Brief Interlude (#25)

I made this! It is a candy cane column.
I made a pair for the the three wide doorways on my first floor.
It is a piece of dimensional lumber, sanded, shaped, and
painted white, with red ribbon wrapped around it.
I am proud of it.

Tonight's post will be brief. Christmas is arriving fast. For the third straight year, I have not had to deal with stage managing a Nutcracker season. It has helped to relieve some of the stress, not having all those obligations. Yet, it has been sad as well. At some point, I need to write more about these mixed feelings. However, not today. Nor next week. But, some day down the road.

In the meantime...

Meandering Thoughts (#18)

Along the section of wall, from the wooden door on the left,
to the third bike hanging up on the right,
took an entire day to clear out and organize.
It may not look like much, and I wish I had a "before" picture,
but I promise you it constituted a huge step in the right direction.
Finishing it became motivation for starting the next project. 

I almost skipped tonight's post. This introduction may sound familiar. That's how I began it last week. But tonight's excuse would have been different. While today's event involved my daughter's dance team, unlike last week, it began at 10:30 am, and ended around 4 pm. The whole time spent entirely on my feet. And surrounded by hundreds of people. With only two hours of sleep. My body is aching, and my social battery is drained. Currently, my mind keeps telling me to fall asleep right here on the couch. Yet, a little voice in my heart whispers, "Write what you're feeling at this very moment, even if it is only one or two paragraphs long. At least one person will read it and enjoy. Also, you keep that one habit going." So, that's what I am doing.

Meandering Thoughts (#17)

I made that! Well, with a lot of help and patience
Though, now I'm wondering if the text should be bigger...

I almost skipped tonight's post. For five hours this morning, a group of women and I worked on t-shirts for my daughter's dance team. It was my first time weeding vinyl and ironing it to fabric. My creative mind was in overdrive, filled with so many possibilities. My middle-aged eyes and fingers, however, were tired and numb. And my social battery needed recharging.

Meandering Thoughts (#16)

This was a stormy day at the beach.
There is something about the sea that calls to me.
Yet, I have no desire to sail upon it.
Instead, I admire its terrifying beauty from its shores. 

For those who did not notice, I skipped last Sunday's blog post. For those who did spot it, my apologies. It was the weekend before Thanksgiving, and, in order to celebrate, my family rented a house on the beach . The view was beautiful, and there was much merriment. Although there was plenty of time to accomplish personal goals, I put them aside. Except journaling, which I did daily. After a ten hour drive home on Saturday, I began preparations for the Christmas season. While it would be easier for me to skip this week of blogging, I decided against it. My routines have been ignored long enough. It is time to reinstate them.

On This Thing Called Writing (#8)

In last week's blog post, I mentioned how, after consuming a ridiculously large amount of Halloween candy in a absurdly small amount of time, an idea struck me. Well, there were many that hit me upside my head that morning. However, one in particular, left an impression. 

On This Thing Called Writing (#7)

I wrote a post about a year ago, in which I mentioned my desire to finish a novel before my fiftieth birthday. That leaves me four-and-a-half years. In addition, I discussed my two major attempts to complete the NaNoWriMo challenge. In 2015, during my first foray into serious fiction writing (since high school), I wrote a measly 18,000 words. Seven years later, I exceeded the official goal of 45,000, by at least 5,000 words. However, the final product was in no way a complete novel. Yet, it was progress. 

Revelations (Part 6)

Do you see those two full firewood stacks? That's where two old beds stood.
One of them is in the foreground. Where the half empty stack is standing,
were two full stacks, one in front of the other.
And all that dirt in front of them? Uneven, patchy grass. 

In preparation for tonight's post, I reread last Sunday's musings. It took four straight days of intense labor to tear down, fix up, rebuild, and refill those two garden beds. Most of it occurred in the late morning, early afternoon--I do have other responsibilities and chores. But their completion was paramount, a lynchpin in starting on other projects. If I did not move them, I could not start work on the firewood racks. Without that storage space for the wood, the area around my shed would remain a mess, preventing me from building a properly contained compost heap. No compost heap? No dethatching my lawn. And my lawn needs to be dethatched and aerated, all of which needs to occur before the first frost. 

Meandering Thoughts (#15)

Damn. My meals are telling me like it is.
Stuff is getting real. 

Tonight's post references several thoughts from last Sunday. If you need a refresher, here is a direct link. Please note, last week I paraphrased a quote from one of my favorite animations, Adventure Time. However, I failed to attribute it explicitly. So, I went back and edited it. Then I remembered that I had discussed this theme from the show before. If you are interested, you can find the actual quote beautifully presented, in an old entry. It connects perfectly with last week's conversation. 

My First Writing Challenge (#3)

I made these shelves for my daughter. Yes, they were easy and simple,
but it felt good working with wood again. Occasionally, I forget
how much I love working with my hands, building things.

As of late Friday night, this writing challenge, along with this blog. were officially over. Tonight, the former still holds; the latter, not so much. 

My First Writing Challenge (#2)

At the Well by Daniel Ridgway Knight
Not sure if my characters will look anything like them.

 

Sorry, tonight's post does not contain any progress on the Jack and Jill story. I almost did not blog. However, the need to keep one habit going inspired me to get on the computer and type away. Hopefully,  I will return next week with more about our two orphans and their new "friend".

My First Writing Challenge (#1)

At the Well by Daniel Ridgway Knight
Not sure if my characters will look anything like them.

