I feel like I need to make this a series of some sort… some ongoing diary cataloguing the usually hilarious, sometimes insightful things my three year old son says. Well, here goes.
Topics include: An update on the direction of this blog and what you can expect to find if you read it; More vignettes, more short reads; More long reads; Overcoming Anxiety; When the Lights Go Out at 10:16, a Memoir (formerly “The Court: Jeremiah’s Story”); Profiles of interesting people with interesting stories; More experimentation; Poetry; Drawing and Artwork; My thoughts on writing as a craft; Random musings on life and other topics; Greater frequency of posts; In Summation
The late David Foster Wallace had a way of making you see the minute details of life as if you were wearing the eyes of an entirely different human being. In “This is Water: Some Thoughts, Delivered on a Significant Occasion, about Living a Compassionate Life,” Wallace delves into empathy, adjustment, and consciousness as it relates to the mundane ordinariness of everyday life—and how these tiny moments guide who we are and/or will become.
I made some updates to my short story “The Lady Next Door” which is available for purchase as an ebook on Amazon. The cost is 99 cents. “The Lady Next Door,” for those who haven’t yet read it, was written in 2003, and is about a child’s love for his elderly neighbor.
Recently I sat down with Richard Cox, author of The God Particle, Rift, and Thomas World. His latest novel The Boys of Summer was just released September 6, 2016, from Night Shade. My review of Richard’s latest work as well as my interview with him has been published on The Weeklings literary website
The year was 1997. I sat in the backseat of a tiny Toyota Corolla with my perfumed, slightly purpled hair Granny Hamlett as my neighbor. She was seated directly behind my dad at the wheel whose eyes searched for fellow road warriors and interstate truckers to shake his head at.
A large stainless steel cooking pot with its lid removed sat with us at the table like a mute friend, as did a paring knife. Before us a bucket full of raw green beans.
Sometimes he would cry uncontrollably as he told me these things. Sometimes I would cry after the phone call was over. I’d sit and stare at the white wall in my bedroom, helpless. I’d think of the beautiful person he once was. I wanted to fight his demons for him, but his demons had no interest in me.
Hardened bread crumbs burst into fine white powder, sprinkling to the ground. Seeds crack under the weight of jaws clinching, and in an imperfect circle the birds gather round the old man and strut mechanically, their fat necks jerking. They welcome him as if he is one of their own, and he in turn accepts their embrace
One afternoon the two of us found ourselves walking down an orange dirt path behind the house. The dirt was hard, baked under the gilded heat of the mid-day sun, and it crumbled under our feet like carrot cake falling off the edge of a fork.
Minimalism is about intentionality. It’s about questioning all of the stuff in your life — the physical, mental, and emotional — and asking how would my life look differently if I removed that which is unnecessary, that which bogs me down mentally, emotionally, physically, and financially, so that I can pursue the hobbies, experiences, and relationships that bring joy and add value to my life.