My friend Glenn,
Grew up in Post Falls Idaho, population thirty thousand.
Heart attack, 60s.
Can’t drive through without thinking of him.
My friend Ben,
Passing through Ritzville Washington, population sixteen hundred.
Car crash, 30s.
Can’t drive through without thinking of him.
My friend Rachel,
Endless rolling Washington wheat fields; popuIation unknown, I got James cranked.
Moved away, 40s.
Can’t drive through and listen without thinking of her.
Dry wheat fields,
they’re itching my eyes.
They’re all gone.
EPILOGUE.
My friend _____,
Leaving soon.
___ ______ ____ ____
____ _____ ________
My eyes, my heart.
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Friends. Show all posts
6.24.2018
TWO WOMEN.
Two women I knew
at different points,
on my mind today.
One,
A death, a mortal passing,
a goodbye of the physical and the present
until, with hope, there is today again in different form.
Another,
A goodbye; physical, emotional passing,
a farewell to a particular and peculiar kind of friendship
no death, but the stab of a good memory mechanism that functions too well.
Two women,
one gone to death with loved behind, tears, loss
one gone to new places with loved behind, tears, joy, a different loss.
Two women,
one my very first friend,
another one of my dearest,
in an afternoon, on my mind.
In new places;
places where they have, or will be
leaving the old behind,
some happy ahead,
some sad behind.
We wish the best for those we care for, and those who care for them.
These two have been important
at different points.
One I have not seen for 20 years or more,
but used to ride bicycles and play in the forest on summer days.
I accidentally hit her on the head with a wooden swing once,
and I forgot to ever tell her that it wasn't totally an accident; I guess I wanted to see what would happen.
What happened is it hurt, and her mom got mad at me.
I'm sorry.
One I have seen almost daily for six years,
but will hardly ever see again.
Once she made cookies and said I could take a couple to go,
and I took a couple, and then a couple more,
and then several,
and then ate another one in front of her so she'd believe me when I said they were good.
I'm sorry for the empty plate.
They were delicious.
I wish I had been a better friend to my first friend
and stayed in touch.
There's a hundred excuses I can make for not having reached out.
But I hang my head.
To have just said goodbye.
I wish I had been able to have a proper goodbye with my last friend.
I don't know what proper is, but something to acknowledge a passage, a changing; something mutual that says,
you were important to me and we had something irreplaceable and unique.
And now it will change and be different.
The nonlinear continuity of life, aimless entropy unless changed.
It's the drifting away; the act of normal people becoming distracted with new focus that brings the sharpest pains sometime.
I have danced on both sides;
I hang my head again.
I have hurt and I have been hurt.
Why do we do graduations and memorials and such?
They're ridiculous cultural rituals.
We always complain, unless they're ours.
Sometimes we do anyway.
I do.
Acknowledgment.
Acknowledgment of something important.
That this person's life meant something in the context of ours.
That there is a shared experience that was meaningful.
If it was 30 years ago,
or last week.
To know that you have people who have
loved you,
who have better, liked you,
who will fight for you and battle to keep what's important alive,
when you're gone.
Everyone should know that,
and say it to those they feel it for.
And mean it.
Do it.
A balance of accepting what is reality
and fighting to preserve, or better, build on what's important
and to change what should be changed,
and to make the world better.
One relationship at a time.
One legacy at a time.
To remember, to acknowledge,
to say thank you
for being important,
unique;
gone.
Thank you, in different ways and degrees,
to two women who have been important in my life
at different times.
I hope to see you again.
at different points,
on my mind today.
One,
A death, a mortal passing,
a goodbye of the physical and the present
until, with hope, there is today again in different form.
Another,
A goodbye; physical, emotional passing,
a farewell to a particular and peculiar kind of friendship
no death, but the stab of a good memory mechanism that functions too well.
Two women,
one gone to death with loved behind, tears, loss
one gone to new places with loved behind, tears, joy, a different loss.
Two women,
one my very first friend,
another one of my dearest,
in an afternoon, on my mind.
In new places;
places where they have, or will be
leaving the old behind,
some happy ahead,
some sad behind.
We wish the best for those we care for, and those who care for them.
These two have been important
at different points.
One I have not seen for 20 years or more,
but used to ride bicycles and play in the forest on summer days.
I accidentally hit her on the head with a wooden swing once,
and I forgot to ever tell her that it wasn't totally an accident; I guess I wanted to see what would happen.
What happened is it hurt, and her mom got mad at me.
I'm sorry.
One I have seen almost daily for six years,
but will hardly ever see again.
Once she made cookies and said I could take a couple to go,
and I took a couple, and then a couple more,
and then several,
and then ate another one in front of her so she'd believe me when I said they were good.
I'm sorry for the empty plate.
They were delicious.
I wish I had been a better friend to my first friend
and stayed in touch.
There's a hundred excuses I can make for not having reached out.
But I hang my head.
To have just said goodbye.
I wish I had been able to have a proper goodbye with my last friend.
I don't know what proper is, but something to acknowledge a passage, a changing; something mutual that says,
you were important to me and we had something irreplaceable and unique.
And now it will change and be different.
The nonlinear continuity of life, aimless entropy unless changed.
It's the drifting away; the act of normal people becoming distracted with new focus that brings the sharpest pains sometime.
I have danced on both sides;
I hang my head again.
I have hurt and I have been hurt.
Why do we do graduations and memorials and such?
They're ridiculous cultural rituals.
We always complain, unless they're ours.
Sometimes we do anyway.
I do.
Acknowledgment.
Acknowledgment of something important.
That this person's life meant something in the context of ours.
That there is a shared experience that was meaningful.
If it was 30 years ago,
or last week.
To know that you have people who have
loved you,
who have better, liked you,
who will fight for you and battle to keep what's important alive,
when you're gone.
Everyone should know that,
and say it to those they feel it for.
And mean it.
Do it.
A balance of accepting what is reality
and fighting to preserve, or better, build on what's important
and to change what should be changed,
and to make the world better.
One relationship at a time.
One legacy at a time.
To remember, to acknowledge,
to say thank you
for being important,
unique;
gone.
Thank you, in different ways and degrees,
to two women who have been important in my life
at different times.
I hope to see you again.
6.14.2018
THE DAY IS WRONG.
The mountain is dead
Little exaggeration
But it feels empty.
The roads we have run
Trails we have walked often
It is too quiet.
Upside down today
The day is leaving, like you
Days come around though.
Sun comes tomorrow
That’s good I guess, for the heat
Heart weight big today.
Change is tough, and dumb
But it’s good I hear, painful
And tears are not bad.
Streaked cheeks meant you love
To know how much, good thing,
I can imagine.
Mountain floats away
Isn’t anchored without you
But it will balance.
With a little time
A lot of time, memories
Stories in its earth.
