The Island of Unfinished Projects

I am bone weary. I’d intended on just going to the gym for about 30 minutes of cardio but left an 1 1/2 hours later feeling like a wrung out rag. That’s a good thing by the way - but still, bone-wearying. My usual weight routine is 3x/wk - and Saturday is not one of the days on which I do it - but sometimes, obsession sets in and ‘the work’ must be done. But that is neither here nor there and is not what I meant to talk about - it’s just that I’m - that’s right. Bone-weary.

Given my current state, I was once again searching for something to write about and the fatigue was making it even more difficult to put my thoughts in some order. Brows furrowed, I let my eyes drop to my left where they came to rest on the usb turntable with its dust cover in place and - voila! The idea.

Like most people my age, I have been toting around with me, boxes and boxes of LPs - heavy, heavy LPs, thinking that I would eventually play them. Of course, I have a regular sound system with an old turntable but the records never, or almost never, got played, did they? No, they didn’t. That’s because technology changed and records just seemed so cumbersome and unmanageable - but not so cumbersome as to rid myself of them, it would appear.

Anyway, first there were the cassettes, followed by the eight-track tape players; then the cds, and finally, the mp3s - and still I persisted in carrying from town to city and city to town, move after move, these boxes and boxes of LPs, always with the idea in mind that I would ‘sort them out’ and play them occasionally. This ‘plan’ has failed miserably and I am surrounded by these boxes, either hidden away or discreetly hidden in plain sight with tasteful cloths draped over them like little occasional tables but useless, as you can’t really put anything on them.

A few years ago, I saw advertised in Hammacher Shclemmer, a revolutionary product - a turntable that plugged right into your computer via usb cable; all your LPs could be turned into mp3s and added to your digital library of music. “Eureka!”, I thought, “I must have this!”.

Of course, being the first of its kind it did not come cheap - but I figured it would be worth it, considering the fact that the LPs could then be eliminated and, should we ever move again, the savings in not having to transport them to a new location would be significant - records are very heavy - like books.

I sent off for it and eagerly awaited its arrival. The day came. The box was unpacked, the beautiful new turntable was attached, and the serious business of selecting which of the LPs would be the first to undergo the alchemic process of turning analog into digital began - not an easy task - but neither was it insurmountable. Basically, it proceeded by grabbing the nearest LP at hand and beginning the process.

Now here is where the fatal flaw in my plan made itself known. While lured by the catalogue description, the whole ease of the technological process involved in the transference (ever so modern!) and the idea that before long, a long dormant collection of the best music in the world (for don’t we all own ‘that’ collection?) would be wafting from my computer and filling the air with music, I had neglected to ‘think it through’. There was a swarm of flies in the ointment.

You see, ‘the process’ turned out to be rather tedious. Yes, you could transfer an album to the computer but it was necessary to babysit each side because the software didn’t know when ‘Side A’ ended - it would just keep recording as the needle reached the end of the road and bumped along. Steady monitoring was necessary. Then there was the small matter of the tracks. Because the software could not create tracks automatically, I had to go back, find the pause between each one, divide it and add all the relevant information, such as track title, etc. Oh! And there was also the need to eliminate all the ‘pops’ and ‘clicks’. Yes, you could leave them in for nostalgic reasons (“ah, isn’t this wonderful! It’s just like the record! I remember when so-and-so made that scratch!”) but after the clarity of digital, it is a tall wall to surmount, in my opinion.

Of course, I hadn’t thought of any of this - I had been blinded by the beauty of technology, marvelling at the possibility of spinning LP dross into MP3 gold. And there were hundreds of LPs that needed spinning; far too many for my liking, as it turned out.

It wasn’t long before the dust cover went back on the turntable and a pile of various papers, magazines, and the like removed it from view - until the other day when I tried doing a little clean up and suddenly it was once again, revealed.

I still have it in mind to download the odd LP but it does not carry the sense of urgency with it as it once did - and sadly, it has become another unfinished project. I’ll just add it to the list and wait for inspiration...

La Dolce Vita!

I’ve just come back from the grocery store. I had to pick up a couple of things and decided on making green peppers as a side dish to accompany the fish I’m cooking. I was trying to figure out something that would appeal and as I passed through the vegetables, the green peppers called out to me - in Italian.

Years ago, I had the great privilege of working in Rome, teaching English as a second language. I will not go into that right now, but suffice it to say that many adventures were had and, no doubt, some of them will inevitably be recounted here. But right now, I want to talk about the peppers.

Because I taught in a language school, my students ranged in age from about 12 to well over that and most of them were quite fond of me, ‘the American’ - and eventually it occurred that I would be invited to one home or another for dinner. The meals were always spectacular and each one could be used for an entry here - but I won’t do that.

On one occasion, one of my students, a young man whose family lived in the country outside Rome, invited me to their home for just such an evening. We were picked up at the end of the day, by his mother (quite the chain-smoker) and driven, for what seemed hours, to a lovely spot in the Alban Hills, home of Castelli Romani.

My hosts were more than generous in making me feel, not just welcomed but, a part of their family - not an easy thing to do for most. The food was exquisite - it was simple fare but made lovingly by practiced hands. One of the items served was this simple dish of green peppers. They had been fried in olive oil until soft, and then, once cooked, had been left to sit in yet more olive oil to marinate. I cannot tell you how wonderful they were. I’d never had anything like them before and they were so simple.

I’ve made them on occasion myself but it’s been years since I’ve done so. For some reason, when I saw those beautiful green peppers in the store, I remembered the dish and decided to make them.

I’m hoping they will taste as delicious as I remember them.

Who Makes the Rules Around Here?

I definitely should have started this earlier - and thought of a topic - because once again, I’m pressed for time and won’t be able to write a vignette. Now I’m beginning to wonder if it ‘counts’ to just write down a few sentences and call it ‘a writing’.

Since there were no real rules laid out at the beginning of this, I suppose I can include whatever I want and call it ‘a session’ - which is what I’m about to do. 

 Still, there’s some niggling bit of discomfort about it that tells me it’s wrong; that a ‘real’ entry consists of something more than just typing out a few sentences.

At the same time, I don’t think I want to alter anything at the moment, rule-wise, as I’m having enough trouble just keeping my commitment to do this every day. If I add the additional pressure of having to actually write a vignette, I may cause myself to skip a day out of sheer frustration - or worse - panic. The last thing I need is to discourage myself from sitting down here and putting at least something down - anything, really.

