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HOW TO BECOME A HUMAN BEING

Posted on March 3, 2019 by Jim

Listen to Jim’s 4-minute audio podcast: https://youtu.be/JMA-BIVSriU

or read his tale…

HOW TO BECOME A HUMAN BEING

I’m way Back There right now. Having re-calibrated a memory bank, I can be Back There anytime I wish. This is one of those times.

What is going on?

Back There I am fifteen years old. It is summertime. I am lolling about, jobless, confused about the present and clueless about the future.

Longtime neighborhood playmates have disappeared into adolescence, making tracks through puberty, no longer eager to run amok in the backyards and vacant lots of childhood.

Junior high and high school attendance distracts me from just plain having fun. Activities of daily living slam me with social structure and class division and the proprieties of being a properly acceptable teenager. Peers pressure me to be one of them. Outsiders still engage me.

I don’t know where I fit, so I am somewhere between the Ins and the Outs.

School will begin anew in a few days. Sixteenth birthday will interfere with my need to remain just plain Me.

I retreat into my books, I hide within my writings, I find occasional joy in participating in local theatre productions. I am a born actor and am most at ease with life when on stage, being someone else for ninety minutes.

Outside my books and journals, offstage, I am uncomfortable and clumsy and directionless.

I feel like a Martian. A goulash of hormones and growth spurts, always seeming on the edge, on the ledge.

As a Martian, I find a way to dialogue with myself.

“Self,” I say, “I don’t really care for being one of these humans. How did I become ensnared within this particular body in this particular family in this particular village on this particular planet? Why can’t I go back to Mars and feel real again?”

Self replies, “Well, you just have to adjust to what’s what. I do not know how you are going to escape this fine mess.”

I ruminate and retort, “As a human, I am so subject to having primal irrational hair-trigger responses to every thing, every primal feeling. This seems to be built into me.”

Self says, “Welcome to Earth. What’s the problem?”

“I just don’t care for this…this bumper car existence that shuffles me about and taxes me and challenges me and makes me feel as if I have no control over anything…”

Self grimaces, “That’s just the way it is going to be from now on. All you have to do is decide which it is going to be—the ledge or the leap?”

I know Self is right, but I need someone to talk to, so I continue, “The leap would solve my problems.”

Something within me—maybe a shard of intelligence attempting to get my attention—immediately identifies this sentiment as irrational and not quite accurate. I’ve studied Hamlet and I know that the leap in no way guarantees the end of my troubles. Things might be much worse Over There.

“OK, Self. I see where you are leading me.” I pause to find the right words. “You can take a break now. I know what I have to do. I basically have to dig myself out of this quagmire, stop whining, and just get on with doing what I can do.”

“Attaboy,” self mutters as he fades into the cobwebbed niches of memory.

I get up, wash my face, comb my hair, and grab a pencil to write a poem that just popped into view.

Someday I’ll share it with you. Maybe a few decades from now.

Meanwhile, allow me to be your Self for a moment, just in case you are not in touch with this imaginary but very real friend.

Follow instructions carefully:

Take the good from my stories. Look for the good. Use it to your advantage. Remain on the ledge.

Be a better person or at least a better purveyor of good than you were ten minutes ago. People are watching. The Ins and the Outs are looking for guidance and inspiration.

Whether or not I am always conscious of it, others do look to others, only more secretively than they did in the vacant lots of childhood.

They still want to know whether it is acceptable to have the same desire as you…to yearn to run guileless through good memories

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SENTENCED TO LIFE

Posted on February 24, 2019 by Jim

Listen to Jim’s audio podcast: https://youtu.be/thCThWNlxyU

or read his words below:

SENTENCED TO LIFE

I’m shivering on the twilight streets of the big city, waiting in cool dampness for designated driver to appear.

The semi-darkness alters colors and textures just enough to make me re-examine my after-work surroundings.

To my left is the tall vertically-striped Watts tower glowing and glowering at the unstoppable passage of time.

Straight across the way is the large furniture store with forgotten neon OPEN sign defiantly staring back despite the fact that employees have locked up and headed home.

A large municipal bus pulls up, occluding the OPEN sign, awaiting permission of a traffic light. I gaze into the large windows where passengers move about under the eerie bluish hue of interior lights. It looks as if i’m gazing into an aquarium. The occupants tread air and brace for the journey.

