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.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, September 7, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Weekend Update
I spent a weekend with a friend of mine, who while normally married with a kid and an otherwise responsible person was without said responsibilities for one weekend. Married guys are crazy.
Day One: Get off work late on friday. Hang out at his house, drink beer and play cards. Drink more beer. Drink more beer. Decide to watch Conan the Barbarian. Every time Conan grunts, we drink. Walk down to local bar (no driving because we are responsible). Drink more beer. Watch aesthetically challenged guitar player pick up tons of older woman admirers with his renditions of Jack Johnson. Drink more beer. Don't remember.
Day Two: Wake up. Watch Horton Hears A Who while Hungover (me, not Horton). Walk down to local coffeeshop. Drink coffee, eat bagel. Discuss last nights adventure. Walk back to his house and commence the drinking of beer again. More beer, more cards. Discuss the pitfalls of diaper changing and time out giving. Drink more beer. Prepare delicious vietnamese beef stew. Watch DVR-recording of Conan the Destroyer. Agree that Barbarian was better. Drink more beer. Commence shotgunning of beer. For every shotgun, Conan movie gets better dialogue. Shotgun more beer. Don't remember.
Day Three: Wake up . Skip movie and walk straight to coffee shop. Drink coffee, eat bagel. Play cards. Discuss the drinking of the beer last night. Discuss important fantasy football strategies. Drink Gatorade mixed with a little gin to get juices flowing. Tackle important chore list. Mount air conditioner while hungover. Climb on ladder and repair side of house while swaying (me and the ladder.) Throw all evidence into recycle container. Find a few beers left in fridge. Drink more beer. Discuss various successes achieved on chore list. Drink more beer...
They say that youth is wasted on the young, and I agree. I finally have the wisdom and maturity to fully appreciate a weekend like this and still be able to function after one. It's like I have reached a middle-aged nirvana. Unfortunately next weekend I'll be back to watching Conan the Destroyer by myself, and he'll be back to changing diapers and giving time outs. But when the stars align, perhaps we'll enjoy another weekend like this.
Day One: Get off work late on friday. Hang out at his house, drink beer and play cards. Drink more beer. Drink more beer. Decide to watch Conan the Barbarian. Every time Conan grunts, we drink. Walk down to local bar (no driving because we are responsible). Drink more beer. Watch aesthetically challenged guitar player pick up tons of older woman admirers with his renditions of Jack Johnson. Drink more beer. Don't remember.
Day Two: Wake up. Watch Horton Hears A Who while Hungover (me, not Horton). Walk down to local coffeeshop. Drink coffee, eat bagel. Discuss last nights adventure. Walk back to his house and commence the drinking of beer again. More beer, more cards. Discuss the pitfalls of diaper changing and time out giving. Drink more beer. Prepare delicious vietnamese beef stew. Watch DVR-recording of Conan the Destroyer. Agree that Barbarian was better. Drink more beer. Commence shotgunning of beer. For every shotgun, Conan movie gets better dialogue. Shotgun more beer. Don't remember.
Day Three: Wake up . Skip movie and walk straight to coffee shop. Drink coffee, eat bagel. Play cards. Discuss the drinking of the beer last night. Discuss important fantasy football strategies. Drink Gatorade mixed with a little gin to get juices flowing. Tackle important chore list. Mount air conditioner while hungover. Climb on ladder and repair side of house while swaying (me and the ladder.) Throw all evidence into recycle container. Find a few beers left in fridge. Drink more beer. Discuss various successes achieved on chore list. Drink more beer...
They say that youth is wasted on the young, and I agree. I finally have the wisdom and maturity to fully appreciate a weekend like this and still be able to function after one. It's like I have reached a middle-aged nirvana. Unfortunately next weekend I'll be back to watching Conan the Destroyer by myself, and he'll be back to changing diapers and giving time outs. But when the stars align, perhaps we'll enjoy another weekend like this.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Trimming
The next day after my previous post it was haily. The weather has changed, it's now Hot. I will not spend this season in her backyard.
