Yes. That’s me.

Whaddya talkin’ about?!? Of course, that’s not me. It’s a stalk of corn!

I would never be mistaken for a stalk of corn. Although I have, truth be told, been accused of being corny on more than one occasion. I know…shocking.

This little guy, however, represents me. He is a metaphor.

(note: at this time, I might be tempted to pose the ages-old question, “What’s a metaphor?” And then blurt, “For cows to graze in!” Only to laugh hysterically at my obvious wit. You will, I pray, note my restraint)

I’ve named him, appropriately, Corny. And behind him is his little brother, the runt of the litter, Jiminy.

Over my recent b-day, I put a patio in our back yard. The idea was to create a little “bistro” area where Robbye and I could enjoy our morning coffee this summer without frying like eggs on our deck. It’s a shady paradise from noon on (I am, in fact, relaxing there now), but its easterly facing station means that in the mornings it “gets a little sun.” Anywho, so I laid this patio, and then I put up some lattice panels. Robbye refurbished some bistro chairs she and her mom rescued on a “junk run” during April’s curbside clean-up free-for-all, and we picked up the table (the most expensive part of the whole proposition, as it turns out) at Menards. Transplant some morning glories and a little white nancy, toss a little vase of daisies on the tabletop, and viola!

Suddenly, our back yard has a “feature”.

Cool, huh?

That Robbye and me, we make a helluva team.

But you weren’t talking about a bistro patio, you say. You were talking about a stalk of corn. What of Corny? And little Jiminy?

Ah, yes… I digress. Again…shocking.

So a few days after the patio is laid and the dirt settles in, thanks to three days’ solid drenching that commenced no more than one hour after I set the last paver in place, I notice this little grass-like sliver poking out of the soil. Just barely.

I had a feeling about it. The Universe spake, a whisper in my ear: this was something more than your everyday (no pun intended–okay…maybe a little one) garden variety blade of grass.

I turned to Robbye and asked the usual. “Is that a plant?”

She always laughs at that one. As opposed to what? A truck? A pint beer glass? An exotic dancer? A bag of jelly beans?

Because she loves me, and because she’s a patient teacher, she mostly stifles any smartassed quips. At least she keeps them to herself.

What I mean is, “Is it something we’re intentionally growing, or is it a weed?”

Things become even more complicated due to Robbye’s somewhat capacious definition of “weed.” It’s all about placement, honey. Yet, unless I’m pointing to something like clover, which can be either plant or weed depending on its location–or even suddenly find its designation changed at the aesthetic whims of the gardener–we generally don’t stumble over that little darling anymore. I know what clover looks like. Except that I keep mixing it up with wood sorrel. Oy…

In Corny’s case, I was about to pluck him clean out of the ground, when Robbye suddenly announced, “It’s corn.”

What?!?

How’d that get there?

Once, years ago, when I thought mowing was a semi-annual event, I found a stalk of corn growing in the corner of the yard where our veggie garden now stands. I thought it was funny, but the laughable kind instead of the strange and unlikely kind. I mean, hell, considering how badly the place was ignored, I’m surprised there wasn’t a whole field of corn out there. Our plot is, after all, part of a rehabilitated cornfield. It’s the burbs. It’s Minnesota. ‘Nuff said.

Crap. I’m shocked I didn’t find weed growing out there. And by that I mean the Cheech and Chong variety. “Placement” has no defining power over that stuff.

That corn–the corn of yore–I mowed without reservation. This little guy, though… I couldn’t bring myself to snuff him out. I don’t know how he got there (Robbye thought maybe via bird crap…how auspicious! Our little Corny is well-traveled!), and it didn’t matter. He was there, poking out of the dirt. Quite improbably, against all odds, where he had absolutely no business being, much less thriving. Oh, could I relate to my tiny green wisp of a friend.

So I did what I have always hoped people would do for me. I followed the Golden Rule. I gave him a chance. I left him alone to see what he would do. And I encouraged him every day–even gave him a little drink every once in awhile when he looked thirsty. And whaddya think happened? Not only did he grow, but by Jiminy! You gotta be kidding! It’s a twofer! Little Jiminy sprouted up a week or so later.

