Just a few thoughts in audio

When you have to use your wife's expired pregnancy anti-nasea medacine
to stop from vomiting.

I used to think that incremental change would not suffice. Nothing
would infuriate me more than baby steps forward. And yet, the kinds of
revolutions I see around me are terrifying. Large scale pendulum
swings and quick fixes that get massive amounts of press seem are
wreaking havoc on everything I hold dear.

From education to politics, the radical change that is being advocated
cuts deep. It is painful to hear and to see in practice. It's divisive
nature is not the kind of revolution I saw coming.

I believe in disruptive innovation, but only if it is beared out by
reflective practice. I believe in revolutionary rhetoric, but only if
it is working to ask questions and not just try and provide answers. I
believe in change, but only the kind that I can be a part of.

Any change that excludes those that are interested in the conversation
and willing to take part isn't change at all. It is a mandate just
like any other.

And that is why I favor a wiki.

I want my change to be visible and based upon a revision history. I
want to make tiny edits and see those changes play out before I
undertake a massive overhaul. And I want the ability to revert to
previous versions when things don't look too good.

Right now, the revolutionary kinds of change being exchanged are put
out on PDF. They are uneditable "truth." They aren't collaborative and
they certainly can't be annotated or hyperlinked. They can't take new
information into account. They aren't based on a network of people,
but rather they exist from one or two authors. They come from an
expert rather than a practitioner. In short, they are dead.

I want living change. Those are the kinds of increments that I need.

The spot that everyone else has overlooked. The spot that is hidden
away and underdeveloped. The spot that could be the epicenter of
something big, a quake of unimaginable impact.

I am placing the X. I am sending the message. I am putting up the
legend on the map.

North is this way.

And with a cold and firm grip on the stick I have whittled down to an
exacting point, I am scrawling the X for all to see.

This. This is where I choose to stand.

The cleverest line you can think of. Of course.

Exhausion mixed with an undeniable thirst for a can (not bottle) of Fat Tire.

No matter how luxurious or feature-ridden, the back of a car
in-between two enormous carseats is not a comfortable place to be. As
you try to squeeze in the car past one set of feet, you push both of
the carseats, trying to make enough room for your waist. There is no
sitting back or putting on your seat belt. There is no deep breathing
either because your ribcage is constructed on both sides.

You are wedged in.

Wedged in by both of your wonderful children, but wedged in just the
same. It doesn't feel good, but you know that you are doing it so that
someone else can sit up front. You are making the decision to stay in
the back, dealing with all of the curious things that children do to
their parents in tight quarters. It isn't a hard one for you. You jump
right in because there isn't anyplace you would rather be.

You are wedged in.

With the passion and fury of childhood. With the lack of logic and the
absurd reactions of each impulse. With the flailing arms and dancing
hands. The time stretches on and you keep eying the mile markers with
anticipation, although you really have no idea what marks the end. You
are asked to make contortions moves to get food and dole it out. You
are asked to get things that drop to the ground so repeatedly that you
aren't sure if there is a time that your aren't hunched over and
stretching out your fingers.

You are wedged in.

But, you know it isn't forever. You know that at some point you will
be free and your breath will be less shallow. You will be able to
stand up and stretch out, seeing just how tall you are. And at some
point in the not too distant future you will be able to see how tall
your children are too. They will be standing next to you, outside
staring up at the sunshine and looking out at the future ahead of
them.

Some day you will be like my mom and dad are today with each of their
three children happily married to amazing women. Today my parents know
what it is like to become unwedged. With any luck and persistence, I
will know this truth someday too.

I took my brother to school every day of his middle school career.

I was already going to our 7-12 campus for my high school education,
so it wasn't any extra work. We would load up the car with the
requisite backpacks and band equipment (his) and we went to go pick up
the other three people in our carpool. We picked up Marisa and we
picked up Carolyn, and we sometimes picked up Jannette. And the
smokers would smoke and the non-smokers would try not to smell like
smoke.

