Bobblehead

Master Timo is over two years old and we still haven't gotten our act back together since he arrived.

He's a bit cranky this week. Not continuously; but often, and unpredictably. His vocabulary is growing fast, so in a few weeks he'll be able to articulate clearly what he wants; but for now, he mostly keeps us guessing ... by hitting crystal-shattering high notes over apparent policy differences related to milk vs. juice, or the inalienable right to store car keys in the trash can.

This photo helps me reflect on what he's really like. In happier times he'll keep himself (and us) entertained for quite a while with his truncated "knock-knock" jokes -- in which he responds to the customary question "... xxx who?" with hearty, infectious laughter. (Would this be proto-dadaism? Or pre-minimalism? Discuss.)

Riding the bus

When we bought our house in a woodsy, out-of-the-way neighborhood, I confirmed online that we were (theoretically) within reach of Washington-area public transportation. But I never actually tested that theory, until this morning. I did get to work -- but a trip that takes 30 minutes by bicycle, or 15 minutes by car... took nearly 2 hours. (I rode 2 buses (45min.); walked 1.5 miles (30min.), waited at curbs for 35min.; jaywalked across 2x6 rush-hour lanes; and climbed 2 grassy embankments.)

This was homework for that course I'm taking. So I tried to imagine what I would say if I got stopped for running across a divided highway buffeted by tractor-trailers: "Your honor, and ladies and gentlemen of the jury, all this has been happening to me because of this guy named Mark Scandrette ..." (source)

... who writes, "If Jesus lived in our day, I think he would take the bus." I thought about this as I rode, waited, walked, and bushwhacked. I also chuckled at the line from Repo Man, "I do my best thinking on the bus... The more you drive, the less intelligent you are." I recalled the daily bus rides I'd taken as a kid in Tunis and Casablanca; others in Boston, Atlanta, and Los Angeles; ... and how insulated I've become since then from buses and all that they represent.

I also thought of Joseph, a Togolese refugee who briefly lived with us a few years ago, and all the time he must have spent on buses getting from our house to places much further away (30 miles instead of my 6) in search of menial work, or signatures on forms. At one point I realized I'd taken the wrong bus and had to ask the bus driver for advice: I thought of Joseph's severely limited command of English, and how panicky this must have been for him. (And probably a frequent occurrence.) I felt sheepish at how much more we could've helped Joseph get around. More generally, I felt for those constrained to take buses across these far-flung suburbs -- inward along one "spoke" of the network, transferring once or twice to go back out along another spoke; hours spent each day just getting around.

As I stood waiting for the first bus (my feet hurting from my 1.2 mile walk in poorly-chosen shoes), dozens of cars whisked by in sleek efficiency -- door-to-door, no waiting. Through lightly tinted windows I saw their (usually sole) occupants and thought of their plush seats, precise climate controls, and glorious surround sound.... In my mind, every one of them seemed luxurious. Playing a have-not for a day: what could be more artificial? Yet I found myself wishing one of them would stop and give me a ride -- at least to my next bus..? Sharing their convenience, velocity, and comfort with me for a few minutes would cost them nothing, but it would completely make my day. From my curbside perspective this made so much sense that I fully expected one of them to slow down from 50mph, pull over to the curb, and invite me aboard.

Have mercy
Been waitin' for the bus all day
I got my brown paper bag and my take home pay

Mastery

Yesterday young Diesel, not quite 4 years old, learned to ride his bike without training wheels. We're all pretty pleased; Diesel even informed a couple of strangers at the jungle gym. Which he no longer has much time for because he's riding and riding and riding and...

Watching him get steadier and faster, I felt like Crush the sea turtle: "Curl away, my son! ... Chaaaahh" (video@3:35)

So, yeah, fatherhood is pretty OK at the moment.

Playing a tiny part

Well, that was interesting: I contributed (inadvertently and infinitesimally) to Jon Birch's ASBO Jesus comicblog. He spun an earlier comment into a biting new cartoon, the "Greed Creed." Awfully generous of Mr. Birch to give me a shout-out.

The concept originated with Stephen Colbert's brilliant "Word" of Sept. 29. I found it unsettling to see so many people solemnly declaring, "I believe in the free market." (skip to 2:25 if you're in a hurry)

Lord, have mercy on me, an idiot

That was my Facebook status for a few days last week. Nobody responded; I'm not too surprised. I'm a Facebook lurker myself; I've seen much more interesting status lines and not lifted a finger to comment. It was a somewhat feeble form of "soul graffiti" -- a public expression of an inner yelp -- and, part of my homework for the online course I'm taking. There's not much of a story behind it: I'm just overtired, and generally a mess; with no-one to blame but myself. I've been burning the candle at both ends: staying up late for no particularly good reason, news, blogs, etc., despite knowing that 3 little boys will be climbing on me before sunrise. (I've been a bit obsessed with getting the very latest news and opinion on the economy and Gov. Palin -- two of the most bizarre and worrisome news developments I've ever seen.) Under these groggy conditions, Saturdays are especially tough: absent the 9-5 structure, I meander between unfinished tasks in the house and yard, daunted by the least difficulty, irritation growing by the hour. This past Saturday I finally put down the to-do list and took a nap: as I lay sheepishly, hoping for sleep, I thought of the apostle Paul's word from God: "My strength is made perfect in weakness." I smirked as I prayed in reply, "Lord, um, careful what you wish for..." Dim humor, but enough for right then.

Lately I've been mulling a line by a different Paul, "Fools said I, you do not know / Silence like a cancer grows" (suggested by Kathryn, a fellow student). The phrase was probably meant for communities or societies; but it also applies to individuals: as I neglect to express the stuff that humbles or scares me, it transforms and spreads, and talking about it becomes harder. (...Lather, rinse, repeat.) Eventually just writing a personal e-mail becomes an hour-long exercise. Prior to the 6-month hiatus on this blog, my posts had gotten a bit formulaic, with little content that really mattered; even I was getting tired of the formula. In days & weeks to come here, I hope to get up & out of familiar, slippery ruts and get some thoughts out, before the cancerous silence has a chance to grow.

...Interspersed with inane commentary and cute pictures of the boys, of course, just for good measure.