I discovered a new (to me) author, recently. Michael Chabon. I just began reading, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. I’m on part three in the novel, and already I’ve decided to devour everything Michael Chabon publishes. He’s a descriptive genius. I can’t go more than a few pages without marveling over how precisely he managed to describe something. I’m also a bit floored by how quickly I got to part three.
The story has the potential to trigger me regarding the Holocaust. (Visiting the Dachau concentration camp memorial remains my deepest soul scar.) I’m not willing to test whether I can travel there in my mind without weeping yet. (I’m not big on voluntary snot fests or picking at intangible scars.) I’m not letting this fear prevent me from continuing, though. If I need a break, I’ll take it. So far, I’m super engrossed in the story.
The fickle weather of late is messing with me. Yesterday it was warm enough for shorts and a t-shirt. Today, it’s equally pleasant but windy. Tomorrow and Wednesday, thunderstorms are likely. Thursday and Friday, perhaps snow. I just cleaned my winter coats for storage. Heh. I think I’ll put them away, and run on those days instead of dressing for the weather. And then hopefully fail to mention it if I catch a Pokèmon cold as a result. (Equally likely scenarios.) 😁
I found Amelia Bedelia doing something disgusting, earlier. My gorge hasn’t settled enough to elaborate. Suffice to say; I will not be kissing her on the mouth again. I was going to say ever, but it’s more like until I forget what I witnessed. (I just wished my attention span longer.) I can feel an epic belly laugh building, so I’ll probably spend a good while laughing about it soon. Someone funny should do a short on YouTube about the things pet lovers don’t talk about in polite company. Just saying.
I had an interesting conversation with the Dr. who diagnosed my Asperger’s Syndrome. It was about how I consider Seinfeld a goldmine of information on social behavior. When at one point, I read how Jerry Seinfeld believes he’s also on the autism spectrum, it clicked. It’s no surprise to me he’s fascinated by social interaction and relationships to the degree of making his show about nothing center on this theme.
The intense focus on what neurotypical minds usually consider irrelevant detail is a component of Seinfeld’s humor. Part of why so many love his comedy is the inclusion of that internal flash of joy when you first notice something you’ve seen a thousand times. He relates to people in ways they didn’t know they had in common. Humor is his ticket into the social world. I’m proud of him. I’m also grateful for all the laughs and social skills I’ve gleaned from watching his show. I’m off to band practice. 💜✌🏽
We got a little snow recently, along with temperatures dipping below freezing at night. It snowed, then rained, and snowed again making it crusty and cold outside presently. I’ll admit, I do enjoy stepping out onto my balcony to create the delightful crunching sound by stepping on it. It reminds me of when I was a child bundled up to play in the snow. Moon boots crunching, ski pants swishing, ice skates clunking together as I made my way to the rink a few blocks away.
I love winter when I can control my exposure to the cold. As a kid, I’d remain outside until chilblains forced me indoors. Then I’d bawl while warming up in front of a heat register. It was merely part of the deal and never led to shortening my fun to prevent it. As a soldier in Germany, I despised the cold. I never got the gas heater in my bivouac tent to work correctly. The one time I managed to start it, I nearly burned up the tent. 🤭
I’ve been watching Netflix often lately. The new Ellen special, Relatable, was fun. I’m still hooked on Black Mirror. I haven’t watched the new special episode yet, though. I’m watching from the beginning, in order. I’m weird like that. I finished my third viewing of Game of Thrones, seasons 1-7 on Blu-ray recently. I find bits I missed each time. I read Fire & Blood by George R. R. Martin not long ago. The history of the Targaryans is fascinating.
I’ve been working my way through Haruki Murakami’s catalog of novels since then. The last I read was Killing Commendatore. He’s officially one of my favorite authors. I also read Skyward by Brandon Sanderson, and Salvation by Peter F. Hamilton. They too are favorite authors, and I read everything they publish. Both novels were fabulous, of course. I love how Peter F. Hamilton created people with more than one gender, and always includes multiple races in his futuristic books, (an essential factor in what I choose to read.) I love space operas.
My band covered a few Sheryl Crow songs in a recent performance. Maybe Angels, and Sweet Rosalyn, both from her self titled album. Even thinking about it now has me grinning. It was an incredible experience. We still don’t have an official band name. We’ve been making one up before each show, (not that there have been many.) I hope this practice continues since it’s wicked fun. I secretly don’t care if we call the band Unicorn Poop, or whatever. It’s the best reason to leave my apartment I can imagine.
Aside from the upcoming Fleetwood Mac concert, that is. The closer the date, the more excited I become. I lay in bed last night thinking about it while consciously tempering my expectations. Shit happens, so I don’t want to set myself up by anticipating too profoundly. No matter what happens, the band exists, and their songs are part of the soundtrack of my life. I can celebrate this anytime. The concert is icing on a delicious cake. Yay. ✌🏾💜
I’m having a productive day. My weekly chores are nearly complete, pending a laundry load in the dryer. I finished reading, Becoming, by Michelle Obama recently. Reading it was like spending time getting to know her. She was candid, personable, and unapologetically human. I love her and am grateful to know her on her terms. It’s an ideal manner of connection, in my belief. She’s instilled a deep sense of hope within me.
