The End of Act 1

A drawing of my hand from high school.
I included it in my first blog post.

On April 5, 2020, I started this project. That was 3 years and 191 blog posts ago.

Actually, 3 years and 18 days--somehow I forgot my anniversary.

For me, it is no small feat, lasting this long. True, I committed myself to just one post a week. Though, I was astonished to find out that shortly after beginning this blog, I had already added my first Weekly Checkup (I would end up doing 33 of them, the vast majority in my first year). Within a month, I began my Vegetable Gardening and Me post. While both series tapered off, I stuck with the Sunday deadlines.

Most of the time.

However, with each fall, more often then not I picked myself right up, and published the next week. 

  

But, that I forgot my anniversary (indeed, I skipped the two Sundays leading up to it), troubles me. After all, April is my birthday month, and, in 2020, the beginning of the Lockdown. Both played some part inspiring this blog. So, it should have been on my mind.

Three weeks ago, it would have given me something to write about.

Instead, my life as a human distracted me. Children have places to go; laundry and dishes need cleaning; gardens require attention if you want them to grow vegetables. Also, we humans crave crises when they take place outside our neighborhoods (but avoid them when they occur in our backyards). And so, I drowned myself in articles chronicling the tsunami of ignorance that surrounds me, while struggling to free myself from my own. Finally, it does not help that some of my bad habits keep pushing me under. Between procrastination and daydreaming, I find my head under water more often than not.

It is a nice metaphor. But metaphors are not real. They are approximations human have created to make sense of reality. And some times these metaphors are a poor reflection of the real thing. Other times, they become an excuse to avoid action.

In my case, I am not currently drowning. None of this can compare to my last two years of teaching. Nowadays, I have routines for the daily grind of caring for this household. While I feel for those suffering from the fear and resentment of the willfully ignorant, the latter have not harmed me directly. Not yet. And I do a lot to keep myself knowledgeable and educated. Finally, my habits are within my power to change. I have no one else to blame, but myself.

It is my thoughts that keep me from riding the incoming waves. In particular, the negative ones. The ones that tell me pretending is better than trying. Why look dumb talking about something, when you can daydream that you did all the work to become an expert? Why start a project in which problems will inevitably arise, when you can just sit there and imagine it completed? Why bother writing down your plans creating accountability, when you can pretend to do it, and then forget about it? And why share something you know will upset people even though you know it needs to said, when you can fantasize that you are able to change people's minds?

What does any of this have to do with blogging? Well, as I have argued so many times before, getting certain of my thoughts out into the world would prevent me from losing my sanity. But I am afraid to put them out there. Blogging for three years should have helped me. However, I have yet to redirect my efforts. I still lack the courage to speak up.  

And so, on this belated third anniversary of my blog, with all these thoughts running through my mind, I have decided to call this post "The End of Act 1".

Maybe this will motivate me to change.

(To be continued...)         

Confessions (#23)

I discovered this artist, Eugen von Blaas, two weeks ago,
while working on a project. I find so many of his paintings amusing.
Perhaps, because I have spent so much time surrounded by and listening to women...

This is how I envision people talking about my blog posts,
and text messages, which have been described as novels. 

At the end of last week's post, I mentioned how producing it might inspire me to wake up bright and early the next morning, and write some more. And how it all depended on me. Well, I did not follow through. The next day, I woke up and journaled, but nothing more. The following morning, I added another journal entry. Then went on about my day, never bothering to write another word. And God knows that day I was drowning in a pool of cascading thoughts. Finally, Wednesday ended up being my last journal entry for the week.

Now it is Sunday, which means hunkering down in my bedroom recliner, and spitting something out onto a computer screen. Usually I would have a pile of unfolded laundry requiring my attention. However, because my wife is leaving for a business trip tomorrow, I had to finish that chore yesterday. It actually feels good to have that completed. I go back and forth about switching laundry days. Instead, I spent the last few hours watching, for the first time, It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.  Funny show, though I found it difficult sitting through the first episode. I constantly suffer from second-hand embarrassment, and these characters insist on being awkward in front of others. But I pushed through, and left the room just a handful of times. 

