All Kinds of Creative Solace

Beatrice entered her school's talent show to share her artwork. It's wasn't a judged talent show, and yet that doesn't matter. Out of the few hundred kids in her middle school, less than a dozen individuals (plus their school choir) participated in the virtual talent show. Bea submitted a short video with her showing some of her favorite art pieces from the past year. There were also other singers and musicians and voice actors and artists and film editors and more who entered. Bryce entered her school's talent show and shared her artwork as well. 

When I was 12 and my sister 10, we helped our mom break into the house of our first step-father, who was mentally ill and abusive, while he was at work. We had already gotten out of the house, but there were still too many personal things we didn't want to leave behind. In less than a day, he had changed the locks on the house, so the only way we could get in was to break in. We broke the bathroom window on the side of the house and then laid a towel over the bottom edge of the windowsill. The only person who could fit through the window was my sister. We were all scared out of our minds, with visions of him waiting quietly inside with a gun. The same gun he pointed at my mom multiple times. We got our things and got out, with no sign of him anywhere. 

Quite a juxtaposition from then to now. We're grateful that we've been safe and well and have been able to provide a stable and loving family environment for our girls. And while I did grow up in a less than stable environment, I wasn't without my creative side that my mom encouraged. I was always an avid reader (so was Amy growing up -- and we still are). We've instilled these positive habits in the girls as well; Bryce is more the avid reader overall and Bea loves her graphic novels. I also drew a lot when I was the girls' age, and was writing short stories then, too. Bea is also interested in writing her own stories in the form of graphic novels. Both girls are drawing and painting and experimenting will all kinds of art, and we continue to support them both. 

Even though the girls are back to in-person school again (5 days a week for Bryce and 2 days a week for Beatrice), we've all been fortunate to continue to be active and to nurture our creative sides over the past year of pandemic. We also know that there has been an exponential increase in stress, fatigue and depression throughout the pandemic, with many families socially isolated from family and friends. There have been too many people out of work, struggling financially to keep their families sheltered and food on the table. Domestic violence has been on the rise globally during the past year. There are families who have struggled with illness and mental health problems. And there are those who have split up for many of the reasons above.

Even when we're beyond this pandemic, the psychological and emotional impacts will be felt for years to come. Creating safe and healthy environments for our children is certainly the best intention for most parents, even when there are factors beyond our control. Leaning in on faith, on counseling, on mental health services, on the support of other family and friends are critical. Getting out of dangerous situations when there is no other alternative for safety is also critical. Through it all, encouraging our children to have a growth mindset, even in the face of extreme circumstances, can lead to all kinds of creative solace. 

Choosing To Do Is How It's Done

"You may be right,
it's all a waste of time.
I guess that's just a chance I'm prepared to take,
a danger I'm prepared to to face,
cut to the chase –
what kind of difference can one person make?
Cut to the chase..."

–Rush, Cut to the Chase

As we drove by, the strikers were gathering again for another day of protest. Soon their numbers would be in the hundreds to over 1,000 people, the UCSC graduate students working as professors’ teaching assistants demanding a cost-of-living raise. They would also again block the intersection of the main campus entrance, one that we use everyday to take our girls to and from school.

"What are they doing?" Beatrice asked.

I was taking our oldest to school. Our youngest, Bryce, was home sick.

"They're protesting for more money, to be able to afford to live and work here. Sometimes we have to speak up for what we want, what we believe in, to take a stand on something, to make right something that's wrong, and that's what they're doing," I said.

"Oh," she said. "I hope Bryce feels better."

And there you have it. She's still a kid in the pre-tween shadows, Bryce even more so, neither truly comprehending the weight of the world's problems yet. As it should be, because they'll come soon enough.

They feel them, though. The strike has impacted the way we take them to and from school, sometimes having to circumvent side streets. They also live with two parents who have chosen to speak up and we've also taken them begrudgingly on the women's marches, science marches, Martin Luther King Jr. Day marches, Walk a Mile in Her Shoes Marches, and community awareness and prevention events I've helped organize called Transforming Together. We talked about racism and and sexism and harassment and bullying and how the skills taught in Kidpower can keep them safe.

