Nathaniel Sewell's Blog, page 20

IF, I won the Powerball… I’d?

If I won tonight’s Powerball – what would I do?

I would then have the financial resources to create the Bobby’s Socks Company.

It would be founded using the Hybrid Business Model – so the company would seek to turn a profit while donating socks to abuse shelters, schools, sports teams, and carry on the mission to educate children about the genetic damage from all forms of abuse.

If you are curious about the Hybrid Business Model, I pasted below a link to the Standford Social Innovation Review:

https://ssir.org/articles/entry/in_se...

I would fund the creation for a film, Bobby’s Socks.

The film would have a companion work-book created by health care professionals and scientists – the film would be free, and available for high school teachers the resources to teach about a tough, but highly important subject.

This mission is the only reason I’d ever want real fame and fortune.

I guess I need some luck, and to go buy a ticket.

NS

Homage to George Orwell

Since I am waiting for the line-editing process to unfold for my forthcoming novel, 5th&Hope, clearly, I’ve been watching WAY to much national news!

Let me try to explain.

I graduated from high school in 1984.

Because of the year, and being a bit artistic I’ve always gravitated to George Orwell’s novels, 1984 and Animal Farm.  In middle-school, my teachers used to screen the cartoon film, I cried when the horse met the glue factory.

And I have also loved Ray Bradbury, and in particular, Fahrenheit 451.

As I’ve been lucky enough to age, I have learned to greatly respect the writing craft, and respect Mr. Orwell’s and Mr. Bradbury’s brilliance.

They wrote stories that on the surface appeared obvious, but were actually quite politically on-point.

In truth, my second novel, Fishing for Light was in part my homage to George Orwell. I wrote the story ten years ago…

Now, I’m not even in the same writing universe with either Mr. Orwell or Mr. Bradbury.

I think I’m a rational person, so I’m not Kanye West. (Kanye’s quite talented, he just seems, well – unhinged, you get my point.)

I would describe my writing philosophy along the lines of – write in a simple, a minimalist style, but try to dive deep. In a way, it’s like looking at a Salvador Dali painting, it might seem wacky – but in reality the artist was quite serious.

I’ll give you an example what I mean from a review for Fishing for Light.

“It was funny, in an over the top kind of way. I mean it’s got the IRS, genetic monsters, and the Hope Diamond! … I did enjoy the hyped up war between a father and a daughter. His genetically modified, evil daughter! It’s got a lot of funny situations, and a lot of great characters. … I laughed quite a bit, and I was entertained, I think the author did a great job of taking what we would usually expect and twisting it around a bit. I think overall, for a satire lover, this book would be a home run, …”

Yeah, I’ve kept that review around to read from time to time.

After all, writing by its very nature is a singular effort, some days you need some encouragement. And yes, I’ve kept my day job – that I equally enjoy.

The basic premise behind Fishing for Light was Professor Quan had accidentally created Ms. Prosperina. She was formed from a genetic starter he created that, included Nazi DNA, and a few other nasty genetic critters.

By the way, in the story, I even had a Caitlyn Jenner like character, but that’s a story for another day.

In the story, Ms. Prosperina was a chimera. What’s that?

The pasted photo comes from Britannica.com, and that’s a chimera. Or, as defined from Encyclopedia Brittanica, “a fire-breathing female monster resembling a lion in the forepart, a goat in the middle, and a dragon behind.”

But remember, I wrote the novel in part as a homage to George Orwell.

Mr. Prosperina was my representation for an out of control United States government – Lion, Goat and a Dragon. I’ll let you figure out which branch would be which – Executive, Legistative and Judicial.

But she also represented the sinister billionaires that seek to control the pet population – that would be the rest of us through money and influence. And I note, the middle-class continues to shrink, but the really rich are getting really rich. The poor continue to get screwed in place.

At the time my thoughts were more about George Soros, but over the years I would add the Koch brothers and several others. Simply stated, I don’t trust any of them.

Orwellian words:

Political Career,

Reality Television Star,

Revenues are Taxes?

(If that were true, the federal government would not be in bankruptcy, they’d already be in the liquidation process.)

IF, George Orwell were brought back from the dead, maybe had a few minutes to watch the television, we explained what he was watching, I suspect he’d shrug, light a cigarette, and say something along the lines, “well, told ya so.”

I’m sensing the desire to restart writing my follow-up to Fishing for Light – I’ve given it a working title:

Caste into Darkness.

NS

 

Let’s get Mikey! Fanatics and Banyan Trees

Please excuse me for wading into the political filth that has infected our society.

