If I were a smarter man I would have lived my life a bit differently than the way I have done it so far. There are more than a things that I would differently. If I were a smarter man I’d invent a time machine so that I could go back and make the changes or at least figure out a way to write a letter to myself. It is a common theme in movies, books and stories, the idea of getting to live life over that is.
But I wonder about the wisdom of trying to do things differently. I wonder how many good things would be lost and how many experiences changed in ways that would still bother me. If you have read this far you might be wondering when I am going to start talking about fiction or if I intend to do it at all. The answer is that you are already receiving the very fine JW education in writing fiction.
Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that this post is me thinking out loud about how I write. In an upcoming post I”ll provide more of a clinical explanation of how to do it and things to consider. For now read on and enjoy.
And the story goes something like this but not quite.
“I never will forget those nights
i wonder if it was a dream
remember how you drove me crazy?
remember how i made you scream?
now i don’t understand what happed to our love
now baby gonna get you back
gonna show you what i’m made of…”
Boys of Summer– Don Henley
I tap into the scars that have never healed and listen to the music that takes me back to the moments that once were. I am a guest inside my own head and I watch the events of the past repeat and unfold for the millionth time. I see the boy and man who was and remember…
You’re Not Listening
There is a dead spider lying on the floor to my right. He/she is lying on his tiny brown back with his legs in the air.
I look at him and think about lying on my own back this morning with my legs extended in the air. Except that was part of my Yoga routine and designed to extend my own life.
A short time later I find myself on a Teams call where someone asks me to curse in Yiddish and Hebrew.
They ask me how many people can do that and I say if we round up there are 16 million Jews worldwide and a significant portion of us can’t speak Hebrew or Yiddish.
Reminds me of a website where some dope wrote about how he is one of the few that can read Yiddish handwriting. I almost wrote him to ask if that is marketing or if he is dumb enough to believe that.
If you can read Hebrew you can read Yiddish, it’s not complicated.
It has been a long week and I am particularly grumpy because everything is harder than it needs to be. I almost call someone so I can hang up on them and I shake my head at how ridiculous it is.
“That’s a waste of energy and not nearly as enjoyable as being able to slam the receiver down.” The reflection nods his head and mutters “she owes you an apology.”
Don keeps singing…
Out on the road today, I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac
A little voice inside my head said, “Don’t look back, you can never look back”
I thought I knew what love was, what did I know?
Those days are gone forever, I should just let them go but…
It’s the third email in a chain of emails that makes me decide I have had enough. I push back politely and professionally and within a minute of pressing send I get a call from someone who was copied on it.
They want to know if I think it was wise and I tell them I don’t suffer bullies, fools or mutton heads.
“You probably reacted more strongly because you know how to read between the lines and recognize there was some fire in it. I’m not concerned because some people need boundaries and they tried to bully us.
They crossed a line and I established a new one. It will be fine.”
****
I have gone silent and am wondering if the person I am speaking with realizes why I am quiet. It’s not because I have nothing to say but because they are on their third monologue.
When I try to respond they keep speaking and have forced me to talk over them to say my piece. I have the deeper, louder voice and can steamroll them if I want to but there is no merit in doing so.
There is no point nor purpose so I check out and momentarily wonder if they’ll notice my silence or if their lack of self awareness will continue.
I know recent events have made me less patient, grumpier and more likely to intolerant of some things I am not particularly tolerant of on a good day.
It doesn’t bother me to acknowledge the good and the bad about me. I know who I am. I am as human as the next person.
Some people have found ways past the hard edges. Some have found ways to hurt me and whether it was intentional or otherwise it happened.
Makes me snort because some accuse me of being heartless and I smile because if they only knew.
13 Years Later
There is a heat warning in Texas and they say the high today was about 105. I almost had to go to Fort Worth to a place near my old apartment. It takes me back 13 years and I think about the choices I made then and the road it placed me upon.
Would I make the same choices now as I did then is a thought that floats through my head and I snort. I can tell why it’s a ridiculous question and how it’s hard to put myself back where I was.
But I think the answer is yes I would and if I really want to argue about what I could have or should have done I’d go back some years earlier.
Doesn’t matter, can’t go back and the letters and stories I have written have as much or as little meaning as people choose to give them.
In a few hours we’ll hit the eighth anniversary of my father dying and I’ll think about him and how he died on my daughter’s birthday.
Sometimes I think I should have told him the date because had it been within his power he never would have checked out that day.
But I can’t go back to the days of the hospice now can I and if I could go back in time I would go back further.
Reminds me of a discussion about parenting and how I told a friend that my children know I would take a bullet, step into traffic or fight a horde of whatever to protect them/
They said it is ridiculous and I just smiled. It is not ridiculous and I need no approval.
My children know Dad would run through hell covered in gasoline for them and my father would have done the same for me too.
Thirty-two Years Gone By
It’s 32 years since my my uncle died. Thirty two years since my father and grandfather had to say goodbye to their little brother and son.
Thirty two years since complications from AIDS took him.
I remember hugging him some months before his death and hearing people talk about how that might be risky.
I heard their words but I didn’t listen.
That is what I told a few to do about Mamdani, the unhinged. I said it’s ok to watch his video because sometimes you need to know what a fool says so you might be prepared.
But you don’t have to listen.
Sadly I think many of the poorly educated and easily manipulated might listen to his fallacious claims, and venomous one side narrative.
But there many of us out there who are sharing the words of others who handily debunk his specious remarks.
I have many thoughts and ideas about all of this but for the moment we’ll leave that be and stop our mental meandering.
Big changes are almost upon us.
If you wish to read more you can try:
- Sometimes It Doesn’t Pay To Manage Your Anger
- We Never Said Goodbye
- What If Your Letters Are Never Read
- One Slightly Used Pump For Sale
- The Ancient Art Of Blogging
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