Tackle First

The First of the Torinites has now long understood the principle of consequences for actions, particularly those that involve receiving rewards. When this Torinite Chieftain desires the spaceship movie, he is often asked to first perform a task—often menial, dad-doesn’t-wanna-get-off-the-couch kind of tasks. On other occasions, the duties involve helping a Torinite-in-Training (Decker). Regardless of the task, he will tackle it for the right to receive his desires.

Now, a shrewd reader may interpret the above commentary as simply as:  Landon uses bribery to get Torin to do things. To which I would reply:  please don’t judge.

Teaching a child that positive consequences can be the result of good behavior is far from wrong—it’s good parenting, right? So with this justification, I continue my Torinite-teaching methods, gobbling up every proper moment possible for use as a scenario for schooling.

Requester:  “Sucker? Have it. Hold it. Want some? Yeah.”

Teacher:  “Ok, you can have one if you sit on the potty first.”

Requester:  “Up, up, up. <whimper> Up, up, up. <cry> Daddy, up.”

Teacher:  “Take a deep breath first. I’ll pick you up when you stop whining.”

Requester:  “Check da garden? Wan-noo?”

Teacher:  “Finish eating your meat first and then we’ll go check the garden.”

Requester:  “Motorbike game? Downstairs. Play da motorbike game?”

Teacher:  “Pick up your toys first, then we can go downstairs and play the motorbike game.”

Requester:  “No sleepers. Room, nudder room. Nudder room.”

Teacher:  “Ok, you can stay up a little longer if you sit on the couch in the other room and read a book first.”

Key word:  first. I purposely chuck that word in there somewhere—even when unfitting—and that reliably triggers an agreeable, cooperative response. Dad is sly. How easy it is to teach a simple-minded, (gullible) toddler! Use the right words while giving the necessary promises, and my first Torinite is easily educated (persuaded).

A few days ago, I asked Torin to throw away his toilet paper (the one he was using to “wash the boogas” in his nose). He turned to me, smirked for a moment, angled his head, and commanded, “Freezer-pop first. Wan-noo? Yeah.”

There really aren’t words to describe such a moment. I thought, “Uh… no, no, Torin. You don’t understand… that’s not the proper usage of first. How do I explain this to a 22-month-old?” And then it struck me that he wasn’t misusing first—he was just using it against me! He has learned much more than intended. As previously stated, the basic point was to show this child that rewards come when tasks are completed. The intent was not to teach that rewards can be obtained by withholding good behavior until the award is given—this is different; this would be bribery… Uh, well… er… yeah, bribery. As I said, he has learned much more than intended. So I suppose I couldn’t blame him for bribery since that’s been the spoon-fed mush of choice. Instead, I began to marvel at his ambition and inventiveness:

Daddy’s Approved Reward System:

Reward requested >> task given >> task completed >> reward given

Torin’s Newly-Proposed Reward System:

Task given >> reward requested >> reward given >> task completed

I’m leery of this reward-first and then tackle-the-task mindset. I suppose we’ll play by his rules from time to time. He has been good for his word thus far.

Can't Find the Pause Button

Today’s remote controls are ironically OUT of control. 

 

A single remote can manage the many functions of not just a single unit but a multiplicity of devices. Some can even additionally control room lighting. With so many functions and complexities, it can be difficult to actually locate the desired button. Thus, my preference is for the simple remote—the one that can easily be kinesthetically memorized. I can pause my show with remote-feel, similar to the hand as a PB&J is to mouth-feel—unmistakably identifiable. This simplicity affords me a more remarkable viewing experience.

 

I cannot seem to locate the pause button for life. Its remote control has apparently become so absurdly and unfortunately overly-complex that Pause has been lost (and maybe forgotten). The multitudinous functions of life crowd and hamper my control of it, and before long, events are coming and going like an Idahoan raincloud.

 

I now long for a simpler control—one that affords me a more remarkable viewing experience. I see Torin growing so quickly, and there are times that life's pause button ought to be pushed:

 

 

 

If nothing else, I’d like to at least take life off Fast Forward.

