A Day in the Life of Chaos

Life for all but the hermit is a string of social interactions.  It is meeting people, leaving people, remembering people, forgetting people.  In all those relationships there are some that standout like flakes of gold floating on the surface of a gold pan. They are uniquely valuable and so  precious they will span a lifetime.  These are the people whose bond seems unregulated by time.  Years may span face to face meetings but each time one occurs it feels as if time and life has stood still.  Like nary a day has passed and conversations and embraces resume as if left only moments before.   These friends are rare because their companionship transcends the physical and intellectual to something much deeper.  The connection is almost spiritual in the way you become intertwined, woven into each others lives.   My friend Francesca is this way.  We first met when we were both in the university, her in Italy and me in America.  I was traveling in Italy and our lives intersected.  B

Something happens starting in your forties and moving on.  Up to this point we live our lives independently.  We spend years separating ourselves from our parents and learning how to function on our own.  Sure, parents are always there to help out with advice or to fix something but we are mostly focused on establishing our own lives and families. We have our own children now and they have so many needs.  We have jobs and mortgages to pay.  When something breaks we have to fix it, when its time to eat, we have to make it.  While all this is going on at some point in life our parents start to need us more.  It can happen very slowly and often we don't even perceive the change yet it happens. As I look around at my friends who share my age I can see it happening.  These days I see it quite brilliantly in the life of my father who is now in his 60's and has a mother in her 90's.   I see it in the life of my dear friend Peggy whose father in law spent his final days with them

My mother bugged the hell out of me.  I can only say that now because she passed away eleven years ago and will never read this.  At least I don't think she will.  Of course I would trade all the irritation in the world to have one more day with her.  I might even let her smoke.  Mother's and the male children they spawn have a unique relationship and as a man I am still trying to understand it.  I say male children because I am neither a woman nor a mother so it would be difficult to see inside that world.  I am 44 years old, over half way through raising my own child and I still haven't figured it out.  Perhaps it is a mystery of the ages as distant as the ways of the ancients.  Despite this, as a thinking man I still try to understand.  I still contemplate the intense arguments I had with my mother in the morning as she drove me to school.  They happened so often yet I can't recall a reason for a single one.  I still wonder how my mother, who wanted so badly to

It is impossible to know how much we influence our children but suffice it to say, we do.  It happens in a subtle way and often goes unnoticed.  It manifests itself in ways impossible to see let alone count.  It can be viewed in the way we dress, the way we live, our political or religious beliefs.  Sometimes it can be found in a our very personalities. I suppose it is the old nature vs. nurture argument.  Nature creates the canvas of what we are yet it is our lives and those around us that paint upon it.  There is a lot of good about me.  I am a kind person and I care for those around me.  I am spiritual and intellectual.  I am reflective and sometimes funny.  I can be creative and intense.  I love the natural world and I try to live life as positive and accepting as I can be.  While these are the traits I hope my child finds in himself there are others I hope he will not.  I curse myself when they creep out and wish I had kept them hidden away. I grew up with a stepfather who lov

A story I love to tell is about my child and when I took him to a pride festival.  He was probably about eight years of age and when we entered the event we were greeted by men holding hands with men, women with women and even elegant cross dressers and transvestites.  I consider myself a very tolerant person but I couldn't help but look.  "Wow, look at those guys." I thought, or "man, he is a good looking woman, check out the size of those hands though."  My son on the other hand entered the event and went straight for a sticker table festooning himself with ribbons and stickers.  The moral of the story is that he didn't see a thing.  He didn't see two men hug or two women kiss.  He didn't see the awkward transsexual or the flamboyant queen.  All he saw was an opportunity to score some cool stickers and pins.  Maybe snag some carnival beads. I tell this story because it is an example of how much a parents attitudes are reflected by their children.

Every year about this time when you are an adult you find yourself reflecting on the past.  Christmas is like a bookmark in our lives and while one might blend into the next there are often moments or traditions that hold a specific significance.  Sometimes, they are remarkable for their simplicity. When I was a young man my parents took me to Europe.   It was my second time across the Atlantic.  When I was younger we spent a summer driving around to genealogical sites and visiting the English Country Side.  It was a magical introduction yet  this trip however was different.  This time it would be a trip that would span London to Vienna and Rome.  In three short weeks I would visit or cross five countries and enter the greatest capitals created in the history of the world.  It was also Christmas time and with a plane fare too low to resist, we boarded a nearly empty DC10 and left the eternal darkness of Alaska for Europe.  I was fortunate, as an only child my parents could make the