Finding a Home

There are a couple of flash back blogs I'll do of my last days in Provo this summer, but I wanted to post some pictures of a dreamy neighborhood here in South Harrisburg I went through while trying to find a home. It's right along the river and was the a place the man who owned the local lumber mill made for his workers to live. It's the first place to flood in Harrisburg--which it did a couple years ago so some of the new homes are built with only a garage on the first floor with a latticed wood garage door and balcony and living room on the first floor with arched floor to ceiling windows and fine bricks. It would be heaven to live there, I think.

And let's go back to that word "home." I think that's why I'm having such a hard time finding a place to settle in. I can never get all of the pieces together. It'll be a good price but really run down, it'll be in a great place but my front balcony is a smoking nook for other tenants, it'll be not too far, but only one shared bedroom, it'll be in a lovely neighborhood but with an extra $500 tax--should I worry about this one?--it'll be in a lovely neighborhood with a place for a canoe near the river, but it won't actually exist... that's a real sad one.

I do get hopeful every time. There was a studio apartment I wasn't too thrilled about, but after sleeping on a couch and having nothing but a small suitcase to live out of for more than a week, I was going to take it. No year lease, just sweet freedom and paying for what I get. But no laundry. Kind of lame. But livable. We'll see. And the shared room... also perhaps livable. We'll see. Still looking and having an okay time doing it. And if that canoe heaven turns out to be real... it's far from campus, but oh, man, that'd be the life!

Namers Ltd.

The other day, don’t know why, I was told that my perfect job was to name things. A namer, I suppose. At the time I had maybe made up a punny nick name for some thing or other, but the next day, walking around the tree streets I started thinking of the names of trees. Hawthorne. Osier. Weeping Willow. Beech. Oak. Sycamore. Rowan. Mountain Ash.

Then I started thinking about how “intuitive” these names are. Weeping Willow is an easy one since it has all those drooping branches like one who might be weeping. Actually it works on many levels. The drooping branches can also be falling tears, or perhaps, in summer, its concealed interior is a perfect place to cry.

But what about the willow part? It perhaps relates to Willows, but that just leads to another association. But what about Osier, is there something there that indicates its wispy branches? Is there something sinuous and strong inherent in Beech? Howthorne’s do have a thorniness to them, but do they have a haw-ness? Doubtful, though I’m sure one could be instructed.

Then I did some thinking of the names of birds, or even the names, sky, moon, morning. I loved testing the sound and feel of the names—mainly of trees—and wondering about how they related to that which they named. I spent a lovely walking doing this, and I think I could spend a lovely life doing the same.

Sadly, most everything’s named already. How lovely must it have been for Adam, God bringing him various creatures, plants and animals, mutable and new, and invited him to attach a name. A certain collection of oral movements, expelled breath, and vibrations of the vocal chords. Eden, where the connections between thing named and name were new and known.

So, if anyone needs anything named, let me know. I’d like to start building up a resume. And, speaking of expelled breath, I’m looking for the word/name for when one expels breath quickly out of the nose or mouth as if in disgust. Similar to a pshaw, but not so heavy handed.

PS. My favorite tree is the Magnolia—again, where’d that name come from? Though I do like that it has a combination feel of broad, delicate, and strong. But that’s probably just what I associate it with because of my feelings about the tree. And that’s another thing I’d love about naming, thinking of what feel certain collections of consonants and vowels would take on through association with thing named. Anyway, they’re in bloom right now. Go find one to sit under right now; the blooms don’t last.

Ambidextrous

It was from a picture of Danny Kaye, a still from one of his movies, that I had my first dream: ambidexterity. It had all the purity of childhood dreams. I can’t remember a particular reason or purpose for this dream, but there was something utterly delicious to me in the ability to write equally well with BOTH hands! I’m failing utterly to recreate the loftiness I felt about this dream. There was some exquisite joy to be had in this rare skill. Everyone could write, but who could write equally well with both hands? No one I knew.

And perhaps that was the joy. As the seventh of ten who wasn’t as important as my naughty older sisters, or as good an artist as my older brothers, or as good a singer as my younger sisters, it was something I could do that no one I knew could do. That was unheard of in my world of second-place ribbons in running, spelling, et al. I was good, but unremarkable, so unlike an ambidextrous man.

Some dreams need to be kept close and nurtured in the dark like beans rolled in a damp cloth sprouting in my Jr. High shop locker. But I didn’t know that at the time. I didn’t know there were dreamers and pragmatists. So I took my dream and excitement to my mother and told her of my dream.

“Who would want to be ambidextrous?”

Her words crushed me. I was too shy a child to defend myself. What if I lose my right hand? No problem, that’s what! What if they have a contest in school where they tie your good hand behind your back? I’d be ready! What if little miss Kinghorn looks over while I write her love notes with both hands at the same time? World class reciprocal crush, that’s what! But none of these scenes were lighted on the stage; the curtain had already come down.

