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It’s Just Me Here

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A picture of me and my brother when I was much younger. And ran all the time.

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The last movie I wrote about was “Nomadland.” I was surprised and glad to see that it won Best Picture at the Oscars, and more so that Frances McDormand won for Best Actress. The number of views for my opinion about the movie climbed since February and then spiked. I’m not a big Oscars fan but sometimes, it seems like they get it right. “Nomadland” left an echo in my heart.

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Saturday night, for reasons unclear to me, I finally had a good night’s sleep. It’s been a long time. Getting back to something normal is one of the main goals of counseling for me. It would otherwise be impossible to be healthy or happy if I can’t sleep. I’ve never been one to need eight hours a night but the cataclysm of my life in the last few months broke my innate ability to stay asleep long enough to feel rested.

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I’m seeing butterflies already. It blows my mind that last week, we had a short snowstorm here on 4/20. The cold snap killed a couple of plants. That’s okay. It is a reminder to not assume that winter’s grasp is out of reach.

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After work, I sat at my desk and watched the cat, watching birds. He would intermittently chirp and comment on the live action outside the window.

Hearing a ruckus outside, I saw that a bluejay was irritated by a squirrel’s presence. The bird was dive-bombing the squirrel, who fell into the birdbath and then attempted a quick exit. It was a Looney Tunes moment.

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Sometimes, the cat will lie on the floor basking in the sun, slowly pawing at the dozens of little rainbows cascaded from the window above.

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Saturday morning, though I was dull and tired from a lack of sleep, I found the answer to a mystery. For reasons unknown, long filament fibers of the sheathing behind the vinyl siding sometimes magically appeared along the ground. Hearing a strange noise, I thought a squirrel might be clambering over the edges. I peeked out. To my surprise, a robin was yanking and pulling the filament several feet from the house. I startled it and it flew off. A few minutes later, it returned. The robins have been using the filament for nesting. I went outside and cut all the long pieces into smaller ones and placed them over the fence for them to easily retrieve. And I’ll do a better job of leaving them material in the future.

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Though the full moon is due tonight, I went out at 3:30 this morning and watched the solar lights, many of which were still blazing. This one is a picture of the moon at the top. The butterfly lights are attached to a long copper pole set into the sunflower bed.

The above lantern is one I bought from Family Dollar for $5. I spray painted it a bright fuchsia color.

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The alley entrance/exit for Mr. Taco Loco on Emma is a lot less glamorous than the front entrance. But it was worth exiting due to the ongoing mural project on the side of the building on the corner of Main and Emma. It’s worth looking at.

The picture below is taken in front of the wall that is becoming one of Downtown Springdale’s many beautiful murals:

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If you want to see a startling and striking mural, drive by the corner of Allen Street and Holcomb in Springdale. It’s a work in progress. I didn’t take any pictures. You can’t miss it. If only the entire world were painting so vibrantly and with such creativity!

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Not noteworthy, but I bought a nice thermal carafe coffee pot from Walmart. Long story short, it had been put back on the shelf used. There was still water in the carafe in the box.

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I’d heard the song before, but didn’t even connect it to the fact that thousands of TikTok videos sampled it for content (Masked Wolf – Astronaut In The Ocean) )

It’s not the typical song I might like. But I do. When I discovered what it meant to the artist, I liked it even more. You can read his take on it in the comments on YouTube.

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One for those who love Spanish music, another one I discovered only because I’m incrementally reconnecting to the bilingual who thrives inside me (Sabastian Yatra – Como Mirarte):

A bonus Spanish song you’ll recognize (Te Amaré por Mil Años · Coro Iglesia Luz Divina):

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I forgot how useful the website Wordhippo is, especially in regard to the interface. https://www.wordhippo.com/

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At work today, someone who underwent bariatric surgery last year stopped me and asked all the questions you’d expect. He lost a lot of weight. He’s doing well but experiencing a climb in his weight. His life is much more complex than mine, though. We shared a barrage of highs and lows. He was intrigued by my hyper-simplistic approach, especially since I have no structure or exercise system.

