This Week in Word of the Day – 05/26/2013

coalesce \koh-uh-LES\, verb:

1. to blend or come together: Their ideas coalesced into one theory. 2. to grow together or into one body: The two lakes coalesced into one. 3. to unite so as to form one mass, community, etc.: The various groups coalesced into a crowd. 4. to cause to unite in one body or mass.

As he listened to The Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows” obsessively throughout the morning, he wrestled with the confusion of being without the woman that influenced every facet of his life for fifteen years. Tiny revelations began simmering in his mind over three tormented hours. Then, in a breathtaking flash, they coalesced into one, grand, beautiful, and peaceful realization. It was okay to let go of the hurt and the bitterness. The woman he loved, the woman he shared so many laughs, the woman whose ideas and memories were interwoven tightly with his own was not the woman who left. These were two separate people and the first that he held so closely to his heart is still there with him and always would be. Just as his best friend who passed away years ago was not the carbon swallowed by the Earth, but the spirit that was as present and real now than when his friend was still alive. The second woman, the one who left, was a different person who needed a different life. And that is fine. All the details meant nothing, she had to leave because she could not be happy with him, nor could he be happy with her. It was okay to continue to love the first woman and appreciate the man she helped him to become. And it was okay to forgive the second woman. It doesn’t make him weak, it doesn’t make him vulnerable. It simply frees valuable space in his heart for more pressing matters.

pasquinade \pas-kwuh-NEYD\, noun:

1. a satire or lampoon, especially one posted in a public place. verb: 1. to assail in a pasquinade or pasquinades.

Writing pasquinades on the restaurant to-go boxes quickly endeared me to the staff, but was not appreciated by the management. Though they may have been secretly amused by my imaginings of the executive chef as Foghorn Leghorn, Jimmy with a porn ‘stash, or my epic series, The Great Loves of Pepe Le Pew, the to-go boxes inspired hushed daily meetings as they read over my latest batch. It all culminated with a write up when a box fell into the hands of the nephew of the owner. This was fine because I really was starting to run out of ideas.

Fave Moore memories #01:

We used to live next to Brink Junior High, which was right on the edge of Moore/South OKC. There was this big pond behind our neighborhood with  small islands in the middle. Jason had the bright idea of celebrating his birthday by camping out, just he and I, on one of these islands.

Halfway there, the raft sprung a leak. In an effort to slow the sinking, we rolled into the water and drug the raft to shore. Though most everything was soaked through, we did manage to save the Pop Tarts and the fireworks, and this small victory bolstered our spirits enough to inspire us to stick with the plan and stay the night on the small patch of land with a thin, lonely tree hunched over our tent like a creepy old man.

We were supposed to fish, but all the fish bait was lost aside from what leaked all over my change of clothes. We were going to build a fire, but the kindling we brought with us was wet. Instead, we went to sleep as soon as night fell.

Shivering the night away in a drenched sleeping bag that smelled of mucky turtle crap and fish bait was the third most uncomfortable experience of my life. It was amazing how much we laughed that night, despite the misery.

In the morning, we inflated the raft as much as possible, which was enough to carry about a quarter of our gear. We had to swim across the pond, dragging the sad, limp raft behind us. We unloaded the gear and went back to the island, repeating this process until we were exhausted, soaked to the bone and reeking like a freshly emptied fish tank, which, if you have ever owned a fish tank, you know how foul they can get.

This was the second most impactful experience that solidified my hatred of camping.

Fave Moore Memories #02:

The second time I witnessed pornography was in the house of two girls I never met before and haven’t ever seen since. After looking at the path of the tornado, it is likely the house was wiped out yesterday with the rest of that neighborhood.

I was sixteen when I made my one and only tip to that particular street. I had a car and a friend who wanted to get laid. Being sixteen with no better ideas, I agreed to drive him.

We arrived and the girls were watching one of the “Taboo” movies – “Taboo 5″, I think. It was shot in the 70′s and was based on the creepy relationship between a guy and his stepmom.

While my friend slipped away with the girl who invited us over, I was left to chat, uncomfortably, with the other girl. She was pretty and apathetic, the kind of girl who started smoking in fifth grade and always wore her leather jacket, even in the summer. Sex was happening on the television in front of us and on the other side of a thin wall behind us while we drank 3.2 beer and avoided looking at one another.

