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« July 2005 | Hilstonblog Main | September 2005 » Hilstonblog
Archive • August 2005 Aug. 30, 2005 THE CATBIRD SEAT If you've never read James Thurber's short story, The Catbird Seat, I highly recommend it. You can find it here. PROVOLONE ~ PSYCHODRAMA provolone ~ psychodrama is another curious word-pairing I found in the folio of one of my dictionaries -- top of page 586, The New Merriam-Webster Dictionary. Coincidentally, I saw "Goodfellas" this weekend. [Comedic pause.] Goodfellas is the quintessential provolone psychodrama. I hadn't seen it before. Having now seen it, I have grown as a result, as a person. Not in any profound way. As I slog along, charting my course through the vicissitudes of life, I gain perspective, understanding, insights into the human condition. Movies, whether fiction, non, or somewhere in between (but isn't it all S.I.B.?), feed me this. I know I know. You're wondering if maybe that gives me an inadequate two-dimensional skewview®* of people, of relationships, of family, of friends, of love. Of course it does! Fact is, no one has a true view. If you think you do, I dare you to prove it. Rest assured that there are other sources to balance my diet, not the least of which is my own multi-dimensionality, as I bob about in a sea of memories, experiences, memorex; tossed amid the winds and waves of my own emotions, ideas and opinions, fears and prejudices; annoyed by the sea-foam of self-loathing that goes up my nose always when it's least expected; and too often knocked fro-and-to by the flotsam of relationships and trust I'd destroyed; repeatedly bumping into the familiar jetsam of disappointments and pain I'd cast overboard, hoping I'd be rid of it all forever. Now, just top all that with some melted provolone. Salut! * I invented that word. Skewview. But I give you permission to use it, as long as my attribution is prominently displayed and/or clearly announced. Like this, "... or, as Hilston says, a 'skewview.'" Then add something about what a clever bloke Hilston is. Aug. 26, 2005 LQA In case you have a chance to look here, your new-ish friends are thinking about you. Aug. 24, 2005 Flowers
Smell Fake Wife: Mmm. Hey, smell these! Me: They're flowers. Wife: Just smell them. Me: I'm going to be disappointed. Wife: Just smell them. Me: [sniffing] Wife: Well? Me: They're flowers. Wife: Don't they smell terrific? Me: We've been through this. Wife: Come on! Don't they smell great? Me: They're flowers. They smell like soap. Wife: Me: They always smell like soap. Wife: Me: But not as good. Wife: You need help. Me: Help me by not setting me up for disappointment. And thus I continue to discover ways to declare myself a victim of modernity. For example, there are two kinds of banana flavors in the world. They taste nothing like each other, but they are both known in my mind as "the flavor of banana." Of course, there's the fruit itself that has, not surprisingly, a banana flavor. But then there's banana gum, banana popsickles and banana candy, all of which also have a banana flavor, but taste nothing like the fruit. Notwithstanding, my mind knows well that particular flavor as a banana flavor, and calls it banana, even though it is nothing like the Real Thing, i.e. the fruit. This phenomenon is something I refer to as the Charlie-Emilio Postulate, or the Sheen Construct if I'm short on time -- named, of course, after Charlie Sheen and Emilio Estevez. The principle is as follows: Charlie and Emilio are sons of Martin Sheen. Both look very much like their dad, Martin Sheen. But they look nothing like each other. They do not look at all like brothers. This postulate applies to the banana flavors. Both banana flavors, Charlie and Emilio, are sons of Sheen. However, they would not be pegged as brother flavors, Bananas Sheen, if you will, in a line-up -- or a taste test, as it were. Witness the bane of modernity: The natural must compete with the artificial, as in the case of the banana flavor, and is even sometimes supplanted, as in the case of the natural fragrance of flowers. Throughout my youth, I never had much of an affinity for sniffing flowers. Sure, you could say they were beautiful. But to my adolescent mind, beautiful was Barbi Benton. Sure, you could say they were colorful. But in the mind of the future Batman, nothing was as colorfully appealing as the pages of a Detective comic. Barbi Benton I would sniff. The pages of a Detective comic book I would sniff. But not just sniff. I would inhale, like a freshly printed sheet of mimeograph paper. Some of you know what I mean. That long, deep, devouring, face-buried-in-the-page kind of olfactory-synapses-firing-like-machine-guns sort of thing. Followed by an equally long and moaning exhale, trailing off. Mmmmmaaaaaaaaaah ... Was it the ink? The paper? The staples? Who knows, but I did it and I liked it. But sniffing flowers? I couldn't be bothered. Besides, I had hay fever. So I figured flowers would probably make me sneeze and wheeze and my eyes swell into Itchy Red Oozing Orbs the Size of Grapefruit (Pink Grapefruit). After I became an adult, gainfully employed, family man, husband, dad -- not necessarily in that order -- it occurred to me -- probably inspired by the lyrics of one curly-locked 70s alleged-heartthrob named Mac Davis -- that one should stop every once in a while to smell the roses. So I started doing that. Quite literally. Now, when I see flowers on someone's desk or at a park or even at the grocery store, I stop to smell them. In so doing, I have discovered two things. Thing One: Some flowers don't have a smell. Like Blackeyed Susans. And it seems the odorless ones are those that make my eyes turn into I.R.O.O.t.S.o.G.