Final Words

Kleine Opfer müssen gebracht werden!

(Small sacrifices must be made!)

A Love Song

 

Cecil: Your mama thought you were golden so we named you after yellow flowers and corn. This is you here...
[cuts some purslane from garden]
 
Cecil: ...pretty, golden purslane.
 
Pursy Will: Purslane's really a weed, you know. A neighbor told me when I was 9 and I ran over his tomato plants. He said all gardeners hate purslane.
 
Cecil: Yeah, and dandelions. Doesn't stop kids from making wishes on 'em.


A Love Song for Bobby Long

Strikes & Gutters

  "How are you doing?"

It's not an easy question to answer sometimes. When your mentor, your father figure, your friend, asks you in a public place and your life isn't quite where you want it to be, you might not have a ready response.

"You know what they say... strikes and gutters, Barry. Strikes and gutters."

 Maybe I've been watching too many Coen brothers movies lately. But because he's all those things to you... the reason he's all those things to you, he understands.

Wednesday night I had dinner and a long talk with Barry Moser. For those of you that don't know, Barry is a well known illustrator, an extraordinary wood engraver and a maker of fine press books. But that's a poor description. He is, above all, a teacher. He was a Methodist minister early on in his life, but that didn't last long. Soon enough, he realized that often people have difficulty reconciling their scripture and their prejudices.

We spoke for a long time... of art and politics... of the sacred and profane. He let me in on something that I'd guess he's told fewer people than he could count with one hand. He told me of his plans for his 70th birthday as well. It's something that is at once glorious and juvenile and makes me wish I could be there to see it. I have a hard time believing he will really be seventy years old this Fall.

"I began the Bible fifteen years ago. I don't know if I have another fifteen years left in me."

He often jokes that he's mortal and won't always be here. I don't buy it.

"I'm cutting your fucking head off and freezing it just like Joe DiMaggio's," I replied.

 I aspire to be like Barry. I don't mean to be a celebrated illustrator. I have neither the talent or skill for that. But to be a man like him. He is not perfect, but it is in his flaws that I find comfort. The mistakes that he's made and his stumbles along the way that remind me that it's just part of the game. Like the ghost of George Plimpton said, "Show a little grace if you should fall."

The evening wound down. We walked out and stood on the porch in front of the restaurant a little while.

"If you ever need anything, you let me know," I told him. 

I say that a lot to people, but it rarely carries the same weight as when I say it to him. I've only ever had one chance to truly do something for him; to give a little bit back for all of the things that he's done for me. We both stood there and teared up a bit and promised to see each other soon.

Walking down the street in the dark I felt I'd been baptized.

Strikes and gutters.

The Summer of Joe

Yeah, I know. Summer isn't here yet. But like George with his three months of severance pay, I'm going to make the most of this summer. Considering the place I'm starting, I'll have to begin now to get up to speed. Since I've already read a book from beginning to end, I figure I'm doing pretty well. I need to work on my frolf game, though.

I had to go through a little rōnin period. After the divorce and then the breakup with Bear, I was lost for a while. In part, it was not wanting to give up a good thing and... I guess the thought of moving on made me feel like I was saying I didn't really love her.  And even though the relationship was short in time, I did... and I still do.

English has no single word equivalent for the feeling. but the Portuguese... of course the Portuguese do.

Saudade: The love that remains. A vague and constant desire for something that does not and probably cannot exist.

If that doesn't describe it, I don't know what does. Because it encompasses not only the feelings for Bear, but for those many things that I have lost over the years. My love for Arthur. The old Florida that is gone. And those things that I know will come into and leave my life in the future.

My forty years in the wilderness is done.

I'm reminded of the time that I dated the hippie from Gainesville that drove a VW Vanagon with butterflies painted on the hubcaps and macrame seat covers. I became a vegetarian for a little while and learned to slow down and appreciate things more. I knew from the beginning that things with her were not meant to last, so I took each day as an adventure.

