The garbage man waved at me today.
Ever since they stopped riding on the back of trucks, I stopped believing in garbage men as real people. Something about that huge claw mounted on the side of the truck that hoisted the large black bins up and emptied their plastic bags full of odds and ends and kitchen scraps into the truck's open top dehumanized the profession for me. The garbage man was now just a guy driving a truck around the block, hidden by the tint of the cab's windows, no better than a robot. He hated his job, his life - he hated everyone.
Traci asked me through my headphones, "Did we take out our garbage today?"
The urgency in her voice keyed me in to one of the sounds I had been filtering out - the whirring of the garbage truck's machinery. A clunk as it slammed down an emptied bin.
"No!" I yanked the headphones from my ears, interrupting Billy Joel in the middle of the Piano Man, and jumping up from the couch.
"It's too late," my wife was saying, "It might be just the recycling anyway. I don't know. Is our garbage can full?"
I was slipping on my flip-flops and making for the door, "yeah. We forgot to take it out last week, too." Two weeks' worth of our twins' dirty diapers were festering in there with the kitchen bags. Another week would have us overflowing and stinking up the entire complex.
Running out into the morning glare, I caught sight of the truck lifting another black bin skyward. This was the garbage truck, he had only one more to do.
I nabbed our black bin from the line-up alongside our garage door and started running for the road. The claw picked up the last garbage bin from the curb. The sidewalk hadn't been plowed so I wouldn't be able to push mine to the end of the line. I'd have to go all the way around the garbage truck to get in front.
I got to the road just as he slammed the last garbage can down. Desperate, I waved, hoping to catch his eye in the mirror. Suddenly a face appeared there - sunglasses and a ball cap. I mouthed to him - can I put my can up there? pointing towards the end of the row.
Rather than answer me - he probably hadn't even understood my flapping lips - the truck started backing up. He was going to come back to get it.
I left my garbage can right where I stood and took a step to the side. I had never been this close to the claw that leaped out from the side of the truck and grappled perfectly around my garbage can - such precision! I watched the bags of diapers fall like clumps of dirty snow into the top of the truck. The can came back down, gripped tightly by the claw. It released, pulled back into the truck.
I mouthed "thank you" to the mirror. The man there lifted his hand in a wave, and then drove away.
2/28/2011
12/19/2010
Joseph and other fathers
Joseph was not the baby's father, but he was still responsible for Him. He was not the baby's father, but it was still his job to protect Him from Herod's soldiers, from the elements, from starvation. He was not the father, but he had all the same jobs of a father.
He also had help. He was warned of an angel to flee Bethlehem when all the other toddlers and infants were about to be slaughtered. He was warned by an angel to not go by Jerusalem when returning to Egypt. He was even told by an angel that his wife had not been unfaithful to him - and of course he was, because this was the Son of God's mortal caretaker. How could God take chances with such an important baby?
What of those other fathers of Bethlehem? The ones whose children - two and under - were murdered in cold blood? Where was their help?
Their help was the same as Joseph's, but their mission was different. Every father here on earth is the same as Joseph in the sense that their children are first God's children. That being the case, fathers should recognize that they are entitled to divine help in raising, protecting, teaching, feeding, and guiding those children that are and aren't their own.
He also had help. He was warned of an angel to flee Bethlehem when all the other toddlers and infants were about to be slaughtered. He was warned by an angel to not go by Jerusalem when returning to Egypt. He was even told by an angel that his wife had not been unfaithful to him - and of course he was, because this was the Son of God's mortal caretaker. How could God take chances with such an important baby?
What of those other fathers of Bethlehem? The ones whose children - two and under - were murdered in cold blood? Where was their help?
Their help was the same as Joseph's, but their mission was different. Every father here on earth is the same as Joseph in the sense that their children are first God's children. That being the case, fathers should recognize that they are entitled to divine help in raising, protecting, teaching, feeding, and guiding those children that are and aren't their own.
11/10/2010
1:40
I don't know what I'm thinking about.
This evening I walked in the dark down Old Main hill. I saw the Temple's twin spires glowing like moons between the trees on the hill while ahead of me the whole valley peeked at me through tiny pricks of streetlamps and brake lights. There were stars. Behind me, Orion lay flat like a falling man, though he was rising from behind the mountains.
We watched Vertigo last night. It's hard to say what is eeriest about that movie, but ultimately what frightens me the most is James Stewart's obsession that leads to the real death of his artificial love.