We are coming to the close of our cabling project here in Pullman at Washington State. The dormitory walls are all laid in brick, and what was a mere construction site has graduated to skeleton, to full form and now nearly to finished project. During this phase of our network building we focus on what we call "trimming." It's a fancy word for simply putting an end on the cable. This connects the bare copper wire to the electronic switch and therefore the outside world. On the other end, a student plugs in their laptop and cruises MySpace, or blogs, or perhaps even studies.
It's an exceedingly simple process. Easy to learn, but difficult to master. To make the job as simple as possible, the four pairs of wires that make up the twisted innards of a cable are color-coded. Each is paired up as a color and a white and the color order is a rigid one. Always blue, orange, green, brown. The wires are fitted in special clips and then forced in, creating the electrical contact and snipped off making a tidy package. The whole kit is then put in a nice faceplate and then screwed into the wall, so the ugly wire parts are hidden, and the whole thing resembles an electrical outlet, just with internet connections instead of plugs. The effect is that someone might never know there are thousands of feet of cable running overhead and underfeet through the building and that the internet is a mysterious ethereal place, and not a humming collection of machines in a room somewhere.
I have learned that it is a humbling thing to know that you have graduated from a university and have the paperwork to prove it, and yet screw up something that is color coded. The individual steps themselves are the essence of simplicity, but this task of blue, orange, green and brown must be repeated on both sides of the cable. All told there are over two thousand connections in the building. Each one bears my fingerprints. Blue, orange, green, brown. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. The trick is in the details. The more efficient your movements become the faster the task is done. The faster the wires fall into the place, the faster the faceplate is fixed. Faster and faster, each time more muscle memory than thought. More pattern than deliberation. The workers pull wires in the square, two by two the task is shared...
When faced with a familiar repetitive task, the mind can't help but wander, and I am no exception. To help, I try to keep my mind focused on little mnemonics, little tricks I play on myself, little sayings, little neurotic tics that keep my thoughts from derailing as I move from room to room in the building.
Blue, orange, green, brown. anyone lived in a pretty how town. I am alone. There is no building, there is no room. There is no construction site, there are no workers. I am in my apartment in Spokane. This is the moment I realize I have moved to Spokane. I am alone. Brown, green, orange, blue. children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew. I am in her house. My pictures are on the wall, my books on the bookshelf. My colors in a room. The house is bright and there are voices. The sound of feet on a hardwood floor. This is our home. Brown, orange, blue green. They said their nevers, they slept their dream. I am walking up the stairs in the Irish Emigrant. I see her, wearing a white dress. We lock eyes. Green, blue, brown, orange...
Fucking orange! There is a construction site again. The faceplate has been screwed into the wall, but I have no recollection of doing it. I discover that while I wasn't paying attention, I've finished the other three rooms on the other side of the hall. I move sluggishly to an undone room.
The motions are automatic. Sit down in the chair, set down the tools. Strip the cable, the place the boot over to protect the connection. Each time I do this am surprised to see how expertly my hands know the task. Snap, pull, twist, click. How quickly they move. It's as though I'm watching someone else work. Orange, brown, green, blue. Somewhere someone is travelling furiously toward you...
While I terminate cable I've been nearly anyplace I've ever been, both in my past and in my future. Sometimes she's there, sometimes she's not. Sometimes I'm older, sometimes I'm younger. Most of the time I'm in Spokane, sometimes I'm in Seattle. Sometimes its when we've first met, and we flirt awkwardly. Sometimes we're in the nursing home together and we talk quietly about things that have never happened. Sometimes I think about what I've gained. Most times I think about what I've lost. Sometimes it's a fantasy, sometimes it's real. Back and forth, forwards and backwards I go. Snap, pull, twist, click.
I am on the construction site. I am in college. I am sleeping in my bed at home in Madrona. She is there, she is not there. I am overjoyed, I am defeated. She's my hero, she is my villain. She's an angel, I'm a demon. I am alone. There is no building, there is no room. There is no construction site, there are no workers. I am in my apartment in Wallingford. This is the moment I realize I am moving to Spokane. This is the moment I realize I am moving to Bellingham. This is the moment I realize I live in a hotel, that I live in her house. That I have no home, that this will never be our house.
