I'm copying this post today from my favorite Down Syndrome Parent's Forum:
As far as I can tell, below is my first post on Downsyn, in July, 2000.
*****
There is not a lot more that I can add to the tremendous amount of wisdom already posted in these preceding messages. Only to add that it seems to me that you are doing the right things - first, seeking the best for your child's health. Second, you are taking the courageous step of seeking information and help for what you are feeling. My advice to you is to read and re-read these messages for the faith, hope, comfort and courage that you will find in and around the words written. Faith and trust start with you.My daughter will be one year old this week. We did not know that she had DS until her birth. I have turned over and over in my mind what it would have been like to have had months to think about her with DS before she was actually present, and I honestly can't say if it would have been better or not. In the first hours and days of her life, I actually wished that her medical problems would take her life, and that we could be the brave parents experiencing a terrible loss, and then move on. The reality is that we lost the daughter that we wanted - she never existed. Yesterday, I arrived home from work to find Emma asleep in her crib. She slept through our dinner until nearly 8 o'clock. I was angry because I didn't get to spend hardly any time with her. In the midst of all of the things that worry, frighten, annoy, and grieve me, the best part of my life is when I get to hold and play with both of my kids. Emma's smile can melt the coldest steel. Sitting in my chair with her asleep on my chest brings me the greatest sense of peace and contentment that I have ever known. This message is getting long -- I am having to develop attributes that I never wanted to have - but I am a better person as a result.I have to address life quality issues at every turn - but I have become a source of strength and courage for others.My heart is broken - but it is through this that I am learning what really matters.Life is a gift - Love takes courage - God will bless your efforts if you trust him to.That's enough for me for one day.
*****
Today is Emma’s sixth birthday. A lot has changed, and yet nothing has changed at all. Some things are not as clear to me as they seemed then, to be honest, seeing my own words prompts me to seek some of the strength I’ve been denying myself due to self-pity, lately.
My children are still my greatest source of strength. Emma was in asleep my lap, last night, and I just waited a little while before carrying her to bed (no small task, these days). She’s not so innocent, anymore; she’s a formidable presence in this world. We’re all struggling with getting her to new levels of communication and behavior; our (hers and ours) hardest work right now is to try, not to revert to what’s worked in the past. I am so proud of my son, Samuel. His compassion, watchfulness, and patience with all of us – I try desperately to not take for granted.
There are no adequate words for me to express my admiration for Vicky. She bears the brunt of the daily grind, the chasing, the doctors, the medicine, the bills, the angry guy that comes home every afternoon, the laundry, and the myriad of other things that don’t immediately come to mind. She’s an amazing Mom. She doesn’t let up. I don’t know how she does it.
So, the party’s on Saturday, there’ll be pictures, maybe an annual cake-video.
It’s appropriate that my first post began by acknowledging others here, some have gone on, some remain. I want to end this one the same way. You folks inspire, challenge, and make this world a better place, day by day, diaper by diaper, sign by sign. Some of you now move entire communities, having never thought yourselves capable of such things. One of the things I realized, that Dan Rather got booed for, and we just don’t talk about enough, is the need for courage. I find courage here, every day.
Thank you.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Monday, July 18, 2005
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
Had the special joy of going to the cinema for the second Sunday in a row, to the same mall where the Parking Structure elevator is still not working, meaning I get to bump the stroller down three flights of stairs again. But back to our movie.
Johnny Depp, once again succeeds in portraying a creep. Imagery and cgi wonders abound. Our hero lives in a completely unique hovel amidst rows and rows of moribund row houses. His other four competitors are so caricatured at the beginning that there is absolutely no suspense as to the outcome, even for someone like me who was completely unfamiliar with the story. Christopher Lee is perfect in his role as Father of the Creep. Oompah-Loompahs bring much-needed levity and music, as do a roomful of squirrels possessing a collective wisdom far beyond that of their owner. The fat kid's face looks like a baby's butt, it's so rotund and translucent, his blue eyes would have made any fuhrer proud. Major props also to the look of absolute focus on the face of Violet's mom. They should have been from Dallas, not Florida.The scene where candy gets teleported by TV, but gets smaller, wasn't too well thought out, either. Everybody knows that the camera adds ten pounds. I guess in the world of fantasy, anything can happen.
Oh, one other thing. I guess, in today's PG, PC world, it's o.k. to use the word "retard" (as uttered by the totally unlikeable video-game playing techno-nerd kid), but not "bastard" (you'll have to watch the movie). They both describe wrinkles in the human condition, shouldn't they get equal weight? After watching videos in the "Back to the Future" series with my kids, recently, this movie was stellar in terms of language, if not in respect for "diversity".More importantly, the kids loved it. It was serendipitous that my son and I had just concluded watching "2001: A Space Odyssey" the day before, it made one of the "in-jokes" pretty funny for him. The air conditioning was working fine, and I almost got a nap in the middle of it. The Squrrels woke me up.
Johnny Depp, once again succeeds in portraying a creep. Imagery and cgi wonders abound. Our hero lives in a completely unique hovel amidst rows and rows of moribund row houses. His other four competitors are so caricatured at the beginning that there is absolutely no suspense as to the outcome, even for someone like me who was completely unfamiliar with the story. Christopher Lee is perfect in his role as Father of the Creep. Oompah-Loompahs bring much-needed levity and music, as do a roomful of squirrels possessing a collective wisdom far beyond that of their owner. The fat kid's face looks like a baby's butt, it's so rotund and translucent, his blue eyes would have made any fuhrer proud. Major props also to the look of absolute focus on the face of Violet's mom. They should have been from Dallas, not Florida.The scene where candy gets teleported by TV, but gets smaller, wasn't too well thought out, either. Everybody knows that the camera adds ten pounds. I guess in the world of fantasy, anything can happen.
Oh, one other thing. I guess, in today's PG, PC world, it's o.k. to use the word "retard" (as uttered by the totally unlikeable video-game playing techno-nerd kid), but not "bastard" (you'll have to watch the movie). They both describe wrinkles in the human condition, shouldn't they get equal weight? After watching videos in the "Back to the Future" series with my kids, recently, this movie was stellar in terms of language, if not in respect for "diversity".More importantly, the kids loved it. It was serendipitous that my son and I had just concluded watching "2001: A Space Odyssey" the day before, it made one of the "in-jokes" pretty funny for him. The air conditioning was working fine, and I almost got a nap in the middle of it. The Squrrels woke me up.
Monday, July 11, 2005
Fantastic 4 falls flat
I won't compete with Roger Ebert on this one - he says what's on my mind in this review. I had read, and agree that this is a movie best suited for 10 year-olds. I agree, just be sure and bring their game-boys along, so they can keep themselves occupied while the utterly idiotic, boring dialogue runs out. Sam put up the arm rests and laid down for a while during this movie - he should have been drawn in and kept interested. It was nice to see Michael Chiklis on the big screen - his eyes peering through his dirt-colored rubber suit do more acting than most of the combined cast of this turd. Blurry cgi effects only cement the feeling that it's not going to get any better before the film runs out. Emma signed twice to mom that she wanted to go potty, turns out she was really just commenting on the movie.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
London 07/07/05
Dear Friends,
I personally share your shock, sorrow, and anger at this cowardly exhibit by those who seem intent upon their own destruction. Just as we will never forget 9/11, we remember and celebrate the resilience and resolve of Londoners through history in the face of tyranny and terror. My sincere desire is that these perpetrators are rounded up and at least removed from free society, where they enjoy what they seek to destroy.
I personally share your shock, sorrow, and anger at this cowardly exhibit by those who seem intent upon their own destruction. Just as we will never forget 9/11, we remember and celebrate the resilience and resolve of Londoners through history in the face of tyranny and terror. My sincere desire is that these perpetrators are rounded up and at least removed from free society, where they enjoy what they seek to destroy.
Fetters in Twain
Sufficient time has passed, to the point where I don’t remember much visual detail, but the impressions are revived every now and again in broad, vivid emotional recollection. After 34 years, I am still unsure as to the timing of this wave, but it washes over me occasionally, and I am glad.
One of the things that we don’t really experience, here in the New World, is the phenomenon of ancient cities, destroyed and rebuilt on the resulting ruins, century upon century. Rome is such a city. I remember quipping to my friends, with all the cynicism that a 14-year old could muster, that Rome was “like Tijuana, the dirt was just 1400 years older.” It is true that youth is wasted upon the young. Reaching parts of old Rome requires descending from the modern city to excavated and preserved levels, which only adds to one’s sense of leaving current time as well as space. This stuff is way old, and it smells old as one leaves the light and heat of the day to descend into the streets of the Forum – yes, the original one – and then into Mamertine Prison.
My efforts to refresh my memory today tell me that there is no confirmation that Saints Paul and Peter were ever here; it still does not diminish the effect that it had upon me, as I’m sure it continues to have upon others. I was with a tour group of about 14 people, mostly teens with a few sponsors, including my parents. Our Father, who art in Temecula, had specifically requested this particular stop on our Roman Holiday.
