tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13906608525791974172024-03-19T03:45:47.079-07:00Talentd Mr RipleyI write sometimes. Nothing spectacular, just my sort of a learning lab.Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-24818428975673982352014-06-16T10:18:00.001-07:002014-06-16T10:20:02.279-07:00Stunning ride on the CBR600RR thru a Sea of Green<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/S1oxe1KcnwQ?list=UU9CR4Awh1lA9qEB6uhTM4oQ" width="480"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Sometimes we say yes to spontaneity and get rewarded with curvy roads through sweeping green farmlands, red barns, livestock, wildlife, blue skies, and breathtaking river canyons.<br />
<br />
We wanted to keep it simple: be out after work for a one and a half hours, maybe two. The farmlands, though, bathed in late spring and lit up in our visors, pushed our bikes like predators to a fleeing sun. It was a shame to go so fast through the enchanted landscape. But, we grabbed more and more throttle, the road guiding us to the river.<br />
<br />
We weren't lost, and didn't arrive where we set out to. But as other bikers will tell you, getting lost is part of the reward.<br />
<br />
Enjoy!<br />
<br />
Follow me on twitter @talentdmrripley<br />
<br />
Find out more at http://www.about.me/talentdmrripleyTalentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-14014176967707575882014-01-30T16:14:00.001-08:002014-01-30T16:14:58.127-08:00When You Take Aim<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_m7ZkUnMzxdgDqceDGino0bs2ESIglaKgzeVaf0xrXueEyhNp3dM0eH17mGzawDvGKouBX1Mo_stABrd08edSypOlVN8Svi4Vei4e0AmfWn9OEznBgLzbj3mISnmohjUSWy3JXgKCeD5/s1600/Heart_IMG_2717.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_m7ZkUnMzxdgDqceDGino0bs2ESIglaKgzeVaf0xrXueEyhNp3dM0eH17mGzawDvGKouBX1Mo_stABrd08edSypOlVN8Svi4Vei4e0AmfWn9OEznBgLzbj3mISnmohjUSWy3JXgKCeD5/s1600/Heart_IMG_2717.jpg" height="296" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Take aim at</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
My heart</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Over my head</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It starts there</div>
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You should know</div>
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It sees you</div>
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<br /></div>
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Sees worth</div>
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So up it goes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Heart high</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Not for pride</div>
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Not for shame</div>
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But needing to</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Hear its tempo</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How it rises and retreats</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Races and rests</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Releases and reaps</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Reacts to your touch</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Risks everything</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The colorful moods</div>
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Truth seekers each one</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The parts that make it whole</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How it makes ... me</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How it has a story</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How it wants to tell ours</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So when you take aim</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Aim for my heart</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So I'll always know you're trying</div>
Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-5138198694670125372013-11-01T09:43:00.002-07:002013-11-01T09:43:37.069-07:00Birch CourtRecurring dream: I'm in our old house, the one we moved out of 9 years ago. I'm panicked because the new owners have been waiting for us to move our things out. Our stuff and their stuff, miscellany, fills the house. At first they're not home. I start making an inventory and wander through each room. The living room still has our hunter green plaid couch and matching love seat, oak entertainment center, coffee table, computer desk, and kids craft table. A samurai sword collection, not mine, hangs on the wall. The kitchen sink is filled with our dirty dishes. From the deck I look over the backyard and the grass is riddled with dog shit, that we never picked up. The fence I built with my father-in-law is falling apart. Tall weeds choke a rusty swing set. The bunk beds in the girls' room are without bedding but still not moved out. Our dresser sits in the master bedroom, and our clothes hang in the closet. The little bathroom off the master bedroom has our towels hanging on hooks and our toothbrushes standing in a cup by the sink. I walk downstairs and the unfinished basement is still unfinished. Piles of our dirty laundry still wait their turn in our washer and dryer. Clutter, unboxed, spreads from wall to wall. From there I walk into the garage where our bikes and lawn mower and yard tools and cabinets and ladders and tool boxes gather dust. The owners burst through the door and they're not startled to find me there. I look at them and know this isn't my home. It feels weird because in my dream I know 9 years have passed. Why do I return again and again?Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-46882899324210168062013-10-29T12:52:00.001-07:002013-10-29T12:52:48.016-07:00HavingLately, life teaches me about the concept of having. Those things — perhaps people — that present the possibilities of attachment.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
From <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/having?s=t" target="_blank">dictionary.com</a> (so we're all on the same blog page). </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>have</b> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
1. to possess; own; hold for use; contain.<br />
2. to hold, posses, or accept in some relation, as of kindred or relative position.<br />
3. to get, receive, or take: to have a part in<br />
4. to experience, undergo, or endure, as joy or pain.<br />
5. to hold in mind, sight, etc.</blockquote>
Like having something in your hand, an object you hold. Or having something held deeper inside.<br />
<br />
Most often, the having — that something — is manufactured and fed by desire: something we want, wish for, or hope .... to have. With small beginnings we start to believe. Over time, we release more of our hearts to it. And believe we have something. In simple terms, having something is real if both people acknowledge it and want the attachment to continue.<br />
<br />
However, attachment is a really hard to master. Rarely do both parties want the same level of attachment at the same time, especially early. Or even over time, patterns become obstacles to attachment, which hinder growth.<br />
<br />
Early or late, one usually wants a little more; while one usually wants a little less. Or one doesn't pursue while one likes being chased. Or one scares the other with feelings. Or one can't handle the other's feelings. (Which is perfectly understandable; not everyone is everyone's cup of tea.) Or, one settles into the attachment faster than the other. And probably a million other variables.<br />
