In the Quiet Box

Silence expands to fill the available volume regardless of the total. This is knowledge gained as a collateral effect of living. It could take decades before one notices what is happening. Different cities, different containers, different boxes all experiencing the same result. The silence is loudest in the night, in those moments before another bedtime. Silence haunts.

Amusingly enough the silence is not without a soundtrack. The noises heard tend to be generated in places other than the throat or head. The click of a kitchen light switch morphs into a rifle shot. An air conditioner fan takes on a near corporeal presence, a machine-age analogue of a waterfall coursing over a brim of rocks. Low hum punctuated by the pouring of rain outside the windows that surges in when the conditioner unit cuts off. The abrupt absence of a sound like that tricks the mind into thinking it is losing its balance. Living in a quiet box it is an easily acquired habit of leaning into sound because it offers support.

Support in the form of distractions from the vacuum of a life unrealized. Absences. Connections not formed, or frayed to the point of unviability. Projects uncompleted, or worse, never started because the attention was absorbed by some other thing in life and the mind failed to grasp the threads it should have followed. Funny how the hollow clattering of a butter knife into a sink (which was cleaned earlier in a fit of anxiety-induced housekeeping) can knock the mind from one track into another. A metallic thud serving as an accidental rin chime signaling the beginning of involuntary meditation in the temple of the head.

The knife lies still in the sink. Stillness broken by the hum and whirr of domestic machineries within, wind and rain without. The body reacts by pacing around the quiet box of its apartment. It cannot be helped that the mind is flooded with memories and regrets and the helplessness wrought by the realization that not enough has been done to find security in an unstable universe. In the stream of silences the head and the heart cannot escape the notion that so much potential appears to have been wasted or unrealized. Picture the tap on the barrel of water that was supposed to have enabled the successful crossing of a desert. Unbeknownst to all this tap was not secured before embarking. Miles of trudging through the heat and sand engendering thirst beyond measure, not to be slaked because the water dripped away.

Desperate discoveries occur in the silences of the quiet box. The stomach knows because it drops. No amount of pacing truly eradicates the gnawing sensation, but the motion can ease some of the discomfort. Discomfort? Do we really mean fear? Fear of having missed out on a cosmic scale and now not understanding how to get something back? Ah, this is it. Of course it is fear. A nipping at the heels brought about by a late-night revelation that you may not know what you are doing. Ever.

But you should know this by now. If you do not, surely that would be irrefutable evidence of the ineffectuality that you believe to be your shackles. It is this ineffectuality that howls the loudest in the midnight of the quiet box. Ineffectuality is the diamond-eyed beast that prowls the undergrowth just outside the dying circle of light. Growl and moan, rustle and snort, the impression is one of power that does not care how bright the fire you build. It will get what it wants. It will feed.

Living a life of balance is draining, in the face of knowing the universe does not need an excuse to eat you alive. The prime directive of that life is to find something, or better yet, someone with whom to share the quiet box of life. By such good fortune the beast will be kept at bay.

Movie and a Dinner

Quiet out here on the headland tonight. Slow breeze, barely moving the dry grass so no whispers there. The crickets and katydids are up to their usual hijinks, but they sound restrained. Even the sea is subdued. It undulates sluggishly with waves that caress the shore rather than pound it. The seething of the tide laps faintly over me as I sit by the open window, absently rubbing the sore spot on my right calf, a remnant of an agitated dream that gripped me before dawn. I never knew phantom kicks could be so painful.

The light fades from the sky. The clouds hovered most of the day, but it never felt gloomy. Nice for this time of year. Such a welcome relief from a stubborn summer heat so oppressive it felt fascist. the morning felt so good I walked the shore, out to the lighthouse and back. A few shards of sea glass ended up in my pockets, and now adorn the mantel above the hearth. There was the serendipitous find, too, of a wayward lobster trap caught on the jetty. To my surprise it still had a lobster and some crabs stuck in it. There was no buoy attached so no way for me to tell who it belonged to. I lugged it back to the cottage, extracted the lobster and the crabs to a pair of rusty buckets filled with seawater. The trap I left on the porch to dry. Dinner was halfway made.

My leg ached. The dream had knotted it up. The walk could not quite untie it. The same was true for my head. Damn that dream. A familiar theme in an unfamiliar setting. You know a place that you think you have never seen but somehow you know it is there? Yeah, like that. I woke up nearly screaming and kicking at something with my right leg. My eyes were barely open when my calf cramped up. I curled up under the covers and hurriedly beat on my leg to loosen the knot, but not before my foot had bent downward from the tension. The muscle felt like a steel ball under the skin. Hurt like a sonofabitch. My heart was pounding from the dream, and I shook.

