Turning Japanese? Not yet anyway.

Gabe and I started Japanese 111 at the Community College yesterday. It snowed today. Gabe is playing PS3 with Matt. I am studying Japanese. Gabe, the anime buff, thinks he will be helping me with Japanese homework. Time will tell.

We’re not to chapter 1 yet. We’re still in the “pre” chapter...the little bit at the beginning of language texts where you get your intro to basic greetings and a smattering of other niceties. And this I can say definitively: Japanese is like brain yoga. And I’m not talking downward dog. Nope...one of those asanas where your hand’s on the floor, your foot’s in the air, and you promptly fall into the nightstand and knock a lamp over.

Kind of makes you want to crawl back to French, Spanish, or German with a penitent air, saying all is forgiven! I didn’t mean it when I said querer was an inextricable knot of conjugations! And here’s the thing: In the pre-chapter--the baby chapter--you don’t even conjugate anything. But you also don’t get the comfort of an alphabet you recognize. Merci, gracias, danke... Oh, sure, anybody can say that, and write it too. And maybe you can say arigatoo, even though there’s probably nothing in your basic western educational background that the word even remotely resembles. But don’t get too puffed up about that. Because you’re cheating. It’s not really written “arigatoo,” it’s written ありがとう, and therein lies the problem. It’s going to be quite a while before I can look at ありがとう, and register it as a word. And sadly, my entire Japanese textbook looks pretty much like that.

Frankly, I do not know if I will ever look at Japanese characters and see words, as opposed to seeing a code that must be cracked, using the handy chart found in the back of my textbook, or online. Can a brain be that plastic at 47? Interestingly, I find that the experiment of discovering the answer to this question is almost as interesting as the language-learning process itself. Can my brain get it? Let’s see.

It has been quite some time since I traced the lines of word-parts in a work book, taking care to draw the horizontal crossbar before adding the slash and the curlicue. I’m sort of feeling like someone should give me a fresh new extra-fat pencil, and a stick-on gold star at the top of my paper. And there’s the semi-appalling truth that the hatches and swirls I’m struggling to copy are second nature to any Japanese 7 year old.

Even so, I’m finding it more fun than chore...I was just a little unprepared for the reaction my brain is having. Huh? it says. You want me to do what? So I show it a flash card featuring what appears to be a fish hook dancing with dagger and say “soo desu.” Or, more precisely, そうです. (cheat sheet: "That's right.")

Some stones are better left unrolled.

I’m done teaching Gabe to drive. He can get a license when he’s old enough and mature enough to figure out how to go about it without me. By then he’ll have at least 2 sisters over 21, and maybe couple of Tylers, who can pick up the ball I dropped, which will--by then--be moldering in a dusty corner with some dog teeth marks in it. Although, truthfully, I don’t think I dropped the ball. It’s more like none of my serves were ever returned.

The only thing that niggles me still is that he’s going to need a certificate of completion from the driver’s ed school. He’s done the classroom hours, and 2 out of 3 of the drive-with-instructor sessions. After session #2, the guy told me not to schedule #3 until he’d gotten more experience, and there’s where the twain won’t meet. Because what the guy said was correct: He’s bad at driving. And I’m done. So I’m hoping that if I call the driving school on Monday and explain that we’re bagging it for now, but would like--if possible--to have the certificate in hand so that he doesn’t have to pay for and take driver’s ed again several years down the road, that they’ll agree to one more supervised lesson, even if it’s not the sort that normally comprises lesson #3. But if they say no...oh well...it’ll be Gabe’s $400 and 30+ hours next time.

Next time, as in a time when he can both round a bend and observe, in a meaningful way, that there are 5 cars backed up at a light a mere 15 yards ahead of him. The surprising thing--to me anyway--is that you would think that a guy who can ride a unicycle, perform sleight of hand with cards, and defeat Super Mario in a melee would have the necessary eye-hand chops to handle a car, but t’aint, apparently, so.

It can be a little disconcerting though, when people do not mature according to the only scheme of which you’re aware, to feel confident that the alternative unknown scheme will also have a reasonable outcome. That, thus, is the trick of this parenting episode--to be able, in the absence of confidence, to exist on the the plane of the now, and trust the then to be either a) something you can handle, or b) something you can wash your hands of. I am practicing “b” by leaving the driving ball to grow lichen in the corner.

