And you're probably wondering what life was like after Jim's lap band surgery and how Todd's divorce proceedings finished up specifically who got the kids who got the basement full of two decades worth of shit no one not even the kids had the heart to throw away and who oh who took custody of the ghosts that haunted that filthy house.
And you're probably wondering if Steve still picks his nose with savage compulsion until it bleeds raw, if he and in fact they all still scratch themselves sagely on yonder couch the same, if it still burns and itches simultaneously when John pees.
If their God smiles upon them, their women still somehow gamely by their sides, filtering, absorbing, cajoling, wheedling into line, making presentable, tolerating, heaven help them screwing, holding, occasionally joking, sitting across at dinner, playing one two three shoot to see who changes the baby helps with homework cleans up after the puppy.
What is their sandwich of choice?
Todd: Subway Meatball 12" Sub
Steve: Pastrami and Swiss on Rye
John: Wawa Tuna and Cheese Classic Hoagie
Jim: Subway Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki Sub
What is their current emotional state?
Todd: perplexed
Steve: preoccupied
John: reflective
Jim: new lease on life
What is the color of their mood?
Todd: The mood is blue.
Steve: The mood is invisible or opaque, unknown, secret even to self.
John: The mood is brown red, the color of foreboding curry.
Jim: The mood is green, like first sprouts.
What is the new lease on life?
It is a lighter load, a quicker walk, the shrinking of distance and the opening of possibility, it is the reignition of sex life (flower once thought dead reassumes form and once again battles gravity), the occasional guilty snack. It is the consideration of cholesterols good and bad with anything less than an insurance analyst's cold calculation of expectancy. It is the woman perhaps a year or so younger who smiled at him when he was getting gas and for a second his heart lifted hundreds of feet in the air to float smiling above Route 38, right where it meets Church Road, to float free.
Showing posts with label dudes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dudes. Show all posts
8.26.2010
3.03.2010
close reading
He's getting closer to two now and getting nearly as attached to books as he is to television. In both cases he's looking for ritual, for safety and a world in which he knows just what to expect. This is why for a while his reading included just one or two books, just like his watching included just one or two DVDs vieweed ad nauseam.
{By ad nauseam I mean fuck you late-stage Children's Television Workshop, fuck you Paul Rudd in an Earth costume, your comedy does not reward a 200th viewing}.
In books now N. is reading in his own personal way. It may sound all Parenting 101 (which it is) but it was helpful to see how Kelvin and Justine are raising their kid -- bringing her at a young age through multiple reads of the same book in a row, letting her focus on different details besides the linear narrative. N. will typically tolerate two reads of a book in a row now, the first generally linear, the second time him steering toward scenes that confuse or interest him, or scenes with many small objects in them that we can name one by one.
The beauty of the naming ritual is that its power dynamic is fluidly reversible. During these reads I'll ask him to point at something that I name. That game has largely changed its rules to where he now points at whatever he feels like and I name it. Him not understanding the power dynamic positions him well to subvert it. Perhaps him choosing to ignore the power dynamic would be a better way to describe it.
It's been encouraging to see him reach for books for self-contained entertainment. At night as an early part of his bedtime ritual he'll sit in his crib with all of his books, several open at a time. We're either cultivating a child with multiple reading interests or one with a serious attention deficit or both. The argument for heredity v. environment wouldn't be clear in either case. Just a few weeks ago I couldn't imagine him reading on his own and there it was growing beneath the surface. More happens than we can see, in everyone.
A good part of early parenting is a crashing bore and a forceful drag. It's like becoming a completely different person, losing the balance of your marriage and your life and how the hell are you going to protect this kid from a world in obviously accelerating decline. There were things in the beginning that kept us from instinctively believing it could work out at all, and on some level I think that volatile mental poison is still with us. You can lose your center and get to a point so twisted you find work your sole relief. What I know is that the times when he and I read together bring a deeper kind of joy, I think to both of us.
{By ad nauseam I mean fuck you late-stage Children's Television Workshop, fuck you Paul Rudd in an Earth costume, your comedy does not reward a 200th viewing}.