How long ago was it that I suggested (to myself) that I needed to build up a supply of possible subjects on which to write, alleviating at least some portion of the difficulty? I don’t remember. But I haven't done it yet and I need to do it soon.  What I do know is that my time has run out and I must run. Pity. As I was just beginning to warm up…

There's a Sad Sort of Clanging

It has not been my intention to make every entry a reflection on times past though it’s beginning to appear that way - but memory is an easy pool to pull from - and though I am not giving these entries their due, in terms of time and attention to detail, they allow me to at least capture an essence that, if I am ever moved to do so, could act as the bones on which to put flesh. I should also mention that I do take creative licence with them and embellish where necessary in order to produce a more even flow; in other words - don’t believe everything you read…

My grandparent’s house in Nebraska was a place full of wonders. It wasn’t that there was anything particularly exotic about it or the furnishings within it, but rather, the atmosphere, for this was the great gathering place of my clan.

Once, maybe twice a year, if we were lucky, we would drive across the country from Denver to Lincoln and spend a week with my grandparents. The trip seemed endless and the stay momentary but on reflection, I have so many memories from those visits that it is clear to me, they were rich in life.

In my grandparent’s den, was the television, a rather large working desk, and a piano. My grandfather was an able pianist and, as he used to tell it, it was his tickling of the ivories that swept my grandmother off her feet, into his arms, and a marriage.

At some point in our visits, when all the cousins and aunts and uncles would be over, my grandfather would sit down at the piano and we would all sing. This was especially thrilling at Christmas time when carols would be sung. We were a large Irish/Danish family and our numbers large enough to make a small chorus. This was grand for the sound was rib-rattling!

But the one object in the room that never ceased to fascinate me was the cuckoo clock which hung above my grandfather’s desk. It was not huge but it was old and worked beautifully. My great grandmother was from Schleswig-Holstein and when they immigrated to the United States, crossing those broad tracts of land to settle on the plains of Nebraska, she brought with her, the cuckoo.

As a child, that clock was a mystery and a delight with the little bird popping out to sound the hours and the halves, and the pine cones descending as the oak leaf on the pendulum swung back and forth. I loved that clock and even today the thought of it evokes a tenderness in my heart that still moves me.

In 1989, my partner and I took a trip to Europe - it was to be our last, as he died the following year. This was to be our ‘grand tour’; though we’d both been before, neither of us had travelled to all the places on our itinerary together - and I’d never been to Germany.

We started in Venice, took the overnight train to Vienna, then on to Munich and down into Bavaria. From there we headed west and before leaving Germany for France, stopped for a night in Baden-Baden.

Because it was November, it got dark very early and we arrived after the sun had set, so there was little sight-seeing to do at that hour. We checked into our hotel and then found a restaurant nearby to have dinner.

After dinner, we decided to take a walk and look around even though everything was closed up, tight as a drum. While walking past a row of shops, we suddenly found ourselves in front of a clock shop whose window was filled with cuckoos of all sizes. This was fate - I had to have one. Unfortunately the store was closed and we weren’t staying but the one night.

The following morning before getting on the road, I coaxed a visit to the shop from my partner who was anxious to get started. We were waiting eagerly at the door when the store opened and I quickly found a small cuckoo that I thought would be ideal - not too conspicuous (except for the constant cuckooing) and small enough to carry back to the States.

There was however, a much bigger problem: I hadn’t enough German marks left to cover the cost; I’d spent right down to the last, as we would soon be in France and the marks rendered useless as a result - so I’d spent them.

I don’t know if it was the utter disappointment in my face or the fact that the shopkeeper had a generous soul - but clearly something transpired between us for he waived the additional cost, boxed up the clock and handed the precious thing to me. I am not kidding when I tell you I was on the verge of tears, so overwhelmed was I.

After thanking him profusely, we continued on our journey and we finally made it back home; the sweet cuckoo clock was soon safely ensconced on the wall and happily ticking away.

It’s 23 years now I’ve had the clock and it has hung on numerous walls since it came into my possession. It has recently begun to ‘act up’ a bit but I would never replace it with another - I am too fond of it.

And though it’s been rather temperamental and only just this very day, began tick-tocking once again, not to mention cuckooing, I’d have no other.

Objects such as these become imbued with all the life that has surrounded them, including that which they are given by proxy - such as that of my grandparents and their cuckoo. I would not have considered having one were it not for them - and though it is not the same clock, I am reminded of them - and of so many things.

It’s just a simple, little cuckoo - but what a sweet and memorable song it sings!

Oh, Those Summers! Where Have They Gone!?

I suppose everybody feels the same way - but I’ll say it anyway - there is nothing like Summer when you’re a child. Yes, Winter can be fun - but Summer; Summer was almost magical. When I was little we would occasionally go for drives into the mountains. Given that we were surrounded by them, we hadn’t far to go.

The week before the outing a destination would be chosen and the anticipation of the event was nearly impossible to bear. The outing would always be based around a picnic and the food my mother prepared was always the same. She was from the south, with a very strong accent that never faded, though she’d been away from ‘home’ for years. Her picnics always had devilled eggs, the best fried chicken, home-made potato salad, baked beans with bacon, and of course, dinner rolls or corn bread.

When the day of the drive would arrive, we’d all pile into the Chrysler and head out into the mountains. Often, we would just drive without any real destination other than to find the ‘perfect’ spot to stop for our picnic. Sometimes, this might be just by the side of the road, near a stream or something; other times, a picnic ground, and occasionally, somewhere more exotic - like Lookout Mountain, the resting place of ‘Buffalo Bill’. Wherever it ended up being, we were always anxious to get there, as the smell of all that food would make us delirious with hunger.

When the meal had been consumed and the day began to wane, we’d all pile back into the car and head for home. I remember the windows down, driving through the cool, dusky, shadow of mountains and the crisp air scented with pines. Paul Harvey would be on the radio, or some other ‘talk’ program and the quiet, comfort of the car would lull me to sleep - it was bliss.

I’d always meant to learn to make that particular picnic dinner from my mother but never got around to it - that chance disappeared years ago and much too soon.

If I allow myself the freedom of concentrated reverie, I can still conjure the aromas - and when I do, I can hear my mother’s voice so close to me, its soft southern drawl comforting me for always.

