Tagged: life
Able-Bodied Writer
It was always there. It was palpable. The feeling in the room added pounds to the air–especially the energy coming from Emily. She was smart, meaning she could read and write fine, but I guess she just didn’t want the attention. I loved the attention, especially her attention, and I think I also liked that I was protecting her a bit. So when the Sunday school teacher asked for volunteers to read the bible verse, my hand shot up quickest and highest.
And I was good at reading out loud, too. It was easy for me to tell because it was such an inspect-able task. Either the words came out right, or they didn’t. Plus, my teacher said I read well. Add to that the fact that everyone knew that Dan Rather—national news man—had no accent and grew up in Kansas where my life was unfolding, and it seemed like fate.
Clearly I had a gift.
This gift was mostly centered around reading out loud and participating in the churches youth activities when everyone else just wanted to chill out in the peanut gallery. Everyone else was only there because their parents were doing whatever the adults did at church.
So how does my able body affect my writing, you ask? Originating from a body with no physical limitations, my writing is at once full of hubris, and yet it’s been called endearing and humble.
For all I’ve achieved in life, and I’ve done great things, I can never escape the simple truth my life reveals with each passing day. As much as I love, as much as I grow, and as much as I laugh, I hurt people, I am unkind, I am inconsiderate, I am mean, and I lie. And I want to do these things.
Why?
****
(Okay, “as much” might be a bit strong.)
Body Language
“Please, please don’t talk to me today. Not today. Can’t it wait?” he thought to himself. The big boss was scheduled to arrive any minute. The day was a slow one, and that meant plenty of random tasks could be accomplished. The problem was he was looking for new work. No, that’s not quite it. The problem was he hated lying. He had tried it a couple times in his life. It never felt good. And he could tell that today was going to be no different. He wanted to know what kind of situation work is that it forced him to lie.
The big boss being there is what bothered him so. In order to keep his job he’d answer the man’s insincere question with, “Good. Things are good. How about you?” Inside, though, he’d be thinking, “Not great. In fact, I can’t think of a single reason why anyone would do this work except to get paid. And that’s just not how I’m going to live.”
The moment came and went without much excitement. He had done it. He had looked a man directly in the eye and lied.
Leaving work as soon as they let him, he went home and laid down. Waking up three hours later, his stomach was still in knots. Like when in the aircraft his hands began maneuvering the machine away from danger before his brain concluded there was danger ahead, he knew that he had to trust his body’s language now. It was saving itself.
To Humanity or Not To Humanity
Those of you who left the world of academia long ago might be unaware that there is a debate raging about the humanities. Are college students interested in majoring in the humanities? Are they not? Would they like to, but their practical mind says, “Don’t be a fool. There are no jobs for humanities majors.”
My question is why is this debate even happening? I suspect that students who major in vocational type degrees get their long-sought-after jobs and live happily ever after. Just like students who major in the humanities or liberal arts degrees don’t get jobs related to their degree and live happily ever after.
There is some notion that accompanies attending college which goes something like, “If only we all do this right, we can achieve heaven on earth.” Is that what we (humans) really think?
I say do what you want. I wanted to get good grades and learn about why people behave they way they do. So I majored in sociology. Some people want to become very rich, so they major in fields that lend themselves to making money. Other people want to paint, so they major in art. I don’t see why this is a discussion. Am I missing something?
I want to be the best that I can be. Isn’t that enough? Why do I have to conform to your utopia? How about this: You just do your best rather than worry about forecasting what will happen if nobody studies English or History anymore. And I’ll do the same. And then we’ll see what happens.
Amazing Girl-Child Lives Outside of Space and Time!
Her small size leads you to believe that you know all there is to know about her.
You are correct to discern that she cries a lot, talks a lot, can’t do math, can’t read, eats an incredible amount of food considering her weight, plays with toys, likes to be tucked in at night, asks to have her hand held if she’s not being carried, places a frightening level of trust in adults, and sometimes has accidents.
You’re also correct if you guess that she can’t carry on a conversation which furthers any agenda, she has a surprising stubbornness, her fantasy world is repetitious, and very few of her actions are original. It is easy to see why people like her have lost their appeal. They require attention. They need help. They listen; they believe; they mimic; they obey; they break; they depend on others; they spill their milk regularly.
