Bonk

To be honest, I planned on sitting on the couch tonight reading a book but that sort of thing is hard to do when your book of choice is sitting 5 miles away. I usually never bring a book to school with me; there’s never any time to read. This week's schedule, however, makes room for 3.5 hours of standardized testing each morning for which I am forced to proctor. More precisely this mean I hand out test booklets and pencils before using all the self control at my disposal to keep from knocking myself out cold with the first heavy object I can find. Any one of the 4 dictionaries in my room might do the trick, but if not I suppose I could always take a swan dive off the desk onto the tile floor; depends on how much of a spectacle I want to make. The book itself needs to be kept hidden to some small degree, its subject not being entirely appropriate for the maturity level of even your most above average middle schooler. Thankfully it’s a hard cover so removing the jacket leaves a naked grey cover with only the title ‘Bonk’ visible to anyone who happens to stumble upon it. Having been a big fan of Bill Bryson for many years, and having recently read his hilarious history of scientific discovery, (A Brief History of Almost Everything is the title I believe) I decided to give this genre another try. The Author, Lynn Roach, is no less talented and her subject, the history of the scientific study of sex, offers no shortage of material at which to poke fun. Not that any of it is doing me any good right now. The standard Austin Powers personal belonging check , “testicles, spectacles, wallet, and watch,” conducted before departing anywhere, does not account for a book. Not even if the subject of which might actually include testicles.

Great, I thought, now I have an excuse to start painting that spare bedroom in my house. Funny as they may have been at the time, cartoon pigs farting flames spray painted on a blue wall isn’t the sort of thing that endures into adulthood. So now that the roommate has moved out I can go about the serious business of covering the entire surface with a single, solid color. And if anyone misses the pigs I’ll tell them to think of the wall as an extreme close-up of one pig; so close that no other color is visible. Yeah, that should keep everyone happy. But what color?

If you have been to the paint store you might share my amazement for just how many choices there. And the only thing more varied than the hues available are the names someone chose for each of them. Seriously, who comes up with these things? Without even going into detail of what I encountered at the store I’ll give you a rundown of what flavors (calling the colors just seems too simple these days) are already on the walls of my house. On the outside I have charcoal slate, a mix of very dark grey and a hint of blue to keep in cheery enough to be used on the exterior of a house that might actually be seen by other people. What I can’t figure out is the seemingly impossible coupling of its name: charcoal slate sounds as possible a union as, say, pudding snowflake or salmon gunpowder. There are 4 more colors on the exterior, not unusual for an old Victorian, but I can’t remember their names offhand. The trim is white (though surely the manufacturer would disagree), and some of the highlights a ‘red’ preceded by some adjective picked at random. Of the 2 shades of green one I cannot recall while the other is ‘sea foam.’ This one loses points simply for being unoriginal, but not as unoriginal as he color in my living room. In a world of confused color pallets that sound like desserts or exotic destinations you can imagine my surprise when the color I settled on for the living room was ‘red.’ That’s it, just plain old red; Benjamin Moore color code 001. Of course the usual trend picks up and continues in the rest of the rooms. One of the bathrooms is coated in ‘dried chervil’ though I see no resemblance to the French herb, or any herb for that matter. A bedroom is ‘green tea’ though I’m a bit confused here. All the green tea I have ever had clearly has a bit of a brown shade to it, but the color on the wall is very clearly that of green. A third green decorates the kitchen, this one going by the name of ‘soft fern.’ To be honest, though I can see a definite difference in the 3 shades of green, neither possesses any quality in particular that makes its name any more appropriate than the others. Or, for that matter, the dozen or so other names given to greens on the same pallet. My downstairs bathroom is a shade of gray known to the world as either ‘pewter vase’ or ‘pewter mug,’ I’m not really sure which. Both colors exist and I know one is slightly darker than the other but I’m not sure which is which, nor do I know which one is on my wall. I recall being unable to remember which one I wanted when I went to the store too so I just said the first one that came to mind and decided I’d be willing to live with the result. But my favorite color has to be ‘elmira white’ which, despite what is suggested in title, looks like faded khaki pants and nothing at all like any white I have seen before. Maybe it is in reference to a proper name, like calling a shade of blue ‘Superman,’ though I have no memory of anyone important or famous by the name Elmira White. Chalk it up to another case of charcoal slate or salmon gun powder. When it comes down to it, the name isn’t important. It’s as if you were introduced to each other but, choosing to remain anonymous rather than providing you its real name, the color chip handed you a trinket of some kind and said “here’s something to remember me by.”

