Dylan Bolin

35 years ago this summer, arguably one of the greatest horror films in the history of cinema opened in theaters across the country. Directed by Steven Spielberg, and starring Roy Scheider, Richard Dreyfuss, Robert Shaw and a stubborn mechanical shark nicknamed “Bruce,” Jaws terrified audiences and instilled Aquaphobia in an entire generation.

I was six when my father took me to the Strand Theater in Sturgis, Michigan for a Saturday showing. You may think that six might be a little young for a horror movie, but it was rated PG after all which meant that Parental Guidance was merely suggested. Parental Judgment, on the other hand, was of no interest to the MPAA. The experience changed my life.

How often are we present at the conception of nightmares? I could feel the neurons in my young, impressionable brain making new connections and associations that would prevent my body from going anywhere near a significant body of water.

As I’ve gotten older, the fear has given way to fascination; almost love. I’ve seen the film dozens of times and each time, as with any great work of art, I discover something new. Ironically, if the desires of every single person involved in the making of the film had gone according to their plan, it would have been a very different film, if it would have been made at all.

To begin with, the 27-year-old Steven Spielberg didn’t want to direct Jaws; his desire was to direct a different film entirely. And once on board, the film became a series of disasters, disappointments and accidents, nearly all of them revolving around submerging a mechanical shark in the Atlantic Ocean off of Martha’s Vineyard. The weather pushed the ship with the cameras one way while the tides pulled the ship with the actors another. A shark that sank perfectly in a fresh-water tank in California floated like a cork in the salt water of the Atlantic. Meanwhile, the salt water wreaked havoc on the shark’s transistors.

As the days and dollars ticked by, the cast and crew were left to shoot a film about a giant shark…without a giant shark. 

In Spielberg’s words: 

“All of these moments were really a kind of divine providence saying:  ‘There’s another way, a better way to make this movie, and I better listen.’ And I did. I did listen.”

They invented cameras and played with angles that forced the audience to invest their own imaginations, and in doing so, created a film that was more suspenseful and terrifying than anything that existed on the storyboards. All because nothing went according to plan.

I have a plan, you have a plan, everyone has a plan. We all write the scripts that serve as the templates for our lives and our own personal films. Especially as I get older, the urgency to complete the film according to plan becomes more desperate, and the setbacks become more inconvenient. I become set in my methods, sure of my ways and mistake my habits for wisdom. I purchase my certainty with dues paid.

Could it be that we have no more control over the future as we have editorial power over the past? If so, perhaps all we have is the ability to do the best we can with what we have right now. As terrifying as that may be, if Jaws is any indication, there might be genius in that terror.

-Dylan

Needless to say, this is a touchy subject so I am going to tread lightly.

The smoldering offence that many take at the utterance of this word erupted into a full-fledged firestorm when White House Chief of Staff Rahm Emanuel used the “R-Word” (in conjunction with another offensive word) to indicate his frustration with certain liberal special-interest groups that were threatening to run ads against conservative Democrats.  He was in no way referring to those with special needs.

Nevertheless, Sarah Palin, whose son Trig was born with Down syndrome, demanded that Mr. Emanuel be immediately fired.  Later, when Rush Limbaugh directed the very same “R-Word” at the very same liberal special-interest groups, Sarah Palin wrote it off as “satire.”  I mention this only because I think it did a great disservice to those with a strong opinion about the “R-Word” by turning it into a political football.  

To my knowledge, this exchange is what introduced the “R-Word” into our vernacular as a word.  I also recently received an email directing me to an on-line petition advocating the removal of the “R-Word” (what it represents; not “R-Word” itself) from our speech.

I’ll come clean here:  In the past, I have used the “R-Word” in a cavalier manner.  If I recall correctly, it was almost always in the context of a ridiculous or absurd situation, and I can say beyond any shadow of a doubt that I have NEVER used it in reference to someone with special needs.  (If you would like to know more about my personal feelings about those with special needs, please reference this post regarding those on the autistic spectrum).

