2016 - Day 1 - ESE, Pics and Go!

Day 1 - New Year of 2016

Day 1 - 

This year starts in my chair with my coffee. Looking and feeling tired but pumped to get started with the year. There are three things I am focusing on: 

- ESE Me - exercise, sleep and eat better. Will make me feel better. 

- Pictures and Me - Get used to taking pictures of myself and being happy with them. Don't avoid them so daily I am taking a picture of myself. 

- Yes and..... - I am going to do what I say and not bring negativity in to it. Yes I can do that and I will. 

ESE, Pics and Go! That is my 2016 - lets get this party started!    

Faded Green Colored Plastic Coffee Cups

You know the face that someone makes when they take a sip of coffee. That inward, “brace yourself for something hot and bitter” mouth movement. The hand grips the cup, the cup comes up, it suddenly swoops inbound and that face happens and the coffee gets delivered. Magical.

Photo courtesy via Creative Commons

My Grandma Fran was a perky little Irish lass, er sweetheart. My Grandpa's sweetheart that is. Fran liked her coffee and I remember her drinking it in the morning and the afternoon. I remember her drinking it from the faded green colored plastic coffee cups. What a life. Knowing who ya know, tending to the family in spitfire fashion, sending Bud off to work at the quarry.

As a child, when staying with her, the interest in her coffee was not evident to me. There was far more concern then, for the amount of sugar to pour upon the floating, circular cereal (scrape the bottom the bowl for more); or the pleasing heavy smell that popped from the wooden pendesk as you pulled the lid and opened a world of pens and pencils and paper, stamps, inkpads and rubber bands; the impact of lit match for cigarette as you wafed in the light plume of sulfur; the itch of the hay, the call of the kitten, an odor of oil and grease within the tractor shed, the pang from the electric fence.

I remember my Grandma and her coffee moments, sitting at the kitchen table with coffee cup (and probably an ash tray), looking out towards the barn. And that is a pleasant thought for which I carry - and move on, taking that snapshot with me.

The hands start nimble, they grow calloused, then wrinkle.
The cup fades with each use, even the stain from coffee shows wear.
As does the memory when bombarded by impulse each moment.
But, love always.

Beyond These Polar Palpitations

Is that cat depressed - is it evident in his eyes? (no, but behold the eyes of the cat!)
The windows at this cat's domain have been closed for three, probably four, solid months now. There is no open screen to the outside world and no neighborly critter or creatures that come visit or snoop around the outer window sills.

As we enter the house, of the cat, we close the door from the cold as soon as possible, leaving not a gap for him to gander out and test the air for sniff or sound of any smaller game. Rarely, lately, does he even try to catch a glimpse out - he has probably entered some contemplative state of meditation. A mind over matter approach to get beyond the stale inside air, the same old same old is probably getting old – his naps seem longer, curled on his cushion near the radiator.

As he ages, and let us admit it, he is probably a bit beyond his prime now, he looks a little pudgy. Though sometimes through the night he can be heard down on the main floor below doing some sort of sprinting. We are pretty sure it’s a shuttle run, back and forth he goes, through the chair legs and over the toys strewn across the floor, his own offseason American Gladiator/Ninja Warrior training. His nocturnal instinct takes control, his yoga, his continued conditioning toward a state of meditative bliss.

Luka, the cat

The matrix moves and leaps of this cat are still possible, but a little less frequent now at his stage in life. The quick bursts of speed seem to be meant to escape the static-cling, born from dry air that engrosses and defies gravity leaving particles on his grey fur - that he licks off, with his dry tongue and eventually comes back up.... ah, but we digress.

He seems to overly appreciate those times that he gets a highly rationed treat. What a good cat, a friend, a good juju kind of fellow. He protects the house when we are home and away and should get random tokens of appreciation. Maybe a little glass of milk left on the table overnight would suffice and make his life a little more interesting, especially through this winter monotony.

Perhaps a bird feeder outside a window could generate interest or muse as well.

[Somebody get out the yarn, somebody throw the catnip, somebody pay me some mind because I’m overprotected and stuck in this lame inner-house party; a nature-sucking vacuum - funded, fueled and propelled by wave after wave of polar palpitation with arctic proportions and reality distortions.]

