It's not even a blog, really... I just made it so I could get an account. It was a harrowing experience, and I don't want to relive it... just leave me alone!
Today I'll share the fact I have very few (if any) memories of my sister living with us.
That's a memory, right?
She was over 15 1/2 when I was born. When I was almost 18 months old, my younger brother was born. I don't know if Mom was in the hospital an extra amount of time or what, but Say looked after me a lot when I was little, and possibly even more while Mom was off getting my younger brother from the stork.
I'm not sure, but I have always imagined the "Where Say go?" incident took place the day mom returned from the hospital. Like I said, that could just be my brain deciding things.
I know we spent a lot of time together, at any rate.
I have been sloshing through the deep recesses of my memory, and the only memory I can salvage that I think was possibly while she was living at home was the time it was just us at the house and I heard her faintly calling out, "Mark, help me..."
I remember going into the bedroom I thought her voice was coming from, but she wasn't there. I remember my distress rising as I went around the house, with her still calling out in a quiet and high-pitched voice, "Mark, help me..."
I eventually went back into the bedroom I first investigated, and finally realized she had opened the door to that room and the door to the closet in that room (they met if you opened them at the same time/rate) and was hiding behind them playing a trick on me.
I remember being happy I found her and she was okay. I sorta understood she was playing with me... but part of me wasn't well pleased about the whole deal.
Anyway, it's possible this was after she was married, maybe after she had her first daughter, Leslie. But it could have just as easily been while she was living at home with us still.
Add to the things to wish I'd asked her while she was still here: Remember that? When was that?
Love you, Say... even though that was a mean trick to pull on me!
My sister's birthday is today. She passed away on the 30th of last month, so she didn't quite finish her 72nd trip around the sun. She went by Lynne (her middle name) for the last several decades. She became Say to me when I was a toddler and couldn't say her nickname from her youth (Rusty).
I decided shortly after she passed to start sharing memories on her birthday. Maybe one for each trip around the sun (including the partial = 72), or maybe until I reach the number of the day of her birth (28). I still haven't decided. Maybe I'll go until I realize I've run out of memories.
The first memory is from 36 or 37 (possibly 35) years ago today.
I was home from college for the summer. Or I was home for the weekend while living in Liberty during the summer in college. Either way, she'd come over to the house and when she saw me she asked if I was going to wish her a happy birthday.
"It's not your birthday," I said, a bit indignantly.
She returned my indignant tone with interest, assuring me it was her birthday.
I replied that nobody in our family has a birthday in June... well, the immediate family, anyway.
And as I was thinking through my siblings and my birthdays... two in January, one in April, one in May, one in July, one in August, one in September... 2 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 + 1 = 7. I was short one.
How did I not know her birthday? She was like a second mother to me, being about 15 1/2 years my senior.
So that was the day I cemented her birthday in my brain. She would have been in her mid-thirties, which is so odd to me, having passed those by a couple of decades ago myself.
Anyway, not a huge memory, but an appropriate one for today.
Don’t go no place but home for the holidays,
And be careful whenever you may roam
When you long for the sunshine of a friendly gaze,
For the holidays, vid chat from home, sweet home
I know a man who lives in Tennessee, and he’ll
live chat with four
Pennsylvania friends home eating pumpkin pie
From Pennsylvania faces seen on screens in Dixie's sunny shore
From Atlantic to Pacific
Gee, web traffic is terrific
Don’t go no place but home for the holidays,
And be careful whenever you may roam
If you want to protect your loves a million ways,
For the holidays - you can't beat home, sweet home
Could I think of some ways I’d have made you proud Or maybe some things to make you laugh out loud? Could I tell you with pride all the things I’ve done, The battles I’ve fought, or the wars I have won? I find myself in a tight spot. I’m sorry to say I might not Have earned my three cheers. What would I want you to know, or What good do I have to show for These last fifteen years?
You are a great-great-grandma now, so congrats. Your grandchildren? All wearing their grown-up hats. You’d get such a kick from my partner in crime We laugh and I think of you time after time. But thinking about my choices, Remembering broken voices, Brings up all these fears: What would I want you to know, or What good do I have to show for These last fifteen years?
I guess I should probably reset my view, Cast off negativity, bid it adieu, Give positive thinking the ol’ college try So when I can finally make my reply, I won’t get my nose out of joint— For shame isn’t really the point. Choose laughter, not tears. What would I want you to know, or What good do I have to show for These last fifteen years?
Note: I tried to write this without harsh language. I failed. You’ve been
warned.
