Journal

January 31st, 2006

My DVD's here, finally, after weeks of waiting for Amazon.dot.dot.and.dot.etc.com to finally get it in my mailbox ohhhhhhh baby. It's a good thing it's not a Friday either, I'd quit my job, open a book store, start drinking and smoking and kicking everyone screaming, "Right, the shop is closed, everybody get out! Time to go home, come on! Come on, go home, bye bye, get out... Goodbye! Come on, all you time-wasting bastards, back on the streets. Thank you!"

I mean, after all, my parents raised my to be polite about such things.

And the thing is I was writing something about being serious or not too serious and making nobody happy then my computer the amazing black rocket hoohoo just crashed and I didn't happen to save it so bugger it all bugger it I lost a paragraph of my life and the things I loose when I'm thinking about the places I'd rather be instead of where I'm at which is smoking, booze, book store and it wouldn't be so bad but the health codes and all--I mean, I don't smoke anymore, I rarely drink, and the health codes are fine what with kids and colouring books and all and it does give me more time to do useful things like meditate, jog, cycle, and sort the mail into oh god they want more money again and damnit do they have to cut down the rain forests for this crap those bloody bastards so now I must recycle the rain forests so Working Assets can send me a bill to put in the oh god they want more money again pile and it never freakin ends!

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, umh, get out you bastards, back on the streets! Get out there and be yourself and fumble around and trip and make mistakes and fuck up and skin your knees ouch and call each other names and apologize and, and, and, oh hell...

Live!

January 30th, 2006

The memories swirl through my head. Are you watching me? I could hear you this morning but you weren't where I thought you'd be, you were at your grandparents house visiting, just visiting, it was important but not so important, and you were thinking about me. And then I smelled one of my favourite smells, hard to explain, health food stores around the juice and dairy coolers.

The memories swirl through my vision. Are you thinking about me? I had to get some work done, I knew you'd be calling and I knew I'd have to run and I knew I'd be a few minutes late trying to get my head back on straight as I went from one thing to the other to another. I've learned to adapt over the years but still there are times where I get a little stuck and need to push, push, push myself away from what I'm doing to something else then something else then something else. And sometimes that makes me feel oh, so tired.

The memories swirl within my spirit. Are you following me? Am I going to fast around the curves or am I giving you just enough lead to challenge you just a little bit at the time. Just don't stare too much at my tail lights, you'll get blinded, you'll miss the apex of the turn, you'll crash and burn because you were looking at where I was going not where you should be going. Do you understand?

The memories stand silently waiting to fulfill their place. Will you experience them with me? Will I cherish you and bring to you memories that are worth keeping of knowledge and companionship and love and honor and truth and wonder, oh wonder and joy? Will you go there with me?

January 29th, 2006

My daughter has a good friend who she's known since third grade, since I moved to this new home, my first, our first, house. She likes to tell her friend what to do, what they're going to play, how they're going to play, and that she shouldn't complain if things get a little too rough or crazy.

I lived in the same house from the age of three to seventeen. I remember the first day at the house, the air in the country was so fresh, fresher than anything I'd smelled before and I remember running across the large lawn with my arms out knowing I would spend almost fifteen years of my life there, looking at sunsets from my window, down beyond the pastures, the rimrocks in the distant, Central Oregon air and hills and clouds in reds, yellows, purples and blues.

Sometimes we leave the things we love. Sometimes the things we love leave us. Always, the difference between the two is an illusion. Do you understand this?

Enjoy your friendships but listen. Enjoy your sunsets but watch. And always, always remember.

January 27th, 2006

I started my day at 7am. I got to sleep in fifteen minutes, my daughter having the day off from school so I didn't have to take her to the early maths class. Then picked up a good friend who I was taking to the Portland air port, got some coffee for both of us, gas, breakfast, and off to PDX and back.

The traffic wasn't half as bad as I'd expected.

I took my daughter to work. I took half the day off but we got back early enough that I could get a full day's work in. Spent half the day dealing with normal day to day fires, spent the other half banging my head on .NET and C#--and having a moderate amount of enjoyment doing it.

Vipasanna got a motorcycle. I rode it home last night and learned I don't like riding a cruiser and that's it's true what they say, treat your ride like your toothbrush and don't ride another person's toothbrush while wearing a g-string, etc., etc.

So I went out in the light rain and stood there directing her out to the sidewalk talking her calmy up to the curb, forwards a foot, then telling her to let the bike roll back a foot, and so on getting used the the clutch and break. Then she went on the road, just the side, and we went from house to house for about a block before I got in the car and followed her around the loop. And then I got on my hooli and we went for a ride.

And so we rode and rode and rode, around the neighborhood, nice and slow, around and around the loop, one way then the other, then to the parking lot not too far from here then down a quarter mile of higher speed road, stop, check, you ok? Yes. Then down farther, farther, a little faster, a longer loop, a bit wet, a bit dark, but we're okay.

