Sometimes in darkness it only takes a small ray of light to fill up the room. I awoke before the family and sat on the front porch, watching the squirrels play in the snow, and the birds torture the squirrels playing in the snow. The world was still and serene, beautiful in its plainness.
It struck me like a Mac Davis song. Remember him? He had this art of taking the average and painting it, as it is, magically ordinary. The songs weren’t hard for the simple Joe to sing, any one could and the listener couldn’t help but hum along. They were all memorably spectacular, but complexly simple.
Maybe I’m just finally getting the reins on things, but like listening to “I Believe In Music”, “Forever Lovers” or “A Little Less Conversation” I find myself sighing in contentment, dazzled with the ordinary routine of life. I’m finding basic comfort in basic comfort, sometimes to the point of getting annoyed when the slightest hair is out of place.
Hopefully the scope of my vision is widening. I don’t find myself dwelling in the anger and pain of the past. I’m not quite focused yet, but I don’t seem to be spinning my wheels as much in the snow banks. It’s melting away in the middling 48 degree sunshine.
I took a brief drive this morning, as I oft do on a Saturday, veering off my usual path down a portion of a road I used to be forced to travel. There was a time when Old Forge Creek Road was the only one leading to town. It was treacherously curvy and dangerously narrow, following babble by babble the creek that leads to somewhere I’ve never really known.
There’s not a lot left of that old road that used to be. Now only two small sections exist, the smaller one I live on, used only by the five families that live on either end, and the bigger section still heavily traveled and still following every pebble of the creek. That old portion hasn’t changed much but now leads to nowhere.
I recall the bike wrecks, the spills in the creek and the dogs chasing the old Ford Granddad used to drive, nipping stupidly at the tires. I used to think it was so beautiful, but that beauty is now gone. The older folks and the poor folk that still live there haven’t taken care of it. It’s weedy, neglected and stereotypical Appalachian.
Many years ago, I remember trying to cross the creek in a spot other than the bridge, as children will typically find a way to do. I remember slipping off one of the jagged stones and landing painfully on several others.
In tears, cut, bloody and wet, I remember bawling, literally bawling, to my Aunt Mag who was dabbing my scrapes and asking “Why God puts such odd rocks across the river”, as I thought it was.
In wonderful Southern drawl my Aunt Mag smiled as she rubbed Rosebud Salve into my little wounds. “Danny, God has to put odd rocks in the river.” When I cried more and told her it wasn’t fair to make people slip and fall, she of course had the perfect answer.
“There’s odd rocks across the river so the next time you step you know you’re footing is sure.” That answer has rung through my head the rest of my life.
As I find myself at a resting spot, please God let it be just a resting spot, I am learning the joys of the magically ordinary. I work when they allow me. I clean house and make dinner for Mom and Dad. I get a kick out of Dad getting a kick out of me being able to walk in the room look at the TV and immediately know what movie he’s watching.
I’ve found quiet joy in the one day this week Mom slept late, not getting out of her robe and nightgown, just sitting by the fireplace and working on a crossword puzzle well into the night. I find peace in the hyperkinetics of my dog, Jackson, as he sniffs out and digs to China looking for a mole. I get a belly laugh spying the neighbors feeding their pet pig the junk mail, Roscoe snacking away dressed in a bright green sweater she made for him.
There’s also this odd peaceful addiction to Twitter. I truly enjoy reading the Tweets, and unlike most, I read them all. I follow over a hundred people. Like most of America I have this creepy fetish of wondering what ‘celebrities’ are up to. I prefer to follow the ones who Tweet realism, rather than networking.
Kurt Warner tweets about his kids. Yesterday stating where each one was, the seven year old being “in Tupperware”. That cracked me up, having visions of a tot in time out in a big plastic microwave safe container. I realize he didn’t mean in that way, but I went there. But that’s the sort of thing I enjoy reading, the normality of those whose choice of paths have made them anything but.
I like knowing that Kristin Chenoweth is a chronic insomniac, one more thing we have in common…hint hint. I like the fact that Allison Sweeney’s young son last week “was hungrier than a two tummied giant”. I like it that Russell Tovey makes fun of his own ears and James Cameron thinks Kim Kardasian is already in “3D”.
And I’ve been writing. Sometimes its good, sometimes its bad, but I’ve gotten myself back in the routine of writing a minimum of an hour a day, that doesn’t include blogging, another story totally. I’m still not convinced that anything will ever come of my writing. It’s just something I just do, like breathing.
To be honest, I really wouldn’t know how to go about doing something with my writing. That’s why I blog, tri-blog actually. Just to put it out there past my own nose. It’s a long shot, but I know that once a bolt of lightning hit Ben Franklin’s key.
Over hearing a bit of silly conversation a few weeks ago during the snow storm at work lead me to writing a piece I ended up titling “The Hapka of Our Lives” concerning the brouhaha surrounding the departure of an actor from “Days of Our Lives”. It was a good piece; funny, tight and structured to perfectly fit the framework I set up for that blog.
On a silly lark, I tweeted a link to it to the actor himself. Untypically he apparently actually read it and retweeted it to a couple of other actors from the show, saying, “I almost died laughing”. I was very shocked and pleasantly surprised. That led to my little blog going bonkers for a few days.
It was a nice little kick to the ego. I didn’t get any new ‘followers’ from it and numbers dropped down to normal for the next two episodes I posted, which is fine. Sometimes you have to use your increments of “Fifteen Minutes” in small chunks to really be able to savor it. I have to admit, I don’t think the two posts after the “big” blog were very good.
