Armstrong Family Circus

You missed when time and life shook hands and said goodbye

Paul — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 19:49:06 EST

For the last ten or so years, my family (my kids, my wife, my mom, my dad, my sister and aunts, uncles and cousins) have been going to this little island on the border of North Carolina and South Carolina; Sunset Beach. A few years ago there was a rip within the family. It was no small rip, but it could have been mended. Instead it grew, till the fabric was severed.

We continued to go, but the distance grew. First my dad stopped coming. Then my sister. The rip was palpable; it became a weight. Now there is an inevitable sunset on the blurring horizon. The tradition will be coming to an end.

Last visit, mom could do nothing but make lists and forget the lists and ask the same question over and over again. We had to babysit her constantly (to eat her food, to take her medicines). When she did go down to the beach, she stayed an hour or two at the most, and then went back to the house to repeat her pattern. She never interacted with the kids. Never talked to them. Though she said she enjoyed herself, I fail to see how. It was a job for us, not a vacation. This year my mom will (most likely) not be able to come, as her health and mind and who she was or is continues to deteriorate rapidly (as is evidence by her being moved to assisted living in her retirement community she recently, willingly moved to). Now, like avoiding the inevitable news you'll get from the doctor after years of avoidance, I shirk from the choice I face. The many choices I face. The many consequences it will bring.

I can curse the rip. The fact that no one tried to mend it. Each pulling and ripping it larger. But alas, this is life. Full or rips and tears, worn through to threaded shards. This is what we often do to one another. It's hard not to feel defeated. Depressed. Angry. Frustrated. I want to blame everyone. Someone. Something. God. Life. Myself. But it is done. From one fabric now many. It's time to sew ourselves into a new quilt of tradition.

This is how the end begins

Paul — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 14:37:55 EST

And this is how the end begins, a small amount of change at a time. A quiet unraveling. A soft and steady suffocation. And then it's hard to breath. Things come unbound. An empty well that draws no water. You look back as you move forward, and there it all lies, telling the story of now and how you're here and ahead is dark, but you keep moving.

With strong mechanical programs I move forward in the habit that what I feel will be taken away; sucked up by someone else, or reprimanded. Be a man. Step up to the plate. This is end and it's happening. I cycle through. A beach ball. A command "Are you sure you want to still want to a responsible adult? Click Ok To Continue"

Don't be emotional. Process the information. Funnel it through the appropriate tubes of reaction. Turn down the volume. You want to scream. You need to scream. Imagine screaming. Deafening. Crying. It won't stop. Just nod and don't be emotional or you'll never return.
Say thoughtful words. Take your time. Make it clear. Do it right. Stuff that burbling pain into a corner and cover it with a lid and how it stops boiling. Imagine uttering a vile string of profanity. Make Jesus blush. He'll never forgive me. I don't deserve it. It's all made up. Maybe. It can't hurt to believe. Life hurts already. I'm undeserving and horrible. Don't curse. Say the right words or Jesus will punish you.
Don't take sides. No one is perfect. Forgive everyone. Love everyone. There is a reason for everything. I don't know all the facts. I hate everyone, but I hate myself too; more so. It's all equal. It balances out. Imagine taking a side. People will hate me. I'll be alone. I like alone. I can be lazy. I can stop doing. I need someone to touch me. I'm unlovable. Don't take sides, it leads to isolation.
Never stop doing. Be productive. Be productive. Be productive. Don't look back you'll turn to stone. Jesus is watching everything, so be careful. Be careful. I want to punch this brick wall. Imagine punching the brick wall. The blood on the knuckles. The subtle blank euphoria. The pain will come. Be careful with great skill. Never stop or it will all be taken away.
Ignore all of the above. They are lies.
Repeat.

I know my lies like a script. It's spinning uncontrollably. There is an end approaching, the beginning of something else. There are things I don't want to face. Things I cannot stop. Habit is my rescue. It's all I know to do.

Embers, A Story

Paul — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 14:36:12 EST

I really wish I could control everything in my life, like some grand story. I wish I could control how others saw me. I wish I could control what happens to me and others. I wish I could stop whatever hurt or pain comes. Grant every wish and desire. Burn every bad decision and stupid word. But if life — through all of time (past and future) — were a wall, our moments are but a small clump of events.

I was walking along a narrow path, winding through some woods when I came to an opening into a flat and empty field. In front of me was a wall. It was large, a blank white, smooth and unblemished wall; stretching as far as I could see from east to west and toward the sky. It filled up my vision with an enormous, empty void. As I walked closer to the wall I noticed a small dark spot off to my right, growing and enhancing as I got closer.

There, clumped together — crowded and busy, overlapping and fighting for attention — were photos and scrapes of paper. Millions upon millions of them, the size of a large house. Photos of family and friends, places and things. All the words, dates, details and events of my life amassed in an intersection of characters and places.

At my feet I saw two objects; a large cardboard box and a trash can. Inside the box were envelopes, addressed to everyone I had never met and known. In front of the trash can was a single matchbook. I was given the choice of only a handful of items that I could choose their destination — which to burn, which to send away to others, and which to leave on the wall for everyone to see.

Many of the items were already burning — the regret, the shame, the things said and things not done and also the many tiny moments of indescribable joy — the embers glowing and flying to the air, carrying off the memories of my life into the sky. With just as many being sent to the lives of others or staying adorned to the wall

... and I was left with but a few decisions — which to burn, which to send away and which to remain forever ...

To fade into

Paul — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 15:36:26 EST

Holidays are ripe with memories, nostalgia, sentimentalism, strife (or contempt), and occassionally calm and relaxation (but I have three kids, so that's merely a situation that other people lie about). As I grow older — and successively see my past fade away into nothingness — I can't help but preoccupy myself with thoughts of what (my life) is and what (my life) will be.

There is no grace in what life presents you with. It's unaffected by what you want — mechanical in it's disinterest. I can assign as much meaning to a stubbed toe as I want, more than likely it's the result of me not lifting my feet or watching where I put them. But there is grace in how I receive what is presented. More often than not, I fail. I whine. I complain. I blame. I ask why (me), why now, how could you (God, or a person who I feel wronged me). I foolishly think it will make me less afraid of the unknown — my little show and dance. Ignoring or modifying what has happened will make what will happen less potent. In the end; the inevitable fading past will meet with the inevitable fading future.

I wish I could run away from what I know and what I see. We're all stumbling around, knocking each other down with our actions or our words; hurting ourselves and others. Our stories run together in a grand novel. Some storylines are coming to close. And as I see it happen it's impossible not to wonder — or more specifically, worry — about how mine will end. The faint trail of what lead me to now withers away. And as family gathers, and milestones of life get recalled, watching those who've been traveling longer also fade freezes me in my tracks. As I see my mom struggle just to keep a thought, or recall each moment that just happened, I fear this will be my inevitable fate (or at the least that growing old leads to nothing but loneliness and confusion). I'm stuck. The dependency on myself and my strength and my wisdom and my heart will always be insufficient; and the cycle of my anger at God for what life entails and what He's essentially authored, leads back to a pleading to Him to rescue me — a hamfisted childish understanding.