We've given them our rational within simplified contexts as to why we've spoken up for what we want, what we believe in, why we've taken a stand on things, to make right things that are wrong. And someday they'll develop their own rationale to speak up and for what, or not. That will be a choice for them as they move from childhood to young adulthood and beyond.

We hope they choose to speak up and give voice to those who feel they have none, and to do things that others tell them couldn't be done. Maybe Beatrice will do it with writing, like her dad, and someday combine art and writing and create a series of graphic novels for kids and teens, helping them to understand their lives and the complex and sometime unforgiving world around them. Maybe Bryce will be the astronaut she now longs to be and the first person (not just a woman) to land on Mars someday, inspiring other girls and boys to reach for the stars.

We want them to get off the ground, activate, participate and make a positive stand happen, and to encourage others to do so. We want them to understand one person can make a difference in their own life and the lives of others. And while not doing anything is always a choice, choosing to do is how it's done.

In All My Available Light

"I shall not waste my days in trying to prolong them. I shall use my time." 

—Neil Peart, Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road

Every time I look back on it, I can't believe I said no to Rush. It was our sophomore year in high school, 1981, and one of my friends, a budding musician himself at the time, came up to me one day and asked me if I wanted to go to Fresno to see the sold out Moving Pictures tour. Which, according to my new fancy-schmancy Rush: Wandering the Face of the Earth: The Official Touring History, was June 7, 1981, and tickets were $9.50 in advance.

$9.50 -- and I told him I couldn't afford to go. That was a lot for a high school kid in 1981, but I'm sure I could've scrounged up the money. The truth was, believe it or not, I wasn't quite the fan then that I eventually came just over one year later when Signals came out. I did already dig all the big hits from Moving Pictures and some of the earlier albums, and knew that Geddy Lee (bass/keyboards), Alex Lifeson (guitar) and Neil Peart (drums/lyricist) were amazing progressive rock musicians, but I wasn't quite the huge fan yet. Plus, I didn't think my parents would let me go to a concert yet either and was afraid to ask them.

"No, his mind is not for rent
To any god or government.
Always hopeful, yet discontent
He knows changes aren’t permanent –
But change is..."

However, something was brewing within me during those formative teenage years, something that would connect me more and more with Rush's music. The stormy angst of lower middle-class white teenage-land, the longing to succeed, to be the best in everything I did, to be liked by everyone no matter what, and to never fail. Ever. At any and all costs. The pressure I put on myself then combined with growing up in a broken family, domestic violence and sexual abuse circled me like a category 5 hurricane.

"Look in
To the eye of the storm
Look out
For the force without form
Look around
At the sight and sound
Look in, Look out, Look around..."

I felt safe in the hurricane's eye for the first two and a half years of high school, until the high winds drove me into the brutal storm. Anxiety and severe panic attacks ensued, my grades suffered (I had been a straight A student until my senior year), and the dreams of going away to college crumbled, at least until a year after high school graduation.

"Growing up it all seems so one-sided
Opinions all provided
The future pre-decided
Detached and subdivided
In the mass production zone..."

I rarely talked about what I experienced at the time with anyone, even my closest of friends, and definitely not my family. I was close to my mom but I couldn't articulate what was happening inside me -- that I didn't want to be what everyone wanted me to be at the time, and in the years after high school. That I desperately needed to heal the scared and broken child inside me, so afraid to become the me I longed to be. My withdrawn anger turned to depression and even further anxiety.

"Anger got bare knuckles
Anger play the fool
Anger wear a crown of thorns
Reverse the golden rule
Then you learn the lesson
That it’s tough to be so cool..."

But no amount of reading (including the Bible, Orwell, Fitzgerald, Conrad, Lee, Ellison, Baldwin, Salinger, Faulkner, Golding, Steinbeck, Swift, Woolf, Hemingway, Huxley, Beckett, Kafka, Lessing, Poe, King -- Martin Luther and Stephen -- and so many more), nor the music and lyrics of Rush, or the unsure but kind words from my family and friends could fully console me. Much anxiety, let downs and failures later, my awakening to being me and living life on my terms would take another 15 years to be fully realized.

