The F45RC1 Mount Rainier Playlist

Living outside of Montpelier, Vermont (with young children) is not conducive to hearing a lot of great new music.

Confession: I say this as I listen to "Classic Rock" radio right now (What is this song? I know it but I can't place it: an instrumental by...Styx or the Electric Light Orchestra?)

Oh! Now they're playing Cheap Trick's "I Want you to Want Me," which can't help but bring a smile to my face. Cheap Trick--with drumwork by one of the best fake-names in rock and roll: Bun E. Carlos.

Erp, even my digressions have digressions.

The point is, you have to work around here to hear any unfamiliar music or even to meet some unfamiliar people. It's a problem.

One solution to this problem is the so-called False 45th Record Club, which basically works like this:

Readers of a locally-written music blog (most of whom are strangers to one another) submit a couple of songs they'd like to share, and these get randomly compiled into a playlist which gets unveiled (and heard) a few days later in the upstairs bar of a local restaurant, at the first meeting of the False 45th Record Club.

And sure, it was a little awkward at first; I didn't know anyone there, unless you count the librarian who used to read the kids books at storytime when Gus was two. But it ended up being a good time. I met some interesting folks, heard some good music, and saw a guy do an impression of my accordion teacher--true small town stuff. Thanks to Brian for cooking the whole thing up (and for the commemorative CDs). I'm looking forward to the next meeting, tentatively scheduled for September.

And with that, I bring you the CureClimb 2008 theme music, courtesy of F45 Record Club #1 (my submissions were songs #11 and #36):

You're not the Only One

Hey, it looks like I have a short piece in a (quasi-homemade) compilation of blog writing, "You're Not The Only One."

See the description I wrote back in February.

My thing was a relapse-fear thing. So you know, buy one. Because everyone loves that sort of thing.



Proceeds support War Child.

Thanks to Angus for the tip.

This Week's Poster Boy?

Have a look.

I've never been a poster boy before. Are there higher standards I have to live by now? Do I have to stop swearing so effing much?

Will PosterBoyHood change Rob Ryan?

1979 To 1997

Here's another non-sequitur for my loyal readers. Almost 30 years ago a man named Jamie Livingston started taking Polaroid pictures, one per day, and saving them. My friend Svenja, who knew Jamie Livingston well, is in quite a few of these pictures.

Sometimes incidental, sometimes carefully composed, these images capture intimate moments in time. Looking through them is voyeuristic, sometimes kitschy, and often resonant for anyone who lived through the period 1979 to 1997.

Ultimately these pictures are haunting.



Jamie's Polaroids have been on the web for awhile, but a couple of days ago they were also "discovered" by an online writer for "mental_floss" magazine, who wrote a short piece about his discovery (with sample photos) a couple of days ago. An excerpt:

"Yesterday I came across a slightly mysterious website — a collection of Polaroids, one per day, from March 31, 1979 through October 25, 1997. There’s no author listed, no contact info, and no other indication as to where these came from. So, naturally, I started looking through the photos. I was stunned by what I found...."

Jamie Livingston died of cancer on October 25, 1997; it was his 41st birthday.

Incidentally: Jon Lester

Three hurrahs for Red Sox pitcher Jon Lester, who not only went to my friend Marj's high school in Tacoma, Washington (West of Mt. Rainier), but who came back from an August 2006 Lymphoma diagnosis to win Game 4 of the 2007 World Series and, last night, pitch a no-hitter against the Kansas City Royals.

Is there a Jon Lester bobblehead? If so, I should take it up the mountain.

Did I Mention...

...that I have shingles? Yee haw.

Can I reiterate, also, that I'm running a marathon in 5 days?

Let's see: Shingles + Marathon = what???

Pain? Damage? Glares from strangers in the showers?

(For some reason I seem to get those glares all the time anyway.)

I hope there aren't any lasting ramifications. A month from now I'll be headed West.

Non Sequitur in Yellow and Brown

For Angus.