Each Sunday, until the new year, I will post a piece of fiction that I have worked on during the week. It will not be my best; I doubt it will even be decent. However, at this point, for me, it is the best way to work on a habit: writing fiction daily. At the very least, dear readers, I hope you find it entertaining. Maybe you will learn something. Perhaps even be inspired to do some writing of your own. 

A Deep Breath (#26)

"Know your enemy, know yourself, and you shall win every battle."
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
Seriously, that thing looks like it's rubbing its ass on my cucumber plant.
(Yes, I noticed the double entendre in that sentence.)

"Next Sunday, I will either share my outline, or have the first fictional work completed." 

That was from last week's post. Today, neither is going to happen. I would love to say "I was busy". However, unless someone is surviving day to day, what they really mean to say is "I did not prioritize it". A lack of time is not my problem. The will to place this goal towards the top of my daily to-do list is at fault. If I would only follow through every day, even for thirty minutes, it would eventually become a habit. Then I could produce something weekly without struggling so much.

A Deep Breath (#25)

Sigh. Something has devoured my cucumber plants.
I believe it is a groundhog, but I am not sure
how he is getting in there. It is very disappointing.

It is 8 pm on a Sunday straddling between summer and fall. Woke up early, and did a bunch of chores. Then drove four straight hours in order to pick up my daughter and her friends from a wedding. Came home and served up the pork shoulder that had been breaking apart in the slow cooker. Spent the past two hours lounging around watching television. Decided to write that blog post despite feeling sluggish and tired. But not before surrendering thirty minutes in order to clean up the kitchen. 

At least the laundry was done yesterday (I planned it that way, knowing I would be traveling today). 

Two weeks have past since I last posted. That time was spent determining a direction for this blog. I believe I have discovered a new path. And it is thanks to a YouTuber named Struthless, whom I mentioned over a year ago. 

Finding himself struggling to produce video content, he devised a challenge. Each week, for the next twenty-six weeks, he could produce a single video. But he established specific parameters and constraints. These limits keep the endeavor focused, and provide motivation. Making it all public offers accountability. However, the most important part is that Struthless is allowing himself to create imperfect content. Because of the limitations, he will never produce a perfect product, and he accepts it. The goal is not to create something great, but to create on a regular basis, so it becomes a habit.

Well, I have decided to take this challenge and modify it for my situation. Namely, I want to write fiction on a daily basis, and I want to continue to blog weekly. So, combining the two, I have decided that each week, for the next fifteen weeks, I will upload a fictional piece I have created. One constraint is that it will be short. Exactly how short? Not sure. I am still working out the parameters and constraints. Also, it should be in a final form, or as close as possible. My hope is to use the six days leading up to my blog post in order to draft and edit the story to completion. Finally, by putting it out there, I am forcing myself to commit.

Having written all this out, I realize that more planning is needed. Tomorrow I will rewatch Struthless' video, paying closer attention to his guidelines. In order for this challenge to work, structure is necessary. Next Sunday, I will either share my outline, or have the first fictional work completed.

We shall see.

Just do not expect my best work. After all, that is not the goal of this challenge. 

A Brief Interlude (#24)

Yes, I am recycling. I just don't have the energy
to search for a new one, and this one fits tonight's theme.

Well, after last week's post, I spent the next three days doing chores, returning to my daily routines after a week of vacation on a Caribbean island. It included extra laundry, grocery shopping, yard work, and a long list of phone calls. Oh, and a task I was not expecting: a trip to the vet in order to put down my nineteen-year-old cat. Do not worry about me, it was a great relief for both the pet and me.

Despite an unforeseen emotional event, I was busy and productive--a rare combination for me. But then I woke up Thursday morning and hit a brick wall. And whatever plans about writing I may have made in Sunday night's blog post, they came to an abrupt end. For three days, I drowned myself beneath blankets; for three nights I wrestled with the pillows and sheets. The whole time I desperately searched for sleep, and grasped at whatever tattered strands I discovered. They were few and far between. Indeed, last night I finally fell asleep around four-thirty in the morning. But woke up two hours later, famished, both in mind and body.

Then I began moving about, and consuming precious calories, but this time in satiating substances. Saltine crackers will only carry you so far. Man cannot live on bread alone, though whoever said that was talking about something beyond food. So, I moved on to other forms of sustenance. After skipping four days of journaling, I finally sat down and wrote a long entry, and transcribed a vivid dream. It felt good. I was returning to my proper form. 

 

But tonight's blog post was far from guaranteed. While my body was improving, my mind remained sleep deprived despite efforts to take naps throughout the day. Blogging did not seem appealing (unlike the egg roll I consumed this evening--clearly my appetite was returning). Then I found myself crying while watching the funeral scene from Four Weddings and a Funeral. That recitation of W.H. Auden's Funeral Blues gets me every time. I guess shedding some tears cleared my mind. The thought of blogging tonight revealed itself. So, I heeded the call, went to the basement, and typed up this post.

And that's all he wrote, folks, for now. With whatever energy remains, I am going to share this on Facebook, return to my family room, and watch an episode or two of another strange Japanese anime I found streaming on Prime. When I have had enough, I am going to bed. Hopefully I will find that elusive good night's sleep.

Sweet dreams...

Meandering Thoughts (#14)

For this post to make sense, I have to share one of my irrational habits. I photograph, for archival purposes, those fortune cookie I find prescient, relevant, and inspiring. Not that they have every predicted anything. However, on occasion, their arrival has coincided with my current thoughts. That revelation shifts my thinking, some times motivating me to take action, or to change. For example, lately, I have been thinking long and hard about being middle aged and building friendships. Then, in June, I received "A phone call to a good friend will ease your mind and lift your spirits". A week later, that one was followed by "A charming friendship is in the making". Coincidence?

