Reflection: Being Cordial

My wife and I were recently (like today) stuck in Santa Rosa, New Mexico on our way back to Arizona from Oklahoma. Due to inclement weather and adverse road conditions on the interstate, secondary and even tertiary roads, we decided to stick around this town and actually enjoy it. Versus jumping on the freeway just to sit, or getting on a state highway only to be faced with snowy and icy roads.

We encountered a lot of folks that lived in town, and the one thing that astounded me was that everyone, either directly or indirectly, was nice to us. I suppose I shouldn’t be as shocked about that as I am, but I can’t help it. I think it’s for a few different reasons…

(Cue my writing out the reasons in a convenient list, because well I share through writing, and I certainly don’t aim to leave you hanging.)

I live in a big town.

Phoenix is pretty damn huge. I can go most days never encountering the same people twice. I don’t walk into the QT everyday and talk to Marc behind the counter. He doesn’t ask how my morning’s been so far, I never ask about his kids, and I don’t dare bring up the fact that he spells his name wrong. I don’t see Sam buying his morning coffee everyday, nor Lena rushing in to grab a sandwich for lunch. The truth is based on traffic, I may stop at any number of convenience stores. As a result, instead of Marc, Sam and Lena, I may see Frank, Wendell and Hanna. Or I may not.

No Social Consequence.

This ties into the above as it relates to never having to see these people, Literally. Never. Again. If I decide to grab the last Hershey Gold bar before Sam can get to it (I would never do something like this by the way, but it serves its purpose for illustration), he may give me a dirty look, he may even cuss me, but both of those responses would be both justified and rare. Frank may be pissed, but he will likely go on about his day without calling out my selfish action. This means that I get what I want, while inconveniencing a total stranger. Therefore, I never have to see that person again, or deal with their presumed retaliation / response.

Time is a luxury.

Or it seems to be. The fact that I don’t stop and chat with Marc, isn’t personal- it can't be-because I do not know him in the slightest. Realistically speaking though, that early morning QT stop is just the latest in a long line of things to get done in the day. All these things have a timeline attached to them, which means Marc (despite having the potential to be my newest and greatest BFF) gets overlooked. Every hour of my day is already earmarked, and Marc didn’t get penciled into the schedule. This is sad, because I (and I don’t think I’m alone in this) only minimally see Marc as even being human most days. He’s just a button, one that gets pressed so that I get my morning energy drink.

Don’t Get Me Wrong.

Now for those of you that actively label yourself a “people person” you very well could be reading this and thinking, Wow this guy is an asshole! Admittedly, I can be, no denying that. In crowds I’m socially inept, in groups I can be socially off-putting, and one-on-one (save for those that I am closest with) I can be socially awkward. All that being said, don’t misunderstand what I’m saying. I am nice to my those hat fill the peripheral space off my life and do actively listen to what they say and even engage them in conversation.

What to do?

I don’t rightfully know at this point, not exactly anyway. However, I am a firm believer that everything happens to everyone for a reason. Yes including that, and yes that, and yes even that horrible thing, no we may not always know why. One day in a small town, that values personal relationships over time, at least has me questioning some of the day-to-day interactions I have with people, which I suppose is progress of some kind.

At the very least I think I’m going to try and remind myself to approach life as though there’s not a timer running above my head, whether self imposed, or otherwise.

So, like-minded anti-socialites, live like you were in a small town, do so in a manner that allows you to make connections, and don’t let time have its way with you.

When it Matters Most

You don’t get to pick your finest hour. However, you do get to chose how you live in moment-to-moment.

            I don’t know who said that, oh wait yes I do it was me! Just now when I wrote that line that said; “You don’t get to pick your finest hour. However, you do get to chose how you live moment-to- moment.” Quote, credit due to me! Ha!

            Anyway, so the social worker in me would love to sit and tell you how you are better served to surround yourself with people that are conducive to your goals and can help you facilitate the positive change in your life that you want to see. In tandem with this effort you are tasked to drop those from your life that seek to deter, distract or are generally unhelpful in your goals.

            But of course, much like the phrase uttered in the Count of Monte Cristo (film) “It’s complicated.” Because what if those that do not hold your best interests at heart are close to you? A wise person (pretty wise at least) once told me “We could play the ‘what if’ game all day.” Meaning, if you are holding on to someone based on the 0.0007% chance they will do the right thing in regards to your welfare, well sir or madam you are sorely mistaken. Statistically you are a fool. Therefore, in real life you are going to be proven a fool.

            Saying you have to get rid of a family member, close friend or confidant can be an anxiety-inducing decision. All that being said, at the end of the day no one is going to watch out for you like you watch out for you.

