If I wake at all there is time enough in the day for gratitude.
If I wake at all there is time enough in the day for gratitude.
For more on that which lead to this, see Lester McClain and the Bear I, II, & III.
On Saturday, October 5th Lester awoke to the golden shimmer of autumn sunlight sparkling on the turning Aspen leaves. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he focused on a scene that secured in his still foggy mind the notion that he was indeed still asleep. Dillon, the barkeep, stood just outside the picture window smoking a morning cigarette. Shash stood towering over the kitchen counter pouring himself a cup of steaming hot coffee, and the enormous Grizzly bear sat in the corner of the kitchen. The bear appeared to be deep in thought.
“Coffee bear?” Shash asked, lifting his cup to pantomime the offer. The bear blinked then nodded his head to the affirmative. Lester watched still uncertain of the whole situation as Shash carefully held out the cup. The sweet scent of Dillon’s cigarette made it’s way through the slightly open kitchen door, sharpening Lester’s foggy morning senses. The bear, not having opposable thumbs reached for the steaming cup with both paws. As the mug hit his pads, he growled disapprovingly. Shash held up a finger, “try this,” he pulled a short stool close and set the mug on it. “Give it a minute to cool down; it’s hot!” The bear leaned in and assessed the steam rising from the mug. Shash raised his hand, “hold on.” He crossed the kitchen, floorboard creaking desperately under his weight. He opened the ancient Frigidaire and removed two glistening ice cubes. He returned to bear who sat transfixed, mesmerized by the swirling mist emanating from the coffee. “Let this sit for a second,” he said gently releasing the cubes into the cup. The bear watched as the cubes slowly disintegrated in the black liquid. Once Shash gave him the nod he lapped at the coffee. Lester was sure that he saw the bear’s eyes widen followed by what appeared to be a rarely seen Ursa grin.
Dillon entered from the deck in a hallow of smoke just in time to hear Lester’s first words of the day which were, “What the fuck is going on? How’d you get in here?” And finally with to tone of near hysterical exasperation, “Is that a real bear?”
“Hey Les,” said Dillon, “top o’ the morning!”
“Yes,” said Shash, apparently taking the questions in reverse order. “He is a real bear. As to how we go in, I used the keep you keep under the fake rock by the garage. As to what’s going on…let’s say that we are friends here to lend a hand.”
“Is there any more coffee?” Dillon asked.
“Plenty,” Shash offered. “Grab a mug.”
As Dillon made his way across the worn pine board floor to the cupboard, Lester sat upright on his couch-bed-thing and once again rubbed his eyes to ensure that they were not playing tricks on him.
“Lend a hand?” Lester grunted, his tone both indignant and curious.
The bear eyed him for a moment the lapped at his coffee.
“Yes Lester, we are here to lend a hand. Coffee?” Shash motioned to the pot.
“Please,” said Les slowly swinging his legs to the floor and making to stand. The bear watched him closely and again appeared to be smiling, which was an odd, almost disconcerting look for a bear.
“We’ve been paying attention to your situation,” said Shash. “Dillon brought you up to me back in the Spring after seeing you at the bar every night. He mentioned that…”
“Dillon seemed terrified of you that night!” Lester interrupted. “Now you’re in cahoots?”
Shash and the bear growled in unison. “Dillon seamed ‘terrified’ because he had taken something of mine without asking and was concerned that I would grape-squash his head over it. Needless to say, we settled that matter with his melon intact. He is my nephew after all, and blood is thicker than…stuff.”
“Oh,” Les wrapped his index and middle finger around the handle of a chipped white porcelain mug in the cupboard and turned to the coffee pot. “And the bear? Is he your kin too?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” Shash said raising his cup and taking a long pull. He looked over at the bear who was wrestling his mug with both paws licking the last drops of coffee with his long bear tongue.
“And what manner of speaking would that be?” Lester barked.
“He’s my brother.” Shash offered matter of factly.
“From another mother?” Les chuckled, clearly proud of himself for knowing something the kids might-maybe say when presented with a similar situation.
“Same mother,” Dillon offered, “Do you have any breakfast food? Bread, eggs, bacon perhaps?