Behavior, Mental Health, Psychology, Social Rules

A Shared Monologue

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A monologue that I heard that I tried to capture…

“It’s not about intelligence. Think about it. How many intelligent people have chosen drugs or alcohol? Or had an affair? Or ran their careers into the ground? Or became fat? Or smoke? Make a list of all the pitfalls you’ve done or watched other people do. Intelligence helps us in unimaginable ways. But it also arms us with rationalizations and ways to convince ourselves that everything is fine, we’re not wrong, or that we’re somehow strong enough to handle it or react differently. Look at lawyers who embezzle, bribe, or commit fraud. Doctors? They succumb to the same drugs they are prescribing – and hurt or kill people in the process. Teachers sleep with their students or teach intolerance. Therapists who commit suicide or become addicts? Spouses, who forego a relationship for excitement? Or, conversely, those who stay when they shouldn’t. If you think they’re stupid, you’re wrong. If you can ever figure out the alchemy of the human mind, you’re going to be the salvation of humanity. We all do it – questioning someone’s intelligence for stupidity or misbehavior. In almost every case, the person doing the stupidity has an entirely different narrative running in his or her head. Knowing this, we attribute weakness or folly to others while telling ourselves that it is for a good reason when we do it. Human minds are incredibly complex and simultaneously very basic. A parting note is to remember that no matter what people tell you was going on their heads and hearts when they were doing whatever it is that looks questionable, they mostly either don’t know or aren’t going to tell you the right answer. We all want meaningful lives, great relationships, and health. And we commit the same mistakes over and over, all around the world. We are hard-wired to be both intelligent and stupid. If you can understand your mind, you’re way ahead of the rest of the crowd. And if you can translate that understanding into better and more satisfying and honest behaviors, I will ask you to do my job for me. Instead of labeling misbehavior from others, give them a pass so that you can ask for one for yourself when you do something equally stupid. Let time be a big part of your solution. If you can hesitate before speaking, before acting, before reacting, you have a better chance at being happy or at least comfortable.”

Ancestry, DNA, Genealogy, Personal

An Ongoing Revelation

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It’s difficult to explain to other people the sense of interest, curiosity, and intrigue that envelopes me when I’m presented with another opportunity to find someone’s father, mother, or long-lost friend. It’s a solitary sort of entertainment, one that both focuses my mind inward and outward.

Even when it doesn’t go well, the initial few hours of pursuit and detail make my mind blossom like bits of ignited gunpowder. It feels as close to how I imagine one’s mind should always feel as I can imagine. Tiredness and disinterest fade away into impossibilities when one’s mind is trapped and ignited like that.

I started the day like most others. An acquaintance told me he’d mentioned my love of family research to a friend of his. He handed me a slip of paper with scant details scribbled on it. I quickly put it into my wallet, not so I wouldn’t lose it, but rather so that I wouldn’t be tempted to take a quick look. Such ‘quick looks’ usually escalate into an immediate and profound interest that keeps me distracted.

Some of my best memories are ones encapsulated in a quest to help someone find someone or something dear to them. I’ve had a few failures, as well as a few that led me to bad news for the person wanting me to inquire. I was wildly successful a few times, even if the person I found didn’t want to be outed.

This afternoon, I started my quest to align my scattered skills sufficiently to invoke the magic and inexact science of educated guesses and deliberately go into doubtful deadends. Over the years, I’ve definitely discovered that my mistakes tend to yield impressive results. Even results that aren’t what I’m looking for sometimes. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been on the wrong path and realized that I found another way to find information; had I not made a mistake, I wouldn’t have learned.

I won’t lie, though. The payoff is a rush. Finding the proof, the person, the thing. That’s sublime. Like genealogy, it’s a skill I never imagined that I would find valuable.

I was on the phone with a total stranger a little bit ago. Our paths would have never crossed, and part of his family’s remarkable story would have remained a mystery to me. Thanks to him, I will learn more about history, geography, and human nature.

These stories accumulate in my heart and mind.

As for the stranger today, he inadvertently revealed a lot of truth about his life and family. Singular statements and admissions invariably contain unspoken truths. That’s always the case when someone is listening with interest and fascination. Some parts of his story sounded unlikely. Because they sounded unlikely, I knew they were true. There are parts of his story which could easily be the subject of a book or movie.

I shared a few things about my life, too, especially how DNA ripped away the facade of privacy and secrecy.

I already find myself writing fictionalized versions of all those lives in my head.

