My blogs imported from MySpace

My blogs imported from MySpace (or as they all think is so cute over there.... My[______])

by Jeff Thompson on Saturday, January 8, 2011 at 9:02am

So I remembered that back in the decaying shell of my myspace profile, there was a blog where I had published some writings that I wanted to share with my facebook peeps, and if you're like me, logging into myspace feels like crawling into your attic and opening a dusty box with your high school yearbook and some horrible poems on spiral notebook paper.... but I summoned my courage, unbelievably remembered my login password, and dove into the revamped, yet painfully tainted like a rotary princess phone with the stain of yesterday cyber swamp that was and is myspace.... cut and pasted below, for your enjoyment, or complete hatred, or blissful ignorance is part one of my myspace blog.... Kenny C.....Jul 29, 2008 'the origins of the term "86" may be of special interest to you tomorrow....

----Blog 1 (Most recent-a year old)----

Jan 3, 2009

the hegemony of the calendar

Here it is fans... the newest blog from the platypus... 

2009 is upon us.. or if you're like me (my sympathies) ...you're upon it, since you simply won't be dominated by a numerical sequence or an artificially supplanted concept like the calendar. Christmas is behind us and we look with bemused skepticism at the encroaching year. What hopes do I have for the coming year? I'd like to have a watch word for the year, and I'd like to hear yours as well. My watchword is "engagement". 

In the corporate world, in which I dabble, I find that we use the term engagement to define a person's level of playing the game "full out". Following the brand standards, and really driving for results. Usually sales results. Sales is the measurement, but engagement is a method for getting there. 

In 2009, I want to engage with life. To invest in people more fully and take each moment both more seriously and more playfully. To move further away from what Thoreau called a life of "quiet desperation". To notice when I'm settling for existence and infuse the moment with passion. 

My deepest regrets (as the Butthole Surfers aptly point out) are the things I haven't done...not the things I have done. I want to make grand glorious mistakes in the coming year. I want to play army in the woods as opposed to observing other lives as lived out in media of various forms. 

Rather than spending time updating my profile on myspace, I want to be creating a home that is inviting, orderly and expressive of possibility. I want to get glue on my hands creating collages, I want to produce music and I want to do good work for my employer. I want to become a better man for my woman and a better dad for my kiddo. I want to be useful in my church, in my community and my family. 

I want to inspire others and be inspired by them. I want to make someone else's life better.

 3:19 AM

----Blog 2 ------

Jul 29, 2008

 the origins of the term "86"

Current mood: froggy

So I had an awesome job once, in Seattle, where I was paid to train homeless people to work in the food service industry.  So it was like, bittersweet, since I was basically sending them to work with the public in some fashion, and that's about as fulfilling as working at the DMV, but I digress.  As a trivia question, one day, I was asked the origin of the phrase "86" as to 86 someone from an establishment or in kitchen speak, to be "out of an entree or appetizer" as in, "we're 86'ed on theSalmon Almandine.   Try to push the Chilean sea bass."

Fast forward to another awesome job I had once, called working at Starbucks.  A place where I've worked, and poured hope, soul and loyalty for the past 3 and a half years. This isn't about them, it's about me.  I failed to be all that they needed me to be, and so they let me go. 

I was also recently 86'ed from a start-up relationship with a beautiful woman here in Houston.  My first real foray into dating since taking the last 4 years off from the whole thing.  We went out on dates, and I let myself think we were "in something" together.  Kind of like Starbucks.  The kind of self-delusion that makes romance interesting, and is perhaps the basis of romance.  After all, isn't love a form of insanity, where the afflicted choose to only see the traits that are ideal and ignore those which might ordinarily be termed, "red flags"? 

So, in the sweet vacancy of 86-hood, I'm faced with a familiar dilemma.  Stay open and vulnerable, or close down, and become strategic. 

I feel like a sucker, for believing that it was safe to invest, and I know it's still the simple story of her not being the right person, and being patient and trusting God, but I'll tell you for real… I want to take control right now, and make some reckless and potentially unhealthy decisions.  I want to sabotage my life for no good reason other than to hurt her, and it probably wouldn't even do that. 

Now, I'm NOT going to do anything reckless or unhealthy, but Iwant to. And the question is… why?  

Is it a way of punishing myself for failing? 

Is it making the rest of my life look the way my insides feel? 

Is it using this failure as an excuse to destroy (which is so much easier than creating)? 