Slow march of the waves is hypnotic. Not nearly the battle anthem of heavy surf. I am fidgeting with the lighter on my desk, willing myself not to fire up a smoke. One side effect of the hell-hot summer is that the urge to smoke has nearly died down. Been a week or more since I last had one. All to the good, I think. 

The cottage smells good. It is home tonight. The mixture of salt air and seafood gumbo simmering away is one of the finest scents a man could ever draw into himself. Something about the tang and savor of the two makes me wonder if that is what the kitchens in heaven smell of. Maybe someday I'll find out. But not now. Not tonight. The gumbo is near ready, a sublime mix of found and foraged foodstuffs I discovered while cleaning the fridge and pantry. Lucky is the man who can bring home eats from the sea.

Time to dish up. Sipping a beer while giving the gumbo a few last, slow stirs, I like I had company for the evening. Friends and family, flitting around just outside the edges of my vision. People I treasure, people I miss, a few ghosts. The feeling surges when I sit down at the table with my heavy white bowl filled with goodness. The dream comes back to me, a movie before my mind. I am running, running, somewhere in the labyrinthine tunnels of a building I cannot name. Heavyset men in dark uniforms are chasing me, I'm running towards some sound and light. Voices call out to me, urging me on even as faint cries behind me try to drag me back to a coal-black night. I lash out flailing, kicking, as something brushes my ankle. I wake up or come to, the aroma of the gumbo gently bathing my face.

Grief is a peculiar beast, and tricky. It nearly got me there, in those tunnels far from the sea. But I made it out this night. Silver threads stretching from some humans here on earth and from some who are no longer of this mortal coil made sure that I did. Breathing deep, I wipe my eyes and take up a spoonful of goodness. The warmth on my tongue meets the warmth flowing into my heart while the waves outside the window offer up quiet acclaim. I raise my glass to the spirits at my table, come to join me for dinner.

Islands Adrift

Yesterday I learned that an old high school friend had died at the age of 47, of heart disease.  It was delivered to me by a cousin of my friend, who just happens to be my best friend from college. Such news hurt me sharply, hotly, and more than to be expected regarding someone with whom I had not spoken in decades. Today, my impatience showed when I failed to let the pan get hot enough before deglazing the onions with a shot of red wine. It was dinner, and I was sad and angry.

How to reconcile Death with pork ragu over pasta? Is this possible? My belly did not care. Hunger is its imperative. My soul, on the other hand, disagreed. I wept into my fist.

Hunger will not be denied. Nor will sadness. It is a peculiarity of my being that I am ever hungry unless I am deeply ill or otherwise disturbed to the point of collapse. The news of my friend's death pushed me to that edge. Yesterday, I wept over my keyboard, feeling simultaneously ashamed and indignant that I was reduced to such a state. There was no denying that my friend  and I had drifted far apart over the past two decades. No communications had been had in the intervening years, notwithstanding the ease and facility of Facebook, Twitter and myriad other digital ways to find and connect. Perhaps it was partly that shock of realization that fueled my outburst at the stove tonight.

My friend had married, he had moved to Mississippi, he had become the owner of a country store. I was unaware of none of these facts of his existence. It seemed an impossible task to reconcile all this lost history with making dinner. Perhaps I really should not have tried. I was tired and sad and the walls between my day and my heart were breaking down. I thought back to the wakes I have known in my life, those impossibly strained gatherings where we met at the houses of the deceased or their family, and loved ones and strangers show up bearing platters of fried chicken, lasagna, potato salad and anything else grieving souls can think to pull together to succor those who have lost the most. Death takes its pound of flesh, and we can think of nothing but conversation and filling our bellies.

Then there was me, standing at the stove stirring a skillet full of sauce while waiting for the pasta to be done. Wiping my eyes, I had to grin thinking of my old friend. I knew perfectly well that he would not have tolerated any bullshit from me on this matter. He was a bright spirit with a world-class sense of humor. I heard his voice in my head, saying "Quit yer bitchin', you damn dumb Irishman, and shut up and eat!" In his honor, I complied. Even if the soul is empty, the belly must be filled.

Nearly fifty years on this planet, and time showed me just how far we may drift apart on the oceans of our lives. But I know, I know, how deep the currents run and how far they reach. The soul feels it when a part of its past departs this world. Currents of the heart pull and shift, and we feel the disturbance keenly across time and miles.

