Okay. To show you what I have to deal with, I’m going to try to explain to you one of the many distractive -- I know it's not a word, I like it anyway -- thinking excursions I have to endure within my head on a regular basis. We’ll see if you can make it through this whole thing without totally giving up on me.
The better half and yours truly were watching David Lean’s Brief Encounter. It was amazing, of course. The only thing I didn’t think was great was the soundtrack, which is what a lot of people love about the movie. It’s all done on piano and seems a little soap opera to me, but that’s my own baggage, not any real fault of the movie.
Thing is, in key points of the film, a certain melodic line was used and it kept gnawing at me. I knew I’d heard it before, even though I’d never seen the movie before. Then, about an hour or so into the film I realized what it was. It was part of the melodic line of the song “Without You” by Harry Nilsson. “I can’t liiiiiiiiiiiiive if livin’ is without yooooooou.” It was plain as day.
So I’m thinking Nilsson lifted this from the movie.
But then I find out that the soundtrack of the movie was all Rachmaninoff pieces. I’ve never been a big fan. But he was a very famous piano man composer dude in spite of my distaste. They just decided that it was right for the film and that’s what they went with. So, I realize, Harry Nilsson probably lifted the melodic line from Rachmaninoff.
I needed to confirm this supposition. Needed.
So I went online and googled Nilsson and Rachmaninoff. I find out that “Without You” wasn’t even written by Nilsson, even though it was a big hit for him. It was actually written by a guy in Badfinger who later committed suicide. Ironically enough. But as for the connection, nothing comes up. No connection.
But one writer notes how the Eric Carmen power ballad "All By Myself" borrows heavily from “Without You” for tone and such, which spurs me to listen to THAT song, which I hadn’t heard in years and years, which reveals that THAT is the song that actually lifts the Rachmaninoff. I had them mixed up. Eric Carmen used the melody thinking it was public domain, which it wasn’t, so he had to make a deal with Rachmaninoff’s estate after the fact. Hmmmmmmmmmm...
I know. I know. All of this is ridiculous and pointless. But this is my brain. I can’t live with it. I can’t live without it. It’s almost as if I have to do what it tells me to do.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Kite
It was the month of March, and the principal of Edison Elementary announced that we would be having a kite flying contest the next day at recess. This caused immediate excitement among us kids. This was a big deal.
So I went home and told my mom, but there was a problem: My dad was at work and, the thing is, my dad was almost always at work. My dad worked all the time. He was hardly at home at that point in our lives. And mom didn’t drive. So I had no way to get a kite. What’s a boy to do?
Fortunately, I have a great mom.
We found some sticks, mom and me, and we made a kite. A very special kite. It was made out of my moms nylons, pulled over the sticks into a kite shape. And it was amazing. I tried it in the front yard and the thing was like a bird. It wanted to soar. It was extremely light weight and it caught the wind like a miracle . . . and I knew, I KNEW, I was going to win that competition the next day. Who needs one of those dumb store bought kites anyway?
The next morning I got ready for school and I literally had a smile in my heart. I’m not kidding, there’s no better way to describe it. All was right with the world as I got ready and took my kite out the door, headed for the bus stop. When I got there, the other kids weren’t sure what to make of my kite, but when they started to think about it, they realized it could work. I could be the king of the playground. It actually caused a little buzz on the bus as we drove to school.
When we arrived at school, everyone got up to get off the bus. Suddenly, the kids behind me started to push. They were just messing around. They weren’t thinking. It was normal kid stuff, but they pushed so hard that I couldn’t stop it and I fell forward into the kid in front of me, crushing my kite, breaking it into several pieces. It was completely destroyed.
My teacher tried to help me put it back together but it was useless. Nothing was going to fix it. It sat next to my desk, pathetic and hopeless.
I can remember, during recess, looking up in the sky at the other kites, floating above our heads all around the playground. All the colors. The wind moving gently through a perfect blue sky. It was beautiful. Everyone was having a great time.
Well. Almost everyone.
It’s a hard thing to feel joy and happiness passing you by, like a bus going to paradise, and there’s nothing you can do to make it stop and not leave you behind. It is a bitter thing to lose opportunity and hope, then have to stand watching others taste the joy you wished for but cannot have.
Sometimes I don’t know how we survive childhood without losing our minds. Seriously.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
So I went home and told my mom, but there was a problem: My dad was at work and, the thing is, my dad was almost always at work. My dad worked all the time. He was hardly at home at that point in our lives. And mom didn’t drive. So I had no way to get a kite. What’s a boy to do?