When first drafting a new blog post, I start with its title. It helps to focus my thoughts, which, if you know anything about me, my mind is filled with them. Well, tonight, I decided on "Meandering Thoughts" (and only now am I noticing the irony). And since I have made a habit of numbering repeated titles, it was necessary to do a bit of research. To my surprise, my last use of it was back in late October... of 2021. Curiosity inspired me to read it. By the end I was shaking my head and laughing to myself. 

You see, in that last "Meandering Thoughts" post, I mentioned a goal: complete the NaNoWriMo challenge. Basically, write the first draft to a 50,000 word novel. In one month. In other words, develop a habit of producing about 1700 words a day. My first attempt, years before, failed. Since my blogging had been steady for over a year, I thought, why not. So, I dove into it, like all my goals, head first.

After a month, what did I have to show for it? Well, the unfinished first draft of a novel. Fifty-thousand words strong. And, interestingly, five blog posts detailing my writing habit. Also, my inability to carry that habit of daily fictional writing beyond that month. I wrote an entire post (it is in the fifth, and final post of the "On This Thing Called Writing" series) about how I was going to continue the process into December. It never happened.

But never one to repress my failures, I used this particular one to inspire a blog post. It ended with a call to be hopeful. After all, Christmas was a week away, and a new year just beyond it. 

Where am I going with all of this? Well, throughout my life, seemingly random experiences and events coalesce at just the right time, in just the right way, to motivate me. 

Yesterday, I returned from a week long vacation at an all-inclusive resort that required flying out of the country. A first for me (the all-inclusive resort, not the international travel). The whole time, I was totally out of my comfort zone. And I survived. Also, while I failed to blog last week, I managed to journal every day, even on the days I was flying. 

That night, after spending the whole day experiencing sweltering heat, hour-long lines, and the worst airport of my life, I arrived home. Tired and hungry, ordering in was the only option. Since that morning, a sub was on my mind. Then, about halfway through our forty-minute drive home, I changed my mind. Chinese food was now on the menu. General Tso's Chicken Combination, with pork fried rice and an egg roll. Damn did it taste good. And it came with two fortune cookies. I cannot recall what the second said, but I clearly remember the first.

"Do it now! Today will be yesterday tomorrow."

See, here is another funny fact about me. Leading up to a long trip away from home, I am in high productive gear. The days right before leaving, I am cleaning and organizing the house. Yes, I do a deep clean right before vacation. Arriving at my destination makes it more relaxing; coming home to a tidy house makes me feel like I can start over. And that is what vacations do to me. They make me want to start fresh. My mind is clear and focused. My body cries out for a reprieve from gluttony and sloth. Together, these feelings motivate me to act.

Last night was no different. Before that fortune cookie, I was already set to start Sunday morning accomplishing things. That message, one of million printed at a factory, an entire continent and ocean away, arrived at the right time and place. And it reached me just as my mind was ready for it.

So, I spent this morning active and productive. The day before flying out, I did a marathon planting. Cucumbers, summer squashes, and a bunch of herbs. Not sure if any of it will produce before the first frost. I do not care. But I had to do something with my garden. Well, the seeds sprouted. If the rabbits stay away, I just might have a decent crop. Maybe even pickles. Today, I watered them, weeded the beds, and trimmed the tomato plants (I transplanted them back in late June--yes, that is late, but they are doing well). 

Next the pool which I plan on using as much as I can before the summer ends. Vacuumed, backwashed, and shocked. Then all the laundry from seven days of ocean swimming, restaurant hopping, and just lounging around on a hot, humid Caribbean island. Washed, dried, and folded. Followed by two home-cooked meals. Grilled and air-fried. Finally, this blog post. Written and posted.

But I almost did not write it. The series, Only Murders in the Building, dropped the first four episodes of its new season while I was away. Now that we were home, my wife was desperate to see them. Satisfied with all my work I had done since seven this morning, I happily obliged. However, after two episodes, and with dusk descending I gave thought to my blogging. Missing last week's post was acceptable. I was on vacation, and did not need to share that fact, at that time, with the world. This Sunday? Well, yesterday was exhausting. An undersized airport, and an understaffed customs entry point. In addition, today was busy and productive. Plenty of good excuses.

Yet, that fortune cookie called to me. The two episodes had me feeling good. And my mind was swirling with thoughts (more so than usual). After getting up from the couch, and folding one last load of laundry, I returned to the basement (that is where the washer and dryer are located), sat down at the laptop, and began thinking about a title.

"I haven't done 'Meandering Thoughts' in a while. What number did I do last? What was it even about?"

Eventually I found it and read it. That is how I discovered it was all about restarting a writing goal. Searching through subsequent posts revealed a series called "On This Thing Called Writing". Those posts revealed my success: fifty-thousand words in a single month. The fifth and final one contained a desire to continue writing fiction daily. Another example of my optimism and motivation. Two weeks later, that was followed up by a confession. I never followed through. That draft still lingers on a hard drive, unedited and unread.

Yet, despite my failure, I wrote about a hope that the experience had planted in me. That was a year and eight months ago. That is how long it took me to rediscover those words and events. Right now, I am feeling good about this thing called writing. Like, I will wake up tomorrow morning, sit down, and start typing. And there will a page or two filled with fictional prose. Maybe wrestle with any one of my seven novels floating in my mind. Hell, at this point I will settle for a first draft of next week's blog post. I mean, there is only so many times I can throw long-winded and unedited essays, filled with misspellings and ungrammatical sentences, at you, my dear reader. 

