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Soul Mates painting by Rahul MalpaniMythology is rich with allusion to the bond men and women share. Many cultures have myths depicting an initial male/female pairing which produced mankind. In others, such as some Hindu myths, man and woman are initially one entity, not so much human as an essence, which eventually splits in two—those two halves wind up in a life long search for one another to attain the completeness they once shared.

Ever had that feeling after seeing, or just being in a persons presence, that there is something deeper that resonates more than you could possibly describe? A yin to your yang? Moon to your sky?

Greek mythology tells us of Orpheus, a man who so loved his wife that he traveled into the underworld to petition Hades, god of the underworld, for the release of her soul. Orpheus, perhaps the best lyre player in the Greek pantheon, was said to have learned his skill for playing the lyre from Apollo. It is told that as he played for Hades the normally immovable god was moved to tears. So enchanted was he that Orpheus was granted his wife’s release, but only upon one condition: he could not look back to see if she was following until they had completely exited. Orpheus, during the arduous trek back to the entrance, had plenty of time to convince himself that Hades was tricking him. He kept his eyes forward until almost the very moment he reached the exit, but having not heard or received any sort of sign his beloved was behind him he turned to look behind, only to see his love be dragged back into the underworld forever.

We’ve all felt that at some point, right? That tragic heartbreak. Each of us, at some level, knows that gut wrenching feeling that feeds on an almost never ending series of questions and self-doubt—What if I would have not said a word? What if I had remained calm? Why didn’t I act differently? Orpheus’ loss is perhaps a direct metaphor for our own regrets.

Carl Jung believed that later in life, once we are past young adulthood, we spend the remainder of our lives trying to understand, to get in touch with, our unconscious, that we make choices based upon this drive to become more familiar with a part of us we know little about. Is that place where our better halves reside? Why do they seem so utterly elusive?

A fascinating correlation, and certainly not anything resembling an answer—this very connection Jung attributes to the inner part of one’s personality is known as the animas for men, the animus for women. It is possibly the deepest part of us, the very core of what we strive to understand and connect with; for men, our feminine side, our animas; for women, their masculine side, their animus. Perhaps this very concept is why an individual so deeply resonates with us. Perhaps they are most closely connected to our core than others.

The question then seems to be: Are they—our soul mate, if you will—impossible to find? Should we simply settle for something good instead of great?

Or are they—as I believe—simply within reach and waiting for our touch, and we for theirs.

Contemporary romanticism or fallacious mythology?

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I had intended to write about my recent experience with engine seizure—not the kind where your car engine is held as evidence, but rather where it shows no evidence of life. Problem is, it’s not an uncommon story, and while the challenge would be to make such a subject entertaining it would also have delayed me from something far more impactful (well, to me at least).

I hopped online to read a few blogs, and happened upon SlightlyIgnorant’s blog. I was wailing away at my response, fingers desperately trying not to fly into each other, when I came to a word that I wasn’t sure of the spelling. So I stood up and retreived my old copy of The American Heritage Dictionary’s Word Book. I don’t reach for it often, but like any dependable friend you don’t feel right unless it’s nearby. I cracked it open and was immediately hit by that scent . . . that comfortable scent of old book.

Anyone who has read since childhood knows precisely the scent I refer to. It has the ability to instantly transport you to any time, and conjur a detailed image of that time—certainly a time spent in the wise company of a good book.

My time was a day at my paternal grandparents house when I was perhaps no more than 5 or 6 years old. I remember my grandmother having a bunch of old books lying about. I don’t recall the titles, but they were softcover, I do remember that. I had picked one of them up to glance through it, see what it was about.

Less than a second; I’m sure that’s all it took. The scent enveloped my head like a velvety invisible cloud. The unmistakable scent of old paper, pages nestled against one another for too many years to remember. It was heady, insistent, almost violently pacifying. But it was no less warm and comforting.

To this day I find used book stores genuinely appealing. Shelves of books, rows and columns of them, all wanting for nothing more than your touch. I know I’m not the only person who possesses this wonderful malaise, for I can look up in most any nook of a bookstore and see someone lost in the same momentary reverie. The surrounding world vaporizes, if only for thirty seconds. Some of us even dare to bury our noses in the binding and inhale deeply, allowing ourselves to quickly pay a visit to an old friend.

