Acceptance

 I don’t care who you are, there is always something comforting about a mother’s lovingly prepared food.  It could be Kraft mac and cheese out of the box, it can be prepared just like every other mother prepares it, and if you are eating it in your mother’s kitchen, its going to taste better than any other Kraft mac and cheese you’ve ever had in your life.  I imagine this is because the fork is your mother’s fork, the bowl is your mother’s bowl, the table is the table you sat at as a kid, the kitchen has that feel of familiness and wholeness that you try to recreate in your own home, and all of these factors, sentimental, ornamental, and the ritual of eating all combine to make mother’s cooking the cooking you eat even if you are full.  You fill up twice or three times over just because you can.

Last night it was asparagus soup, a 2006 Argentinian Luigi Bosca Melbec D.O.C., a cup of Bigelow Earl Grey, a Reese’s peanut butter Easter egg, oven heated baguette, and as a final course, tortellini in red sauce, more Melbec, and perfectly broiled garlic bread with the richness of crisped butter that I could never do on my own because the texture of butter in solid form as it is lathered fatfully across the bread freaks out my personal sense of nutritional health.  But if someone else can do it for me and it tastes good, I’m all about it.

Mother suggested that we watch an Australian produced movie entitled The Spirit of Australia.  Father had gotten a new toy this week.  He had generously given me his mammoth of a box TV over the winter with the complete surround sound home theater system that I watched Terminator 2 on so many times I could anticipate the bone crunching surprise of a terminators foot on a human skull in the opening scenes of post apocalyptic Earth during the war with the machines.  The mammoth TV was produced just before the widespread use of flat screen TVs because the technology was just becoming affordable to us average Joes.  So father was without a television and this just wasn’t going to do.

We played the movie on the 42” HD display.  The movie had 4-5 minute segments on major scenic areas of Australia and each segment was played with an Australian music track involving drums, didgeridoos, and the like.

The video started out at Uluru (native name), or Ayer’s rock (some  Australian politician), in the middle of the freaking Outback desert. Its this giant water carved over dome, its staggeringly tall, freakishly spiritual, and amazing by all standards of wonderment. I watched the footage, I listened to Mother’s stories about visiting, and I just couldn’t muster up any sort of enthusiasm.  I know that sounds like blasphemy, right?!  I’m going to fly 23 hours to the Southern Hemisphere, visit this giant nation continent, and after a great home made meal, I can’t even erect a small tower of interest in the place I’m visiting?  Maybe they’ll give me some sort of Australian pride Viagra when I touch down on the island that will get me all perked up and ready to intercourse with one of the most beautiful places on Earth.  I’ll be kept awake at night looking over tour books, pictures of the day, Internet inquiries about the places I’ve been or will go to, and will wake up the next day and do it all over again.

So, I kept watching the video and I found myself paying more attention to the music than the video footage.  The music was rich and interesting to me.  Perhaps I should remember the music of the continent as a place of future exploration. We turned it off after about 25 minutes and watched George Carlin’s last videoed comedic performance at the young age of 70. To his credit he spent the first 30 minutes of his shtick dealing with the topic of death and old age.  I don’t think he got the laughs a comedian desires from the death shtick but I loved the bit because he is a truth teller, was dealing with his own mortality, and he was not pretending to be something that he wasn’t. If he was up there cracking jokes about the one night stands he just had as a 70 year old, I’d be a little suspicious. The rest of the show was gut wrenchingly funny and I think Mother laughed so hard she had to excuse her self to the bathroom and then to the garage for a smoke.

I used to only want to live to age 50, I was only 18 at the time.  At the age of 25, I wanted to live to 60.  At the age of 28, I would be happier with 80. Now at the age of 30, I think 120 would do me well.  It could happen.

Being 30 and traveling to a different place in the world is different than being say 23 and traveling the world.  I own a home, I’ve been married and seperated, and I’ve worked in the quote unquote “real world” as a time punching cubicle-habituating adult for eight long and glorious years.  For those of you that have more experience than me in the “real-world,” have more maturity than me, have grieved more sorrows, and experienced brighter joys, I don’t have to tell you that life takes a tremendous amount of acceptance.  You learn to accept all of those critical choices you made as a 17 year old when you had to decide about occupations and college, you learn to accept the decision to place your loved one’s education before yours-leaving you without a degree, you learn to accept the surroundings around you, the gifts you’ve been given, the gifts you haven’t been given, the major sorrows, the minor pleasures, the war torn world, the knowledge our species is wearing the planet down into a blackened nub, and how little you can feel in the big scheme of it all.