A Curious Mind Is An Active Mind

I don’t know why it is, but I cannot seem to keep my desk cleared. Oh I make the necessary valiant effort when it becomes overrun but I just can’t seem to keep it cleared for very long. It seems that each day a new piece of paper, or a tin of mints, or another pen pops up - almost over night. It calls to mind, an old fence out on a prairie against which bits of paper, kleenexes, and other discarded detritus of the careless passer-by have blown - and remain stuck there, emitting a sick, empty feeling of nothingness. But there is something - all that paper!

It’s almost as if these things are alive and multiply under cover of darkness in the hope that I won’t notice - but I do - and then I ignore it - until it cannot be ignored anymore.

If I just filed that which needed filing and tossed that which needed tossing, I know I’d save myself a great deal of angst when the inevitable day comes on which all the separate bits must be sorted - but it never happens.

I have become better at keeping it slightly tidier - but I’m nowhere near where I’d like to be. Now, don’t get me wrong - I’m not a hoarder - just a little messy when it comes to my desk - or any of my personal space, for that matter. I like to think of it as an attribute that comes with being an artist; we need space, we need things, art is messy, etc. - this prevents me from any other analysis that might make me feel that I’m just a slob - because I’m not.

In fact, in other areas I am obsessively neat and things must always be ‘just so’ or they require adjusting - this even extends to the gym. Take for example, today. I’m in the gym and I’m just about to begin my squats (with weights). I always do these in the same area with a wall behind me and on the opposite wall, directly across from me, are 3 exercise balls - 2 grey and 1 blue. They are usually in the following order: grey, blue, grey. Today, as I began my squats, they were arranged like this: blue, grey, grey. That would never do. There was something about the imbalance that cried out (to me) for the harmony of a more formal configuration - and after I’d finished my first set, I complied.

Now, is this the kind of thing that would disturb someone else? Anyone else? I don’t know. My point is - the necessity of order was required for me to have a ‘good’ workout - and the same thing applies to other areas in my life - so why not my desk? What is so different about that?

Perhaps it is just as I’ve always suspected - at least for me. Creativity requires a bit of chaos - a variety of objects to gaze upon can perhaps in some way stimulate the process - even if at some point agitation sets in and the ‘stage’ must be reset.

I think it’s time for resetting to begin.

The Long Way Home

I’ve just returned from an epic walk - at least, it feels that way. I’d love to sit and chat awhile but there isn’t time for that today, I’m afraid. We left here some 3 1/2 hours ago, took the tram across town to it’s penultimate stop, and then walked - all- the - way - back -home.

I spent 35 minutes on the treadmill this morning as well so, I’m slightly spent and not only do I not think I have the strength to write something - but I haven’t the time either!

In total, it was probably about a 10K walk - this may not seem like much - but for one unaccustomed to that high a figure, it is monumental - and I feel it - all over.

There! I know it sounds like a poor excuse - but it’s almost 6:00pm and I’ve got other ‘stuff’ to do.

Look - I’m making the effort to put something down and this is it - thin though it be.

I just can’t break the promise to myself this early and not write anything - I’ve only been doing this about a month.

I think a whole rejigging of the schedule will have to be done…

The Little Match Girl & the Great Fire

I was looking through some photographs (desperately seeking inspiration) and came across a picture I’d downloaded of The Man of Uz. It is an illustration by a not so very illustrious artist but one who I have known as long as I can recollect. I had copied it down in order to make a card for my partner marking the end of what had been a rather difficult period (but that’s another story).

The reason that I knew of this artist was because when I was a child, my family had a volume of Hans Christian Anderson’s fairytales. Now, that’s not that unusual and you might envision it as a pleasant little book that a family library would most likely have in it - but ‘our Hans’ was a fairly dark character and his tales are often edged with frightening scenes - a bit like the Grimms - but somehow, colder.

In any case, this book of fairytales was clothbound and was wrapped, front to back, with an illustration depicting the various characters in the book. Again, you would think that it would be something rather pretty - but it was not. It was completely grotesque and I was drawn to it by the sheer shiver factor it produced - these were not your usual illustrations, but deeply intricate and coloured heavily in rich, dark hues. The people that inhabited them were strange creatures of almost nightmarish origin - and I used to just stare at them endlessly.

But I haven’t mentioned the artist by name. He was Arthur Szyk, a Polish Jew born in Lodz in 1894. He later moved to the U.S. and was well-known for his satirical caricatures during the war years. It wasn’t until recently that I actually learned the name of the man whose work (at least, that in our book) I had become so familiar with.

At some point during my high school years, my father, for some inscrutable reason, decided to ‘rid’ us of many of the books with which I and my siblings had grown up. I’ve never been able to figure that out. Luckily, or perhaps not so luckily, the Hans Christian Anderson had not been among them. No, the fate that befell that wondrous volume was even worse.

It was in my Junior year in high school and I had been excused from class for a dentist’s appointment. While sitting in the waiting room reading, a rather excited conversation occurred among the staff. At first I paid no attention to it but because of its length; in the end, I couldn't help but listen. It seemed there was a huge fire, a conflagration occurring and, being a very small town, this was big news. 
There were a few salient bits of information that began to fill me with a certain dread as it became clear to me that this fire’s destructive forces were being wrought upon my own home. I could not say anything but when my appointment ended, I raced home as fast as I could to find half of our building pretty much in ruins - and that half contained our apartment. That which was not destroyed by the fire, was water damaged beyond repair and unfortunately, there seemed to have been some looting as objects were carried from the apartments. Almost everything I had ever owned, was gone - and so too, was the book.

Years later, after the invention of the internet, I was reminiscing nostalgically about a number of the books we had and decided to begin a search for them on eBay, which I promptly did. It took quite some doing but I managed to track down the HCA and bought it. It was at this point that I learned the artist’s name. Once discovered, I bought a couple more of his illustrated books.

It’s a strange thing - I know it’s not the original book of fairytales I once held in my 5 year old hands - but the book is exactly the same - and somehow connects me to myself in a certain place and time - and like an heirloom, I treasure it.

The Sea, The Sea, The Sea, and Me - the Crab

I’m not really a strong believer in horoscopes - in fact, I’m probably not a believer at all. When I was younger and quite a bit more mystically inclined, I thought it was possible we were ruled by our stars - and I read my horoscope as if it were gospel. I still read it - but not so much for its ‘facts’ but for the possible inspiration it might give in setting the tone of the day. Of course, I usually forget about it the second my eye turns to something else in the paper - but still, read it, I do. And really, who’s to say whether, at the moment of each of our births, the alignment of the stars doesn't have some sort of gravitational pull that leads us to our fate, our destiny? The universe is a vast mystery, unsolvable by all.

