When Gold Turns to Rust

I was supposed to be playing guitar for a 50th wedding anniversary within the next month or so. Good news! Celebration! Champagne and balloons galore, list of memories, tears, Frank Sinatra music, the tinkle of ice in half full glasses of drinks, the cacophony of attendees dressed up chattering like it was their golden anniversary, long glances at “the couple” with such a history.-half a century together.

I get news that the gig is canceled. I make inquiries. It appears the couple has decided instead to get a divorce. Perhaps in the land of prosperity, where we have streets called Joy Lane and weekly incomes that outrun what most people in third world countries earn in a year, maybe here where our choices are legion and our lusts are like the worn strips on the back of our credit cards, maybe in this place in space-time this is as good as it gets.

I don’t know. That has become my mantra of late. It’s okay to not know, to avoid being so certain that you have only as an alternative the bogus confession that all is well on Elm Street and that things “couldn’t be better!” when in reality your thoughts run amuck late at night when above your bed the mirror looks down on you.

Today I will take a long walk and ponder those things in my life that are static, i.e., they’re fixed, immobile, immutable.

My First Spin Class

Maybe it was a combination of the way the instructor entered the room, all vivacious and looking far too close to a phys-ed teacher high on energy, karma, all that kind of jazz. I don’t know. What I do know is that I stood in front of this exercise bike dumbfounded. Raise the seat, lower the seat, adjust the angle ten degrees, decrease it five, stirrups too tight, loosen accordingly, handlebars … elbow to fingertip … adjust –sit on bike … ugh! Start over again.

A visitor from Fort Walton beach, in her late 50s in outstanding condition, and quite attractive for her age, watches me. I try to act confident. I really have no clue what I’m doing.

“Here … do this … these bikes are a bit different than what we use, but they’re all the same!” she says. Wonderful! A seasoned spin veteran riding alongside me no doubt 15 years my senior! Great!

I listen, standing their like an elementary age school child being instructed on how to use a pencil sharpener for the first time.

Everyone seems to be carrying water bottles. I’m unaccustomed to this as I find it irritating to have to lug a bottle of water from station to station when I’m working the machines. But I knew the question was inevitable.

“Do you have any water?” says the Florida geri-amazonian woman in sleek black polyester tight workout pants with two white stripes racing down her legs.

“Oh, uh, well, no actually … didn’t think to do that!”

“Well, here … I have this one … I’ve turned the cap but haven’t drunk out of the bottle yet … you’re welcome to have it if you like.” Nice. For a brief nanosecond I am reminded that in America there is still this kind of friendly chit-chat and that not everyone is a terrorist waiting to press a button and detonate an explosive.

I humbly accept the bottle, fumble to fit it into the water holster in front of me and then climb on my spin horse for what I surmise will be kingdom come.

Cindy, the instructor jets around the room putting her hair up and adjusting seats, admonishing this or that person, occasionally throwing out funny lines and poking fun at a few regular spinners with lines that only they understand. We wait until one guy’s bike is totally adjusted. He sat in it looking much like a father would look riding his son’s junior bicycle. I chuckled inside. Even I knew better than that! Soon I will be humbled though.

She cranks up the music, barks out a few preliminary orders, and in a moments time we are jettisoned into a world of intense rhythmic music and the sounds of legs pumping up and down. The energy is flowing and for a moment we transcend into a world in which we reign supreme. We are cool! We are hot! We are spinner! (I am exhausted!) I think for a moment, “Ha, this ain’t nothing! I can do this! I’m in shape … I work out regularly, right? Yeah!! I’m the man!!”

WRONG!!!

Five minutes into this reenactment of some medieval torture chamber gone bad I am convinced that surely cardiac arrest will come knocking on my door for an unwanted visit. My legs feel like iron sticks. My mind says, “Stop this! Right now!! Stop this insanity!”

Regrettably I am on a bike directly in front of my instructor who, after 15 minutes of maddening breakneck speed leg flying on her weapon of choice still has yet to break a sweat. Me? Well, it’s already dripping off of me and I feel very much as if I would just like to be hit over the head with a two by four and put out of my misery.

