Yesterday, I put up a 4-shelf system behind my metal front door. It’s wasted space and ideal to display curios, knick-knacks, or bric-a-brac. (If you like the hoity-toity French word for small pieces of goofiness on display.) Give me credit for using a neutral color. My inclination was to do a series of bright resonant colors.
I’m using the bottom shelf to display my favorite brooches. I guess I have a brooch addiction. What kind of 12-step program is available for such an affliction probably would be really fabulous.
For those with discerning eyes, yes, that is a pregnancy test on the far right. No, I’m not pregnant. I put that odd curio there to catch people off guard. In case they aren’t already on guard just strolling through the front door. It’s akin to the fun I have by putting underwear on the door or on the floor in plain sight. Since my friend Marilyn insists I’m circling the crazy drain, I see no point resisting filling this old apartment with a variety of easter egg surprises. (The apartment simplex has a few surprises I’ve put up – and as far as I know, no one has questioned them. It’ll be interesting to see how far I can task this long-term project before being called out. 🙂 )
As for the real confession, lately I’ve been taking puffs of small cigars. The first puff always gives me a buzz. No, these are not the cannabis kind. Despite what you’d guess by reading what I write, I don’t do drugs – and they don’t do me, either. Today is the day I stop taking puffs. This is one of those small habits that most people keep a secret, especially if it’s one they are about to give up. It’s a bit ridiculous to reveal that I’ve been doing it. I hate secrecy, which is ironic on several levels. I have no problem confessing such stupidities. I’ve found that if you don’t confess things, even the small ones, people’s idea of you grows increasingly disparate from reality.
I’m painting more tiles and attempting a wall rack. The wall rack is already a bit of a mess.
As for my small first-world problems, people I love are experiencing real heartache and the kind of life surprises that really hurt. I have hope that all of us end this day with more love and peace than we started with. It’s a small ask, one bordering on prayer.
Y’all signed up for this, so in deference to Ron White, who quipped (paraphrasing), “I know I have the right to remain silent, just not the ability.”
It’s a great thing that I love burned food. I made homemade pizzas (though you wouldn’t like the way I do…). I set Alexa for ten minutes. That’s what I thought I said. Because I mumble worse than a child who got caught pilfering cookies, I evidently said “twenty minutes.” The smoke alarm didn’t go off. I bought one of those new-fangled kinds that gauges the luxury of the residence. Mine evidently thinks I’ll be better off if the place turns to cinders. Though it’s a ‘smart’ device with built-in wifi, it calls 7-11 instead of 911. That’s a joke. I think it’s a joke. Flavor Flav once said, “9-1-1 is a joke in your town.” To that, I’d reply, “Yeah, until you need it.” And all of us eventually do.
Saturday, despite having great conversations with three lovely souls, I found myself doing projects to fill the quiet: colorful ones designed to invade both the interior and exterior of my old apartment. I keep hoping I’ll fill it with enough brightness to drown out the shadows. Don’t get me wrong; I’m so grateful for having my health and sanity. The latter is currently on hiatus.
One of the people I talked to told me that she found herself busy with projects when she was in my situation, filling time with movement and results. She said she could see through the tightly-slitted blinds of my writing that I was experiencing the all-too-human sensation of loneliness, and doubly so given my nature.
It’s not that I’m always alone, far from it. The universes watches me closely, though, and quite often waits to throw a shawl over my enthusiasm precisely when I’m not expecting it.
I got a call yesterday that was both gratifying and emotional; as with such calls, it took me time to process it and look at it from a different perspective. It’s all in my head, of course. That’s how we experience reality, isn’t it? In our own way, cherry-picking the parts that reinforce what we’re thinking. It varies by mood, day, and person. None of us share the same reality because the voice in our head is the overriding narrative that sometimes drowns out the positive things in our lives. Or at least dims it just long enough to doubt ourselves. I envy people whose narrative is overwhelmingly one of gratitude and acceptance. What a superpower they have. Imagine if Superman walked around convincing everyone that they’re worthy. He wouldn’t need to jump tall buildings.
This is all normal – or so I’m told.
Because I’m lucky enough to have seen behind the curtains of people’s lives, I know that normal is just a word in the dictionary. One of the most normal people I know thinks it’s a great idea to shower about once a week. He doesn’t smell bad, so I’m not sure what alchemy or process he uses to “save water and time” by not showering.
It’s the universe’s perverse sense of humor that catches me off guard. No matter how good my morning or day has been, there is always a risk of unexpectedly getting smacked in the head. Sometimes, it brings joy. Sometimes, confusion. The morning gave me a bit of joy seeing the neighborhood, running without stopping, buying something for a project to help someone else out, and talking to great people.