So what's the point in being consumed by things that you either can't know or control? What's the use in allowing other storylines affect your own? Trust. Grace. Hope. That is all I can have. That is all that I need. That is all that will work.

A moment away from being

Paul — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 15:57:39 EST

There is never a moment in life where you know who you are. As each moment and decision and reaction and circumstance unfolds and disappears, all we are left with is reflection. Memory. You might know what to do or say, but we only know who once were.

Luke (our rambunctious and easy going two— yes, he is both of those at the time, I don't care that they seemingly can't go together, he manages to be infuriatingly destructive and quietly peaceable— and half year old) is sitting on the couch next to me, pretending to read as I read. He'll occasionally just look at me, his face getting closer, smiling; waiting for me to notice him. I glance over and he chortles and we play the game over again. He wants my glance, a notice, a smile, the simple acknowledge that he is there. In a way that's what we all want in the world. From our peers. Or friends. Or idols. Or parents. Or God. A simple acknowledgement to our existence.

Previously, I reflected on my choices — and how they have both positive and negative side affects; regardless of how "good" the motive may be — which has gotten me to thinking about my investments. The things I acknowledge (or want to be acknowledged for). Where I spend my money and my time and my talent and my love.

I know I'll never be the best at any one thing in my life. Never the best father. Never the best husband. Never the best designer (or more to the point, provider for my family). Never the best follower of Christ. At one point in my life (ok, at many points in my life; FINE! Almost all points in my life — still. Sigh. Happy?). I used this as an excuse to never try harder (I know that's lame, but I think it's more common than not). Despite the fact that none of us will be the best — mostly because the very definition of "best" is at the very least, impossible to universally accept — is no excuse not to try our best. But even more to the point, what do you want to strive to be best at — is it even worthwhile? Which is where I am right now. What do I want to pour myself into to be the best?

I love being a graphic designer. I'm fairly decent (some days). But it's also a mostly fleeting, trivia and inconsequential act of creation. I don't create art. I don't create culture. I make no lasting impact of the world. Even if I get peer acknowledgement; the temporary nature of my work often becomes an overwhelming burden of worthlessness. Being the best at design is to be a small blip on a narrow slice of the whole of the world at this time in our history (of course I realize that's not always true, but for 99% — no, stop, let's not get political — of us, even at our best, the design will never globally make significant impact). Even if I were the "best", it only lasts until another agency or firm or individual comes along and "redesigns" it. The strive for being the "best" becomes dross. Though I try my hardest, I understand I will not be the best — and I'm ok with that. So I strive to be satisfied and fulfilled and provide for my family.

The best that I can do — and by best I mean: to strive for, to constantly improve upon — is to love my family, my friends and others (regardless of my feelings for them). That is where I see I; and maybe us all, can have the greatest impact on this earth. And I'm not trying to be all feel-goodery and new age and one world, blah blah blah — I honestly believe this from what the Bible teaches and what Jesus lived (which is where I base as much of what I do on — and again, do it very poorly). We are just children looking up for a smile and acknowledgement. Try your hardest in everything; but be at your best in living.

Love is loves sad news

Paul — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 07:38:31 EST

10 years ago, I was forced into a life (that I would later embrace) beyond my choosing. For a long time I blamed others, I stewed in injustice, wallowed in self-pity and allowed myself to make bad decisions because I was only worth bad results. Whether we make a choice or have it made for us; each decision and reaction we make has it's flipside.

For the better part of 10 years I've worked alone. I often lied to myself and said it was because I wanted to be around the kids, be at home, be a father who was actively involved in the life of his family. While that's partially true, I stayed home because I was angry and afraid. I was angry at myself — for my choices, my lack of self-control, my indecision — and at others for giving up quickly, for acting childish. I was afraid of trusting anyone, of being rejected, of having to start over. While being at home did ultimately allow me more time and flexibity with my kids — it's been a burden on my self-esteem and our financial stability.

In life even (what we perceive as) a good decision can have negative consequences. Everything we do is a sacrifice for something else. The flexibility of being at home, setting my own hours — being able to spend time with the kids (drive them to school, help out in a pinch on a moments notice), have lunch with them when they're home, etc — also meant that I was (am) never paid consistently, keeping us from being able finanically do many many things. It meant that I constantly felt (feel) unable to provide for my family — unsuccessful, stressed (about money and completely projects, getting new clients), and pathetic. But, if I had a full time job, with a steady paycheck, I'd be unable to help make dinner, grocery shop, drive the kids to school, see the kids every now and then during summers (or when they were in preschool to just do lunch with them). Neither choice is more right than the other; just different sacrifices.

Ultimately though, it isn't the immediate sacrfices that matter, but the potential long term rewards (that sometimes, we don't even see fulfilled). It matters to my kids that I was and am a father who is around, who put life above work, who could be at home with them when they were sick. My stress and my self-esteem aren't things that matter to them.

Stop worrying about making the right decisions based on the pressures of what is acceptable or normal or popular — make decisions that make the most sense for you and your family and your life and own it, accept it and do it the best that you possibly can.

We eventually reach the end of the pier and find ourselves too tired to try and go back

Paul — Mon, 13 Jun 2011 12:56:29 EST

It starts off the same. It's starts off with excitement and enthusiasm and wide open horizons. A little optimism and naivety about things being different, or better. A swift pace toward a simple goal. There's no desire for a slow decline, that stumbling forward and paused caution, for quiet dispondency. And before we're aware of how it happened, we've stopped; out of breath, tired and worn out.

We all eventually reach the end of the pier, and find ourselves too tired to try and go back. We look around and wonder how we got here. How our gleeful step eroded into a weary burden. When catching your breath means laying down those wayward dreams on the side of the road, and being out of step with those walking with you. At some point you're alone, unable or unwilling, but the sunset, the sunset is so enticing.

The ice maker churns a few more cubes to disrupt the quiet in this room. The clock ticks. A whir from the fans of the air conditioning units behind me to the right. I can hear a few kids laughing somewhere — on the beach or on a deck. I'm on a couch by a window, my back to the ocean as I'm watching my mom stare at a list. The same list. She mutters over and over "get a card, get a card, she's 8." She'll then ask me about my haircut, did I get a birthday card from her yet, if she's supposed to use hot or cold on the pain in her back. This will be repeated regularly on the quarter hour. I've given her lunch of butter and turkey and she eats and goes back to her list. Mumbling. Repeating. She'll forget if she got a card after she's gotten it. She'll ask again about her back and my haircut and my work. I'll stay here and say I'm working, even though I'm here — away from my own kids at the beach — babysitting her. And it's ok. The condition, whatever the doctors wish to call it (I call it "age-forgetty-ness"), it's there and I either just move on or I stop and see too much of where I am and fall apart.

