Wind and Rain
02/26/2010 04:47 a.m.
It's raining cats and dogs, or so they say. The wind that accompanies this particular rhythmic precipitation is the kind that makes you want to turn off all of the lights and crawl deep under the covers and peer at sleep. Sometimes the dreams that will be dreamed are almost visible there, behind the initial veils of slumber; and sometimes they remain hidden until the wanderings in imagination lull one's consciousness to the pale and watery visions that will be recalled most clearly only just beyond the next waking...this is sleep.

It's raining cats and dogs, or so they say. The wind that accompanies this particular brand of precipitation is the kind where you can't turn off the lights, for fear of being left in darkness; alone to answer the howling calls of the looming midnight. Sometimes the dreams that will be dreamed trail away there, just behind each veil of slumber; leaving in each anxious wake a haunting laugh: at the leaking eye, or drooling mouth; a jolting retreat to the consciousness that escapes repose...this is tossing and turning.

It's raining cats and dogs, or so they say. The winds and rain are silenced by the low volume of the television set that was neglected to be turned off and the dishwasher that burst from silence into its heavy duty cycle, having succumbed to the expired timer. Lights still burn, but not ambiently; rather, the glare which encourages the rubbing of burning eyes coupled with yawns. Yes, the kind of light in whose shadow one can find the foot which has long since gone to sleep from lack of tapping, wiggling, or any movement...this is yearning for sleep.

It rained cats and dogs, or so they say. The winds that blew all through the night were the kind that keep you alert and wondering if the aged pines have withstood yet another blasting onslaught of wintry pressure, the kind that makes each creak and crack outside of the window raise a hair or two on the neck of the listener; wondering whether a stray branch will snap and become shrapnel to the roof. Eyes without dreams have been held in tired hands and have dared not close, only briefly; having nothing to do with lurid imaginings of the night...this is sleeplessness.

The forecast said 'more winds and rain.' It's bed time.


I am currently Quiet
I am listening to everything

Comments (0)

Almost time to go to bed...
11/18/2007 04:29 a.m.
Saturday is a great day for planning to do chores, fetch any number of things from the grocery, for going for a ride, or for just whiling away the afternoon watching a great movie. It is also a time for students to make good use of the unscheduled day to fulfill obligations of academia; for reading assignments and for writing out homework and for figuring ways to solve problems. A combination of these elements would be my Saturday.

Along with all of these goings-on there would be a haircut for me and a piece of chicken pie, two pots of coffee, and a bottled water. This would mean several bathroom breaks, as well.

Saturdays are treasured as almost holy. Gone is the regulated schedule of the weekday and work routine vanishes as the vapors of morning over the lake in August. Saturdays can be as empty or as full as the each individual who ventures into that calming well of serenity we call 'weekend.'

Mine is the task of capturing the elusive butterfly of Sunday in the net of continued productivity with just the right element of repose...we'll see just how it goes, that rascal we call weekend!
I am listening to electric lights burning

Comments (0)

At long last
03/30/2007 03:31 a.m.
Today my wife and I had the honor and privilege of welcoming our youngest son and his wife and two year old son to our home. He only this afternoon flew in from Iraq where he has been stationed in the Army since last summer. We had to say our painful "fare-well's" to him in September and have been trying to keep in contact by mail and by email since that time. We have the luxury of our adult daughter still at home with us, and we have the blessing of our oldest son, his wife and beautiful daughter living in the area. All of us were here to share dinner and enjoy the company of one who has been a long time apart from us.

The sun and elements have toughened the peaches and cream complexion of the blonde-headed teenager and a young man with the slimness and tone of youth has taken his place. The light-hearted nature and laughter has remained the same and has been refined to an even keener sense of humor; one that is with more experience and perspective rather than sarcasm or cynicism.

My brain and body are a wash of relief and fatigue from a very emotional day. It is so grand to have the opportunity to witness the return of a son to home! I am all but crying even now. My three children, the boys' two wives, and the two grandchildren now total seven.

I have children and they are called, 'David,' 'Jacqueline,' and 'Shawn.' I have two lovely daughters-in-law, 'Ginette' and 'Stevi-Ann.' I have two grandchildren, 'Xavier' and 'Isabelle Ann.' This makes seven children in all. How very fortunate and blessed I am.

I am falling off to sleep and will add more later.

Comments (0)

Recovery!
03/21/2007 02:09 a.m.
Friday March 16 brought me to an elusive place of which I have dared dream only a couple of times since the accident shattered my left lower leg. Recovery from the restorative surgery seemed a long time complete but the discomfort seemed only to mount with passing time. A consult with the Orthopod over a year ago concluded that the metal and screws should remain; that I would get used to the plates which were assisting my tibia and fibula to articulate with the also shattered but reconstructed and healing talus bone in my ankle as well.

