Christmas, Family, Holiday, Story, Writing, Xmas

A Son’s Gift Of Christmas

2 Comments

Judy’s eyes opened to see the projector clock on the opposite wall indicating 4:45 a.m. Before going to bed, she set the bedroom alarm for 5:00 a.m. and her automatic coffee pot in the kitchen for 5:15 a.m. Since it was Christmas morning, she needed to complete her to-do list before Jake scrambled out of his pillow fort. They spent at least thirty minutes last night, carefully building his sleeping fort to his precise specifications. He wanted to ensure that Santa wouldn’t find him awake in the dark. After getting Jake to stop chatting and to try to sleep, Judy pulled the presents for Jake from the trunk of her car and tucked them under the tree. It would be an austere Christmas this year. She hoped Jake wouldn’t mind.

Judy succumbed to the warmth of the bed; she pulled the comforter tightly under her neck.

The last year was beyond difficult. Judy’s ex-husband Richard spent the first four months of the year denying he had abused her. When he discovered that Judy’s decision to flee him was going to last, he turned his efforts to the court to take Jake from her. Even Judy’s mom testified against her. For reasons she still didn’t understand, the judge awarded her sole custody and granted her permission to move away. By September, she had a new apartment, a new job, and a new list of fears. Judy and Jake were on their own in every sense of the word. For ten years old, Jake somehow avoided the anguish others kids might have experienced through such a traumatic year. Judy found herself holding her breath tensely, waiting to see Jake act out. He never did.

At 4:50, Judy imagined she could smell coffee. If she overslept the alarm, the coffee always roused her from the bed. Single parents had to use a bit of creativity to keep their lives manageable. Imagining her first cup of coffee, she realized that she needed to pee. She pulled the comforter over her head as if doing so would erase the imaginary scent of coffee from her nose and the need to go to the bathroom. When she got the edge of the comforter tucked behind her head, she heard the soft melodies of “All I Want For Christmas” by Celine Dion. Most people preferred Mariah Carey, but not Judy. Celine was the voice of her angel. Deciding that she wasn’t going to quiet her mind or rest, Judy crawled from her warm bed and walked through the small dark bedroom to the tiny bathroom attached to it. As soon as she sat, she distinctly heard the music volume increase dramatically. Without a doubt, Celine’s voice played in the living room. Judy tried to finish more quickly, which only increased her need to go longer. As most moms discover, there is no such thing as quiet time, even in the bathroom. There’s always a bang on the door or an immediate need to address.

Judy quickly put on her Santa pajama bottoms and walked out into the living room. Inexplicably, the small tree next to the front window was fully lit and twinkling. The stereo next to the small television was on. Celine’s voice streamed from it. Judy walked across the narrow living room to Jake’s room. Opening the door, she went to the pillow fort and peered inside. Jake wasn’t there.

Judy quickly backed out of the room and peeked into the front bathroom. Also empty.

She turned and slid the sliding door to the kitchen open.

Jake sat at the small plain wood table. A cup of coffee sat in front of him. Next to that, a simple red box tied with twine.

“Merry Christmas, Mom!” Jake shouted as he ran over and hugged Judy around the waist. Surprised, Judy stood and rubbed her son’s hair back from his face. After a few seconds, he pulled away and reached over to grab the cup to hand to Judy. “I made this just the way you like it, Mom!”

“When did you learn to make coffee, Jake?” she asked.

“Oh Mom. That’s what YouTube is for! Plus, this is your Christmas!” Jake’s smile was as big as Judy had ever seen it. Though doubtful, Judy sipped the coffee. It was perfect. She laughed, realizing that Jake just volunteered to make coffee for her for the next ten years. “It’s delicious and so much better when someone else makes it!” She winked at him in the way that he loved.

“What are you doing up so early, son? It’s barely five.”

“Mom, I asked Santa to give you a good Christmas. He told me that I should give you a good one. I got you a gift.” Jake reached for the box on the table and pushed it toward Judy.

“How did you manage this, Jake? Do you even have money?” Judy laughed. She pulled the top bow loose to work the lid off the box.