Okay, it could have been told after I got my brother’s
permission (the day after my original post), but I’ve been busy, what with the
new teaching job and all.
So on August 22nd (nine days after I interviewed
for said job, mind you), I went to get my first haircut since several months before
quarantining. After the head shaving, I posted this:
Before we begin, let me tell you up front: I ran my fingers
through my hair to get the Doc Brown/Rick look; that’s not how I went to the
interview. (Also, I showed that picture to my new students on the first day of
classes. I don’t think they knew how to react to it... other than acknowledging the similarity to Rick's hair on Rick & Morty.)
But now for the bit I wanted to hold off writing up until I could
get to a keyboard that didn’t involve tiny buttons on a phone screen and my
humongulicious fingers… and also until I could get my younger brother’s
approval on sharing some information.
Originally I was going to write a letter to Great Clips to
complain, and then share my letter on Facebook via a blog post here before mailing
it (or more likely e-mailing it)... to get some input or some pleas to my better
nature, etc.
Now it’s been long enough for me to decide not to bother with the letter part. (Also: I lost the receipt with the stylist’s name on it.)
Here’s how the visit went down:
When I arrived, no other customers were there, so I got
seated in a spinny-chair immediately. After I tell the lady that, generally
speaking, I like a buzz all over with a number 2 (I have no idea what that
means, but experience tells me it’s not the same “number 2” we used as a
bathroom-usage descriptor as kids), but usually I’m okay if they leave the top
somewhat longer than the buzz (just so I have something to use a brush on afterwards),
I thought I should ask if the protocol was my leaving the mask on or removing
it partially as she worked, or what.
I didn’t say it with any sort of tone (at least I don’t
think I did), but rather trying to be clear I was simply not sure if I take one
side off my ear while she’s working that side and use my hand to hold it
against my face, or hold my breath while it hung from first one ear, then the
other, or what.
And from the time she answered to the time the shaver first removed
hair from my head, there was just about enough time for me to say, “No thank
you, I’ll take my business elsewhere,” but I did not.
Because her response was, “You leave it on. I know: it’s
ridiculous. Just a way to control us.”
I guess my brain locked up trying to keep me from saying the
“TF” part of “WTF?” Or I’m me, and I know my two modes are Happy Unikitty and
Angry Unikitty, so I approach conflict like I'd approach a possibly-maybe-perhaps-disarmed
landmine.
Either way, before I could decide I should just go somewhere
else, she’d started shaving hair off.
I opted for my best neutral face (or neutral part-of-my-face-that-is-exposed)
and a chilled response of, “Oh.”
And I was rewarded for my indirectness in the way I deserved
to be: She continued spewing garbage out her mouth.
Of course, I was also thinking, “What kind of dipshit thinks
that if someone wanted to control you what they’d want to control you into
doing is wearing a mask?” Maybe that should get some credit as to my lack of a
direct reaction. Just not a lot of credit.
She continued shaving my hair away, and talking like she’s
assuming I left my MAGA hat in the car, and I’m focusing on adding enough
coldness to my responses to make it clearer to her that she’s barking up the
wrong mark and way off the tree here.
And here’s the bit where I deserve a cookie. Or a whole
sleeve of them. Or the whole package. Or the tree and the elves and the forest
the tree is in and the continent that forest is on and the planet that continent
is on and… you get the picture.
She decided to double down and say, “I don’t even believe it’s
real. I don’t know anyone who has got it. Do you?”
I reacted with the coldest grunt I could muster and a very
hard stare at my reflection.
I'll just go ahead and say, "You’re welcome," now for the "Thank you" I'm about to explain why I deserve.
Because my inner Angry Unikitty wanted to unleash. And there would have been fire. Metaphorical fire, anyway.
Eight days earlier around 7:30 in the morning (which was basically
the end of the day for me at that point, thanks to the awesome sleep pattern I
was experiencing at the time), I got a Facebook message from my oldest niece
that several hours earlier my younger brother—who is in a nursing home in Hannibal
and (as I had learned the day before) had tested positive for COVID—was having
trouble breathing in the middle of the night, saying it felt like there was an
elephant on his chest. His blood pressure and temp were both slightly higher
than usual. They asked him about the hospital and my younger brother said, “I
have to go to the hospital.”
Now, I get how him saying that sentence might not seem like a big deal to
you, so let me clarify:
My younger brother, who not only would not say, “Shit” if he
had a mouthful, who would also not say, “Shit” if it was running out of his ears
and tear ducts as well, and who might only casually mention there might be a slight
problem once it was seeping out his pores bluntly said, “I have to go to the
hospital.”
