Writing Prompt #12

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Describe your favorite piece of furniture from your childhood home."

 

I was probably seven or eight years old when my dad bought a tall, backless bookcase. Calling it a “room divider,” he placed it perpendicular to the outside-adjacent wall of the living room of his house in Frayser, where our whole family lived before the divorce and where my brother and I stayed with him on most weekends for several years afterward.

 

And, sure enough, the simple placement of that one piece of furniture did effectively divide the room, setting off the dining area as its own separate space and making the now smaller living room cozier and more intimate. The bookcase was probably over six feet tall (or at least I remember its being taller than my 6’1’’ dad) and at least as wide, and it was deep enough to hold two rows of books on each of its three shelf levels so that one set of books could face the living room and another the dining room. Dad placed a small, cushioned chair and a lamp at the corner made by the bookcase and the wall on the living room side, creating a comfy reading nook. 

 

That corner was my sanctuary within the house, the one spot where I did not feel like I was away from home, but at home.   

Writing Prompt #11

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write about something nice a stranger did for you."

 

It was late on a Saturday night in the fall of 2003, and I was lost.

 

Well, I knew where I was geographically—at the viaduct where Union and Poplar Avenues swap their north-south positions, and specifically at the apex of the bridge on Poplar above the railroad tracks. I was just under halfway drunk, and I was looking down at the train that was passing below.

 

“Don’t do it!” said a calm but stern voice behind me.

 

I turned around to see a woman in a car that had stopped right behind me. I didn’t hear her approaching; her command startled me into slightly greater sobriety.

 

Mind you, I was not planning to jump. I wasn’t even thinking of it. But my mind and heart were midnight dark. I had spent the last 45 minutes or so walking from Zinnie’s East on Madison in Midtown toward my home in East Memphis. My pickup truck was still in the Zinnie’s parking lot. I probably did not need to be driving anyway, but I didn’t set out walking for safety’s sake. I had spent the evening at Zinnie’s East with a friend with whom I was infatuated. I knew she didn’t have similar feelings for me, but instead of giving myself distance to disentangle the friendship from the heartache, I continued to hang out with her regularly, trying to rise above or ignore the feelings we both knew I had for her, feelings that would not die when I tried to bury them but would instead break through in bursts of resentment or petulance. After a night of feigning friendliness, I snapped just after we part ways, and as I approached my truck, I decided to just keep walking past it into the night. The train was a welcome distraction from my thoughts.

 

“Don’t do it,” the stranger said again, more softly this time. Then, “Are you ok?

 

After hesitating slightly, I approached her car and then told her some version of the truth. I managed to assure her that, no, I wasn’t set on deliberate self-harm.

 

Once I’d done that, she asked, “Do you want a ride home?

 

I was still probably an hour and a half’s walk from my house. “Yeah,” I replied. “That’d be great.”

 

We chatted a little bit. At some point, we realized we had a mutual acquaintance, who we discussed briefly. I don’t recall what we talked about except for that, though. When we reached my house, I thanked her. 

 

I wish I could remember her name. I do remember her kindness.

 

Thank you again, my Guardian Angel.

Writing Prompt #10

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write about why you want to write."

 

I want to earn a living. Being laid off from a full-time job sucks.

 

I want to earn a living, but do so using what I think is the greatest gift I’ve been given—the ability to write clearly and precisely. I'm a writer, and I want to write to be who I am.

 

That last point sounds arrogant and vague. I am neither the world’s best nor the world’s worst writer. I’m probably somewhere in the middle, if that matters. But it’s a skill that has served me well in my work, my studies, and my connecting with other people.

 

I also know that writing is hard, especially if I’ve fallen out of the habit of writing regularly.

 

I wrote a bit for my full-time job as an editor, but only sporadically. Mostly, I wrote email messages to authors, printer reps, and colleagues; I often wrote from boilerplates. I never really looked a blank page or screen and just wrote. I went so long without doing so that I didn’t even know I missed it.

 

But then my friend Susan asked me to write an essay for an anthology she was planning to compile and edit. I said yes, and then procrastinated for weeks before really getting started. I finally began writing mostly disjointed sentences and paragraphs here and there, over a couple of weeks.

 

And then, finally, I got tired of feeling the weight of the unfinished task, so I went for it, completing the bulk of the essay in a couple of days. I can’t really help editing as I write, but I did as little of that as I could. After taking a couple days’ break from the essay, I started rereading it, changing phrases, adding and deleting anecdotes, massaging the language. I really focused on the opening and closing sections, tweaking them so that they conveyed the emotions I intended.

 

By the time I sent my draft to my friend, I had taken ownership of it. I wrote this. I gave not only time, but effort, attention, feeling. Heart. I believed in it, and believed that I had done good work, something worth doing.

 

I want to feel that again.

