The Making of the Birdonnell family blog blog

On Wisconsin

2006-08-09T07:21:00.000-07:00

As cooler air arrives in my lungs, I find my spirit and thoughts turn towards feelings of domesticity, of clarity, patience, and the warm glow that emanates from a well-mowed lawn. Yes, Wisconsin has much to offer this wandering family of souls. Wisconsin has arrived in our lives bearing gifts of such foreign nouns as shelving, comforter, weeds, unfinished basement. Things unthought of now fill our waking lives, and our eyes are opened to the high-gloss sheen of modernity.

There is so much more to want than I had remembered.

It is the new American way. To want, rather than need.

And I am loooooving it! We are within minutes, I mean single digit minutes, of the following establishments:
WalMart
Home Depot
Staples
Radio Shack
Piggly Wiggly
Family Dollar
McDonald's
Culver's Butter Burgers
Appleby's

This is what Francis Scott Key was singing about. This is the dream that our forefathers dreamt for us. Especially Thomas Jefferson. His dearest hope was that America would become even more delicious, convenient and appealingly named. America is within driving distance, and my definition of within is widening with my confidence in my way of life. I am a burgeoning American. We are growing as a people, and you can see it in the uniformity of our lawns and the indestructibility of our homes' siding. We are a plastic-sheathed people and we love each other for it. We are afraid, but we are safe. That makes us the safest of travelers on this road we call life. Alert, but armed.

Hats off to the mainland. It's good to be back.

On Frivolity

2006-04-16T15:46:00.000-07:00

I have noticed of late, and really, since my day of initial consciousness, a day marked by boiled, mashed bananas and a high chair with a silver tray, that the world we live in is saturated in some brand of frivolity that causes the wicked to reign supreme while the good are busy twiddling their thumbs in a cartoonish manner.

There must be laughter, yes. There absolutely must. But the laughter must wait until the corrupt and those motivated by greed and power are ultimately halted, restrained. Until the world's quests for an end to hunger, the ultimate consummation of world peace, and the end to poverty are finished, there shall be no laughter in the Birdonnell home. That was part of the speech I wrote for my proposal of marriage to one Ms. Lori Birdonnell, and may I drop dead of an ulcerated toenail if ever I betray this statement in word, thought, or deed.

I have read the great philosophers of my day and those that passed before my arrival on this whirling dervish we call earth, and these are my conclusions regarding frivolity and the nature of mandkind:
1.) The ethereal undercurrents that sublimate our each and every desire demand of us seriousness and grimaces of unlimited width and sustenance.
2.) These same ethereal undercurrents are born of the will to bore those who smile with the palpitations of a dying spirit.
3.) It is better to consume the iniquity of the child in the flames of plastic building blocks than to allow such iniquity to get the better of the parental spirit of grim realism.
4.) I can't believe you're still reading.

With that in mind, it is easy to understand why this is a site filled with the nuanced observations of and by a family by its member-parts, as we call them around the old Birdonnell family campfire. As always, I conclude with a quote from the great Whig himself, Thurlow Weed:
"Catherine, today I met a man named Felicity Hogg, and I'll never forget his blonde mustache or the unsettling manner in which he shakes your hand. I will discuss this later."

On Being Abducted

2006-04-10T02:37:00.000-07:00

To continue from the family blog, an explanation as to the delay in my writing...
That morning, the situation we walked into turned out to be the beginning of what is now dubbed in Saipan as the Haole Separatist Revolution. Apparently, plans had been forming for weeks as small pods, or "cracker cells", met in a number of local establishments and private homes in order to plan what they saw as a grand, sweeping revolution. They met at Coffee Care, yes, but they also congregated at Hamilton's Restaurant and Joeten Hafa Dai, so as not to attract suspicion. There code words were specially designed to appear like normal conversation. Code phrases included, "Oh my God. They have cheese again!" and "Let's go play volleyball."

The men and women who took us captive were stern but not cruel. They were mostly lawyers, doctors, and a few teachers. Most of them wore visors and t-shirts that someone had printed for the event. "Haole Revolution '06".

There will be more to come.

On the Fine Art of Dancing

2006-03-04T15:35:00.000-08:00

One of the nice thing about dancing in public with your woman is that you know you only have one moment in time, one fleeting wisp of a lifetime, to touch people. To combine your physical form, your compounded atoms, molecules, and muons, with the atmosphere that surrounds you. The atmosphere of oxygen and nitrogen and music and laughter and tears, and you have that one wisp of a moment to combine with all the world around you and claw your way into people's hearts via their ocular cavities. Scratch your way into their optic nerves, travel the path that leads to their mind, and then into the region of the brain that controls involuntary muscle functions such as that of a beating heart, and to nest inside that heart, with your art, curled in their hearts like a small blood clot waiting to explode with the emotion of a perfect moment. That is what my dancing can do.

