Weary.

One thing about death is the thoughts that happen after it has touched your life. Memories, wishes, hopes, can all be hyper-analyzed and second-guessed til the cows come home or your blood pressure spikes, whichever comes first.

Over the past year, I’ve had to talk about death a lot. I’ve lost a lot of people in the past 8 months, and I’m still not right, but I noticed something that, well, isn’t the most socially acceptable thing to say out loud.

Death is a release in many ways. Not only from the mortal coil, but, amongst the living, the..relief? And that’s hard to say and admit, but it’s true.

For the past two months, I’ve been in a holding pattern while my mother-in-law declined. Watching that was painful, and to see someone I had so much respect and love for come closer and closer to death ate away at me. My wife, watching her mother encounter one medical hurdle after another, made a habit of driving an hour each way to be there for her, being her advocate in the hospital and in her hospice bed. Many a time I came home to an empty house, watching my phone for text updates.

With her gone, things are drastically different. No more hospital runs. No more light sleep, dreading the 3am phone call from a medical professional. The house projects could be scheduled again, knowing we’d be home for the AC man or the cleaners or the plumber. Possibilities opened back up, and that feels weird to say.

Of course, given my druthers, I’d rather have my mother-in-law still here. But quality of life is really important, and she decided she wanted no more parts of hospital beds and intubation, and I think to be able to go out on your own terms is a blessing we all won’t get to have.

But the collective exhale…she’s in a better place, free from pain…and the world, for the living, can start spinning again.

Posted on by ~tbg~

Tis the season.

My mind is consumed with depressive thoughts. It doesn’t help that the post-holiday endorphin rush is over. That we are into our annual sunshine-less period in Chicago. That the return to work after having time off does not make me more energetic to go to work, but realize again that so many people are without in a country of plenty.

In addition to all that, people I love are in pain, and the empathy in me is having a hard time maintaining some sort of even keel. If I could absorb the hurt, the pain, the uncertainty…I would. That’s a superpower no one really wants, but the nature of these relationships I’m in are super in their own way, and I don’t do half-ass relationships.

But the investment in people leads to obvious issues; there’s no hurt like those you can’t do anything about. What do you say to someone facing financial ruin? What do you say to someone going through emotional turmoil? Even more to the point, what do you DO for those people? What do you do that makes a difference to the people you love, to society at large? To compete strangers, to your siblings, your parents, to everyone?

That’s where I’m at right now. And even though I know my reach is limited, and I can’t siphon energy like a Jean Grey, the wish is still there. I want my people happy, comfy, safe, and all of that. And while I draw breath, and have energy, I’m going to try to help that happen.

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The machine.

I think I understand people a little better in the past two weeks.

Amidst the chaos, confusion, and gnashing of teeth of everyday living, I understand people who want to escape into…anything else. Heavy social media curation. Bingeing movies and shows.

I used to be “how could you put that energy into that kind of stuff while all of THIS is going on?” and just now come to realize that “all of this” will still be going on. After the doom scrolling, and the show is over, or the vices have run out…the present reality is still there. It cannot be fully escaped.

But for 30 minutes or an hour or on a lazy Saturday, that reality can be ignored, and that’s what lets you keep your sanity. To be drawn into fictional lives, to acquit yourself of the mundane, unimportant, bothersome parts of societal relations with others similarly affected…is the only escape some people have.

That said, I am not a fan of the “sports radio” treatment of current events. I am not a fan of the constant rehashing, analysis, and “long time listener, first time caller” interactions from Everyman On The Street. I understand that reactions are an industry unto themselves now, but it’s not an industry I want to invest any time in, no matter what the reaction is or what we’re reacting to.

I think what sums this up can be equaled to a kind of conflict stress. Every day, we are bombarded with YOU WON YOU LOST THINGS SUCK YOU ARE UGLY YOUR NEIGHBORS ARE SKETCHY GET MONEY WATCH THE GAME WATCH THOSE PEOPLE by a ideological media for who this is all a game of clicks and numbers, and who am I to blame anyone for trying to sit out of that as long as they can?