Day 2 And Beyond

Abstract art? No, just Day 2 of our climb.


View Larger Map

Of Piglets

As some of you know, my office-mate Pam inadvertently adopted a piglet (Maya) last week, and Pam had her in the office most of the week, bottle-feeding her, keeping her warm, bathing her, encouraging her to use the computer. A very charming little pig.



Unfortunately, Maya was the runt of the litter, rejected by her mom, and her health took a turn over the weekend. She died on Saturday. We'll miss her.

Musical/Political Interlude

Enough with the tribulations of getting in shape, and of climbing mountains, and fighting cancer, at least for awhile. I need a break.

In some ways this is nostalgic, because Billy Bragg is so 1988, but hey.

This song, "Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards," has been updated all along by Mr. Bragg when he plays it live--updated to fit the current social or political climate or simply to add a joke or twist the lyrics around playfully. He's a good guy, and 20 years later, this song, like any good folk song, still has some relevance. Performed here at SXSW in Austin, TX, March 2008. Original lyrics below.



Billy Bragg plays at the Moore Theater in Seattle on June 6 and Club Soda in Montreal on June 18.

Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards (1988)

It may have been Camelot for Jack and Jacqueline
But on the Che Guevara highway filling up with gasoline
Fidel Castro's brother spies a rich lady who's crying
Over luxury's disappointment
So he walks over and he's trying
To sympathise with her but he thinks that he should warn her
That the Third World is just around the corner

In the Soviet Union a scientist is blinded
By the resumption of nuclear testing and he is reminded
That Dr Robert Oppenheimer's optimism fell
At the first hurdle

In the Cheese Pavilion and the only noise I hear
Is the sound of someone stacking chairs
And mopping up spilt beer
And someone asking questions and basking in the light
Of the fifteen fame filled minutes of the fanzine writer

Mixing Pop and Politics he asks me what the use is
I offer him embarrassment and my usual excuses
While looking down the corridor
Out to where the van is waiting
I'm looking for the Great Leap Forwards

Jumble sales are organised and pamphlets have been posted
Even after closing time there's still parties to be hosted
You can be active with the activists
Or sleep in with the sleepers
While you're waiting for the Great Leap Forwards

One leap forward, two leaps back
Will politics get me the sack?

Here comes the future and you can't run from it
If you've got a blacklist I want to be on it

It's a mighty long way down rock 'n roll
From Top of the Pops to drawing the dole

If no one seems to understand
Start your own revolution and cut out the middleman

In a perfect world we'd all sing in tune
But this is reality so give me some room

So join the struggle while you may
The Revolution is just a T-shirt away
Waiting for the Great Leap Forwards

(Gone to the Squirrels)

This is definitely off-topic.

However: to give some context for what will follow, I've long been a (relatively) confident father--confident that I have spent significant time with my children, and that they love and respect me, and that (in all but a few respects) my kids know me as a true sharer of their care.

But maybe this was hubris all along, because I suddenly feel unable to control (manage, steer, cajole, bribe) these people, and my days are careening between relative calm and throw-up-your-hands powerlessness.

They've got me outnumbered.

Lauren is away for a few days, which means a lot of quality time with my kids.

Okay, so far it means all of my waking hours have been with the kids (and most of the sleeping ones too, since I inadvertently spent last night--fully dressed, like some passed-out college student--in a Norah's little bunk bed, after cuddling her to sleep).

(Come to think of it, I might have fallen asleep before she did.)

This period finds Norah being particularly willful, and I fear I've lost all control--of her, of him, of the whole daily shebang. To whit:

-Yesterday while making dinner I came outside to find that the kids had punctured a can of orange paint, and that Norah had smeared it all over her forearms and hands, and that Fergus was very carefully turning the driveway into an homage to Jackson Pollack.

-After foolishly helping Norah onto the roof of our woodshed this morning (did she charm me into it? What was I thinking?), she climbed onto the peak of the adjoining garage (20 feet high?) and taunted me, refusing to come down.

