Dear Crystal

Dear Crystal,

It's been a few months now. I figured it might be time to sit down and write something out. I'd been thinking about it for a while, finally got around to doing it. But hey, that's how I do things, right?

Dad and I got lost trying to find the church. We came right from SeaTac, so we weren't all that far. But I get lost quickly these days in Seattle. I know it's a weird thought, but I get turned around really easily now, sometimes I can't even tell what's north or south. Dad was absolutely certain he knew where it was, but dad is Dad, what can I say.

We drove down to where we thought it was. No luck. We stopped in the local grocery store. The clerk there shrugged her shoulders. She thought there was a church by that name somewhere around, no good leads. We tried another street and ended up in the curvy roundabouts of some housing project. It looked nice. Nice houses, nice yards. A couple of kids were walking home and dad pulled up. They must have been shocked, some crazy old white man, barely any hair on his head pulling up and rolling down his window. His ugly sunglasses on. I wondered what they thought. They were nice too, like the houses. They knew where it was, pointed back the way that we came. We turned the station wagon around, made an illegal left turn and we were on our way.

He stayed for a little while, but he was really just there to drop me off. I didn't recognize anybody there at first, it was so odd, standing there in a church I'd never been to before and looking at a crowd of people I didn't recognize. Then I saw Rey-Rey.

Same old Rey-Rey. He used to look older than he was, now he looks younger than he is. Finally grew into that frame of his. Same big feet, same big hands. Same lopsided grin. He recognized me right away and gave me a hug that would have crushed a tree trunk.

From then on it was easier to realize I was there at this strange church. I started to see folks I hadn't been able to pull out of a crowd, faces I hadn't seen in years. I saw Nette. Saw Jason and Becky. Saw Julie too. Saw your girls there, didn't even realize it at first.

I tried to look presentable and changed quickly in the tiny bathroom in the corner of the church there. Was awkward, trying to squeeze my fancy shiny black shoes on and it seemed silly since I was going to be there for such a short while. You see, I'd missed my original flight (my fault) and so I was a little late. But I'd brought these nice clothes and everything. Everybody else was dressed nice and I was in a church, for god's sake. So I changed and came back out. Everybody agreed that I cleaned up well, which was nice of them to say. We all sat down and had some food. I only had some soda pop but didn't really feel like eating at all. Don't get me wrong, the food looked great and everybody else looked like they were really enjoying it. There was even cake there too, I had a few bites of that at least. But it just still didn't quite sit right, you know? And I knew it was because your girls were sitting across me from me at their own table. They looked happy, playful, teasing each other and visiting folks all around and across the room. They just couldn't sit still.

They look like you. It's crazy. But hey, lots of things that are common sense to normal people are crazy to me, even at 32. Now that's crazy.

We left after a little bit. Spent a little while at Julie's place and that was nice too, so many memories I'd forgotten I'd had about that place. She told us a few stories, most of them just sorta kinda drifted off without really any ending. Jason, Becky and I got the idea to go visit the high school again. I mean, I hadn't seen them in ages and all, it just made sense really. The whole silver lining thing of this whole trip was seeing Jason and Becky again. I'll admit Crystal, I was really nervous about seeing them again. I mean, I know they are old friends and stuff, but it feels like so many lifetimes ago that I lived in Seattle with my parents and climbed in the back of Becky's little pickup truck to go to school in the morning. And it's true, it really was a long time ago.

By the time we got to Garfield High though, that was all gone. It's not so much the length of time you've been apart, I've figured out, but instead it's what happens when you see them again. That's how friends work. Took me 32 years to figure that out too. What can I say?

Garfield is so...so open on the inside now. It's like they caved out the whole thing on the inside. The walls are sparkling clean, the floor is immaculate. You have to look hard to try and find some graffiti, any graffiti! A couple of times, I got so disoriented, I couldn't tell what part of the school I was in. We had to piece it together based on which way we'd walked. It all looked so different, the only things that were instantly recognizable were the staircases. I don't know if you'd been in the school lately, but I hadn't, not after the remodel. We agreed that they did a pretty outstanding job. Maybe too nice. We spent a lot of time reminiscing about how gritty it was back when we were in school. We sound kinda old. I guess we are now.

Jason and Becky ran into their old chemistry teacher. It was an awkward conversation to get started but Becky is fearless and Jason is clever and they just sort of marched in there and started chatting. The chemistry room looked like a real classroom. They have all sorts of equipment now and fume hoods and the whole nine yards. It blew my mind.