In hindsight, I think I tried to imitate the “Hapka” blog getting silly and not really carrying the story along. That’s important in my writing, as a matter of fact, in my life. It’s fine to veer off in several directions as long as when they pull together they stay focused on the task at hand.
But all of this has led my to be more comfortable with my “average-ness”. Sometimes, I think we get so caught up in being better, in being excellent, in not settling for anything as long as its more than everyone else, we forget that in order to be the best there have to be a lot of people that are not.
That’s okay. A squirrel never wants to be anything more than a squirrel. Dreaming of something other than what we are is the one trait that makes us human. Our biggest problem only rears it’s ugliness when we only dream of something more and not set about any form of action to achieve it.
This is where I have spun my wheels lately. There’s not a whole lot left on my bucket list. I have been so, so lucky ticking them off one by one. Had a play produced. Check. Performed to a standing ovation. Check. Met a childhood hero. Check (Uhm…I recommend not doing that one, better to let them remain a hero than become human.) Been to Africa. Check. Check. Check.
Now I’ve never had that one great love, but I’ve loved and been loved. I’ve never had wealth, but I’ve taken care of myself and given back as much as I could when I could. I’ve never been blessed and cursed with children, but God knows what he’s doing. And I don’t feel I’ve fulfilled my purpose, but I’ve had a blast spending 52 two years fingering all around it knowing someday I’ll hit the right spot.
I’d still like to be on a game show. I’d still like to write for a soap opera (better hurry on that one, unfortunately the dinosaurs seem to be smoking their last cigarettes.) and I’d like to be published. I don’t really know how to go about achieving those, but I’ll figure it out.
And even at my age, I hold out hope for that one great love. An early mentor of mine, Owen Phillips, a man whom I also came to know as a dear friend, didn’t find that one great love until he was well past retirement age. He and his sweet wife married for the first time in their late sixties, spending their last years being able to do nothing but be in love.
That’s my image of true love. Thank you Owen for being the example of that possibility, and bless both you and your wife’s souls. The image of you both holding hands, walking down the sidewalks at dusk is an image that always brings a sigh to my heart. I miss you both every day.
As for the now, I walk a little more confident, a little less battered and a little more hopeful. Not that I still don’t get smacked constantly by the Blue Wham, but every moment I realize it’s okay to be content with normal, as long as I don’t stop focusing on just a little more, it doesn’t seem to be able to take hold.
I just can’t get bogged down on the old road that used to be. It’s fine to drive down it and remember occasionally, as tomorrow is guided by today’s worth of yesterday. I just can’t idle there, fretting over the odd rock in the river and never getting to the other side.
I understand I am an average, ordinary guy with a bucket still full of dreams. There’s nothing wrong with that at all. Maybe I’m just your average dreamer and just maybe I’m taking a few scoots toward remembering who am I and finding out who I want to be.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
The Blue Wham
Wham! It just gets you right between the eyes. Everything is fine. You inhale but somehow before you exhale the blue just seeps over everything and makes the last half of that breath so heavy you can’t do it.
I’ve been doing so well, or at least faking it well. Then today that heavy blue, like wet corduroy making every nuance a task, is all over everything. I don’t seem to be able to control it. I don’t seem to be able to recognize the switch that sets it off. All I can do is struggle under the soggy pressure and act like it neither effects or affects me.
The holidays are blessedly over. I knew they would be painful. Ironically the new job working from 8 PM to 4:30 AM helped. I spent most of the time just trying to figure out what day it was, making the depression seem palatable. It was there, but it was like a pained animal lurking in the bushes of my life, regaining its energy to strike.
It doesn’t make sense, the uncontrollable surge. It has no place in my life. Yet there it is constantly feeding me despair and hopelessness like Twinkies and Hot Tea. I try to resist, but when I least expect it, it is the temptation I cannot resist.
Things were going so well. I alluded myself into thinking I had it under control. I know it’s a problem that is going to be there for a while longer, but I think I’ve worked it out so no one knows it’s a part of every breath I take.
I’m usually only on the floor when the store is open for less than an hour, which has been good. Faking being normal in public is so exhausting. Most of the time, I work in one aisle by myself, so I don’t have to invent being inventive at conversation. I’ll be there chugging right along and suddenly find myself staring at a jar of Ragu and wondering what the point is.
The times I’ve desperately wanted to smash one of those jars with all the anger of my existence I’ve lost count. The energy it has taken to resist slicing open so much more than the box cartons would power Epcot Center. The imagined kicks to my own skull after a brief conversation with a coworker screaming “You’re letting them get too close” are more consistent than the snow here.
But I’ve been good. I’ve fought it. I haven’t curled up in a little ball like a hamster too sick to find its wheel as much and every time I’ve managed to stave it off from anyone who would notice or care.
I’ve smiled. I’ve laughed. I’ve been thoroughly human when that is actually the very last possible emotion I could really feel. I’ve resigned to it. This is how it is and it’s the best thing.
I can’t let it just take over. I cannot let the blue be the only stimulation of my world. It’s an acting chore, like the wonderful Swoosie Kurtz once said, “You just imagine it in your head and do it, eventually it will become real”.
That’s what I’m doing. Imagining being a human, hoping eventually it will become real. I was once. I will be again. I have to be again. I refuse to become a casualty in my own war.
Yesterday was such a great day. I slept late, wasn’t groggy or cranky getting up. Went to work, in public and enjoyed the craziness that is “there is snow on the ground so we’ll never ever be able to buy food again”. I laughed and smiled and was helpful.
I came home, ate a snack and played on the Internet until the Tylenol PM finally engulfed me. I even got a compliment via Twitter from a writer. It was a good day. I went to sleep faking happy so well it was almost real.
