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.
I have a roommate now. It’s not what you think. Is it ever with me?
I have a two-bedroom apartment in Fayetteville. Obviously, I don’t use either bedroom; my bedroom is all in my living room. On the other hand, if a bedroom is where the bed is and a living room is where the living is, then I am MORE in compliance linguistically speaking than the rest of y’all neanderthals who conform to normalcy. I looked up “normal’ again in the dictionary and I simply don’t cotton to the concept at all.
Also: judging by the way we’ve warped the world, I think we should try unconventional and baths!t crazy for a while. Convince me I’m wrong.
I had a pixie/fairy door at the house in Springdale. The pixie who resided there was named Crowder. I almost brought the door with me, knowing that Crowder would be obligated under the rules of magic to transport himself with the door. As you already know, pixies and fairies show themselves with less frequency the longer you live them. Humans and pixies weren’t intended to get used to one another. They do, however, get attached to animals and pets. It was with a heavy heart that I left both Crowder and the pixie door behind.
If you don’t believe in pixies or fairies, that’s fair. I just found out a lot of people don’t believe in science or bigfoot; both of these discoveries have left me in what is medically referred to as a “funk.”
This week was a blizzard of interesting things for my apartment. Among them, another pixie-fairy door. I opened it carefully. Pixies are whimsical creatures but don’t tolerate negligence well. For those who don’t know, pixies and fairies are both whimsical creatures; pixies are prone to mischief and wit. I couldn’t wait to discover which type of creature might choose my door.
It didn’t take long.When I entered the apartment this morning, I saw that the pixie door was still on the painted metal sign I left on the bed. However, next to it was scrawled a message, directly on the painted sign: “I’d rather use the door vertically. Don’t be lazy! Regards.” Below these words, the signature: “Larkma.” I’ve never had a female pixie before. And below that, “P.S. Please mark my door with my name?”
Hmmmm.
This apartment is already getting crowded. And because pixies are so damned mischievous, I now have something to blame my misplaced car keys on.
“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?
I bought a nice Blink wireless camera. It allows me to watch the birds on my plant/bird feeder balcony hook, as well as the world outside.
When I initially set it up, I was surprised to see that Amazon had somehow sent me the feed from the backyard camera at my old house on Vanleer in Springdale.
Having the camera also opens up a world of creativity, too, such as “Skits On The Balcony,” or “Let’s Look At Humanity” documentaries. (With “People of Walmart” in mind.) I will try not to be intrusive with this. However, that’s the problem with this sort of technology. I’m confident that I’m going to wake up to find I have an hour of footage of the neighbor romping in the parking lot in his skivvies. A few days ago, I stood on the balcony getting cooked in the sun. A car drove in, and a young woman hopped out without a shirt. From somewhere in the car, someone hurled a shirt through the passenger window. The woman caught it and put it on almost one-handed. There’s a lot of inferences I can make with this anecdote, some lewd, some amusing. When she looked up and saw me on the balcony, I gave her my Forrest Gump wave and laughed.
As old as these apartments are, somehow I was surprised to find no security cameras, even in the laundry room from “Nightmare On Elm Street.” They can be installed cheaply and require no monitoring. The type I bought can be used with a USB drive, hidden anywhere – and checked only when a tenant decides to test a flamethrower from the balcony. (Note: this isn’t unlikely.)
Last week, after a long interval of no additional improvements, a small crew showed up with a Bobcat (not the nocturnal prowling kind) and erected the bones of a lateral fence in front of the dumpster. This will ensure that passersby don’t see it, whereas the residents will get an enclosed cauldron of trash and insects. It seems like a fair trade. That fence will also obscure a big portion of my view of the intersection there. That’s too bad, as there are a lot of fender-benders there. Everyone attempting to pull in here runs the risk of getting hit from behind due to the unequal alignment of the apartment driveway versus the opposing cross street. The fence partially quashes my money-making scheme to sell the footage to those unlucky souls engaged in an impromptu demolition derby.
Anyway.
I’m making a list of tomfoolery in which to engage with this camera.
A quick note about our friend Covid, the one who keeps coming home late and drunk.
No matter what anyone tells you, at any given time, someone in your extended circle ‘has’ the virus, even if they are asymptomatic. There is no doubt about this, even if you think you’ve become a hermit. It’s comforting to know that most don’t develop worsening symptoms if they are vaccinated. But you need to know that up to 10% of those vaccinated will get the Delta variant – and a lot more of those unvaccinated will find themselves with it.
