Anyone that knows me also knows how routine oriented I am. This is readily apparent in my life. No matter the situation I will seek to create a pattern.
As a traveler this habit was often muted somewhat or, in brief intervals, completely lost. Even in those instances of travel I sought to create a sense of order out of chaos by making lists of things to do or see. While living in France I settled into a sort of routine on most days that was largely based around my writing. Self-fulfilling activities are easy to prioritize when you have minimal responsibility. An ocean away from my reality and with nothing in way of true responsibility in front of me, finding time to write was easy. At times, it was too easy. Because I knew I had so much time I was more apt to put off a larger task I had set for myself.
Back in Arkansas, back in reality, time with a pen is harder to find. Even though I've instinctively sought to create a routine, one with time to write and read, it is still hard to accomplish. It's so easy to get lost in our day to day world that we lose sight of a larger purpose or an overriding goal. My own aim is to advance myself as a writer. Perhaps this might be easier without a job, a Netflix subscription, errands to run, or grapes to wash but it wouldn't be reality.
I've never tried to hide from the world, only to live in it in my own way, no matter the cost. Returning from France I was at the end of a line and unsure where my next cast would fall. Through fate I've stumbled upon a new line to run down, replete with its own tasks and challenges. For the time being, my own aspirations and goals come at the cost of a life resembling many others. Though I hope I can work in enough time with a pen to justify this existence, I fear that unless these aspirations come to fruition, my efforts at staving off a life of routine and reality will have been in vain.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
These Days
As a returned resident there are often moments where I find myself running into an old friend. This was a fairly frequent occasion while I was still in college. Once I was out of college I visited less. Without the leisure of long breaks between classes during the winter or summer, the trip home became more of a hassle. As my visits diminished they took on a different quality. I began to feel isolated in my hometown.
The holidays bring home the disparate sons and daughters of a city. As a student home during this period you make to the bars like everyone else your age. You always try to pass those "boring" nights in your hometown with beer and old faces. On certain nights during the year a place that might be half empty on any other Wednesday is transformed into high school (or at least some sort of surreal reunion). The only things missing are pretensions and awkwardness. Though the spirits might be said to cure both I like to attribute it to the intervening time between us and what we once were. Though it's hard to see past the person we once were and into the one we are today, time, like alcohol, has a way of softening the edges of our perceptions.
Admittedly I don't always like running into people I knew as a younger person. This doesn't stem from dislike. Unfortunately time hasn't cured my awkwardness and I often find myself unsure of what to say about myself. Once it was natural, easy, and true to say "Yeah, things are good. I'm still in school at Texas." Now, I'm now hesitant, stuck between utter veracity and half-true glibness.
My indecisiveness rests as much in the person whom I'm speaking with as it does with me. I find the difficulty of these responses directly increases in proportion to how close I once was with the person I've encountered. My heart wants to reach out while my mind is unsure--one sees the person while the other sees the empty years between us. Perhaps my mind knows how much I've changed in the intervening years and assumes those I once knew have as well.
Though my move here was purportedly a return home, in many ways it is just the opposite. As I navigate my way through the days, I see the town and the people within it. While I might think I know them both, after seven years away, we have a lot of catching up to do.
The holidays bring home the disparate sons and daughters of a city. As a student home during this period you make to the bars like everyone else your age. You always try to pass those "boring" nights in your hometown with beer and old faces. On certain nights during the year a place that might be half empty on any other Wednesday is transformed into high school (or at least some sort of surreal reunion). The only things missing are pretensions and awkwardness. Though the spirits might be said to cure both I like to attribute it to the intervening time between us and what we once were. Though it's hard to see past the person we once were and into the one we are today, time, like alcohol, has a way of softening the edges of our perceptions.
Admittedly I don't always like running into people I knew as a younger person. This doesn't stem from dislike. Unfortunately time hasn't cured my awkwardness and I often find myself unsure of what to say about myself. Once it was natural, easy, and true to say "Yeah, things are good. I'm still in school at Texas." Now, I'm now hesitant, stuck between utter veracity and half-true glibness.
My indecisiveness rests as much in the person whom I'm speaking with as it does with me. I find the difficulty of these responses directly increases in proportion to how close I once was with the person I've encountered. My heart wants to reach out while my mind is unsure--one sees the person while the other sees the empty years between us. Perhaps my mind knows how much I've changed in the intervening years and assumes those I once knew have as well.
Though my move here was purportedly a return home, in many ways it is just the opposite. As I navigate my way through the days, I see the town and the people within it. While I might think I know them both, after seven years away, we have a lot of catching up to do.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Día del Padre
Last week I got to talking with a former coach about the past. Nestled within the conversation was a recollection about my father which stuck with me. Apparently in all of his years coaching my father was the only parent present at every practice. "He'd bring his work with him but he was there."
