Category Archives: Personal

Lemon Moment, Personal

o b l I g a t I o n

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I’m in the brook, a fancier word for creek. To say that the swiftly moving water feels pleasurable on my toes is a trivialization. I left things undone before I came here. (No matter where you find yourself, that statement will be true.) 

I chose the tallest big flat rock I could find to place in the middle of the stream. The objective was to sit down and stretch my legs in the water. The rock weighed at least seventy lbs. But once I picked it up, I was committed. Even as I regretted my decision as my feet slipped on the mossy rocks. 

I would worry about the potential for unseen reptiles rapidly approaching beneath the sheen of the water. But I see  no need. The risk is small. And certainly less than the unfelt one that unleashed on a Monday afternoon after work almost two years ago. Within hours, a skilled surgeon cut me open, doing his version of an extemporaneous fact-finding mission. I assume it was a skilled surgeon. For all I know, it could have been a housekeeper impersonating a surgeon. I would hope he would have charged me less.

I woke up the next morning. Given that almost 7 million Americans are moving around with brain aneurysms, I won’t hold it against a snake or two if they do what comes naturally to them. Not to mention the lunacy of driving around here with rabid sports aficionados driving amok. 

The number of days remaining to comfortably stand in the creek up to my knees is rapidly dwindling. Both because of Autumn’s approach and perhaps my own twilight. 

I left the apartment behind this afternoon to go to the creek. Isn’t it amazing how inertia sometimes masquerades as relaxation or obligation? There will always be dust. Trash to take out. And other equally important tasks such as rearranging the utensil drawer.

Yesterday, I thought of myself as on the fringe. At least one hundred interesting things to do or see, yet there I was, esconsed in my tiny little box.

When you find yourself literally dreaming ‘time is short,’ maybe it’s a good time to give inertia a hard kick in the ass.

No snakes today. At least none that I saw.

Love, X

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Fayetteville, Lemon Moment, Personal

Anticpation

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I stood on the landing, capturing the background insect sounds and the lightning above. A solitary skateboarder passed about 50 yards away, the friction of his wheels echoing through the empty streets. Much of the anticipated rain is north. I’m hoping that the creeks will fill. I’ve missed the peacefulness of the cool water. I heard the first scattered and intermittent drops of rain at 3:10 a.m. I hope the clouds open before I head to work. I could really use a September early morning baptism today. X

Addiction, Ancestry, Behavior, Death, Family, Flick, Personal

Mixed Memories

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I can’t control how such admissions paint me. I rarely memorialize my mom’s death like I do others. She died ten years ago today. I found a picture of her today, one I might have seen decades ago but haven’t since. I inexpertly sharpened it today. My favorite grandmother died on the 6th, while my wife died on the 4th; different years, different circumstances. I spent a year not talking to my mom. I’d spent decades attempting to bridge the gap of anger and alcoholism with her. Like so many children of such parents, I was convinced that I could talk and behave in a way that would earn me normalcy as if I were the one with the deficiency. Drinking didn’t kill her. But it infected so many parts of her life. The infection of it spread to other people. It wasn’t her intention. She learned the skill from others. Like all other close family members of mine who were alcoholics, she died with an insatiable urge to drink until anger consumed her. Recently, suspected truths of another member of my family blossomed. He’s gone now. No second chances, no new learned behavior, no sitting on the porch as the sunset approaches. The familial infection he acquired in his youth overpowered him, once again proving that addiction has nothing to do with intelligence. Addiction and anger stain the people around those who suffer from it. And he unfortunately passed the ball and burden of consequences to other innocents. I don’t have any superpowers which shield me from the tendency to drink or drown myself in a fog. If I did have them? I would hand them to the people who I recently discovered to be needing them.

When I write things such as this, I trigger people. For much of my life, my brother was the vanguard of family honor, demanding silence. It was a habit he absorbed from the paternal side of my family. I discovered very late in life that their cabal hid many secrets, even people, from me. I’ve yet to find an addict who can move freely in the sunlight; their behavior demands secrecy and closed lips. In most of these cases, some of those lips will be bloodied because addiction inevitably exacts the price of violence, one way or another. Either to oneself or to everyone in the bubble nearest them.

That is exactly the power of addiction, the whispering lover that only the addict or alcoholic hears, blossoms.

