Mac, Author at Mindful Hours

Mac

I’m Not Dead Yet

Jul 012012

I'm tired of damn near everything. I can't remember the last time I was really excited—about anything. I mean I literally cannot remember the last time. That's pathetic. No, maybe that's the wrong word. Pathetic would be the right word if I were young because getting excited when we're young is a core emotion and function; there is lots of discovery going on and that can and should be exciting. But I'm not young, I am old. I'm past the male life expectancy number in the U.S.A., so that's old. Oh, I'm still curious about some things, big and small, like what in the hell is this all about—who are we, what are we, where are we, why are we. I'm still not satisfied or convinced by anything I have read or heard so far and I have read most of the important stuff and talked with and listened to a lot of apparently smart people who say they have the answers. But for whatever reasons, I am still as unconvinced as ever. So I am still thinking about those things. And I am still curious and fascinated with what goes on—the complexity of nature, the idiosyncratic behaviors of men, mice, all the rest, including the accomplishments of humans in their inexorable march toward … whatever, which as you should have noticed takes us back to the big questions. Think circular.

But curiosity and fascination don't replace excitement. It's better than nothing, I admit. So it is something. Years ago when I was young I read a quote by an ancient Roman or Greek comedian. I don't remember which. He said he was depressed because all the jokes had already been told, that there was nothing new for him to say. He said that about 2000 years ago. Of course it can be argued that all things are new to each generation and that maybe he was not the most creative guy or maybe he was just a lousy comedian. But maybe he was making a larger point. Maybe he was making an existential statement or observation. We'll probably never know but it doesn't matter because it doesn't change anything. The questions we ask now are the same questions that humans have been asking for, perhaps, as long as we have been here. You see where this has taken me? There is no forethought here; I am just writing this as it comes to me. It's a “thoughts-to-paper” thing.

It should be obvious to you (Of course I have no idea if anyone will ever read this or if they do, who they are—who you are.) by now that I miss excitement in my life, the kind of excitement that at one time really got my juices flowing. It may not be the same kind of excitement that gets you pumped and eager for more; we each have our own set of interests. So just imagine if whatever excites you now—stuff that you eagerly look forward to—were to become mundane, even boring. Like I said, if you are young, that might be pathetic.

Well, I can tell you, for this old reprobate, the only thing that shifts it a little distance from the proximity of pathetic is the subtle process of getting old. This stuff doesn't happen in a startling flash in time. There is no wow thing—no “Holy crap! What happened?" – moment; at least not for me. It was an insidious, inexorable, sneaky kind of thing. There were a series of displaced moments over a period of years when I felt—at times, with sadness—that something was duller, less purposeful, disturbingly absent. The youthful emotion of excitement was dying.

I know, there are those in my generation who insist that they wake up with a zest for life. I believe some of them—not all but some. Some have different social and family lives than I or have had different life challenges. Those things can sometimes make a difference. Then too we are all wired differently. Nothing new there. For full disclosure I will duly note that most people I know think I have the demeanor and outlook of someone much younger than I am. I hear it often enough to convince me that they're not stroking me. So what's the deal? What's going on? It's simple; it's all about me and how I feel and think about myself. That's what I am writing about—me. That is except for all the others who may share my experience. Not inadvertently, I am also writing about them. It's personal, singular, a simple exposition on one's current life experience—nothing original, nor uncommon.

What's that? Is there anything at all that could, would excite me? Glad you asked because I almost forgot something. If I knew that tomorrow, or sometime very soon, I was going to fly again, I mean at the controls of an airplane—that would excite me. I might even feel that core excitement again if I had a license and knew that I could fly almost anytime I want to! Is that possible? Yes, it is at least possible.

So forget everything I just wrote except for the last two paragraphs. I'm not dead yet.

July 1, 2012

Quick Change Artist

Jun 112012

I’ve got to get out of these clothes—fast. It's freezing out here! The quicker I get these stinky clothes off and get my fresh ones on, the sooner Sally will let me into the nice warm kitchen. I can smell the dinner cooking and I can't wait to eat it. It smells like meatloaf. I love her meatloaf! Man, it's cold! I'm shaking all over! The thermometer in the chicken house said 10 degrees. Okay, gotta concentrate: shoes and pants are off, two more buttons and the shirt's off. Come on fingers, stop shaking, just two more buttons. That's it. Now put the clean pants and shirt on and go in! I left all the smelly clothes on the back porch and went into the kitchen.

