religious painting

It's mid November 2007. Is that date on the Mayan calendar? Before or after the end?

I'm asking only because it sure feels like the end is here. Like we're in the shadow of the giant meteor, or the bloody tsunami wave promised by the Christers.

I woke up last week with an abscess the size of a ping-pong ball beneath the skin on my stomach. What started as a tiny pin prick ballooned with infection. This thing hurt. A few days later I was in the hospital having it drained. It had grown to be 14cm in diameter. And, it felt like I'd been shot in the hip with a gun. I could barely walk. Today, it's about the size of a large gob-stopper candy, about as hard to the touch, and it now comes with a gauze wick hanging out of the gaping mouth my doctor gave to it.

Yes, every other day I have to remove the puss soaked gauze, and then repack the wound with new stuff. It's painful and gross, to say the least.

About stuff like this, my dad likes to say, "Isn't life interesting...." I guess that people like my father get a little confused. There are things that people like to stare at... Or, things that people feel compelled to stare at. And, life is full of those things. Giant super-boils are like crime scene gore, and roadway tragedy. We look even though we don't want to see what we're about to see. That's different than interesting. It's pornographic.

I'll admit to peeling back the bandage at least once an hour, immediately regretting the action.

Did you see the picture at the top? That's my wife and son looking like the subject of some updated religious painting. I love them immeasurably. When I see these pictures, I get jealous of the attention my son gets from my wife. And, i get jealous of the attention my wife gets from my son. I want to squeeze them both.

I think that all three of us are deadly tired these days. And, the general tone of life is gloomy.

That's another thing my dad likes to say is "interesting..." Isn't life interesting? Isn't the twisting and winding path a trip? Again, I'll interpret. I think he means to say that when you look back on life, there will be times where you are glad to no longer be a father feeling wholly responsible for every terrible thing that will result from calling in sick under the weight of the giant super-boil.

My father likes to say that he doesn't know how to be a grandfather. That's the excuse that he uses to not hold my son. I've witnessed my father be capable of tremendous love. I've seen my dad cry. I've seen him be weak and strong. But, his reaction to my son is null.

In my early childhood, my father liked to talk about what a terrible man his own father was. We were told about beatings that involved belts and coat hangers. All of these stories I'm sure were true. The hardest part about it was that my Grandfather (the man accused of all these crimes) was a great person to me.

He was an extremely loving man. He always wanted to kiss us grand kids, to squeeze us, to give us things. He just oozed familial love. It was incongruous to me that he could've ever been so harsh. There were stories of him carrying a bunny rabbit that he'd saved on a battlefield in World War II. And, then the story of how he stole the bayonette knife off of a dead Nazi's body. The knife was engraved with eagle's and swastikas. And, he showed me the grooves in the blade meant to channel the blood out of its victims.

I believe that the man had a dark side. But, looking back on it I can see how he turned into the great grandfather that he was. A grandfather has the freedom to embrace the love without feeling any of the pressure of parenthood. In fact, as I've thought about it lately, I can't wait to be a grandfather. I have a feeling I'll be just like my Grandpa was.. pinching cheeks, rubbing noses, lifting children over my struggling heart. I will revel in the pure joy of children sans the terror of parenting.

When I think about my father's inability to be close to my son it baffles me. I think of this time my wife was at the park with our son. A woman saw him and said, "Look at that juicy baby! I want to put a glaze on him and eat him up!" That pretty much sums up how I feel about him. I see that kid and I want to eat him. I'm his dad. So, sometimes when I go to give him a nuzzle or a kiss, he starts crying. Or, sneezes in my face. Or, he starts squeezing one out in his diaper. I can't give him back to his parents. I can't do much else besides take it personally. I have a reason to put the kid down sometimes. But, my father?

How can my dad not want to eat my baby? How can my dad turn out colder than his mean child beating father? I mean, if grandpa was able to love like that, shouldn't his peaceful son be capable of as much? More? The answer is a mystery. I've talked to my dad about this a little bit recently. And, he finds it very interesting...

Hillrodism -- HELP.