Not to say that Lori is a prop when we're dancing, of course, because she's more than that. But she's not quite a partner either. A partner implies a level of equality that I'm not quite comfortable with when I think of her dancing abilities. But one thing that's important in a marriage is honesty. That's a very important thing, ask anyone. So when I tell Lori that she's a fine dancer, I mean it.

But I am divine.

I know that sounds conceited, perhaps, but think of it, rather, as honesty. I am only being honest, and when you're honest about something you know you're good at, it inevitably sounds like pomposity. I am an incredible dancer, though, and Lori will tell you as much. In some circles I have been described as "otherworldly" and "tantalizingly envelope-pushing." The remarkable thing about me is that I combine the dancer's two most important traits: I am able to both recreate a certain movement and I am able to create moves of my own.

Example: if I see a dance move, but once, I can recreate it perfectly. I am born with the gift of Xerox, the Greek god of mimicry. You're hopping on one foot, you say? Watch this: perfect mimicry. I'm hopping on the very same foot at the precise height and speed as yourself. What's that? The human worm? Observe my undulations as I careen across the room. Did you do the same dance twice they'll ask you? No, you'll have to admit. The second time, that was Andrew. But that's not all I have in my bag of tricks. Even a monkey can mimic. A parrot can speak, but there is no true meaning behind its words. The mimic is my animal half, the part that makes me steppenparrot.

The humanity, the sheer creativity that I can produce of my own will and essence, is the part of me that creates as I dance. I am born of Natraj, the Indian god of dance, and in the moment I channel the world's energies as my limbs instantaneously calculate windspeed, magnetic field viability, levels of various gasses in the surrounding atmosphere, and, of course, the spirit of the audience that seems to constantly surround me, and based on these instant calculations I move. A foot here. A hip there. Back flip. Front flip. Somersault. You don't know what you'll see next. All you'll know is that what you're seeing is perfection embodied. I'm just saying the truth, and if the truth bothers you, well... I guess you should just come watch me dance.

Photo #1

2006-02-19T01:13:00.000-08:00

This is Kagman. Notice the subtle lighting and the dramatic tension between the telephone poles and the sinews of the pooping dog's shuddering haunches. A moment in time forever preserved.

On Writing

2006-02-18T13:42:00.000-08:00

Have you ever had the experience that you... you sit down at the keyboard. And you put your hands in position, asdfjkll;, and then the next thing you know, it's three hours later and you don't know where you've been. It's like you've been in a trance, and a ghost has entered your body and it's been typing away for all that time, shooting off e-mails to former employers about what you really think about them, and maybe even walking around the apartment for awhile and drinking a whole bottle of ketchup. Even writing in your family blog?

Totally just happened.

But that's just how it is when I write. It's like, while my hands are sweeping over the keyboards, I get lulled into this strange otherworldly hum. And while I'm in that hum, I am utterly unaware of my own actions. That's the power of the written word, and that's why I worship at its altar. That's why I drink from its word-encrusted chalice and send libations spilling all directions in the name of The Logos, of the Paragraphy, of the Sacred Syllable. In the space of seconds, your heart will change, and yea you will not speak but write the name of your one true... Well, you know. That whole thing.

It's been a trying time lately, working on the blog, because... um... let's just call her "somebody", "Somebody" keeps demanding eye contact when she's talking to me, and I have a difficult typing and looking at someone else at the time. I mean I can do it, and do do so, but I end up with more typos than usual and I hate revising (as I'm sure you can tell, LOL! LOL!) Anyhow, so while the Eye Contact Queen stepped out with the boy for awhile, McDonald's again, I think, I've been lucky to grab a few hours of type-time and Word worship.

Behind the scenes, everything's going as swimmingly as advertised. We're headed towards a big President's Day, and Lori and I are going to have the World's Biggest President's Day Bash right here in our humble shelter. I've decided that this year I'll be going as an oldie but a goodie: #5. James-freaking-Monroe. I've already memorized his inaugural address, so I'm ready for that section of the party, but I'm still having trouble nailing the Nineteenth Century Virginian accent. The long vowels are a killer.

Lori's going as Hillary Clinton. Again. She's such a smart-aleck. She had her gown made our of this material that's got nothing but 4's on it, because she says she's number 44. And I said something, like, well, it's good that the dress kind of leaves it up in the air, 'cause I don't think you're going to see her in the White House again until her clone takes the seat as our 444th President in 3608 AD. That's my hunch.

