Driving the Road of Life is Like "Taking" a Shower (Born to be Mild)

A few thoughts hit me as I took a shower so I decided to write them down.

Taking a shower is an interesting term and an interesting metaphor for life. You get into the shower and sometimes you just stand there. Doing nothing. Letting the water wash over you. But you aren't really showering you are just standing. Life is like that. You can either stand there or you can get in and get it done and get on.

So, last I posted was about taking a side track, an alley, a meander off the path. That happens. Another metaphor for life is driving a car. You can get in a car and just go. Where? Who knows. Take the next left. Merge, Yield. Stop. No U Turn. Or you can map out where you are headed. However keep in mind, you may have a roadmap or a plan but it is ok to deviate, to stop when you want and get off the turnpike and see some sights.



You can also just get in the car and drive aimlessly. You can pull to the side of the road and let the engine idle. But the engine of life runs on premium and it is given to you in 24 gallon increments and you only get 24 hours to the day (MPG- zoom zoom). So don't sit at the green light wondering. Put your foot to the floor and get your motor running. Head out on the highway. Look for adventure in whatever comes your way. You weren't born to be mild.

Cardinal Sin?

Not writing for the evening is not a cardinal sin.

Another Side Alley

Seems like my freelance writing for money is getting in the way of my blogging for fun. I know I shouldn't get wrapped up in what I could be doing or would be doing or might be doing but at least if I am doing something each day in regards to writing then I will be able to look back and know that I didn't just sit by and let life pass me by. I may not be traveling the world (right now) but "Oh the Places I Will Go" as I write.

So baby steps...I have a three day weekend coming up. In fact I am trying to be thankful and look at the glass half full (although a physicist would argue that the glass is always full). My articles are paying me some money and that is making up for the cutback at my 9-5 job. So I work four days a week. I try to get my articles out during those four days and that gives me a three day weekend every week.

Not bad really. I'm not getting rich but I have my health?

F a G

I took a side trip yesterday to honor the my son's first day at school. I can't believe that he is 18 and in college. I also find it very interesting that I drove him to the first day of school every single year from kindergarten to his Freshman year of college. There is some continuity there, probably for a reason as there is throughout life. I am not a believer in magic, or superstition. I have a hard time saying "bless you" when someone sneezes, but no matter how cynical I am there is part of me that looks in wonder at the serendipity or coincidences of life.

For instance. I last mentioned the move from Puente Drive to Cardinal Avenue. There are themes that have repeated through those moves and my life. Religion is one. Now it is funny that my writing this blog and starting with my English1A class in college is coming full circle. You see I feel like I must write everyday. If only I could write everyday. If I would write everyday what would happen. I may need to take a break and I may have times when I can't come up with material. I should write. I might not have another chance. I could just skip it.

Choices. What we do in life echoes in eternity? Does it? I don't know. But we have this one chance to could, should, would, might, may, must.

I have talked about my homes, and how I came to enjoy writing and now I am searching for the next step. So I might or could have or should have written this or that and I may still or I would still be able to but I do know I must enjoy the time I have and the writing I am able to accomplish.

So today I leave you with this poem by e.e.cummings. It is about those six subjective verbs. We use subjectives mainly when talking about events that are not certain to happen. For example, we use the subjective when talking about events that somebody:

•wants to happen
•hopes will happen
•imagines happening
 
This poem is about the possibilities of life and unfulfilled potential. I may or I might post the analysis I did on this poem in the next segment of this blog. I also may not. I know that I could, and some may wish that I would and some may believe that I should...it's all potential and what we hope to occur. That is possibly the best explanation so far of this blog and my writing, although it is about what has happend it may very well include what was hoped for and what potentially went unfulfilled.

Little Effies Head

here is little Effie's head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs


stooping by the coffinlid

waiting for something to rise

as the other somethings did-

you imagine his surprise

bellowing through the general noise

Where is Effie who was dead?