"When we lift the covers from our feelings
We expose our insecure spots
Trust is just as rare as devotion —
Forgive us our cynical thoughts..."

The music and lyrics from Rush did help along the way, though. Neil Peart, the drummer and primary lyricist and eventual writer of non-fiction works such as The Masked Rider, Ghost Rider, Traveling Music, Far and Near, Roadshow and many others, inspired me to be a better human, to be independent yet inclusive, pragmatic yet hopeful, loving of self and others, and to be present and always be adventuring and learning, to keep living a full life.

"If I could wave my magic wand
I’d make everything all right..."

I didn't see Rush for the first time until May 24, 1986, in Sacramento, California. General admission then was only $16.50 and it was another sold out show. I was with my best friends from junior high, high school and college. The hot valley sun beat up on us that day, although we were feeling no pain, that's for sure. The show was fabulous and I never in my life have seen musical prowess on stage, then and now, all coming from three individuals. Ever since that first concert, I've seen them many times with the best of friends, and each show has elevated me to new emotional and spiritual heights.

"Against the run of the mill
Static as it seems
We break the surface tension
With our wild kinetic dreams
Curves and lines —
Of grand designs..."

Neil's words definitely contributed to my spiritual therapy over the years and solidified my fandom for sure. Especially from the albums Signals, Grace Under Pressure, Power Windows, Hold Your Fire, Presto, Roll the Bones, Counterparts and Test for Echo. However, all the albums now are important to me today pre- and post-Signals (yes, I keep saying albums, because I'm old school that way), each of them inextricably linked to so many moments in my life.

"I believe in what I see
I believe in what I hear
I believe that what I’m feeling
Changes how the world appears..."

And then in 1997/98, Neil's daughter and wife passed away within 10 months of each other, and for many of us devastated fans, that was the end of Rush. Even his bandmates Geddy and Alex thought it was over. But it wasn't, and after reading Ghost Rider, Neil's healing road that included riding 55,000 miles on his motorcycle throughout North America, Mexico and South America, helped to bring him back to life. He remarried, had another daughter, and Rush played once again, giving us all another four albums, many live shows and a few more books. Plus, there are these fantastic documentaries available as well: Beyond the Lighted Stage and Time Stand Still (a true love letter from fans).

"Surge of energy, spark of inspiration
The breath of love is electricity
Maybe Time is bird in flight
Endlessly mocking
Here we come out of the cradle
Endlessly rocking
Endlessly rocking..."

I never got to meet Neil; he was wary of the public eye and not comfortable around fans. I did get to meet Geddy, though. That was quite a treat. Last year one of my work trips to Toronto aligned with Geddy Lee's book tour promoting his collection of electric basses (titled Big Beautiful Book of Bass). He interviewed on stage and then did a book signing. I even got to fist-bump him after he signed my book! Maybe one of these days I'll get to meet Alex.

"He's a rebel and a runner
He's a signal turning green
He's a restless young romantic
Wants to run the big machine..."

My last show was with my best friend from college in San Jose on July 23, 2015, where tickets started at $49 each (although ours were a lot more than that). My friend was sure he saw Neil riding his motorcycle outside of the arena earlier in the day, although I'm not sure it was him (but we can still wish it was).

Shortly after that last tour, Neil said he was done and the band officially retired. And that was it.

Years pass and then I'm on my way to see my dear friends of 30-40+ years in early January, 2020, when my nephew texts me:

I’m sorry to hear about Neil Peart.

What? I thought. That led to me calling my wife and asking her to look up this news online.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. Yes, he passed away. It says he had brain cancer."

"Suddenly —
You were gone
From all the lives
You left your mark upon..."

I tried to voice text my friends to tell them the news that Neil Peart was dead as I was driving, but Siri couldn't get the words right, so it kept coming out:

Which, in a strange fandom way for many, he was. I hope other fans find humorous solace in that. As I wrote recently, listening to favorite old songs (and albums) is just like looking at faded cherished photographs -- the visceral memories attached to each are forever bound to our hearts. We relive them through our ears of today, the past pleasures and the pain, one song at a time.

