thoughts

Some times we’re on the mountaintop, some times we’re in the valley.  Can’t win ‘em all.  When the goin’ gets tough, the tough get goin’.  When push comes to shove.  Stick a fork in me.  All that to say- this time it’s personal, and a bit off the beaten path.  My poetic apologies to the concrete among us.  No seriously.

There’s always that little box on the login page, “Remember me”.  If you check it, you never have to enter your login or password again, if you leave it empty, it’s like you never were.  I like to leave it empty for fear of identity theft and other modern day assaults, but on this particular day, I checked the Remember me box for personal reasons.  I’d like to be remembered.  I’d like to imagine that I’ve left a mark on this world, that a generation from now I won’t be a misspelled name on someone’s family tree somewhere.  Wouldn’t you.

I’d also like to say I’ve got something fantastic on my mind to float into the world, but I don’t.  I’ve spent many blank moments trying to think of something relevant that I have to talk about, all the historic and heroic chaos in the Middle East, the incessant mention of Charlie Sheen on world news channels, the weather changing to spring right before my eyes, the devastating crisis in Japan.  I know there is much to be said, but for those things I have no intelligent words.  However disappointing.

I’ve recently experienced a personal loss, and there’s been soft slow syrup of reason running through my mind, and I’m sorry to say it, but sometimes… that’s all I’ve got.  If I were a musician I’d write it into a song, let the people sing it, fill their own lives into my personal and specific feelings.  If I were a child I would cry.  Nap.  Watch an extra movie in my day.  Sleep on Mom and Dad’s floor.  Seems there’s nothing worth doing.  I’ve found my fury has waned, as age has grown thick on me.  What would have thrown me up in arms now rolls off my back like rain.  It finds the dry ground and is whisked away.  Gone.  The volume turned down.  There’s nothing worth staying home for.  Nothing worth adding more wrinkles to my eyes with hysterical crying, no purpose in sessions of ranting or sobbing, or running.  Today is better lived in peace than washed away with emotions tide.  The eyes in the rear view mirror still look the same.  Maybe a little worse for wear, but not so different that I can’t remember their fits of elation, disappointment, loneliness, giddy infatuation.  To scream might turn some heads, but what more.  If I may borrow the words of mediocre failures throughout eternity, what’s the use?

The rain one morning was offensive.  Huge drops of slush banging on my windshield, melting on contact.  The illusion of a rainy day but harsher, less fulfilling.  Confusing.  Each one the nemesis to my silence.   Glad to be under bridges, parked in garage.  Refuge and silence.  Stop smacking me!  Feels like it’s been years since I could go outside and feel the fresh air on my face.  Winters dreary has crawled inside my coat, keeps me cold, even as the days warm up.  What is this place?  How much longer must I remain?

The week will go by, has gone by.  Tears, sure.  And why not.  I’d say I feel better, but I’m pretty sure Daylight Savings time doesn’t make it this hard for everyone to get out of bed in the morning.  Either way is fine.  It won’t be long now; I’m due for a rebound.

Lucky for me, the dirt in my garden is exposed, and my driveway hoop is calling.  Lucky for me the father most chastises the son who is to receive the inheritance.  Promises have been made.  It has been marked as pleasure.  It has been marked.  Not to mention the plans.  I have plans.  Haven’t you heard.

(In closing, the following is an excerpt from Wikipedia.  It describes the creation of a marble sculpture.  If you so desire, feel free to join me in looking upon it with anticipation.  Breathe it in.)

“The carver usually begins by knocking off, or “pitching”, large portions of unwanted stone.  The carver places the point of the chisel or the edge of the pitching tool against a selected part of the stone, then swings the mallet at it with a controlled stroke. He must be careful to strike the end of the tool accurately; the smallest miscalculation can damage the stone, not to mention the sculptor’s hand. When the mallet connects to the tool, energy is transferred along the tool, shattering the stone.  This is the “roughing out” stage of the sculpting process.  Once the general shape of the statue has been determined, the sculptor uses other tools to refine the figure.  These tools are generally used to add texture to the figure.  Eventually the sculptor has changed the stone from a rough block into the general shape of the finished statue. Tools called rasps and rifflers are then used to enhance the shape into its final form.  The sculptor uses broad, sweeping strokes to remove excess stone as small chips or dust.  The final stage of the carving process is polishing.  This abrading, or wearing away, brings out the color of the stone, reveals patterns in the surface and adds a sheen.”

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