As our news media stirs the primordial swamp for profits, our policemen have been murdered, and young men and women are waging war without reason for causes they cannot fully define.

I rarely quote anybody, I tend to want my words original, and coming exclusively from my tiny brain.

But I found this quote from George Santayana, and I think it sums up my perspective.

“redoubling your effort when you have forgotten your aim”, as quoted from George Santayana, Philosopher (December 16, 1863 – September 26, 1952). He was referring to fanatics and fanaticism.

The reason I have brought up the quote.

 

It has come to my attention that I’m now labeled as the following: a racist, a bigot, and I’ll file the rest of the barbs into the singular – an idiot.

All because I admitted I voted for Donald J. Trump for President of the United States of America.

If someone had predicted two years ago that I would have voted for Mr. Trump, I would have laughed, and advised that someone to seek a mental health counselor.

I was not voting for a P T Barnum stand-in with yellow hair and an orange spray tan, who was as emotionally sensitive as a pregnant bride wearing a white gown about to marry her first cousin at a Southern Baptist church.

In other words from my hillbilly mother tongue, “it ain’t goin’ to happen, period. There ain’t no way.”

But there I was last November, 2016 – standing at my polling station, at the time living in Houston, Texas.

Unless the other souls nearby me that day were either a Republican zealot or a Democratic zealot, I remember the rest of the crowd had expressions along the lines of a  “Let’s get Mikey moment”.

As in from the Quaker Oats breakfast cereal commercial for (drum roll) – Life cereal.

“I’m not going to try it, you try it!”

Any who, the photo I pasted to this post I took this morning as I walked near the St. Petersburg Museum of Fine Arts. There are some huge, beautiful banyan trees within a few blocks from my home base.

Banyan trees are metaphors unto themselves for a variety of reasons.

I think the thought was best expressed from being part of the “coat of arms for Indonesia – one country with many far-flung roots. As a giant tree, it also symbolizes power.”

From a distance, the trees appear large and healthy.

But if you take a close look at the branches, you’ll see the scars from weather, and human beings.

At some point, people have consciously carved into the trees flesh.

In time, the wounds healed and the carvings have faded, but the wounds are still visible.

I know a thing or two about living with emotional scars.

After all, I wrote a novel about child abuse and suicide.

I know what it feels like to silently hurt. I don’t recommend it as a way of life.

Perhaps if we all take a moment to find a dictionary, we can all read the definitions for racist, bigot, fascist and even idiot.

These are serious words, words that have meaning, and when used without great care it leaves me to consider the source.

Fair enough, I’m a big boy, I can take a punch.

I’ll make a simple recommendation for word usage going forward, before labeling another human being, as the carpenter saying goes, “measure twice, cut once”.

NS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Confederate Monuments – from the novel, 5th&Hope

With all the ugliness today coming from Charlottesville, Virginia – I thought I would share an excerpt from my novel, 5th&Hope that at present is being line-edited. I’m still picking out the little literary bugs, but I think the below excerpt will make my point.

As I created the story, I realized growing up in Lexington, Kentucky I have looked up at the John Hunt Morgan monument.

I have also read the words across the pasted photo from a nearby government monument about  Slavery in Fayette County.

If you Google, Cheapside and Lexington, Kentucky, I think you’ll begin to understand.

I have not walked the streets in downtown Lexington in many years, but as I wrote the story I realized I was not aware of any grand bronze statue for human beings, for no other reason than the color of their skin, were whipped to death near the Confederate General’s monument.

To me, I don’t think it wise to waste tax dollars to remove a Confederate monument. Leave it there as a reminder of what happened. A reminder what happens if we lose our respect, our compassion for our brethren. If we lose our humanity, we lose ourselves.

Instead, spend the tax dollars to place an equally grand monument next door, a monument for other Americans who were legally brought to this country, and who earned their, and their children’s citizenship with their lives.

From the forthcoming novel, 5th&Hope, by Nathaniel Sewell.

————————————-

Cheapside was an innocent looking grassy spot in Lexington next to the old domed Romanesque styled courthouse made from native Greystone topped with an aged slate roof. It was surrounded by green Kentucky State government historical signs that I had grown up walking and driving past as if they were as common as grains of sand on a beach.

But if you had been an outsider from the Southern culture or born in Southern California and you had never been exposed to the Old South, and you looked up at a pale greenish bronze of a proud Civil War general atop a horse, like Amy had that cold morning, it might have been the moment you understood the Civil War had been a reality.

Amy read the historical markers aloud and she read them several times more as if she had not been able to fully understand them.