This is the moment I stand before Daryl's wedding. your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers... Not his wedding, my wedding, my wedding, my wedding. although you're not beside me now, I know that you have been... one day there will be no substitute, for I'll see you again...
There is a room, there is a building, there is a construction site and I am a worker again.
snap brown, twist green, pull orange, click blue
she loves someone, but she doesn't love you...
We are coming to the close of our cabling project here in Pullman at Washington State. The dormitory walls are all laid in brick, and what was a mere construction site has graduated to skeleton, to full form and now nearly to finished project. During this phase of our network building we focus on what we call "trimming." It's a fancy word for simply putting an end on the cable. This connects the bare copper wire to the electronic switch and therefore the outside world. On the other end, a student plugs in their laptop and cruises MySpace, or blogs, or perhaps even studies.
It's an exceedingly simple process. Easy to learn, but difficult to master. To make the job as simple as possible, the four pairs of wires that make up the twisted innards of a cable are color-coded. Each is paired up as a color and a white and the color order is a rigid one. Always blue, orange, green, brown. The wires are fitted in special clips and then forced in, creating the electrical contact and snipped off making a tidy package. The whole kit is then put in a nice faceplate and then screwed into the wall, so the ugly wire parts are hidden, and the whole thing resembles an electrical outlet, just with internet connections instead of plugs. The effect is that someone might never know there are thousands of feet of cable running overhead and underfeet through the building and that the internet is a mysterious ethereal place, and not a humming collection of machines in a room somewhere.
I have learned that it is a humbling thing to know that you have graduated from a university and have the paperwork to prove it, and yet screw up something that is color coded. The individual steps themselves are the essence of simplicity, but this task of blue, orange, green and brown must be repeated on both sides of the cable. All told there are over two thousand connections in the building. Each one bears my fingerprints. Blue, orange, green, brown. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. The trick is in the details. The more efficient your movements become the faster the task is done. The faster the wires fall into the place, the faster the faceplate is fixed. Faster and faster, each time more muscle memory than thought. More pattern than deliberation. The workers pull wires in the square, two by two the task is shared...
When faced with a familiar repetitive task, the mind can't help but wander, and I am no exception. To help, I try to keep my mind focused on little mnemonics, little tricks I play on myself, little sayings, little neurotic tics that keep my thoughts from derailing as I move from room to room in the building.
______
Blue, orange, green, brown. anyone lived in a pretty how town. I am alone. There is no building, there is no room. There is no construction site, there are no workers. I am in my apartment in Spokane. This is the moment I realize I have moved to Spokane. I am alone. Brown, green, orange, blue. children guessed (but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew. I am in her house. My pictures are on the wall, my books on the bookshelf. My colors in a room. The house is bright and there are voices. The sound of feet on a hardwood floor. This is our home. Brown, orange, blue green. They said their nevers, they slept their dream. I am walking up the stairs in the Irish Emigrant. I see her, wearing a white dress. We lock eyes. Green, blue, brown, orange...
Fucking orange! There is a construction site again. The faceplate has been screwed into the wall, but I have no recollection of doing it. I discover that while I wasn't paying attention, I've finished the other three rooms on the other side of the hall. I move sluggishly to an undone room.
The motions are automatic. Sit down in the chair, set down the tools. Strip the cable, the place the boot over to protect the connection. Each time I do this am surprised to see how expertly my hands know the task. Snap, pull, twist, click. How quickly they move. It's as though I'm watching someone else work. Orange, brown, green, blue. Somewhere someone is travelling furiously toward you...
While I terminate cable I've been nearly anyplace I've ever been, both in my past and in my future. Sometimes she's there, sometimes she's not. Sometimes I'm older, sometimes I'm younger. Most of the time I'm in Spokane, sometimes I'm in Seattle. Sometimes its when we've first met, and we flirt awkwardly. Sometimes we're in the nursing home together and we talk quietly about things that have never happened. Sometimes I think about what I've gained. Most times I think about what I've lost. Sometimes it's a fantasy, sometimes it's real. Back and forth, forwards and backwards I go. Snap, pull, twist, click.