This prison was initially created as a cistern, with two chambers. The lower one was originally only accessed via a hole in its roof – prisoners were lowered (or thrown) into the lower section. I clearly remember a large metal door that was shown to lead into the ancient sewer system, and was informed that some unfortunates that did not survive their incarceration were merely disposed of in this manner. Having endured what at that point seemed a lifetime of Sunday school lessons depicting Peter and Paul singing the doors of prisons open, those illustrations paled into oblivion. This was a serious place, and a cold, dank, dark hole where the only access to light and life was controlled by taunting soldiers above, in conditions not much better than one’s own. Gazing at the bricks, feeling the cold in the midst of what I knew was a hot Summer’s day a couple of centuries above me, in the silence found only in subterranean places or perhaps deep space – I think I got a sense of how cold, hungry, and utterly alone one could be. I am happy to say that that’s the closest I’ve ever been to incarceration, so far. Perhaps this memory is one reason why.
Then comes the moment that means so much to me. We held hands, in a circle within the cistern, and began to sing an old hymn. My initial 14-year old resistance to the “corny-ness” of the moment began to melt within me as the familiar words began to take on a gripping reality:
“Once I was bound by sin’s galling fetters,
Chained like a slave, I suffered in vain.
Then I received a glorious freedom,
Freedom that rent my fetters in twain.
Glorious Freedom, Wonderful Freedom!
No more in chains of sin I repine
Jesus the glorious Emancipator
Now and Forever, He shall be mine!"
I don’t remember leaving the prison. I really don’t remember anything else from that day. I do know that a lot of things came into clearer focus for me that day – what others had done for me, the power of faith. Increasingly, over the years, gratitude to my parents for providing such an opportunity for me, that enabling such experiences was a pretty important calling. That light can truly pierce the darkness, in all its forms, in the darkest of places. That’s a few of them. I suppose, in a sense, it’s given me a certain confidence that things are never quite that bad, that there’s a spirit available in the worst circumstances, that God will never “leave me or forsake me.” As I said, it’s a feeling I get every once in a while . . .
One of the things that we don’t really experience, here in the New World, is the phenomenon of ancient cities, destroyed and rebuilt on the resulting ruins, century upon century. Rome is such a city. I remember quipping to my friends, with all the cynicism that a 14-year old could muster, that Rome was “like Tijuana, the dirt was just 1400 years older.” It is true that youth is wasted upon the young. Reaching parts of old Rome requires descending from the modern city to excavated and preserved levels, which only adds to one’s sense of leaving current time as well as space. This stuff is way old, and it smells old as one leaves the light and heat of the day to descend into the streets of the Forum – yes, the original one – and then into Mamertine Prison.
My efforts to refresh my memory today tell me that there is no confirmation that Saints Paul and Peter were ever here; it still does not diminish the effect that it had upon me, as I’m sure it continues to have upon others. I was with a tour group of about 14 people, mostly teens with a few sponsors, including my parents. Our Father, who art in Temecula, had specifically requested this particular stop on our Roman Holiday.
This prison was initially created as a cistern, with two chambers. The lower one was originally only accessed via a hole in its roof – prisoners were lowered (or thrown) into the lower section. I clearly remember a large metal door that was shown to lead into the ancient sewer system, and was informed that some unfortunates that did not survive their incarceration were merely disposed of in this manner. Having endured what at that point seemed a lifetime of Sunday school lessons depicting Peter and Paul singing the doors of prisons open, those illustrations paled into oblivion. This was a serious place, and a cold, dank, dark hole where the only access to light and life was controlled by taunting soldiers above, in conditions not much better than one’s own. Gazing at the bricks, feeling the cold in the midst of what I knew was a hot Summer’s day a couple of centuries above me, in the silence found only in subterranean places or perhaps deep space – I think I got a sense of how cold, hungry, and utterly alone one could be. I am happy to say that that’s the closest I’ve ever been to incarceration, so far. Perhaps this memory is one reason why.
Then comes the moment that means so much to me. We held hands, in a circle within the cistern, and began to sing an old hymn. My initial 14-year old resistance to the “corny-ness” of the moment began to melt within me as the familiar words began to take on a gripping reality:
“Once I was bound by sin’s galling fetters,
Chained like a slave, I suffered in vain.
Then I received a glorious freedom,
Freedom that rent my fetters in twain.
Glorious Freedom, Wonderful Freedom!
No more in chains of sin I repine
Jesus the glorious Emancipator
Now and Forever, He shall be mine!"
I don’t remember leaving the prison. I really don’t remember anything else from that day. I do know that a lot of things came into clearer focus for me that day – what others had done for me, the power of faith. Increasingly, over the years, gratitude to my parents for providing such an opportunity for me, that enabling such experiences was a pretty important calling. That light can truly pierce the darkness, in all its forms, in the darkest of places. That’s a few of them. I suppose, in a sense, it’s given me a certain confidence that things are never quite that bad, that there’s a spirit available in the worst circumstances, that God will never “leave me or forsake me.” As I said, it’s a feeling I get every once in a while . . .
Friday, June 24, 2005
. . . And New Heroes Emerge
I have been witnessing a young woman and her husband sharing their lives as they've gone from one pre-natal diagnostic test to another, going from the possibility of trisomy 21 to the realization that their baby indeed has trisomy 18 - a condition that is more often fatal at or near birth. I have been speechless, watching events unfold, mostly because there have been others better equipped than I to support her. Today, she posted their decision. I cannot think of many situations more bittersweet than this, or people more heroic than these.
***********
*husband* and i have decided that we're going to continue with this pregnancy as long as we can. as hard as it will be, this little guy is still our baby and we're going to do everything possible to get as much time with his as we can - even if it's only a few minutes. they'll be worth it.for those who pray, when you think of us, you can pray for the following:- that the pregnancy will go full term- that our son will be born alive- that we'd have a few days to spend with him- if it's not asking too much, that we'd be able to take him home for a bit and then to church to have him dedicated- that peter's family would be able to meet him and be there for the funeral (this is a lot to ask since his parents are missionaries in the middle east, his sister will be starting a job with a missions group in spain, his older brother and family are in southern california, and his younger brother is enrolled in the naval academy in maryland - my family is all in the country at least)we're not at the point that we've fully accepted this (and may never be), but we know that we can't change anything. the only thing we have any control over is our own attitudes. for me being sad, depressed and angry isn't good for the baby and he's the number one priority now.thanks for all the support i've received here.
**********
If you pray, pray for strength for this couple. ". . . Love bears all things . . . "
I have two new heroes, today.
***********
*husband* and i have decided that we're going to continue with this pregnancy as long as we can. as hard as it will be, this little guy is still our baby and we're going to do everything possible to get as much time with his as we can - even if it's only a few minutes. they'll be worth it.for those who pray, when you think of us, you can pray for the following:- that the pregnancy will go full term- that our son will be born alive- that we'd have a few days to spend with him- if it's not asking too much, that we'd be able to take him home for a bit and then to church to have him dedicated- that peter's family would be able to meet him and be there for the funeral (this is a lot to ask since his parents are missionaries in the middle east, his sister will be starting a job with a missions group in spain, his older brother and family are in southern california, and his younger brother is enrolled in the naval academy in maryland - my family is all in the country at least)we're not at the point that we've fully accepted this (and may never be), but we know that we can't change anything. the only thing we have any control over is our own attitudes. for me being sad, depressed and angry isn't good for the baby and he's the number one priority now.thanks for all the support i've received here.
**********
If you pray, pray for strength for this couple. ". . . Love bears all things . . . "
I have two new heroes, today.
Another One Bites the Dust
http://www.kfmb.com/stories/story.16073.html
At the Aerospace Museum in San Diego's Balboa park, you can see Mr. Cunningham's F-4, tilted on a stand behind a MIG fighter just like the ones he shot down. It's hard not to be moved by the display. The visual impact of that much hardware hurtling through the sky is as intimidating as hearing the rumbling sound track of "TOP GUN" was in the theater. Ace Cunningham claims to be a major inspiration for that story, and I have always seen his service to this country through that lens. My college roommate worked his way through ROTC and became an Air Force pilot and officer, in a time when I often kidded him about flying in planes "built by the lowest bidder". I even had the privelege, once, of taking him out to Miramar and seeing his own F-4 "Double Ugly" one day. I am proud to have known, through my parents, fighter and bomber pilots from WWII, these men have epitomized integrity to me.
I have been waiting for some time for this statement from Mr. Cunningham, and I will withhold final judgement until any investigation is complete, but calling this an "error in judgement" is tantamount to calling the captain of the Titanic "negligent". This transaction smells so bad even I can taste it. This should never have happened, period. And he knows it. And he knows that we all know it, too.
I still consider myself naive when it comes to politics, and I know that things do not always appear as they are. I saw an interview last year with Bill Clinton and Bob Dole, these guys actually like and admire each other. In my opinion, posturing and saying outrageously partisan things is, like professional wrestling, an unnecessary but traditional part of the process. It rarely affects the outcome, but makes the job look so much harder.
Yesterdays' Reader is an example of a half-told story. I'm all for Congressmen doing due diligence, and I don't have any particular aversion to them staying at the Sheik's araby while doing so. But now, the odor of one transaction starts to permeate all of these situations. He becomes just another public servant putting his golden years before the reasons he became a public servant in the first place. He may think he's earned it, but he has done so at the expense of his reputation, and that of his office.
It has to be about more than not getting caught. It has to be about more than cashing in. Please.