“Lexington was the center of slave trading in Kentucky, by the late 1840’s and served as a market for selling slaves farther south. Thousands of slaves were sold at Cheapside, including children who were separated from their parents.”

“I don’t believe this,” Amy said. She walked back to inspect the first historical marker, she appeared in total disbelief.

“No,” I said. “It was quite real.”

Amy inspected the bronze statue, again, and with her mobile phone took photos and researched the Confederate General’s losing story.

“On the N.E. corner on the Fayette County Courthouse lawn stood the whipping post established in 1847 to punish slaves for such offenses as being on the streets after 7 p.m.”

“I don’t get it, maybe I’m just hormonal,” Amy’s said. He mouth gaped open. “He lost, but got a statue. They whipped people, to death, right here?”

“We don’t talk about it much,” I said. I looked up at the weathered bronze monument. “But when I said you’re in the south, this was what I was thinking about.”

“Why the statue to him?” Amy said. She looked at me. “Where’s the memorial to the slaves?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “A lot of senseless killing…”

It was not a romanticized Civil War reenactment party where no one would die. Robert E. Lee was not a soft grandpa character from a novel and, like Ulysses S. Grant, both were hard, well-trained military men. Each had done their duty. I thought their armies had done all the talking. The issue had been settled. It was about looking at you from outside of yourself to seek the truth about life. The truth about our heritage was not pleasant. For what I had been numb to though, I thought as common place from growing up here had triggered Amy’s emotions. She realized it was not a myth.

“I have a child inside me, it would have been a slave,” Amy said. She covered her face with her hands. “I don’t understand.”

“I was emotional, first was worst,” Ruth said. She looked over at Rebecca. “The first time, my second boy was totally different.”

“I’d like to see them,” Rebecca said. She tried to smile. “It’s been a very long time.”

I acknowledged a passerby as I stood staring at the sign. It had been a nightmare for real sentient human beings, who happened to have dark skin and, who had prayed to the same God that my grandparents prayed to. They must have wondered at night sleeping on dirt floors where their Moses was. I suspected Amy had a sick feeling, like I did. It reminded me the first time I had toured the Anne Frank house. I was neither Dutch nor European, but if I had been standing in Amsterdam in front of that house in 1943 I would have been shot dead on sight by the Nazis. I was not Jewish, but I was a Jewish loving American. They had to protect the fatherland from the Jewish infestation, it was their final solution for biological purity.

If the four of us had been standing at the same street corner in Lexington, Kentucky in 1843 before the Civil War, we would have witnessed the unthinkable. Like a large naked man with dark skin shackled to the ground so he could not run away. Whipped with a leather belt like a dog if he had disobeyed.

I had experienced that feeling from my own father until I was big enough to fight back. But I was not a captive slave who would have been paraded in front of an auction crowd in all kinds of weather, full of families holding their babies, enjoying court day within the Lexington town square beneath the oak and sycamore trees.

This slave being paraded around like a prized bull at a stock yard. His teeth checked to prove his good health. His body examined, gawked at, to determine his worth. And then the auctioneer would have asked for bids for the future estate chattel.

The same process had been repeated thousands as the sign had read at the same quiet spot I had stood near drinking my morning coffee, with an active farmer’s market behind me. Those auctions had also included innocent women, infants, and their terrified children. Whole families were either purchased together or separated at the same spot ten feet from where we had stood on a sandstone sidewalk near a line of oak trees.

“Are you okay?” I said. I put my arm around Amy’s shoulders.

“I feel sick,” Amy said.

End.

NS

Working on my next project: Little Boy

Perhaps I write my little blog posts to talk back to me.

But I felt as though my novel, 5th&Hope was finished.

In other words, there was a voice in my head that told me not to mess with it anymore.

It remains to be seen, IF – I’ll get a serious publishing offer.

If not, I have decided I’ll simply self-publish it, and see what happens.  Because I write for pure enjoyment. Some people like to play golf, some paint, I write.

So, I decided to restart a project with the working title, Little Boy.

I don’t write or share any story, or poem for that fact, without feeling it.

As in I have to be emotionally connected to the words, to see it all play out in my mind, to then write the story.

And yes, I know how this one ends.

It is an odd sensation to have a story roaming inside my mind as I live my life.

But if I’m connected to it, it’s always there, pecking at me. And this one keeps pecking at me.

I guess this is me, talking to me, to encourage me, to get on with it.

Below is the opening for, Little Boy.

——————————-

Little Boy

An unblemished boy was hidden deep within his dream as he walked bare footed without fear along the grass path that zigzagged between the forest trees.

Between the blades along his path was colorful fresh dandelions, daffodils and daisies.

