I’ve had this dream before, or one just like it. And I’ve had several this month. They’re interchangeable, so it doesn’t really matter. nothing I can do matters. I can’t save the people with me, but really they’re all me, and I get to play all their parts, and one of their demises, my demises, sets up the way I win in the end, and I can remember how it ends, I just can’t ever get to the ending. So I die and die and die. And one by one there are fewer people in the dream. And I cut, and shoot, and smash the villain and I feel all the damage as if it’s done to me, so I guess I’m him too, and maybe that’s why I can’t die, but I do, just the good parts of me die. One by one. So I run away, but no matter how I try to lose him, and I even get lost myself in all the random turns, I end up always running right towards him. And he always smiles before he kills me.

Tonight I had him. I’d fooled him good and come back towards him running up towards the canoe loaded with the ill-gotten treasure that he’d killed so many for. And I shot an amazing shot with the rifle I’d found in the crawlspace between the flumes that I had dropped when I’d been killed. The shot went true and I heard it plink through the ceramic mask he was wearing in the boat. But as I got around to the side of the kayak I saw it was his son in front, and not him, and I remembered that killing his son makes him mad. He got out the scissors, and I hate the scissors, so I run.

The sets on this one were great, a small island with victorian amenities and mechanics, lots of mechanics. Water flumes and lifts, cannons, silver scissors and blunderbusses. Treasure that one character dies trying to collect, but he… I… explain to me that it’s not even valuable, just really neat, right before I get a bullet in the head and the collector dies in front of me in his delay to look at the vintage glass labels eroding in the perpetual, ankle deep torrent. I run from the body still feeling the heat of the blood and bullets splash around me.

The villain’s henchmen can die, and they’re not me, but they don’t die easy and they are endless so I have to slog through that, too. I can even wake up, I just did. But if I don’t stay up they’re right there below the pillow waiting for me to return, so I don’t go back until I can’t help it.

I made some resolutions near the start of the year, and I’ve been thinking about them some as half the year is gone. There’s still too much snow on Lone Peak to have ventured up there yet, and with the late spring (and more than a little laziness) I don’t know if I’m going to make my running goal. But the one I’ve been thinking about most this week is my failure so far to increase my writing output. I think a lot of things, but unless they really grab me by the throat and demand to be born, I find it really easy to just push them to the back of my mind where they whither in the dark.

I spent the evening putting up drywall in the garage (at least that resolution is moving along) and came in the house just after sunset, dirty, tired and thirsty. I decided in the absence of an open smoothie shop to just run to the store for something tasty. On the way back I was ambushed by one of those thoughts. It was well into twilight and the streets were dark, but the sky was still shining with that last glimmer of daylight. The air was cool and I drove with the windows down. I just wanted to keep driving aimlessly. There was a little lightning in the distance and it was just one of those nights, the promise of which can get me through a winter. And I remembered countless nights like it, driving alone or with friends. Hanging out and drinking sodas on the trunk of a car and watching the stars come out. All these gilded memories were from so long ago, none of them recent. And I wondered, is it because I was so young that those first experiences were seen with new eyes and had no better memory with which to compare? Is it that I am too shackled to the reality I’ve molded about myself to actually just cast free and explore and enjoy at the spur of a moment? Or is it that I’m now experienced, and driving aimlessly is not the adventure it once was, and any attempt to replicate the past will only prove a sad counterfeit?

I used to live for summer, especially summer nights, and the rest of the year was torture waiting to get to that point where I could feel like living was actually worth something. And then the years started flying by, and I found that I didn’t get what I used to out of the brief season of warmth. At first I thought it was, perhaps, that I finally grew up and spent my summers behind the desk my dad used to tease me about, but the more I think about it the more I’m inclined to say that it is a lack of new. It’s so easy to fall into a routine and to accept that every day is going to be much like the last. To fall back into the security of day-to-day duties that eat up the months without much growth. But I think I need to start pushing a boundary here and there. It’s not enough to just trade idle downtime for task completion. I am happy things are getting done, but it’s time to start living again, as difficult and scary as that may be. Driving aimlessly filled a purpose once, and the memories of those golden times could be fuel enough to get me moving again.

