Thing Review!

How are you doing Clock of the Long Now? I don’t even know what punctuation to use when referring to…you…thing…clock contraption. All I know is that I got to Powell’s City of Books early to get good seats to hear Michael Chabon, one of my favorite writers – living. It was four years ago and it was a strangely sunny day in Portland. And you know what Chabon read? An article he had just gotten published about his son’s reaction to your someday existence. There are more than a few moments when I realize that I’m not that educated. I don’t know the Greeks beyond Zeus and Hera and forgot the plots of most of Shakespeare’s plays beyond Macbeth, Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet. But, Michael Chabon is an extraordinarily smart man and has cool hair. During the reading at Powell’s I was one degree of separation (okay, two, since I sat in the second row back) from his genius energy power. He read, “The Omega Glory” and I cried at the end for just one second and then ran home to Google what the Clock of the Long Now really was. And it’s true. In Nevada, there’s the 10,000 year clock being manufactured to record the future.

At the end of every one of my creative writing courses that I taught at University of Phoenix, I would hand out copies of “The Omega Glory” and turn the overhead projector on to the Long Now website and I would watch what would happen. Many students would sigh and be frustrated at their lack of comprehending much of Chabon’s vocabulary but others would be able to overcome their limited vocabularies to see to the point of the article. One time, I had an ex military man in my class (strong, burly, outspoken and confident) wipe a few tears from his eyes. The class grew silent for a moment after they had finished reading and complaining and he said, “Amy, I want to thank you.”  And I knew exactly what he meant and had felt the same way after I ran out of Powell’s to get to my computer because the future is well…everything. Our day-to-day ability to feel our impact on the future is so completely buried in the minutiae of grocery lists, failed work projects, crying babies, back pain or lovers that never called. 

Thank YOU, 10,000 year clock. For reminding me to look up. 

A Joke

A crocodile walks into a bar holding a loaf of challah in one hand and a non allergenic labrodoodle in the other. The bartender says, we don’t serve your kind here and the challah yells, “Anti-semite!”


-Created by Mr. Doherty at 7:30pm on Wednesday, August 15, 2012.

The Gem in my Hotmail Junkbox

From Hospital,

With Due Respect, I am writing this mail to you with heavy tears in my eyes and great sorrow in my heart. My name is Mrs Karen Wright from Chile; my husband Parker Wright worked with Chile embassy in Malaysia before his death, we were married for 32years without a child and He died after a brief illness that lasted for only few days. I decided not to remarry or get a child outside my matrimonial home which my religion is against. When my husband was alive he deposited the sum of $5.5Million USD with one of the bank here.

Recently I have my test report that my liver has been damage due to cancer affection. The one that disturbs me most is my stroke sickness. Having known my condition I decided to donate this fund to help the orphanages around the world through you the way I am going to instruct here in. I want you to use this fund to help the Orphanages, widows, les-privilege to have there life’s a meaning, and to endeavour that the house of God is maintained. I took this decision because I don't have any child that will inherit this money and my husband relatives are not good at all because they are the one that killed my husband in other to have my entire late husband properties and I don't want my husband's efforts to be used by unbelievers. I don't want a situation whereby my husband inheritance will be used in an ungodly way.

Please assure me that you will act accordingly as I Stated herein.

Hoping to receive your response immediately

Mrs Karen Wright (widow)

****

Poor Mrs Karen Wright! I have so many questions to ask before I help you:

 1. I know you are a grieving widow but did your husband die of a "brief illness" or was He murdered   by his family? There's a big difference here, Mrs. Wright, and the latter involves police, courts and most likely jail time (or whatever sort of justice system you have down there in Chile).

 2. Where were you considering getting a child outside of matrimonial home? The local NICU?

 3. Sorry about your liver but clearly cancer loves it. Truly, cancer is affectionate in that way.

 4. Why would you spend $5.5 million USD to endeavour that the house of God is maintained? 

 5. Do you even know what bank your husband deposited that money? Because that actually seems like the place you should start searching. I don't know what year you were born but there are A LOT of banks now, just FYI (From Your Igloo).

Please assure ME that you will answer accordingly as I STATED hereafter. And please, Mrs Karen Wright (widow), take your meds!!

    

Book Review Alert!

In AA circles (so I have learned), the "next right thing" is whatever you need to do to get through the next part of your day. The "thing" or the action that helps you overcome your addiction. It is also the title of Dan Barden's newest novel and what I suggest you do if you haven't already picked up a copy. Barden's protagonist is Everyman, Randy Chalmers, an ex-cop with a drinking problem and anger issues that he doles out in explosive tantrums like a toddler not getting his way.  But Randy is especially pissed off because his AA sponsor, Terry Elias, has turned up dead in a hotel after ODing on heroine and this is NOT one of the 12 steps to recovery. Randy is on a mission to understand why Terry is dead and all kinds of crazy shit is going down in Laguna Beach.
Whether you've had an addiction, known someone else who is suffering with one, or if you have a heart beat, you should read The Next Right Thing. You'll be entertained and more.

Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow...

          After we had our first son, T, we moved to Portland when he was 18 months, I was drawn to the weather reports like moths to the light. Was it going to rain all day? Was I going to be sequestered – INSIDE – with a toddler? Weather reports became my daily affirmation or punishment. My destiny waited and the long span of existence trapped with a little person would once again be decided in numbers and images of clouds. Maybe I was a bit depressed or just in shock. Before we moved to Portland, I was a working woman. My life was not about making it to 5:30pm when my husband walked in the door. My life felt more about hosting parties and celebrating life with girlfriends and taking long walks with my significant other. I spent weekends in Chicago shopping and running along Lake Michigan. For 35 years I had been living for myself, trying to learn to grow up and be a good worker and a friend and a partner. Having a child anchored me in a good way, though, and I just had to learn to juggle getting a shower, daycare drop off and finding time to eat. Just as I had not remotely learned to balance any of this, we moved. I quit my job. Suddenly, I was in a new town with a small boy who I had no idea what to “do” with day in and day out. Life felt crazy and stagnant at the same time as if my life had died and was replaced by aliens.

After we had moved to Portland, my new job as a stay-at-home mom included a daily search to seek out other moms. I found an ongoing Tuesday morning group and I’d stare deep into their eyes wondering what their perspectives were of life with children. Was this fun? Was this interesting? Those moms all seemed content to be discussing babies: nursing babies, changing diapers, the best wipes, age appropriate toys, music classes, food prep, allergies. This was not what I wanted to discuss: sleep deprivation, how boring this felt, how frustrated my 18 month old was and how lost I felt in this decision to have a child and not be sleeping or doing things that I enjoyed, living in a new city with no friends. Their lives were the life of this little person and I felt so alienated for feeling differently. I felt like a fraud. I dreamed of getting a hotel room for two nights and just being alone. Left alone to sleep and think and cry and make phone calls and lay there. I was so tired. This little boy never slept well until he was five and had dropped naps by the time he was three.

         Sleep deprivation spread out for hours because T had woken up at some ghastly hour of 5am ready to be grumpy and challenging and make the day even longer. No gatherings start for stay at home moms until at least 10am. I was often done with breakfast for T and I by 6:30am. It was cloudy and cold outside and unsuitable for walks that early. He didn’t watch shows yet, though I stared hard at the Today show while clutching my coffee and wiping tears from my eyes hoping he didn’t notice. He didn’t.