Tony Bertauski's Blog, page 19
April 8, 2011
Looking for Redlights
Pi is a slightly disturbing Darren Aronofsky movie.
Maximillian becomes obsessed with finding the number that will solve the mysteries of life. "Mathematics is the language of nature."
He confers with his mentor, Sol. He tells him he's close to finding the answer, but he's become obsessed. Sol tells him, "When your mind becomes obsessed with anything, you will filter everything else out and find that thing everywhere."
I've got a 30 minute commute home. I don't notice the green lights as much as I do the red ones. There's a belief that I'm entitled to green lights. I should get green lights, so when I get one I don't notice. But a red light? Three in a row? Five? It's like a man in the sky is singling me out.
The victim.
You will filter everything else out and find that thing everywhere.
Look for red lights, and you'll find them.
Maximillian becomes obsessed with finding the number that will solve the mysteries of life. "Mathematics is the language of nature."
He confers with his mentor, Sol. He tells him he's close to finding the answer, but he's become obsessed. Sol tells him, "When your mind becomes obsessed with anything, you will filter everything else out and find that thing everywhere."
I've got a 30 minute commute home. I don't notice the green lights as much as I do the red ones. There's a belief that I'm entitled to green lights. I should get green lights, so when I get one I don't notice. But a red light? Three in a row? Five? It's like a man in the sky is singling me out.
The victim.
You will filter everything else out and find that thing everywhere.
Look for red lights, and you'll find them.
April 2, 2011
Running the Bridge
I hate running.
I do it once a week. Hate every second of it. I follow a blog where a guy runs 50K races. He's mad.
When my wife decided to do the bridge run this year, I passed. Maybe next year I'll change my mind. Just looks too damn cool to pass up again.
When I say I'll do it, I mean walk.
Heather and Douglas (her walk buddy) woke up at 4:00 am to get to the race.
Heather in line for the Porta Potty. The stench was unbearable.
40,000 people in this race. By the time Heather got to the starting line, the Kenyans had already finished the race.
Charleston's famous cable-stay bridge.
Downtown Chucktown.
I do it once a week. Hate every second of it. I follow a blog where a guy runs 50K races. He's mad.
When my wife decided to do the bridge run this year, I passed. Maybe next year I'll change my mind. Just looks too damn cool to pass up again.
When I say I'll do it, I mean walk.
Heather and Douglas (her walk buddy) woke up at 4:00 am to get to the race.
Heather in line for the Porta Potty. The stench was unbearable.
40,000 people in this race. By the time Heather got to the starting line, the Kenyans had already finished the race.
Charleston's famous cable-stay bridge.
Downtown Chucktown.
March 27, 2011
Hater's Club: Know-It-All
One of my students got a job with a local landscaping company. She clashed with the owner in the first week. I don't know the details. Personality conflict, maybe. New kid on the block. Maybe someone spit in her oatmeal. Who knows.
"Oh, yeah. The owner hates you, too," my student tells me.
"Me? What the hell did I do?"
"You're a know-it-all with your column in the paper. Says you don't know shit."
I know it all.
My high school teachers would find that hiiiiiiilarious.
"Oh, yeah. The owner hates you, too," my student tells me.
"Me? What the hell did I do?"
"You're a know-it-all with your column in the paper. Says you don't know shit."
I know it all.
My high school teachers would find that hiiiiiiilarious.
March 22, 2011
The Southern Dust Storm
Southern pine pollen has everything smothered in yellow dust. It's not considered much of an allergen. Just a pain in the ass.
Don't bother washing the car until it's over.
Open the windows and everything gets it.
Don't bother washing the car until it's over.
Open the windows and everything gets it.
March 14, 2011
You're not Welcome, Kotter
My students never heard of Mr. Kotter.
What the hell. They're in their 20s. Okay, I get that. But still, we're talking Mr. Kottaaaaaair. The show ran in the 70s, when there was only 3 channels to watch. Four, if you count PBS. Which we didn't.