In memory of F.C., my friend. Good luck and godspeed.

A Brief Word on Words Not Yet Spoken

9:44 PM. It was a good day, in that I experienced some contentment. I have decided I will read, later.

A brief word, ladies and gentlemen, if I may scrawl a bit. I confess to you that I just spent the previous ten minutes or so standing in my living room with a book in my hand and another in my head. I was reading the one and thinking about the other. The decision on which one to read kept me still.

I say book in my head, but there is a physical specimen on my shelf. Each of them is a tome of natural history, written by two different authors, each of whom I greatly admire. Different styles, the two of them, one austerely spiritual---is this possible? I think it is---the other poignant, sharp and comedic. One book is about the ends of the earth and the other a travelogue on the deep Congo. I was inspired to read at least one of them by words in my head and the silences between them.

What Antarctica and Africa have to do with the things I find myself wanting to say to the people in my life, including one who may not yet be of an age to receive these freighted words, I cannot tell. I simply don't know. I will do my best to find out.

Of late I am often possessed of the urge to write of the things I hear inside. I feel the pressure, I hear the shouts and whispers, the sighs and curses that my mouth-heart want to spill. There are many things to say. Yet I have not found the courage to speak. This is a dam I have not yet determined how to break.

In heartbeats the voice seeks itself. Mine pounds inside, seeking fulfillment on the outside. But I am not ready. The stories are not ready. The blood in my veins flows like water seeking its own level while my heart rehearses the words in silence. They will find the surface, when they are ready.

I place one book on the shelf, gripping another by the spine. It fits in my hand like a the nudge of a long-lost pet, finally arriving home. I will read of the silences at the bottom of the earth, and in them, perhaps break my own.

EHarMatchonyBlog.com

August 15th, 8:16 PM. Preparing to crack the seal on the raku kiln that is my mind.

Skipping through the electronic poppy field that is the Internet this fine day, I caught a blurb that made me nervous and made me laugh. I think it was in an email newsletter from a website devoted to the craft and business of writing, a 'Tip Of The Day' type thing that is supposed to reel you in to spend more time on the site. No problem with that, but I was skimming and distracted so I didn't go beyond the tagline.

The tagline was this: "Your blog posts should be like dating-site profile information..."

'Scuse me? (nervous laughter)...good thing I'm not writing to get a date.

I am not (fortunately for me) out on the dating scene, so I will not worry about that aspect. But I get the perspective being out forth by the writer of that little gem: if you want your blog to attract others, then it must be written to maximize your attractiveness. Am I understanding that correctly?

Hmm. This does present a bit of a quandary. We are told on the one hand to write authentically, to be ourselves and to write from what we know. Supposedly this is what "blogging" (in its nascent sense) is at its core. Yet dating sites, to some degree, are about salesmanship and packaging. They are about being attractive enough to attract ideal partners for whatever motivation one chooses.

So to push the analogy, in order to make my blog more attractive to ideal partners, I should write only the things that would increase my 'dateability' vis-a-vis the readership. The implication is that potentially less desirable things (quirks, foibles, emotionally-charged topics) should perhaps be avoided. Heavens, we wouldn't anyone to know those "real" things, would we?

This begs the question of authenticity, does it not? I'm all for maximizing the positive, but for what one hopes to be a long-term relationship, how can we ignore the reality of ourselves? It seems a bit misleading to put hyperbole before truth. Yet that little dot on an otherwise pristine page could lead to heartache and regret down the road. I know this to be true.

To be fair, I acknowledge that a blog has more latitude than a dating site. It could be said that the very idiosyncratic nature of a blog is what gives it enduring appeal; after all, it is your blog and you can do what you want with it. It doesn't have to be, and perhaps shouldn't be, perfect. That is because we are not perfect.

I didn't start my blog to attract potential partners, or set up a string of dates. I had no idea that is what I "should" (metaphorically) be doing. I started it out of a need for expression, as a way to get the noise out of my head and out into the universe. I didn't know any better than to be anything other than what I am, and hopefully the writing reflects that outlook. I don't need a date (I have great love and companionship), but I am very grateful for all of you who choose to come visit with me, and stay awhile.

And there's no need for a monthly fee, either. We are here because we genuinely want to be here. That is a lovely thing, indeed.

Lá Fhéile Pádraig Shona dhuit!

Happy St. Patrick's Day, from my Irish heart to yours. Blessings to everyone!

