The 45 Blog

Just like that, my slow mood moved away. I just had to sit at my writing desk, dig into some drafts, and get lost in making the work more concise, more chiseled, removing “I” as much as ego would allow. Almost two hours later, I’ve either forgotten what put me in that mood in the first place or dealt with it, and learned from it, and will use it the way a nudibranch uses its opponent’s poison against others — incorporating it into its vastly glowing arsenal of stolen weapons, to be used or not.

There’s nothing more profound than an empty porch with a half-glass of lemonade sweating on the rail. Who was drinking it? Why did he or she leave? When did this person discover the taste of lemonade? Was the person 5 or younger? Or maybe the person was 16 and spiking it with a spark of vodka. Why do I assume the person likes lemonade– maybe it’s half empty because that’s how high she filled it? Is there bad news in the home, perhaps an emergency she leaned into, like maybe the toddler stuck his fingers in the electrical socket and she had to run, because dad felt too guilty for not baby-proofing enough. As dads say, You know, shit happens, then move on. Maybe the person swung inside to pilfer more sugar to sweeten up the concoction. What did the person’s face look like when it was too tart? Did his or her face scrunch into a small button, reactively– pained by the citric acid? Did he or she spit it out and make a noise? And who made the lemonade? Was it the child, testing out recipes for a lemonade stand? Or was it the grandmother, spending the summer with her favorite grandkids? Was it freshly squeezed or from concentrate? I gotta know.

I stood in the sun, looked at the porch, and thirsted my way to a few lasting questions:

Whoever lives here, whatever lives here, did they simply leave this lemonade for me?

And was this glass of lemonade half-emptied by my shadow on the other side of the wall ? If so, why? What does it want to say to me this time, so that I may grow into a better guest? Does my presence make the house ache for a different stranger or am I fine as I am, occurring here without invitation, but a heavenly hunch.

Last night, I shut the day down by having a cigar on the back patio. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of my puffy gray hair and thought to myself– Your hair looks crazy– like M’s. M. was a dear friend and mentor-poet. We exchanged poems and artwork– I’d visit him– walk around the university. He sent me books to read– and would recommend other poets , like Tomaz Saluman. Long-necked giraffe toys for my daughters appeared in the mailbox. He was a sweet man, with an active, turbulent, loving and creative mind– and a healthy love for cats. But one night, he broke down and told me a secret and it was bad. Instead of listening and being honest, I coddled him– said some BS , like we all mess up once in a while, M, that wife is giving you a lot of pressure. and he was crying. We hung up, then never spoke again. After all these years, I think I figured out why. At his weakest, he wanted accountability and needed it– but I shrugged off his mistake as if no big deal, that sobriety needs a day off once in a while, just for him to appreciate the clarity it brings after a night of drinking . But that’s wrong thinking– for so many reasons. I should have asked him if he went to a meeting or called his sponsor– and I should have asked what his next steps were. Instead, I acted like a boy . The shame that rushed in when I realized this overwhelmed me until I couldn’t feel it any longer . Now I feel okay and would apologize to him if I ever got the chance. That’s a little progress, but it’s something.

Driving home to Tennessee, we passed through Columbus , Ohio. It’s about a third of the way home for us. We started in Rochester, NY with a terminal point just south of Nashville, TN. In Pennsylvania and some parts of NY and Ohio, there’s the occasional slow traffic of Amish buggies when you take the side roads . They bounce down the shoulder, cluttering the dirty road air with dust pebbles . Their historical and pastoral appearance of hand-sewn dresses and chinstrap beards, in addition to those stern faces, makes everybody in my car sigh and relax . It’s one of those moments for turning the radio down to silence , and when everybody wants to be most attentive to a passing mystery.

It makes no sense.

If they were on a bicycle, each and everyone of us would be agitated– cussing out the window, maybe even spitting.

But because they’re driving buggies and look ancient to us, we stare at them as if staring at a river that leads down into Columbus, Ohio– the land of unfinished bridges. I couldn’t count all of them — because I was driving, balancing my coffee with one hand, not wanting to spill it on my wife. However, there was one bridge I noticed, less finished than the others, and I wondered where it would lead to, what lands or people would it be joining, what states of consciousness would it stitch together to make a person whole. Lastly, I wondered what toll it would charge for its use.

And that’s when I felt scared, and mute. I turned the radio up, and prayed for the music to yank me up out of my skin, to stretch me from one side of the unfinished bridge to the other side, which I couldn’t see.

Made turkey soup today. Wrote– and just really enjoy what I’m learning from the process. I walk, have conversations with myself, pray, move some more, then write some more. The volume of writing over the last 4 years is vast across the genres of fiction, blogs and journals. But the show script is the one product I’m proudest of.

And I want to sell it.

Just a day of waking up too early. Reading too much. Writing too much. Just in the head too much. So you call somebody who needs more help than you do, and you hear them out. And suddenly you feel better– knowing how blessed you really are, if you can get out of your own way.

At the store, getting snacks with my brother-in-law. I couldn’t believe the choices. 7 varieties of Doritos alone. Midnight Snack Doritos–which taste like cheese burgers –was one of them. One stoner designed it for another– and the rest of us benefitted, because we all love novelty , we all love death by novelty, yet we’re looking for too many ways to survive, except the most important one. Here’s a hint: it’s not in the snack aisle, dummy. And it’s not a novelty. It’s something inside, deeper.

She asks for pasta. It’s 95 degrees in June, and my daughter wants baked ziti, and so I make it– with garlic bread– and a vodka sauce with some sausage in it.

And I made the wings I thawed as well. I guess those are for dessert– buffalo wings and bleu cheese ice cream– could be winning. But she likes everything I made and that’s all that matters– especially at 24, when sometimes you just need your dad to do something nice.

With my wife and daughters traveling, I’ve decided not to go grocery shopping this week– instead focusing on eating only food and ingredients we have in the pantry, fridge, or freezer. Everyday, I get to surprise myself.

Thawing chicken wings for tomorrow. Dumplings for lunch. Steak , soba and salad for a few days.

It would have been easier to go shopping, to add to our pantry and fridge, but the satisfaction of putting a meal together based on subtraction , imagination and domestic foraging is too delightful. Also , surprising.

Imagine if people would just do this when stuck in life. Instead of adding on, take deep inventory of your own inner resources, then make something with what you already have. You’re bigger than you want to know, and that’s the problem in a nutshell: people don’t want to know–and are too scared to know– because knowing is responsibility.