"Run to light from shadow
Sun gives me no rest
Promise offered in the east
Broken in the west
Chase the sun around the world
I want to look at life – 
In the available light..."

This morning we were up early, as my family always is, and we drove down to the ocean just before sunrise to catch the birth of a new day. Glorious in rich burning colors, the glowing sliver moon basked in its birth along with us. We held each other, because every day we live our best lives, my wife and daughters, a loving promise we make to each other without compromise.

Neil Peart's life and work has always inspired me to chase the sun around the world and look at life in the available light. To not waste my days just existing, but instead, to use my time well.  Sometimes I can still feel broken, and darkness can creep in, and yet, I keep working on living my best life in all my available light, ample with love and respect for myself, my family and for others. Amen.

Thank you, Neil. 

"The treasure of a life is a measure of love and respect

The way you live, the gifts that you give

In the fullness of time

It’s the only return that you expect..."

Stuff That Makes Them Smile

"Every day we're standing
In a time capsule
Racing down a river from the past
Every day we're standing
In a wind tunnel
Facing down the future coming fast..."

–Rush, Turn the Page

He said he didn’t want any of his old kid stuff. The awards, the papers, the artwork – any of it. But when his mom said she’d have to throw it away because her and her new husband were downsizing and moving to a new place, and he had to move out, he had a change of heart.

My airport shuttle driver told me this story about his older step-son, who had been living with them for the past few years. It’s not a surprise that more men and women in their 20’s and even 30’s have moved back to live at home with their parents because they just can’t afford living on their own. Especially in the Bay Area where housing costs are insane.

But it wasn’t the fact that our two daughters may have to live with us someday as adults that got me thinking about stuff. They’re years away from high school still and light years away from college, if that’s their path.

No, it got me thinking about other stuff. Their school (and even home created) stuff. All their papers and writings and awards and artwork – all of it. Like many parents, we’ve been collecting their stuff since before preschool. My wife is the sorter and tosser and keeper of the kids' stuff and has done an amazing job of it to date. But damn, it’s a daunting task, and now she’s starting to lean on me more for rhetorical “what to do” advice.

“What are we going to do with all this stuff?” my wife said to me recently. With this school year nearly complete and the end-of-year open house past us, we again brought home a bunch of papers, journals, artwork and more, and it’s again time to sort, toss and keep.

Of course, my wife will still manage the bulk of it; she's amazing at that stuff, and I am not. When it’s your child’s stuff and you’re super proud of anything that they do, it’s tough to decide. What helps with our tough decisions is the fact that space is finite at our house and our garage is already full of all our stuff and hasn't sheltered our car in over a decade.

And then there’s the hanging of their art all over the house, which we display proudly. Both girls are very creative and insightful and we feel like they are amazing artists (of course we do, right?). Year after year we swap out the old art for the new and keep what we think are the best ones to eventually pass back to our daughters when they're on their own someday (once they're not living with us anymore, of course).

I have a special box in our garage. Just one special box, full of sentimental stuff that my mom saved for me over the years – stories, poetry, reports, artwork – all the stuff. Add to that the special photo albums she made for me including a very special one when she threw me a surprise birthday party for my 21st birthday with friends and family, an especially anxiety-filled time in my life (God knows I've had my share of those). After I had gone away to college and lived on my own, she asked if I wanted to take them all, and I did. Even with the good and the bad of my past, I would never deny my heart and soul my box of special stuff.

It's like a time capsule I can dig up anytime I want and look through. The fossilized remnants that still anchor me to my childhood and my teenage years, remnants that make me smile and make me sad. We'll want our girls to have their own special boxes someday as well, we hope mostly full of stuff that makes them smile more than we did growing up. And if we have anything to do with it, which we have and we do, they will.

The Dog That Ate The Moon

“Imagination is the golden-eyed monster that never sleeps. It must be fed; it cannot be ignored.” —Patricia A. McKillip

Back then it was The Hardy Boys and The Three Investigators. Stories of boys, teenagers actually, solving mystery after mystery, with lots of action and adventure along the way, plus encountering and then explaining strange phenomena. I read what seemed like hundreds of these books, from the day of first getting my library card around 3rd grade until early adolescence. I never actually counted the number, though. I just kept on reading and reading.

