Listen to Jim:

 http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/asmatteringofmattering.mp3

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 Smattering of Mattering Couldn’t Hurt

 Having been steamrolled by the year 2015, I guess it is time to savor what good there is, time to hope for what might be, time to actually come up with a plan to make 2016 better.

Where to start?

Maybe the simple act of looking around me at life as it is, will help me jump start the year.

I am full of dreams and imaginings. Dreaming and imagining is a pleasant way to expend the time I have, but does it do anybody else any good?

RESOLUTION: Once every 24 hours, I will ask myself two questions—1. At start of day, What can I do that will actually affect someone else’s life in a positive way?…2. At end of day, What did I do today that actually affected someone else’s life in a positive way? First question is easy. Second question is tough. It tends to hold me accountable for my do-good intentions.

RESOLUTION: Once a day, I will ask myself whether I opted for the easy way out. Did I slide past an opportunity to do good or did I pause, stare straight into the face of a difficult situation and address it in a constructive way? Did I at least try?

RESOLUTION: Sometime each day, I will pull the plugs and find personal peace within, ignoring all superficial stimulation. Silence and solitude for twenty minutes will give me a chance to calm down, let go, search for what little goodness and mercy I still harbor. I know it is there, I just have to give it a chance to assert itself.

RESOLUTION: Each day I will look at least one person in the eye and really listen to what is being communicated to me, silently or aloud. I will remind myself that this should be a person whose existence I generally ignore or avoid. Something good will come of this, I just know it.

Before I try to impress myself and you by listing a dozen aspirations for the year, I will stop here. Just accomplishing all of the above will be a challenge.

Besides, each and every day, I begin a new 365-day cycle of living, so why just do resolutions one day a year? The best is yet to come

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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Listen to Jim:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/dumpty.mp3

or read his story below…

In the way-back land of fond memories, I find these notes about a special Christmas moment that lingers in memory always green…

DUMPTY

 The first Christmas decoration of the season to be broken is broken, I guess, by me.

It happens every year.

Sometime during the process of getting everything done getting everything just right getting each and every little item in place if you hold your mouth just right… something gets broken.

In this case, the tinkly shattering of a glass ball causes a momentary lapse of movement. Five-year-old Hallie stops decorating the tree, her brow furrows as she looks up at me—first of all to see if she is suspected of having anything to do with the breaking, and second of all to see if her Grammy (my wife) will scold me, for it is clear that I am the culprit.

Grammy is careful not to moan too loudly, although she always cringes when any of our old, old decorations are maimed.

We have a stack of broken Christmas ornaments waiting patiently for Santa’s workshop makeovers, and I actually believe that this coming year will be the year I’ll try to repair what I can repair. However, the hollow glass ball that I just dropped on the hardwood floor is not repairable, so we’ll just have to try to remember it fondly and pay attention instead to the wide array of family keepsakes that now swing from the greenness of our tall tree, the tree that’s getting harder to decorate each year since we’re getting older and the ornaments are proliferating.

That’s one reason why Hallie is helping us this year, just as granddaughter Jessica used to help. The young ones are here to delight in the project, to brag that they helped decorate two trees this time, and to learn the process for the times when we’ll be too old to do it all ourselves, Grammy and me.

Anyhow, this ritual we carry out each and every year is indispensable to Christmas, and the challenge is, we never get it exactly right—daughter Margaret would prefer we have a REAL tree instead of a manufactured one, Hallie would prefer we have three more trees to decorate, her mother Jeannie can’t wait till it’s all done and over with so she can take a long winter’s nap.

Jessica would rather the trees come pre-decorated so that she can get down to the business of anticipation, grandkids Rebecca, Reed and Ryan would rather just let us entertain them with Christmas cheer all year round, son John can’t wait to share another family story or two, and grand kids Robby and Becky would just as soon get on with opening the gifts now, if you please.

I hope you have something nice to keep from breaking this season, some fragile object or fragile memory that you can hold onto while gazing glazed-eyed at the glowing starry sky this winter

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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Did I Ever Tell You What to Get Me for Christmas?

http://jimreedbooks.com/mp3/tell.mp3

If you really want to please me, if you truly wish to give me something that will make me smile, if you want to feel you’ve done the right thing by me, then read on:

This Christmas, give me something personal, something of yourself–not something you picked up at the Mall or ran into the Pharmacy and grabbed at the last minute. Just this one Christmas, I would love to receive something truly personal, something that is part of you.

