Walk in the Woods
Short #5: Life of a Gamecock
A short story, about fandom and the motivations of a man.
Write a story about a fandom…
Clayton was born in Sumter, South Carolina to Harper and William Marion on a warm spring morning. And the first photo of the moment shows the boy dressed in a white onesie, a big garnet and black block C on his chest and the word “Gamecocks” above it. Months later, and before he could walk, he’d already begun to spend fall Saturdays in the gravel parking lots across from Williams-Brice Stadium. And not long after, when Clayton began to talk, William liked to brag that among his son’s first words were “Go Cocks.”
And so Clayton was indoctrinated into the world of all things Garnet and Black. He could never remember making a choice to be a Gamecock, mostly because his loyalty to the university and its teams was never presented as a choice. His great grandfather played for the school back in the leather helmet days. His grandfather was president of Sigma Epsilon. And his father held two degrees from the school. And like all the Marion’s before him, William met his wife to be at a fall mixer.
What did not give Clayton incentive to scream and sing and hope were the teams’ performances. Throughout the years, season after season, Clayton learned to whisper the hopeful words all Gamecocks recite after each and every heart break: Wait ‘til next season. It is this disconnect of loyalty from performance which empowers the poor bastards to suffer failure and loss.
For Clayton, his loyalty began to fray his freshman year in Columbia. After watching the football team sustain an unusual run of success the previous three seasons, the Gamecocks slipped back to mediocrity under the guidance of a has-been coach. The has-been quit halfway through the season which ended in another defeat to their rivals from the upstate, the Clemson Tigers.
Later that evening back in Sumter, Clayton and his best friend Chandler drowned their disappointment in a twelve pack of Natty Light. And they examined the game and the season as all fanatics do, searching for blame and hope.
“We’ll get a good coach, Clay. Wait till next year,” offered Chandler, half cynically half serious.
“Huh?,” shot back Clayton.
“Whadda mean, huh? I said we’ll land a good coach.”
“No, the other thing.”
“What? Wait till next year? Come on man. You know that’s our motto.”
“Yeah, I know it. Wait till next year…” Clayton let the words hang in the air for a long second before continuing. “Thing is, next year never comes.”
“Dude, stop. Don’t be a sad drunk.”
“I’m not, I–”
“Yes, you are. I’m not gonna sit here and listen to this nonsense. You know I’m right. You’re just gonna regret it in the mornin’.”
Clayton looked out his bedroom window, into the black November air, took another swallow of beer and turned back to Chandler, “Aren’t you tired of losing?” Chandler knew it was a question deeper and more sincere than any produced by alcohol.
“Yeah, man. I am. I get it. But we don’t change who we are because we lose. I believe we’ll win one day and it’ll make all this suffering worth it. Think about it. Wouldn’t you love to rub it in your cousin Brandon’s face, that smug orange hillbilly’s face. It’ll happen. And you’ll be glad you stuck with it when it does.”
Chandler’s faith and logic made sense, from a fan’s point for view. And Clayton lacked the energy to continue the debate. “Yeah, man. It’ll be awesome,” he finally relented. And the friends went down the stairs to munch on leftover Thanksgiving turkey and stuffing.
True to their nature, within weeks of the end of another terrible campaign, hope began to sprout on the Carolina campus. A new coach revived the spirits of the faithful and Clayton allowed himself to dream once more. He even engaged in a bit of trash talk with his cousin Brandon at the lake one July afternoon. From under the shelter he yelled, “Don’t feed him momma, not till he takes off that tacky orange hat.” Then, turning to Brandon he asked, “Why do you insist on wearing that crap around here? You know we’re all garnet and black.”
Brandon smiled and stepped to Clayton's side, close enough to make him uncomfortable, “What? Don’t like being reminded who runs this state?”
“Pff. If we had y’alls cupcake of a schedule…”
And then, for the rest of the afternoon, the boys exchanged the tired salvos heard often between rivals, where nothing is settled or meant to be.
When the fall semester started, hope filled the campus and students. A new coach will do that. And by October, the Gamecocks were a miserable 2-4. And though he said nothing, Clayton began to ask bigger questions about his loyalty to a school and a team, questions a man isn’t allowed to ask. After the loss to Georgia, he began to find reasons to skip home games. The UMass game started too early, he told his parents. The following week he decided he was sick. And for the Tennessee game, he invented a girlfriend- a lie that satisfied both parents and friends.
