Campaign 2008 - Me vs. He-Man

With the internet playing more of a role in elections these days, I decided to run my own campaign via Gmail's IM status feature. Not to hoist my own petard with myself on it, but you can't argue with success. (Well, you can, but success always takes the moral high ground and won't argue back. Oh, success, why must you be so inscrutable!)

Cover the Earth

I love Sherwin Williams' logo! Check it out - a bucket of paint being poured over the entire earth and the phrase proudly proclaiming their intention to "Cover the Earth"! Awesome! It's almost like they don't even know there's a green movement.



Go, Sherwin Williams, go - cover the whole earth!

Mike-ku

Odd - here's an old post I started, but never published:

---

So for some reason I was thinking the structure of haiku was 3-5-7, but I was wrong, so I'm calling this form mike-ku (I know, I know, you already invented it or somebody else did - blah, blah, blah, blah-blah ...)

Here's my first mike-ku:

Trembling leaf
I am not the tree
I am the cold knife cutting

---

I don't know why I never published it. I like the mike-ku - although, it is a little on the dark side. Not that that would have stopped me. I must have just forgotten I'd started it.

Anyhow, if you've got a good mike-ku to share, feel free to post it as a comment. (Or feel free to comment and tell me how mike-ku already exists and it's called something else.)

Gmail Chat Status

Lately I'm enamored with the free text status you can set for yourself in Gmail chat. I enjoy coming up with random statuses (statii?) for myself. Here are a few of my more recent ideas:

"Racing with rats."
"Making the roses stop to smell me - *sniff* - I'm delicious!"
Playing Skipper to your Gilligan."
"Fighting fire with fire - take that, Smokey!"
"Bulldogging it like a Jello wrestler on crack."
"Riding shotgun on a herd of angry weasels."
"Kick-flipping over the abyss - skate or die, dude!"
"Making the bulls run with me."

Now, if I could only find a way to have them randomly cycle through on their own ...

What I did this summer

Mostly I worked - but that's not really what I want to write about. Unlike last summer, when my family and I took the month of July to travel across the country visiting friends and relatives, this summer I only took a little over two weeks of total time off. With summer coming to an end, it's those two weeks of time I want to focus on.

On July 3rd, in spite of the fact that I'm no longer living the carefree life of a college student, I acted like one anyway and stayed up all night to complete all of the missions in "Medal of Honor, Heroes 2" on the Wii. My wife was proud of me. Wait, I mean she made fun of me. Whatever - I was proud of myself. I'm now a sergeant major in the SAS (at least in the virtual world). Go me! I mean, mii!

Needless to say on July 4th, I was pretty punchy at the ward breakfast; although, when I explained why, most of the guys from church understood. After the ward breakfast, I slept most of the day so I'd be ready for the sacred communion of fireworks. (And, yes, all you women out there (Tracy), I agree - I have an understanding wife. I know if I was your husband, you'd make me stay up and play with the kids, just so I learned my lesson.)

If you know me, you know I'm not being facetious when I refer to the Fourth of July fireworks as a "sacred communion". I'm not normally very social, but there is something about the Fourth of July that makes me want to be with other Americans and watch the sky light up in celebration of all the sacrifices that have been made to give us the gift of freedom. And for me, the bigger the crowd, the better.

When I was a teen, I used to go down to the national mall to watch the fireworks just because the crowd was so large. That doesn't really work now that I'm the father of small children. Instead, it's become our family tradition to view the fireworks over the lake at the Columbia Mall. This year, after some cajoling, our friends the Oberings joined us and, in spite of some initial light rain, the fireworks did not disappoint.

...

On August 1st, I flew to Denver to participate in my niece, Jenniel's, baptism. My brother, Dan, Jenniel's father, has recently returned to activity and is very enthusiastic about living closer to Heavenly Father. I enjoyed the opportunity to visit with him and discuss the Gospel. It also turned out to be a bit of a mini family reunion. Grandma Betty, my grandmother on my mom's side, and my mom and stepfather, Bill, all came out for the baptism. That night we all went out for dinner with Dan, Jenniel, my nephew, Cameron, and my sister, Flora, and her husband, Matt, who also live near Denver. Afterwards, we walked around the temple grounds and took pictures. (Mom, you still owe me a picture.)

