The angular piece of a sundial, the blade which casts a shadow to mark the hours, is the gnomon; used in a literary sense, it indicates milestones of time, a marker of life's significant events. Would you think a ceremony, a signed paper, a broken plate change feelings? I will bet you ten dollars it does, for it's a promise; not that the words or actions prior meant nothing. Dana and Brian both have upheld and made sacrifices for the other, and I never imagined them breaking apart, but here is a view of the page some couples will turn.
You're more settled with yourself, and may describe the sensation as a profound recognition of creating something good; Brian and Dana have been building upon what works and what doesn't for years, but I wonder if seeing friends decide to embark, they recognize how their own perceptions of those friends may have changed due to respect of the solidifying process. Those that know you will look at you differently, for that big step has been taken. It's a lovely thing, marriage.
It takes active work to maintain, it doesn't make you more grown up, change your personality, your partner's personality, or the cat's. You reflect on what you can do to make it work, and you make sacrifices. There is no 50-50, sometimes it's 80-20, get on with it; marriage does not invite instant glorification of your partner; that should have been figured out beforehand.
You're calmer in knowing that someone is there for you, to support your dreams, to talk to any time you need them, to go places with. Dana and Brian will live longer, married, if statistics prove correct. Healthwise, each will benefit. The security and comfort of having another person who loves you by your side will cause mountains to fall to their knees.
You are committed not so much to the piece of paper, but to each other; you believe that your partner is in it for the long haul and they are; to them you are smart, capable, compassionate, and reliable. Faithful is a pretty good point of reference also. No person or activity comes before the relationship; yes, there is your own time, yes, you need personal space to recharge, but essentially it goes from "me" to "us".
Bri and Dana pretty much have this down, but still, I believe there will be a new marker; they will remember the date, the anniversary, the time of. Our families will come together and grow, the ripples expand, a new cycle begin.
The sun is on the other side of five o'clock, in a descent to the horizon; the last yellow rays are bouncing off slate grey autumn clouds, the kind that look like they could drop six inches of snow in an hour. Fathers are visiting with sons, mothers have come together and slapped high fives, (right, Dorian?). Whispers of colder weather will be underscored by the time change next Friday, Halloween at midnight. Ah, blankets, shake them out; if you are lucky to have a clothesline, hang them outdoors for an hour; breathe in the leafy air, the tannin and damp earth quietly settling from the summer hustle here in the north. Sleep, hold, yes, and yes. Good night.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Mercury Retrograde Up To Here, Alice
There's this astrological business that happens when the orbit of Mercury goes to the other side of the sun, and so from Earth, appears to be going backward when it's just getting ready to loop back. During this event, named the Mercury retrograde, computers frizzle, transportation frazzles, arguments break out, communication is worse than yesterday's spaghetti, and money disappears. I love October, it's my favorite month, but this year I can't wait for the 25th, when little Mercury falls back into an approved orbit.
This month my eldest cat Min passed away; she was twenty-one and frail. The fuel lines were replaced in a half-baked manner so they leaked gasoline all the way to Michigan. When in Michigan, the brake pedal went all the way down to the floor on a Saturday; Triple A towed it, the garage looked at the car Monday, sent to Grand Rapids for parts, they arrived and were the wrong size. More days in the hotel, which is not a bad place to be unless you are downtown and a drugstore is not within walking distance. So the hotel bill was going up, money was dwindling, and another fish died at home, my five-inch clown loach.
I received a written reprimand at work due to the number of days missed, and some of the kids had taken my board magnets, broken them apart for ammunition, gone into my desk and stole crackers, divvied them up between backpacks, took over one hundred colored pencils for friends and family, threw green beans all around the cafeteria; I tell you, the teachers were really really really glad to have me back. It took two days to get those nutjob children back in hand. A few phone calls (What? My child did what? No he did not. Wait till he gets home.).
At the drugstore, the engine would not turn over, an hour later, Triple A said it was not the battery. No fuel pressure. The gas was still leaking, WHICH IT WAS BEFORE THE BRAKES WERE FIXED, and since it had been freshly installed to a very big number of monies, perhaps it was just a loose clamp? No no no, lady. The people who installed your brakes punctured the lines, that's why you're getting that drip. You need a fuel pump and we'll switch the lines to nylon.