I would have watched more, but the Mets game began, and my wife is a huge fan. Since I had about an hour-and-a-half before starting dinner, I decided to sit down and blog. The decision had little to do with using my time wisely. Instead, a fear gripped me. A little voice in my mind suggested skipping this week's post. After all, my birthday is coming up this week. And, yes, as a Lord of the Rings fan, this conversation in my head was sprinkled with words like "precious" and "present" and lots of hissing. Also, the ton of sugar cookies dipped in lemon pudding (do not ask--I never got around to adding the fresh fruit to the concoction), frozen shumai from Trader Joe's, a random hot dog, three bottles of diet root beer, and a bunch of other things that I cannot recall right now, has left me bloated. 

So, between not writing anything significant for a week, giving myself only ninety minutes to write this post, and feeling like a beached whale, that I got this far is miraculous. I just wish I had something more meaningful this time around.

Well, the laundry is done, the sugar cookies are almost gone along with the lemon pudding (some day I will explain it), the root beer supply is definitely depleted, tomorrow is a new day, and this blog post is completed.     

Now on to making dinner.  

 

Confessions (#22)

A scene from the film, The Matrix. Neo is waiting for a ride that will change his life,
but he is not sure that he is ready for it. At one point, he will want to escape
back down familiar roads, and avoid the truth.
Here the clip from the movie.

It is 8 pm on an Easter Sunday, and I am sitting at my laptop, figuring out what to write. Actually, it is eight minutes after eight. I spent those minutes running through various topics: book bans, anti-trans legislation, hyperbole, freedom, what I think of Jesus, how I wish I had done this days ago. I even began daydreaming about people commenting on my make-believe blog post. That's just a sample. At some point, not blogging tonight crossed mind. Hell, not blogging ever again reared its ugly head, too.   

When procrastination becomes overwhelming, running away looks like a great option.

However, like Trinity says to Neo in the first Matrix film, a voice inside my head reminded me, "Because you have been down there ... you know that road, you know exactly where it ends. And I know that's not where you want to be." Half-ass written creative writing assignments, incoherent analytic papers on history topics, unfinished art projects left on the trash bin of my mind, and now empty posts littering this blog. Yea, those are familiar roads.

And I don't want to be there.

Instead, I want to take the red pill, and jump down the rabbit hole of connecting my brain to paper and seeing what bursts forth (now I'm paraphrasing a verse from Hamilton the musical, and butchering it). I want to "write like I am running out of time; write day and night like I am running out of time." I mean, I am running out of time.

But, there is no red pill showing me a world beyond my procrastination. Trinity is not going to show up and inspire me to reject those bad habits. And the life of a short-lived Founding Father who wrote the other fifty-one Federalist Papers is not the best solution for my middle-aged problems.

After skipping two weeks of blogging, I produced tonight's post. It is not much. But, just maybe, it is enough to inspire me. 

Perhaps, I will wake up early tomorrow and actually write my thoughts down.

In the end, it's up to me. 

On Dreaming (#18)

https://www.theartstory.org/artist/hammershoi-vilhelm/
I shouldn't be afraid to open up doors. Read on to find out more.

If you have been reading my blog since the beginning, you know that my dreams are frequently lucid and vivid. Some are dark and disturbing, while others are funny and absurd. All of them I find fascinating, and that is why I keep a dream journal.

Unfortunately, not all the dreams make it in there. Between the dreaming and my journaling, I have forgotten as many as I have remembered. On occasion, upon waking from a particularly powerful dream, I will take notes using my phone. However, most of the time I avoid that task, because falling back to sleep becomes a struggle.

Sometimes, when I have lucid, vivid dreams, I can recollect having them, but it is the details I cannot recall. And, yes, I mention that in my journal: "Last night I had a vivid dream, unfortunately, I cannot remember any details" or "I had dream, but all that I remember was that I was naked".  

Yet, there are times when I fail to dream at all. When these moments cluster together, I call them droughts. For me, lucid, vivid dreaming is another tool for analyzing my emotions concerning people, events, and ideas in my life. Even the bad, disturbing ones. So, when I am deprived of the experience for a long period of time, or I forget too many details, I feel an emptiness. The past few months, I have suffered quite a few dry spells and memory gaps.

Then, like a monsoon, the dreams flood back into my mind. Despite the overwhelming emotional force that washes over me, I am grateful for their return. Prior to last week, I was suffering one such drought. And then, beginning last Monday, the first of a four dreams arrived, the last two occurring these past two nights.