I did that bone-chilling exercise during my Junior year in high school many years ago. And believe it or not—the freezing change-of-clothes experience not withstanding—I have very warm memories of that year. I was living with my sister Sally, her husband Mark, and my sweet little niece, Suzie, in a small country town in Maryland. Mark raised six thousand broiler chickens and sold them when they were ready for market. Then a new brood came in—thousands of little chicks—and it started all over again. I went to the chicken house, which was four big rooms, every day after school to water and feed them. Sometimes I had to carry 50 pound sacks of feed up to the second floor rooms. Then there were different mixes of feed depending on the age of the chickens and I had to mix in some special medicines now and then so we didn't get an epidemic of some kind of chicken disease. So I was careful to do everything right.

But before I could do much of anything, each new brood of little chicks had to get to know and trust me first because they frightened easily and wouldn't let just anyone take care of them. One of the tricks Mark taught me was to whistle every time I entered one of the rooms—not just any whistle but a soft, low, soothing kind of sound. If they heard someone coming and didn't know who it was they all ran, frantically, to a corner and bunched up together, which was not good because some of them could have been smothered to death, especially when they were still small chicks. So as I approached each room I began my soft little whistle to let them know not to worry, that it was me. It worked like a charm. In fact it worked so well that when I walked into the room they didn't even throw me a sideways glance, let alone a “Hi Bobby, it's nice to see you.”

Now about those remarkably stinky clothes that I had to change really fast before I froze to death. Like I said, Mark sold the chickens when they were ready for market, which, if everything went right, was in about ten weeks. At that time, a few big trucks would arrive to get the chickens. Well, after the trucks left Mark and I had the job of cleaning the chicken house to get ready for the next arrivals and that, I can tell you without hesitation, was not anyone's favorite kind of work. Ten weeks of droppings from six thousand chickens left an eight inch thick layer of some of the most acrid of smelly stuff ever imagined on the floors of all four rooms. That's a helluva lot of chicken shit! Within minutes of shoveling into it, our hair, nostrils, skin, and clothes, it seemed, would not, could not, ever be redeemed. It was quite impressive, actually.

So Sally made a rule—no, more like a law. On those clean-out-the-chicken-house-days, when we came home we had to take off our unwelcome, amazingly pungent clothes on the outside, unheated back porch and change into a fresh set before we were allowed to enter the house. And there they would remain until she had a chance to wash them—however many times it took—and until they passed her particular smell test at which time they may or may not be wearable in her house once more. Who could blame her and, anyway, she was doing us all a favor.

Interestingly, all these years later as I write this little story, for some reason I cannot recapture that special smell. All the other memories are alive and well but that odor just may be lost to me forever and that is just fine.

Note: This was written for a writing competition. The rules required that the story begins with this sentence: "I’ve got to get out of these clothes—fast." and that it should be about 750 words in length. It is a true story.

June 11, 2012

Odd Day at the Park

Jun 082012

They were an ordinary group of people. Nothing stood out to make you think there was anything different or odd about them—except for what took place. No need to tell you where it happened—what country or town. That's not important and it has no bearing on the matter. They were mostly men with a few women among them.

One of the men said, “Did you hear the news, God is dead.” Another man said, “What? What news? You mean someone told you that?” The first man said, “It was on television, on the news. They announced it. They said that God is dead.” “That's ridiculous.” the second guy said. “They wouldn't announce such a thing.” Yet another man said, “Of course they wouldn't. How would anyone know such a thing anyway? It's absurd.” The first man said, “Well I was wide awake and I wasn't drunk and I know what I heard. The TV guy said ‘God is dead.'

The group tightened. Everyone seemed suddenly interested. They had never talked about such a disturbing thing as this before. This had nothing to do with the weather or how someone got ripped off at some store or how someone wasn't talking to somebody or other topics that protected them from deep think.

A woman said, “Don't pay any attention to him. He's just trying to annoy everyone. You know how he is.” The first man said, “What did you mean by that? You think I have nothing better to do than make up things like this? I'm telling you it was announced on TV. He said 'God is dead.'

I should at least tell you they were at a park with a very large pond full of geese and ducks. It was a beautiful summer day. You need to know this because while they were talking the sky abruptly changed. It just went from sunny and clear to dark, windy, and scary—the geese and ducks took off all at once as though they all had the same thought simultaneously. Someone said, “What the hell's going on?” Another said, “Jesus!”