And I wrote my own mystery stories and illustrated them as well. I even sent one of the detective stories I wrote in 6th grade to a publisher and never hear a word either way. In retrospect, they were cathartic creative explorations that allowed me to escape a sometimes harsh environment of domestic violence and sexual abuse. My imagination gave me an outlet to create fantastical worlds with words and images, sometimes just designing inventions I longed to make real, made up or based on something that inspired me, yet never fully realizing them in real life. Like the time I desperately tried to figure out had to turn my little red wagon into Herbie the Love Bug.

Then there was my long-running obsession with fantasy, like J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings and Stephen R. Donaldson's The Chronicles of Thomas Convenant, two of my favorite series. In fact, in junior high I actually learned to write in Dwarvish runes. Really, I did. And I had a whole bunch of amazing nerdy friends that did, too. And Elvish and more. Also, for a short while early in college I played Dungeons and Dragons and my character was a bad-ass Dwarf who wielded a deadly battle-ax.

That's why imagination cannot be ignored as Patricia McKillip wrote above, regardless of circumstance. To me it was and is a wide-eyed monster that never sleeps and must be fed constantly. Whether growing up with violence, or a much more stable and loving environment, one that the Mama (what I lovingly call my wife) and I have been able to provide for our girls, our imaginations have boded well for us for thousands of years of evolution and survival. It's helped us to innovate and problem solve and advance our fragile but resilient species as well as given us a powerful storytelling ability and varying filters and perceptions and differing ways to see and explain the world around us. We imagined gods and devils and reasons for living a good and just life.

Beatrice and Bryce have been imagining and articulating various worlds, creatures, science, inventions and stories since the very moment they could speak. Us encouraging imaginative play and reading, along with their teachers and others, have also helped to feed their creative beasts.

We just had a full moon and that evening the Mama said, "Since we have to spring forward with the time change, why don't we go down to the water before bedtime to see it. Otherwise it'll be lighter later and we won't be able to go."

At first I said, "Ugh. Really?" But I knew these were the moments to never let slip by, so I changed my tune.

"Okay, let's do it. It'll be fun."

The girls were excited, something adventurous to do before bedtime, so off we went. It had finally warmed a bit to our usual early spring nice weather, and the night was lovely. As we walked along the water with the girls running ahead of us, they began to imagine stories about the moon and the stars.

Bea came up with her own folk story, one about a dog named J.J. who stole a rocket ship from an unnamed man. J.J. flew to the moon in the rocket ship, not because he wanted to be an astronaut, but because he thought the moon was a waffle, and he was hungry and wanted to eat the waffle. (Both girls love pancakes and waffles.)

However, he soon found out that the moon wasn't a waffle at all -- it was just a big yucky rock glowing in the night sky -- so J.J. spit out the pieces, creating a meteor shower that lit up the night sky.

And this is why we have meteor showers. Right on, Bea.

That's when it struck me -- the fact that, this folk tale that Bea created from her own limited but pretty positive experiences to date and her own imaginative interpretation, was a metaphor for the beauty of life around us. Prevalent for some, fleeting for others.

And the fact that sometimes we all have to eat big yucky rocks to see the light.

To Be A Man Of Letters

I'm not a purist. Not by any stretch of the imagination. There are those who prefer longhand, sketching stories in pencil or pen on legal pads. Not me. 

No, I can barely read my own printing today. It's progressively gotten worse over the years, especially since I predominated type everything I write and have for decades.

The irony here is the fact that, throughout most of high school, I wanted to be an architect, and my printing was impeccable due to all the drafting courses I took.

But thanks to one typing class my freshman year in high school on an IBM Selectric III, my printing went to hell in a handbasket from then on. 

That's when my grandfather gave me his typewriter, a Remington Noiseless from the 1930's (hence my using the Courier font in this piece). The ribbon was a pain in the butt to manage, but mercy me I loved that typewriter. I typed many a poem, story and class paper on that old machine, and it was the only "word processor" I had my first year in college. Yes, white out was my best friend that year during all my late night typing fests. 