For brevity, I am only going to share the last one. Also, last night's dream contrasts well with the last dream I shared on this blog. That one was long, complicated, and disturbing. It involved one of my two daughters. This one was short, direct, and intense. My other daughter was in it.

One last thought before I describe it. I should have just opened the door.

It was at night. My daughter and I were standing in a room with a door that led outside. The walls seemed fake, like we were standing on a set of a television show. It even felt like a wall was missing. Except for the two of us and the door, the space was empty, and the walls were painted a maroon color, but otherwise bare. My memory of the dream begins with me already against the door, and the sense that something, or someone, was trying to enter. My daughter was at arms length, and right behind me. I do not know if I was keeping her back, or if she was hesitant to move closer. However, I do recall struggling to keep the door closed, and unable to lock it shut. At least twice, the door opened enough for me to see a dark mass on the other side. Each time, I fumbled for the door handle, and pushed my weight against the door. Then, just before waking up, I clearly remember standing there at the door, taking a step back, and thinking, "Maybe I should just let it in."            

Confessions (#21)

I believe I have referenced this work by Norman Rockwell before. I love it.
There is something about the look on her face. It is real, not perfect. Tired, but grateful.
Like good teaching. And, it is funny that tonight, for the first time, I noticed
the broken chalk, chalk dust, and eraser collected at her feet; the eraser on the head
of one student; and how one of the children wrote "Happy Birthday Jonesy" on the board.
Between the sincere kindness of  her students, the mess on the floor, the silliness of a rogue eraser,
and someone daring to call the teacher by their first name, this could have been any one of my classes.  

For good or ill, I allowed my high school students to challenge me. Daily they would question my curriculum and pedagogical choices. And each day, I would indulge their attempts to avoid what I thought best for them. Perhaps it was naivety. Maybe it was the culture of the that school. And while blaming an entire generation, or just the ignorance of youth, would soothe my guilt, deep down I know a part of me just gave up. There is way to give students the freedom and structure they require to learn effectively. But I never discovered it during those thirteen years of teaching.

In addition, during my career at that "little school in the woods", I wore many hats. There was the hat for teaching. Another for administrative work, like accounting, record keeping, communications. Then there was one for marketing, both digital and print. In addition, on Fridays, I would mop the gym and classroom floors. Every day, whether sending out an email on behalf of the headmaster to some irate parent, paying bills and printing invoices, redesigning the website, or just taking the garbage bags to the dumpster, I was doing more than just teaching.

One day during class, while my students hounded me with a request (I believe it was about a field trip), frustrated, I blurted out that I "had a million things to do". And true to form, without skipping a beat, one of my students, an annoyingly lovable one, quipped, "Alright, list them for us, these one million tasks."

Sigh. And true to myself, I surrendered, and began rattling off things I had to do. 

"First, there is the email I need to send out to your parents about next week's event. Second, I have to order the chairs for the event. Third, I have to sit down with the headmaster, and create an ad for the local newspaper. Fourth, the garbage cans in the gym need to be replaced. Fifth..."

I believe I made it to about twenty. What happened next is beyond my memory. Or I buried it deeply with a lot of regrettable or humiliating experiences from my days of teaching.

So, why am I thinking of this particular recollection? Well, I was going to begin tonight's post differently: "There are a million things swirling in mind tonight that I feel like I am drowning in them." And that is when the memory snapped into focus. Then I searched through the titles of my previous posts, hoping to find something better than "A Brief Interlude" or "A Deep Breath". That is when I spied "Confessions". 

And here we are.

I could indulge you, dear reader, like I did my students, and start cataloging all the thoughts bombarding my mind right now. It would not be a million, but it would easily exceed twenty. If I had to guess, a hundred sounds about right. But fortunately, for the both of us, none of you have ever asked me to list them. In addition, many of my thoughts would be too embarrassing to share. Indeed, I would end up humiliating myself and others. Some are typical, while others, trivial. Then there are the repeats, for those who have been regularly reading my blog, or listening to me when I whine. Finally, and simply, I do not have the time, the energy, or the will to present them in some interesting and witty manner.

So, no list for you.