And just to bring this all full circle (remember I started by talking about a book on the history of the scientific study of bumping uglies) I should mention that I believe paint color names come second only to the descriptions accompanying a glass of wine. Where paint limits itself to 2 words in most cases, wine goes for full paragraphs of salmon gunpowder combinations. My recent favorite described a ‘sexy wine with a buttery texture, slight floral notes, and a subtle hint of raspberry.” Call me old fashioned but I’d never thought of my glass of wine as sexy. And having consumed 2 glasses still felt nothing ‘down there’ at all. Perhaps when I retrieve my book I can enjoy it with the wine and see if sparks fly. Better yet, if I find a ‘sexy’ color for the wall I can combine them all together into a threesome and see how long it takes for my head to explode.

Sunday afternoon randoms

People are funny, and you can see them do some pretty silly things if you watch them long enough. In my 3 minute walk from the Church Street parking Garage to the coffee shop a block away i stopped no less than twice in wonder at the performances being acted out by some unfortunate soul who, though really not doing anything more embarrassing than me on my best days, had the poor luck of carrying out their act in front of an audience. maybe that's the appeal of people watching. though i know I'm just as prone to being in a daze or tripping over a gum rapper it feels good so see other people struggle too. Everyone is awkward if you watch them long enough.

It will never case to amaze me the of confusion that confronts people at the grocery store check-out and the parking garage. as if the act of swiping a credit card or pushing a button for a parking ticket is akin to translating hieroglyphics by candle light after a third martini. And while most of us solve the puzzle rather quickly we've all watched the person in front of us squint their eyes and break out in a cold sweat as they push random keys in hopes that eventually they'll get the right combination. The parking garage is pretty straight forward. you pull up to the entry and are confronted with an illuminated, flashing button with the picture of a ticket on it. push the button, retrieve your receipt, and proceed to doing battle with everyone else circling the garage like vultures in search of that perfect place to park. Sundays, on the other hand, are a whole different story. Parking is free and not only are there no tickets to retrieve, the gate that usual blocks entry into the garage is raised. If it weren't for the enormous speed bump you could drive right in a full speed. And just to make sure even the most unconvinced among us know it's free, a big sign is posted next to the entry announcing the fact. So you can imagine how entertained i was as i left the garage only to encounter a line of cars backed up behind some poor sap who was pushing the bottom repeatedly trying to extract a ticket that would never come. forget the sign, or the open gate, or the fact that the blinking light had been turned off, none of it seemed to do much convincing. Smiling to myself I continued on my way as someone from one of the other cars politely walked up to the offending driver's window and informed him that he could proceed. Of course i have a problem lately with coming to a stop at green lights on busy streets because I'm not always good at paying attention, so who am i to judge right?

