A Brief Interlude (#21)

Tonight's post is messy. Many apologies. But then my thoughts have been that way of late, and poetry, even the best of it, is a muddled affair for a slow-minded person like myself. And those are the two things I have for you today: my mind and poetry.

Don't worry, I will not have you experience second-hand embarrassment. There will be no sharing of my own poems, all of which were written in a short period of time, in middle school. 

You're not missing anything.

(Here is a small glimpse into that poetry portfolio of mine: one of my poems was a about a lighthouse. I like how the house stands separate from the lighthouse. There is an interesting relationship going on there.)

A Deep Breath (#16)

Me talking to my faithful reader.

It's almost 6 pm on a Sunday as I sit down to write another blog post. The laundry is done, except for some towels. Those are easy to separate and fold, so I am not worried about them. Dinner is finished, though the leftovers have to be put away. But that is why I filled an entire kitchen cabinet with Rubbermaid containers. Finally, no dishes remain, except for a small pot containing rice, and a slow cooker pot filled with shredded chicken. Now, those two are the kind of things that will weigh on my mind. I would get up right now and put these things away. However, that would inspire me to tackle the remaining load of laundry. Which requires a trip up and down two flights of stairs. Plenty of opportunity for something, or someone, to distract me from writing. 

My procrastination would love nothing more than an excuse not to finish this post. 

So, all that will have to wait while I wrap up this post. At this point, I'm unable to see tonight's entry lasting much longer. I have no answer to last week's query. During the past week, plenty of reasons crossed my mind. The browser on my phone has over one hundred open windows begging to be blogged about. Even today, several strong motives appeared before me. Funny how just a few words from out of nowhere can get you thinking about life. Then there are the two existential threats, from AI projects of all things, that have me questioning why I should bother to pursue my drawing and writing goals. Yet, I can't commit to any one of them. Not at this time.    

However, don't worry, I'm not planning on giving up on blogging. Not any time soon.

After all, I sat down and wrote this post.   

Confessions (#20)

My lantern prototype.

I almost did not blog tonight, and I spent the last hour explaining my reasons. After three-hundred-and -seventy words of complaining, it occurred to me that these were just excuses for my debilitating habits. The same habits I have discussed before: poor planning, procrastinating, overreaching. Tonight's content sounded repetitive. Worse, it was all coming from a bad place. This week was busy, with little to show for it; this weekend exhausting, filled with disappointments. The post reeked of these negative feelings. While writing about pain and suffering is necessary and cathartic, these subjects require careful and deliberate execution. That demands time and focus. Otherwise, I am just ranting and raving, spewing vile into the universe. And the universe needs far less negative expression these days. 

Then it came to me. A question. 

Why AM I still blogging?

Before you panic, dear reader, I do not intend to give it up. Nor do I wish to take a sabbatical, even a short one. However, I felt a need to confess this inner thought. This troubling confession may be the culmination of this past week's frustrations. Like the pangs of indigestion rising up after a holiday of binging, provoking the need to reevaluated your diet, lest you want your body to suffer worse consequences in the days and weeks ahead. Or, it may be the inevitable result of all this introspection. Writing week after week about personal details is like peeling away layers of flooring in an old house. Eventually you will reach the original install. Only then will you realize whether it was worth the effort.  

Why AM I still blogging?

Thirty-one months and one-hundred-and-seventy-six posts later, it is an important question to ask. It is also natural, because the original reasons may no longer apply. In the beginning, there were three.  Two are obvious, just read the first few posts. The third, not so much. I have only alluded to it perhaps once, maybe twice. Unfortunately, for you, I do not have the energy to find it (my guess is I labeled it as a "confession"). After all this time writing about whatever came to my mind on a Sunday night, coupled with a list of failed projects from this past week, I am not surprised that this question showed up.

Why AM I still blogging?

Whatever answers come to the surface right now, are not meant to last. Trust me, my initial responses are quite messy and foul. They are like the proto-DNA strands arising from the primordial soup. Yet, while their presence may disappear from future iterations, their initial existence is necessary in order for the process to begin. And sharing this question is but the first step in search of a conclusion.

Why AM I still blogging?