Amidst this general life acceptance, I found an acceptance of the natural beauty around me in Central New York. The data is in people: Syracuse NY only sees 63 sunny days per year.  Yep 63 out of 365.  So if you choose to base your mood off of the weather and you live anywhere within a 3-hour radius of Syracuse, you are basically deciding to be depressed 83% of the time.  Finding the beauty in everything, other than the boldness of the weather alone, is like finding the buoy thrown to you during an icy ocean liner shipwreck

The pastures going in to work on a rainy day, the bright green of the grass as April springs into May, the ease of walking through the woods on a warm March afternoon, the slicing of waxed skis down a freshly groomed trail, the sparkling water cascade of a gorge waterfall, the tiny tributary flow just down the road, the smell of aging moss in the forest, the call of an unidentified bird at twilight, a fawn nestled at your feet trying to be little and unseen, the cloudy sunsets and sunrises, my two favorite intertwined double helix shaped trees in the morning, and the endless lakeside wineries are all accepted, good, and real.

When I saw the flattened pictures of Australia, all I could see is that their beauty was just as real, true, and beautiful as the beauty I see everyday.  I did not have a longing. I did not feel like I was missing out on something I hadn’t ever been able to have. I felt whole in the surroundings around me.  I still appreciated the images, I still looked forward to being amidst them, but I’m happy with what I have everyday.

To say all that ,is a paradox in itself because I still struggle with the routineness of my every day life versus wanting to be a world traveler of strange lands that gains impressions, interviews people, and carries on with wanderlust.  Have you ever heard the songs from Dillon or Paul Simon about being on tour?  Isn’t there a melancholy to it?  Melancholy from being a stranger in a strange land, not having your family tribe daily, not having your favorite leather chair to sit in, and not being in a normal routine.  Then what do these artists do?  They settle down in a place, they have a family, they take time to be and to accept that which is around them.  The one hit wonders are my favorite. They make money and then they are gone never to be heard from again after their little nest egg is birthed and stashed away.

Of course, pictures never do a scenery justice.  I have pictures from a trip I made to the rainforests of Puerto Rico.  It was one of the most beautiful places I’d ever been and the pictures just don’t bring back that feeling of wonderment. So, I suspect Australia is similar.  I’ll love it there. I’ll fall in love with the landscape and the spirit of the land. I’ll snap away hundreds of times with my camera, I’ll try to capture that which cannot be captured, and I’ll reminisce on these words with these pages through these fingertips knowing that when all is seen and experienced, I’ll go home and I’ll be happy that I traveled, and happier that I’m done traveling, and back to the beauty of a routine, a home, a people, a tribe, a place that is 17% of the year sunny, and 100% of the year my favorite place to be.

Precious Commodities

I sat on the couch of the resort suite I’d been given, relaxedly like my body had to join in puddy like union with the couches, every muscle giving way to the strength of the cushions pushing back with their fibrous resistance, and I looked at the hole I’d cut into my uniform shorts.  It was badly stitched together, a gap not fully healed, and that was my second attempt at sewing it closed.

The Australian thought of the day came to me at that moment and was verbalized as, “I’m going to wear these shorts in Australia.” Of course I am. They are light weight, have 2 cargo pockets with Velcro, look presentable, have belt loops, and have one zippered pocket for a world travelers extra precious commodities: passports, international cell phone, money, important keys, maps, bottle opener, lighter, etc. 

I’m glad that the topic of clothing has been broached. I hadn’t really thought of it before other than to decide I wouldn’t be bringing many clothes with me because its hot, I’d like to bring an empty suitcase in order to hoard and bring back more valuables, and it would be fun to purchase Australian wear while I was there to get the full experience.  Someone said to me the other day, “Have you packed yet?”  No, I haven’t packed yet.  I’ll probably do that the night before the departure.

I don’t only want to see, hear, smell, and touch Australia, I want to wear it on my body, I want to dream about it at night, I want the Australian mind to join with me in a Vulcan mind meld, I want the soul of Australia to waft into my nostrils and come out through the pores in my skin, and I’m only going to be there for 3 weeks. 

