Jeremiah's School of Levitation

"Cool, clear water," is how the song goes and I never tire of hearing it because whoever is singing it is probably strumming on a guitar, all by themselves, or blowing on a harmonica in not quite perfect tune, but the idea is that there is some longing for water, but is it really water? This is my conflict. I am not sure if the singer wants water, or just merely something as simple as salvation. You can get salvation in water, especially if you are dying of thirst, but salvation can come in the strangest ways.

At the thrift store, near the skis, of all things, there sat a nun’s habit. It was dusty, which is what made me immediately think that it was for sale, and not something that a nun had discarded, making her break from the cloister in grand, yet subdued fashion, tossing her habit into the skis, genuflecting for the last time, and walking quickly out of the store, head down, hands folded. I imagined, since I was already on a roll of imagination, that she then went straight for a local tavern, where no one would know her, or stumble upon her, and probably would not ask anything about her long black dress.

I picked up the habit and turned it in my hands, looking for a price. There wasn’t one. I slapped off some of the dust and held it to the light. I was surprised to see some strands of hair hanging from the band. I looked closer at the hair. It looked red, or burgundy, then, in another angle, light brown. Was she young, I suddenly asked myself?

I looked up to survey the area. Only an old woman was nearby, fondling a rusted ice pick.

"Salvation," my head said. I still can't figure out why it said that.

Ooooh-kay.

The big story in my humble town, in some circles, goes a little something like this:

A guy. A middle-aged, married, healthy, frisky-looking Northwest type, went jogging one Friday evening. He drove his car to a wooded spot and set upon the trails therein. At some point, he disappeared. A great big search ensued, taking the time of over 200 people, and a few dogs. Frowny news people reported, at the top of the hour, about everyone's diligence in trying to find this man. Despite all that, he was not found, and the search got called off. The worst got feared.

But, happy ending! Three days later, he wanders into his house at 11pm, to an understandably shocked wife. He had no scratches, no health issues, and, depending upon who you ask, no explanation as to why he went missing. Not that he didn't proffer an explanation: according to him, he did actually go jogging, but then fell off a ravine, got a knock on the head, and, for the next three days, drifted in and out of consciousness and, while drifting, remained fairly immobile.

However, he finally drifted back in long enough to make his way home and, now, it looks like an official miracle that he's alive.

Ooooh-kay.

Off the bat, let me make it clear, as our local police have done, that I will not officially dispute his story (I'll raise a bushy brow, all Mr. Spock-like, maybe, but not officially dispute). We have no idea what really happened to him. There are stories of college that I still tell that, if you buy me enough drinks (or give me a blog) I'll admit that I'm not so sure it actually happened the way I told it, though "that wedding party" and "the bride who invited me back to the hot tub" did, at some point, really occur on the same night. However, I can't say for sure that the very clothes-optional, clandestine, rum-heavy evening where I had to escape via the woods really happened exactly THAT evening.

But, what I WILL say is that, from the subsequent online reader comments tacked onto that jogger story, people have had varying "interpretations" of what may actually have happened on his evening (or three), and they range from "yeah, that could happen" to "hey, the guy may have mental problems" to "maybe he was abducted by aliens" to "okay, that was the lamest way to conceal an affair that I ever heard." It all proved to me that perspective, compassion (however misplaced), mixed with a little subjectivity (including some latent guilt about having told your own big giant lie way back whenever) figures prominently in how we judge other people. One person's mental problem is another person's lame excuse, which is, in turn, another person's miracle. Unless we live the life, we can't draw the conclusion, but based upon our own prejudices, crimes, morals, or lascivious desires, we'll go ahead and draw a conclusion anyway, since, hell, we got a few minutes.

Old, tired philosophy, I know, but, wow, how poignant it still is when we are faced with a fact and still can't find consensus on it. Some people will even purposely go against the grain just to wreck the fact. Why is OJ free? Why did Blake get to the American Idol final? Why do I buy gas at the cheapest station in town and still think I'm getting a deal?

All I know is that if I disappear for three days, and my alibi's a lie, I still better take a dive off a ravine just to make sure I earn the badge.

My soul-buddies over at Married to the Sea (on my blogroll) give me dark, vulgar humor on a regular basis, but, my laugh-of-the-month belongs not to their usual trick of inappropriate captions to innocent drawings, but to their newfound flurry of insane videos.

If you've ever wondered what you should do with those dirty nostrils of yours, or just always wanted to see someone take action with their own nose, then you've got to see this.