Lord, though, the shadows.
I don’t want anyone to think I’m on happiness auto-pilot. It’s why I tell a couple of my friends that I understand all too well how our minds lay traps for us and that I understand their coping mechanisms. Short-term coping mechanisms are essential. So many of us make them inescapable habits, ones which shut off the rational parts of our lives.
I took a diamond painting of my cat Guino, the one who owns the house I used to live in – and I painted it vivid red. I changed something of the old and made it my own.
I made a runner of felt-backed tiles and put them on the deck outside my apartment. They don’t serve a purpose, except to add color and juxtapose themselves against the faded boards of the landing. I’m sure my pixie Larkma will appreciate the ornate sidewalk of the tiles. (And it tickles me that people will read the last sentence and wonder what in the hell I’m talking about.)
The burned pizzas were delicious. I didn’t plan to burn them but then wonder why I didn’t do it on purpose. No one is here to ask me what in blazes I’m doing in the kitchen.
Notes: *To the FedEx guy who got excited when I explained how easy it is to change his name, I hope you do. You’re forty and it is ridiculous to not choose a name you’ll love.
*To the bicyclist who went by earlier, wearing bright pink ankle shoes and a hat that looked like it was a spray-painted magician’s hat, more power to you, sir.
*To the neighbor who thinks no one sees that you sometimes hold the leash and let the dog walk onto the landing to pee, you’re wrong. One day soon, as a joke, I’m going to sneak over there and hang a urinal on the railing, and mark it “For Canine Use Only.” This idea pleases me.
*The best pizza recipe in the world: however you want it. I’m constantly preaching that all food is subjective. All of us eat stuff that would make a college freshman retch into his tiny decorative beer box, the one he uses temporarily, albeit for an entire year, as a bathroom trash can. I humbly ask everyone to stop arguing from the perspective that there is a right choice about food choices. Live and let eat, even if you have to wear a blindfold and a clothespin on your nose. Also, both of these devices might make walking around this world more palatable at times.
*The breeze this morning is sublime and filled with humidity from the rain. It’s scented with foliage and the unmistakable aroma of someone’s massive cannabis habit. I’m not sure that sentiment would work well in an Emerson poem. But it works well for a Fayetteville, Arkansas moment.
*A few of my neighbors borrowed a large screen tv to watch the Razorback game. I’m not a fan. I’m a fan of large TVs, but not college football. They are still happy this morning, being able to celebrate their team winning. I would be a hateful bastard to dampen that enthusiasm. I smile, nod, and say, “…and they won by a huge margin.” That’s the extent of my game facts for yesterday. That’s enough, though.
*I never thought about “Hype Man” being a part of several people’s Wikipedia biography pages. I can’t any college that offers a major in “Hype.” I’m irritated about this oversight.
*People sometimes tell me to cool it and stop writing so many dumb jokes and to shut my brain off for a day. The last time I tried that, the City of Fayetteville offered me a job on the Urban Planning Commission based on qualifications.
*I’d plant more ideas in your head, except I definitely don’t want to get in there and water them.
I have a confession to make, which will prove how dumb I am. I didn’t know until today that you WRITE on your blog. Months ago, I clicked on your gravatar and didn’t see any content. There might not have been when I did. Yesterday, I saw another tab on my WordPress toolbar for followers. I didn’t know I could see the followers, either. Duh. And I didn’t realize that you had a “follow” button when I saw your name on the list.
I clicked it. A little bit ago, I opened my Outlook folder containing all my blog notifications. To my horror, I saw that some of them included notifications that you’d added new content.
To say that I felt stupid is an understatement.
You’ve been a constant reader of my lunacy. The volume and length of what I write wear most casual readers out. I joke that if they’re reading my posts, they can honestly say, “Yes, I do a lot of reading,” without feeling as if they are lying. If hand-writing were still a thing, I’d have to buy ink by the gallon. I’d write ink instead of pencil because I loathe perfectionism. (And often even second drafts, much to my cousin’s horror. 🙂 )
And given my propensity to tell people to write (and share) their stories, I’m a dumbass for not seeing you’d posted some.
Regardless of how it happened, somehow, I know my stupidity lies at the bottom of that well of explanation.
I know you’ll write something clever to deflect the apology – and that’s okay. Secretly, though? Yeah, we know I’m a dumbass.
