Two Hundred Ninety-Four

Birthdays should be mourned as measures of lost innocence. Each tick of the clock is a reminder of the unraveling of the veil of virtue hiding countless flaws. Sixty-two years ago today, the unraveling began.

 

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Learning to Love

The brisket I smoked over the weekend was tolerable; disappointing, but tolerable. I should not complain. So, I won’t. How’s that for a surprise?!

As I type this, I’m listening to loud and intensive music. Earbuds, of course; my wife is fast asleep and this stuff would jar her out of her slumbers if I were to play it over the speakers, loud and intense as it deserves to be played.

I feel alone right now, but connected to people who wrote music I hear, music that rips into my soul the way I wish my writing would rip into someone else’s mind. Maybe it does and I don’t yet know it. One day I will.

I think I’m so very close to being able to write what I need to write, but I’m not there quite yet. When I get there, it won’t surprise me, but it might surprise someone. I just don’t know. Who doesn’t know me the way I know myself?

My sister-in-law, a woman I’ve grown to love, gave me an early  birthday gift a few days ago. She bought me beer at a local brewery, after which we went to a tattoo/piercing place. I have talked about getting my ear pierced for a long time and she listened; her birthday present to me was a local brew (liquid courage) and a piercing. We drank the beer and went to the piercing place; they don’t do piercings on Sunday! We’ll go back. I love feeling loved.

The world could change tomorrow. It could become ugly and dangerous and awful. Until then, I’ll love being in it, with people who matter.

 

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Two Hundred Ninety-Three

If the armature supporting the skeleton that’s keeping your flesh from falling to the ground begins to melt, settle for the satisfaction of pooling on the pavement. Fighting battles with yourself that you simply can’t win is wasteful use of dwindling energy.

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Two Hundred Ninety-Two

Emotional wreckage morphs into a shield of immeasurable strength when you exercise control over your own life.

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Home Again, Home Again, or Up in Smoke?

I am smoking a brisket this morning—and for the rest of the day—in anticipation that I will enjoy a flavor late this evening that I have not tasted since I moved to Arkansas. Only a relatively few places in the world smoke beef brisket exactly as I like it, as far as I know. So far, the only ones I’ve found have been in Texas, though I hear that places as far-flung as New York City and Portland, Oregon use the same methods with the same results. In Texas, the ones I’ve most enjoyed include: Cooper’s in Llano; Kruez Market and Black’s Barbecue in Lockhart; City Market in Luling; Meshack’s Bar-B-Q in Garland; Snow’s BBQ in Lexington; and Pecan Lodge in Dallas.

But my favorite is my own brisket, smoked over mesquite logs in a monstrously-heavy offset smoker. I suspect the texture and flavor of the meat is better when done by the professionals, but the satisfaction of doing it myself makes the end result seem spectacularly good. Today, though, I’m not using my old offset smoker; it remains in Texas. Instead, I am using a small electric Masterbuilt smoker, the one I’ve used successfully to smoke pork spare ribs and a pork loin recently. Whether its results will match the results I achieved with the old offset smoker remains to be seen. I am attempting to dial down my expectations in recognition that the smoking I’m doing today bears little resemblance to the smoking I did before. Instead of burning mesquite logs to produce heat and smoke, I’m using electricity to provide the heat; that same heat chars and burns mesquite chips, causing their smoke to fill the smoker.

Will the finished product possess the same blackened bark exterior as the briskets I smoked over a real wood fire? Probably not. Will I find a beautiful red smoke ring when I cut into the brisket, after it reaches the right internal temperature (190 degrees) and I allow it to rest in a cooler for an hour? Probably not. But will it taste better than the brisket I’ve had at local BBQ joints? I sure hope so. I don’t know quite what these places do to smoke their meat, but it just doesn’t come even remotely close to what I experienced in Texas. It’s not that it tastes bad. It’s not bad at all, it’s just nothing like what I long to taste.

