A Day in the Life of Chaos

Very young Patrick There is a land far to the north that in many ways seems disconnected from reality.  When you live there it is like living on an island and news from the outside comes in snip-its that leave you at times questioning your involvement with the rest of the world.  It is a magical place and I when I first came to know it,  the largest city was still developing.  Many roads were unpaved.  Television was primitive.  There were only three networks and shows would come up on tapes from Seattle with a two week delay.  Try to avoid a Monday Night Football score for two weeks!  The town was so news starved there were actually two news papers.  How many cities these days can boast that? The people that lived there were as disconnected as the place.  They seemed to all be running from something and everyone had a different and unique reason for their flight.  Somehow in the self imposed exile there was company among strangers.  Everyone seemed to revel in being different, be

Rodney Dangerfield aka Thornton Melon I have never been much of a dieter per say yet as I age my body seems to be adding to itself like the rings on a tree.  I try to ignore it by comparing myself to the rest of America.  As one of the worlds most overweight societies I tend to come out looking pretty good.  To quote the immortal profit Rodney Dangerfield, "If you want to look thin, have fat friends."   Despite the reassurance of the comparison between myself and the general physique of America, with a quick look down I can't help but notice the vague outlines of an emerging pregnancy.  "It's not fair."  I mumble to myself as I look into the mirror.  I don't eat that much.  I hardly ever snack and I try to be as healthy as I can.  I eat very little red meat and try to avoid soda.  Okay, I have a bit here and there and there is of course beer but it is really not excessive.  Despite all of this my 45 year old body seems to want to hang on to far more

There are two distinct forms of people in this world, the faithful and the skeptics.  Then there are a vast number that exists somewhere in-between.  I suppose I fall into this group yet my mind constantly tortures me. It asks me to ask questions, it asks me to doubt.  Relying on faith alone would be so much easier yet something deep inside of me reminds me that to do so would be to deny the very existence of my brain. Not far from my office in downtown Columbia, South Carolina there is a cemetery.  It is a mix of old and new graves that covers a large plot of land.  Often at lunch as a way of exercising I take a brisk 60 minute walk that often leads me to the winding paths, some mercifully shaded by tall trees.  For the most part I tune out the world as I walk by the graves with my iphone in hand and my ear buds in.  My eyes dance from one stone to the next reading the names and dates followed by a mental calculation of how long they lived.  Some names are so exotic, I wonder how th

Why do I do this?  I think it is a question many people might ask.  Why lay yourself out to the world? Why communicate your thoughts, fears and reservations?  Is it vanity?  Is it exhibitionism in a literary form? 1916 Journal The answers to these questions cannot be explained in a simple sentence or a thought.  They are more complex, more cryptic.   For me writing is my only creative outlet.  I am not artistic. I can't paint, draw, sing or play an instrument. I can't compose photographs and I am not good at math. I don't even have any party tricks. I can't make funny sounds from my stomach or turn my eyelid inside out.  About the only thing I can do is touch my tongue with the tip of my nose.  While it is helpful in cleaning the errant cream of a latte I don't think it classifies me as extraordinary.  There is one thing I can do and I think I do it fairly well.  I can word smith.  I can assemble little black shapes into a form that is descriptive and emotion

As we age bit by bit, soul by soul those that we know or better said that we knew go away.  Where they go is a subject for a different conversation.  Some will tell you heaven others will tell you dirt.  Truth be told these are philosophical questions much larger than my humble mind can ponder.  I can say that birth to life to death is a natural progression of organic life and it is only logical that those we cross paths with in life will at some point cease to exist.  While logical in the course of human events it still doesn't make the event any less painful. I don't understand what happens to some people when they grow old. Sometimes it seems like something changes in the mind.  I don't know if it is a way of compensating for the eventual reality or if it is a reflection of true emotions.  Perhaps this is one of the things that makes it so difficult.  In my life and family I have had considerable experience with this phenomenon. It started with a dysfunctional relation

Seventy some years ago my great uncle Bob who by all estimations was quite an eccentric man took a series of photographs of my great grandfather and a friend.  They were posed studio photographs and taken long before digital photography was ever conceived of.  I love these photographs for several reasons but foremost is the window into the playful side of my great grandfather's personality.  I have no idea why they chose monks but for a strange reason they always seemed perfect.  Another portrait from the same session was taken in a fisherman's weather hat and titled Cap'n Hart. It has yet to be recreated.  As the years pass memories fade.  Eventually one generation transcends the next and living memory ceases to exist.  The only thing that remains are the images of people who once walked our world yet long ago departed.  I love to look at these old photographs and wonder about the people.  Who were they?  What made them laugh and what made them cry?  Did they ever fall i

The Boudoir Divas This week I ventured to Las Vegas with my wife on very different terms than usual.  Typically I am meeting one or both of my best friends here for a few days of hiking, escape and exploration.  We usually stay in a cheap hotel in old downtown Las Vegas and for the most part eschew the glitzy glamor for a more pedestrian side of the city.  We quest for cheap craps, contact with locals and the discovery of the degenerate side of the city that provides endless colors for blogs. Trips to Las Vegas with my wife are on very different terms.  They focus on the glitzy side of Las Vegas and don't involve gambling.  They tend to involve a lot of culinary experience far distant from the $3.95 steak dinners and roadside burritos I eat with my friends.  Oh yes, and there is the shopping. Shopping for three men is a quick in and out.  For a woman it is hours of strolling.   I guess each experience has it's own pluses and minus' and should be taken on it's own t

Since South Carolina was an early Republican primary state the roadsides are still littered with campaign signs.  Many are for candidates no longer in the race.  Among all the rubble is one sign that stands out.  It is for a man running for County Coroner.  Perhaps I am missing something but there just seems like there is something wrong with his campaign message.

One thing that never ceases to amaze any parent is the perspective of age when seen through the eyes of a child. This morning I was eating my microwave oatmeal and watching CNN.  A story came on about the latest revelation of John F Kennedy's affairs.   Nearly 50 years since his death we still learn tales of his voracious sexual appetite.  Oh those were the days for a president.  The male club that surrounded him was sure to keep all his indiscretions close to their belts as most were engaged in similar ones.  Of course it is a phenomenon  not unique to males as Eleanor Roosevelt had her own lesbian and or bisexual lover.  Something about JFK entrances us though.  He was so damn good looking.  I commented to my son how much JFK did love the ladies.  He in turn asked me if I remembered JFK's presidency? "Son, I wasn't even born." I answered.  "His brother was assassinated when I was gurgling and blowing boogers out of my nose at the tender age of one."

A different face but the same school in spirit There are few professions I admire more in life than one of the most under paid ones, the teacher.  Perhaps the fact that both my parents were teachers has augmented my understanding and sympathy.  My father was a professor at the university level and my mother taught those that no one else wanted to teach.  I guess it was a tribute to her dedication that she would actually take up the mantle and give a final shot to those whom mainstream education had cast aside.  She worked for a program called S.A.V.E. that acted as a kind of last chance for many kids to get a diploma.  Each student was filled with a litany of problems.  Difficulties in life that made education seem like an unneeded add on.  On the other hand, education was the one element that provided any structure to their lives.  I am sure that the social studies teacher/gym teacher/part time counselor and sympathetic ear my mother was definitely must have helped. Hardly a day