August 2nd was the day of the baptism. Jenniel had asked that I perform the baptism and I was honored that she would ask me. That didn't keep me from making a mistake in the wording of the prayer, though, so I actually had to baptize her twice. In spite of that, it was a very moving experience and Jenniel seemed very happy as she came out of the water.

After we changed into dry clothes, my mom spoke about the gift of the Holy Ghost and then I confirmed Jenniel. I felt the Spirit strongly during her confirmation and felt inspired to bless her that, as she followed the promptings of the Holy Ghost, she would become a leader among her peers. I'm looking forward to seeing that promise fulfilled. Jenniel is a special girl.

In addition to our family, Dan had invited two friends from where he used to work and they both came. Jen, Jenniel's mother and Dan's ex-wife, was there as well. It was good to see her.

After the baptism, we went to a public pool that puts other public pools to shame. You can get in for four dollars and it has two full sized water slides, a lazy river, and a giant 1000 gallon bucket of water that fills up every 20 minutes, then flips and pours water on the crowd below. We had a lot of fun there, then wrapped up the day with a barbecue at my cousin, Melissa's, house. She and her husband, Lance, were kind enough to host us at the last minute when Dan and Flora changed plans (originally it was supposed to be at Flora's house on Sunday).

Sunday, August 3rd, I went to church with Dan and his kids, then we all headed to Flora's for a delicious dinner of salad, peas, and homemade mac and cheese. (Mmm, mmm, goood!) Dan's kids and I then spent the night at Flora's house. Flora and I chatted while watching a movie with the kids, "Howl's Moving Castle". While I enjoyed the movie, it was a bit weird. I guess I haven't watched enough japanime to get the aesthetic.

Monday, August 4th, was my last day in Denver. In spite of the altitude (Flora lives in the mountains above Denver), I opted to go for a morning run at 5:30 AM. Last summer, when we were at Flora's, I lamented the fact that we never saw a bear, a sight that Flora had said wasn't that uncommon. A couple of weeks later, she even sent me some pictures of a bear in her yard. I had plenty of time to reflect on that as I ran. When I got back and commented to Matt that, shortly after starting my run, I wondered if I wasn't a little crazy to be out there when there could be bears in the area, he said, "Why do you think I never go running?" Touche.

Flora and Matt both work in Denver and have to get an early start, so we got the kids up and left by 6:30. Matt dropped Flora at work, then drove me and the kids to Dan's place. The kids and I then spent the morning at two parks near Dan's apartment. After lunch, we hit the Sonic for a cherry limeade in honor of my wife, who turned me on to them, then headed to the airport for my return flight home.

...

Well, it is taking longer than I expected to chronicle my two weeks, so I will have to continue in another post tomorrow.

Bob, uh, I mean John Denver

I'm posting this action shot in honor of my last post. (Dad! Stop singing to Bob Denver. I mean, I know you love him and all!) Props to Supersonicjan.

"Annie's Song"

See, here is the thing - what if the foundation of your life turned out to be a lie? I'm listening to "Annie's Song" by Bob Denver and it always makes me think of being a child because my father loved Bob Denver so much when I was a child. As a child it made me think of my mom and dad and how they loved each other. Only it turns out they didn't. When I got older, my parents separated and divorced and my dad came out to everyone. So I'm sitting here listening to the song as I work and crying because the song reminds of me of something so beautiful and so false.

Child

Here's a poem I wrote Sunday while I was sitting on the stand at church.

"Child"

A brightness
this birth
into another place
and time
starts its ticking
an accounting
or a gift
a sentence
passed
before a crime can be committed.
I wait
the uneasy father
witness to
a travail
I have no power to stay.
You pause
a thing of fearful
ugly beauty
then
a breath
a cry
a plea.
Life begins anew
my heart
your heart
my blood
your blood
a seedling god
in my trembling
mortal hands.

