Monthly Archives: December 2025

SPACKLE SPACKLE EVERYWHERE

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Hear Jim’s podcast: https://youtu.be/657KXtLtHOs

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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SPACKLE SPACKLE EVERYWHERE

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(Random Ideas About Reality and Fantasy and In-Betweenness)

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Your unconscious beauty reveals you as you really are, in this split second between ego surges.

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Others secretly bask in your glow. They sense the unvarnished and deep-seated being you really are. The untainted version. Sensible, caring.

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All that spackle you apply only covers up your worth. The caring being is hidden, becomes mannequin-like, impresses facade-lovers everywhere. Your surface attracts only other surfaces. Pomp and primp dominate a masquerade ball, but the real stuff is also worthy of celebration.

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Where are you, this loving and loved soul disguised with hairpiece and lashes and half a pound of cover-up and fragrance enhancer and body exaggeration?

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Oh, it’s ok that this is the way you evade the confusions of real life. After all, we all dodge and weave and look the other way when reality bites.

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But once in a while why not gather together a handful of people who just want to be immersed in the act of being alive and together, just the way they are?

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Too much to ask of your comrades? Too personal?

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Should this special gathering of artifice-droppers decide to open up and baste themselves in reality, a supply of elaborate masks and shrouds will be on hand each time it becomes too much.

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Everybody has a laughing place, a briar patch, a cone of invisibility nearby in case of emergency.

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Before you duck out of sight, allow the world to enjoy a peek at your beautiful vulnerability. You have the right to peek right back.

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The other side of the looking glass awaits

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 (c) 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed

 

A PATCHWORK CHRISTMAS

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Hear Jim’s 3-minute Christmas podcast: https://youtu.be/GGXDS5xV75w

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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A PATCHWORK CHRISTMAS

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Eighty Christmas Eves ago my four-years-older sister and my infant brother and my early-thirty-ish parents are all I know about Santa and his lively, loveable world.

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All the trappings and traditions of this season glaze themselves into fond memories, fond memories that will remain for handy retrieval all the remaining days of my life.

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As Christmas Eve after Christmas Eve slide past, each fragment of remembrance leaves its trace. Each cameo thought is its own teachable moment, whether it is pleasant or challenging.

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We are a patchwork species, we humans. We possess the ability to dream things that once were, dream things that cannot be, dream things that could possibly happen, dream things that are impossible but still imaginable.

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Each of us is a mixture of rude experience, happy recall, sassy thought, wishes and hopefulness, sadness and regret, incredible enthusiasm, gossamer tiptoeing, bravery and fear, anger and optimism.

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We patchwork people survive by wit and willpower. We slog through the toughest times, dance heartily to the tunes of transcendence and avoidance, caress our companions with full confidence that each good moment will last forever.

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In order to live lives worth living, we tend to use the tools we already have—whatever it takes to get through the next moment safely and securely. We are good at caring, we are skilled at sliding past obstacles, we are adept at holding fast our loved ones, we are clumsy at changing the thoughts and errant ways of other people.

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In other words, we are perfect one moment, imperfect the next, discombobulated at times, assured and sure of ourselves now and then.

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We imagine super heroes who accomplish what we cannot. We find scapegoats to make ourselves more competent by comparison. We feel guilt when we fall short of the lessons our parents and elders and teachers taught us. We are prideful when things turn out the way we planned.

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Santa is one of those dreams we created. In my times Santa stood for generosity, unconditional love, kindness personified, omniscience realized. Santa is still a righteous dude in my heart.

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As long as all the goodness in people remains a possible hope, Santa and his imaginary and real compatriots will stand by me and at the very least gently chide me when I stray

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(c) 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed  

 

OH, BY GOSH, BY GOLLY, IT’S TIME FOR MISTLETOE AND HOLLY

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Listen to Jim: https://youtu.be/sV4LggNwHCc

or read on…

Life, actually…

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OH, BY GOSH, BY GOLLY, IT’S TIME FOR MISTLETOE AND HOLLY

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A dozen or so years ago…

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A pleasant young Russian scientist with pretty wife and fussy baby girl in tow, shows up at Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories, this pre-Christmas day. The three stare wide-eyed at the array of books. He’s looking for Birmingham souvenirs they can afford. Frank Sinatra’s voice bounces against the books as other browsers drift the isles, ”Oh, by gosh, by golly, it’s time for mistletoe and holly…”

