Drive Towards Motion and the Wackiness of Weeks

Single Fun! 

Today was a nice morning. Exhausting, but in a good way. I took the kids for an extended downtown Ithaca sojourn, picked up a few good records (first Queen! R.E.M. single!) I'm quickly discovering that Angry Mom Records is one of my new favorite places.

Generally, I spent some kid time on a sunny summer day having fun. I needed a walk and a romp through some playgrounds to clear my head. We've been having a crazy week. Nothing spectacular, of course. But sometimes the little crazies can bond together to create an amalgam of wackiness that needs to be addressed. This week was filled with those little sticky blobs of wacky. (Sticky Blobs of Wacky, by the way, is a terrible name for a restaurant.) (Buffet the Appetite Slayer is a great name for a restaurant.)

After the busy morning, I've spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning, listening to music, and thinking about next steps.

This year is all about evaluating those next steps, and deciding where to go next as a family. In two key ways: we want to understand where we can live and settle down, and what our next steps are in terms of career. (Jaime and I, that is. The kids are busy being kids. Although Viri has career on his mind as much as we do, at this point.) (Arkaedi, however: "I'm just having fun!")

It looks like we're headed back to the NW next year. At this point I can't imagine anything else, and nothing here is really tempting in the long term. It was a fun experiment- good for us, especially me. I needed this time back east, back in a small town. But I've learned what I needed to learn, and I'm ready for the return journey. I wouldn't be a good hobbit without a There and Back Again story. And I am nothing if not a good hobbit.

The kids are too young to really have input into a decision like moving. But it's funny to see what they have to say. Both of them are excited to live somewhere with animals and zoos. They don't remember Seattle, really. They are the most important factor in the discussion, however. Soon they'll be too old to be comfortable uprooting and transplanting. They already have friends and connections here, relationships that make moving complex. J and I are more mobile. In part because our best friends are people we stay in touch with regardless, and in part because we chose a life of rambling the moment we moved to Japan in 2000. Maybe earlier- leaving our tight circle of friends in 1998 for college in Japan was a major step. We knew once we made that choice that our world would never be as small and cozy again. And we're okay with that.

There are some factors to consider that may shape the decision. We're always on the lookout for a new country to explore. Viri especially is excited to try Australia, and I'm never one to totally rule out A) foreign adventure or B) Viri's ideas. (Seriously, every day that boy is growing more powerful. "Join me, Arkaedi. Together we can overthrow the Papa and rule the galaxy as Pretty and Bubba!") But barring some wonderfully insane stroke of crazy, we'll be headed back to the NW. Either Portland or Seattle, or an outlying town near enough to one of those. Maybe even Olympia, if we're feeling nutty.

Love in the Time of America

Henry Miller in Big Sur

I'm feeling restless. It's my affliction. It's not a bad one, as afflictions go- I could be a grown man in shorts. Or do heroin. But I am restless, and feel the need to move.

Writers love this disease. If they don't have it themselves, they tell the story of it. So many great stories are based on the love of moving right along. Talking to my good friend and official demi-god The Mighty Hercules lately about road novels, I was inspired to revisit one of my favorites, Henry Miller's The Air-Conditioned Nightmare. It is my favorite thing of Miller's and one road novel that really stays with me. The basic overview of the book is simple: Miller comes back to the States as an expat, escaping war in Europe. He is disgusted by much of what he sees, but he finds positive aspects of America while he travels. It isn't a story of growth or acceptance. Like all great road novels, it's about the journey for the sake of the journey. Miller tells of his travels because that is what is happening.

I've been reading a lot of these books lately. I find myself relishing novels by Kerouac, Miller, lesser known gems like I See By My Outfit by Peter Beagle. I think they make sense to me now in a way that they didn't before, as I've traveled more, spent nearly five years overseas, and felt more restricted by life circumstances. I loved these books when I first read them at 19 and 20. I appreciate them now. Back then they represented possibilities, potential futures that myself and my friends could live. Now they mean something more complex and strange- the sense of community and isolation that I have as a (Oh My) basically middle aged man. (Wait is 35 middle aged? I guess not... but close?)

America is such a country of potential. It is frustrating because the greatness that lurks everywhere. The geographical perfection, the powerful ambition and drive... these are balanced by the greed and pathological individualism that infects us. Having spent time in a other countries always makes Americans conscious of this contrast in identity. It's a personality disorder on a nationwide scale. We are what we pretend to be, and what we have chosen to be. We are the past and the future. Reading stories of our past back to Whitman and Emerson, it seems like this has always been the case. We've always been a nation of confused identity. Or at least our writers and scholars have thought so.

