Snow Days.

Greetings from Georgia...

Where the hell did all of this damn snow come from?

More importantly, when is it going away?

First there was "Snowpocalypse".  I guess this is "Snowpocalypse: Redux".  Winter weather's capacity to completely paralyze the South is nothing short of amazing.  Also amazing is that the people who live here seem to always forget that stuff like this has happened before, and panic like a bunch of ants that have just had their nest kicked.

Snow has happened before.  There is no need to panic.  Feel free to calmly make the appropriate preparations.  Most of the preparation that is needed can be easily accomplished before snow is even in the forecast...perhaps in November before it's really even cold here.  There's probably an app out there to remind you that, in the cold months, frozen precipitation can occur, and it's a good idea to have canned food, water, and warm blankets on hand in case of a prolonged winter event.  

Such as it is, the majority of us will just stay in our homes, and eat leftovers out of the fridge for a couple days.  

Which brings me to another question...

What do you need milk and bread for so badly in a blizzard?  Do you not have any other food or beverage in your home?  I'd like to think that most people have at least a couple days worth of food sitting in their pantry, even if it's stuff they don't like.  Desperate times could call for desperate measures, like opening up that dusty can of Campbell's Chicken Noodle that's been in the back of your cabinet for forever.  That might save you getting trample or shot at the supermarket over some Wonderbread and a carton of Mayfield.

Maybe folks down here are just obsessed with getting their chance to answer that age old question about being on something "like white on rice, in a glass milk, on a white plate in a snow storm."  I guess that something is loaves of bread.

Death

I had dreamed a dream, and now that dream is gone from me.

I am 100%, absolutely, not above admitting that I was a man with a cat, and I liked my cat just fine.  I found her in the parking lot of the place that I worked in the summer of 2006.  She was so little that she fit comfortably in my baseball cap.  Her name was supposed to be Orracle, but that got scrapped pretty quickly, her tendency to cry got her renamed "Baby," or "Babe" when she reached her grown-up years.

She liked to read with me...

 Was not above helping with chores...

...even if her tendency to shed white fuzz defeated the purpose on loads of colored laundry.

She never quite figured out the whole "cat bed" concept.  Apparently, my bed was quite good enough.

She was never much of a climber, but she did eventually get the hang of her kitty tower.










She could be a little aloof, and a lot skittish, so I didn't think too much of it when she decided that the far corner of my room was her new "hiding spot" on Friday.  By Saturday she still was still in that same spot.  I tried to coax her out with food (eating being just about her favorite past-time), that's when everything was all wrong.  She was so weak, she could barely walk, she didn't want to eat, and her breathing was extremely labored.

A trip to the emergency vet revealed a worst case scenario.  Congestive heart failure, lungs filled with fluid.  My wonderful little gray cat had been, for quite some time, slowly drowning. What seemed like a bit of a runny nose that came and went unheeded was a tell tale that my friend was fighting for her life.  A fight that I, supposedly her protector and caregiver, came to much too late.  A fight that, ultimately, she lost.

This morning, we buried her overlooking the backyard (her favorite past time), so that she can stalk deer, and birds, and hunt bugs, and be the tiger she always thought she was.

I'm not sure if there's a moral to the story.  I'm not sure what I do or do not deserve in the way of blame.  This post probably fits best with the theme of my blog, Adrift.  I feel like I'm adrift.  The only thing I'm really sure of is that I miss my friend, and I am left wishing that there was more, or anything, that I could have done before it was too late.

I'm sorry Babe.  I'm happy that you won't have to be scared, or hurt anymore.  I love you so much.  Godspeed little one, wherever you've gone, and wherever you're going.

-Paul

New Year's Day

Gone Fishing...

"Fishing isn't just something you do for fun, it's soul repair."

If only the man from whom I first hear that term "soul repair" had used such an eloquent delivery, such as it is, he was the proprietor of a pizza shop where I was ordering a pie.

Yesterday, following the events of New Year's Eve, I got to spend some time fishing with a good friend.  If the day was a microcosm of what the year will be, then I'm off to one helluva start.  We ate good food, we enjoyed good scenery, we listened to good music, and we laughed.  Anyone else braving the weather, and probably a New Year's hangover, to be on the river would've heard peals of laughter as we floated by.

We fished a bit too.  I even hooked myself a new girlfriend...

