The Engine Is Found

The calling has connected. The stones have been turned. There exists the trail, one for the sleuthing, discerning nostrils of a true detective. And over time and space, as remembrance faded and sank deeper into the imagination, he would question the very existence of what he’d seen. What he’d thought he’d seen.

There shall be no doubt, now, that it exists. For it is again found.

A couple years ago, I had the occasion to ride on the Altamont Commuter Express train from Great America (Santa Clara) to Manteca/Lathrop with my mother. My Dad met us at the train station and took us back to Escalon, my default home town (we moved a lot when I was young, but settled longest in Escalon, and my parents still live there now, although they’ve had stints in other parts of California. They retained ownership of the same house, so it seems like home).

A curious thing happened while we were on the train. Well, several curious things happened, actually. Maybe this isn’t where I should start– you see, I had recently had a manic episode (I am bipolar) and was still in treatment, albeit on outpatient status. I’d calmed considerably since my violent rampage that injured one bowl of guacamole, a television set, one wooden chair, and my dignity. The latter was the most seriously injured. See my previous blog entries “Mania Part One” and “Mania, Continued ” for more details.

Engine That Shall

As my Mom and I rode along the rails, seeing parts of the Bay Area that we’d never really seen before, I chatted at her rapidly, making more points about this and that subject than a schizophrenic librarian playing basketball. But it was entertaining. At least to me. I was charismatic, eloquent, and melodic in tone. I sang like a soprano philosopher, rhythmically trotting out thesis and antithesis, melding a synthesis that shone so true that even a categorical imperative would avert its eyes.

But I digress. It’s easy to fall back into the motoring of the mouth. Please forgive me.

We saw the salt plant, and wildlife, and many things that fluffed my curiosity. But the most prevailing, enduring image that I encountered that day was of a rusted old locomotive, sitting idle about twenty feet from the train we were on, being overtaken by weeds and erosion. I remarked to my mom how interesting it looked, and wondered how old it was.

This led to several reconnaissance missions to Livermore and Pleasanton in an attempt to find the engine and photograph it. I ended up stumbling on the staging area for the Niles Canyon Railroad and took several compelling photos that were exciting and adventurous to secure. But my engine went undiscovered. It seemed that I had mistaken its existence.

Several months passed, and I continued to wonder if I could ever again find the thing that I had thought I had seen while riding on a train between Santa Clara and Lathrop while somewhat hypomanic and of elevated mood. My mom had an occasion to ride the A.C.E. train again and she promised that she would look for the old and rusty locomotive.

She didn’t see it.

So about a week ago, I got another chance to ride the rails, repeating my trip of more than a couple years ago. I was excited at the opportunity to see for myself what and where that rusty aberration could be.

Although I almost missed it, suddenly, there it was. The train was still moving, so I only caught a glance, but it was there, as I remembered it. Even more overgrown that before, but still there. So I wasn’t able to get a picture of it, but I saw it long enough and well enough to confirm– a second source, if you will– that it does indeed exist.

And then tonight, with the assistance of Google Earth, I pinpointed its location. And I have directions so that I might go and get close enough to photograph it. I’m quite excited to think that I could have photos to share of this engine– my own personal Sasquatch– within a few days, if all goes well.

But I know there are risks. Will there be parking? Is it private property that it’s situated on? Are there people around who would agree to me photographing the artifact? Who is the owner/landlord, and who owns the engine? Why isn’t it being renovated? So many questions… But I only wish to capture a few shots of its glory– a grand machine from a time gone by. Surely the Niles Canyon Railroad folks would enjoy seeing such a thing in existence? And perhaps it would begin the process of its reclamation. Or perhaps there’s a museum that would be interested in preserving it.

Or maybe it’s somebody’s sculpture and it’s fooled me into thinking all of this. I don’t know. But I’m prepared to try and find some answers. Whatever they may be.
So venture with me. Stay tuned for the next update. The Engine, she is found!

The Whatever Principle

I tell myself that I don't care. That whatever happens happens and I'll live with it.