I’m also certain that those with children with special needs do not consider their children “R-Word.”  So, if all of us agree that the “R-Word” is NOT referring to someone with special needs, I’m confused as to why the “R-Word” carries the weight that it does.  I mean, without intent or context, can a word, by itself, wield that sort of power?  And if someone does use the “R-Word” with mean or malicious intent, is the banning of the “R-Word” likely to change them?

I’ve heard some compare the “R-Word” to the “N-Word,” but, again, I go back to context and intent.  The “N-Word” can ONLY be used in reference to another person.  By contrast, the “R-Word” is almost NEVER used (at least by anyone I know) to refer to those whom it is purported to offend.

I have a question, and it is an earnest question; I’m not trying to be cheeky or glib:  If one were to use the word “moron” to refer to someone with special needs, wouldn’t it be just as deplorable as if they had used the “R-Word?”  And if so, does that mean that the word “moron,” even when NOT directed at someone with special needs, is just as offensive as the “R-Word?”  In other words, should we ban the “M-Word?” 

What about “doofus,” “dimwit,” “dunce,” “knucklehead,” “cretin” or “half-wit?” 

I’m sure at some point, all of those words have been used, insensitively and ignorantly, to refer to someone with special needs, but let’s face it, the sentence:  “Those knuckleheads at the Drive-Thru messed up my order again,” probably wouldn’t be considered insensitive or profane.

Is there a line?  And if so, where is it?  I promise you, my intention in writing this is not to be insensitive; I just want to know the rules, and the process by which those rules came to be.  It seems to me that ignorance is the real issue, and ignorance is absolutely worth banning by way of information, and if this post is in any way ignorant to anyone’s feelings, I would like to know that. 

Personally, I think anyone that would refer to those with special needs as “R-Word” is just the worst kind of person.  That being said, I also feel very strongly about the banning of anything; books, music, opinions and even words.

In the interest of fairness, if you think the “R-Word” should be banned, you can sign the petition here.

If you have a strong opinion about this matter, I urge you to post your comment/experience so that this can be a forum of enlightenment and forthright dialogue.

Thank you,

Dylan

“Nature is cruel, but we don’t have to be.”  –Temple Grandin

I was recently blown away by the new HBO movie Temple Grandin, the biopic of the woman by the same name.  The film illustrates Ms. Grandin’s (Claire Danes) struggle and perseverance with autism in the face of ridicule and isolation during a time when autism was less understood than it is today.  Aided by the quiet, unwavering strength and dignity of her mother (Julia Ormond) and an empathetic science teacher and mentor (David Strathairn), Ms. Grandin became Dr. Grandin, professor of Animal Science at Colorado State University, advocate for the humane treatment of livestock and noted speaker in the field of autism and Asperger Syndrome.  Nearly half of the slaughterhouses running today in North America use Dr. Grandin’s design.  “We raise them for us,” she says, “that means we owe them our respect.”

In the history of film, we have enjoyed many incredible and poignant portrayals by actors, and I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that Claire Danes’ portrayal of Temple Grandin should be included near the top.  Her transformation was riveting and complete; heartfelt, respectful and imbued by pathos that was as devastating as the catharsis was uplifting. 

For many years, I’ve had a theory about disorders like autism and Asperger’s.  I’ve kept the theory to myself, writing it off as science fiction, but watching this film seemed to validate these thoughts.  In a nutshell, the theory is this:  What if autism and Asperger’s aren’t disorders at all, but, in reality, the first steps onto a new, human evolutionary path?  The exact opposite of a “disorder;” a “hyperorder” perhaps.

Even if you don’t believe in Evolution (with the capital “E”), you can still acknowledge that our bodies and brains evolve (small “e”) and adapt to accommodate the world in which we live.

Rarely do we recognize genius in our time.  It almost always appears in the rear-view mirror as we contemplate the road that delivered us to any given place.

In the interest of fairness, my wife and I are not parents, let alone parents of a child with autism or Asperger’s, so you would be well within your rights to say that I’m naïve, but it seems to me that the “disorders” exhibited by those with autism and Asperger’s are more cosmetic and social than they are indicative of any kind of deficiency.  In the words of Temple Grandin’s mother:  “Different, but not less.” 

