To Admit.
I like style
I even like just saying it
playing dress up with language
accents, in stages
present "tations"
de-fixed prefrix
could be like "nations"
or in one's satiations.
Who knows what comes next?
Though, I told you, Warren
don't ask me about my art.
Monday, December 01, 2008
the youngest crossing guard
the youngest crossing guard.
Did she do it for points?
Did she do it for honor?
The youngest crossing guard
ushering children only
a grade or two younger.
The vest donned on her
yellow, reflective, mesh
a coward's stance?
Or a wounded sailor finally free
of the tempest known as elementary
school.
Able now to look back how
the interaction of children left her in difficult
positions. A person who's nature is to care
can't always be part of their
time and place.
To look outside is to be outside.
So time and guidance is sometimes needed.
A helping hand she can be to those beneath.
Only by a grade but making their way to her present day
and condition.
Did she do it for points?
Did she do it for honor?
The youngest crossing guard
ushering children only
a grade or two younger.
Did she do it for points?
Did she do it for honor?
The youngest crossing guard
ushering children only
a grade or two younger.
The vest donned on her
yellow, reflective, mesh
a coward's stance?
Or a wounded sailor finally free
of the tempest known as elementary
school.
Able now to look back how
the interaction of children left her in difficult
positions. A person who's nature is to care
can't always be part of their
time and place.
To look outside is to be outside.
So time and guidance is sometimes needed.
A helping hand she can be to those beneath.
Only by a grade but making their way to her present day
and condition.
Did she do it for points?
Did she do it for honor?
The youngest crossing guard
ushering children only
a grade or two younger.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
lots and lots
Wow. So much happening, so much happened. I remember being home briefly in Richmond, vacuuming the linoleum floor. The vacuum hose attaches to a unit in the wall, in various spots in the house sucking dust and dirt to a central location.
So I was in the basement vacuuming a corner. I see a spider though it doesn't move. I wonder in the briefest of flashes if its dead and point the hose. It moves and with nearly no hesitation I suck in the creature. I then panic. I cry out the word, "empathy!" and rush to turn off the hose. What can I do?
I think about the poor, pathetic spider, doomed to spend its last miserable moments confined to a suffocating bag of dust and dirt. I hope it died on impact, or in the quick process of being sucked into the hose. Its just such a terrible way to go.
I think I was feeling especially empathic that day because I had a cold. I haven't had a real stuffed nose in a while. but I remember how especially when walking down the city streets, and clogged up and congested, I'd just feel tremendous empathy with ever downer out there. And it brought me down. And I'd have to remind myself that things aren't so bad, I'm just sick and having trouble maintaining my normally positive outlook.
So I had to tell myself this with the spider. But not before thinking about the thing I sometimes think about–the worst thing to think about–(disclaminer–don't read this if you're already having a downer Monday)–
–stories about the stories about thieves stealing neighborhood dogs, some kids pet; stealing a beloved pet from a neighborhood backyard, and then selling it to some lab for science–so that the scientists can do their tests on the animal.
Geez, that is even hard to write. I wish I hadn't, its too terrible. But I did. It was an experience, and its been written and now I pass it on, for better or worse.
But hey, that's what blogs are for–exploring. I'm feeling healthier and especially grateful after a really nice Thanksgiving day. My brothers and dad and I went to the park, walked the dogs, got out into the woods. We played some basketball (and I made the wining shot, hee hee). And we all got together and watched home movies–skits and stuff my brothers and I put on.
They were fun to watch. It was interesting seeing myself in elementary school, running around, or getting thrown around by my older brothers. I had a great time, but every so often a clip comes in when I was upset about something. I've always been real sensitive and fairly moody. It was interesting to remember how moody I could be in my past–a real moodball, I was. And I think about the happy Gabriel, the quiet and moody Gabriel, and I think about my current job bartending at a wine bar.
It feels good and connective. Bartending, I approach people with a confidence that when lacking fed into the moodiness. I think the moodiness had to do with not getting what I wanted, mostly because I never would say what I wanted. I just wanted it to somehow be known, and how could it be? So I'd be moody. Something like this.
