The big simulation

By now everyone has heard the theory that everything we perceive as real is one very large, very complex computer simulation. This is of course, sci-fi nerd speculation, best left to stoners gathered around a star trek bong in a basement apartment.  There are times however when I can't resist the feeling of what this world  might really be: a very ripe, surreal graphic novel, penned by some vast intelligence resembling Kurt Vonnegut.  Consider the absurdly garish circus act of Donald Trump- the comic book billionaire villain, who's very name seems like a sneering sarcastic bit of overly smug fiction: Donald Trump- as in" Donald Duck", wholesome comic misanthrope  and "Trump" a name calculated in self imposed superiority with the frat-boy aire of one upsmanship- it can't be real....His celebrity and nonsensical appeal to BOTH the holier-than-thou evangelical and the Howard Stern disciple knuckle dragger alike. He can't be anything but a figment of a grand auteur.

My own life seems to follow the same writer. My beautiful mom is slowing disappearing into the darkness. She and her gracious, funny and loving computer simulation program will not last to the next upgrade.  She can still hold a normal conversation but can't do much for herself. As my personal proof of the heavy hand symbolism of the author in my own story, yesterday, while stuck in traffic in the U-District, (owing to a head on wreck on the impressive Gothic bridge over the Montlake cut, a bridge whose mechanical guts were designed by my mother's engineer father Clifford McCallum), I  was talking about my mother's decline with my sister on my phone. Barely moving,  I was overtaken on my left by a long black Cadillac hearse. I can't say when I last saw a working hearse. It was a profoundly obvious metaphor from a novice writer, not unlike something I might have written.

This all could be a product of watching Westworld too.

Art visible in Public Place (kinda..)

My paintings are hung presently at Maestro Motors in West Seattle, Washington. 

Whatever.

Burning Elf 2015

Another year down the drain. Nice people. Nice elf. Disco light instead of fireworks and a talented guitarist, Nick Denke drafted at the last possible moment to play in the rain. Tom burned his hand on the spotlight and he hid in his room for the whole party.  Most people enjoyed themselves however.

Sweet Thang's Birthday.

She is my favorite. It's her birthday. Thank you universe.

The creeping specter of decrepitude

Snoring. The plague of the middle aged man, lost to his own sense of pride and self image, created to wreck his relationships and his sleep. A destructive, primary color cartoon of derision and bad jokes. Every four year old knows how to mimic snoring with gusto. It is a sitcom cliche for the overweight, the infirm and the witless dads. I am afflicted. It sucks.

More than anything else I would like it to go away. But like everything that I wish would spontaneously disappear in my futile, increasingly meaningless existence, it's removal would be expensive. My regressive punitive health care with it's high deductibles and fear of insolvency related punishments for accepting treatment keep me from doing anything until absolutely necessary. I have now given up and surrendered my check book to see if I have sleep apnea. I probably don't and instead have some kind of bargain basement Homer Simpson level comedic snoring, designed in some sub basement of hades by the universe to make me a buffoon.  It is yet another signpost of dissolution into my base elements. I have been sleeping in the spare room to give my poor wife have some kind of peace, and now I feel like the unwelcome relative that has become a burden.  I feel like a house guest that should have left some time ago.

Evolving past Childhood

This week marked the graduation from High School of our oldest son and the last week of elementary school for our youngest. I find myself conflicted with pride at their achievements, fear for their futures and the wish that I could make them both 6 years old again and do it all over.  I will miss walking to the bus with Tom. He is completely capable of, and has been doing it by himself for some time; he has a key and a phone and a reasonable amount of common sense.  He has no real need of his dad at the bus stop, but I do it because I am holding on to him as a kid. I know the time of him spontaneous grabbing of my hand when crossing the street is long over, but I will miss that feeling more than anything that I have ever lost. There is no way he will allow my presence at the bus stop next year. He will be in middle school, with all the hormonal imbalance and social cannibalism that leave young lives briefly wrecked or exalted. His public facing, small child phase is all but done.  I know he will still be a kid, and prone to to emotional outbursts and in need of comfort at home but the facade will be firmly in place by then. It isn't cool to have dad meet your bus to a sixth grader.

 Ned is facing the reality of his next step into adulthood, college at the University of Washington with a certain degree of non committal, willful ignorance that is the hallmark of self preservation in hostile environments.  I hope we instilled in him the discipline to stick with the hard times and see the important things through the maze of stupid, insignificant trials that await him.

We love these people God has loaned us for a few years. I will miss their childhoods. I wish I had made their experiences more interesting and their achievements more satisfying, but they never went hungry, always had a roof over their heads and were always loved. It will soon be their time on earth. And we will still love them as much as we did when they were children.

Bad Things.

Something horrible happened to the son of a friend. Something thats caused me to rethink my own kid's lives and mental states, as well as my own history and memory of difficult times.  In interest of privacy there will be no discussion of the incident, except to say it happened to a family that has always seemed very normal and friendly in the most interesting ways. I know several brothers, all of whom are at times brilliant and funny and weird. They themselves had a strange upbringing and I have always been amazed at how resilient they have been and how they took the very strangeness of their family and turned it into the source of their strength. That something like this should happen to one of their offspring is a gut punch. I wish the poor kid well, and a speedy recovery. I think about how I needle and push my sons to excel (or even just to actively participate) and the grim silence that follows.
 Nothing could be worse than the feeling that your kid has done something to themselves that took them from you.

Nothing.