Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast on Youtube:  https://youtu.be/E0qfacXrnzg

or read his transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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FORWARD TO THE PAST

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Doing time Down South. That’s what you and I are equally good at. We are doing time.

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Traveling forward through time is so easy. All I have to do is keep breathing and watch out for meteorites. I can time-travel for decades with very little effort.

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Jumping ahead in time, into unknown futures, is almost as easy. I can grab a book that takes place day after tomorrow and immerse my imagination into a possibility or two. Leaping forward is not quite as realistic as living one day at a time, but it does excite the imagination, it does take me away from humdrum now and then. And sometimes humdrum requires distraction, just to keep the necessary balances.

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Traveling backward in time is exciting, too. In fact, I have learned that living in the past is a safe and secure exercise. The Past is the safest place to be, especially for avoidance-experts like myself.

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Here at my bookshop, my Museum of Fond Memories, my Cathedral of Books…here, I can dip into any past that ever was. Or I can dip into imagined pasts that never were. What choices I can make!

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For instance, the first object I see this morning is a 1951 high school yearbook. This yearbook was incredibly important to the student who owned it in 1951.

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As high school experiences faded into the past, as 1952 encroached, the 1951 yearbook remained solid proof that youth and experience and experimentation once existed. As life edged forward, piling year upon year, at least that 1951 yearbook collected dust and preserved memories as best it could.

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Every decade or so, it could be dusted off, pages could be flipped, dedications and signatures and times good and bad could be reconsidered.

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And, at last, some time after all memory is spent, this 1951 yearbook is discarded by survivors and winds up in a thrift bin on its way to perdition. It is only here, in my hands, because I rescued it.

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Thumbing through its interior, I spend time appreciating the life of the previous owner. I wonder at the fresh young faces reflecting dreams and aspirations and fears and hope. I wonder how many of those reflections came true, how many were managed, how many directions their paths took them. How did they wind up?

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Even if I could manage to assemble a lifetime yearbook for myself, for you, will there always come a time when some future person who never knew me will make a decision? Dumpster or thrift store? A puff of discarded memory or a chance for yet another life in the hands of a browsing yearbook-lover?

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All those long-ago hopeful lives. It’s up to a handful of us to honor them or forget them. Our choice is ready to be made

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 © 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Catch Jim’s 3-minute podcast on youtube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=efyI2eRhTUA

or read his transcript:

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Life, actually…

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A STUPEFYING GATHERING OF WHAT-IFS

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What if hand-wringing and whining, whimpering and wailing, complaining and cussing, all went away for a day?

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Bear with me. I’m rolling out a fresh thought for your consideration. Ignore at will.

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What if politeness and good manners came over us and made us civil and courteous for 24 hours?

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I’m trying hard to imagine these what-ifs. I’m trying hard to take these what-ifs seriously, just for the fun of it. Just in case straining my imagination might actually change the texture of the earth for a day.

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How to apply these what-if thoughts? An idea: What if we elected or selected our leaders solely on the basis of politeness and good manners, civility and courtesy, kindness and respect? Would the world shift for the better?

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I’m not being delusional, I’m just thinking beyond the borders of my limitations. A little exercise couldn’t hurt.

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What if we had something better to do with our time—something better than hand-wringing and whining, whimpering and wailing, complaining and cussing?

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Granted, it might take some adjusting, this living in a land bereft of meaningless sniping at one another. We’d have to unwind, let down, cool it, chill, relax, take time to chat and compare notes about life and love and the pursuit of happiness.

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What if anxiety and all-stove-upness just settled to the ground? What if we learned that easy breathing could be breath-taking? Even fun?

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What if we reached out to just one person we normally wouldn’t be caught alive with, and just introduce our better selves? What might we learn? What might surprise and please us?

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What if each of us took eleven minutes each day to sit motionless and make a list of well-meaning what-ifs?

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Ok, I know that’s a stretch. Would you settle for eight minutes a day?

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What if this pleasant serial thinking caught on?

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What if we all got a case of the what-ifs

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute podcast on youtube:https://youtu.be/Q3ld67RV7aw

or read the transcript below…

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Life, actually…

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THE IMPORTANCE OF TURNING ORDER INTO CHAOS AND CHAOS INTO ORDER

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I’m about to wax philosophic right now, so you may wish to duck and run.