She taught me how to peal bottle labels off without tearing them, igniting an obsessive habit that stuck with me throughout my life. The trick is waiting for the bottles to perspire, which softens the glue.

I never made a move on the girl and she eventually turned off the porn and we watched something else. My friend and the other girl emerged and we went home. I sometimes think I should have been bolder, but mostly I think I probably dodged a bullet.

Fave Moore Memories #03:

My first car was this sweet ’66 Ford Mustang, coal black, bourbon interior with this nasty grill with custom grating my dad and I installed to make it look mean. It was fierce, like a Great Black Shark.

With these low-ride tires, it could round a 90 degree corner at 40 mph, yet inside was an anemic 250 with a rattly three speed transmission. Everyone assumed it could fly like a bat outta hell, so I didn’t let them know any different.

I loved that car more than I loved my right arm – and I really LOVED my right arm. I named the car “Sally” because I loved The Commitments and I lacked imagination.

Some cute, older girl at a Taco Mayo told me it was a “hot ass ride.” My friend urged me to ask for her number, but I wasn’t good at that kind of thing, so I just thanked her and ate my taco burger in shame.

Being 16 with no better ideas, I took Sally where every other 16-20 year old with no better ideas went – 12th street. It was a big cruising street that the older guys claimed went down hill when the owner’s of Harry Bears got annoyed at the horrible traffic.

This guy I met while cruising was a high school drop out/pool shark who told me that “you hold your pool cue like you hold your wiener – gentle, patient, but with a sense of purpose.”

He also talked me into getting a CB radio. Cell phone technology existed, but the CB was ideal for cruising because you could jump into conversations with everyone else with a CB that was in range. These were mostly other aimless teenagers, truckers, or perverts who targeted aimless teenagers.

It was an informative time for me as I got to mingle with a social circle that I never really returned to once I packed up with my parents and moved to Shawnee.

One day, another friend convinced me to drive him and a couple other guys to Unit E, which was an all ages club just south of Bricktown. At the time, I didn’t understand the drug reference. I went to his house and waited for them to get properly stoned, then drove up Shields so we would avoid cops.

One of the dudes, who ingested a fistful of speed, freaked out and grabbed the wheel. We calmed him down and got to the club. It went okay, I guess, but I didn’t know what to do at a club, so I just spent my time dancing and not talking to girls. We left without freak-out dude who ditched us for some other group of acquaintances, which was more than fine.

We ate at this diner across the street from Oklahoma Community College and laughed when the waitress asked if we knew that we were breaking curfew. The cops sipping coffee at the counter didn’t care, so why should we?

A week later, my dad and I were cleaning out my car and listening to Nirvana’s “Nevermind” on cassette. He didn’t get it. Freak-out dude’s pipe rolled out from under my seat. I think I palmed it before my dad saw. If not, he probably figured me for a square and there was nothing to worry about anyway. My dad was always cool like that. And he was right.

Fave Moore Memories #04:

My middle brother never left Moore. He graduated from Westmoore High School and moved into an apartment on the southern tip of Moore. From there, he has lived in progressively larger houses throughout the suburb and now occupies a lovely residence near Royal Bavaria.

There are Norman People, OKC People, Enid People, Guthrie People, and, of course, there are Moore People. Jeremy and his wife, Stephanie, are Moore People. There is no way to define what that means without seeming simplistic, but there is a general spirit that I attach to, um, let’s call them “Moores” that holds up more often than not.

Jeremy played football in high school and I adored watching the games. He once hit a quarterback so hard that the poor kid’s shoulder pad slipped through Jeremy’s faceguard and slit open his eyebrow. One night, Jeremy chased away some creep with a baseball bat. The guy followed my oldest brother’s girlfriend to our house. Jeremy wasn’t wearing a shirt. Jeremy rarely wore a shirt in those days.

Jeremy drove a dirt bike before he got a license and, from what I could tell, 60 percent of his time on that bike was spent doing something stupid and absurdly dangerous. I think I inherited my love of bad decision making from him.

