Tuesday, June 2, 2015

In. On. Out.

A year in. A year on. A year out.

A year on my own, yet not on my own. The paradox of not having "a job" but having help in various forms. (Do not mistake on my own for alone. The former is merely referring to employment, not absence of company)

It takes time. I have a dwindling supply of that, among other things I have a dwindling supply of, but I don't fear time running out as much as I used to. I seem to be among the group anymore that is comforted by the fact that I'm doing what I want and can with this time. My time may not be my own for much longer, but that's a conscious choice I'm making. I'm making a decision to whom I want to sell my time, and for what cost.

Ironic that on the day that I'm a year out, I might be back in. And that's fine. Maybe sometime someone will want to pay me for my words, and that will be enough.

For today, it's enough that I'm here, and so are my family and friends.

Saturday, May 23, 2015


What does it take?

Why do I keep asking what it takes instead of just working on it.

Maybe I don't know how to work on it.

A couple of months ago (months now?) I received a slight by omission and took it as motivation.

I have done fuck-all with that motivation.

Words don't flow, they barely trickle. I walk up to them and they look past me, like they are looking for their friend or a ride. I put them on the plate and they turn cold as I leave them for greener pastures.

I navel gaze instead of doing the work. What the fuck.

I wait for things to come to me instead of going to get them, as if the world owes me something. As if the world wants to bestow wealth and happiness on me for merely existing. The Giving Tree, and I'm the asshole kid. But it hasn't given me anything yet, nor will it. It's a staring contest.


I want to be known for something, for words. Maybe not Words, but words, nonetheless.

I know I can write. I don't write.

I don't know what I want to write. Or how.

Unstructured days slip through my fingers, forced open by Facebook. The dishes. A walk. A not small crisis. One not of confidence, however.

I've never felt unconfident. I've felt things come easy. And when they stop coming…then what? The universe falls into my lap and I mistake it for a crumb, flicking it to the floor with a sweep of the hand.

The universe hits the floor and expands quickly, like an inflatable raft in a comedy show. The universe grows and envelops me. I start seeing protein bonds of the egg solids that make up the crumb, then molecules, then atoms. Atoms. Atoms whiz by my head, first like baseballs, then softballs (which aren't soft, are they?), beach balls. As the universe overtakes me in giant exponential expansion, I'm suddenly walking on atoms, as planets. Suns. Fusion and gravity and heat and the universe is now suddenly so large that I'm an atom in the universe.

Atoms have roles and I don't know mine and I get scolded by the air traffic control. "Get in line!" "Not there, what are you doing? God damn rookies…"

I've been an atom for mere seconds, but I've been an atom for my whole life and I still don't know the dance, don't know the way home, and where is home, and are you my mom? I look up from the legs I cling to into the eyes of a woman I don't know, don't recognise, and step away. As I back up, she becomes smaller, she's no longer 6 feet tall but just average height, and I, confused, look around. I don't know where home is.

Are you my home? Are you my homey?

Up the driveway and into the garage. It closes, and the universe is suddenly a rock on the mat on the floor and starts to grow. I'm enveloped and enfolded and Tim Buckley is on the radio and now Liz Frasier and I turn the car off, careful to not fill the garage with carbon monoxide. The rock is now the size of a pebble, a stone, a boulder and I'm within it, curled into a paisley, not tumbling as the universe grows but stationary within the solid mass and molecules and atoms and I'm standing on stars again, I'm made of stars, I'm stardust in transit.

Next stop, home.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

In Motion.

Some days I'm ok.

I'm ok all the time, even when it takes me by surprise. But on the days when it takes me by surprise, I feel that hiccup.

I recall these feelings. It's been a long time since I've had to move on, on my own. It's been a long time since someone I loved and was dedicated to told me "No thanks" and forced me to pick up the pieces while they faded into the distance.

And then you see them, and your heart jumps a bit. It's not like you necessarily want to be back together, and you know that's not what they want, but that relationship was there. They look good. They seem to be doing well. You want to ask, but you don't want contact. You don't want any slide into old ways, to hear of old friends you haven't seen for a while. Not because you don't care, but because you're exhausted of caring. Because I cared so much, and was left behind.