This past weekend was when Robbye and I put the finishing touched on the bistro project. I added the two smaller side panels, and Rob finished painting and assembling the chairs. There was a lot of activity around ye old patio area, and I knew that no matter how careful I tried to be it was a perilous proposition for my diminutive Zea mays. I decided that I had to let the chips fall where they may. If, at the end of the day, the plants were standing, I would move them to a safe spot where they could prosper. If not, I would stand on the patio, sing Circle of Life, and wipe away a tear in their honor.

When the project was finished, there was Corny, a little worse for wear, but still standing. But Jiminy? Sweet, cute little Jiminy? My heart sank. He was MIA.

I delivered the bittersweet news to Robbye, who lovingly called me a freak (“But you’re my freak, Sugar.”) then gave me a hug. I said that Corny deserved a place somewhere he could grow strong and proud and tall. She called me a freak again, but she smiled as she did so. She was not only on board, she’d rescue all the Cornys and Jiminys of the world, if she could. But it was one of those–God knows why she thinks this–“You’re being really cute” moments. She gave me a little smooch, then suggested we put Corny in the vegetable garden.

Wow! I didn’t even think of that! I was gonna put him…heck! I don’t know where! I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me.

I told Rob that I was going to move him the next morning. And when I awoke, and when I went outside to ready our little bistro for its maiden voyage upon the caffeine seas, whadya think I saw? Oh. My. God.

Remember that moment in Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey when Chance the dog and Sassy the cat suddenly appear and run into their respective masters’–a little boy and girl, whose names escape me at the moment–wide open arms. But then there was the oldest boy, Jamie. Ah, Jamie… Forlorn, forsaken, forgotten Jamie. Forever hopeful, forever disappointed. Disillusioned Jamie. He looks out over the glen. Maybe, just maybe.

“Shadow was old, Jamie,” his dad tells him. “He…” The dad trails off, his voice breaking. They turn to head into the house. Not every story can end happily–especially if you’re a resident of Jamieville, population: one.

Yet..? What’s that? Jamie turns. Something bobbing over the hill? A head. Fur…It’s…It’s… Bark! Bark! Bark! (with V.O. courtesy of Don Ameche, “Jamie! Jamie! Jamie!”). Jamie bolts into the field, laughing, crying, calling… “Shadow!”

Now picture me…blubbering. “Jiminy! Brave, scrappy little Jiminy!”

Yeah…it was one of those moments. Robbye rolled her eyes, too.

Okay, okay. Enough of the dramatics already, huh? I know, I’m doing that thing. You know, the thing that makes people scratch their heads and wonder what the hell I’m talking about. And makes me amazed that anyone reads this far only to be sorely disappointed in the end. For there is no Shadow on the horizon for them.

I transplanted both Corny and Jiminy, and I am proud and happy to say that both (though they still looked a little peeked and feeble when I took this picture) are doing great. Jiminy is small, but now standing proud. Corny is shooting up every day, and I wouldn’t be surprised if before long he overtakes the other corn stalks in the garden. In any event, I am quite confident he will defy all odds once again and graze our knees by the Fourth of July.

So that’s me. Apparently, I am now the kind of guy now that rescues stray plants and fusses and obsesses over them like a Jewish grandmother. Every morning I visit them. Every morning I pour the coffee grounds on them, so they get all the nutrients they need for healthy growth. To catch up. Eat! Eat! Who knew? Certainly not me.

Oh well, there are worse things to obsess over. My next target, by the way, is a cute little maple that somehow took root among the sunflowers. We haven’t named him yet, but the adoption process is already in full swing. I don’t know where he’s bound for yet. Someplace he can grow strong and tall and call out, “Hey, world! Don’t count me out, ’cause I’m still here. And I’m shootin’ for the sky.”

Hell, yeah! That’s my boy.

That’s me.

I suppose you noticed.

It took me some time.  Quite some time, as a matter of fact.

It took until the smoke cleared, and the air grew quiet.  That’s when I looked over and realized it was gone.  Peacefully, singly, slipped away.

I stayed like that for awhile.  Still.  Simply with it.  I wasn’t looking for it to come back.  I wasn’t looking for signs of life.  I’d seen death before.  I knew what it looked like.  Even more significant, I knew what it felt like–the shocking absence of vibration.  The almost percussive impact the loss of a single ripple conveys unto the rest of space.  Irrevocable.  Beyond me.  Beyond anyone or anything.

