Forced Family Fun, or as the Golemo children call them, "Triple-F" nights.
I just got back from the yearly Golemo Family Mandatory Retreat. Every year, for at least two days, our family does something over the winter break. You don't have to be alive, but you have to show up. Usually Mommacho rents out a cabin somewhere and we bring food, chips, hot cocoa and enough board games to annoy even the Parker-Bradley brothers. True to form, we always complain before-hand but have a great time when we actually show up.
Make the best of a bad situation. With parents like mine, its a mantra.
Before we all started moving off to college, my parents would occasionally spring a FFF on us during the week like nail in a floorboard snagging our brand new socks. It doesn't matter what "plans" we had, "family comes first." And when I say it doesn't matter what we had planned, I mean it. Unless it was a graded school event, prom, or similar matter, my father didn't care. FFF came first.
If he was in a charitable mood, and the look on our face was particularly surrendering, we were allowed to call our friends and cancel our trips to the pool, study dates and dentist appointments. And we were even given permission, when my mom wasn't around, to use the excuse, "my father is a sanctimonious asshole, that's why I can't come."
It used to annoy me, but now I'm glad my father and mother were such ruthless jerks about it all. They helped me to understand that, for the most part, outside friendships are fleeting. Johnny down the street might be fun to hang out with now, but there is no way he could be more important to me than family. And young Suzy may be waiting at Dairy Queen now for me to come flirt with her, but there's no way she's more important than family. When the whole world's coming down on my head, my friends will leave, hell, my faith may even leave. But my family will always be my family.
Thank you GOD for giving me sanctimonious assholes for parents.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Christmas Noogies
"MOOOOOOOOOOM! Neil's cussing at me in French again!"
"MOOOOOOOOOOM! Ben's in the Army!"
What is it about being around my family that brings out the pre-pubescent in me? I'm a college student -no, a graduate student. I've supposedly grown up since being an undergrad (all of 4 months ago). So how is it that I can go from writing 20 pages of pure genius on "The Language of Mediocrity in Higher Education: Being the Second best Italian Restaurant in Town" to finding myself in "time out" at the age of 23?
For 11 months of the year, I am an expert in conflict resolution. It is what I do. As a CL, I kept the towel-snapping and late-night pillow-fights to a bare minimum. As a Graduate Assistant with Baylor Student-Athlete Services, (take a moment to genuflect) it is my job, at times, to calmly explain to a 250lb+ offensive lineman that playing with the exposed wires from a light switch fixture that's being worked upon really isn't such a good idea and perhaps his time would be better spent studying for his English final.
So how is it that at the first "Nerdo Neilie-Wheelie!" from my older sister, my fists are balled and I'm showing off the latest in cursing terminology?
But its not all so bad. Being able to hug my mom at any moment is pretty sweet. I swear, everytime still, when I smell the woman, I'm 7 again and curled up in her lap. And believe it or not, the woman can still give me pause with the shout of "Neil-Edward-Golemo!" or even worse, the dreaded phrase: "wait til your father comes home."
So why is this? Is there a magic line somewhere between Waco and Hamilton wherein none of my maturity may pass? Maybe it's the cartoonish Jesus Christ billboard sign reading "This Blood's for you" somewhere in Missouri...
In this house, I can be myself. I know love like everyone should know, free of strings attached and clauses or conditions. Yes, my house is a verbal minefield. But it is only so because I know there is no action upon this earth that I could ever commit for which my family hasn't already forgiven me. I know this, and so does my family. Ben can be grumpy and we'll only laugh and try to make him smile. My dad can yell and we'll only let him feel like he's the boss. Kate can be sarcastic and we'll marvel at her wit. Beth can be dramatic, and we'll play along. Mom can nag and, with rolled eyes, we'll comply. And I can completely disregard everyone's feelings and they will only continue to bless me by listening to rambling story after rambling story after rambling story after rambling story...
Hamilton is no longer my home, but it will always be the place to which I return. It would be a horrible place for me to live, but it will always be an amazing place to have been from. However this house will always feel like love, and the people who live there -if only for a couple of weeks a year- will always hold my heart.
Right now, it's 12:35 AM on a very young Christmas Eve. The living room is dark save for a touch-lamp we have to turn on/off by twisting the bulb in and out in the far corner of the room, and the soft glow of the white lights on the Christmas tree "that's going to be classy for once, damnit." This old house is quiet, but not lonely. Dark, but not cold. Upstairs, my brother and sisters have settled for their slumber, and I am up, thinking about how blessed I am to have had my life flavored by them. I can hear my parents chatting, the two best friends, as they always have. Genuine tears come to my eyes, as I drop to my knees and thank the Lord for the five greatest gifts a fella's ever been given.
They say Christmas is a time of miracles. Amen, Jimmy Stewart. Amen.
"MOOOOOOOOOOM! Ben's in the Army!"
What is it about being around my family that brings out the pre-pubescent in me? I'm a college student -no, a graduate student. I've supposedly grown up since being an undergrad (all of 4 months ago). So how is it that I can go from writing 20 pages of pure genius on "The Language of Mediocrity in Higher Education: Being the Second best Italian Restaurant in Town" to finding myself in "time out" at the age of 23?
For 11 months of the year, I am an expert in conflict resolution. It is what I do. As a CL, I kept the towel-snapping and late-night pillow-fights to a bare minimum. As a Graduate Assistant with Baylor Student-Athlete Services, (take a moment to genuflect) it is my job, at times, to calmly explain to a 250lb+ offensive lineman that playing with the exposed wires from a light switch fixture that's being worked upon really isn't such a good idea and perhaps his time would be better spent studying for his English final.
So how is it that at the first "Nerdo Neilie-Wheelie!" from my older sister, my fists are balled and I'm showing off the latest in cursing terminology?
But its not all so bad. Being able to hug my mom at any moment is pretty sweet. I swear, everytime still, when I smell the woman, I'm 7 again and curled up in her lap. And believe it or not, the woman can still give me pause with the shout of "Neil-Edward-Golemo!" or even worse, the dreaded phrase: "wait til your father comes home."
