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Showing posts with the label see through sundays

It Started with a Christmas Album

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  used with permission ( link 1 ) ( link 2 ) I ain’t e’em WANT to sell my house…      Four weeks before this was all in motion, we took the girls to the Tanglewood Festival of Lights.   If you don’t know, going there usually means you will be in your car for 3-5 hours, and this time was more on the five side of things.   With children in the car, my phone was not to be the one that sourced the music for the ride.   Instead, we listened to a Christmas album. I HATE Christmas albums, but this one was jazzy and the singer had--… this VOICE.   I asked the wife person “who is this?” at least 621 times.   She explained who and then how she knew/knew of her each time I asked, since we were in traffic with the car in park.   The jazzy sounds and buttery voice had me hooked.      In November, my last previous neighbors had moved and after prepping the house, the company that owned it opted to SELL instead of seeking a new tenant.   To the surprise of ALL involved parties, the house snared

23

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  July 14, 1997… I walked into an NC DMV and got my no-longer-a-kid license.   The one with facial hair, a stamp that didn’t peg me for being under 18 and reflecting a height that reflected my last adolescent growth spurt. I also registered to vote.      In the interceding 23 years, I have not missed one single opportunity to inform myself and vote in every single election.   I have avoided being arrested for or convicted of anything that would jeopardize my right to vote.   I avoided being less than informed on issues that would drive who I should vote for, even in a land before ubiquitous internetting and unsolicited (or solicited!) text messaging.   Every first Tuesday after the first Monday of every November, I got my ass up and went and participated.   When Early Voting became a thing in my mid-to-late 20s, I chose a favorite polling location – one alternative one now – and have not missed an opportunity to vote early since.      I have seen election seasons come and go.  

When you see her, thank her...

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       I have stopped writing two times in the last ten years. The first time was when I split from my ex wife the woman I married once.   I was going down THROUGH it.   I felt like shit and nothing I enjoyed was actually enjoyable.   My beautiful lawn went to shit, my house was a mess and my life was more of one.   All things coming down around me, the LAST thing on my mind was putting these fingers to the keys. The next time was after I changed departments in 2018 and was no longer spending 8 hours a day on a second computer that my employer was not monitoring my activity on.   Sprinkle in a week and a half hospital stop 7 weeks later and shit got real, like too real to be worried about my creative output.      Of late, as in over the past three months, my wife (no modifiers, I am actually married to this one) , has been pushing me to sit down and get my ass back to creative work. “Why aren’t you writing?”   she would ask.   I had an answer in 2018 when I apparently narrowly e

For the Love... Writing About Writing

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     When I was 12 and in seventh grade, my aunt came to visit my English class.   She was, unbeknownst to me until that class on that day, a published author and a good friend of my teacher whose name alcohol has erased from my 41 year old memory.   She spoke of a book she had recently written and was on the way to publishing that happened to be stories of my family and her and her siblings (including my own father) during their own upbringing. These were stories I knew first hand, but the way she presented them made it so…   ENTERTAINING.   It was something completely new to me to see something so mundane as a story that every kid knows of what begat them presented in a manner that could hold the attention of 20 twelve year-olds.      I was hooked… As a middle child, also-ran, “who is that guy” kid, I have always been used to things just being whatever they are and cruising through life without any specific dream other than “making it,” whatever that means.      I deci

Overstaying...

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October 13, 2008… A Monday      I had been called into a supervisor’s office and asked my honest opinion about the day to day operations in the department.   Pressed for my honest opinion, I gave it and some suggestions for opportunities for improvement with it.   Because, naturally, a problem without a solution is just a complaint. Despite having asked for my opinion and received it quite professionally, the only response she would muster was – and I remember it like it was yesterday – “things just aren’t going to get any better.”      At that moment, I decided that I could no longer remain in that situation and began shopping my resume around the company for a situation that would not land me under one of those “well at least we have a job”-ass supervisors. My problem was my effectiveness.   I can have a laundry list of complaints about something, but if it is what I am tasked with doing to be sure to it that my mortgage gets paid, then I am turning over GOD level wor

Small Victories...