I stayed like that for awhile because I was looking at the space it once inhabited.  And the hollow container it left behind.  And was thinking about it.  Spending crucial moments.  Remembering it.  Fondly.  What it looked like.  What it felt like.  What it meant.  To me.  To others.   Branding upon my consciousness memories of images conjured by the mind’s eye.  And then of its essence.  All that was tangible and some that was not.  Important.  For too soon the Universe would recover, trawling otherwise into the void.

I then cleaved part of myself–my own energy, my own life force.  And breathed it into what I’d assembled.  I felt it stir inside me.  Good.

I made a little room for it somewhere in the back of my mind.  For soon was coming the point of no return, when memory would be the solitary means of any continued existence for it.  I gave it a home.  I would carry it.  It would have at least some life–some existence–in another universe.  That which is me.

And then I smiled.  Feeling its familiar warmth.  Now within me.

Thus, I bade farewell to TRUE LIFE.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

I cannot express to you what TRUE LIFE meant to me.  Of the many friends I’ve had in my life, it was certainly among the best.  It came along when I needed it most and hung in there with me through thick and thin.  It taught me how to write (and sometimes how NOT to write) and in many ways taught me how to live.  And even when I ignored it, it was still there–it’s arms open wide.

If you’ve lived life at all, though, you know the feeling.  Like something’s had its time.  Like it’s time to let go.  That’s been the problem with TRUE LIFE.

I simply couldn’t see it for awhile.

Which is, I guess, the way that these things go.  People and places and things come inexplicably into your life and leave an indelible mark.  The Universe presents them, for better or worse, as gifts unto you.  And almost as inexplicably, one day the reason for their presence passes.  And so do these people and places and things.  And they are lost to you–maybe for good.  But their mark upon you and upon your path remains.  Always for good.

Some weeks back, I was talking to my friend and cohort in crime, Dean Hyers.  I’ve made no secret to him my struggles of late.  Not that anything is "wrong", per se.  On the contrary, so much is right.  But I’ve struggled nonetheless.  Sometimes mightily.  Especially in the "putting it all together" department.  And the "getting things done" department.

And then, somewhere in our conversation, I stumbled on it.  "I am born again."

In an instant, everything fell into place.  It made perfect sense.

If you’ve never read Ann Rice’s masterpiece, The Vampire Lestat, I would encourage you to do so.  All apologies to Ms. Rice, I could take or leave (mostly leave) her "Vampire Chronicles" books after Lestat, but the first two are, I believe, among the most beautiful and poignant–and true–works of the late 20th Century.  And it’s amazing how they bridge the seemingly chasmic, raging incongruence that divides existentialism and theism.

Anyway, that’s not why I mentioned Rice’s book.  I bring it up because of a particular chapter in it.  You know those passages or chapters you read once and they stick with you forever?  Enough said.

In this chapter, Lestat’s mother is wracked with illness.  She is, in fact, dying.  Wasting away.  Lestat is beside himself, consumed with grief and despair.  I honestly can’t remember if she knew by that time whether or not he’d received the "dark gift", or whether or not she begged for him to turn her into a vampire on her deathbed.  I sit here and write, and I realize suddenly that I only read the book once (a shock because I adore it, and I think I’ve read Interview With the Vampire upwards of four times)…and that was (even greater shock!) 22 years ago.  In the end, it doesn’t matter for the purposes of my illustration.

When he does finally take her in his arms and drain her, then open up his own vein to give her drink, it’s that moment and the moments after that remain so vivid–almost visceral–in my memory.  First, she latches onto his wrist with such gusto that it almost overwhelms him.  He’s knocked back utterly by her ardor, and the duality embodied in her frenzied feeding: the desperate clinging to life passing juxtaposed against the fervent groping for the possibility of afterlife at hand.

And then it comes.  And when it does, it threatens to unhinge the vampire Lestat.  His mother is thrown into convulsions.  Her body shudders and shakes and is tossed about hideously.  Impending death assaults her, dealing her blow after crushing blow, in spasms of such uncompromising violence and pain, it leaves him uncertain of the outcome.  Even though he, himself, has experienced the same thing in the recent past.

I don’t remember at this point in the story whether Lestat is crying or I simply remember it that way because I, myself, was weeping.  I do know, though, that he was undone.  And so was I.  And as suddenly as the fit had begun, Lestat’s mother was still.  Stone still.  Dead.