So why is this? Is there a magic line somewhere between Waco and Hamilton wherein none of my maturity may pass? Maybe it's the cartoonish Jesus Christ billboard sign reading "This Blood's for you" somewhere in Missouri...
In this house, I can be myself. I know love like everyone should know, free of strings attached and clauses or conditions. Yes, my house is a verbal minefield. But it is only so because I know there is no action upon this earth that I could ever commit for which my family hasn't already forgiven me. I know this, and so does my family. Ben can be grumpy and we'll only laugh and try to make him smile. My dad can yell and we'll only let him feel like he's the boss. Kate can be sarcastic and we'll marvel at her wit. Beth can be dramatic, and we'll play along. Mom can nag and, with rolled eyes, we'll comply. And I can completely disregard everyone's feelings and they will only continue to bless me by listening to rambling story after rambling story after rambling story after rambling story...
Hamilton is no longer my home, but it will always be the place to which I return. It would be a horrible place for me to live, but it will always be an amazing place to have been from. However this house will always feel like love, and the people who live there -if only for a couple of weeks a year- will always hold my heart.
Right now, it's 12:35 AM on a very young Christmas Eve. The living room is dark save for a touch-lamp we have to turn on/off by twisting the bulb in and out in the far corner of the room, and the soft glow of the white lights on the Christmas tree "that's going to be classy for once, damnit." This old house is quiet, but not lonely. Dark, but not cold. Upstairs, my brother and sisters have settled for their slumber, and I am up, thinking about how blessed I am to have had my life flavored by them. I can hear my parents chatting, the two best friends, as they always have. Genuine tears come to my eyes, as I drop to my knees and thank the Lord for the five greatest gifts a fella's ever been given.
They say Christmas is a time of miracles. Amen, Jimmy Stewart. Amen.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Drop it like it's Hot
Dancing in public is a different animal from the creature that is dancing at home, in private, putting on a show for nothing more than the potted plants. I love music, and as my roommate can probably attest, I will occasionally shake my bon-bon to a particularly rockin' piece of music. However, I usually will respect a dancefloor enough to avoid it as though it were a pool of lava.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not ashamed of myself or of my body... ask anyone, I'm plenty proud of it. I guess my reluctance to dance at social gatherings has more to do with respect. I'm not a good dancer. When I dance, its best described as looking like a combination of the floor being really hot with a lot of gnats flying around my head while I'm trying to contemplate a really hard calculus problem. (There is no spoon.) Sigh. So, for the good of those who might risk being hit by an errant, spastic hand, I usually refrain.
However, not tonight.
For some reason or other, tonight I throw caution to the wind. And this time, when someone says "hey Neil, come dance!" I don't fight the urge. My hand doesn't come up in protest. I just go with it. Yes, yes ladies and gents, I proceed to shake what my mamma gave me. I quake my "ga-dunk-a-dunk" and proceed to drop it as though it were exceedingly warm. Its how I roll, baby, holla at ya boy.
As I danced, as I realized how much fun it is to move with pure, unadulterated joy, I actually began to wonder how this was such an amazing metaphor for life. I know the whole "Dance" analogy has been totally played out, but perhaps you'll forgive me a reprisal of this oldie. I promise not to remix it and sample it and Britney spears it. I'll do it acoustic, like a surprise Simon and Garfunkel cover by a rock band. Everyone loves Simon and Garfunkel.
Y'know, not everyone dances so well. And some of us, well, we were just blessed with the happy feet. Well, the way I see it, you can do two things. You can sit and watch or you can get in the mix. You can throw your hat in the ring and play your hand. It doesn't matter how good or bad you are, because you see, the truest beauty of this dance is that we do it together. It doesn't matter how spastic you are or how graceful your vogue is. The joy is in just that itself, finding joy. And I believe true, pure joy can never be a bad thing.
The Lord wants us to dance, people. Sure, we're going to step on toes, (see picture below) but then again people are going to step on ours. And as I always say when someone steps on my feet, "its okay, I walk on them too."
So lets dance, people. Drop it like its hot.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not ashamed of myself or of my body... ask anyone, I'm plenty proud of it. I guess my reluctance to dance at social gatherings has more to do with respect. I'm not a good dancer. When I dance, its best described as looking like a combination of the floor being really hot with a lot of gnats flying around my head while I'm trying to contemplate a really hard calculus problem. (There is no spoon.) Sigh. So, for the good of those who might risk being hit by an errant, spastic hand, I usually refrain.
However, not tonight.
For some reason or other, tonight I throw caution to the wind. And this time, when someone says "hey Neil, come dance!" I don't fight the urge. My hand doesn't come up in protest. I just go with it. Yes, yes ladies and gents, I proceed to shake what my mamma gave me. I quake my "ga-dunk-a-dunk" and proceed to drop it as though it were exceedingly warm. Its how I roll, baby, holla at ya boy.
As I danced, as I realized how much fun it is to move with pure, unadulterated joy, I actually began to wonder how this was such an amazing metaphor for life. I know the whole "Dance" analogy has been totally played out, but perhaps you'll forgive me a reprisal of this oldie. I promise not to remix it and sample it and Britney spears it. I'll do it acoustic, like a surprise Simon and Garfunkel cover by a rock band. Everyone loves Simon and Garfunkel.
Y'know, not everyone dances so well. And some of us, well, we were just blessed with the happy feet. Well, the way I see it, you can do two things. You can sit and watch or you can get in the mix. You can throw your hat in the ring and play your hand. It doesn't matter how good or bad you are, because you see, the truest beauty of this dance is that we do it together. It doesn't matter how spastic you are or how graceful your vogue is. The joy is in just that itself, finding joy. And I believe true, pure joy can never be a bad thing.
The Lord wants us to dance, people. Sure, we're going to step on toes, (see picture below) but then again people are going to step on ours. And as I always say when someone steps on my feet, "its okay, I walk on them too."
So lets dance, people. Drop it like its hot.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
The younger Golemo boy...
I miss my brother. That's his picture below. He's currently going to college on the Government Buck at the presigious West Point. Oh my, the things he must be learning...
Sunday, December 05, 2004
On Balls of Gas...
So the stars are out tonight... kinda.