But the worry doesn't stop there. It continues like a perpetual motion machine. Powered by what ifs and what abouts. There's an endless stream of tumult and incubation, ideas and footprints, fostering and nurturing. I feel my mind swirling out of control and become dizzy with probability.

Whatever.

Like Poe's "Nevermore" it repeats its significance. Whatever.

It's the pile driver that breaks down the gate of stagnant thought. That pulls the plug and spirally drains the river of wrought thought.

Whatever.

When I write, I do so half way from reason, half way from inspiration. I mean I try to pair up wordings and meanings that aren't cliche, haven't been rattled about ad nauseum, like the overkill of the modern mass media. And sometimes, I just have to say it anyway.

Whatever.

Because in the right perspective, it matters not. None of any of this matters. We're specs of space dust in the measure of time, hurtling along at the speed of life. And when we're gone, the earth will go on. Perhaps new life will miraculously spring from the polluted oceans. Or maybe it will visit via visiting asteroid. Even when the sun burns out, the earth burns up and is sucked into the sun, or the sun collapses and sucks the entire galaxy into a black hole. Even then.

Whatever.

Because there will be something else. There will always be something else.

And it won't matter. It won't mean anything more than what it is, and even that is insignificant. Immortality awaits all light and energy, but change is the only constant. Putrid or fair, just or delinquent, it all exists in the flow of the ever morphing infinity.

Whatever.

I'm left with little time to continue this endeavor. Whatever. Life riles the patience and draws bile from the spleen, haunting and taunting as you try to prioritize. Whatever. You can do it now, or do it later. But it must be done.

Whatever.

Just try and enjoy yourself.

What?

How can I stir up some more interest in my blog?

When I started this, I thought I'd gain a humble, small following after a few months. Word of mouth, chance, whatever-- I'd meet a few personalities.

Didn't happen.

Then I went over to WordPress and started posting in both places. I've been advertising on Facebook every time I write a new blog. And still, there isn't the following I was expecting.

Maybe I'm not the writer that I think I am. But I think I am. If anything, I'm better than I think. Because I'm usually really hard on myself.

There is so much in this world to command one's attention, and so many distractions. Right now the television in my hotel room is spitting on about NBA basketball-- and I keep getting sucked in. But Dad is watching the playoff basketball, in between the commercial breaks that are so annoying and the annoying in and out of the satellite connection...

That's right. I'm on location in South Lake Tahoe. And as I try to complete a sentence, I notice a mosquito hovering around my arm...

I float all over the place. I have ideas about what I should write, but I get distracted. Such is life. Such is writing.

There is so much to write about. I'm in a second-story room at this hotel on Pioneer Trail. Dad is sitting on the queen size bed watching basketball. I'm sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed-- a hide-away air bed in a sofa contraption that I can't seem to inflate very well. But what the hey, I'm sleeping okay.

We went to the lake today and got our feet wet. Water was too cold for swimming.

There's gotta be something in my head worth writing about.

Nah. I don't think so.

Not tonight.

I'm giving up trying.

Talk amongst yourselves.

The Dream of Life

It's all real.

The first kiss. The radial tear on the cheek of your consciousness. Scents of remembrance.

I check the scar near my tailbone. Still there.

When I was in high school, I had a dream. In the dream, there were a number of compelling images and concepts that were tantalizing, but the one that was most lasting was the experience of not being able to wake up.

I fought with this recurringly. Much like I fight with my editor over and over, within each sentence. But I eventually turned the experience into a story. I did so with the help of my high school English teacher.

It's interesting how as you wake up and get farther and farther away from a dream, even one so memorable and life changing as the one I had then and the one I had last night, or just minutes ago, the glossy, inspiring truth of it all sifts lightly away.

I reworked that story several times, adding plot details and moral dilemmas. My teacher, Mrs. Collup, challenged me to go farther and do more. The parts of the story added up in the end to make a very intense, powerful work. The part that I had captured from the dream was essential to the success of the story, and provided the suspense engine to drive the reader through the plot.