Story, Writing

Dilemma

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Her birth name was Dilemma. No one called her that except for me. Everyone else called her “Lemma.” Dilemma told people she had no idea where her birth mother came up with the name. That wasn’t true, though, as I learned one late Friday night. We had separately exited our studio apartments to find a quiet place outside. The other two or three tenants preferred to sit in the patio area. I preferred being alone.

We were both sitting cross-legged on the plank porch, holding bottles of tequila and gin, swapping sips from each other’s bottles. We’d have splinters tomorrow. Tomorrow was a year away when I was with her. Dilemma occasionally pretended to spit into whichever bottle she was about to hand to me. I responded by licking around the rim of the bottle and laughing.

Over the last few weeks, we began to seek each other’s company in the evenings. Most of the time, we sat in silence. Some nights, Dilemma wanted to talk. She was well-educated, though she wouldn’t divulge any specifics. I knew she could speak two other languages and at times I suspected she might have a photographic memory.

Dilemma leaned towards me, a little unbalanced. She pretended to whisper as I leaned toward her. She then shouted, “My Dad told my Mom he’d kill her if she insisted on giving birth to me. That was the dilemma.”

I nodded, waiting for her to continue. Dilemma always had a follow-up or footnote. Sometimes she waited a week to connect details to something she mentioned.

“Needless to say, Dad woke up the next morning with a gun stuck in his crotch. Mom had it cocked, too, no pun intended. ‘You have until 9 a.m. to get out of this house and out of my life. If you don’t, well…’ and pushed the gun painfully into his boxers. He just nodded. That’s what my Aunt Dill told me, anyway. I like that story.” Dilemma nodded as if to punctuate it was my turn to say something. I made a mental note to ask about Aunt Dill later.

Just as I was about to utter something hilarious, Dilemma shouted, “Hey, I wasn’t done talking!”

“Okay, fire away,” I told her.

“I was going to say, it’s your turn to talk now.” She grinned.

“Did you know that your nickname Lemma means several different things? Like part of a plant, or a Greek word for ‘assumption?'” I nodded, to pass the conversation back to her.

“Well, you’re a stalker, aren’t you, Dane? Ha!” She took an excessively long drink of tequila.

“Are you making a play on the words ‘plant’ and ‘stalker?'” I asked her. “If you are, you can do better.” I laughed.

“No, better is for jerks. Can I ask you a favor? Would you lean over and kiss me? I know we’ve never kissed. That’s okay. Just get it over with.” She winked at me.

I should have known better. As I leaned in to peck her on the lips, she kissed me and wrapped her hand around my head, stuck her tongue between my lips, then surprised me by spewing a surprising amount of tequila in my mouth. She howled with laughter as I coughed and sputtered. As my eyes burned, Dilemma laughed harder.

As I regained my breath, I asked her, “What did you do that for?”

Dilemma leaned in and kissed me on the mouth.

“I wanted you to know that if you go forward with me, life is going to have a lot of tequila-in-the-mouth moments.” She smiled and took another drink. She winked again and asked me, “Do you trust me?”

I laughed, leaned over, and kissed her again. Whether there would be more tequila was anyone’s guess.

She certainly was a dilemma.

Food, Health, Personal, Weight Loss

Taco Loco, Vida Loca

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Mr. Taco Loco on MLK Blvd. has unlimited pico de gallo, indisputably one of the world’s most delicious and healthy foods, on their salsa bar. What witchcraft is this? As much as I love the Emma Street location in Springdale, I feel robbed that they don’t have my favorite food on their salsa bar. P.S. I had at least 22 over-piled condiment cups of pico de gallo for lunch. *No exaggeration, by the way.

I don’t eat the tortillas. I don’t count calories, but yes, I am aware of them. Those eight tortillas have more calories than everything else I ate for lunch. I came unprepared without PopChips today, so I ate some regular tortillas chips. Mr. Taco Loco has been a massive help with my efforts to be thin again.

I’m going to have to pressure Springdale to put pico de gallo on the salsa bar. Or charge me as a menu item. I don’t mind paying for healthy and/or good quality.

