A Book Mark Falls in Love with a Thesaurus

 In my writing class we were assigned to write a love poem between two inanimate objects.

Tell me what you think.

Apologies for my abrupt intrusion.

You’re paper and words, thus no contusion.

A literal mark, a figurative mark.

You are different.

 

My history, mostly history, other’s history.

No romance, never romance, okay, a singular romance.

A literal mark, a figurative mark

Incredibly different.

 

I absorb the essence of your essence.

Slowly, like philosophy, not quickly like mystery.

A literal mark, a figurative mark.

Vastly different.

 

Our love grows, develops, expands, unfolds,

Increases, progresses, improves, unfurls.

A literal mark, a figurative mark.

Is Thesaurus a family name?

My Life as a Metaphor

I recently enrolled in a six-week writing class to flex the old muscles while I search for an agent. I thought I would share some of my writing assignments. This week's topic was 'My Life as a Metaphor'. Enjoy!

             My life is a work of fiction ‘based on actual events’. You would think it would be a memoir, but I’m not convinced. It feels contrived like a play with affected dialogue or an unscripted television show with a suspiciously consistent pace. It’s a film being filmed that becomes cohesive in retrospect, in an attempt to control the narrative.

            The highs addictively high, the lows a series of worst-case scenarios. The use of stereotypical tropes evidence of lethargy or at least apathy. The uneventful, forgettable middle most people inhabit as scarce as a sighting of the Loch Ness Monster, Mothman, Elvis.

            At times, I’m skeptical, like Truman in his eponymous show, commandeering his little boat to search for the place where the horizon stops with a metallic clank. In my production, I never find the back wall, the back door. I allocate less time to activities in the boat, but my suspicions remain.

            At the edge of my anxiety.

            On the periphery of my joy.

            And I know, intellectually, that my life cannot be fiction, so I am compelled to control the story.

            Am I an unreliable narrator?

            Is my intentionality duplicitous?

            Isn’t fiction ‘based on actual events’ simply a way to avoid litigation?

            Yes.

            At least according to my editor.

            

         

Does Proximity to Sports Make Me Sporty?

            One of the upsides to having a Google phone is the monthly Google Maps Timeline Update. It tells me how many places I visited and how many miles I’ve traveled. It’s creepy that it collects all this data about me, but at this point, it’s nothing new.

            Recently I reviewed the report and realized that Google Maps Timeline categorizes the places I’ve visited: Shopping (346 places), Food & Drink (284), Culture (37), Attractions (12), Hotels (38), Airports (15) and Sports (7). Sports? Per Google Maps, I’ve visited 7 sports locations in the last three years.

            This is proof that computers are not yet sentient. If anyone or anything had spent any time around me or simply heard the noises I make whenever I stand up, they would know I don’t ‘do’ sports. I haven’t ‘done’ sports since my ill-fated bike ride across the Golden Gate Bridge in 2012 when I lived in the Bay Area. Amused and intrigued, I was compelled to investigate what Google defines as a sport. I invite you to meander with me through the list and uncover the secrets of my sporting life.

 1.      Chuze Fitness (Westminster, CA) – a gym that is adjacent to my church. And by adjacent, I mean directly above. Open Door Ministries is housed in Westminster Mall in Orange County. We are below the gym, next to JC Penney and diagonally across from Wetzel’s Pretzels. Sanctification never smelled so sweet.

2.      Coyote Hills Golf Course (Fullerton, CA) – the location of a wedding Ben and I attended last year. It was a traditional Indian wedding with multiple events and plenty of food, all of it too spicy for Uncle Dusty’s delicate tastebuds, until I (accidentally) spooned cardamom ice cream over everything thinking it was some sort of sour cream derivative. Odd? Yes. Delicious? Also, yes.

3.      Troy Memorial Stadium (Troy, OH) – the location of the Troy Strawberry Festival we attended during our Thompson Sibling Road Trip last summer. Strawberry popcorn? Delicious! Pork sandwich with Strawberry BBQ sauce? Life-changing, y’all.

4.      CrossFit Dedication Gym (Dayton, OH) – an actual gymnasium where my brother and sister-in-law (Thorn & Wendy) go to actually work out. Crazy, right? Shontyl (also not sporty) and I dropped by to meet their workout team and stayed long enough to say Hi before we drove to McAlister’s where I ordered a nacho basket and a bucket of iced tea.

5.      Bixby Village Golf Course (Long Beach, CA) – the site of Crave Burgers, the best burger I have ever eaten in the 48 states I’ve visited. I’ve not eaten a burger abroad.

6.      Orangetheory Fitness (Long Beach, CA) – All I know is it’s sandwiched between White Wasabi Sushi and Chronic Tacos, two of my go-to restaurants for a quick bite. The Orangetheory employees gaze at me through the picture window with a mixture of condescension and pity, while I slowly dip my tater tots in white queso.

7.      Cagban Jetty Port (Boracay, Philippines) – where Ben and I departed for our parasailing jaunt during our honeymoon four months before Covid. And by parasailing jaunt I mean when Ben parasailed, and I sipped a mango shake from the safety of the boat dock.        