Life's Slivers

Have you ever thought or even audibly asked God why He allows you to suffer? In a time of dismay, have you ever asked, “Why are you doing this to me?”

I have.

Why would an all-loving and simultaneously all-powerful god allow any human to suffer heart-wrenching ordeals or misfortune?

After an experience yesterday, I shall never again venture to ask.

Slivers. Irritating. Stubborn. Removal of such is as unpleasant as dumping a clingy girlfriend—it’s rarely a trouble-free task. The worst sliver of my life was removed a couple days ago… from my 19-month old Pooks. With pin in hand and baby on lap, I pinned his left hand while Brooke wrestled his right. The sliver itself removed without too much argument, but the struggle was wildly torturous.

And I can only imagine Torin’s thoughts in his time of dismay:  “Why are you doing this to me?”

There is certainly no probability in Torin fathoming the purpose of the pain. I wonder if he thought it was punishment. And despite his pleading and cries of “ouchy,” (he typically says “ouch,” but as if to add emphasis, he kept saying “ouchy”) the suffering persisted until the sliver was betrayed and betterment achieved. After the raucous had passed, he was in fact a better Torin—whether knowing it or not. And despite the pain his father had apparently caused, my little Pooks turned and embraced me.

I suppose a similar scene may transpire in meeting my Father. In spite of all the incomprehensible slivers experienced during this mortal sojourn, the climatic reckoning could likely be composed of something gloriously simple:  a hug.

We will all one day know the purpose of the pain. Until then, we are left wondering and (hopefully) trusting.

The Gravy Train

In watching the documentary Agenda (again), I'm convinced that one of the most critical moments is found at 1:15:10 when Jim Simpson says (speaking of progressives/socialists):

"One thing we do really have to recognize is this is a domestic enemy. This is not just people with different ideas. These are not just nice folks who have funny, silly ideas that they will eventually figure out or [are] just not very mature. No. These people are dangerous, dangerous enemies, and they are intent on overthrowing this country and imposing a socialist system that will mean extreme hardship for the vast majority for people of this country."

If people didn't have their heads in the sand (thinking all is well and/or being distracted by all the unimportant things of the world), they would have the awareness that there is IN FACT a domestic, agenda-driven enemy. People obtaining this realization would in turn destroy this progressives/socialist agenda. The enemy knows this, though, so it uses the media, entertainment, drugs, immorality, culture, and all other forms of distractions to hide their evil doings. To further protect their identity and purpose, they have convinced the blind that the aware are merely paranoid or are "conspiracy theorists." They have transformed our culture into a culture of tolerance, which has enabled radicals to be more open and bold with their operations. Their beliefs and behavior are no longer bad, wrong, or evil -- they are just "different." And, based on current appropriate social behavior, others must be tolerant and even caring of their "differences." The current unpopularity and abhorrence to absolute values has caused the creation of a multitude of "gray areas" between right/wrong and good/evil.

The locomotive of subversion exists and is quickly picking up steam; at full-throttle, it can be virtually unstoppable. It began rolling down the tracks ages ago, with many warning of its movement(s) and tactics.

Our media and culture tell us that Americans are NOT unintelligent, mechanically-brained sheep -- that we are instead an informed, independent, and unrestrained new-aged brand of sheep. How empowering! And while we swell in our supposed fortune and freedom, members of our own herd (wolves in sheep's clothing; link here, here, and here) load us aboard the crowded gravy locomotive... er ...train into the hands of Lucifer.

Enjoying the ride?

Why Can't You Just Use Your Sword?

I purchased a Gerber machete a short time ago. Being a DIY-er, prepper, and general outdoors enthusiast, this addition was a no-brainer. Add to this the increasing likelihood of a zombie apocalypse, a purchase of this nature nears the naturalness of a child sucking a popsicle. And as this child can so simply consume his cold treat, so too could my cold steel consume the undead.