 

When I was laid off, I immediately started applying for editing jobs. One of my oldest friends, who has known me since college, let me know that a writing position might open up with her company. I politely blew her off, thinking I didn't really want to write for a living, and also that I probably wasn't qualified for the job.

 

But she said that her boss was open to looking at my resume. I still didn't strongly consider applying, but she said she'd be happy to chat with me about what is involved in her work. So I called her. She gave me all sorts of details about what she did. But she also said, pointedly, "You're a good writer. I've thought so since grad school. And I know you could do this work." 

 

I didn't get the job. But I got the opportunity to do freelance writing for the company. 

 

My friend reminded me that, yes, I am a writer. 

 

I want to write to be who I am.

Writing Prompt #9

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"If you could live inside one of your favorite stories, what would you change about it?"

 

Before I can answer this question, I have to struggle with one of my greatest weaknesses: I love to work within constraints, to think inside the box, to stay within the guidelines. But I hate having to stop what I’m doing and set the constraints, build the box, or draw the guidelines.

 

I want to know my boundaries. For me, creative expression is finding new and interesting ways to express myself within limits. I have fun coming up with fun drum fills while playing in straight 4/4 time, making subtle changes to the hop profile of a German-style helles lager, or seeing if I can run a set distance a little faster. Playing a song with constantly changing time signatures, developing a beer recipe with no reference to defined styles, running with no plan for time or route, though—I feel stress just thinking about doing those things. In jobs, I’ve been very good at working at a particular type of task—say, copy editing—over and over, learning a little bit each time, getting a little better incrementally, but I’ve balked when asked to rethink a process or (worse) “carve out your own niche here!” Slowly working and thinking through existing processes, instead of simply following them, disorients me. The effect is almost the same as that of trying to concentrate in a room with too many competing background noises, or organizing a junk drawer.

 

As for changing stories, I just don’t approach them that way. When, for example, much of the Star Wars fandom voiced their disappointment at narrative choices made in the most recent movies, I didn’t get worked up about them. I want to hear (or see, or read) the story and react to it as a solid thing that exists; it’s all wrapped up in my suspending disbelief, in letting the story work whatever magic it has on me. Approaching a story with what-ifs makes it less real, and less enjoyable.

 

But for the sake of this exercise? I read that George Lucas once considered a much darker ending for Return of the Jedi: after Luke’s father dies on the (second) Death Star, Luke picks up the Vader mask and helmet, looks at them for several seconds, and puts them on his own head. If I were Luke in that moment, I might do that. 

 

Cut to black, cue the Imperial March, and roll the end credits. 

 

Dude.

Writing Prompt #8

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write about an imagined ideal day walking around a city of your choosing."

 

San Francisco remains my favorite city to see while running. I start today's run just outside our rental home on 25^th Street just a block or so away from the BART station at Mission and 24^th. I amble eastward past Van Ness and Folsom and turn left onto Balmy Alley to look at the street murals, stopping to take a few photos with my phone and mentally noting new additions to the impromptu gallery since my last visit a few years ago. At 24^th, I turn back to the west and pass Wise Sons Jewish Deli, where I’d probably stop for breakfast were I not just getting started on my run.

 

From there, I head north up Shotwell St, passing several restaurants and colorful old homes. I turn right at 18^th and continue eastward till I reach busy Harrison St, which I cross and then turn right onto to pick back up on 18^th after it jogs. Just after reaching Utah St, I circle upward through Fallen Bridge Park and cross the freeway on the pedestrian bridge, which brings me back onto 18^th and into the Potrero Hill neighborhood. I descend 18^th steeply to De Haro St and turn left so that I can pass the old Anchor Brewing building on my right. I stop at the brewery building, reminiscing about the tour that Cindy and I took there in 2013 and wistfully wondering if I’ve had my last Anchor beer.

 

Crossing myself as I face St Gregory of Nyssa Episcopal Church across the street, I reverse my course (now uphill until I cross the freeway) but this time continue past Shotwell until I reach Dolores Park. I slow to a jog as I move counterclockwise around the park’s perimeter, again stopping to take a photo or two (definitely one from the southwest corner, looking northeastward toward downtown). On another day I might tackle more hill work in Noe Valley, but today I continue southward on Dolores until I reach 25^th, then head back east toward our apartment for a shower and coffee (though probably not in that order) and to see if Cindy is awake. 

Writing Prompt #7

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write a review of the last movie you saw."

 

“Feel-good” movies are sometimes derided, sometimes dismissed, and almost never critically acclaimed. When a feel-good flick is also a biopic, it can be overly sentimental and even shade into soft hagiography. At their best, though, feel-good films make their viewers, well, feel good. My All-American did just that for me.

 

My All-American tells the story of Freddie Steinmark, an undersized but dogged defensive back for the University of Texas Longhorns in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The upbeat, devoutly Catholic Freddie is shown as a winner from his youth, winning games, winning the confidence of coaches at all levels, and winning the heart of his eventual fiancée, Linda, before ultimately being diagnosed with bone cancer, to which he succumbed shortly afterward.