Fortunately, I have a great mom.
We found some sticks, mom and me, and we made a kite. A very special kite. It was made out of my moms nylons, pulled over the sticks into a kite shape. And it was amazing. I tried it in the front yard and the thing was like a bird. It wanted to soar. It was extremely light weight and it caught the wind like a miracle . . . and I knew, I KNEW, I was going to win that competition the next day. Who needs one of those dumb store bought kites anyway?
The next morning I got ready for school and I literally had a smile in my heart. I’m not kidding, there’s no better way to describe it. All was right with the world as I got ready and took my kite out the door, headed for the bus stop. When I got there, the other kids weren’t sure what to make of my kite, but when they started to think about it, they realized it could work. I could be the king of the playground. It actually caused a little buzz on the bus as we drove to school.
When we arrived at school, everyone got up to get off the bus. Suddenly, the kids behind me started to push. They were just messing around. They weren’t thinking. It was normal kid stuff, but they pushed so hard that I couldn’t stop it and I fell forward into the kid in front of me, crushing my kite, breaking it into several pieces. It was completely destroyed.
My teacher tried to help me put it back together but it was useless. Nothing was going to fix it. It sat next to my desk, pathetic and hopeless.
I can remember, during recess, looking up in the sky at the other kites, floating above our heads all around the playground. All the colors. The wind moving gently through a perfect blue sky. It was beautiful. Everyone was having a great time.
Well. Almost everyone.
It’s a hard thing to feel joy and happiness passing you by, like a bus going to paradise, and there’s nothing you can do to make it stop and not leave you behind. It is a bitter thing to lose opportunity and hope, then have to stand watching others taste the joy you wished for but cannot have.
Sometimes I don’t know how we survive childhood without losing our minds. Seriously.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Saturday, May 29, 2010
String Theory
What is it with hair? Mine drives me crazy.
Consider:
Tiny little strings growing out of our heads. Sure, they grow in other places too, which is usually even more weird. But, these strings just squish out of our heads. Strings that, for many people, are wildly unpredictable. Who knows what they are doing at any given moment. How many times have you looked at an old photo of yourself and wondered what in the world was going on with those strings on your head?
And yet we use these strings to define ourselves in so many ways. We make jokes about people because they have odd strings or no strings or because of the color of their strings. So you get things like this Dolly Parton quote:
“I'm not offended by all the dumb-blonde jokes because I know that I'm not dumb. I also know I'm not blonde.”
My wife is a blonde, so I have very little room to work here. But what I do know is that when we have straight strings we want curly ones and when we have curly ones we want straight ones. People with dark strings dye them light and vice versa. People without head strings wish they had it and people with head strings shave it off because they don’t want to mess with it or they want to look like their favorite basketball player?
As I get older, these annoying little strings are spreading. They find new places to grow, like weeds. Even those people whose heads will not sprout the stuff find it cropping up in other odd places, not least of which: the nose and the ears.
I’m sorry but, for me, ear strings are just downright creepy. I don’t want ‘em. I worry sometimes that I’ll have a stroke and lay there for years with strings growing out of my ears.
Please God, no.
Who knows what to make of it all? It’s just another thing we want to control that we can’t. I do know that we spend a lot of valuable energy on these goofy strings. Perhaps, the dystopians of George Lucas’s THX 1138 had it right. Maybe the future needs bald heads.
Luke 12:6-7
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Consider:
Tiny little strings growing out of our heads. Sure, they grow in other places too, which is usually even more weird. But, these strings just squish out of our heads. Strings that, for many people, are wildly unpredictable. Who knows what they are doing at any given moment. How many times have you looked at an old photo of yourself and wondered what in the world was going on with those strings on your head?
And yet we use these strings to define ourselves in so many ways. We make jokes about people because they have odd strings or no strings or because of the color of their strings. So you get things like this Dolly Parton quote:
“I'm not offended by all the dumb-blonde jokes because I know that I'm not dumb. I also know I'm not blonde.”
My wife is a blonde, so I have very little room to work here. But what I do know is that when we have straight strings we want curly ones and when we have curly ones we want straight ones. People with dark strings dye them light and vice versa. People without head strings wish they had it and people with head strings shave it off because they don’t want to mess with it or they want to look like their favorite basketball player?
As I get older, these annoying little strings are spreading. They find new places to grow, like weeds. Even those people whose heads will not sprout the stuff find it cropping up in other odd places, not least of which: the nose and the ears.