I shared a quote by Annie Lemott twice last week: “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.” I don’t write to inflict further harm. On the other hand, silence is self-inflicted violence. If we are to judge people, it must include their shining moments, too. I have good memories, and I share some of those, too. It’s fascinating to watch people as they listen to my stories; some only selectively note when I say anything they perceive as an accusation or something best not discussed. None of the people who later suffered from the afflictions of addiction and anger were born with the intention to slide into the abyss while terrorizing their friends and family. The filtered truth I share in no way alters history or changes who they were. They had their moment on stage. As it will for all of us, the curtains will close, and our time will end. Your time to live your story fits narrowly inside that timespan.

Secrecy.
Silence.

Time is short.
Live your life under your own banner and within your own control.

Love, X

Allegory, Death, Personal, Psychology

A Dream, Another Reality, A Remembrance

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I stood next to the extravagant nickel-cornered casket. A woman I vaguely recognized was attempting to say words that might reach me. “Everything is temporary. One morning you’ll wake up, and it will be different. You just need some time.” I nodded.

I turned to my left as someone cleared their throat. It was an older distinguished man wearing a dark suit. He was probably in his late sixties. A pair of forgotten reading glasses perched on top of his head. His face seemed familiar to me, but his voice was one I’d never heard before. It was a deep baritone.

“She’s right. Everything is temporary. This pain. The breakfast you ate. The tingle you feel when the right person touches you. Even your life. Temporary is a mindset.”

The woman I was talking to turned to him and asked who he was.

He just shook his head, dismissing her.

He nodded again and held his hand out. I didn’t even hesitate as my fingers reached his. He shook my hand briefly, and then his fingers circled my wrist. It didn’t surprise me. Déjà Vu doesn’t cover it. I was certain he’d done it before. When my eyes met his, I was struck by how much like blue skies they looked.

The surge of electricity that passed through him to me didn’t cause me to jerk. Instead, it caused paralysis. My eyes closed. For how long, I’m not certain. When I opened my eyes, the man no longer held my wrist. He now stood by the foot of the casket.

His voice resonated. “X, please help me with the viewing by lifting the other end?”

I moved to help without pausing to wonder about who the man was or why he asked me to help. Oddly, I couldn’t remember who lay inside the casket. The woman who had been talking to me no longer stood nearby.

We each lifted both ends of the coffin lid as the man nodded. Unlike most coffins, this one had no separation in the top. The coffin was empty.

The man watched my eyes. “He was cremated. The urn will come in a few minutes. For now, we’ll place his book here in the coffin. He said it was his only achievement. The man reached behind the coffin and retrieved a hardcover book from a small table behind the casket and held it up. “Time Is Short” was emblazoned on the cover as the title.

“Ironic title, don’t you think?” the man asked me, smiling.

“Yes. It sounds like something I’d say.” I laughed.

The man walked to the middle of the casket and placed the book face up inside the casket. I walked a few steps toward him and stood next to him, facing the room. It was a large, open room, filled with rows of pews and comfortable chairs. We were the only occupants.

“Let’s sit down for a moment so you can collect your thoughts.” The man wasn’t asking so I followed him to the front row pew, all the way to the right.

We sat on the cushioned pew. Oddly, my brain was absent of almost all thought.

“Do you have any questions, X? Ask me anything.”

“Whose funeral is this?”

He laughed. “Aren’t they all so similar? I don’t want to spoil it. Go up and turn the book over. The author’s picture is on the back.”

I stood up and walked over to the casket. While I know several writers, I was having difficulty remembering names and faces.

I looked at the picture behind the “Time Is Short” title running across the face of the book. It was a collage of colors, each coalescing across an auburn field and a solitary tree illuminated by a sunset. “Amen Tailor” was the author’s name. The name evoked an odd familiarity for me. Then I remembered that it was an anagram for “I am not real.” I smiled.

I turned the book over. My fingers went numb as I looked at the face on the back. It was me, but not quite a me that I recognized immediately. I realized it was the man seated behind me. I turned with the book held tightly in my hands. The man stood two feet away from me, staring intently at me with his piercing cloudy eyes.

“Interesting, isn’t it, that you, or we rather, had to use a pseudonym to get people to listen to us? It wasn’t enough to already have a new name.” He laughed, and I smiled.

“How much time is left? 10 years? 20?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. This is one possible outcome. Obviously, though, you have enough time to do that.” He pointed to the book in my hands. “When I jolted you, I gave you just enough push to do one thing you’d love to accomplish in life. Now, you get to choose what that might be.”

I extended my left hand to shake his, a habit only left-handers would understand. As his fingers touched mine, I felt a slight shock again.

“You’ll have to leave the book here with me before you go. You can exit out the side door next to the chapel service area behind you.”

I handed him the book, took a long look at the casket, and walked outside. No more than any other day in my life, I didn’t know what the awaiting sunshine might hold.

