or one you just happened on to, you will find not only pristine new copies, but also any used copies they have - right side by side.

Like many book stores now, they have multiple computer terminals for customer use throughout the store, dedicated to their inventory and or web site.

If you do a search for a book the system will give you not only the price and location of the new copies, but also individual listings of any and all used copies and the prices thereof (Which will be in the same location as the new copies). And those used prices will often vary according to a number of factors - hard or soft cover, condition, Or perhaps a signed edition (not at all unusual as many authors appear and sign at Powell's). You may very well have a range of price options for any given book to fit your budget and desires.

They will also buy your used books - on line, if you like.

They have a marvelous Rare & Collectible section.

This part of the store is like a whole separate little enclosed old world book store within the store. It is generally presided over by a somewhat aged, bearded & reading glasses wearing fellow who will be... you guessed it - Courteous & Helpful & who ABSOLUTELY knows his stuff.

I once found about a 100 year old copy of a really wonderful book on Japanese art there, for $5 - IN THE REGULAR ART SECTION. It didn't even rate being in their Rare & Collectible shop.

One of the grown Powell Children has been quoted as saying that when the "old Man" first said he had this great idea to shelve new and used books together, the then young man thought it was crazy and would be the downfall of the store. Happily, just the opposite has proven to be true. That format has been Wildly popular with Powell's customers. For all I know, other bookstores may have followed suit by now, but I'm not sure as I don't often go anywhere else.

Check out their web site's pages of essays and blogs, some of which will be by author guest blogger/essayists.

If you like cats, cat's stories - as told to persons having opposable thumbs, or book store cats (every good book store should have at LEAST one), then please check out the page(s) about Fup, Store Cat (see water color image, top of posting) http://www.powells.com/fup/228.html

As you may have figured out by now, Powell's is pretty much it's own not so little literary world.

Their bumper sticker is the only one I allow on my car. Incidentally mine depicts Mt Hood, the local dormant volcano & tallest peak of the Oregon Cascade range, the most climbed and most deadly mountain in the U.S. Timberline Lodge on Mt Hood was where the Jack Nicholson version of THE SHINING was mostly filmed. Oregon trivia for the day.....

Happy Sunday

John Ross

A servicetech & family medical day

2008-11-20T00:59:00.000-08:00

sweetgum & two japanese maple leaves in full fall redness.

Wednessday morning I woke up about 4:30 am. I spent over nine hours on the phone to Comcast & Netgear & going between two computers on opposite ends of the house trying to get my Aunt & Uncle's new computer and old computer to be ok, get on the internet & talk to each other via wireless network.

Meanwhile, My uncle was at the hospital having scary and unpleasant medical stuff done to his throat to hopefully help with a long term ongoing medical problem of serious nature.

I got dropped off the phone twice - or was it three times?

I got wrong intsructions two or three times.

My Uncle and Aunt got home, with more antibiotics or similar to combat another infection, he obviously in major pain and she pretty concerned.

I finally was given a web address to download new soft ware for the Netgear wireless adapter card - did so, installed it on the computer only to have it refuse to install the adapter. gave up about 8pm.

Came the twenty five miles home, somewhat stuporously(is that a word?), missed my exit by about 3 or 4 miles, finally arriving about 9.

AAron, 4 was back home from Grandma's having had a bad cold all day. he was out like a light.

About 10pm he woke up - hungry, ate a hot dog and some potatoes, drank seven up and proceeded to bounce off the walls, somewhat less rapidly than usual, until I finally got him back down about 1am.

Ginny, having worked from 7 till 4 with the remnants of a two day migrane, had gone to bed about 11pm.

I am very tired.

Sorry not to be any more entertaining or enlightening.

Tomorrow back at the computer thang.

the end.

more latter.

p.s. I don't care what the time stamp on this says. it's not 12 something a.m. It's 1:42 a.m. Thursday.

nothing

2008-11-11T07:37:00.000-08:00

Hi everyone,

My name is John and it's been 11 days since my last post.......

Fall is setting in for sure here in the Pacific North West, which means rain, rain and more rain. Really, I don't mind the rain so much....except some times.