There are so many beautiful houses near my apartment. I especially admire the ones packed with a variety of plants and foliage and a little bit of carelessness regarding the lawn. It’s easy to lose track of time wandering the streets, especially when I’m not attentive to how the byways interconnect. Streets with names like Elm, Poplar, Baker, Erstan, and Green Acres. One of the things about running is that I don’t have enough time to appreciate the gentle breeze, the wall of scents emanating from some of the yards, or give the inhabitants of some of these houses time enough to see me and greet me. If I’m walking, I take a moment to tell them how beautiful their yards are. One of the truths of life is that people forget the beauty around them; they go environmentally blind. I’ve noted the addresses a few times and sent them an anonymous postcard to let them know that the time, money, and effort are observable and appreciated. I don’t know if ironic is the right word. Still, it always occurs to me that most of the beauty in a yard tends to be enjoyed and observed by passersby rather than the owners.
There’s a metaphor there, one you should remember as you look at yourself in the mirror or wonder if you’ve added any value to people’s lives. The tentacles of who we are tend to be vast, though invisible. I continue to learn that we seldom know or recognize when people appreciate us. It is common for me to consider how ridiculous it is that we don’t take the time to be vulnerable.
The passenger train is running a little late as I finish my run. The blare of the horn is deafening. Oddly though, even as I wince a little, it is comforting. I wave with a little bit too much enthusiasm at the passengers; they watch me, I observe them. Several return my wave.
I’ve been using the dryer timer cycle as a bell to start my run a few times lately. It limits my burst of energy. I use the law of increments to my advantage. I can’t promise to run miles each day. But I can harness the enthusiasm that sometimes grips me and commit myself to do what I can now, today. Now that I’ve cooled off a little, I’ll return to my apartment. But I have snapshots in my head of this morning’s breeze, the walkers and the runners, and of the beautiful yards.
P.S. I found the flower art in the middle of the road. Whatever was connected to it is gone. I’m assuming it fell from a passing vehicle. I wonder what was attached at the top.
I’m reluctant to share it, but someone wrote and gave me one of the best compliments ever:
“X. What are you DOING? Sometimes I don’t quite get what you’re writing about, but I always feel what you’re saying. I wonder what it is you’re supposed to be doing. Whatever it is, I wish you’d figure it out and channel your interests. It would be amazing. Write a wanderer post this weekend if you can. Signed, A Lurker”
I wrote an intensely personal email. It laid bare some of my recent experiences.
Because I had multiple email addresses in my contacts for the intended recipient, I chose an alternate one. Due to my fumbling fingers, I scrolled the available addresses accidentally and chose an unintended one.
And hit send.
I didn’t realize I had done so for two days, so ‘unsend’ wasn’t a viable option.
Because it was done, I wrote the unintended recipient and explained what I’d done, acknowledging he or she would have undoubtedly have read the email.
A week later, I got a reply. Yes, he or she had. They wished me luck.
After ten seconds of horror, I reminded myself that secrecy was its own problem and then laughed about it.
The story pops into my head sometimes, especially when I’m writing emails.
“But did you die?” is a good response to this story…
One of these days, calamity will knock at my door. It’s inevitable.
But not today.
I’m grateful.
I didn’t know how to include this story in my earlier post. I wasn’t sure I even wanted to try. Like my countless pranks, I don’t want to take a picture of them or reveal them.
I saw her in the parking lot, standing next to her car. The frustration and anxiety were written plainly on her face. Her passenger-side front tire was flat.
I parked and said, “Hello, my name is X, and I’m here to help.” I know it sounds tilted; it was amusing to me as I said it. I’m actively looking for karma opportunities; I never fail to find them if I look carefully because life is so full of surprises.
“I can’t get my boyfriend or sister to answer the phone.” She sounded a little defeated. Most of us have been there before. “I have groceries in the trunk, getting hot.”
“Okay.” I showed her my work badge. “My name really is X. Here’s where I work. Do you need to get home with the groceries, or do you need the flat fixed?”
“That’s kind. It’s okay.” She said it with enough half-enthusiasm so that even a dim bulb like me could see she was saying it out of politeness.
“It’s not okay. I’m going to get my portable inflator from the so-called trunk of my car and air up your tire first, okay?” I didn’t wait for her to reply.
I connected my inflator to her cigarette lighter socket, pulled the cord around, knelt, and began airing the tire up. I ran my fingers around the tire. A screw of some sort protruded from the rubber. “You have a screw in your tire.”
I inflated the tire to 35 psi. “How far is home for you?”
“Three miles,” she said.
“I’m going to show you how to use this inflator, okay?” I gave her a 30-second demonstration. “Take this with you,” I told her, handing her the inflator. “I doubt your car has a sensor to alert you that it’s going flat. I think it is a slow leak and you didn’t notice when you left your house. If you have any doubts, stop if traffic takes too long and check it. Otherwise, drive straight home.”