When we got home she was ready to stop for awhile. We said our goodbyes and I shot off like a banshee to the grocery store.

Not the first I've taught to ride. Not the last.

Tomorrow I hope to ride again.

January 25th, 2006

We’ve made an agreement. You know the one. We agreed to ignore it.

We didn't say anything, we didn't sign anything, it's not legally binding, but we both know we'll keep to it. And the funny thing is we'll ignore it, we'll pretend it's not happening, we'll act like we're not uncomfortable with the situation. When we sit down we'll look past each other, when we send Christmas cards we'll sign it "With Love" but we'll never hug each other again with the same kind of genuine honesty we had before. We put up with it, we deal with it, we say "Whatever!" and we keep walking.

Would you have me stand and shout or be silent? It is not my way to watch fruit rot on the table when the tree outside is blossoming. Would you have me ignore it or share it, face it and grow or walk away through many, many miles of artificial bliss? What is more comfortable for you, telling stories about how your body is failing you, about the friends that bailed on you, what is your stick, your high, your hit? Don't you see it?

Do not assume what you cannot see.

January 18th, 2006

I have been bad, very bad. Is 2006 to be the year of fewer journal entries? I have all these things I want to write about and when I have time the journal will be evolving even more. Yet all of my time as of January has been consumed by work and friends, I've barely been able to squeeze in my jogs.

I look forward to longer days.

I've been spending a lot of my time lately learning more about programming in .NET. I hope to add some features to the Temple that make it easier for me to write and share--from anywhere in the world. Nice thing is, I can use the same knowledge at my work. Double bang for the buck.

Sorry, no picture today.

January 14th, 2006

I have had enough sorrow for one day. Sorrow over misunderstandings, sorrow over miscommunication, sorrow over mistakes, and sorrow over deaths.

Sometimes what I think I see isn't necessarily what is there. Sometimes what is right in front of my face doesn't wake my conscious mind until it scares the hell at me, making me jump. Sometimes I discover I haven't come as far in this life as I'd like to think.

I have had enough realizations for one day, I have seen too many tears for one day, I have accepted too much responsibility, given too many apologies, and sat when I prefered to stand too many times for one day.

Pay attention to what's stairing in your face. There will be responsibility, there will be tears, there will be mistakes and apologies, but regrets result when you miss the obvious.

January 14th, 2006

Every now and again I go through my things and decide what I need. Ironically what I end up with is a pile of things I don't need. Some things are garbage, some things can be recycled, some things can be given away as gifts, and other things I drop off at Good Will.

My daughter's inclination is to be a pack rat. If possible she wants to save everything she's ever touched. She might have a tissue someone gave her at a birthday party or a book someone gave her at school, doesn't matter, since there's a memory associated with it she has a difficult time letter go, a difficult time prioritizing what she really values, uses, and cherishes and what she doesn't. Actually, that's not true. She can do it just fine until there's a chance she might loose something then she gets tunnel vision.

It's amazing how the fear of loosing little things can keep us from seeing the big picture. So I write down my memories and sometimes, when it's appropriate, I take pictures.

Here is a picture I took for my daughter so she could let go without letting go and without getting stuck.

January 11th, 2006

I haven't been writing much. I don't want to write. I want to be heard but I don't want to write. Do you understand? When I was a child I wanted to write, I wanted to be an author, I wanted to have at least one published book and say this is mine, I want to share it with you. And I have a book, it's about 300 pages and every now and again I find the energy and the courage to work on it, to write, to share. But I'm tired of writing. I'm not as good as I'd like to be either because I want to tell stories but my stories...don't ever meet my expectations or hopes. I'm good at letter writing, or at least that's what they tell me. I can get every thought and feeling and emotion out and I'm not afraid to share every nuance and angle and corner...except I have found that if people are unable to hear there is no point to the most articulate and well thought out letter. I don't want to sit behind a keyboard anymore and type, I don't want to sit with a pen in my hand anymore and write. What is the purpose if no one hears what I'm really trying to say but a variation, a watered down, amplified, biased, twisted, projected, contorted view of the message, not the message in its pure, original, and intended state? Can you hear me if my words are steeped in metaphore, can you hear me if my words lead straight to a target, can you hear me if you ask me to speak my mind, can you hear me if I am sitting silently drinking tea? Can you hear anyone or anything but your own mind rambling on and on and on and on endlessly day after day, dream after dream, day after dream after day after dream? Are you awake? Do you hear? Do you understand? I haven't been writing much. I want to write, but I've been too busy. And I want to be heard.

January 9th, 2006

I started my day with a painful stomach ache and I end it now with a terrible headache. On a scale of 1 to 10 every area of my life has been between a 7 and a 9 this last month and a half or so, usually a 7, sometimes an 8, at least once or twice a 9--don't get me wrong, though, there have been brief moments between 3 and 5. And, like the slow learning homo-sapien that I am, I've had too much holiday chocolates, one too many margaritas, and one too many nights alone wondering what my future holds.

