To defy the laws of tradition...

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[dateline: 20 minutes between contractions...my anxiety contractions, that is] 

 Mmmmm, well, here's where we're at. Is this it, or just the beginning, or a false alarm, or....? I guess there's no time to reflect and superpose the future. It's kinda like, both physically and mentally, ...whereas physically it's too late to go about painting the room or rearranging the carport or whatever. Same goes mentally as well, there's no time to recoup what I didn't daydream, what I didn't predict, what I didn't capture as precious pre-arrival moments. Did I savor the moment enough, was I too lackadaisical? 

Nothing has been mapped out. All the toys and cribs, and sub-cribs, and travel cribs, and changing cribs, and parent cribs, and cribs for the cribs are bought. But no thinking through the process. Guessing I'm not the first to think so. Though I do know I didn't take enough pictures. 

How tacky. 

How automated. 

How unfortunate of I. 

 There's so many freaking checklists, I don't know where to start. Oh, I know. Let's vacuum the car. We have time. Or do we? What if we wait too late? 

I'm not ready for a natural childbirth. Wow. He could be right on time, May 27th indeedy. 

Oh no, he's here, isn't he. 

Max or Beau. 

Max or Beaux 

or Max,

 or Beau. 

Screw the X... need to figure out if it's Max or Beau. If it is Beau(x)... we'll work out integration of the X (or not). Crap, middle names haven't been figured out for Beau... we can't rule it out on that fact alone. That wouldn't be fair. Max or Beau , Max or Beau. This is all too surreal. Maybe I need to walk straightout the back door, and right into the mighty Pacific. God, she is so grand and ancient, yet alive. Stop, no time for hippie existential bullsh*t. No, can't walk out into the ocean, we're saving that for the lottery win. What. Shoot, Max or Beau. Oh boy, this is surreal. Mighty surreal. What if this, really isn't this. What if this is some elaborate sci-fi type puzzle, and I'm living it. 

Is the name of the boy the clue, was there some subconscious dream, where I had a visitor from wherever, or am I the boy? And the code word to get out of wherever I'm at (or perhaps a code word for where I need to go, or even shouldn't go) is the name. 

Blue wire, red wire, blue wire , red wire. 

Max or Beau, Max or Beau. 

Is this pressure of the moment, causing a living flashback? Is this is what the womb is like on the 11th hour? Do I stay , or do I go. (blast the Clash... not now please). Follow the light. Is that what I did? Am I mentally transported into my unborn's son's psyche. Do I need to be "guiding" him out, and into the world. 

Follow the light? That's what it's like when you're dying, right? Oh no. Is this some fabricated...

 What the f*ck?! Polo by Ralph Lauren? Why the f*ck do we have goddamn curtains made by Ralph Lauren. They're going to fade, or get thrown out, and/or not match with some freaking chair cover or lamp shade. Ralph F*cking Lauren, why not Sears Goddamn Sears? 

Max or Beau. Doesn't matter. We have time, and "we'll just know". 

 The waitress, last night, Stefana. She called it, we make, what???? the 5th in a row that she's premonition  triggered off. She's got mental issues,.... I seen breakdowns in her past, and abusive boyfriends. The psychotic often have an inane ability to "sense" things. Maybe due to the wreck she is... she can just call it easily. God, she lost a lot of weight, and is even spacier. Is all this turning me into some Bohemian "inner thought" Yoga freakoid.

 She's just lucky. Some people roll a die three times in a row, and get sixes. It happens. She could even hit a fourth, or a fifth, and it wouldn't mean squat. 

 Shut the f*ck up. Oh, wow, it's a raven on my porch. Sh*t, it's two ravens. Wait wait, what did Poe say about the Raven. Raven=death knocking/tapping at the door. This is the cycle. Stop it, it's the goddamn crows. I'm gonna kick you square in the crow warbles if you don't shut the hell up. God, your annoying. 

 We have time, what to do? Is being plugged up on the computer a good thing? And what about the car? It's ready. Gas? We'll have time. But what if, we miss the "drug cutoff", and my un-prepardness on something so basic and manditory screws that up. What CD is in there? Is it relaxing? Momentous? Something by which I'll always remember the moment by? Bowie's Station to Station. That's no good. What the? Who gives a turd. It'll be the first 40 minutes, in what should be a long event.

 Oh god, calm like a duck. I'm the coach. Auditory: this will be very straightforward. Mentally: oh god, what the hell, the nurses will guide everything, complications, getting in the way, not knowing when too much is too much, and not enough is not enough.... do I get two or three focus items? 

 Wow, I wonder what the "Marlboro Man" at the Coastal Affair coffee shop, oxygen tank in tow was like? Does he often think of his pre-day of 1st born, or day-of moment? Does he??? ...as he was working through cartons and cartons of smokes... as each month passed, and as he got closer and closer to the nifty red Nascar-Marlboro-'insert hillbilly driver's name here'-jacket that he dons (probably every weekend), ... and thusly closer to the anguish his young boy will endure when he is bedside with pops, who is hocking up lung cells to make room for the 12 molecules of oxygen he can only fit into his lungs. Or is his boy, caught on the same train bound for doom as well. If so, he won't be at his bedside, as he'll either not care, as dad had to kick him out of the house on his 37th birthday, or the county sheriff doesn't give a f*ck, ...he's stuck in lockup for another 5 weeks. 