Always missed, you all
You all have a hill, and hearts
With spaces waiting here.
You will find more hills
And mountains and trees; a home
Happy home you’ll have.
We will see you there
Six hours, road trip, coffee stops
Leave a light on late.
May goodness and fun
And fresh experiences
Brighten your new town.
We will text, phone, fax
And come visit, sometime soon
The mountain is sad.
It will be happy
Again, but today is wrong
Mountain’s not right.
The night will roll on
And the day will start again
New lives will begin.
Photos to be shot
Memories to be made lots
New discoveries.
This is sad, but not
It is, but it will dissolve
Into happiness.
But tonight, sad hill
You’re missed, loved, remembered lots
The day is wrong now.
A day askew, tears.
A mountain, real off balance
A moon, pale and sick.
The sun is coming
And winter too, it’s pretty
Thanks for the years, you.
Real good times, lots, yes
Equilibrium we’ll find
A new normal, yep.
Remember the years,
Sometimes remember; thank you
And we love you lots.
Nighty night, Joe peeps
May your slumber be peaceful
And your days real fine.
We’ll anchor things here
So the mountain is ready
When you come again.
The day sunshiney
The hill in place again firm
Always a light on.
So the day is wrong
But you are strong, so are we
Trying hard to be.
Happy we are, most
For your new fun times ahead
Best for you, the best.
The mountain is here
So are we; maybe halfway
We can meet someday?
Until then, say ‘onward!’
Best of all to you, the best
Do well, smile, eat lots.
We’ll see ya real soon
On mountain, or somewhere else
It’ll be real great.
With high affection
We send everything good
To you all, much love.
From our mountain high
To you in Joseph, your home
We love you so much.
Little exaggeration
But it feels empty.
The roads we have run
Trails we have walked often
It is too quiet.
Upside down today
The day is leaving, like you
Days come around though.
Sun comes tomorrow
That’s good I guess, for the heat
Heart weight big today.
Change is tough, and dumb
But it’s good I hear, painful
And tears are not bad.
Streaked cheeks meant you love
To know how much, good thing,
I can imagine.
Mountain floats away
Isn’t anchored without you
But it will balance.
With a little time
A lot of time, memories
Stories in its earth.
Always missed, you all
You all have a hill, and hearts
With spaces waiting here.
You will find more hills
And mountains and trees; a home
Happy home you’ll have.
We will see you there
Six hours, road trip, coffee stops
Leave a light on late.
May goodness and fun
And fresh experiences
Brighten your new town.
We will text, phone, fax
And come visit, sometime soon
The mountain is sad.
It will be happy
Again, but today is wrong
Mountain’s not right.
The night will roll on
And the day will start again
New lives will begin.
Photos to be shot
Memories to be made lots
New discoveries.
This is sad, but not
It is, but it will dissolve
Into happiness.
But tonight, sad hill
You’re missed, loved, remembered lots
The day is wrong now.
A day askew, tears.
A mountain, real off balance
A moon, pale and sick.
The sun is coming
And winter too, it’s pretty
Thanks for the years, you.
Real good times, lots, yes
Equilibrium we’ll find
A new normal, yep.
Remember the years,
Sometimes remember; thank you
And we love you lots.
Nighty night, Joe peeps
May your slumber be peaceful
And your days real fine.
We’ll anchor things here
So the mountain is ready
When you come again.
The day sunshiney
The hill in place again firm
Always a light on.
So the day is wrong
But you are strong, so are we
Trying hard to be.
Happy we are, most
For your new fun times ahead
Best for you, the best.
The mountain is here
So are we; maybe halfway
We can meet someday?
Until then, say ‘onward!’
Best of all to you, the best
Do well, smile, eat lots.
We’ll see ya real soon
On mountain, or somewhere else
It’ll be real great.
With high affection
We send everything good
To you all, much love.
From our mountain high
To you in Joseph, your home
We love you so much.
5.14.2018
POEM : REST STOP.
The temp was 86, I reckoned.
Call of sweet ice caffeine to me beckoned.
My cool dude sons, I told
We gonna get some drinks, super duper cold.
This would be time well spent, I knew
Me and my boys make quite the crew.
We’d chill and chat and talk about Leonidas
And tell stories about creatures that could potentially bite us
One was excited to talk of Athens and Sparta too.
One was not and would rather play peekaboo.
where there’s a way there’s a will
And where’s there’s this guy there’s a pill.
Strolled into the conditioner cooled place
Thump thump Ace of Bass smile to my face
Boys, we gonna hang in here a real short while
You be good for pops, please go the extra mile?
The seven nods, the one-year toots
Old guys look up, mustachioed cowboy coots
Little fists my chest for YES
Relief immediate I have to confess,
We gonna chill guys, I firmly say
Boy look up: I obey dad, pretty much almost every day.
So here the plan
Clock go tick tick man
We keep a low profile
Then we leave after a little while
I order my drink while one boy starts math
The other one, I notice, needs a bath
But his help is immense
As he shakes my wallet of dollar and cents
Set him down to the floor,
He make a run for the door
Hey you buddy! I shout!
That whole low key thing, what that about?
He looks around frantically, frenetic concern
That his whereabouts I’ll soon completely discern
I already have, certainly so
Because I am dad, and I told him no go.
His eyes scan the coffeehouse place
And search for a comrade kinda face.
He sees a middle age man
And swiftly devises a plan,
Waddling over to overstuffed chair
He points and he grunts like an underfed bear.
His Morse code bleeps and dot dashes
Are too incomprehensible for the man with mustaches.
I stalk over to both parties of men
He wants outside, I explain, but that’s somewhere he’s already been
Boy puffs and he huffs and he gets super mad,
But I remind him again of who is still dad.
You’re not escaping from here,
I remind him.
Your mind is bright but your memory is dim.
I win, I win again, I win all the time,
And whoever you bribe, will take more than a dime.
He listened real close , well most
except for two teen girls to whom he could boast.
In line they stood for some afternoon treat
A beverage to nullify eighty six heat.
He attracted their attention with focused intention,
His plan was something I’d rather not mention
But involved a loud thunder from down under,
His diaper shaking, almost ripped super asunder.
They giggled and chuckled and smiled at him.
That was all needed to blow kisses to them.
Low profile! I hissed.
The idea was that we’d never be missed.
He laughed and climbed up out of my lap.
Please oh please I breathed; maybe a nap?
Upon the communal table we shared
He laid down his plumb body and head blond haired
Stretching out to full length on back
He gathered lungs for a vocal attack
Attack of the singing boy song
Who might ever think it to be very wrong?
Well, when a profile presence tiny is what you’ve desired
But singsonging diaper poet instead is what has been hired
Then the table dancing song sing diaper man
Is simply not on the list of good plan, no nuh uh man.
I turn to help other son with some numbers
Instead make mistake and brain feeling dead or under deep slumbers.
