Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/sportschallenged.mp3 or read on…

No use trying to hide the fact that I am sports-challenged.

Yep, I am one of those geeky-nerdy types whose DNA does not include the Sports Gene.

There’s nothing intriguing or challenging about watching folks compete with one another while adoring fans oust their frustrations by egging on favored athletes and denigrating Those Others.

Of course, there might be ways to induce me to attend or watch sporting events, but they are unlikely to occur.

For instance:

I would love to see a football game that does not allow passing or kicking. Athletes would have to win the hard way, by holding onto an oddly-shaped bladder and running like heck till they score or are flattened.

I would gladly attend a basketball game that only allowed players under five-foot-two to play. That would be an exciting contest!

I’ll be the first ticket-purchaser to a baseball game where no-one is allowed to spit, chew or scratch. The tension on the field would be intense.

I would watch any ice-skating competition so long as commentators and judges are banned. That way, I can enjoy the competitors for the grace and skill of their performances, bereft of all snarky criticisms and asides and gradings.

Viewing a golf tournament would be awesome if the rules were updated so that each hole had to be played in under ten minutes. Let’s let those players work hard and fast! Get it over with so I can change to the bikini-babe volleyball channel (Actually, the only sport I ever enjoyed watching—got to see one on cable years ago. I don’t know who won.)

And so on.

What sports would you like to see created just for you?

Can’t wait to hear

(c) Jim Reed 2011 A.D.

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Listen (or read below):  http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/letflythepuppies.mp3 

“Without great solitude, no serious work is possible.”  –Picasso

Are writers and most artists and artisans the last Alone creators on earth?

We ply our trades and avocations one-on-one: author to page, artist to canvas, craftsperson to tool…and most of us cannot pull off the act of creation in committee.

Gathering together to build something useful often ends in compromise or chaos or half-realized results.

Some Creators are fully aware of their Aloneness and embrace it. Others equate Aloneness with Loneliness.  I suspect that those who know how to create alone are never lonely.

When Lonely creeps into the act of creation, creativity tends to begin a slow death. The creator becomes more aware of loneliness than the act of creation itself. Thus begins self-consciousness, and as Ray Bradbury says, “Self-consciousness is the enemy of all creativity.”

This subject of Aloneness versus Loneliness is a prickly one. As awareness of Loneliness grows, the creative person can suffer, can become not only negatively self-critical, but, worse, critical of others. At that point a Creative can become a Critic, thus abandoning or diminishing the time spent on personal creativity.

I’ve seen it happen dozens of times, and I don’t know what to do about it.

Each creator must wend the way through a personal journey…if persistent or lucky, light at the end of the tunnel may ensue. I hope this happens, because, believe me, I’ve been there too many times.

Fortunately, I’ve learned that it’s a lot more fun to embrace solitude as the creator’s best friend. Each time Loneliness tries to embrace me, I shout it away, “I’m already committed to Aloneness, thank you, so hie thee hence.”

Let slip the puppies of creation.

It saves funds set aside for Zantac

(c) 2012 by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

The Circus performers arrived at Reed Books last week,

as they do every year. Here’s a photo they signed

and presented to the Museum of Fond Memories.

One reason we love the clowns is that they GET it: They understand and appreciate

the fact that Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories is helping maintain and

resuscitate the wonderful past. Every day is a circus here, and our circus section is

the center of the clowns’ universe each year when they visit Birmingham.

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Read below or listen here: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/hidinginplainsight.mp3

Ever notice that what is in plain sight, directly in the line of view, is mostly discounted or ignored?

We writers and literary types often use our primary energies to record the tiny things that slip away from just about everybody else. This means that we are far more directionless that the average high-achievers. We focus on the trickling data that will fade away if not documented, afraid that not enough attention is being paid.

We recognize that Activities of Daily Living can get in the way of actual observation and appreciation.

It’s just too complicated and abstract to explain, so I’ll give you a few examples from my Red Clay Diary…things I notice but are of no importance to anyone else.

Friday, 7:30pm, Dodiyo’s Restaurant: Liz and I are enjoying each other’s company on our 34th wedding anniversary date. In the partially-curtained private dining area a few feet away, a young woman has her back to me so that I have no idea whether she has a face. But her flowing brown hair ebbs and flows  across her neck in a universally unconscious manner, throwing the light from high ceiling bulbs back at me.

Saturday, 1pm, Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories: A young customer is on her knees before the lower-shelved collection of new and original Nancy Drew mysteries. She is so excited to find them that she sees nothing else. Her focus is total and her joy is palpable. She leaves happy and satisfied with two Nancy books.