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I collect things…      I collect things that are of interest to me.   One of the things I collect most intently and intensely is Hot Wheels cars.   I pass by two Wal Mart super centers and one Neighborhood Market on my EVERY day trek.   That will change soon (more on that Sunday) .   But I used to – say about from the early 00s-09ish – be hardcore about finding and possessing hot wheels that were of interest to me.   It was something fun to do, going from store to store to store, seeing what they had and picking up the ones I liked and bringing them home just to have them.      Someone who was living with me at the time basically told me that all of my hobbies were stupid and I lost interest. But then it became obvious that I was what was stupid, not necessarily my hobbies, so she left me with a lesson to continue to be me and enjoy all of what makes me me.   Around 2014/15ish, I was back in the stores all over, thumbing through the racks and pegs and bins of Hot Wheels

Anyone Out There?

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     This is as much for me as it is for you… Given family history, a period of undiagnosed depression and a healthy/unhealthy fondness for fermented beverages, I am full aware that my mind will one day begin to slip. I was reading some articles a few years ago that explained the connection  of creative activities (writing, art, etc…) and the slowing of the process. [ link1 ] [ link2 ] [ link3 ]      Knowing what I know at 38 and of sound mind to think of it, I intend to stretch this process for as long as I physically can.  As long as I have my eyesight and my hands can perform the action of typing, I am going to keep writing.  Even if I don’t make a dime doing it, the value gained from preserving my future for as long as I can makes it worth it.      I know I can’t realistically expect my audience to be my forever audience, and as a middle child I am more than adjusted to this.  Given the information taken from the above links, I am of the mind that continuing

"Buddy"

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Everyone is my  buddy… Well, almost everyone is. My nephews are my buddies. YOUR nephews are my buddies. Little kids in public spaces are my buddies. Little kids in public spaces who behave like incorrigible little shits?  Still my buddies. Big dogs are my buddies. Little dogs are my buddies. Old men playing chess at McDonalds at 11am are my buddies. My own granddaddy was my Buddy, and everyone called him just that. My own dog responds to “Buddy” as much as he does “Bruiser.” The last thing I say leaving my house every morning is “bye Buddy, see ya later” and his response is as priceless now at 8 years as it was when he was 8 weeks old. I randomly high-five 3 year olds in Wal Mart who elatedly grin when they hear a large black man smile and say “high five, lil buddy!” Parents love it too. I guess you could say I use the word “buddy” a lot with the people I come into contact with.  And I am okay with that.

My 600-Lb Addiction

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     Two things I have noticed about TLC of late… 1 – These folks are fucking obsessed with fat people. and… 2 – I can’t seem to look the hell away as they do it.      Last year, one of my wives my lady tricked me into watching an episode of My 600-Lb life and despite being initially repulsed by the concept of a human being weighing a quarter of the weight of my smaller car and not instantly exploding, I watched.  I noticed, then, their response to the popularity of the show was to add more “fat people” programming.  I know this is nothing new, not with prior shows like Honey Boo Boo and the whole My Big Fat Fabulous […] series.  For good measure, they threw in Big and Little , a show about fat midgets overweight little people. “Phillip, how have you paid so much attention to even KNOW all of this?” you ask. I remind you to have a look at #2 above.      So anyway.  Caught up in the “can’t look away” angle has kept me morbidly interested in the show.  Anothe

The Prisoner...

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     I have a massive amount of respect and sympathy for tortured creative souls… There was a time where I just didn’t get it; the grief that comes with being one of those people who is constantly looking to pull everything they see/say/do into something that is their outlet du jour at the next moment they will arrive to their medium to do so.  As I have been back writing for the last 16+ months with an all-new focus here, I see it more than ever.      I look back to the last time I was actually motivated and I see it.  I finished my novel in 30 days, all 50k words of it.  Waking up at 5am to pound out an idea brewing.  Carrying a flash drive with me everywhere and writing without eating lunch.  Ignoring the whole-ass world around me, for better or worse.  I did it all.  Two of the four albums I listened to for that September/October month were Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue and Gil Scott-Heron’s Winter in America .  If ever there was a succinct definition of tortured creative

Old Beginnings...

