Wednesday, September 18, 2019

Fatherhood, Part II

When my alarm sounded at 3:30 Mountain this morning, I felt mostly in control of my travel anxiety. All my clothes were washed, neatly folded in my suitcase, the contents of my carry-on tucked and zipped in their necessary compartments. I avoided snooze, had my morning pee, showered, shaved, and summoned an Uber.

            Richard and I made the appropriate amount of conversation for 4:15 a.m. and his Toyota Prius puttered along the Colorado freeway with efficiency. The security line was buzzing as usual at Denver International Airport, and once I was through it, off the train, and seated at my gate, I found myself purposelessly jumping in and out of apps on my phone. When I’d grown tired of this I looked up and noticed a woman across the aisle looking at me. I looked back down in what was likely a normal bit of social awkwardness, but was quick to return another glance when she spoke my name.

            “Lesley Speer,” she said. I jolted out of my chair, likely energized by the strange feeling I’d had in Richard’s Prius that I would run in to someone I know, which happens more often than not when flying to Denver from Kansas City, or in this case, the opposite.

            I sat with her for the 10 minutes or so until it was my turn to get in to the Southwest Airlines’ numerical-order line, and -- the flight being at capacity -- that was the end of our exchange. I’d already downloaded a podcast that was nearly the exact duration of the flight, and as we prepared to taxi, I snorted at the preview for the upcoming Between Two Ferns. I repeated my out-loud chuckles as I consumed the podcast, and probably made the couple sitting next to me think I was a little bizarre.

Monday, September 2, 2019

Dream Fiction no. 6: The Janky Pontiac & the Soaked Tuxedo

When Phil and Jennie’s big day’d arrived, my anxiety had reached a pinnacle that likely rivaled their excitement. Their private ceremony, now six weeks in the rearview, along with its 25-person guest list, had carried the energy back to the grind with everyone, but had never waned. Not even, or so it seemed, when it came to me living in their newlywed space for the duration.

            The three of us had managed to avoid toe-stepping in Phil and I’s old East Fourth Avenue pad, but I’d only wound up staying there by accident: car troubles, coupled with their wild generosity, had landed me back in my old college bedroom. The time had come, though, for the party to happen, for my exit to springboard them into their real life of marital bliss.

            There was, of course, the matter of my ’88 LeMans, and whether or not the suffocated-by-faulty-exhaust engine would be able to get me from the San Juans back to the Front Range. The brakes still had enough life in them to get me down the mountain passes; summiting them, though, was a different story.

            At least the heat and the stereo still worked.

Tuesday, August 27, 2019

Freewriting: Black Pants

            You came to me in a work setting and we were bound by circumstances. Well, at least I think we were. I know I was. And even though it was a lifetime ago I can still remember those black pants. They were over there. By the copy machine. You rooted through the file folders and they were on you, calling to me in a whisper so loud I scanned the room twice, unsure if others’d heard.

            Across a handful of months we crossed paths from time to time, never without mutual smiles. Seeing your name on the computer always brightened my day and the few live conversations we had I cherished. You were good at your job, I think, but that wasn’t why; our dialogue always turned my motivation on its head.

            After a time I was gone and the same would soon be true for you, too, both of us returning to the grinds from which we came. And the tiniest connection we had evaporated into the skies of our respective lives.

            Trying to quantify everything that has transpired since feels like an attempt to assess your cloud-flanked altitude before the pilot announces it. There’s just…too much of everything.

Thursday, August 22, 2019

Untimely Reviews: "In Long Lines"

Don’t think I’ve ever done one of these for a song, but I’m doing it now. And you should know: There is an enormous chance that this could be the most boring thing you’ve ever read. Could be zero redeeming elements for your invested time. So, now’s your chance to bail.

            I lost track of my listen count a few days ago, which is really a bizarre feeling; it’s typically fairly clear-cut when my obsession over a certain song reaches that Okay, that’s enough feeling. Hasn’t happened yet for this one, though, and I can only chalk it up to it being that goddamned good. If you want a reason to judge me the last time I remember this happening was when Sigh No More by Mumford & Sons dropped.

            Go ahead. Think what you must. That record was crazyfuckinggood before they as an entity blew up. Also from the for-the-record department: It still is.

            A little background, though: Trey Anastasio released Ghosts of the Forest in April, and I did the thing I usually do when it comes to Trey Anastasio solo projects: I didn’t jump.

Wednesday, August 14, 2019

Freewriting: Sometimes

            The grinding of the coffee beans and the songs on the phone,
            The kids’ bedroom doorway and the smells of sensory hone.
            It’s trash day, the compost bowl, the dishes to put away,
            The hours-long wrestling match to remember the name of this day.

            The concept of a manual has perched atop my brain a number of times in the last year and change, its landing style the fashion of double samara. After marination, the concept of grooming youth for adulthood wafts, a familiar, strangely unidentifiable fragrance.

            Pages, it seems, have been ripped, Cliff’s Notes editions composed by a novice.

            Sometimes the difficulty of squinting the eye just right so that the open one can look through the lens and not only see its own lid and lash seems like the hardest part. For some, the contents of the slide always present dollar signs. For others it might be fame. In both cases I think early-life circumstances scrunched something, skewed the vision, knocked the gears askew.