Its not even really possible is it?  As a comparison, try to imagine ingesting every aspect of The United States of America in 3 weeks.  Any American would tell you it can’t be done, shouldn’t be done.  And really, it’s not a realistic goal to think I in one session could capture the entire essence of a continent, people, and culture.  I’ll be in Western Australia for 10 days. As a comparison, this one state is three times the size of Texas. That’s a lot of desert.

I can’t concern myself with ultimate exploration and complete knowledge of a time, place, and people.  I can only try to fruitfully explore the options open to me at the time. I can give it my best to explore within my means, report what is within my perception, and accept the finitude of this meager set of eyes.  

Preparations

April 17, 2011

My eyes cracked open around the usual time, when there is just enough sunlight to let me know that, as my father would say, “I’m burning daylight.”  I’m pretty sure the fusion reactions at our little star won’t burn out in my lifetime but the expression still gets me motivated not to waste the day.

“Not many days off before I leave for Australia,” I think to myself and all the preparations begin. 

You ever set aside a good full day for a stroke of yard work and have it foiled by a large rainstorm?  I have.  Today though the rain has stopped for the morning and I think I’ll throw on some mudders to deal with the soggy terrain.  My parents are actually arriving from their two week layover in L.A. after Dad decided it would be a good place to make sure he can breath well.  A story for another time.

Now, what the hell could I possibly need to do today to prepare for this trip?  Well, for some reason I feel like I need to make sure the lawn is raked and mowable, firewood put away, the barn cleaned out of the chicken explosion, the spare bathtub-sink-woodstove taken to the salvage yard, snowblower summarized, cedar trees planted, kitchen painted, trim done in the family room, and the floor grouted in the dining room. 

Clearly I won’t be very concerned with the condition of this estate upon touching down in a world of interests for me that includes Aboriginals, crystal waters, large formations of rock, international cities, funny sounding English speak, and this blog.  However, there is that feeling like there will be less on my shoulders if my affairs are a little bit more in order. Where does that come from?  Who taught me that I need to have a groomed lawn to leave the northern hemisphere?

Maybe a better question is from the previous entry:  Why do people need to go on vacation when they are living perfectly happy and fruitfull lives? 

Need is really a strong word, it makes me think of a more basic level, similar to survival. However, I’ll keep it because I think I need a vacation.  I need the latitudinal escapism.   That makes us human right?  We have this weird adaption in this animal world that we label consciousness, it lets us have this thing we call personal awareness, we create this system of immaterial beliefs and values we call morals, we impose all of this on ourselves and others through culturalization, and before you know it you wake up one day and you can’t survive without having a number 2 from the McDonalds extra value menu, you are sitting in front of a computer screen clacking away at keys for 9 hours a day, and you are spending your family time in front of the TV for 4 hours every night wondering how you are going to afford that new fuel efficient hybrid vehicle and Macbook you’ve had you eye on because you want to reduce your impact on the environment and you deserve better computing power.

The scenario actually doesn’t sound that bad to me. Family, delicious breakfast sandwiches, NY and Hollywood produced stories on TV, a sweet steel unibody laptop, and a fossil fuel using vehicle that uses fossil fuels more efficiently.  I’d take it in a heartbeat. And who wouldn’t?  America is a wonderful place to live and I’m so thankful that I was born here and have the protections afforded to me by the constitution.

Anyways, the point I think I was getting to was about the need for vacation.  Which, for me, I see as a move to step out of my routine, my American routine, step out of my daily thought patterns of what is acceptable and not acceptable, step out of the comforts of my Macbook and my hybrid, step out of the twitter painted Spring Air of Cortland County, step out of my wonderful occupation as a manager of a man made aquatic environment, step a really big step back, actually fly to the southern hemisphere where the water runs the opposite direction down the toilet bowl, and look back at it all with a big freaking telescope, to see the truth of it all.

Maybe that’s not what everyone vacations for.  Perhaps rest, family time, excitement, adventure, sex, alcohol, drugs, lack of work, etc.  I work at a vacation destination and I see all sorts of motives for vacationing, and they are all valid in their own rights to be a motive.  For me, I’ll probably actually work just as much while I’m vacationing, sleep less, talk just as much with the people around me, and write a heck of a lot more than I do in my regular routine.  Why?