The Wisdom of Fishes

Here's a story I just finished recently. I started writing it right around the time I wrote "Bone Dog" and thought that it might be a children's story as well, but that's not how it turned out. Those of you familiar with "The Old Man and The Sea" by Ernest Hemmingway may see some echoes of that story in this one. I've always loved "The Old Man and The Sea" and will admit that I drew inspiration from it for this story. Hopefully I haven't done it any disservice and you enjoy the story.


"The Wisdom of Fishes"

Jose stood on the rocky beach, looking out into the distance. It was late afternoon. All around him was the sun, the sky, and the sea. He curled his toes in the hot sand. Above him, the sea birds looped and bobbed, arcing down to steal a piece of fish or to land on the water where they bobbed like toy boats.

He heard the sound of the fishermen at the dock. They were unloading their boats, talking and laughing - the lucky ones. They'd caught their fish and would soon be heading home to share dinner with happy families.

Jose held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. There was no sign of another boat coming in. He walked slowly back to where grandma was working in the small garden.

"No llega," He said. "He isn't back yet."

Grandmother looked up. "Llegara pronto. He'll be back soon." She sighed, though, as she said it. It had been several days since he had returned with any fish. The fact that he wasn't back yet was not a good sign.

Jose bent down to help grandmother. Together they weeded and thinned the plants in the little garden until the dark of the late evening settled around them. When the moon appeared between the clouds rolling in, grandpa still wasn't back. Jose and grandma fixed a small meal of greens from the garden, then turned in for the night.

Later in the night, Jose awoke to the sound of quiet footsteps. He heard grandpa sigh wearily, then settle into his bed. Outside a light rain had begun to fall and the drops echoed like tiny pebbles tossed lightly on the tin roof. Jose drifted back to sleep and dreamed of large exotic fish leaping from electric blue seas and racing across horizons of white foam.

In the morning, grandpa was gone again.

"Abuela, grandma, where does grandpa go to fish?" Grandma was in the tiny kitchen brewing a pale herbal tea.

"Hijito, little son," She said without turning, her back still to him, "grandfather fishes the deep waters, where the oldest and wisest fish live. They are harder to catch, but they are larger and give you more strength."

Jose remembered his dream - the large exotic fish dancing in the deep ocean, the flash of white foam on the crest of a large blue wave curling in on itself. "Will he catch one today?"

Grandma sighed, then poured the tea. "No se. I don't know."

They drank the tea in silence, then headed out to work in the garden. The sun's rays were pale and weak in the early dawn. Throughout the morning the rays gathered strength, though, until, by late morning, grandma and Jose were working in the full heat of the day.

"Descansemonos," said grandmother. "Let's rest. It's too hot to continue working like this."

In the shade of the little hut, they drank some more tea. Jose wondered if grandpa was standing on the deck of the little fishing boat in the heat of the noon day sun. Grandpa was a little man, but strong. At ten years Jose was already almost his size, but grandpa was much stronger. He wondered if the heat sapped grandpa's strength, the way it did his own. He thought about it and decided that it did not. He had once seen grandpa carry a fish as big as a man all the way from the dock to the market. The sun had been hot that day, too. He sat thinking of the mystery of it - how grandpa could carry a large fish in the hot sun while he was already tired just from standing in the heat trimming plants in the garden. ... He fell asleep trying to work it out.

In the late evening, grandpa did not return. That night there were no quiet footsteps carefully working their way to the bed that grandpa shared with grandma.

In the morning, at breakfast, there was a grim, determined set to grandma's face, one Jose had never seen before. He felt a new fear moving like a deep cold current in his heart. There were stories about men who sailed out in the morning to bring home food and never returned. He opened his mouth to ask grandma about grandpa, but something in her face as she poured the morning tea stopped him.

Later he tried to work in the garden, but felt too weak and worried to continue.

"Abuela, may I go to the hill?" Jose asked.

"Si, porque no? Sure, why not?" Grandma looked up from her weeding and wiped her brow. Her eyes were tired under the brow of her sun hat.

Jose left for the large hill just outside of town. The hot sun streamed down from an open sky. The day was hot, but a strong breeze was blowing in from the sea. Jose could smell the salty, faintly fishy scent of the ocean. He worked his way slowly, but steadily to the foot of the hill. In the shade of a small tree he sat to rest until his heart stopped jumping and turning in his chest.

