100 words a day

I appreciate words of wisdom; whether from someone prominent or written on a bathroom wall.  Quotes, phrases and catchy sayings play an important role in my life from “one day at a time” to “you can’t spell families without L-I-E-S.”

The words of the Tao and Toltec thought have weaved their way into the fabric of who I am.  The voices of Twain, Buddha, Voltaire and my father allow me to think more clearly.

One powerful thought comes from my children’s grandmother – now with angels.  “I wish, I wish, I wish I were a fish.” I say it every day.

My children’s grandmother died last week.  Her angels knew she was tired of being so sick for so long.  There was a memorial presentation showing pictures of a little girl, a mother of three, grandmother of four, a wife, a nurse, a traveler and a friend.

There were no pictures of her family fleeing their home from WWII bombings. No candid shots of immigrating to South America and finally to California without knowing either native language.  There were no pictures of the hundreds of people she helped save as an ER surgical nurse. Those pictures she told us in stories.

I joined the 100wordsaday family two years ago with a few goals in mind and I met all but one – the 100 words “every” day one. So, a new challenge waits. Much has changed lately and I want and need to write about those changes.
I have shared the only three rules I thought everyone should live by. Be nice, tell the truth and flush. A great deal of thought, a lot of time at the short end of the stick and the wisdom of my Debbie has made my list complete. “Little Bits” joins my perfect set of rules.

I watched the International Space Station fly over again tonight.  As I scanned the western sky, she leaped out from behind Venus and arched over my house, a thing of shining beauty slipping between clouds, stars, and silhouettes of trees.  She passed from the muted blue of dusk through the gradient into night, and I smiled.  In her wake, I felt hope. I felt peace and inspiration, and the wonder that Ray Bradbury had awakened in me when I was a child.

Nature’s beauty is always there, but sometimes it takes a pinpoint of light to make me look.

There’s a science fiction writer whose work I admire, and whose personal integrity and discipline I admire even more.  I’ve known for some time that this writer has a group of anti-fans and Twitter trolls (twolls?) but I never expected to interact with them.  However, after I sent out a tweet mentioning the writer yesterday, I received responses from one of the twolls shortly thereafter, insulting the writer’s abilities and success.

What drives people like that?  Why do they hate this writer so much that they resort to baiting and taunting him in a public forum?

Is it just jealousy?

I overdid it riding my bike to work this morning.  I felt faint and had to lie on the floor for a while in my office before I could start my day.

I only live a mile and a half from work, but over that short distance my route drops about 120 feet in elevation, then climbs back up another 90 feet.  Back when I was mountain biking regularly, that would have been nothing.  Now that I’m older and out of shape, pushing hard on that climb — even on pavement — is too much.

At least someone brought doughnuts.

Has it really been four and a half months since my last post?  I don’t know why.  I love posting! 

In the last four+ months, I started and quit a new job, working for a shitshow of a decorator I couldn’t stand.  Then an old client resurfaced with a nice project. 

I got engaged on March 26!

The planning alone could provide a ton of material here.  I don’t want to make this all about the wedding so I’ll try to mix it up.  Write more often. 

Wedding date, Check.  Venue, dj, florist, photographer, dress, shoes, cake baker, invitations, checkcheckcheckcheckcheckcheckcheckcheckcheck.

Maybe it’s the novelty, but saying “my husband” seems a little illicit (even though it’s the opposite - the papers actually legitimize the relationship). When I’m shopping for something for our home, and I tell the salesperson that I’ll have to bring my fiance back so we can decide together, I wish that I could say husband. It has more gravity. By the same token, I imagine him saying “I’ll have to run that by my wife.” As a wife, I have power. As a fiancee, I sound like an obscure French cooking appliance. I can’t wait to be his wife.

My foe of one hundred words is defeating me.   It isn’t the challenge of distilling complex moments and thoughts to a manageable piece that’s causing my quiet.  One hundred words aren’t too few, they’re too many.  Even ten seem daunting.