The pages of my Word Book are aged a warm golden hue from the edges in, the white of their birth a long faded memory. It’s welcoming and genuine, just like a friend who comes knocking at your door for no other reason than “just because.”

So you draw the door open and let their smile wash over you. And then the feeling hits you—perhaps the same one you feel when you open a book . . . or revisit an old book . . . an old friend.

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After mulling over the current recession, I have had something of a media-related epiphany. It seems obvious to me now that the economy is analagous to the marketing of a movie. Consider the following, if you will . . .

The Spin and Hype
You’ve paid your admittance (taxes, everywhere you burn cash . . . or earn cash)
You sit in the darkened theater waiting for your feature to start.
You are shown a number of previews for upcoming releases (Government spin doctors explaining how the scent of manure actually means the economy is rosy; sort of a ‘plausible deniability’ ploy).

The Previews
Most often, it’s the best or funniest bits of a movie that make it into the preview. That’s just Marketing 101. There’s little hint of the bad parts (unless the movie itself is just awful to begin with, and we’ve all seen at least one of those, haven’t we?) So we get the short attention span version of the movie, the warm fuzzy version that the studio wants us to see, to draw us in.

“It’s worth shelling out to see. C’mon, you’ll enjoy it Bring the family, have some popcorn!”

So based on what we’re shown, things seem in control and pretty good. Slick production, decent casting.

Months, or a Year Later . . . The Movie
We sat through the previews, we saw the commercials, read the ads in newspapers and magazines, and blissfully waited for the big premier. It promised to be quite the event, a true enough blockbuster.

And then it hits the screen, and you begin to question the hype. You feel cheated, maybe even angry that you were suckered into plunking down your hard earned (well-taxed) cash for this stinker. What really galls you is you could have waited to rent it, much less “own it on DVD or Blue Ray.”

Yet own it we do, while all playing parts as extras. It’s the Heaven’s Gate of economies.

The really scary part is some villian somewhere gave the greenlight to produce this mess, and is now skulking in some darkened corner, coveting all the cash he’s siphoned off in the process.

Out here in the desert Southwest, we’re seeing lots of empty storefronts, and not just mom-and-pop shops either: Mervyn’s, Linens And Things, large K-Marts, and numerous car dealerships. Unemployment is above 6% and rising. Assuredly that’s just scratching the surface. Things are at least as bad, if not worse, in other parts of the country.

This script needs a serious re-write, and an entirely new production team, starting with the director. Throwing money at it, Hollywood-style, isn’t going to do much but provide some cool special effects—and once those have passed then what do you have?

Things will get better, they always do. Meanwhile, however, I can tell you that ain’t butter on your popcorn, and those Raisinets may not be what you’re accustomed to. There’s an old adage which holds true for anything bad, not just movies and economies . . .

You can’t polish a turd.

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Think of the times you’ve painted a room or a wall, maybe washed and waxed your car, or finished writing that story or personal piece you’ve had on the back burner since you can’t remember when. Times like these we all lapse into momentary vanity . . . admit it. I always stand back and admire my car after all that work (which I haven’t done for quite some time)—and if you haven’t taken the opportunity to stand back and gloat after painting an entire room then you’ve never painted a room or you’re waaaaaaay too focused on accomplishment and don’t enjoy results enough.
This is one of those moments for me. I’ve been plugging away at piecing together those things which are, from a style and presentation perspective, far better handled on an external site than here. I think the two compliment each other well, but then, that’s me.
                                                 www.avomnia.com
There she is! The link is also located at the lower right in my BlogRoll. If you have any feedback then please let me know!

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While browsing around the WordPress blogosphere I found this little internet tidbit–gimmicky, sure, and not entirely accurate (at least I don’t think so), but intriguing to see the results. If you’re the least bit tempted, or in need of some momentary amusement, check out the Typealyzer.

typealyzer_results1

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This is important: This piece is in no manner, shape, or form about my beliefs or perspectives on God. It nothing to do with God except where mentioned. If you must know, it has everything to do with a man I once worked with, although “with” is hardly the proper word to use—as far as He was concerned we all worked for Him. This is about as complimentary as I can be about the guy.
So what follows is about him, not Him.
.