He thought of the time he had helped to unload fish from grandpa's boat. He had found a smaller fish at the bottom of the pile, half buried in the briny water that sloshed the bottom of the boat, its gills still opening and closing, opening and closing, like the wings of a butterfly fresh from its chrysalis. When he had grabbed it, it had struggled in his hand, thrashing and pumping, surprisingly strong for its size. He had almost dropped it at first, but then he'd gripped it more tightly and soon its struggling had weakened, then stopped altogether until it lay almost serene in his hand, its only remaining movement the butterfly motion of its gills, opening and closing, opening and closing.

Even in the shade, the sun was hot and for a moment he felt faint. His thoughts felt slow and confused. The hill - there was still the hill. His heart was steady again.

He rose and began the work of slowly climbing to the crest of the hill, his pace measured and even, first one step and then the other. Throughout the climb, the sun beat down upon him like the constant roll of waves from a distant shore. Toward the top of the hill, his heart again began its reckless struggle to escape, twisting and turning and jumping in his chest. Small points of light swam before his eyes. He lay down and waited.

After a while, his heart calmed again.

When he felt strong enough, he stood and looked out to sea. He thought he saw something tiny and white bobbing out in the distance, but when he wiped the sweat from his eyes there was nothing. He walked slowly back to the shade of a tree partway down the hill and lay down to rest.

When he awoke, it was dark. In the distance he heard the sound of the water lapping at the shore. The night was cool and he found it much easier to climb again to the top of the hill. The sky was cloudless and the moon bright. He looked out again to the sea. He thought he saw something moving steadily in from the distance. He lay down a while, then rose and looked again. There was nothing.

He rested again, then slowly made his way down the hill and back to the hut. He carefully opened the door and stood in the entrance, listening. Inside he heard the soft, measured whisper of grandma's night breathing. There was no other sound. He carefully made his way to his bed and lay down.

"Hahlo, hahlo!" he awoke to someone shouting. "Is anyone there?" There was a loud and hurried knocking at the door.

He stood and hurried quickly to the door. It was early morning. Grandmother was already rising. At the door was another fisherman from the village, Senor Fuentes. "Vengan, pues, rapido! Hurry quickly!" He said.

As they made their way at a half-run to the docks, Senor Fuentes explained how another group of fisherman had found grandfather unconscious on his boat, drifting at sea. "The fish he had tied to his boat was enormous," said Senor Fuentes, "judging from what was left of him, that is." Sharks had eaten most of the fish in the night. When the other fisherman found him, they'd had to cut the remains of the fish free to use the rope to lash grandpa's boat to their own.

At the dock, Jose stood, watching as the other men supported grandpa, helping him to step unsteadily from the boat to the shore. His face and arms were sunburned a deep red like boiled crab. He felt vaguely sick and ashamed looking at grandpa in his weakness.

"Abuela, grandfather," one of the men said, "you need to eat, to regain your strength. Take one of my fishes, take a big one, take two."

"No, gracias" said grandfather, shaking his head wearily "I will catch my own. And this time it will be bigger."

The man shook his head sadly at grandfather's response, then turned and made the same offer to Jose. Jose looked at what the man was offering. The fish in the hold were beautiful - large and strong and colorful, like the fish in his dream. He could imagine the sweetness of their flesh, the strength in them becoming his own. He longed to take one, then thought of grandfather and how it would shame him. He shook his head "no" then turned away quickly from the man and walked to where grandfather waited.

As they walked away together from the dock toward their little hut, grandfather reached out only once to steady himself against Jose, then gathered his balance and walked the rest of the way alone. Grandmother had already gone on ahead.

In the morning, grandpa was gone again.

Bone Dog

So, this is a kids story I wrote a few weeks back. I like it; although, it is only the second draft, so there may be a few more changes in the works. I've asked my dad, who is an artist, to consider illustrating it. If he does, I'll post his work as well. (Assuming I get his permission to do so, of course.)

"Bone Dog"

Bone Dog was made of bones. He didn't have any hair. He didn't have any skin. He didn't have anything at all. Just bones.