Having rounded the corner and started my walk down church street I encountered an awkward looking gentleman on a recumbent bicycle. I should mention he would have been awkward without the funny looking bike but the combination of the two just made it so much more obvious (I've not given it much thought, but i imagine that as many people look like their pets they also resemble their modes of transportation). If you aren't familiar with recumbent they're the bikes that are ridden by sitting down as if in a lazy boy and pedaling with your legs out in from of you. I've never been able to figure them out as if there has ever been anything wrong enough with a normal bike that someone decided we needed to adapt one of those pedal boats for land based transportation. Being a bit of a bike snob i love to poke fun at recumbents and their owners, usually by yelling for them to 'ride a wheelie.' Of course this is impossible on a bike without proper handlebars, but that's sort of the point. As if i needed any more convincing that recliners with wheels are a stupid invention this gentleman was so kind as to demonstrate one of the many reasons. When you slow down to stop on a regular bike you simply put your foot down and stand up. not so easy on a recumbent because you are almost lying on your back. so as he lost momentum at the crosswalk he started to tip over and his feet were still firmly attached to the pedals. The hand he put out to steady himself succeeded in giving way the moment his fingers brushed the pavement and within a matter of seconds he had tipped over fully and spilled himself out onto the road while going a blistering 1 mph. It's a lot like tipping over while waiting in the liftline at a ski area or occasionally walking into a wall with our eyes wide open. We've all done it, but that doesn't mean we can't take pleasure in watching someone else struggle too.

It's good to see other people falter at simple tasks, it always makes me feel better about myself. not because I'm any more capable but because it's nice to know I'm not alone. In due time I'll surely return the favor for the amusement of someone else.

Anyway

People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self centered; forgive them anyway. If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; be kind anyway. If you are successful you will win some false friends and true enemies; succeed anyway. If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you; be honest and frank anyway. What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight; build anyway. If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous; be happy anyway. The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow; do good anyway. Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough; give the world your best anyway. In the final analysis it’s between you and yourself; it was never between you and them anyway.

comfortable in my company . . .

I used to wonder if i could sit down with anyone for dinner might i choose to sit down with myself, face to face, looking from the outside in like so many friends and lovers have done before. What could i learn from myself if i turned me around and looked in my own eyes (or would i look away) and listen to the answers of my own questions? What if i asked myself to tell me a story, which one would it be? What if i didn't like what i heard? what if i told a joke and i didn't laugh? Could i enjoy my own company, could we be friends? i suppose the answer is no. Though at home in my own skin I'm not sure i could be comfortable in my own company for very long. We've been spending quite a bit of time together lately, me and my company, and it's not as i had hoped.

My skin hides my unease from the sight of others like a cloak. my conflict is internal, not meant for public display or discussion. Every so often a little bit is allowed to escape and i do my best to retrieve it before too much is revealed. Some times it escapes as a text message or a mistimed advance and i'm forced to retreat in apology, other times I hope that crowded conversation means nobody has heard. Not one to wear my heart on my sleeve i stuff everything up inside them instead, like an old magician who, having lost interest in doing tricks, has packed away his entire show until a later time and place when he might find the right audience and reinvent his act as something new. My own audience didn't leave so much as i turned it away; or, more truthfully, i turned her away. And though she didn't want to leave i hope in time she understands that she doesn't need my tricks and she doesn't want a magician. All they have to offer is a show: an illusion created to distort, to bend perception, to elicit belief in something that isn't there. More smoke and mirrors, the tools of a liar, concealing a lie.

Alone and upset, ashamed and disappointed , I remind myself that the illusion didn't end with her, i tricked myself too. tricked myself in to believing happiness existed where it didn't, that somehow with the change of the season or a new activity to pursue together I'd realize everything i ever wanted was right next to me. It wasn't, and it never could be, and this truth is a lonely one. perhaps that's why i kept it hidden for so long, preferring instead to create a comfortable dishonesty between us both. Preferring to care only about myself. So no more magic shows. I've been in the audience when the performance ends and curtain closes, and I've been up on stage behind it after the crowd shuffles away and the lights go out. In the end both feel numbly the same.

I wish i could have written something a little bit brighter, but it's raining out today, and this is what happens when you push people away and keep too much company with yourself.

