Where We Belong

"Death is not always the tragedy we perceive it to be." - Daisy Moser

We live in a world ripe with tragedy:  The attack on Nice, Paris, the shootings in Dallas, Texas, the shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida, just to name a select few.  

But, for all the pain and turmoil they create, tragedies produce a strangely fertile soil for beauty, hope, and love to take root.  Whether it's drawing people together, smacking us sober, or injecting us with an adrenaline shot of thought and emotion, a surprising amount of good can come from tragedies, even if it's just reminding us how precious life is.

Life is precious.  Every day.  Every moment.  Every breath.

Most of us know this, but it's easy to let it slide to the mental back-burner as we go about our routines.  After awhile, life can start to feel more given guarantee and less precious privilege.  I mean, I've been alive for 26+ years with my mortality "relatively" unchallenged.  It can be pretty easy to start feeling falsely invincible.

But life is as fragile as it is beautiful.  Like a flower suspended on an easily snapped stem, our lives are housed in delicate vessels.  Whether it be a car crash, capsizing, medical mystery, overdose, or out-of-the-blue, we are all probably a little less invincible than we'd like to admit.

We are here for, but a season.  That season could be as long as a winter in Alaska or as short as a summer in the South Pole.  No matter how many heartbeats we've been bestowed, someday we'll all have to turn in the keys to these bodies.

On the surface, that can start to sound pretty depressing, but in the acknowledgement of life's fragility isn't that where we come face-to-face with its beauty?  Isn't it in the moments where our lives uncomfortably butt up against mortality that what really matters comes into clear focus?  

Maybe it was when you spun out in the snow and weren't sure if your car was gonna drift into the other lane or not.  Or maybe it was that time you almost sunk your boat and weren't sure if you were gonna make it back to shore.  Maybe it was the loss of a loved one to sickness, or maybe it was just listening to a stirring song.  Whatever the scenario, these moments bring us together, smack us sober, and remind us what really matters in this fleeting, but precious thing called life.

Saying life is precious doesn't mean life isn't hard.  Life is hard.  Really hard.  To quote one of my friends, Bill, "Life is messy."  I couldn't agree more.  Sometimes life feels as messy as me eating spaghetti in a white shirt.  Heck, writing this has been a messy, struggle.  Still for as much as we'd like to skip over struggles and tragedy, they do have a way of laying a strangely firm foundation for beauty, hope, and love to build upon.  That's why struggle and tragedy never have the final word no matter how much they'd like to.

Regardless, I think we all still long for that moment when all will be right with the world and within ourselves.  I think that's one of the reasons the following song speaks to me so deeply.  It delves into the difficult divide between how simultaneously precious and hard life is.  Here's a raw, personal rendition of it:




An excerpt from the second verse:

"Feels like we're just waiting! waiting!
While our hearts are just breaking! breaking!
Feels like we've been fighting against the tide"

And from the first verse:

"But I'm not sentimental, this skin and bones is a rental
And no one makes it out alive."

And yet amidst all the lyrical struggle, I find this song incredibly hopeful.  Maybe that's the real reason I find it so meaningful.  It injects hope into the middle of the struggle with hope singing the loudest.  And isn't that what we're all here to do?  Inject hope into the middle of the struggle?

My New Squeeze: 3dfx-tion

I've always had a soft spot for you, 3dfx.  You've been gone awhile, it's true, but even so.  There's still some not-so-subtle affection between us.  You might even say we have a "thing" for each other.  If there's such a thing as a tech-crush, I've got one.  On you.

Back when I first caught wind of your name, I fell for you.  Hard.  But who couldn't swoon?  It seemed the whole world was in love with you all at once.  And, rightfully so.

3dfx, you not only legitimized, but revolutionized real-time 3D desktop graphics.  And you did it all while the PC was still a fussy, smelly, babbling infant.  You accomplished what had been deemed by many to be impossible.  Things people said could only be done on massive, overpriced, over-sized workstations, you brought to the comparatively puny PC.  You were a real stunner 3dfx.

An old 3dfx commercial.  Gotta love a company with a sense of humor.

However, despite your amazing technology, you had some less than stellar business moves that ultimately sunk you.  By 2000 you had gone bankrupt and were ultimately acquired by your nearest competitor, Nvidia.

You were young.  Far too young.  Some of your best ideas were still ahead of you, nipped in the technological bud.  Man, I hate business.