At the Aerospace Museum in San Diego's Balboa park, you can see Mr. Cunningham's F-4, tilted on a stand behind a MIG fighter just like the ones he shot down. It's hard not to be moved by the display. The visual impact of that much hardware hurtling through the sky is as intimidating as hearing the rumbling sound track of "TOP GUN" was in the theater. Ace Cunningham claims to be a major inspiration for that story, and I have always seen his service to this country through that lens. My college roommate worked his way through ROTC and became an Air Force pilot and officer, in a time when I often kidded him about flying in planes "built by the lowest bidder". I even had the privelege, once, of taking him out to Miramar and seeing his own F-4 "Double Ugly" one day. I am proud to have known, through my parents, fighter and bomber pilots from WWII, these men have epitomized integrity to me.
I have been waiting for some time for this statement from Mr. Cunningham, and I will withhold final judgement until any investigation is complete, but calling this an "error in judgement" is tantamount to calling the captain of the Titanic "negligent". This transaction smells so bad even I can taste it. This should never have happened, period. And he knows it. And he knows that we all know it, too.
I still consider myself naive when it comes to politics, and I know that things do not always appear as they are. I saw an interview last year with Bill Clinton and Bob Dole, these guys actually like and admire each other. In my opinion, posturing and saying outrageously partisan things is, like professional wrestling, an unnecessary but traditional part of the process. It rarely affects the outcome, but makes the job look so much harder.
Yesterdays' Reader is an example of a half-told story. I'm all for Congressmen doing due diligence, and I don't have any particular aversion to them staying at the Sheik's araby while doing so. But now, the odor of one transaction starts to permeate all of these situations. He becomes just another public servant putting his golden years before the reasons he became a public servant in the first place. He may think he's earned it, but he has done so at the expense of his reputation, and that of his office.
It has to be about more than not getting caught. It has to be about more than cashing in. Please.
Monday, June 20, 2005
I keep reading that there’s a huge slump in the numbers of people going to movies. These reports cite polls showing that people would rather watch DVD’s and pay-per-view at home. Well, DUH!
Let’s begin, as all things should, at home. Prying a family of four away from the obligations, video games, and other distractions at home has turned into quite a trick. The attainment of two little kids fully clothed with shoes on often seems like scaling K2 in scope and difficulty. Then there’s the gas, particularly wasted idling around the parking structures and lots of these megalopolis malls, where you meet the nicest people vying for that one open spot two rows over. It’s nice to know that so many people think I’m Number One!
Standing in line, trashed bathrooms, overpriced food-court food. I just love contact with my fellow Man.
With matinee prices starting at $8 a pop, that means $32 for my family to purchase tickets. What’s a movie without popcorn and a soda? Another $25 bucks or so, uh-huh. Put that up against 5$ for a DVD and another $8 for goodies at home, and we can pause it while you go potty or get a drink. And we do.
Now, my family is still trying to do our part, we see probably at least one movie a month as a family, but the sticker shock is becoming awe. It is pretty cool to see the look on Emma’s face during a movie like "Madagascar", where the big screen and sound seem to captivate her and make her wide-eyed. Last Saturday, we saw "Sharkboy and Lavagirl . . ." She fell asleep in the stroller (some people use strollers to smuggle in sodas and candy – In fact, I’m convinced that that’s how the first "dirty bomb" will be delivered, and I don’t mean a forgotten diaper) before the titles were over. I fell asleep about 20 minutes into it, myself, snorting myself awake a couple of times. Truly a movie aimed at youngsters – there was nothing there for anyone over (or apparently under) 8-12 years of age. That doesn’t mean that I had bad time – I’ll take a nap whenever I can get it. Sharkboy needs more acting lessons.
As for continuing to feel "not sorry" for movie executives, seems to me that DVD revenue’s gotta be pretty good, else they wouldna’ be so many of ‘em. The ever-narrowing gap between movie release and DVD release signals that maybe they’re not so discouraged, after all. They’ve even developed a new method of releasing the first DVD right away, and then releasing an "enhanced" version a couple of months later – with all the extras - so that the fan now has two copies of his or her favorites. You movie guys’s impoverishment is truly breakin’ my heart. And then there’s timing of release. "Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy", released a week or two before "Star Wars III" – there’s a bit of Gumpian Wisdom, ‘cept it didn’t work. You can’t see them, Forrest, for the Sith.
And just one other thing. Stop churning out crap. Pixar is successful because the story comes first. Sharkboy and Lavagirl needed 3-D – better to have objects coming from the screen, rather than being hurled at it. The glasses prevented anyone’s aim from being accurate enough to hit the screen. Besides, who in their right mind would throw jujubees at the screen, when they are about a quarter apiece?
Let’s begin, as all things should, at home. Prying a family of four away from the obligations, video games, and other distractions at home has turned into quite a trick. The attainment of two little kids fully clothed with shoes on often seems like scaling K2 in scope and difficulty. Then there’s the gas, particularly wasted idling around the parking structures and lots of these megalopolis malls, where you meet the nicest people vying for that one open spot two rows over. It’s nice to know that so many people think I’m Number One!
Standing in line, trashed bathrooms, overpriced food-court food. I just love contact with my fellow Man.
With matinee prices starting at $8 a pop, that means $32 for my family to purchase tickets. What’s a movie without popcorn and a soda? Another $25 bucks or so, uh-huh. Put that up against 5$ for a DVD and another $8 for goodies at home, and we can pause it while you go potty or get a drink. And we do.
Now, my family is still trying to do our part, we see probably at least one movie a month as a family, but the sticker shock is becoming awe. It is pretty cool to see the look on Emma’s face during a movie like "Madagascar", where the big screen and sound seem to captivate her and make her wide-eyed. Last Saturday, we saw "Sharkboy and Lavagirl . . ." She fell asleep in the stroller (some people use strollers to smuggle in sodas and candy – In fact, I’m convinced that that’s how the first "dirty bomb" will be delivered, and I don’t mean a forgotten diaper) before the titles were over. I fell asleep about 20 minutes into it, myself, snorting myself awake a couple of times. Truly a movie aimed at youngsters – there was nothing there for anyone over (or apparently under) 8-12 years of age. That doesn’t mean that I had bad time – I’ll take a nap whenever I can get it. Sharkboy needs more acting lessons.
As for continuing to feel "not sorry" for movie executives, seems to me that DVD revenue’s gotta be pretty good, else they wouldna’ be so many of ‘em. The ever-narrowing gap between movie release and DVD release signals that maybe they’re not so discouraged, after all. They’ve even developed a new method of releasing the first DVD right away, and then releasing an "enhanced" version a couple of months later – with all the extras - so that the fan now has two copies of his or her favorites. You movie guys’s impoverishment is truly breakin’ my heart. And then there’s timing of release. "Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy", released a week or two before "Star Wars III" – there’s a bit of Gumpian Wisdom, ‘cept it didn’t work. You can’t see them, Forrest, for the Sith.
And just one other thing. Stop churning out crap. Pixar is successful because the story comes first. Sharkboy and Lavagirl needed 3-D – better to have objects coming from the screen, rather than being hurled at it. The glasses prevented anyone’s aim from being accurate enough to hit the screen. Besides, who in their right mind would throw jujubees at the screen, when they are about a quarter apiece?
Moving On
Anybody still here?
It’s been an interesting week here on lake Woe-Be-Gone. A few things have occurred since my latest rant and pity-party.
Unfortunately, this is going to take a little explanation. Some unnamed (although we know who it is) administrator has decided that it would be a good idea for the support departments to "flex" their hours up and down (it only means down) with the number of patients in the building. What this means for my department is that we are being asked, from pay period to pay period, to take time off from work. This time off can either be supplemented by one’s vacation pay, or taken without pay. The net effect is that I no longer have a full-time job. Combine that with the fact that the average pay "raise" is running at 2 percent, it represents a net (there’s that word again) loss for all of us. To this lovely recipe for morale, add the realization that none of our "sister" hospital support depts are "flexing", and you have one motivated bunch of mofos. Since we are all taking time off, that means we get to work the other shifts to accommodate our swing and graveyard (funny, they don’t call it that at the hospital) shifts, too. So I have a part-time job with variable shifts. Let’s move on.
About a month or so ago, my Director announced that some of us might be able to "flex" our hours over to the Biomed department - - do some work for them, and get paid out of their cost center. A few weeks went by where we’d already met our quota, but then there was a period looming with a huge deficit. So I put in for a week in Biomed. That was last week.
I also was given an opportunity to apply for a job. My haphazard attempts at resume-writing were assisted by a friend, and off it went. Hold that thought. . .
Last week was alright. I happily emptied out storerooms. Ironically, the stuff I was throwing into the dumpster was the very equipment I’d been hired to repair in 1986. Karma, anyone? I got to repair some equipment, and even troubleshot and fixed a few things. I delivered and picked up devices, and saw places in the building I hadn’t seen in several years. I swapped out a defibrillator in the Labor and Delivery recovery room, the room where Vicky got the news that Emma has Down Syndrome in, as she came out of the anesthesia. They’d wrapped her in a multi-colored blanket and given her a special cap. It’s a moment in time that is, shall we say, burned into my memory. Bittersweet. I inspected and tagged equipment, helped do a pre-inspection sweep in the lab, and saw the new surgical suite across the street.
I returned to the shop on Tuesday to find a phone message from my prospective employer. Thinking that returning the call would be a matter of setting up an appointment for an interview, I dialed away. It turned out to be a 20 minute Human Resources phone pre-interview, in full earshot of my shop-mates. She told me I’d hear something in a couple of days. It’ll be a week, tomorrow. Que Serah, Serah. Let’s move on.
My Dad had unscheduled gall bladder surgery on Friday. He’s fine; it was just a little bit unsettling for all of us.