The escape artist sees a break and makes it happen
Irrepressible spirit no thwarten or dampen.
He runs to a friendly 20ish fellow
Who perhaps seems appropriately mellow.
The year old criminal marches up to this millennial cool dude
With the moxie and grace of a hipster elite attitude
And picks up his juice bottle and keys
With nothing so much as a please
I race over and redact them from dirty fat hand
And scream what did you super not understand?
He cries for a while
But five seconds after with apparentless guile
He smiles and points to the newspaper stand.
Look I say but don’t touch.
If you do, I won’t probably like you more much.
He obeys letter of law and leaves the Wall Street Journal alone
But begins scampering up newspaper RACK to climbing skills hone.
He gets up ten feet or so,
Stops to smile at me far down below
I shake my head and sigh with sadness
I thought we’d relax here, but it’s simply been madness
My drink is melting in sad little plastic
I thought this would be some relaxing fantastic
I reach up high to lift him all the way down
He disagrees with decision and scowls noisy clown frown.
But back at his seat he sits content
With a book that cost a buck ninety-nine cent
There’s animals in it and pictures of cows too
He lets the whole place know that chickens say cock-a-doodle-moo
But he tires of that whole reading scene soon
And begs and screeches for a knife or a spoon
Cause the best soundtrack for relaxation
In this beautiful nation of creation
Is to drum the beat of your heart
With something loud and noisy and do your part
To fill a room with huge massive noise
And remind everyone you’re not of those demure quiet boys
We finally at last do start to depart
I mentally list what to purchase at the grocery mart
As I drag him out under my arms
I remember a picture of sweet orangutan farms
And consider the notion of a donation far across the ocean, but ixnay this mental deliberation as a no-go motion
This child is funny and dirty and a little wild too
And has trouble remembering that monkeys don’t moo.
But I am fond of him most of the times
Even when busy with non-felony crimes.
I juggle a backpack some books, and squirmy big little him
And he grabs the lid of my drink by the broad icy brim
With grubby fingers he yank and yink
Too late instincts react as my heart sank and then sink.
He pulls the straw fully all out
And draws his arm back, five feet or so there is no doubt
He winds it around like a big league thrower
This boy who sprout up faster than a big weed grower
And he snaps the straw like a personal challenge or dare
With a laugh, a toot, and an air of what do I care?
The coffee drops fly in slow motion
Like a tidal wave from the deep ocean
I don’t stop to see where they land
Because customers won’t understand
They’ll growl at me and say why didn’t you raise him cute?
And before I’ll reply, he’ll cackle and smile and make a big toot.
So we’ll fly out of there really fast
Before I’m beat up and wearing a cast,
And I’ll remember so well, fleeing pell mell
This relaxation hour of coffee shop h-e-l-l.
And know that he’ll sleep super good tonight and be well rested
After another full day of dad battle-tested...
...oh no, please tell me he didn’t just drink half my fully-caffeinated coffee...
Call of sweet ice caffeine to me beckoned.
My cool dude sons, I told
We gonna get some drinks, super duper cold.
This would be time well spent, I knew
Me and my boys make quite the crew.
We’d chill and chat and talk about Leonidas
And tell stories about creatures that could potentially bite us
One was excited to talk of Athens and Sparta too.
One was not and would rather play peekaboo.
where there’s a way there’s a will
And where’s there’s this guy there’s a pill.
Strolled into the conditioner cooled place
Thump thump Ace of Bass smile to my face
Boys, we gonna hang in here a real short while
You be good for pops, please go the extra mile?
The seven nods, the one-year toots
Old guys look up, mustachioed cowboy coots
Little fists my chest for YES
Relief immediate I have to confess,
We gonna chill guys, I firmly say
Boy look up: I obey dad, pretty much almost every day.
So here the plan
Clock go tick tick man
We keep a low profile
Then we leave after a little while
I order my drink while one boy starts math
The other one, I notice, needs a bath
But his help is immense
As he shakes my wallet of dollar and cents
Set him down to the floor,
He make a run for the door
Hey you buddy! I shout!
That whole low key thing, what that about?
He looks around frantically, frenetic concern
That his whereabouts I’ll soon completely discern
I already have, certainly so
Because I am dad, and I told him no go.
His eyes scan the coffeehouse place
And search for a comrade kinda face.
He sees a middle age man
And swiftly devises a plan,
Waddling over to overstuffed chair
He points and he grunts like an underfed bear.
His Morse code bleeps and dot dashes
Are too incomprehensible for the man with mustaches.
I stalk over to both parties of men
He wants outside, I explain, but that’s somewhere he’s already been
Boy puffs and he huffs and he gets super mad,
But I remind him again of who is still dad.
You’re not escaping from here,
I remind him.
Your mind is bright but your memory is dim.
I win, I win again, I win all the time,
And whoever you bribe, will take more than a dime.
He listened real close , well most
except for two teen girls to whom he could boast.
In line they stood for some afternoon treat
A beverage to nullify eighty six heat.
He attracted their attention with focused intention,
His plan was something I’d rather not mention
But involved a loud thunder from down under,
His diaper shaking, almost ripped super asunder.
They giggled and chuckled and smiled at him.
That was all needed to blow kisses to them.
Low profile! I hissed.
The idea was that we’d never be missed.
He laughed and climbed up out of my lap.
Please oh please I breathed; maybe a nap?
Upon the communal table we shared
He laid down his plumb body and head blond haired
Stretching out to full length on back
He gathered lungs for a vocal attack
Attack of the singing boy song
Who might ever think it to be very wrong?
Well, when a profile presence tiny is what you’ve desired
But singsonging diaper poet instead is what has been hired
Then the table dancing song sing diaper man
Is simply not on the list of good plan, no nuh uh man.
I turn to help other son with some numbers
Instead make mistake and brain feeling dead or under deep slumbers.
The escape artist sees a break and makes it happen
Irrepressible spirit no thwarten or dampen.
He runs to a friendly 20ish fellow
Who perhaps seems appropriately mellow.
The year old criminal marches up to this millennial cool dude
With the moxie and grace of a hipster elite attitude
And picks up his juice bottle and keys
With nothing so much as a please
I race over and redact them from dirty fat hand
And scream what did you super not understand?
He cries for a while
But five seconds after with apparentless guile
He smiles and points to the newspaper stand.
Look I say but don’t touch.
If you do, I won’t probably like you more much.
He obeys letter of law and leaves the Wall Street Journal alone
But begins scampering up newspaper RACK to climbing skills hone.
He gets up ten feet or so,
Stops to smile at me far down below
I shake my head and sigh with sadness
I thought we’d relax here, but it’s simply been madness
My drink is melting in sad little plastic
I thought this would be some relaxing fantastic
I reach up high to lift him all the way down
He disagrees with decision and scowls noisy clown frown.
