chopsticks. [trigger #240]

Brad could never get his fingers to use chopsticks correctly. It was one of the things that Muriel had always found remarkably irritating about him. He was always ashamed about it, especially when he finally had to break down and ask for a fork at a restaurant each time. Muriel had very little patience for anyone who didn’t fit her criteria for being worldly and cultured, which Brad secretly always found interesting, because her criteria left out most people and cultures of the world, fitting only those privileged and wealthy enough to expose themselves to large amounts of culture.

Her annoyance with his chopstick handicap had always struck him as unfair, because it wasn’t some sort of “Uhmurican” snubbing of different utensils, he loved all sorts of Asian food, as well as the aesthetics of chopsticks, he just could never get his clumsy fingers to use them correctly, no matter how hard he tried. He often wondered what on earth he would have done if he’d been born in a country that predominantly used chopsticks… would he still have spent his life frustrated?

Now that Brad wasn’t dating Muriel anymore, he felt far less shame and stress around chopsticks, but today the fear had come back with a vengeance. Katie, the new woman he’d just started seeing, is half-Japanese, and she had suggested they grab sushi for dinner. This was an idea that normally would have filled him with joy, it it weren’t for the fact that the object of his affection would see him for the clumsy white guy he truly is tonight.

As it would turn out, he had nothing to worry about. When their first roll arrived Katie hungrily picked up her first piece with her fingers. She responded to Brad’s confusion by informing him that the proper way to eat sushi rolls was with one’s fingers, not with the chopsticks. Relieved, Brad felt a moment of petty and enjoyable satisfaction as he saw this as one final vindication in his former relationship with Muriel. Apparently, the folks who are most arrogant about their grasp of culture often know the least about the world.

keeping score. [trigger #239]

It always takes a bit of an unhealthy pettiness to keep score in arguments with one’s spouse or partner. This is much more the case when one is immortal, and has been keeping score for several centuries. This is exactly what Peter has been doing. He and Gary have been together for almost 650 years, and according to Peter’s obsessively precise tally, he is winning the arguments to 38,112 to 13,764. It helps that Peter is a bit of a savant when it comes to numbers, but even so, this is still a staggering commitment to the minutia of marital bickering, seeing who has the upper hand. One would think with such a tremendous lead he would stop counting. Yet, he keeps on tallying who got the best of whom with each fight, from a moment of bickering to a knockdown drag out barn burner.

What Peter doesn’t know is that if Gary was keeping score, the tally would be very different. Gary’s approach to their fighting was very different than Peter’s, because for Gary, the trick was always to find a way to get what he wanted while letting Peter think he’d won. Whenever that happened, he got a win-win situation in which he came out getting his way while also enjoying a satisfied mate who was even kinder because he thought he was winning graciously. It did take some time for him to be ok with Peter’s smug self-satisfaction, but in time he realized it was well worth it if it meant being able to live in peace more regularly, and to do what he wanted more often than not. One can get used to just about anything when given 650 years to adjust.

let there be light. [trigger #238]

Martin stumbled deeper into the darkness, feet aching so that each step was an agony. Yet he needed to keep pressing forward. He knew that since he couldn’t go back, he needed to go deeper into the catacombs in the hopes of finding his way out somehow on the other side. His eyes had long since adjusted, and he could make out plenty to see where he was going, but unfortunately had no idea where each turn, visible as they were, would lead.

As he followed advice he’d once heard about always turning the same direction to solve a maze, he continued turning right at ever chance, hoping that none of the corridors turned back on themselves. He took a turn and started violently as a figure stood before him. It was wholly terrifying. The hair on his arms and neck stood up, a shiver went up his spine, and inside his chest it felt like a pressure had suddenly built up at the impossibility of anyone else being down in the tombs with him.

He couldn’t make out much about the stranger, could only make out that the man was wearing a suit and a bowler hat. The way the sharp blackness of the suit and hat and the crisp whiteness of the dress shirt underneath seemed somehow more real than the surroundings, like they were deeper in color than the dim passageway. Yet, the stranger’s face seemed fuzzy and obscure, even by the standards of the darkness around them.

The stranger reached into his own chest like a man would reach into a backpack, and pulled out a bright white light that scorched Martin’s eyes. With his eyes squinted tightly shut as an orange haze danced on his closed eyelids, he thought momentarily of the irony that he had seen better in the darkness, and that the light is what had blinded him. His sudden lack of sight added tremendously to the fear he would have thought just a moment ago was the greatest he was capable of being afraid.

it’s cloudy. [trigger #237]

The morning Eric realized what he had the power to do, it was an evening like many before it. Unfortunately, there was nothing outside the routine about it. I say unfortunately, because when it happened, Eric’s father was calmly picking Eric apart with the skill and destructive ability of a malevolent surgeon. He wasn’t actually touching Eric, wasn’t causing him any physically visible injuries, but was instead carefully dismantling Eric’s self-esteem, identity, and security, already weak, frail things after a life with a man like Eric’s father. Eric didn’t know why his father did what he did. His father didn’t know either, but acted out of some deep, internal compulsion. It was almost as if he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t place what caused his contempt for his own son, and probably wouldn’t have even been able to say it was contempt, but merely that he was saying what needed to be said.