Tuesday, 11am, Reed Books: Antiques dealer John Nixon delivers my latest purchase, a genuine, real-life old-fashioned telephone switchboard complete with photograph of Lily Tomlin sitting before it, ringie-ding-dinging it. The chaos of moving dozens of items aside to accommodate the instrument causes some customers amusement, others consternation. Some smile, one leaves in a huff, probably feeling ignored. My thrill of acquisition has cost me one customer, gained me another. Can’t please everybody…

Sunday, 2pm, Aldis on Green Springs Highway: I’m pulling a shopping cart from its parking lot queue, veering around several women who are chatting and trying in turn to veer around me. We’re trying not to run into each other. One laughs, says, “Looks like we’re dancing!” I laugh and say, “OK–I’m ready!” We both appreciate the moment and go our separate ways. 

Sunday, High Noon: I’m standing on the street in the drizzle, holding a faltering red Dollar Tree umbrella while a Triple-A service guy tries to diagnose my dead battery. He pronounces it a disabled Lazarus, I marvel at how he can process my American Express card on the spot, remove and replace the battery and drive away as my momentary hero, all within a matter of minutes. I appreciate his dedication and wonder whether customers at my shop ever appreciate my work ethic. Why should they?

Friday, 7:30pm, Dodiyo’s: Liz and I decide to toss our imaginary Bucket List and replace it with a Chuck-It List, things we’ve enjoyed but now need to pass on to others. We don’t get very far, since we have so much amazing stuff. Guess the kids will have to decide what to do with it after…

Sunday, near 5pm: Can’t keep the words and images and ideas from dribbling onto the keyboard. The act of writing in my Red Clay Diary—writing anything in my Red Clay Diary—is a puzzle and a pleasure. Hope you find thrills in something simple today, too

(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/sumitonannexesbirmingham.mp3 

or read on…

I learned the other day that my driver’s license had expired. Note that I did not receive a notice that my driver’s license is due to expire soon. I learned that only late notices are issued.
 
“Why would that be?” I ask my friend B.J. “They could just send me a note three weeks before expiration instead of three weeks after—you think?”
 
“Why would they do that?” says B.J. “If they tell you you’re delinquent, they get to assess a penalty on top of the license fee. It’s called revenue-generation.”
 
I don’t argue with B.J., since I can imagine no other other reason. I have to admit it is clever—and, of course, evil.
 
That’s why I find myself standing here in a Butler Building-type structure in Sumiton, Alabama, about to receive my pain-free driver’s license.
 
The day before, I had gone to the Jefferson County cathedral of licensing to obtain my renewal, only to find a long, long line of people ahead of me, some of whom had been waiting a long, long time. Denial is always my first defense, so I walked past the extended queue to speak to anyone who could tell me that this wasn’t really the license line.
 
“Yes, this side of the hall is driver’s licenses,” a very pleasant employee tells me, “And this other side is everything else having to do with licenses and the like,” she said. I said, “This is wild—is there a better time to come?” She smiled and reported that the situation is the same every day. “People start lining up at five a.m., even though we don’t open the doors till eight,” she reports.
 
I turn and beging the hall-long trek to the end of the line.
 
“Hey, Jim!” a familiar voice beckons. I look at the middle of the “other” line and see my friend Ben Elliott standing there, grinning his usual sardonic grin. “Are you trapped here?” I ask. “Yep,” Ben says. “It’s the way of the world.”
 
We chat and giggle at the outrageousness of it all. Ben is resigned to his certain fate, but I decide to just leave the building.
 
Being an optimist, I had parked at a half-hour meter.
 
So, next day, here I am in tiny Sumiton, northwest of Birmingham, grateful that Liz suggested I pay for my license in another, less disorganized county.
 
It actually works! A pleasant drive to this village, a chat with the librarian and a patron, a meandering path to the Butler Building, and I’m only third in line! Life is good.
 
Ms. Ash is the sole officer who processes licenses and apparently runs everything else: answers the phone, takes the ID photos, does the paperwork and wrangles the crowds—yep, she’s prepared for crowd control, herding the three of us as if we were fifty people. “Take a number…stand right there till that chair is empty…now, take the yellow chair after that…now, read this chart.”
 
We have a nice conversation, she does her duty, and I’m out of there in minutes, feeling smug but sorry about the long gray lines back in Birmingham.
 
The round-trip voyage to Sumiton gives me time to plan my next civic action. The campaign to have Birmingham annexed is all in my head, but with a little help from you, it could become reality
 
(c) 2012 A.D. by Jim Reed
http://www.jimreedbooks.com

The Coolest Heaven is where you are.

 http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/seventhheaven.mp3

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/eveofchristmasremembered.mp3 

or read on…

It’s morning on the Eve of Christmas, 2011 A.D.

The last two weeks have been very busy at the Museum of Fond Memories, so I’m happy that the shop doesn’t open till 11 a.m. Since Liz is up and out , I’m alone to determine how to spend a much-needed quiet morning. The usual breakfast haunts are either crowded or closed, so I take my New York Times and head for McDonald’s, hoping for an isolated table and a few moments of meditative non-work activity.

