Spring Breakin’!

•April 19, 2019 • Leave a Comment

Chillin’ this Easter weekend, and back again with new post Friday, April 26, 2019! Enjoy! MM

Completely in the Dark

My beautiful pictureSometimes, You. Must. Chill.

And that’s just what Completely in the Dark (CITD) will be doing for a couple weeks.

But no worries. CITD will return on Friday, April 25, 2014, with a slew of new stories.

Meanwhile, feel free to check out some previous posts: CITD began in Oct. 2010 with this. Then in May 2013 had some success at WordPress’ Freshly Pressed with this piece.

But I’m especially proud of stories like this and this one.

Enjoy your Easter holidays with family and friends!

Peace, love … and Happy Spring!

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The Fear Year (Part 3)

•March 29, 2019 • 2 Comments

[Last of three posts.]

“This is still the greatest country in the world, if we just will steel our wills and lose our minds.”
Bill Clinton, on the campaign trail, 1992

On Sunday, Nov. 15, 1992, I steeled my will to the sticking place (and maybe lost my mind)—and moved to St. Paul.

With the help of my parents, a couple friends, and a Ryder rental van, we had my apartment in Hopkins cleaned out by early afternoon. I drove the van alone to St. Paul. Everyone was to meet up with me at the Summit Avenue mansion where I was renting a room.

When I arrived, the street was lined with cars—the German Kulturhaus next door was having an open house—and there was no place to park. I tried to pull into the mansion driveway and, while attempting a wide turn, I hit a car parked near the drive. Because my father urged taking out insurance on the van, I was covered. But the woman whose car I’d hit was really upset. We couldn’t move the cars until she showed up. And I was getting depressed having to deal with it all on my own.

My new landlord, T., was there but wasn’t much help to the distraught woman because he kept telling her in his frantic New Jerseyish way: “I don’t understand what you’re so upset about … the insurance will handle it.” Later, when the police came and the car’s owner and I were filling out our accident reports, she told me: “Your landlord is an asshole.”

She was right. It was an evil omen.

***

Ahmed didn’t bother me at first.

A Moroccan guy with a room down the hall from mine, Ahmed was a production chef at the Town & Country Club in St. Paul. He took a bus to work in the morning and hung around the mansion at night. He liked to knock on the other tenants’ doors to see if they were home. Then he’d ramble on about this or that, seemingly uninterested in anything but his own opinion. He smoked cigarettes in his room, drank beer alone, and watched TV. He didn’t seem to have any friends.

He did seem to have money. One night we went out to the Cathedral Hill bar Cognac McCarthy’s and he pulled out a wad of cash—some looked like hundred-dollar bills. I had driven that night and we went out because we were bored. We first went to Sweeney’s on Dale, then walked down to McCarthy’s where he got to talking with a doctor, his wife, and a friend of theirs sitting at the table next to ours. I remember feeling out of touch with everything and mindlessly ate my shrimp cocktail and sipped red wine. Later I wrote in my journal:

“…the old Depressive Mind has a tendency to kick in…That happened briefly Friday night when Ahmed and I were at Cognac McCarthy’s…He left the table for a moment and I sat there glaring down over the sudden precipice of my old horror: self-doubt and despair so palpable it nailed me right to the spot and I was torn between the social and internal worlds…when he came back he snapped his fingers in front of me and I could tear myself away. But for a minute I was ‘in there.’ I felt fearful and small; I felt if I were to die, I knew it would be soon.”

Afterwards we stopped at the Lexington on Grand, where some woman bought us drinks. Then we went to Mancini’s on Seventh, where Ahmed got so drunk he threw up at the bar. I had been sitting alone in a booth drinking tepid coffee and had to pick him up off the floor and haul him back to the mansion. He’d been trying to pick up women twice his age.

***

My 33rd birthday was over and I had quit my job. And my new living situation was becoming shadier by the day. I tried to keep myself entertained by attending friends’ holiday parties and not thinking too deeply about the future (I threw my own at the mansion, Front Burner image at right). It was cold during those days in December, through year’s end.