Roughly seven months ago I sat on a Jackson Square curb on a warm late-autumn day in New Orleans. I was killing time before my flight home and it was just one of those moments that was perfect. It struck me that I have those often, and my heart sank as I realized that it was likely that in a few weeks time that memory would be lost with most of it’s predecessors. Ironically, that melancholy thought stuck with me, and gave me an anchor to that sunny morning. I only mention this as I was just sitting out in the cool dark of my front porch at 11:30 at night listening to it rain. It was another of those times where, for once, everything about me was still. I could smell the irises, mingling with the smells of the rain and earth. The clouds spread out featurelessly, reflecting the city lights. I thought back to this afternoon’s lunch at The Point up on the hill and how I looked down over the city and realized again how small downtown really is. I noticed the grass could use cutting again already and that I ought to make sure the violets get watered more often, because they look so good against the rocks. It struck me as odd that the trees have leafed out so quickly, and yet it doesn’t seem as surreal as it feels it should after so long looking at them bare. Maybe because this is the way it’s supposed to be. Stan the cat ran up to me as he does whenever he discovers I’m outside. He hadn’t bothered to stay out of the rain. He never does. He never worries how uncomfortable it is to have a cat sharing his damp, shedding coat as he insistently crawls across your lap. And it struck me that maybe this is something I’m missing. Maybe I’m only to the point where I can enjoy the rain.

So a couple months ago I had this idea of putting together a video using the Haysi Fantayzee song “Shiny Shiny” with video from Joss Whedon‘s “Firefly“. It was one of those ideas that seem to grab me like a chew toy and shake-shake-shake. Often I get away with just pushing them to the background long enough that they go away, but I actually started in on this one as I had the tools (for once) to do it a little more than half-assed. Actually, the titles are somewhat half-assed, but as anyone who has had the misfortune to be around me lately knows that about 40 hours into this project I was wondering what I was doing and longing to ditch it for the next shiny thing.

ah, I’ve been saying “shiny” a lot these days, sorry…

My apologies go out to Debbie, who’s seen and heard this almost as many times as me, and a thanks to everyone (including Debbie) who’s been patient with my constant need for feedback as to if I was being too literal, or character-centric or whatever. It actually was quite fun to do, and I wonder what would have happened if I’d have stuck with a film major. On the maddening side, it was one of those things I could have refined over and over again until the end of time, but I finally told myself that I hadda finish it and just let it be what it is.

I did end up thinking back a lot while I was doing this to my video editing class I took at the “U” from Kent Maxwell. Maybe I did actually learn something in all the years I’ve been on campus after all. But I’m not sure how useful it was, outside of entertaining/punishing me for the last few weeks.

Shinyfly video on YouTube

A couple months ago I took my S10 pickup truck into Larry H Miller Chevrolet to get the tailgate suspension cables replaced on a recall. Foolishly I had left the recall notice home (it was a 3rd or 4th notice, I hadn’t been in a hurry to fix something so small). When I got there I was told that there was no recall notice for my vehicle and if I did actually get a card that I needed to bring it with me to prove such a recall existed. A couple weeks later I did return with the card and got the cables replaced. While I was there I asked about the cost of fixing some bad alignment that was causing tire wear. For about $80 they fixed the problem and I was pretty satisfied. Somehow that lulled me into a false sense of security about dealing with the dealership, despite a small parts department fiasco.

I had broken the release latch for the drivers rear half-door a couple years before and my brother had broken his several times and complained about it being such a flimsy part. For about three years I had put off fixing it, because I figured I could cast a bronze latch from the broken piece and have a durable part that I made myself. While the car was having the alignment checked I walked down to the parts department and inquired about the latch replacement. They quoted me $60 for the replacement, which I thought was insane, so I went back to the casting idea. Upon relating this story, my friend Sam pointed me at partsgeek.com and I found the same part for $6, plus $11 in shipping, so I bought it. I still want to cast the part, but at least my door is working for now.