Music of the asphalt accompanies all. Horns make horn sounds, tires screech, parkers try to park parallel in multiple back-and-forth wriggling patterns, cars with right-blinkers ablaze turn left anyhow, courier services idle their vehicles. Other drivers weave around them. Incredibly loud music vibrates the windows of one car, a sirened ambulance forces me to stop ears with fingers, pedestrians poop-pause their yappers, plastic bags at the ready.

Chattering teens stroll by on their way to an Alabama Theatre concert. A crestfallen shopper pulls the overtime shopping penalty ticket off his windshield and mutters sadly. One panhandler puts a hand out, a power-tailored attorney hustles ’round the corner, hugging leather briefcase.

I suddenly realize that I have been sentenced to life.

Life on the streets, life among strangers and friends and passers-by.

A life sentence is what I am privileged to serve, here in the tiny wonderland that is my ‘hood, my livelihood, my worldly world of pavement and people and creatures of the twilight

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CAPTURING THAT HIGH HEEL ATTITUDE MOMENT

Posted on February 17, 2019 by Jim

Listen to Jim’s 3-minute audio podcast: https://youtu.be/xSDLsbfA3uE

or read his story…

CAPTURING THAT HIGH HEEL ATTITUDE MOMENT

At day’s end I find myself emptying pockets filled with detritus earlier stuffed into them in haste.

The predictables include loose change, wadded tissue, somebody’s business card, sticky notes, plastic toothpick, a polished stone, a lone dollar bill…

And the inevitable extended strip of CVS coupons.

How many miles of CVS paper have passed through hands and pockets on the way to trash receptacles this year?

Anyhow, I do spot one revelatory coupon that tickles memory and fancy:

GET $2.00 OFF YOUR NEXT EYE-SHADOW PURCHASE.

Can’t remember when I made my last purchase of eye shadow. Probably because it never happened.

But sweet remembrance kicks in and this snapshot of a phrase appears, SHE’S ALL LONG EYELASHES AND HIGH HEELS AND LEGS.

I wrote something about this beautiful and purposeful high heel person a long time ago, just after she breezed past me in hallways at City Hall.

Oh, here is part of the note. It’s called ATTITUDE HEELS.

She’s walking the walk

She’s jutting her chin

Her eyes are half-closed

She’s suppressing a grin.

Attitude heels

Gotta get a pair of those attitude heels

Gotta stay cool

Gotta keep the beat

Strutting those spikes

And building up heat

Clicking and clacking

Staying on cue

She looks like she’s

Got lots to do

Attitude heels

Must have must have attitude heels

You can’t be meek

You gotta be real

You must hang tough

And NEVER kneel!

You march right in

You strut straight through

You rule the wind

And the world follows you

Attitude heels

Gotta get some of those attitude heels

Well, what more can I say about this apparition at City Hall? She speaks for herself. She remains a remarkable icon of efficiency and purpose and will and confidence. Wish I could find all that along with my other pocket stuffings.

Maybe I just did

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PUTTING SILLY STUFF IN ITS PLACE

Posted on February 10, 2019 by Jim

Listen to Jim’s 3-minute vocal podcast: https://youtu.be/X7Cj-J6EScM

or read on…

PUTTING SILLY STUFF IN ITS PLACE

“Well, how is your week going?” someone asks me.

I pause before speaking. There are two ways to answer the question.

I try to decide which reply is worth the effort.

Want to hear the two alternatives?

I could say, “What a week! I totaled my car, traversed the intricacies of replacing it, the icemaker in my brand-new six-week-old refrigerator broke, our home furnace exploded and died and a replacement is in place and beginning to work, my bookstore rent will increase enormously in a few weeks, new tag and insurance and warranty activities suck up all our time…” I could say all that, feel appropriately sorry for myself and just come off as a self-centered whiner.

Or, I could say, “It’s a glorious week. Business is bustling, one old friend brought Asian food to the house for an evening chat fest, my best friend from Second Grade sent me a lovely handwritten note from far away, I am traveling East this afternoon to inspire and energize a meeting of booklovers, my lovely wife smiled and held my hand and began her fifth decade of keeping me balanced, and I am about to write yet another story about life love and confusion in my Deep South life.

Which of these confessions will do more to make the listener chuckle? Which will force me to appreciate and re-appreciate the wonderful life that awaits my order to resume full speed ahead?

