Most mornings, I listen to Somewhere Over The Rainbow, the original. It invokes a dumb optimism in me sometimes. Did you know that the song originally has an introductory verse that is rarely sung? If such things interest you, you should search for it and compare the mood and tone of the missing verse with the rest of the song. It’s a little bit whimsical and magical, and implies that if we have the willingness, there are roads everywhere if we choose to take them.For no reason in particular, today is dragonfly brooch day. I’d like everyone to refer to me as Codename Dragonfly today.
For karma, I tip each time I buy lottery tickets. It’s given me so many interesting moments with random clerks at convenience stores. If I have a winning ticket, I try to donate a bit more. The lottery is a fool’s game, one which tricks us into miscalculating the realistic odds of winning. That’s part of the reason I like it. In my heart, there’s not a day that passes that I don’t consider how many against-the-odds things I’ve experienced. It not only amplifies my gratefulness for still being here, but it also reminds me that almost everything that turns out to be magical sounds ridiculous to the reasonable mind. Harry Potter? Not publishable. Haruki Murakami? He had a moment like I did, except in his, he realized he was going to be a writer. Demetri Martin? On his way to being one of the best legal minds in the world and just decided that comedy was his passion.
I sometimes find myself contemplating writing a book based solely on the stories that clerks share with me after I tip them and share my karma theory with them. Most of them realize that I will follow through on my promise to give them a million dollars if I hit the jackpot.
A couple of places in Springdale had clerks who knew me and knew I was going to tip them. I miss the surprised looks on their faces when they saw me walking in. I’m certain they are wondering what happened to the tip-for-karma guy.
Springdale feels like another country to me now. I miss it, especially after having walked 1,000 miles on its streets in the last year. I know Jim at the produce stand is wondering what happened to me. As is Güino, my tuxedo cat.
Lately, I’ve mentioned a couple of times that there’s a clerk here near my apartment in Fayetteville who resisted accepting tips. Now, she smiles, knowing I’m going to leave the money on the counter, whether she accepts it or not.
The last time I went in, I said, “tee-me lie kas-to chaw.” I don’t speak Nepali. But I spoke enough, that day.
As I left her the tip, she smiled.
I’m not sure there’s a value in knowing that I made a human connection.
We all miss the place we call home in our hearts.
A few words of memorization for me. And a gong in her head hearing the words.
I knew I was in serious trouble when my manager called me into his office and asked which type of punishment I’d like: “Biblical or Corporal?” . I did break my pushup record yesterday. I did 1,111 just to have a memorable number. Today’s forecast: ain’t gonna be no rematch. I’m glad I did it but the obsessive component of it is exhausting. . I learned several things yesterday. The problem with learning is that it forces you into cognitive dissonance when you’ve learned but don’t apply it to your life. . Life Tip # 46: If you ensure that you’ve always kept a jar of moonshine nearby, you’ve got both anesthesia and antiseptic. . Edit: I weigh 150 lbs again. I’m eating a lot more; I ate an entire thin crust cheeseless pizza Monday. I’d be happy with 170. Just in case someone tells me they’re worried about me. All my afflictions are mental and I’m keeping a close, albeit crazy, eye on those.
The Law of Increments is such a revelation. A couple Fridays ago I did a thousand push-ups. I used anxiety as a trigger to do each set. It occurred to me Saturday that I could also try to pace myself, using an incremental response. I got up at 3:30 today. If I stay up 18 hours, I only have to do 55 push-ups an hour to hit a thousand. Since I know I can easily do that, I can trick my mind into doing twice that per hour. 110 an hour seems stupid to me now after 10 weeks of pushups. So I’m using today as a test. I’ve got nine hours of incremental sets of push-ups to reach a thousand. 12:30. And If you’re reading this, keep in mind that craziness is contagious. The takeaway is that we can accomplish a hell of a lot if we don’t let our goal wear us out before we even start. I don’t have to do a thousand push-ups. Just 110 an hour.
Note: everyone reading this will have at least one gong go off in their heads. I’m not sure why, but a muse settled in my head this afternoon. Feel free to tell me that I’m wrong. .
The Botany Rule: Love and nurturing are on Maslow’s hierarchy for a reason. If you don’t bring your water bucket and a bit of sunshine to those you love, they will needlessly suffer the absence of that which nourishes; if possible, they’ll find it elsewhere. It isn’t the plant’s fault. Just because we have reason and consciousness should not fool you into thinking that we aren’t wired for intimacy. .