It's hard, if not impossible, not to look at your parents and think you see you're own future. The good or bad. The failing memory. The exhaustion that drives you away from your marriage. I can't help but see myself doomed to either be a man who cannot remember, who will need the help of every family member or friend. Or I'll be a man who cannot stay in love, who gets so weary of doing and giving that he decides to make a few mistakes, break the mold of his character, make right decisions through wrong choices.

The thing is that your parents aren't you're inevitable future. They aren't a mirror of who you will be. They aren't you. Their lives are a lesson for you. A class in life. A textbook of what to throw away and what to carry. What to emulate and what to avoid. The story you're living is for you — the setting, the plot, the characters are all yours. Every decision and conflict, turn and detour, every villain and protagonist are written for you and by you. I cannot travel forward if I'm constantly riding on the back of someone elses journey.

She's settling down for a nap now. I've eaten a cold, leftover hamburger; reassured her several times that I did get my birthday card (though I didn't, but I don't need one more thing to have to answer, which is truly the gift) that, yes, you use COLD for her back, and that Taylor is spelled T-A-Y-L-O-R. This is my life, and this is what is happening, but this is not my story or my fate; my story yet to be written.

39 Steps Closer Towards The Gates Of Heaven

Paul — Wed, 01 Jun 2011 05:58:44 EST

I have a tradition of reflecting upon another year of living with an (now) antiquated "blog" post that's part humor (in my mind), rememberance and heart-felt emotion. The older I get the easier it is to get lost in the could-haves, and memories — so that I don't forget who I am and who I still want to be.

I'm not sure I ever thought about what it would be like to be thirty nine years old when I was nine. It might have involved flying cars, or at the very least being driven around in some futuristic bubble car that made me money. I had no concept of adulthood. The burdens of owning things and paying for things and fixing things and wanting things and knowing things. The responsibility of earning money to pay for things, things that provide food and shelter for a wife and three kids. The trial of learning when to do with and do without, or saying yes and saying no, of admitting how completely lost you really are after thirty nine years. Nine doesn't seem so bad now.

Some people might fantasize about going back in time and telling their younger self's (with the voice of Morgan Freeman) to appreciate their time, enjoy every moment; but I know I would never listen, never grasp any of that at nine — nor should I. I scarcely know what it means to enjoy every moment now, "to take it all in".

And maybe that's what it means to get older. It means understanding that 82% of the problems in your life are caused (directly or indirectly) by you. Sure aging means medications and doctor's appointments, learning with every stretch, yawn and blink of your crumbling body, expanding stomachs and over-ripened skin. It means complaining being tired and fat and old and kids and drivers and politics and religion and entertainment and your neighbors and the impending gypsy/ killer bee/ Lyme disease/ SARS/ environmental disasters that will destroy this world. It means begrudgingly living with the image you've managed to cultivate for yourself, however true or untrue it is. It means never settling into who you think you, or who other's think you are. It means having perspective. That reflection and reminiscence aren't fanciful daydreams but history lessons. That wisdom isn't gained but earned. It means knowing the things you don't know far outweigh the things you do.

I'm thirty nine, and I'm still growing up.

The dusty key to the past of me

Paul — Wed, 27 Apr 2011 09:16:05 EST

This past weekend a we had a large crate delivered to our driveway. Within it contained some old furniture and several boxes. The stuff of my childhood dispersed across hundreds of miles, a casualty of divorce and moving on and aging. Boxes of musty old clothes and wrinkled drawings and small tokens of the boy I once was a very long time ago.

I've heard on more than one occasion that life isn't about the things you acquire, but the people you know. However true that might be, for me, the things are often as important as the people. While people hold the relationships and the stories; other than a handful of individuals, they come and go. Things can last a lifetime.

For me, these things, are a key to a room locked away in my memories, that I'd otherwise never access. I see them and I can remember taking our old afghan blanket, and laying it meticulously out on the couch — creating roads and hills and valleys — for my Matchbox cars (speaking of which, whatever happened to everyday, sturdy well-built Matchbox car? Now they're crazy conceptual monster machines. When I was a kid I had a VW Rabbit and a Ford van, a fork lift and a double-decker bus. My childhood pretending was built about a reality I saw, of wanting to be a grown up who could drive and be free to do what they wanted. I wanted to be a truck driver who went across the world. I was a kid and somehow that was enticing and exciting. A reality with naive optimism. Now it's conceptual insanity and other-worldly impossibility; devoid of any real-world charm or enticement); the wood paneling of the living room and the wood-burning stove that I once tripped and fell on and burned my hands. The smells. And sounds. My old friends. The dreamy memory of size and scale. Things bring me what a person could not; the hazy view of my past world.

The crate has been hauled away to carry more things to other people. The boxes are strewn about my office. The drawings and clothing and small pieces of paper that chronicle my life — my evidence of existence — pile up in corners as I go about life. But they echo to me; as portals to who I am. The mix of sadness and warmth hugs to them with each glance I give them, when I turn my chair. These are just things. Stuff. Junk. Trash. The dusty, musty, tattered old dreams of a child.

Keep some things for you children; you never know what it might hold for them in the future.

Somehow it'll be alright

Paul — Sat, 12 Mar 2011 08:10:56 EST

I don't know what "ok" is. Ok is only a thing in comparison to other things. Insurmountable or manageable. It's all about your perspective.

I got a bit of shocking news the last week or so. First I had a very small part of my skin cut and biopsied. Something new for me. New with finally having health insurance (and a doctor and ability to assauge your fears about how you're aging and finally feel like an adult and that certain complications that come with your age is ever closer "expiration" date to what is your body), except my fears weren't tempered or soothed, only flared.

I got a call this morning that it is "pre cancerous" — which I can only assume is the hors d'œuvre of the cancer meal. I've been attempting to convince myself that that is a good thing — and it is. That I'll be fine — and I will be. But yet ...

I feel those stitches in my back. And I feel them burn. And I feel them slowly seething into my skin. I imagine this small army of pain devouring whatever is around it and finding paths and avenues into places they're uninvited; ready to make mischief and havoc and damage and hurt. I feel my skin swelter in spots I imagine are slowly being broken down, eaten away and turned into the thing that I don't want to face. Cancer.

But I'm convincing myself it'll be ok. It'll be ok. Everything can always be worse. Maybe not comforting, but true. What's comforting is friends. My wife. My kids and their smiles. A sunny day. A good song. A fulfilling meal. A long nights sleep. Who knows how long ANY of us have in this life — healthy or not. Belaboring what isn't possible to change or foresee is pointless.

It'll be ok.

