Internets,
This is a picture of our imaginary summer vacation. It's amazing here! White sand, clear water...sure beats being stuck answering phones, cleaning hotels, and our studied expressions of professional back pain. Thank you for all your well wishes. We expect a safe return to reality sometime later this week.
Be Awesome...
Pithy
if ever there was a time for laughter let it be now--this perfect hour--this infinite instant; let us laugh at the world around us whichever undying part remains--not verging on the lip of annihilation, poised for the eternal forgetting.
if ever there was a time to sing let it be now--these open windows, the throats from which music does not distinguish its notes--the wind, the echo in a canyon--these sunset waves splurging on the sand; let us tilt our ears leeward to catch it all and shake loose from our own knotty reserves some nameless tune that no one will remember but which will cling like a fine dust to everything it catches.
if ever there was a time to love let it be now--feel the easy embrace of the chair we grunt into each day--notice how the bedsheets part for our sibilant sleep, the night generous with its ticking hours, moon just so--discover how whole the body can be wrapping itself around an ice cream cone; the farewell we offer a friend going to Africa, the parting wish we leave at the airport's sliding glass doors--notice how unfraudulent the heart is whispering us closer to a baby boy who offers us his batting eyelashes; how easy we can cleave from the hard, lost day a fractured second of joy, eyes enraptured with the sight of a small breeze lifting plastic bags into an aerial dance just for us.
and if ever there was a time to pause and stand, broken, before God, weep at the sight of all that is beautiful and finite, our hands having cast their breadcrumbs, the birds scattering toward home, time impossible in its never enoughness, if ever there was a time to pause and to ache in the falling--light signaling our last, glorious view of the world, let it be now.
Maya Stein--official interpreter of the soul.
Pithy remembers a simpler time—a time when the world was defined through catchy, acronymic phrases. “Big I little i what begins with I? Ichabod is itchy and so am I.” The youngster of today, a product of the metro-techno generation, when met with this same question concerning I’s usefulness, would beg to differ with Dr. Seuss, or at least expand his vocabulary. What doesn’t begin with i? iPod, iPhone, iTouch, iTunes, iMobile, iMac…i…i…i.
An apple a day may keep the doctor away, but Mr. Job’s apple seems so superpowerful—so beyond the scope of earthly normalcy—as to banish the doctor permanently to the protoplasmal primordial atomic globule from which they sprang. Yep, there’s an app for that.
Pithy is secure—with ourselves, with our awesomeness status, with our gentle readers—we don't need a shiny, new phone to be cool and sophisticated. We don't mind (very much) our LG bricks with giraffe-neck antennae. But Pithy, as our internets know, is also very smart—smart enough to recognize that we live in an iWorld where iMage is everything—an image narcissistically mesmerizing, reflected in the “pretty, pretty, shiny, shiny.” Resistance is futile--we will all be assimilated.
So, we sport our apple products with pride--even now absentmindedly caressing the sleek surface of our iTouch, marveling at the futuristic beauty of touch screen technology and dreams realized—momentarily banishing the fervent hope to always avoid iCustomercare. That app still seems to be in the works.
New cell phone number: $10 fee, plus time and effort
Paycheck: $580
Effort to collect money for group lunch: more than it’s worth
Orchestrating said lunch, collecting the money (a mere $73 total) from the agents, lying to the manager, telling them that you can’t give the money to them because you have already ordered the sandwiches from a different store than was originally discussed, changing your cell phone number to avoid attendance sharks when you decide to skip town with the $73, lose your job, and forfeit your last paycheck (the pay period for which had just ended—checks sometime next week)—PRICELESS.
Just a reminder that little stories that bring some small measure of joy can be found all around us.
Sometimes silence is just yellow.
Pithy has experienced the golden kind—at the end of a long, hot day with lots of people that expect smiles and handshakes—when head meets pillow in that sweet moment of renewal. The soft expulsion of pleasure is inevitable, and we smile just a little as the quiet lulls us to our dreams. Sometimes, it’s the easy silence shared by two friends—no expectations, no disappointments—just a companionable peace that reaffirms and secures. The muffled silence of first snow, when the world stills, caught in reverence for the simple miracles of life. Or when a room holds its breath as a loved one passes—the indecisive moment of silence when hope and longing meet in that final sigh.
Sometimes we find ourselves in the silence, we meet that version of who we want to be—the one that is too scared to face the critics and the pressures. We sit in the empty clarity and ask ourselves what comfort we find in all the noise.
But sometimes—sometimes silence is too empty, a reminder of our loneliness—that the indifferent quiet that held off sleep, mocking our efforts to let go—will be the same indifferent quiet that stares blankly at us when we awake. Sometimes the moments are too silent—just bearable enough for prayer.
