/ Gallantly Fleeting

Do you say artsy or arty?

Dang these pretty girls, I prefer artistic, but I say, ‘um, artsy.’

I am not lacking for invitations these days, but am sorely in need of the will to say, ‘LOOK! OVER THERE!’ and runrunrun. My calendar is a bullet-ridden ramparts, pock marked and refilled with red clay mortar. My checking account is teeming with the blood money of broken dates and rendezvous. I am afraid to open my inbox, I just know it has been rigged for my displeasure.

That said, I cannot deny the excitement around me at the moment, and if karma is to intervene in my personal affairs, at least it has seen fit to put me up in nice accommodations. I am booking flights for Denver and Salt Lake City, the latter muchly appreciated for its blue laws and mild alcoholic content.

/ National Lurking Day

I occasionally get the most enigmatic messages from someone who doesn't read this site (Hi Mary!) because in spite of all her PhDs and JDs and various other Ds hasn't figured out that I know how to haunt the internet like nobody's home. And my response is typical what-comes-after-beta male behavior: pen an equally enigmatic post about bar napkins or the burn of sunlight on bloodshot eyes or how to survive a sudden reversal of the Earth's gravity.

I swear to god, if the way to my heart isn't shameless flattery, by god it must be purposeful bewilderment. I can't tell you how many women have busted my will simply by virtue of their poor grammar or woefully misheard song lyrics or just plain, flat-out dementia. Not to mention the really hot ones. With or without the aforementioned qualities. Mercy!

That said, I am in a fragile, vulnerable state and must hereby declare National LURKING Day. I am requesting those of you who visit this site NOT to leave any comments, because, seriously, who doesn't NOT like to see a full comment box every now and then? I equate it to working as a speech pathologist and after a long day of dealing with pathological speakers, you get home to a house full of people who want to, you guessed it, speak to you. This is why you don't want to be married to, what is it? A Chef? A Marriage Counselor? Contortionist? I forget the joke.

Seriously, would it hurt you to NOT leave a comment? Shhh!

/ Give Pizza Chants

Last night we gorged on pizza and chips to celebrate the culmination of a successful SAVE THE FISH campaign. In the past, we have always failed in our efforts and one or two trout invariably became casualties in our long-standing conflict (CAN MAN AND FISH EVER CO-EXIST PEACEFULLY???).

But this year, we had sheer numbers on our side. And for the first time, women were actively engaged in the front line. Although I am sure they are too humble to assume any sort of trailblazing credit, the fact is, fish have ALWAYS died when there were NO WOMEN present. And this year, NO fish came to harm. Clearly, victory falls along gender lines, and I am a big enough man to admit I had no part in previous year failures to save the fish.

Not to say that there weren’t some close calls. Early on, a rather large triploid got tangled in our warning lines, and jumped straight into the air, causing an osprey to swoop down and try to rescue the poor fish. But there was no danger. We applied years of NOT CATCHING FISH expertise and freed the creature before any permanent harm was done. We shed tears of joy, and still are.



Sadly, we would have SAVED EVEN MORE FISH, but one of our soldiers was overcome with urinary intractability ALMOST AS SOON AS I SET ANCHOR, to the point where she was reduced to babbling, “DADDY, I WANT TO GO HOME RIGHT NOW!” The $200 of medical chocolate, palliative potato chips, soothing submarine sandwiches and various other sundries I bought the night before notwithstanding, no first aid could ease this weary soldier’s pain.

Still, even in our momentary setback, there was no doubting the courage we showed in NOT CATCHING A SINGLE GODDAMNED FISH. FOR INSTANCE, I THINK IT WAS SINGULARLY HEROIC OF ME NOT TO OPEN THAT BOTTLE OF WINE ON THE TABLE THAT HAS BEEN TORMENTING MY PACIFISM FOR THE LAST 45 MOTHERFUCKING DAYS.

Right now, I am working on how I can possibly save even more fish next year. I'm pretty sure it will involve playing golf.

/Rainbow SLAUGHTER

Tomorrow is opening day, and there is a raging debate going on right now about how young is too young for joining in the ritualized slaughter of fish named rather ironically after rainbows. But if I have learned anything this year (AND I ASSURE YOU THAT IS NOT THE CASE) it is that members of both sexes are equally capable of suffering at an early age. So sobriety be damned, tomorrow morning at 3 AM, god willing, I will have two miserable children in the boat with me, and each will likely learn what it means to work together for a common cause, and that cause will be taking turns whining, “CAN WE GO HOME NOW, BRANDON?”

They cannot call me ‘DAD’ because it would be embarrassing for the other fishermen to realize that I don’t have any friends and must rely on my children for forced companionship. For all of Alex’s wonderful features and shiny buttons, she has still not warmed to the prospect of murdering god’s creatures, not even those that were clearly bred for that very purpose (MISSION FULFILLMENT).

One tradition that will be cast by the wayside this year, sadly, is massive amounts of alcoholic consumption. Tomorrow is 45 days liquor free, which is probably the sentence I would have been serving had I done like the officer said and blew harder. THAT’S WHAT HE SAID. It really is what he said.

Do you know pathetic it is to be bent over sucking on a breathalyzer and trying not to giggle with a big, burly man looming over you shouting “COME ON, BLOW! HARDER! BLOW HARDER!”

Well, now you do.

I promised myself that I wouldn’t joke about this, but that was ages ago when I thought it was a moot promise being as how alcohol was the source of my humor. But I attended a banquet yesterday, where I interacted with strangers, including a very lovely young communications specialist, and I realized I HAVE STILL GOT IT. She was handing me the rolls, and then the little packets of margarine, which I promptly dropped onto the floor. But without missing a beat, I looked at her and said, ‘OOOPS….BUTTERFINGERS.”

Her long silence clearly proved that…oh never mind.

/ Fixative

There is a young fella walking past my door lately, and on occasion he gets the jump on me in our race to the restroom, and he walks like the inside of his head is the secret location to that rave you suspect is in your neighborhood, like it is as obvious that he is grooving as it is obvious that he doesn't want you to know.

It is as if, and maybe I am projecting here, good things are happening and he is the type of person who does not believe good things should be happening, or he is the type of person who believes that if good things are happening you should be very quiet about it, in a superstitious sort of way.

I'm tired of feeling like I do not deserve the good as well as the bad, not because I am tired of guilt or reward, but I am just tired of thinking about the passing of time in those terms. Not angry tired. Sleepy tired. Thinking about karma makes me drowsy.

Personality wise, I am still like tofu, my tastes pretty much like my surroundings. Emotionally, though, I am corrugated cardboard, thin and sturdy. I laugh so much quieter than ever before. And my face has returned to the stoniness of its firefighter days. My face is ready to shine its indifference on whatever trauma may come.

We could hear him struggling to cough, then the tight whistle of air, like a faraway storybook train. We watched the hallway and knew he would come to us, panicky and desperate. I stood up and put my arm around his shoulder, more to keep Alex from slapping him on the back, one of those instinctual reactions that marks an unintended mistake. There was so little air, but not enough to carve lines into the granite face of my newfound indifference. When his knees buckled and he fell, Alex ran to the phone, but I caught him, could feel the rapidly beating heart. I said, 'No, no, stand up.' Briefly, I tried to remember where my old EMT kit was, a pair of Magill forceps inside. He stood, and coughed, forcefully this time. He was still holding onto the book he was reading. I breathed in the top of his head. 'You need a haircut.'

There is not much to do when the wind is blowing hard and fierce like that, other than to wait out the storm and, maybe if the lights go out, you can spend that time wondering whether or not this is deserved or random, or predictable like weather.

/ Drawn

For a time, the Drawbridge Exercise raged like wildfire among college moralists, and a new teacher each semester would hand out the scenario and look with wide, ticking-clock eyes upon his subjects, laid out in their desk chairs lounging couch-like as could be. I hated the Drawbridge Exercise, and got to the point where I would give different answers each time, my subsequent responses growing increasingly obnoxious, my only means of striking out against this awful fad.

This is the exercise as I can best remember it:

A Baron departs from his castle and warns his wife, the Baroness, not to leave under any circumstances or there will be severe consequences. After a time, the Baroness grows lonely, and leaves the castle against her husband’s wishes, joining her Lover. Upon returning to the castle, however, there is a knife-wielding Madman who blocks her path and threatens to kill her if she tries to cross the gate. Panicked, the Baroness goes to the Boatman who offers to ferry her across the moat for 5 ducats (or shillings or sous or sovereigns, I can’t remember), but as she has no money, he says, ‘No money, no service!’ Desperate, the Baroness returns to her Lover and asks for money to cross the moat, but the Lover refuses, saying that their relationship is only physical and he doesn’t wish to be involved any deeper. Nearly out of time, the Baroness rushes to a Friend and confesses her situation, before pleading for the money. The Friend, shocked at the Baroness’ sins, proclaims that this is divine retribution and will not assist the Baroness. With no other options, the Baroness returns to the gate and makes an attempt to get past the Madman, but fails. The Madman slays the Baroness.

In order from 1 to 6, rank the 6 characters in this story (the Baron, the Baroness, the Lover, the Madman, the Boatman and the Friend) by their responsibility in the death of the Baroness, with 1 being ‘Most Responsible.’ Share your responses with the other students in your group, and then come to a consensus, and present this to the class.

This is how it often plays out:

The Madman 1 (BECAUSE HE ACTUALLY DID THE KILLING, TWINKIES BE DAMNED)

The Baron 2 (ABUSIVE SOB)

The Lover 3 (MOTHERFUCKER)

The Friend 4 (THE WHAT???)

The Baroness 5 (KARMIC RETRIBUTION)

The Boatman 6 (JUST DIDDLY-DOIN' HIS JOB)

I don’t know why I have always reacted so strongly against being forced to participate in this exercise, almost always with unfamiliar students. But there have been times when I have ranked them all 6, times when I half-heartedly ranked them how I think the others would do so. This invariably means that the Boatman is rated LEAST RESPONSIBLE, because he is just DOING HIS JOB.

So once, out of annoyance, I scored the Boatman a 1, and everyone rolled their eyes, because this was 13 years ago and I was a young, pompous know-it-all. FINE, BRANDON (YAWN), THE BOATMAN IS MOSSST RESPONSIBLE, OF COURSE. PLEASE TELL US WHY….

The teacher at that time asked me to explain my thinking, since no one in my group would allow the Boatman to take the lion’s share of the blame, and I stood and in my most obnoxiously hurtful tone, quietly recounted Martin Niemoller’s famous parable, you know, that story about how 'first they came for the communists, then they came for the unionists, then they came for the jews, etc.’ By the time I get to the ending and with a dramatic head flair, say, no, accuse ‘…AND BY THE TIME THEY CAME FOR ME, THERE WAS NO ONE LEFT TO STAND!,’ the other students are a bit quiet, like, WHAT JUST HAPPENED HERE? IS THIS BEING FILMED? ARE WE GOING TO HAVE TO START DELIVERING ELECTRIC SHOCKS TO EACH OTHER?

The teacher was orgasmic as all be-all, and it was agreed, that yes, yes, you see, that is what I am talking about, AIN’T NO RIGHT ANSWER WHEN IT COMES TO MORALITY, SHEEPLE.

And then I knew for certain that I wasn’t getting invited to any parties that semester. And I was right, which is why vindication is such a harsh-sounding word.

/ Sumptuaries

A former colleague of mine once noted that the only reason I kept a certain book in plain view on my desk was to impress the girls, and as was befitting such an offensive slight against my impeccable character I quickly but firmly denied it even though it was nearly completely true. I say nearly completely because 10% of the reason it was still on my desk was that it had a lovely little note written inside that I could access every time my self-esteem dipped below the level at which I was no longer able to function as a contributing member of society. Obviously, this was well before the age of uploading self-portraits to flickr, marking them private, adjusting the contrast levels appropriately in photoshop and opening up the really hot ones for public comment. Ain't no sumptuary laws on the world wide web.

I came across this book today while searching for moths in the garage, and thought briefly about restoring it to its rightful place, atop my desk, right next to the chair that visitors use when they want to discuss how I can help them do their jobs better or what Cindy from Accounting said that Marge from Facilities said about JoAnn from Economic Development. But that prime piece of real estate is now occupied by an overexposed picture printed on the wrong side of budget photo printer paper, housed in a cheap frame probably picked up accidentally while searching for clearance rack bath towels. Replacing family photographs with anything other than more family photographs in a loose-lipped workplace is no remedy for ringing ears.

So I simply read the little note a final time and my faith in myself momentarily restored, crumpled it and tossed it in with the recycling. I am in a sorry state when I can measure my growth in destruction of mementos. Big things are happening. In very little ways.

It has been _41_ days since I last apologized without meaning it.

/ Banal Pleasures

THURSDAY
Nothing is happening now worth noting, not even in a that is so banal I am helpless to look away sort of way. This is what happened today: On the way to work I tried to remember applying anti-perspirant. And not being able to do so, I panicked. I am not ashamed to admit I keep an emergency hygiene kit in the top left drawer of my desk. Also, a PLAN B EMERGENCY hygiene kit in the bottom right drawer. This kit contains everything in the emergency kit, only in mini-travel size, with the exception of tweezers. I’m kidding. Ahem.

Mile 1 – Think cool thoughts. Be the coolness.
Mile 2 – Lift your arms a little as you drive. 10 and 2. 10 aaaand 2.
Mile 3 – AVOID HEAVY LIFTING.
Mile 4 – NO SEX WITH GAS STATION ATTENDANTS.
Mile 5 – Loosen your collar. Think 70s.
Mile 6 – And so forth and so on.

I never thought, of course, to simply wipe the underside of my arm with an index finger and test for residue, because that would have required too much exertion before getting to the office to reach my emergency hygiene kit, which as I must reiterate, I am only kidding about.

* * *


FRIDAY
One of the things I do, as in What do you do for a living, Brandon, besides live so close to the edge but not too far away from your emergency hygiene kit?, is write grant proposals.

People who don’t realize this often come to me shortly after finding out and ask one of two questions:

1. Can you hook me up with some Degree Absolute Protection?
2. Hey, I hear you write grants. Can you write me a grant for x?

X is generally one of 4 things, none related to our reason for employment or close enough to ethical that my immediate reaction is to point to the new sign above my desk that reads:

"IT HAS BEEN _17_ MINUTES SINCE I LAST MENTIONED TO A CO-WORKER THAT I AM NO LONGER DRINKING."

Those 4 things are:

1. Can you write me a grant for STARTING MY OWN MILLION DOLLAR BUSINESS WHILE USING COMPANY PROPERTY AND YOUR TIME?

2. Can you write me a grant for GETTING MY COLLEGE DEGREE BUT PLEASE DO NOT TELL ANYONE WHO HAS USED MY RESUME AS A BASIS FOR MY HIRING?

3. Can you write me a grant for A TRIP THAT I WOULD LIKE TO TAKE MY FAMILY ON BECAUSE FAMILY IS IMPORTANT?

4. Can you write me a grant for A LAPTOP COMPUTER?

The only one that makes me angry is the laptop computer because funders hate requests for laptop computers and it makes me look like a noob.

Still, here is a sampling of my typical response:

1. I want to write a grant to see why you are still here.
2. I want to write a grant to help determine why mayonnaise tastes so good. And for those of you who do not think mayonnaise is sooo good, I want to write an additional grant to figure out what is wrong with you.
3. I want to write a grant to the National You Are Looking Fine Foundation (RARE).

* * *


SATURDAY
I will write more seriously about today’s trip to Deception Pass State Park later on, because I am getting all my paintball gear ready to see how long I would last in an actual combat situation. Last time I proved that I could last nearly a full half-day and would take at least one pre-teen to hell with me, glory hallelujah. The trick, my friends, is not to die for your country, but to make the other son-of-a-bitch die for his. An alternate trick, one which works better for someone with my own particular skill set (CAN PIECE TOGETHER MULTIPLE HYGIENE KITS ON SHORT NOTICE, WITH LITTLE TRAINING) is to PRETEND to die for your country by staying in a well-heated car until the enemy breaks for Michelobs and then open fire through the crack in your driver’s side window.

And what were parks called before there were cars, anyway?

Aww, I know what you are thinking. It must be awful to live with someone so constantly funny. It’s like, WHY CAN’T YOU SHUT IT OFF FOR A MINUTE? I’M GONNA NEED TO GO IN FOR SIDE REPLACEMENT!

/ my bike is a handbasket

I am not thinking clearly these days but I swear to god I am going on a self-hate hiatus because I cannot help but get the feeling that if you hate yourself ALL THE TIME then it no longer qualifies as hate due to a lack of comparison, and the lack of hate is defined as love, so if you hate yourself constantly what you are really saying is that you looove yourself.

Let me get one out of my system, though. It will be like smoking an entire pack of smokes in one sitting and saying, 'OKAY, COLD TURKEY NOW, BABY.'

Just the other day I went for a 14 mile run (crazy) and halfway through, I saw a bird fly off into the deep, deep brush and decided to follow it well off the trail (not thinking clearly, see above) with the great big digital SLR camera I decided to hold in my hand while I ran 14 miles (CRAZY) and of course, there was no bird, there probably never was a bird, and suddenly half-lost and unable to find the trail (this is an exaggeration, but for effect) I stumbled across what looked like the remains of a flannel shirt and an old, rusted out bicycle.

(Damn! Just a week after purchasing a bicycle, too!) Of course, it was eerily silent, and remember, this was last weekend when I was still in my self-hate (really self-love) state of consciousness, so my moral compass was broke ass. I cupped my mouth and whispered, “is this anybody's bike?” and in a moment of weakness, picked up the bike and hurried through the brambles, actually cutting myself twice on the scotchbroom because I have to make this as dramatic as possible. One branch even knocked my hat off, and there was that tense scene where I debate leaving it, and stall, but wonder if MY ABANDONED HAT WILL LEAD THEM TO ME!!! (I don't know who THEM are, either.) I compromised by standing as far away as possible from my hat and leaning over to reach it with my finger tips, even going so far as to knock it away a few inches while perspiration gathered in slow motion on my brow.

This is the state I was in: no sooner had I started walking the old, abandoned bicycle down the trail that I thought, “WHAT IF THIS WAS STOLEN GOODS AND THE ONLY REASON IT WAS LYING THERE WAS BECAUSE TWO COMPETING MEXICAN GANGS SHOT THEIRSELVES OVER IT???”

I am ashamed to admit I gave the bike a good pat-down just in case it was hiding a tracking device underneath the seat, how valuable these Schwinn Worlds from 1984 (VINTAGE) were.

THEN (because I couldn't just drop the bicycle and run, now could I?) I started pushing it down the trail in a more frantic pace (ONLY 7 PARANOID MILES TO GO) and of course, a couple of cyclists rounded the turn, and I didn't want to look like the guy who can't make it up the hill, so, god, I am so embarrassed to admit this, BUT I ACTUALLY MOUNTED THE RUSTY BIKE AND STARTED PEDALING.

After a humiliatingly loud SQUERAWWWK as the utterly oxidized cassette bent to the power of fight or flight, I actually made forward progress on two completely flat tires. Oh, god, the looks on those faces as they passed me. I swear to god one of them mouthed, 'DO YOU THINK IT'S ART?'

This was unsustainable. I got back off the bike, which was a wise move being as how the thing had no brake or shift cables, braking primarily a function of the aforementioned FLAT TIRES, and started pushing. 6.5 miles to go.

Please do not think I am lying when I tell you that my next sadistic bicycle scenario was that the goddamned thing was cursed. This bears repeating, because I am trying to make a point. I IMAGINED THAT I WAS PUSHING A CURSED BICYCLE. And no matter how ridiculous I told myself this concept was, there was nothing I could do to get it out of my head.

So two miles down the path, I gave in and rolled the bike into the brush. Not the brush where I removed it, of course, BECAUSE THAT IS SURELY WHERE ALL THE BODIES ARE.

And then I ran. And at one point, I looked behind me and I saw a man riding a bicycle. And I thought, 'HOW COME HE IS THE ONLY CYCLIST NOT WEARING A HELMET I'VE SEEN? WHAT CAN THAT MEAN? HE KNOWS!' And the man, who obviously didn't know anything, didn't make things any easier by deciding to ride just slow enough so that he would be behind me for something like 4 miles. Gah.

Did I mention that I was running with a giant camera in my hand? I played out multiple scenarios by which I could use it as a weapon (MAYBE YOU SHOULD JUST SHOW HIM YOUR RECENT PHOTOGRAPHS! ZING!). I even imagined being all cleverly non-violent and discharging the flash in the man's eyes just before he bashed my gourd in, but then remembered I am one of those snobby photogs who is adamantly against using flash under any circumstances, which apparently includes self-defense.

Ugh. This story is already too long, although it got funnier, trust me, and you should trust me about what is funny (THOUGH NOT WHAT IS CURSED) because I have completely lost my sense of humor, and that which tickles a humorless man must be funny, indeed.

Wow, I'm just re-reading this, and yes, apparently I HAVE lost my sense of humor, but at least my libido is gone as well. They went hand in hand, apparently. I guess it was a package deal.

It shames me to hit publish tonight. I won't do it.

Curses.

/ zipperina

This isn’t considered waiting, it’s not. Not when you are perfectly occupied with counting the heads of those in line behind you, matching hats with coats, and styles you thought went out years and years ago, and you have got warm hands in your back pockets.

There is no malice in my bite, these days, there isn’t. Not when the strength has been sapped by toothpicks and fingernails and sitting in the backseat taking pictures of cars following along the curves of Bald Hill Road, one light out more often than not. Got those same hands around the wheel. One tickles the Maginot line down the center of my back beyond which I will break easy and surrender. Got no bite at all.



It can’t be called recovery, because it is not. Because there is as much regret in clarity of mind as there is in hazy details. I have photographs like forgotten childhood homes sitting in drawers and digitized, and what technology can do is feed some new kind of addiction, of being preoccupied with retracing all these missteps. I have taped footprints onto the tile, and I can dance along to the tinnitus. Got those hands in mine, now that I can lead again.



These are pictures I guess I took. I guess I was sort of relegated to the back seat. I guess I was two bottles of wine into the afternoon, as it was a workday. I guess it was on our way to my daughter’s birthday party. I don’t remember any bargaining. It doesn’t feel like begging when it’s you. What wouldn’t you give yourself if you needed it, no less kindness than you’d show to strangers. You certainly wouldn’t bare your teeth or mince words. I remember cars full of laughter, old Chevrolets with vent windows.



I remember trying to find an unfamiliar songbird in a Pacific Yew, searching every branch until the only reasonable conclusion was that it was the tree singing. That’s what I miss.

/ tret

His answer to the question begins to fade into the background noise but comes back into focus when he says, '...MY LIFE WAS EMPTY, BUT NOW IT IS FULL.' Of course, OF COURSE I am forced to ponder this physical nature of human existence, because apparently it can be defined in terms of volume.

How full or empty is my own life? I wouldn't begin to know how I am supposed to measure this. What is the capacity of my vessel? Am I supposed to leave a little space towards the top for when it's freezing?

Can it be considered full regardless of the contents, or are some liquids more filling than others? Are we measuring by weight or by volume?

I am much faster and much more light-footed on the trail when my life is empty, all that excess weight unburdened from my jug of contentment, no longer swishing around when I face a sudden stop or have to jump because a deadly creature lunges from beyond the looking grass. California quails, mostly.



My life is over-full, now, I say to the radio, and it is spilling all over the seat. My life used to be empty and I had something to strive for, something beyond clearance rack painkillers and single-use cameras. Now my main objective is not splashing my contents all over unworthy strangers who need to work for theirs. I have no interest in trading up for a new container, in fact, I'm thinking of downsizing to a paper cup, it will be so much easier to fill. I want to pour it out when no one is watching, fill it up again and pour it out where everyone can see.

I want to spend entire summers filling that emptiness, then douse the wildfires that last into the fall.

/ Karma-lized

To be aware that you are slowly losing your mind as you are slowly losing your mind must be maddening, but only if you have tied your happiness to your sanity with a Gordian Knot. Otherwise, there is no reason for you to come undone, even in the face of cognitive collapse.

A bit of a reprieve from the slow march of dementia, the weather broke and suddenly there we were, all four of us, in for $10,000 each to fund the war in Iraq (I suppose I am good for it, but the kids haven't earned their shoe-factory papers, yet), but still insane enough to pop down the debit card for more bicycle equipment and give the finger to big oil.

I fully admit to letting my bike fall kick-stand first when I saw the stranger pointing two fancy monocles joined together in some odd fashion towards the top of a cone bearing tree.

Only bird watching could ever match alcohol for disinhibiting my social inhibitions. “WHATCHA SEE? HMM?”

“TWO CROSSBILLS! DO YOU WANT TO LOOK THROUGH MY BIRD GOGGLES?”

“DO I!”

And yes, I realized two things, 1. that crossbills do in fact nest along the bike path. And 2. THIS IS HOW I MUST APPEAR TO OTHER PEOPLE.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, losing your mind. But before I get to that, let me tell you about the 4 hours I spent on my last day of vacation taking close-up photographs of skunk cabbage.

* * *

Today, me and the boys hit the links and, what the hell, I thought, as long as I am giving up on everything new again, let's pull out my old clubs from college. They were the loneliest set of clubs across the whole of middle Missouri, and they were my only friends for how many years I am too ashamed to recount.

They were bitter that I had forgotten their contribution to my life for so long, and I was duly karma-lized until we got out of the rough on hole 8. I shot a 38 the last 9 holes, and realized, my god, I must be losing my mind to have neglected friends like these.

Me and my partner won the match, and the defeated party had to buy the first round. Two Bitburgers and a, “UM, WHAT'LL IT BE, BRANDON???”

“I think I'll have, uh let's see, waitress, do you have any diet coke..on tap?”

/groan

God. They won't even tell dirty jokes around me any more!

Later, Alex and I went back to that very same restaurant and sat at the very same table, and after she ordered her mocha-tini, I thought, to hell with it all. I'm having a drink.

And I did.

A goddamned club soda.

“DO YOU WANT A SIP OF MY MOCHA-TINI?”

“I think I just want to sit here very quietly for a moment.”

And then she pushed her drink aside and she put her hand on mine and she said, “I am so proud of you.”

It is day 32.

/ Upland Game

We only quieted down when we got to the letter U.

“Unicorn?” he offered.

“That's good. But there has to be a real animal.”

“Tiger?” she said.

“That's good, too, sweetie, but we just did T.”

“Lion?”

“That's good, too, sweetie, but we need one for U.”

* * *

I am on a vacation of sorts. Last week, I just said, 'ENOUGH.' And I stopped working, and I started spending. Our garage is full of bicycles and bicycle trailers and maps and nonperishable food and cameras and sketch pads and elbow pads and frisbees and oil change receipts and exhortations.

If I cannot run, then I will rebel by riding, and each day's major event seems to augur a bigger spring than our expectations allow. On Monday we were chased by a dog. On Tuesday, we spied a pair of otters on the dock. Today we saw a couple of crows wrestling in the grass.

“They're not wrestling!”

“Lion?”

* * *

There is a bird in one of my books that has 'upland' in its name, but I can't think of it.

Unbelievably, I have nearly cut off my left index finger again, because when I try to relax I only succeed in testing my warranty.

“Back when I used to do this, I would immediately down a tumbler of whiskey, and oh, the pain disappeared. I could wash that wound out without flinching.”

“Now, I have to probe it and see and feel and understand at the same time, that it doesn't hurt, but it hurts. I don't want to think about it, mostly.”

“I have to jump up and down and clench my muscles and swear and be cognizant at the same time how I must appear.”

* * *

“When Mommy gets home she has to a*pol*o*gize to me. That means say sorry.”

This is a lesson I taught yesterday, without even referring to my user's manual, and I am sorry for it.

“I am sorry, sweetie. I am sorry you had to learn that.”

* * *

This was the week I was supposed to neglect responsibilities and loved ones and my health, and instead they have selfishly taken the lion's share of my time, especially these little urchins, with their easy-access buttons and sugary appetites and disarming forgiveness, anesthetized curiosities.

By the time my fuel runs out, I realize I am by myself for the first time in a week. Normally, it is like drowning, trying to get on so close to other people, and it is the vastness of this place that makes it impossible to leave. It is not their fault, in fact, it has been bearable these few days. It is not their fault, that they are so lifelike, that they wake us and demand to be fed, and I am kissed on the shoulder when I delay, even on my very own vacation.

/ Get it?

I realize that laughter is the best medicine if only because it's free and yet here I have been going on and on about recovery and addiction and religion and herpes and politics and none of that is remotely funny except for herpes. Unfortunately, I am spending most of my days lately with a 5 year old, and the only appropriate punchlines are:

1. no, it's SNOT
2. hannah BANANA
3. PARROT teacher conference
4. I WILL BUY YOU A BICYCLE IF YOU PROMISE TO STOP CRYING
5. you don't want daddy to start drinking again, DO YOU?!? (requires a sort of desperate stare to elicit laughter)
6. GOD, JESUS GOD ALMIGHTY, why? (the 'why' should be whispered as softly as possible)
7. (simply sitting on the floor with one sock on and staring at your hands usually works)
8. (calling people who clearly recognize your voice and saying, “I'm sorry, I think I have the wrong number”)
9. a COOKIE monster!

There are two side effects I am dealing with that concern me. One is that I am eating inordinate amounts of candy in an attempt to identify the world's sweetest. The other (TOTALLY UNRELATED I'M SURE) is an obsession with reading about the symptoms of hyperglycemia (while checking my carotid pulse for emphasis):

Polyuria – Frequent bathroom 'breaks': CHECK
Polydipsia – Unquenchable thirst: CHECK
Weight Loss – CHECK
Impotence – CHECK MATE BITCH
Coma – I STOPPED CARING AFTER IMPOTENCE

Still, I think I will have a couple more Fun Dips and practice my ADVANCED DECREASED CONSCIOUSNESS AND CONFUSION EXERCISES, because, um, well, uh. Because. HAHAHAHAHA

FAIL

/ Minored in Possession

Today I took a time test of sorts, and to be sure I screwed 6 macro filters onto the camera lens, lest I not catch wind of any undercurrents in the conversational lulls. Because one of the talents I've nurtured is allowing insinuating comments to drift by without checking to see if there are enough lifeboats for everyone on board who stand to drown. And I'm not sure if that is the direction I need to steer this ship.

I trained, it rained. Enough so that you had to run the trail with your nostrils pinched between your thumb and forefinger. I held my breath up every hill.

At dinner, the appetizers were on a side table next to several bottles of hard liquor, some vermouth, some olives. She said she knew how much I liked my martinis. It is so endearing how we own our little habits, we are possessive, and they are possessed. “Remember DeeDee? Even up to the day she died, she couldn't go to sleep without her gin and tonic.” “Mr. Cook is so funny. He is still out there on his porch everyday with his Bushmill's.”

They open bottles of wine and beer and beer and wine and I decline.

“I just can't function if I don't have my...” I look down to see exactly what it is I am holding. “...generic brand diet ginger ale.”

The last thing I want is for them to be uncomfortable because of my alimental peculiarities. There are so many other reasons to be uncomfortable around me, it seems such a waste. I want to say, “This is temporary. I am going to return to my previous habits, so don't wait until I turn away to sip from your drink, don't pour your libation into some ambiguous vessel, for god's sake, don't take the last...generic brand diet ginger ale.”

But I don't know when I'll go back. It's sort of like that friend you said you'd call, and then a month passes, and you think, 'Well, it's too late now.' And then a year passes and you think, 'I wouldn't even know what to say.' And then your entire life passes, and you think, 'I wonder whatever happened...'

Back at my car, I sit near the lake to listen to the last chapter of a story about moths, and it makes me want to become very small and wonder at the marvel of the tiny forests that never rise a hairbreadth above the surface of the earth, and marvel at the wonder of the fragile trilliums, but only for a time, early in spring, well before the spiders and newts have woken and taken their positions hiding behind every stone and fallen willow stem.

You would come out the other end of this habitat entirely transformed, unrecognizable save for only the subtlest of your pre-wilderness habits, so that these are the days when it is important to spend as much time as possible with those who will be there on the other end, that they can return to you your belongings, remind you of your name. Tell you how sincerely you have been missed.

/ All Comforts Wee and Small

I would make a terrible god because here it is, Day 23, and I have yet to make anything that's lived, which makes destroying the world I've created (in god-like wrath as gods are wont to do) a bit superfluous. My kitchen is littered with lifeless clay and all the beer in the garage is rapidly approaching its freshness date. Yea, the flood! I had always thought there was an equilibrium of craving, and that I might be forced into some other bad habit when I excised one or the other, lest I not be able to walk straight or talk coherently. (see: locusts)

Is there a point in your life where it is pointless to ask yourself about what the point of it all is? You just sort of reach a stage and you say to yourself, 'Well, fuck it, it's a little late to discover a meaning to it all. How's that gonna help me now?' And to drive the point home, in the mail is your latest retirement statement. I have taken stock of my life and am now quietly vesting. The payoff will likely be moderate. Past results are no guarantee of future performance.

I think what I am experiencing is a craving for inspiration, but not in the usual places. I would like very much to be surprised, to read something interesting from a very uninteresting person and to think, even if incorrectly, that I might have had a little something to do with it. I am tired of waiting for me to surprise myself. I had my chance, I think, it is time to step aside and let someone else take a turn at the wheel.

Not that I don't want there to be some measure of glory in resignation, no. I certainly wouldn't complain if I came across a Yellow-billed Cuckoo on one of my runs, or the battery in my pickup decided to up and charge itself, or just a really nice kiss when I least expected it. Wee measures of comfort, but like all things wee, just absolutely adorable in their weeness.

/ tequilaCAN'T

i'm pretty sure this has something to do with payback

Do you remember that time you did something really BAD and you said out loud, “I CAN'T BELIEVE THE THINGS I GET AWAY WITH!” but secretly you thought, “oh dear god paying this back is going to be bitch+++ would not buy again.”? I am running down that very list of BAD (I write them all down in a journal covered with sparkly flowers) wondering which one or combination of ones is punishing me by canceling my TequilaCon ambitions.

I bet it was the time when I was 5 and I grabbed that cecropia moth and when I opened my god-forsaken hands it was just a pile of dusty scales. Or I bet it was when I was 15 and I broke into that house for rent with some friends and I am pretty sure it was me who forgot to turn off the sink. Or that time when I was 25 and I lied about my experience with 'SUPERVISING OTHERS,' and spent the whole first month on the job wondering why all these people were asking me to sign their time sheets. Or that time when I was 35 and well you get the idea.

It is no fun making people you love say WHY, OH WHY! and it is even more no fun to have to deal with the aftermath completely sober. And it is three times as much even more no fun paying up your karma debt by missing out on the greatest blogger meetup in history.

The worst part is that even though I would be no fun at the actual event (SEE: PREVIOUS 100 POSTS WHERE I GO ON AND ON ABOUT HOW I HAVE STOPPED DRINKING), sobriety has added a certain glow to my face and hair that has the other parents at after-school gymnastics asking 'WHICH KID IS YOURS? HMM?!?' and I so wanted to shower the world with that glow.