A long while back, I started reading this book. It's a glorified thesis paper written about a hillbilly chair maker in the hills of Kentucky. His (the Hillbilly) name is Chester. He's since passed away. But at the time of the book's writing, he was alive and crazy. The author shacks up with him and his family for a bit. And, the resulting book is an analysis of old-school beautiful building techniques- and the rechid life of a Kentucky hill dweller.

Chester is a self proclaimed Hillbilly. A man who dreams of returning to a hollow in the mountains, away from the bother of the modern world.

Is this starting to sound romantic?

He has numerous children, many of whom are mentally disabled. He has a wife who dreams of rising to a better social class. A woman who insists on buying factory made chairs. She refuses to use the chairs that Chester makes from freshly felled trees with little more than a hatchet and a pocket knife.

Chester actually enjoyed a small amount of celebeity resulting from his truly amazing techniques of chair building. He had been the subject of several articles in national publications throughout the sixties and seventies. In fact, if you look at the pieces of his life that culminated in a book being written about him, you see all the trappings of success. By that I mean that he seemed poised to bring riches to his family.

Like so many tragic figures he failed. There are aspects of him that I admire. Aspects, that I think are heroic, enviable, beautiful. And, so much to question and reject. I have a relationship with him similar to the one that I have with my own father. And, yes, I do have a relationship with Chester.

Chester haunts me. He lives in the book that lives in the bathroom. I read it over and over. In the bath, on the toilet, brushing my teeth.. it reaches out to me. And, there I am horrified as I look into the abyss of it.

I was given this book by an intern of mine. The gifter astutely noted parallells in the life of the chairbuilder, Chester and I the shoe maker. The two of us hacking away at the jungle of modernity to preserve some old technique that needed no modernization.

I make shoes. And, I also work with wood. There are so many chords inside of me resonating with what I read about Chester's life and with the techniques and relationship he has with wood.

I read about Chester's uphill battle with financial burden. It is hard to make a living in this world. And, I would argue that it is hard for almost all of us. But, let me tell you this. It is hard to read a book that seems to be the story of your life. Especially when it is a non-fictional account of someone losing everything.

To be clear, the marital strife and familial struggle that plagues Chester's life do not plague mine. In many ways Chester's behavior embarasses me. We are not the same. But, we come from such a uniquely similar perspective. Our purposes are the same. We are unique builders and preservers of something from another time that still has modern purpose. And, there are truly parallell lines in our lives. Frightening parallell lines.

Chester's work was valued. People wrote from all over the country to get their hands on one of his impressive hand built chairs. But, it wasn't enough to keep his family together. He worked constantly. Despite his work, he was never able to do much more than pay his rent and electric bill.

His wife never bought new clothes. His children didn't wear shoes. He didn't wear shoes. Not because they didn't want to. But, because they could not afford to.

In the little towns of Hazard county there was work outside of chairmaking. Chester had a nephew who was a coalminer. The nephew appeared as a king to the family. A rich man making five thousand dollars a year for the simple sacrifice of his lungs.

Chester chose to continue building chairs despite the hardship of it.

Here's a good point to go off on a tangent ( a related tangent. But, a tangent none-the-less)

We can boil the notion of sin down to one simple non-denominational word: self-indulgence.

Whether you be Buddhist, Catholic, Muslim, ... so forth. You'll find that exclusive self gratification is the common factor in what religion considers to be breaking the rules set forth by the supreme being. That especially means creativity. If I make a painting I am doing very little to care for those that are in need. God, Buddha, and Alla all seem to be asking us to be the eyes, ears, and helping hands down on the ground. They can't really see it all from their lofty places. And, so we have to help eachother eat and be warm. We have to help life go on.

Being alive means one simple thing.. continuation. And, being alive makes you a part of everything alive. You may be unique. But, you are a unique part of something so very big. Life is life is life is life. And so, killing is easily understood as a sin. It goes against the clear rule of life.. continuation. .keep it going despite yourself.

Stealing is easily understood as a sin. When you take something without exchanging something of yours you contribute to the disorder in the universe. Physicists don't like to put hot cups of tea next to empty cold cups for this reason. It takes the universe farther away from its perfect inital ordered state. Stealing anything is like stealing energy. There has to be an exchange. Them's the rules.