Because I was already being decadent, I went to Starbucks and had a double espresso, followed by a trip to Walgreens before my appointment. I bought a big chungus amount of chewing gum. For those who don’t know, I sometimes sit on the couch and eat a massive succession of chewing gum, flavor after flavor. Gum can be expensive, for those who don’t chew an inhuman quantity of the stuff.

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When I recorded this on my dash, the truck in front of me was going 10 mph, and that was okay with me. It was a beautiful sight, driving with the snow coming down furiously. That it’s April 20th makes it more sublime. By the way, that is a song by Banda Mas featuring Snoop Dogg. (“QUE MALDICIÓN” is the name of the song.)

The song is a good example of something that sounds somehow great when juxtaposed – but not great taken separately. I’ve been listening to more Tejano/Banda/Norteño lately. Yesterday, I actually discovered a song that Los Tigres Del Norte is in – and I loved it. (“Para Sacarte De Mi Vida”) Previously, this would have been something that I would probably have never said.

Listening to different styles of music I wouldn’t have previously given so much time to is in part due to my love of Spanish. But it also helps me to break the feedback loop in my head. That part is a part of my therapy: recognizing the loops and finding ways of concentrating elsewhere.

For those who don’t know anything about such music, here’s a start:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tejano_music

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I had a talk therapy session today. I gave her my two weeks of notes and sleep data. It’s interesting. I doubt most people follow through on their ‘assignments’ so easily. For the most part, I’ve found that saying stupid things aloud, things that don’t sound so stupid in my head, really hit the gong when they come through my own ears. I only wish Morgan Freeman would do a narrative for me, so my stupidity would sound epic.

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The Chauvin Trial verdict is minutes away. Whatever happens, it is going to keep a lot of social media occupied for several days.

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Disputable & True Truisms By X:

Punishment & discomfort for honesty is one of the principal contributing factors for us learning to lie. A lot of what is in our hearts and heads is not neatly packaged. We opt for shimmer instead of clarity.

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“Got dandruff and some of it itches!” Definitely sounds different when said loudly. “Dirty malefactor!” has been supplanted as my favorite faux-curse.

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I think you could trick a lot more men into signing up for the Vaccine if you start spelling it Vaxine – and let men DM ‘her.’

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Diet, Food, Health, Personal, Social Rules, Weight Loss

It’s Already There

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People still look at me stupidly. I don’t blame them.

I’ve had several months to experiment with how I present my weight loss ‘secret.’ (Hint: it’s not a secret.)

I’m careful to avoid being evangelical. If people ask me, I tell them my opinion. It’s an easy pitfall to reach out. People aren’t ready until they’re ready. That’s true of almost everything. Being in counseling and looking at things from an outsider’s perspective has brought some insights. For those who inquire, it is possible for me to attempt to give them a slice of confidence.

At work, it’s been informative to interact with people who’ve known me for years, because they’ve known me as fat for most of that time. Some of them are holding their breath, waiting for me to put the weight back on. I don’t take it personally. Others are watching me, wondering how they might capture a bit of my genie in the bottle. It is the latter group who have the best chance, in part because they are not only interested, but optimistic about their changes. Optimism makes so many things more fulfilling and likely. If they see me doing it, it’s a powerful argument that they can do it, too. (If they want to.)

In the last couple of weeks, I’ve replied, “The secret is already inside you. It might be dormant or untapped – but it’s there.”

Obviously, people scoff. “If that were true, I’d already be doing it!” Most of them make ‘the’ face when they fire back at me.

“Yeah, well, until late last year, I scoffed too. And then a switch went off in my head. Look, everything I used to break the decades of yo-yo cycles was in my head. I didn’t add anything. No pills, no exercise, nothing. Something inside me flipped. For me, it wasn’t willpower. It was just a certainty. It’s that way with everyone who makes fundamental changes. Whether they are going to lose weight, run a marathon, break a habit, or learn a foreign language. So what if you fail nineteen times? The only effort that matters is the twentieth, isn’t it? You can’t run a marathon until you do it. You can shout in another language until you can. And you’re going to be overweight until you’re not.”

