The sun has set on another weekend, Sunday has slipped away as quickly as dusk fades to darkness of night. My body retires inward on itself and the whiskey from my glass, a generous pour, clouds my mind as though it were tendrils of smoke gathering beneath a canopy of leaves, slipping out where it can but generally filling the space it has, causing vision and voice and senses to fail entirely before I close my eyes and drift to sleep, letting the smoke find its own way out.
The sun will rise on a new day tomorrow and I will hang my tools bags from my shoulders and hips and fill them with tools and nails and go about my day in a fashion that befits a professional carpenter in the company of other professionals, with due diligence to the task at hand, frugal with my motions and cuts and precise with my measurements and decisions. Comfortable in the world in which I work. Unremarkable in my quality and technique but efficient and pragmatic and effective towards a finished product that meets and exceeds the expectations and demands set forth. Tight with my joints and miters and precise with my nailing, a craftsman in his element doing what he is trained to do.
At the end of the day a craftsman is what I am, really, skilled and trained and having an eye for detail but without the flare of the artists or visionaries who share my trade. It has become quite clear that I lack the qualities of the woodworkers and tradesmen that make their trade an art, the small details that separate the artist from the craftsman. There is little to discern in quality or technique but the artist finds the details that bring out something new and different in the often mundane details of framing and finish and separate themselves from the pack in this way. I am comfortable to admit I lack the qualities of a the tradesman as artist and plateau graciously as the craftsman instead.
This isn't to say I don't take a great measure of pride in my work or put in the effort it takes to create a visual pleasing and well crafted end product, au contrair, I do. I want my work as a carpenter to with stand the test of time function for the needs of homeowners today and stand for posterity so that in a hundred years, when the houses I have remodeled or built are remodeled again, the workers can look at what I've done in much the same fashion I have looked at what builders from a hundred years ago have left me -- a look of wonder at the care and quality that had come before, houses and barns and office buildings and warehouses built by hand, using hand tools, carefully fitted together with attention to detail...the work of professional craftsman.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 2011
The End of the World
According to Harold Camping, in Oakland, the world was scheduled to end today. But it appears the the sun will rise on a new day tomorrow and I will wake up with the same worries and concerns, blessings and joys, frustrations and stresses, commitments and obligations that I have today. On the surface of his fanatical pronouncement I want so badly to deride him and his followers, lay ridicule at their feet, and allow my cynicism and sarcasm to land firmly on their fanatical devotion to an event that is impossible to predict. As I prepare my barrage I find that I can not bring myself to make fun, in fact, I can hardly bring myself to dignify them with a response of any sort except a measure of pity at their desperation. I can only believe that people would succumb to such madness out of a desperate need to escape lives of poverty, shallowness, or lies and therein we, who believe to have our feet a little more firmly on the ground, should show a little grace and ask ourselves the last time we acted on devotion and principal contrary to popular wisdom of our culture and peers.
For me it is easy to see where blind devotion comes from, the rise of fanatics and idealists. I feel that people are desperate for peace in their lives, blindly devoted to literal readings of scripture and eager for judgment and vindication for their beliefs and lives of devotion. Look out the window the next time you are driving through a urban sprawl, the freeway is littered with lewd posters and promises of vice. T.V. is ripe with sex and violence and messages of self-indulgence. The world around us is an anything goes world and is contrary to nearly everything a person like Camping or his devotees would believe.
To the mockers and doubters and cynics, myself included, is there anything wrong with believing something so deeply? How about us, Christians, doesn't this compel you so look a little deeper at your beliefs? These people are devoted, how ever misguided, to what they believe, whole heatedly. Their devotion is misplaced and their focus on the the end is contrary to the call, I believe, of Christ. However, their devotion has to be admired to some degree and their longing for a better life can not be overlooked.
Our culture is a collage of lies and empty promises and we lead lives of compromise and fear. We travel through life alternately believing in peace and hate and love and war and darkness and light and at some point we are confronted by our demons and comforted by our angels.
I don't believe in Camping's prediction and I pity his followers, to place so much hope in something so obviously flawed is the epitome and desperation and ignorance. Tomorrow will bring a new day and I fully expect to wake up in my bed, next to my wife, by my children to rise again to the challenges of life and to do the best I can with what I have at hand. That is all any of us can do. There is no predicting the end of the world, there is living today, living tomorrow, living the day after that and so on.