What made that particular season awful were the needling, shit-talking texts from Brandon. Clemson was winning, and winning a lot. And Clayton knew the rivalry game after Thanksgiving was going to be a blood-bath. And, just as he’d always done, he’d have to watch the slaughter like the faithful idiot he was. This bothered Clayton and the questions lingering in his mind became loud and demanded to be answered.
Hoping for a better scene, Clayton opted to watch the game with Chandler alone in his living room instead of the family gathering on the other side of Sumter. The two made pimento cheese and ham sandwiches and polished off a six pack of cheap beer prior to kickoff. Chandler predicted an upset for the Gamecocks. Clayton nodded but made no such prophecy.
Then the misery commenced. After the first quarter, the score was 21-0, Clemson. 35-0 at the half. And ended with a final score of 56-7. The game wasn’t as close as the score. As the final second fell off the clock, and two friends sat on the couch in silent despair, the TV flickering on their faces.
“Glad I brought this,” quipped Chandler as he revealed a handle of Jack Daniels previously hidden in his backpack. Clayton grinned for a moment and nodded his approval. Soon they were passing the bottle back and forth, diving deeper into a whiskey stupor.
Chandler knew better than to talk about the game, and put his drunken mind to work searching for safe topics of conversation.
“Whadda wanna do tomorrow?” he asked.
“Tomorrow? Hell, I dunno. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s get back to campus early and go to the river walk, the Cayce side. It’s better. Less people.”
“Yeah.”
“And maybe I can meet that girl you’re seeing?”
“Girl I’m seeing?”
“Yeah. The one you sat with for the Tennessee–” Chandler caught himself and went quiet. In less than a few seconds he’d broken his own rule. And though he knew to avoid talking football after defeat, he could not have anticipated what came next. Clayton began to laugh a deep guttural laugh. He doubled over then snapped his head back. At first, Chandler was relieved, then Clayton answered.
“There’s no fucking girl, hommie. Never was. I made her up so I didn’t have to go to the game.”
Chandler was stunned as Clayton continued.
“Matter fact, I’m done.”
“Alright Clay, chill out.”
“Fuck you, chill out. I’m serious. I’m tired of being loyal to this school. I didn’t choose them and they sure as shit ain’t doing a thing for me.”
“Careful now,” Chandler warned. “You can’t take some things back.”
“Ok, mister wannabe attorney, let me ask you a question or two,” Clayton said as he stumbled to his feet and paced back and forth like a courtroom lawyer.
“When did you decide you were going to be a Gamecock? When did you decide you were going to that school? Can you remember?” Chandler had no answer. Like Clayton, he was always a Gamecock. He didn’t see it as choice, rather a way of life- as part of his family as Christmas or barbecue. The following silence between the friends was long and uncomfortable. The questions Clayton asked were about more than football or a university. They were about a culture and the only way they knew how to live. Finally Chandler responded.
“You’re right Clayton. I didn’t choose this. We didn’t choose this. It was passed to us by people who love us as it was passed to them, I think. What were they supposed to do?” Clayton felt and then dismissed the compassion in his friend’s question. “Just because I was born a Gamecock doesn’t mean I have to stay a Gamecock.”
“True. Very true. But what’ll people say Clay?”
“That I’m smart and can tell a winner from a loser.”
“Not around here they won’t. You know that. They’ll question your integrity, your honor.”
“My honor? What is this? War? Are we at war? Are you telling me 80,000 idiots show up to that shitty stadium seven Saturdays a year because they are too scared to admit it’s a waste?’
At that exact moment, both boys' eyes grew wide at the sound of creaking floor boards. Though they couldn’t tell which one made the noise, it had to be made by either William or Harper. And Clayton felt a shock rippled through his chest as he waited for the worst. “Rough game tonight, eh?” panned William from the direction of the noise, coming closer as he spoke.
“Yes sir. Lousy game to end the year on,” Chandler responded as quickly as he could then immediately regretted speaking first. Clayton panicked and kept silent. Then William took another step into the room. And now both boys could see Mr Marion’s face in the flicker of the blue TV light. And he was somber as a cemetery as he stared directly at his son.
Indeed, the old man had heard his son and he was angry, yet he understood. There’s nothing easy or fun about being devoted to a team so undeserving as the South Carolina Gamecocks. William knew the frustration of devotion more than his son did. And William knew his son too. He knew when his son had thought long and deep about a thing. And so he stood in the dimly lit room with two drunkards, and searched his heart for wisdom.
