Saturday, June 7, 2003

Making food. Again. For guests that are coming tonight. I think I am addicted to treating guests to good food.

Making others feel good can actually be a really selfish act.

Friday, June 6, 2003

It's funny. My wife was driving us home today. In the new car, which we bought today. And I suddenly realized how shallow I am. How short my memory is.

Not that I haven't realized it before. I've just conveniently forgot it again. And again. And again. Here I am, spending all this energy on deciding whether I should go for the nicer floormats. And the chrome exhaust. And only a few short months ago, I was devastated over the fate of the Iraqi people. The injustice of that invasion. I actually swore that I wouldn't forget.

What a pathetic piece of equipment I am. If it wasn't for this blog, and my periodic readings of it, my biggest worry would be that the fancy stereo in that car is not sounding nice enough.

And people are surprised at how badly we do when we're electing our representatives for office? If I am a shining example of how long we stand up for our believes, then I am amazed that we are not doing even worse. Politicians are banking on people like me. Quiet, nice, little consumers. Now that the Dow is back above 9000, everything is well again in never-never land.

I wonder if I should opt for those extra foglights, that go into the front bumper?

Tuesday, June 3, 2003

I woke up in the middle of the night. From a dream.

I dreamt that I was walking through sumptuous gardens, early on May Morning. They were the grounds of a grand fort. Mossy stone bridges criss-crossed a stream, leading from an old building. I could almost see Mr. Lewis sitting by one of the windows. Pondering the latest discussion with Mr. Tolkien. Or one of the other inklings.

I continued my walk through the gardens. Admiring the deer that were grazing lazily in the sun. And then I hear the voices of Magdalen College. Eminating from the tallest tower in the valley. It is so moving that I wake up from my sleep.

I was not dreaming after all. I can still hear the singing.
Haaaa ppyyyyyyyy
birthday to me happy birthday to me happy
biiiiiiiiiiirth daaaaaay dear me meeeeeeee.
Happy birthday to me!

Monday, June 2, 2003

A little over a week ago, I was sitting in a 'Socialist Labour Hall'. It was built in the early 1920's. The hall was filled with people. They were enjoying a classic, Italian lunch of anti-pasti, lasagna, and Chianti. The sun was shining through the windows. Ceiling fans were rotating lazily overhead.

The hall has been renovated, to some extent. That renovation is revealing a building that is very Italian in every respect. You almost feel like you could walk out the door and into a bustling piazza, a town square, somewhere in Toscana.

Although hundreds of people were in sitting in that hall, it was almost silent. The only prominent sounds were that of a slightly out-of-tune piano, and the voice of an old man. Singing. If you could call it that. His voice was broken and he could hardly carry the tune. People in the audience started talking. The 'singing' was slowly fading into the chatter.

I was experiencing a blend of annoyance and embarrassment. Why couldn't they find a better singer? Since they had to have someone sing. Which they didn't, in my opinion. People could have just eaten. Listened to the dull speaches. And left.

His voice had almost vanished, when it touched me. Or maybe it was the sight of his countrymen, straining to watch him through the kitchen door. A tear was running down the cheek of one of the women. The Italians had moved here a century ago. To cut the granite. From the largest granite depository mine in the world. They came because this was the source of the best sculpture material you could find. They could tame it. And the results would last forever. So they uprooted themselves and moved to this foreign continent. And adapted. And cut stone. Of course, now they are all considered to be Americans. Or Italian-Americans. But their English was broken, their demeanor was Southern-European, and it was obvious that they were holding onto something. Their country. Their culture. Their soul. Something.

I realized, that it wasn't how well he carried the tune. It wasn't how high his voice could reach. It was his heart. And whether or not you could hear it singing.

Suddenly, I could. And I was in Toscana.

Sunday, June 1, 2003

Wow. That was a long break!

I should actually be worried. You see, soon after I started talking about our pregnancy, in this blog, I received an e-mail. It suggested that me tending to this blog would be a good test of my endurance. That is, if I was diligent in feeding the blog, every day, it could indicate my diligence as a father.


Then I read in some pregnancy book, or maybe a magazine article, that how well you attend to your garden, if you have a garden, can reveal how well you will tend to your child.


This does not look good.