She was a bit on the chubby side, and maybe not quite a "keeper" yet, but she's got some potential if we hook up again!

I hope that you all, whoever happens across my humble little corner of the internet, have a wonderful, and blessed 2014.

New Year's Eve

"I've Decided that You're Shallow..."

I was seeing this girl once.  She was way too young for me.  Significantly too good looking for me.  Big time in to causes, and fighting to make her way up in the world from quite literally nothing.  Absolutely, positively, committed to using whatever means she had to change the world for the better.  She was the impetus behind this blog, which she has never read.

New Year's Eve is as much about endings as it is about beginnings.  Tonight, quite unexpectedly brought an ending.  Tomorrow, whatever happens, is a beginning.  The beginning of what?  Who knows.

As for me, a man (and fellow fisherman) I knew in passing once told me, "Fishing is soul repair."  For my first official act of 2014, I'm going fishing.

Christmas

Be thankful...

It's Christmas.  I ate, I drank, I ate and drank, gifts were exchanged, movies involving Red Ryder BB guns were screened.  My dad fell in the bedroom.  A few days ago he fell getting out of the shower.  My mother is concerned about how much longer she will be able to take care of him here at home.

I'm terrified.

Usually, I'm very much an "allow things to unfold" person.  I find that when things are beyond one's control leaving them to their own devices is pretty much the only reasonable course of action that doesn't drive a person insane.  However, it is incredibly difficult to come to terms with the notion, that relationship aside, there is another human being in my home that is dying.  There is no chance of improvement, only stabilization, and even that is mostly wishful thinking.  My father, someone who was once as motivated, driven, eloquent and dynamic a person as there ever was is dying, and there isn't a damn thing to be done about it.

At least we were together for a while today and shared some moments of joy and laughter.

Be thankful.

Euphoria

Euphoria...

eu·pho·ri·a

  [yoo-fawr-ee-uh, -fohr-]  Show IPA

noun

1.

a state of intense happiness and self-confidence: She was flooded with euphoria as she went to the podium to receive her Student Research Award.

2.

Psychology . a feeling of happiness, confidence, or well-being sometimes exaggerated in pathological states as mania.

Paintball

For those "in the know" yours truly is a paintball enthusiast.  Paintball is my third expensive hobby(chronologically, not price-wise).  The first two being fishing, and [occasionally] chasing pretty girls.  Now that I think about it, all three have their own niche and serve their own unique purpose.  

Fishing is intensely personal...

It is about the individual.  Even when fishing with a friend, or group of friends, everyone has their own favorite lure, their own approach, they may tie different knots, favor different methods, the list goes on and on.  It can be enjoyed by two or more people, but only requires one.  Given an area as confined as a boat, once a fisherman(or woman) is really locked in to the rhythm, the "vibe" if you will, of the day, the water, and the fish, the bow and stern may as well be a mile apart.  The experience isn't necessarily cold, or detached, but it is very much internal.  Success in bringing fish to hand is its own reward, but not the only one.  Singularity of purpose, and clarity of thought, solitude from the constant din of the outside world all contribute to the overall success or failure of a trip.

Dating is intimate...

The interplay between a man a woman(to keep it simple).  The goal is actually quite similar to what one might experience fishing, a singular moment, insulated from the hustle and bustle of everything outside.  Only this time it's a table for two inside the bubble.  You [obviously] have yourself, and then there is your partner, both (hopefully) striving to let each other in and have a series of mutually beneficial experiences, together.  You, and that one person, going in the same direction, even if only for a little while.  Success could lead to the bedroom, a walk in the park holding hands, even a marriage and a family.  A moment, or moments, in time spent pursuing something deeper than oneself, whether that be emotionally, physically, or both.  Shared with an individual.  Given the right individual, and the proper time, the result is predictably sublime.

Paintball is...

...the odd activity out.  It is not quiet, clean, or proper.  It is dirty, loud, raucous, occasionally ugly, usually impolite, and always unapologetic about itself.  Everything about it is raw.  What makes it interesting, and puts it in consort with the other activities listed is that there is a group involved, and every individual is having roughly the same experience.  Fishing is a one man thing.  Even with several people.  Intimacy in a relationship is a two person thing, sharing something extremely significant with one person.  Paintball is the pack of wolves, or the pride of lions.  In doing so it serves (in one way or another) all three goals though.  