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If you are feeling adventuresome, you can stay around for a couple of minutes and hear me out. Either way, my condolences to your state of mind.

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Here goes.

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Maybe I’m living too long, but I still enjoy the journey so much that I keep hanging on. After all, I long to see how you and yours turn out, in the scheme of things.

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I know too much already about the things I do not want to know too much about, and I will never know enough about the things I really want to know everything about.

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In order to maintain any kind of positive attitude about living and loving and laughing, I have to be flexible. Sometimes I have to be wishy, other times I must be washy. I notice that if I decide Life is just one single one-way journey upon a smooth and shiny track, I am bound to be brought up short and chastised by the Cosmos. Sometimes, one track serves me well, other times I have to switch to another track to avoid mayhem.

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I know now that I never know the right way all the time, no matter how hard I wish, no matter how hard I push.

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The above chaotic rendering of bumper-car thoughts is obviously one of the reasons that GOIN’ FISHING was invented, the reason taking a long walk became fashionable, the reason that karate classes and meditation groups and garden clubs and horse breeding exist, the reason playgrounds have slides and monkey bars. All these things and all things similar to these things are mandatory in order to momentarily distract us from the chore of contemplating the uncontemplatable Universe. The more contemplating, the more confusion…the more Facing Reality, the more sleeplessness.

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Quick, take me out to the ballgame before I scramble my brain.

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Since the Cosmos has no sense of humor, you and I have to maintain our bemusements. Our amusements. Our bouts of unrestrained laughter. Laughter at the senselessness of things. Laughter at our conceits and struts and fantasies.

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Laugh and the world will or will not laugh with you. Regardless, the laughter must be revived every Monday morning, just to produce the energy required to face down the obstacles. A good laugh breaks the pattern for a split second. A good laugh helps me re-boot my attitude. A good laugh at its best breeds yet another good laugh, and another.

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This is great for indigestion, this burst of laughter. It is also a very human way to deal gently with the concerns of our companions—the people we are on earth to help and encourage and nurture.

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If I can put aside my concerns over things I cannot alter, then I can concentrate on offering a helping hand to my fellow travelers as we figure out how to get through the week in one peaceful piece.

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You can breathe now. At ease! Please proceed with your daily journey. May you love long, live long, laugh long

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

Hear Jim’s 4-minute Youtube podcast at https://youtu.be/fP86PhnxTHU

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Life, actually…

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THE SHOP OF TRICKLE-DOWN BEAUTY

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“Omygod!”

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A first-time visitor bursts into the old bookstore and shouts his reaction.

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He is in awe of the unexpected sights on display before him.

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“This is wonderful!”

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He instantly begins to touch each ancient book and artifact as if making sure he is not dreaming.

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His broad smile pushes his eyeglasses upwards an inch, amazement flushes his face and forces grunts of appreciation into the bookie air.

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He spies the proprietor and eagerly asks, “Is everything here for sale?”

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Proprietor replies with tongue in cheek, “Yes. It is a store!” He and the customer chuckle in unison. The customer wanders the aisles in stunned awe. The proprietor awaits the customer’s next reactions.

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All the customer can see during his hour of browsing is the beauty and the wonder of old memories in display.

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He will pass along his thrill to family and friends for years to come. He will become an evangelist of things lost, then found, in an ancient shop.

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The visitor eventually exits the shop and leaves behind the echoes of his joy. The proprietor inhales the silence, brushes dust off a stack of volumes.

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“Geez, what a mess!”

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A new visitor enters the store, frowning his disdain for what is before him.

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“Is this a junk place?”

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“No, it’s a bookstore.”

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The visitor sniffs, casually opens a rare tome, says, “Does anybody ever buy this stuff?”

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The proprietor is patient. “Yes, we make a living.”

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“How do you know where anything is?” He fails to see order and logic.

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“I’m the owner. I know where everything is. I’m happy to find whatever you are looking for.”

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“Well, of course, a place like this probably doesn’t carry what I want.”

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The proprietor smiles. Nothing is going to sadden him this fine day.

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“You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO, would you?”

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The proprietor walks past the customer, picks up a century-old unabridged CRISTO and hands it over. The customer, not expecting this, doesn’t quite know what to do with the book. He seems afraid to open it.