My father and I haven't always had an easy relationship. Though I don't remember a whole lot from my childhood I think my conception of him as a father, like so many other children, was one akin to Superman. I can still remember the day he became human, the day my parents separated. Though I believe every child struggles to come to terms with their father's humanity, my own experience seemed to be heightened due to the event coinciding with my teenage years and thus perhaps magnifying my disenfranchisement.
Over the next four or five years we had our ups and downs, butting heads over a myriad of things. I struggled to come to terms with my emotions and my anger while he struggled to figure me out. It seems that distance was the magical salve we needed. When I went away for college it seemed that our problems thawed somewhat. I suppose living eight hours away allows for a sense of perspective, and no doubt I was slowly maturing. Distance hasn't cured everything and from time to time we still have our arguments. These all seemed to stem from my silence, which itself arose out of my fear of disappointing the one person whose approval I sought more than anything else.
The lucky among us know parental love and dotage. We perhaps know it so well that we've come to expect it in our lives and thus devalue it because it is expected, the natural order.
As age and experience continue to soften the edges of my relationships with everyone, I more easily see how lucky I was and how lucky I continue to be. Perhaps this exploration is trite but through it all, through my obstinacy and anger, my father has always been there looking out for me. He's always done his job as a parent--wanting what's best for his children. My father strove to provide my siblings and me with a life, through his own time and through the means his job provided. That juxtaposition, working while attending my practice, though not romantic and not necessarily poignant, is my father. It sums up not only his dedication at being in my life but truly providing for it as well.
In one way or another I am my father, just as he was his. Without his library, without his curve balls, and without his protection I would be a shell of the "man" I am today. My eternal regret is never really knowing how to thank him.
My father and I haven't always had an easy relationship. Though I don't remember a whole lot from my childhood I think my conception of him as a father, like so many other children, was one akin to Superman. I can still remember the day he became human, the day my parents separated. Though I believe every child struggles to come to terms with their father's humanity, my own experience seemed to be heightened due to the event coinciding with my teenage years and thus perhaps magnifying my disenfranchisement.
Over the next four or five years we had our ups and downs, butting heads over a myriad of things. I struggled to come to terms with my emotions and my anger while he struggled to figure me out. It seems that distance was the magical salve we needed. When I went away for college it seemed that our problems thawed somewhat. I suppose living eight hours away allows for a sense of perspective, and no doubt I was slowly maturing. Distance hasn't cured everything and from time to time we still have our arguments. These all seemed to stem from my silence, which itself arose out of my fear of disappointing the one person whose approval I sought more than anything else.
The lucky among us know parental love and dotage. We perhaps know it so well that we've come to expect it in our lives and thus devalue it because it is expected, the natural order.
As age and experience continue to soften the edges of my relationships with everyone, I more easily see how lucky I was and how lucky I continue to be. Perhaps this exploration is trite but through it all, through my obstinacy and anger, my father has always been there looking out for me. He's always done his job as a parent--wanting what's best for his children. My father strove to provide my siblings and me with a life, through his own time and through the means his job provided. That juxtaposition, working while attending my practice, though not romantic and not necessarily poignant, is my father. It sums up not only his dedication at being in my life but truly providing for it as well.
In one way or another I am my father, just as he was his. Without his library, without his curve balls, and without his protection I would be a shell of the "man" I am today. My eternal regret is never really knowing how to thank him.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
A Searching Sunday
I went to see Sex and the City today. I prefer to be completely upfront with it. In the same vein, I'd also prefer to not waste space posturing about my manhood. Nor will I make excuses about seeing it. I wasn't dragged there, it wasn't for a date. I saw the movie of my own volition. And though it dragged on a bit, even at two hours plus I found it enjoyable.
Although it's not always readily seen, I've always been an emotional person. For many years my folly was trying to suppress it. I still get in my own way from time to time but in general I like to think that I'm honest with myself and with my emotions. In the past I was quite a bit more cavalier--not only with myself but in my relations with others. Reasons for this change are difficult to pinpoint (If I were a middle age woman I might be able to lay this heightened emotional evolution on menopause). Despite all of this and my own security with it, I am still reticent to admit that Sex and the City struck a chord with me.
It always seemed to me that Sex and the City's appeal to women lay with the alternate universe it opened to them--a tangible dream life for young women to strive towards and a brave youthfulness older women could pine for. We all internalize the stories we read, the shows we watch, and the lyrics we hear. We need to identify with the characters, that identification drives our enjoyment. It grounds the material in something we know or wish to know.
