My Grendel

I am sometimes compelled to be surly, to be irritable, to attack, to demand, to will, to disregard, to own, to growl, to close my world around me, close it down to something small, to focus, to admonish those who dare to affect my focus, to drill down to one issue, to expel any tendency, any nature, that distracts. And yet (perhaps not so quietly as desperately), my will is to be open, friendly, impassionate, relaxed, jovial, warm, shining in a world that I extol as good, brightly cheering the world on with a small stoic smile and chuckle, engaged by the interesting, the magic of life, and detached from the illusion of the bad, the evil. But as the former reigns, I hunker down and walk hunched resentful that my will to openness (the latter) has failed (and is so much pathos), I want to sweep my hand wide pushing everything aside, clearing my way. But I am not joyless, to the contrary, what I want brings me joy, and what I want is to be Gardner’s Grendel, brandishing that force that precipitates from mixing a sense of betrayal and disappointment in a powerful person.

Then, I sometimes want to go where monsters must go, someplace dark and alone. That place is the basement.

That’s right, the basement. Not because my basement is some pathetic, tricked out, soft landing pad, adorned with relics and talismans and other devices to evoke and play-pretend that I have the strength and prowess of gun-toting action heroes or professional athletes. My basement has no couch, no flat screen television, no comfortable chair. There is no cold beer cooler, no pool table. No posters of an imaginary harem, no iconic posters of god like men from movies and sports. No carpet. No video games. No, no, no.

The basement is dark. Lit by accidental lights, strewn about, clamped wherever convenient to bare floor joists above, extension cords weaving in and out of the strata of live and dead electrical conduit and plumbing. Creaking cracking stairs steep down to the concrete dusty floor. It is a hole, dug from the dirt. And where the small concrete floor ends, dirt rests until the bare granite stone walls. The basement is subterranean, civilized only the fact that men dug it, and it is populated by a washer/dryer, a furnace, hot water heater, piles of tools, a smattering of furniture, and my growing workshop.

One wall I have framed, roughed. Without sheet rock, plaster, or paneling, it is a row of 2X4s, plumb and level, holding recycled kitchen cabinets and countertop. These cabinets are now slowly filling, the piles of tools left by generations before are inching their way around, across the floor and sifting themselves into component parts, organizing into genus and species, sliding into their own special place. Dozens and dozens of wrenches, screw drivers, pliers, snips, punches, knives, chisels, scoops, and saws dating from 100 years ago until now. Sorting, sorting. Hammers hanging themselves from nails, (the number is absurd, ten or twelve) ball peen, sledge, framing, brass, mallet, heavy, light. Tools of unknown origin and for unascertainable purpose. Lumber everywhere multiplying, reproducing into a dizzying array of mutations, every piece unique in size, species of wood, condition, age. Glass of every color and description. And fasteners, 60 years of nails, screws, tacks in mounds, spilling out of coffee cans, glass jars, ammunition tins, plastic tubs, everywhere crawlin across the floor. Books on wood craft, glass cutting, tree care. Pens, pencils, glass cutters, power tools, boxes, tubs, ropes, twine, chains, oil, lubricants, glues, and cans and cans rolling of paint. It is a tornadic storm, whirling around me, and on the outside of the spinning funnel is furniture, ancient, antique, in pieces awaiting refurbishment with maddening patience, dusty, brown furniture. Bicycles. And one wicker chair, constantly whipping in and out of view.

Alone, mad, focused, I divide, classify, direct the sorting, civilize. I name and organize. Slowly calm the storm. And feel right. Breaking the calm settled chaos into a future. Because when the dust has settled and every tool is within reach, something new will crawl from all that dust and from my hands.

Go to Sleep Little Baby

She's sleeping. Quietly, not moving. Still. Both of us. I'm leaning, doubled over, just waiting. Watching her breathe. Waiting for the slightest twitch. I'll put my hand on her belly and gently sway.

She's still, and I freeze a few seconds longer. No accomplishment fulfills more than helping a sleepy baby, an 11 month old, round, fat, blissy, but fussy, baby overcome the drive to see, push, pull, and hear and succumb to sleep. She needs to sleep, and its such a relief to watch her quietly breathe.

That's because I love her. Right now, right here, nothing is more important to me than watching her sleep peacefully, comforted. No ambition greater. This little success casts an interminable shadow over all the rest. For right now.

And I pleasantly wish momentarily that what I feel would last forever.