When I was 10, watching the opening scene, the guy riding the unicycle through Brooklyn and listening to Weeelcome Back, everything felt just perfect. I mean, Brooklyn was a safe place, the Sweathogs were just a bunch of fun-loving guys, and everyone was happy at the end of the day.
The reality.
None of those Sweathogs are coming to school, and if they do they're knocking the shit out of Kotter. At the very least, Woodman.
But nevermind. Fonzy can start the jukebox by punching it. No one ever got sick on Gilligan's Island. And the world is a safe place, and lions don't eat sheep and crazy assholes don't exist AND THE CLEAVERS ARE NOT DYSFUNCTIONAL.
Hallelujah and pass the clicker.
My daughter sees the same thing. Hannah Montana, iCarly, whatever. Problems solved in 22 minutes or less. The purple dinosaur loves you. The end.
This is the 80s.
The other day, she says to me, after watching an Adam Sandler movie, the 80s looked like fun. She wishes she could grow up in the 80s like I did. I told her, it's not much different. Really, it's not. The movies, they sanitize the past. I wore the same goofy clothes, but I had the same problems as you. Not much different.
Just be here, darling. It's the only place we got.
What the hell. They're in their 20s. Okay, I get that. But still, we're talking Mr. Kottaaaaaair. The show ran in the 70s, when there was only 3 channels to watch. Four, if you count PBS. Which we didn't.
When I was 10, watching the opening scene, the guy riding the unicycle through Brooklyn and listening to Weeelcome Back, everything felt just perfect. I mean, Brooklyn was a safe place, the Sweathogs were just a bunch of fun-loving guys, and everyone was happy at the end of the day.
The reality.
None of those Sweathogs are coming to school, and if they do they're knocking the shit out of Kotter. At the very least, Woodman.
But nevermind. Fonzy can start the jukebox by punching it. No one ever got sick on Gilligan's Island. And the world is a safe place, and lions don't eat sheep and crazy assholes don't exist AND THE CLEAVERS ARE NOT DYSFUNCTIONAL.
Hallelujah and pass the clicker.
My daughter sees the same thing. Hannah Montana, iCarly, whatever. Problems solved in 22 minutes or less. The purple dinosaur loves you. The end.
This is the 80s.The other day, she says to me, after watching an Adam Sandler movie, the 80s looked like fun. She wishes she could grow up in the 80s like I did. I told her, it's not much different. Really, it's not. The movies, they sanitize the past. I wore the same goofy clothes, but I had the same problems as you. Not much different.
Just be here, darling. It's the only place we got.
March 6, 2011
Eyeball
Damn near lost an eyeball.
Well, I thought. Sawdust scratched it. Didn't seem like a big deal, at first, but then it wouldn't stop watering. That night, it got worse. Got swollen, red. Felt like a grain of sand trapped under my eyelid. I couldn't sleep. It was worse when I closed my eyes.
Ever try to stop moving your eye?
[image error]
So I made plans for a glass eye. Maybe get one a different color. All black, or yellow. What about laser beam red. Or maybe one like Daniel Day Lewis in Gangs of New York, the glass eye with the American flag. The one he taps with the tip of a knife.
Or maybe do an eye patch. Snake Plissken was badass in a patch. I'd just look like a douche.
Just thoughts. All these.
That's the thing. It's hard to separate from thoughts. Hard to just be here. Just be present. Why do we cling to them so desperately?
It's entertaining, I suppose. But truth is obscured. Reality, lost. Thoughts offer safety. Painlessness, in a sense. But lost, nonetheless.
My eye was fine by lunch.
Well, I thought. Sawdust scratched it. Didn't seem like a big deal, at first, but then it wouldn't stop watering. That night, it got worse. Got swollen, red. Felt like a grain of sand trapped under my eyelid. I couldn't sleep. It was worse when I closed my eyes.
Ever try to stop moving your eye?