Les was not feeling okay about this situation. Unlike in the movies where weird shit happens, and the protagonist somehow assimilates it and takes it in stride, he was clear on the fact that this, the bear, in particular, was not normal.
“Ah, yes.” He groaned. Rubbed his throbbing forehead, he stammered, “Bread is in the cupboard to the right of the sink. Bacon and eggs in the left bottom drawer in the Fridge.”
“Lester,” Shash began, “It’s time we had a chat.”
The bear looked up from his coffee, locked eyes with Les and nodded in agreement.
To be continued
Vintage random thought
I have nothing to say… Oh wait, that can’t be right. The voice in my head never stops yammering, so perhaps I should just share a bit of that monkey din. Let’s see, I was super uptight with my kids this morning in response to their less than “militarily precise” approach to preparing for the first day of school. My fluster-faced antics were unnecessary and as it turns out, super unproductive. They watched me rant with bemused looks of teenage indifference. Suddenly it dawned on me that I was “choosing” to be an ass. “Thank god,” I thought, and just like that, I chose to change my choice. I decided that I no longer wished to be a “that dad,” so I stopped my foolishness, and apologized to my sons. Breakfast and the ride to school were lighthearted and fun. So that’s all I have to say…
Wait, I do want to mention that while I was acting like a child, they were keeping their distance, staying emotionally clear of the bad mojo vortex. They had decided it seems, to give me the space to work through whatever ass clown hair shirt I was knitting without engaging. Well done boys.
I have nothing to say, that needs to be said, at the moment. That said or said thrice perhaps, I like saying stuff. When I was a young boy I had, as some parents might say “a lot of energy.” My father was a man of few words. Of those few words, the ones I often heard were “stop babbling.” What? Not enrich the world with my eight-year-old prattle? You can’t be serious? Poor guy’s ears must have been near bleeding!
I have a couple talkers in my house. The suspects are male, ages 13 and 16. While they both can go on serious verbal tears, the 13-year-old is exceptionally gifted. He can speak incessantly for such extended periods that we’ve actually coined terms to describe his gift. When he’s been thinking out loud at the speed of sound for some interminable period, we call it ‘streaming’…he calls it “broadcast mode.” I used to talk, or “babble” like that when I was a boy, ha! It doesn’t hurt anyone, so I just let him blow that horn.
Some folks don’t talk much. Some folks do. Some are great listeners while others don’t seem to have the ability to give two stray shits about what anyone says, even as they pretend to listen. What? Ha, just kidding.
So it seems I have nothing important to say, but I’m damn happy to be here, to have another day on this planet with opportunities in front of me and most of the “learning the hard way” behind me. Babblers, quite folk, grumpsters, and joy monkeys, may you find wildflowers and spring water along your path as you walk to the beat of your own personal expression drums.
“Freestyle,” now there’s a vocab jack in the box bursting with “what the hell!” The term Freestyle can be ascribed to a variant version of almost anything we humans do. Let’s say for the purposes of this rant that “freestyle” means “acting in the absence of rules or generally accepted protocol.” Now that’s a relief unless one happens to be a rule hugger, in which case it would, of course, be disconcerting.
In a valiant effort to save my marriage, I agreed to sign up for ballroom dance lessons. For context, up to that point in my life dancing had not been numbered among my strong suits. Relying on a glaring weakness to change the course of a dissolving marriage may not have been putting my best foot forward, ha, but I donned those creepy felt soled dance slipper shoe things and gave it my best.
Ballroom dance presented me with a calculus problem that, as it turns out I was ill-suited to solve, graphing calculator, youtube videos and hours of practice notwithstanding. I guess I’m a freestyle guy. I put in the effort though. I really did. However, the combination of regimented movement and rules left me shaking my head. Apparently, the head is not the right part of the body to be shaking in the genre. All that effort and money bore a shallow harvest, and that’s putting it politely.
Freestyle dancing is a natural gift that all humans, and many pets (see youtube) have at their disposal for the purpose of celebration. Freestyle skiing emerged when lovers of the sport found that the sanctioned practices of those “judging” the events did not fit their natural outpouring of self-expression while rocketing downhill on two snow supported slabs of glass/metal composite. Freestyle poetry, and then rap found the stage when traditional structure could not contain the expression of writers who needed undefined space to share their ideas. So it is that many of the constructs we as a culture use to define excellence have been bent or broken by a new wave of creators who have stretched a newly expanding canvas for the work of self-expression.
