Hard to fathom how nine years can fold itself into the span of a few seconds, but it happens. I looked out the window into the sunlight peeking through the clouds and the hands of my first son and daughter wrapped themselves around my heart. It is a testament to the changes in me since 2003 that I did not cry to feel the pressure. I only lowered my head while coming to grips with what I knew was on the way. It's their birthday, the day that growing up and being a man were no longer optional.
They came into our lives in a fire drill of life, under duress and much too early for anyone. They had no choice, and neither did we. It was a terrifying, awesome spectacle that I believe no one wants to witness, but having gone through it I cannot deny the effect the whole delivery process had on me. There will be no forgetting the urgency of the operation. There will be no unseeing of the blood and the machines, the focus of so many to preserve the lives of two tiny babies.
Small, delicate, and ultimately too fragile, yet they made a man out of me. More precisely, they made a new man out of me, by bringing me face to face with the evolution I had long postponed. Our babies made me grow up. Fast.
What to say to them, on this day upon which they would have been nine years old? What can I tell them? What can I give to them, to their memories?
As parents many of us may want to believe that our children will be our legacy, and for many that is true. For me through them, however, it is not. At least as long as I am on this earth, the man that I became is destined to be their legacy.
My children shaped me, forged me, poured me into a new mold. If on this their birthday I do weep it will not be tears of anguish at their loss, it will be tears of joy. I will celebrate the day they came into the world and bestowed upon me the honor of being their father.
Nine years, my children. I have your memory in my mind and your love in my heart. Happy birthday, son and daughter. You are no longer of this earth, but you are loved.
16 July 2012
15 July 2012
Missouri River: Meditation #1
The river lay before me, placidly darkly taupe in its whispering rush past the city. I stood on a platform overlooking the water, the heat of the sun-blasted board soaking up through my shoes. I was at the confluence of a lull in the noise of cars and trains, with no one there to share the overlook. My hands rested on a tube steel guardrail, dull brown steel clasped in my sweating hands. I could feel the humidity rising from the water.
Across the muddy divide, the far bank stood thick and green with trees. Perhaps it was heat or fatigue, but for a brief moment I felt like the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, facing the Marcomanni at the River Danube. What tribesmen were waiting for me in that dusty green, that I could vanquish with my cameras and guile to assume the title of "Germanicus?"
Ha. I chuckled. My brain was reacting in strange ways to this extended heat wave in the heart of the country. There would be no victory arch erected for me. I did not come here to conquer, only to take pictures. I suppose the triumph of my return would be the reward of captivating images, should I be so lucky and skilled to make them. For most, the film would tell all, and that would have to wait.
The river flowed on. Small sounds reached my ears: the burble of water flowing against a channel marker. Buzz of insects in the underbrush and trees. Faint murmur of traffic from the bridges in each direction. The wind picked up momentarily, a small sirocco whirling its way downriver. What I did not hear was trains. There were no trains. It dawned on my that the lack of those rail sounds were what made me feel as if it was unearthly quiet down there by the river. I turned to peer at the tracks behind me.
Beads of sweat trickled down my neck, mildly shocking me with coolness as they lodged themselves along the camera straps criss-crossing my shoulders. "Photo-bandolero!" I say to myself, film canisters my ammunition, cameras my guns. The silver-brown rails glinted in the sun, and a movie played in my head.
Along comes a train, a miles-long ouroboros of freight and coal, and I somehow managed to climb the security fence surrounding the walkway over the tracks. The diesel leviathan rumbles slowly beneath my feet. I wait, holding my breath, until a car full of coal comes into view. I lean out to jump, spread-eagled and trying not to scream. I sink to my knees in anthracite and pray my ankles aren't broken. I'm off, heading into the golden west on the back of a metal serpent, to see what I can see and bring it back. The shaman begins his dreamquest, atop a mound of coal...
I blink. The solidity of the deck beneath my feet radiates rough warmth. Above me, a bird peeps and it calls me back to earth. There is no train. There is no coal. I am alone with the exception of a lone jogger coming up the trail that parallels the train tracks. The wire of the security screen is digging into my forehead, where I had rested it while studying the tracks below. The gunmetal ribbon of the rails winds it way along the river, heading west and into the industrial district far upriver beyond the bridge.
