Year of Writing 59 Leap day & the spider people.

2/29/12

February 29th, hello.  The last time I saw you, I was a mere lad of 30.  Isla was elbowing her mom from the inside - I was having panic attacks at school trying to imagine what being a dad would be like.  This unfocused anticipation of a huge change was all I could fit inside my mind.  So here we are again - it's four years later and I am waiting on this intangible life change once more.  This time, the move ahead of me is the unknown, but man - if it turns out the way having Isla has, then its all to the good.

That was an aside.

On the ride home this afternoon from daycare, Isla asked a lot of questions.  This is normal.  Usually, her questions don't revolve around extremely minor characters from Star Wars, however.  So, my interest was piqued, to say the least.  The conversation went something like this:

Daddy, if Darth Vader and Stormtroopers were real, I would lock the door so they couldn't get in.

Good Idea, Isla, what made you think about that?

I was just wishing that Princess Leia was real.  Is she real, Daddy?

Well, no, she's a character, but Carrie Fischer is real and she is the actress that plays Princess Leia.

Oh, well, is her shooter real? Does it shoot fire?

I think it's a laser gun, and I don't think it's real.  In the movies it shoots lasers.

Daddy, if somebody took Princess Leia's laser gun and started to shoot you would you get hurt?

They're not real, sweetie.  But if I was in the movie, I'd be a Jedi and stop the lasers with my lightsaber.

Does my pretend lightsaber stop lasers?

It stops pretend lasers.

Oh, Daddy...  Does Jabba the Hutt send girls to the Rancor or just boys?

 Jabba the Hutt sends anybody to the Rancor that bothers him.  Remember, Luke went through the trap door, and that dancer girl, and the Gammorrean Guard.

Is that the pig guy?

Boom Time.

And Daddy, Luke made the gate crash on the Rancor's head, so Jabba can't send me to the Rancor anymore.

Well, Leia made sure Jabba wouldn't send anybody anywhere.

Oh yeah.  Daddy, who are those spider guys in Jabba's house?

Wait, you saw the spider guys, they're only in it for a second.

Yeah, who are they?

 Well, they were peaceful people called the B'Omarr Monks (Yeah, I walk around with that knowledge in my head) that believed they didn't need their bodies, because they wanted to only think.  So, when they studied enough, somebody took their brain and put it in a jar.  Then if they wanted to move around, they had to be put in a spider robot.

... Do people really put their brains in jars?

Sort of, but not like that.  If real people take their brains out, they'll pretty much die.

But not the bomunks?

Yeah, not the bomunks.

Oh, I want to see them, can I draw the bomunks when I get home?  I just need a black pen so I can make them when they were people and when they were spiders too.

That sounds totally awesome.

 
    

Year of Writing 58 What goes on in there?

2/28/12

Sometimes we forget that our children, especially when young, are burgeoning individuals with their own ideas, trajectories, and emotions.  We forget that they are not just mockingbirds, and when we are reminded of this it is profound. 

It was nothing huge.  Isla was just sitting in the bathtub, waiting for our ridiculously slow faucet to fill the space around her with warm water.  It was the way she was sitting that made me pause, however.  Knees drawn up to her chest, head down.  "Are you OK, sweetie?"  I asked.
"Yeah, daddy." she said, not looking up.    "just..." 
"just what?"    At this point I get a little worried.  Do three-year-old kids get depressed?  Where was my boisterous superball of a child? 
"just, could you sit in here with me for a little while?"
So I did, perched on the toilet seat, unable to think of anything appropriate to say.  Truthfully, the silence felt right, so I left it so.  She sat like that for a couple of minutes, maybe four or five, then looked up finally, and said "thank you dad."  all grown-up like, then: "what game should we play... you be Harry Potter and I'll be Isla, but you think I'm Hermione and I'm trapped in a pool with evil mermaids." 

AND we're back to the reality I'm used to and comfortable with. 

But during those minutes of silence, she was completely herself - I wonder if she needed or wanted me in the room to feel safe in her own head, or if it was just a long, long imagination session winding up to her next game.  I'll never know, and that's what's so cool.  That's what's so profound.

Year of Writing 57 Flash Fiction

A cigarette hangs loosely from his stained fingertips.  It drops ash lazily onto the linoleum floor of the kitchen, each cracked and crooked grey cylinder collapsing into tiny heaps of soot at his feet like penitent worshipers. His head is cocked in a position that suggests concentration, eyes closed, lips moving silently to some internal script. There is a sink to his left, just beyond his chair and the card table at which he sits.  Inside the sink is an empty jar of jalepeños and a piece of steel wool, studded with various food debris.  A single hot plate rests on the counter, the heating element corroded with rust, the electrical cord patched in so many places with black tape it's impossible to discern the original plastic.  The floor near the doorway is a much lighter shade than the rest, betraying the loss of the refrigerator along with the water stains reaching beige fingers several inches up the floorboards. 

A drip starts in the faucet.  It begins slowly, but gradually increases it's tempo until the man's pulse is beating in synchrony.  His lips stop moving, his eyelids fluttering slightly.  For the first time in months, perhaps ever, he is at peace.  The world makes sense, he will get up, look at want ads, meet a girl.  The drip increases to a trickle, a stream.  The cigarette cherry reaches his finger, startling the man, who drops it violently onto the fake leather-grain covering of the table.  The water is too loud, the lights too bright.  The man leans forward in his chair, teeters for a second, then slips almost casually to the floor.  His legs curl instinctively toward his chest, his arms embracing the cheap denim covering his knees.  If his eyes were open, he would have seen the last remnants of a small pile of ash, caught by the ragged exhale of air from his nostrils, swirl and dance across the linoleum like a sad ballerina.