I have never had a fuel pump, just the part, cost $355 dollars. This must be the pump of pumps, the king of the fuel lines, the fuel pump of the Kennedys. Cab fare to get to work, and getting yelled at by Alphonso the cab driver (WHY DID YOU CANCEL? Well, I was waiting forty minutes in a freaky neighborhood when you said ten?) were minor roles in the overall scheme. I learned the bus route. Even bigger monies for this car repair, but I will not go back to these people again. I need to find a Carm or a Wilson. Carm fixes cars, hey, no problem. Wilson bends auto frames back into shape with his bare hands. I still have a broken coil up front; it sounds like the front end is being banged on by pneumatic drill when I turn left. Safe, they said, and slapped on an inspection sticker.
Mercury retrograde is similar to the full moon thing that makes schoolchildren crazier and more emotional; of course, the moon is always there in whole, whether it is lit up or not; so, is it the illumination that releases floods of dopamine throughout usually calm circuitry? Many, many medical institutions and fisheries swear by the effect; I'm still up in the air about this astrology business, I believe in alarm clocks and chemistry, even though Sagittarian traits seem to fit. Even though I just took a step backwards in the kitchen, and my bare foot went into the cat's Supreme Supper. Try getting cat food out of a braided rug. What next. One week left of this Mercury hoo-ha.
But many good things happened, numero uno being that my brother's brain tumor was successfully treated by gamma knife radiation. The doctors put titanium screws into his skull and locked them down to make sure not a wiggle would happen during the procedure, and the result was apparently total disappearance. He's still able to walk around the house under his own steam. While I stayed at the Holiday Inn in Muskegon, they kept the bill at the convention rate several days over, a substantial savings. My ingenious friend Pauline found a key to get into my apartment to take care of the cats for the extra days, bless her. I discovered a Geastrum saccatum under a pine in Michigan, an earthstar mushroom, a species I had not seen before. Old and new friends taught me things, helped me through; a night drive by lake waves was extraordinary.
Seasons are changing, the colors as I drove back home were dwindling to bare tree branches reaching upward, revealing what was hidden by the green leaves during the summer. It opens your eyes, to see what was hidden come forward. Sleep well, listen to the wind as it roughs around corners, and know that it was partially formed by pressure gradient force trying to even out differences, smooth the blankets, create balance. Peaceful night.
This month my eldest cat Min passed away; she was twenty-one and frail. The fuel lines were replaced in a half-baked manner so they leaked gasoline all the way to Michigan. When in Michigan, the brake pedal went all the way down to the floor on a Saturday; Triple A towed it, the garage looked at the car Monday, sent to Grand Rapids for parts, they arrived and were the wrong size. More days in the hotel, which is not a bad place to be unless you are downtown and a drugstore is not within walking distance. So the hotel bill was going up, money was dwindling, and another fish died at home, my five-inch clown loach.
I received a written reprimand at work due to the number of days missed, and some of the kids had taken my board magnets, broken them apart for ammunition, gone into my desk and stole crackers, divvied them up between backpacks, took over one hundred colored pencils for friends and family, threw green beans all around the cafeteria; I tell you, the teachers were really really really glad to have me back. It took two days to get those nutjob children back in hand. A few phone calls (What? My child did what? No he did not. Wait till he gets home.).
At the drugstore, the engine would not turn over, an hour later, Triple A said it was not the battery. No fuel pressure. The gas was still leaking, WHICH IT WAS BEFORE THE BRAKES WERE FIXED, and since it had been freshly installed to a very big number of monies, perhaps it was just a loose clamp? No no no, lady. The people who installed your brakes punctured the lines, that's why you're getting that drip. You need a fuel pump and we'll switch the lines to nylon.
I have never had a fuel pump, just the part, cost $355 dollars. This must be the pump of pumps, the king of the fuel lines, the fuel pump of the Kennedys. Cab fare to get to work, and getting yelled at by Alphonso the cab driver (WHY DID YOU CANCEL? Well, I was waiting forty minutes in a freaky neighborhood when you said ten?) were minor roles in the overall scheme. I learned the bus route. Even bigger monies for this car repair, but I will not go back to these people again. I need to find a Carm or a Wilson. Carm fixes cars, hey, no problem. Wilson bends auto frames back into shape with his bare hands. I still have a broken coil up front; it sounds like the front end is being banged on by pneumatic drill when I turn left. Safe, they said, and slapped on an inspection sticker.
Mercury retrograde is similar to the full moon thing that makes schoolchildren crazier and more emotional; of course, the moon is always there in whole, whether it is lit up or not; so, is it the illumination that releases floods of dopamine throughout usually calm circuitry? Many, many medical institutions and fisheries swear by the effect; I'm still up in the air about this astrology business, I believe in alarm clocks and chemistry, even though Sagittarian traits seem to fit. Even though I just took a step backwards in the kitchen, and my bare foot went into the cat's Supreme Supper. Try getting cat food out of a braided rug. What next. One week left of this Mercury hoo-ha.