What you might not notice is that she can’t tell time. That’s right. She doesn’t know what time is. Not just what time of day it is, but she doesn’t have an awareness of time. Can you remember what life was like before you knew what time was? Probably not. But maybe you can remember something about life before you used an alarm clock to remind you that your life was so important that you must stop resting. Being around her–being around them–is the closest thing any of us will get to living without time again.
Without time 40 lbs never felt so light; repetitious stories never sounded so good; cleaning up spills never required less energy; soothing cries never seemed so desirable. Without time raising a child never seemed so natural.
The Plea Answered
Dear Legs,
First, please forgive me for not responding sooner. I was very moved by your letter, and fully intended to write you back that day. But, as you know, life got in the way. I’m sorry for that.
Skipping the weather chit-chat (face already reminds me daily that it has been sunny), I will get right to it. Regarding why I am making you work so hard these days, I think I know. You asked about the reason that I made you work so hard of late. You asked if I was running from “responsibility” or “failure”. With certainty I can tell you “No”.
I do think that I have discovered the reason that I am putting you through this situation, however. Do you remember doing the mediation before the divorce? There was a lot of talk about money and how much I had to pay her. Do you remember the part about how each tax season we’d review our incomes to see if the “Memorandum of Understanding” needed to be adjusted based on how much money she and I were making? I actually feel a bit silly admitting this, silly because I’m sure I can just ask a friend what the real answer is, but if I remember right, the rules to the divorce included that if I became a millionaire, I would have to pay her more than I already do. Well, here’s the thing. I don’t want to pay her more. So it’s shit jobs with shittier salaries for now.
It probably doesn’t make sense to you two, my friends, but I think for these next couple of years I’d rather risk ruining our relationship–yours and mine–than hear another man order me to pay her more money.
I know you’re tired. Believe me when I say I am more than aware that I am the reason you both feel and are tired. I am sorry about that. On the bright side, we’ve made it through one year, and that means only a few more years until this burden is lifted. And you know how time flies. Maybe I’ll even call up my lawyer friend and find out that I’m wrong about the situation.
In any case, thank you for not giving up on me. I will owe you both a lot when all this has passed.
Thoughtfully Yours,
Brain
So I’m Not Allowed To Text Her Back?
“So I’m not allowed to text her back?”
“No!” they said in unison.
“Look. It sucks, okay? I know it does. But you screwed up. You sent her seven–that’s SEVEN–texts without her responding. You freaked her out. Then she stood you up–twice. The only way you’ll know she’s not just stringing you along is if you wait for her to really try to set up a date. If you answer her text now, you’re just playing into her crazy hands,” his friend explained.
“I just don’t get it. You don’t know how she talked, what she said. How does this make any sense? I only texted her that night because we had scheduled a phone call and she didn’t call and it was late. Explain to me how I am in the wrong for letting her know I was worried?” he said, still hurting.
“Listen. You’ve only talked to this girl for a few days. Days! It sounds like the situation looked promising, but the girl also sounds crazy. No one in their right mind talks to people how you tell me she talked to you. That she has stopped talking to you, taken together with the fact that her last text to you demonstrates she can’t tell what day she received a text on illustrates that something fishy is going on. You have to see that, don’t you?” his brother said, chiming in.
“I guess. It’s just that I’ve never really felt this way before. And her voice. If you could just hear her accent… I’m telling you, these things can’t be faked. I need to talk to her again. But you’re telling me I can’t. She texted me just now. Out of the blue. Doesn’t that mean something? I just don’t understand why I can’t text her back,” he cried out.
“You’re right. I don’t understand either. I don’t. I don’t understand the whole situation. I don’t understand women. What is the deal? I mean, we’re smart enough. We should be able to figure them out.”
The three single men were enveloped by a profound silence–a necessary silence if they were to hear the cracking of that sentiment’s foundation. Their smiles and laughter confirmed that they heard it indeed.