Well, maybe one:

1) Fold the laundry;

2) Wash the dishes;

3) Write a blog post;

4) Daydream about how people will react to it when they read it.        

A (Sort of) Book Review (#1)

I am reusing this one, because I think I am heading
into a migraine; therefore, I am skipping out on a
search for a new image. 

At some point in my blogging, I wrote a post that I intended to be an introduction to a series on my reading habit, and all my struggles maintaining it. That series petered out: the mediocre sequel turned into a crappy epilogue. Then I tried to combine my reading and writing goals by attempting to write book reviews. Like most of my projects, nothing came of it.

Maybe, until now?

This past week, over the course of three days, I consumed two works of fiction. Well, one novel, and an autobiographical graphic book. However, I believe the author of the latter would agree that her account contains fictional elements, placing it outside the realm of something like someone's published memoirs. And since I am trying to expand beyond my reading comfort zone (i.e., non-fiction), I will include it as fiction.

Both titles arose from those ever growing banned book lists sweeping the nation. The first is The Push by Ashley Audrain; the second, Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic by Alison Bechdel. Having read them both, I see no reason to prevent teenagers from reading either work. Sure, I would be reluctant to use them as required reading in a high school setting. Neither reflect exceptional use of the English language. So there literary value would not trump their uncomfortable content. But I would not deny my daughters the opportunity to pick them off a school library shelf and surrender themselves to what lies within those pages.

While the content in both books contain controversial topics that would make even adults uneasy, their unflinching approach to child abuse, motherhood, repressed sexuality, trauma, and death, is delivered intelligently and creatively. None of it is pornographic. Even the sex scenes.

[Sorry, narrating that two people fucked and enjoyed it is not explicit; including illustrations of one woman's head between that of another, or a naked cadaver with its penis displayed, is not porn. Some people may not like to read such passages, or look at such images. Yet, neither come close to the experience of pornographic images and explicit texts. Trust me, teenagers are seeing much worse on their phones.]

For me, I am glad I read both books. While I figured out the ending to The Push within the first few chapters, Ashley Audrain's writing style, a combination of first and second person, and the characters themselves, kept me going. It did no read like trauma porn. Instead, I experienced the unfortunate lives of regular people struggling with their problems. And I witnessed three different types of motherhoods, none of them perfect. A few times, I even teared up a bit. It would be a book I could recommend to the people that I know. If they want a quick, depressing story. 

As for Fun Home (a play on "Funeral Home"), it is a book I cannot recommend as easily. Indeed, I can think of maybe two of my readers who would appreciate it. The content is depressing, and the discussion centers on the author's struggles with sexual repressions, not just in herself, but in another person. I learned a lot about how oppressive and destructive social norms can be on a person. But that is not why I would hesitate to promote this book within my social circle. While I consider myself an intelligent person, I am aware that many more people are smarter and better educated than I am. And this author is one of them. She uses a lot of literary and mythical references. There are plenty of quotes from Proust and Joyce, two authors who are way beyond my understanding. And the entire book draws on Icarus and his father in a way that I find confusing. Finally, it is all delivered in a structure that weighs down on you intellectually and emotional. It left me exhausted.

Perhaps that was the author's intention?  Drag me down just as her childhood has been a burden for her? Confuse me with the esoteric words and themes of literary giants as she was confused by her emotions and family dynamics? Leave me weary and drained, as her childhood left her?

In the end, I am grateful for experiencing both books, but I doubt I will ever return to them.

Take that observation however you see fit.         

As for me, I have two non-fiction books to read before Wednesday. One is about the joys of Algebra; the other about better ways of thinking.

Hey, that is how I roll.      

A Brief Interlude (#23)

Not really sure why I picked this one.
I don't have the urge to find a new image.

For the past eight days, I have been sick. A steady fever of a hundred degrees. Aches and chills across the first few days. Sore throat and coughing fits throughout the nights. Until last night, I barely totaled four hours of sleep in any of those previous ones. Tests on Friday morning cleared me of COVID, Strep, and the flu. So, the doctor sent me home with a powerful antibiotic (I am so looking forward to some of the possible side effects), an inhaler (my first time with one, and it seems to have helped a lot with the coughing), and a steroid (I am going to pass on that one and its side effects). And I can say honestly, forty-eight hours later, and a complete night of sleep, I feel a lot better.

