beauty

beauty.

There are things that are so beautiful to me that I have a hard time thinking about them coherently. My daughter's eyes are deep blue pools of mystery. Maybe you didn't know that. Now you know.

She looks up straight into my eyes from her 30'' post and time doesn't stand still so much as become warped and strange. I see in the deep blue of her eyes tremendous courage, and not just grit your teeth courage, but the courage that literally laughs at danger. She has the courage to roll right off the changing table without flinching, crawl out of her high-chair and across the table without the slightest hesitation. Her baths are not so much about cleanliness as they are opportunities to plunge her own face beneath the water repeatedly just for the wet splashy fun of it. In her eyes there is total wonder and amazement for every new thing. When was the last time you were in total wonder and amazement?

The love she expresses to me in a simple look is tangible. I can choose to sit passively in the room with it like a fat guy in a recliner sits with his TV thinking about cracking open another Grain Belt, or I can take it in and savor it like one of Trevor's amazingly feckless caramel rolls that dance around your mouth like sensual Russian dancers until they collapses from pleasure, fall, and slide down your throat into your gullet.

I used to sit in the room with Love. Love used to bounce tennis balls off of my head just to get me to look away from the asinine computer games. Love used to kick at my shins and call me silly names just to get me to crack a smile, but I mostly ignored it. I even thought Love was driving my dick into a woman as hard and frequently as possible. It's not, by the way.

You can sit in the same room with Love for years, and I did until Love dunked me under the water so deep that I forgot my self loathing. I forgot my insecurity. Shame. Guilt. Inadequacy. I forgot my daddy issues and addictions. Love held me under the water thrashing and dieing until I forgot to not breathe, and came up choking, screaming, mostly dead, and totally clean.

My daughters eyes are pools of mystery. With her eyes she gives me an almost ceaseless stream of love. I don't just sit in the room with it. I take it in, savor it, and let it swirl around inside of me. My daughters eyes are deep blue pools of mystery. Maybe you didn't know that.

Now you know.

Mirror

I came in and was dripping wet. The stainless steel furniture and white walls almost blinded me but I was ready for them to invade my space once again. When ever I came in from the damp character ridden world outside my door, the cleanliness of my apartment seemed to always catch me off guard. Though at once it put me to ease to know I was home. Work had been exceptionally difficult to cope with today. I had had unfinished business with an old flame. It had opened old wounds, but now it was all finished so I needn’t worry about it any more.

I slipped off my coat and let out a large sigh that to me rang off the walls of my little apartment. I sat in my favorite chair and again sighed. I still had my drenched coat in my hand and I stared long at the wall in front of me. After a short while my head fell back onto my chair and my eyes closed. I quickly entered a dream. It seemed to me it was more of a memory, when I had first met her. Lala. She was fantastic, and instantly I attributed her to the song of that name. Yet in my dream she never faced me. She was wearing all black. And her shoulders heaved up and down as if she was weeping. I tried to touch her, but every time I spun her around, it was her back I would see, and then I took my hands off her shoulders and they were covered in blood.

I sprang my neck forward and looked at my watch, 530. It had been a short nap. I looked down and saw my jacket on the floor I picked it up after slipping off my shoes and setting them next to the chair. I went to hang up the coat… “Damn!” my wet coat had created a puddle the size of Lake Michigan and now my right sock was soaked all along the bottom and I caught sight of it quick enough to see the moisture travel up the sock to just above my arch.

After I hung up my coat I took off my socks and jumped in the puddle my jacket had left behind, by spreading out the water it would dry quicker, and for once I could forget about work, and feel like a kid again. I walked down the hallway towards the bath room. But I stopped once again and began to stare, this time out the window. The window was fogged over, but water dripping on the inside and outside cleared little lines of substance for me to indulge in. I looked at my watch, 630. That was a good day dream. I reached my hand around the corner and flipped on the light in the bathroom and poked my head around the corner to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I paused. Then headed for my bedroom.

As I entered my room, I slipped off my shirt. I feel on my bed. Grabbing a slice of day old room temperature pizza. I ate it, counting the cracks in the ceiling. Upon arriving at 44 I got up and went back to the bathroom. I squared up to the mirror. I looked in my own brown eyes for what seemed like long enough not to see anything. Then followed my nose, crooked long nose to my prudish lips. I practiced a few smiles but my teeth aren’t straight enough for smiling, though their color is well suited for the task.