I step back from the screen, looking around to see if I have been observed. There is no one, which is good, I think. That way the look of wistfulness that must have been on my face would remain my own. There were no trains that afternoon, no stepping off of my soul on its search for something I have yet to define. I only know it is out there, silent and beckoning, waiting for me to meet it. Someday, I will. The river knows this, rolling to its own inscrutable rhythm, and it tells me I must do the same.
Across the muddy divide, the far bank stood thick and green with trees. Perhaps it was heat or fatigue, but for a brief moment I felt like the Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius, facing the Marcomanni at the River Danube. What tribesmen were waiting for me in that dusty green, that I could vanquish with my cameras and guile to assume the title of "Germanicus?"
Ha. I chuckled. My brain was reacting in strange ways to this extended heat wave in the heart of the country. There would be no victory arch erected for me. I did not come here to conquer, only to take pictures. I suppose the triumph of my return would be the reward of captivating images, should I be so lucky and skilled to make them. For most, the film would tell all, and that would have to wait.
The river flowed on. Small sounds reached my ears: the burble of water flowing against a channel marker. Buzz of insects in the underbrush and trees. Faint murmur of traffic from the bridges in each direction. The wind picked up momentarily, a small sirocco whirling its way downriver. What I did not hear was trains. There were no trains. It dawned on my that the lack of those rail sounds were what made me feel as if it was unearthly quiet down there by the river. I turned to peer at the tracks behind me.
Beads of sweat trickled down my neck, mildly shocking me with coolness as they lodged themselves along the camera straps criss-crossing my shoulders. "Photo-bandolero!" I say to myself, film canisters my ammunition, cameras my guns. The silver-brown rails glinted in the sun, and a movie played in my head.
Along comes a train, a miles-long ouroboros of freight and coal, and I somehow managed to climb the security fence surrounding the walkway over the tracks. The diesel leviathan rumbles slowly beneath my feet. I wait, holding my breath, until a car full of coal comes into view. I lean out to jump, spread-eagled and trying not to scream. I sink to my knees in anthracite and pray my ankles aren't broken. I'm off, heading into the golden west on the back of a metal serpent, to see what I can see and bring it back. The shaman begins his dreamquest, atop a mound of coal...
I blink. The solidity of the deck beneath my feet radiates rough warmth. Above me, a bird peeps and it calls me back to earth. There is no train. There is no coal. I am alone with the exception of a lone jogger coming up the trail that parallels the train tracks. The wire of the security screen is digging into my forehead, where I had rested it while studying the tracks below. The gunmetal ribbon of the rails winds it way along the river, heading west and into the industrial district far upriver beyond the bridge.
I step back from the screen, looking around to see if I have been observed. There is no one, which is good, I think. That way the look of wistfulness that must have been on my face would remain my own. There were no trains that afternoon, no stepping off of my soul on its search for something I have yet to define. I only know it is out there, silent and beckoning, waiting for me to meet it. Someday, I will. The river knows this, rolling to its own inscrutable rhythm, and it tells me I must do the same.
09 July 2012
Magpie Tales 125: The Ocean
"Chilmark Hay" by Thomas Hart Benson, via Magpie Tales
The sun out here was nothing like that he used to feel in the arms of his mistress. It was duller, it lacked brass, thought Ezra for the thousandth time in the day. The air wasn't quite right, either. Tang, it lacked the tang the ocean gave. Warm breath of a lover, he so missed her. His penance for the sin of minor misfortune. The ocean was a cruel mistress, no doubt, when a man becomes less than whole.
Ezra shoved the pitchfork into the hay on the wain, with more force than necessary. The cart rocked forward, wheels creaking in a small way. The horse nickered and flicked its ears in anxiety. Ezra took a rag from his pocket with his good left hand to wipe away an afternoon's worth of grime and sour feelings. The leather harness on his right arm was dark with sweat and speckled with chaff. The iron claw on the end glinted dully on the sunlight.
