Yeah, AWOL... all my get up and go ... went!

I woke up tired Thursday, and all the blog crawling in the world wasn't getting my blood pressure, heart rate nor attitude up, I was almost a member of the walking dead but I was so tired I didn't even walk to the dock - I rode like a sack of potatoes the bus. I did open the doors, did turn on the computers but I was not really in attendance at work so I decided to take Friday off of the hamster wheel and rest. President Obama won't notice, my taxes are filed and my assault weapons are only in his mind.

I have my wife's garden to turn the soil, add compost to and rake out a bit. I have to renew my concealed carry at the Courthouse (where I must turn in my pistol for safe keeping while I am there - but the Police Sergeant says his men will protect us all - and I believed him until he asked for my knife). I have to do some monetary fund transfers at the bank, pay some bills, buy fuel for the Caravan. I have to get a red sweatshirt, document protectors for three ring binders for my Appleseed Instruction material and schedules. I need to stop at two gun shops for a check on a scope for the Model 70, and possible National match sights for the Garand. I should exercise lightly after my devotions and hit the road for some time with Nature and sweating. And if I do it all right and correctly I will go back to reading The 47th Samurai by Stephen Hunter. I caught back up on Battlestar Gallactica last night but then I really didn't since I have whole seasons of strange relationships between friends lovers and enemies I will never understand - still when they got down to Earth and found it radioactive and a wreck - I was finally able to see what happened to the cast of LOST and that beautiful island they had lived on so badly. Terminator VII will be so much better... if the Governator will just run out of term limits.

Having wandered to politics, remembering you can't force me to be better, braver nor beautiful, I give you what is wrong with America from Kevin's Corner The Smallest Minority , something to think about - but I like to remember it was my father and mother that are responsible for the fellow I am today - not Darwin, President Truman, Stalin nor Gary Cooper. See how quickly I prove I know what is important in my life... it isn't in the media.

Hope you all (y'all) have a chance for a real day off and time to sit over breakfast with ur signif othr and TALK. Lost arts in America: conversation, caressing the soul, romance, penmanship, spelling and grammar. Blog on!

It seems to be Summer...

Blue sky with puffy white clouds ringing Mount Rainier, the work week is over and I ride my Triumph over the bridge crossing I-5 and look at the slowly moving herd moving back to the barn or the Summer pastures. Too many, too crowded, too slow and for them, too bad. I twist my throttle and lift the front forks and smile. I am going home and feel fine, instant response from my bike and power enough to feel young in heart, again... or always.

As I come up the street to the house I see my departing wife, who rolls down her window and tells me she is leaving for Home (someone else's) Bible Study and I will have to make my own supper, I tell her she doesn't love me anymore (singing it and embarrassing her in front of the other women) I will pay for that later, and I laugh and tell her to have a good time. I microwave food, change boots and drop the tie and the keys and stuff from work. I am going to ride off into the sunset, well, as close as a non-cowboy is going to get on his trusty Triumph.

I know I am going to ride the backroads, between forty to fifty miles per hour - the roads are all thirty-five but that must be for someone that can't lean as deep as I can (foolish thought, and lean deeper and roll on that throttle!). If I need more I can go deeper, but I won't. I think about how tentative I was last year on these same roads on the same corners, when I was finding my level of comfort, I haven't dropped the motorcycle much since, but that first year was full of Gravity. Now I believe I should have spent more time with gyroscopic toys longer. The ride always brings a smile to my lips. I do spend a lot of time looking at blonds driving Vets with the tops down, saw five in two hours, it is the last of Summer. Everyone wants to come out to play, Friday evening and the weekend is for partying (or so I have been told).

I can see the new riders, or the ones that think they must be careful because the machines can cost a lot of money and look at the shine on that chrome, listen to the rumble of the pipes. My motorcycle doesn't rumble, it purrs and stirs and I fly by... There are some one per centers, loud bikes, loud pipes and bad attitude - but they do lean deep as they roar ripping by you like you are sitting with your mouth hanging open - or so they think, but they are wrong. They have to prove themselves every day, and fight to be taken seriously; real riders just ride with little to prove, just more miles done safely with a touch of insanity, a little risk anyone? Want to race? how long does it take to get to Yellowstone? If you spend some time in the hospital or with a broken bike waiting parts, you could be the slowest racer out there...