Is it a tantric tantrum? 

Those of you who read this will know that these questions are nothing to be alarmed about, because I always ask the difficult questions while resting comfortably in the uncertainty of knowing that answers to "why questions" are always speculative. 

So as life marches onward, I am sending out resumes and dutifully joining the ranks of the job-seekers, but lately I'm the walking wounded, and I don't think I'll be making my best decisions for a while.  I'm on the double rebound, having been fired on her birthday when we were on a no-communication break that she initiated. 

Are you really surprised at my self-pity?

I had no frame of reference and had become completely out of practice at losing anything.  Since my mom died, Starbucks was the only thing I really invested myself into except for this relationship with Tania, and so now I'm at this critical stage of watching myself close down, and fighting to stay emotionally open to life, to love and yes, even to hurt. 

But it sucks, and that's about as insightful as I can be right now.

As for the origin of the term "86", it has several possible origins… my favorite is the one about a restaurant had 85 tables, and if you wanted to throw someone out, you'd ask the host to seat them at "table 86"

Many others shared their favorite stories about the origin of the term eighty-six. We don't yet have a definitive proof to confirm a single theory. However, the most popular one, Chumley's bar at 86 Bedford St., is not the right one based on the evidence that the term was in existence before the bar came into being.

Here are some selections. 

I was told by a bartender friend that the derivation of "eight-six'd" comes from the Old West. Alcohol was once allowed to be 100 proof in strength, and when a regular was known to get disorderly, he was served with spirits of a slightly lower 86 proof. Hence he was "86'd."

New Yorkers know a different origin for this phrase. There's a bar/restaurant called Chumley's, at 86 Bedford Street inGreenwich Village. The bar has a formidable history as a literary hangout, but more importantly, as a speakeasy. The place is known for having no identifying markings on the door, and at least four or five hidden passageways that led to exits, some into adjacent apartment buildings. To "86-it" meant to simply vanish from a "dining" establishment. It's not hard to imagine how that evolved to mean "take a special off the menu", or any of the other interpretations it's given today.

You missed the ideogram here. I think the origin of the phrase comes from the way the numbers look. The 8 is kicking the 6 out of a bar.

I have heard that the origin of this term "eighty-sixed" was referring to the standard height of a door frame. In other words to be thrown out the door, you are 86'ed.

The term 86 or 86'd has its origins in NYC, where people committed suicide by jumping from the observation deck of The Empire State Building on the 86th floor before a safety fence was installed.

I heard this term came from a shaving powder (Old Eighty-six) from the wild west days. Just a pinch in the rambunctious cowboy's drink would have him heading for the outhouse and out of the saloon.

As an apprentice filmmaker I learned to use transparent light filters to change the quality or colour of the image that I was filming. These filters are categorized by number, the highest number being an 85 filter. The mythical 86 filter would be totally opaque, not letting through any light at all. Hence, I learned, the origin of the verb 86, to get rid of something in the way an 86 filter would completely delete any image in front of the camera from striking the film.

While working as a waitress, I was told that "86" referred to the number of ladles it took to empty an army pot of soup. After 86 servings, the pot was empty.

The United States military has what is called the Uniform Code of Military Justice. Article 86 of the UCMJ is Absence Without Leave. (commonly called AWOL).

I heard that this expression originated in New York City back in the days when there was a saloon on every street corner and elevated trains ran along the lengths of the major avenues. One of the lines terminated at 86th Street, at which point the conductors would eject the drunks who had fallen asleep on the train. Sometimes the drunks were belligerent. The conductors took to referring to them as "86's."

It is a holdover from journalism days when news was delivered over the teletype. To expedite the process, sometimes coded numbers were sent for common phrases and actions. For example, when a story was complete, the number "30" was sent. To this day, copy editors in newspapers still use the number 30 at the bottom center of the last page of a story. Also, (I've been told), when an item was sent in error or to be discarded, the number "86" was used. 

I had thought that this term had been derived from military shorthand and referred to the phone dial (when it had letters on it). The T for Throw is on the 8 key and the O for Out is on the 6 key - hence something tossed is 86'd. 

I was always under the impression that the expression was nautical. Something like "86 leagues or feet", with the idea that putting something that deep down in the ocean was discarding it.

