RIP: FATS AND ME
Tuesday, October 24, 2017, Fats Domino died. The following morning, the news of it slogged through my fractured consciousness as in sludgy brogans, while the tiny remainder of mind left me cowered in the margin, distantly, dimly, consumed by my own body’s clock just then trying to prepare me for its final unwind. Continue reading “RIP: FATS AND ME”
OVER BREAKFAST, SUNDAY, I HAD THE FOLLOWING DAY all plotted out. The cute weather gal promised the mercury would climb to 105, Fahrenheit, so LABOR DAY morning there would be no meditating in my garden swing; a half-hour at my work desk would have to suffice. Then, after an hour of working out, and a shower, I’d be cramming the rest of the day to the brim with writing.
Wait, Jay! The rest of the day would NOT be crammed with writing. You’d be setting the timer for fifteen minutes. some already know what would happen when the alarm went off. The rest might want to glance at this: THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILS –as soon as you finish this post. To both groups, let me, by way of a thumbnail sketch, say that every quarter hour I would leave my Oasis-of-Writing and enter the Sahara Desert; that is, four circuits around the inside perimeter of the front of my house. Only then could I re-enter my air-conditioned oasis, sip my coffee and write.
To date, I don’t believe I’m OCD. I can’t guarantee tomorrow.
Continue reading “JOURNAL ENTRY: September 8, 2017”
FITBIT: THE DEVIL IS IN THE DETAILSThe timer clangs to my distant mind with a sound a battered boxer hears, signaling his ensuing slaughter. I shoot out of my chair like an automaton, and begin striding my four laps around the perimeter of the three rooms that form the front of my house. I used to close the drapes, but now I don’t bother. At first, Sirius, my Shih Tzu, had nipped at my heels as I strode through the living room, past my TV, where I made a 45 degree turn down the hallway, and he yipped as I marched through the kitchen and turned again to pass my work table—home-base—and begin my second lap. That was then. Now the savvy pooch stretches out on the couch, only his eyes following me, lazily, as I circuit past him.
There have been times, I’ll admit, that I didn’t hear my 15-minute ding—whether I read or typed right past it, or forget to reset the timer for the next 15 minutes once I slipped, panting, back into my chair. But it wasn’t often, for it meant 8 laps at the next ding. Continue reading “JOURNAL ENTRY: August 25, 2017”
When you’re awakened by a text message at 6:32 in the morning, it can’t bode well. My parents raised me to never call anyone before 9:00 AM, and my wife and I indoctrinated our four children with the same social wisdom. There were no cell phones when I was young–hence no texting to apply the 9:00 AM rule to. In fact, cell phones were still in their infancy until my kids were well into their late teens. Cell phones back then carried the heft of a size-12 brogan, and texting wasn’t an option. Lest I lose my point in this morass of communication media, it still follows that you don’t call anyone before 9:00 AM, just as you wouldn’t pound on a person’s door at that ungodly hour.
And in this enlightened age, you certainly don’t text anyone at 6:32 in the morning, unless … Continue reading “JOURNAL ENTRY: August 19th, 2017”