battlefield

If there was ever a week from hell on the job site, this past week would be one.

I try not to seek out demons behind every bush and/or activity in life as my charismatic church days have taught me. But sometimes I am convinced that there is more than meets the eye in various situations.

In one way or another, our foursome (Jedi Master, Chuckie, Forty-Nine Cent, and myself) are working on my second flip project. Perhaps I bit off more than I can chew with this one. Over all, we WILL be successful with this house. But it appears to be an uphill battle, which is more than we anticipated before purchase. So it goes. But carry on we must.

We were into week three: little visible change, much grueling labor ala house leveling etc., discovered that the lean-to garage is not salvageable – after working on it at least two days, a trio of prostitutes who live down the street soliciting their services to me and the guys, and two of our crew either facing or contemplating divorce.

Then, during a moment of little production and personal counseling between Forty-Nine Cent (who just received news of his wife’s desire for divorce) and the Jedi-Master, the female trio from down the block start shouting Forty-Nine’s name and flashing themselves.

If there was ever a calculated attack from the enemy of this world - that would be it I think.

Meanwhile, I am thankful for a work partner like the Jedi Master who agreed with me to drop our tools, call it a day, and join me in prayer at my home.

fine line

I believe my Canadian immigration status is progressing as fast as it can. We still haven’t mailed in our applications that have been worked on for over a month. I have jumped through every hoop: been fingerprinted by the local sheriff, OK’ed by the FBI and Texas Dept of Safety, bought almost $100 in passport photos, paid $250 to a doctor in Dallas to tell Canada that I’m medically OK, and hunted down a real copy of my birth certificate.

But now the real gymnastics: trying to pay for the application fees. It’s not that we don’t have the damn near $1000 for the application fees (that’s a turnip that might have enough blood in it), but every immigration website runs us around in circles as to WHAT to pay and WHERE to pay it.

So, we are praying that a phone call to a Canadian embassy next week will solve this.

Meanwhile, of the handful of people we have shared this news with, it’s not surprising that the smattering of people that make up my family are not excited about our move.

I don’t know why. I guess it makes sense being that I’m the only child my parents have. But I don’t have hoards of aunts, uncles, or cousins that will miss me. So why stick around anyway I figure. I’m not that close to the people I’m blood related to.

My mother refuses to acknowledge the subject of our move. She goes silent when it’s mentioned. Not surprising I guess. Silent treatment or subject changing is how she’s responded with everything I’ve wanted to do that was outside her suburban work-a-holic judgmental church-going universe. Which is about 99% of the actions in my entire life.

I’ve always wondered if there was any preacher out there who gave a sermon on the fine line between ”honor thy father and thy mother” and Jesus’ words of ”hate your own parents to follow me”.

Jesus was being a tad metaphorical with that “hate” part, or so I assume. But honoring and hating are about as polar opposites as you can get.

I wouldn’t say I hate my own parents. But maybe not giving a shit about their desires for my life is a version of hating them.

*photo by Alexander Dudley - 2004

contemplations

Sometimes it is difficult for me to continue communicating via reports on the world wide waste-of-time through a blog outlet. Although several real-life events limit my commitment to such an endeavor these days, I also am a big believer that facebook killed the radio star. Thus, such reports might be an online version of spitting into the wind.

But where else can I explain that I rarely visit my dear friend, former catfish nugget chef and electric wheelchair enthusiest Obi-Wan. Some of this is based on time restraints. But most is conscious choice these days. Obi-Wan has become more of a griper and gossip than in the past. I really choose not to sit through another diatribe on how the acid queen has wronged him or how Lamont is the worst son in the world. But I feel guilty of this friendship avoidance. Am I only to hang around through the good times and not the annoying?

Once upon a time I would sit and listen patiently. Then later, I would slowly interject opposing, if not contemplative questions and views mildly defending those who have wronged us. Because ultimately, we too are sinners, and so forth. But no avail. Obi-Wan wants the universe to know of those who have wronged him. Or whatever.

I have yet to tell him of our assignment change coming within the next twelve months. I think the news could send him towards death. He hates it when we leave on vacation because he “misses seeing our car in the driveway across the street”.

Often I wonder about the timing of his life and our exit from the fair mother city. I had assumed Obi-Wan would pass on by the time we moved. But maybe he won’t. I don’t know.