-to God in a tiny voice,

i am may the first crumb said

whereupon its fellow five

crumbs chuckled as if they were alive

and number two took up the song

might i'm called and did no wrong

cried the third crumb, i am should
and this is my little sister could
with our big brother who is would

don't punish us for we were good;

and the last crumb with some shame

whispered unto God, my name

is must and with the others i've

been Effie who isn't alive

just imagine it I say

God amid a monstrous din

watch your step and follow me

stooping by Effie's little, in

(want a match or can you see?)

which the six subjective crumbs

twitch like mutilated thumbs;

picture His peering biggest whey

coloured face on which a frown

puzzles, but I know the way

(nervously Whose eyes approve

the blessed while His ears are crammed


with the strenuous music of
the innumerable capering damned)
-staring wildly up and down
the here we are now judgment day


cross the threshold have no dread
lift the sheet back in this way
here is little Effie's head
whose brains are made of gingerbread

Time In a Bottle.

Today I dropped my son off for his first day of college.
Taking a break from my "story" to dedicate this blog entry to him.

There never seems to be enough time
To do the things we want to do
Once we find them




I want to write and even if I spent 24 hours a day for the rest of my "time" I probably won't have enough time. I know there certainly isn't enough time to spend with my son (no matter how we fight and get on each others nerves. As I have told him from day one, even if I wasn't his father I would want to know him.)

I've looked around enough to know
That you're the one I'd want to go
Through time with

Houses of the Holy

What is running through my head today is something about priests and nuns in our home and the recent mosque discussion etc. along with a list of the many places I have lived. Every home in which I lived until I left Cardinal Avenue in 1987(Imagine an Irish Catholic Family living on Cardinal Avenue. Would have only been more appropriate if it was Cardinal Ave Maria.).

Serena Road (came after Mohawk - After Donzey...before that?)
Via Rueda
Puente
Cardinal
La Cumbre
Anapamu
Garden
Cardinal
Fairview
Alma Aldea
La Fuente
Salado
Seascape
Avatar
Chrisanta
Silver Lantern
Charlinda 1
Charlinda 2
Charlinda 3
Charlinda 4
Rim Pointe

The picture of John F. Kennedy and the current Pope along with the Irish and American flags. The holy water font at our front door. The Catholic equivelant of a Mezuzah.

A constant reminder in every house in which we lived. My home has no such jingoreligiostic icons.

Maybe the prominence of religion in my life or the changes from ...blah blah blah ....can't think right now what to write. shit crap dam today has not been a good day for writing for me. Maybe I spent all my magical writing beans on the writing I had to do for work. That writing is dry, unimaginative and just plain boring. Somedays I just don't seem to have it and today was one of them. I do know that for me a writers block is due to a lack of strong emotion. If I am happy, sad or really mad the words seem to flow out of me with ease.

Transplanting the Family Tree

If you ever attempt to grow a tree from a seedling you must carefully nurture the young sapling from it's vegetative infancy to it's maturity.

Along the way there are times when it is necessary to move that tree from one container to another in order for further growth to occur and for the plant to remain healthy and not become root bound.

The plants growth and the size it will be at maturity are part of the determining factors used for choosing the appropriate container in which to transplant the young tree.

The species of plant can be altered by cross pollenation and grafting. Our family tree was grafted from branches of the Hurley's and the Cowan's. Both of these individual family trees have fairly deep roots and the growth has been substantial over the years and decades with roots going back to the 1100's in the south of Ireland (Hurley) and the late 13th century in Scotland (Cowan-McGowan -Robert the Bruce).

Many times our tree has been uprooted and replanted. The fruit of the tree has also endured these times of uprooting and transplanting. Some of the pots in which we were transplanted were wonderful, beautiful, and promoted growth and well -being. Others were broken and chipped, almost foretelling the neglect and stagnation that would take place while planted there. Although outwardly it would seem the family tree was just existing there were periods of bright light and life in some of these lesser containers. But like a neglected plant left behind on the back patio after a move, at those times the tree was mostly hanging on, stagnant and wanting for moisture and nutrition.

One such transplantation took place in 1957 when my parents left Belfast, in order to provide a better life for their children. Apparently California was the place they ought to be. At the time of this move there were just two children. They were four and almost two years old. The four year old, my oldest sister, would have an Irish accent since she was born there and learned to talk while still in Ireland. My brother would not as he wasn't yet speaking and learned to speak in America.

So from the streets of Belfast, more specifically Andersontown, to Santa Barbara, CA. and into a garage apartment. I am not sure how long or the exact location of this first 'home' in the ''land of opportunity' but I know that the next was to an apartment above Pat's Liquor on Milpas Street, where my father would work from open to close, 7 days a week. My parents and oldest brother and sister lived above the store, which provided income, a roof over their heads and one of the worlds' shortest commutes.