Let Me Call You Sweetheart

I have to write this from the dude POV, because, well...I'm a dude, and that is somewhat critical to the premise of this post.  So there's that.

Anyway...

The TV was on the other morning, because the Wee Lass was here.  I was listening to it while doing a little web-based chore minding, and a commercial came on for a car insurance company.  At the end of the commercial the perky (and if I'm being honest, cute) spokeswoman says to the dancing guy dressed up as dollar signs, "Really, go, honey, it's your break!".

Something about the word "honey" in her mouth made me sit up and take notice.  I felt a twinge of light-headedness and realized that, for all my facades of dude-ness, I like it when a woman calls me "Honey".

Or "Sugar". Or "Sweetie".  (sigh)  I'm such a violin.

I know in the current climate of Political Correctness and Gender Distinction Awareness and Avoidance of (possibly) Patronizing Forms of Address Awareness, it can be a slippery slope to use terms of endearment in a public venue and addressed to someone we barely know or do not know at all.  That's why I don't do it with women I do not know, and rarely if ever in a public setting with women I do not know well or only in a professional* sense.  It's best for everyone, that way.  Especially if you ask the legal folks in human resources.

But when I hear it applied to me in a more informal setting (the office is not such a place) like a restaurant or in a store...I usually get that puppy-dog sensation in my gut and I immediately relax a little.  I think its because I grew up in a different climate of male-female relations, one that was further along than most of the neanderthal-ish antics I remember hearing about from my elders (and which have not completely disappeared today), but certainly a little more traditional than today.  That was a time when it was much more common in my experience to hear those terms bandied back and forth and no one, male or female, thought much of it.

As I have evolved, and as things have changed, I realize that we all have to be much more careful about how casual we treat others, especially when affection can too easily be misconstrued for disrespect.  I certainly don't advocate calling colleagues "darlin'" or "honey" (male or female) in business meetings or in places where focus and respect are key to getting things done.

But sometimes?  I don't mind being called "Hon" or "Sugar", especially when I can tell someone is being nice because nice is the normal way to be.

And when it comes from the lips of someone you love?  Well, that's just the cat's meow.

---

*Note:  By 'professional' I mean in a career or workplace-based setting, not in the informal slang of a (ahem) prostitute.  Get your heads out of the gutter.

New Day, Monday and Gratitude

Life here in the People's Republic of Gumbolia, and for yours truly, the President-For-Life of said republic, has been breathtakingly busy lately.  Between that which I do to earn my daily bread, personal biz and of course the writing...oh, and matters domestic (like lawn care)...my head is spinning.  I'm real dizzy, dear readers.

Part of that busy-ness is correspondence.  I get a reassuring amount of personal emails, many of which are the result of comments left by many of you kind folks out there on the hot mess that is Irish Gumbo.  I am grateful for the connections, and it has been a grand avenue to getting into the thoughts of others, exchanging perspectives and ideas, and sometimes just plain silliness (more of which I could use).  As many of you may already know, I am almost pathologically incapable of not responding to the digital equivalent of a letter.  I like to answer as many as I can, and most of time I do, within the limits of time, energy and technology

However, even with that success rate, I regret that I haven't been able to respond to all, especially in a timely fashion.  One thing that has compounded that in the past week is the pleasure and honor I had to be selected as a BLOG OF NOTE, which certainly surprised me.  I was amazed and astounded by the number of comments and new readers and new followers that joined me on board this strange and wonderful trip.  As you may imagine, I haven't been able to keep up with responding, and with the current level of activity (see first paragraph) I have a feeling I will miss getting back to some folks.

So if you don't hear from me, know that it is only because I'm caught up in a mad stampede running downhill on the Mountain of Life.  Please know that I am humbled and grateful for the attention, and when I catch my breath, I'll try and stop by and say hello.  Thank you, from my heart.

Happy Monday, one and all!

Thursday Quantam Activity: Eeyore's Blues

It's a slow night here in the republic of Gumbolia, and by that I mean I'm feeling slow.  Another 11-hour workday, and if I were a lady my name would be Erasmus B. Draggin.

I'm tired, and a little ground up.  Life and work have been rather stressful lately, and I reached a point where I felt like I didn't want to write anything, because I didn't think I had anything worth sharing.  Too many disappointments do not a jolly fellow make.

I was even considering packing up the blog and calling it quits.  For me, now?  That's like saying I don't feel like eating.  Because when I don't feel like eating? That means something is very wrong.