My arms did not betray my occupation. Though my jaw line may to a person with a keen sense about them. My hands, my hands betray all things, from death to ignorance, to justice and wisdom. When it came to it, my body could and would not be seen as anything other than a young man, but my eyes… those eyes, those are the eyes of a murderer.

Love.

Love.

"Don't want a spanking."
"Yes, and I don't want to give you one." But I do.
I won't let you have candy because you scream and kick.
I won't give in, and drive through McDonald's in response to chants.
If you hit another kid, I won't assume it was his fault.
If you throw a tantrum, I will not coo and coddle.

I will spank you.
I will hug you and wipe your tears,
pull up your pants to cover your red ass,
but I will spank you.

I won't let you stay outside past dark and play with the neighborhood boys.
"Aw, he's so cute." will not be my response to defiant screams of "no."
If you turn a deaf ear to my requests, I will not do in kind.
"donwanna, no, dowwanna..." is not English, but I'm sure translates roughly to "I'm cranky, I'm pretty sure I can get whatever I want, but what I really need right now is somebody to love me enough to spank me good."

I will spank you.
and you will hug me.
you will dig your little fingers into my shirt
and bury your blurry face into my chest
and I will hold you tight.

If I don't...
I might as well give you the bits of broken glass you clamor for,
All the sugar your eyes can behold, your fists can grasp and your lips can pass,
that boiling pot of water? yes, son it's yours,
and sh**, well I wouldn't pet that barking, salivating dog, but if it's what you want, go ahead reach out your fleshy little fingers and pet.

Eleven. Twenty-Two. Thirty-Three. Etcetera.

In late March 2008 I found myself totally wrapped up in two albums: Flogging Molly's "Drunken Lullabies" and the self-titled project from Ben Kweller. In late February 2009 I had a solid hankerin' for both once again so I burned them onto a disc and labeled it "Flogging Ben Kweller". Last week I got that very same taste in my ears while I was on my way out to a good buddy's house in West Duluth. As I sifted through my disc collection looking for "Flogging Ben Kweller" I was so tied up in the anticipation of the enrapturement that I'd enjoy when I finally popped that puppy into my CD player that I sideswiped a snowbank in my trusty old Lumina. Poor beauty.

Don't worry, she was fine. I'm not interested in talking about my car right now, or Ben Kweller, or inebriated Irishmen. This is simply the most recent manifestation of a personal phenomenon I began noticing a few years back:

My specific taste in music, literature, and movies runs in an 11 month cycle.

I first noticed that my tastes were constantly jogging on this not-quite-annual treadmill during my sophomore year at UMD, and let me tell you, whatever this thing is, it's a juggernaut. I can't stop it, I can't even curb it, I can't guess as to its source, and, honestly, I have no desire to deny it the control it so readily snatches from me whenever it rolls around. At this moment I would love to watch the Planet Earth documentaries because that's what I was doing two years ago during Mustache March. When I go home I'll probably grab up and devour my copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance because that's what I was reading last February when I wasn't watching Planet Earth. Next January I'll probably be listening to my most recent love, "The Seldom Seen Kid" by Elbow as I drive home to read a chapter or two from ZAMM and fall asleep to the voice of David Attenborough narrating the dance of the ellusive Bird of Paradise.

Whatever this dictator of taste inside of me is made of or birthed from, I have a love/hate relationship with it. I love knowing exactly what will tickle my listening fancy the most at this very moment. I love knowing which book is going to most firmly hold my tired attention tonight when I get home from work. I could set my watch by my media appetites, and that's fine by me. But the problems surface when a roommate wants to watch Shawshank Redemption in June, or when my iTunes library is playing on shuffle.

"I'm sorry, Spoon, it's nothing personal. 'Gimme Fiction' was great and all, but... well, look, your timing isn't great. It's not you, it's me, I swear. I'll see you in July. I just ...I'm sorry." *Next >>*

I got a membership at Anytime Fitness today. And ran for 23 minutes. Made it 2 miles. And wanted to throw up immediately after.

I'm compiling a list of reasons why this working out thing is a good idea.

1. I will become more fit. (so far nothing...)
2. I will relieve stress. (I'm more stressed about how I hurt all over.)
3. I will lose weight. (nope, not yet)
4. It will release endorphins and eventually become pleasurable. (don't believe it)

Before you say, "Well, Asa, you've only gone once!" which I'm sure you've already thought, I do have a limited grasp on reality and am aware of this fact. But I'm in pain, and I need an outlet. They said we could write about anything...