So here they are in the 'new world'. The roots of the old sod were cut and they are now starting to live and hoping to thrive in a new home, far from those they know and love but soon to have new friends, new dreams of a new house and a new car and a bright new future. Many different containers would hold this family tree as the years passed. Many different shapes and sizes, each with unique qualities and flaws, much like the offspring and the tree itself.

After a flight on a Douglas DC-3 and with $700 dollars the tree was on new soil. The tree was about to grow and flourish and there would be much fruit produced. The Gardener Of Design didn't approve of pruning or isolating the pollen from the flower. (He also apparently isn't too concerned with the feeding, clothing and nurturing of the fruit that results.) Religion and 'the troubles' were a constant theme on this new branch of this particular family tree and each new container was blessed by and visited by representatives of the Gardener Of Design. It wasn't until this particular offspring realized that growing and flourishing and striving could actually be obtained with no gardener that the Gardener Of Design himself and his representatives were banished from the garden.

My mom and oldest brother and sister in 1958 on the steps of the Santa Barbara Mission.
Interesting thing is this picture is taken only 23 years after the Mission was shattered by an earthquake in 1925.

820

Odd that today's date is the same number as today's post. No this isn't my 820th post and no this isn't about August 20th but it does deal with a special number 820.

After leaving the "Girls of Serena (who hate all the boys of Serena)" we had moved to Goleta. Maybe Goleta really is where they put everything they don't want in Santa Barbara. There is some political truth to that, however the city didn't move us out of the way. Circumstance, a nice word for 'life choices', which is just another nice word for, 'someone f'ed up', had us moving from the Riviera of the West Coast to Goleta the Good Land. Although I tell you it didn't feel like it was a good thing.

As much as I loved Serena Road and as much as I loathed Via Rueda and thought we would "stay there forever", I never imagined we would one day live in the house at 820 Puente Drive. Further 'circumstances' would one day have us moving out of 559 Via Rueda and into 820 Puente Drive

I knew this house. I had played in this house. I had run across it's front lawn many times before we ever took up residence there. As we spent our days along the back road and the adventures we found along that path, we one day came to meet the residence of 820 Puente Drive. Steve Cox was the name of our new friend. He was an only child and his father was some musician, recording, producer something or other. I didn't know what Steve was talking about at that time. To this point most of my music was what the parents played (Clancy Brothers and religious works) or what I heard on KIST AM with Casey Kasem  or what I sang in the church choir (Gregorian Chant and lots of Hallelujah Praise Be's). Steve's father apparently had something to do with Woodstock, the album at least.

When we weren't hanging out in the music room, we would be hiking the backroad or butting heads with the two goats the Cox family kept as living lawnmowers. The music room was a bright, wood floored, french doored square, adjacent to the garage, with doors leading out to the front lawn and also to the back, Algerian ivy covered patio, that would double as sort of outdoor swimming pool for mice when ever it rained. It was filled with musical instruments and there was a reel to reel tape deck from which I first heard, "Gimme an F!".

"F!!!!!" came the chant back from the crowd as Country Joe and the Fish lead the rain soaked youth at Woodstock in a chant spelling out FUCK!. Wow this sure isn't the Clancy Brothers. It's a chant but not Gregorian. The rest of that summer I think that was the only word we ever said to each other.

The house itself was situated on over an acre, however it was an odd arrangement. We lived in the house at the front of the property and the back of the property was a landscape company. Hundreds of potted plants and trees and mowers and a small office that was built in the same style of the home we in which we were now living. When I was in 7th and 8th grade either my brother or I would go to the landscape company and borrow a mower (gas powered but still a push mower) and we would work until we had walked back and forth from one end of that huge lawn to the last. We would edge and sweep and rake and water and trip the juniper bushes. Then we would turn on the sprinklers and listen to their ch ch ch ch chchchchchchchchchch as they chopped back and forth. 