You can get inexpensive at-home test kits at your local pharmacy. They are a little less accurate – but that’s why most come in two-packs, so that you can re-test the next day.
I don’t talk about work directly. There’s a reason for that.
Among them: even in the medical field, we’re experiencing a high rate of infection. Not just with the unvaccinated, either. Two people in my inner circle tested positive very recently. I won’t characterize the impact on them personally or on our work circle. Vaccinated people appear to be infectious for a much shorter period than the unvaccinated. Regardless, this virus is akin to a strange version of Russian Roulette. The gun is going off all around me, among vaccinated and unvaccinated alike. Since we’re not testing random samples, we only test those whose symptoms draw attention to the possibility they have it; we’re using a threshold that is too high, in my opinion.
So much of this pandemic hinges on other people’s behavior. Much of it cannot be mitigated without destroying how we live.
IF you have a bout of allergies, or a cold, fatigue, or a prolonged headache, I’m going to say something most won’t: it’s likely as not you have the virus. I personally know a LOT of people who’ve initially shrugged it off as “the sniffles,” or a cold, etc.
Likewise, a lot of us won’t have any symptoms at all.
Welcome to our new reality.
Be safe, be kind, and remember that no matter what people say or write on social media, all of us are full of sh!t about being consistent in our beliefs and behavior. At our core, we want our loved ones to be healthy. We’ll avoid trans-fat or bacon and then smoke, or say no to caffeine and then drink moonshine like it’s lemonade. That’s what we do: we excel at contradiction, hypocrisy, and stupidity.
I of course wish everyone would be vaccinated. I do not envy the government or businesses these hard choices as they look toward the overall public health. One of my favorite people in the world is juggling whether to give up a job she’s had for 22 years. I’m not commenting logically – I’m commenting emotionally.
With this virus, though?
Even if you do everything perfectly, it will likely still affect you in the long run. Vaccinated or not, we are all at each other’s mercy.
I ask each of you to dial back and try to see others as human – and yes, even if we’re looking at each other and mentally calling one another “dumbass.” I can live with that. I want you to live – and live with that, too.
There’s something in the air this week with my apartment. And not just meth fumes and strange candles. I got a new shower curtain earlier in the week. Today, a custom pillowcase arrived. Also, a couple of photo magnets that I put on the inside of the metal front door. The pillowcase is similar to my curtain except with more pictures.
Not to be outdone by the fiercely competitive Jessica, Erika bought me a showerhead as a gift. The one installed in this apartment was installed in ’79. 1979, I hope. I can’t be sure. It may have had bloodstains or demonic etchings on it. Erika suffered the same indignity when she moved into this building thirty-two years ago. Everything was original and not in the excellent way that home-buying shows use the word. The National Historical Society almost decreed we couldn’t change out any of the fixtures due to their historical significance. George Washington may well have showered using those same showerheads.
The showerhead is an AquaDance, “…for the ultimate shower experience.” It sounds iffy, doesn’t it? First, there’s implied dancing on a slippery surface, an activity strongly discouraged by the AARP. Second, the word “ultimate” literally means “last.” I hope it is contradictory yet flowery marketing at work here.
Erika swears that this two-head detachable piece of bling is the best out there for the money. She even printed out instructions written by someone who wanted everyone to have the best installation experience possible. It’s apparent that she’s aware of my propensity toward imbecility. I don’t fault her for it.
Given my track record, I will attempt to be cautious when installing it. I’d rather not be the inspiration for the “Final Destination” reboot. Living in this apartment complex already has me a little bit worried. At any rate, once my neighbors realize that I am using my move as the basis for a lot of snark and satire, they may well acquire pitchforks and march over here.
In some ways, I’m going to miss taking spartan showers. I’ve always loved cool or cold showers, and doubly so when the equipment is impossible to use safely. The water heater and the shower installed as I found it when I moved here assist greatly in realizing these goals.
This new showerhead may well spoil me. Soon enough, I’ll be eating shaved cheese and sporting a goatee. The current showerhead I’m using shoots water randomly, almost maliciously. I’m going to miss it, as it reminds me of my mom’s parenting style.
Anyway, thank you, Erika. I suspect you may have bought this for me so that you and the other neighbors won’t hear so much screaming when I try to use the shower as intended.
I’ll be Aquadancing in luxurious comfort and style.
Also, this might be the most valuable thing in my apartment.