I remember leaving the hospital a bit jaded but not too much worse for the wear. I remember clinging to thankfulness that I did not land on the jagged rocks that were less than a foot away on either side of my point of impact; that even though my right elbow was not as fortunate it is still in working order and can bear weight. I remember reminding myself to be thankful that I did not pass out as I tumbled face-first into the water; that I was able to rotate my hips and legs by driving my fists into the gravel-bottom of the lake and doing a combination of a push-up and a break-dance move and thereby regaining a semi-sitting position from being prone, nose and mouth in water, and in danger of drowning.

I remember the breathless numbness and instant fiery pain from so many parts of my broken frame. I remember vowing to regain wholeness; to walk again.

The following blur of autumn blaze through the barrier of being house-bound and the dismal onset of winter; the limitations of the cumbersome wheelchair and the unforgiving schedule of work amplified by the additional hours of physical therapy; the punishment of the casts, and the torturous dreams of running undaunted as in youth; the pain and terror of endless and sweaty and sleepless nights; the pain, and the pain, and the ever-present, damnable pain: all of these obstacles seemed to be no match for the constant care, loving support, and insight from my best friend: my wonderful wife.

All of my needs and even wants were simply scheduled into her already incredibly busy day. She worked harder in the evening and went to bed earlier in order to be up about an hour earlier the next morning; all of this to accommodate my bathing needs, medication schedule, and getting dressed; complete with neatly pressed shirt, pants, and tie to be ready for another day in the office where other people's medical needs were triaged and treated. There was always a word of encouragement, a smile, a kiss, and the verbal assurance that this would all one day be a distant memory.

My work duties were accomplished with the mechanical assistance of a wheelchair to which I was surprisingly accustomed in minimal time. While never having wished to be in a situation such as this, I remember being thankful for the smooth transport over the tightly woven commercial carpet and for the air cushion which cradled my thankful buttocks day in and day out, both at work and at home. I remember the first day being the object of many co-worker's well-wishing and concern, and how that returned to an attitude of 'business as usual' only later that same week.

I remember phone calls and tiled hospital floors; unexpected flowers, family, friends, and so much discomfort. I remember so many moments of despair, as one who is already cold, yet hears the wind that will blow the night through.

The winds have exhausted and stilled. One skilled and caring professional listened to me and believed that the foreign bodies placed in my frame for the purpose of stablization and healing had become a source of impingement and extreme discomfort. He was willing to undo the work of another highly esteemed colleague and on Friday past completed the second of two surgical procedures relieving me of the many varied screws, bars, and plates that had outlived their usefulness.

This final outpatient day surgery found me discharged by 2:00 p.m. and while still under the canopy of localized anesthesia I walked unencumbered by pain and without restriction. This afternoon the small volume drainage device was extracted and I am left with a neat row of forty-some stitches that will be removed after the fourteenth day, post-operation. I have undergone physical change and have grayed significantly. I have endured. Oh yes, on Friday evening upon my return home I walked toward the house and realized I had left my 'Just for Men' facial hair colorant in the back seat of my truck. I ran back and retrieved it.
I am listening to sleeping people

Comments (1)

Scholastic Scope, Spring 1975
03/20/2007 12:35 a.m.
"Yesterday I gave my cat a bath. He sat there and enjoyed it. Oh, the hair stuck to my tongue a little..." This still makes me laugh like a sixth grader cutting up in study hall.


I smilingly remember study hall and the faces yet unmarked by time, success and failure, and war; faces that knew about a place called Viet Nam and an unpopular presidential pardon. I remember giggling at the explosions of Pop Rocks and Fresca in our mouths and believing that too much at a time could blow off one's head. I remember punctuating home made brown bag book covers with the logos of music groups now only heard of on FM classic rock stations.

I hail the memories of harvest gold, poppy red, and avocado green and reject the pale pastels of the eighties and the neon-on-black combinations of the nineties. I am glad to have worn straight leg Levi 505 jeans and too much Faberge Brut to church with my polyester floral disco shirt.

I remember my grandfather and the smell of the lineament he had me rub on the stump of his left wrist previously occupied by his strong hand until a winter accident in the late fifties left him with a long road to recovery, and a prosthetic hook with which my brother and I delighted ourselves by imprinting our fingers with the waffle design intended to improve the grip of the opposable sides. Mine was the job of relieving the phantom pains of the missing appendage by rubbing plain horse lineament on his stump while he told me the goings on of one particular December day pertaining to WWII in a far away harbor named for a mollusk treasure...