Questions of "was it me?" don't really help, and they don't go anywhere. There's nowhere for the question to go. There won't ever be answers, not that I can see. And I'm doing my best to move on, to pick up and keep moving. I really am, I'm not standing still. I'm in motion. That motion, however, feels slow, and stunted. Compared to when we were together, and there was so much motion, so much new and motion.

When it stops, it's hard, no matter how much you know you're moving on, it's hard to just leave it all behind.

Sometimes, when you see their name, you wonder if/what/how/what/if. Stuck in an if/what/for/then loop.

Some days I'm ok. This is one of those days, still.

I see them. I stop, hiccuped, gather my thoughts, write them down, and move on.

I'm ok.

Tuesday, April 22, 2014

The Paper

The media & pop culture tell me I'm a member of "Generation X". I like to think of that more as the late 70's band with Billy Idol and Tony James than the movie Reality Bites, but the latter seems to be the image that "Gen X" conjures up for most people.

As a member of said generation, I've seen both sides of the digital revolution. I was alive when there were only 3 major broadcast networks in the US. I then saw and experienced the cable boom, the personal computer boom, the rise of the Internet. I played outside from morning til night in the 70's, I sat inside and played video games all day in the 80's. As much as we now live in a digital world, as comfortable as I am in front of most any sort of computer, I have my roots in the analog world.

"So what?"

So, I grew up with the newspaper. We got the paper at home, but I suppose my earliest memories of the paper are at my grandparent's house in Memphis. I'd want to read the funnies, but the paper would be around at the breakfast table for them to catch up on the news of the day. Well, the previous day, anyway. And the Sunday color funnies were always something to look forward to, especially if I had some Silly Putty.

I remember the Commercial Appeal and the Press-Scimitar. I remember not knowing what those terms meant. Newspaper names were always strange to me.

Pretty much since I left home to go to college, I've had a subscription to the paper. The Union-Tribune. The Contra Costa Times (not the Chronicle or Examiner, I didn't live in the City). The Denver Post (not the Rocky Mountain News, I preferred broadsheet over tabloid). USA Today? That's not a real newspaper. That's generic, not local. A newspaper is of a place.

I enjoyed going to other cities and reading their newspapers. Seeing the layout, seeing the different typefaces, where they put the funnies. Eventually, I started doing the crosswords like my parents did. (In pen, natch.)

I subscribed to the daily paper for most of the time I've been out of my parent's house - not that I'd read it all the way through every day, although I might have if I didn't have 57 channels or the Internet or VHS or DVD. Eventually, in the mid-2000's I switched to just getting the Sunday paper because I would hardly read any of the weekday papers. They'd stack up and I'd feel guilty. However, I could make it through the Sunday paper.

Sundays were reading days. I would get up in the morning, make breakfast, and sit down to sort through the Sunday inserts and then read the paper. I remember taking my Sunday paper to my in-laws' house when we'd go over on Sundays. They got the paper, too, but a person's paper is…well, personal. There's an episode of M*A*S*H where Winchester gets a shipment of papers from Boston and, when the camp gets angry with him for "hoarding" his papers, he argues for his "right of first perusal." I understand his reluctance to let anyone else read the paper before he does.

Yes, it's a romantic notion, but I like the newspaper.

And today, I cancelled my subscription.

I understand that newspapers are probably losing money hand-over-fist in the digital age, and I'm sure they've burned lots of cash trying to keep up and transition. I know in my head that they need money. However, I'm disinclined to pay a 40% hike in subscription rate for my Sunday paper. Yes, I do check the occasional local article online, but I find my local paper's site to be kind of a nightmare. Local radio stations, TV stations, and newspapers haven't quite figured out design simplicity and prefer to jam their pages with ads. It's not a look I enjoy, and therefore choose not to patronize.

But I cancelled my subscription today. And it's made me sad. There's a piece of me that is in that paper. It's in my history, it's something I can hold in my hand that's not made of cold, slippery glass and metal.