For me it is easy to see where blind devotion comes from, the rise of fanatics and idealists. I feel that people are desperate for peace in their lives, blindly devoted to literal readings of scripture and eager for judgment and vindication for their beliefs and lives of devotion. Look out the window the next time you are driving through a urban sprawl, the freeway is littered with lewd posters and promises of vice. T.V. is ripe with sex and violence and messages of self-indulgence. The world around us is an anything goes world and is contrary to nearly everything a person like Camping or his devotees would believe.
To the mockers and doubters and cynics, myself included, is there anything wrong with believing something so deeply? How about us, Christians, doesn't this compel you so look a little deeper at your beliefs? These people are devoted, how ever misguided, to what they believe, whole heatedly. Their devotion is misplaced and their focus on the the end is contrary to the call, I believe, of Christ. However, their devotion has to be admired to some degree and their longing for a better life can not be overlooked.
Our culture is a collage of lies and empty promises and we lead lives of compromise and fear. We travel through life alternately believing in peace and hate and love and war and darkness and light and at some point we are confronted by our demons and comforted by our angels.
I don't believe in Camping's prediction and I pity his followers, to place so much hope in something so obviously flawed is the epitome and desperation and ignorance. Tomorrow will bring a new day and I fully expect to wake up in my bed, next to my wife, by my children to rise again to the challenges of life and to do the best I can with what I have at hand. That is all any of us can do. There is no predicting the end of the world, there is living today, living tomorrow, living the day after that and so on.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
New Work
It feels quiet outside this morning. Dark rain clouds hang close to the earth, the streets and driveways that I can see are wet standing puddles are littered about. The grass, I cut yesterday, is saturated with rain today and the pink and red apple blossoms are in stark contrast to the grey that surrounds them. This has been a wet, cold, spring with more days of rain than sun and more days of mud than dust and it seems that I am not quite ready to give up my rain coats and heavy boots just yet. The skin on my fingers is taut from getting wet and drying out so often and my tool bags seem to be constantly damp, as do my tools and the air in my truck. The nature of a carpenter, in wet weather, I suppose, but I do not like it and I long for a stretch of comfortable sunshine in which I can revel.
Tomorrow I start work with a new contractor, I hesitate to say I've found a new job. I feel as though I am just going from one job to another, one day after another, a carpenter staying busy in a slow economy. I can not look at the work ahead and believe in a year, or two years, or more of steady work for the same company. I can only take in the project at hand, that is all my hope will bear. But the project at hand is significant and I do look forward to knowing where I will be working for the next two months. There is none of the niggling doubt and anxiety of finding work day to day or week to week.
But as is my want, in keeping with the fashion of my personality, the advent of steady work comes with a degree of sorrow and sacrifice as well. The days of writing and riding are gone and, having not utilized my time as well as I had hoped, I feel the past weeks and months, when I had time available to work at other things and have not, those hours available have been wasted and lost and I look back with a degree of sorrow and regret. The reality is there comes a point, in a lengthy unemployment, wherein the need for a job clouds all other needs or desires and the job search becomes a soul sucking process of rejection turning to mental anguish and a constant state of desperation. This becomes the mental identity of the unemployed -- searching failure. To have found a job, and to be on the cusp of starting, defeats that identity and the time it absorbed comes to stark focus as a mental purgatory and I wonder what could have been with the strength to utilize those lost hours in productive writing, riding, reading, exercise, family time... But I do not want to dwell on hindsight for to long.
Tomorrow I begin work, formally, as a carpenter once again. The latent identity of carpenter re-emerges and the dreams of writing are gently moved to the wings, to be realized in small steps, through my blog and moments of time I coax out of the day for such a purpose.
It has started to rain, again, and I look forward to a ride and some leisure as the day goes on. Tomorrow I join the ranks of the employed, putting to practice my occupation as a carpenter. Hopefully, soon, I can realize my vocation as a writer.
Tomorrow I start work with a new contractor, I hesitate to say I've found a new job. I feel as though I am just going from one job to another, one day after another, a carpenter staying busy in a slow economy. I can not look at the work ahead and believe in a year, or two years, or more of steady work for the same company. I can only take in the project at hand, that is all my hope will bear. But the project at hand is significant and I do look forward to knowing where I will be working for the next two months. There is none of the niggling doubt and anxiety of finding work day to day or week to week.