But back at his seat he sits content
With a book that cost a buck ninety-nine cent
There’s animals in it and pictures of cows too
He lets the whole place know that chickens say cock-a-doodle-moo
But he tires of that whole reading scene soon
And begs and screeches for a knife or a spoon
Cause the best soundtrack for relaxation
In this beautiful nation of creation
Is to drum the beat of your heart
With something loud and noisy and do your part
To fill a room with huge massive noise
And remind everyone you’re not of those demure quiet boys
We finally at last do start to depart
I mentally list what to purchase at the grocery mart
As I drag him out under my arms
I remember a picture of sweet orangutan farms
And consider the notion of a donation far across the ocean, but ixnay this mental deliberation as a no-go motion
This child is funny and dirty and a little wild too
And has trouble remembering that monkeys don’t moo.
But I am fond of him most of the times
Even when busy with non-felony crimes.
I juggle a backpack some books, and squirmy big little him
And he grabs the lid of my drink by the broad icy brim
With grubby fingers he yank and yink
Too late instincts react as my heart sank and then sink.
He pulls the straw fully all out
And draws his arm back, five feet or so there is no doubt
He winds it around like a big league thrower
This boy who sprout up faster than a big weed grower
And he snaps the straw like a personal challenge or dare
With a laugh, a toot, and an air of what do I care?
The coffee drops fly in slow motion
Like a tidal wave from the deep ocean
I don’t stop to see where they land
Because customers won’t understand
They’ll growl at me and say why didn’t you raise him cute?
And before I’ll reply, he’ll cackle and smile and make a big toot.
So we’ll fly out of there really fast
Before I’m beat up and wearing a cast,
And I’ll remember so well, fleeing pell mell
This relaxation hour of coffee shop h-e-l-l.
And know that he’ll sleep super good tonight and be well rested
After another full day of dad battle-tested...
...oh no, please tell me he didn’t just drink half my fully-caffeinated coffee...
12.02.2017
JON.
Eleven years ago, Jonathan Long (Jonny) and I invented a communication process known as the Sixty-Second Phone Call (footnote below on who he is). But this is not about Jonny. It is about Jonathan Ponder, also known as Jon.
The movie Chinatown is not a Christmas movie. It takes place in California. It is considered by some to be the finest screenplay ever written. I don’t agree, I met Jon there. Not in the town of Los Angeles, but in a city a short seventeen-hour drive away, in College Place, Washington, where he was attending college, as was I. We studied Odysseus, but not together, and then ran into each other randomly in a city adjacent to Los Angeles much later, so the college part above is largely irrelevant. Also, he played bass guitar.
He was friends with my sister and friends with friends (see: tagged people), but then I stole him so we could hang out without intermediaries.
Sometimes, good friends talk every day.
And sometimes, good friends talk every several months.
Along with Jeremy Long, whose relationship to me is difficult to simplify in a single post, although he also has played bass guitar and knew Lance (see footnote below), Jon has been the most fun Radiohead deconstructionizing conversationalist I have known in the past 26 years (I am older than 26). I have a vivid memory of riding in the passenger seat of a blue car (I think) with him driving (reasonably certain it was him) and discussing Amnesiac (possibly was Kid A). I can remember with great clarity the neighbourhood we were passing through; it was in California, or a neighboring state, and it was definitely a hot day.
He introduced me to a group of film and book geeks who met weekly to watch, break down, and discuss Westerns. I saw Once Upon a Time in the West for the first time there, which is my very favourite Western ever and will change the way you think of Henry Fonda, but Jon was not there. I don’t know where he was that week. I’ve always wondered. He he may have been writing poetry or playing guitar at Jazz ‘n Java. If the NSA ever releases all their surveillance and drone footage (of course it exists), I’ll check to find out.
When I moved to Montana for grad school, and me and Becca’s apartment had concrete floors, then Jon said: I’m coming too.
He did not say that. But he did come visit, and it snowed, we hiked, and he bought the Jesus and Mary Chain’s Munki on CD and then left it at our apartment, where I accidentally copied it before mailing to him. Birthday is still my fourth favourite song of theirs. I do not know what he would rate the album at this point, but it’s much better than the atrocious and disappointing one they released last year. But I don’t know, Jon might love it, we haven’t texted back and forth about it yet. We might never. He collects and invests in vinyl treasures and is focused on more roots music at this point, although we still have great texts about The New Pornographers and other shared poppy faves.
I got a package awhile back from him that contained books. He is one of the remaining friends I have who loves books more than myself, and possibly more, occasionally. They were some of his picks to share, that I will not divulge, except to say that Jonathan Franzen was in there twice and one of them is not the book you might think it was. I slowly savored and worked my way through them, and I especially loved How to be Alone.
He gave me a collection of LPs when he visited several months ago. He had been slowly assembling them, along with the coolest and greatest accompanying handwritten liner notes, and it is one of the most meaningful and awesomest presents I have received. A reason for every one.
Sometimes we exchange voicemails instead of actually talking, and I will say that we are both very, very good at leaving well-crafted voicemails that you would not ever want to delete. We do not talk every day, but I think I am going to call him next month, or in a month soon thereafter. And we will pick right up where we were last, which was something important to do with literature or music or philosophy, and someday he will have listened to Sharon Van Etten and I will have watched The Wire and we can compare notes.
Until then, I will look forward to ignoring his phone call and letting it go to voicemail so I can listen to it at my leisure, and prepare to call him back with a call he can ignore and let go to voicemail, and...
...that is a friend I am happy to have be a friend. A good friend for a long time in the past and far into the future.
Bye.
_____
FOOTNOTE:
The easiest way to frame who Jonathan Long is in relation to me is this: Jonny (his nickname) had a basketball coach in high school whose name was Lance. Lance has gone to see the Los Angeles Dodgers in L.A. (a.k.a. Los Angeles). They are a baseball team apparently. Jonny used to play baseball in a town I also grew up in - Tillamook, Oregon - which is north of Los Angeles. The California Los Angeles, not the other one. When Lance saw the Dodgers play in Los Angeles, he did not see Jonny, but before that, he had stayed with Jonny’s brother Jamey in Arizona, which is where certain baseball teams practice their spring training baseball practice to be ready for baseball. Jamey also played baseball, but not basketball for Lance’s basketball team in Portland, Oregon, which is north of Los Angeles, east of Portland, and west of Ann Arbor, Michigan. The first time I met Lance, I don’t remember, but the second I met him I do. He is a fine fellow, and I had known Jonny before that, and before he played baseball, as we had grown up in adjacent bedrooms in the same household, as we shared parents, although my room was on the bottom floor. So Lance is the connecting thread, aside from Jonny being my brother (and Jamey’s). I never played basketball for Lance, but I have known people who did, and some live in states east of the Mississippi now, which is east of Los Angeles and Portland. Jonny and Jon Ponder have met as well, though never played baseball together, to my knowledge.