For instance, to an autistic child, the world is a very loud, confusing avalanche of stimuli.  I’d say that’s an accurate assessment.  Of course, as “normal” people, we accept it, ignore it or filter it.  But is it “normal?”  We may not rock or spin, but we do tune it out; albeit in more socially acceptable ways.

Autistic children lack a “normal” grasp of language, and, instead, see the world as a series of images and pictures.  There is a Chinese proverb that says:  “One picture is worth ten thousand words.”  To “normal” people, this is quaint and romantic; to a child with autism, it is quite literal.  And is it a great stretch to say that our vernacular is slowly becoming a series of images?  As anyone with a Twitter account knows, the rules of communication are morphing and contracting every day.  To many, a text message can be as foreign as a series of Egyptian hieroglyphs, but to others, it is succinct and efficient.  According to the “rules” of blogging, I’ve already gone on too long for today’s abbreviated attention spans, and I thank you for staying with me this far.  But which should we consider “normal?”

My intent is not to whitewash the challenges faced by children with autism or Asperger’s and those of the parents who love them.  Rather, just as those with autism or Asperger’s experience a “different but not less” perspective, perhaps “normal” could do with a different perspective of that which we consider “disorder.”  As the film Temple Grandin (and Dr. Grandin herself) has shown, often times, in “disorder” there is genius.

-Dylan

Art by Natalia Zukerman

Willy Porter is on a journey; as are we all.  Despite the archetypal scripts we write for ourselves, Life rarely seems to listen to our pitches.  And while this drives most of us crazy, Willy embraces it; at least for the purpose of his craft.  Once in a while, during our personal treks, we hear a resonant chord and a soft-spoken voice from the ghost in the machine.  It could be a moment of clarity or transcendence, or, then again, it could be a Willy Porter tune.   

He observes his world like a boy drifting down a river in a raft, and many regard his songs as snapshots of what he sees.  I prefer to think of them as sketches.  (While a snapshot could be mere recorded observation, a sketch always involves the artist’s active hand.)  Some are simple and minimalist attempts to capture a moment, while others are abstractions inspired by a kind of Universal Honesty.    

His latest release, How to Rob a Bank, is true to form; and truth is something Willy has been searching for his whole career.  Where many song writers use the word “love,” Willy has invariably replaced it with “truth.”  It is, after all, the essence of love.  Would you rather be in love, or would you rather be in true love?

The theme recurs regularly throughout his entire discography, but each song is a different sketch, produced during a different phase of his growth.  My favorite album, what I believe is his consummate collection of sketches, is still Falling Forward.  What can I say; it resonated deeply and continues to. 

One example of his latest musical foray into the visual is the song Too Big to Sell, his homage to the painters who dared to see what no one else could.  And while many of their works are posthumously coveted, by accident or design, others could not be.

Willy is not blindly Pollyannaish, however.  The richness of Willy’s world, like that of Willy himself, is fluid.  It does not consist solely of blue skies and boundless freedom; there are briars and mud as well.  In renewal there is entropy, and in entropy there is death and sorrow.  Thankfully, Willy casts his unflinching third eye onto these scenes as well.  (If you can listen to One More September off of Available Light and not feel a lump in your throat, you likely aren’t human.)

Psychic Vampire off of his latest release is a dysfunctional tale of codependence and our blind addiction to anyone who offers to fill the desperate, empty places within us.  And it’s got an amazing hook. 

Every Willy Porter fan has experienced Willy’s soulful side, but Willy also possesses an impish sense of humor.  In How to Rob a Bank’s title track, he transforms that twinkle in his eye into a snappy ditty about unfettered greed with the sincerity and easy satire of a new-millennium Woody Guthrie.

Willy Porter is not about re-invention, but rather evolution; both spiritually and artistically, and whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, we too are on a similar journey, and often we don’t know where or why.  One day, we just woke up walking.  We know that inertia will eventually carry us to our final destination, and the curtain will ring down.  Along the way, we encounter shiny shards of fractured truth that we attempt to reassemble into our purpose. 