A large picture window, roughly ten feet wide by five feet high, frames the beginnings of a crisp February morning in Franklin Square—From five stories up a faux blanket of gentle white snow covers all exposed to it in its wintery state of grace—all but the pine trees bereft of foliage. The sun catches the veneer of white just right and it springs to life in a quiet burst of refracted sparkles.
From within the warm interior of a high rise the picture, as presented, seems almost idyllic, if it weren’t for the knowledge of reality just beyond the pane. For stepping outside the conditioned confines of the building presently brings natures truth to bear—a pristine, non-apologetic, cold slap in the face. The white isn’t snow at all, it’s one constant sheet of ice. Clouds amble along, caressing the blue with the feinged innocence of white and shaded gray underbellies; and the wind is no afterthought—it’s an invisible blade used by Mother Nature as an ever-present stilleto.
Looking out from the inside is the visual equivalent of Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the Reed Flutes: cotton candy for the eyes, an impish prance-around for the unwary, or reality-adverse. The other side of the glass is more like Greig’s The Hall of the Mountain King, slightly mischeivous, encroaching, closer to the aural truth.
The Pretender, ever content to avoid the truth, sits amongst the reed flutes, ignominiously parading about as the self-imposed Greatness He is, baton ready to cast direction upon all within His purview, blissfully unaware of the rich complexities on the other side of the picture frame.
Why can’t all simply accept his innate Goodness and kneel in rapt loyalty before Him? Truly, the square peg is only square because everyone else chooses to see it as such—with little to no demonstrative exertion or effort on His part, the peg shall also succumb to His All-Knowing Greatness and plummet without resistance into its assigned round hole.
And all shall be right with the world. So let it be written, so let it be done.
The everyday-man, the politician, the celebrity—all pay solicitude to the rigors of daily reality, deftly walking the blurred line between choice and reason with caution, and upon abandonment of either allow themselves to become the usurped slaves of the Great Pretender, riding the wave’s chicane towards the Promised Horizon. No mountain or valley shall be an obstacle if liquid be thy carrier. Careen atop the wave’s ridge carefully, notice the wave is comprised of the actions of many, not the purported achievements of the few. The far wiser stand upon the beach, having a healthy respect for tide and current, and the counsel of experience.
But listen to the donkey bray and know that he is trying to tell you something. In his own convoluted, perhaps misunderstood way, he beseeches all to listen, stirred beyond all doubt that he is right, if not harmfully stubborn. Some will pity the donkey.
Some will use it as a beast-of-buden.
Others will listen long enough and come to understand, even speak, the donkey’s language.
It has been noted in some circles of civilized society that there is little difference between the jackass and man. Also noted has been the tongue-in-cheek philosophic reply: Does this not wrong the jackass?
Is the Pretender so far removed from His own humanity that He fails to see it in those around him? Has He enthroned Himself as the Lumberjack Sultan, and all those around him but His forest, each tree only His own to fell and use as He sees fit? Again, the wiser of us heed the whisper of the forest, even take refuge in its requiem of peacefulness, embracing its natural resourcefulness, not merely using its resources.
So why fight the Great Pretender—maybe for the chance to prove what’s right or wrong . . . or only to prove what’s gone? Is the Pretender really so bad. Is He a pawn within His own game, perhaps only playing by rules which He believes are part of the current game? The smell of His seduction makes it hard to breathe.
Is He calloused or numb from God knows what: the tenacious mourn of heartbreak, the vile mingling of tears and anger, pride swallowed whole?
As light begins to melt into muted evening the ice sheet becomes a linear representation of ying-and-yang, the lengthy, dark shadows of buildings cast their pall upon the Square, displacing the allure of innocence with the Mona Lisa smile of darkness. The ten-by-five foot window frame slowly becomes at once a window and a mirror. In the sharpest of glimpses could it be that the soft, almost transparent reflection in the glass is the Great Pretender?

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The middle.
Though out of reach, its part in the natural order places us under its invisible sieges:
“I’ll meet you halfway”
“Give me half-and-half”
“We’ll split the difference”

Somewhere in the nebulous center there should be harmony, a place where peaceful agreeability exists, bound by its own mass. Forces exponentially greater exert influences which needle, stretch, and distort the core’s tenuous calm.