Let’s break it down.
Not under the control or in the power of another; able to act or be done as one wishes.
A manner of doing something.
According to the combined definition: Freestyling is basically the outcome of deciding to do one’s own thing, regardless of the established norm. Freestyle expression in the aforementioned genres has survived and thrived long enough that they are now considered “established.” Once accepted, they too are subject to judgment. People enter “freestyle competitions!” Oxymoron?
I can distinctly remember “freestyle dancing” in the basement of St. Paul’s Catholic Church at an 8th-grade dance. I was dressed like an ass thanks to my complete lack of fashion sense. I was all in, having a blast. It wasn’t until the girl I was dancing with; I had used all my human courage credits to ask her, commented that I had a very “unique” style that I realized I was a pioneer. This 14-year-old Betty was making fun of me. She danced away to the next song with a football player, and that was that. Oh, judgment! For years I thought about it every time I danced sober, but unlike the dances that came soon after that incident, now I smile.
These days I freestyle in my living room, first thing in the morning. The scent of brewing coffee wafting through the house, glass of salt water and lemon in hand, tribal drums blasting over the Spotify airwaves, I dance, white boy freestyle. Sure, Beyonce won’t be tapping me for her next tour, but fuck it, why not let my awkward dance flag fly? I’m free!
Left to right: Steve Van Beek, Kevin Farenkopf, Paul Escoll, Dr. David Gyepes, Your’s Truly, Andy Logan, & Daryl Landy. (c.2001)
These days most things can be had with the well-ordered strike of a few keystrokes. They usually arrive within seconds digitally or a few days by truck, perhaps a week if there are shipping complications. Jobs can be found, romance born, business relationships forged in the ether of our modern internet biome. All these ‘friends,’ ‘likes,’ ‘followers’ add up to…Something I suppose. However, no thing or connection that can be had so immediately compares with the feeling of finding oneself in the company of old friends.
Enduring relationships are created and perpetuated via the practices of patience, commitment, forgiveness, and a healthy dose of introspection. Old friends know us, often better than we know ourselves. They watch us break, and aid us when they are able in the process of picking up the pieces. They share our triumphs and offer a shoulder when we need a place to lean.
If you have old friends, you are blessed. If you have lost touch with someone you once held dear our modern world offers ample opportunity to reconnect. Few things on the average to do list can provide such reward. Some say that real connection is a dying art. Fortunately other say that history is cyclical. Wherever you find yourself on this wheel of life I wish you peace, love, and enduring friendships. In the words of Clarence the Angel, “No man is a failure who has friends.”
Broken things, some we are quick to cast aside, some are not so easily released. A Van Gogh, a toy doll, a locket, a person; all come into existence with the sheen of shiny fresh brand new ‘here I am.” Over time that bit fades, ultimately replaced by the thing that most often happens to things that persist in the act of existence, some sort of brokenness. A locket or pocket watch have sentiment on their side. If these become broken a fix of some sort is possible if the owner is sufficiently motivated by emotional attachment. What of broken people? As I glance to my left wrist, I see my great grandfather’s watch. He, a broken thing that ultimately could not be “fixed’ left this working timepiece as a memory.
Hearts are regularly broken; so are bonds of friendship, vows, and refrigerators. The casting aside and replacing of broken things happens when we lose faith, often rightly so, in the possibility of repair. Other times we simply must do the work of restoration or so parish, as with our hearts. I have a sentimental streak that has caused a light hoarding behavior at times. I hold onto my collection of five old runner sleds even as the warming of the earth no longer offers winter in my part of the world. The sleds aren’t broken. However, their usefulness is but a memory. Still, like a locket bearing the picture of a loved one, in my case winter, they hold value, hope, promise, or nostalgia, that I am reluctant to release.
