Brain Drain - The Final Writeober Entry

There was a time, let's call it eight hours ago, that I knew exactly what I wanted to write about tonight.  Now, as I sit in front of my computer, with nine-million (or a dozen) distractions in the form of other tabs, my sleeping infant, the potential for video-gaming for the first time in a month, an unopened bottle of Framboise in the refrigerator, cinnamon rolls, a stack of books I have started but not finished, an art project that is likewise partially complete, a scarf that I would like to finish knitting before it is too warm for my son to wear it, a stack of ironing that needs to be done, dishes that need to be put away, and whatever other activities I might imagine, I can not think of what it was I wanted to write.

I suppose it will come back to me, eventually.  That this is the last Writeober entry is unimportant, ultimately.  It was fun and interesting to partake in this project, and I look forward to next October.  I believe I submitted every entry and made it all the way through the month.  Yay, me.  And Yay you all.  Thank you for your incredibly interesting, well-written, funny, melancholy, sweet, and otherwise touching words.  I wish you all the best in your future writing endeavors.  I can't wait to read you all again.

Rome

In hindsight, I can say that I loved Rome.  When I was there, I was not as certain.  I was fortunate enough to visit Rome with my wife (then girlfriend) in 2006.  Of course our schedules dictated that we travel in summer, which was fine when we reached Paris where the weather was milder and every store was having huge July sales.

In Rome it was hotter than the surface of the Sun.  To compound the frustration of being hot throughout our visit, we spent at least a couple of hours every day lost.  Rome is chaotic, with roads and alleys branching in every direction, no rhyme or reason to the way things are numbered (that I could discern), and buildings that overhang the alleys making it impossible to see landmarks that might give you a clue as to where you are, or should be going.

We were standing on the steps of the Church of San Luigi dei Francese.  It was closed for lunch, so we found something to eat and planned to go back after their lunch hour.  We searched for two hours, but were unable to ever find the church again.

The only time I felt really comfortable with my bearings in Rome was when I was running in the morning. Rome is a different city early in the morning, as most cities are.  We stayed in the Trastevere neighborhood, which was perfect for running.  Gently sloping roads through beautiful residential areas, little churches, sidewalk cafés, and interesting people.  I would run from the hotel through the neighborhood to the river, across one of the lovely bridges, through the old Jewish ghetto, along the river through twenty-five hundred years of history.

I would go back to Rome in a heartbeat.  I would visit in winter, maybe for Christmas.  I would stay in Trastevere again.  I would plan plenty of down time each day, so that when we were lost, it wouldn't matter, and we could just enjoy discovering each new alley.

Passive Aggressive

I've been accused, on more than one occasion of being passive-aggressive.  I've been guilty some of the times, and sometimes not.  On the occasions of my guilt, I have (eventually) recognized my own shortcomings and owned them.  It's not always sufficient to mitigate the damage done by the original transgression, but I take pride in "owning my shit," so to speak.

My personal brand of PA is often expressed in veiled comments about unnamed people, cryptic references, or false agreement.  I don't think I have ever sent an anonymous message to someone calling them out, and I know that I have never posted anything anonymously in public calling someone out for their shortcomings.

I have also made a concerted effort to be more direct of late, as I am beginning to recognize the potential damage that passive-aggressiveness can do.  Eventually, I may be able to eliminate the fault entirely from my repertoire, and focus on all of my other faults.

Ten Novels That Helped To Shape Me

As a reader, and writer (such as I am), I think often about the novels that have played a roll in either inspiring, challenging, depressing, or simply pleasing me.  These novels that drew me in, made me feel part of the world contained within their pages, triggered something in my mind, gave me pause, fueled my anger, or stoked my passion.  In short, they contributed, in some way, to who I have become.  


10. The Good Earth - Pearl Buck
9. Huckleberry Finn - Mark Twain
8. Black Boy - Richard Wright
7. The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
6. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel García Marquez
5. Shalimar The Clown - Salman Rushdie
4. The Magic Mountain - Thomas Mann
3. The Hobbit - J.R.R Tolkien
2. War And Peace - Leo Tolstoy
1. The Divine Comedy - Dante Alighieri  




Some of these were read for the first time in a high school class, others for pleasure.  All of them have been part of my collection for twenty years, or more, and have prompted multiple readings.  Each contributed something to my makeup as a writer and as a person.  

   

Open Letter To My Child

Dear Son,


There have been a lot of stories lately about children who don't quite fit in, and for whom that situation becomes too much to bear.  At some point in your life, you may find that you feel different from your friends in some way or ways that you do not fully understand, and that those feelings of "otherness" begin to lead to other feelings, more sinister feelings.  


On the other hand, you may have a friend or friends who seem different from you in some way that you do not fully understand, and they may begin to feel as though their differences are somehow not acceptable.  


In either case, I want you to grow up knowing a few things.  


1. Being different is not only "okay," it is something to celebrate.  If we were all completely the same, we would be very bored indeed.  Whoever you are, you should simply strive to be the best version of "you" possible.


