Fatherhood

My kid shat on me today.

He did it in excellent fashion.  Upon noticing that he was particularly high-strung that morning, I had just taken him out of his high chair to let him run it out.  This is best accomplished by chasing him through the house in no particular direction whatsoever.  Being just under a year and a half old (16 months, for all the anal-retentive moms out there), his sense of direction is best determined by his ability to mimic the grace of a drunken ostrich.  He wobbled his way through our living room, the dining room and back as I attempted a pathetic version of Hide-n-Seek with him from behind one of his tiny chairs.  I may as well have hid in front of a wall, the good it did me there.

From the other side of the room, I heard the familiar 'Uh-oh!" from him that my wife and I find so damn cute.  In most cases, he applies this phrase to his exploits about as often as I use a comma, which somehow makes it even more adorable.  (i.e. Kid drops his cup of cheerios: "Uh-oh!," Kid falls flat on his face: "Uh-oh!," Kid shits his pants...you get the idea).  Then I see him.  He's rounding the corner, and coming at me full steam ahead, arms outstretched and smiling at me with that half-tooth, wide open grin. You know the one; the same grin hitch-hikers usually flash their victims moments before they drop the punch-line.  Pray that you never see it.   It will haunt your dreams.

His momentum drove him headfirst into my arms, laughing hysterically.  It was that quintessential moment shared between a father and son that Harry Chapin could've only dreamt about. He was pure happiness, and in my best Monster-voice I warned him,
 
    "Here come the TICKLES!!," and proceeded to tickle the living daylights out of him...a move that would end up being my downfall.

He threw his head back in hysterics, his mouth open at the ceiling in laughter. He wiggled through my arms and we rolled onto the carpet as I searched for the sweet spots between his ribs.  He couldn't resist the tickles. I would tickle this kid into a coma if I could.  ...And that's when I saw it.  The brown smear across our new white rug.  The hairs stood up straight on the back of my neck.  And then...and then, I got hit with the smell.  ...And it was pungent.

I tickled the shit out of him.  Literally. It was everywhere. It was on my arms. It was on my legs. It was on his legs. It had exploded violently out of his diaper and smashed its way into the fibers of our rug. We were both completely covered in shit.  And not just us.  The dining room.  The living room.  His high chair.  I never noticed it, but in the span of 30 seconds, this little Fecal-demon had successfully covered 50% of our house, my person and his clothes in diarrhetic stool.  I felt like that little Indian boy in Slumdog Millionaire, only I didn't get the autograph. ..I just got covered in baby-poo.  Which is about as awesome as, well, getting covered in baby-poo.

Maybe one day his subconscious will reveal the memory of me hosing him off in the shower while he screams bloody murder.  More likely, one day I will be harassing him about this in front of his would-be girlfriend.  Even more likely, a day will come when he may be looking after me in a nursing home, feeding me ground up hotdog through a straw and helping a nurse change my bedpan.  And on that day...I'll bend my old ass over and shit on him. It's only fair.

Instagrams of Fiction: Vernon's Return

It had been a long while since Vernon had been here last.  So much has changed.  So much has evolved.  Gone were the expansive railroad yards and industry that spotted the area.  Gone was the dirt and grime that coated the streets, abandoned warehouses and blue-collar cafes, giving his former home an industrial charm that in all his travels, has rarely experienced since.  The street names have stayed the same, of course.  But the rest...well, the section of Portland now aptly referred to as the "Pearl District," bore little resemblance to the neighborhood he remembered as a child.

As he stared out the window, flashes of memories returned to him.  What was now a small park in the center of the neighborhood, once stood one of the many columns that held up the ominous Viaduct, now long demolished to open up the streets for the development of art galleries, loft apartments and a number of seemingly over-priced restaurants and boutiques.  It was beautiful, in it's own way, but met him with a sense of bittersweet nostalgia.  His former home had long disappeared.

     "11th and Everett," the conductor announced over the intercom.  This was his stop.  Vernon stood, wheeled his bag behind him and stepped off the trolly.  Young professionals and a number of commuters stepped off around him, each hurriedly making their way to work in the brisk chill of the morning.  He took a deep, long breath.  Even the air was different, fresh, clean...unfamiliar.

