Sole

I can’t seem to find my voice. Too much going on inside and outside of my head.
I had a great Blog all written in my head today. All about the death of my Boot. I had even managed to add in a bit of shameless product placement and self-promotion. Two of the best reasons that the vain amongst us write blogs.
Being vain I know a little about that.
Alas, my boot is dead.
My blogging voice seems to have become stuck. I need to clear my head. Run a few miles, bike a dozen or so, swim some laps. Something.
I have been reading some great stuff out there, and usually that inspires me to write more and more.
My boot, is dead.
I took the kidduns swimming tonight, saw half a dozen things easily written about. Water aerobics, hairy backs, psychotic mommies, bored lifeguards, wedgies, flossies, snuggies, adults that should wear one piece coveralls to swim in and a plethora of astonishing things. On a normal day I would be laughing even now. Three hours after toweling myself off amidst the hordes of public swimmer types. Reminding myself why I pay for a private gym.
My boot is, dead.
I sit here, looking at the words on the screen and they just blend together. Strings of meaningless symbols that my stunned mind is unable to translate. How do people learn to read another language? Staring at a bunch of abstract shapes until meaning forms in a cartoon cloud over their heads?  Listening to grunts and hoots and hollers while someone points at squiggles on a board and hums at you? What was God thinking when he separated all of the people and split the world. Did she realize the chaos that would result? Why could they not have just left us all alone? We humans screw it all up just fine all by ourselves before we even add in religion.
My. Boot. is. Dead.
This life, past life, future life, it’s all the same. You are not anything right now that you have not become or will become in time. Now is really all we have. Each moment stretching taffy like to the next. The memory of that moment grows thinner and thinner until it snaps back into the big strand. Heaven or hell or pushing a rock with Sisyphus. What matters is now.
My boot is dead.
and he had sole.

Tastes Like Channel No. 5 - Live to Ride, Ride to Live

I just wrote a blog about Jobs and living. Nothing really fancy, just a little ramble about the confusion I feel most of us face in the real world.

Then I deleted it.

It would have gotten me fired, Possibly disowned and very likely beaten with a bat. At this point in my career,  I can do without any of those things.

So, a short little moment instead.

I heard my niece call my baby brother Daddy today. It caught me off guard and I reeled a bit. Old age crept up on me and ker-plowied me right in the cerebreal cortex. I felt every single one of my years landing right on my head. All at once.

I have written many things over the years, about aging and life and living. I have tried them all myself at one time or another and yet I find myself addled this day. Wondering if I am actually living or if I am just taking up space that could be used for greater purposes than me.

I just don't know.

I cant step far enough back from life to get a clear view of it. I am always right in the middle of my own life and so absorbed in it. that that I rarely lift my head up to see.

Do this thing for me invisible reader. The next time you find your own self in a car on a sunny clear day. For every stoplight you cease moving at, look up. Look up from the road and the soap operas of those around you and look into the distance. See as far as you can.

How far away those building?

How distant the mountains?

How long do geese fly?

How close the sky?

Look up and see. Look into the distance and imagine your life, open the book of you and turn the pages back a few. Reflect on the blank pages left in the book and think of what you are going to write on them.

I am going to do it.

So should you.

The following is an article I wrote for an on-line magazine. It has since run its course and I can now do whatever I want with this story, which although some is true, some is also fiction.

But not much.

I am writing today, finding myself not really worried about rules, the computer takes care of the important stuff. Leaving me free to elucidate my ideas, to clarify and share my memories of the life I am in the process of living.

 I have this memory of an uncle; cigar smoke wreathing his head, bottle of bourbon in his hand. He looks at the wallet I have just handed him. The flying wings logo of “Live to Ride, Ride to Live” cheaply embossed on its fairground leather. He looks at the wallet, then gazes deep into my eyes, his eyes, I have been told, the same silver blue as my own. I feel a momentary discomfort at the thought that my own gaze may be as searching as his. He takes a swallow of rot-gut, cigar rolling to the opposite side of his mouth to make room, his eyes never breaking contact. He hands me back the wallet, takes a deep breath and says, “Yeah, I can see it”. Exhaling the words in a cloud of sweetly scented smoke reminiscent of dreams I didn’t really remember. I was twelve years old, dressed in dork clothes with a dork haircut, wanting desperately to please everyone. Failing in that almost constantly as my desires rarely coincided with those of my parents. I tried so hard to fit in, to belong to the herd. A wolf dressed as a sheep and fooling some. This old wolf, grizzled and worn with grey in his beard and hair, recognized his own. His sparse words were the only encouragement I ever received.