There was a moment.  He blinked.  What happened?  Did it work?  He stands there lost, not knowing if he should continue to wait or if he should let go and howl in rage and aguish at the heavens.

And then.  Her eyes pop open.  Wide open.  And then such a gasp, like never before.  Like there’s not enough air in the world.  And she springs up.  Anew.

But more.  Beyond anew.  And then some.  Different.  Altogether.

She declares to Lestat that she is to be known as "Gabrielle".  Save for the vessel that houses her spirit and the hair she can’t cut (and have it stay cut–she had long, flowing hair in life and now wanted nothing of it) and the memories she can’t shake, she dissociates from the life that was.  She revels in her newfound preternatural gifts and promptly launches herself into the world–all of the deepest, darkest, wildest places imaginable.  And some unimaginable.  No wringing hands or gnashing of teeth, wallowing in some grotesque gnostic cesspool, like some other vampires (no names…merely a comment, not a critisicm, Lestat and Louis.  Ooops!  Sorry, guys).  Screw that!  She’s off in a flash, like a bat out of hell.  It’s all about the embarking on an adventure of the ages for that one.

I don’t do Rice’s glorious prose justice.  My point is simply that, yes…Louis is a beautiful character.  And the brat prince of darkness?  Of course, everyone loves him.  He’s like a Raphael painting on Ecstacy.  What’s not to love about that?!?  But for my money?  I’m a Gabrielle fan.  She is, and always will be, my favorite vampire.

I have been thinking about her a lot lately.  I’ve even mentioned her to both Robbye and to Dean.  Why?  Not just because I like her character.  Not just because that scene has stuck with me.  It’s more than that.

It’s because I am she.  And my "struggles" of late are the newborn’s eyes blinking, adjusting to the huge and bright world in all its terrifying alien splendor.  And the stinging remnant of the world’s slap on my butt cheek just to make sure I’m breathing.

I know firsthand that death comes.  And that to say it’s like passing through the eye of the needle is a bit like saying pulling your intestines out your asshole is a tad uncomfortable.  I’ve been held in its clutches, helpless, tossed unforgivingly about, life thrown off in agonizing torrents.  Pain beyond anything I ever imagined.  Then I’ve been one with that moment of everything going quiet.  Of the uncompromising dark night of the soul.  Of uncertainty.  Of not knowing what comes next, if anything.  Of not knowing whether I can recover.  Of not knowing whether to laugh or cry.  Or to give up and surrender to the darkness.  Altogether.

And then, as suddenly as everything else, of that first gasp.  Of eyes popping open.  And of the paradoxical pain and joy of coming awake into new life.

Of being born again.  Into "adventure of the ages" and everything that comes with it.

I will miss my good friend, TRUE LIFE.  I will always carry your memory with me, throughout every new adventure.  Throughout this new life.  Thank you for everything you have given me.

Everything lives.  Everything comes to pass.  And everything is born.

Sometimes twice.  Like me.

TRUE LIFE
2003-2007
R.I.P.
"That’ll do, pig.  That’ll do."

 

Finally.

Thanks to Rascal Flatts and the Kennedy High School varsity show choir, strains of “Life is a Highway” can be caught wafting through our house at any given time, day or night. It’s like breaking wind. Everything’s quiet, then all of a sudden… “Who ‘Life is a Highwayed’?”

Oh, well. There are far worse songs that could launch an assault on my ears. Two years ago, everything was “Toxic”. No shit, Brit. Just ask my sad, queasy gut.

So I got no problem when the lyrics flying around Casa True are of the like:

Life’s like a road that you travel on
When there’s one day here and the next day gone
Somethimes you bend and sometimes you stand
Sometimes you turn your head to the wind
There’s a world outside ev’ry darkened door
Where blues won’t haunt you anymore
Where brave are free and lovers soar
Come ride with me to the distant shore
We won’t hesitate
Break down the garden’s gate
There’s not much time left today

Life is a highway
I wanna ride it all night long
If you’re going my way
I wanna drive it all night long
–Tom Cochran

(Courtesy of Lyrics OnDemand)

As Mr. “It’s not the destination; it’s the journey”, himself, how can I complain about that? Crap! My kids could, as Liam Neeson so aptly worried in LOVE, ACTUALLY, be injecting heroin into their eyeballs! Are they? Hell no! They’re rockin’ out to a flippin’ country band waxing on about “wax on, wax off”! About the discipline of hangin’ on through the tough stuff and the ever-present promise of a brighter tomorrow. If only you’re strong enough to keep your hand on the wheel. Keep it on the road.