So anyway, working with wine, talking with customers, it feels sometimes like I'm reclaiming that joyous, elementary school era Gabriel, loving the discovery, the sharing of knowledge–the taste is okay, but the communication, the ability to provide perspective and to be appreciated for this (and to appreciate back), that is great.
Its been an interesting last few days of the month. Lots to think about and to write about. Lots and lots.
So I was in the basement vacuuming a corner. I see a spider though it doesn't move. I wonder in the briefest of flashes if its dead and point the hose. It moves and with nearly no hesitation I suck in the creature. I then panic. I cry out the word, "empathy!" and rush to turn off the hose. What can I do?
I think about the poor, pathetic spider, doomed to spend its last miserable moments confined to a suffocating bag of dust and dirt. I hope it died on impact, or in the quick process of being sucked into the hose. Its just such a terrible way to go.
I think I was feeling especially empathic that day because I had a cold. I haven't had a real stuffed nose in a while. but I remember how especially when walking down the city streets, and clogged up and congested, I'd just feel tremendous empathy with ever downer out there. And it brought me down. And I'd have to remind myself that things aren't so bad, I'm just sick and having trouble maintaining my normally positive outlook.
So I had to tell myself this with the spider. But not before thinking about the thing I sometimes think about–the worst thing to think about–(disclaminer–don't read this if you're already having a downer Monday)–
–stories about the stories about thieves stealing neighborhood dogs, some kids pet; stealing a beloved pet from a neighborhood backyard, and then selling it to some lab for science–so that the scientists can do their tests on the animal.
Geez, that is even hard to write. I wish I hadn't, its too terrible. But I did. It was an experience, and its been written and now I pass it on, for better or worse.
But hey, that's what blogs are for–exploring. I'm feeling healthier and especially grateful after a really nice Thanksgiving day. My brothers and dad and I went to the park, walked the dogs, got out into the woods. We played some basketball (and I made the wining shot, hee hee). And we all got together and watched home movies–skits and stuff my brothers and I put on.
They were fun to watch. It was interesting seeing myself in elementary school, running around, or getting thrown around by my older brothers. I had a great time, but every so often a clip comes in when I was upset about something. I've always been real sensitive and fairly moody. It was interesting to remember how moody I could be in my past–a real moodball, I was. And I think about the happy Gabriel, the quiet and moody Gabriel, and I think about my current job bartending at a wine bar.
It feels good and connective. Bartending, I approach people with a confidence that when lacking fed into the moodiness. I think the moodiness had to do with not getting what I wanted, mostly because I never would say what I wanted. I just wanted it to somehow be known, and how could it be? So I'd be moody. Something like this.
So anyway, working with wine, talking with customers, it feels sometimes like I'm reclaiming that joyous, elementary school era Gabriel, loving the discovery, the sharing of knowledge–the taste is okay, but the communication, the ability to provide perspective and to be appreciated for this (and to appreciate back), that is great.
Its been an interesting last few days of the month. Lots to think about and to write about. Lots and lots.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
the unfair advantage
The Unfair Advantage.
I.
You were born a chicken,
I was raised to hunger after your featherless, butchered flesh.
You were prepared, shipped and translated, marinated in bbq sauce.
I am at the airport, hungry.
II.
You were in the a la carte section,
an island in the new JetBlue foodcourt
surrounded by the same overpriced burgers, cheesesteaks, chinese food and pizza
(though now each store is made over with offerings of wine by the glass).
I will not spend between $10-15 for airport monopoly food.
I believe in the marketplace
and so was happy to see you in this island section,
where, though fearful of the lack of sneeze guard,
I could and did simply pick you
along with a dallop of mashed potatoes
and a single steamed broccoli and carrot slice
for color their bright green and orange hues.
At $7.99 a pound, you cost me only $4 something.
Yet the Pepsi added 2 and a nickel.
The total bill, relatively good for relatively good meal.
IV.
I paid and sat. I went back for cutlery. There are no knives at the airport,
not even plastic. Only spoons and forks.
And as I hold your uncut, marinated breast high into the air and nibble off piece to piece, I think about you, your roost, your mother hen.