If my rage and fear and… I don’t even have a word for the
raw emotion I felt upon reading that message… if that could have come out of me
in a scream that matched my emotions in ferocity, this whole fucking universe
would have been atomized. That probably doesn’t describe it well enough, but that’s
the best I can do. Hopefully it scribbles a rough-yet-recognizable picture for you.
My younger brother, who I pushed to school in an old-school two-wheeled wheelchair in our early elementary school years, who I used to play interpreter for when he spoke to mom at home and sometimes teachers at school when we were kids, who I entertained by doing wheelchair tricks when he was bedridden after surgery, who can do some crazy-complicated math in his head, who is in some ways the heart of our family, and who only speaks up when things are
about a fraction of a degree this side of the tipping point had stated that he
had to go to the hospital.
And here I thought my emotional plate was full having interviewed the
day before for a job that would mean my having to move away from Kansas City.
Stupid as it sounds (and as it is), Little Big had released
this video that same day, and honestly, I don’t know what I would have done if I
didn’t have this ridiculousness to watch over and over again. I really don’t
have any idea what sort of shit I would have done. Probably nothing good. Nothing constructive, that
much is for sure. I mean, what was there to do other than to wait for the coin
the universe had flipped to land?
(It was a day that kept on giving, by the way. I mean,
seriously, there was more to come, but it wasn’t directly related to my brother’s
situation and I won’t pile on here… but it really was a shitty day.)
Fortunately they got him all oxygenated at the hospital, and he was able to get out of that place three days later. I can't imagine how he was feeling about the whole thing over the course of those days, but I know it had to have been a lot worse being on the experiencing end of it. I think not being able to imagine how he was feeling was a survival skill, as my entire mental and emotional system was short-circuiting from only being adjacent to it.
Anywho… there I was, eight days after the morning I got that message, the memory of repeatedly watching a goofy music video through tears not even a little faded. I was earning my cookie and a “thank you”
from the audience at home because I managed to just stare at my reflection and
grunt out what I hoped was universal code for, “Listen, you stupid MAGA fucker
piece of human fucking garbage, you need to shut your dumbass shithole mouth
before we both find out just how fucking ugly I can be… which I’m pretty sure
is about a Googleplex times uglier than I myself am aware I’m capable of, if my current emotional state and this stream of creative cussing is any indicator.”
And: breathe.
Unclench.
But yeah, a cookie and a thank you because I’m pretty sure if I’d started going off, it would end in my
breathing fire, and no small hand-held lighter flame, either. This breath of
fire would burn down the salon, the strip mall, the city, the state, and this
whole fucking country. At least metaphorically speaking.
And I think it was about then her stupid ass finally caught
up.
So she finished making my hair presentable without saying
much else, and I politely thanked her, and somehow I found enough better nature
to not stiff her on the tip—because even if she didn’t believe she was risking
her health to cut strangers’ hair, I was aware she was.
And Happy Unikitty is just a head-flip away at any given
moment. And Happy Unikitty believes in better natures.
Damn it.
But there would be a letter! I’d do my best in said letter to politely
suggest that perhaps a better follow-up to a simple question about mask
protocol could be to start a conversation about the look of said questioner’s
mask, with a segue into fashion in general, or perhaps this interesting mask
you saw the other day, and going from there to this humorous t-shirt you saw on
the internet. You know, rather than your stupid-as-fuck dumbass conspiracy
theory why-not-get-“I’m-a-fucking-moron”-tattooed-on-your-forehead I-feel-like-I’m-losing-I.Q.-points-just-being-this-close-to-you
nitwittery horseshittery bullpuckery fuckuppery bibbiti bobbiti
who-the-fuck-asked-you?
And: breathe.
Unclench.
Fortunately, I’ve now gotten past the urge to write that
letter. It’s obvious the time required for my anger to subside has not yet
passed.
Anyway, there’s the story of my haircut. The story of how I metaphorically saved the universe by
staring at my reflection… and also by not having the power of breathing
universe-destroying fire (or screaming universe-destroying screams).
I’m sure it wasn’t worth the wait you forgot you were
waiting, Facebook friends. But it is what it is, no?
I wonder if this will be my only post on here this year. It's possible. Things have changed so much since I started this thing back in… I don't know, some year that was before 2005, I'm pretty sure.
I love to write, despite the attempts to metaphorically beat it out of me by various people who have used my work without paying me, or just generally used me in an effort to get me to write something for them. However, those attempts have made me more welcoming than I should be to the idea that writing a few paragraphs as a comment or a status update on Facebook on occasion is enough.
