e r o s i o n c o n t r o l
Some things of mine are perpetually broken, and I just don't ever seem to fix them entirely. There are a few things I'm never far from on top of, but for the most part I'm never really chomping at the bit to get up and repair anything.
The broken things that have stayed broken over time now fit into my life as they are. Time and time again, I've found some element of my life that fits perfectly into the broken space. I'm not sure if, in my olympic quest for the perfect rationalization, I've just reshaped a piece to fit in there, or if the thing breaks in the first place because it's sticking out in the way.
I've said of myself that I elevate excuse-making to an artform. Most of them even work on me, I'm so good. Not being able to forget this, I aspire to cast blame on it. That's also very much a "me" thing to do. Still, I can't help from taking what I've gathered from my POV and at least dancing happily somewhere in the neighborhood of the conclusion that the perpetually broken elements of my life were actually sharp edges that overhung my path, and the force of my own energy of being and motion has eroded them away into a geometry more suited to the relationship I require with my environment.
Sounds pretty good so far, huh? Now, how do I get the broken gutters on my house to fit this scenario?
Unsoft's List
Friday, May 20, 2005 at 3:40 PM
Thursday, May 19, 2005 at 10:08 AM
w a s t e d i s p o s a l
I have a theory that I'm trash. That may seem like a contrived, self-effacing, piece of comment-bait, left along the trail in hopes of soliciting kind feedback, but I assure you that statement came from Marianesque depths, where simple mechanisms like compliment-fishery would be crushed flat.
Nearly two years ago now, I attended the first family reunion on my namesake side in twenty plus years. Apparently, the general consensus among blood is that I am indeed trash. Also, if my opinion counts for anything in the matter, I believe most of them are trash too - adding important genetic weight to my argument. I suppose very loose definitions of people as trash are offensive, and that offense is actually multi-faceted. Human worth and human waste and all. Every human is intrinsically worth something, but all men aren't exactly created equal are we? So we have an admittedly variable base model price, and it becomes really difficult to account for all the dealer and after-market options, especially as we try to balance in appreciation and depreciation.
My cousin Mary, the MD, apparently finds my ghetto neighborhood and unkempt lawn distasteful. Well how do you like that? Not much of a surprise really. I recall an event in the very late 1970's - her brother John (we called him John-John, like he was some sort of Kennedy or something) was teasing my cousin Louie and me. He asked us what kind of lawnmowers our fathers had. Neither of us knew. I knew mine had a Briggs and Stratton engine, but that was about the extent of it. Anyway, apparently we were both hilariously uninformed and underequipped when it came to lawncare. His father had a Lawn Boy. A Lawn Boy with a Bag (pronounced more like BIG - in whiney Midwest preppy). After several minutes of this, Louie and I threw him on the ground, getting grass stain all over his white Izod, and Louie said "Ha, now You're a lawnboy!" "Want me to kick you in the BIG?" - I remember adding.
My cousin Jane Anne (Catholic family, all the girls have two names; i.e., Anne Katharine, Mary Beth, etc.) was standing among a gaggle of other two-names trying to turn sideways while still talking to all of them - so that she could maintain the constant visual assertion and reinforcement that she is the thinnest among their ranks. This apparently entitles her to some sort of position of privilege, but it also forces her to keep her neck constantly twisted up so that she can talk to you while you appreciate her barely existant profile. Her pencil arms flail around all the time she talks, striking anything in the immediate vicinity that threatens to come into contact with her giant teased hair. Apparently, it's a considerable offense to touch the giant teased hair of the crooked-headed skeleton princess. I wouldn't know for sure.
Then there's Mark. Mark is John-John's brother. He spent the whole time I was trying to get away from him rambling on about how he was never getting married or having a family because things like that would get in the way of his travel to professional sporting events and would even possibly cut into the money he desperately needs for his Accura storage. His assumption that my family situation (having no children at that time) was a matter of choice and some sort of intellectual bond he and I shared was enough to keep a really bad taste in my mouth until....well I'll let you know when it goes away.
