9.30.09

My uncle was said to be a savant of some sort. I don't remember him being like Rainman grasping impossible mathematical equations out of thin air, but in his thirties I remember having a mental edge on him even though I couldn't tie my own shoes.

However slow or dependent my uncle was, it was said that he could hear Beethoven or Bach or Chopin and instantly turn to a piano and recite it note for note. Unfortunately, no one ever pointed his skill out to me until much later in life. Being musically inclined at such an early age, I probably would've appreciated it. I might have even been inspired.

In first grade I had asked for a guitar. I remember this specifically and I remember the specific answer. It was "no." A guitar would be too loud, I was told. Indeed, it would've been. At the time ACDC decorated my bedroom wall. Everything I listened to had distortion and Van Halen was singing "Where have all the good times gone?" I wasn't old enough to ask such a question, but the music validated me and I asked it anyway. I wasn't on a "Highway to Hell," either, but nothing stopped me from feeling it.

That was a glorious time in music right before it began to suck and with a guitar I most definitely would've channeled into the mystic. And maybe with a couple of lessons and a little encouragement, I might have even been inspired. Hell, I might have even made something of it. Instead, all I remember is disappointment and how maybe music wasn't so important after all.

I turn my attention towards my child these days. He just turned two and that guitar, he carries it around like a teddy bear. There's a gravitational pull, just like the one he has with the keyboard. There's something there and I'm not sure if it's because of my telekinesis forcing him towards the instruments or the fact that he watches his father throughout the day.

Or if there's something deeper, like what was in my uncle.

But I never have to prod him or hold an instrument to him. He knows where they are and he finds them. Most importantly, he plays them. As loud as he pleases.

In all his innocence, he holds that guitar like a whiskey-soaked troubadour. He taps his foot to the floor and sings something that's all emotion and no sense. And with that horrible hair style his mother and I are letting him get away with, he half looks like Gram Parsons incarnate. The kid's got soul, man. And I'm here to see he doesn't lose it.

9.25.09

My motto sometime ago became James Joyce's words when he wrote "Write it, damn you, write it! What else are you good for?" Since then, to answer the author's rhetorical question: as a writer, not much.

This goes to prove two points: one, a well-intentioned motto doesn't pay the bills. And two, if you're going to use a motto, try to find one whose question doesn't easily about-face with a matter-of-fact and unwelcoming answer.

But I'm a big quote-geek. I've been known (just by me up to this point) to google "Calvin Coolidge quotes" and remain entertained half the night. So having had a couple of other Joyce quotes on hand and needing to tie myself to some admirable person's words, perhaps I should have gone the less optimistic route, saving the inevitable mockery from that open-ended third degree.

A more appropriate quote for me, I suppose, would've been the time a friend asked Joyce how many words he'd written that day. Joyce said "Seven." "That's good," his friend said. "At least, for you."

"Perhaps," Joyce replied. "But I don't know what order they go in."

That defeat up front lends itself a tranquility not offered by demanding questions like "What else are you good for?". You can stand by a quote like that and not worry about the embarrassment of under-performing. Or, in my case, not performing at all.

I've got a goose-egg to Joyce's seven. Eh, I'll catch the guy tomorrow.

But of course I won't. I'll wake up tomorrow morning and go through the clustered-up back-and-forth, 20 Questions session of finding out what everyone wants for breakfast. I'll make it and later clean half of it off the floor. And then the day just kind of snowballs out of control from there. It'll get to a point where sex doesn't even seem appealing, much less banging keys.

I think when Joyce was writing seven words per day was when the kids came along. "Dubliners" and "Ulysses" were probably a breeze. He probably wrote those under the hushed tones of a childless abode. And then one day, the friend asked Joyce how many words he'd written. But Joyce didn't just say "seven." No, we got the abbreviated version there. He actually went off on some rant about being woken up at three a.m. the night before, changing enough shitty diapers to stand the stench and being begged into playing with action figures that would never die, thus the playing would never end. Joyce probably told his friend that he was going crazy, completely insane, and that even with only seven words he had no idea how to arrange them. Because his kids' sentences didn't make sense, he said, his sentences in turn were losing their comprehension. And sometime thereafter, the literary spirit in him just died and he asked himself: "What else are you good for?"

And I don't know; maybe he became okay with just being a father and said as much in some obscure interview not even tracked on the web. Now, those would be some words I could live by.

8.09.09

You might have heard of Julie Powell, but chances are that you're more familiar with Amy Adams, the actress that plays Powell in "Julie and Julia." Adams' has been Powell's face lately, the way the masses know her. But I've taken an interest in Powell herself. She's become my benchmark, my guiding light, that beacon up ahead that's directing my route.

She was, like me, an aspiring writer who was in less than an inspiring situation. Powell worked a government temp job which (in all hells of Hell) took suggestions from the public about the memorial that should be resurrected for 9/11. Once the project was decided, it was her job then to listen to the public's response. I think I'd have just as soon preferred to take my chances as a knife-thrower's assistant.

