Notes from the Red Bird House

A friend told me this week that she envies my life. In all honesty, I hear that quite a bit. Usually it's from people who lack the freedom I have because they are either married, have kids, hate their job, find themselves landlocked in debt, or (e) all of the above. Most are not unhappy, per se. They just aren't as free. They see me and my carefree, easy, peaceful, happy, do-whatever-I-want-when-I-want (amid financial constraints, of course) life and wish they could have what I have. I don't doubt their envy. If I wasn't me, I'd envy me, too. Which is probably why I am who I am today. I've always envied and respected 'free' people. Let me reassure you, as I did my friend, this life isn't for everyone. Every choice has a benefit, but it also has a cost. The cost of being free? Loneliness, no spouse/partner/girlfriend/significant other, no ready-made 'Plus 1', no 'First Call', no financial back-up, minimal connection, and lots of addr

Some day I hope to maybe need my 'Exceptions List'. You see, at this point they aren't 'exceptions'. I'm single and therefore I can (feasibly) sleep with anyone I want without fear of reprisal. The Exceptions List, in its purest form, is intended to be a 'get out of jail free' card for those who are married, partnered, or at the very least committed. When the expectation is monogamy, an Exceptions List is crucial. Sure, the chances of ever meeting anyone on that list are slim but what if? Seriously, what if? You're in LA at a boring conference for work and you and a couple of your more fun co-workers decide to hit a few bars. While waiting at the bar for the bartender to get your drinks, ___________________ (fill in the blank) slides up next to you. You begin to chat, laugh, and find yourselves otherwise attracted. You ask him/her to join you and your co-workers but you find that they have left. Now it's just the two of you (his or her friends

I think it's time that I acknowledged that it's not 2002 and it's not Norton Pines Athletic Club. Those were the days. I was motivated. I went straight to the gym after work every night and both days on the weekend. My routine was her routine. Or her routine was my routine. The answer to that one got blurred one night over drinks in May 2002, but it sure explains why I saw her almost every day for nearly eight months. When I say I 'saw' her, that's exactly what I mean. 'Saw'. She did what she did and I did what I did. We never spoke to each other or interacted in any way (until we did). From my vantage point on the stair climber or from almost any station in the weight room, I could see her. So I watched. She was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen and my motivation. I loved going to the gym. Loved it. Even if my workout sucked, I still had her. At a distance. That was then. This is most definitely now. Beautiful women are few and far between

I decided recently that I like Now. Yes, Now with a capital 'N' (as opposed to now with a little 'n'). I think it's some kind of Buddhist thing, but for me it's more about sanity and patience than religion. Being in the Now is supposed to be a good thing. It means living in the moment, rather than worrying about what comes next and next and next and next. Which is what I used to do. A lot. I mentally sped through the day, always fearing that I wouldn't get everything done. I'd be doing one thing all the while ruminating about everything else I still had to do. I was constantly stressed and unable to enjoy even the most enjoyable things in my life. Then I discovered Now. I'm still not perfect at it. From what the Zen people say, it takes years to master and I've only been at it a month or so. Still, though, my level of mastery has made a profound impact on my life. I'm running better, hitting better, reading better, and relaxing better. To s

There is always hope. If I want there to be. And I do. Now. I'm not sure about last week or last month or last year. All I know is today. And today I want hope. For a change. I guess I'd gotten tired of hoping, so tired that I took a break for awhile. Not that I became hopeless because I know that I wasn't. Never have been. Apathetic? Yes. Hopeless? No. Never. It's just that sustaining hope in the face of what most people would deem 'hopeless' isn't easy. Even the most steadfast need to rest, lay down the cross. So I did. Was it a year? Two? It might have three. Maybe more. I honestly don't know. One day it was there and the next and the next and the next it wasn't. After awhile it didn't matter anymore. Life was peaceful and often perfect, as peaceful and perfect as a life without hope can be. Now though, today...tonight...in the darkness here, I want hope. I want it back. At least for now. Assuredly, I will grow tired again. Hope unfette