 

Freddie’s story is his own, of course, though its cinematic telling echoes previous depictions of football players, especially Rudy and Brian’s Song. The film does not provide harsh, documentary-style grittiness, but that does not seem to be its aim. From all accounts, the actual Freddie Steinmark truly did inspire his teammates, coaches, and friends. The filmmakers’ choices zero in on the things about him that did that—his faith (alluded to many times though not shown in a cartoonish way), his discipline, and his unwillingness to give up despite enormous physical, psychological, and emotional challenges.

 

Ultimately, I did not watch My All-American to see the dark side of an otherwise upstanding person or to learn more about the seedy underbelly of big-time college sports—I know enough plenty about the influence of big money on athletics and even more about the complexity and contradictions of human souls, but I am old enough to dismiss the folly of believing the pessimistic take is the only or truest take. I watched it in the hope that Freddie’s better qualities might rub off on me as well. God willing, they will someday. 

Writing Prompt #6

 

 After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"What's the most adventurous thing you've eaten?"

 

To paraphrase Charlie in “So I Married and Axe Murderer,” Scottish cuisine is based on a dare. A former picky eater, I tried several dishes during my brief Scotland visit in 1995 that I probably would’ve shunned under different circumstances. But I was twenty-three and overseas, so I tried black pudding, a couple of other breakfast meats I couldn’t identify, and—eventually—haggis.

 

I had never seen haggis before then, though I had heard enough about it (“heart, intestines, lungs, boiled in a wee sheep’s bladder…good for what ails ya!”) to be a bit grossed out by the idea. However, our group was scheduled to attend a “Scottish Feast” our last night before returning to London, for which a formal marching out of the haggis was the main event. Our bus driver/tour guide/sharer of spirits gave us a rousing pep talk when we collectively voiced our disgust: “Oh, what you do, see, is mix up a bit of haggis with your tatties. It’s beautiful.” I wasn’t totally convinced, but I followed his advice one the haggis was plated, generously stirring my potatoes into the vaguely meatloaf-esque mound. As the lighting was dim in the supper hall, I could nearly dissociate what my brain told me was in front of me from what I saw and tasted.

 

And what I tasted was comfort food, almost like something my mom would’ve made for us. Beautiful.

Writing Prompt #5

 After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Describe your favorite room in your home or apartment."

  

Our den, though not exact the center of our house, is the center of our home. Cindy and I spend much of our non-working time awake on the large tan sectional sofa (which we bought to replace the ratty old green sectional sofa that was, for a while and unbeknownst to us, a second home to a family of rodents), her at the end nearest the kitchen and me anchoring the corner in the middle. Our two pups usually join us, either on the sofa with us or watching out the windows of the French doors that face the backyard, home to squirrels and other intruders.

 

The room’s wood paneling walls are painted a deep burgundy, what we used to call “Midtown red,” a hue probably less popular with real estate agents now but that still fits my 1990s-forged  definition of Classy. The TV is in the corner opposite the crux of the sofa, which we watch on occasion, though less often than we read on our phones. We eat all of our meals at the short, square coffee table, which also serves as a makeshift shoe closet.

 

The den was an addition to the original 1950s house, and it’s draftier than any other room. In the summer, we sometimes install a window air conditioner to fight against the afternoon heat and direct sunlight that invade this west-facing room. In winter, we sit or lie under the extra blankets that we keep stacked near Cindy’s end.

Writing Prompt #4

 

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"What color do you feel like today and why?"

I am a steely bluish grey today, a product of the weather, perhaps, but not just the weather. When I opened the front door this morning, I saw a rain-washed street and sidewalk, evoking the colors of a school blacktop and backyard concrete basketball patio, respectively. No rain was falling, though, so I could see the houses, trees, light poles, and cars clearly, not needing to squint from a too bright sky.

 

My eyes are clear this morning. I drank no beer yesterday, so I slept soundly and am alert after just one cup of coffee. Even without a full-time job commitment, I have goals for the morning and afternoon, tasks that will help me as I move forward in self-employment and exercise that will keep me even emotionally. I face the coming day with neither bliss nor despair, but determination and peace. A sober grey backlights my workstation as I glance beyond my computer’s monitor through the window.

Writing Prompt #3

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write about an item you have that isn’t expensive but means a lot to you."

 

My Memphis State sweatshirt has seen its share of sweat—more than 37 years’ worth. My mom bought it for me during a trip to the Tiger Bookstore on Walker, right near the campus, in late 1986, during the middle of the Memphis State Tigers’ basketball season. The team was banned from playing in the NCAA tournament that year, but that’s the only thing that kept them from playing in it, because they were really good. Dwight Boyd, Sylvester Gray, Marvin Alexander, Dewayne Bailey—we had some players.