Then today, the wham of blue attacked from the corner it was hiding in. There is no pill, no counseling, no emotion, no action that can shake it. For lack of a better image, it’s a debilitating chigger always there until it finally dies and falls off.
Maybe there is something to cover the effects, but there’s nothing to make it go away and never ever come back. Yes, yes there is. There is something inside me that does this. There is something triggering this off, stronger each time but thankfully with longer periods of being able to fake it not being there in between.
All I have to do is find it. All I have to do is stop the trigger or recognize it enough to switch it back off. All I have to do is trust that some how, some way, some day this will all be in the past, carcass in the little box with all the other nightmares I’ve slain.
I’d ask for help. I get on my knees scratching my bloody eyes screaming for help if there was anything anyone could do. This is something only I can do.
I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll get past all this. I will be human again, as normal as it can be in the eye of the beholder. But I’ll never ever love the blue.
I’ve been doing so well, or at least faking it well. Then today that heavy blue, like wet corduroy making every nuance a task, is all over everything. I don’t seem to be able to control it. I don’t seem to be able to recognize the switch that sets it off. All I can do is struggle under the soggy pressure and act like it neither effects or affects me.
The holidays are blessedly over. I knew they would be painful. Ironically the new job working from 8 PM to 4:30 AM helped. I spent most of the time just trying to figure out what day it was, making the depression seem palatable. It was there, but it was like a pained animal lurking in the bushes of my life, regaining its energy to strike.
It doesn’t make sense, the uncontrollable surge. It has no place in my life. Yet there it is constantly feeding me despair and hopelessness like Twinkies and Hot Tea. I try to resist, but when I least expect it, it is the temptation I cannot resist.
Things were going so well. I alluded myself into thinking I had it under control. I know it’s a problem that is going to be there for a while longer, but I think I’ve worked it out so no one knows it’s a part of every breath I take.
I’m usually only on the floor when the store is open for less than an hour, which has been good. Faking being normal in public is so exhausting. Most of the time, I work in one aisle by myself, so I don’t have to invent being inventive at conversation. I’ll be there chugging right along and suddenly find myself staring at a jar of Ragu and wondering what the point is.
The times I’ve desperately wanted to smash one of those jars with all the anger of my existence I’ve lost count. The energy it has taken to resist slicing open so much more than the box cartons would power Epcot Center. The imagined kicks to my own skull after a brief conversation with a coworker screaming “You’re letting them get too close” are more consistent than the snow here.
But I’ve been good. I’ve fought it. I haven’t curled up in a little ball like a hamster too sick to find its wheel as much and every time I’ve managed to stave it off from anyone who would notice or care.
I’ve smiled. I’ve laughed. I’ve been thoroughly human when that is actually the very last possible emotion I could really feel. I’ve resigned to it. This is how it is and it’s the best thing.
I can’t let it just take over. I cannot let the blue be the only stimulation of my world. It’s an acting chore, like the wonderful Swoosie Kurtz once said, “You just imagine it in your head and do it, eventually it will become real”.
That’s what I’m doing. Imagining being a human, hoping eventually it will become real. I was once. I will be again. I have to be again. I refuse to become a casualty in my own war.
Yesterday was such a great day. I slept late, wasn’t groggy or cranky getting up. Went to work, in public and enjoyed the craziness that is “there is snow on the ground so we’ll never ever be able to buy food again”. I laughed and smiled and was helpful.
I came home, ate a snack and played on the Internet until the Tylenol PM finally engulfed me. I even got a compliment via Twitter from a writer. It was a good day. I went to sleep faking happy so well it was almost real.
Then today, the wham of blue attacked from the corner it was hiding in. There is no pill, no counseling, no emotion, no action that can shake it. For lack of a better image, it’s a debilitating chigger always there until it finally dies and falls off.
Maybe there is something to cover the effects, but there’s nothing to make it go away and never ever come back. Yes, yes there is. There is something inside me that does this. There is something triggering this off, stronger each time but thankfully with longer periods of being able to fake it not being there in between.
All I have to do is find it. All I have to do is stop the trigger or recognize it enough to switch it back off. All I have to do is trust that some how, some way, some day this will all be in the past, carcass in the little box with all the other nightmares I’ve slain.
I’d ask for help. I get on my knees scratching my bloody eyes screaming for help if there was anything anyone could do. This is something only I can do.
I’ll be fine. I promise. I’ll get past all this. I will be human again, as normal as it can be in the eye of the beholder. But I’ll never ever love the blue.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
A Picture's Worth A Thousand Words
While walking Jackson this morning I was overwhelmed by the creek in front of the house. Hopefully upon looking at it, a thousand emotions and thoughts will dance inside your head.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
My Letter to Santa
Dear Santa,
I am sorry this letter is so late. I’ve been trying very hard to get in the Christmas spirit. It’s not been easy, but I hope this reaches you in plenty of time and can forgive my procrastination.
Traditionally, I get my tree and decorate the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Things are so much different for me this year, but I am trying. I really, really am.
I didn’t cut my own tree this year. I ended up just buying one from Food Lion. It felt strange, but the weather has been so bad. It was of course covered in snow, so I just leaned up against the wall of the garage to dry out. Jackson, my dog, peed on it. (Don't tell Mom, she doesn't know. I hosed it off and used my blow dryer on it.)
We finally got around to decorating it last Saturday. Mom and I pooled our massive Christmas ornaments. We had fun, putting only the special ornaments on it and telling the little story behind each one. It was beautiful.
Note the was, about ten minutes after we finished and were off doing other things it fell over and smashed most of our ornaments. Not much we could do, but put it back up, pull out some more ornaments and redecorate it. Just it case, we tied the sucker to the window.