Yes, it was unfortunate that this was a day like many others before it, but that was the case. This was one of the marathon days as well, when it went on for hours. Every day there was the common sniping, the carefully executed single shots at Eric. Other days were long procedures, where Eric’s father would literally go on for hours and hours, relentlessly offering his calmly delivered commentary on how useless, vile, and despicable Eric was. Oh, and ungrateful, too. The arsenal Eric’s father worked with was a vast and nuanced thing. His skill with words was only ever used toward this one particular task, and when he got going it was hard to stop. This was one of those such days.

Many years earlier, Eric had developed an ability in his own mind that his father didn’t know about. Eric could make his mind grow cloudy and dim, could insulate himself deep within some part of his mind, where the pain of life couldn’t touch him. At first, it happened all on its own. His father would start in on him, and he would just drift into himself. He was still there, still aware of all that was being said, but it felt like it was far away, happening to someone else. The downside is that his thoughts would become muddled and slow, he was barely functioning in these moments. The cloudiness started to happen more often in time, whenever something made him anxious, or worried, or sad.

Just when Eric had started getting used to this happening, he found he started to know how to bring it on at will. It was no longer just an automatic response of his emotional immune system, but was a mechanism he could start at will. Although stopping it was another matter altogether, he hadn’t figured that part out yet.

Eric’s life was the sort of life in which one would like to cultivate such an ability, and cultivate it he did. When the cloudiness came on, Eric would carefully test its limits, pushing against the inside of this emotional insulation to see if he could have more control of his thoughts and inner world within the puffy mental cloud he created.

On this unfortunately routine day, Eric was doing exactly that. His mind had clouded over, he was no longer paying any attention to what his father was actually saying, but was instead doing mental exercises to see if he could recall movie names and actors, albums and track listings, testing his memory within the clouds.

It was then, right after successfully naming 12 Robert Downey, Jr. movies, that he noticed his father wasn’t talking anymore. He hadn’t noticed when his father had stopped, and saw that the man was still standing in the middle of the living room, where he had been delivering his horrible malediction. His father’s face was vacant and empty, like he was a million miles away. He didn’t seem to have any idea that he was standing in the middle of the living room staring.

Eric returned to the surface of himself, unintentionally leaving behind his cloudy protection to investigate his father’s condition. As he did so, his father squinted his eyes, his face becoming animated again. He looked at Eric for a moment, as if trying to remember not just what he’d been saying but where he was, maybe even who he was. He opened his mouth to speak, once, twice, but then decided against it, pursed his lips, and abruptly left the living room.

That was the day that Eric realized that his ability had grown far beyond anything he would have previously thought possible. Eric was longer limited to merely clouding his own mind, he was capable of clouding over someone else’s mind as well. For the first time in his memory, Eric realized he was looking forward to his next encounter with his father.

we need to chat. [trigger #236]

“Hey Tony, it’s Justin. Call me when you get this, we need to chat. I just got word that there is a problem with the recruitment side of the organization that is much larger than we originally expected. Not for personnel, there is no shortage of people who want to be involved with us. However, there has been a problem recruiting resources for raw materials. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that we need at least 200 subjects a month for the various sacrifices and somatic materials needed for hexes, curses, wards, and prophecies. It used to be so easy to get recruits to sign away their bodies and souls without even realizing they were doing it, and I have to tell ya, I’m not sure what it is that changed. Enrollment has dipped more than 200% since January of last year, only 17 months ago. Somebody is screwing with us, whether from the outside or within the organization. 

“Please call me back when you get this so we can get the ball rolling on a plan to sort this out. I’m worried about what the folks upstairs will do to us if we can’t get the ship righted. I wouldn’t put it past them to literally take it out of our hide.

“Talk to you soon.” 

well, that’s easy for you to say. [trigger #235]

“Well, that’s easy for you to say!” she screamed. 

Frank looked down with his eyes closed and sighed. He rubbed between his eyes with his index finger and thumb, scrunching his face as if the whole situation could be cured as easily as momentarily blurred vision. It had in fact not been easy for him to say at all. What he had said was that he thought they should confess to the affair they’d been having for the last nine months. It had been far from easy for him to say, it had terrified him to even suggest the idea. But he knew that he was miserable, and that his conscience had been growing heavier and heavier all the time, to the point that now his only reprieves were the brief moments of ecstasy when he and Sara were making love. Of course, immediately after sex he would crash back to earth and feel far worse than he had beforehand.

Sex used to consolidate him. Frank had never been the stereotypical man who fell asleep immediately afterward. He’d never even felt tired after sex. It always invigorated him. It centered his mind and body, reminding him of himself. That was still the case, but now that it was so tied up with lies and betrayals that consolidation left him focused entirely on the mess he was making of his life and the lives of those he loved, including Sara.