He squinted his eyes as it was the darkness just before the dawn, but it was blanket warm with just enough gray light cast between the new growth for him to almost see his future.

Even though he was a little boy, and it was his first journey into his dream, he was mature enough that he sensed he was being watched from behind the limbs and leaves.

Beneath the branches he noticed there were no dead leaves or jagged rocks near the soaring tree trunks, trunks hugged by an innocent moist moss that quickly carpeted the forest floor.

It seemed it was glistening with green life as it flowed over the rocks, and the path, before it stopped at the clear waters edge. And in an instant, it had surrounded an active rocky waterfall.

For the boy could not understand, what he saw, was his own perfection for a life that was yet seen.

NS

13 Reasons Why, Why? Netflix

“Bud, I love you,” he said. He nervously laughed. “But I don’t want to read your first book.”

Why?

That is the singular question I have for Netflix.

I enjoy Netflix.

I watch comedy themed shows all the time off Netflix. I love good, thought-provoking stand-up comedians.

I like several of the original shows that Netflix has produced, for example, Bloodline. A terrific show.

In truth, I love thought-provoking art.

At first, Netflix hooked me for a modest subscription fee because they protect me from commercials about how to freeze dry food to survive the coming Zombie apocalypse, or laxatives, or, of course, erectile dysfunction medications.

I don’t need to be reminded that I’m over 50 years old, but I’m also thankful to be over 50 years old.

I’ll explain why, further down this blog post.

I think the so-labeled generation, the Millennials, or Generation Y, are quite smart, and I am heartened by them because I think they are an independent minded crowd.

I have nephews and nieces that are in that age group, I watch them from afar, I love them all without reservation.

For example,  their age group was credited with the so-called, pulling the cable cord.

If it weren’t for college sports’ media monopoly, I’d be with them 100%.

But I admit it, I’m addicted to my Kentucky Wildcats, basketball, and like a Cubs fan, our football team.

I think eventually, the Millennials will tell the current political class that does not seem to have any dignity, to shove-it, and to please get out-of-the-way.

Any who, whenever I have to make a tough decision, I always go to the root question, why?

On most mornings when I’m not headed to a business meeting, before I drive over to my office in downtown Tampa, I’ll miss the traffic congestion along on the bridges that link the cities in the Tampa Bay Area, and as I monitor my emails, I’ll watch the first 15 minutes or so for Varney & Company on Fox Business.

I watch the show because I like the happy host, Stuart Varney and his show provides me with a good overview as to what’s happening in the financial markets and politics.

If you’re like me, you don’t have a lot of time to worry about politics, or the financial markets.

In particular, if you’re a parent.

But, before I was headed to a lunch with an old business friend, I watched a segment on Varney & Company about a show on Netflix – 13 Reasons Why, and the recent spike in teens searching on the internet about suicide.

I did a quick internet search, and I was sickened.

To be clear, I’m not criticizing the book author, I am confident it was an attempt to draw attention to a tough subject, in an imaginative, interesting way. Obviously, I think that’s a good thing.

I know more than I wish about suicide. Because, I have carefully, extensively researched the subject matter.

My first novel, Bobby’s Socks, was about child sexual abuse, and the epi genetic link to suicide.

The photo I pasted to this blog post was me, from when I was a confused 18-year-old high school senior.

Ever wonder what was going on behind my hazel colored eyes?

For that fact, if you’re a parent, ever wonder what’s going on behind your children’s eyes?

So, I drove to my business lunch with an old friend.

My friend has done quite well, I’m happy for him. But he’s also a parent, a good parent of teenagers.

I am not a parent, by choice, not by some genetic defect, so I was curious.

I asked him about the Netflix show, 13 Reasons Why.

He had an immediate response, “I told my wife not to let my children watch that s**t!”

Of course, my first novel came up in the conversation, and he said what I wrote to begin this blog post.

“Bud, I love you,” he said. He nervously laughed. “But I don’t want to read your first book.”

I grinned, I understood. After all, art by definition is subjective.

Spoiler alert, I told him at least my novel had a hopeful ending, it’s the reason the book was entitled, Bobby’s Socks.

The title was in the possessive, as in, to walk in another persons socks.

In other words, I tried to tell the reader through the character what was going on behind those hazel colored eyes.

It was not a memoir. Simply written, I understood what the character thought.

By the way, the socks from the story help with the characters therapy, and if you consider it, each colorful strand are metaphors for each strand of a human beings DNA, or better, genetic code.

The novel was really about childhood trauma, and brain development.