Such was the death of my first dream.

Until last week playing the Napoleon Dynamite board game. One of the tasks requires you to draw with your “bad” hand. My sister said she could do that task as she was ambidextrous. My heart stopped and I travelled back in time, aghast.

“You taught yourself that?”

“Yeah.”

“I so wanted to do that as a child. But told mom and she thought it was a dumb idea.”

“Yeah, I didn’t tell mom.”

We won that round and the game, and instead of crying for that first, lost dream, I thought, it didn't have to die. Even though it’s kind of pointless now that I type way more than write, even though I still have a working right hand, even though miss Kinghorn is probably now Mrs. Kinghorn, and even though—bitterest of all?—it won’t even serve to make me special or unique in the family like I once dreamed it would. It could still make me smile.

Or maybe I need to look at some other dreams and decide which one I ought to unearth and give a second, if stumbling and zombie-like, life.

Kaleidoscope

What do you see? That’s the delight in Kaleidoscopes, I suppose. I remember a cheap one in my house that I played with near the patches of sun thrown through the living room windows onto our tan carpet. A cardboard tube covered in red paper, I held its clear, sleekness in both hands, the better for twisting and tumbling what looked like left over pieces of plastic from more expensive toys. This was the bologna and hotdog of the toy world.

At first I turned it eagerly, excited to rush to each new collection of reality made fantastic through multiple reflection. The colors and shapes slid and plopped into new and infinite patterns again and again. Sometimes I’d be shocked by the intricacy, sometimes the banality, of this closed magical tube of infinity.

Then I stopped turning it. I held it in one place when I realized the patterns don’t repeat. They’re unique in the world. This cheap, left-over plastic aided by three mirrors was forming unique patterns that would only be seen by me, and only once, before disappearing forever. I felt strange to be responsible for these fleeting and unique patterns, to know that their existence required me to hold them indefinitely.

But I couldn’t hold them indefinitely, so I dropped it on the ground, imagining the pattern newly created by the fall looking for an eye that would not. And there I left it forever after because soon I stopped picking up kaleidoscopes altogether. They made me feel old.

Thoughts of a Grandchild

Visiting my grandparents I wonder if I’m too serious. Like my grandpa. What I really mean is I’d like to make my grandma laugh. She laughs when I’m there but mostly at her own jokes and stories. Like the one where she comes back from Germany with her parents, 10 years old, speaking German, and fat from eating cake instead of the dark German bread.

It occurs to me later that I made my grandpa laugh by eating a big bite of apple pie. “That would take me at least three bites,” he says while I try to mentally divide my piece into three while thinking I could accommodate a lot more. This is apple pie. The bite was slightly ungainly, but quite doable even with my sticky jaw joints that don’t like opening all the way. Did they?

I don’t remember if my jaw did or not. I do remember clearing away plates and cleaning and putting away the card table they used for a visit from my grandpa’s sister and her husband. I remember talking with my grandparents. I remember feeling as I left that I wanted to make my grandma laugh. Not the way she nervously laughs when I carry her up and down the stairs at my parent’s, but by being playful and precocious as she nears 92.

And now I’m thinking about what I can give my grandma. The woman who started teaching me how to read. The woman who attached buttons to knotted string in ketchup bottles to make toys, who fired the best omelets over a blue gas flame, who embarrasses and delights me by telling jokes to strangers. I can adjust her mattress when it slips, shovel her driveway, take out the trash, trim the weeds growing up in the sidewalk cracks, and other chores. And maybe after a hard lifetime of chores, that’s what she needs.

I’d also love to get my mother a maid to end her lifetime of chores, but I know she’d prefer travel. She’d prefer exploring Thailand or Vietnam with me to not having to cook and clean in an increasingly vacant home. She’d also prefer to provide wants to needs. I remember finding her after one of my dad’s “let’s show Mom how much we love her” programs. Mom was down. Everyone had mentioned how much she did for them which left her feeling, ‘is that all?’

Needs and wants. The first seems boring, the latter exciting as evidenced by the maid versus world travel scenario or mattress adjusting versus jokemeister-G. Am I bothered by being a boring need fulfiller rather than a want provider? A source of comfort instead of excitement?

Or am I a perpetual discontent? When I was young, I was smart and good, but I wanted to be fun and popular. Then I was fun, but I missed being thoughtful. So I contemplated more but wanted surety. I’m helpful in ways to my grandma. I want to be good to her, but why is the role I seem to fulfill at the moment one that is not good for what it is, but lacking for what it isn’t? Her favorite granddaughter brings her dinners and plays skipbo with her. A relief because she hates cooking—hates—and a delight because she loves games.