What kind of father am I going to be ? Shoot, didn't plan enough out. Get a globe, ... geographic illiteracy is a crime. Speaking, shoot... she will be with him the most. Does it matter if he starts talking by 10 months? Shoot, I'm probably jinxing this, ...let's go for HEALTHY please. Will he be a Hansen or a Barron, or a mix. Gotta work out the Cmaj7, Bm7, Am7, G thing I came up with. Works even better on piano. God, I gotta get the studio set up. It'll never happen now. Why am I imagining his wedding day? It's not a girl? He's not even born yet? How much time do we have? All my small odd's-n-ends projects for the weekend are shot. No painting whatever artistic impressions get conjured from the long weekend. Maybe I should paint, and look back 10 months,.. no 10 years later and see why I painted what I did, and the mood behind it. 

 Hmmm, the contractions have stopped, or slowed down, or aren't regular. Is this a two day cycle? Do I go into work tomorrow? Should it matter? 

 Oh yeah, Max or Beau(x). I dig the X.

 Red wire, blue wire, red wire, blue wire.

 I've been visualizing everything, or assuming... everything. The ride to the hospital. God, it's a long way. Why did I force the San Francisco issue? The hospital. The final stages. The moments after. The next couple days after. The ride home. The first week at home. The next week. The first days back at work. But I can't visualize a face on my unborn. Makes sense. But that also shows why I haven't been able to visualize him at 2 yrs old, or 4, or 9, or walking, or whatever. Odd. Would I change anything? Do it different? This is silly. I'm being just stupid. Pragmatism will rule the order in this process. 

Affectionate pragmatism. Accepting, yet straight-forward. Why are there so many crows? Never were there this many ...10, even 5 years ago. What's crow birth like? Do they comprehend the monumental occasion of birth? It's all instinctual for them. It all just happens for them, ...just as their obnoxiousness above my house is. Survival of... It all just makes so much sense to them, yet we're coddled through the process, and have so much machinery to aid in the process. Thusly, our birthrate success amongst species and our planetary dominance. Is that wrong? Are we interferring in mother nature? Should I even be questioning that, with MY OWN child on the way? Can I challenge that premise after he arrives? Have I already jinx'd myself? 

 My mind is so calm right now, but so busy. Can't find an anology to describe it. Just all these mental images, both forwards and backwards, racing through, ...with an underlying "calming uneasiness" about it. That's it. Seems odd, but a calming uneasy feeling. The visualizations are tremendous, but very soft and quite unalarming. 

Where will I be a year from now? Rushing out to get ice for some one-year birthday party (which always serves for the adult guests). Heineken or Sierra, Heineken or Sierra, Max or Beau, Beaux or Max. Red wire, blue wire, red wire, blue wire. Who do I call? Ahead of time? On our way? After the delivery? Right before? And whose on the list, besides the usuals? Don't want to be calling people, to have them saying, "why the f*ck is he calling me? it's nice, but I wouldn't of guessed to be part of the 'initial call group'". I'm not a showboater... by heaven's, no. Quite the opposite,... the nonchalant don't-make-a-scene type... oh no, so I'm prone to leave people out. There will be time, though, to recall. Sh*t, I know I can't have everyone's phone number that I need. Betting she has that all spec'd and written out. If not, more exposure on "dropping the ball". There will be some people that get all sore, that I didn't whatever. I'll just know. Just as I'll know the name to go with. I can't rush into a name, that is horrific. Is that procrastination at it's worst. Or have the most prepared individuals had the same dilemna. Bet the flight ops controller in Houston or Cape Canaveral or wherever for Apollo 72 or the Shuttle Enterwhatever , the most critically prepared individual on the face of the Earth... didn't have a name finalized either. It's not such a This is intense. The emotions, the nervousness. And it's not the nervousness for the birthing, ...I'm the calm. I'm the order. The peace. I can't be nervous. The nervousness is the forwardness of parenthood. It's here. It's the night before my first day of school, and high school. The night before my wedding (wellll, maybe not). The night before the Finance 435 final. The night before my own birth. 

My situation is so insignificant, compared to the organism that is the Earth. 

 Other babies are being born, and my baby is being born. 

 Someone is being tortured in a cell, and my baby is being born. 

 A Marlboro Man somewhere, is wanting to die, and my baby is being born.

 Mutli-billion dollar deals are falling through, and my baby is being born. 

 My sister is at home, thinking of us every half hour or so, and my baby is being born. 

 A flashlight has been left on, and what's left of the cells barely give any light, and my baby is being born. 

 Work is decaying my talents and drive, and my baby is being born. 

 There's a horrific accident on some interstate, and my baby is being born. 

 Trillions of ants are scurring around in the Sierras, planes bound for Boston from Atlanta are departing and arriving, the province of Alberta is "business as usual", with all it's significant and insignificant happenings, and a pothole on some road in some town in some country even, is getting bigger and bigger and yeah, my baby is being born. 

 What the? Wife is in the outer yard, ...gardening. Squatting in the dirt, pulling weeds and planting... who cares what's she's planting. How primordial is that? I imagine there are some pregnant woman half-way around the world, who tend to the fields/paddies right up to the moment. Leaning over in anguish, with the other farmers coming by her side, as she lies on her side and delivers amongst the bok choy. She's crushing a couple sprouts. That's worth $.02 each at some market 5 months from now. That woulda paid for some percentage of some bartered good. Oh, leave her be. Maybe the gardening will help move things along, they make you walk around the neighborhood at the hospital if you're "not ready". Her energy and drive is unfathomable at times.

 She will be a great mother to my son.

 And I will be a great dad. Won't I. 

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