Then, on December 15, after coming back to the mansion at 8 p.m., from my room upstairs I heard shouting and fighting downstairs. At first I thought the landlords were having a domestic outside their office. But as I ventured out to the top of the stairs, I heard T. shouting at “Shad,” a 20-year old kid they had moved into the penthouse apartment just two weeks earlier.

Shad didn’t have the money to pay January rent and the landlords were evicting him. He’d come back with a friend and started a fight. From what I was hearing, it sounded serious; I heard scuffling and didn’t know if weapons were involved, so I went back to my room and called 911. When the police showed up, I went downstairs. According to T., Shad had T.’s wife G. in a headlock and was punching her, saying “Let’s get ’em!” while his friend looked on and T. tried to pry them apart. Then G. picked up a trimline phone and beaned Shad on the forehead with it. Shad and his friend ran out of the mansion. Later he and his buddies sat in their car out on the street, watching the house.

Later I talked to T. about how upsetting it was to be in that sort of dangerous situation, in a place I thought was safe. He tried to assure me it wouldn’t happen again.

***

The holidays were hard.

Most people have family and friends to fall back on. My folks went to Florida to recreate and settle things for their move there later in 1993. Friends went on vacations with their families, and my brother entertained his old college friends. I was on my own, so I condo-sat for my parents most of the time.

I used the time to strip paint from the closet door of my mansion room, hauling it in my truck to the folks’ abandoned farmhouse in Minnetrista. I worked in the well-lit dining room, listening to the radio, and thinking about the past, present, and future. One Sunday it was so warm and sunny that I took a walk down to the frozen lake.

While stopping off at the mansion before New Year’s Day, Ahmed informed me the night before New Year’s Eve he’d caught a former tenant in the foyer. Apparently the tenant had made a copy of the house key and let himself in to rifle through the mailboxes. Ahmed surprised him and called the police. The former tenant was charged with burglary. That night I wrote in the journal:

“I’ve been fighting a melancholy lately—but it’s different than depression—which is like a raging blackness that freezes you in your tracks. This is wistful. Leaning backwards—lingering backwards, perhaps, but I’m sure a lot of it has to do with the place I’m at. I need to really move on, be around positive people who I can really help and who can really instruct me that there is a way an honest, positive & vital human being can ‘make it’ in this—quite—twisted world.”

***

“It’s time to make people just as important as owls.”
George H.W. Bush, on the campaign trail, 1992

Things changed quickly after the year began.

I dawdled out in the country and spent more time at the folks’ condo than at the mansion in St. Paul. There was too much instability there—as if stability were the first thing I’d expect after uprooting my life for the first time in nearly eight years.

When I returned to St. Paul Saturday night, Jan. 9, I was surprised by how quiet it was. The answer came Sunday morning when Jenny called me from her parents’ place. Ahmed had committed forcible rape early Jan. 8 and was hauled away by the Ramsey County Sheriff. She also told me Eric had served the landlords notice and was leaving at month’s end. It was odd because the last time I saw Ahmed was the previous Thursday afternoon. He thought I would drive him to the grocery store and he’d cook dinner that night. I was on my way to the condo. He looked disappointed.

After that, everything was on automatic. Monday afternoon I personally handed the landlords my letter to vacate upon finding a new place. It was war. They convened a meeting, during which there was much shouting. We tenants just stared at each other in disbelief.

I found a new apartment days after giving notice, moving all my possessions over three hard days at the end of January. On Thursday, Feb. 11, 1993, I was served summons to conciliation court by the landlords seeking damages of $10,800 in future rents, plus late fees and $100 cleaning costs. But in order to afford conciliation court, they had to lower the damages to $5,000, plus filing fee.

“Welcome to St. Paul. Enjoy the ride,” I probably thought.

I wasn’t alone. Fellow housemate Eric was summoned to court in mid-March of ’93. In the end, I lost … and I won. The landlords didn’t get the damages they sought, and I got the majority of my damage deposit back.

What did I learn from the start of my Fear Year?

That change is always hard.

But things did get better by autumn of 1993—way better.

The Fear Year (Part 2)

•March 15, 2019 • Leave a Comment

[Second of three posts.]