At this point, I am supposed to say I owe it all to last night's fortune cookie that derived from a last-minute decision to switch dinner options. But really, everything I have written here has played a part in this process. 

Every. Single. Detail.

For the record, this is how my mind has been working since I can remember. My thoughts and experiences do these meandering routines, until they coalesce under the guidance of a catalyst. Then I act, or attempt to do so. Most times it ends in failure. Once in a while something arises from this mess. 

For example, like starting this blog...

Tomorrow is a new day.

One day at a time.

It is what it is. 

A Review... of Sorts (#1)

I might just buy the manga version that this television series is based.
Apparently, there are six volumes, and the show only covers the first four. 

About an hour ago, I finished an anime series that I watched on Amazon Prime titled Girls' Last Tour. It took me three days to complete. At twenty minutes for each of its twelve episodes, it was not difficult. Although not dubbed, the pacing of the show's dialogue made it easier to read the subtitles. My only complaint was the introduction of a character towards the end. For me it broke the setting, though not the entire experience. By the final episode, while I was not entirely satisfied with that character's story arc, the resolution for the two main characters felt right.

It was their appearance in the beginning of the first episode that caught my attention. Dressed in winter fatigues and metal helmets, Chito and Yuuri were maneuvering a mini military half-track inside a huge, dark, and grim structure crisscrossed with broken pipes and  twisted beams. Yet, their two adorable faces somehow remained lit throughout the darkness. To me, the two girls looked about twelve and fourteen (Yuuri seemed the older of the two). However, according to some sites, they are in their late teens, perhaps even twenty. I do not see that all. And for me, it was that youth which contrasted sharply with the post-apocalyptic world around them. 

And that was the main plot. Two close friends navigating a world destroyed by war. But this is not the Walking Dead, World War Z, or the Road. It is less about surviving, though there is plenty of that going on in this series. The horrors are not rooted in morally questionable actions and ghastly scenes of carnage. Nor are the existential crises these girls face being filtered through adult minds. Instead, we are getting the perspectives of two young people with limited experience and education plodding through complex philosophical questions. What is life? How should one face hopelessness? What is our purpose?

The story moves slowly, just as two teenage girls would while driving a half-track vehicle through decaying industrialized graveyards void of life. Their conversations are some times silly, or simplistic. But always curious. And eventually lead to deeper understandings. They argue and they laugh, while facing serious dangers. Yet, they are capable of embracing and appreciating beauty whenever it confronts them. Most importantly, they do it as close friends. 

Like most of the shows I thoroughly enjoy, especially the animated ones, this is not for everyone, even those who love anime. While the setting is post-apocalyptic, it breaks from the usual grimdark plots and actions of the genre. In a good way. And the ending is only happy if you understand the courage and wisdom behind the girls' final choice.

A final note. Japanese anime has many sub genres. Some of them are amusing. while others can be outright obscene. Think of romance novels, and the broad spectrum of categories they occupy. Some you can discuss with your parents; others you will need to scrub your mind vigorously after experiencing. On various sites, Girls' Last Tour is considered Iyashikei. Wikipedia describes it as a "sub-genre of slice of life, portraying characters living out peaceful lives in calming environments, and is intended to have a healing effect on the audience". Maybe it is a sign of my age, or that fact that I am a parent of two teenage girls, but I have grown an affinity for this kind of anime. For me, at least, I found this story of two close friends, traveling through a post-apocalyptic world, quite healing.

Even if it left a part of me sad.   

My 202nd Post!

A have a weak spot for nostalgia, not the specific past experiences,
but the feeling of nostalgia itself. That is why I love listening to Dreamsicle
by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit, especially the refrains.

Marshmallows, graham crackers, and Hershey chocolate. On their own, I find them bland, unless I am desperate. Yes, I am obsessed with sugar, and I have been known to consume candy corn when nothing else was available. Like an alcoholic resorting to mouth wash. But combine those three items, smoosh them together, and roast them over a fire? Yeah, still not for me. In fact, I consider it worse. Between the effort and the mess, I would rather just sit down with a package of the Hershey chocolate, which I already find barely edible without almonds.

(When you discover quality chocolate, it is difficult to go back to the substandard stuff. Not impossible. Just... difficult.)

There is a metaphor here. Maybe something being more than the sum of it parts? Unless that something is not worth having? Or the parts suck anyway? Then just do not bother with it all? Except when someone else enjoys it? So help them make it anyway? However, if they leave a pile of hardening marshmallow droppings that you struggle to clean up, just as you feel the need to sit down a blog, what then? How does it affect this exercise in symbolism?

Perhaps, instead, there is a life lesson to be gleaned. Some times the messy stuff is necessary in order to get to the end result. The three ingredients, the roasting, and the the s'more itself are not the goal. Rather, it is the two giggling teenage friends who jumped in the pool in order to wash away the marshmallow stickiness from their hands. Shadows of a late July evening mingling with whisps of smoke from a dying fire. The sounds of a Sunday evening in the suburbs muffled by a wooden fence. And plucking a bit of inspiration from darkening sky, like a firefly, placing it in a jar, and having it light your way to blog post. 

Those damn s'mores were just a means to strengthening a habit. 

(The official video for Dreamsicle by Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit. Love this song. Especially the refrains.)