I saw a play once. It was really good. Some French play about a guy with an enormous nose. There was this guy in the play, he wasn’t the main character, I think he was a butcher? Or a baker? Anyway, this guy stood out, the rest of the people on the stage fit there, but this guy, he stood out. I thought long and hard about why. One day it occurred to me. When an actor puts on a costume, he knows it’s not him; he takes it off at the end of the night and returns to his real self. But when a person, any person who plays on the stage of life puts on a costume, if they wear it long enough it becomes them. This guy, playing the baker, wasn’t wearing a costume. He was the baker. He believed it so much that whenever he was on stage the audience believed it too. We were all willingly deceived by his belief. I wondered how many of us do that? Wear a sheep costume for so long that we forget the wolf. My uncle never forgot, he always knew who he was.

He died a few years ago; victim not of his vices, but of the stupidity of others. I sat next to him in a comfortless white room the day before he abandoned his failing body. He told me of all the things he had never done, the places he had never gone, sights he had never seen. The missed chances of a lifetime unloaded on my shoulders in the space of an hour of talk. I learned regret in that hour. I walked out of that room and looked down at myself. Dork clothes, dork haircut, Driving back to work in my safe little car to mingle with the other sheep.  The only reminder of the wolf was the wallet in my back pocket, now smooth and worn from 12 years of hiding. A not so gentle reminder to me as I walked out of that room.

There is a chain on my belt today. It stretches back to my wallet. When the wind is in my hair and a destination in my mind, I think of everything. The choices we make and the consequences that follow. I think of my wife, my patient understanding genius wife. Who didn’t scream or wail or moan when I came home with the motorcycle. I think of my family, all of whom have forgotten the wolf in them entirely. They have worn their costumes for so long that when I see them, I believe it myself. So I travel, I live life. Eyes on the road and my mind a thousand miles away. Sometimes my dreams take me even further. The motorcycle is just a part of a life. Life is just a passing dream, a small town on a long road. Blink too long, and you might miss it.

Its a Mystery

For a very long time now I have had a question.


Why?
Do you see single shoes on the side of the road? And where oh where, is the other one? How did that shoe get there? and is someone coming back for it?

The first one, the one that has haunted me. Was a child's shoe. It was a blue Buster Brown boot, about a size 13 or 1. It was brand new with brown laces. It was laying on the side of the road. Standing upright, its eyes faced towards oncoming traffic, sentinel like. It seemed almost military in its bearing and it had a patient air about it.
We passed it going 75 and it was gone in a blink.
Why just one? I spent the rest of the trip looking for its mate. Thinking about all of the different scenarios that could end up with that forlorn little boot dying alone and forgotten as millions of unthinking eyes passed.
I have noticed them ever since. The shoes. Always one. always alone.
Shoes are one of those things that except in very rare circumstances, mate for life. So to see a single shoe is always cause for alarm.
Why is it alone? Is it lost? Can you help it find its way?
I have poured over countless ads in hundreds of papers just looking for the words, the clarion call of hope "Lost! Left Shoe, fell from my foot and has vanished.URGENT!! REWARD"
Never. Not once has there ever been a word. Not even for this, the strangest of all missing shoe cases. 50 miles into the wilderness, on foot, with backpacks and food carried on our backs we came upon a strange site. A brand new Clark's loafer. Dead center in the trail. A dress sock neatly rolled up and tucked inside. Its leather was still supple and the tread was crisp. There were no foot prints in the dust leading to or from the shoe. No one was around but my brother and I. We touched it not, but camped that night nearby. I must admit that I checked on it twice that night so great was the mystery. No one returned for the shoe. It was hard, but we left it there the next day. Carried on.
Our return trip took us down the same trail 5 days later. I looked anxiously for the shoe, hoping that it would be gone. Perhaps a set of footprints, one print shod the other not, coming upon the shoe. The joyous tale told in the trail dust. capering and celebrating of a shoeless foot and a shooed foot, the pause, the plop of a backside into the dirt while the shoe was returned to its foot. Prints of two shoes leading off into a happy sunset.
No. It was not to be. The shoe lay exactly as we had found it. The sock was gone, carried off no doubt by some villain of the night. the shoe maintained its vigil, waiting, longing for its foot to return.
If it had been my size I would have worn it home. Alas it was a size small.
For all I know, it rests their still. Eyelets poised, tread tight, leather alert for the telltale stomp, stamp, stomp, stamp of its returning foot....