So much so, I spent the second half of the day at my eldest daughter's last dance competition of the season. Of course, what has not improved was my hearing and speech. Like the plastic bench beneath my butt, I am sure both were hard and grating. However, I coughed perhaps once or twice, and that was from walking outside in the cold air. Did not blow my nose once. Finally, I left the event tired, not exhausted. 

There is still enough energy in me to write this post. What I lack is something worthwhile to talk about. Since I skipped last week's blogging, I decided to make an attempt. 

A few posts back, I discussed my obsession with documentaries. One about a woman and her family's life in an area near the Arctic Circle inspired a marathon of viewing. I ended up trudging through a World War I series, and blitzing through one about World War II. Somewhere in there was a trilogy about wildlife in Scandinavia's Arctic regions. And now I am hiking through a program that follows several groups of people living remotely near Alaska's Arctic Circle.

Something about those cold, wilderness regions and how people and animals survive it, along with stories of wholesale slaughter and destruction, that has me watching more tv in the past few weeks then I have probably all of last year.

Time watching televisions shows is time I could be spending on reading. Something I spent so little of while I was sick. Yes, I find it difficult to read while I am ill. But, in the past, my symptoms rarely lasted more than two days. Three at the most. This round was rough. However, I am happy to say, at one point, I cracked open I book, and found myself reading at least three or four chapters in a sitting. And it was a work of fiction. That was in the middle of last week, and I have not returned to it since.

Yet, now that I am feeling much better, I hope to revisit it as early as tomorrow. If I can get through it, I can move on to other titles. Maybe I will even write about it. But one step at a time.

Speaking of writing, I cannot recall the last time I journaled. Perhaps two weeks ago? That would make it my longest drought. Not blogging, I can excuse. Writing fiction has been an ongoing struggle. But journaling was always my anchor connecting me to that elusive habit. Or a fall back position whenever I advanced two far into no-man's land. A way to keep sane.

And I severed the rope, and I am adrift, or crawling from one bombed-out crater to another. 

[Okay, so I cannot decide on which metaphor to follow. The first ties back to the Alaskan videos, the second to those trench warfare films. I should choose clarity over cleverness.] 

Yet... yet... writing this post has me thinking. Okay, not always a good thing, especially when I overthink. But this time it may pay off. A week of illness followed by a day in which I endured a public event without suffering exhaustion (physical, emotional, etc.), and here I am typing away a post I had no intention of producing. That is something.

In addition, the beginning of March starts in the middle of this upcoming week. That means spring is around the corner. A whole months of planning and starting gardening projects. There is a metaphor somewhere in there. One I can apply to writing. 

Not sure what it is.

And this post is getting long. 

So, I am going to wrap it up.

My goal tomorrow morning, is journal. And maybe read a chapter.

I just have to do it before I start the laundry, clean the kitchen, go grocery shopping, bake some brownies...

[Shit, I forgot about the brownies!]

A Brief Interlude (#22)

This is a painting done by J.R.R. Tolkien.
I have always enjoyed his paintings and drawings. 

Two weeks ago, I published a grim post. Then skipped a Sunday of blogging. Now I have returned. During that interlude, I spent three days in Disney World, hanging out with some close friends, watching our daughters perform in a national dance competition. That trip required me to step way out of my comfort zone. It was worth it. Even when I spent half a day without access to my phone.

As for not blogging, it was acceptable. I did not want to haul my laptop through security, onto the plane, and then have it sitting around in the hotel, worried I would leave it behind. I did not need to keep track of another item, and increase my anxiety. Also, it turns out that I never had enough time to myself, between all the walking, talking, eating, and introspection that happened. Except for the shower. I was alone in there. But it is not a place for a laptop.

No computer also meant no journaling. I have been struggling with that habit since the beginning of the year. To miss three full days of it was a major, but necessary set back. It is a good thing that I have so much free time waiting for my daughter at her dance studio. I spent the full two-and-a-half hours in the car typing away a journal entry that ran six full typed pages, single spaced. And I only wrote half of what was on my mind of my experiences from the trip. Really, it was an outline. At some point, I need to go back and expand on some of the content.   