(P.G.). Once, my florophile coworker Diane (her real name) had Blackeyed Susans in a vase on her desk. I leaned over to sniff them, using only one nostril (don't ask). I was surprised to find they had no smell. Twenty minutes later, the eye apparently connected by secret passages to the aforementioned nostril became an I.R.O.O.t.S.o.G.(P.G.). Thing Two: Flowers smell fake. Among the flowers I've sniffed that are known for their fragrance, I've known nothing but disappointment. Every one of them smells weakly artificial. This one smells like soap. That one smells like shampoo. These smell like hand lotion. Those smell like anti-static dryer sheets. Some smell like laundry detergent. Others smell like those deodorizing air fresheners -- only not as strong. Flowers are like less intense, less concentrated, and therefore, fake, versions of the Real Thing. The Real Thing being soap. Or shampoo or hand lotion or dryer sheets or laundry detergent or deodorizing air fresheners. Every time I sniff a flower I think, "Smells like soap, but not as good." Flowers are just soap wannabees. They try too hard and fail miserably. Soap is strong, nonchalant, confident and aloof. You don't see soap trying to look like flowers. Flowers are delicate, fragile and needy. And this is what modernity has done to me. It has undermined my appreciation for natural beauty (with the exception of Barbi Benton). It has assaulted and distorted my senses and sensibilities (and other Austenian qualities) to the point of comparing the Sheen brothers to banana flavors and assigning Freudian persona to soap and flowers. I'm a mess and I must take stock of what is Real. But consider the words of the Great Morpheus, "What is 'real'? How do you define 'real'? If you're talking about what you can feel, what you can smell, what you can taste and see, then 'real' is simply electrical signals interpreted by your brain." And since my brain says banana popsickles and soap are real, I go camping. In a tent. And my tent is merely my pod in the Matrix, because my campsite is 40 feet from the bathroom and showers -- and its soap dispensers. Aug. 21, 2005 Sunday
Morning Patio Tour There truly is nothing quite like it. These rare mornings when the temperature is perfect. There's a faint breeze. The sky is a striking blue. The sparse clouds convey the notion that it is, indeed, a summer Sunday morning, with nothing that I have to do, but lots of things I want to do, and among them, just to relax, and read, and recline. These are the moments I live for. And I'm very aware of them when they happen. I'm thankful for that. Sure, it's terrific, wonderful, and simply great to remember these moments long after the fact. But it's almost as good to realize, in the very moment, to self-consciously create the memory that's going to be terrific, wonderful, and simply great to remember long after the fact. So that's what I did this morning. Sipping my coffee. Reading Dave Eggers. Leaning back on the springy patio chairs. Still in my pajamas. I breathed the morning air. Normally at first. Then deeply. Exhaled. Set down Eggers. Stretched. Yawned. Felt the moisture in my eyes from the intensity of the yawn. Basked in the momentary lightheadedness and euphoria that sometimes attend an intense yawn. Then I thought, "This is one of those moments I live for. Where's my camera," which wasn't really a question, but a statement to myself that picture-taking was about to ensue. The collage of images you'll find at the link below comprises a moment from my life. I want to share it with you, if you're interested. If you're not, that's fine. I know it's self-indulgent. But that's what I do. If you move your mouse over and around the image on this page, you'll find links that explain the various items on my patio or within view of the patio. Aug. 20, 2005 Simply
Smile When I read rhymes to my daughter, I read them quickly. I enjoy that. Reading Rhymes Quickly. One rhyme in particular moved me. I know this because, before I realized what I was doing, I found myself re-reading the rhyme, but slowly. It went like this (read it slowly):
Aug. 19, 2005 Photo
Op Idlewild Park is an amusement park. People take pictures at amusement parks. Sometimes people are not sure about what makes a nice picture. People sometimes need advice or guidance about where to shoot good pictures. One day, a brilliant employee of Idlewild Park had a brilliant idea: What if we helped out our guests by suggesting to them where they might take a nice picture? We could put a sign there and get Kodak to sponsor it. And that is precisely what they did (see photo at left). Now, guests of Idlewild Park will never be at a loss concerning where they might take a nice picture. While a couple looks through their photo album sometime in the future, one says: Aww, look honey. There's that sign we saw at Idlewild. And the trash can. And that fence-enclosed area in front of the Ferris Wheel where the 'Photo Spot' sign was. Aug.