I thought I had the unfair advantage. And I do. I was raised to hunger after your flesh. You were born a chicken.
Yet we were both penned.
Chicken wire can be so thin, nearly invisible to naked eye–but cutting just as deep.
Really.
I.
You were born a chicken,
I was raised to hunger after your featherless, butchered flesh.
You were prepared, shipped and translated, marinated in bbq sauce.
I am at the airport, hungry.
II.
You were in the a la carte section,
an island in the new JetBlue foodcourt
surrounded by the same overpriced burgers, cheesesteaks, chinese food and pizza
(though now each store is made over with offerings of wine by the glass).
I will not spend between $10-15 for airport monopoly food.
I believe in the marketplace
and so was happy to see you in this island section,
where, though fearful of the lack of sneeze guard,
I could and did simply pick you
along with a dallop of mashed potatoes
and a single steamed broccoli and carrot slice
for color their bright green and orange hues.
At $7.99 a pound, you cost me only $4 something.
Yet the Pepsi added 2 and a nickel.
The total bill, relatively good for relatively good meal.
IV.
I paid and sat. I went back for cutlery. There are no knives at the airport,
not even plastic. Only spoons and forks.
And as I hold your uncut, marinated breast high into the air and nibble off piece to piece, I think about you, your roost, your mother hen.
I thought I had the unfair advantage. And I do. I was raised to hunger after your flesh. You were born a chicken.
Yet we were both penned.
Chicken wire can be so thin, nearly invisible to naked eye–but cutting just as deep.
Really.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
the rules of the game.
Of course, no matter how much I love the Em Dash School, I'll always love their rivals, the Badminton 5, branching out from the Dada Movement, founded by an heir to the Thomas Minton & Sons pottery manufacturing industry.
They were opposed to everything! Sometimes they were even opposed to opposition. The one thing that bound them together was their uniformity; three men, one woman, one dog, all wearing badminton outfits and using the word "shuttlecock" as a substitute for almost any other word (mostly they would say the word and point to what they really meant, like a sandwich–or say "that is shuttlecock" and indicate approval or disapproval with socially accepted head-gestures ((although legend has it that the last remaining member of the group, the german shepherd Aramis, would go on to work sound design in Hollywood, and in his old age–incredibly old in dog years–he would go on to assist in the original Exorcist, weaving the Badminton 5's special word nearly undetected into the one scene in the movie known for its socially unaccepted head-gesture)).
This is all to say that I've adapted an old theory from their early works. See, they'd hang out in opposite to everything. They'd bring bags on salt with diced radishes to sit on the curb outside of Minton's in Harlem and hum showtunes. They loved pop when bebop was the thing. When jazz went cool, they went esoteric, whether pleasing or not. They had to stand for something, even if that were nothing, the act of standing was still an act, or something...
My point is that you can judge the great American song. Take the chorus to any contender. Just the chorus. Flip on basic cable at lunchtime. If you can adapt the chorus to any show changing only adverbs or prepositions or articles within the chorus (verbs and nouns stay the same), then its great.
"I had the time of my life and I owe it all to you."
Alright, a Tyra special about kidney transplants, easy. The recepient would sing:
"I had more time in my life and I owe it all to you."
Jerry Springer? Easy.
"I had the time with your wife and I owe it all to you being in prison for two years for attempted murder."
Oh wait. That last doesn't work. That's either my fault, or a judgement against the rules of the game.
They were opposed to everything! Sometimes they were even opposed to opposition. The one thing that bound them together was their uniformity; three men, one woman, one dog, all wearing badminton outfits and using the word "shuttlecock" as a substitute for almost any other word (mostly they would say the word and point to what they really meant, like a sandwich–or say "that is shuttlecock" and indicate approval or disapproval with socially accepted head-gestures ((although legend has it that the last remaining member of the group, the german shepherd Aramis, would go on to work sound design in Hollywood, and in his old age–incredibly old in dog years–he would go on to assist in the original Exorcist, weaving the Badminton 5's special word nearly undetected into the one scene in the movie known for its socially unaccepted head-gesture)).