A Deep Breath (#24)

This painting by Giovanni Segantini sums up
my past nights, especially as I am about to fall asleep
and a thought pops into my head.

Just now, I set my monitor's brightness to max. My eyes were straining to read the text. Another sign that I am getting older. Also, I have not slept well in over a week, perhaps two. Either I struggle to fall asleep, or wake up throughout the night. My mind gets crowded with the same anxieties, and my body cannot find a position it likes. In addition, my garden only contains three pole beans and a dozen tomato plants. The former grew from last year's fallen pods left on the ground. The latter are four-week-old transplants that a rabbit is using for midnight snacking. There will probably be no cucumbers this year, which means no pickles. Very disappointing. Finally, procrastination continues to undermine my blogging. I almost skipped tonight's post. It was not until 6:45 pm when I began writing. And it took me thirty minutes of just sitting at the computer to begin typing my thoughts.

Fifteen minutes later, and what do I have? A lot of whining from a middle-aged man, and no plan for how to continue.

Yet, my life is good. If a lack of homemade pickles, or a long blogging hiatus, is the worst that happens to me this summer, I am fortunate. And while the poor sleeping pattern is worrisome, I am trying out different ways to improve my nights. Finally, reducing daily screen time will help with my eyesight. 

That just leaves my over-analytical mind and procrastination. They have been a part of me for too long.  Unfortunately, they reinforce each other. So, it becomes a feedback loop. I know what I need to do. Write my thoughts down every day! I am just not there, yet. In the meantime, I have this blog post.

That counts for something.

(Sorry, I rushed the ending.)

My 200th Post!

A painting by Edward Hopper that I found here.

"It began with a bang, and is now but a whimper."

That is how I wanted to begin this post. However, upon typing it out, my mind warned me that these words were not my own. Therefore, I did a search, and found T.S. Eliot's poem, The Hollow Men. He ends it with these lines (italics in the original):

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

It is a coincidence that the inspiration for my quote should draw from a famous poem, alongside the fact that I butchered it. You see, I intended to share a poem I wrote back in middle school, a silly one about a lighthouse. Reading it just now has left me embarrassed, and reluctant to share. Poetry was never my forte, despite my deep reverence for the few that I have experienced in a meaningful way.  

Yet, I might still follow through. This blog is about vulnerability and understanding. And what better way to expose one's self than through a poorly written, childish poem--a failed attempt at a creative endeavor?

After all, the topic of my old poem also aligned with the content of the image above, which in turn reflected back to one of my earliest posts about lighthouses. Reading it again, just now, reminded me of the start of my blogging. Particularly, the volume and depth of my prose. It was raw, yet tight and focused. And there was plenty of it. I was producing three posts a week during my first year. Now? My content is scattered. Loose ends dangle everywhere. And, worse, my style reflects these inconsistencies. For the past year, I have struggled to create back-to-back Sunday posts.

I feel lost. 

And so, I dove into the past, not once, but twice. Both writings refer to one of my favorite types of buildings. The first plunge, was into the shallow end: an early, but contemporary blog post. The second, a deeper descent: an old, original poem. However, their themes could not be any more different. On the one hand, in the blog post, the scene opens with my standing alone, on a cold, dark evening, before an over-packed storage unit. Then there is a chance meeting with someone, followed by a quote about insanity and doing the same thing too many times. Finally, it wraps up with a reference to teaching. In the end, I blogged about action and hope. (I would write about that storage unit again.) The poem, on the other hand, starts in the present moment, under bright skies and screaming birds. Then it slips into ancient pasts filled with power and victory. Yet, upon returning to the present day, there is now loss and decay. The poem ends on a note of regret.

Perhaps all of this means I am stuck between two worlds: one filled with confidence and progress, the other doubt and regression. It is not the first time, and will not be the last. I refuse to engage this struggle like I did throughout high school, college, and early adulthood. That is, shutting down emotionally, and running away physically. I like to believe I have matured. My first round of blogging was a novel way for me to deal with the end of my first attempt at teaching. It helped, for some time. Then I stopped. When the Pandemic hit, I tried this habit again, with some changes. And it worked. My life was changing, and I adjusted, without shutting off my emotions, or walking away from obligations. Again, blogging played a positive part.

Now, I stand at another crossroads. The paths are shrouded in my ignorance, hesitation, and fear. Blogging may drive away some of the fog. Or, it may further cloud my vision. If I continue to write on this platform, some aspect of it will have to change, otherwise, I am just engaging with insanity. The writing and content need to improve and be consistent. However, if I decide to end this blog, I need to find another creative outlet. There are options: writing those short stories and novels, focusing on my drawing skills, going back to teaching.

I would love to combine it all, but currently I lack the habits and skills to follow through.

Or, perhaps, if I could navigate through this stormy, churning sea of broken thoughts and arrive safely at a harbor, I would discover a clear road across this unchartered land.

Until then, here is that poem I wrote so many decades ago.

The Lighthouse

There stands a lighthouse

All alone

On a beach

That is deserted

And overgrown,

With trees and branches

And wooden oars

That moved the ships

During the old sea wars.

From the deep blue sky

Swoops down a seagull,

As swift as an eagle,

And into the lighthouse

It sits alone.

From the beach runs a boy

Looking at the once mighty lighthouse

That once was bright red

And clean white;

That at a time stood proud

And was a light

That guided sailors and merchants

Through the dark, stormy nights.

Now it lies in shambles

Ready to rot and die

Next to the road

That is once could call its own.        

