You wouldn’t enthusiastically take advantage of another opportunity to return to your youth. Invariably, when discussion of such a fantasy arises, the older giveaway their intentions by framing it in terms of money. Money gives options. But there are few among us who truly shine in the application of appreciating that time and experiences are what makes life worthwhile. Stop telling the younger generation to take advantage. With your wrinkled brow, we see you. Failing to balance the opportunity of the day or the years ahead of you. No one knows when the shadow might darken their door. Your age and experience should push you to squeeze out both simple pleasures and large. The decades behind you paved an infinite path of choices. Just as the young people in front of you might if they’re lucky. It’s hard to expect yolo or carpe diem from the younger generation because we have the disparate expectations of responsibility and stability. For similar reasons, the older among us can’t let go of the stability tethers that we need. Both groups are in the same boat. Regardless, living by example is the best sermon you can give anyone. Words are easy and change is hard. Most of us can’t even gleefully listen to another genre of music without being dismissive. Much less trying new foods, new words, or mindsets that might serve us better. We reach the point where we decide we’re done. Routine and stability bring comfort. But they also suffocate the opportunity to become renewed.
“The ax forgets. The tree remembers.” Once you’ve let someone down, it tends to leave a scar. Once those words escape your lips, they could echo forever to the person hearing them. It’s impossible to know the alchemy in someone’s brain and heart that converts something seemingly inconsequential into a wound. If you speak in anger or through the bravado of substances, though you said or did those words or deeds solely with the desire to inflict pain, these things break both trust and connection. I’ve been both the guilty party and receiver many times. Once words are born into the world or behavior is demonstrated, the ripple effect may be permanent. If you say the words in anger, it demonstrates the urge to cause pain. If you say them under the influence, it is truth exposed only through the virtue of a lack of inhibition. If you commit words or behavior to a chapter in your life without the intention of pain, an apology born in one’s heart is the only place to start. Ears and hearts conceal scars inflicted long ago. And they shape the perspective and outlook of the person receiving them. Love, X
When you are interested in many things, it’s bewildering for someone near you not to want to experience it. Especially the expressive parts that reveal not only the goings-on of the day but glimpses into the invisible world each of us has in our own mind. It is sacrosanct that interest and enthusiasm at least simmer in one’s direction, if not boil effusively.
People are never complete unless they are finished. There’s always something new about them if their mind is fresh and their attention is focused.
We’re supposed to reward those who don’t conceal themselves. It’s authenticity rendered in flesh and bone, words and behavior. Such people are making bids without thinking.
Gottman studies the role of bids in romantic relationships. (And some can be applied to worldly interpersonal connections.) The higher the bids toward another person, the deeper the relationship and connection. As these bids lessen or go unreturned, you can chart the connection’s demise. If you’re unfamiliar with the Gottman research, it’s extensive and provides words to frame many of the things you already know and feel.
I feel strongly about all of this. I’m one of those people who unobtrusively shares a hell of a lot of myself, whether you’re standing in front of me or whether I opt for the virtual world. My bid is constant. I’m meeting people more than halfway. I scratch my head in puzzlement and then bewilderment when people sharing my lane fail to understand that time is taken rather than made. People say they seek connection and understanding. But then many engage superficially or let the external intrude where it should not. It hasn’t helped that we now carry universal entertainment and distraction devices in our pockets.
PS I’ve said it 23,467 times: everything that matters is invisible. Among those are love, kinship, friendship, energy, enthusiasm, and interest. Each of us has limited time; your choices indicate what holds value for you.
NSFW due to a wild mix of subject matter and personal commentary…
My brother Mike died without fulfilling my desire that he write a book. He absorbed the false honor narrative of some of my family members. He was a big man, my brother. I took these rules from conversations that Mike and I had on the phone when he was winding down. I’ve shared pieces of them before. My brother Mike had an interesting life. He was a great writer. We both recognized that between the two of us, we might be able to capture the horror, dark humor, and insights that we experienced. Of all the things that piss me off about the way he went out, it’s that he didn’t have enough clarity to see that he should pull up and find a way to live a few more years. Had he chosen to find a way, the resulting book we would have written would have been an irreverent mixture of Pat Conroy and Stephen King.
I’m paraphrasing my dad: “You’re going to get punched in the f mouth. There’s no doubt about it.”
My brother Mike saw a few fights that I didn’t. While I did witness my dad getting his ass whipped, Mike saw a few more of these than I did. Dad had whiskey courage. He read a few too many Westerns and got the wrong lesson out of most of the movies.
Take them for what you will. My dad was a walking contradiction. I despise a lot of what he did. But I understand it a hell of a lot better as I get older.
Rules:
If you’re going to drink in a bar, you’re going to need to be deaf or have a thick skull.
If your buddy is getting his ass whipped, you have to get your ass whipped too.
If someone threatens you… There are no rules, no warning. Do not think about it. Start hitting.
If someone says they’re going to whip your ass, don’t wait for them to prove it.
If they’re close enough to hit you, hit them first. Don’t stop hitting until they’re down.
The most dangerous man is never the loudest.
Don’t punch them more than you need to. But if they are intent on killing you, don’t walk away when they’re on the ground.
If they dress like a dandy, they will not want to get dirty. If they wear a tight shirt, it’s a sure sign that their muscles are for show. Except if they have dirty, scruffed-up boots. You don’t mess around with people who work hard for a living.