But many good things happened, numero uno being that my brother's brain tumor was successfully treated by gamma knife radiation. The doctors put titanium screws into his skull and locked them down to make sure not a wiggle would happen during the procedure, and the result was apparently total disappearance. He's still able to walk around the house under his own steam. While I stayed at the Holiday Inn in Muskegon, they kept the bill at the convention rate several days over, a substantial savings. My ingenious friend Pauline found a key to get into my apartment to take care of the cats for the extra days, bless her. I discovered a Geastrum saccatum under a pine in Michigan, an earthstar mushroom, a species I had not seen before. Old and new friends taught me things, helped me through; a night drive by lake waves was extraordinary.
Seasons are changing, the colors as I drove back home were dwindling to bare tree branches reaching upward, revealing what was hidden by the green leaves during the summer. It opens your eyes, to see what was hidden come forward. Sleep well, listen to the wind as it roughs around corners, and know that it was partially formed by pressure gradient force trying to even out differences, smooth the blankets, create balance. Peaceful night.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
In Waves
I am sitting on fossilized ferns that are trapped for the next several million years in grey stone; sandstone, flint, and shale are jumbled in immense chunks, now shaped by the force of the lake and the cycle of freezing and thawing. Pushed by water, scored and cracked apart by climate, the sedimentary layers become part of the basin. Hauled from who knows what quarry, these monuments were placed to stop the erosion of the shore, or at least slow it down. The currents and waves have been tamed by banks of riprap and man-made constructs forming a harbor for ships, rather than allowing this rough, shallow lake to crack open wooden hulls and ship masts during a gale. There is a contract online stating how much and what size rock was purchased, who dredged, and who poured concrete.
The lake and harbor are flat today, no swells or roiling foam; there is a pleasantly fishy smell being brought to shore by a warm autumn breeze. Horsetails in the sky claim precipitation in 24 hours, the small ripples of the lake dabbing absentmindedly at the rocks say they don't know of any rains coming from the west. Only when a motorboat goes by do the small waves make a half-hearted attempt at enthusiasm.
To the west is another gouge where glaciers pushed and pulled back and forth over eons; it's why there aren't any dinosaur fossils laying around. The beasts were here, but the glaciers pushed them south as they scraped the layers away down to the Devonian age, as if a great, white hand cleared the table of evidence. Lake Michigan is deeper, larger, and has produced an amazing amount of silica quartz sand, which continues to deposit as freshwater sand dunes on its eastern shore.
I lived in Chicago for a while, on the western side of the lake, and there is sand, but it is also decorated with colorful displays of rounded stone; pinks, dull reds, green, white, blue, black, ochre. There are still some in a basket, as I lived hardly two blocks from the water, yet didn't pay much attention to the lake itself as life was too complicated for much beyond the city. This year, the few days spent at the eastern shore showed me waves generated by coming storms and sand flung across the road up to the homes, bordered by scrub grass clinging to hope.
We had gone for a drive, and in the dimness of near midnight the froth of the waves rolled in, visible in the cast-off light of lamps. High waves drummed the beach, cascading and falling forward, dashing themselves upon the sand in furious rows. The atomicity of the first wave was reconstructed by the next, displaying a natural consistency in isolation of each movement, forming a durable engine of sand delivery. Pushing, forming, depositing the rounded granules of silica and the tiny tiny shells of freshwater mollusks, the waves were an insistent force pounding the shore, their voice a thrashing heart plummeting over and over. It was a lovely example of a natural power.
There was a translucent layer of snow in the southern tier this morning, signaling the inevitable change to a darker season; a trip to the Farmer's Market yesterday was filled with people buying bushels of squash and apples, the last corn, the last tomatoes. Laying in for winter. As I sat on the rocks today, ladybugs flitted about, landing on my jacket and stretching wings; they'll be searching for a winter haven soon. Time pulls them forward, as it does me and you. Sleep well, warm heart.
The lake and harbor are flat today, no swells or roiling foam; there is a pleasantly fishy smell being brought to shore by a warm autumn breeze. Horsetails in the sky claim precipitation in 24 hours, the small ripples of the lake dabbing absentmindedly at the rocks say they don't know of any rains coming from the west. Only when a motorboat goes by do the small waves make a half-hearted attempt at enthusiasm.