I seem to have lost my words.

And what of art?   Is it the physical manifestation of trying to make order out of chaos?  Peace out of pain?

What if one finds themselves bereft of these states?  Must one be miserable to create?  If I had to choose misery with art, or happiness without, would this have been my choice?

This is National Crime Victims’ Rights Week, as well as the 15th anniversary of the Oklahoma City bombing.

This week, I honor my wife, who was in a building two blocks away from the Murrah building when the truck exploded.

The shock wave blew in the windows and threw her to the floor.  She was several months pregnant with Logan at the time.

Some people say she’s not a victim because she wasn’t actually in the Murrah building.

Tell that to her fibromyalgia and PTSD.  Tell that to the shards of plate glass embedded in the wall behind her chair.

I was in the grocery store today — the same one as before.  I was wearing my Pink Floyd shirt with a prism on the front.  The title of the album associated with that prism was printed across the top.  The courtesy clerk took special notice of it.

“What does your shirt say?  ‘Dark Side of the … Movie?’”

I faltered, but regained my composure quickly.

“‘Dark Side of the Moon.’  It’s one of the best selling albums of all time.  Came out in 1973,” I said.

“Album.  Huh,” he said.

Being the non-violent type, I just walked away.

There’s a long-running writing contest called Writers of the Future.  I’ve told myself that I would enter for 25 years, and last fall, thanks to incessant prodding encouragement from my friend Charles Anderson, I finally did.

Last week, my wife called and said I had received a manila envelope in the mail.  It contained a WotF Honorable Mention certificate, along with a brief complimentary note from the contest coordinator.  I’ve been told that because there are so many entrants, getting an Honorable Mention is quite an accomplishment.

I’m in good company, though.  My friend Charles Anderson?  He got one, too.

“Estranged” is a “comfy” word for not telling the truth. My dearest friends have been in the dark; so here goes.

I tried to end my life a couple of months ago.  Dark times.  I was tired of feeling lonely.  I got the right answers to my questions from the right doctor.  The right women found me and we fell in love. I’m good and there’s not a thing more to talk about unless someone has some questions.  I’ll answer anything, anytime.

I miss my friends and I should’ve, would’ve and could’ve called - but I didn’t.

I’m sorry Kevin. 

To:  100wordsaday.com

From: Sharkboy

Re:  Sorry

I owe you so much and I am sincerely sorry for not posting.  You have afforded me the opportunity to vent, tell-all, question, speak my mind and all you’ve ever asked for is exactly 100 words.  

Easy said – not so easy done.  I have plenty to say; I just haven’t put my fingers to the keyboards in too long a while.  No more excuses.  No more, no mores.

I have things to say about my friends, my family, and my life.

Twain said.  “Write what you know about.”  A good place to begin… again.

Fibromyalgia: a chronic disorder characterized by widespread pain, tenderness, and stiffness of muscles and associated connective tissue structures that is typically accompanied by fatigue, headache, and sleep disturbances

Allodynia: pain resulting from a stimulus (as a light touch of the skin) which would not normally provoke pain.

My wife has fibromyalgia.  Sometimes, her pain sensitivity approaches allodynia levels.

I took her a glass of soda today, and my arm brushed hers.  She recoiled in pain and snapped at me.  Evidently, my touch shocked her.

I didn’t even feel it.

It’s very hard not to feel guilty or take it personally.

Yesterday was simply a good day.  My Father spent the day at the hospital for tests, scans and consults.  The chemo drugs designed to stop his cancer from growing are working and he was happy with the news.  My brother was thrilled and his eternal optimism received a well-deserved boost.  I was simply relieved to have my Dad for another day.

I’m selfish about my Father’s health.  I want his comfort and happiness first and foremost, but I need more.  My Dad is a great teacher with deep wisdom.  Just listening to him makes me a better father and man. 

I love words; spoken words, written words, new words, dirty words, out-of-date words and especially those hard-to-pronounce words.  I consider myself a colloquialist and words have opened more doors for me than any single action.