Mom and I lost most of our glass and antique ornaments. I’m just looking at it as another thing I have to let go of and move on. Seems this year; most every aspect of my life is seen through that attitude. Guess its just time for change, lots and lots of change.
Anyway, I’m not going to ask for lots of stuff. I have no place to put it and the way things have been going it would either get broken, fall over or Jackson would pee on it. So, instead I’m going to ask for things for other people. It will make them happy, and in return give me lots of joy, too.
First of all, could you make all my writer friends with new novels coming out all bestselling authors? Eric Arvin, Rick Reed, Carey Parrish and Jeff Young are dear people, all very different and all deserve success. They don’t all have to hit number one on the New York Times Best Seller List, but there are 52 weeks in the year…hint hint.
Then there’s my buddy Russ. Like me he’s become a professional Job Seeker. He’s been doing lots of Extra work in Atlanta for film and television. He’s had a pretty rough year. Please fill his Christmas stocking with joy, lots of warmth and a job, a really good one. He’s pretty much the only buddy that’s stayed in my life since we both were kids. He’s always been there for me. He deserves something special just for that alone.
And I got a little special request for two people I barely know. There are two young men that go to the church I am attending now, David and Thomas. Thomas wants to be a preacher. Santa, send him the means to a good education, prayerful support and a wise, loving heart. That will prepare him for what he wants to do.
Then there’s the other guy. His name is David. He’s young and wants to see the world. He’s in the same place and situation I was in at his age, so I know how he feels. Santa, send him forth. Let him live all his dreams and leave behind no regrets. He’s such a good young man. He deserves every dream he can come up with, without the mistakes that I made along the way.
Oh, and could you give the people in Washington a little more intelligence? They seem to be fighting like school kids, and letting the country they were elected to govern go to pot. If nothing else, ring the end of recess bell. I’m hoping that will snap them out of bickering like six year olds and buckle down to get some real work done.
Please give Lady Gaga whatever she wants and make her go away, far far away. Ditto, Miley Cyrus, Sarah Palin and that Beiber kid, they are annoying and very, very scary.
Could you also give the radio stations in this area some other Christmas music to play besides “Beautiful Star of Bethlehem”? It’s a wonderful old bluegrass carol, but the only people who seem to record it think harmony is flat, sharp, off pitch and loud. Please, at least make them sing through their mouths and not their noses. I’ll settle for Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” 24/7. I’ll still hate it, but at least Elvis is dead and I won’t feel the need to hunt him down and kill him.
Most importantly Santa please put something special underneath the tree of all those wonderful people that have been reading my blogs. I don’t know their real names, just the countries they are in. I’m sure some of them don’t celebrate Christmas, but that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve something special.
There’s Belgium and Switzerland. I’d avoid Chocolate for them. I understand they have access to the good stuff there. Also Greece, Germany, Italy, Spain and Portugal, they all have pretty awesome histories, so I was thinking something to make them kick back and relax. No Jonas Brothers CDs, I said relaxed not bored into coma.
Okay now, there’s France. I admit I did not like France the one time I visited. Of course, I was only in the airport, but still that’s no reason to be rude or call me a stupid American. I was just sitting in my seat waiting for my plane reading a book. There was no reason to hurl insults at me. But several people from there are reading all three of my blogs, and I’m sure they don’t cruise airports to hurl epithets at tourists. Please leave them something made in America just to show no hard feelings, if there is anything left that is actually made in America.
Which brings us to China, South Korea,the Philipines and Japan. How cool is it that the Orient is spending a little time cruising an inbred Redneck’s blogs? Please give them something that doesn’t break after one use or have lead based paint.
Now Santa, here’s a list of people/countries that have really impressed me. I never ever dreamed that someone in Croatia, Israel, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, India, South Africa, Russia, Iraq, Egypt and Brazil would ever be such a big part of my life. But I have watched a small handful of hits from each of those countries seemingly read every chapter of my novel starting with Chapter One. How great is that, Santa? Please give them all lots of love and maybe a car.
Now let’s move on to the English speaking, namely the US, the UK and Canada. I probably do actually know a few of these people, so please absolutely no fruitcake, unless it’s a rubber one, which will make them laugh and have the same taste and consistency of a real one.
Please do not forget the Scandinavians, Sweden, Finland, The Netherlands, Norway and my dear, dear Denmark. None of them made it to the family homecoming, but we’re a scary family so I’m not upset. The dudes and dudettes from that little pocket are my largest audience. Who would have thought that was possible? Please give them lots of music by the Carpenters, huge deposits in their bank accounts and big smiles across their hearts.
Please Santa, I know there aren’t a lot of them, but they have made me feel so special. I hope when they read my little nothings they find a little something; a laugh, a nugget of hope or a reminder of how wonderful they all are. It’s what they’ve given to me, so they deserve much, much more.
Finally, Santa, I ask for just three other little things. I’d like my Facebook friends to all know how much fun I think they all are. They are so diverse, so unique and all have kept me going during a tough, tough year.
Then there is Twitter. I know, I’ve become addicted. It seems so silly, but it’s such a lift to read the little thoughts and musings from so many different people, cast members of Days of Our Lives, some actors working hard at success, lots of common folk and Anderson Cooper. I’d like you to put a little something in their stockings from me, and a double helping to the twenty people who follow me. For those people, don’t let their lives be so dull.
Finally, make Kristin Chenoweth happy and find the one great true love that seems to have eluded her. She seems like such a great lady with a strong faith. It can’t be easy to be that successful and a Christian to boot. She keeps knocking our socks off, send her someone to keep her feet warm.