In books now N. is reading in his own personal way. It may sound all Parenting 101 (which it is) but it was helpful to see how Kelvin and Justine are raising their kid -- bringing her at a young age through multiple reads of the same book in a row, letting her focus on different details besides the linear narrative. N. will typically tolerate two reads of a book in a row now, the first generally linear, the second time him steering toward scenes that confuse or interest him, or scenes with many small objects in them that we can name one by one.
The beauty of the naming ritual is that its power dynamic is fluidly reversible. During these reads I'll ask him to point at something that I name. That game has largely changed its rules to where he now points at whatever he feels like and I name it. Him not understanding the power dynamic positions him well to subvert it. Perhaps him choosing to ignore the power dynamic would be a better way to describe it.
It's been encouraging to see him reach for books for self-contained entertainment. At night as an early part of his bedtime ritual he'll sit in his crib with all of his books, several open at a time. We're either cultivating a child with multiple reading interests or one with a serious attention deficit or both. The argument for heredity v. environment wouldn't be clear in either case. Just a few weeks ago I couldn't imagine him reading on his own and there it was growing beneath the surface. More happens than we can see, in everyone.
A good part of early parenting is a crashing bore and a forceful drag. It's like becoming a completely different person, losing the balance of your marriage and your life and how the hell are you going to protect this kid from a world in obviously accelerating decline. There were things in the beginning that kept us from instinctively believing it could work out at all, and on some level I think that volatile mental poison is still with us. You can lose your center and get to a point so twisted you find work your sole relief. What I know is that the times when he and I read together bring a deeper kind of joy, I think to both of us.
10.19.2009
electric snowflake
Some dread from yesterday must have carried over and I'm dragging my feet. It isn't that my desk chair isn't comfortable, rather that a skullplate lowers from the ceiling and an invisible mediocre hand starts tightening the nonprofit screws into my skull. One way to describe my role would be that of a fat guy riding a bike in a snow globe. Another would be of the same guy trapped in a nagging loop of sell and explain, sell and explain, the same guy selling used cars that turn out to be concept papers for really amazing cars that (if used) would transform society, the guy selling used cars that run with amazing speed and grace but require uranium-235 for fuel, the same guy selling used cars to be driven only by the extremely poor; the cars get 2 miles per gallon and travel 2 miles an hour and the rich gather to praise themselves for providing the deserving poor with such elegant means of transportation.
Story of a new parent: He had work early today but last night his daughter was fussing, she wouldn’t fall asleep. He’d been charged with the task and he couldn’t figure out how to sit her just right so she’d sleep. She clearly wanted to but she’d been out of all day, he said, and she was just fussing. He tried setting her lying face forward, then held face up in the crook of his arm, then curled in variations between the two. It was maybe a half hour now, or an hour. It hadn’t been smart to keep her out all day. Now was time to pay for it. He kept trying different positions. Usually they could find a way to click if he just paid attention. Finally she let out a solid fart, almost like the fart of a grown person, and fell asleep.
As far as I can tell no one has yet invented an emoticon for snowflake, for an electric snowflake. It would be pretty. The flakes could sprinkle out beyond the browser or Word window in which they were typed, wending a wind-blown path, hitting the bottom of the screen and melting at first, then finally accumulating and drifting there. When enough had stuck, you could click with the mouse to gather it in piles, for throwing, or sculpting, or building.
Story of a new parent: He had work early today but last night his daughter was fussing, she wouldn’t fall asleep. He’d been charged with the task and he couldn’t figure out how to sit her just right so she’d sleep. She clearly wanted to but she’d been out of all day, he said, and she was just fussing. He tried setting her lying face forward, then held face up in the crook of his arm, then curled in variations between the two. It was maybe a half hour now, or an hour. It hadn’t been smart to keep her out all day. Now was time to pay for it. He kept trying different positions. Usually they could find a way to click if he just paid attention. Finally she let out a solid fart, almost like the fart of a grown person, and fell asleep.
As far as I can tell no one has yet invented an emoticon for snowflake, for an electric snowflake. It would be pretty. The flakes could sprinkle out beyond the browser or Word window in which they were typed, wending a wind-blown path, hitting the bottom of the screen and melting at first, then finally accumulating and drifting there. When enough had stuck, you could click with the mouse to gather it in piles, for throwing, or sculpting, or building.