            “But, but DavidIWriteStuff? Surely, this topic didn’t come to pass by accident?”  - a fan asks (I mean assuming my ‘fans” both exist and can form a decent question).

            No, no it did not. However, my goal is not to call out anyone, but to merely help others who’s bullshit meter may not be as highly refined as mine.

            Of course because I believe in the value of helping people I’ve included this handy chart outlining ways you can sniff out bullshit.

            

            And as far as all the bullshitters out there: If you truly care about someone, you not only care about being there, you make an active effort to care about what is important to them.  If someone can’t do that for you, they simply don’t care.

Last Trip to Mary's

It was late October in Tennessee. Abnormally warm for the time of year, as evidenced by the abundance of ladybugs that flittered everywhere throughout the backyard.  

My girlfriend and I stood talking across the fence that separated the neighbor's yard from Mary's. And yes, although the funeral was the next day, it was still Mary's yard. Everything still reflected her name, her presence, her life.  

As we spoke to the neighbor about when and where the ceremony was to be held, the ladybugs seemed to swarm us in the most innocent and inquiring of ways. Landing lightly here and there; on the nearby trees, the fence railing, even on the three of us as we talked.  

*          *          *

            December had come; it was now cold enough that you could see your breath in the air.      My girlfriend and her brother had decided it would be good for all involved that one last Christmas be spent at Mary’s. No it wasn’t an effort to reach backward for nostalgia, but rather an effort to extend her memory forward. So we went, my girlfriend and I from Arizona, loaded up our three dogs, and spent 22 hours traversing the country to return to Tennessee.

            I found myself on more than one occasion walking through a near-empty house and noticing how empty it felt without her there. I can only imagine what her own children thought, or how deeply this notion might’ve affected them.

             I will remember many things about this trip: the frigid temperatures that 12 year residents of central Arizona have long forgotten, the great times spent with a marvelous family I am lucky to be a part of, one of our dogs eating 31 (of a 32 pack) of Crayola crayons, the generous friends and acquaintances that have helped so much throughout this grim process, the copious amounts of food and drink that was consumed, the way frost-covered grass crunches under footfalls, and the laughter. Moreover, I will remember this as a trip that encompassed all good things; honor, memory and love.

            However, one memory stands out to me the most on the night before our departure. The day had been spent loading furniture, cleaning, and the demands of other backbreaking work.  We had nearly collapsed in what was left of the living room; two recliners that had belonged to her parents. My girlfriend and I were beyond weary when she called out, “Hey look!”

            My view tilted downward towards the arm of my chair where I spied a lone ladybug. The tiny insect was marching forward despite that fact it was late December and 15 degrees outside. We continued to watch the creature until it maneuvered out of sight. 

The Less Ordinary Life of Harold: Super-Zero

An oblivious young man with his nose glued to a cell phone absently strolls through the park. Passerbys are forced to navigate out of his way. Joggers, senior citizens on walks, and mothers with strollers all side step him at the last minute, clinging to the belief that he couldn’t really be that enthralled by whatever’s on the screen.

This is Harold. Harold, by most accounts has had a shit day.

Sitting down, not because it's the courteous thing to do, but because he wants to, the preteen plops onto a nearby bench. Harold is husky and he seems all-too conscious of this, so as he gets seated comfortably he tugs down his shirt, to make sure no one can see anything they shouldn’t through the green slats that serve as the bench’s backrest.

A few minutes pass and another child sidles up, sitting beside him.
For more than a while, no words are exchanged between the two.

Eventually, the new boy, thin but equally meek-looking breaks the silence, “Sorry-”

“Let me save my game!” Harold holds up a finger. “I am playing versus on Battleblood, and am ranked in the top five for this skirmish.”

The thin child adjusts his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, realizing even he had little idea what most of that meant.

A few presses and swipes, “Ok, what?” Harold still doesn’t look up from his phone, not entirely, it makes the fat underneath his neck stand out even more.

“I’m sorry for what happened today.”

“Ya, you been hangin’ out with those kids?”

The thin boy nodded, blushing almost imperceptibly.

“They suck Tyler. And...and they are stupid.”

Acknowledging the statement, the Tyler nodded again. He not only agreed, but there was no hesitation in him doing so.

“Asshats,” Harold, “that’s what they are.”

Tyler, confused, “What does that even mean anyway?”

“I dunno,” Harold admits, “I picked it up somewhere, but its bad, real bad.”

“Hey, they aren’t that bad. I, we could always use more friends right?”

“Not those guys.” Harold seemed resolute.

“Maybe I could talk to ‘em, put in a good word for ya?”