The moment night groaned to morning in that awful, jarring disconnect devoid of all possible optimism, Pithy knew. Something was not right. Temporarily, we were content to blame the alarm’s negligence in allowing not one, not two, not even four, but six—yes, six!—snoozes (don’t worry, its employment has been terminated—the replacement will not cower so easily). However, upon leaving the house for work at an alarming speed, Pithy knew it was more than sleeping late. Indeed, all around were signs of notquiteright which slipped passed notice, but, upon reexamining at a later time, were painfully obvious: the day was counting up its birds and couldn’t get the answer right; Murphy’s daughter stayed out all night without checking in; Karma was cranky for an unmentionable reason—which wasn’t that hard to figure out.
Consequently, Pithy’s day was long—not I------I this long…but I--------------------------------------------------------I this long. We’ve all had those days when lunch felt like we should be clocking out to go home, but it’s not every day that morning “take 5” at seven thirty feels like lunch and nine o’clock’s “take 15” finds you biting back “K guys, cya later—gotta get home, I’m beat!” Today, Pithy was dazed and confused to find that clock-out came a full EIGHT hours after clock-in. Stranger still was the fact that they keenly felt as if the eight hours had actually transpired.
Death by PowerPoint, Microsoft’s “classic view” (note to Microsoft: there is nothing timeless about it—it’s UGLY. Get rid of it.), thermostats governed by a heating/cooling system in OREM (reminder: we’re in Cedar)—all these lend to foot tapping and count downs; when coupled with the human factor—hmmm, not entirely sure that’s 100% accurate—the venting of which would lead to HR inappropriate comments about people and their intelligence, and which Pithy will reserve to tell in person (but we will clue in that they involve words like retard and moron)—this day has been dubbed: Day Too Long. So let it be written. So let it be done….please!
It’s summer. Well, at least school is out—and by school we refer to those institutions which recognize that scholastics should end as early in May as possible. Cedar refuses to acknowledge the inevitability of the sun. This week the flowers cowed under yet another layer of suffocating snow; the trees look more equipped for the last stages of autumn, afraid to open their foliage and be the dumb one that didn’t get the memo. We, being all green-aware (and by green we mean money), didn’t turn the heat on yesterday night (and by didn’t we mean forgot). This led to all sorts of unpleasantness with the toilet seat this morning, which in turn led to fasting and prayer for the overdue thawing.
Cold or otherwise—IT. IS. SUMMER. On this we will not negotiate. We have compiled (or at least started) the overly ambitious lists that characterize the golden months: we have one for cleaning, for reading, for eating, for not eating (still working on that one), for sleeping, for avoiding. Strangely, we do not have one for writing—yet, here we sit, postponing all our vital projects to address you, Internets. That’s right—feel special. Or don’t—after all, isn’t that what summer’s about? A compiled list of all the lists to be saved for later? There must be something to do in order to feel like we have accomplished the lazy perfection of ignoring responsibility.
Oh, we imagine some of it will get done—we will tackle the laundry eventually, in its cyclic time—like taxes and death. Real tasks, like paper revisions and Spanish practice, belong to August, when we can justify them because, “School starts next week.” For now, we reassure ourselves of summer’s presence, combating the cold with the comfort of some other time.
It's easier to start with breathing
And empty space
Litany
You are the bread and the knife,
The crystal goblet and the wine...
-Jacques Crickillon
You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.
However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.
It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.
And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.
It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.
I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.
I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and--somehow--the wine.
Billy Collins
Simply put, we overcomplicate. We all do. There seems to be a trendy sort of sophistication in complexity. Pithy likes trendy--clear up until they remembered their preference for the innocuous actual--(is that borderlining it?). The fact that no one understands you doesn't make you an artist. Over-analyzing can often lead to trouble.
This week bends our minds around paradoxes. Empty your mind--only then can you be filled. Education is gaining knowledge of your ignorance. Believe those who are seeking Truth--doubt those who advertise they have it. Mind pilates (that's pill-aht-ees Prudence ;-). While attractive super model minds do sound nice, we catch ourselves occasionally longing for yesterday's jumping jacks and soccer.
Don't get us wrong--we like our new words. Tarradiddle sounds good on a well-oiled tongue, but maybe we could just settle for "pretentious nonsense?" We like that we know the Chinese can't spell--that Toa Te Ching is actually said Dow Day Zzhing. That oughta be handy in saving us from some future embarrassment--some day when we need to look smart. But we find ourselves ready to bargain looking the part for the simple intersection of knowing what to do, how to do it, and the integrity to accomplish it.
After laughing at ourselves--or crying--or laughing so we don't cry--or meeting the concrete wall, we are ready to confess. Tom made peanut-butter pasta. It was weird and pasty and as perfectly awful as it sounds (no Kevin, peanut butter does not make everything taste better). Jerry burned the potatoes. The house smelled funny, and yes--he didn't realize they were burning and he checked the heater in his room first--on all fours, sniffing the floor. Things slip from our mouths and hover in the air long enough for us to realize how dumb they sounded--"I could mean so much more to you..."--and then we laugh and prefer the dumb words to what we actually meant. We stumble and oafishly manage, "That was deliberate." Funny thing is, it kinda was--the Universe's attempt to catch us at our blunders and help us realize that it's how you pick yourself up, not the fact that you tripped, that measures your smarts. It's not complicated. It's deliciously simple, and it satisfies.
