My Trophy

Today, when I should have been working, but was really commenting on Catch’s blog, I saw something amiss out of the corner of my eye. It was a small, dark spot on the left cuff of my white shirt. I stopped typing and looked down. I found a tiny, brown spider.

I try to love all of God’s creatures. I’m generally fairly successful. There are a few animals, though, that I’d be happy never touching. Spiders are among them.

I shook my arm. The spider ran across my cuff. I flicked at it with my right middle finger. Thinking I had successfully flicked it onto my desk, I swept my arm directly up. I wanted to find the thing and send it to whatever heaven or hell awaited it. I found it hanging, via a web invisible to my eyes, from my sleeve. I freaked out a little, especially when I pushed my chair away from my desk, shook my arm a bit, and it started traveling up the web toward my arm. I shook harder, back and forth, several times. Nothing.

Finally, I put my arm near the floor, pushed at the invisible web with my foot and rubbed the thing, between my foot and the gray carpet, into oblivion. All that’s left now is a brownish stain on the carpet. The spot is about 1/4 of an inch long and 1/8 of an inch wide and is located about two feet behind and to the left of my office chair. It’ll be there a while. To my knowledge, and based on the obvious condition, the carpet hasn’t been cleaned for some time. It certainly hasn’t been cleaned since I moved into my office about three years ago.

Three Things

1. Yesterday, I bought Third, the appropriately titled third album from Portishead. I’m seriously digging it. They managed to create a collection of songs that builds on their original trip-hop sound by gripping the listener more tightly, thus avoiding the danger of making “mood music.” At the same time, though, it sounds more introspective. It’s a bit of an enigma.

2. Today is the birthday of Annie Dillard, one of my favorite authors. I draw inspiration from many people and things. But Annie is one of the most consistent sources. Happy Birthday, sweet Annie!

3. Over the weekend and for the first couple of days this week, a friend of mine and Jennifer’s stayed with us for a few days. In general, she is a wonderful house guest. Specifically, though, she cooked a meal for us on Monday night that will live in my memory for years.

A few years ago, when her youngest son was still in high school and was an exchange student in Turkey, she spent about a month in Istanbul and the surrounding countryside. While there, she stayed with her son’s host family. It was an authentic way to experience the country, culture, and, lucky for me and Jennifer, the food.

She told us the name of the main course, but it’s Turkish and I had forgotten as soon as she said it. I just call it crack. Served over pasta with fresh parsley, it’s sort of similar to marinara-based Italian sauces featuring eggplant. But it doesn’t have as much tomato as marinara, the spices are livelier, and it had yogurt instead of cheese. Can anyone out there, who enjoys Turkish cuisine, tell what we had based on my terrible description? I’ll ask her the next time I speak with her.

Regardless, it was my first experience with Turkish and I loved it.

Jay Farrar Wears Blundstones

On April 20, almost on a whim, a friend and I went to see Son Volt. They were playing at a local club in Little Rock. I was skeptical because I’m sort of done with them. I wish Jay Farrar would move on and do something different with music.

Turned out to be a great concert. The band was great, as was Farrar. The venue was small and, sort of sadly, as a testament to Son Volt’s fading star, not too packed. I mention that because we were able to get up from our table and walk to the edge of the stage. I was close enough to clearly see the pull tabs on Farrar’s Blundstones. His boots were very beat; it made me like him more.

Thank You Jake

Parting is all we know of heaven and all we need of hell.

–Emily Dickinson

Not long ago, I had a short discussion with Jennie about loss. I basically said that I don’t know why we must experience it. I don’t mean biologically, that’s necessity. I mean ontologically. I’ve heard and understand all the explanations that basically amount to death putting life in perspective. I agree with them.

It’s my opinion, however, that little solace, from the pain of a lost loved one, comes from the intellectual knowledge that we ought to grab life by the balls every day. In fact, I’ve found very little that eases the pain of loss. In the Christian tradition, seeing those we love in heaven is a supposed comfort. For whatever reason, probably selfishly, that doesn’t do much for me.

If you’ve read my blog consistently, or really much at all, over the past several months, you know that my dog Zoie died this past January. Her sickness, and subsequent death, was one of the hardest experiences of my life. I used to apologize for that, saying that some people won’t understand because she was a dog. Well, they still won’t, but I just don’t give a damn. I’m getting better, but there are still times when a deep sadness wells up from the very pit of my soul and has to come out one way or another.

Hang on for a minute and I’ll explain why my struggle with understanding loss, especially in context of Zoie, is an important part of the reason for this post.