Willy Porter’s How to Rob a Bank is one more piece of the puzzle.

-Dylan

P.S.  Much more at willyporter.com.

I’ve always loved the Blues.  I love the wailing guitars and gritty catharsis.  If there was ever a musical genre that celebrated those aspects of the human condition that seem decidedly UN-celebratory, it’s the Blues.  Inherent in the Blues is that rarest of experiences in our modern world; a shared experience.  When played well, the Blues exhibits a spontaneity and imperfection that allows the common to become transcendent.

I’ve always enjoyed the Blues, but, at the same time, felt sheepishly inauthentic as a result.  What business did I have sporting the White Guy Overbite while lurching arhythmically around my living room?  I was a white guy, and I was in a living room.  Surely, there were folks who had it much worse than me; that particular musician for instance.  For some reason, it seemed that it was well and good to appreciate other musical genres, but when it came to the Blues, I wasn’t commiserating but rather co-opting true misery.

But the fact is that we all get our share in time.  Sometimes the source of our pain is the inexorable march of time, the love that slips through our fingers or the missed epiphany, and such sources don’t discriminate between race, creed or economic strata. 

It’s also natural that the Blues evolve along with its purveyors.  Even today, when a man spreads his wings, circumstance may clip them.  When the shape of modern life alters its acoustics, the resonance of the music is affected, too.  Such is the case with Nation Sack, the new, self-titled recording by guitarist and Gristleman, Greg Koch, vocalist Malford Milligan, bassist Tom Good and drummer Del Bennett.  While they feed from the roots of the Blues, Nation Sack is not content to remain earthbound.  The hooks soar to new heights and the lyrics speak to today’s everyman.

Traditionally, the Nation Sack was a small Mojo bag that was only carried by women.  It was used in spells of female domination over men.  It was also mentioned in Bluesman Robert Johnson’s Come On In My Kitchen.  There’s no doubt that today’s man is bewitched, if not directly by a Hoodoo Princess, then surely by the sedimentary pressure of manhood itself. 

Like love, what it means to be a man evolves over the course of a man’s life; tall and stong, a virile lover, a provider, stoic in suffering, a sage and dignified in death.  Nation Sack seems to occur at a Mid-life Crossroads (a fine title for their next album if I say so myself).  An honest assessment of the road less traveled or the well-worn path chosen so many years ago.  Even in health there is death, success has a cost and while sometimes life is tedious, there is often perfection in repetition.  These are all themes explored within the 12 tracks.

It’s been a very long time since, for me, an album was so inclusive and immersive.  From the first playing, I was transformed from observer to participant, and I highly recommend it.  Give it a listen, then give it a home.  If you are a male, age 35-55, and you purchase this recording and decide you don’t like it, I urge you to contact me and I’ll take it off your hands.  But I doubt the Mojo in this Nation Sack will let that happen.

-Dylan

It’s official.  President Obama’s stimulus package is law and, come March 4th, some of that money ($75 Billion but likely much more) will theoretically begin to flow to struggling home owners facing foreclosure.  If you are a homeowner (like my wife and I) and you aren’t facing foreclosure (like my wife and I) because you’ve been keeping up with payments (like my wife and I), you probably thought:  “Hey, what about us?”  Like my wife and I.

After all, Human Nature is pretty competitive, and it relies on a sort of ethereal Universal Justice to act as referee.  And while we like to think that the Universe is minding the store and responsibly meting out this Justice where applicable, the fact is that the Universe is huge (bigger than Texas, even) and our cries of:  “It’s not fair!” have light years to travel.  But this is a matter of Government, as universally insignificant as each of us individually, so maybe it’s fair to expect a little more justice.

So, let’s put this in perspective:  It’s really all about perspective; specifically the perspective of what constitutes a “level playing field.”  If, like many, you’re situated on the middle of a ladder, chances are, you’re always looking up and wondering how those people got there.  “How can we level the playing field?”  Maybe a tax break for us folks in the middle would do it.

Well, guess what; those same people are looking up at the people above them and are thinking the exact same thing, except for them, the answer is zero taxes on Capital Gains.