<br />
And therein the dance plays out. Are we dancing together, or just moving awkwardly in close proximity?Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-56506388194369917872013-10-10T12:44:00.001-07:002013-10-10T12:44:42.700-07:00Love and SpaceI'll jump<br />
Not wait<br />
An invitation<br />
To enter space<br />
<br />
To love's space<br />
A shared space<br />
Mine<br />
Yours<br />
For me to be me<br />
You to be you<br />
<br />
Space to breath<br />
Space to release<br />
Space to draw strength<br />
Space to return strength<br />
<br />
Find truth in space<br />
Find love in space<br />
<br />
To give in space<br />
And take in space<br />
To love yourself being loved in space<br />
To loving yourself for loving someone else in space<br />
<br />Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-9516361878348077622013-09-17T09:49:00.000-07:002013-09-17T09:49:09.775-07:00Moon Is MineMoon is mine<br />
<br />
With me but not all the time<br />
<br />
Like an old friend, Moon<br />
<br />
<br />
Sidled next to a barn<br />
<br />
Suspended over a mountain<br />
<br />
Peering over a cloud's shoulder<br />
<br />
A slivered streak sinking in bright blue<br />
<br />
Harvesting howls and eyes and wheat<br />
<br />
A buddy bright outside my window when I sleep<br />
<br />
<br />
Some chase Moon, know what Moon does<br />
<br />
They know Moon's phases and many faces<br />
<br />
Not me. Not my Moon<br />
<br />
Moon chases me<br />
<br />
Rising... Falling.... Playing hide and seek...<br />
<br />
And I smile each time Moon's face meets mine<br />
<br />
<br />Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-88189354121486145282012-12-17T14:51:00.003-08:002012-12-17T14:51:53.963-08:00UntitledLately, life teaches me that absolutes are far from absolute (well... besides death and taxes, pesky physics, math, etc). Life in general is so fuzzy, in motion — the present made up of moments stacked liked train cars. The tracks lead away from the past, meander to the future.<br />
<br />
I can't determine if we're the tracks, or the train.<br />
<br />Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-59672038883880802312012-12-11T21:59:00.001-08:002012-12-11T22:00:18.051-08:00Toy Run LC Valley Ride<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/MoWnw_5QKGs?fs=1" width="480"></iframe>Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-1016932965515150392012-12-11T10:57:00.001-08:002012-12-11T12:46:06.896-08:00Courage Always WinsI have a little motto going: courage always wins.<br />
It's about looking fear in the eye, not blinking.<br />
<br />
Not knowing the outcome — not needing to.<br />
I own the last word; it belongs to me.<br />
Fear can't leave unanswered questions;<br />
all the smudges on whichever lens I view the world.<br />
<br />
Dared in that instant. Tried it. Wrote it. Said it.<br />
Walked in/out. Asked. Answered boldly. Fought for it.<br />
<br />
Loved.<br />
<br />
Success. Failure. Living.<br />
<br />
<br />Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-64245243615890583512012-12-05T14:48:00.002-08:002012-12-05T14:48:54.654-08:00More DaringSitting in a Starbucks, writing this before my battery fails. I've been learning about vulnerability, and wanting more of it in my life. There's a really great book out called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/1592407331" target="_blank"><b><i>Daring Greatly,</i> by Brene Brown.</b></a><br />
In a nutshell, it's about: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent and Lead. It's been an eye opener. Thanks to <a href="http://www.twitter.com/lisadjenkins" target="_blank">@LisaDJenkins</a> for recommending the book. I wholeheartedly recommend it, too.<br />
<br />
As a single-again-single person, I'm struggling to reconcile where I went earlier in 2012. I felt truly seen for the first time ever, by eyes wanting to see the whole me. It was unexpected, and nurtured me as a newly divorced guy. I took to the reality like a thirsty man takes to water in the desert. It tasted so sweet, and I felt renewed. I valued it greatly, perhaps too much so. And now that gaze, her gaze, has shifted sharply away from me. We weren't in the same place, so it ended. Tragically, we can't even speak.<br />
<br />
Something rare was shared in that place. Cherished by me. It's easy to go back to my safe place, one where disengaging from people, feeling defensive, and doubtful of them feels more "correct," but couldn't be more wrong. To hide and withhold again. Getting back to that realness — to total transparency — seems impossible, but if I'm to learn anything from the book, vulnerability is still the goal, and it's not a bad thing. It's still about having the courage to be yourself with whoever you're with. Friends, family, strangers, new relationships, and all the rest.<br />
<br />
Can I truly be myself ever again with someone? I'll never know unless I decide vulnerability is worth it in the end.Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-32918186971108035402012-11-30T11:10:00.000-08:002012-11-30T11:10:03.033-08:00Slow Burn<i>This piece appeared first in <a href="http://toskamag.com/2012/10/19/slow-burn/" target="_blank"><b>TOSKA MAGAZINE</b></a><br />October 19, 2012 / Nonfiction, Volume One | Issue Two </i><br />
<br />
by Christopher Ripley<br />
<br />
Smokey spring air nipped at my nose, ripened with curious stink. Not far, an old man chewed on a thick cigar. He sat perched on the rear bumper of his car. I headed his way.<br />
<br />
My neighborhood consisted of old men and their silver haired brides. They glided about Ninth Avenue in giant spit-shined cars named Lincoln, Chrysler, and Chevrolet. Not many kids around so we talked some, the old men and I.<br />
<br />
Mr. Banks wore red suspenders drooped over a white T-shirt, the straps each holding up their halves of faded blue trousers. Pounds clung to his belly like years, giving him roundness. The retired fireman lived with his wife, two sons, and a daughter in a modest home. His house was four doors down the street from mine.<br />
<br />
I asked him if he was ever a fireman. I knew.<br />
<br />
“Long time ago,” he said. The old man breathed deep like a prized steer. Air roiled through his nostrils. He grumbled, raising the cigar to his lips for a pull, stared back with grim etched in his face, then exhaled into the wind. He’d eaten smoke for a living, before. My lungs were spared.<br />
<br />
“Is that what you want kid? Be a fireman?” He lifted an eyebrow and took another hit on the cigar. His face was massive, with a large nose underneath a pair of intense eyes. Day-old stubble, grayed and grizzled, sprouted up on leathery cheeks and down his neck. He reminded me of John Wayne.<br />
<br />
“A fireman like you someday,” I told him.<br />
<br />
His chest rumbled like a train engine, his smoked-filled lungs caught unprepared for laughter. Labored coughs followed. He gathered himself after a few booming hacks.<br />
<br />
“Not for everyone, kid.”<br />
<br />
Mr. Banks’ yard and house drank in the morning sunlight, angling in from the Southeast around and below a canopy of tall, leafy oak trees. His open garage door looked like the entrance to a cave. I knew the fire helmet was inside, hidden like a rare treasure in the shadows.
