I have more to say on this but for now...HAPPY BIRTHDAY USA!!!
And most importantly, thank you to all who have and continued to serve our country. You are appreciated. I wish I could express that better but just know that without you we are not here in this great land as it is and I thank you for your service.
Watching the television and seeing the brilliant green trees and grass surrounding the Indianapolis Speedway I ease back into my midwest space. The Indy 500 is an international race that is one of the great all American annual events, a Memorial Day weekend tradition, an Indiana institution. I love the Indy 500. The traditions inherent with the Indy 500 include an integration of observance of our soldiers, particularly those we have said our sorrowful goodbyes to in this life. 300,000 fans pack the Speedway and all rise as our national anthem is sung. It is followed by the presentation of arms and 21 gun salute. As a kid it always rained in the morning on Memorial Day. I thought it was the neatest thing as it was the tears of the fallen in heaven raining down on us, reminding us not to forget the sacrifices made on my behalf. By afternoon the sun would clear its way through the raindrops and I would dance on wet moss in the forest with the sun on my back. I grew up and had the privilege of attending the Indy 500 and recall it almost always rained on Sunday, several times it rained into Monday. Most of the time though the rain would clear and they would dry the tracks with giant jet engine like machines. Again, I thought it was the neatest thing. Tears from heaven but only for a short while. Soon the would clear and the sunshine would warm our bodies and charge our optimism for better days.
Mountains Beyond Mountains: The Quest of Dr. Paul Farmer, a Man Who Would Cure the World by Tracy Kidder
The Air-Conditioned Nightmare by Henry Miller
My review
rating: 5 of 5 stars
I enjoy the way Miller pieces together bits of prose to create an intertwined journey through not only the landscape of the United States but the culture we have developed throughout this nation. It is at once both amazing and depressing.
I was refreshed to realize that for over 100 years; at least, people like Henry Miller have been looking for the root cause of what is wrong with us. We have collectively done many great things and are blessed with an amazing land of resources and yet not only do we readily rest on our laurels of luck, we trash the very source of that dumb luck. The Grand Canyon chapter points brilliantly to that.
I thought it interesting as well to discover little has changed since the 1930s. Literally. The story in Chicago could have happened today, as a matter of fact I've lived through it myself. Amazing!
One of my truly favorite works from Henry Miller. I recommend this to anyone interested in culture as seen through the eyes of an expatriate communicated with the color of raw language Miller is so well known for.
I remember a time when the written word was precious as the unique ink it was penned in. Before laptops, notebooks and broken language leveled the emotional life bound within the folded paper of the carefully penned note.
It is a world of acronyms and text messages. Quick. Precise. Without soul, lacking intention.
The soothing tunes coursing through my headphones settled my nerves as I jumped aboard the train on my way to the next job. I crack open my book of the day. I look forward to the moments I spend on the train. It is a speedy transportation meant to get me from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible. It truly is just a moment in the day but it is my moment. Just as my eyes begin to jump into the text of my book I notice the woman across from me.
Godiva chocolate bag in her lap, she has a stack of small, yellow papers in her hand. Wet from the rain I can see some of the ink has ran. A handwritten letter? Extinct species found alive!
UPS can’t find me, if only the rest of the world was that lost. Give my brain a break; let my nerves relax for a moment. Unfortunately the world is smarter than the man in the brown uniform and shiny brown truck. The world calls upon every cell of my being and I listen with intent ears, open mind.
Disparity.
It’s not always bad, there are battles won. Right now I must find my package, a battle of its own kind! A phone call is made. They are missing my number. I give it up and am rejected, a prom date that never showed. Apparently the shipper does not allow any changes to be made to the address. Safety first I am told.
Good News!
They can tell me where my package is and I can pick it up. Great! Address in my hand I grab my vehicle and head for the train. I have a memory of owning a car and the lavish freedom taken for granted with that. We tend to rarely realize what we have until it is gone. I am okay with the situation. Three years without the addiction of oil directly affecting me. Making it in the City of Angeles, me and a plank of wood with urethane wheels. There is a lesson there I am sure. Right now I scramble quickly down the escalator as fast as I can. I hear the train coming and make like the Lord of the Escalator. Michael Flatly style. It is more of an ongoing step than “steps” down the escalator.
The train and I meet. Next stop Civic Center.
Baxter was one of our foster kittens. He was once a ragged sack of bones with both poofy and matted grey fur. He has found his forever home, though many are still looking for a home! Baxter has grown up to become a fluffy lil scrapper who, as we see (and hear, make sure your volume is turned up), is willing to fight for his right to eat! Especially when it's asparagus that is on the line...