The King of Plywood and Concrete

Paul — Thu, 24 Feb 2011 14:34:36 EST

There's a girl in our neighborhood who every so often comes around to our house. She rings the doorbell. Knocks on the door. She waits and waits. My daughter, a few years her senior, hides away in the dining. Gazing (unsubtly) out the front window, behind the drapes. Peering. Waiting.

"Daddy, tell her I can't play"

"I'm not here Daddy, tell her I'm not here"

"Tell her I have homework"

Yet the girl persists. Week in and week out. Despite no answer. Despite my daughter never wanting to play, the girl comes back.

Aside from my concerns over how to parent for this situation (do I make her play with a girl she doesn't get along with?) is that I was once that girl.

I remember riding my bike through our country neighborhood, in what then felt like miles and miles between houses. I'd go up to a door and ring the doorbell. I was always nervous, mostly due to my intense shyness. When a parent would answer what would I say? What would they say? Would they tell me to leave? Would I say something stupid? I can remember seeing a flutter in the curtains. A face flash in the window. I could even hear the muffled voices of a parent. And I would turn to go home. That kid that no one wanted to play with.

Still somewhere in me is that rejected child. And the funny thing is, when you're rejected, you react subconsciously in one of two ways. You either reject first, or become uncomfortably, neurotically, obsessively needy. There is no option of someone NOT rejecting you, it's a matter of what you can do to be in control of it. Over the years I've battled hard with myself over this; though there are times when I fall effortlessly back into one of the two patterns.

A king, sitting on a plastic chair, in a concrete garden of emptiness.

Losing, but not lost

Paul — Thu, 27 Jan 2011 14:28:16 EST

Of the few things I remember as a child, some of the most vivid memories are actually dreams. I remember jumping into the air and flying, with my own dogs viciously chasing me, and eating me (ok, yeah, my pattern of horrible dreams goes way way back). Another common dream (that I think many people have had) was how sometimes I was unable to move; like my legs where molded into clay. Slow, trudging steps. Barely able to move.

There is something pretty wonderful about watching a baby learn to walk. I don't think anyone can remember learning to walk (or maybe it's just me, but I can't remember much before the age of 10, but that's another story for another boring in the life of me). It's a struggle and an excitement. I think of it somewhat like walking in water. The slow, steady, effort-ed strides me make. A first step toward something.

I've been thinking quite a bit lately about what I'm stepping toward (or even into). Like a baby, I should just be excited to get one foot in front of the other. A baby doesn't think about how far something is, how they'll get there, or if they can even make it; they just try to go. Usually they fall. We all fall. Maybe we all need to be more like that - just focusing on where we want to go,l; not worrying about how or why or what.

I have a hard time trusting, not only God, but myself; in getting to where I not only want to be, but where I think God wants me to be. Either I worry so much that I just stand still, or I'm so reckless and selfish that I'm head down running. Eventually I'll fall. I always do. Just go, one foot, then another.

It's not your fault (but really, it is)

Paul — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 12:35:22 EST

Communication is very important. Obviously without it we're isolated individuals without an outlet to be heard or to comprehend what we hear. Communication exists regardless of how we intent it to be received. Verbal or visual, we all communicate. Just some of us are more clear about it.

I have a problem with words. Not necessarily with what words to use, but more with the frequency and amount of words to use. I go out of my way to be understood — probably to the annoyance and frustration of everyone around me. There's nothing worse than leaving the scarcity of your communication "open" to interpretation. This is how marriages fail. Friendships disintegrate. And the premise of every "Three's Company" episode for seven years. The problem isn't that I communicate too much, but that others anticipate that you will automatically have the same understanding of what they mean as they do. Sadly, this is hardly ever the case.

Language and communication are hard enough from region to region within the United States. Sack/Bag. Pop/Soda. It varies from family to family, business to business, school to school. Man to woman. We all have a vernacular (I know, I'm already breaking the rules of my own argument! If you don't know what it means, I can't assume that you do, you can find the definition here) that we fully adopt into our everyday palett of words; and expect everyone else to know their meaning.

Right now I'm stuck in the middle of 40 years of poor communication. Of implied meaning. Inferred intent. The end outcome is bitterness. Dishonor. Hurt. Confusion. Anger. When one said "That's ok" they meant "I don't like this but I'll suffer through it because I don't want to get into an argument about it". Ultimately we can't avoid conflict and we can't assume understanding. It's to the determent of everyone to take short cuts with words — and can end quite literally in a disaster.

There is a curse in my bones

Paul — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 12:26:59 EST

There is something cursed about being able to create.The act of creating is always more satisfying than the result. The result is already old, tired and worthless by the time we've gotten by it. Being known as a "creative" holds a certain expectation. A different perspective. A well of imagination. An discomforted endearing awkwardness. But the true curse, is that creativity part of you is always turned on. In every situation, in most anything you do (that involves some act of creation).

As a photographer, the great curse is pressure of being the default, unspoken, designated "taker of all pictures at all events". There is an unspoken rule that because you can take great pictures that you always should want take pictures (great or otherwise). Sadly holding a camera in front of you face immediately detaches you from that moment into the scrutiny of creating.

There is no off switch. There is no "just take a picture". There is no escape from composition. Balance. Light. And no longer is that moment just a time to be captured, but a statement about that time, that person and that moment. There is no off switch. Because I know I can create something, I am compelled to do it. The great curse and blessing.

To cope, I find myself "forgetting" my camera. Or not having a charged battery. Or not having any space on my memory card — so that I can actually enjoy my son putting that bowl of spaghetti on his head, to enjoy my niece or cousins or in-laws or friends. It's the only recourse, not from the requests, but from my own inability to "turn off" the creating process.

And in the shadow of the valley of your family tree

Paul — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 12:45:22 EST

Getting older means reflection. Memories. Eventually you pass that half way point, where you have less life (on average, obviously any of us could die at any time) in front of you than behind you; and you inevitably wonder how useful, purposeful or important of it was. Not just that, but you analyze why you are who you are now, based on your fragmented memory (and in my case, as hazy a frosted window) of the life now long past.

I have a lot of small pains in my life. The average kind. The kind most all of us experience. I remember having to go to junior camp at my Christian school. A place you'd imagine that kids and teachers would find some compassion on a shy, awkward kid who liked to draw and keep mostly to himself. I was walking the dirt path from the night campfire to our boys cabin. Alone. When a group of kids decided to throw rocks at me to keep me from being near them. I fled to the woods, hiding my tears the best I could. Mixed with the literal pain of getting hit with rocks was the deep scar of rejection. I told a teacher but they told me to go back to the cabin.

I had an unwanted and useless talent. Drawing. Drawing was for children. It wasn't a career. If anything it was evil. Art had no place in Christianity. God must not have loved me much to give me a gift that he didn't want, like He was throwing rocks at me, keeping me from him; telling me to flee.