Thank you Santa. I appreciate your time and any effort made on my behalf. Have a great vacation and if you got time, I kinda need some socks.
Love,
Chicken Dancing
I am sorry this letter is so late. I’ve been trying very hard to get in the Christmas spirit. It’s not been easy, but I hope this reaches you in plenty of time and can forgive my procrastination.
Traditionally, I get my tree and decorate the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Things are so much different for me this year, but I am trying. I really, really am.
I didn’t cut my own tree this year. I ended up just buying one from Food Lion. It felt strange, but the weather has been so bad. It was of course covered in snow, so I just leaned up against the wall of the garage to dry out. Jackson, my dog, peed on it. (Don't tell Mom, she doesn't know. I hosed it off and used my blow dryer on it.)
We finally got around to decorating it last Saturday. Mom and I pooled our massive Christmas ornaments. We had fun, putting only the special ornaments on it and telling the little story behind each one. It was beautiful.
Note the was, about ten minutes after we finished and were off doing other things it fell over and smashed most of our ornaments. Not much we could do, but put it back up, pull out some more ornaments and redecorate it. Just it case, we tied the sucker to the window.
Mom and I lost most of our glass and antique ornaments. I’m just looking at it as another thing I have to let go of and move on. Seems this year; most every aspect of my life is seen through that attitude. Guess its just time for change, lots and lots of change.
Anyway, I’m not going to ask for lots of stuff. I have no place to put it and the way things have been going it would either get broken, fall over or Jackson would pee on it. So, instead I’m going to ask for things for other people. It will make them happy, and in return give me lots of joy, too.
First of all, could you make all my writer friends with new novels coming out all bestselling authors? Eric Arvin, Rick Reed, Carey Parrish and Jeff Young are dear people, all very different and all deserve success. They don’t all have to hit number one on the New York Times Best Seller List, but there are 52 weeks in the year…hint hint.
Then there’s my buddy Russ. Like me he’s become a professional Job Seeker. He’s been doing lots of Extra work in Atlanta for film and television. He’s had a pretty rough year. Please fill his Christmas stocking with joy, lots of warmth and a job, a really good one. He’s pretty much the only buddy that’s stayed in my life since we both were kids. He’s always been there for me. He deserves something special just for that alone.
And I got a little special request for two people I barely know. There are two young men that go to the church I am attending now, David and Thomas. Thomas wants to be a preacher. Santa, send him the means to a good education, prayerful support and a wise, loving heart. That will prepare him for what he wants to do.
Then there’s the other guy. His name is David. He’s young and wants to see the world. He’s in the same place and situation I was in at his age, so I know how he feels. Santa, send him forth. Let him live all his dreams and leave behind no regrets. He’s such a good young man. He deserves every dream he can come up with, without the mistakes that I made along the way.
Oh, and could you give the people in Washington a little more intelligence? They seem to be fighting like school kids, and letting the country they were elected to govern go to pot. If nothing else, ring the end of recess bell. I’m hoping that will snap them out of bickering like six year olds and buckle down to get some real work done.
Please give Lady Gaga whatever she wants and make her go away, far far away. Ditto, Miley Cyrus, Sarah Palin and that Beiber kid, they are annoying and very, very scary.
Could you also give the radio stations in this area some other Christmas music to play besides “Beautiful Star of Bethlehem”? It’s a wonderful old bluegrass carol, but the only people who seem to record it think harmony is flat, sharp, off pitch and loud. Please, at least make them sing through their mouths and not their noses. I’ll settle for Elvis’s “Blue Christmas” 24/7. I’ll still hate it, but at least Elvis is dead and I won’t feel the need to hunt him down and kill him.
Most importantly Santa please put something special underneath the tree of all those wonderful people that have been reading my blogs. I don’t know their real names, just the countries they are in. I’m sure some of them don’t celebrate Christmas, but that doesn’t mean they don’t deserve something special.
There’s Belgium and Switzerland. I’d avoid Chocolate for them. I understand they have access to the good stuff there. Also Greece, Germany, Italy, Spain and Portugal, they all have pretty awesome histories, so I was thinking something to make them kick back and relax. No Jonas Brothers CDs, I said relaxed not bored into coma.
Okay now, there’s France. I admit I did not like France the one time I visited. Of course, I was only in the airport, but still that’s no reason to be rude or call me a stupid American. I was just sitting in my seat waiting for my plane reading a book. There was no reason to hurl insults at me. But several people from there are reading all three of my blogs, and I’m sure they don’t cruise airports to hurl epithets at tourists. Please leave them something made in America just to show no hard feelings, if there is anything left that is actually made in America.
Which brings us to China, South Korea,the Philipines and Japan. How cool is it that the Orient is spending a little time cruising an inbred Redneck’s blogs? Please give them something that doesn’t break after one use or have lead based paint.
Now Santa, here’s a list of people/countries that have really impressed me. I never ever dreamed that someone in Croatia, Israel, Pakistan, Sri Lanka, India, South Africa, Russia, Iraq, Egypt and Brazil would ever be such a big part of my life. But I have watched a small handful of hits from each of those countries seemingly read every chapter of my novel starting with Chapter One. How great is that, Santa? Please give them all lots of love and maybe a car.
Now let’s move on to the English speaking, namely the US, the UK and Canada. I probably do actually know a few of these people, so please absolutely no fruitcake, unless it’s a rubber one, which will make them laugh and have the same taste and consistency of a real one.
