Diamonds with Inclusions

Tiny flaws, hidden gems. I've become increasingly aware that there is a distinctive unique beauty in things that are a bit off-kilter. I've learned to love the alteration of skin with an artist's ink. I've come to appreciate a flaw. An awkwardness. A diamond that is offset with an inclusion. A tilt of the head to the right. I've grown to appreciate disruption. I've learned to appreciate the things that cause a concern, cause a worry. I find a beauty in finding that part of you that you find the least attractive suddenly becoming the fixation. I like it when I can see the transformation...I love the way that age becomes like an artist's blade, smearing slightly the colors from a finely drawn line into a smudged version of what once was...the way a sunset appears through a screen. It is endearing, it is even more devastatingly beautiful because it has transformed. It has transitioned. The scars, the ink, the comfort in the skin and the confidence in the sharing. The discovery. I love what is perceived as a flaw and moving it into a feature. I love the shyness of reluctance and I applaud the passion of sharing. I love examining the proximity, the closeness, and finding the things that you may find harmful...beautiful.

Snow Day

Maybe it's morning. Maybe it's night. In a blackened room the scuttling of sleet against the window is a rhythm like rain. Somewhere out there ice glazes over branches, over streets, and as the sun grays out the dark the sky stops spitting and collapses into a thousand flakes as the morning begins with snow.

Snow deadens sound. It muffles, it blankets. It quiets.

And it's cold. Even windless it is numbing, it is a blade across the skin.

And it's gray. Even at the height of the day the white circle of sun stays low, blotted out, caught up in the trees. It is a day with eyes half shut.

But here, I feel you stir, I feel your warmth. I hear the slight change in breathing and know you're emerging from your sleep. And I know if I move it will hasten you awake so I lay still, motionless, capturing this snow day in these quietest moments before the rest of the world notices.

I'll Take "What are 'No Hot Babes' for $1000"

There's really no debating that the long-storied run of the game-show Jeopardy truly stimulates our perceptions of intelligence, education and our own egotism in carrying arcane data around in our brains. It is a brisk-paced event, and trivia is like so many pieces of popcorn that we can infinitely stuff into our mouths and never get full. We learn something new, we're reminded of something we'd forgotten, and we have those agonizing moments when we see the shell of an answer and exhale "I knew that" after we see the answer. But there are some immutable rules, at least in my mind, that we must always remember when it comes to Jeopardy.

1) Yes, your ringer does work and yes you look idiotic when you convulsively shake it and plunge it like you're Wiley Coyote attempting to blow up a bridge in a Road-Runner cartoon. They clearly must have to reiterate that to contestants because nobody ever appeals to the judges a la Tonya Harding for a do-over. If I ever got to be a contestant I'd bang it on the podium...I'd lose, but I'd be remembered.

2) Alex is a tool. Just wait until a French or native American Indian name/phrase/river/building/event/sandwich is revealed as a clue. He loves to phonetically emphasize this skill. Because I would only guess correctly if I heard it pronounced a certain way. (Think Louvre vs. Loover)...when his condescension is at it's apex, like after you lose a Double Jeopardy clue (he likes to remind you with "hurry") before he clucks and pointedly reminds you of your new idiot status, I swear they must have bailiffs standing by so the contestant cannot go on the attack. He's also Canadian, which is like checking "Vanilla" on ethnicity. And really, who has that type of mustache anymore?

3) People's handwriting skills continue to suck. I like looking at how people scribe their name. Sometimes it's neat and tidy...sometimes there is a smiley face...sometimes a line underneath it for emphasis. The best examples obviously come in Final Jeopardy...when they have to write a full sentence, including a question mark. When people have no clue I like it when they have cross-outs. I also like when Alex struggles to read...it makes me think of him as semi-literate. If I was guessing I'd make it damn near illegible and have him keep guessing until he got so exasperated he'd have to ask me what I wrote. People also seem to have trouble with dollar signs. Wonder what's up with that?

4) There is a paucity of hot smart women as contestants. I'm not sure of the demographics of the show, but I would think throwing in a few pieces of eye-candy could tip the ratings a tad...who cares if she's -$5000 like a Will Farrell character...she's getting the sympathy vote. But every now and then there is an attractive contestant and I actually get emotionally attached to her performance. I get sad when she inevitably loses however. The show preceding Jeopardy in our cable programming is Wheel of Fortune. Not only do they have an attractive co-host, they almost always have a very good looking female who's very familiar with the alphabet. And even if they're not a contestant they usually are the attractive spouse shown in the crowd...Jeopardy? I think they pride themselves on not only getting fairly scary people, but they must tell them to wear clothes picked out exclusively by their mothers. One more thing...always hang around after the show ends for the credits portion...sometimes when those people come out from behind the podiums you actually see their entire body and that can be a buzz-kill of huge proportions.

5) I like to think that I am actually smarter after each episode of Jeopardy. I just forget that fact until I get around to watching the next show.

6) Kids Jeopardy makes me feel awfully stupid.

The Myth of Storms

An evening waits to be scrubbed. An afternoon hovers like the air in a funeral parlor...the pale unmoving, unbreathing humidity hangs as funeral clothes in a graying sky. It is a day dying, the skies shuttling in mourners of darkening clouds, armbands of black. The sun blinks one last golden stare before closing, dispersing in a flat line of orange before being penciled out by lowering clouds.

The thunder is slight and faint at first, artillery far away. The sky as fragile as fine bone china. It ripples slightly, tremoring. It rattles, stacks of dishes set before a doorway precariously. Ink spills blackening and staining what is left of lightness, and a scented wind carries the hint of copper.