But like a lot of things, death only made you stronger, propelling you to the status of mythos and legend.  Having a product line named Voodoo didn't hurt the notion that there was something truly magical about you.

It all happened so fast.  Right when I had just started getting to know you, you were gone.  I was also a little young for you.  When you were in your prime, I was but a wee lad.  If only we could have slowed down and savored the moment.

But, all is not lost!

Thanks to the wonders of Ebay, I have found you:  The last ever product you released, the legendary 3dfx Voodoo 5 5500 AGP.  You were just sitting there, staring at me fetchingly.  The moment I saw you, it was love at first sight all over again.  I had lost you once.  I wasn't about to lose you again.

So, I caved.  It was a little bit of an impulse buy, I confess, but I had always wanted to be able to get to know you better, to experience you more fully.  So, I bought you.

Naturally, I wanted you to feel at home and I'd never want you to be lonely.  So, I tried to find some components you would get along with, maybe some old friends even.  After all, you've been through some tough times, and you deserve to be able to rest and relax.  So, along with you, I purchased a few components for a retro PC gaming rig.  Then, it happened.

Today, that fateful moment arrived.  Or, should I say, you arrived!

The box you were in was a little worse for wear, but I welcomed you with open arms as if you were brand new.  We hugged.  We embraced.  I couldn't believe it!  You were finally resting in my arms at last.  Safe.  Sound.  Secure.

I proceeded to undress you.  You know, to make sure you were still in good condition.  I have to say.  You've aged amazingly well.

I know it doesn't make sense.  Sure, there are younger, sexier, better looking cards that have come along, cards that could easily outperform you in this day and age.  But no one will ever have as much style, grace, and personality as you.

It's been a long time, but soon you'll be resting in a vintage PC gaming rig, pumping out pixels as if it were yesterday.  3dfx Voodoo 5 5500 AGP, welcome home.  Welcome home.

Sun, Sea, Stars

The name of this blog is Poetry, Prose, and Poppycock. If you've read any of my previous posts, you may have noticed that so far, it's been a little more like Poppycock, Prose, and Poetry, or maybe even just Poppycock, Poppycock, and Poppycock. I've been pretty heavy on the poppycock and comparatively light on the poetry.

This is partly intentional. After all, a dose of poppycock-riddled prose is good medicine for this crazy world we inhabit, but, alas! Since this is Poetry, Prose, and Poppycock, I figure, it's high time I post a poem. I wouldn't want to disappoint all those people coming to this blog with the outlandish idea there would poetry amidst these digital pages. So all of you thirsting for a little poetry, here you go:

Sun, Sea, Stars by Mark Chase

Your face shines like the sun On the dew covered dawn Your smile the gentle beam My soul the flower it falls upon

A privileged partaker In this garden that you grace The most beautiful morning view Painted across your face

Your eyes sparkle like the stars In the crisp night sky A breathtaking galaxy born In the silent opening of your eyes

But your eyes are just the surface A sea of stars dancing ballet beneath You show me as I dive in A galactic tour of your heart's coral reef

Coming up for air, souls as full as lungs A middle, an ending, or a story just begun Heads lay on the ground, eyes lifted above A star in the sky for every chance to love

Your heart a constellation Mine the shooting star in flight Love and life crossing Our place beneath the Big Dipper tonight

Credit: Bob King

Rainy Day Dabblings in Music And My Not-So-Secret Love of "Bad" Weather

I'm such a bad weather person. I know that's not a popular thing to say. But, I love rain. Really heavy rain. Maybe, it's because my blue eyes are sensitive to high light. Maybe, it's because I grew up in Seward where learning to love the rain is practically a prerequisite for happiness. Maybe, I'm just wired backwards. Whatever the reason, rain has always excited me.

Some people run from rain like they're being chased by a bear. Me, I run to it. When I see rain, I want to dash through each drop. I want to play in it, dance in it, sing in it, get completely soaked by it. When it rains, the Earth takes a big collective swig and comes alive. And, so do I.

You have to admit. There's something really cozy about bad weather. Being warm is nice, but it's the cold contrast that makes snuggling up in your blanket so appealing. You can look outside and see the world wrapped in its own blanket, a quilt of clouds. You can press your nose to the window and look closer, taking it all in while sheets of rain cascade down the window, a see-through waterfall.

