Wednesday, April 3, 2013
I think most people who blog - I hate the term "bloggers," the word seems unsavory and suspect somehow - most people who blog about their kids - (cringe) "parent bloggers" that is - find it ironic that they can't find time to write because they are too busy doing the stuff they write about. There are worse predicaments, it occurs to me, so maybe I should just shut up about that.
Recently, I was sitting up late basically just thinking because, well, sometimes you just gotta think a thing or two through, and it was, like, one in the morning and I remember wishing for the clock to stop, so I could just get caught up.
I never really thought much about time growing up and as a young man. I see now that I thought I had had plenty of it; plenty of it to waste and while away the hours watching old movies; plenty of time to wallow in piles of poetry, weeping for William's red wagon and Frost's yellow wood; plenty of time to watch the sunset and sunrise often on the same warm Midwestern summer's night.
I've smelled the roses.
I've watched for hours, scenes of highways and backroads, scenes of domesticity and drama, scenes of great, unbearable sadness and scenes of unfathomable joy.
I took the time, my time, sometimes your time or a friends', but, I actively grabbed the time, I plowed through time, I nurtured seeds in it, I planted thoughts and characters and dreams in it's rich soil and, I found myself rewarded.
Now, now time scares me, I can no longer manage it. Time for this, time for that, plan this, that must be done or this and this and this can't happen. Now. Soon. Man, how do we keep up it all? I can't just do something, I have to consider it, both literally, as in planning and execution of a, say, trip to the park. I also have to think of it through the filters of words and feelings. What are the implications of a trip to the park? What does this one thing add to, build on? Who is served by this, who is the beneficiary of this trip, this place we go to? What is the memory I am building, what is the metaphysical meaning of this?
I know, it's annoying isn't it? But, I never really minded in the past. I remember once I went canoeing with a group of friends. I fell in once, had a change of clothes, fell in again as we came into the livery and, I had a change of clothes in my truck. I always had a change of clothes in my truck, or car, or backpack, or... Well you get the picture.
I was prepared, because I'd had the time to think it all through.
Honestly, these days I don't. I once wrote, in a post called "Who Keeps Chuckling" that "the other day, I had a great idea for a song, a sweeping five verse extravaganza exploring the changes and influences of five decades of my life. A chorus came to me, parts of verses, images and rhymes and... I walked away from it. I didn't have the time to give it. It's shameful and sad and it happens all the time."
Sometimes a make a note of it, I talked about that in "Post-It Notes". Sometimes I bid it goodbye, often wondering if it will come back again, more mature, less needy, more compelling.
I once read that genius was not simply smarts, but it was more a fiery wreck at the intersection of intelligence and timing, perfect timing. You invent the exact thing that is needed at an exact moment in technological history, genius Edison. You imagine an ideal government just as it is needed, nice job bearded Greek dudes. You get a commission to paint a ceiling at exactly the time when the paint will last for ages, and inspire forever, beauty, Michelangelo.
I think genius might lay elsewhere, I think it is in the sheer audacity of choosing one single thing out of the miasma of neurons flying through our minds, and knowing it is perfect, it is the one to pursue, the way to go, knowing it is right.
Thing is, that takes time.
I'm no genius, you're no genius, the boys aren't geniuses, unless, unless that is... we all are.
On the way home from practice the other day I asked Zack what he was thinking. I do that, it's annoying, I know, but I don't think it irritates the boys, yet. He said he was thinking about what he could do better in baseball.
On another trip Nick, when asked the same question said that he was just thinking about "friends and soccer and words and stuff, you know."
Yes I do know, buddy, I do know.
So, I say waste your time when you can boys, watch movies and cartoons, throw a ball into the air and catch it as long as you can, kick that ball against the garage wall all day, sing a song in an endless loop in your head. Dig in mud, jump from a shed, climb a tree. These wasted hours are the stuff of dreams, the place where hope and happiness are foundered, steeled. These days of youthful lost hours let you imagine, consider, divine even, your way to your future self.
It takes time to grow a boy; take it, I'll give it to you. I promise.
We head down to the park quite frequently to shoot some baskets on the court there. The other day Nick felt compelled to write a note to the, uh... pets. Not his mother, but, the pets.
Here it is:
Yep, "shooting hopes."
Every hope is like a shooting star, destined to end in a short time but also destined to live on; in our memories, in our thoughts, in our prayers, in our hearts. As long as we take the time to think about it.
Thanks for taking the time to stop by.
From Marci's "... things you don't expect to hear from the backseat ... "
N: “It is every man for himself here today …”
Z: “That sounds awful.”
(I agree, buddy)
I got nuthin'...