The gift you give as a part of yourself could be any number of things.

You could write a little poem for me, one you made up all by yourself.

You could sing me your favorite Christmas carols, the ones you’ve loved since childhood.

You could do a little performance for me–a funny jig or a joke or two about what it’s like to know somebody like me.

You could draw me a picture and sign your name at the bottom and date it, “Christmas, The 21st Century A.D.”

You could take me to dinner all by yourself and sit and chat with me over some nice food and drink, I listening to what you have to say and you listening to what I have to say.

You could make a little album of photos and memorabilia about me and you, and give it to me with a loving hug.

Get the idea?

You may come up with something better or something more interesting than any of these–that’s ok. As long as you give me something personal, something affectionate and caring, I will be happy.

Maybe you feel uncomfortable, trying to improvise a Christmas gift for me. Perhaps you’ve gotten used to going to the store and purchasing something, and maybe you feel this IS a personal way to gift me. If that’s so, then here’s something you can try, something that may please us both: Go to the store and find a delightful little toy, a toy that makes you smile, involuntarily. Then, bring me that smile–and the toy, too. We can enjoy the toy and our mutual smiles together at the same time!

If all of this is just too much trouble, you could even do this: take me to lunch and ask me what I’d like to give to you, if I could only afford it or if I could only do it just right, in a way that you would appreciate.

Anyhow, I thought you might get a kick out of learning the answer to that age-old question we all ask each other every year: “What do you want for Christmas?” This year, I thought I’d tell you the truth, as I feel the truth this year.

Give me part of you, and I will try to return the compliment next Christmas

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/bookingthemagiccarpetride.mp3

or read his story:

Booking the Magic Carpet Ride to Reality

I am sitting cross-legged and pious atop a floor mat that looks sort of like a Persian carpet. Since I have only seen such a carpet in movies and in fairy tale illustrations, it is easy for me to imagine that this floor mat might just be a Persian carpet in disguise.

I am only a kid now, and it will be years, even decades, before I learn to distinguish reality from fantasy, so this is a good day.

I close my eyes, keeping in mind that some of my fictional heroes—Sinbad, Abbott and Costello, Hope and Crosby, Aladdin—have managed to levitate and pilot magic carpets. If they can do it, why can’t I? Even Bugs Bunny takes a magic carpet ride once in a while.

I press my palms together in some semblance of Judeo-Christian-Middle Eastern prayer mode and wish for levitation.  Time flies, but the mat does not. I open one eye to see whether I’m still aground. In my imagination, I am flying, but in my reality I’m rooted to the floor.

Maybe I should wear a turban, but I don’t know how to make a bath towel remain on my head.

Since nobody in the family is around right now to witness my liftoff failure, I am relieved. I stand straight, fold the mat, place it in the closet, and return to my room. I open a volume of The Arabian Nights and return to my imagination, searching for further adventures that apparently happen only in stories. But what fun they are.

I now appreciate how clever and imaginative Scheherazade must have been to make up those 1001 tales designed to entertain and distract the doltish sultan who threatened to take her life. I now know what she knew. The tale is everything, the story is everything. If the tale does not carry you away and suspend your disbelief for a few moments, it could cost you your joy, even your life.

From this day forth, I often find myself simultaneously in two worlds, the real one and the hoped-for one. As long as I walk the tightrope between them, extracting the best from each, I am guaranteed a good day.

And perhaps a good life

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/navigatingthenoiseofsilentspaces.mp3

or read his story below:

Navigating the Noise of Silent Spaces

 I’m making the rounds this morning, stopping here and there to examine and purchase books that might sell to willing customers at the bookshop. It is well before opening time, so I get to enjoy one of my guilty pleasures—being alone and quiet and meditative as I navigate the city streets, alone with my thoughts and ambitions and fears and pleasures.

This morning is quieter than usual. The radio and music player have been removed for repair, and I will spend at least two weeks in a silent vehicle, listening only to the quiet…my quiet ruminations, my soundless grin, the silent blinking of my eyes, the vast soundless panorama of life being lived on the other side of the windshield.

The widescreen epic before me is familiar—with momentary touches of unpredictability to spice things up.

Here inside this booth of isolation I can pretend to be in control of my own destiny—a delusion at best, but a humorous and harmless delusion.

Coming directly toward me, going the wrong way in the middle of one-way Third Avenue North is a cyclist who seems to own the road. He is riding a real bike, a beat-up old reject whose wheels still squeak and turn. He is oblivious to hazard and danger and owns this lane all by himself, since it is up to us drivers to swerve around him and keep him safe. He, too, is living inside a booth of isolation.