And there are things that I learned from Bear that I'll take with me as well. I will still eat peanut butter with ice cream. It doesn't make me sad any more to think of it.

I'm making new friends. I was fortunate enough to have someone come into my life when I was down and needed somebody. A person with whom I shared little but a couple of mutual friends. A person that owed me nothing. As hard as it is for me to allow people in, to rely on anyone, I was given two gifts. Kindness and understanding. The two things I needed most right then. It allowed me to take a breath between waves. Maybe I was only treading water, but at least I wasn't drowning any more.

The Summer of Joe started this weekend with the kids. For some reason they wanted to hear Beatles songs, so we played them all weekend. There's nothing like singing 'Hey Jude' with kids and really hearing the words. It's a little hard to drive with tears in your eyes. We ate in diners and watched movies and we had fun. The first real fun I've had in almost two months.

I'd explain the Summer of Joe more, but I think the whole point of it is to defy explanation.

I will buy a truly expensive pair of Persols for the sun.

I will appreciate happy accidents, like having forgotten milk for the chocolate chip pancakes this morning and using water and sour cream instead. They were maybe the best pancakes that either the kids or I have ever eaten.

There will be day trips and camping... baseball games.

I'll remember to take the Five Things with me. And to use the pencil.

Just maybe there will be a trip overseas. I don't know if I can swing it financially, but as cheaply as I'm now living, it's a distinct possibility.

Most of all, I'll try to be me. I don't always like who I am, but I don't have any other choice but to live with me.

Q.E.D.

What would McQueen do?

He sure as hell wouldn't have sat around bitching and feeling sorry for himself. He would have accepted that sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. And losing doesn't make you a loser.

I have a new mantra.

For a moment...

...you really do believe he can fly.

Home?

I looked at an apartment today that was recommended to me by a friend.

The previous tenant hasn't moved out yet and it's got a distinct Hoarders feel to it at this point. It's quirky and it's above a bakery, art gallery and ice cream shop. It's walking distance to the grocery store, staggering distance from a couple of bars, just down the street from the bike trail and at the foot of Mt. Tom.

And I kind of love it.

Most of all because I think I'll have the best neighbors I could ever imagine.

And out back...

 ...Nashawannuck Pond.

It's the kind of place where I think I can start over. A place to live simply, be surrounded by fantastic people and be me again.

Thank you Mo... thank you so much.

Lately I'm having hard days...

Lately I'm having hard days and I curse the night

Photo credit: David Owen

Call Your Best Friend

I found this in the mailbox today. Since I'm house sitting, I know it wasn't meant for me, but then again maybe somehow it was. I'm starting to realize that even though things are... well... I don't even know where to begin. Even though my life got thrown into a tailspin over the last couple of weeks, I'm a fortunate person who has people that love and care about me. Unconditionally.

So I called and I ate the chocolate.

I thought about how Spring is a time of warmth and green and life. I thought about how good it will be to see my best friend for the first time in ten years. Jesus... ten years.

I'm not a believer in fate. I don't believe in a higher power. But I know that there are things that remind us what matters in life, things that we can either recognize or ignore.

In my previous blog I pilfered a phrase from someone.

I don't need a lot. I just need enough.

For a couple of weeks I've kept coming back to that. I read and re-read it and finally realized that with all the turmoil in my life, it was the one thing that I could hold onto. It was the one idea that made sense to me.

Because enough is different for everyone and being aware of that is what has tempered my frustration. "Enough" for me is perhaps too much for someone else.

So I contacted the person who wrote that to ask about it and received this by way of a reply.

"Though I've had some crazy hard times, and though I've repeatedly thought I'd get trapped in this hole, I realize - there has never been a time in my life that I haven't had 'enough'."

Her answer approaches things from a rather different perspective. Looking at things that way... well, I've got more than enough.

I don't need a lot...

I don't need a lot...

I just need enough.

American Idol Top Ten Guys

The good news... everyone was much improved from last week. The bad news... they were so horrible last week that they've improved to what I would term mildly nauseating. The only thing I saw that I would buy tonight was from the Stride Mega-Mystery Gum commercial... the one with the ostrich jockeys. But you and I both know I don't watch Idol for good perfomers, like I only watch NASCAR for the wrecks.

