Today I threw away the past.
Not all of it, naturally; that would take a year or more.
But many, many files from the past 40 years or so. I'm deliberately trying to empty this cluttered space, so my children do not face the work of doing so.
In the process of tearing up and shredding files, I tried to imagine what it might be that my children and grandchildren would cherish, once I am gone, and what they would find burdensome.
As opposed t what I have saved until now simply for myself.
I realized that the box of financial records, containing all of my tax returns since 1971, would probably be of no interest to the generations who follow me so those have now been shredded and discarded.
I also decided that an unfinished short story I wrote about two lovers separated by time and space, who communicate only through messages in bottles cast upon the sea, might be, so I saved that (for now).
Ultimately, everything here has to go.
Just as I will have to go.
The more painful choices will involve which writings to keep. There is too much. I believe I will start shredding all of the reprints and press mentions that used to seem like validations of my writing career. Now they feel like crap taking up space.
The print era has ended.
Thinking about the future, what I want to leave my kids and grandkids is an empty slate, in terms of paper, but I am a long way from that goal. I don't want them to have to sift through all of this junk, and try to make hard choices.
This is my work, not theirs.
In the midst of it all, I encountered a strange package, that I started to rip open, until I recognized the date. It was a badly wrapped envelope around a circular item. It was date 1/3/99.
Inside, I realized, was a golf ball my Dad had written his initials to on the last night of his life.
I stopped tearing it open, placed it back on the shelf, and kept on clearing up my own past.
Still hoping for a better future.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Fridays Nights Over Time
A very tired 13-year-old came back from camp yesterday. A few hours later, she was reading stories to her three-year-old nephew, over for a visit.
I had to leave and pick up one of her big brothers from soccer practice. When I returned, she told me, "I read him my favorite story from this book, Dad! 'The Little Red Hen.'"
My mind returned to when she was his size and age and I was reading this same story from this same book to her. A decade later, she's the reader.
***
We did a lot of other things during his visit.
I had to leave and pick up one of her big brothers from soccer practice. When I returned, she told me, "I read him my favorite story from this book, Dad! 'The Little Red Hen.'"
My mind returned to when she was his size and age and I was reading this same story from this same book to her. A decade later, she's the reader.
***
We did a lot of other things during his visit.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Thursdays Are Good Days
My resident artist and I drew dinosaurs and practiced writing. He wrote a sentence and then asked me what it meant. The first word, his name, was clear: "Luca." The rest was jibberish.
I thought for a moment what to tell him before saying: "It says 'Luca is a good big brother.'"
"Wow," he said. "I don't even know how to write those words."
Later, he helped me cook dinner. This little boy has a big heart and plenty of desire to help when a task like cooking is at hand.
P.S. The food we cooked together was delicious.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
The Empty Spaces
As one who works with words, I'm acutely conscious of everything that happens in between the words we speak, write, or think.
Others may romanticize words, and writing, but as a writer myself, my main insight is not what words can do but what they cannot do.
And here's what they cannot do. They cannot fill the empty spaces.
For many years, I had a fantasy.
It went something like this.
I (the writer) would sit up in my small office, high above the fields where our family grew crops of one sort or another. In my brilliance, I would write.
When I was done, I would go back down to the family compound, where my wife and children and I would share meals and games and the other things families share.
Friends would come over. We would have good times.
Based on the success of my writings, we would be rich enough to sustain this fantasy. Everyone would be happy, or at least happy enough to keep coming to dinner.
But, alas, none of this fantasy has come true. Apparently, I am neither a good enough writer, nor a good enough marketer of whatever talent I may possess, to achieve even a fraction of my fantasy.
Instead I sit here alone, in a flat in the poorer end of town, contemplating silence.
The very sound of silence.
The sounds of silence include the laughter that never reaches your ears. It also includes the gatherings that never happen. Ultimately, it includes the stories never written.
Without the sustaining strength of others around you, the writer's voice withers, much like an artichoke plant, relocated, without enough sun.
That is a sad fate. Obviously, I wish to avoid it; otherwise I would never write such a sad story. If my ultimate fantasy is unrealistic, I would at least like to find some sort of way to keep the silences deafening me at bay, and return to offering words that might give others comfort, whatever challenges they may face.
I know this much. I am not an artichoke, but a man. And, until my money runs out, I won't be relocated. But time is limited, and there are many problems to solve.
I'll keep supplying words until I go silent.
But who will fill the silence?
-30-
Others may romanticize words, and writing, but as a writer myself, my main insight is not what words can do but what they cannot do.
And here's what they cannot do. They cannot fill the empty spaces.
For many years, I had a fantasy.