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     Life is a weird thing… It is this dance of things that will inevitably happen to us, fought against how we will react to them. [Phlip note: isn’t it weird how we often use the word “inevitable,” but I have never heard the word “evitable” used in my 38years?] In 2015, I had some defeatable health issues that I spent the necessary time, money and medical attention addressing.  It took until the end of the yea to be cleared of it all.  2016, I rediscovered my pen--… err, keyboard and ran with it (more on that Friday).  I also got the clearance from my doctors from the above situation to resume vigorous physical activity. 2017 was my year.  Cleared for action and newly motivated to eat right and attempt to live forever, I started walking/running and eventually bought a bicycle to get my physique under control. And I threw off 40 pounds in 9 months. October, we consolidated households and life became easier still.  No back-and-forth, no maintaining two sets of bills and

React/Respond

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     The dog NEVER has a plan for when it actually catches the car. Think about that for a minute.      People tend to aim for a reaction out of people; something they can see, something that can be quantified.  They are not owed that but human nature seems to fuel the ego that causes one to seek it no less.  A reaction is emotional.  It is (usually) immediate, overblown and underthought.  It is a “rise,” as in “getting a rise out of someone.” It is giving the enemy (real or perceived) what they want.  Unfortunately, it is an mentally void behavior that apparently doesn’t disqualify one from the Presidency.  Many think it is a show of strength, something that shows off the preparedness to deal with a situation.  It isn’t.  It is an opportunity to show foolhardiness, usually a show of fear.      Respond, don’t react.  A “response” doesn’t have to be verbal or contain any action.  Sometimes the BEST responses are to deny the attention seeker the attention they desperatel

Just Spell My Name Right

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     I am not famous for a living. Shit, I am not famous for free. I guess you could venture as far as to say I am not famous at all.      There was a time in my younger days where I would legit get angry when people talked about me.  I really didn’t want the attention, mainly because it was usually negative.  Not that there is this aura of negative around me, but I watch people enough to know that when they’re discussing people and not places/things/ideas, then that conversation is very rarely positive. I learned, though, that you can’t stop ‘em from talking.  What you can, however, control is what they have to talk about.  It makes sense to me that if a motherfucker is trying to hang me, the last thing I want to give them is more rope. 1 – Don’t tell ANYONE everything you know.      Some shit ain’t for everybody.  Some shit ain’t for anybody.  If ever, these days I find myself at a juncture where I can’t tell betwixt the two, the world will be largely uninjured by

Christmas Spirit

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     Christmas is still three weeks out, yet… From about the time in my life that I would fully credit with making me what I am now, we had some adult-ass Christmases.  I say that to say that we had a couple of things under the tree – if there was a tree at home – and a ton of practical things. Socks, drawz, clothes and shoes fit to be worn to school were staples.      At 12, this was kind of hurtful, but at 38 I would LOVE someone to provide me with some of these things. [ Phlip note : no shit, email me for size/address information] There was no secrets at the time as to why things were the way they were, and since we liked to live and eat, indoors at that, we had no good reason to complain.  We appreciated what we had.      On into actual adulthood, I was kind of conditioned not to give a whole lot of a fuck about the general mechanics of Christmas given our history with it.  A gift or two to the people around me, special focus on helping the kids to not feel what I

Loyalty

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     I’m as stingy with loyalty as I am with respect. I don’t often avail myself to people, so the ones I have shared any information they felt should not be shared had better be treated as if they should die with it. As bad as my memory happens to be in the short term, it is dangerous when the topic is things that I feel are important.      My continued circle consists of people I have been given reason to be loyal and respectful to. Sure, I am prone to fits of personal stupidity, but I am at least dumb enough to not be interested in majorly fucking up my plays in a manner I might find egregious.      I have a team… A twin brother, a best friend, several really good friends and some cats that I have never actually met in person.  The amount of “me” that I have given these people is a testament to who I perceive them to be.  This is usually a result of what they have done with or for me with no reason to otherwise.  This is usually a result of shared common interest