Yesterday, I was reminded of my conversation with Jennie when she sent me a text and told me that Duke, the dog of her brother, David, and sister-in-law, Carey, had died. I was shocked. My immediate reaction, even though it’s of little importance after the fact, was to ask what had happened. The answer: Cancer. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Fuck Cancer.

So, after I had some time for the initial shock to pass, I asked Jennie if they are okay. She said that they had prepared for the worst when, knowing Duke had liver cancer, he went in for exploratory surgery, and that they are okay as they can be. Then, when I got home yesterday afternoon, Jennifer mentioned to me that telling Jake, David and Carey’s young son, about Duke was going to be tough. I hadn’t even thought of that. How do you explain such a complex, emotional issue to someone not yet capable of comprehending all the intricacies of life?

This morning, via email from Jennie, I received the answer. Basically, they just told him straight up. It’s the bravest thing I’ve heard recently. I’m not sure I could have done it. But the even more remarkable part is that, when they prayed for Duke later that night, Jake, knowing that his mother was upset about losing Duke, just told Carey, “Mommy, he sooo safe now.”

Jake, without even knowing it, has brought me a level of comfort that no adult, with a deep understanding of all the philosophical and religious writings of human history, could possibly bring. Duke is safe. And so is Zoie.

Out of the mouths of babes…

The Devil and Death

Before the Devil Knows Your Dead

I somehow completely missed this movie when it was playing in theaters. But when I was browsing at the rental store this past Saturday, and read the back cover of the DVD, my reaction was to immediately think that it has to be good because it’s directed by Sidney Lumet (12 Angry Men, Serpico, Dog Day Afternoon, Running on Empty) and stars Philip Seymour Hoffman, Ethan Hawke, Marisa Tomei, and Albert Finney.

My instinct was correct. Hurray me!

Seriously, it’s excellent. It’s a modern tragedy about two brothers (Hoffman and Hawke) who decide to rob their parent’s jewelry store because they need the money and they think it will be a victimless crime because they know their parents are well insured. As you can probably guess, things do not go nearly as smoothly as they planned.

Death at a Funeral

I love English comedies and this is a great one about the outrageous hijinks that happen when a stereotypically staid English family attempts to stage a dignified funeral for the family’s patriarch.

My Blogroll

If you were previously on my blog roll and have disappeared, it’s nothing personal. It’s just that you probably haven’t been posting on a regular basis. More likely than not, you still appear in my Google reader account. Just trying to do some maintenance.

That is all.

Black Sunday

I try not to hold physical possessions in high regard. But there are a few things that I love and would not want to lose. For example: my iPod, two particular pairs of jeans, my journals, and…my MacBook.

So, Saturday night, after I ballyhooed my organizational accomplishments in the post immediately preceding this one, I spilled an entire glass of water on my (open) MacBook. When I did, I immediately picked it up and held it sideways so standing water ran off. I then turned it off, dried it to the extent possible with a towel, and sat it on a table to air dry. A couple of hours later, I turned it back on and it worked fine. Crisis averted?

No.

When I turned it on last evening, I was greeted by a flashing icon showing a file with a question mark in the middle. After a bit of research (using Jennifer’s computer), I’ve found that I probably should have used the tent method, which basically amounts to removing the battery, opening the computer, turning it upside down, and placing it on a table. Get it? It looks like a tent.

The bottom line is that I may have done some serious damage by turning it on too soon.

In other fun news, yesterday around noon, I was the instigator of a fender bender in the Kroger parking lot. It bashed the woman’s door in; my bumper is just barely scratched. There is no question that it was my fault.

I realized I had hit her car when, backing out of a parking space without looking, I heard the unmistakable sound of crunching metal. I slammed on my brakes. Too little, too late; the damage was done. After I stopped, the woman honked her horn. I thought it meant she was going to be nasty about the whole thing. But given my experience during the subsequent couple of minutes, I think she was just a slow reactor.

When I got out to examine the havoc I had just wreaked, I said, “Uhh, this is totally my fault.”

The woman apologized.

I just stared for a second, baffled, and then said, “Really, it’s my fault.”

“I just hate when this kind of thing happens. I didn’t see you either.”

“I hate it too, but it is what it is. And, besides, you weren’t really obligated to see me. You were driving up the parking lot aisle and clearly had the right of way.”

We exchanged information and went on our not quite so merry ways. Still, if I had to pick an auto accident, that would be the one: no one was hurt, minimal damage (although a check from David to the insurance company is coming to a theater near you), and the participants were civil. Actually, while I would like to believe otherwise, she was much nicer than I probably would have been.

