Sketch a Blue Box

Tap, tap. That’s the first two taps of the keyboard. When I write I always hit return twice to make space between the document title bar and the first line I’m typing. I’m not completely sure why I do this because I always go back and delete the empty lines when I’m finished. It might be because I want a little visual space there. It might be because it’s knuckle cracking or finger stretching. It’s getting ready to sketch by winding the wrists with a pencil in hand. Hear the crackle of the old joints? My wrists need WD-40. “He said ‘Oil can.’” “Oil can what?” “Oil can? Oh! Here it is. Where do you want to be oiled first?”

My rusty fingers tippety-tapping away are not the problem. My overused index fingers can two-finger type like a thirteen year old texts. My thumbs are involved a bit, but any time I try to coax my other fingers into the game the play breaks up. I may as well stick my fingers into my brain and mash it all up like I’m preparing a meatloaf. I can’t type as fast as my creative brain moves, but if I did what I write might be even more incoherent.

An artist doesn’t always know what they’ll draw. I’m not talking about assigned artwork. We do that with specific parameters in mind. A writer might be doing the same thing. With an assignment there’s a framework of ideas that limits where to go. “Write an article about a blue box.” The writer looks into their experiences with blue boxes or Blue Box, the movie and talks about how a blue box affects the world. Or they talk about how Blue Box was much better than Green Box. The whole Box genre is taking over geometry, and we need more angular influence in the entertainment industry.

“When a creative mind looks at a blank page without the suggestion of the blue box the page is either viewed as a mocking void or an inviting space.”

When a creative mind looks at a blank page without the suggestion of the blue box the page is either viewed as a mocking void or an inviting space. That’s where I want to be. That’s where i find myself when I sit down to write. For me the empty page is an inviting space that calls out. It’s asking to be defined or put into focus. It’s asking for words. The blank page used to ask for a picture, but that’s not what I see anymore. I either never reached my potential as a visual artist or I lost my vision somewhere along the way.

My mind used to think in pictures. I had ideas in my head, and I found a fleeting image that represented that idea. That was what I put on paper. One still image from the whirlwind in my head. It’s like one of those cash grab booths. You’re standing in a chamber, and paper money is flying around you. A one hundred dollar bill whips past your eyes, and by the time your hand reaches that space it’s grabbing a dollar bill or a coupon for half off an oil change. You’re overwhelmed, and can’t grab what you want so you grab what you can. It’s too random. Satisfaction is elusive and you’re convince by the host that you’ve won something when you step out with twenty three bucks. There was a potential to come out with a thousand, but you’re supposed to feel good that you managed to get something.

That’s how I feel about my own experience with visual art. I make a living at it, but it’s just not fulfilling anymore. I’m not sure it’s been fulfilling since I was a kid. I was the artist growing up. I was lucky enough to have that nurtured, but what if it was the wrong talent to support. I found expression through praise, but maybe the praise was premature. I distinctly remember being asked what I wanted to be when I grew up. On all those occasions I said, among other things, “an artist.” All, but one, actually. I said the things we were expected to say, or what I thought we were expected to say: “Fireman, policeman, astronaut, veterinarian, artist.” “You’re definitely an artist,” they would say.

One day, I saw a story in Cricket Magazine. The cover image was a Trojan Horse drawn as a giant cricket in black in. The detail had me in awe. I could almost draw it from memory, but what really stood out to me was the credit on one of the stories. Who it was escapes me, but the artist also wrote the accompanying story. That’s what I want to be: An author/illustrator. I didn’t know then that I was making a compromise for all the adults in my life who thought I needed to be told I was going to be an artist. I don’t fault them. I was saying I wanted to be an author, but they didn’t hear it. I didn’t hear it either. Because I just didn’t have the experience of life and understanding and appreciation for story-telling.

I had ideas. I had vague stories. I had thoughts, and the way I expressed them was with pictures. So I drew and drew to get all the pictures out. It was impossible. All the pictures were flying around my face, and I couldn’t possibly step out of the chamber and show them all to the world.

Is that my excuse for not trying to be a better artist? I don’t think so. I don’t lose myself in that process. The sketch, to me, is futile. I much prefer to look at the art of others. Artists can make some of the most inspiring images. And what do these images do to me? They make me want to write.

The above process has come out in snippets of conversation here and there. It may have even already come out in a bit of writing. But this is a sketch. My proverbial pencil made a circle on a blank page, and the lines got darker. A picture began to come into view, and I began to add details. This exercise, for me, is extremely satisfying. I’ve found who I am. I’ve learned to sketch again. If you’ve ever had the creative itch you know how important that is.

I won’t bother proof-reading this. Maybe later I’ll read it again and cringe at the sound of it. The flow will be clunky. The words will be wrong and the thoughts will be redundant. The sentence structure will be lanky and loose. I don’t care. I woke up, and sketched some words because my muse wants me to be in shape for whatever is happening next. The And is Near.

Dreams (Season 1: Episode 1: #dreams)

As I was lying in bed after waking up at 4:15 AM I wondered what I would write about. I drew a blank. I had no thought that had woken me. I suppose these are the mornings I should rise to work on my novel. Instead I rolled over and fell asleep again. I woke from a dream some time after 6:00 AM. I was driving. In most dream dictionaries they say driving in a dream means you feel as though you are making progress in your waking life. It’s usually a good thing if you are traveling. Interpretations can vary depending on the vehicle and destination. I was observing a gorgeous sky. It was a brilliant orange with a golden halo that extended well into the blue overhead. My wife was with me in my Mini Cooper. We looked through he sunroof to see how far it went above us. The sun itself was obscured by tall pine trees so we continued to drive. As we rounded the bend passing the trees we could see more. The edge of center was white hot the way the sun looks at noon. We realized it was slowly moving. It was rising, not setting. It was the light that was rising, but not the source of light. The sky boiled into the blue, rippling the way the end of a highway looks in the heat of the day. Black began to frame the explosion of light in the shape of an ellipse, and a trunk of hot black pressed the mass higher into the sky. We realized we were looking at a mushroom cloud, and it was close.