6.23.2009
metronome
I messed up my ears hanging out with guitarists. Nothing angers a guitarist like the keyboard player asking him to turn down. Then I was 30 and half deaf too.
Bands are a good place to learn that god hates you, that only rarely does man understand his fellow man. Most bands are amateur hour, without measure or law, a battle of myopic painters to see who can pitch the most neon onto a canvas too small to share, while the drummer runs forward to smear logs of fresh shit over everything in the manner of an expressive gibbon. Silence and space banished to un-imaginability.
To aid me in my solo project, to be completed by 2025 at the absolute latest, I've procured a hearing aid with a metronome implanted in it. A small remote adjusts volume, tempo, and tone. The presets include Classic (faux pendulum metronome, Digital Madness (treble-bound octaves of any note), and Dom DeLuise (in which the late actor exhorts one to 'prac-tice' repeatedly in a number of time signatures and languages).
The metronome keeps me out of trouble. A sense of time curving, stretching and contracting is a narcotic for me, and prior to the installation I would go to great and reprehensible lengths to achieve it. The metronome is handy late at night, when cartons of ice cream would otherwise go emptied, or at my desk at work, when productivity might slip for a second, or an hour, or a day. It's handy in dull social settings. The metronome adds order, dividing the world into manageable, symmetric packets, provides information I know I can trust as valid and precise.
Early on, my mother and father urged me to success, to earn, if not a position as the conductor of an elite institution such as the All South Jersey Orchestra, then at least a modicum of rhythmic dignity and respectability in whatever profession I chose. Rare to consensus in all else, they insisted on the metronome as a unified voice. Practice is useless without it, Man needeth but food, sleep, and a metronome, etc.
But if my mother ran an errand and the mood struck him, my dad would quietly lock the swinging bar of the metronome in place and leave me to practice on my own, with my own sense of time. The notes carried me out to sea, into the depths and currents of feeling. When she returned, it always took me by surprise and I would back quickly away from the piano, as if it were a man just knifed in the back.
For a while when I lived on my own, I was happy to do without a metronome. But I see now that that was a foolish waste of time. That a man with his feet on the ground is to be admired and respected, that a man at sea is in trouble, whether he knows it or not.
Bands are a good place to learn that god hates you, that only rarely does man understand his fellow man. Most bands are amateur hour, without measure or law, a battle of myopic painters to see who can pitch the most neon onto a canvas too small to share, while the drummer runs forward to smear logs of fresh shit over everything in the manner of an expressive gibbon. Silence and space banished to un-imaginability.
To aid me in my solo project, to be completed by 2025 at the absolute latest, I've procured a hearing aid with a metronome implanted in it. A small remote adjusts volume, tempo, and tone. The presets include Classic (faux pendulum metronome, Digital Madness (treble-bound octaves of any note), and Dom DeLuise (in which the late actor exhorts one to 'prac-tice' repeatedly in a number of time signatures and languages).
The metronome keeps me out of trouble. A sense of time curving, stretching and contracting is a narcotic for me, and prior to the installation I would go to great and reprehensible lengths to achieve it. The metronome is handy late at night, when cartons of ice cream would otherwise go emptied, or at my desk at work, when productivity might slip for a second, or an hour, or a day. It's handy in dull social settings. The metronome adds order, dividing the world into manageable, symmetric packets, provides information I know I can trust as valid and precise.
Early on, my mother and father urged me to success, to earn, if not a position as the conductor of an elite institution such as the All South Jersey Orchestra, then at least a modicum of rhythmic dignity and respectability in whatever profession I chose. Rare to consensus in all else, they insisted on the metronome as a unified voice. Practice is useless without it, Man needeth but food, sleep, and a metronome, etc.
But if my mother ran an errand and the mood struck him, my dad would quietly lock the swinging bar of the metronome in place and leave me to practice on my own, with my own sense of time. The notes carried me out to sea, into the depths and currents of feeling. When she returned, it always took me by surprise and I would back quickly away from the piano, as if it were a man just knifed in the back.
For a while when I lived on my own, I was happy to do without a metronome. But I see now that that was a foolish waste of time. That a man with his feet on the ground is to be admired and respected, that a man at sea is in trouble, whether he knows it or not.
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