“Yep,” he began. “Today was as bad as it gets. But before I get to outta here, let me set you straight on something. For some people, it’s a tradition or an identity. For me, I love my school because I decided to love my school. Whatever comes. Same way I decided to love your mother and you. Even when you’re drunk and cussing in my house. And I’m going to keep on loving my wife and my son and my school. No matter what. Because, I’m committed. You hear me?”
“Yes sir,” whispered Clayton, his heart now beginning to slow, though still thumping in his ears while Chandler remained as still as a statue.
“Good. Before you get to bed, pour out the rest of that bottle and drink plenty of water. Being a Gamecock is a rough life. The bottle won’t help.”
Vol III: #75 Funeral Parties
The first time I heard my dad ask for a funeral party I thought he was nuts, but I get it now. It’s better to celebrate what was and what lives on rather than moan what will never be. And I want that for me. I want my friends to gather on a beach or in a forest, throw back whatever beverages suits them, and laugh. Oh please laugh, tis my funeral request. Laugh at my mistakes and misadventures. Laugh at all my failed career choices. Laugh and remember the moments we shared. But please laugh. And then, go live.
My dad has always said he wants us to through a party when he dies. He also asked us to play all nine part of Shine On You Crazy Diamond by Pink Floyd, with its 26 minute running time. The first request to party we will honor, but I’m not subjecting the people in attendance to an epically weird, electric rock opera. But, after watching the live stream of a funeral today (for a family member), I renewed my resolve to honor my father in death. There will be no somber officiant, preaching to the assembly. No tired alter call. I want music and memories and drinks and food he’d love to eat with us.
I understand grief, but I do not understand the need to make a funeral a solemn affair. Even the tragic ones. We aren’t entitled to life. And it is only out of some sense of entitlement that we see death as “untimely.” And, I’ve seen plenty of death, watched a lot of people respond poorly to it, including me. The key is to live and be intentional rather than reactionary. Funerals ought to be a time of gratitude and celebration. Of course, it’s a ok to cry and miss someone (I’m not an asshole.) Children who miss a parent or parents who lose children have a right to that grief. But to be defined by it? That’s not how to live.
The first time I heard my dad ask for a funeral party I thought he was nuts, but I get it now. It’s better to celebrate what was and what lives on rather than moan what will never be. And I want that for me. I want my friends to gather on a beach or in a forest, throw back whatever beverages suits them, and laugh. Oh please laugh, tis my funeral request. Laugh at my mistakes and misadventures. Laugh at all my failed career choices. Laugh and remember the moments we shared. But please laugh. And then, go live.
Short #4: Hope in a Envelope
This is a short story about the the time I answered one of those “envelope stuffing” ads from the back of local newspaper.
Write about someone who thinks they just got a great deal on something, only for them to realize…
I was desperate. Between night classes and a slow season at the pizza shop, my bank account struggled to breathe. Thankfully, my boss was generous with leftover slices and school was a short walk from my one room apartment. I tried to pick up more shifts but my fellow servers were also students suffering through the downturn. And so I spent my lonely hours thumbing through the Free Times, searching for something to ease my anxiety. For weeks I stared at the Help Wanted ads. There were jobs for people with construction skills, telemarketing offers for “highly motivated” individuals, and manual labor gigs that paid less than I took home. And then, on the back page were advertisements, offers of quick cash with “little to no effort.” I did my best to ignore these sirens, having watched people I love fall into pyramid schemes and similar get-rich-quick shenanigans. But, I was desperate, tired of eating cold pizza and spending my nights at home alone.
In my heart, I knew. I knew it was a scam. But the ad read “Make money stuffing envelopes. Up to $5 per envelope! Work when you want. Make as much money as you want from the comfort of home. Simply send $5 to PO Box 38382, Charlotte, NC to receive your money by mail kit. Include your name and address.” And after weeks of staring at those words, I decided to give it a try.
I didn’t tell anyone, of course. Why encourage ridicule? My beat up Ford Festiva was already a magnet for jokes and shame. But, what if? What if it was real? What if I could make hundreds or thousands of dollars by stuffing envelopes?
After I mailed in my $5, I spent the next two weeks in a fantasy land. I could make a lot of money at $5 a pop. An envelope a minute would be equal to $300 per hour. And maybe, I could hire some friends at $2 per envelope. We’d all work one hour per day. After wages and expenses, I figured I could make over $500 every single day. Shoot! Maybe it’s not a scam, and I’m going to hit the jackpot. All hail Nik, the envelope stuffing king of North Carolina.