I’m sorry but, for me, ear strings are just downright creepy. I don’t want ‘em. I worry sometimes that I’ll have a stroke and lay there for years with strings growing out of my ears.
Please God, no.
Who knows what to make of it all? It’s just another thing we want to control that we can’t. I do know that we spend a lot of valuable energy on these goofy strings. Perhaps, the dystopians of George Lucas’s THX 1138 had it right. Maybe the future needs bald heads.
Luke 12:6-7
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Mr. Blue Eyes
Once, in my high school years, I was at a friend's house to work on some music. While I was there, another guy came in with some other people I didn’t know. With them came a bag of cocaine. They cleared the table and laid out some lines and they all started snorting. I was invited to share. I refused. It wasn’t my style.
The guy with the cocaine was like a sun and the other people were like planets, circling around him, pulled in by his gravity. He was all smiles. He was a good looking guy with deep blue eyes that kind of glowed in a way, and the girls liked him. He had on expensive clothes. He was a very likable person. A bright personality. He laughed easy and he seemed happy.
He tried again to talk me into having a hit, but I wasn’t going to do it. I can’t say I wasn’t curious but, for me, it was over the line. In my heart of hearts it seemed idiotic. It still does. And fake. Happy happy smile smile, all while dying inside.
I asked my friend how Mr. Blue Eyes had the money to buy the stuff and give it out to people like that. He said the guy was dealing the drugs so he was able to get it wholesale. They were all very impressed with this. One of the other guys who was there was talking to him about how he could get into dealing. I went into the living room to watch MTV, waiting for them all to clear out, and they did before too long. Places to go, people to see.
Fast forward around 15 years.
I was driving down the road in an area where there were no houses, just businesses and warehouses. As I was driving, I passed a guy walking on the side of the road. It was a little odd to see someone walking in that area because there were no houses or retail stores. I looked at him as I passed, curious but not, seeing his face. It happened really fast, but as I passed, I thought I knew the guy. Maybe. Not for sure. And I just kept driving. It didn’t seem important. But his face was stuck in my minds eye and, as the day went on, I kept trying to remember who he was until, finally, it dawned on me: it was the guy with the cocaine, Mr. Blue Eyes.
He’d been hard to recognize because he looked like an old man. He was, I don’t know exactly how to describe it, but he was kind of disheveled. From head to toe. His clothes were filthy, his face was covered with dirt, but out of that dirty face, those blue eyes stared at the ground while he shambled forward. I think that’s what made me remember. You couldn’t miss those eyes. It made me wish I had stopped, but it didn’t cross my mind in the moment. It was just a guy walking down the road. No big deal.
I’m guessing he’s dead now. I hope not. But that’s how it goes.
Proverbs 14:12
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
The guy with the cocaine was like a sun and the other people were like planets, circling around him, pulled in by his gravity. He was all smiles. He was a good looking guy with deep blue eyes that kind of glowed in a way, and the girls liked him. He had on expensive clothes. He was a very likable person. A bright personality. He laughed easy and he seemed happy.
He tried again to talk me into having a hit, but I wasn’t going to do it. I can’t say I wasn’t curious but, for me, it was over the line. In my heart of hearts it seemed idiotic. It still does. And fake. Happy happy smile smile, all while dying inside.
I asked my friend how Mr. Blue Eyes had the money to buy the stuff and give it out to people like that. He said the guy was dealing the drugs so he was able to get it wholesale. They were all very impressed with this. One of the other guys who was there was talking to him about how he could get into dealing. I went into the living room to watch MTV, waiting for them all to clear out, and they did before too long. Places to go, people to see.
Fast forward around 15 years.
I was driving down the road in an area where there were no houses, just businesses and warehouses. As I was driving, I passed a guy walking on the side of the road. It was a little odd to see someone walking in that area because there were no houses or retail stores. I looked at him as I passed, curious but not, seeing his face. It happened really fast, but as I passed, I thought I knew the guy. Maybe. Not for sure. And I just kept driving. It didn’t seem important. But his face was stuck in my minds eye and, as the day went on, I kept trying to remember who he was until, finally, it dawned on me: it was the guy with the cocaine, Mr. Blue Eyes.
He’d been hard to recognize because he looked like an old man. He was, I don’t know exactly how to describe it, but he was kind of disheveled. From head to toe. His clothes were filthy, his face was covered with dirt, but out of that dirty face, those blue eyes stared at the ground while he shambled forward. I think that’s what made me remember. You couldn’t miss those eyes. It made me wish I had stopped, but it didn’t cross my mind in the moment. It was just a guy walking down the road. No big deal.