I sit at this desk, a man. A father. A business owner. Yet those scars have now worn into faded discolored patches of skin on my arms. A blemish. Scar of inevitable rejection. Of unwanted talent. Of self-imposed loneliness. Waiting for the rocks to be thrown...

Removing the pieces of the pattern

Paul — Mon, 27 Dec 2010 15:46:52 EST

So this is how Christmas will be from now on. Not forever mind you. Little by little, year after year. Things are taken away. The pattern we grow up with, of what Christmas is and means; the joys and excitement, the traditions, gets replaced.

Last Christmas was especially uncomfortable, as mom and dad were separated and on their way toward an official divorce. They both came to our house, separately (but together on Christmas day). The tension and awkwardness was spread thinly onto each of us. It wasn't their fault, it merely was what was happening and there was no way to avoid it, and since we wanted them both here for Christmas, the results where keenly off-putting (just a fact, not an indictment).

This year, only mom visited. It's not that my parents aren't together any more, or that when they were together they were good; that's neither worth debating, nor my problem (though certainly I am left to deal with the residuals, thankfully I'm, sort of, an adult and am able to attempt to be objective, fair and reasonable) — but it was a predictable pattern (and my, how our brains love predictable patterns).

As a child I always knew that mom and dad where there — that they'd bring my sister and I down the stairs, cover our eyes so we wouldn't see the Christmas tree and piles of presents as we passed by the living room to the kitchen. We'd eat our breakfast as quickly as we could and begin the proper destruction of wrapping paper. There would be my grandfather (my mom's dad, who lived with us for quite awhile) and my grandmother (my dad's mom) and sometimes my Uncle Bill. One by one they were removed from the pattern. First my Uncle Bill, then my grandmother, and finally my grandfather. Then I got married and a whole new pattern had to be incorporated into what I was used to.

Small things and large things, little by little, that pattern has shifted into something wholly unrecognizable that I knew as a child. My mother progressively is losing herself. For now she can drive here and stay here. But she can't buy us presents — either the time or the energy or merely the fact that she can't remember. Soon she won't be able to drive. Or maybe even remember who we are. Or what day it is. More things lost and removed. And I'll be recovering in the slow, methodical way that life seems to take and take in small increments so as not to tear at us. I want to feel as I did when I was a kid. To have my eyes covered, to know that my parents are there guiding me, to anxiously await what I know lies in the next room. But it's gone. Slowly but surely gone.

People say that as a parent you "relive" that through your kids. Maybe that's true for some people, but not me. Sure I take pleasure in seeing them happy, in giving them gifts; but that pure and innocent excitement over something new, of the entire day, of smelling the smoke from the fireplace and the exhaustion at the end of playing and pretending till my heart could take no more; those days are removed from that pattern; like so many other pieces. I'm feeling the tear. Slight and sharp, this one was quicker and more painful than usual.

Solitary Refinement

Paul — Fri, 12 Nov 2010 09:39:26 EST

I've worked alone for 9 years. In a voluntarily solitary space. In front a computer with occassional music playing. I've chosen to be a lone. Without directly interacting with other human beings much more than being "around" them at grocery stores or in client meetings or at the moments between walking in and out of church.

That's 26,280 hours, 1,095 days, 156 weeks or 13 months alone (give or take a few thousand hours or days). I don't state this as a plea of attention or pity or even recognition, but more as a State of the Union in my life. This is where I am. And this is all I can take. During these 9 years I've tried to find a place to "unload" — to set free the swirling, random, chaotic, depressing, distracting thoughts in my head (through this blog). A place to express. In the process I've lost the ability to perceive of who I am.

In order to have an understanding of what something is, you sometimes you have to compare or subject it, to others things around it. The scientific method as it were. Without that you will never have conclusive or reliable results. In life, without that, you lose yourself in yourself. Swallowed my the silent, empty thoughts and creepy spoken-out-loud-to-no-one-dialog-from-a-movie-screenplay-you-make-up-on-the-spot moments. Without a mirror you have no idea how you look. And you cultivate a perception that may or may not be true.

My desire to express myself in a public medium has done me a great disservice — by erroneously thinking that the lack of interpersonal communication and interaction could be captured and understood in mere words (and frivolous emoticons); without the benefit of intonation, inflection, body language or verbal exchange. Somewhere a long the line who I am and who I'm perceived to be diverged. I thought as myself as quiet, thoughtful, intense and generally happy has morphed into an angry, cursing, alienating and abrassive old man. Somewhere in the middle is probably the truth. BUt then again, I don't know (the actor who plays me in my thoughts though, he's really handsome, clever, witty and able to diffuse a bomb with a well-timed one-liner).

I don't know who I am. I think I know who I want to be. I think I know what people think I am. And all together none of the sums are something I wish to be. Time to slow down and reassess the direction; which is another way of saying that this blog might go on an indefinite hiatus (not merely because blogging; while personally fulfilling, is also time consuming and more generically the traditional blogging format of long-form text diary/exposition, is a dying form of pulbic rumination. Long live micro-blogs!).

I will still be putting myself out there, in an unfiltered, annoying, probably confusing, these are the random things colliding in my brain sort of fashion on Twitter or Tumblr.

No wonder I'm a racist, paranoid, psychotic, split personality freak who loves Jesus

Paul — Fri, 24 Sep 2010 08:52:53 EST

It takes having your own children to see the twisted and warped views that were subtly instilled within you (and that you often unknowingly shackle on your kids).

I’m not what I’d call a “traditional” Christian, or even a good Christian. I have no idea what a “good” Christian is. I drink. I curse. I get things wrong more than I get them right. But all in all I’m not ashamed (usually — and by “usually” I mean that I’m not ashamed of my belief or Jesus or the Bible, but of some of the people who call themselves Christians; but honestly people ruin everything, regardless of your view on faith or complete lack of any religion or belief at all — people do stupid and horrible things regardless; to discredit a belief because of what a person does rather than the merits of it’s own logic is simpleminded. Just because I bit into one rotten apple doesn’t mean all apples are rotten) to be a Christian. With as the sub-floor of my life, it goes to reason that I instill these foundational tenants on my children.

As a kid, in Sunday school, a common means of reinforcing Christian values was through songs. Simple, easy, singable, hummable tunes. Some, like “Jesus loves me” or “This little light” were simple messages of love and compassion. Others, well. Others were attempts to “teach”. Once I had my own kids, and heard the same songs I heard as a child as an adult (with less naive ears) it’s somewhat appalling, not just as a human, but as someone with a limited theological understanding.

Below is just a small sampling of some of the songs:

Oh, be careful little eyes, what you see.
Oh, be careful little eyes, what you see.
There’s a Father up above, looking down in tender love,
So be careful little eyes, what you see.