I have it a little better, I'll admit. I spend the day with my kids. Trying to make money after the wife comes home, however, is where I can relate to Powell. Anything I'm qualified for gets me the equivalent of listening to emotional blowhards giving their opinions about a structure they'll probably not think twice about when it's built.

But Powell has accomplished what I've been trying to, through the portal I'm currently crawling in, the web.

In 2002 she began cooking all 524 recipes in Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking." One thing led to another and she began posting her experiences in a blog which started revealing intimate details of her life. Long story short, her blog manifested a large following, she wrote a book and Meryl Streep now stars in the adaptation of that novel.

Turns out Julia Childs never appreciated Powell's ascent off her culinary coattails. Childs thought that the act of a blog to recreate her book was a bit trite and insincere. But when you read about the sacrifices that Powell went through (the numbing day job, the trips to the store for eclectic ingredients for sophisticated recipes and little sleep to go along with her deteriorating marriage), it's inspirational.

The whole idea as a writer is to try to find a "voice," a literary accent that sets you apart from everybody else. To get to that voice, from what I've read, you have to go through the hell of admitting that most of what you write is essentially crap. If you've gotten this far in the post here, you know exactly what I'm talking about. The process is rarely pretty.

Where I've misled myself over the years is looking at the muck of the writing process and refusing to dive in with goloshes and goggles. That vernacular pit is an incredibly messy and lonely place and it has no room for people who aren't willing to slop through the shit.

Thanks to Powell and her mimicry of Childs, though, I'm again holding my nose and stepping in.

8.08.09

I'm walking across the Roberta Crenshaw Pedestrian Walkway where I usually begin my morning jogs. I had never thought about it before this morning, but I guess Ms. Crenshaw was an established figure in Austin's history. After all, she has her own well-lit "pedestrian walkway" where thousands cross her namesake every day to get to the other side of Lady Bird Lake.

Now, Lady Bird Johnson, she's not so bad herself.

As I cross this bridge, a man strides past me and a few moments later almost in a hushed scream he blurts out "fuck yeah!" pumping his fist and hopping up as if he'd just sunk a go-ahead jumper with a minute left. With just him and my dog and I out there on that bridge at five-thirty on a Saturday morning, I found it a little odd; but I just figured the spirit of this Crenshaw lady can do that to a man sometimes.

I was in no mood for barbaric yawls, though. Dressed in jeans and a black Onion Creek Coffee House t-shirt, I had no intention of seizing the day or sucking the marrow out of life. Well, maybe I did. But quietly, to myself. Like I was nibbling the marrow's morsels, full from yesterday's helping.

What did I even do yesterday? I can barely remember. I know I was with my family and that seemed to be enough.

Fuck yeah.

6.23.09

For a while Ezra has been able to follow simple instructions. This was a skill I didn’t think a toddler had. I mean, he can’t speak words, or sentences anyway, so how would he understand what we’re telling him? “Throw it in the trash . . .” and he throws it in the trash. “Let’s take a bath . . .” and he runs to the bath. “Go get Cookie Monster and put him in the box . . .” He does it. But this latest trick of his is my favorite, and Mr. Wallace you’ll appreciate this the most: Every morning when he’s in our room hell-bent on waking us up, I’ll say “Let’s go get the newspaper . . .” and he bolts towards the door, out the room , howling and screaming, as he makes his way to the front door for me to unlock it.

6.11.09

I knew summer vacation was in full swing when I heard Regis Feldman's voice this morning. Just as sure as the leaves turn colors in fall, that Regis and Kelly Show gives an obnoxiously clear indication that Sarah is off from work for the next three months. But some good came of it: I found out that Betty White was still alive. No, I'm serious, she was right there on the television. I saw the interview.

5.27.09

KONOS is a Christian-based homeschooling teaching method that contains lessons for all grade levels. I was a bit skeptical because of the program's ideological roots. But after reading a sample lesson on Communism, I'm willing to side-step the undesirable items for gems like this (taken directly from their website):

"Most people would say that younger children cannot understand communism. It is too abstract and too old a concept for young ones to understand. Jessica would say nonsense…just make it hands-on and personal. Have all children get their lunches… not just any, everyday lunch, but a special lunch with treats. Before lunch starts, mom pins on the Soviet flag and informs everyone that she is "the State" and instructs everyone, "There will be no prayers today, because we are an atheist nation believing only in the material world." Further, she instructs everyone to pass his lunch to her. "There is no individual ownership in the communist state. That is not your lunch. It belongs to the State." If anyone protests, she sends him to exile in Siberia (aka the bathroom). Next, mom will begin "redistribution of the wealth." Each child gets one potato chip while "the State" feasts on Hostess Cup Cakes, Ding-Dongs, and ham and cheese sandwiches. Any protesting…off to Siberia. Do the students understand communism after having a KONOS communist lunch? You bet!"