The problem is, this writing imp has its claws in me deep.  Even when I swear I won't write or don't need to write...I always find myself writing something anyway.  Every. Damn. Day.

Too bad its mostly disjointed episodes and random spasms of my overheated conscious and subconscious.  I have yet to find the thread, the true thread, to tie it all together.  This is my life in a nutshell.  It's like that lyric in the new Bright Eyes song, where Conor Oberst sings "My life is an inside joke, and no one will explain it to me...".  Yep, he nailed it.

Someone, please explain it to me.

So, in that tradition, I'll close with something semi-random, another thought on my "Temple" post from earlier this week.  I found the comments delightful and intriguing, and I thought everyone should know the genesis of the post.  I was inspired by some passages I had just read in the Bhagavad-gita*, regarding attachment and anxieties associated thereto.  The exchanges between Lord Krishna and Arjuna were fascinating to me, and in turned inspired the statement by the student.  That I used the term "God" when referring to the supreme being is a product of my upbringing in a Christian faith; we tend to fall back on what we know.  However, the use of God was a stand-in for the divine, no matter what faith.  I could have just as easily said Yhwh, Allah, Krishna, as I wasn't going for a specific faith.  Indeed, in the Bhagavad-gita, the form of address for Krishna changes from time to time, albeit as different names for the same being.

Be that as it may, I thought it was an interesting take on an age-old question.  Think, think, think...

---

*The version in question is "The Bhagavad-gita: As It Is" presented by His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada.  I was directed to this, and received a copy through, the kind efforts and generous spirit of Braja Sorensen, whom many of you are familiar with through 'Lost and Found in India'.  I started reading it last year, got distracted and set it aside until the beginning of March this year.  I had begun re-reading "Walden" by Thoreau, and in it he mentions having himself read the Bhagavad-gita, which in turn reminded me that I had it on my bookshelf.  And so the great wheel turns...

The GoodFather Clause

Sometimes, nice things just arrive out of the blue, catching me completely by surprise.  Like this weekend, when I received a gift most cool, from this righteous dude, Jeff at GoodFatherBlog.  He took a shine to my post of last Saturday, "On Not Reading Books, Occasionally" and decided it warranted some recognition.  To wit, I am humbled and honored to be the first recipient of the GoodFatherBlog Seal of Approval:

I don't need no Good Housekeeping or UL Listing...I've got the GF seal!

Thank you, GoodFather!  Truly a great way to start off the week.  So please drop by Jeff's place (link above) and drop some luv.  Tell Jeff that Gumbo sent you, and that's gets you a digital coupon for 20% more good karma!

So That Explains the Noise

Hey...

You.  Yeah, you...

Know what today is?  Besides Wednesday?  Besides the tenth day of November, 2010?

It's a birthday.  Gumbo hits the mid-forties mark today.

He isn't, I mean, I am not sure how I feel about that.  Better than the alternative, I know.  I am happy to have made it this far without maiming myself or others, and to have started growing into the person I think I was always was (whoever that is), but didn't know how to be.

It's Wednesday.  I'll get up, go to work, do my thing, then go to class.  Afterward, once I'm home,  I think I'll put my feet up and treat myself to a wee dram of Scotland's finest.  Simple may be best.

Will you join me?  It's better for the sharing.  Slainte, my friends!

I Wish I Knew

And so it starts
You switch the engine on
We set controls for the heart of the sun
One of the ways we show our age

He had no way of knowing, but James Murphy gut punched me tonight.  Not literally, I mean, I don't know him personally (although I'd like to) but it was the song he was singing.  I had iTunes set on shuffle and LCD Soundsystem came up, and there was James singing "All My Friends", a song I really like but should probably not listen to when I am alone and tired.

Such was the case.  I was reading some study material for a class I am taking, alone in the light of the goofy ceiling fan (the blades look like giant palm leaves) that hangs down from the middle of my dining/living room.  Tired, too, and my mind kept wandering from the task.  So James gets to the part where he sings the lyrics I quoted above, and I...I had to put my head down and take a deep breath.

'Set the controls for the heart of the sun' put me in the wayback machine, because he 's right.  It did make me show my age.  Indirectly, I must say, but showing all the same.  I recalled that line as the title of a Pink Floyd song, which made me think of my brother.

I thought about him, and how huge his absence seems to me.  All the albums we bought, the songs we listened to, the time (not) wasted messing around with the stereo, cassette decks, tuners and amplifiers.  The insistent electric piano in "All My Friends" came back at me like a new wave version of Philip Glass, a version I could really wrap my head around.  This as opposed to the time back in college, when I spent some days listening to Glassworks and for the life of me I couldn't quite get into it (sorry, Philip.)  The piano reminded me that maybe I should give it (Glassworks) another go.  Perhaps another time.

