I took my car to the dealership for electrical work.
The technician had me get in and test everything.
When I pressed the steering wheel to test the horn, a loud voice said, “OUI.”
“What the hell is that?”
“We installed a French horn.”
.
Susurrus
The weary and tested among us felt the skitter of the susurrus in the early morning. Unlike two years ago, we didn’t stare vacantly into the nothing.
Him.
Again.
F***.
This susurrus brought the most dangerous of things. A possible lifting of dread, the merest reflection of a glimmer of hope. Its whisper derives from the collective disquiet of those who’ve recently benefited from the usurper summoning all manner of power. And it only happened because the inevitable consequence of the unqualified with a blunt hammer ripping their pocketbooks.
We’ve been kicked with entropy. No matter what progress is made, it can be wrenched from us and stained. Entropy in nature describes the inevitability of order to disorder. In information theory, it describes the amount of uncertainty or hidden information inside a system. People can be fickle, guided by enrichment, and distracted by the loudest and dumbest voice in the room.
We cannot easily slip comfortably back to assuming that the absence of visible snarls equates to kindness or benevolence. Chaos sits behind us, unseen, ready to justify all manner of things we label as heinous.
He who knocks once shall knock again. If we drop our guard, there will always be another “he.”
Those who would say, “It was another election, one among many, bearing no particular significance,” are wrong. The rise of an unqualified power monger gave similar license for people to put aside the veneer of civility and embrace the chaos. He brought frailty to the balance of power, and he did so willingly. Using the shield of adopted and false faith, he pushed the banner of infringement. His interests, his money, his power – all in a way that surpassed even the most brazen of predecessors. Erode the media, implode the infrastructure of government, vilify with intent to subvert, and cash in.
The danger was not his presence. It was the lack of systemic controls to hinder such a person. His most ardent supporters were not created by him; they were revealed. Those who stayed silent through benefit declared their allegiance toward economy over people resoundingly.
This election is largely a referendum on direction and economy.
But those who shake their heads in denial that it was also a rebuke of such men are attempting to deviate the narrative toward normalcy. Taking time to understand your complicity in his emergence and dominance will cost you a sliver of your humanity.
This was not normal, not even by the standard of a country once warring with itself over its existence.
The susurrus of yesterday might well swell to a crescendo of change. It might easily falter and evaporate, too, creating more apathy in some and cynicism in others.
Taken as a whole, this election was a “No.”
As strongly as you might continue to object, this election was either a way station on the road to democracy’s ongoing erosion, or a slap to those responsible to remind them what governance must look like.
Assuming we manage to extricate ourselves from the lunacy of this type of governance, he will be forever remembered as failure personified.
This election came away with orange-stained fingers, after having slapped its rebuke.
Firsts
I just put myself down for two genius points.
I went to Harps to buy a few things. (Because that’s what I normally do there.) I popped out of my car for a second to say hello to someone I knew. When I came out with my bags of groceries, I realized my car was running and the keys were locked in it.
After updating my payment information and battling the glare of my phone, I ordered an Uber. The driver was there immediately and that confused to me. Since I usually park at the end of the lot, I looked up to see him waiting for me at the entrance, as if he had teleported. He drove a Tesla, so I couldn’t be sure this wasn’t just more crazy technology they threw in there recently.
As soon as I got to my apartment, promptly ordered a return Uber to Harps. It immediately indicated that another Tesla was less than a minute away. By the time I walked down the stairs, he pulled in.
I assumed it was the same driver. It wasn’t. Just another Tesla.
So I rode in a Tesla for the first time and the second time technically within 3 minutes of each other. I’d always imagined my first Tesla ride would be in a high-speed pursuit.
{ I stopped on the way home for gas. One reason I stopped was that it’s difficult to put gas in while still driving. The other reason is in case I try to earn another genius point and duplicate my feat of stupidity for the second time in one day. It’s almost worth it, just to test the theory that my next Uber will be another Tesla. }
Before The Storm
The bad stormfront hasn’t reached here quite yet. But the winds are intermittently powerful.
I’m used to seeing some strange things in the dead of the night.
Had the balloons been red when they flew across, I would have looked around for Pennywise. I had no idea what was floating and caught in a wind vortex in the gap valley between the big buildings.
It was only spitting a little rain, so I stopped and watched the arch of balloons float around and finally land.
Gone
How bizarre it is to wander barefoot in what was once my favorite backwoods. Huge expanses now visibly surrender due to the recent clear cutting and brush hogging. On the inside edge where it once required nerves of steel to traverse the brambles, there are gaps that force me see the unsuspecting people on the trail.
The immense tree that I climbed much too high to get the picture of the hawk completely caught off guard as it looked across in shock at seeing a human right across from it and taking its picture…that tree is a memory.