And then I thought about what I’d do with all my riches. Buy land, yes. But also, I’d donate money to charity. Why wouldn’t I? And then I’d invest, like the most wise of investors. My thousands would become millions in a matter of months. Yes. Of course they would. And, why not? The same man who had the skill set worthy of waiting tables would become a millionaire by stuffing envelopes and beating the stock market. It was all very logical. I also dreamed of giving my notice at the pizza shop. Obviously, I wouldn’t continue to wait tables for a few bucks an hour. Why would I? My soon-to-be envelope empire was about to make me rich. No more insatiable customers or bad tips. No more cleaning diarrhea splatter off the restroom floor.
After a week passed, I slowly began to let my fantasies fade into reality. Until one day, a large padded manilla envelope arrived in the mail. My eyes grew wide with excitement and I raced upstairs to my apartment, my package tucked tight between my arm and ribs like a football I refused to fumble.mOnce inside my apartment I kicked off my shoes and settled onto the couch, ready for my life to change.
First, I inspected the manila envelope for special markings or clues of its origin. It was as ordinary as could be, a stamp, my name and address, no return address. But, I remained hopeful. And then with a flourish, I slid my car key into a loose corner of the envelope to rip it open. It was not a smooth operation. My key caught on the air bubbles of the padding inside and left a jagged scar down the edge of the paper. Instead of a clean cut, it looked as though I used a shark to open my package. Bits of plastic bubble wrap and manila paper fell to the carpet around me. And I laughed at myself and thought about the story I’d tell Oprah one day, of how I opened the envelope that changed my life. Finally, I turned the envelope upside down and shook the contents into my open hand.
Prior to that moment, I ignored the thorn in my brain, a quiet observation that whispered, “this package is too thin.” And then, three measly sheets of paper fell into my hand. This can’t be it, I thought. But it was, and I felt my temperature begin to rise and anger fill my mind.
The first sheet congratulated me for being stupid except they didn’t use the word stupid. They used the word courageous. “Congratulations on taking the first step toward financial freedom. Most people aren’t as courageous as you.” There were more words on the paper but I didn’t need to read them. I knew I had been conned. My heart inched closer to my throat and my head began to pound with embarrassment as I skimmed the next few words, “Simply follow the instructions on page two.”
Out of a desire to know how bad I’d been had, I read page two. And as I expected, what followed was a scheme to commit mail fraud: page two told me to make copies of page three and post them around town- on telephone poles, bulletin boards, laundry mats- anywhere desperate people sought quick answers to their money woes. And page three was a flyer for “The Only Financial Freedom Book You’ll Ever Need.” Supposedly, this magical book contained all the insider information one needed to beat the stock market, buy real estate for “pennies on the dollar,” and all for the low price of $30.
The elegant element to this scam is how the con men tried to bait someone like me into being their middle man. You see, page two told me to add my name to the flyer. The $30 payments along with the name and address of the scammed were to be mailed to me, to my apartment. Then I’d “stuff an envelope” with $25, the name and the address of the scammed, and mail it to a new PO Box in the Charlotte area. Hence, I get my “$5 per envelope,” and the con men got a free $25.
That night, I sat on my couch and cried. I was embarrassed and angry. How had I, a man deemed so smart and worldly by so many, fallen into a mail scam? But there I was, still alone, still broke, headed back to the pizza shop in the morning. And, I wish I could say that’s the last time I let desperation drive my choices, but it ain’t so. $5 is nothing compared to what I lost in crypto.
Vol III: #74 New Post Type Coming Tomorrow
What you’ll see three times a week are short stories based on a prompt. I’ll start with the prompt like Write about someone who thinks they just got a great deal on something, only for them to realize…Then, I’ll write my story, based on something I’ve experienced- the first memory that comes to mind. Tomorrow, I’ll use the prompt above and regale you about one of the many times I’ve been scammed. (Ugh. It’s so embarrassing. But, that’s the point.)
So, to follow up on my last post, I will be featuring a lot more fiction in the form of short stories, beginning tomorrow. I found a couple of website offering daily writing prompts. And my goals are to push myself to write fiction everyday, and to get outside of my comfort zone. It is this second point that frightens and intrigues me the most.
I want to write about things that make me uncomfortable but are honest and real. This blog is often my propaganda, of a sort, though I try to be as raw as possible. Still, I tune my words and hold back when I’m scared of who might read what I wrote. I’ve even removed a few posts for the same reasons.