The house darkens and quiets. A light goes out, the hum of the refrigerator stalls and ticks. A lowering grumble of something unleashed, still so distant away. The storm, like some unredemptive lover stalking after its prey shines bright and pretty lights in dark places, followed by the crush of her fists. Kicking in the doorway, crushing the fine bone china sky into billions of bits. Crying, screaming after the loss, unsalted tears pouring as she runs from room to room, bolting, tearing through walls, exploding doorways, lost love looking.

She passes overhead, dark and beautiful, thundering past me, leaving the droplets of her pain behind.

Xs and Ys

I didn't put an image to this latest post, because it's probably too personal and too close to home to render something that will conjure up my thesis statement.

First, a quick apology for the hiatus. Things change, times move quickly. It's all good, positive and inspiring. So sorry for the delay.

Second, coming from a traditional nuclear family myself, I really find it quite blessed that I also had the fortunate circumstance to father both a girl and a boy, in that order, with all the accompanying drama that each gender...engenders.

My daughter, with all the beauty that only a 20 year old can possess, is a mall designers dream girl. Armed with merely a credit card and a somewhat flexible schedule, she can find enough clothes to address a small African country. She is a driven soul with an achingly unfailing aptitude for sarcasm and panache, and seems wiser than her years. Why? Probably because she's been close to the edges at times, when life has decided to towel-snap her ass and remind her that it takes a lot of work to be excellent. So she is the ultimate resilient one. Who's mood can sometimes be defined by the label behind her neck. She loves what she is and she wants to be front row and show you the love. To smell what the rock is cooking. (Which is a new found joyful interest and can likely just add to the repertoire).

My son is perfectly content as the single most stalwart soul I know. A rock who has assumed his position and stands nakedly for who he is, take it or leave it. He is unabashed. He is patient. He looks for and quite likely finds the best and most special part of a person and announces it and shares it. He is so completely the opposite at times of his carefully coiffed sister that it sometimes baffles us to believe we are a small family.

He could give a shit about a lot of things, but for the things he treasures he gives it his all. He is willing to put his feelings on his lapels, and he maintains a sensitivity that is intriguing. He listens more than he shares, and he accepts wounds that I know cut deep. I know because I've often created them.

They remain quite a constellation for us, a sun and a moon to observe. One basking in the hot-house spotlight that reflects such brilliance and endeavor, and one that remains at time the brightest part of the nighttime sky, a dependable fixed object that is unmoving and remains steadfast to all fortunate to fall within the light.

They are my somewhat awe-inspiring children...so very different, yet so vastly part of what we've created.

It's Been Awhile

The significance of the moth is change..... Caterpillar into chrysalis or pupa. From thence into beauty---Hannibal Lecter, "Silence of the Lambs"

So, it's been awhile, and I apologize. It's just that frankly things have changed. And as this opening reflected, it's the hope that this change is subsequently reflected as being something of beauty.

In the respite since my last post, I've decided to depart a company and a position that had given me tremendous opportunity, tremendous comfort and clout and tremendous security.

To rip literally away from it, to flee the suckling teat is probably a hallmark of mine. A habit. And frankly sometimes it scares the shit out of me. Why do I suddenly get all A-D-D after some quantity of time passes, and I am at my apogee. Do I truly fear the fall to earth? Do I truly fear the possibility of not meeting the previously gained expectations?

I don't rightfully know. It's a little like the male dog marking. I've marked, I'm moving on.

So now I'm in a new job, in a new technology space, and from what I see the only way up...is up.

And that's why it's been awhile. I've been in my cocoon. Waiting for the butterfly. For those that know me...I mean, really know me, know that that is perfectly like me.

So soon I will post some other meanderings, but I thought you should know. For those of you who read.

What Love Isn't

I remember somebody once told me that love isn't what you see when you're out in public, or when you're broadcasting yourself in some sort of forum. Love is what happens when nobody is looking.

Love takes out the trash. Love stays up late.

Love is what happens when somebody makes the other person better...when they fill the gap. And love is seen by those who watch, those who listen, and those who observe. And when a supposed love burns down the carefully placed combustibles that make up a person, that torch the tiny and spider-like connections to all the other people that happen to be connected, then it is not love. It is a toxin. It is an addiction that is compelling, and singular, and focused. And it tastes like love. And it acts like love.

But it is its opposite. It is pride. And it is love of self.

And sometimes, it is only when you lose something that you love, or have the impact of almost losing something that you love, that you realize the fragility of it. The happenstance of it. The mercurial thing we all seek.

I don't love a lot of things. But the things and people I do know that I do. (Or I hope they do) But I don't show it in an endless of array of sayings, or comments or elaborate schemes.

It's in the tiniest, tiniest portions, doled out with a silver ladle. A favorite meal. A favorite salsa. A favorite drink. An extra hour to sleep in. Coffee made fresh.

It ultimately is the action of love that reveals, not the words that are written or murmured. The actions. The constant refrain of unsolicited, unbiased, unrequited, unexpected actions. Some visible, but many invisible.

Those that are loved feel the tiny delicate drops of such actions. They stand in a rain, they stand in a storm. They know they are loved, and they never need doubt it. Love never asks, nor does it need reminders.

Love is where you can return to, always. Even after it has been stepped on, discarded and almost forgotten.

Because love isn't what you feel when you are with somebody...it's what you feel when you are without somebody.