They headed for a couple of picnic tables under some trees. A woman said, “It's just a passing thunder storm. It'll be over as fast as it started.” A man asked, “Anyway, how can anyone prove that God is dead?” Someone said, “The same way you can prove that He’s alive.” A woman said, “That’s crazy!” They all fell silent.

The storm passed and the sun came out but for some reason the geese and ducks didn't return. A woman said, “I have to go.” She headed for her car. A man said, “Yeah.” Another man said, “I'm tired.” They all got up from the picnic tables and left.

June 8, 2012

Pre-Assembled

May 302012

We're pre-assembled, is what I think,
by Gods who had too much to drink.
We couldn't have done worse, I submit,
with our own do-it-yourself kit.

May 30, 2012

Relevance

May 292012

I’m looking for relevance; nothing new there, lately. My pulse, the whoosh of the blood, tells me I’m here, physically. It’s the “Now what?” question that’s gotten hard to answer.

Existence sans purpose is like a train ride to nowhere—taking an interminable journey for no reason and with no destination.

The fickle winds of youth provide fits of relevance—carry us on the eddies and whirls of life toward the next undisclosed moment—toward at least something—often with great expectations.

No pulse-checking when hours are full, absent of despair, when we’re needed and have important things to do, even tomorrow. But Empty Hours and Desperate Hours build gaudy neon signs to advertise and incite my discontent—plunder my stash of purposes.

Empty Hours and Desperate Hours are twins with different aspects. One vacates our allotted time—simply removes us from the hunt. The other feigns nothing, skips all guile, tells us who we’re not, asks us why we’re here, and yawns at its sedition.

I hear the drumbeat from my neighbor’s party and wonder why I’m not there. Would I be relevant if I were?

Purpose in youth is built in, privileged—a rudimentary function of organic nature—if left undiminished by diminished others. But youth is self indulgent by design; cannot anticipate what it cannot imagine; cannot prepare us for the consequences of unheeded self neglect—for the Twins’ neon sign.

The Twins don’t cut deals; just remind us that nothing’s a given. A call from my children to see if I am still alive is a game changer, an unplanned visit a bewitching relevancy enhancer! To talk about anything with them turns off the cheeky sign for awhile. Ah, is that the author of these words!

I felt relevant then, when they needed me—when I needed them for a purpose greater than the next breath of air. 32 years until the second one hit 18—countless more, as it were, if and whenever they needed me. It’s a habit of core relevancy that hooks us; undisputed, a commitment to nurture, protect, teach, prepare—a natural addiction. It’s about them.

And then … as in a dream unfolding …

Our roster of siblings and friends gets short. In unguarded moments we reach for the phone to call someone who will not, cannot answer—who hasn’t had a phone number for … how long now?

In line at the super market I realize I don’t know a single celebrity on the magazine covers. I never read them anyway but I once knew their names, knew they lived in my time, which meant I lived in theirs.

Temporary! That’s the word I neglected—should have embraced so the Twins couldn’t ambush me … challenge me with what, of course, must be.

May 29, 2012

Dear Rose

Apr 272012

I bought an old desk.
It was antique.
Inside, a letter,
yellowed and dry,
perhaps left
for me to justify.

It said,

“Dear Rose,
I love you so.
It broke my heart
to see you go.”

That's all there was –
not one word more.
I put it back
and closed the drawer.

April 27, 2012

Rabbit and Frog

Apr 152012

Frog was lazily sitting at the edge of the pond reflecting on the good life he had. Truth be told, he was relishing his favorite spot on land. I say on land because he had many favorite spots and some of them were in the pond itself. But this spot was just right for a warm spring day because it was carpeted with the softest moss he had ever found. It was so soft and cushiony that along with the deliciously warm spring sun he felt so contented that he was falling asleep. And why not, for a welcome change, he was actually completely alone; there were no pesky kids in sight or, thank goodness, snakes. He had been looking forward to this moment for days. But just when his eyes were about half closed and he was beginning to drift off, he heard a small squeaky voice say, “I’m a jumper.”

It was Rabbit.

Now if Rabbit’s voice had been louder and stronger, Frog might have been alarmed enough to have instantly jumped into the pond. That’s what frogs do when they are alarmed. But when he heard those words, “I’m a jumper,” spoken so lightly, for a second or two he thought he was dreaming. But then he heard some more words.

“Did you hear me, Frog? I said I’m a jumper.”

Well, he thought, “Whoever or whatever it is, it don’t sound threatenin” So he made a remarkably agile, athletic, quick turning jump to his left to see where the words were coming from and found himself looking into two small eyes set in a bundle of brown and white fur.