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“Uh, I would prefer a paperback (as in, less expensive) copy.”

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Proprietor reaches behind him and produces an abridged version of CRISTO and patiently exchanges it for the older copy.

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“Uh, yes, I’ll get this one.” He is surprised.

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As they walk to the front of the shop, they exchange pleasantries. The proprietor hopes for a return visit, the customer just wants to escape.

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The proprietor is an optimist. If he were not an optimist he would not be operating an old bookstore in a beautiful old village all these years. He even holds out hope for the disdainful customer, based on his own concept of trickle-down politeness. He knows that he has implanted an image in that customer’s mind—the customer will forever know that at least he was treated with patience and respect, he will forever know that, should a grandchild or neighbor wish to find a good read, this may be the shop he recommends.

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“This is so lovely! I knew I’d love this place.”

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The next customer arrives just in time to chase away the darkness

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Life, actually…

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FIFTY WAYS TO SEIZE THE DAY

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Some mornings I grumble aloud, roll over, sit at the bed’s edge, creak upright, test my balance on the ancient hardwood floor, then proceed in a disorderly fashion to the bathroom.

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Is this how you start the day, too?

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There are other ways to face down the impending waking hours. As the weeks roll forth, these are some of those ways:

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Sunshine peeps past the bedroom’s slatted blinds and parted curtains. At least one ray zaps me into wakefulness. I lie face up, staring at the ceiling and its dangling fan. Something makes me smile—maybe a funny incident that happened yesterday. I grin and arise and wobble towards shower and shampoo and washcloth and comb.

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Another morning, birds chirp and get past my dream barriers and bring me to consciousness. I dare to raise one eyelid, testing whether this is slumber or reality. After some mulling I open the other eye and get on with the day, hoping for the best, bracing for whatever may come.

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See what I mean? There must be fifty ways to approach the days.

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I’m beginning to look forward to the next morning and the next. I see them as adventures to be lived, challenges to be faced or avoided, revelations that may diminish or expand the universe.

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This morning I lie awake wrangling a whole mess of thoughts and feelings that overlap and slither about. Past regrets, future fears, wolves slurping at the gates, confusions and contusions of everyday life—they all join paws and dance around me, mocking and encouraging and berating me and loving me all at once. This can only mean one thing. I gotta get out of this bed, shake them off, and sally forth to face my responsibilities and vices.

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So there.

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One more morning:

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I lie staring at the darkened ceiling. I extend my hand to see whether Liz is abed or about. She’s not here, so I listen for clues. Shifting floors, shower, hair dryer, distant zoom voices. When I finally triangulate her, I slip out of bed, gather laundry basket prospects, and head for another morning. A morning in which I will descend to the kitchen, wave to Liz as she zooms her meeting, search for the fluid of choice, stare mindlessly into the refrigerator for a never-present miracle meal, and gird my loins for whatever mysterious adventures lie ahead

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Hear Jim’s 3-minute podcast on youtube:  https://youtu.be/hqSLStgRM84

or read the transcript below:

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Life, actually…

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LOTS OF NOTHINGS SOMETIMES BECOME SOMETHINGS

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“Once more, I yearn to be kind and young and sweet and dancing on air.

Just once more.”

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An octogenarian author adds this quote to his current manuscript. He’s about to publish a new book. It is strange to contemplate the quote, since he does not know how it happened.

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A second quote issues forth:

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“Ever notice how you don’t know for sure until you know for sure?”

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Is this profound or just plain silly? Again, the author has no way of knowing.

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Like many writers, he has learned to let it all rain down. He has learned to regard every single thought as special and unique. He has learned not to discard or judge each thought himself. He has learned to allow readers to make their own judgements as to whether these thoughts should endure. He must await the reactions of readers. All ego must be put aside.

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The reader knows.

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The author abides.

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The manuscript is about to become a book, the book is about to be opened, the reader is about to laugh or weep or grimace, depending on which page is turned.

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Over a fifty-year period, the author has squirreled away hundreds of thoughts on scraps of paper. He knows that each thought has to be marinated and aged until it takes on meaning and depth.

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No joke.

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It is difficult to explain this writing technique, but it works for this particular author during this particular lifetime, and that is all he needs to know.