Every day, we had this ritual of playing loud music and singing along.
We would roll down windows even though it was hard to roll down the
windows. My brother and I would never talk about much other than
through the people in the back seat. Sometimes, though there wouldn't
be anyone in the back seat. Sometimes, we would be forced to talk to
one another. We talked about what high school was all about and about
his impending success in musical theater and music creation. My advice
was never specific or very earth shattering, but that wasn't what he
wanted anyway. He always had a pretty good idea of where he was
headed, even if it was in an opposite direction from myself.

He stayed in and around Ohio. I left for Colorado as soon as I could.

He became a worship pastor. I work in a public school district that is
separate from the religious world.

He dated one girl. I had a variety of dating experiences.

But, I suppose we ended up being in the same car together. He is
getting married to a woman he loves, just like I did. He loves
children and can't wait to have some of his own. I felt the same way
just 5 years ago. He has the desire to provide for his family, and it
mirrors mine perfectly.

We were in the same car then because we were going to the same place.
We are in the same car now for the same reason.

Good luck, younger brother. I'm glad you are in my carpool.

One of my favorite songs is called "To build a house" by Lincoln, an
incredibly little know band that only put out one album in 1997. Until
today I wasn't too sure what it meant because I had never known
someone who actually had built their own home. The lyrics may speak
for themselves, but only if you know the language they are written in:

Brick and mortar, pound a penny nail
Lime, too, water use a shoveling pail
Crowbar, level, turn a drywall screw
It's a piece of cake if you know what to do

A roll of tar paper and a mason's bit
A bucket of spackel and a little spit
Plum bob steady pour some carpenter's glue
It's as easy as pie if you know what to do
An honest day's work for an honest day's pay
You're bound to get dirty when you're making hay

Under one roof with your children and spouse
It's a labor of love when you're build a house
Under one roof with your children and spouse
It's a labor of love when you're build a house

Chalk line powder and a saber tooth saw
Number five pencil and a hammer claw
A ten-foot ladder of of four-by-twoIt's as easy as one, two, three to do
An honest day's work for an honest day's pay
You're bound to get dirty when you're making hay

Under one roof with your children and spouse
It's a labor of love when you're build a house
Under one roof with your children and spouse
It's a labor of love when you're build a house.

One day I will know what those words mean, becuase as I look around
everything is perfect, in both its placement and purpose. The rooms
mean something, as in they are meant for someone. The cutout on the
second floor leading to the blue room is something only a house's
creator could know.

I want to build a house, even if I have no design skills or
woodworking knowledge. I want to build a house for my family because I
know it is what they deserve.

For the third time in a month I am away for a long weekend. On each of
these occasions, I turned on the away message for email, chat and
voice mail. This is what one does in modern society. We have made a
contract with one another to always be online or available, and if we
intend to break that contract we must let people know about the
breech. Anything longer than a weekend must be written up as a kind of
post mortem for time lost away from your desk.

But I wonder who our away messages are really for.

Are we bragging that we have gotten away from the daily grind long
enough to appreciate the world around us? Or, are we apologizing to
those who wanted to connect with us, but now have to twiddle their
thumbs and wait for our return?

The people that know us and that are informed about our daily events
already know where we are going and they have wished us good luck or
given their condolences depending on the situation. The people that
are mere contacts of ours couldn't care less about the few days that
we are taking off. Their email wasn't all that time sensitive or
important to be answered instantly and they know this. It is only
those who wouldn't otherwise know and would feel hurt by our
transgression of abandoning our post. We want to cause them to be
sympathetic when otherwise they would feel annoyed. In fact, we are
forcing them to be closer friends than they actually are by giving
them information regarding our whereabouts that only those who inquire
would have access to. We are pushing them to travel in our shoes a
moment and see what it would be like if they made similar choices.

We are saying "You too could be off of work, but since you aren't,
don't mind if I don't email you back or respond to your voice mail for
a little while."

I wonder if I should just state that the next time I'm away. I wonder
if my honesty would be rewarded or punished.

Sometimes, I feel like putting away messages even when I'm in, just so
the expectation of full attention to you and your issues isn't quite
as high. But, the abuse of such a power, the too consistent breakage
of the working man's social contract would not pan out. It is the
modern version of the boy who cried wolf. If I am too honest about my
absence, no one will call for me.

Is that a bad thing?