This leads me up to the nice spring weather we were having last week. I was driving along and rolled the windows down to enjoy the weather and noticed that my brakes were squealing in a bad way. My last truck was a Toyota manual that I had for 10 years and over 160,000 miles. I’d never needed a brake job on it, and hadn’t had one in the 40,000 miles I’ve put on this truck, so I’ve never really had any experience with brakes. Intellectually, I knew that brakes are something I should be able to do with a little internet research and a trip to the parts store. I’d even chatted up Jack, who I knew had done it recently, and he offered to help. But the return of crappy winter weather and basic laziness overcame my thrift and Monday I ran back to the dealership figuring that I’d just get it done.

In short order they came back and told me that it was going to cost $250 per axle, and that all four brakes needed to be done. With what I hoped was my best poker face, I said I thought I’d take it somewhere else. The repair liaison said ok, and he’d put it back together. As he was checking me out he told me he found a coupon online that I could go home and print out that would save me about $50 per axle, if I remember the figure through the red haze of anger that was building. I acknowledged with a nod as I signed over the $55 it was costing me to have the evaluation.

When I told Debbie, she said I should have taken it to her cousin’s place. I hadn’t even thought of that, even though we’ve had her old car in there a couple times. I went in today (without telling them about the dealership fiasco) and they came back and told me the front brakes were ok, with about 40% of the pad left, but the rear were down almost to the metal. They were able to replace the pads and turn the rotors for a total price that was way below what the dealership wanted for just one axle.

Now the final straw that pushed me into publicly telling this tale was when I got back to work after having the repair, I got an email from my brother that had a forwarded message he’d received from Larry H Miller that was addressing me asking me to take a survey about how well my visit went. Somehow they’ve even crossed up our info in their database.

So I’m done with LHM and dealerships in general, and if anyone is looking for a good mechanic, I’d have to recommend The Back Shop in West Valley at 3105 West 3500 South.

Also today, we condluded the “Beardo the Wierdo” experiment. I hate shaving, but I found out that I hate having a beard more. I’d had some fantasies over the last couple of days about removing it bit by bit every day and showing up to work until I came in with a pencil-thin mustache after a week or so. But in the end, getting it all off my face was all I could think of doing. The final straw came last night drinking a smoothie and having an upper lip that was purple and drippy after every sip.
It’s too bad, in a way, because I had gotten pretty good at the Snidely Whiplash twirling tick.

And into each life some cement must fall. I’ll gloss over the last few months later, but for now I figured a couple things happened today that was noteworthy. Debbie ended up closing on her house some weeks ago, and she helped me decide to just hire someone to put the footing in for the garage. We really need to get the tools situated so they can be used as well as freeing up space in the basement. The whole lynchpin of our domestic arrangements seemed hinged on the pouring of the footing that was my current albatross. So, we apportioned out the funds, paid some bills, planned for a vacation and earmarked the rest for cement. It does feel a little like a cop-out, because I know I could have done it myself, but after watching them do it today, I’m very glad I didn’t have to do it.

So yesterday I went out back to see if the charcoal my brother left behind was still good. I leaned over and lifted the bag open and reached deep inside to grab a chunk of charcoal and had one of those moments where time really slows down. At first I thought, something about that isn’t right. Then I started turning over that gray shape in my mind trying to match it to something familiar. My hands reached a briquette and I thought, “That’s odd, I thought it was chunk and not formed…” My mind finally snapped the gray shape into alignment with what I knew it was just as I saw the imprinted logo in the charcoal. Then for a snap second I started considering what my options were. I dropped the charcoal and jumped about three feet diagonally backwards, being very careful that I didn’t make contact with the bag in my flight. I landed shook my hand vigorously looking at both sides and was a little stunned that I hadn’t been stung. The wasp nest is still there, and I can’t quite decide what to do about it. The wasps (or yellowjackets, or whatever they are) just move slowly over the surface of the nest and don’t seem to fly out much, unless I get near it with the grabber. Then they show me they can fly.