Analog

Lonely Isolation Christmas in October Christmas before Halloween I think my face has become more puckered over the last three years.  It seems to more readily yield itself to the unpleasant inversion that is my "discussed face".  After writing that sentence several weeks ago, I thought I'd stop and ask myself what's going on with my sour face.  The answer is absurdly simple and not unlike anything taught over the last 3,000 years: high expectations can lead to disappointment. Yes, I know.  If you don't punch behind the board, it won't break.  If you don't follow through with your swing, the ball won't make it over the net.  So on, and so forth, it goes on like that.  I'm also not talking about complacency or accepting a status in life, either. Refreshing the house with some incense. Bizarrely enough, this is about a basic human instinct for a desire for a higher power.  It's not something I give myself over to very of

I'm not sure why I thought I'd title this blog post with a reference to The Cranberries' 1993 album, but there's where my head is.  Mostly, I think I just wanted to throw something out there in a way that I haven't done in a very long time. I typed about a page and a half and just as quickly erased it.  What would have become scratch paper or a wad of paper in my waste basket is now an electronic flash, possibly data in a humming hard drive in California, saved as a temporary data file.  Did you know that every Google search uses the same amount of electricity as microwaving a cup of coffee?  It makes me wonder if my paper waste was actually worse than typing this electronically.  I'm not convinced. Even my radio is Internet-based.  I've got the indecipherable voice of a Dutch newscaster behind my thoughts.  I find it easier to type when I can't understand what he's saying ... except I understand "computer virus" and "Fox News"

Why the cows? by ~ bstmichael on deviantART   I recently joined deviantART so that I'd have a more appropriate place to showcase my doodles.  To be honest, I'm not sure how involved I'll be in the online artist community because I already find myself on the fringes of Facebook.  Still, it's nice to see my doodles somewhere on display instead of being used as a bookmark or yellowing in a box or the back of a drawer. If you're on deviantART or have been in the past, please share your comments below.  I don't know that many people who have ever shared anything on the site.  I'm interested in your thoughts and experiences.

Mark with Adelynn in February   My aunt's boyfriend, Mark passed away last Friday morning after a long battle with cancer.  I was driving him to one of his treatments when he started talking with me about the pain and the suffering that goes along with treatment.  Not having gone through it myself, I wasn't going to tell him that it would get better or that I was sure it wasn't more than he could handle.  Instead, I just listened because that seemed to be the best thing at the time. I had intended to visit him that Friday.  I've been told he wouldn't have known me even if he'd made it that long.  Still, I would have liked to have said good-bye.  Something about missing that chance seems wrong, even though I'm sure he would have laughed at the idea of my concern. I'm left thinking that life is full of unexpected turns and that you shouldn't take those closest to you for granted.  If nothing else, maybe we'll might treat each other with

I hadn't realized just how reassuring I find the sound of a ticking clock. I wonder if the silence of digital accuracy would ever pacify my neuroris for time-keeping well enough not to need the sentimental comfort of an analog timepiece. It seems odd not to have heard it for so long. I always feel painfully aware of the passage of time, regretting lost seconds. Somehow, when those same seconds are measured in audible ticks, I'm willing to sacrifice half of an hour for its concert, allowing for reflection and daydreams. I'm not sure if it was the constant drone of fans or air conditioners this summer or the distraction of televisions, phones, and computers that all have silent clocks built-in that kept me from hearing time's heartbeat. But, I'm here now, undistracted and listening.

WARNING: This post contains descriptions of gun violence that some readers may find disturbing. I had a dream a few nights ago that I had to shoot someone.  There was the concrete framework of a gutted building and sunlight shining in the hollowed spaces behind a man in uniform with an automatic weapon.  I had mine raised, filled with fear, and my palms sweating.  As he took notice of me, turning, I fired. I was surprised it wasn't louder, like balloons popping, the smell of fire crackers from my cousin's 8th birthday, the heavy mist in the air was perfumed with the smell of dirty pennies, piled in my grandfather's jar.  My thoughts quickly turned to the man, now limp on the grit of the cold, gray floor.  "Was there another way?"  "Did I have to shoot?"  "What will his family think?"  "Was his family like mine?"  But still, I pointed my own weapon at him, as though he might jump to his feet. Then, as my stomach tightened, be

On February 13, when I announced, "I'm a daddy again!" many of my friends, family, and co-workers asked how "again" was possible.  "You just have a step-daughter, not your own, right?"  I find this an odd reaction, because it's not as though my step-daughter spends six months of the year with her biological father.  Were she my adopted daughter, I doubt anyone would express the same qualifications: "She's just your adopted daughter, right?  Not yours? "  I don't fault anyone for feeling this way, really.  It's more of a testament to me and my feelings of attachment than anyone else's. However, this gets to something that I've felt for nearly 5 years now: Kayla is my daughter as much as if she had been born a part of me.  There's a great picture of her receiving a necklace from her mother and me at our wedding ceremony, a necklace symbolizing my promise to care for her as though she were my own. It

If it says it's Wal-Mart brand, I just assume it's got ground glass and lead paint chips in it.

This post is about a lot of things: life changes, changes in taste, and the flack I feel like I'll get for the spelling of the title.  For the record, Merriam-Webster's says "straight-laced" is an acceptable alternative for "strait-laced." In 2001, I was playing around with the idea of taking over a tattoo parlor.  This is an odd idea, considering I didn't have any tattoos and was timid about the idea of putting something permanent on my skin.  However, I'd created a cartoon character five years earlier who embodied my idea of an artist; he had an earring. A 1995 depiction of "Sketch" from my comic strip, Komix. So instead of getting a tattoo, I'd thought I'd try out the piercing side of things.  The guy I was studying didn't like piercing guns, he basically used a sharp nail.  After a powerful hot flash, I never got any other piercings.  Though, I did take out the original to occasionally replace it with another.  Then

The morning sun in my window. One of the main problems I've faced since graduating college is getting a good night of sleep.  This was particularly difficult once I started working at night.  Sleeping during the day was extremely difficult for me, especially after using a nasal steroid for my allergies.  There's nothing like extreme summer heat and heart-racing medication to ruin your sleep pattern.  So you'd think going back to days would improve my rest ... right?  Sort of. I think part of the reason I didn't snap back right away was that my new day job doesn't have any windows.  When your workplace setting could just as easily be in outer space as underground, there's not much opportunity for your brain to realize that it's either day or night.  I'd gotten used to sleeping with heavy curtains, but now think leaving the blinds louvered just enough for early morning light. So with my sunlit brain now online, I'm hoping this is the start of s

I resolve to express myself more in 2012.