It was the last week of school. Sam’s now a third grader, and we’ve got some grainy, hand-held video of Emma’s kindergarten graduation ceremonies. I’m proud of both of my kids.
So it was a good week. I came home from work on Monday, and Vicky asked "how did your day go?" "Pretty good." "Really?" It’s nice to surprise her every now and again. . .
It’s been an interesting week here on lake Woe-Be-Gone. A few things have occurred since my latest rant and pity-party.
Unfortunately, this is going to take a little explanation. Some unnamed (although we know who it is) administrator has decided that it would be a good idea for the support departments to "flex" their hours up and down (it only means down) with the number of patients in the building. What this means for my department is that we are being asked, from pay period to pay period, to take time off from work. This time off can either be supplemented by one’s vacation pay, or taken without pay. The net effect is that I no longer have a full-time job. Combine that with the fact that the average pay "raise" is running at 2 percent, it represents a net (there’s that word again) loss for all of us. To this lovely recipe for morale, add the realization that none of our "sister" hospital support depts are "flexing", and you have one motivated bunch of mofos. Since we are all taking time off, that means we get to work the other shifts to accommodate our swing and graveyard (funny, they don’t call it that at the hospital) shifts, too. So I have a part-time job with variable shifts. Let’s move on.
About a month or so ago, my Director announced that some of us might be able to "flex" our hours over to the Biomed department - - do some work for them, and get paid out of their cost center. A few weeks went by where we’d already met our quota, but then there was a period looming with a huge deficit. So I put in for a week in Biomed. That was last week.
I also was given an opportunity to apply for a job. My haphazard attempts at resume-writing were assisted by a friend, and off it went. Hold that thought. . .
Last week was alright. I happily emptied out storerooms. Ironically, the stuff I was throwing into the dumpster was the very equipment I’d been hired to repair in 1986. Karma, anyone? I got to repair some equipment, and even troubleshot and fixed a few things. I delivered and picked up devices, and saw places in the building I hadn’t seen in several years. I swapped out a defibrillator in the Labor and Delivery recovery room, the room where Vicky got the news that Emma has Down Syndrome in, as she came out of the anesthesia. They’d wrapped her in a multi-colored blanket and given her a special cap. It’s a moment in time that is, shall we say, burned into my memory. Bittersweet. I inspected and tagged equipment, helped do a pre-inspection sweep in the lab, and saw the new surgical suite across the street.
I returned to the shop on Tuesday to find a phone message from my prospective employer. Thinking that returning the call would be a matter of setting up an appointment for an interview, I dialed away. It turned out to be a 20 minute Human Resources phone pre-interview, in full earshot of my shop-mates. She told me I’d hear something in a couple of days. It’ll be a week, tomorrow. Que Serah, Serah. Let’s move on.
My Dad had unscheduled gall bladder surgery on Friday. He’s fine; it was just a little bit unsettling for all of us.
It was the last week of school. Sam’s now a third grader, and we’ve got some grainy, hand-held video of Emma’s kindergarten graduation ceremonies. I’m proud of both of my kids.
So it was a good week. I came home from work on Monday, and Vicky asked "how did your day go?" "Pretty good." "Really?" It’s nice to surprise her every now and again. . .
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Achieving New Heights of Mediocrity
This blog was mentioned in the New York Daily News, yesterday. I wasn't really expecting it. A friend of mine, Tom had referred an email with several questions about blogging as a parent with a "disabled" child. I dutifully answered the questions; one of my points made there was, as Tom pointed out in his blog yesterday about the term used in the article - "Down Syndrome kids" as opposed to "kids with Down Syndrome" (they are people first!) - that this blog was about lots of stuff, being Emma's Dad was only part of it. I agree with Tom that this article was probably edited severely; there was nothing resembling the info that was asked for. At any rate, if you're here as a result, and are interested in stuff relating to being a parent of a "disabled" child (I'm not touching that one at the moment), you need to dig back a little ways. I've been (obviously) doing some different stuff, lately.
So, I got a message yesterday saying that my blog was often thought-provoking, but this person's first impression to many posts was that I should "stop whining and move on." I've thought a lot about this. I'm going to say publicly that this person has infinite credibility with me, and has earned the right to speak their mind, perhaps as no one else I know. This does not change my relationship with them one iota.
I guess it's time to state what I think should be obvious to anyone paying attention. I cannot move on. I'm stuck. I'm a middle-aged man with a seemingly fine intellect, a mind "all dressed up and nowhere to go." Four months after my happy life was kicked in the stomach, I entered a special circle of hell where I was (and still am) allowed to daily see the fruits of my previous career wither and die before my very eyes. I have participated in the Employee Assistance Plan. I have seen a psychologist. They all tell me that I'm coping very well, and, while I'm welcome to schedule another visit, they don't see any major problems. I guess they didn't want to hear me whine either. I have pursued just about every available angle in terms of finding suitable employment and support for myself and the 3 other people that depend upon me, to no avail. I have taken anti-depressants. I have spoken with my pastor, who looks across the table at me and says that he has no answers. I don't think anyone has the slightest idea of how very angry, powerless, and alone that I feel. If I'm whining here, it's because I have no where else to go.
But I am trying to move on. I've been slowly divesting myself of some of the things that have only served to magnify this anger. I'm trying to tell the truth. I think it is hard for others to understand. Part of the problem is that this becomes ultimately isolating. I think "polite society" was a major force, in the past, at making disabled people invisible. Although great strides have been made, I can't explain to you the emotional energy it takes, sometimes, just to sit in Taco Bell with my daughter, making inappropriate noises and just being herself, realizing that you are now the "floor show." Call it courage, call it stoicism, call it "making the best of it", but the energy this takes has had the practical effect of cutting my families' net output in half. I'm sure that many looking at us from the outside don't understand why we don't do more, but I'm also pretty sure that they really don't want to know why, and that is that it's just too hard. It hurts, over and over, and I increasingly don't feel like being a masochist, most days. If that's "copping out", my moccassins are size 9 1/2.
I love my wife, I love my children. We have a home together that "ain't exactly Ozzie 'n Harriet" (name that movie, now), but I'm happiest when we're together. We're working hard at trying to figure out what this all means. Some of the outcomes are surprising me. Some of them aren't where I'd necessarily want to go, and I don't know where we're headed, exactly, but the status quo 'ain't happening' for us.
I think that's what I'm trying to get to, friend, and why I'm doing both this blog and not writing you personally. I think I am moving on, although we both may not like what I'm becoming. You've stuck with me through a lot, so far, and I want to continue this journey with you. I need you more than you realize, and you'll never know the depth of my gratitude. Your message has prompted me, and I'll try not to whine. Perhaps one man's whine is another man's whiskey, or something like that. Besides, it's part of being a curmudgeon, and who, I ask you, who is going to take Any Rooney's place - he can't live forever, can he?
So, I got a message yesterday saying that my blog was often thought-provoking, but this person's first impression to many posts was that I should "stop whining and move on." I've thought a lot about this. I'm going to say publicly that this person has infinite credibility with me, and has earned the right to speak their mind, perhaps as no one else I know. This does not change my relationship with them one iota.
I guess it's time to state what I think should be obvious to anyone paying attention. I cannot move on. I'm stuck. I'm a middle-aged man with a seemingly fine intellect, a mind "all dressed up and nowhere to go." Four months after my happy life was kicked in the stomach, I entered a special circle of hell where I was (and still am) allowed to daily see the fruits of my previous career wither and die before my very eyes. I have participated in the Employee Assistance Plan. I have seen a psychologist. They all tell me that I'm coping very well, and, while I'm welcome to schedule another visit, they don't see any major problems. I guess they didn't want to hear me whine either. I have pursued just about every available angle in terms of finding suitable employment and support for myself and the 3 other people that depend upon me, to no avail. I have taken anti-depressants. I have spoken with my pastor, who looks across the table at me and says that he has no answers. I don't think anyone has the slightest idea of how very angry, powerless, and alone that I feel. If I'm whining here, it's because I have no where else to go.
But I am trying to move on. I've been slowly divesting myself of some of the things that have only served to magnify this anger. I'm trying to tell the truth. I think it is hard for others to understand. Part of the problem is that this becomes ultimately isolating. I think "polite society" was a major force, in the past, at making disabled people invisible. Although great strides have been made, I can't explain to you the emotional energy it takes, sometimes, just to sit in Taco Bell with my daughter, making inappropriate noises and just being herself, realizing that you are now the "floor show." Call it courage, call it stoicism, call it "making the best of it", but the energy this takes has had the practical effect of cutting my families' net output in half. I'm sure that many looking at us from the outside don't understand why we don't do more, but I'm also pretty sure that they really don't want to know why, and that is that it's just too hard. It hurts, over and over, and I increasingly don't feel like being a masochist, most days. If that's "copping out", my moccassins are size 9 1/2.
I love my wife, I love my children. We have a home together that "ain't exactly Ozzie 'n Harriet" (name that movie, now), but I'm happiest when we're together. We're working hard at trying to figure out what this all means. Some of the outcomes are surprising me. Some of them aren't where I'd necessarily want to go, and I don't know where we're headed, exactly, but the status quo 'ain't happening' for us.