Sorry, good reader, I do not have an answer. I am not sure when it will come to me. But, rest assured, I will be asking it constantly over the next few weeks. After all, it is an important question.

In the meantime, I have a dishwasher to start, and a load of laundry to fold. Among a million other things.

Why AM I still blogging?

 

My Second and Final Attempt.

 

A Deep Breath (#15)

This past week, I was away visiting family for Thanksgiving. Instead of blogging, I was chilling, eating, and reminiscing. During that time, I also avoided looking at Facebook, exercising, and journaling. I regret that last one more than the others. There was no excuse for skipping that habit.

But I am here now, with a new week starting for me in about eight hours. And I brought along a blog post. It's a start. Let's see what tomorrow has in store for me.  

Tomorrow is a new day.

One day at a time.

It is what it is.

(Me showing off tonight's blog post.)

  

My Weekly Checkup (#33)

I love maps. It may have something to do with my fondness for curving lines and where they lead. Perhaps it is the irregularly shaped spaces and what they may contain. Or maybe the sight of various landmarks and how travelers use them as guides intrigues me. There is plenty of beauty in a page covered with symbols, labels, and negative space.  

I love information. An incredible amount of it is stored within the arrangement of patterns and designs sprawled across a map. For me, deciphering that data has always been a pleasure, never a chore. In the classroom, my history texts were filled with them. That is one reason why I was drawn to that subject. And when that was not enough, the local library provided troves of source material. My book piles always contained two or three books about battles. Fantasy novels also captivated me, in no small part, because of the guaranteed map nestled within its pages.

I love stories. Whether listening to a good friend, watching an informative documentary, or reading an exciting book, I lose myself in the narrative being shared. Maps tell a story, too. Of great armies colliding over rolling hills. Trade routes traversing jagged mountains and thirsty deserts. People fleeing old fears, and racing into new ones. And the location of ancient flora and fauna no human has ever witnessed. Maps are another means of transporting me to where I have never been.  

Maps were always a part of my life. There is a strong memory of me tucked away in a third-floor bedroom, horrified by pages of maps pinpointing the concentration camps and massacres of the Holocaust. And there is clear recollection of an exciting moment, as I opened up JRR Tolkien's The Hobbit only to discover a folded map, four times the size of the pages containing it. My love for a computer game, Pirates!, extended to the beautiful poster-size map of the Spanish Main included in the box. My addiction to National Geographic had less to do with the occasional bare breast, and more to do with the wall maps included with some issues. 

I drew them, too. Maps, not breasts. The earliest ones were the simplest and most prolific. Pages of loose leaf, each containing a large island, with long, rounded coastlines. They were colorful, because I drew them as elevation maps, each color indicating a height above sea level. You can blame my love for another computer game, Starflight. Then there were the battle plans. Some were historical, while others drew from my imagination. Finally, Dungeons and Dragons entered my life, and graph paper, at first filled with squares, and then finally hexes, opened up worlds to me.

Then computers arrived, became powerful, and offered an entirely new experience. I do not remember being much interested in dinosaurs as a child. My love for history focused on the human one. However,  something happened to me a decade ago. While researching information about prehistoric times, I came across a wonderful video on the internet. It showed how the continents drifted, formed super continents, and some times all but disappeared beneath rising sea level. Maps. That moved. Across time. I was in love. And that began a deep dive into paleontology, specifically the geological aspect.

This being a Weekly Checkup, there must be a link that inspired this post, right? Well, indeed, there is, and I discovered it this afternoon. Now, none of my readers, save one, will find the article interesting. But I will include it anyway, if only to share with you the kind of things that excite me. The link covers another childhood fascination of mine, one that has not quite died, but that I have not found time to pursue. It has to do with military board games. I collected about half a dozen of them before I reached high school, and have not purchased any since. Nor have ever played them with anyone. Partly because  I had few friends, and none of them would have been interested. But also, for me at least, it was not about the game itself. These board games were historical, and included detailed maps with stylized counters or pieces. Those beautiful, colorful maps, made of sturdy cardboard, tattooed with symbols for terrain, borders, and objectives, captivated me. Opening those boxes, pulling out the boards, and laying them across the table. Poking out little rectangular pieces covered with unit information. Hundreds of them. Then placing them within various hexes that crisscrossed the map. Set up took an hour or more. Occasionally I would play a round or two, rolling dice, moving counters. Eventually, I would stop, clean it all up, and put it away. That was it. Like I said, I never played any of the games with anyone.