When we were on the Alder side of school Becky read something that she'd prepared. Because I was late, I didn't get to hear it at the church. We walked and she read it out loud. It was just us in the hallway and it was just about damned near perfect. If I remember anything from that day it'll be the three of us traipsing down the hallway in silence, with Becky reading out loud from her scrap of paper. When she read it in church it was for them. When she read it in the hallway it was for us. I think all three of us needed that.

Then we walked across the street to Ezell's for old time's sake. Also, we were hungry too, which is less nostalgic but not any less avoidable. The chicken was just as good as I remembered. The biscuits were possibly better than I remembered. We sat on the stairwell, talked and ate. That will probably the closest I'll ever come to time traveling, I swear.

The brochures from the church had your picture on them, and I still have one. I folded it up and kept it in my nice slacks pocket for the whole trip, then unfolded it and kept it on my bookshelf here in Spokane. It's not a great pamphlet, it's pretty bland. Has a list of all your family and the folks who got up and spoke and such, but beyond that there's really not much to it. Which is a shame really. I recognize the picture they have on the front as being you, but it's not the person I remember.

Crystal, I have one, singular and indelible image of you. It's you, standing on Alder street outside school. It's summerish, maybe spring, maybe school is almost out for the year. You're listening to your old walkman, with the headphones partially hidden under your braided, beaded hair. You are looking down at first, clicking the next track button with your impractical big red nails. You are probably listening to Queen. You look up at me.

Crystal, I've met a lot of girls in 32 years. I've seen a lot of them smile, I've heard a lot of them laugh. I've seen enchanting smiles, charming smiles, broad smiles. Seen smirks, grins, winks. Heard giggles, chortles, guffaws. Whatever, there are lots out there.

When you look up, you smile at me. I've never seen any girl with as big a smile as yours. Never in my whole life and I probably never will. It's a grin that just keeps going, it's huge, massive, overwhelming. It makes me want to smile. I can't help it. You toss your head a bit to the side and wave your hands, trying to get one or two braids out of your eyes. No matter how many pictures I see of you, this is the only one that sticks. You, brushing your hair to the side, listening to your CD player, smiling.

These days, when I meet women for the first few times and I think maybe I might be interested, the first thing I listen for is the laugh. A laugh is a dealbreaker for me, Crystal. It's crazy but it really, really is. And frankly, I blame you for this one. For some reason or another, you got me stuck on that big outrageous laugh of yours. So I keep looking for that. A girl who's not afraid of tilting her head back and really laughing at something, not caring what anybody thinks. I used to wonder how I got this stuck in my head. Now I realize it was you. I guess I'm not really blaming you, but I'm not really thanking you either. Maybe somewhere in between. But I figured you should know that I finally figured this one out. Good for me, bad for silly girls with polite little tiny teehee laughs.

So I'm back here in Spokane. Becky and Jason are back doing the things that they need to do. They're adults now, they get stuff done and they're responsible and stuff. Me, I'm still trying to learn that part. Going back to school again, trying some new things out. Not sure if it'll work out, but it feels right. I suppose that's the most important thing. I know that we'll see each other again and next time I won't be nervous at all. It'll be fun. And that I will go ahead and thank you for. You gave me a reason to go home, sit in a car with the old man and shoot the shit. Sit on a stairwell with old friends. Sit on a plane on the way back to Spokane and re-evalutate my priorities a little bit. So thanks. Shoulda spent more time with you, shoulda come back and visited. Shoulda met your daughters properly. Shoulda done a lotta things.

But I did do one thing right. I came back home, I made the trip. I was there at the church. I was there in my fancy clothes. I was there in the hallway, listening to Becky's voice bounce of the walls of Garfield.

Thanks Crystal,

-Devin

Crystal Law was a good friend of mine. She passed away in October of 2011.

Remedial Life

When I first was admitted to Western Washington University, which feels like decades ago, I was given a basic math entrance exam. It wasn't anything special; all the kids got one. We all sat down in a lecture hall and scribbled in circles on a Scantron that was to only be the first of many. Afterwards, when broke into smaller groups to be "oriented" to life at Western, we were given the results of the test which was to be the determing factor as to what mathematics courses we would be taking.

The lady who was leading our group wrote our last names on the chalkboard in corresponding rectangles as to our results. One rectangle filled, then down the next, and the next...and next.

She finished writing and turned to face us, ready to deliver the next bit of important information about course planning, etc. I raised my hand.

"What happens if your name isn't on the board?"

She looked at me, briefly baffled.

"Parker."