“Yer a rabbit ain’t ya?” he asked.

“Of course I am and I said I am a jumper.”

“Me too.” said Frog

“Yes I know” replied Rabbit “But, you see, I’m a jumper AND a thumper!”

“Well now you may be a jumper and a thumper, but you AIN’T no croaker, wich-a-course I am,” said Frog proudly.

“Oh, I make noises alright,” said Rabbit.

“Noises! You call them dainty little squeaks noises? Why I can’t even think that quiet,” said Frog with a great deal of emphasis.

“At least I don’t keep the whole neighborhood up all night when everyone is trying to get some sleep. Why those croaks of yours are a menace to one’s health and well being.” declared Rabbit.

“Let me tell ya, Rabbit, there’s times I pend on them croaks for my health and well bein’. Matter a fac, I make some of the sweetest croaks on the pond. Jes ask the lady frogs, they’ll sure nuff vouch fer it. Course you wouldn’t know nothin bout that cuz you’re jes too dainty fer that kinda frog stuff. Darned if I can figur out how you and Mrs Rabbit get on wit things. One of them great puzzlin mistries of life, I spect.”

“Well now, you do talk on a ways, don’t you?” asked Rabbit with more of a statement than a question. “Anyway, I should also point out that I am soft and cuddly, unlike you of course. Oh yes, and Mrs Rabbit likes me very much this way.”

“Well ain’t this jest gettin as cute an perty as one a them little flies on the tip of my tongue. Course I don’t get a real good look at them nervous little critters cause they’s in my belly for I know what I done.”

“That’s disgusting, Frog. Primitive’s more like it. Why there’s another thing I can put on my list of attributes. I’m evolved. I don’t eat other living creatures. I’m a Vegan!”

“A what?”

“A Vegan, Frog. Vegans eat only vegetarian things, things that don’t have thoughts and feelings like living animals do. My, you do have a lot to learn.”

“Well Rabbit, speakin bout thinkin’ an feelin’ and how veggie stuff don’t do none of it, I spose you mite jes lern a few things from that perty lily pad I was settin’ on and talkin wit tuther day. In fac, she bout push me rite off in ta du water; said I was hurtin her and she’s bout to yell out. But den I dun spose that’d work out none fer you cuz I dun reckon Rabbit cin talk wit lily pads like Frog can.”

Well, that was near the limit for Rabbit. It was almost more than he could process with any degree of equanimity. His nose began to twitch at a remarkably rapid rate even for a rabbit, and after he had thumped twenty or thirty times in rapid succession, he actually did a back flip and almost landed on Frog. Finally, with great effort and concentration and with his very best you-listen-to-me face, he locked his little eyes directly on Frog’s and said, “My dear Frog, your ignorance is exceeded only by your dishonesty. Any fool knows that lily pads don’t talk. And even though you are apparently quite ignorant, I suspect that even you know that.”

Frog just sat there with a kind of sleepy calm composure and asked, “That so?” But without waiting for an answer he said, “If I knowed that I’d a spent more time croaken than conversin with that lily pad that don’t talk. Been wastin my time, is that what yer tellin me, Rabbit? Course now I do have a serious problem. How you spose’ I should tell Lily she don’t talk without gettin’ her all upset?”

That did it! Rabbit’s nose looked like it was having some kind of a catastrophic breakdown. It was now twitching so fast one had to wonder if he could get control of it ever again! Then, his whole body began to shiver, quiver and shake. It was a truly worrisome site to behold. But finally he barely managed to say, “Frog, you are incorrigible! Of course you do not have a serious problem. And if you don’t know it then I cannot begin to tell you how pitiful and hopeless you are. Why would you worry about hurting Lily’s feelings? No. Wait! I didn’t mean to call her—I mean it—Lily! Now you have got me so upset I’m starting to sound like you. I meant to say, why would you worry about the feelings of some mindless plant? Plants do not talk! Lily pads do not talk! That is factual. That’s it! That’s all I’m going to say about it and I don’t want to hear anymore of your nonsense. And if anyone is wasting time, it’s me talking to the dumbest creature I have ever known. Now why don’t you just jump into the pond and go bother some one else with your silly Frog talk.”