With a long, heavy sigh, he turned to cross the street and started walking east, towards the river.  It was there, in the heart of the city he once knew, he would reunite her remains, those of his long lost love; the woman he had not forgotten after all these dozens of years, with the waters upon where they had first met.

There were familiar moments as he strolled along; the Park blocks and the century-old facades of Old Town stroking memories of a simpler time.  Yet, even China Town was different...abandoned, empty...even desolate, save for the occasional beggar.  He closed his eyes and shook his head in sadness.  He knows that she would've done the same.

The water-side markets and docks underneath the Morrison Bridge were a distant memory now.  Condominiums and High-rise apartments had spawned in their place, another reminder that this was no longer the city he had once known.  As he approached the promenade railing, the familiar scent of the river waters rose up to greet him.  It would be close.  Vernon casually paced up and down the promenade, bicyclists and joggers passing him as he searched, silently, until at least he found it; the unassuming, iron-cast mooring post, carved with the initials VC & BD.  It had been painted over a few times, but the outlines were still there.  He could make it out.  And he breathed a sigh of bittersweet relief.  

He would turn the ring thrice upon his finger, the ring she had gifted to him in their youth...the ring he had never since taken off.  He would apologize for not being there for her all this time, for allowing her to live her life without him.  He would tip his hat, and wish her farewell.  He would leave, never to return, and would travel again, from city to city, from town to town, reclaiming the way of life he's ever only really known...with her memory haunting him, every step of the way.

Instagrams of Fiction: Miguel's Last Quarter

I've been struggling with a bit of a creative block lately.  It happens to the best of us, so in order to wrench myself out of it, I've been exploring a variety of creative exercises to help get my head back to where it needs to be.  From painting to writing to continuing to sketch out my dreams, each one has helped me regain my footing creatively. The following is no different.

I take an absurd amount of photos.  Some I post, most I don't, left to sit in my digital album as 1's and 0's, taking up space in my camera.  Each of those photos has their own particular story, the majority of them I can only guess.  ...so, in the effort to strengthen my right brain's process of thought, that's exactly what I'm going to do.

This entry will start off with an previously-posted Instagram photo I took a few weeks back.  Future posts will revolve around newly Instagram'd photography.

It was his last quarter.  He had one chance left and after that, well...he didn't want to think about it.  With nervous fingers, he dropped the coin into the deposit slot and slowly dialed the seven digits he was given earlier that morning, carefully making sure that he didn't accidentally phone up the wrong number.  As his index finger released off the final button, a heavily finger-printed "4," Miguel drew in his breath and placed the receiver against his ear.  A second later, the phone began to ring.

     "Are you alone?" asked the voice on the other end of the line.  It was distinctly muffled and laced with a grit that instantly set a pit in his stomach.  It was a voice he had never heard before, but was immediately frightened of.  
     "Si. ...Yes," Miguel answered, trying his hardest to disguise the fear in his voice. 
     "Turn around towards the newstands across the street. You will see a man with a red suitcase approaching the corner."
     "I can see him now," he replied, noticing a tall, gauntish man with chalk-white hair walking briskly down the sidewalk across the street.  His bright red-suitcase contrasted heavily against his dark, slim-fitting suit and black gloves. His lips moved silently as he walked, and even from here, Miguel could see the hollowness behind his eyes.  They were terrifying, as if made of the abyss itself.
     "Follow him.  Now," the voice ordered.
     "Si, Senór. ...I was told--"
     "Do as you're told and further instructions will find you. As will your reward." And with that, the connection was lost, preceded by a sharp click across the line.  The voice was gone.

     Miguel hung up the receiver and turned back to face the man in black he had been instructed to follow.  Taking a deep breath, he began to tail him from the Old Town intersection with the payphone on the corner. 

    Miguel was never seen again.

Five Reasons Why My Dog is Worthless While Packing to Move

1.) He just flat out refuses to pick up a box.  There are dozens of them, and they're everywhere.  Instead, he just sits there and watches me break my own back doing it.  ...Worthless.
 