Adultery? Well, that starts to get a little harder. But, come on. It's a clear form of self-indulgence. It's a lot like stealing (sexual politics aside). It is destroying a bond in the universe. Think of it like splitting apart elements. Carbondioxide is made of 2 molecules of Oxygen and 1 molecule of carbon. If you break that union up, you destroy an element essential to plants. Plants make Oxygen. Get it? Things belong together. Don't mess with unions in the universe. It's a sin.

Making a hit record.
Creativity is a complex form of self-indulgence. In order for it to be catalogued into reality, it has to be recognized by other living things. When you make a hit record, you may be bringing a kind of joy to others. But, you also are asking them to take time out of continuing life to pay attention to you. You are interupting the flow of life. And, you are creating something that takes energy away from the general flow of life. That's what cancer does to your body. Cancer is a spontaneous form of creation that uses your life giving resources. If cancer's record is big enough, all of your life giving resources go to it, and you die.

So, is creativity a sin if it is useful? Do chairs, shoes, and bandaids fall under the same constraints as hit records? I think that when I look at Chester's life it seems so. I like to look at Chester's chairs. I love the ways that he builds them. I want them to be in existance as much as I want to dance to Prince, or smoke cigarettes.

And, that's what makes me understand the concept of sin. The temptation. Chester essentially abandon's his family to make these things of beauty. He is convinced that there is that much importance in what he does. And, despite the lust and admiration and love that I have for these things... as much as I agree with old Chester, I know that his family is more important than his chairs.

Remember the first rule? Continuation. Your job is to make other things live. Just like everyone's job is to make other things live. If we all do our job we will all be making something else live. And, hence we will be helped by someone else.

....So, I read this book about Chester all the time. Too much. And, I am a shoe maker. Do you see where I'm going? I know the end of Chester's story. And, in some ways, I am Chester. I'm not giving enough to my family by being a shoe maker. If I continue to do it without increasing what I take home, I will fail my family. I will fail at my part in continuing life.

I know that I can't trade my family for my desire to make shoes. But, should I continue to try and succeed at shoe making to provide for my family? Should I be a coalminer? Write me. Tell me.




Adultery, stealing, killing, making hit records, veneomous sermon giving .. these are all things that take all the energy of the world and focus

All the time working and juicy fruits

Oh god. I love him. I bite his cheeks, and smell the top of his head. And, it's a little maddening to have him in my hands.
Just as much as he is great, he can be a terror. My son has been sick for nearly two weeks. Which means he's been uncomfortable. And, I (the adult) have been through far worse in my life. I've lived through untreated dental horror, and terrible uninsured illness. But, my son gets to scream at the top of his lungs about how hard it is to have a stuffy nose. I want to make it better. But, I also want to let him know that there's a whole lot worse out there. And, I pray that he'll be tough enough to deal with the minor hardships with aplomb, and save all his emotional energy for the true trials of life.
Needless to say, I have not slept for weeks. And, I find myself at a stage in parenthood far worse than that which I have already deemed the worse imaginable part of my life. It's hard not to sleep. Right after my son came into the world, I stopped sleeping. At that point, I'd had a rich and enjoyable 32 years of living. Now, all that rich and restful joyous life has been used up by my son. And, so when he decides to take away my sleep now, there is no reserve upon which to rely. I simply have a rug yanked away.. no cushion to fall upon.
But, typical of parenthood. After a grueling few weeks, I suddenly found the energy to get out of the house with him. We walked about two miles in the warm afternoon. We made it all the way to our favorite child friendly happy hour. I had a beer while he flirted with the audience of sidewalk eaters. And, after mom had found some time to herself, she came to meet us.
Suddenly life was good again.
For me, one of the most difficult things about parenthood is losing the relationship I had with my wife. It's a temporary and strange shift, I know. But, it feels very sad and hard sometimes. You can't (as much as you think you can) put your child away long enough to enjoy the carefree life that you knew.
Today, while I sat with my son waiting for my wife, I thought about this. And, I came to the conclusion that while your child is so young that they are completely and constantly dependant upon you .. In the first few years, your child is cute and silky and chubby and kissable and huggable. It's a good thing. Because, as a parent to a young child, you really have no time or space to be anything but alone. I sit next to my wife. And, sometimes, I get to hold her hand. But, for the most part I live in a semi-sensory deprived state. Essentially void of human contact.
I think it's made up for by the fact that I can hold my son. My wife too.. We both end up pouring all of our love into him. He gets pinched, kissed, hugged, nuzzled, snuggled, and complimented constantly. That's got to be good for his development. And, it allows us to remain loving human beings, despite the deprivation of sleep and human contact that we must undergo as parents.
This love is different than the thing I'm talking about missing. I miss intimacy with my wife. That implies a romantic 'adult' intimacy. It's true that we have much less of that. But, what I miss most is the daily frivolous human contact.. holding hands, little kisses, hugs, and snuggles. What I'm talking about here, is realizing that that kind of contact is something seemingly inherant and necessary in familial love. I love my son. So, I nuzzle him. I love my wife. And, if one of us weren't attending to our child's every need, I'd get to nuzzle her too.
Someday my son will be too old to nuzzle. My wife and I will have the opportunity to renew our everyday closeness. But, in the mean time, our children will help remind us of what it is like to love someone so much that you just want to bite their cheeks, and scream... " I LOVE YOU!!"
For the record, we still inspire that love in each other. It's just not as often actualilzed as it is with our child.
more soon.