The Container Store Heaven

It being Spring and all, I decided to clean out my closet this weekend. I filled a large garbage bag with items I hadn’t worn in – this is ridiculous – several months. After the great purge of ‘08, I also decided to reorganize.

My foremost goal was to get the pile of shoes, overflowing from my existing shoe organizer, into some semblance of order and to rid myself of a wooden chest that served as a repository for both bills and recent issues of periodicals. Clearly, to remove things from the chest, I would need to put them someplace else. The obvious choice to provide a solution, even though I had never been, was the new retail outlet of The Container Store.

A few months ago, when someone at work told me that The Container Store was opening in Little Rock, I think my comment was, “Seems sort of limited.” I couldn’t have been more wrong. The Container Store is, pure and simple, heaven for those of us with OCD tendencies. If you need to organize something, The Container Store has a solution.

I purchased an expandable shoe rack (for up to 13 pairs), a magazine rack (3 slots that hold approximately 10 magazines each), a letter organizer (for bills and other mail), a pen and pencil holder, and a paper-backed, lined journal for note taking at work. The letter organizer and pen and pencil holder are both white (to match my MacBook). I placed them on top of my chest of drawers where I charge my computer. Total bill: $89 and change. Overpriced? You bet.

Still, I’m thoroughly pleased. I ridded myself of a clunky, wooden chest that I never liked that much and, more importantly, everything in my closet now has a home. You can’t put a price on that kind of peace of mind. Those of you who are reading this, and aren’t so anal as I am, probably can’t understand what I’m blabbering on about. But I’ve no doubt that some of you do…

Heavenly Day

Tomorrow may rain with sorrow
Here’s a little time we can borrow
Forget all our troubles in these moments so few
Because right now, all that we really have to do
Is have ourselves, a heavenly day
Lay here and watch the trees sway
Can’t see no other way, no way, no way
Oh, heavenly day, heavenly day, heavenly day

No one at my shoulder, bringing me fear
Got no clouds up above me, bringing me tears
Got nothing to tell you, I’ve got nothing much to say
Only I’m glad to be here with you
On this heavenly, heavenly, heavenly day

Baby on Board

Once, when we were still working together, a former co-worker had eye surgery. His doctor offered him a temporary parking pass to permit him to use parking reserved for the disabled. He took it, and used it. I would say that I found it shocking, but I suppose it doesn’t stoop nearly as low as humans are capable (say genocide or human trafficking). So I guess I’ll settle for distasteful. He didn’t give it a second thought.

I think about him every now and again when I see the parking spaces, at various retail locations, reserved for expectant mothers. I. don’t. get. it. If I were physiologically capable of having a baby, were actually pregnant, and didn’t have any major complications, there is no way I would use that parking. I find it offensive, not because I can’t use it. I think it’s offensive because it implies that there is something wrong with pregnant women.

An over simplification, this. I realize it.

The Big Dam Bridge: More than Runners

Yesterday, someone at work told me that a flock of American White Pelicans has mistakenly taken up temporary residence near the Murray Lock and Dam and the Big Dam Bridge (the dam and bridge are located a bit northwest of Little Rock proper). When I heard this, I was surprised that pelicans would be so far from the coast. Then, when I Googled them, I found that, according to Whatbird.com, Arkansas is well within the bird’s migratory range. So I think maybe their presence is not quite so mistaken.

Regardless, news of the pelicans reminded me that one day, almost two weeks ago, when I was walking through my work’s parking lot after lunch, I noticed a flock of large, white birds circling above the building in which I work. I didn’t recognize the birds, but I’m convinced now that they were American White Pelicans, especially after looking at pictures of them on the interwebs.

When I saw them, the flock was divided into three groups. Each group occupied the same vertical airspace and was arranged roughly in the v shape that I’ve often seen of migrating ducks or geese. The two groups, at the highest and lowest altitude, circled clockwise. The other group, in the middle, circled counter-clockwise. The total effect, when viewed from a fair distance, was like viewing a loosely organized funnel cloud that had gathered its necessary detritus and then stalled above a building.

But the debris was the creation.

Not having the ability to turn away from the wondrous sight, in at least a partially transcendent state, I stared. For how long, I’m not sure. I’m certain it was a matter of minutes. I’m also certain that, like a mouth breather performing a strenuous task, I stood with my mouth agape. I couldn’t help myself. I was simply unexpectedly awestruck by the beauty of God’s creation. I love it when that happens, not really something that can be scheduled.