Nobody else in my family reads the paper. My kids read the funnies sometimes, but even those have changed - they're all squished down onto 4 pages. The majesty of a one-panel above-the-fold Calvin and Hobbes is long gone.

My wife doesn't like the paper because she gets ink on her hands and it kind of stinks. I don't mind. It's something tangible.

When I lamented the price hike on Twitter (see? I'm digital-friendly), a friend at my work tweeted back "You do know you can read Saturday's news on Saturday now, right? #thefuture", and I know the point he's making. Everything is available almost immediately, all the time, everywhere. All the knowledge & data & images & videos & music, all right there for my consumption.

However, I just want to sit. Sit at my scarred kitchen table. Eat my eggs & bacon off my plain white plate. Take my vitamin supplements and acidophilus pills. Drink my pineapple juice out of the glass my sister gave me that has a cassette tape painted on it.

And I want to read my paper.

The paper.

Monday, April 14, 2014

Advertising works.

Advertising works.

I'd like to be one of those guys in the ad who is wearing a brightly colored button down shirt with a relaxed affluence about him. He looks like he's in a foreign country, or in some sort of remote location and although it might be an emergency situation where his car has broken down, he still has a smile on his face. He doesn't have a care in the world. No mortgage to pay, no kids to get through school, no pipes leaking, no drywall to patch.

No helpdesk tickets to resolve, no food he can't eat.

No friends getting divorced (ok, maybe they are, but not our smiling man in the ad!), no Joneses to keep up with.

He has bithday parties to attend, bachelor parties, record release parties, art shows. Impossible people to hang out with, people who play the cello on Saturday Night Live, people who work on the upper floors of tall buildings in corner offices.

At 43, I still want to be this guy. Advertising works.

At 43, I still am not doing what I want to do. I'm doing what I need to do. I live in fright of losing my job, I live in a state of fear and uncertainty, of doubt, self-doubt, self-deprecation. Sadness, hunger, longing.

Advertising works. At 43, I still don't believe I'm who I am. I want to be that guy in the ad.

There is no redemption here, no bootstraps I've pulled myself up by, no denouement, no ending scene with the kiss over the cake, or a fist held high, or a death at the end of a life well lived. Just a confused, scared, terrified, overbooked, misunderstood man. As well we might all be. But it just feels like me, at this moment. Which I hope does pass, and soon.

Sunday, December 15, 2013

It's just too much.

So many times lately, I put my head in my hands and say "It's just too much."

I don't feel like I have enough time to do all the things in my life that I need to.

So write a blog post about it.

Saturday, September 28, 2013

Just helped him go to the bathroom & wash his hands. I looked on with pride as I watched him soap up palms and fingers, then rinse them thoroughly, and then push the hot & cold faucet spigots closed. He stood up from the sink on his own and grabbed his walker.

Of course I'm talking about my father, and not a little boy.

The wheel seems to be turning and I'm up helping him and my mother as they negotiate through his illness. The illness used to be cancer but that seems to have abated with the chemotherapy. The illness now is possibly impending pneumonia, striking what little strength he had. Amazing what life has in store on the inside of a year.

One year ago, he was in fine health, or so it seemed. He had a couple of rough spots - eschemic colitis that was brought on or exacerbated by colonoscopy prep. That turned into some weird back pain that had him laid up for a while. I think he had pneumonia or something close to it last fall - or was that last summer? - and when all was cleared up, he went in for his colonoscopy.

And there we found the cancer.

Or rather the doctor did, *I* didn't find anything. So, they scheduled surgery to remove part of his colon. The surgery fell on our family vacation, I'd be on a boat with my and my wife's families, planned for a year and a half, so I'd be checking in using the little Internet access I had per day. He came through the surgery fine, the lymph nodes they removed around the colon showed no signs of the cancer. All good news. Except for the "hot spots" they observed in his lung & liver. So, chemo started in January.

The weight loss probably started around February or March.

The neuropathy started around May.

The break from chemo lasted for a couple of weeks in July to try and help him regain his strength.