17, 2005 We -- my first wife, first three children and I -- were at Put-In-Bay (South Bass Island on Lake Erie) last week. Put-In-Bay becomes a place of Drunken Revelry and Debauchery in the evenings and weekends. But that's not why we were there. We did family-friendly activities -- swimming, biking, shopping, campfire cooking, nature and history stuff -- during the daylight/weekdays, and so, right according to plan, we didn't see much of the DR&D. In one of the little shops interspersed between bars my wife found a novelty t-shirt with the words:
LIVER Laura held it up to show it to me, laughing. Laura: Hey, look. I look at the shirt. I laugh, too, nodding in acknowledgment, appreciating (what appeared to be) one of those subtly meaningful, nearly imperceptible, but nonetheless profoundly sublime moments of "connection" with one's spouse of 14 years. It's a great feeling when it happens, especially because my wife and I have nearly polarized senses of humor. But why exactly did we laugh at this shirt? Was it because of its obvious reference to the aforementioned DR&D for which Put-In-Bay is so renowned? No. I have this thing, see. This liver disease thing, you know. So when Laura showed me the shirt, I automatically think: It applies. I want it. She sees me pause. She knows I'm thinking about it. Laura: You're thinking of getting it, aren't you? Me: Kinda. I don't know. The type is really bad. But I like what it says. Laura: [Snickering] I know. Why don't you get it? It's just $15. Me: Yeah, but I don't know. If it were designed a little better, maybe. But ... Laura: OK. We could come back if you change your mind. Me: True. Throughout the day, we saw maybe one or two more gift/souvenir shops with t-shirts having the same message, but of equally bad design. Laura: There's that same shirt. Just different typography. Me: Yeah, I saw that. Laura: You don't like this one either? Me: Nah. They all just look so lame. Laura: K. At the end of the day, as we drove back to the campsite, I began to reflect on the day' s events, the shops we'd visited, and the various curious merchandises we'd seen. I then noticed someone who seemed obviously inebriated, which segued my thoughts toward: Me: It's a shame about those shirts being so badly designed. Laura: Yeah, that was funny. Me: That guy right there should be wearing it. Laura: Who? Me: That drunk guy right there. Look at him. He can barely stand up. Laura: Why? Me: Why what? Laura: Why should that guy be wearing the Liver-Is-Evil shirt? Me: Laura: Me: Be. Cause. He's killing. His. Liver? Laura: Oh. Me: Oh? Laura: [Now laughing] Me: Please. Laura: [Still laughing] Me: Please tell me you didn't. Laura: [Stops laughing for a second and looks at me, teary-eyed, face ready to explode] Me: Oh no you didn't. Laura: [Burst of laughter] Me: Please tell me you did NOT think that shirt was referring to ... [Shaking my head in disgust] ... Laura: [Laughing uncontrollably] People ... [catching her breath] ... people who don't ... [gasping] ... don't like to ... [sputtering] .. to eat liver!!! Me: I want a divorce. Bystanders and pedestrians turn lazily to note as one woman's screams of laughter are heard muffled and trailing from out of a passing family-sized vehicle. Her spouse can be seen, head in his hands, hat pulled down over his eyes, squirming as if in pain, probably the result of too much DR&D. Aug. 16, 2005 A
Place to Set Things Down One of several things I've learned after 5 days of living in the quasi-woods* is as follows: Until one (meaning me) finds oneself in a quasi-primitive setting with very few if any horizontal surfaces upon which to put one's stuff, one (meaning me) does not fully appreciate (a) the utter ubiquity of horizontal surfaces and (b) their pervasive and practical utility in daily life. That is, unless one (meaning me) does not mind setting things on the ground. Setting my things on the ground is, in most cases, (a) not preferable and in some cases, (b) entirely out of the question. So, living for 5 days in the quasi-woods* gave me ample -- indeed, well-nigh innumerable -- opportunities to feel the unsettling effect of trying to function with a severely limited number of horizontal surfaces.