My brisket has been in the smoker since six o’clock this morning. I hope to learn my efforts were worthwhile this evening, probably around six or seven, after I’ve retrieved the beast from the smoker and let it rest.  But I’m trying not to get my hopes too high.  Brisket smoked in that old offset smoker required constant tending of the fire, with the attendant beer drinking to keep cool. The electric smoker requires hourly replenishment of wood chips, with no need for beer. It’s not the same, but maybe, just maybe, the results will allow me to “go home again.”

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My Voice

I don’t share my thoughts the way I once did. Apparently I failed to translate my thoughts the way I’d have to do in order for the person with whom I was sharing to really understand. So, rather than suffer through attempting to explain things that should have been evident from the way I presented them, I stopped sharing. That was both a gift and a curse. I miss wishing someone would understand my thoughts; but I don’t miss wondering whether someone to whom I had just exposed my soul judged me a lunatic. My answer is poetry and prose; I expose more of myself in those forms of expression than I ever did with my voice.

 

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Two Hundred Ninety-One

Struggles with oneself pale in comparison to battles with people who want to mold us into someone we were never meant to be. The hardest part of the wars we wage is determining whether we are our best ally our own worst enemy.

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Eternity

Between the brief seconds of ecstasy and the extended hours of pain, life delivers a delicious mixture of mundane months during which we come to understand why we love living. It behooves us to remember the long stretches of time we find merely tolerable, for they form the fabric of the hammock on which we relax and enjoy eternity while we have it to enjoy.

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Two Hundred Ninety

Some people seek forgiveness for what they have done; others for who they are. The most dangerous, though, refuse to engage in the search, seeing in it only weakness.

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Frost

For ten miles, ice filled tire ruts in the road, making it damn near impossible for me to stay on the highway. When I reached a town, I pulled into the gravel lot of a post office to escape the sleet and freezing rain, expecting to park there for a few minutes until the worst of it passed. Thirty minutes later, though, it was still coming down and I was getting cold. The tiny building looked like a beacon of warmth so I decided to abandon my old Ford pickup in favor of real shelter. The fierce wind grabbed the truck’s door as soon as I opened it. As I reached for the gust-launched door, a gust caught it and slammed it against my hand; the pain took my breath away. Tucking my throbbing hand in my coat, I gripped the handle with the other hand and made my way outside without further incident, using the force of the wind to my advantage to shut the door when I was out of the vehicle.

A huge flag flying above the building whipped in the savage wind, cracking like a bullwhip each time the outer edge of the cloth snapped against the frigid gale. I dipped my head into the wind and slowly made my way up the icy sidewalk, briefly losing traction with every step, to the plate-glass entry door.

The building was tiny.  Even in this godawful weather, a line of twelve people stretched from the clerk’s station, the only one available, blocking access to a couple of dozen boxes across the room. The place was ten by fifteen feet, if that.

[WHO ARE THE PEOPLE, WHY ARE THEY OUT IN THIS WEATHER? WHY AM “I” ON THE ROAD?]

 

 

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Two Hundred Eighty-Nine

A few days ago, I read about three young homeless drifters who allegedly killed two people in San Francisco. Photos of the suspects, two men and a woman, caused visual memories to spring to mind, images of Charles Manson. If they murdered those people, I want them to pay with their lives. I don’t want them to die. I want them to live out their days in the bleakest of bleak prisons; I want their lives made dull and unsatisfying for a long, long time to come. That’s my flavor of vengeance.

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Recollections: Chilean Miners

Five years ago, give or take a day or two, I was glued to my seat on the sofa, watching CNN News, hoping beyond hope that thirty-three miners in Chile would be brought, alive, to the surface. I don’t know just what it was about that situation that grabbed me by the soul and forced me to sit in front of the television, but something about the fate of those miners was deeply important to me for a couple of nights.  When I watched CNN report that the first ten miners had been brought to the surface, I couldn’t control my emotions. I sat, alone, in the living room, weeping convulsively as if the people being rescued were family, people I loved. I was embarrassed when my wife, who wasn’t watching the news, walked by and saw me, utterly and completely shredded with emotion. Even today, I don’t know why the scenes of rescue had such an impact on me; there’s just no explanation for the degree of connection I felt for those miners or their families. But something ripped me apart at their loss and then patched me together at their recovery; both experiences were emotional roller coasters for me.