Year of Writing 56 February Tanka

2/26/12

A Tanka is a type of Waka, or "poetry" from Japan.  It is a much older form than Haiku, although the form is very similar: 5 syllables, 7, 5, 7, and 7.   The Tanka form dates from around 550AD.  I always wonder about English Tanka or Haiku, as the sounds are so different between the language, but ultimately, it's about finding beauty within a pattern for me.


 February

Wind blows fiercely here
collars turned up; faces hid.
bairn (babes) touch tongues to lips,
venturing to soothe the rasp;
skin cracked like their Cheshire grins

Year of Writing 55 Evil alien tattoo

2/25/12
It's hard to tell from the picture, but this alien was out of control awesome. It looks like Yoda had children with a rhinoceros.  In a really good way.   Isla painted it on my arm, because I apparently have hair on every other inch of my body;  embarrassing to say the least.  At any rate, this new tattoo got me thinking about the subject, and this is what has been kicking around inside my head.

I don't have any tattoos.  I like them, actually I like them a whole lot, I've just never actually decided on something that I feel would be worth putting on my body.  Every time I see an awesome tattoo, I get sad, like somehow that idea should have been mine, and now I will never have a good tattoo.  This is ridiculous, I know, but it's how my mind works.  


    Thanks a lot Mr. Cool Ice, now I can never get my dream tattoo.







It's not that I don't have any ideas at all, I just can't commit to one.  It all started with these skeleton guys from Edward Gorey - who is one of my favorite artists.  I started thinking about getting them on my body when I was about 19.   I was going to get them on my shoulders or maybe even my forearms, but never did.  Then I didn't want them any more.  This mind change made me totally paranoid about any future ideas, since I might possibly not want that plastered to myself for ever and eternity.  Since then, I have nixed a stack of books, lines from my favorite poems, a picture a former student drew for me of books turning into birds, one of Lou Pearson's sculptures, and my old friend Gavin's cent man.    As of now, I'm leaning toward nothing, which is probably a good thing, considering that list of inanities.


Ahhh hell.  I'll probably get a tribal tattoo with my daughter's name misspelled on it.  ON PURPOSE.  That's how ironic I am.  

Year of Writing 54 Golden Gate

2/24/12

Dear Bay Area,

This is how I would remember you,
flushed and luminous.
A golden gate against
an aching blue.
Your breeze a gladful hand
tousling her hair
Your sun, lucent lips
against her cheek.
A pleasant stranger,
a favorite aunt.
This is how I would remember you  -
sky and hills and dirt and sea
each pebbles in my pocket,
each taken home with me.

Year of writing 53 Sushi with Isla

2/23/12   

Last night Tegan left with Miles for her interview in Santa Barbara.  I picked up Isla for a little Daddy Daughter date at about 5:30, and we immediately decided on Sushi.   This was an easy decision for both of us since her mommy, my wife, is deathly afraid to eat anything that comes from the ocean.  I won't even get into how much that sucks when I really like fish, and she won't touch them.  Oh well. 

At any rate, we got to the sushi spot - Yammy Sushi in El Cerrito, and ordered. Isla got a cucumber roll and shared my sake (salmon not wine) with me, stuffing 2 of the seaweed rice rolls in her mouth at a time.  It was a record dinner, I think we ate in 15 minutes.  Isla drew a picture for the waitress on the back of our receipt, that looked like a girl crying.  Then, she grew concerned that it would be misconstrued, so she had me write on the bottom:  "This is a little girl who is so happy for her sushi that tears came out of her eyes.  Not sad tears, like the tears you get when you are really hot, or when the wind blows in your face."    Hopefully the message was received well.

On the way out the door an older gentleman was waiting to sit with his daughter, who looked to be in her twenties.  He said as we passed: "I have one of those,"  and put his arm around the woman.  "Wait until she gets an acceptance letter to Harvard Medical School! This one here did her undergrad at Princeton.  She thought she was going to be a Rocket Scientist, but we'll settle for a master surgeon."

"Wow!"  I said to the pair.  "My baby already grows up way too fast -"  then to her, "Isla, did you hear that?  Harvard, Princeton, Rocket Scientist, Doctor....isn't that awesome?" 

"Well, daddy - I just want to be a rock star. Not a rock science.  I am the best dancer in the living room." 

I guess it's up to interpretation, but I still think I win.

Year of Writing 52. No child left behind.

2/22/12

Today was the elegy lesson in my creative writing class.  For the first day, I like to present two elegies from literature, and two from old students, my own for my grandmother, then allow students to brainstorm possibilities for writing their own.  In my second class, we began with a poem called "Bomb Crater Sky" by Lam Thi My Da, one of Vietnam's most famous writers.  This poem memorializes a young girl who sacrificed her life for the soldiers in her village, comparing her to a "sun-flooded sky."  One of my students read the final stanza, then moved to an empty table and took out a piece of paper. 