There’s no brain-tease about it: this no-brainer purchase is a proclamation to the brain-eaters that my brains are off limits.

Now, this machete is by no means the survivalist’s panacea—in a box of crayons, there are many colors needed to produce a fully fridge-worthy work. And so my quest turned to hunting knives—swell for skinning and cutting meat, but also fatal to flesh-eaters during the final global walkabout. You can’t tell me that Dundee won’t be one of the last men standing.

I mentioned in passing to the wife about this next purchase. Her innocent reply: “Can’t you just use your sword?” By “sword” she meant the machete. I chuckled inside. How funny! I need a giant hunting knife for skinning and cutting game. Swords aren't for this! And they certainly aren't the same as a machetes. Swords are better for distant dueling and thrusting, and I definitely don’t have anything like that. She just doesn’t under... wait a second... I don’t have anything like that!

And the prepping goes on.

Good thinking, honey. ;-)

Moses

Assertive? Affirmative.

Courageous? Of Course.

Preachy? Probably.

Bold? By all means.

Chosen? You choose.

I often can’t help but to think that Torin is some kind of Moses clone. He exudes the above traits (and then some) in common with that man. But it goes beyond that.

I have heard stories from parents (of many faiths) claiming to observe a young child speaking with “angels” or some other type of heavenly persons. The parents’ explanation of this phenomenon is usually either 1) the child’s freshness from the world beyond means communication lines are still open or 2) the child’s purity renders him worthy of such visitations.

Whether or not this indeed happens, I do not doubt. And although I have not candidly caught Torin in such a situation, he has displayed some unworldly connectivity. For example, he becomes most vocal and preachy when he has courageously perched himself high aloft a ledge, stone, bucket, couch, chair, or other scalable object. These elevated lectures consist of wild, yet orchestrated hand gestures accompanied by assertive absolutisms. Where has this come from? How did he learn this? Does he feel his voice projects more effectively from above? Why, oh why, doth he speak from on high? Whatever the reason, this soap-box boldness captures me. What does he know that I don’t (or have forgotten)?

“Ouch,” says Torin when viewing a picture of Jesus. He knows the meaning of this word yet persists to use it in connection with Him. I was initially baffled by this, assuming that Torin was referring possibly to His shepherd crook. Maybe he thinks it is a sharp (ouchy) stick or tool. Or perhaps it's the corners of the picture frame that look sharp enough to qualify as ouch? But these theories were busted when Torin saw other images sans any sort of “ouchy” object or frame. And so again and again I insisted that there is nothing “ouch” about Jesus or His pictures, and he insisted otherwise.

And then one day as we bantered about this, there was that indescribable, revelatory moment. Torin pronounced his stance once more and peered into my eyes, into my soul, as if to literally say, “Dad, you’re not thinking on my level. Jesus isn’t ouch; Jesus feels ouch inside.” The implications of this statement rained on my brain like a hundred E. Honda body slams. War. Adultery. Deceit. Rape. Violence. Lust. Drugs. Murder. Envy. Molestation. Crudeness. Injustice. Theft. False idols. Addiction. Greed. Pride. Love of money. This monsoon of thought brought to mind the incredible wickedness of this world. So of course Jesus is ouch! It’s no wonder. He watches mankind and deeply aches inside.

So now when Torin sees Jesus and unmistakably proclaims the usual, we meet eyes and nod in sullen affirmation of this awful truth: our poor decisions can cause Him to feel ouchy inside.

If for no other reason, I feel that my Moses was indeed chosen—chosen to teach me such wonderful things.

Stop and Smell the French Fries

Desk jobs are primarily humdrum. Busy or not, monotony reigns. This, I suppose, is a deeply-rooted explanation for office (or non-office for that matter) gossip. Our fast-paced, multi-tasking world cannot cope with a stimulus-free moment. Humans are obsessed by all cases of drama—whether directly affected or not. This addiction has become so viral and pervasive that even something like this exists.