He did love Sara. And his wife Gillian. Many readers will scoff at the very idea that he loved both at once, but it is truth. He also loved his two children, Stanley and Amanda. He would take any punishment on himself if it would spare those four people the pain that was coming to them. Yet, there was no way to shelter them from the inevitable storm. He was learning the timeless truth that on the road down into hell, the slope is so gradual that one never knows they have begun descending. “Surely, I can take this road for a bit, while it’s fun,” one says to themselves. “I’ll simply take a different road the moment this one begins to dip down into the depths.” One never notices, though. Like looking in the mirror every day and never noticing the changes until seeing an old photo, thus is it on the road to our destruction. It happens in increments, and we never notice the disaster is irrevocable until it is too late.

Sara was just understandably angry. She was realizing along with Frank the direction things were headed. She knew it wasn’t easy for him to say, she was just lashing out at the spot they were in. His family, reputation, and job would all be jeopardized by this revelation. She loved him, which is why she had done something as uncharacteristic as having an affair with a married man. Neither had ever meant for anyone to get hurt, and yet here they were. Look what love has wrought.      

departing by night. [trigger #234]

He trudges ever so slowly through the snow, deeper into the wilderness. Hours ago he passed the point which was previously the farthest from home he’s ever been, and still he pushes onward. He understands nothing about his journey, but only knows, deep down inside himself, that he needs to keep moving. He is afraid, pushing off into the unknown for the first time in his life, but he feels no doubt. He is certain that he is meant to be doing what he is doing. He just wishes he knew what it is he’s doing. He knows he may be mad, but he will keep taking one step in front of the other until he finds whatever it is that is drawing him forward. 

What is left for him back in the village anyway? He has spent his entire life ruining everything, with one bad decision after the other. He has hurt, betrayed, and disappointed the people around him so many times that no one is with him any longer. He is alienated, a pariah. He is the worst kind of alien, not the kind who comes in from the outside, with the hope of finding eventual kinship, but the sort that was once familiar but has warped and twisted so much as to become wholly other, unknown in his own home. Thinking of this, he pauses and spits in the snow, not sure if it is for disgust at those who once loved him, or disgust at himself. Probably both. He readjusts his pack and pushes against the cold wind again. 

If asked, he wouldn’t be able to explain the need to leave that came on him suddenly in the dark of night. He was awoken from a deep sleep, and somehow just knew that he needed to pack essentials and slip away from his sleeping neighbors without a goodbye. Deep in his chest, there is a sensation that feels like he’s turned into a human compass, and he only feels comfortable when he is moving in what feels like the “right” direction. As best he can tell when he can see the stars through gaps in the clouds from time to time, he is heading northwest. 

The farther he gets from home, the less he cares about what his destination is. There is a warmth growing in the center of his chest, something akin to happiness that he hasn’t known in so very long. This is better than anything he is leaving behind. And so he will take one step after the other, and see what dawn brings. 

 

 

 

mix tape. [trigger #233]

Today, they’re actually called playlists, but if you were born in 1975, as I was, it is hard not to continue referring to them as mix tapes. Mix tapes were and are magical things. I could spend hours in my bedroom creating mix tapes when I was young, making copies, and deciding who needed would receive one.

For those of us who couldn’t afford to buy our favorite music, they were how you found a way to play your favorite songs when you wanted them, whether through waiting for a song to come on the radio and quickly starting the recording, or using a double deck to record from your friends’ tapes… or in desperate times, record a second copy from your friends’ mix tapes. You could create a cassette with all your favorite songs and listen to them whenever you wanted.

For the rich and poor alike, mix tapes were also how you shared music with people you cared about, most importantly people you wanted to date. To deliver a perfectly curated mix tape to the object of one’s affection felt like a love potion, even if it didn’t always work, it was a thrilling thing to craft and offer to another person. 

I’ve never gotten over my love of crafting mix tapes. Which is why many years ago I decided to create a mix tape of my life. Fortunately I am no longer limited by the length of the two sides of a long-play cassette tape. In my mix tape, all the major songs of my life are included, for all the wonderfully and tragically huge moments to which a song has been forever connected. 

For example, there is 1987’s “With or Without You” by U2, which, while quite the opposite of a romantic song, was playing when I got my first kiss, and thus will forever be connected to that moment. Or “Head On” by Pixies, which was playing in my room in 1991 when I lost my virginity. That also happens to be a song that played on a mix tape I’d created to take out in my very own car for the first time. 

Mildly more embarrassingly, there is “One Sweet Day” by Boyz II Men and Mariah Carey, because that song came on the radio as we left the funeral home to bury my Grandpa, and finished as we arrived at the graveyard. I don’t believe in any sort of god, but this happened, and I can’t explain it. 

More recently there is my first dance from my wedding, John Legend’s “Stay with You. And “Sorrow” by The National, the first song I played for my son when we brought him home from the hospital for the first time, because I liked the metaphor that even though he won’t remember it I shared with him the truth that I know the world is often a dark and sad place, but that I was holding him the first time he heard the news, and would be there, as long as I had breath, to do the same again.

There is even “Otis” by Jay Z and Kanye, which I listened to in order to pump myself up before my last job interview, a job I desperately love.

That’s just a few of the songs added so far, and hopefully there are many more to come over the next several decades as songs continue to mark great milestones in my life.