Some days when it was hot we would grab the head of the sprinkler and aim it at each other like an H2O machine gun. There was never talk of drought at that time and we would spend hours shooting each other in an attempt to cool off from the stifling summer heat. In fall we would have the pleasure of spending a couple hours raking up the leaves from a huge sycamore tree that grew at the edge of the property. Sometimes we would climb to the top, holding on to a branch no thinker than our forearm and we would survey the land like a lookout on a tall ship surveying the sea. We would hold on as the wind whipped around us and made us sway gently back and forth. Sometime I would climb up there to get away and get some alone time or to think of a certain crush. If that tree is still there, close to the top, carved in the bark is SC + KO 4EVER. Oh dreams of youth.

820 Puente Drive. The music room is inside the french doors on the right.
The faces? Well those are covered because I don't want no hassles.
That's me "acting the jeer" as my mom always said.
My mom is second from right in the back row and next to her is Aunt Sheila, my father's sister.

Not a Care in the World

Four or five. Looking back it is hard to know the exact age or the year unless it is written or printed on the picture. I would guess by the location (Serena Road) that this is about 1965 - 1966. Add to that the party hat and I am thinking 1966, my fifth birthday. The next year I would have started first grade at San Roque. I also know that we didn't move from Serena until I was in second grade.

So, do you dig those socks?

Can you tell me the make and model of that car? That was our infamous "green car" and if I recall correctly we had it for another 10 years or so, again based on the year of this picture and my recollection of events.

It is obvious from this picture that I do not have a care in the world. What could I be worried about? Probably the biggest thing on my mind would be what I was getting as a gift for my birthday.

Worries for children in the United States are, for the most part, limited to who likes you, what's for dinner, what's on TV and I hope Santa brings me what I put on my list. Sure there are those that have less and there are those that have not only more, but more than one can possibly use and/or need. But as a kid, I fell somewhere in between. Partly because I was growing up in America but also partly because I lived in the family into which I was born.

Though hope is low, I'm aglow when you smile at me
Life is simple as ABC
Not a thought in my head
Not a care in the world


One thing is for certain. I had that same stoner glow about me that all 4 and 5 years olds have. Just look at little kids. Just look at that picture!  What sort of tin foil yamaka is that on my head? Or has some miniature Martian spacecraft crashed landed on my skull. Come on now, only a kid or a stoner would wear something like that.

Kids say random things that make no sense. They stare blankly into space for what seems hours and most importantly they love junk food. Miniature stoners. That's why there is not a care in the world in that little head. It is filled with the intoxicating smoke of youth. At about the time you enter first grade the smoke is beginning to clear and the fog to lift.

The airing out of your brain begins with Sesame Street, Kindergarten and nursery rhymes and eventually the fan of education blows out the smoke of your youth and replaces the space in your brain with "knowledge". Some of it useful and some banal.

Kindergarten would begin after my fifth summer. I would head off to Adams Elementary School on Las Positas where I would learn the fine art of stacking wooden blocks, the finer art of finger paints and the democracy (tyranny at times) of the playground.

Mrs. Nester (or it may have been Miss Nester - there weren't many Ms. Insert Last Name Here at this time) was the educator that would set me on the road to higher learning. At the time I didn't know that most of the useful learning would take place outside of the classroom and that the road I was on had many turns and side alleys that would delay, detain and derail my trip.

One slight bump in my road before I start off. Back in 1965 - 66, and I would imagine from the first day I spoke the letter, I had difficulty pronouncing the letter r. So what would have been a road to travel would end up a woad to twavel. A lion would woaw and my pawents wewe concewned. So for awhile I spent some extra time at the kindergarten, for what I remember were some Saturday mornings? Or it could be I had an extra or individual session in the school morning with a speech therapist. What I remember most of this time was the game that we played. There is a vague, smokey image of a table or game board, set up to look like a steeple chase, with miniature fences, shrubs and horses. As the horse went around the board it would jump over a fence or shrub and written on the obstacle was a word starting or ending with my verbal nemesis, r.

I eventually mastered that bastardly letter and revel at the relative ease at which I recite words like roar and road and rhododendron. That obstinate obstacle of my youthful oration was just one of the side alleys and detours of my childhood. Kindergarten would soon end and new words and ideas would creep into my brain as the fan of education, both formal and informal, would blow that childhood stoner smoke out of my brain and remove that stoner childhood glow from my face.

The first word I would learn is 'corporal punishment', as doled out by nuns and priests in Catholic School. There were other words, other thoughts and the cloudy feeling of early childhood evaporated with each passing day and each new friend, toy, home, school, lover, job and experience that lay ahead.