<br />
<br />
I meant what I had said. As a five-year-old boy, all I could think about was growing up to be a fireman. Five Little Firemen, a Little Golden Book by Margaret Wise Brown, was my favorite. Mom read me the story so often the cardboard cover was lost somewhere in my youth. Friends and I put out fires in the neighborhood like real firemen, dispatched by imaginations. Alarms, sirens, three and four big wheel serpentines rolled down the sidewalk over and over again. We saved Ninth Avenue from the flames several times every afternoon. And we’d return to the station house after a tough job, battered and fatigued, backing into our spots all in a row against my garage door.<br />
<br />
Like real firemen, we’d gather buckets and soap and scrub the smudges and memories of the last fire from our minds and our fire trucks. We retold the close calls, heroic actions, and lives saved. In the middle of washing, or drying, or just getting started, the imaginary alarm would go off – like always. Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding, one of us would shout. We’d speed off again to save the neighborhood. Like real firemen.<br />
<br />
Mr. Banks’ cigar had burned down to a small nub in his hand, to not much of anything. He syphoned precious sips from it like they might be his last, pinching it by the scruff between his middle finger and thumb. He held it like a man; not the way women held cigarettes. A quick tap sent ash cascading to the driveway with a hushed plop. Exposed, the red hot tip blazed a short path to his flesh, closer and closer still. The end reminded me of live coals beneath the flames of a campfire. And I was afraid the fireman might get burned.<br />
<br />
He didn’t care, knew what he was doing.<br />
<br />
I shoved my hands in my pockets, stared at my feet, and the silence overtook us. An old man and a boy struggling to communicate. Though we tried, our words sloshed like water from buckets. He seemed uninterested with me, wanted to return to whatever old men did to fill their days.<br />
<br />
Anxious, I asked about the helmet. “Can I see it?” pointing to the shadows over his shoulder.<br />
<br />
“The fire helmet?” he knew why I was there. “A closer look, sure. I don’t let kids put it on, because it’s heavy, and dirty, and I’d hate to send you home with any scrapes or bruises.” He tossed a quick look back towards my house.
Such a gentle old man.<br />
<br />
He took a knee and stabbed out what was left of the cigar against the driveway pavement, a small sacrifice for my prize, his eventual return to peace. Getting to his feet wasn’t easy. He managed, though, and turned for the one-car garage.<br />
<br />
The gnarled husk smoldered at my feet. Sputtering smoke wafted, but rather unceremoniously. I wanted to inspect it, kick it, maybe even pick it up.<br />
<br />
“Don’t touch that,” he said, reading my mind. “You’ll get burned.” He vanished behind the car into the shadows.<br />
<br />
I couldn’t see Mr. Banks, but I could hear his hulking breaths. Clutter of all sorts stirred from slumber. The crack of a falling broomstick hit the floor. A heavy box scraped over polished concrete. Pails clanked against a wooden bench. Plastic containers rattled, some with nuts, others with screws. He grumbled at all the dusty ghosts with contempt. A lifetime’s worth of squared-away junk, but junk nevertheless. No sooner he emerged again, trophy in hand, blowing on the large brim in the back and thumbing the insignia on the front. He regarded it for a moment, reflecting.<br />
<br />
“Don’t put it on,” he said, “just hold it.”<br />
<br />
The fire helmet was charcoal black, dusty and big. Heavy like a gallon of milk. I measured everything against the weight of milk. I was mesmerized by his fire helmet; heroes wore fire helmets. It was like Superman’s cape, or the Lone Ranger’s mask.<br />
<br />
I asked him if he was ever the chief.<br />
<br />
“No.”<br />
<br />
I told him chiefs wore white helmets.<br />
<br />
He told me that was right.<br />
<br />
I asked him why.<br />
<br />
“Because they’re the smartest,” he said, tapping his head as he said it.<br />
<br />
His words made sense to me, because I watched ‘Emergency,’ and wanted to be a fireman like Johnny Gage and Roy Desoto on TV. And like my friend the retired fireman who lived four doors down the street from me.<br />
<br />
He faded, would spend less time out front under his oak trees talking to kids like me. The cigar smoke remained, though, ever present and tinged with memory. He was still there. I knew. Talks about firemen would come to mind, him and his dusty fire helmet. He simply vanished into the fabric of our neighborhood, gone from the forefront of awareness, somewhere in a smoke-filled haze over Ninth Avenue.<br />
<br />
The old man battled dementia. A slow burn. It consumes like fire, absorbs whole, grows by destruction, and digests whatever needed for fuel. Fuel like a life. A reputation. A legacy of helping people escape the heat. But himself unable to escape the flames within.<br />
<br />
Those standing with him stood too close, witnessed dementia’s final act played out. They would burn with the husband, father, neighbor, and fireman. They would burn with Mr. Banks. He took his own life, but not before killing his wife and maiming two of his adult children.<br />
<br />
The revelation was heavy, freakish, happening where the dusty fire helmet hung in the garage. I felt burned, too.<br />
<br />
<i>Idaho native Christopher Ripley got a journalism degree in 1992 from Grand Canyon University in Phoenix, AZ. His work has appeared in Creative Nonfiction #42 and #44, Format: micro essay. Check out his blog at talentdmrripley.blogspot.com.</i>Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-33547821316703580632012-11-28T14:17:00.001-08:002012-11-28T14:17:37.927-08:00Weather GuyWeather guy forecasts what's ahead<br />
A prediction wrapped in a promise<br />
<br />
A possibility in front of you<br />
A truth conceived, a plan made<br />
<br />
You believe he's right, or wrong<br />
A forecast is not a promise after all<br />
<br />
What if he's wrong? It's possible.<br />
Sometimes, weather guy is wrong<br />
<br />
He's often wrong, in fact<br />
He's often not exactly right, you know<br />
<br />
You trust weather guy, you plan<br />
His intention not to mislead<br />
<br />
Hard to predict, weather<br />
Love, even harder<br />
<br />
A swelling heart and buckets of sunshine<br />
for several days, weather guy says<br />
<br />