Flipping through her papers, she found me, presumably in the "P" section, and brought out my sheet. Almost on queue, as if responding to a universally required stereotype, she looked down her glasses at the grade number written in tiny font, the image of every snooty teacher or professor now and likely millions of years in the future.

"Oh," she said.

This was the kind of "oh" that I would hear repeated later in life a few times. As in a response to my disappointing choices in interior paint colors. My failure to sign in at work on time. My mechanic expressing a moment of empathy before telling me I needed a new clutch. A very sad sound, indeed.

This was the moment in time before I learned about what remedial meant. From that point forward I would understand fully the meaning of this term. Which if fully understood from Western's point of view meant: class at eight in the morning five days a week, and no credit given.

It wasn't so much that Math 099 was so terrible. The first day we learned what a numerator and a denominator were. It was the principle of the thing. I would stare out of the window, imaging the students in the neighboring lecture hall discussing the mathematical curvature of an Event Horizon, or calculating the future stock prices of foreign raw materials based on a complex equation they had typed into their scientific calculators. When I turned my attention back to the poor grad student assigned to teach us, I found the class in a heated debate over the steps of adding fractions versus multiplying them.

And so history repeats itself. But like so many of history's repeats, this one is following on a grander scale. I am now attending Life 099. Eight in the morning, no credit given.

Well that's not entirely true. Tomorrow I start my attempt at a second Bachelor's Degree. Coincidentally, at eight in the morning. Tonight is a bizarre mix of Christmas and the night before a job interview. Somewhere between something tremendously exciting and potentially awful if I screw it up. The scariest thing about remedial math was multiple factor equations. The scariest thing about remedial life is the very real chance to do irrepairable damage.

I don't know what will happen tomorrow, or what will become of my second chance at higher education. I know that I've done it before and have the transcript to prove it. On the other hand, I know the consequences of an unchallenged mind, either sitting in a cubicle or perched on a ladder. I know the consequences of debt, both financially and emotionally. You'd think that my post-college experience would be a calming factor here, but it only adds to the heightened awareness of failure.

What I do have going for me is a bunch of folks rooting for me. I thank each and every one of you. I know that you've encouraged every discussion of moving ahead with my life and helped me dismiss any doubts that were preventing me from doing it. So tomorrow I surge ahead with you guys in mind. Or at least, in the words of a friend, I will "go backwards to go forward." Remedial Life indeed.

On Webs, Internet and Otherwise

Under the sidewalks of WSU, there is a curious natural phenomenon. Down below where students mindlessly walk from class to class in an ipod induced stupor, there are a collection of underground tunnels that connect building to building. They feed heat, power and information to each building in a crude pattern. Here and there they intersect. Here and there they start and stop, pipes climbing and weaving around each other. These places are unseen by most, they go unnoticed.

However, there is a section that is a little different from the rest. For whatever reason (only an entomologist might know) there is the perfect balance of humidity, altitude and heat. In this section of tunnel, thousands and thousands of spiders gather and coat the walls of the tunnel with webs. An entire twenty foot section is a lattice-on-lattice interwoven symphony of silk. For whatever reason, insects gather here in the tunnel more so than any other section, and the spiders jostle each other to get at the endless source of food.

And of course, it's through this section that we were chosen to pull our fiber optic cable. If you are not comfortable with being in close proximity with spiders, manual labor mere inches from them being overhead is not pleasant. In fact, I'm fairly ok with spiders and yet I found myself moving a little faster with a little more panic in my voice while working there.

But here's my point.

It takes a special person to appreciate the beauty in the tunnel. It takes a special person to appreciate the beauty in just about anything related to the manual labor involved with the magic of the internet. It takes a special person to wander around on the job site marveling at the simplicity of this world, how all the parts fit together to make something and how that something is gradually eaten up by the world again, no matter how diligent the maintenance or design.

I am such a special person. I am a Type B personality. I love the obvious metaphor between spider webs and fiber optics. Just as my hands are shaking from fear, I appreciate that the venomous hobo spider looks like a harpist's fingers as she plucks away. I wonder how that spider came to be weaving a web here in this dank tunnel. I wonder what that spider thinks of me, a large, large insect clumsily weaving a thick black single strand web.

These days, it's hip to be Type A. Type A's are go-getters; they are people of action. They have action statements and life plans. They don't have jobs, they have career goals. They are stressed over their house, their car, their career, their spouses. These are the bread and butter of this nation and this is their time to shine. They take charge of situations and engineer and inspire solutions. These are great, great things. I am horribly envious of Type A's. Somehow I want a bit of their drive and ingenuity. I want to feel stressed over things. I want to have a calendar in my head down to the year, month and hour. I feel guilty for not feeling stressed. I feel wrong to not go-get goals. I feel silly not having any bullet points on my plans of action.