But look at the water gleaming, and the full green of the grass and the trees swaying with the breeze. Lean away from the Sun blinding as you ride into it's glare, do you see the road? No, and nothing that is on it will be seen until you get into shadow, slow down and look at the road... where are those sunglasses when you need them, you remember where you left them. In a car you pack all the extras, on the bike you ride with the minimum, lighter and faster. Why do you weigh yourself down with extras for what-if? Because you are old and wise, or afraid of failure and alone? I make the the turn around noticing the strange car and open door - it isn't for me so I don't stop, I am planning a different return route to race at highway speeds.

On to the access ramp to I-5, and the dribbles of commuters coming late from Seattle, I find only one small Japanese car doing sixty, everyone else can't read the signs and are moving at seventy or a little better. I merge and lean and merge and lean and am in the outside lanes and climbing the hill into the Sun again- the road disappears and so do those cars going seventy - oops, they are only going sixty now - red brake lights ahead. How fast can I down shift, brake, release and roll back on the throttle? I make it neatly, but spooked and glad the turn is ahead and away from the Sun, passed by some young fools on crotch rockets - lovely fearless fools, go get them young hormones on track and at speed... but remember Darwin's Rules - only survivors reproduce and that is most of the point of life... just saying.

Nothing like being alive, on a fine motorcycle and enjoying the end of Summer. Not too many riders flashing the secret V sign, too many other bikes and they don't seem to want to bother... but I like to think I am grinning like a fool when I flash the sign - that grin they can't see behind my face shield and in my head and warming my heart.

Happy Friday, First Day of Summer and it is...

Noticed while riding my motorcycle to work, that it was a great day. My workday planned out, a hundred and fifty new items to link and circulate, ILLs to request, patron information requests to answer and the Sun would be with us all day. That was how it went and the day was fine, I have about three hours of work on Monday, open one hour for patrons, then I close until Wednesday, my son is coming home before heading off to Hawaii. His room has been cleaned and prept, the spare bathroom is off limits to me - my wife has cleaned it and left the silent notice that I had better not mess it up. I have motorcycle safety stuff on Saturday morning, a Patriot Guard mission for the last units of the 4th Brigade of the 2nd Infantry Division, returning from Iraq in the afternoon, then a Homeowners meeting and grass cutting and house cleaning after that.

I will say our cold wet Spring seems to have been beaten back by Summer Sun, but most people feel it is only an illusion, the rain will return. The only temperate Rainforest is just across the Sound and it doesn't dry out in the Summer. Tacoma got to eighty-three degrees today, but Spokane got even higher so our season is officially and beautifully changed. Have a great one!

I have only fifty-eight minutes...

Busy week, did right well on Thursday and Friday. One inmate library worker returns from being imprisoned in F-unit, did thank me for sending him "Lord of the Silverbow" by David Gemmell and "Birds of Prey" by Wilbur Smith. He started working again on Thursday afternoon. I put the new books and all the new CDs into the system, linked with barcodes and new Call numbers, and found I have a security problem among my inmate library workers - since three of the new CDs were checked out to a patron that had no access to the CDs nor circulation stations - someone is working for themselves. I restricted the patron but the problem is the inmate library clerk - which one of three could have done it? (Don't you love Library Mysteries?) The rest of the day was normal, and I did turn in my reports for last month. I drove home in the Caravan wishing I had riden my motorcycle, but then I had choir practice so after a nice dinner with the television off and talking with my wife - I get to ride my motorcycle to the ATM and the Church and back home again. What a lucky guy!

Friday and I wrapped up well, fired up the motorcycle and rode into the thirty-six degree "cold enough for you?" morning. Yes, it was, but I know the weathermen are promising almost pure sexual-extrascy with temperatures of sixty-eight and SUNSHINE! So one has to ride to work, if it were warmer (like fifty-five at six in the morning) one would have to ride right on by the work and get into living lovely... Fingertips did provide painful sensory distraction, but I am a guy and that is what I do, ignore pain for the pleasure. I was almost doing wheelies with my throttle and clutch syncronizations... okay, I amplify my riding, but I was smiling then and now when remembering.