But you can only see rainTalentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-74153720566579629792012-11-20T12:01:00.000-08:002012-11-20T12:01:59.086-08:00Reinventing SelfClichés like these come to mind when people start talking about riding motorcycles.<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>The wind in my face</li>
<li>The open road</li>
<li>Freedom</li>
<li>Tiny gas fill-ups</li>
</ul>
<br />
All those apply to me, too, more even; but the reinvention of self is really the coolest thing so far about riding. There's this grown-man-kid-inside-of-me grinning ear to ear behind the helmet, loving every second of the experience. Hot, cold, rain, wind, my senses are alive. And that's not a bad thing at all.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUizXfmvOBJ71sGlyoRowBrAvmLGKVHWlaA-fY9GYQsD1IPIVybLDfdSGZ-oDam1zi6ckY82uSHnOvqG1jm4Dh8FnKv5WHZruzebTYEvKWzA5dTVfkjMgMwBOCLF8BzTunjD5h-Esv3oV/s1600/Lewiston-20121017-00404.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipUizXfmvOBJ71sGlyoRowBrAvmLGKVHWlaA-fY9GYQsD1IPIVybLDfdSGZ-oDam1zi6ckY82uSHnOvqG1jm4Dh8FnKv5WHZruzebTYEvKWzA5dTVfkjMgMwBOCLF8BzTunjD5h-Esv3oV/s320/Lewiston-20121017-00404.jpg" width="320" /></a>When people learn I bought a motorcycle the reaction is usually something like: "Really?" Not the exciting "really?" but the one where people are slightly befuddled. Like I got my nipples pierced, or joined a cult. All I did was buy a motorcycle, but to them the purchase was unexpected for a guy like me, or something out of character.<br />
<br />
"You can't!" my older sister said. "I won't let you." She flat out told me I couldn't get a motorcycle. Carrie, a senior insurance adjuster, works claims and has seen photographs, "horrible photographs" from motorcycle accidents. "People lose limbs!" I asked her if she's seen bad car accidents, and if I should avoid driving cars too. "It's different!"<br />
<br />
Is it? She cares about me. That's what I hear.<br />
<br />
Mom supports my decision but I can tell it kind of bugs her. A strained smile creases her face when I talk about riding, the proverbial "that's nice, dear" in her voice. Mom sat with me in the ICU after my stroke. Motorcycle enthusiasm runs counter to a mother's instinct, experience. Okay, so she's not a fan either.<br />
<br />
Dad jokes, kids, ribs me. He wasn't thrilled either, at first. But he's a hard one to gauge. The man has a natural aversion to passions outside of work, and fund-raising for the local college (successful at both, actually). But nothing really stirs his soul, like fishing, or traveling, or creating stuff. He has an RV and he camps in it with his bride/cook a handful of nights in the summer. Dad just wants a pile of paperbacks and a pack of cheap cigarillos, and to enjoy both while sitting in the forest some place close to work. He's a work hard, hardly play type of guy. So my motorcycle is something he probably doesn't "get" or understand the need for.<br />
<br />
My kids think it's cool, my son especially. His friends ride in a dirt patch by our house and he's dying to try it. Motorcycling is something we can do together, I've concluded. Bonding with my kids matters to me as much as anything else. My oldest daughter is okay with it, too. Her boyfriend rides super cross after all. My middle daughter asks questions all the time, and can't wait to go for a ride when I'm legally able to provide such amusement park thrills. It's funny, my daughters' friends' reaction to the news was like, "You're dad?!? He got a motorcycle?!?"<br />
<br />
He did. And he feels reinvented. He feels reimagined in a profound way. And he'll wrap up this blog post in the third person. He's not just one thing, or a couple of boring things. He's many things, vibrant and not boring at all.Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-86716190970135504112012-11-09T08:35:00.003-08:002012-11-09T08:35:50.519-08:0095<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6yBFDZ4bkIm4uLz3rQHeOCXYoEWSIq_p3O-RiiNsJe0C0XdFOPdu8yYLnA7A9zv3lES9B77GVSQ43fX8QvqrhoX8nY1S0Tm1PfCLkB12M09JZmoD1ATu-h4ryCnDXWKz1FJdebgcWytG/s1600/us95sign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU6yBFDZ4bkIm4uLz3rQHeOCXYoEWSIq_p3O-RiiNsJe0C0XdFOPdu8yYLnA7A9zv3lES9B77GVSQ43fX8QvqrhoX8nY1S0Tm1PfCLkB12M09JZmoD1ATu-h4ryCnDXWKz1FJdebgcWytG/s320/us95sign.jpg" width="317" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I should be driving 95 today.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We'd planned. But the plan didn't survive.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She drove 95 one day. Back in May. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We got past six minutes. This was real.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A June Friday, I drove 95 to meet her. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Our weekend in the middle.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Sunday, same weekend, I drove home on 95, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
had a damn stroke.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
95, 55, I-84 and 93, a Gem State of miles between us. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We Facetimed in the ICU,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
me tubed up, drugged up, looking like hell.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Being apart was hell.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She tore up 95 soon after,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
needing to see for herself how I was.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Fine. I was fine. We were fine. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We hung hard.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
No time in July, a recovery too.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I wasn't up for a drive on 95.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So I flew in July, right over 95.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
She drove me on I-84 right to her door.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
August, long and hot.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
95 was quiet. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
A month of doubt.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I could tell she wanted out.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
September. Let's shrink space, I said. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Right now. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Spontaneous drive on 95 south</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
meets I-84 east in Boise. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Just a night, but damn if we didn't click. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