 

I had multiple Tigers sweatshirts around that time, but this one was always my favorite—midnight blue, with nothing but the bold words MEMPHIS STATE in white with gray trim, across the front—simple, clean, classic, and free from the clutter that seems to mar much of the apparel sold to fans of the university’s teams. I wore it with pride to school, always affirming that my true loyalty lay with the Tigers over and above our high school. When I ultimately attended Memphis State, I took the sweatshirt with me, wearing it to football and basketball games and pretty much anywhere else.

 

The shirt now has a few holes and some yellow paint stains, but it still fits, and I still wear it to games. It’s older than most of my friendships, and it outlasted my career at my longtime place of employment. I hope to be buried in it, sanctifying it in an open coffin in the nave of my parish, exposed to incense, icons, and the prayers of the faithful.

Writing Prompt #2

 

 After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Recall an important memory from your childhood and tell it from the perspective of someone else who was present."

 

 

Well, score a point for the buck-toothed kid. Just when I thought I’d chosen the most talented and, frankly, most attractive sixth-grade kids to represent our school’s Orff music program at the county-wide program for Memphis in May, I’m going to have to uglify things a bit and include that smart-aleck.

 

Honestly, I don’t know how he found out. I made my selections yesterday and sent the list to the school board rep. Yeah, I made a joke in the teachers’ lounge afterward about finally getting my revenge on the kid with the big teeth. Did one of them rat me out?

 

Why did I want revenge? That kid has pissed me off several times this past school year. Back in the fall, I wrote out the lyrics to a short ditty on vegetables on a poster-sized sheet of paper for the class to learn and sing. That bastard had the nerve to raise his hand and, with a cocky grin, point out that lettace is not spelled l-e-t-t-a-c-e. I told him, no, I spelled it correctly, but he kept insisting I was wrong, so to get rid of him for a few minutes, I sent him to the library to check the big dictionary. He wasn’t gone even five minutes before he re-entered the classroom and, without saying a word, took a marker and scribbled a u in place of the a. The gall. This is also the same twerp who, when I was playing a tune on the recorder, stood up and did a mocking dance and dumb-show of my playing.

 

God made him cocky, but he also made him look like a beaver, which was a good enough reason to keep him off the Orff squad. Or so I thought, anyway, before he and a couple of his friends confronted me about why he was not chosen. I was completely blindsided, and in a moment of embarrassed panic, I told him I didn’t mean to omit him and of course he was part of the team. Jeez.

 

Was it that goody-goody Miss Russell who outed me? Gah.

Writing Prompt #1

After years mostly dormant, I am attempting to work myself into being a writer again. To that end, I did a simple Google search for "writing prompts" and chose the first link listed, which included a total of 20 prompts. My goal is to write from a new prompt each day, giving myself 10 minutes before calling "hands up, utensils down" (so to speak), and then posting the unedited result in this blog. The post below is today's entry.

 

"Write about a song and a feeling it invoked in you."

 

My friend Bryan Hayes wrote a song called The Other Side. On the surface, the lyrics speak of saying goodbye to a close friend, seemingly shortly after their death. Having talked to him about it, though, I know that the initial inspiration came from the sadness he felt after his beloved Labrador retriever Fender died. 

 

I almost never make it all the way through the song without crying, and I don’t cry as easily as I wish I did. Heck, I hardly ever make it through the first chorus without my eyes becoming wet with tears. The chorus lyrics are “Meet me at the station, my friend / Save a seat on that ride…I’ll see you again on the other side.” So simple, perhaps familiar even the first time I heard them. But I cannot hear them without projecting a movie in my mind, of dogs I’ve had to say goodbye to—Mr B (Bubba), the first dog I had as an adult and who was also my (now) wife Cindy’s first dog as well, and Cy (Mr Man), our gentle giant of a golden retriever who became ill out of the blue and had to be put down less than a month later. I see one or both of them in a train car, usually a dining car with a table between two facing seats as in a restaurant booth, just sitting, smiling (tongues out), turning their heads to look at me as I sit next to them, and hug their necks, and cry and cry and cry.

 

To nearly quote Ted Lasso: Fuck you, Bryan. And thank you.

