rising from the dead in 2010

Alright, enough is enough. Is this a blog or is it a blog? Two entries since August, 2009? And when was that picture on the sidebar last updated? Pa-thetic.

In my effort to once again attempt a revitalization without too much effort or time commitment on my part, I will be filling entries partly by digging through my old journals, offering tidbits as I find them, things that otherwise have not seen the light of day.

It dawns on me that this lipservice about revitalization, the fancy shell around what is essentially empty space, the lack of follow through and vision, that I display here has some pret-ty close parallels to the "revitalization" efforts in my fair city. We may be the only town in America that can actually take credit for putting a Starbucks out of business. Impressive, when you think about it. Then, a few weeks back there was that tease about a farmer's market coming just blocks from my house (plenty of parking lot space behind the former-Starbucks), but days before it was set to debut...Oh! Wait! We forgot! We suck! That's right! Nevermind. We'll delay the opening...to a vague and indeterminate date.

Before I get too far in this love letter, the first piece I'm putting out there from the stack of old journals is a bit involving remote control cars from around this time last year. As a disclaimer, I must tell you that since this was written, I have in fact purchased a remote control car for my son. Yes, it was that Christmas. In my and his defense, however, it is not very loud (per Isaac's request), and to tell the truth, he doesn't play with it that much, for which I am grateful.

So here goes:
Journal snippet from January 15, 2009
The Man with the Remote Control Car

Other men walk by and congratulate him, as if they are standing in a maternity ward, or the new car lot down the hill. They banter, sometimes minutes on end, and it is my only relief from the infernal noise of that stupid toy.

It is my fate to live here just behind the church parking lot where skateboarders try their hand on the rails of the handicapped ramp, where people race through calling futilely for the bus to wait,where now, today, like the day before that, and last week, this man, with nothing better to do drives a whirring, buzzing little bit of fantasy up and down the cracked asphalt. It is my fate to live here, in this world, with men.

The car crashes hard and I try not to be too pleased. He must come lift his broken babe, search out its pieces, start again. The motor chokes and dies. The sun feels warmer on my shoulders.