A Year Found

by G. Sax

Neglectful of this space, I’ve been. One friend wrote me, “Your blogs are all cryptic and stuff now, so I feel less connected to you than I did before.”

I have to admit that it’s been by design. A forced bubble bath of silence. But I’m no Duane Thomas. I still talk too damn much when you see me in person. Okay, maybe I have a little bit of Duane in me. I’ll lay low, but I’ll speak up when I want to be heard, even if the topic is uncomfortable. Maybe especially then.

I was told by two different people recently that I’m annoying to talk to because I’m always cutting them off in mid-sentence. Though that’s an assface thing to say to a guy, I imagine it’s true, because it affected me. Usually the truth stings harder than fiction.

Like this piece of fiction: Despite what the clinical are saying about me somewhere in near-northeastern Indiana, I am not a demon, nor am I a rapist. I’d explore a defamation suit, but I’m not kidding: Clinical. Until I hear of a firearm in my general vicinity or a desire to “heal” me with undesired sexual favor, I’m staying out of it. (There’s so much more I could say about this, but I’d rather not just yet. See the part about “clinical.” I must remain cryptic on this one, but not because I don’t want to share.)

I get excitable about stuff. I inappropriately anticipate the next line from my conversation partner, and I often blurt thoughts like a sick sheep. But I do genuinely listen to people and want to engage them on what it is they’re talking about. I won’t apologize for that, but I could try to mix in a pause.

Which brings me to the “Key of G.” I sure do like to talk about me when the mood hits and when I’m told that you want to listen to my campfire tales. Live out loud, and all that. But after the death of my mother last summer and the sea changes of my personal life, it wasn’t so much fun to write about the silliness of me. I needed pause.

A year has passed now. I have much to be joyful and jubilant and jolly about. I’d like to make a joke or two at the expense of myself and others. I want to jabber and be jocular and juvenile and jovial.

Let us share some joie de vivre.

Reference Point: Duane Thomas played in the NFL from 1970 to 1973, most famously for the Dallas Cowboys. He was nicknamed “The Sphinx” for his sullen and moody personality. Thomas on the Super Bowl: “If it’s the ultimate, how come they’re playing it again next year?”

So Sleepy…

by G. Sax

So sleepy…

New place to live. No car. Bike to work.

So sleepy…

New job. New things to learn. New people to meet.

Can barely keep eyes open…

Trying to entertain and be entertained.

Yawwwwnnnn…am I up to this?

Work for self. Maintain happy client base.

Shake the extremities…

People in my life, want their happiness and company.

Place that I am, want to enjoy and explore. Me time?

Gotta be time for me. 3:00 a.m. is for me.

So tired… So sleepy…

Taxes. Food shopping. Making things work right.

Tinker, tailor, soldier, spy.

I am the spy in this house of love.

I spy with my little eye.

I am, I cried.

Cried like a baby in the cradle all night.

Mmmmm, cradle song.

Sleep comes down in sleepy Minnesota.

So sleepy…

What’s Up With Hope?

by G. Sax

Do you got it? I have it up on point most of the time. It’s ready for my action. It often enters my sentence structure in an overpolite or cliché manner. But it’s there, whether it feels itself being used for trite New Year’s purposes, such as this, or for thoughtlessnesses like “I hope you’re feeling better” and “I hope you have a nice day” and “I hope to see you again around sometime.”

All the same, I have hope. Because why not? What, should I be all like, “I’ll never have a zero balance” or “I can’t do anything about my career path” or “I won’t ever have nothin’ nice.” I am totally capable of negative nellying, but I want to stop that and focus on the hope.

Not no Bill Clinton shit either. I think that’s all real adorable how he used his hometown of Hope, Arkansas, as a political base to launch the bastardization of “Don’t Stop” by Fleetwood Mac, but I would rather not drive hope into the ground. Hope is a soap bubble floating on cool air. Hope is a birthday balloon bouncing in a finished basement. Hope is dust specks in soft morning light through vertical blinds.

I hope big. I hope broad. But some of the best nuggets are in the unexpected grouty connections that hold together all things hopeful.

I promise to never lose hope.