Tired Writing

For me tired writing is something like drunk texting, I say things that I probably should not to people that I most certainly should not say them to.
I am not admitting any sort of horrible thing, mostly because of the fifth amendment, but I have said more then my share of things to people late at night that I have had cause to regret in the morning.
Once, I was up very very late. It was so late that it had actually become early, and I discovered that I had bought a car on E-Bay. The problem with this was two fold. I had not known that I was in the market to buy a car and, it was in upstate new york. It was a 1992 ford thunder bird with about a million miles on it. When I developed enough clarity to actually look at what had happened I discovered that there had been no bidders. Until Me. I had bid against myself driving the price up from .01 cent to 723.00 dollars. All in the last 5 minutes of the listing.
I found myself sitting at the kitchen table then, wondering how I was going to get to upstate new york, where that was exactly, and how I was going to explain it to the wife. The sleep gods smiled on me however. As soon as it became light enough to shoot, I received an email from the guy I had purchased the car from.
He was distraught, because he claimed he was new to e-bay and had failed to set a minimum price and listed the cars under the wrong category he felt he could get a much higher price by re-listing. I was just about to send him back a heartfelt thank you and don't worry about it when I got another email. From the same guy. Telling me that he knew he was voiding the contract, he was very very sorry and would I be willing to take 100.00 dollars for my time?
Of course I would and the check came two days later.
Another time, I had been a few days without sleeping and I was feeling the need to write. Remembering the purchase of the car and realizing that I was in truth very sleepy, I opted for a pen and paper.
I began to write and suddenly this story just poured from my pen to the page. It flowed like a crystal clear stream tumbling freely through vibrant mountain meadows. I wrote for hours. I knew with a certainty that what I was writing was destined for greatness, I could practically hear the money going into my account as I finished of the 14th page of the outline of the next great American novel.
As the sun came up I fell asleep with the happy thoughts of the marvelous story I had just told the world and I coiuld not wait to share it with everyone. I knew this WAS IT!!!!!
I woke that a little later that morning, refreshed and full of the creative joy. I ran downstairs and ran back upstairs. Holding the golden goose in 14 pages of handwritten excellence.
I handed it to the wife, and. From her expression I quickly deduced some little thing was amiss so I snatched the pages from here to see if I had perhaps grossly misspelled the first word.
Worse
Much much worse
I had written, for some reason known only to my asleep stupid brain.
14 pages, double sided, single spaced, small little letter Os. Os. Not a story, not an article. 14 pages of OO OOO OO OOOO OOO OOO OOOOO OO.
Tired writing, how the world would have enjoyed that story.

What To Wear?

What to wear everyday? Every morning I wake up and wonder what shall cover my nakedness for the next several hours. When I was younger it was very easy, whatever was clean got put on, or, if I was late, whatever was on the floor closest to the bed. As an adult (in age only) I have found that there are certain expectations from other adults and the public in general on what I should wear.
I ignore all of them.
I wear canvas pants. You know, work pants. The kind that have rivets and can stand up to just about anything. I used to wear jeans but my lifestyle destroys them. When you are the perennial fall guy and Gods very own comedy sketch jeans just don't cut it.
See, once I had to crawl into an upside car through broken glass because the splendid law enforcement individual was a little too large to fit through the opening. In her defense, she had a bullet proof vest on and the car was partially squished, but still. Anyways, I had my canvas work pants on, double fronted carhartts with the rivets. My arms and back and stomach were covered with glass splinters, took the wife two hours to find them all. Not one splinter in my legs. However tough they used to be, modern Jeans wouldn't have made it.
I like jackets. I have two suit jackets that I wear from time to time when its not too cold. One of them is wool and the other is camel. Ever since I got them I have had a burning desire to know how, exactly, do you shear a camel? I have some jackets that are lightweight and some coats for when its cold and leather for when I ride my motorcycle. Its pretty simple.
I wear steel toed work boots. And grown up shoes.
I have this crazy idea that once you are out of high school the only time you should wear athletic shoes is when you are actually participating that moment in said athletics. Basketball shoes while playing basketball, indoor soccer shoes while playing indoor soccer, running shoes while running. Special dispensation is given to skaters and Rappers, Skaters because they could conceivably jump on a board and grind a rail at any moment, and Rappers because absolutely anything else looks ridiculous with those baggy pants.
Grown up shoes, look good. When you wear grown up shoes it tells the world that you are
A: A grown up
B: A gainfully employed individual
C: Actually thinking about what you are wearing
D: Not a rapper
Steel toed boots have a special place in my heart, because they saved my toes. Several times, and having broken and smashed my toes before I have a great appreciation for whole, healthy toes. Also, when you kick someone wearing kid shoes it hurts you as much as it hurts them, but with steel toes, all the pain is given to the recipient of the kick. Trust me, this is a good thing.
I wear plain T-shirts. No logos. I am not a prostitute for any brand. I see people walking around as living billboards for things; and I truly wonder if they understand that they paid money to give free advertising to (put your logo here).
I also wear race t-shirts. You know, the t-shirt that you get when you finish the race, which is actually the only rule for those shirts. You must FINNISH the race before you put on the t-shirt. After the day of the race anyone can wear it.
They make great night shirts for the chilluns.