A one-crutch pedestrian slowly wends his way across the street, also oblivious of the traffic and the racing world around him. I just drive carefully and hope that others will do the same.

On the passing sidewalk, an elderly shopper stoops and stares at the dysfunctional parking meter that refuses to accept his metal coin. He can’t decide whether to move his car to a working-meter space, not knowing whether a cranky meter monitor might give him a catch-22 ticket regardless of where he parks.

A dog trots along, walking its leashed master who puffs on a large cigar to counterbalance the fresh morning air. A discarded pair of running shorts drapes a curb, golden leaves swirl about, one man is changing his tire, a coffee-clutching bank employee rushes to staff her Dilbert booth before the boss finds out, a waiting bus rider gums his Honey Bun, an unmufflered motorcyclist zooms by, traffic lights wink at me, one low-flying plane swoops between the towers toward the airport.

I complete my morning chores, pull into the parking lot, drag my newfound treasures to the door of the shop, pause to smell the morning’s freshness, then push through the looking glass

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

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I Got the Early Morning Cranky Bust-the-Routine Pre-Caffeine Blues Oh Yeah

The ringing in my ears triggers an automatic response. Left hand rises from prone body, towers to the ceiling for a second, then descends like a fallen tree and slaps quiet the alarm clock by the bed. Silent morning, holy morning, all is calm for a few seconds.

Chase away the cobwebbed remnants of a discomfiting dream, push aside dreadful imaginings, rub eyes wide awake, access the A.M. checklist called How to Get Through the Moment.

Am I the only member of my dubious species who is aware of what is going on here? We are all doing time, aren’t we? And in turn, time is doing us.

So, following the checklist, I jump for joy onto the cold wooden floor, seize the morning, look over my shoulder at the good things I’ve almost missed, prepare for the Big Punch Line that will inevitably occur somewhere down the road.

To get into the rhythm of the day, I let it all go. Freefall into the pleasures, shake off the “I Got the Early Morning Cranky Bust-the-Routine Pre-Caffeine Blues Oh Yeah” song in my head. Purposely walk the sunny side of the routiines, avert my eyes and mind when the Dreadfuls smirk and attack.

Aware that I am a living being under the Dome. Conscious of the fact that I am a prisoner locked inside this misshaped pale body bag. Constantly alert to the grand possibilities.

When all this improvisation gets rolling for the day, the Attitudes arise.

I can handle That.

Even if I can’t handle That I can appear to handle That.

Isn’t this what most of us adults try to do each day, anyhow? I am not brave, but I certainly know how to act brave, in order to avoid spreading my fears, in order to set an example to help someone else get through the day, in order to share a bit of hope and cheer in a sometimes dreadful world, in order to remind others that there are things in life that can tamp down the words of naysayers and wrongdoers and ne’er do wells and damaged prophets.

It’s a grand bit of acting, this daily behavior. As the years tumble down, I begin to realize that I am powerless to change anything substantially. I learn that there are things I can do that, perhaps in their own way, will make minuscule differences. For instance, I can hug my family and tell them I love them…each and every time I see them. I can stop an extra moment and listen to the diatribe or woeful tale of a stranger. I can share a kindly word with someone who seems to be yearning for one. I can stuff my ego into my back pocket and  present my best grumpy old smile.

And the best thing I can do is remind myself that I am everybody I come in contact with.

There are no substantive differences.

I am everybody. And when I forget that fact, I become less human and more narcissistic—narcissism and lack of empathy being two of the worst flaws in our collective DNA.

So, just bear with me for a few seconds when we meet, allow me time to fan away the “I Got the Early Morning Cranky Bust-the-Routine Pre-Caffeine Blues” song and dredge up the better part of myself to share with you.

Oh yeah

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/thenoendingstoriesremainneverending.mp3

or read his story below:

The No-Ending Stories Remain Neverending

It’s the stories that don’t quite end that fascinate me.

Happy endings are easy to compose or imagine, but Hapless Endings—now, that’s another thing.

Tiny, suspenseful stories that do not quite complete themselves pervade my life.

I am five years old, way back when, watching my Uncle Brandon servicing a customer’s car in front of the Sinclair Oil pump at my Grandfather’s general store.

Brandon checks oil and tires, cleans windshield, dabs at a bit of mud sticking to the front fender—you know, in these olden days when service stations actually provide service.