I'm in a state of flux. Spiritual flux. I imagine that when I came out as a Christian everyone let out a big sigh of relief. Oh, thank God! She's done with all that seeking. Yeah, not to so much. Christianity was never going to be the be-all-end-all for me. I picked and chose from the doctrines and dogma and knew that I'd never be able to accept the big ones - Salvation and it's fraternal twin, Resurrection, at least not in the literal sense. So here we are two years later and I'm still seeking a better way to understand my relationship to God and the Universe. Yes, I said it. The Universe. I'm back to that. My first blog EVER back in 2006 was about The Universe. Everything eventually comes full circle, if you just let it be. Which I did. And here we are. Do I still believe in God? Yes. Do I still believe in Jesus (Why does this question always sound frighteningly similar to 'Do you believe in Santa Claus?'?)? Yes. It's just that those ideas are fl

I've discovered something that, at least for the immediate future, holds my attention and allows me a non-multitasking laziness. I'd been hoping I'd find something for quite sometime. Traditionally I don't relax or do laziness very well at all. Take right now - I'm watching basketball, eating dinner, and writing this. It's rare to have anything that stops me from doing several things at once. What can I say, my brain bores easily. So what is it that has enraptured me so epically that I can do it and nothing else? A project for school? No. Tennis? Nope. Remember the Tennis Channel is history (and besides I always multi-tasked while watching even the best matches). A book? Hell, no. I may be reading more than I've read in years, but I still hate it.  A woman? Geez. Alright, yes. It's a woman. Vicariously so. Right on. But there has to be more to it than that. I've multi-tasked my way through Ashley Judd movies and Sam Stosur tennis matches. Oh my God

I usually enjoy being different. I think it's an acquired taste because I can't remember if I've always been this way. Oh, I've always been different. It's the enjoyment I'm not sure about. Being a different kid is rough. Being a different adult is easier because things are easier to hide. Until they aren't. Then there are questions to answer, answers that apparently don't answer, and finally awkward silence. Tonight I'm tired - tired of thinking I need to prove a point, tired of fighting, tired of carrying the weight of different, tired of being the minority. You know, I never ask anyone to take my side. I never hope to change anyone's mind (though a slight opening is always nice). I never tell anyone that their thoughts, beliefs, or feelings are wrong or invalid. I just say my piece and hope whomever's listening 'gets me' on a certain level. I'm not asking for agreement or understanding. I simply want an admission that it

I wonder if I'm different from most people. I have joy and I don't see much in other people. I know some have it worse than me; God knows some have it way worse than me. But still... Some have it at least as good or better. And by that I mean financial security, a hot girlfriend, a car manufactured in this decade. I'm reasonably secure, financially (though it often seems to take surgical precision) and emotionally. I do, however, lack the girlfriend and the car (the former probably contributes to my emotional stability and the latter my financial). And yet... I have joy. Lots of it. There's drudgery - work shifts, workouts, and reading assignments that seem endless (not to mention boring), writer's block with due dates rapidly approaching, forehands that go horribly awry again and again, bills to pay, groceries to buy, laundry to do,  and so on and so on. However, even with all that, I have joy. It may not be giddy excitement mingled with a fiery, all-consuming pa

People say I'd be better off not wearing it. That a ring on that finger means something I don't want it to mean. I say it means exactly what I want it to mean. I love her. Maybe not the way most would assume considering I wear her ring on that finger. Ok, not 'her' ring. I wear a ring she gave me.  That may not make it seem any better, but I miss her so I wear it every day. On the ring finger of my left hand. Regardless of how it may look. And who it may scare off. At the moment, I'm single and not looking. Adamantly. Both. Still though...occasionally I think a diversion would be pretty cool. The ring, however (I'm determined that it's the ring and not me), gets in the way. Or so people say (and I like to believe them). Yet, the ring stays. And always will. I guess as I say that it begs a question. What if one day I'm not adamantly single and not looking? What if one day I find a woman? What if one day she gives me a ring? A ring that means what a