But like I said - I’m not a dedicated devotee to astrology, by any means.

Still, there are qualities and traits specific to my sign that could not be more tailor-made had I chosen them myself - in fact, almost all the characteristics of my sign are strangely accurate. Take for example the fact that mine is a ‘water’ sign. I know it might seem silly - but I have a terrific affinity to water - especially the sea.

I know, I know - you might say, “Well, who doesn’t? Being a necessity, water is loved by most everyone.” - and you’d be right - up to a point. However, it’s more than that. If I could, I would live by the sea - or perhaps, in it. Oh, I’m not a great swimmer, by any means - in fact, hardly at all. But I thoroughly enjoy being in it - a lot. Most people who go to the beach, lie about on the sand for hours on end but only get in the water a couple of times to refresh themselves. Me? I’m not much good at lying on the beach - I spend all my time in the water - hours of it.

When we’re at the beach, I usually buy one of those inflatable mattresses and float about for hours - half the time, just hanging on to it with my body immersed in the water. I’ll start out close to the shore and just drift, letting the action of the sea pull me outwards. When I think I’ve gone far enough, I’ll turn sideways across it, put my goggles on and spend the next hour or so looking under the water and bobbing my head in and out of it. There is an exhilarating sense of freedom and life about this - silly though it may seem. After enough time has been spent, I’ll paddle myself back, close to shore, and start the whole process again - excellent!

When it’s finally time to emerge - I’ll shower off and spend 40 minutes or so in the sun before I am drawn back to the water - and during that 40 minutes, my attention, most likely, is on the sea from which I just emerged.

I can’t really explain it - the connection I have to the sea resonates somewhere deep within me and literally pulls me to it - it is like air to me - something beautifully natural, necessary, and I am moved by its never-ceasing rhythm, its waters pulled by by forces in the atmosphere - it is like the living, breathing, beating heart of eternity.

Perhaps my blood, my beating heart, is also affected by the same rhythms that move the mighty oceans - and that would put me one step closer to being a child of an astrological sign - but I cannot say.

Squirrels and Their Nuts

A nutshell - that’s what I’d like this minor entry to be contained in - the simple, concise, yet hard to crack, and, of course, ever so pithy tender morceau - ready to be consumed. 

 But there’s only air! Air and a lack of time and ideas (I think I’ve been here before…) I would love to stay and actually write a piece but look at the time! It’s 5:38pm - and I’ve got other things to do.  

I guess this is farewell - for now. 

 (Well, it was short - but it lacks all of the above qualities I wanted it to have!)

The Heat Ate My Homework!

I would say, “My dog ate my homework”, if I had a dog. 
 Instead, I’ll have to go with the truth. It was not an ‘ant’ day, but rather a ‘grasshopper’ day, in some regards.  But there was a reason for it. 
 It is too warm to think straight and I’ve quite melted with the heat - near delirious - I’m sure it’s my colouring - but there you are - no writing today other than to say this. 
 I’ve got a ballet class in a short while and I really need to start getting ready for it. 
 Perhaps, I may add to this when I get back - if not - how does ‘tomorrow’ sound? 
 Because that will have to do…

The Bloody Red Baron's Uncle and I...

I suppose I should start out by laying out a couple of facts - the truth is, I never met Baron Walter Von Richthofen. Considering he was born in 1848, this is really no wonder - and though I am not a child, I am not that old. Nor, do I think, did his nephew, the Bloody Red Baron ever visit him - at least not at his castle.

                            Baron Walter Von Richthoven

                                          Manfred Von Richthoven

                                          ('The Bloody Red Baron')

But speaking of his castle, I did, as a child, spend a number of years, if in not in its direct shadow, then within the very large aura it cast over the neighbourhood. By the time we moved to the area, the Baron had long since died and the castle itself had passed through many hands, though at the time of which I write, there were still living within its walls some minor Hungarian aristocracy - and this added a certain air of Old World mystery to the place - and for a child with a vivid imagination, a certain sense of excitement/terror as well.

I remember Halloweens at the Castle being quite scary - though no one ever went inside but stood at the door waiting for the treats- and we were always disappointed with them - little packages of candy cigarettes, dusted in confectioner’s sugar and wrapped in paper; you could ‘puff’ on the cigarettes and blow the sugar out, making it look like ‘real’ smoke - so Kool at the age of five… - but that’s another story.

                               The castle just after completion

As happens when you move into a new neighbourhood with lots of children, you eventually meet them all and some of them even become your friends - one of mine was the son of the gate-keeper at the Castle. Actually, I don’t really even know if he was the gate-keeper or whether he just lived in the house - I haven’t a clue what the man really did - but his son and I were friends and I would occasionally, not too often, be invited onto the grounds of the Castle to play.

There must have been some construction of some sort going on at the time of this particular incident, because I remember a large pile of broken concrete all along one section of the drive and a truck parked next to it. How or why we ended up playing in the back of the truck is not to be known (it was a long time ago) - but we did - and it didn’t take long before an accident occurred. Now, who do you think the accident befell? That’s correct - me.

I don’t know what we were doing but somehow I got pushed (fell? Nah.) out of the back and directly onto a jagged piece of concrete. If my hands had been quicker or the tumble more graceful, the fall would not have resulted in a gash at the top of my forehead - but unfortunately, I fell headfirst.

Yes, there was some screaming and yes, there were some tears, but mostly - there was blood. Lots of blood. There was blood everywhere in fact because it seemed to be flowing quite profusely from my head and down my face. You see, even a small head wound will bleed like crazy - this I know from experience...

From the gatehouse, came the mother of my (suddenly less than best) friend and she quickly pressed a cloth against the wound and bundled me into their car (I think) and back to my own home - that’s one way to solve a problem - drop it off at the neighbour’s!

When my mother came to the door, I thought she would likely faint, for the cloth which had been pressed against my head was quite red as the bleeding was still an ongoing event.

I was taken inside and after the loving ministrations of my mother, the bleeding subsided and it was decided a hospital visit (stitches! Yikes!) would not be necessary.

Whether it was through my own volition or something decided by my mother - I would not be returning to Richthofen Castle for any more play dates. I had been cast out. Just as well - I’d had my own bloody Richthofen experience - and one was definitely enough.