Personal

Saturday Disclosure

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“Wandering the world, armed with chalk.” This would probably be a great quote to be atop a police report for suspicious activity. Words and ideas are suspicious enough. Judging by the scarcity of anything other than impersonal superficial observations, it’s no wonder people are reluctant to disclose. We aren’t supposed to say that our souls are fatigued at times. That we might be painfully lonely. Or that when we look at people around us, we sometimes feel like opposing teams of aliens, both communicating via hieroglyphics. Each of us carries around a private world in our skull. We are certain that people will think our marbles might be scattered if we share the contents. It’s because thoughts are private and concealable. I’m sure that if mind reading were reality, after the initial shock and unfamiliarity of unavoidable honesty, we would all feel relief. We share a finite number of emotions. And we definitely like to look at other people like they are the weird ones. We can succeed at doing so only because we can curate what we express.

Some of us have poet’s hearts. Others, a practical chronometer that concerns itself only with getting things done. A few are hedonists, searching for the elusive bacchanalia that might allow them to forget themselves. Walking down Leverett, even before the sun dares to rise, the scent of recreational escape intermittently reaches my nose.  It would be easy to judge those who choose it so early in their day. But many of us choose coffee or cigarettes, both of which are cleverly concealed stimulant delivery devices.

During my chalking expedition disguised as a recreational walk this morning, I was pleased to see that the front of the line at the convenience store was occupied by a patron wearing a long blue bathrobe. I made a catty comment and it broke the ice. Because you damn well know everyone in there was secretly thinking about the dude in the robe. Was he wearing it for comfort? Attention? Was it family spa day? The explanation didn’t matter to me. I was just glad to see some weirdness. He at least had the nerve to wear it openly instead of containing it in the camouflage of his thoughts.

I left a trail of chalk thoughts. If anyone retraces my steps, they will laugh. And a couple of them will make them think. Among those possible considerations is whether the author needs to be medicated. I have a theory about that. Most of the people who use drugs should stop. And a great number of people who don’t probably should start.

Though it’s not related, one of the stories I told the clerk this morning is that it’s amazing how many things we do today that are a result of unplanned echoes from history. Even the size of our railroad tracks is largely a result of the ruts in roads from Roman chariots. And that we as people do the same thing. We find ourselves using the grooves of our past routine to subconsciously control the day we’ll have. I know it’s not the normal fodder for convenience store conversation, but it’s a hell of a lot better than talking about the upcoming gladiatorial sports event that seems to have infected everyone.

If by some miracle you are still reading this post, take a moment and imagine that you had the power to say anything you want. To anyone. Take another moment to realize that you already do. The greater the disparity between what you would like to say and what you silence is a determinant in how happy you feel.

Love, X
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Fayetteville, Humor, Personal, Razorback Greenway, Safety, Security

Thanks, Gomez!

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I saw him coming up the trail access. The shadows and lighting at 2 a.m. were murky at best. His approach seemed suspicious. I’m not generally concerned about the what-ifs of such people. Someone can just as easily jump onto me from the tree canopy if they’d like. (At times, I almost wish someone would. What a story that would be.) I can run fast, and my appearance tricks people into thinking I’m Gomer. While I am no Bruce Lee, I can snatch someone bald-headed faster than they can say “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” I say “hello” or wave to everyone. I’d probably wave “howdy” to the Queen if she came sightseeing.

It had to be a man approaching me or perhaps the Beauty Queen of Madison County. I realize that I am repeating myself with that comparison. My apologies to the residents of Madison County, all of whom stopped reading after the first paragraph due to lip fatigue.

As he grew closer, the light from the streetlight illuminated him more. He had one hand in his pocket, and his pace seemed off.

As he came closer, my comedic instincts took over. “Have you seen my pet llama? He got out of the backyard a few minutes ago.”

“What’s that you said? A llama?” He pronounced it oddly, like he’d grown up learning phonetics from an inebriated bingo caller.

“A llama, yes. He got out.”

He stopped in his tracks, confused. “No. Not even a dog.”

“Dang. Thanks. I can’t own dogs, though. Not after Ohio.”

I could see that the gears weren’t clicking. It was too much odd conversation. He looked back and then at me two or three times.

“Well, have a good morning. I hope my llama is okay.”

“Yeah, me too,” he said, and kept walking, this time with a stable pace. I briefly wondered what he might do if I started running toward HIM. Imagine that police report.

“Gomez, where are you?” I half-shouted, even if the residents are the nearby apartment complex heard me.

My llama Gomez didn’t materialize.

You’re welcome to use the Gomez the Llama self-defense response if you’d like.