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The places you’ll go.

I went to the library today and I got a couple of books that were on my to-read list. One was by Larry McMurtry, noted author a quite a few books about the Wild West and cowboys and such, called “Walter Benjamin at the Dairy Queen.” It’s a book of his recollections of his growing up in the context of storytelling; where he grew up, everyone was working, and there was very little time to sit around and tell stories. Part of his point (I’m on page 70 at the moment) is that storytelling loses a lot in a society where everyone is either too busy to listen or have nowhere to go to laze around and listen.

When I started the book, I was put off a bit. Here was this white dude, speaking of a country long gone, of a people who inevitably vote Republican and proudly don’t go more than 20 miles from where they’re born. The kind of people for whom work is a currency, and social issues boil down to “I have it bad, and no one else should really have it better than me.”

Anyway, what drew me in was our community. He spoke about the stories of his childhood, and I saw a ton of parallels. He was made to do the manual work of a rural life, but everyone sensed that he just wasn’t good at it. He got ahold of some books and was sold; these Anglophile writers wowed him with their language and their storytelling. He saw how he could apply those lessons to the stories he wanted to tell.

The difference, which became glaring to me, is that he wanted to immerse himself in that Anglophile world. The world of European writers, who he was introduced to and were soon lifted up as examples and roadmaps to follow. I’m a bit different, and I hope others are, too. The key is a saying that I’ve heard over and over – “if you know better, do better.”

I cannot imagine a list of inspirations that doesn’t include James Baldwin or Audre Lorde. Pablo Neruda and Amy Tan. Alexander Chee and Ta-Nehisi. And I mourn the people who look to Europe for these classic writers but don’t see the talent under their regional noses because “woke” or “diversity writer”. What treasures he missed!

The book was published in 1999, and now I have to wonder if he didn’t read the older writers because he didn’t know about them, or they weren’t “as good” as the people he names as influences. And that’s the rub with being a non-white person consuming media; you are surrounded by such great talents, see them every day, seek them out, read them, wonder at the sentence structure and ways to turn a phrase…and find out that there are people who are so hung up on the European artists that were allowed to publish and be lionized those many years ago.

But at the end of the day, the urge to read, to consume, to be influenced by all that the world has to offer is its own reward. I grew up in a different Wild West, but while I can struggle with questions of representation and who gets to be the big name and who can’t, I can connect with him on essential questions of environment and telling stories. You know, human traits and qualities that can shine in my writing just as they do with his.

Posted on by ~tbg~

Not quite helpless, but.

She’s gone inside, mentally exhausted. He sits outside, smoking the last of his cigar.

The taste of the Nicaraguan leaf swirls around the inside of his mouth as he stares up into the sky. He exhales, and the smoke hangs in the still night air, illuminated for a while by the porch light. If he squints, he can make out a star, shining dimly, but still shining. He closes his eyes tightly, then opens them, but things aren’t any clearer.

Across the world, at that very moment, there are people hurting, but he can only think of one person and her hurt. A hurt that he cannot fathom, but he has a front row seat to. He can only do so much, but there is so much he can’t do. And that is the worst feeling.

To want to help, but not being able to; is there no sadder circumstance?

He leans forward, puts out his cigar, takes the last sip of his bourbon, and heads inside.

Posted on by ~tbg~

Formative memory.

I was outside having a smoke with my wife when I remembered a fond memory of Sundays when I was a kid. Let me tell you..

We would start early with Sunday School. To my mom’s credit, she hated being in church all day, and Sunday School was 9-10:30. She thought it important that I get a little God in my life; plus, she didn’t really like the minister, who was our example of What Not To Be As A Man Of God. So we’d go, leaving Dad at home, and get our God on, and come back.

If there wasn’t a football game to attend, we’d go shopping. We’d take a trip out to Cerritos to Fedco, which was a goverment-employee membership store about 40 minutes away. On the way there, we would turn on KLON 88.1 from Cal State Long Beach, as they played jazz and blues on Sundays. We’d go and get groceries, and.I would be turned loose in the book section as my parents shopped.