“Do I have superpowers? Do you think that someone like me has an insight other than what I’m telling you? Think of me as a placebo. If knowing I can do it convinces you that you can too, grab it and run. Stop questioning. Until you accept the fact that you are the probably the only reason you’re still overweight, you can’t see around the corner. And if you do manage to see the possibility that you can do it, pretty much nothing will stop you. Some people do have medical reasons that make it very hard, that much is true. But losing weight is totally a matter of eating less than you burn. If you can choose great tasting and healthier instead of some of the stuff you’re eating now, you’re going to lose weight. And if you commit to learning and experimenting, you won’t be stopped. I’m still experimenting now, over six months later.”

In general, people still look at me like I’m an idiot.

“You have to use small choices to your advantage. The point of doing anything like weight loss is to change your habits that will arc across your entire life. And hopefully get a bit of self-confidence when you do it. If you make incremental changes, you are going to get results. Do what you can but do it consistently. And if you fail, reset. Again, and again. If you find that people aren’t supportive, they are at least communicating your lack of value in their lives. The guy who takes off sprinting is going to get way ahead of you in a race, especially if you’re walking. But I guarantee that you can walk a lot longer than he can sprint. Weight loss is the same way.”

And that’s the gist of my most recent TED talks regarding weight.

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Story, Writing

Plans Change

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Trevor stopped a few miles back. As he filled the gas tank on his dad’s 1985 Plymouth Gran Fury, his next move came to him. For a month, his mind nibbled at the idea of changing his life completely. His girlfriend moved to Texas at the beginning of summer. She settled into a routine as the fall semester started. Last week, she casually mentioned that it might be an excellent place for him to visit. Or live. Trevor had planned to start classes at the community college in Georgia, where his uncle owned a shop. He also had a loft above the garage that was Trevor’s for as long as he wanted it.

He went back inside the convenience store and bought a large black coffee. He sat in the passenger seat with the door open, sipping at the coffee. It was the first cup of black coffee in his life. The taste was bitter to him, but the heat was welcome. By the time he reached the bottom of the cup, Trevor knew he wasn’t going to college, at least not in Georgia, and he certainly wasn’t returning here. Texas seemed like a great place to start a new life.

As he pulled away from the store, he pressed the accelerator hard. The money his dad spent on this car made its presence known in the engine as it roared. Trevor felt like he might be driving a rocket. He put the driver and passenger windows down as the wind howled through the car’s interior. By the time Trevor reached Highway 103, he had forgotten that he was traveling at over eighty mph. As the wind whipped his hair across his face, he was thinking of seeing Becky in Texas. He didn’t know he was smiling. He definitely didn’t notice the partially-obscured stop sign.

The truck hauling the cattle trailer behind it hit Trevor’s car on the passenger side, caving it into the steering wheel, breaking Trevor’s neck instantly, as well as shattering a variety of bones throughout his body. He didn’t know what hit him.

A few seconds later, the driver of the cattle hauler emerged from his truck, dazed but with only a broken wrist and a few minor injuries. He knew the boy driving the Gran Fury was dead. He looked inside the car anyway, hoping for a miracle he knew wouldn’t greet him. Hopefully, his CB radio would still work so he could radio in for a state trooper or local police. On the way back to his cab, he kneeled to pick up the license plate that had been knocked off his truck in the crash. He noticed that his blue sticker was going to expire at the end of this month. Texas was no place to be driving around with expired tags, especially in 1993.

In a few minutes, the driver heard a siren, followed by flashing lights approaching. The driver waited, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. The Arkansas State Trooper looked inside the mangled Gran Fury and then asked the driver if he could have one of his cigarettes.

There was no hurry. Only time.

Brinkley, Monroe County, Nostalgia

One-Way To August 1973

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I sat on the steps of the porch, feeling the boards against my back. I was barefoot and wearing cutoff shorts, the official uniform of Southern boys. The porch was a stack of large railroad ties. Each section had at least two hundred nails driven in it. If the summer sun were shining on them, the nails became unbearably hot against your legs. The narrow highway was about thirty feet away, its tan hue rendered black in the early morning. No car was parked in the driveway because my grandparents didn’t drive, a fact that still surprises me. Later in the day, Aunt Betty or Aunt Marylou would come, and we would go to the store, probably to the Mercantile in Monroe. Grandma would let me pick out one of the cheap toys hanging on a rickety metal carousel. In a few minutes, one of the robins that preferred the protection of the cedar tree by the ditch would begin to call.