2. People who seem not to "fit in" sometimes just need someone to reach out to them to help them feel accepted.  Regardless of what your friends might say or think, reach out to the kids who appear to be misfits.  Your dad was one of them once, and some of the best people I know still consider themselves outsiders in one way or another.


3. You can learn something from everybody you meet.  People who are going through different life-experiences from your own can offer you a different perspective.  Soak it in.  


4. We love who we love.  No matter what the wide world around you tells you, love is a good thing.  I advise you to always be open to love, and not to fear it, no matter what.


5. Your mom and dad will always love you, no matter what.  We want you to be happy, we want you to be a good person, and we want you to be you.  Beyond that, we don't really have any preferences as to what or who you become.  


6. Don't judge people.  It can be massively difficult at times, but resist the temptation to dismiss someone as wrong because they don't do things the way you do them.  Instead, take the time to try and understand them, and if you still don't agree, that's okay.  You can disagree and still respect, appreciate, and even love that person.


7. I don't like the word "never." Having said that, I want you to never feel that suicide is a viable option. I knew people who took their own lives.  I know people who tried and survived.  I imagine all of them felt, in that moment, that they truly had no other options available to them.  You will always have options.  No matter how grim your situation seems, no matter how radically different you may feel, or how badly you may be treated by those around you, you have options.  Your mom and I will always do everything in our power to make sure you are safe, and that you know you are loved.  


You are precious to us now, and become more so every minute.  


My heart breaks for the children who felt they were so different, who were told they were so wrong, that they could no longer bear the pain, and felt they had no options.  My heart breaks for their parents, their friends, their families... I hope that when you are older, and you read this, you understand why I wrote it.  Some of those survivors I mentioned have brought joy to my life beyond measure, and their pain is beyond my comprehension.  I am inspired by their stories, and honored by their love. I hope that with this letter, I can pass some of their love and joy along to you; I want nothing less for you than a rich, full life, in which you can spread that same love and joy to the world.


With love always and forever,
Dad  

love in a dream

as I lay silent
enveloped in dark
electrical impulses
forge images in my
superconscious mind
unbounded
perfect
limitless
eternal

love

How I Met My Wife

I was working in an exercise equipment store, bored silly one night when a cute girl walked in.  It was not common to see women younger than fifty in the store, so you might imagine I was pleased.  Then she told me she was just looking for some dumbbells.  Wonderful.  That should have taken all of five minutes.  

An hour and a half later she left saying she would be back at the weekend.  We had spent the time chatting and looking at a variety of exercise equipment in which she had expressed zero interest.  The second time she came in, she was accompanied by her mother and a guy.  Not a good sign for my prospects of chatting her up further.  

To my surprise, she spent more than two hours in the store, most of it chatting with me, with a little bit of talking equipment thrown in.  She still didn't buy anything that day, but promised to be back the next weekend.  I sincerely hoped she would come back, as the next weekend was my last weekend in that store.

The next weekend, just as she said she would, she came back.  She brought her mom again, but no guy this time.  She was in the store for nearly four hours, during which time she decided to buy some stuff, finally.  Most of the time was spent talking about movies and books and other stuff totally unrelated to her purchase.  

At one point, I offered to lend her a dvd we had talked about.  

When she came to the counter to finalize her purchase, I asked her for her personal information, for delivery purposes.  When I asked for her phone number, I joked "I promise not to use it for any nefarious purposes."

To which she responded, "You know, I'm not entirely opposed to nefariousness."

I asked how she felt about dinner, she said she enjoyed dinner.  I asked whether she might enjoy dinner that night.  We had dinner that night, and the next.  Now she is my wife.  

I still get grief for offering to lend her the dvd.  Apparently, I should have known at that point that she wanted me to ask her out.  

Solving Problems

When I am aware of a problem, I want to solve it.  I am the classic cliché-man.  It kills me to have a problem floating "out there" and no action being taken to solve the problem.  I want to talk it out.  I want to examine the options.  I want resolution.  Even if the outcome is not what I would prefer, I would prefer to have an outcome.

So I sit here tonight, with a lingering problem.  I am trying very hard to practice patience, to let things settle before setting to work to solve the problem.  It is, I admit, very difficult for me.  It is also imminently worth the effort.  Wish me luck.

The Shop

A brief conversation yesterday got me thinking again about a business idea that I have had bouncing around inside of my head for a few years.  


I've been in retail sales in one capacity or another for seventeen years.  I am thirty-six, so we're talking about most of my adult life.  I have a lot of experience, and there are aspects of sales that I really enjoy.  I've never really been a big fan of working for other people, though, and I have never sold something that I really love (except for brief stints at Pottery Barn - where they nearly made me hate their products...nearly).  There are things I would love to sell, though: really cool clothes, great hi-fi gear, vintage records, antique books, art, gourmet food products... the list could go on.