It returned. Feeling this again.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
September remained sweet. I drove 95 again. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
We hosted a Julia Child party.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Life is the proper binge," don't ever forget.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I drove 95 home, the last time.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The last either of us would drive 95 for this.</div>
<br />Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-11185669081557463872012-11-06T08:27:00.000-08:002012-11-06T08:27:18.043-08:00The Way This EndsParaphrased, love is patient, kind, a mind fuck. That's all.<br />
<br />
Love looks simple. Treading water in the Sea of Love looks easy. We dive headfirst into the idea of love. We leap in with cinderblocks tied to our ankles — those concrete things we think we know about the world, what we want, what we know about people. Things like decency, fairness, honesty, vulnerability. We jump in as fools and try to keep our heads above water. Love swallows us, pulls us under. We drown. We sink alone to the cold, dark bottom.<br />
<br />
Is this the way love feels? Is this the way this ends?<br />
<br />
The Sea of Love rejects us, too, heaving our lifeless corpses back onto the beach. We're spit out again like a bad taste. Tossed back, rather mercifully. You feel dead. But how can that be when every nerve wretches, aches?<br />
<br />
And there, transformed into something unrecognizable, soaked and caked in sandy grit, we shiver our way out of the fog. Long breaths punctuate the pain. But only for a while. Our breath grows quiet with everything else. The rhythm of self reasserts itself. We scour the surf for pieces of ourselves. We stub our toes on the very cinderblocks that took us to the bottom of the watery hell: our expectations and ideas. Like shoes, we lace them back onto our feet. The chains are hard to tie, but we manage to make the necessary knots. We're dumb and determined, you see. They're our expectations, our ideas. We claim them. Own them. We find our feet and leave, horrified.<br />
<br />
Forever changed, so it goes.<br />
<br />
The beach behind us only a few yards, the awful experience fresh in our hearts and minds, we can't wait to try again. So we look back, hopeful.Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-12288918909300067752012-11-05T11:30:00.000-08:002012-11-05T12:33:27.814-08:00LeaningWe talked about October, the future, sized up the challenges, the distance<br />
<br />
We found focus, planned for little, diminished our expectations<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2lCSJ1KU1bIwtBj3pWX-uvT0ChIDqq05avSPGmtogGxMBL8VOyXOVZWqlIdFL0FTTBfGuq6HigwsohT3Cf9jgBEjBCSQeHfmnRr1IHel7LWC5zUGT-vQjEHXjETYL1s7KsR-MgStdgUk/s1600/Lewiston-20120831-00345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv2lCSJ1KU1bIwtBj3pWX-uvT0ChIDqq05avSPGmtogGxMBL8VOyXOVZWqlIdFL0FTTBfGuq6HigwsohT3Cf9jgBEjBCSQeHfmnRr1IHel7LWC5zUGT-vQjEHXjETYL1s7KsR-MgStdgUk/s320/Lewiston-20120831-00345.jpg" width="320" /></a>In a familiar place, we watched the rivers lean into each other<br />
<br />
We leaned, too, with entangled fingers, hands, the warmth of our knees touching, fall sunlight dancing on our faces<br />
<br />
The waters merged in front of us, one snaking from southern plains the other clear water from the mountains close by<br />
<br />
Miles in common and little else, the rivers collide rather peacefully, embracing the other just the way it came<br />
<br />
A cold, cloudy swirling, to be sure, but two souls finding a way, to float away, leaning downstream togetherTalentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-76143195803369835712012-10-31T11:13:00.001-07:002012-10-31T11:13:25.948-07:00Satellite SierraSatellite Sierra ... y<span style="background-color: white;">ou fly, it's true</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">High above still, around, away, and back again</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;">You come and you go</span><br />
<br />
My eye fixates, my breath taken<br />
You dance in magnificence<br />
<br />
Large from a distance,<br />
you are bright like a star in the dark<br />
Daytime drags, I've lost you again<br />
<br />
Are you bigger than my arms?<br />
I dream you're within reach, believe it<br />
<br />
Can I wrap you? I need to try.<br />
I need to wrap. I want too much<br />
<br />
You come and you go<br />
Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-11395386736721975152012-10-29T11:47:00.000-07:002012-10-29T11:47:34.757-07:00Plastic Pools and Dating<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh5jBNZz-bnxZgaydwI2S495xdpr_NKRYsD_OuM3r1GHViOrF7MZjDG4Re4T3Jg5WbPK0tcOCWS7IVfJu8mYCy4r9nWxsWhSjNBXkc4RPHzHlZtdp__ARWLVskCyKlWuPIELQjNpklz0z2/s1600/thepool.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="202" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh5jBNZz-bnxZgaydwI2S495xdpr_NKRYsD_OuM3r1GHViOrF7MZjDG4Re4T3Jg5WbPK0tcOCWS7IVfJu8mYCy4r9nWxsWhSjNBXkc4RPHzHlZtdp__ARWLVskCyKlWuPIELQjNpklz0z2/s320/thepool.png" width="320" /></a></div>
Ahhhh.. the dating pool. Not really a pool here. More like one of those kiddie pools you see on sale at the store when it's 110º out, and your kids' eyes well up with hopes and dreams of splashing about, and they are small enough to actually enjoy it. So you fork over the $13 bucks at Walmart and take it home, pick a spot on the lawn (soon dead), fill that sucker up and let the fun times begin.<br />
<br />
Two hours pass — from purchase to playtime — the hose doing its best to keep on task. To fill, slowly, gallon by gallon. The kids wait and wait and wait in the in their bathing suits, and they're out in the baking sun. You passed on sunscreen, what with the new pool and all. Why put sunscreen on your kids when it's coming right off with the first big splash. Lord, it's hot out today.<br />
<br />
"We're hot! When can we get in, daddy?"<br />
<br />
"Be patient! It's almost ready. Don't you know that waiting for things is the best part?"<br />
<br />
"Why isn't it going faster, daddy?"<br />
<br />
"Because! It's just not! It's going as fast as it can!"<br />
<br />
The waterline rises, millimeter by millimeter. Painful to look at, really. You wonder how much bigger your water bill will be because of this stupid pool. This pathetic, plastic, fake pool.<br />
<br />
The waiting ends. The thrill returns.<br />
<br />
"Okay, kids, get in. I'm grabbing the camera. This is gonna be so much fun!!" You leave them and they are indeed giddy. That mental picture levitates you into the house. You're a good parent; your kids are happy. Fun awaits.