Why treat a vacation like that Jared? Why put yourself through the pain of examining, documenting, festering, and discussing?  I find some sick enjoyment out of it, I think there is something wrong with me. I can’t get old man Socrates out of my head, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”  I believe there is always something I could be doing with my time that works to improve the lives of my great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great granchildern, instead of taking away from them.  Not that I think I’m going to save the world anymore,   got over that at age 22, but maybe there is something I could do to atleast live in harmony with it. Maybe if that were already happening, harmony that is, I wouldn’t need to take a giant steel bird to a continent half a world away to figure out what is going on in my life. Maybe, I’d already know and be contented in it. If not contented, capable of doing the examining from the comforts of my Earthship lounge chair.

Pretext 1

Pretext

Generosity—the gift and/or spirit of giving without concern of ego, self, or benefit.

I’m so grateful to my parents, Irv and Fran Troutman.  The act of generosity and faith to bring a child into this world blows my mind.  I’m so grateful to be alive, really alive, alive like the first fish to use its fins to see what the hell was going on above the waters edge, alive like you are in this tiny little pod amidst the darkness of black space looking down on this little dot that is mostly blue with a little green you call home, alive like the gasping breath you take after being underwater for what feels like eternity.  My parents gave me life, took the plunge, and I’m still swimming along, the baby Homer Troutman, just eeking out another day of existence.

Then they say to me, “Hey, why don’t you come to Australia?”  I make excuse after excuse for five years until they do everything in their power to remove the excuses.  Its amazing what they’ve done for me already in life, as a child of theirs, and they continue to offer me opportunities as a maturing adult into his 30’s.  Thanks Mom and Dad because I would not be here, be going there, or be in Latitudinally 30.22 to 30.30, without your support and inspiration.

I could go on a endlessly with a list of other really important people in my life but I’ll save that for the Oscar award speech of my dreams. Of course there are these people but this is a pretext and that means before all of you, and you I hope should, if you don’t already, know who you are. If not, I’ve done a poor job of expressing the joy you bring to my life and for that, I’m sorry, the stony exterior is an easy defense.

This blog is a step, a wet fin on dry land step, because I have a fear of going public.  So she says, “Why, what’s the point in all that writing if you aren’t going to share?”  Two—shay!  She is write and there isn’t any use in fighting it.  I’ll make this avowal:

“I Jared Paul Troutman.”

“I Jared Paul Troutman. STOP, you don’t have to repeat after yourself when you are making yourself take an oath, as my Pennsylvanian uncle would say, Jagoff.”

“I Jared Paul Troutman promise to be candid, resolute in my conquering of fear, devoted to daily uncensored uploading of stream of consciousness , and to give it my all.”

“There.”

I’ve felt in the past that blogging was narcissistic because it was trying to draw attention to one’s personal knowledge of a subject or area of expertise to make one’s self feel more self important.  I hope that my blog disavows this viewpoint because I clearly have little expertise in any subject matter.  I’ve found that the more I try to gain a better knowledge of something, the more I find myself questioning myself, questioning every little exposed facet of the knowledge block, questioning anybody else that claims to know something about the block, doubting that my decisions from standing up upon the block of knowledge must be blinded in some way, and so on. 

However, in the face of resistance, keeping the oath in mind, I will play with the pain of self doubt, the professional human always plays with pain, and I will happily blog away on the Googlesz.  I will coin my blog not as a profession of knowledge or expertise but as an inquiry into that which is my own reflection against the backdrop of a once in a lifetime vacation from the normal. A personal freedom from normal constraints limitations, and restrictions, which being the good culturized world citizen that I am, are all at this point in my life, internal rules  where I alone do the policing.  I am long past the point in my life where my activities actually require the policing of law enforcement, although that was a fun part of life I must say, and my moral compass is quite capable of being a kill joy 99% of the time.

Topics of typical vactionhood will be inevitable. Something like, “Wow, this place was freaking beautiful!”  Or, “Standing next to that giant sheep made me wonder, ‘Did sheep grow as large as dinosaurs back in the day?”  The non-typical I hope to capture are all the intangible relationships of me to the scenary, me to the people, me to my parents, me to the cultural shift, me to the difference between American English and Australian English, me to the utter divorce from that which is my typical wake up and go to work day, me to the perspective of looking through one end of a camera’s lens, and so on.  Because what really is vacationing?   Why do people need to go on vacation when they are living perfectly happy and fruitful lives?

Yep, it happened, I’m tired, so the answers, or shall I say, the inquiries to these questions will have to wait.