So for deskies who actually avoid such pettiness, what can slay the boredom? Music? Water coolering? Walks? Lunch? Surfing? But these all have limited effectiveness; fulfillment fades and the lull returns. In time though, one adapts to survive and eventually learns to find great pleasure with the otherwise completely ordinary and inconsequential. To illustrate...

One of last week's lunch coupons: two Single Stackers and two small fries for $2.99. I ordered to-go and ate the yum-yums at my desk. I pwned the meal, tidied up, and went back to “work.” A short time later, I noticed my grease-spotted BK bag had not yet found the rubbish bin. As I customarily rummaged through it for contents of redeeming value—napkins, utensils, or sauce packets to be properly catalogued in the extra-supplies-scavenged-from-eating-out drawer—I came upon three stray French fries…

And oh, how glorious they were! There they lay in a magnificent posture with light refracting from throngs of sodium chloride, blasting arrays of sweet savory and gratification. This luster, in addition to the awesome aroma, warmed my bosom. Oh, the jubilee! My heart grew much more than three sizes that day. But was this miracle a vision or some Escherian illusion? NO. Boredom had just received a beat-down by a bona fide French fry bonus.

These are in fact the types of small, yet great, pleasures found only by stopping to smell the French fries.

Wolf Sighting

A Parable of World Dilapidation by Degeneracy and Disillusionment

I have attempted here to be as accurate and detailed as possible in recounting a dream I had on 12/09/2011.

I stood upon a tall hill, distinctively mound-like in nature, with two extremely good friends in a very familiar, wilderness place. We desired to descend the hill to our camp and fishing location, presumably a small mountain lake. I do not know how we arrived at our present station or how long we had been there.

Between our aloft location and far-off destination, there were various observations of note: 1) the down-slope of the hill was minimally precarious—mildly rocky, mostly-bare ground with sparse vegetation; 2) the trail down was clearly worn; 3) immediately beginning at the hill’s base was a stretch of open, grassy plains—possibly 1,000 yards worth; 4) these plains resembled the denseness and tone of a harvestable wheat field; 5) beyond the field stood a semi-dense forest part, which would in estimation take 30 minutes to navigate and was a known home to many dangerously crafty and wild animals; 6) the forest was visibly dark and ominous; 7) a second trail moved West—left in my dream, for I never knew the sun’s location—and purposefully remained on the outskirts of the forest; 8) this western trail maintained a less dramatic slope down the hill and featured a paucity of wild beasts, therefore undoubtedly making it the safer route; 9) navigating this route would be time-consuming—possibly triple the travel time of the forest course—and also messy due to its massively muddy and winding disposition; 10) I was fully wilderness-prepared—food, blankets, tools, fuel, and weapons; 11) there had been much recent rainfall, but the grasslands were dry; 12) thick, gray clouds completely covered the sky, and a new and assumingly awful downpour was impending; 13) a chill had overcome the air and was coercing a gradual increase in velocity; 14) despite our anxiety to obtain camp and the deteriorating climate, the air, scenery, and circumstance were overall refreshing, the mood was sufficiently pleasing, and the surroundings seemed quite content; 15) these states, though, did not destroy in me the detection of impending destruction.

Because of the poor weather, we aimed to arrive at camp as soon as possible. The forest route was therefore most appealing. I strongly counseled my friends that choosing this direction would be unwise; the risk of a wild encounter was too great. Despite my pleading and to my dismay, they were relentlessly insistent on the forest route. I suppose because we did not want to split our group, I conceded to their wishes and decided on moving carefully down the hill, attentively crossing the grassland area, and then briskly, if not hastily, maneuvering through the forest to safety. Before the descent, I divvied my gear between my friends, including giving each friend one of my two machetes. The intent was to not only provide a friendly gesture of sharing but to also lighten my load for the journey.