My idea, as you may have guessed is a boutique.  Not just any kind of boutique though, a Man's boutique.  A shop based on the idea that there are things that make a man feel good, things that make a man more appealing, and things that make a man's life more enjoyable.  I'm not talking about porn, and I'm not talking about NFL-themed furniture.  I'm talking about handmade dress shirts, hand-wired Japanese hi-fi components, French truffles, Japanese denim, Italian coffee... the things that make a sophisticated, stylish man grin.


I would call it, simply, "Inman."  It would be housed in an old, loft-style space with subdued lighting and exposed brick and beams.  There would be a DJ booth, with a DJ spinning a mix of Frank Sinatra, Radiohead and Thievery Corporation.  There would be a wall for signing and leaving messages.  There would be comfortable chairs in which to sit and read the paper while sipping your cappuccino (made however you like, as long as you like really hot, whole milk cappuccinos in winter, and iced whole milk cappuccinos in summer).


There would be seasonal products galore, as much locally produced stuff as I could lay hands on.  One of the ideas that I like most is having a parfumier who would come in toward the end of each season to produce custom scents for my clients for the upcoming quarter.  Perhaps a day scent and an evening scent for fall, composed in early August and delivered before the solstice.  


The shop would also be a place where men could "hang out." Something like the old-school barbershop, but with more of an open-door policy for women, because, while the shop would cater to men, I firmly believe that a real man should always make the people around him feel welcome and comfortable, regardless of gender.  Thus would the shop be the venue for all manner of soirée, always with a theme revolving around some aspect of the best life.  


Someday I may have such a shop.  If I do, you should expect an invitation to come and have a cappuccino on me, sit back, read the paper and listen to the music.  Maybe you'll find something you (or a man in your life) can't live without.  

Haiku

10.8.10

1
the chance to break free
came and went without notice
left crippled with doubt


2
mountain breeze lifts me
above the scurrying crowds
the peak is just there


3
forest floor needles
cushions for weary ramblers
in shadows’ embrace


4
tongue-tied, tripping fool
the girl that loved you took flight
with her went your heart


5
shadow’s true depth plumbed
I find a self forgotten
buried in chaos

Lament

10.6.10

Some experiences light up your life with a level of intensity that is disproportionate to their real importance, and then they fade. Often the fade happens quickly, and without a lot of warning. Relative to the brightness you experience during the height of their glow, the darkness that accompanies the fade seems very deep, indeed. After a time, you realize that your life is really no darker than it was before the flare; the experience that burned so intensely, though it left an imprint on your soul’s retina, did not forever alter your ability to perceive all of the other light sources around. As the darkness abates, you can look back on the experience fondly, if with a tinge of regret. Appreciate your moments in that glow, and go on.

Why I Don't Get Drunk at Work Functions

Why I Don’t Get Drunk at Work Functions



In the spirit of full disclosure, I will admit from the very beginning that I am not a heavy drinker by any rational measure. I am, however, especially reticent about drinking with co-workers.

I often wonder what my co-workers think of me when we are at a function and I do not join them in drinking to excess. I know how I feel when I see them getting ever-more inebriated, louder, less inhibited, more inclined to flirt in what I (and most people) would consider wildly inappropriate ways. I know that I will have to talk to these same people (often the next day), and in some cases offer them guidance or execute some form of disciplinary action related to their work – the effectiveness of which would surely be diminished by them having seen my infamous karaoke version of “Sir Psycho Sexy.”

So I opt to either a) not drink at all; or b) drink very judiciously. The aspect of this practice that might be considered ironic is that I tend not to be a boisterous drunk. I am the classic example of alcohol amplifying one’s personality, rather than changing it; which is to say that I get even more reserved and pedantic.

Alas, I think that alienating my coworkers with a lengthy, drunken, half-correct dissertation on the relative merit of Supply-Side Economics or American Foreign Policy Blunders of the Cold War Era is, ultimately, no better than alienating them with unwanted sexual advances.

So I don’t get drunk at work functions. Let them think me stodgy, at least they will still respect me in the morning.

The Father

He stood in the doorway of her room, looking around. He wanted to imbibe the details in full, to not let anything pass his notice. The carpet could use replacing, the walls painting, he thought. In the shaft of sunlight filtering through the blinds dust motes danced and turned, in fact there was a fine layer of dust on every available surface. She hadn't made her bed. He had tried to get her to make her bed each morning, but she never did. Her bookshelves looked like hell. He thought about his library, with the perfectly organized titles, priceless first editions he had never opened, everything perfectly in order and sterile, unused. Her bookshelves were the bookshelves of a true bibliophile. Chaotic, the books' spines wrinkled and broken from being opened and closed so frequently. She was a true lover of books, not for the sake of the book, but for the words inside. Her desk was, likewise, a study in disorder. Papers, pens, more books...her iPod. He wondered what she was listening to now. The posters on her wall were dated, beginning to fade, promoting bands he figured she hadn't listened to in years.

You might be tempted to think that, after standing in that same spot each of the last four thousand one hundred and twenty one mornings, recounting in his mind the same details, considering the same questions, he might be satisfied with the answers provided. You might be tempted to think that he would have accepted the reality that she was never coming home. He just couldn't bring himself to let his daughter go.