My poor, aching wrists

You’re welcome, Northland College. My sacrifice is your gain. While I’ve been sitting staring at the computer screen almost unblinkingly for the last two days, moving information from a gigantic PDF into a somewhat more useable, certainly more linked up Web directory, my wrists have slowly deteriorated back into carpal tunnel land as my eyes have been busy gathering an unhealthy dose of projected radiation while fighting between screen lighting and glare from the windows in my lovely office.

How’s that for a big, pissed off sentence?

In an ethical world, would I have to sacrifice my physical (yes, and mental, too) health to make a buck to pay bills so I can afford to eat enough food to sustain me while I pump gas into my mobile atmospheric heater that takes me back to my office so I can make another buck? Stupid vicious cycles.

I suppose that’s what I get, squandering my undergraduate education on something that makes me happy (or frustrated, or challenged, but definitely not bored) instead of something that makes me money. I’m trying to find balance (which, had I found it by about 8 p.m. Monday evening, would have helped me avoid getting kicked in the head in taijutsu class) in the world. I know that if I could choose to do anything, I’d write fiction.

And I can choose to do anything. But I don’t write fiction. It’s scary as all get-out to follow my dreams. One of the last times I did that, I wound up paying $25.32 for a stainless steel bolt. Of course, another time I followed a dream, I wound up with a wife. So I guess I’m batting .500. But still, scary, paranoid, pessimistic, procrastination, and dishes all come home to roost whenever I think about it.

I’ve tried telling myself that if I write two pages a day, that’s a rough draft in six months. It sounds really good. Pretty easy, though with just enough commitment involved to keep out most of the riff-raff. Oh wait. That’s me. Dang it.

So I try to get myself psyched up by reading some science fiction. That’s good. I like that, too. So much, in fact, that I go get another book after the first one, then surf to some authors’ sites, then take a look at some organizations composed mostly of people like me (since I could be the poster child, shouldn’t I get a free membership?) who would love to have written a great book. Or even a mediocre book, for that matter.

Notice I’m still not writing. Just thought I’d point that out. Call me Captain Obvious. Or go to the Website. I dare you. (Parental warning: the Captain Obvious website [notice the lack of link] is not for young people, or old people, or people who are easily offended, or people who can read, and certainly not for the illiterate. In fact, I recomend you stay away, but since I can’t reach through the Internet to slap your mouse hand if you try to Google it, you’ll just have to be responsible for your clicks. And if you go to Captain Obvious, don’t come back cryin’ to me. I’ll just point and laugh like Nelson. Finally, don’t even think I have anything to do with the Captain Obvious Website. I don’t. So there.)

So here I am. Writing. But not science fiction. That’s OK. I’m going to let my inner New-Age liberal wiener come out and frolic in the dandelions for a moment and give the rest of me a hug, a pat on the back, and tell the rest of me that it’s OK; at least I’m thinking about writing scifi and am actually writing, so that’s more than half the whole ball of wax, there. My inner New-Age liberal wiener better be careful my inner right-wing, gun-toting nutjob doesn’t hear about this.

Stroke!

My wife and I went to the third-annual Pumpkin Festival in Washburn, WI, today. I took my stunt kites, but the highlight was spending a couple hours rowing around with a bunch of bloggers. Aside from my wife, there was The Princess of Wist, The (not my) Boyfriend, and The Drummer. It was sort of like Gilligan’s Island mixed with Gallagher. Think rowboat on Lake Superior with gords raining into the lake like some psychedelic artillery.

Playing around in the boat reminded me of just how much I like doing things like that, and just how much I want a boat of my own (or better yet, a friend who owns a boat who lets me use it any time I like!) to go putz around in the Apostle Islands with. I’m starting to forulate a plan for an open rowing/sail boat…

Rebuilding

I’ve picked up my horn again in the last couple days after about five months of not playing it at all. Man, I’ve got some serious rebuilding to do. My embachure is mush, my fingers rusty, reading stilted. But I’m playing again, and tonight, I even practiced. What do you know?

I’m playing in the college jazz band again this year, and I went to rehersal for the first time yesterday evening. That made me realize that I really need to break out my horn on my own and woodshed. Not only am I not where I was, but more importantly, I’m not where I want to be.

I want to move past where I was to where I could be. I want to be able to rip through chords and scales in any key, any mode, in a musical fashion. I want to have a play list of standards in my head that I can call from anytime. I want to write and arrange. I think I’d like to teach, and I’m positive I’d like to lead a band.

My road map says that to get there from here, there’s a whole lot of practice, study, dedication, determination, and time involved. I don’t know if I have what it takes to walk that path, but there’s only one way to find out. That’s to eat an ice cube to soothe my poor, abused lips on the way to bed.

Konnichi wa!

Today, I officialy started learning Japanese. It just so happens that one of the professors at the college I work for teaches the language and said it’d be fine if I sat in on his beginning-level class. The other student in the class and I learned how to say things like “Good morning,” and “Thank you for all the trouble you’ve gone through on my behalf.”

I figured that since I’m trying to be reasonably serious about studying budo taijutsu, I should learn the language I’ll eventually need to speak to study the art at a higher level. With some effort and perseverence (ninpo, anyone?), I ought to at least be able to not make an ass of myself when talking with the soke (Hatsumi-sensi) and other high-level practioners.