   

On Dreaming (#20)

This will be my 199th post. It's not surprising that it will be a short one about dreams. It could have been longer, and a review of a film I watched two days ago. Unfortunately, I procrastinated. Also, it is late, and I am bloated from the sushi and peach cobbler. Finally, I am six episodes into an anime series I have not seen before. Since they are only twenty minutes long, I want to complete a few more before bed.

This is a far superior version
of what my students used for a coat rack. 

Revelations (Part 5)

One of many distractions...

Tonight's post should be a short one, however, I won't know until I am done. There have been many distractions this weekend. Two five-hour car rides with the family. Eating delicious meals with in-laws. Hanging out with out-of-state siblings. Salty air, sandy beaches, and crashing waves. Indeed, it is four in the afternoon on a Sunday, and I need a nap. But, I can't quit now. There is still a restaurant and my brother's pool. While I have a legitimate excuse to skip it, I feel a need to produce something. So, I decided to get started on this post now, before jumping into the shower. 

Fortunately, there is one bathroom in this house, and three people ahead of me. Unfortunately, two have just completed their turns. And the third is on her way. Like I said, this one should be short. 

In an older post, I mentioned how my family enjoy long road trip annually, between five and twelve hours long. My wife does most of driving. I fill in on occasion. Sitting in the front passenger for long stretches of time affords me a great opportunity to be productive. Reading and writing come to mind. Given the number of trips across our adult life times, I could have written at least one novel. Maybe two. Or, I could have finished several books. But, not once have I been able to whip out the laptop or even my Kindle, and start writing down my thoughts, or thumbing through chapters.

Instead, while songs from our favorite playlists fill the car, and help tick away the mile markers, I am daydreaming. With the various landscapes--from decaying strip malls and sprawling warehouses, to  swift rivers and choked forests--whizzing past window, my mind conjures vivid stories and scenarios. One moment I could be leaping from the roof of one car to another, dogging bullets like some superhero movie. In another, I am searching through the rubble of an abandoned store in a post-apocalyptic world. Most of the time, I am creating dialogue with real and imaginary people. Some times the conversations are intellectual; most of the time they play out as mundane misunderstandings. 

In the past, I would have berated myself for not writing any of those musings down. Or for choosing daydreaming over reading a book. This weekend, before leaving home for a five-hour car ride, I let it all go. No laptop. No book. No Kindle. Just me and the family, an iPod full of music, the passing landscapes, and my imaginary chats.

After two decades of fighting it, I have finally accepted that road trips are not places for me to be productive. 

 

On Historical Matters (#1)

I have finished two, started three others, and hoping
to finish the last of them before the end of July.

I skipped two already, and I don't want to make it three. In addition, I am closing in on my two hundredth post. So, here I am. It won't be much. However, like a friend told me, writing about how you are not blogging still counts, as long as you share it on your blog.

The image above is a pile of books. From top to bottom, here are their titles:

• American Revolutions: A Continental History, 1750-1804 by Alan Taylor
• 1774: The Long Year of Revolution by Mary Beth Norton
• Scars of Independence: America's Violent Birth by Holger Hoock
• Fighters in the Shadows: A New History of the French Resistance by Robert Gildea
• The Taste of War: World War II and the Battle for Food by Lizzie Collingham
• Brain on Fire: My Month of Madness by Susan Cahalan

The last two I have finished reading: Brain on Fire back in May, The Taste of War a week or two ago. The former, an easy read on a dark topic, I believe was mentioned on NPR. The latter, an academic approach to a disturbing subject, showed up in a documentary titled Total War. As for Fighters in the Shadows, I cannot recall the source, but it is an interesting and revealing story. Hint, the French Resistance was not really French. Unfortunately, I put it down after only reading 106 of its 481 pages. And not because of boredom. I got distracted. The same could be said for Scars of Independence. Took it out maybe a year ago, or even two. Read a few chapters, before I had to return it. Forgot about it, until this past month, when I discovered the first two books in the list, both of which are about our illustrious war for independence (but "civil war" would be a better term).

My dear readers, I would love to recommend them all to you. Alas, I can only suggest the last one, Brain on Fire. It was written by a journalist in a style enjoyable to most people. The rest by expert historians. That means hundreds of endnote pages, a full bibliography, and, in the case of Fighters in the Shadows, a list of characters and abbreviations. Yet, these books contain a plethora of information and powerful insights. Reading these books, you soon realize that the big players that we are forced to memorize in school are not as influential or central to their contemporary historical periods. There were other characters and ideas making the rounds, frightening and inspiring people to act. The historical myths we draw upon to defend our current thoughts and policies turn out to be oversimplifications, or simply wrong.

For example, Susan Cahalan's severe symptoms, diagnosis, and eventual rehabilitation reveals that some of the people we lock away and hide from us because of severe psychosis, maybe be suffering from viral and bacterial infections of the brain, and require emergency medical attention. 

However, in the other book I have finished, Lizzie Collingham uncovers how food was weaponized, by all participants in World War II. For the Germans, it was a means to eradicate the Slavic countries of people in order to make way for Aryan settlers. The Japanese sought to toughen up their own soldiers, punish prisoners of war, steal from their occupied territories, and keep their own population satiated. The Soviets,  starved constantly, throughout the war, both as a result of German actions, but also their own internal political and economic policies and mistakes. Unless, of course, you were part of the Communist Party elites. The British civilians fared far better, but partly because Churchill had no problem forcing the Empire's colonial assets to suffer more in order to feed the homeland. Above all, the US citizens suffered least, at the expense of everyone else in the world, allies and enemies alike. 

