day 148: up late

A “dream job” came up and I applied.

But first, I worked on a workout with A. It was an alley kind of day because seminars were ongoing, so wall balls were the chosen implements of debauchery. We had fun making up the rep scheme and making up the punishments and, because we did 75 thrusters for time today, we made it into one of those workouts that is not as hard as it seems.


day 130: I’m just not sure what happened

I know A coached at the police station, he always coaches at the police station on Wednesdays, but I’m not sure of much else. Those moments through the day, gone. 

But I’m pretty sure I lived them and I’m glad for that.

day 97: to sup

The eleven o’clock hour rolled around and bean stated he wanted to eat, by crawling to the kitchen, yelling “na na na na” and demanding to be up in my arms to survey the preparations of sustenance. I’ve become quite good at cracking an egg with one hand, and on Thursday I cracked three with nary a shell to be found.

Bean snacked on coconut while we waited for the yolks to transform into dandelion-yellow butter, and then we did something different. I put bean down into his little chair and dragged his little table around and he sat, and waited. I set his bowl for him, and his spoon, and half an egg white and a whole yolk partitioned into Modrian squares, and made my own bowl of the remnants of the frying pan. Boomer did her best to sneak bean’s eggs while my back was turned, but he defended his own with valor if not finesse.

And we both sat, and we both ate. Bean used his spoon for close to 45 minutes, painstakingly attempting to scoop those egg pieces. He got one or two, bringing them to his mouth with exquisite care.

I couldn’t be more amazed. This sweet kid, just doing things he wants to do, even if they’re hard.

day 59: something to do

I’d had enough. My sweet boy didn’t seem to be himself any longer and I wanted to (I want to) get him back. So I began to search and sift and distill and came up with a cock-eyed plan to get him better.

But I realized in mass today that without God, it’s all pride, vanity, sloth: those three sins that led me here today, wondering whether the information I found is the right information, knowing my son was compromised by my own hand, paralyzed in analysis. And those three sins will continue to harp me unless I follow the Lord. The Word, after all, is He, and He is the way and the truth and the life. Those I’d rather have than my small sins, even though they are mine and mine alone.

My political libertarianism battles the preachings of my faith. So there, reader, whoever you are, I’ve said it loud for it in silence it shatters me: now you know I am a despiséd radical. Hide yo kids hide yo wife. I do not care. Just leave me free to follow Him. God, being God, is always the path I ought to take.

Over a dock railing, I watch the minnows, thousands, swirl
themselves, each a minuscule muscle, but also, without the
way to create current, making of their unison (turning, re-
entering and exiting their own unison in unison) making of themselves a
visual current, one that cannot freight or sway by
minutest fractions the water’s downdrafts and upswirls, the
dockside cycles of finally-arriving boat-wakes, there where
they hit deeper resistance, water that seems to burst into
itself (it has those layers), a real current though mostly
invisible sending into the visible (minnows) arrowing
                                    motion that forces change—
this is freedom. This is the force of faith. Nobody gets
what they want. Never again are you the same. The longing
is to be pure. What you get is to be changed. More and more by
each glistening minute, through which infinity threads itself,
also oblivion, of course, the aftershocks of something
at sea. Here, hands full of sand, letting it sift through
in the wind, I look in and say take this, this is
what I have saved, take this, hurry. And if I listen
now? Listen, I was not saying anything. It was only
something I did. I could not choose words. I am free to go.
I cannot of course come back. Not to this. Never.
It is a ghost posed on my lips. Here: never.
–Jorie Graham

day 3: eight months

Sweet bean gave us his smile four hours earlier than usual this morning. 3:00 AM hailed the awakening of our little rascal, who cannot sleep when there are mommas to be climbed and poppas to be tickled and boomers to be tugged. Bean is practicing his standing and can hardly stop himself. Indeed he practices in his sleep! I blearily eye him crouching and alongside me in the wee hours of the morning, his eyes still shut. He’s dedicated to his art.

Speaking of which, I travel to play a piano tomorrow. It may be my piano, if all checks out. My brother who knows everything (really, he does, he’s spectacular that way) pointed me to The Piano Book by Larry Fine; with this I will not only play the maybe-mine piano, I will dissect it. I will take it apart, ascertain the health of its guts, and do my best to put it back together again. And, I will do it with an air of unquestionable confidence; without that armor, I’d never be allowed my examinings. Time to put that stage-experience to use; I’m downright scared even thinking about handling a piano so.

But I’ll not buy it blind. Resources are too precious to waste on bunked instruments or an expert’s judgement. So, tomorrow, I pretend.


day 2: scattergories

The days this season have been light, airy. The cold is crystalline, neither heavy nor dank. Life goes as life goes, not tripping forward not dragging behind. It is lived.

In casual chatter, life is often separated into “family-life” and “work-life” and, never named but always understood, “hobby-life.” Life is so much more than these, but I’ve never refused a game of categories.

Family life is grand. Our marriage has never been sweeter; not even those early honeymooned months compare. Bean is a treasure, one we do not and will never deserve, but we’ll delight in and foster him evermore. Boomer is our rock. And I am reminded: the grass is greenest where you water it.

Work life is nonexistent, except in the realm of possibility. No office job or traditional employment can ever ever tempt me to leave my son. I not only lack desire to leave him during the day, I have a great aversion to the idea. The one thing that drives me to imagine a career, to picture what is expected these days, is guilt: guilt for being financially noncontributing, guilt for my apparent selfishness in wanting to be my child’s primary caretaker, guilt for not being able to leave him when so many other’s can and do and even have to or want to, gilt that I am not being practical. Guilt is a base motivation, a dirty motivation, and I’d rather dispense with the feeling altogether; yet it lingers. So I seek a flexible job, and a convenient job; one that won’t require more costly training or similar investment. I fear such a job doesn’t exist, or at least is Holy Grail rare. I interview later this month at a company which knows my desires for telework yet does not offer it. Still they want the interview, still I accepted it. We’ll see what comes of it all.

As for hobbies: my lifting has suffered. This past week especially has been disastrous. I cannot touch my toes. I have about four unfinished knitting projects. I’ll be surprised if I even remember how to hold a bow. My music is amateur at best. I read, but they are throwaway novels. Do I remember the wave function of a particle in a box? Can I integrate over a cone? And my writing, well, you see what it is. Shambling. Rambling.

For all of this, I’m happy for the first time I can remember in a very, very long time. Yes, I am happy.