Yeah. I can get behind that.

Because in this life, they know. We’ve all been down the road a piece. And easy it wasn’t. No stretch, by no stretch of the imagination. But everyone hung on. We kept it on the road. I am so proud of them. So proud of all of us.

And look at we are now. Blessed. With health. With happiness. With Robbye.

Especially with Robbye–the missing piece of our puzzle. Who’s been on a parallel road, with its own bumps and hazards. The break-your-axle kind. But she, too, kept it on the road. And my pride in her threatens to cause me to burst at any given moment.

And, so, here we are. We’ve gathered all our stuff. All our TRUE LIFE stuff up, and jammed it into the car. We all piled in. Plenty of snacks. iPods full up with the kickingest road tunes. And all singing, not always in unison, rarely in perfect harmony, but a chorus of angels never sounded sweeter.

“Life is a highway! I wanna ride it all night long!”

The ultimate family band.

And where does this lead us, TRUE LIFERS? Well, I’ll tell you where it leads me. Home.

And part of “home” is here. Paid for in sweat and elbow grease, and brought to you by my personal Funky Martha Stewart. After all these miles. I’m finally here. Forget the coffee shops.

I finally got my office. My own space. MINE!

And dammit, if it don’t work? In the past couple of weeks, I have been more productive than I have been..well..ever. And in that assessment, I am including the periods where I wrote my last, like, five or six scripts! Wow.

“There’s a world outside ev’ry darkened door
Where blues won’t haunt you anymore
Where brave are free and lovers soar”

Sure is.

Well…judge for yourself. (courtesy of my talented wife, of course)

With a little care and watering, turns out that the dog days of summer are terrific. Ripe for blossoms.

Our little buds are blooming beautifully. The heat is still on, but they just get stronger every day.

It’s boiling here. 90 Degrees today. 94 tomorrow. 95 on tap for Saturday. No cloud cover. It’s being baked and steamed at the same time.

For those of you in desert regions, go ahead and scoff. Just remember, winter makes this place our Mojave, our Sahara. Only in the inverse. So, while you’re complaining about how “last night was freezing”, in the 30s or 20s or teens, we are, in actuality, freezing. It’s deadly out there. And there is no arctic equivalent to the camel, on whose back we can slump as it carries us to more suitable climes.

It’s all perspective. These days are hot and uncomfortable. Even deadly. For us, at least.

Earlier today, Robbye beckoned me out to the flower garden beside our garage. Three small, delicate marigold flowers had broken open overnight. Newborns. She watered them—a lot. I’m afraid, though, that the omnipresent sun will overwhelm them. That they will succumb. That they will whither.

I pray we can love them through the next few days.

These, too, are our dog days.

It is, of course, the beautiful summer of my life. The blossoming. Without question.

The environment we in which we live, however, is hot for now. What’s happening with the next project? How will we sustain? Where are we heading? Who the hell is going to write me a freakin’ check for all these projects I am on tap for?!?

Our faces, like those of our precious marigolds, are smiling upright, into the sun. We’re ever reaching upward, toward the blue sky.

I wonder at times whether our little flowers get tired like we do. They must. Because that’s when plants whither, right? Too much heat, too little water. Without TLC, they flop over, exhausted. After a time, they dry up.

Protecting us from the heat, making certain we are bathed in the cool and nourishing water, that’s the key for us. And for everyone, I know. Our attention, our TLC, is key for our continued blooming.

That’s my realization for today. As I sweat in the heat of the afternoon. As I move through these dog days.

Dear TRUE LIFERS,

I am glad you’re sitting down. If you were not, you would likely be experiencing convulsions by now–the result of the concussion you would have received from falling dead over and cracking your noggin on the corner of your computer desk. You would writhe around in exquisite pain, and I would feel guilty. So, thanks.

Yes. It is a mere week or so since my last post, and here I am. After so many false starts, I don’t expect any of you to take this one particularly serious. Nonetheless, here I am. This is, after all, my TRUE LIFE.