I have been feeling down.

I got a package today from my beautiful friend Muge who lives in Turkey. It had a few things in it including Turkish Delight, a type of candy I've never had before, and some beautiful coffee cups and Turkish coffee (which I will no doubt enjoy as soon as my stomach starts behaving itself again!).

I've been looking forward to getting this package for so long that I guess after I stopped checking the mailbox physically I then stopped checking emotionally. That's the way I've felt the last couple of days, as if I've been open and standing and positive and hoping and thoughtful and conscious for so long that I feel like I'm worn out or empty or alone or something and I can't even put my finger on the description.

Way back in the day, long ago, I used to create stories. I had all these wonderful, beautiful, intricate stories and I'd live within them. I'd build a plot line here and another there as wall supports and nail some ideas to the outside as walls, throw a little fit to keep the rain out, and life was "good"--at least the story had a form and shape and purpose and I felt a certain sense of security knowing I had a ramshack roof over my head.

I gave that up, though, and sometimes that's hard. I've chosen to experience suffering without jumping immediately into a story (or if I find myself in one, I've learned how to get out). And maybe that's okay. Still, I'd like to have a day or a week or a month on a scale from 3 to 5, that would be okay, and maybe a few rare moments of 1 and 2 and 9 and 10. Disney land, that's what that would be like.

Sure could use a map!

P.S. Do you like the picture? You'd think the package would have scared off those Turkish vampires :)

January 7th, 2006

People tell me they feel that they've known me a long time, like they've always known me. They tell me they feel close to me, that though they don't know me all that well or for all that long that they feel they can trust me. They think that makes them special.

When I meet someone I feel like I've known them a long time, like I've always known them. And I feel close to them. Though I just met them, though I haven't known them all that long, I know I can trust them to be true to who they really are. And I know they are special.

These are just symptoms.

January 6th, 2006

Sometimes I fantasize about my funeral. Don't you? I wonder how big or small it will be, if it will be full of young people or old, friends, coworkers, families, or obligatories. I wonder if I'll be able to hang out too.

I haven't thought too much about what I want to happen as it's not really something that matters terribly much. Funerals aren't for the dead. But I would like there to be music. Happy music, sad music, powerful musics. I like funerals in New Orleans, you know, a procession of people with a band blaring out something mornful yet fun and loud enough to "wake the dead". That's what a funeral should be about: the breath of life.

I do want one thing, though, so given that I have no formal will and testament and though I don't plan on kicking the bucket anytime soon, this one statement here, written for The Temple, should be considered part of my last will and testament until such time it is overwritten by myself or my alter ego, both which should legally be considered equal in this matter.

I digress with pseudo-legal techno-babble...my apologies.

At my funeral there should be a large (huge) bucket. Hell, make it a barrel. It should be up at the front and it will be full of fist sized rocks. On the outside will be a large sign that reads: "May the first to tell a lie be stoned." And that, as far as I can tell ya, is the only thing (besides loud blaring music) that I want at my funeral.

So what do I mean by that? We don't live in the dark ages! And this isn't your stereotypical request. Do I really want the people in my life to stone each other? (Wait! Do not answer that question! lol ;)

I want you to say what you thought of me, what you learned from me, what you hated about me, what you loved about me, what frustrated you about me, whatever it is, that's what I want. I want you to say that you cheated on me or I cheated on you, I want you to tell everyone that I was there for you and kept my promise to you...or that I failed and abandoned you. I want every story to be a story of my life that rings true and teaches a lesson and paints a picture of a human life we can all learn something from. I want my funeral to be full of seeds for life, for your life.

That's what I wanted my life to be about so...if I completely mess up here, at least do me the honor of making my death about that! :)

Oh, and of course, take a rock home as a souvineer.

On another note, the best compliment of 2006 was given to me by Vipasanna the other day in the form of a song called Push on Madonna's newest album Confessions on a Dance Floor:

You push me
To go the extra mile
You push me
When it's difficult to smile
You push me
A better version of myself
You push me
Only you and no one else

You push me
To see the other point of view
You push me
When there's nothing else to do
You push me
When I think I know it all
You push me
When I stumble and I fall

Keep on pushing like nobody

[Chorus]
Every race I win
Every mood I'm in
Everthing I do
I owe it all to you
Every move I make
Every step I take
Everything I do
It's all because you push me

You push me
When I don't appreciate
You push me
Not to lie and not to hate
You push me
When I want it all to end
You push me
When I really need a friend

You push me
All I wanna do is cry
You push me
When it's hard for me to try
You push me
When I do it for myself
You push me
Only you and no one else

Keep on pushing like nobody

[Chorus]

You push me

Keep on pushing like nobody

[Chorus]

To go the extra mile
When it's difficult to smile
A better version of myself
Only you and only you and only you
To see the other point of view
When there's nothing else to do
When I think I know it all
Only you and only you and only you