Anchors Aweigh

"Anchors Aweigh my boys

Anchors Aweigh

Farewell to foreign shores

We sail at break of day 'ay 'ay 'ay

O'er our last night ashore

Drink to the foam

Until we meet once more

Here's wishing you a happy voyage home!"  - Zimmerman/Miles

I stood on the porch, and knocked on the door of the mobile home.  Surveying the small neighborhood, I took in the cool but pleasant weather as it bathed the circle of mobile homes in sunshine.  Really, it was someone's back yard, converted into a semi-circle of 5 or 6 trailers.  I didn't count them.  There was no answer.  I noticed an older woman, sufficiently dressed for the weather, strolling towards me across the grass.  No surprise there.  It wasn't often a very-out-of-state white work van pulled into this small town, much less this family of dwellings.  I met her on the grass, and we exhanged pleasant greetings. 

I informed her I was looking for an old friend.  She apologized, and told me my friend has passed away a few months ago.  This saddened me, but didn't surprise me.  One hundred and one years is a long time to live.  Add to that the previous three stops I had made, and there really was no surprise at all. 

I had spent the better part of my elementary years living in this rural town.  My dad preached, and drove a truck to make ends meet.  My brother and I, and my best friend knew every square inch of town, and the surrounding areas.  The land occupied by the informal trailer park had been owned by a family friend.  This friend had given me and my brother our first ten-speed bikes.  I had visited him a few years back, before he passed.  In fact, my many visits to this town usually included seeing old friends.  This particular visit really changed my views, my heart.

The company I work for had built a store here a few years back, and as a travelling technician, I have been afforded a number of trips to this town.  Seeing these dear people gave me a connection to a place that meant more than just familiar landscapes, buildings, and landmarks.  They were the people of my past.  Those adults I looked up to as a child, good people who showed me what love really means.  They anchored me to that town, one of the two I consider my "hometowns".  With this elder friend's passing, and another who couldn't remember me, I have but two resident families left who can bear witness to my childhood there.

As I drove down the familiar road heading out of town, I felt as if a part of my childhood called "Anchors Aweigh", and is preparing to set sail out of my life.  I'm not ready for that.  I don't know if one can ever be ready for that.   With the numerous hours of driving still to come that night, I had plenty of time to consider what this all meant for my life.  Of course, the truth of it all is plain to see, but difficult to grasp. 

My children, grandchildren, and young friends apparently see me as the old one.  The one to look up to.  To look to for an example of life, love, and all the good things that are possible.  I see the truth of my life, the many failures as well as successes, and wonder how I am able to be an example to anyone.  I see the need in their lives, the need to be loved, to be happy, to enjoy some part of life.  Then I see them run to me with big smiles and hugs, wanting to be thrown up in the air, or play ball, or call me with tears in their voices wanting me to unravel the madness in their lives. 

An anchor, I have become.

Fighting the Darkness, Fighting the Light

I performed in our church Christmas musical this past weekend.  This was our second year of putting on the same show, and will likely do it again for the next couple of years, which excites me greatly!  There were many great moments, and a few issues as well, as would be expected.  Two of them made me think…

This year we had a first, a Saturday matinee show at one o’clock in the afternoon.   Being a live stage production, there are many spotlights used during the production.  There are also moments that require blackouts for scenes to be reset, props to be moved around, and characters to move into position.    Our auditorium has a nice group of windows on one side, and doors and windows to a hall with outer windows on the other.  There are also three sets of windowed doors on the back leading to a foyer with more doors and windows that lead outside.  And, of course, Saturday was blessed with brilliant sunshine.   The stage crew was tasked with blocking out as much light as possible.  Curtains were hung and door glass was covered to allow as little light as possible to enter.  Sitting backstage beforehand, I was speaking with a fellow actor about the light issue.  I wasn’t, however, able to gauge how effective their efforts were until I was on stage.