“I’m all for Lawrence Welk. Lawrence Welk is a wonderful man. He used to be, or was, or—wherever he is now, bless him.”
George H.W. Bush, on the campaign trail

For those who remember it, 1992 was a political year. Bush I was up for reelection. Of course, the Democratic contender was Bill Clinton.

On Nov. 6, 1992, I wrote in the journal: “It’s now the Clinton era. A new beginning, but I don’t feel it gets going until I get into it. Until I’ve thrown myself into The New Life. I’ve made numerous steps today…”

That was the day I’d gone to see the place I eventually moved into at month’s end on St. Paul’s Summit Hill. Rent was $300/month, but included a “work program” whereby renters contributed to restoring the 1885 mansion for reduced rent. I was probably overestimating I could do that and run a new freelance business in desktop publishing that I’d dubbed “Available Light Creative.”

The rest of the story of how the Fear Year of 1993 began leans on the debut newsletter Available Light created that winter, Front Burner, including how the “Goofy Year of MegaMorphic Change” morphed into “How Can I Best Avoid the Pitfalls of a Start-Up Process? or, A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to My Future.”

In the above image (from Front Burner, click to enlarge), we’ve met “The Scumlords,” so now let’s meet the rest of the cast:

The Unsuspecting Tenants…

In the mansion…

First, Andrea U.,
Ahmed D.
Then, Mike M.
Jenny B.
Eric W.

In the basement…

Smiley
Chris
Then, Dennis D.
Previously, John D.

In the penthouse…

First, Yvonne
Paul S.
Then, “Shad”
Later, Bill M.

In the carriage house…

Two doctors, nearly always unseen

Before I left my job for good on Dec. 7, 1992, I spent a couple weeks looking at apartments in St. Paul, where I had decided to live. I looked in the Highland area, Merriam Park, Mac-Groveland, along Grand Avenue, even Frogtown. I thought about Ramsey Hill, and I was knocked out by Summit Avenue. On November 5, I called this ad: “SUMMIT, help renovate mansion. Immed. Discount rent. Must qualify.” The woman I talked to, G.S., had told me to stop by 295 Summit Avenue, just around the corner from the University Club and up the road from the Cathedral and James J. Hill house.

When I saw the place the late afternoon of the 5th, I was amazed. It was impressive. A brick mansion built in 1885 by Albert H. Lindeke. …I had knocked on the front door to no answer, then waited about an hour in my truck for someone to show up. They never did. The next day I set up a time with G. and showed up on the morning of November 6th.

I thought G. was more than a little fawning, now that I look back on that day, but at the time I thought she was being nice. She was an overly made-up paunchy woman in her mid-to-late 40s, nasally voice, and coarse, forced conversational style. Not what you’d consider a “people person.” Her husband T. presented himself like a CEO of some large company. He wore a suit and tie, had thin longish hair, glasses, and the distracted look of someone who wants to “get on to the next thing.”

The mansion had huge oak doors and a front foyer that opened into a living room with fireplace on the right or left into a locked front office where [the landlords] conducted business. That office was cluttered with boxes, papers, furniture, lamps, posters, so much so that walking around in it was difficult. Through the foyer was a sweeping staircase that led up to the second-floor rooms, past a brass chandelier and gigantic window facing the German Kulturhaus to the southwest. At the top of the stairs on the right was the first room, Andrea’s, follow by Jenny’s room, both of which shared a bathroom with jacuzzi and shower, then the middle bedroom, which became mine; down the hall to the right, Ahmed’s room and across from that, Eric’s room. At the end of the hall was the bathroom shared by us three. They showed me the rooms and mentioned that the room I liked, the large middle bedroom, would be $300 a month, plus a flat utilities charge of $75 a month. All this on a 50-hour-a-month work program.

