when the sun sits low in the dry evening sky

when the sun sits low in the dry evening sky, that's when you'll find me. or, more precisely, that seems to be when i find me. i know, i know - sunset? cliche much? but, hey, i never claimed to be better. i like power ballads and romantic comedies too. sue me.

i wish, anyway, it was something less cliche that reeled me back in. i can remember other days, other seasons, when i could find it everywhere. i could find it in the first bite of my bowl of cereal in the morning. i could find it in the dust and sweat-soaked smell of my baseball glove. i could find it splashing in the air swirling in my car on the drive home from work.

but there are certain seasons when it takes something a bit more obvious. that's grace too, by the way. sometimes the sheep get lost in the next field over, and all they need is a whisper call. sometimes, though, they're deep in the canyon, and that's when we call for the obvious. a search party, flares in the sky, burst like sunsets, until our eyes finally meet again, shepherd and sheep, love and beloved.

the challenge is to not get too cynical. to where you can't won't let yourself smile when you suddenly realize the sun is sitting low in the dry evening sky. and it was made just for you. tonight, i decided to smile. and rest. too tired to be cynical. only thankful that the shepherd's not above a good, obvious sign every now and again.

mountains over montana

maybe you can relate. you're just humming along, minding your own business, completely innocuous (impotent?) on a warm afternoon when something catches your eye. try to look away, you know it's a lost cause. like ragged outlaws, the gold it calls to us. so up your eyes turn. to the screen or the stereo, the sand or the sky. he's, rather unfairly, got an arsenal to choose from. whatever the choice, you've been hooked. you dial in. and cutting through the routine comes a confrontation. can't blink. i can't blink, can't look away, because the scales are gone and the novocaine never lasts, so here.we.go.

the scenes unfold and i'm swept in. left my sword at the door. captive, all i can do is sit in it, bathe in it. each emotion. first sadness. then anger. then sadness again and perhaps even despair. the trouble is that i could endure it, stick it out, if i only i could pitch it as soon as it was over. but that's not how it works see. it remains, stuck like a fist in your throat, bursting from your blood vessels and tearing at the skin. release, release is what it demands, what's required. this terrible pure energy, begging release.

and finally out it comes. first as the lump in the throat, then as wetted lashes, salty skin. everything in you strains beneath the power. and down it rains. or reigns.

i got tired of fighting today. so i gave in. and felt it. stared it in the eye. the sadness and the anger and the sadness and the despair. heavy like caved-in chests, overwhelming in every way. but needed. so needed.

the funny thing is that in the run-up, even in the midst, it's confusion, the haze of war or something. but with each full breath, the ones that let it run through you and out your fingertips, it gets a little less crazy. a little less manic. and you're ready to try again. and you step to the stereo and choose that one song and all of a sudden, like a knife through butter, the confusion melts away. it's fitting though, isn't it? it was sort of beyond rational in the first place - why not let it take its leave in just the same way.

but was faith ever rational anyway? trick question. of course and no. just like the questions. some very real, some deep fiction. so it goes with faith. makes sense, so much sense, in a great many ways. in others, though, it goes beyond. beyond whatever we know as sense. you can't explain it, just do it, just lay down in it and stay in it and give in to it.

i don't have your answers. never did. but something remains. something beyond me. and whatever confusion falls, all gray and thick, always there seems to come some way out. painful and raw, laying you bare, but that's the only way to do it anyway.

to see and be seen. to know and be known. surely this is love. pursuit. grace.

This One's For You and Me.

And so ends the indefinite hiatus. But some things never change, you know. Like setting down to write and needing the perfect song to go with. There we are: "you're | just like your father | buried deep under the water | you're resting on your laurels | and stepping on my toes | whose side are you on? | what side is this anyway? | put down your sword and crown | come lay with me on the ground." No, some things never do change. Fingers find their sea legs. The faint din of dancing words fills the ears. Yes, let me come rushing back.

For now, it's just you and me. Time enough and I'll spread the word. But for now, it's like lamp lit journals, sticky ink on faded paper. Except that here my fingers can move as fast as the mind demands. That's the problem with writing, physical writing - I can't ever get there fast enough. Each curl of a letter takes a second too long, and soon the thought that had been forming, in its usual circuitous way, has unraveled. Here, though, I can pick up and run, run, run headlong into the bright lights, dipping and flashing, my fingers close on their trail, so that, even if imperfectly, I can finally get at them. No, it's not perfect at all, but it always felt like I got a bit closer here than I've ever been able to with pen/paper. Sad, too, because the former seems so romantic. And, as posts past will attest, I've always been a bit weak for romance.

Anyway, without anyone to hear it, I'm welcoming myself back. It feels good - very good - and too long coming.