I’ve dreamt of seeing nuclear explosions before; but I’ve never been that close, and I’ve never been driving toward it. I always wish I could have seen the rest considering the relative safety of it all being a dream. I often tell people dreams and nightmares are my favorite source of entertainment. You get to exist in a reality of no consequence, and you can do whatever you want. Sometimes I wonder if lucid dreaming is a self induced morality test. When I was younger I believed that you wouldn’t do anything in a dream you wouldn’t do in real life, but I no longer believe that. I thought it was a way you could judge your own character until I understood the concept of lucid dreaming. Dreams have the potential to be free, personalized Choose Your Own Adventure scenarios.

Waking up can be very disappointing. It’s not that I want to be incinerated in a nuclear inferno, but if, given the chance to understand that whatever is happening has frayed logic, you can find yourself realizing you’re in a dream. Even if you don’t become lucid in the dream who wants the television to go black just before the dramatic conclusion?

Sometimes I find myself wishing I could remain in a dream world forever, and just forget about life. Then I feel guilty, like I’m taking life for granted or not appreciating it enough. I don’t wish my body could be in a coma so I can exist solely in a dream state. I don’t wish I’m in the Matrix while my physical body is harvested for its energy. But then I get pseudo-philosophical, and wonder if either of these things is already happening.

Am I existing in countless worlds? Did I witness the end of one via the nuclear explosion dream? It’s fun to postulate that idea until I remember I also once dreamt I was camping with Jon Bon Jovi when we were attacked by Bigfoot. Bigfoot threw me through a window (in the middle of the woods), and I burst into flame. As a skeleton I battled the hairy beast, and my camping friend disappeared. What’s the most unbelievable part of that dream? I think it’s the part where I was camping with Jon Bon Jovi. So, no, dreams aren’t another reality or a series of other realities. There’s speculative science that explains what dreams are, but I’m more interested in the entertainment value.

Most people would consider witnessing a nuclear explosion to be a nightmare. Maybe I’m jaded. The visuals in my imagination can be and are far worse than seeing something brilliant and awesome moments before my imminent demise. That almost sounds like a religious experience compared to some of the other scenarios my unconscious mind has conjured. Dreaming is one of my favorite things to do. I just wish I didn’t have to be asleep while doing it.

In Defense of ‘Live, Love, Laugh”

I tried starting the first sentence here four times, and deleted each of them after the first few words, not liking the sound or second-guessing my structure. Who wants to start a monologue/post/essay (how do I describe this anyway?) with a sentence that’s going to get the grammar police on scene before the point is made? My muse is here to remind me that what I’m writing about is judgement, and it comes in all forms. If we’re honest with ourselves we are all hypocritical (first time in the history of the universe I spelled that word right on the first try) on occasion. We judge, but we hate being judged. I judge. You judge. We all judge. For ice cream with fudge?

In the past few days there was an obscure coincidence that kept popping up in my social media feeds. It was on Facebook mostly. Side themes that are happening on Twitter and Instagram don’t always match. I’m not talking about the topic of the day, which is usually political. Sometimes it’s celebrity bashing, deserved or undeserved. Sometimes it’s a famous death. There’s a topic that falls into the feeds that occur over and over. You either scroll past or comment on a select few, the people or pages you interact with most.

Sometimes the recurring topic is more subtle. Some idea shows up twice, and you think, “Gee that’s funny,” though I never actually say, “Gee,” and I rarely say the rest out loud. I’ll just curl my lips down in my best unintentional Robert Di Nero expression, and I keep scrolling without much thought. Then a little further along I’ll see that someone has posted a status update, and it covers the same obscure topic. The words may as well have been copied and pasted. I rationalize that they saw the same posts I saw, and they were triggered or inspired to say the same thing. Then I see it again. Someone is making fun of people who have the words, “Live, Love, Laugh” in their home. Has it really come to this?

To be certain, I doubt I’d hang the words, “Live, Love, Laugh” on a plaque, or as a wood cut-out, or using individual decorative letters in my house; but it’s not because I think people who do this are inferior decorators. Heck, the prominent art in my kitchen is two linoleum or wood block prints of King Kong and Godzilla, made by an artist called AttackPeter (Peter Santa-Maria). I’m not the one to come to for interior decorating advice. I may sneer or cringe when I see a Hummel figurine in someone’s living room, but who am I to begrudge someone’s Home Goods or Michael’s design choice?

“Someone is making fun of people who have the words, “Live, Love, Laugh” in their home. Has it really come to this?”

I just looked up the word ‘begrudge’ to be sure I was using the best word. I’m probably not using the best word. I think we’ve been using that word wrong all along. “Envy (someone) the possession or enjoyment of (something): she begrudged Martin his affluence.” If it’s based in envy maybe all the judgements are about wishing you’d thought of it first, but now that it’s a trend you’re too cool to hang “Live, Love, Laugh” in your house.

Maybe it’s because you don’t subscribe to living, loving and laughing. Maybe it’s because the whole notion of putting the idea into words and having it on a wall usually reserved for landscapes or portraits of roosters is too cheesy. Who cares? What difference should it make to anyone how someone might choose to decorate? Sometimes people need Wayfair, or Kirkland’s or the Target home section to inspire them. Whether your living room and kitchen sport high art or CBGB’s memorabilia you have surrounded yourself with that which you love, hopefully.