What was this “work program”? They weren’t terribly specific, nor did they seem concerned about who could do what for them. They said I could start by stripping paint off the two doors of my room, the bathroom and the closet doors. Then in the spring they had planned to start on renovating the kitchen, to the back of the house. The kitchen was nearly up-to-speed, paint needed to be stripped, drawers replaced, a wall knocked out, and linoleum pulled up. Yet there was a dishwasher, a washer and dryer, a stove that worked well enough, and two refrigerators for the tenants of the 2nd floor mansion to use. Adjacent to the kitchen was the pantry, stuffed with plaster bags and paint cans, discarded woodwork, jars, tubing, wires, shelving; leading into the dining room into which was packed floor-to-ceiling with mattresses and box springs, bedposts, furniture, mirrors, chest-of-drawers, banquet tables, clothing, tools, equipment, boxes, folding chairs and other junk. Eventually they said they wanted to clean out this room.

“A horror of cardboard, plastic and appalling colors, a construction of solidified chewing gum and idiotic fairy tales lifted straight from comic strips drawn for obese Americans.” —Jean Cau, novelist, describing the new Euro Disney theme park

So, in keeping with that plan for The New Life, I was honest with them about what I wanted. I thought I saw an opportunity to help them put their place in order in exchange for a nice address out of which to run my new business.

It felt as far away from the corporate life I knew as I could imagine. It was intoxicating and confusing. I signed the lease for 18 months, thinking it would take at least a year to set up my business and establish clients, and that would also lock-in the reasonable rent.

I was set to move November 15.

The Fear Year (Part 1)

•March 8, 2019 • Leave a Comment

[First of three posts.]

Life is filled with big and small decisions. It gets complicated when the small decisions turn out to be big and the bigger ones were, in the end, just small potatoes. Time works its magic and sometimes you’re able to see it all in perspective.

My first real personal and career challenge—one I set for myself—came in 1992. Since 1985 I’d been bored at my corporate job and taking some university classes (at the behest of the ’rents), and furiously job searching. When I realized I could also try my hand at freelancing, I planned to quit the day job, move out of my Hopkins apartment and over to St. Paul where nearly all my friends lived at the time.

Seemed like a plan, right?

Well, I still needed to run it by my family. Although I’d been on my own as an adult for nearly ten years, I still worried about what they thought. I probably still do, and they’ve been dead for a decade. We’re all just anxious children deep inside, I guess.

This story is timely since I’m again risking another move to a newer (and hopefully better) living situation. Not quitting my job (that, I learned the hard way, is tricky, especially when dealing with landlords, banks, or anyone who depends on your income), so for the foreseeable future I have a reliable income.

Researching this post, I read forward in my 1992­­–93 journal to recall the immediate effects of my decision—and it caused me to shudder. Once I’d left corporate on Dec. 7, 1992, I wouldn’t find solid financial ground for another nine months after that.

It really gave me pause. But then I remembered that things improved. It just didn’t happen right away.

On June 20, 1992, I wrote in the journal: “My decision day, Stage One of Three for the next two months … I got to thinking that maybe I can make these changes by Sept. 1, but they needn’t be so dramatic yet, that is, I could make sure I pay up all my debts by the end of August, then find a cheaper place to live, Uptown maybe and then, after a few more months wading into freelance work, downshift part-time [at the corporation], then quit. It’s certainly another option. But I do know that change is in order.”

So, “wading into change” was in the mix—surely wise, so that I wasn’t making a hasty decision. (I had some debts, but not a lot.)

But nearly four months later, at the beginning of October, I’d “determined that if I don’t get the job [at a local ad agency] I will move to St. Paul and start up the freelance business by December 1st. I’ll have to by then because that’s when I have to be moved out of my apartment. I put my 60-day notice into the office yesterday.”

Again, a shudder when I look over this old yellowed journal. I peer into it like it’s a crystal ball, when it’s as opaque as ever. The words on the page were written in ignorance of the future. There I still see my younger self’s crackling sense of will power leaping off the ruled lines.

Between Halloween 1992 and Thursday, Nov. 19th, with its handwritten “I’m all moved…” I’d neglected to write about an incident I remember well and only wish the journal would have recorded it. There’s a hint of it in an Oct. 11th entry: “Saturday I helped Dad out at the house.” It would’ve been at their Minnetrista farm, where later we had supper with Colin, my infant nephew, while his parents were on an anniversary date in Stillwater.