All I can say is, please, married's, stay away from enemas. Let the Jackass folks take over from there. They're professionals.

Reproduction is the Friday word. I'm 'bouts to break it down thusly:

Re-
Release. Every day, at some point in my commute, I scream or say something completely random. ("Walla Walla!" or "Damn those oranges" or "Speak like muddle-bones, will ya!"). It is an outburst caused, I believe, by a condition somewhere between Tourette's and the spontaneous death of yet another brain cell.

-pro-
Professional. Everybody is one. Years ago, I went to see a concert by Gil Scott-Heron, he of "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised" fame. ("The revolution will not give your mouth sex appeal. The revolution will not get rid of the nubs. The revolution will not make you look five pounds
thinner, because the revolution will not be televised, Brother."). At the show, he told us all that each of us is a natural born professional; each of us has an "-ology". He said that he was a "truth-ologist." He challenged us all to find our "-ology." What pro-fession are you? Blogologist maybe? I've decided that I'm an "imaginologist" myself. Not because I am some imaginative innovator, but because I spend an inordinate amount of time in the realm of imagination, speculation, and idealist-ication. I know the dreaming mind well.

-duct-
Tape. Duct tape. Does it all. You can wear it, repair with it, and strengthen with it. I thought I was jaded to its infinite uses. That was until muh Boy got a wart on his foot and the actual medical remedy was to put some sort of wart medicine on it and then wrap it in duct tape. That is, directly to the skin. I was thinking, what next, then bleed him for ten minutes every night, and sacrifice a chicken, in hope that we can rid him of the vapors? Well, we didn't have to do all that, but with the application of med and duct, his wart succumbed and I was enlightened. Oh mighty Duct, what wonders will you accomplish next?

-ion.
Ion. Ionosphere. The "four layers of the Earth’s upper atmosphere in which incoming ionizing radiation from space creates ions and free electrons that can reflect radio signals, enabling their transmission around the world." It's the ionosphere we get to thank for communication. Who would have figured that the very Earth itself encourages us to talk and listen to each other? It's not enough that it nourishes our survival, but it also facilitates our community. It even has made provisions for technology. Whoa. I'm sure the Earth also harbors the cure for every disease, the secret for peace, and, maybe even entwined, in the threads of some roots somewhere, the names of the winners of the next ten super bowls. Most amazing is how it facilitates our reproduction. Here's to future generations finally realizing just how much the Earth is on our side.

Swirling your olives in the martini, two olives that is, releases the slightest spectre of olive essence into the liquor, giving it the exquisite elegance of a lightly spiced liqueur, vaguely Mediterranean in its personality and, I think, infuses the brain with the gift of "expressive, yet subtle, conviviality".

Cold spring Northwest rain is like a million tiny winters falling upon your skin, bits and pieces of a shattered season, pitifully trying to wrest your attention away from the sound of the bursting seeds just under your feet. In cahoots with the wind, often, those vengeful remnants of winter do actually make you bury yourself in your pockets, but, you just know that it is now temporary and that, within the month, the winter spirits will finally go to rest.

Some people I've talked to say that they are ashamed to go to a gym because they're so out of shape and that they'd embarrass themselves and I always respond by assuring them that, actually, there is probably no more equal a ground than the gym for them to stand on. While people even in church may look at you with scorn for being overweight, in a gym, everyone's equal. Though you can only bench press 70 pounds, you are as impressive as that guy who can bench press 225 pounds. Why? Because you're THERE. That's the mentality of most of the people I know who go to a gym. If you are in the gym, and you are lifting, riding, treadmilling, or pushing something, then you have about NO room for shame. It's hard to convince people of this, though. Thank you, magazine covers, Hollywood, and the fashion industry.

Lately, I've become insane. I have this music creation program that I completely love. It can produce an infinite number of sounds. But, do you know what I like to do? I like to create one or two sounds, and repeat them. I program an interesting "bloop" or "blink" sound in the synthesizer, and then I set it to loop for as long as I can take it, which is up to a half hour. Sometimes, I pull out my guitar and play two notes along with the bloop and the blink and I play them over and over again. And, I smile. And I groove, to what amounts to a sound much like water dripping from a faucet onto a trash can lid, or to the flap of a mailbox flopping and squeaking in the wind. I am actually entertaining myself. And, I'm even thinking of recording the whole pulsing cacophony. Lately, I have become insane.

Labels: meanderings