Unfortunately, I am a member and an advocate of the much less hip and trendy Type B's. We're sometimes erroneously referred to as hippies or slackers or other such disparaging terms. These days it's much less hip to be a dreamer or a visualizer. We don't make much money, we don't get too many spotlights. It's the aggressive Type A's that fight and compete as the thrill of competition is lost on us. The adrenaline rush of the fight, of the conquest means nothing. Sometimes Type A's are completely mystified by us. They do not see the point in our wandering musings and consequently, they are mostly amused by us, but nothing more.

And oh, what I would give to trade away my appreciation for metaphors, for common and uncommon beauty. I would trade it all in. If I could only anticipate the structure of the tunnel, how the cable must be pulled, the angles and trajectory and footage. The math and the sequence of steps that must be performed. Sadly, these things elude me. I have only so much brain space, and it is occupied mostly with memories I've had, both real and exaggerated, with useless trivia, with songs I've made up. With comparisons between spiders and glass. It's all used up, and has no room for potentially useful information. If I could reach inside my head and turn my right side down and my left side up I would, I swear it. I could be a useful member of society. I could be really, really important. If I could just set my mind to it, I could. But I'm quickly distracted again and all is lost. Just as the inkling forms in my mind it evaporates again and I'm left singing yet another ridiculous song in my head.

At the same time, I'm a bit proud of us Type B's. When athletes stare glassily into the camera and utter the time-tested phrase "I play for the love of the game." That's us! We really do play just for the love of the game, and not for money or competition. It really doesn't occur to us who wins or loses. It's not that we are morally superior, it just doesn't really occur to us as being that important. It's just that we have a bizarre listing of priorities and sometimes they don't jive with a normal, or say, rational person's. It's normal to be competitive, it's normal to want to win. It really, really is. It makes me feel horribly guilty to sometimes got to a baseball game and have no recollection as to who won or lost. These things make me sad.

So I work my job, same as everybody else. And sometimes I even pretend to be concerned about things I'm supposed to be concerned about. Sometimes I fake trying to be stressed about important things. But really I'm just faking it and you can tell if you look closely. Sometimes I stroke my beard and consider important thoughts, but it's only to keep up appearances. In reality I'm probably trying to think of what color green I like best, or if the car behind you had a name, what its name might be. I might be remembering what the name of the girl was in second grade I had a crush on, or what the lyrics to my favorite Ren & Stimpy song were. These are not good things to spend a long time thinking about, they are not terribly useful at all.

So I work my job. And I pretend to be diligently pulling cable. But really, I'm just staring at spiderwebs and getting paid. I do an ok job of it, that is, pulling the cable. But I do a fantastic job of appreciating the beauty and the ugliness of the universe on a daily basis. Everyday I'm awestruck by how the planet works, by how life is. Every single damned day. Maybe that seems charming to you, you Type A's, but really it's not. It's just distracting, and it becomes hard to explain to the bill collector that they need to start over, because you were just remembering a tree named Mr. Needles, and how much raking you had to do for him. It becomes difficult to explain to the mechanic that your car's name is Jenny, which is why you keep referring to her in that manner.

So until I figure out a way to fix my brain, or a pill I can take, I'll keep doing these silly things. I'll grow older and older, and still be not useful. The only thing that will change is that my musings will grow more and more wildly, and be less and less tied down to reality. I'll just get crazier and crazier and never any wiser at all. This also makes me sad. On the other hand, I hope and pray for vindication. In my fantasy I rise to heaven on the wings of an angel, and old Saint Pete will tilt his reading glasses to the edge of his nose and read off my sheet. "Says here you had the priorities right the whole time. I see that you caught that thing we did with the spiders, clever metaphor we thought, but maybe a little obvious. Oh, your sheet is missing the name of that girl from second grade, her name was Abigail."

The reality is that I might never receive any vindication or proof that this is the right way to go about things. And truth be told, I'm not sure I have a choice even if it isn't. But one day, maybe someone will look me in the eye and tell me I was right, that I wasn't crazy, that this is how life is supposed to be lived. But maybe I shouldn't be concerned at all.

I mean getting all stressed about right and wrong is a Type A thing anyway, right?

Why I Fight

I admit, the question has come up a few times.