Sometime before Nov. 6, 1992, I had dinner with my late parents at a supper club in Spring Park, Minn., called The Mist. I’m fairly certain my brother wasn’t there as he was already married and living with his wife and child. We sat in a corner booth overlooking Lake Minnetonka. I can’t remember if I sat next to Mom or Dad, but there are only three possible configurations: me all alone one side, the folks on the other (not likely); Mom and me on one side, Dad on the other; or me and Dad together and Mom on the other side of the booth. I’m going with me and Mom opposite Dad. At that meal I told them my plan to leave the sleepy corporate job, move to St. Paul, and do freelance desktop publishing. It was the first they’d heard of it.

Dad hit the roof. Voices were raised. Restaurant patrons eyed us. It was very uncomfortable.

My father’s objection was I wouldn’t make enough money to pay for insurance, health care, rent, you name it. I was disheartened he had so little faith in me, and it made me angry. Looking back on it now, he was probably right to be concerned.

In the end, I wanted a change. They ended up helping with the move, Dad loading what little furniture I had in the back of his Dodge Ram pickup.

Leaving the day job was a blur: signing some paperwork, transferring out a retirement account, throwing a send-off party in downtown Minneapolis. But moving into the new place—a bedroom in a St. Paul Summit Avenue mansion just blocks from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s birthplace—was another thing altogether.

In the above photo, winter light from December 1992 (or heck, it could’ve been January 1993) shines through my new St. Paul bedroom window, along with a description of the property and a postcard sent by housemate Eric Wulfsberg three months into the new year, when we’d both moved out … to escape what had become the first nightmare of the Fear Year of 1993.

My Father’s Bathrobe

•December 14, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Its thin, navy blue plaid 100% cotton wasn’t very warm. “One size” (fits all), the label read. Rolled cuffs, tattered sash. Brand name: Van Heusen. Made in China, of course.

It was Dad’s bathrobe, probably the last one he owned. I had it hanging on my bathroom door since he died, first at my condo, then at the apartment. It was the only bathrobe I owned. Then I realized it wasn’t really my bathrobe.

And I didn’t want it anymore.

2018 has been the 10th anniversary of losing Dad, in September 2008. Mom died in May of that year. For the longest time I kept thinking: Why do I still have this? It’s not particularly warm or comfortable, and it’s not the kind of thing I would wear now. It had become a psychological drain I no longer wanted around.

So a couple weeks ago, along with some old clothes I didn’t want or that no longer fit me, I brought it to Goodwill and gave it back to the universe.

I admit this not to reject my dad, who was a big bathroom guy. I’ve written about it before, but that’s not the point. Every bathroom with that robe hanging on the hasp above the door was like his bathroom all over again. And I needed that to end so I can move forward with my own life and whatever that may include.

Morning time was Dad’s “golden hour,” no doubt.

He awoke early, turned on WCCO-AM radio for the jokes, the Boone and Erickson banter, the weather and “hog reports,” and once out of his bathrobe, he sang in the shower, “Rise and shine, and give God the glory, glory…” or, most of the time, “Zip-a-dee-doo-dah” from Disney’s Song of the South. “…My oh my what a wonderful day/Plenty of sunshine headin’ my way/Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay!

I can still hear his voice now, ten years later.

Dad was happiest when he was in control of a situation—and morning, I think, availed itself to that more than any other time of day, except when he came home after work to go fishing before dinner. At the time I felt buried under the shadow of all that “controlling energy.” I had my own ideas of how I wanted the world to work, and I could get pretty dreamy and obscure about that. For example, I felt happiest late at night, with moody rock music and DJs who spoke directly to me. Dad’s world seemed too proper, too normal, too early. But I think he was satisfied with it because he knew he was providing for his family. It was important to him.

I didn’t see that at the time. I see it now.

When I think of Dad’s bathrobe, it’s like a second skin, like a coat you wore in the wintertime to protect you from the cold, to warm your shoulders before you got in a hot shower. It reminds me of that saying, “You gotta be comfortable in your skin.” You can instantly tell people who are not that way.