I'm amazed at how, even in our 3D, hyperactive, image driven, smell-o-vision, now available in high definition culture, the stars are able to not only catch our attention, but grab it. Hold it. When I look at the stars, I can't help but think. It doesn't matter what I think about, I just think. And I imagine that's the way it's always been.
I'll spare you the references to ancient history, the Greeks, the Romans, etc, etc, etc. But everyone has looked at the stars and thought. Its this force that manages to touch that ticklish part of our hearts. That part where dreams and crazy thoughts hide, abide and grow strong. Its like we know that if its possible for these lights to just hang there, free of glue and nails, then maybe anything really is possible. The unconditional Love of Christ. Half off everything at Best Buy. My finding True Love. A Chicago Cubs World Series Game 7 Win.
Maybe its something else. Maybe its that I look at all of those stars and as I start to count them I realize there's more than I ever begin to numerate. There's something scary about the realization that infinitely, the closer I look, the more there are.
Its like the time when my brother and I had a water balloon fight in our front yard. (it was great so anti-climactic at the beginning because we only had one faucet that could fill the balloons, so we'd have to take turns using it... looking at each other... giggling... okay me giggling, while my brother would frown in frustration and wonder what I was so excited about... "We get wet all the time Neil") Immediately after discovering what we had done, my Mom gave us a stern speech on "loving Mother earth" when she realized we hadn't picked up every piece of shattered water balloon. As we started to search the yard, we would notice the big pieces with the knot at the end easily. But when we bent down to grab those pieces, we'd notice smaller pieces, then slivers off of those pieces, then we'd notice other things like tootsie roll wrappers, the parts of the icee-slid-up popsicles that you bite off and spit out, tons of little things. Before of you knew it, you'd have a handful of stuff and only a small part of the yard had been searched. A genuine feeling of fear and panic would arise and make me promise never to throw another water balloon. At least not until we could go to Ryan Muegge's house. His mom'd let us do anything.
Sigh... exhausting analogy.
But back to my point. When I look at a sky full of stars, I the idea of complete insignificance coming from comparison [of me and it] collides with knowing that there's a God out there who, in fact, made this all for me. Yeah sure, he made it for everyone else too, but c'mon, I love the notion that he made it so that he and I could share the notion I'm having right now. He wants me and him to share inside jokes.
When I'm laying on the crest of a hill on a blanket staring up at the stars, my peripheral view doesn't allow me to see the horizon so all I can see is Sky. Navy-blue-black sky with dots here and there. If the air is right, its like I'm floating. Its one of the rare times I like to be alone.
Its a strange thing to gaze upon something and know its the closest you'll ever come to viewing infinity. Sometimes its just too much for the mind to process and I am truly full of awe.
If you have a spare night, do what I did tonight and drive up I-35 for 20 minutes to exit 353 (TX 2114 East), and drive for another 5 (if you go 1.7 miles, there'll be a road on your left called "Mechell"), go for another mile and you'll be on the top of a hill. Get out and sit on the hood of the chariot that got you there. Enjoy.
There's minutes wasted, but a piece of mind to be gained.
I'm amazed at how, even in our 3D, hyperactive, image driven, smell-o-vision, now available in high definition culture, the stars are able to not only catch our attention, but grab it. Hold it. When I look at the stars, I can't help but think. It doesn't matter what I think about, I just think. And I imagine that's the way it's always been.
I'll spare you the references to ancient history, the Greeks, the Romans, etc, etc, etc. But everyone has looked at the stars and thought. Its this force that manages to touch that ticklish part of our hearts. That part where dreams and crazy thoughts hide, abide and grow strong. Its like we know that if its possible for these lights to just hang there, free of glue and nails, then maybe anything really is possible. The unconditional Love of Christ. Half off everything at Best Buy. My finding True Love. A Chicago Cubs World Series Game 7 Win.
Maybe its something else. Maybe its that I look at all of those stars and as I start to count them I realize there's more than I ever begin to numerate. There's something scary about the realization that infinitely, the closer I look, the more there are.
Its like the time when my brother and I had a water balloon fight in our front yard. (it was great so anti-climactic at the beginning because we only had one faucet that could fill the balloons, so we'd have to take turns using it... looking at each other... giggling... okay me giggling, while my brother would frown in frustration and wonder what I was so excited about... "We get wet all the time Neil") Immediately after discovering what we had done, my Mom gave us a stern speech on "loving Mother earth" when she realized we hadn't picked up every piece of shattered water balloon. As we started to search the yard, we would notice the big pieces with the knot at the end easily. But when we bent down to grab those pieces, we'd notice smaller pieces, then slivers off of those pieces, then we'd notice other things like tootsie roll wrappers, the parts of the icee-slid-up popsicles that you bite off and spit out, tons of little things. Before of you knew it, you'd have a handful of stuff and only a small part of the yard had been searched. A genuine feeling of fear and panic would arise and make me promise never to throw another water balloon. At least not until we could go to Ryan Muegge's house. His mom'd let us do anything.
Sigh... exhausting analogy.
But back to my point. When I look at a sky full of stars, I the idea of complete insignificance coming from comparison [of me and it] collides with knowing that there's a God out there who, in fact, made this all for me. Yeah sure, he made it for everyone else too, but c'mon, I love the notion that he made it so that he and I could share the notion I'm having right now. He wants me and him to share inside jokes.
When I'm laying on the crest of a hill on a blanket staring up at the stars, my peripheral view doesn't allow me to see the horizon so all I can see is Sky. Navy-blue-black sky with dots here and there. If the air is right, its like I'm floating. Its one of the rare times I like to be alone.
Its a strange thing to gaze upon something and know its the closest you'll ever come to viewing infinity. Sometimes its just too much for the mind to process and I am truly full of awe.
If you have a spare night, do what I did tonight and drive up I-35 for 20 minutes to exit 353 (TX 2114 East), and drive for another 5 (if you go 1.7 miles, there'll be a road on your left called "Mechell"), go for another mile and you'll be on the top of a hill. Get out and sit on the hood of the chariot that got you there. Enjoy.
There's minutes wasted, but a piece of mind to be gained.