As we read the other poems, the student would stop writing on the sheet of paper to listen, then return as soon as we began discussing what the poets were doing in their elegies to honor the people who had passed.  I didn't think much of it, as I've run enough creative writing workshops to know not to interrupt the process once inspiration hits.  However once I had performed my poem for the class, and we were shifting into the brainstorming process I headed over to the table to check on that student.  He had 4 sheets filled with frenetic lines, his cheeks were wet with tears, the paper torn in places where the saline droplets had soaked through.  And he was still writing.  As the class ended, he was still writing.  Lunch was next, and I often have kids from this period who want to finish a project stay for awhile, so it wasn't strange to see him stay.  I went out to the cafeteria and brought him a lunch.  He never looked up from his stack of papers, the number of which I had lost track.  As it came time for the next class, I walked up to ask him what he wanted to do, at which point he held up a piece of folded paper.  It said:  "I need 2 Stay."

At this point it does not matter what class he had next period.  This kid was experiencing catharsis, so profound that he couldn't speak.  Of course he stayed. Through the entire period, and about 15 minutes after the last class.  When he felt finished, he gathered all his papers, folded them neatly, put them in his pocket and nodded to me.  Then he left, that was it.  I hope that whatever he put on those papers gave him what he needed.  I hope every kid finds that space when he needs it. 

Year of Writing 51 Elegies.

2/21/12

In preparing for my elegy lesson for 7th and 8th graders tomorrow, I realized I have been using the same poem I wrote for my Grandma Horn at least 10 years ago.  It is a good piece, and I will still use it with it's refrain, but if that is the only remembrance I have, I am not honoring the other people who have passed from this life and touched mine.

To my Grandpa Horn:   The earliest memory I have stored away is at your funeral.  Someone gave me a decorative sword issued to you by either the military or army for service.  I remember the pommel; the feel of the leather against my hand. I remember feeling larger than I was - holding the sword high, looking up it's blade to the sun. I remember wondering if you could see me, if you were there in the harsh brightness of that reflection.

To Lou:  I stop to marvel at every puddle with eddies of oil. The swirls in my coffee are still there every morning. I still pay attention to their movement.  I am sure you direct them in their patterns. 

To my Grandpa Gardner:  You wrote me into existence, literally.  Your words keep bumping into me on busy sidewalks and bright fields; they are a warm handshake.  I wear your poems like sunglasses, they make the world less harsh.  As you were dying, the clouds cleared from your eyes for a moment, your throat wouldn't give voice to the words you wanted to say.  I felt your frustration, the frantic, deep need to release what was stuck there.  I heard.   I still hear.

To my Mema:  Cancer is a heartless companion, but you held it in your womb nonetheless.  You are the mother absolute; I realized when you were gone how many people your embrace could hold.  I sing you to my daughter and son, I sing you softly to myself when the hurt gathers in my stomach.  You are an elixir.  I miss you like my childhood.

Year of writing 50 On persistence

This is the first time in my life I've continued to do something for 50 days ever.  I suppose I have breathed and eaten 50 days straight, but nothing that I have done consciously.  That makes this pretty special.  I once went 49 days doing the 100 day burpee challenge, where you do those military style pushups starting from day one with one, and adding one each consecutive day.  I was feeling pretty good about myself until day 50, when I forgot, then subsequently said to no one in particular "why the hell was I doing military style pushups every day?"  and stopped.  I almost stopped this exercise as well, on those nights I DJ, and get home at 230 AM, knowing that I have to be up at 645 with the kids... but I still kept on.  There were even times I wasn't near a computer.  If these were pushups and I wasn't near my arms, there's no way I would have continued.  But this time I grabbed a pencil and a paper and jotted shit down.  Hell, I even put the blog app on my phone just in case.  That's how serious I am about this.  Dammit.   So in celebration of my 50th day writing, here are my top 50 things that come to my head right this instant, as being awesome.  (in no particular order, because my mind has no particular order)

1)  In honor of President's Day, this video, from a long time ago, that made me laugh more than anything else ever has. 

2)  Little kids that love zombies

3)  Coq au Vin - I made a sauce that I'd like to drink glasses of, then swim in after I become ill from drinking, then drown in when I get cramps.

4)  Tegan Linne Hannah

5)  Comfortable couches that don't have one cushion that sinks all the way to the springs.

6)  Stupid cooking competition shows. For some reason if it is a show about cooking, and people are judged, I will watch it.  It could be animals cooking.  It could be people microwaving popcorn.  I don't care.

7)  Tom Waits' new album.


8)  Singers who sound like they drank a fifth of nails, followed by sandpaper chasers, then smoked five thousand cigarettes before going on stage or recording.

9)  Building block circuses and zoos.  Then liberating the animals as giant do-gooders.

10)  Whale sharks.

11)  Parliament


12)  The new Zelda game.  You CONTROL LINK'S SWORD WITH THE WiiMOTE!  YOU ARE LINK!  I AM A NERD!

13)  Re-watching movies you loved in high school and realizing how ridiculous you were:  Meet the Feebles?  Really?

14)  Watching a 3 year old concentrate.

15)  Edamame.  (pronounced Edamamé, as clarified by the concentrating 3 year old, apparently this is a french food).

16)  The "Just for Kids" tab on Netflix.  Isla still has no idea what a commercial is.

17)  The big fat bulldog at the dog park who doesn't start shit with anybody.  Just lies there like he owns the place.

18)  Barbecue. 

19)  Jeremy Lin, and all the controversy.

20)  8th graders, all their issues, drama, hormonal imbalances, tears, anger, joy and pain intact.

21)  Ukeleles.  There are 7 or 8 of them floating around my school, you can hear one of the kids who has picked it up recently quietly strumming away in almost every class.