 12:02 AM

 -----Blog 3-----

Apr 22, 2008

Tulsa and the superfluousity of eros

Current mood: jedi

I just returned from a four day trip to Tulsa. I'm a bit confused by my current feelings, and cautiously excited about the possibilities in my future.  It seems like I'm being pulled back in by the familiar black hole vortex that draws us all back to Tulsa like a Siren Song.  Today, at IHOP, Meg, Brandon and I were served by an incredibly warm and thoughtful server named.... Ulises. (Ulysses). Is he a harbinger of an odyssey yet to come? Do I eat synchronicity for breakfast?  Yes to both and maybe as well.

Tulsa was a punctuation mark in my life's sentence. A semi colon?  And don't you think that a semi colon should be the one without the comma?  Each time I'm drawn back to Tulsa, there is someone's fingerprint on the pencil. It's usually a woman. Yes. Woman.  Even the word is pregnant with significance for me. I who have savored vast regions of recent time in monklike celibacy.  I who have patiently waited for God Himself to announce the next candidate with trumpets and fluttering doves like a John Woo film with a soundtrack by Roland Kirk. Or Moby. 

Livin' on Tulsa Time

Take me back to Tulsa

This is one of those blog entries that is for me mostly. Like I'm processing some pre-articulated emotion to sift the remnants for marching orders.

As a document of the happenings, let me chronicle them here briefly.

Arrival at Ida Red at 2am, with postmodern warmth and catching up on the irrelevant details and the incredibly relevant spiritual aftershox with Lee C III.

Random Couch 1 -- Thanks Eamon and Bill (Eamon's Grandpa).

Taoist departure and Starbucks revelry with Greg and his wonderful team. Felt at home in the Third Place, and mapped out the day.

Wild Oats is now Whole Foods (Oroboros strikes again) and I dined on delicious colorful foods while basking in the maternal majesties of Lisa P and Jyl J.

Reconnected with my roots at the Branch Sanduskian compound amid the terrorizing and tender intensity delivered by Lola and Alice. My gangsta wannabe pooch, G was appropriately intimidated. Jeni provided the typical Jedi hospitality that only a kindred of her caliber can. We discussed the past, mined the ore of our misteps for that rich and priceless ore known by some as experience or wisdom, but for us it's enriched by the alloying effect of infusing it with humility and play.

Dinner with a vast posse of rich soulmates, Stephanie Cherry, Matt, Toni and Selly, Phil Young (as in "My Friend Phil" a popular dance tune from 1991... ok, it was popular with me and Phil and few other people), Jeni Cooke was there as well and was kind enough to share her shrimp with me ( I hadn't had shellfish in over a year...it was anti-climactic)  Matt Leland visited the table and infused the moment with absurd warmth. Brian Simmons and his lady-friend (cheesy moniker, but apros pros) Heaven. Yes, that's her name... Heaven. I love that. I sang Belinda Carlisle songs all evening. The locale?  El Guapo. Yes, that El Guapo (a three amigos themed restaurant?  Yes, ... HOW COOL IS TULSA?)

Circle Cinema offered up "punk's not dead" and we were joined by Jyl and Lucia for some real cultural scuba diving. ANd then the movie devolved into an awkward justification of whether or not Green Day, Blink 182 and Sum 41 are actually "punk rock". My answer... No. They are the distant grandchildren of Punk Rock and they dress like Grandma and Grandpa and may even appreciate the hard times they had in the dust bowl days, but they were raised in a time of abundance, and the closest to struggle they ever got was having to spend their beer money to vacuum out their Saturn before a date with the girl from Blockbuster. They met her when they were renting Eraserhead and were incredibly impressed with themselves for renting a black and white movie.  She asked, "Is Arnold Schwartzenegger in that?" and well, it was on.

Random Couch 2: Jeni Cooke's soft continent of Couch (room for G and Me). 

The next day was Saturday, April 19th. A significant day in History:

Lexington, Waco, Oklahoma City Bombing. 80s prom.

4+19=23.

Need I say more?

So there were these incredibly special moments I had with people.

Curiosity and the Black Lipstick. 

"Superfluous" and the proper spelling of MacLean.

Actually finding Parachute Pants the day of the 80s prom.

Couch tour 2008

Every moment with LeeRoy.

Random Couch 3: Lisa Potter's house. Pitter patter of little feet in the am, and the vague appreciation of me sleepily watching Lisa venture out to teach Sunday School on 2.5 hours of sleep. That's integrity.