I’m guessing he’s dead now. I hope not. But that’s how it goes.
Proverbs 14:12
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Are You . . . Talkin' To Me?
I was going through some of my photos and found this picture of a flower that was growing in the yard of a woman who lives a few doors down from me. And, well, uh . . . is it just me or, does this flower seem to have an attitude or what?
I can’t decide if it’s trying to get in my face or if it’s just curious. Maybe it just wants to know whus up? But it does seem clear to me that the little uptight guy to the upper right is definitely angry about something, don’t you think?
Anyway. Enough anthropomorphisms. I’m glad I caught this. This flower has flaws, but it still has beauty. Character. That’s why you won’t see one like it on a print at the mall. But I like how the sun found part of it and left the rest in shadow.
So much of creation comes and goes. You wonder if God will have it all recorded when people get to heaven so we can rewind and see some of it again? I feel, sometimes, like I could stare at a single flower for about a hundred billion years and still not fully grasp the creativity and complexity and beauty of the thing.
I might just do that.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
I can’t decide if it’s trying to get in my face or if it’s just curious. Maybe it just wants to know whus up? But it does seem clear to me that the little uptight guy to the upper right is definitely angry about something, don’t you think?
Anyway. Enough anthropomorphisms. I’m glad I caught this. This flower has flaws, but it still has beauty. Character. That’s why you won’t see one like it on a print at the mall. But I like how the sun found part of it and left the rest in shadow.
So much of creation comes and goes. You wonder if God will have it all recorded when people get to heaven so we can rewind and see some of it again? I feel, sometimes, like I could stare at a single flower for about a hundred billion years and still not fully grasp the creativity and complexity and beauty of the thing.
I might just do that.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Exactitude
"I'll be back in three minutes and twenty seconds." - Batman (Adam West) to Robin (Burt Ward)
I’ve learned with my kids that they don’t like for me to be vague about things.
Words like “pretty soon” are always a disaster. But I just don’t like the business of letting them in on all the business. Why do they need all the details? They’re just kids! Life should be, mostly, a surprise for them. That’s my thinking. And if you tell them what you’re planning, it’s like law. They don’t get the reality that life gets in the way sometimes. If you say you’re going to do something and you don’t, it’s like you lied. So I purposefully lack specificity much of the time when communicating our plans with them, and I think this may be warping them a bit. We get conversations like this:
Me: Get in the car.
Kid: Where we going?
Me: You’ll find out. Get in the car.
Kid: Are we going to the zoo?
Me: Just get in the car.
Kid: Are we going to the store?
Me: I’ve told you to get in the car three times and you’re still not in the car. Is something wrong with the ears today?
Kid: Are we going to the zoo?
Me: We’re not going anywhere if you don’t get in the car.
You can see how hard it is to actually get anywhere without the details. But if you tell them, it’s worse. If they know where we’re going they have to bring 500 things with them. Getting out the door is like getting through a field of quicksand pits. I’m not sure, but my wife says this is a girl thing. They “need” hair brushes. They “need” purses. They “need” pillows for the car if the drive is longer than 3½ minutes.
I’m starting to believe there’s something to all this: that they’re in on this together, on some emotional level, using the fact that they’re female to take advantage. I’m not saying there’s conscious intent. I can accept the idea that they may be doing it without knowing they are doing it. Like a bird taking a dump on my head while it flies over my yard, blissfully unaware of my existence.
But I can get exact about things if I have to.
Me: Get in the car now or I’m going to blow up the house and leave you all wandering around in a theme park in Missouri on my way to go live in Florida with a retired couple who are too senile to realize I’m not their real son.
This they take seriously and get in the car.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
I’ve learned with my kids that they don’t like for me to be vague about things.
Words like “pretty soon” are always a disaster. But I just don’t like the business of letting them in on all the business. Why do they need all the details? They’re just kids! Life should be, mostly, a surprise for them. That’s my thinking. And if you tell them what you’re planning, it’s like law. They don’t get the reality that life gets in the way sometimes. If you say you’re going to do something and you don’t, it’s like you lied. So I purposefully lack specificity much of the time when communicating our plans with them, and I think this may be warping them a bit. We get conversations like this:
Me: Get in the car.
Kid: Where we going?
Me: You’ll find out. Get in the car.
Kid: Are we going to the zoo?
Me: Just get in the car.
Kid: Are we going to the store?
Me: I’ve told you to get in the car three times and you’re still not in the car. Is something wrong with the ears today?