Minnesota is Green

Spring arrives. Minnesota, the land of sky blue waters, is green. It is a naturally green place, it gets enough water to keep the various trees and grasses watered and green, lush, vibrant. A lush vibrant place with wetlands and mosquitoes and soil that is ripe for growth, and willing to grow to sustain life and nurture fully functioning Minnesotans and others from around the world. Evidently there is a need to enhance this green beyond nature?

Image courtesy via CC

Summer sets. Minnesota turns yellow. With sunflowers and corn and canola and black eyed susans. Some in the fields, some in the garden, some along the highway downtown. Why then does my lawn look yellow as well, for yet another summer? Like a straw matted yard, crisp and dry, as if water from the spring had never come.

Fall beckons. Minnesota turns... pumpkin? They may start out green, but by Fall they then turn orange. Then they turn dead... and brown or grey, like the squirrel that eats their innards. Red? Like Sumac, which was green, sometimes practically yellow. Maroon and Gold? Like the gopher hunting for the last kernel of... Indian corn. Is that correct (politically speaking)?

Winter comes. Minnesota turns white. White, like that scene at the beginning of Fargo, which is in North Dakota, which often turns white as well. Whitewashed like a bleached rag. Like it or not, Minnesota turns white in winter, usually, except for snirt.

Soft-Served Discernment

I have started to believe that a person’s will can be sensed through their eyes, somehow.  When we look into someone’s eyes we may either see their will or sense it and not even realize it. There are also those folks that can see it and sense it and bend it at their whim – bending someone else’s will, not taking over their thought processes like Dr. Xavier, but realizing a weak will through someone’s eyes and then setting them in a different direction.

As this school season has started I have sensed the will of my three children through their eyes and must stay strong, dishing out the soft-served discernment as a parent - not a friend.

I don’t want to be friends with my three boys, I don’t want to be friends with my three boys, I don’t want to be friends with my three boys. I am their parent and want to be their father – their mentor. So, I need to act like it, and set a good example, which for me is a whole ‘nother step up on the hierarchical scale – because it is soooo easy to slip down to their cognitive level (and even lower).

As a parent, I think I have some patience, when push comes to shove I can bark, but I'm generally soft, in a rigid sense. When doling out punishment (justice?), I much prefer to make them understand by essentially bending their will in a verbal manner, rather than a tactile one (New Testament to Old?) – to make them see, realize and understand that I am right and they are not. I prefer to use short little sentences aka instructions/directives: Do your reading. Eat your carrots. Don’t peel the bark off the tree. Put your pajamas on. Go to bed. Stop. Stop it.

The trouble I’m finding is that I believe one is supposed to explain the reasoning for the short directive: Do your reading so you can grow up to be smart. Eat your carrots because they are good for you. Don’t peel the bark off the tree because the trees are stressed due to a general lack of precipitation and removing their bark makes them more susceptible to bugs infiltrating their defeneses therefor opening the tree up to premature death. Go to bed, because I want to play my mature rated X-Box games.

Do they understand this reasoning? Do they care? As school has started and they are essentially working through their day - they are more tired when they come home (especially the new kindergartner). So, as I attempt to bend their will using the patented directives approach, and they plead with me through their tearclogged eyes.... I stand my ground. I am rigid, like a rock (with soft moss growing on it).

As these examples, er boys are tired, their will seems to be more evident – through their eyes. Though this doesn’t seem to be of benefit because their will seems all rubbery and elusive or stubborn and determined. This is where it can get difficult, because of the tears – but this is where I need to be a parent and not their friend. “Take a nap, because you will feel refreshed” vs. “Oh all right, don’t take a nap, in fact here have some cotton candy to enhance your jumping and running and wrestling and bickering all over the house.”

Gotta stay strong, lay down the line and serve it up hard, er soft – the positive long term effects will far outnumber the short term easements. Thy will be done.

{And all the Grandparents chuckle at such grand hopes - while the parents-to-be whisper to each other how they will raise their kids to be model citizens and whatzhernutz rolls her eyes with slight consternation.}

Doldrums

noun

°A part of the ocean near the equator, abounding in calms, squalls, and light, baffling winds, which sometimes prevent all progress for weeks; -- so called by sailors.

°the state of boredom, malaise, apathy or lack of interest; a state of listlessness ennui, or tedium.

(according to Ninjawords.com)

Doldrums ensnare and control via the disguise of calmness.

There is nothing that makes a lasting splash or a gusty wind.

Image courtesy via CC

Sitting in the afternoon of a hot humid day, afraid to lose energy through moving muscle of glass to mouth.