-At the end of gymnastics class this morning I had to literally dive into the bottomless pit of foam to drag my kids out. The dive was fun. The dragging out: not so much.

-After taking them for maple creamies this afternoon, I chastised Norah for squishing her nice shoes over and over into the deep mud in the parking area, and in response she climbed in the car, threw gravel at my head, and got mud all over the back of my seat.

-Tonight while I made dinner, Norah scavenged in the cupboards while I wasn't paying attention and scattered trails of Grape Nuts and peanuts (in the shell) from the front porch, into the living room, and down the hall to her bedroom. How she did this without my noticing I have no idea. I mean, it's not like I was making anything exotic for dinner. We're talking turkey burgers with macaroni and cheese. When I asked her what she was up to, she said she was luring squirrels into the house.

"What are you going to do with these squirrels?" I asked, as she counted a long row of peanuts on the living room floor.

"Put them in my room," she said, matter-of-factly.

"To do what?" I asked.

"Help me make it pretty," she said, as if it was all but obvious. She got to the end of the row. "I'm hoping to get forty-eight in the house."

"One for every peanut?"

"Yes," she said.

"Forty-seven," said Fergus, cracking open a peanut at the other end of the row.

She then set to work naming all of the squirrels, and writing their names down in careful/jubilant 5-year-old handwriting. Fourteen was as far as she got tonight:

1. Nuttkin
2. Knockout
3. Squeaksqueak
4. Goforit
5. Mutts
6. Beat
7. Seashell
8. Daffodil
9. Sailboat
10. Crab
11. Fishwish
12. Island
13. Sea
14. Castles

Presumably she'll be naming the rest of them tomorrow. And, you know, I'll be doing a lot of careful breathing exercises.

Coming Your Way, June 22

Like I Said, It's Sugar Time in Vermont

...And when we're minding the sap run at our house, some of us (Fergus) dress in snow pants, gloves, and winter coats. Some of us (me, myself, I) dress in Carharts and a long-sleeve T-shirt from the carcinogenic T-shirt factory (that's an inside joke).

Some of us, however, celebrate spring (and 45 degree temperatures) in style: apparently maple sugar time is also tutu time on the Center Road, if you're Norah.



Over the snowfields, in the woods, down the road, fog was rising from the snow, and as Norah scampered down the muddy road to get to a few more sap buckets, I told her to be careful, because a little girl in a tutu blends in with the fog, and the cars and trucks might not see her right away. A few minutes later she asked for help getting down from a snow bank. "I'm like the fog," she said, by way of explanation. Indeed.

For the Record, It's Sugar Time in Vermont

Photo appropriated from JDS at False 45th.

I (Still) Keep Seeing This Shape

Have I mentioned that we've had a lot of snow this winter in Vermont? Two and a half weeks ago I alluded to a haunting sense of Rainier-ish familiarity I was getting from all these piles of snow. The feeling hasn't gone away.



Even though this looks fake, this is my view out the back door these days. I swear Mount Rainier is stalking me.

I've Been Seeing This Shape...

Lately I feel like the Richard Dreyfuss character in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind":

"I know this sounds crazy, but ever since yesterday on the road, I've been seeing this shape. Shaving cream, pillows...Dammit! I know this. I know what this is! This means something. This is important."

Except this is the shape I keep seeing:

In the Right Light You Look Like Shackleton

Doctors played your dosage like a card-trick.
Scrabbled down the hallways yelling "Yahtzee!"

One of the small pleasures about Vermont in the wintertime, if you're trying to get in shape, is the long hours spent running on a treadmill. Sure, it's tedious. But it's also at least sort of meditative and, for me, provides an opportunity to drown out the awful Quiet Riot and Guns n' Roses that they play at the gym with an iPod and some newfound music of my own.