X
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Airbnb, Personal, Travel

Away

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Waking up in a strange place, drinking a cup of bitter coffee, walking the unknown pre-sunrise streets, feeling the warm breeze blow across the small man-made lake, standing in a pool watching the sun feebly start its ascent, taking sips of a second cup waiting for me on the pool edge… sublime delights owed to my predilection for less sleep. Lemon moments stolen from the day. Sunday morning, I walked all the streets around the Bentonville airport. Several things reminded me of what James Cameron might include in the moments immediately before an approaching apocalypse. The effect was amplified because of diffused lights, some of which were unusual hues, especially so with violet and soft reds. There were no moving cars during the entirety of my circuits through those streets. The effect was amplified because I had watched an anomalous object in the sky for a few minutes. The flat topography provided an immense view of the sky. I looped around back to highway 71 and walked the middle of the lane. It’s fascinating walking it absent traffic.  Monday morning, I walked a longer different route that ended immediately before the sunrise. I stood and watched the open sky, expansive above me, with the reflection of the lake glittering darkly. When the true sunrise started, I continued my custom of hanging a cup in a tree.

This place wasn’t as complicated or eccentric as most. But the simplicity was relaxing and beautiful. It’s hard to complain about life when there is a pool to submerge one’s toes and worries. It was amazing to get up early and instead of focusing all of my energy on work, I was able to just walk with no intentions.

Love, X


Behavior, Mental Health, Opinion, Personal, TV

Argument And Life

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The original picture is from Six Feet Under, one of my favorite shows. Just the memory of it sharpens internal knives inside me. The series finale still resonates as the de facto best series finale ever produced.

A few years ago, I modified the picture with one additional line. It’s a reminder that if you’re invested in ‘winning’ an argument, you’re also watching your precious time race past you – along with all the other things you could be doing. Most of us don’t win arguments. Not because we’re wrong or right, but rather due to the fact that most arguments are either a matter of opinion or stubborn bias against facts or other perspectives. If people won’t listen to facts or evolving discoveries, you’re playing by a different set of rules subject to the other person’s whimsy. And if neither of you can recognize the futility of individual perspective, you might be living on another planet.

The people who intelligently challenge you are the very people you probably need the most in your life. But also the ones that you shun. Who wants to live a life of introspection and self-accountability? It would be a marathon just making it to breakfast to have a life filled with such people.

“You sit in such judgment of the world. How do you expect to ever be a part of it?” Olivier (who was one of the smartest and most irritating characters on the show).

Love, X
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Lemon Moment, Personal

He

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It was 100°. I saw him walking a little erratically near the trail so I changed course to accidentally cross paths. It seemed like heat exhaustion. He surprised me by walking under the bridge on the trail so I went over it and made a loop. I asked him if he needed anything. He was quite polite. There was something off about his voice. He declined anything to drink, eat and said he didn’t need a ride anywhere. He went on to tell me that he works very early in the morning with a friend of his in Springdale. When he’s done, he walks back because his friend has to go immediately to another job. I told him that I didn’t mean to intrude but between the way he was walking and the unusual cadence of his speech, it concerned me a little more. He took a moment and then told me that when he was younger one of several stepfathers had beaten him severely enough to cause permanent damage. I wished him well as he took his shirt off and then his shoes. His plan was to step into the creek and cool off before walking the rest of the way back to wherever he lived. It struck me how different his reasons for getting into the stream are compared to mine. The man plugs along and does what he has to. My deck of cards looks a lot less stacked now.

Lemon Moment, Mental Health, Personal

Distraction

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“You cannot shovel your way to the top of the mountain.” You can thank lyricist Ricardo Arjona for the sentiment. It means different things to different people. And nothing to those who don’t love the nuance of language. I walked in the blazing sunlight of this Vulcan August afternoon. When I descended into the creek bed, the canopy of trees lessened he heat by 20°. Though the water has diminished, the creek still runs and the water is clearer than ever. I wish my head to be as diaphanous and in the moment as the minnows congregating at my feet. I can live happily with very little, much less than most. Don’t get me wrong. I love the embrace of the air created by the air conditioner. And the almost instant cup of bitter coffee that my machine produces upon demand. I love the vibration of music in my ears, the pulse of cleverly constructed and beautiful ideas passing through my little brain. It’s true that I don’t experience boredom. But I do experience the overwhelming sensation at times that I’m facing the wrong direction and that the universe has been tapping me on the shoulder for decades. I stood in the creek and lost track of time again. Watching the minnows with envy. It is beyond strange to me how moments of Zen are often literally at our feet. Distraction, distraction, distraction.

Love, X
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