Then, he pops the gas tank top and starts pumping, keeping an eye on the meter. Uncle Brandon leans over the pump handle, lighted cigarette dangling from his lips, eyes squinted against the smoke. A half-inch-long glowing ash is just inches above the rising fumes, and even at age five I wonder what would happen if the ember dropped into the tank. It is a fleeting thought that remains with me to this day.

Uncle Brandon McGee survives hundreds of fill-ups with nary an accident, and he lives to entertain me with his gentle humor and family anecdotes through the years.

But every time I spy dangling ashes, I think about him.

There, across the street from my home, a worker uses his leaf blower to move detritus from one yard to someone else’s yard, all the while squinting from the cigarette he puffs. In the parking lot near my shop, a break-timer sucks on his lighted smoke while texting. Laughing, gossipy smokers remain outside the shop, taking final drags before entering and sharing their fragrance. Later, I sweep flattened filters over the curb, mimicking the leaf blower man by moving my stuff into someone else’s territory. Then, street sweepers will move those filters yet again. And the wind will bring them back to the door to be re-swept tomorrow.

Like I say, these overlapping neverending stories just keep on telling themselves, and seldom do they wrap themselves up into neatly-phrased punchlines. I can only pretend that each tale ends happily.

Does Uncle Brandon someday regret his habit? Does the leaf-blower reform? Do the shop-door puffers awaken and develop replacement habits? Does the texting break-timer survive his serial inhalations?

Do I ever stop watching, observing, wondering, writing, passing along my neverending thoughts? Maybe you can come up with a satisfactory ending. Or at least a hapless ending

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast: 

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/edgarbeattyexhaustshisinvulnerable.mp3

or read his story below:

Edgar Beatty Exhausts His Invulnerable Prerogative on Eastwood Avenue

Right now (many decades ago), I am a wee lad, frantically shooing away the constantly buzzing words that fling themselves at me.

I am someday going to be called a nerd somewhere by somebody. I know I am a nerd, even though I’ve never heard or seen such a word. Sometime in the distant future, I will learn to call myself that, but right now, I’ll just use the word to make it easier for you to understand what I am talking about.

Words fascinate me at this young age. Right now, I know just a few thousand words, but each day I learn more, mainly by observing the world around me.

For instance, one day my next-door adult neighbor, Edgar Beatty, is having a shouting match with another adult neighbor who is strutting menacingly because Edgar’s dog has chased his child. Edgar stands him off and refuses to apologize for his pet’s behavior. The red-faced neighbor stomps off, yelling over his shoulder that he’s going to call the police. Edgar yells back. “That’s your prerogative!” and disappears into his house.

I am stunned. I have seen that word “prerogative” in books, but I have never heard anybody actually say it aloud, let alone in a sentence. Edgar Beatty, being a roughhewn man, seldom uses words more than two syllables long. But suddenly he’s throwing “prerogative” around as if he’s a closet intellectual. And he’s using it powerfully, like a missile.

I’ll never know where Edgar Beatty learned such a word, but I do make a note to re-examine my ideas about who knows what and how much and why. I am always making notes. Up till now, I assume that I, the bookish kid on the block, am the sole owner of that word.

It’s that way with other words, too. I always remember where I learn them. Like the time I’m listening to a favorite radio serial called “Front Page Farrell.” My hero, Farrell, has been running through the cars of a moving train, chasing some bad guys. His loyal girlfriend suddenly stops and proclaims, “I am exhausted!”  Whoa! Exhausted? I have seen this word in print but, never having heard it spoken, assume it is pronounced ex-HASTED. All this time, I have been ex-HASTED now and then, never exhausted.

Front Page Farrell adds a word to my vocabulary.

I learn many, many words in similar fashion. For instance, in Superman comic books and on his radio show, Superman always talks about being invulnerable. Invulnerable. I have to reason that one out. He also occasionally becomes vulnerable, like when Kryptonite shows up. So…invulnerable must mean bullets bounce off him. Vulnerable means he becomes weak and more like us mere humans. Those are great words!

I’m still learning to use new words. I even use Edgar Beatty’s example and occasionally employ a word as a missile. Like the word antidisestablishmentarianism. Somebody tells me this is one of the longest words around, so I take ownership and use it now and then.

I am impressed with myself, but nobody else is.