There are more than 21,000 pages in the Oxford English Dictionary and I’ve decided to lighten my word-load and ditch forever a few unnecessary ones.  Closure – why look for something unattainable if you truly cared in the first place?  Reconnecting – did you ever disconnect in the first place?  Whatever – since it’s really a question, how about if my answer is “you are insignificant as well.”

February 2010 is thankfully in the books and I couldn’t be happier.  The shortest month of the year is always the longest and most grueling on me and this year was no different.  There was a sunshine shortage and Mother Nature forced my wardrobe to include long-pants for the first time in years.

The mornings were all dark and cold; just like every late-afternoon.  Even the nightly star displays were obscured with snowflakes, clouds or fog.  I accomplished more projects in February’s 28 days, but things seem more disorganized than ever.  March needs 34 days make up for February’s mess.

A few weeks ago, I asked my niece what she’d like me to get for her upcoming fourth birthday.

Without hesitation, she barked into the phone, “A diamond ring.  Because Mommy doesn’t share hers.”

O……kay.

I told my sister Maggie (fellow Aunt), and then asked my niece yesterday, again, what she’d like from me.

“Well I don’t need a diamond ring.  Maggie’s getting me that.”

“I thought you wanted me to get you a diamond ring?”

“You can get me one too.  Then I’ll have two, like Mommy has two.”

Yes I’m biased.  But she’s really the smartest girl EVER.

A woman I love extended her family yesterday with the miracle of her first grandchild.  He is tiny and perfect and full of everything that’s right with the world.  His parents didn’t act like first-timers; they surely had done this many times before.  Grandmother held him with a look on her face I had never seen.

Her life is controlled chaos at best and she must juggle white-hot boulders every minute of every day.  Stress is her constant companion and her one true nemesis.  She cradled her new grandson and her beautiful eyes finally showed the peace she so deserves.

Seventeen years ago I was in Chicago experiencing the birth of my daughter.  The day was all about promises and dreams to be fulfilled.  I held her with such purpose and love and told her the world was now far better off with her arrival.

I know she heard me that morning and understood completely when I whispered “you are a gift to us and your entire family.”  I also sang Bob Marley’s “Three Little Birds” to her over and over, reminding her “everyt’ings gonna be alright.” 

She begins another year today.  There are more journeys now than ever before.

With Cecilia, I’m half nurse, half esthetician. She needs help taking off her clothes and getting onto the table. She’s a 60-year-old ex-nurse and ex-lawyer, never been married. Two computers implanted in her body for management of what I can only imagine is unbelievable pain. Last week she had an update for me.“Catherine, I’m in love. His name is Michael, and he’s a gentleman and a scholar. He’s in love with me too. He says he doesn’t mind that I can’t move very well.”I helped her get ready for her date. Lucky guy, Michael.

$125.36 for round trip tickets.  No luggage.  That would have been $40 more.  No family.  That would have been at least another $165.00.  My credit card only had $127.50.

“Mom, I’m coming out.  I’ll be there when Judy’s there, so you’ll have the family together, like you and Dad want, at least for a couple of days.”

“Good!  I’ll be happy to see you.  By the way, I wanted to let you know … we didn’t intend to hurt Lannette by not inviting her.”

“Well, you did.  That hurt me too.  I’m still not happy about it.”

“I’m sorry, hon.”

Valentine’s Day is easily my least favorite holiday, topping the Hallmark-created event list with “Sweetest Day” a distant second.  The amount of money spent on red-and-white stuffed animals, bad chocolate and over-priced flowers is ridiculous and if you give or receive any of these items well….you’re not part of the solution.

February 14^th wasn’t always so lame.  In grade school we crafted mailboxes out of Kleenex boxes, construction paper, paste and crayons and carefully attached them to our desks.  We made individual cards for one another and hand-delivered them.  The anticipation of reading each valentine was a feeling forever unmatched.