So I haven't been here for a while. I still have lots of meandering musings. I just don't share them here so much.
But I lost a toe the other day.
Well, I didn't lose it. It was taken from me.
Not in a "Stop! Thief! That's my digit!" sort of way. There was surgery involved.
Anyway, when they told me they had to take the toe, I had some difficulty coping. I wish I was still the sort of person that could unabashedly share with you the whole thought process I went through, but I'm older and way more tired now, and knowing about my depression and anxiety doesn't always necessarily help me navigate the funhouse of horrors that is my brain at times. I really feel it should.
Whatever. Life's unfair. This is not news.
So the initial difficulty was a bit short-lived, because—surprise!—I went from being upset (and a bit miffed at myself for being upset, because, dude—it's a toe, and not even one that you need for balance and whatnot) to being some other emotion about bigger issues not directly related but somewhat connected because anxiety is a magical beast that can take any molehill and make an entire mountain range.
And imagine what life was like before I realized this sort of thing was going on…
Anyway, sometimes the mountains really are mountains that you mistook for molehills (or perhaps more importantly they are mountains you have the power to make into molehills with only the power of your way of thinking).
A college friend once said something along the lines of, "Do you ever look at your life and think, "I started off at point A, and now I'm at point B, but how the heck did I get here?"
Yeah, all the time. I mean the answer is probably, "Via a lot of terrible decisions and a life lived in fear." But, still…
Anyway, here it is: I have looked up from all the stupid decisions I've been making over the past decade or so, and I'm a bit lost as to how I got where I am… or more importantly, I'm a bit shocked that I'm so far away from where I'd meant to be.
So here I am, half a century of life under my belt, and where the heck am I? In a crisis situation where I'm freaking out about losing a body part, I can't think of a person I'd be comfortable sharing this with. There are very few shoulders I'm willing to cry on, and most of those are shoulders I only cry on when I don't realize I'm about to lose it.
So here's what I want to happen, or what I wish I knew how to make or make happen: I want there to be a friendship connection site for people from opposite sides of some part of the political spectrum. You'd sign up and list your views on lots of different issues, with helpful links to vetted and unbiased articles to inform where necessary. You'd select which of your views (from one to all) you'd be willing to engage in informed and reasoned discussion, allowing room for emotion, but understanding that if things become too heated it is agreed to postpone the discussion for a while. They could hook you up with a sort of online pen-pal to discuss issues in a civil manner.
The site could host a chat function, and members could meet groups with a balanced representation of views. Maybe there's be some sort of spectrum icon that showed where you were on some scale or another. There could be helpful pull-down windows to suggest areas where you are likely to find common ground.
So that's what needs to happen. Who can do this for me? Anyone?
Or, better yet, maybe we should find out if this isn't already a thing. I don't know. I don't entrepreneur much.
Ruth was driving the car. We were exiting from Highway 61 onto Highway 19 (southbound) just outside of New London. For a second I was reminded how it looked similar to turning from Public Street to Mason Street whenever we were heading home via the 4-way-stop in Center back in my high school days. I couldn't really describe why I was reminded by one of the other. I just sort of flashed onto it for a second.
It was a lie. I knew it was a lie as soon as I said it, but I also knew that what I thought was going to happen next would really happen. I looked up through the sunroof again and said, "There's some sort of ship above those clouds."
Ruth simply replied, "Really?" I could tell by her tone and the way she simply kept driving that she didn't believe me.
I didn't know what to say back, so I just continued while staring up through the sunroof, "Yes, and the ship is going to start making some strange weather happen any second now."
I glanced at my sister and wasn't even sure if she was listening or had just fallen into some sort of road hypnotism from our long drive. I was leaning toward the latter, because she didn't seem to notice the two funnel clouds forming ahead of us.
"See," I said, "the weather is turning now."
As I watched, more funnel clouds appeared, and starting joining up to form a giant geometric figure. Not quite a dodecahedron, but something approaching it.
The clouds had moved down to the level of the ground, forming a sort of foggy mist just above the road. Ruth wasn't saying much, but she seemed to know when the curves were coming up. Most people who grew up in Center and had to make the trip to Hannibal often would probably have the feeling they could drive Highway 19 blindfolded, but I wouldn't recommend it.