2.) He can't take apart a bed for shit. I mean, how hard is this?  It's like, four screws.  Worthless. 

 3.) He's lazy.  "Oh, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to infringe on your eighth nap of the day. I'll just step over your sleepy ass and grab my drill so I can take down these paintings.  Don't strain yourself, it's all good."  ...Worthless.

4.) He's nothing but an obstacle. Where do I need to go?  Out the door.  Where is he?  Right in the middle of the door, and he... Won't. Flippin. Move.  ...Worthless.

 

5.) All he wants to do is play God of War.  It's an awesome game.  I know this. But, seriously?  Pack a bag, man.  Carry a candle to the car or something.  Do your part.  Ugh...Worthless.

If I ever move again, at least I know what to expect.  Jeez.

Conversations with Girls #2: Schizophrenia is the Worst

I'm just going to go ahead and lay it all out there. In specific circumstances, I hear voices. I know, I know, it sounds psychotic, but I assure you, although I wouldn't classify it as "normal," it's definitely not to be categorized as symptoms of any kind of severe mental disorder. Let me clarify.

I have what is referred to as auditory sensory perceptions during the state of Hypnogogia. Hypnogogia is the transitional state between wakefulness and sleep, otherwise referred to as drifting off, the borderland or onset of sleep. It's those few lucid moments as you nod off into never neverland, but are still somewhat conscious of what's happening around you. Aristotle, Iamblichus, and Edgar Allen Poe all referenced this state, the latter writing of the "fancies" he experienced "only when I am on the brink of sleep, with the consciousness that I am so."

Some people, including Beethoven, Salvador Dali, Thomas Edison and Isaac Newton have credited the hypnagogic state as fueling their creativity, through the experience of different sensory perceptions. Some are visual, such as tetris effects, random speckles, lines or tunnels of light. Others are audible, olfactory and thermal sensations, all of which are normal experiences within this state.

I am particularly sensitive to the audible perceptions, in that at times, I feel as if I'm in the midst of a crowded room with the constant buzz of low conversation around me. Suddenly, a random statement will pop out of the crowd, usually in an unrecognizable voice, not gender-specific, and will say something like, "It doesn't go there." Or, "I thought the same thing!" As soon as I recognize this statement, I switch immediately back into wakeful a state. I have a few theories about this, but it's all speculation and truth be told, I find it all fascinating. With that as the set up, I give you the following conversation:

It was our third date and things were going quite well, for once. Our first two dates consisted of a few drinks with a lot of conversation, and we laughed a lot. She was funny, and I really liked her for it. So while laying on her couch during a movie, we were quietly drifting off to sleep. I know I was struggling to stay awake for a good part of the film and I'm not sure if I ever actually fully drifted off, but I was suddenly aware of of that crowded room sensation and then my dad's voice, ringing in my head clear as a bell. I can't remember exactly what he said, but it jolted me and I sat directly up. I know I startled her a bit, so...well, here's how it went.

Her: Are you okay?

Me: ...yeah...I just, yeah...

Her: What's wrong?

Me: Nothing. I just, ...it's okay. Sorry, I'm just really disorientated right now.

Her: Did you have a bad dream?

Me: No, not really. I just...hey, do you mind if I step outside and make a quick phone call?

Her: It's 2am.

Me: I know. I can't really explain it. Hold on, it'll just take a few seconds.

Her: Who are you going to call?

Me: My dad.

Her: ....

Me: It's early morning for them. Honestly, he could be up. Just give me a second.

Her: Why are you calling your dad? Did you have a nightmare about him?

Me: No, it's not...it's just a strange feeling. You know what? Nevermind, I'll just call him later on.

Her: What's all this about?

Me: It's nothing. I know, it's sounding all dramatic. I don't mean for it to be.

Her: You know, I saw you.

Me: Huh? What do you mean?

Her: Well, one second you were there with me, watching the movie. The next, you were just...gone.

Me: Yeah...

Her: Like, completely gone. Your eyes. It freaked me out.

Me: Sorry.

Her: You have to tell me what's up.