And which true tale will make me drop the disparities and despair that seem so petty, compared to what other people are experiencing throughout the world right now?

Tumbling together in a merry melange of Life Happenings and Unexpecteds, stuff just seems to happen lately. I always hope the Law of Averages will catch up with me at a later date, but that date is just plain happening anyhow…without my permission, of course.

I think I’ll choose Door Number Two and add other pleasantries for the listener’s enjoyment.

Better still, at some point I’ll shut my mouth and listen raptly to what’s happening in the listener’s life

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NOTE TO SELF: MAKE NOTE TO SELF

Posted on February 3, 2019 by Jim

Listen to Jim’s 3-minute audio podcast: https://youtu.be/EIZ1_pQYRqI

or read his comments below…

NOTE TO SELF: MAKE NOTE TO SELF

Note to self:

MACARINA MUTING is a possible title of a story about my propensity for obsessively muting every commercial message that intrudes upon my life.

Yep, among my many tics and habits and compulsions is the need to sound-filter all unwanted sales pitches. Out of ear, out of mind.

It’s its own form of entertainment, this quashing of audio. Once the MUTE button is pushed, I can pursue other endeavors until the original program content resumes. Or I can watch the muted performance and make up my own story lines.

I get my jollies by watching the commercials never intended for silence. You too can play this game. When the superbly pumped-up and unnaturally-friendly spokesperson begins her sales pitch, watch her silent hands. What in the world do those repetitive gestures and body movements mean? Does she learn them in Macarina Messaging School?

Watch a lawyer pound his silent sales presentation into the camera. Where did he get the idea that his dramatically splayed waving arms would induce me to buy any product or service he could possibly imagine? Did he attend Commercial Shadow Boxing classes? Bless his muted mouth.

Unsolicited sales calls are also muted by the minute. PLEASE DON’T HANG UP. THIS IS AN IMPOR…just instructs me that hanging up is my only defense. CLICK. Muted!

Another call, MAY I SPEAK TO THE OWNER…”No, you may not, but thanks for calling.” CLICK. I do try to be polite and dismissive simultaneously.

One more phone pick-up—someone is trying to sell me something that would never be appropriate for a bookshop. “Have you ever visited my shop to see what we sell here?” I ask. UH, NO. “Well, come and talk to me face to face, allow me to give you a brief tour of the store, then we can have a nice face-to-face chat.” OK, I’LL DO THAT. CLICK. Quoth the marketer, NEVERMORE.

Oh, and there is another wise-guy retort I employ now and then, according to mood. IS THIS THE OWNER, MISTER JEEM? “What are you selling?” I ask, hoping to get to the point quickly and resume my day. OH, I AM NOT SELLING ANYTHING, MISTER JEEM. I know this to be untrue, since this is the dozenth call from this particular company. Nobody ever admits to wanting to sell something to me until the Pitch is completed—then, Surprise, Surprise! My smart remark, “Oh, that’s too bad that you are not selling anything. I just came into some money and was prepared to buy whatever you are offering. Thanks for calling!” CLICK.

Actually, I don’t enjoy making these quips, but something comes over me.

I’m much happier watching the silent-movie screen presentations of actors pretending to be just like me, hoping they can charm me into rolling out some moolah. Or lawyers reminding me that, like congressmen, bad hair or enhanced hair or preternatural comb overs are common characteristics of this species. Pretty funny stuff.

The Macarina continues until the Time of Unmuting resumes.

I enjoy these cheap thrills. They are actually much more fun than the programs themselves

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/theplaceofassignationwhereinallsweetmemoryoriginates.mp3

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THE PLACE OF ASSIGNATION WHEREIN ALL SWEET MEMORY ORIGINATES

Posted on January 27, 2019 by Jim

Listen to Jim’s 3-minute audio podcast:

or read his story below…

THE PLACE OF ASSIGNATION WHEREIN ALL SWEET MEMORY ORIGINATES

Things are bigger, in the times of yore I’m reminiscing about this morning.

Back in my day, young’uns like me race to the mail box just to be first to grab enormous issues of Life Magazine and discover what bigger-than-life people command this week’s cover. The nearly life-sized faces influence the way I view the world. For instance, there is gaunt Gandhi, to this day my idea of how a normal human, warts and all, can influence millions through exemplary behavior.