So it was the song, me and my memories.  James asks "Where are your friends tonight?"  This is a question I could not answer.  I closed my eyes and listened intently to the music, and for a few precious moments me and Big Bro were back in his room at my parents' house, with the low end wood look paneling and that ridiculous shag carpet in a hue that had aspirations of being orange.  And the paneling and the carpet and the cracks in the ceiling didn't matter because we had the turntable and a stack of albums set up.  The tape deck was running and we were making a mix and drawing covers for the cassettes.  He was good at it, he could have been a great graphic artist.  We put the music on and mixed and laughed and quoted the good parts of the songs, which I wish would never end.

I suppose they never did, never will as long as I can remember him.  I wish, oh I wish, I knew where he was tonight, my friend, my brother.

Oh, if the trip and the plan come apart in your hand,
you look contorted on yourself your ridiculous prop.
You forgot what you meant when you read what you said,
and you always knew you were tired, but then,
where are your friends tonight?

Lyrics from "All My Friends" by LCD Soundsystem, from the album "Sound of Silver".  Used without permission.  i hope James doesn't mind.

Summer of Love, Lost

You, the madeleine
to my Proust.
Form of peach,
soft in my palm.

Caress and peel,
your skin, my hands
Gasping memory,
your taste, my tongue.

In summer windows
the sky turning purple,
brazen sun sets on me
as I swallow you

and weep, slightly.

The Turning of the Spit

Is it hot in here, or is it just me? Ow, Ow, OW!

A Gumbo Public Service Announcement for everyone: I am about to get roasted! Former ambulance man and current bon vivant Eddie Bluelights at Clouds and Silvery Linings has cajoled me into lashing myself to the spit for his Sunday Roast feature. I fully give Eddie his props, because you know how difficult (if not impossible) it is to put gumbo on a stick...but he did, so there I will be! 

Please set your reminders, the Roast goes on the fire this Saturday, June 12th at 10 a.m. Greenwich Mean Time, which I believe is 6 a.m. Eastern time in the US. I think. Ah, Google it...time befuddles me, often.

This is a real treat for me, because have you seen the list of past Roastees? Some fine company, indeed. I was delighted and honored to be asked, and I hope you can drop in for some roasted gumbo!

In other news, it hit me today that my previous post HERE was my 400th post. How in the world did that happen? Whew!

Runneth Over

Please forgive if you can

It isn't that I don't want to remember

That I don't want to reciprocate

Its that I can't 

No matter how hard I try

How much I try to recall

The river has flowed too fast

Flowed too long

My dam has not burst

But the cracks are showing

My abutments are detached

Water gushing out, the occasional fish

Lake Memory is draining fast

Exposing stumps and roots and rocks

Names, faces: fish flopping in shallows

Drying, dying in the sun

Please don't take offense

If I don't get back to you

The dam has too many holes

And I have too few thumbs

You Can Give Me Salt

The couple sat down at the table across the aisle from mine. I thought at first I had them profiled, based on the body language and awkward seeming looks. But I think I was wrong.

They were very quiet. I noticed them not looking at one another directly. You know those looks, the ones given by two people who are uncomfortable in each others' presence, from a relationship heading downhill. Those looks where neither party feels like speaking, would rather be somewhere else, doing something else, with someone else. But either it has not disintegrated completely, or they are just too tired to end it.

I looked away before they could see me watching, suddenly becoming fascinated by the pizza minus a slice, sitting on the table in front of me. I became hyper-aware of the last bite of crust and prosciutto dissolving under the onslaught of my molars, chewy goodness squeaking against my teeth. It hit me that I was eating alone, again, and not all that concerned about it. Seeing the couple in the booth not speaking helped to reinforce my sense of unconcern.

I meditated as I ate, pondering those twists and turns of life that make or break relationships. I revisited the terrain I have been crossing as of late. I considered my own life and what I could have done that things would have turned out differently. Pangs of hunger duked it out with pangs of sadness as I wrestled a bit with the notion that, maybe, things have turned out the way they have because that is how things were meant to be.

Still, knowing that life has gone the way it was fated to be does not make it easier to watch  a good  one disintegrate and fall apart.