Me: Um...it's kind of hard to explain.

Her: But it wasn't a nightmare?

Me: Nope...it's different.

Her: I'm a nurse. I can take it.

Me: Okay...okay. So, have you ever heard of hypnogogia, ...I think that's what it's called. Basically, it's the transition between wakefulness and sleep. Do you know what I'm talking about? That weird, transitional state?

Her: I think so.

Me: Okay, well some people...not all...but some, including myself, experience a sensory perception during that state.

Her: ....okay?

Me: I, for instance, hear a crowd of voices. I feel like I'm in the middle of a crowded room. Then all of a sudden, one distinct voice will stand out among the rest.

Her: ...

Me: Yeah, I know what it sounds like. "He hears voices...looney." But it's a real thing, and not a crazy, mental-disorder thing. They actually classify it as a sleep disorder. And I talked to my aunt about it once, who's a psychiatrist, and she said that it's completely common in people who are more right-brained orientated like myself.

Her: Hmm.

Me: I've had it all my life, and I'm kind of used to it by now, but I just heard my dad's voice in the crowd, and I've never heard my dad's voice in that state before. Usually it's a random voice, like someone I don't know.

Her: You hear voices.

Me: Only in that state. I know, it sounds weird....

Her: Yeah, it's really weird.

Me: Well, c'mon, I mean it's kind of like dreaming..

Her: No, it's really weird.

Me: Okay...

Her: I'm pretty sure you should leave.

Me: ...Seriously?

Her: Yeah, here are your movies. You should go.

Me: You're a nurse. You said you can take it.

Her: I can take most things. Not, "I hear voices." That's some Beautiful Mind horseshit.

Me: Whoah, settle down.

Her: No, you're freaking me out. You've got to go.

Me: Wow, thanks for being so sensitive about it.

Her: Seriously, go. Now, Crazy.

Me: I'm not...fine. Wow, thanks for the hospitality. See you later.

Her: Probably not.

And with that, I left. And I never heard another word from her. Not one. I'm pretty sure that in her mind, I'll always be the schizo that she almost started dating. I mean, that's a pretty ignorant judgment, especially after I tried to explain it the way I did, but whatever. I wouldn't want to be with someone who's that close-minded about things anyway.

Oh, and for the record, these "voices" have never told me to do anything. Half the time, I barely remember what was said. There's an entire investigative methodology dedicated to the study of this phenomenon. Look it up, as it gets incredibly interesting. Maybe she should read up on it one of these days. Although, I doubt it.

A Lot Happens in a Year

I have some catching up to do. It's been over twelve months since I've last written and there's a lot to cover. I'll spare the details though...the details are unimportant. It's what I've learned from the details that matters. Much has changed because as I've mentioned before, a little over two years ago, I made a firm decision that included the following:

1. Sell my house.
2. Head west.
3. Explore.
4. Reflect.
5. Rediscover the creative mind that has been slipping away from me since allowing myself to slowly slip into the midst of mediocrity.

I can honestly say that I've accomplished 75% of what's on that list. So, concerning #1: Selling my house. I didn't do that. I tried. It sat on the market for two years because frankly, the housing market is crap and I was a naive buyer who purchased a home in a neighborhood within Cleveland that will only rise in market value if John Wayne comes back from the dead and strikes gold underneath the layers of silt and coal deposits that make up the landscape of Old Brooklyn. If I could market it on the quality of my old neighbors alone, I'd be able to move it in an instant. Unfortunately, that's not the case. So, I did the next best thing. I rented it out to my good friend and his family, who are now happily enjoying the freedom of home-living. So #1, half check. ...at least I moved.

Now, on to #2: Heading west. I did that. I successfully moved to Portland. I rented an apartment in the Nob Hill area, packed up my entire house, sold some stuff, put a bit of it in storage, then shipped the rest out here on a moving van. Have you ever tried to fit the contents of a three bedroom house into a 380 sq. ft. flat? It's a challenge. But I'm here, accompanied by my faithful companion, Kino. It's been three months and so far, so good. I may still be searching for permanent employment, but at least I got a cool little gig in a coffee shop to tide me over while I look. I'm still poor. I ride a 50 year-old yellow bike. I drink a lot of tea. I am truly living the Portland lifestyle.