Swabby

Gabe is out racking up miles with the driving instructor. It’s #2 out of 3 sessions. Must get the driver’s license even if he doesn’t particularly need to use it much. For practical and i.d. reasons. And now I have another. One must have a valid DL in order to obtain a Merchant Mariner Document from the Coast Guard. One must have the MMD to enter the entry level Merchant Mariner program at the Paul Hall School in Piney Point Maryland. And one must have a back up plan should college not work out. And that’s what Piney Point would be.

Deck Department, Engine Department, Steward Department? Yes Gabe...the possibilities abound, and you’re stuck on a boat where they must make some use of you. This is not to say that college is out. By no means. We will visit, we will pick, we will entreat...but ultimately the rest is up to the kid, and--while I hope he’ll grab the magic feather and fly--it helps my inner tranquility to have a Plan B. Or a Plan 9 from Outer Space if need be.

chips ahoy?

The problem is: I don't want to be in charge of everything all by myself. All the time. That is the little lumpy thingy I have to clamber over in order to plan a trip...or social event at my house...or stuff. Ick ick ick. Want to defer!

Or perhaps I merely need a fortitude microchip implant.

Smiling Coasts, Open Minds

The Honda Odyssey went to a new home. I hope, sincerely, that it will love it there, and start faithfully with nary a hitch for its new proprietor. As for Jeff, I could see that same little wistful cloud hovering about him as the transaction was enacted--the cloud that signaled another face-to-face with the fact that he really will not drive anymore. But...with the van’s absence from the driveway will come, I hope, limited cause to even think about it much.

Meanwhile, another piece fell into place in the possible-trip-to-The Gambia sequence. Gabe’s passport--the one which he could ostensibly get without parental permission and that will be good for 10 years because he’s 16--arrived today. Yes. Nothing on the application requesting parental signoff. No indication from the post office lady who took the application, photos, and checks, that anything was missing. But still the Passport Office held his app, with a letter noting that it would be processed pending a copy of an i.d. and signoff from me. Naturally I obliged, with the requisite grumble that I’d have been happy to provide such permission had they only included that in the instructions. Perhaps t’was the scruffiness of his photo. Must come from a shady family, that one. But it’s here, and now--if I can get reasonably comfortable that Becca and company will be in Serrekunda during Gabe’s Spring break from school--I can try to secure reasonable flights. And no...this does not mean the ones offered on Expedia for $2500 a pop round trip from Gatwick. This means a cheap charter, and that may be harder to come by.

But what an intriguing thought--Gabe and Jeff in West Africa! Goodness...we can lose Jeff in Chipotle...we’d have to put him on a leash abroad. But how else will I ever travel, I ax ya? So, ok.

I have pushed some furniture aside in my brain. I’m making room--trying, in fact to make a most welcoming space--for a character to inhabit. See, according the the fiction-writing study I’m doing via The Open University, UK, fiction should begin with the character, around whom the plot will develop. Try to do the plot first, and the characters may not bake properly. Maybe that’s been my problem all along...hence the redecorating in my brain. I await a worthy protagonist. I hope the feng shui is adequate in my cerebrum. Not sure. Maybe a tinkly fountain would help.

In cars

Sometimes when my kids were small, nap resistant, and I needed a bit of mental space, we took a car ride. They’d settle, usually sleep, and I’d cruise quiet neighborhoods, pacified by the balm of road rumble and the visual placidity of architectural structures.

Now I do it with Jeff, and it still works. Not for nap-induction, but as a means to generate a sort of white-noise zone, where the angst of the ill-fit caused by our diverging abilities to communicate in the old ways is dissipated, much as a good antenna bearing eliminated the aggravating static on your old analog tv.

Talking works better there. Though sometimes it’s me doing most of the talking, but his listening works better too.

Wade has observed that Jeff is best able to comprehend and communicate when his eyes are closed. It is true. You can put him on the phone and--especially if he relaxes and closes his eyes--his interaction with the person at the other end is as close to “normal” as you’ll ever see it.

The car effect is similar. Despite there being visual input, it is of a low-demand sort. Jeff seems to be able to understand--mostly--and respond--mostly. To be clear--he responds at home too, but not necessarily in a way that suggests he grasped my meaning. I serve a volleyball, he returns a shuttlecock.