Harold looked up from his phone completely.

Tyler leaned in closer, “Tell ‘em your a cool guy, tell ‘em how you have all the newest video games.”

Harold’s brief interest already faded, changed to a spark of anger. “You mean bribe them to not pick on me? Thanks Tyler, but no thanks.”

“C’mon, Harold, I still want to be friends with you...and them.”

“I don’t think it works that way.”

Tyler looked at Harold, in a way that many adults would think a child was not capable of doing. He saw a fat kid, with a red ball-cap, but redder cheeks, dressed in clothes assembled from discount retail stores. He contrasted this against the group of guys he and Harold were conversing about. “Ya, I guess you’re right. Fuck.”

Harold had never heard a kid his age say the “F” word. He had never heard Tyler swear at all. Both boys shook their heads.

“What do we do?” Tyler asked.

“Doesn’t matter- whatever you want.” Harold said, “I got things to take care of anyway.”

“Like what?” the surprise in Tyler’s question was heavy.

“Hero stuff.”

“Psshh, what are you talkin’ about?”

“I’m a superhero. I didn’t want to tell you, because I thought it might be the only reason you were my friend.”

Tyler paused for a moment, trying to gauge if Harold was trying on being crazy, or trying on being funny. When he couldn’t decide, Tyler broke out in heavy laughter. “More like Super-zero!”

Harold took the laughter and the insult from a kid who he had thought of as his best friend for 3 summers and four grades. He took it like Superman takes bullets.

Tyler looked at Harold and couldn’t believe his eyes. Suddenly, before him, the chubby kid that lived 5 houses down the street was gone.

There in front of him was an image; misty, blurry in the way that the blacktop gets from a distance on a summer day. Harold was now a wavering image of strength. His head held back high, his clothes became the bold uniform of a dealer of justice. His red hat was now a crimson mask. His untucked shirttail transformed into a cape. The discount athletic shoes had become leather boots, complemented with tiny H’s embroidered on their sides Harold’s eyes had changed the most, they seemed to dig into him, they were piercing, full of confidence and know-how.

Tyler could’ve sworn he saw a telling I-told-you-so kind of wink, but he wasn’t sure of that at all. In fact, he was no longer sure of anything.

Then right there before Tyler’s eyes, Harold took off with a bang into the air, it was like lightning combined with thunder. In an instant he was gone.

Off to do hero stuff.

Closer to the End

This one is bound to be another melancholy endeavor, I imagine...but much like anything, its one of those damnable thoughts that has wormed its way into my brain, and I can’t get rid of it. The only way to let it go, is to write it away, so here I am. Or rather, if you’re reading this, here we are.

Without going into too many details death has been on my mind as of late. Although, with that being said, maybe it was there all along, I just didn’t see it clearly. I’ll take a second to reassure anyone reading this, it is not a welcome thought. I have not reverted to shopping at Hot Topic and wearing black nail polish. I view death with a stoic mysticism I reserve for little else. It does not frighten me, but neither is it welcomed.

But recently, as I saw yet another life pass from this world to the next, I thought after, about the hereafter. My mind cycled through the all the times I’ve been on hand, witnessing someone close, or even not so close, slip from this realm. I thought about how, in the end, for all our technology, for all our advances, all we can do is buy time. All the medical bills, all the procedures, all the money spent, only really amount to a few precious increments of time. Ultimately immeasurable, as even the experts seem to be unable to guarantee just how much time we get per dollar. When it comes down to it, this creates in me a sense of helplessness, tinged with anger. I despise not being able to act in a manner that assists those close to me.

Sitting in an office, I have been next to the person getting the news of a horrendous diagnosis many times. I look at them, I comfort them. I cry as they cry. Saying the lie we’ve all told at some point in our lives, “It’s all going to be okay.”

Outside of the hospital room, I have sulked gloomily, waiting for the final update. Knowing that sooner, rather than later, some person in a white coat will come by, and solemnly state, “They’ve passed.” This is usually done in an efficient manner so the person occupying that bed can be extradited, all so someone else may take their place.

I’ve been there I have been at the deathbed of a few special relatives. I have held their clammy hands in a mockery of solidarity, stared down nothing while they’ve stared down death.

My eyes have seen the shovelfuls of dirt fall, explode into tiny granules as they collide with the top of a casket from above. I have heard the prayers uttered by clergy, often evoking sobs from the crowd, no matter how small or large.

These images are universal of course. While we may not all fear death, most of us avoid thinking about it, letting alone talking about it. Afterall, why focus on death when there’s so much living to do?