Disarming

A one man bomb squad

Gently reaches for the device under cover

of darkness. Securing it

He expertly glides his fingers

Along the familiar casing for the switch

He knows time is short

But with muscle memory hard-won through repetition

He finds the toggle and

With near-silent click

Disarms the offending object and

 

In quiet triumph, slips off the bed

Mere seconds before the alarm clock

Would have awoken his wife on her day off

A morning crisis defused

I Prefer

I prefer albums to singles

I prefer listening to old favorite albums to searching for new favorites

I prefer Austen to Dickens

I prefer running to cycling

I prefer a knowing smile to a stream of flowery words

I prefer public transport to cars

I prefer walking to driving

I prefer maps to step-by-step written directions

I prefer inside jokes with my wife

I prefer rooting for sports teams with my brother

I prefer in-person conversations to telephone conversations

I prefer not needing to set an alarm clock

I prefer listening to the Beatles when I’m melancholy

I prefer John to Paul

I prefer John-plus-Paul to either John or Paul

I prefer forests to beaches

I prefer real Coca-Cola to non-Coke colas

I prefer blending in

I prefer drumming to singing

I prefer finishing to starting to write a new song

I prefer not unearthing old romantic relationships

I prefer libraries to bookstores

I prefer my candor and friendliness after a couple of beers

I prefer constraints, borders, and outlines

I prefer pushing the limits of constraints, borders, and outlines

I prefer sincere doubt to unexamined faith

I prefer rainy autumn days to sunny summer days

I prefer order to chaos

I prefer chaos sometimes

(h/t Susan, Erin, Elizabeth, and Thea)

The Shackles of Youth

I often daydream about revisiting locations that were the settings of parts of my past. Sometimes, I have a strong desire--almost a hunger or thirst--to walk around a neighborhood in which I used to spend time, or stand in a living room or kitchen in a house or apartment in which I used to live, not interacting with the present residents or inhabitants but merely seeing, drinking in those places.

In other words, sometimes, many times, I daydream about being a ghost.

My own theological architecture doesn't give much space to the contemplation of ghosts, though I don't think it outright denies the overall concept. I don't want to haunt those places--again, I'd prefer my own presence to go unnoticed--but I suppose being a "ghost" is the image that best approximates that desire.

Since I have lived in the city of my birth my whole life, I sometimes actually get to be this sort of (benevolent[?]) ghost. If I choose to drive by the first house in which I remember living (in Frayser), or my maternal grandparents' house (also in Frayser), or the park my mom would take me to after I finished my half day of pre-kindergarten (which happens to be Overton Park), I can do so without much trouble or planning. Of course, some places are forever changed (a shopping center sits on the site of my first apartment, my paternal grandparents' house was razed and replaced by a McMansion), but I can still conjure a mental picture of the places I remember even in the presence of their replacements.

Other settings from other parts of my life, though, have been less accessible. For more than two decades, the biggest hole in my haunting map was the little part of Chelsea in London where I lived for five weeks in the summer of 1995. For years, I would imagine being there, the setting of the Indian Summer of my adolescence (I was 23 going on 16), seeing myself walk down the King's Road and the surrounding neighborhood, not really seeking one specific terminus but simply walking, drinking in my surroundings, reveling in a sense of longing for its own sake.

And then, suddenly, I was able to go there in real life, last fall, when Cindy and I spent a week in London and stayed not a ten-minute walk from the site of my old King's College dormitory. The first thing we did after our first meal the day we landed and checked into our Airbnb was to walk to the King's Road and see the Kings Chelsea Estates, the residential development that had taken over the old campus buildings and also surrounded them with newer, larger condominiums (of course I was already aware of the changes, having virtually walked the streets for years via Google street view).

Seeing them, and then walking eastward along the King's Road for about a mile till we reached the Mona Lisa Cafe (a great place for cheap eats back in '95), felt nothing like being there before. Instead, I had the impression of looking over my own shoulder, or peering into my thoughts and emotions back then without really inhabiting them, seeing them as something to be analyzed rather than felt. It was as if my memories of being there had been a movie projected onto a flat screen, but now that I was there, I could not only see the movie in three dimensions, but experience it in four, pausing certain scenes, walking around the characters and sets. 

There was, no doubt, a brief rush of nostalgia, but also a quick follow-up sense of disenchantment--not dislike or disgust, but a real sense that something that had long held me in its sway no longer did so. The overarching feeling was one of relief. I felt no further need to revisit that particular part of London afterward, and we didn't.

*****

I have spent a lot of time--probably too much time, in fact--listening to and thinking about the remix of REM's Monster album that was done recently by the original album's producer, Scott Litt, and that is included among the bonus material accompanying the 25th anniversary packaging of the album. I was both intrigued and skeptical when I first read about the remix project a few months ago.

I always liked the idea of Monster more than the act of listening to it start to finish, but it was still an album by favorite band at the time, and despite its never becoming my favorite of theirs, I listened to the hell out of it for months and still revisit it sometimes. I hoped that the remix would be revelatory in the way that Giles Martin's recent remixes of Beatles albums (especially the White Album) had been, but secretly feared it might end up being the aural version of George Lucas's tweaking of the original Star Wars movies, which was sometimes benign but other times heavy handed.

Unfortunately, the first released track from the remix--"What's the Frequency, Kenneth?"--was more Lucas than Martin. The sound was bright and clean, but I noticed changes right away: The "machine gun" tremolo guitar riff--one of the catchiest and most memorable individual parts in the original recording--had simply been removed, as had been the final two lines of the chorus (including the concluding "Don't fuck with me"). "Kenneth" was my favorite song, and it seemed to have been changed for the worse; what was going to happen to the other songs?

