Buoyant

The greatest danger, that of losing one’s own self, may pass off quietly as if it were nothing; every other loss, that of an arm, a leg, five dollars, a wife, etc., is sure to be noticed.

~ Soren Kierkegaard

Come with me back in time a decade or two where I am swimming in one of Minnesota’s 10,000 lakes. I’ve had my fill of barbequed meat with all the trimmings. Washed it down with some generic beer from a can. Chatted with all the people I can tolerate. So I’m chilling, way out past the dock, away from the din of myriad related-by-marriage offspring. At over 300 pounds I float effortlessly, my toes tickled by gentle waves. All I have to do is lean back and I’m a pontoon uncapsizeable. I made that word up, according to my spell checker. I don’t care. It’s my blog. I am one with the lake. The water my headphones, a Zen soundtrack playing in my head.

I fall asleep.

Fast forward to this past Saturday. Over seven years since my weight loss surgery. I’m 185 pounds of where-the-hell-did-all-that-weight-go; not lean, yet no longer a whale. I’m with the kids at a pool just south of town. Between sno cones and popcorn, we’re working on floating. For the first time, Zoe gets it. She and the other two have floating contests. Four minutes – give or take, since I got tired of counting around two-hundred-ten-one-thousand – is the new record. “Come on Dad, float with us!” I’m game, so I lean back . . . and damn near drown. I try again, thrusting at the waist, trying to penetrate the surface. Did that sound raunchy? Sorry. No luck. My feet hit rock bottom.

What the hell?

I pose the question to Chris, a scientist, über-smart, a friend and fellow blogger. Here’s the deal:

As I understand it, it is all about cell density. Fat cells are big and loosely spaced, so fat tissue is not so dense. Muscle cells are all wound up on each other – kind of like a rope – so muscle tissue is much denser than fat. The denser something is, the more likely it is to sink in water. Fat tissue is generally less dense than water, so it floats. Muscle tissue is denser than water so it sinks.

How’s that?

How’s that?! You mean if I find myself in water over my head again, I might have to actually move something to stay afloat? Doggy paddle? Or, worse yet, I might have to resort to some hunter-orange-ugly Personal Floatation Device?

Me?

The Unsinkable One?!

Shit . . .

[photo credit]

And We Danced

Let that day be declared lost on which we have not danced.

~ Friedrich Nietzsche

Need more storage space? A place upon which to pile the detritus of a life lived in limbo, sort of like the kitchen counter only bigger?

Try a car.

In no particular order of importance, here is a list of the crap I recently cleaned off of my 1987 Honda Prelude:

• 3 mugs half filled with stale coffee and innumerable dead ants.
• 2 pairs of flip flops.
• 14 CDs, a head-banging selection ranging from the new Heaven & Hell to some classic Tool.
• 1 Sony CD/Cassette Boombox with Digital AM/FM Tuner.
• 2 library books.
• 27 letters from various agencies who want my money.
• 7 socks, mostly white.
• 1 winter jacket, no longer necessary.
• 1 roll of duct tape.
• 52 cents in change.

All settled amidst the write-in-it-with-your-finger thick layer of dust that accumulates when a car sits in the garage for several months without its daily trips up and down Indianapolis Road.

To work.

It didn’t turn over, probably because of the little light in my glove box that never goes out, because the door doesn’t stay shut so well anymore, so I had to jump her; she roared to life with a racket punctuated by coughing exhaust and heater vents belching stale air. I backed it out slowly, the metallic grinding a reminder that I need to change the brakes soon, slipped in the brand spankin’ new Dream Theater, reset my Pioneer to deliver power to the subwoofer, cranked it up to 50 to drown out the not-too-subtle clamor old cars make, rolled down my windows . . . and drove.

Blessed normalcy! The familiar tug as it pulls toward the center line. The way my power window buttons rock opposite the way they do in the minivan. The country wind instead of the boxed up air conditioning.

My car and me? We danced.

I start back to work on the 6^th of July . . .

[photo credit]

Sonnet

Love must be as much a light, as it is a flame.

~ Henry David Thoreau

We’ve been talking sonnets in the Thomas house lately.

See, my oldest son has a girlfriend who, unlike most teens, usually smells really nice. And wanting to be an example for the boy viz a vie how to treat a young lady, I often tell her so. “You smell nice today,” I say. And she usually smiles, perhaps glad that someone took the time to notice her efforts.

The other day, I outdid myself.