In Transit

Let me preface this by saying that if you find the whole premise of blogging a bit self-involved, you'll find in the following post everything you don't like about the business. If you're just looking for a good read, you may also want to look elsewhere. If you are bored at work and have nothing better to do, though, this should be right up your alley.

Have you ever watched The West Wing? You know, captivating drama about the innards of the Presidency. I always wished I was on that show. And while this will likely never come close to happening, I have been granted in recent days a little summer daydream of, in fleeting moments, what it might be like.

For a few months, I have been loaned off to a City Council office. I began last Monday. My days are generally tame -- researching why resident X's water bill was so high last month or explaining to resident Y why she can't house a small colony of feral cats in her backyard. (Was that revealing that I specified resident Y as "her"? My misogyny knows no bounds.)

But in it's more glorious moments, as I've come to consider them, I get the occasional transcendent Hollywood moment. It might come trying to craft an honest, yet diplomatic response to a neighborhood issue (channeling my inner-Sam Seaborn, if you will), or responding to a reporter's request for quotes for an upcoming story (what would Josh Lyman do?). For a brief moment, it feels like the best story, some yet un-felt drama unfolding before my eyes and hands and voice. A story that doesn't stop at the page but instead has seeped into my body, enveloping me. The story | is mine. It is fun to have fun sometimes, and I am thankful for this current bit of it. Particularly as it makes for one more episode of summer fun.

Smith & 9th

Courtesy of Amy, I think, I heard about Obadiah Parker and the infamous cover of "Hey Ya". Full disclosure: I've never gone back and listened to any of his/the band's other music. But let's not dwell on shortcomings. The point is that that cover is so beautiful. It captures the...painful beauty...of what is really a song about love being awfully hard.

I took pictures of the lovely pear tomatoes we've managed to grow in our backyard, but I can't find the cord to connect the camera to the laptop and I'm too lazy to go rummaging through the garage to find it. So, the pictures will have to wait. I tell you this story to show that I was at least thinking of you.

There are moments when the past feels inescapable. When it as heavy as Portland fog. Draped around my feet, pulling at my shirt, slipping into my lungs. Stealing away sun|light|oxygen. It feels very unfair. It is too powerful -- so much stronger than the present, which quickly, feebly fades into gray. It -- the past -- comes back at a moment's notice, when the right song plays, when that old picture stumbles across the screen. It's not always this way, of course. There are many days -- especially in these lovely summer months -- when the Sun is bright enough to burn away the haze. I am grateful for the assistance. But there are other times -- especially when night sweeps in -- that I|am|captive. I feel a bit captive tonight.

Something You Just Can't Shake

I was after a specific perspective, a certain line of sight, of this sign. It is the one I walked past nearly every day during my 10 weeks in Portland. There is a memory I have, grey sky and green-paneled building, an unusually warm early morning, blue neon coursing through bending tubes. It is one of my favorite memories of that place. I wish I could find a picture, but I think the scene was too perfect to have happened more than once, and I might've been the only one to see it. So, it will live only in memory, which I'll do my best to strengthen by falling asleep to it tonight.

Many Moons, Many Moons

Today is my birthday. I spent the morning helping friends move into their new house. This was actually a very nice way to spend my birthday morning, as it a) got me up at a reasonable hour b) allowed me to see friends, make silly jokes, etc. and c) made me feel like I accomplished something. Sort of reminded me of summertime in high school, when most weeks/(ends) were spent doing some service or another in the city, or Mexico, or Mtn. Meadows Ranch. Good times.

I then came home and logged onto Facebook. I realized I'd chosen not to share my birth date with anyone -- must have been in a fit of anti-Facebook, anti-easy-personal-information rage -- which meant I'd receive no obligatory happy birthday wishes from friends I haven't talked to in years. Between you and me, I kind of wanted those wishes. Hypocrisy of hypocrisies, I know, but I'm just being honest. I then thought of changing my information so my birthday would show, but this would be terribly obvious, what with it being the actual day. And while I may be desperate, I don't want to show I'm desperate. So, I've resorted to the blog, where I can cloak my desperation in a sort of pseudo-honesty by sharing about it. And you think you're an over-analyzer...

Anyway, tonight there'll be a little shindig with a bunch of guys (and Emolyn -- just can't say no to that cute little face) watching a UFC fight (another post on my UFC -conversion later), drinking beer (or scotch, if we should so choose. And I very well may.), and making cynical remarks about pop culture. Should be a hoot.

If you feel compelled to get me a birtday present, you could start by getting me here: (Note: I initially set out to find a picture of Keira Knightley, but when that started to feel too tasteless, I decided on something a little more...palatable:)

Lavendar farm, Hood River, Oregon