We're on a Road To Nowhere

The Backroad (today)

Well we know where we're going
But we don't know where we've been

And we know what we're knowing

But we can't say what we've seen

And we're not little children

And we know what we want

And the future is certain

Give us time to work it out

We're on a road to nowhere, come on inside

Taking that ride to nowhere, we'll take that ride
Feeling okay this morning, and you know
We're on a road to paradise, here we go, here we go
(Talking Heads)

Where will this blog go? I do know where I have been. I am no longer a child and I like to think I know what I like. Time? Well I have today so best use the time I have wisely.

As a child you don't have control over where you are going. At least not in certain respects. Where you go to school. Where you live. Where you vacation. Where you buy your clothes and shoes and food and entertainment and music and...so much is decided for you.

There are those times though when you are just a kid. You play. You run through the sprinklers. You wear a lame party hat. But you have fun and your imagination can take you places to which no one is able to stop you journeying.

There are also magical (trite word) places around you that will be the background and stage for many of your childhood days and games and adventures.

One of those places came into my life when I was about six years old. I have a vague idea that is how old I was when we moved from Serena Road and the "girls of Serena, who hate all the boy's of Serena" and to "The Wheel" (Via Rueda). To say this was a downgrade in accomodations would be like saying the castaways of Gilligans Island opted for an alternate route. We had lost, okay correction, my father (this was the 60's) had lost our house. Well he didn't loose it because I can drive right to it to this day. Let's just say, he decided to spend the mortgage payment on alternative materials.

So here we are, all 43 of us, crammed into this small, stucco sided box in a neighborhood far from our school and the friends we had made (or at least grown accustomed to being with).

To run away from this new life, this new home, this new neighborhood and new chapter was a thought on many occasions, but as a kid you make the most of your situation and just keep going. You learn the neighborhood, make new friends and have new adventures.

One constant route or source for adventure was a road on the hill behind our home. Back in English 1A we were assigned the task of writing a descriptive essay of a place. A  news article at the time and memories of the stage on which I spent many childhood days brought forth the following.

The Backroad

"Save Laguna Canyon" was written in bright red paint on the sign she was holding. As the interviewer asked why she was protesting, tears began to fill the woman's eyes. The woman stated that she was sad to see the devastation that was occuring in this once pristine envrionment. She also related how she had grown up hiking through the canyon and how those experiences had impacted her.

Bulldozers were tearing huge chunks from the hillside as they belched thick black smoke into the sky. It is amazing how quickly and easily they changed the look of those hills.

Change can at times seem to take forever. It can also occur very quickly and with seemingly no notice. That is what is happening in Laguna Canyon. One day, after years of delay, the County supervisors agree to clear the way for a new transportation corridor and within minutes, the bolldozers are clearing the way.

Reading the newspaper article, I could really relate to how the woman felt. I grew-up in a semi-rural part of Santa Barbara. Actually it was in Goleta, but to me it is all Santa Barbara, from Rincon to Gaviota.

In the twenty-five years that I lived there I saw a lot of change. Some of it came quickly and some seemed to take forevery; like going from thirteen to eighteen.

One particular change that hit home with  me was when my own "private stomping ground' succumbed to the blade of the bulldozer.

The hill behind my parent's house was my playground for summer vacations and afterschool playtime. The hills was cut in two by a one lane dirt road that ran perpendicular to the slope of the hill.

The summer sun would bake the dirt until it was so dry every footstep would cause a cloud of dust to rise around my ankles. In the winter, the rain would wash soil down the hill in rivers of chocolate milk. Water would collect in potholes, creating thousands of tiny lakes. There were eucalyptus trees that grew up from the lower slope, and on the other side of the road, old oak trees stood guard, like so many soldiers watching over the Goleta Valley. (Imagine if they could tell us all the changes they had witnessed.) This road that separated the native oaks from the immigrant eucalyptus was my road to adventure. It was during the many walks and hikes I took along it, that I gained a deep love of nature.

Everyone in the neighborhood called the road "THE BACKROAD".  As we'd head out the door we'd simply yell out, "We're going up to the backroad!", to which my mom would reply, "Be careful!", "Be home early!", or one of her other patented 'mother' lines.