If a child has sever trauma, sexual, bullying, or otherwise, the wrong gene instructions might get turned on.

If you question this, I recommend you Google, child sex abuse and the epi genetic link to suicide. I think you will learn about some of the wonderful work happening this very day at McGil University, and other universities.

I wrote the last sentence to Bobby’s Socks, before I wrote the story.

“He got to be old.”

These days, I am thankful for my wrinkling skin, for my graying hair, and that I get to see new sunrises.

It’s also the one reason I make a point to wish my Facebook friends, Happy Birthday.

It reminds me almost daily that each human life has value.

Back to my question for Netflix.

Why?

I understand thought-provoking art, I get it.

But a television show about teenage and young adult suicide, to me, that is sacred dry land, land that should be protected with the utmost care.

I’ll leave Netflix with another singular question to answer.

In every society, what is its most precious resource?

NS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

St. Petersburg, Running with the old people

Last Friday, I had several early morning meetings in downtown Sarasota which was less than an hours drive by auto for me down I-75, I would have picked an exit, and then made a sharp right-turn and I would have driven my car until I could almost see through the front windshield at the blue Gulf of Mexico.

Over the decades, I have driven the route hundreds of times.

So, I got up well before dawn, and I took off in the dense humidity on my 5 plus mile run, jog, and walk route from downtown St. Petersburg, onto the maroon colored, uneven brick streets for Old Northeast, onto the concrete sidewalk next to Coffee Pot Road, then I cruised across the white-painted Snell Island Bridge and then jogged back along the other side.

To my right side the street was guarded by fancy homes shaded by ancient oaks and skinny palm trees.

To my left side, the path wobbled along near the moored sailboats and yachts floating atop the dark bay waters, waters that sloshed wakes from bigger fish that have swum in from the Gulf to feed, and then the path turns inland and past The Vinoy that, at that time in the day, resembled the hotel from the Eagles’ album cover for Hotel California.

At this time of year, it was a local bunch sweating out our angst.

If you have lived in Florida for as long as I have, you’d know this time of year was not, The Season.

And, just before dawn, with this crowd, typically I was one of the youngest souls along the path.

If I jog in the hot summer, during late afternoons, the crowds age reverses, and I’m one the older kids.

But the morning crowd, they were a friendly gray-haired and balding collection of equal parts wrinkled men and women, jogging or walking alone or in small groups, perhaps with their dogs, and they would nod at me, or say hello over at my shadowy image.

I know many are well past their 80th birthday.

But the singular thought I have about them, even though they could make excuses, they still rise up, and get after it.

I hope I get to be really old, with pure white hair, and a wrinkled body, and still rise up, and get after it.

All in all, St. Petersburg’s a friendly, welcoming city.

After I had returned from Sarasota that evening, I was at my preferred watering-hole enjoying a Cuban sandwich, and a married wife and wife, I wrote it that way on purpose, because I liked them.

If you have lived alone for any length of time, you’d appreciate friendly non-judgemental people.

They had told me I looked like Andy Dufresne.

I told them I’d heard that comment before. I grinned.

Cheers! C’est la vie, I had told the happy-couple.

These days, after getting past some personal turmoil, I am quite thankful.

As I’ve aged, my hot internal torrential downpour has slowly started to calm into a warm reflective stream.

I write these blog posts to challenge my brain, my perspective, and to be blunt, the simple joy to practice the art form.

I prefer to write about my simple, day-to-day life.

Even though you’re likely reading this from social media, I have a recommendation.

In truth, I suffer from insomnia, I always have – even from my youth.

I just can’t stay asleep.

These days, I don’t fight my insomnia – I embrace it.

Perhaps my curse, was in fact my savior, because it has taught me when it was the best time in the day to write.

It’s when my mind is quiet, and the thoughts I’ve blocked out return, or interesting fresh ones appear.

If you live in a relatively safe place, if the sky is clear, go outside, and find a nice spot that allows you a good view as the orange and yellow dawn emerges from the east.

It’s those quiet moments that happen almost everyday for me here in St. Petersburg, as the sunlight burns off the dark blanket to reveal nearby me everyday life.

I think that’s the magic lesson that those seasoned citizens have learned, don’t fight it, it’s not about waiting for one more sunset.

And don’t fear the darkness, go off and defiantly trudge your own path.

I think they rise early most days, and get after it, for the simple joy to see another sunrise.

NS

In St. Petersburg today, this author’s wrist tendinitis

It has been many years since I started writing, and I found just enough courage to share my novels, my poems, and my thoughts.

I am quite aware – if you share anything within the internet clouds, it stays in those invisible clouds – forever.

