The Book of Lives

Our lives are written across the pages of a book.
That's a premonition I have.
Each chapter is penned line after line.
It's all completed.
We're reading the script of our lives.

I found a picture of me as a boy today.
I was smiling big,
wearing the red sombrero that hung in Grandpa's cottage.
And thinking back to that part of my story, I can tell that smile was practice for you.
So you'd know I was me.

As I write this I can't read ahead.
But I feel like you're the best character I'll find.
My favorite one.
And I'm charmed to be the one smiling at you.

The Warmest Thanks

Alison and I want to extend the warmest thanks to everyone who helped contribute to Alison's Fund. All told, A Dream for Alison raised more than $2250! That is so amazing to us. We've used it to cover the trip to H. Lee Moffit Cancer Center in Tampa, FL, and most recently, to send Alison home to see her family.

Last year while I was in Japan, my boss' daughter was in a riding accident, and she got kicked by her horse. Each person in my unit did just a little, if it were only to inquire about her and pray for her. He was moved. I can't really descibe what it was like to see tears in his eyes, but it's stuck with me.

He said, "I never wanted to need the support like we often do for those in need, but being on the receiving end of it is overwhelming."

She recovered, and I feel like my boss was a better man after the experience. That's where I'm at now. I'm moved. Nothing I can say will do it justice. I will be forever greatful to each reader of our blogs, to each friend and family member.

Being on the receiving end of it is overwhelming.

Thought Left-Overs

I wish I could seal some of my thoughts in plastic bags. I'd store them away like left-overs until the time was right to post them. I guess that's one reason to keep a real notebook. Today I thought of two perfect lines, but can't seem to complete the thought.
I left Alison at the airport and didn't know what to do with myself. It's strange to be in the house by myself. So I was thinking when the lines, "You're my reference point. It's hard to shoot an azimuth when you're gone."
I just feel like if the weather was right in my head, I could write something cool with those. So I'll jot 'em down, and use this post as my Ziploc.

Hue Mess

Yeah, hue. For the last week or so, I've been repairing the walls of the living room, and putting in a bar light-switch. P and C rocked the house by helping me spread around 3 gallons of oil-based primer. Good ventilation was key, and we all got giggly from fumes.

The giggles quickly faded after they left. The color I dumped 48 bones on was yellow. Not khaki. It was a hair away from khaki, but the blue ceiling made it yellow. The crimson accents turned fire-engine. And the Colts were down 21-3. I was frustrated.

So I went to my stash of paints in the garage. I opened up the Oyster Shell Brown that was on the walls before. And I grabbed plain Satin White Wall Paint. I mixed. I stirred. And I repainted. And I repainted. Then I ran out a coat short.

So I went back out to the garage. I made more, trying to match the colors. Good luck!

So here's what I learned. Paint one wall at a time. Trim it, roll it, complete it. Then do the next wall. That way if there is a little variation in the can, or between cans, the variation is on separate walls.

So here's where we were and where we are:

Going to Bed Mad

I had to post again, because the last post came off angry.

I found an antique trunk today at Habitat for Humanity's ReStore in town. I thought it was quite the find at 30 bucks. Are you kidding me? Railway passage stickers from 1939?

And the Petina is absolutely gorgeous. I could only aspire to reporduce that on a sculpture. I have no space for it in our house, so my misfortune is my step-mom's gain ;)

I'm beginning a little research on it's history. Google Maps says her house is a condominium building now. They tore down the old house in 1986. One's for sale if you're in the neighborhood.

Funny thing; the return address she lists on two stickers is a library in Palmyra, NY.

Tough Schedule

This week has been busy, and included a surprise MRI of Alison's head. She said the experience was not a nice one. It certainly wasn't a short one either. Normally the time goes quick as long as I can be in there with her. But the MRI section was highly secured, so I waited in the reception area. After I am thoroughly bored, I usually begin to fantasize about a nice 20 oz. Coca-Cola Classic, so I tredge down to the Hospital Gift Shop. There is a lady there that always brightens up my day. She's always a beacon of friendliness in a place where people don't like to be. She recognizes me now, and always says things to make me smile.
Those type of people deserve a real pat on the back sometimes.
There's also a nice gentleman at the Walgreen's pharmacy. He knows me now too. [Oh, MRI's negative. I know you were wondering.] Anyways, I'd like to give credit to the Walgreen's pharmacy tech. He's good stuff. He's like a referee in an unkindly sport. People generally are impatient with him. Their needs are SO IMMEDIATE in their own minds that no matter how fast he helps them, they stand with arms folded and steam coming off their ears.
And while I'm on it (blogs are great for complaining), I'm packing a big sledge hammer in my back pocket. The next lady that looks at me sideways in the pharmacy, like "You don't LOOK like you need anything. I'M late for my exfoliation and I need my prescription FIBER PILLS now!", will push me over the limit. I've already fantasized about screaming, "MY WIFE HAS HORRIBLE CANCER YOU BITCH!". But I guess the fantasizing keeps me sain, and I laugh while everyone thinks that theirs is the biggest need on the face of the earth.
I may just start scratching myself in improper places and drooling when the next lady looks at me wrong.

