Regularly scheduled randomness

I'm the first to admit that I'm a little superstitious. As in "When you believe in things that you don't understand..." (S. Wonder) Okay, very superstitious. So who 'believes in' things that they do understand? Do you understand gravity? Do I understand inertia? Things that are undeniably real remain wonderfully mysterious.

Hence the desire to build a fire at the end of the day and not just turn up the thermostat, to cook rice and stir-fry some tofu with carrots, onions, fresh ginger, broccoli, and home-grown peppers instead of ordering a pizza. It's time to bring to a close another week, turn in a timesheet, call it a day, enjoy a Danish vodka, and prepare to bid adieu to the Year of the Tiger.

It's just another week, and it's just a calendar, an arbitrary number in a mathematical system invented by an astronomer working for an emperor (lunar) or a Pope (solar) that makes sense within the community of the faithful, for whom it defines something important, but at the end of the day, it's just another day on the blue-green planet.

The key is to "Be heavy and still have a sense of humor," as my friend Terry in the UP used to say, quoting Frank Zappa. With that wisdom in mind, I consult the oracle, which I used to consult almost daily 35 years ago when another friend named Shea introduced me to "the old man in the yellow coat," in an effort to keep things in perspective. Coin toss, marks on paper.

Before Completion (64) when the transition from disorder to order is not yet completed, presents a parallel to spring. "But if the little fox, after nearly completing the crossing, gets its tail in the water, there is nothing that would further." Leading the world out of confusion back to order, one must move warily like an old fox moving over ice....Deliberation and caution are the prerequisites of success.

This divination is pure T'ai Chi, and every new beginner gets it drummed into their head when we are learning to walk like the old fox, placing each foot weightlessly in front, pausing to test the ice before committing to take a step in that particular place, lest the ice give way underfoot and we lunge forward to an icy end.

Six in the fifth place means perseverance, as victory has been won, and success has justified the deed. The new time has arrived and with it good fortune. As the sun shines forth in redoubled beauty after rain, or as a forest grows more freshly green from charred ruins after a fire, so the new era appears all the more glorious by contrast with the misery of the old.

So I slept soundly, woke up holding hands, and had a biscuit with my coffee before Saturday morning class. I could have gone to Lowe's to look for a storm door, or I could have walked the dog or renewed Zelda's car tags at the BMV. But it's nice to know that the victory has been won.

Instead of the errands on my to-do list, I played it by ear in the randomness of an open-ended Saturday, and driving east from High Street I spotted a crew of tree workers bringing down a gigantic ash, so I asked them if they wanted to get rid of some of the wood. The head honcho was more than willing to cut a few of the oddly shaped limbs into lengths I could carry, so I filled up the Ranger with free firewood.

Happy accidents happen sometimes, but you can't plan them or they don't count. I had just enough time to go to the thrift store and found an almost new pair of jeans that fit - nine dollars - and go to the regularly scheduled randomness of the Clinton-Como drum circle.

Nick was there, of course, smiling as usual, and Mark was there, brooding as usual, and a couple of other familiar faces. Pretty soon more people began to trickle in, a young woman I didn't know, three young guys I had met before, an older woman, and everyone found a place to sit in the circle. A couple of kids wandered in from the gym still wearing their basketball shirts, one left after five minutes and the other stayed for an hour. You never know.

Out of office

Being gone for the better part of a week has consequences. I took a few days off last week because my mother was in the hospital with pneumonia. I talked to my manager, made arrangements with a dependable co-worker to cover my project, and drove south on Saturday.

My sister Anna Banana Golly-Gosh had been visiting my parents for a week, and the day I arrived she went back to Michigan. My brother Rock Golly was there for the weekend, so it was my turn to grab the baton in the sibling relay and accompany Dad through the next few trying days.

Long story short, everything went fairly well. Drs. Sawabini and Mehta saw daily progress in Mom's condition from Sunday through Wednesday: "Her numbers are better." She was unenthusiastic about eating the bland hospital food, but eating unassisted was a big step forward. The physical therapists coaxed her into taking a few steps with a walker, and she felt better after being up out of bed.

Monday and Tuesday, Dad and I visited two "skilled nursing" facilities in Cumberland County and one just across the Putnam County line. Of the two in town, we chose the one that looked more professional and organized. By Wednesday morning, the pneumonia threat had cleared, and we moved her across town to a semi-private room in the rehab center. We spent the afternoon getting acquainted with nurses and therapists, generally being the squeaky wheel and getting their attention.