11.28.2017
IS IT POSSIBLE?
Is it possible to listen to too much Leonard Cohen? Is it possible to have too many photo editing apps on your phone? Is it possible to have too many friends?
I don’t have answers. I suspect there is a limit to the former, as I have pushed the edges of what’s possible over the last month and forged through 1967’s sweetly bitter Songs of Leonard Cohen all the way through 2016’s magnificent bittersweet You Want It Darker. I took no stops in between for live albums or collections, and found myself straying back to New Skin for the Old Ceremony more than a few times. Okay...I strayed back to every album more than a few times, and have managed for the most part to hold back tears knowing I will go to my grave never having experienced him or Johnny Cash or Freddy Mercury perform live alive. So I don’t know. Have I listened to too much Leonard Cohen this fall? Possibly.
I have tried countless times, without ever resorting to Google, to imagine Leonard holding a phone in his hand, laboring over just the right filter to use on a selfie. Or in his case, a self-portrait. I imagine him only doing self-portraits, as opposed to selfies. Would he carefully straighten the horizon line in Snapseed? Would he punch up the blacks in ProShot? Would he gently drop the highlights a smidge in Litely? Or would he lovingly pay ninety-nine cents for the perfect flash on Hipstamatic? Would he be bogged down by endless options? Yes, we would be, yes, we are, yes, there does exist the reality of too much being too much.
Can you have too many friends? I would guess that if you won a big lottery, the answer might be yes, which is why I have chosen to not win one. I have been better at investing in people than stocks, and my social security statement will likely back me up, although I am advised that it is a good document to not go throwing around in public.
A short time ago from now, I was alerted to the arrival of an old classmate; a fellow who once had long hair, and with whom I exchanged pleasantries with five to thirteen times in college. His arrival to the surrounding terrain was not a solo one; he was accompanied by a beautiful and personable wife and a gaggle of somewhere between two and four adventurous boys. Our paths crossed.
And they have continued to cross in the past months, and they have recrossed and crisscrossed and involved pancakes and coffee and rope swings and chainsaws and Everestian height-scaling* and donuts and tram rides and conversation and...
...a shared love of the outdoors, of coffee, and of raising children. No particular order. I do not know their feelings on Leonard Cohen, but I would like to remain friends with them long enough to someday find out, and should they not find him agreeable, then...*deep breath* I will hope the level of our friendship can carry us through it. You may be wondering why we are holding mugs. That is my wife (on the right). We are holding mugs that were given to us by our friends. Our friends that we like, even though we do not yet know their position on Leonard Cohen. Inside the mugs - both mugs - are 9.5 ounces each of StumpTown coffee. I will not tell you which one. That is a secret. But it is a good blend. And they are friends that we are happy to know and be able to start sharing some holiday memories with this season.
Thanks Chad and Ronda Jean Mundy, for being you. For being fun, adventurous, kind, generous, and for passing along those traits to your three awesome boys. Cheers, friends. And thank you, many friends of theirs, for sharing them.
And remember, people, when in doubt, ask yourself this: what photo editing app would Leonard Cohen use?
____
*Beacon Rock
I don’t have answers. I suspect there is a limit to the former, as I have pushed the edges of what’s possible over the last month and forged through 1967’s sweetly bitter Songs of Leonard Cohen all the way through 2016’s magnificent bittersweet You Want It Darker. I took no stops in between for live albums or collections, and found myself straying back to New Skin for the Old Ceremony more than a few times. Okay...I strayed back to every album more than a few times, and have managed for the most part to hold back tears knowing I will go to my grave never having experienced him or Johnny Cash or Freddy Mercury perform live alive. So I don’t know. Have I listened to too much Leonard Cohen this fall? Possibly.
I have tried countless times, without ever resorting to Google, to imagine Leonard holding a phone in his hand, laboring over just the right filter to use on a selfie. Or in his case, a self-portrait. I imagine him only doing self-portraits, as opposed to selfies. Would he carefully straighten the horizon line in Snapseed? Would he punch up the blacks in ProShot? Would he gently drop the highlights a smidge in Litely? Or would he lovingly pay ninety-nine cents for the perfect flash on Hipstamatic? Would he be bogged down by endless options? Yes, we would be, yes, we are, yes, there does exist the reality of too much being too much.
Can you have too many friends? I would guess that if you won a big lottery, the answer might be yes, which is why I have chosen to not win one. I have been better at investing in people than stocks, and my social security statement will likely back me up, although I am advised that it is a good document to not go throwing around in public.
A short time ago from now, I was alerted to the arrival of an old classmate; a fellow who once had long hair, and with whom I exchanged pleasantries with five to thirteen times in college. His arrival to the surrounding terrain was not a solo one; he was accompanied by a beautiful and personable wife and a gaggle of somewhere between two and four adventurous boys. Our paths crossed.
And they have continued to cross in the past months, and they have recrossed and crisscrossed and involved pancakes and coffee and rope swings and chainsaws and Everestian height-scaling* and donuts and tram rides and conversation and...
...a shared love of the outdoors, of coffee, and of raising children. No particular order. I do not know their feelings on Leonard Cohen, but I would like to remain friends with them long enough to someday find out, and should they not find him agreeable, then...*deep breath* I will hope the level of our friendship can carry us through it. You may be wondering why we are holding mugs. That is my wife (on the right). We are holding mugs that were given to us by our friends. Our friends that we like, even though we do not yet know their position on Leonard Cohen. Inside the mugs - both mugs - are 9.5 ounces each of StumpTown coffee. I will not tell you which one. That is a secret. But it is a good blend. And they are friends that we are happy to know and be able to start sharing some holiday memories with this season.
Thanks Chad and Ronda Jean Mundy, for being you. For being fun, adventurous, kind, generous, and for passing along those traits to your three awesome boys. Cheers, friends. And thank you, many friends of theirs, for sharing them.
And remember, people, when in doubt, ask yourself this: what photo editing app would Leonard Cohen use?
____
*Beacon Rock
11.26.2017
KATHIE, WOLFGANG, BECCA.
