My mom is hilarious. She doesn’t try to be; she just is. She was never one of those moms who tried to be my “best friend” or too cool. She is just herself with a little bit of “hipness” thrown in. Like this past weekend we were talking about colloquial phrases and she mentioned how the new “douche” phrase is “douche-dude”. Now, I haven’t heard this in Nashville, but we get movies weeks after Southern California, so it could very well be true that our lingo is late too. My brother tried to throw in a “tru dat” and started to explain it and she cut in “I know what that means!”…with a sense of defensiveness, not pride.

Hilarious.

Sometimes I really miss Engineering. By that, I mean, I miss being technical, precise, scientific. Sometimes I find myself trying to work through physics problems in my head, ones that stem from everyday occurrences. For instance, just now as my plane was taking off, I wondered about the carry-on bag beneath the seat in front of me and what it would take to make it slide during take-off. I’ve had that happen on occasion, although it is rare, which makes me think there is only a small probability or margin for bags to slide. So what would that entail? 

Well, the bag would have to be a certain middle weight, because if it is too light, in relation to the force caused by the momentum of take-off, it would be insignificant. But if it is too heavy, it’s own weight would keep it from sliding. That is all taking into consideration the fact the floor is carpeted and thus has a great degree of friction. You also have to account for the friction caused by the type of material on the bag. A silk bag is going to cause less friction than a wool bag. Then there’s the angle of the ascent and the acceleration of the aircraft. So really there must be only a small parameter in which a bag would slide.  

And, yes, that all really went through my head as we were taking off.  Am I boring you yet?

For the most part, flying is a very relaxing experience for me. I took many plane rides as a kid and flew with my dad in his four-seater on a few trips to Arizona and New Mexico. I was too young to remember most of them (I have a horrible memory in general), but a few distinct memories stick out.  

One was a short flight to Arizona, I think.  I may have to get my mom to confirm the details. My dad was the co-pilot and my mom, my brother, and I were sitting in the back row of seats. I remember feeling nauseous and saying to my mom, “I don’t feel so good”.  To which she replied (with bag in hand), “do you need this?” Not a minute after saying “no” did I throw up directly between my dad and the pilot. I’m surprised nobody else lost it. We landed at a nearby airport so I could wash off and I walked around the airport with my shirt off (so I was whatever age at which that is still appropriate….maybe 6?). 

The only other true memory I have (one not elaborated by pictures or stories) is that of us flying to a Native American reservation in New Mexico and going into a local diner. I remember sitting next to a table where a local was sitting and asking my dad “Is that a real Indian????”. He nodded and I just sat there in awe. 

I’m sure some of the reason flying is so relaxing to me is because I had plenty of positive experiences as a child and was never instilled with a fear of flying. That was a foreign concept to me until I was a teenager and met other kids who were afraid to fly or, gasp!, had never even been on a plane. 

Now that I’m older, I’d like to think my state of mind is more of a deliberate one. If I make the choice to board an aircraft bound for the sky, what good would it do me to get all worked up once on board? Oh, I have experienced some harrowing turbulence, and have had my survival instinct kick in, but for the most part, it’s not a big deal. I’ve even had dreams where I’m on a plane that is going down and the person next to me is panicking and I am calmly trying to prepare them for the end. Hmmm….that may be sharing a little too much about my psyche. I’m sure there are topics to be explored within that dream.

But the same principle applied when I decided to jump out of a plane with a stranger tied to my back. At that point it’s really out of my control, so why freak out about what might happen? Just enjoy the experience for what it is, hope that it doesn’t result in your death, but be willing to accept it if it does. 

If you choose to board the plane, be prepared to take the ride.    

I just finished reading “A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius” by Dave Eggers and it’s given me quite a bit to ponder about. I won’t attempt to analyze or completely summarize it here, but there are a few points I wanted to write down.

Firstly, it is one of those books where the last few pages make you rethink everything you’ve read. Everything you thought, everything you felt, everything you thought you understood, could empathize with, or could relate to your own life. It’s one where the author yells at you, his audience, at the end to “wake up”.  And it works.

It’s largely a story told from the perspective of an elder brother who takes over care of his younger brother when both of his parents die from different causes within one month of each other. I was forewarned that this was a “dad” book, and it certainly brought me back to some places I haven’t experienced in a while, which may explain the impetus for my previous post. From descriptions of revisiting the funeral home, to going back to the church where the service was held, standing in line as visitors passed to give their condolences, to the descriptions of laughter, anger, and the difference between knowing and not knowing that your final moments with that person are happening right now.

I have story for each one of those, each which deserve their own attention, but I probably won’t go into those here and/or now. Surprisingly, my eyes only welled up once while reading the book. However, I doubt the author would be surprised, even if he knew my situation. That’s because, besides all the “memories” recounted in the book, there is so much distraction built into it, purposefully so, I imagine. Much of the dialogue is elaborately detailed descriptions of events that may or may not have ultimate significance to the book. Pages and pages of minute, scattered thoughts about seemingly mundane events. The gut-wrenching, tear-jerking moments are abruptly cut short by twice as much rambling. It’s an interesting dichotomy.

Lastly, I will share my favorite quote:

“But still, my feeling is that if you’re not self-obsessed you’re probably boring.” (p. 201)

Then this passage:

“Our being together means that something is happening, and the happening of things equals a moral good, which equals an irreducible good, which = existing = defiance = pulling = pushing = proof = faith = connection + hand-holding = affirmation = swimming to the rock and back + holding breath under water all the way from one side to the other = the fighting of fights, tiny fights, big fights, any fights = the proving of points, all the time = denial of the tide = flouting of decay = force – restraint – moderation – nail-biting – no-saying + wall-punching + volume-turning-upping + quick-lane-changing + car passing + light-making + yelling + demanding, insisting, staying, fence-cutting = defiance = handprints, footprints, proof = tree-shaking, fence-cutting + taking + grabbing + stealing + running = engorging = no regretting = insomnia = blood = soaking in blood…” (p. 338-9)

Take from that what you will.

One thing I distinctly remember about my dad was his silent laugh. Oh, he could laugh out loud, and did a lot. In fact, we can hear him laughing in many of the taped performances of us as kids. But the silent laugh was when an out-loud laugh just wouldn’t do, when something was so funny that he couldn’t even get out a sound. But, boy would he shake. If his belly was up against the table, it would shake the whole table for as long as he was laughing. I’ve noticed I laugh like this sometimes and it always makes me think of him.

Another word about laughter; it is always the same no matter where you go, which country you’re in or by what ethnic group you are surrounded. Laughter is always the same. It’s a universal language of sorts, I suppose. I love that. Recently I was at a restaurant in a different part of town where me and my Caucasian guest were the minority. We chatted with each other in English as multiple languages were spoken around us. I felt like we were in our own world. But then I went to the restroom and there was a little kid throwing a fit and the mother looked at me, shrugged, and then we both laughed. I’m sure I couldn’t have spoken to her in her language, but we both understood the laugh.

My website suffered a major malfunction so I decided it was time to start fresh and create a whole new generation for Garden of Egan. A friend recently brought to my attention that my posts of the past are probably no longer relevant to who and where I am today, so this is a good way to….move on. My head is already spinning with things to say, so stay tuned. And this is probably not the permanent theme but will do for now.

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