But as is my want, in keeping with the fashion of my personality, the advent of steady work comes with a degree of sorrow and sacrifice as well. The days of writing and riding are gone and, having not utilized my time as well as I had hoped, I feel the past weeks and months, when I had time available to work at other things and have not, those hours available have been wasted and lost and I look back with a degree of sorrow and regret. The reality is there comes a point, in a lengthy unemployment, wherein the need for a job clouds all other needs or desires and the job search becomes a soul sucking process of rejection turning to mental anguish and a constant state of desperation. This becomes the mental identity of the unemployed -- searching failure. To have found a job, and to be on the cusp of starting, defeats that identity and the time it absorbed comes to stark focus as a mental purgatory and I wonder what could have been with the strength to utilize those lost hours in productive writing, riding, reading, exercise, family time... But I do not want to dwell on hindsight for to long.
Tomorrow I begin work, formally, as a carpenter once again. The latent identity of carpenter re-emerges and the dreams of writing are gently moved to the wings, to be realized in small steps, through my blog and moments of time I coax out of the day for such a purpose.
It has started to rain, again, and I look forward to a ride and some leisure as the day goes on. Tomorrow I join the ranks of the employed, putting to practice my occupation as a carpenter. Hopefully, soon, I can realize my vocation as a writer.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Excuses
Another return after another long absense from writing here at King St. Industries, the blog. I can't really explain why I am so hot and cold, most often cold, when it comes to blogging. It is my inability to remain wholly committed to anything in life that is not directly related to survival and takes a measure of personal sacrifice and effort and reaps limited, at best, rewards. There is nothing in blogging for me, really, except the personal satifaction of putting thoughts into words and words into publication no matter how low a form of vanity press it may be. But truly, my failings as a writer are not new or unique, I am plagued with excuses of my own design and I rely on them to keep me from realizing what little potential, at anything, I have.
It seems that excuses are the baneof my life, a blatant procrastination that seeks out mindless fulfillment as opposed the mental (or physical if I am avoiding exercise) exertion. But sitting here, at the computer, for 20 minutes a day to stream thoughts into type is not so big a sacrifice to make and I long to write here if for no other reason than to stay attuned to the practice of writing. For a man who longs to realize his vocation as a writer/reader I have a painful aversion to making those things life practices and spend my time browsing craigslist or watching mountain bike videos on http://www.pinkbike.com/ in lieuof pursuing what I have passions for -- written word.
I hesitate to call this a human condition, there are so many writers who write daily and are affirmed (or not)in their calling to do so and they are productive and may or may not get paid for it but have the discipline and presence of mind and spirit to write on and on and make the sacrifices necessary to do so. They wake up early, stay up late, are able to tune out the noise and demands of their children until they have fulfilled the daily writing goals laid out before them. How I long for their discipline, writers who write daily and whether the writing of the day is shit or not it is still a days writing and there in they are serious and devoted writers.
For my part I would rather read or watch a movie or wile my time in the presence of friends or the pretext of family, whom I love deeply, but also whom I use as a crutch to prop up excuses and procrastination.
I long to pursue a graduate degree in writing or English literature and go on to make my vocation my occupation, let the passions of my life determine the nature of my career but I am hindered by my inability to find a daily discipline and use the unavoidable demands of life -- parenting, husbanding, working -- as the penultimate excuse to avoid the pursuit of writing and reading and talking about writing and literature as my life's work.
It seems that excuses are the baneof my life, a blatant procrastination that seeks out mindless fulfillment as opposed the mental (or physical if I am avoiding exercise) exertion. But sitting here, at the computer, for 20 minutes a day to stream thoughts into type is not so big a sacrifice to make and I long to write here if for no other reason than to stay attuned to the practice of writing. For a man who longs to realize his vocation as a writer/reader I have a painful aversion to making those things life practices and spend my time browsing craigslist or watching mountain bike videos on http://www.pinkbike.com/ in lieuof pursuing what I have passions for -- written word.
I hesitate to call this a human condition, there are so many writers who write daily and are affirmed (or not)in their calling to do so and they are productive and may or may not get paid for it but have the discipline and presence of mind and spirit to write on and on and make the sacrifices necessary to do so. They wake up early, stay up late, are able to tune out the noise and demands of their children until they have fulfilled the daily writing goals laid out before them. How I long for their discipline, writers who write daily and whether the writing of the day is shit or not it is still a days writing and there in they are serious and devoted writers.
For my part I would rather read or watch a movie or wile my time in the presence of friends or the pretext of family, whom I love deeply, but also whom I use as a crutch to prop up excuses and procrastination.
I long to pursue a graduate degree in writing or English literature and go on to make my vocation my occupation, let the passions of my life determine the nature of my career but I am hindered by my inability to find a daily discipline and use the unavoidable demands of life -- parenting, husbanding, working -- as the penultimate excuse to avoid the pursuit of writing and reading and talking about writing and literature as my life's work.
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