Ezra shook the claw loose from the iron cleat riveted to the slick, dark hickory of the pitchfork handle. The claw trembled. He was breathing hard, shame and bitterness etching his face. He spat. Jonas was a mighty fine blacksmith, and a clever fellow, but Ezra still had trouble swallowing the huge lump of pride that burned in his chest. He knew he wouldn't be able to do even the work that galled him if it hadn't been for the big man at the anvil.
His arm throbbed. Overhead he heard the shrill call of a gull, smelled the ocean just a few miles away. He swayed as if he were back on deck, hauling hard on the rope as the ship tilted under a hard wind. It was a bright day with a high sea, and if not for a head turned in error, his wrist and the pulley would never had met. He never would have felt the burn of hemp fiber tearing his flesh, breaking the bone, never would have heard the sickening thump as his hand hit the boards for all the world like a flying fish leaping from the sea.
He never would have heard the pain ripping his throat in a scream that reached the uncaring sun. It was a bright blue day, that Ezra lost his mistress. She cared little for the land, and he knew it. He was never the same, she wouldn't take him back, and Ezra felt his heart break again, surrounded by the sweet dustiness of newly-mown hay. The former man of the sea wrenched the pitchfork out of the load, and stabbed it deep into the anguish mounded up on the ground.
----
It's been way too long...this is my lagniappe to you, dear readers, for that wonderful little gem called Magpie Tales...
03 July 2012
Salarymen in the Mist
On Friday, June 29th at approximately 7:30 in the morning I swung my feet from bed to floor only to find that it was quite possible I no longer exist. A disconcerting sensation no matter which day of the week on which it might occur, but all the stronger for it being close to the weekend. I was not pleased with this turn of events. I like to exist.
Vertigo laced with anxiety made my belly flip a little. I patted the carpet, a high shag affair, with my feet to assure myself that I could indeed stand up. The softly scratchy strands felt good, felt so mundane that I made myself get to my feet. Surely the floor would support me. No embarrassing sinking through the floor to fall to the living room below and then on to the the basement. Why I thought a concrete slab would hold me if carpet and a wood floor would not, I do not know. I stood up. I did not sink into or through the floor, except to the extent my weight caused compression of the carpet. Very reassuring, that.
Sunlight leaking in between the small slats of the blinds caused me to blink. A good sign as well, I told myself. The knot in my belly loosened almost imperceptibly. Air flowed into my lungs with a muffled rasp. The sound inside my head gave me some comfort. It seemed so normal. I think I was just happy to breathe and feel the coursing of air in my chest.
So far, so good. Feet on the floor, air in the lungs, no fainting or disappearing into the woodwork. I felt less dizzy as I quickly scanned my surroundings.
Rumpled sheets.
Bedside table with books.
Low hum of fan.
Phone on nightstand.
Heart beating, limbs moving, earth turning. I must be here, I exist...right?
Then why did I feel as if there were no gravity and that my flesh was becoming transparent before my groggy eyes?
I shook it off and made my way to the bathroom for some brief ablutions. Then it was downstairs for tea and breakfast. I don't recall what I made then, it must have been something simple. There were things to do and places to go, and none of them would wait for angst to make itself scarce. I showered and made ready for a road trip, all the while puzzling over my very own 'unbearable lightness of being'. It kept me occupied for quite some time.
Somewhere between lunch and departure it hit me square in the cerebral cortex: I am a salaryman without a salary, and thus a certain way, I do not exist. I don't earn, therefore, I am not. Years of societal and professional conditioning had led me to this identification of self with salary, and that is a dangerous place to hang the hat of one's identity.
The pieces came together. I am approaching nine months without employment, and in this culture of job = money = worth, that nine months is akin to a lifetime. This feeling gripped me hard, this uneasy knowledge that to many employers perhaps I have become invisible. Nothing breeds success like success, and ladies and gentlemen, I have had no success in the time I have been looking. There is some truth to the notion that it is much easier to get a job when you already have a job, and I am without.
Not exactly front page news in architecture, a profession that unfortunately seems to demand experience without necessarily wanting to pay for it. You can imagine how discouraging that feels, having put in a lot of time with no results to show.
