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.
His name was Mister Margaret. Everyone called him that. He was around sixty, the indeterminate kind of sixty, and in fantastic shape. He walked around town often. How he stayed in shape was a mystery. He never wore a hat and also was never quite clean-shaven. You could tell he was observant. No matter where his head was turned, you could see that his eyes followed everything.
Away from prying ears, people speculated how the name came to be his. Not me. I had been initially curious, that’s true. Unlike my fellow townspeople, though, I just asked Mister Margaret one early morning. I’ve learned that life is too short to avoid a momentary bit of possible awkwardness. He was outside the diner, sitting on the uncomfortable curb along the street, holding a coffee cup. I learned that if it wasn’t raining, he always took his third cup of coffee outside to drink it. “Ain’t no reason to be indoors all the time. I want to see the world, and I imagine the world might want to see me a bit, too,” he’d told Joshua, the diner owner.
I sat down a few feet away from Mister Margaret, awkwardly folding my legs against the pavement. I wasn’t as fit as him, and my knees and hips reminded me to do everything with caution.
“Can I ask you a question, Mister Margaret? You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. How’d you get the name?” I smiled, hoping he would forgive my directness.
He laughed. “Yeah, I’ll tell you. I know people want to know. I hear whispers. And because it is a terrible story, one you probably can’t guess, you can’t regret knowing. That’s what knowledge does to us. It opens us and we can’t go back once we know something.” He paused. I nodded. As if we’d shaken hands and swore an oath, Mister Margaret started talking.
…
“My wife died about a year earlier. I had a great business along Main Street in my hometown. I killed a young woman one Saturday afternoon.” He paused, knowing that he’d thrown me a curveball. “She ran across the street without looking. I hit her, going forty-five miles an hour. The impact broke her all over and flung her body further than you’d believe. After the County Sheriff ruled it to be an accident, a lot of the girl’s family got anger and grief mixed up in their hearts. A month after I killed her, I walked out of the grocery store to find myself facing her father, a man everyone called Mister. He had a knife and told me he was going to kill me. I didn’t doubt him. He lunged at me in front of several witnesses. I sidestepped him and hit him in the side of the head as hard as I could. Two things, though. I didn’t really sidestep him as much I thought. He stuck that knife five inches up into my belly. I struck him so hard he fell. His head hit one of those concrete carstops in front of the store. He never woke up. His daughter’s name? Margaret. After three weeks in the hospital, I got discharged, and I sold everything I had and moved here for a fresh start. It seemed right to take both of their names as a reminder. You can look it up, if you’re inclined to do so. And that’s the story of my name.”
He looked at me intensely, waiting to see what I might say.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t run over someone named Turd,” I said. I was a bit horrified I’d said the words out loud. I was trying to be funny.
To my surprise, Mister Margaret began to laugh like I’d told the best joke in the world. He threw his head back, and he began to shake and cough with laughter. Tears streamed down his face, and I grinned as I watched.
“I haven’t laughed like that in ten years!” he said. “I guess that means we’re going to be friends. By the way, friend, what is your name? It better not be Asshat.”
We both laughed. We finished our respective cups of coffee, watching the town around us.
If you would practice any habit, it would be the kind necessity of being brave enough to lovingly share your opinion of people, places, and things. The only way we can change the world is to create the world we’d like to live in, one act and one word at a time.
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…
This lamp was one of many of my side projects. I found the original child’s lamp at a thrift store. It was the one with the ornate and fascinating lampshade that I donated back to the store before leaving. I stripped it to pieces, took off the rough edges, and painted it a nice crazy pink color, reassembled it, and installed a Happy Light bulb in it. If you look closely at the lamp, you’ll see I left the pacifier on the end of the pull chain. I intended to put a firecracker bulb in it, similar to the one I left at my old house. A kind friend gave me one of the bulbs and knew that I would love to experiment with it.
Apps control these bulbs; when you play music, the bulb pulsates, oscillates, and changes color, intensity, and tempo with the music. When I have it on with the LED strips above my kitchen, it probably looks like rainbow lightning from the outside.
You can buy a minimalist lamp base and a bulb like this for less than $20, if such a thing interests you. Everyone should have one for visitors, especially when you’re ready for them to leave. Tell them, “I don’t like night lights. I sleep with this…” And then hit them with the polychromatic seizure-inducing light show. Tell your Aunt Hazel I said, “You’re welcome.”
I wish I could have a place filled with 140 colors, all of them competing. I love sleek minimalist design and color, too; it speaks to me.
But color? It makes me feel like the world matches the inside of me.
I’m calculating whether I can unscrew all the vertical banister rails of my landing and paint them red. “It was that way when I got here,” MIGHT be believable, right? It does amuse me to think about just going wild in this apartment and painting everything. I was promised that the apartment would be completely repainted before I moved in; it wasn’t. I could blame it on the handyman. The likelihood of him still being employed by the landlords gets increasingly smaller as time passes. 🙂
Knowing I took something old and rejuvenated with my energy tickles me, too.
I do hope they appreciate the body outline I’ve created on the floor between the kitchen and living bedroom.
I have more tiles drying outside. One of them is fluorescent green, otherwise known as the alien puke color. It’s lovely.
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.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 