Saturday, December 04, 2004
Lost the Found
Today I did it. I removed every piece of Erin from my room. Most of the stuff, the pictures, the candy, the birthday present package of Hershey's Kisses wrapped in a blush bow, these things were removed respectfully, one at a time, within a couple days of our last talk.
However, today, I removed that last worldly reminder of her former presence in my life. The razor she left in my shower. I could write a bajillion different ways that razor could be a metaphor for the ending of our relationship. But, honestly, none of them would fit.
I've gone on with my life. I haven't shed a tear. I imagine most people I know have any idea we're not talking anymore. I'm happy. My life is, undeniably, blessed.
For the last couple of weeks, I've enjoyed all life has to offer. I've commiserated with those near to me, and I've been home to spend time with those most dear to me. The world has reminded me how good a place it is, and that it loves me.
But now that I've put a little distance between the cup and the lip, Erin and me, I have some time to think and maybe lament a bit over my actions or lack thereof... whatever. I'll spare you the results of my self-examination.
But you know, we say things sometimes when we're in relationships. You can call it "pillow talk, baby" if you'd like, but that comes with a sexual connotation most that my words, as well as those of many of my friends, don't deserve. They're rubber cement words. Sometimes we say things hoping that they'll be true; as if the act of releasing them into the air will help them to substantiate and solidify.
But I really don't think such was the case with Erin. I really thought I was in love with her. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. How would I know anyway? Have I ever been in love? Isn't it kind of cocky for people to say they "know" they've been in love? How can you really know until you, well... know?
I don't know. But one thing I do know is that I don't think you ever stop feeling for people. Even if you only love them a little -if there is such a thing- I never lose some of those feelings for people. I will always feel I have a vested interest in Haley Dowdall's life, even though she clearly chose Justin Hamilton over me behind the see-saw in 1st grade. I had feelings for her then, and while the Flintstones' vitamins haven't helped my emotions for her to grow quite as much as they helped my ol' temple, they haven't really diminished them, either.
But I really thought things were different with Erin. I mean, I know they were different from anything I'd ever felt before. I was calm in my excitement at talking to her. She was a woman who could have been my best friend and more. She'd the rare mix of personality that could handle me and beauty that could enthrall me. I thought I'd found her. Sigh, but there's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, they say. And I guess I've not found my find afterall.
I've been rejected. Plain and simple. But then again, I know who I am. I'm a catch, dammit. And I know this. I'm a good person, future professional, hopeless romantic with a lot of hope and the kind of guy who wants to coach his kid's little league baseball team... someday. I know I'm a great guy and have tons to offer. But that means these women must be crazy, right? So why do I end up with all the psychos? But then I looked at it empirically. The color drained out of my face as I held my cup of hot tea when I realized that the only consistency in all of my relationships was ME.
So, does that make me the crazy one?
I was talking to Mary the other day and I realized that everyone's a little insane. Sometimes when two people get together, their craziness's add and can become explosive. Maybe what we need is to find someone who cancels out your crazy. An electron for your proton. But even then, orbits can get messed up by factors like maturity, timing, law school and parents.
Love -no, relationships- are like a bar of soap. They're slippery as hell. And if you ever want to get any use out of them, you've got to hold them gently, enjoy them, and understand that, sometimes, they're just bound to escape your grasp. So it goes, as Vonnegut would say.
I'm frustrated with Love right now. But me saying "I'm frustrated with love" is kind of like Paul Bunyan looking out at a forrest and saying the trees tire him out. It's what we do.
I'm going to find my someone. I might have found her already. But until then, I'll sit and dream and praise the Lord for that person worth my prayers.
Last "Quiet, Lovely" concert. Tonight. Scruffy Murphy's. 10 O'clizzy.
However, today, I removed that last worldly reminder of her former presence in my life. The razor she left in my shower. I could write a bajillion different ways that razor could be a metaphor for the ending of our relationship. But, honestly, none of them would fit.
I've gone on with my life. I haven't shed a tear. I imagine most people I know have any idea we're not talking anymore. I'm happy. My life is, undeniably, blessed.
For the last couple of weeks, I've enjoyed all life has to offer. I've commiserated with those near to me, and I've been home to spend time with those most dear to me. The world has reminded me how good a place it is, and that it loves me.
But now that I've put a little distance between the cup and the lip, Erin and me, I have some time to think and maybe lament a bit over my actions or lack thereof... whatever. I'll spare you the results of my self-examination.
But you know, we say things sometimes when we're in relationships. You can call it "pillow talk, baby" if you'd like, but that comes with a sexual connotation most that my words, as well as those of many of my friends, don't deserve. They're rubber cement words. Sometimes we say things hoping that they'll be true; as if the act of releasing them into the air will help them to substantiate and solidify.
But I really don't think such was the case with Erin. I really thought I was in love with her. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't. How would I know anyway? Have I ever been in love? Isn't it kind of cocky for people to say they "know" they've been in love? How can you really know until you, well... know?
I don't know. But one thing I do know is that I don't think you ever stop feeling for people. Even if you only love them a little -if there is such a thing- I never lose some of those feelings for people. I will always feel I have a vested interest in Haley Dowdall's life, even though she clearly chose Justin Hamilton over me behind the see-saw in 1st grade. I had feelings for her then, and while the Flintstones' vitamins haven't helped my emotions for her to grow quite as much as they helped my ol' temple, they haven't really diminished them, either.
But I really thought things were different with Erin. I mean, I know they were different from anything I'd ever felt before. I was calm in my excitement at talking to her. She was a woman who could have been my best friend and more. She'd the rare mix of personality that could handle me and beauty that could enthrall me. I thought I'd found her. Sigh, but there's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip, they say. And I guess I've not found my find afterall.
I've been rejected. Plain and simple. But then again, I know who I am. I'm a catch, dammit. And I know this. I'm a good person, future professional, hopeless romantic with a lot of hope and the kind of guy who wants to coach his kid's little league baseball team... someday. I know I'm a great guy and have tons to offer. But that means these women must be crazy, right? So why do I end up with all the psychos? But then I looked at it empirically. The color drained out of my face as I held my cup of hot tea when I realized that the only consistency in all of my relationships was ME.