“I can’t take your inflator. That’s too much.” She smiled.
“Too much is getting caught off guard. You need one of these in your car.”
She smiled. “How do I return the inflator to you?”
“This is not the sort of thing you return! Take it and keep it in every car you own. Flats are nobody’s fault. Do you have enough money to get the flat fixed permanently? If not, it’s okay to say so.” I looked directly at her to let her know that I knew all too well what it’s like to be without options.
She stepped forward. I assumed to shake my hand. Instead, she hugged me.
I made my escape. This sort of thing can bring me to tears if I dwell on it.
It’s not the first inflator I’ve given somebody who has needed it.
I hope it won’t be the last.
$25 is a small price to pay to spread the gospel of inflators and paying it forward.
We’re all going to have flats. Metaphorically and literally.
I wrote a heart-wrenching post and story today. This isn’t it. 🙂
After writing yesterday about coincidences, a couple of big ones popped up, like fish jumping out of the water and into the boat. It’s a bit mesmerizing, seeing unrelated things – and people’s stories – merge and overlap. A couple of these surprise coincidences were related to people having connections that I previously didn’t know about. Another was finding out that people had an entirely hidden life. (Or so they thought. People always know. And once people die, their stories become liquid and slide out of people’s mouths with greater ease.)
For those who take the time to share their stories, it is appreciated. Seriously. As with pictures, I love that people trust me with their tales and (often) invisible biographies. It adds a lot of value to my life. More so now than ever.
I made a huge pot of homemade chili yesterday. The apartment smells fantastic for once. 🙂 I’ll avoid the obvious joke here.
Yesterday and today, I painted several long floor tiles. Yesterday’s were cobalt metallic blue; today’s are deep, bright red. Instead of lacquering the deplorable countertops, I’m placing a series of tiles across some of the sections. I’m using felt on the bottom if such things interest you.
These also allow me to put hot pans all over the place, even if I’m not cooking. It’s essential to keep people guessing.
I also installed a hallway light where one didn’t previously exist. I was so spoiled at my last house. Because I planned, I had extensive photos of the house being built, including all the plumbing, wiring, and extraneous studs and braces in the walls. I have to be extra careful, like a barbarian, in this old apartment.
Though I won’t go into details, some of my overconfidence and previous exposure to violence finally worked on my behalf. I took a risk and confronted someone who needed a reminder of what constitutes civilized behavior. Shockingly, something in my eyes or deadpan delivery got through to him. I don’t know about y’all, but a whispered intention carries much more power than a shouted one. It is one of the few things that my Dad’s meanness resulted in a payoff for me. I don’t invoke it often. I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t foresee a trainwreck if I didn’t risk it. It was a small victory and will add a little peace to a few people’s lives. There’s no need for me to understand the person’s cruelty. Sometimes I forget that. It just needs to stop, and there are times when playing it safe sometimes makes it less so.
My backings and kits to make my own brooches arrived. I’m sure all of you have thought, “X really needs a lot more brooches.” Realistically, it’s cheaper to convert pendants and other items into brooches than it is to buy brooches. And it might be fun. I’ll let you know after I’ve stabbed myself sixteen times. Or tried soldering, only to melt my fingertips. Fortunately, I have insurance for my failures. It doesn’t hurt to have a jewelry expert handy when I have several dumb questions.
In another project, I learned that you can use vodka instead of perfumer’s alcohol when making your own eau de toilette or eau de cologne. In other news, perfumer’s alcohol is a real thing. Unlike perfumer’s alcohol, at least you can drink the vodka if you botch an attempt at making your own eau du toilette. The confounding aspect of this project is that I haven’t worn any cologne or scent since the Jurassic Era.
I got a surprise gift of Ghiradelli Sea Salt Soiree dark chocolates. I’ve been craving chocolate lately. They’re small enough I can’t overdo it. Well, I shouldn’t say “can’t.”
My weird set of stainless steel rainbow bowls arrived today. They are ridiculous. And I love them.
I got an extended free trial of Walmart +, which includes home delivery. I realized how much time and effort I was expending shopping and lugging groceries. Until you’ve carried 22 34-oz diet tonic water bottles and 30+ cans of fruits and vegetables, you don’t realize how much exercise this is. My first order didn’t include any refrigerated items. The next one will.
Fingers crossed and elbows oiled! (That’s one of my phrases, a reminder to be hopeful but be willing to get to work.)
