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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

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

http://www.jimreedbooks.com/podcast

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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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