Jeremy once chased me through our neighborhood wearing only boxers and carrying a pistol. Well, an air pistol, but still frightening as I turned to watch him emerge in the halo of a streetlight sprinting with the furious fire of a thousand suns burning in his eyes. He looked like the Terminator. To his credit, he didn’t shoot me. He should have after what I did to enrage him.

Jeremy and Stephanie have four kids. They are the kind of people that should have four kids, which sets them apart from most people I have met that also have four kids. Jeremy and Stephanie are driven, strong, and firmly anchored in familial commitment.

Jeremy’s favorite past time is watching his kids play any sport, but mostly baseball. He used to argue a lot with the coaches and refs until Stephanie threatened to ground him.

They are a warm and lively unit, which is an incredible thing to watch. Not a single bad apple, not a soul without a bright future ahead of them. Good people, fun people, noble people, one and all.

My first real adult discussion was when I formally introduced them to Karen at their duplex. It was a good night and a weird feeling to have my brother grant me something like peer status. He will always be my older brother, my tireless protector. Sure, he liked to throw steel-tipped darts at me on occasion and forced me to concoct dance numbers for his amusement, but I was a bastard. I was just lucky he never drowned me.

Jeremy’s herd survived the tornado just fine, but Southmoore High School, which the third child attends, took a lot of damage. The scope of the tornado is heartbreaking, but Moore has Jeremy and Stephanie and all the other Moores that are brimming with grit, determination, know-how, and infinite reserves of compassion. They will rebuild, just as they have too many times before, and that is why I love them.

theurgy \THEE-ur-jee\, noun:

1. the working of a divine or supernatural agency in human affairs. 2. a system of beneficent magic practiced by the Egyptian Platonists and others.

After seeing this word, the agnostic in me immediately leapt to the idea of theurgy being managed by a giant, bureaucratic machine with overworked angels hunched over their desks, flanked by old-timey accounting calculators and towering stacks of papers.

God would be like a pit boss stalking the aisles, yelling at angels to work faster while smoking a fat, pungent cigar. Jesus would be the carefree son smooth-talking dames in a back office before nipping a few Benjamins from the company coffer so he could grab lunch at the new ritzy joint down the street where all the celebrities go these days.

As much as this scenario amused me, the human in me realized that this might not be the best time to make jokes about divine intervention. We all need something to cling to when the waters get rough and I would hate to do anything to puncture someone else’s life preserver.

Fave Moore Memories #05:

My middle school and high school experience was a long lesson on how to love hopelessly. Not hopeless because there is no way out of the love, but hopeless because there is no way into the other person’s heart.

Hopeless love #01 was a beautiful Bohemian whose father did mission work in Africa. She liked talking to me about liberal politics and she taught me about the complex relationship black girls have with their hair. I loved the smell of her Afro. Cactus oil, if memory serves.

Hopeless love #02 was a cheerleader that spoke to me once. Her face beamed with a dangerous smile. She showed me a playboy bunny she tanned into her skin. In hindsight, it is lame and obvious, but it was the first time I witnessed the naked belly of a gorgeous woman up close, and it was brilliant. Muscles buried just underneath, like dirty secrets.

Hopeless love #03 shared a journalism class with me. She didn’t care about being a good photographer, she just wanted to roam the halls during class. She introduced me to the Violent Femes, she led me along for two years because I possessed a car and a willing ear, she dated an asshole that made her feel low, and, when the moment finally came that I could finally kiss her, I realized I didn’t want her anymore.

genethliac \juh-NETH-lee-ak\, adjective:

of or pertaining to birthdays or to the position of the stars at one’s birth.

Lemmy’s birth was haunted by a shroud of bad omens and a perfect, evil genethliac alignment of the solar system. Viktore couldn’t be prouder.

A deeply devoted Satan worshiper, Viktore was certain his child would be an unapologetic hellraiser. To the contrary, Lemmy’s most evil trait was an inability to say “no” to a second helping of ice cream.

Instead of his father’s death metal, Lemmy preferred the complex melodies of jazz fusion. Though Viktore encouraged him to choose Vlad the Impaler for his 5th grade biography assignment, Lemmy instead chose Frida Kahlo.