I’m presently devoted to four weekly podcasts. (Gettin’ Grown, The Friend Zone, The Read, and Jade and XD.) The people who create them are part of a tightknit group of friends, which adds to my listening pleasure. I was listening to Jade and X.D.’s latest episode (with my headphones) while working a jigsaw puzzle last night. At one point, I burst out laughing, startling Amelia Bedelia, Talulah, and M. I noticed their reaction in my peripheral vision and turned to see their alarm.
Amelia Bedelia quickly exited the room, fleeing to her safe place atop her climbing tower. Talulah barked once as if scolding me for making her jump. M, who was playing a video game, played it off and asked me what was so funny. All I could do was laugh even harder. I paused the podcast and got up to attend to Amelia Bedelia, but couldn’t stop giggling. I’m typically fairly silent, but it occurred to me these favorite podcasts are practically the only exception. (I usually listen when alone.)
While the podcasts cover different topics, they’re all often hilarious. M decided he’s going to play them while he runs. Jade recommended the show, The Good Place, which is currently on Netflix. I binged two seasons of it last weekend, and highly recommend it. I rarely watch anything other than nature documentaries, but I love this show. It’s hysterically funny but also provokes a lot of thought. Kristen Bell shines brightly in the lead role. I can’t wait to view season 3.
I started a new novel, titled, 1Q84, by Haruki Murakami. The story enthralls me so much; I don’t want to do anything but continue reading. It’s my first book by this author, but won’t be my last. It includes topics that usually trigger me, but it’s not the case here. (I’ll ponder why when I finish as this intrigues me.) In the back of my mind, I’m quietly and excitedly anticipating the upcoming Fleetwood Mac concert. Each time I think of it, I smile.
Rhiannon still plays in my mind like a lullaby before I go to sleep. I have three versions in my heart, now: the original release, the more recent adaptation, and the live video footage from the ’70s — only the original functions as a lullaby. The live versions are far edgier and provoke mental images of Stevie Nicks in her element. It still amazes me how this song has been part of the soundtrack of my life since I was a small child, growing in significance as I mature.
I hope those who celebrate had delicious holiday meals. I’m off to continue reading. ✌🏽💜
It’s dreary and raining, today. Thank goodness for the Gettin’ Grown podcast with Jade and Keia. While I listened, I played around with my first stop-motion video. The sound is courtesy of a protest in NYC. It was fun and surprisingly easy to create. (The mini-figure of 45 is from minifigures.com.) I recently finished reading a memoir titled, Educated, by Tara Whelan. It’s about a woman who grew up in Idaho.
It details events she endured as a child of a mentally ill prepper. It’s disturbing, engrossing, and brilliantly relayed. I learned a lot about a lifestyle utterly foreign to me. It’s rich with insight into human behavior and fear. It gave me a glimpse into 45’s support base, as well. I’m less baffled by their betrayal after reading it. They don’t know 45 looks down on them like trash, yet. Sad!
I survived the horrifically graphic episode of Game of Thrones, titled, The Mountain and the Viper. Barely. I had to fight off an urge to hurl, and I shook for a while afterward. I witnessed my best friends corpse after her husband bashed her head in with a hammer when I was in my late teens. It’s weird how the TV show evoked such a powerful reaction when the real event only caused me to withdraw emotionally while still managing to protect her little sister and infant son from seeing it.
The Watchers on the Wall, at the end of season 4, was spectacular. I’m going to watch it again on a bigger screen. Probably several times. I hope HBO won every possible award for it. Blockbuster movie level CGI on a TV show blows my mind. I also have to admit, watching Prince Oberyn fight was thrilling. At least the parts before he lost his mind figuratively and literally. (He died of arrogance and rage.)
The Children of the Forest looked just as I imagined while reading. The three-eyed crow was visually disappointing, though. I expected him to be more tree-like and less wizard-like. I laughed when they zoomed in on mini Gandalf the Grey. But the tiny woman throwing fireballs at the living dead popping out of the ground was fabulous, so I can’t complain. I probably jumped a few feet when one grabbed Jojen Reed by the ankle. He was a favorite, so I’m sad he’s gone.
Watching the Hound get his ass kicked by Brienne of Tarth was satisfying. She’s awesome. I like Podrick Payne, too. And Arya, of course. She’s my favorite main character. I’m so curious about what comes next. I haven’t watched seasons 5-7 yet, and much of the content varies from the novels. I’m gradually combining the storylines as I go. The only spoilers I’ve encountered betrayed the fact all the Lannister kids survive to begin season 8. (Yay, Tyrion.) I have a crush on Peter Dinklage (assuming he shares Tyrion’s wit.) 🤫 I’m off to watch another episode.