Normal Friday, I want to finish all the big stuff and get the place ready for opening Monday. Focus!, and I find my first distraction - one of my inmate library clerks - wants to talk to me in private, so we go into the workroom and close the door. He confesses to stealing some mylar bookcovers for another inmate. His walking with Christ and getting closer to God has him struck with GUILT, and after two days of prayer, talking to his preacher and more prayer and signs from above -- he came to confess and try to make it right. I fired him, congratulated him on getting right with God and himself and wished him lots of luck in the future - that he was on the proper path. He snuck back before lunch and returned the mylar. I tell the other three that he has been fired, and we get to work. Shipped books to camps, did ILLs, made copies of tax and other forms, received supplies, answered email, suggested that replacing broken CD jewel cases with more jewel cases didn't make sense, I would rather softer plastic (from China). I contact the new person at the Job Center for another worker, that may happen by Tuesday of next week.

I have my lunch alone: a pickle, sandwich (with sliced tomato - my wife loves me!) and an apple. The workers return and we open for inmate patrons, I talk with the Corrections Officer assigned to watch the movements, the Food Service manager stops by and talks to me about what I might need in the library - I ask for an espresso machine and doughnuts, but he was already burned by Ken Schram (KOMO4 NEWS) over the idea of a Latte stand in the prison. In Starbucks country it is a real living and skill, but we wouldn't want prisoners learning skills that might come in contact with the Latte drinking public, would we? I have been really supporting his Baking students, in new books and recipes, and buying their cookies and pies for my crew, and some bread for take home.

I talked books, found information and filled requests for assistance and filled my last book cart for purchase from this year's money, all gone. I sent that in for approval and purchasing, with the weeding done the library wasn't perfect when we closed and locked up, but pretty close for a bunch of men without women directly supervising their efforts. I locked up, dropped off distribution for the inmates, and walked to the dock and the waiting ferries. The tide is really low, and I imagine that the closer ferry might get stuck in the muck if the water disappears a few more inches - what was that Global Warming rising sea levels thingy? It isn't going to happen, but I am yawning so much by the time I an seated I collapse on myself and the bench and fall soundly into sleep - it is Friday.

When I wake and walk up the steep gangplank I start thinking of the beauty of the day, it is warm, the Sun is OUT, and I have a motorcycle waiting in the parking lot. I fly home, much better than the American Airline company - I buy my eleven dollars worth of fuel for the next hundred and fifty miles. While there a patient from Western State Hospital politely asked if he could admire my machine and ask about it, and he did. I know he is from the hospital because he is very polite and he tells me that he rode a Triumph in the 1970s just like mine. A driver filling his SUV (and costing him his paycheck) comes across the pumps and admires the bike, too. Of course he rode one in the Sixties when they were hot. I am pumped, because I have a bit better than only memories and bask in their admiration for my fine steed. The patient asks if he can listen to me start the bike up, and I ask if he is going to listen now, and I hit the fuel valve, key and starter switch - they both wish me safe riding and I cruise out to be waved on by a policeman waiting to give someone a ticket. Not me, but I roll on and lean left and am going, going and gone.

I could bore you with the brunette in the Mustang convertible with the top down that looked at me (she didn't but I know she put her turn signal on to cut in front of me - she knew I was alive) or how much I wanted to run with the coed that was in her tanktop, shorts and high speed running shoes (she is much too serious and fast for me - but lovely). I did count sixteen parked motorcycle in front of Eagle Leather and lots of motorcycles on the road doing their best to better me - nah, I ride alone -- always happy to see other two wheelers with engines winding along giving me the V signals that I have to flash back or nod approvingly if my clutch hand is working. One of the club, and I am laughing or smiling at the way the lean goes deep and the throttle roars in answer and straightens me out without dropping to the gravity well of Earth. I think I have my machine broken in now, it wants to leap up on the rear wheel and paw the air - or I do and I am not a trick rider but a sane safe fellow wearing a four-in-hand tie under his leather jacket. It is Friday and the Eagle flies or the Dragon...