So ja mata for now, ya’ll.

The Fab Five, round two

I made it to indie-music.com’s fab five again with my review of Toothpick’s “Drive Easy.” The album is really good. It’s kind of a homespun folk-rap from NYC, if you can picture that. Don’t let the “R” word put your schnoz in the air. I was that way, once, but Toothpick has earned a solid place in my heart. You should go check out his site and buy a CD. Right now. Shoo, already!

Huge props and a couple semi-slams

My parents rock! I know this because over the last long weekend, they helped my wife and I cut nine cords of oak, split ten cords of the same, stack about three cords of it, clean the soon-to-be nursery, and take about 3,000 pounds of crap to the dump and salvage yard. Not bad for three day’s work, eh?

Now we’ve got room for another garden spot, maybe with patio, a laundry room, a wood room, and a kid.

Thanks a ton-and-a-half, you two!

On the down side, though, the chimney sweep was supposed to come put a new liner in our chimney yesterday, but he begged off because it was raining. What is he, the Wicked Witch of the West? Does he melt in the rain? Now, it’s going to be another week before he can get here again. I told him we’re getting right up to that time we’re going to need to have a fire to heat the house. Also, our contractor friend that’s going to repair the roof on our entryway said he won’t be able to get to it until the middle or end of October. I guess that’s OK, but I’d sure like to get rolling on both these projects.

Hangin’ with the Ps

My parents came up today (point of clarification: Everybody comes up to Ashland unless they’re from Alaska or one of the vast minority of Canadians who live in the great white north instead of Toronto, Vancuver, or Montreal.) to help out with some work on the house before the kid comes. I’ve got 15 cords of nice fresh-cut, still-has-green-leaves-on-it, oak that I’m trying to get cut and split by Tuesday. So Dad and I are going to hit that like crazy and Mom and the wife are going to work on the house, get the nursury cleaned up, that sort of thing. We’ve got a whole heck of a lot of work to do on the house, and this is a chance for a little free labor. I think that’s pretty awesome; thanks Mom and Dad!

Test link

I’ve been having trouble getting blogger to post on one of my other blogs today, so this message is a test to see if it’ll post here. I hope it’s kind of like spitting to see if gravity is still on.

Yea for low-tech!

My buddy, the Princess of Wist, says:

The coolest part of all is that with my decision to start this blog has come a renewed effort to continue the journaling on paper. Though it’s a time-consuming task, I enjoy it. And, though this internet stuff is cool and all, I much prefer tape to a post button and a pen to a keyboard.

I’m right there, too, except that I never fill the journals. I just have about three thousand of them all going at the same time.

I love the feel of paper under my hand, the scratch of the pen nib across the page. I love the smell of the leather journal cover my wife got me for Christmas a couple years ago. I also love the immediacy of blog, the sense of community that reading my friends’ posts engenders.

I think the main thing for me is to communicate, to write, to play. So shazaam.

Looking down a Way

I’ve been a seeker of enlightenment for a long time. For a while, I thought it’d be “neat” to be enlightened, whatever that meant. I figured I’d have a lot of answers about the world and maybe be *someone.* I moved slowly from that viewpoint toward where I think most people in the U.S. are: elightened-shmitened. Who has time for sitting on a little cusion when there’s so much to do?

For the last seven years, I’ve pretty much put that path behind me and concentrated on daily life. I’ve gone to work, hung out with friends, cut a lot of firewood, and occasionally walked the dogs. About this time last year, I started going to a Budo Taijutsu class one of my friends teaches. I figured it’d be a good way to get in shape a little and learn a martial art which is something I’ve always been interested in, though I’m not sure why.

For almost a year, I’ve gone to class faithfully, practiced hitting and throwing a couple friends, and taking things seriously, but not really putting out a whole lot of extra effort to teach myself and learn and improve. I’ve just kind of let stuff come as it comes.

In the last month, though, I’ve been doing some reading that suggests that this art form may be more accurately called “ninpo” which roughly means “the way of perseverance.” Furthermore, some people, and especially Glen Morris, have written about esoteric eastern ways complementing, or in fact being an integral part of, ninpo. Morris writes about meditating for 90 days on his back porch to open his chakras and achieve enlightenment one summer.

Maybe it’s just me, but I figured it took more than 90 days to become “enlightened.” Another interesting thing is that it seems a lot of folks who have done high level work with Dr. Masaaki Hatsumi have left the bujinkan to start their own school teaching fighting their own way. I suppose there is historical precedent for this, but it still seems a little odd. Then on the other hand, how does one become soke (the grandmaster) of a martial art, anyway? I’ve heard two things about how the bujinkan does it. One story is about how Hatsumi-sensi avoided two swsord cuts while he was meditating. He became soke after that. The other story is more about what’s to come. Apparently Hatsumi-sensi is going to choose some young Japanese person to take his place and train him (sexism seems to be strong in some of the practices of the Bujinkan; non-existent in others) to take his place.

At any rate, it seems that, once again, I’m looking down a path that becomes a Way in short order. It’s exciting (hey, I could go get enlightened and stuff), a little confusing (just how do you go about sorting through 900 years of secret tradition from a completely different culture?), and some scary (what happens if I follow these guidelines? how will I change?) I guess it’s time for a talk with my sensi.