blessed are the dumb of ass?

i am too pure of heart and dumb of ass to write a think piece.

blessed are the pure of heart, for they will see God ( and not have a hot take ).

and blessed are the dumb of ass, because all they have is their infinite unknowing.

and, you know, i’m not really pure of heart.

not with all this selfishness and pride and anger.

but, i really, truly, honestly, am dumb of ass.

oh sure, i am educated — my undergrad in physics and my masters in theology — but don’t let that fool you. don’t get it twisted. being educated has mostly made me smart of ass.

lewis says that the modern education system is making clever devils, and, yeah. look all around you. all these big brains with these big ideas and the whole big world is falling apart.

so here is a story of sorts. a very dumb and very ordinary story.

and don’t go thinking it’s a think piece. and don’t go reading into it, looking for literary clues, and assuming you know what’s going on just under the surface.

you know what happens when you assume.

you make an ass out of u and me.

right now all four of us, the family, we’re sleeping in the living room.

that’s because this is a new house. well, it’s sixty years old, but it’s new to us. and it’s also because the bedrooms aren’t set up and unpacked and also because it is hot hot hot outside and there’s only one as-old-as-the-house window air conditioner.

what this means is :

when one person is up, we’re all up.

and this morning, just like every morning, it’s 5am. it’s laughter and trains and jumping on dad and it’s the espresso machine warming up and it’s kisses, kisses, kisses.

all before the early bird starts singing.

then there’s the gurgling scrape of plastic wheels on needs-to-be-maintained road.

what this means is :

it’s garbage day.

and we don’t have any of our own garbage, not yet, really. what we do have is the garbage left behind. inherited garbage. because when we did the whole contract thing, the sellers made sure they weren’t responsible for cleaning the place.

and then you can also hear the roar and hiss and start and stop of a truck however far away. and ais in her t-shirt, and me in my shorts, are running for trash like it’s professional sports.

trying to gather the mess of someone else, and put it out.

trying to get ourselves back to ground zero.

where the only mess we have to clean up is our own.

so with a big bag in each hand, to the rhythmic starting roar and stopping hiss, is me in my shorts in front of the garage. tossing the bags into their proper bins.

except, turns out, they’re already full.

what a pain in the ass.

wheeling my already full garbage and already full recycling bins to the road, leaving those other, full bags on the ground, are the sounds of other late neighbours. a few people scraping plastic wheels and bins out to the curb. cutting it close.

a few people who almost missed the opportunity to pass their mess off to someone else.

out of sight, out of mind.

we do that polite nod thing. a bit of a wave. and the truck is hissing to a stop just down the road. carrying the garbage of the world.

“does this smell off to you?” and i am handing some milk to aislinn.

and when she sniffs in, her eyebrows go up and her eyes close and her lips down turn and her head shakes.

the kids are sitting at the table and they’re waiting for some crunchy-cereal

“josh, yes.”

I smell it again, trying to pick up all the nuanced notes of sour and spoiled and curdled rot, but, and maybe it’s me, whatever nose you’re supposed to have for expired, well, i don’t have it.

“you sure?” i say pouring some drops out into my hand.

my kids already have the cereal in their bowls.

what this means is :

if the final ingredient is missing, then navigating that disappointment is like disarming a bomb.

my tongue presses down into the cool and cream and what i pick up are all these unami tastes of rancid and noxious and pungent.

the expiration date says tomorrow, and i say “i bought this just a few days ago,” smelling it again. and this time i can smell it. and sometimes, things spoil before their time.

the boys are waiting and what you have to do in this moment, if you’ve never had to disarm a hyped up set of toddlers, is start building up something new. promotion.

what we have is sheep yogurt.

what this means is :

you have to undersell the 4% grass-fed cow’s milk and have to start overselling some curdled sheep’s milk.

