The 2 a.m. Laundry List
Category Archives: DIY
New Family Portrait
Because someone quipped, “X, you don’t have any real family photos in your apartment…”
Earlier in the week, I posted a goofy picture inspired by Step Brothers.
I had a 16X20 print made of it and bought a nice frame today.
It’s now proudly hanging in the living room, above my bed. (This sentence sounds off somehow, doesn’t it?)
As noted on the watermark, the picture was provided by Playboy Photography, a company whose reputation compares only to Prestige Worldwide.
Now, I’ve fixed my “I don’t have “a” family photo in my apartment” issue.
When I was done, the only way I can describe the joy and satisfaction is by using a quote from the movie Step Brothers:
“This is going to sound weird, but for a second, I think you took on the shape of a unicorn.” — Dale
Love, X
Repurposed Art
This is the piece of art I finished today, done on a repurposed wood panel picture. In the likely event someone has difficulty reading my writing (worsened by using a paint pen), here’s the inscription:
“Owing no allegiance to who you were, choose. Your thoughts, your time, your own way. As much as you can, banish fear, regret, anger, and embrace the unknown that each day shoves at you. Be your own constant. Be loving, witty, and guided by mirth. Your path is not infinite so take your steps while time permits. Encourage the same, joyfully, in everyone you love.” – X.
My Latest Art Project!
I made this for my friend Zach; he’s a Trump fan, and I’m not. And that’s okay. I made him a nice Jesus picture last week and, in previous weeks, made him a few other things to decorate his home. All of us should have places filled with beauty, crazy, and sentimentality. Necessity can clutter the rest.
While watching Erika brush her cat Meatball, I had a flash of genius. These flashes of genius CANNOT be ignored. Erika saved the brushings of fur for me twice.
I had a custom cardboard print made of Trump at Walgreens. I then carefully glued swaths of Meatball’s fur onto the print. Those dark places in each photo are shadows created by the fur as it protrudes from the board.
This is a one-of-a-kind piece of art… or something. Though I made it with creative glee in my heart, I hope Zach likes it. This was not something made quickly, cheaply, or without a lot of thought. If it is the thought that counts, it will be received with a laugh. And Meatball suffered no harm in the making of this fine piece of art.
This is not something I did to mock Trump or his fans. I did it to satisfy that urge to create and have fun with it.
As always, with love, X
Intentions
“When consequences come knocking, intentions ring hollow.” – X
Each of us has a personal narrative in our heads, one in which events seem linear and inevitable. We impose meaning and logic on the process of our lives. The truth is often that we are fooling ourselves. Examining our decisions and what we’ve done, it is obvious that we must conclude that we’re likely clueless about what pulls our levers.
I’m 54 and found myself shocked and surprised by some of the things I didn’t know about myself. I’m fortunate, even though I broke things getting to some of the conclusions. A lot of people around me didn’t survive the discovery process of seeing just how badly (or well) they could do things. Even as I grimace in recognition of some of the consequences I’ve caused, I try to remind myself that at least I’m alive long enough to do them. Getting older usually brings that pang of “What was I thinking?” while also shouting “You can’t change the past.” I think that’s why most of us go deaf when we get older. We’ve heard it all before and often at high volume.
An example of a harsh reminder? These fourteen $1 bills, each signifying a year that I was around for Xmas after my wife Deanne died – and when my ex-wife found me again. Talk about the long game! The first year, I saved a dollar bill and told my ex-wife, “Each year, we’ll sign another one, along with the year.” The first yuletide, it was a lonely dollar hanging like a wreath. By last year, it was fourteen. Honestly, even though it was my creative idea, I think it was sublimely fabulous.
That’s how you build a life – one little increment at a time, errors and right choices mixed unequally.
And then, consequences.