To the west is another gouge where glaciers pushed and pulled back and forth over eons; it's why there aren't any dinosaur fossils laying around. The beasts were here, but the glaciers pushed them south as they scraped the layers away down to the Devonian age, as if a great, white hand cleared the table of evidence. Lake Michigan is deeper, larger, and has produced an amazing amount of silica quartz sand, which continues to deposit as freshwater sand dunes on its eastern shore.
I lived in Chicago for a while, on the western side of the lake, and there is sand, but it is also decorated with colorful displays of rounded stone; pinks, dull reds, green, white, blue, black, ochre. There are still some in a basket, as I lived hardly two blocks from the water, yet didn't pay much attention to the lake itself as life was too complicated for much beyond the city. This year, the few days spent at the eastern shore showed me waves generated by coming storms and sand flung across the road up to the homes, bordered by scrub grass clinging to hope.
We had gone for a drive, and in the dimness of near midnight the froth of the waves rolled in, visible in the cast-off light of lamps. High waves drummed the beach, cascading and falling forward, dashing themselves upon the sand in furious rows. The atomicity of the first wave was reconstructed by the next, displaying a natural consistency in isolation of each movement, forming a durable engine of sand delivery. Pushing, forming, depositing the rounded granules of silica and the tiny tiny shells of freshwater mollusks, the waves were an insistent force pounding the shore, their voice a thrashing heart plummeting over and over. It was a lovely example of a natural power.
There was a translucent layer of snow in the southern tier this morning, signaling the inevitable change to a darker season; a trip to the Farmer's Market yesterday was filled with people buying bushels of squash and apples, the last corn, the last tomatoes. Laying in for winter. As I sat on the rocks today, ladybugs flitted about, landing on my jacket and stretching wings; they'll be searching for a winter haven soon. Time pulls them forward, as it does me and you. Sleep well, warm heart.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Muskegon Adventure
It took an easy six and a half hour drive to get to Muskegon, Michigan, and the half was mostly wandering in the dark looking for the route to the hotel. You know how you are sure that you know the way, and then the star descends and neon signs scream in red and bright magenta with little illumination of street names, and you can't tell where in the hell are we? But we got there, in Good Old Car. One admirable thing, Muskegon labels its streets well, unlike Boston, Mass, where visitors are netted and scaled like tuna when they find themselves miles away from the intended destination.
So this is Muskegon, a small town sort of city where many wondrous things occur; it seems as if Jack planted the beanstalk and suddenly, there is a soaring monument to the sport of snurfing, a silver totem celebrating the origin of snowboarding, created here by Sherm Poppen, the father who bound two skis together. It's outside the window of the hotel in the middle of a rotary, by the historic Frauenthal theater.
You'll see the hospital where Iggy Pop was born, and the Brunswick company where bowling balls are made. Here also is the reason I visit every first weekend in October; Muskegon is silent film star Buster Keaton's home. This year I was part of the committee that kept the schedule running, did errands, introduced presenters, and greeted people; it was a terrific way to interact.
Wanting prints of some artwork, I was on the way to the local shop to order; Google gave directions, and I couldn't find the place, not having driven down the road long enough. Frustrated and scheduled to be somewhere else, I temporarily retreated.
A kindly fellow brought out paper, marker, and got busy; the directions were then described, repeated, outlined, and made artistically scientific, it was comparable to a cartographer's thesis. After about ten minutes, it was decided to simply get in his car and be driven out. Success, and many thanks.
The next day, I went in my car out to the named street and instead of turning the instructed way, I took the opposite direction. It was said that I had to go far out, so the distance wasn't alarming until I got to the orange striped barrels and the street changed into a suburban cluster of cul-de-sacs; several loops later, I refound the detour, but heck, this didn't look right and the way back was closed.
Head towards the west and you'll eventually run into water, which I did; sandy sandy Michigan beach was being whipped across the road at a clip generated by the temperature drop over the frothing lake.
Having never driven across sand before, I went slow; it felt like driving with no traction and squishy. Remember that word, squishy; it will appear again when the story gets to the brake part.
I asked a visitor who was taking photos of the waves how to get back to the main part of town, and she happily said to pick a road and turn right; she was also a visitor who was giddy about being polished by wind and sand, enjoying the furious scene. I ended up in familiar territory, and got to the museum where it was near lunch. Drove again over to the restaurant, ate, was going to find the print shop again with corrected synapses, and my foot went right smack down to the floor when stepping on the brake pedal; the car slowly decided to squish to an uncertain stop, luckily on a side street. Not good news, I had to be in Buffalo to teach kids on Monday, this was Saturday afternoon.