Tomorrow is the anniversary of my wife Deanne’s death. I’m not one to memorialize as much on the “day of.” I’d rather have nostalgic moments pop into my head unbidden. Memories can be like beloved books; on the shelf, waiting. Being divorced has pushed me to take a more complex look at the phases of my life; her death put a sharp boundary and divide in my life. I’m reminded that I survived the turmoil. Part of my secret was not to wait for life to come to find me again. Despite all my trouble, most of my own making, I wonder.
The world is more interconnected than I’d imagine, even though I think about this often.
I received a text today: “X, the brooches are 1/2 off. You ought to come and add to your collection.”
Not having a-n-y idea who the text was from, I resisted the urge to reply. Before making it home, I imagined that it could only be one of two places, so I pulled into the flea market parking lot and went inside.
I limited myself to four, although they were affordable.
When I went to pay for them, I didn’t mention the text.
“Hello, X,” the cashier said.
The cashier remembered me, noting I didn’t have a brooch on my shirt today. (I’d forgotten it, along with several other things, even though I had the items next to the door.) I still had on my work badge. It is difficult to overlook the single large “X” on it.
“You can’t beat half off of something you’d buy for full price,” she added.
I told her that I was about to embark on making my own and deciding whether to get soldering tools or use felt and glue. With enough creativity, just about anything can be converted to a brooch or clip.
“But I will still stop by and see what catches my eye. It’s mainly color, of all kinds.”
When I got home, I laughed, realizing that one of today’s projects was painting some long floor tiles cobalt metallic blue. They, of course, aren’t going on the floor. What kind of foolishness would that be? 🙂
Part of my laugh was that it didn’t occur to me to ask who sent the text, or if I had encountered multiple coincidences by picking that particular flea market.
The mystery remains.
And I love that this is true.
P.S. Grammatically speaking, both ‘broach’ and ‘brooch’ are correct for these pieces of jewelry.
The sun hits my door, wall, and apartment with a ferocity that’s easy to underestimate.
I stand on the balcony, forgetting that the sun is browning my arms, face, and neck.
I don’t need TV. Life unfolds and coalesces in the parking lot, in the street, and at the train tracks. Runners, walkers, and cyclists wait their turn. Razorback Transit quickens its schedule.
A woman drove up in a minivan, smoking furiously. Her dog sat in the passenger seat, wagging its tail. The woman nervously waved “Hello” to me as the dog jumped through the passenger window and onto the parking lot asphalt. They waked up the stairs. She pulled up a window and bent to pick up the dog. She pushed it through the window that had no screen. I couldn’t discern what she was saying, so my imagination went in three different directions.
She turned, walked down the stairs, and backed up to leave. How I knew she’d turn into traffic without adequate caution, I’m not sure. The blare of a horn didn’t deter her from turning right, even though her turn signal indicated an opposite intention.
I’ve seen so many near-accidents.
The hummingbirds hover within a foot of my face, observing me as I watch them.
At 7:30, the sun sets on the horizon, a deep orange-red.
I hear the neighbors animatedly discussing the details of their mundane day.
The shelving boards I painted today baked enough in the sun to take inside, so I carried them inside and put them in one of my two unused bedrooms.
When I return, the hummingbirds dive and dance around me as the curtain of insects create a wall of sound.
I stand motionless. The one who seems interested in me most days lands on the balcony within an inch of my hand. After ten seconds, it darts up to the feeder and probes each floret of the feeder.
It darts off. By eight, the sun has bid adieu.
My solar lanterns all shine, even the one I installed on the opposite stairway today.
I’m not answering the call of the Wanderer tonight, Fayetteville. My legs ache a bit from last night’s enthusiasm and loneliness.
I’m going to turn off the lights and have a moment of gratitude.
I haven’t made a similar box in a LONG time; they take a lot of time, depending on the desired level of lunacy and intricacy. I’ve made them with hidden compartments, lever locks, plain, and in all manner of geometric shapes.
This one isn’t quite finished. It’s about 90%.
This one has a partial wooden dowel structure hidden inside a large cardboard box. The ‘lid’ is a decorative piece I stripped, painted, and attached hinges to. Each side is covered in various pictures: people, places, goofy photoshops, and keepsake memories. All of that is covered by a mile of pristine clear tape.
If you’re wondering how much time I spent getting to this point, you should just think of Stonehenge. After a few minutes of doing this sort of thing, I disappear a little bit into the effort. I don’t concentrate on the final result, in part because I often don’t know what it might be.
Yes, I jittered all the images on the box. It’s a thing that must be seen in person.
It’s not something most people would want.
It is interesting as hell to see, though, like a carnival ride on fire. 🙂
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 