I watched the strange geometric tornado phenomenon for a minute or so, getting extremely worried while my sister remained calm. A few of the funnels passed very near us. Since Ruth didn't seem to be too worried, I focused on the strange shape, suddenly remembering at one point to get my camera out and start taking pictures. After taking a few I lowered the camera from my eye and looked at the road in front of us again. What I saw and the fact I could no longer hear the wheels on the highway led me to get Ruth's attention. "You realize we're not actually on the road, right? One of those tornadoes must have picked us up. We may not even be in Ralls County right now."
I decided to use my camera's video function, because the odds of our landing safely seemed pretty slim. Ruth calmly asked what I thought we should do. I was reminded of the time she cut her hand while washing dishes, pulled the hand with a deep gash out of the water, and said something very calm like, "Well, that's not good." But I wasn't sure those were the exact words. To be fair, I had multiple tornadoes to worry about, so the exact words weren't so important at the time.
So I used the same tone of voice to say, "Well, I guess we use this recording to tell people we love that we love them, and whatever happens when we land happens."
Before we got very far in our recording, I could feel us descending, but slowly, like the air was supporting us from below. We landed on a blacktop somewhere, wheels still turning. Ruth slowed the car down as we approached a fenced-in area--fenced by the sort of wire fence in diamond shapes. A line of cars was slowly entering the fenced-in area as two men stood on either side of the large gate.
The line was moving slowly, so I got out to see if I could help. There was a car parked in the way of the line of cars, perpendicular to the cars trying to get in. I got in it and backed it up down a very thin stretch of land right beside the gate. The remaining cars were able to enter the gate, and people started heading toward the shelters nearby. As we closed the gate, I looked up at the strange geometric tornado, and again said, "There is a ship above the clouds. I know it."
The tornadoes calmed to nothing, and a perfectly circular hole opened up in the clouds. I opened up to a night sky, even though it was the middle of the day. At first I thought the moon was directly in the middle of this circle, but I soon realized it was the ship, farther away than it was when it started the tornadoes.
While we stared at it, what looked like a beam of grey light fell from it, but as it fell it looked more and more like the "pipes" screensaver from back in the day (but made of of grey pipes with cubes for junction boxes). The figure it made was similar to the figures the tornadoes made, but much more complex, and seeming to possibly involve more than just the normal set of dimensions.
Suddenly large and boxy "people" started exiting the strange geometric figure. Several people behind the fence turned and ran, afraid we were all in danger. I wasn't so sure. I didn't feel it was perfectly safe, but at the same time there wasn't a sign of hostility.
As I watched these figures--which reminded me of the Minecraft person, really--I don't play the game, but I've seen the "person" in it. As I was telling people to calm down, that maybe these things were not a threat to us, the boxy "creatures" opened up, and people not that dissimilar to human beings walked out.
They were taller than us, and wore strange clothes, but beyond that they were pretty much human-looking. They looked like very tall humans in these sort-of toga-like things.
We invited them in to the fenced-in area, and went to something that was more like an arena than a shelter--so I assumed the place had more than one purpose. One of them got up on a platform in the middle of the stadium and started speaking over a loudspeaker of some sort. They were explaining to us how they had travelled across the galaxy to come here. They wanted to help us. They were peaceful and benevolent. I was half listening to the speaker and walking around among the aliens to try to learn more about them. I mostly wanted to know for sure if they could be trusted, or if they were here to harm us and were just good liars.
I met one of the creatures, and he seemed nice enough. I think he thought I was odd because I kept staring at his eyes. They were normal enough, but just a slightly off color. But it wasn't the oddness I was looking at, but more like I was trying to see into his mind or soul to get a sense as to whether or not they could be trusted. He smiled the entire time, and backed up what was being said over the loudspeaker.
The second alien I met had two heads. They both seemed amiable enough, and smiled as we talked. I discussed how I assumed they had larger brains than us, since they were a bit taller than most humans, and that maybe this helped them figure out space travel. Of course, even as I said it I felt like a doofy middle-schooler trying to fit in with the high-school crowd. But he (they?) laughed, and grabbed me by the shoulders in a friendly way.
I remember grabbing his/their elbows to sort of communicate friendship as well, and thinking how they felt so similar to human arms--and I was reminded of my mom's arms for some reason. Probably because of this, I decided they could probably be trusted.
Still having no idea where we had landed from our tornado flight, but figuring I was still somewhere in Missouri, I wasn't surprised to run into Marissa and Hadleigh shortly after my meeting with the two-headed alien. I had not seen either of them for a while, and Hadleigh wanted to spend some time with me, so Marissa showed me where they were sitting, and said I could bring her back after we hung out for a while.