It went something like this.
I (the writer) would sit up in my small office, high above the fields where our family grew crops of one sort or another. In my brilliance, I would write.
When I was done, I would go back down to the family compound, where my wife and children and I would share meals and games and the other things families share.
Friends would come over. We would have good times.
Based on the success of my writings, we would be rich enough to sustain this fantasy. Everyone would be happy, or at least happy enough to keep coming to dinner.
But, alas, none of this fantasy has come true. Apparently, I am neither a good enough writer, nor a good enough marketer of whatever talent I may possess, to achieve even a fraction of my fantasy.
Instead I sit here alone, in a flat in the poorer end of town, contemplating silence.
The very sound of silence.
The sounds of silence include the laughter that never reaches your ears. It also includes the gatherings that never happen. Ultimately, it includes the stories never written.
Without the sustaining strength of others around you, the writer's voice withers, much like an artichoke plant, relocated, without enough sun.
That is a sad fate. Obviously, I wish to avoid it; otherwise I would never write such a sad story. If my ultimate fantasy is unrealistic, I would at least like to find some sort of way to keep the silences deafening me at bay, and return to offering words that might give others comfort, whatever challenges they may face.
I know this much. I am not an artichoke, but a man. And, until my money runs out, I won't be relocated. But time is limited, and there are many problems to solve.
I'll keep supplying words until I go silent.
But who will fill the silence?
-30-
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
All Along the Mountain's Spine
I drove a carful of thirteen-year-old girls to camp today, and they never stopped talking the entire two hours of driving along freeways, up over mountain passes, or through deepening redwood forests. It was as if our magnificent surroundings held little interest to them as they gossiped, talked about how pretty various actresses are, complained about how photogenic or not they considered themselves to be, how many shoes they had, what was on their Facebook pages, and other important matters.
Once there, deep in the Santa Cruz Mountains, I helped several groups of kids pitch their tents and pointed out the nearby deer tracks along the edge of a muddy creek. About 40 kids and a handful of adults are camping there for the next three nights, an annual event at their school.
The school year is ending around here. The boys are finishing up their exams; after tomorrow, their school years are essentially over. The struggle to get them to pass math is one of the most relentlessly depressing themes of recent weeks and months.
They just don't think math matters.
It's ironic because we live in a time when, arguably, math matters more than ever before, at least if you want to get a good job. You need at least to comprehend what an algorithm is!
A week from tomorrow is my first meeting with one of the two auditors I have to deal with this season. I'm almost ready, just waiting on a couple last records from the bank, which hopefully will arrive in time.
It's a hot night. Two minutes after dropping the boys at their Mom's and returning here, a large boom came from nearby. I shuddered; about a year ago on a similar warm Tuesday night, my neighbor was shot and killed out front.
But this boom was far louder, so if from a gun, would have had to be a shotgun not a pistol.
But it must have been something else, because this time there were no police cars, no flashing red lights, no ambulances, no body bags.
The Giants are winning games. My fantasy baseball team has one of the biggest leads over the rest of the league ever seen in our 14-team group. I don't know how this happened, actually; my team is a perpetual loser.
Maybe the math is on my side in this one small way.
Summer begins. So many questions hang over me and my family, it's hard to relax and enjoy it. But, as always, I'm happy for the kids.
Driving alone up a long stretch of lonely highway today, with hardly any other cars in sight, I wished mightily I'd had a partner in the car with me. Someone to share the beauty of California with. We could have stopped at one point, climbed a ridge, and sat together in the high grasses, enjoying the view and each other.
But that was just a dream, just a dream.
No one sits beside me, in my car or anywhere. I am on my own, a loner not by choice but by fate. Unlike on the drive south, when four voices never ceased sounding, not a word was spoken on the long drive back north. No one said anything because there was no one to hear it.
-30-
Once there, deep in the Santa Cruz Mountains, I helped several groups of kids pitch their tents and pointed out the nearby deer tracks along the edge of a muddy creek. About 40 kids and a handful of adults are camping there for the next three nights, an annual event at their school.
The school year is ending around here. The boys are finishing up their exams; after tomorrow, their school years are essentially over. The struggle to get them to pass math is one of the most relentlessly depressing themes of recent weeks and months.
They just don't think math matters.
It's ironic because we live in a time when, arguably, math matters more than ever before, at least if you want to get a good job. You need at least to comprehend what an algorithm is!
A week from tomorrow is my first meeting with one of the two auditors I have to deal with this season. I'm almost ready, just waiting on a couple last records from the bank, which hopefully will arrive in time.