But one quirk about the original version of Monster is that ""Kenneth" was something of an outlier. Although it, too, featured loud, layered guitars that more or less buried the vocals, it had a brightness and expansiveness that contrasted with the claustrophobic sound of many of the other tracks. Those other tracks somehow sounded both layered and flat, closer to an aural painting done impasto than to a sonic sculpture.

And it wasn't till I listened to the second track, "Crush With Eyeliner," that I began to get a feel for what the remix was accomplishing. Listening at full volume to a new mix of a song I'd heard literally hundred of times, I could actually hear the different layers individually and could feel their interplay. The flat screen projection became a solid object through which I could walk. The experience held for the rest of the album as well; and the sludgier and flatter the track was in the original release, the more shocking the revelation of hearing the sonically expansive remix. "I Don't Sleep, I Dream" and "I Took Your Name," two of my least favorite recordings on the original, are easily two of my favorites in their new versions. The enhancements, far from sanitizing the record, make it that much sexier, that much more glam, the lyrics (though now decipherable) that much slipperier, the narrator that much harder to pin down.

And listening to the remix gave the opposite emotional effect that walking around Chelsea did. Instead of providing distance and closure, it immediately dropped me into the mental and emotional space of my 1994 self--a mixed brew of insecurity and bravado, cockiness and crushing doubt, the feeling that I could be anything I wanted as long as I did not think beyond the present moment. I got that feeling on my first listen last Friday, and I got it again when I listened the next few days in a row. Listening to the remix isn't doing a haunting--it's being haunted.

Which is why consciously stopped listening to it a couple of days ago. I am not my 1994 self (22 going on 15), nor do I miss him very much. I can't live in that headspace any more than I can function walking around drunk (both things I know from experience, fortunately or unfortunately). Maybe I'll revisit the remix someday if I can do so in a less immersive way, but I'm letting it go for now.  

***

Coda: For fun, here is my quick take on which Monster songs I like better in the original release and which I like better in the remix:

Prefer Original
What's the Frequency, Kenneth?
King of Comedy
Star 69
Strange Currencies
Let Me In

Prefer Remix
Crush With Eyeliner
I Don't Sleep, I Dream
Tongue
Bang and Blame
I Took Your Name
Circus Envy
You

The Aviator

The men's book club at my parish recently read and discussed The Aviator by Eugene Vodolazkin. Spoiler alert: I loved the book. Second spoiler alert: I'll try not to spoil the actual plot of the book here.

The conversation was particularly stimulating and energetic, with everyone who had read the book making interesting points and asking thought-provoking questions. J____ asked me one such question: "What was it about the book's plot that affected you so strongly?"

My answer was somewhat rambling. I noted that the book was as much a punch to the gut and a bruise to the heart as it was a workout for the mind (while definitely stimulating, I would not say the writing itself was difficult to follow). When asked what especially moved me, I struggled to respond but was able to articulate one thing that hit home: the slow physical and mental disintegration that seemed to be leading to a slow disconnection from someone with whom one had an intimate connection. The slowness of the loss seemed as tragic as the loss itself.

After the meeting, though, I knew that my answer was not so much inaccurate as incomplete. Yes, the impending loss moved me deeply, as did an earlier, similar loss of connection with another character. But, more than that, I think the book held up a startlingly clear mirror to my inner self, and I saw much that was familiar in the book's observations. And much of what I saw was hard to look at. The following all seemed to be reflected back at me:

• My own mortality and the mortality of people I love - imagining if I were the protagonist and Cindy were the wife, or that she were the love interest from earlier in the novel.
• My own sin - What dark deeds and thoughts lurk below the level of my consciousness? Are there things I've done that I'm afraid to admit--to confess--even to myself, let alone to God before a priest?
• My fear of dementia/losing my memory/being physically alive but decresingly able to communicate and connect with people around me, especially my wife.
• My unwillingness (out of laziness? out of fear? out of indifference?) to do the long, taxing work of repentance. Vodolazkin's protagonists tend to do something awful when they're young but then spend the rest of their lives in active, humble (even humiliating) penance. Am I even sorry for my own wrongs?

On a completely different level (perhaps), my reading of this novel in light of having read Crime and Punishment, with which it shares some thematic and geographic elements--makes me want to visit St. Petersburg in the same way that I so long wanted to visit London. I don't want to do a big touristy tour--I want to feel and smell the streets, parks, bridges, churches, cemeteries. Its a longing that may pass. But I feel it, deep down.

Brace

I limp to conversations

And brace myself

Waiting for the bottoms of boots

to crush me

into the playground blacktop

Waiting for the voices of amateur comics

to shout me

as a punchline

to a joke yet unwritten

Waiting to be unheard

or heard, and ignored

I see you
Brace yourself

And I remember

For a moment

How heard

How loud

How crushing

My words can be

Your silence calling Bullshit

on mine

State of the ...