I am on the construction site. I am in college. I am sleeping in my bed at home in Madrona. She is there, she is not there. I am overjoyed, I am defeated. She's my hero, she is my villain. She's an angel, I'm a demon. I am alone. There is no building, there is no room. There is no construction site, there are no workers. I am in my apartment in Wallingford. This is the moment I realize I am moving to Spokane. This is the moment I realize I am moving to Bellingham. This is the moment I realize I live in a hotel, that I live in her house. That I have no home, that this will never be our house.
This is the moment I stand before Daryl's wedding. your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers... Not his wedding, my wedding, my wedding, my wedding. although you're not beside me now, I know that you have been... one day there will be no substitute, for I'll see you again...
______
There is a room, there is a building, there is a construction site and I am a worker again.
snap brown, twist green, pull orange, click blue
she loves someone, but she doesn't love you...
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Still Winter
Recently, I came across a joke about the harsher weather here in eastern Washington. The punchline goes like this...we have four seasons and they are Feels like Winter, Winter, Still Winter and Hot.
I'd like to announce that we have escaped the cold clutches of Winter and our now just in the beginning clutches of Still Winter. Still Winter is an odd season, full of fitful weather. One day is clear, the next is rainy, then windy, then clear, then hail, then windy, rainy, cleary and haily (spell checker doesn't work on "haily") all in one go. But like a true Spokanite, we still have our Winter supplies on hand, not fooled for a minute when the temperature climbs above sixty. Our ice melter still has a residence on our porch, our faithful snow shovels stand beside, ready at a minute's notice. In passing, we joke about last year's snow lasting until June, and then check to make sure our can of deicer is still in our glovebox. We may have the opportunity for t-shirts and shorts during Still Winter, but our sweaters and gloves are never far away.
Hot is the season that is not necessarily dictated by the weather, but by the fauna instead. Hot brings coming of insects, the bane of the exposed skin sunseeker. The temperature may climb all it likes, but nothing says Hot like a legion of mosquitoes, freshly hatched and looking for a good time. Hot is a mere few months away, but while the larva wait underground we suffer through a few more weeks of Still Winter.
Still Winter also brings with it a certain psychosis. It's a nervous manic excitement contrasting against the brooding despondency of Winter. It brings with it fits of excitement during sun breaks, and just as quickly as a cloud can intervene, changes to fits of fretful uncertainty. To illustrate my point, I will use the backyard.
Just up until a few weeks ago, there was remained a sizable lump of ice and snow, stubbornly clinging to the ground in our backyard. The snow retreated to a shady section and then retreated no more, apparently content to wait it out through Hot, and then haunt us again come Feels like Winter. Every day I would wake up, look through the kitchen window, and engage in a wily western-movie-style staredown with our resident iceberg. "Surely," I thought, "it can't last much longer, it must understand its chances are hopeless." Every day I would measure the iceberg's progress. When it hailed, it gained a bit of cover above, when it rained or was windy, this cover was then lost. But at no point did the iceberg crack or give in. Never did I see it show so much as a trickle of water.
This weekend, I cracked, I lost it, I snapped like an icicle. Under the pretense of "raking the pine needles" I crept into our backyard, unobserved. My weapon was a steel rake, which under normal circumstances would be used to clear up the years of neglect to our yard. I had more sinister plans in mind this afternoon.
Casually, I brushed off the top layer of needles from the berg. Then, after looking around to make sure nobody was about, I began scraping at the ice. Another quick scan for nosy neighbors, and then vigorous prodding ensued, trying to pierce its tough, wintry hide. Once a weak spot was formed, the gleeful bludgeoning commenced. Had a bystander's view been blocked of the ice, it must have looked like an initiation into the Better Homes and Gardens biker gang.
The cascades of snow flying from my victim only increased the fervor of my attack. And for the first time in my life I felt rage for not just a person or a thing, but an entire season. Every crummy episode in the last six months of my life poured out through that rake, faster and faster, until there was only a wide swath of white-speckled pine needles left...the last chalk outline of Winter.