The face of Beauty has been in my mind for days. I see her then I don't. Imagine her, forget, then imagine her again. Iridescent and ephemeral, yet real and present, she lives in the world - works, loves, perseveres, hopes, dreams. This, of course, goes on in world far, far away from mine. Regardless, I am undaunted. Because right now, right at this very moment, I can see her. Or not. It is all of my choosing. And no matter what, no matter the day of the week, the amount of traffic on Hwy 71, or how tired I am, I always see her the same way - soft and smiling, her beauty mocking perfection. Then, without a doubt, I laugh and smile a shy, effortless smile. You see, our separate worlds are good enough for me, better than good in fact. I have no need for possession. I like the knowing and the realization. She is...many things, I'm sure...many things I will never know...but to me she Beauty (with a capital B) and that's all I will ever need from her.

I live with questions. I honestly prefer them. They're the mystery. The blind curve. The I-don't-know. Sometimes I think I want to know - who, when, what, how, where, why? Then I don't. There's something about being out here all alone without a parachute amid the uncertainty. And really, who says I need a parachute? No one. Because no one knows for sure. Will I finish grad school? Will I stay in Austin? Will I keep selling paint? Where will I meet her? Does she even exist? How long is my wrist going to hurt? Why is the 'check engine' light on in my car again? How long will I let my hair grow? When will she get better? Some big. Some small. Some open. Some closed. Some rhetorical. Still, the question always remains. It has to. Knowing the answer would change everything. Including the question. And the answer. I don't ask. I never have. What if I'd known? Would I have done what I did? Would I be here now? Would I have willingly signed up for what I sig

She always seems to appear exactly when I need her. Today was a boring, trying, I-don't-want-to-be-here day. Until I saw her. She didn't have to say a word or smile. Her mere presence was enough for me. Honestly, it's probably best that she doesn't speak or smile. The mystique and distance are at least as attractive as she is. To me anyway. I'm sure others would love a smile or a conversation. I'm a whole lot simpler than that. She, just being there, is enough. So yes, today...  I'd told myself that if I went to the gym, I could do nothing for the rest of the day (as we can see that was a big, fat lie but it's one I tell myself often), so off I went. On the way, I remember thinking that of all days, this was a day for a hot chick. She alone could save the day. I didn't hold out much hope, because I knew it was Friday and for whatever reason I seldom see her on Fridays. As I walked in, I did my usual glance here and there. I didn't see her. Oh

Yesterday at some point, I remember wishing for 'found time'. I think I was walking my dogs before leaving for school and I thought how nice it would be if class was cancelled. Up until that moment, I'd been looking forward to class so it wasn't like I was trying to avoid any kind of unpleasantness. I simply wanted something different than the expected, something unplanned for a change. Last night I wasn't so lucky. Tonight, however, I was. Rain all afternoon + outdoor tennis courts = cancelled tennis clinic = found time. Badda-boom, badda-bing. As much as I want to hit and need to hit, I'm good with the cancellation. In truth, I probably need a night just to myself more than my tennis game needs Mike McVay's ring-ring drills (even though my psyche really likes the ring-ring drills). This isn't a decision I'd ever make for myself, but I'm glad for it regardless. Ahhh.... I'm free. To do what? Christ. School work? Next week's reading?