22)  Good children's books. Thank you Richard Scarry, thank you Neil Gaiman.

23)  Shoes.  Yes, I have a problem, it is a topic for another post. 

24)  Bon Iver - I still get chills whenever I hear his falsetto. 

25)  Baby drool missing your head by centimeters as you hold your baby up airplane style.

26)  Baby puke flying OVER your shoulder and landing on the ground, then before you can get a rag - Charlie Bucket & Sophie take care of business.  Disgustingly effective, those dogs.

27)  Chicken Piccata.

28)  Anticipation.

29)  Waking up with 2 kids in the bed, smiling at each other.

30)  Snarky people.

31)  Persistence

32)  Finding a new form of poetry that makes sense.  Finding a new form of sense.

33)  Records.  Real, Vinyl records. With scratches and irregularities.

34)  Coffee.  I have been limited to one half a cup a day, and it is a sacred half a cup.  It is beyond sacred.

35)  Montell Jordan.

36)  any other music from 1990- 1996.

37)  Laughing so hard with my daughter trying to play the "down by the banks" hand clapping game that we simultaneously spit into eachothers faces, doubling the laughter again.

38)  Candy that other people hate - candy peanuts, candy corn, Necco wafers, black licorice.  I learned early how to not have to share.

39)  Babies that have hairlines reminiscent of a 50 year old balding man.

40)  Point Reyes Blue Cheese.

41)  Owning real art.

42)  Making real art.

43)  Facing the possibility of moving back home, and not completely hating the idea.

44)  Bloodlines.

45)  William Fucking Wallace.

46)  William Fucking Blake.

47)  Fresh fruit, when you thought there was none left.

48)  Growing up with the woman you will one day marry and have children with.

49)  People who act the exact opposite of how they look.

50)  Finishing something you said you would finish.

Year of Writing 49 The note.

2/19/12

Sunday is cleaning day, most of the time. I start with one corner of a room (choose one, it makes no difference) that looks like a herd of some new breed of disgusting rhinoceros made out of snacks, plastic food containers and children's toys has traipsed through, sloughing off its body willy nilly.  I then attempt to make this corner semi-presentable, ultimately getting sidetracked by some long lost piece to a game which then must be played, or article of clothing which sends me down to the laundry room where I end up re-organizing tools, or some other unrelated task.  Today's distraction was way better.  Today I found a valentine, meant for me but forgotten in the shuffle of artistic triumphs that came home from preschool that day.  The front was a white heart pasted cockeyed onto red paper, with a purple plastic gem awkwardly glued in the middle.  I immediately assumed it was another one of her princess creations, perhaps an invitation to a ball of some sort.  But upon opening the card, and seeing the words Dad I love you, written with such determination and care that the d's and e's were erased until they came out perfectly - I almost completely lost my shit.  This here is one hundred percent pure gold.  This is what I will tattoo on the inside of my skull so that any time I need it I can close my eyes and remember that there is a three year old with a pencil in her hand, face all screwed up in concentration trying to form the letters to express her love for me, her father - and that nothing else is important in the world.  Thanks sweetheart.  


Unrelated Postscript:  As my daughter was being put to bed, she declared:  "You know what I see in my imagination right now?  I see a zombie with an eyeball coming out of his other eyeball."  As if I wasn't feeling like my life was perfect enough. 

Year of Writing 48 Hold them.

2/18/12

Inspired by the majestic way a friend and her family have dealt with the death of a young child.

Mothers.  Fathers.
Let not the minutiae of life
distract you from the immensity
of love standing before you
in ripped shorts,
in a ruffled skirt,
in diapers and mud.
Listen to every syllable of every word
they utter; every attempted lie,
every attempted truth.
Love them all for what they are -
declarations of the extant:
"We are here!"  they shout.
Do not ignore this,
it is the most urgent, momentous
revelation you will ever hear.
Lean in close,
drink in their eyes
whisper yourself into an Oak tree
tell them to climb up,
to build a house in your branches.
Now root yourself here in this moment
and the next
until the latticework of your roots
form a net
that can hold anything.

Year of Writing 47. Why it sucks to not have breasts.

2/17/12

Any father of a breast-feeding infant charged with the solo care of said infant for any time period over four hours will inevitably run into a period of time where no amount of cajoling with a bottle, fatherly patting on the back, singing, rocking, crying, shouting, bouncing, screaming, swinging, etc... will do anything to comfort your own child.  They just want boobs, period.  Today was one of those days. 

 Don't get me wrong, I understand the fascination/obsession, it's just that I DON'T HAVE ANY!  This is unfortunate when your son won't eat for 7 hours, nor be soothed by any of the above tactics.  The frustration reaches a fever pitch that echoes the child's volume exactly - the louder and more prolonged the crying is when you are powerless to stop it, the more you feel like adding yourself to the world's worst father list, and possibly finding the closest bridge to jump off.  

The icing on the cake, of course, is when one's significant other returns home, nurses the little rascal for about 10 minutes, then he looks at you with a milky smirk on his face as if to say - see, fuckhead - that's all it takes.  

 

Year of Writing 46. Figurines.

A while ago I posted about some story ideas that kids had for their Character projects in my class.  Suffice to say, they were rambunctiously awesome.  Now, I present the finished product - the character figurine, complete with backdrop.  I will provide my own one sentence summary of their character.  Bear in mind, these characters ALL have short fiction to accompany them. 