But, I want to share a rather humiliating experience from yesterday, as it was equally humorous – it just depends on your perspective.

I’ll explain further, but first, keep in mind, my first published novel was Bobby’s Socks – it taught me a lot about me.

And it taught me about what ‘freedom of speech’ really means.

The pasted photo was of Norman Rockwell, as he was creating the actual painting, Freedom of Speech.

It’s a wonderful thought-provoking work-of-art, as you examine the painting, you realize the fictional man was saying something to the fictional crowd, as you note the fictional characters expressions nearby him.

Ever wonder what the fictional man was saying, or what was he about to say?

Have you ever stood up tall, erect, with your arms open, and said what you thought?

I think Mr. Rockwell’s paintings do all his talking, even today.

From time to time, I have gotten asked, “what’s Bobby’s Socks about?”

I’d explain it was a novel about child sex abuse, and the epi genetic link to suicide.

I think the operative sound, after I tell them the underlying themes, ‘crickets’, or,  just a dead silence.

In fact, I had a movie producer out in Hollywood tell me, point-blank, he thought the story could never be made into a movie. I just grinned back at him.

The good news, I think Bobby’s Socks forever inoculated me from my fear to share my thoughts, and experiences.

I tend to be an introverted contrarian, so perhaps it took a bigger nudge from God than it might have for others.

Because, I don’t like to be noticed, but as I’ve aged, I’ve learned to manage myself, and push myself into uncomfortable situations. I’ve never enjoyed self-promotion.

Maybe I should bleach my hair yellowish, get an orange spray tan, and peddle real estate? You never know where that might take me, and my books? Naw, that would be sad, very sad.

At present, I’m attempting to get my novel, 5th&Hope published.

And, now that the editing phase has ended, after some encouragement, I’ve decided, on a regular basis to write out my thoughts, and share my life experiences using my website as the platform.

To my shock and surprise, my art, my joy, for the most part, I’ve received a lot of positive feedback.

I am honored, actually, I am humbled – that so many people wait for a quiet moment, and they’ll tell me, or write to me about their story.

I would like to think my books, my poems, my thoughts, helped them live a better life.

For that reason, I rarely use expletives – I try to use simple, easy to understand words about serious problems.

Many times I get a response along the lines, “thank you, I thought the same thing.”

I cannot imagine any better comment than, “you wrote how I felt, thank you.”

As to my humiliating experience…

Now, I have read with interest from social media posts, or listened to someone sitting next to me an airplane, or during a packed subway ride, or nearby at a restaurant – about their aches, pains and to paraphrase the Irish, their troubles.

I think happiness, joy, comes from how you view your life. Read me out…

Yesterday, I had a humiliating experience, yet, to me, it was an oddly humorous experience.

Since I am constantly typing, over the decades I’ve developed tendinitis in my wrists. Thankfully, it’s not Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, I’m lucky – but I still “feel the pain”, as Clubber Lang, might have said.

I would describe the feeling as like having my pinky fingers go numb, after an invisible troll stabbed my wrists with a hot knife blade. Sometimes, it hurts enough to cause me to cry.

In fact, I guess all my joints are now tiny intersection points for more pain or less pain, depending on the weather, as they lose their lubrication from the aging process.

The Aging Process, aren’t those soft words that read like governmental non-sense?

What they really mean, is – I’m getting older. That’s a good thing. I’m fortunate.

My skin has started to have noticeable wrinkles, and I sprout gray hairs in my nose and ears.

It drives me crazy to look in the mirror and not be able to wrangle those snaggly hairs. I have examined them, they are not like normal hair, they have a wickedness about them.

But I dutifully kill them off like an infestation from dandelion seed heads, but I know as I’m sleeping, they’ll return, next time in bigger armies to blanket my inner landscape. That’s life.

These days, I walk along the St. Petersburg city streets going, all snap, crackle, and the ever popular sound, pop.

And my body feels like, depending on its mood, an unseen anaconda that tightens or loosens its snuggle around my neck and shoulders. I guess it depends on how well its hydrated.

I’ll self-edit out the gastrointestinal delights, nobody wants to read about – them. But they are a fierce collection of gaseous creatures, and not to be underestimated.

As we drove back from south Florida, a friend recommended I get a massage therapist to work out my issues.

I thought that was a great idea, and I have a brand new facility within easy walking distance.

I checked them out, and appeared for my appointment.

First off, it was a really clean, with warm colors, calming sounds, all-in-all, a modern facility.

Anyhow, a sturdy young lady with several noticeable tattoos, wearing pale blue work scrubs showed me to the therapy room, we chatted a bit about my issues, and my hand pressure preferences.