It’s a good thing I have renter’s insurance.
I love joking at the expense of this apartment complex. Anyone reading my stories knows that there are a lot of advantages to living here. No amenities, just advantages.
That’s an excellent metaphor for a simple life. I don’t need much, especially if I remember that almost everything essential to happiness is invisible. I live in my head, not in this place. I’m grateful for both. Nothing is certain.
My friend and co-conspirator Jessica bought me an apartment-warming candle as a gift. Technically, if you lit and forgot about it, it would definitely warm the entire building, one way or another.
There’s a lot of subtext here: Do I smell and need a fancy candle? Do I have a lot of friends who’d do meth? At someone else’s house? If so, would they interpret the rule to mean anywhere but the bathroom? Does this apartment send the message that meth might be considered an option here? Is that Walter White’s doppelganger living in #15?
Notes: The candle does NOT smell like meth. I’ve smelled meth, both cooking and consumed. No, I’ve never done meth. Or math. The jar indicates “50 hour burn,” which is exactly what __________________. (I left the joke blank because it is amusing, snarky, and suggestive.) Cassis is not a berry, as many would suppose; it’s toejam.
I didn’t answer the call of the wanderer last night, although I did lie in bed, watching the eerie light of traffic and the dim glow of its master shifting from green to red. The wanderer did whisper to me, as tired as I was. I didn’t share any of the goings-on of the previous night’s trek across Fayetteville. Seeing new sights at 2 or 3 in the morning is an uncommon gift. I prefer not to have the wanderer call my name on consecutive nights, though, if the universe is listening to me.
At some point, as I concentrated on the silhouette of color and brightness that oscillated across my mostly-closed blinds, sleep made its invasion. Later, I noted on social media that many of my contemporaries suffered insomnia; for whatever reason the wheel chose them instead of me.
This morning, as I slept, I found myself in a magical dream, one in which I was flying and looking at the city below. It was the best part of the day, when the sun had dimmed enough to cast a softer light across the landscape. I realized I was dreaming. But I didn’t want it to end. I am sure there is a labored metaphor nestled in there somewhere. I don’t know how long I was flying in my dream. It may have been a minute, and it may have been five hours.
It was at that moment of lucidity that I woke up, my eyes turned to the dim lights outside. Had I slept? I wasn’t certain. Had I flown? Equally unsure. Unlike the night before, I uncovered the projection clock: 3:33. I was glad to have slept, but also mourned that floating feeling of my dream.
Outside, green, red, green, red.
No matter what life we live inside our own heads, the cycle of stop and go persists.
As the August sun relentlessly heated the front of my apartment and the metal door that fronts it, I walked across the parking lot to the dumpster. The remnants of the chicken I’d baked wouldn’t fare well until tomorrow. It’s nice having a dumpster that I don’t need to roll out to the curb. On the other hand, I find myself cleaning up after the other residents and the trash company that does the trash maintenance.
I watched the traffic on Gregg Avenue and across the railroad tracks on the opposite side of the street. I should be tired. When I woke up last night, thinking it was morning, it was only 11:11. By rough calculation, I would guess I’ve walked twenty miles since then. Though I can’t explain why, knowing that the Greenway trail was only a couple of minutes away made me want to put on shoes and walk a dozen miles again.
Covid and my personal life have aligned to make my previous concerns a little bit less than significant. Everywhere, everything is changing.
The sunset, though? And the wall of music that the insects provide; they are a cacophony of sameness. Beauty, too.
I won’t answer the call of the wanderer tonight, though the sidewalks and trail whisper my name.
I’ll lie in bed and listen, if need be, to the day swiftly approaching. I’ll rise to meet it, whether sleep embraces me or not.
It’s hard to believe that a version of this was once my entire legal name – and my signature.
Because I drove a jalopy, I once had it spray-painted on a really old, ugly Datsun.
I remember when I went to the DMV with a letter from the director of the agency for the entire State of Arkansas. “You can’t just have one name, especially one letter on a driver’s license.” I showed her the letter. “In that case, you can’t sign your name with a pictograph like that, either.” I showed her another letter. She not only learned that people are weirder than she thought, but that she didn’t know everything.
“X” equals the unknown, after all.
You’d think people would expect someone with such a ridiculous name to be both prankster and informed. .
P.S. I cooked six chicken breasts in foil today at the apartment, half expecting the place to catch fire when I did so. In that case, I’d be serving blackened chicken for supper, I suppose. .
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 