Anyway, what you’ll read three times a week are short stories based on a prompt. I’ll start with the prompt like Write about someone who thinks they just got a great deal on something, only for them to realize…Then, I’ll write my story, based on something I’ve experienced- the first memory that comes to mind. Tomorrow, I’ll use the prompt above and regale you about one of the many times I’ve been scammed. (Ugh. It’s so embarrassing. But, that’s the point.)
Vol III: #73 New New Goals
Going forward, the plan is to pay my dues and learn and grow. I’m not going to be one of those people who tried to do something for a while and gave up. I’m not going to stop because I’m too old or was undeveloped. I will run my race and I will finish it.
At the start of the year I wrote about my goals. I described my intent to write my first book and finish a massive sculpture. Those are still my goals, and I will complete them one day, replete with champaign toasts and fireworks display. But it will not be this year. Instead, I decided to deepen my foundation in the fundamentals of both endeavors. I’m gonna draw thousands of circles, spheres, and landscapes and spend the next year writing short stories. To support these goals, I enrolled in classes. As they say, “it’s important to put skin in the game.”
The reason why I took a step back is I want to have a solid foundation as an artist and author. Part of the reason I’m a good cook today is because I’ve taken time to learn the basics like cutting vegetables, layering flavors, and accounting for my environment (every kitchen is different.) And I built myself as a cook by cooking every day, with intention. I don’t carelessly through ingredients in a pan hoping for the best, rather I test and taste and adjust. A month ago I made a pot of beans. They were delicious except for the beans were a tad under cooked. No worries, I simply cooked my latest batch for 15 more minutes, stirring more than previously to ensure the top beans were as tender as the beans on the bottom. And I want to bring this approach to my most desired trades.
The world of drawing and painting and sculpture is full of textures, materials, and techniques. The simple mixing of oil paints is skill requiring years to properly master. I can barely draw a circle at the moment. So my choices are either to insist on being great now or learning to be great over the coming decades. It’s a maturity and perspective I wish I had ten or twenty years ago. Thankfully, I have it today. While I have a time to be broke and time to develop.
Going forward, the plan is to pay my dues and learn and grow. I’m not going to be one of those people who tried to do something for a while and gave up. I’m not going to stop because I’m too old or was undeveloped. I will run my race and I will finish it.
Vol III: #72 New Life
In a way, I felt like I was given a new life today. And over the coming days and months, I will continue to defined what it means and how to get there, knowing I’ll battle the old poverty mindset from time to time- for the enemy never concedes ground he once held. But, I know this will become an area of strength, a man once consumed by death, not beaming with life, on my way to 100. And if I die before August 29th, 2080, then so be it. When the Lord calls me home, I will go, and it will not be unjust or unfair. And that is up to Him.
One of my oldest memories- as I’ve discussed in previous posts- is when my dad got the call when his brother Todd died. That moment was traumatic for that little boy. How could anyone have known it would be? Death is part of life. And in my life and the in my family, he became a regular visitor. Eventually, I stopped going to funerals and wakes, choosing to remember the dead as alive rather than painted and posed in a box. Again, I’ve talked about how I thought I would die in my 20’s.
And now, as death seems to surround the elderly in my family, my eyes and hopes have shifted, from what’s possible to what must be done. Then today, I did something I’ve never done before. I imagined living to be 100, then 108, then 125, then 138. It was a wild but life-giving exercise. For a brief moment, alone in my room, I saw my 42 years as a beginning, not a middle, and nowhere near the end. I saw grandkids and great-grandkids. And I envisioned being the old man in the corner, telling stories of about corded phones and wiping my butt with paper (because everyone will use a bidet in the future- they are more sanitary and easy to use.) I’ll make jokes no one understands and teach my offspring to make tomato sandwiches the way my momma taught me. And I’ll repeat the same stories summer after summer, about how me and my dad battled our cars all over Columbia, laughing at our luck and lack of wisdom. And ultimately, my life will stand as a testimony to the kindness and generous love of the Father.
This fun little exercise gave my heart a new hope, and it exposed a sad truth. As long as I can remember, I let death drive my thoughts, internal dialogue, and actions. For example, over the last two years, I’ve lived with a constant existential dread. Some of the dread is external, like will the Russians bomb us? Will I die of COVID? Will Trumpian idiots rip the country apart? Will woke leftist tear the country apart? And some of the death-based anxiety is internal to me Will I ever find a woman who will love me? Will I be too old to be a dad? Will I die in my 60s? Or 70s?