Ok, so Tulsa really got under my skin. It was unexpected.  I had this overwhelming urge to drop everything here in Houston and move back there. Then I realized that I'm typically impulsive and there is always a grass=greener phenomenon.  Then I remembered Tulsa is "Green Country". Maybe the grass IS actually greener.

I'm so confused.  Won't you join me?

11:54 PM

-----Blog 4-----

Mar 31, 2008

why not

Current mood: insubordinate

Ok, so I just read a blog posted by a friend and  it was like some shit you’d hear on the phone when you’re half listening.  And you’re half listening because you know they aren’t even talking to a person.  At that point it’s like they’re the dishwasher making that rhythmic droning whoosh humm whoosh mrrrrr in the background.  It was like that,  but on a cute sky blue background in an untineresting typeface. 

So I read it and I’m like,  ok,  AND...??  And I immediately think, man Jeff,  you’re  a bit judgemental aren’t you? And I think to myself... "what a wonderful world".  No, not really.  I didn’t think that then,  I thought that now, and it was in Louis Armstrong’s voice.  The sad part, is that I am sure Louis Armstrong never thinks ANYTHING in my voice. Isn’t that unfair? 

So my friend writes a pointless blog to vent some steam and I’m supposed  to even have an opinion on it?  No.  I’m not  supposed to.  But in this day and  age, the culture seems to silently reward our opinions.  Wasn’t someone in the Bible  killed with the jawbone of an ass?  Whose ass and whose jawbone?

So, I’m going through something that smells vaguely of lurking undeclared ambitions of self-sabotage.  Like an impending, self produced disaster designed  to take myself down a few pegs.  A random shotgun scattering of mistakes which may be deadly or merely annoying.  Maybe to me.  Maybe to someone else. Certainly creditors will be impacted. 

As for now, I stand at the 1:36am fulcrum of some pending load of circumstance to succomb to gravity and make its presence known in my day to day life. 

Until then, I scoff and the innocently vacuous scribblings of friends, pulling the thread,  and scraping the back of my teeth with my tongue until there is a raw and perpetually stinging spot which reminds me that I am a tumbleweed. 

Don’t worry.  This is completely normal.

-----Blog 5----

Jan 25, 2007

FAT

Current mood: recumbent

I tried to read Heart of Darkness. I figured since Apocalypse Now! was my favorite movie, I should try to understand the source. Bullshit. I wanted to be one of those people who could say, " I just finished reading Heart of Darkness." 

My life has mostly been about doing things so I can be someone who did them. 

Weak. 

I am eating pancakes. Lovely Blueberry pancakes. They are warm, crisp edged, served with real butter and REAL maple syrup. I am sending them off to their death. Little fresh-faced blueberry soldiers in the maple jungle. 

While mixing the batter, flipping them on the griddle and then onto the lovely, square, blue Pottery Barn plates, I was filling their heads with notions of promise. About breakfast being the most important meal of the day. About food being fuel. About the simple process of starches metabolizing to sugar, becoming useful energy for an active body. 

 

Lies.

These pancakes are little children raised in an illiterate home, being sent off to college to fail. They will become fat.

I will not become fat, because I already am.

Fat.

I've always been fat.  When I was skinny, I was mentally fat. Now that I'm fat, I'm just Fat.  Fat is one of those words you can write a  bunch of times, but it never stops looking like "fat".  Unlike "fence".  You can write the word, "fence" a bunch of times and it will start to look like a Danish word you've never heard of.

There are people who can look cool being fat. Five that I can think of right now are…

Italian Mobsters

R and B singers

Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now!

Buddha

Bikers

I cannot look cool being fat because I am on the fence. Being fat, while on the fence makes the fence buckle and sag, drawing more attention to the fatness. A vicious cycle.

I am on the fence in several ways. I am not reconciled to my fatness. I try to act "not fat". Acting "Not fat" is like covering your eyes in the middle of a crowded room and thinking no one can see you. It's like pretending you aren't stoned.

The biggest way (no pun intended) that I am on the fence is that I live life like I am in the lobby of Life's Hotel. Waiting for my room to be ready. My life will start when I am thin.

My life is occurring "someday" and whatever is happening now is simply to be endured or waited through until THEN happens.

Back to Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now!

Apocalypse Now!

 became my favorite movie when I was heavy into drugs and conspiracy theory -- a time in my life when I was really angry about America. I was angry because it had been a really long time since I had an experience like finding out there was no Santa Claus (another Fat Guy).  