For Alison

It was summer when we sat on wooden steps at the Mississippi and watched while the sun sank into the horizon. A man picked on his guitar and while he played I thought of your timelessness, and how minutes and seconds would no longer matter. You'd taken them from me, and replaced them with the measure of a lifetime and promised that the sun would ebb and flow for us in our own sky.
Then time took a rythm for us.
When your illness surfaced, each second took a magnificent weight. Each one grabbed for life-rafts in uneasy seas. The winter was upon us, and we looked through grey light to cold waves crashing into a wooden pier. I could see our days gasping for air.
Time took a new rythm for us, slow and cherished, like your favorite song.
And now I love the moments we have together.
No matter what season of time comes before us, I know that we're given them to enjoy, to use as we can, while we can.
I know that the best thing isn't time, it's taking your hand in mine.

Layers of Color: A Book Report

I don't count 'Dear John' as Nicholas Sparks' best story, but it did hit home on several topics. If you've read it, you probably can guess the most obvious reason. But let me tell you what gets me, and what I understand better now, having read this book.
What gets me is tangled relationships. Oh man, I'll leave and do something else if cheating enters the plot. Or when characters are foolish. It burns me up. I cringe. I fiddle. I can't watch (or in this case, read.) What I remind myself after a story like this one is that relationships are not set out like circuit boards. There more like balls of yarn. They become layers of color, and the successful relationships give the big tangled mess a brilliant color when you step away from it.

I guess that's why Rothko's became famous. They seem like simple blocks of color, like this one with red, blue, and purple. There are layers, and the end result is more vibrant than a simple red. More enveloping than a blue square.

Of course there are rules to it. The first color down acts like sunglasses for any other color layed. That's why people ask how couples meet.
And, the stepping away to see the color may explain why someone might have a hard time 'getting over' the relationship. If it's over, you're no longer close to the washes, and you are forced to see the end color. What you may not remember is all the less-than-amazing washes of color it took to get the the end-state.
Anyways, I've lost my train. The point is that circuit boards are dumb and not fun. [some] Paintings are beautiful complications of color, and balls of yarn can frustrate you if you try to untangle them. So we need to leave our balls in tangles and just appreciate the color of the relationship. Whatever. I'm out.

Frayed Nerves and Encouragement

Alison and I just returned from a Dr's Appointment. He was very encouraged that she's completely off her pain medicine during the day and still pain-free. We've kind of considered her pain as a good gauge of the cancer's progress, so we're hoping right now it's right at 0. Ali has another round of chemotherapy next week, and then we'll do a CT scan to see where we're at. I can't help but have hopes high.

Her toes are suffering the consequences right now. For the past few days she's described the feeling as having snow dumped on the bare skin of her toes. Tingly. Painful. Today the doctor said that's permanent. Nerve. Damage. Small trade for life, I say, but unpleasant. I'm thinking of using stitch-witch and permanently attaching her fuzzy slippers to her feet. She'd go from a size 7 to wearing my 14's in no time, flat. She'll get used to the tingles...

The Language of Painting

Painting is a hybrid of the written word and body language. There is meaning in every mark, covering other marks that mean something too. Every dab, stroke, and cut makes a suggestion, and their delivery conveys mood and emotion. Colors owerwhelm as they crash into each other, each wave leaving a bit of itself on the other. And unlike other languages, you can take your statements back, making them unreadable by removing a bit here and there.

Bringing a true painting together is beautiful. It says something different every time you read it. It could be the same word that pops in your mind, but you'll notice a new mark and the way it was handled each time you look.

I've been able to use that language well only once. And it wasn't on the whole canvas. It was on my forehead. The painting was enough to mislead my professor into thinking that there was untapped talent. (I have a much better handle on the language of sculpture and prefer it because painting for me is like golf: one good shot in the entire outing is not good enough for me.)

So today I scanned my forehead for your amusement. Please don't shoot me down if I'm wrong about the language.

Mr. Metaphor

I'm always looking for metaphors. Last night, however, an author summed up long distance relationships in a way that I never thought of. I hate that! I had three full years of long distance struggles before marrying Alison, and I'd never wrote it like this. It's like someone else told a hilarious joke that was on the tip of your tongue, or so it would seem after it's said. But I am greatful to Nicholas Sparks for adding that to my memory's dialogue about Ali and I.

Though I knew she loved and cared for me, I suddenly understood that even love and caring weren't always enough. They were the concerete bricks of our relationship, but unstable without the mortar of time spent together, time without the imminent separation hanging over us....Our relationship, I felt with a heaviness in my chest, was beginning to feel like the spinning movement of a child's top. When we were together, we had the power to keep it spinning, and the result was beauty and magic and an almost childlike sense of wonder; when we separated, the spinning began inevitably to slow. We became wobbly and unstable, and I knew I had to find a way to keep us from toppling over.

Google Images

Here's a post I've been saving for a rainy day. Perfect for a mental block.

I know that everyone googles themselves. If nothing else, just to make sure the first hit isn't JOHN SMITH, XXXX XXXX XXXX 5646. Right? Then you have to click on images from time to time and see that nothing horrible is up. No embarassing moments come back to haunt. You never know in today's digital era. Especially if you went to college lately.

So that's what I did. Here's the second image. Obviously I was spooked. Especially with the green spot in the corner. Perfectly eerie.