We were talking about all this, her and my son and my wife and I, about how ladies appreciate compliments. Not just about their looks, their style, or their bouquet of choice, but about many other things as well. Like their opinions, their dreams. The things that make them tick. And not just compliments, for even those can get old, feel patronizing, after a time. No, they also appreciate it when we engage them regarding things they are passionate about. The give and take, back and forth of honest-to-God communication.

But let’s face it. Sometimes, ladies just want to hear us tell them how much we love them. And why. So, by way of example, I broke into a weak attempt at a love poem. Something straight out of Song of Solomon . . .

“Your hair is like the lilacs blowing in the sweet summer breeze!”

“Your face more radiant than the gentle glow of the lightning bug!”

Yeah. Weak. And embarrassing I guess, because my son and his girlfriend suddenly left the room, leaving that “You’re so weird!” laughter in their wake.

I can handle weird.

Today is my wife’s birthday. And I love her so much that I wrote her a sonnet:

Some say thou art a darling specimen,
And I sometimes begrudgingly concur,
For while thine beauty surely crieth “Ten!”
I see thee with eyes tear-stained and a-blur.

The gallery sees only but a part,
Each tiny glance a fragment of the whole,
Instead I see completeness in thine heart.
I’m blinded by the light within thy soul.

For in thy fullness I am found complete!
A puzzle solved, a masterpiece beheld!
Along a weary path have trod thy feet,
And with each step the demons quickly felled!

So long as I can have thee by my side,
My mind is resting and my pathway wide.

Some piece of work, right? Like me, it’s a work in progress. But maybe someday I’ll be poetically equipped to tell her how much she means to me. Until then, we’ll just keep walking this road together, getting older in each other’s embrace . . .

She’s At It Again!

Tired of hearing me ramble on about how bad life is lately?

Me too.

So today, I offer yet another cool publishing announcement!

In a recent “Lighten Up” post, I told you that my daughter Aryn had a poem published in Writer’s Journal. It’s a national magazine. The Big Time. Well, alright, maybe not as big as The New Yorker or some other literary gem, but a fine publication nonetheless. To say she was thrilled would be an understatement.

After a few days, letting it all settle in, my wife and I sat her down and helped her demolish the ceiling – the one people place over their head when they think they can go no further. We encouraged her to look around online for other avenues for publication. How about contests?

The next day, she told us she’d found one, to be judged by children’s poet Kenn Nesbitt, at the Time for Kids website and had written and entered a new poem. She’s savvy with the computer, so we weren’t surprised. That moment came about a week later when we learned she’d been selected as a finalist. Out of 3,000+ entries, she was one of the top five.

TOP FIVE!

Yeah, we did a few back flips with her. Bumped the couch, but we survived.

In the end, she didn’t win the grand prize, but her poem is right here. For you to enjoy . . .

The Drawing Board

Moments of complete apathy are the best for new creations.

~ Philip Breedveld

Who is this Philip Breedveld? I found the quote where I find all the epigraphs I use here at The Cheek, so I figured his must be a household name.

Alas, there is no philipbreedveld.com.

I searched for his books on Amazon and found nothing.

He doesn’t have a wiki.

So I tried Googling him.

Found a Photoshop Showcase featuring a possible Philip Breedveld sighting.

Also a LinkedIn profile of an architect named Philip Breedveld who lives in the Netherlands.

And then there’s this interesting possibility, a gentleman from the Philippines who, thanks to a “Master’s Course” taken through The National Board of Professional and Ethical Standards, is now able to . . .

. . . develop and use the power we all have within us–the power to BELIEVE and the power to DO! Now . . . people are turning to me looking to unlock that magic power in their minds called the subconscious. For whatever reason, stop smoking, losing weight without a diet, improving memory, or increasing their self-esteem, I am able to help them!

You know what, dear Tweaker? Whoever he is, Philip Breedveld can bite me.

This morning, when I posted this, I possessed a shred of hope. And you came through for me, posting encouraging comments and sending well-wishes. I dared to imagine, to dream the impossible.

Now? It’s all darkness and rain out my window.

I knew it was a long shot. And this evening? Confirmation. An email and a phone call and a “status quo” are what I have. There will be no offer worth considering “for the time being.” My old friend left the dugout, headed out to take a cut for me, and went down swinging. I thanked him for trying, told him I appreciated all he did on my behalf. When the time is right, perhaps he’ll step up to the plate again.

Until then, it’s back to the drawing board. Back to the dead end where feelings are blunt and emotions have lost their savor.

Tell me, Philip Breedveld, how this is a breeding ground for new creations? But you’ll have to do it for free . . .

[photo credit]