Rabbit had really gotten himself worked up this time. It was worse than the last time if you can even imagine that. Every last part of him was in motion. All his parts were moving so rapidly that one had to seriously wonder if they wouldn’t fly apart in all directions at any moment. It was so worrisome that even Frog looked concerned. And after he mumbled something about ‘them humans say we can’t talk too,’ he said simply, “Spose I’ll take yer vice, Rabbit. Spose that’s the bes thing to do considerin yer condishun.”

At that, Frog reared back a little, then pushed off with his big strong rear legs and jumped into the pond leaving Rabbit shaking and quivering and twitching at the edge. Within seconds Frog emerged from the water and climbed up onto a pretty emerald green lily pad.

Now even though it appeared that Rabbit had decisively dismissed Frog, the odd thing was that he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off this audacious creature—the very one whose words and behavior he had allowed so quickly to frazzle every rational nerve in his soft and cuddly little body. For the life of him, he couldn’t look away or move away from Frog, which I think you will agree, would have been the wise thing to do at that point.

Instead, he just stayed fixed in that same spot in his sorry condition as he watched and heard Frog say, “Lily, if ya’d jes let me set here for a spell, I’d be most ‘bliged. I been conversin wit Rabbit an he tell me you don’t talk. So’s I’m a bit sturbed an need to rest a spell. What’s that ya say, Lily? He mus be purty dumb cuz yer talkin to me right now? Well now ain’t that the truth but the poor fella jes don’t wanta cept it. What’s that, Lily? Is he a Vegan? Well now, ain’t you the smart one! Thas zactly wut he told me! I ain’t hurtin ya none am I? Well, thank ya, Lily, you jes tell me if I do and I’ll jump right off.”

April 15, 2012

Momentary Vision

Jun 042011

I saw a pregnant lady
smiling widely at a baby
that was not hers.
It was just a brief encounter,
a momentary vision amidst
the great panoply of time.
Though I had seen it all before
this gave me so much more.
It was a dazzling expression
of something quite sublime.

June 4, 2011

Readjust

Jun 042011

You can’t hide here and you can’t hide there,
cause’ life will find you everywhere.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
take a deep breath and readjust.

It’s not all good and it’s not all bad
so don’t get sad and don’t get mad.
Over the river and into the trees;
if you want some honey, follow the bees.

Throw the dice and flap your wings
lest you miss some very cool things.
Use your wits and take some care,
be the tortoise and the hare.

You have the cards so play your hand.
Build some castles in the sand.
It’s what you think that makes you you.
So above all else, to yourself be true.

June 4, 2011

Pilots Are Different

Aug 202010

Pilots are different. I mean the ones who really love to fly—the hardwired pilots. Think about it: They get into man-made heavier-than-air machines with wings and steer them all around the big skies, up where only birds used to go. For them, it’s a glorious thing to do.

The ones who are really hard wired are like human Jonathan Seagulls; they do all kinds of marvelous things with their flying machines. They loop and roll and dive and climb and whatever else they can imagine to do. They are aerobatic pilots and their inventory of maneuvers has names like Immelmann, Chandelle, Cuban Eight, Hammerhead, Snap Roll, and Pugachev’s Cobra.

They push their bodies and minds and spirits to the edge of reason and often do it with great big-ass grins on their faces. You might even hear a few loud joyous whoops if you are bold enough and lucky enough to be up there with them. These Jonathan Seagulls are risk takers for sure but they are not foolish daredevils. It’s not a death wish that compels them on, it’s a full-life wish.

All good pilots are never masters but are always students. They respect the sky like sailors and surfers respect the sea. They study the sky—the air— and their machines like a surgeon studies the human body and his implements. They are committed to learning and to honing their skills. Words and concepts like lift and drag and thrust and ground effect are as familiar to them as sitting down and standing up are to others.

They study the weather. Along with so many other things, they read clouds like some read labels on a can. Clouds tell them things—important things they must know if they want to fly like a bird. Pilots look up more than other people do.

Some, like Mozart to music, are born to it. They are naturals. They can feel the subtle messages of the airplane and the sky—the winds and the currents—in their fingertips and the pressures on their bodies. They know what is happening and why and they know what they can do, cannot do, or must do. They know these things all at once. They are as close to Jonathan as a human can get.

In some special way, they are at home up there.

Dedication: This little piece about pilots is dedicated to Bruce Watson, the man who taught me how to fly when I was a nineteen year old Aviation Cadet in the U.S. Air Force. He was an exceptional flight instructor. Bruce is the epitome of what I described above and is an Aviator in the truest sense. He also happens to be a good man. I should add that he is still very much alive at 92.

August 20, 2010

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