I took the dollar wreath with me when I jettisoned into another life. It’s a poignant reminder to find ways to celebrate life, in small ways and large. The last year proved to me that it is possible to be successful and a failure simultaneously. My intentions to find a better way to finish my life also led me to stumble into an alternate timeline, one I hadn’t anticipated. Against the backdrop of what could have been, it is a jab. But it is also an admission that I’m sometimes stupid and incapable.
It’s a little ironic that money, dollar bills, were what I chose to mark the passage of shared time. Money is the illusion that powers so much of what we do, even though we all know that everything that lights us up is intangible and invisible.
Though I’m not sure why I wrote this post, I know someone will find value in the idea. Odds are that someone reading this has a surprising year ahead of them, one they couldn’t predict. They’ll think that they have a handle on their choices.
Life will of course notice them and roll a boulder down the hill for them to remind them that most of this isn’t predictable. If you’re lucky, you will find value in the breaking. That’s your only choice, anyway. Things ARE going to break in a long arc of surprises. Most of us are lucky enough to not have it all break consecutively; we have time between to consider and reassess.
Though I claim not to believe in karma, I also tip each time I buy lottery tickets. It’s brought me a lot of stories and surprises, so in that sense, it has already paid off. It’s a pain to hoard this wreath and it’s also a pain to let it go. But I am a minimalist and know that all these things will soon enough be left behind by me. In an optimistic nod to the universe, I’m going to put these dollars back into circulation by buying lottery tickets. If I win, my promise still stands: I will use almost all the money to surprise other people. And if I don’t win, I am left with the optimism that I could have. It tickles me to think that these dollars will be in circulation, traveling in potentially infinite directions.
Intentions do matter, but we live with consequences.
Don’t read this post and forget that, at its heart, it is optimistic. I don’t understand people who can’t hold the disparate ideas of joy and wistful loss in their hearts, entwined like twin siblings.
I’m writing this after a blissful night of sleep, something that wasn’t always easy for me. And, in theory, I could be a millionaire. 🙂
It’s about 4 a.m. so I have to answer the call of the wanderer. Maybe you’ll see me out on the streets, in the unlikely event you’re wandering, too?
Love, X
Today Only
Someone is back at arts and crafts today. Y’all will be happy to know I haven’t significantly injured myself today. I did get my feelings hurt earlier but it wasn’t billable for Blue Cross, so it doesn’t count. Yesterday’s project with the window panel miraculously fit perfectly where it was supposed to. It was spa blue, similar to my car. As I put it in the window, I realized I’d probably always remember breaking a drillbit off on my shinbone while making that board.
These boards are for an old desk. I’d removed the raw wood top off it weeks ago, as it wouldn’t fit through a standard door. Because I’m dedicated to adding color (and more color) to things, I opted for a deep blue. It’s going to stand out like a streetwalker at Sunday lunch once the boards are on the desk. I’d like y’all to know that by the time I put these boards on the desk, I could have bought another desk for the same money. It’s not about the money. It’s about the likely brain damage I suffered as a child. (Insert confused laugh pause here.)
You can also see that I wisely have been painting and sawing (mostly) outside. It seemed prudent, given my approach to painting. It’s kind of like performance art. Residents and passersby alike tend to watch me while I’m out there. I’ve decided one of these days I’m going to go out there shirtless (and/or pantsless?) and just start spraying MYSELF. The lease does prohibit vehicle maintenance but shockingly omits spray painting oneself. Or self-immolation for that matter. I probably should do the landlord a favor and make a running list of things that occurred to me to do but aren’t forbidden.
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PS No matter where you are, take a moment and think of your friends and family and who might need a word of comfort. Reach out and listen. I was reminded yesterday that what we see is no gauge of how someone is really doing. And the smart creative ones are often undetectable in their protective bubbles. It breaks my heart to know that people are in so much pain. I write a lot of nonsense but the other half of me is zeroed into the holes I have – and those I see in others.
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“My mom cursed so much that the Navy paid her to train the recruits how to do it properly.” – X
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I often pause when I read the phrase “SERIOUS INJURY,” as if there is an alternate and opposite “COMEDIC INJURY.” (For the person suffering I mean – we all find humor in watching someone else get hit with an anvil.)