The other dogs had hair. The other dogs had skin. The other dogs had everything. And bones.

But their bones were on the inside. Bone Dog's were on the outside.

"I want my bones on the inside, too," thought Bone Dog. But he didn't have an inside. Just an outside.

There was a big park in front of Bone Dog's house. All kinds of dogs played there.

Bone Dog wanted to play there, too.

But when Bone Dog tried to play with the other dogs, they ran away or tried to eat him.

One day one big dog even threw Bone Dog's tail bone to the other side of the park. "Go fetch," he growled with a mean smile. Some of the other dogs laughed.

After that, Bone Dog wished he wasn't a bone dog.

Every day he sat in his house during the day watching the other dogs play. But he didn't ever go play himself.

He was a sad dog.

One day, after watching the other dogs play in the park all day, Bone Dog went to bed, but he couldn't sleep. He sat in his room looking at the park through the window.

"If only I were like other dogs," he thought.
Then Bone Dog saw something, something surprising.

There was a dog playing in the park at night. But this dog didn't look like the other dogs. He was a silvery shadow dog.

The silvery shadow dog played in the moonlight. He jumped and spun and chased his tail. He looked like he was having fun.

"He's probably mean," thought Bone Dog.

Just then the silvery shadow dog saw him in the window. Bone Dog looked away quickly, but the silvery shadow dog barked to him happily. "Come out and play," he barked.

Bone Dog pretended he couldn't hear. He wanted to play, but he was still afraid.

The silvery shadow dog barked at him some more. "Hey, come out and play," He barked.

"Maybe he's not mean," thought Bone Dog. He wagged his tail bone hopefully.

"Come on," barked the silvery shadow dog. Bone Dog ran down the stairs, out the door, and into the park.

"I'm Bone Dog," he barked happily.

"I'm Ghost Dog," barked the silvery shadow dog.

He and Bone Dog ran and jumped and laughed and played all night. And in the morning, Bone Dog was so tired that he fell asleep right away. He didn't have time to watch the other dogs play.

After that, he and Ghost Dog played in the park every night. And after a while, Bone Dog forgot about wanting to be anything other than a bone dog. He was too busy being friends with Ghost Dog.

The End.

Sticky - Existential Warrior

A couple of years ago to amuse myself at work, I started creating stick figure cartoons using leaves from a sticky pad. Later on I branched out into using the backs of receipts as well. (That's just the kind of guy I am.) In any case, I've been reviewing them and think the first one I created is my favorite. Enjoy!

Beat-A-Matic 2000

So my youngest daughter was being kind of nasty today when I got home (She seems to be going through some kind of phase - for details, see my wife's blog.) and it got me to wishing for the Beat-A-Matic 2000.

What's that? You say you've never heard of the Beat-A-Matic 2000?! The handiest parenting device for the lazy parent since television?!

Well, alright - that's probably because it's something I thought up when I first realized that one of my responsibilities as a dad is to be the disciplinarian.

See the trouble with laying down the law and then enforcing it, is that you become the bad guy. And who really wants that? It's certainly not something I imagined when I was thinking of becoming a parent.

*A younger me thinking aloud* "Hmmm... perfect! And then I'll be the bad guy."

In any case, the Beat-A-Matic 2000 solves that problem handily. It's a spanking robot that you keep in your closet. Then, whenever your kids are being bad, you just press a button, and - viola - the Beat-A-Matic 2000 appears magically to discipline your kids. And best of all, you can act as surprised as the kids. "No, Beat-A-Matic, no! Don't beat my children!" Now you're the good guy and your kids still get disciplined.

Ah, the Beat-A-Matic 2000 - it might be my best uninvented invention yet.

When Harry In Real Life Met Sleepless Sally In Seattle ...

She Was Wearing 27 Dresses, Carrying A Little Black Book, And Trying To Lose A Guy In 10 Days After Attending 3 Weddings And A Funeral Where She Was Always A Princess Bridesmaid And Never The Princess Bride (Nor The Corpse) ...

Have I left any of them out?