Thursday I came home to a snowstorm in central Swingstate just in time for my qigong class. They say falling snow has very positive, cleansing qi, and I believe it. Friday in the office was surprisingly trouble-free because Courtney had taken care of business while I was gone. There was exactly one page still to be approved before all files were released. Update the schedule, answer a few emails, touch base with the production team, and call it a day.

On the home front, there was work to do. I hadn't seen Gven Golly in almost a week, so I unpacked the salient details of my visit with the folks and did three loads of laundry. It was cathartic. I cleaned the rooms that I inhabit the most, shoveled snow, built a fire, watched basketball - Ohio State vs. Illinois, Tennessee vs. UConn, Minnesota vs. Michigan, Purdue vs. Michigan State.

When I called Dad, he reported that with a little butter and salt, Mom is eating more and is lucid if not altogether happy and cooperative. She had a successful physical therapy session on Friday that pushed her limits and left her a bit tired. Dad got her a TV and some large-print Readers Digest books. Someone from their Methodist church had visited, and there is a group in the rehab that gets together to sing hymns.

Zelda came over for dinner on Sunday, always a welcome respite from the hum-drum of the week. We had a nice evening with turkey burgers and mashed potatoes while the Packers beat the Bears in the snow of Soldier Field. However, the oven igniter had stopped working, so there was no way to bake bread, and I would have to make do with pita and tortillas for the week's lunches. A whole week's worth of New York Times sits unread on the kitchen table, so I will have to read two sections a day to catch up with the newspaper of record.

Hanging with my boys

My desk is like a home away from home. When I'm there, I sometimes listen to music. Not all the time, not even every day, so it's not like I make it a practice. But it is a great way to break up the day, screen out distractions, and spend quality time in the presence of familiar voices.

I like these guys. They're not my friends exactly, depending on what that means. Some of them know each other, of course, and none of them have ever heard of me, I can safely assume. Let's just say I enjoy hanging with Adrian, Bob (of course), Charlie, Chick and Bela, Christopher, Dave, Eddie and Joe, Irving, Jerry and David, John, John, Leon, Matt, Miles, Mstislav, Ralph, Red, Ute, and Yo-Yo.

It's a small, select group. I might have the most limited iTunes library in the office. I would attribute that to quality over quantity. Just ask my boys.

Wrandom

I jotted down the first few words I heard on each channel while flipping from channel 3 all the way up to channel 99, just to see what fragments would fall together. This sample of tube talk from a Friday night is the language of TV.

Beginning

A kind of strange egg creates tomorrow. Car wash, okay, I’ll speak to the catering manager.

Men, HD 3-D mobile TV. My sister said to me the other day, when I find the dress, as they’re thumbing their noses in the face of truth, justice, and the American way. Thus Butterworth entered the funeral business.

Down across southeast Ohio, mother, tomatoes, Maria, the house looked so gorgeous for the holidays. One carat, I love it, Michael, you’re so fabulous. McIlhenny stores 60 thousand barrels; 14 thousand gallons of vinegar are mixed with 3 thousand pounds of mash. (Sousa’s Washington Post March) I thought we were best friends.

Middle

Poetry in motion, injustices we are forced to suffer, and now the conditions for selected locations puts you in a coma. More legitimate as an edited version, or are they both equally despicable?

Strong muscles and healthy bones, in seafood is enjoying it together too consistently not to make it, love coming back unless he changes his mind now. A versatile guard who can do a lot of different things. It’s Chuck’s last call after the game right here.

Congratulations, guys, we’re thrilled to have you. You may speak too, half-breed vermin, but first catch up on everything that’s gone down. It may be cold outside, but it’s still hot in Cleveland. Congratulations, and don’t worry. That’s not a bad omen at all.

Under the gig, pumps pulsate a stream of water. It’s eating you up inside, and you know I never molested that boy. I may be mud, but I have standards. Invisible electric fencing, it’s the latest thing. I think it sexifies the dish a little bit putting the chocolate on top. Maximum strength musinex DM breaks up the musus and quiets coughs. At Burger King you get a second one for free.

Hey, are you famous or something? Or something. Stir up a smile with Hershey’s syrup. Set a good example to lead you in the right direction. What about me? Finally there’s a choice in high-performance detergents. Why don’t you put some pajamas on? That’s not a good situation. Where are you going? Call the number below or log on to get a bow flex dot com.