While the 258-paged Brain on Fire read like a detective novel helping me to finish it in a few days, it did not move or excite me quite like the 634-page The Taste of War. Do not get me wrong, the former made me tear up at times, clench its book in anger and frustration at all that the author endured. It also uncovered shortcomings in our healthcare system and our medical experts. In addition, I learned a lot about the brain and how people and their loved ones experience psychosis. 

Yet, discovering how food became a weapon of total war, the millions of lives lost or ruined by governments making calculated and callous decisions, how starvation ruins the body, and the science behind dietary and nutritional requirements for survival, hit me much harder. It was slow, deliberate reading. On any given day, I may have read two-thirds of a chapter or sections. At times, I had to put it down. Some times it was the sorrow of knowing the pain people experienced from starvation and death. Other times it was disgust at misguided or uncaring leaders whose ideas and actions led to tens of thousands of unnecessary or avoidable deaths.

In the end, it was the actions of the allies that was most disappointing. For the majority of American civilians, the war improved both their dietary circumstances and their economic standing. Heading into the war, many Americans suffered from malnutrition and food scarcity. By the end of the war, the poorest in the country was doing much better than the rest of the world, including countries like Great Britain and Australia. And unlike Great Britain, our government refused to require food rationing in any impactful way. There were moments when we refused to feed our own allies, even though we had surpluses.

It is harsh to learn that the myths surrounding the most noble moments of your country's history, are filled with dark truths. But it is necessary. Unfortunately, most people are unable or refuse to read academic-style books, where the amount of information and logical structure make it difficult to ignore facts.

This is the kind of stuff I find so exciting. That is why I grabbed a bunch of books on the American Revolution, and have begun reading them in earnest. So much misinformation. So many half-truths. So few honest discussions about our past, conversations that would prevent us from making bad policies in the present day.

As much as I would love to see you, my dear readers, diving into the pages of these kinds of books (seriously, at least read Brain on Fire, but avoid The Taste of War), my hope is some day to summarize their content in an exciting, but still informative, style, and share it with you on this blog.

Hopefully this post was a decent start.    

A Deep Breath (#23)

Ugh. It is now nine-thirty at night, the Sunday before Memorial Day. I am tired and bloated. Thirty minutes ago, I began typing away at my one-hundred-ninety-sixth blog post. Eventually, two full, solid paragraphs about my opinions of television series appeared on the screen.  They were a good introduction to a worthwhile discussion on the topic. But soon I realized time was running out. By ten o'clock I would have to hit publish, and share a link on Facebook. 

So, I saved it as a "draft", and clicked on the "create new post" button. Now I am writing this post instead. And what are you ending up with, dear reader? Unfortunately, a short rant, about how corporations suck. Especially the giant ones worth billions of dollars. 

This time it is Disney+. Do not worry, this is not some absurd Fox News hit job about how the streaming service is too woke. Woke is not even a word, and, yes, I should do a post about that fact, too. However, not now.

Instead, this is a short diatribe about how corporate desires to cut expenses by refusing to compensate those who actually create the work ruined my weekend.

You see, on Thursday of last week, I discovered in my Google newsfeed a new show on Disney+ that some stranger highly recommended. They said it was a cross between Netflix's A Series of Unfortunate Events, and Wes Anderson's Fantastic Mr. Fox. I thoroughly enjoyed both, going so far as to rewatch them both. I was interested. But the article also warned the powers that be at the illustrious streaming service were going to remove the series. It never mentioned when it would happen. Nor that it would be permanent. 

Unfortunately, I would learn the answer to both by Saturday afternoon, when I tried to finish the last two episodes of the first season (there was as second season, but the third one was cancelled, which did not bother me). 

You see, I had binged the first six fifty-five minute long episodes the day before. First, the color. It was just like a Wes Anderson movie. Second, the characters. They were intriguing. Just enough absurdity to make it funny, but not so much that I did not believe them. And, more importantly, the child actors were not annoying. Then there was the plot. It sounded strangely apropos of current political events, but not in a preachy, in-your-face kind of way. Finally, there were only eight episodes in a season, and just two seasons to binge. Win-win in my opinion. 

So, I committed myself to a weekend of binging this series. By eleven-thirty on Friday night, I sat through six episodes. I was fully invested in the finale, but I needed to go to bed. The conclusion would have to wait until the next day.

I woke, and spent all of Saturday morning well into the afternoon doing laundry, taking care of the pool, and power washing the fence. Then I took a shower, and prepared dinner. With those chores completed, I sat down to finish up season one. Comfy in my couch recliner, a bottle of diet root beer on one side, and the pile of remotes on the other, I turned on the Roku, and my way to Disney+. Finally, I scrolled down to the "Recently Watched" list.

And the show was not there.

Although I went through the motions of doing a search, I knew the truth. Disney had pulled it from its streaming service. Soon after, I found an article stating that on May 26th the streaming service would be removing a bunch of shows. My newfound, but not fully watched, series was one of them.

The worse part? The article revealed that Disney has no intention of returning the show to the lineup. Ever. Or releasing it anywhere else. They will not even sell a copy via DVD. The reason? They do not want to continue to compensate the writers and actors of the series for their hard work. It is too much of an expense.

Anyway, I am out of a show. Well, two. They also removed Life Below Zero: Next Generation. I am done investing my time in these series. Instead, I am going to go back to reading books.