The Zero Hour

From his vantage point in the water as he let his gaze slide over the shore line, he could see to the left, the grand hotels sweeping around the curve of the land, then parkland and finally, at the other end, the ancient remains of the dead volcano, Diamond Head. It had been the perfect 2 weeks he thought and smiled to himself…

This isn’t working for me - at least, not at the moment. I’m far too distracted and not at all into this story, truth be told. I’m trying to get something down before I have to run off but the clock has been accelerating ever since I sat down here and it’s just not going to be enough time to ‘finish what I started’.

I was searching for something to write about and just when I hit upon it and put down the first thought, it spooled itself out before me and I could tell it was going to take longer than the allotted hour - and I don’t want to continue it over 2 days. I think I’m going to have to begin it another time - just not today.

It always comes back to the hours in the day and how there truly aren’t enough of them. This is why it’s better to be ready with an idea when I sit down here - I spend too much of the first part of my hour trying to figure out what I’m doing - and then when I hit on it, it’s almost time to wrap it up. I know, I’ve set an arbitrary time limit but at the moment it’s necessary - at least until I feel more comfortable here.

At any rate, this bit of absolutely nothing is all I have on offer today - pity, really - but there you are. There’s always tomorrow - and tomorrow will be better…

A Vested Interest - In the Future...

A couple of years ago, I was thumbing through the NYTimes, men’s fashion supplement and came across a rather smart vest. I’m rather partial to vests and though I haven’t many, I love the ones I have - 2 in particular - as they were purchased on a trip to Paris a number of years ago and have endured beautifully. 
 There is nothing that really sets them apart from most vests (one is a burnt orange corduroy and the other a light yellow, windowpane, wool) other than the quality of the workmanship and the simple, classic cut of them - and they have pockets, which is a bonus. 
 I also like sweater vests but they must not fit loosely and they must have pockets - and for some reason, they are almost impossible to find - strange. That is why I have so few…

The vest I saw in the NYTimes was similar to my windowpane and for an instant, I thought of purchasing it - that is, until I saw the price. I can’t remember exactly how much it was now, but it was somewhere near $500 or $600 and I balked at the price - I mean, it’s a vest, okay!? There wasn’t even that much material to it and designer or no - I thought it was a huge rip-off. I didn’t buy it - besides, I would have had to go to New York to pick it up, making the whole thing farcically expensive.

Then, I had a brilliant idea - I could make my own. Really. How hard could it be? I figured if I bought a sewing machine, a couple of patterns, material, and all the ‘notions’ that one must have, I would come out way, way ahead. The way I rationalized the purchase of a sewing machine was to think to myself that if I only made one vest, it would be less expensive than the one in the NYTimes - and I would then have a sewing machine to make as many as I wanted, thereby actually saving tons of money.

I did my research, found a machine I liked (and a shopkeeper who showed me how to thread it), bought it, and then set about finding patterns on line that might do for my needs. Once that was done, I bought material online and waited for it to arrive.

In the meanwhile, I thought I could have a look at the pattern to see how these things are done. Well, it was a bit of a blueprint-like jigsaw puzzle with diagrams that would baffle an Ikea Draftsman - it was confusing - and I’ve put my share of things together and I’m rather good at it (it’s all about taking the time to read the instructions until you understand them).

Because I haven’t time to go through the step by step - let’s just say that after overcoming the bafflement, the first vest I made was a great success - so much so, that I immediately decided to make another - and another - and then one for my partner’s birthday - and soon I had 4 new vests - but the novelty of it all was beginning to wear off and I thought I could use a ‘little’ break, so 'the shop' was closed.

Some time later a friend, whom we had not seen in years, was in town and came for a visit. Somehow we got on to the topic of the vests and I eagerly pulled one out to display, being quite proud of my needlework. The reaction was immediate - she had to have one for her boyfriend. Now, I don’t do commissions for all sorts of reasons but mainly because I am not a professional tailor and should the garment not be satisfactory, I would be hard-pressed to make any needed adjustments. No, it was more a hobby thing for me.

But she would not take no for an answer and persisted in her request. Did I mention that she is beautiful - actually, gorgeous - and extremely persuasive? Well, she is. And I’m a fool. In the end, I couldn’t say no - and I agreed on the condition that she would supply the material, etc, and once done, I would mail it to her.

Well, I must have been out of my mind. The material arrived and it was some sort of velvety stuff that, for the life of me, I couldn’t get to lie still on the table. First, I had a helluva time just trying to cut it - because it was alive and would not stop slithering. Then, every time I tried to pin 2 pieces together in order to sew them, they would ‘crawl’ away from each other. I began to fear it. This was not a good thing.

After many attempts, I broke down and sent her an email saying that I would try my best but that I feared the worst and the vest might never be made. Because of her complete confidence in my abilities she told me to do my best and that she was certain it would all be fine…

In May, we’re planning a trip to New York. It’s going to be fun. Except for one thing. That’s where she lives. And we’re seeing her. She’ll be expecting the vest she’s been waiting for - for about 2 years. From where I’m sitting, I can see the bag that contains the pieces that have not yet been sewn - and my stomach churns. I’m going to have to start working on it again. Soon.

Wish me luck - I’m going to need it.

…And Sometimes - We Repeat The Past...

And so, Happy St. Patrick's Day!  It's actually been a beautiful day with a visit to the Bell Light Box where we saw Pina in 3D - it was incredible.  

Unfortunately, the crowds on the street were less than worthy of truly joining the Club of Irish - with their loutish, behaviour - Oh, to be young again - and not like them - this time...  

The movie was brilliant, we had a wonderful night out - and then I remembered  - I have to compose a blog entry.  This is it - though the meat of it, that which follows, was written awhile ago.  I place it here now as filler  - since it's far too late to write something original at this hour (11:52pm) - but at least I'm posting an entry, eh!  And "Happy Saint Patrick's Day!" 

“I’ve got about three more barrels to load on the cart, Jimmy.” Mr. Henderson pulled a bandana out of his back pocket, took off his beat up old cowboy hat and mopped at his forehead. He sighed wearily as he held the damp cloth over his face and scrunched up his eyes.

“That sun is a killer today, boy.” He let his hand slip to the back of his neck and rest there as he stretched his head back and looked up into the sky. 

