Part of my morning ritual here and elsewhere generally includes the washing of the dishes. This is not because I am obsessed with cleaning, as a few people know all to well. It is because in a world cluttered and compelled by a variety of projects, it just feels good to wake up and finish at least one of them on a regular basis.
There is a box on the floor in our house that arrived recently with the shipment of objects, devices, artwork, clocks and toys from my parents’ house. Despite its daunting nature, I am slowly going through all of it, although compared to what got left behind, this task at hand seems rather small, but not insignificant.
The sun was just beginning to brush the tops of the mountains outside of Butte as I left there the other day. The temperature was in the low teens and there was a light dusting of snow all around, although the roads were thankfully bare and dry. It was the state of the snow the night before that sealed the deal on my pulling over for a warm rest stop inside an inn that was a part of a national network of such places.
I know- it should be Surf and Turf, but on this Island and in this park district it seems that grass will always trump water, until of course we run out- of water that is. I start off this way this time because I endured yet another virtual water torture of a meeting at Ober Park last night.
To be clear, I do not obsess on the VES fields both day and night. If I had a choice, I would pick the day time, because I like to sleep at night and I already have enough spinning around inside to keep me alert during the time of darkness,
A little less than two weeks ago I opened up this paper to find that there were suddenly now two flavors of Island Life being served herein: plain and “real”. Having lived and written and read the plain version a number of times, it seemed only right that I satisfy my curiosity and read all about Real Island Life so as to find out what insights writer Scott Harvey would bring to the fore and what I might have missed along the way.
I hadn’t really thought about it until I sat down to write this, but it was a year ago (possibly to the weekend) that my sister informed me that she had gotten tickets for a lake cruise and I was being asked to tag along on that Sunday afternoon with her, my brother-in-law and his two sisters who were visiting.
I may have referenced this recollection somewhere in the past in this space- I can’t recall for sure one way or another. For those of you taking copious notes, I apologize if that was the case, but it is a story worth repeating, especially in this latest context.
Along with a number of other things, the issue of parking and safety along the Vashon Highway came up at the latest Park District commissioners meeting last night. This was not really the main event that all were in attendance for- that special part of the agenda was reserved for the ceremonial bid opening for the latest iteration of that giant sucking noise that is the VES fields project.
In responding to the question “How’s it going?”, one could easily be any number of miles from an aquatic environment and still be able to answer “swimmingly” if one were so inclined, and could very well do so whether or not that was indeed the case. In the word association game that one’s brain tends to constantly be playing, the mention of the word “swimmer” almost cannot exist without a picture of something blue, relatively clear and viscous appearing at least somewhere in the corner of the mind’s eye.
At the end, that is all there is, because there is no time for anything else. At the end, most of the time is spent seeking a way for it not to be so, especially when the end comes from nowhere, as if the ticking clock and the calendar on the wall were not clues enough.
I don’t remember if I’ve ever told this story here- I certainly have thought about it. It has to do with a time capsule and a responsibility to your voting public. It has to do with the ongoing relevance of a lesson from the youthful times. It has to do with not making assumptions about what is important to others and what isn’t.
A few weeks ago in the not too distant past, I was confronted by a friend in the aisles of our local food emporium and random issues forum. It was not so much a dramatic confrontation as it was a questioning as to why I hadn’t been present at recent meetings being held to discuss the latest problem with bikes on the new foot ferries being offered up at or watery doorstep.
Yes, you read that correctly, and no, I haven’t lost my mind- just my patience. Admittedly, my patience is being tested in a number of arenas at the moment, so a thinning is perhaps an understatement. As it was, the thin film of tolerance and credibility achieved a certain snapping-ness at last night’s Park District board of commissioners meeting- at least it did for me.
The first bit of activism that I participated in while growing up was a campaign to get a swim team at my local high school. As it was, age group league swimming at the time mostly stopped at age 14, making way for the big leap to high school competition and championships.
For some reason the writing of this piece has been a bit like attempting to move dried clay through a cake decorator bag, when it should have required much less effort. It seems though that for the moment I have run out of that vim and vigor that drives the bouncy cheerleader within to perform countless front and back flips while selling the soap of public good.
Perhaps Stephen Colbert’s biggest contribution to the world at large was his coining of the word “truthiness”. In looking it up- not in a book but on the internets- I see that he set forth the principles of truthiness in one of his weekly “the Word” segments in October of 2005.
As we continue to bumble along in seeking precedent and context in these times, we find our self turning once again to the ancient times- my ancient times. In particular, we will be going to a certain place, but the visit will occur at a number of stops on the personal timeline.
For almost a year now I have been a part of the Seattle Minute Movies group. Every month a group of us get together at the Seattle Film Institute, drink some sort of beverage with snacks and then go into the screening room to watch the films most of us have put together over the past month. Normally, as per human nature, most of the films are finished somewhere around the Saturday before the Sunday of the screening
I don’t know how you treat the transition from one year to the next, but generally I tend to try and temper disgust with what has taken some three hundred plus days to ebb and flow with a modicum of hope that the next, similar cluster of days and nights offers a chance at redemption and renewal,
I don’t recall running for the position, but then again, the eighth grade was an eternity ago- thankfully. Even though I can’t say how I got there, I do have a vague memory of attending one of the meetings. As I stop and dig deeper, there is a realization that I’m not even sure whether this remembrance concerns a place on the student council or simply being a homeroom representative or what it was exactly.
I haven’t been getting out much lately, but when I do it’s to meetings. This has seriously cramped the possibility of my vying for the most interesting man in the world qualification round, although that is not a title that might even become a doodle in my mental notebook.