That’s normal right? First, let’s freak kids out by giving them a stern warning; hey cute and cuddly innocent kids, God loves you and will kill you if you look at something he deems wrong (who knows what exactly, so just be careful). There’s another verse that uses the ears and hearing. By the logic of this song, the only way to not piss God off is to be deaf and blind. Helen Keller = saint.

Jesus loves the little children
All the children of the world; Red and yellow, black and white,
They are precious in his sight; Jesus loves the little children of the world.

Yeah, racist.

I’m inright, outright, upright, downright happy all the time.
I’m inright, outright, upright, downright happy all the time.

Since Jesus Christ came in,
And cleansed my heart from sin.
I’m inright, outright, upright, downright happy all the time.

Wait, so, if I believe in Jesus, and I’m sad … then I’m … sinning? No wonder I feel like a failure when I’m depressed!? The hell kind of message is that to send to kids? It’s not wonder there are some many duplicitous, insane and unstable Christians in the world.

On being stuck and being stuck

Paul — Thu, 12 Aug 2010 16:33:58 EST

Freedom is a big deal. Conceptually it seems simple enough. Unbridled options. Untethered dreams. Limitless options. That is until you realize each one of us is governed by our own history. Our own bodies, realities and rules. We're stuck. While we're not stuck with our lives in all cases — you can change careers, homes, cars, even spouses. You're still stuck.

Being stuck isn't as dire and hopeless as it sounds. It's not the elephants stuck in the tar pits of LeBrea or the men stuck in a collapsing mine. We're stuck like tires in the mud, a car in traffic. Temporarily immovable. Grounded by an unscheduled storm. Sometimes our "stuckness" is very brief. Sometimes we feel stuck in a job that undervalues us. Or a relationship that foresakes our intentions. Sometimes it's a small apartment or home that our family barely can fit into. Sometimes we're stuck for a very long time. Stuck in a failing marriage. Stuck in a body that doesn't function, or a mindset that can't find joy. Stuck in a family that is crumbling from the weight of it's own failings. Regardless of time or circumstances, we will be stuck at some point in our lives and it isn't about the act of being stuck but what we do while we're there.

Waiting.

Waiting for change or help or answers or a gift or love or a solution to cure all that makes you stuck. But you still have to wait. It's easy to just think about why you're stuck — who brought you here, what happened to you, how you can get out. Meanwhile things around you move. The wind blows. The sky changes from blue to gray. The clouds appear and disappear; sometimes with rain or snow. Other people with other lives and other stories that may have no bearing on your own go on. It's easy to say "make the most it", but it really means nothing. It really helps nothing. What I think is meant is that you're not the only stuck; just say "Hey, guess what? I'm stuck. I'm unhappy. My family is broken. My kids can't stand me. My relationships are slipping away. My job is killing me. Life is hard. Is it hard for you too?" It isn't a party to celebrate mutual misery or bitterness, but a smile, a nod, a little sing as you sit in your car in the traffic, just waiting to move again.

We're all human casseroles

Paul — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 11:25:06 EST

There are no simple names any more. There are no Bob's or Bill's, George's or Harry's. I can't pronounce half the names of the kids in my Sunday School class. I just nod my head politely when the parents tell me their names — they are only 2 years old, they won't care if I get it right. I don't understand the fascinations with meaning and ancestry. We're all human casseroles. Layers of ingredients. Naming your child Ian is no more meaningful than using chunky peanut butter or creamy peanut butter.

And all the issues and labels and classifications. Every child has some medically diagnosed problem. Every child has a personal manual of operation that rivals that of a fighter jet. Complicated, pampered pieces of equipment. I suppose I wouldn't have minded the ability to label my child's stubbornness, insubordination or hyper-ness with some medically apropos certification, at least then I could tell all the other mothers — who glaringly judged my parenting through the behavior of my children — in JCPenny when my daughter melted down (because the shoe laces where brown and not white) that she had "Shoe-Lace Sensitivity Disorder" or whatever other excuses they're selling these days. Parents treat their children like unique inventions, yet they are not. We're all temporary ingredients. Label things if it makes you feel better. Fat Free. Organic. No Salt. You'll live long enough to have it all turned around and changed too.

I wake up and don't recognize my own hands. These snarled and twisted dry branches. Fragile twigs. I don't recognize them as I hold them to my eyes. Where did I go? At some point they went from delicate to decayed. I've vanished. Old. Too old for many things. Excitement. Hope. Learning. I'm far too old to learn about these new rules. These new names. To care about their "origins" and their "ancestry". I respect history as much as anyone else I suppose, but America is about solid, unassuming, simple names. Simple things. Simple rules. Now everything is turned sideways and upside down and I doubt very much I'll live to see it turned back to what I once knew, where I'm comfortable. I'm an irritation that the world is waiting to remove me — that is until their HMO approves the procedure. I don't like it here anymore than they like me around. Their names and their foods. Their worrying about meaning and the world. The world cares no more about your love for it than it does destroy them by hundreds and thousands in an earthquake or volcano or tsunami. The world does things because it has simple rules, uncomplicated by nuance or stress. It merely is in motion and we're merely in the way. It doesn't care about your complex names or your food obsessions. It doesn't care that you're trying to save it.

I'm tired of trying. That's why I've started to drink.

The above is my new attempt at, well, keeping this blog going. It's hard to write about things in my life in a real or tangible way without hurting someone. I'm pretty sure that's why God created music and fiction. To unfutter our fear into a form that, while unreal, has elements of truth that help us work things out. Life is complicated, forget that the fact that we're bumped against other people's complications. We all need outlets. This will be my attempt at creatively finding ways to say things without saying them. To perhaps engage you in a story that is real and unreal. People that don't exist but are people you may know.

I'm a Contrarian (but if you are, then I'm not)

Paul — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 13:23:51 EST

It's an epidemic for my generation. Call it hipster. Call it "individualism" run amok. Call it agnostic angst. Whatever the label you put on it, I don't believe it's as simple as a perception of carelessness and anti-consumerism. I believe it has much more to do with trust and disappointment.

"Hipsters are the friends who sneer when you cop to liking Coldplay. They're the people who wear t-shirts silk-screened with quotes from movies you've never heard of and the only ones in America who still think Pabst Blue Ribbon is a good beer. They sport cowboy hats and berets and think Kanye West stole their sunglasses. Everything about them is exactingly constructed to give off the vibe that they just don't care."

— Time Magazine (July 2009)

I like Coldplay. I hate BPR. I've never worn a cowboy hat. I care about a lot of things. Yet I'd consider myself in the genre of hipster. I tend to dislike those things which my peers praise. The more praise, the less likely I will like it. The simplistic explanation is that I don't want to appear common. Or even worse, subject to a marketing, consumer oriented culture. While that might be true of some people, that isn't fully me (I don't dislike marketing, or even things that are "best seller" products).