So much of what ignites us in the minds of others is practiced. Take a moment and tell someone that they’d made your day better. Instead of speaking when motivated by recrimination, find a way to say something positive. People’s ears become deaf to love when criticism fills the air. We have only so many minutes in a day and attention to spare. Choose, rather than react. Sometimes, in silence, hug unexpectedly, and whisper in the midst of shouts. . Words fade but attitude invades. . The longer you wait to tell someone an uncomfortable truth, the harder it is to be open the next time you want to. Someone who loves you will respond with hurt, but that hurt will be tempered by eventual acceptance. And if not? They have a disparate image of who you are than you do. .
If you’re in an unequal relationship, and most are, you might as well open yourself and crowd them; the end is as certain as the curtain on Broadway. Take your swing and crowd the plate. Living loosely is a great idea but a terrible way to survive. . Rare is the couple in which one prefers to dance and the other to sit. They exist and if you’re in one, relish it if it has lasted. But if your partner won’t dance for fear of looking foolish, they’ve placed appearance and decorum over you. . Love is foolish and its demonstration is seldom appreciated by onlookers; those dancing don’t count the eyes or ears observing them. . Someone smart said, “Faults are thick where love is thin.” If you find yourself listing grievances, you’ve allowed your inability to honestly communicate to sever a significant part of your intimacy. . “Don’t wear your heart on your sleeve” is a great example of something that sounds reasonable while simultaneously belying the fact that we are emotional creatures disguised as thinking adults. Look around. We admire smart people who care enough to not care about how others interpret their sentimentality. Those people feed my soul. I think they do yours, too. . “I would love you more IF” is a thought that should warn you that either you need to work on yourself – or the unstated expectations of your relationship. . I learned something about myself. If a person can tell me his or her worst secrets, my capacity to love and appreciate them blossoms. If the opposite is the case, it’s very difficult to navigate misgivings as they arise. . We protect nothing by failing to reveal who we really are. . The best truths are written in dirt. The best voices are broken. And the kindest souls have learned to turn off their judgment when others fail them. . Finally, one that is not mine, and I’m sharing it as I found it: “You sit in sh!t too long, it stops smelling.”
I sat on the warm ground, watching the sky grow dark. August had come, filled with angry heat, absent rain, and upset souls. The virus had surged, melting away hope for a return to the normalcy of a troubled world. I whispered your name into the encroaching shadows and silence. Around me, the insects awoke and did the same, speaking their alien language in accompaniment. Until the mosquitoes made their appearance, there would be a pleasant truce between human and insect. I silently sat, struggling to count the emerging stars against the luminescence of the city reflected in the sky, With each appearance, I wished there was a way to find my spotless mind. Because that quiet peace eluded me, I remained seated in the tall grass, knowing that tomorrow’s obligations were racing toward me. My secret place is near a busy road lined with scented honeysuckle. No one could see me as I sat. And I saw no one, except for my own solitary soul. There was room in the grass for more than one. But for now, it is just me, wishing it were not so. Of course, there is hope for tomorrow. Each of us has an unannounced last day and few of us know that during that day, our feet will grow motionless and the future grinds to a halt. It’s why I lingered in this grass, my heart whispering bittersweetly to itself. In the air, honeysuckle. In my heart, a smaller jar of time pulsed with one less firefly. Still, I smiled. Though the moment was unshared, it was mine.
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 made this for my friend Zach; he’s a Trump fan, and I’m not. And that’s okay. I made him a nice Jesus picture last week and, in previous weeks, made him a few other things to decorate his home. All of us should have places filled with beauty, crazy, and sentimentality. Necessity can clutter the rest.
While watching Erika brush her cat Meatball, I had a flash of genius. These flashes of genius CANNOT be ignored. Erika saved the brushings of fur for me twice.
I had a custom cardboard print made of Trump at Walgreens. I then carefully glued swaths of Meatball’s fur onto the print. Those dark places in each photo are shadows created by the fur as it protrudes from the board.
This is a one-of-a-kind piece of art… or something. Though I made it with creative glee in my heart, I hope Zach likes it. This was not something made quickly, cheaply, or without a lot of thought. If it is the thought that counts, it will be received with a laugh. And Meatball suffered no harm in the making of this fine piece of art.
This is not something I did to mock Trump or his fans. I did it to satisfy that urge to create and have fun with it.
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.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 