Reckoning...

I know that this is going to sound a little pessimistic. If you bear with me, you'll see how it is almost the opposite. I'll just jump right in here, and make the statement...

If there is one sensation that sums up the feeling of fatherhood, it is dissappointment.

Stay with me.

As a father, I feel the deepest love that I have ever felt. I love my son. And, I love my wife. I love my family. The feeling of dissappointment is in not ever being able to do enough. And, I really feel that that feeling is what makes the best fathers.

For me, this feeling is the driving force of everything that I do. It transcends whatever trifles there are in the physical world. It is like any deep spiritual system. It strips away everything, but purpose.

In the mind of the father, the father's job is to do everything. And, to do everything is impossible. Hence, the father will always find himself at the end of the day with at least one more task to complete. The work never ends. And, so there is always more life to live. Each day is filled with purpose.

It is far more complex than these simple statements that I have just made. And, if you are a father, you'll know just what I mean.

I think that all fathers, the ones we think are good as well as the ones we think are bad, have this feeling of dissapointment. This desire to do so much more. And, that's exactly what I mean. The feeling of fatherhood is dissappointment. It's a feeling in your stomach, a nervousness, a fidgetting, a stirring ...

I am a father. And, I am in the extremely enviable position of being able to work at home, essentially on my own schedule. My wife also works at home. And, the result is that our now eight month old son is in constant contact with one or both of us. It's hard to say exactly how that affects the young man. But, I can say that he laughs about ninety percent of his waking day. He is off the charts for growth and development. And, he glows with energy. He has been mistaken for a one year old since he was about six months old.

We changed our whole lives so that we could be at home with him. Without a doubt, the change has been for the best. But, it has not been without tremendous struggle. Luckily, the jobs we left behind were thankless low-wage jobs. I left a restaurant, and she left a pre-school. While both had their perks. Money and freedom weren't among them.

We now have a small specialized pre-school in the downstairs of our house, that is run by my wife. I make shoes (really) one custom order at a time. And, from time to time I take on work ranging from house painting to furniture repair to copywriting. Whatever that essential feeling of fatherhood actually is, I have it. Fear? Suspense? Zero gravity?

Whenever I talk to friends in New York (city), they always talk about their insane lives. They work a million jobs. They put out exorbitant amounts of money on a regular basis. But, they always talk about how it's worth it; How that time they get to themselves is the most precious perfect time.

That's how I feel about our work. I feel like I'm constantly working, and constantly writing checks. I feel like I watch the bank account fill up, and then empty out a second later. But, everyday I find a moment where it all feels completely worth it.

Testing

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