Speaking of habits, I tried to improve another one, reading. The last time I wrote about my reading habit was more than a year ago. So, I decided to put some effort into it. I downloaded two pieces of fiction, and one non-fiction. The latter, Empire of the Summer Moon, covers the history of the Comanches. I read about two chapters, and realized I did not want to spend the trip catching up on our dark past. Especially when I spent the week before watching a documentary series on the First World Way. One of the fiction books is a favorite of a close friend, and I have been meaning to start it since hearing them mention it. That was three years ago. And now it will have to wait a bit longer. As I discovered on my plane ride to Orlando airport, I struggle to commit to new works of fiction.

Instead, I settled on the third book I downloaded. It would seem a part of me knew I would prefer something old and familiar. A book that I have read enough times so I could skip over various parts. But I one enjoy so thoroughly, that I could easily turn to it when I needed to escape, or found myself alone. It is the Lord of the Rings. The entire series. For three nights, right before bed, I delved into its pages. Then on the flight home. Reading it kept me grounded, and connected to a feeling I wish to experience more often.

The Lord of the Rings is the first book that I can vividly remember loving to read. I even inspired my best friend to give it a try. He ended up enjoying it, too. That all happened back in the seventh grade. Since then, I have returned to it at least ten times, cover to cover, and a dozen times just one or two sections. But in no way would I recommend it to anyone I know. While it is good literature, and an essential part of the fantasy genre, its style and content does not appeal to everyone. Even I grow weary of reading certain passages. Especially the long speeches. However, there are other parts, entire chapters, especially the first part of the story, that hooks me in every time I start it. 

And so, from time to time, I go back to it, in order to recapture the magic I felt the first time I experienced that book. It is ironic that it would be a book that explores the passing of golden ages, and heroic times; of one last grand adventure before a vast, fantastical world fades away. It is also no surprise that my ability to read it thoroughly wanes as well. Yet, my nostalgia keeps me going. 

I just hope that joy inspires me to explore more works of fiction.    

A Deep Breath (#21)

I struggled with selecting an image for tonight's post.
My initial thoughts leaned toward "disturbing". Like "Zdzisław Beksiński" disturbing.
That went too far.
So, I decided on "harsh truth delivered in a funny way".
If you have seen Beksiński's artwork, you are probably glad I did.

Lately, I've been taking a lot of deep breaths on this blog. Since the beginning of January. Maybe it's just the post-holiday doldrums. Like a long sigh. Next weekend may break the spell. Because I will be engaged in an experience that will require all my attention, there will be no blogging. It may be the jolt I need in order to transform my writing. That is all I will share about the event at this time. 

Meanwhile, I will focus on tonight's post. This past week, I traded in reading my book for viewing documentaries. The history of Vatican II will have to wait. Last Sunday's foray into one family's living in the Alaskan wilderness sent me down a new path. That's the way my mind works. Watching this couple disassemble nearly twenty years of trials, triumphs, and tragedies, along with the wooden structures they created together, was beautiful and inspiring. It reminded me of how much I enjoy documentaries about nature. So, I followed up Rewilding Kernwood with Arctic Daughter, the life of the mother from the first documentary I saw. There is a third movie, Arctic Son. Unfortunately, that one was not free with Prime; therefore, it will have to wait. By Monday night, I caught a film about the mass migration of animals through the Brooks Range in Alaska. Unfortunately, I went to bed two-thirds of the way through, and have not been able to find it since, in order to finish it. However, on Tuesday night, I discovered the trilogy, Wild North, by Scandanavian photographers. Wrapped that series up by early Saturday night.

A craving for documentaries came over me, and ones about nature were not enough. An entire week of these films stirred up memories of childhood. When I used to devour entire series about Vietnam and World War II. Sure enough, my streaming services delivered. It took some time, but I found one on the Second World War. I gave up after the first few minutes. The footage was reconstructed with cheesy special effects. That inspired me to find a documentary with actual footage from the time period. It took another stretch of time searching, before  I found it. It was from the History channel, which made me wince (a topic for another day--a channel of so much squandered potential). But I put aside my bias, when I learned that the content contained never-before-released home movies from that era. And for over an hour, I was held captivated by what I saw.