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So, the octogenarian author plies his trade, prepares his manuscript, takes final notes on original and puzzling thoughts that flail about for years before explaining themselves.

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The author activates the spigot. The reader drinks and judges. The verdict  soon animates itself

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Listen to Jim’s podcast: http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/writersblocksnowglobe.mp3

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or read his story below:

.

Life, actually…

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WRITER’S BLOCK SNOW GLOBE

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Writers, authors, tellers of stories, poets, purveyors of enhanced realities, composers of  realistic mythologies…we all have one thing in common. The prospect of coming down with something called Writer’s Block.

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Some of us could use a dose of Writer’s Block. These folks suffer from Multisyllabic Reflux, the inability to hush up and pay attention to the silences and pauses between thoughts.  They just can’t stop themselves from unedited wordflow.

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Others freeze up when it comes time to utter or compose or write or in some way begin a story. They await a miracle or an inspiration or a Voice.

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In my own case, I do not have Writer’s Block. My stories never seem to end, always appear to be waiting to pounce onto the keyboard or sheet of paper. Because of this, I have to be careful which tales are ready to be shared, which need to age first, which would be interesting to anybody outside of Me. And that, I do not always know.

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So I suppose that editing and vetting become most useful skills. The story is there, now I just have to shape and guide it into the appropriate format.

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I’m at the checkout counter in a Dollar General Store in a nearby rural county. I ask, “Could you direct me to the Kleenex?” The nicely-dressed elderly clerk replies, “Peanuts in the can?”

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“Uh, no…”  I begin.

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“Oh, you want them in the bags?”

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“Er, I don’t think they come in bags.” Now I realize she may have a hearing problem. How to communicate?

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“Kleenex, you know, like, tissue (I point to my nose).”

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“Oh, yeah,” she realizes what I want. “Well, I don’t know…” She looks over at the tall booth where an employee is bent down to her paperwork, oblivious of all store activity but listening intently to any words floating in the air.

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“Dorothy, do you know?”  Dorothy just shrugs and continues looking down at whatever she’s doing in the manager’s high castle.

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I smile and motion to the clerk not to worry, then wander off to find some aisle that looks like Kleenexville. I eventually stumble upon facial tissues and fail to find them in either bag or can.

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I take my box to the lady at the counter and find that she knows how to make change backwards and aloud, the way they used to make change way back when. I bask in this experience because it reminds me that my mother also knew how to make change from her clerking days at F.W. Woolworth and R.L. McGee General Merchandise.

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I tote my flimsy white plastic bag to the exit door, wishing the clerk a happy day and a good life. She doesn’t catch the last part, but I carry her smile with me.

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And that’s my little story. There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?

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By now you may be grumbling, “Well, he may not have Writer’s Block, but I do, and this anecdote doesn’t help me at all.”

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May I say this about that?

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All I did in telling my story was shake the Writer’s Block Snow Globe a bit. Whenever things settle down and verge on stagnation, I pick up the globe, shake it, watch how its contents flutter and swirl and settle down into entirely new configurations. Then, like reading tea leaves, I gaze intensely and imagine what’s under those flakes, what secrets are awaiting revelation, what joys and horrors are ready to spring.

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And out comes a story. I don’t have to make anything up. Life is brimful of so many lost moments that I can merely reach my hand into the miasma and come up with a gem not of my own making. As a writer, all I have to do is pass this gem on to anybody who cares to read these words.

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Too simple, too easy, you say.

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Well, it only took me several decades to discover this secret, so it may take you a while, too. Once you establish the rhythm of the snow globe routine, you might have an aha! moment. Or not. But in your search for the right ritual you could stumble upon your own method.

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At least I caused you to consider it

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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https://youtu.be/HjB4DcZSxW8

Listen to Jim’s podcast:

http://redclaydiary.com/mp3/laughterinthefiefdomoffife.mp3

or read his story below:

Life, actually…

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GLOOMY TIMES REQUIRE MIRTH AND LAUGHTER

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“To laugh is to awaken.” –H.G. Wells

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Dear sad and morose denizen of the harried universe,

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What can I do to make you snap out of your gloom for a moment and unaccountably chuckle?

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As a jester, there is not much I can accomplish in terms of changing the world or making it a better place for you. I simply don’t have the skills to shift the global axis and bid cool breezes to cross your wrinkled brow.