We marched down the hillside with relative ease and made our way into the open grassland. Near midway into the field, I began to see wildlife activity. A deer or two scampered by, birds flew passed, and I recollect there being many other sundry movements. This quickly made me nervous, but my friends seemed unaware of the escalating commotion. And then it was like lighting had hit. In a flash, a mob of wolves were upon us. I squawked orders to my little band, calling them to seek protection and to preserve unity for strength in numbers. They immediately scampered up onto a black, cast-iron fence (maybe eight feet tall) and perched nervously with machetes drawn. The wolves were noticeably organized, encircling us and maintaining stealth behind small trees and brush (even though we were presently on land populated solely of grasses). One gray wolf entered their circle, lunging at me as I attempted to scale the fence. I raised my hand, attempting to deafen the oncoming blow, and its teeth clamped down on my knuckles, slicing some flesh and scratching my bones. The pain was sharp, but appreciably lighter than what I expected. I began punching madly at the wolf's nose (which was not a typical snout but instead a peculiarly large human nose, much like the enlarged schnoz of Steve Martin in the movie Roxanne). The wolf did relinquish, but this crippled me adequately enough and, sensing the advantage, much of the pack attacked in unison. Three or four wolves were on me instantly. I had been overtaken, and I awoke from the dream.

From the first moment I had been attacked by the first wolf to being blitzed from all sides, I pleaded my friends for help. But there they sat, motionless on the fence, not but three yards distant. They had my weapons and supplies but would not aid me. Were they too scared? Why had their loyalty vanquished? It was made abundantly evident in my dream that their succor (with the machetes) would have defeated these beasts. I could not believe they had deserted me. I had spared them provisions and my weapons. And these were the best of friends.

I returned to sleep some short time later and dreamt of recapitulating this dream to a friend. As I stood with him recounting the events, I reentered my original dream. This was the beginning of my dream within a dream, which continued as the first except for slight variations: 1) it was raining; 2) there was a large creek (swollen with rainwater) at the base of the hill just before the golden plains; 3) this creek was extremely swift and awkward to ford, and the water rapidly and remarkably rose with every second, increasingly causing instability of locomotion and also general discouragement.

I awoke by the sound of my alarm shortly after conquering the creek. I was quite curious about what additionally would have been added or changed in the second dream had I remained asleep.

An in-depth interpretation will be published as a future entry.

The Terrorist

From time to time, Torin and I visit random stores after leaving mommy at her work. These stops afford us valuable out-of-the-house exposure and squelch the monotony of being overly-routined.

As I eye Torin bouncing up and down the aisles, my bosom swells with elation at the sight of destruction by baby. Actions that would at least cause store chaos and prompt expulsion when perpetrated by me (an adult) are actually tolerated, if not celebrated, when done by my squirmy toddler. “How cute is that!” exclaim fellow shoppers and store attendants, admiring the swiftness and effectiveness of Torin’s toy-tampering, junk-jumbling, merchandise-meddling, package-penetrating behavior. If curiosity were an art stroked on canvas, Torin would be Picaso—brushing Cubism everywhere he scampers.

I envy the separate set of rules applied to him and others of his kind. Freedom is much more complete for them. As age increases, the cage size decreases; an older dog has less space in his kennel than when a pup. Or maybe it’s just the ultra-thinning of lines—so that they are so very easily crossed as to therefore exist to confine us with exactitude.

In a modern world so defined by rules, laws, and attempts of order and with the populous perpetually cognizant and wary of dangers both foreign and abroad, I secretly house my own WMD. Watching Torin terrorize makes me devilishly giddy inside. I can cross the line, experience freedom, and destroy—all by proxy through my immune-to-all-laws terrorist.

Who says you can't like terrorists? Nothing wrong with mine.

The Silent Voyage

Crimson sunrise
breathes another day,
lifting shadows off dreams.

Yet silent man lies in the mirror.

A vermillion visage,
a gaussian ruby,
lost in the mist of memories.

Surrounded only
by hollow years—
misunderstood.

Mirrors of lies of silent man.

An aegis apparition
of golden reflection
strafes but shudders in vane.

It's raining voices
in the glass prison—
a fortune in lies through my words.

Lie silent; man the mirrors.

The soft glow
of a mango cocoon
bound in cotton.