I looked up from my plate. The waitress was setting a pizza down on their table, along with bread and salads. There was a change in the demeanor of the couple. During my episode of navel gazing, they had begun talking quietly to each other. Their faces were more animated, and what I had taken as weariness was softened by the beginnings of smiles. It was after they had each taken a slice of pizza that an intriguing thing happened.

On the table was a shaker jar of what I took to be garlic salt, the kind often found in pizza places everywhere. The husband (if that is what he was) picked it up and sprinkled some on his pizza. He paused, looked over at the wife (if that is what she was) while cocking an eyebrow. He said something, probably asking her if wanted some garlic salt. She smiled a small smile and nodded her head. I fully expected him to hand her the shaker.

He did not. He reached over and dusted her slice for her, and then set the jar down. She was smiling and seemed to be eager to eat. It struck me that she had neither said something "Enough!" or signaled for him to stop shaking the garlic salt. He just did it, she seemed happy and they both fell to on the pizza, looking happy.

It was then that I realized I may have been wrong about them. Maybe they were both just tired from a long workday, and quiet as a result. Maybe they were really in love.

I say that because it takes significant history to do what he did. It takes a certain knowledge to be able to season someone's food for them and know when to stop. In return, it takes a lot of trust to let someone do that for you. It takes confidence to let another take care of you, if for no other reason other than you trust them, you love them. This is especially true when it comes to sharing salt. It is easy to ruin a dish with too much salt, so allowing another to give you salt without overtly defining the limits is a quiet but powerful way of showing how much you trust them.

It is a sign of how much you love another, perhaps, to be able to give them salt in just the right amount without the need for words or signals. It speaks to a deeper bond, a deeper knowledge.

Love, give me salt, that I may know you.

Curios and the Man

Spiny Norman peers down at me, the same Mona Lisa grin he has held for years plastered on his face. I say plastered, and its quite the joke. He is made of plaster, you see.

Spiny Norman is a little plaster gargoyle that occupies the top right hand corner position on my bookshelf-entertainment center combo unit. A cute little thing, he was given to me many, many years ago as a gift. He had no name when I came to possess him. Reckoning that this lack could not remain unaddressed, I cast about for a suitable moniker. Inspiration came in the form of Monty Python's Piranha Brothers' sketch, featuring 'Spiny Norman' the hedgehog. Eureka! 

As I said, Spiny Norman has been with for years, through four job changes, one layoff and intense personal turmoil. He even survived a fall from the desk, losing only few small chips and having one chunk glued back in place. The lines are faint, and the smile is intact. Hmm...not unlike myself, methinks.

He also shares the shelf with a few other artifacts sifted from the sands of my life. As of this writing, from right to left, the other occupants are: small ceramic sake bottle; antique clear glass bottle, also small; antique folding ruler with brass hinges; one rubber stamp of my architects' license seal; leather bound hip flask; small ceramic pot with lid; a photo of my daughter at one year old; and a photo of my first son, days old in the NICU. The shelf below all that is occupied by more photos of family and a small amount of books. These artifacts, they comfort me.

The sake bottle is speckled light gray, painted with a stalk of bamboo and leaves rendered in blue. A former colleague of mine gave it to me as a parting gift, upon finding out he had been let go from the company. A nice man, he was. I wished him well.

The glass bottle I found on a building site I was inspecting. It was uncovered during the excavation of some foundations. It appears to have been hand-blown, with bubbles in the glass and a slightly crooked neck. There was even a tiny bit of cork remaining in the top. My best guess is that it contained medicine, or perhaps liquor.

The folding rule belonged to my paternal grandfather, and was given to me by my father. It has brass pivots and a deep honey brown patina from years of use and old shellac. My dad remembers his dad using this tool, and it was well cared for I can see. My grandfather could make a lot of things with his hands, the by-product of having learned about five different trades in five decades of service to the railroad that employed him. I wish I had even a fraction of that ability, and seeing that rule gives me inspiration.

The flask is stainless steel, and it is engraved with my initials. I was given this as a parting gift, also by a former colleague, but this time I was the one leaving. Fortunately, it was by my own volition, and it touched me to know that someone cared enough to mark the occasion with a gift. I have yet to put whisky in it...it looks too nice for me to use!

The small ceramic pot I acquired at a crafts fair, some years ago. It was made by a potter/ceramicist from the Seattle, Washington area. The exterior is slightly rough, blackish-gray in color, and has a lid. The inside is glazed a deep, brilliant red (Chinese red? Vermillion? Not sure.) and I have been meaning to fill it with pebbles. The potter also made some exquisite vases, but the pot was what I could afford. I find its quiet humbleness to be attractive. I would have liked to buy another, but is a small shame that I misplaced the potter's business card and cannot recall his name.