I glance around the room hoping, by God, to find someone equally struggling so I can make myself feel better, compare notes, come out the winner. You know the drill!

I try my best to keep up with everyone and, typical male that I regrettably confess that I am, attempt to maintain a straight face with an occasional painful smile. This I keep up for almost 50 grueling minutes until my rear end begins to feel like I’ve been riding a wild horse all day out in the hilly countryside. I will feel this in the morning!!

Eventually, we dismount the cyclical torture chamber and run through a series of stretches and borderline yoga-like contortions. I follow along, hoping and praying that this is not in prep for another mount on this mechanical demon.

I’m exhausted beyond measure. I am drenched in sweat. I have little strength to lift my arm for a drink from the donated water bottle, but it’s over. The class is enthusiastic with their clapping. I vaguely remember trying to bring my hands together but I think it was more of a muffled thud than a clap. I muster up the energy to respond to my Floridian neighbor’s friendly question.

“So, what’dya think? Did you enjoy that!”

“Oh, uh, yeah, it was great! Liked it a lot!” I lie.

The instructor is all bubbly and still roaring with gusto. I think I hate her! She hardly broke a sweat. Damn! Will I do this again? Perhaps. I think the next time I will pace MYSELF more carefully and it may not hurt if I bring a giant pillow to cushion my little ass some! Ha! Now, there’s a site for sore eyes!

Haiku

Two almonds brown still
Gaze the universe about
Child is born ... new hope
RR, St. Louis, Missouri


Pair for listening
Twins to inhale all there is
One cave sealed with words
RR, St. Louis, Missouri


Stillness speaks loudly
The moon shines on dark waters
Come away with me
RR, St. Louis, Missouri

Thinking Out Loud

Traveling lately. Lonely hotels. Failed Internet. Eating alone. Thinking aloud. Hot baths. Eyes glazed. Television on. Boob tube off. Bob Dylan. Thoughts ablaze. Just amazed. Honest Bob. Running fast. Lost aimless. Shady fog. On top. Sliding down. Holding on. Rock bottom. Warm Riesling. Silly thoughts. Pretty girl. Up Hill. Know me. Jesus saves. Roman slaves. Open up. Shut up. Think hard. Greasy lard. Look back. Fall hard. Feel blood. Trickle down. Drop back. Ten yards. Punt forward. They win. Who cares?. Know what? Two words. Say much. Read this. Your wish. Come again. Please do. Pay now. Pray later. Just war? Says who? Dad dead. Mom cries. Child sighs. No lie.

There is more spinning around in my head right now than I can stand. I have to say that you just can’t live with the titles people put on you. Man , it just doesn’t work! And you better get real honest with yourself … whoever you are … don’t read this and walk away thinking you’re holy cause you said some prayer this morning that aunt Martha’s pain would go away and that you’d be kept from sliding on the ice on the way to work. Is that prayer? Or is that YOU talking? Don’t hide behind moralistic clichés that don’t mean shit to people dying on the streets hungry. Yeah, find some excuse to pawn your weak thoughts on to something else that’ll take the heat off of you. Get real. Stop lying to yourself and just breathe for once in your life. Wanna feel good? Walk away and say, “Oh, he’s just angry!” God save you!

Know this. It’s harder to hold your breath than to exhale and take in some fresh air. Someone … please open a window and let the bad air out! I used to think I had all the answers but now I realize that I was answering questions no one was even asking and the questions that stump me now are the ones that no one wants to ask and few care to consider. Are you listening to this confession? Take your robe off and put on a working shirt. Roll up the sleeves in your mind and get to work.

I can hear it already. "What bitterness!! Poor soul!! Save him Jesus! He’s on a roll! Shoot a dart and change his heart. " But no … I am not sick reader. I am thinking clearly.

God, all I want is to just do it right, but I break everything I seem to touch and I don’t know how to make it right. It’s like I live in a room full of rocking chairs to walk on and each step throws me down hard, tips me over, makes me fall. Is this normal what I feel, Lord? Can you hear me now? Will it ever be better again? Will I ever look up and see the security again? Will I smell a beautiful fragrance and return to a time and place that meant so much to me but now seems faded, worn and jaded.