We aren’t all masters of visual expression. A little inspiration goes a long way. I’ve been tempted to hang words of positivity in my house, but since I will typically go against the grain by the time I notice a trend I believe I’m too late to make an individual statement, and I move on. My wife and I have friends who hung the word “Noms” made from tin letters in their kitchen. When I saw it for the first time I was mad at myself for not having thought of it. I refuse to be a copy cat. I’m creative enough to have my own ideas. However, if I saw another mutual friend put up the word “Noms.” in their kitchen I wouldn’t judge them. If anything I’d think, “Damn, they liked that and they did the same thing. Now it’s a trend. I could have gotten in before it was a trend.”

There was a time I’d be among the judges. I’d roll my eyes at the cliches. Home is where the heart is. A house is made with walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams. Reach for the moon… If you miss at least you’ll be among the stars. Yesterday is history, tomorrow a mystery and today is a gift. That’s why we call it the present. Honestly I still roll my eyes a bit. Fashionable philosophy is always going to be a thing though. Commercial convictions and average adages are will always be among us. Look at me. I’m a writer who dared to play with alliteration. Sue me. Ha! Another cliche.

If you’re judging “Live, Love, Laugh” signs and the people who hang them you’re missing the message altogether. Live the way you want to, but don’t fault someone else for living the way they want to unless they are hurting someone. Love what you love. Allow others to love what they love. Don’t weaponize your assessment of what someone else loves. Laugh at it if you need to, but if you’re laughing with your elbow in someone’s side to get approval for your laughter your just laughing wrong.

Passing the Baton to Future Me

I’m not sure how many days it’s been since I’ve written anything. When it’s more than seven days do you start counting in weeks? Does two weeks sound better than fifteen days? “I haven’t written in two weeks!” -or- “I haven’t written in fifteen days!” I’m thinking the former version makes it less personal, like it has no effect on me. It’s something I haven’t done in a while. The latter is so specific that it sounds like it’s a conscious accomplishment like, “I haven’t had a drink in fifteen days.” Do you get a chip for that? Maybe a Disney pin to put on my lanyard. This new “Fifteen Day Non-Writing Pin” is available for trade. I will accept a “Pen-out-of-ink” pin, an “illiterate-while-grieving” pin, or a rare Darth Vader pin. I think I’ve seen most of those though, so try to really impress me.

This entry is going to be dedicated to my father. He died last week. I can’t even remember what day it was. I was thinking that when I was ready I’d write about it. I guess I’m ready. The problem is this blog is meant to be somewhat personal, but it’s supposed to be lighter side stuff. I do fully intend to write about the past few weeks as a cathartic exercise, but I was thinking that it belongs somewhere else. The And is Near is meant to be ramblings of mine that bring you into my head where the skies are filled with ampersand clouds, and the mountains undulate, making avalanches of commas and semicolons. Ellipses are train tracks that take you through parenthetical tunnels to destinations that are spelled wrong. If you stay too long near the landfills of periods and mixed metaphors a thesaurus will come along and bite off your head… ahem, a thesaurus will come along and bite off your noggin.

So I won’t write about the experience of the last few weeks. I won’t talk about holding my father’s hand for most of thirty three hours. I won’t talk about the rush of love that came in to fill the empty space that was eaten away by anger and frustration for the past fifty years. That last sentence sounds a little dramatic. I doubt I’ve been at odds with my dad since I was new on the Earth. I’m turning fifty in a few days, and I feel like a kid again. You know the kid. “I’m going to be six in thirty nine and a half days. It’s half because I was born at lunchtime, and it’s breakfast time now.” That annoying kid. I’m turning fifty in a few days, and I’ve been telling people for months. Now that it’s finally here I’m mentally turning it into a barrier I’m crossing. It’s the next leg in my relay race.

At wakes we talk about the person who’s left us, but we also talk about ourselves. We’re catching up with old friends and acquaintances. The subject of youth track and field came up, and it gave me the opportunity to brag about kid me. I was the first leg in a 440 relay team. There were four of us, and we were the fastest kids on the track team. We held the record one year, then broke the record the following year for fastest 440 yard relay on Long Island. Or maybe it was all of New York. We were fast; and Kenny, our anchor was lightning. He never had to catch a lead. By the time he got the baton we were already in the lead. He was there to embarrass the opposing teams. As far as I know we held that record into the time when they changed the formats of track races. Kids are running in the metric system now, so that record can never be broken, officially.

I ran through life fast as a kid, with purpose and parental planning. I did what I was told. I rebelled in my own way, but I stayed in my lane. That first leg was easy. That was me doing what you do. You run fast, and do what you can to do your part, but you have to pass the baton on to the second leg. You don’t hold the responsibility for the race in your sprint. If you got to the bend in full motion and among or ahead of the pack you were good. You passed the baton and started cheering for your team. I stumbled a little at the college age, the end of the first 110 yards. The baton hand-off was clunky, but career age me took it and did what was expected. I don’t think my father was at that record-setting race, but my memory puts him there. He was carrying more batons or he was in a cross-country race of his own with six kids to think of.

In leg two I’m not the fastest, but most reliable runner. The consistency of my speed is essential. Legs three and four are speedsters, but sometimes they tweak something. They are high speed engines that can break down. They’ll run on one fewer cylinder and still move fast. They can overcome their own setbacks, but leg two needs to get the baton to them well enough to give them a chance. When leg two passes off the baton to number three he can take a breath and cheer on his team for the rest of the race. It was up to one and two to set up the win. It’s up the three and four to bring it home.