So, does that make me the crazy one?
I was talking to Mary the other day and I realized that everyone's a little insane. Sometimes when two people get together, their craziness's add and can become explosive. Maybe what we need is to find someone who cancels out your crazy. An electron for your proton. But even then, orbits can get messed up by factors like maturity, timing, law school and parents.
Love -no, relationships- are like a bar of soap. They're slippery as hell. And if you ever want to get any use out of them, you've got to hold them gently, enjoy them, and understand that, sometimes, they're just bound to escape your grasp. So it goes, as Vonnegut would say.
I'm frustrated with Love right now. But me saying "I'm frustrated with love" is kind of like Paul Bunyan looking out at a forrest and saying the trees tire him out. It's what we do.
I'm going to find my someone. I might have found her already. But until then, I'll sit and dream and praise the Lord for that person worth my prayers.
Last "Quiet, Lovely" concert. Tonight. Scruffy Murphy's. 10 O'clizzy.
Thursday, December 02, 2004
A treatise on "quaint"
quaint ( P ) Pronunciation Key (kwnt)
adj. Quaint·er, quaint·est
1. Charmingly odd, especially in an old-fashioned way.
2. Unfamiliar or unusual in character; strange: quaint dialect words. See Synonyms at strange.
3. Cleverly made; artful.
I miss my parents. I miss the smell of my old house. As much as this 23 year-old knows he should repress, he cannot help but feel a genuine sense of... well... genuine-ness when he walks crosses the threshold of the place in which he grew up.
I remember how endless the banister used to seem when I was sliding down it in my sleeper pajamas. Old family paintings that used to be haunted are now just dusty. But, I still swear that arms are about reach out from the space under the basement stairs (where the bodies are stashed) and grab an unsuspecting quarter-Sicilian, quarter-Pollock, eighth Irish, but all-stud ankle one of these days.
There's something about the smell of the French bread my mom bakes and the grunts that spew forth from my father's throat at the mess she makes; though we all know the only reason he's chosen that exact moment to clean the "command center" is because he wants to be in the same room as my mother. There's something about those moments! There's something about home that makes it easier to get through the hard times. Its like home, my mom, my pappa-cho, dog (that can tell my mother's footsteps and knows to get down off the couch before he gets yelled at), two beautiful sisters and not-so-little brother are this base-line for my life, a rock-bottom foundation, the north star from which I know I'll be able to find my way.
Home is my chain-smoking Aunt Teresa (we call her "Aunt Tar") who lives with the white-haired matriarch of the family, my super-Catholic Grandma Veith. Home is my always teary-eyed, Aunt Loretta, and my seven cousins. Zach with his always uncouth -yet extremely hilarious- stories, usually involving some combination his bodily functions, a girl, Brett Farve and beer. Ah, Shorty! There's my always-disapproving (usually with reason) cousin Erica, the overprotective Monica, her husband Steve and their progeny, Aedan, who try to fight the urge to laugh with an aire of disdain.
Home is driving by my old High School and wondering what all the fuss was about.
But now, Home is also seeing the gilded dome of Pat Neff Hall over the shoulder of Judge Baylor's statue. It's seeing young couples necking on the path through the North Village. Home is the courtyard of Brooks Hall, where I've lost myself and found myself. Home is the "tink" of frosty brews with friends like Eric and Myles. Holla at ya boy!
These things, they're familiar in their quirkiness. They're sort of old-fashioned but great. They are beautiful, and artfully done. They are, in a word, "quaint."
So you see, Stace, -may I call you "Stace"?- your words, your sweet innocence, your delicious sublimity, your utter honesty, they're masterfully done to me. Stace, when I imagine you, holding plastic bags, the hard-fought day-before-Thanksgiving contents straining against the handles and digging into your hands, standing in front of a red-haired, feisty mother doubled over in laughter at the sight of your scrunched eyebrows, wrinkled nose and the corners of your mouth turned down with frustration, its like home-made French bread being wafted in front of my nose. I don't think "quaint" is such a bad thing, hopefully you no longer do either.
Thanks, Stacey, it was great talking to me, wasn't it? Hopefully, you'll deign to do so again soon.
adj. Quaint·er, quaint·est
1. Charmingly odd, especially in an old-fashioned way.
2. Unfamiliar or unusual in character; strange: quaint dialect words. See Synonyms at strange.
3. Cleverly made; artful.
I miss my parents. I miss the smell of my old house. As much as this 23 year-old knows he should repress, he cannot help but feel a genuine sense of... well... genuine-ness when he walks crosses the threshold of the place in which he grew up.
I remember how endless the banister used to seem when I was sliding down it in my sleeper pajamas. Old family paintings that used to be haunted are now just dusty. But, I still swear that arms are about reach out from the space under the basement stairs (where the bodies are stashed) and grab an unsuspecting quarter-Sicilian, quarter-Pollock, eighth Irish, but all-stud ankle one of these days.
There's something about the smell of the French bread my mom bakes and the grunts that spew forth from my father's throat at the mess she makes; though we all know the only reason he's chosen that exact moment to clean the "command center" is because he wants to be in the same room as my mother. There's something about those moments! There's something about home that makes it easier to get through the hard times. Its like home, my mom, my pappa-cho, dog (that can tell my mother's footsteps and knows to get down off the couch before he gets yelled at), two beautiful sisters and not-so-little brother are this base-line for my life, a rock-bottom foundation, the north star from which I know I'll be able to find my way.
Home is my chain-smoking Aunt Teresa (we call her "Aunt Tar") who lives with the white-haired matriarch of the family, my super-Catholic Grandma Veith. Home is my always teary-eyed, Aunt Loretta, and my seven cousins. Zach with his always uncouth -yet extremely hilarious- stories, usually involving some combination his bodily functions, a girl, Brett Farve and beer. Ah, Shorty! There's my always-disapproving (usually with reason) cousin Erica, the overprotective Monica, her husband Steve and their progeny, Aedan, who try to fight the urge to laugh with an aire of disdain.
Home is driving by my old High School and wondering what all the fuss was about.