For me it's about trust (or more precisely, a lack of trust) — how I've developed a jaded and wary eye of culture and people in general. The fallen, sinful nature of man and so forth. It sounds extreme, I won't deny that, but it's at the root — the heart, of my views and beliefs about "mankind" as a whole — which then shapes my perception of the world and the people in it. I don't believe that everyone is born perfect, flawless or without blame. I don't believe that our motives are ever pure. I don't believe that we're unbiased, unscathed by perconceived notions of what makes us comfortable, or what makes us feel like we "fit in". People desire to feel apart of something, thus are easily persuaded to "like" something (even if they really don't) but

Marketers and commercials intend to sell me something, convince me of something — thus their motives are compromised (from an unbiased view to fully biased view). But I do not know the intentions of others (and by others, I mean large groups of people whom I do not know but make up a collective of polls, opnions and statistical views) — are they secretly selling me something, are their opinions worth trusting? It's more common for that great leader or great company or worthwhile cause or newest hot band or the best movie ever made to turn out to be not as great or wonderful as everyone was saying — through scandalous, less than moral situations, dull music, lousy writing, you name it. What I think happens is that your circle of influence (those you admire, associate with, etc) pressures you to lean toward accepting or not-accepting something that the most influencial person pushes. Sub-prime marketing. So it isn't that I'm purposefully doing the opposite of what is popular, but I don't believe that what is popular is really what it's all cracked up to be. Unless of course you say that it isn't popular — than maybe I'll like it.

Thirty Eight and Eighty Three

Paul — Tue, 01 Jun 2010 07:21:09 EST

I can't say that I feel any older on this specific day than other day. They all add up, compounding on one another. I feel more weathered. More beaten. More worn. Slower to rise, slower to respond, slower to recover. My gut is more padded, my hair more gray. While I feel more "grown up" somewhere inside me I feel able to be young. Somwhere in this accumulation of thirty eight years of life I'm finding the purpose with all my previous years.

I might have been eight or nine, I don't recall (like many things in my life, my past is nearly as blurry and clouded as my eyesight), but I had a book about rocks. I wasn't interested in rocks. I didn't even read (though I pretended I did by buying books like Encyclopedia Brown and The Hardy Boys so that my classmates thought that I, like them, enjoyed reading. Not that I didn't try, but I would read an entire page and forgot what I read and have to start over. Pretty soon it became pointless to me, and I didn't attempt to read anything of significance again till I was nearly in college). I was going to use this book. Make it a secret place to store — what I thought at the time — were significant things. So I got some scissors and started to cut a crooked rectangle through as many pages as my hands could push. I placed the book on the shelf with the other books I'd never read and let it keep it's secrets and memories.

I no longer remember what I put in the secret place — probably a few ticket stubs to a Phillies game I went to with my father, a torn out picture from an old Sears catalog of a woman in her bra and panties (I was pre-teen, these things happen), a few rocks from my backyard — but I found those objects important enough to me, at the time, to store them there in a place that would keep a memory for me. They have no monetary value, no objective purpose; but what do I keep now in my secret book of memories?

I could put ticket stubs of games I've attended with my dad, sand from the beach we go to every year, locks of hair from my three children, mementos from my honeymoon. I'd take the moment I saw my father — the strong and stoic patriarch — break down in tears and fear as he told me of my mom's cancer, the moments when I saw each of my children reach through into the light of this world and smelled their newborn breath and held their fragile bodies in my arms, and the moment my wife said I do on that hot July afternoon.

If I could somehow take all the joy and happiness, all the hurt and pain and sorrow, all the moments that made me stop and say inside "God, this I thank you for" and I'd place them in this book, on a shelf, and let them live for me to reminiscence about again someday when I'm much older, much grayer, much closer to the ending than the beginning of my story. I'll take them out and I'll hold them long and close, feel their texture and smell their time past and drink their pain and sorrow, happiness and joy. Then I'll put them back and close the book and let it endure through my children, my friends, whatever loosely created legacy and story there is left of me when this time passes by me.

In the meantime I'll live.

I'll imbib every moment with glittened and faded eyes, not letting the worry of making things important and meanginful obscure what is right in from of me, but allow every moment to be.

Recap: LOST Finale

Paul — Sun, 23 May 2010 22:27:58 EST

In the 6 years that I've been watching LOST I've moved into a new home, had another child, gotten a new car, written hundreds of blogs about LOST, seen my parents divorce, 2 cats die, a basement flood and 1000s of gray hairs invade my noggin. It's an investment, and typically one expects a return on an investment. Did LOST have a good return on what was their final offering?

It is possible to like, even love a single episode, but not feel it did a very good job of dutifully or effectively closing the chapter on the story. The finale was beautiful and emotional. It was therapeutic, melodic and full of "love". We got to see all our favorite characters (minus Walt and Michael who are clearly not any one's favorite) reunite with their "love", the one they care about. A closure to their "captivity" on the island. We got to see a heavenly orgy of love and dancing and sitting in pews as a "light" came and ... did something. Or nothing. Who knows. Contrast that with the insane theories, mythologies, pseudo-science and space-time alterations that the show unflinchingly pursued, postulated and cultivated.

There is no obligation on the part of the writers to fulfill our need for answers. But their duty, as storytellers, is to tell a complete story (whether we like it or not). The question is, did they achieve that?

Based on the 5 season prior to this final season, they seem to have decided to go full throttle into a wholly new direction. Forget about the intriguing exploration of science, space and time, faith and doubt, and jump fully into a nebulous world of (pseudo) spirituality (and I say pseudo because they are unwilling to define a belief or a value that isn't basic and somewhat meaningless; like "love"). We jump into the mythology, the ancient idea of brother versus brother — Jacob and Esau. Intriguing and honest, yet not at all related to the previous seasons (or at the very least, so loosely grabbed from them, that it feels like a completely new series and mission). We explore the idea of the island as special (which has always been reiterated, but more with a scientific bent than a supernatural), the castaways as candidates and pawns in a battle of good and evil. Forget the numbered bunnies, the various hatches and food drops, the cages and fake town. It's about protection. About light. About life and death.

None of that on a whole is bad, but is a large departure from the trajectory of the series momentum. To suddenly stop and reverse direction is dizzying; and you might lose some passengers along the way. That's where I fell. The swift turn threw me and I never could get back on board. I'd prefer not to have to view the final season as a separate entity from an entire "serial", that is what one HAS to do to satisfactorily enjoy what it was. And while I attempt to appreciate what the finale was — merely saying "everyone dies" and explaining ALL that we witnessed as a facade to a bland, spiritual feel-good love fest about a fake heaven for all these people (who did or did not crash or survive? what about he Flash-foward; where they fake or real? Dharma an illusion? Real? Electro-magnetic energy? And what the hell was Jacob's brothers name!?) was too far a leap for me to follow. Sure it was touching and moving (to end on the closing eyes of the character we all started with), it was well done but it felt — insufficient (I realize that's my own issue of expectations and personal perferences, but I'm doing my best to take that out of it and examine the story as a whole — all 6 seasons). That certainly doesn't have to be the case for others.