So I worry about giving people what they need but not what they want even though it’s not true. For one, I’m not even that good at providing needs. I help only rarely my mother or my grandma. Plus, I’ve told grandma some zingers. When taking her to visit my grandpa in the hospital, she asked why the orange went to the doctor. I guessed, “He had a naval infection?” The alternate punch line stopped her. She cooed, ‘ooh, that’s good,’ before going on to say, “He wasn’t peeling well,” with a naughty smile. Every nurse, receptionist and visitor we passed heard the joke with both punch lines, my grandma graciously crediting me with the one I had come up with.

So embarrassing.

The Bookless

This last week I didn’t read anything. Nothing big anyway. No books, no blogs, no comics, no articles. Nothing. I did read labels and emails—as long as they didn’t seem too constructed. If they seemed conversational, I categorized them with texts and IMing and read on. I also wrote and in revising my work read my own words, that was legal. The idea is that with less input of words, I’ll free the passages and increase my output of words.

To clarify: I am not one of those Nimrods who never reads and is proud of the fact. This is just one week.

First thing I learned is that reading is my drug, and my room is my heroin den. Books are everywhere. Two piles of seventeen volumes sit on my bedside table alone. Splayed out in front of the table on the floor are nine more not counting three family histories lying there. They’re technically folders. And then there are two full bookcases and another two shelves. All full of books. All off limits.

A sample of some nightly thoughts:

Monday, Jan 26, 2009

Night is when it’s worst. I can’t sleep. TV’s not helping. Catching up on Battlestar Galactica, 30 Rock and SNL aren’t helping. Books are everywhere, glaring at me. I glare back. I write an opening scene to a screenplay I’ve been thinking about a lot. Like it. Still can’t sleep. Write notes for a Sci-fi novel I’m working on. Like that. Still not sleeping. Work on some dirty haikus. Still awake. Write in my journal (the absolute last straw), and I am still awake. Finally about 4 or 5 I drift off. Hell.

Tuesday, Jan 27, 2009

Coming home from an evening in SLC, I’m drowsy. Good sign. Really good sign. But, another bookless night means another sleepless night. A nightly read is as necessary to me, apparently as a morning cup of coffee is to some people. Ah, what a creature of habit. Interesting experiment, but I’d love to get some sleep. TV again?

Wednesday, Jan 28, 2009

Travelling all night. No sleep expected. Do a crossword instead of reading on the flight. I start getting a bit of help from the empty seat’s copy of the in-flight magazine for difficult words, but soon am using it as a reference, hoping the people across the isle aren’t watching me.

Thursday, Jan 29, 2009

Read a bit of an online comic over a friend’s shoulder. Feel kind of silly for not reading.

That kind of thing. When the readinglessness ends, I keep it up for a couple of days then finish “Stumbling on Happiness” which is a fascinating book about how the brain works to predict and ensure future happiness from past experiences. It cites many fascinating studies, and I’m glad to be reading again. I also get caught up on news stories and comics and some articles on how spam works. Interesting stuff.

Did not reading increase output? Somewhat, by not sleeping I was left with no choice but to write. It did quiet the voices inside a bit too and, surprising side effect, I’m going without the radio and singing in the car more.

Experiment with Posh

It's maybe been a year or more that I've been eying the sweet bottles of pure maple syrup at Costco, Maceys, Smiths, anywhere I go to buy breakfast stuffs--which is, if you don't know, about all the food I buy and keep in my home because it's the only meal I reliably eat there.

Going through Costco after Christmas--when I had received, among other things, a Waffle Maker--I decided it was finally time to give into my long-time desires and get some pure maple syrup. Oh, yes. As I checked out, my checker was a bit more talkative and asked me about the pure maple sryup--big news, I know--and I told her that I've always wanted to try it and I finally am. Then she said 'yeah, it's so expensive though. you've got to mix it with regular syrup to make it go farther.'

Hmmm..., I thought. Interesting. That doesn't sound like what I want to do with my new premium priced luxury item, but I'll think about it. I did. I thought it was ridiculous to buy specially good syrup just so I can make my regular cheap syrup taste a little better. When I order a steak at a restaurant, I don't put ketchup on it! Total waste. Nor was I going to mix my pure maple with Mrs. Butterworth's bargain basement maple. As buttery as it is.

No, forget that. I choose the other extreme. I bought fresh blueberries, whipping up lavender flavored cream, and bought some premium orange juice for the to eat with my blue corn waffles. That's right, got some special blue corn meal and buttermilk for the recipe which I highly recommend. They taste as clean as carrot juice or a fine sushi. Nice, clean, and pure. Like pure maple syrup.

And I still have a lot of posh syrup--I did get it at Costco--so if anyone out there has great Waffle recipes, I'm in the market/mood even if it requires soaking Quinoa overnight. Any "best waffles I've ever had," I'm interested. Viva la waffle.