I love you, Tron guy. Now Ritchie, you don’t have auto insurance coverage right now. He’s square with the house again, so keep off him. Roger’s sick. The film is in about two hours. Wanna go? What’s the name of it? Cross Creek. Never heard of it. Why was he so upset and uncomfortable? I think it had something to do with being socially awkward.

End

The butcher’s paper blowing in the wind, the floating bridges, trying to get something going just for that one game. Any time you get a set of horns the first time and rattle them, that’s a good set of horns. We got a special place here, you know? They’re drunk and disorderly, and police already know they’re a threat to public safety.

PGA shot tracker puts you in control. President Clinton’s secretary of commerce, something in this field could be releasing the chemical into the air when there’s too many of us together. I don’t know anything about anything anymore. By the way, what are you planning to do with your talent, sing, dance? If I do say so myself, now where is that baby unicorn?

We could control Tommy, and by trailing Tommy we could control Celati. It’s like the story of the lion sleeping with the lamb. It happened naturally. Instead of fighting it, I worked with it, you know? Sabor a verdad, I’m gonna call ya in a few hours, okay? A few hours, why? What’s for dessert? Your favorite: crème brule!

Museum as church, church as museum

Our arrival in New York was delayed by the closure of the Pennsylvania Turnpike and a missed entrance ramp to the New Jersey Turnpike, but in the end our timing was perfect. We were traveling two days after the storm that dropped a foot or two of snow on most of the Northeast, and the evidence increased the farther east we got along I-70. By the time we crossed the Verrazano Bridge from Staten Island into Brooklyn, snow was piled up everywhere on major streets, and many side streets were impassable.

When we finally turned onto Dean Street, a couple of men had just shoveled an SUV out of a parking space two door down from our rental just in time for us to pull in. One of them was our landlord for the week, Niya [NAH-yuh] Bascom, who was kind enough to be out there to guide us in after a long drive. We didn't move our Toyota Echo for the next three days. By Friday some of the snow had melted and the plows had come through, so it was easy in and easy out, the kind of thing you can't plan.


Niya's house is a nice six-unit brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street a couple of blocks from where Crown Heights meets Bedford-Stuyvesant. Our two-room studio on the first floor had plenty of space and all the amenities we needed. He was a great host. In fact, we had only positive encounters in our Jamaican neighborhood. The civility of Brooklynites was impressive. Maybe it was the leveling effect of everyone having to deal with two feet of snow. Or maybe it's just Brooklyn.

What were we doing in New York, you might ask. Our son Jessi had spent the week of Christmas in Ohio, so Gven and I decided to drive back with him and stay a couple of days to see his new place and a bit of the city. When we got settled on Dean Street, we walked a few blocks up to Fulton and Nostrand, then up the four flights to Jessi's apartment. Yup, that's a lot of stairs for us old folks, but it probably keeps the rent low.

So part of our mission was accomplished. We met two of his three housemates, inspected their very neat, updated space, and verified that yes, you can indeed see the Empire State Building from the kitchen window. We went out to get a bite to eat, and the man at the juice bar on the corner knew Jessi and asked him how his Christmas had been in Ohio. Jessi grinned and asked how things are in Burkina Faso. He introduced us. We got a papaya juice and a chili dog and called it a day.

We slept like we had just driven for 14 hours and walked to breakfast at a bar called Bush Baby on Fulton St. Then, because the Franklin Ave. shuttle wasn't running, we walked about a mile to the Brooklyn Museum. The sun was shining, most sidewalks had a narrow path shoveled through the snow, and it was fine.


Each of us likes to move through a museum at our own pace, and it was easy to spend half a day there, take a break for coffee, and not get lost. I had never seen Judy Chicago's The Dinner Party, and it more than lived up to it's inspiring reputation. Gwen told me I should see the exhibition by Fred Tomaselli on the fifth floor, and she was right, it was stunning. He layers materials - leaves, feathers, pills, cut-out images of body parts - in acrylic with a collage-like effect that has to be seen.


Just as it was getting dark, we walked across a tiny corner of Prospect Park and down Flatbush to Cubana Cafe for dinner. Excellent mojitos, excellent service; bring cash because they don't take VISA. Then we walked around some more, but the really cool bars were too crowded, so we walked some more and found a great little bookstore. Why is there more of everything in New York? Because it's New York! And bring your walking shoes.