I go there time and again in my memory and would live it all once more, but in time past I already have.
I am listening to antiques roadshow

Comments (0)

holiday
11/15/2006 04:30 a.m.
I wanted another holiday; more time to be carefree without the responsibility of having to go to work, especially since ending vacation and returning to work would mean my first day in my new position. I wanted another holiday laced with wanton greed to do the things of my own choosing. I wanted another holiday until this afternoon while having successfully completed the second day in my new capacity the radio pealed the unmistakable richness of Bing Crosby's "White Christmas" which against the sagging gray and pouring skies of mid-November made me a wee bit queasy.
I am listening to not the radio

Comments (0)

Children
11/15/2006 03:28 a.m.
Whether in word or deed children reflect to us the images of what we did right, or even what we did that was wrong in their upbringing. It seems that no matter how much one tries to instill the best of values what is usually reflected back may not always echo those sterling morals and disciplined actions in everyday life, where it apparently counts most.

Child rearing is said to be one of the most rewarding and challenging calls we may ever answer. It seems that of all the great decisions such as purchasing a home or a new vehicle all suddenly pale in comparison to having, loving, and teaching our precious kids.

It all starts our innocently enough; holding that precious bundle, doting, and lavishing all of the love and affection in the universe on this precious gift of life. It even reflects back some of the smiles and mirth apparent on the face of the parent, from time to time. Even when it is just the automatic reflex from having a gas bubble we seem to regard it is the greatest reward or payment ever received.

The young and tender years of toilet training and animation seem to never end; all of the brightly colored Discovery toys, books, and aimless games that are supposed to teach cooperation and which are designed to enhance hand – eye coordination are all too quickly a thing of the distant past. These years are replaced quite innocently by the onset of Primary School and all of the delights of early education.

It begins with the pace of an easy jog and ends every summer in a gut wrenching sprint for both the young Mom and the inexperienced Dad. All the while imprinting is taking place, both from the parents and also from the children with whom our wee ones have contact. This seems as likely an endorsement for home schooling as any.

Childhood is replaced by adolescence and we begin to see traits we were sure the little darlings never got from us well-intentioned adults. This does not wane, but rather waxes into an interesting melding and blending of each of the parental contributors.

One can see and appreciate all that is great about each of his offspring and all the while recognize with disdain the lesser character traits often found looking back from within
I am currently Reflective
I am listening to distant laughter of children

Comments (0)

Sometimes
11/09/2006 06:27 a.m.
Sometimes late at night
When there's nothing here except my old piano
I'd almost give my hands to make you see my way....

Comments (0)

errands...
11/09/2006 06:24 a.m.

Upon venturing out into this rainy and dark early November evening trying to do a couple of errands and make some use of the time otherwise lost to my convalescing from recent ankle repair, it occurs to me that the Universe is not necessarily or entirely sympathetic. Some of the small details could simply fall into place, providing for ease and comfort when there is precious little of each to begin with. It would seem to me that it should be fairly straight forward and uneventful to go to the store for some Oxyclean. Straight forward and uneventful just did not seem to be the case. For instance:

The compact car that cut me off, forcing me to stomp on my brakes forcefully enough to rearrange the neatly stacked contents of my back seat into what looked like the Pixie Stix of a five-year-old; not to mention the radiating pain from my affected left ankle resulting from having slammed my foot to the non-existent clutch in my over-sized automatic pick-up truck. My instinct led me to depress the clutch as though I were driving in my manual shifting Honda. All of this could have been avoided had the driver sense enough to simply wait, or yield would be the more proper term, for only a mere moment. Rather, she (sorry, ladies) chose to very urgently pull right out in front of me, only to continue in my exact route of travel for the following five-point-two miles at a continual rate of no less than five miles per hour less than the posted speed limit. This I tell myself is likely due to the inclement weather coupled with the built-in cautious or over-cautious nature of most of the females I encounter. She would have succeeded in impeding my entire trip were it not for my expertly executed maneuver quietly excelling into a tiny traffic bubble and passing her. Mario Andretti himself would have approved. This allowed me to nearly reach the posted speed limit of 30mph but I had to turn off into the complex to which I was destined…

…Destined to wait for proximal parking to accommodate my now painful ankle behind a Dodge Caravan full of Nuns; or women appearing to be nuns but who were not in full habit, loading their “need-only basis” items into the rear storage compartment of their aging and sagging minivan. Each item must have needed to be specifically catalogued or undergo some other type of ritual as this palletizing process never reached completion before my choosing a more distant but available space. This would prove not to be in the best interest of parking my full-sized pickup with the quad cab, or for the comfort of my ailing ankle. I got out, locked up, and plodded across the rainy parking area and into the gigantic Club store…

…where it was found that every one of the shopping carts were simply drenched and dripping water. This was remedied, though, by the kindly Greeter-lady who offered to wipe my handle. I indulged her and the already-soaked rag which served only to rearrange the water droplets into a more uniform pattern of equal-sized drops into which I could now place my capable grip. I thanked her all the same and trudged off, making use of the moist and gargantuan cart as a mutant walker, having left my prescribed light weight aluminum crutches lying neatly beneath the Pixie Stix pile on the floor of the back seat of the truck. I found my way to the far, front corner of the building…