“It was easy. I took out the trash every day for Mr. Johnson and agreed to help the building manager for a few months next year. I got Ken’s mom to get the gift at Target. Ken brought me the surprise to school, and I sneaked it home in my backpack. Simple.” He smiled. Judy knew that it had been anything but simple. Such planning for a ten-year-old was impressive. She was going to act delighted no matter what the box contained. It’s a ritual that Moms do instinctively.

Judy lifted the top off the box. She gasped. Inside the box at the bottom was a single ruby earring. Her eyes welled up as she looked at Jake. He sat, watching her, a smile on his face.

“Mom, do you like it?”

She swallowed hard to avoid crying. “Yes, of course!”

“I know that Dad took your Grandma’s ruby earrings and hid them. I could only afford one this year. I’ll get you the other one next year, I promise.”

Judy abandoned all pretense and started sobbing. She sat down hard on the chair across from Jake. Her coffee sloshed and spilled a little as she did so. Jake came around the table and hugged Judy from the side. She grabbed him and squeezed him hard against her.

“I love it, Jake! I love you.” She fumbled to pick up the single ruby earring and put it into her right earlobe. She smiled at Jake.

“Merry Christmas, Mom!”

As Celine continued to soar in the clouds in the background, Jake and Judy, mom and son, sat at the kitchen table laughing. It was a long time coming. In the living room, beneath the tree, Jake’s presents waited.

Love and Christmas were drowning them both. They swam in it.

*

*

Wherever you are and whoever you are, the season is inside you if you’ll permit it to overwhelm you.

Story

Sweet Demise

Leave a comment

Sweet Demise

J.C. smelled more smoke in the air. He shifted in the porch swing and then flicked the cigarette butt from his left hand out into the yard, where it landed a couple of feet unceremoniously from the empty bean field at the edge of the yard. It was his first cigarette in 50 years. J.C. loved the idea that it would be his last. He remembered his first cigarette when he went to Korea.

Giving up smoking at the request of his beautiful wife Mary was no sacrifice at all. When he met her, she was finishing high school. Her hair was short, as was the fashion in the early 50s. Her nose and elegant profile called to him like the face of no other girl had. They went on four dates even though her father thought J.C. was a delinquent. J.C. indeed dropped out of school in the 9th grade to work. Every penny went to his mom. When J.C. signed up to go to Korea, Mary’s dad Thomas decided that J.C. was good enough for his daughter after all. Before he shipped out, he asked Mary to marry him, with her dad’s blessing. In part due to shrapnel in his leg, J.C. returned sooner than expected. They were married in August 1952, fifty years ago today.

Even though it was over ninety degrees today, J.C. didn’t feel the heat around him. The loose tie around his neck didn’t even feel moist with sweat. It was the second time he wore a tie this year, after swearing he would never put on another one until Hell froze over. He wasn’t sure if he’d been sitting on the swing for five minutes or an hour. Time always played tricks on the porch. He and Mary spent many afternoons there, often just sitting and listening to the insects and the ice cubes dwindle inside the Mason jars Mary loved using as glasses. All of those glasses sat in the cupboard, unused since she passed.

The smoke was getting thicker now. J.C. felt it in his lungs a bit. He continued to look out across the empty field and wonder about the years passing by. Last week, he leafed through the family photo albums with his only daughter Debbie. When she asked if she could copy all the pictures, J.C. laughed. “Lord no, Debbie. Take them and share the stories. I’ll look at them when I come to visit you and the kids.” Debbie heard a catch in his voice but failed to see the tears coalescing at the corners of his eyes. If she had, things might have ended differently. “I’ve got the wedding photo to keep me company.” He pointed across the living room at the black and white wedding picture from the day they were married. It was a beautiful photo. Mary was pointing at the Reverend out of frame and laughing. J.C. stood nearby, worshipping her with his eyes. They had a traditional photograph of them both standing and smiling at the camera. It sat in the bottom of the blanket trunk in the extra bedroom.

Behind him, the smoke was billowing out through the screen door. J.C. heard a window crack from the heat. Time was running short.

He stood up, turned, and pushed the porch swing gently. It rocked back and forth, empty. It would do for a witness.

He walked toward the screen door, opened it, and went inside.

Had you been standing in the yard, you would have seen the heavy front door close behind him. Within a minute, the flames began to consume the house. J.C. was no more.  In reality, he hadn’t been since Mary died.