1)  Burrito man and Taco boy, who have vowed to stave off the Martian threat to our world.  Good luck, you two.

2)    Shireen.  She was adopted, but nobody realized as a toddler, she had murdered her entire village, leaving behind a lake of blood.  (this girl was a little bit mad at her mom when she came up with the idea.)

3)  A rock.  With glasses.  In the forest. 
(the story is EXACTLY as exciting as you imagine)

4)  A graffiti artists' creation, come to life, now terrorizing the late-night tagger scene.  (this was one of the better stories.  I almost killed the student, however, for typing in all caps.  Seriously?  What the hell?)

5)  The Pastry Gang, they get into all kinds of crazy hijinx in the oven, until old Mr. Muffin tells them to buzz off. 

6)   Kid.  (Story bored me to tears - about a boy who gets into fights all the time, but the sculpture is bad-ass).

7)  The evil drug lord Chili and his two henchmen.  They're hiding out in his cabin in the desert until the heat dies down.

8)   The Tyrannosaurus that ate Paris.  'nuff said.

9)   Marshmallowstick.  Literally.  (the stick wakes up one day to find he's been attacked by a parasitic marshmallow.  He then sets out on an adventure trying to find a shamanistic brontosaurus to release the fiend).

10)  Sr.  Pupusa, the ne'erdowell couch potato.  Here he is contemplating taking over the world, but Maury Povich is about to be on, so that can wait. 









Oh yeah, did I mention I love my job right now? 

Year of Writing 45 The backpack game.

2/15/12

Today after picking Isla up from daycare, I was faced with the same question I get every time I pick up Isla from daycare:  "Daddy, what game should we play?" Lately, this question only has had two viable answers:  "I'll be Isla but Daddy thinks I'm Bellatrix putting a spell on Harry Potter but I'm really Isla and I'm not magic."  or some other iteration with characters from either Harry Potter or Star Wars. These sound cute in theory, but after the third or fourth thousand time playing this "game," it just gets old.   The second game option is one where we take turns making up names for imaginary monsters and describe how they go about ravaging their prey:  "Daddy have you ever heard of a Margle fargle?"
"no, what is it?"
"A Margle Fargle is a monster that puts on a disguise of a banana, then when you peel it, it jumps out of the banana and eats you all up.  But not me, because I'm fast and I know good hiding places."

Now usually, this game is pretty awesome.  But today, I had already partaken in said monster naming game in the morning, and was feeling a little weary of the activity, so I decided to change it up a little.  My backpack was sitting in the space between her car seat and Miles, so I decided to start talking in the backpack's voice (which in my approximation, sounded a little like the guy from Crash Test Dummies)  Mainly the "game" now consisted of Isla asking the backpack questions about what it is like to be backpack, and the backpack (who's name had at some point become Jimmy) answering in a gruff, yet straightforward manner.   "Jimmy, what do you eat?"
"Oh, I eat lots of things, but I always end up being hungry after a while because people unzip my tummy and take the food back out again.  It's like every morning I get a whole lunch in my tummy, then your dad comes and takes it out every afternoon.  That's not really fair."
Isla started to quickly sympathize with this backpack character, and after fighting the veracity of the voice, settled into a sincere dialogue talking directly to the green and black sack to her right.  The game lasted the entire 45 minute car ride, and during that time I got to see how caring and thoughtful a person my daughter is.

When the backpack first uttered concerns about filling it's stomach with food, only to have it rudely removed every lunchtime, Isla sweetly implored me, the Daddy, to leave a few pieces of my lunch in the backpack so he wouldn't be so hungry all the time.  When the backpack lamented not being able to see what people were stuffing him with because of his severe lack of eyes, Isla offered to get out her paints and paint eyes on him - then continued by inviting the backpack to watch her favorite movie with her, so that he could finally see "something good in [his] life," even going so far as to say she would bring sunglasses for the scary parts.  After listening intently to the backpack detail the awful things that people have done to it over the years: throwing him on the ground, cats peeing on him, kids using him for a soccer goal, etc...  Isla had finally had enough.  She screamed out loud in frustration and said, "Daddy!  You have to be nice to Jimmy! He's a good backpack and I'm going to give him eyes and I'm going to take him to school and leave the lunch in his tummy and you can't use him any more if you're going to be mean to him.  You need to promise to be a good backpack haver." 

I promised, you better believe it.  That backpack sure knows how to advocate for himself.

Year of Writing 44 Valentine.

Valentine

I love you easy;
artless and unvarnished.

You're so simple.
The way the sky is simple
to the falcon,
the way my breath is simple.
You are my breath, my sky.

I love you oracular.
We've become telepathic -
our sibylline thoughts
hold court now without us.
You are my Delphi,
You are the vapors
and I don't remember when I inhaled
into this transfixion.
I don't care to.

I love you incessant.
revolutions of the earth,
swelling and loosening tides,
the persistent lurching of time.
I love you beyond these all;
to the apogee, the sublimity,
where we rest, limbs entangled
waiting for perpetuity, for infinity
to catch up.

Year of Writing 44 Video games.