The photographs speak very well for themselves. Family members, some still of this earth and others off the mortal coil, I find it very comforting now to have them with me. Pictures like these used to weird me out. I could never shake that feeling of being watched, and I have always been a creature of solitary inclinations.

Things do change, as we cannot escape the dynamics of a universe in motion. With all the terrible tragedies and magnificent joys I have experienced in the past few years I have also come to like having the company of the people and things that contribute to the work-in-progress that is Me. My ego is finally letting go of the notion that I am a rock and island. I do know for sure that I cannot make all of this life by my own energies. The pictures, the objects and artifacts serve as touchstones imparting their own invigorating vibrations. When I need regeneration or a reminder of the love that built me*, I fill my cup at the curio cabinet, and know that love and strength are found in many places.

Relics. Artifacts. Mementos. What contains the love that built you?

*Paraphrased from "I Should Be Born" by Jets Overhead. A song most excellent!

A Request, Por Favor

Hey, there, dear ones:

I need a favor. Longtime reader and bloggy friend Joanie M. is in a bit of a rough spot nowadays. Her main squeeze John is undergoing chemotherapy, and dealing with that is taking its toll on her in many ways, and we are trying to help her out. Please visit Braja at Lost and Found in India or IB over at Idiot's Stew for more info and a link to a Donate button; we would appreciate it if some cash could be spared to help Joanie out. So please drop in, donate if you can, leave some comment luv for Joanie, let her know we are keeping her in our thoughts and prayers.

Thank you all!

ImLateImLateImLate...and a tad lazy

Shame on me.

I am a sinner. It's true, I can't deny it.

I have been inattentive and lazy. Which I guess would be sloth(?). Certainly not gluttony or anger.

More folks have been kind to me, and I got so wrapped up in other earthly concerns, I neglected to say thank you to those fine folks.

I know, I know, my little lambs, I have strayed from the flock. But I lay myself down in front of you all to ask to return to the fold. I'm here to 'fess up. My penance begins now:

REQUEST FOR FORGIVENESS #1:

I have been awardamacated again, and I am most grateful. The lovely and intrepid Kat over at 3 Bedroom Bungalow To Let In Crazytown was kind enough to bestow upon me a "Most Wonderful Favorite" award last week, in THIS POST. Her writeup left me with my jaw on the table and a tear in my eye. Please stop by and give her a read and some comment luv. Her take on living the military family life is sharp, clear, wry and just plain funny. Tell her I sent you.

REQUEST FOR FORGIVENESS #2:

I regret that I haven't been able to talk to my friend Mama Dawg over at Two Dogs Running as much as I would like, as of late. She's always sweet, charming and a real hoot (plus has an adorable daughter and a blind cat), and I make it a point to read her blog whenever I can get the colander I call my brain to think. So it was a bit of a surprise when I finally saw HER POST on friendship. In that post, she said this:

"To Irish Gumbo: Thank you. Thank you for listening. Thank you for trusting me with your stories. Thank you for being there. I mean for really being there."

Gulp. Sniff. I was speechless. What a lovely thing to say.

In my frenzy to get through life, make it to the end of the day with sanity reasonably intact, sometimes my blinders are too big. I forget that there are a lot of lovely people out there who are helping me stay in the race. And I will do well to take more time to realize that, and give thanks.

To Kat and Mama Dawg, you have my heartfelt thanks for keeping me grounded.

It's like Leno Taking Over From Carson, Almost. And She's Carson.

Well, kids, today is a special treat. It has finally happened. I am guest posting for the first time EVAH! I would go “SQUUUEEEEE!!!” but then I would lose all credibility as a dude. Well, the tiny shred I had left, anyway.

The lovely and intrepid Kat at 3 Bedroom Bungalow to Let in Crazytown very kindly asked if I could lay upon her a post whilst she spends some quality time with family, visiting her in England. Being the gentleman that I am (or at least, aspire to be) I most certainly could not turn down such a gracious request. What do I get in return? you may ask.

Why, I get the satisfaction of having helped out a lady, of course. Please drop in on us over there.

And for your edification and delight, here are some pictures of some of my favorite things:

FOAM ON THE GUINNESS, LATE DECEMBER AFTERNOON


BROTHER HERON, LATE WINTER AT THE LAKE


EASY STREET FLOWERBOX, NANTUCKET TOWN, FALL 2007