I had a dream mere minutes ago that spanned a lifetime. It dealt with my life; it dealt with my death. The message seemed to be "Live your life." Simple, yet complicated.

I awoke reluctantly, as if wanting more. As if all the answers I needed wrapped up in a colorful tale complete with intrigue and fanfare was not enough.

I'm a changed man. I feel different. After I awoke, I walked quietly through the darkened house, to the back door. I unlocked it and stepped outside. It was quiet, although I lightly sensed in the distance the sound of singing. There was an orange glow to the night. Not much rustling but a rat at 2:45 am. I stood and breathed it in; digested it. Felt the flourish of the nutrients in the air and in time.

What an amazing dream. Fear and loathing with balloons and applause from the back of a sedan.

I remember less and less as time creeps by, but my life is changed. This is a purposeful life. This is a good life. This is my only life. One life to live.

In the final part of the dream, I'm facing sure death, as the others in the car have assembled my treatment, but it isn't working. My doctor is there, as well as another woman and one of my best friends in the world. They're all sitting in the front bench seat of the sedan or taxi cab, I'm not sure which. Then I remember that I'm supposed to administer the medicine through my tracheotomy instead of my mouth. The percentages of chemicals that I need to keep living are reached, and the smoke that I'm breathing changes color from a dull gray to a festive green. Jon Miller of the San Francisco Giants and ESPN provides play-by-play, ending with "...and the ball game is over!" There are balloons and a stadium's worth of applause. Smiles abound.

Fade to black.

Is This Thing On?

I don't know if I can be funny when I try to be funny. Funny happens on its own. It's more funny when it comes out to visit instead of being dragged by the hair or roped up and hauled into the open.

Funny is simple. One of my favorite movies, comedically speaking, of all-time is Monty Python and the Holy Grail. One of my favorite scenes (and there are several) is when the searching Sir Arthur and his gaggle of coconut clapping hop-alongs happen upon a sorcerer. The sorcerer takes command of their attention by displaying his prowess with pyrotechnics. After a dazzling display of explosions and fireworks, striking fear into even the boldest of heart, King Arthur and his men are duly impressed, and are moved to applaud the sorcerer's valor, grit, and exploit.

Those familiar with the story of King Arthur know about Merlin. Surely, this must be our introduction to him in this movie? It is then that King Arthur asks the sorcerer what they should call him-- "What is your name?" After a couple more blasts go off from the pointing of his finger, and echo about the canyon, the sorcerer relents.

"Some call me..." and here, the pause is exquisite.

"Tim?"

Of course. Tim the wizard.

That's funny.

But my own funny. Where does it sit? Where does it originate? And how can I make it want to visit?

A lot of comedy is timing. It's different in writing, in song, in stand-up. So I gotta get the timing right. It's about time. *cue rimshot*

Speaking of time-- the timer's going off. Time to do some other chores. Will have to continue this again later.

Another time.

Until then.

Funny You Should Mention

The last thing I want to do is roll out the barrels and knock knock jokes. I just wanna have fun. Because I'm a girl? No! Guys wanna have fun, too. No, really. And not in a dirty way.

There's something like paint in the totality of the ceiling. I think there's even a verb in every sentence. And yet, it's funny; Funny ain't there. This isn't funny.

There's a light... There's a way to do this. I haven't figured it out yet. I am just trying to keep the typos down and get a point across. But doing it this way starts to make my wrists hurt.

So. Relax. You can't force the funny. Let the funny come to you. Or let the funny come. It will. It always does. Banana. (In case of emergency, drop in a fruity reference).

Where do we go from here? Guava. It's fun to say: Guava. You're starting to smile! Kumquat.

It's working! Give my creation LIFE!!!

Now there's the funny. Young Frankenstein. Mel Brooks. Gene Wilder. There are some quality laughs in those fruity references. Peter Boyle. Madeleine Kahn. Marty Feldman. Terri Garr. Gene Hackman, for crying out loud. Classic comedy, to be enjoyed again and again.

