An Hour Away

Throughout my life, I have struggled with domestic tasks. Oh, I can cook with the best of them, but cleaning is my bane. From the wandering days of my hippy mother until now, what I like best is to play. It is amazing to me, how many people just don't like it. Or are not good at it. Life is best when we are playing a fun game. We laugh harder, think better and act out of our true selves. I suppose that is why so many resist the fun of good playfulness, because we act out of our true self when we are being playful. That can be scary for many. When I act of my true self, I can be scary to many. I am only sort of kidding, just ask my brother.

There are many fears associated with playing the games that life presents us. Sometimes the consequences are not fun. We accept certain risks when we agree to abide by the rules and play. Namely, losing. But depending on the game, many physical injuries occur to the players. And of course, there is always ridicule. The joy of abandon to the game is the motivator. In my work with oppositional children, I have learned the reason for rules. They are required to have fun. They give us an agreed upon platform for our fun. That is all. No drama required, when we all agree to play by the rules. Within the rules, however, even drama can be fun. But that requires serious directing and blocking. So don't attempt drama without proper training. Again, I am sort of joking here, only sort of. All my drama people say, Hey! I love you all.

It is only in the last couple of years that I have been able to conceptualize cleaning as part of the fun. Clearing the way for the next table of fun, that is the concept. This is so clearly revealed in the realm of cooking. Doing the dishes and having clean dishes, make creative cooking possible. A fresh tableau. First, I have to do the dishes. That is generally where I am at. I dream of the clean kitchen, and I know how to have one, but I am not there yet. As a single dad, my house is my castle. I have moved up in the world. It is not a perfect castle, however.

Seeking the ultimate state of living, is our life goal and I now accept that cleaning is part of ultimate living. I realized the other day, while cleaning, in preparation for my brother and his daughter to visit, that while I wasn't there yet, I was only an hour away. Somehow, my rhythm has shifted. Upon reflection, generally speaking, I keep a state of house that is perpetually an hour away from visitors. I feel that this is an acceptable adult reality. Grown up life. This includes the toilet. As a guy, I now accept that it is mostly our mess and therefore ours to clean. We all prefer a clean spot. So stop by anytime, I am not ashamed of my life and I love stop-bys. If, however, you need to stay the night. Please, give me an hour.

Hiding Behind Poetry

When I started this, I told myself I would keep to the schedule of one story per week. The most interesting things that happened to me, repeated in story form. That was the idea. I recently realized that writer's block set in. It dawned slowly on me, and as all things in avoidance, I knew I was suffering, but did it anyway. Poetry. Knock one off. That will do. True, it is a form of story. A telling of the moment. A slice of my day. Once done, however, oft repeated. Put off an actual story with a dashed down line. It works.

I look at some of the stories that have come out of this project and I know why I hide. Many are heavy moments indeed. Only barely made easier by the literate form. I wanted a break from their weight. For instance, The Guy Fell In (pt. 1 &2), are stories of the recent death of a friend of mine, from not so random violence. Little Walla Walla, as ever, a hardcore place. Seriously kids, how could I, of all people, live here if it wasn't. I cut my teeth on hardcore. Not just eighties punk rock and metal, but also the Bay Area ghetto lifestyle and cowboys and indian hardcore in Wallowa County. Schools of violence and hard knocks. For real, no metaphors intended or used. Hard knocks to the head, to the body and to other parts as well.

So give me a break. I know poetry is cheating the short story. I digress. With rhyme and with rhythm. So this week is about the inspiration of freezing temps., combined with sunlight. Walla Walla has been gripped in the bite of an Alaskan cold spell. However, as opposed to many cold winters before, instead of grey foggy madness, we have had crystal clear, blue sunny days. One after the other, after the other, after the other. Yes. It has been good. Getting on my bike, all bundled in gear. Music in my ears. World rushing by. Dropping downtown like a boy on a rocket. That has been the day to day joy. It is also nice, at the end of the ride is coffee!

Sunlight in winter. That rare, special experience of light and motion. Keeping the cold in perspective we can move about doing the things we always do. On top of the train, where the wind rushes by. We are reminded of our humanity. I do not mean how we treat each other, rather simply the fact that we are human. We are not bigger than life. The rich and the famous alike. We, mostly, all have two arms, two legs, ten fingers and ten toes. These, unless taken care of, will get cold. Cry out against this, with all your might. You will find them talking back to you. Saying, "...thank God for shoes." Uh-oh, can you hear it? Poetry. Dirty little bugger, trying to steal my story. I better go and save it for another day.