At this time I was reading about the Kennedy Assassination, Freemasons and the KKK, The Branch Davidian murder in Waco, Ruby Ridge, The Oklahoma City Bombing and tons of other scary stuff.  I was coming to some scary conclusions.  I was feeling like the world wasn't safe and the people who were supposed to be protecting me were the ones I should be afraid of. 

In the midst of these profound realizations about the truth of the American Dream, my waist line was continuing to expand. Surrounded by lean anarchists, I was a wolf in sheep's clothing. I was a textbook American. Fatness is as American as Apple Pie. I was the law of supply and demand in the flesh. A lot of flesh.  

 

I felt like such an imposter saying things like "Capitalism is a machine that is driven by consumption."  It's not polite to propagandize with your mouth full. 

In a documentary about the making of Apocalypse Now!, F.F. Coppola says that when M. Brando showed up on the set, everyone was surprised that he was fat. Neither Mr. Brando, nor his agent felt it necessary to tell anyone, "By the way, Marlon is fat these days."  So they had to change the role and the character to accommodate this new reality.  Brando's deal got him half of his salary up front, so they were stuck with him.

Somehow the movie is made more surreal by that.  And likeSaturday Night Live, you can't imagine it without a fat guy. Fat guys are fundamental to entertainment. Chris Farley anyone? Genius. Tragic. Hilarious. 

Consider this piece of irony.  For his role in Fight Club, Meatloaf had to wear a fat suit. 

Speaking Plainly.. 062711

I have been double-minded over the past several years, and this has been perhaps nowhere more plainly visible than on facebook. I've been in and out of ill-fated romantic relationships, in and out of "scripture quoting" phases, and most painfully, in and out of relationship with key people in my life. I have chosen to focus on relationships that feed my ego, rather than those which feed my spirit. My dear friend, Kenny Curtis has mentioned this to me on several occasions, and still I've chosen to have one foot in the world of the flesh, and occasionally, one foot in the spiritual word. 

Since moving to Galveston, God's will for me has become more plain than ever before. I am here to serve Him, and Him only. This is not to say that I have a clear picture of what serving Him will look like, but it is to say that I am not interested in anything else. 

I have often said that my first drug of choice was attention / approval from other people. What I have learned (especially today) is that the people in my life whose approval I've been seeking, are not the people who I need to be concerned about pleasing. The people in my life who know and love me (glorious flaws and all) are the people who don't require me to jump through hoops to earn their love. This is much like the love of Christ. Prior to Christ, people had "The Law" which was a series of "hoops" to jump through. Because so many of the hoops were difficult to get through, people began to find ways to circumvent them, and then to rationalize their disobedience. Then when the inevitable consequences came, they felt that God was unjustly punishing them. Christ came to earth, and brought with Him a hoop that is large enough for everyone on the planet to walk through gently and easily, all at the same time. 

People in my life like those tagged here and so many others, have showed me such grace and encouragement, and even at times when you didn't agree with my opinion or my actions, you loved me, and showed me I mattered. I couldn't always let that in, and it's because I felt (or more to the point, my flesh felt) that it needed a certain type of response from you for me to feel valued and appreciated. My flesh, I has discovered, is a bit retarded, and no amount of attention or approval is ever enough. My flesh is incapable of feeling peace. It is therefore, incumbent upon me (the whole me: body, mind and spirit) to look elsewhere for a place for my identity to make camp. This place is my spirit. In this undiscovered country, I am finding infinite wellsprings of love and approval from every direction, most importantly, from "above".

I don't intend to accomplish anything by this, except to begin to share openly about my inner / outer process of sanctification and pruning, which is currently happening in my life. Sanctification (as I understand it) is the process of having my outsides begin to match my insides. Many of you know, that I felt very clearly called into the ministry in August of last year. Over the past year, since hearing that call, I have stumbled more in the flesh than ever before. I've sinned through commission and omission in several countless ways, and caused some harm to myself and others in the process. This was all part of the process of surrendering to His will in a deeper way, and has culminated in my moving to Galveston Island. The poetic implications of me moving to an island are very apt, and beautiful, for this move has forced me to accept a sense of separateness from the comfort of my friends and the familiar landscape of NW Houston. There is only one way (by car at least) to the island and one way to leave. They call it "The Causeway".  My choices, and actions, were the "Causeway" for me to end up here. From a spiritual perspective, I was rescued from the prison of the familiar. God basically broke me out of jail. 