During a lull in my part, I was able to glance out at the windows, and take in the stage crew’s light-blocking ability.  The dark red curtains placed over the windows were fairly effective, and yet I could see the curtains still glowing slightly from the sunshine’s assault.  On the other side, the windows were effectively covered, but there was light coming under the doors, a bright albeit thin line on the floor.  The rear doors were effectively covered, but again, with the bright thin line underneath.  A little later in the show, a group of carolers enter through the rear doors.  Normally, at night in December, there is darkness outside, so the only things initially seen are the candles held by the carolers.  With the foyer awash in brilliant sunshine, light bathed the carolers as they entered, and from my vantage point, I could see straight out the outer doors and into the parking lot.

I thought about this later, and was amazed at how difficult it is to try and block light from entering one’s life.  It requires a great deal of effort, and even the best guesses aren’t going to cover all the cracks, and all the situations where light will find its way through.  To live in a complete blackout, one must face the light, search out the cracks, and seal them.  Finally, one must stay sequestered in this blackened area to avoid light entirely. 

Being on stage is something I love.  I’ve done so little of it, yet it has taken a deep hold in me.  To perform a scene well is good.  To create a memorable moment for an audience is bliss.  To react to unscripted moments is great fun, and is a skill I’m developing.  Staring into a spotlight, or in that general direction at least, causes a wonderful case of blindness that isn’t very useful backstage.  If you haven’t had the experience, being blinded by a spotlight, then rushing offstage and through a small, very dark passage is an adventure.  Its even more fun when one encounters not only the darkness, but stage crew, props, and other temporarily blinded actors. 

To alleviate this dilemma, there were numerous solutions proposed, many of them vetoed due to their projecting too much light onto the stage.  In the end, there was glow tape used on the floor, and chemical glow sticks giving off a dull light to mark the way.  My observation here occurred during a mass exit offstage, where the first blind actor was able to see the glow tape on the floor and find their way.  The second actor couldn’t see the floor due to the actor in front of them blocking the tape, but was able to follow the first actor sufficiently well.  From the third actor back, it was fairly useless trying to follow anyone, and became a task of feeling the wall with one hand and a hand in front to avoid walking into something or someone else.  Again, completely blind.  There was some help from the stage hands, who would grab me and point me in the right direction, and say “Straight Ahead”, but that only worked for a step or two, after which “straight ahead” bore little meaning.  It was the walls that eventually got me there, knowing which actors I should bump into at certain places, and eventually, if I was backstage long enough, my pupils adjusting to the low light levels. 

When I am blind, there are useful things to help.  The stagehands can direct me, but that only helps for a bit.  Unless my eyes adjust quickly, I will lose my way.  The walls certainly help, and if I am familiar with the walls, and the stage construction, I can find my way around by feel.  There are even other blinded actors who are attempting to lead the way.  There are ways to compensate for blindness, but they are not equal to sight.  The only thing that will cure darkness is light.

Ode to the Unwritten Poem

I said to myself, "Self, sit down and write a poem.  Its only been a few, uh, decades since the last one."  So here I sit, looking around me, thinking about my day, trying to find a poem.  The air feels thick, like suffocatingly thick.  Like inspiration waiting to be engaged.  All around me are poems, waiting to be written, but I can't see them.  I can feel their presence, just out of reach.  Just out of sight.  Around the next corner.  Waiting.  Waiting to be written.  And if I walk away, they die.

Where are you, unwritten poem?
Why do you hide your face from me?
Show yourself, this is your time
Time to be known, time to be free.

Why can't I see, unwritten friend
Poem I've carried through the day
You've lingered almost to the end
Tell your tale, have your say.

Speak your substance, make us hear
Fill these lines with gracious prose
Caress my heart until it weeps
Down every road your story goes.

Take my hand and lead me through
Some wooded world where life does sway
Amid the light of waking love
The misty dawn of love's first day.

Tell me tales of flying dragons
Wooden ships of ages past
Knights and maidens, friend and foe
Lives erased, and futures cast

Sing of romance, bittersweet
Triumphs of an army strong
Speak of battles lost and won
And passion, right and wrong

Your tale remains beyond my grasp
Without beginning, hast not ended
Without my ears to hear your prayer
Your soul is naught, your birth suspended

I'd like to hear of butterflies
Of singing birds or fuzzy chicks
I'd listen to the lore of bugs
Or stones or streams or sand or sticks.