.

.

Lemon

Entertainment, Opinion, TV

How To With John Wilson

Leave a comment

If you are looking for a deep, profane, and funny show that takes a single life and amplifies it to include everyone and everything, “How To With John Wilson” will be a show you need to try. I used the word “profane” so that those who have a problem with a full range of language and visual storytelling will know they will have to grimace a few times. As for me, the juxtaposition of the possibility of everything and anything being said or seen is precisely one of the reasons why I love this show.

While it is rooted in New York City, the delight of this show is in the random connections. I laughed at several strange moments.

Each short episode is allegedly centered on a single topic, but only inasmuch as John Wilson wishes it to be. The fringes are what make the show sublime. The last episode, the one decidedly at the beginning of the epidemic, feels like ancient history and yesterday.

You’ll learn something interesting. You’ll also learn something about yourself.

In a nutshell, it is a show worth watching because it slams the boring pieces of life against a curious eye. We live in a boring, mundane, fascinating, and complicated world.

*

Humor, Language, New Word, Opinion

Are You Happy? (There’s a Joke In Here Just For you!)

Leave a comment


P.J. O’Rourke said, “Don’t send funny greeting cards on birthdays or at Christmas. Save them for funerals, when their cheery effect is needed.”


*
Instead of “Hello,” or “How are you?” why not ask this question instead: “Are you happy?” If someone calls you out for it, tell them you recently adjusted your medications. Only brave souls and people who would be awesome at parties will linger after that justification.

The obvious “is happiness the goal of life” nonsense aside, anything that catches a person’s ear beats the usual boring salutation. (Even yodeling, if you like that sort of thing. Just don’t take lessons if the instructor accepts coupons for his tutelage.)

Those who know me hear me say “Terrible!” frequently when someone asks, “How are you?” I often get a genuine laugh from it, especially if I ham it up in tone or volume. Hell, to be honest, I usually laugh first. It’s a spoiler alert at that point. Indeed, many people don’t notice the content of my response. That’s okay. It’s unreasonable to expect most people to notice anything unusual in the scope of an otherwise fill-in-the-blank moment. There’s probably a generalized indictment of society in there somewhere – but you won’t see me making it. (And not just because I detest the word “indictment.” Put the ‘dite’ in there, already.) We’re busy people, on the way to do essential things and argue on the internet about things that don’t affect us in any meaningful way.

By way of experiment, you should try it for yourself. “Terrible!” should be your response. Make it exaggerated. Enough people will laugh for you to be able to say, “I made you laugh.”

Only a real asshole resents a laugh.
Lucky for us, most of them work retail.

(I wrote the above quote as a marketing ploy. It seems to be accurate, much in the same way that no matter how many times you nibble on someone’s ear, it is always one time too few.)

Also, if my day, year, or life is temporarily or permanently terrible, it’s unwise to unload that fact onto others needlessly. You’re supposed to save those moments to inflict on your close personal friends and family. That’s what they get for staying inside your orbit. If you read that without realizing it was peckishly funny, you need to switch to decaffeinated coffee.

If you’re feeling adventurous, use “Not hello” in place of “Goodbye” and “Not goodbye” for “Hello.” Other languages have words that mean both “goodbye” and “hello.” If you’re a fan of the phrase, “Good day” can mean both in modern English, even if no one will immediately understand it in both contexts.

If none of those methods suit you, I propose that all your salutations use ONLY consonants. (Sorry, Finland.) If you think that would be hard to do, imagine the inhabitants of Papua New Guinea, which has 820 living languages.

If you don’t believe words can work magic and light your mind with fire, consider this: “The problem with sex in the movies is that the popcorn usually spills.”

Since I always work this joke into these conversations, you can also adopt one I stole from a comedian. He says, “DiGiorno,” like the pizza brand, to say both “hello” and “goodbye.” Though the joke is old now, I still laugh most of the time when I use it. I said “DiGiorno” to a doctor this morning, much to my amusement. I’m not sure what he thought I said, but he replied, “Same to you!” with a grin. I’m hoping that it worked itself into his subconscious, and he later opted for pizza for lunch.