To this day, finding a new word, learning the subtleties of old words, changing the power of words through inflection or volume, omitting obvious words and finding fresh replacements…it’s all a preoccupation that gives me great pleasure. I can always entertain myself by noticing how words are misused, misunderstood, twisted, re-imagined, misspelled, weaponized, deflated, discarded…

It’s a game any nerd can enjoy.

Even if you are the only kid on the block who knows how to play it

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/asitturnsouthappening.mp3

or read his story below…

As It Turns Out, Happening Just Happens

My Red Clay Diary just fell to the floor and splayed itself open to one particular page. From twenty years ago, these thoughts presented themselves to me.

I wonder whether these insights will endure another twenty years.

RED CLAY DIARY ENTRY:

Life just seems to happen to me…or is it that I happen to life? Would life even Be if I were not happening to it?

And if it is the case that life is happening to me, rather than I to It, does it make one whit of difference in the universal schemelessness of things?

Where was I?

Oh, yes, about life in the hereafter and the herebefore. Is life happening to me or am I happening to It? Want to know the answer? And if so, what good would it do to know the answer? Is it better to muddle along and be surprised by the Next Big Thing, or it is better to know all the answers and know all the formulae and have infinite knowledge about everything and everyhappening? Is knowledge necessarily a good thing, or is it better to know very little and guess even less and just roll with the dice of the universe, hoping it will all come out to the good?

When Aristotle was asked what a person could gain by uttering a falsehood, he replied, “Not to be credited when he shall tell the truth.”

Shall I tell you the truth about life?

If I lie to you in this diary entry, you will not credit me when I finally do say something true. On the other hand, if I tell you the truth, you could be in danger of not being able to tell when I eventually lie to you.

Might be best to drop this treadmill quest for Truth and simply do this:

Take stock of each precious moment this week, and allow the dice of the universe to roll on.

Remember that the dots facing down on the dice are just as important as the dots facing up.

Being kind and loving and caring really matters. The truths constantly change and disguise themselves, but being kind and loving and caring always counts

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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Listen to Jim’s podcast:

or read his story below:

Entering the Out Door and Exiting the In Door

 Clunk! Rattle. “Oh, PUSH, I see!”

This is a customer in the shop, attempting to exit,  making a big noise, then muttering to himself.

Clunk! Rattle. “Heh, heh. Uh, PUSH! OK.”

This is a customer in the shop, attempting to exit,  making a big noise, then muttering to herself.

This occurs several times a day.

See, the front door of the shop opens outward onto the sidewalk—perhaps an idiosyncrasy of the way buildings were constructed back in 1890. But the average customer assumes you’re supposed to PULL the door open, causing the thick wooden frame to slap against an immovable jamb. The action results in a THUD, then a rattling of the loosely glazed glass.

Even though there is a large square plate stating PUSH, right at the handle, the unwritten rule is PULL first, read PUSH later. It’s a cheap amusement.

Wherever I roam or shop, I see the PUSH PULL syndrome acted out in odd ways. Two-door entranceways always sport one locked door and one hinged door. This is an unsolved mystery of the universe. Nobody can explain to me why an establishment with two doors unlocks only one at a time.

The customer has to gamble every time. IS THIS THE LOCKED DOOR? Nope, it swings outward, offering no resistance and throwing the patron off balance. IS THIS THE UNLOCKED DOOR? Nope, I slam against it, having miscalculated its status. IS THIS THE UNLOCKED DOOR THAT SWINGS OUTWARD? Nope, I run into the glass, having had a fifty-fifty chance of being right.

Is there a hidden employee having a good laugh at my expense? Does the Cosmos snicker at my bumbling? Is there a building code that requires establishments to use just one door at a time?

Maybe it is all about entertainment, whether intentional or accidental.

I recall the car detailing shop on Second Avenue South. Its main claim to jokesterism  was a shiny quarter prominently beckoning from the concrete floor. Leonard and crew would spend much time watching as each customer, attempting to be a good-manners custodian, would stoop or bend down to pick up the quarter. Since it was securely glued to the floor, the good Samaritan would react differently—abashed, amused, confused, embarrassed, philosophical. Much of the time, nobody was caught watching the charade, thus helping folks save face. The silent joke was the day’s prime entertainment.

At Reed Books, the PUSH PULL door situation is not intentional. It’s just the way the doorway is built. But it is entertaining to see how each person interprets the doorway. A harmless bit of distraction for both browser and audience.

CLUNK! RATTLE.

There it goes again

© Jim Reed 2015 A.D.

jim@jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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