Lift Your Head

We had guests over for dinner last night, nice folk and gracious too. They were quite understanding of the gong show that is meal time with a toddler. They also knew to beat a hasty retreat before the bedtime meltdown. Despite their social graces they did distract us from a few of our nightly routines.

It was already dark when I realized that the chooks* hadn't been shut away for the night. Its best to do it just on dusk because that's when the foxes come out looking for an easy meal. Em wanted to come with me. She snuggled in on my shoulder with both her pink blankets tucked up around her. She insisted on carrying the torch which made or progress a little slower as the notion that torches are for lighting your way hasn't really sunk in yet. She wished Bart, Barney and Beebee "Good night." and "Sleep well." each in their turn as I pushed the door shut, fastened the chain and blocked the bottom with its brick.

As we were walking back to the house she lifted her head and said "Look. Stars. Pretty." Indeed they were. There's nothing quite like a southern hemisphere night sky seen from outside a city. The crescent moon was up, it's light hiding much of the Milky Way, but there were still uncountable shimmering lights to be seen. We stopped just back of the bungalow where the house lights are hidden and looked to the sky.

I pointed out the moon peeking through the trees. Em insisted that it was a half moon even though it was more like a quarter. Ah well, fractions can come later. I also pointed out what I'm pretty sure was Mars. It was definitely a planet and was obviously red so Mars seemed the logical choice. It took a couple of minutes to explain where it was but once Em got it she was quite taken with how red it was.

We talked about that a while and I explained what planets were, at two and half she didn't get it. That's okay, it's never too soon to start practicing not talking down to your child. We stood and quietly looked at the stars for awhile too. Then she said softly: "That's my moon, my stars."

I had to think about that for a second. In the end I said "Yes Em, they are yours." Of course they're not, at least not in the sense she meant it. But that's a lesson for later.

The light of stars is ancient, it's been traveling for tens, hundreds and even thousands of years before it falls on our eyes. To look to the night sky is to look back in time, this fills me full of wonder and awe.

We know so much about our universe and yet we've barely left our planet. Quasars, pulsars, black holes: no one has ever been anywhere near any of these phenomenon but still we understand a great deal about them and are learning more all the time. Our ability to explore, study and learn the true nature of our ancient and huge universe despite the handicap of the immense distances involved makes me proud to be human.

Ancient and huge, those words don't do justice to the scope of our universe. It's 13.7 billion (billion!) years old. The edge of the observable universe is 46.5 billion light years away and a light year is 10 trillion kilometers. It contains approximately 70 sextillion (7 x 10^22) stars. I'm incapable of understanding just how large these numbers are. Every time I try and grasp them they just slip away and leave me feeling oh so tiny and humble, and yet they also fill me with a profound sense of peace.

With so much room, so many stars and planets and so much time for it to happen in, well, it seems all but inevitable that life would come into existence. That thought when it first occurred to me was profoundly liberating. I never again needed to wonder why I'm here: I just am. And that means I'm free to live my life, cherish my family and friends, and help make our unimaginably tiny little portion of the universe as safe and as joyful as it can be. It means there are no arbitrary cosmic rules that I need to fear breaking by doing so. It means I can be joyful, humble, proud, peaceful, loving, awe-struck and filled with wonder as needed, the universe is more than big enough to accommodate them all.

All of these things, in all of their immensity belong to all of humanity. But explaining that to Em can wait until she's old enough to reason for herself. For now it is enough for her to know that the pretty stars belong to her.

*Chickens. I'm getting to the point where some Aussie terms are becoming second nature to say. It still feels awkward when I write them though. I paused after writing 'chook' and wondered if I should change it to 'chicken'. One thing won't change though: tomato going to be a toe-MAY-toe until I die!

Photo by Larry Landolfi

Dancing in the Dark

Our little girl just turned two years old.  For the longest time the hierarchy was Baby (Supreme Ruler of the Universe), Mum (Center of Said Universe) and Dad (That Guy Who Hangs Around a Lot).  This applied to all facets of our life as a family.  If Mum was available then Dad really had to work to get any facetime with The Ruler.  It's been getting much better of late, occasionally Em will even remember her Noblise Oblige and grant me the briefest of unsolicited cuddles.  A boon for which I will cheerfully commit any number of diplomatic faux pas, up to and including "accidently" backing a ute into the leader of a G8 country.  Seriously, you'd better hope Em doesn't take a dislike to you.  I'm wrapped so far around her little finger that if she were to point at you as say "Daddy, kill." you'd be meat so fast your head would spin, literally.  You can't imagine how much cleaning up that entails, so for sake of my soft pink hands, please be nice to my daughter.