<br />
<br />
You bound back outside again, they stand there shivering like cartoon skeletons, their little bones rattling, and their lips quivering in a state of pre-shock.<br />
<br />
"Get in there, you little brats!"<br />
<br />
"It's too cold, daddy!"<br />
<br />
"The hell it is!! Get your sorry butts in that pool!" And then tears. Despair. Crying.<br />
<br />
"I hate you, daddy!"<br />
<br />
Fatherhood is punctuated by long heavy sighs.<br />
<br />
If you read this far, there is a parallel in this story. Something about expectations and reality.Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-33112653596656940102012-10-27T14:24:00.002-07:002012-10-27T14:34:03.953-07:00Heart PhonesBefore, my phone beeped like a soft kiss, a nibble; an embrace from another time zone. Now, just a beep. I miss the kiss.<br />
<br />
What do future relationships look like? Not too far back our smart phones evolved, grew beyond their pixels, chips, buttons, and data plan coverage maps. Mobile device morphed into the primary conduit for ongoing emotional exchange, especially so when romance is involved — especially more pronounced when long distance romance is in play.<br />
<br />
Is it unreasonable to assume that the smart phone we carry in our pocket is also a heart phone, one we carry into the deepest pockets of who we are as lovers, friends, spouses?<br />
<br />
Does romantic relationship require physical presence to thrive? Does proximity play a huge factor in whether a romantic relationship lasts? Does it matter anymore?<br />
<br />
People who enjoy ongoing physical closeness break up all the time. They had every advantage to succeed. You hear of LDRs (long distance relationships) lasting. But they're the exception. The rule says the deck is stacked against those who choose to love each other from a distance.<br />
<br />
Found the following LDR statistics at <br />
<a href="http://www.statisticbrain.com/long-distance-relationship-statistics/"><b>http://www.statisticbrain.com/long-distance-relationship-statistics/</b></a><br />
<br />
<table border="1" style="background-color: white; border-collapse: collapse; border-spacing: 0px; color: black; font-family: Helvetica, arial; font-size: 12px; line-height: 23.266666412353516px; text-align: start; width: 100%px;"><tbody style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;" width="75%">Total percentage of U.S. marriages that are considered long distance relationships</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;" width="25%">2.9%</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Average amount of time for long distance relationship to break up if it’s not going to work</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">4.5 months</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Total percentage of long distance relationships that fail when changes aren’t planned for</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">70%</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Total amount of couple who claim they’re in a long distance relationship</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">14 million</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Total percentage of marriages in U.S. that start as a long distance relationship</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">10%</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Total percentage of college relationships that are long distance</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">32.5%</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Total percent of long distance relationships that break-up</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">40%</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Total percentage of engaged couples that have been in a long distance relationship</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">75%</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Total amount of marriages that are long distance relationships</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">3.75 million</td></tr>
<tr><td bgcolor="#CCCCCC" colspan="2" style="padding-left: 6px;"><strong style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; color: #1c1c1c; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="background-color: transparent; border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The following shows both the average (median) response and the range of 95% of LDRs from a sample of over 200</em></strong></td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Average distance couple in LDR lived from each other</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">125 miles</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Average times couple visited each other per month</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">1.5</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Average amount of time in between phone calls</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">2.7 days</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Average amount of letters written to each other per month</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">3</td></tr>
<tr><td style="padding-left: 6px;">Average amount of time expected to be separated before LDR couple can move closer together</td><td style="padding-left: 6px;">14 months</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<i>(Disclaimer: I'm not an expert, and don't pretend to be.)</i><br />
<br />
Of course, draw your own conclusions. But it seems LDRs are close to the average for more conventional relationships, in that half or near half of LDRs fail too (40% according to this survey).<br />
<br />
Actually, LDRs seem to do better. Can that be right? Must research more....<br />
<br />
Debating the pros and cons of LDRs isn't why I'm writing today. It's my phone; it's dead, lays there like a black corpse on the table — a previously vivacious device gone strangely silent after almost a year of phrenetic vibrating, ringing, beeping, battery draining long conversations, hot topics, cool texts, and all the rest. Good good nights and good good mornings. It was all good, babe; now gone.<br />
<br />
The heart was ripped out of my smart phone (perhaps as the device was meant to be). And it's taking this new reality better than me. It only looks dead, and still functions. Whereas I'm barely functioning and feel like I'm absolutely dying.Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-75148181851280553832012-10-25T16:35:00.001-07:002012-10-25T16:35:39.399-07:00SierraS<br />
<br />
It's like waking from a dream, a sweet one.<br />
Hard to grasp, hold, process.<br />
<br />
Powerful themes. Players loving. Boldly.<br />
Colliding worlds, moving words,<br />
emotions tossed about. <br />
<br />
Control, out of reach, abandoned.<br />
It swept me away, like a leaf on a beautiful current.<br />
<br />
Too good, too sweet, too much, too hard.<br />
And I was doomed from the start.<br />
For it was only a dream.<br />
<br />
CTalentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-3223233469064915222012-10-17T11:13:00.001-07:002012-10-17T11:13:17.315-07:00Riding The Waves<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G3C7gfxvcEY/UHsVTKK-sVI/AAAAAAAAAdk/UIq5NKNmn7s/s1600/Lewiston-20121013-00392.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G3C7gfxvcEY/UHsVTKK-sVI/AAAAAAAAAdk/UIq5NKNmn7s/s320/Lewiston-20121013-00392.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Honda NC700X</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When you're new to motorcycling you quickly learn the art of not crashing said motorcycle. Also, clutch shifting, hand/foot braking, off-the-leash-dog avoidance, bugs, balance, and iced-nipple realization that your pathetic, freshly pulled-from-the-closet attire repels weather like a high quality fishnet stocking.<br />
<br />
Unless you're riding like a drunk lumberjack, fellow riders can't tell you're noob sauce on two wheels. So they wave at you, because they believe you're one of them, and because you're a picture of calm.<br />
<br />
Road etiquette figures in somewhere down the road, but for the beginner "don't wreck" is foremost on the brain.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
First Wave</h3>
<br />
<br />
I wasn't ready when the other rider waved. His left hand slid off the handlebar fluidly, relaxed. And I left him hanging, like a douchebag. He was coming down Southway as I was headed up. I nodded in reflex, upwardly, but only slightly. Shit, maybe it was enough.<br />
<br />
My helmet has a pretty healthy beak, so I'm hoping it caught wind and shot up like a hand. Meh. I blew it. Just let it go, I say. He was me once. Perhaps we'll lay eyes on each other again, on some secluded stretch of road, our sweet rides glistening in the sunshine, and we'll get it right. At least I will, dammit.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
Second Nod</h3>
<br />
<br />
Shortly after the failure on Southway I humped up on a hog by Albertson's on 11th Avenue. Shit, Chris, just breathe. He can't hear my spirited, cutesy Jap bike, a Honda NC700x, over his thundering American muscle. Hell, I could barely hear myself think inside the helmet. He sees me, eyeballing me through one of his side mirrors. I nod again, like an idiot. He figures I'm headed to Starbucks. His doo-rag covered head shakes dismissively. Laughing at me, I figure. He guns the throttle a few quick blasts.<br />
<br />
WOP-WOP-WOP-WOP... VROOOMM!! WOP-WOP-WOP-WOP... VROOOMM!! VROOOMM!! WOP-WOP-WOP-WOP.<br />
<br />
The red light lingered. I felt small, alone. My fragile motorcycle psyche was on the ropes — beat down, listless — courtesy of Harley-Davidson, the King of the Ring. And it's not just the hog. This guy looked like a bad ass, too. Faded plaid shirt under some faded leather vest, with a million miles on each. The back of the biker's vest displayed a hideous moniker of social belonging, "Satan's Farts," or some other damned thing. Sons of Anarchy came to mind, though I've never seen it.<br />
<br />
Finally green. I happily rolled into the busiest intersection in town. Like it was nothing. The devil and I parted ways, him a choosing a day long kicking of ass on the road, and me puttering off to Starbucks.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
Charmed by three</h3>
<br />
<br />
Free wi-fi and a few Americano's bolstered my confidence to get back out there. I had to get home at any rate. I took the long way 'round back to my house (link to Ewan McGregor's and Charley Boorman's round the world motorcycle documentary), out towards Lindsey Creek Road.<br />
<br />
The other rider approached on a BMW street bike, newish and sleek.<br />
<br />
Oh, it's on, dude. His hand came off as mine did, two peace signs pointed down, the proper 45º angle to the road. Exhilarating!<br />
<br />
"Damn right," I recalled, just after. It felt great.<br />
<br />
Smiling the whole time, I curved up Lindsey Creek Road to the eastern edge of the Orchards, and dropped down to Tammany Road in front of the Roundup Grounds. Now heading down Tammany Creek, I enjoyed some more curves behind the Lewiston Orchards and off towards Hells Gate State Park and the Snake River. Almost home.<br />
<br />
Good ride.<br />
Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-8267342196833625902012-09-27T14:03:00.001-07:002012-09-27T14:03:19.203-07:00Random things I learn from my dog, Fletch. Part III: Take a Walk<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Take a walk, friend. Change it up. Move your paws, nose the ground. Run it 'round and 'round, like a Hoover vacuum, over and over and back again. Secrets dangle from the blades of grass, like shimmering drops of morning dew. Stop. Sniff out the stories. Draw in the odiferous. Write your own story in the prickly green. Share it. Life is not a journey to somewhere else. Wag instead in the wideness of now.Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-61381991189294988402012-09-14T12:47:00.000-07:002012-09-14T12:47:01.942-07:00Hard KnocksKnock-knock-knock on the door. Fast knocks. Hard knocks. I'm busy, dammit. Was busy. Knock-knock-knock, heavier, faster. Coming. I'm coming, little shit. Eyes press against the narrow glass next to the door, framed by little hands, like the inside of my house some kind of show, or worse a circus. I see him. He sees me. Busted. He slides out of view, waits.<br />
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I open the door. I know how it goes. His little eyes rise up to meet mine, hopeful. "Can Owen play?"<br />
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"Owen isn't here," I tell him,"at his mom's house this week."<br />
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"Oh. Okay." He's sad because Owen can't play, isn't here.<br />
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"He'll be home Sunday, though, okay?" I reassure him.<br />
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"Yeah, alright." Sunday is still several days away. He doesn't understand where Owen is. At his mom's? Where's that? What's a Sunday? Owen isn't there, that's all he heard. He turns for his bike, peddles out of the driveway. He'll be back tomorrow.<br />
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My return to peace is brief. Knock-knock-knock on the door. Shit. Ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong. The hell! I head for the door again. Dammit. The eyes again, watching me watch them again. The eyes hide again.<br />
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I open the door, preparing my speech. It's the first boy's little brother, shirtless like their dad. I refer to their dad as "Gun Show," wonder if their dad owns a single shirt.<br />
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"Is Owen here?" the boy asks.<br />
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"No, Owen's at his mom's house, be back Sunday."<br />
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The boy stands there wincing, pinching himself. I ask him if he needs to pee.<br />
