The Fly

 
I found it while getting ready to sweep, lying on its back with legs curled skyward. Next to the sliding glass door, mere inches away from the freedom of outside. 

Dead.

What's the lifespan of a fly? A quick online search tells me a couple weeks to a month. Maybe up to 50 days, at most. I give up, closing the browser as my brain starts doing the weird thing it does from time to time, treading a path to places I don't care for, yet find myself in nonetheless. 

50 days? That sounded a bit optimistic... we'll say a month. Average. How long was this nuisance careening through the apartment, randomly dive-bombing my son and I while we went through our day? Well, definitely more than a week... little man is with me 50% of the time, 7 days on and 7 off, and it had been annoying me for a while before that.

Okay, so the fucker spent at least half of its life in the prison of my shitty bachelor pad.

But it's just a fly, right? 

Who cares?


Except...

What was that story about fate and time travel? The series of events that snowballed, cascading from virtually irrelevant to world changing just by stepping on a butterfly while the characters explored a prehistoric Earth?

This dead little husk could have flown into the mouth of someone on their way to work, causing them to plow into a pedestrian on their morning walk, altering both lives forever.

Damn, that's a grim thought. 

What about if it was that little bit of extra food a lizard needed to survive long enough to be found and kept as the 'greatest pet ever' for some lonely child, desperate for connection, a life for that kid to care for in the exact moment they needed it most?

...or maybe just to be swept up and forgotten, decaying in my garbage, never having had the opportunity to serve its sole purpose in life.

What.

The.

Fuck.

I need to stop typing and do something else.

A Sky full of Ghosts

 A Sky full of Ghosts

Vertigo washes over me when I look up. Before my eyes is something so vast it can only be described as... eternity.

Awe, bone deep and absolute, springs from a long abandoned place of my mind, some nook reserved for things long forgotten.

I took my early years for granted, the sheer magnificence of the night sky was simply part of rural life. The darkness was sharp, the sky a pristine black devoid of clouds... like an open window to the endless ocean of stars beyond.

I watched a youtube video once that said many stars we see are actually dead, their light nothing more than a glimpse into the past when they still lived. The astronomer William Herschel referred to the universe as "a sky full of ghosts".

I guess it really is eternity.

Authentic

 

Authentic

~

Whenever I hear 'Authentic' I'm drawn back to the memory of a very specific point in my life... the (at the time) burning wreckage of what had previously been known as my marriage. As my ex and I had been painfully untangling our lives, one of the phrases she had been fond of using was that she "had to be true to herself... to be Authentic”.

So here's what I consider Authentic.

~

I called the doctor’s office frantically searching for an appointment slot, only to find out my usual primary care physician had the day off. In a delightfully chipper voice the receptionist informed me there was an opening with the doctor who happened to be available. Same day. Due to the circumstances I accepted. 

My stomach twisted in knots as I waited. The hands on the nearby wall clock hovered in a state of suspended animation, defying any expectation to move onward. The phenomenon was my only distraction from the nausea building in my gut. One by one, others in the waiting room who had been ahead of me were called and exchanged pleasantries with their respective nurses before being ushered away to the smaller rooms in back.

The stupid clock was beginning to frustrate me. There was simply no way only a handful of moments had passed since I was seated. At one point, I swear I saw the seconds hand tick backward before continuing its march onward.

“Thomas?”

Snapped out from my thoughts, I was suddenly aware of the rolling in my stomach again. I stood, forced a brief smile, then followed the nurse through the door and down a hallway to the new waiting area. At some point during the walk she had started some light banter which I was totally oblivious to. In the new room she cycled through the usual tests... blood pressure, eyes, heart, all while asking the normal questions I did my best to answer.

"The doctor will be with you shortly." she said finally. She left and I was alone again with my thoughts.

There wasn't a clock in the small, unadorned room, but nonetheless it was obviously susceptible to the same  maddening time dilation effect. I stood and waited. I sat and waited. Waited some more. Stood back up. Started pacing. My stomach threatened to revolt.

Eventually there was a knock. The pleasant features of a slender, middle aged woman peaked from around the door. She introduced herself but her name still eludes me even now. Meanwhile my guts screamed bloody murder.

"What brings you in today?" She asked.

It was time.

"I would like to be tested for..." I felt heat rising in my cheeks. "...possible STD's."

She seemed completely un-phased by the request. A dash of embarrassment mixed with my growing emotional cocktail. Of course she wasn't surprised, this was just another day at the office. I don't remember details after that, but eventually conversation turned to the discoloration on my dick and she asked to see it.