I dug up an interview I did with my grandfather the year after I learned how to type, one that I typed up on the very typewriter he gave me. We talked about the Great Depression and it's fascinating to me now since I've become a self-taught student of economics.

"Well, I [my grandfather speaking here] was 21 years old when the depression began, and my wife was 20. We lived in Bloomington, Indiana. We had gotten married just 6 months before the stock market crashed in 1929. The thing I noticed the most was that banks started closing and closing fast. People were losing money everywhere. People were also losing their homes.

Oh, yes, I remember the stock market crash! Besides losing money and banks closing, I was hearing of people killing themselves. Also, I had a friend that had lost all of his hair besides his money. He ended up separating from his wife and heading for the hills to pan for gold.

Most of the people I knew had lost their jobs. I was lucky. We lived on a farm. But the farm wasn't that good of an income then. I also chopped wood for making railroad ties at $0.10 an hour, 10 hours a day. I know it doesn't sound like much, but it helped a lot."

Ten cents an hour. Wow. Well, the writing for me continued and the typing went from the Remington to a Magnavox Videowriter (remember those?) to an early Apple home computer to a variety of PCs to my MacBook and iPad of today.

A big part of being a writer is reading and I've been fortunate to have such rich access to both. I grew up buried in books, tunneling through character and plot. Words were sustenance for heart and mind. I've always thanked my mother for feeding my primal critical thinking mind by reading to me and encouraging me to read and write. My wife grew up with a voracious appetite for reading as well.

So when the Mama and I had children, of course we planned to ignite our same love of books and story in them, which we've done successfully. The imagination fire in their bellies burns bright and we read every day and every night. 

The Mama takes both girls to the library every week and they bring a big bag of books home each and every time. This summer they've been in the Read to Rhythm program sponsored by the Santa Cruz Friends of the Santa Cruz Libraries. And speaking of economics, they're incentivized to read -- the more they read the more "book bucks" they get to spend on yummy treats around town.

Both Beatrice and Bryce are rich storytellers and have been telling them visually through drawing and play-acting (just as we did at a very early age as well). And now that Bea is learning to read and write, her heart lights up with story, which in turn lights up ours. Bryce isn't far behind either, already writing her name and other letters relaying animated visions as if the world were her stage.

I've been fortunate to write regularly with modest success and visibility, to publish a weekly column about empowering a better workplace, and to have published a children's book and a career management business book. My girls and the Mama also inspire me to one day write that great American novel as well, to be a man of letters I've always aspired to be.

Maybe someday...

Just don't ask me to handwrite anything. It would be like trying to read Tolkien Dwarvish runes. Trust me. 

A forced metaphor, a parent’s delight

It's our little Beatrice's six-month birthday today, and although the past six months have flown by, we definitely have lived in the moment embracing each one as if holding her for the first time.

What to give her?

Words and the empowerment of proper language (yes, it's a fragment). Words were the only children I thought I'd ever birth into this world, but now that we have Beatrice, we want to ensure that becomes a voracious reader and skillful writer and communicator.

It doesn't mean that she has to be a Pulitzer prize-winning author or the award-winning journalist who saves us from the slanted 24/7 30-second media blitzkriegs. It means she needs to be a critical, independent thinker with the ability to string sentences together correctly.

And a best-selling, award-winning author.

Isn't that the way it is? We want the best for our children and even when we say we're not going to push them, we push them nonetheless – a forced metaphor, a parent's delight.

Ugh, I'm up way too early yet again and catching up on work and personal play and as I peruse my latest SJSU Washington Square magazine (I'm a proud Spartan alum!), I came across an article titled Struggling for Words. Here's the first paragraph:

More than 50 percent of San José State's incoming students are not prepared to write at the college level. Much more than incorrect spelling, comma splices and run-on sentences, the problem is that these students lack a critical life skill.

That's staggering and not unique to the CSU system. According to some SJSU faculty and administrators, these obstacles contribute to the problem:

• a declining culture of reading
  
• budgetary constraints at all educational levels
  
• increasing numbers of English language learners
  

The long-term effects of Prop 13 have added to the education budget woes, and the latest California budget fiasco includes the continued gutting of public education in this state. It's bad enough that we rank 49^th in the nation in terms of class size – fast forward to today's anemic business climate and we rank dead last in a national ranking of the best states to do business in.