Was the second grade teacher right? – Does it take more energy to fan yourself than reeling the effects of the fan?

The birds handle their business at dawn, the mosquitoes at dusk, various rodents at night  - why on this earth do we scuttle about during the peak of day to pick up kids and trim lawns and cook in the kitchen…?

The economy even coasts at a pace reminiscent of the decay of french fried potatoes.

Are we lost at sea, devoid of meaning, recluse of wonder... waiting.... for what?

As we head into another political season - someone cast a vision that has teeth and grit, someone rock the boat and make waves of beneficial balance, rather than detrimental fracture.

That Sweet Spot

Image courtesy, via CC

On my head. Not the chicken pox scars created fresh from ancient scratch, but the pinkish colored mound (speed bump?) located somewhat off-axis, just where my part could be parted if I wanted a Republican haircut. The thing that blinds Google Maps from their satellite view of my upper cranial region. Or does it protect the rest of my body lightening’ rod’ like from the radiation emitted from Fukushima? Anyway, when you control me there, with your touch - that is where I know that you know that I like it when you like me and are relaxed and comfortable enough to comfort me while we watch some show (your show) about a very attractive White House consultant - consulting a President in the sweet spots all over the White House...

A "Kid" is getting old

A Kid is getting old. The kid inside fights vibrantly to remain relevant, but when viewing the outside world through the eyes or hearing the pop sounds through ears of an aging body, a realization occurs. Ya' gettin' old. Becoming older.

It's a feeling, like the lightning spikes down the spine that you wake up with and can't reach in and correct or adjust. It's a realization, like watching a pro baseball game and realizing none of the players are your age any longer. It's a matter of fact, the facts state the matter - you've been around this earth for forty years - that's two cats lives or three or four dogs'. It's the fashion, yes the shirts you wore eight years ago were the top of the pop, the cream of the crop... eight years ago; and even though they are still in good shape today, because you don't wear them as regularly - they are still not in fashion, they aren't tight, like the jeans or the form fitting t's.

Who'da thunk that when you showered and washed your hair that the hair that gradually came out with the wash was yours and didn't magically replace itself over time? It's the lack of urge - or urgency to get the new cd... (do you hear the cricket in the deserted music aisle at the store) as it comes out on radio, really radio? Besides, the paid-for auto you drive, (which is now over 10 years old) practically still plays tapes (mix tapes, not mixed). And who wants to go to concerts when its these whippersnappers playing with their upright bass and fiddle and anything you want to hear is labeled as some "reunion tour" or "20 year anniversary" and to wrestle with finding a babysitter in advancia to get to that concert... sigh.

Image courtesy via CC

Yup the kid is getting old. You have your own kids and don't even fudge when a song comes on with cuss words any longer - you fight off a belly that takes in what your mind says is good - like the kids leftovers that they won't eat, but that can't go to waste because you paid for it. Really, the toothbrush I use is too firm? - So, I've been brushing correctly, but the brush is too firm and wearing away my enamel (as I age)? That's now nice to know. What's that? You can tell I had braces when I was younger because there is the possibility of root resorption... there's a term for that?

We get older, each day and it isn’t the end of the world. Perhaps at some moment, one makes the realization that they are satisfied. Their cornucopia has been maxed out and the simple things bring that genuine internal smile, everything else is just the cherry on the icing on the cake. Eventually all kids reach an age-point that they need to fend for themselves – you’ve done what you could – let the little boats find their wind and sail off.

Unfortunately there is a reel -to- real tape clicking inside my head that's mixing Fred Savage up with Northern Exposure - sweet, now I'm making shit up. Despite my internal kernel calls that I'm still young - my outer shell says something different, so much for unity. But, there's still time... however what happened to the kids? Weren't they just toddlers?

Fish Bottom Dock

Like the fish at the bottom of the dock, we wait. Hanging around, ready to pounce, but waiting – for better bait, for real bait, hungry for something but not sure what will be tossed down our way. What do we see? It isn’t perfectly clear – there are differing combinations of combined particles superseding our vision, it’s muddied, it’s wavy, it’s not certain. We look up and see light spliced apart into rays of motion. Hunger leads us to the bottom of the dock, within eyesight of the fisherman, not the safety of the shadows or weeds like our older, larger brethren.

Or are we still the fisherman, hungering for a catch? Wondering when that right fish will come along – or if that right fish will take the bait? Is it the right bait? Should we be fishing for the little fish at all?