            Those can’t be the things.

Monday, August 12, 2019

Sports Nostalgia: The Stanley Cup Champion St. Louis Blues

            Two months ago, to the hour and possibly the minute, I was watching the St. Louis Blues celebrate their first Stanley Cup championship in 51 years as a National Hockey League franchise.

            The Note was part of the league’s first major block of expansion franchises and they accomplished a lot of things along the journey, but never could find that extra gear. They went to the championship round their first three years in existence, once strung together 24 consecutive seasons of post-season qualification, won a President’s Trophy (best regular-season record), had some Hall of Famers on their rosters, and, well, played a lot of really good hockey.

Sunday, August 11, 2019

Behind on Laundry, The First

  I haven’t fleshed out what this series is going to be about, but off of the cuff I think there’s a literal and a figurative hybrid behind the motivation.

            By that I mean that right now I am remarkably behind on laundry. Both hampers in my room should have already been transported to the basement and appropriately sorted. There are six baskets of clean, terribly wrinkled clothes in my guest room that need folding, put away. This is not how I’ve been accustomed to managing laundry for most of my life. In the worst of times, the contents of three unfolded baskets would trigger my anxiety, but the only thing this particular state of the state is harming is my ability to be ready for the day and out the door a couple of minutes sooner.

            Laundry’s not the only thing, though. I’m behind on the completion of my to-do list, the creation of the next one(s), bills, exercise, and, above all, piles.

            If you can relate to the piles piece, there’s love in my heart for you. If you don’t know what I mean then you, my friend, have really got life figured out. Or at the very least I envy that element of your existence.

            I think what I’m getting at is angst and the bizarre comings and goings with my willingness or ability to tolerate it, shrug it off, or let it attempt to consume me. On most days it feels like the day itself is completely doable. There’re logic and reason, start times and deadlines, and bare necessities that seem to govern the bulk of things between wake and sleep. And a lot of the time I’m fine -- or at least I’ve convinced myself that I’m fine -- to just plow through it all, head first, correcting mistakes both on the fly and after the fact.

            There’re other times, though. And it’s occurring to me that those other times are often fastened to the absence of my children. There aren’t immediate needs and schedules pinned to every hour and so the collective can kind of sneak up, huddle around, linger.

            So I don’t know…

            Managing life is an imperfect art, is, I think, the gist of it all. Maybe learning to clumsily dance along with that art is the answer. It sure doesn’t feel good sometimes, though.

            I’ve been trying to implement a few new changes to my household, possibly because I wonder if they’ll make me more comfortable in my own skin. For example, I randomly suggested to my daughter that we could try to become a shoeless household, which she jumped on, so we’re doing that, which has made me begin to sweep my kitchen floor every day because the feeling of crumbs under your bare feet is super annoying. I’ve been putting effort in to giving my smoothie preparation extra blend time so that both of my kids will down a small glass. At least that way they’re guaranteed to get some greens in to their system once a day.

            I’ve seen some improvement in them picking up after themselves, requiring fewer reminders to do so, and through all of this there seems to be less bickering in general. Of course summer is slamming shut and what that looks like once the screen-time allowance all but vanishes and bedtime reverts back to an earlier hour remains to be seen.

            Somehow I’ve conjured the discipline to put my butt in this chair enough to get some recent words onto paper. I’ve booked a couple of flights for upcoming trips and am slowly watching a vision unfold in terms of what I’d actually like the inside of my home to look like in terms of cleanliness and organization. Still, though, Friday’s work tends to spill in to Saturday, making Sunday come too soon. I worry about things I probably shouldn’t, like whether or not my yard is getting the proper amount of attention or if my kids are getting enough outside time. I wrestle with bouts of loneliness and feel hyper-critical of some of my less-than-healthy life choices.

            I think, though, what it boils down to, is that I’m afraid of death.

            Not in a sense that it petrifies me or that I feel somehow empowered to control or avoid it. Instead I just stress about the possibility of my time coming quote/unquote too soon, that I won’t live to see my kids graduate high school or college, marry and have kids of their own, become professionals and find their own ways in the world. I worry about whether it’s warranted that I worry about publishing, whether that benchmark deserves the level of esteem I’ve assigned to it.

            And I worry, in general, about being calm, content, connected and happy.

            I suppose, though, that those over-arching, broad-and-general concerns manifest themselves as angst over laundry, crumbs on the floor, and making sure there’s not food going to waste in the fridge. Sometimes all of those things feel very warranted and legitimate; others it seems foolish when there are so many other grave problems in and around the world.

            Anyway, I guess this is all just a game of chips and putts. Sometimes you can crush a drive, but more often than not you’re in the rough or dropping a ball and taking a stroke penalty. Maybe life is about how you manage all of your scenarios on both an individual level and in a macro-sense. Perhaps each phase of life is like 18 holes and it’s up to each of us to develop patience, master techniques, and approach the next round with a keener sense of savvy.

            For now, though, I guess I’ll get after a basket or two. Not that it wasn’t obvious before, but I’m painfully aware of the fact that that shit ain’t gonna fold itself.