One of the things on my bucket list is to be on a ship that’s sinking. I’m going to run up to the Captain and ask him which lifeboat is the non-smoking one.

Back to the “Are you happy?” premise.

I think if you make eye contact and use it enough, you’ll eventually get an answer that is so honest that it surprises you. You might learn something about another person. For example, you might also learn that the person is nuts. But that’s something.

So, I ask you: Are you happy?

I’ll stop and listen either way. I’m hoping you are, and that ridiculous things like the one you’re reading can trigger a smile in your heart. That’s where you spend most of your day, anyway, listening to the narrative of your internal voice. Say “Not hello” to that voice and say something creative and ridiculous to those around you.

It’s 2020. Normal was evicted and displaced by whatever we choose to put there.

P.S. “The last thing I want to do is insult you. But it IS on the list.” – Anonymous

Entertainment, Personal, TV, Writing

Rectify Revisit

Leave a comment

If you want to try a show that I think should be universally loved, this is the one. Each of us will discover something about what we think we know as we watch.

A few years ago, I watched a show that defied me to dislike it: Rectify. It’s still available on Netflix. As many said, it was the best tv show that no one was watching when it first aired.

“It’s the beauty, not the ugly, that hurts the most.” As wounding as this quote was, I laughed when I heard it again this week. Laughter emanates from the recognition of at least a kernel of truth. Though I was prepared for The Stranger scene in Rectify, the wallop it hit me with caught me off guard. If this quote seems strange to you, it is because you didn’t visit the emotional world created in this tv series.

When Daniel violently taught Teddy a lesson about his ignorance of assault, I laughed at that too, even though the lesson was graphic.

Like other shows such as Six Feet Under, Rectify tore through me like a tornado. It uses language and emotion so close to my own inner monologue that I felt like someone strip-mined me a bit to create this show. I learned more from SFU during the second viewing. Rewatching Season 1 of Rectify both amplified and soothed my past life for me. For those not exposed to brutality, it may seem counterintuitive to find redemption in seeing someone else suffer to find it.

Along with books like “The Prince of Tides” or “A Prayer For Owen Meany,” I add “Rectify” to the list of great works that line the perimeter of the sublime for me. If you watch “Rectify” with a keen eye, you will see bits of me hidden in there.

Watching the show again, I must admit that a couple of the scenes almost led me to burst into tears. I think it’s because I recognized the beauty in the struggle. We’re never the same person twice.

Here’s a link from something I wrote a few years ago:

https://xteri.me/2017/12/28/the-gift-of-rectify/

Personal

Moonlight

1 Comment

A December moon at 4 a.m. is so substantially dissimilar and divergent from all others in part because we, as beholders at that hour, see ourselves differently. Our approaching day waits without burden, even if we’ve borrowed our troubles from the previous day and packed them inside today’s purse. This year, more than most, brought unwelcome problems and made somnambulists of us. Oddly, it also brought a duality for some of us, ushering in a fierce determination to be the person inside our own heads.

Someone possessed with an uncanny soul took the picture and shared it with me. That she was up at that hour surprised me. It was her first message to me for the day. 

She stood in the kitchen and recognized something ethereal, authentic, and beautiful in the shadows that formed on the floor under her. Most might snap a picture of the moon itself; I think you might agree with me that the echoes and reflections of beauty in our lives often outshine the source. It is a gift to glimpse something previously unseen in the midst of the familiar. I’ve known a few people whose lives sparkle with the ability. They all radiate the same force that hides in the moonlight. Such radiance is difficult to discern by looking directly; we have to turn our heads and observe the consequences of their presence.

Whether she sometimes tries to control the radio or stomp the floorboards too often, she radiates.

She, of course, doesn’t see it. 

I whisper words of grace for her, ones petitioning a clear mind and the kind of sleep that few of us find at our easy disposal. Meanwhile, I return these slivers of moonlight to her. 

Cooking, Eats, Food, Opinion

Jalapeños and Facts

Leave a comment

This post is part recipe, part observation, and the result of intense thought, none of which was used in the making of said post.

I opened the oven, temporarily forgetting that the wall of hot, moist poisonous gas was about to hit me.

For a second, I felt myself start to faint. I wondered what it would sound like if I fell headfirst into a hot oven.