“you guys want something special with your cereal?”

and they’re clapping and saying yeah!

getting close to them, hands on my knees, head at their level, “you guys might just be big enough to have this, but i’m not sure.”

and they’re saying “we’re big enough!”

well, ransom is.

cassian just repeats the last word of every sentence he hears, so he says “enough!”

“what do you think, momma?” and our three sets of eyes find her face.

she’s all summery and morning and pregnant and glowing, and she says, “i don’t knowwww.” and she holds it, the way you play with kids.

“maybe just a taste.”

“i’m big enough!” that’s ransom bargaining.

so what you do is put some cereal into a new bowl with a bit of yogurt and mix it all around, and you put it front of them, and you say, “just a taste.”

and the boys look at it, and you wonder if it was enough.

ransom touches it with his tongue, trying to check if the flavours are all mmm good or tasty or thanks momma!

cassian puts a glob in his mouth.

“do you feel stronger cassian?” and he has no clue what we’re asking. but we’re not asking for him. “that’s what this special cereal does…” and my eyes glance to ransom and back.

he’s studying me.

“it makes you stronger.”

ransom takes a bite and flexes and says, “look how much stronger i am!”

and then we add some raw honey to it, and they’re eating and eating and eating.

we let out a jarhead sigh, and we kiss, and then it’s off to work for me.

“josh did you put the milk back in the fridge?”

aislinn asks that as the door closes behind me.

and me, all dumb of ass, yeah i did. but lots of spoiled things get put back, babe. because the garbage truck has already come and gone.

for work today it’s finishing an essay and trying to nail down a cover design.

and what i have so far is all half of ass.

it’s all broken sentences and rough sketches. and it’s all deadlines and due dates and trying to make sure things are done on schedule.

what this means is :

my morning is all banging my head against a wall. is all trying to make progress with no success.

and since einstein supposedly said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and over and expecting different results, and since my morning has been all work your ass off for nothing, what i decide to do is errands.

the air conditioner in my car is broken, and the beads of sweat are on my brow and what you do is think of eden. and you wonder if adam ever had to deal with writer’s block and spoiled milk and a car on empty.

the radio is all Dust in the Wind, and the hot dry morning air is sauna thick. my car tells me i have about 35 miles til empty. and the check engine light is on, along with a flashing cruise.

what that means is :

the evaporative emissions system of my car is picking up on some vapour leakage. and the culprit, as far as i can tell, is the gas cap for my fuel tank. the rubber gasket is old, and what you think is, me too, and it means the gasket is brittle and has probably degraded.

i know this because the manual told me so.

waiting in line to fill up the car, the song stops and what’s on the classic rock radio station is something about a war or a pipeline or a strait.

and gas is up about fifteen cents a litre, or about forty cents a gallon for you american folks, and you quantify that in litres, or gallons of milk.

the numbers are counting up and up and up and what you imagine is the numbers rolling down down down in your bank account. what was that about pipelines, again ?

that fifteen cents up is about $10 extra for the tank, and by the sweat of my brow, this car will drive another 350 miles.

and now it’s time to haul ass and get to the hardware store because this old house, well, new to us house, loves going back to chaos. and the list in my pocket says that up to fix is the hot water tank and installing the washer and dryer and also installing some baby gates.

the copper piping has some corrosion on it and the water tank needs to be filled and aerated and probably lit. so today it’s all wd40 and it’s all new drill and ratchet set. it’s all trying to cover my ass when one of the workers comes by and asks me if i need any help.

“naw, just chipping away some corrosion and filling the hot water tank.” lifting the wd40, “want to unstick the valve and also keep the packing nut tight.” and that’s everything i memorized from what my developer friend told me.

“you sweating that copper ?” the worker asks, a hand on his hip, “or just cleaning it?”

and me, all jack of ass, all pride, says, “just cleaning it.”

but in my head, what the hell is he talking about?

“any tips for lighting the pilot?” that’s me changing topics.

“on the water heater?” he asks, crossing his arms. “what year is it?”