This is the spot in which I typically summarize the brewing success and failures I had during the past year. I'll still do that, but I'd rather think out loud (or at least in virtual print) as a way of clearing the mental cobwebs before focusing on beer yet again.

My relationship to my avocations is changing. Compared to many I know, I have been blessed to have relatively few Really Big Demands (health, family, job) placed on my time and energy, My job is not physically taxing and also allows me to leave work "at work," so I really do have the freedom to choose what I do with fairly large swaths of time. Within those swaths, however, I do have regular commitments, some of which make me accountable to others and some of which I simply choose for myself. These can be categorized, roughly, as follows:

Commitments in Which I'm Accountable to Others*

• Chanting/singing./reading at St. John
• Playing drums/percussion with Ted Horrell and the Monday Night Card
• Serving on the Board of Directors for the Orthodox Christian Translation Society

 *Not listed here but assumed are my commitment to my wife, which is my reference point for all other commitments, as well as my commitment to being available to spend time with my nephews (of which I could do more) and my godchildren (likewise).

Self-Focused Commitments

• Running
• Brewing
• Writing songs
• Reading

The first item in each list is the one to which I give the most time. I chant at a minimum of one service per week, but most weeks include two or more and some seasons require an even larger commitment. I also try to lead a chant class/workshop every other week outside of liturgically dense times. There are times when the chant workload feels a little heavy, but only when I'm not actually there; I never regret chanting or being present at worship when I'm actually there.

As for running, I still like to do it three times per week even as I move away from the competitive aspect of it; the moving is a product of a combination of bad diet (I'm just not in good enough physical shape right now to run fast) and a peace about not needing to define myself by running competitively (I enjoy the regular routine of running way more than I do the focus on planning and training that accompanies races).  

I wish that I could say that my need to define myself in relation to how I compare to others has decreased for my other activities like it has with running. It hasn't. Or at least it's still a big part of the mix.

I love playing with Ted's band, and doing so has allowed me to remember how much I enjoy simply playing drums--without having to try to sing at the same time. Musically and personally, it's as good a band situation as one could hope to find. I've also had fun reconnecting with my friends in The Petty Thieves a couple of times in the past year or so, playing covers we all dig.

But a part of me wants to be the one putting his own work out there, and my main outlet for doing that until recently has been with Dewey Starr and its antecedents. The Umsteds and I pretty much ceased being a working band after a fairly unpleasant acoustic opening gig in January. I don't think any one of us wants to revisit a situation in which we play for folks who clearly don't want to listen to us; plus, one of the fellas (Dave Jr) has a pretty sweet cover band gig going with his dad in which the group (1) draws crowds and thus (2) makes money, and all of them have multiple children and their own separate time commitments.

And yet, I have a hard time letting go of the Dewey Starr/Archives/Name du Jour idea. It's pretty selfish, really--Dewey Starr was how I was able to get recordings of songs I'd written before the ears of others. We played a few decent-sized shows; more important to me, though, we had songs played on the radio multiple times, which fed a particular craving I've had as long as I can remember. "Look at me, the shy kid!" slipped into "Aren't I fantastic?" and sometimes revealed itself as a raw " LOVE ME!" All of that lay just below the surface of something that was actually pretty great--extended family playing together just like we did when we were kids. The selfish part may have been there all along, but it was less prominent, less intrusive.

Of course, that's oversimplifying things a bit. Maybe even more than the songwriting credit, I valued the songwriting partnership that Dave Jr and I have had. Collaborating on songs with him has probably been the most gratifying creative outlet I've had. Even this year, we put together two really good songs, and I have no doubt we'll continue to do that as time allows (we seem to be able to work on that even when we're not really in a band together).

But since we have reached a pause, I'm re-evaluating my own songs, and my relationship with creating and sharing and how it is shaped or soured by the desire to be praised. I have songs I'm working on, but the (self-focused) noise is still there, waiting to be engaged, ignored, or denounced.

The noise is there with brewing, too. On the one hand, I really do try to approach each batch of beer I brew with the best plan and information needed to make a truly excellent finished product. I love recipe research and development, I enjoy fine-tuning process choices and variables, and I don't mind being an unsparing critic of the beers themselves, pinpointing flaws and working to eliminate them the next time. But the more I brew, the less willing I am to subject my beers to harsh critique from fellow brewers. When I first joined our homebrew club, I brought samples of nearly every beer I brewed to meetings for critique. I learned a lot from that time, but I also received enough praise to start fashioning myself as a pretty good brewer. And, eventually, I started to resent the critiques and cherry picked beers (and brewers) that I figured would elicit (and provide) mostly praise. And now I rarely bring beers in for critique at all. I do still like to enter the large annual competition, but I do so mainly to WIN, not to get high-quality feedback. I've tied my ego to how much others like--and praise--my beers. Perhaps some of that is due to turnover in the club membership--many of the folks I knew and trusted most are no longer in the club--and also due to the fact that I simply don't want to stay late after meetings, which is when the main tasting occurs. But ego-sparing is involved as well.