I got Hadleigh seated, and was going to sit down next to her when she decided to go exploring behind and under the seats. This arena was built somewhat like the bleachers at Mark Twain High, but slightly more complicated in that there were levels under the seats. They were like crawlspaces that allowed you to climb between levels as well as go back and forth under the seats.
So of course I chased her around, making a game of it. But I could tell her laughter was irritating the aliens in some way. I quickly climbed down a couple of levels to get her, and as we were coming back up toward the regular seat level, I could tell the mood had changed.
Humans were exiting the arena in a slightly-panicked way. I looked up to the ledge where the two-headed alien had been standing, and I saw people leaving by climbing up to that ledge and moving along toward an exit. The two-headed alien was still smiling at me, but it seemed strained or simply not genuine. I lifted Hadleigh up to the ledge and told her I would be climbing up right behind her.
However, it was a bit high for me to climb up, and as I was considering whether or not to go up the steps a bit and try there, I was over-run by the stream of people trying to get out. They seemed afraid of something, but I wasn't sure what. But the panic was catching, and I wasn't immune.
I fell down to the seats again, and before I could turn around and look up and tell Hadleigh I'd be right there, I saw her fall--apparently from the ledge--to a row or two behind me. In a panic, I climbed up one row and looked below those seats to see if she was okay.
It wasn't her. It was a poorly-made doll designed to look like her. It was made of old material and wasn't even stuffed. I felt maybe they had used some sort of high-tech illusion to get me to believe it was her. I was going to turn up to the two-headed alien and ask why he'd tried to trick me, but before I could I heard the alien voice on the loudspeaker: "We will not allow children on our planet!"
I started to yell for Hadleigh, because I knew they had to be taking her somewhere, and if she could hear me she would yell back. But my voice came out as a croak. My throat was suddenly dry, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get more than a hoarse "Hadleigh..." to come from my mouth.
I was reminded of the feeling of that alien's elbow's again, because they had felt so real, and so present. My voice felt exactly that same way: real and present.
I cried out for her again as I woke up, my throat dry, my voice only a whisper.
So I got a drink and went back to sleep and had a dream about being back in high school and playing on a baseball team. The end.
So today I finally got my own copy of the autobiography Minority Report by Elmer Rice (published by William Heinemann Ltd, 1963). He's one of my favorite playwrights (my senior performance recital at Jewell was "The Adding Machine" (and I wish I could say I did it justice)). And if you want an older play that is very relevant to the way things are today, I suggest reading "We The People". And a huge dream of mine would be to direct (or at least design a set for) "Street Scene".
Anyway, years ago--seriously, like at least a few years before I turned 30--I read this autobiography. I came across something that struck me as so true and so important that I wished I wasn't reading a book checked out from the library, but instead was reading something I could keep and refer to forever. Unfortunately this was before lots of interwebness and the ability to make cool signage that would withstand the wear and tear of time within a pauper's budget.
I kept meaning to check it out from a library again, and make a copy of this section in particular, but I didn't. Mostly because I kept thinking I'd find it somewhere on the internet. And, alas, I also didn't memorize it, and I for sure didn't live by it.
Here it is, the entirety of section 4 of chapter XXII (the final chapter in the book):
"Even more essential to a man's conduct of life than his political and religious beliefs is his personal code of behavior. Here again I put the emphasis upon the personal because of my deep distrust of authoritarian moral prescriptions that are presumed to have universal applicability. Chief among these is the collection of precepts known as The Ten Commandments, generally ascribed to Moses, an obscure but articulate leader of antiquity; his attribution of their authorship to the Deity must surely be regarded as figurative. Though after twenty-five centuries they are still accepted by millions as a complete guide to correct living, it seems to me that even the most cursory examination of the Commandments reveals their inadequacy.
"Only two of the ten offer affirmative recommendations: the injunctions to Sabbath observance and to filial piety. The remaining eight merely state what is nonpermissible. Three of them deal with polytheism, idolatry and blasphemy, the remaining five with murder, adultery, theft, perjury or malicious gossip, and covetousness. In the main, it is a penal rather than a moral code. A man might rigorously obey all the Commandments and yet be a tyrant and a bully, a stingy and cruel husband, a neglectful father, a hardfisted employer, an ill-tempered neighbor, a loudmouthed opinionated boor, a social snob, a provocative chauvinist, a religious bigot and a malignant racist: in short, a despicable human being.