Sometimes it's in public, among friends. Sometimes it creeps into my head when I'm trying desperately to fall asleep on the hotel's dreadful bed, or sitting alone staring blankly at my very beige apartment walls.

It's persistent. It's demanding. It's ever-present.

Why am I still in Spokane?

I'll readily admit I don't have any clear answers. Or any good answers, for that matter. What I do have is a series of bumbling explanations, clumsy, but rational in my head. They are clumps of reasonings, more feelings than anything, that coalesce and merge in my head into constructive and concrete arguments. Arguments that I can't quite shape well enough to compose on paper or in speech. But I'll try. I'll try because I guess I owe it to the proud few who read my sporadic blog. And I suppose I owe it to myself to try and catch some of these wispy thoughts and nail them down, so at the very least I have some sort of manifest I can refer to when that pesky question gets louder and louder.

Why am I still in Spokane?

Still is the operative word here, and we'll start with this one. Sure, it's in the middle of the sentence, but I'm not a stickler for order. Still implies that my timeline should have been completed, that I should have finished my work here. It implies that there was at least some sort of framework for me moving and living in Spokane, that there was some either hidden or apparent structure to my career and life change.

Well the truth is that the "still" doesn't really belong in the sentence. I never had a plan, or a scheme, or a drive or desire. I really only knew what I didn't want in Seattle, I was really only running away. Sure, when I left I made it out to be this grand adventure. (You only live once! See the world! You're young! Have adventures!) Spokane is hardly the adventure I envisioned. Spokane is hardly anything on its own.

I'm going to be frank. Spokane is pretty dull.

Spokane alone is not a life-changing city. It's not a grand-standing village, perched on the edge of greatness. There is no sense of great things on the horizon here, there is no common feeling of accomplishment that I can detect from my fellow Spokes. In reality, Spokane is the capital of the Inland Empire, which is hardly any empire at all. No emperor would bother conquering this area. It feels as though that we're in Washington purely because Oregon and Idaho had little to no interest in this awkward spot between the Palouse and the Silver Valley.

Ok, we've established I'm not in love with the city, the question still stands. Maybe the answer lies in my newfound job, my sense of purpose here in Spokane that I was lacking in my glorified telephone rep job in the hum-drum and anonymous chaos of Seattle.

The short answer to that is...no, not really.

My job in Seattle was just that, a job. The problem is that I dressed it up to be a potential career, and it simply wasn't. It wasn't a question of it being challenging or me having the drive or ambition to succeed. It was more of a question of whether the job was worth doing at all. And really, if pressed, I'm sure the world would function quite nicely without a Facilities Rep on the end of the phone. Lord knows I'm not ready for the responsibility of say, an air traffic controller or a surgeon, but maybe I was shooting to be a slightly more important cog in the Great Big Machine.

Have I found that in Spokane? Hardly. I'm competent at my new job, but not a standout. I'm ill-suited for most tasks. I can't pull as hard as most of the guys in the crew, and I certainly can't smoke or chew (blech) like they can. I don't make racist or sexist jokes out of habit, I don't brag about mudding or blast sentimental country music. Instead I correct their grammar. I make jokes about US foreign policy. I play goofy techno music.

Most of the jobsite thinks I'm either preposterously homosexual or touched in the head, or possibly both. At this point, I could care less. I've lost interest in gaining the respect or admiration of most of the idiots I find on a jobsite. To be honest, the jobsite mirrors the office more and more, in a depressing blur of cubicles and drywall. All my crummy past jobs are merging into one drab non-career, and Spokane certainly hasn't been the cure for that. So if I'm not in Spokane to re-start my career, then why?

Why am I still in Spokane?

The "still " doesn't' belong, we've established that. And really, we could probably do away with the clumsy "why." Why doesn't really answer anything, it simply provokes more questions, like in this case why I am in Spokane in the first place, why I chose Spokane, or why I hammer away at this blog every few months. Then again the question "Am I still in Spokane?" seems a little to easy. Geographically yes, I'm in Spokane. Am I in the Spokane frame of mind? Probably (and thankfully) not. Spokane prides itself in being a family oriented city, so much so that it's actually difficult to go anywhere without there being children or toddlers around. Families are ever present, and they delight in pointing out that they are families. People back in Seattle would often lament over the fact that gays would openly display affection in public, which was felt to be upsetting. Over here, I can't help but stick my tongue out at all the gross displays of blatant heterosexuality in Spokane. It's everywhere, none more obnoxious that the cute little stick figures of a perfect family (Dad, Mom, Sister, Brother and sometimes dog and cat) stuck to the back window of a minivan or SUV.