Please do not forget the Scandinavians, Sweden, Finland, The Netherlands, Norway and my dear, dear Denmark. None of them made it to the family homecoming, but we’re a scary family so I’m not upset. The dudes and dudettes from that little pocket are my largest audience. Who would have thought that was possible? Please give them lots of music by the Carpenters, huge deposits in their bank accounts and big smiles across their hearts.
Please Santa, I know there aren’t a lot of them, but they have made me feel so special. I hope when they read my little nothings they find a little something; a laugh, a nugget of hope or a reminder of how wonderful they all are. It’s what they’ve given to me, so they deserve much, much more.
Finally, Santa, I ask for just three other little things. I’d like my Facebook friends to all know how much fun I think they all are. They are so diverse, so unique and all have kept me going during a tough, tough year.
Then there is Twitter. I know, I’ve become addicted. It seems so silly, but it’s such a lift to read the little thoughts and musings from so many different people, cast members of Days of Our Lives, some actors working hard at success, lots of common folk and Anderson Cooper. I’d like you to put a little something in their stockings from me, and a double helping to the twenty people who follow me. For those people, don’t let their lives be so dull.
Finally, make Kristin Chenoweth happy and find the one great true love that seems to have eluded her. She seems like such a great lady with a strong faith. It can’t be easy to be that successful and a Christian to boot. She keeps knocking our socks off, send her someone to keep her feet warm.
Thank you Santa. I appreciate your time and any effort made on my behalf. Have a great vacation and if you got time, I kinda need some socks.
Love,
Chicken Dancing
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Joseph's Song
To my surprise, I’ve been asked to sing at both services of church on Sunday. Not only has it been a long time since I sang, but I’m floored that my parent’s church has asked. Maybe they think I can’t decimate a Christmas song too much.
I’ve chosen “Joseph’s Song” originally recorded by Michael Card. It’s a simple little piece that I’ve always loved. It doesn’t stretch the range too much, but it’s so theatrical and that appeals to me.
It’s rare that we see or hear something from Joseph’s point of view. In fact, after the birth we know very little. His is an important part of the story, in some ways forgotten and disregarded. This little song makes up for that in so many ways.
As I have been rehearsing it, I have found myself getting emotional to the point of sometimes not being able to get through it. I’ve done this song many times during the holidays, back when I was singing regularly. It is one of a very small handful that I always got requests for.
Like a Stephen Curtis Chapman piece as it is deceptively simple. While not difficult to sing, I can actually do all three keys on the accompaniment track, which is rare. It’s the lyrics that make it complex, compelling and moving.
The song sings and listens like a stage play, with a defined three acts, each with its own conclusion. The words themselves roll easily off the tongue. As I’ve been rehearsing, They have struck chords of confusion, acceptance and love with subplots of anger, submission and faith.
I love the setting of the song. For those unfamiliar with it or the Judeo-Christian story of Christ’s birth, the setting of the song is Joseph, husband to Mary, holding the Christ child in his arms and talking with God. The song glides through all the emotions of a father holding his child and the first realization of all the responsibility that entails.
When I performed the song before, I always felt it was about Joseph’s choice, made months before the birth. Now I’ve come to realize that it is more about the moment, the conflicting emotions of that choice and how to carry on.
In oh so many ways, the legacy of Joseph is the realization of the circumstances of a life accepting the impossible and fearlessly forging into the strange unknown. In this song, he is at the very moment when everything he had been told, everything he believed in, waited for, prayed fervently for and had faith in has come to life, and is innocently sleeping in his arms.
For the first time, I think I understand the thoughts that had to have been running through his head. I’ve never totally comprehended the whole story in human terms. I've also found that when you can make a realistic connection the more mariaculous it all becomes.
Maybe it’s the maturity of my own faith. Possibly it’s the realization that there is a parallel, though in no way ‘supernatural’ with the point I now stand in my own life.
As I sang the words before, I had no real connection to the song, other than similar emotions of theatricality I could recall and use. Now as the words, hopefully in tune, come from my mouth there is now a common real emotion that breathes to life as I sing.
I understand the fear of being at a place in time so powerful I am not sure in which direction to step. I believe with no doubt that there is a reason why I have reached this point, but deal with the struggle of whether or not the whys of how I got here are important. I am overwhelmed with the responsibility of making sure the next step I take forward is done with confidence and direction.
And I know the confusion and hurt of being a fallible human and needing to know the reason behind it all. I feel the fear with every breath of not being prepared to be go through the moment I now find myself in. I am consumed by the moment itself, wanting to go back and change just a few things so that I can truly enjoy the moment, to absorb it more fully, understand it and use the knowledge to take on the next.
Like Joseph in this song, I also cling to the promise, the hope and protect the innocence of what I hold in my arms. For Joseph it was the baby who would become known as Jesus Christ, who would, no matter what your stance, religion or beliefs, in arguably changed the world.
For me, I only hold what’s left of my heart, my dreams and my life. I know there is something there worthwhile. I’m just not sure how to get all the pieces put together into the puzzle that will best fulfill the plan.
I am joyous that I have a chance to sing again, if only the one time. I am thrilled at a chance to do something creative and am blessed that such a simple little song can be used as catharsis for my own emotions.
While I doubt that my three minutes of warbling will change the world, I do look forward to the possibility that it will touch someone if only for a moment and make them understand whatever is deigned in their hearts they need to understand and carry on.
I’ve chosen “Joseph’s Song” originally recorded by Michael Card. It’s a simple little piece that I’ve always loved. It doesn’t stretch the range too much, but it’s so theatrical and that appeals to me.
It’s rare that we see or hear something from Joseph’s point of view. In fact, after the birth we know very little. His is an important part of the story, in some ways forgotten and disregarded. This little song makes up for that in so many ways.