So, back in March of 2009, I wrote this:  http://djmistergardner.blogspot.com/2009/03/march.html#comment-form

Now it is 2012, I am a father of two, the economy is still ratchet, and you'd think I would have learned a thing or two about prioritizing my time (which those of you who have more than one child can attest to, doesn't exist).   However.  There came about this sequel to the game mentioned in the blog above - The Elder Scrolls, Skyrim.  I told myself:  "Don't buy the game, Aaron - it will only lead to inane wandering and endless early morning hours spent collecting various types of cheeses and storing them in virtual cupboards."  Then I bought it.  Next I told myself: "Stick to the storyline, Aaron - don't get sidetracked in all the 10,000 + little sidequests like bringing flowers to some random villager or leading some poor wretch to be eaten by cannibals in a underground cavern, when you know full well you have no intention of joining their flesh eating cult."  This is where I hang my head in shame.  Now don't get me wrong, I don't feel bad about video games, or about adults playing them - I really do believe that it is a 21st century form of adult entertainment, it's just the manner in which I play these ridiculous things.  They become joyless plodding exercises in futility - I mean, I don't even get some kind of in-game prize for collecting all the types of bowls and plates.  There's no extra experience points or gold given if my character's storage barrels have 4,754 apples in them.  It's just sad really.  If they made an online version of "Hoarders" I'd be all over that shit.

So, I must vow here in front of my computer screen to never ever play one of these awful open-ended fantasy games again.  Until the next Elder Scrolls comes out, that is.  For I am strong, but I know my limitations.

Year of Writing 43 On being young; what joy looks like.

2/12/12

 

This is one of those moments when your entire body, your soul, and your heart excruciatingly long to be young again. 

Backstory:  This was the 6th or 7th jump of the night.  I can't remember exactly how many, but it was enough for me to think, "oh crap, I should get the camera," actually locate said camera, and take the picture with the right setting.  All jumps were made from the couch to the couch cushions at varying distances on the floor.  At one point, daring Isla set that wire shelf thing you see in the background before the pillows, wire feet pointing up, as an obstacle to clear.  Yeah, I nixed that idea, which is probably the only time she stopped grinning like the Cheshire cat on ecstasy during the entire escapade.  Aiding me in the time needed to take the picture was the addition of Smurfette to the mix.  Apparently, Isla's fun was outgrowing her capacity to store it, so she needed to share this with someone.  I overheard her giving Smurfette safety instructions as she was stuffed into her leotard: "I will keep you safe, Smurfette, you have to stay here in my ballerina suit so you won't fly out on this dangerous jump.  I promise you won't get hurt if you just listen to what I tell you.  (at this point I preemptively feel sorry for the first kid she tries to get to eat some dog food - I hope it's not Miles).  Then there was a 7 count, which also involved counting backwards back to 6, then to 7 again - 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 6, 7 JUMP!  And she was off - flying toward those cushions which must have seemed thousands of yards below, judging by that look on her face.  The second I looked down at the viewfinder on the camera, my heart lurched.  To feel that unfettered joy, that pure imaginative perfection, that is what we should be striving for.  All of us.  

So I say to you, anyone reading:  Stop what you're doing.  Grab a tutu, a mismatched headband and a Smurfette doll.  now, stuff that mothereffer in your shirt and jump off the couch! You'll feel better, trust me.

Year of Writing 42

2/11/12

First off, I have to say that I am extremely proud of myself for keeping with this so far. I know it's early to be singing my own praises, but if you are out of practice, writing every day is HARD!  I feel great about how few of these posts and exercises have been throwaway in nature.


This post is about Miles.  This is my boy about two weeks old.




              This is him today------->

               The changes that occur to your baby as they grow older are barely noticeable until you look back at what was just a few months back, and there is a different child staring back at you.  Miles laughs with us now, eats shopping lists, smashes himself in the face with his toys in a vain attempt to swallow them whole, and is beginning to show signs of intense genius.  I'm pretty sure his high pitched squeals and gurgles are attempts to address the gaps in logic that exist in string theory.

These are the things that I want to remember about Miles in his fifth month of life:  The way he smiles at anyone who gets his attention, then hides his face against my shoulder - there is no more proof that I am DADDY ALMIGHTY than this.

The looks of consternation I would get when first attempting to feed him his bottle when Tegan was working, and he struggled to figure it out, then the palpable relief and calm that settled in that one fateful Sunday afternoon that I shall dub "the Day Daddy Conquered the World,"  or "We Don't Need No Nippleday." 

The ridiculous outfit combinations I came up with for Miles after realizing he enjoyed layering.  Orange and brown footie pajamas under green striped sweatpants and a purple hoodie anyone?

Knowing full well that my baby balancing and baby tossing acrobatics would cause a regurgitated tsunami of breastmilk, but still doing it because Dammit, no kid should ever be denied such thrills.  And besides, he giggles like a drunk chipmunk when I do it.

Having to position his body 180 degrees from the TV during basketball games while he fights and claws to watch - I CAN'T WAIT until he is developmentally ready to watch the Warriors (and hopefully by then they'll have something worth watching).

Those eyes.  It really is amazing what a pair of bright blue eyes like that will make you do.  Look out world.

Year of Writing 41 Let the kids play.