Undefeated

A few years ago an older gentleman used to volunteer his time ocasionally to help the pitchers on my school's baseball team. He was a pleasant man of good nature, with a wide smile and big ears that jutted out to the side giving him the portrait of an aged Alfred E. Newman, the iconic character from the cover of Madd Magazine. He had an ease about him that invited conversation and even the shy among us would feel obliged to at least wave or say hello. When asked how he was doing today he always offered the same, jolly response: "Undefeated so far." Clearly it was in reference to his background as a college coach, and intended to deliver the light hearted sense of humor people like him are generally able to inject into almost any casual social encounter. But take a moment to get past the sheer simplicity of his words and consider their full weight.

If we don't allow ourselves to get out of bed every day undefeated, then what's the alternative?

We couldn't all be cowboys , , , ,

Can you remember back to kindergarten, when the teacher asked each member of the class what they wanted to be when they grew up? It's funny to think of it now, a room full of 5 or 6 year old discussing their career plans and ambitions as if it was always at the forefront of their imagination. forget snack time, cutting and pasting, getting to be the line leader on the march to board the buses, or learning how to tie your shoes. No time for kids' stuff, we had bigger fish to fry. There were all the usual doctors and lawyers and even a few cowboys, which seems remarkable for the Southern Connecticut suburbs in the mid '80's. Guess i'll have to chalk it up to syndicated reruns of Bonanza every Saturday morning. I'm almost positive no one ended up being a cowboy, and i can't help but wonder if most of those kids never had a shot at being doctors and probably no small number of the aspiring prosecutors have found themselves in need of good lawyer; funny how that sort of thing works out. Of all the possibilities i pronounced with great certainty that i wanted to be a comedian. No joke (and no pun intended), i told my teacher i wanted to be a comic. Oddly enough I'm not sure how i came to that conclusion but I'm positive i was serious since I wouldn't develop a capacity for sarcasm and an inability to take these kinds of questions seriously for another 10 years or so. So there i was, in a room full of future doctors and lawyers and real-life class clowns, the fat-cheeked kid in the striped polo shirt with the dutchboy haircut who just wanted to make people laugh when he grew up; and I'm not even sure if i knew any jokes.

As it it turns out, i never did become a comic. My profession of choice is so far removed from most peoples' notion of what's funny that i probably won't be replacing Dane Cook any time soon. I work in the exciting world of studious academics where loony toons ties, pleated pants, brief cases, frumpy shirts, and cardigan sweaters are almost required for entry into the field. At best a few have managed to master the unimaginative and unofficial male uniform of khaki pants and a blue shirt, but even that's a stretch and probably only due some intervention on the part of their wives. I look at most of my colleagues and i see someone who has dressed themselves while semi-intoxicated in clothes they borrowed from either Elmer Fudd, Goofey, or any one of the Muppetts. I read a memoir last year written by a young man traveled to Cornell from India to study and the first thing he told his young wife when he called was, "our rickshaw drivers dress better than my professors." I've seen rickshaw drivers, so things must be really bad in Ithaca. I count my lucky stars and an absence of colorblindness that I don't fit that description at all. Truth be told, i can't figure out if it's just because i haven't met the right cartoon character from whom to get hand-me-downs or because i just drink from a different form of kool-aid. Neither of us understands one another, each seeing the other as some oddly dressed mannequin from a different time and place which neither of us is able imagine. I tend to see teaching as something to be enjoyed that i try not to take too seriously (while understanding that it is still serious business) while for some the notion of personal appearance and any hint of personality takes a back seat to the studious business of stuffing kids heads full of knowledge and using words like 'metacognition' as if it was the first thing they'd uttered after exiting the womb.

So though i may not have become a comedian, I take comfort in knowing that surely some people find a reason to point their finger at me and laugh.

To quote Adam Duritz: "we couldn't all be cowboys, so some of us are clowns."

Now, if i could just find my face paint . . .

Edit, delete, what's the difference besides a few 1000 words?