How could I? How could I lose it when I am so utterly filled with excitement over the smallest of things? People getting along. Smiles. Envelopes full of cash. Or how about this little gem…

I built a snowman with my children and my niece and nephew. Yes, I currently live where it doesn’t snow but I was in Minnesota for Christmas. So we built this snowman out behind my sister’s apartment, and by nightfall someone had knocked it over. I promptly went back out and rebuilt it. The next morning, someone knocked the head off. I repaired it. Then the head was busted in two. I built a new head. Knocked over again. Tipped back up. Arms busted, eyes removed, smile pulled apart…all rebuilt better and stronger.

My daughter, Anais, helped with a couple of the rebuilds. One time after we were heading back up the back steps, she said with no prompting, “I love you, daddy. And I love the snowman, too.”

That kind of thing will fill you up with hope real fast. I never gave up on that snowman, and it stood proud as I passed it one last time on the way to the airport.

Maybe it’s been knocked over again since I left. I hope not.

I have hope for 2006, and I hope you do, too.

My Neighbors

by G. Sax

Everpresent, shuffling Michael…who used to cough a lot, and then he didn’t, but now he does again.

The holistic health woman who listens to AM talk radio in her bathroom. The man who plays with his wide-eyed son on the stairs.

The scuba diving man who occasionally has his teenaged son who plays football.

The Hispanic family with the crowded back porch.

The caretaker woman who assures us without actually saying so that we won’t see much of our rent deposit returned.

The woman who smokes cigarettes on her balcony while her little dog Nitro plays sentry.

The Mexican dude with the fancy red sports car.

The Mexican men who drink Pacifico near a truck with the hood open.

The black woman with the dog that rarely barks, but when he does it is always a jump shock.

The $50,000/year country club across the street.

The ultrarich behind the dry creek bed with the pampered children that stay up past their bedtime.

Apartment complex people tucked safely behind many trees.

Tree rats.

Little birds.

Wild turkeys.

The beautiful tree, older than me and you, which offers protection from the sun and the elements.

The moon—up from east to southwest.

These are my neighbors.

I like them all.

Small Things

by G. Sax

“Breathe fresh air if you can but do not forget the small things. They go to make up the large life.” — Elaine Lewis

I agree with all my being. I say add up the small pieces to create a wonderful whole. Just this eve, as I was driving toward my tiny apartment in Novato, I stared in wonder at the fog being sliced so beautifully at the peak of Mt. Tamalpais. I rarely tire of such things.

I went jogging tonight. As I stretched in a neighborhood park, I watched little kids of five and six years old practicing soccer. It was so unbelievably amazing. If you have children, you already know. The grin stretched, uncontrollably.

At the halfway point of my run, I ended up at an empty but lush soccer field at the College of Marin (Indian Valley Campus) tucked between gorgeous, rolling hills forming a little valley that seemed built specifically for me to enjoy a moment of solitude.

I hope to never forget the small things, even as the larger things tighten the muscles around a man’s shoulders, and even as things beyond his control cause disaster both natural and man-made.

Much love.

Boss of Me

by G. Sax

I feel like I woke up today.

This little column is my lifeline to friends and family. I talk about the things I’m up to, whether those things are elating or deflating. I’ve talked about the mundane and the serious. I’m constantly self-editing my words, phrases, and punctuation, but I rarely self-edit my thoughts. I get a lot of criticism for that in my daily life, but it is who I am. So much a part of me, I can’t imagine being any other way.

I want to keep at this online display of that personality, both for career development and personal pleasure. If what I write ever makes you feel uncomfortable, you do not have to read it. That is not a challenge. It is more a request. This space is important to me. I call it my own, which helps me to care less about other material possessions. I like sharing who I am with all of you. I like having one space in my life where I feel absolutely free. This is it.

I write what I want. Not what you want me to write. Although I do try to be sensitive to the private lives of others. You won’t see me airing dirty laundry here. I rarely even get political.

In the next few entries, I might twinkle my way through a recent trip to Duluth, Minnesota. I might try to convince you to watch the next season of Denis Leary’s show on FX called “Rescue Me.” I might write about the surprising benefits of being the primary UPS Shipping Boy at my workplace.

The important thing, to me at least, is…

I’m writing about.

Aces,

G. Sax