I took some cold comfort from having identified the root cause of my anxiety. It is always easier to deal with a known enemy rather than a mystery. I talked it out some with my companion, and was reassured that I do exist, that I live and breathe, and that I am real.
I know I am. I feel the blood in my veins, the air in my lungs, the food in my belly. These are all good. What troubles me is that for a bad moment on an ordinary morning, external ideas of self-worth overrode internal ideas of my identity. Nine months of looking for myself in the wrong mirror came to roost, and it took some heavy mental lifting and a strong dose of love to return the ground to beneath my feet.
Solid ground. I have it. I gained some breathing room for my mind. There will be something out there for me, I have to believe that. It will be something I can do, even if I myself do not know yet what that something is. What I will not do is make the mistake of confusing what I can do for money with what I truly am worth.
Vertigo laced with anxiety made my belly flip a little. I patted the carpet, a high shag affair, with my feet to assure myself that I could indeed stand up. The softly scratchy strands felt good, felt so mundane that I made myself get to my feet. Surely the floor would support me. No embarrassing sinking through the floor to fall to the living room below and then on to the the basement. Why I thought a concrete slab would hold me if carpet and a wood floor would not, I do not know. I stood up. I did not sink into or through the floor, except to the extent my weight caused compression of the carpet. Very reassuring, that.
Sunlight leaking in between the small slats of the blinds caused me to blink. A good sign as well, I told myself. The knot in my belly loosened almost imperceptibly. Air flowed into my lungs with a muffled rasp. The sound inside my head gave me some comfort. It seemed so normal. I think I was just happy to breathe and feel the coursing of air in my chest.
So far, so good. Feet on the floor, air in the lungs, no fainting or disappearing into the woodwork. I felt less dizzy as I quickly scanned my surroundings.
Rumpled sheets.
Bedside table with books.
Low hum of fan.
Phone on nightstand.
Heart beating, limbs moving, earth turning. I must be here, I exist...right?
Then why did I feel as if there were no gravity and that my flesh was becoming transparent before my groggy eyes?
I shook it off and made my way to the bathroom for some brief ablutions. Then it was downstairs for tea and breakfast. I don't recall what I made then, it must have been something simple. There were things to do and places to go, and none of them would wait for angst to make itself scarce. I showered and made ready for a road trip, all the while puzzling over my very own 'unbearable lightness of being'. It kept me occupied for quite some time.
Somewhere between lunch and departure it hit me square in the cerebral cortex: I am a salaryman without a salary, and thus a certain way, I do not exist. I don't earn, therefore, I am not. Years of societal and professional conditioning had led me to this identification of self with salary, and that is a dangerous place to hang the hat of one's identity.
The pieces came together. I am approaching nine months without employment, and in this culture of job = money = worth, that nine months is akin to a lifetime. This feeling gripped me hard, this uneasy knowledge that to many employers perhaps I have become invisible. Nothing breeds success like success, and ladies and gentlemen, I have had no success in the time I have been looking. There is some truth to the notion that it is much easier to get a job when you already have a job, and I am without.
Not exactly front page news in architecture, a profession that unfortunately seems to demand experience without necessarily wanting to pay for it. You can imagine how discouraging that feels, having put in a lot of time with no results to show.
I took some cold comfort from having identified the root cause of my anxiety. It is always easier to deal with a known enemy rather than a mystery. I talked it out some with my companion, and was reassured that I do exist, that I live and breathe, and that I am real.
I know I am. I feel the blood in my veins, the air in my lungs, the food in my belly. These are all good. What troubles me is that for a bad moment on an ordinary morning, external ideas of self-worth overrode internal ideas of my identity. Nine months of looking for myself in the wrong mirror came to roost, and it took some heavy mental lifting and a strong dose of love to return the ground to beneath my feet.
Solid ground. I have it. I gained some breathing room for my mind. There will be something out there for me, I have to believe that. It will be something I can do, even if I myself do not know yet what that something is. What I will not do is make the mistake of confusing what I can do for money with what I truly am worth.
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