"Certainly I am not alone in believing that viability requires a more fecund soil than this stony bed of bleak negations. Or, to shift the metaphor, if the traffic is to move ahead there must be more green lights than red. I have never before tried to codify the principles of behavior that seem to me aids to constructive living. But since so many others have engaged in this innocent diversion, perhaps I too may be permitted to do so, preserving, of course, the classical decadal pattern. It should be noted that my code contains no absolutes, but merely suggests choices, and that since it is entirely personal, I am not proposing it for universal adoption. Here, then, is my decalogue:
"It is better to live than to die;
to love than to hate;
to create than to destroy;
to do something than to do nothing;
to be truthful than to lie;
to question than to accept;
to be strong than to be weak;
to hope than to despair;
to venture than to fear;
to be free than to be bound.
"However obvious and commonplace these tenets may seem, I can say unhesitatingly that if, throughout my life, I had used them as touchstones for my every thought, word and deed, I would be a better man than I am."
I have to give Mr. Rice a huge "Amen" on that last bit especially.
And maybe I should get back to writing more often.
This was going to be a long status update on FaceBook. I opted to put it here, since it was long (and I wanted to add to it) and I haven't posted here in over a year.
So I had a friend when I lived in L.A. who I never really saw on the FaceBooks whenever I'd do a search for him. (I'd see lots of folks who shared his name, however.) And I occasionally would do a Google search for him, to no avail. I last communicated with him not long after I left L.A., just to get his address to mail him a phone he loaned me.
Apparently I haven't done one of those searches in the past 5 years or so. Today I hit the jackpot, but didn't win anything other than confusion and sadness. Apparently he had moved back across the pond.
And back in June of 2010 he killed his ex, his very young son, and himself. That's the theory deemed most likely, anyway.
He was my proofreader at the business card place where I worked the evening shift. He came to pick me up on his motorcycle when my car broke down very late at night on my way home from work (which would put the time at about 12:30 in the morning)--and it wasn't the least frightening of neighborhoods. (In the end, he didn't need to pick me up. A homeless man jerry-rigged my car so it would work, and this friend followed me home, pulling ahead of me and holding off traffic at red lights because if I stopped at a light my car would shut off, maybe for good.) He gave me rides to work on that same motorcycle while my car was being worked on, and he found a mechanic that would give me a good deal on a new engine when it turned out that's what my car needed.
He thought I smoked a lot of weed because of the way my mind worked. And he didn't get my joke about the sticker on his motorcycle helmet meaning he was a fan of "The Panda" (a wrestler I made up) in the World Wrestling Federation. And when I said I wanted "spicy giblets" from the gas station in downtown L.A. where people at work would occasionally send someone to get dinner, he thought I meant a chicken meal, and that's what he brought me. (I meant spicy trail mix, which I called "spicy giblets" for no particular reason. In his defense, it was an honest mistake.)
One time he told me I'd use odd expressions (which I'd learned my mom while I was growing up) that he'd heard while growing up in England (the northern part, if I'm remembering correctly).
I went to parties at his house. He and I saw "The Nightmare Before Christmas" in Culver City... and he tried to beat the parking garage bar as it lowered, and it hit me in my (thankfully) helmet-covered head. I really wish we had been able to keep in touch. He introduced me to Weetabix and pesto. He introduced me to "the stairs" in Santa Monica. He loaned me a bike to use to get there.
Sad and confused. That's what I am. Sad and confused.
Where a guy's his own grandfather, and causes timeline bother.
One scene posted at 2:13:
Aeryn Sun's wearing just three balloons
Quarter past, googol hits it's amassed
That's e-nerd-tainment!
It might be a fight about Leia and Luke
On boards seen by hoards, whether "meant to" or fluke
Both sides posted by the same kook
The title of the thread: "Worf, and How He Links to Red Dwarf"
Cosplay everywhere on display
Hot or cool, made by genius or fool
Hip hooray! Nerds are having their day!
The e-world's a stage, a stage for a world of e-nerd-tainment! (c) 2014 Mark Travis Riggs
Edited 1/12/14 to change "Picard" to "the Hulk" and "2:15: The whole world's scene that scene" to "Quarter past, googol hits it's amassed" and "A gay" to "Takei". (The first and last because I wanted to include more "nerd" stuff, and the middle because I didn't like the original line much at all. Truth be told, I'm not a huge fan of the replacement. But it's always a work in progress, so who knows what tomorrow will bring?)
The sky above my house is very clear right now. I was just in the back yard, and I looked up to see a truly beautiful sight. All the leaves have vacated the trees in my yard and the surrounding ones, and the sky is so clear I can see more stars than I'm used to seeing in the city.