She left the dark room that smelled of eucalyptus, backlit with low light with nature sounds for running water, or a rain with modest thunder.

I took off my clothes, got under the warm, velvety soft sheets. I snuggled my head onto the massage table face rest, closed my eyes, and then it happened.

It happened without any warning, as if I just snapped my fingers and bam!

I know I’m not the only person that gets these attacks.

I had what’s known as a – panic attack.

I broke out into a cold sweat, like I had run a mile in the summer heat.

I was disoriented, and well, you can imagine the rest.

Most of my life I have tried to manage my claustrophobia, my insomnia, and the like. It’s never been easy, I typically never sleep through the night – and yes, I can be really distant.

Mercifully, my massage therapist returned, and she talked me back down into the known universe.

She gave me a glass of water, and sat next to me as I worked through my own personal dilemma.

She simply asked me how I felt. In time, I calmed down. But, I was drenched in sweat.

She sat me down on a cushioned chair, and told me that I was not the first to flip-out on her.

For the next hour she attacked my aches and pains. And we talked about life.

My hands and shoulders felt better. I thanked her.

Now, that might not read like a moment with any humor, but as I sat there in my boxers, not briefs, wishing I was not so pasty-white, I smiled.

I thought, what if someone opened the therapy room door, what would they see, and what would they think?

I guess it all depends upon your unique perspective.

NS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking along near downtown, St. Petersburg

In truth, I write my little blog posts for me.

In a way, I’m talking back to me, about things that occur to me, and that cause me to wonder about things that I don’t fully understand.

I suspect those that read my little blog posts, they tend to have the same questions, and thoughts.

Today, I am privileged to age, to watch my once thick brown hair begin to feel thinner, and to look back at my reflection from my bathroom mirror as the strands slowly devolve into a grayish hue.

But I am quite aware I’m fortunate, I have a head full of hair.

And if my vanity gets the best of me, I can always alter that reality with a magic box made just for me from the grocery store, or spend a modest fortune at a hair salon.

I wrote, privileged, because I note each year I have fewer and fewer friends from my youth, and this past-week while our office had a birthday celebration, I realized my old business mentors have all gone into retirement, or they have past through that other, one-time-only experience.

For a variety of reasons, it was an odd sensation to have been happy and sad, at the same moment. I was happy to participate in the birthday celebration, but I was sad thinking I no longer had my friends nearby.

I think that’s the singular challenge in life – accept what happens – good or bad.

The same thought occurred to me today, as I was walking near the bay waters not far from downtown St. Petersburg, that my life has been, and all ways will be, a happiness and sadness emotional swirl.

I think it’s like a really good birthday cake, it has been both sweet and savory at the same time.

I am certain a much smarter, much quoted philosopher would have a better way to express the notion.

But the notion occurred inside my tiny brain as I was cooling off from running, I walked along the curvy concrete path near The Vinoy, as sailboats worked the wind, and small aircraft buzzed over me toward the executive airport.

It was a bit overcast, the breeze was up, the bay waters were restless, and gave off a pungent odor.

I know when a storm approaches because the birds go silent, they hide in the palm and oak trees, and the breeze cools.

But it was not raining, I was not far from home, so I had stopped to watch a group of dolphins as their triangular dorsal fins emerged above the dark waters and then casually they would disappear and reappear as they navigated toward the Gulf’s deep shipping channels.

I am happy that my once clouded mind has slowed to a pace that allows me to notice my life, and the lives that are happening nearby me.

So, I was minding my own business, when I noticed near a quiet grassy spot at a natural bend in the perimeter barrier that overlooked the bay and with the backdrop draped beyond with the blue horizon, but there stood a young man.

Maybe it was the way the young man was standing, maybe it was the fact he was standing in a way that he had decided to defy the approaching storm.

The other facts that quickly got my attention were that he stood under a square party tent. At each corner near the white metal poles someone had placed small bundles of red roses. They had adorned the tent with other frilly items that only my ex-wife could explain their purpose.

In his right hand fingers, he held a single red rose, and in his left palm, a small black box.

I think we all know what sales pitch was about to be proposed.

If you have ever been to Vinoy Park, or The Vinoy, you’ll appreciate the picture post card setting.

It’s a combination of the old hotels Mediterranean revival architecture, the salmon painted exterior, and the history from the golden-age that has past by its tall lookout tower.

Even so, there stood the average sized young man, with brown hair, he wore a clean white dress shirt.