Speaking of wrecks... American Idol's Top Ten Guys with me and Robyn is up at Gamelive.com.

A thrilling time...

CRW_1583, originally uploaded by The Joey B.

...is in your immediate future.

American Idol Top 12 Guys

Last night was our first opportunity to see the guys and vote this season. It was a pretty weak night and the girls definitely seem to have the upper hand in the competition right now. Handicapping the Top 12 Guys with me and Robyn is up at Gamelive.com

American Idol Top 12 Girls

 

Last night was the first American Idol recap blog for Robyn and me this season. Handicapping the Top 12 Girls is up on Gamelive.com.

American Idol on Gamelive.com

Starting this week I will be doing the American Idol recaps with my friend Robyn on the betting forum Gamelive.com. Expect the usual nonsense. It's supposed to be something of a "he said-she said", but will most likely devolve into Robyn speaking intelligently on the performances and me just making fun of their hair, clothes, teeth, etc.

The Archimedes Principle

When I was young I would often take baths, things that are now reserved for times when I have sore muscles or need to think. For me, a shower is something that gets one clean, while a bath lets you reflect on just how dirty you were in the first place.

The other day my mother emailed me to say that the longtime pastor of her church, Bill Barrett, had died. I was raised in the church, but stopped going while I was in my teens. As I got older, I became rather jaded with organized religion as it always seemed like the people in charge were the ones that least espoused the teachings of the church. My visits to church were reserved to special occasions like holidays and funerals.

I don't recall when I first met Pastor Bill, but I had an instant respect for him. Upon reading his obituary I learned that he came to the church in his twenties. He was a man who knew how to speak to both the believer and the non-believer, a skill that is sorely lacking in most pastors.

The day I heard from mom was long and I came home feeling rather beat. I went upstairs and turned on the water in the tub, as hot as I could stand it, and lay there sweating for a long, long time. And then I did something I hadn't done since I was a child. I kicked open the drain and let the water flow out... a whirlpool forming between my feet. As the water level dropped, I sank lower and lower and felt the weight of my body return. The last trickle escaped between my shoulder blades and my body felt leaden there on the floor of the tub.

Pastor Bill was like that bath. He would never overtly point out faults or shortcomings. In fact, it was his kind and gentle nature, his pleasant spirit and giving soul, that prodded me to be a better person. I don't think I ever sat through more than one or two of his services, but that was never his style of preaching. His ministry was giving one on one while helping you deal with grief or pain or just giving a hand with something. I recall he was one of the few people in a position such as his that ever gave me true comfort in a time of need. He buoyed those around him, making their lives better, their loads easier to bear.

With him gone, I don't feel any cleaner, but I certainly feel heavier. And though I wouldn't necessarily call myself a believer, I will always be a member of Pastor Bill's church.

Closing Doors

Sometimes love isn't enough.

Moving on is the most difficult thing in one's life to contemplate.

It's a hard concept to swallow... and an even harder pill to try to force down someone else's throat. There is no slice of cheese that one can wrap it in and no glass of water with which to wash it down.

It must be placed in one's mouth, the bitter medicine enveloping the tongue, and swallowed dry. The lump in the throat as it makes its way down is a constant, enduring reminder.

Sometimes you close a door and sometimes it's slammed in your face. Only one side has a doorknob. From the outside, light and shadows leak under the door, playing out like Plato's cave.

We place too much emphasis on love. We give it magical powers to heal wounds, to make us whole again. We assume that when someone loves us, we are fundamentally changed into a new creature, one rather better or prettier than before. The reality is that we are blackbirds, not cardinals. We will always be blackbirds. But we can love each other as blackbirds too.

Last night I shut one door while simultaneously I may have gotten another one shut on me. I never said I wasn't a complicated fellow.

The funny thing is, with the former, she may not even remember today. But it is enough that I know it.