For the most part, I don’t struggle as much with external threats. I can’t control Vladimir Putin’s actions and I’m not going to live in fear of COVID-19. The internal dialogue is a different story. I have routinely criticized myself and felt ashamed at the state of my body and finances, not to mention my martial state. And this leads to impatient, unachievable, short-term goals. And I constantly fail at my terrible, unwise, short terms goals, all adding up to string of failures and an overwhelming sense of being a failure.
Put more simply, my fear of death has created a cycle of failure in my life, leading to feeling like a failure. And feeling like a failure leads me to believe, I’m a failure. And so I have very little endurance or patience because I need results now! I’m gonna die soon! It’s a terrible cycle, and one I aim to break. Because, despite the the fact I may die tomorrow in a tragic walking accident, I can’t let fear of death be my master. And as with all things, in the process of repentance, I will do more than try not to think about death. I must focus on what it means to live, and how to get from today to 2080.
As I close this post, I must admit aging a real thing, but so is engaging in a healthy, life-giving lifestyle. People who live to be 100 eat well, get outside, have a higher purpose, close family and friends. They believe in God, go to work, and have hopeful outlooks. The cynical pessimists, the lazy, and the inactive tend to die young, or at least younger. And we all know stress is a killer.
In a way, I felt like I was given a new life today. And over the coming days and months, I will continue to defined what it means and how to get there, knowing I’ll battle the old poverty mindset from time to time- for the enemy never concedes ground he once held. But, I know this will become an area of strength, a man once consumed by death, not beaming with life, on my way to 100. And if I die before August 29th, 2080, then so be it. When the Lord calls me home, I will go, and it will not be unjust or unfair. And that is up to Him.
Vol III: #71 Writer’s Junk
What I won’t let the moment do is unhinge or erase my progress. Tough times, lows and grief will always exist. But, I decided how to respond. A few rough weeks isn’t good enough reason to forget my calling or where my hope my comes from.
Whether I post to this blog or not, I am always writing. Just this morning I wrote five pages regarding my perspective on the world in my journal. And in my “Drafts,” I have three other half-finished posts for #71. What I do not have is cohesion or flow. My posts all turned into raw emotional rants, and while I don’t being raw I do want to be a good writer. So, I was unable to craft anything worth reading. What I did post are a few poems, mainly fragments of thoughts and memories.
This post’s purpose is to explain where I am, though I can’t fully explain it. I don’t have writers block. This is something different. Feels more like a writer junk, and I don’t know how to respond to it. My experience tells me to keep trucking, in a healthy manner. Keep writing whenever I can, and don’t try to be perfect or cute. Just write. If it’s poems, write poems. If it’s incoherent rants in my journal, scribble away.
What I won’t let the moment do is unhinge or erase my progress. Tough times, lows and grief will always exist. But, I decided how to respond. A few rough weeks isn’t good enough reason to forget my calling or where my hope my comes from.
Vol III: #70 Ten and Five, A Look Back
I’m not the same man I was ten years ago or even five years ago. The Lord knew I needed to see that. And I need to be more gracious with myself, more hopeful and patient. Part of a poverty mind is an inability to plan and commit to a plan for longer than a weeks or months.
Today, I spent the early morning hours battling self-pity and doubt. My life felt ugly. I felt ugly. And I wondered how long I’d feel this way and was I destined to be alone? My life was supposed to be different, I was different. But you know what? All the talent and expectation doesn’t amount to shit when I see the same weakness creep through my habits and work.
These thoughts and feelings are, of course, a sack of lies. Effective lies, yes, but they are lies. (The most effective lies start with the truth and eventually introduce falsehood and judgement.) And I am often too slow to recognize this truth.
Fortunately, because of habit, I prayed and stared out my window as the sun began to peer over the eastern mountains. The Lord responded to my whimper: where were you five years ago? Ten years ago? And then I counted back five years to March of 2018 and ten years to March of 2013. This look back produced a new emotion and tamped out my self-pity.
Five years ago, I lived alone in a newly renovated studio apartment across the road from a park. I paid my bills by working odd jobs and most nights took advantage of the park by going for walks along the river trail. In that year I battled self-pity and pornography and used medical cannabis to help me sleep. My neighbors were mostly old and poor, living off whatever social security or disability checks afforded them. Later that year, I moved to San Francisco. I had no vision for my life. No purpose. But, I was hopeful.