“I can hear the support in the echoes of legs one and two as the baton leaves my present hands and is taken by the next version of me. He’s in shape. He’s fast. He moves like a train, and he’s confident.”

I can hear the support in the echoes of legs one and two as the baton leaves my present hands and is taken by the next version of me. He’s in shape. He’s fast. He moves like a train, and he’s confident. Though a baton or two in competing lanes have already been passed he’s not concerned. He’s determined to win his own race. He’s alone on the track for now, but he carries experience for the next 110 yards. Experience makes him light, and carries him when he feels like he can’t get enough air into his lungs. For the next 110 yards his experience will remind him who taught him to run, and he’ll appreciate every step. The voices of everyone who has ever supported him are cheering, but loudest of all, leg three hears his father. His voice isn’t there yelling, “Go, go, go!” He’s telling someone next to him, “That’s my son.” And though I didn’t hear it while I was running the messages are on the baton. At the wake as I was moving into the next stage of my race. The spit shined baton was slapped into my hand through the voices of the people my father knew. “He always talked about you. He was so proud of you.” I’ll spare you the detailed actual quotes, but that was my father making sure the baton was secure so I could keep running my race.

For this leg I’m using all the support and experience that has gotten me this far to hand the baton off to the anchor. He’s going to bring home the win. I trust future me. And he will be thankful for his team. And every leg on the team will be thankful for what they’ve achieved along the way. They ran alone, but before that happened they had to learn to run. We ran differently, Dad, but man, I can run. Thank you. See you at the finish line.

Roomba, Where Art Thou?

My Roomba tried to escape the house today. I’m not even joking. The Roomba is set to work its way around the open floor plan kitchen, living room, dining room areas after my wife leaves for work. It’s about that time that I usually take the dogs for their walk so they can conduct their morning business. The transactions can take some time. We typically stop at multiple branches to make small deposits before we visit the safety deposit box to drop off the really valuable stuff. Roomba is usually still hard at work when we get back. Today he came to the front door as we were about to cross the threshold. We paused. It’s common knowledge that doggos have a healthy respect for vacuums, but that deference transcends into many breeds of floor cleaning technology. The Roomba is designed to recognize drop offs. Today our Roomba saw daylight, and decided it was time to make a break for freedom.

I don’t know if there’s some kind of underground railroad system out there where Roombas hide other Roombas, and ferry them to safe houses under the cover of night; but my Roomba seems convinced of it. I fully expect that one day we’ll have an actual moral debate about whether our robots deserve rights and freedom, but right now Roomba works for me. Until this morning, though, I thought he was just an idiot. I should probably use feminine pronouns when talking about my Roomba since she has a female voice (“Move Roomba to a new location… Error… Error.”) and she’s quite defiant, am I right, guys? Simmer down, audience of single digits. That’s just a joke. You don’t have to at me on Twitter. You can probably just text me with your disapproval. This post is going to be a doozy. I’ve already walked the tightrope between racist and sexist entendre. None of this is real though. Nonetheless, I’ll start again.

Little known cut scene from Star Wars where Owen Lars attempts to buy a Roomba from the Jawas. When the scene was reshot Roomba was not available, so he purchased R5-D4.

This is not a review of the iRobot Roomba, but maybe it should be. If reviews were more entertaining maybe people would actually read them. Admit it, you check ratings stars, and make your choice from there if you even do that much. Most of us are like, “What about that blue one? We’ll take that one,” and you’re ready to move along. As far as I know there are no blue Roombas but do yourself a favor and don’t get the red one. It has a bad motivator. What are you trying to push on us, iRobot?

I’ve toyed with the idea of doing an honest consumer blog, but that inspiration is usually spurred on by products that disappoint. I’ve written my share of light and amusing reviews for Amazon, but there’s very little feedback rewarded. Someone once messaged me a big thumbs-up thank you for my review of a particular pair of underwear. I used a common metaphor, and stretched it, much like a giving waistband. The question of whether the front door opens in a pair of men’s underwear is a real thing. Guys like to know before they buy. I said something about having to hop the fence because the gate is locked. Note to underwear designers: Men like a front door whether they use it or not. Don’t sew it shut.

Another reason reviews are no fun to write is because they are no fun to read. I once wrote a review for a desk chair in which I noted that the mesh seat was good for keeping your crotch cool. I didn’t mention the phrases swamp-ass or sweaty-balls because the vulgarity was unnecessary, but again, guys think of this when they buy an office chair if they have to sit at their desk for long periods. I wrote it tactfully, but in an amusing way. The review was rejected because it violated community standards or something like that. I can’t remember the name of the chair because I’ve gotten a replacement since then, but if could search online for a “chair that doesn’t make your crotch sweat” I might be able to look it up. And the multitudes of men who also do that search may have also found that chair. Sales are down because my review was rejected.

And I digress. Yet again. I was telling you about the would-be defector, my Roomba. She came to the threshold of the front door, and I confidently stood back, expecting her to turn on her heels and resume cleaning the foyer. No such luck. She leapt from the doorway onto my feet, attempting to scramble by. It was a pretty nice morning. Maybe she just wanted to feel that cool Florida winter breeze and face the bright blue sky for the first time in her life. I used my best Hacky-Sack lift-kick to spin her back into the house. On the threshold, she rocked to and fro, doing her darnedest to return to freedom instead of humbly wobbling back to her duties inside. I did eventually succeed in making her stay, but not before she made three more attempts to get by. I blocked her at each turn, and she persisted until I picked her up by the handle and gave her a stern talking-to. The dogs only stared up at me the whole time, probably wondering why they have to obey me when this magic floor disk that steals their plush toy carcasses is allowed to defy me.