As another result of our limited perspective, no matter where a given person is on the ladder, since they know that they’re not at the top, they’ll always feel like they’re in the middle.

The notion that if we can just get to that next level that everything will be okay has been proven false at every stage in our lives, but our competitive Human Nature provides some convenient memory loss.  When I was a young man, I thought that if I could just do comedy and make a living at it (a living being Rent and Mac ‘n’ Cheese) that I would never want anything else, and, for a time, I had exactly that.  Perhaps you had a time in your life like that, too.  How did it work out?  Did you have a peer/boss that made more than you?  That lived in a bigger house?  Had insurance?  Suddenly, your perspective changed and your sense of satisfaction was shattered.  In a moment, your previous declaration seemed so naive.  

My point is that we always seem to feel slighted when looking up (that’s where we want to be, after all), but we never seem to feel fortunate when looking down and acknowledge that, in many respects, we’re lucky to be where we are.  Complacency makes lousy fuel to propel us up the ladder.

We yearn for a level playing field, but our perspective is so skewed towards a “me-centric” world view that we wouldn’t recognize “level” if we saw it.  And the field is only allowed to be leveled in one direction; by either lifting us, or cutting off at the knees the ones above us.

Yes, some people took out some questionable mortgages, but it wasn’t entirely their fault.  Alan Greenspan admitted that lowering interest rates when he did was a major mistake, and many of the people selling these mortgages were predatory lenders.  “Sure you can afford this home with no money down.  How do I know?  My commission is always right.”  I remember a time in my life when I could have been pretty easily taken.

And what do you think a neighborhood of foreclosed, bank-owned homes does to your property value?  Unfortunately, in terms of your home’s value, there are no points for good behavior if a Sheriff’s Deputy is gluing a Notice to your neighbor’s storm door.  Perhaps a rising tide does indeed raise all ships.     

So we have a choice:  We can scream:  “It’s not fair!  Don’t bail out the Suckers!  Don’t bail out the Deadbeats!” or we can say:  “There but for the grace of God go I.”

-Dylan

Some time ago a writer friend of mine named Jean suggested a book called Walking on Alligators: A Book of Meditations for Writers by Susan Shaughnessy.  Each page begins with a quote from an author, then a brief essay and finally an exercise.  I decided to turn to a random page, read it and perform the exercise.  What follows is from page 77.  The quote was by Joseph Wambaugh: 

“I’m looking for something to write about, waiting for something to happen.  I’m waiting patiently like a hunter in a duck blind, waiting for the ducks to fly over.”

The exercise at the bottom was this:

“Today, I will spend time sitting quietly, ready to write.  I will listen for the beat of wings.”

Here’s the result, entirely unedited:

Searching for the perfect position.  Carefully.  That’s it. 
As soon as you are centered: begin to write.  Write to write.  You’re worrying too much about punctuation right now.  Every letter is an S.O.S.  I wonder if the punctuation is perfect.  Yup.  I can’t find center.  Sorry.  Everything is slightly slanted.  Slightly off.  Or. On.  But certainly not centered. 
I just gave myself a little test. 
As I watch myself write, I know when I’ve made a mistake.  And I immediately check to see where it is.
When I don’t look, I check when I don’t have to.
This has provided caution to my communication.  I always edit.
To create that which I want to be perfect.

To be perfect.  How elitist. 
We strive for the least common denominator now.  To be better is to be a sell out.  But sometimes we do sell out.  And we hate ourselves…eventually.  And then we learn to live with it, and in twenty years from now, we’re going to hate ourselves.  No matter what.

If you hate someone, you’re relying on their love to put out the fire.  If you love them, you require nothing.

Once upon a time, there were perfect people.  People whose paths we are expected to follow.  Are our biographies more important than our lives?  Were they perfect?  They must have been, because if they weren’t, we’re screwed.

By which I mean we’ve invested so much in what we were taught to believe, we can’t believe anything else.  We can’t fold this hand and wait for the next; we already know how it’s going to end.  All in!  And we pray for the right cards.  I wish we knew what the right cards were. 