 Jimmy was standing in the back of the cart and only grunted a response to Mr. Henderson’s remark. He was just too doggone tired and hot to do much more than that. 

 He sure did appreciate the momentary break though 'cause the sun was indeed killing him – that is, if his back didn’t do the job first. He wiped his own forehead with the back of his sleeve and stood swaying in the heat. 

 If it hadn’t been for his father insisting on his helping ol’ man Henderson he would be off with the other boys to the quarry. He let himself drift away for a moment as he thought about the cool green-black depth of that water and how much he’d love to be there right now. 

 “Whatchya thinkin’ bout, boy?” Mr. Henderson’s eye had drifted from the clouds that were building on the horizon and he stood half smiling at the son of his best friend. 

 Jimmy came out of his reverie and looked down at the fat old man who stood below him, his hair white and sparse on the top of his bull-like head. 

 For a man of 70, he was still as fit as any 40 year old and there’d been times when he’d had to prove it at the bar, where you generally wouldn’t find many decent folks, but for a man raised round these parts, and used to the rough and tumble life of a farmer and all around ranch hand, one might say it was home.

Not that he had much else in the way of comfort when it came to that whole notion of rooftops, parlours and picket fences. Ever since his wife died some 30 years before, he’d sorta let the place run to hell and he’d got used to living with the leaks both in his ramshackle house and his dignity; the neat edges having long ago slipped into ruin. 

 Still, he was a nice enough fellow and he’d grown up with Jimmy’s dad so the feelings ran deep.

 “Aw, nuthin’ really.” He said, embarrassed that Mr. Henderson might suspect his longing to be away from the heat and the dust of this infernal keg-loading. 

“You dreamin’ about your sweetheart?” The old man laughed and tucked the handkerchief into the back pocket of his faded overalls. He slapped his hat against his thigh to rid it of whatever dust hadn’t caked on with the sweat and placed it back on his head. 

 Jimmy hated it when these old guys prodded him about girls. At 17 he was awkward and had yet to get up the nerve to ask a girl out on a real date. Oh, sure there’d been the occasional stolen kiss but that was usually all in fun and there had never really been anyone special. Least not for him...

Águas de Março

I’d considered starting one of the ‘Tales’ today but it’s not going to happen - it requires more time than I have at the moment. You see, it was a beautiful day today and I just couldn’t stay indoors - at least, not all day. The first half (not all of it) was spent in pursuit of the ‘body beautiful’ and, a bit like the butterfly of song, it is elusive - though valiant efforts are made daily to capture it - I know it’s there somewhere…

After having completed a rather lengthy session, I returned home to find the apartment in transition - from dirty to clean - and I hied myself to the piano for some work - I lasted a good hour or so betore the heat and the beauty of the day began to tug at my feet - I found reasons to quit practicing and head out into the world. There were streets to explore! There were moth balls to buy! Orange peel and Lemon peel as well! (This will be for biscotti) And it was glorious (if still not quite as warm as I’d expected - but it is March, after all.)!

By the time I headed home again, I was a tad weary and looking forward to sitting down (oh! My aching back!) right here in front of the computer and getting on with it - but I realized that it was really too late to be only starting on something I expected to complete in an hour - so no ‘Tale’ will be told today.

But I’ll leave you with this:

Given that it’s March and we’re swiftly moving into a Spring that promises to be warmer and longer than we are accustomed to, I have found myself fixated on a song from a cd given to me a couple of years ago - I’m actually attempting to learn the lyrics (good luck with that one!). It is by Antonio Carlos Jobim and is called Aguas de Março (Waters of March) - if you’ve never heard it, give it a listen; if you have - revisit it - it’s perfect for this time of year. And you can thank me later…

Oh, Your Sweet and Shining Eyes, Are Like the Stars Above______?

Well, now I see that not only is this going to be the place where I put out bits of completed writing as well as more journal-like entries - but it is about to serve as a place for me to think, in a way that is not quite like journalling - so please excuse me while I think.

I’ve decided that today, I will put down a few ideas, that will hopefully turn into sketches all revolving around one character - anyway, that’s the idea at the moment. I’m not putting them in any particular order - and I’m not numbering them - nor will I detail too much - it will just be a way to get them all together and see how many there are and whether I might need more - or whether they are suitable at all. Enough of the intros! Let’s get started!

The first up, could be the Tale of the Horse and could make one of a trilogy of stories revolving around a mountain quest. In this tale the protagonist convinces a party of riders to set out on an adventure to ‘conquer’ the mountain and attain the peak - of course, there would be consequences.

The 2nd, The Tale of the Bone, I think might actually be the first in the series, and involves the same protagonist but a different set of characters and circumstances wherein the protagonist is abandoned and left to return from the wilderness on his own - the goal however is the same - the taking of the mountain.

In the 3rd, and final instalment of the trilogy, The Tale of the Eagle, the protagonist, though having already lead 2 ill-fated expeditions, manages to corral the same group of characters and , dubious though they be, convinces them once again to follow him.

These are very simply stated but will be enough of a reminder for me to begin writing. Though a trilogy, they will not follow one and other consecutively but will be interspersed with other stories as well.

Another tale or two will incorporate The Tale of the Nights In the Woods - these need to be fleshed out as they haven’t really got stories to them yet… (except for the party that splits off in the night and encounters and confronts possible death on all sides.

Of course, one cannot possibly be in the Wild West without a barroom brawl or 2 - and these too shall be included as The Tales of the Brawls.

There will be one dedicated to The Tale of the Fall, and will deal with the misguided youth who was not a mountain climber - I think you get the picture.

There will be another that talks about The Tale of the Snow - this will be either the final chapter or the penultimate, depending on how this thing goes.

Though I’ve got one more or less done, there may very well be another Tale of the River - or 2 even - at least one will be about celebrity - I know, that seems strange, right? Well, it is but it could be a good one.

Maybe, time permitting, I could even begin working on one of these soon - like tomorrow, perhaps. We’ll just have to see how the day shakes down - this one is down - and almost done - so I’m off!

Unsung Songs In the Key of Life

This is going to be so short as to possibly not even count as a ‘writing’ - but since I’m here and ‘doing it’ at all - it must count. Once again, I’d been searching through my half-empty mind trying to find a suitable subject to write on, but due to extreme fatigue (I woke up at 4:00am this morning, okay!?) I became distracted and ended up googling a million other things instead. It’s funny how rabbit-holey things can get when one becomes engrossed in the pursuit of the absolutely useless.  Still, there was work done and the mind was not idle - this, I do not regret.