Today in class, I was wondering if it was all worth it. I looked out over the heads bent over their writing and saw a tree wrapped in a frozen yellow fur of leaves shed a golden tear like a snowflake, which fluttered down to join a field of scattered embers.
It all feels so hopeless sometimes.
This evening I walked in the dark down Old Main hill. I saw the Temple's twin spires glowing like moons between the trees on the hill while ahead of me the whole valley peeked at me through tiny pricks of streetlamps and brake lights. There were stars. Behind me, Orion lay flat like a falling man, though he was rising from behind the mountains.
We watched Vertigo last night. It's hard to say what is eeriest about that movie, but ultimately what frightens me the most is James Stewart's obsession that leads to the real death of his artificial love.
Today in class, I was wondering if it was all worth it. I looked out over the heads bent over their writing and saw a tree wrapped in a frozen yellow fur of leaves shed a golden tear like a snowflake, which fluttered down to join a field of scattered embers.
It all feels so hopeless sometimes.
8/04/2010
passion
Looking at the wall over Brett's desk, I see the evidence of a guy who has really followed his passions. Posters, magazine pages, postcards, newspaper clippings all adorn the wall in an orderly, straight-lined collage. There's Sonny Stitt in a black and white photograph from an article; he's holding his saxophone flat in front of him, as if examining the bend for dents. On top is a panoramic shot of the Beatles, a famous poster I think. The four stand in a line facing the right side of the poster, shaggy hair, huge side burns, Harrison and Ringo in front, Paul ducking almost comically behind, and Lennon erect behind him. Looking into the wind, or that's the impression I get.
What kills me is that many of these are passions I share. Jazz and just good music in general. But I have no such collection. I feel less for it, somehow. It feels like a castigation - if you really loved jazz, you, too would have a wall like this.
But it's not just the art, the hangings, it's his knowledge base as well. No one can talk records or artists with him without years and years of experience. I am a novice, an amateur, a greenhorn when it comes to the music I love to listen to and wish I could play.
And that's how it is with me. I spend a lot of time wishing.
What kills me is that many of these are passions I share. Jazz and just good music in general. But I have no such collection. I feel less for it, somehow. It feels like a castigation - if you really loved jazz, you, too would have a wall like this.
But it's not just the art, the hangings, it's his knowledge base as well. No one can talk records or artists with him without years and years of experience. I am a novice, an amateur, a greenhorn when it comes to the music I love to listen to and wish I could play.
And that's how it is with me. I spend a lot of time wishing.
7/29/2010
leftovers
I crouch on the rectangle of concrete immediately behind our townhouse, a small pink dust broom in one hand, dust pan in the other. All against the wall, piled in mountainous heaps, lies the grey, ash-like lint that was just pulled from our dryer vent. It's draped like moss on our pea plants, all but dead now, on a camp chair folded up against the wall. Some has fallen in the inflated kiddie pool, some along the edge of the grass. It looks just as if it had all exploded from the small circular opening some fifteen feet up and drifted indiscriminately onto the ground below.
And within the debris are the remnants of lives long past. The lint itself made up of tiny fibers from hundreds - maybe thousands - of shirts, pants, socks, undies, sweaters, dresses, overalls, bibs, and who knows what else. Held fast in each grey clump are more hints at other lives: gum wrappers crumpled into small silver balls, scraps of paper absentmindedly left in pants pockets, a paperclip. Each clump is an artifact. How long ago was that gum chomped? What has become of the guy who wore those pants? Is he dead? In prison? Living somewhere else oblivious to the beauty and wonder and miracle of his life?
A light breeze kicks up, stirring the small bundles. Most just quiver, but one or two smaller pieces break away and tumble towards the grass. Stopping in the middle of the concrete pad. The stiff white bristles of my broom scoop them into the dust pan, joining the pile already there. I dump the whole insubstantial mass into a grocery bag.
Living in a rental unit is this way. You live in the wake of other people's lives. Though they have cleaned up after themselves, shreds of the past remain. When we first moved in, we found a card lying flat on the top shelf - a cheesy expression of love handwritten on the inside. In our last place, under a drawer in the bathroom a slip of paper with weekly weigh-ins recorded on it showed us that the previous occupants had been more or less the same size as us. Or maybe it had been the ones before them. Junk mail and catalogs occasionally show up addressed to previous occupants.