Sometimes this means elaborate, embarrassing, time-consuming Rock and Roll Fantasies—the highschool talent show revenge fantasy, the peculiar dream of busking on a Montpelier street corner with my accordion and a handful of Billy Bragg songs. But also it means I have a chance to give a close listen to new musical discoveries and/or music that my kids would never abide on the stereo at home. One of these new pleasures, for me, is a Canadian band called The Weakerthans.

And, okay, they're somewhat derivative, musically, but they're also word-heavy, and playful and literate, which can distract from the hamster-wheel effect of treadmill running (and from the aforementioned embarrassing fantasy scenarios). There's the song inspired by a Martin Amis novel, the song that imagines a 20^th century explorer dining with Michel Foucault ("I must say that in the right light you look like Shackleton"), and the plea from a cat to its owner:

Why don't you ever want to play? I'm tired of this piece of string.
You sleep as much as I do now, and you don't eat much of anything.
I don't know who you're talking to—I made a search through every room,
But all I found was dust that moved in shadows of the afternoon.
And listen, about those bitter songs you sing?
They're not helping anything;
They won't make you strong.

A wise cat, but even so, a bitter song can sometimes resonate a bit. And an (uncharacteristically) somber song called "(Hospital Vespers)" gets me thinking of the early days of Fergus' diagnosis, of the fear and helplessness of watching your little boy lie there in the hospital bed while you wait for the orderly to take him down for a bone marrow tap, or an infusion of toxic chemicals into his spine.

Doctors played your dosage like a card-trick.
Scrabbled down the hallways yelling "Yahtzee!"
I brought books on Hopper and the Arctic,
Something called "The Politics of Lonely,"
A toothbrush and a quick-pick with the plus.
You tried not to roll your sunken eyes, and
Said, "Hey can you help me, I can't reach it."
Pointed at the camera in the ceiling.
I climbed up, blocked it so they couldn't see.
Turned to find you out of bed, and kneeling.
Before the nurses came, took you away,
I stood there on a chair and watched you pray

Personal convictions aside, I'm not, as they say, a Prayin' Man. But strange situations can take you in strange directions. I've been thinking a lot lately about how parenthood, and uprooting, and homeschooling, and my child's leukemia have changed my life, and it seems busier and more fractured than ever. In fact, just this morning, Lauren said she felt like we have a dozen things all hanging by the barest of threads right now. She and I seem to talk most thoroughly by email, and the only time I have for inwardness are the times stolen away from my family—an hour at the gym, or an afternoon (so rare) climbing a mountain.

Last week Lauren sent me an article about a husband and wife who both initiated affairs while their young daughter struggled with a mysterious set of symptoms. Lauren wasn't trying to "tell me something" ominous with that article, but it resonated for us both nonetheless:

I think the hardest part of having a child with special issues is the need for comfort. Julie and I could do anything, face any tough issue that came up, if only we could escape that world every now and then. Perhaps we all need to have someone on the outside to make that escape with, someone who's not there with us.

To complicate our feeling of helplessness, we had no definitive answer to face, no medical diagnosis stating "This is what's wrong with your child, and here's what you need to accomplish in order to fix it." There were only unanswered questions and frustrations, and when we looked at each other, I guess what we saw was someone who didn't feel one bit of sympathy for the other. I'm in the same boat, we seemed to say. Don't look to me for any answers.

This feeling of giving nearly all that you have to give in order to keep your kid alive, to vouchsafe his journey back to health--this is the part that resonates. But if we can't turn to the closest of others for answers, for support and nourishment, what is the safe direction to turn? Outward or inward? And if it's inward, how do we carve out the quiet moment to delve into that inwardness?

These thoughts were with me this week when I encountered a radio interview between host Krista Tippett and Irish poet John O'Donohue on a show called "Speaking of Faith." And again, I find myself making connections—possibly spurious ones, I know—between what he says here and the pop songs and the articles, the themes that keep washing into my waking life. An excerpt:

John O'Donohue: You see, I think that one of the huge difficulties in modern life is the way time has become the enemy.