From the get-go, I advertised this as my LIFE in blog form. Me. And, for the most part, I believe that’s what you have gotten. All of me—or as much of me as I could offer at any given time. And, of course, one feature you’ve gotten (free of charge, I might add) is my (often problematic) inconsistent nature.

Heavy sigh…I know. I do it, too. Headshake…I get it. I do it, too.

I believe everyone has his or her cross to bear. More than one, actually. I have a few of my own, and this hot and cold thing is one of them. I am either on, or I am not. I don’t know why. Is it my nature? Is it some nurture thing? A little of both? Who knows? All I can say it is there, and I believe it’s something I was put here to work on. And so I do.

The Kamikaze Cowboy, himself, says every day to “wear your clothes and chew your rice.” Over the past four or so years that I have been something of a Dirk disciple–though not in eating habits, I have to admit. All that seaweed and macrobiotic stuff kinda creeps me out. And I lost 15 pounds in a week-and-a-half eating like that. I am, thus, simply going to have to do the best I can and risk the cancer. Yes, O, Great One, I will have my prostate checked regularly. I promise. I know you’re concerned.

Anyway! All joking aside, in the past few years, since I read Benedict’s book, this great Zen metaphor sticks with me. An offer. Every day. To get up and do it again. Every day a chance to get it right.

Because in this LIFE, all you gotta do is live. Mason Jennings, in his brilliant new work, Boneclouds (song Be Here Now), says, “The sun comes up and we start again.” I like that. And so that’s what I do. Every day.

In LIFE.

And also in TRUE LIFE.

I never forget this blog. You may not believe it, but I think about it all the time. I think about what I might tell all of you. Being that I am kind of crappy at consistently sitting down and journaling, though, and I never carry a pen and paper around to jot down notes, most of the stuff I want to say dissolves into the ether of my subconscious. Sorry about that. I figure, though, that when I finally do sit down and write, the extemporaneous odds and ends that fly from my fingertips must be what I really needed to say to you at that time.

It is in those times, in fact, when I feel a little more in tune with the Universe. Because it is in those times I am, I think, trusting the Universe over myself. Trusting that—how funny…Jennings’s Be Here Now just popped up randomly on my iPod. See what I mean? Trust. The Universe. TRUE LIFE. For some reason, like the patterns mathematicians search for in never ending strings of supposedly random numbers, I search here in these ramblings. And I trust they exist.

Wheaton knew it years ago, “50,000 monkeys at 50,000 typewriters can’t be wrong.” You’re right, Wil. They can’t. I am still learning that.

Neither can one droll primate with an iBook. I am still learning that, too.

Keep banging away at it, and something’s bound to come of it. Right? When you’re tired, rest. Get up each morning, and try it again. When you can, write. And with each tap, when you can make it, you’ve another opportunity to get it right…another opportunity to uncover the grand design in the infinite stream of characters washing through you.

Or, depending on how you look at it, create the meaning..?

Okay…so what the hell, right? Where am I going with all of this? Because I am losing you, aren’t I? I apologize. There is a point.

Robbye and I woke up a couple days ago, and she complained about the sheets being soaked, like a fever recently broken.

A fever had just broken, I explained. Now, it’s difficult to explain all of it here because it’s LIFE. It’s complex on subatomic scales, which, strangely, seems massive when you really think about it. So much so that physicists describe the aggregate composition of space-time as something of a cosmic “foam”.

That’s the best they can do. There’s so much interconnectedness, so much interaction, so much “stuff” there, they can’t come close to seeing it all. At least not yet, with the tools they have available to them. All they can do is say, “Hey, at least I see the foam.”

Because before that, everyone thought space with smooth as a baby’s bottom. Pretty big accomplishment to see the foam, now, wouldn’t you say?

And space is neither good nor bad. It’s all of it. Everything. All foaming together. Like LIFE.

Our foam, meaning Robbye’s and mine, has been delicious. Perfect. Dunn Bros.—the one in Linden Hills, where they really know what they’re doing—cannot even come close to it. Make as many of those mocha lattes as you want, folks. Not even close. No hint of a cigar.