There is one very clear and present reason that I'm agreeing to work out 12 times a month (my insurance kicks in twenty bucks if I can drag my butt there 12 times). Soon after the 3rd annual St. Gary's New Years Eve party, pictures of the evening began surfacing on facebook, and I had a rather startling and unpleasant realization. My face has gotten fat. I have a fat face. Well, fatter than it once was. And this, this alone, may be the largest contributing factor to getting a gym membership. This is embarrassing to admit, but the truth is I'm admittedly lazy, and the pain of this realization is proving to be the catalyst for what will, hopefully, turn into an endeavor into better health.

So now I will be regularly be spending part of my Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays with a veritable cornucopia of Duluth denizens all seeking to either lose a little weight, like myself, or and add a little muscle weight. I'm not sure I will have much of an opportunity to build any relationship with these fine folk as I was literally unable to form a sentence after I stepped off the treadmill today. What with the snot and sweat and heavy breathing, who can say if they would even be interested in a conversation.

I am finding that everyone has an opinion about the appropriate way to work out/lose weight/get fit. And I'm never quite sure who to take seriously and who to completely disregard. I've decided that I will not listen to anyone who is not actually in shape. If their advice was so worth taking why are they not taking it? And I don't buy, "Well, it worked at one time, when I was younger." Instead I will seek out physically fit individuals and grill them about diet, workout regimens, how to not fall off the elliptical machine, and whether or not it's normal to sweat so much that it looks like I just took a shower with my clothes on.

last family vacation

The main players used to be a gold, Silhouette van, a travel-size game of Connect Four sans 3-5 red or black chips every time we met a pothole, and my mom crying because the hotel room smelled like cigarettes/her Aunt Phyllis' house/swimming pool and we were too close to the raucous ice machine/parking lot/lobby. But we were going to Yellowstone/Gettysburg/Vancouver/Uncle Terry's. And dad had a whole week off and a cooler packed with Juicy-Juice and Duos (those cups of jello + yogurt purchased in tens at Super One). So it was vacation.

We went on for years like that. Hauling across the country, smelling geysers, downing juice boxes, taking blurry pictures of buffalo and mountains. At one point, probably on a stretch in Saskatchewan, my mom threw a whole ham sandwich at my dad. The whole thing. Smears of mayo, cheese and slimy disc of lunchmeat. All of it. None of us remember why, but all of us remember how things suddenly got very serious in that van and how dad got out and sat on the bumper for a full half hour afterwards.

It went on for years like that.

At some unnameable age, though, it all stops. Summer vacation completely disappears. We don't look at maps to National Parks. A week off isn't so easily taken as it was when you were at Dairy Queen. Keith or Gina aren't around to take your shifts and make Buster Bars just as well as you could. Nowadays, people are talking marriage and the van won't hold them all. Plus, the van got traded for something more practical. Something that doesn't need space for carseats.

What happens to family vacations then? Do they get multiplied the way a batch of rye dough gets turned into clovered, little potluck buns? Will our families throw sandwiches and demand you play Wee Sing America? Will we keep stealing each other's pillows, not keeping our hands to ourselves, but poking our neighbors instead and suffering from bloodshot eyes, filmed with hotel pool chlorine?

outliers of a different sort.

I'll be honest with you. My default response is judgment.

Mothers who yell at their 2 year old boys to shut up, let them play in busy streets, and walk around in -10 degree below zero weather without hat or mittens make me angry. Angry maybe isn't a strong enough word. Perhaps indignant is better. It starts out as anger, morphs into regret and repentance, and finally meanders it's way to the back door called compassion, but my point is not my broken response to brokenness.

Have you read Malcolm Gladwell's book "Outliers?" You should. In it he writes about the mysterious and almost random sets of circumstances that set various people up for success, but I wonder if it's limited to success. In fact, it seems obvious to me now that it's not. Many sorts of people seem destined to fall down, melt into a pool, and sink down into those weed filled cracks . Folks grow up dirt poor. They grow up in the system living off of handouts and becoming far too used to it. Boys grow up to be wife beaters, and girls grow up to be single moms, let their kids play out on busy streets unsupervised in -10 degree weather, and with no gloves or hats.

It's dangerous to write in generalities, but I'm starting to think that there are failure "outlier" traits. I'm also starting to think that maybe that's who Jesus was talking about when he stood up in the temple, grabbed the scroll of Isaiah, and started describing his kingdom "...good news for the poor... freedom for the prisoners... recovery of sight (does an outlier know that she is one?)... set free the oppressed... proclaim that it's the season for experiencing Abba's affection (Italics mine)." Outliers every one.