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I don’t know the attribution, but someone sent me this, saying it sounded like something I had written on my blog: “Discipline is cheap compared to how expensive regret can be.”
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I hope you’re happy, wherever you are. And if not, that you run outside right now and laugh at the sky.
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Look up, not down.
I Got Drill Bit
While doing a carpentry/paint project this afternoon, I took great caution to be careful. Or so I thought. I might as well have been binge drinking. Also, because of the limited number of outlets in the building, I used the lowest and closest one for the drill. To avoid splitting the wood, I drilled pilot holes in the main piece of board. When I unplugged the drill, it slipped out of my hand. The drill miraculously swung and hit my shinbone. More surprisingly, the narrow drillbit hit me in the same spot. It cut into me and then the bit snapped in half as it struck my leg. I looked down at the broken bit with a look of absolute stupidity and incredulity. Blood began to run from my leg like it would from a novice vampire’s mouth. Needless to say, it blossomed with a sharp, cutting pain, one similar to the one I felt when I helped several Latinos register to vote, only to find to my horror they voted conservative.
Additional safety notes: I live upstairs, giving me the opportunity to discover gravity unexpectedly each time I run up them. For the record, I love stairs. Next time, I’m going to paint indoors. I can’t imagine the fumes will cause any consequences – at least none that hurt worse than using my shinbone to snap a metal drillbit in half.
I’ll keep you posted.
My lease didn’t say anything about screaming like a little girl in the middle of the afternoon.
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Yards eternal entropy
For several months, I increasingly decorated my backyard with a variety of craziness. It distracted from the stress of the pandemic. Due to the lack of lumber, I tapered to mainly doing painted inset stones in the ground. It was a lot of work. While doing it, I kept reminding myself that moles could come along and ruin my work. At my last house on Cottonwood in Springdale, I fought a long war with the moles. A couple of them miraculously managed to destabilize and ruin a complex brick planter I put in the middle of the yard. The yard? It looked like a crazed man repeatedly dug for small treasures in the middle of the night. Stupidly, I resisted using bait or lethal methods to eradicate them. (The moles – not treasure-seeking older men.)
One of the catalysts for this project was that the neighbor behind me finally installed several fencing panels for his hot tub privacy. (Not that we could see in that shadowed clutter.) In most places I’ve lived, the neighbors don’t maintain their yards appropriately. I’ll agree I probably go too far in my yard minimalism. Digging and cutting brought the moles, as I figured it would. After the moles and squirrels conspired to ruin a sunflower planter I made, I moved the heavy planter and dug the back perimeter down a couple of feet in two places and filled it with concrete. It was a stop-gap fix in those limited areas. I should have thought of it as I put posts in and filled it all with a barrier a foot down into the ground. It wasn’t laziness that prevented me. I dug all the holes manually with a shovel.
In the last few weeks, the rain dried up as the squirrels and moles began their infiltration. The encroaching cold began to kill off the variety of plants.
The rich topsoil and buckets of grass seed I watered and nurtured to keep the ground clean and covered began receding with the onslaught of holes and tunnels. A few of the hefty footpath stones I inlaid began to tilt as I walked on them, even I took the time to stabilize them with sand and pea gravel. At least four times a week, I’ve had to emerge and dig out and stomp around most of the stones, leaving dried dirt instead of lush grass.
Those of you who know me also know I don’t care about manicured lawns or the even sheen of grass. All I wanted was grass to root and stay where it should be.
Sigh.
Finally, a couple of people whose opinions I value came by and saw the backyard. After all those months of brilliant color and vibrant plants, my yard mostly looked barren. “Prison yard” accurately captures the overall effect if the prison was inhabited by several addicted to odd colors.
The lackluster condition of my once colorful and eye-catching yard is a good lesson on entropy. Nothing holds its center. It’s a reminder to spend your time wisely and nurture what you can.