Trying to get my computer back in some semblance of functional after the big hard drive melt down and subsequent re-hard driving. It's an ongoing process. aol 5.0 is REALLY DUMB.

Ginny found more cds containing pictures, but still anything from this year is pretty much gone.

Nothing ....... I've got a lot of nothing worth writing about in my brain.

THE DAY THE WORLD ENDED(ok not really)

2008-10-31T09:57:00.000-07:00

Aaron & I at the zoo, in a land rover..nothing to do with post.

Last evening, about a quarter after six, I was having a very frustrating time at the work shop. things just not working. Unproductive time on a set-price job = lost $ for company. Not good.

Then My Lovely wife, called me. "Honey," she opened, "Did you get upset with the computer this morning?" Um, what do you mean?" "I - just wondered if it really pissed you off or something?" "Um, what DO you NEED, hun? what's up?" More terse than I intended, already having a bad Day, here..... "Well, Did you maybe push buttons a little hard? It's REALLY DEAD..."

I Swear. I JUST turned it off, which I relayed.

bottom line - It's says it requires re-formatting the hard drive(which may or may not work-it already had bad sectors).

Hundreds of photos will be lost. Yes I know what back ups are. the last time I tried to copy to disc, it wasn't going for it. And don't even get me started on recording music to c.d.s.

THIS - IS NOT GOOD.

We are not in a position to just go out and replace it.

Thank God, biz files are all on memory stick.

Right now I'm writing this at my Aunt's house on her computer.

I sort of knew how much the computer had become an integral part of our lives.

But, NO, I didn't really.....

Feeling Very vulnerable here.

That's just absurd. I went years with no t.v. NO problem. ok, need the cell phone for biz, understandable. but the Computer!?!

OH well, welcome to life in the twenty-first Century, in this "the Best of All Possible worlds"(Voltaire-CANDIDE)

wearing my brother's uncle's shirt

2008-10-28T23:01:00.000-07:00

The above photos: Part of why I like the Pacific Northwest - Blooming Rose & Color changing oak - Same Yard - Same Day.

This is a re posting of my most popular post - ever. Interesting, because I think I've had better. Anyone out there, what do you think?

I'm sitting here wearing a shirt that belonged to my brother, and before that to My Uncle Henry, now Deceased. Whenever I wear this shirt I think of them both.

My Oldest brother, a good guy, talented guy, Very unusual - don't see him near often enough. I remember him driving me in his '47 Chevy sedan, back seat like a sofa, living room's worth of space to the front seat.

Taught me my 1st guitar cords. showed me Hong Kong on Chinese New years.

Uncle Henry, died decades ago and I never did see him all that often. Nor were we especially close. But, for several years in the mid to late sixties, as I recall, I would go spend a couple of weeks during summer with him & my Aunt Bea(yes really, Aunt Bea) in Arkansas. Ok, I grew up in Kansas. Even so, Sixties Arkansas was kind of odd, though I knew that less then than now.

Doesn't matter. What matters is the feeling I get when I wear Uncle Henry's shirt. I remember him, Not very tall, in western cut khakis, cowboy hat & big old cigar, driving me around the small town of Mountain Home, in his Ford pickup, where it seemed from people's reactions that he was King. He was a good guy. kind of guy never had a harsh word for anyone. I once saw him riding his quarter horse next to Aunt Bea on hers. They both were sitting full Silver concho'd Parade saddle in a Rodeo Opening. Very happy & proud. Easy going as always.

I have a chambray work shirt of my Dad's. When I wear it I think of him, at home back in Kansas. Dad's older now than when he wore that shirt to fix railroad electrical stuff, or fix our barn, or sit at dusk on the old rock table listening to the crickets and watching the fire flies. He taught me about tools, and fishing, and being nice to animals while in shirts like that(him not the animals). I also don't see my Dad nearly often enough. 2,000 miles is very far, made farther by the limitations of personal economics.

I have a polo shirt that belonged to my other brother. Like wise, wearing it invokes memories of him. from that last time I saw him, back to when he taught me to walk train rails, carefully balancing along the top edge of the rail road track rails that wound around two sides of my Grandpa's farm. I think I was about seven then. It was summer, hot in Missouri, hound dogs & cotton mouths....hillside caves, crawdads in a minnow bucket in the well house, the smell of the old barn......I don't see that brother nearly often enough either.