Kid: Are we going to the zoo?
Me: We’re not going anywhere if you don’t get in the car.
You can see how hard it is to actually get anywhere without the details. But if you tell them, it’s worse. If they know where we’re going they have to bring 500 things with them. Getting out the door is like getting through a field of quicksand pits. I’m not sure, but my wife says this is a girl thing. They “need” hair brushes. They “need” purses. They “need” pillows for the car if the drive is longer than 3½ minutes.
I’m starting to believe there’s something to all this: that they’re in on this together, on some emotional level, using the fact that they’re female to take advantage. I’m not saying there’s conscious intent. I can accept the idea that they may be doing it without knowing they are doing it. Like a bird taking a dump on my head while it flies over my yard, blissfully unaware of my existence.
But I can get exact about things if I have to.
Me: Get in the car now or I’m going to blow up the house and leave you all wandering around in a theme park in Missouri on my way to go live in Florida with a retired couple who are too senile to realize I’m not their real son.
This they take seriously and get in the car.
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Garbageman
Sure. You’ve heard of Superman and Batman and Aquaman. But my personal hero is Garbageman.
It went down like this:
I was three years old, playing in the upstairs of our house. This house no longer exists – it is now a parking lot – but it still exists in my mind, and I remember this upstairs bedroom where a window overlooked a small store next to our house. I liked to look out this window at the people getting in and out of their cars, unaware of my presence. It was interesting.
Then, one day, I heard a loud noise out that window and I looked to see a garbage truck loading the refuse from the store's dumpster. Now THAT was interesting! But it was a little hard to see from that angle, so I pushed against the screen that had been put in the window. It popped out and fell to the ground, and that screen had been holding up the window, which promptly fell down on my shoulders, completely pinning me in place. I could not get out. And my line of sight made me feel like I was going to fall.
I was terrified.
So I began to scream like a terrified three year old. Makes sense, right? And I remember Garbageman looking up at me, jumping slightly as he realized what was going on. I imagine he thought I was going to fall from the window, so he ran to the front door of our house and ran with my mom up the stairs and rescued me from the hungry mouth of the foul window. He lifted the window so mom could pull me out.
Garbageman had very dark african skin. He was massively tall and bony, his head seemed to hover near the ceiling, and he had a deep voice, like a great blues singer. He brushed me off and my mom gave me a hug. Then he said one of the nicest things that’s ever been said about me. Garbageman said, “That’s the nearest thing to an angel I will ever see.”
Garbageman went to the store and bought me an ice cream. He came back to the house and gave it to me, patting me on the head and smiling at me. He was nothing but kindness. And I remember going out of my way to wave to Garbageman whenever he would show up for the dumpster at the store. He always smiled and waved. We had a connection.
Here’s what I think: I think he was the angel.
Hebrews 1:14
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
It went down like this:
I was three years old, playing in the upstairs of our house. This house no longer exists – it is now a parking lot – but it still exists in my mind, and I remember this upstairs bedroom where a window overlooked a small store next to our house. I liked to look out this window at the people getting in and out of their cars, unaware of my presence. It was interesting.
Then, one day, I heard a loud noise out that window and I looked to see a garbage truck loading the refuse from the store's dumpster. Now THAT was interesting! But it was a little hard to see from that angle, so I pushed against the screen that had been put in the window. It popped out and fell to the ground, and that screen had been holding up the window, which promptly fell down on my shoulders, completely pinning me in place. I could not get out. And my line of sight made me feel like I was going to fall.
I was terrified.
So I began to scream like a terrified three year old. Makes sense, right? And I remember Garbageman looking up at me, jumping slightly as he realized what was going on. I imagine he thought I was going to fall from the window, so he ran to the front door of our house and ran with my mom up the stairs and rescued me from the hungry mouth of the foul window. He lifted the window so mom could pull me out.
Garbageman had very dark african skin. He was massively tall and bony, his head seemed to hover near the ceiling, and he had a deep voice, like a great blues singer. He brushed me off and my mom gave me a hug. Then he said one of the nicest things that’s ever been said about me. Garbageman said, “That’s the nearest thing to an angel I will ever see.”
Garbageman went to the store and bought me an ice cream. He came back to the house and gave it to me, patting me on the head and smiling at me. He was nothing but kindness. And I remember going out of my way to wave to Garbageman whenever he would show up for the dumpster at the store. He always smiled and waved. We had a connection.
Here’s what I think: I think he was the angel.
Hebrews 1:14
Peace to you.
© LW Publishing 2010
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