Krista Tippett: Time is a bully; we are captive to it.

JO: Totally. Seven out of every ten people who turn up in a doctor's surgery are suffering from something stress related. Now, there are big psychological tomes written on stress. But for me, philosophically, stress is a perverted relationship to time. So that rather than being a subject of your own time, you have become its target, and victim. And time has become routine. So that at the end of the day you probably haven't had a true moment for yourself, you know, to relax in, and just be. Because you know the way in this country there are all the different zones—I think there are these zones within us as well. There's surface time, which is really rapid-fire Ferrari time--

KT: --And over structured.

JO: Yeah, over structured-like, and stolen from you, thieved all the time. And then if you slip down…like Dan Siegel, my friend, has this lovely meditation, you know, you imagine the surface of the ocean is all restless, and then you slip down, deep below the surface, where it's still, and where things move slow. And what I love in this regard is my old friend, Meister Eckhart, the 14^th century mystic--

KT: --Right. German mystic.

JO: German mystic. And one day I read in him, and he said, "There is a place in the soul—there's a place in the soul that neither time nor space, nor no created thing can touch." And I really thought that was amazing. And if you cash it out, what it means is, that your identity is not equivalent to your biography, and that there is a place in you where you have never been wounded, where there is still a sureness in you, where there is a seamlessness in you, and where there is a confidence and tranquility in you. And I think the intention of prayer, and spirituality, and love is now and again to visit that kind of inner sanctuary.

Where do these connections lead me? To prayer? I don't know. Maybe to difficulty--and the still, sure place on the other side of difficulty(?) Biography is not identity, but maybe it's the tool we use to make the journey from here to there.

--If that is not utter nonsense to say.

...Oh, you're very sweet;
Thank you for the flowers and the book by Derrida,
But I must be getting back to dear Antarctica.
Say, do you have a ship and a dozen able men that maybe you could lend me?
Oh Antarctica.

Audio of the John O'Donohue interview (MP3, 53 minutes). Mr. O'Donohue died in January of this year.

Vermont Town Meeting Day Propaganda

Since it's town meeting day here in Vermont, here is a gentle political digression:



The kids made this stuff at a recent "Kids for Obama" event at Barre's L.A.C.E. There was a microphone for kids to chime in with their political thoughts, ad-lib song performances, or whatever. Fergus gave a speech that he wrote in the car on the way over:



The crowd (of 8 or 10 other kids and their parents) went wild.

Apparently, Obama wants this for America:

Alien Presidents: The Card Game

Sorry to disappoint my many fans of high-altitude adventure and/or everyday life-threatening illness, but this post has nothing to do with mountain climbing and nothing to do with childhood cancer. But it does have something to do with the charm of eight-year-old minds.

Today Fergus decided to create a card game called "Alien Presidents". Not only did he make up the rules (such as they are) but he created each card from scratch and did all the scoring (thus earning us a modicum of homeschooling points).

I won't go into all the details, but basically each player picks two cards at a time, each of which has a certain number of points associated with it: add up the points on your two cards, compare your points to those of the other players, and the person with the most points wins that round. Then everyone discards (or "disgorges," as Fergus sometimes says) one card, and picks a new card for the next round.

Each card features an "alien" version of current US political figures, and discards go either into a "Graveyard" stack or an "Evolution" stack. When we played it, we always discarded to the Graveyard. It's worth noting, however, that when all players ran out of new cards to pick, we were free to pick them from the Graveyard--a process that seemed eerily familiar when I pulled the Dick Cheney card out of the stack.

I have no idea how the "Evolution" stack might work.