So here is the moral of this otherwise mostly pointless story. No matter what climate you live in, or what weather you are experiencing (both external and internal weather), sometimes the change of the season needs a little helping along. Sometimes it's not enough to simply observe the changing of the season, or sit back and enjoy small talk with your neighbors regarding a menacing cloud or two. Sometimes, and only sometimes, it's up to you to change the weather personally. Who knows? Had I not had my particular episode, it might have snowed again. We'll never know, but I prefer in my mind to think it was me. And just to reward myself, I'll wear t-shirts and shorts and drink cold beer in the sun. That is, if it's not haily.
On the other hand, if I find out who has ushered in the season of Hot by hatching all the mosquito larvae, I think I'll use that rake on him...personally.
I'd like to announce that we have escaped the cold clutches of Winter and our now just in the beginning clutches of Still Winter. Still Winter is an odd season, full of fitful weather. One day is clear, the next is rainy, then windy, then clear, then hail, then windy, rainy, cleary and haily (spell checker doesn't work on "haily") all in one go. But like a true Spokanite, we still have our Winter supplies on hand, not fooled for a minute when the temperature climbs above sixty. Our ice melter still has a residence on our porch, our faithful snow shovels stand beside, ready at a minute's notice. In passing, we joke about last year's snow lasting until June, and then check to make sure our can of deicer is still in our glovebox. We may have the opportunity for t-shirts and shorts during Still Winter, but our sweaters and gloves are never far away.
Hot is the season that is not necessarily dictated by the weather, but by the fauna instead. Hot brings coming of insects, the bane of the exposed skin sunseeker. The temperature may climb all it likes, but nothing says Hot like a legion of mosquitoes, freshly hatched and looking for a good time. Hot is a mere few months away, but while the larva wait underground we suffer through a few more weeks of Still Winter.
Still Winter also brings with it a certain psychosis. It's a nervous manic excitement contrasting against the brooding despondency of Winter. It brings with it fits of excitement during sun breaks, and just as quickly as a cloud can intervene, changes to fits of fretful uncertainty. To illustrate my point, I will use the backyard.
Just up until a few weeks ago, there was remained a sizable lump of ice and snow, stubbornly clinging to the ground in our backyard. The snow retreated to a shady section and then retreated no more, apparently content to wait it out through Hot, and then haunt us again come Feels like Winter. Every day I would wake up, look through the kitchen window, and engage in a wily western-movie-style staredown with our resident iceberg. "Surely," I thought, "it can't last much longer, it must understand its chances are hopeless." Every day I would measure the iceberg's progress. When it hailed, it gained a bit of cover above, when it rained or was windy, this cover was then lost. But at no point did the iceberg crack or give in. Never did I see it show so much as a trickle of water.
This weekend, I cracked, I lost it, I snapped like an icicle. Under the pretense of "raking the pine needles" I crept into our backyard, unobserved. My weapon was a steel rake, which under normal circumstances would be used to clear up the years of neglect to our yard. I had more sinister plans in mind this afternoon.
Casually, I brushed off the top layer of needles from the berg. Then, after looking around to make sure nobody was about, I began scraping at the ice. Another quick scan for nosy neighbors, and then vigorous prodding ensued, trying to pierce its tough, wintry hide. Once a weak spot was formed, the gleeful bludgeoning commenced. Had a bystander's view been blocked of the ice, it must have looked like an initiation into the Better Homes and Gardens biker gang.
The cascades of snow flying from my victim only increased the fervor of my attack. And for the first time in my life I felt rage for not just a person or a thing, but an entire season. Every crummy episode in the last six months of my life poured out through that rake, faster and faster, until there was only a wide swath of white-speckled pine needles left...the last chalk outline of Winter.
So here is the moral of this otherwise mostly pointless story. No matter what climate you live in, or what weather you are experiencing (both external and internal weather), sometimes the change of the season needs a little helping along. Sometimes it's not enough to simply observe the changing of the season, or sit back and enjoy small talk with your neighbors regarding a menacing cloud or two. Sometimes, and only sometimes, it's up to you to change the weather personally. Who knows? Had I not had my particular episode, it might have snowed again. We'll never know, but I prefer in my mind to think it was me. And just to reward myself, I'll wear t-shirts and shorts and drink cold beer in the sun. That is, if it's not haily.
On the other hand, if I find out who has ushered in the season of Hot by hatching all the mosquito larvae, I think I'll use that rake on him...personally.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)