I used to think - pre-marriage and kids- I could be happy living in an Alaskan cabin 300 miles from civilization filled with books and music and a good typewriter, but I realized at a certain point how much I actually enjoy people and would miss human interaction. Then my buddy Mark invented Facebook (I take slight credit, but very little, it was mostly him), and began reconnecting with old friendships and making new ones, and I know this holiday season there will be a lot of posts urging people to forgo electronic friendships in lieu of in real life #IRL ones, and...I think there is a healthy place for both. I have some friendships existing almost entirely online that I am so appreciate of - looking at you, Wolfgang Rickwalt (not pictured) and others that largely exist on these shared media spaces, with occasional sightings in real life. Kathie Huffman is one of those. My piano teacher from far back and organist extraordinaire, hers is a friendship that has come to mean a great deal, and the many kind words she has had to say about my writing and photography have meant a great deal. My face still shines red when she throws me into the same sentence as Mark Twain, but I am not so-secretly honored. I’d like to think I’m immune to needing approval or feedback or nice words for what I make and write, but I’m also human. It feels good to have someone appreciate, over time, what you create. Most, if not all artists and those in the creative industries - probably every industry, actually - can relate. It feels good to have work acknowledged and can sometimes be an impetus to keep going, to keep creating. Kathie has been an enthusiastic fan, proponent, supporter, and friend for a number of years now, and I would like to say thank you. And be glad for those occasional times when our paths converge and I can introduce my children to a wonderful person in real life.
So now that we’re at that time of year where people are getting reflective of their relationship with technology and social media and its impact on real-life relationships - worth thinking deeply above year-round - I would like to put in my small gratefulness anecdote for why I value and appreciate the role Facebook can have, in the best of circumstances, to connect people and build friendships.
Thank you Wolfgang, for our almost-entirely virtual friendship.
Thank you Kathie, for our mostly-virtual friendship that supplements the occasional times we meet. It was great to see you this weekend.
Thank you, Countess Becca, for our almost entirely physical friendship. Does that sound weird? Oh well.
And thank you, all of my people with whom I share all different varieties of relationships, for the diverse array of friendships possible. I am grateful for you all. And I would still like an Alaskan cabin, if any of you have one to part with.
Peace.
So now that we’re at that time of year where people are getting reflective of their relationship with technology and social media and its impact on real-life relationships - worth thinking deeply above year-round - I would like to put in my small gratefulness anecdote for why I value and appreciate the role Facebook can have, in the best of circumstances, to connect people and build friendships.
Thank you Wolfgang, for our almost-entirely virtual friendship.
Thank you Kathie, for our mostly-virtual friendship that supplements the occasional times we meet. It was great to see you this weekend.
Thank you, Countess Becca, for our almost entirely physical friendship. Does that sound weird? Oh well.
And thank you, all of my people with whom I share all different varieties of relationships, for the diverse array of friendships possible. I am grateful for you all. And I would still like an Alaskan cabin, if any of you have one to part with.
Peace.
4.29.2017
12.02.2016
1.09.2016
THE DAY (MOBY), PLUS 'BETTER THAN JULIE.'
BETTER THAN JULIE?
Daddy, daddy!
they shrilled.
Push us on the tire swing, push us FAST on the tire swing!!
Why?
I said.
Why should I push you? We're at a park. You're supposed to be playing, not swinging.
Because it's fun!
the shrilling continued.
And because you're good at pushing!
One of the two - I recognized her; I think she may have been my daughter - paused mid-shriek.
Yeah, you're a pretty good pusher,
she said.
Probably like the fourth best in the world.
Oh.
I said.
Why not Top Three?
Well,
she said.
Julie Natiuk is the third best. One time she pushed us and she was very good at it. Better than you.
Okay.
I said.
Fair enough. Who's got the top two spots then?
She shrugged.
I don't know. But I'm sure there's a couple people somewhere in the world I haven't met who are better at pushing than you.
Alright.
I said.
I guess I could push you for a little bit. After all, you guys are on my Top 100 best children in the world list.
What?!
she shrieked.
Top hundred?!
Yep.
I said.
Probably 93 and 94. Something like that.
Well who's higher than?
she asked.
I don't know.
I said.
I haven't met all the children in the world, but there's probably some I'd like more.
DADDY!!
she yelled.
and I started pushing. Higher and faster than they'd ever gone before. Because I'm the best...or at least best-ish. I'll take a Top 5 finish. Props, Julie. Way to set the bar fairly high.
5.28.2015
4.10.2015
NEAKUC
NEAKUC (Ninja Exploration, Art, and Karate Undertakings* Collective).
*I just needed another vowel
*I just needed another vowel
4.05.2015
2.26.2015
GUEST PHOTO: GANG AFTER SWIM LESSONS.
Such a small, subtle, unassuming group of angels.. I'm certain no one heard or noticed them at all #lovethistribe @wandervogelsoul @josephivanlong @countessbecca
 |
| photo: Sharika Kim |
2.13.2015
DEATH DOES NOT BECOME HER (a non-linear treatise on grief, tragedy, and horrible happenings).
1. The Waiting Does Not Make Me Stronger.
I was waiting for coffee,
and sat down on one of the chairs by the front entrance to scan Facebook for 90 seconds.
Up to that point, I had been fine.
But I looked at the picture of my little sister's best friend,
holding the hand of one of her best friends,
as the sun set prematurely on her life and ventilators kept her organs going,
and the tears came up I buried my head in my hands as people I didn't know came out of the sunshine and inside for a jolt of caffeine.
2. September 15, 2002.
She was in our wedding.
A day in which our futures were ahead of us. Me and Becca.
And for those younger, even more futures to look ahead to.
There is a picture of her, her sister, and my sister Lanessa, bunched around the big girl bride - my wife - like the little girls they were.
I did not know her again, but as often happens, our lives intersected because of her friendships with people close to me.
3a. Death is Not the End.
Many of my favourite musicians, writers, poets, filmmakers have had strong interests in the idea of Death. Some as passing interests or tertiary commentary; others with ongoing fixations and even obsessions.
3b. CU vs. LS.
What to balance the darkness with?
Death as a literary construct or a philosophical conversation or an intellectual pondering is all fine and fascinating-
Charlie Chaplin, although speaking about something else, said it very well:
- and that sums up how I feel about death right now. Every night, we pray with our kids and ask God to watch over those who need special watching, and we usually keep an eye on those corners of the world that especially need some love from above - Syria, Ukraine, Nigeria, etc. - and we are genuine and sincere and mean what we say when we ask God to please give a little extra love and hope to people in those parts...
...but when it's next to you, hurting those close to you, it's a whole different level of real. The stench of awful, the wretchedness of things happening that are never meant to happen and that make the universe seem like an upside-down play with a twisted final act in a fairy tale where the villain always wins.
4. Denouement.
Of course the easy answer for many Christians is that the story isn't over, the villain isn't winning, and justice will be served in the end.
But for those of us unsure of which act we're in, cosmically, then it's not as (re)assuring.
I was waiting for coffee,
and sat down on one of the chairs by the front entrance to scan Facebook for 90 seconds.
Up to that point, I had been fine.
But I looked at the picture of my little sister's best friend,
holding the hand of one of her best friends,
as the sun set prematurely on her life and ventilators kept her organs going,
and the tears came up I buried my head in my hands as people I didn't know came out of the sunshine and inside for a jolt of caffeine.
2. September 15, 2002.
She was in our wedding.