Wait for sleep
or after life—
for the funeral of this friend.

Man lies silent in the mirror.

Though wakes
in the waken war,
blooms beget bronze.

Trial of tears forsaken—
a change of season
waxes under a glass moon.

Home from the degrees
of inner turbulence;
beyond the life of a solitary shell.
Through her eyes, I see no more lies.

No silence of lies, but lies silenced.
A crimson sunset.

Wolves of Timber

Wolves of timber growl and wail,
barking back the colonist.

Their groves—
rooted by Natives,
reaped by nomads,
razed by inhabitants.

In stalking packs they hunt to haunt,
the sproutly ones not needless.

But echoes whimper during the light
when the gloom cannot cooperate.

Another member slain amidst the chains.

Howls too high in the firry air to intimidate,
muffled by the roar of the bladed fight.

Yawps unheard save from the carrion dwellers;
If only packs could ascend the soil.

Their groves then—
raised to inhabit
reaping nomads’
native roots.

Forests’ wood branch, but pines stumped by spines
of sapless shadows rake clear the lands of the wolves of timber.

My Little Shadow

Torin is now over one year old.

The comment directly above can be stated simply enough, but when read and thoughtfully evaluated, there is somehow a fantastic level of complexity squirming between its single line.

I’m not sure that I’ve ever uttered a simpler sentence that has in fact more greatly totalized the breadth of impact, state of feelings, and summation of existence relating to my current case in life. Over a year? It’s inconceivable. I feel certain that more meaningful and lasting developments have occurred in the last 379 days than the previous 10,642 days of my mortal walkabout.

There exists no perfect analogy that portrays the colossal change from pre-father status to fatherhood. No analogy could fully illuminate the intricacies and chronicle the composition of this transition. But to attempt…

I think of my shadow. It is predictable—in its level of brightness, contrast, transparency, sharpness, and skew—based on the light source(s), and its exact attributes are known at any given moment without any process of thought. My shadow’s predictable behavior is an established norm, found and formed from nearly 11,000 days of precedence. Then, after all those years of “normalcy,” I notice while working in the yard one summer afternoon that my shadow has become distorted, elongated substantially to the southwest. I gasp, lean forward, and squint in wonder. I gyrate left, right, shake my rake, and steer my shears all about, attempting to “test” my shadow. And the shadow goes right, left, rake droops lifeless, and shears maintain motionlessness. This can’t be happening. What is going on? Has there been a reboot? Or a new, upgraded operating system of reality? This is so different. In toying for some time though, I self-remark of the remarkability of this new state. Though new and initially shocking to my being, this “just-came-out” norm is fresh. My shadow (my son), still generally follows—trailing just behind—but acts independently and with such newness and soul. The transition to fatherhood has been logic-altering and sameness-busting, but this reboot has brought optimization.

A state of flux and over-predictability is alike to being zapped continuously with a growth-atrophyzing ray gun. Staying the same is decreasing.

The Calculator

Torin is the most CURIOUS little creature I've ever seen. His neck is on a swivel! He must see and touch every little thing possible. This behavior is FAR beyond that of the average baby. Like most babies, he tries to jam anything within reach into his mouth. But unlike many babies, Torin never stops going, searching, plotting, tampering, and discovering. I've really never seen anything quite like it. He's a curious kid times 100. He is NOT mischievous; he maintains a sense of caution, maybe fear. He’s suspicious at times but not so much to trump watchfulness.

Take, for example, rolling over from belly to back. He was capable of this milestone early on (2 months), but soon held back from performing it regularly until later (4 months). I sensed his capability, but as his intelligence grew or at least once his cognizance discovered that turning to his back was a precarious event—one that made him feel awkward or unnecessarily exposed to harm—he chose not to roll over. His caution trumped his curiosity. Only once he felt capable of handling, coping with, or advancing in some fashion beyond the roll, did he begin to routinely venture to that situation.

Maybe a silly dad is over-thinking things? It’s hard to know, but it’s clear he has been crafted with a curious and calculating mind.