Today, is one of those days. It's raining. Hard. Less pitter-patter and more drum-solo-downpour.

This morning, with the rain dancing outside my window, I woke up with a song in my head. Not someone else's song, but a new song, a song yet to be created.

The creative process, the art of art, if you will, has always both perplexed and amazed me. What leads one to choose a certain note in a song, a certain word in a poem, a certain color or texture in a painting? There's an element of craft to it, drawing from the fundamental toolbox, but there's also an element of art, that almost subconscious intuition that steers you towards a particular idea.

Honestly, sometimes I feel like the ideas choose me more than I choose them. I don't know really know where this song came from. I just woke up with it in my head and tried to do it justice by getting it out of my head and onto my guitar. So, with the rain banging out a rooftop rhythm, I proceeded to craft this rainy day acoustic guitar duet.

Mark

P.S. You'll have to forgive a couple of the "buzzy" notes towards the end. One of the frets burnt out on my guitar.



P.P.S And just for fun, here's another oldie-but-a-goodie that also happens to feature some weather-based imagery.

The Misadventures of Mark - Episode 1: Bench-Mark

It was like the Terminal: Dimond Center Mall Edition, except instead of Tom Hanks, I was the star in this stranding film. I just didn't know it, yet.

Dad had dropped me off so I could do some shopping while he went to a doctor's appointment. Being one of the last humans on Earth without a cellphone, I have come to rely heavily on the ancient art of "meeting." This lost art involves two people agreeing upon a time and location to convene. It's surprisingly effective when both parties follow through. It's also completely useless if they don't.

Our agreed meeting time: Approximately 11:30. Location: Bench in front of Old Navy.

I started shopping at approximately 10:30 and wasn't about to dawdle. When I go shopping, I go in with all the careful preparation and purpose of a SWAT team hostage rescue. Don't get me wrong. I actually do enjoy shopping. I just lack the necessary endurance to extensively revel in it. For me, shopping is a lot like swimming underwater. It's fun, even exhilarating, especially with friends, but sooner or later, I gotta come up for air.

A poor soul after shopping too long

By 11:10, I had rescued the hostages...err, purchased my shirts, all ten of them. I was a little early to the bench, but what the heck. Better early than late to the agreed meeting place.

I sat. I waited. I twiddled my thumbs. I pondered life. 

Eventually, a potent combination of curiosity and boredom led me to find a clock. The time: 12:30. Using my highly advanced mathematical mind, I calculated the elapsed time. Wait a minute!

Wait a minute indeed, I had waited a full 80 of them. That's when it dawned on me. Like the fog lifting during a morning sunrise, it all became clear. I was stranded.

Possible survival scenarios began circulating through my head. I took stock of my resources. Two Cinnabuns for 99 cents. Food check. Bag full of clothes doubling as pillow. Comfort check. Entertainment? Well, I could probably squeeze into the climb-in toy helicopter for kids. Would I look ridiculous. Of course. But, this was a survival situation. Entertainment check.

On the bright side, the bench did have indoor heating.  Indoor heating is good.
Otherwise, I probably would have ended up looking like this.

I continued to wait. People began to look at me funny. We had left for Anchorage early in the morning to make the two hour drive. As an ardent lover of sleep, this meant omitting certain non-essential activities such as shaving and picking out a decent pair of clothes. Now at the mall, I started receiving looks I can only interpret as, "You must be the resident hobo." I was now upgrading my status from stranded to abandoned.

Thoughts began to crop up in my head. Did Dad even know where Old Navy was? Maybe he thought I was at a different store. Should I go look for him No. The only thing worse than being stranded is being lost. At least one of us knew where the other was. Myself not being the privileged bearer of this information, I stayed tethered to my bench.

As I sat, I could feel myself becoming one with the bench, the molecules within my body slowly changing into wood one-by-one. Before long, I would be more bench than man. I had to do something. I had to fight back, to save the remaining human parts of me. So, I did the only thing I could.

I took a nap. Hoping to fall into a sleep-induced time warp, I pulled my yellow "Bean There Done That" hat over my head and closed my eyes.

As I napped, I dreamt of perfectly placid lakes and serene sunrises...and being picked up...or even just adopted.

An undisclosed amount of time later, I awoke, jarred from sleep by the sound of a voice. I tipped my hat back. There standing above me was my father. Breaking free of my benchly prison, I stood up.