As if on que, as I strolled past him, I watched a line of his co-conspirators encourage a young woman with long flowing brown hair, and unblemished skin, to move toward him.

Her eyes told me she was beginning to understand the unfolding mystery before her and she realized what was about to happen. She was advised by a short female friend, to, “try and calm down”. I glanced over at the young man’s object of affection, I searched her eyes, and I thought, “good luck with that”.

As a group, they all appeared intensely, all be it, nervously, happy.

It’s important to note, at that moment, I decided to keep moving, and not disturb the occasion.

Besides, what if she said, “no”?

And I didn’t have my wallet, so I couldn’t put my arm over his shoulder and guide him to the Vinoy’s bar that was conveniently with easy walking distance.

Even though it was a public park, I thought it would be in poor taste for the sweaty middle-aged dude, to accidentally end up in a photo from the beginning of their engagement.

But as I strolled away, I had smirked and shook my head. But, I looked down to my right, and at a ruffled old man sleeping on a dark metal park bench, mercifully shaded by a group of palm trees. He wore the dirty clothes of a homeless person.

I then gazed back over at the happy-couple, and then back down at the shriveled old man.

On one side of the path a happy, memorable moment was about to happen. On the other side of the path, I wondered where this sad human beings journey had ended up on a park bench within a pitching wedge to a fancy hotel.

I nodded as if I understood God’s wisdom.  But I don’t.

I thought life happens – happy or sad – at the same time, every moment of every day.

And that I am thankful that Devine providence whispers to me from behind my eyeballs, that I try to listen, and I have the capacity to feel both emotions at the same time.

IF, I am blessed with another birthday cake, I promise I’ll have a large piece, close my eyes, and appreciate its both sweet and savory flavors.

NS

 

 

Running in the rain, downtown St. Pete

As anyone that has lived in Florida for any length of time will tell you, in the summer time, it rains.

The rain, and lightning, appear as regular participants in daily summer time life.

It has to do with weather related factors that I have zero control over. It will rain for 20 minutes or so, and then the bright sun light will reappear.

I live in downtown St. Petersburg, and almost everyday, I take off on my 5 mile run – walk, through old northeast with its uneven red brick streets, past houses for the rich and the not so rich, and then along the bay waters as I trudge back toward downtown.

My daily journey is a wonderful joy because I’m not training for a marathon, but simply exercising for the simple joy to exercise. It’s fun, even when it’s past 90 degrees Fahrenheit with significant humidity.

If I have a packed business schedule, I’ll take my journey early in the morning, or late in the day, sometimes I’ll have to leap over a homeless person sleeping across a sidewalk.

It’s fine with me, I don’t bother them, if they don’t bother me. But it bothers me, I could easily be that person.

I was walking along tonight, I had passed the yacht club and I had jogged past an empty city park when a dark storm cloud appeared above me, and it began an intense rain with streaks of lightning.

Now, if it were a mist or a modest rain without lightning, I’d have kept going.

But lightning is not to be trifled with, so I found shelter under a side-doorway to a tall condominium structure.

After a minute or so, an odd little brown-haired woman with a push-cart joined me under the shelter. She grunted as she carefully wiped off her cart.

We had not made eye contact as she sat down, and then we both silently watched the heavy rain drops smother the city streets, and we listened to the thunder and in time we saw the swells of water current past us and flow down into the over-worked drainage system.

And it was in those quiet moments I felt completely powerless, as I dripped onto the concrete pad with my body’s sweat, and from the salty rain.

I sensed I had nothing to say to her, because she was in a place I could not understand.

I suspected her eyes are clouded with hazy thoughts that would never become clear.

To be clear, she was not trying to pan-handle a dollar from me, she barely acknowledged me as she wheeled under the basic protection the overhang afforded us.

I don’t think it would have mattered if I had handed her a bag full of US currency.

If we had been together on one of the elevators up to my office in a tall building in downtown Tampa, I would have said something about life, or whatnot. I guess it’s my way to manage my emotions as I helplessly get hurdled up without any control over the modern machine that defies gravity with the aid from electricity.

But the diminutive woman that sat near me watching it rain, she was not like most diminutive women.

She lived everyday in her own snow globe, and no amount of money would change her world.

But the one thought I had was that she was a human being, and at some point she had been someone’s baby.

And that I was not any better than her, only I had been a bit luckier in life – be it genetic or other.

I’ll sleep tonight on a really nice bed, within a protected fortress a hurricane will not blow down. But where will she sleep? And well, I suspect anyone reading this would have the same questions.

I don’t know why I share this little snap shot into my life, I guess the experience reminds me to be thankful, and to be humble.

NS