[image error]
So I made plans for a glass eye. Maybe get one a different color. All black, or yellow. What about laser beam red. Or maybe one like Daniel Day Lewis in Gangs of New York, the glass eye with the American flag. The one he taps with the tip of a knife.
Or maybe do an eye patch. Snake Plissken was badass in a patch. I'd just look like a douche.
Just thoughts. All these.
That's the thing. It's hard to separate from thoughts. Hard to just be here. Just be present. Why do we cling to them so desperately?
It's entertaining, I suppose. But truth is obscured. Reality, lost. Thoughts offer safety. Painlessness, in a sense. But lost, nonetheless.
My eye was fine by lunch.
February 26, 2011
Phone Call
Our first death threat.
It was an anonymous phone call. My wife answered. The guy on the other end wanted to know why she called him. She didn't. This pissed him off. He told her this.
IF I FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE, I'LL KILL YOU AND YOUR WHOLE FAMILY.
End quote.
She didn't know who it was. Didn't matter. You hear that and all sorts of nightmares march through your skull. On go the lights in the yard. Doors locked. Double checked. Dogs inside. They won't hurt anyone, but they look like they will. That's a plus.
Oh, and check on the gun.
I got a .357 revolver. What the gun retailer called "Home Protection." Yes, I want that. "And you'll want these." "What are they?" "Hollow point bullets. They got stopping power."
Those, too.
I hope I never, ever use this gun. I've shot it at the range. Sounds like a cannon. A friend once told me a 9mm is the best gun to have hidden at home. Said it will flatten a man in a second. Said you'll want someone to break into your house. He's a Navy SEAL. I'm not.
When I bought the gun, my wife asked if I thought I could really shoot a man. Really, truly. Could I pull the trigger on another man. Seriously. I said I don't know. But if a man comes into my house with the intention to harm my family, to KILL YOU AND YOUR WHOLE FAMILY, I want the option.
So far my pistol has collected dust. I like that. But I cleaned it. Because, you know.
It was an anonymous phone call. My wife answered. The guy on the other end wanted to know why she called him. She didn't. This pissed him off. He told her this.
IF I FIND OUT WHO YOU ARE, I'LL KILL YOU AND YOUR WHOLE FAMILY.
End quote.
She didn't know who it was. Didn't matter. You hear that and all sorts of nightmares march through your skull. On go the lights in the yard. Doors locked. Double checked. Dogs inside. They won't hurt anyone, but they look like they will. That's a plus.
Oh, and check on the gun.
I got a .357 revolver. What the gun retailer called "Home Protection." Yes, I want that. "And you'll want these." "What are they?" "Hollow point bullets. They got stopping power."
Those, too.
I hope I never, ever use this gun. I've shot it at the range. Sounds like a cannon. A friend once told me a 9mm is the best gun to have hidden at home. Said it will flatten a man in a second. Said you'll want someone to break into your house. He's a Navy SEAL. I'm not.
When I bought the gun, my wife asked if I thought I could really shoot a man. Really, truly. Could I pull the trigger on another man. Seriously. I said I don't know. But if a man comes into my house with the intention to harm my family, to KILL YOU AND YOUR WHOLE FAMILY, I want the option.
So far my pistol has collected dust. I like that. But I cleaned it. Because, you know.
February 24, 2011
Susan's Black Eye
Black-eyed Susan. Some call it Brown-eyed Susan.
Both names seem... wrong.
The second more than the first.
February 19, 2011
Getting It Out
My story is like any other. I was on welfare at the time, writing in cafes on lined notebook paper. About a boy wizard with a mysterious lightning bolt scar on his forehead.
Ten years later, I had 400 billion dollars.
All right. My writing inspiration isn't so glamorous, or universally loved. And I don't have any theme parks. My beginning started as a story for my son, when he was seven. Cliche, I know. You see, I started it because he hated to read. I figured, what the hell, I'll write something he'll dig. A kid with superpowers, cracking skull, saving the world. My son could name the characters, give me ideas and we'd run with it. I envisioned him sitting on the couch next me, devouring page after page. Dad! When's the next chapter going to be done?
