Chronicles Of The Return

My buddy—we’ll call him ‘A’—and I are sitting on his back porch. His dog is spinning around wildly in circles, chewing on an old, smelly, dog-slobbered rag. The dog likes to set the rag in my lap, as some kind of canine-human bonding trick. “A” and I have both had far too much to drink.¹

“Dude, have you seen those new thingeys?” he asks.

“What-huh?”

“It’s one of those doo-dads you see on TV, man!”

I look up from the computer in my lap. We’ve been chatting across the porch to each other via instant messenger, checking our emails and generally acting like the GenX slackers we are. We call it ‘compunicating.’

“Are you high?” I ask. I punch the key board, shooting a quick, “you’re a freak’” IM back to him across the internets.

“No,” he says. “But pass the Scotch.”

“At least you know what that is,” I tease.

“C’mon man, you know what I’m talking about, they were advertised during the last Superbowl. They sell ‘em at, um, uh, whosamawhatsit!”

“What on God’s green earth are you talking about?” I sigh. I grab the bottle of scotch and pour him another drink. And one for me. He smiles. He’s having a hard time focusing his eyes. The dog starts barking.

“Eh, freak, you know what I’m talking about. Those thingamabobs!”

“Yeah, thanks. That helps. . . ” And before I can finish he says, “They’re about yay-high and about half the size of my, umm, uh, left foot.” He holds it up for good measure.

“You need help.”

“No, I don’t,” he says and coughs, lights up another smoke. “Ack, it’s on the tip of my tongue. I can’t get it out. It’s like one of those damn gahooters we had a few weeks ago.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve seen ‘em. We had one for a while in our whosamajiggy.”

“Whydontwejustaskyergirlfriend,” I IM him and then say, “She’ll know what you’re talking about you ingrate. Hey! ‘E’, ‘A’ has a question for you.”

“Honey,” he yells, “you know that whomagutchey we saw last night. What’re they called?”

“Oh, yeah,” she says, “those thingamajigs that hang from the doo-hickey on the whatchamadoodle?”

“Guys,” I say, “I’d hate to listen to one of your lover’s spats.”
———
¹ Dialogue inspired by Schott’s Weekend Vocab.

Escher recently wrote to me about Buddhism that “termites build mounds out of dirt; humans build ours out of thoughts.”

Food for thought, no doubt, as I wasted several days on a Mexican beach and then a long mid-night drive across the coast of Michoacan to Ixtapa.

I may be poor. And a struggling writer at that. I may never see the success I hope for. In the end, success is ephemeral, anyway, which is something I remind myself of every morning when I wake up and ask: are you having fun?

Now, when I use the word ‘fun’ I’m not talking about an everlasting party—although there has been some of that lately; it’s hard to begrudge a guy two weeks on a beach in Mexico, no?

But that’s what I ask myself every morning when I wake up. And it’s a question first posed to me by Master Ma in Singapore long months ago.

I greeted today affirmatively. “Yes,” I thought to myself sitting up in my small bed, tossing the covers off and shivering in the ice-cold AC. “I am having fun and I am also grateful.”

Gratitude is something Master Ma had an easy time coaxing out of me. I’ve always been a positive person, even in those moments of depression, grinding out the days, struggling just to function. The reality was always that it could be so very much worse. But I was reminded of his calm smile and balding pate this morning, as I meditated on the word and what it means to me.

I entertain an endless list of things for which I am grateful and in recent weeks it has only grown longer. Reconnecting with old friends. Falling in love with my family all over again. Learning to love their peculiarities, unique characters they all are. At some point my father and I will patch things up too. And the simple knowledge of such potential is enough to smile. I have a career I enjoy, after all, how could one not enjoy writing for people, arguing on the radio, seeing the world and sharing it with others? Sure, it’s not a career choice many people would make, especially due to its utterly un-remunerative nature. And yet here I am.

As pondered gratitude this morning I realized a large ‘thank you’ was long overdue to some of the most important people in my life, many of whom I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting.

Things have changed around here in the last year. My focus has changed and with it, this place. People change and hopefully they grow. Perhaps I have as well. But, I have been horribly remiss in not thanking you all. Just for being here. For the constant irritations. The questioning of what I saw while traveling, for the criticisms, the judgments, the corrections and the steady hand you provided, helping me to find the way. Were it not for you all I doubt I would have walked away from the job in Singapore and set out into the world. I knew that where ever I went you would be there with me. Laughing with me. Laughing at me. Sending me kind notes when I was down and swift kicks in the ass when I needed them. All of it mattered. And I never thanked you. My gratitude for you, this morning, is endless.

As for Escher’s comment about mounds? If I’ve built a termite mound this last year it’s gold plated. I know that much for sure.