Funny that I'm not sure I spelled their names correctly. Funny that I should care. Funny that I make an effort to care about such minute details again and again.

Comedy is hard. Funny happens.

I want to write. I write for the funny. I enjoy the funny. I love the funny.

Funny is serious business.

The Mean in Meaning

I'm tired. Uninspired. When I open my mouth, poetry doesn't ease its way out. That's how I perceive it.

I don't get poetry. What makes it poetic? It's not the rhyme or the meter or the sublime or the reader. Is it? I don't know. I'm just trying to make it interesting. I figure if I'm interested, perhaps there's somebody else out there who will feel the same way.

Interested?

This is a workout. I'm trying to tone my muscles, tighten the abs up. I want to get to the meat of the matter. Where the meaning matters. Somewhere between the best moment in your life and the moment before your death, when you finally gain the perspective to appreciate this time that we have... to fully negotiate and digest the thrills and fears that are possible, juxtaposed by the same highs and lows that we actually experience.

And then to have a bounty of elations and melancholies, as part of your experience, inordinate visitation notwithstanding. Hard to get the pecs in order when the brain muscle is out of control.

So what the hey am I trying to say? Are we discussing poetry? Mortality? Bi-polar morality? Why does this feel more like a song than a blog post? The sun is shining right into my eyes as I write this. Truth. Warming enlightenment.

I want to keep moving, but I have to keep closing my eyes. The thoughts are so random and secular. Pasted like paper mache over the forms of the words... no, pasted over the forms of the meaning, becoming something a little different when it all dries. A different shade every time you read through it.

There's no business like shoe sales. Now I'm soul searching. What happened to the poetry? What is poetry?

A friend of mine did me a favor and looked over some of my writing for me. He made several comments and suggestions. At one point he had circled a passage and written in the margin: "This is Poetry." Several years have passed and I still don't know how to interpret that.

I guess I should ask him, huh? (Duh.)

When I push through the walls that creep up while I'm trying to write, it is exhilarating. Cathartic. Roman Catholic. With whip cream.

I don't know why it comes out like this, but it does. I'm trying to ride the wave, capture the pure thought, not edit as I write, find the flower and the gem and the golden vein. Celibacy.

Little droplets of spittle, I can't control them. I wipe my mouth but they still jump out at their will. There's a workout going on here! Rattle the cages, make some beer bread, moisten those envelopes! There's a spirit to be had here! Lounging is disqualified. Lame Federal grant program. We want eggs. Ranchero.

I want meaning. Stress it. But I want it to ease out of me, not be dragged scratching and squealing.

Did ya ever wish you had more friends? That you had more time to do for you and not the job, the government, the ever expanding responsibility burden? I know you have. Well, I have.

I'm seriously considering walking away from a very good-paying job with great benefits because I'm insane and I want to prove it. I want to have more time to work in the garage. My garage. I want to write. I want to eat more healthily than I presently do. I want to work in the yards and plant a garden and grow food for my wife and I. I want to get rid of the multitude of distractions and live a simpler life.

But I fear the ramifications of a poor decision. I fear not being able to find a way to make it. We can't financially handle living here, as we are, on only my wife's salary, for more than a few months.

So why the anguish? Why the turmoil? Why leave the security blanket, when it's so comfy and warm and calming? Because I'm being called to make a change. And it's bigger than getting a new haircut or getting a piercing of some sort.

I want to create things out of nothing to add to the abundance and help heal our world. My strengths and skills are in the areas of art and humor. I want to harness my talents and ride on into greater challenges. I've wanted to write for decades. I've even done it now and again. But I want to find a way to be able to do it more, and not have to depend on another job to finance my lifestyle. I feel as though I'm throwing away a large chunk of my life to make the money and have the security that I do.

Is this what coming to terms with "selling out" is like?

Years ago, I chose the path of gainful employment, and it has brought me much joy and prosperity. But somewhere that became not enough.

It's not even because I "hate" my job. It's more that I have a calling to do things elsewhere.

D'ya know what I mean? Albatross.