Shadow will settle for nothing less than the complete abdication of light, and light fights to surgically excise any intrusion of dark. Passion, in its proper form, becomes bent and lame when confronted with the dull-edged gravitas of Power.

The nucleus contorts, grossly misshapen.

“So, offer to meet halfway.” But that’s not near good enough. Tentacles of soulless greed slither insidiously around the wobbling intermediate mass, desperately seeking a submissive choke hold, all manner of distraction and misdirection at the ready—the Dark steels itself with Rationalization, thus allowing for its claim to breath and balance of all under its sway.

As with any attack, Time becomes an indelible part of the equation; time isn’t always kind to those waylaid by siege. What’s needed here is some Trojan resourcefulness, an offering of appeasement so delicious, so innocuously creative, that even the compassionless are compelled to try and warm the outer fringes of otherwise icy blue souls.

A showing of kindness or quiet subservience would only serve to lull the beast into complacent dominance. No, what’s needed is a shock to the system. Just as a loud thunderclap or haunting nightmare might make you sit bolt upright from a dead sleep, so too must be the application of said solution, the only desired outcome being a sweat-on-the-brow, eyes slamming wide open epiphany. The sudden jolt will assuredly only anger the beast, for it can see no further than its own causes and needs. That is all that matters, and it is that very fact which it much physically infuse into Light.

But Light always has a better grasp of things than the Dark presumes.

So when the balance of power shifts—and it will shift—it may anger, but it will also weaken The Nothingness. Light doesn’t crave servitude, platitudes, or selfish indulgences—it understands that balance is crucial to the survival of the whole entity. There must be a give and take on both sides of the core.

The fulcrum will slide to center eventually, when the intentions of our better angels take flight with the moon on their wings. Dark will do its utmost to shield, deflect, and deprive, for it is always what it’s best at. But when the moment comes, it will be blindsided, for Shadow can’t understand the Trojan Horse any more than it can understand any of history’s lesson. The depth of its understanding is relegated to its own selfishness, its unquenchable demand for acquiescence.

Until it can warm to the heart of the human soul, it will never comprehend the desirable destination located East of the Sun and West of the Moon . . . at the eye of the storm.

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They say that these are not the best of times
But they’re the only times I’ve ever known
And I believe there is a time for meditation
In cathedrals of our own

There is, for those of us fortunate enough to experience it, a slippery—if silent—ascension and declination to our passage through life. Times are what they are. We make the best of it and do what’s necessary to move from one point in our timeline to the next—and when we can’t find it within ourselves to summon the strength to do so there most always seems to be something, or someone, with a presence of spirit to help us get to our feet again. Take care of ourselves (and maybe even each other) and the next dawn will come.

Now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover’s eyes
And I can only stand apart and sympathize
For we are always what our situations hand us
It’s either sadness or euphoria

Transient, yes, but powerfully tangible. You can build your wall as high as you dare, but if within the confines of your heart you posses even the slightest shred of compassion or humanity, then assuredly you can peer within another’s eyes and feel the looming precipice of melancholy. Hide behind whatever you like, but the chasm will find you . . . or more likely, you will stumble upon it and your own coldness will still you in your tracks. Which situation lingers in your eyes when you look in the mirror?

So we’ll argue and we’ll compromise and realize that nothing’s ever changed
For all our mutual experience our separate conclusions are the same
Now we are forced to recognize our inhumanity
A reason co-exists with our insanity
And though we choose between reality and madness
It’s either sadness or euphoria

Heat and chill, freeze and thaw. We’re all steeped in our own microcosms to the point of inflexibility. We steadfastly cling to the one viewpoint that matters: our own. Why, when so much can be gained from simply listening and considering. Polarity is strongest when two opposites are near each other, but find a way to gently mediate or slowly distance the two and the influence of one upon the other weakens.