Oh come now, how about some food
A poem of pizza would suffice
A poem of apple pie would do
Of either one, I'd love a slice

How sad this effort has become
Inspiration lost in spades
How painful is this process now
To sit by as this poem degrades.

I guess it was a silly thought
To waste my precious time at home
To think that I could write a whit
To dream that I could write a poem.

To think you might have tasted life
Had I prolonged, had I been smitten
But tears aren't shed for songs unsung
For life unlived, for poems unwritten.

Yeah, you know what, I'm tired.  Forget this stupid poetry thing.  Why try this junk when I could be sleeping.  Or eating.  Or clipping my toenails.  Yeah.  Nevermind.

Monday Haters Unite!

So its Monday, the day that inevitably rolls around every week.  Just the name "Monday" evokes emotions ranging from quiet frustration to felonious rage.  And as such, there is no shortage of those fellow beings who trample the quiet solitude of a blessed sunrise with outrage and general dissatisfaction.

I take personal umbrage at those disharmonious wailings.  I love Mondays.  Mornings in general are a time to take in the day ahead, come what may.  Opportunites lie in wait, not revealing their faces so cleverly shrouded in the soon-to-be.  Monday is much the same, but on a much broader scale.  It looks forward to any number of days, up to the next Monday, of course.  Monday would never disrespect itself!  To take in a week in advance, what a blessing!  Just think of everything that has happened over the past seven days.  Yes, there were bumps in the road, but what Monday offered was an opportunity to set a course and face those bumps with the steely determination of a champion! 

But, sadly, for many, that never happens.  Monday becomes a begrudging necessity, a buzzing sound in the amplifier of life, a viscous sludge one must navigate to get to Tuesday.  What loss!  Dare I say, without man's invention of coffee, Monday might have become a national day of perpetual mourning.  The crying of tears, the gnashing of teeth, hissing, clawing attitudes of Mondays truly makes one want to dissociate one's person from life itself, for at least a 16-hour period.  (The last 8 hours are generally spent sleeping:  either with the complainer not complaining, or me not hearing.)

What we need is a solution to Monday.  An answer to the quandary that brings all things bright and beautiful to a screeching halt once a week.  And I have the answer!

Now, I have no great respect for the unions of today.  Large, unwieldy, much like the puppet government they resemble and support.  I will not, however, take away all the good they have accomplished in their history:  limiting work weeks, benefits for the little guy, child labor laws, etcetera, etcetera, et al, amen.  The establishment of a forty-hour work week brought great prosperity to the heart of this great nation, allowing individuals to add "quality time" to their lives, thus making them more productive workers, not to mention the institution of the concept of "weekend".  This "weekend" not only allowed workers to be home more often with their families, thus keeping the homesteads in greater peace and harmony, it also instituted new traditions like weekend camping, Saturday morning cleaning, and Friday night drinking binges.  But basically, one can also define "weekend" as "non-employment".  Though there may be work to do at home, it isn't for one's employer, and thus doesn't qualify for the title of "work", or egregious bemoaning.

Weekends are fun.  Work is not.  Weekends are relaxing.  Work is stressful.  I could go on, but you get my point.  So its no surprise that when Monday morning rolls around, many would don the apparel of recalcitrance.  My solution:  Eliminate Weekends!  With weekends out of the way, there would be no stoppage of work.  When Monday rolls around, it would be like every other day.  A day to get up and go to work.  There would be no emotional let-down.  No weekend to miss.  No difference between the fun that was just had and the work directly ahead.  Monday could be like every other day, and thus the elimination of Monday-hating.  Of course, the hatred would find other avenues, like increased-workload hating, or my-homelife-is-falling-apart hating, and we would develop a yearning for things like weekends, and even that blessed Monday morning so unequivocally despised.