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Two Hundred Eighty-Eight

My eyesight bothers me. To see distant images requires me to remove my reading glasses; to see my screen and to read, I need to put them back on. Among many other challenges that fact present is this one, relevant primarily to  writing: I cannot simply lift my head and gaze out the window in search of inspiration as I am wont to do. Each time I try, the blurry sight before me reminds me I must remove my reading glasses for even an imperfect view of the world outside my window. I have never wanted so badly as I do now to wear glasses that allow me to see clearly, near and far. Yet I recognize I am fortunate, even with my temporarily poor vision, to have sight. It could be far worse and, for many others, it is.

Well, my notebook computer died, but at least I have a backup desktop that allows me to sit at the computer and stare at the blur. Privilege leaks from my pores.

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Two Hundred Eighty-Seven

Until the lions have their own historians, the history of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.

~ Chinua Achebe

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Judged

I have a long history of misjudging people. When I owned a business, and even before, when I managed organizations and was responsible for staffing them, my “gut feel” meter was wrong about half the time. It might have been wrong even more frequently, but I have no way of knowing. When I opted not to consider a job candidate because he or she just didn’t feel right, I assumed I was right about the person. When I offered a job to people who struck me as being worthy, I might as well have been flipping a coin. Several people I hired turned out to be inept, incompetent, unreliable, or downright criminal; sometimes, I was just bad at judging people.

My batting average outside the business world is not much better. People I initially find interesting and engaging can turn out to be dullards. If I feel a particular sense of kinship with a person I meet, or with whom I have the opportunity to spend a good deal of time, the chances are relatively high that I will discover that my original assessment was wrong.  On the other hand, a lot of those people turn out to be just as I expected or even better.  I wonder how many people, who I’ve written off early for one reason or another, would have become lifelong friends, if I’d just given them a chance? I’m tempted to re-engage, sometimes, but I question whether, with my success rate, that would be a good idea.

And I wonder how many people who originally thought I was a guy worth knowing changed their minds after spending time with me? On the other hand, did some people write me off, only to change their minds later?

The lesson in this, I suppose, is that snap judgments are unreliable. Or it could just be me.

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Two Hundred Eighty-Six

Leaning over the deck railing, I felt as if I might lose my balance and tumble twenty feet to the rocks and shrubbery below, so I stood upright and stepped back. Then, I heard it again; a loud rustling, the sound I might make if I trudged through the heavy layer of leaves at the edge of the clearing below. I look down again, this time clutching the top railing with my hands to keep myself an arm’s length from the edge. There they were; two deer, heads down, foraging for breakfast. The second I spied them, they saw me. They froze in their tracks, staring intently at me. I remained still. In less than a minute, satisfied I posed no danger, they returned to the task of finding food. But they did not ignore me; they kept watch over my actions, ready to sprint away if my behavior warranted it.

This was several days ago, but it’s so fresh in my mind that it could have been this morning, except it’s not yet light out. But they, or creatures like them, may be there now.

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A Mexish or Perhaps Britican Breakfast

Some time ago, I received a text message from a friend who explained that she had made a Mexican-English fusion breakfast. Knowing how I enjoy breakfast, she thought I might like to know what she had done. She sliced and sautéed polenta, covered it with a dollop of refried beans, topped it with cheddar cheese and a slice of sautéed tomato and garnished with parsley. And she sautéed an English muffin, and topped it with hot-pepper peach jam. Now THAT is what I call fusion; it sounds marvelous, doesn’t it? One day, after I successfully compete the first phase of the South Beach diet [which, at present, is away on hiatus] (and any other phases that prohibit my ingestion of carb-laden foods on pain of eighty lashes), I shall try it.