But now, Home is also seeing the gilded dome of Pat Neff Hall over the shoulder of Judge Baylor's statue. It's seeing young couples necking on the path through the North Village. Home is the courtyard of Brooks Hall, where I've lost myself and found myself. Home is the "tink" of frosty brews with friends like Eric and Myles. Holla at ya boy!
These things, they're familiar in their quirkiness. They're sort of old-fashioned but great. They are beautiful, and artfully done. They are, in a word, "quaint."
So you see, Stace, -may I call you "Stace"?- your words, your sweet innocence, your delicious sublimity, your utter honesty, they're masterfully done to me. Stace, when I imagine you, holding plastic bags, the hard-fought day-before-Thanksgiving contents straining against the handles and digging into your hands, standing in front of a red-haired, feisty mother doubled over in laughter at the sight of your scrunched eyebrows, wrinkled nose and the corners of your mouth turned down with frustration, its like home-made French bread being wafted in front of my nose. I don't think "quaint" is such a bad thing, hopefully you no longer do either.
Thanks, Stacey, it was great talking to me, wasn't it? Hopefully, you'll deign to do so again soon.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
[My Ghosts] Re-published for Myles
The most painful memories of my life are evoked by the mere mentioning of the words “Cardinal Glennon Children’s Hospital”, and now I’m entering that very place. It’s been almost five years since I’ve been here. Its prodigal son returns.
My ears begin to tingle with familiarity as I step onto the worn out pressure sensor mats in front of the automatic doors. I can see the inner hallway through the fencing reinforced plexiglass of the inner doors. I steel myself.
As I step through the entrance into the hallway, I notice the sea-foam colored tile that lines the hall and the same pastel pattern that borders along its edge. Only now, it’s seems lower. Have I grown that much?
I make my way, almost on auto-pilot, to the elevator. I notice, with a grin, how the arrow that points up still blinks with irregularity.
“Oops, my bad.”: says the orderly as he bumps me with his cart full of urine samples and the like.
“De nada.”: I mumble as I follow him onto the lift.
My finger finds the button for the ninth floor even though the number is scratched and appears now to be just a sloppy “3". I push it until it’s illuminated a pale orange.
It’s just the orderly and me now. We both smile and nod as we attempt a witty reparte’ while we wait. At the “ding” of the bell, I step off as I wish the orderly a good day.
The ninth floor. The Oncology ward. As I walk towards the door, my legs begin to feel like I’ve just run a marathon. They’re tired and heavy. I reach out a clumsy hand towards the cold metal of the doorhandle. My fingertips are surprised to feel a warmth in that seemingly heartless piece of steel.
As I open the door my nostrils flare as they are assaulted with the smell of the antiseptic cleaner used to clean up vomit. I, as Pavlov’s dogs salivated at the sound of a bell, have associated that unctuous odor with vomit and begin to get that bitter taste in the back of my mouth that touches the sides of your tongue right before you puke. My eyes dart around the hallway searching for a trash can. Not finding one, I run back through the doors and out of the Cancer ward, my heart racing.
I sit down in the corner of that hallway and put my head between my knees in a futile attempt to make that feeling of fear and anxiety subside. Throwing up would be a release.
Standing up and ignoring my own lightheadedness I step to the door, draw it open and attack the entrance. I step through it with all the will I can muster. As I look down the hallway, I observe a frayed knot of action. Nurses are walking stiff-legged with urgency from room to room, alcove to alcove.
As I start to move down the hall, I feel more like the hall is moving around me. I look down at my feet moving step ahead of step. It’s like I’m watching someone else’s feet. My breath tightens as I look through the crack of an opening door.
I see a child sitting on a table. I feel my stomach tense as his blue eyes lock with mine. His head is bald and lumpy resembling (though I hate to say it) a potato. Through the crack of the door, I can see the patches of gossamer hair that cling to his head in clumps. I see how on his arm is a board; and in his wrist is a needle, an I.V., a heparin lock.
In his eyes I can see a strength beyond his stature. As they hold me in their grip, I see a determination, a will greater than I can understand, a fire. He lays his head in his mother’s lap, and I can see him no more through that crack in the door.
As the hallway begins again to pass by me, I run, quite literally, into a little girl. She too, has the gaunt figures that remind me of sights I’ve seen only in National Geographic Magazine of starving Ethiopian children. But there is no emptiness in her eyes. I hear her squeal with delight as she races along the pathway and skids around the corner with her I.V. pole in tow. Her pink bathrobe with Barbie monogrammed on the back fluttering along after her.
I run after her. I want to see where she’s going. But when I turn the corner, my smile fades. I remember this place. It’s a cul de sac of a hallway; a giant “u”. It’s the infusion area. This is the place I remember all too well. This is the place I’ve been trying to forget. This hallway is more of a big room with little alcoves along the outside wall that surround a nurse’s post. Each little “room” has a bed, a tv, a chair for the parents, a pole for the medication, and a curtain for privacy.
As I walk through the hallway, I hear screams of pain. I can hear the children cry to their mothers “mommy, make it stop! I’ll be good, I promise!” My nose begins to drip and my eyes start to well and itch. In with the pleadings of the child I hear the alto sobbings of the mother: “I’m so sorry baby, I’m so sorry.” I go to this room, and I peek around the curtain to see the child laying down with another board held on by clear adhesive medical tape to his arm. It’s the boy I saw earlier. Wincing in pain, he once again lays his head in his mother’s lap. She strokes his lumpy head and begins to sing in a deep, melancholy voice:
"Summertime, and the livin’ is easy...” Instantly there is silence; silence, save for that sweet sound seeming to saturate every pore of my soul.
I look at the little boy. The pain has not left his face though his tears have stopped. I see all motion leave his face. My tears flowing, I close the curtain.
My ears begin to tingle with familiarity as I step onto the worn out pressure sensor mats in front of the automatic doors. I can see the inner hallway through the fencing reinforced plexiglass of the inner doors. I steel myself.
As I step through the entrance into the hallway, I notice the sea-foam colored tile that lines the hall and the same pastel pattern that borders along its edge. Only now, it’s seems lower. Have I grown that much?
I make my way, almost on auto-pilot, to the elevator. I notice, with a grin, how the arrow that points up still blinks with irregularity.