June 8th, 2018 was an important day. I awoke to the news Anthony Bourdain had hung himself. As someone who struggled with suicidal thoughts and Anthony Bourdain fan, the news struck a nerve with me. He was a major influence on my cooking and opened doors to places and people long overlooked. I thought about all this as I laid in bed and scrolled through my phone. Then the Holy Spirit quietly but clearly whispered “It wasn’t the first attempt.” And I knew what He meant. I wasn’t suicidal in 2018 but I knew I could be, with the right combination of loneliness, failure, and self-pity. So I prayed and asked the Lord to show me how to defeat suicide. And He did.
Ten years ago feels like a lifetime ago. I shared a small brick house with my friend Blake and was finished my bachelors degree at UNCC. I spent my weekends singing karaoke and guzzling PBR tallboys. And I was lost and desperate. I lacked direction. My head was down and my spirit was low. To this point, in March of 2013, I briefly dated a woman named Jenn. She was tall and blonde and had her shit together. After a few conversations I decided to ghost the lady. She was prepared for her goals and future. I was a 33 year-old, broke, overweight college student with no prospects, confidence, or hope.
I know, I know. Ghosting someone is not ok. When I saw Jenn months later, she gave me the coldest shoulder ever. I knew, instantly, I f*ucked up. To be honest, how I handled Jenn was perfect example of my immaturity and hopeless outlook. A year after college and Jenn, I was in Redding, writing a new chapter.
When I look at my life compared to 2018 or 2013, the progress is apparent. I’m thankful to look back and observe the differences. What is truly exciting is knowing how intentional I am today compared to any other time in my life. I have purpose and a calling. I knew where I want to be. And I’ve established good habits. And yes, the progress is uneven. 'Tis the way it is. Even now, as I type, my mind is filled with concerns about my job and finances. And my age weighs on me, how will I ever find a woman? Should I stop planning for a family and start to approach life as though I’ll remain single?
I’m not the same man I was ten years ago or even five years ago. The Lord knew I needed to see that. And I need to be more gracious with myself, more hopeful and patient. Part of a poverty mind is an inability to plan and commit to a plan for longer than a weeks or months.
Vol III: #69 Remote Work, AI, and the Future
Because my new job doesn’t have an office, we keep overheard low. By leveraging a virtual personal assistant in the Philippines, copy writers in Romania, and ChatGPT, we keep expenses down. By keeping expenses down we keep our prices down, and our clients- plumbers, electricians, landscapers, etc- keep their marketing costs low. You see?
The term ChapGPT burrowed it’s way into the popular zeitgeist this year. The pro-tech crowd lauds the chat bot while the usual suspects huddle in the corner, forever afraid of the future. I first used a chatbot three years ago to help write ads for a few clients. Chat GPT isn’t new or immoral. It’s a tool. And like any object, the morality lay of the object in the hands and intent of the user. My business uses ChatGPT to generate copy for websites, emails, and ads. We still employ copy-writers. And by using a chatbot, they produce four times the volume of work. Then we pass along the savings to our customers- who are all small businesses.
I’m not sure why humans freak out at every technological advance, last year it was NFTs, another vastly misunderstood tool. If time travel were real, I’d want to see how people respond to the wheel or toilet or the spoon. My guess is when Billy Bob the caveman decided to use a rock to shovel his food into his mouth, his buddies called him weak or posh. Look at Billy, poor bastard thinks he’s too good to use his hands.
I assume most people react to new technology with caveman skepticism because they don’t know what’s in it for them. In my quest to be wise, I’ve learned to ask “what’s possible?” rather than develop a strong opinion to one side or the other. Fifteen years ago, I never thought Facebook or Twitter would be ground zero for every idiot with internet access or that I’d work remote. But in 2023, I work from my couch and manage a team of people spread out across the planet.
So, what’s in it for you? Allow me to offer one scenario, of many, but it’s mine:
Because my new job doesn’t have an office, we keep overheard low. By leveraging a virtual personal assistant in the Philippines, copy writers in Romania, and ChatGPT, we keep expenses down. By keeping expenses down we keep our prices down, and our clients- plumbers, electricians, landscapers, etc- keep their marketing costs low. You see?
Admittedly, technology can be used for evil. As soon as the printing press was invented- to mass print Bibles- pornographic material was replicated and distributed. Interstates allow drug dealers to ship meth and heroine all over the country. And crypto is being used by human-traffickers. (Which is really dumb because all crypto transactions are forever listed on public ledger.) With few exceptions, all tech has wheat and tares. And we can’t be scared of the future. It’s coming one day at a time, might as well embrace it.