Well, they're back, bringing with them the stench of gluton, grease and tallow. Until later, my friends, may Logos smile upon you.

On Photography

2006-02-03T16:02:00.000-08:00

The nice thing about being asked by tourists to take their pictures is that you really get to practice your craft. Or my craft anyways. I love taking pictures. I mean to say I really just love it. But I love it the way a painter might love it. That is, just as a painter might only produce one or two paintings in a year, I may only snap three pictures every two years. I don't want to take a picture of just anything. I want it to be earth shattering. I want it to waken the mind, un-numb it. I want it to reinvigorate at least four of the major senses. It can be any four, it doesn't have to be just sight, touch, smell, and hearing or anything like that, but it does have to get at least four. Otherwise, it's just a picture. Not a photograph.

Think about that word. Photo, from the Aramaic word for light and graph from the early-Phoenician word for pencil. When you wave your light pencil across the world's cratered, pock-marked face, you want it to leave something behind. Something that churns the guts of those who encounter it. And I mean encounter. Not just see, or run into, or observe, or visit, or gaze upon, or ravage with their eyes. I mean encounter. To experience? Nay. To dance with? No. To be enchanted by? Not good enough.

I'm talking about encounter.

Not engage. Not get blindsed by. Not face or meet.

Encounter.

That's what you do with one of my photographs. My light pencils.

I'll post some of these. Please, don't just enjoy them.
Encounter them.

Reaction from Home

2006-01-28T15:47:00.000-08:00

Well, the first verdicts are in on the new family blog, and the reactions are mixed. My mother is still referring to the boy as "that little creature." Don't know what that's about, but Landy doesn't seem to mind. He's been spending a lot of time gumming the windowsill lately because he says it's nice and cool. Lori doesn't stop him because she says it's less dusting for her.

In local news, apparently most of Saipan's fire hydrants don't work anymore. Luckily, as Lori noted, we're close enough to the ocean that if we catch on fire, we'd be able to make it to the water in time to put our clothes out. Our possessions are doomed, though. So be it. All is ethereal.

The old family went for a day at the movies last weekend to take in a showing of Underworld II. We left Landy with the windowsill and a half-eaten package of squid crackers and he was happy. That's the one good thing about the boy. We keep expectations low: minimal effort is required to please him. It's like raising Oliver Twist. I've even considered buying him a cap just to make him look like a British rapscallion. I'm afraid that would raise his expectations for new clothing, however, so he's not getting any caps anytime soon. Maybe when it's time for him to leave home we'll dig a few coppers from our bulging pockets and tell him to go buy one for himself.

Anyhow, the movie was mostly trash. It was exciting and all, but it felt like a very hollow excitement when all was said and done. Somehow, watching the first ten minutes of this David Gordon Green movie "Undertow", where this kid steps on a board with a nail in it, created more terror and suspense than a movie devoted to the cenuries-long battle between werewolves and vampires. Go figure. Lori fell asleep during Underworld in a movie theater, but made me turn off "Undertow" while we watched it in bed because it was going to keep her awake all night with terrible thoughts. There's your difference.

Other than that, we're doing fine, the sun is shining and Catholic Schools Week is coming up soon. I've been asked not to bring Landy this year.

Welcome to the Making of the Birdonnell Family Blog Blog

2006-01-21T21:39:00.000-08:00

Here's Andrew at work on the new family blog! "It wasn't easy getting started" he says. Okay, I said. LOL. But it was easier than getting Landy to hold still long enough for our camera's shutter to open and close, though. I tell you. That little man's getting to be the Dickens himself. Not Charles, mind you, but Henry Dickens, the pirate King of Ishtambula. He's not particularly well known or spoken of, but he was one bad fellow; I assure you.

Blogging, I have already noticed, is a strenuous and trying activity. You have to balance the desire to be honest with the desire to be liked; I guess that's one of life's constant challenges. In any event, the picture that you see above is obviously intended to be more honest than likeable. Look at me. Bedraggled and unkempt. Deeply unshaven. It's disgusting. It makes me want to shove a pencil as far as I can into my right ear. But I don't, because I have a family to look after. That's just the kind of man I am. The kind of man I have become.

Or is it too passive to just say I have become that man; for if I did not make myself become this person, and surely, yes, I've had help, so please don't get me wrong on that count for I am grateful for all who've helped me bring to this point in my life, than who did?

Anyhow, it will be an interesting process, and I'll be glad to have you along for the ride. As Roy Rogers used to say: "Eat some more of my chicken."