Surprisingly, however, one's (meaning my) need for one's fellow man (or woman or child) is not fully appreciated until one (meaning me) finds oneself with a severely limited choice of useable horizontal surfaces.
*We had electrical hookups, running water, and could see a well-traveled public road from our tent site. jah 12:21 a.m. Aug. 15, 2005 Hilstonic
Cynicism At some point in the recent past, I realized that I was taking things way too seriously: Politics, social ills, government intrusion, my shortcomings, my self-loathing, my self-agrandizement, my awesome vocabulary, the negative vibe merchants I must tolerate, the idiots in the world we call "people," et cetera ad nauseum et cetera. I was even taking my own seriousness too seriously. Seriously. Then something inside me switched on and sent an important bulletin to my brain:
While I've always (and often) call myself names for the stupid things I do, I now do so with glee, fully expecting myself to be an idiot. You IDiot! When other people act like idiots, I call them names, too, but also with glee, because I fully expect other people to be idiots. You IDiots! Is this resignation? Nah. It's realistignation. And, as the French (idiots) say: C'est la vie (but with that idiotic Fronzh awk-SAWN) jah 12:38 a.m. Aug. 7, 2005 Vacate,
shun Tomorrow begins five days of vacation. My dictionary says "a period of exemption from work granted to an employee for rest and relaxation." We'll see. By the way, if you want to stop by for a visit while I'm gone, please feed Bunny Cakes (he's a rottweiler). He will be especially hungry since the only thing I left for him is a 5-gallon bucket of water. Don't worry about wondering what he likes to eat. He'll help himself when you arrive. I was just kidding about the rottweiler. His name is actually Foo-Foo Britches. In all honesty, if there's anything someone wants so badly that they have to wait until I'm on vacation and then go through the trouble of breaking in and stealing it, they can have it*. Not that I won't be pissed off about it. But it would be my own fault after all. The only reason people commit murder or burglary is because we "haves" invite this behavior of the "have-nots." By having stuff, we are basically saying to those who have not stuff: "Here, come and take this. And kill me while you're at it." They want our stuff, so they murder and burgle to have it. It's the circle of life, as they say, and as Elton sings. See all y'all when I get back. *As long as "it" is not my face-hugger. Jensen Click here to see Jensen. Jensen is an unusual bloke. What makes him unusual, you ask? Just look at him! No, it's not his dimples. It's his feet. He can pick up watermelon seeds with those toes of his. Aug 5 , 2005 Graduation
Haiku (Ahem) Months,
years of study. (The end) Newspaper-Friendly
Writing When I write, sometimes the purpose is just to write. I may like the way the keys are feeling under my fingertips. Or I may be enjoying the way the ink flows out of the pen. At other times my purpose is to convey a message or to illustrate some moral maxim I've come to embrace. Whatever. Sometimes I just want to tell a story, as it was in the case of my Don't Look In The Freezer story. When I offered this story for the "Saturday Diary" to the editors of the newspaper at which I am employed, I was urged to re-work it with the newspaper reader in mind, to perhaps weave a message or some conclusion birthed from poignant reflection or something like that. I'm not complaining. I welcomed the challenge. Click hmyah to see/read the result. Aug 4 , 2005 I
Cracked My Head On The Glick I find it the most remarkable and amazing thing that these groups of abstract symbols (the ones you're looking at right this very moment. I mean right now. These symbols right here. These very ones. Like the "t" in these. You get what I mean) can convey information and meaning as solid as concrete. Like the word concrete itself, for example; its letters, its sound, its placement within a sentence, it's all abstract, symbolic, merely a placeholder for that to which it refers. But that to which it refers is very real, very particular, very useful (not unlike the word very, or really). We might decide at some future point to change concrete to glick. Different letters, different sound, and thus a different symbol or placeholder for its referrent. But the meaning would be the same. Nothing would change about our perception of glick (formerly concrete), its properties, its utility, or how it feels when you crack your head on it. Aug. 2 , 2005 Things
I’ve Tried To Do That I Don’t Do Anymore I tried to see how wide I could open my jaws without parting my lips. Then I wondered what my face looked like while doing this. So I got up to go look in a mirror. I don't do that anymore. ©2005 James Hilston |
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