Vol III: #68 Nature Over Tech
Whenever Alexa get’s it wrong or the Wifi goes out, I’m reminded of this fact: technology is and always will be imperfect. May it always be so. The human desire to control our environment often leads to more harm than good. And while I appreciate modern farming, X-rays, and airplanes, Nature will always be the greatest and highest form of art. She will always be unpredictable (yet reliable) and glorious.
Yesterday, as I do every morning, I asked Alexa for a weather report and the device said to expect a cloudy and cool day. Great, I sarcastically thought as I lay in bed, another drab day. After a few more moments I crawled out of bed and opened my blings. The sky was clear and turning yellow, the moon still visible on the horizon to the west, not a cloud in sight. Within the hour, the sun cleared the eastern mountains, alone and confident. In fact, the sun shined brightly as he passed over Redding, beautiful and confident- though a few puffy clouds joined him for the afternoon. The sunshine was a welcome sight after weeks of rain and snow.
Today, my technology device told me to expect clouds and rain and wind. As I type a chunky wet snow is starting to cover my back porch. Thankfully, the temperature is too high for the snow to live long. And I choose to remind myself of what’s to come this summer. Give me all the wet snow and rain and dreary gray days. Soon enough, the clouds and rain will give way, as they always do, to relentless and fierce heat. Accordingly, from May to September, I do not need Alexa to tell me what to expect of the weather.
Whenever Alexa get’s it wrong or the Wifi goes out, I’m reminded of this fact: technology is and always will be imperfect. May it always be so. The human desire to control our environment often leads to more harm than good. And while I appreciate modern farming, X-rays, and airplanes, Nature will always be the greatest and highest form of art. She will always be unpredictable (yet reliable) and glorious.
What a joy, to be part of a living masterpiece. What a gift.
Vol III: #67 Mr Nisly
He’s always there, every Sunday morning, at the top of the hill where the road meets the parking lot, laughing and waving and directing cars to open spaces. He’s there in the summer when the sun blisters the asphalt and in winter when the rain is relentless. And he’s dresses for the occasion, a wide straw hat in the hot months and rubber boots to endure the storms. And of all the people at Bethel, I take my encouragement from him.
He’s always there, every Sunday morning, at the top of the hill where the road meets the parking lot, laughing and waving and directing cars to open spaces. He’s there in the summer when the sun blisters the asphalt and in winter when the rain is relentless. And he’s dresses for the occasion, a wide straw hat in the hot months and rubber boots to endure the storms. And of all the people at Bethel, I take my encouragement from him.
Mr Nisly is aging and small in stature, barely over five feet tall. His beard is well trimmed into the style belying his Mennonite heritage, and I love the snaggle-tooth in his smile. And I assume most people barely notice him as they hurry from their cars to the church. Why would they? Still, it’s a shame they don’t know his story the way I do.
Sam Nisly is a former Mennonite from Kansas. He married his wife Brenda and together they were missionaries to Central America. They returned to Kansas to raise their seven children according to their faith. Eventually they left the only community(and friends) they had and moved to northern California. And if you know anything about closed communities like Mennonites, leaving is like dying. For Sam and Brenda it meant they had to start over, again.
I wouldn’t know any of this without knowing his youngest son. Nathan told me all about Kansas and being Mennonite. And I’m well aware of how Mr Nisly failed as a father though my admiration remains undiminished. All the more, I’m impressed by Mr Nisly’s energy and enthusiasm. His failures and shortcomings don’t appear to weigh him down. There’s genuine calm in voice when he chooses to speak, the kind of stillness present in a man who knows his God and trusts his God.
When I think of a servant, what Jesus called “the greatest among you,” I picture Mr Nisly directing people in the Bethel parking lot, guiding them to an open spot before they run inside- before the glory runs out. I know I’m not Sam Nisly but I do admire him. He figured something out and I believe I will figure it out too. I’m still gonna write books and live my life, but I’m ready to let go of being important and appreciated. It’s simple. Do my job and love my people, no matter what.
Vol III: #66 The Beauty of Rare
Snow is more beautiful when it’s rare.
Snow is falling on Redding today, a year or more since the last snow. It’s a news worthy event for me and most residents. The snow is beautiful and calming, and causes only minor inconveniences to normal life. I think it’s good for something in life to variable and unpredictable, and best at sparse intervals. On a day like to day, I pull open the blinds of the biggest window we have and sit with my face toward the action. It’s fun to watch the snow fall and paint the trees behind our home. And I will enjoy it while it lasts. It’s beautiful.