A day in which our futures were ahead of us. Me and Becca.
And for those younger, even more futures to look ahead to.
There is a picture of her, her sister, and my sister Lanessa, bunched around the big girl bride - my wife - like the little girls they were.
I did not know her again, but as often happens, our lives intersected because of her friendships with people close to me.
3a. Death is Not the End.
Many of my favourite musicians, writers, poets, filmmakers have had strong interests in the idea of Death. Some as passing interests or tertiary commentary; others with ongoing fixations and even obsessions.
Bob Dylan
Lana Del Rey
Sylvia Plath
Dorothy Parker
Nick Cave
Ingmar Bergman
3b. CU vs. LS.
What to balance the darkness with?
Death as a literary construct or a philosophical conversation or an intellectual pondering is all fine and fascinating-
Charlie Chaplin, although speaking about something else, said it very well:
Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long-shot.
- and that sums up how I feel about death right now. Every night, we pray with our kids and ask God to watch over those who need special watching, and we usually keep an eye on those corners of the world that especially need some love from above - Syria, Ukraine, Nigeria, etc. - and we are genuine and sincere and mean what we say when we ask God to please give a little extra love and hope to people in those parts...
...but when it's next to you, hurting those close to you, it's a whole different level of real. The stench of awful, the wretchedness of things happening that are never meant to happen and that make the universe seem like an upside-down play with a twisted final act in a fairy tale where the villain always wins.
4. Denouement.
Of course the easy answer for many Christians is that the story isn't over, the villain isn't winning, and justice will be served in the end.
But for those of us unsure of which act we're in, cosmically, then it's not as (re)assuring.
That's reality. Not truth necessarily, because reality and truth can be very different things. Reality. Platitudes don't always work for all of us, and having the strength and fortitude to doubt at a certain point can make faith stronger after being assaulted. I would rather be honest with my doubts in the short term and have my path to faith and hope be strong in the long run than rely on the easy answers that flock to every tragic situation.
5. The Grass is Greener.
It sounds bleak when put up next to the innumerable platitudes and well-meaning trivialities passed along in horrific situations.
The problem with cliches and stereotypes and cheap sayings and catchy bumper stickers is that they're usually grounded in some sort of reality that has a lot of truth to it. Problem is,
that there's usually a lot more to think and talk about than having those trite tropes be the final explanation.
6. Keubler-Ross.
The God I believe in can handle these questions.
Can handle doubt.
Can handle anger and rage and impatience.
5. The Grass is Greener.
It sounds bleak when put up next to the innumerable platitudes and well-meaning trivialities passed along in horrific situations.
Everything happens for a reason.
God knows what is best. We just need to trust him.
that there's usually a lot more to think and talk about than having those trite tropes be the final explanation.
6. Keubler-Ross.
The God I believe in can handle these questions.
Can handle doubt.
Can handle anger and rage and impatience.
Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance
7. ...you stronger.
My grandparents have both passed away in the last couple years.
I have experienced death close to me,
I suppose.
But what a horrible reach,
what a thoughtless stretch,
to compare types of pain.
To compare the passings of people in the natural order of life;
to mourn and miss those who lived full and long and pass along
with
someone who was bursting from the earth with buds and blossoms ready to cover the world with beauty;
who never got the chance to finish or even hit stride;
marathon runner in Mile 2.
That is sick and wrong and I'm not okay with it,
I love God and those I love I hold to a high standard -
7. ...you stronger.
My grandparents have both passed away in the last couple years.
I have experienced death close to me,
I suppose.
But what a horrible reach,
what a thoughtless stretch,
to compare types of pain.
To compare the passings of people in the natural order of life;
to mourn and miss those who lived full and long and pass along
with
someone who was bursting from the earth with buds and blossoms ready to cover the world with beauty;
who never got the chance to finish or even hit stride;
marathon runner in Mile 2.
That is sick and wrong and I'm not okay with it,
I love God and those I love I hold to a high standard -
- to a high standard, including you, God -
- and I reserve the right to rail against and scream and curse and not understand
and that is what you can do with those you love, with those you are closest to:
let it out,
honestly
angrily
and know that the toughest times always effing change you.
They change you.
They either damage, dilute, destroy your closest relationships.
Or change makes you stronger.
The bits of Good to come out of these are infinitesimal, microscopic, but I have to believe they exist.
8. The End of the Innocence.
My experience with Death is so naive.
Most of my siblings have dealt with it in more heartrending ways than me. Car accidents, suicides, drunk drivers. It hurts me to see those I love hurting.
But it is also different to hurt because someone you love is hurting than to hurt over the firsthand loss of someone immediately, directly close to you. The type of loss that they've dealt with. Some of them over and over and over.
My experience with the latter is so limited.
It has terrified me for years. That I have escaped having to deal with tragedy on that scale for so long that, ridiculous though it sounds, I have worried for years that someday it will all catch up in a horrible way and BOOM - I pay the price for not having bad things all spread out over time and get it all at once.
It's ridiculous. But it's an ongoing nightmare.
9. Turk, JD, et al.
There's one episode of Scrubs - the early 00s television comedy about residents at Sacred Heart Hospital - and I remember getting a little choked up years ago afte a particular episode and thinking that someday,
when my dad dies,
I'm probably going to want to watch that episode and it's going to make me really cry then, and maybe feel better.
I don't know. I hope I don't see that episode again for a long time. Maybe forever.
10. Something.
She had a blog, and I've been seeing links posted to different articles and treatises on life she wrote.
What a gift she left. Not of the ephemeral kind; the billions of little memories left to float around the memories of her loved ones for years and years, but the
concrete, real, tangible,
this, THIS is something she made, that she MADE, that she WROTE,
that will be there always now, digitally archived forever. Nothing to be taken away, nothing to be added to. What she wrote is there. Uneditable, inalterable, immutable. There. There for people to grasp ahold of and have a piece of her.
Her, in her words.
Make something, people. Make something, and know it is a gift for those who love you. Leave your gifts somewhere they can be discovered forever.
Like a blog.
11. Thierry.
For years I have been filming family regularly with whatever camera is most accessible at the moment. I call them 22-second video portraits. I simply film a person, usually in closeup, for 22 seconds, doing whatever it is they're doing. I have yet to ever post one of them to any social media networks or share on blog, because the value in it simply comes with time. The passage of time and the changes that are almost impossible to notice when they're happening.
and that is what you can do with those you love, with those you are closest to:
let it out,
honestly
angrily
and know that the toughest times always effing change you.
They change you.
(Nietzsche paraphrase coming up)
They either damage, dilute, destroy your closest relationships.
Or change makes you stronger.
The bits of Good to come out of these are infinitesimal, microscopic, but I have to believe they exist.
8. The End of the Innocence.
My experience with Death is so naive.