And I've not come to a true peace about this. I still harbor fantasies of brewing professionally, even though I remain unconvinced that doing so would make sense for me and my family financially and lifestyle-wise. I still plan to enter multiple beers in the next regional competition even as I wonder how committed I am to the community of homebrewers. Brewing--like running--has become more of a solitary activity. I have friends with whom I brew sometimes, but it's usually easier for me to simply carve out time to brew by myself rather than plan around others' schedules. And I still crave validation from others even as I try to be my own worst, and best, critic.

So, the beers themselves:

Successes

• Munich helles - possibly my favorite beer I've brewed. I used the White Labs Budvar yeast strain and the lightest German base malt I could find, and the end result was delicate and contemplative--and an easy drinker.
• Patersbier - I brewed a few of these, but the best one was basically a Belgian blonde scaled down. A great session-type beer.
• Barleywine - it took a few months of conditioning, but the use of the Belgian yeast strain and the multiple levels of dry hopping appear to have been worth it. A successful experiment.
• Oktoberfest - I think I may have liked it even better had I bottle conditioned it, but it was still darn tasty.
• German pils - this one got better and better as it conditioned (well, at least until it got old). Solid pils, good hop/malt balance.
• Dry stout - simply and roasty.
• "Blonde ale" with whole Cascade hops. It didn't age well, but it was super nice when it was young.
• "Bocce Bock" - helles bock brewed for Italian Fest. I made it slightly less strong than the 2017 version, but it still packed a punch. It did age well, tasting really nice after about 3 months in bottles.

Failures

• The dark beer failures - I had both a honey porter and a strong stout get infected, leading to gushers. I'm guessing cleanliness issues did me in both times.

Mixed Bags/To Be Determined

• 100% Brett witbier - it ultimately tasted good and had the muted funkiness I desired, but it's just a bit too odd to drink too often. I like it, but I'm also glad the batch was small.
• Cream ale - I added more sugar than I'd intended, and I get a fruity, almost sherry-like flavor. Not unpleasant, and it accomplished what I intended (an easy drinker to keep at home), but I wish it didn't have that fruity finish.
• Vienna lager (for Pascha) - I'm probably too critical of this one in that folks dug it, but there was a slight harshness (metallic? from the keg?) to the finish, at least at first.
• Czech pils - I ended up not using the yeast I'd planned to use; also, I got a little acetaldehyde flavor, so I may not have let this one finish out like I should have done. Still pretty good, just not a stunner.
• Ordinary bitter - probably more of a success than not--good, if not cravable. Even given the style, I probably could've made it slightly less bitter. 

I have an English mild and a Dortmunder Export lager freshly in bottles, an IPA in primary, and a Czech dark lager ready to brew next.
 
Hey, I may even return to this blog again sometime before the end of 2019. Or I may not. Regardless, Cheers and God Bless.

As a postscript, here are a few things I've learned this year, or at least things that have come into better focus:

• Old memories of a place can be replaced with new memories of the same place. That's true anytime, of course, but, for me, I now have memories of London (and England overall) that are not tied to the drama of the romantic misadventures of a 23-year-old guy. Cindy and I visited England for about a week this fall, and though I did a brief whirlwind tour of the sites near where I stayed back in 1995, that sojourn was only a brief prelude to our own time exploring the City (and other cities) as a couple. I'll never forget the earlier trip, but my reference point has changed, and I can now sing the line from Rachael Yamagata's "I Want You" ("But when I think of London / I can only see your face") for real.
• Generally speaking, and with rare yet definite exceptions, I don't enjoy parties, which seem to be the adult version of finding someone to sit with in the school cafeteria. My favorite thing to do at a party is to have one or two meaningful conversations with individuals, and, frankly, that's better done one-on-one or at least within a small group than at a larger party. (Plus, I've been the Old Guy at a party or two recently, which doesn't have to suck, but still kind of does sometimes.)
• On the introvert/extrovert scale, I think I still rate introvert (in that I replenish energy via solitary activities). But I've noticed that, after awhile, the thing keeping me from being more social is something either like inertia or else like having a crust, or barnacles: while I'm alone, I have a hard time imagining I'd be happy doing something with others, but I nearly always am glad I did if I make the effort to do so. Solitude can be a habit, I guess, and I am a creature of habit, or at least of moving in one direction rather than veering off (it's why distance running is so much more appealing to me than, say, cross-training). I'm not sure I need to really think this through more than that, though finding a balance of solitude/time with others is an ongoing task. 
• I'm still afraid to try new things and fail. But I think I'm getting a little better at trying familiar things and failing.