“Oops, my bad.”: says the orderly as he bumps me with his cart full of urine samples and the like.
“De nada.”: I mumble as I follow him onto the lift.
My finger finds the button for the ninth floor even though the number is scratched and appears now to be just a sloppy “3". I push it until it’s illuminated a pale orange.
It’s just the orderly and me now. We both smile and nod as we attempt a witty reparte’ while we wait. At the “ding” of the bell, I step off as I wish the orderly a good day.
The ninth floor. The Oncology ward. As I walk towards the door, my legs begin to feel like I’ve just run a marathon. They’re tired and heavy. I reach out a clumsy hand towards the cold metal of the doorhandle. My fingertips are surprised to feel a warmth in that seemingly heartless piece of steel.
As I open the door my nostrils flare as they are assaulted with the smell of the antiseptic cleaner used to clean up vomit. I, as Pavlov’s dogs salivated at the sound of a bell, have associated that unctuous odor with vomit and begin to get that bitter taste in the back of my mouth that touches the sides of your tongue right before you puke. My eyes dart around the hallway searching for a trash can. Not finding one, I run back through the doors and out of the Cancer ward, my heart racing.
I sit down in the corner of that hallway and put my head between my knees in a futile attempt to make that feeling of fear and anxiety subside. Throwing up would be a release.
Standing up and ignoring my own lightheadedness I step to the door, draw it open and attack the entrance. I step through it with all the will I can muster. As I look down the hallway, I observe a frayed knot of action. Nurses are walking stiff-legged with urgency from room to room, alcove to alcove.
As I start to move down the hall, I feel more like the hall is moving around me. I look down at my feet moving step ahead of step. It’s like I’m watching someone else’s feet. My breath tightens as I look through the crack of an opening door.
I see a child sitting on a table. I feel my stomach tense as his blue eyes lock with mine. His head is bald and lumpy resembling (though I hate to say it) a potato. Through the crack of the door, I can see the patches of gossamer hair that cling to his head in clumps. I see how on his arm is a board; and in his wrist is a needle, an I.V., a heparin lock.
In his eyes I can see a strength beyond his stature. As they hold me in their grip, I see a determination, a will greater than I can understand, a fire. He lays his head in his mother’s lap, and I can see him no more through that crack in the door.
As the hallway begins again to pass by me, I run, quite literally, into a little girl. She too, has the gaunt figures that remind me of sights I’ve seen only in National Geographic Magazine of starving Ethiopian children. But there is no emptiness in her eyes. I hear her squeal with delight as she races along the pathway and skids around the corner with her I.V. pole in tow. Her pink bathrobe with Barbie monogrammed on the back fluttering along after her.
I run after her. I want to see where she’s going. But when I turn the corner, my smile fades. I remember this place. It’s a cul de sac of a hallway; a giant “u”. It’s the infusion area. This is the place I remember all too well. This is the place I’ve been trying to forget. This hallway is more of a big room with little alcoves along the outside wall that surround a nurse’s post. Each little “room” has a bed, a tv, a chair for the parents, a pole for the medication, and a curtain for privacy.
As I walk through the hallway, I hear screams of pain. I can hear the children cry to their mothers “mommy, make it stop! I’ll be good, I promise!” My nose begins to drip and my eyes start to well and itch. In with the pleadings of the child I hear the alto sobbings of the mother: “I’m so sorry baby, I’m so sorry.” I go to this room, and I peek around the curtain to see the child laying down with another board held on by clear adhesive medical tape to his arm. It’s the boy I saw earlier. Wincing in pain, he once again lays his head in his mother’s lap. She strokes his lumpy head and begins to sing in a deep, melancholy voice:
"Summertime, and the livin’ is easy...” Instantly there is silence; silence, save for that sweet sound seeming to saturate every pore of my soul.
I look at the little boy. The pain has not left his face though his tears have stopped. I see all motion leave his face. My tears flowing, I close the curtain.
Republished for the lovely and "quaint", Miss Stacey {Does being nothing special make you special?}
Origionally published: August 16th, 2004
I wasn't going to go. I didn't really want to go. I felt like being there would somehow be betraying my friends and family. Like going to the movie you told a friend earlier in the day you didn't want to see.
So as I was clapping and cheering for numerous of my friends as they received their diplomas from President Sloan last Saturday, I did my best to yell in such way that wouldn't get me noticed. Its kind of contrary to the whole purpose of yelling, I guess. But we tend to suspend logic in situations where it isn't welcome.
I was able to avoid any real pangs of guilt until I perused the Commencement Program and discovered my name.
Elizabeth Anne Goble
Neil Edward Golemo
Miguel Gonzalez
I recently had a conversation with a dear friend. She felt the need to inform me of how "hard it is to be your friend".
Apparently, and I'm doing my best to recreate words she used, it is hard to be friends with me because I'm perfect. I'm smart. I'm funny. I'm well-read. I have high moral standards. I'm devoted to my family. I love children. I laugh at everything. I'm in a good place with the Lord but not complacent. I can sing. I'm an excellent cook. I'm courteous and romantic. I have a "way of making myself the center of attention". I'm "one of the most confident people" she's ever met.
And supposedly all of these things make me perfect, thus intimidating.
What in the hell?
Immediately I questioned how well this girl could have ever felt she knew me if she could honestly think of me as "perfect". I don't see how she could have a conversation with me and not take note of my arrogance. I'm not perfect. I'm nothing if not completely and utterly flawed.
I found myself growing angry with her. I'm nothing. If I have any worth its because of blessings given to me by the Lord. I know this. Obviously, she has not the audience with my thoughts that I enjoy. But she should know me better than that. I don't really trust many people, but I had trusted her. I'd been honest with her. How dare she think me superior to her. Its flagrant misuse of the word "perfect" that degrades the word and superlatives as a whole. Damn, I was mad.
I'm nothing special. I'm just a pudgy, socially deft yet relationally inept connoisseur of Chicago area baseball clubs trying to find my christian way through the media-driven wasteland that is our world.
Wait.