However, this time that little thought I referenced earlier slipped into my head, nesting there. Perhaps it snuck in past an inflamed tear duct, and fast tracked its way to my brain, where it made itself quite comfortable.

That thought was the realization that one day...I wouldn’t  merely be the one sitting next to the person getting the bad news, nor would I be the one waiting outside the hospital room, or even holding the hand of the person that was facing death. I would be the one the bad news would be about, the one in the hospital bed, the one in the ground, rather than observing from above it.

With that my friends it seems appropriate to say what many have said before me; do not wait. Do not hesitate. If you want something, go after it, if you love someone let them know. If you hate your job, find another, if you hate where you live, find somewhere else.

Life is too short to regret, the closer to the end I get, the more I see that.

Good luck and Godspeed,

- David

Window Shopping: Kingdom Without a King- Part 6

A man stood over me, sword to my throat. He and his troops had myself, Praesus and Old Rufus surrounded. I looked around, wanting, waiting for someone, something to swoop into the cramped courtyard and save us.

I stared up at the sun, felt the wind against my skin for perhaps the last time.

The man looked down on me with contempt, “You coward, can you not even bear to look your vindicator in the eyes? Are you not man enough to accept your punishment?” Anton Allaine waited for my response, his face held a look of smugness. The look fit him well.

Smiling, I blurted out something that I thought was both clever and displayed my keen sense of bravado, “You’re all doomed.”

Anton Allaine was able to ask, “Just what might you be referring to?” before all hell broke loose in that courtyard.

From behind the gathering of men that aimed to kill us, rose the corpses of Garreth Lee and Jonathan Tomy. Their skin now pocked and grey, their eyes filled with what was becoming to me at least, a familiar green glow.

I didn’t yet fully understand it, but inherently I knew, in death they belonged to me now, they were under my control. Puppet-ghouls that moved as I wished, did what I commanded. My disbelief was only rivaled by my ignorance of how I was controlling them. I wanted to solve that mystery, but something deep within suggested that I not think about it too much.

Zombie Harold Rambly rose again as well, he had fed (ironically on Jonathan Tomy) and seemed more responsive. His shambling had faded, he now walked upright coated in the crimson remnants of his meal.

With nothing but the power of my mind I willed them to attack Allaine and his party.

They never saw it coming. Through my peripheral vision, I even saw Praesus appear to wince as Rambly casually grabbed the arm of an unwitting archer and chomped down on it as though it were a hunk of turkey leg. Zombie Jonathan and Zombie Garreth followed suit, tearing into two more guards like they were cattle. The screams began, and escalated from there. Even those that weren’t being attacked could not seem to fathom what was happening around them. They seemed to question their former comrades rising from the dead, and snacking on them as a tad unusual, go figure.

Allaine turned away from me long enough to take in the gruesome display behind him. With a snap he turned back to me, “What sorcery--”

“Is this?” I met him halfway through the line. “Ya, I get that a lot lately. Why is that such a popular saying here?”

Allaine was through talking, he raised his sword and swiped downward, aiming to cleave me in two. I rolled aside, the only thing his sword met was the recently deceased corpse of one, Miguel Cervantes. I watched as Allaine’s sword cut a jagged path into Cervantes’ torso, rending the flesh from the deltoid to the superior portion of pectoralis major. Zombie Cervantes gripped the sword’s blade with both hands with an otherworldly focus. The zombie attempted to wrench the sword up and out of its own flesh. This only served to increase the spilled blood and saw the flesh from his palms. Had he been living the pain would have been immeasurable. However, throughout the entire ordeal the Zombie Cervantes stared blankly ahead at Allaine with those green eyes burning. Allaine, aghast and puzzled could only stare back, watching the creature feebly attempt to remove the sword from its body.  

Amidst the chaos, I scrambled backwards in the dirt, signaling to Rufus and Praesus that it was time we go. As more soldiers perished, I took control of them as well, swelling the zombie ranks to six, then seven, then eight. I made them all feed in gory fashion.

The three of us darted for the gate, Praesus maneuvering to the hand crank that would operate the gate’s mechanism.

“Work your magic big man.” I hollered, as the screams to our rear served to punctuate my sentence.

I noticed Praesus did not even make eye contact, let alone respond. Yet, he did begin turning the massive hand crank, and the gate began to open enough for the three of us to slip past.

As we left the courtyard behind, I couldn't help but look at the mayhem once more. Mayhem I had unleashed. I saw Anton Allaine being swarmed by death in the forms of those he had once lived with side by side. His sword swings were wild and ineffective, he backed up, likely overcome by fear and mania at what he was seeing.

Allaine might find it comforting that although he had to bear witness, he was not the one responsible for such macabre actions.  