The stressed employees humor me with my order—scrambled eggs, grits, two tomato slices, sausage and biscuit, with iced tea on the side. A rare chance to gorge—after all, it’s Christmas Eve, isn’t it?

While I’m just settling my brain for a long winter’s fast-breaker, a couple arrives at the next table, she with Santa hat and earphones, he with strained countenance and long gazes through the window. She doesn’t notice his inattentiveness, nor does she recognize my solitude. “I’m dreamin’ of a white Christmas,” she sings loudly, boogie-ing her body to the earplug sounds, blissfully unaware that there is anybody but herself in the establishment. She continues singing out-of-tune parts of other carols while her partner and I try to concentrate on our own tiny universes. The speaker system at McDonald’s is blasting other Christmas-related tunes, so my mind has to delegate two sets of simultaneous lyrics to their respective hiding places while I attempt to focus on the Times.

Later, on the way to the car, I begin to appreciate the girl’s annoying joy and realize I could use a little less grouch and a bit more Christmas boogie myself.

“Hey, what church are you from?” a shouted question careens over my left shoulder just as I’m trying to pile into the automobile. I have to twist around to see who’s there. A large wrinkled smiling face is staring at me and repeats the question, “Hey, what church are you from?” My first reaction is that I’m being panhandled, so I slam the door. Then, realizing I’m being testy, I lower the window to reply—suddenly realizing that the street man has assumed I’m some sort of clergy because of the black shirt, trousers and jacket I’m wearing, probably contrasted with my white Santa beard.

I don’t try to look like something special, this is just the way I am.

“No church,” I reply. Then, my fast mouth getting ahead of my thought processes, I add, “I’ve got a long night ahead of me, delivering toys.”

He looks startled and backs away, as if he suddenly believes me.

I drive to work and begin to focus on my shop and my customers.

Does Street Man think he’s just encountered some sort of Santa Claus?

Does Book Man think he’s just crossed paths with a needy soul who thought for a moment he might find peaceful words?

How many more opprotunities might I miss this day? Or did I do exactly the right thing?

How will I ever know?

I hope you have many good and mysterious encounters this and every week in this Land of Perpetual Post-Christmas

(c) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Read below or listen here: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/WritersWrite.mp3 

As the images of storms past hover and sink deeply into our minds, many of us tend to rearrange our memories and allow them to fade.

This is unacceptable behavior.

The only plea a teller of true tales can make that is worth making is: Please don’t let this happen. Write down/record each detail of your experience, whether you were in the eye or whether you escaped physically untouched. Fact is, we were all touched, deeply and irrevocably.

What matters now is to work these events through the template of a muse, so that some degree of peace and closure and perspective can occur.

You are your own book, whether you know it or not, and now is the time to transcribe your life, to come to terms with the preamble, duration and aftermath of what you have lived.

The most important thing: Each non-storm day in a writer’s life is worthy of examination, too. Storms are easy to remember. Slippery moments of significance can fall to the ground and roll under something, out of sight, out of memory.

Don’t let that happen. Attention must be paid

(c) 2011 A.D. by Jim Reed

http://www.jimreedbooks.com

Do you workworkwork all the time? A decades-old entry in my Red Clay Voice Diary seems applicable today: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/audio/christmas/2/track12.asx

Listen to Jim: http://www.jimreedbooks.com/mp3/objectsofdesire.mp3 or read on… 

Be glad that I don’t tell you the story behind each and every Thing you select to take home from Reed Books/The Museum of Fond Memories. Be glad, because I’d hold you up for hours!

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All the foundling books and artifacts in the shop have their own backgrounds, their own histories-—and stories could be told.

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In order to save time for both of us, it is best I keep the back-stories to myself so that you can purchase a wonderful artifact and begin your journey with it, with a clear mind and a vivid imagination. That way, you can create your own story, your own genealogy, and stamp the object with your indelible personality.

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This isn’t difficult. After all, the ephemera and books in my shop will never be as meaningful as the memories they evoke, the tales they force you to tell, the reflections they engender. Not only will you imbue your new-found treasure with your essence, you will also leave traces of your very DNA through the simple act of touching it. You will make your own story and carry it with that story’s subject till you are ready to end with a period and allow the next owner, the next heir, the honor of starting a new paragraph.

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This is dynamic archaeology, folks. And a thousand years hence, when diggers find traces of the book or diary or collectible you own today, they will be able to determine once more that the things we hoard and cherish are the things that tell our stories best.

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And perhaps they will be able to revive us through that all-inclusive DNA that seeped into our objects of desire

© by Jim Reed 2011 A.D.

http://www.jimreedbooks.com