[No title]

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     We’re told that patience is virtuous… I did the right thing when I’ve waited      Keep conflict low, don’t make waves… I don’t much debate it      Say what you mean and mean what you say… It’s on them if conflated      Stay in my lane… Easy, most can’t even relate it      Plan hard and work harder… Love what you’ve created      Positivity and focus… At times I feel insulated      Respectability; stand by what you’re about… Time spent doing right is never time wasted      Well I’ve spent years expecting my turn… My time is awaited      Past outcomes speak to norms… I think it’s all overrated      I like to think I am working toward SOMETHING… Perhaps it’s all just belated      I could REALLY use some input… On what has delayed it      Why, all this time doing right… am I the one still frustrated?

Granddad...

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(I'm the one in the diaper with the beard) When he worked third shift, he would get home from work right about the time we’d be waking up.  We were often in the house – even outside of the few months we lived there – so we were there when he came in on Saturday morning.  We’d wake up and take us to this tiny greasy-spoon diner around the corner.  They always knew what he wanted before he asked. The place closed sometime before I was old enough to take HIM to breakfast there.  I hate I never had the chance. It is a fish place now, but I still have warm flashbacks every time I am in the building. Often in my school years, especially in 4 th and 5 th grades, we would be in class about to go to lunch.  “Phillip, your granddad is here.”  He would sit and eat with us and our friends and generally be the coolest old man in the building.  Furthermore, he would bring us all happy meals.  Never once do I recall TELLING him how many people I normally sat with at lunch, I am guess

ONE Person's Hero

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     In all seriousness, I really probably should give more of a fuck about the world and what it thinks of me in general.  The fact of the matter, though, is that I march to the beat of my own drummer.  The “me” that the world is normally allowed to see is an international supervillain, a bearded curmudgeon.      There is this Tiny Human™ in my house who needs a hero.  “DaddyDaddyDaddy” is my routine.  Frustrating as it may be to hear back to back to back, I respond with “yes baby?” and carry it from where it goes. Fun fact: it is fucking EXHAUSTING.  I go out into a world that seems intent on destroying me most times and provide for us, then I come home and put on the happiest face I can.  She picks up on the cues around her and is a very emotional child, I work hard to avoid letting her see me break, despite the inevitable occurrence of it.  It’s human.      To her, I am the smartest, the strongest, the fastest, the best of everything.  True as these things may not be,

Sweat the Details

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She posted that on my wall…      I loved it. It was an explanation to something that I’ve had none for over the last 25+ years.  I am a creator.  I see things that I want to see, I see things HOW I want to see them.  My eye and ear for detail are so tuned to things that I think I will later find important – or better still things I KNOW I will – that small details are outside of my purview.      She is learning, through this, that my issue is not that I don’t give a fuck so much as that I am more for things that one SHOULD be giving a fuck about than to allow time for things that don’t excite me or just probably don’t fit that description. That is why I hate smalltalk and can prattle on for hours about the inner nuances of Herbie Hancock’s Vein Melter .      But it shows that she spends time trying to “get” me instead of applying needless energy to “fixing” me. I know I am broken, and presented myself as such when we met.  A large part of making me better is pu

I. Don't. Fucking. Know.

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     No, it wasn’t right… I was never an “easy” child.  I was born with a plot, a scheme to move toward where I want(ed) to be, even when I didn’t know where that was. but life… We left my dad when I was 11 years, 5 months and 14 days old.  Not that I am keeping score or nothing.      Soon thereafter – nah, long before that – I learned that making my way would be what worked for me.  Sure, I have realized late in life that I have a support system.  Sure, I have found my voice over the last few years.  What remains to be realized, though, is that there is very little that a 6 th -grader has left to know about the world.  And I was ill-prepared. Enter: “I don’t know”      The reality of the world is that no one knows everything.  To my parenting, though, this seemed to be an issue.  Fuck, when I don’t know I don’t know.  But instead of followup questions, I got hit with WHATEVER was convenient.      Well…  Fuck it, I can beat “I don’t know” better than I can g