And somehow it was pure childhood bliss.       

So, when I saw an article about board game I grew intrigued. When I discovered that it was about two middle-aged men reviewing it, I was amused. And when I read how moved they were by the map itself, I became nostalgic. 

It inspired me to write this long post about maps.

On This Thing Called Writing (#6)

This one is short and focused, because I have two other tasks to complete before I fall asleep. One is an overdue journal entry. The other is an episode or two of a Japanese anime. Yes, right now I consider watching this show essential to my emotional well being. 

So, here you go, a post about writing.

(This is what I want to be doing, but cannot right now. Yes, it would involve a peasant lady. Apparently, Van Gogh produced a series of works based off the work of other artists. In this case, he painted from Jean-Francois Millet's The Four Times of the Day--The Siesta.)

My Weekly Checkup (#32)

It is 5 pm, I am sitting in the back of my minivan, parked at my youngest daughter's dance studio. The sun has disappeared beyond a thick piney wood, leaving behind a faint glow pierced by spiky black shapes. Lampposts have buzzed with life. Sounds of far off rush hour hum constantly, interrupted by the calls of migrating geese, and an occasional door slamming. My windows are halfway down, allowing the cool night air to carry in the scent of wet fall leaves.

I should be walking that near empty parking lot, listening to a podcast, while avoiding piles of goose shit. Or sitting in my car, viewing a YouTube video, allowing its sounds to offset those of the outside world. There would even be a chance that I could be curled up on the backseat, eyes closed, daydreaming.

Instead, I am typing away at my mini laptop, which glows like a bright harvest moon. It is enough to illuminate my keyboard, and my face, providing an eerie sight, I am sure, for the lady strolling back and forth talking to her cellphone.

What you are reading tonight, is what I am currently writing. I made the decision before I left for the studio. The two hours of waiting for my daughter to finish her dance class would be spent knocking out my Weekly Checkup. The majority of it anyway. I do not have internet access on this laptop, so I will have to add the links, and blogger formatting, later. That should not be a problem. We get home around 7:45. Getting my evening chores completed should not take more than thirty minutes. And tonight, I do not have to be anywhere else. A rare thing for me. Therefore, I should have plenty of time to make changes, find an image, and publish this post long before I have to go to bed.

[EDIT: It is now 8:30 pm, and I am all done.]

(An example of Native American ledger art. I remember seeing this art in one of the countless National Geographic magazines I devoured when I was a child. )

A Deep Breath (#14)

So, I am typing this up on a Monday morning rather than a Sunday evening to avoid skipping it altogether. As far back as Saturday morning, I had decided to pass on this week's blogging. I was exhausted from all the preparations--which could fill up a few posts itself--for my daughter's sweet sixteen party. My more astute readers would have noticed that I did not share a Weekly Checkup last Thursday. What none of you would know are all the other things I gave up during the two weeks leading up to the event. No book reading. And forget formal exercise of any kind during that time. I avoided Facebook for the last four days. Maybe five. Then there is the matter of NaNoWriMo. That annual writing adventure started last Tuesday. Finally, there is the all important journaling. No even sure when I stopped it. I am too afraid to look.    

Even this very blog post was not going to happen. And I was okay with it, because, again, my mind body, and spirit, were spent. They needed time to regenerate. Last night I was going to post something on Facebook updating everyone of my decision. A few episodes of Rick and Morty inspired me to blow it off (if you know the series, you would understand). Instead, I would do it first thing Monday morning.

Something happened to change that plan. I woke up about 5 am. Now, I have always been an early riser. As a child, I would wake up around that time to watch Wild America on PBS. Or get ready for school. Even as a teenager. It would be a productive time for me, especially when my children were younger. Alone to finish my goals, and be with my thoughts. But, for the past few years, I struggled. Not with getting up. My body was set in its ways. My mind, however, had given up. So, I would wake up around 5 am, and remain there, daydreaming. The result was an unsatisfying sixty to ninety minute nap that would leave me tired. Then I would spend the rest of the day regretting that decision.

