Tag: Writing

  • That’s One Sick Kid

    If you are not aware, besides being a theatre artist and a writer and a sketchbook enthusiasts, I am also a stay at home parent. I like to see how many hats I can put on over the course of a day, as every day is a balancing act. I make time for my family and try to take time for myself.

    But all of it will come to a crashing halt when the kid gets sick, which happened this morning. She woke up groggy and not hungry, which were yellow flags that something was up. And then there was a cough, followed by her repeating to us that she felt warm. Ahh… the final red flag.

    I took her temperature and immediately thought of how when everyone is a kid, they think they can force their body to have a fever to get out of school. Too my sad surprise, the kid actually had a fever. Holy Crap! It’s just the second week of school; is that even possible?

    The answer is yes. And as the day has gone on, the fever has slowly crept up. Nothing scary, but it went from 99 to now resting at 100. Tylenol and Gatorade be damned! Nothing will kill this bug!

    What was I planning on doing today?

    Doesn’t matter. This is a day of toast making and YouTube watching. Reading stories, and playing games.

    The writing I wanted to do today? Ha! Dream on, sir! There is a little girl that needs her dad.

    And deep down, I know I’d rather take care of the kid than do anything else.

    Even though I might pitch a story idea to a comedy blog, and write a couple of short story reviews.

    Who am I kidding? I’m going to let the kid paint my nails.

  • Weird

    Funny how one well placed word can unravel a person. The right word, said at the right time can cut to the core of someone, revealing what they fear most. And once that word is out there, being applied to that person, no matter how they try to defend or deflect, that word sticks to them.

    And “weird” was that word yesterday – just slicing through so much MAGA bravado, and leaving grasping Alpha Men with nothing to say except, basically, “I’m not weird! You’re weird!” But it was too late, damage was done.

    And the “weird” label hit MAGA Men at their most vulnerable spot – questioning if their world view was actually normal. The MAGA reaction says to me that most of them, MAGA Alpha Bros that is, know deep down what they are saying and believing in, is abnormal, if not outright weird. I can hear them thinking; “The shit that Trump says; it is weird.” “Maybe I am the weird one, but not in the outsider who’s cool kind’a weird; just the bad weird.”

    What I find most ironic is that this used to be a Trump skill. You know, he’d find that one word that encapsulates his opponent; “Lying” “Sleepy” “Cheating” “Meatball” “Little.” I hate to admit it, but Trump was really good at it. He would throw out a name, it would stick, and no matter how hard they try, that label stuck, and Trump would repeat it, over and over and over and over…

    So, the tables have turned. The bullies are being bullied by words. Poetic justice is just the tip of the cliches I can use here.

    I doubt that “weird” will live beyond this week’s news cycle.

    But it has been fun to watch.

  • Bisy Backson

    Gon Out Backson Bisy Backson

    It’s just one of those days

  • Waking Up Early

    This school year, because the kid switched to a different school, we had to start our days earlier. Her old school started at 8:20, and we were a five-minute walk from it, while her new school started at 7:20, and it was a 30-minute subway ride with a walk to top it off. It would be easy to say that our whole life shifted back an hour and fifteen minutes. Not an enormous amount of time, but being that we are a family that is made up of a bunch of anti-morning people, it was a heavy lift.

    Ten months later, the wife and the kid still hate getting up early. I do, too… But I get up a half hour before them, which affords me the opportunity to exorcise my anti-morning-ness out of my system, so I am chipper enough to get the day started, and also annoy then crap out of them.

    But, as the school year draws to a close, and Summer vacation starts, I foresee that our child will not want to get up before 8am. And if my wife had her way, and she does work from home, a 7am wakeup call would be her preference.

    As for me… I’m toying with the idea of keeping the 5:30 alarm. Now, hear me out…

    I don’t love getting up at 5:30am, but I have to admit that I can do it, and it doesn’t ruin the rest of my day. I could, and I stress “could,” get up early and head to the gym? My best friend does that; out early, gets the day started with a win, feels good, and has a positive attitude toward the day… or at least that’s what he tells me. That would be nice to have. I could also get up early and work. I would have about an hour and a half to myself to get my writing done.

    I could list a couple of reasons why I don’t want to do this, and maybe even make a couple of jokes. Yet, I think, and I know, that my life is transitioning to a different phase. I’m a middle-aged dad and husband. I’m not in my twenties or thirties, and I am getting older. That doesn’t mean that I should slow down, or start to act like my parents did at this age. But I have to acknowledge that things change, and approaches to living change, and that’s okay.

    It’s just a different way to live.

  • Short Story Review: “Beyond Imagining” by Lore Segal

    (The short story “Beyond Imagining” by Lore Segal appeared in the June 10th, 2024 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Bénédicte Muller

    A few years before my mother passed away, we got into a conversation about getting older. She was around 70 years old at this time, and happily enjoying her life in retirement, as well as being the matriarch of our family, but she especially enjoyed being a grandmother. “Is it all what you hoped it would be?” I asked her, to which she responded, “When I got married (at 19) I never thought I would live past forty. This is all new to me.” My mother could be dry, but at the time, I wasn’t sure what to make of her answer. Since her passing, and my own aging, I have come to understand that you can’t get excited for something you aren’t able to imagine.

    Lore Segal’s “Beyond Imagining” posed this thought early in the first section, when the character Bridget, speaking about death states, “I think that the reason I think I won’t mind being dead is that I can’t imagine it, and I don’t think we know how to believe what we aren’t able to imagine.” This idea, this through line, plays role in the four sections of this story, which follow a circle of elderly women friends in New York, as they handle, deal, and accept their current lives.

    I know that the above description is, maybe, an unfair simplification of this piece. The story exudes a wonderful melancholy as it lets us experience the world of these women. But it also has a very delicate touch, showing the importance and power of their friendships, how these relationships at this point in their lives sustains them, and gives them strength to deal with issues and discoveries they did not anticipate. Though this piece is not very long, the characters intertwin in each other’s sections, and I found this structure added a depth of authenticity to the friendships.

    When I finished reading this story, I wanted to hug these ladies. I wanted to hold their hand, like a doting son would, and listen to them talk. But the emotional power of this story is that these are the conversations these friends have when it is only them around. These aren’t salacious or confessionary conversations, but conversations friends have when the sharing of experience is the intimacy. It’s the conversation between friends that can make what one can’t imagine, into something that can be believed.