This is all to say that I've adapted an old theory from their early works. See, they'd hang out in opposite to everything. They'd bring bags on salt with diced radishes to sit on the curb outside of Minton's in Harlem and hum showtunes. They loved pop when bebop was the thing. When jazz went cool, they went esoteric, whether pleasing or not. They had to stand for something, even if that were nothing, the act of standing was still an act, or something...
My point is that you can judge the great American song. Take the chorus to any contender. Just the chorus. Flip on basic cable at lunchtime. If you can adapt the chorus to any show changing only adverbs or prepositions or articles within the chorus (verbs and nouns stay the same), then its great.
"I had the time of my life and I owe it all to you."
Alright, a Tyra special about kidney transplants, easy. The recepient would sing:
"I had more time in my life and I owe it all to you."
Jerry Springer? Easy.
"I had the time with your wife and I owe it all to you being in prison for two years for attempted murder."
Oh wait. That last doesn't work. That's either my fault, or a judgement against the rules of the game.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
no perfection, especially when in love
I've been catching up on the love letters between my favorite two poets straddling the late 19th/ early 20th century school, known as the – School.
Man, nothing is more romantic, nor charmingly goofy as the correspondences between François Pepperdine and Bea F. "Beef" McKenzie.
I like the old age letters, around 1948, when Beef writes to Francis, likening his poetry to a film device found in movies about diamond heists, where the flawed gem correlates with the flawed motives of the anti-heroes hoarding stolen goods. I'm not sure just what she means, maybe the translation from French is off, but its sounds rad.
And Francois is so smooth, he actually reads this letter (and we're talking about a 60 year old man) and spends the next month training for a diamond heist just to prove himself a grounder in reality for others remains in the realm of metaphor and analogy. He assembles a team for the heist and nearly goes through with it, if not for his fatal flaw...
See, the – School had the audacity in attempting to measure out metaphor in terms of epistemology and experience. They hoped to quantify from two ends–the individual experiencing the meta (and to break down into groups 5 sub-types based on race, class, dental hygiene and diet) and the potential/kinetic energy within a metaphor (based on connotations, flexibility of language within the context past use). There was a lot of wine drinking during experimentation, and the – School will always be remembered for that.
And Francis was part of that school. He took Beef's phrase and measured himself, measured the meta in the language and geared up to act as a vessel in bringing this meta to reality. But, as we mentioned, he simply couldn't have his corporal form act in that capacity.
As much an idealist as he was, his fatal flaw was to have a fatal flaw–that there is no perfection, especially when in love with a woman nicknamed "Beef."
Man, nothing is more romantic, nor charmingly goofy as the correspondences between François Pepperdine and Bea F. "Beef" McKenzie.
I like the old age letters, around 1948, when Beef writes to Francis, likening his poetry to a film device found in movies about diamond heists, where the flawed gem correlates with the flawed motives of the anti-heroes hoarding stolen goods. I'm not sure just what she means, maybe the translation from French is off, but its sounds rad.
And Francois is so smooth, he actually reads this letter (and we're talking about a 60 year old man) and spends the next month training for a diamond heist just to prove himself a grounder in reality for others remains in the realm of metaphor and analogy. He assembles a team for the heist and nearly goes through with it, if not for his fatal flaw...
See, the – School had the audacity in attempting to measure out metaphor in terms of epistemology and experience. They hoped to quantify from two ends–the individual experiencing the meta (and to break down into groups 5 sub-types based on race, class, dental hygiene and diet) and the potential/kinetic energy within a metaphor (based on connotations, flexibility of language within the context past use). There was a lot of wine drinking during experimentation, and the – School will always be remembered for that.
And Francis was part of that school. He took Beef's phrase and measured himself, measured the meta in the language and geared up to act as a vessel in bringing this meta to reality. But, as we mentioned, he simply couldn't have his corporal form act in that capacity.
As much an idealist as he was, his fatal flaw was to have a fatal flaw–that there is no perfection, especially when in love with a woman nicknamed "Beef."