I learn from Gandhi that people actually watch what I do. When I misbehave, their expectations descend. When I do something right and good, they rise up to meet me.

Even larger than magazines in these pre-television years, are movies and the people who tell me big-screen stories I cannot forget. There is James Baskett, a charismatic actor who tells me the morality tales and behavior parables I will need for the next seven decades. For instance, as Uncle Remus, Baskett taught me to look for the humor and humanity in every situation:

Everybody’s got a laughin’ place,
A laughin’ place, to go ho-ho!
Take a frown, turn it upside-down,
And you’ll find yours I know ho-ho!

To this day I return to my laughing place whenever things loom sour. It is my assignation shelter, where no-one can pound me with negativity.

And actual real-life people influence me enormously. Uncle Brandon McGee becomes my model for how to excite the imagination of a withdrawn kid. He is always accessible to visitors like me, showing me how to candle eggs to ensure quality, how to take an old piece of metal advertising signage and turn it into something useful, how to make his pet dog memorable by naming him Stinky.

Uncle Brandon, like Uncle Remus, makes me find a smile where none is apparent, forces me to make my imagination and innate energy useful.

Many decades later, I take Ray Bradbury’s advice and jump off the mountain, building my parachute on the way down, landing beyond the walls of corporate incarceration I endure for too long. I land on a splintery bench in a pocket park near my home. Each morning, I walk to the bench, sit for a meditative period, and allow my laughing place to rise up and comfort me.

Nowadays, my laughing place–my sweet assignation zone–is portable. I take my gifts from Uncle Brandon, Gandhi, Uncle Remus, and dozens of others who matter to me, dozens of others to whom I matter, and I escort them safely along the way. They are not where you can see them anymore. And I am still learning from them the neverending lessons that remain to be learned.

They are all secure in my laughing place, my bench of lovely assignation

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THE HANSEL AND GRETEL TO AND FRO TRAIL

Posted on January 20, 2019 by Jim

Listen to Jim’s 3-minute audio podcast: https://youtu.be/ADVsvAuS_LQ

or read forth…

THE HANSEL AND GRETEL TO AND FRO TRAIL

A crinkly Fritos bag peeks out of the driver side window of the vehicle I am trailing up 20th Street.

Suddenly, the world at large sucks the empty orange package out of the car. I watch as it twirls itself onto the middle lane. It resides there only a moment, then is pulled aloft by an errant breeze.

In my rear view mirror, it waves a confused good-bye and tumbles forth to an obscure destiny.

Then, a plastic drinking straw appears as the hand of the driver tosses it forth to join its Fritos pal.

Is the navigator of this motorized conveyance marking the roadway for later return navigation? I’ll call him GPS-less Hansel, since Gretel left him in a huff some time back, the thirtieth time she disapproved of his careless use of public byways as personal dumpster. Among other infractions.

By the time Hansel retraces his journey on 20th Street, searching for the uncyclable markers, his way will have been long obscured by breeze and street maintenance personnel.

“Dammit,” Hansel will mutter. “Where am I?”

Alone tonight, in his battered lounger, gazing at an enormous screen, scarfing canned beverage and micro’d popcorn, he will have forgotten his adventure.

However, tomorrow is another day, so his can and buttered bag will rest beside him as he once more marks his way up 20th.

“Maybe today will be better than yesterday,” he mumbles half aloud, as he extrudes a sausage-egg wrapper onto the noncommittal street

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ONE AIRBRUSHED REALITY DAY AT THE BOOKSTORE

Posted on January 13, 2019 by Jim

Listen to Jim: http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/airbrushedreality.mp3

or read an excerpt from his Red Clay Diary:

ONE AIRBRUSHED REALITY DAY AT THE BOOKSTORE

I’m in the right-hand lane on 20th Street heading north to the shop.

A van pulls abreast to the left of me, pointed in the same direction.

In the passenger seat of the van is a young woman staring straight down 20th, only her vision is blocked by the hand mirror in which she views herself. In her right hand is a small artist’s brush with which she dusts her face in rapid, skillfully coordinated motions. In the process, her lovely skin is covered by a fine beige powder that serves to hide her distinguishing marks, such as moles, pores, birthmarks, discolorations, scars and any trace of eccentricity.

She slowly becomes as smooth-complected as the life-sized mannequin in the front window of Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories.