2/10/12

One thing I've been thinking a lot about lately (besides how badly I want to dismember my cat when she pees on items I own), is the amount of freedom kids have now as compared to when I grew up.  I grew up in a city, Seattle, and can remember being in first grade - walking about half a mile or more to the bus stop to go to school. 
      This is an aside, hence the italics, but I had an incredibly hard time using public restrooms as a       kid, especially the restrooms at school.  Because of this, I would urinate in my pants almost every day walking home.  It totally sucked.  I would make it almost all the way to our back fence, could see it in fact, but then knew I would never be able to jump it without my bladder exploding anyway, so just let loose the torrent.  After a couple of days of this happening at the same spot - an old tall lodgepole pine, it became Pavlovian, and I would piss myself upon viewing the tree.  It took one of my friends riding the bus home with me once to explain "hey, you're a guy, just pee behind the tree."  That boy saved many a pair of pants.  Thanks Eric Abrahamsen.  
      What I have noticed lately, both from teaching, and from my friends with kids, is that something like what I did is completely out of the question.  There is no way a 6 or 7 year-old kid should be walking that far by themselves.  I'm not sure I'm with that.  There was a ton of adventure during those walks, and in the other neighborhood explorations I would go on in my elementary school days.  Chestnut fights, salamander hunts, paper boat chasing... a lot of which I made up on my own as I went.  I hope that in this new culture of fear and mistrust, kids don't completely lose out on adventure and individuality.  That they aren't protected to the point of harm.  I know it's a different world that we live in, but human beings are not fundamentally different than they were then, and my babies deserve to be free too.


 

Year of Writing 40 Waking up with Isla.

2/9/12

Her hair matted and wild,

snot crusting one cheek

she is beautiful in the morning.

This lion cub,

this maelstrom in pajamas.

She occupies more of my heart

than should be possible by her stature;

a giant in a toddler's body.

In her sleep she has turned,

her hand resting on my forearm;

I shudder to think -

if she can loosen so much love

with an unconscious gesture,

she will drain entire cities when she tries.

I am an entire city.

I will gladly be drained.

Year of writing 39 First year memories

2/8/12

I just finished posting a large group of pictures from my first years teaching on Facebook.  I've stayed in contact with many kids from that period 2002-2005, so I was able to tag a few in the pictures.  What followed was a mass tagging of nearly every kid I taught in those days, all of them commenting and asking questions and connecting back with each other.  The fact that I had them all in 7th or 8th grade, and now they are either in college, or working, many with families of their own, makes me feel awesome.   For all the things that suck about getting older, this is not one of them.  I feel so proud of all these "kids"  who are now young adults, and of everything they have accomplished.  East Oakland is not a black hole after all, Thank you guys for proving that to me.

Year of Writing 38 Things Middle School kids say

2/7/12

Things I overheard today while kids (7th & 8th Graders in Oakland) were brushing sculptures with a coat of glue in preparation to paint. Sometimes concentration on one task siphons off all available brain cells. Names have been changed to protect the uh, innocent.

1) "Bruh, that hella looks like your mom."
"Shut the fuck up. No it doesn't, it looks like your mom."
"hahaha, who's it supposed to be?"
"My mom."

2) "GAAAAAWD!"
"what?"
"This glue is hella sticky."
"Do you see me shaking my head at you? I just SMHd all over you."

3) (singing) "Burrito man, burrito man, you are my little burrito man. I want to eat you but you are clay and hard. Burrito man you broke my heart."

4) "Woah, what is that? It's hella clean!"
"It's a donut."
"oh, no wonder I like it, my brother wants to be a police."

5) "You should go out with Lucy she hella likes you."
"Bruh, we been going out for two weeks."
(from an adjacent table)
"ugghhhhhhh! I don't go out with him. That's why you smell like hot Cheetos and socks."

Year of Writing 37 Charles Bucket, Dog.

Ode to Charlie Bucket

You looked at me with soulless eyes
your curled tail a pointed question
that nobody could answer.
It twitched once, twice.
Your hackles quivered,
giving the impression of danger
or perhaps annoyance.
There was no wagging -
you had me rapt, tense
I had no idea what to expect.
So, when you lowered your haunches,
and began to scootch across the carpet
dragging whatever horrible thing
you had eaten and passed
through your bowels, which had clung
to the wiry hair surrounding your little doggy anus,
the length of our living room carpet,
I was too taken aback to react quickly.
In one foul motion, you managed
distribution and amalgamation
it was beautiful, really
in a completely disgusting sense.
I would have applauded you,
had I not already banished your
fetid behind to the back yard.
Ah, but Charlie, you will return
and when you do
we will dance the tail holding,
attempt at escape from the bathtub jitterbug.
As I spray your posterior
with the detachable showerhead
nose crinkled in what could be mistaken for disgust
but must be affection
must be.

Year of Writing 36 Untitled Apocalyptic fiction

2/5/12


We wait. The roads have cracked and sprouted green and still we wait. The buildings cough and sigh through broken hinges and still we wait. Some say he will come on a winged beast, large enough to block out the whiteyellow glare of the sun. Some say he will tunnel through the earth and burst through our bunker walls. Some say it is a she, a woman with lights in her fingers, with fire in her hair. They all agree that one day the iron and steel doors above us will be lifted, the chemical fog will dissipate, and we will stumble into the world once more.

I was born here in this steel and rivet cistern, like so many others around me I have known nothing but its cool grey embrace. It was built in the before times, the green times, when people used words like "precaution" and "perhaps." Now everything is in past tense, unless we speak of the deliverer. It is not small, as cisterns go, once, I walked the entire oval of its perimeter - starting at the solid metal plate locking the ladder and got back in about 25 minutes. I got a lot of strange looks that day - we generally stay to our areas of the cistern unless there's an all-call, and that means something serious has happened, which is not very often. Nobody talks about who built our prison, our home - but most of the manuals and literature in here is marked with military insignia; the U and S intertwining around an angry looking bird of some kind. One of the men who controls the ladder told me that birds like that used to be all over the sky. It seems impossible. But then again, so does the sky itself.

