Euphoria

I thought I should write this before I forgot.  I heard on the radio today, a story about a man who was stabbed and almost died.  Instead of dying, he survived, and lived, euphoric at the prospect of being alive.  But then, after time, the euphoria faded.  

Enter into my mind again, the idea that so often does these days.  That my family, and the somewhat tenuous nature of family emotion and health, makes me more present, and grateful in life than I ever would be otherwise.      

There are tiny, high pitched voices in the background when I call home from work.  Hearing them always makes me smile, even if the voices happen to to be quibbling, or if I hear that one has pulled a fistful of hair from the other's head.  Even then, I imagine the one, teary eyed and downcast, perhaps crumpled and moaning and holding her head, while the other, the younger, stands, the newly extracted hair in hand, looking somewhat shocked at his little fist.  Unpleasant as it may be for Beebs, attempting to enforce peace and love at home, these little visions of child warfare still make me grin.  

And if at that, I jump to look at pictures of Beebs and the little voices on my computer at work, then how happy am I when I enter the house and Beebs is behind the counter smiling, and the little ones are charging at me, full speed, arms open wide?  It may only register in hindsight, but right now it seems like bliss.        

The People Who Owned This House Before Us Were Dumb

Ode to the previous owners of our house...

Ah. Geez. On my knees last night with a razor blade, attempting to clean up a messy caulk joint in the shower. Curse that lazy white trash.

Another messy caulk joint. Errant paint everywhere. Overly heavy texture to compensate for the inability to build a smooth, straight wall. Trim that would make a finish carpenter weep and wish for a swift death.

There is something to be said for doing the job right, even if you know you're going to sell the house.

At least the people who buy it won't know that you're a complete idiot.

But hey, I do find some satisfaction in knowing that you moved to a barren, windswept neighborhood without trees that's much further from your job, just because it was shiny and new. And that you paid way to much for a mass produced crap box likely built with poisonous Chinese drywall. Do yourselves a favor and buy some masking tape next time you're at walmart.

Grizzly Man

I've decided to write ... quickly. It is Friday night and your Mother is at work. I was searching for some noise to keep me company in the house since everyone else is snoozing in her crib (sideways I might add, I've already been in once to rotate the sleeper and fix the blankets). I found Grizzly Man, and put it on while I did the dishes. It is really a gorgeous film, however it made me feel overweight and somewhat detached from nature, which isn't a good place to be. Not that I want to live with the bears, but I just don't get out to the trails like I used to. Hopefully this summer...

The soundtrack to the movie is beautiful and sad - meant to embody the Alaskan landscape in music, it is mostly Richard Thomson on the guitar. If any of you want to play the guitar, I'll be all for it. I hope you play some musical instrument, even if it isn't the guitar, and even if it doesn't make you smarter, it's just a worthwhile thing. I am grateful for my very limited piano skills. I always secretly (or not so secretly?) wanted to be a rock star. I remember how grandpa used to play Linda Rondstat and Karla Bonoff songs on the piano - and sing along to them. I remember him being pretty good too, and I remember him doing it in the evening with the lights off.

Also, after the dishes I sent a message to an old professor via facebook, which tends to put me in a bad mood. I really don't like facebook, most of the people who post often are the same people who talk too much in real life, and are annoying. I always end up thinking I should remove myself from Facebook, but it has put me in touch with a few old friends.

I got a promotion this week, but so did a lot of other people, and with the change comes a healthy dose of internal uncertainty. I realized that while I want to move ahead, it also makes me feel guilty when it actually happens.

Your Mother the Writer

This blog is for you kids. You knew that, right?

Your mother is gone to work, editing copy and writing the headlines that will be read across the state tomorrow by sleepy people in bathrobes while they sip hot beverages. She is in an interesting position, writing stories and also editing, producing and processing, the artist and the critic all wrapped up into one. So tomorrow, the bath-robed throngs will read both her headlines and her byline.

I love your Mother's job, I love that she is a writer. And not in the sense that I am a writer because I am not, though I want to write some things for you to read in the future. Let's get that straight right off the bat. Your mother is a real writer.

If you could read, you would notice her name in the grocery newsstand while buying bananas like I do. You would have seen her front page story over Independence Day weekend, the large color image of a woman hugging a man and crying on the front page, crying because the man had saved her life when she was a child. Your Mother told everyone about their reunion in the newspaper. Reading that story, even thinking of that story blurs my vision and raises the hair on my neck, even now in near September, almost two months distant. It was beautiful.

I called your mother once on her way to work. It was early on before she even knew I lived on this planet, before she went away to Taiwan. I still remember that because of how I was admiring her for what she did. I even remember the way the sound of her voice changed on the phone when she walked into the echoey corridors of her building and I was trying to imagine what it looked like.

She gathers up information, it is difficult because there is so much. I imagine it is like composing a panel of stained glass out of a pile of jagged and misshapen shards. She gathers them, sorts through them, and arranges them for the rest of us to see and understand and sometimes to feel. Like the Independence Day story.

And sometimes she writes me love notes.

- -

Anyway, what I really set out to say was that if your mother was here with me, I would want to raise all the shades and let people see our happy silhouettes through the yellow lighted windows. We would be bending over to sit on the floor and eat "American style", carefully setting down plates of tamale pie and green beans and expressing our concerns about where the Gilmore Girls are headed in season 5. People would see our silhouettes moving and chatting easily and would know that all was well.

8/23/09

Tonight the two of us ate dinner, "American style", which meant eating on the floor in front of a DVD episode of the Gilmore Girls. I have been hooked, and am rooting for Luke, though I can't say the relationship has me convinced. We ate my lasagna with green beans from the parent's garden and lettuce from Smiths. I have fallen for the white poppy seed dressing in the bottle with the peach (?) on it and for Santa Fe style tortilla strips, no matter the theme of the salad laid below their seasoned and crunchy goodness. It was all thoroughly enjoyable, with the sliding door open and the fan on, our house squat under the dark clouds and easy blowing of a pre-autumn storm. It looks like night out the window, but there is light blue sky on the horizon. One of my favorite things. Autumn foods are on the mind.

We took Z to the lake today while the clouds were moving fast overhead. A female duck hopped up on the boardwalk and followed us, Z watching her intently for some time. We fed her two orange goldfish crackers and moved on. We fed Z many goldfish crackers as she waved at passers by and swung her striped leggings about in the stroller. I almost, almost, had to put a jacket over my fleece vest and short sleeves. Beebs put her hood on over wet hair and when I laughed exclaimed she would fall prey to pneumonia if exposed to the breeze, leaving me alone to nurse her back to health and wrangle the Z. When she lowered the hood I put it back up.

Fall Falls in Salt Lake City

It is dark when it used to be light.

Nights are cool despite brutal afternoon heat.

The trails will be dusty and dry, the humid, heavy scent of the scrub oak diminished.

I've seen geese flying over slow moving farm equipment in the brown fields of southern Idaho. The potato trucks will be out soon.

Matt Pond PA is playing on the stereo in the kitchen, leaking out the open windows while I am thinking of acorn squash and clam chowder.