I’ve walked some of my days with a broken heart, many adult humans do. Fill in the blank as to the details with your own experiences, and we will likely be in understanding of one another. It is a scar, or a badge, or a shitty outcome that clings to the soul like a limpet to the hull of a sailing vessel. It by itself will not plot the course of a journey though it may slow the runnings. So it goes with we who have minds made of chains that rattle and dance each morning when we decide to once again rise and face the day.
I learned yesterday that my best friend of thirty-eight years, Dr. David, (mentioned in a previous Random Fiction blog post “Free Fall,” irony included) has acute leukemia. He has passed, at least temporarily from the realm of shiny new things into that of the broken. He wore a brave face Thursday as he entered a month of hospitalized solitude to face down his indiscriminate adversary in a firestorm of chemotherapy.
Interestingly, several months ago, before this category 5 shit-storm reared its ugly head, Dave and I spent a weekend visiting the college town where he and I met. Our in the moment state of unbrokenness found us commenting that we both felt as though we were still the same boys that had made acquaintance there those many years ago. Alas, as some friend of Anne Lamott’s said, “we are all born astride the grave.” Acknowledging that fact is ultimately both a curse and a relief… at least for me. That said, I will give any and all of my time, money, and bone marrow to fix this particular broken thing. Love to you my dearest friend. My heart is with you all the way.
Let’s say I’m down to my last dime? Let’s also say that I have to make that dime go as far as I can seeing as it represents the totality of my remaining financial resources. What would I buy? Not much probably, seeing as a dime doesn’t go as far as it used to. I’m not even sure I could buy a gumball with a dime today. So here I am down to my last dime. Let’s also say that you too are down to your last dime. Are you anxious? Scared? Or are you exhilarated, confident, sure that you can turn that dime into a fortune? If you’re the latter, I’ll be wanting some of the magic dust you’ve been huffing. I’d also be curious to know how, with such confidence and aplomb, you came to have a total net worth of ten cents. But I digress.
Back to our predicament, or at least to me, it would undoubtedly feel predicament-ish. Do you have a safety net…family with means, friends, standing by to catch you if you fall, people who care? If so perhaps being down to your last dime is difficult for your pride or ego, but not a threat to your health or safety. If that is the case then ‘lucky you.’ Let’s say for the sake of argument that I have a safety net too, puts us on an even footing as we walk this road of destitution. But if we both have a safety net, I submit that we’re not truly down to our last dime. We have the social circumstance of connectedness which we may very likely take for granted day to day. However, that to which we may give little thought, that which seems ‘normal’ to us… is not normal for everyone. If you don’t believe me spend a few minutes researching “poverty” on the internet…wow!
How does one determine the value of a safety net? Unless one actually ‘falls’ the net may as well not exist. Without a slip, a stumble, mistake, calamity, wrong turn, poor choice, bad luck… you get the picture, a safety net is conceptual,. It’s an idea. Does having it help you sleep better at night? I never thought about mine until now…now that I’m down to my last dime… suddenly it’s all I can think about. How grateful I am that people care enough about me to reach out to catch me should I fall.
Back to the notion of “normal.” What if our ‘normal’ was “safety-net-free”? What if this was indeed the last dime. What if by some twist of fate we were falling through the cracks, and no one noticed? How would that last dime feel between your fingers? How would the world around you look as you held it? How would you spend that last dime? Would you find yourself entering a shop meekly asking the clerk to change your dime for ten pennies? Would you find a wishing well? Would you stand there and earnestly make ten consecutive wishes that somehow you would be saved from this fate before you walked away to sleep under a bridge that night? I might!
Walking through the woods the other day I found myself thinking. Thinking it turns out is an activity which, meditation practice notwithstanding, I’m incapable of not doing. Perhaps that’s why my novice monk robes have been held up in Nepalese customs for these many years. As I made my way toward the top of the ridge thoughts wandered and morphed spinning my brain into a somnambulistic drift.
A deep sigh brought me out of my reverie. “Was that me?” I wondered. The complete lack of anything but trees and a whitetail deer lead me to believe that it was in fact, me, releasing the somewhat dramatic, perhaps even melodramatic sigh. A sigh of release I thought, as all sighs are, a near verbalization of the letting go, or forcible jettisoning of something the mind or body no longer wished to hold.