Nobody younger than 16 has ever been up the ladder, and even when you reach the age of adulthood, only the rovers go up and out. They rarely come back. When I was younger, it was all I thought about, how incredible it would be to see the world outside, to be freed from the cold artificial brightness of these magnetometer bulbs if only for a short journey. Daydreaming, I would trace outlines of the buildings people told stories about, with their wires and windows, in the dust of the cistern floor. But as time passed, and I got caught up in the daily rhythm of work, eat, sleep - those dreams were shoved to the back of my consciousness. The only things that seemed to matter were the daily rations, the cot behind the generators, and my knife.

The knife was very old. My mother said that before he had gone up, my father told her to give it to me if he didn't come back. That was seven years ago. She thinks that the knife was first owned by my father's grandfather - it has a hilt made of antler and the initials G.G.C. on the blade. I don't know what either means.

Year of writing 35 On being an emo kid

2/4/12


I came across this song today after a long, long time.


I am a huge fan of the moment when a song transports you bodily to a place you haven't thought of in years. For me, this song brought me to my backyard in Ojai, California, at 14 years old. I had a Sony Walkman as a kid, with those really, really uncomfortable headphones that made your ears hurt if you listened for too long, but you still listened, because that's what you do.This was the actual walkman I owned - I loved the "MEGA BASS" although it was borderline pointless, since the headphones were so crappy that any "bass" sounded like the static on channel 72.

So I was in my backyard, sitting on a homemade swing hanging from the branch of a tree, listening to the above Nine Inch Nails song on repeat. Now here's where it gets ridiculous. You might think that I had just been broken up with, or maybe just spurned by a girl. Or maybe I was in one of those silent teenage rages because my mom had told me to clean my room, or some other INCREDIBLY AWFUL task. But no. I was literally swinging on that swing, emo-fantasizing. I was making up a girl, not in any normal, healthy, weird science adolescent boy way, however. My fantasy was all about the breakup. Honestly - I was fantasizing about the breakup FROM A GIRL WHO DIDN'T EXIST. I can even recall the tear that I forced out of my eye socket to give the fantasy personal credibility.

OK, seriously, what was wrong with me? What kind of kid does that? Thanks a lot Trent Reznor.

Year of Writing 34 Jordan Chhit

2/3/12

Last Sunday in Oakland, another of my students was gunned down at a party. I remember Jordan as an extremely personable kid, one of those class-clown types that was actually funny, not simply annoying. He cared enough to make his interruptions relevant, and enjoyed being thought of as intelligent as much as he enjoyed being noticed. Jordan's death was a "what, him?" moment for me definitely, although these days Oakland seems to be putting a hit out on anyone aged 3-23. It's a dangerous 20 years. I send my thoughts out to his family, and can only hope that somehow Jordan's life and untimely death can forward some progress toward peace on these cruel blocks in Oakland.


Had him a grill
was all lined up
white T gleamin
fresh Nikes, no crease
"gotta look nice, G."
I know man, but dang -
if you put half the energy
you spent...
"lemme finish that thought
Mr. Gardner.
If I put half the energy
I spent getting ready for class
in class, I'd probably have a 4.0,
right?"
Something like that.
"Bruh, have you seen my GPA?
This is the 3rd A+
you've given me this year.
What, you prepare that speech
for anybody lookin fresh, G?"
I guess...
Those kicks do look nice though.
Where'd you get them again?

Year of writing 33 Tourette's without Regrets

2/2/12

Tonight was Tourette's Without Regrets, the show I have been DJing since somewhere around 2001. The show started in Benicia, California, at some crappy studio space, and used to bring maybe 20 people. Last night there were roughly 700 people packed inside the Oakland Metro to see, in order: 1) Dirty Haiku Bout, 2) 2 comedians (one transgendered comedian) 3) a poetry slam 4) a cross-dressing santa claus 5) a female burlesque act involving fake testicles and brains 6) a "worst ex" competition where the winner had a real pig's heart sent to their ex 7) a "worst sex" competition, where top three worst sexual encounters were reenacted by an interpretive dance troupe 8) a freestyle rap battle.

Weird to say the least. Tourette's has been the most interesting, inflammatory, offensive, sweet, annoying, exciting, incredible experience every month. I am glad to be a part of the madness.

www.touretteswithoutregrets.com

Year of Writing 32 Villanelle for inner-city education

2/1/12

A villanelle is an extremely structured 19 line poem. It has refrains and a rigid rhyme scheme. Dylan Thomas' "Do not go gentle into that good night" is probably the most famous English example of the form.

Here's mine:



Villanelle for Inner-City Education

The children sit and stare into the void
around them pencils, paper sits untouched
creativity, truth, the Arts destroyed

The efforts politicians have employed
have truly, sadly not amounted to much
the children sit and stare into the void

Return to basics, they say; but leave the soul devoid
of experience and things that one can touch
creativity, truth, the Arts destroyed

The three R's in the throats of poor children have cloyed
Reading, Writing, 'Rithmetic as such
the children sit and stare into the void

Hence the system propagated what it sought to avoid
suburban schools saved their programs in the clutch
creativity, truth, the Arts destroyed

With the poorest children's future we have toyed
cut both their legs and offered them a crutch
The children sit and stare into the void
creativity, truth, the Arts destroyed