Of course this attachment to Mummy isn't always a great thing and we're actively trying to get her to chill about being without the maternal security blanket.  Bed time has been especially difficult.  For the longest time Em would not go to sleep unless Mummy was there in the room with her.  Months ago we started putting her to bed together.  The idea being that she should get used to me being there at bed time to the point where I'll be able to put her down solo.  A few days ago I managed it, not without some fussing and carrying on mind you.  But she did go to sleep with just me present.  Progress.

The next night we both ended up staying.  We were late getting her to bed and she was fussy and insistent that Mummy be there.  Claire perched on the end of the bed and I stood in the center of the dark room.  Claire made her escape early and successfully but I stayed for a few minutes, just in case.

I stood still in the dark for several minutes, silent and a little uncomfortable.  I found myself swaying gently, it seemed to help make the standing easier.  So I closed my eyes and played a song in my head, dancing more in thought than in fact.  As I did so I remembered times on the dancefloor those 20 or so years ago.

I remembered the time I twisted my ankle so badly during Love and Rockets' "Ying and Yang and the Flowerpot Man" that I couldn't stand on it.  One of the staff asked, well, yelled over the music actually, if I needed ice.  I said "Oh God, yes!"  Off they went and a bad French farce ensued. One with repeated misunderstandings over just what had been asked for, ice or an ambulance?

I remembered the time at a Jerry, Jerry and the Sons of Rhythm Orchestra gig where someone came down on my foot just as I was going up.  Spiral fracture out of that one.  I did get two shots of Tequila for the price of one though.  I'd hobbled to the bar and asked the bartender what he had for pain, then laced my boot up tight and dived back in.  One of the best gigs I've ever been to and I was right not to miss a second of it.

Funny how most of those memories involve getting hurt.  I am not by even stretchiest of imaginations what anyone would call a graceful person.  I've scars on all of my extremities to stand in witness to this fact.  I do however dance reasonably well.  Or I do when I'm given my head and room to move.  I suck at anything that requires knowledge and coordination with anyone else.  My method was to shut my eyes, always circle counter clockwise and always have at least one part of my body moving with the beat.  Well, to be really honest I did dance reasonably well back when I danced at all.

There in Em's room I also remembered the time that the almost supernaturally beautiful East Indian girl told me: "You dance pretty good for a white guy."  I was taken aback, first that she'd even spoken to me and second that what she'd said was something resembling a compliment.  Of course at that time my self esteem was measured in parts per million.  I muttered "Thanks", shut my eyes and sank back into the beat.  At the next break between songs she leaned over and said: "You look like Jesus."  Now that?...that really rattled me.  Okay, I did look like Jesus at the time, or at least the Western world's myth of Jesus as a long haired, bearded white guy.  Although I'm pretty sure there isn't too many official portraits of Jesus wearing combat boots and torn black jeans.

I had no idea what to make of this comment.*  Was she coming on to me?  It didn't seem likely.  I mean Jesus isn't exactly know for his sex appeal.  Nor for his suitability as a life partner come to that.  I danced out the next song and slipped away before another could start.  I suspect that I ended up convincing myself that the whole thing was some sort of veiled insult. But I'm not sure, the rest of the evening is blurry from deliberately applied self medication of the malted sort.  Hmm, perhaps my self esteem at that time was measured in parts per billion.

So there I was, two decades and half a world away from that silly young man, standing in the dark, swaying in place, remembering, wondering:  what had changed, am I the same person?

Once upon a time I danced in a crowded room with my eyes closed because I hadn't yet learned that I was worthy of love.  Today I sway in the dark for an audience of one: a bundle of strong-willed toddler proof of how so very wrong I was for such a very long time.  One who's image stands next to every definition I have for love.  One whose eyes had better be closed.

"Lie down sweetie, it's okay, Daddy's here.  Thatsa girl, now close your eyes my love, it's time to sleep..."

*That Jesus comment still puzzles me.  I wish I could go back and ask her what she meant.  Any ideas?  

Who We Are

It all seemed so important and then, much later, it all seemed so trivial. We stopped judging people by such a narrow criteria. We met people that liked Emerson, Lake and Palmer, or The Eagles, or god forbid, Vanilla Ice and we didn't despise them, some even became friends.