It's a hot night. Two minutes after dropping the boys at their Mom's and returning here, a large boom came from nearby. I shuddered; about a year ago on a similar warm Tuesday night, my neighbor was shot and killed out front.
But this boom was far louder, so if from a gun, would have had to be a shotgun not a pistol.
But it must have been something else, because this time there were no police cars, no flashing red lights, no ambulances, no body bags.
The Giants are winning games. My fantasy baseball team has one of the biggest leads over the rest of the league ever seen in our 14-team group. I don't know how this happened, actually; my team is a perpetual loser.
Maybe the math is on my side in this one small way.
Summer begins. So many questions hang over me and my family, it's hard to relax and enjoy it. But, as always, I'm happy for the kids.
Driving alone up a long stretch of lonely highway today, with hardly any other cars in sight, I wished mightily I'd had a partner in the car with me. Someone to share the beauty of California with. We could have stopped at one point, climbed a ridge, and sat together in the high grasses, enjoying the view and each other.
But that was just a dream, just a dream.
No one sits beside me, in my car or anywhere. I am on my own, a loner not by choice but by fate. Unlike on the drive south, when four voices never ceased sounding, not a word was spoken on the long drive back north. No one said anything because there was no one to hear it.
-30-
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Fathers
Father's Day will come soon. How much do fathers care about their kids? There are some Dads who must appear heartless in their kids' eyes, due to their absence, or their abuse (which is inexcusable), or their inability to express emotion.
But the great majority of Dads, in my estimation, care a lot, much more than they ever get the chance to demonstrate.
In our and in most cultures, males have never been encouraged to be demonstrative, on an emotional level. We are supposed to be big, tough, strong providers.
But life doesn't always allow us to play our given role.
Sometimes, we are weak, lost, unemployed. Sometimes, we may appear in society's eyes, to be failures. Sometimes, we cannot make our children proud, on any level. We turn out to be flawed on all kinds of levels, and, of course, our children see it all.
Other times, fueled by a desire so primal as to scare even us, as we look into the mirror, we rise to the occasion, save the day, come up with the money or the resources needed to make things right. Then we become heroes, another inappropriate label, although much more satisfying to us.
-30-
But the great majority of Dads, in my estimation, care a lot, much more than they ever get the chance to demonstrate.
In our and in most cultures, males have never been encouraged to be demonstrative, on an emotional level. We are supposed to be big, tough, strong providers.
But life doesn't always allow us to play our given role.
Sometimes, we are weak, lost, unemployed. Sometimes, we may appear in society's eyes, to be failures. Sometimes, we cannot make our children proud, on any level. We turn out to be flawed on all kinds of levels, and, of course, our children see it all.
Other times, fueled by a desire so primal as to scare even us, as we look into the mirror, we rise to the occasion, save the day, come up with the money or the resources needed to make things right. Then we become heroes, another inappropriate label, although much more satisfying to us.
-30-
The First Game
Hours after coaching the Palominos to victory in their final game ever, Aidan's season started for the Seals.
They came out of the gate playing at a fast pace, and led 3-0 by halftime.
In the second half they gave up one goal, then scored two more.
Those of us watching were seeing a team really jell.
After so many years and countless frustrations and joys, as a soccer parent, sometimes I'm not quite sure what I feel at moments like these.
After their 5-1 win, I thought about it for a long while, and did an inventory of my complex feelings. It felt good, I decided. It's good. Winning is fun.
Humans are naturally competitive.
Left to our own devices, we kill one another as part of our competitive nature. Thus, many of us have mixed feelings about competition. Yet, in sports, we create "safe" ways for our youth to compete. To work it all out, more or less.
There are rules. They shake hands afterward. Hopefully, no one dies or gets too badly hurt.
Still, a game like soccer, at the level these boys play, is quite dangerous (see my previous posts). It's no longer just a game.
-30-
They came out of the gate playing at a fast pace, and led 3-0 by halftime.
In the second half they gave up one goal, then scored two more.
Those of us watching were seeing a team really jell.
After so many years and countless frustrations and joys, as a soccer parent, sometimes I'm not quite sure what I feel at moments like these.
After their 5-1 win, I thought about it for a long while, and did an inventory of my complex feelings. It felt good, I decided. It's good. Winning is fun.
Humans are naturally competitive.
Left to our own devices, we kill one another as part of our competitive nature. Thus, many of us have mixed feelings about competition. Yet, in sports, we create "safe" ways for our youth to compete. To work it all out, more or less.
There are rules. They shake hands afterward. Hopefully, no one dies or gets too badly hurt.
Still, a game like soccer, at the level these boys play, is quite dangerous (see my previous posts). It's no longer just a game.
-30-
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