I hate my school breaks. I always get stuck with too much time and I get sloppy. I agreed to a camping trip that was totally disastrous. I won’t get into why, but I can honestly say that this is the first time I had an overall negative impression on camping. I’ve been in a tent over an ant colony; I’ve been covered in poison ivy; a wolverine, or a very angry badger (whatever is more common in Michigan), has chased me, and I have been severely sunburned on the first day of a weeklong hiking trip. I’ve twisted my ankle while backpacking.
And I would volunteer to do all of that in one weekend than have another camping trip like this one. Scenery: great, scenic, beautiful. Worth the 9 hours it took to get there? No way! My company? Sucked ass, almost continuously.
So, from now on, I am camping on my own, or with people I KNOW I can stand.
31 May 2006
21 May 2006
Remembrance: 141
Paris-
my God!
Of all the times
I could be wrong,
why is this not then?
This city surprises me little;
I knew going in
rude was the official language.
It smells better than New York,
but is that a compliment?
This city is your dream
and you sleepwalk the ever-circling streets.
And small parks
are your Edens built into the
hillsides.
Gossamer wings invisibly
lift you up the many stairs
and drift you down
the sloping sidewalks
littered with cafes.
Oblivious to you reverie,
or in spite of it,
my ugly Americanness
mocks your joy, but you don’t care.
Champs Ellyses
and the Seine make you
smile your blissful smile;
I almost don’t recognize it.
And your laughter at my
“little man, big hang-up” jokes
remind me that I love you.
The Louvre
on the second day
makes me forget all of my ire
and all of our fights
because I
so easily
see what inspires
all this beauty here
when I see you.
Divorce is as far away
as my crazy family,
and I am not disaffected
with you in the Louvre.
But I am too dark
inside to let that
temporary perfection
spoil my discomfort.
Trouble rambles on
like a Parisian argument,
and I turn away
before I can remember
that I love you.
Flying home, you sit beside me,
lulled by great dreams fulfilled
and great engines’ muffled roar.
We pass over Ireland,
where I wanted to be
but had no choice.
I don’t wake you as I cry
over Ireland
and that I had no choice
about how I love you now.
Of all the times
I could be wrong,
why is this not then?
my God!
Of all the times
I could be wrong,
why is this not then?
This city surprises me little;
I knew going in
rude was the official language.
It smells better than New York,
but is that a compliment?
This city is your dream
and you sleepwalk the ever-circling streets.
And small parks
are your Edens built into the
hillsides.
Gossamer wings invisibly
lift you up the many stairs
and drift you down
the sloping sidewalks
littered with cafes.
Oblivious to you reverie,
or in spite of it,
my ugly Americanness
mocks your joy, but you don’t care.
Champs Ellyses
and the Seine make you
smile your blissful smile;
I almost don’t recognize it.
And your laughter at my
“little man, big hang-up” jokes
remind me that I love you.
The Louvre
on the second day
makes me forget all of my ire
and all of our fights
because I
so easily
see what inspires
all this beauty here
when I see you.
Divorce is as far away
as my crazy family,
and I am not disaffected
with you in the Louvre.
But I am too dark
inside to let that
temporary perfection
spoil my discomfort.
Trouble rambles on
like a Parisian argument,
and I turn away
before I can remember
that I love you.
Flying home, you sit beside me,
lulled by great dreams fulfilled
and great engines’ muffled roar.
We pass over Ireland,
where I wanted to be
but had no choice.
I don’t wake you as I cry
over Ireland
and that I had no choice
about how I love you now.
Of all the times
I could be wrong,
why is this not then?
19 May 2006
April Makeup, Vol. 2
21APR2006
Friday at 0800 is the best time to do laundry. There’s just me and the popcorn lady at the Lavenderia. The TV’s are off, and I don’t have to worry about little rugrats running about screaming. Just me and Tool and this here journal/diary.
I love doing laundry. It is my favorite chore. Lugging it here sucks, but the act itself is so easy. I used to wish that we had a washing machine when I was growing up, so I could volunteer to do laundry as my chore.
Compare it to the other chores about the house. Mowing the lawn is hot and dirty and makes you sneeze. Washing dishes is a tedious and torturous process in any household larger than two. Dusting, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming; the four horsemen of cleanliness.
But laundry… ahhh, laundry! What do you do? You put it in the machine with soap, turn some knobs, and push a button. Then you read a book for a bit, do a crossword, whatever. The machine stops. You take your clean clothes, put it in the dryer or hang what shouldn’t go there, put a softener sheet in the dryer and press another button. Read some more, make a sandwich, again, whatever you feel like. The machine stops, you sort, fold and put it away. It’s a three-hour chore in which you work maybe fifteen minutes, and you get fine smelling clothes that are stain-free and snazzy! This officially qualifies as approaching the “high reward, low effort” nirvana.