The pruning is necessary for anything to grow, and I am being pruned. This means letting go of many things which used to seem like "a part of me".  Here are some examples: Family Guy, Gangsta Rap, Sexual innuendo in everything I say and do, Gluttony, Pride in my shortcomings, gossiping, retaliation for perceived wrongs, basically anything that causes my spirit to grieve or feeds my flesh. At some point, it may include facebook, it may include deleting more friends and may include many things, as God reveals them to me in His time. For now, it seemed like it was important to invite you (and anyone else you want to share this with) into this conversation with me.

Much of this process was well articulated in the book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years: What I Learned While Editing My Life by Donald Miller (http://amzn.com/0785213066). This book was given to me by my daughter's mother, Kim Voynar, who perhaps knows me better than anyone in my life who isn't a blood relative. In this book, Don starts realizing that his depression and lethargy are not medical conditions, but rather symptoms of a boring, uninspiring life, and he decides to Co-Author (with God) a more interesting narrative for his life. 

Thanks to this idea infecting my consciousness as a welcome virus, I am now in the midst of co-authoring a more interesting narrative for my life. You are part of that narrative. I welcome your input, and I invite you to share with me your struggles, dreams, challenges and your viewpoint. 

"Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, non but ourselves can free our minds." - Bob M. 

Learning to shake the dust off my sandals...

At least my fortune cookie understands me.

080811

it was one year ago today, that i received the "call to ministry". it led me to Galveston, via a very crooked road, marked with many stumbles and missteps. tonight, in my new home, here on the island, i am filled with gratitude for the people who have marked this past year with encouragement, and even for the people who have marked this road with discouragement. 

this has been a year of spiritual warfare. flesh against spirit against flesh against spirit. sometimes it was couched in "best intentions" and sometimes, it was flat out rebellion against the Father's will. in all cases, i was bathed in His Grace and Extravagant Love, whether i recognized it or not. 

and now, it seems comes the real work. the work of making a difference for The Kingdom. making a difference for others, and to let that difference be His work, not mine.

it's overwhelming at times, to consider all that we're asked to do as believers, especially when i think of it as a laundry list. but when i distill it down to the essence of "love one another" it gets more peaceful in my spirit. 

Lord, please let me sleep tonight, in your embrace. and with the knowledge that You are already standing at the sunrise, in tomorrow, waiting for me there. may I rest as fully in that truth, as I will tonight on my bed. 

and please bless and strengthen all my friends and family (and friends who are family). 

amen

...and sometimes "why"

I’m sitting in my room in the Hotel Deca, in the University District of Seattle. I’m less than a mile away from my old house in Seattle, where I lived with Krista and Erin, back in the year 2000. I remember when I was a kid, and I looked forward to that year, thinking...”man, I’ll be 34”. I figured by then, we’d all be wearing silver clothes, and flying around in cars. I remember the Y2K obsession, my rampant cannabis addiction, and my hopes of finally becoming the kind of father my daughter, Meg deserved.

So many years and milestones have passed since then. The death of my mother, my “conversion” to Christianity, my fruitful time at FareStart and Starbucks, my return to Texas, and reconnecting with my dad and his wife, Jan (my OM: other mother).

Since Meg has relocated back here with my my grandson, Brandon, the best I’ve been able to pull off is visiting once a year to see them, and that’s what this trip was originally about. That all changed several weeks ago, when Kim (Meg’s mom) got sick while at the Toronto Film Festival.

Today I went with Kim to her bone marrow biopsy appointment at the Swedish Hospital Cancer Center. As difficult and troubling as that was for me, I am positive it pales by comparison to Kim’s experience.

There is nothing like walking into a doorway to a building with the words “Cancer Center” above it. Everything I had been feeling and thinking up till that point became so much more real at that moment. The current national Health Care discussion became very relevant and seemed all the more urgent and important. Just one of Kim’s prescriptions would have cost $1500 for a two week supply without insurance. That’s one of several she’s currently taking, and that doesn’t even factor in the possibility of chemotherapy later. But I digress.

The real issue here is the definition of family, the true essence of friendship and the “r word” I spent so many years avoiding: responsibility. Questions like: “How do I support a friend, family member and loved one who is facing this sort of battle?” “How do I communicate with her four other kids, who only know part of the story?”, “How do I support my daughter, who is facing the uncertainty and heaviness of a mother facing Cancer?”

After years of 12 step work and spiritual study, I’m grateful for one question that I don’t have to ask, which is: “What about me?”.