I think that's what I'm trying to get to, friend, and why I'm doing both this blog and not writing you personally. I think I am moving on, although we both may not like what I'm becoming. You've stuck with me through a lot, so far, and I want to continue this journey with you. I need you more than you realize, and you'll never know the depth of my gratitude. Your message has prompted me, and I'll try not to whine. Perhaps one man's whine is another man's whiskey, or something like that. Besides, it's part of being a curmudgeon, and who, I ask you, who is going to take Any Rooney's place - he can't live forever, can he?
Monday, June 06, 2005
An Ancient Parable Draught #1
And verily it came to pass, that a yeast shortage came upon the land, and there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. "Give us this day, our Daily Bread", shouted the masses, but the priests could only offer Pop-Tarts and the promise of a brighter future. Even the chocolate frosted ones brought no solace, no comfort. Farmers released their aging swine into the streets; the lack of bread meant no ham sandwiches, or even SPAM sandwiches, and they kept procreating because they were, after all, pigs. Peanut farmers’ fields lay fallow, as baseball was not sufficient for them to reap and sow. Tomatoes ripened and then died on the vine, and cucumbers shriveled in lieu of pickeldom. Children cried out "Spaghetti, Again?" on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Two score and ten left them without ales, alas the beverage known as "Bud" only incited the masses to cry out obscenities and the names of their favorite sports teams. The pleas for peace from His Eminence, the newly elected Pope Porous V, the former Cardinal Dunkin were soon merely echoing in the halls of the Fatican. Matzoh and Foccacia tried to stem the tide, but soon the chants, of "No Yeast, No Peace!" and "All we are saying, is give Yeast a chance" soon drowned out those seeking calm and order. Cheese and crackers were no substitute for Heros and Heifenweizen.
Then, one day, when all seemed lost, a stranger appeared. He appeared to be a gypsy, a drifter who was not to be trusted. The first thing people noticed about him was the smell, a slightly fermented smell. That something was a rye, was evident to those with strong memories. "Who are you, they asked, their noses filling with nostalgia and want. "I am a visitor from – the Yeast (like you didn’t see that one coming), and I bear tidings of joy and prosperity to you. Take these seeds and sow them according to the ancient ways, and thou shalt be rewarded." All you must do is be kind to one another, feed the poor, and give everyone a home of their own. But in their selfishness, they set upon him, killed him, and took his stores. They immediately used the yeast to bake bread, make beer, and pretzels, and it was not long until, in their carbo-loaded drunkenness, the precious enzyme had been spent.
The skies grew dark, and the ground shook. The clouds parted to reveal God, herself, nicely attired in a Donna Karan original. "What you have done to the yeast of thieves, you have done unto me! From this day forth, it will come to you again, but to use yeast with anything less than temperance will bring obesity, insanity, and your heads will pound with the reverberations of a thousand hammers in the morning!" And so it was. Nothing had really changed, but there were more headaches.
The End.
Then, one day, when all seemed lost, a stranger appeared. He appeared to be a gypsy, a drifter who was not to be trusted. The first thing people noticed about him was the smell, a slightly fermented smell. That something was a rye, was evident to those with strong memories. "Who are you, they asked, their noses filling with nostalgia and want. "I am a visitor from – the Yeast (like you didn’t see that one coming), and I bear tidings of joy and prosperity to you. Take these seeds and sow them according to the ancient ways, and thou shalt be rewarded." All you must do is be kind to one another, feed the poor, and give everyone a home of their own. But in their selfishness, they set upon him, killed him, and took his stores. They immediately used the yeast to bake bread, make beer, and pretzels, and it was not long until, in their carbo-loaded drunkenness, the precious enzyme had been spent.
The skies grew dark, and the ground shook. The clouds parted to reveal God, herself, nicely attired in a Donna Karan original. "What you have done to the yeast of thieves, you have done unto me! From this day forth, it will come to you again, but to use yeast with anything less than temperance will bring obesity, insanity, and your heads will pound with the reverberations of a thousand hammers in the morning!" And so it was. Nothing had really changed, but there were more headaches.
The End.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Uh.
I am an oversensitive doormat. I was raised to be the latter, the former is just an unhappy byproduct. There. I've said it. Hope you don't mind.
I was pressed for time this morning, and as I reached an intersection to make a right turn, I observed a woman crossing the street in my direction, requiring me to wait for her.
Now, this woman, probably a few years older than I, was clad in running gear, and yet here she was, walking across the street; I became instantly outraged (internally, of course - no horn honking or gesticulating from me, no sir). Why wasn't she RUNNING? I was convinced that she was doing this on purpose, to make me wait because she could. Which brings me to my current state of contemplation about how we are the way we are.
If you know me, then it's very possible that you know my father. Our Father, who art in Temecula, is one of my heroes. The older I get, the smarter he is. He has become, and remains, a Great Man. I love him dearly. Having said that, he is also, by both nature and desire, one who turns the other cheek ad nauseum. As my dear Mother would attest, he has turned martyrdom into an art form. All other family secrets and confessions aside, it is alas a mode that I have probably embraced, embodied, and employed to my detriment, as well as, I'm told, the detriment of those around me. I order a hamburger at Burger King the way it comes - their way is fine with me. If I find a chicken sandwich in the wrapper, I'm apt to see it as an indication from the Almighty that I've been eating too much beef, lately; usually preferring to eat it rather than put everyone through the hassle of a "do-over." It's often hard for others to see the value; they think it's spinelessness on my part. I think Dad would agree with me that it's more about being at peace than being "right" - but then you have to have this perspective to begin with. Having children, of course, changed everything. The way we raise children today means constantly making adjustments - and I don't necessarily want my children to be the way I am - they need to make their way in a world much different than mine is. What I'm working my way around to is that how we're changing has been the result of an insidious process, and perhaps we need to think about being more accommodating, some times with each other, particularly strangers. Which brings me back to this morning's runner.
See, the thing is, if the situation had been reversed, I'm pretty sure that I would have run across the intersection, or at least trotted, or in some way indicated that yes, I am holding you up, but making some sort of token (if not real) effort to both recognize your presence and get out of your way. It's politeness, it's recognition of your value, it's a positive rather than a negative moment in a negative world. I remember feeling put-upon when being taught that a gentleman opened a door for those around you, Ladies first, of course, but I've noticed that some people do, some people don't. The ones that don't open a door for me instantly lose all credibility, as far as I'm concerned. I seem to be drifting off-topic. And yet not. It's turned into a mark of character, to some extent.
I made the offhand joke, the other day, that this was all Burger King's fault. "Have it Your Way" has become a mantra, an expectation that has turned sideways into selfishness, and then reversed itself upon us to the point where we have to choose where there were no choices, before. Please apply this concept. Discuss with your inner self. Failure to demand one's own way or show deference to another is now a sign of weakness.
So, I'm confident that I'm going to inherit the earth. Of course, the selfish and the slipshod will have pretty much soiled it beyond recognition by the time I get it, but I'll be happy. I'll be happier if those folk are all gone by then, off to a planet more suited to their tastes.
I was pressed for time this morning, and as I reached an intersection to make a right turn, I observed a woman crossing the street in my direction, requiring me to wait for her.
Now, this woman, probably a few years older than I, was clad in running gear, and yet here she was, walking across the street; I became instantly outraged (internally, of course - no horn honking or gesticulating from me, no sir). Why wasn't she RUNNING? I was convinced that she was doing this on purpose, to make me wait because she could. Which brings me to my current state of contemplation about how we are the way we are.
If you know me, then it's very possible that you know my father. Our Father, who art in Temecula, is one of my heroes. The older I get, the smarter he is. He has become, and remains, a Great Man. I love him dearly. Having said that, he is also, by both nature and desire, one who turns the other cheek ad nauseum. As my dear Mother would attest, he has turned martyrdom into an art form. All other family secrets and confessions aside, it is alas a mode that I have probably embraced, embodied, and employed to my detriment, as well as, I'm told, the detriment of those around me. I order a hamburger at Burger King the way it comes - their way is fine with me. If I find a chicken sandwich in the wrapper, I'm apt to see it as an indication from the Almighty that I've been eating too much beef, lately; usually preferring to eat it rather than put everyone through the hassle of a "do-over." It's often hard for others to see the value; they think it's spinelessness on my part. I think Dad would agree with me that it's more about being at peace than being "right" - but then you have to have this perspective to begin with. Having children, of course, changed everything. The way we raise children today means constantly making adjustments - and I don't necessarily want my children to be the way I am - they need to make their way in a world much different than mine is. What I'm working my way around to is that how we're changing has been the result of an insidious process, and perhaps we need to think about being more accommodating, some times with each other, particularly strangers. Which brings me back to this morning's runner.
See, the thing is, if the situation had been reversed, I'm pretty sure that I would have run across the intersection, or at least trotted, or in some way indicated that yes, I am holding you up, but making some sort of token (if not real) effort to both recognize your presence and get out of your way. It's politeness, it's recognition of your value, it's a positive rather than a negative moment in a negative world. I remember feeling put-upon when being taught that a gentleman opened a door for those around you, Ladies first, of course, but I've noticed that some people do, some people don't. The ones that don't open a door for me instantly lose all credibility, as far as I'm concerned. I seem to be drifting off-topic. And yet not. It's turned into a mark of character, to some extent.
I made the offhand joke, the other day, that this was all Burger King's fault. "Have it Your Way" has become a mantra, an expectation that has turned sideways into selfishness, and then reversed itself upon us to the point where we have to choose where there were no choices, before. Please apply this concept. Discuss with your inner self. Failure to demand one's own way or show deference to another is now a sign of weakness.