As they sat in the back row of the Church of Satan, Viktore recognized the faraway gaze on Lemmy’s face. It was the same Viktore wore when suffering through services at his parents’ Southern Baptist church. Viktore swore to be everything his mother and father weren’t, but he realized he was making the exact same mistake. And Lemmy was brazenly rejecting everything Viktore was trying to push on him.

A slight, half-hug of the boy was as affectionate as Viktore’s dark heart would allow. Lemmy smiled up at his father warmly, and Viktore turned away to blink back his joyful tears.

skeuomorph \SKYOO-uh-mawrf\, noun:

an ornament or design on an object copied from a form of the object when made from another material or by other techniques, as an imitation metal rivet mark found on handles of prehistoric pottery.

Christian spent his days during that long, dreadful summer refining his skills at metallurgy. His father traveled the Ren Faire circuit for decades, selling a wide array of swords, shields, suits of armor and other period weaponry.

Many of his peers produced skeuomorphs, choosing cheaper alloys that were easier to work with using modern techniques. But not his father. He had constructed a blacksmith shop in his backyard where forging, casting, and all other aspects were 100 percent authentic.

When his father died, the shop sat dormant for years. Christian never intended to take up his father’s profession, but after the brutal attack that nearly claimed Christian’s life, he was drawn to the shop.

With the rest of his waking hours shrouded by fear and vulnerability, he believed that within that shop he could create something, he didn’t know what yet, but something that would encase and protect him from this terrifying life. He could reclaim his manhood that had been so savagely ripped away.

blather \BLATH-er\, verb:

1. to talk or utter foolishly; blither; babble: The poor thing blathered for hours about the intricacies of his psyche. noun: 1. foolish, voluble talk: His speech was full of the most amazing blather.

There was nothing sudden and magical about their love affair. Rather, it was more akin to a cancerous growth, agonizing and slow, developing without the encouragement or, mostly, the knowledge of the hapless pair.

In their professional fields as manager and auditor of a mid-level telecommunications company, they were often rivals in meetings and she gleefully carved up every budget proposal he submitted in the fourteen years before the fateful night they drunkenly tumbled into his bedroom.

Over the next three months, it appeared to their coworkers and, really, to the lovers as well that they reviled each other more than ever. She appeared at his door sporadically and they never spoke of work, offered apologies for previous cruelties or even acknowledged their conflicted feelings. Instead, they listened to music and made love like with a tenderness that shocked them both.

The torturous affair came to a head during a planning meeting with the CEO and branch managers from the Northwest Region. He attempted to break down the third quarter numbers, but ended up blathering for ten minutes about the need for proper strategy and understanding reality versus what we want to believe is reality. The CEO was losing his patience when the drowning man fumbled in his pocket, dropped to a knee and proposed to the auditor.

She said “yes” just to save the man further humiliation, but never forgave him for making her appear weak.

Everyone assumed homicide was the only logical outcome of the ill-fitted couple, yet their marriage endured for forty years until he was quietly laid to rest. When she was asked how she could live with a man she fought with bitterly almost every day at work, she replied “murder simply cannot be rushed.”

topos \TOH-pohs, -pos\, noun:

a convention or motif, especially in a literary work; a rhetorical convention.

Ernst felt the vibrations of the Focke-Wulf Ta 152 spread from the rear flaps, up through the wings, and finally rattle the stick with rapid and violent clanks. It was known throughout the Luftwafe that this plane was designed to kill German pilots, not enemy aircraft. Ernst volunteered to man the new fighter because he lost his fear of death long ago after his love of the written word evaporated when he learned his 20 mm rounds punctured the engines of a Bristol Blenheim bomber carrying a British poet he’d long admired.

Ernst remembered the bomber well. It burst into a fireball before any of its crew could parachute to safety.

It was a beloved topos that the world could not survive without art, but as he watched countless aircraft tumble from the clouds, engulfed in flames and belching out the bodies of young and vibrant men, he understood that the world endured with or without the creative brilliance fed into the vicious maw of war.

So, he flew on, knowing his death waited for him somewhere in the near horizon. Above him, a squadron of American aircraft crept toward Berlin. Their bombs would kill Germans if Ernst’s rounds didn’t kill Americans first.

“How do I weigh the value of life in war? How do I know who deserves to survive and who deserves to die? I don’t. If the world does not care, than why should I?”

So, he flew on.