My brother and I would head out clutching a couple of PBJ's and some water in our makeshift canteen; a thermos with no lid except some foil, tied with the rubberband from the morning newspaper. We'd start the climb up to the road and the adventures that lay ahead for the day.

"Where do you wanna go?"
"I don't care."
"Let's climb the trees."
"Nah!"
"Let's go down to Tony's house."
"Nah!"
"I know! Let's go to the swing."
"O.K.!"


So we'd start out. There were usually many stops along the way. Sometimes we would stop and see if we could find tarantulas that made their homes in the exposed sandstone rock of the upper slope. Other days we would count the rings of a recently cut down tree, or just sit on the stump and yell down at someone we saw below.


If it was a hot day our ears would be filled with the highpitched hiss of some mysterious insects hidden by the tall, dry grass on the slopes. This same dry grass, in winter, became green snow as we would sled down the slopes on our cardboard toboggans.


Roughly a quarter of a mile down the road was what we called the "Yellowhouse". The place always seemed dark, even on the brightest days. The yellow paint didn't lend any cheer to the home and the overgrown vines and shrubs only added to our apprehension as we passed. We usually stepped up our pace as we passed, especially in the evening, when the shadows were long and our desire to be home was as strong as the rumblings of hunger in our stomachs.


One hundred yards past the "Yellowhouse" was the 'Swing'. This wasn't any ordinary swing; this was 'THE SWING FROM HELL'. In order to get on, we had to climb down a short hill and grab the three foot string attached to the underside of the seat, (a branch from one of the local inhabitants). Back at the top of this short hill we would run and jump up to the seat. We were hurled across this wooded hollow towards a huge eucalyptus. It was important to keep our feet in front of us so we could kick off the tree rather than slam into it with our back. The swing eventually had to be cut down to prevent 'outsiders' from using it.

In this hollow among the oaks was one of several forts we acquired. These forts had obviously been hangouts for either hippies or vagabonds. (That's what my parents called the homeless.) Evidence of hippie use was everywhere. Empty six-pack containers and old Zig-Zag packs were strewn among the decaying oak and eucalyptus leaves. This was also the place where I found my first X-rated magazine. What Catholic school and Irish parents had tried to protect me from was now in my possesion. So much for my ten year old innocence.

This fort was one of many outposts along our trail of adventure. My favorite was the one we found with the hatch in the floor. We repaired the broken rungs that ran up the trunk of the tree. Attached to the hatch was a sign that proclaimed NO GIRLS! In smaller print were the words 'except Teresa'. This fort had all the signs of ten year old carpenters' skill. From the twenty nails in the end of each two by four, to the collection of lumber scavenged from throughout the neighborhood, it was evident that Frank Lloyd Wright was not at work here.

Fire took our forts from us. One Fourth of July a motorist threw a firecracker into the dry brush and set off a blaze that quickly consumed the oaks and everything beneath them.

The fire that took my favorite tree fort, damaged or at least put a dent in our summertime fun. Nothing had an impact on our trail of adventure as much as the 'Invasion of the Earthmovers'.


My innocence was further dented when we woke on morning to the rumble of Caterpillars. They were attacking on two fronts. One where 'the Swing' once hung and the other was the slope we used as our own private tobbogan run.


Time marches on and progress can't be stopped, at least not by ten year olds. Had I read THE MONKEY WRENCH GANG in the third grade things may have been different.


They weren't. Developers had started to grade the upper slope in preparation for the construction of new homes. What had once been the playground of some adventurous children was slowly becoming the home for three car garages and swimming pools.

Toboggan run after the pavers did their work

The road I travelled on when I ran away from home, or where I sat under an oak eating sourgrass was slowly covered with asphalt. My brother and I recently talked and neither one of us can see a dusty road without thinking back to the days we spent exploring along the 'Backroad'. We will always remember the fun we had and the experience we gained.


My brother is now a firefighter and I'm working towards a Biology degree with an emphasis in Environmental Science. Our love of that playground has carried forward into our adult life.

We all have a favorite spot that we remember from childhood. We can't go back to those spots, in most cases, but we can all try to insure that our children and grandchildren have their own backroads.

Change may come and physically alter the spots we cherish but our memories are ours to keep. the lady I saw with tears in her eyes may never be able to see Laguna Canyon in the same way, but she will always have her memories. No supervisor can vote those away nor can any developer pave them over.