The view above me had a background of that deep-blue black which is the color of the darkest urban night sky possible without a power outage. The rest was either dark lines of naked trees or bright dots of light that started the journey here long before I was even thought of.
The stars were not only above the trees, but they were shining through them--since the leaves have all given up all of their summer duties, including the minor one of making stars have to work so much harder to accomplish this. I've only ever been able to pick out few constellations, but bits of Orion were recognizable through one tree (at least they were once I saw the rest of him poking out above the tree). I was struck by the simplicity of this beautiful scene.
It made me wish I had a better camera. It made me wish I knew how to take paints or charcoal or pencils or markers and re-create the memory of that sight.
But mostly it made me stand there longer than I probably should have, given the cold.
I've already messaged most of my co-workers via The Facebooks, although I haven't responded to many--maybe not any--of the responses yet, as my emotions about it are somewhat complicated.
But there it is: I'm not teaching next year.
I have been granted the opportunity to fulfill one of my dreams. (I have way too many dreams for me to accomplish in one life, which is probably a major reason why I don't pursue any of them that much... I should probably work on that.)
I'm going to miss a lot about teaching, and a lot about Eastgate, but this is a chance to do something that I've been dreaming about doing since... well, at least since I started teaching, but probably since I was in high school. It's scary, because pursuing a dream always is, but it's also very exciting.
The short version is: I'm helping to write an Algebra textbook. The long version is: too long for me to type right now. There aren't any huge fun secrets that are keeping me from explaining. I'm just lazy and in a bit of a hurry. Just know that it's a bit more involved than writing a textbook, and I'll say more about it in future posts, I'm sure.
Yes, it's been over a year since I've written. I apologize. I know the world has been a much more bleak place without my typo-ridden and poorly-punctuated stream-of-apparent-total-lack-of-consciousness ramblings. I shall endeavor to post more frequently.
But back on topic: one of the things I'm going to miss the most at Eastgate is having so many friends in one place. All the teachers, instructional assistants, cafeteria workers, custodial workers, administrative assistants, the library staff, and whatever co-workers I'm inadvertently leaving off here... I'm going to miss working with them and seeing them daily.
I'm also going to miss the kids. While a middle-school-aged child can go from zero to bouncing off the walls then back down below zero to "moody and sullen" and so forth in the course of the first five minutes of class, I have still enjoyed teaching them, attempting to teach them, and generally entertaining them when nothing else seemed to be happening.
However, all of the sad aspects are balanced by the joy I'm feeling about trying something I've always wanted to do.
Finally, the long-awaited tale of how I sliced my thumb last week!
(Yes, only a couple of people have asked how it happened, but I think that sentence will help make people think I'm about to say something interesting and relevant to them. Suckers!)
So last Sunday Cody woke me up to see if I'd watch Hads and let Marissa get some more sleep. I'm all about watching Hads, so I was all about letting Marissa get some more sleep. They two of them had been doing a lot of work helping Cody's mom out the night before, so we can pretend I was being more benevolent that selfish we like.
I was going to need to feed Hads at 11:00 or so, so somewhere around 9:15 or 9:30, I decided to make sure there were plenty of clean bottles.
I got to the sink and realized the knives I'd re-washed with the intention of drying before spots could form on them had fallen into the "Oops, guess what I forgot to do" black hole. I picked up one of the knives and ran my thumb along the side hoping I could just rub away the spots.
Swipe one, completely safe and away from the sharp edge.
Swipe two, just as safe and away.
Just before swipe three, I distracted myself by realizing I was probably going to have to wash the knives again, and therefore didn't pay as much attention to where my thumb was.
The result: Marissa didn't get to sleep in. She watched Hads, I drove myself to the emergency room, and now I have five stitches in my thumb.
I refuse to post the picture I sent to Say for her opinion, but if you're friends with me on Facebook, she posted it there and tagged me--I'm sure you've already seen it and almost lost your lunch if you are in the aforementioned category. But here's the "after" picture. Hope it doesn't gross you out! Enjoy!
It wasn't that bad of a year. The past 6 months have been a bit of a joy, and there are lots of things I wish I had done differently... but what year isn't like that, eh?
I'll just be glad to see this one go. I was already not thrilled to death with it, but now it's just... I don't know. I'm just over everything, the bulk of the everything being me and what passes for a mind in my head.
There were a couple of paragraphs here. I deleted them. Suffice it to say today turned into a bad day, but I've decided not to go on about it here just yet. The short version is: I'm a f***ing idiot.
Anyway, Happy New Year, everybody. It'll be better next year. Maybe not tomorrow, but... at some point next year, it will be better.