But it was important, it was vital, just not in the way that we thought it was. We learned something, many things.

We learned that we weren't alone. For the first time, we chose to be a part of something that was wholly our own. We paid the price of membership, the clothes, the hair, the attitude, the uniform. We learned the strength of numbers, but also that a uniform exterior doesn't mean a uniform interior. We learned that it's possible to choose the symbols of our allegiance and through that we learned to be independent again.

We learned limits. Some of us chose to go down, the whole way down as we watched in awe and horror. Some made it back stronger, some made it back damaged and some didn't make it back at all. It was hard learning that we can't save everybody no matter how much we have in common.

We learned the most important lesson of all. Is it any wonder that the first great love of our life came with a soundtrack? We threw our passions at the sounds coming from a needle scratching plastic and at the figures who made those sounds, both right in front of us in the smokey air and impossibly, electronically far away. On the dance floor we rehearsed setting free the exaltation and energy bottled up inside. Sometimes we ended up bloody and bruised, but that too was practice. We let it all out and to our wonder we saw it reflected back at us from the sweating mass. We learned that if all those people could feel the same way about the music, then that cherished, longed-for individual sitting right there, so near, could be feeling those same longings for us. And just perhaps, it might be safe to set those feelings free. We learned how to love.

So yes, it was important, not the details but the experience and all it taught us. Nurture those memories, follow Memory Lane all the way to Nostagia, those experiences made us who we are.

*I must confess: I wrote this back in February as a Note on Facebook.  By coincidence it was the same day Lux Interior from the Cramps died.  Not sure why I never posted it here, but I'm feeling all nostalgicy again so here it is.

Dennis

I have one really long hair in my right eyebrow.  I mean really long, freaky long, maybe six time the length of my regular eyebrow hairs.  His name is Dennis.  I've been aware of him for a decade now in that vague masculine way:  "Huh, lookit that.  Cool."  After his discovery I never thought about him save when he sat up to take a look around and I had to coax him back into the bushy fold.  Live and let live was my strategy.

My wife and I had been together for a number of years before she notice Dennis.  Her reaction was more like someone discovering proof that the Prime Minister is actually a robot.  Shock, disbelief and an unholy glee that wouldn't let her leave well enough alone.  She badgered me mercilessly. Badgered? Hell, she downright bobcatted me.

"Let me pluck it."

"No."

"Come on....it won't hurt."

"As if. No."

"I'll do [insert dirty act of your choice] if you let me."

"Ha.  You'd do that anyway, it's in our marriage contract.  No."

"If you love me you'd let me."

"Hmmmm, let me think about that......NO!"

She's a persistent woman that wife o' mine, but then, I'm pretty stubborn too.  I fended her off for weeks.  Finally she gave up asking and simply rolled over, grabbed Dennis by his head and yanked him out.  "There, isn't that better?"  "Fuck no! And may I say: OW!" Having accomplished the deed that had been upsetting the balance of the the universe by remaining undone she rolled back and slept the sleep of the righteous.  I grumbled and rubbed my throbbing eyebrow and plotted folliclular revenge, knowing full well that I didn't have the guts to carry out any of my schemes.

Dennis grew back as hairs are wont to do.  Maybe not as proud and thick but just as long.  I've been hiding him from my plucky wife like a drunkard living in a Temperance Hall would his bottle.

You see, Dennis is a part of me.  A tiny part to be sure, perhaps even the most insignificant part, but he's unique and he's mine.  One day soon enough I'll be gone.  My child will remember me and perhaps my grand children will too, if I'm lucky enough to have them.  But that'd be about it.  The memory of me, of all the things that made me unique, will eventually fade from this earth and it'll be as if I never existed.  I'll be damned if I'll let Dennis be repeatedly plucked until he grows no more.  I'll not let him or anything else that makes me unique fade one second before it has to.  I'll fight entropy, yes, and time itself if I must because there ain't no afterlife.  Not for the likes of me and Dennis.

I'm perfectly comfortable with this quixotic battle.

Just don't tell my wife, okay?  Thanks.

B&W

Black and white photographs, there's a certainty to them that freezes me.  Even in those famous ones where a moment of pain, doubt or confusion is captured, accidently nailed down for all of us who follow, the faces seem to know more than I do.