I’ve had this thing just over a month and already managed to delete all my posts because, apparently, I’m an idiot. Tried to delete one and the entire thing vanished. And though an idiot I may be I’m not a fool so the majority of my entries were backed up on my computer. Actually, no, that’s a bit of a white lie and at best a happy coincidence born out of my own laziness; i might still be a fool. The only reason I had some of them is because I typed them on Microsoft Word first because I’m too unwilling to get used to the small window blogspot makes me use. That and I am the impatient type who refuse to take the time to capitalize my “I’s” and the first letter of new sentences so I rely on Word to do it for me. Alas, a few posts are gone forever, lowercase i’s and all, but I’ll try not to shed a tear. So in lieu of what I planned to write tonight here’s what I managed to save, all conveniently contained in one big entry.

9/1/08

Labor Day, and another summer in the books. Not feeling like writing today so instead I’ll share one of a collection of quotes I’ve acquired over the years. Don’t read into my choice too deeply, as I don’t consider myself a religious man. I just like how absurd the whole things sounds when reduced to lions eating llamas and a few grey herons:

"The first thing that drew me in was disbelief. What? Humanity sins but it's God's Son who pays the price? I tried to imagine Father saying to me, 'Piscine, a lion slipped into the llama pen today and killed two llamas. Yesterday another one killed a black buck. Last week two of them ate the camel. The week before it was painted storks and grey herons. And who's to say for sure who snacked on our golden agouti? The situation has become intolerable. Something must be done. I have decided that the only way the lions can atone for their sins is if I feed you to them.'

'Yes, Father, that would be the right and logical thing to do. Give me a moment to wash up.'

'Hallelujah, my son.'

'Hallelujah, Father.'

What a downright weird story. What peculiar psychology."

-"Life of Pi" Yann Martel

8/24/08

I don’t really intend to share this with people. If someone stumbles upon it and happens to like what they read that is fine, but I’m not writing so I can give my friends something to do at work between updating their Myspace pages and stalking people of Facebook. It takes either a great deal of confidence or an overabundance of pride (perhaps both?) to decide what you write is actually good enough to be read by other people. Sure I’ll be the first one to tell you that I think I’m an interesting person (and I do hope you feel the same way about yourself), but that doesn’t mean anyone wants to hear about it.

I did tell one friend: a coworker much older than me who's computer savey is limited to buying Celtics tickets online with my help, so i figure i'm safe. Though unlikely to ever read this page even if he could navigate to it, he did ask about the title so I’ll take a moment to elaborate on its origin.

Discordant dispatches seems fitting because essentially that’s all any of this is. Discordant, meaning not in harmony or accord (or if you are a geology buff it’s the term for a different kind or rock cutting across a formation of otherwise similar rock) seems like an appropriate description of what’s here. And besides, my first title of ‘ruminations and ramblings,’ though probably more accurate, sounds too much like a reference to the unexciting world of cows. If that was the case I’d be better off calling it ‘rambling ruminants’ but it’s not so I won’t.

The blog address ‘eloquent graffiti’ is in reference to a line in a song by Iron & Wine called The Trapeze Swinger. The second verse starts off:

Please, remember me
Fondly
I heard from someone you're still pretty
And then
They went on to say
That the pearly gates
Had some eloquent graffiti
Like "We'll meet again"
And "Fuck the man"
And "Tell my mother not to worry"

It’s beautiful song really, with any number of possible meanings, but I particularly like the line about the graffiti. I imagine it’s the kind of thing you’d say if you were setting off on a voyage of self discovery or simply leaving what’s familiar in search of what’s possible. “Goodbye, we’ll see each other again but in the meantime please don’t trouble yourself worrying about me. I’ve got some things to figure out but when I do I’ll return.” And “fuck the man” just gives it a rebellious tone that really appeals to me. Like quitting your job and making sure to accidentally spill your coffee on the bosses desk on the way out the door or encasing all your least favorite co-worker's possessions in Jello. I probably couldn’t bring myself to do it, but that doesn't mean i don't have the right to dream. Though neither eloquent nor written on a wall with spraypaint this will have to serve as my own form of graffiti: unsightly to most, but occasionally well placed and clever. I'm not promising Banksy but this won't be your local bathroom stall either.