{Did you know that a lot of adults don’t know that chipotles are just smoke-dried jalapeño peppers?}

You’d think I was making a batch of meth, which is ridiculous. It’s cheaper to buy. Also, if you don’t know whether I’m being serious or not, assume I’m not. The police are tired of hearing my name and definitely tired of my picture.

It’s been YEARS since I made oven-roasted/dried jalapeño slices. Part of the reason is that I’m not a big fan of ‘hot.’ Given the amount of Sriracha and various crazy hot things I’ve eaten in the last couple of years, I might be mistaken. I don’t seek out heat. I’m too old to be playing Russian Roulette and too smart to ingest that kind of heat on purpose. Or so I thought.

{What did the jalapeño dress up as for Halloween? A Ghost Pepper.}

Using fresh jalapeño slices sounds better, but most of the time, the kind already in a jar turns out better. Feel free to cut up fresh peppers and remove the seeds. Don’t get wrong – they are delicious that way—just a bit more work. At Walmart right now, I can buy a 64 oz. jar of Mt. Olive sliced jalapeños for less than $4. That’s crazy.

I drain the juice off of the slices and put them on a piece of aluminum foil. While I can jazz it up, I rarely do. I put the foil sheet on the bottom rack and set the oven anywhere from 325 to 500. And then I wait. Depending on the temperature, it might take 15-25 minutes to dry the slices out or watch them darken.

That brings me to a warning: don’t open the oven without preparing yourself for a wall of fumes that will make you see Jesus on a skateboard. If you’ve ever got a whiff of chlorine gas or accidentally attended a political rally, it gets you close to the feeling that scorched jalapeño slices bring.

If you watch the slices as they dry and darken, you’ll figure out exactly what temperature and time work best for you. I was shocked to find out how much I loved the slices when they turn dark. It’s no surprise, though, given that I love burned food.

Why I stopped making these is a mystery. They ignite my taste buds and are very healthy. If harsh breath is a concern for you, you’ll have to take precautions. Even dogs curl away from roasted jalapeño smells, so I can imagine that your significant other won’t want to kiss you for a while, either.

Notes: {1} Zebras are black with white stripes. If you doubt me, go shave your zebra. If you don’t own a zebra, you’ve obviously made bad choices. {2.} I will never forget the first time I handled hot peppers without considering what and where I might be touching. That’s wisdom right there. {3} Most people don’t stop to think that New Year’s Day comes before New Year’s Eve each year. {4} A day on the planet Venus is longer than its year. {5} Bite your tongue and then imagine words with an “S” in them. You’ll find that the voice in your head has a lisp, too. {6} It’s almost impossible to hum while holding your nose closed. {7} Many baseball fans know that some pitchers have used jalapeños on their nostrils to produce the ‘slippery’ needed for curveballs. I thought you should know. {8} Most people breathe primarily from one nostril; more interestingly, most people don’t know that your nose has a 4-hour(ish) cycle. It’s complicated, and almost no one realizes it, much in the same way that we forget that we see our nose all the time – but that our brain processes it ‘out’ of our vision. {9} I googled “make meth in an oven” without thinking about the consequences. Tell the police I was joking. On the plus side, I think I could now make meth in a 2-liter soda bottle – which evidently is a ‘thing.’ {10} The perpetual contrast effect is a cognitive bias that distorts our perception of something when we compare it to something else by enhancing the differences between them. The easiest example for this is to mention that cold coffee and warm soda are at the same temperature. It is so obvious that you might have to read it twice. {11} The dot over a lower-case i and j is called a tittle. {12} Although it is no secret that the unicorn is Scotland’s national animal, people don’t believe me when I tell them. (13) Pringles are NOT potato chips. They are made from dehydrated potato flakes. Look on the can. They aren’t called chips, either. {14} Lemons have a staggering number of uses and health benefits. I won’t list them all because I like the element of surprise on this one! {15} The majority of laughter doesn’t happen as a result of jokes; instead, it follows social cues and bonding. {16} Newborns and kids have TWICE the number of tastebuds as adults.