Car responses show a better intake of the input. There is still the hiccup factor--that is, the same question may be raised multiple times. As an example, this morning we were discussing The Campanella Family. Input items provided by me: Jeff’s family bought the Holly Ridge Road house from them. The daughters--Mary Beth and Cathy--were abrasively assertive. The dad struck me as taciturn and surly. And...once, Mary Beth and Cathy most impertinently insinuated themselves into a trip to the movie Chitty Chitty Bang Bang that my mother was sponsoring for me, my sister Ellen, and our cousin Bev. We covered the fact that I did not recall what Mr. Campanella did for a living, as that was not of particular interest to my 7 year old self, but Jeff still asked. 3 times, spaced throughout the conversation. “What did he do for a living?” I don’t want to keep saying “we already covered that,” so I just say “I don’t remember.” Again.

But the sense of calm, and the pleasant companionship afforded by road trip white noise is nice thing. Like a good cup of coffee or just one Godiva chocolate.

Chai? Hat? Chai in a hat?

Mr. Chilly thinks there's a draft. He's checked the front door. Not open. The back door. Nope. The trouble, which has not yet occurred to him, is that he's not wearing a hat. At the moment, that hat would be a royal blue thick stocking cap which used to belong to Becca, before she moved on to jaunty berets or woolen hippie hats with earflaps.

But here is what is wrong with Jeff and hats: He likes to pull them down over his ears in such as way that the hat is not actually over his ears at all--intead, the tops of his hears are squashed down and out by the hat, which sits just high enough on his cranium that a small crown at the top remains unfilled, like the tip of a pear. All in all, the effect is what you'd get if Larry, Darryl, and Darryl were possessed by the spirit of Dopey the 7th dwarf.

If I witness this, I will tuck his ears under the cap, and rearrange the hat's position to a more sporting sledder style. I cannot help caring about this. The hat is intolerable worn a la Darryl.

I am tired. The "Nano coffee-tablet" I popped last night (a free sample from the health food store,) did keep me alert through a trip to see Four Christmases with Ellen, Rachel, and Becca last night (reviews: mixed,) but it also gave me a certain level of middle-of-the-night consciousness that I don't ordinarily attain...hence, tonight I'm bushed.

I believe that the populace has achieved stability for the evening--2 out, 2 in, lockable door--so all that's diverting me is Les Mis on the Kindle, wanting me to jump back into the barricade with the combatants as they await the climactic scene. But tomorrow. I'm sure as grape shot that I cannot reach the end without Victor Hugo going off on another tangent--oh...probably several chapters on the composition of the soul of a Parisian chaiwalla or something. And that will be a trudge which requires a fresh brain, free of fog.

If I get Jeff a bomber hat, he won't be able to squash his ears, or--at least--I won't be able to tell. Thought.

I'm gettin' over it, I'm gettin' over it...

Fuzzy Lenz stopped by on Saturday, to measure the area out the back door for some sort of flagstone/brick masonry installation. We could keep stepping off the rickety plywood “temporary” steps (which Jeff assembled roughly 12 years ago) into the grassless mudflats which comprise that third of the backyard, but perhaps (I’m thinking) if we make the back door appealing I will be inspired to stop decorating the backyard with old ladders and dog doodoo, and plant a shrub or two instead.

Fuzzy, it seems, does good work. He installed the brick and concrete walkways which surround Gordon and Tracy’s chateau. My goal now, will be to discourage him broaching--any further--the topic of “retirement.”

Here’s what he said Saturday morning, if I may resort to a rough paraphrase: How’s retirement Jeff? Wow. Not sure I’d want to retire. My brother-in-law retired at 60 and went straight downhill from there. Sure, it’s good so long as you stay active. I guess you stay active, right Jeff?

This is not too unlike the ”Retired? You lucky dog!” comments which are not uncommon at cocktail parties (which are, fortunately, the sort of things we rarely go to.)

So, I smile blandly, wondering if it would be appropriate to accidentally spill a drink (or coffee in the case of Saturday morning) on the speaker, so as to nip the topic mercifully in the bud.

In truth, at this point, we would both rather be employed than not, but he cannot, and--as leaving someone who cannot turn on the oven alone all day is not good mojo--it is inadvisable that I seek outside employment.