As for the latter, I wish I could say for sure.

Because it has, despite everything, promise. It's a campfire in the snow. It could just be something to keep me a little warm on a cold evening.

But then again, maybe... it's something more. Maybe it's what keeps me alive through the night.

Giving Thanks

Give thanks for those things that make you a good and honest person... that make you try to be as fantastic as they think you are.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

A Thanksgiving Miracle

This is an old story... in fact, it's a story that caused some problems even recently.

But Thanksgiving is a time of reflection, so here it is again.

A Thanksgiving Miracle
or
The Day Moses Came to Dinner

Under pressure, I usually clam up or make an ass of myself. Case in point... I had just started dating my friend Angela and I was going home with her for Thanksgiving for the first (and last) time. Her dad... well, let's just say he doesn't suffer fools and is kind of a badass. When we first started dating he was thoroughly pissed at her and disgusted with me until he realized that he had me confused with our married friend, Marc. He had warmed up a little since then, but I was still a little wary of him. I still am. Mind you, I was living in Florida at the time, and her parents lived in Atlanta, so there was no real escape for me if things went wrong.

As if meeting her parents weren't enough, her uncle and his family were coming to dinner as well. Her uncle seemed like a hard-ass too. We all sat around the table and began dishing out the food. I kept pretty quiet. If someone asked me a question, I'd politely answer, but I didn't elaborate. After awhile I began to relax. Everyone seemed to like me, or at least I didn't get any hostile glares.

Somehow the conversation turned to chamomile tea. I didn't know shit about chamomile tea, but apparently her family did. Everyone had a personal anecdote about chamomile tea.

"Cancer patients drink chamomile tea to increase their appetite."

"Chamomile tea soothes my hemorrhoids."

"Chamomile tea helps me sleep."

"I drink chamomile tea to relieve a toothache."

"Make a poultice of mustard and chamomile tea to reduce swelling."

"My gangrene was stopped in its tracks by chamomile tea."

I guess I was feeling a little left out... Everyone had a story and I didn't. So I reached back into my 13 years of Christian education and said...

Moses swabbed chamomile tea on the doorposts of all of the Israelite houses in Egypt so the Angel of Death would pass over and not kill their children.

Dead silence.

I looked at Angela... I thought she was going to choke. Her dad looked like he was going to cry.

I hear a clatter and notice her uncle has dropped his silverware into his plate. His face was red and I thought he was coming over the table for me. He picked up the plate and exited the dining room for the kitchen. He never came back.

See, what Angela had failed to tell me was that her uncle was a fundamentalist Christian and that Moses was not someone he cared to hear jokes about.

It was a rather quiet dinner after that... punctuated by giggles out of Angela and her dad.

From Page to Screen

This may come as a complete surprise to some of you, but I never really had a lot of children's books as a child.

Which is ironic, as I collect original book illustrations and have more children's book writer and illustrator friends than you can shake a stick at.

That's not to say I didn't read a lot as a kid. On the contrary, I read everything I could get my hands on. I started reading chapter books pretty early on. But picture books never really had a place in my library as a kid. My parents just never bought them. I remember the only place I ever regularly saw the kind of books most kids read... The Cat in the Hat, Are You My Mother, etc. was at Uncle Max's house. I'd spend every Thursday after school at his house reading "the classics". It's only been in my adult, professional life that I've come to love the picture book.

Today I took my kids to see Where the Wild Things Are, admittedly with a little trepidation. Many have noted that one will either love or hate this movie, based on how much one is invested in the mythology of the book. That's not quite right. You will either love or hate Wild Things, but not necessarily because of the book.

This is a movie about anger and frustration. As I sat in the dark theater beside my son, Fletcher, I was confronted by the monsters I faced as a child... and the monsters he faces today. I'm afraid the only way one can truly appreciate this film is to have been a wild thing, and then to have raised a wild thing. The adaptation will not speak to everyone.

To those who have worn Max's wolf suit though, it's a reminder of how hard it is to face a world before you're prepared.