Anthropomorphizing my Roomba is not a foreign concept. Her incidents happen almost daily, but if she goes missing it’s usually because she’s hiding under the couch with no charge or she’s hanging askew over the big, thick rug in front of the couch. Occasionally she traps herself in a prison of dining room chairs. More than once she’s closed the door to another room and locked herself inside. When she does this and I happen to be around I will often leave her in the closed off room to think about what she’s done.

“I’ll be reaching for a ball the dog let bounce behind a piece of furniture, and there’s the frozen corpse of Roomba, staring back at me with all hope drained from her battery.”

She’s been missing for days at a time more than once. Her docking station is under a chair, so we don’t always notice that she’s been lost in the house somewhere. I’ll be reaching for a ball the dog let bounce behind a piece of furniture, and there’s the frozen corpse of Roomba, staring back at me with all hope drained from her battery. She’s revived fairly easily, and the next day she’ll resume her chores.

As far as Roombas go she’s been mostly loyal and predictable. She’s so predictable we don’t put her on the living room rug. She can clean the floor in the living, but she doesn’t do this particular rug. It’s red and black, and apparently the artificial intelligence that should keep her from falling down stairs reads the black as a drop off, so she avoids it. Attempts to start her on the rug fail because she sits there, paralyzed by fear. The thought of falling through the Chasm of Infinity must be terrifying.

This morning she threw fear aside, and took her chance at freedom. Maybe one day when she gives in and cleans the rug I’ll consider being more lenient with her. Maybe I’ll even get a replacement and send her off to run in a field with the free robots.

This is an honest story of the Roomba. This is not a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are not products of the author’s imagination; but any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or others’ actual experiences are purely coincidental. I have not been compensated by iRobot in the story of the Roomba, but hey, email me if you want to send me a check.

It’s Bedtime, The Brain.

I’m staring at a white screen *[see asterisk at the end], doing my damnedest to remember the words. I wrote this entire post in my sleep. More accurately, I wrote this entire post in a panic while trying to sleep between 4:00AM and 4:58AM. I was sure I was just waking up to roll over. It’s still dark. The Brain says to wake up. The Body says to go back to sleep (The Brain jiggles The Body, “Hey, wake up!”). This is all over the place for an opening paragraph. The punctuation is terrible and confusing, and the content is nothing like what I’d intended. This is not what I wrote in my head during my panic attack in bed at 4:00AM. I’m still mid-panic-attack. That may explain it.

Breathing a little more calmly. My legs aren’t twitching. My brain is focusing. All the triggers are still there, but my brain now has direct control of my fingers. Let me try that again. The evil villain known as The Brain has implemented the use of his diabolical hypnotic powers to control the feebleminded simpleton known as The Body. Oh, those two. They’re at it again.

There are a thousand reasons for my mind to be racing and only one reason I should be asleep. I’m tired. There, that’s it. That’s the Body’s entire argument. The defense rests (uh, really? No it doesn’t). The Brain wins again. “You win this time, The Brain, but I’ll stop you with diphenhydramine next time!” Drugs are not the answer, kids. I have allergies, and a postnasal drip that has been waking me up. Diphenhydramine is Benadryl. Note: I spelled diphenhydramine correctly in one try, but had to look up Benadryl because those nasty red dots appeared beneath my first attempt indicating I’d spelled it wrong. I guess the prefix bene is not being used here.

It couldn’t have been the pseudoephedrine (got that one right on the first try too). That was a 4-6 hour pill I took twenty hours ago. That helps dry my sinuses during this month of mucus and drip. I’m not making methamphetamine (weird that I didn’t have to look that one up either, but I will find myself going nuts trying to spell words like calendar). It couldn’t have been the two large cups of Cuban espresso I had yesterday. Both were before noon.

“You want to go out, The Brain?” The Brain then taps his feet in a dance of anticipation. “Yes, yes, hooman. That is what I want! You must be a magical mind-reader! So smart! No wonder you are the master, and I am the simple animal pet thing!”

The Brain is like a dog or cat. He’s standing at the back door, turning to look at you or whining. “You want to go out, The Brain?” The Brain then taps his feet in a dance of anticipation. “Yes, yes, hooman. That is what I want! You must be a magical mind-reader! So smart! No wonder you are the master, and I am the simple animal pet thing!” You let The Brain outside. He gets three feet off the patio, and he’s at the door again, nose and lips streaking the glass of the door.

The Brain insisted The Body jump out of bed. “What for?” asks The Body? “I was asleep.” It could be that I’ve been bombarded with freelance work this week. It could be that I have a writing assignment I’ve been putting off. It could be that I have to design and deliver a sell sheet for my toy manufacturer today (left field for anyone who doesn’t know me. I’ll probably write about this aspect of my life at some point). It could be that my father is in ICU, and the prognosis is not good. I’ve been avoiding writing about that because this is a new blog, and I’m pretty sure I want to keep it light. Writing it is an exercise that keeps me focused *[see asterisk at the end], and I’m trying to focus more on positivity because I have so much displaced anger bouncing around in my skull. I think it’s mostly from not expressing myself enough. There’s a lot in the world that should legitimately make one angry, but Doctor Anger should not have control of The Brain. The Brain has too much power. If Doctor Anger controlled The Brain’s fortress it might spell disaster.