The days of the summer of 1973 filled with Watergate, and one of my favorite books, “Jonathan Livingston Seagull,” was a best-seller. Both of these facts might as well have been part of another world, one only remotely attached to Monroe County. I came back for the summer. My parents had precipitously decided to move to Northwest Arkansas the year before. I skipped kindergarten and went to first grade. Coming back to be with Grandma and Grandpa probably saved my life that summer. I didn’t know until I was over fifty years old that my Dad fled his hometown because he had another secret, one which was unacceptable to many people in that part of the state. He could kill someone and pay no price, but he couldn’t escape the pressure of violating an unwritten social norm. Mom and Dad spent many of their nights beating one another into reality. I was a couple of hundred miles away that summer before the interstate crept into Springdale. Because school used to start later, I had about three weeks to enjoy the summer. Three weeks at that age might as well have been a year. And time in the rural areas of the South slowed to a pace that most modern people couldn’t accept easily.

Because it was early August, Grandpa would come outside sooner than usual. He might cut a plug of tobacco but would probably wait until after breakfast. Grandma’s Saturday menu invariably included sausage or salt pork and toast with butter. Years later, I thought it strange that everyone didn’t have extra biscuits or toast leftover in a pan on the stove or table.

Sitting on the porch, I knew that just a few minutes separated night and day for everyone in the house. All the windows were up because the night was hot and dense. Being outside, I could hear the fans whisper against sheets and mosquitoes. As the day lengthened, I knew Grandma would be in the living room, asking herself what time she could seal up the small area, turn on the window air conditioner, and feel the chill of a small victory against hot summers. Much of my day would be spent digging in the ditch along the road or sitting on the floor near Grandma, cradling an infinite glass of Coke and crushed ice Grandma often made for me, using a hammer and hand towel. It’s a recipe you won’t find on The Food Network. It’ll never taste the same anyway because its alchemy includes water from old ground and love from one’s Grandma.

I knew I wasn’t there again, even as I smelled the dark earth of the surrounding fields fade from me. Monroe County receded and dissipated, leaving me to awaken in 2021, imagining August 3rd, 1973.

In a minute, I’ll get up, peer through the blinds at the backyard, and wonder about the intervening forty-eight years. I’ll make a strong pot of coffee, and as I take the first sip from my green Pyrite cup, I will invoke the misty morning I left behind.

I don’t dream of my summers before Grandpa died with much frequency anymore. When I do, though, I find it takes me a few minutes to shake away the idea that some part of me still sits on the edge of the porch.

Nostalgia has its benefits.

And its price.

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Diet, Personal, Reading, Social Rules

A Mix Of Things

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One of the benefits of having hundreds of extra full-size candy bars is that it is easy to reward the growing list of delivery people showing up at the house. It’s rare for a driver to respond without appreciation as I hand them a couple of candy bars. It’s like a tip, except it’s for people we wouldn’t normally tip. If I were left to my own devices, I think I would have a basket of chips, cookies, and candy bars – and let the driver choose. If you’re interested in experimenting with it, I recommend you give it a try. It’s a benefit to the driver and it will lift your spirits a little. It might make the driver make a little more effort for your deliveries in the future.

Note: I have hundreds of full-size candy bars. But I haven’t eaten a candy bar in at least seven months.

Potato chips are a bigger risk than candy bars ever will be. The easier method to deal with temptation is to simply not have unhealthy snack choices in the house. I can’t make that decision for everyone, even if the presence of ‘real’ chips is akin to a bag of cocaine lying on the counter. The same is true for real cheese of any kind.

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I visited a Dollar General store the other day. As I often do, I grabbed a helium balloon from the party aisle, took it to a huge cemetery near my house, and let it go. This time, I wrote words on a scroll of paper, rolled it up, and tied it to the truncated balloon string. (Sort of like the “write-the-letter-you’ll-never send.”) I didn’t plan on getting a balloon that day. But the balloon corral on the ceiling was stuffed with innumerable balloons. I’ve done the balloon thing on and off my entire life. It’s a stupid bit of fun trying to see how long you can spot the balloon against the immense backdrop of the sky.