Meeting that late person can be an emotionally conflicting experience. You're frustrated at their lateness, but simultaneously overjoyed they finally showed up. Where you find yourself between these two can vary depending on the circumstance. In my case, the later won out, partly because I had to take pity on his situation.

I looked down at my Dad's foot. He was walking around in a sock wrapped in what looked like a produce bag snagged straight from the grocery store. I knew he'd gone to the doctor to get his ankle checked. What I didn't know was that they were going to bag it like a bundle of apples. For being so expensive, the medical profession really knows how to make you feel like you've gotten your money's worth.

So there we were, reunited at last, Dad walking around in a grocery bag, me putting on my best hobo impression. If we played it off right, I figured we had a pretty good chance of making it as a traveling comedy team...at least as good a chance as meeting each other on time. With that we walked off into the parking lot, bagged, but not beaten, sloppily dressed, but not defeated.

How I felt after being reclaimed.  

(For maximal effect, read in voice reminiscent of Braveheart) 

FREEEEDOOOOM!

ILL AM I

Today, I am ill.  Not in the dope rap sense (though a small percentage of people may vouch for my coolness if bribed).  No, today I am sick, sick as a dog.

Not our dog.  She’s actually remarkably healthy.  In fact, I’ve never seen her cough up as much as a mite of mucus or sniffle in the slightest.  She gallivants joyfully and frolics ferociously.  Heck, dogs can drink contaminated water, eat rotting dead things, and not become dead themselves.  For crying out loud! Dogs are some of the healthiest, happiest creatures in existence.  Sick as a dog. Geez! Who makes up these sayings?

So today, I am sick, sick as proverbial sick dog. But, I’m not going down without a fight. Today, I fight for the right to life, liberty, and respiration. Today, I wage war. I'm not a violent person by nature, except maybe in high stakes pillow fights and with certain species of insects. But when you obstruct my airways and steal my voice, did you really think I'd lay idly by? Yes, head cold I am talking to you. This has gone too far. I'm taking up arms.

My weapons lay on the sink before me:  A strange contraption called the Neti Pot along with the more conventional cup of hot salt water.  Add a strong love of sleep and eating properly to my arsenal, and any cold better think twice before taking up residence in my body.  This isn't the Hilton Hotel.  This is a heavily guarded fortress.

I looked in the mirror, not eyeing myself as much as the cold beneath me.  Sprinkling some salt in the Neti Pot, I mixed the warm water within, mentally preparing myself.

The Neti Pot is a curious contraption, more lamp than pot.  It looks like someone took the lamp straight out of Aladdin, realized the three wishes were gone, and desperately thought up another use for it.  That use happens to be pouring water (salty or fresh) through your nasal cavities.

It sounds like a terrible idea two steps removed from self-imposed torture.  Remember all those times you got water up your nose in swim class?  Yeah, it's not pleasant.  At first, the neti pot can evoke this sensation. Fortunately, your body warms up to it, and the feeling can even become pleasantly soothing.
 
Whether you like it not, your cold hates it.  Creating a water slide in your nose, mucus is ejected from your nasal cavities like a kid caught running at a water park.  With the mucus at last out in the open, you can properly reprimand it before banishing it into the porcelain abyss.  Forever.

Gargling is the secondary weapon, not quite as dramatic, but still essential.  Some people are professional garglers and hacker-uppers by nature.  I know.  My mom is one of them.

My mother is a very gentle lady, God bless her soul.  But, when she decides to hack something up she does it with all the subtlety of a tornado.  And rightfully so.  This is war after all.  With guttural growls that would make a Heavy Metal Rocker quake in their Converse sneakers, she proceeds to attack the mucus via high speed wind currents and contortions of her vocal tract.  Part of me wonders if there isn't a little dinosaur DNA in there.

One night my brother and I were sleeping beneath my parents room when we heard a sound above us.  First, a desperate shuffle, then the sliding of the bathroom door followed by the roar of a dinosaur.  Keep in mind we aren't even on the same floor.  This is how my mother rolls.  Or rather roars.

Alas, I have not inherited this ferocious battle cry.  I gargle and hack with the low RPM hum of a clothes washer.  It's not quite as frightening, but it gets the job done.

I may get sick.  I may sneeze, cough, and even occasionally whimper, but know this sickness.  I am well-armed and well-rested.  Prepare for war.

Wave a handkerchief or tissue for me,
Mark