He said it best when my efforts failed. "Dad. I just hate reading."
Even JK wouldn't win this battle.
But here's the deal. The character I started out with got stuck in my nugget. I've written textbooks and magazine articles and newspaper columns, but I'd never done fiction. How hard could it be? Really. You just make stuff up. It's not like I needed a fact-checker. I didn't even need reality. This kid could strap on rockets and fly to the freaking moon. This is fiction, baby. Don't tell me what I can and can't do.
Oh. Was I wrong.
Fiction, for most of us, is hard to write. Good fiction, that is.
Socket Greeny was the character. A sixteen-year old kid, asking the big questions about life. Why am I here? What's this all about? Do I matter? Teenage angst on growth hormones sort of dilemma. Maybe not the most original, but something teens can relate to. I know, I was that kid. And that's why Socket wouldn't get out of my head. He had a story to be told. Well, I had a story that I wanted to tell through him. And in the world of fiction, I could make him whatever I wanted. Make him indestructible. Yet vulnerable.
Socket's this misfit. He's got white hair, but he's not an albino. It's a pigment disorder. He's different. His dad is dead. His mom, a workaholic. He whittles his life away in video games and energy drinks. That is, until he discovers his true nature.
My life and Socket's go opposite directions from there. No, I don't have white hair and my parents are alive and well. There were no fantastical worlds in my life. No superpowers to be discovered or off-world creatures to befriend. I wasn't the center of the universe and I sure as hell wasn't saving it. It was just me and everyday life. My path ended up grinding through life's problems the old fashion way. Slow and ordinary.
By the time I was in my 20s, I'd started a Zen practice. Meditation became a daily routine, in addition to retreats and various other inner efforts. I made some sense out of things through some hard work. Found some meaning. The struggle, it's worth it.
Socket's life isn't so ordinary. But it's not so far off, either. He still struggles with the everyday issues of where he fits in. His relationships. And what the hell does all this really mean.
I don't know if I'll ever write another novel. To wear out a cliche, it was a story in me that wanted out. It's out. Besides, novel-writing is as much about promoting (or more) as writing. And I'm not jazzed about that. Maybe in ten years there'll be another one. Or maybe I take the JD Salinger route and never write another one. I sure hope that's not true, for a number of reasons.
Ten years later, I had 400 billion dollars.
All right. My writing inspiration isn't so glamorous, or universally loved. And I don't have any theme parks. My beginning started as a story for my son, when he was seven. Cliche, I know. You see, I started it because he hated to read. I figured, what the hell, I'll write something he'll dig. A kid with superpowers, cracking skull, saving the world. My son could name the characters, give me ideas and we'd run with it. I envisioned him sitting on the couch next me, devouring page after page. Dad! When's the next chapter going to be done?
He said it best when my efforts failed. "Dad. I just hate reading."
Even JK wouldn't win this battle.
But here's the deal. The character I started out with got stuck in my nugget. I've written textbooks and magazine articles and newspaper columns, but I'd never done fiction. How hard could it be? Really. You just make stuff up. It's not like I needed a fact-checker. I didn't even need reality. This kid could strap on rockets and fly to the freaking moon. This is fiction, baby. Don't tell me what I can and can't do.
Oh. Was I wrong.
Fiction, for most of us, is hard to write. Good fiction, that is.
Socket Greeny was the character. A sixteen-year old kid, asking the big questions about life. Why am I here? What's this all about? Do I matter? Teenage angst on growth hormones sort of dilemma. Maybe not the most original, but something teens can relate to. I know, I was that kid. And that's why Socket wouldn't get out of my head. He had a story to be told. Well, I had a story that I wanted to tell through him. And in the world of fiction, I could make him whatever I wanted. Make him indestructible. Yet vulnerable.