These are the things I hate about Spokane. These are the things I could write blog entry after blog entry about. Fortunately for you, dear reader, I'll leave you with the abridged version.

Why am I in Spokane?

Well, as we pare away why I dislike Spokane, I think we'll get closer to why I like it. Or why I like it enough to stay put. First of all, it's not like there aren't things about Seattle that drive me absolutely insane. Seattle has the advantage of being my hometown (and really, no matter bad hometowns are, we always have a soft spot for them) and also a pretty nice place overall. However, Seattle is a Big City now, whether it wants to be or not, and is saddled with all the baggage that a Big City carries. Seattle feels like its overgrown now. The neighborhoods seem bloated with condos these days, instead of quirky apartments. Also, most disturbingly, Seattle doesn't feel much like home anymore.

I spent the last Christmas break idly meandering around downtown Seattle. I claimed I was shopping, but what I was really doing was a most careful version of people watching. I was trying to find out if I still felt like a Seattlelite. And I waited, and walked, and walked and waited. What I found was that I could tour Seattle and find points of interest from my past, but I could find no indication of my future, I felt no desperate pull to the people walking alongside the streets with me. It was a profoundly sad moment, all the nostalgia I'd been hoping to have seemed to have dried up and I couldn't tell if it was me or the city itself getting older. Never have I felt more severed from something I felt certain I would have a connection too, never have I been more firmly separated from something I thought was still a part of me. I tried to shake it off, but the feeling stuck with me even as I returned to Spokane. While there weren't trumpets and cheers greeting my arrival back in Spokane, the feeling of severance was gone too. It was, I suppose, very comforting.

However, comfort alone doesn't dictate where we find ourselves. Or at least it shouldn't. What I really came to Spokane to find was the opposite of comfort, so to speak. I came here, out of blind stubbornness and fear, to start over. To really break free of my past, by force if necessary. And the sad truth is, is that while over two years have past, I'm really just barely getting started on that goal. I've gone 'round nearly a full circle here in Spokane. I've almost come back to where I've started and it's the most frustrating thing I've ever had to do in this life.

But you know, it was necessary.

It's hard to admit that. It's hard to look at the place I live in now, and the job I do now and say to myself that this is probably exactly where I should be right now. It's humbling, but not in a wholesome way. Not in the travel-up-the-difficult-mountain-path-to-discover-enlightenment sort of humble way, but more in the spit-in-your-eye-and-kick-you-down sort of way. But again, necessary.

I've done quite a bit of the ol' character building here in Spokane, and I can't fault the city for that. It's lent itself to a bit more tough love than even crusty old unforgiving Seattle. Seattle simply has too many safety nets, too many outs, too many havens and harbors. Spokane doesn't offer much, except for the relative refuge of my apartment. But I have to escape even that sometimes, whereas in Seattle I could stay submerged for months on end in my little Wallingford womb.

Spokane is a cruel and horrible teacher, and I love it for this.

But aside from all that, it really doesn't cover the real reason. Sure, I love Spokane for kicking in my teeth a little, and I despise Seattle for being the ridiculously big city it has become, but those are peripheral issues. They are little bonuses that tip the scales in Spokane's favor, but not the real engine that drives my stubborn desire to stay.

The real answer is this: there is a little spark of hope in Spokane.

I know, it sounds cheesy in my head, and it sure as hell looks cheesy staring back at me in print. But there it is, I can't say it any better or more clearly than that. Things could get better in Spokane, this could be where things turn around, this could be where a chemical catalyst in my life jumps in and mixes everything up. This could be where I finally wake up. If I leave now, I miss it. Worse than that. If I leave now I squander all the work I've inadvertently put in coming back around full circle to get my life back on track. I've wasted my efforts to escape the rat-race, to escape the same ol', to escape the boring treadmill of my previous possible lives. It'll all be for naught!

But then again, the spark in Spokane could just as easily fade away.

It's too early to tell. But here I stay. I'm not a gambler, I'm not a risk taker.....normally. But I think I'd like to see this one out. And trust me, if the flame goes out, if the spark is gone, if whatever magical nonsense I feel about this crummy burg fades away, then consider my bags packed. I'm not so young, thanks to this damned town, and I don't have much more time to waste.

That's why I'm still in Spokane.