This morning was different. Perhaps daylight savings had tricked my body. Or maybe the guilt of not blogging had inspired my mind. Possibly, a good night's sleep provided the energy for writing. Most likely, I was exhausted from choosing daydreaming over an activity that I both need and enjoy.

So, here I am, forty-one minutes after walking downstairs, using the bathroom, and opening up the laptop. But, it was only to be a short Facebook post explaining why I skipped out on blogging. At the last minute, I swerved away from Facebook, and steered toward Blogger. An old comment from a friend, so many months ago, changed my mind.

"You could have made this Facebook post into a blog post."

Thank you for the advice!

(Not a bad way to start a Monday. Now on to journaling...)

On Dreaming (#17)

In the introduction of my last post on dreaming, I called it a "cheap trick". Too tired to blog anything worthwhile, I resorted to writing about a series of dreams. Those are easy to type up, and I rarely feel shame in sharing them. Though, calling them cheap is inaccurate. Those particular three dreams were interesting and revealing.

After spending all day Friday deep cleaning my house, all day Saturday crafting, and a good part of Sunday volunteering and wrapping up various projects (I did have help in both departments), I am too tired and sore to blog anything complex.

So, I return to sharing a dream. This one occurred early this morning. Indeed, it woke me up and kicked me out of bed. It may sound silly, however, I can assure you, it was dark and disturbing when it played out in my head.

(This is a very small, detailed section of much large piece by Francisco de Goya called The Burial of the Sardine. Consider it a Halloween inspired choice by me. One far less disturbing than what I had planned on including.)

My Weekly Checkup (#31)

I made this
(after I tossed my first attempt).

During my thirteen years of teaching, at some point, I took on administrative tasks. One of my jobs involved receiving packages. The UPS driver who worked our location was a twenty-five-year veteran. On occasion we would exchange words beyond the usual polite conversations. At some point, he discussed how UPS acquired software that mapped out routes which avoided left turns. Apparently, left turns slow down delivery services. From my driving history, I have to agree. But, from his experience traveling the same route for years, he learned that some left turns were necessary, and even more efficient. And so, he would ignore some of the software's suggestions.

Tonight, this memory crossed my mind as I reluctantly took my own "left turn". My gut argued for it, while my mind's software calculated a way around it. In a rare moment, I sided with the former. Tomorrow, as I am rushing around my house, crossing off my to-do list, I will appreciate it most. But, even now, I am grateful.

Before I explain this decision, I need to provide some background. My eldest daughter's sweet sixteen is a week from this Saturday. About five days ago, I settled on a decoration scheme. At the heart of the plan are the centerpieces, comprised of large, glowing lanterns. What can I say, I have a thing for lanterns (and lighthouses which are not appropriate for this party). Besides providing a visual anchor, they will also produce light. Yes, buying them was an option, but I needed at least ten, and wanted twelve (typical of me when planning things). The price started adding up. However, I desired another feature from these props. I want to keep them for other events, like Christmas, and maybe Halloween. Also, I am willing to loan them out to family and friend. Keeping these lanterns means storing them. That brings me to another pet peeve of mine.

All my decorations must store neatly and nicely; large ones must breakdown easily. Therefore, my lanterns, all ten... err... twelve of them have to come apart with little effort, and sit flat in a box.

The only way to achieve this property was to design and construct them myself.

For the past three days, that is what I did. It took an Amazon delivery, a trip to the Five Below store, followed by a stop at Staples, and two prototypes to arrive at the one in the above photo. It is even more impressive in person (the brown parchment paper has a texture that does not show up well in the picture).

Yes, it still needs a knob on the top, and a better design for the "glass" part (tape is holding up the paper--I developed a system to allow those pieces to be replaced with little effort, as the event warrants). Yet, the most important feature works perfectly: the lantern consists of three removable parts, that store away neatly. The tops and bottoms stack; the sides fold out and lay flat; the light is independent of everything else. Okay, when moving the lantern, one must hold it from the bottom (the three parts do not interlock with each other, though they do provide structural support which produces stiffness). But that was not a requirement for me.