Wearing someone else's shirt, someone you have looked up to, tends to cause one, to try to behave different. Interesting, that.

Okay, I don't own any shirts of my Mom's that would be just creepy.

but then, I don't need a shirt to remind me of Mom(even though I forgot her birthday until four days later this year - D'oh!) ...and I don't see her often enough either...Ya gettin' a common thread here?

I have had many shirts, bought at great prices from a bunch of different thrift stores. I have no idea who owned them. I sometimes wonder......

POWERS OF 10

2008-10-24T01:03:00.000-07:00

One for the education and edification of all you and your kiddies, though I suspect that many of you probably saw at least an earlier version of this before. It's called Power's of Ten - slide show starts out 10 million light years from earth and zooms in to an oak leaf, and then into that to the sub atomic level.

It will leave science-fan kids(like me) awe struck.

NO, really, it'll be fun, I promise.

Ok, I thought it was fun.

http://micro.magnet.fsu.edu/primer/java/scienceopticsu/powersof10/index.html

The site is called "MOLECULAR EXPRESSIONS: SCIENCE, OPTICS AND YOU" lots of educational resources for moms, dads, teachers or auto- didactic youngsters.

I'm really tired.

Doctor tomorrow. I.B.S. STUFF.

Dropped my cell phone in a parking lot, day before yesterday. it got run over before i realized & went back for it(oddly enough, only the functionality of the view screen was damaged) got new(rebuilt) one in the mail today.

Yesterday, dropped my favorite belt mount F.M radio in the river.(I know mp3 is now, I like the human connection of live radio when I don't see or talk to people all day some days)

No personal electronics lost today. YiPee!!!

The images above are NOT part of the powers of 10 slide show.

As usual, they're just there because I like 'em.

Ok, I obviously have nothing of any real consequence left to say, & no dependably, non fatigue affected cells to say it with. "WARNING COGNIZANT POINT OF DIMINISHING RETURNS EXCEEDED. PULL OVER TO NEAREST REST STOP IMMEDIATELY - - YA GOOF!"

Um, yeah..........

more later

Just Impressions

2008-10-22T23:35:00.000-07:00

This morning, driving North West on Marine Drive, next to the Columbia River, between the Sea Scout Base and the Airport.......Uncharacteristically warm & sunny for October in Portland.

Kayaker going up the glass-flat river, I imagine with near silence - too far away to hear anyhow.

Black Cormorant sitting on the same snag as always, just ten yards off the near bank, wings held out and still, drying in the sun.

Red Tailed Hawk Crosses my path, maybe twenty feet off the ground, from left to right.

Why is it almost always left to right?

Looking then inland, across the Airport security fence, I see a Great Blue Heron, standing unperturbed as planes taking off and landing make an almost unbroken line of avionic commotion.

It's still close enough to the river to be HIS territory as far as he's concerned (which isn't far).

A mile down the road, passing between the Yacht club on one side and Country Club on the other, I come up to either a very new construction flager, or just the friendliest ever.

She's actually mouthing "thank you", grinning and waving to each slowly passing car that goes by - and there are dozens of us, at this moment.

Another twenty miles down the road, through St. Johns & over it's name sake bridge, my favorite in the area for it's 1920-ish cathedral window styled suspension towers....

North on Highway 30, "St. Helen's Road" out to Scappoose to do a little Gel Coat repair on a Silverton, then a pretty rugged six and a half hour wash and wipe on a fifty three Seline.

Couple of photos taken off the stern of the fifty-three, named "China Moon".

Little green "pocket cruiser", all of maybe sixteen feet or so in length - I like it.

Some Fella rowing his wooden boat up the Multnomah Channel, just at dusk, with Mt. St. Helen's through the trees in the background.

Just another day on the river.........not a bad life.

lattes & rainy days: You know you're from the Pacific Northwest if ...

2008-10-22T07:32:00.000-07:00

I remembered seeing a thing about us Pacific North-Westers a while back. When I googled it, I got this blog spot blog. It may be that you have to live here to get it. I find it amussing.

lattes & rainy days: You know you're from the Pacific Northwest if ...