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Two Hundred Eighty-Five

We could do worse than live our lives as scavengers, seekers of the used and discarded. By giving new life to the the too-early-abandoned outcasts deemed by others wrung of practical value, we enrich our lives and give the planet on which we live time to breathe. I rarely buy new clothes any more; not because I can’t, but because I find distasteful the idea of feeding the greed of the clothing and fashion industries.  The fact that I am denying those same greed-mongers the opportunity to sell me something produced by people paid immorally low wages is icing on the proverbial cake. Thinking of scavenging and immorality harkens me back to a book I read a few years ago, Beyond the Beautiful Forevers. It was a painful but beautifully told novel, a story of a young man who lived in a slum in the shadows of Mumbai airport; he survived by recycling the discards of people far more wealthy than he. I hold such people in high regard; people who laugh at and heap scorn on such people are beneath dignity. My “scavenging” is nothing compared to people who must do it or die. We should all be more like those people.

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Never Good Enough

I must have been nineteen or twenty years old when I decided I wanted to die. I needed to free myself of the pain, the unrelenting loneliness, and the angst that accompanied me on my trip from adolescence into early adulthood. That was when I realized I felt no one would listen to me without judging me; I could barely experience the pain I felt without judging myself the weakling, the boy-man who was not good enough to confront the world around me, the world that suddenly had become stronger and more capable than I.

[I mistakenly posted this before I had finished writing it; my intent was for it to be much longer and more involved. Apologies for thrusting this unfinished and blemished piece on readers’ eyes so very, very early. It is utterly incomplete; I will, at some point, finish it. I intended to save it as a draft but, instead, posted it for all the world to see.]

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Locked in to Tunnel Vision

Fear and lethargy contribute as much as lack of interest and understanding to generational differences.

Consider the massive shifts in the musical landscape that took place after World War II, especially in the late fifties. It seems to me that the Greatest Generation and the Silent Generation did not understand the advent of rock & roll music.  But it wasn’t entirely misunderstanding; it was comfort with what they already knew and discomfort with what they didn’t. Beyond that—though closely related—was their fear of being unable to understand or fully grasp the new musical form and their inertia; they were stuck in the musical tastes they grew up with and unwilling to explore new ideas in music.

The same mechanisms were at play with Baby Boomers and Generation X. Keeping with the backdrop of music, they looked back at their parents’ and grandparents’ musical tastes with little interest because they had their own ‘new’ musical tastes; they did little to try to understand music that had been popular in years past. The Beatles and their successors in popular musical culture triggered competing fears and the consequent lethargy.

Departing from music, I blame the same contributors to generational differences in the acceptance of technology, or the lack thereof.  New technology platforms came at us fast and furious—the first ‘publicly accessible’ computers, pocket calculators, desktop computers, video game consoles, video recorders, cell phones, smart phones, et al. And then, the ways in which the tools are used gave rise to entirely new and different thought and communication environments in the form of social media: MySpace, blogs, Facebook, Twitter, and dozens of their spawn. Next, hybrids that joined social media with mobile communication technologies, begat tools that changed (and are changing) the way we live from one minute to the next: booking flights and hotels from our mobile devices, ordering food from our cars, leaving paper maps at home in favor of GPS-generated maps in our cars.

It seems to me that each generation collectively feels like it is running into a wall with each new fashion, with every new fad, and with all the emerging technologies and tools that were not even dreams while they were coming of age. The are afraid they do not have the capacity to understand all the ‘newsness,’ so they turn their backs on it and relegate themselves to early obsolescence. But, simultaneously, they do little to peer back in time to understand the lifestyles and tools in which their forebears found comfort.

Something else, too, is at play in the unwillingness of generations to adapt to the world as it changes around them; they see the changes as evidence that the latest generation does not understand nor value them and the way they lived.  They reject change because, knowingly or not, they identify change as judgement against them and the way they lived their lives. I see evidence of it in my own Baby Boomer generation, as members of the cohort eschew the value of Facebook (as I often do, even as a regular user who’s about ready to abandon it again) and harp about the loss of human contact they attribute to the small screens of smart phones.