Triple A guy thought there was air in the line and I needed a cap. There are no caps, was later stated by those in the know. Others mentioned a possible master cylinder which, holy crow, would cost a sacred cow. The tow truck took the car to a brake garage, which did not open until this morning, Monday, and it couldn't be looked at till later in the day. By now chunks of ice were hurtling down, thunder and lightning adding just the perfect, dramatic, movie touch.
My roomie wanted to get back, so she took a cab and rented a car; last I heard, Flint, Michigan has good polka stations. Called the school, took two more days off, and tomorrow may have the same cab driver get me to the repair shop. Nothing bad has happened in the last three hours, so I am taking that as a good sign.
I love to drive, and will do so in a much happier, less ignorant of circumstances frame of mind. Tonight will be peaceful, and maybe I will see stars, though unlikely under the sporadic cloud cover. Right now I have a television, and will be watching old movies and typing, typing, the incessant typing that explains life to me. I appreciate your patience and indulgence. You sleep well, these colder nights call for blankets and deep dreams, slumber dreams, dreams of falling stars. With love to all.
So this is Muskegon, a small town sort of city where many wondrous things occur; it seems as if Jack planted the beanstalk and suddenly, there is a soaring monument to the sport of snurfing, a silver totem celebrating the origin of snowboarding, created here by Sherm Poppen, the father who bound two skis together. It's outside the window of the hotel in the middle of a rotary, by the historic Frauenthal theater.
You'll see the hospital where Iggy Pop was born, and the Brunswick company where bowling balls are made. Here also is the reason I visit every first weekend in October; Muskegon is silent film star Buster Keaton's home. This year I was part of the committee that kept the schedule running, did errands, introduced presenters, and greeted people; it was a terrific way to interact.
Wanting prints of some artwork, I was on the way to the local shop to order; Google gave directions, and I couldn't find the place, not having driven down the road long enough. Frustrated and scheduled to be somewhere else, I temporarily retreated.
A kindly fellow brought out paper, marker, and got busy; the directions were then described, repeated, outlined, and made artistically scientific, it was comparable to a cartographer's thesis. After about ten minutes, it was decided to simply get in his car and be driven out. Success, and many thanks.
The next day, I went in my car out to the named street and instead of turning the instructed way, I took the opposite direction. It was said that I had to go far out, so the distance wasn't alarming until I got to the orange striped barrels and the street changed into a suburban cluster of cul-de-sacs; several loops later, I refound the detour, but heck, this didn't look right and the way back was closed.
Head towards the west and you'll eventually run into water, which I did; sandy sandy Michigan beach was being whipped across the road at a clip generated by the temperature drop over the frothing lake.
Having never driven across sand before, I went slow; it felt like driving with no traction and squishy. Remember that word, squishy; it will appear again when the story gets to the brake part.
I asked a visitor who was taking photos of the waves how to get back to the main part of town, and she happily said to pick a road and turn right; she was also a visitor who was giddy about being polished by wind and sand, enjoying the furious scene. I ended up in familiar territory, and got to the museum where it was near lunch. Drove again over to the restaurant, ate, was going to find the print shop again with corrected synapses, and my foot went right smack down to the floor when stepping on the brake pedal; the car slowly decided to squish to an uncertain stop, luckily on a side street. Not good news, I had to be in Buffalo to teach kids on Monday, this was Saturday afternoon.
Triple A guy thought there was air in the line and I needed a cap. There are no caps, was later stated by those in the know. Others mentioned a possible master cylinder which, holy crow, would cost a sacred cow. The tow truck took the car to a brake garage, which did not open until this morning, Monday, and it couldn't be looked at till later in the day. By now chunks of ice were hurtling down, thunder and lightning adding just the perfect, dramatic, movie touch.
My roomie wanted to get back, so she took a cab and rented a car; last I heard, Flint, Michigan has good polka stations. Called the school, took two more days off, and tomorrow may have the same cab driver get me to the repair shop. Nothing bad has happened in the last three hours, so I am taking that as a good sign.
I love to drive, and will do so in a much happier, less ignorant of circumstances frame of mind. Tonight will be peaceful, and maybe I will see stars, though unlikely under the sporadic cloud cover. Right now I have a television, and will be watching old movies and typing, typing, the incessant typing that explains life to me. I appreciate your patience and indulgence. You sleep well, these colder nights call for blankets and deep dreams, slumber dreams, dreams of falling stars. With love to all.
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