Romantic comedies - they're so awesomely formulaic! I just watched one tonight with my wife. And by "watched one with my wife", I mean she chose it, then promptly fell asleep. Which, ironically enough, is how I end up seeing most romantic comedies these days - with the woman of my dreams snoring in my lap while I watch two confused souls:

meet,
fight,
realize they are all wrong for each other,
fall in love,
realize maybe they aren't all wrong for each other (but that they can't tell each other),
have some bad thing happen (usually caused by the man, but sometimes by the woman),
separate on bad terms,
pine for each other (cue the scenes of them at work, visiting former haunts, watching the phone ring, listening to answering machine messages, blah, blah, blah, while staring mournfully into space),
have an epiphany (true, he's a jerk who trashed my name publicly, but we're *meant* for each other),
race to catch the other before they leave, *gasp*, forever (nooo! don't get on that plane, she really does love you!),
joyously, tearfully, tenderly reunite, and then ...

"One Year Later"

get married before a happy party of family and friends who knew they were meant for each other all along and have magically decided to let bygones be bygones.

The brilliance of the formula has inspired me to invent what I am sure will become my legacy - "Microsoft RomantiComeditron XP" - a little piece of software (for Windows only, sorry Linux lovers - no pun intended) that takes two names and automatically generates a brand new romantic comedy. Now we can literally have 10 or 20 new romantic comedies premiering each year ... um, wait a minute ... we *already* have 10 or 20 new romantic comedies premiering each year. (HEY, did someone steal my idea? What's a man got to do to get a legacy around here?!)

What? ... What's that?

Sorry, I've got to go - my wife just told me she could never be married to an insensitive jerk who doesn't love romantic comedies. It's time for me to go pine (cue scenes of me staring mournfully at the computer screen while sad music plays in the background).

Desert Mirage (My entry in the Washington Post's fiction contest)

So, in the February 10th edition of the Washington Post Magazine, they announced that they are sponsoring a contest for original short fiction dealing with the theme of love and based on the image on the cover. When I can figure out how to get my scanner to work, I'll post the image on the cover.

Although, I still haven't finished my other short stories and am pretty rusty at writing fiction, I made it a goal to enter a story in the contest. My entry is found below. In my opinion, it's not my best work, (although I tried) but it is complete and got entered before the May 2nd deadline. (I guess this one is more about following through than anything else.)

"Desert Mirage"

For my seventeenth birthday, I tried to give myself the gift of freedom. At sixteen going on seventeen, I was still young enough to believe that if you ran fast enough, you could break the thread of your own history -- and once you broke free, who knew where you'd end up? I had days where I imagined myself riding off into the sunset with a rugged young cowboy from one of the nearby ranches or driving to Las Vegas to become a famous dancer. Other days, though, felt like millstones around my neck. They literally dragged me down beneath the surface of time and left me suspended, watching impotently as the river of life passed over me. I felt like a female Pinocchio, waiting to become a real girl. I hung on woodenly, one hand clinging to the smooth, glossy surfaces of dreams while the other fought to pull me up over the rough edges of reality.

If you stand out too much in a small town, you're bound to see trouble. Living outside of town on a chicken farm, with two parents born out of state, and flaming red hair in a land of brunettes and bottle-blonds, I was a freak from the word “Go”. By my teens, I had built up a hard shell of delinquency. I spent a lot of time with the tougher young ranch hands from around the area. As I approached my seventeenth year, I still hadn't gotten into any serious trouble yet, but there was no doubt around town that some of those ranch hands were hoping it was only a matter of time.

The morning I turned seventeen, the sky was blue and clear. My favorite ranch hand at the time was a boy of nineteen with red hair like my own. He'd skip out pretty regularly on his morning chores to drive me to school and that morning was no exception. As I lay with my head on his shoulder, staring up into the open sky, I let my young chauffeur kiss me goodbye, first once, then twice, then ... oh, I don't know. I felt the his desire swallow me whole, then spit me out again, like Jonah's big fish. I washed up on the shore of the schoolyard exhilarated to be alive. I kissed him one last time with just enough passion to let him taste my excitement, then headed into homeroom.