We’d leave there and maybe go to Cerritos Mall, or maybe Lakewood Mall for a while, and then back home with KLON playing their music. I’d be in the backseat as we would talk. We’d have great conversations, and I remember feeling…free. Happy. Content.

We’d get home, and Mom would cook early dinner, and we’d eat around 3. Any amount of goodness would away; Mom was, and still is, a master in the kitchen.

Afterwards, I’d help clean up, and they would adjourn to watch TV. I would turn on the little radio in my room and tune in to three radio programs that evening. The first was a spoken word program, kind of like the Moth, where people would tell stories. Secondly would be the Dr Demento Show, where he would play all and any mater of comedic songs and radio bits.

Thirdly, the 24 hour radio news channel would, for an hour, play two 30-minute episodes of old time radio shows. Those shows would vary, but I probably got my love for audio engineering from that show. The Cisco Kid. Green Hornet. The Jack Benny Show. Buck Rogers. I would sit only bed and draw or read, aware that Monday lay on the other side of sleep, but in those days, Monday just meant school, not a soul-crushing job or mandatory interaction with middle management.

As I got older, my bedtime was relaxed, but early on, bedtime was 8pm, and sometimes, I would smuggle my clock radio under the covers, turn the volume down REALLY low, press the speaker against my ear, and listen.

I wonder what it would take to get that peace back, of a routine that centers me, calms me.

Sitting outside with my wife listening to jazz is doing a good job of it now, though.

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Rabbit holes.

One of the things so great/wondrous about social media is the ability to go in and out of rabbit holes, to have your attention for a few seconds before you think of something related and go of on that tangent. You learn the darnedest things that way, and often can’t wait to tell others about that time where you went looking for videos on how to paint a room and came out knowing the chord progression in a Kendrick Lamar song makes it sound extra melodic.

Anyway, I was appraised of these guys who do some very nice paint colors. I went from that, to a recollection; hadn’t I heard of a particular interior design style that uses color like this? A quick search led me to “Dark Academia” and this good video on that. That led to a discussion about what room we could do in this style, and cost and possible color and accessories. Then into looking for interior design classes offered by my local art schools.

Very excited. And all because of a fleeting question about dark walls in rooms.

Posted on by ~tbg~

“Fan” short for “fanatic”.

So, college football is upon us, but I don’t think that this is confined to just this sport. I’m sure people worldwide go nuts over their local sports teams. College sports are special in that you don’t necessarily even have to have attended the school in question to feel this level of belonging. And that’s what it is, right? Belonging. Anyway, this dude posted this on Twitter:

A little backstory. Florida State had very high hopes this year after doing very well last year , but they lost their first game to a team they were supposed to beat handily. Florida State fans felt some kind of way about it.

So, second game of the season, against Boston College, another team who, on paper, they were better than. The above fan posted this announcement a few days before the game.

It was Boston College 14, FSU 6 at halftime. This guy deleted his Twitter account completely before the second half started. Florida State ended up losing, 28-13.

It wasn’t even the lengths to which this fan felt he needed to go to get across that his team would definitely, for sure, completely win this game that kinda caught my attention. Hell, in this age of “engagement” and “content”, someone eating dog shit out of a cup is, um, not the content I want to see, but I know it exists somewhere. What gets me is the level to which this person is engaged on a level that, logically, makes no damned sense.

This person doesn’t play for Florida State. Isn’t a referee. Isn’t a coach. In no way, shape, or form can this person affect FSU’s chances to win said game. But that will to win is so in them that they offer to make a public display if what they want does not come to pass. And it didn’t.

I think I’d like to read more about the psychological perks of fandom; why do we do what we do for organizations we’re not part of, for schools we didn’t go to, amongst others who feel the same way? Because this shit able? That borders on psychosis. But that’s part of what “fanaticism” is.

Posted on by ~tbg~

Words of venom.

Note: this was written in response to a thing I saw on FB. Now, I’ve taken to not engaging and trying to be right online, but this tickled me AND aroused my need to defend summer as a season, especially since all of the fall aficionados can’t hide their glee for much longer. Thing is, I wrote this…and then proceeded to dip below 80. So my wrath was…late? Betrayed by Mother Nature proving her point herself. Ah, well. I had fun writing it.