On a day like today, the cloudy October sky flying by due to the approaching rain, it’s beautiful. A red-tailed hawk flew by and acknowledged me. But the dozen variety of other birds that always welcome to me here, they are absent. The gap in the canopy overhead is an offense to me.
Convenience of access holds no advantage because people will not take the time to walk through here. The clog of foliage that once stood here was barrier enough to keep it private for me and provided the sanctuary of the birds and animals that I used to watch and listen to.
Maybe if the brilliant engineers erect the proposed steel bridge that will overpass the slippery and often submerged water dam, I will have fingers crossed that almost no one will deviate from the new concrete trail. They’ll pass through and eventually the foliage will reclaim its territory. I will, of course, find a new path, one that ignores the modern convenience of a direct dry walk.
The old long-buried sidewalk to nowhere takes offense at being exposed and replaced.
The trees that surrendered to gravity but kept growing, the overreaching and tangled branches, they have been truncated after decades of winding their way almost horizontally across the land. Not even the worst storms could suppress them. Blades could.
My gaggle of crows sits along the creek bed, shouting and screaming. Though I’m sure their screeches derive from something mundane, I’m blaming it on this new absence.
What once was mine now belongs to everyone. Which is to say, no one.
It’s possible to walk through the beauty once all of this is done. That’s all it’ll be.
Passing through, rendered as observers only.
Nothing beats feet uninterrupted on the ground, surrounded by the mess and chaos that nature offers.
Maybe one day I’ll stop bitching about all this.
Time heals wounds but salts memories.
Dark Wit
By 2:30 a.m. I looped back into the cacophony. I had fled from the urban streets. It was a crescendo of raucousness, both of loud vehicles and people who had declared war on bedtime – and sensibility. Maybe daylight savings granted them another hour, but most of them were not advocating for carpe diem. The only thing they will be seizing is ibuprofen whenever they crawl out of bed later. I’m accustomed to aberrant traffic and people after midnight on Sunday morning, but this was wild.
The rain had departed, leaving a beautiful, mist-filled 60° landscape. I found a couple of my favorite canopied and streetlightless neighborhoods. The trees dripped and pinged against the carpet of leaves the weather brought down. No truer Halloween smell of childhood could have been found.
Around 3:15, I took a detour on Leverett from Poplar. I saw and heard a couple approaching. They discussed the relative paradox of seeking social interaction while simultaneously imbibing to such a degree that they would have no recollection of it. That’s not me paraphrasing in my particular way. They were obviously educated and accustomed to speaking like spilled thesauruses. I burst out laughing when I saw them and they loved my reaction. They were both pirates, except they had gender-reversed their costumes.
“Are you out walking for leisure at this hour?”
I knew I had to repay their conversation with wit. “I’m currently investigating anecdotal reports of piracy.”
I went on to explain to them that I had heard their conversation way before I could see them clearly.
“Ah! Yes, that’s true. We don’t drink but we do partake of the giggle smoke.”
Me: “Of course. That’s precisely why they refer to it as the high seas.”
They both laughed. The man, dressed impeccably as a woman, snorted. “How is it that such a pun didn’t occur to me?”
That’s how it came to be that I stood on the wide sidewalk at 3:20 a.m., having one of the most humor and pun-filled conversations I could possibly imagine. In another life, those people would be my tribe.
It’s interesting to me that I deviated hard to get away from people, only to have my best conversation upon my return to the relatively busy streets.
Today would have been my brother’s 61st birthday. If he were still alive, I would call him: “Happy birthday. How’s my favorite head-up-his-ass conservative doing?” He would make an obvious comment about Obama and then do his best Bill O’Reilly impression.
PS did you know that Tom Cruise was born as Thomas Mapother IV?
Fair
This warmer October weather also brought a resurgence of the stingers. I’m the self-appointed pest control worker for the apartments.
Foolishly, I assumed we were past the possibility of these bastards. I knew better, but I let my guard down.
How I avoided getting stung earlier is a mystery that rivals the heads on Easter Island. My crime was walking by as they hid inside the mounting fixture of an outdoor door light.
I returned after a brief bit of calisthenics and windmilling stupidly as they buzzed in on me.
I left a warning for any of their counterparts who would try to attack me without warning.
I don’t mind so much if I can see them or have a fair chance. All this sneakiness on their part is simply unacceptable.
“Free” Fall
To allay the potential pearl clutching, I immediately took my hacksaw down and cut off the exposed rebar that tripped the visiting sister downstairs. They haven’t been here long enough to understand that the landlords won’t come to fix something like that. It’s on us and it’s usually me who does it. Part of the price of my free labor is that I get to perform practical jokes.
Maybe my doorframe guillotine was a bit too much. (I’m just kidding.)