I don't recall ever being this mentally tired. I'm sure I was at some point in college when school, tennis, work, and anorexia had a stranglehold on my life. I'm pretty sure I blocked it from memory for a reason. I sincerely wish I hadn't or I might have seen this coming. My life is about doing, being, striving. Now. It wasn't always this way. I spent most of my post-college and post-anorexia years doing absolutely nothing with purpose. I worked; worked a lot, but it rarely meant anything besides a paycheck and a way out of debt. It was fun at times but I seldom thought of it as anything more than a means to an end. 'We all gotta work, right?' sums up my existence in those years. I floated from job to job, city to city, and person to person. Things mattered but it was all more or less bullshit. I take full responsibility. Then one day something changed. Today, everything has purpose and I'm tired. Every moment of every day is occupied. If it's n

I'm not sure if I'm sleep deprived again or still . After two back-to-back Clo'pens (one due to a crappy work schedule and the other due to an improper school/work/life balance), I thought I was back on track. I went to bed like a normal person Tuesday night and woke up like a normal person Wednesday morning. The seven hours of sleep I got weren't enough to catch me up, but I no longer felt like I was sleep walking through the day. I was still tired (even without the Clo'pens a six day work week tends to wear me out), but I was almost to my weekend and a good night's sleep. That didn't happen. Yesterday morning I learned that The Tennis Channel would be televising the quarterfinals of the Pan Pacific Open live Wednesday night. From Tokyo. At 12am. The second match due on court? Stosur - Sharapova. Now, I'm not too fond of Maria and her little balled up fist, but I do like Sam. A lot. My decision was made. I'd get off work at 11pm, drive home, sho

I'm exhausted. I've been up since 3:30am and I'm operating on maybe four hours sleep. I'm not sure if the world-at-large knows what it means to 'Clo'pen' (verb), but it's why I'm in the condition I'm in and a huge part of my vernacular these days. A 'Clo'pen' (noun) occurs when one must work until the close of business and return in the morning for the open of business. Generally speaking, the hours between shifts are minimal, like seven or less. Which is exactly why I'm in the condition I'm in. Last night I 'closed' at 10:00pm and had to be back to work at 5:00am - seven hours, a classic 'Clo'pen'. Under normal circumstances it's painful. Sleep in nearly impossible in the limited time one has between driving to and from work, showering, getting ready, winding down, winding up, making coffee, walking dogs, etc. Then there's the worry that the alarm will be slept through, so sleep that does come is

I wish I believed in dusting. My mother was a believer, a true one at that. Every Friday, which was cleaning day, she dusted the whole house. On summer breaks, that task fell to me. Sort of. I was never very good at it. Pick up everything and dust under? Ugh... Do I have to? I promise if my mom was one to beat kids, I'd have gotten beat every Friday over the 'room divider'. It held all kinds of knick-knacks that required moving and dusting. The shelves with all of our soccer and softball trophies were enough to make me quit organized sport all together. Over the years, I learned to start at the top (Dust falls down as you go so it does no good to dust the bottom first). I also learned that cheating was useless. My mother, much like the god she didn't believe in, was omniscient. I guess when you can cover that part yourself, you don't need God. Needless to say, I learned how to dust the 'right' way. I can do it; it's just that these days I choose not to

Why am I woefully unable to smile at beautiful women? Especially the ones I see on a daily basis and the ones that don't give me the time of day. This, of course, may be the crux of my issue. They don't give me the time of day. Then again, maybe they don't give me the time of day because I come off as unfriendly. Ugh... I just don't want to be that woman, that LESBIAN. Somewhere inside I think that they'll think I'm being lecherous or typical of 'my kind' if I smile or act friendly. I truly don't want anything except a smile in return and to be able to appreciate their beauty from a distance. That's it. I'm not in pursuit of sex or anything that even remotely resembles sex. I like beauty. It's honestly that easy. And that pure. Then the thought occurs to me that no one will ever believe me because no one on Earth is that damn boring. Or that pure. Not even teenagers with their chastity rings and abstinence pledges. Alright, it's n