Story

All Beginnings Are Small

Leave a comment


Jake pushed the piece of apple pie across the diner table. He sighed. Two interminable years had passed since Jessie died. For reasons only someone left behind could understand, he continued to visit their favorite diner. The smells of toast, hash browns, and grilled onions whispered “home” to him in a way that even his own house couldn’t. It didn’t matter what else was on the limited menu there. Everything smelled of onions and breakfast food. His own house smelled of creeping loneliness and the distant moldy smell of someone living alone.


Two or three times a week after work, Jake distractedly drove the two miles out of the way. He climbed out of his car with his favorite book tucked under his right arm and went inside Joe’s. Everyone knew him there, even as the cast of employees and characters rotated with fresh faces from the local school and tired, worn-out faces of those who needed a job anywhere they could get it. If it was available, he walked to the farthest booth. Every couple of Saturdays, Jake found himself leaving the house and driving to Joe’s, even before he had his first cup of coffee. At 5:30 a.m., he was already sitting in the far booth cradling a cup of coffee.


The joke was on him, all this time later. Neither Jessie nor Jake really liked the food at the diner. He was sure that not many people did. No matter what they ordered, they knew that the apple pie for dessert would fill them.


The first time Jake went to Joe’s, Jessie talked him into it. “It’s so bad! You have to try it, Jake.” He said no until she took his left hand into hers and pushed it against her chest, and smiled. He couldn’t say no to that trick. When they were married, that’s how Jessie recited her simple vows.


At Joe’s, they laughed about the soggy toast and buttery hashbrowns, which were both overcooked and partially uncooked. That sort of result took either talent or blatant disregard for food. The owner didn’t seem to mind being ribbed about it. She was a small woman who moved there from Alaska.


Jake disliked the food so much that they started eating at Joe’s at least once a week. It’s the sort of inside joke that only close friends or lovers would appreciate. While they seldom left with full stomachs, they left with a belly full of apple pie and an hour of conversation. Joe’s was the place where they connected. For four years, they were as happy as any couple could be.


In June, almost three years ago, Jessie started coughing one Wednesday morning and didn’t stop. Within a week, Jake sat with her in the oncologist’s office to hear the doctor tell Jessie, “It is too far advanced for treatment. Here’s the name of another doctor for a second opinion. Go as soon as possible.” They went to Joe’s after the appointment with the oncologist. It was the first time they sat silently across from one another. The fear in Jessie’s eyes was a mortal wound for Jake. He knew a single word would shatter them both.


Four months later, Jessie died at home.


Since her death, Jake ordered two pieces of apple pie during each visit to Joe’s. He left both untouched after every meal. It was wasteful, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. He didn’t know if it was superstition, grief, or another long con he was playing against himself.


Today, a new waitress came over to take his order. Jake couldn’t guess her age. Her hair was hidden inside a ballcap, but her face was crowded with wrinkle lines. When she took his order, she looked at him directly without diverting her gaze. Her eyes were alive with interest. Jessie did the same thing when they met. It was one of the things that convinced him that she was for him. People often said they wanted to be heard. For Jake, being seen was blatantly magical.


After he pushed away his mostly untouched plate, the waitress returned and asked him if he wanted any pie. “Yes, two pieces of apple pie. Thank you.” Jake looked at her name tag. “Alicia,” it indicated.


In a moment, Alicia returned. She put a slice of lemon pie in front of him and another on the other side of the table.


“Do you mind?” she asked him, pointing at the empty side of the booth across from him. “I’m on break for twenty minutes.” Before Jake could answer, she smoothly slid into the booth to sit across from him.


As she adjusted the pie of pie in front of her, she looked at him directly again.


“I don’t eat lemon pie, Alicia. Just apple.” It sounded lame to him as he said it.


“Jake, that’s not true. You don’t eat apple pie either. That’s okay.” Alicia winked at him.


Jake blushed. Through no dishonor to Jessie, the world around him suddenly diminished to Alicia’s face as she looked at him.


“I don’t know what to say, Alicia.”


“You don’t have to say anything, Jake. Just sit and be with me and enjoy the pie. Everything else will follow.” She winked again.


He smiled at Alicia and took his first bite of pie in two years. His new favorite was lemon. She met his gaze as they began to talk. *

Holiday, Humor, Opinion, Personal, Whimsical

For The New Year

Leave a comment

“Time seldom approaches with a wild machete. It creeps from behind with a small, concealed knife.” – X

But Mel Brooks said, “Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die.”