When I look long and hard at what's left of my stock, this is what I see. A lot of people who have the collective depth and soul of one of those carnival machines where you try and grab worthless stuffed animals with a malfunctioning grappling hook. They think I'm trash, so there's prevailing public opinion. They certainly are trash, so there's the categorical evidence. It's ok. I've been fairly sure for a long time. That's why I never throw anything away.
I have a theory that I'm trash. That may seem like a contrived, self-effacing, piece of comment-bait, left along the trail in hopes of soliciting kind feedback, but I assure you that statement came from Marianesque depths, where simple mechanisms like compliment-fishery would be crushed flat.
Nearly two years ago now, I attended the first family reunion on my namesake side in twenty plus years. Apparently, the general consensus among blood is that I am indeed trash. Also, if my opinion counts for anything in the matter, I believe most of them are trash too - adding important genetic weight to my argument. I suppose very loose definitions of people as trash are offensive, and that offense is actually multi-faceted. Human worth and human waste and all. Every human is intrinsically worth something, but all men aren't exactly created equal are we? So we have an admittedly variable base model price, and it becomes really difficult to account for all the dealer and after-market options, especially as we try to balance in appreciation and depreciation.
My cousin Mary, the MD, apparently finds my ghetto neighborhood and unkempt lawn distasteful. Well how do you like that? Not much of a surprise really. I recall an event in the very late 1970's - her brother John (we called him John-John, like he was some sort of Kennedy or something) was teasing my cousin Louie and me. He asked us what kind of lawnmowers our fathers had. Neither of us knew. I knew mine had a Briggs and Stratton engine, but that was about the extent of it. Anyway, apparently we were both hilariously uninformed and underequipped when it came to lawncare. His father had a Lawn Boy. A Lawn Boy with a Bag (pronounced more like BIG - in whiney Midwest preppy). After several minutes of this, Louie and I threw him on the ground, getting grass stain all over his white Izod, and Louie said "Ha, now You're a lawnboy!" "Want me to kick you in the BIG?" - I remember adding.
My cousin Jane Anne (Catholic family, all the girls have two names; i.e., Anne Katharine, Mary Beth, etc.) was standing among a gaggle of other two-names trying to turn sideways while still talking to all of them - so that she could maintain the constant visual assertion and reinforcement that she is the thinnest among their ranks. This apparently entitles her to some sort of position of privilege, but it also forces her to keep her neck constantly twisted up so that she can talk to you while you appreciate her barely existant profile. Her pencil arms flail around all the time she talks, striking anything in the immediate vicinity that threatens to come into contact with her giant teased hair. Apparently, it's a considerable offense to touch the giant teased hair of the crooked-headed skeleton princess. I wouldn't know for sure.
Then there's Mark. Mark is John-John's brother. He spent the whole time I was trying to get away from him rambling on about how he was never getting married or having a family because things like that would get in the way of his travel to professional sporting events and would even possibly cut into the money he desperately needs for his Accura storage. His assumption that my family situation (having no children at that time) was a matter of choice and some sort of intellectual bond he and I shared was enough to keep a really bad taste in my mouth until....well I'll let you know when it goes away.
When I look long and hard at what's left of my stock, this is what I see. A lot of people who have the collective depth and soul of one of those carnival machines where you try and grab worthless stuffed animals with a malfunctioning grappling hook. They think I'm trash, so there's prevailing public opinion. They certainly are trash, so there's the categorical evidence. It's ok. I've been fairly sure for a long time. That's why I never throw anything away.
Monday, May 16, 2005 at 4:19 PM
p e a n u t b u t t e r a n d
The first Saturday in September 2003, I was obligated to spend the day on my father-in-law's boat, blistering in the sun on Summersville lake. I wasn't looking forward to going, for a few reasons. The main one was my mom-in-law, who I must say I love dearly. The problem is, she turns into an evil harpie the split second the boat drifts into even partial shade.