#3: Exploring. I drove across the country. By myself. Through eight states that I've never visited in my life and I loved every second of it. I stopped in Chicago and drove north through cheese head-country. I saw an 80-ft. statue of the Jolly Green Giant. I visited Mt. Rushmore and drove through the Black Hills. I drove along the outskirts of Yellowstone, only to be driven back up north due to high winds and zero visibility on the roads heading in. I saw a random parade in Missoula, MT where everyone in the town danced down the street while dressed up as safari animals. I saw the sun set over the Rockies. I saw the sun rise over the Great Plains. I learned that Kino and mountain goats are not friends...not even a little bit. I became fascinated by the Columbia River Gorge and the many mysteries that it has to offer. I've seen the fog roll in from the Pacific and overwhelm the coastline. I've hiked the north western rainforests and discovered waterfalls that would make your heart skip, just as it did mine. I've fallen asleep to the sound of the surf hitting the Pacific shore. I drove 2800 miles in 3.5 days. I've done all this in less than three months. And I've only just begun to explore.

Along with this urge to expand my horizons comes #4: Reflecting. With so much time to myself, it's been fairly easy to reflect back on the past few years of my life and figure out what's gotten me here, what mistakes I've made (and there are many) how to remedy them, how to let go of them, and how to concentrate on looking forward to the future while learning from the past, not just dwelling on it. That's something I tend to struggle with on a daily basis...letting what's already come to pass weigh down my steps on the journey into what's yet to come. I think, however, I finally starting to be able to do so. It's a long process that will require a bit of a character change for me. Employing techniques that I've always used (meditation, illustration, daily exercise) in a more disciplined manner, I'm starting to see a bit of that change begin to occur. It's a process though, and will take time. Through patience, I know I'll one day figure out who exactly I am and what my life means. Until then, I continue on.

And finally, #5: Rediscovering my Creative Mind. Have I done this thoroughly? No. But that's why I'm here in Portland. This is an American hub of creative youth and culture. There's a saying here that's posted all over the city stating, "Keep Portland Weird." And you know what? It's weird. Every last bit of it. When I walk downtown, there are moments where, between the absurd amount of leiderhosen and over-population of handlebar mustaches walking about, I honestly feel as if I'm passing through a Carnival. My ex-girlfriend spoke Carny. If I started eeezy-weezy'ing around these guys, I'm positive most of them might plotz themselves on the spot. Am I walking through a Carnival? No. I'm walking through Downtown Portland. Aside from that culture, however, there is an amazing amount of small design boutiques, ad agencies and corporate marketing firms that hire graphic designers such as myself. I haven't found a permanent job just yet, but that's because it's extremely competitive. And since I've been here, I've applied to nearly everything I can find. But in the meantime, I've started writing again. I've started painting again. I've started filming again. I've given myself the opportunity to get back to the state of mind that I employed ten years ago while I was finishing up school. I'm starting to recognize myself. And that's nothing but a good thing.

Change is good. Change is inevitable. Change is our only constant. Now that I'm here and I've given my life the shake up and challenges that it needs, I feel as if I'm finally able to embrace it.

On the other hand, there's always those jaws of defeat lurking underneath the water, waiting to pull me down at any instant...but at least then I'll have the peace of mind that I actually gave it a shot.

Week of the Geek

Yes, it's that time of year again: Comic-Con. Every summer during the end of July, San Diego hosts the biggest Comic convention in the world. Nerds, Geeks and Celebrities alike show up to promote the latest in paperback, film and television alike. Some even elaborately dress the part, parading as characters ranging from Doctor Strange to Ramona Flowers to Jay and Silent Bob's own Cockknocker. In order to acknowledge the event, I ask you to enjoy the following pic of this guy...The Fat Flash.

This guy couldn't outrun my mom. He even looks bewildered, like the photographer just snuck up on him. My favorite part though is the cop's uniform hanging behind him. God, I hope this schmuck is an officer of the law.