Someone more creative than me pointed out that the sand in an hourglass imprisons itself, as glass is made from sand. Don’t you wonder if we aren’t the same, becoming our own prisoners? There’s no emotion or problem that we can’t complicate, escalate, or initiate.

Noted philosopher Coco Chanel said, “Don’t spend time beating on a wall, hoping to transform it into a door.” She obviously never worked a real job or dealt with people who have few laughs in their hearts.

My scars insist that time is real, but in the quiet moments, I wonder. I used to assume that most people had these thoughts. It was disappointing to discover that many people can’t imagine that Aslan or tesseracts are real – or walk in an imagined world where they might be the figments of a greater creature’s imagination.

“There’s never enough time to do all the nothing you want.” – Bill Watterson. I was equally surprised in later life to find people who deny that sitting in a quiet room can sometimes be better than a vacation. All good lives start with a quiet room. Add your preferred levels of crazy for a great life. Subtract what takes you further from the quiet room. It might be that simple for many of us.

“Why is that I never heard these words: ‘Let’s gather by the river, drink moonshine, and tell jokes and the stories of our lives.’ But I always hear stories of obligation and things that don’t linger in the minds of others.” – X

If you’ve never read “The Time Traveller’s Wife,” you missed this quote by Audrey Niffenegger: “It’s dark now and I am very tired. I love you, always. Time is nothing.”

Haruki Murakami said, either comically or seriously, “For a while” is a phrase whose length can’t be measured. At least by the person who’s waiting.”

Hippocrates (assuming it was the father of medicine and not the hockey player of the same name), said: “Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity.”

We all wonder about 2020, which ends in about a month. We look forward. Where were we a month ago? The difference between comparing now to then is a question of knowing what lies in the interim. It requires no faith. With what lies ahead, our imaginations seize us. Whether that imagination is fueled by the dread of what will come or the expectation that we will find a way to be who we need to be is our choice.

This is my New Year’s post, written a month early.

If you can’t feel time slipping up behind you with that knife, that is okay. There is no defense against it except to live a good life. You only win by yielding.

One last wise quote: “Time is a great healer, but a poor beautician.” -Lucille S. Harper

Biographical, Health, Personal

Things A Man Can’t Say

Leave a comment

Things A Man Can’t Say

After six weeks+ of not biting my nails, I can say that my fingers feel alien to me in a way that a normal person would not find credible. I’ve not gone a week without biting my nails. For my entire life.

Several weeks ago, when I turned the switch off mentally about food, I just decided that I no longer bite my nails. Despite nothing else ever having worked for my nail-biting, not even public shaming or a global pandemic, I just knew I could do it. While my cuticles look odd, I don’t recognize my fingers. I’ve had to adjust a lot in my life for something so simple as suddenly having fingernails. From not using my hands to stir mud and potting soil to avoiding scratching ANYTHING and EVERYTHING. At night, I find myself touching my fingernails with my front teeth. Until you bite your fingernails for fifty years, I don’t think you’d believe me if I accurately describe how odd it is – as if someone put thimbles on each of my fingers and asked me to play the piano.

It occurred to me that if I were sufficiently crazy enough to do so, I could get a manicure. It’s important to note that I don’t know what proper nail care looks like, having gnawed on my talons like The Bachelorette bites the neck on her first date of the season. (Note: I’ve never watched the show. I put that bit in to trick the manicure-crowd into believing I might have.) I have promised my fans I’m going to learn to paint nails properly, though. I’ll let y’all know when I have my first nail-painting party.

I’m not looking for an attaboy. I should not be complimented for no longer doing something that is honestly pretty stupid to begin with, especially after 50 years of it. Much in the same way, it would be imprudent to congratulate me on no longer shooting black tar heroin into my eyeballs. It’s just a bad sign I started to begin with.

That’s my cat in the background. He’s nervous I might start scratching him.

P.S. There’s a link to a post in below, one I made several years ago. It’s stupid – and that’s why I think about it more than I should.

https://xteri.me/2016/04/24/fingerprints-and-finger-prince/