Though I didn’t resort to bait before, even as the yard looked like a grenade zone, I’ve decided to drive the moles away by any means necessary. I hate to, just as much as I hate scaring the squirrels. Squirrels have a lot of personality – but they also destroy feeders and scare off many of the birds I’m trying to attract.
For the blog, some of the previous posts about the yard are tagged “Project” or “Yard” in the drop-down menu.
A Forgotten Monday
Moments before, I’d been crouched against the dry, brittle earth as I pried it loose in a 16″ square, throwing the depth of removed dirt into a large bucket. I’ve been engaged in a methodical war with the ground along the back fence since I started my infinite project. Stone by stone, my bites of the earth growing larger as the squares I use become heavier and thicker.
The virus has involuntarily trained me to tolerate being hot and uncomfortable. At work, it is for safety; at home, it is for the war I declared on the ugliness left by my neighbors. Today, I stayed in my work clothes. Often they get so filthy that I must wash them unaccompanied in the washer when I’m done.
Though it was late in the day, I went outside and began the slow process of gouging rectangular templates in the ground. The work for Monday at my job was relentless. As contradictory as it may sound, working on the infernal yard project has probably saved me from a bit of insanity. My job does not reflect who I am and leaves me bone-weary some days but unsatisfied that I’ve accomplished anything real. I suspect it is a malady shared by many of my contemporaries, and one amplified by the virus intruding upon us.
Though working in the dirt tires me even further, it also rejuvenates me. There are no conflicts, no agendas, and no uncertainties.
After finishing my first large stone, drops began to hit me in the head and neck, dissipating instantaneously. I left my hat in the house, where I’d left it last time to dry and harden back to normal shape. A breeze lifted from the void and billowed my work shirt around me.
I walked over to the remainder of the old chain link and barbed wire fence and leaned against it. I stood there, my face upturned into the advancing rain and wind. As the droplets increased, dozens of dragonflies began their dance of pirouetting into the air to catch gnats, flies, and other insects as the rain brought them from the dense grass of the neighbor’s lawn behind me.
Because my clothes and shoes were already dirty, I stood for several minutes as the rain advanced and peppered me. The temperature dropped, and goosebumps rose along my arms and back. The dragonflies scattered from the other yard and began to circle around me and through the links in the fence.
I couldn’t help but smile.
The Monday accumulated behind me disappeared completely as I lost myself in the simple pleasure of the dragonflies and rain.
Do Birds Have Surnames?
I recently put up 2 initial birdhouses. Soon, there will be several more.
For the first, I watched as a small bird began tentatively investigating the house I attached to a peculiar neon jungle green ‘tree’ I created.
I named this tiny bird “Shouty,” given its long birdsong, followed by an odd series of clicks. It would be easy to identify by picture – but I don’t want to.
In its first few attempts, Shouty struggled to get the pieces of stems and twigs through the tiny opening of the birdhouse. It reminded me of those videos where the dogs confusedly attempt to get fetched sticks through the opening laterally. Like those labs, the bird eventually learned to turn its head. Since then, I’ve watched it push through stems and twigs that were 8 inches long.
While it is interesting to know the bird’s name, it’s not necessary. The birds don’t know their human-conferred names. “Pecker,” or “Swoopy,” and “DragonBrid” are more entertaining forms of naming, anyway.
Merlin, Audobon, and others provide incredibly accurate apps to help those interested to identify the birds they see. Song Sleith (and others) allow you to identify the birds around you using their songs.
My point is that while I am fascinated by the names of birds, they don’t add to my enjoyment of watching them. At times, trivia related to specific birds entertains me but is secondary to watching them jump, swoop, and navigate their environments.
In short, I’m a bird moron and I like it that way.
P.S. My backyard project will never be finished. It already looks different. The tree-patterned hanging light I bought from Amazon turned out to be one of the prettiest things I’ve accidentally come across.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 