“not sure,” so what i do is show him the picture of the data plate i took that morning, and he grabs it and zooms in the way boomers do, and he looks up at me, over glasses and through bushy eye brows, and says:

“it’s electric.”

me all dumb of ass.

“oh.”

me all not knowing how my house works.

“you just have to flip the breaker.”

me all trying to keep up appearances.

me all pride and humiliation.

the rest of the day is working and working and bashing and bashing.

it’s another and another espresso, and it’s more broken sentences and scribbled lines. and sometimes that’s all you can do.

and then it’s time to stop bashing my dumb head against the writer’s block and take the boys out to the park. give my seven-months-pregnant wife a bit of a break. some time to catch up and rest.

so we drive in our milk money car, and we sweat of our brow because of the broken air conditioner. we sweat all the way to our favourite park by the beach. and the wind is damp and cool off the lake.

and these kids don’t care about garbage day, don’t care, really, about milk or gas or trying to prove you know something about plumbing.

them with all their infinite unknowing.

no, these kids care about rockets and trains and cars and slides and playing chase.

no, these kids care about their dad, right here, right with them.

and what that means is :

for three hours we’re running and jumping and sliding, we’re spinning and drinking water, and whatever the radio was rambling about, whatever bruise is on my dumb of ass head from the bashing, well, it doesn’t matter.

for such as these is the life of children.

by the time we’re home, we have to compress dinner and bath and story time into one. so aislinn is feeding the kids in the tub and telling them stories about whatever they ask for.

it’s about 8pm.

and what this means is :

i have to water the freshly seeded grass. the grass i raked up yesterday, filling bins and bins of dead and dried up. the bin i’m not allowed to put out at the curb til next week.

water the grass and the new plants and flowers in the garden.

a few houses have irrigation systems that sputter on and mist their respective yards.

me? i have the hose that came with this old-new house, and i have my cigarettes, and the shower setting on the spray nozzle.

me? i have my wired headphones in and the tobacco smell and about thirty minutes of slow walking in the cool of the day. trying to resurrect all this dead. trying to breathe a bit of life into this place i am calling home.

the earth drinks it all, craving life, and you’re way too tired to even begin thinking in symbolic, existential metaphors.

all you can do is inhale.

you and adam and everyone else since the beginning.

what happens next doesn’t matter. but if you must know :

i sat on the patio and read and fell asleep.

what this means is :

it was a good day.

a busy day.

a run of the mill, ordinary, perfect day.

you can read this, and you can think to yourself:

ah, i know what he meant by inherited garbage.

you might think that’s something about the sins of our fathers and learning that the life we live is both one we inherit and pass on; all the good and the mess.

you might be considering the spoiled milk :

that it must be a kind of memento mori; that some things go bad before their appointed time and that we often need decay to be pointed out to us.

you might be contemplating the sweat on our brows and the broken air conditioner and how life is, paradoxically, curse and gift.

hell, you might even be ruminating on my pride and insecurity and how sharp and quick humility is administered by the other.

or the park or the gas prices, or even trying to rake up the dead and reseed the world in the cool of the day.

and you know what, i’d tell you the same thing, i am too pure of heart and too dumb of ass to be writing think pieces. and only one of those things is a lie.

me? i’m just a thirty eight year old nobody who doesn’t have a single bona fide. oh sure, maybe there’s the physics and the theology. but that’s not what i’m talking about. not what anyone should care about.

who needs physicists or theologians to be pumping out think pieces? who cares what little ol’ me thinks about the universe or culture or the state of the geo-political stage?

no no no.

what we need are saints.

we need those who really, truly, honestly are pure of heart.

me? i’m too dumb of ass and proud of mind and bitter in soul to be all poor in spirit and peacemaking and meek.

so whenever my patio book falls out of my sleepy hand, whenever my eyes peel open and as the moon just watches me, as my arms press onto legs to stand, all that’s going on inside of me is:

where are the saints?

and what that means is…