Can you feel the Golden State pride?

I'm not going to tackle that one today myself, but to help combat the illiteracy entering college every year, SJSU launched the Writing Center two years ago and offers one-on-one tutoring, workshops, and classroom "house calls" for everyone on campus.

As parents we can help combat this problem much earlier starting in year one. Reading aloud to your children, even when they're still in the womb, is crucial. Your children witnessing you reading is as important as encouraging them to read in their formative years.

Plus, making sure they're absorbing the grammar skills learned in early childhood and beyond will help them remain competitive in the ever-changing workplace. According to Cheryl Allmen-Vinnedge, director of the SJSU Career Center, "wherever San José State graduates go, they will find that written and oral communication are among the top 10 skills employers are looking for."

Alas, I know jet ski too much I know. I took the grammar skills test and need some immediate remedial help. Between helping to run a marketing/PR software and services firm, unending work e-mail, multiple clients, blogging for work and pleasure, spending an ungodly amount of time on Facebook and Twitter, I'm amazed that I still make time to read poetry, short fiction, and God willin' and the creek don't rise, a novel every once and awhile.

And right correctly. I mean write.

So Beatrice, our gifts today and tomorrow are words and language and proper grammar (maybe two languages if get our schtick together).

Happy Birthday Baby!

Forced Metaphor

My children are my words,

and their lifelong sentence deems

freedom from the illegitimate divine

premise of defined procreation that rattles

millions of already confused and angry sperm.

They beat themselves senseless over a few fertile eggs,

ragged helix river salmon channeled blind to genome sea.

My children are my words,

from their afterbirth clauses and baby babble spelling bees,

to their young rebellious phrases so inarticulate and fierce

that evolve and grow into dusty volumes upon volumes

revised over years resilient, their elder text

now nurtures my bones, yellowed heart

and brief testament crumbles.

My children are my words,

and at the end of my story

they write my legacy wish weeping

for a forced metaphor, a parent's delight.

--KWG, March 2000

(Talk about forced. Ugh.)

Daddy K Whacks at Gophers While Jet Skiing

I read an article at Atlantic.com a couple of weeks ago by Nicholas Carr titled Is Google Making Us Stupid?.

Fascinating read. Like Nicholas and many other folk, I've been online for over 10 years, surfing the Web as they say and Googling research tidbits that otherwise would've taken days to find. I'm wired to my laptop and iPhone (Mama A does make me put them away, no worries) and am constantly jumping from e-mail, to blogs, to client projects, back to e-mail, to podcasts, to blogs, to YouTube, to online newspapers and magazines, back to e-mail – it's like the whack-the-gopher-on-the-head game at an amusement park; how many things can I touch in 5 minutes, retaining bytes of info without going too deep.

Because you can't go deep if you're jumping around on the surface.

Something has changed the way we process information, and maybe not always for the better. I recommend you read that article but this was something that totally stuck with me:

My mind now expects to take in information the way the Net distributes it: in a swiftly moving stream of particles. Once I was a scuba diver in the sea of words. Now I zip along the surface like a guy on a Jet Ski.

Zip along like a guy on a Jet Ski. Yikes. That's me. This rewiring of the brain that Nicholas refers to is causing us to have a new form of attention deficit disorder (and he does a great job of highlighting how other advancement changes in history like the printing press have changed the way humans consume and process information).

However, I do fight back. I do take the time to absorb myself in my novels, read the news weekly instead of scanning, and write more uninterrupted. And while there's no doubt that the Web is a powerful learning tool and platform for global human interaction, it's changing the way we think.

It's hard, though, because –

Whack!

I have to check –

Whack!

Too many things –

Whack!

Check this –

Whack!

Check that –

Whack!

Phew. I'm pooped. So the question is how soon do we introduce the power of the Web to Baby B? There are different schools of thought on this and we'll have to investigate further as we zip along the surface of life.

Mindful living in the present will help us, that's for sure.