And BTV is the call sign of the Burlington airport which has recently been reappropriated by locals to refer to the entire city and those of us who call it home.

8/23/08

Birthdays always seem to present an opportunity for self reflection, and this year was no exception. The only difference being that this time I’m writing some of them down. In the some odd years that have passed since i last stroked a keyboard with this same purpose quite a bit has has changed in the world, but i've weathered the storm well. In so doing I've achieved some goals, failed at a few, and revised many; I've lost a father, friends, and mentors; I've lost degrees of innocence and replaced it with degrees of perspective; I've found time and then run out; I've made memories and had others permanently erased in an instant; I've lost the ability to see the world as simple and peoples' conditions as a logical consequence of their own choices; I've lost love, found it, turned my back on it, asked it for forgiveness, taken advantage of its generosity, and at the moment I’m afraid I’m about to abandon it once again; I've been proud and I've been ashamed; I've never looked back and i look back all the time; i left a job to find a career, and having found one that fits me well wonder now if it's really my style; I've learned to put other people first and I've realized that despite my desire for independence it feels terrible to be truly alone, and the only thing worse is to be forgotten. In a word: I've grown up.

8/21/08

I turned a year older today, good a reason as any to try my hand at writing again and a simple way to celebrate another good year in the books. I dabbled with blogging a few years ago with a small measure of success; meaning I updated it at regularly sporadic intervals before neglecting it altogether a few months shy of a partial calendar year. which is to say I adhered mostly to a schedule dictated by not-much-else-to-do and written with all the expected literary flourish of one who has refined his craft with a few too many glasses of wine before settling down to the real business of keyboarding his thoughts.

I've decided to give it another go, not because I've suddenly tripped and fallen over a bounty of interesting thoughts and observations, but because I'm looking for a new experience; something personal, something entirely my own. Every so often life changing events require life changes and, in some small way, this is mine. Nothing profound there really, it's a cliche worn out years ago, but what i always assumed was that it referred to life changing events being singular: one cataclysmic experience that alters ones notion of life, love, God, work, self, etc. Truth is, for most of us i suppose it doesn't work this way. Sure, now and again we get our foundations rocked a bit and occasionally a few pieces fall out and the cracks get a little bigger but for the most part we remain upright and more or less structurally sound: no broken windows, no leaks, and faithful that the stink in the bathroom will eventually go away. But I'd argue nothing harbors a greater capacity to create change than the passage of time and the accumulation of experience. The combination of which adds up to those moments when you lie awake at night, or more often in the wee hours of the morning, wondering how you got to where you are, who are you with (or without), and what you plan to do about it.

I was told by a friend recently that i think too much, and I'd agree. most likely it's a latent consequence of a previous friend telling me i talk too much. So now I'm seeing if i can't score a hat-trick and be told I write too much as well (though should it happen i hope a 4th friend won't have to tell me I'm alone too much). All kidding aside I've decided, through both the subtle and rather acute encouragement of people i consider to have my best interest in mind, hat i might enjoy writing again. Not necessarily with the intention that others will read it (who would want to?) but with the intention that with writing comes a bit of truth. And if not literal written truth then a sort of truth in understanding or, at the very leas,t a higher degree of clarity of ones thoughts. Put simply, I can look at a something and in my imagination decide pretty quickly how i feel about it with no obvious reason or inclination to bother revisiting my initial impression. But, if for whatever reason i decide to write about it i end up with my judgments and impressions staring back at me, and often serving as a reminder of just how daft i can be while watching the world unfold from the comfort of a bar stool or behind the barrier of a nice pair of mirrored sunglasses, with a hot cup of coffee in my hand, and in possession of just enough stupidity to think that sometimes i actually have the world figured out. And when the pile of words reflecting back at me from the computer looks like little more than well punctuated drivel I'm not inclined to disagree.