Living currently in small town America, I have a desire to go to cities, to see more of the urban America. A part of me, logically or not, always sees urban America as the authentic experience of being the United States. Funnily enough, most Americans I talk to don't think this, but many foreign visitors do. They see America as big city because of their own media and preconceptions, I suppose. I'm not sure why I do. But there it is.

The road novels I love mostly talk about small town America. They love the cities intensely, or hate them with equal passion. But they talk more about rural and small town America. I wonder if it that is because, like me, they see it as strange and confusing. Or because they see the real essence of the American experience there, and wish to explore it. Kerouac is especially hilarious in this regard, since he sings the praises of these little towns that he spends hours visiting, and then complains about the cities that he settles in for years.

Kerouac eventually went home, to his small town New England past. He resigned himself to unhappily finishing his years with the familiar. I can't imagine doing that, personally. It's actually a deep-seated fear of mine. When I was young, I was firmly convinced (like every young man reading Kerouac and listening to punk rock, I'm sure) that my life was destined to be lived out penniless and free, drifting from place to place, without a home. Of course that is silly- and mostly untrue. (Well, I'm penniless enough. And I do tend to drift. But I take a lot of home with me.)

But in all of the nonsensical romanticism and flowery prose of the myth, there is a glimmer of reality hidden. I'm still desperate to find that authentic identity of my country, and myself. I still pull up roots and change what I can to see the United States from a new angle, to approach the problem of our national disorder from a new perspective. I'm interested in it, perhaps above everything else in my life. I want to understand it.  Reading those novels about travel, traveling myself for so much of my life... these are ways to find those stories again, and gain some comprehension. Until I get that... Well, I'll be restless. Ready to move.

Los Angeles Sans Cars

Running on Empty from Ross Ching on Vimeo.


I often find myself dreaming of a world without cars. I'm not sure exactly what it would mean, in truth. But this is an awesome vision of how much space cars take up in our minds. It'd be amazing to see this with the streets slowly filling up with people, events, plants, etc.

Charlie Brown's Long Road To Insanity

In all the excitement of running around looking after my youngins, I forgot that this week is the anniversary of the first Peanuts strip. Please enjoy. I also include a classic sociopathic Lucy for your pleasure. Or hers, at least.

Hearing this, Charlie Brown begins plotting his vengeance.

"No seriously, sister. You need treatment."

Mega-Narrative Versus Crocosaurus

"I have references! Rawr!"

I love a lot of things about my kids. But one of the most amazing things about them is their ability to take elements that are supposed to be scripted (like movies and toys and such) and take them wildly off script. It is endlessly entertaining. Almost every day I need to stop whatever I am doing just to listen to the craziest story ever told. These stories frequently involve the same cast of characters. Crocosaurus, Crack-Bear, and Commander Taviri are a part of the core group. Other bit players come in and out, including Rainbow Baby and Bluke. The kids take turns being "in charge" of certain characters, and each kid can have a very different take on the backstory. It gets confusing.

I realize this takes a little explaining. (Especially Crack-Bear. I totally take the blame for that.) So let me do a little Dramatis Personae for you.

Crocosaurus is a crocodile toy, given to us years ago by a good friend. He is frequently involved with fighting bad guys and protecting others. He also watches babies. He's kind of a reptilian nanny beast. He's meaner when Arkaedi is in charge of him.

Crack-Bear is the bad guy. He was named after an unfortunate slip of the tongue by Papa. The bear had just shown up out of nowhere when we were living in a sketchy neighborhood, and I had no idea where he had wandered in from... so I told the kids that they could have the crack bear if I washed it. Viri of course named him Crack-Bear immediately, and my careless talk had created a nemesis for every other toy. Viri frequently tries to reform him, and make him good. According to Arkaedi, however, he should be sent away. That girl has no compassion.

Commander Taviri is the space faring warrior alter-ego of Taviri. He has a magic watch, a super ship, and many hundreds of powers and gadgets. He's basically a Silver Age Superman, he can do anything until the narrative requires a challenge.

In addition to these core stories, there are hundreds of little variants. Many of these are cars and trucks who need cared for or helped. Rainbow Baby is a stock car who frequently runs into trouble and needs to be saved. Bluke is another car in peril. (A "blue car," hence Bluke. Arkaedi was proud of that one.) The cars names are a source of contention for the kids. Arkaedi is a fan of pun based names, or colorful ones. So there is a Cocoa, a Mac...

I wish I could convey the endless variety that these games take. It's astounding. It's like a scene from Toy Story if Andy were simultaneously channeling every science fiction image, fairy story, and PBS cartoon ever made. It's wonderful.

I still feel a little bad about Crack-Bear. He's an okay guy, he just has a problem. If Commander Taviri spent less time fighting Evil and more time building planetary treatment facilities...