Monday, November 17, 2008
big bottoms and mieces to pieces
Dear Anthony P.,
You should know that you left for Nepal and India just as the cold spell hit. It is really cold out here in New York, today being the coldest day so far. I see a lot of bottoms out there. Big bottoms. Its as if something instinctual has taken over in the teeming streets of both Brooklyn and the island of Manhattan. I see a lot of women in tighter jeans and pants than I noticed a week ago.
Its either a perception on the individual level: maybe its always like this, but I'm just noticing now in my need to stay warm, and what is warmer than a large bottom? Or perhaps society as a whole reacts to the cold. Maybe the cold spell just effects people, and women for no other logical reason find themselves in tighter pants, and men-folk (or women-folk for that matter) are attracted like a moth to a flame–or like a cold person to an area of soft warmness.
Or maybe people are just cold and wearing layers to provide warmth. Anyway, Anthony P., its cold.
Its cold, but the apartment is toasty. So toasty that the other day, brushing my teeth, I noticed a friend from my past scurrying about the tiles. A mouse? The mouse? Do mice have nine lives to feed the nine cats?
He scurried, this mouse, then paused and spoke. He said, "I have a riddle for you, Gabriel. Put down your toothbrush."
I did. He continued, "Its not so much a riddle, but an unsolved mystery. Have you ever wondered about the sanctity of your pillow?" And with that he was out. Just ran right off with a "hee hee hee."
Needless to say, I slept on the couch that night, not before clenching my fist and mumbling under my breath something about hating mieces to pieces.
The next morning, again brushing my teeth, I heard a scraping on the floor. Turns out my little friend was stuck in the gluetrap, trying to get away. Now, I'm not a fan of gluetraps, usually, but this little stinker had it coming. I went to the kitchen, pulled out restaurant chopsticks and picked up the trap. The little squirmer was quiet, stoic. I said,
"So what was this about my pillow?" He refused to talk, so I got a little mean. I put him in front of the television, put in a VHS of his favorite movie (surprisingly, Cat on A Hot Tin Roof, with Paul Newman), but then messed with the tracking on the tape so it was all blurry. "Hee hee hee" I said in derision.
I left him there for the whole movie, providing him with a relatively delicious popcorn (lo-fat just to drive him nuts), and I reclined his tiny chair just a little too far so he had to cram his neck to watch the blurry version of his favorite movie.
Ha ha ha! and Hee hee hee!
And then the next morning, having forgotten about my nemesis the night before, I was surprised to again see him while brushing my teeth. I looked and the mirror–he was perched on my shoulder, a razor in his hand. He was shaving his whiskers, and asked if he could borrow my aftershave. I said, yes.
The lesson here? Find out what the hell is in my toothpaste, I suppose.
Over and out.
G.
You should know that you left for Nepal and India just as the cold spell hit. It is really cold out here in New York, today being the coldest day so far. I see a lot of bottoms out there. Big bottoms. Its as if something instinctual has taken over in the teeming streets of both Brooklyn and the island of Manhattan. I see a lot of women in tighter jeans and pants than I noticed a week ago.
Its either a perception on the individual level: maybe its always like this, but I'm just noticing now in my need to stay warm, and what is warmer than a large bottom? Or perhaps society as a whole reacts to the cold. Maybe the cold spell just effects people, and women for no other logical reason find themselves in tighter pants, and men-folk (or women-folk for that matter) are attracted like a moth to a flame–or like a cold person to an area of soft warmness.
Or maybe people are just cold and wearing layers to provide warmth. Anyway, Anthony P., its cold.
Its cold, but the apartment is toasty. So toasty that the other day, brushing my teeth, I noticed a friend from my past scurrying about the tiles. A mouse? The mouse? Do mice have nine lives to feed the nine cats?
He scurried, this mouse, then paused and spoke. He said, "I have a riddle for you, Gabriel. Put down your toothbrush."
I did. He continued, "Its not so much a riddle, but an unsolved mystery. Have you ever wondered about the sanctity of your pillow?" And with that he was out. Just ran right off with a "hee hee hee."
Needless to say, I slept on the couch that night, not before clenching my fist and mumbling under my breath something about hating mieces to pieces.