Genesis

In the beginning there was a blank piece of paper and the void was stark white and man said, "Let there be words.". I could go back to the beginning of my life to start this tale but that isn't really where the writing began.

English 1A was where I first realized, or thought, that I could possibly be capable of stringing together letters and words into a format that would at the very least express my thoughts and feelings on paper and perhaps, with enough work, practice and determination, create some paragraphs and some chapters and perhaps a book that people would actually want to read.

The first night of class we were given two assignments. Both of them timed and both of them to be completed in class and read aloud to our classmates. What, what - WHAT?

As I looked down at the first sheet and read the instructions I wondered, "How the hell can I possibly do this?". The instructions were:

Write a brief paragraph without using any forms of the verb "to be".

I have already done that seven times in the explanation leading up to "What, what - WHAT"?

I stare at the page again and begin:

The road winds up the mountainside, past ranch houses and horse corrals. At a bend roughly three miles up you'llsee a rock with an X spray painted in white. You park your car and begin the short hike over sandstone rocks and past manzanita bushes to a spot the Chumash used as shelter.Lizards Mouth,a sandstone formation overlooking the Goleta Valley. From here your view includes the Santa Barbara Channel Islands, U.C.S.B., Gaviota and both the harbor and airport of Santa Barbara. In the summer the rocks keep you worm as they radiate back the heat they've collected during the day. In the winter you can seek ref get out of In summer the warm breezes blow across the rocks keeping you comfortably and the caves pleasantly warm. The smell of wild sage and mustard fill the night air. Nighttime is the best time at Lizard's Mouth, especially when the moon is full moon lights up the rocks. Combined with the view you can't help but think about the vastness of this world. (TIMES UP!)

There you have it, warts and all. Not the first thing I ever wrote. There had been plenty of assignments from book reports to a report on Managua, Nicaragua (still can't say that without hearing Cornholio's voice). But this was different this was the first time I could feel myself enjoy the creative process and I wanted to do more and more there would be during the remaining semester.

Papers were handed up and then read to the class. I had a few slip ups in my usage, highlighted in red above. But I also caught myself and crossed out what I didn't like.

After reading the papers of those who wished to be heard we were given our next assignment. We had a set time in which to write a short descriptive paper using the word room.

My brain spewed forth the following.

As I roamed around the room with my broom, I was impressed by the roominess contained in the room. For what exactly is a room? Four walls, a roof and floor? Isn't it more? You carpet a room. Rent a room. Redecorate a room. Paint a room. "Go to your room!". Clean your room. Is there any room in the Inn? This room is full of hot air. That room is as cold as ice. Please turn off the lights if you are the last one to leave the room. Room 222. This room is to be occupied by no more than 75 people and I just swept up after all of them.

Jimmy Stewart sat in his room and witness a murder in Hitchcock's The Rear Window.

Twelve men spent agonizingly long hours in a room deliberating a murder trial in Twelve Angry Men.

People sit in a room called a theatre to watch movies. The movie room. Why is a kitchen not called a cooking room? And the garage can be the car room. We already have the bedroom, bathroom, living room, dining room and family room.

If a bathroom doesn't have a bath in it why isn't it called a shower room or toilet room? And how many of us really go in there to rest? (except of course when we are at work)

Finally the closet can now be known as the broom room.

Well there you have it. Not exactly Hemingway or Steinbeck. But not Bard.

So it goes.

There is no easy way to begin except to just start. You must do. There is only try or try not and if you try not then you might as well tie yourself to the end of that string or rope and just give in, give up. Or, as my Irish-Catholic mother was fond of saying, you can "give over". In other words you can quit doing something that is bad or annoying. Not doing is annoying. Not trying is annoying.

So here it goes and here I go, my attempt to put into words the thoughts that have spent many years in those elaborate hiding places of my mind. Avoiding being brought to life for others. Avoiding becoming, being born. Avoiding and avoiding and never getting anywhere but into a darker more hidden recess.

The ideas I have may not be much or may end up being more profound than I could imagine. If they stay in the dark, hidden from sight then they are wasted and lost, forgotten dreams and raisins of a possible future, covered in cobwebs and dust.

There are a couple things that I do know for certain as I begin this journey and that is a) a weekend lost in writing is better than a weekend just lost and b) this is all mine, the good, the bad and the ugly.

St. Jude pray for us.