My last image was of two zombies towering over him as he fell onto his backside. Arms outstretched, Allaine attempted to beg off, I could only assume the zombies were not apt to accept his pleas.

As Praesus and I breached the gate, with Rufus in tow, he asked me, “Where to now?”

“That depends, am I to guess that you are no longer interested in killing me?” I asked this of Praesus.

“I feel our debts are settled, I no longer have reason to.”

Instantly, I thought that Praesus was still unaware that Old Rufus and I had left his brother for dead. I didn't dare speak this fact aloud.

Praesus noted my sudden quiet, “You don’t have a response to that?”

“I think I appreciate that fact,” It sounded ridiculous even in thought, but I hadn’t even had a moment to think about Praesus’ brother, it seemed like so long ago, so much had happened since then, non-stop. I hadn’t even time to think, and barely had time to remember. Although, our reasons were strong ones, the choices we made still left Praesus minus one brother.

“Then I will accompany you, until such a time as we can get back to my home. Today at least I am in your debt. Where would you have us go?”

Contemplating, I looked down at Old Rufus and stroked his fur, “Your home is exactly where we need to head back to. I suspect that Helena and Thaddeus knew more about my arrival then they let on.”

“I would guarantee that to be true.” Praesus said knowingly.

“Then we make our way back to their cabin, and drop in for a visit.”

My Brother's Keeper

Why is it most people these days are so unlikely to give one another a leg up?

I mean what are we afraid of?

Is it the possibility that in giving someone a helping hand we’re competing for limited resources and to help them gain expertise in turn helps them better compete for resources we too might want for ourselves?

Is it the aspect of taking the time to actually help that deters most people from assisting others?

Or is it just pure selfishness? To put it another way; we’re more into taking care of our own business than taking care of anyone else.

I just threw out a lot of questions, rapid-fire right there. And now that I’ve done that, I can answer: Truthfully, I have no idea why most humans can deny another the a simple act of helpfulness, let alone outright ignore the suffering of others.

Right about now you might be thinking; What’s got me on this tangent? (Yes, I know yet another question.)

That I can answer: I was reading an email from a fellow writer where she was discussing how she is constantly promoting and giving shout outs to people on social media, but seldom gets anything of the sort in return. (I’m sure some of you are thinking about social media and how fickle and self-serving people can be, I’m looking at you Twitter.)

At any rate, I figured it might be time I return the favor for someone that’s been supportive of my writing for many years, so here goes:

The fellow writer I mentioned earlier has been relentlessly promoting her books for a long time. The fierceness with which she believes in herself and supports others is only rivaled by her ability to see the positive in any experience. This shows in the passion she has for her writing. Emmy Morgan has penned tales of her main character; Desiré, and drawn from her own experience as a transwoman to create a timely and compelling story. And while I would be the first to admit what I know about a transwoman’s struggle in modern America wouldn’t be enough to fill Donald Trump’s gloves, Emmy’s energy gives both life and voice to her character in a way few could.

All that being said (or typed rather) as most of you know that read this blog regularly I do not “sell” anything here. My goal is simply to write and to have people read my work. It’s because of that stance that I won’t post direct sales links to Ms. Morgan’s titles, however in place of that I’d urge you check her out on Twitter and from there you can explore her fiction if you so chose:

@EmmyMorgan76

Oh and by the way, take a few minutes and help someone do something today. Not because you want to make yourself feel better, or because you expect anything in return, but because it’ll make the world a little better off.

Why Do I Attract the Weirdos?

“I think we’re all a bunch of weirdos on a quest to belong.”

- Dorks, Aesop Rock

I’m not the type that has a lot of friends, never has been, likely never will be. This used to bother me. I would often wonder how it was that folks that were seemingly shallow, vapid and self-serving individuals could have a plethora (Yes, I know what a ‘plethora’ is...) of friends.

Those phenomenal people, the ones that seem to be flawless, and have it all together. I’ve met them, and we don’t mesh well. You know the ones that lack scars, skills and struggle. They’ve barely lived, if at all, and you can see it, the blank look in their eyes gives it away.

After years of frustration and stress I finally figured it out; people have low standards- lower than I do anyway. So it turns out I’m blessed, not cursed, with a few close friends. And now that I’m older I wouldn’t want it any other way.

However, this brings me to my conundrum, why do I always get the weirdos? The outcasts? The people with the flaws, quirks, personality disorders? I could go on, but you get my point. Anyway, the question still stands, Why do I attract the weirdos?

In fact, you might find yourself asking the exact same question.

I’ve got good news though, the answer is surprisingly simple…

...Because I’m a weirdo too.