“Dad, I need some more details.  It’s not going to work for me to just tell work that I’m going to Vegas to watch movies with my parents.  What’s going on?  Why do I have to be there within a month?”

“I never said anything about a month.”

“Yes, Dad, you did.”

“Well, we just want to see you, and we don’t want you to have any distractions.”

“I have to bring my family, Dad.  I have to help Lannette with her medications.”

“Well, then, never mind.  Just forget about it.  We’ll call the whole thing off.”

I’m still shocked.

What to say, what to say, what to say. 

Well, obviously I’ve been slacking in the 100wordsaday department. 

Catching up:  Right as work started picking up, I heard from two former clients who’ll need my help again.  Last week my father was hospitalized (now out and recouperating) from angioplasty, which made for an interesting, hectic week with our ‘bustling’ family dynamic.  I’m leaving the biggest and best Manhattan rental apartment to move into my boyfriend’s Bronx co-op.  I started seeing my dietician again since that weight loss goal isn’t meeting itself.

2010 got off to a fast paced, interesting start.

My kids have been taught that passion and hard work usually equal a satisfying result.  Find something that interests you, put in the time and energy and then sit back and enjoy.

Both my children love reading and books and their lives are rich because of it.  My son has read the “Percy Jackson and the Olympians” series multiple times.  His knowledge of Greek mythology is staggering.  This week he stood in line for eight hours to have his books signed by the three stars of the new “Olympians” movie.  Tonight he’ll see that movie at midnight.  Effort = reward.

You know those calls that you expect to get someday, but not today?

“Stace?  This is Dad.  I want you and your sister - just the two of you - to come out here for a few days.  It’ll probably be the last chance we have to get all of us together.  I’ll pay for it.”

“Dad, you can’t afford that.”

“I’ll take it out of our savings.  It’s important.  When you get here, we’ll talk about some things and watch the old home movies.  Try to be out here within the next few weeks.  No more than a month.”

At first I was giddy.  I loved the idea that I could ‘run away’ from my problems.   All of those little messes I couldn’t quite resolve? Those would soon become somebody else’s sleepless nights.

At least that’s how it seemed.

Truthfully, it wasn’t joy I felt first.  It was hurt.  And disappointment.  And betrayal. I’d been traded.  Another team requested me and my team let me go. What did those negotiations look like?  Was there a midnight stalemate ending in my manager’s tears of exhaustion, “Fine! Take the best we’ve got!” Or were the “t”s crossed before it ever began?

The scout motto “Be prepared” is something I take seriously.  I’m rarely caught off guard because I make plans and pack accordingly.  I do homework and have the right tools at hand.

I have people in my life who are entering new territories and it’s driving me crazy how ill-prepared I think they are.  Not enough money, not enough boxes, too much this and not enough that.   Why aren’t “they” prepared?

Looking at myself differently; how prepared was I for divorces, rehab, going broke and flying way too close to the sun?   No one is ever really ready for anything.

Most of what I write (aside from blog entries and social networking updates) is non-fiction, science fiction, or poetry.  However, I think my best short story is a piece of literary fiction, and it’s currently in the queue at a fairly prestigious literary magazine.  I suspect the end result will be a rejection letter; I’m prepared for the worst.

I’m okay with the prospect of rejection.   Success and its resulting reader expectations scare me, though.  How do I maintain quality output?

An alternate Me just whispered in my ear: “Trust yourself.  Satisfy your own expectations and your fears will dissolve.”

My father could always make decisions and then make those decisions work.  He’s an engineer whose thought process has always included precise calculations and utilized his vast knowledge and prior experiences.  He designed things that worked well and stood the test of time.  His decision-making didn’t take a great deal of time because he was always did his homework and was supremely confident; facts which also made him one deadly poker player.

Cancer is creeping up on him much too quickly now.  My father isn’t having a tough time making decisions; he just doesn’t seem to care about making them.  

My daughter was instrumental in forming an administration-approved Diversity Group at her school; no easy task considering she lives in Dixie’s Bible Belt where diversity is a dirty word.  Her group promotes knowledge, awareness and tolerance for individuals with different ideas and lifestyles.  I’m proud of everything she does, but this commitment is special.