And thoroughly disgusted. At least three times I teared up. Several times I paused it, and walked about my bedroom angry. I do that sort of thing when I become emotional. But turning it off was not an option. My childhood is filled with graphic footage from war. That includes, during my preteen years, watching Soviet footage of concentration camps, void of music, or commentary. I could handle it. Just not silently, or without emotion. And so I endured a tumultuous journey through various eye witnesses of Europe's worst civil war.

While I searched for WWII content, I came across I Am Not Your Negro. It is a film about James Baldwin, and I have been meaning to watch it for some time. Besides movies about warfare, I also viewed films about the Civil Rights Movement. By the time I entered high school, I was exposed to the beatings and marches, lynching and riots; the sight of a little girl being attacked by crowds of adults; and the face of a young boy in a coffin, murdered by two adults for something he never did. However, I settled on the History Channel's The Third Reich. James Baldwin would have to wait.

Once again, my life is full of coincidences. On the same day I watched amateur video from German soldiers recording their harassment and murder of civilians, authorities released body cam footage of Tyre Nichols' death. As I saw soldiers march naked people towards open graves where they lined them up and shot them dead, the world witnessed a group of police surround a man and beat him to death.

History does not repeat itself. But some humans seem to wish it would.   

A Deep Breath (#20)

You'll have to read the post in order
to understand their significance.

I am a day late with this post. Yesterday, my daughter's dance team hosted a competition for the first time ever. Overall, it was a success. However, leading up to it, I had many doubts, most of which stemmed from my personal struggles with social interactions, and past experiences with planned events. A week of intense anxiety, ten straight hours of standing, a way too many interactions with strangers, left me exhausted. So, no blogging for me. Instead, I ate a lot of Chinese food (not exactly a good idea on a near empty stomach), and experienced about an hour of an interesting documentary (someday soon I will discuss it), before retiring to bed (I slept well for the most part, except for a strange dream that caused me to wake up briefly in the middle of the night).  

After spending the day doing laundry (a usual Sunday chore), making the weekly trek to my favorite grocery store (a twenty-minute drive both ways), and prepping snacks and meals for the family (an two-hour task itself), I am ready to sit down a write. Yet, my mind and heart are not fully committed. The former wants to analyze all the mistakes I made these past few days, and uncertainties that plagued me this past week. The latter thinks no harm, no foul, and that the slate has been wiped clean, ready for me start anew.

And my gut is reminding me of several punches it has received, some self-inflicted. 

For the moment, I will briefly mention two. The first one came from the direction of a documentary. It was about three adults and a child who constructed over twenty years of life in a remote part of northern Alaska. Actually, the film centered on the deconstruction of those memories. If my own recent foray into a wild life event had not left me drained, I would have finished watching. I have found it that intriguing. That story, and an interesting coincidence. Just last week, I started another documentary about a massive yearly migration that takes place through the Brooks Range in Alaska, the very place where this family discovered a huge part of their life. 

It is another coincidence that brings me to the second punch to my stomach. In the beginning of January, I began reading one of two books from a Jesuit priest. The first focuses on the Council of Trent, while the second on Vatican II. Both are important historical events in the history of the Catholic Church. I have been drawn to this topic since last November, a process worthy of its own posts.  The subject matter and writing style of the two books has me reading at least thirty minutes to an hour a day for the past few weeks. That means a lot to me. 

Well, a few days ago, I decided to purge a pile of books from my daughter's room. The plan was to donate them to the local library. Something inspired me to pack them all into a single bag and walk them to the library. One mile away. Fifteen minutes later, with aching muscles and short breath, I found myself at the rolling cart for book donations. It was red. And empty. Except for two books. Both were thin, old, and worn, piled to one side. I placed my large pile of thick, like-new modern books, most of them teen romance, on the other side of the cart. The asymmetry caught my eye, and I decided to examine the two other books.

Their titles were Called to Communion: Understanding the Church Today and the Spirit of the Liturgy. Both by the same man. Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, who would eventually become Pope Benedict XVI. And both about the same topic. The Catholic Church and how Vatican II changed it. 

There, alone, in that long hallway of the library, standing beside the red painted metal cart, upon which sat two uneven piles of book, I laughed aloud. Then I took a picture, for my blog. I sighed, shook my head, and left.

Despite a now empty bag, I walked home bearing a heavier burden.

Fucking coincidences.