In times like these, at least for me, something kicks in which is bigger than my little comfort bubble, and my usual concern for my own comfort. A willingness to serve, which is fueled by my understanding of what it is to be a Christian, and what it is to be a friend, and what it is to be a member of a family. This is not easy, but it is so simple; when I ask, “what can I do?” the answer comes so quickly.... “whatever it takes”.

I watch my mom, Jan dealing with her aging mother’s dementia and its attendant fits of confusion and hostility, and I think, “how does she do it?”. I’m beginning to get a glimpse. It’s like the parental instinct that kicks in (in most cases) which allows us to subvert our own goals, and begin to serve the greater goal of nurturing and guiding our kiddos.

Before getting out of the car to go up to the appointment, Kim gave me the honor of allowing me to pray with her, and it is a privilege I do not take lightly. Often in times of medical crisis, people say things like “All we can do is pray”, as if that is some last resort or final attempt to wrestle with the circumstances. I feel that prayer is not only not a last resort, it is in fact the most powerful thing we can do. My Christian brothers and sisters (hopefully) know the many scriptures about how the “fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much” and my friends who do not consider themselves Christian have their own feelings about prayer, I’m sure. For me, I know this: God hears and answers all prayers. Our challenge is to trust that regardless of his answer, his plan is perfect.

My grandson Brandon, is in the adorable stage of asking “why?” about everything, and each time, I’m tempted to answer with either whimsy or some dry fact, which will only lead to another.. “why?”. It’s endless and wonderful. It’s like he’s showing me something about human nature, that we never seem to get... the answer to “why?” is always speculative, and usually leads deeper down the tunnel. And like laboratory mice in a maze, it’s usually a tunnel with no cheese at the end. That’s why when my mom died unexpectedly from a stroke at 62, I belligerently resisted my friend’s and family member’s attempts to ask “Why her?” ....no exceptions.

Tonight at dinner, I was trying to match movie reviewer skills with Kim, and in my discussion of a recent movie, I mentioned that I felt it was a bit rambling and incoherent. Having read this far.. perhaps you know what I was talking about.

the platypus chronicles

"Of  course I contradict myself; I contain multitudes."  

- Walt Whitman

Today is September 15th 2008.  It's not a particularly eventful day, except that I'm finally starting a blog.  I've been a gold medalist in "starting". Not always as good at finishing.  In terms of this endeavor, it's more an issue of  maintaining which also isn't my forte. 

I recently discovered a friend's blog and it really inspired me to jump into this culture. I've resisted it for the typical reasons of ego and pride. For the same reason it took me so long to get a cell phone.  I tend to resist the cultural gravity, but yet I have a strange fascination with it as well.  That's one aspect of the platypus, from which this blog gets its name. 

I have always had a strange fascination with the platypus. It seems to be an animal I have a kinship with. Some of it is the sense that the platypus is a harmonious blend of seeming contradictions. Nature seems to be organized into these tightly grouped categories. Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species.  (Where would we be without mnemonics?) 

The platypus seems to bend these rules.  Then, if we look more closely at the problem of the platypus, we see that the problem is with our system of classification. The platypus is fine. It is grooving around in various environments, while our zoologists scratch their heads. Ignorance seems to be bliss, for the noble platypus. 

Then, I saw the Kevin Smith movie, Dogma. In the opening credits, they allude to the mystical genus bender in the following excerpt:

"remember: even God has a sense of humor. Just look at the Platypus." 

As a way of explaining my colorful platypus tattoo in shorthand, I simply restate this quote in more or less the same words.  Not everyone wants a dissertation on the flaws inherent in any contrived system of classifying nature.  

When I got this tattoo, it was a pivotal point in my life. Yes, tattoos were becoming trendy, but they still had an air of rebellion and anti-socialism to them.  This was a forearm tattoo. It was public. It would not be covered up by a short sleeved shirt. It wasn't safe. It was roughly equivalent to "coming out" ... as a vaguely rebellious platypus enthusiast. 

Slightly cooler than being a trekkie. 

Now, seven years later, I find myself regretting it about 30% of the time, appreciating it more about 30% of the time and being oblivious to it about 40% of the time. The extra 10% includes time spent asleep, and, for the record, those percentages are approximations only.  A device to illustrate a point: even my feelings about the platypus tattoo are platypus-like. 

There will be more illustrations later, but for now, I'm off to bed.  

Until the morrow. 

JT