The thing about homeroom was Stacy Carmichael, a bouncy, bossy blond and head of the cheer leading squad. With the sky so blue, I'd almost believed I could forget she was there. But with Stacy, almost isn't enough. I'd only been sitting on the floor studying for a couple of minutes when she burst into the room, smirking to one of her friends as she looked down at me. As she tried to step over me, she tripped on one of my books and called me “a stupid carrot topped freak”. The baby blue of the day flashed bright red. Her mouth hadn't even closed yet when I punched her in the face, breaking her two front teeth and a bone in my left hand. It wasn't the first fight I'd been in that year; I was suspended immediately and sent home.

Once I was off the school grounds I stood at a cross road. There wasn't much to do in town on a week day, but going home seemed pointless. I could imagine the scene at my house. The Carmichaels would already be on the phone, threatening legal action if my parents didn't do something “to fix that out-of-control daughter of yours”. I could see my mother standing in the hallway, tears springing into her eyes as she listened to the tirade. “Why are you doing this to us?” She'd ask me accusingly when I showed up.

“I'm not doing anything to you!” I muttered under my breath. “You think it's easy to be me in this crappy little town? If anything, you're doing it to ME! Everyone thinks we're freaks 'cause we're not from around here – and I was BORN here!” To emphasize my point, I turned down the road away from my house and headed towards the ranch. I'd already broken one thing today and I was feeling reckless enough to break another. I half hoped if I broke enough things, there wouldn't be anything left to hold me.

Up the road at the ranch, I spotted one of the other ranch hands near the road. “Where's Eric?” I asked. “Working over that away in the barn,” he said, pointing with his thumb, “but if you're looking for trouble, maybe I could help.” He added the last bit with a wink. I ignored him and turned toward the barn. I could already see Eric coming out the door. With his red hair, he stood out even from a distance.

By nightfall, we were on the road, headed for Vegas. Our plan didn't consist of much more than a desire to make it to one of those drive-through chapels and get married. Ever since I'd first kissed him, Eric had been asking me to marry him. It was now or never. I couldn't leave, though, without taking something from home. Before we left, I crept back into my house and grabbed the first thing I saw lying on the counter – my father's wedding ring. “Something borrowed,” I whispered nervously to myself as I headed out the door, slipping it onto my finger.

The next morning dawned under an open desert sky. We'd driven through the night in Eric's old convertible and I'd fallen asleep against his shoulder. The sky was so clean and blue when I woke that I felt I could cut a fresh start out of it. “Something blue,” I laughed and Eric looked puzzled until I pointed at the sky. Then he smiled and winked.

By late morning, though, the sky had begun to cloud up a little, and I didn't feel so sure about Vegas. When I glanced at Eric, though, he was looking resolutely ahead.

It was a little before noon when the sheriff and my father caught up with us on the Nevada border. The sheriff took Eric off to the side of the road while my father got into the car with me.

“Son, this girl's a minor.” I could hear the sheriff saying to Eric. “If her father chooses to press charges, you're looking at some serious jail time.” Eric just looked down, scuffing the dirt with his boot.

In the car my father looked at me for a long moment, his eyes weary. Finally he shook his head, then kind of shrugged his shoulders and asked, “Why did you run away with this boy?”

When I didn't answer, he glanced at me again, saw his ring on my finger, and suddenly barked in a voice he'd never used with me before, “Answer ME!”

“I HATE living there!” I said, bursting into tears, “You don't know how much I hate it.”

When I got back home we never talk about what had happened. The only time my mother ever mentioned it again was the day of my father's funeral. At the time, I was struggling through graduate school and didn't know whether to drop out or to continue. After the service at the church, my mother invited me back to her place for lunch.

“I want to tell you something about your father,” she said. “I know you think he never understood you. After the trouble with that boy from the ranch, I saw how you kept him at a distance. I know at the time you thought you knew what love was, but you didn't. Let me tell you what it meant to your father.

“Your father's dream was to be a cowboy. Unfortunately growing up back east he didn't realize that ranching is a family business, something you grow up doing, not something you hire yourself into. We'd already married before he came to the realization that ranching wasn't going to be his life. Your older brother was born shortly after we married, and then you come along. One day he took a look at his life and realized that the image of the lone cowboy riding over the hill into the sunset didn't include a family and he had one.”