As I have been rehearsing it, I have found myself getting emotional to the point of sometimes not being able to get through it. I’ve done this song many times during the holidays, back when I was singing regularly. It is one of a very small handful that I always got requests for.
Like a Stephen Curtis Chapman piece as it is deceptively simple. While not difficult to sing, I can actually do all three keys on the accompaniment track, which is rare. It’s the lyrics that make it complex, compelling and moving.
The song sings and listens like a stage play, with a defined three acts, each with its own conclusion. The words themselves roll easily off the tongue. As I’ve been rehearsing, They have struck chords of confusion, acceptance and love with subplots of anger, submission and faith.
I love the setting of the song. For those unfamiliar with it or the Judeo-Christian story of Christ’s birth, the setting of the song is Joseph, husband to Mary, holding the Christ child in his arms and talking with God. The song glides through all the emotions of a father holding his child and the first realization of all the responsibility that entails.
When I performed the song before, I always felt it was about Joseph’s choice, made months before the birth. Now I’ve come to realize that it is more about the moment, the conflicting emotions of that choice and how to carry on.
In oh so many ways, the legacy of Joseph is the realization of the circumstances of a life accepting the impossible and fearlessly forging into the strange unknown. In this song, he is at the very moment when everything he had been told, everything he believed in, waited for, prayed fervently for and had faith in has come to life, and is innocently sleeping in his arms.
For the first time, I think I understand the thoughts that had to have been running through his head. I’ve never totally comprehended the whole story in human terms. I've also found that when you can make a realistic connection the more mariaculous it all becomes.
Maybe it’s the maturity of my own faith. Possibly it’s the realization that there is a parallel, though in no way ‘supernatural’ with the point I now stand in my own life.
As I sang the words before, I had no real connection to the song, other than similar emotions of theatricality I could recall and use. Now as the words, hopefully in tune, come from my mouth there is now a common real emotion that breathes to life as I sing.
I understand the fear of being at a place in time so powerful I am not sure in which direction to step. I believe with no doubt that there is a reason why I have reached this point, but deal with the struggle of whether or not the whys of how I got here are important. I am overwhelmed with the responsibility of making sure the next step I take forward is done with confidence and direction.
And I know the confusion and hurt of being a fallible human and needing to know the reason behind it all. I feel the fear with every breath of not being prepared to be go through the moment I now find myself in. I am consumed by the moment itself, wanting to go back and change just a few things so that I can truly enjoy the moment, to absorb it more fully, understand it and use the knowledge to take on the next.
Like Joseph in this song, I also cling to the promise, the hope and protect the innocence of what I hold in my arms. For Joseph it was the baby who would become known as Jesus Christ, who would, no matter what your stance, religion or beliefs, in arguably changed the world.
For me, I only hold what’s left of my heart, my dreams and my life. I know there is something there worthwhile. I’m just not sure how to get all the pieces put together into the puzzle that will best fulfill the plan.
I am joyous that I have a chance to sing again, if only the one time. I am thrilled at a chance to do something creative and am blessed that such a simple little song can be used as catharsis for my own emotions.
While I doubt that my three minutes of warbling will change the world, I do look forward to the possibility that it will touch someone if only for a moment and make them understand whatever is deigned in their hearts they need to understand and carry on.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Thursday
It was a grand mish mash day. A little of this, a little of that and nothing done, nothing changed. My place is space wasn't moved.
Jackson doesn't seem to realize what a big dog he is. He is, after all, still a puppy. We are attempting to train him. Having been around another little dog before he came home to us last week, he keeps zipping across the creek into a neighbor's yard.
They have one of those little foofey things and Jackson beelines right over to him whenever he gets a chance. The neighbors don't want him there, so whenever he violates his perimeters we chain him up. Needless to say, he is currently spending a lot of time chained.
It breaks my heart, but it has to be done. Thank heavens, I never had children. Discipline and potty training would have sent me over the edge.
He doesn't bark much. At least not until the neighbors who live behind us walk their pig. Jackson freaks out whenever he sees Roscoe.
Roscoe can take or leave Jackson, but whenever he sees me, he comes oinking. Talk about not knowing your size. Roscoe jumps up on me like a puppy. He weighs, well he's a pig. I always end up on my behind and whoever's walking the unkosher, uncouth animal has to haul him off me.
My only problem with Jackson is he likes to sit in my lap. He's a border collie, shepherd mix. He is well past the sitting comfortably in my lap stage. I've been sitting on the steps the past couple of days and pushing his bottom half to the step. He doesn't seem to be catching on real quick.
I still feel he's awful lonely, but maybe I'm dealing with it better. It's nice to have that happy, waggy tail waiting for me first thing in the morning and when I come home from work.
Mom and Dad seem to be spending more time with him, too. Maybe it will all work out. Perhaps I should think about putting them on a chain when they extend their boundaries.
I may want to think about that one, though. What's good for the goose...
...the chicken dances on....
Jackson doesn't seem to realize what a big dog he is. He is, after all, still a puppy. We are attempting to train him. Having been around another little dog before he came home to us last week, he keeps zipping across the creek into a neighbor's yard.
They have one of those little foofey things and Jackson beelines right over to him whenever he gets a chance. The neighbors don't want him there, so whenever he violates his perimeters we chain him up. Needless to say, he is currently spending a lot of time chained.
It breaks my heart, but it has to be done. Thank heavens, I never had children. Discipline and potty training would have sent me over the edge.
He doesn't bark much. At least not until the neighbors who live behind us walk their pig. Jackson freaks out whenever he sees Roscoe.