How thoughtlessly we dissipate our energies
Perhaps we don’t fulfill each others fantasies
But as we stand upon the ledges of our lives
With our respective similarities
It’s either sadness or euphoria

~lyrics by Billy Joel

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Rest, and a plan. The Continental Army of 1776 needed both, and quickly. Britain had spent the better part of the sweltering summer amassing her troops just south of Brooklyn—in staggering numbers; General George Washington had approximately 10,000 troops, while British Generals Cornwallis and Clinton had three times as many, around 30,000. The fledgling Continental Army was largely untrained, with the exception of some leadership with prior military experience.

As far as the Brits were concerned, the initial assault on Long Island was intended to be decisive. King George III had had enough of the upstart colonies and wasn’t going to stand for their recent treasonous act of declaring independence. They would go to New York and make the loss a painful one—and they almost succeeded. In late August they came at the Continentals full bore, and exacted a heavy toll. As the Continental Army began its retreat back towards Brooklyn Heights it looked like the revolution might come to a swift end. Come night fall the Continental Army set up camp since the British, having called off the assault for the time being, were preparing for siege.

The British failed to press their advantage, opting to wait for the Americans inevitable surrender.

Under cloak of night, the Continentals mustered every possible water-borne craft they could, deserting their encampment and slipping across the East River into Manhattan. Some 9,000 troops and all their supplies had to make the crossing though, and there weren’t enough hours of darkness to protect them all. Dawn came and the crossing still hadn’t been completed. The weather, however, conspired in favor of the Americans, something which George Washington would later describe as an event which “some would attribute to chance, but which clearly came from the invisible hand which conducts the affairs of men.”

A thick fog, apparently highly uncommon for that time of year, settled in over the entire area, allowing the entire Continental Army to slip across the river and into Manhattan, out of Britain’s grasp. The Redcoats did arrive at the American encampment later that morning, only to find it completely empty.

The Americans had simply vanished.

A New Revolution or A Step Towards Socialized Democracy?

Explain it away as you wish or prefer, but there was unarguably something far more powerful than man at work that morning. There was a higher reason why thick fog silently settled in and helped to conceal the Americans retreat that morning. Part of that reason is written in Latin on the back of our one dollar bill: Annuit Coeptis . . . He favors our undertaking. Surely we were meant to be a country of great things, bestowed with blessings unequaled elsewhere.

So now we’ve elected a man who’s tied to people who don’t approve of the American ideal. People who have tried everything from violence to corruption to destabilize and undo what our fore bearers set out to accomplsh—to set asunder what Providence so graciously granted us.

He extols the virtues of socialized medicine, medical coverage for everyone! In theory it sure sounds nice, and certainly sounds like the right thing to do. But has anyone taken a look at, say, Canada’s health care system, or France’s, or Great Britain’s. You think you have to wait a long time in a doctors office now, wait until everyone can get an appointment when they have a sniffle, or a tummy ache, or bump their head when they pass out from drinking. The best part . . . you and I get to subsidize it! Doesn’t that sound great! Oh, and once the ball gets rolling, forget about seeing an OB/GYN if you suspect your wife is pregnant—that could mean a wait of almost half of her term (if not more) before she ever makes her first appointment. And that’s just the beginning.

His plan to “spread the wealth” involves taxing anyone making more than $250,000 a year, then handing that money down to those who pay no taxes at all. That means, in large part, those too damned lazy to get a job in the first place. He says this will help the struggling middle class. Well, I’m part of that middle class, and I sure as hell make nothing close to $250k a year, but I won’t see any of that money—because I work for a living. But that extra help “for those who need it” I’m sure secured a substantial number of votes. And yes, I absolutely understand that a lot of people have been put out of work because of our struggling/anemic economy. I say we start with all those CEO’s and other executives making obscene salaries—let’s spread some of their wealth around, or better yet, take some of that largess and create a dozen well-paying jobs with benefits.

The wealthy do shoulder (believe it or not) a larger tax burden than the average Joe. Short of tales like Robin Hood, when was the last time you actually saw money taken from the rich and truly given to the needy or less privileged, at least by the government? Yes, there are plenty of bona fide organizations who do excellent work in extending a helping hand to those in need. But when Mr. Employer begins to see his bottom line shrink, well the only way to keep that bottom line in some shape is to reduce your labor cost—at least that’s the traditional view. Screw doing away with expensive junkets, controlling costs, or focusing on your business’s core strengths . . . go right for the head count. So when businesses get hit with the extra tax burden, don’t be surprised when unemployment creeps up. Ooooh, and that’s going to mean even more unemployment tax too. Nice!