The van takes off and passes by and I am left to wonder about the airbrushing ritual. Does the young woman continue dusting her neck, shoulders, chest, armpits and all points south of 20th Street? Is she now a living beige mannequin ready to face the day? Could I identify her in a line-up, since she’s all smooth and featureless now? Is she happy with her newborn self?

Should I airbrush myself and would anybody notice my lovely new complexion?

This seems like a lot of trouble, the things some of us do to remake ourselves each day, but I do understand it to some degree.

I spend each day airbrushing my comments and opinions and behavior, based on what I need to accomplish.

Eating is important, so I brush over my suppressed retort when someone is rude—so that I can complete the sale and continue feeding my family. I tamp down my political opinion when someone rants a thought I don’t share. I hold back a funny remark when I sense that this particular customer is bereft of humor or spirit. I avert my eyes when someone unconsciously bends down to peruse a book and displays an intimate tattoo or bit of string underwear. I pretend deafness when someone spouts outrageously personal asides to a companion shopper. I hold my breath when it’s clear a customer hasn’t bathed or brushed for days—once they leave, I sigh and spray so that the next customer won’t have the same experience. I listen patiently to the extended tale someone spins in order to impress me or make me want to buy something they are trying to push.

And so on.

I can shapeshift and play-act as much as possible when it’s important to do so.

But it’s also so much fun to relax and chat freely with those customers who are obviously open to verbal intercourse, receptive to ideas and remarks, relaxed within their own skin.

When this happens, I can be myself and not be judged, the customers can be themselves and feel safe, and for a few moments, we can all put aside our airbrushes and get on with pleasuring ourselves with the dialogues of the day

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THE EVER-READY THIRD AVENUE HAN SOLO SECURITY FORCE

Posted on January 6, 2019 by Jim

Listen to Jim’s 3-minute audio podcast: https://youtu.be/cs9oooFOuy4

or read his comments below…

THE EVER-READY THIRD AVENUE HAN SOLO SECURITY FORCE

A note from my way-back-when Red Clay Diary. Seems like yesterday:

Harrison Ford stands outside the Museum of Fond Memories at Reed Books and gazes intently at the passing Third Avenue North traffic.

A cardboard life-sized stand-up, Ford is disguised as weapon-drawn Han Solo, ever alert and ready for action. He is just in front of the perpetual two-dollar-each rack of old LP recordings we sell each workday to any eager collector or passing afficionado.

No-one ever shop-lifts our recordings because they are guarded by, you know, Han Solo.

Way across four lanes of Third Avenue, inside Goodyear Shoe Hospital, Rhonda, the owner, keeps looking up from her tasks, wondering who that guy is, the one who for hours is staring at her store from the vantage point of the bookshop.

Is he waiting for a ride? Is he a vagrant? Is he spying?

This becomes annoying. Doesn’t this stranger have anything better to do?

Finally, she deploys an employee to come into my store and find out what the heck is going on with this unofficial surveillance behavior.

“Why, it is Han Solo, protecting the neighborhood,” I tell her later.

Rhonda laughs and relaxes when she finds out that our guardian guard is just a facsimile, not FBI or IRS or Neighborhood Watch or CIA or anybody else who might be onto us merchants plying our variegated trades.

That was then. This is now:

Nowadays, Third Avenue is missing Han and his gaze—somebody made me an offer I dared not refuse, then took him home to guard his family.

What we are left with is the security we have grown to accept and appreciate—security guards posted 24/7 at the the tall buildings…CAP officers who keep an eye on all suspicious goings-on on the streets…law enforcement officers who are back and forth at random intervals, parking meter and maintenance personnel, firefighters who whiz past, sanitation workers who always receive a smile and a thanks from us, and our fellow merchants and professionals and live-in neighbors. We all comprise the unofficial Han Solo Force.

We take care of each other.

Within this humongous city, inner neighborhoods such as ours still thrive and glisten. Each block is a small town within itself, each resident or proprietor a potentially vigilant and helpful denizen.

When things are smooth, we take each other for granted, when there are crises, we come together to share and assist, when there is the need, we coalesce.

It’s remarkable, come to think of it. And it is something that lends comfort and stability in times of larger, more threatening issues.

We can huddle together on our tiny block, and pretend that all is well that starts well each morning, all is well that ends well each evening.

Thank goodness there is no place like…Here