There is an intensely person aspect, one man, focused on one singular job, weighing out methodology and ideology, waiting for that singular moment to strike.  Athletes refer to it as being "in the zone" even in a team environment they are experiencing everything differently than everybody else, nothing can go wrong.  They are moving in slow motion, one step ahead of their opponent.  This is the singular aspect of paintball.  Using all of your faculties physically, mentally, and emotionally to be one step ahead of the other guy.  Success is, (in a rather hyperbolic sense) survival.  Anything else is failure.  It is, necessarily, the first step we take on our journey.

However, it lends itself to intimacy as well.  You must share a certain amount of like mindedness with your fellow players.  The individual can win a gun fight, and sometimes a game, but he becomes even more dangerous given a partner.  Two players who know and understand each other's tendencies, abilities, and short-comings are infinitely more dangerous than one man alone hoping for his compatriots to hold up their end of the game.  There is an uncommon level of trust that must be put in to one's partner.  Given time, the two are sharing the same sort of singular moments that one might associate with a relationship.  Success is measured in shared moments, where both participants combine to achieve more than either could individually.

On the highest level though, paintball becomes a group activity.  A well put together team.  Like minded, singular in purpose, well acquainted, well drilled, well equipped.  Dangerous. Five people on that field experiencing the same thing.  The high of victory, the low of defeat.  The drive, and will to succeed and win that keeps them coming back no matter the cost, no matter how devastating the loss or how thrilling the victory.  They all want more.  For themselves, for the people they are closest to, for the entire entity.

Yesterday...

The culmination of the above rambling.  Yesterday, I spent some time playing paintball with the tournament team I am a member of.  Practice is not always pleasant.  In fact, paintball is not always pleasant.  To be entirely truthful, I was not looking forward to yesterday's practice.  Not even a little.  Something about it though, was sublime.  Every man a tiger.  Every play just right.  From the first time I turned my gun and touched the trigger, it was euphoria.  The feeling was indescribable, and without against resorting to hyperbole, touched me on all three of the levels discussed above.  The result was absolutely electric.  The embodiment of the reason I play the game at all.  The feeling started on the personal level, and grew from there.  I felt perfect, even just stretching, and getting ready.  We began with one on one's.  I couldn't lose.  Everything about the field clicked, the day was just right, the amount of light, the alignment of the bunkers.  To me, the energy was almost palpable.  By the time we got to group drills I was overflowing with energy, brimming with confidence, playing with reckless abandon, regardless of the outcome.  The feeling was incredible, and it seemed to catch on with others as well, passing from person to person.  As a group, we had never seemed better to me.  Every person striving to reach a new level, riding the wave to new heights.  All of us understanding, feeling and reacting in ways that we hadn't before.  Far from perfection, the environment was progression.  Individuals stepping forward from where they had been before, moving into new roles, new realms of consciousness about what they were doing.  All striving for personal singularity of purpose, all sharing in a common goal.

All driven to succeed.  Atlanta Drive.

Post C.

Wherein, I post my deepest darkest feelings, and fears.

 Just kidding, we're going for a bullet riddled speed round...

• It's cold here.  Way too damn cold for Georgia at Thanksgiving.
• The people I work with represent a well educated, diverse collection of complete dunces.
• I was wrong yesterday, the score of the Packers/Vikings game was 26-26.  Still a tie.  Gross.
• The number of times I have wondered aloud, "Where do these people come from?" is either an indictment of society, or of my own inability to accept that society might be so incomprehensibly, well...dumb.
• Another note from the game, Announcer 1 says to Announcer 2, "The team needs to push up field with some alacrity."  Good use of alacrity.  Announcer 2 seemed genuinely taken aback that such refined language might be used during a sport broadcast.
• I haven't fished enough this year.
• Maybe next year.
• That's a good way to waste a life time.
• Never use good, common sense when you can rely on someone else to spoon-feed you the answer.
• That last one was a joke; for the love of God, Buddha, Cthulu, who, or whatever else you may regard as a power higher than your own, use good common sense, and critical thinking to work through your problems.
• Yes, I'm aware that the prospect of thinking may be frightening to some.
• You are now conscious of your own breathing.
• For a good time, walk around whistling well known tunes, and leaving off the ending.

All around the cobbler's bench, the monkey chased the weasel.  The monkey thought was all in fun.  POP!  Goes the