Nuts, throat, nose. If those don’t work, bite anything that gets near your mouth.
There’s no such thing as fighting dirty. If they are coming for you, everything in the room is fair game.
If you deserve to get punched, let them hit you in the face. If they attempt to give you more than what you’ve got coming, remind them that you’re a dirty bastard.
Once you’re done fighting, men have a drink. If you can’t have a drink with a man you just fought with, you’re not worth the hat that sits on your head.
… Dad tried to make a man out of me. Whatever that means. He had his demons. A great deal of his alleged teaching resulted in me choosing the opposite. I never could get my head around that kind of violence. But if you ask me if I understand it, the answer is yes. Especially so when the universe fails or when people fail to honor the fact that violence should never be out of proportion to what caused it. Dad scrambled my brains a few times, but one thing that came out of it was that I learned that many fights come out of nowhere. And a few people who should have scared me didn’t. That’s a part of the Bobby Dean legacy that fills me with contradiction.
I’m forgetting a few of his rules. Despite some of the negative things I have to say about him, he surprised my brother and me many times with how he phrased things. I sometimes forget that he was smart. I would snarkily mention that he often failed to incorporate his intelligence into his behavior. But I’m tired of getting hit by a bolt of hypocritical lightning.
I’ve confessed before that my brother and I actively thought about killing my dad more than once. I’m not proud of it. But if Dad had survived a few more years, he would have appreciated the dark humor of this truth a lot more. Mike realized when we got older that it probably would have been me who would have done it because I experienced and witnessed a lot more of the violence. When my brother Mike got older, Dad looked at him much differently. Mike would have hurled him through the kitchen window like firewood.
Knowing them both, I am 100% certain that one of them would have pulled out the whiskey bottle and poured the other a shot.
They were the kind of men I did not aspire to become. Whatever dark streak ran through them has luckily remained mostly dormant in me. I’d love to have the devilish prankster spirit. I wouldn’t tie someone to a hunting camp tree stump and light it, but I would enjoy making someone think it could happen. There is a fine line between lunacy and free-spiritedness.
I’m sharing this because it’s supposed to be a tip of the hat. It’s not an accusation. The history is there, written as fact in my mind. One of the crazy lessons of ambivalence is that you can witness a tornado but fall in love with how the lightning looks across the sky. Life can be appreciated similarly, even if you would rather flip the light switch off for some moments.
I’ve reminded many people about this because it infects many relationships. Pay attention to what your person says they want or need. They’ll repeat it – until one day, they go silent. That silence equals danger.
Some days, there are so many triggers I feel like I’m at a gun show. I wish I had the capacity and audacity to consistently see the truth in my reflection. It’s one thing to intellectually know that the past is a shadow behind you in the mirror and another to nod at it and give it the finger. It’s true that the past is our shadow. That’s all it is. A phantom and needless stone that we carry in our pocket instead of putting it down. I often think of the movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I know each day often gives us the miracle of a new attitude if we simply decide it. People are going to carry in their heads an image of you that no longer exists. Fighting it is idiocy. If you can accept that is truth, you should be able to accept that swatting away the shadow in your head is equally possible. I think a lot about my sister because her scenario highlights the hypocrisy I practice. All she can do is stay on the new path and let time do the rest. I call myself a hypocrite because I catch myself judging her against the backdrop of her previous life. It’s a natural and normal reaction but one that serves no one. The optimistic people among us know that radical change is possible. The practical side of us nods towards the idea that we know it’s not likely in many cases. We’re all going to fall down in the mud. It really does boil down to whether we will wipe it off and keep going. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t listen, hear, or see someone managing to salvage their life or sanity. Some days are the opposite scenario. The same circumstances turn one person into a cynic and another a saint. All we need is Rocky music playing in the background when these things happen. X .
Someone asked me if I was the one writing the political messages on the sidewalks. No. I don’t see anything wrong with it. It washes off. My sidewalk antics are always shenanigans. If I were to ever write anything controversial, I would sign it. It’s part of the reason my Facebook posts and other accounts are public. You either enjoy a good combination of wacko and introspection, or you don’t. In this day, trying to sway someone’s political opinions is exactly like attempting to microwave your own head. With just about the same results.
Yesterday morning, I watched an older lady painfully collect her bags from the EZ Mart counter. When I left, I rolled down my window and offered her a ride. I could see the look of distrust in her eyes. She said thank you and immediately turned away. She struggled with the bags as she walked.
Today as I left the worst convenience store in the history of mankind, another older lady seemed to be talking to me from a distance as I drove away. Because my car has ancient roller windows (even though it’s a 21 model), I leaned toward the passenger side and rolled down my window. She asked me if I could give her a ride. Honestly, assuming she wanted a ride to a nearby location, I had time. It’s rare for me to hesitate. But something about her seemed off. I told her I could not. She smiled and said thank you. And then she added that she loved my purple glasses. Something about her saying something nice and adding a smile after she realized I wasn’t going to give her a ride banged a gong in my head. I’ve given plenty of rides to questionable people if I’m alone because the risk is only to me. Or them, if you know me well enough.
Love, X
PS The picture is unrelated to my story. I took it Saturday. My cat was rolling around under the tree debris as if it were catnip. He’s on lockdown again after yesterday’s shenanigans. .
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 