She's a sun worshipper of the first order (you know, the order with the fancy Latin name...carcinoma). After several hours of continuous exposure, I find that even the SUPER SUNBLOCK SPF 5000 I reserve for outings of this nature fails to adhere the charred blistering skin to my shoulderbones. I alternate from swimming to walking around the boat fully dressed (in wet clothes, by the end of the day). Ok, I sound like I'm whining. I was also really tired, given that Saturday, September 6, 2003 was my only full day home in almost 2 weeks, and I was further obligated to attend my brother's wife's birthday dinner later that evening. whine whine whine, get to the point.
On one of my requisite dips into the cool green water of the lake, I thought I caught a glimpse of a familiar shape under the water. I routinely swim down a few feet and open my eyes when swimming in fresh water. I am a trained SCUBA diver (not so rare these days) who's major diving experience has been industrial, in dirty fresh water, for work. The environment I'm primarily used to diving in is a muddy river with powerful current and next to zero visibility. Freshwater lakes represent the most hospitable, enjoyable environment I have any significant experience diving in, so I have some basic expectation of what I might find there.
I also really enjoy surfing, for a landlocked old guy. I still make myself a couple chances a year to really go at it. I've been at minimum, an annual traveler to some coastal area or another, ever since I was about 5 years old. This has given me a fairly decent feel (and respect) for what I might find in the ocean, at least the ocean closest to me.
That distant Saturday, when I was under Summersville lake cooling off, the mental line between those 2 somewhat related worlds became alarmingly blurry. It was almost enough of a shock to cause mild panic. Summersville is a mountain lake, at least 500 miles inland of any body of salt water. You might expect to see a good sized catfish in there. Maybe a few smallmouth bass. Some stripers, in the deeper water near the dam.
I saw the shape drift by, a little too far away to distinguish detail. It was almost unthinkable to me, but it sure looked like one. What was a jellyfish doing in Summersville lake? Then the inescapable following thought. What the hell was I now doing in Summersville lake? I surfaced, swam to the boat and began to watch the area beneath the surface still illuminated by the bright, mid-afternoon sun. I was still in a state of disbelief, and wasn't sure enough to start yelling "git out of there, there's jellyfish!" I was sure I'd be ridiculed.
I watched for about another half hour, spotting the occasional piece of flotsam, but becoming less and less sure of what I'd seen. Then, I saw it. Plain as day, and closer to the surface. I prodded my wife Mandy and showed her. Her eyes got wider, but she said nothing, for the time. A few seconds later, we both spotted another one and we started chattering over top of one another. This one was really active, and the propulsion action of its diaphragm was so intense that there was no mistaking that this was a living creature with an ambulatory agenda. This was a jellyfish, at least as far as I was concerned.
We instantly began to spot several more of them, and we began to point them out to our similarly shocked boatmates. Groups of them of increasing number drifted by, all apparently heading toward deeper water. Before long, we were in what can only be described as a huge school of them. We caught one in a coffee can and watched it swim back and forth. It was aware of the sides of the can, and avoided them. It just swam back and forth from edge to edge till we let it go, then it resumed its trek toward deeper water.
Of course, afterward I did a web search, and discovered that I had stumbled on nothing any more special than a bloom of hydras. Seventh grade science students everywhere are probably not surprised. I sure wish I had a seventh grade science student with us that day, though. He could have saved me quite a bit of puzzlement and fear.
According to the information I read, this was a fairly decent bloom. Hydras are common to most of the fresh water in the continental US, and have even been previously reported in the very same area we saw them in. Blooms are typically a late summer phenomenon. Opinions vary on whether a person can be stung by a hydra. Some say yes, and some say no. I don't see any reason why not to side with the "yesses", erring on the side of caution and all.
This was one of those experiences that leaves a mark. I found myself in disbelief of my own eyes, in fear for my epidermis, in fear of ridicule, completely at a loss to understand, and finally and anticlimactically, less informed about my own surroundings than any seventh grade science student. In that order. Then I had to go to dinner. What a day.
The first Saturday in September 2003, I was obligated to spend the day on my father-in-law's boat, blistering in the sun on Summersville lake. I wasn't looking forward to going, for a few reasons. The main one was my mom-in-law, who I must say I love dearly. The problem is, she turns into an evil harpie the split second the boat drifts into even partial shade.