Most of my siblings have dealt with it in more heartrending ways than me. Car accidents, suicides, drunk drivers. It hurts me to see those I love hurting.
But it is also different to hurt because someone you love is hurting than to hurt over the firsthand loss of someone immediately, directly close to you. The type of loss that they've dealt with. Some of them over and over and over.
My experience with the latter is so limited.
It has terrified me for years. That I have escaped having to deal with tragedy on that scale for so long that, ridiculous though it sounds, I have worried for years that someday it will all catch up in a horrible way and BOOM - I pay the price for not having bad things all spread out over time and get it all at once.
It's ridiculous. But it's an ongoing nightmare.
9. Turk, JD, et al.
There's one episode of Scrubs - the early 00s television comedy about residents at Sacred Heart Hospital - and I remember getting a little choked up years ago afte a particular episode and thinking that someday,
when my dad dies,
I'm probably going to want to watch that episode and it's going to make me really cry then, and maybe feel better.
I don't know. I hope I don't see that episode again for a long time. Maybe forever.
10. Something.
She had a blog, and I've been seeing links posted to different articles and treatises on life she wrote.
What a gift she left. Not of the ephemeral kind; the billions of little memories left to float around the memories of her loved ones for years and years, but the
concrete, real, tangible,
this, THIS is something she made, that she MADE, that she WROTE,
that will be there always now, digitally archived forever. Nothing to be taken away, nothing to be added to. What she wrote is there. Uneditable, inalterable, immutable. There. There for people to grasp ahold of and have a piece of her.
Her, in her words.
Make something, people. Make something, and know it is a gift for those who love you. Leave your gifts somewhere they can be discovered forever.
Like a blog.
11. Thierry.
For years I have been filming family regularly with whatever camera is most accessible at the moment. I call them 22-second video portraits. I simply film a person, usually in closeup, for 22 seconds, doing whatever it is they're doing. I have yet to ever post one of them to any social media networks or share on blog, because the value in it simply comes with time. The passage of time and the changes that are almost impossible to notice when they're happening.
But when time stops, and you no longer have the ability to capture anything else, what you have is what is there. There's no more to be got.
So what is there is a treasure. Sometimes I wonder why I shoot and shoot - I have for almost a decade, and even though I share tiny slices and snippets and glimpses of our family's life to the world, it is a calculated, deliberate, fraction of what I actually capture. Someday those I have loved and who have loved me will have treasure chests of memories, written and filmed, to sift through.
I see people going through her old blog posts and Instagram feed and life and elevating these little moments of life and thoughts that have now become irreplaceable treasures to those around.
So I will keep writing, and documenting, and filming and shooting and making sure to try and strike that razor balance between simply existing in the moment and capturing those moments for future history.
11b. Be a fern.
Plants pull out carbon dioxide from their surroundings and turn it into glucose, and eventually through the mystic yet understandable process of life-circles, they help feed back life-sustaining oxygen to the world.
They take what's around them, absorb it, turn it into energy and give back to the world; give back something that lets life continue and keeps the world spinning.
Humans can do that too. Some, even in short times on earth, have figured out how to take hold of toxicity around them and turn it into fuel; giving back love, joy, adventure to the world and helping to keep the world spinning. Even their own has ceased to spin.
****
There is so much I don't know, and though I am happy to conjecture, I will not pretend to know what I don't know.*
I don't know what the future holds. Tomorrow or next year or 2035.
I don't know what cosmic plans are in store for this world.
I don't know when we will see those we have loved again.
There are many who are happy to confidently pass along assurances and timelines and interpret God's plans and intentions, and that's fine if that's needed by some.
For me, there is a beauty in the uncertainty. In knowing that we have lives of adventure available to us, that we have minds to explore with and question and hearts that feel pain and hurt and to try and make sense of horrible happenings.
But I think it's okay to not work too hard at making sense of things. Some things are truly senseless. There is no sense to be understood or constructed.
But there are lessons to be learned, lives to be lived, and people to love. I cannot speak for God, I cannot speak for Madison, I can only conjecture that what would help bring joy to their hearts is to see those who loved her filling the world with love. Filling it with love.
And maybe someday,
all of us who knew her only a little will be able to get to know her,
and those who knew her will run alongside again,
and life will make sense.
Until then,
I will do my best, in honor of her, somebody I only knew second-hand,
to fill my corners of the world with
a vigorous love for people and God and this planet.
To all who really loved and knew her,
my heart is so sad for you.
But I am also saving a little space for happy, because I have a suspicion we will see her again.
Love to all.
Joseph
____
*except sometimes I will when I feel like it :)
11.15.2014
SOME THINGS NEVER GET OLD.
 |
| photo: a nice stranger (from Countess Becca's FB timeline) |
Post Oregon Children's Theatre's Ivy + Bean The Musical.
Hilarious and especially fun to experience with jolly good friends.
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| photo: Julie Natiuk |
8.09.2014
PLACES: Oneonta Falls
First time taking the kids on the Oneonta Falls hike out in the Gorge. Hands down, one of the THE MOST FUN hikes we have taken them on in the last three years.
A little danger, a lot of water and wet, swimming underneath waterfall...what a fantastic family expedition. Highly recommend. Exit #28 if you're coming from Portland.
Thanks fellow friends for helping make it a blast as well!
A little danger, a lot of water and wet, swimming underneath waterfall...what a fantastic family expedition. Highly recommend. Exit #28 if you're coming from Portland.
Thanks fellow friends for helping make it a blast as well!
1.11.2014
YES, WE CAN VISIT YOU, BUT WE'LL ONLY BE ABLE TO STAY FOR A MONTH OR TWO.
Spent a delightful evening with friends. Our son had a long list of questions and observations. Ultra-condensed summary:
(begin quote-unquote):
Do they have a bathroom? I thought they didn't but they do. I didn't know they had toilet paper too! Hey, they have a door like us, did they take ours? Can we stay overnight? Can they share their toothbrushes with us? Can I have juice? Can I have an apple slice? Hey, I found money on the counter...can I keep it? Why do they have toys? Why do they have a bathtub? Hey, a LEGO boat, we don't have one of those! Are we going to watch a lot of movies here?
____
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If they were doing headstands,
the frowns would be epic.
Also, I would like to get my dad
a pair of matching overalls.
Because he would wear them.
(begin quote-unquote):
Do they have a bathroom? I thought they didn't but they do. I didn't know they had toilet paper too! Hey, they have a door like us, did they take ours? Can we stay overnight? Can they share their toothbrushes with us? Can I have juice? Can I have an apple slice? Hey, I found money on the counter...can I keep it? Why do they have toys? Why do they have a bathtub? Hey, a LEGO boat, we don't have one of those! Are we going to watch a lot of movies here?
____
If they were doing headstands,
the frowns would be epic.
Also, I would like to get my dad
a pair of matching overalls.
Because he would wear them.
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