My life is predominantly about choices right now. I suppose that's pretty common. We all make choices all day long every day - the snooze button, breakfast, long or short sleeve shirt, take lunch or go out, Starbuck's on the way to work, get gas before work or after work, the list goes on and on all day. Some of our choices have lasting impact; others are largely frivolous and won't matter five minutes after we make them. Tonight, though, I clearly felt the weight of my recent choices. I'm three weeks into graduate school, my second go-round at graduate school, let's be honest. The first time I had it easy - a graduate teaching assistantship, tuition waiver, low rent, and few bills. This time it's a bit different. I'm a full grown adult now, with a full time job, a 'lifestyle' I'm accustomed to, a substantial pile of shiny new student loans, and a car repair bill (all on my Visa) that never seems to get any smaller. For the next three-ish years

Nothing motivates me to write more than reading. I don't mean that I'm excited to write because it'll give people something to read. No. Hell, no. What I mean is that nothing motivates me to write more than the words, 'It was a bright cold April day, and the clocks were striking thirteen'. Ugh. Sincerely, ugh. Recognize the line? It opens George Orwell's "1984" and marks the beginning of my descent into Hell. I vowed long ago, about the time I finished reading the Cliff's Notes to Orwell's "Animal Farm", that I would never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER read anything by George Orwell ever again. On the top of that never-ever-ever list? "1984". And here we are, something like twenty-eight years later and a worn paperback copy of "1984" lies open next to me. What page am I on? Three. Thus far, I'm not impressed. I'm also wondering if they still make Cliff's Notes. I read two books in high school

There's good news and bad news in just about every piece of news. Today I discovered (after assuming for quite some time) that someone I like has a girlfriend. Confirmation, like news, can be both good and bad. Knowing is good. It extinguishes irrational hopefulness and leaves a thick residue of realistic resignation. Life is allowed to go on; it just happens to be a better informed life. Likewise, knowing is bad for much the same reasons, as in 'well, now you know'. Life is allowed to go on; it just happens to be more disappointing than originally thought. It's a simple case of Truth vs. Delusion. So yes... News. Unfortunately, I must clarify something before I get rolling. Before anyone out there imagines that I'm obsessing and crazy, as some historically have been inclined to do, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. The chances that I'm talking about YOU are slim, so slim, that they are actually NONE. I'm fairly certain that the woman I am discuss

The U.S. Open starts tomorrow and for the first time in more than a decade, I'm excited about it. I've checked the draw and I know who my favorites are playing, much like I used to do with Steffi and Gabriella back in the late '80s and early '90s. Thanks to a well-placed and largely self-promotional Facebook post, I also know that my favorite-favorite opens the tournament at 10:00am CDT on the Arthur Ashe stadium court. Yes, social media and the Internet are going to make this U.S. Open impossibly easy to follow. And if ESPN follows through with their promise of complete coverage, I'll watch as many matches live as I can around work, school, and my re-burgeoning tennis career. It's funny what you don't miss until you miss it. Years passed and I never gave tennis a thought. Players played and matches were won and lost. Rankings held, rankings fell. Grand Slams came and went. If I saw a score on ESPN I may have paid attention, but then again I probably igno

Ok... So I checked a score. I probably more stumbled upon it while checking others. At least that's what we're going with. After all, she should have been off the court. However... She wasn't. And I got a live score. I muttered a 'Fuck. Really?' and carried on with my evening. You gotta love technology. Via my iPhone 4 (and the WTA Tennis App) I can track tennis scores and tennis matches. Live. Every twenty seconds my phone updates and I can see who's winning, losing, choking, kicking ass, and barely holding on. Moment by moment. Sure, I don't know who 98% of the players are, but I can follow the 2% I do know (1% of those are named 'Williams'). Let me just say this would have been nifty back in the day when I was a real tennis fan. I'd have followed Steffi's and Gabriella's early round matches point-by-point. My buddies at the country club would have followed McEnroe and Agassi. We wouldn't have had to rely on TV coverage which wasn