Except, a part of me fears with this AI stuff, the book market will be flooded with formulaic drivel. I mean, exponentially so. Far beyond what already exists. And I find that depressing.

I think it is time to wrap this up and head to bed. 

Sigh.   

On Dreaming (#19)

"Monk Praying in the Church" by Alfred Jacques Van Muyden. 
The answer to why I never became a priest is in this painting.
And it is not the priest's haircut or outfit.

I began drafting this while sitting in my bedroom recliner. After typing out the first paragraph, my wife arrived. She had decided to watch the Mets' game in the room. So, I grabbed the laptop and the charger,  and made my way downstairs to the family room. There I discovered my eldest daughter, in my spot on the couch, watching a movie. Anna Karena with Keira Knightly and Jude Law. Desperate for a space without distractions, I lugged my laptop and charger to the basement. Upon sitting down at plastic folding table on top of a cheap stool that once was a dance prop, I began typing. That is when my other daughter stormed down the stairs, tore open the freezer, and grabbed a frozen ice cream cone. She made some attempt at conversation, but I snapped my fingers several times. That sent her bounding up the stairs, slamming the door behind her.

Finally, with peace, quiet, and solitude, I focused on finishing this post. 

Last night I experienced two vivid dreams. As of now, most details of the first one elude my memory. I can only recall that it felt like a pleasant nostalgia rooted in road trips to sandy beaches. Glimpses of family, mostly siblings and cousins, interlaced with passing roadside landscapes. But the images were fleeting, and I now wonder if my current opaque memory has more to do with the nature of the dream than my poor recollection of it. Either way, the first one faded to black, as the second came into sharp focus.

Now I stood with my wife in either a Walmart or Target. Our shopping complete, we headed with our cart to the nearest cash register. It was located away from the main entrance, however, there were no lines. Yet, as we approached, the cashier appeared occupied, and motioned us to the next register, which was across an aisle. Turning towards it, we noticed a crowd of people, intent on checking out, begin to gather around us. So, we raced towards the new register, managing to arrive first. But, no one was there, just a frozen monitor. We looked about us, and flagged down an employee. They mentioned that the systems were down, and refused to say or do anything else.

I was growing impatient, but also anxious. We were done shopping, and ready to pay, but there appeared no way of finishing up. Then I decided to make a run to the registers at the front of the store. There are always a bunch of them located there. My wife and I, now on a mission, darted up the aisle and around a corner. In front of us stood several cash register lanes, each one manned by an employee, but void of customers. Proud of myself, I pushed the cart towards the nearest one, my wife close behind. Chaos ensued. People began appearing, pushing their way to the registers. We arrived first, but became dismayed when the cashier said she could not check us out. Something was wrong with her station. Refusing to wait in line, I immediately turned from her, and moved on to the next one. The crowd of people had grown, and I found myself weaving around other customers, blazing a path for my wife to follow.

In the dream, a part of me knew I was being aggressive, bordering on rude. I asked myself if I should just wait in a line. But I wanted out, so I continued onward. That is when I determined, in my mind, that the self-checkout lines were probably empty, or at least more accessible. It seemed like a brilliant idea. So much so, that I smirked in the dream. Arrogantly, and with cart in hand, I leapt towards the shopping oasis of empty self-checkout registers I knew awaited me beyond the crowds. Sure enough, there they were. With a big smile on my face, proud of my clever insight, I led my wife up to an empty register. We began scanning our items. 

The system froze. The lights flickered.

Like a fool, I twisted the item around twenty different ways, running across the scanner twenty different times. Nothing. At some point, an employee walked by and explained that the systems were down. And, again, said and did nothing else. Now I was frustrated and felt an urge to just leave the store without my items. No one was willing to explain anything. No manager approached the customers. No announcements informed us of the next step. They did not deserve my business. Finally, I had decided to go. But first, I had to check my pockets for my phone and wallet, a habit I had learned the hard way.

Nothing. I began to worry. Perhaps the pile of clothes on the conveyor belt? Nothing. In the cart? Nothing. The cart had disappeared. Worse, so had my wife. Then the lights dimmed. Low. Enough that I could barely make out the floor.

Panic. But also dejection. And exhaustion. For some reason, the whole experience had sapped the energy out of me. It was time to exit the building.

In a final attempt to look for my wife, I turned toward the aisle leading up to the self checkout lane. It was brightly lit, while I stood in nightly shadows. And there he walked by, stopped, and turned to look at me. In the real world, he had been dead at least a year, maybe more—how sad that I cannot remember—and in the dream, I knew, for that reason, he should not have been standing there. But alas, there was no mistaking his face, shining in such vivid detail, as if my dream did not want me to doubt it. Indeed, in my mind, within the dream, I had a clear thought, “What is Father O'Brien doing here, he should be dead?”

For some reason, the revelation broke me. Perhaps the fear, anxiety, and desperation of leaving that store had overwhelmed my immunity to sudden shocks. Maybe it was the memory of this priest's role throughout my family's lives, especially my father's. Or, possibly it had something to do with Father Bill's presence during my own flirtation with the priesthood, nearly forty decades ago. 

All these things. None of them. I still do not know.

Truth be told, a part of me does not want to find out.

(Yet, a stronger part of me does, hence tonight's blog post.)

In the end, I fell to my knees and curled up into the fetal position beneath a nearby folding table. I closed my eyes. Darkness came.

Also the sensation that someone was gently holding me.

It was him. 

I did not have to see. I just knew.

Then I trembled and wept, until I awoke with eyes full of tears.

And a weight off my shoulders.

That was last night's dream.