The greatest souls on earth are the self-centered ones! Yes. Why? Because you cannot love another until you love your self. You cannot care for another until you know how to care for your self. You cannot find a lost soul until you have found your self first.

Hey! Are you even looking?

Goats, Arabs, Coffee and Prayer

Where does the time go? It seems like yesterday that I posted last and yet tomorrow it will be one full week. Someone please make the merry-go-round slow down some! This has been a challenging week in a lot of ways. I have a smorgasbord of responsibilities on my plate at work and am really wondering if I am being spread too thin. Do I say something and risk the chance of not being asked to oversee tasks that will eventually help me to advance or do I just suck it up and pile the plate high?

Next week I am off to Denver, Colorado and the week after to St. Louis, Missouri. I’m looking forward to these business trips. They always allow me time to think, meet people, and have a change of scenery.

Did you know that goats can breathe through their ears? Imagine that! I read that in a book early this week. Let me tell you about it …

I woke up one morning this week and randomly grabbed a book that caught my eye. It was about, of all things, coffee: its history, development, global economic impact. So I read in the first chapter that we have the Arabs to thank for when we drink this black brew. Also, I read that these magical beans we grind, mix with boiling water and eventually drink, have all manner of folklore attached to them.

Check this out. The story goes that these Arabs goatherds in the Middle East kept observing some pretty wild and unusual behavior among some of the goats they were tending. I mean these animals were everywhere, running wild, jumping over stuff, wild-eyed, you know, really tripping out.

They conclude that these goats are taking their morning munch from these bushes in some hidden cove somewhere. You guessed it! Coffee trees. Yep! Those goats were horkin’ down on raw coffee beans and the caffeine intake was setting them ablaze with energy.

One thing leads to another and one of these Arabs cats tosses a bush in the fire and out from the fire comes the first whiff of the aroma that to this day is nigh orgasmic to many people.

The Arabs discovered that by drinking this bitter concoction at the crack of dawn that it made their early morning prayer traditions bearable and hence was born the morning cup of Java.

Now, isn’t that interesting?

Pacing the cage

It’s really blue out today. Always has been remarkable to me how the weather patterns transform us so. Our speech reflects this. We talk about storms in our lives or of how cold we feel inside. There’s a line in a Bruce Cockburn song that says, “Sometimes a wind comes out of nowhere and knocks you off your feet.” Couldn't have said it any better!

Today I just feel like my life is one big magnetic strip that has been worn thin. I’ll feel better tomorrow, but for now it’s a reality. I’m spent and taken in by too much and for all my apparent honesty I feel each time I disclose and try to knock I am someone else to another, soon forgotten and another swipe done. Ultimately everything is bullshit but the open hand. It shouldn’t matter so much to me. Perhaps. But I just want to be known, understood and inhaled.

You show a little, I let something show too. There's no instant-get-to-know-you about it.

I don’t know how to swim. I want someone to take the time to teach me some day. Yeah, that was really cryptic, eh? I wanted to say more, be esoteric, play with the subject, but I'm tired. It is one of the few things I am ashamed of, but there’s a story behind it and today I am weary of the memory of the overturned canoe and the north bound bubbles. The lead story in John Updike’s collection “Trust Me” resonated.

I find myself pacing the cage today. Reader. What is it that you want … really?

Why meet people? Why bother reading anything!

It has been a long time since I have visited this blog! I told a friend yesterday that years from now we will be different people based on two very simple things. First, the people we meet and allow access to our lives, who we really are in all our inner nakedness and weakness. Then too we will be different for the things we read, expose ourselves to and honestly respond to.

C.S. Lewis once said, “I read so that I know I am not alone.” I’ve never forgotten that. The things that truly impact us are those things we read and really digest and the individuals we allow into our inner sanctum. Years from now our careful reading surfaces in our lives in all manner of ways and we grow from the things learned in our valued relationships.

I am glad to be blogging again and … yes … thank you for the motivation to do this.