So, I'm confident that I'm going to inherit the earth. Of course, the selfish and the slipshod will have pretty much soiled it beyond recognition by the time I get it, but I'll be happy. I'll be happier if those folk are all gone by then, off to a planet more suited to their tastes.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
A show about nothing
It's so very gratifying to realize that my generation is going to remembered and characterized by TV shows like the vapid "Friends" and "Seinfeld." I had the pleasure of watching an old rerun of "Gunsmoke" a few days ago. I remember begging to stay up to watch it as a child. It portrays a world where evil intrudes, moral dilemmas ensue, and right prevails in the end - with humor, grace, and a clear statement of what is right and what is wrong. When James Arness looks into the camera, he's looking me in the eye. When Doc Adams provides medical care for everyone, regardless of social status or ability to pay, the lesson is clear.
It is so much about nothing, these days. I guess I'm succumbing to the attitude of my age - squarely "middle-aged" now - seeing an ever-narrowing window of opportunities, combined with a growing desire for safety - it leads to simmering banality (which can actually be very nice with a good pinot grigio and sourdough toast). There was an old Mr. Rogers Neighborhood parody where the gentle man says, "The universe is entropying. Can you say 'Entropy', boys and girls?" I look at the paint peeling off my house, the back deck decaying, calling me to action, and feel unable and unwilling at the same time.
Multi-tasking tends to rob me of the joy of doing, the loss of the sense of time one gets when singularly focused on something. I'm doing one or two or more things, thinking about another 2-500 others as I work. It reaches a point of critical mass, and then something perfectly innocuous occurs, like Emma emptying a shelf full of something onto the floor, and I'm filled with anger at that one thing that sent the whole stage full of spinning plates to come crashing down. Losing one's train of thought can seem calamitous, and it's too easy to pin the blame on the most innocuous of targets. Like the poorly educated part-timer behind the counter at Wendy's who's fellow team member didn't read the instructions and put dill pickles on your Mediterranean Fish Sandwich instead of the bread-and-butter slices you asked for. We're blowing our mental gaskets at the weak points of our day, instead of focusing on the underlying pressure. The result of deferred maintenance, I fear.
It seems like there are those of us that are able to make great strides on a regular basis, but it's hard to point to anyone nearby that is. Part of the underlying pressure is that we're (I'm including you, now) missing the point that much of what we are doing is important - raising kids, keeping clothes, food and shelter coming, mowing the lawn (yes, I still do), making the occasional assymmetrical "thing" out of wood. I don't always "get it", but I can't quite explain the feeling, like I got last night, when Sam asked me to check his homework. A small, yet profound sense of accomplishment. Yet, while I'm doing this, I'm trying to copy a DVD onto my Pocket PC (Why? Because I can, of course), watching TV, thinking about GSA contracts . . . the moment faded much more quickly than it should have, or at least before I wanted it to.
Is it that so much has already been done, we need to make something out of nothing? I can make my own movies, I can record my own music, I can even publish on the internet to a worldwide audience - all things formerly reserved for various versions of the elite, via their intrinsic processes for those with talent and influence to dominate. Is it democracy or dilution? Am I empowered, or enslaved by the crush of information being pushed in my direction from every device imaginable? Yes and no. Several events have proven that information is power; they have also proven that that distorted information can power some pretty ugly machines - can you spell Schiavo? Now everyone can.
So, back to what I was talking about? Oh, that's right, nothing. Never mind.
It is so much about nothing, these days. I guess I'm succumbing to the attitude of my age - squarely "middle-aged" now - seeing an ever-narrowing window of opportunities, combined with a growing desire for safety - it leads to simmering banality (which can actually be very nice with a good pinot grigio and sourdough toast). There was an old Mr. Rogers Neighborhood parody where the gentle man says, "The universe is entropying. Can you say 'Entropy', boys and girls?" I look at the paint peeling off my house, the back deck decaying, calling me to action, and feel unable and unwilling at the same time.
Multi-tasking tends to rob me of the joy of doing, the loss of the sense of time one gets when singularly focused on something. I'm doing one or two or more things, thinking about another 2-500 others as I work. It reaches a point of critical mass, and then something perfectly innocuous occurs, like Emma emptying a shelf full of something onto the floor, and I'm filled with anger at that one thing that sent the whole stage full of spinning plates to come crashing down. Losing one's train of thought can seem calamitous, and it's too easy to pin the blame on the most innocuous of targets. Like the poorly educated part-timer behind the counter at Wendy's who's fellow team member didn't read the instructions and put dill pickles on your Mediterranean Fish Sandwich instead of the bread-and-butter slices you asked for. We're blowing our mental gaskets at the weak points of our day, instead of focusing on the underlying pressure. The result of deferred maintenance, I fear.
It seems like there are those of us that are able to make great strides on a regular basis, but it's hard to point to anyone nearby that is. Part of the underlying pressure is that we're (I'm including you, now) missing the point that much of what we are doing is important - raising kids, keeping clothes, food and shelter coming, mowing the lawn (yes, I still do), making the occasional assymmetrical "thing" out of wood. I don't always "get it", but I can't quite explain the feeling, like I got last night, when Sam asked me to check his homework. A small, yet profound sense of accomplishment. Yet, while I'm doing this, I'm trying to copy a DVD onto my Pocket PC (Why? Because I can, of course), watching TV, thinking about GSA contracts . . . the moment faded much more quickly than it should have, or at least before I wanted it to.
Is it that so much has already been done, we need to make something out of nothing? I can make my own movies, I can record my own music, I can even publish on the internet to a worldwide audience - all things formerly reserved for various versions of the elite, via their intrinsic processes for those with talent and influence to dominate. Is it democracy or dilution? Am I empowered, or enslaved by the crush of information being pushed in my direction from every device imaginable? Yes and no. Several events have proven that information is power; they have also proven that that distorted information can power some pretty ugly machines - can you spell Schiavo? Now everyone can.
So, back to what I was talking about? Oh, that's right, nothing. Never mind.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Karma Chameleon
Yesterday, I was confronted with a malicious post on a forum for Down Syndrome parents, designed to attack one of our deepest fears – that of the sexual abuse of our children. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Network TV even does it from time to time, exploiting the idea for the sake of drama, to sell Cialis and Crest. It’s almost a familiar emotional road to travel these days, from anger to wanting revenge to wanting mere justice to feeling mere pity and disgust for the adolescent punk, who, if there is any justice in this life, will probably sustain a C4 spinal injury when his ATV rolls over on him, leaving him with his thoughts of how cruel God was to him. Maybe I’m not quite through the "revenge" part, just yet.
It’s days like that one that just make playing with Emma before dinner, or holding her sleeping pj’d form in my arms for just a few extra minutes so much sweeter. I’m pretty sure that Nimrod hasn’t had a hug in a long time, and that is truly a crime – his parents (if he has any) have damaged him perhaps beyond relational repair. Whatever forces may someday drive my adult children to seek therapy, lack of love from their parents will not be one of them. I just hope Nimmy has his accident before he fathers any more of his kind. Crap, there I go again. Sorry.
It’s days like that one that just make playing with Emma before dinner, or holding her sleeping pj’d form in my arms for just a few extra minutes so much sweeter. I’m pretty sure that Nimrod hasn’t had a hug in a long time, and that is truly a crime – his parents (if he has any) have damaged him perhaps beyond relational repair. Whatever forces may someday drive my adult children to seek therapy, lack of love from their parents will not be one of them. I just hope Nimmy has his accident before he fathers any more of his kind. Crap, there I go again. Sorry.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Million Mourner March
I’ve been pondering what a million people in line looks like. The Vatican had to close the line to view Pope John Paul II’s remains Thursday, as the wait was already 12 hours, and preparations would need to be made for the funeral.
I’ve also been wondering why we, as a species, are compelled to “see it for ourselves.” For reasons unknown to me, I have never been fond of pressing groups of people or large gatherings, aside from church potlucks at the park in the summertime. This, of course, has more to do with the food than the fellowship.
However, I will subject myself to such torture, nearly always for the purposes of amusement, enduring the proximity for pleasuring the senses with music and rides on hydraulic monstrosities. Just as military service is pressed upon the young primarily because we older folk would simply desert, my willingness to wait for anything is diminishing as my age increases. I consider it one of the more normal aspects of my being.
Why is it that we are lured to the sights and sounds of rotating lights and sirens, when we should avoid them? Why am I compelled to identify the residue of forest creatures left on the expressway? Why do I want to see a band play, when I’ve already heard their music, can see video of their performances that allow me to see the pores on their foreheads, and eat bon-bons in my underwear while doing so?
Because it’s not the same, that’s why. There is the component of “I was there.” It goes beyond bragging rights, although that can be part of it. There is no substitute, yet, for being physically present when a unique event occurs.
I am a fan of Samuel Clemens, for reasons that, in my wildest dreams, would only flatter me. I have had occasion to visit his home in Hartford, CT. Oh, to be so wealthy to be able to express oneself in architecture and furnishings! There is even a handwritten note from him, addressed to burglars, in the basement. The value of this one-of-a-kind place is that it illustrates and gives presence to what is already a faded personality of great influence on the early 20th century.
I have stood at the base of Michaelangelo’s “David”. I have also stood at the base of a full-sized copy of “David” in a cemetery here in Southern California. To say that they are similar is correct. They are not the same. To tell you how they are different would be quite difficult. I’m sure that context has a lot to do with it, but it is much more than that. One is cast, the other creation.