The next morning, again brushing my teeth, I heard a scraping on the floor. Turns out my little friend was stuck in the gluetrap, trying to get away. Now, I'm not a fan of gluetraps, usually, but this little stinker had it coming. I went to the kitchen, pulled out restaurant chopsticks and picked up the trap. The little squirmer was quiet, stoic. I said,
"So what was this about my pillow?" He refused to talk, so I got a little mean. I put him in front of the television, put in a VHS of his favorite movie (surprisingly, Cat on A Hot Tin Roof, with Paul Newman), but then messed with the tracking on the tape so it was all blurry. "Hee hee hee" I said in derision.
I left him there for the whole movie, providing him with a relatively delicious popcorn (lo-fat just to drive him nuts), and I reclined his tiny chair just a little too far so he had to cram his neck to watch the blurry version of his favorite movie.
Ha ha ha! and Hee hee hee!
And then the next morning, having forgotten about my nemesis the night before, I was surprised to again see him while brushing my teeth. I looked and the mirror–he was perched on my shoulder, a razor in his hand. He was shaving his whiskers, and asked if he could borrow my aftershave. I said, yes.
The lesson here? Find out what the hell is in my toothpaste, I suppose.
Over and out.
G.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Dear Anthony P, part2.
Dear Anthony P, part2.
I am now writing to your "part 2" side, your side not for immediate action, but the reflective side that is utilized mostly in the act of retrospect.
Remember Zeeshan? We all had good times, in Prague and out of Prague. I mention Zeeshan, because I was finishing up at work Saturday, bringing in some chairs from the patio and I see a guy in the distance get out of a cab. He was wearing a suit, with a few other people, and we're in Tribeca here, and my instincts tell me that it was, lo and behold, Zeeshan.
So I call his cell, he picks up–bingo. I mean, he was pretty far away and I haven't seen this guy since Stacey's going away dinner at Hummus Place back in May or was it June?
Hey Stacey, was it May or June?
Hey Stacey,
Happy Birthday! Wheeww hoo! You know, in a very literal and metaphorical way, you are just under a month older than me. In my last posting to Anthony, I bring up a similar thought, with timing, planning, tending to the weighty issues in life. I feel that you, too, are ahead of me. And I wonder, where will I be in less than a month (but more than 28ish days)?
So, birthday fun? Painting the town red with a touch of lavender? Still having fun in LA and the surrounding area? A very special Happy B-day to you!
Oh, and back to Anthony P. Anthony, while in Nepal, if you get this, and as I reminded you last week when were at Mona's; don't forget to wish Stacey a happy b-day, at least say it out loud and into the wind, so that it might carry the words at least to the nearest mountain, get clogged up a while, eventually wind its way around through some air pressure or cool front or something, catch a zephyr and to the sea, make its way, the wind of the waves, and over to LA. And boom!
Because there are radar's and digital signals flying all over the world and through space all the time. Why not sentiments, uttered words flying on the wings of memories and mittens (if the material is light and stays in the air passage flight). Or something of this nature.
Over and out!
G.
I am now writing to your "part 2" side, your side not for immediate action, but the reflective side that is utilized mostly in the act of retrospect.
Remember Zeeshan? We all had good times, in Prague and out of Prague. I mention Zeeshan, because I was finishing up at work Saturday, bringing in some chairs from the patio and I see a guy in the distance get out of a cab. He was wearing a suit, with a few other people, and we're in Tribeca here, and my instincts tell me that it was, lo and behold, Zeeshan.
So I call his cell, he picks up–bingo. I mean, he was pretty far away and I haven't seen this guy since Stacey's going away dinner at Hummus Place back in May or was it June?
Hey Stacey, was it May or June?
Hey Stacey,
Happy Birthday! Wheeww hoo! You know, in a very literal and metaphorical way, you are just under a month older than me. In my last posting to Anthony, I bring up a similar thought, with timing, planning, tending to the weighty issues in life. I feel that you, too, are ahead of me. And I wonder, where will I be in less than a month (but more than 28ish days)?
So, birthday fun? Painting the town red with a touch of lavender? Still having fun in LA and the surrounding area? A very special Happy B-day to you!