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"No," he says, defiant. He lifts his bike and rides off fast, shirtless. Balanced, too, with one hand gripping the handlebars and the other gripping his crotch just as tight. I'm somewhat in awe, and certain that I'd be unable to do the same under similar circumstances. He'll be back tomorrow.<br />
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Knock-knock, Owen isn't here. Knock-knock, Owen's not home. He's at his mom's house this week. Be back Sunday. They are young; Owen's friends don't understand. They just want to play. They don't know about divorce. Their parents are normal; Owen's parents are not. Each knock a reminder of why Owen isn't here.<br />
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Knock-knock. Heavy knocks. Hard knocks.Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-16282948501744213512012-08-10T15:30:00.001-07:002012-08-10T15:30:43.331-07:00Rashful ReminderA rashful reminder remains from my stroke. The drug that saved my life (the me inside of me), <b>tPA</b> (tissue plasminogen activator, fancy for heavy duty clot-buster), didn't take the first time. They shot it into my arm and they missed; the drug stayed there, though, festered under the skin and soggy like spilled milk under a newspaper. The trauma team eventually found purchase in a vein with another dose, though, sparing my brain. The bruising was hideous.<br />
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Now the rash, itchy. Irritating. And I'm thankful, really. It feels good to feel good, afterward. I'm reminded of that every day now, thanks to a little blight on my arm that itches in fits. My nails rake over it, and I go back in time with each scratch. The experience altered my perspective. Life changed in an instant on June 10, 2012.</div>
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A stroke occurs when blood flow gets cut off to a part of the brain. Blood clots are often the cause. Read about strokes <b><a href="http://www.stroke.org/site/PageServer?pagename=stroke" target="_blank">here</a></b>.<br />
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I don't even know what to say about the stroke itself. I fear my story can be told only so many times before it dries up and fades forever. I was lucky. Many stroke victims are not.<br />
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Though I don't know my story yet, or how it should be told, at least there's this...<br />
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<b>Practical</b>:<br />
<br />
<ol>
<li>Get your blood pressure checked today. Do it now. Know what it is, where it should be and how life impacts it. It matters. You should know why it matters.</li>
<li>Watch what goes in your mouth. Diet plays a huge part in all of this.</li>
<li>Get active. I'm not a fitness freak, but my philosophy is to do just a little bit more than you're doing. Ease into any major changes. However, it's vital to buy into the idea that a healthy change will be good for your health.</li>
<li><b>Know the signs of a stroke, for you or someone you love.</b></li>
<ol>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #6d6e71; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">SUDDEN numbness or weakness of face, arm or leg - especially on one side of the body.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #6d6e71; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">SUDDEN confusion, trouble speaking or understanding.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #6d6e71; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">SUDDEN trouble seeing in one or both eyes.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; color: #6d6e71; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;">SUDDEN trouble walking, dizziness, loss of balance or coordination.</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17px;"><span style="color: #6d6e71;">SUDDEN severe headache with no known cause.</span><div style="color: #6d6e71; text-align: left;">
<strong style="background-color: transparent; color: #3e74c4; text-align: center;">Call 9-1-1 immediately if you have any of these symptoms. DON'T HESITATE!</strong></div>
<div style="color: #6d6e71; text-align: left;">
<strong style="background-color: transparent; color: #3e74c4; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.stroke.org/" target="_blank">www.stroke.org</a></strong></div>
</span></li>
</ol>
</ol>
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<b>Intangible</b>:<br />
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Life is fragile — your life and the lives of people you love and care about. You only think you have time to say the things you want to say, or feel the things you want to feel, before something happens to erase all that time you treat like a blank check.<br />
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Say it today. Feel it today. </div>
</div>Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1390660852579197417.post-54505350787323964522012-07-30T10:17:00.000-07:002012-07-30T10:17:16.739-07:00Random stuff I learn from my dog, Fletch. Part II: Marking<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiulBySi7nF7T1PULNKYpyJ2tdGDgADb9TDX_OKgyA9ML_unyM8ENWYrzTuRPVNetDqInEr0ughCvU0D5qJvhtyHv6RvZfb6W7mcggw0wv9e6_GKQ2wMf0KD3Hr8bV29KYLC-ng9i9hOoOF/s1600/Lewiston-20110814-00078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiulBySi7nF7T1PULNKYpyJ2tdGDgADb9TDX_OKgyA9ML_unyM8ENWYrzTuRPVNetDqInEr0ughCvU0D5qJvhtyHv6RvZfb6W7mcggw0wv9e6_GKQ2wMf0KD3Hr8bV29KYLC-ng9i9hOoOF/s320/Lewiston-20110814-00078.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fletch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dogs pee on things. A lot. And they like peeing on things, a lot. Fresh patches of grass and wall to wall carpeting present perfect places to piss. Add to that: street corners, bushes, pathways, sidewalks, fire hydrants, trees, park benches, swingsets, car tires, mailboxes, flagpoles, and flowers. Nothing on the ground is safe from a raised leg and urine to spare.<br />
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It's much more than just a birthright. They're programmed to mark territory, claim it as their own. It's a greeting, statement, or a warning.<br />
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People say dogs can't speak; well, I disagree. They use their bladders to talk and their noses to hear.<br />
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I suppose Fletch really thinks the world is his to piss all over. He certainly acts like it, and marks accordingly. He's just doing what comes naturally to him.<br />
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Peeing on everything is not something I should try to emulate, literally. But the model intrigues me. Treat the world a little bit like it's yours. Let others know you're there, that you exist, and that you care. Tell the world that you're present, that you're around, that you've left your mark.<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Occupy the space you occupy." — Adrienne Rich</blockquote>
<br />Talentdmrripleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09828548714829827813noreply@blogger.com0