I try, though sometimes with a half-hearted effort, to keep abreast of new and emerging technologies. I attempt to listen to and appreciate music as it evolves. Those efforts, I think, help keep me relatively young in attitude and spirit. Yet my struggle to stay relevant to today’s world does not always meet success. The fear and lethargy that I blame for generational conflict is just as present in me as it is in others. I have real fears that technology and change is not always for the best; both can lead to unintended consequences and loss of social bonds when used without considering their impact on how we live.

But, if we try to keep abreast of change, we tend to stay younger than if we let it slide by. If we permit each new generation to slip further and further from our understanding, eventually we will become utterly irrelevant and, indeed, caged geezers in a prison of our own making.  Our tunnel vision and innate fears and laziness will consume us; not me, if I can help it.

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Two Hundred Eighty-Four

When I hear the word ‘serpent,’ my brain conjures a willfully angry and vengeful creature, a beast slithering toward its prey.  The monster’s aim is emphatically malevolent, its mind filled with animosity. ‘Snake,’ on the other hand, does not arouse in me the tendency to ascribe the same sense of bitter acrimony to the creature.

I assign blame for my decidedly different reactions to synonymous words to ‘psychologically induced linguistic perturbation.’ If that phrase is actually used in the real world, I should get royalties.

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Lonely Soulmates

The world, with all its billions of people, can be a lonely place for people whose ideas and attitudes don’t quite fit the norm. Though there must be someone among all those billions who share quirky ideas and attitudes, it’s hard to find them. Sharing those attributes, alone, is not enough to create bonds between people. Similar life experiences, too, contribute to achieving the level of comfort necessary for people to reveal who they are.

Loneliness and isolation are not synonymous; one need not be isolated to be lonely. A person surrounded by generous, caring, wonderful people with whom he shares much is not isolated, but he can be lonely. He can be lonely because those generous, caring, wonderful people may not share his quirky ideas and attitudes. Absent stumbling into others whose personalities and experiences mesh with his own, he creates his own world within the broader canvas of the one people think is real. Even in that individual-specific universe, a fantasy exists that soulmate friends will emerge at any moment.

When I look around me at all the people I encounter on a daily basis in whatever context—grocery store, gas station, art gallery, coffee shop, post office—I wonder if any of them are living with their own fantasies of meeting others who share their quirky ideas and attitudes.  You’d almost have to be in a group therapy session (at least as I imagine group therapy sessions to be) to hear the sorts of things on their minds that could trigger that sense of recognition that, “yes, there’s one like me!”

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Two Hundred Eighty-Three

Standing outside late at night, after lights have dimmed and eyes have adjusted to darkness, the brilliance of stars in a clear sky is overwhelming. It literally takes my breath away. Only then does the unfathomable scale of the universe become apparent; only then can I see where time begins and ends.

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Doing the Deeds

Today’s schedule includes smoking three pork butts, writing something potentially worthy of my critique group, possibly attending an Audubon meeting and/or a documentary film festival, and watching for potential thunderstorms in the afternoon. Some of these events may be incompatible with one another, due either to the intractability of time or my woeful lack of the capacity for bilocation.

If I were more ambitious, I might work to generate psychic abilities that, thus far, have eluded me. Bilocation is one such supernatural talent that, were it available to me, could produce interesting experiences, both for me and for people who wouldn’t expect me to be in Santa Fe, New Mexico and Halifax, Nova Scotia at the same time.

Time to stop thinking about things and, instead, do the deeds.

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Two Hundred Eighty-Two

I can stare at the yellow lines on a desolate asphalt highway for hours, creating my own fantasy with nothing but wishes as fuel. Why can’t I, instead, imagine the joy of making intricate carvings in wood that’s hard as steel, using only a fine axe as a tool? Why, indeed. I think it’s the understanding that choices have consequences; every option has positive and negative outcomes that may be utterly unrelated to the original alternative but that follow as surely as water flows from a melting mass of ice.

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