Knight in Shining Armor

For those curious about my latest reading habits, here they are:

The Fountainhead

My god this book is long. It's long and depressing. Anytime I need to realize that life is a slow process of grinding down everything that is pure and wonderful into the mire that is reality then I should pick this book up. Also, listening to moody Amon Tobin while reading it is probably not the best idea for a cheerful reading atmosphere. I'm on a break with this book. Ayn Rand lurks on my coffee table for now, however this moody depression has found it's way into my other reading material...


King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table as broken down by Ayn Rand (sort of, not really.)

Sir Lancelot: Kind of a meathead. Basically the smash-first-ask-questions-later prototype. Very dashing and flirty, but devoted to Guinevere. This horrible love triangle will later destroy the entire Round Table. Good work Lancelot.

Sir Galahad: Goody-two shoes. He sits in the Siege Perilous, which is supposedly a chair in which lesser knights would perish in. Probably the target of a lot of nougies and swirlies for being such a suck-up to Arthur. No other knights sit with him at the feasting table.

Sir Percival: The brooding emo knight. He's one of the group that finally finds the Holy Grail. Percival does so much brooding and navel-gazing that he ends up spending the rest of his days as a hermit in Palestine after finding the cup of Christ. A heart-warming riches to rags story.

Sir Gawain: The genuine nice-guy knight, who inevitably gets the shaft. Poor Gawain gets caught up in the Lancelot-Guinevere-Mordred-Arthur drama. He tries to intervene and make everybody happy and ends up with Lancelot's sword in his eye. Of course, being the nice-guy knight his last act is to pardon Lancelot and compliment him on his dashing tabard.

Sir Bors: The red-shirt knight. He's part of the Grail-finding knight crew, but gets no credit. He labors in anonymity and is neglected in even the Disney version. He doesn't kill anyone, nor does he suffer an honorable death. Probably ends up in a knight retirement home, rambling on to anyone who will listen.

Sir Mordred: The scheming family member. Sir Mordred is Arthur's own nephew, who grows up to inspire plots against Arthur with Morgan Le Fay. The only one with real character in the whole bunch, unfortunately that character turns out to be kind of an ass. Delivers the fatal blow to Arthur in the final battle as Arthur kills him. If Mordred would have swung his sword a little harder, we might be following his myth instead of Arthur's. Should have taken sword lessons from Lancelot. Hindsight is 20/20.

King Arthur: Most of the time, spouts a bunch of hot air and mostly does nothing. Sends his knights of the Round Table to do all the dirty work. His genius idea is to think of a round table concept that promotes feelings of equality, yet he retains the title of King, making his end of the table slightly more rounder. If he'd been born centuries later, he'd probably resemble Bernie Madoff.

Turns out all of the knights in shining armor aren't so shining after all. A good life lesson I suppose.

Back to The Fountainhead I guess. It's all very deep and meaningful, but I'm rooting for Sir Howard to smite his foes. If only it were that simple.

Pride and Joy

This post is dedicated to a special lady.

She'll never leave me. Perhaps one day we'll part company, but oh a teary, teary farewell that will be! She's always honest, never lies. She's faithful, mostly. She's always there when I need her, never complains. Even though I've been upset with her she never holds a grudge. She's always excited to see me, and willing to forgive if I forget the important things. Best of all, she's always enthusiastic and encourages me to try my very best. She's the greatest, and at only twelve grand (roughly) she's the best cost-to-love-ratio lady I'll ever meet.

That's right, she's Jenny, my car. I'll admit, that previous paragraph was a little creepy. But every sappy word is true.

I don't follow a lot of the American Dream. A motorized tie rack and sparkling white picket fence don't really do it for me. But I love my car. Me and that guy with his Pep Boys special winged-out Honda. Me and the guy with the sweet 70's van. Me and that cowgirl with her brand new pickup truck. Our chests puff out with American Pride as we merge into traffic without signaling and pollute off into the sunset collectively as one mobile nation under God (who probably rides a Harley.)

But there's something more to this than just transportation. She's more than that, and I've never pretended she's not. When I was in the car dealership, at no point in time did the thought occur to me that this car was merely a box to sit in from point A to point B. I was thinking more along the lines of what to name her, and what license plate holder would best reflect her personality. And it's these kinds of thoughts that propel me to the mechanics with open checkbook in hand. Because it's not just a wheeled mechanical thing sitting outside that needs a new wheel bearing. It's Jenny, my love, and she's got a sprained ankle...and she needs my help!