Conclusion: As per usual, I was near sporty things, but not actively engaged in anything sporty, other than frequently wearing a sweater vest from Polo Golf.

            Mystery solved.

            And now I’m hungry.

Is Chasing Success Considered Exercise?

    Most of you know that I was raised by nomadic Southern Baptists, moving on the average of every two years during my formative years, broken down into – 10 cities, 19 houses, 11 schools. At 24, when I became financially independent (and I use that term loosely), the genetics took over and I began my own itinerant lifestyle, averaging a move every 18 months, broken down into 16 cities, 24 houses and 20 jobs over the last 18 years. Admittedly, that is a lot.

    My younger self was never brave enough to ask my parents if we were running away from or after something. As an adult, I have been chasing several things. At first it was acceptance by others, then it was respect, job security, money, self-acceptance, and love. I believed that with all these things, I would achieve happiness. I was never content, even when I relatively quickly achieved my career goals. There was always an underlying sense of anxiety, as if stasis was deadly.

    ‘Success is kinetic’ is the mantra that kept me on the move. Until now.

    I’m 52 and for the first time I have just about everything I’ve ever wanted and it’s…disconcerting.

    I moved to Long Beach a little over eight years ago. I love it here, as does my husband. Side note: can I tell you I never thought I’d have a husband? We have no plans to leave. I’ve never lived anywhere for this long. In true Dusty fashion, I have had three apartments and two jobs, but at the same hospital and in the same city.

    When The Dad lived with me in the Bay Area, his dog Lulu loved chasing squirrels in our yard. She would bark and run after them like they had just robbed our house. But squirrels are typically fast, and they always ran up a tree before she caught them. However, one day Lulu actually caught one. I don’t know if this particular squirrel was old or sick, but their chase ended up with Lulu’s mouth around its neck. Both froze, like they didn’t know what to do. I was surprised and stared at them. After a pause, Lulu gingerly opened her mouth and ran back to me, confused. She looked at me as if to say, ‘What do I do now?

    I'm asking myself that same question. What’s a chaser to do, when there’s nothing left to chase?

    With that in mind, I took an inventory and discovered the only thing I don’t have is a literary agent for my recently completed memoir. That and a thin, muscular physique. 

    Finding an agent seems more likely. 

    Let the chase begin.

The Dad Revisited

 It's hard to believe it's almost a year since The Dad left us. As he had cheated death oh so many times, I guess I assumed he'd live forever. Even having uncontrolled diabetes, eight (he said) heart attacks, a mini-stroke, emphysema, and chronic heart failure, he only missed his 82nd birthday by seven weeks. His orneriness (is that a word?) is what kept him going, I guess. 

Several times each month, I forget he is gone, and I go to call him on the phone to tell him about an exceptional meal I've had. I browse through the thrift store book selection with him in mind, as I sent him a box of books every month from 2014 until, literally the week he went into the hospital after he fell and broke his hip. That seems to be the beginning of the end for so many older adults. I have fallen more frequently than I like to admit (about once every six months) but so far, I've only dealt with bruises, to my chin, my knee and my ego. I'm healthier than he ever was, but as I am the opposite of ornery (truly a delight to all who know me) I may not bypass his 80+ years, but I think I have a good thirty years ahead of me. 

In the last few years, I was privy to the thoughts of The Dad, who usually kept his thoughts to himself, unless they were funny or shocking. He wasn't one for grand pronouncements or emotional outreaches unless they were related to his unhappiness with something. I learned much about growing old and coming to terms with a life that didn't quite go according to plan. Many of those were lessons about what not to do, as opposed to sage advice like he was Morrie, and it was a Tuesday. 

I am JD, the son of The Dad, alike in some ways, markedly different in others. But I could understand what he was trying to say but didn't know how. He couldn't bring himself to apologize for how he treated me, his admittedly odd, oldest son, but I knew what he meant when he said, "I liked living with you the best after your Mama passed on. If you woulda moved to the country, even in California, I'da never left."

For most of my life, I did everything I could think of to make him proud, to feel like I had earned his love. I tried to be who I thought he wanted me to be, but when that was spectacularly unsuccessful, I had to just be me and hope he would be okay with that. I discovered the search for acceptance and validation is genetic, as it was his primary motivator. Most of his emotional blow-ups were directly related to feeling unappreciated or disrespected, even when he was unappreciative and disrespectful to those same people. Me. Us.

My brother Thorn was with The Dad during our last phone call in May 2022. He had slipped into a coma and the doctor told us it was a matter of hours, not enough time for me to fly to Texas. I asked Thorn to hold the phone to The Dad's ear so I could say my goodbyes. I knew what he needed to hear.

Hey Old Man, it's JD. You did good. You had a good life. You were a success, even if you didn't think so, because you always took care of us. I am who I am because of you. I'm proud of you. You should be proud of yourself. Give Mother a hug from me. I love you.

He held on, stubborn as always, for almost 24 hours, before he left us; on his own terms, wearing his Tractor Supply hat.

The end of an era.