I know that millions want to express their appreciation and gratitude for a life lived well, whose impact has truly been divine. It is also part of the culture of Catholicism. I, however, cannot easily fathom this depth of humanity. It is truly a wonder.
I’ve also been wondering why we, as a species, are compelled to “see it for ourselves.” For reasons unknown to me, I have never been fond of pressing groups of people or large gatherings, aside from church potlucks at the park in the summertime. This, of course, has more to do with the food than the fellowship.
However, I will subject myself to such torture, nearly always for the purposes of amusement, enduring the proximity for pleasuring the senses with music and rides on hydraulic monstrosities. Just as military service is pressed upon the young primarily because we older folk would simply desert, my willingness to wait for anything is diminishing as my age increases. I consider it one of the more normal aspects of my being.
Why is it that we are lured to the sights and sounds of rotating lights and sirens, when we should avoid them? Why am I compelled to identify the residue of forest creatures left on the expressway? Why do I want to see a band play, when I’ve already heard their music, can see video of their performances that allow me to see the pores on their foreheads, and eat bon-bons in my underwear while doing so?
Because it’s not the same, that’s why. There is the component of “I was there.” It goes beyond bragging rights, although that can be part of it. There is no substitute, yet, for being physically present when a unique event occurs.
I am a fan of Samuel Clemens, for reasons that, in my wildest dreams, would only flatter me. I have had occasion to visit his home in Hartford, CT. Oh, to be so wealthy to be able to express oneself in architecture and furnishings! There is even a handwritten note from him, addressed to burglars, in the basement. The value of this one-of-a-kind place is that it illustrates and gives presence to what is already a faded personality of great influence on the early 20th century.
I have stood at the base of Michaelangelo’s “David”. I have also stood at the base of a full-sized copy of “David” in a cemetery here in Southern California. To say that they are similar is correct. They are not the same. To tell you how they are different would be quite difficult. I’m sure that context has a lot to do with it, but it is much more than that. One is cast, the other creation.
I know that millions want to express their appreciation and gratitude for a life lived well, whose impact has truly been divine. It is also part of the culture of Catholicism. I, however, cannot easily fathom this depth of humanity. It is truly a wonder.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Ennui and Me
Ennui:
Listlessness and dissatisfaction resulting from lack of interest; boredom.
This word shares the same heritage with annoy, and that’s the way I like it. Annoyed boredom.
That’s me, today.
I’ve had the privilege of seeing one of the world’s greatest rock bands, twice in one week, last week. I live in a home that’s worth nearly a half a million dollars (insanely overvalued, to be sure), I have a wonderful family, food to eat, TV with 75 channels (2 or 3 with actual programming worth watching, and that includes John Wayne movies), and a persistent connection to the Internet. I have transportation, credit, and friends. Yet, still, I languish in a pit, dug with my own hands, swimming in self-pity; seemingly unable to even rent a ladder. I can’t seem to find my bootstraps. I fear they’ve rotted away.
I heard the greatest essay on PBS radio yesterday. The author read, "You are what you give." It was the basis of her belief system, annealed by caring for and watching her daughter die from a progressing disease. She talked not only of giving with no strings, but of giving with no thought whatsoever of the recipients’ attitude, gratitude, or lack thereof. She does it because it suits her. She is right. It is the Biblical Imperative, stripped of all of its trappings and baggage.
God, prompt me to give, to love, to at least hold my tongue, sometimes. To move beyond my circumstances, however comfortable they may be. To move beyond random acts of kindness, to random acts of love.
To do something.
"To love is to heal, to hurt is to steal . . ."
"She Moves In Mysterious Ways", U2
Listlessness and dissatisfaction resulting from lack of interest; boredom.
This word shares the same heritage with annoy, and that’s the way I like it. Annoyed boredom.
That’s me, today.
I’ve had the privilege of seeing one of the world’s greatest rock bands, twice in one week, last week. I live in a home that’s worth nearly a half a million dollars (insanely overvalued, to be sure), I have a wonderful family, food to eat, TV with 75 channels (2 or 3 with actual programming worth watching, and that includes John Wayne movies), and a persistent connection to the Internet. I have transportation, credit, and friends. Yet, still, I languish in a pit, dug with my own hands, swimming in self-pity; seemingly unable to even rent a ladder. I can’t seem to find my bootstraps. I fear they’ve rotted away.
I heard the greatest essay on PBS radio yesterday. The author read, "You are what you give." It was the basis of her belief system, annealed by caring for and watching her daughter die from a progressing disease. She talked not only of giving with no strings, but of giving with no thought whatsoever of the recipients’ attitude, gratitude, or lack thereof. She does it because it suits her. She is right. It is the Biblical Imperative, stripped of all of its trappings and baggage.
God, prompt me to give, to love, to at least hold my tongue, sometimes. To move beyond my circumstances, however comfortable they may be. To move beyond random acts of kindness, to random acts of love.
To do something.
"To love is to heal, to hurt is to steal . . ."
"She Moves In Mysterious Ways", U2
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Flip-flop
As well written a piece as my previous posted link is, still - -
I’ve changed my mind. And not because the courts are going this way. This whole topic has just injected itself (pun intended) into my thoughtstream because it is another example of when principles collide. A grey area.
Did it ever occur to you that even the spelling of grey (gray) is a grey area?
My precise point is that I don’t know, I can’t say what the level of true intimacy is/was between Michael and Terry Shiavo. Failing that, I’ve concluded that their right of privacy supercedes the government's (my) right to interfere. This same question can be used to support the opposite conclusion. However, that’s where I, as a citizen of this country, must place my trust in the court system. The courts have consistently sided with Michael, conservative and liberal judges alike.
I’ve also weighed this in light of my own circumstances. Agreed, I have been married (consciously) for a longer period of time, but I still think that I am far more aware of my wife’s true wishes than her family. I’m not casting aspersions at her family. I think she knows mine better than my family. The fact that he has consistently stood his ground, without wavering, even under criticism and the offers of millions of dollars to drop his suit, is barely relevant. I’ve somehow managed to place myself in his position, now aligned seemingly against the Congress of the United States. He must feel like the Chinese man, standing with his groceries in front of a tank.
Does this mean I’ve abandoned Terry? I don’t think so. I think it is part of recognizing the sanctity of marriage. It’s the "For worse" part. I think he’s proved his love and devotion to her, in the face of some pretty imposing forces. If my concept of marriage is correct, then I have willingly placed the responsibility of these decisions upon my wife's shoulders, and she upon mine, in the absence of any written directives. I wasn't thinking about this, earlier this week.
I think it stinks on ice, either way. I am completely clear on that.
I’ve changed my mind. And not because the courts are going this way. This whole topic has just injected itself (pun intended) into my thoughtstream because it is another example of when principles collide. A grey area.
Did it ever occur to you that even the spelling of grey (gray) is a grey area?
My precise point is that I don’t know, I can’t say what the level of true intimacy is/was between Michael and Terry Shiavo. Failing that, I’ve concluded that their right of privacy supercedes the government's (my) right to interfere. This same question can be used to support the opposite conclusion. However, that’s where I, as a citizen of this country, must place my trust in the court system. The courts have consistently sided with Michael, conservative and liberal judges alike.
I’ve also weighed this in light of my own circumstances. Agreed, I have been married (consciously) for a longer period of time, but I still think that I am far more aware of my wife’s true wishes than her family. I’m not casting aspersions at her family. I think she knows mine better than my family. The fact that he has consistently stood his ground, without wavering, even under criticism and the offers of millions of dollars to drop his suit, is barely relevant. I’ve somehow managed to place myself in his position, now aligned seemingly against the Congress of the United States. He must feel like the Chinese man, standing with his groceries in front of a tank.
Does this mean I’ve abandoned Terry? I don’t think so. I think it is part of recognizing the sanctity of marriage. It’s the "For worse" part. I think he’s proved his love and devotion to her, in the face of some pretty imposing forces. If my concept of marriage is correct, then I have willingly placed the responsibility of these decisions upon my wife's shoulders, and she upon mine, in the absence of any written directives. I wasn't thinking about this, earlier this week.
I think it stinks on ice, either way. I am completely clear on that.
Friday, March 18, 2005
A Great Moral Argument
I wish I could write like this:
Peggy Noonan, Wall Street Journal Opinion Page, March 18, 2005
An interesting twist on Terry Schiavo's life and influence on all of us. I particularly like the stories relating to Winston Churchill and Ronald Reagan.
Read it at your own moral peril.
Peggy Noonan, Wall Street Journal Opinion Page, March 18, 2005
An interesting twist on Terry Schiavo's life and influence on all of us. I particularly like the stories relating to Winston Churchill and Ronald Reagan.
Read it at your own moral peril.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Thatsa My Boy!
Samuel, my 8 year old son, won a "Write Across America" Dr. Seuss essay competition at school last week. We're pretty proud of him anyway, but this was fun. Below is his essay. The "payoff" comes at the end, the editorial "Note from author" . . .
The Sneetches
by Sam Goble
Once there were sneetches on the beaches. There were star-bellys and non star-bellys. The star-belly sneetches stars were in fact very small, you would think something that small would really not matter at all. But it really did, the star-belly sneetches thought they were better for no real reason at all. The star-belly sneetches didn't invite any, oh no, not one plain-belly sneetch to their frankfurter roasts or marshmallow toasts, year after year.