In a way, these people who we never meet are our neighbors in time. This lint I sweep up is just another scrap of their lives. I wonder how much is left.
And within the debris are the remnants of lives long past. The lint itself made up of tiny fibers from hundreds - maybe thousands - of shirts, pants, socks, undies, sweaters, dresses, overalls, bibs, and who knows what else. Held fast in each grey clump are more hints at other lives: gum wrappers crumpled into small silver balls, scraps of paper absentmindedly left in pants pockets, a paperclip. Each clump is an artifact. How long ago was that gum chomped? What has become of the guy who wore those pants? Is he dead? In prison? Living somewhere else oblivious to the beauty and wonder and miracle of his life?
A light breeze kicks up, stirring the small bundles. Most just quiver, but one or two smaller pieces break away and tumble towards the grass. Stopping in the middle of the concrete pad. The stiff white bristles of my broom scoop them into the dust pan, joining the pile already there. I dump the whole insubstantial mass into a grocery bag.
Living in a rental unit is this way. You live in the wake of other people's lives. Though they have cleaned up after themselves, shreds of the past remain. When we first moved in, we found a card lying flat on the top shelf - a cheesy expression of love handwritten on the inside. In our last place, under a drawer in the bathroom a slip of paper with weekly weigh-ins recorded on it showed us that the previous occupants had been more or less the same size as us. Or maybe it had been the ones before them. Junk mail and catalogs occasionally show up addressed to previous occupants.
In a way, these people who we never meet are our neighbors in time. This lint I sweep up is just another scrap of their lives. I wonder how much is left.
4/12/2010
A Writer
People will tell you "You should write! You're really good!"
Don't listen to them. If you listen to them, you will be fooled. You will tell yourself you are a good writer. You will tell yourself you have a way with words. You will tell yourself that you have this mysterious talent that not many other people have, and it will define you, and lead you into places that you wouldn't otherwise go.
You will pursue writing, but not as seriously as you should, because you will think "I'm a good writer. It just comes naturally to me." And you will labor under this illusion as more and more people, hearing you are a writer, will ask you to write things and praise you inordinately for them. Such adulation is poison, a wise man said.
Then you will discover real writing. Sooner or later you will be faced with the fact that your writing is not that writing. You will discover the myriads of people laboring under the same illusion, only they will be much more talented than you, and they will have much more interesting and worthwhile things to say. You will discover that what you like to do is just a game. Your way with words, your whimsical turns of phrases are trivial, are nonsense, are worthless in the face of the juggernaut of writing.
You will discover you are not a writer, and then you will wonder what you are.
Don't listen to them. If you listen to them, you will be fooled. You will tell yourself you are a good writer. You will tell yourself you have a way with words. You will tell yourself that you have this mysterious talent that not many other people have, and it will define you, and lead you into places that you wouldn't otherwise go.
You will pursue writing, but not as seriously as you should, because you will think "I'm a good writer. It just comes naturally to me." And you will labor under this illusion as more and more people, hearing you are a writer, will ask you to write things and praise you inordinately for them. Such adulation is poison, a wise man said.
Then you will discover real writing. Sooner or later you will be faced with the fact that your writing is not that writing. You will discover the myriads of people laboring under the same illusion, only they will be much more talented than you, and they will have much more interesting and worthwhile things to say. You will discover that what you like to do is just a game. Your way with words, your whimsical turns of phrases are trivial, are nonsense, are worthless in the face of the juggernaut of writing.
You will discover you are not a writer, and then you will wonder what you are.
3/08/2010
Melting Snow
The snow is starting to melt. Great patches lie across the still-yellow grass spanning the entire quad. I only glance at it from the landing, no more than a brief pause as I mount the steps up to my office, and in that brief glance, all of the winter seems to have passed abruptly.
The months of looking out that window on the constant snow seem to have been abbreviated into a period of a week that happened a long time ago. This is the quad returning to "normal." It's how I have remembered it, and returning to snowlessness is natural and welcome. The winter has been unnatural, and now, at the early stages of its passing, it is already forgotten.
The months of looking out that window on the constant snow seem to have been abbreviated into a period of a week that happened a long time ago. This is the quad returning to "normal." It's how I have remembered it, and returning to snowlessness is natural and welcome. The winter has been unnatural, and now, at the early stages of its passing, it is already forgotten.
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