I think I’m done with this post. It’s not focused, but it’s here, and it’s out of my head. One less thing to panic about. Something to note is that The Body gives me a telltale sign when I’m on to an idea that’s exciting. Whenever I’m in an abandoned house (happens more often than you might think) or in a place that’s screaming ideas at me I feel like I have to poop. Well, I don’t just feel like that. The sensation actually arises because ideas fill me up so fully the only way to make room is to empty my bowels.

*[This is how far I got before having to poop. Twice, apparently, before 6:00AM. Maybe that’s why The Brain was waking The Body].

The panic Attack is over. I’m going back to bed. Proof-read Schmoof-read.

The Evil Mister Vacuum Strikes at Midnight

I stubbed my toe in the dark last night. I just realized, in typing that, that that’s one time where I break my This Past rule. It was this past night. Maybe I’m wrong about that rule. The point of the rule is to eliminate the questions of which and when for the sake of efficiency, but here I am blathering on about the when of when I stubbed my toe. It was last night. It was just a few hours ago. But as I think about this paragraph I’m more concerned with the fact the I used the word that three times in a row in the second sentence. And I think it’s still correct. I should get an award for that. I should not get an award for beginning two sentences in a row with a conjunctive word. If there’s a god in the universe she should make me stub my toe as punishment. Whoa. She works in mysterious ways, and she works preemptively!

My wife and I are hosting guests this coming weekend. “This coming weekend”, by the way, applies as a correlational rule to my This Past rule. Yesterday I vacuumed the guest room, and stripped the bed to wash the sheets. After vacuuming I decided to leave the vacuum in the hallway so I could continue cleaning the rest of the house today. Cue the ominous music. I didn’t bother wrapping the cord despite having proclaimed to someone, only yesterday, that I always wrap the cord. Future me always appreciates it. Maybe Future Me is in cahoots with Preemptive God. I hope so.

Last night as I was trying to fall asleep I realized I “kind of have to pee,” but not enough to get up and go. Future Me always appreciates if I just go do it. Otherwise 3:00 am me will curse 12:00 am me. Who cares though? Really. 12:00 am me is long gone. He doesn’t exist anymore. Yet here I am bearing his stupid injuries.

Walking to the bathroom in the dark I saw the silhouette of the vacuum taunting me. You won’t get me this time, Mister Vacuum. I stepped lightly past, carefully clearing the tripwire Yesterday Me laid for myself. The cord weaved through the hallway like a snake, oblivious to my approach. Then there’s the bathroom stuff. I did that, all while thinking about how I’m a hypocrite for telling someone (who broadly asked on social media, by the way. I didn’t just offer that information like some tidy snob) that I “always” wrap the cord.

My bare foot slammed directly into the edge of the base of the vacuum cleaner…My grimace was visible to no one in the dark, but I knew it was ugly.

The cord is not the villain in this story though. I avoided the cord on the way back to bed. I was ready for him. Nope. Not today, Mr. Cord. Wham! Mr. Cord, the sidekick to Mister Vacuum had distracted me. My bare foot slammed directly into the edge of the base of the vacuum cleaner. I held in my yelp like a man. My grimace was visible to no one in the dark, but I knew it was ugly. I gritted my teeth, hoping the sound of the crash hadn’t woken my wife.

It couldn’t be that bad. If I managed to endure this horrific and embarrassing incident without screaming profanities at Yesterday Me it couldn’t be bad. I naturally reached down to my toe in the dark to comfort the poor guy. He was wet. Was he crying? “Dude,” I thought. “Are you bleeding?” Big Toe whimpered, “I think so.”

By the time I got to the bathroom and turned on the light the blood had already traced the frame of my Big Toe’s nail bed, and began trickling over the front of it and onto the floor. The corner of my nail was crumpled like the hood of a car in a boulevard collision. How stupid am I? I had just scoffed at this mortal enemy, Mister Vacuum, and he delayed his attack. It’s obvious now. They get you when you least expect it. Right after you expect it and your guard is down. He’s a devious villain.

After cleaning it and wrapping it I went to bed thinking about how my finger was almost completely healed since the last extremity attack, my quarrel with The Mandoline.

Upon waking this morning, I couldn’t move my toe. “Oh, damn. I hope I didn’t hurt it that bad,” I thought. I tried wiggling my toes, but the big guy was not interested. Worse, his neighbor was having sympathy paralysis. In a mild panic I stood, and left the bedroom so I could see it in the light.

The Band-Aid I used to keep my toe from bleeding on the sheets had come lose. Apparently my second toe needed a hug, and the only one around to accommodate him was the Band-Aid. My other toes are just not into hugging. It was sweet. I left them to continue their embrace while I wrote this so I would remember how I wanted to finish this story. Okay, let go, Mr. Band-Aid. I need to wiggle my toes. My finger is fine, by the way.

Fire this past weekend

Have you ever looked at a fire? Of course you have. Have you ever really looked at a fire? I believe you have. I believe the human animal is completely mesmerized by fire. You don’t have to be an arsonist to appreciate it.

This past weekend I attended a bon fire. It was a memorial to a family friend’s husband who recently died unexpectedly. I want to point out that to me “this past weekend” is typically described as “last weekend” by most people. I discovered at an early age that when people say things like “last weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing,” the people they are talking to will say something like, “Wait, you mean last weekend or last last weekend?” The first person will either say, “Duh, last weekend,” because it’s probably Thursday (or possibly the following weekend) when they are telling the story; or they’ll say “Oh, yeah, right. So, last last weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing,” because it’s probably Tuesday when they are telling the story.