And what of America’s military? Pfft, apparently our military just isn’t good enough anymore. He wants to create a “civilian military”. He stated “We cannot continue to rely on our military in order to achieve the national security objectives we’ve set. We’ve got to have a civilian national security force that’s just as powerful, just as strong, just as well-funded.” Cool! Umm, but where is all this extra money going to come from? We’re already giving away the extra money scraped from the higher-earning bracket to the “middle class”. You want to cut funding to the current military, which will weaken it. And what about protecting our borders—I don’t recall a whole lot of discourse about protecting our borders during the campaign, much less anything about retaining our national sovereignty.

Here’s a related thought to his proposed civilian military: Wouldn’t that constitute a sort of police state? You know what, he’s going to need it if the government completely tanks our monetary system. They’ve spent so much, and owe so much, we are rapidly approaching the point where we can no longer service the debt—we won’t be able to repay just the interest on the debt we owe. When that happens, you watch what  “we the people” do.

It Bothers Me, And Yet . . .

I watched Obama way back, I’m guessing close to a couple years ago, during a speech he was making while feeling out whether or not to run for the presidency. I distinctly remember thinking “this man will be president someday.” I’ve watched him on and off during the campaign and debates, and he’s a hell of an orator. He speaks of “change” and “hope,” both things we desperately need in this country. We need a man in charge who can put those words into motion, who can take an illusionary ideal and before our eyes deliver something concrete and beneficial to the country.

Deep down my heart says he can do it. It urges me to give him a chance. The little bit of his election victory speech that I heard was incredible. I so very much want to believe in him, as much as I believe in America, but I have little belief or trust in politicians. Did everybody forget that they work for us, WE THE PEOPLE?

Maybe, I pray with all my heart that maybe our ‘leaders’ will finally quit screwing around with our country and Constitution and get back to doing what WE are asking them to do. Take care of our nation’s business . . . not yours, not your family’s, not your political party’s . . . our nation’s. Or it is not entirely outside the realm of possibility that like the Continental Army on that late August night in 1776, everything we’ve worked for, everything our fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters have fought and died for, could simply vanish.

And by the time we wake up and go looking for it, it will be gone.

Providence be with us.

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So I get up this morning and check my mail, as is my ritual in this Information Age (c’mon, you do it too).  I see my son has sent me something. I figure it’s some pictures of post-game events from the World Series. I open it to find the piece below. I have to read it twice because I’m trying to figure out where it came from. They look like words he’d use, but I rarely see any of his creative writing. So it’s not that I’m dubious about its source, but I’m curious as to its attribution. So after school I call him up:

“Hey, I really like that piece you sent me this morning,” I say. “Did you write that?”

“Yeah” he replies. Like his dad, he’s not always a big talker.

“I thought you did, but just wanted to be sure. It’s really good. It shows a maturity, style-wise, well past fourteen-and-a-half years of age. I really like it.” I can actually hear him smile on the other end, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Did you show your mom yet?”

“No, not yet.” I’ve impressed upon him the importance of showing her, and then garner his permission to post it. Just because I’m his father doesn’t give me the automatic right to post his creation; getting permission is the right thing to do.

So now you know the story, and below is what he sent me (from his iPod, no less). I am unspeakably proud and genuinely touched that he has thought so much of our time together. Baseball is, indeed, a valuable national pastime.

Dad: 1
Video Game: 0

Waiting for the gates to open
Hearing all the voices around me
Walking in the park
Hearing the crack of the ball leaving the bat during batting practice.
Watching the fans begging the outfielders for a fly ball.
Sitting in my seat next to my dad. We are both admiring the sights, sounds, and smells of our typical day at the ballpark. Smelling the grass in the field, and the faint scent of fresh paint of the sidelines and batters box.
Hearing the chatter of the players in the dugout, watching them spit out their sunflower seeds onto the field. Watching everyone and everything.
Mostly just sitting there and admiring the time I’m spending with my dad.

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