It was damn near impossible to take good pictures that day, being close to noon. The sun was relentlessly beating down, washing everything out in a bright pattern. I planned to park on the newer section but the caretaker was struggling to mow the 4,500-gravestone cemetery on that end. I walked out to a random section and took a couple of selfies. I noticed by coincidence that I was standing in front of one of tombstones of one of a friend’s grandparents. It gave me a laugh, the coincidence.

Recently, I told a therapist that I loathe the entire concept of burial, but that I love cemeteries. She laughed. We could have talked for four hours about the absurdity of our rituals. Cemeteries fascinate me. Not just the range of names and types of stones, but the idea that there are thousands of stories buried where I’m standing, lives as complicated as mine, and all of them extinguished.

Like the life on this eye-catching stone. Leonard “Cowboy” Kilpatrick. I could discover so much about his 37-year life. Were I to kick over a few clues, I have no doubt that I might find myself with a longer list of questions. He had a lot of siblings. Whenever I go deeply into someone’s story, one like Cowboy’s, it never fails that a strange series of revelations and coincidences would align. I’m still in awe of how many ways all of us are both separated and overlapping. I don’t find it macabre that we’re all marching toward oblivion, although the loss of so many stories continues to bother me.

I forgot how much I love the terse prose style of Robert Parker, and of his Jesse Stone character. Most people seem to know him from the CBS movies starring Tom Selleck. While Pat Conroy’s purple prose resonates in my heart, the stripped-down way Parker wrote fascinates me.

My cat Güino stares at me from his perch in the bedroom window. The sun is making sporadic appearances this afternoon. If the rays are bright enough, the prisms cast their rainbows around me. The absurd thickness of the pillow is amusing.

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Take a hard look at the circumstances and context of the words, “You’ve changed,” or “You’re not the person you used to be.” Clinically speaking, it is possible that the person saying this is saying it because you’ve stopped behaving in a way they want you to.

This isn’t necessarily an indictment of you – or the other person.

Sometimes, though, it is.

There’s no two ways about it. We all need to grow, change, adapt. Especially if any part of our behavior isn’t reflective of who we are or who we want to be.

I was asked to examine the phrase intensely: “You’re not the person you used to be.” It’s a therapy response. One of the things I came away with is this: IF someone says it to you in an emotional or angry way, it can’t be taken at face value. There’s no proper defense against it, and not just because all good adults change significantly.

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I almost forgot to start taking allergy medication again this season. Allergy medications confound my hunger response. And no matter what the packaging says, it causes both sluggishness and excitedness, no matter what it is supposed to do.

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Someone related to my deceased wife went back to prison for something related to her parole. I don’t have any details but it’s distracting and needless. A few years ago, I spent a lot of time trying to keep her connected to her old life and to imagine there was a reason to hold out hope. I can’t imagine going from living a normal life to being put back inside. She’s 26 with a young daughter.

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One of the objectives of me going to therapy is to figure out cognitively what shifted in me that makes it harder for me to sleep. I’ve never been one to require eight hours. But having gone through a phase where sleep evaded me taught me that it is very dangerous for me to go very few nights with inadequate sleep, especially less than five hours. I learned that it is stupid of me to try to make decisions or to hold conversations while in such a state. Trying to keep a sleep record is harder than it sounds, too.

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Regarding men on social media: As the tendency to post a profile picture of himself wearing sunglasses increases, so too do the odds he is a narcissist.

Corollary: the greater your resistance to this idea, the more likely that you tend to think such men are more attractive.

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I letter bombed Ford Motors. They chose to not do the right thing in regard to a failed transmission with my Ford Focus, which had only 55K miles on it. I bombarded their social media people first. When that went nowhere, I shifted to a comprehensive letter containing the history of the failed transmission design and my involvement. I mailed that letter to several different people within the company. It was like the old days, when “Letters From A Nut” was something I aspired to. I finally got a tepid response back from Ford. Just like Andy Dufresne did in “Shawshank Redemption,” once he got his foot in the door with the bean counters, he started writing TWO letters a week. After all, what is it really going to cost me to try to get Ford to do the right thing? Shame on Ford. Callous behavior is expected of large impersonal corporations, of course. But that’s why I shouldn’t take it personally: they screw everyone equally. Or mostly equally. There’s comfort in that.

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I bet you will find something interesting in this article:

https://www.theatlantic.com/family/archive/2021/04/deep-friendships-aristotle/618529/

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