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A smelly street guy shows up to purchase a HOBBIT DVD for his buddy, who can’t come to the shop “’cause he’s not allowed to leave the shelter.” He was caught with a cellphone and for some ethereal reason that’s forbidden. He’s being punished for not following the Memo. Mel Torme doesn’t notice, he just goes on about “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire…”

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A slender shopper reminds me that she served me breakfast at Dimitri’s one morning and is making good on her promise to visit the store. We chat warmly while an enormous man cruises the isles in a cold sweat, searching for esoterica. Several customers appear escorting visiting family and friends who’ve never before been Downtown. I extoll the wonders of the city while they try to take it all in. The Modern Jazz Quartet dances the musical notes around “England’s Carol,” their version of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen…”

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A merry woman spends much of my time trying to fit as many purchases into a twenty-dollar bill as she possibly can. She finally seems happy with three small leatherbound Shakespeare plays and an enormous encyclopedia volume. She leaves behind several 1940′s pulp-fiction novels and a beat-up Purple Heart display case. Now, candyman Sammy Davis, Jr., is soaring about “Christmastime in the city…”

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One departing customer returns to the shop, unable to resist purchasing an old copy of TALES OF UNCLE REMUS by Joel Chandler Harris. Something resonates with her childhood and she has to have it. The Russian couple wants to walk the city, so I send them to their next stops, the Jazz Museum and the Civil Rights Institute. Vince Guaraldi continues interpreting Charlie Brown with his rendition of “Oh Tannenbaum, oh Tannenbaum….”

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The day is filled with auld acquaintances materializing, new friends made, adventuresome explorers sated, bookmongers always looking for the next fix, children grabbing stacks of tales for their dad to read aloud, and one man spending two hours to find just the right volume to adopt. Dean Martin trills, “Rudoph, with your nose so bright, won’t you guide mein sleigh tonight…”

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And by gosh and by golly, a good day was had by almost all, and isn’t that about as much as you could possibly hope for in this erratic, terror-filled, joy-soaked world? “I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams…”

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(c) 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed

 

SOONER OR LATER SOMETHING SUPER COULD HAPPEN

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Listen to Jim Reed’s Red Clay Diary podcast https://youtu.be/dFVNuGPwONw

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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SOONER OR LATER SOMETHING SUPER COULD HAPPEN

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“Maybe I am just not doing everything right.”
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Jimmy Three is standing in place in the back yard of summer, muttering quietly to himself. He knows better than to mutter loudly, since his disjointed thoughts might bring laughter or shame from others.
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Anyhow, this is Jimmy Three, some seventy-plus years ago, attempting to work out the differences between reality and child’s play.
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“I have my cape (ragtag towel), my lightning chest patch (carefully cut from yellow construction paper), my cool boots (old sock tops over floppy summer sandals).”
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Jimmy Three is certain that if he gets all the costumery in place, he is a mere step away from becoming Captain Marvel.
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Jimmy knows everything worth knowing about his comic book hero. He knows that a somewhat scrawny young boy can rise about his station if he can only transfigure himself into superherodom.
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Decades later, Jimmy Three is both amused and bemused by the unfiltered desires of the little kid he once was and maybe still is, deep down.
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But right now, all these eons ago, Jimmy Three is still dreaming of power and glory.
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“SHAZAM!” he hollers at the startled shrubbery cat so busy napping nearby.
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“SHAZAM!” he screams at no-one in particular in his tiny neighborhood. Only a bullfrog and bustling ant are within voice distance, and they don’t seem to care.
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Jimmy gazes at the fluffy storytelling clouds above and wonders whether Zeus and his ilk can only hear certain boys here and there. Maybe it’s like a lottery where not everybody wins.
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“SHAZAM!” once more with all his might and main.
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The silence is filled only with whatever is already on hand. No gods to the rescue. Only redbugs and tall grass and baking sun and loose shingles and red clay dust. They were there before, they remain.
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Jimmy Three is philosophical about all. After all, maybe Captain Marveldom is not his destiny.
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Maybe he’d do better as Bat Man, even Robin.
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He gets busy finding black felt and scissors. A utility belt just might do the trick
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© 2025 A.D. by Jim Reed