She's a sun worshipper of the first order (you know, the order with the fancy Latin name...carcinoma). After several hours of continuous exposure, I find that even the SUPER SUNBLOCK SPF 5000 I reserve for outings of this nature fails to adhere the charred blistering skin to my shoulderbones. I alternate from swimming to walking around the boat fully dressed (in wet clothes, by the end of the day). Ok, I sound like I'm whining. I was also really tired, given that Saturday, September 6, 2003 was my only full day home in almost 2 weeks, and I was further obligated to attend my brother's wife's birthday dinner later that evening. whine whine whine, get to the point.
On one of my requisite dips into the cool green water of the lake, I thought I caught a glimpse of a familiar shape under the water. I routinely swim down a few feet and open my eyes when swimming in fresh water. I am a trained SCUBA diver (not so rare these days) who's major diving experience has been industrial, in dirty fresh water, for work. The environment I'm primarily used to diving in is a muddy river with powerful current and next to zero visibility. Freshwater lakes represent the most hospitable, enjoyable environment I have any significant experience diving in, so I have some basic expectation of what I might find there.
I also really enjoy surfing, for a landlocked old guy. I still make myself a couple chances a year to really go at it. I've been at minimum, an annual traveler to some coastal area or another, ever since I was about 5 years old. This has given me a fairly decent feel (and respect) for what I might find in the ocean, at least the ocean closest to me.
That distant Saturday, when I was under Summersville lake cooling off, the mental line between those 2 somewhat related worlds became alarmingly blurry. It was almost enough of a shock to cause mild panic. Summersville is a mountain lake, at least 500 miles inland of any body of salt water. You might expect to see a good sized catfish in there. Maybe a few smallmouth bass. Some stripers, in the deeper water near the dam.
I saw the shape drift by, a little too far away to distinguish detail. It was almost unthinkable to me, but it sure looked like one. What was a jellyfish doing in Summersville lake? Then the inescapable following thought. What the hell was I now doing in Summersville lake? I surfaced, swam to the boat and began to watch the area beneath the surface still illuminated by the bright, mid-afternoon sun. I was still in a state of disbelief, and wasn't sure enough to start yelling "git out of there, there's jellyfish!" I was sure I'd be ridiculed.
I watched for about another half hour, spotting the occasional piece of flotsam, but becoming less and less sure of what I'd seen. Then, I saw it. Plain as day, and closer to the surface. I prodded my wife Mandy and showed her. Her eyes got wider, but she said nothing, for the time. A few seconds later, we both spotted another one and we started chattering over top of one another. This one was really active, and the propulsion action of its diaphragm was so intense that there was no mistaking that this was a living creature with an ambulatory agenda. This was a jellyfish, at least as far as I was concerned.
We instantly began to spot several more of them, and we began to point them out to our similarly shocked boatmates. Groups of them of increasing number drifted by, all apparently heading toward deeper water. Before long, we were in what can only be described as a huge school of them. We caught one in a coffee can and watched it swim back and forth. It was aware of the sides of the can, and avoided them. It just swam back and forth from edge to edge till we let it go, then it resumed its trek toward deeper water.
Of course, afterward I did a web search, and discovered that I had stumbled on nothing any more special than a bloom of hydras. Seventh grade science students everywhere are probably not surprised. I sure wish I had a seventh grade science student with us that day, though. He could have saved me quite a bit of puzzlement and fear.
According to the information I read, this was a fairly decent bloom. Hydras are common to most of the fresh water in the continental US, and have even been previously reported in the very same area we saw them in. Blooms are typically a late summer phenomenon. Opinions vary on whether a person can be stung by a hydra. Some say yes, and some say no. I don't see any reason why not to side with the "yesses", erring on the side of caution and all.
This was one of those experiences that leaves a mark. I found myself in disbelief of my own eyes, in fear for my epidermis, in fear of ridicule, completely at a loss to understand, and finally and anticlimactically, less informed about my own surroundings than any seventh grade science student. In that order. Then I had to go to dinner. What a day.
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