When I regained self awareness, I noticed a couple of people walking through the parking lot to their offices. Neither of them seemed to pay any attention to the birds. I wanted to scream, “Look! Look! How can you not stop to look at them?!? Take heed you bastards!” But I didn’t. It’s difficult, at best, to force others to see beauty where they don’t find it themselves. Besides, maybe, like me, they had already observed their own birds that day. So, still looking at the Pelicans, I walked on to the building and thanked God for life.

The Taxman Cometh

I know that tomorrow is officially tax day. But I just wrote a check for our additional annual contribution to the war effort. So here’s to you, Uncle Sam:

If you drive a car, I’ll tax the street,
If you try to sit, I’ll tax your seat.
If you get too cold I’ll tax the heat,
If you take a walk, I’ll tax your feet.

Don’t ask me what I want it for
If you don’t want to pay some more

–George Harrison from The Beatles song “Taxman”

Comfort

Most of my regular readers know that we moved to a new house this past November.  It occurred to me today that one of the things I most love about it is that we can hear the church bells, from a nearby Methodist church, from most any place in the house.  Comforting, that.

C U in a Week – on Vacation

Wednesday Rant – Style

Many of the employees at my previous job in the Wal-Mart home office viewed the business casual dress code as a recommendation. In fact, it sort of devolved from business casual to sloppy. Choices were so bad that I often saw men wearing khakis with elastic waistbands and women in stretch stirrup pants. Awful. An eyesore. Clothes that should never be worn. I’m completely serious, not even to the laundromat.

Anyway, I mention that to emphasize how much I notice, and appreciate, the fact that, by and large, most people at my current workplace take pride in their appearance. It’s refreshing for me, even after almost five years of working here. By the way, I rarely talk about it on this blog, but I hated working at Wal-Mart. I honestly believe that the differences between the two companies are rooted in the way that each of the companies treats their employees. Wal-Mart approached associates employees like children to be corrected. It was a self-fulfilling prophesy; expect nothing and you’ll get nothing. My current work generally treats people with respect and views employees as adults who act in the company’s best interest, even if their actions are taken, if for no other reason, out of a sense of self-preservation.

But the glaring exception, that for some reason I’ve only recently noticed, to people taking pride in their appearance is the ubiquitous presence of backpacks. Have you ever seen a grown adult, dressed for work, lugging a backpack on both – or even one – shoulder? Individuals who do this look like some sort of overgrown parochial school student – or like Billy Madison but wearing slacks or a skirt and a pinpoint oxford or blouse. It looks stupid, and I wish someone would correct it.

Call me shallow if you want. I don’t care because appearance does matter. People judge others based on it. I’m not saying it’s right; it’s reality.

And don’t misunderstand, I’m not suggesting that the women who carry a backpack run out and purchase a Hermes Birkin, nor am I suggesting that the men buy the male equivalent of the Birkin. There are reasonable alternatives to a backpack that will hold a notebook computer, and whatever work papers need to be hauled about. If you’re reading this and know someone who needs a hint, let me know. I’m happy to provide suggestions.

The Price of a Memory

In general, I have great memories. I don’t say that to brag. It’s just that, sometimes, I think about them and their fragility and I’m amazed. It’s not scary per se, but certainly baffling, to me that certain diseases, and even normal aging, can lock memories away with no chance to recover them.

I particularly start thinking about these things when I visit a place, hear a song, or smell something that opens some sort of flood gate of things I hadn’t thought about – sometimes in years, sometimes in only a few days – since some passed time. It’s strange to experience, but not unusual. In fact, while I’ve never specifically discussed it with anyone, I suspect it’s something that most, if not all, of us have in common.

Anyway, I had such an experience this weekend. The memories that filled my mind were actually mixed: some good, some bad. But, frankly, I don’t want to write about them here because there is only so much to say about one thing. But you better believe I wrote about the experience in my personal journal – I refer to my journal as arid ruminations (because I expect that no one but me would be interested – sort of like this post). I found it strange because I write many of the things I do so I can accurately revisit them later. This time, I was memorializing the act of remembering. See, weird experience.

No point really except to say that I think that there is nothing more wonderful in this life than revisiting shared, joyful experience. In fact, I once read an article, written by some happiness expert, that said, given the choice between a new car or an extravagant vacation, she would choose the vacation every time. Her logic, which I’ve found to be true, is that the car will simply depreciate over time and the owner will grow tired of it. By contrast, the memory of a trip generally gets fonder with time – people usually quickly forget bad parts like lost luggage. That was just an example she cited…

So, to memory: Salute!