Roscoe can take or leave Jackson, but whenever he sees me, he comes oinking. Talk about not knowing your size. Roscoe jumps up on me like a puppy. He weighs, well he's a pig. I always end up on my behind and whoever's walking the unkosher, uncouth animal has to haul him off me.
My only problem with Jackson is he likes to sit in my lap. He's a border collie, shepherd mix. He is well past the sitting comfortably in my lap stage. I've been sitting on the steps the past couple of days and pushing his bottom half to the step. He doesn't seem to be catching on real quick.
I still feel he's awful lonely, but maybe I'm dealing with it better. It's nice to have that happy, waggy tail waiting for me first thing in the morning and when I come home from work.
Mom and Dad seem to be spending more time with him, too. Maybe it will all work out. Perhaps I should think about putting them on a chain when they extend their boundaries.
I may want to think about that one, though. What's good for the goose...
...the chicken dances on....
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Wednesday
All day long I've had a family Christmas tradition on my mind, one that I won't be a part of this year. It was always something I looked forward to every year for the last fifteen, since we started it. Alas, this year it's not meant to be.
The Saturday before Thanksgiving my two cousins in Maryland, Debbie and Diane, along with my Aunt Rachel and I gathered in Debbie's kitchen and spent the day baking Christmas cookies. It became known as Cookie Day. The four of us assembly lined homemade cookies until well after dinner, producing a hundred dozen or more.
There were certain types we made every year; cinnamon strips, oatmeal, peanut butter, sinful variations of chocolate. Every year we added a few new ones, recipes we'd found during the year we wanted to give a try. We took requests, too.
The rule was you had to submit your recipes to Deb by Halloween. She then coordinated everything. She'd split up the ingredients and arrange the baking order. She had two ovens, i.e. why her house was always the bakery, and she'd arrange the baking so the oven temps started at a lower temperature and went up as the day progressed.
It was a great day of fun, chat and chocolate, peanut butter, etc. Family members dropped in and dropped out all day long. We switched stations, mixing, cookie sheets and baking.
Then Sunday after church, we'd meet at Aunt Rachel's for lunch, whose house is between Debbie and Diane's. After a great meal, we'd trot back over to Deb's for any last minute touches to the cookies, i.e. drizzling icing and divide them up equally amongst everyone who pitched in.
Most of the family simply had them around the house until Christmas. I always took mine to work that Monday as my gift to my co-workers. I think I looked forward to that most of all.
So all day long, I realized that this Saturday was Cookie Day and I wouldn't be there. Maybe next year, I'll do the same thing in Tennessee or be able to travel to Maryland for the bake fest. Even if I just do it myself next year in my kitchen here, I will.
After thinking about it all day long, I came home and checked my messages. I was floored at the number to my email and on Facebook from former co-workers at Barnes & Nobel lamenting that they will miss me on Monday, because I will not be bringing in cookies.
I hate to sound "punny", but that is so sweet. It's good to be remembered for something. I think of all the jobs I've had, my job as newsstand lead in the Lancaster, PA Barnes & Nobel is the one I loved the most. The co-workers were all like family, and the customers to some extent even more.
Unfortunately, this year I will be giving my Lancaster family only cookies of the heart. I hope those that lament the lack of confections on Monday will at least remember me fondly and know that were it possible I'd be there encouraging them to ruin their waist lines.
I miss you all, and believe me I'll be missing Cookie Day more than you,
The Saturday before Thanksgiving my two cousins in Maryland, Debbie and Diane, along with my Aunt Rachel and I gathered in Debbie's kitchen and spent the day baking Christmas cookies. It became known as Cookie Day. The four of us assembly lined homemade cookies until well after dinner, producing a hundred dozen or more.
There were certain types we made every year; cinnamon strips, oatmeal, peanut butter, sinful variations of chocolate. Every year we added a few new ones, recipes we'd found during the year we wanted to give a try. We took requests, too.
The rule was you had to submit your recipes to Deb by Halloween. She then coordinated everything. She'd split up the ingredients and arrange the baking order. She had two ovens, i.e. why her house was always the bakery, and she'd arrange the baking so the oven temps started at a lower temperature and went up as the day progressed.
It was a great day of fun, chat and chocolate, peanut butter, etc. Family members dropped in and dropped out all day long. We switched stations, mixing, cookie sheets and baking.
Then Sunday after church, we'd meet at Aunt Rachel's for lunch, whose house is between Debbie and Diane's. After a great meal, we'd trot back over to Deb's for any last minute touches to the cookies, i.e. drizzling icing and divide them up equally amongst everyone who pitched in.
Most of the family simply had them around the house until Christmas. I always took mine to work that Monday as my gift to my co-workers. I think I looked forward to that most of all.
So all day long, I realized that this Saturday was Cookie Day and I wouldn't be there. Maybe next year, I'll do the same thing in Tennessee or be able to travel to Maryland for the bake fest. Even if I just do it myself next year in my kitchen here, I will.
After thinking about it all day long, I came home and checked my messages. I was floored at the number to my email and on Facebook from former co-workers at Barnes & Nobel lamenting that they will miss me on Monday, because I will not be bringing in cookies.
I hate to sound "punny", but that is so sweet. It's good to be remembered for something. I think of all the jobs I've had, my job as newsstand lead in the Lancaster, PA Barnes & Nobel is the one I loved the most. The co-workers were all like family, and the customers to some extent even more.
Unfortunately, this year I will be giving my Lancaster family only cookies of the heart. I hope those that lament the lack of confections on Monday will at least remember me fondly and know that were it possible I'd be there encouraging them to ruin their waist lines.
I miss you all, and believe me I'll be missing Cookie Day more than you,
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