What gets lost among the handbags and the fancy lunch spots are the existential questions posed and the fluid conclusions each character reaches in response. That is what first made the show evolve from bearable to enjoyable for me--from something to share with my little sister to something I could watch on my own. It is also, I think, what I identified with the most in the movie. Of course there were all the natural Hollywood moments geared towards the demographic--overblown melodrama, metered humor, and plenty of dresses--but essentially the movie, like the show, was a chronicle of the inseparable nature of life and love. Within that spectrum was its greatness. It had the confusion, the hope, the despair, and the clarity of life and love. To any who have been there, to any who have experienced love, these attributes are easily identifiable. And it was that which truly spoke to me--the lonely soul reaching out into the world searching for that most human of all connections
Although it's not always readily seen, I've always been an emotional person. For many years my folly was trying to suppress it. I still get in my own way from time to time but in general I like to think that I'm honest with myself and with my emotions. In the past I was quite a bit more cavalier--not only with myself but in my relations with others. Reasons for this change are difficult to pinpoint (If I were a middle age woman I might be able to lay this heightened emotional evolution on menopause). Despite all of this and my own security with it, I am still reticent to admit that Sex and the City struck a chord with me.
It always seemed to me that Sex and the City's appeal to women lay with the alternate universe it opened to them--a tangible dream life for young women to strive towards and a brave youthfulness older women could pine for. We all internalize the stories we read, the shows we watch, and the lyrics we hear. We need to identify with the characters, that identification drives our enjoyment. It grounds the material in something we know or wish to know.
What gets lost among the handbags and the fancy lunch spots are the existential questions posed and the fluid conclusions each character reaches in response. That is what first made the show evolve from bearable to enjoyable for me--from something to share with my little sister to something I could watch on my own. It is also, I think, what I identified with the most in the movie. Of course there were all the natural Hollywood moments geared towards the demographic--overblown melodrama, metered humor, and plenty of dresses--but essentially the movie, like the show, was a chronicle of the inseparable nature of life and love. Within that spectrum was its greatness. It had the confusion, the hope, the despair, and the clarity of life and love. To any who have been there, to any who have experienced love, these attributes are easily identifiable. And it was that which truly spoke to me--the lonely soul reaching out into the world searching for that most human of all connections
Sunday, June 1, 2008
Something About Summer
There is much that is said about the supernatural tendencies of women. There is the uncanny display of foresight involved in women's "intuition." There is also the tick-tock of the famous "maternal clock," the internal timepiece that sends young women into gray hair inducing fits.
As far as I can tell, I'm not a woman. I do, however, have my own internal clock system. Unlike the female baby clock, mine is tied to the seasons, particularly summer. Each year around April or May I begin to have an itch for a certain type of music--songs that befit the changing weather, tunes that shift my mind forward into the realm of sunshine, music that puts a smile on my face. I itch for a little Jimmy Buffett.
There are many who knowingly or not reject Mr. Buffett. People only see him as the purveyor of catchy over played pool party hits--Cheeseburger in Paradise, Margaritaville, Let's Get Drunk. You can't erase those songs nor can you detach him from them. They, the songs and the writer, have both become a slice of America. Unfortunately, to most he seems to be nothing more than an entertainer and a mass market commodity. What is lost behind this glossy surface of success is his real and unmistakable talent as a songwriter and storyteller.
It may come as a shock but Jimmy Buffett is a fixture in my storyteller Top-5 (w/Billy Joe Shaver, John Prine, Guy Clark, and TVZ). He is for all intents and purposes past his prime in this regard. With the hubbub of life crowding in around the edges, it is easy to lose the spark that once drove you. That, however, shouldn't cast a pall over his songwriting gems of the past. He created labors of love, testaments to craftsmanship. He was honest and wrote what he knew. And never has anyone so poignantly captured youth, travel, and a longing for something beyond oneself as he did in the early years of his career.
"All of the faces and all of the places, wonderin' where they all disappeared."
As far as I can tell, I'm not a woman. I do, however, have my own internal clock system. Unlike the female baby clock, mine is tied to the seasons, particularly summer. Each year around April or May I begin to have an itch for a certain type of music--songs that befit the changing weather, tunes that shift my mind forward into the realm of sunshine, music that puts a smile on my face. I itch for a little Jimmy Buffett.
There are many who knowingly or not reject Mr. Buffett. People only see him as the purveyor of catchy over played pool party hits--Cheeseburger in Paradise, Margaritaville, Let's Get Drunk. You can't erase those songs nor can you detach him from them. They, the songs and the writer, have both become a slice of America. Unfortunately, to most he seems to be nothing more than an entertainer and a mass market commodity. What is lost behind this glossy surface of success is his real and unmistakable talent as a songwriter and storyteller.
It may come as a shock but Jimmy Buffett is a fixture in my storyteller Top-5 (w/Billy Joe Shaver, John Prine, Guy Clark, and TVZ). He is for all intents and purposes past his prime in this regard. With the hubbub of life crowding in around the edges, it is easy to lose the spark that once drove you. That, however, shouldn't cast a pall over his songwriting gems of the past. He created labors of love, testaments to craftsmanship. He was honest and wrote what he knew. And never has anyone so poignantly captured youth, travel, and a longing for something beyond oneself as he did in the early years of his career.
"All of the faces and all of the places, wonderin' where they all disappeared."
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