Its a storm

I live in Utah. In a valley that sits at 5400 feet above sea level. The valley (like most valleys) is surrounded by Mountains.
It snows here.
Every winter.
This may come as a shock to you. If it does thats ok, I understand. It has actually been brought to my attention that there are places in the world where it does not snow at all, ever. Other places exist in this world that get a lot more snow then Utah.
Still.
Every year since years were invented it has snowed in Utah. Before there was even a Utah it was snowing here and long after we become one nation under the great spaghetti monster in the sky it will snow here.
Having mentioned this it is only fair to point out that snowfall by year varies. Sometimes we get a little bit early in the year and sometimes the deluge comes late. Depending entirely on misunderstood global phenomena such as Don King's hair, El Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria and the truly great mysteries of the universe such as the popularity of the twilight books (ok, i will stop) we will either get a lot of snow or just a skiff. However this is Utah.
It snows Here
Every Year.
It just goes to show how jaded and bored most people are with life when the news stations start predicting a veritable snowppacolypse every time we get cloud cover. Twice this year they have inflamed public opinion to the point that certain foolishly run workplaces actually cut the workday short a few hours so that all of the righteous could make it home in time to hug and kiss their families before the rapture. In a bizarre twist of fate it has seemed to me that only the people who roar home whilst skillfully driving blind in a blizzard on an ice laden road filled with the returning hordes of drones are righteous, or; possibly cool enough to drive the ubiquitous F350 Crew Cab that looks like the love child of a Tonka truck on steroids and The Nightmare that keeps John Mayer awake and drooling green love lyrics.
How does the Prius do in the snow? I wonder.
Besides, this is Utah.
It snows here.
Every year.
The last time I checked there were 365 days in every year. In Utah every single one of those years is going to have at least two seasons. Sometimes it will have as many as four and once in a very great while it will have six. Mud and Flood being added to Spring, Summer Fall and Winter. Utah does have some year round residents. Of the approximately 200,000 year round residents of Utah with a drivers license issued in this very state, how come all but six of them forget that it snows here?
In Utah
Every year.

Ten Million monkeys typing

There are a lot of words in the English language. I have not counted them all but from the massive amount of online research I spent the last three minutes doing I surmise that there are anywhere from 20,000 to one million or more of them. Apparently there are some people out there that have spent their allotted time in the counting of the words that make up the ever growing, changing and flexing morass of words that I use to communicate with. Wow. I think I could probably come up with something more worth-while for them to do.
That being said; It's a big pile of words to chose from whenever you start writing something. Honestly though I believe that most writers, myself included, only utilize a very small percentage of the tools at their disposal. For example, I would use the Twilight rolls. I don't refer to them as books because in my opinion all they are good for is slightly stiff toilet paper. Making that point I would venture to guess that the writer of the twilight rolls only used about 567 words rearranged approximatively 5 billion times to flesh out her "stories" of the unrequited love of various supernatural and merely mortal characters.
Had she used more than that, increasing her vocabulary to say, 1000 different words used about 2 billion different ways I may have actually been able to read it without my eyeballs bleeding.
I am jealous.
The main difference between me and her is hard to define. Outside of the very obvious gender and size differences we could be remarkably similar. We were both raised in a very strict religious culture, both married, both attended college and obtained "higher education" and both of us are writers. She being, admittedly far more popular than I shall ever be. All of this aside what is the difference?
Vocabulary?
Having read one of her books to the severe detriment of my ocular capacitors I would have to give that a very firm "HELL NO"
Life Experience?
Again the above. I actually knew what the point of sneaking into a girls bedroom was and Really, although I never actually met a vampire or werewolf in the flesh I did read Anne Rice, who, if you are going to go for the supernatural lives of the really cool undead and other lycanthropish types, kicks Steph's ass all over the literary world.
Self Confidence?
Thou hast hit upon it. I just don't have the blind self confidence she does. I read what I write and I am reminded with every word that monkeys typing could reproduce Shakespeare if we gave them enough time, bananas and a typewriter or 6. Although I have always wondered why they didn't just give the primates a computer and MS Word?
I realize that the only way to build confidence is one of two ways. Believe in the crap you write so much that despite what all critics and the vast majority of learned folk in the world think and or say you just keep pushing forward until someone, somewhere, finds your niche market and actually sells a few billion of your words to the eternal detriment of the human race as a whole.
Or.
Write so well that the critics, naysayers and family members that may or may not have the cumulative IQ of a shaved polar bear actually enjoy reading what you write.
I am going to practice until I fall into the second category. Or perhaps I will just be so prolific that I will get an honorable mention in the little blue book of "at least he tried"
Either way, expect to see a fair number of blog entries from me this year. Feel free to laugh, cry or be disgusted. For the very brave, or large, or those of you trained in some murderous martial art that I don't know, feel free to be critical.
Happy new year.