The last chemo treatment was this past Monday. The spots had been reduced by half from what they were in the summer catscan. They weren't recognizable as cancer anymore, we were told.

The illness started Wednesday and went downhill really fast. My mom texted me yesterday asking if I could come help. My mom doesn't ask for help.

He's ok today. Sitting up, blowing his nose, on oxygen (definitely needed at 7500 vertical feet). Needs a walker. Still isn't all that stable with it. No appetite, but we'll feed him something. His hands are skin on skeleton. He opens and closes them, slowly, like he's unsure that they're still his. He rubs them on what used to be his thighs, using friction to feel them on his legs, the tingling in them not registering his touch on anything.

My mom is doing as well as she can, which is to say not all that well, either. She walks with a limp, she's not so much a caregiver as a get-through-er. "Stop that coughing" she'd say in a joking voice when we were kids and caught whatever cold was moving through the school. "We don't have time to be sick" she would say, as if the words would drive the illness out, ashamed that it had alighted on us, sorry that it had inconvenienced.

Her patience runs short with him. She has to be here 24 hours a day, though, whereas we're free to leave to our lives once the weekend is over.

Our lives. Our lives, born from them. The wheel turns.

She shakes her head at his mumblings, his repeat sentences, his recollections of details that didn't happen. I look at them both with compassion, sometimes. It must be hard to be confused and trapped in your own skin, uncertain and weary. I look at them with frustration sometimes, confused myself - just take it easy on him. Just stop mumbling. My own body, sick for years on the inside, still functions fine to get me from place to place. Small back pains now & again, but I stretch in the mornings and my range of motion returns.

I'm not scared, necessarily. I know we'll all die. No, that doesn't make it any easier, but I'm just here on the other end of the wheel. I haven't known that many people who have died, actually. I'm lucky, I guess. And maybe that's why I'm not scared. I've seen my grandfathers die, one grandmother, one uncle. Another uncle. A friend here or there, after high school graduation, people I didn't have a lot of contact with anyway.

I struggle less with death than I used to. Raging against the dying of the light is fine, but ultimately self-flagellation. I'm trying to be here for him, and her, and them. I live close by, my sister lives in Southern Cal. She probably suffers more about it than I do, not being around. She'll be here on Monday, having driven in with my aunt, who is moving in with my parents. My mom will have some help, and someone to listen, who will be here. My sister will go back to southern cal, her daughter gets married soon. We had hoped my dad would be able to be there. We still do.

I don't know how practical that is, but, practical isn't really what humans do well. We do the impractical. We do the impossible. We do the unthinkable. We do what we imagine.

We do all of that before we die. And then we die, leaving the world to the rest of the living. To the rest of the dying. Flesh to dust. Dust, to flesh. Sunrise to sunset. The wheel turns.

Gotta go get some stuff done. Grocery store, tell some stories to help them remember that there's life happening out there, outside of their appointments that keep them running here and there in an attempt to heal my father.

Behind the wheel, on top of wheels, motion, moving, turning, doing. Walking on the wheel. Dancing. Not stopping. Until the wheel stops us. But it doesn't stop. But we do. But we don't. Because it doesn't.

Friday, April 12, 2013


Change comes.

It's interesting how change affects me these days, these days of my middle age. (They could be late age, I could die tomorrow, or even today, but I digress.)

A change that I didn't see coming, came, and now, although not much has changed, I still feel sad. I still feel the loss that the change has brought. I'm not sure how to process it.

It feels like my world has been turned upside down, almost like I've been abandoned. That's not the case by a long shot, but that's the thing about what a friend of mine recently called "The Feels" - they're not really rational. They are based in *my* reality, but not the reality of the world and what's really happening, or what has really happened.

So, I lingered in bed this morning. I finished listening to a podcast. I haven't eaten, but I showered, and shaved, and cleaned my teeth. I dressed, I drove in to work (which is where the change took place), I'm here. I showed up.

And, as Woody Allen famously has said, isn't that eighty percent of life?

I'm here for my eighty percent, sir and/or madam. What's next.
All content ©2010-2011 Sam except where indicated.