…only to find that Oxyclean (“add to every load”) laundry additive is located in the exact opposite corner of the store. This I figure is an opportunity for me to hone my new walking gait and to revel in the therapeutic gain I would surely enjoy. With careful and deliberate steps behind my mutant walker / shopping cart I began my journey, keenly aware of all those sampler ladies who would accost me and get me to try the hot chocolate syrup base (only enough for 160 servings), some new maple flavored (or scented, I suspected) bacon, chimichangas, and some ‘nine-minutes-in-the-microwave and enjoy a delicious dinner with your family’ entrée, the cost of which was certainly not just the $9.95 introductory price, but which would sure include at least one copay for a visit to the Walk-in Primary Care at the local medical clinic. Certainly having made it past all of these without incident, I would be in the clear. Having made it past the gallons of spaghetti sauces and the shrink wrapped eight-packs of cream of mushroom soups my confidence waxed strong, until…

…Until I hear, “Wouldn’t you just love to try some of this new extra, Extra crunchy peanut butter? It is simply delicious! We are promoting it this week, and...” This is coming from a little lady not quite have the size of myself, but who is slicing what appears to be a fairly fresh French baguette by expertly wielding what appears to be the sharpest cutting utensil I have seen since the late-night infomercial for Ginsu knives that could cut through cans and still cut tomatoes thinly enough to keep the in-laws from returning to visit. Her apparent expertise with her razor-sharp Ginsu and my recently acquired lack of ability to make a clean escape were largely responsible for my accepting her offer. My life-long affinity for peanut butter and the quick mind flash that she was quite probably the owner of the khaki-colored Jimmy I had passed in the parking lot with the bumper sticker begging the question, “Gut deer?” which was displayed right next to an NRA membership decal all added up to make me think that this lady was no one to be messed with. I smile while re-reading the label with ‘extra, Extra CRUNCHY’ blaring from the print as I suppose this could mean it is actually just a jar of peanuts! My benefactor returns my smile and immediately my portion is increased. I smile again at the irony of this tiny little open faced sandwich, now heaping with the lumpy spread being so greatly dwarfed by the giant pair of shrink-wrapped peanut spread jars. I thanked the Ginsu peanut butter lady and made it off across the cement floor, consuming the gravelly, fragrant spread and chewy baguette slice in a series of seven delectable little bites. Nibbling one remaining peanut stuck to the edge of the equally tiny beverage napkin given to me with the sample, I am finally nearing the section containing laundry items. Locating and selecting the Oxyclean gives me a great sense of relief until…

…until I realize that I now have to go back to the exact point of my beginning as I have need of Old Spice Red Zone shower gel two packs, along with the coordinating deodorant sticks which will complete the care package needing to be shipped to Iraq on the morrow. One more trip past the sampler ladies; another smiling nod of affirmation from the peanut butter lady who is actively engaged in sharing the infinite culinary possibilities only available with the purchase of pairs of 64oz. jars of peanut butter with another interest-feigning shopper. Finally my trip is complete and it is time to check out…

…which appears to be evidenced by nearly every other shopper in the store as the sudden migration to the cash registers resembles a ‘blue light special’ at the K-Mart. Everyone is quicker than I, especially without my Tiny Tim sticks, and so I wait behind the oversized carts over-filled not because of the intentionally-purchased items, but because of the freezer-to-microwave-to-the-table staples which, as evidenced by the sampler ladies, can entice nearly anyone. There is a commotion ahead of me as what looks like a month’s supply of toilet tissue and a bag of oranges topples off and overloaded cart to the cement below; a similar occurrence happens only two lanes away. I notice no shrink-wrapped pairs of plastic peanut butter jars peeking out of or falling out of anyone’s cart…

I am currently Bemused
I am listening to rain

Comments (0)

Great to be back...
10/26/2006 03:51 a.m.
Thanks to the Site Administrators for this, my second 'first time' here at Pathetic. It is so great to be back again with all of the wonderful and talented individuals who take the time to share and interact.

Technical difficulties with equipment, scheduling, and children in Iraq have precluded my participation here over the past three years or so; the latter proving by far to be the greatest obstacle. I am again looking forward to regular visitation and remaining current with my prior circle of friends and looking forward with great anticipation to making new ones.

Enjoy fully something you admire about someone you love today. You may be making a memory for days to come; forging those tools which will be most effective in working out the desperation of distant parting. Pet a small white puppy and meet his innocent gaze with the appreciation you wish you had always carried but which can only come with having lost a treasured, furry childhood friend.

Planning to play in the Journal lots and lots. See you around this Pathetic tree!
I am currently Warm
I am listening to Distant thunder

Comments (1)