At that she paused and looked down at her hands, lost in thought. After a couple of seconds, she spoke again.

“Some men I've known would have left at that point,” she continued, her voice catching a little, “but he loved me and you kids too much to walk out on us for a dream.”

“Of course, he never would have told you any of this. He was too decent for that. I'm only telling you now because I want you to understand what it means to really love someone. He didn't just give up that dream for me; he gave it up for you, too.”

I'm older now, approaching middle age. To look at me, you might believe I've been this old forever – I know my kids do. The weight of all these years is only an anchor on my body, though, not my heart. There's still something about the empty blue of an open desert sky that gets to me. When I first see it, it makes me think of promises about to be made. It's only after the night falls and the clouds roll in that I think about how most promises end up broken. Still, in the morning, when the rain falls and the desert blooms and you see that image shimmering on the road just up ahead, I can't help but to believe the world is still good – even for all its broken promises.

X Girlfriend

It's odd to encounter someone from your past and see in them the seed of a person you used to know now grown into a person that you don't.

A few weeks back my wife found my high school girlfriend's blog and cued me into it. When my wife and I were dating she used to refer to this girl as my first wife because of how much history we had together. There was more than a little truth in that jibe. I learned a lot about love from loving her.

Of course, when you marry, you close the door on your romantic past. But you can't know someone the way I knew this girl and not wonder over the years whatever happened to the person who used to be the center of your world. It's not that I'd ever want to return to the past or trade my wife for her. But I also can't deny that who I am today owes something to that history - and there have been times when I wished I could bring the all of the pieces of me, past and present, together into one coherent whole.

Naturally, now that I know about her blog, I haven't been able to resist keeping up with her by looking at it regularly. It's interesting to see what she is up to now, but also a little strange. I've known for sometime now that she and her husband are out in the world living their own lives, independent of my own, but I've also maintained the fiction that the girl I once knew is still somewhere out there, too. Of course, she's not. She's all grown now, blogging about her husband and four kids.

I suppose that the idea that I could ever bring all of the pieces of me together into one whole is an illusion, too. Ultimately we all have to take the pieces of our lives as they are and make them work together without ever having all of the answers.

What it is

It turns out it is easier to write the occasional poem than to finish any of my short stories. (Alas, I'm too lazy for my own good.) Anyhow, here is my latest attempt to satisfy my desire to create something other than a project schedule or a meeting.

The world is what it is man
You can step off it
If you can

And why does it go where it goes
Who knows

I only know
I don't know
(That's so)

The world is what it is
Man

A thinking man thinks
About thinking

A doing man does
What he can

And all of the others
My sisters and brothers
Are waiting for something to land

The world is

What it is

Man

Awaking

Another poem. This one started percolating when I took out the recycling this morning.

What are these strands
of food and sleep
that bind me to you
puppet earth?

I, this wooden boy
sleep walking
in the divine mystery
of the spirit night,
wish to wake
from this stage house dream.

Who calls to me
from the footlights?

Who sees me
the statue in the stone?

Is it my pinnochio father?

Or another?

The besk kung fu movie ever

Recently I had the opportunity to again view a snippet of the best kung fu movie *ever*! Yes, I am talking about "Kung Pow", a movie where a man fights a cow.

Man Fighting a Cow

You can't beat that! Not even if you're a crouching tiger hiding behind a dragon.

Ten Sky Night

Here's a poem I thought of on the way into work this morning (or maybe it's more free verse, whatever):

Life
the kaliedoscopic mystery
seen through a pinhole
of light and sound
frequencies resolved and unresolving
casting platonic shadows
upon the caves of a wall
that exists only in the mind.
These living stones
that strive
to be born into cathedrals
wherein echo the solemn footsteps
of truth.
We are forever beholding
in our beholdeness
the face of a God
as seen in a mirror
that reflects our own fears and hopes.
"But do you really see me?"
He says
and herein is found
the lonely sound
of one handing clapping
in this ten sky night.
We are too much drawn
to illusion
as we journey
through this endless night
guided by
a pinhole
of light.