Ray Bradbury, in his excellent book “Zen: The Art of Writing” asks the reader “How long has it been since you wrote a story where your real love or real hatred somehow got onto the paper?” That emotion shows through the writing, and I think this did too. Only thing was, my timing was off. Or Mother Nature’s. SOMEBODY was off.

Anyway…

I will not harsh your mellow; time passes, and soon it will be Spooky Szn and the reign of pumpkin and turkey, and you will find abject joy. Meanwhile we, the children of Summer, dread the coming of our mortal enemy. You bemoan Mother Nature’s Broil setting, but act like she doesn’t have a Flash Freeze button, too.

We wouldn’t have minded the three day stretch of days below 75 if you’d have simply shut up about it. Instead, we got wishes and dreams and pronouncements about how you simply cannot WAIT for fall. You got caught out there, twisting in a cooler, drier wind, wishing for something that has yet to come. Meanwhile, the force of corporations loom behind you, eager to restock store shelves in aisles labeled HOLIDAY and introducing orange products where there were none before. Do you really want that?

You say we have fooled ourselves, that just because we had summers off as kids, that we still hold a childish affinity for these warmer months. If you were an adult living in cooler climes, though, you recognize summer for what it is; an answer and a rebuttal of these days where Mother Nature wants you frozen. Where that wintry bitch wants your skin scraped away by snow blowing sideways at high velocities, where any weak point in your fur and leather armor will expose you to hypothermia and the very real feeling of impending death, frozen in place and peed on by dogs in fuzzy, handmade sweaters who think you’re a lamppost.

Can you just allow us the mirth of a Slurpee? Of napping in front of a fan? Wearing novelty T-shirts for as long as we can? Or do you just hate those of us who make Summer our business? Shut yo ass up and wait your turn, and after we get done with fall, you better not say a gotdamned thing about it being too cold.

Posted on by ~tbg~

Chicagoan.

A fun thing I’ve done recently is ask friends of mine if they feel like a Chicagoan.

These people have been here around 20+ years -I just realized that this year marks my 30th year In the Chicago area – and I have to ask the question. Do they feel “real”? What entails that? When did you get that feeling? What does a “real” Chicagoan do, or feel?

Besides the funny retorts – “a real Chicagoan puts no ketchup on their hot dog, hates going to O’Hare, and idolizes the ’85 Bears” – the question is a ponderous one.

Thing is, almost to a person, all of the people like me, who moved here in early adulthood, say that they consider themselves a Chicagoan…but not to born-and-raised Chicagoans. They have no problem telling their friends and family in other places that they are a Chicagoan, and thusly well versed in the city’s culture, happenings, and ephemera, but they cede the title of “real Chicagoans” to people born and raised here.

And I find that really telling. Myself, I was born a Comptonite, a Los Angeleno, a Californian. In the 30 years I’ve been in Chicago, I’ve gone back five times. But yet, I still feel weird about calling myself a Chicagoan to locals. I’m far removed from the goings on in my hometown, but I am still a part of its fabric somehow. And I would think I’m more ingrained here, but I struggled to figure out why I couldn’t own up to such.

Thing is, I get it now. I didn’t go to high school here. I didn’t hang out on State Street or 79th or Milwaukee with my friends while I was a teen trying to figure things out. I wasn’t around to savor the air when Harold was running for mayor, or feel the loss when he died. This place didn’t shape my beginning, my formative years, my “how does the world work”, because where I learned all that was 2,000 miles away and very different.

The label is very difficlut to assume because we are surrounded in our daily lives with people who went to school here. Catholic League. The Chicago accents. And while we’ve lived and expanded and nested here, we are not from here, and that makes a huge difference in how a lot of people see themselves.

I love this city, and have a ton of history here. I can go home and say that I’m a Chicagoan. I just know too much about what I missed by not growing up here to say that here.

Posted on by ~tbg~