Here are the "stats" from some of the cards, if you want to create your own deck (each one features a drawing of the "alien" in question, but you'll have to imagine those):

Name: BARACK OBAMA
Points: 54
Spaceship: SITH RIDE
Planet: SITH
Species: SQAKE

Name: DICK CHAINIE
Points: 105
Spaceship: ZARTRON
Planet: WEIRDO
Species: INSECTOPUS

Name: GEORGE BUSH
Points: 93
Spaceship: ZOK DEATH SLOOP
Planet: DIGPLOOM
Species: ROBOID

Name: KARL ROVE
Points: 82
Spaceship: SNAIL STRIKER
Planet: QUORG2
Species: SNY ("Snee")

Name: JOHN MCANE
Points: 71
Spaceship: QUORGETIC BOUNDER
Planet: QUORG
Species: FLYCTOPUS

Name: CONDELISA RICE
Points: 69
Spaceship: FANTASY SHOOTER
Planet: ZOKK
Species: FRIZARD

Name: HILARY CLITON
Points: 15
Spaceship: SIXSIX ENSOCKER
Planet: SIXSIX
Species: ROBONITE

At one point during our game, Fergus eyed the Graveyard and said, "I'll discharge George Bush as waste." And look, I'm not one to launch into political commentary in forums like this one, but....

Oh, it hardly seems necessary, does it?

Alien Presidents (C)
Age: 8 and Up
Teaches: Second-grade addition (with "regrouping"), not to mention contempt for U.S. politics.

"You're Not The Only One"

Now this is interesting.

"Peach" has cooked up a groovy blog-writing / book-publishing / fund-raising hybrid thing that's kind of fun. Check it out.

Has anything happened to you?

Well, yeah, of course it has. So write about it already, and send it to Peach. The deadline is February 29th.

If you're lucky, it will become part of a book, the proceeds of which will go to support War Child, an organization that...

"...works with children affected by war in Afghanistan, Iraq, Democratic Republic of Congo and Uganda. Our work with former child soldiers, children in prison and children living and working on the streets gives them support, protection and opportunities. To make sure we provide them with what they need we involve them directly in all our decision making."

Your submission does not need to relate to any of the themes that spin off of this kind of work. Mine, rather predictably, was a blog post I made (elsewhere) last spring about Fergus' leukemia and the fear of relapse:

Wet Shoes, Dropping Shoes

We had a wet snowfall yesterday, and as I left the gym. picking my way to the car through the slush, I started thinking about the end of treatment, and how Lauren and I will live with the possibility of relapse.

In short (because it was a short walk to the car), it comes down to what may be a minor distinction:

Lauren will spend the time waiting expectantly for the Other Shoe to drop. I think there is some comfort for her, or self- protection anyway, in holding onto a sense of inevitability about bad events, as if they are the flip side to the many good events in her life. I won't say this is some sense of a higher power at work in her life; it could simply be a sense about the sheer chance of bell curves. But it's a powerful, semi-inevitable power at work.

I, on the other hand, will fear relapse pretty much all the time, but if it happens I don't think I will feel any larger forces at work, not even chance. The earth will just fall out from under me--because of the specific, terrifying actuality of relapse. And then we'll move on and do whatever needs to be done.

These comparisons (accurate or inaccurate as they may be) washed through my mind as I got out my keys and unlocked the car. I'm not sure where they came from; I guess they are always there, and they simply bubble up when there aren't a lot of distractions around.

Then it hit me, as it sometimes does, like something half-forgotten: You have a child with cancer. It's an astounding, surreal thing to feel all over again. Your son has leukemia.

Re-absorbing or re-feeling that truth quickly discombobulated everything I had been thinking.

The truth is, I don't know how I'll feel when he goes off treatment, as we sit around waiting for something to (not) happen. Cancer is so big, so hard to get your head around, that it's hard not to think of larger forces at work. Or anyway, of forces that work mysteriously, with little predictability. I don't know if the forces are part of the fabric of the universe or just part of the fabric of my son's bone marrow. But the shoe will dangle. And it will be out of our hands.

Posted by robbo on April 13, 2007 2:05 PM

But this is just what I had lying around. SURELY YOU CAN DO BETTER. So go ahead.

Thank you so much to Angus for pointing this project out.