Starting an organization to promote acceptance and kindness is absurd; we aren’t born mean-spirited, closed-minded and rigid.  The Diversity Group should count the entire student body as members, but it doesn’t.  Some student sheepeople are listening to their parents listening to Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh.

I’ve said and heard the Serenity Prayer a million times but I don’t always listen to the words as closely as I should.  Listening or reciting the prayer can become mechanical and sing-song when I don’t pay close attention; plus I have a few “issues” with prayer in general.  I found a different version of the same powerful idea from a Mother Goose poem and it works for me much easier.  

“For every ailment under the sun there is a remedy or there is none; if there be one, try to find it; if there be none never mind it.” 

Sanctuary is a word my daughter understands and has used wisely for years.  She’s been able find refuge in all the right places to keep her safe.  I on the other hand have found all the wrong places when I needed a break from the chaos I usually caused.  I searched high and low for some peace and stability and always ended up looking for daylight from the bottom of another hole I dug.

Getting some help, listening more and being aware gives me my sanctuary.  The safe place I’ve been looking for has been within me the whole time.

My father is 25 years older than me; always has been.  Throughout our lives that difference has fluctuated.  In grade school, my dad was the oldest man on earth and in high school I treated him like one of the guys.  In college he tried to treat me as an adult but I still had too much kid in me.

When I was running my life into the ground I thought my dad was out of touch and didn’t know anything.  I got better and I know he’s the smartest man alive.  My wiser voice just turned 75 years young.

Non-dessert menu items that include the words “foam” or “mousse”.

On Sunday, I told my friend I loved the pedometer she gave me, that it stayed put and never fell off.

On Monday, squeezing into a crowded subway, something flew off me and people scrambled around to see what it was.

Inside, I realized the pedometer didn’t make it.

Stepping back out and reaching down, I heard the doors close as someone kicked my pedometer, and someone else grabbed at it.   

My hand tangled around an ankle and when I stood up, the doors opened back up.    

I hopped in, looked at my dirty hand and my pedometer in it.

My son will finish fifth grade this spring and head off to middle school.  His yearbook order is due (the need for grade-school annuals baffles me) and I can celebrate this academic milestone by purchasing a dedication in this important keepsake.  Five bucks gets me 25 words and $20 gets me 50 and a picture.  A bargain price to forever let him know how proud I am.

Years from now, sitting in his CEO or Senate office, my son will pull this yearbook off a shelf with countless other yearbooks and diplomas and say to himself “Was my Dad nuts?”

A wise voice said “if you get far enough away, you’ll be on your way back home.”  That’s the best description of my own journey this past year.  I have learned most of the things I should’ve already known and I see daylight every day.

I’m aware of my place as a father, son, brother, friend and companion.  The roles I play in each of those relationships are nothing like I used to imagine.  I know everything has a consequence and cost and I’m keenly aware of my value.  On my way back home I know everything has a price.

My parents weigh heavily on my mind.  Dad turns 80 in a couple of months; he had emergency triple bypass surgery three years ago.  Mom, almost 75, fell and broke her hip in November and can’t climb the few steps to her bed.  She sleeps in a recliner.  They live two states from their nearest relatives and refuse to move any closer.  When I call them, I can hear the fatigue in Dad’s voice and the creeping senility in Mom’s.

I used to be proud of them for being so independent; now, I just wish they would move back home.

My two kids are no different than the rest of their generation when it comes to things they want or “really need.”  Christmas meant Wii games, cooler iPods, cooler phones and other tech goodies they can’t seem to live without.

My two kids are also way different than the rest of their peers because they can’t live without books.  They asked for, gave and received books for the holidays.  Given a choice, Border’s will beat Best Buy every time.

I offered my daughter a Kindle and she said “How are you supposed to curl up with an LED?”

Good point.