We had a definite goal the next day for breakfast. On our last New York trip, Gven and I stayed in the East Village and met Jessi at B & H Dairy, his favorite diner on Second Avenue, which is said to serve the best borscht in the universe. It was Saturday morning and the place was packed, but we found a small table in the back and drank coffee while observing the Polish matriarch at the end of the counter keeping an eye on the place while peeling potatoes. When Jessi arrived, there was nowhere to sit, so I suggested that we find another place to eat. Later I regretted this decision, so this was our second chance at the B & H.

It was totally worth it. I didn't see the old lady, but the young man waiting tables refilled our coffee cups and yelled our order to the cook: "Pierogis, cheddar-apple omelette, French toast, Mummy, Daddy."


It was a sunny day in Manhattan, and our mood was ebullient on the way to our next destination in SoHo. Gven wanted to look at knitting supplies at Soho Purl on Broome Street, a place she had admired online, and Jessi took me a block north to The Evolution Store on Spring Street, where among the fossils, stones, and bones I found a book about the natural forms of flowers, stems, shells, and skin that made my eyes bug out the way Fred Tomaselli's art had the day before.

We were beginning to figure out a few of the worst-kept secrets of the New York subway system and quickly found ourselves on the Upper West Side at a table in the back corner of a Hungarian cafe across the street from the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Am I in heaven? No, but it's probably a little like Budapest. I can still taste the almond pastry.


The cathedral itself is somewhat overwhelming, which might be the point of Gothic architecture in general and this amazing specimen in particular, built on a rocky outcropping in the most exclusive quarter of the wealthiest city in the richest country in the world. If the vaulted ceilings, tiled floors, stained glass windows, larger-than-life statues of saints, ring of chapels encircling the altar, and string orchestra rehearsing in the nave don't take your breath away, you might want to check for a pulse. Not quite a conversion experience, but close.

Did I mention that it was our anniversary? Yes, our last day in New York - and part of the rationale for the trip - was the 32nd anniversary of the wedding of Sven and Gven Golly all those years ago in Atlanta. We celebrated year 30 in Chicago and now year 32 in New York, maybe our 35th should be . . . in Budapest, or Prague, or Oslo! Let's think about that for a few years.

Our tour guide Jessi and co-conspirator Alex had picked out the perfect restaurant in Greenwich Village. Like kids out on a date in the big city, Gven and I navigated the A train to Washington Square and walked a couple of blocks to Bleecker Street and Trattoria Pesce Pasta. The lobster ravioli was righteous, the tortellini was terrific, and the wine was wonderful.

The Donut Diner in Park Slope was our final breakfast destination and another favorite place of Jessi's where they know him and welcomed us. The Greek omelette was average, but the complimentary glazed donuts were melt-in-your-mouth yummy. Long story longer, we emerged from our free parking place unscathed, crossed back over the Verrazano Bridge and out the Jersey Turnpike, and with the help of a rivetting book on CD by Nick Hornby made it home a few minutes before midnight to toast the New Year.

Chores as ritual, rituals as chore

Writing the date in numerals separated by slashes, not dashes: 1/1/11

Drinking strong coffee and herb bread, reading the Sunday Style section. Remembering that whatever happens on New Year's Day, unlike Vegas, doesn't stay on New Year's Day but penetrates, permeates, replicates, indicates, and echoes throughout the year, so take note of your actions.

Changing to the 2011 refill in my old weekly planner; recommitting to pen and paper, knowing I'm not ready to organize my life on a hand-held computer, thus admitting that I am old school, a throwback, an anachronism.

Chronicling the salient facts, not for reference later, just for the sake of intentionally writing them down. Making a list of verbs attached to objects both direct and indirect; entertaining a fantasy of expanding it into a blog entry, a short story, a novella, an epic; settling for a journal entry.

Taking out the trash; recycling paper, glass, metal, and plastic; sweeping the floor of the kitchen and den; shovelling ashes from the stove; doing laundry; watering indoor plants. Cleaning up borders between beds in the garden; sweeping the patio, raking away debris, moving rocks upsteam or downstream, redistributing leaves and bark as needed.

Ignoring TV and football until a midafternoon dream turns nightmarish in Big Ten matchups with Southeastern and Big 12 teams. Michigan ouch, Michigan State ouch. Penn State not so bad, Northwestern not so bad, Wisconsin not so good.

Eating a peasant supper of sour kraut and pork.

Playing the three-penny opera of changes: After encountering comes gathering in union, bringing people together, assembling with a common purpose at the ancestral temple with somewhere to go, repairing weapons to guard against the unexpected. After marrying comes abundance with no additional room for growth, as the sun at midday begins declining with the time to be treasured and enjoyed.