Then a stranger came to town in the most unusual of cars. "I am Sylvester McMonkey McBean! I have heard of your problems so just come to my star on machine it will put stars right on you bellies for just 3 dollars each." So they paid up and went straight into the machine and plopped out and then the ones that didn't have stars before bragged that they now had stars on their bellies. They couldn't tell each other (apart?) and that was just the problem. The ones that had stars before said that they were still the best sneetches on the beaches and Sylvester McMonkey McBean told them to take a trip through his star-off machine for 10 dollars each. They went through, plopped out and the ones that now had stars knew that having a star was now quite bad. In, out, in, out, in, out, stars on, stars off, stars on, stars off. In and out of the machine the sneetches went paying alllll their money over nothing. Then Sylvester McMonkey McBean packed up and left with all the money. I'm sure he at least had $1,000 by then and said, "You can't teach a sneetch." But then back at the sneetches beaches the star-bellies and non star-bellies were friends.
The End
Moral: The moral of this story is not to judge anyone by their looks.
*Note from author: I was wondering why the non star-bellies didn't make their own fun?
Dad's got nothing to add to that.
The Sneetches
by Sam Goble
Once there were sneetches on the beaches. There were star-bellys and non star-bellys. The star-belly sneetches stars were in fact very small, you would think something that small would really not matter at all. But it really did, the star-belly sneetches thought they were better for no real reason at all. The star-belly sneetches didn't invite any, oh no, not one plain-belly sneetch to their frankfurter roasts or marshmallow toasts, year after year.
Then a stranger came to town in the most unusual of cars. "I am Sylvester McMonkey McBean! I have heard of your problems so just come to my star on machine it will put stars right on you bellies for just 3 dollars each." So they paid up and went straight into the machine and plopped out and then the ones that didn't have stars before bragged that they now had stars on their bellies. They couldn't tell each other (apart?) and that was just the problem. The ones that had stars before said that they were still the best sneetches on the beaches and Sylvester McMonkey McBean told them to take a trip through his star-off machine for 10 dollars each. They went through, plopped out and the ones that now had stars knew that having a star was now quite bad. In, out, in, out, in, out, stars on, stars off, stars on, stars off. In and out of the machine the sneetches went paying alllll their money over nothing. Then Sylvester McMonkey McBean packed up and left with all the money. I'm sure he at least had $1,000 by then and said, "You can't teach a sneetch." But then back at the sneetches beaches the star-bellies and non star-bellies were friends.
The End
Moral: The moral of this story is not to judge anyone by their looks.
*Note from author: I was wondering why the non star-bellies didn't make their own fun?
Dad's got nothing to add to that.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Thank you for Playing Double Jeopardy
Today, in the course of 5 minutes, I was informed of one woman going into labor, while another one reported the stillbirth of her child. It’s a train wreck in my heart. It’s, well, Bittersweet. It’s only 9 o’clock in the morning.
There have been a lot of big thoughts pounding around in my head lately. It seems that seeing movies isn’t helping that process much, lately, either. "I Heart Huckabees" gives very little in the way of comfort or guidance to those of us mired in our own existential morass. It made me feel like I was floating in a tepid bowl of wor wonton soup, bobbing up and down with pieces of philosophies. Unsettled. Jude Law needs a haircut. Not a bad movie. It’s destined to be some cult’s classic.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the big "Why?" lately. I guess it comes with the news that there’s a new prenatal blood test that’s coming over the horizon. From what I read, there are fetal cells that make their way through the placental barrier into Mother’s bloodstream. These can now be identified, separated, and tested for lots of things. I became aware of this in the context of someone accusing the March of Dimes organization of an agenda of eugenics. It’s so hard to look at these things without some sort of agenda forming, some group with their feelings hurt, some moral issue to confuse the plodding of pure science toward our own self-destruction. Sorry – lost my head there for just a moment.
Anyway, it started what I’ve come to recognize as a circular process, a Mobius strip of questions that ultimately lead back to themselves, in, out and around in a never-ending loop. Let me see if I can drop you in - you can start just about anywhere:
Is my daughter defective? Genetically so? Societally so? If so, how defective does a human need to be to render them invaluable? Are they mutually exclusive properties? Should her condition be protected, suppressed, or eliminated altogether? (program note: The March of Dimes was created to fight Polio, when it was gone, it shifted to "improve the health of babies by preventing birth defects and infant mortality.") Is Trisomy 21 a birth defect? Is it merely an affect? Should it be prevented? If so, then does that make my daughter a "mistake"? If so, then how should she be treated (by all of us)? If she’s got a birth affect, then, again, should it be prevented, or accepted, protected, embraced, or even revered, as I’m told some American Indian tribes have. It does not make sense to desire that my daughter was born with T21. As much as I love her, I will always miss what she cannot be. Furthermore, with the availability of these tests and abortion, to possess the selfish thoughts that question what might have been, otherwise. How defective am I? Did we make the right decisions?
Underlying all of this are the subtexts and rythms of religion, relationships, science, philosophy, and culture. Which leads me to the blood test.
Currently (as I understand it), a conclusive, prenatal diagnosis of T21 is via amniocentesis. This invasive procedure carries its own risk factors; as such it is often not used, and the knowledge remains inconclusive until birth. It only seems logical that this new test is going to lead to more abortions. I’m not here to debate that topic, it just thrusts me into the vortex, again.
Is my daughter going to be an anachronism, in her own time? Is that a bad thing? It certainly could be if she’s going to be an adult who’s self-aware enough to know that there will be no more like her, that her particular "configuration", if you will, has been eliminated. Can you see the emotional conundrum?
Now, I should ask polio and thalidomide survivors if they mind, I’d think not. I just can’t help but think that, somehow, T21 is different. I have a co-worker with CP who is productive, articulate, and as far as I can see, no less happy and involved in the human experience than I. Now, CP is usually an injury, but my point in bringing it up here is to involve the spectre of degree. How much defect is enough? How ya gonna know, prenatally, beyond the chromosome count? Is it better to be safe, than sorry? Should we even be sorry? Put another nickel in, here we go on another ride.
Like I said, I’ve had a lot on my mind. At least the rain has finally stopped for a while.
There have been a lot of big thoughts pounding around in my head lately. It seems that seeing movies isn’t helping that process much, lately, either. "I Heart Huckabees" gives very little in the way of comfort or guidance to those of us mired in our own existential morass. It made me feel like I was floating in a tepid bowl of wor wonton soup, bobbing up and down with pieces of philosophies. Unsettled. Jude Law needs a haircut. Not a bad movie. It’s destined to be some cult’s classic.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the big "Why?" lately. I guess it comes with the news that there’s a new prenatal blood test that’s coming over the horizon. From what I read, there are fetal cells that make their way through the placental barrier into Mother’s bloodstream. These can now be identified, separated, and tested for lots of things. I became aware of this in the context of someone accusing the March of Dimes organization of an agenda of eugenics. It’s so hard to look at these things without some sort of agenda forming, some group with their feelings hurt, some moral issue to confuse the plodding of pure science toward our own self-destruction. Sorry – lost my head there for just a moment.
Anyway, it started what I’ve come to recognize as a circular process, a Mobius strip of questions that ultimately lead back to themselves, in, out and around in a never-ending loop. Let me see if I can drop you in - you can start just about anywhere:
Is my daughter defective? Genetically so? Societally so? If so, how defective does a human need to be to render them invaluable? Are they mutually exclusive properties? Should her condition be protected, suppressed, or eliminated altogether? (program note: The March of Dimes was created to fight Polio, when it was gone, it shifted to "improve the health of babies by preventing birth defects and infant mortality.") Is Trisomy 21 a birth defect? Is it merely an affect? Should it be prevented? If so, then does that make my daughter a "mistake"? If so, then how should she be treated (by all of us)? If she’s got a birth affect, then, again, should it be prevented, or accepted, protected, embraced, or even revered, as I’m told some American Indian tribes have. It does not make sense to desire that my daughter was born with T21. As much as I love her, I will always miss what she cannot be. Furthermore, with the availability of these tests and abortion, to possess the selfish thoughts that question what might have been, otherwise. How defective am I? Did we make the right decisions?
Underlying all of this are the subtexts and rythms of religion, relationships, science, philosophy, and culture. Which leads me to the blood test.
Currently (as I understand it), a conclusive, prenatal diagnosis of T21 is via amniocentesis. This invasive procedure carries its own risk factors; as such it is often not used, and the knowledge remains inconclusive until birth. It only seems logical that this new test is going to lead to more abortions. I’m not here to debate that topic, it just thrusts me into the vortex, again.
Is my daughter going to be an anachronism, in her own time? Is that a bad thing? It certainly could be if she’s going to be an adult who’s self-aware enough to know that there will be no more like her, that her particular "configuration", if you will, has been eliminated. Can you see the emotional conundrum?
Now, I should ask polio and thalidomide survivors if they mind, I’d think not. I just can’t help but think that, somehow, T21 is different. I have a co-worker with CP who is productive, articulate, and as far as I can see, no less happy and involved in the human experience than I. Now, CP is usually an injury, but my point in bringing it up here is to involve the spectre of degree. How much defect is enough? How ya gonna know, prenatally, beyond the chromosome count? Is it better to be safe, than sorry? Should we even be sorry? Put another nickel in, here we go on another ride.
Like I said, I’ve had a lot on my mind. At least the rain has finally stopped for a while.
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