I really enjoy proper punctuation, damn it!

My stomach burns.  Good or bad.  If it’s really something, I feel it in my throat.  That must be what they call “A Fire In My Belly.”  Surely, that must be an instinct or something.  I guess it’s up to me whether I like it or not. 

Remember when being unsure meant that you were doing the right thing.  Wasn’t that “unknown” very liberating.  Where has that gone?*  The farther into the game, the greater the urge to win.  It’s time to go with what you know for better or for worse; win or lose.  So cavalier and yet so afraid to lose. Am I that confident in the path, that afraid of that which is not paved…or both?** 

*First question:  It’s where you left it. 

**Second question:  Yes.

-Dylan

“We fear things in proportion to our ignorance of them.”  –Titus Livius

“Anger is nothing more than an outward expression of hurt, fear and frustration.”  –Dr. Phil

Today, on Martin Luther King Jr. Day and one day before the inauguration of our first African-American president, it’s difficult to not at least assess the state of race relations in this country and in this day and age.  I say “difficult” because, for many it would seem, acknowledging race runs the risk of disturbing the tenuous equilibrium that has been established between the oppressors and the oppressed, humanity and inhumanity, the righteous and the wronged. 

To many within the younger generations, unwitting beneficiaries of the Civil Rights Movement that they are, the topic may seem irrelevant.  Slavery, Segregation, Rosa Parks, Dr. Marin Luther King Jr., the Montgomery Bus Boycott and countless other personalities, actions and moments are just parts of a segment of time called “The Past” along with the Moon Landing, the Louisiana Purchase and the Treaty of Ghent.  Sure Barack Obama will be next president; he’s a thoughtful, articulate, seemingly empathetic figure.  He happens to be bi-racial and one of those races happens to be African American; what’s the big deal?  I know that there are young people with just that opinion.  I know because I’ve met them and talked to them.

It would seem that their lungs have developed an immunity to the air bearing the lingering poison of tear gas and the smoke from burning crosses.

Still others exhibit the stooped shoulders of hand-me-down racism.  They don’t know why they wear the vestments of bigotry, resentment and indignation, but they, like most humans, tend to accept the reality with which they are presented.  One’s World View is refracted through the glasses one is given, and philosophy will cling to any framework, however twisted.

Personally, I was raised in a small Indiana town.  Actively or passively, we were suspicious of anyone with more than a farmer’s tan.  I moved to Milwaukee, and saw an African-American for the first time when I was 12 years old; many were my new classmates.  I observed that the people who wanted to separate themselves did, and the people that wanted to blend did as well.  For the people who wanted to somehow distinguish themselves, race was just one of the many lines that they had at their disposal.  Intelligence, physical ability, gender, family wealth and wardrobe were others.  Of course, as children, we didn’t know from sexual orientation, but clearly it’s relevant today.  And if finer lines were necessary, each of the above traits had sub-traits that could be exploited.

I wonder if there will ever be a day when skin color is perceived as strictly genetic and physiological; when it’s only the result of more or less melanin in the epidermis, and therefore no more an indication of a person’s character than the melanin in (color of) his/her hair.  What if parents explained it to their kids just like that:

“Mommy?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Why is that man’s skin so dark?”

“Well, honey, it’s because he has more melanin which is produced by something called melanocytes which are found in the stratum basale of the epidermis.  The gene expression of certain people results in a greater or lesser concentration of melanin.”

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Okay.”

Personally, I look forward to that day.

-Dylan

Hello, friends.  My apologies for being away for so long.  Even though you don’t ask for them, I realize how much you rely on these unsolicited essays, and I have been slacking, but now, I’m sitting here at the computer with a mug of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and my fingers are performing their final safety check before lift off.  (By the way, Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, in the parlance of today’s youth, is DA BOMB!  The only thing that would make it better would be sugar-frosted cruller chunks floating in it, but I suppose that’s my responsibility.  [Also by the way, "Sugar-Frosted Cruller Chunks" was my nickname in high school.])