All in all, I had quite a few tears in my eyes, and felt "good", relieved, sad, confused, frustrated and dumbfounded and also jilted — but I was already barely hanging on as it was. I'm sad that it's over. I'm sad for all the things that could have been. I'm sad that I have such a hard time not expecting and wanting more.

What did you all think?

Recap: LOST 'Across The Sea' (S6, E15)

Paul — Wed, 12 May 2010 10:46:35 EST

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

What in The?

Some lady washed ashore on the island (who knows how long ago), she had babies, and was killed with a rock (aren't they all?).
They're twin brothers, duh.
Their new mother says to the twins that they're special and they're on this island to protect the it from evil men, to kepp them from finding this cave of light.
A cave of light. I'll say it again. A cave of light. I really honestly expected Falcor to come flying out, laughing and screaming with Atreyu on his back (how awesome would that be?)
Noname learns the truth about himself and his brother from his ghost mom.
He leaves.
Jacob doesn't get it — but he's stupid because he has faith.
30 years pass, the brothers play a game together with white and black pieces. Jacob doesn't think people are bad, Noname thinks they are. Jacob is stupid because he has faith.
Noname is smart and special and finds the electro-magentic pull and know how to harness it and use it 150 years before man even figures out how to get into space. He's not smart — it's S-MART.
Mother kills everyone in the evil man village and buries the electro-magentic well to the light.
Noname kills his "mother" which causes Jacob to throw, or rather let me slowly be pulled, into the light cave.
The blacksmoke comes spewing from the light cave, leaving behind a dead Noname (who joins his mother in the cave tombs to be discovered later by Jack, Kate and Locke)
Jacob is protecting the light cave.
LIGHT CAVE! Is that not replete with euphisms to Lindsay Lohan and her netherregions?

So here we have it. The (proverbial) pieces are laid out on the table, and we're presented with the "it' of the island. The everything. The black and white. White is faith, goodness, innocence, naivete, blind and simple. Black is truth, earnestness, exploration and intelligent. Jacob is white faith. Noname is black truth. Not a perfect ying or yang. Not complete opposites. But this what the show is saying about faith versus science. Science wants truth, faith adheres to lies (the lie that she was their mother, the lie that they were special, the lie that there was nowhere else but the island).

And, oh yeah, people are the absolute worst.

There is nothing revelatory about this view of faith, or the world; it's predominant and certainly isn't surprising. Someone with faith just accepts what he is told as fact, as truth, and will seek to repress anyone who attempts to "prove" to them otherwise. While science must always seek the truth of the world and man, intelligently finding ways to reveal it. And then there's this tunnel of light:

Where is the mother come from? Is she God? A god? A mushroom?
Who built the wheel that allows people to travel through time?
Is the blacksmoke the soul of Noname? Or just evil unleashed?
Where did the "light" come from?
How is a cave of light the source of life and death?

In the end it's obvious that there will be no commitment to the show answering any questions, only half-assed attempts at being pseudo-intellectual by open-endly saying something about faith and science and the nature of man and his ability to make the polar icecaps melt by using cars and farting alot into boxes, and calling it a humanistic approach to life and how nothing is ever that easy to answer or define and it's up to you, the viewer, to make your own conclusions about the show — because we've all watched the show for 6 years just so that we can answer all the questions ourselves — heaven forbid those who have the control, insight and ability to give solid conclusions ACTUALLY do that because that would be too definitive, and the world isn't black and white, it's gray and people are the worst (you know the enviornment and war and death and cars and houses and airplanes and caves of fucking light).

The Laws of Parental Inevitablity

Paul — Fri, 07 May 2010 17:51:59 EST

There's the Law of Thermodynamics, Newton's Law of Universal Gravitation even Murphy's Law, but over the last 11 years I've learned that there are intrinstic and unavoidable laws governing the parental universe. Laws which by merely defining them, make them obsolete; like trying to see yourself in the mirror with your eyes closed. They are elusive and wholly disparaging, but knowing, as they say, is half the battle.

Principle of Bathtub Defecation
If a subject is of the ages of 2 years or less and has within the last thirty minutes previously unharnessed their bowels, the act of putting said small entity into water will cause more defecation into the bathing facilities. The amount of expelled matter is always congruent to the mass of water, duration of being in the water and the delayed reaction of the parental unit (to observe the evidence of ass-bubbles).
Principle of Telecommunication Amplification
When any telecommunication device — a cell phone, a telephone, a front-door visitation — is engaged to communicate with another person the volume of noise of the surrounding bodies will amplify exponentially in relation to the importance of the ensuing conversation. This law is not dependent upon preexisting conditions, usually an area of 50 yards will be completely vacant and silent, but the moment any communication is detected, that area will become infected with clatter. The volume is usually specifically directed at the communicator in the form of "Mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy mommy" for what the child perceives as some action that requires immediate attention (yet near universally is so unimportant that on 15,000 occasions a mouse-fart has been more important).
Principle of Predetermined Activity
Whenever one plans an activity many days, weeks or months in advance of the actual activity date — such as a weekend horseback riding, or having friends over for a nice dinner — any number of unplanned situations will supersede said event and thus preclude the activity from being possible. Superseding events most often include hospital visits, vomiting, death, pregnancy or automobile accidents involving garage doors.
Principle of Escalating Malfunctions
If one household appliance malfunctions a range of two or three more household related items will require immediate monetary solutions. This most often includes dishwashers, dryers and refrigerators coupled with plumbing or electrical issues. An added theory involves when said family unit has boasted out loud of their recent financial stability, often including the purchase of something atypically expensive.
Principle of Secrecy Revelations

Telling a secret to a young and seemingly innocent child — such as telling the tiny being that a neighbor is annoying, a mother-in-law talks too much, or a friend sometimes drinks too much — the information receiver (who almost always tends to be shy and "not a talker") will inevitably repeat said secret to the person whom the secret is about.
Principle of Shopping-Motivated Clothing

The more necessary an article of clothing is for a kid to wear the more likely the child is to "love" something while in the store (especially if their verbal and emotional agreement with said clothing is extravagant and overtly complimentary) but declare their absolute loathing and hatred for the clothing when the requited time to wear it occurs.
Principle of Spontaneous Food Preference Inversion
Food presents a number of theoretical laws; most important is the principle related to spontaneous inversion of food preferences. If a parent has served a certain food that is by all evidence sincerely and thoroughly enjoyed by a child, there will come a time — usually when a parent is tired and worn out for a long day and lack of sleep and most likely an onset of a cold — when a child loudly proclaims that said previous favorite food is now the worst, most disgusting and horrible creation of edible horrors ever created.

What are some principles in your parenting household?