So I get to sit here and contemplate the music and lyrics of Lateralus and enjoy a cool morning while machines do the lion’s share of the work.
Friday at 0800 is the best time to do laundry. There’s just me and the popcorn lady at the Lavenderia. The TV’s are off, and I don’t have to worry about little rugrats running about screaming. Just me and Tool and this here journal/diary.
I love doing laundry. It is my favorite chore. Lugging it here sucks, but the act itself is so easy. I used to wish that we had a washing machine when I was growing up, so I could volunteer to do laundry as my chore.
Compare it to the other chores about the house. Mowing the lawn is hot and dirty and makes you sneeze. Washing dishes is a tedious and torturous process in any household larger than two. Dusting, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming; the four horsemen of cleanliness.
But laundry… ahhh, laundry! What do you do? You put it in the machine with soap, turn some knobs, and push a button. Then you read a book for a bit, do a crossword, whatever. The machine stops. You take your clean clothes, put it in the dryer or hang what shouldn’t go there, put a softener sheet in the dryer and press another button. Read some more, make a sandwich, again, whatever you feel like. The machine stops, you sort, fold and put it away. It’s a three-hour chore in which you work maybe fifteen minutes, and you get fine smelling clothes that are stain-free and snazzy! This officially qualifies as approaching the “high reward, low effort” nirvana.
So I get to sit here and contemplate the music and lyrics of Lateralus and enjoy a cool morning while machines do the lion’s share of the work.
18 May 2006
SOB
To make up for the lack of posts during the month of April, I will be posting entries from my journal/diary. This is from a journal entry from April 19, 2006:
I remember a quote that was shared to me by a very wise man I met while underwater. His name is Mac (short for Rick MacDonald) and was my division LPO. Been in since just after fish got in the ocean, Mac had done just about everything that you can do on a sub and in its radio room, and had been everywhere a boat can go. It was a day where everybody was grumbling about something, but we had all hit upon the XO as the source of misery. After listening to the griping, Mac picked up his coffee cup and said, "No one thinks they're a son of a bitch," and walked out of Radio. That shut us up PDQ.
Mac was right, again. We turn from our better natures, ignore the angels on our shoulders, forego the straight road for the crooked path.
I could have been better, in many situations. I need not have failed on some of the occasions where I lapsed. I might not have known better, but I should have. I was a son of a bitch, a real SOB.
I don't expect forgiveness; I'm not selfish enough to ask for it. What I want is to not have it happen again. Okay, tha's impossible: maybe not happen as often. Let me see it happening, so that I may curtail it. And if I must be a son of a bitch, let it be to those that deserve it.
I am not a fella with a lot of friends. That isn't a complaint. The friends I have are the best in the world; you will find none better. But I might have more if I had heeded Mac more often than I did. I'm sure that I'd sleep better, too.
I remember a quote that was shared to me by a very wise man I met while underwater. His name is Mac (short for Rick MacDonald) and was my division LPO. Been in since just after fish got in the ocean, Mac had done just about everything that you can do on a sub and in its radio room, and had been everywhere a boat can go. It was a day where everybody was grumbling about something, but we had all hit upon the XO as the source of misery. After listening to the griping, Mac picked up his coffee cup and said, "No one thinks they're a son of a bitch," and walked out of Radio. That shut us up PDQ.
Mac was right, again. We turn from our better natures, ignore the angels on our shoulders, forego the straight road for the crooked path.
I could have been better, in many situations. I need not have failed on some of the occasions where I lapsed. I might not have known better, but I should have. I was a son of a bitch, a real SOB.
I don't expect forgiveness; I'm not selfish enough to ask for it. What I want is to not have it happen again. Okay, tha's impossible: maybe not happen as often. Let me see it happening, so that I may curtail it. And if I must be a son of a bitch, let it be to those that deserve it.
I am not a fella with a lot of friends. That isn't a complaint. The friends I have are the best in the world; you will find none better. But I might have more if I had heeded Mac more often than I did. I'm sure that I'd sleep better, too.
Inspiration has hit me squarely!
So I was sitting around, waiting for something interesting to happen, when unbidden a really cool line came into my head. I haven't figured out how I am going to manipulate it, or how/when/where/why I'm going to use it, but I dig it nonetheless. Here it is:
The ending is the future.
I know, I know; big buildup for that? But think about it for a minute, and enjoy the philosophy in that. Every time something ends, a new future is available to you. Every stopping point is a fresh start.
It can be rewritten a few different ways to convey the same essential meaning, but the truth is that I really like it as it is. It's like the tagline for a really cool sci-fi book. I love it.
The ending is the future.
I know, I know; big buildup for that? But think about it for a minute, and enjoy the philosophy in that. Every time something ends, a new future is available to you. Every stopping point is a fresh start.
It can be rewritten a few different ways to convey the same essential meaning, but the truth is that I really like it as it is. It's like the tagline for a really cool sci-fi book. I love it.
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