Oh, and back to Anthony P. Anthony, while in Nepal, if you get this, and as I reminded you last week when were at Mona's; don't forget to wish Stacey a happy b-day, at least say it out loud and into the wind, so that it might carry the words at least to the nearest mountain, get clogged up a while, eventually wind its way around through some air pressure or cool front or something, catch a zephyr and to the sea, make its way, the wind of the waves, and over to LA. And boom!
Because there are radar's and digital signals flying all over the world and through space all the time. Why not sentiments, uttered words flying on the wings of memories and mittens (if the material is light and stays in the air passage flight). Or something of this nature.
Over and out!
G.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Dear Anthony P.
Dear Anthony P.,
Today you depart on your 6 month trek by bike through Nepal and India. I am jealous. Not so much of your destination but your tenacity. Not so much your tenacity as your adventurous spirit. Not so much your adventurous spirit, per say–but of your former salary. Not so much your former salary or the way you slaved and saved, but of the fact that that you make plans and see them through.
God bless you, Anthony P.
I was once like you, making plans and seeing them through, but in such restricted manners. For instance, I was assigned homework assignments in the third grade. I brought them home and completed them. It felt good. Life was good. I was a latch-key kid. I started to slowly sense that instead of doing my homework I could instead invade the cookie jar. It was all down hill from there. Too much freedom!
But you, Anthony P., are an older, wiser man than I by at least five months. And how long did this trip take to plan? Did it take a full year of planning, scrimping and saving, arrangements with the other riders and such?
Hmmm, a full year, and you're already five months ahead of me. That means, if my math is correct, I should get back to whatever I was planning out seven months ago, and allow for the next five months as the culmination of those plans.
Fuzzy, this math.
I believe it was grad school. Man, I need to get me to grad school and get learned on writing, teaching, something. Ah, the heart is willing. The flesh? Needs companionship.
When you are in Nepal, keep moving. When you are in India, send me soil samples for my home eco-lab-tester. I want to test for nitrates.
Anthony P., you go get them! And by "them" I mean life and all its offerings while on the road. I'll miss you, my friend. But then again, I've only seen you once in the last three months. That happens though. There are planned and unplanned sabbaticals.
I'm glad we could hang before you hit the 6 month road, and that you gave me the locket with a picture of Bill Withers to encourage my singing. Why Bill Withers, though?
Anthony P. in the words of the character from Zoolander, "Do it."
Today you depart on your 6 month trek by bike through Nepal and India. I am jealous. Not so much of your destination but your tenacity. Not so much your tenacity as your adventurous spirit. Not so much your adventurous spirit, per say–but of your former salary. Not so much your former salary or the way you slaved and saved, but of the fact that that you make plans and see them through.
God bless you, Anthony P.
I was once like you, making plans and seeing them through, but in such restricted manners. For instance, I was assigned homework assignments in the third grade. I brought them home and completed them. It felt good. Life was good. I was a latch-key kid. I started to slowly sense that instead of doing my homework I could instead invade the cookie jar. It was all down hill from there. Too much freedom!
But you, Anthony P., are an older, wiser man than I by at least five months. And how long did this trip take to plan? Did it take a full year of planning, scrimping and saving, arrangements with the other riders and such?
Hmmm, a full year, and you're already five months ahead of me. That means, if my math is correct, I should get back to whatever I was planning out seven months ago, and allow for the next five months as the culmination of those plans.
Fuzzy, this math.
I believe it was grad school. Man, I need to get me to grad school and get learned on writing, teaching, something. Ah, the heart is willing. The flesh? Needs companionship.
When you are in Nepal, keep moving. When you are in India, send me soil samples for my home eco-lab-tester. I want to test for nitrates.
Anthony P., you go get them! And by "them" I mean life and all its offerings while on the road. I'll miss you, my friend. But then again, I've only seen you once in the last three months. That happens though. There are planned and unplanned sabbaticals.
I'm glad we could hang before you hit the 6 month road, and that you gave me the locket with a picture of Bill Withers to encourage my singing. Why Bill Withers, though?
Anthony P. in the words of the character from Zoolander, "Do it."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