Socket's this misfit. He's got white hair, but he's not an albino. It's a pigment disorder. He's different. His dad is dead. His mom, a workaholic. He whittles his life away in video games and energy drinks. That is, until he discovers his true nature.
My life and Socket's go opposite directions from there. No, I don't have white hair and my parents are alive and well. There were no fantastical worlds in my life. No superpowers to be discovered or off-world creatures to befriend. I wasn't the center of the universe and I sure as hell wasn't saving it. It was just me and everyday life. My path ended up grinding through life's problems the old fashion way. Slow and ordinary.
By the time I was in my 20s, I'd started a Zen practice. Meditation became a daily routine, in addition to retreats and various other inner efforts. I made some sense out of things through some hard work. Found some meaning. The struggle, it's worth it.
Socket's life isn't so ordinary. But it's not so far off, either. He still struggles with the everyday issues of where he fits in. His relationships. And what the hell does all this really mean.
I don't know if I'll ever write another novel. To wear out a cliche, it was a story in me that wanted out. It's out. Besides, novel-writing is as much about promoting (or more) as writing. And I'm not jazzed about that. Maybe in ten years there'll be another one. Or maybe I take the JD Salinger route and never write another one. I sure hope that's not true, for a number of reasons.
February 12, 2011
It's the Roots
It's what we don't see that matters.
A shrub is planted in clay. The root system is limited. Can't breathe. Can't branch out for water. I don't care what the guy at the store told you or what he sold you, there is no magic potion. It can be fixed, but it'll take some hard work. Amend the soil. Raise the shrub. Things like that.
Problem is, we don't see the roots. Leaves wilt, get sickly. Spindly. We throw fertilizer on the ground. Spray it with Superthrive or something with the word "Organic" in the title. We just want it to look pretty, like it's suppose to look. Like we imagine. Like what we want.
But it's what we don't see that's the problem.
My kids are good kids. I say this because karma shouldn't work this way. Not after my teen years. I'm not taking credit for them being good kids. My wife and I raised them, shaped them, but they're their own person. If I punched them in the face until they were 10 then, yeah, they might be a little goofy. At least I haven't screwed them up.
I figured some things out since high school. I corrected some wrongs and made some rights. Maybe I turned that karmic river just before it went over the falls. Just in time to have kids. They don't have training wheels anymore. We've let go of the bike and they're heading down the road on their own. What's inside them, whatever makes them tick, makes them think and feel and decide, I'm not sure how much I had to do with it. Whatever it is, that's what will determine which way they turn when they're out of sight.
They got some good roots. Now hope for good weather. Because a hurricane can break even the strongest tree in half.
A shrub is planted in clay. The root system is limited. Can't breathe. Can't branch out for water. I don't care what the guy at the store told you or what he sold you, there is no magic potion. It can be fixed, but it'll take some hard work. Amend the soil. Raise the shrub. Things like that.
Problem is, we don't see the roots. Leaves wilt, get sickly. Spindly. We throw fertilizer on the ground. Spray it with Superthrive or something with the word "Organic" in the title. We just want it to look pretty, like it's suppose to look. Like we imagine. Like what we want.
But it's what we don't see that's the problem.
My kids are good kids. I say this because karma shouldn't work this way. Not after my teen years. I'm not taking credit for them being good kids. My wife and I raised them, shaped them, but they're their own person. If I punched them in the face until they were 10 then, yeah, they might be a little goofy. At least I haven't screwed them up.
I figured some things out since high school. I corrected some wrongs and made some rights. Maybe I turned that karmic river just before it went over the falls. Just in time to have kids. They don't have training wheels anymore. We've let go of the bike and they're heading down the road on their own. What's inside them, whatever makes them tick, makes them think and feel and decide, I'm not sure how much I had to do with it. Whatever it is, that's what will determine which way they turn when they're out of sight.
They got some good roots. Now hope for good weather. Because a hurricane can break even the strongest tree in half.