Occupy Away!

Old Jaded Jack

The whole occupation of Wall Street thing is making me sad. It reminds me of my age, my anger levels, and my own inability to have any faith anymore that people can turn things around.

Not that I believe that they can't, either. That would almost be easier. Nihilism would be a welcome escape, and escape is one option that I never choose. It's just that I no longer have the passionate belief that people will create a better society that I once had. I'm not sure where exactly that belief went; but I'd like it back.

Jack Kerouac became a bitter old man rather quickly after becoming famous. He avoided or rejected many of his old friends, and took to drinking and spouting conservative rhetoric instead of traveling and writing. Everything that fueled his earlier creative impulses seemed lost. He chose the escapist route. Or perhaps he just fell into it. Alcohol chose it for him.

I'm not that person. I'm not jaded. I'm still essentially a positive person. But my positivity has become focused. Instead of the broad, sweeping romanticism of my youth it's a scalpel of positive energy. I'm positive about my daily interactions. I'm enthusiastic about individuals in a way that the jaded Jacks of the world don't seem to be.

To cite an example: As I was walking through the store today, my mind was on a series of frustrations. I was angry and sad. And a woman cut me off, pulling her cart in front of me and stopping in confusion. She was an old woman, and I smiled at her. As much as the world in general was bothering me, I had nothing but affection for the face of this old woman standing in front of me. In a broad sense, I was upset at humanity. But this specific woman, how could I be mad at her? She was just an old lady trying to get her Sunday shopping done.

That's how I feel about the protests. I'm irritated by their futility, in the grand scheme. But you, individual protester- when I see your photo, I smile. I like you. I can't extrapolate that feeling to the broad movement, or our future as a species. But I can hope you turn out okay. I hope I don't become too jaded for that.

Book of the Month Club: Two Popular Books and A Crazy Poet

I have more time on my hands lately than I've had in years. Especially if I let that pile of laundry just sit there. Staring at me. Accusingly. This has resulted in some good and bad things. One of the good things is my reading list is actually getting read. Which is awesome. So I've decided to post the occasional update about it, in the form of this book of the month club style review. My reading list has always been supremely nerdy. Which is no great surprise. It leans towards science fiction, fantasy, and poetry. Although I'm not averse to reading something else that crosses my admittedly narrow field of vision, it is almost always one of these books on my desk. So, the three nerdy books of the month, in no particular order.

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins was a great gym read. It's fast paced and exciting, and I read most of it while on the treadmill at the gym. Which is weird- dystopian young adult science fiction isn't an obvious choice for a book reading while running. But it makes sense, in a way. The book is about a scary future in which different towns have been subjugated by a central Capital city, and are forced to send two tributes to compete in the titular games. The games are essentially a gladiatorial where everyone fights, and the last person to survive wins. Not an original premise, but a well-executed one. It was a fun read. Apparently they are making a film, which is a shame. The protagonist will be turned into a generically hot girl. The character in the book is refreshing, realistic, and three dimensional. She seems like a real girl, given the situation in which she finds herself. I'm starting the second book in the trilogy soon.

Speaking of second books in a series, I'm also reading The Magician King, the second in a series by Lev Grossman. It is easy to describe this as a Harry Potter for adults, which is fair enough, though it doesn't do the book justice. It's really more of a book about how these escapist fantasies like Narnia and Harry Potter are a response to the psychological trauma of our society. And despite some excessive drama, the books are fantastic. The story centers around graduates of a magical school (featured in the first book) who are living in a Narnia-esque kingdom. The main character is a typical "smart outcast" stereotype, but the author writes with an amazing self awareness. It's a meta concept that could have easily become silly, but he makes it work. In a way I'm shocked at how popular this series is, but it's nice to see.

And of course, any of my reading lists would not be complete without the obligatory poetry rant. I've actually been catching up on quite a bit of poetry this month, including some Susan Howe, Robert Duncan, Charles Reznikoff, and others. But sitting on my desk is a collection of poetry that is simultaneously amazing and responsible for horrors in poetry: The Poetical Works of John Keats. It's no secret that most poetry is terrible. There a few reasons for this. One of which is the idea that poetry is simply prose narratives told slightly askew. One is that love of words is all a poet needs. But a major problem has been the inability of current generations to bring the energy and passion for language that people like Keats took for granted and translate it into a modern verse. Some try and succeed, of course. But most fail, because they can't effectively use the tool of language. When Keats writes with the particular rhyme and meter of his age, he was using the poetic vernacular of Romantics, the words of his society. He was experimenting, but within a framework that made the poems work. Poets today are either experimenting for the sake of experimenting, or using prose as though it is poetry. Keats was doing neither, though no one bothers to read him to remember that.