Happy Birthday Isaac Asimov, me

It’s a funny day for a birthday. In the wake of the extended Christian holiday season, from holy day to holy day, January 2, for me, has always been a sober reminder that work begins again tomorrow. There’s some comfort in that, the hope (the illusion) that I can nurture good writing habits, good exercise habits, good eating habits, good social habits and good stress-relief habits. The reality is, I’ll take any modicum of improvement. It’s been a tough year (and three months).

The Christmas season has become tediously overwrought. “Overstimulating” my wife might say. It’s trite now to point it out, but the garish displays and extreme commodification of “The Holidays” gives department stores, a week distant from the rush to buy, a distinctly stale odor, like these brightly lit warehouses called JC Penny’s and Lord and Taylor’s, bereft of their contents, are just old and cavernous and never really meant to wish us anything but a desirous need to rid it of its cheap, plastic burdens.

A quiet day for me today. I’m reading The Gods Themselves in honor of Isaac. A few days ago, I started a flash fiction piece for this blog, but it became too lengthy. Perhaps I’ll soon find something creative to share on here that’s a better fit.

Two others I’m flattered to share a birthday with: Edgar Martinez and David Cone. Happy Birthday all.

New November

Been a while. I’m good and bad at this blog thing. Lately, bad.

In DC today, if you never looked at the tree tops, you might mistake the day for April 28 or May 28. My neighbor’s pink roses and camellia’s are still blooming, lawns are still green and the sun is still yellow. Sometimes, the warm, white days of winter are stagnant mockeries of spring; today is a gentle reminder of it.

I’d rather see snow on the ground. I’d rather a string of gray days in a chair with a book or hunched over my NEO in a corner of the neighborhood library. I’m 20,000 words into a novel I’ve been kicking around for years. Probably half of those words are caught up in bad sentences.

My father buried my old friend Cassie in a deep grave in the mountains of Western Pennsylvania this morning. A tumor had been slowly eclipsing the workings of her bladder for the past year, and in recent weeks, every member of my family has witnessed her wince and shudder in pain. My mother said there was a hunter on the neighbors property prowling through the woods. Cassie, 16 years old, barely able to walk, drew herself up and barked a long warning to the man upon quaking little legs which once had carried her deep into the meadows and forests of our little home away from the city. Defiance. Coherence. My father took her to the local vet - Cassie happened to be the young man’s first patient years ago - to be put down an hour later. She went peacefully with dad by her side, her constant caregiver in her old age, an old man and his old dog. My father wrapped her fragile body in linens and laid her to rest under the rose garden. My mother’s idea, Blessed Mother, nurturing peace.

How many of our tears stained her coat? How much of our sadness did she carry? She persisted as long as she could, wrung every bit of life from her body, still her mind was aware, so sad were her eyes. Cassie followed me around the woods of the mountain house this past weekend, on Thanksgiving Day, for the very last time. I had to help her ascend even the gentlest of slopes.

It’s spring at eye level in Washington DC. The kind of spring that hints at the lingering chill of winter, of death. The kind of spring that causes black mourners to huddle around Easter graves and curse the smell of dirt. The world slows and Cassie has stopped, her bones among the bones of the Earth, the ancient Appalachian depths, to dream of silence ever after in the eternity of her final thoughts.

Goodbye, my friend.

Amazing how Manhattan has made sitting a commodity. Finally found an empty little park in Chelsea to sit and write.

NYC, cognitive frameworks, cannoli

I’m off to NYC for three days this weekend! It’s been about four years since I’ve putzed around the city, so I’m looking forward to getting lost on the subway again and trying to find dark corners to hide in while I secretly consult a map.

Still trying to figure out exactly what I want to do, but it’ll definitely involve the Bronx Zoo, Arthur Avenue and the AMNH. I’ve only ever been about halfway through the AMNH, so I really want to finish my tour of it.

I’m sure people wince at the comparison, but for someone who grew up and now lives close to DC, NYC is comfortingly familiar. I hope at some point, I can take some time and get a little observational writing done. In fact, I’m going to attempt to use this trip to jumpstart my languishing longform writing again, specifically picking a novel project and finishing the billion short stories I have lying around. Breaking the routine might be the spark that I need.

It’s funny how often we use these kind of physical metaphors for mental processes: my spark, the highly sought catalyst for production. It’s most interesting when the metaphor is so elaborate that it can be called a cognitive framework, like the fuzzy distinctions between introversion and extroversion. We reference them as attributes, but it’s usually unclear if the introvert/extrovert designations are representative of how we interact with others or a good indicator of how we wish to be seen by others. Regardless, they’re useful for psychologists to provide their patients with something concrete to think through and provide information unreachable by other means.

Outside of those specific cases, however, these complex cognitive frameworks seem useless and even limiting. They are close kin with dogma in that way. If you identify as an introvert, you are taking on all of the clinical attributes of one even if those attributes are not entirely accurate. Stripped of its specific function - psychological application - it becomes as useful to an individual as a Facebook personality quiz. “Which 20th century fascist dictator are you?”

Even if I don’t return to DC with a frenzied drive to create, at least I’ll have some cannoli. Maybe a sausage and raab sandwich. Raviolis. Torrone. A hunk of provolone and a loaf of crusty bread. That’s inspiration.

Have I mentioned that I’m Italian?

Righteousness

I have a feeling that the age-old call aimed at a faceless public to “Wake up!” is antiquated to the point of irrelevance. I think most people in this country are more awake than they’ve ever been. They just don’t give a fuck.

Sunday

Busy, busy day. Upgraded my stupid phone. Wandered some halls. Sneered at some art. Sat in a studio and waited for a party. In Bethesda, smoked grape-flavored tobacco from a hookah with a Rolling Rock to wash it down. You know, the way they do it in Latrobe.

Cider and pretzels for a late night snack, then bed.