Get A Free Blog Review
Last summer an entrepreneur, friend, and sometimes blogger told me, “If you blog daily for six months, you should have 1000 followers at the end of those six months.” Well, it’s been more than seven months of daily posts on Captain’s Log, and I’m sitting at 199. As is the case with most facts, this amuses me. Just the same, seeing that I am a part of the human race, and therefore partial to round numbers, I’m excited to amass follower number 200. And I’m shameless when it comes to getting what I want. So here’s what I’m offering: the blogger who follows me as number 200 will get a free review of their blog. That’s right. I’ll take some time between now and Monday to peruse your blog and then I’ll write the review for Monday’s post. You can trust that I will be sure to say nice things as well as true things. If you’re on the fence, think of it this way: in return for a simple click of a mouse, you’ll get exposure to 199 readers who possibly aren’t aware of your stuff. Heck, I might not be aware you exist.
This is a one time offer, and it is sure to go fast. A little book called “The Magic of Thinking Big” mentions that “everyone you know craves praise”. Well, I’m offering praise in exchange for bliss. Whatdya say?
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Schwartz, David Joseph. The Magic of Thinking Big. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-Hall, 1959. Print.
Review of A Fly Went By by Mike McClintock and Fritz Siebel
In the classic children’s book A Fly Went By, Mike McClintock harnesses the The Great War’s lesson and with perfect eloquence tells a story that frees children from fear. With Fritz Siebel’s poignant illustrations as the glue holding a child’s gaze, McClintock’s repetitious prose etches its way into a young listener’s mind. The story is simple: a boy sees a fly go by, and asks him, “Why?” We soon find out that the fly ran from the frog. But the frog isn’t chasing the fly; he “ran from the cat, who ran from the dog.” The boy continues his search for the thing behind all the running, and in perfect metaphor to life, it turns out that a man was the first to run, and he ran from sounds of unknown origin. The chain reaction resulting in all the characters running in fear thus began. We soon discover, though, that these sounds were caused by “a sheep with an old tin can.”
Like any toddler whose parents read this book to them, apparently I had the big finale memorized before I knew how to read. It wasn’t until after college, though, that in reading the book to a nephew I realized the lesson that stamped itself on my person. Have no fear. “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” Be brave. These sentiments and more are captured within McClintock’s fun little book. It is a sure winner for parents who are looking for ways to teach their children a timeless truth–without the children knowing class is in session. A life without fear is a life worth living and a gift worth giving. Give children freedom from fear. Share with them the story of a boy who “sat by the lake, and looked at the sky.”
****
McClintock, Marshall, and Fritz Siebel. A Fly Went by. [New York]: Beginner, 1958. Print.
Good Thing No One Else Was Listening
“Merry Christmas,” he said, walking into her room.
“Daddy,” she began, “you know what? I heard Santa last night.”
“I did, too,” he confirmed. “Let’s go see if he brought any presents.”
She led the way to the tree and let out a giggle before she reported her findings.
“I wanna open this one,” she said, pointing to the biggest present.
“Actually, it’s better if we start with the gifts from relatives. Then you can open the gifts from Santa. Is that a deal?” he offered.
“Deal,” she agreed.
“Okay then. Let’s start with Uncle Sam’s gift. What do you think he gave you?” he asked.
She struggled with the bow until, at last, it relented, at which point she lifted the heavier than expected box. She sensed a liquid inside, and like any American child, guessed with more excitement than adults have the capacity to fake, “Is it…wah-der?!”
“Yes child, it’s water. The one thing in life you’ll never be without due to your ‘kul-cherr and hair-i-tij’. Sam waited all year to surprise you with this once in a lifetime gift,” he laughed to himself, head shaking.
“I don’t know,” he answered, “why don’t you open it and find out?”
There’s Got To Be A Word For It
There’s got to be a word for it. You know what I’m talking about. You’re talking to a friend, and then they pull out their phone. They peek at it, and then something on the screen captures their attention. You keep talking, hoping they aren’t actually more involved with their phone than with you. Then something in your voice triggers something in their brain to command their head to turn your direction. The look they give next is what I’m thinking has to have a word. The look which says, “Uh huh. Yep, I’m listening. I know you think I was looking at my phone instead of you, but you’re mistaken. I was listening and can still listen even as I return to looking at my phone. Promise.”
Oh. I know. The word is disrespect.
We all do it. Let’s all stop doing it.
The only way to get there is together.
Captain’s Log 