Sometimes Dad seemed comfortable, sometimes not. If he wasn’t getting his way, he’d get angry. He had expectations, and those expectations had to be met. For my part, I still struggle to feel comfortable in my skin. I’m not a kinetic person―I’m incurably cerebral. In many ways, as contrary to Dad as I believe I am, I am still my father’s son.

You see, years later while living in Hopkins, I was able—for the first time in my life—to create a workspace in my apartment I had absolute control over. The studio unit had wall-to-wall carpeting, so I put down a plastic floor mat below the drawing board so my desk chair easily shuttled between sketch pad and electric typewriter. I’d rigged up an architect’s lamp and T-square, where I could write and draw and do the oddball party announcements I made for friends at the time. My Olivetti typewriter was ready at the flip of a switch for those screenplays and stories I desperately needed to write.

Well, I wish I had a better connection between me and my father’s old bathrobe, but that is probably it—the Hopkins apartment creative space.

It was like Dad’s den on Casco Point, where we lived for nearly ten years.

He awoke with Mom in the master bedroom, crossed the living room with its stone fireplace and low-pile carpet, trudged past the Zenith color TV and down the hallway to turn left into the den. Once there he switched on the radio, entered the adjoining bathroom, slipped out of his bathrobe, took that shit, shaved and showered, then slapped on some Aqua-Velva and got dressed for work.

He sang, he laughed, he got ready to meet the day.

I must adopt a cheerfully hopeful attitude like Dad’s, if I can.

Jackie’s Boys

•October 19, 2018 • Leave a Comment

[Dear reader-friends: I’m back from a too-long hiatus over the summer of 2018, where I changed jobs and took a break from my planned 1990s posts here. It being the tenth anniversary of my parents’ deaths, I’d been working on posts about each of them. This is the first.]

My late mother, Jacqueline Adams, was an only child.

She was born on Sunday, Feb. 10, 1935, to Mamie Magee, her slightly neurotic third-generation Irish mother, and a well-to-do northern Indiana farm boy named David Raymond Adams. Her backstory: when Jackie was born, Daddy Ray had an affair with another woman (who remains unknown to Jackie’s first-born son—that is, me), and Mamie vowed to never have sex with her husband ever again (again, can’t verify the validity of that rumor).

I bring all this up now because 2018 is the tenth anniversary of my mother’s death.

September was also the tenth anniversary of my father’s death, so both anniversaries have been at the forefront of my mind since the year began. I published a memorial for Mom in the Minneapolis paper back in May, on the exact day she died. In the memorial I used the third photo in this post, which occurred on a momentous day in my life: when my only brother Brian was released from the hospital (he’d been born a premie), in February 1962.

It’s an odd sensation to see these photos over 50 years later, after all the experiences that have passed through my life, realizing there was a moment when this actually happened—when I got to meet my new brother for the first time (below right of me on the sofa taking in the sobering fact I was no longer star of the family). Dad likely took the photos, but it could’ve easily been Grandpa Ray, who was every bit the shutterbug throughout his long life.

The thought that’s been running through my mind is something that probably didn’t occur to me much while my mother was still alive: how isolated she must’ve felt living in a household of two boys and a husband, as well as a still-present conniving and charismatic father. The only other woman was her mother, who as mentioned had her own issues with men. Mom’s “sister” was her first cousin Lois, as they were only a year or two apart and were raised somewhat together.

I witnessed Mom’s isolation growing as the years passed, and I’m certain she didn’t get much sympathy from either my father or brother—both of whom failed to understand her clinical depression. I became more sympathetic when I was diagnosed with dysthymia in 1987, but even that revelation didn’t bring us much closer. I may have resented it—I know I was in denial about my mood disorder for the longest time. Things came to a head in 1995 when I nearly took my own life. I’ll be digging into that awful event in the weeks to come, but for now let me just say my affinity toward Mom solidified after the mid-1990s.

My brother harshly criticized Mom and her depression, especially in the 1980s after he graduated high school. I hated him for it and tried to defend Mom whenever possible. But I know I failed in that and, toward the end of her life, it was largely because I was afraid of how her illness had consumed her—leaving just a shell of her former self.