It was like an out of body experience. As she examined me I heard myself beginning to spout all the things I'd promised myself to keep close to my heart. 

"...apparently she was with multiple men..."

"...the condom broke with one of them..."

My throat choked and I began stumbling over the words. When I felt my eyes beginning to betray me as well, I fought back with everything I had in me. I stood in front of this woman I'd just met, struggling not to break down with my pants and underwear around my ankles, while she held my rashy cock in a gloved hand. It was the single worst, most humiliating thing I'd ever experienced. 

When I met her eyes, the look she gave in return was one of simple, pure human empathy.

"I'm so sorry."

In that moment, it was the only thing I needed.

Anyway, come to find out it was nothing more than a simple skin allergy. After some medication it was gone in a few days. It turns out my unfortunate skin sensitivities broke the truth of my marriage wide open, and sent my life spiraling in an entirely different direction.  

So now, when I think of 'Authentic', I think of that room... and that pitying look on the doctors face.

the Mirror

    I take a good look in the mirror. It takes moment to fully reconcile what's in front of me, so I stand with arms on the counter and soak it in. 

It's a surreal disconnect between the oblivious image I hold of myself and the person everyone sees. The sensation washes over me. Perpetually slumped shoulders and creases of worry etching my forehead betray my story long before the lips could. It's the look of an pathetically average man in the midst of learning one of life's many cruel lessons. 

Life isn't clean. It's not some paint-by-numbers, laid out for easy consumption cliché as portrayed in some romance drama or made-for-tv movie. No... it's messy, cut with jagged corners from scissors held in shaking hands. A hard lesson, but one needing learning. 

Oh well, time to go to work.

Depression sucks

It's been coming back more frequently now. A loathing, vile taint... pointing mocking fingers at my inadequacies and wiping shit on the occasional moments of happiness I have.

I know it's coming. Every time I know. It announces its presence, whispering hateful insinuations that turn into screamed insults blocking out all good things.

It's been this way for as long as I can remember, a long time cleverly concealed by the drug and alcohol abuse of my younger years. Now that I'm older, without the reliance of that crutch, it's been increasingly hard to keep my emotions under control. I'm running out of the tape needed to fix my paper thin skin.

I don't write this as some veiled attempt for pity, nor is it a suicide note. I love my wife and my son more than the world, more than anything, and will carry on as long as I can for them as well as for myself. I live for those shining moments which make it all worth while.

Instead, this is strictly for anyone who may feel the same, other souls who endlessly trudge the cliffs of happiness, only to tumble painfully down the mountains into sorrow. 

Know that you are not alone.

Changes

No more opinionated bullshit... only my refuge, a place to express myself without reproach. I am attempting to distance myself from social media, so I think this is the place where I will be me.

Astute Observations of Asinine Situations will consist of guitar and writing related topics mostly, with perhaps a bit of the point of view from which the name is derived.

9 out of 10 ain't bad

Somewhere between late last year and early this one, a lump began growing between the first and second knuckle of my right index finger. This freaked me the hell out because I'm a left handed guitar player... that finger means a lot to me! I put off going to the doctor for longer than I should have, thinking the issue would resolve itself, like a wound that needed time to heal.

But it didn't.

The thing just kept growing and growing, making basic techniques like barre chords all but impossible. So after some prompting from my wife, I made the doctors appointment, and my worst fear was realized... they recommended operation.

Look, I know where my bread is buttered. I work in the tech field and guitar playing is very much a hobby and secondary to the important things in my life, like family and paying the bills. That being said, I've played since I was 15 years old, over half of my life, so the decision was hard. So sometime in August, I had the procedure done.

It didn't hurt all that bad, the meds they selected for me did their job quite well. When the time came and I took off the bandage, I got as close to fainting as I think I ever have.

My main fretting finger was a horror show.

After a few days, when the bruising started getting better, I got a bit more optimistic. There was very little pain, more of a dull ache, and I had the use of the rest of my hand.

Now, for the last year or so I have become obsessed with a lesser known genre of guitar known as "percussive fingerstyle". It has reinvigorated my playing and made guitar new for me again. I am but a child toddling in the world of percussive fingerstyle, but that doesn't matter, each week brings something new to me and I am always learning.

Until the finger thing.

So, after a week or so past, I came up with an idea. An arrangement that needed the index finger as little as possible. I practiced it daily, tweaking the tune and honing it as I healed. It gave me a guitar based goal to keep focused on.

Well, my finger is pretty much fine now... a little stiff at times but all in all not too bad. And I have this song to show for it. I play it with all ten fingers now, but nine-tenths is what I called it initially, so it stuck.

Here it is: