Monster

I haven't really been in touch with anyone since I moved to Raleigh, even though it's occurred to me often enough. You know how it is, when your daily routine reduces to thoughts and actions that don't feel significant enough to bother anyone else with, so you never get around to it. I was thinking about all of my friends back in Greensboro and how I should get in touch, and remembered this blog that I started and then neglected last year. I kept journals in the more troubled years of my youth, but after writing anything I would tear those pages out, until I had two spiral bound covers with no paper between them. I always felt frustrated with what I had written. Even though I stopped keeping journals years ago I realized while looking over my few sporadic posts from last year how strong that impulse remains.
Well, that has nothing to do with anything. The catalysts that have been defining the individual moments and broader strokes of my life since December have driven my mind in every direction, into introspection and in finding new purpose and direction. I've been living with my five nieces and only nephew, and the experience of helping to raise and care for them has been a remarkable blessing. My nieces range from nine months to fourteen years old, and I've been changing diapers and shuttling kids to three different schools in two different cities and everything in between. It's like a free education in basic parenting, from infancy to teenagers.
I'm partial to my little niece Scarlet Savannah. She has the visage and personality to match that syrupy sweet southern belle nomenclature, but I call her Monster. That's because she mostly grunts and chirps and rambles instead of speaking, even when she knows what to say. And she randomly does this little monster shaman dance, where she bends over with her arms straight down between her knees and then stands up on her tippy toes and reaches for the sky, over and over again. I'm waiting for it to rain. She also has a mullet, which somehow looks stylish and cute instead of scrappy. She usually favors me over everyone else, and I feel vaguely guilty for feeling so smug every time she pushes past someone else and comes to me instead. I love her so much, it makes me mad.
Valentine's day has sauntered by once more, with its rich confections and amorous designs. I hope all of you shared a tender evening with your loved ones. Valentine's was never really my hat I guess, since I'm always single around that time of year. I guess that isn't true, but when I think back upon the twenty eight Valentine's days that came before this one . . .mmm, nothing really leaps out at me. Nothing spectacularly romantic or noteworthy. The absence of passion and romance was no exception this time around either, but nevertheless I had an excellent Valentine's.
Over the last couple of months I've endured a lot of waiting and bureaucratic nonsense while continuing my enlistment in the Army, and while my days are largely filled with child care and domestic duties, my personal time is often spent reading about the middle east countries and the current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. There is a great deal of context surrounding our current involvement in the middle east that stretches back decades, even centuries. At times like these I wish I had a perfect Irish brain like Tom's so I could read half a dozen books approaching the subject from a dozen different angles over a leisurely two day weekend, then mentally correlate them to achieve a holistic understanding. Then yawn, and stroke my chin. Instead, I have this inferior half-Korean brain (the other half isn't Irish, and as Tom once said, "what did Korea ever do that anyone cares about, besides make a salad out of rotten cabbage?"), so I've only managed to read one and a half books and some CNN and Wikipedia articles over a period of several weeks. I am gradually debauching my ignorance of the people, places, and politics that have contributed to creating the mess we're in today. I have to say, as much as I would like to believe in and support a War on Terror, it's looking more and more like a war to protect American oil interests and build strategic military bases throughout the region.
I know you're not interested in an anemic overview of what the war is about; I'm just pointing out that while I'm not one hundred percent behind the program for the War on Terror, my desire to serve isn't diminished by the ugly realities of politics and warfare. I'm actually not concerned with getting hurt or killed (yet), but what does bother me is the prospect of being involved with the death of innocents. I feel my chances of avoiding such situations are at least a little better in Afghanistan, where much of the fighting is outside of urban centers and the removal of the enemy is less likely to result in a vacuum that collapses the entire country.
Anyhow, what does any of that have to do with Valentine's day? I guess in the past I've never appreciated the intrinsic value of the holiday; I've always approached it on the more personal level of "should I ask someone out or stay home with a pizza and a movie?" But as a consequence of reading about the history of religion, humanity, and warfare in the middle east, I had a surprisingly sincere and sentimental desire this year to go out and really take it all in. I wanted to be a part of it, especially since, if all goes well, it could be my last decent opportunity for awhile. It felt vital, it felt human, it even felt American to enjoy the company and conversation of a fine young lady over dinner and a movie, to exchange small gifts and compliments. Of course, I wasn't concerned with the abstract ideals and concepts during the evening itself. Afterwards though, driving along a nearly deserted I-40, I sifted back and forth through the evening, finding the qualities and moments that explain the significance of the experience in shorthand. A brisk walk between tall buildings, faux antiques arranged in storefront windows, a random hole in the wall selected for dinner. Rich chocolate crusted with crushed macadamias. The odd pleasure of getting lost and then unlost and still arriving on time at the movies. Etc. Nothing unusual, but wonderful nonetheless.
For some reason, I find myself reading e. e. cummings whenever Valentine's day comes around. I don't know why, I'm not really much of a poetry reader. In any case, this poem has always been one of my favorites, and this year it really spoke of some of the ineffable notions conjured by both Valentine's day and warfare for me.

my sweet old etcetera
aunt lucy during the recent

war could and what
is more did tell you just
what everybody was fighting

for,
my sister

Isabel created hundreds
(and
hundreds)of socks not to
mention fleaproof earwarmers
etcetera wristers etcetera, my
mother hoped that

i would die etcetera
bravely of course my father used
to become hoarse talking about how it was
a privilege and if only he
could meanwhile my

self etcetera lay quietly
in the deep mud et

cetera
(dreaming,
et
cetera, of
Your smile
eyes knees and of your Etcetera)

e.e. cummings

Well, I really miss everyone in Greensboro and at the Lakefield ward. I hope you're all doing great, take care.

"Someone told me long ago; 'there's a calm before the storm'-
I know. . . it's been coming for some time."

This stranged gentleman, pulling the thin curtains closed, stepping through dusty shafts of evening sun.

Let him sit with his hat in his lap while his hound worries the dried up bone of yesteryear. Let the old records play. Let him be comfortable.

This is what we always shared; the glimpse of joy and the promise of memory.

After spending time with Jeremy and some of his colleagues, I have learned the proper etiquette for taking an awkward and possibly misunderstood incident and affirming your honest heterosexual intentions. I never knew of an established method for this, even though it seems like a social more that should have been created by our distant ancestors and passed down through the generations. However, it seems that this much needed innovation has been born through the trials of friendship within a small group of male high school teachers. I'm sure it will prove to be indespensable to all of us, and to generations to come.

For instance, sharing a tub of popcorn with your buddy at the movies always holds the potential for one of those uneasy moments where you are both reaching for a handful at the same time, and you accidentally caress his hand with your buttery fingertips. Your instinctive reaction is to freeze, like a criminal caught in the act, and then try to take it back by snatching your hand away from his. Now you each have a hand poised near the popcorn tub, and you are trying to think of some way to offer assurance that this isn't some kind of latent homosexuality manifesting itself in the secretive darkness of the theater. It is your responsibility to handle this, because it's your greasy fingerprints streaked along the back of his hand. Maybe you glance over and say "oh, sorry dude." Or maybe you remain still, tense, and silent, feeling his wary eyes searching the shadowy contours of your face for signs of betrayal, waiting for him to decide whether or not he still trusts you as he thinks back over all the good times you've had together and reminds himself of how pathetically miserable you were when your last girlfriend walked out so you must not be gay, and finally shrugs it off and reaches for the popcorn again. No matter how you handled it you are probably mildly embarassed and careful to not be a repeat offender, keeping a vigil on the popcorn out of the corner of your eye and only reaching when you know you can get in and out without further contact.

So, here is the ingenius solution I have learned from Jeremy, et al. Such awkward situations are easily resolved by acknowledging the incident and declaring it's irrelevance to the integrity and nature of your friendship by saying "no homo." This immediately assuages your friend's sudden doubts and violent impulses, and he lets you know that everything is cool by responding in kind with "no homo taken."

Have you got your feet propped up on the ottoman and an arm slung along the back of the couch, watching the game, when your hand accidentally brushes the back of your friend's head?
(Glance over at friend)
"No homo."
(Dismissive nod from friend)
"No homo taken."

See? No uneasy silences or awkward apologies, no embarassment.

Or maybe you are working out at the gym with your buddy, and he is standing behind the bench to spot for you while you are doing incline dumbell presses. Suddenly you notice a gentle pressure on the back of your head, something that pushes your hair back against your scalp as your body compresses against the bench in the upstroke of each repetition, and you look into the floor-to-ceiling mirrors to see what that could possibly be. Horror and despair sink into your soul as you realize that your friend has mistakenly stepped too close to the bench, because he is watching the music video on the television mounted high on the wall. What you see in the mirror is yourself, prostrate on the bench with arms atremble beneath the weight of the dumbells, and behind you, your friend standing with hands on hips and head leaned back while his crotch nuzzles your crown. Naturally, you panic. You struggle to keep the dumbells from crashing down and ending your suddenly miserable existence as the strength saps from your arms, and the exertion to maintain control under such duress causes you to gasp or make a strangling noise. This noise briefly interrupts your friend's enjoyment of the music video and causes him to glance at you in the mirror. Perhaps he misinterprets what he hears and sees as a grunt of exhertion while enjoying a good workout because he only spares you the briefest consideration before returning his attention to the video, while his crotch nuzzles on.

This is most unfortunate, because this is the precise time in which he should take a step back and say "oops, sorry man. no homo."

Fortunately for Jeremy, I am a sensible and forgiving person. So let it be known, "no homo taken."

So, now you also have the correct etiquette for dealing with uncomfortable situations such as these, and can apply that knowledge to the lives of yourself and all of your family and friends! I think we all owe Jeremy and his colleagues a great debt of gratitude.

Hmmm, well I guess I'm not very consistent when it comes to blogging. I hope everyone had a wonderful 4th of July weekend with their family and friends! Not only has our venerable nation turned over another year, but I'm twenty eight now. I guess I'm feeling the passing of time more keenly this year than in any before. I'm not world weary and worn out or anything; it's only that this past year has been so full of significant changes and milestones that I can't help but be aware of the juxtaposition of years past and the present.

It has been a strange road to twenty eight. So many different memories. When the world was only the size of my hometown, I remember crowding into a hatchback with my best friends and jumping the railroad tracks down by the river with 1979 cranked up on the radio. That car was legendary. All it needed was gas, and that's all it ever got- that, and the love and abuse of four teenage guys. We always sat in the same seats, so we customized our domains. The roof lining was partitioned by permanent marker and adorned with the names of favorite rock bands, stick figures kung fu fighting and chainsawing each other, random cartoon characters, graphic doodles, etc. The back was filled with dirty laundry and blunt objects, notebooks and cds, things tossed back and forgotten. For some reason, the front dash got the worst of it. We enthusiastically attacked it with brass knuckles, knives, acetylene torches, dirty feet, and such. We cruised, not in the back and forth down main street way but in the back roads and uncharted neighborhoods way. Once, we were chased around a golf course by a (justly) angry man in a minivan, which nearly tipped over while slewing around each high speed curve in pursuit of our hatchback. I admired the minivan's driver for his tenacity. In truth, we were all a little dismayed by his devotion to the chase, and berated Patrick for being rude in the first place. Being on the cutting edge of trashy, when loud car stereo systems became the cool thing we rigged an old guitar speaker box and dc power convertor to the hatchback radio instead. Loud and impressive, except when driving over speed bumps, potholes, or course gravel, which would rattle the box and produce an ear-bleeding twanging sound instead of music. Near the end of its life, the car was deliberately driven into a fence at speed. A No Trespassing sign snapped off its post and stuck like a hatchet in the windshield. Eventually the oil-starved engine burned itself into a fused mass of metal and died a tired, happy death. Things changed a little after that, because noone else was willing to be so harsh with their car.

We jumped the tracks several times, cheering and slamming back and forth in our seats, until the stench of cow manure became unbearable. Indignant and curious, we decided to investigate the source, which appeared to be a large metal warehouse by the rails. This is after dark on a summer night. The lights are on and there are a handful of vehicles in the parking lot, so we park and walk in. Turns out to be a livestock auction, with an unintelligable auctioneer rapping off bids while demented looking cows buck and sling manure as far as sixth row into the bleachers, and a half dozen rheumey eyed farmers in seventh row fanned away the flies and turned to silently stare at us in our rock shirts and loose jeans. Mystery solved; we looked to each other, turned and filed back out. Drove off into the close heat of night in search of some other adventure.

I remember the last night before I left Asheville, I broke up with my girlfriend and drove around for awhile. Ended up at the playground of Oakley Elementary, where ages ago I ran and ran from a girl named Anna and kicked dandelions. I remember my babysitter had a picture that my kindergarten or first grade teacher took. Anna was always chasing me around, trying to get me to kiss her, which is scary and gross when you are a six year old boy. The teacher was taking pictures of each student during recess, and she came up to us while I was fleeing for my chastity in circles around the huge oak tree. The picture shows me standing with my hands by my sides, smiling a big goofy grin in front of the oak tree, while Anna leans around the trunk and waits to pounce. I had a friend named Justin who usually ran interference for me so I could get away from the more agile Anna, but eventually she won out one day when he was out sick. Pinned me to the ground with my wrists beside my shoulders and pecked me on the lips. Giggled and ran off. I sat up on the grass, humiliated and disgruntled, and looked back over my shoulder to see my teacher a few feet away in a lawn chair, looking on through dark sunglasses. Ages later, I'm sitting in the swing on a hot August night, glancing over that memory and a million others while a steady breeze blows the grass around me and heat lightning burns all along the horizon.

I'm lost in reverie. It's time for bed though, so I guess I'll come back to this later.