The women's pro tour is in Cincinnati this week. I've never understood Cinci as a major tour stop. After all, what's in Cincinnati? Apparently a big tennis venue if nothing else. In any case, as I stated in a previous blog, I'm back to following  professional tennis and, as I stated above, the women (and men, incidentally) are in Cincinnati this week. Serena Williams is back in action after taking a week off after the Olympics. Wait for the blasphemy because it's coming.......... And I'll be rooting for her. Oy. Is this what it's come to? Thanks to Sam Stosur and The Jinx, I feel that I have no choice. I've never been a fan of the Williams sisters. Good players yes, but they always seemed to garner too much media attention and much of the hoopla was created by them. Historically, I like players such as Steffi Graf who quietly go about the business of kicking ass without saying 'Hey, hey, heeeeeey! LOOK AT ME!!!!' In their day, the Williams si

I own and wear Jesus sandals. For the record, I only ever wear them to walk my dogs or check the mail. Meaning they never see the light of day outside my apartment complex. I don't wear them because they remind me of Jesus or because I feel that they bring me and Jesus closer together. I simply can't bring myself to say that I wear 'Birkenstocks'. Once upon a time, in certain circles, they may have been cool. Now, though, they seem too frightfully hippie and I'm forced to fall back on semantics. Thus, the term 'Jesus Sandals'. I know we're talking about nano-shades of cool here, but I prefer to think that I wear something Jesus would have worn rather than something a dirty hippie down at the Hollow would wear. I know that kind of sentiment will make me few friends in Austin. Eh... I've never been the right kind of 'Keep Austin Weird' weird anyway. Crazy that I continue to wear them even though I'm caught in an ugly netherworld that ha

I suppose, in some ways, I'm at an advantage. I mean even over the Hot Chick at the Gym. After all, I know her name. It's not like we go to the same gym, shop at the same HEB, or play tennis at the same club. Nonetheless, I know her name and that's better than nothing. God bless. I love recon. I'm doing what I can and I'll do what I can. I'll create a vision and make it happen. And really, isn't that what we all do? I've said it before, 'That's the woman I'm going to marry' and I meant it. And eventually I came so, so very close. I've said, 'That woman is going to be one of my closest friends' and I meant it. And she is. I saw her and knew. Like the others, it was different. She was different. I was different. I have hope, if nothing else. I know what I know and 'It' (whatever 'It' is) will find a way. 'It' always has before. Faith is a wonderful thing. Trust is even better. If you can find it.

I'm not certain if I'm a jinx or if I simply prefer the underdog. Like the time I rooted for the Cleveland Indians in the ALCS while having a few drinks with my girlfriend in an Irish pub in Portland, Maine. Did I mention they were playing the Boston Red Sox who hold more sway than the Catholic Church in the Northeast? Yes, I like an underdog. No one in that bar was rooting for them that night. I decided it was my duty to represent. Luckily my girlfriend was a formidable enough presence to protect me from any potential backlash. Even luckier, the Red Sox won so most people probably thought I was pathetic and dumb rather than an asshole. Did I jinx the Indians that night? I suppose we could argue that one either way. The one time I root for the Indians they lose? It was probably a coincidence but one can't be sure. Until we look at my lifelong fascination with the San Diego Padres and San Diego Chargers. I've been a fan of both teams since I was old enough to know wha

I decided not too long ago to become a tennis fan again. I could look up the date if I wanted to. It was the day Samantha Stosur lost in the second round of Wimbledon this year to a woman named Aranxta Rus. Aranxta. Either her parents didn't like her much or they were tennis fans. Back in the day when I used to follow tennis (like in the late 80s/early 90s), there was another Aranxta. Sanchez-Vicario from Spain. I didn't much care for her game - slow looping ground strokes ready-made for clay. She had hustle so I tolerated her. I can't tell you much about her namesake, the new Aranxta. I was too busy focusing on her opponent, a woman I had likewise never heard of, and falling in love with the game of tennis again. It was early on a weekday and I was up. I probably had to work late that night or I may have been off. It doesn't really matter at this point. I made coffee and did what I do a lot during baseball season - I turned on ESPN Sportscenter to see scores and high