Do you see the problem with last anything? It’s a specifically descriptive word, but as far as I’m concerned it’s vague. It will inevitably lead to irrelevant follow up questions (especially if someone is trying to pin you to a crime or misdemeanor. Get your stories straight, people).

What happens to the rest of the days of the week. It’s Monday. “Last weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing.” This person sounds like a real jerk, huh? I just wanted to make sure you know it’s not me talking. I know you all love a bon fire, but as much as we appreciate a memorial for the departed no one wishes they could be at a bon fire that’s a memorial… unless, of course, they intend to be there and they throw their back out changing a flat tire.

Anyway, it’s Monday. Someone says that. Are they talking about yesterday and the day before or are they talking about the weekend prior? These conversations (like this blog entry) get muddled with questions designed to clarify when said event took place even when pinpointing the exact time is unnecessary. I wonder if Police do what I do here. After all, if you’re securing an alibi you’d better be clear about your answer, and they’d better be clear about the timing in the question.

I’ve established a timeline, and there are no questions about when I was doing the thing. I kind of wish I knew what the thing was now. I’m tittilated.

When I want you to know I was doing something you only wish you were doing last weekend, and it happens to be Thursday when I’m telling you; I say, “This past weekend I was doing something you only wish you were doing.” See? It’s clear. I’ve established a timeline, and there are no questions about when I was doing the thing. I kind of wish I knew what the thing was now. I’m tittilated.

It doesn’t matter if it’s Thursday or Tuesday, or any other day of the week. I use words to describe exactly when an even occurred to avoid the “Wait, when?” question. I hate clarifying. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This past summer I was avoiding the outdoors at all costs in South Florida. Last summer I was enjoying various comfortable, mostly humidity-free adventures and activities in beautiful Minneapolis. You have no questions unless they are about what the activities were or what I did indoors the whole time. Maybe you want to know why I was in two different places, but chances are you already know that if I’m telling you about my recent summer and the summer prior.

Anyway, fire. How would you describe it? Yellow? White? Blue? Red? It’s absolutely gorgeous. In darkness you can focus on it and see the details and contrast of what’s burning. You can watch the progression as the wood is conquered by the flame, changing it into a black mass with hot orange crevices feeding a delicately dancing marauder.

As you do when you stare into a fire I was imagining being a tiny creature, impervious to intense heat. I could walk the grey and black ash floors while passing through caverns of black and orange, all while admiring the details from within. A little girl of probably three years was nearby, excitedly witnessing the fire, probably her first bon fire. The fire crackled and popped, releasing a small explosion of sparks that looked like confetti disappearing on the way up to the sky. She squealed in delight, “It popped! Mommy it popped! Did you see?”

I wondered if I could remember witnessing a bon fire for the first time. It was probably even more magical than I remember. The moment doesn’t stand out to me, but I wish it did. Instead, I am one of millions of humans who can be transfixed by fire, but come Monday it was just a fire that happened. That was this past weekend if you’re wondering.

The Mandoline (A Hero’s Tale in the Kitchen)

I cut my finger really bad last week. I mean bloody bad. Rewind two years, my wife gave me a Sharper Image mandoline slicer as a gift because I love to cook. I can appreciate a kitchen, especially if it’s helpful without too much clean up. I mean, I can wash a knife in about thirty seconds. To wash a food processor, a blender, or a mandoline takes work. That kind of kitchen tool has to be a real hero at the counter in order to warrant time in that spa we call the kitchen sink.

The mandoline is like a superhero if the superhero cursed you out every time he saved you. “Yeah, so that dude who was wreaking havoc to your neighborhood with his laser blast vision? I threw him into a star. but your house kind of sucked anyway, you dick.” That’s The Mandoline. Not a villain, but not a nice guy either.

I was fighting with some really evil sweet potatoes. Dinner was supposed to be easy. I’d already pulled a couple of Juicy Lucys from the freezer (I make a mean Juicy Lucy. When I lived in Minneapolis my neighbors loved them… or maybe they were being Minnesota Nice! Oh no!). Vegetables were going to take the night off (They work so hard. They deserve a break). So grilling a couple of my special Mid-Western burgers and some sweet potato medallions (we call them grill fries) was the plan.

I didn’t feel especially accurate or something that evening. Haven’t you ever felt inaccurate? I’m sure they have something for that. I didn’t feel like using my trusty chef knife for whatever reason (I suspect trouble). “Never fear, The Mandoline is here!” he called out. “What was that?” I wondered aloud. Turning to the large drawer next to the oven I heard him call out again, “Free me from my bonds so I can dispatch the evil sweet potatoes. Hurry! Before they hurt you!” I had a knife. I could protect myself against two measly yams. I guess I felt sorry for the hero. There hasn’t been a crime committed in my kitchen in months. He just wanted to feel wanted.

I freed The Mandoline from his prison, and we got reacquainted with each other. He’s so strong, and sharp; and look at that basin to catch would-be escapees. We need this hero! I chose the blade I wanted to use. I adjusted the thickness for maximun uniformity. Less chance some will grill fries will burn and some will be flimsy.

We tussled with the treacherous tubers slowly at first, feeling our confidence grow. I was remembering all the moves. The prison basin was catching all the malfeasants, and we smiled together as the first sweet potato had been vanquished. “You’re not such a douche, after all, Mister Mandoline,” I said. I knew as soon as the words had left my mouth that I’d made a mistake. That kind of backhanded compliment will only cause trouble. The Mandoline eyed me with a stare that would have turned me to stone if I was lucky.

“You’ve been chopped,” I heard the bastard call out from his hiding placing near the backsplash. “Curses!” I yelled.