Perhaps you can forgive me for my lack of Blog Due Diligence if I tell you that it was in preparation for the holidays.  For me, anyway, the holiday is Christmas although I have enjoyed a Hanukkah celebration here and there, and for those of you celebrating Kwanzaa, it begins today.  (Of course, if you celebrate Kwanzaa, you already knew that, and you don’t need some Sugar-Frosted Cruller Chunk White guy telling you.

But the holidays have a way of seriously disrupting work-a-day life patterns regardless of whether you’re honoring the birth of Jesus, slow-burning lamp oil or your African-American heritage.  There’s shopping, wrapping, baking or, in my case, shopping, wrapping and making homemade Irish Cream (recipe available upon request) which has been added to nearly every liquid that I’ve ingested for four days now.  And then, of course, it’s time to head home for the holidays.  Since every patriarchal and matriarchal family member, including my mother and father, have passed (by which I mean they’re dead, not that they’ve passed on hosting the holidays), this year, my wife and I visited her family in Beaver Dam.  (Beaver Darn for those of you with delicate sensibilities.)

But whether you’re visiting the home of your youth or that of a loved one, I think the experience is universal.  Essentially, it’s like visiting a museum and, for a time, you become part of the exhibit.  While the notches on the kitchen doorway that once marked the passage of time by your height are no longer relevant and your feet now hang over the end of the bed, for a moment you’re captured in a Sepia Tone snap shot.  Your job, income, growth, accomplishments and status are all put on hold while you revert to the little boy in the flanel football pajamas or the little girl in the nightgown with the ridiculous lace collar.  While Life doesn’t take kindly to stasis of any sort, it is the both the charm and claustrophobia of the Holidays.

And they say that Halloween is the holiday of ghosts, but if ghosts are, in fact, the indelible impressions that the departed have left with us, I say they’re never more prevalent than now in the darkest days of December.  They sit in chairs and breeze past the oven.  They ride on the waves of children’s anticipation and their voices can be heard in the steady hum of a dozen simultaneous conversations.  Whatever their form, be it in the tiny spark of memory, a tear of longing or a hearty laugh, they most certainly are.  And when the celebration subsides and our personal inertia continues, we feel the space that they had filled, once again vacant yet strangely eternal, like a single candle flame burning in defiance of the vast, infinite darkness.  And we pause.

For all of the time spent shopping, wrapping, baking and Irish Cream making, in that single pause, in that fleeting moment, when time has stopped while we take our place in our personal museum exhibit, we can count the angels on the head of the pin…and we’re home.

-Dylan

After some requests to know how my 39th birthday was, I’ve decided to use this forum to respond.  Let me first thank both of you for your curiosity. 

First, I believe that, after a certain age, shots are no longer celebratory but strictly medicinal.  The sheer effort that is required for my aging body to metabolize alcohol is staggering.  I’ve been legally drinking for 18 years.  That means that my drinking self has now reached adulthood and should move out and begin a life of his own.  I no longer marvel at the heady feeling of inebriation, and my tolerance has reached the point where I now go from sober to sick with very little party in between.  And it’s not the giddy hangover of youth where you wake up and immediately commiserate with your drinking partners like knights of Olde flushed with victory over a dragon carcass.  No, I think I’m ready to start celebrating with an open robe and sandals over my socks.

But, as it turns out, 39 was also a birthday of reckoning.  I didn’t realize this until today, but this was the first year that I didn’t receive a card in the mail.  It occurred to me that all of the people that were obliged, based either on birth or circumstance, are now gone.  This year, I became the elder, marching point with only the scraps of maps left by those who went before me. 

For a moment I was struck and panicked by the silence and the untouched, pristine path ahead, but then I felt the presence of the new family at my side.  Any self-pity that I had entertained was gradually replaced by reverence and optimism; reverence for the ghosts of those that I used to follow, and optimism for the rabble occupying my here and now.  The voices and faces, harmonies and discords, interwoven in a complex and beautiful melange.

There are many things I would like to write to those who can no longer read them.  To those of you who can, thank you for being my magic and mystery.  It was a Happy Birthday, indeed.

-Dylan