Anyway, what does any of this have to do with tonight's "left turn"? You see, as typically happens when I create things that are just a portion of a bigger project, I become elated with my accomplishment. The greater my achievement, the more joy I feel. Unfortunately, between the energy expanded to build it, and the steep fall after my creativity high, I am exhausted. And hangover becomes a drag on the rest of the project. In this case, the other decorations.

(That list does not include making the other eleven lanterns. Remember, the one in the photo is the second prototype.)

So, tonight, while sitting in the parking lot, waiting for my youngest daughter to finish her two hours of dancing, I began to panic. The party is in eight days. I have one lantern, albeit a beautiful, perfect one. Since I had time on my hands, I began to think harder on the other decorations. They needed to be simpler than my expectations. Fortunately, after a bit of research, and daydreaming, I found viable solutions. My body began to relax, especially my gut. But not my mind. No, it started calculating. The party was not my only responsibility. Cleaning the house, getting my car fixed, the yard, the garage, Thanksgiving dinner (my brain likes to stretch beyond the present in order to pile it on). Well, I learned a trick from a book that I read about getting things done (that may be the actual title--I will look it up after I finish typing this post)(UPDATE: It is called Getting Things Done by David Allen).

When you feel overwhelmed by tasks and time, sit down, and write out all the steps required to achieve the goal. In my case, that meant writing out tomorrow's to-do list. With twenty percent left on my phone's battery, I entered the information, adding time frames. Well, my list was doable, but very tight. Looking at it made me slightly sick, but having it spelled out calmed me down. With an hour and fifteen minutes of dance still left, I decided to do something productive. Getting out of the car, I stepped into the cool, calm night air, and began walking around the parking lot. Because my phone was dying, listening to podcasts was not an option. That ended up helping the situation.

With each trip around the parking lot (each circuit measures a fifth of a mile), tomorrow's dense agenda sloshed around in my head. One section dragged down all the rest. A trip to the craft store. a forty-minute round trip to be exact. Not including the twenty minutes or more wandering around and waiting in line (the lines always suck for me at this particular craft retailer).  Ninety minutes of my day doing something I hate. Shopping (especially when there is a long, winding drive involved). Who am I kidding? Add another thirty minutes (fifteen to get ready to leave; fifteen to unpack when I return).

That there was my "left turn". And it kept tumbling around my mind as I meandered about that dimly lit parking lot.

Yet, a strange thought made its way to my frontal lobe. The dance studio is located near a major shopping center. In that center is another craft store. With an hour still left (I had been walking for about fifteen minutes), there was plenty of time to make the run, and be back to pick up my daughter, with plenty to spare. Tomorrow's two-hour errand for craft supplies (because my estimates for completing something always come up short) would be replaced by tonight's one-hour excursion. My gut leapt for joy.

My brain, however, refused to let go. It pointed out that tonight's drive, while shorter, was still painful. The shopping center required driving down a series of hectic, busy roads. And the parking lot! Good, God, a nightmare (poorly designed parking lots are another pet peeve of mine--this place ranks on my top ten list of the worst). Also, this craft store focuses on fabric. It may not have all the items on my list. Why bother making two trips, when you can wait until tomorrow, and do just one? It is dark, you are hungry, and the exercise is good for you. Keep walking. Anyway, "Left Turns" are inefficient.

But my gut, like the UPS man, realized that this "left turn" was necessary. It would pay dividends in the long run. Come tomorrow, I would be a happier person.

As I wrapped up the first mile around that desolate parking lot, beginning a second round of walking, my brain proud that I was exercising, my feet suddenly stopped. My pelvis twisted. The momentum forced the rest of the body to turn, including my head. Then I crossed over to my car (well, my wife's car--mine is in the shop, and has been for some time). Unlocked it and got in. Turned it on. Texted my daughter that I would be back before she was done (she is the kind of child who would get nervous seeing me drive away). Locked my seat belt in place. And drove off.

About halfway to the store, my brain suddenly realized what was going on. Too late. My gut had won.

That was until I arrived at the store, spent about ten minutes looking for the stuff on my list, finding only two out of the five items. My brain laughed. My gut said "fuck off". I continued looking.

And found everything on my list.

I made it back to my daughter's studio with fifteen minutes to spare.

To sooth my brain's ego, I spent that time walking around the parking lot. 

My first attempt and its final resting place.