Maybe colour is too messy.  My first day at the shop*, I crashed my bike on the way there.  Tore up my knee pretty badly.  I spent my first hours as a small business owner with blood dripping on my boot, eventually I had to turn my sock inside out because it had become crusty with dried blood.  The colour of it was vivid, shocking, I would look down and not know what to do, not believing it was real.  I can picture the same wound on a solider from the Second World War, published in some high school text, grainy and grey.  He might be grimacing or making light of it, the fear of his situation might be clear in his eyes but those old photos never seem to show people unsure of their reality.

I wake at night and wonder what the hell I've gotten myself into and don't fall back asleep.  I work 10 and 12 hours a day but none of it seems real.  Any yet I'm not petrified, not like I thought I'd be.

My daughter now remembers me even though we only have an hour or so together before she goes to bed at night.  She can't possibly see how confused I am; she seems to know that everything will be alright.  Could it be that I'm so old to her that she sees me in black and white, all the mess and existential angst leached away?  Am I just surface and certainty to her the way old faces in monochrome are to me?  Perhaps.

But then it doesn't really matter does it?  Despite everything I will still tickle her feet until she screams with toddler laughter.  I will still crumble when she puts her head down next to mine and clutches me tight.  I will lock my uncertainty of everything inside my skull.  In technicolour, in greyscale, in hand-bloody-tinted daguerreotype even if that's what it takes:  I will be as real as she needs me to be.

*We've purchased a bike store in a small town in Australia.

Us and Them

I bear witness.  It's not my job, I'm there to fix bicycles, and it's not my choice.  Somehow the community has decided that that's my role.  I'm comfortable with this, I've played the interested outsider often enough in the past.

They tell me the details, mundane and fantastic.  Non-sequiturs abound and stream of consciousness rants are less art and more necessity.  They go out of their way to keep me informed.  He came back a week later to tell me his bike was still fine and that "It was all lies and bull-shit." His girlfriend, then only 3 days into their relationship, hadn't slept with anyone else.

He laid out one of the rules: advice isn't wanted.  On first hearing that "I haven't slept since Monday, if this keeps on I'm going to go back to my bad old ways and end up dead or in jail."  I suggested that a 3 day relationship wasn't worth this kind of angst.  His silence as I said this was exactly the same as the one when the 3 Harley's roared by, proudly mufflerless and deafening.  He politely waited till the noise stopped and continued on with his thought.

Questions are ok, sometimes.  When I asked another client, as I tried for the fifth time to make incompatible parts play nice together, if panhandling was hard work he laughed. It was the only sincere laugh I heard that day, and said "I'm totally lazy, I just sit there."

"Yah, sure." I said, "But don't you get lots of abuse."

"Well, I sit with my head down like this."

He hunched over and put his hands up over his face, covering his eyes.  I've seen people begging like this before, perhaps even him.  Huddled in a posture of abject misery, feigned or real, it always seemed like a silent plea.  But it also is an insulation, a defense.  If you can't see the person verbally treating you like you're sub-human you can pretend their not there.  If they can't see you react, you win.  A paltry victory perhaps, but the only one that that situation affords.

So I'm learning.  I'm learning what the people who have the least in our society do to get by.  I'm also learning how they treat each other.  Anger is common.  No surprise.  But so is affection, sometimes fierce, sometimes tender.  I never noticed this before because it's mostly quiet, unlike the anger which can often be heard blocks away.  Really, it shouldn't surprise, the only people these folks really have is each other.

I'm learning.  Generosity is as common here as it is anywhere.  On my first day they we're serving pastries donated by a local bakery.  They looked fantastic.  A guy who'd been watching me work suggested that I should snag one.  I demurred, saying that I'd wait till the end.  He looked up at me smiled without guile or irony and said "You know, it's ok to have a home." I was so taken aback by his kindness that I'm not sure if I thanked him.  I did have a slice of cake though.  It was fantastic.

My second day I was outside.  Everyone was lining up for food bank handouts.  At the end of the day I found a packet of apple chips in my helmet, deposited when I wasn't watching.  They could have just as easily made off with my lid and gloves.

I'm learning.  These people are often damaged: drugs, injury, genetics, you name it.  They're rough around the edges and sometime right through the middle.  Their humour isn't subtle or sophisticated.  Their anger in barely restrained and often self directed.  And yet...and yet they still can laugh.  They still forgive.  They still love.  They look on their children with wonder and joy.  They rally around the ones who are hurting the most and search for those gone missing.

I'm learning the most important secret of all.

Come closer and I'll whisper it to you, don't be afraid, it won't be a surprise:

They aren't really "they" at all.