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.