Or, we could just wake up Monday morning, grateful that we had the opportunity to rest for a few days, grateful that we have a job to work, grateful that we have one more day to live and grow.  Its your choice, and in the end, that's what it comes down to.

Cold Coffee and Anonymous Universality

My coffee is cold.  Its been sitting next to me for two hours.  That's ok, I've learned to drink coffee cold.  I only started drinking coffee four years ago, and I absolutely love it now.  I'm not a coffeeholic, I only drink one occasionally.  But like a good friend, its always close by, and there when I need it.  If you're wondering, Green Mountain's Nantucket flavor is my favorite. 

But this isn't about coffee.  Its about what I've been doing for the past two hours.  So I'm new to the blogosphere, and decided to do a little checking around.  There's a funny little link up on top, called "Next Blog".  My, oh my, what a world that opens up.  If you haven't tried it yet, clear your calendar for the next two hours.

I hear we're gonna hit seven billion people on earth soon.  I can believe it, because most of them blog!  The artists and illustrators really caught my eye.  Amazing stuff.  Its a world that bears no familiarity with me, so most of what was displayed seemed amazing.  Next Blog.  Photos and stories of grandkids, well, that's somebody's life, and it is the world to them.  Great for them.  Next Blog.  Skateboarders.  Filmmakers.  Next Blog.  Next Blog.  On and on.  How did I end up in the Greek universe?  Back up.  Next Blog.

I never read a blog before, yet here I am blogging.  Seems arrogant.  Maybe a little.  But one word keeps going through my head:  anonymous.  I'm not unknown to those close to me.  Truly.  If you know me, you know me!  But the world in a larger sense?  Do I want to remain anonymous?  Maybe, at forty-six years old, I believe I have something to say.  To contribute.  To help. 

Did I find any interesting blogs during my time?  Sure.  I may follow one or two.  If someone is next-blogging, and they find mine, what will they think?  I guess my hope is they can find something to make them feel, or make them think.  The point of all this, and I always have a point, is that I don't have to remain anonymous.  Its a big world.  There's a lot of people.  And I matter, but only if I want to.

One Size Does Not Fit All

I stared at the cherry pie on the counter.  Half of it was gone, the remainer was neatly cut into the typical four pieces, as pies generally are.  Why?  I asked myself why I would want one piece?  I'm sure the symmetry was beautiful when the pie was whole.  And easy to cut?  Yes.  Symmetry and laziness in a pie.  But listen.  I'm a big guy.  I've been bigger, sure, but I know my body.  I exercised and dieted my way from morbidly obese to overweight, according to the much-maligned BMI scale.  I can eat more than one piece and not suffer adversely.  Fine, why not just take two?

Do you have a microwave oven where you have to input the cooking time on the front panel?  I caught myself one day entering 2:00 to cook a plate of leftovers.  I stopped and asked myself, why 2:00?  My second choice was 3:00.  WHY??  In this world, we are surrounded by social constructs.  Stop at the redlight for 20 seconds, it turns green, you have 20 seconds to navigate the intersection.  Punch the timeclock, with a two minute allowance either way.  Sit down, be quiet, turn cellphones off here, no chewing gum.  Most of these are purposed to allow us as people to live together in society as peaceably as possible.  And when someone disturbs the peace, look out!  He ran a redlight!  You can't smoke in here!  Your dog can't come in here, it doesn't matter if only his nose is sticking out of your purse! 

Have you tried letting your phone ring, and just listening to it ring without giving in to the urge to pick up the call?  No looking at the caller ID, that's cheating!  Have you tried inputting 2:32 on your microwave?  We're all victims of social constructs, to the point where they invade our thought processes and deeply affect our personal lives.  Yes, you have been conditioned.  I'm not saying its necessarily a bad thing.  The bad thing is to be unaware. 

I took two pieces of pie, and thoroughly enjoyed every bite.  I could have cut the second piece into a five-eighths/three-eighths split, but I didn't.  I actually thought about it, but I didn't.  And its not because I'm symmetrical.