I could have sworn I dipped my head into the internet portal for just a moment but now, close to an hour later, I realize - much more time has passed. In fact, pretty much all the time I had left to do this writing - and this, I do regret.

I suppose it just emphasizes for me the necessity of putting together a ‘bag-o-topics’ into which I might reach (when bereft of ideas) and hoist one out to be foisted upon you. Clearly the ‘flying by the seat of my pants’ thing, doesn’t always work. I mean, I can’t just show up here, sit down, and think that I’m going to write for an hour on a topic I haven’t yet chosen - I mean, really.  That I have not yet developed a source from which to draw - I regret.

Oh - and I’ve pretty much decided that unless I’m working on a story/vignette, an hour is pretty much the allotted amount of time I have to give - it might seem like a large enough quantity of time to you, but there have been days when I’ve found myself having to ‘wrap it up’ in order to get on with other pressing needs.  That I have but an hour and cannot compose/create/complete a thought in the allotted time, is more than reason to regret.

And of course, I do myself no favours in cutting short a piece of work,  for it forces me to condense, and perhaps destroy, the impact the piece may have had were I to allow it to reach its natural conclusion - but there are obligations that must be met. This too could be considered a regret - not the obligations but the shortening.

As a solution, I suppose I could extend a piece over a couple of days - but I don’t think that would give me the same sense of satisfaction I derive from having blown a perfect word-bubble in one sitting - lengthier items should be left for another blog - one I don’t have - yet… The fact that I complete a piece each day, I do not regret.

If I were to be more ‘aware’ or 'in the moment' in regards to the fact that this writing must occur each day, I might actually make the time before I got here, to mull over a theme or two - this would be a great help - unfortunately, I’m not always thinking about this, am I? That’s not so much something to regret as it is to fix.

What I know is this: I will continue; I’ll get better at it; and whatever necessary time adjustments must be incorporated to fulfill the obligation I’ve made to myself, will be done - and there will be no songs unsung - there will be: no regrets.

I'm Singin' in the - Shower, Just Singin' in the Shower!

Okay, so about 5:00am this morning I wake up to the sound of a song. I suppose that’s better than the sound of traffic or even an alarm but at 5:00am anything loud enough to awaken you is disturbing. I knew the song too. It was a Katy Perry hit - and I knew the lyrics. In fact, I knew the whole thing, lyrics music, the whole schmear. And - it wouldn’t stop. Do you know why? That’s right - it was playing over and over right inside my head - and I couldn’t get back to sleep.

What is it that happens when we get a song stuck in our heads and it will not go away - we’ve all been there. Oh sure, you can ignore it and may think you’ve gotten past it when all of a sudden, 10 minutes later, you find yourself humming it again - or singing it out loud.

What I don’t get, is who makes the selection on that mental jukebox, presses the play button 500 times and then leaves the premises? I mean, honestly. It’s usually not even a song you want to be stuck listening to even though you obviously know it well enough to provide orchestrations. And sometimes, it is so out of your current frame of musical reference as to completely flummox you - that is, if you can get past your annoyance at the insanity of it all.

The other morning (or was that this morning too? I’m not sure - I was so tired), I tumble of of bed (“…and stumble to the kitchen…”) and head into the bathroom to shower - without the slightest inkling of what was about to ambush me.

So, there I am, ‘scrubbing up’ and I suddenly become aware of the presence of a song - it’s coming from me - I’m singing it - and I know all the words. The thing is - I haven’t heard this song in, oh, at the very least, 40 years! It’s not exactly a classic either. It’s Burt Bacharach and it’s not one of his hits. Why do I even know this ‘piece’!?

A very long time ago, when I was in my mid-teens, I guess, my father, who was not the generous type when it came to birthdays and gifts and that sort of thing, utterly surprised me with my very own stereo with headphones. I was very surprised - stunned, really.

I have a feeling that in a moment of weakness while leafing through a magazine he saw an advertisement for a Columbia Records, Longine’s Symphonette Stereo Turntable, tore it, out and bought it. Of course, there was a catch - you had to join the Columbia Record Club and purchase at least one LP each month for a year, chosen from a number of categories. If, for some reason, you could not settle on a selection, an album would be chosen for you from a default category of your choosing. Since I, the recipient of this magnificent gift, was not present at its inception, the default category was picked by my father - it was Easy Listening.

The first LP to arrive was from this category and could very well have been the Bacharach. If it wasn’t the first, then perhaps the second - point being here: I received Burt Bacharach’s eponymous Long Playing stereo record. Let’s just say, it was not to my taste (at least, not that I would admit during those years…) and it was quickly shelved - or thrown under the bed.

So, there I am, in the shower and I’m singing, of all things on that album, Hasbrook Heights - it’s not even a hit to remember - but uncannily enough, I do.

The mind is a funny thing, eh? And the brain even funnier. What brought that song to the surface, I asked myself - there’s nothing about soap in it - or shampoo - or even water! But there it was, just as loud as anything.

The other thing is - how do we manage to remember all those lyrics to all those songs when we can’t even remember a phone number, or an address - or for that matter, where we put the keys?

And yet, each one of us has the most incredible jukebox in our heads, filled to the brim with songs we didn’t even know we knew - it’s amazing! And sometimes annoying - like Katy Perry, this morning.

Clearly, music is much more important to us than we know and truth be told, I’m kinda partial to my jukebox - even the Bacharach.

But Everything Was Beautiful at the Ballet - Almost

I got up this morning feeling like my spine was doing the fully-contorting Exorcist twist - ala Linda Blair without the head-turning-thing. This is not an unusual occurrence for me but I have a ballet class tonight and sometimes I wonder whether I’ll be able to get through it. Actually, I sometimes wonder what on earth possessed me to take it to begin with, given my age and the state of my decaying parts - but I know why - I forgot to grow up. That, and the power of influence.

Toward the end of last year, late October/early November or so, I was in the gym and noticed a woman there doing stretches at the barre. It was clear she’d had some training at some point in her life and, as often happens in a gym, after repeated sightings, we began talking. I commented on her good form and she told me that she was considering taking adult ballet at the National Ballet School. Feeling knowledgable about the subject and quite gregarious, with just the slightest amount of braggadocio, I told her that once upon a time, in a far off land when youth and flexibility were still in abundance, I had once studied ballet - in fact, I’d majored in dance and had received a scholarship.