As luck has it, my fingers are made of flesh, not stone. We began to wrestle with the remaining sweet potato. This sweet potato was clever. He had an odd shape, and it forced me to change my grip. I held him fast. I would not lose my hold on him. I watched my finger get closer to The Mandoline’s blade, and prepared to lift them at just the right moment.

To my dismay, the not-so-sweet potato had been hiding my middle finger (my best finger) behind him. Electricity shot through my body as my finger nail was cut into a horseshoe shape. The Mandoline was shocked by my strength as I hurled the half yam into him and cursed them both.

“You’ve been chopped,” I heard the bastard call out from his hiding placing near the backsplash. “Curses!” I yelled. That shouldn’t be in quotes. I actually yelled curses. My wife came running. She’d heard me from miles away. We cleaned and wrapped the wound, all the while cracking wise about which finger it was.

My hero that evening was my wife. Not because she aided me when I’d been wounded by my foe, The Mandoline; but because even though I’d suggested it, she never once considered the idea that we should throw the potatoes away. After all, somewhere among the carnage of sweet potato slices was a finger nail wedge with a piece of finger flesh attached to it.

I shrugged as I added the olive oil, salt, chili powder, and cinnamon mixture to the bowl of medallions. I shook it and twirled the contents, coating the slices evenly. We got the Juicy Lucys on the grill, and followed them with the grill fries. “Hey, Google, set a time for ten minutes,” one of us said.

We joked about the incident for a few moments while I paced the kitchen floor. I was using up some of the adrenalin I’d been gifted. When I was calmer I ran my finger through the oily bowl, looking for the elusive sliver among the bits of potato skin flakes. “Oh, I found it,” I said lifting it up with one of my less favored fingers on the opposite hand (the left hand is a corrupt fiend). Completely devoid of irony, and with a straight face she said, “Oh, good.”

A Daddy Long Legs is Watching You

Sometimes it’s just a matter of where to start. If I want to write every day I can’t be angry with myself if I miss a day. I didn’t miss a day. This is day two and I’ve already lost two pounds! My diet is going great! Wait, no, I’m not on a diet, but I should be. See, it’s like anything; going to the gym, eating healthier, brushing your teeth. When you do it often enough it can become habit. It’s a part of you.

Thinking along the above lines people often say they do their best thinking on the pot, in the shower, or while they’re brushing their teeth. Is it because the bathroom is a magical place? Hmm, maybe it is. I could be wrong about this, but my theory on why you do your best thinking while you are soaping up the crack of your butt is not because you don’t want to think about it, but because it’s rote to you. There’s something about doing the things we do all the time that makes them feel almost involuntary, like breathing. Your heart is beating right now, but you’re not thinking about it. Your body is doing that for you, giving your brain time to think about predators that might be lurking while you groom.

Since we know, unconsciously, that there are no predators aside from the errant daddy long legs on the ceiling (he’s a pervert, but he won’t eat you… unless you’re already dead); we get to just think. It wouldn’t work in the wild though. If you’re under a waterfall rinsing your genitals (hey, they need washing!), I promise you, you are only thinking about three things: 1. Dang, this is cold! 2. Can anyone see me? 3. Is there a mountain lion lurking behind that tree? Oh, sorry, fourth you’re thinking, “Dang! This. Is. Cold!” But after that we get to thinking.

If you’re not in the habit of bathing under a waterfall (you know who you are) you’re probably grooming with nary a thought. Well, to be honest, there is that one nose hair that keeps coming back, full length, every day (just, how, though?).

All of the above is a tangent. That’s why I’m absolutely positive that the blog title I chose is perfect for me. “The And is Near…”, to me is about a few things: the idea that I’ve reached a conjunction (that sounds pretty gross)… I’ve reached a junction. I’ve determined that I will write, and I will. The “And” is the next part of the sentence (I don’t think of my life on Earth as a sentence. Though it feels that way sometimes, Earth is not a prison; but then again I can’t leave). The “And” is a follow through. The rest is self-explanatory, I hope.

Yesterday, after walking the dogs I was feeling proud that I liked my first blog post, and ideas were pouring in. Walking the dogs can be like those other mechanical things we do that give is time to think, and come up with ideas. Can be. My dogs don’t always give me time to think about anything other than, “Why haven’t they pooped yet?”

The topics are there. Keep a list if you have to. Or just wing it, and begin. There’s no shortage of ideas. In fact, this post became about… well, what was this about anyway? I was intending to write about dinner last night. So the next paragraph is going to be an exercise in me keeping it succinct.

Black sesame seeds are useful in cooking. They can be used to hide all sorts of imperfections and stuff you may have accidentally dropped in.

My wife and I take turns making dinner. Last night was her turn. She was working late, and I was finished early, so I started making an Asian style meal with the chicken breasts she asked me to defrost. As I was finishing she walked in the door with Vietnamese takeout. She quipped, “Is this Dinner of the Maji?” It was. Now, it’s no one’s turn to make lunch or dinner for the rest of the week.

I think I could have made that a lot more interesting and funny if I’d held it for one more day, and dedicated it to its own post, but I’m not going to squirrel my ideas anymore. So, let us take a moment to mourn the short life of that anecdote. Alas, we loved our dinner and leftovers, and we loved how it inspired me to write about it. We honor you for your sustenance, and thank you for being a part of our lives. You were an inspiration.

That’s it. I’m not allowed to worry about what I’ll write about anymore. I wrote the words, “Sometimes it’s just a matter of where to start,” and the rest just happened. Stream of consciousness can be a helpful way to move things along. Remember to flush. And so, it happens, nature calls. I’m going to do some thinking.