Do I really believe that? Do I really think that I'm not special? Don't we all truly believe that we, alone, are the center of the universe? We've all entertained the thought from time to time that maybe this life is, quite literally, a dream from which we could wake up at any moment. Who hasn't watched The Truman Show and not wondered "what if our reality was merely someone else's media? How real is our world?
Or in the Christian identity sense, don't we all have a personal relationship with Christ? Is it not the idea of a Lord that knows every hair on my head that comforts us like a warm quilt? The idea that I am in possession of some trait(s) that sets me apart from every other soul existing, existed, or yet to exist makes me feel, well, special.
So as I was defending my own mediocrity, I started to wonder why I was fighting it. Yeah, she was wrong. But why was I fighting it? Was I simply trying to avoid the hubris of which I'm very susceptible?
I don't want to be intimidating. I don't want to be ashamed of who I am. And I'm not. I know I have (many) faults, but I'm not ashamed of them either. The other day, I was watching "the great biker build-off" on TLC. I'm addicted to these Chopper series. But one of the master builders, as he was installing the headlight into his newest masterpiece, his hand slipped and the chrome-plated casing falls to the floor with a fitting crash. He simply picked it up and after glancing to see any new defects the plunge might have caused he simply put it into place with a "hmmph" and the comment "now it has character".
That's me. Yeah, I may have a few scratches but that doesn't mean the Lord won't use me as part of his masterpiece. My dents have blessed me with "character".
As I watched Elizabeth Anne Goble walk across the stage and heard the name of Miguel Gonzalez come next, I watched carefully the people surrounding me to see if they had notice the egregious error made my the announcer. I was searching for the small girl grabbing the arm of her mother and asking pleadingly "mommy, why didn't they read Neil's name?"
I was expecting to see men rising and storming out in protest. Women should start crying. I expected friends and strangers I had benevolently touched in some unknown way rise to my defense.
But much to my awe and gaping mouth, no one said a thing. No wailing women wearing black. No men with a beef. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
As I sat back in my stadium seat, the plastic fighting the relaxing advance of my thoracic vertebrae, I smiled. What does a dumb ol' girl know about me anyway?
I wasn't going to go. I didn't really want to go. I felt like being there would somehow be betraying my friends and family. Like going to the movie you told a friend earlier in the day you didn't want to see.
So as I was clapping and cheering for numerous of my friends as they received their diplomas from President Sloan last Saturday, I did my best to yell in such way that wouldn't get me noticed. Its kind of contrary to the whole purpose of yelling, I guess. But we tend to suspend logic in situations where it isn't welcome.
I was able to avoid any real pangs of guilt until I perused the Commencement Program and discovered my name.
Elizabeth Anne Goble
Neil Edward Golemo
Miguel Gonzalez
I recently had a conversation with a dear friend. She felt the need to inform me of how "hard it is to be your friend".
Apparently, and I'm doing my best to recreate words she used, it is hard to be friends with me because I'm perfect. I'm smart. I'm funny. I'm well-read. I have high moral standards. I'm devoted to my family. I love children. I laugh at everything. I'm in a good place with the Lord but not complacent. I can sing. I'm an excellent cook. I'm courteous and romantic. I have a "way of making myself the center of attention". I'm "one of the most confident people" she's ever met.
And supposedly all of these things make me perfect, thus intimidating.
What in the hell?
Immediately I questioned how well this girl could have ever felt she knew me if she could honestly think of me as "perfect". I don't see how she could have a conversation with me and not take note of my arrogance. I'm not perfect. I'm nothing if not completely and utterly flawed.
I found myself growing angry with her. I'm nothing. If I have any worth its because of blessings given to me by the Lord. I know this. Obviously, she has not the audience with my thoughts that I enjoy. But she should know me better than that. I don't really trust many people, but I had trusted her. I'd been honest with her. How dare she think me superior to her. Its flagrant misuse of the word "perfect" that degrades the word and superlatives as a whole. Damn, I was mad.
I'm nothing special. I'm just a pudgy, socially deft yet relationally inept connoisseur of Chicago area baseball clubs trying to find my christian way through the media-driven wasteland that is our world.
Wait.
Do I really believe that? Do I really think that I'm not special? Don't we all truly believe that we, alone, are the center of the universe? We've all entertained the thought from time to time that maybe this life is, quite literally, a dream from which we could wake up at any moment. Who hasn't watched The Truman Show and not wondered "what if our reality was merely someone else's media? How real is our world?
Or in the Christian identity sense, don't we all have a personal relationship with Christ? Is it not the idea of a Lord that knows every hair on my head that comforts us like a warm quilt? The idea that I am in possession of some trait(s) that sets me apart from every other soul existing, existed, or yet to exist makes me feel, well, special.
So as I was defending my own mediocrity, I started to wonder why I was fighting it. Yeah, she was wrong. But why was I fighting it? Was I simply trying to avoid the hubris of which I'm very susceptible?
I don't want to be intimidating. I don't want to be ashamed of who I am. And I'm not. I know I have (many) faults, but I'm not ashamed of them either. The other day, I was watching "the great biker build-off" on TLC. I'm addicted to these Chopper series. But one of the master builders, as he was installing the headlight into his newest masterpiece, his hand slipped and the chrome-plated casing falls to the floor with a fitting crash. He simply picked it up and after glancing to see any new defects the plunge might have caused he simply put it into place with a "hmmph" and the comment "now it has character".
That's me. Yeah, I may have a few scratches but that doesn't mean the Lord won't use me as part of his masterpiece. My dents have blessed me with "character".
As I watched Elizabeth Anne Goble walk across the stage and heard the name of Miguel Gonzalez come next, I watched carefully the people surrounding me to see if they had notice the egregious error made my the announcer. I was searching for the small girl grabbing the arm of her mother and asking pleadingly "mommy, why didn't they read Neil's name?"
I was expecting to see men rising and storming out in protest. Women should start crying. I expected friends and strangers I had benevolently touched in some unknown way rise to my defense.
But much to my awe and gaping mouth, no one said a thing. No wailing women wearing black. No men with a beef. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
As I sat back in my stadium seat, the plastic fighting the relaxing advance of my thoracic vertebrae, I smiled. What does a dumb ol' girl know about me anyway?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