Upon hearing this, she suggested I register for a class since the school was so conveniently located (just around the corner, really) but timidity got the better of me (I didn’t think I’d look the same as I did 30 years ago in tights), and though I considered it, I let the registration date pass.

I let the date pass but the idea remained - I mean, how hard could it be? Very hard, it would appear. In January, before the start of the 2nd session and after many angst-ridden days, i decided to ‘join up’! Become a member!

The process was not without its moments of sheer terror. In fact, on the day I was to pick up my identity card, I was so nervous, my partner volunteered to come with me - just like accompanying a 5 year-old to his first day of kindergarten. How ridiculous is that!?

It’s just that the reality of what I’d signed up for had finally sunk in and even though I am a fully grown adult male (or perhaps, because for that reason), the prospect of entering that building caused me a minor panic episode.

“God, I’m crazy!”, I thought to myself as my ability to respond to the simplest of questions melted away and babbling took its place. I think my partner had to answer in my stead because of the clangour taking place in my head from the pounding of my heart. So ridiculous! But! I got through it.

Of course, there was still the actual attending of the first class that needed to be got through and this would have to be done on my own. Believe me, it was every bit as terrifying as you might imagine. I walked into the building surrounded by little girls with their hair up in buns, feeling like some sort of lumpen beast who had inadvertently wandered away from the herd and found himself among the most delicate and rare birds - can we say, “sore thumb”?

After wandering futilely about, in search of the men’s changing room, I found myself in the bowels of the building, I think I was somewhere near the boiler room, when a kind stranger pointed me back out into the public areas and toward my sought destination. I was not brave enough for the tights and instead, changed into shorts which probably looked more ridiculous than the tights would have - oh well. These are the troubles encountered by the first-timer of an adult ballet class.

Once at the barre and the class underway, I was quite comfortable - except for one small thing; I could barely remember a single thing! This was not expected. I assumed that, like the bicycle, once you learned the steps, you would never forget them. Surprise! I’m here to tell you, you can forget them. I suppose a 30 year gap is nothing to sniff at.

Since then, things have gone relatively smoothly - I chose the right level with which to begin and I’ve made progress - well, as much progress as my body and brain will allow up to this point. Most importantly though is that I challenged myself, rose to the challenge and now feel better about having done so.

And as a result, tonight - tonight, I wear the tights...

Shall We Gather at the River? But, What Shall We Gather?

I’ve been ruminating over the last little while about writing something a bit more lengthy (okay, well, tossing the occasional thought in that direction) as I’ve had an idea tip-toeing around in the back of my head for some time. Now, thinking about it ‘aloud’, as it were, I realize the idea has been lying dormant for years.

It first came to me while living in Ottawa, which was at least 4 years ago - and I’m sure I had it in mind for a couple of years before that. I don’t remember how it came to me but I wrote a short paragraph, the seed, if you will, that was never fully planted. I had problems trying to figure out how to begin, not having ever written, what I considered would become, a book - and - because it would (have been) be very lightly based on a real person, in another time, there would be research necessary and the whole thing began to feel far too complicated, not to mention daunting, as a starting point for an aged but ever-hopeful budding writer. Instead, I put it to sleep and went about my business - that did not include writing a novel - or writing much of anything else, for that matter.

Since I’ve started this blog, the idea has returned to me - though I still don’t think I’m ready for as great a task as a novel. I know, I know - If Not Now, Then When?

But perhaps there is another story, or stories, I should tell first. Perhaps there is a collection of stories that all dance around the same campfire. It is this that has got me slowly starting to weave together a few thoughts that would become the basis for another piece of work. Unfortunately, I can never seem to find the time to sit down and begin a serious outline. Like with much else we add to our daily routines, the time will just have to be made - I mean, look - a month and a half ago I wouldn’t have thought for a second that I could find the requisite time to dedicate to this blog - but now, I write daily - the time was created for it.

So, how hard will it be to schedule another few minutes a day for this project? As hard as I make it, I suppose.

I’ll plan on making it easy and leave the hard part to the actual creating/writing of the tales. That is how it should be, don’t you think?

In the meanwhile, here’s the paragraph (or one similar…):

“Charles”, Mary turned her head away from the fire and hung the ladle on the rack as she straightened up, her face shiny from the heat. “Would you be a dear and get some more wood please? I haven’t got the pot quite hot enough and I fear your dinner will be spoiled.”

Charles was seated at a small work table in the middle of the cramped kitchen with his back to the fire trying to take advantage of the additional, if dim, light cast in his direction. The lamp on the table in front of him required a new wick and he hadn’t had time that evening to change it, having arrived home from the Assayers quite late.

“Of course, Mary. Why, I should have done it before, upon entering.” He got up from the table, eager for the distraction since the verse he was working on did not seem to want to come together. He put his pen down on the table and resolutely closed the folio on the last line he had written.

His sister smiled at him and after gathering the carrots she had just cut, scraped them from the board with the sharp edge of the long knife she often used. It was her favourite. She didn’t really know why, other than the fact that it had a good blade and its weight and heft felt quite good in her hand, as if it had been made especially for her. In fact, she wouldn’t use another knife though there were others available in the sparsely furnished kitchen.

Mary watched as Charles, his brow furrowed from the lack of result with his work, turned toward her before going out the door and his face smoothed into that which she had known from his birth; the smooth unlined surface of her younger brother. His lips turned slightly up at the ends, and he left the room.

Mary turned back toward the pot hanging over the fire and started to stir the stew she had been making, with the knife. “Now, what a silly thing to do!” she said aloud and laughed to herself , her voice finding its roots in the depth of her stomach and rumbling in a most unholy way. She slowly drew the knife from the pot and held it in front of her face.

She could just make out one half of the distorted reflection, as the blade, its shaft perpendicular, glinted with the light. “Very silly!” she said again and turned the knife sideways so that only her eyes were visible in the blade.

She stood staring at this partial reflection and thought to herself that it was like looking through the slats of a fence, or perhaps a peephole, through which could be seen the occupant of some world that she longed to be a part of. The eyes could certainly not be her own, she thought. No, they were too dark, too rimmed with grief, and sagging with exhaustion to be her own, the young Mary ____. She was but a young girl and the eyes staring back at her were most assuredly those of someone much older than herself. They were the eyes of someone longing to be free and desperate to enter her happy existence, her home, her life…