Fridays fly

Up to the alarms, take the medicine, make the coffee, take the measure of the man, gobble the vitamins and supplements, make the gruel, listen to the news and weather, check the absent email and decide that the motorcycle stays in the stable today, rain is on the way. Shave, dress and grab the pickle, apple and sandwich and out the garage door to the Caravan. Thirteen miles to the parking lot at Western State Hospital, park and put on cap and gloves and start the walk down to the dock. I walk because it is downhill and reminds me of Pennsylvania and it feeds my reputation as "the guy who walks everyday"; others think I do it for my physical fitness, but I know I do it for my mental state, the tranquility of the solitude with nature.
I get on the ferry and find a seat close to the exit, then close my eyes and pretend to meditate or fall deeply into a nap, twenty to thirty minutes worth is another excellent beginning to my day. When the ferry has crossed and is tied up the signal is given to disembark and the race is on, it is Friday and the first five off the boat and up the gangway to the pier are already stretching their legs and picking up the pace. I am one of those racing to get into the prison, to be among the first through the control gates and inside. Every morning the same racers and the same lack of reason for the speed, but they do it anyway. The most difficult part of the quick walk is stepping around and between the goose droppings on the road and sidewalks, it shouldn't bother any of us, it is organic and totally natural and biodegrading... as we speak. We get by the Corrections Officer checking for badges (someone would try to sneak in?) and hit the stairway and take the steps two at a time and then we stop and look back at the herd following slowly behind.
Control allows us through and passes out keys, cuffs and radios to those that need them. I have take-home keys and just go for my distribution pick up and then down the Corridor to the Library. I watch the inmates stroll along, kicking their heels against the tiles, no hurry in them, they aren't going any faster than they want they know the rules - no running. I nod to the ones I need to acknowledge (all that know me and who I am because they use the library) say hello to Officers and inmates that greet me. I unlock the library and start turning it on, taking off my jacket and stuff to stay awhile, change the backup tape, put a new battery in the radio on my belt, type in passwords for the computers and the level of user, go unlock the book return box and switch bins.
When movement is called the crew will report in, I log the time and greet them, the talk dwells on whatever happened since the last we saw each other - dreams, visits, plans for today's work and adjustments in operations. They check for overdues on hold, ILLs, and reserves against the incoming materials. The ILL clerk starts getting the outgoing ILLs bagged and addressed and all the paperwork pulled and the status changed. I look for incoming email, ILL requests and missions from headquarters. The new books are linked and finished processing, the Acquisitions Report checked against our version of reality - and there are too many missing book orders so a lot of typing is done to tell them so. I get to check every outgoing package for content address and then seal it up for shipping. After the morning work is done and Recall is called the crew leaves together and I take the mail and the distribution to the Communications Center and the Mailroom. Dropping off and picking up, somedays there are three bins full with new book boxes and some days only half a bin without the newspapers.
Lunch is alone, in the quiet of the library with a new magazine to browse in front of me, the pickle, sandwich and apple don't take long and I am up and breaking down the mail, newspapers, magazines, and opening incoming ILLs, ours returning or those requested. I go online the log in the reception, print a sheet for the item and give them to the ILL clerk. The crew starts to trickle back in after their lunch, which was not much better than mine but in the company of their peers, under the watch of the Corrections Officers. The book return box is emptied again and the library prepares for the influx of patrons.
I register new patrons, the Chain came in yesterday and the new guys start showing up, I look for information, find books that are asked for and show my clerks how to find Labor Unions in the Yellow pages. The library is humming, actually it is closer to a low roar, but it is a mellow roar not an angry one. Different groups at different tables, the Corrections Officer that monitored the movement into the library cut it off at forty, and sent about twenty inmates away. We weren't open last Friday and these units are a couple of hours behind in library usage. Music across the hallway doesn't seem open today, as the services are cut or closed because of staffing problems or weather the library becomes much bigger an event in the inmates choices for time well spent.
We are open for three periods this afternoon, from 12:40 to 3:45 and the time flies, I am not finished when Recall is sounded and everyone moves out. The crew tells me to have a great weekend and they will see me on Monday, as long as I don't win the Lotto and take off to Hawaii they will. I turn all the computers off, put the radio and certain keys away, I finish typing the missing books on my response to the November report and email it to headquarters and log off the computer. Burned up another day, no boredom and feeling like I have actually helped find the right information for several of the inquiring minds. I turn off the lights, look around and notice the pile of procrastination has expanded, but the Program Manager told me years ago that I would never be able to complete it all and leaving it for the next work day was okay. Ah, but that wasn't how my Fridays are supposed to finish. I lock the doors taking the last distribution out to drop off and head outside the gate to walk down to the waiting ferry boat, not racing this time. I won't think about the library again until Monday morning. The weather is gray but dry and fine, the weatherman lied, I could have ridden my motorcycle and smiled broadly coming and going between work and home, breaking out in laughter periodically when it is perfect. Well, I know dinner awaits and a full list of honey-do needing done, what is a weekend for? All of the above.