But it’s been foam. Which, I believe, in all comings together (or it is “coming togethers”? I don’t know), this is the case. People have been writing about it for thousands of years. Without the foam, Shakespeare would’ve had squat. Great Love, like great love stories, require it. It is part and parcel. And the coming together—we writers thank God!—churns up the foam into beautiful and poetic, bubbly peaks with a sweet little swirl on top.

Cosmic.

So here’s the deal…I can tell you a hundred stories about our coming together. I might, of fact, as time goes by. Probably will. Most are really happy—ecstatic, as a matter of fact. Which is, I am learning is an amazing and wondrous bi-product of finding this Great Love. Some are difficult; some are downright hard. Because that’s the nature of things. That’s the nature of the foam.

You all know what I am talking about—or at least I hope you do. You have your own foam, right?

But courtship, bringing a family together, moving, clearing the way, “uncrowding the room”, getting married, trying to launch two businesses and two careers, keeping food on the table and a roof over our heads, trying to not lose track of each other and ourselves. Pretty damned foamy! And the foam? Think back to Dunn Bros. Hell, think about ocean swells and excited molecules. Friction. That’s how heat is created. Thus, the fever. Get it?

And we finally woke up the other morning, and the fever—this one, at least—seemed to have broken.

Crap, TRUE LIFERS, it’s been a wild ride thus far. And thus it has also been, beyond compare, the best one ever. And I know that the foam is there, and I am irreversibly changed for it. I can never go back. Space will never be smooth again.

And thank God for it.

For now, in the relative calm, we take a moment to breathe. We take a moment to assess. We take a moment to celebrate. We take a moment to prepare for the ride to come.

And we take a moment to tend to this, TRUE LIFE.

This blog has, and continues to be, a beautiful force in my LIFE. As abused as it has been, it is always there. Waiting. Content for whatever attention it gets. How many other things in our lives are like that? Not many.

Basically, this TRUE LIFE thing rocks. And so do you—whoever you are—that are still reading this. Thanks for your patience. Thanks for still being here. I appreciate it.

One of the really cool things that has come from Robbye’s and my LIFE together is that I am gardening now. I’ve never done that before. And I often find myself asking why that’s the case. I love it! It’s both goal-oriented and relaxing all at the same time. And that whole weeding thang..? Zen discipline Nirvana!

Ever feel like you’re gonna explode? Try pulling dandelions and creeping Charlie outta your magnolias and sunflowers. Give it an hour. You’ll feel like a million bucks.

This blog has been my garden. And, when it’s been tended, it has yielded some very lovely things. That’s cool. Beyond my best expectations, it’s been very cool.

You all saw, however, one day when I recently changed the design and the tag line. Out with the “droll primate…” and all. I didn’t comment on it then because I was swirling in the foam and hadn’t quite reached the peak yet. Still in the fever. Since then, I have made some other massive changes that I clue you into now, and I want to talk about what I want to have happen from here.

Ready?

In all gardens, sometimes you need to till everything under and start again. Turn the soil and ready it, make it healthy to receive new growth. That’s what I have done with this garden.

I have deleted everything from what I will call the “old” TRUE LIFE. All of the posts. All of the albums. All of the lists. All of the comments.

Well, okay…actually I saved them to a document that I retain safe for my own keeping. The idea is, however, that I have cleared them off the Internet. TRUE LIFE has, thus, been tilled under.

Why? I needed to do it. The whole thing was getting too big. Too heavy. Too many plants; too many weeds. I mean, why do you think I’ve chosen such a simply and minimalist theme for the new design?

It’s my LIFE now, folks. Pare down, simplify. Clear away everything that obscures the view to get a better look at what’s really around, really there. What’s really real. Or at least what’s next. Make some choices for a change, rather than being washed around by the random tides. Or maybe just to clear the way, so I can plant new things…design a new garden according to the parameters of this new LIFE.

And so…though you might not wee it this way, clearing the way and starting fresh is, in fact, the most TRUE LIFE thing I could do with TRUE LIFE. And so I did.

And so I begin anew. Beautifully anew. Everywhere.

Ever day. Wearing my clothes and chewing my rice. Every day. In the glorious foam. Every day. All about this, TRUE LIFE.

Welcome, TRUE LIFERS. Welcome again, for the first time, to my blog. I’m glad you stopped by. We’ll see where we go from here, huh? See what grows?

Cosmic.

–July, 2006, Bloomington, MN