If loving your car is American, then treating inanimate objects with the love, care and obsession normally reserved for, um, things that are breathing, is universal. In other words, a thousand children growing up right now, staring into the lifeless beady eyes of their teddy bears as they gently fall asleep will later be the same grownups that gently fall asleep in front of the single lifeless beady eye of their TV. And the television and the TiVo and the home theater system and even the La-Z-Boy recliner will receive the same devotion that good old Mr. Fuzzies did.

It's not creepy, it's just another way for us to remain sane in an otherwise crazy world. So this post is for you Jenny. In reality, you are an unfeeling, unthinking station wagon. In my mind, you are a wonderful woman, spiritual and understanding, feisty and rambunctious, practical and prompt and compassionate and caring. You are the Maid in the Meadow, the Demon Lover, the Stout-hearted Woman. The Tall & Quiet Woman...

You help keep me sane at the low, low price of an occasional oil change.

Summer coming like a car from down the highway

"Summer coming like a car from down the highway." That's a quote from Sherman Alexie's The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. The latest book I've been reading (thanks Mom) And it's true. Summer does come down the highway, especially at night. Two headlights bearing down fast, whoosh. And it leaves just as quickly.

Summer is driving away again. And so it goes.

We're having our first wet weekend of Almost Winter. It's generally heralded by a mashing of cold and warm air and some spotty thundershowers which generally threaten but don't swamp us. High wind, but a wind with idle threats. No power loss, nothing interesting knocked over. If you didn't know the signs you'd think it was just a squall blowing through. But it's not, it's the messenger of Almost Winter.

Soon there will be brief windows of Hot, then more squalls with hail and wind, fitful bursts of rain. Then a sky-opener as the heavens smash us with a liquid fist. The heat withers and withers until we're left with hooded sweatshirts and jeans in our laundry baskets and our shorts stay on the closet floor. It's a quick, methodical transition. It's not that Almost Winter is here in a rush, it's just that summer takes off speeding.

Last fall I was working on her house. I was preparing to lay down a hardwood floor. The prep work was intense but the finished product was gorgeous. But it wasn't my floor, and it wasn't my house, as I'm often reminded. This year will be different. In some ways, I'll be laying some mental flooring for myself, something that truly will belong to me.

My prep work starts on the subfloor. I've managed to scrap all most of my old patterns and habits. My computer gaming is down, my social interaction is up. My lonely time is down, my alone time is up. Depressed silence is now replaced with focused meditation. I've also spent a couple of weeks at working by myself and it has done wonders for my confidence. Work is still a challenge, but I've been able to take better stock of what I've got in my toolbox. It's getting more full these days, it feels good.

When I'm not at work, I'm trying to be more available. I've found myself calling people on a whim, certainly nothing I've done this summer or previous. If you happen to receive one of my rambling calls, don't worry. I don't really have much to say, but I've discovered that sometimes it's not what you say, it's just that you called. I entertain myself by leaving what I think are hilarious voicemails. If you get one of these, feel free to roll your eyes and delete.

I've also begun work on my personal foundation. I jog twice a week. Sometimes not very far, sometimes for blocks and blocks and blocks. I've found that when I'm angry I run further, which has proven to be the healthiest outlet for my everyday rage buildup I've found. In addition, I play around with my free weights. I'll never join a gym, but reading on free weight exercises and doing a few actually has already helped a bit. That's not so much a testimony to the amount of exercise I've done as it is to how out of shape I started. I feel a bit stronger and faster and work doesn't tire me out the way it used to. We'll see how this goes when I'm no longer jogging in the occasional rain but snow instead. I've got a few more months to work on my mental resolve before that happens though.

It's not all goody-two shoes work though. I've also had the desire lately to get myself in trouble. I still go drinking, but hardly at the rate I was before. These days it's to appease the inner-urgings of my married friends to live vicariously through me. A job that I've found I both excel at and love. I'd like to go out one night and do something crazy and stupid. Maybe a fistfight, maybe a one-night stand. I'd like to do some of the things I was supposed to be doing in my twenties instead of on the wrong side of thirty. Hopefully I've still got some time. My bachelor diet is still atrocious, as I hate cooking for one. At least it's now counter-balanced by my physical activity, but I suspect this will have to change soon too. Leftovers in a tupperware container seem more palatable with a couple of beers anyway.

And so summer flies away. In my head, I'm bent at the waist, fitting floorboards together. Over and over and over again, until the finished project takes shape. I haven't started working on my walls, or painting or any of the fancy parts. Just the foundation, just the base, just the floor. We'll see how far I get with this, and then we'll see what I feel comfortable taking on. Almost Winter creeps in. Summer trails away; tailights in the night.