I watched her fall. She already has an arm brace on her right arm. She was not looking down when she tripped, although her version of events tell it differently.
If I were a lawyer, here’s what I would say:
“Your contention is that you were looking down?”
“Yes.”
“That assertion strains credibility. For if you were indeed looking down, it’s only logical to conclude that you saw the obstruction and stepped under it anyway.”
Visiting nieces and nephews watched me walk down the stairs with my chalk. When they realized what I was writing, they burst out laughing. The niece asked me to sign it with. “-R,” as all of them have names that begin with that letter.
The sister who fell already has a reputation for inattentiveness. The arm brace that preceded the fall tends to lend credibility to that reputation.
I may need a neck brace of my own once the sister sees the message I chalked on the pavement. She does not have a sense of humor like the two occupants below me who I know well. The “wife” of the duo below me has an incredible laugh, one that’s loud and infectious. I’ll let her know she needs to infect her sister with it.
Update: the downstairs neighbor burst into laughter, laughter that I could hear from inside my apartment. It complemented the beautiful fall day. (No pun intended.)
Legacy Of Memory
This is one of those posts I wrote knowing I couldn’t dare rewrite it or reread it, not even for grammar. It had to just spill out, probably absent context and subtlety. I hate pulling my punches.
Sometimes I can’t be a speaker for the dead. People and families sometimes need to hold their secrets close, even after the cause of needing to do so has withered. This is never more true when self-harm or addiction are among the demons in people’s lives. I’ve lived through countless versions of this story.
Someone I was very close to when I was very young passed away. I had fallen completely out of contact with him. As he grew up, it’s probably a good thing. His life was a mess by any standard.
For those who have been connected to either addiction or criminality by way of another person, you understand the implicit risk of trying to stay close. Bystanders, even innocent ones, always end up paying the price. It’s confusing for the person with the addiction. They don’t understand how they attract bad things. You cannot stand by the fire without being scorched by it.
Coincidentally, the last time I saw him was truly a wild coincidence. It’s been over 30 years. He lived in another part of the state and I lived in Springdale. Several coincidences aligned. Not only was I driving down the street I normally wouldn’t at that time, but I also happened to turn my head and look down the length of a long parking lot adjacent to a rehab center. I recognized his mom first, followed by him. At the time, their awkwardness and discomfort didn’t really register for me. I gave them my contact information and told them I lived less than a quarter of a mile away and to reach out if they needed anything. Looking back, I realize that I was in the presence of ghosts already.
This rehab stint was one of many in his life. The odds of me driving by and looking that direction to see him are almost impossible. I do wonder what might have become of it if he or his mother had reached out to me.
My earliest memory in life, one that my mom attempted to angrily tell me was impossible for me to remember, was one of his mother and my dad. Over the years, I reconstructed all of their lives combining research and resented questions. My memory held against my mom’s denial.
He had a violent and addicted life, one completely different than the one I shared with him when we were both very young. But lord, do I have stories. He was destined to be a hellraiser. I have a lot of memories that make me laugh when I think about him.
It’s strange when you mourn the version of a person who hadn’t existed in decades.
The truth is I didn’t know him at all anymore. He became a stranger to me almost 50 years ago. He became a name, a memory, and a connection to a life that I was dragged away from unwillingly.
Not that it’s important to this story, but I had to move to Northwest Arkansas because of my dad. It took me almost 50 years to find out the deep, dark secret that forced him to leave a place he swore he never would.
My dad and the man from my childhood who passed were connected in another tragic way, one I’ve written about in other stories but don’t want to connect here. It’s one of my foundation stories, one that screams that truth is definitely stranger than fiction.
I didn’t hear about his death until about 3 weeks after it happened. He died alone unless you count the substance he couldn’t escape from. He faced yet another return to prison. Whether the two events are connected is conjecture. But I do know that after a certain age, you are either forced to change or the universe takes over and cripples you. Often, you’ve burned so many bridges and people that your circle has become a flat line. Inevitably, you become one too.
Though I am sometimes heartless in ways some people don’t know about or understand, I do mourn him. Much in the same way I mourn my brother who shared names with him. They also shared middle names with an extra letter thrown in just because we were Southern.
The person who told me of his passing also mentioned once again how grateful she was to have pulled out of the life that took him. Coincidentally, he died at about the same age that the person informing me of his death reached when she finally stepped away from that life.
I guess I mourn what could have been and what should have been.
By way of confession, I was among those who knew the inevitability of his end.
I’ll still have my childhood memories and stories where he was prominently featured.
The other part of his life?
That biography belongs to a stranger I did not know.
X
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Surprise
The great blue heron stood immobile in the creek. I don’t usually see them standing exposed in the open water around here, especially at 2:00 in the morning close to the road.