Hmm, the sigh had caught me off guard. “What had I been carrying?” I wondered. “What had I released?” As lives go mine has been a walk in the park, current circumstances made that expression a pun of course, but whatever. I crested the ridge taking in the endless canopy of brilliant green late summer majesty and paused. Then it dawned on me. It was a simple thing really; nothing more than a deep sigh releasing a lifetime of making things harder than they had to be.
Tacking hard back and forth across the teeth of the wind. Spray filling my eyes as the bow plunges into wave after indifferent wave. The imprint of rope on my clenched fingers may by now be permanent. The going is slow and my destination still so far off that I’ve almost forgotten its original allure. All I know is that the safe harbor I’ve been seeking seems to lie at the birthplace of the relentless headwind. “Perhaps it is time to choose a new course,” I think as another wash of spray wipes my brow. “Perhaps.”
The stories any of us can recall about sailing downwind are few for their lack of incident, even scarcer if one has never actually sailed, but let’s say its national metaphor day and roll with it. For most of us, our many days are marked in turn by periods of smooth runnings, threatening waters, and periods of the listless, anxiety-provoking doldrums. Each it seems has their time and place on the nautical map of our journey, and I imagine a reason they’ve found us, or we’ve found them. Few milestones rise up in monolithic fashion while we are enjoying the momentary gift of easy passage through this life. It may be that the cursed wind, or lack of it, thwarting our efforts at any given moment is also the very gift that aids us in the writing of a story finally worth telling.
Absolute darkness is hard to come by in this modern world. Light leaks through nighttime windows from streetlights, headlights, searchlights, the moon, lightning storms and even fireworks on the occasional holiday. Electric clocks, power strips, TV and stereo power lamps come to life in a ghostly glow once the sun has gone down. For some such lights are a nuisance, for others these dim reminders of day are insufficient. There are those who are uncomfortable in the dark and those for whom the realm of sleep cannot be deep black enough. Which are you?
I believe, and say “believe” because I cannot remember for sure, that as a boy I favored the company of a night light. Things that go bump in the dark might have been, at that time in my life more manageable when seen rather than merely heard. Now I find that the best sort of night is one in which I can find nothing; no shapes, no glimmer, no semblance of the living world. Perhaps the days are now so full of goings on that the only way to achieve true respite is in the nothingness of absolute black. Odd because nothingness is a constant topic of internal dialogue that I bandy about in the face of the ceaseless onslaught of is-ness that has become the definition of this modern life.
Fear of heights, fear of snakes, fear of the dark, fear of anything, all, in my opinion, are the children of the fear of death; fear of that which we cannot avoid no matter how we twist and turn. I like the dark, I actually like snakes, but I have a dizzying visceral breakdown when faced with heights. That last issue must be the reason I learned to skydive. Interestingly when one falls from umpteen thousand feet the prep time between plane and landing allows for some free will and planning. As I write this I’m happy to say, though clearly it needn’t be said since here I am, that the process has been survivable. Its been amazing actually. I like-ish facing fears; it’s fascinating, life-affirming and potentially boundary, if not leg breaking. But what if I were afraid of something as unavoidable as the dark.
A power outage leads the prepared household to a closet stocked with flashlights and candles, perhaps even a battery powered radio. For the well-to-do who’ve prepared for The Purge, it may even lead to a generator or a full-on panic room. I like a good power outage, except for the havoc it may wreak on whatever frozen food I’m hoarding at the time in my ancient fridge. I even have a few decent flashlights and a couple candles hidden away just in case. I still have kids at the house, so I have to be ready to turn whatever happens into an adventure that isn’t entirely lived out in abject what-the-fuck blackness.
But back to night lights for a sec. They do serve a purpose, for some, for a time. They may alleviate fear; affording calm to those needing a tinge of day in their night. The also can make it possible for a nearly comatose person to reach the fridge for that super unnecessary midnight snack, without breaking a toe. Not my thing, but to each his or her own. Have your night lights if you will, and may they bring peace and restful sleep. I’ll be the one dancing with my vertigo, dizzy and sweating on the ladder in broad daylight cleaning a gutter, hoping I’m able to make it back to earth alive.