Which brings me to the crux of why I am a cranky person who keeps promising to blog in an upbeat manner, but whines instead: At no point have I liked the idea that I would be spending an unspecified number of years acting as administrative companion to a disabled person whose formerly diverting personality has, to a large degree, evaporated. But, as recently as a couple years ago, I was able to believe that I held the ace, or consolation prize of “being a writer”; that this, in fact, was something of a purpose in life which I could pursue while attending to my administrative companionship duties. However, now that I can look semi-objectively at the fact that I’ve written 3½ crappy to tolerable, unpublishable books, the delusion is failing me. So I’m feeling like a rather horribly drab critter, incapable of the creativity necessary to sustain the saving grace of having a meaningful creative outlet. So ick. (Not the fish disease, the sentiment.)

Well wow, that’s whiny. Maybe I shouldn’t post it. But I will, because it explains, succinctly, my personal mid-life crisis.

I’m still planning to stumble upon something to do which is more worthwhile than devoting years to 25-chapter novels destined to collect dust. And while I am waiting, if you decide to expound upon the pluses and minuses of retirement, in Jeff’s earshot, I will spill orange juice on you.

Oh, it's just another cranky post.

I’ve had the sort of day where you wonder--complete with chronic visceral special effects--whether there’s any possible way you’re up to the job of discharging your obvious obligation for the length of years it appears it will take.

I hate that thing where someone has a need so evident that it practically palpates the atmosphere, seeking it-does-not-even-know-what, and you know that it is your cosmic role to be the need-meeter, but you can’t because you’re hopelessly ill-suited to the position, and--on top of that--you’re a really bad faker. And, additionally on top of--or shall we say below--that: forget your own needs because there’s absolutely no way in heck they’re going to get met, so you might as well recognize them right now as wants, not needs. And stop being such a wuss. Gads. Do you need a smack, or what?

What else? I’m digging deeper into the concept of Gabe: The Post-High School Years. Oh, and there’s another need where what I have to offer may be ridiculously inadequate, because--frankly--there may not be a place in society for just everyone, of just every disposition. But it’s still my job to find the place, even if it doesn’t exist. Because a person cannot a)live in the computer room forever watching animes and online episodes of The Office, or b)be booted into the street prematurely. Hence, there must be something else that will work, even if there isn’t. And I pretty much have to find it.

Most likely, some people--present company included--ought to just relax. Even if they’re constitutionally unable, and weenies to boot.

Oh yes, I’m reading the Title 9 Sports catalog again, wherein the “real people” models appear with little bio snippets under their action shots such as: Jean-Anne--Occupation: College Professor, Hobby: Round-the-world sailing, special accomplishment: Following my heart. But then you have to wonder how her heart got so smart.

fresh from the Keebler zombies...

Becca and Tyler A. are making Christmas cookies. Hazel is casting a dubious glance at Fredfred who might--you never know--decide to usurp her position at the watering bowl. Jeff has, as is typical, retired early. I, as usual, just ran upstairs to dole out his pills before he crashed.

Gabe insists that zombies exist. “What would YOU do,” he asks Tyler, “in a zombie attack?”

“Probably go into the woods and make a sweet fort,” Tyler replies.

The general murmur, in the kitchen, is that zombies cannot possibly climb trees, but Gabe’s authoritative book, The Zombie Survival Guide, asserts that 1 in 10 zombies can climb a ladder.

I expect that many of the cookies will adhere to a holiday or random theme, and few if any will resemble zombies, but an outlier won’t surprise me. That one could be interesting to decorate with holiday goop.

Rachel is youtubing genuine and spoof high-fructose corn syrup commercials.

Becca asks Gabe if he has a special request for a cookie shape. “Do one in the shape of a zombie,” he replies. I confess though: that was not a risky prediction for me to make.

Olivia comes in from a long day out. She is dressed like a nerd, having ransacked, from her boyfriend’s belongings, a stocking cap, a pair of geeky glasses with no lenses, and a playboy bunny necktie. She is getting ready to go out again.

Chessie is howling because Rachel scooped her up. She is too pudgy a cat to get up onto the kitchen island. Hence, the holiday goop--butter based--is inaccessible to her.

For now, I will pause as I’m inclined to decorate a zombie cookie. But Gabe got to it first, and I’ll have to settle for a star.