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When I laugh, I’m not laughing at you, I’m laughing with you. More accurately, I’m not laughing at you or with you, I’m instead laughing FOR you.

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If you have trouble finding a shard of Funny during your inexplicably unpredictable journey through life, then maybe we jesters can give you a break, cut you some slack, grant you a reprieve…just by making you laugh despite yourself.

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Innocent laughter is like an inexpensive bout of shock therapy. When something suddenly causes you to put on hold all despair and simply laugh out loud for reasons you cannot explain, then you’ve just experienced free treatment, no co-pay required, no appointment necessary, no distracted medical tech poking at your privates.

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A good laugh at the most dismal of times can, now and then, derail you and cause you to see past the bleakness, disregard whatever up till that moment seemed utterly undisregardable.

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Kind of like thinking you are streaming War and Peace but suddenly finding yourself viewing Ferris Bueller’s Day Off for the umpteenth time.

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The jesters among us help us through the gloom. That’s what they are for. Laurel and Hardy and Belushi and Pee Wee and Abbott and Costello and Murray and Carlin and Pryor and Hope and Crosby and Silverman and Argus and Diller and the Bennys Hill and Jack, and Carson and Barney Fife and Lucy and on and on and on. These jesters have a purpose. They are not to be taken lightly.

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Our jesters bring us up and out of the grind and show us how to find the ponies hidden beneath the spangled saddles.

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So, if we are able to spend some time now and then in mindless mirth, we might just barely reduce the temperature of the seething planet.

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We just might barely find solace long enough to form a plan of prankster battle against the grumpies surrounding us

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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Hear Jim’s 4-minute true story on Youtube: https://youtu.be/lgaLVjL6bh0

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Life, actually…

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THE FINAL REUNION

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One entry from my lifelong Red Clay Diary. A mere 35 years ago…

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That dreaded letter arrives this morning, the one that forces me to take sudden stock of the past three decades and wax nostalgic with grins and grimaces.

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I hoped it would never come, but out of sheer curiosity I open it. The letter bearing news of my HIGH SCHOOL REUNION.

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Not just any high school reunion, but the 30th high school reunion, the one at which I will definitely begin to see signs of character on the faces of cohorts I felt would never develop any.

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Ten years ago, at the 20th reunion, most of us approaching-middle-aged teenagers were still in the throes of having kids and divorces and mid-life crises and couldn’t take much time to look around and philosophize and get thoroughly wistful or downright depressed.

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This time around, many of us will have given up the strong grip on ego and try to feel at ease with the fact that we are all beginning to look like our parents.

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We won’t be able to hide the wrinkles or the facelifts, the scars or the toupees, the stretch-marks or the trifocals.

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Much as we will try to suck in the old gut and walk macho or sexy, our arch supports and orthopedic underpants will give us away, and we’ll suddenly begin to realize that we’re all going rapidly toward a new level of aging and life-assessment, wondering whether we’ve spent nearly half a century building for a grand future or merely re-arranging the deck chairs.

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Wonder how many pounds will be shed between now and when this celebratory dirge takes place?

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How many suntans will suddenly appear on pale saggy skin?

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How many dollars will be spent on new clothing?

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How much fantasizing will be done about ol’ what’s-her-name on whom I had a crush but never the courage to say it aloud?

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And how many will decide not to attend for fear of being seen as they are?

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I’d prefer to be invisible and attend, because I could make wry observations about everybody without having anybody make the same about me.

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But I guess I’ll go and try to be brave and look upon this reunion as a learning experience and something to tell you about.

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THE RED CLAY DIARY ENTRY ABOVE WAS WRITTEN 35 YEARS AGO.

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Now, yet another letter has arrived in my life, the letter that announces the 65th (count ‘em–65!) high school reunion next week.

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Yikes!

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I grin and bear it, this news of advanced aging, advancing life, because at last all pomposity has been spent. Now I can attend and see all my remaining classmates as mirror images of myself. There’s nothing to hide anymore, since defenses and denials no longer seem to work.

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As I chuckle I read another part of the message: THIS WILL BE THE LAST REUNION.

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By the time another few years have passed I may still be enjoying the passing scenery. But I think I will have seen enough high school to last a lifetime

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© Jim Reed 2024 A.D.