I don’t want to make a resolution this year.   There’s only one I have left to make and I’ve been putting it off for years.   It’s nearly impossible, but it’s the only thing I want.

In one word: reprioritization.

It means bypassing the carrot that’s in front of me and going after the one I truly want.   It means stepping back at work, taking myself out of the fast lane: a career in upper management wasn’t my dream.  Futures we stumble upon ought not to be binding.

It means writing more.  It means dating more.  It means leaving at 5.

Amid a chorus of voices deriding the last decade and 2009 in particular, it seems I’m the only one who feels otherwise.

When the year began, I had only one promise to live up to, that this year would be better than the last.

And although the world saw it’s share of strife, my life improved.  I found the girl of my dreams, enriched relationships with friends and family, and came to terms with who I am, and who I will strive to be.

So, 2009 - we hardly knew ye.  But thank you for all gifts great and small.

2010 is here, more or less and that’s what I’ve been thinking about – more and less.  I plan next year and next decade to be full of more good stuff and less full of bad.

I’ll have less baggage, clutter and bullshit.  I’ll shed idle time, indecision and worrying over things I can’t fix or control. 

I plan more time being one of the guys again with my lifelong friends and even more guy time with my father, brother and son.  I’ll look through women’s eyes more, especially my daughter’s.

More time on the water and more time for love.

In the past, I’ve blogged my New Year’s resolutions and invariably set myself up for failure by making huge lists.  This year, it all fits in less than 100 words, but it’s still lengthy.

1.  Clean the litter boxes regularly.

2.  Start publishing fiction.

3.  Publish more non-fiction.

4.  Finish my webOS app.

5.  Strengthen my back and neck.

6.  Eat no McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches in 2010.

7.   Make (and meet) more reasonable goals at work.

8.  Streamline our finances.

9.  Read for enjoyment.

10.  Blog regularly.

11.   Transplant my Variax guitar electronics.

(At least the list goes to eleven.)

I watched part of Freaky Friday yesterday, and when Lindsey Lohan was punished by having her bedroom door removed, I was reminded of my own childhood.

My dad used to do that, shouting “You slam it, you lose it” as he carried the unhinged door down the stairs.  I called him to laugh about this policy for keeping five daughters from slamming doors.

He laughed and said, “Not you so much.  The third one and the fourth one, all the time.  You slam it, you lose it!”

“Did you just call Kate and Maggie by numbers?”

Sheepish laughter.  “Oh.  Yeah.”

My entire discussion with both my children and anyone else for that matter concerning Santa Claus last about five seconds.  If you don’t believe, you don’t receive – period.  Santa Claus is the simplest thing in the world for me understand and explain to anyone else.

I believe in Santa the same way I do about love, family and friends.  Belief in Santa describes my future and explains my past.  I think about that more than ever this Christmas.  My kids are a thousand miles away and they keep me at an even greater distance.  Believing in and receiving from; simple. 

My name is Mark and my best friends are Debbie, Andy, Kevin, Mike, and Kim; fairly common names. Throw in Eugenia, Clayton and Skippy and that’s as exotic as the list is.

I was last-minute Christmas shopping and saw personalized ornaments, coffee-mugs, sweatshirts, key-chains, license-plates and everything else with a name on it under the sun.  There was no “Cyndy” or “Becki” or “LaQuesha” or “Jaymes.”  I thought – “what were parents thinking when they gave their children unique/trendy names that sounded so good at the time?”

My children have names from Irish mythology and Sioux legacy.  What was I thinking?

“There is great disorder under heaven-and the situation is excellent.”

It’s sub-zero here in Chicago.   My father’s kidney cancer hurts him and he’s scared.  My daughter is waiting on college admissions and she’s probably scared too.  My kid’s Mom lost her career and her Mami’s health is in dire straits and I know she’s really scared.

My brother is single for the first time in his life and he’s scared beyond belief.  My sweetheart is scared for me and about us because she knows everything about everyone and everything.

I’m not scared at all.  I know where my heart is.