Celebrating the Mundane

On (2) separate flights on the same day last week I sat next to (2) apparently famous people whose names I didn’t know and only one of whom I recognized as even vaguely familiar.  I assume they were famous based only upon the annoying observation that multiple sheep asked for their autographs.  I asked the one I didn’t recognize to turn his deafening, hideous music down as it was disrupting my anonymity.  I hate fame, me.

Today is my father’s birthday – Pop, I would listen to your music in celebration but the only song I ever consciously remember you declaring that you liked was that strange Willie Nelson / Ray Charles duet from way back and that's not my bag. (I suppose the music thing comes from my moms.)  I did stumble on to that reel-to-reel of The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds of yours when I was I kid, but I wasn’t feeling especially Brian Wilson today.  I get the whole maybe I should build a giant sand box out of my living room thing, but that’s probably a weekend project, no?  Either way, Happy Birthday Pops.  I enjoyed our conversation tonight.  One of these days if I keep working at it and I'm lucky on top of, I will be half the man that you are.  

Monday was Paul McCartney’s birthday.  I’m not sure exactly what the opposite of Paul McCartney is but when I realized it was his birthday, I did my best to listen to the opposite in celebration.  As far as I can tell, the opposite is Jim Carroll – a true poet rock star who chose not to marry an heiress with horrific vocal ability but who stayed true to his craft until his untimely passing.  If you're not familiar, Jim was the deal.  Sir Paul was by far the least interesting Beatle.  At least Ringo knew he had no discernible musical skill and was content being the comic relief. Pete Best was a drummer – Ringo is at best a Muppet.  Stuart Sutcliffe was a superior bassist to Paul and if not for a hot German photographer named Astrid, the world might have known a different band.  It all revolved around and originated with John anyway.  He was the artistic force that created and completed the Beatles, followed closely behind by George.  I love what they did, but in my opinion, I’d rather they’d never written a single without the original lineup intact.  The primary positive that came out of that cluster is that we were graciously allowed to hear and see John Lennon’s voice and vision for those short (40) years.    So in your native tongue, piss off Paul!  Just because you are the last one with any talent alive doesn’t mean I should care that it’s your birthday.

Wow, that was the mother of all digressions.  I’ve just realized that I’m writing this with no specific purpose for writing it so I’ll just go with the train of thought thing.

Things that I gain the most joy from are simple things most often.  Things like cleaning out the air-conditioner vent, bathing the dogs, pulling weeds from the flower beds as I walk to the mailbox in socks make me smile like a mental patient.  I love my garden even though I clearly, at this point, have zero gardening skills.  When I say, I’m tending my garden, that’s code for me sitting on the top step throwing Belle’s ball while enjoying a refreshing beverage wondering aloud why my garden won’t grow.  I planted it.  I assumed it would do the rest.  I water it when I remember to, occasionally – WTF?  Slow cooking spaghetti sauce really turns my gear.  I know, right?  I’ve spent a lot of Sunday morning’s this early summer watching my grass grow and that is exactly what I wanted to do right then. I’ve counted the grains in the woods I chose for those uncomfortably over-sized chairs I made several years back more times than I care to remember.  Every time I do, it makes me real. 

My work is what it is, and I love it. But when you are occasionally required to sit politely in a room full of people (who have absolutely no idea what architecture is) discussing and critiquing your architecture, it wears on a body.  No other game I would rather play for sure, but the game makes me long for those Saturday twilight nothing nights.  As skilled and incredible as I am (sarcasm intended), one can only be expected to internalize and abide so much.  Everybody has their breaking point and when I reach mine, I’m in the back yard searching for (4) leaf clovers in clean tall grass, sitting in the fresh cut with my pups imagining what it would be like if the Jackson Five floated across the breeze the same way they do my memory. 

I need my solitary ridiculousness more than ever.  That statement illuminates me as mad perhaps, but I think I'm simply aware.  It is almost physically necessary that I compose a grocery list Friday night and traverse the minefield of my local Saturday morning Publix in order to summon the wherewithal to accost the inevitable client derivative of a poorly researched, unfounded exclamation point come Monday morning.  I need to wash my baseball caps early on Tuesdays and sit them carefully upon mixing bowls so that I ensure that they will be dry by Wednesday morning.  I need to clean last week’s receipts out of my wallet and balance my check book every Monday afternoon even though I can't remember the last time I wrote a check.  If I didn’t have to go to Target tonight to get razors, there is no way that I would be able to get out of bed tomorrow and do this all over again.  The commonplace propels me. 

Some say they tolerate the mundane bullshit that they have to endure in order to get to the punch line, the weekend-warrior type.  I celebrate the routine in order to get to the bullshit. I exalt its banality.  I couldn’t be even as intermittently visible as I am,  without the option to disappear inside of myself every night. Trying to be perfect is exhausting. 

Someone who has my ear more than most, recently suggested that I shouldn’t put so much of myself into my career.  I asked her where I should put it instead.  She didn’t have an answer.  I told her that I’d be here with a High Life and a Camel Blue, relishing Thin Lizzy’s Cowboy Song counting thin green blades of grass when she figured it out…celebrating the mundane.