I know I haven’t said a word about the Beyoncè show. I’m still processing the experience. Spoiler: 🤯🤪🤩😁😍😭😍😭🙃 I finished reading a novel for the Gettin’ Grown podcast book club last night, titled, An American Marriage by Tayari Jones. (It’s an Oprah book club edition.) I’m surprised by how much I enjoyed the story. Marriage is a painful subject for me. (Skirting spoilers, sorry if I tripped.)
I realized about halfway through the book how much it mirrored my (former) marriage. How circumstances beyond our control sabotaged both our relationships. While the sabotage differs, the effects on those involved are remarkably similar. It allowed me to see things from another perspective, where before I didn’t have one. The way my marriage ended was so far outside my experience and understanding it left me emotionally paralyzed.
The novel brilliantly allows the reader to exist in the minds of the main characters, getting a complete and intimate view of their perspectives. It’s like watching a movie filmed from the eyes of the actors. All the minute details we don’t consciously collect are just so. I lived this story as different individuals, and I understood their feelings. I effortlessly adopted their thought language as my own. I was male at times, and female, others. I gained insight into how it feels to be a black man in America today.
I’m intrigued by the writing. Tayari Jones is an impressive author. The small details and phrasing that stand out and beg for memorization are like Easter Eggs in novels. I’m so glad I read this book, and I highly recommend it. It’s packed with useful information about how to survive when your world explodes without notice, and it’s not your fault, and there’s nothing you can do to reverse it.
Everyone knows we’re supposed to get back up when we fall. Thank goodness for the people that show us how. I put a lot of trust in books, music, and art. It’s because it’s people giving us their best after a lifetime of training and practicing. Most artists have to compete fiercely even to get noticed. I’m sure there’s corruption involved in who gets famous, but I’m excellent at recognizing unicorns. They catch me up when I lose faith in humanity.
Even though I still get twinges from my mom’s spirit when fangirling over famous people, I hold tight to my unicorns. My mom had an incredible record for being right. I had accepted this by the time I was 12, merely because it was statistically logical, and painful to ignore. However, in this single instance, I think she was wrong less than right.
I don’t think it’s unreasonable to appreciate the gifts these incredible artists give for little in return. I love my obsessive tendencies. They’re part of who I am. So is my need to express my delight in what others give me. I realize most people don’t study every interview with Stevie Nicks on Youtube. They probably don’t continually reread long epic novels and marvel over the useful information presented in such an enthralling manner.
Not everyone wept (with joy) while watching Beyoncè be so Beyoncè. I may be the only one who grieved the loss of my little sister with Amy Lee and her beautiful songs that expressed what I felt when I couldn’t find the words. I’m probably the only one who has to listen to ABBA Gold on repeat to participate in raids in video games, (but I usually get at least three other people to sing along and celebrate their fabulous, universally adored music with me.)
It’s probably about time, but I think I’ve finally grown beyond the need to escape epic guilt by only doing what my mom approves. Her stings from beyond the grave no longer rule me. Instead, they remind me how much I needed my mom for most of my life. I realize now she was the perfect mom for me. She’s a significant, bright part of who I am, and I’m glad. Even though she died, she’s always with me. So is Beyoncè, Stevie Nicks, Amy Lee, J. K. Rowling, Sheryl Crow, Oprah, and so many others who nurture my spirit through their creations.
Here’s every word my mom ever said to me about spirituality: Don’t take the bible literally. She raised me up but isn’t part of my spiritual data gathering. It tickles me (now) because her words were necessary. I just laughed hard remembering what I was like before my mom gave me this advice. When I was eight, we got kicked out of our church. I recall my brother swallowing the Sunday School goldfish on a dare as the reason. My inner adult suggests there were probably several prior incidents involved in the decision.
All my biblical knowledge came from songs I learned in Sunday School. After we stopped attending church, I went through the house and stole all the bibles I could find, then hid them under my mattress. (No idea.) It’s also when my friendship with Jesus may have grown a bit obsessive. I developed my continuous internal conversation with him (and stopped talking to anyone else.) We talked about everything like we were aliens exploring and observing earth.
Now I’m starting to get self-conscious because I’ve never told anyone about this. 🤫 I assumed everyone did it. (I still do it, but I often doubt my Jesus is THE Jesus these days.) I suck as an atheist or anti-theist. The more I reject Christianity, the more time I spend wrestling over it in my mind. I forgot what it’s like to take a shower without weeping over the horrible, awful shit people do to other people every single freaking day. How can I hate organized religion so much while also loving the people who hold tightly to it? What kind of never-Catholic-atheist loves the Pope? What the entire hell?
So I keep reading and listening and watching. I don’t call myself a Christian because I don’t understand it. I still feel like an alien on this planet. I’m just thankful for these invisible connections that comfort and guide me through this maze of unknowns known as life. I’m fascinated by how our spirits can and do lift each other up from even the deepest pits of despair without our ever even crossing paths in the physical realm. I don’t understand it, but I love it. I’m off to band practice. 💜