My brother and I weren’t always so distant.

As toddlers, we scrambled underneath clothing racks in downtown Indianapolis department stores, hiding there while Mom shopped and we were eventually discovered by ladies sorting through the racks for deals. We were schooled by our parents to be respectful of our elders, so when we were showcased in front of our parents’ friends we were always quiet, attentive, and dutiful. You know, like “good boys.”

The thing is, I don’t really recall any solid bonding with my brother from an early age. We had (and still have) different temperaments. We gravitated toward different interests and friends. Brian was always more tactile and drawn toward objects and material things; I preferred music and reading and being in nature.

Since 2008, and losing both our parents, we haven’t grown much closer. Brian went through a divorce a couple years ago, and I suffered job setbacks and a disruptive household move. It’s been a very confusing decade. I’m certain our parents would be heartbroken by the state of things, both in the world and within our family. And I’m not sure what to do about it. How my mother (and, for that matter, my grandmother) would’ve regarded the “Me Too” movement is hard to say, but I know in middle age Mom read feminist literature and was plain-speaking about all forms of intolerance. I like to think I learned more about how to treat women from my father, who never disparaged anyone as far as I could tell.

I’m hoping life settles down and things change for the better. There’s some reason to believe that is happening. After all, my brother and I are still alive, still healthy, still exploring how we will lead the rest of our lives.

I hope he’s feeling as hopeful as I am.

My So-Called Decade

•July 13, 2018 • Leave a Comment

[Dear readers: I’m back from a hiatus in June due to a job transition and shake up that I’m happy to report turned out for the best. But it took a lot of my attention away from writing. I’m overjoyed to be back at it. Thanks for sticking around.]

Ask me about the 1990s and I’d probably shrug.

What’s to remember?

It was tough because I decided, late in 1992, to take “the road not taken.” Or better yet, “the road no one with any sense would take, you selfish moron.”

Okay, I’m being way harsh here, but two forces were at work on me: the sublime memory of 1989’s script-writing marathons all leading up to a two-week research trip to England around the time of my 30th birthday. The weight of that experience taught me there was a groaning banquet table full of life’s rich pageant just beyond the corporation parking lot.

The world did not begin and end in the backwater burg of Hopkins, Minn.

The pressure on the other end was: So if not this, then where?

What should I do with my new decade?

Where and how should I live?

Three journals ramp up to that transition, which I made on Dec. 7, 1992 (hard to forget, since it was Pearl Harbor Day). But it interests me now what was going through my mind prior to that landmark date: What have I forgotten that is just waiting to be recovered on the pages of those 1990-1992 journals?

It begins with financial stress, according to a Monday, Aug. 13, 1990, entry:

“I worry about money a lot lately. I feel detached and indifferent about old friends—and a little resentful of my isolation. Things go bad, but there’s no real sorrow in the loss, I’m not even the owner of my own sadness. There is one way of being that appeals to me: looking out from myself, rather than IN. IN says: ‘What do I look like? Hair’s too long, a bit dumpy in the face, scruffy, can’t concentrate, not connected to other people. A cesspool of self-consciousness…’ OUT says: ‘But there’s a whole world of other things TO BE! Why not change them? Cut your hair all the way off! Quit your fucking job! Just say NO to limiting ways of thinking…start doing things instead of thinking about them: write that new story, finish that script, paint that picture, buy those new clothes, read that new book!’ —That’s the voice I want to heed.”

Did I heed it? That’s the $100,000 Question.

All I can say at this point is the 1990s were my roller coaster decade. The first couple years were ramp up, corporate frustration, then in 1992—boom, off on a cloud.

How I got there?

Well, stick around.

 
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Publisher of quality esoteric and literary books, based in the UK

Public Field Guide

An artist-led story about public land, protected natural areas, open heart, and open road.

Shadow & Substance

Exploring the Works of Rod Serling

Precipitate Flux

"As for me I reduce everything to a tumult of words" - Clarice Lispector

Kristen Lamb

Author, Blogger, Social Media Jedi

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