Marking Time

Half an hour to write a post… can it be done? For many people, half an hour is more than enough time to write a few paragraphs. For me– compulsive over-writer and re-writer and tangent-taker that I am– it’s a real challenge. But here we go anyway…

Now that I’m back home, I’m wrestling with my inner slob (call him Sloppy Mark for now), trying to get him to hold up his end of the workload on all the little summer projects we have hanging over our heads like the sword of Damocles. (Look it up if I lost you… no time to explain or link metaphors.)

There’s the painting of the family room (paintcans have been sitting in the basement about six months now), the staining/protecting of the wood on our three big new windows, the preparations for Graham’s kindergarten, Mark’s preparations for a bigger class load in the fall, Sue teaching a freshman class for the first time ever, the put-off playdates, the untrimmed bushes we said we were gonna pull out anyway, …the doorbell, the telephone–Calgon, take me away! (remember that commercial?)

And the granddaddy of them all, the thing that’s been making me feel guilty and awful all summer as I’ve delayed dealing with it: my administrative and creative work as de facto multimedia coordinator for my church’s huge 50th anniversary celebration August 3rd and 4th. Sometimes I don’t know how I got to this place in life, where I’m the go-to guy for cheap or free techie type stuff. It’s all because I had some vague idea twenty years ago that I wanted to use television to do just that: “tell a vision”– to tell stories. I’m a word guy, a relationship guy, and a storyteller… not a cameraman, computer geek or natural born editor, with all the structured and up-to-date skills it takes to do those jobs. I know just enough about those formal skills and technologies that I can get by. But it never came naturally, something always goes wrong that I don’t know how to fix, and I end up aggravated right up to the end. And then my hard work doesn’t always show in the final product, which is often put off till the last minute, and probably just good enough to get by. Then in the end, I don’t have a strong sense that it was appreciated anyway, and I’m left wondering “What was the point of all that work?”

Or maybe I’m just insecure enough that people’s appreciation never gets through to me, so I go on feeling like a limping lout, a leader by default only, because I was the one dumb enough to say yes, to show up, to be available.

I think I used to do it for me: for the vague sense of being perceived as “the man” and the satisfaction of getting a thing done. Now I just miss the days when I could spend a guilt-free Saturday watching baseball or playing pinball, with few responsibilities, and no family or work or community responsibilities creeping in to bust my good groove and then make me start beating up on that poor inner slob.

Sloppy Mark’s never been anything but good to me, and yet I repay him with such malice. See? There it is. One more thing to feel guilty about. I don’t know if this is the definition of self-hatred, or something more benign and typical.

Whatever it is, though, I don’t like it. I’m pissed, and Sloppy Mark is just plain miserable.

On our last day in Plymouth, we took Graham on a “pirate cruise” for kids. At one point he told Sue, “This is the funnest day I’ve ever had.” Pretty gratifying, eh? 

One of the reasons I think the whole mythology of pirates is seeing a resurgence is because of rock and roll. There’s an agressive, take-no-prisoners attitude in rock, especially in heavy metal, and punk rock– heck, even Jerry Lee Lewis was called The Killer.

So when the “dance party” portion of our pirate cruise began (anyone feel a Wiggle comin’ on?), I expected some tunes with teeth. No such luck. What they gave us instead was “Feelin’ Hot Hot Hot” and The Village People. Now I’ll grant them this much: David Johanson/Buster Poindexter (who sings “HotHotHot”) was the leader of the cross-dressing punk group New York Dolls, one of the most “out there”, pirate-like bands ever. But what’s with the Village People? As the first lines of “YMCA” came over the boat’s boomy speakers, I started yelling at the young first mate: “What is this?! You can’t even give us In the Navy? Look where we are! Gimme a break, guys.”

The first mate, who wasn’t even born when these songs came out, just shrugged his shoulders and grinned.

Nevertheless, despite the weird music– and the strongest suggestion of pirate homoeroticism since Seinfeld’s puffy shirt (say it with me: “But I don’t wanna be a pirate!”) — a splendid time was had by all.

We shook our booties, then took home some booty. Aaarrrgh!

Okay, so the Massachusetts trip is going a bit better now. I’m also making a conscious choice not to wallow in self-pity anymore. (We’ll see how long *that* commitment lasts.)

I’m on the balcony outside our condo now, overlooking Plymouth Bay. It’s the same basic view Myles Standish enjoyed 400 years ago–except he wouldn’t have had the distant lighthouse blink every nine seconds, nor the sparkle-line effect of a light on a small yacht moored 150 yards out.

One thing Myles would have seen is the Big Dipper. Sue and Graham just went in, but before they did, Graham gave us the “quote of the day”. When Sue pointed out the constellation (yes, I *know* it’s only part of a constellation, …now shut up, astro-geek), she asked if he knew what it was. “Yes,” he said indignantly, “it’s a big spoon that doesn’t look like a real spoon.”

It’s been that kind of week here in Massachusetts: few things met our high expectations, but we’ve tried to appreciate them anyway.

In Cambridge, for example, our hotel was near the Boston Science Museum. So we took Graham to his second ever planetarium show (the first: St. Louis….very good). He’s quite into stars and the solar system. I’m not sure if I’m prouder of him for that, or for not being a karate-chopping superhero-worshipper like many of his preschool peers. He doesn’t know about the Power Rangers yet, and I plan to keep it that way.

Not that there isn’t a need for fantasy, science fiction and comic book simplicity in his life. My main beef with the Puritans (like much modern fundamentalism) was their lack of imagination or humor. Sci-fi is THE modern mythology (sorry, Harry Potter fans…), which is why I let Graham watch part of Phantom Menace and Attack of the Clones on cable this week. I may think that Anakin the Wunderkind winning a pod race (or a war–ha!) is utterly ludicrous, but it’s still compelling to a kid, and mostly harmless.

Plus, some myths make real history possible. For example, the New World wasn’t really all it was cracked up to be for the Pilgrims when they got here, now was it? Yet here we are… still hoping.

The Barry Manilow fans among you will regognize the title above… first line of one of his cheesiest songs, I think it’s called Weekend in New England. In my case, it’s 10 days here. I’m on Day 5. I want to go home.

Spent the first four days or so in Cambridge, across the river from Boston. Spent over an hour writing a blog posting while walking around town in the wee hours Saturday, unable to sleep. Then Sue called, and I had not saved, and the way my Palm Treo works, I ended up *losing* the whole surreal post. AAAGH! It managed to tie together the Pink Floyd song Dogs (from Animals, ~1977), a rainy Fourth of July, our supposedly great hotel, a terrific Italian meal on the North End, Salma Hayek, and various domestic disputes between my wife and I. On second thought, maybe it’s better that it’s lost forever.

So now we’re in Plymouth, along the coast, not quite out on Cape Cod (where I’d rather be), but pretty close. Sue’s Swiss godmother arranged for the “apartment” we’re staying in, so we could meet her here and spend time together the second half of this week. Our rooms sit atop one of the handful of motels here, south of town. It’s an okay place, with a great view, its own “beach” (really a rock wall that only reveals usable sand when the tide goes out), plus indoor and outdoor pools just barely shallow enough for our little learning-to-swim five-year-old. Sue loves it here. I’d prefer to be closer to town, or for it to be more “authentic” somehow, or for them to wipe my rear end when I take a dump. All of which is to say, I’m not having  a good time.

I don’t know why I’ve been so grumpy on this trip, but I can’t help it. My family grates on me. Graham’s been whiny. Everything’s too expensive. I’ve had trouble sleeping (a fairly uncommon thing for me, even on vacation.) I get disoriented driving these wacky Massachusetts roads that they don’t mark well. Plus I’ve had chest congestion for 3.5 weeks now, which my wife is now convinced is Lyme disease because I made the mistake of telling her I pulled a tick off my foot after one of our recent Wisconsin trips. I’m calling my doctor in a few minutes here, just to keep her happy. But I’m not having any other symptoms– plus those two have also had flu-like symptoms in the past three weeks also… and they didn’t get any ticks.

Bottom line: this trip’s been one of those times in life where I really don’t want to be the grownup. But I don’t want anyone else making decisions for me, either.  Especially my wife. So I’m just stuck in a rut. Ever been there?

Hi. I’m back. And drunk.. Spending the “holiday weekend” in Wisconsin with family, including Mom, who almost died three weeks ago. She had a “congestive heart failure” incident on June 10th, where her blood pressure and mismanaged medication regime put her on death’s door. This explains in part where I’ve been, mentally and webwise, the past few weeks. Real life tends to interrupt the writing life, in some understandable ways.

Here in Saxeville, Wisconsin, our neighbors on the lake have gone to significant expense to give us a good fireworks show. In a similar way, my mother, my youngest sister and I have had some very fiery convrsations tonight about Mom’s past few weeks, and her future. Honest feelings, emotionally expressed, are a lot like fireworks. Except the the stakes are much higher. What’s said or felt at times of crisis last a lot longer than the thrill of some annual fireworks show. But we will figure it out. I can vouch for the sincerity of my family’s love for each other, and our commitent to do what’s right on each other’s behalf. I can’t claim perfection, or blamelessness. I can only cling to the hope of why and how God gave us to each other. And I will stand on faith, that Mom has a few good years left, and that God will see us through as we “walk through the fire”.

So say a prayer for Carole Nielsen, and for us all.