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Well, it's official. I'm back in the OTP. The Burbs. The 'Net. L'ville. We're surrounded by boxes and slowly starting to unpack. Boris and Blanca are enjoying the acceleration of claws on carpet. I'm working on my blog in my study. Natasha is arranging shoes in our extra closet space. I think we can make this work.
For awhile, at least.
Today my family lost a keystone in the premature passing of our beloved David. I'm not sure where to start the mourning of his death, so I'll start here.
Keystone -
n 1: a central cohesive source of support and stability; "faith
is his anchor";
2: the central building block at the top of an arch or vault
[syn: key, headstone]
I can't think of a better word to describe David. I can't imagine visiting Pensacola without him there. I can't imagine the hole that will be left in his premature departure. The grief I feel is unwanted and deep, yet I can't imagine the feelings of David's wife and young sons. I cannot guess at the reasons God may have for David's sudden exit from the here and now.
So I will do my best to remember what I do know:
That David was the closest thing to an older brother that I have ever had. That I have never laughed harder than in his company - never. That my tastes in music where forever altered when he forced me to listen to the Human League and Eddie Grant. That he has always been the embodiment of charity, long suffering, and quiet virtue. That he has always been the moral compass of my family's generation.
Granddaddy, our king patriarch, passed a year ago. In Granddaddy's final years and after his passing David quietly assumed that mantle. His immediate, extended, and church family all saw in David the same qualities of greatness that were present in my granddaddy and my greatgranddaddies before him.
In my heart of hearts, I know they are all together now, sipping rootbeer, eating fried chicken, and watching over the sun set over their beloved Pensacola.
This weekend was spent working on the house painting rooms, replacing light fixtures, cleaning, etc. Overall, Yorkie (doesn't everyone name their house afer their street?) is cleaning up nicely. She'll be ready for us by time we're officially moved in later this week and into next.
The weekend was broken up by a morning trip to the North Atlanta Motorcycle Show. We met up with the familia Bachman and wandered row after row of chrome, oversized tires, and exotic frames. At the end of the day however, Kevin and I both agreed that the Seago Brothers from Oxford, Ga.are put their tools to the best use, yielding a pair of rat rods that left us hot, bothered and wanting more. They also had the most tasty custom set of pipes on their Lucky 7 bike that were wrapped in burlap. Damn cool. A spotted another incarnation of my all-time favorite, guilty-pleasure, chopper paint job - the Easy Rider Stars and Stripes.
The show has grown, the crowds seemed bigger, and by the end of the day Natasha and I left with major bike envy and warm V-Twin fuzzies.
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I spent last night flying above the tropical green canopy of a mountainous island bay with my Grandaddy in what I think was a WWII B-17 bomber. Grandaddy took great pleasure in featuring the various performance aspects the plane, such as stalling the engine and letting us slide into a slow albatross spiral. As we quietly plummeted towards the jungle below, he would hoot with glee and then throttle the props back to life, pulling us back into the blue, my panic turning to pure elation. I can feel the breeze coming through the cracked cockpit window, and the rumble of propellers through steel and aluminum. I can smell the oil and fuel. We don't talk much. There is no need. His smile says it all. It's been 15 years or so since I visited with Granddaddy in my mind's night, so the dream sticks with me as I pull through the cloud of morning sleep into the dark quiet of Wednesday morning. Good to see you old man. Glad to see your still flying. |
I call this photo "Toast With Jam While Cat Baits Dog". Such a soothing morning breakfast.
I suppose I've taken a bit of creative license here because by 'French' I actually mean a small band of Montreal, Quebecans and by 'Colonies' I mean my iPod. The 'British' part is true, so I suppose I made an editor at The Sun proud today. In spite of my journalistic inadequacies, LISTEN UP PEOPLE. DJ Light and I are turning you on to some new music!
First on my weekend list is KASABIAN. If you have ever hung out at MJQ on a Wednesday night, this band is for you. A coctail of Stone Roses, The Charlatans, Kula Shaker, and a hint of Blur will warm you right up! If you aren't already involuntarily drooling down your shirt, listen to this track called "Processed Beats" and tell me you don't want more.
Second on the list is KAISER CHIEFS. Damn the british and their sound infection! The KC's strolled right past my jaded mattLandia quality control agents, Britpop passports held high, and have comfortably settled into iPod rotation with this song: "I Predict a Riot". The 'Chiefs have what I call 'Derivative Turrets'. One moment they are effusing the likes of Pulp or Space, the next moment the yelling/snarling with the polite grit of The Clash or Supergrass. Anyway you slice it, I like it and want me some more...
Now for those pesky Montreal, Quebecans (aka ALMOST FRENCHIES) ARCADE FIRE. I must admit that I had to listen to the album a few times for the hooks to begin to sink deep. The Arcade Fire are Win Butler, Régine Chassagne (Win and Régine are married), Richard Parry, Tim Kingsbury, and Win's little brother Will. Win seems to have most of the vocal duties and reminds me Modest Mouse, The Flaming Lips, or the Talking Heads. His wife Regine shares vocals duties as well, and she often has an ethereal Bjorkeques delivery. It's not a far stretch to say that Arcade Fire are a Sugarcubes for the new millenium. Listen to "Power Out" and dance around your cube like a crazy person.
Enjoy the tunes. Enjoy the weekend.
Go to the cube labeled 5F-LR-LC (5th Floor-Last Row-Last Cube) and you'll find me strapped to a plastic and polyester covered Magnetar. Yes, this uber-rare galactic phenomenon is hidden -- trapped under the weight of my corporate ass. Surprised? Well, you can imagine MY surprise.
I've been in a state of panic the past week, seeing as how all creativity has been stripped from my bones with the clinical precision of a dental pick. I've stared at my blog; fingers bloated from too much salt and Root beer, wondering how and when I forgot how to type (or 'key' for you purists). I've had a compulsion to paint everything beige. I've found a piece of ice to be entirely too amusing. READ: I lost my creative game.
To my relief, I read all about Magnetars today and how Bryan Gaensler, a Cosmic Detective from the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics, has solved their mystery. "Magnetars have the highest magnetic fields in the universe -- nothing else comes close," Gaensler said.
"Whew", I thought as I read on. Silly me. I thought maybe I was just overworked, over-stressed, or experiencing a dose of good old-fashioned burn out. Turns out I've just been sitting in proximity to a stealthy terrestrial Magnetar (no doubt engineered by Herr Rumsfeld and his boys), inadvertently having all my right brain ions demagnetized. Duh! I can't tell you how wonderful I feel now that I've identified my creative antagonist. "On guard ye celestial cretin! Have at you I will!" (Repeat the last sentence in your best Sean Connery accent -- it reads much better that way.)
Tomorrow I'll just wear aluminum foil boxers under my trousers, since aluminum foil is well regarded in my X-File-Withdrawal-Anonymous support group as a repellent to all things sinister and invisible. It worked for those kids in Signs didn't it? So if you see me walking around tomorrow in a my-groin-is-chapped sort of way, I'm sure you won't be far from the truth.